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^BKSSS^' 


ATLANTIC    MONTHLY. 


A  MAGAZINE  OF 


Literature,  Art,  and  Politics. 


VOLUME    XV. 


BOSTON: 
TICKNOE   ^ND   FIELDS, 

■35  Washington  Strzet. 
london:  trubner  and  coupahy.; 

1865. 


.a 


r/P 

7- 


.'>? 


1^ 


} 


A 


a 


Entered  according  to  Act  of  Congress,  in  the  year  1S65,  by 

TICKNOR    AND     FIELDS, 

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


Univbksitt  Psbss: 

Elbctrotypbd  by  Wblcu,  Bigblow,  &  Co., 

Cambhidgb. 


CONTENTS. 


American  Metropolis^  Tiae Fita-Hugk  Ltidlem 73 

Aadenonville,  At - *      <        .  98$ 

Anno  Domim     .....        •       .   *    .        .    Gtul  Hamilton xz6 

Authors,  Memories  of Mr.  and  Mrs,  S*  C.  Halt       .    97i  9^3*  39^^  477 

BoOtle-Laureate,  Our Oliver  IVeHdell  Helmut                      .        .589 

Birds,  With  the y«A»  Burroughs 5x3 

CSiimney-Conier,  The Mrs.  H.  B,  Stawe       109^  asi,  353,  490^  Gos,  739 

Cobden,  Richa«d M.  C.  Comvay 734 

Cniikshank,  George,  in  Mejdoo *54 

Dely's  Cow Rne  Terry €&% 

Doctor  Johns Donald  G,  Miickell     .       141,  996^  449^  591,  68z 

I>oliiver  Romance,  Another  Scene  from  the                     .  Nathaniel  Hamtkeme     ....            x 

England,  A  Letter  about John  IVeU* 641 

Europe  and  Asia,  Between Bayard  Taylor         ......            8 

Everett,  Edward E.E.Hale  .       ...       ...       .       .34a 

Fair  Play  the  Best  Policy T.  W.  Hiainson 693 

Five-Sisters  Court  at  Christmas-Tide 33 

Foreign  Enmity  to  the  United  States,  Causes  of     .        .    E.  P.  Whip^ 37a 

Great  Lakes,  The Sammel  C.  Clarke 693 

Grit E.P.  WkippU 407 

iLi6ryl,  My  Student-Life  at Robert  Dale  Own 550 

Ice  and  Esquimaux D.  A.  Watson      ...        39^  aoz,  437,  564 

"If  hfaasa put  Guns  mto  our  Han's"       ....    Fitz-Hugh  LndUw 504 

John  Brown's  Raid  John  G.  Roaettgarten 7x1 

Lecture,  The  Popular J.  G.  Holland 369 

Lincoln,  Abraham,  The  Place  of,  in  History    .  .    George  Baticroft 757 

Looe  Woman,  Adventures  of  a JaneG.Anttin 383 

Mining,  Ancient,  on  the  Shores  of  Lake  Superior    .        .    Albert  D.  Hagar 308 

Modem  Improvements  and  our  National  Debt  E.  B.  Bigelow 799 

Needle  and  Garden 88,  x^  3x6^  464,  613,  673 

Officer's  Journal,  Leaves  from T.  W.  Higginton 65 

OutofdieSea                       Author  of  Life  in  the  Iron-MUW'      .        533 

Winter,  Our  Pint  Great,  and  his  Works  .  .       .    Sarah  Clarke xsq 

Petdbooe  Lineage,  The 4x9 

Pianist,  Notes  of  a .  Lotiit  M.  Gottschalh                         177,  350^  573 

Pleiades  of  Connecticut,  The R.  Sheldon X87 

Henriade,  A Gail  fiamilton 6S3 


.........    R.  Sheldon    .......    7"^ 

RevolutiQa,  Diploaacy  of  the Prof.  George  W.  Greene  ....        576 

Late  Scenes  in '      ,    C.C.  Coffin 744 


St  Mary's,  Up  the T.W.  Higtifuon 439 

Sanitary,  A  Foitni^t  with  the G.  Reynolds 933 

Schumann's  Quintette  in  £  Flat  Major     ....  Ann*  M.  Brewster 718 

Taney.  Rofer  Brooke Charles  M.  Ellis xst 

Year,  The  Stoiy  of  a Henry  yames,  Jr. 957 


iv  Contents. 

Poetry. 

Autumn  Walk,  My    .       •       •       » f^- C.  Biytmi      ,.«...  so 

Carolina  Coronado^  To 698 

Castles T,B.AUrkk, 62a 

Down  1 Htnry  H.  BramtuU 756 

First  Citixen,  Our Oliver  Wendell  Holtm*       ....  463 

Fn»en  Harbor,  The %  T.  Trvwhridge a8x 

GamautHaU T.  B.  Aldrich x8a 

God  Save  the  Flag O.  W.  Holmu* 115 

Going  to  Sleep Eliaabeik  A.  C.  Ahert         .        .        .        .  680 

Gold  Egg.— A  Dream  Fantasy James  RusuU Lowell     ....  528 

Gnve  by  the  Lake,  The Jokm.  G.  IVhittier 561 

Haipociates Bayard  Taylor 66a 

Hour  of  Victory,  The    .......            37> 

ft 

Jaguar  Hunt,  Tbs J.  T.  TramMdge 74^ 

KaUundborg'Chuich JahH  G.  Whittier $t 

Mantle  of  St  John  de  Matha,  The yokn  G.  IVhittier x69 

Mr.  Hosea  Biglow  to  the  Editor  of  the  Atlantic  Monthly    Janue  Rnteell  LmneU     ....  yai 

Oldest  Friend,  Our    . O,  W.  Holmes 340 

Old  House*  The AUc*  Cory 3x3 

Poet,  To  a,  on  his  Birthday, 3»5 

ProFfttria E^  Sargent «3a 


Seventy-Six,  On  Boai^  the               James  RusseU  LoweU        ....  107 

Spaniards' Graves  at  the  Isles  of  Shoals,  The 4o6 

Wind  over  the  Chimney,  The Henry  W.  Ltmifellcm        ....  7 

Art. 

Harriet  Hosmer'sZenobia Fitz-Hugh  LudUm "48 

Reviews  amd  Literary  Notices. 

Beecher's  Autobiography ^' 

Bushneirs  Christ  and  His  Salvation 377 

Chamberfaun*s  Autobiography  of  a  New  England  Farm-House «5S 

Child's  Looking  toward  Sunset "55 

Cobbe's  Broken  Lights **♦ 

Dc  Vries,  Collection.    Gennaii  Series 3^ 

Dewey's  Lowell  Lectiu«s *•" 

Frothingham's  Philosophy *5x 

Gillmore's  Engineer  and  Artillery  Operations "35 

Hodde's  Cradle  of  Rebellions 

Hosmer's  Monisoos 

Hunt's  Seer 

Ingelow's  Studies  for  Stories 37* 

Mendelssohn-Bartholdy's  Utters ^"^ 

Murdoch's  Patriotism  in  Poetry  and  Prose '5o 

Reynard  the  Fox 3» 

RusseU's  Review  of  Todleben's  History ^» 

Sabine's  Loyalbts  of  the  American  Revolutian       .       .' "3 

Seaside  and  Fireside  Fairies ^ 

Thackeray's  Vanity  Fair ^® 

Thoreau's  Cape  Cod 381 

Tuckerman's  America  and  her  Coouaentaton "^ 

Raourr  Amuucam  Pubucatioms ia6,39a,64<^764 


380 

378 
37* 


k 


Robin  BadfeUow T,  B,  Aldrich 437  ? 


» 


THE 


ATLANTIC    MONTHLY. 

A  Magazine  of  Literature,  Art,  and  Politics. 


VOL.  XV.— JANUARY,   1865.  — NO.   LXXXVII. 


ANOTHER   SCENE  FROM  THE  DOLLIVER  ROMANCE.' 


WE  may  now  suppose  Grandsir  Dol- 
liver  to  have  finished  his  break- 
£ist,  with  a  better  appetite  and  sharper 
perception  of  the  qualities  of  his  food 
than  he  has  generaUy  felt  of  late  years, 
whether  it  were  due  to  old  Martha's  cook- 
ery or  to  the  cordial  of  the  night  before. 
Little  Pansie  had  also  made  an  end  of  her 
bread  and  milk  with  entire  satisfaction, 
and  afterwards  nibbled  a  crust,  greatly 
enjoying  its  resistance  to  her  little  white 
teeth. 

How  this  child  came  by  the  odd 
name  of  Pansie,  and  whether  it  was 
really  her  baptismal  name,  I  have  not 
ascertained.  More  probably  it  was  one 
of  those  pet  appellations  that  grow  out 
of  a  child's  character,  or  out  of  some 
keen  thrill  of  affection  in  the  parents, 
an  unsought-for  and  unconscious  felici- 
ty, a  kind  of  revelation,  teaching  them 
tfie  true  name  by  which  the  child's  guar- 
dian angel  would  know  it,  —  a  name 
with  playfulness  and  love  in  it,  that  we 
often  observe  to  supersede,  in  the  prac- 
tice of  those  who  love  the  child  best,  the 
name  that  they  carefully  selected,  and 
caused  the  clergyman  to  plaster  indeli- 
bly on  the  poor  litde  forehead  at  the 


font,  —  the  love-name,  whereby,  if  the 
child  lives,  the  parents  know  it  in  their 
hearts,  or  by  which,  if  it  dies,  God  seems 
to  have  called  it  away,  leaving  the  sound 
lingering  faintly  and  sweetly  through  the 
house.  In  Pansie's  case,  it  may  have 
been  a  certain  pensiveness  which  was 
sometimes  seen  under  her  childish  frol- 
ic, and  so  translated  itself  into  French, 
(Pensie,)  her  mother  having  been  of 
Acadian  kin  ;  or,  quite  as  probably,  it 
alluded  merely  to  the  color  of  her  eyes, , 
which,  in  some  lights,  were  very  like  the 
dark  petals  of  a  tuft  of  pansies  in  the 
Doctor's  garden.  It  might  well  be,  in- 
deed, on  account  of  the  suggested  pen- 
siveness ;  for  the  child's  gayety  had  no  \ 
example  to  sustain  it,  no  S3rmpathy  of 
other  children  or  grown  people,  —  and 
her  melancholy,  had  it  been  so  dark  a 
feeling,  was  but  the  shadow  of  the  house 
and  of  the  old  man.  If  brighter  sun- 
shine came,  she  would  brighten  with  it. 
This  morning,  surely,  as  the  three  com- 
panions, Pansie,  puss,  and  Grandsir 
Dolliver,  emerged  from  the  shadow  of 
the  house  into  the  small  adjoining  en- 
dosure,  they  seemed  all  frolicsome  alike. 
The  Doctor,  however,  was  intent  over 


*  See  July  number,  1864,  of  thb  Magaane,  for  the  tint  chapter  of  the  story.    The  portion  now  pabluhed 
«at  not  reviaed  hy  the  author,  bus  U  printed  from  his  first  draught. 


Entered  aceording  10  Act  of  Congress,  in  the  year  1864,  by  Tickkor  and  Fiklds,  in  the  Clerk's  Office 

of  the  Dbtrict  Court  of  the  District  of  Masaachuaett& 
VOU  XV.  — NO.  87.  I 


Another  Scene  from  the  Dolliver  Romance.      [January, 


something  that  had  reference  to  his  life- 
long business  of  drugs.  This  little  spot 
was  the  place  where  he  was  wont  to  cul- 
tivate a  variety  of  herbs  supposed  to  be 
endowed  with  medicinal  virtue.  Some 
of  them  had  been  long  known  in  the 
pharmacopoeia  of  the  Old  World ;  and 
others,  in  the  early  days  of  the  country, 
had  been  adopted  by.  the  first  settlers 
from  the  Indian  medidne-men,  though 
with  fear  and  even  contrition,  because 
these  wild  doctors  were  supposed  to  draw 
their  pharmaceutic  knowledge  from  no 
gracious  source,  the  Black  Man  himself 
being  the  principal  professor  in  their 
medical  school.  From  his  own  experi- 
ence, however.  Dr.  Dolliver  had  long 
since  doubted,  though  he  was  not  bold 
enough  quite  to  come  to  the  conclusion, 
that  Indiian  shrubs,  and  the  remedies 
prepared  from  them,  were  much  less 
perilous  than  those  so  freely  used  in 
European  practice,  and  singularly  apt 
to  be  followed  by  results  quite  as  propi- 
tious. Into  such  heterodoxy  our  friend 
was  the  more  liable  to  fall  because  it 
had  been  taught  him  early  in  life  by 
his  old  master.  Dr.  Swinnerton,  who,  at 
those  not  infrequent  times  when  he  in- 
dulged a  certain  unhappy  predilection 
for  strong  waters,  had  been  accustomed 

.  to  inveigh  in  terms  of  the  most  cynical 
contempt  and  coarsest  ridicule  against 
the  practice  by  which  he  lived,  and,  as 
he  s^ffirmed,  inflicted  death  on  his  fel- 
low-men.   Our  old  apothecary,  though 

{  too  loyal  to  the  learned  profession  with 
which  he  was  connected  fully  to  believe 
this  bitter  judgment,  even  when  pro- 
nounced by  his  revered  mastcV,  was  still 
so  for  influenced  that  his  conscience  was 
possibly  a  little  easier  when  making  a 
preparation  from  forest  herbs  and  roots 
than  in  the  concoction  of  half  a  score  of 
nauseous  poisons  into  a  single  elabo- 
rate drug,  as  the  &shion  of  that  day  was. 
But  there  were  shrubs  in  the  garden 
of  which  he  had  never  ventured  to  make 
a  medical  use,  nor,  indeed,  did  he  know 
their  virtue,  although  from  year  to  year 
he  had  tended  and  fertilized,  weeded 
and  pruned  them,  with  something  like 
religious  care.  They  were  of  the  rarest 
character,  and  had  been  planted  by  the 


learned  and  fiimous  Dr.  Swinnerton^ 
who  on  his  death-bed,  when  he  left  his 
dwelling  and  all  his  abstruse  maniK 
'scripts  to  his  fovorite  pvpil,  had  partic- 
ularly directed  his  attention  to  this  row 
of  shrubs.  They  had  been  collected  by 
himself  from  remote  countries,  and  had 
the  poignancy  of  torrid  climes  in  them ; 
and  he  told  him,  that,  properly  used,  they 
would  be  wordi  all  the  rest  of  the  legacy 
a  hundred-fold.  As  the  apothecary,  how- 
ever, found  the  manuscripts,  in  which  he 
conjectured  there  was  a  treatise  on  the 
subject  of  these  shnibSy  mostly  illegible, 
and  quite  beyond  his  comprehension  in 
such  passages  as  he  succeeded  in  puz- 
zling out,  (partly,  perhaps,  owing  to  his 
very  imperfect  knowle(lge  of  Latin,  in 
which  language  they  were  written,)  he 
had  never  derived  from  them  any  of  the 
promised  benefit  And  to  say  the  truth, 
remembering  that  Dr.  Swinnerton  him* 
self  never  appeared  to  triturate  or  de- 
coct or  do  anything  else  with  the  mys- 
terious herbs,  our  old  fiiend  was  in- 
clined to  imagine  the  weighty  commen- 
dation of  their  virtues  to  have  been  the 
idly  solemn  utterance  of  mental  aberra- 
tion at  the  hour  of  death.  So,  with  the 
integrity  that  belonged  to  his  character, 
he  had  nurtured  them  as  tenderly  as  was 
possible  in  the  ungenial  climate  and  soil 
of  New  England,  putting  some  of  them 
into  pots  for  the  winter ;  but  they  had 
raliier  dwindled  than  flourished,  and  he 
had  reaped  no  harvests  from  them,  nor 
observed  them  with  any  degree  of  sci- 
entific interest. 

His  grandson,  however,  while  yet  a 
school-boy,  had  listened  to  the  old  man's 
legend  of  the  miraculous  virtues  of  these 
plants ;  and  it  took  so  firm  a  hold  of  his* 
mind,  that  the  row  of  outlandish  vege- 
tables seemed  rooted  in  it,  and  certainly 
flourished  there  with  richer  luxuriance 
than  in  the  soil  where  they  actually 
grew.  The  story,  acting  thus  early  up- 
on his  imagination,  may  be  said  to  have 
influenced  his  brief  career  in  life,  and, 
perchance,  brought  about  its  early  dose. 
The  young  man,  in  the  opinion  of  com- 
petent judges,  was  endowed  with  re- 
markable abilities,  and  according  to  the 
rumor  of  the  people  had  wonderful  gifts. 


i86s.] 


Another  Scene  from  the  Dolliver  Romance* 


iriiich  were  proved  by  the  cures  he  had 
irrotight  with  remedies  of  his  own  in* 
Yention.  His  talents  lay  in  the  direc- 
tion of  scientific  analysts  and  inventive ' 
combination  of  chemical  powers.  While 
imder  the  pupilage  of  his  giandfather, 
his  progress  had  rapidly  gone  quite  be- 
yond  his  instructor's  hope, — leaving  him 
even  to  tremble  at  the  audacity  with 
which  he  overturned  and  invented  the- 
ories, and  to  wonder  at  the  depth  at 
which  he  wrought  beneath  the  superfi- 
dalness  and  mock-mystery  of  the  med- 
ical science  of  those  days^  like  a  miner 
sinking  his  shaft  and  running  a  hideous 
peril  of  the  earth  caving  in  above  him. 
Especially  did  he  devote  himself  to 
these  plants ;  and  under  his  care  they 
had  thriven  beyond  ail  former  prece- 
dent, bursting  into  luxuriance  of  bloom, 
and  most-  of  them  bearing  beautiful 
flowers,  which,  however,  in  two  or  three 
instances,  had  the  sort  of  natural  repul- 
siveness  that  the  serpent  has  in  its 
beauty,  compelled  against  its  will,  as  it 
were,  to  warn  the  beholder  of  an  unre- 
vealed  danger.  The  young  man  had  long 
ago,  it  must  be  added,  demanded  of  his 
grand&ther  the  documents  included  in 
the  legacy  of  Professor  Swinnerton,  and 
had  spent  days  and  nights  upon  them, 
growing  pale  over  their  mystic  lore, 
which  seemed  the  fruit  not  merely  of 
the  Professor's  own  labors,  but  of*  those 
of  more  ancient  sages  than  he ;  and  of- 
ten a  whdle  volume  seemed  to  be  com- 
pressed within  the  limits  of  a  few  lines 
of  crabbed  manuscript,  judging  from 
the  dme  which  it  cost  even  the  quick- 
minded  student  to  decipher  them. 

Meandme  these  abstruse  investiga- 
tions had  not  wrought  such  disastrous 
effects  as  might  have  been  feared,  in 
causing  Edward  Dolliver  to  neglect  the 
humble  trade,  the  conduct  of  which  his 
grand&ther  had  now  relinquished  al- 
most entirely  into  his  hands.  On  the 
contrary,  with  the  mere  side  results  of 
his  study,  or  what  may  be  called  the 
chips  and  shavings  of  his  real  work,  he 
created  a  prosperity  quite  beyond  any- 
thing that  his  simple-minded  predeces- 
sor had  ever  hoped  for,  even  at  the 
most  sanguine  epoch  of  his  life.    The 


young  man^s  adventurous  endowments 
were  miraculously  alive,  and  connecting 
themselves  with  bis  remarkable  ability 
for  solid  research,  and  perhaps  his  con- 
science being  as  yet  imperfectly  devel- 
oped, (as  it  sometimes  lies  dormant  in 
the  young,)  he  spared  not  to  produce 
compounds  which,  if  the  names  were 
anywise  to  be  trusted,  would  supersede 
all  other  remedies,  and  speedily  render 
any  medicine  a  needless  thing,  making 
the  trade  of  apothecary  an  untenable 
one,  and  the  title  of  Doctor  obsolete. 
Whether  there  was  r.eal  efficacy  in  tiiese 
nostrums,  and  whether  their  author  him- 
self had  futh  in  them,  is  more  than  can 
safely  be  said;  but  at  all  events,  the 
pubUc  believed  in  them,  and  thronged 
to  the  old  and  dim  sign  of  the  Brazen 
Serpent,  which,  though  hitherto  famil- 
iar to  them  and  their  fore&thers,  now 
seemed  to  shine  with  ausiMcious  lus- 
tre, as  if  its  old  Scriptural  virtues  were 
renewed.  If  any  £aith  was  to  be  put 
in  human  testimony,  many  marvellous 
cures  were  really  performed,  the  £une 
of  which  spread  for  and  wide,  and  caused 
demands  for  these  medicines  to  come 
in  from  places  fiur  beyond  the  precinct^ 
of  the  little  town.  Our  old  apothecary, 
now  degraded  by  the  overshadowing  in- 
fluence of  his  grandson's  character  to  a 
position  not  much  above  that  of  a  shop- 
boy,  stood  behind  the  counter  with  a 
£u:e  sad  and  distnistfiil,  and  yet  with  an 
odd  kind  of  fitful  excitement  in  it,  as  if 
he  would  have  liked  to  enjoy  this  new 
prosperity,  had  he  dared.  Then  his 
venerable  figure  was  to  be  seen  dis- 
pensing these  questionable  compounds 
by  the  single  bottle  and  by  the  dozen, 
wronging  his  simple  conscience  as  he 
dealt  out  what  he  feared  was  traSh  or 
worse,  shrinking  finom  the  reproachful 
eyes  of  every  ancient  physician  who 
might  chance  to  be  passing  by,  but  withal 
examining  closely  the  silver  or  the  New 
England  coarsely  printed  bills  which 
he  took  in  payment,  au  if  apprehensive 
that  the  delusive  character  of  the  com- 
modity which  he  sold  might  be  balanced 
by  equal  counterfeiting  in  the  money 
received,  or  as  if  his  £uth  in  all  things 
were  shaken. 


Another  Scene  from  the  Dolliver  Rotnance.      [Januaiy, 


Is  it  not  possible  that  this  gifted 
young  man  had  indeed  found  out  those 
remedies  which  Nature  has  provided 
and  laid  away  for  the  cure  of  every 
ill? 

The  disastrous  termination  of  the 
most  brilliant  epoch  that  ever  came  to 
the  Brazen  Serpent  must  be  told  in  a 
few  words.  One  night,  Edward  Dolli- 
ver's  young  wife  awoke,  and,  seeing  the 
gray  dawn  creeping  into  the  chamber, 
while  her  husband,  it  should  seem,  was 
still  engaged  in  his  laboratory,  arose  in 
her  night-dress,  an(l  went  to  the  door 
of  the  room  to  put  in  her  gentle  remon- 
strance against  such  labor.  There  she 
found  him  dead,  —  sunk  down  out  of  his 
chair  upon  the  hearth,  where  were  some 
ashes,  apparendy  of  burnt  manuscripts, 
which  appeared  to  comprise  most  of 
those  included  in  Doctor  Swinnerton's 
legacy,  though  one  or  two  had  £illen 
near  the  heap,  and  lay  merely  scorched 
beside  it  It  seemed  as  if  he  had  thrown 
them  into  the  fire,  under  a  sudden  im- 
pulse, in  a  great  hurry  and  passion.  It 
may  be  that  he  had  come  to  the  percep- 
tion of  something  &tally  false  and  de- 
ceptive in  the  successes  which  he  had 
appeared  to  win,  and  was  too  proud 
and  too  conscientious  to  survive  it 
Doctors  were  called  in,  but  had  no 
power  to  revive  him.  An  inquest  was 
held,  at  which  the  jury,  under  the  in- 
struction, perhaps,  of  those  same  re- 
vengeful doctors,  expressed  the  opin- 
ion that  the  poor  young  man,  being 
given  to  strange  contrivances  with  poi- 
sonous drugs,  had  died  by  incautiously 
tasting  them  himself.  This  verdict,  and 
the  terrible  event  itself,  at  once  deprived 
the  medicines  of  all  their  popularity ; 
and  the  poor  old  apothecary  was  no  lon- 
ger under  any  necessity  of  disturbing 
his  conscience  by  selling  them.  They 
at  once  lost  their  repute,  and  ceased  to 
be  in  any  demand.  In  the  few  instances 
in  which  they  were  tried  the  experiment 
was  followed  by  no  good  results ;  and 
even  those  individuals  who  had  £uicied 
themselves  cured,  and  had  been  loudest 
In  spreading  the  praises  of  these  benef- 
icent compounds,  now,  as  if  for  the  ut- 
ter demolition  of  the  poor  youth's  credit, 


sufiered  under  a  recurrence  of  the  worst 
symptoms,  and,  in  more  than  one  case^ 
perished  miserably :  insomuch  (for  the 
days  of  witchcraft  were  still  within  the 
memory  of  living  men  and  women)  it 
was  the  general  opinion  that  Satan  had 
been  personally  concerned  in  this  afflic- 
tion, and  that  the  Brazen  Serpent,  so 
long  honored  among  them,  was  really 
the  type  of  his  subtie  malevolence  and 
perfect  iniquity.  It  was  rumored  even 
that  all  prepanUions  that  came  from  the 
shop  were  harmful, — that  teeth  decayed 
that  had  been  made  pearly  white  by  the 
use  of  the  young  chemist's  dentifrice, — 
that  cheeks  were  freckled  that  had  been 
changed  to  damask  roses  by  his  cosmet- 
ics,— ^that  hair  turned  gray  or  fell  off  that 
had  become  black,  glossy,  and  luxuriant 
from  the  application  of  his  mixtures,  — 
that  breath  which  his  drugs  had  sweet- 
ened had  now  a  sulphurous  smell.  More- 
over, all  the  money  heretofore  amassed 
by  the  sale  of  them  had  been  exhausted 
by  Edward  Dolliver  in  his  lavish  ex- 
penditure for  the  processes  of  his  study ; 
and  nothing  was  left  for  Pansie,  except 
a  few  valueless  and  unsalable  botties 
of  medicine,  and  one  or  two  others, 
perhaps  more  recondite  than  their  in- 
ventor had  seen  fit  to  offer  to  the  pub- 
lic. Littie  Pansie's  mother  lived  but  a 
short  time  after  the  shock  of  the  terri- 
ble catastrophe ;  and,  as  we  began  our 
story  with  saying,  she  was  left  with 
no  better  guardianship  or  support  than 
might  be  found  in  the  efforts  of  a  long 
superannuated  man. 

Nothing  short  of  the  simplicity,  in- 
tegrity, and  piety  of  Grandsir  DolUver's 
character,  known  and  acknowledged  as 
far  back  as  the  oldest  inhabitants  re- 
membered anything,  and  inevitably  dis- 
coverable by  the  dullest  and  most  preju- 
diced observers,  in  all  its  natural  mani- 
festations, could  have  protected  him  in 
still  creeping  about  the  streets.  So  far 
as  he  was  personally  concerned,  how- 
ever, all  bitterness  and  suspicion  had 
speedily  passed  away;  and  there  re- 
mained still  the  careless  and  neglectful 
good-will,  and  the  prescriptive  rever- 
ence, not  altogether  reverential,  which 
the  world  heedlessly  awards  to  the  un- 


; 


i86$S\  Another  Scene  from  the  Dolliver  Romance, 


Ibrtttnate  individual  who  outlives  his 
generation. 

And  now  that  we  have  shown  the 
reader  suffidendy,  or  at  least  to  the 
best  of  our  knowledge,  and  perhaps  at 
tedioiis  length,  what  was  the  present 
position  of  Grandsir  Dolliver,  we  may 
let  our  story  pass  onward,  though  at 
such  a  pace  as  suits  the  feeble  gait  of 
an  old  man. 

The  peculiarly  brisk  sensation  of  this 
morning,  to  which  we  have  more  than 
once  alluded,  enabled  the  Doctor  to 
toil  pretty  vigorously  at  his  medicinal 
herbi,  — «  his  catnip,  his  vervain,  and  the 
like ;  but  he  did  not  turn  his  attention 
to  the  row  of  mystic  plants,  with  which 
so  much  of  trouble  and  sorrow  either 
was,  or  appeared  to  be,  connected.  In 
truth,  his  old  soul  was  sick  of  them,  and 
their  very  fragrance,  which  the  warm 
sunshine  made  strongly  perceptible,  was 
odious  to  his  nostrils.  But  the  spicy, 
homelike  scent  of  his  other  herbs,  the 
English  simples,  was  grateful  to  him, 
and  so  was  the  earth-smell,  as  he  turned 
up  the  soil  about  their  roots,  and  ea- 
geriy  snuffed  it  in.  Littie  Pansie,  on 
the  other  hand,  perhaps  scandalized  at 
great-grandpapa's  neglect  of  the  pretti- 
est plants  in  his  garden,  resolved  to  do 
her  small  utmost  towards  balancing  his 
injustice ;  so,  with  an  old  shingle,  &llen 
from  the  roo(  which  she  had  appropri- 
ated as  her  agricultural  tool,  she  began 
to  dig  about  them,  pulling  up  the  weeds, 
as  she  saw  grandpapa  doing.  The  kit- 
ten, too,  with  a  look  of  elfish  sagacity, 
lent  her  assistance,  plying  her  paws  with 
vast  haste  and  efficiency  at  the  roots  of 
one  of  the  shrubs.  This  particular  one 
was  much  smaller  than  the  rest,  per- 
haps because  it  was  a  native  of  the 
torrid  zone,  and  required  greater  care 
than  the  others  to  make  it  flourish  ;  so 
that,  shrivelled,  cankered,  and  scarcely 
showing  a  green  leaf^  both  Pansie  and 
the  kitten  probably  mistook  it  for  a 
weed.  After  their  joint  efforts  had 
made  a  pretty  big  trench  about  it,  the 
littie  girl  seited  the  shrub  with  both 
hands,  bestriding  it  with  her  plump  lit- 
tie legs,  and  giving  so  vigorous  a  pull, 
that,  long  accustomed  to  be  transplanted 


annually,  it  came  up  by  the  noots,  and 
littie  Pansie  came  down  in  a  sitting  pos- 
ture, making  a  broad  impress  on  the 
soft  earth.  "See,  see,  Doctor!"  cries 
Pansie,  comically  enough  giving  him 
his  title  of  courtesy,  —  *Mook,  grand- 
papa, the  big,  naughty  weed ! " 

Now  the  Doctor  had  at  once  a  pecu- 
liar dread  and  a  peculiar  value  for  this 
identical  shrub,  both  because  his  grand- 
son's investigations  had  been  applied 
more  ardentiy  to  it  than  to  all  the  rest, 
and  because  it  was  associated  in  his 
mind  with  an  ancient  and  sad  recollec- 
tion. For  he  had  never  forgotten  that 
his  wife,  the  early  lost,  had  once  taken 
a  ^cy  to  wear  its  flowers,  day  after 
day,  through  the  whole  season  of  their 
bloom,  in  her  bosom,  where  they  glowed 
like  a  gem,  and  deepened  her  some- 
what pallid  beauty  with  a  richness  nev- 
er before  seen  in  it.  At  least  such  was 
the  effect  which  this  tropical  flower  im- 
parted to  the  beloved  form  in  his  mem- 
ory, and  thus  it  somehow  both  bright- 
ened and  wronged  her.  This  had  hap- 
pened not  long  before  her  death ;  and 
whenever,  in  the  subsequent  years, 
this  plant  had  brought  its  annual  flow- 
er, it  had  proved  a  kind  of  talisman  to 
bring  up  the  image  of  Bessie,  radiant 
with  this  glow  that  did  not  really  be- 
long to  her  naturally  passive  beauty, 
quickly  interchanging  with  another  im- 
age of  her  form,  with  the  snow  of  death 
on  cheek  and  forehead.  This  reminis- 
cence had  remained  among  the  things 
of  which  the  Doctor  was  always  con- 
scious, but  had  never  breathed  a  word, 
through  the  whole  of  his  long  life,  —  a 
sprig  of  sensibility  that  perhaps  helped 
to  keep  him  tenderer  and  purer  than 
other  men,  who  entertain  no  such  fol- 
lies. And  the  sight  of  the  shrub  often 
brought  back  the  faint,  golden  gleam 
of  her  hair,  as  if  her  spirit  were  in  the 
sun-lights  of  the  garden,  quivering  in- 
to view  and  out  of  it  And  therefore, 
when  he  saw  what  Pansie  had  done,  he 
sent  forth  a  strange,  inarticulate,  hoarse, 
tremulous  exclamation,  a  sort  of  aged 
and  decrepit  cry  of  mingled  emotion. 
"  Naughty  Pansie,  to  pull  up  grandpapa's 
flower  ! "  said  he,  as  soon  as  he  could 


Another  Scene  from  the  Dolliver  Romance.      [January, 


speak.  "  Poison,  Pansie,  poison  !  Fling 
it  away,  child ! " 

And  dropping  his  spade,  the  old  gen- 
tleman scrambled  towards  the  little  girl 
as  quickly  as  his  rusty  joints  would  let 
him,  —  while  Pansie,  as  apprehensive 
and  quick  of  motion  as  a  f^wn,  started 
up  with  a  shriek  of  mirth  and  fear  to 
escape  him.  It  so  happened  that  the 
garden-gate  was  ajar;  and  a  puff  of 
wind  blowing  it  wide  open,  she  escaped 
through  this  fortuitous  avenue,  followed 
by  great-grandpapa  and  the  kitten. 

'^Stop,  naughty  Pansie,  stop !  ^  shout- 
ed our  old  friend.  ^'You  will  tumble 
into  the  grave  ! "  The  kitten,  with  the 
singular  sensitiveness  that  seems  to  af- 
fect it  at  every  kind  of  excitement,  was 
now  on  her  back. 

And,  indeed,  this  portentous  warning 
was  better  grounded  and  had  a  more  lit- 
eral meaning  than  might  be  supposed ; 
for  the  swinging  gate  communicated 
with  the  burial-ground,  and  almost  di- 
rectly in  little  Pansie's  track  there  was 
a  newly  dug  grave,  ready  to  receive  its 
tenant  that  afternoon.  Pansie,  how- 
ever, fled  onward  with  outstretched 
arras,  half  in  fear,  half  in  fun,  plying 
her  round  little  legs  with  wonderful 
promptitude,  as  if  to  escape  Time  or 
Death,  in  the  person  of  Grandsir  Dol- 
liver, and  happily  avoiding  the  omi- 
nous pitfall  that  lies  in  every  person's 
path,  till,  hearing  a  groan  fh)m  her  pur- 
suer, she  looked  over  her  shoulder,  and 
saw  that  poor  grandpapa  had  stumbled 
over  one  of  the  many  hillocks.  She 
then  suddenly  Wrinkled  up  her  little  vis- 
age, and  sent  forth  a  full-tu-eathed  roar 
of  sympathy  and  alarm. 

"Grandpapa  has  broken  his  neck 
now ! "  cried  little  Pansie,  amid  her 
sobs. 

"  Kiss  grandpapa,  and  make  it  well, 
then,"  said  the  old  gentleman,  recol- 
lecting her  remedy,  and  scramUing  up 
more  readily  than  could  be  expected. 
"Well,"  he  murmured  to  himself,  "a 
hair's-breadth  more,  and  I  should  have 
been  tun^led  into  yonder  grave.  Poor 
little  Pansie !  what  wouldst  thou  have 
done  then?"  • 

"Make  the  grass  grow  over  grand- 


papa," answered  Pansie,  laughing  up  in 
his  face. 

"Poh,  poh,  child,  that  is  not  a  pretty 
thing  to  say,"  said  grandpapa,  pcttbhly 
and  disappointed,  as  people  are  apt  to 
be  when  they  try  to  calculate  on  the  fit- 
ful sympathies  of  childhood.  "Com«, 
you  must  go  in  to  old  Martha  now." 

The  poor  old  gentleman  was  in  the 
more  haste  to  leave  the  spot  because 
he  found  himself  standing  right  in  front 
of  his  own  peculiar  row  of  gravestones^ 
consisting  of  eight  or  nine  slabs  of 
slate,  adorned  with  carved  borders  rath- 
er rudely  cut,  and  the  earliest  one,  that 
of  his  Bessie,  bending  aslant,  because 
the  frost  of  so  many  winters  had  slowly 
undermined  it  Over  one  grave  of  the 
row,  that  of  his  gifted  grandson,  there 
was  no  memoriaL  He  felt  a  strange 
repugnance,  stronger  than  be  had  ever 
felt  before,  to  linger  by  these  graves^ 
and  had  none  of  the  tender  sorrow  min- 
gled with  high  and  tender  hopes  that 
had  sometimes  made  it  seem  good  to 
him  to  be  there.  Such  moods,  perhaps, 
often  come  to  the  aged,  when  the  hard- 
ened earth-crust  over  their  souls  shuts 
them  out  from  spiritual  influences. 

Taking  the  child  by  the  hand,  —  her 
little  effervescence  of  in£uitile  fun  having 
passed  into  a  downcast  humor,  though 
not  well  knowing  as  yet  what  a  dusky 
cloud  of  disheartening  £uicies  arose  from 
these  green  hiUocks,  —  he  went  heavily 
toward  the  garden -gate.  Close  to  its 
threshold,  so  that  one  who  was  issuing 
forth  or  entering  must  needs  step  up- 
on it  or  over  it,  lay  a  small  flat  stone, 
deeply  imbedded  in  the  ground,  and 
partly  covered  with  grass,  inscribed  with 
the  name  of  "Dr.  John  Svrinnerton, 
Physician." 

"  Ay,"  said  the  old  man,  as  the  well- 
remembered  figure  of  his  ancient  in- 
structor seemed  to  rise  before  him  in 
his  grave-apparel,  with  beard  and  gold- 
headed  cane,  black  velvet  doublet  and 
cloak,  "  here  lies  a  man  who,  as  peoj^ 
have  thought,  had  it  in  his  power  to 
avoid  the  grave !  He  had  no  little 
grandchild  to  tease  him.  He  had  the 
choice  to  die,  and  chose  it" 

So  the  old  gentleman  led  Pansie  over 


i86S']  The  Wind  over  the  Chimney.  7 

the  stone,  and  carefully  closed  the  gate ;  into  the  open  grave ;  and  when  the  fu- 
and,  as  it  hsippened,  he  forgot  the  up-  neral  came  that  afternoon,  the  coffin  was 
rooted  shrub,  which  Pansie,  as  she  ran,,  let  down  upon  it,  so  that  its  bright,  in- 
had  flung  away,  and  which  had  fallen  auspicious  flower  never  bloomed  again. 


THE  WIND  OVER  THE  CHIMNEY. 

SEE,  the  fire  is  sinking  low. 
Dusky  red  the  embers  glow, 
While  above  them  still  I  cower,  — 
While  a  moment  more  I  linger, 
Though  the  clock,  with  lifted  finger. 
Points  beyond  the  midnight  hour. 

Sings  the  blackened  log  a  tune 
Learned  in  some  forgotten  June 

From  a  school-boy  at  his  play. 
When  they  both  were  young  together, 
Heart  of  youth  and  summer  weather 

Making  all  tlieir  holiday. 

And  the  night-wind  rising,  hark  1 
How  above  there  in  the  dark. 

In  the  midnight  and  the  snow, 
Ever  wilder,  fiercer,  grander. 
Like  the  trumpets  of  Iskander, 

All  the  noisy  chimneys  blow !  * 

Every  quivering  topgue  of  flame 
Seems  to  murmur  some  great  name, 

Seems  to  say  to  me,  "  Aspire  I " 
But  the  night-wind  answers,  —  "  Hollow 
Are  the  visions  that  you  follow, 

Into  darkness  sinks  your  fire ! " 

Then  the  flicker  of  the  blaze 
Gleams  on  volumes  of  old  days. 

Written  by  masters  of  the  art, 
Loud  through  whose  majestic  pages 
Rolls  the  melody  of  ages. 

Throb  the  harp-strings  of  the  heart 

.And  again  the  tongues  of  flame 
Start  exulting  and  exclaim,  — 

^  These  are  prophets,  bards,  and  seers ; 
In  the  horoscope  of  nations. 
Like  ascendant  constellations, 

They  control  the  coming  years.* 


8 


Between  Europe  and  Asia, 


[January, 


But  the  night-wind  cries,  —  "  Despair  I 
Those  who  walk  with  feet  of  air 

Leave  no  long-enduring  marks ; 
At  God's  forges  incandescent 
Mighty  hammers  beat  incessant, 

These  are  but  the  flying  sparks. 

**  Dust  are  all  the  hands  that  wrought ; 
Books  are  sepulchres  of  thought ; 

The  dead  laurels  of  the  dead 
Rustle  for  a  moment  only, 
Like  the  withered  leaves  in  lonely 

Church-yards  at  some  passing  tread." 

Suddenly  the  flame  sinks  down ; 
Sink  the  rumors  of  renown ; 

And  alone  the  night-wind  drear 
Clamors  louder,  wilder,  vaguer,  — 
"  T  is  the  brand  of  Meleager 

Dying  on  the  hearth-stone  here !  • 

And  I  answer,  —  "  Though  it  be. 
Why  should  that  discomfort  me  ? 

No  endeavor  is  in  vain ; 
Its  reward  is  in  the  doing. 
And  the  rapture  of  pursuing 

Is  the  prize  the  vanquished  gain.' 


BETWEEN  EUROPE  AND  ASIA. 


<4 


Pushed  off  from  one  idunre,  and  not  yet  landed  on  the  other.** 

Russian  Prgveri, 


THE  railroad  from  Moscow  to  Nijni- 
Novgorod  had  been  opened  but  a 
fortnight  before.  It  was  scarcely  fin- 
ished, indeed ;  for,  in  order  to  facili- 
tate travel  during  the  continuance  of 
the  Great  Fair  at  the  latter  place,  the 
gaps  in  the  line,  left  by  unbuilt  bridges, 
were  filled  up  with  temporary  trestle- 
work.  The  one  daily  express-train  was 
so  thronged  that  it  required  much  exer- 
tion, and  the  freest  use  of  the  envoy's 
prestige,  k>  secure  a  private  carriage 
for  our  party.  The  sun  was  sinking 
over  the  low,  hazy  ridge  of  the  Sparrow 
Hills  as  we  left  Moscow ;  and  we  en- 


joyed one  more  glimpse  of  the  inex- 
haustible splendor  of  the  city's  thou- 
sand golden  domes  and  pinnacles,  soft- 
ened by  luminous  smoke  and  transfig- 
ured dust,  before  the  dark  woods  of  fir 
inter\'ened,  and  the  twilight  sank  down 
on  cold  and  lonely  landscapes. 

Thence,  until  darkness,  there  was 
nothing  more  to  claim  attention;  Who- 
ever has  seen  one  landscape  of  Central 
Russia  is  familiar  with  three  fourths  of 
the  whole  region.  Nowhere  else  —  not 
even  on  the  levels  of  Illinois  —  are  the 
same  features  so  constantly  reproduced. 
One  long,  low  swell  of  eartii  succeeds  to 


1865.] 


Bdween  Europe  and  Asia. 


anodier ;  it  is  rare  that  any  other  woods 
than  birch  and  fir  are  seen  ;  the  cleared 
land  presents  a  continuous  succession 
of  pasture,  rye,  wheat,  potatoes,  and 
cabbages ;  and  the  villages  are  as  like 
as  peas,  in  their  huts  of  unpainted  logs, 
clustering  around  a  white  church  with 
five  green  domes.  It  is  a  monotony 
which  nothing  but  the  richest  cultiu-e 
can  prevent  from  becoming  tiresome. 
Culture  is  to  Nature  what  good  man- 
ners are  to  man,  rendering  poverty  of 
character  endurable. 

Stationing  a  servant  at  the  door  to 
prevent  intrusion  at  the  way-stadons, 
we  let  down  the  curtains  before  our 
windows,  and  secured  a  comfortable 
privacy  for  the  night,  whence  we  issued 
only  once,  during  a  halt  for  supper.  I 
entered  the  refreshment-room  with  very 
slender  expectations,  but  was  immedi- 
ately served  with  plump  partridges,  ten- 
der cutlets,  and  green  peas.  The  Rus- 
sians made  a  rush  for  the  great  samovar 
(tea-urn)  of  brass,  which  shone  from  one 
end  of  the  long  table ;  and  presently 
each  had  his  tumbler  of  scalding  tea, 
with  a  slice  of  lemon  floating  on  the 
top.  These  people  drink  beverages  of 
a  temperature  which  would  take  the  skin 
off  Anglo-Saxon  mouths.  My  tongue 
was  more  than  once  blistered,  on  begin- 
ning to  drink  after  they  had  emptied 
their  glasses.  There  is  no  station  with- 
out its  steaming  samovar;  and  some 
persons,  I  verily  believe,  take  their  thir- 
ty-three hot  teas^  between  Moscow  and 
St  Petersburg. 

There  is  not  much  choice  of  dishes  in 
the  interior  of  Russia ;  but  what  one 
does  get  is  sure  to  be  tolerably  good. 
Even  on  the  Beresina  and  the  Dnieper 
I  have  always  £sLred  better  than  at  most 
of  the  places  in  our  country  where  *'  Ten 
minutes  for  refreshments ! "  is  announced 
day  by  day  and  year  by  year.  Better  a 
single  beef-steak,  where  tenderness  is, 
than  a  stalled  ox,  all  gristie  and  grease. 
But  then  our  cooking  (for  the  public  at 
least)  is  notoriously  the  worst  in  the 
civilized  world ;  and  I  can  safely  pro- 
nounce the  Russian  better,  without  com- 
mending it  very  highly. 

Some  time  in  the  night  we  passed  the 


large  town  of  Vladimir,  and  with  the 
rising  sun  were  well  on  our  way  to  the 
Volga.  I  pushed  aside  the  curtains, 
and  looked  out,  to  see  what  changes  a 
night's  travel  had  wrought  in  the  scen- 
ery. It  was  a  pleasant  surprise.  On  the 
right  stood  a  large,  stately  residence, 
embowered  in  gardens  and  orchards  ; 
while  beyond  it,  stretching  away  to  the 
south-east,  opened  a  broad,  shallow  val- 
ley. The  sweeping  hills  on  either  side 
were  dotted  with  shocks  of  rye ;  and 
their  thousands  of  acres  of  stubble  shone 
like  gold  in  the  level  rays.  Herds  of 
cattie  were  pasturing  in  the  meadows, 
and  the  peasants  (serfs  no  longer)  were 
straggling  out  of  the  villages  to  their 
labor  in  the  fields.  The  crosses  and 
polished  domes  of  churches  sparkled  on 
the  horizon.  Here  the  patches  of  prim- 
itive forest  were  of  larger  growth,  the 
trunks  cleaner  and  straighter,  than  we 
had  yet  seen.  Nature  was  half  con- 
quered, in  spite  of  the  climate,  and,  the 
first  time  since  leaving  St  Petersburg, 
wore  a  habitable  aspect  I  recog- 
nized some  of  the  featiu-es  of  Russian 
country-life,  which  Puschkin  describes 
so  charmingly  in  his  poem  of  ''^Eugene 
Onagin.' 

The  agricultural  development  of  Rus- 
sia has  beeh  gready  retarded  by  the 
indifference  of  the  nobility,  whose  vast 
estates  comprise  the  best  land  of  the 
empire,  in  those  provinces  where  im- 
provements might  be  most  easily  intro- 
duced. Although  a  large  portion  of 
the  noble  fieimilies  pass  th«ir  summers 
in  the  country,  they  use  the  season  as 
a  period  of  physicsd  and  pecuniary  re- 
cuperation from  the  dissipations  of  the 
past,  and  preparation  for  those  of  the 
coming  winter.  Their  possessions  are 
so  large  (those  of  Count  Scheremetiei]^ 
for  instance,  contain  one  hundred  and 
thirty  thousand  inhabitants)  that  they 
push  each  other  too  fitr  apart  for  social 
intercourse ;  and  they  consequently  live 
en  dishabilU^  careless  of  the  great  na- 
tional interests  in  their  hands.  There 
is  a  class  of  our  Southern  planters  which 
seems  to  have  adopted  a  very  similar 
mode  of  life,  —  fiimilies  which  shabbily 
starve  for  ten  months,  in  order  to  make 


ro 


Between  Europe  and  Asia. 


[January, 


a  lordly  show  at  ^^  the  Springs  '  for  the 
other  two.  A  most  accomplished  Rus- 
sian lady,  the  Princess  D ^i  said  to 

me, — *^  The  want  of  an  active,  intelligent 
country  society  is  our  greatest  misfor- 
tune. Our  estates  thus  become  a  sort 
of  exile.  The  few,  here  and  there,  who 
try  to  improve  the  condition  of  the  peo- 
ple, through  the  improvement  of  the 
soil,  are  not  supported  by  their  neigh- 
bors, and  lose  heart  The  more  we  gain 
in  the  life  of  the  capital,  the  more  we 
are  oppressed  by  the  solitude  and  stag- 
nation of  the  life  of  the  country." 

This  open,  cheerful  region  continued 
through  the  morning.  The  railroad  was 
still  a  novelty ;  and  the  peasants  every- 
where dropped  \heir  scythes  and  shov- 
els to  see  the  train  pass.  Some  bowed 
with  the  profoundest  gravity.  They 
were  a  fine,  healthy,  strapping  race  of 
men,  only  of  medium  height,  but  admi- 
rably developed  in  chest  and  limbs,  and 
with  shrewd,  intelligent  faces.  Content, 
not  stupidity,  is  the  cause  of  their  sta- 
tionary condition.  They  are  not  yet  a 
people,  but  the  germ  of  one,  and,  as 
such,  present  a  grand  field  for  anthropo- 
logical studies. 

Towards  noon  the  road  began  to  de- 
scend, by  easy  grades,  fi-om  the  fair, 
rolling  uplands  into  a  lower  and  wilder 
region.  When  the  train  stopped,  wom- 
en and  children  whose  swarthy  skin 
and  black  eyes  betrayed  a  mixture  of 
Tartar  blood  made  their  appearance, 
with  wooden  bowls  of  cherries  and 
huckleberrii^  for  sale.  These  bowls 
were  neatly  carved  and  painted.  They 
were  evidently  held  in  high  value ;  for 
I  had  great  difficulty  in  purchasing  one. 
We  moved  slowly,  on  account  of  the 
many  skeleton  bridges ;  but  presendy 
a  long  blue  ridge,  which  for  an  hour 
past  had  followed  us  in  the  south-east, 
began  to  curve  around  to  our  fi-ont  I 
now  knew  that  it  must  mark  the  course 
of  the  Oka  River,  and  that  we  were  ap- 
proaching Nijni- Novgorod. 

We  soon  saw  the  river  itself;  then 
houses  and  gardens  scattered  along  the 
slope  of  the  hill ;  then  clusters  of  spar- 
kling domes  on  the  simimit ;  then  a 
stately,  white-walled  citadel ;  and  the 


end  of  the  ridge  was  levelled  down  in 
an  even  line  to  the  Volga.  We  were 
three  hundred  miles  from  Moscow,  on 
the  direct  road  to  Siberia. 

The  city  being  on  the  £u-ther  side  of 
the  Oka,  the  railroad  terminates  at  the 
Fair,  which  is  a  separate  city,  occupy- 
ing the  triangular  level  between  the  two 
rivers.  Our  approach  to  it  was  first 
announced  by  heaps  of  cotton-bales, 
bound,  in  striped  camel's-hair  cloth, 
which  had  found  their  way  hither  from 
the  distant  valleys  of  Turkestan  and 
the  warm  plains  of  Bukharia.  Nearly 
fifty  thousand  camels  are  employed  in 
the  transportation  of  this  staple  across 
the  deserts  of  the  Aral  to  Orenburg, — 
a  distance  of  a  thousand  miles.  The 
increase  of  price  had  doubled  the  pro- 
duction since  the  previous  year,  and  the 
amount  which  now  reaches  the  factories 
of  Russia  through  this  channel  cannot 
be  less  than  seventy-five  thousand  bales. 
The  advance  of  modem  civilization  has 
so  intertwined  the  interests  of  all  zones 
and  races,  that  a  civil  war  in  the  United 
States  affects  the  industry  of  Central 
Asia! 

Next  to  these  cotton-bales,  which, 
to  us,  silently  proclaimed  the  downfall 
of  that  arrogant  monopoly  which  has 
caused  all  our  present  woe,  came  the 
representatives  of  those  who  produced 
them.  Groups  of  picturesque  Asians 
—  Bashkirs,  Persians,  Bukharians,  and 
Uzbeks  —  appeared  on  either  side,  star- 
ing impassively  at  the  wonderful  appa- 
rition. Though  there  was  sand  under 
their  feet,  they  seemed  out  of  place  in 
the  sharp  north-wind  and  among  the 
hills  of  fir  and  pine. 

The  train  stopped :  we  had  reached 
the  station.  As  I  stepped  upon  the 
platform,  I  saw,  over  the  level  lines  of 
copper  roofs,  the  dragon-like  pinnacles 
of  Chinese  buildings,  and  the  white 
minaret  of  a  mosque.  Here  was  the 
certainty  of  a  picturesque  interest  to 
balance  the  uncertainty  of  our  situation. 
We. had  been  unable  to  engage  quarters 
in  advance:  there  were  two  hundred 
thousand  strangers  before  us,  in  a  city 
the  normal  population  of  which  is  barely 
forty  thousand ;  and  four  of  our  party 


i86s.] 


Between  Europe  and  Asia. 


II 


were  ladies.  The  envoy,  indeed,  might 
claim  the  Goveraor's  hospitality;  but 
our  visit  was  to  be  so  brief  that  we 
had  no  time  to  expend  on  ceremo- 
nies, and  preferred  rambling  at  will 
through  the  teeming  bazaars  to  being 
led  about  under  the  charge  of  an  offi- 
cial escort 

A  friend  at  Moscow,  however,  had 
considerately  telegraphed  in  our  belialf 
to  a  French  resident  of  Nijni,  and  the 
latter  gendeman  met  us  at  the  station. 
He  could  give  but  slight  hope  of  quar- 
ters for  the  night,  but  generously  offered 
his  services.  Droshkies  were  engaged 
to  convey  us  to  the  old  city,  on  the  hill 
beyond  the  Oka ;  and,  crowded  two  by 
two  into  the  shabby  little  vehicles,  we 
set  forth.  The  sand  was  knee-deep, 
and  the  first  thing  that  happened  was 
the  stoppage  of  our  procession  by  the 
tumbling  down  of  the  several  horses. 
They  were  righted  with  the  help  of 
some  obliging  spectators ;  and  with  infi- 
nite labor  we  worked  through  this  strip 
of  desert  into  a  region  of  mud,  with  a 
hard,  stony  bottom  somewhere  between 
us  and  the  earth's  centre.  The  street 
we  entered,  though  on  the  outskirts  of 
the  Fair,  resembled  Broadway  on  a 
sensation-day.  It  was  choked  with  a 
crowd,  composed  of  the  sweepings  of 
Europe  and  Asia.  Our  horses  thrust 
their  heads  between  the  shoulders  of 
Christians,  Jews,  Moslem,  and  Pagans, 
slowly  shoving  their  way  towards  the 
floating  bridge,  which  was  a  jam  of  ve- 
hicles from  end  to  end.  At  the  comers 
of  the  streets,  the  wiry  Don  Cossacks, 
in  their  dashing  blue  uniforms  and  caps 
of  black  lamb^s-wool,  regulated,  as  best 
they  could,  the  movements  of  the  mpl- 
titude.  It  was  curious  to  notice  how 
they,  and  their  small,  well-knit  horses, 
—  the  equine  counterparts  of  them- 
selves,—  controlled  the  fierce,  fiery  life 
which  flashed  fitnn  every  limb  ami  fea- 
ture, and  did  their  duty  with  wonderful 
patience  and  gentleness.  They  seemed 
so  many  spirits  of  Disorder  tamed  to 
the  service  of  Order. 

It  was  nearly  half  an  hour  before  we 
reached  the  other  end  of  the  bridge, 
and  struck  the  superb  inclined  highway 


which  leads  to  the  top  of  the  hilL  We 
were  unwashed  and  hungry ;  and  neither 
the  tumult  of  the  lower  town,  nor  the 
vjpw  of  the  Volga,  crowded  with  ves- 
sels of  all  descriptions,  had  power  to 
detain  us.  Our  brave  little  horses  bent 
themselves  to  the  task ;  for  task  it  really 
was, —  the  road  rising  between  three  and 
four  hundred  feet  in  less  than  half  a 
mile.  Advantage  has  been  taken  of  a 
slight  natural  ravine,  formed  by  a  short, 
curving  spur  of  the  hill,  which  encloses 
z  pocket  oi  XYi^  greenest  and  richest  fo- 
liage,— a  bit  of  unsuspected  beauty, 
quite  invisible  from  the  other  side  of  the 
river.  Then,  in  order  to  reach  the  level 
of  the  Kremlin,  the  rq^d  is  led  through 
an  artificial  gap,  a  hundred  feet  in  depth, 
to  the  open  square  in  the  centre  of  the 
city. 

Here,  all  was  silent  and  deserted. 
There  were  broad,  well-paved  streets, 
substantial  houses,  the  square  towers 
.and  crenellated  walls  of  the  old  Krem- 
lin, and  the  glittering  cupolas  of  twenty- 
six  churches  before  us,  and  a  lack  of 
population  which  contrasted  amazingly 
with  the  whirlpool  of  life  below.  Mon- 
sieur D.,  our  new,  but  most  faithful 
friend,  took  us  to  the  hotel,  every  cor- 
ner and  cranny  of  which  was  occupied. 
There  was  a  possibility  of  breakfast 
only,  and  water  was  obtained  with  great 
exertion.  While  we  were  lazily  enjoy- 
ing a  tolerable  meal.  Monsieur  D.  was 
bestirring  himself  in  all  quarters,  and 
came  back  to  us  radiant  with  luck.  He 
had  found  four  rooms  in  a  neighboring 
street ;  and  truly,  if  one  were  to  believe 
De  Custine  or  Dumas,  ^ch  rooms  are 
impossible  in  Russia.  Charmingly  clean, 
elegantiy  furnished,  with  sofas  of  green 
leather  and  beds  of  purest  Unen,  they 
would  hive  satisfied  the  severe  eye  of 
an  English  housekeeper.  We  thanked 
both  our  good  friend  and  St.  Macarius 
(who  presides  over  the  Fair)  for  this  for- 
tune, took  possession,  and  then  hired 
fresh  droshkies  to  descend  the  hill. 

On  emerging  from  the  ravine,  we  ob- 
tained a  bird's-eye  view  of  the  whole 
scene.  The  waters  of  both  rivers,  near 
at  hand,  were  scarcely  visible  through 
the  shipping  which  covered  them.   Ves- 


12 


Between  Europe  and  Asia. 


[January, 


sels  from  the  Neva,  the  Caspian,  and  the 
rivers  of  the  Ural,  were  here  con^e^t- 
ed ;  and  they  alone  represented  a  float- 
ing population  of  between  thirty  and 
forty  thousand  souls.  The  Fair,  from 
this  point,  resembled  an  immense  flat 
city,  —  the  streets  of  booths  being  of  a 
\miform  height,  —  out  of  which  rose  the 
great  Greek  church,  the  Tartar  mosque, 
and  the  curious  Chinese  roofs.  It  was 
a  vast,  dark,  humming  plain,  vanishing 
towards  the  west  and  north-west  in 
clouds  of  sand.  By  this  time  there  was 
a  lull  in  the  business,  and  we  made  our 
way  to  the  central  bazaar  with  less 
trouble  than  we  had  anticipated.  It 
is  useless  to  attempt  an  enumeration 
ot  the  wares  exposed  for  sale:  they 
embraced  everything  grown,  trapped, 
or  manufactured,  between  Ireland  and 
Japan.  We  sought,  of  course,  the  Asi- 
atic elements,  which  first  met  us  in  the 
shape  of  melons  fi-om  Astrachan,  and 
grapes  from  the  southern  slopes  of  the 
Caucasus.  Then  came  wondrous  stuff's 
firom  the  looms  of  Turkestan  and  Cash- 
mere, turquoises  from  the  Upper  Oxus, 
and  glittering  strings  of  Siberian  topaz 
and  amethyst,  side  by  side  with  Nurem- 
berg toys,  Lyons  silks,  and  Sheffield 
cutlery.  About  one  third  of  the  popu- 
lation of  the  Fair  was  of  Asiatic  blood, 
embracing  representatives  from  almost 
every  tribe  north  and  west  of  the  Him- 
alayas. 

This  temporary  city,  which  exists 
during  only  two  months  of  the  year, 
contained  two  hundred  thousand  inhab- 
itants at  the  tipe  of  our  visit  During 
the  remaining  ten  months  it  is  utterly 
depopulated,  the  bazaars  are  closed, 
and  chains  are  drawn  across  the  streets 
to  prevent  the  passage  of  vehicles.  A 
single  statement  will  give  an  idea  of  its 
extent:  the  combined  length  of  the 
streets  is  twenty-five  miles.  The  Great 
Bazaar  is  substantially  built  of  stone, 
after  the  manner  of  those  in  Constanti- 
nople, except  that  it  encloses  an  open 
court,  where  a  Government  band  per- 
forms every  afternoon.  Here  the  finer 
wares  are  displayed,  and  the  shadowed 
air  under  the  vaulted  roofs  is  a  very 
kaleidoscope  for  shifting  color  and  spar- 


kle. Tea,  cotton,  leather,  wool,  and  the 
other  heavier  and  coarser  commodi- 
ties, have  their  separate  streets  and 
quarters.  The  several  nationalities  are 
similarly  divided,  to  some  extent ;  but 
the  stranger,  of  course,  prefers  to  see 
them  jostling  together  in  the  streets,  — 
a  Babel,  not  only  of  tongues,  but  of 
feature,  character,  and  costume. 

Our  ladies  were  eager  to  inspect  the 
stock  of  jewelry,  especially  those  heaps 
of  exquisite  color  with  which  the  Mo- 
hammedans very  logically  load  the  trees 
of  Paradise ;  for  they  resemble  fruit  in 
a  glorified  state  of  existence.  One  can 
imagine  virtuous  grapes  promoted  to 
amethysts,  blueberries  to  turquoises, 
cherries  to  rubies,  and  green-gages  to 
aqua-marine.  These,  the  secondary 
jewels,  (with\he  exception  of  the  ruby,) 
are  brought  in  great  quantities  fix)ra 
Siberia,  but  most  of  them  are  marred 
by  slight  flaws  or  other  imperfections, 
so  that  their  cheapness  is  more  appar- 
ent than  reaL  An  amethyst  an  inch 
long,  throwing  the  most  delicious  pur- 
ple light  from  its  hundreds  of  facets, 
quite  takes  you  captive,  and  you  put 
your  hand  in  your  pocket  for  the  fifteen 
dollars  which  shall  make  you  its  pos- 
sessor ;  but  a  closer  inspection  is  sure 
to  show  you  either  a  broad  transverse 
flaw,  or  a  spot  where  the  color  fades 
into  transparency.  The  white  topaz, 
known  as  the  "Siberian  diamond,"  is 
generally  flawless,  and  the  purest  speci- 
mens are  scarcely  to  be  distinguished 
firom  the  genuine  brilliant  A  necklace 
of  these,  varying  from  a  half  to  a  quar- 
ter of  an  inch  in  diameter,  may  be  had 
for  about  twenty-five  dollars.  There 
were  also  golden  and  smoky  topaz  and 
beryl,  in  great  proftision. 

A  princely  Bashkir  drew  us  to  his 
booth,  first  by  his  beauty  and  then  by 
his  noble  manners.  He  was  the  very 
incarnation  of  Boker's  "  Prince  Adeb." 

"The  girls  of  Damar  pauied  to  Me  me  pus, 
I  walking  In  my  rags,  yet  beautiful. 
One  maiden  said,  *  He  has  a  prince's  air  1* 
1  am  a  prince ;  the  air  %wu  all  my  own.*' 

This  Bashkir,  however,  was  not  in  rags ; 
he  was  eleganUy  attired.  His  silken 
vest  was  bound  with  a  girdle  of  gold- 


I86S.] 


Bttween  Europe  and  Asia. 


13 


thread  studded  with  jewels ;  and  over  it 
he  wore  a  caftan,  with  wide  sleeves,  of 
the  finest  dark-blue  cloth.  The  round 
cap  of  black  lambVwool  became  his 
handsome  head.  His  complexion  was 
pale  olive,  through  which  the  red  of  his 
cheeks  shone,  in  the  words  of  some  Ori- 
ental poem,  "like  a  rose-leaf  through 
oil";  and  his  eyes,  in  their  dark  fire, 
were  more  lustrous  than  smoky  topaz. 
His  voice  was  mellow  and  musical,  and 
his  every  movement  and  gesture  a  new 
revelation  of  human  grace.  Among 
thousands,  yea,  tens  of  thousands,  of 
handsome  men,  he  stood  preeminent 

As  our  acquaintance  ripened,  he  drew 
a  pocket-book  fi'om  his  bosom,  and 
showed  us  his  choicest  treasures :  tur- 
quoises, bits  of  wonderful  blue  heav- 
enly forget-me-nots ;  a  jacinth,  burning 
like  a  live  coal,  in  scarlet  light ;  and 
lastly,  a  perfect  ruby,  which  no  sum  less 
than  twenty-five  hundred  dollars  could 
purchase.  From  him  we  learned  the 
curious  fluctuations  of  fashion  in  regard 
to  jewels.  Turquoises  were  just  then 
in  the  ascendant ;  and  one  of  the  proper 
tint,  the  size  of  a  parsnip-seed,  could 
not  be  had  for  a  hundred  dollars,  the 
fiill  value  of  a  diamond  of  equal  size. 
Amethysts  of  a  deep  plum-color,  though 
less  beautiful  than  the  next  paler  shade, 
command  very  high  prices ;  while  jacinth, 
beryl,  and  aqua-marine — stones  of  ex- 
quisite hue  and  lustre — are  cheap.  But 
then,  in  this  department,  as  in  all  others. 
Fashion  and  Beauty  are  not  convertible 
terms. 

In  the  next  booth  there  were  two 
Persians,  who  unfolded  before  our  eyes 
some  of  those  marvellous  shawls,  where 
you  forget  the  barbaric  pattern  in  the 
exquisite  fineness  of  the  material  and 
the  triumphant  harmony  of  the  colors. 
Scarlet  widi  palm-leaf  border,  —  blue 
dasped  by  golden  bronze,  picked  out 
with  red, — browns,  greens,  and  crim- 
sons struggling  for  the  mastery  in  a 
war  of  tints,  —  how  should  we  choose 
between  them  ?  Alas  1  we  were  not 
able  to  choose :  they  were  a  thousand 
dollars  apiece !  But  the  Persians  still 
went  on  unfolding,  taking  our  admira- 
tion in  pay  for  their  trouble,  and  seem- 


ing even,  by  their  pleasant  smiles,  to 
consider  themselves  well  paid.  When 
we  came  to  the  booths  of  European 
merchants,  we  were  swifdy  impressed 
with  the  fsict  that  civilization,  in  follow- 
ing the  sun  westward,  loses  its  grace  in 
proportion  as  it  advances.  The  gende 
dignity,  the  serene  patience,  the  soft, 
firaternal,  affectionate  demeanor  of  our 
Asiatic  brethren  vanished  utterly  when 
we  encountered  French  and  German 
salesmen;  and  yet  these  latter  would 
have  seemed  gracious  and  courteous, 
had  there  been  a  few  Yankee  dealers 
beyond  them.  The  fourth  or  fifth  cen- 
tury, which  still  exists  in  Central  Asia, 
was  undoubtedly,  in  this  particular,  su- 
perior to  the  nineteenth.  No  gentle- 
man, since  his  time,  I  suspect,  has 
equalled  Adam. 

Among  these  Asiatics  Mr.  Buckle 
would  have  some  difficulty  in  maintain- 
ing his  favorite  postulate,  that  toler- 
ance is  the  result  of  progressive  intel- 
ligence. It  is  ako  the  result  of  cour- 
tesy, as  we  may  occasionally  see  in 
well-bred  persons  of  limited  intellect 
Such,  undoubtedly,  is  the  basis  of  that 
tolerance  which  no  one  who  has  had 
much  personal  intercourse  with  the  Se- 
mitic races  can  have  fiiiled  to  experience. 
The  days  of  the  sword  and  fagot  are 
past;  but  it  was  reserved  for  Chris- 
tians to  employ  them  in  the  name  of 
religion  alone.  Local  or  political  jealr 
ousies  are  at  the  bottom  of  those  trou<- 
bles  which  still  occur  from  time  to  time 
in  Turkey:  the  traveller  hears  no  inr 
suiting  epithet,  and  the  green-turbaned 
Imftm  will  receive  him  as  kindly  and 
courteously  as  the  sceptical  Bey  edu- 
cated in  Paris.  I  have  never  been 
so  aggressively  assailed,  on  religious 
grounds,  as  at  home, — never  so  coarse- 
ly and  insultingly  treated,  on  account 
dT  a  presumed  difference  of  opinion,  as 
by  those  who  claim  descent  firom  the 
Cavaliers.  The  bitter  fierceness  of 
some  of  our  leading  reformers  is  over- 
looked by  their  followers,  because  it 
springs  fifom  ^  earnest  conviction  " ;  but 
in  the  Orient  intensest  fiuth  coexists 
with  the  most  gjracious.  and  gentle, 
manners. 


14 


Between  Europe  and  Asia. 


[Jaiiuaiy, 


Be  not  impatient^  beloved  reader ;  for 
this  digressioB  brings  me  naturally  to 
the  next  thing  we  saw  at  Novgorod.  As 
we  issued  from  the  bazaar,  the  sunlit 
minaret  greeted  us  through  whirling 
dust  and  rising  vapor,  and  I  &ncied  I 
could  hear  the  muezzin^s  musical  cry. 
It  was  about  time  for  the  ass^r  prayer. 
Droshkies  were  found,  and  we  rode 
slowly  through  the  long,  low  ware- 
houses of  '< caravan  tea"  and  Mongo- 
lian wool  to  the  mound  near  the  Tartar 
encampment.  The  mosque  was  a  plain, 
white,  octagonal  building,  conspicuous 
only  through  Its  position.  The  tur- 
baned  faithful  were  already  gathering ; 
and  we  entered,  and  walked  up  the  steps 
among  them,  without  encountering  an 
unfriendly  glance.  At  the  door  stood 
two  Cossack  soldiers,  specially  placed 
there  to  prevent  the  worshippers  from 
being  insulted  by  curious  Christians. 
(Those  who  have  witnessed  the  wanton 
profanation  of  mosques  in  India  by  the 
English  officers  will  please  notice  this 
£eict.)  If  we  had  not  put  off  our  shoes 
before  entering  the  hall  of  worship,  the 
Cossacks  would  have  performed  that 
operation  for  us. 

I  am  happy  to  say  that  none  of  our 
party  lacked  a  proper  reverence  for  de- 
votion, though  it  was  offered  through 
the  channels  of  an  alien  creed.  The 
ladies  left  their  gaiters  beside  our  boots, 
and  w^  all  stood  in  our  stockings  on  the 
matting,  a  little  in  the  rear  of  the  kneel- 
ing crowd.  The  priest  occupied  a  low 
dais  in  front,  but  he  simply  led  the  prayer, 
which  was  uttered  by  sdl.  The  windows 
were  open,  and  the  sun  poured  a  gdlden 
flood  into  the  room.  Yonder  gleamed 
the  Kremlin  of  Novgorod,  yonder  rolled 
the  Volga,  all  around  were  the  dark 
forests  of  the  North,  —  yet  their  faces 
were  turned,  and  their  thoughts  went 
southward,  to  where  Mecca  sits  among 
the  burning  hills,  in  the  feathery  shade 
of  her  palm-trees.  And  the  tongue  of 
Mecca  came  from  their  lips,  **A/lak/* 
** Allah  akhbar!^  as  the  knee  bent  and 
the  forehead  touched  the  floor. 

At  the«econd  repetition  of  the  prayers 
we  quietly  withdrew ;  and  good  Monsieur 
D.y  iov^tfiil.  of  .nothing,  suggested  that 


preparatiocis  had  been  made  for  a  dinner 
in  the  great  cosmopolitan  restaurant  So 
we  drove  back  again  through  the  Chi- 
nese street,  with  its  red  homed  houses^ 
the  roofs  terminating  in  gilded  dragons' 
tails,  and,  after  pressing  through  a  dense 
multitude  enveloped  in  tobacco-smoke 
and  the  steam  of  tea-urns,  found  our- 
selves at  last  in  a  low  room  with  a 
shaky  floor  and  muslin  ceiling.  It  was 
an  exact  copy  of  the  dining-room  of  a 
California  hotel  If  we  looked  blank  a 
moment,  Monsieur  D.'s  smile  reassured 
us.  He  had  given  all  the  necessary  or- 
ders, he  said,  and  would  step  out  and 
secure  a  box  in  the  theatre  before  the 
sakouski  was  served.  Dtu-ing  his  ab- 
sence, we  looked  out  of  the  window  on 
either  side  upon  surging,  whirling,  hum* 
ming  pictures  of  the  Great  Fair,  all 
vanishing  in  perspectives  of  dust  and 
mist 

In  half  an  hour  our  friend  returned, 
and  with  him  entered  the  zakouski.  I 
cannot  remember  half  the  appetizing  in- 
gredients of  which  it  was  composed : 
anchovies,  sardines,  herrings,  capers, 
cheese,  oamsxe^pate  defbiey  pickles,  cher- 
ries, oranges,  and  olives,  were  among 
them.  Instead  of  being  a  prelude  to 
dinner,  it  was  almost  a  dinner  in  itse]£ 
Then,  after  a  Russian  soup,  which  al- 
ways contains  as  much  solid  nutriment 
as  meat-biscuit  or  Arctic  pemmican, 
came  the  glory  of  the  repast,  a  mighty 
sterUt^  which  was  swimming  in  Volga 
water  when  we  took  oiu:  seats  at  the 
table.  This  fish,  the  exclusive  proper- 
ty of  Russia,  is,  in  times  of  scarcity, 
worth  its  weight  in  silver..  Its  unap- 
proachable flavor  is  supposed  to  be  as 
evanescent  as  the  hues  of  a  dying  dol- 
phin. Frequently,  at  grand  dinner-par- 
ties, it  is  carried  around  the  table  in  a 
little  tank,  and  exhibited,  alivcy  to  the 
guests,  when  their  soup  is  served,  that 
its  freshness,  ten  minutes  afterwards, 
may  be  put  beyond  suspicion.  The  fish 
has  the  appearance  of  a  small,  lean  stur- 
geon ;  but  iu  flesh  resembles  the  melt- 
ing pulp  of  a  fruit  rather  than  the  fibre 
of  its  watery  brethren.  It  sinks  into 
juice  upon  the  tongue,  like  a  perfectly 
ripe  peach.     In  this  quality  no  other 


1865.] 


Between  Europe  and  Asia, 


15 


fish  itt  the  world  can  approach  it ;  yet  I 
do  not  think  die  flavor  quite  so  fine  aa 
that  of  a  brook-trout  Our  sterlet  was 
nearly  two  feet  long,  and  may  have  cost 
twenty  or  thirty  dollars. 

With  it  appeared  an  astonishing  sal« 
ad,  composed  of  watermelons,  canta- 
k>upes,  pickled  cherries,  cucumbers,  and 
certain  spicy  herbs.  Its  color  and  odor 
were  enticing,  and  we  had  all  applied 
the  test  of  taste  most  satisfectorily  be- 
fore we  detected  the  curious  mixture  of 
ingredients.  After  the  second  course, 
— a  ragout  of  beef,  accompanied  widi 
a  rich,  elaborate  sauce,  —  three  heavy 
tankards  of  chased  silver,  holding  two 
quarts  apiece,  were  placed  upon  the 
table.  The  first  of  these  contained 
kvassy  the  second  kislischij  and  die 
third  hjrdromel.  Each  one  of  these  na- 
tkMial  drinks,  when  properly  brewed,  is 
very  palatable  and  refireshing.  I  fotmd 
die  Idslischi  nearly  identical  with  the  an- 
cient Scandinavian  mead :  no  doubt  it 
dates  from  the  Varangian  rule  in  Rus* 
sia.  The  old  custom  of  passing  the 
tankards  around  the  table,  from  mouth 
to  mouth,  is  still  observed,  and  will  not 
be  found  objectionable,  even  in  these 
days  of  excessive  delicacy,  when  ladies 
and  gentlemen  are  seated  alternately  at 
tiie  banquet 

The  Russian  element  of  the  dinner 
here  terminated.  Cutlets  and  roast 
fowls  made  their  appearance,  with  bot- 
tles of  RUdesheimer  and  Lafitte,  fol- 
lowed by  a  dessert  of  superb  Persian 
melons,  fi-om  the  southern  shore  of  the 
Caspian  Sea. 

By  this  time  night  had  &llen,  and 
Monsieur  D.  suggested  an  immediate 
adjournment  to  the  theatre.  What 
should  be  the  entertainment  ?  Dances 
of  abtuhs^  songs  of  gypsies,  or  Chinese 
jugglers  ?  One  of  the  Ivans  brought  a 
programme.  It  was  not  difficult  to  de- 
cipher the  word  «  JHAKBIBTTB,"  and 
to  recognise,  further,  in  the  name  of 
**•  Ira  Aldridge  "  a  distinguished  mulatto 
tragedian,  to  whom  Maryland  has  given 
birdi  (if  I  am  rightiy  informed)  and  Eu- 
rope fiune.  We  had  often  heard  of  him, 
yea,  seen  his  portrait  in  Germany,  dec^ 
crated  with  the  orders  conferred  by  half 


a  dozen  sovereigns;  and  his  presence 
here,  between  Europe  and  Asia^  was  not 
the  least  characteristic  feature  of  the 
Fair.  A  mulattt^tf  acbeth,  in  a  Russian 
theatre,  with  a  Arsion  and  Tartar  au- 
dience I 

On  arriving,  we  were  ushered  into 
two  whitewashed  boxes,  which  had 
been  reserved  for  our  party.  The  man- 
ager, having  been  informed  of  the  en- 
wQffs  presence  in  Nijni-Novgorod,  had 
delayed  the  performance  half  an  hour, 
but  the  audience  bore  this  infiiction  pa- 
tiently. The  building  was  deep  and 
narrow,  with  space  for  about  eight  hun- 
dred persons,  and  was  filled  firom  top  to 
bottom.  The  first  act  was  drawing  to 
a  dose  as  we  entered.  King  Duncan, 
with  two  or  three  shabby  attendants, 
stood  in  the  court-yard  of  the  castie,  — 
the  latter  represented  by  a  handsome 
French  door  on  the  left,  with  a  bit  of 
Tartar  wall  beyond, — and  made  his  ob- 
servations on  the  ** pleasant  seat"  of 
Macbeth's  mansion.  He  spoke  Rus- 
sian, of  course.  Lady  Macbeth  now 
sq>peared,  in  a  silk  drejss  of  the  latest 
fiishion,  expanded  by  the  amplest  of 
crinolines.  She  was  passably  hand- 
some, and  nothing  could  be  gender 
than  her  fiux  and  voice.  She  received 
the  royal  party  like  a  well-bred  lady, 
and  they  all  entered  the  French  door 
together. 

There  was  no  change  of  scene.  With 
slow  step  and  folded  arms,  Ira  Macbeth 
entered  and  commenced  the  soliloquy, 
"  If  it  were  done,"  etc,  to  our  aston- 
ishment, in  English!  He  was  a  dark, 
strongly  built  mulatto,  of  about  fifty,  in 
a  fancy  tunic,  and  light  stockings  over 
Forrestian  calves.  His  voice  was  deep 
and  powerful ;  and  it  was  very  evident 
that  Edmund  Kean,  once  his  master, 
was  also  the  model  which  he  carefully 
followed  in  the  part  There  were  the 
same  deliberate,  over-distinct  enuncia- 
tion, the  same  prolonged  pauses  and 
gradually  performed  gestures,  as  I  re- 
member in  imitations  of  Kean's  manner. 
Except  that  the  copy  was  a  littie  too 
apparent,  Mr.  Aldridge's  acting  was  re- 
ally very  fine.  The  Russians  were  en- 
thusiastic in  their  applause,  though  very 


i6 


Between  Europe  and  Asia. 


(January, 


few  of  them,  probably,  understood  the 
language  of  the  part  The  Oriental  au- 
ditors were  perfectly  impassive,  and  it 
was  impossible  to  ^guoBs  how  diey  re- 
garded the  perform^MC 

The  second  act  was  in  some  respects 
tiie  most  amusing  thing  I  ever  saw  up- 
on the  stage.  In  the  dagger-scene,  Ira 
was,  to  my  mind,  quite  equal  to  Forrest ; 
it  was  impossible  to  deny  him  unusual 
dramatic  talent;  but  his  complexion, 
continually  suggesting  Othello,  quite 
confounded  me.  The  amiable  Russian 
Lady  Macbeth  was  much  better  adapted 
to  the  part  of  Desdemona :  all  softness 
and  gentleness,  she  smiled  as  she  lifted 
her  languishing  eyes,  and  murmured  in 
the  tenderest  accents,  "  Infirm  of  pur- 
pose !  give  me  the  dagger ! "  At  least, 
I  took  it  for  granted  that  these  were 
her  words,  for  Macbeth  had  just  said, 
*'  Look  on 't  again  I  dare  not"  After- 
wards, six  Russian  soldiers,  in  tan-col- 
ored shirts,  loose  trousers,  and  high 
boots,  filed  in,  followed  by  Macduff  and 
Malcolm,  in  the  costume  of  Wallen- 
stein's  troopers.^  The  dialogue  —  one 
voice  English,  and  all  the  others  Rus- 
sian —  proceeded  smoothly  enough,  but 
the  effect  w^  like  nothing  which  our 
stage  can  produce.  Nevertheless,  the 
audience  was  delighted,  and  when  the 
curtain  fell  there  were  vociferous  cries 
of  ''Aira/  Aira/  Aldreetch!  Ai- 
dreetch  / "  until  the  swarthy  hero  made 
his  appearance  before  the  foot-lights. 

Monsieur  D.  conducted  our  friend  P. 
into  the  green-room,  where  he  was  re- 
ceived by  Macbeth  in  costume.  He 
found  the  latter  to  be  a  dignified,  im- 
posing personage,  who  carried  his  tragic 
chest-tones  into  ordinary  conversation. 
On  being  informed  by  P.  that  the  Amer- 
ican minister  was  present,  he  asked,  — 

"  Of  what  persuasion  ?  " 

P.  hastened  to  set  him  right,  and  Ira 
then  remarked,  in  his  gravest  tone, — 
'^  I  shall  have  the  honor  of  waiting  upon 
him  to-morrow  morning  " ;  which,  how- 
ever, he  fiiiled  to  do. 

This  son  of  the  South,  no  doubt, 
came  legitimatiely  (or,  at  least,  naturally) 
by  his  dignity.  His  career,  for  a  man 
of  his  blood  and  antecedents,  has  been 


wonderfully  successful,  and  is  justiy  due, 
I  am  convinced,  since  I  have  seen  him, 
to  his  histrionic  talents.  Both  black 
and  yeUow  skins  are  sufficiently  rare  in 
Europe  to  excite  a  particular  interest  in 
those  who  wear  them ;  and  I  had  sur- 
mised, up  to  this  time,  that  much  of  his 
popularity  might  be  owing  to  his  color. 
But  he  certainly  deserves  an  honorable 
place  among  tragedians  of  the  second 
rank. 

We  left  the  theatre  at  the  dose  of  the 
third  act,  and  crossed  the  river  to  our 
quarters  on  the  hill  A  chill  mist  hung 
over  the  Fair,  but  the  lamps  still  burned, 
the  streets  were  thronged,  and  the  Don 
Cossacks  kept  patient  guard  at  every 
comer.  The  night  went  by  like  one 
unconscious  minute,  in  beds  unmolested 
by  bug  or  flea ;  and  when  I  arose,  thor- 
oughly  refi-eshed,  I  involuntarily  called 
to  mind  a  frightful  chapter  in  De  Cus- 
tine's  ^Russia,"  describing  the  preva- 
lence of  an  insect  which  he  calls  the^ 
perskay  on  the  banks  of  the  Volga.  He 
was  obliged  to  sleep  on  a  table,  the 
legs  whereof  were  placed  in  basins  of 
water,  to  escape  their  attacks.  I  made 
many  inquiries  about  these  terrible  per- 
sicas^  and  finally  discovered  that  they 
were  neither  more  nor  less  than — cock- 
roaches !  —  called  Prossaki  (Prussians) 
by  the  Russians,  as  they  are  sometimes 
called  Schwaben  (Suabians)  by  the  Ger- 
mans. Possibly  they  may  be  found  in 
the  huts  of  the  ser&,  but  they  are  rare 
in  decent  houses. 

We  devoted  the  first  sunny  hours  of 
the  morning  to  a  visit  to  the  citadel  and 
a  walk  around  the  crest  of  the  hill.  On 
the  highest  point,  just  over  the  junction 
of  the  two  rivers,  there  is  a  commem- 
orative column  to  Minim,  the  patriotic 
butcher  of  Novgorod,  but  for  whose  el- 
oquence, in  the  year  1610,  the  Russian 
might  possibly  now  be  the  Polish  Em- 
pire. Vladislas,  son  of  Sigismund  of 
Poland,  had  been  called  to  the  throne 
by  the  boyards,  and  already  reigned  in 
Moscow,  when  Minim  appealed  to  the 
national  spirit,  persuaded  General  Po- 
jarski  to  head  an  anti- Polish  move- 
ment, which  was  successful,  and  thus 
cleared  the  way  for  the  election  of  Mi- 


1865.] 


Between  Europe  and  Asia. 


17 


chael  Roxnanofi^  the  first  sovereign  of 
the  present  dynasty.  Minim  is  there- 
fore one  of  the  historic  names  of  Russia. 
When  I  stood  beside  his  monument, 
and  the  finest  landscape  of  European 
Russia  was  suddenly  unrolled  before 
my  eyes,  I  could  believe  the  tradition 
of  his  eloquence,  for  here  was  its  in- 
spiration. Thirty  or  forty  miles  away 
stretched  the  rolling  swells  of  forest 
and  grain-land,  fading  into  dimmest  blue 
to  the  westward  and  northward,  dot- 
ted with  villages  and  sparkling  domes, 
and  divided  by  shining  reaches  of  the 
Volga.  It  was  truly  a  superb  and  im- 
posing view,  changing  with  each  spur 
of  the  hill  as  we  made  the  circuit  of  the 
citadel.  Eastward,  the  country  rose  in- 
to dark,  wooded  hills,  between  which 
the  river  forced  its  way  in  a  narrower 
and  swifter  channel,  until  it  disappeared 
behind  a  purple  headland,  hastening 
southward  to  find  a  warmer  home  in  the 
unfrozen  Caspian.  By  embarking  on 
the  steamers  anchored  below  us,  we 
might  have  reached  Perm,  among  the 
Ural  Mountains,  or  Astrachan,  in  less 
than  a  week ;  while  a  trip  of  ten  days 
would  have  taken  us  past  the  Caucasus, 
even  to  the  base  of  Ararat  or  Dema- 
vend.  Such  are  the  splendid  possibili- 
ties of  travel  in  these  days. 

The  envoy,  who  visited  Europe  for 
the  first  time,  declared  that  this  pano- 
rama from  the  hill  of  Novgorod  was 
one  of  the  finest  things  he  had  seen* 
There  could,  truly,  be  no  better  prepa- 
ration to  enjoy  it  than  fifteen  hundred 
miles  of  nearly  unbroken  level,  after 
leaving  the  Russian  fi-ontier;  but  I 
think  it  would  be  a  "  show "  landscape 
anywhere.  Why  it  is  not  more  widely 
celebrated  I  cannot  guess.  The  only 
person  in  Russia  whom  I  heard  speak 
of  it  with  genuine  enthusiasm  was  Al- 
exander II. 

Two  hours  •  upon  the  breezy  parapet, 
beside  the  old  Tartar  walls,  were  all  too 
little ;  but  the  droshkies  waited  in  the 
river-street  a  quarter  of  a  mile  below 
us,  our  return  to  Moscow  was  ordered 
for  the  afternoon,  there  were  amethysts 
and  Persian  silks  yet  to  be  bought,  and 
so  we  sighed  farewell  to  an  enjoyment 
VOL.  XV.  —  NO.  87.  2 


rare  in  Russia,  and  descended  the  steep 
footpath. 

P.  and  I  left  the  rest  of  the  party  at 
the  booth  of  the  handsome  Bashkir,  and 
set  out  upon  a  special  mission  to  the 
Tartar  camp.  I  had  ascertained  that 
the  national  beverage  of  Central  Asia 
might  be  found  there,  —  the  genuine 
koumiss,  or  fermented  milk  of  the 
mares  of  the  Uralian  steppes.  Hav- 
ing drunk  palm-wine  in  India,  sam- 
shoo  in  China,  saki  in  Japan,  pulque  in 
Mexico,  bouza  in  Eg)'pt,  mead  in  Scan- 
dinavia^ ale  in  England,  bock-bUr  in 
Germany,  mastic  in  Greece,  calabogus  in 
Newf(^ndland,  and  —  soda-water  in  the 
United  States,  I  desired  to  complete  the 
bibulous  cosmos,  in  which  koumiss  was 
still  lacking.  My  friend  did  not  share 
my  curiosity,  but  was  ready  for  an  ad- 
venture, which  our  search  for  mare's 
milk  seemed  to  promise. 

Beyond  the  mosques  we  found  the 
Uzbeks  and  Kirghiz,  —  some  in  tents, 
some  in  rough  shanties  of  boards.  But 
they  were  without  koumiss :  they  had 
had  it,  and  showed  us  some  empty 
kegs,  in  evidence  of  the  fact  I  fancied 
a  gleam  of  diversion  stole  over  their 
grave,  swarthy  faces,  as  they  listened  to 
our  eager  inquiries  in  broken  Russian. 
Finally  we  came  into  an  extemporized 
village,  where  some  women,  unveiled 
and  ugly,  advised  us  to  apply  to  the 
traders  in  the  khan,  or  caravansera. 
This  was  a  great  barn-like  building,  two 
stories  high,  with  broken  staircases  and 
creaking  floors.  A  corridor  .  ran  the 
whole  length  of  the  second  floor,  with 
some  twenty  or  thirty  doors  opening 
into  it  from  the  separate  rooms  of  the 
traders.  We  accosted  the  first  Tartar 
whom  we  met ;  and  he  promised,  with 
great  readiness,  to  procure  us  what  we 
wanted.  He  ushered  us  into  his  room, 
cleared  away  a  pile  of  bags,  saddles, 
camel-trappings,  and  other  tokens  of  a 
nomadic  life,  and  revealed  a  low  divan 
covered  with  a  ragged  carpet  On  a 
sack  of  barley  sat  his  father,  a  blind 
graybeard,  nearly  eighty  years  old.  On 
our  way  through  the  camp  I  had  noticed 
that  the  Tartars  saluted  each  otlier  with 
the  Arabic,  ^^  Salaam  aUikoom!^  and 


i8 


Between  Europe  and  Asia. 


[January, 


I  therefore  greeted  the  old  man  with 
the  familiar  words.  .  He  lifted  his  head : 
his  face  brightened,  and  he  immedi- 
ately answered,  ^^Aleikoom  salaam^  my 
son!" 

^  Do  you  speak  Arabic  ?  '^  I  asked. 

"  A  little ;  I  have  forgotten  it,"  said 
he.  ''But  thine  is  a  new  voice.  Of 
what  tribe  art  thou  ?  ^ 

"A  tribe  far  away,  beyond  Bagdad 
and  Syria,''  I  answered. 

'*  It  is  the  tribe  of  Damascus.  I  know 
it  now,  my  son.  I  have  heard  the  voice, 
many,  many  years  ago." 

The  withered  old  £eice  looked  so 
bright,  as  some  pleasant  memor5fchone 
through  it,  that  I  did  not  undeceive  the 
man.  His  son  came  in  with  a  glass, 
pulled  a  keg  from  under  a  pile  of  coarse 
caftans,  and  drew  out  the  wooden  peg. 
A  gray  liquid,  with  an  odor  at  once 
sour  and  pungent,  spirted  into  the  glass, 
which  he  presently  handed  to  me,  filled 
to  the  brim.  In  such  cases  no  hesita- 
tion is  permitted.  I  thought  of  home 
and  family,  set  the  glass  to  my  lips,  and 
emptied  it  before  the  flavor  made  itself 
clearly  manifest  to  my  palate. 

"  Well,  what  is  it  like  ? '  asked  my 
friend,  who  curiously  awaited  the  result 
of  the  experiment 

"  Peculiar,"  I  answered,  with  preter- 
natural calmness,  —  "peculiar,  but  not 
unpleasant" 

The  glass  was  filled  a  second  time ; 
and  P.,  not  to  be  behindhand,  emptied 
it  at  a  draught  Then  he  turned  to  me 
with  tears  (not  of  delight)  in  his  eyes, 
swallowed  nothing  very  hard  two  or 
three  times,  suppressed  a  convulsive 
shudder,  and  finally  remarked,  with  the 
air  of  a  martyr,  "Very  curious,  indeed  1" 

"Will  your  Excellencies  have  some 
more  ? "  said  the  friendly  Tartar. 

"  Not  before  breakfast,  if  you  please,* 
I  answered ;  "  your  koumiss  is  excel- 
lent, however,  and  we  will  take  a  botUe 
with  us,"  —  which  we  did,  in  order  tq 
satisfy  the  possible  curiosity  of  the  la- 
dies. I  may  here  declare  that  the  bot- 
tle was  never  emptied. 

The  taste  was  that  of  aged  buttermilk 
mixed  with  ammonia.  We  could  detect 
no  flavor  of  alcohol,  yet  were  conscious 


of  a  light  exhilaration  from  the  smaU 
quantity  we  drank.  The  beverage  is  said, 
indeed,  to  be  very  intoxicating.  Some 
German  physician  has  established  a 
"  koumiss-cure  "  at  Piatigorsk,  at  the 
northern  base  of  the  Caucasus,  and  in- 
vites invalids  of  certain  kinds  to  come 
and  be  healed  by  its  agency.  I  do  not 
expect  to  be  one  of  the  number. 

There  still  remained  a  peculiar  fea- 
ture of  the  Fair,  which  I  had  not  yet 
seen.  This  is  the  subterranean  net- 
work of  sewerage,  which  reproduces,  in 
massive  masonry,  the  streets  oi^  the 
sur£aice.  Without  it,  the  annual  city 
of  two  months  would  become  uninhab- 
itable. The  peninsula  between  the  two 
rivers  being  low  and  marshy,  — fre- 
quently overflowed  during  the  spring 
freshets,  —  pestilence  would  soon  be 
bred  from  the  immense  concourse  of 
people :  hence  a  system  of  cloaca,  al- 
most rivalling  those  of  ancient  Rome. 
At  each  street-comer  there  are  wells 
containing  spiral  staircases,  by  which 
one  can  descend  to  the  spacious  sub- 
terranean passages,  and  there  walk  for 
miles  under  arches  of  hewn  stone,  light- 
ed and  aired  by  shafts  at  regular  inter- 
vals. In  St  Petersburg  you  are  told 
that  more  than  half  the  cost  of  the  city 
is  under  the  surface  of  the  earth ;  at 
Nijni-Novgorod  the  statement  is  cer- 
tainly true.  Peter  the  Great  at  one 
time  designed  establishing  his  capital 
here.  Could  he  have  foreseen  the  ex- 
istence of  railroads,  he  would  certainly 
have  done  so.  Nijni-Novgorod  is  now 
nearer  to  Berlin  than  the  Russian  fron- 
tier was  fifty  years  ago.  St.  Petersburg 
is  an  accidental  city;  Nature  and  the 
destiny  of  the  empire  are  both  opposed 
to  its  existence  ;  and  a  time  will  come 
when  its  long  lines  of  palaces  shall  be 
deserted  for  some  new  capital,  in  a  lo- 
cality at  once  more  southern  and  more 
central. 

Another  walk  through  the  streets  of 
the  Fair  enabled  me  to  analyze  the  first 
confused  impression,  and  separate  the 
motley  throng  of  life  into  its  several  el- 
ements. I  shall  not  attempt,  however, 
to  catch  and  paint  its  ever-changing, 
fluctuating  character.    Our  limited  visit 


i86s.] 


Between  Europe  and  Asia. 


»9 


allowed  us  to  see  only  the  more  central 
and  crowded  streets.  Outside  of  these, 
for  miles,  extend  suburbs  of  iron,  of 
fiirs,  wool,  and  other  coarser  products, 
brought  together  from  the  Ural,  from 
the  forests  towards  the  Polar  Ocean, 
and  from  the  vast  extent  of  Siberia. 
Here,  from  morning  till  night,  the  be- 
loved kveus  flows  in  rivers,  the  strong 
stream  of  shchi  (cabbage-soup)  sends  up 
its  perpetual  incense,  and  the  samovar 
of  cheap  tea  is  never  empty.  Here, 
although  important  interests  are  repre- 
sented, the  intercourse'  between  buyers 
and  sellers  is  less  grave  and  methodical 
than  in  the  bazaar.  There  are  jokes, 
laughter,  songs,  and  a  constant  play  of 
that  repartee  in  which  even  the  serfs 
are  masters.  Here,  too,  jugglers  and 
mountebanks  of  all  sorts  ply  their  trade ; 
gypsies  sing,  dance,  and  tell  fortunes ; 
and  other  vocations,  less  respectable 
than  these,  flourish  vigorously.  For, 
whether  the  visitor  be  an  Ostiak  from 
the  Polar  Circle,  an  Uzbek  from  the 
Upper  Oxus,  a  Crim-Tartar  or  Nogai, 
a  Georgian  from  Tiflis,  a  Mongolian 
from  the  Land  of  Grass,  a  Persian  from 
Ispahan,  a  Jew  from  Hamburg,  a  French- 
man from  Lyons,  a  Tyrolese,  Swiss,  Bo- 
hemian, or  an  Anglo-Saxon  from  either 
side  of  the  Atlantic,  he  meets  his  fel- 
low-visitors to  the  Great  Fair  on  the 
common  ground,  not  of  human  broth- 
erhood, but  of  human  appetite  ;  and  all 
the  manifold  nationalities  succumb  to 
the  same  allurements.  If  the  various 
forms  of  indulgence  could  be  so  used 
as  to  propagate  ideas,  the  world  would 
speedily  be  regenerated  ;  but  as  things 
go,  ''cakes  and  ale**  have  more  force 
than  the  loftiest  ideas,  the  noblest  theo- 
ries of  improvement ;  and  the  impartial 
observer  will  make  this  discovery  as 
readily  at  Nijni-Novgorod  as  an3rwhere 
else. 

Before  taking  leave  of  the  Fair,  let 
me  give  a  word  to  the  important  subject 
of  tea.  It  is  a  much-disputed  question 
with  the  connoisseurs  of  that  beverage 
which  neither  cheers  nor  inebriates, 
(though,  I  confess,  it  is  more  agreeable 
than  koumiss^)  whether  the  Russian 
**  caravan  tea  *  is  really  superior  to  that 


which  is  imported  by  sea.  Afrer  much 
patient  observation,  combined  with  se- 
rious reflection,  I  incline  to  the  opinion 
that  the  flavor  of  tea  depends,  not  upon 
the  method  of  transportation,  but  upon 
the  price  paid  for  the  article.  I  have 
tasted  bad  caravan  tea  in  Russia,  and 
delicious  tea  in  New  York.  In  St  Pe- 
tersburg you  cannot  procure  a  good  ar- 
ticle for  less  than  three  roubles  (|  2.25, 
gold)  per  pound ;  while  the  finer  kinds 
bring  twelve  and  even  sixteen  roubles. 
Whoever  is  willing  to  import  at  that 
price  can  no  doubt  procure  tea  of  equal 
excellence.  The  fact  is,  that  this  land- 
trans{l^rtation  is  slow,  laborious,  and 
expensive ;  hence  the  finer  kinds  of  tea 
are  always  selected,  a  pound  thereof 
costing  no  more  for  carriage  than  a 
pound  of  inferior  quality;  whence  the 
superior  flavor  of  caravan  tea.  There 
is,  however,  one  variety  to  be  obtained 
in  Russia  which  I  have  found  nowhere 
else,  not  even  in  the  Chinese  seaports. 
It  is  called  ^  imperial  tea,**  and  comes 
in  elegant  boxes  of  yellow  silk  embla- 
zoned with  the  dragon  of  the  Hang  dy- 
nasty, at  the  rate  of  from  six  to  twenty 
dollars  a  pound.  It  is  yellow,  and  the 
decoction  finom  it  b  almost  colorless. 
A  small  pinch  of  it,  added  to  ordinary 
black  tea,  gives  an  indescribably  deli- 
cious flavor,  —  the  very  aroma  of  the 
tea-blossom ;  but  one  cup  of  it,  un- 
mixed, is  said  to  deprive  the  drinker 
of  sleep  for  three  nights.  We  brought 
some  home,  and  a  dose  thereof  was  ad- 
ministered to  three  unconscious  guests 
during  my  absence  ;  but  I  have  not  yet 
ascertained  the  efiects  which  followed. 

Monsieur  D.  brought  our  last  delight- 
ful stroll  through  the  glittering  streets 
to  an  untimely  end.  The  train  for  Mos- 
cow was  to  leave  at  three  o^clock  ;  and 
he  had  ordered  an  early  dinner  at  the 
restaurant  By  the  time  this  was  con- 
cluded, it  was  necessary  to  drive  at  once 
to  the  station,  in  order  to  secure  places. 
We  were  almost  too  late ;  the  train, 
long  as  it  was,  was  crammed  to  over- 
flowing ;  and  although  both  station- 
master  and  conductor  assisted  us,  the 
eager  passengers  disregarded  their  au- 
thority. With  great  difllculty,  one  com- 


!20 


My  Autumn  Walk. 


[January, 


partment  was  cleared  for  the  ladies  ;  in 
the  adjoining  one  four  merchants,  in 
long  caftans,  with  sacks  of  watermelons 
as  provision  for  the  journey,  took  their 
places,  and  wo^ld  not  be  ejected.  A 
scene  of  confusion  ensued,  in  which 
station-master,  conductor,.  Monsieur  D., 
my  friend  P.,  and  the  Russian  mer- 
chants were  curiously  mixed ;  but  when 
we  saw  the  sacks  of  watermelons  rolling 
out  of  the  door,  we  knew  the  day  was 
ours.  In  two  minutes  more  we  were  in . 
full  possession  ;  the  doors  were  locked, 
and  the  struggling  throngs  beat  against 
them  in  vain. 


With  a  grateful  fisLrewell  to  our  kind 
guide,  whose  rather  severe  duties  for 
Olur  sake  were  now  over,  we  moved 
away  from  the  station,  past  heaps  of 
cotton-bales,  past  hills  of  dnfdng  sand, 
and  impassive  groups  of  Persians,  Tar- 
tars, and  Bukharians,  and  slowly  mount- 
ed the  long  grade  to  the  level  of  the  up- 
land, leaving  the  Fair  to  hum  and  whirl 
in  the  hoUow  between  the  rivers,  and 
the  white  walls  and  golden  domes  of 
Novgorod  to  grow  dim  on  the  crest  of 
the  receding  hiU. 

The  next  morning,  at  sunrise,  we 
were  again  in  Moscow. 


MY   AUTUMN    WALK. 

ON  woodlands  ruddy  with  autumn 
The  amber  sunshine  lies ; 
I  look  on  the  beauty  round  me, 
And  tears  come  into  my  eyes. 

For  the  wind  that  sweeps  the  meadows 
Blows  out  of  the  far  South-west, ' 

Where  our  gallant  men  are  fighting, 
And  the  gallant  dead  are  at  rest 

The  golden-rod  is  leaning 
And  the  purple  aster  waves 

In  a  breeze  from  the  land  of  battles, 
A  breath  from  the  land  of  graves. 

Full  ^t  the  leaves  are  dropping 
Before  that  wandering  breath; 

As  fast,  on  the  field  of  battle. 
Our  brethren  fall  in  death. 


Beautiful  over  my  pathway 
The  forest  spoils  are  shed; 

They  are  spotting  the  grassy  hillocks 
With  purple  and  gold  and  red. 

Beautiful  is  the  death-sleep 
Of  those  who  bravely  fight 

In  their  country's  holy  quarrel. 
And  perish  for  the  Right 


1865.]  My  Autumn  Walk.  21 

But  who  shall  comfort  the  living, 

The  light  of  whose  homes  is  gone : 
The  bride,  that,  early  widowed. 

Lives  broken-hearted  on ; 

The  matrpn,  whose  sons  are  lying  ' 

In  graves  on  a  distant  shore; 
The  maiden,  whose  promised  husband 

Comes  back  from  the  war  no  more? 

I  look  on  the  peaceful  dwellings 

Whose  windows  glimmer  in  sight, 
With  croft  and  garden  and  orchard 

That  bask  in  the  mellow  light; 

And  I  know,  that,  when  our  couriers 

With  news  of  victory  come, 
They  will  bring  a  bitter  message 

Of  hopeless  grief  to  some. 

Again  I  turn  to  the  woodlands, 

And  shudder  as  I  see 
The  mock-grape's*  blood-red  banner 

Hung  out  on  the  cedar-tree;    . 

And  I  think  of  days  of  slaughter. 

And  the  night-sky  red  with  flames, 
On  the  Chattahoochee's  meauiows, 

And  the  wasted  bankis  of  the  James. 

Oh,  for  the  fresh  spring-season. 

When  the  groves  are  in  their  prime, 
And  £ir  away  in  the  future 

Is  the  frosty  autumn-time ! 

Oh,  for  that  better  season, 
When  the  pride  of  the  foe  shall  yield. 

And  the  hosts  of  God  and  freedom 
March  back  from  the  well-won  field; 

And  the  matron  shall  clasp  her  first-born 

With  tears  of  joy  and  pride ; 
And  the  scarred  and  war-worn  lover 

Shall  claim  his  promised  bride  ! 

The  leaves  are  swept  from  the  branches; 

But  the  living  buds  are  there, 
With  folded  flower  and  foliage. 

To  sprout  in  a  kinder  air. 

October,  1864. 

•  ♦ 

*  AmpeloptU^  roock-gnpe.    I  have  here  litenlly  tnmilated  the  botanical  name  of  die  Viipnia  creeper, 
<^an  appdlation  too  cumbrous  for  verse. 


22 


Five-Sisters  Court  at  Christmas -Tide.  [Januaiy, 


FIVE-SISTERS  COURT  AT  CHRISTMAS-TIDE. 


FOR  a  business  street  Every  Lane 
certainly  is  very  lazy.  It  sets  out 
just  to  make  a  short  passage  between 
two  thoroughfares,  but,  though  forced 
at  first  to  walk  straight  by  the  ware- 
houses that  wall  in  its  entrance,  it  soon 
begins  to  loiter,  staring  down  back  al- 
leys, yawning  into  courts^  plunging  into 
stable-yards,  and  at  length  standing  ir- 
resolute at  three  ways  of  getting  to  the 
end  of  its  journey.  It  passes  by  arti- 
sans' shops,  and  keeps  two  or  three  ma- 
sons' cellars  and  carpenters'  lofts,  as  if 
its  slovenly  buildings  needed  perpetual 
repairs.  It  has  not  at  all  tlie  air  of 
once  knowing  better  days.  It  began 
life  hopelessly;  and  though  the  mayor 
and  common  council  and  board  of  al- 
dermen, with  ten  righteous  men,  should 
daily  march  through  it,  the  broom  of  of- 
,  iicial  and  private  virtue  could  not  sweep 
it  clean  of  its  slovenliness.  But  one  of 
its  idle  turnings  does  suddenly  end  in  a 
virtuous  court :  here  Every  Lane  may 
come,  when  it  indulges  in  vain  aspira- 
tions for  a  more  respectable  character, 
and  take  refuge  in  the  quiet  demeanor 
of  Every  Court  The  court  is  shaped 
like  the  letter  T  with  an  L  to  it  The 
upright  beam  connects  it  with  Every 
Lane,  and  maintains  a  non-committal 
character,  since  its  sides  are  blank 
walls  ;  upon  one  side  of  the  cross- 
beam are  four  houses,  while  a  fifth  oc- 
cupies the  diminutive  L  of  the  court, 
ensconcing  itself  in  a  snug  comer,  as  if 
ready  to  rush  out  at  the  cry  of  **  All  in ! 
all  in!''  Gardens  fill  the  unoccupied 
sides,  toy-gardens,  but  large  enough  to 
raise  all  the  flowers  needed  for  this  toy- 
court  The  five  houses,  built  exactly 
alike,  are  two  and  a  half  stories  high, 
and  have  each  a  dormer-window,  cur- 
tained with  white  dimity,  so  that  they 
look  like  five  elderly  dames  in  caps ; 
and  the  court  has  gotten  the  name  of 
Five-Sisters  Court,  to  the  despair  of 
Every  Jlane,  which  felt  its  sole  chance 
for  respectability  slip  away  when  the 
court  came  to  disown  its  patron3rmic. 


It  was  at  dusk,  the  afternoon  before 
Christmas,  that  a  young  man,  Nicho- 
las Judge  by  name,  walking  inquiringly 
down  Every  Lane,  turned  into  Five-Sis- 
ters Court,  and  stood  facing  the  five  old 
ladies,  apparently  in  some  doubt  as  to 
which  he  should  accost  There  was  a 
number  on  each  door,  but  no  name ;  and 
it  was  impossible  to  tell  firom  the  out- 
side who  or  what  sort  of  people  lived 
in  each.  If  one  could  only  get  round 
to  the  rear  of  the  court,  one  might  get 
some  light,  for  the  backs  of  houses  are 
generally  off  their  guard,  and  the  Five 
Sisters  who  look  alike  in  their  dimity 
caps  might  possibly  have  more  distinct 
characters  when  not  dressed  for  com- 
pany.    Perhaps,  after  the  caps  are  off, 

and   the   spectacles   removed But 

what   outrageous    sentiments    are   we 
drifting  toward! 

There  was  a  cause  for  Nicholas  Judge's 
hesitation.  In  one  of  those  houses  he 
had  good  reason  to  believe  lived  an  aunt 
of  his,  the  only  relation  left  to  him  in  the 
world,  so  fir  as  he  knew,  and  by  so  slen- 
der a  thread  was  he  held  to  her  that  he 
knew  only  her  maiden  name.  Through 
the  labyrinth  of  possible  widowhoods, 
one  of  which  at  least  was  actual,  and 
the  changes  in  condition  which  many 
years  would  effect,  he  was  to  feel  his 
way  to  the  Fair  Rosamond  by  this 
thread.  Nicholas  was  a  wise  young 
man,  as  will  no  doubt  appear  when  we 
come  to  know  him  better,  and,  though  a 
fresh  country  youth,  visiting  the  city  for 
the  first  time,  was  not  so  indiscreet  as 
to  ask  blundy  at  each  door,  until  he  got 
satisfaction,  "  Does  my  Aunt  Eunice  live 
here  ?  "  As  the  doors  in  the  court  were 
all  shut  and  equally  dumb,  he  resolved 
to  take  the  houses  in  order,  and  propos- 
ing to  himself  the  strategy  of  asking  for 
a  drink  of  water,  and  so  opening  the  way 
for  further  parley,  he  stood  before  the 
door  of  Number  One. 

He  raised  the  knocker,  (for  there  was 
no  bell,)  and  tapped  in  a  hesitating  man- 
ner, as  if  he  would  take  it  all  back  in 


1 86$.] 


Five-Sisters  Court  at  Christmas -Tide. 


n 


case  of  an  egregious  mistake.  There 
was  a  shuffle  in  the  entry ;  the  door 
opened  slowly,  disclosing  an  old  and 
tidy  negro  woman,  who  invited  Nicho- 
las in  by  a  gesture,  and  saying,  **  You 
wish  to  see  master  ?  "  led  him  oix  through 
a  dark  passage  without  waiting  for  an 
answer.  "Certainly,"  he  thought,  "I 
want  to  see  the  master  more  than  I 
want  a  drink  of  water :  I  will  keep  that 
device  for  the  next  house  " ;  and,  obey- 
ing the  lead  of  the  servant,  he  went  up 
stairs,  and  was  ushered  into  a  room, 
where  there  was  just  enough  dusky 
light  to  disclose  tiers  of  books,  a  table 
covered  with  papers,  and  other  indica- 
tions of  a  student's  abode. 

Nicholas's  eye  had  hardly  become  ac- 
customed to  the  dim  light,  when  there 
entered  the  scholar  himself,  the  master 
whom  he  was  to  see  :  a  small  old  man, 
erects  with  white  hair  and  smooth  fore- 
head, beneath  which  projected  two  beads 
of  eyes,  that  seemed,  from  their  ad- 
vanced position,  endeavoring  to  take  in 
what  lay  round  the  comer  of  the  head 
as  well  as  objects  directly  in  front  His 
long  palm-leaved  study-gown  and  tas- 
selled  velvet  cap  lent  him  a  reverend 
appearance ;  and  he  bore  in  his  hand 
what  seemed  a  curiously  shaped  dipper,* 
as  if  he  were  some  wise  man  coming  to 
slake  a  disciple's  thirst  with  water  from 
the  fountain-head  of  knowledge. 

"Has* he  guessed  my  pretended  er- 
rand ? "  wondered  Nicholas  to  himself 
feeling  a  little  ashamed  of  his  innocent 
ruse,  for  he  was  not  in  the  least  thirsty ; 
but  the  old  man  began  at  once  to  ad- 
dress him,  after  motioning  him  to  a 
seat  He  spoke  abruptly,  and  with  a 
restrained  impatience  of  manner :  — 

•*  So  you  received  my  letter  appoint- 
ing this  hour  for  an  interview.  Well, 
what  do  you  expect  me  to  do  for  you  ? 
You  compliment  me,  in  a  loose  sort  of 
way,  on  my  contributions  to  philological 
science,  and  tell  me  that  you  are  en- 
gajsfed  in  the  same  inquiries  with  my- 
self"  

" Sir,*  said  Nicholas,  in  alarm,  —  "I 
oujjht  to  explain  myself,  —  I  " 

But  the  old  gendeman  gave  no  heed 
to  the  interrupdooi  and  continued :  — 


— "  And  that  you  have  published  an 
article  on  the  Value  of  Words.  You 
sent  me  the  paper,  but  I  did  n't  find 
anything  in  it  I  have  no  great  opinion 
of  the  efforts  of  young  men  in  this  di- 
rection. It  contained  commonplace  gen- 
eralities which  I  never  heard  questioned. 
You  can't  show  the  value  of  words  by 
wasting  them.  I  told  you  I  should  bie 
plain.  Now  you  want  me  to  give  you 
some  hints,  you  say,  as  to  the  best 
method  of  pursuing  philological  re- 
searches. In  a  hasty  moment  I  said 
you  might  come,  though  I  don't  usu- 
ally^ allow  visitors.  You  praise  "me  for 
what  I  have  accomplished  in  philology. 
Young  man,  that  is  because  I  have  not 
given  myself  up  to  idle  gadding  and  gos- 
siping. Do  you  think,  if  I  had  been 
making  calls,  and  receiving  anybody 
who  chose  to  force  himself  upon  me, 
during  the  last  forty  years,  that  I 
should  have  been  able  to  master  the 
digamma,  which  you  think  my  worthi- 
est labor?" 

"Sir,"  interrupted  Nicholas  again, 
thinking  that  the  question,  though  it 
admitted  no  answer,  might  give  him  a 
chance  to  stand  on  his  own  legs  once 
more,  "  I  really  must  ask  your  pardon." 

"  The  best  method  of  pursuing  philo- 
logical researches ! "  continued  the  old 
scholar,  deaf  to  Nicholas's  remonstrance. 
"  That  is  one  of  your  foolish  general 
questions,  that  show  how  little  you 
know  what  you  are  about  But  do  as 
I  have  done.  Work  by  yourself,  and 
digf  dig.  Give  up  your  senseless  gab- 
bling in  the  magazines,  get  over  your 
astonishment  at  finding  that  casium  and 
keaven  contain  the  same  idea  etymolog- 
icaUy,  and  that  there  was  a  large  bread- 
bakery  at  Skolos,  and  make  up  your 
mind  to  believe  nothing  till  you  can't 
help  it  You  have  n't  begun  to  work 
yet  Wait  till  you  have  lived  as  I  have, 
forty  years  in  one  house,  with  your  li- 
brary likely  to  turn  you  out  of  doors, 
and  only  an  old  black  woman  to  speak 
to,  before  you  begin  to  think  of  calling 
yourself  a  scholar.    £h  ?  " 

And  at  this  point  the  old  gentleman 
adjusted  the  dipper,  which  was  merely 
an  ear-trumpet,  —  though  for  a  moment 


24 


Five-Sisters  Court  at  Christmas -Tide.  [January, 


more  mysterious  to  Nicholas,- in  its  new 
capacity,  than  when  he  had  regarded 
it  as  a  unique  specimen  of  a  familiar 
household-implement,  —  and  thrust  the 
bowl  toward  the  embarrassed  youth.  In 
fact,  having  said  all  that  he  intended  to 
say  to  his  unwelcome  supposed  disciple, 
he  showed  enough  churlish  grace  to  per- 
mit him  to  make  such  reply  or  defence 
as  seemed  best. 

The  old  gentleman  had  pulled  up  so 
suddenly  in  his  harangue,  and  called  for 
an  answer  so  authoritatively,  and  with 
such  a  singular  flourish  of  his  trjimpet, 
that  Nicholas,  losing  command  oi  the 
studied  explanation  of  his  conduct, 
which  a  moment  before  had  been  at  his 
tongue's  end,  caught  at  the  last  sen- 
tence spoken,  and  gained  a  perilous  ad- 
vantage by  asking, — 

"Have  you,  indeed,  lived  in  this 
house  forty  years.  Sir?" 

"  Eh  !  what  ?  "* .  said  the  old  gentle- 
man, impatiently,  perceiving  that  he  had 
spoken.  "  Here,  speak  into  my  trumpet 
What  is  the  use  of  a  trumpet,  if  you 
don't  speak  into  it?'' 

<<0h,''  thought  Nicholas  to  himself, 
"I  see,  he  is  excessively  deaf;  and 
bending  over  the  trumpet,  where  he  saw 
a  sieve-like  frame,  as  if  all  speech  were 
to  be  strained  as  it  entered,  he  collect- 
ed his  force,  and  repeated  the  question, 
with  measured  and  sonorous  utterance, 
'*  Sir,  have  you  lived  in  this  house  forty 
years  ?** 

"I  just  told  you  so,"  said  the  old 
man,  not  unnaturally  starting  back. 
"And  if  you  were  going  to  ask  me  such 
an  unnecessary  question  at  all,"  h^  add- 
ed, testily,  "you  need  n't  have  roared 
it  out  at  me.  I  could  have  heard  that 
without  my  trumpet  Yes,  I  've  lived 
here  forty  years,  and  so  has  black  Ma- 
ria, who  opened  the  door  for  you ;  and 
I  say  again  that  I  have  accomplished 
what  I  have  by  uninterrupted  study.  I 
have  n't  gone  about,  bowing  to  every  he, 
she,  and  it  I  never  knew  who  lived  in 
any  of  the  other  houses  in  the  court  till 
to-day,  when  a  woman  came  and  asked 
me  to  go  out  for  the  evening  to  her 
house ;  and  just  because  it  was  Christ- 
mas-eve, I  was  f99lish  enough  to  be 


wheedled  by  her  into  saying  I  would 
go.  Miss Miss ,  I  can't  remem- 
ber her  name  now.  I  shall  have  to  ask 
Mari^  There,  you  have  n't  got  much 
satisfaction  out  of  me ;  but  do  you  mind 
what  I  said  to  you,  and  it  will  be  worth 
more  than  if  I  had  told  you  what  books 
to  read.  £h  ?  "  And  he  invited  Nich- 
olas once  more  to  drop  his  words  into 
the  trumpet 

"  Good  afternoon,"  said  Nicholas,  hes- 
itatingly, —  "  thank  you,"  —  at  a  loss 
what  pertinent  reply  to  make,  and  in  de- 
spair of  clearing  himself  from  the  tangle 
in  which  he  had  become  involved.  It 
was  plain,  too,  that  he  should  get  no  sat- 
isfaction here,  at  least  upon  the  search 
in  which  he  was  engaged.  But  the  re- 
ply seemed  quite  satis^tory  to  the  old 
gentleman,  who  cheerfully  relinquished 
him  to  black  Maria,  who,  in  turn,  passed 
him  out  of  the  house. 

Left  to  himself,  and  rid  of  his  per- 
sonal embarrassment,  he  began  to  feel 
uncomfortably  guilty,  as  he  considered 
the  confusion  which  he  had  entailed  up- 
on the  real  philological  disciple,  and 
would  fain  comfort  himself  with  the 
hope  that  he  had  acted  as  a  sort  of' 
lightning-rod  to  conduct  the  old  schol- 
ar's bolts,  and  so  had  secured  some  im- 
munity for  the  one  at  whom  the  bolts 
were  really  shot  But  his  own  situation 
demanded  his  attention;  and  leaving 
the  to-be  unhappy  young  man  and  the 
to-be  perplexed  old  gentleman  to  settle 
the  difficulty  over  the  mediating  ear- 
trumpet,  he  addressed  himself  again  to 
his  task,  and  proposed  to  take  another 
survey  of  the  court,  with  the  vague  hope 
that  his  aunt  might  show  herself  with 
such  unmistakable  signs  of  relationship 
as  to  bring  his  researches  to  an  imme- 
diate and  triumphant  close. 

Just  as  he  was  turning  away  from  the 
front  of  Number  One,  buttoning  his 
overcoat  with  an  air  of  self-abstraction, 
he  was  suddenly  and  unaccountably  at- 
tacked in  the  chest  with  such  violence 
as  almost  to  throw  him  off  his  feet  At 
the  next  moment  his  ears  were  assailed 
by  a  profusion  of  apologetic  explana- 
tions from  a  young  man,  who  made  out 
to  tell  him,  that,  coming  out  of  his  house 


\ 


i86s.] 


Five-Sisters  Court  at  Christmas -Tide. 


25 


with  the  intention  of  calling  next  door, 
he  had  leaped  over  the  snow  that  lay 
between,  and,  not  seeing  the  gentleman, 
Ipd,  most  unintentionally,  plunge4  head- 
long into  him.  He  hoped  he  had  not 
hurt  him;  he  begged  a  thousand  par- 
dons ;  it  was  very  careless  in  him ;  and 
then,  perfect  peace  having  succeeded 
this  violent  attack,  the  new-comer  po- 
litely asked,  — 

^'Can  you  tell  me  whether  Doctor 
Chocker  is  at  home,  and  disengaged  ? 
I  perceive  that  you  have  just  left  his. 
hou^." 

«  Do  you  mean  the  deaf  old  gentie- 
man  in  Number  One  ?  "  asked  Nicholas. 

**  I  was  not  aware  that  he  was  deaf," 
said  his  companion. 

'<  And  1  did  not  know  that  his  name 
was  Doctor  Chocker,"  said  Nicholas, 
smiling.  ^  But  may  I  ask,"  said  he,  with 
a  sudden  thought,  and  blushing  so  hard 
that  even  the  wintry  red  of  his  cheeks 
was  outshone,  ^  if  you  were  just  going 
to  see  him  ?  " 

« I  had  an  appointment  to  see  him  at 
this  hour ;  and  that  is  the  reason  why  I 
asked  you  if  he  was  disengaged." 

**  He — he  is  not  engaged,  I  believe," 
said  Nicholas,  stammering  and  blush- 
ing harder  than  ever ;  **  but  a  word  with 
you,  Sir.  I  must  —  really  —  it  was 
wholly  unintentional — but  unless  I  am 
mistaken,  the  old  gentleman  thought  I 
was  you." 

**  Thought  you  were  I  ? "  said  the  other, 
screwing  his  eyebrows  into  a  question, 
and  letting  his  nose  stand  for  an  excla- 
mation-point ''But  come,  it  is  cold 
here,  —  will  you  do  me  the  honor  to 
come  up  to  my  room  ?  At  any  rate,  I 
should  like  to  hear  something  about  the 
old  fellow."  And  he  turned  towards  the 
next  house. 

"What!"  said  Nicholas,  "do  you 
Kve  in  Number  Two?" 

"Yes,  I  have  rooms  here,"  said  his 
companion,  jumping  back  over  the  snow. 
"  You  seem  surprised." 

"  It  is  extraordinary,"  muttered  Nich- 
olas to  himself,  as  he  entered  the  house 
and  ibUowed  his  new  acquaintance  up 
stairs. 

Their  entrance  seemed  to  create  some 


confusion ;  for  there  was  an  indistinct 
sound  as  of  a  tumultuous  retreat  in  ev- 
ery direction,  a  scuttling  up  and  down 
stairs,  and  a  whisking  of  dresses  round 
corners,  with  still  more  indistinct  and 
distant  sound  of  suppressed  chatter- 
ing and  a  voice  berating. 

"  It  is  extremely  provoking,"  said  the 
young  man,  when  they  had  entered  his 
room  and  the  door  was  shut ;  ^'  but  the 
people  in  this  house  seem  to  do  nothing 
but  watch  my  movements.  You  heard 
that  banging  about?  Well,  I  seldom 
come  in  or  go  out,  especially  with  a 
friend,  but  that  just  such  a  stampede 
takes  place  in  the  passage-ways  and 
staircase.  I  have  no  idea  who  lives  in 
the  house,  except  a  Mrs.  Crimp,  a  very 
worthy  woman,  no  doubt,  but  with  too 
many  children,  I  should  guess.  I  only 
lodge  here ;  and  as  I  send  my  money 
down  every  month  with  the  bill  which 
I  find  on  my  table,  I  never  see  Mrs. 
Crimp.  Now  I  don't  see  why  they 
should  be  so  curious  about  me.  I  'm 
sure  I  am  very  contented  in  my  igno- 
rance of  the  whole  household  It 's  a 
litUe  annoying,  though,  when  I  bring 
any  one  into  the  house.  Will  you  &- 
cuse  me  a  moment,  while  I  ring  for 
more  coal?" 

While  he  disappeared  for  this  pur- 
pose, seeming  to  keep  the  bell  in  some 
other  part  of  the  house,  Nicholas  took 
a  hasty  glance  round  the  room,  and, 
opening  a  booki>n  the  table,  read  on  the 
fly-leaf,  PaulLe  CUar^  a  name  which  he 
tagged  for  convenience  to  the  occupant 
of  the  room  until  he  should  find  one 
more  authentic.  The  room  corre- 
sponded  to  that  in  which  he  had  met 
Doctor  Chocker,  but  the  cheerful  gleam 
of  an  open  fire  gave  a  brighter  aspect 
to  the  interior.  Here  also  were  books ; 
but  while  at  thd  Doctor's  the  walls,  ta- 
bles, and  even  floor  seemed  bursting 
with  the  crowd  that  had  found  lodging 
there,  so  that  he  had  made  his  way  to  a 
chair  by  a  sort  of  foot-path  through  a 
field  of  folios,  here  there  was  the  nicest 
order  and  an  evident  attempt  at  artistic 
arrangement  Nor  were  books  alone 
the  possessors  of  the  walls ;  for  a  few 
pictures  and  busts  had  places,  and  two 


26 


Five 'Sisters  Court  at  Christmas -Tide.  [January, 


or  three  ingenious  cupboards  excited 
curiosity.  The  room,  iu  short,  showed 
plainly  the  presence  of  a  cultivated 
mind;  and  Nicholas,  who,  though  un- 
j&miliar  with  city-life,  had  received  a 
capital  intellectual  training  at  the  hands 
of  a  scholarly,  but  anchoret  father,  was 
delighted  at  the  signs  of  culture  in  his 
new  acquaintance. 

Mr.  Le  Clear  reentered  the  room, 
followed  presently  by  the  coal-scuttle 
in  the  hands  of  a  small  servant,  and, 
remembering  the  occasion  which  had 
brought  them  together,  invited  Nicho- 
las to  finish  the  explanation  which  he 
had  begun  below.  He,  set  at  ease  by 
the  agreeable  surroundings,  opened  his 
heart  wide,  and,  for  the  sake  of  explicit- 
ness  in  his  narration,  proposed  to  begin 
back  at  the  very  beginning. 

'<By  all  means  begin  at  the  begin- 
ning," said  Mr.  Le  Clear,  rubbing  his 
hands  in  expectant  pleasure ;  '^  but  be- 
fore you  begin,  my  good  Sir,  let  me  sug- 
gest that  we  take  a  cup  of  tea  together. 
I  must  take  mine  early  to-night,  as  I  am 
to  spend  the  evening  out,  and  there's 
something  to  tell  you.  Sir,  when  you  are 
through,"  —  as  if  meeting  his  burst  of 
confidence  with  a  corresponding  one, — 
*^  though  it 's  a  small  matter,  probably, 
compared  with  yours,  but  it  has  amused 
me.  I  can't  make  a  great  show  on  the 
table,"  he  added,  with  an  elegant  humil- 
ity, when  Nicholas  accepted  his  invita- 
tion ;  '*  but  I  like  to  take  my  tea  in  my 
room,  though  I  go  out  for  dinner." 

So  saying,  he  brought  from  the  cup- 
board a  littie  table-cloth,  and,  bustling 
about,  deposited  on  a  tea-tray,  one  by 
one,  various  members  of  a  tea-set,  which 
had  evidenUy  been  plucked  from  a  tea- 
plant  in  China,  since  the  forms  and  fig- 
ures were  all  suggested  by  the  flowery 
kingdom.  The  lids  of  the  vessels  were 
shaped  like  tea-leaves ;  and  miniature 
China  men  and  women  picked  their 
way  about  among  the  letters  of  the 
Chinese  alphabet,  as  if  they  were  play- 
ing at  word-punles.  Nicholas  admired 
the  service  to  its  owner's  content,  es- 
tablishing thus  a  new  bond  of  sympa- 
thy between  them ;  and  both  were  soon 
seated  near  the  table,  sipping  the  tea 


with  demure  litde  spoons,  that  ap- 
proached the  meagreness  of  Chinese 
chop-sticks,  and  decorating  white  bread 
with  brown  marmalade. 

**  Now,?  said  the  host,  "  since  you 
share  my  sa)t,  I  ought  to  be  introduced 
to  you,  an  office  which  I  will  perform 
without  ceremony.  My  name  is  Paul 
Le  Clear,"  which  Nicholas  and  we  had 
already  guessed  correcdy. 

"  And  mine,"  said  Nicholas, "  is  Nich- 
olas, —  Nicholas  Judge." 

"  Very  well,  Mr.  Judge ;  now  let  us 
have  the  story,"  said  Paul,  extending 
himself  in  an  easy  attitude ;  '*  and  begin 
at  the  beginning." 

"The  story  begins  with  my  birth," 
said  Nicholas,  with  a  reckless  ingenu- 
ousness which  was  a  large  part  of  his 
host's  entertainment 

But  it  is  unnecessary  to  recount  in 
detail  what  Paul  heard,  beginning  at 
that  epoch,  twenty -two  years  baclc 
Enough  to  say  in  brief  what  Nicholas 
elaborated :  that  his  mother  had  died 
at  his  birth,  ia  a  country  home  at  the 
foot  of  a  mountain  ;  that  in  that  home 
he  had  lived,  with  his  father  for  almost 
solitary  firiend  and  teacher,  until,  his  fa- 
ther dying,  he  had  come  to  the  city  to 
live ;  that  he  had  but  just  reached  the 
place,  and  had  made  it  his  first  object 
to  find  his  mother's  only  sister,  with 
whom,  indeed,  his  fether  had  kept  up 
no  acquaintance,  and  for  finding  whom 
he  had  but  a  slight  clue,  even  if  she 
were  then  living.  Nicholas  brought  his 
narrative  in  regular  order  down  to  the 
point  where  Paul  had  so  unexpected- 
ly accosted  him,  stopping  there,  since 
subsequent  facts  were  fully  known  to 
both. 

"And  now,"  he  concluded,  warming 
with  his  subject,  "  I  am  in  search  of 
my  aunt  What  sort  of  woman  she  will 
prove  to  be  I  cannot  tell ;  but  if  there 
is  any  virtue  in  sisterly  blood,  surely  my 
Aunt  Eunice  cannot  be  without  some 
of  that  noble  nature  which  belonged 
to  my  mother,  as  I  have  heard  her  de- 
scribed, and  as  her  miniature  bids  me 
believe  in.  How  many  times  of  late,  in 
my  solitariness,  have  I  pictured  to  my- 
self this  one  kinswoman  receiving  me 


1865.] 


Five-Sislers  Court  at  Christmas -Tide. 


27 


for  her  sister's  sake,  and  willing  to  be- 
friend me  for  my  own  !  True,  I  am 
strong,  and  able,  I  think,  to  make  my 
way  in  the  world  unaided.  It  is  not 
such  help  as  would  ease  my  necessary 
struggle  that  I  ask,  but  the  sympathy 
which  only  blood-relationship  can  bring. 
So  I  build  great  hopes  on  my  success 
in  the  search ;  and  I  have  chosen  this 
evening  as  a  fit  time  for  the  happy  rec- 
ognition. I  cannot  doubt  that  we  shall 
keep  our  Christmas  together.  Do  you 
know  of  any  one,  Mr.  Le  Clear,  living 
in  this  court,  who  might  prove-  to  be 
my  aunt?" 

"Upon  my  soul,"  said  that  gentle- 
man, who  had  been  sucking  the  juice 
of  Nicholas's  narrative,  and  had  now 
reached  the  skin,  ^'you  have  come  to 
the  last  person  likely  to  be  able  to  tell 
jou.  It  was  only  to-day  that  I  learned 
by  a  correspondence  with  Doctor  Chock- 
er,  whom  all  the  world  knows,  that  he 
was  living  just  next  door  to  me.  Who 
lives  on  the  other  side  I  can't  tell.  Mrs. 
Crimp  lives  here  ;  but  she  receipts  her 
biUs,  Temperance  A.  Crimp ;  so  there 's 
no  chance  for  a  Eunice  there.  As  for 
the  other  three  houses,  I  know  nothing, 
except  just  this :  and  here  I  come  to 
my  story,  which  is  very  short,  and  noth- 
ing like  so  entertaining  as  yours.  Yes- 
terday I  was  called  upon  by  a  jiggoty 
little  woman,  —  I  say  jiggoty,  because 
that  expresses  exactly  my  meaning,  — 
a  jiggoty  little  woman,  who  announced 
herself  as  Miss  Pix,  living  in  Number 
Five,  and  who  brought  an  invitation  in 
pefson  to  me  to  come  to  a  small  party 
at  her  house  this  Christmas-eve  ;  and 
as  she  was  jiggoty,  I  thought  I  would 
amuse  myself  by  going.  But  she  is 
Miss  Pix ;  and  your  aunt,  according  to 
your  showing,  should  be  MrsJ* 

**  That  must  be  where  the  old  gentle- 
man, Doctor  Chocker,  is  going,"  said 
Nicholas,  who  had  forgotten  to  mention 
that  part  of  the  Doctor's  remarks,  and 
now  did  sa 

"  Really,  that  is  entertaining ! "  cried 
PauL  *•  I  certainly  shall  go,  if  it 's  for 
nothing  else  than  to  see  Miss  Pix  and 
Doctor  Chocker  together." 

^  Pardon  my  ignorance,  Mr.  Le  Clear," 


said  Nichojas,  with  a  smile ;  ''but  what 
do  you  mean  by  jiggoty  ?  " 

"  I  mean,"  said  Paul,  "  to  express  a 
certain  effervescence  of  manner,  as  if 
one  were  corked  against  one's  will,  end- 
ing in  'a  sudden  pop  of  the  cork  and  a 
general  overflowing.  I  invented  the 
word  after  seeing  Miss  Pix.  She  is  an 
odd  person  ;  but  I  should  n't  wish  to  be 
so  concerned  about  my  neighbors  as 
she  appears  to  be.  My  philosophy  of 
life,"  he  continued,  standing  now  before 
the  fire,  and  receiving  its  entire  radia- 
tion upon  the  superficies  of  his  back, 
"  is  to  extract  sunshine  from  cucumbers. 
Think  of  living  forty  years,  like  Doctor 
Chocker,  on  the  husks  of  the  digamma  I 
I  am  obliged  to  him  for  his  advice,  but 
I  sha'n't  follow  it  Here  are  my  books 
and  prints  ;  out  of  doors  are  people  and 
Nature  :  I  propose  to  extract  sunshine 
from  all  these  cucumbers.  The  world 
was  made  for  us,  and  not  we  for  the 
world.  When  I  go  to  Miss  Pix's  this 
evening,  —  and,  by  the  way,  it 's  'most 
time  to  go,  —  I  presume  I  shall  find  one 
or  two  ripe  cucumbers.  Christmas,  too, 
is  a  capital  season  for  this  chemical  ex- 
periment I  find  people  are  more  off 
their  guard,  and  offer  special  advantages 
for  a  curious  observer  and  experimenter. 
Here  is  my  room  ;  you  see  how  I  live  ; 
and  when  I  have  no  visitor  at  tea,  I 
wind  up  my  little  musical  box.  You 
have  no  idea  what  a  pretty  picture  I 
make,  sitting  in  my  chair,  the  tea-table 
by  me,  the  fire  in  the  grate,  and  the  mu- 
sical box  for  a  cricket  on  the  hearth  "  ; 
and  Mr.  Le  Gear  laughed  good-hu- 
moredly. 

Nicholas  laughed,  too.  He  had  been 
smiling  throughout  the  young  philoso- 
pher's discourse ;  but  he  was  conscious 
of  a  little  feeling  of  uneasiness,  as  if  he 
were  being  subjected  to  the  cucumber- 
extract  process.  He  had  intended  at 
first  to  deliver  the  scheme  of  life  which 
he  had  adopted,  but,  on  the  whole,  de- 
termined to  postpone  it  He  rose  to 
go,  and  shook  hands  with  Paul,  who 
wished  him  all  success  in  finding  his 
aunt ;  as  for  himself,  he  thought  he  got 
along  better  without  aunts.  The'  two 
went  down  stairs  to  the  door,  causing 


28 


Five 'Sisters  Court  at  Christmas -Tide,      .    [January, 


very  much  the  same  dispeirsion  of  the 
tribes  as  before  ;  and  Nicholas  once 
more  stood  in  Five- Sisters  Court,  while 
Paul  Le  Clear  returned  to  his  charming 
bower,  to  be  tickled  with  the  recollec- 
tion of  the  adventure,  and  to  prepare 
for  Miss  Pix*s  party. 

"  On  the  whole,  I  think  I  won't  dis- 
turb Doctor  Chocker's  mind  by  clearing 
it  up,"  said  he  to  himself.  "It  might, 
too,  bring  on  a  repetition  of  the  fulmina- 
tion  against  my  paper  which  the  young 
Judge  seemed  so  to  enjoy  relating.  An 
innocent  youth,  certainly !  I  wonder  if 
he  expected  me  to  give  him  my  auto- 
biography." 

Nicholas  Judge  confessed  to  himself 
a  slight  degree  of  despondency,  as  he 
looked  at  the  remaining  two  houses  in 
the  court,  since  Miss  Fix's  would  have 
to  be  counted  out,  and  reflected  that 
his  chances  of  success  were  dwindling 
His  recent  conversation  had  left  upon 
his  mind,  for  some  reason  which  he 
hardly  stopped  now  to  explain,  a  disa- 
greeable impression ;  and  he  felt  a  trifle 
wearied  of  this  very  dubious  enterprise. 
What  likelihood  was  there,  if  his  aunt 
had  lived  here  a  long  time  past,  as  he 
assumed  in  his  calculations,  that  she 
would  have  failed  to  make  herself  known 
in  some  way  to  Doctor  Checker  ?  since 
the  vision  which  he  had  of  this  worthy 
lady  was  that  of  a  kind-hearted  and 
most  neighborly  soul.  But  he  reflected 
that  city  life  must  differ  greatly  from 
.  that  in  the  country,  even  more  than  he 
had  conceded  with  all  his  a  priori  rea- 
sonings; and  he  decided  to  draw  no 
hasty  inferences,  but  to  proceed  in  the 
Baconian  method  by  calling  at  Number 
Three.  He  was  rather  out  of  conceit 
with  his  strategy  of  thirst,  which  had 
so  fallen  below  the  actual  modes  of 
effecting  an  entrance,  and  now  resolved 
to  march  boldly  up  with  the  irresistible 
engine  of  straight-forward  inquiry, — as 
straight'forward,  at  least,  as  the  circum- 
stances would  permit.  He  knocked 
at  the  door.  After  a  litde  delay,  enli- 
vened for  him  by  the  interchange  of 
voices  within  the  house,  apparently  at 
opposite  extremities,  a  light  approached, 
and  the  door  was  opened,  disclosing  a 


large  and  florid-&ced  man,  in  his  shirt- 
sleeves, holding  a  small    and   sleepy 
lamp  in  his  hand.     Njcholas  moved  at  . 
once  upon  the  enemy's  works. 

"  Will  you  have  the  goodness  to  tcD 
me.  Sir,  if  a  lady  named  Miss  Eunice 
Brown  lives  here?"  —  that  being  his 
aunt's  maiden  nan^e,  and  possibly  good 
on  demand  thirty  years  after  date.  The 
reply  came,  after  a  moment's  delibera- 
tion, as  if  the  man  wished  to  gain  time 
for  an  excursion  into  some  unexplored 
region  of  the  house,  — 

"  Well,  Sir,  I  won't  say  positively  that 
she  does  n't ;  and  yet  I  can  say,  that,  in 
one  sense  of  the  word.  Miss  Eunice 
Brown  does  not  live  here.  Will  you 
walk  in,  and  we  will  talk  further  about 
it» 

Nicholas  entered,  though  somewhat 
wondering  how  they  were  to  settie  Miss 
Brown's  residence  there  by  the  mos 
protracted  conversation.  The  man  in 
shirt-sleeves  showed  him  into  a  sitting- 
room,  and  setting  the  lamp  upon  the  top 
of  a  comer  what-not,  where  it  twinkled 
like  a  distant  star,  he  gave  Nicholas  a 
seat,  and  took  one  opposite  to  him,  first 
shutting  the  door  behind  them. 

"  Will  you  give  me  your  name,  Sir  ?" 
said  he. 

Nicholas  hesitated,  not  quite  liking 
to  part  with  it  to  one  who  might  misuse 
it 

"  I  have  no  objection,"  said  his  com- 
panion, in  a  sonorous  voice,  "  to  giving 
my  name  to  any  one  that  asks  it  My 
name  is  Soprian  Manlius." 

"And  mine,"  said  Nicholas,  not  to 
be  outdone  in  generosity,  "  is  Nicholas 
Judge." 

"  Very  well,  Mr.  Judge.  Now  we  un- 
derstand each  other,  I  think.  I  asked 
your  name  as  a  guaranty  of  good  faith. 
•  Anonymous  contributions  cannot  be 
received,  et  cetera, — as  they  say  at  the 
head  of  newspapers.  And  that  's  my 
rule  of  business.  Sir.  People  come  to 
me  to  ask  the  character  of  a  girl,  and  I 
ask  their  names.  If  they  don't  want  to 
give  them,  I  say,  'Very  well ;  I  can't 
intrust  the  girl's  character  to  people 
without  name.'  And  it  brings  them  out, 
Sir,  it  brings  thert  out,"  said  Mr.  Man- 


i865.] 


Five-Sisters  Court  at  Christmas -Tide. 


29 


lius,  leaning  back,  and  taking  a  distant 
view  of  his  masterly  diplomacy. 

*'  Do  people  come  to  you  to  inquire 
*  after  persons'  characters  ? "  asked  Nich- 
olas, somewhat  surprised  at  happening 
upon  such  an  oracle. 

"  Well,  in  a  general  way,  no,"  said 
Mr.  Manlius,  smiling  ;  "  though  I  won't 
say  but  that  they  would  succeed  as  well 
here  as  in  most  places.  In  a  particular 
way,  yes.  I  keep  an  intelligence-office. 
Here  is  my  card,  Sir," — pulling  one  out 
of  his  waistcoat-pocket,  and  presenting 
it  to  Nicholas ;  "  and  you  will  see  by 
the  phraseology  employed,  that  I  have 
unrivalled  means  for  securing  the  most 
valuable  help  from  all  parts  of  the 
world.  Mr.  Judge,"  he  whispered,  lean- 
ing forward,  and  holding  up  his  fore- 
finger to  enforce  strict  secrecy,  "  I  keep 
a  paid  agent  in  Nova  Scotia."  And 
once  more  Mr.  Manlius  retreated  in  his 
chair,  to  get  the  whole  effect  of  the  an- 
nouncement upon  his  visitor. 

The  internal  economy  of  an  office 
for  obtaining  and  furnishing  intelligence 
might  have  been  further  revealed  to 
Nicholas  ;  but  at  this  moment  a  voice 
was  heard  on  the  outside  of  the  door, 
calling,  "  S'prian  !  S'prian  !  we  're  'most 
ready." 

"  Coming,  Caroline,"  replied  Mr.  Man- 
lius, and,  recalled  to  the  object  for  which 
his  visitor  was  there,  he  turned  to  Nich- 
olas, and  resumed,  — 

"Well,  Mr.  Judge,  about  Miss  Eu- 
nice Brown,  whether  she  lives  here  or 
not.  Are  you  personally  acquainted  with 
Miss  Brown  .'* " 

"  No,  Sir,"  said  Nicholas,  frankly.  "  I 
.  will  tell  you  plainly  my  predicament 
Miss  Eunice  Brown  was  my  mother's 
sister ;  but  after  my  mother's  death, 
which  took  place  at  my  birth,  there  was 
no  intercourse  with  her  on  the  part  of. 
our  family,  which  consisted  of  my  fa- 
ther and  myself.  My  father,  1  ought  to 
say,  had  no  unfriendliness  toward  her, 
but  his  habits  of  life  were  those  of  a 
solitary  student ;  and  therefore  he  took 
no  pains  to  keep  up  the  acquaintance. 
He  heard  of  her  marriage,  and  the  sub- 
sequent death  of  her  husband ;  rumor 
reached  him  of  a  second  marriage,  but 


he  never  heard  the  name  of  the  man 
she  married  in  either  case.  My  father 
lately  died ;  but  before  his  death  he  ad- 
vised me  to  seek  tliis  aunt,  if  possible, 
since  she  was  my  only  living  near  rela- 
tion ;  and  he  told  me  that  he  had  heard 
of  her  living  in  this  court  many  years 
ago.  So  I  have  come  here  with  faint 
hope  of  tracing;  hei;." 

Mr.  Manlius  listened  attentively  to 
this  explanation ;  and  then  solemnly 
walking  to  the  door,  he  called  in  a  deep 
voice,  as  if  he  would  have  the  summons 
start  from  the  very  bottom  of  the  house 
for  thoroughness,  —  "  Caroline  ! " 

The  call  was  answered-  immediately 
by  the  appearance  of  Mrs.  Manlius,  in 
a  red  dress,  that  put  everything  else  in 
the  room  in  the  background. 

"Caroline,"  said  he,  more  impres- 
sively than  would  seem  necessary,  and 
pointing  to  Nicholas,  "  this  is  Mr. 
Nicholas  Judge.  Mr.  Judge,  you  see 
my  wife." 

"  But,  my  dear,"  said  Mrs.  Manlius, 
nervously,  as  soon  as  she  had  bowed, 
discovering  the  feeble  lamp,  which  was 
saving  its  light  by  burning  very  dimly, 
"  that  lamp  will  be  off  the  what-not  in  a 
moment  How  could  you  put  it  right 
on  the  edge  ?  '  And  she  took  it  down 
from  its  pinnacle,  and  placed  it  firmly 
on  the  middle  of  a  table,  at  a  distance 
from  anything  infiammable.  "  Mr.  Man- 
lius is  so  absent-minded.  Sir,"  said  she, 
turning  to  Nicholas. 

"Caroline,"  said  her  husband,  "this 
will  be  a  memorable  day  in  the  history 
of  our  family.  Eunice  has  found  a  dear 
sister's  son." 

"  Where  ? "  she  asked,  turning  for  ex- 
planation to  Nicholas,  who  at  Mr.  Man- 
lius^ words  felt  his  heart  beat  quicker. 
"  Then  Mr.  Manlius,  in  as  few  words 
as  his  dignity  and  the  occasion  would 
deeni  suitable,  stated  the  case  to  his  wife, 
who  looked  admiringly  upon  Mr.  Man- 
lius's  oratory,  and  interestingly  upon 
Nicholas. 

"  Shall  I  call  Eunice  down,  S'prian?" 
said  she,  when  her  husband  concluded, 
and  conveying  some  mysterious  infor- 
mation to  him  by  means  of  private  sig- 
nals. 


\ 


30 


Five 'Sisters  Court  at  Christmas -Tide.  [January, 


"  We  have  here,"  said  Mr.  Manlius, 
now  turning  the  hose  of  his  eloquence 
toward  Nicholas,  and  playing  upon  him, 
"  we  have  here  a  dear  friend,  who  has 
abode  in  our  house  for  many  years. 
She  came  to  us  when  she  was  in  trou- 
ble, and  here  has  she  found  a  resting- 
place  for  the  soles  of  her  feet  Sir,* 
with  a  darksome  glance,  *•  her  relations 
had  forgotten  her." 

"I  must  say" interrupted  Nich- 
olas ;  but  Mr.  Manlius  waved  him  back, 
and  continued :  — 

*'  But  she  found  true  kinsfolk  in  the 
friends  of  her  early  days.  We  have 
cared  for  her  tenderly,  and  now  at  last 
we  have  our  reward  in  consigning  her 
to  the  willing  hands  of  a  young  scion 
of  her  house.  She  was  Eunice  Brown ; 
she  had  a  sister  who  married  a  Judge, 
as  I  have  often  heard  her  say ;  and  she 
herself  married  Mr.  ArchibsJd  Starkey, 
who  is  now  no  more.  Caroline,  I  will 
call  Eunice";  and  Mr.  Manlius  went 
heavily  out  of  the  room. 

Nicholas  was  very  much  ag^'tated,  and 
Mrs.  Manlius  very  much  excited,  over 
this  sudden  turn  of  affairs. 

"Eunice  has  lived  with  us  fifteen 
years,  come  February ;  and  she  has  been 
one  of  the  family,  coming  in  and  going 
out  like  the  rest  of  us.  I  found  her  on 
the  door-step  one  night,  and  was  n't  go- 
ing to  bring  her  in  at  first,  because,  you 
see,  I  did  n't  know  what  she  might  be ; 
when,  lo  and  behold !  she  looked  up, 
and  said  I,  *  Eunice  Brown  ! '  *  Yes,*  said 
she,  anfd  said  she  was  cold  and  hungry ; 
and  I  brought  her  in,  and  told  Mr.  Man- 
lius, and  he  came  and  talked  with  her, 
and  said  he,  'Caroline,  there  is  char- 
acter in  that  woman';  for,  Mr.  Judge, 
Mr.  Manlius  can  read  character  in  a 
person  wonderfully ;  he  has  a  real  gift 
that  way ;  and,  indeed,  he  needs  it  in 
his  profession ;  and,  as  I .  tell  hitn,  he 
was  bom  an  intelligence-officer." 

Thus,  and  with  more  in  the  same 
strain,  did  Mrs.  Manlius  give  vent  to 
her  feelings,  though  hardly  in  the  ear 
of  Nicholas,  who  paced  the  room  in 
restless  expectation  of  his  aunt's  ap- 
proach. He  heard  enough  to  give  a 
turn  to  his  thoughts ;  and  it  was  with 


unaffected  sorrow  that  ne  reflected  how 
the  lonely  woman  had  been  dependent 
upon  the  charity,  as  it  seemed,  of  oth- 
ers. -  He  saw  in  her  now  no  longer  mere- 
ly the  motherly  aunt  who  was  to  wel- 
come him,  but  one  whom  he  should  care 
for,  and  take  under  his  protection.  He 
heard  steps  in  the  entry,  and  easily  de- 
tected the  ponderous  tread  of  Mr.  Man- 
lius, who  now  opened  the  door,  and  re- 
appeared in  more  careful  toilet,  since 
he  was  furbished  and  smoothed  by  the 
addition  of  proper  touches,  until  he  had 
quite  the  air  of  a  man  of  society.  He 
entered  the  room  with  great  pomp  and 
ceremony  all  by  himself,  and  met  Nich- 
olas's disappointed  look  by  saying,  slow- 

ly,- 

"Mrs.  Starkey,  your  beloved  aunt, 
will  appear  presently";  jind  throwing 
a  look  about  the  room,  as  if  he  would 
call  the  attention  of  all  the  people  in  the 
dress-circle,  boxes,  and  amphitheatre, 
he  continued  —  "I  have  intimated  to 
your  aunt  the  nature  of  your  relation- 
ship, and  I  need  not  say  that  she  is 
quite  agitated  at  the  prospective  meet- 
ing.   She  is  a  woman" 

But  Mr.  Manlius's  flow  was  suddenly 
turned  off  by  the  appearance  of  Mrs. 
Starkey  hersel£  The  introduction,  too, 
which,  as  manager  of  this  little  scene, 
he  had  rehearsed  to  himself,  was  ren- 
dered unnecessary  by  the  prompt  action 
of  Nicholas,  who  hastened  forward,  with 
tumultuous  feelings,  to  greet  his  aunt 
His  honest  nature  had  no  sceptical  re- 
serve ;  and  he  saluted  her  affectionate- 
ly, before  the  light  of  the  feeble  lamp, 
which  seemed  to  have  husbanded  all  its 
strength  for  this  critical  moment,  could 
disclose  to  him  anything  of  the  person- 
al appearance  of  his  relative.  At  this 
moment  the  twinkling  light,  like  a  star 
at  dawn,  went  out ;  and  Mrs.  Manlius, 
rushing  off,  reappeared  with  an  astral, 
which  turned  the  somewhat  gloomy  as- 
pect of  af&irs  into  cheerful  light  Per- 
haps it  was  symbolic  of  a  sunrise  upon 
the  world  which  enclosed  Nicholas  and 
his  aunt  Nicholas  looked  at  Mrs.  Star- 
key,  who  was  indeed  flurried,  and  saw 
a  pinched  and  meagre  woman,  the  flow- 
er of  whose  youth  had  long  ago  been 


1 865.] 


Fivt-Sisters  Court  at  Christmas -Tide. 


31 


pressed  in  the  book  of  ill-fortune  until  it 
was  colorless  and  scentless.  She  found 
words  presently,  even  before  Nicholas 
did ;  and  sitting  down  with  him  in  the 
encouraging  presence  of  the  Manlii,  she 
uttered  her  thoughts  in  an  incoherent 
way:  — 

^Dear,  dear!  who  would  have  said 
it  ?  When  Miss  Pix  came  to  invite  us 
all  to  her  party,  and  said,  '  Mrs.  Star- 
key,  I  *m  sure  I  hope  you  will  come,*  I 
thought  it  might  be  too  much  for  such 
a  quiet  body  as  I  be.  But  that  was 
nothing  to  this.  Why,  if  here  I  have 
n't  got  a  real  nephew ;  and,  to  be  sure, 
it 's  a  great  while  since  I  saw  your  moth- 
er, but,  I  declare,  you  do  look  just  like 
her,  and  a  Judge's  son  you  are,  too. 
Did  they  say  you  looked  like  your  &- 
ther,  Nickey?  I  was  asking  Caroline 
if  she  thought  my  bombazine  would  do, 
after  all ;  and  now  I  do  think  I  ought  to 
wear  my  India  silk,  and  put  on  my  pearl 
necklace,  for  I  don't  want  my  Nicky  to 
be  ashamed  of  me.  You  11  go  with  us, 
won't  you,  nephew,  to  Miss  Fix's  ?  I 
expect  it  *s  going  to  be  a  grand  party ; 
and  1 11  go  round  and  introduce  you  to 
all  the  great  people  ;^and  how  did  you 
leave  your  £ither,  Nicholas  ?  ^ 

**  Why,  aunt,  did  not  Mr.  Manlius  tell 
you  that  he  was  dead  ?  "  said  Nicholas. 
"  Her  memory  *s  a  little  short,"  whis- 
pered Mrs.  Manlius ;  but,  hardly  inter- 
rupted by  this  litde  answer  and  whis- 
per, Mrs.  Starkey  was  again  plunging 
headlong  into  a  current  of  words,  and 
struggling  among  the  eddies  of  vari- 
ous subjects.  Meanwhile,  Mr.  and  Mrs. 
Manlius,  having,  as  managers,  set  the 
little  piece  on  the  stage  in  good  condi- 
tion, were  carrying  on  a  private  under- 
toned  conversation,  which  resulted  in 
Mrs.  Manlius  asking,  in  an  engaging 
manner, — 

^Eunice,  dear,  would  you  prefer  to 
stay  at  home  this  evening  with  your 
nephew  ?  Because  we  will  excuse  you 
to  Miss  Pix,  who  would  hardly  expect 
jrou.* 

Mrs.  Starkey  was  in  the  midst  of  a 
voluble  description  of  some  private  jew- 
elry which  she  intended  to  show  the  as- 
toniiibiwl  Nicholas ;  but  she  caught  the 


last  words,  and  veered  round  to  Mrs. 
Manlius,  saying,-^ 

"  Indeed,  she  expects  me ;  and  she 
expects  Nicholas,  too.  She  will  be  very 
much  gratified  to  see  him,  and  I  have  no 
doubt  she  will  give  another  party  for 
him ;  and  if  she  does,  I  meaji  to  invite  my 
friend  the  alderman  to  go.  I  should  n't 
wonder  if  he  was  to  be  there  to-night ; 
and  now  I  think  of  it,  it  must  be  time 
to  be  going.  Caroline,  have  you  got  your 
things  on  ?  " 

Mrs.  Starkey  spoke  with  a  determina- 
tion that  suffered  no  opposition,  so  that 
Nicholas  and  Mr.  Manlius  were  left 
alone  for  a  moment,  while  the  two  wom- 
en should  wrap  themselves  up. 

"Your  aunt  is  unduly  excited,  Mr. 
Judge,"  said  the  intelligence-officer; 
*'  and  it  was  for  that  reason  that  I  ad- 
vised she  should  not  go.  She  has  hardly 
been '  herself  the  last  day  or  two.  Our 
neighbor.  Miss  Pix,  —  a  woman  whose 
character  is  somewhat  unsettled ;  no 
fixed  principles.  Sir,  I  feaCr,"  shaking 
his  head  regretfully ;  "  too  erratic,  con- 
trolled by  impulse,  possessing  an  in- 
quisitive temperament,"  telling  off  up- 
on a  separate  finger  each  count  in 
the  charges  against  Miss  Pix's  charac- 
ter, and  reserving  for  the  thumb  the 
'final  overwhelming  accusation,  —  "  Sir, 
she  has  not  learned  the  great  French 
economical  principle  of  Lassy  Fair." 
Miss  Pix  being  thus  stricken  down,  he 
helped  her  up  again  with  an  apology. 
"But  her  advantages  have  no  doubt 
been  few.  She  has  not  studied  politi- 
cal economy ;  and  how  can  she  hope  to 
walk  unerringly?" — and  Mr.  Manlius 
gazed  at  an  imaginary  Miss  Pix  wan- 
dering without  compass  or  guide  over 
the  desert  of  life.  "  She  makes  a  party 
to-night  And  why?  Because  it  is 
Christmas-eve.  That  is  a  small  foun- 
datiofi,  Mr.  Judge,  on  which  to  erect 
the  structure  of  social  intercourse.  So- 
ciety, Sir,  should  be  founded  on  princi- 
ples, not  accidents.  Because  my  house 
is  accidentally  contiguous  to  two  others, 
shall  I  consider  myself,  and  shall  Mrs. 
Manlius  consider  herself,  as  necessarily 
bound  by  the  ligaments  of  Nature  —  by 
the  ligaments  of  Nature,  Mr.  Judge  — 


32 


Five-Sisters  Court  at  Christmas ^Tide.         [Januaiy, 


to  the  dwellers  in  those  houses  ?  No, 
Sir.  I  don't  know  who  lives  in  this 
court  beside  Miss  Pix.  Nature  brought 
your  aunt  and  Mrs.  Manlius  together, 
and  Nature  brought  you  and  your  aunt 
together.  We  will  go,  however,  to  Miss 
Fix's.  It  will  gratify  her.  But  your 
aunt  is  excited  Jtbout  the,  for  her,  unu- 
sual occasion.  And  now  she  has  seen 
you.  I  feared  this  interview  might  over- 
come her.  She  is  frail ;  but  she  is  feir, 
Sir,  if  I  may  say  so.  She  has  character ; 
ver}'  few  have  as  much,  —  and  I  have 
seen  many  women.  Did  you  ever  hap- 
pen to  see  Martha  Jewmer,  Mr.  Judge  ?** 

Nicholas  could  not  remember  that  he 
had. 

"  Well,  Sir,  that  woman  has  been  in 
my  office  twelve  times.  I  got  a  place 
for  her  each  time.  And  why  ?  Because 
she  had  character " ;  and  Mr.  Manlius 
leaned  back  to  get  a  full  view  of  char- 
acter. Before  he  had  satisfied  himself 
enough  to  continue  his  reminiscences, 
his  wife  and  Mrs.  Starkey  returned, 
bundled  up  as  if  they  were  going  on  a 
long  sleigh-ride. 

"  We  Ye  ready,  S'prian,"  said  Mrs. 
Manlius.  "  Eunice  thinks  she  will  go 
still,"  —  which  was  evident  from  the 
manner  in  which  Mrs.  Starkey  had  gath- 
ered about  her  a  quantity  of  ill-assorted* 
wrappers,  out  of  the  folds  of  which  she 
delivered  herself  to  each  and  all  in  a 
rapid  and  disjointed  manner;  and  the 
party  proceeded  out  of  the  house,  Mrs. 
Manlius  first  shutting  and  opening  va- 
rious doors,  according  to  some  intricate 
system  of  ventilation  and  heating. 

Nicholas  gave  his  arm  to  his  aunt,  and, 
though  anxious  to  speak  of  many  things, 
could  hardly  slip  a  word  into  the  crev- 
fces  of  her  conversation  ;  nor  then  did 
his  questions  or  answers  bring  much 
satisfactory  response.  He  was  confused 
with  various  thoughts,  unable  to  explain 
the  random  talk  of  his  conopanion,  and 
yet  getting  such  glimpses  of  the  dreary 
life  she  had  led  as  made  him  resolve  to 
give  her  a  home  that  should  admit  more 
sunshine  into  her  daily  experience. 

They  were  not  kept  waiting  long  at 
Miss  Fix's  door,  for  a  ruddy  German 
girl  opened  it  at  their  summons ;  and, 


once  inside,  Miss  Fix  herself  came  for- 
ward with  beaming  face  to  give  them  a 
Christmas-eve  greeting.  Mr.  Manlius 
had  intended  making  the  official  an- 
nouncement of  the  arrival  of  the  new 
nephew,  but  was  no  match  for  the  ready 
Mrs.  Starkey,  who  at  once  seized  upon 
their  hostess,  and  shook  her  warmly  by 
the  hand,  pouring  out  a  confused  and 
not  over-accurate  account  of  her  good- 
fortune,  mixing  in  various  details  of  her 
personal  affairs.  Miss  Fix,  however, 
made  out  the  main  fact,  and  turned 
to  Nicholas,  welcoming  him  with  both 
hands,  and  in  the  same  breath  congratu- 
lating Mrs.  Starkey,  showing  such  hon- 
est, whole-souled  delight  that  Nicholas 
for  a  Aioment  let  loose  in  his  mind  a 
half-wish  that  Miss  Fix  had  proved  to  be 
his  aunt,  so  much  nK>re  nearly  did  she 
approach  his  ideal*  The  whole  party 
stood  basking  for  a  moment  in  Miss 
Fix's  Christmas  .greeting,  then  extricat- 
ed themselves  from  their  wrappers  with 
the  help  of  their  busding  hostess,  and 
were  ushered  into  her  little  parlor,  where 
they  proved  to  be  the  first  arrivals.  It 
was  almost  like  sitting  down  in  an  ar- 
bor: for  walls  a^d  ceiling  were  quite 
put  out  of  sight  by  the  evergreen  dress- 
ing ;  the  candlesticks  and  picture-frames 
seemed  to  have  budded ;  and  even  the 
poker  had  laid  aside  its  constitutional 
stiffness,  and  unbent  itself  in  a  miracu- 
lous spiral  of  creeping  vine.  Mr.  Man- 
lius looked  about  him  with  the  air  of  a 
connoisseur,  and  complimented  Miss 
Fix. 

"  A  very  pretty  room,  Miss  Fix,  —  a 
very  pretty  room  !     Quite  emblemati-   . 
cal !  "  And  he  cocked  his  head  at  some 
new  point 

"  Oh,  I  can't  have  my  Christmas  with- 
out greens  ! "  said  Miss  Fix.  *'  Christ- 
mas and  greens,  you  know,  is  the  best 
dish  in  the  world.  Is  n't  it,  Mrs.  Star- 
key?" 

But  Mrs.  Starkey  had  no  need  of  a 
question ;  for  she  had  already  started 
on  her  career  as  a  member  of  the  party, 
and  was  galloping  over  a  boundless 
field  of  observation. 

There  was  just  then  another  ring; 
and  Miss  Fix  started  for  the  door,  in 


I86s.] 


Five-Sisters  Court  at  Christmas -Tide. 


h 


her  eagerness  to  greet  her  visitors, 
but  recollected  in  season  the  tribute 
which  she  must  pay  to  the  by-laws 
of  society,  and  hovered  about  the  par- 
lor-door till  Gretchen  could  negotiate 
between  the  two  parties.  Gretchen's 
pleased  exclamation  in  her  native 
tongue  at  once  indicated  the  nature  of 
the  arrival ;  and  Miss  Pix,  whispering 
loudly  to  Mrs.  Manlius,  '*  My  musical 
friends,*  again  rushed  forward,  and  re- 
ceived her  friends  almost  noisily ;  for 
when  they  went  stamping  about  the 
entry  to  shake  off  the  snow  from  their 
feet  against  the  inhospitable  world  out- 
side, she  also,  in  the  excess  of  her  sym- 
pathetic delight,  caught  herself  stamp- 
ing her  little  foot  There  was  a  hurly- 
burly,  and  then  they  all  entered  the  par- 
lor in  a  procession,  preceded  by  Miss 
Pix,  who  announced  them  severally  to 
her  guests  as  Mr.  PfeifTer,  Mr.  Pfeflfen- 
dorf,  Mr.  Schmauker,  and  Mr.  Wind- 
gra£  Everybody  bowed  at  once,  and 
rose  to  the  surfiice,  hopelessly  ignorant 
of  the  name  and  condition  of  all  the 
rest,  except  his  or  her  immediate  friends. 
The  four  musical  gentlemen  especially 
entirely  lost  their  names  in  the  confu- 
sion; and  as  they  fooked  very  much 
alike,  it  was  hazardous  to  address  them, 
except  upon  general  and  public  grounds. 

Mrs.  Starkey  was  the  most  bewil- 
dered, and  also  the  most  bent  upon 
setting  herself  right,  —  a  task  which 
promised  to  occupy  the  entire  evening. 
"Which  is  the  fifer  }  "  she  asked  Nicho- 
las ;  but  he  could  not  tell  her,  and  she 
appealed  in  vain  to  the  others.  Per- 
haps it  was  as  well,  since  it  served  as 
an  unfailing  resource  with  her  through 
the  evening.  When  nothing  else  oc- 
cupied her  attention,  she  would  fix  her 
eyes  upon  one  of  the  four,  and  walk 
round  till  she  found  some  one  disen- 
gaged enough  to  label  him,  if  possible ; 
and  as  the  gentlemen  had  much  in  com- 
mon, while  Mrs.  Starkey*s  memory  was 
confused,  there  was  always  room  for 
more  light 

Miss  Plx  meanwhile  had  disentangled 
Nichobs  from  Mrs.  Starkey,  and,  as 
one  newly  arrived  In  the  court,  was  re- 
counting to  him  the  origin  of  her  party. 

YOU  XV.  —  NO.  87.  3 


"You  see,  Mr.  Judge,  I  have  only 
lived  here  a  few  weeks.  I  had  to  leave 
my  old  house  *;  and  1  took  -a  great  liking 
to  this  little  court,  and  especially  to  diis 
little  house  in  it  *  What  a  delightful 
little  snuggery ! '  thought  I.  *  Here  one 
can  be  right  by  the  main  streets,  and 
yet  be  quiet  all  day  and  evening.*  And 
that 's  what  I  want ;  because,  you  see, 
I  have  scholars  to  come  and  take  music- 
lessons  of  me.  '  And  then,'  I  thought  to 
myself,  '  I  can  have  four  neighbors  right 
in  the  same  yard,  you  may  say.'  Well, 
here  I  came ;  but — do  you  believe  it  ? — 
hardly  anybody  even  looked  out  of  the 
window  when  the  furniture-carts  came 
up,  and  I  could  n't  tell  who  lived  in  any 
house.  Why,  I  was  here  three  weeks, 
and  nobody  came  to  see  me.  I  might 
have  been  sick,  and  nobody  would  have 
known  it**  Here  little  Miss  Pix  shook 
her  head  ruefully  at  the  vision  of  her- 
self sick  and  alone.  "  I  Ve  seen  what 
that  is,"  she  added,  with  a  mysterious 
look.  "  *  Well,  now,'  I  said  to -myself,  *  I 
can't  live  like  this.  It  is  n't  Christian. 
I  don't  believe  but  the  people  in  the 
court  could  get  along  with  me,  if  they 
knew  me.'  Well,  they  did  n't  come,  and 
they  did  n't  come ;  so  I  got  tired,  and 
one  day  I  went  round  and  saw  them  all, 
— no,  I  did  n't  see  the  old  gentleman  in 
Number  One  that  time.  Will  you  be- 
lieve it  ?  not  a  soul  knew  anybody  else 
in  any  house  but  their  own !  I  was 
amazed,  and  I  said  to  myself^  '  Betsey 
Pix,  you  've  got  a  mission ' ;  and,  Mr. 
Judge,  I  went  on  that  mission.  I  made 
up  my  mind  to  ask  all  the  people  in  the 
court,  who  could  possibly  come,  to  have 
a  Christmas-eve  gathering  in  my  house. 
I  got  them  all,  except  the  Crimps,  in 
Number  Two,  who  would  not,  do  what  I 
could  Then  I  asked  four  of  my  friends 
to  come  and  bring  their  instruments ; 
for  there  's  nothing  like  music  to  melt 
people  together.  But,  oh,  Mr.  Judge, 
not  one  house  knows  that  another  house 
In  the  court  Js  to  be  here ;  and,  oh,  Mr. 
Judge,  I've  got  such  a  secret!"  And 
here  Miss  Pix's  cork  flew  to  the  ceiling 
fa  the  manner  hinted  at  by  Mr.  Paul 
Le  Clear ;  while  Nicholas  felt  himself  to 
have  known  Miss  Pix  from  birth,  and 


34 


Five-Sisters  Court  at  Christmas -Tide^  [January, 


to  be,  in  a  special  manner,  her  prime- 
minister  on  this  evening. 

It  was  not  long  before  there  was  an- 
other ring,  and  Mr.  Le  Clear  appeared, 
who  received  the  jiggoty  Miss  Fix's 
welcome  in  a  smiling  and  well-bred 
manner,  and  suffered  himself  to  be  in- 
troduced to  the  various  persons  present, 
when  all  seized  the  new  opportunity  to 
discover  the  names  of  the  musical  gen- 
tlemen, and  £eisten  them  to  the  right 
owners.  Paul  laughed  when  he  saw 
Nicholas,  and  spoke  to  him  as  an  old 
acquaintance.  Miss  Fix  was  sudden- 
ly in  great  alarm,  and,  beckoning  away 
Nicholas,  whispered,  "Don't  for  the 
world  tell  him  where  the  others  live." 
Like  the  prime-minister  with  a  state- 
secret,  Nicholas  went  back  to  Faul,  and 
spent  the  next  few  minutes  in  the  tr3dng . 
task  of  answering  leading  questions  with 
misleading  answers. 

"  I  see,**  sstid  the  acute  Mr.  Le  Clear 
to  himself;  "the  aunt  is  that  marplotty 
dame  who*  has  turned  our  young  Judge 
into  a  prisoner  at  the  bar  " ;  and  he  en- 
tered into  conversation  with  Mrs.  Star- 
key  with  great  alacrity,  finding  her  a 
very  ripe  cucumber.  Mr.  Manlius,  who 
was  talking,  in  easy  words  of  two  sylla- 
bles, to  the  musical  gentleinen,  over- 
heard some  of  Mrs.  Starke/s  revela-  ♦ 
tions  to  Mr.  Le  Clear,  and,  watching  his 
opportunity,  got  Faul  into  a  corner, 
where  he  favored  him  with  some  confi- 
dences respecting  the  lady. 

"You  may  have  thought.  Sir,"  said 
he,  in  a  whisper,  "  that  Mrs.  Starkey  is 
—  is," and  he  filled  out  the  sen- 
tence with  an  expressive  gesture  toward 
his  own  well-balanced  head. 

"  Not  at  all,"  said  Paul,  politely. 

"She  is  periodically  affected,"  con- 
tinued Mr.  Manlius,  "with  what  I  may 
perhaps  call  excessive  and  ill-balanced 
volubility.  Mrs.  Starkey,  Sir,  is  a  quiet 
person,  rarely  speaking ;  but  once  in 
five  or  six  weeks,  —  the  periods  do  not 
return  with  exact  regularity,  —  she  is 
subject  to  some  hidden  influence,  which 
looses  her  tongue,  as  it  were.  I  think 
she  is  under  the  influence  now,  and  her 
words  are  not  likely  to  -^  to  correspond 
^xacdy  -with  existing  facts.    You  will 


not  be  surprised,  then,  at  her  words. 
They  are  only  words,  words.  At  other 
times  she  is  a  woman  of  action.  She 
has  a  wonderful  character.  Sir." 

"Quite  a  phenomenon,  indeed,  I 
should. say,"  said  Paul,  ready  to  return 
to  so  interesting  a  person,  but  politely 
suffering  Mr.  Manlius  to  flow  on,  which 
he  did  uninterruptedly. 

Doctor  Chocker  was  the  last  to  come. 
Miss  Fix  knew  his  infirmity,  and  con- 
tented herself  with  mute,  buj  expressive 
signs,  until  the  old  gentleman  could  ad- 
just his  trumpet  and  receive  her  hearty 
congratulations.  He  jerked  out  a  re- 
sponse, which  Miss  Fix  received  with 
as  much  delight  as  if  he  had  flowed 
freely,  like  Mr.  Manlius,  who  was  now 
playing  upon  Mr.  Le  Clear  an  analysis 
of  Nicholas's  character,  which  he  had 
read  with  unerring  accuracy,  as  Mrs. 
Manlius  testified  by  her  continued,' un- 
reserved agreement  Indeed,  the  find- 
ing of  his  aunt  by  Nicholas  in  so  unex- 
pected a  manner  was  the  grand  topic  of 
the  evening ;  and  the  four  musical  gen- 
tlemen, hearing  the  story  in  turn  from 
each  of  the  others,  were  now  engaged  in 
a  sort  of  diatessaron,  in  which  the  four, 
accounts  were  mafle  to  harmonize  with 
considerable  difficulty:  Mr.  Schmau- 
ker  insisting  upon  his  view,  that  Nich- 
olas had  arrived  wet  and  hungry,  was 
found  on  the  doorstep,  and  dragged  in 
by.  Mrs.  Starkey;  while  Mr.  Ffeffen- 
dorf  and  Mr.  Pfeiffer  substituted  Mrs. 
Manlius  for  Mrs.  Starkey;  and  Mr. 
Windgraff  proposed  an  entirely  new 
reading. 

Dr.  Chocker's  entrance  created  a  lull ; 
and  the  introduction,  performed  in  a 
general  way  by  the  hostess,  brought 
little  information  to  the  rest,  who  were 
hoping  to  revise  their  list  of  names, — 
and  very  little  to  the  Doctor,  who  looked 
about  inquisitively,  as  Miss  Fix  dropped 
the  company  in  a  heap  into  his  ear- 
trumpet  His  eye  lighted  on  Nicholas, 
and  he  went  forward  to  meet  him,  to 
the  astonishment  of  the  company,  who 
looked  upon  Nicholas  as  belonging  ex- 
clusively to  them.  A  new  theory  was 
at  once  broached  by  Mr.  Windgraff  to 
his  companions,  that  Dr.  Chocker  had 


i86s.] 


Five -Sisters  Court  at  Christmas -Tide. 


35 


brought  about  the  recognition ;  but  it 
lost  credit  as  the  Doctor  began  to  ques- 
tion Nicholas,  in  an  abrupt  way,  upon 
his  presence  there. 

'*  Did  nt  know  I  should  meet  you 
again,  young  man,"  said  he.  '*  But  you 
don't  take  my  advice,  eh?  or  you 
would  n't  have  been  here.  But  I  'm  set- 
ting you  a  pretty  example  !  This  is  n't 
the  way  to  study  the  value  of  words, 
eh,  Mr.  — Mr.  — Le  Qear?" 

The  real  Mr.  Le  Clear  and  his  fiction 
looked  at  each  other,  and  by  a  rapid 
interchange  of  glances  signified  their 
inability  to  extricate  themselves  from 
the  snarl,  except  by  a  dangerous  cut, 
which  Nicholas  had  not  the  courage  at 
the  moment  to  give.  The  rest  of  the 
company  were  mystified ;  and  Mr.  Man- 
lius,  pocketing  the  character  which  he 
had  just  been  giving,  free  of  charge,  to 
his  new  acquaintance,  turned  to  his 
wife,  and  whispered  awfiilly,  ''An  im- 
postor, Caroline ! "  Mrs.  Manlius  looked 
anxiously  and  frightened  back  to  him ; 
but  he  again  whispered,  "  Wait  for  fur- 
ther developments,  Caroline ! "  and  she 
sank  into  a  state  of  terrified  curiosity. 
Fortunately,  Mrs.  Starkey  was  at  the 
moment  confiding  much  that  was  irrel- 
evant to  Mr.  Le  Clear  the  actual,  who 
did  not  call  her  attention  to  the  words. 
Thp  four  musical  gentlemen  were  divid- 
ed upon  the  accuracy  of  their  hearing. 

Miss  Pix,  who  had  been  bustling 
about,  unconscious  of  the  mystery,  now 
created  a  diversion  by  saying,  some- 
what flurried  by  the  silence  that  fol- 
lowed her  first  words, — 

**  Our  musical  friends  have  brought  a 
pleasant  little  surprise  for  us  ;  but,  Mr. 
Pfeiffer,  won't  you  explain  the  Chil- 
dren's Symphony  to  the  performers  ? " 

Everybody  at  once  made  a  note  of 
Mr.  Pfeiffer,  and  put  a  private  mark  on 
him  for  future  reference  ;  while  he  good- 
humoredly,  and  with  embarrassing  Eng- 
lish, explained  that  Miss  Pix  had  pro- 
posed tfiat  the  company  should  produce 
Haydn's  Children's  Symphony,  in  which 
the  principal  parts  were  sustained  by 
four  stringed  instruments,  which  he  and 
his  friends  would  play ;  while  children's 
toy-instruments,  which  the  other  three 


were  now  busily  taking  out  of  a  box, 
would  be  distributed  among  the  rest  of 
the  company ;  and  Miss  Pix  would  act 
as  leader,  designating  to  each  his  or  her 
part,  and  time  of  playing. 

The  proposal  created  considerable 
confiision  in  the  company,  especially 
when  the  penny-trumpet,  drum,  cuckoo, 
night-owl,  quail,  rattle,  and  whisde  were 
exhibited,  and  gleefully  tried  by  the  four 
musical  friends.  Mr.  Manlius  eyed  the 
penny-trumpet  which  was  offered  him 
with  a  doubtful  air,  but  concluded  to 
sacrifice  his  dignity  for  the  good  of  the 
company.  Mrs.  Manlius  received  her 
cuckoo  nervously,  as  if  it  would  break 
forth  in  spite  of  her,  and  looked  askance 
at  Nicholas  to  see  if  he  would  dare 
to  take  the  night-owl  into  his  perjured 
hands.  He  did  take  it  with  great  good- 
humor,  and,  at  Miss  Pix's  request,  un- 
dertook to  persuade  Doctor  Chocker  to 
blow  the  whistle.  He  had  first  to  give 
a  digest  of  Mr.  Pfeiffer's  speech  into 
the  ear-trumpet,  and,  it  is  feared,  would 
have  foiled  to  bring  the  Doctor  round 
without  Miss  Pix,  who  came  up  at  the 
critical  moment,  and  told  him  that  she 
knew  he  must  have  known  how  when 
he  was  a  boy,  accompanied  with  such 
persuasive  frolicking  that  the  Doctor  at 
once  signified  his  consent  and  his  profi- 
ciency by  blowing  a  blast  into  Nicho- 
las's ear,  whom  he  regarded  as. a  spe- 
cial enemy  on  good  terms  with  him,  to 
the  great  merriment  of  alL 

The  signal  was  given,  and  the  com- 
pany looked  at  Miss  Pix,  awaiting  their 
turn  with  anxious  solicitude.  The  s^nn- 
phony  passed  off  quite  well,  though  Mr. 
Le  Clear,  who  managed  the  drum,  was 
the  only  one  who  kept  perfect  time. 
Mrs.  Starkey,  who  held  the  rattle  aloft, 
sprung  it  at  the  first  sound  of  the  music^ 
and  continued  to  spring  it  in  spite  of 
the  expostulations  and  laughter  of  the 
others.  Mrs.  Manlius,  unable  to  follow 
Miss  Pix's  excited  gestures,  turned  to 
her  husband,  and  uttered  the  cuckoo's 
doleful  note  whenever  he  blew  his  trum- 
pet, which  he  did  deliberately  at  regular 
intervals.  The  effect,  however,  was  ad- 
mirable ;  and  as  the  entire  company  was 
in  the  orchestra,  the  mutual  satisfaction 


36 


Five-Sisters  Court  at  Christmas -Tide.  (Januaiy, 


was  perfect,  and  the  piece  was  encored 
vociferously,  to  the  delight  of  little  Miss 
Pix,  who  enjoyed  witliout  limit  the  melt- 
ing of  her  company,  which  was  now  go- 
ing on  rapidly.  It  continued  even  when 
the  music  had  stopped,  and  Gretch- 
en,  very  red,  but  intensely  interested, 
brought  in  some  coffee  and  cakes,  which 
she  distributed  under  Miss  Fix's  direc- 
tion. Nicholas  shared  the  good  lady's 
pleasure,  and  addressed  himself  to  his 
aunt  with  increased  attention,  taking 
good  care  to  avoid  Doctor  Chocker,  who 
submitted  more  graciously  than  would 
be  supposed  to  a  steady  play  from  Mr. 
Manlius's  hose.  Mr.  Pfeiffer  and  his 
three  musical  friends  made  themselves 
merry  with  Mrs.  Manlius  and  Miss  Pix, 
while  Mr.  Le  Clear  walked  about  per- 
forming chemical  experiments  upon  the 
whole  company. 

And  now  Miss  Pix,  who  had  been  all 
the  while  glowing  more  and  more  with 
sunshine  in  her  face,  again  addressed 
the  company,  and  said :  — 

'*I  think  the  best  thing  should  be 
kept  till  toward  the  end ;  and  I  've  got  a 
scheme  that  I  want  you  all  to  help  me  in. 
We  're  all  neighbors  here," — and  she 
looked  round  upon  the  company  with  a 
smile  that  grew  broader,  while  they  all 
looked  surprised,  and  began  to  smile 
back  in  ignorant  sympathy,  except  Doc- 
tor Chocker,  who  did  not  hear  a  word, 
and  refused  to  smile  till  he  knew  what 
it  was  for.  "  Yes,  we  are  all  neighbors. 
Doctor  Chocker  lives  in  Number  One  ; 
Mr.  Le  Clear  lives  in  Number  Two ;  Mr. 
and  Mrs.  Manlius,  Mrs.  Starkey,  and 
Mr.  Judge  are  from  Number  Three  ;  my 
musical  friends  live  within  easy  call; 
and  I  live  in  Number  Five." 

Here  she  looked  round  again  tri- 
umphantly, and  found  them  all  proper- 
ly astonished,  and  apparently  very  con- 
tented, except  Doctor  Chocker,  who  was 
immovable.  Nicholas  expressed  the 
most  marked  surprise,  as  became  so 
hypocritical  a  prime-minister,  causing 
Mr.  Manlius  to  make  a  private  note  of 
some  unrevealed  perjury. 

"  Now,"  said  Mi^s  Fix,  pausing,  and 
arresting  the  profound  attention  of  all, 
"  now,  who  lives  at  Number  Four  ?  * 


If  she  expected  an  answer,  it  was 
plainly  not  locked  up  in  the  breast  of 
any  one  before  her.  But  she  did  not  ex- 
pect an  answer ;  she  was  determined  to 
give  that  herself,  and  she  continued :  — 

**  There  is  a  most  excellent  woman 
there,  Mrs.  Blake,  whom  I  should  have 
liked  very  much  to  introduce  to  you  to- 
night, especially  as  it  is  her  birthday. 
Is  n't  she  fortunate  to  have  been  born 
on  Christmas-eve  ?  Well,  I  did  n't  ask 
her,  because  she  is  not  able  to  leave  her 
room.  There  she  has  sat,  or  lain,  for 
fifteen  years  !  She 's  a  confirmed  inva- 
lid ;  but  she  can  see  her  friends.  And 
now  for  my  little  scheme.  I  want  to 
give  her  a  surprise-party  from  all  her 
neighbors,  and  I  want  to  give  it  now. 
It's  all  right  Gretchen  has  seen  her 
maid,  and  Mrs.  Blake  knows  just  enough  . 
to  be  willing  to  have  me  bring  a  few 
friends." 

Miss  Pix  looked  about,  with  a  little 
anxiety  peeping  out  of  her  good-souled, 
eager  face.  But  the  company  was  so 
melted  down  that  she  could  now  mould 
it  at  pleasure,  and  no  opposition  was 
made.  Mr.  Manlius  volunteered  to  en- 
lighten Doctor  Chocker ;  but  he  made 
so  long  a  preamble  that  the  old  scholar 
turned,  with  considerable  impatience,  to 
*  Miss  Fix,  who  soon  put  him  in  good- 
humor,  and  secured  his  codperation, 
though  not  without  his  indulging  in 
some  sinful  and  unneighborly  remarks 
to  Nicholas. 

It  proved  unnecessary  to  go  into  the 
court,  for  these  two  houses  happened 
to  have  a  connection,  which  Miss  Pix 
made  use  of,  the  door  having  been  left 
open  all  the  evening,  that  Mrs.  Blake 
might  catch  some  whiffs  of  the  enter- 
tainment Gretchen  appeared  in  the 
doorway,  bearing  on  a  salver  a  great 
cake,  made  with  her  own  hands,  having 
Mrs.  Blake's  initials,  in  colored  letters, 
on  the  frosting,  and  the  whole  sur- 
rounded by  fifty  little  wax  tapers,  indi- 
cating her  age,  which  all  counted,  and 
all  counted  differently,  giving  opportu- 
nity to  the  four  musical  friends  to  enter 
upon  a  fresh  and  lively  discussion.  The 
party  was  marshalled  by  Miss  Pix  in 
the  order  of  houses,  while  she  herself 


1865.] 


Fivt -Sisters  Court  at  Christmas -Tide. 


Z7 


squeezed  past  them  all  on  the  staircase, 
to  usher  them  into  Mrs.  Blake's  pres- 
ence. 

Mrs.  Blake  was  sitting  in  her  reclin- 
ihg-chair  as  Miss  Pix  entered  with  her 
retinue.  The  room  was  in  perfect  or- 
der, and  had  about  it  such  an  air  of 
neatness  and  purity  that  one  felt  one's 
self  in  a  haven  of  rest  upon  crossing 
the  threshold.  The  invalid  sat  quiet 
and  at  ease,  looking  forth  upon  the 
scene  before  her  as  if  so  safely  moored 
that  no  troubling  of  the  elements  could 
ever  reach  her.  Here  had  she  lived, 
year  after  year,  almost  alone  with  her- 
self, though  now  the  big-souled  little 
music-teacher  was  her  constant  visitor ; 
but  the  entrance  of  all  her  neighbors 
seemed  in  no  wise  to  agitate  her  placid 
demeanor.  She  greeted  Miss  Pix  with 
a  pleased  smile ;  and  all  being  now  in 
the  room,  the  bustling  litde  woman,  at 
the  very  zenith  of  her  sunny  course, 
took  her  stand  and  said,  — 

"This  is  my  company,  dear  Mrs. 
Blake.  These  are  all  neighbors  of  ours, 
living  in  the  court,  or  close  by.  We 
have  been  having  a  right  merry  time, 
and  now  we  can't  break  up  without 
bringing  you  our  good  wishes,  —  our 
Christmas  good  wishes,  and  our  birth- 
.day  good  wishes,"  said  Miss  Pix,  with  a 
little  oratorical  flourish,  which  brought 
Gretchen  to  the  front  with  her  illumi- 
nated cake,  which  she  positively  could 
not  have  held  another  moment,  so 
heavy  had  it  grown,  even  for  her  stout 
arms. 

Mrs.  Blake  laughed  gently,  and  with 
a  delighted  look  examined  the  great 
cake,  with  her  initials,  and  did  not  need 
to  count  the  wax  tapers.  It  was  placed 
on  a  stand,  and  she  said,  — 

"  Now  I  should  like  to  entertain  my 
guests,  and,  if  you  will  let  me,  I  will  give 
you  each  a  piece  of  my  cake, — for  it  all 
belongs  to  me,  after  Miss  Pix's  graceful 
presentation ;  and  if  Miss  Pix  will  be  so 
good,  I  will  ask  her  to  make  me  per- 
sonally acquainted  with  each  of  you." 

So  a  knife  was  brought,  and  Mrs, 
Blake  cut  a  generous  piece,  when  Doc- 
tor Chocker  was  introduced,  with  great 
gesticulation  on  the  part  of  Miss  Pix. 


"  I  am  glad  to  see  you,  Dcctor  Chock- 
er," said  Mrs.  Blake,  distihcdy,  but  qui- 
etly, into  his  trumpet  "Do  you  let 
your  patients  eat  cake  ?  Try  this,  and 
see  if  it  is  n't  good  for  me." 

"If  I  were  a  doctor  of  medicine,* 
said  he,  jerkily,  "  I  should  bring  my  pa- 
tients to  %Be  you";  at  which  Miss  Pix 
nodded  to  him  most  vehemently,  and 
the  Doctor  wagged  his  ear-trumpet  in 
deligft  at  the  retort  which  he  thought 
he  had  made. 

Mr.  Le  Clear  was  introduced,  and 
took  his  cake  gracefully,  saying, "  I  hope 
another  year  will  see  you  at  a  Christ- 
mas-party of  Miss  Pix's";  but  Mrs. 
Blake  smiled,  and  said,  "This  is  my 
litde  lot  of  earth,  and  I  am  sure  there 
is  a  patch  of  stars  above." 

Mr.  Manlius  and  wife  came  up  to- 
gether, he  somewhat  lumbering,  as  if 
Mrs.  Blake's  character  were  too  much 
for  his  discernment,  and  Mrs.  Manlius 
not  quite  sure  of  herself  when  her  hus- 
band seemed  embarrassed. 

"  This  is  really  too  funny,"  said  Mrs. 
Blake,  merrily;  "as  if  I  were  a  very 
benevolent  person,  doling  out  my  char- 
ity of  cake  on  Christmas-eve.  Do,  Mr, 
Manlius,  take  a  large  piece ;  and  I  am 
.  sure  your  wife  will  take  some  home  to 
the  children." 

"  What  wonderful  insight  1 "  said  Mr. 
Manlius,  turning  about  to  Nicholas,  and 
drawing  in  his  breath.  "  We  have  chil- 
dren,— two.  That  woman  has  a  deep 
character,  Mr.  Judge." 

"  Mrs.  Starkey,  also  of  Number 
Three,"  said  the  mistress  of  ceremo- 
nies ;  "  and  Mr.  Nicholas  Judge,  arrived 
only  this  evening." 

"  Nicholas  Judge  ! "  said  Mrs.  Blake, 
losing  the  color  which  the  excitement 
had  brought,  and  dropping  the  knife. 

"  My  nephew,"  explained  Mrs.  Star- 
key.  "Just  came  this  evening,  and 
found  me  at  home.  Never  saw  him  be- 
fore. Must  tell  you  all  about  it."  And 
she  was  plunging  with  alacrity  into  the 
delightful  subject,  with  all  its  variations. 

Mrs.  Blake  looked  at  Nicholas,  while 
the  color  came  and  went  in  her  cheeks. 

"  Stop ! "  said  she,  decisively,  to  Mrs. 
Starkey,  and  half  rising,  she  leaned  for- 


38 


Five-Sisters  Court  at  Christmas -Tide.         (JarHiary, 


ward  to  Nicholas,  and  said  rapidly,  with 
an  energy  which  seemed  to  be  summon- 
ed from  every  part  of  her  system, — 

"  Are  you  the  son  of  Alice  Brown  ?  ^ 

"Yes,  yes,"  said  Nicholas,  tumultu- 
ously ;  "and  you, — you  are  her  sister. 
Here,  take  this  miniature'';  and  he 
snatched  one  from  his  breast  "  Is  not 
this  she  ?  It  is  my  mother.  You  are 
my  Aunt  Eunice,''  he  exclaimed,  as  she 
sank  back  in  her  chair  exhaustSd,  but 
reaching  out  her  arms  to  him. 

"  That  young  man  is  a  base  impos- 
tor ! "  said  Mr.  Manlius  aloud,  with  his 
hand  in  his  waistcoat ;  while  Mrs.  Man- 
lius looked  on  deprecatingly,  but  as  if 
too,  too  aware  of  the  sad  fact  "  I  said 
so  to  my  wife  in  private,  —  I  read  it  in 
his  face,  —  and  now  I  declare  it  publicly. 
That  man  is  a  base  impostor !  "* 

"  Dear,  dear,  I  don't  understand  it  at 
all ! "  said  the  unfortunate  Mrs.  Starkey. 
"  I  thought,  to  be  sure,  that  Nicholas 
was  my  nephew.  Never  saw  him  be- 
fore, but  he  said  he  was ;  and  now, 
now,  I  don't  know  what  I  shall  do ! " 
and  the  poor  lady,  suddenly  bereft  of 
her  fortune,  began  to  wipe  her  moist 
eyes ;  "  but  perhaps,"  she  added,  with  a 
bright,  though  transient  gleam  of  hope, 
"we  are  both  aunts  to  him." 

"That  cannot  be,"  said  Nicholas, 
kindly,  who  left  his  aunt  to  set  the 
company  right,  if  possible.  "My  dear 
friend,"  he  said,  taking  Mr^.  Starke/s 
hand,  "  it  has  been  a  mistake,  brought 
on  by  my  heedlessness.  I  knew  only 
that  my  aunt's  name  had  been  Eunice 
Brown.  It  chanced  that  yours  was  the 
same  name.  I  happened  to  come  up- 
on you  first  in  my  search,  and  did  not 
dream  it  possible  that  there  could  be 
two  in  the  same  court  Everything 
seemed  to  tally ;  and  I  was  too  pleased 
at  finding  the  only  relation  I  had  in  the 
wide  world  to  ask  many  questions.  But 
when  I  saw  that  my  aunt  knew  who  I 
was,  and  I  saw  my  mother's  features  in 
hers,  I  perceived  my  mistake  at  once. 
We  will  remain  friends,  though,  —  shall 
we  not?" 

Mrs.  Starkey  was  too  much  bewil- 
dered to  refuse  any  compromise ;  but 
Mr.  Manlius  stepped  forward,  having 


his  claim  as  a  private  officer  of  jus- 
tice. 

"  I  must  still  demand  an  eiq^lanadon, 
Sir,  how  it  is  that  in  this  mixed  as- 
sembly the  learned  Doctor  Chocker  ad- 
dresses you  as  Mr.  Le  Clear,  and  you 
do  not  decline  the  title  " ;  and  Mr.  Man- 
lius looked,  as  if  for  a  witness,  to  Doc- 
tor Chocker,  who  was  eating  his  cake 
with  great  solemnity,  holding  his  ear- 
trumpet  in  hopes  of  catching  an  occa- 
sional word 

"  That  would  require  too  long  an  ex- 
planation," said  Nicholas,  smiling ;  "  but 
you  shall  have  it  some  time  in  private. 
Mr.  Le  Clear  himself  will  no  doubt  tell 
you  " ;  which  Mr.  Le  Clear,  an  amused 
spectator  of  the  scene,  cheerfully  prom- 
ised to  do. 

The.  company  had  been  so  stirred 
up  by  this  revelation,  that  they  came 
near  retreating  at  once  to  Miss  Fix's 
to  talk  it  over,  to  the  dismay  ^  the 
four  musical  gentlemen,  who  had  not 
yet  been  presented,  and  especially  who 
had  not  yet  got  any  cake.  Miss  Fix, 
though  in  a  transport  of  joy,  had  an  eye 
for  everything,  and,  discovering  this, 
insisted  on  presenting  them  in  a  body 
to  Mrs.  Blake,  in  consideration  of 
her  £3itigue.  They  bowed  simultane- 
ously, and  stood  before  her  like  bashful, 
schoolboys ;  while  Nicholas  assumed 
the  knife  in  behalf  of  his  aunt,  distrib- 
uting with  equal  liberality,  when  they 
retired  in  high  glee  over  the  new  ver- . 
sion  of  his  history,  which  Mr.  Wind- 
graff,  for  the  sake  of  displaying  his  acu- 
men, stoutly  declared  to  be  spurious. 
Gretchen  also  was  served  with  a  mon- 
strous slice  ;  and  then  the  company 
bade  good-bye  to  the  aunt  and  nephew, 
who  began  anew  their  glad  recognition* 

It  was  a  noisy  set  of  people  who  left 
Miss  Fix's  house.  That  little  lady  stood 
in  the  doorway,  and  sent  off  each  with 
such  a  merry  blessing  that  it  lasted  long 
after  the  doors  of  the  other  houses  were 
closed.  Even  the  forlom  Mrs.  Starkey 
seemed  to  go  back  almost  as  happy  as 
when  she  had  issued  forth  in  the  even- 
ing with  her  newly  found  nephew.  The 
sudden  gleam  of  kope  which  his  unlook- 
ed-for coming  had  let  in  upon  a  toil- 


i86s.] 


Ice  ofid  Esquimaux. 


39 


some  and  thankless  life — for  we  know 
more  about  her  position  in  Mr.  Manll- 
us*s  household  than  we  have  been  at  lib- 
erty to  disclose — had,  indeed,  gone  out 
in  darkness  ;  but  the  Christmas  merri- 
ment, and  the  kindness  which  for  one 
evening  had  flowed  around  her,  had  so 
fertilized  one  litde  spot  in  her  life,  that, 
however  dreary  her  pilgrimage,  nothing 
could  destroy  the  bright  oasis.  It  gave 
hope  of  others,  too,  no  less  verdant ; 
and  with  this  hope  uppermost  in  her 
confused  brain  the  lonely  widow  en- 
tered the  land  of  Qiristmas  dreams. 
Let  us  hope,  too,  that  the  pachyderma- 
tous Mr.  Manlius  felt  the  puncture  of 
her  disappointment,  and  that  Miss  Fix's 
genial  warmth  had  made  him  cast  off  a 
little  the  cloak  of  selfishness  in  which 
he  had  wrapped  himself;  for  what  else 
could  have  made  him  say  to  his  echo- 
ing wife  that  night,  *'  Caroline,  suppose 
we  let  Eunice  take  the  children  to  the 
panorama ^ to-morrow.  It's  a  quarter 
more ;  but  she  was  rather  disappointed 
about  that  young  fellow  "  ?  The  learned 
Doctor  Chocker,  who  had,  in  all  his 
days,  never  found  a  place  to  compare 
with  his  crowded  study  for  satisfaction 
to  his  soul,  for  the  first  time  now,  as  he 
entered  it,  admitted  to  himself  that  Miss 
Fix's  arbor-like  parlor  and  Mrs.  Blake's 
simple  room  had  something  that  his 


lacked;  and  in  the  frozen  little  bed- 
room where  he  nighdy  shivered,  in  rig- 
id obedience  to  some  fancied  laws  of 
health,  the  old  man  was  aware  of  some 
kindly  influence  thawing  away  the  chill 
firost-work  which  he  had  suffered  to 
sheathe  his  heart  Nor  did  Mr.  Le' 
Clear  toast  his  slippered  feet  before  his 
cheery  fire  without  an  uncomfortable 
misgiving  that  his  philosophy  hardly 
compassed  the  sphere  of  life. 

Christmas-eve  in  the  court  was  over. 
Strange  things  had  happened  ;  and,  for 
one  night  at  least,  the  Five  Sisters  had 
acted  as  one  fiimlly.  Little  Miss  Fix, 
reviewing  the  evening,  as  she  dmp- 
ped  off  to  sleep,  could  not  help  rubbing 
her  hands  together,  and  emitting  little 
chuckles.  Such  a  delightful  evening  as 
she  had  had  !  and  meaning  to  surprise 
others,  she  had  herself  been  taken  into 
a  better  surprise  still ;  and  here,  recol- 
lecting the  happy  union  of  the  lone,  but 
not  lonely,  Mrs.  Blake  with  a  child  of 
her  old  age,  as  it  were,  Miss  Fix  must 
laugh  aloud  just  as  the  midnight  clock 
was  sounding.  Bless  her  neighborly 
soul,  she  has  ushered  in  Christmas- 
day  with  her  laugh  of  good-will  toward 
men.  The  whole  hymn  of  the  angels 
is  in  her  heart  ;  and  with  it  let  her 
sleep  till  the  glorious  sunshine  awakes 
her. 


ICE   AND    ESQUIMAUX. 


CHAPTER  XL 

THE  ICE  IN  ITS  GLORY. 

JUNE  17.  —  On  this  anniversary  of 
the  Battle  of  Bunker's  Hill  we 
sailed  from  Sleupe  Harbor.  Little 
Mecatina,  with  its  blue  perspective  and 
billowy  surfiice,  lifted  itself  up  astern 
under  flooding  sunshine  to  tell  us  that 
this  relendess  coast  could  have  a  glory 
of  its  own ;  but  w«  looked  at  it  with 
dreamy,  forgetful  eyes,  thinking  of  the 


dear  land,  now  all  tossed  into  wild  sui^ 
and  crimson  spray  of  war,  which,  how 
fiur  soever  away,  is  ever  present  to  the 
hearts  of  her  true  children. 

Next  day  we  dropped  into  the  harbor 
of  Caribou  Island,  a  mission-station, 
and  left  again  on  the  20th,  after  a  quiet 
Sunday,  —  Bradford  having  gone  with 
others  to  church,  and  come  back  much 
moved  by  the  bronze-faced  earnestness, 
and  rough-voiced,  deep-chested  hym- 
ning of  the  fisherman  congregation.  Far 


40 


Ice  anil  Esquitnaux, 


[January, 


ahead  we  saw  the  strait  full  of  ice.  Not 
that  the  ice  itself  could  be  seen ;  but 
the  peculiar,  blue-white,  vertical  striae; 
which  stuccoed  the  sky  far  along  the 
horizon,  told  experienced  eyes  that  ice 
^  was  there.  Away  to  the  right  towered 
the  long  heights  of  Newfoundland,  in- 
tensely blue,  save  where,  over  large 
spaces,  they  shone  white  with  snow. 
They  surprised  us  by  their  great  eleva- 
tion, and  by  the  sharp  and  straight  es- 
carpments with  which  they  descended. 
Here  and  there  was  a  gorge  cut  through 
as  with  a  saw.  We  then  took  all  this 
in  good  faith,  on  the  fair  testimony  of 
our  eyes.  But  experience  brought  in- 
struction, — as  it  will  in  stTperficial  mat- 
ters, whether  in  deeper  ones  or  no.  In 
truth,  this  appearance  was  chiefly  a  mi- 
rage caused  by  ice. 

For,  of  all  solemn  prank-players,  of 
all  mystifiers  and  magicians,  ice  is  tlie 
greatest  Coming  out  of  its  silent  and 
sovereign  dreamland  in  the  North,  it 
brings  its  wand,  and  goes  wizard-work- 
ing down  the  coast  A  spell  is  about 
it ;  enchantment  is  upon  it  like  a  gar- 
ment ;  weirdness  and  illusion  are  the  * 
breath  of  its  nostrils.  Above  it,  along 
the  horizon,  is  a  strange  columned  wall, 
an  airy  Giant's  Causeway,  pale  blue, 
paling  through  ethereal  gray  into  snow. 
Islands  quit' the  sea,  and  become  isl- 
ands in  the  sky,  sky-foam  and  spray 
seen  along  their  bases.  Hills  shoot  out 
from  their  summits  airy  capes  and  head- 
lands, or  assume  upon  their  crowns  a 
wide,  smooth  table,  as  if  for  the  service 
of  genii.  Ships  sail,  bergs  float,  in  the 
heavens.  Here  a  vast  obelisk  of  ice 
shoots  aloft,  half  mountain  high ;  you 
gaze  at  it  amazed,  ecstatic, — calculating 
the  time  it  will  take  to  come  up  with  it,  — 
whistling,  if  you  are  still  capable  of  that 
levity,  for  a  wind.  But  now  it  begins 
to  waver,  to  dance  slowly,  to  shoot  up 
minarets  and  take  them  back,  to  put 
forth  arms  which  change  into  wands, 
wave  and  disappear ;  and  ere  your  won- 
der has  found  a  voice,  it  rolls  itself  to- 
gether like  a  scroll,  drops  nearly  to  the 
ocean-level,  and  is  but  a  gigantic  ice- 
floe after  all ! 
'^  The  day  fell  calm ;  a  calm  evening 


came ;  the  sea  lay  in  soft,  shining  ua« 
dulation,  not  urgent  enough  to  exasper- 
ate the  drooping  sails.  The  ship  rose 
and  declined  like  a  sleeper's  pulse.  We 
were  all  under  a  spell.  Soon  the  moon, 
then  at  her  full,  came  up,  elongating 
herself  laterally  into  an  oval,  whose 
breadth  was  not  more  than  three  fifths 
its  length  ;  her  shine  on  the  water  like- 
wise stretching  along  the  horizon,  sweet 
and  fair  like  childhood,  not  a  ray  touch- 
ing the  shadowed  water  between.  Pres- 
ently, as  if  she  discerned  and  did  not 
disdain  us, — wiser  than  "positive  phi- 
losophers "  in  her  estimate  of  man, — she 
gathered  together  her  spreading  shine, 
and  threw  it  down  toward  us  in  a  glade 
of  scarcely  more  than  her  own  breadth, 
of  even  width,  and  sharply  defined  at 
the  sides.  It  was  a  regular  roadway  on 
the  water,  intensest  gold  verging  upon 
orange,  edged  with  an  exquisite,  deli- 
cate tint  of  scarlet,  running  straight 
and  firm  as  a  Roman  road  all  the  way 
from  the  meeting-place  of  sky  and  sea 
to  the  ship.  Or  rather,  not  quite  to 
the  ship;  for,  when  near  at  hand,  it 
broke  off  into  golden  globes,  which,'  un- 
der the  influence  of  the  light  swell,  came 
towards  us  by  softly  sudden  leaps,  deep- 
ening and  deepening  as  they  came,  till 
at  the  last  leap  they  disappeared,  more 
shining  than  ever,  far  down  in  the  liquid, 
lucent  heart  of  the  sea.  It  was  impos- 
sible to  feel  that  these  had  faded,  so  tri- 
umphant was  their  close.  Rather,  one 
felt  that  they  had  been  elected  to  a  more 
glorious  office, — had  gone,  perhaps,  to 
light  some  hall  of  Thetis,  or  some  di- 
vine, spotless  revel  of  sea-nymphs. 

I  had  gone  below,  when,  at  about  ten 
o'clock,  there  was  a  hail  from  the  deck. 

"  Come  up  and  see  a  crack  in  the  wa- 
ter!" 

"  A  what  ? » 

**  A  crack  in  the  water ! " 

"Not  joking?" 

"  No,  indeed ;  come  and  see.* 

Up  quickly !  this  is  the  day  of  won- 
ders !  It  was  a  line  of  brilliant  phos- 
phorescence, exceedingly  brilliant,  about 
two  inches  wide,  perfectly  sharp  at  the 
edges,  which  extended  along  the  side  of 
the  ship,  and  ahead  and  astern  out  of 


1 86s.] 


lu  and  Esquimaux. 


41 


sight  **  Oadc  in  the  water''  is  the  sea- 
iiiaii*s  name  for  it  I  have  been  a  full 
year  on  the  water,  but  never  saw  it  save 
this  once,  and  had  never  heard  of  it  be- 
fore. »  • 

At  half  past  eleven,  the  Parson  and 
I  went  on  deck,  and  read  ordinary  print 
as  rapidly  as  by  daylight  It  took  some 
ten  seconds  to  get  accustomed  to  the 
light,  being  fresh  from  the  glare  of  the 
kerosene  lamp ;  but  afterwards  we  read 
aloud  to  eacj^  other  with  entire  ease  and 
fluency. 

At  a  quarter  past  two.  Captain  Han- 
dy, a  man  made  of  fine  material,  with  an 
eye  for  the  beautiful  as  well  as  for  right- 
whales,  broke  my  sleep  with  a  gentle 
touch,  and  whispered,  ^  Come  on  deck, 
and  see  what  a  morning  it  is.''  What  a 
morning,  indeed!  Thanks,  old  com- 
rade !  Call  me  next  time,  when  there  is 
such  to  see ;  and  if  I  am  too  weak  to 
get  out  of  my  berth,  take  me  up  in  those 
strong  arms,  across  that  broad,  billow- 
like chest  of  yours,  and  bear  me  to  the 
deck! 

It  was  dead  calm,  —  no,  live  calm, 
rather;  for  never  was  calm  so  vivid. 
The  swell  had  £tdlen;  but-  the  sea 
breathes  and  lives  even  in  its  sleep. 
Dawn  was  already  blushing,  '*  celestial 
rosy  red,  love's  proper  hue,"  in  the  — 
east^  I  was  about  to  say,  but  north  would 
be  truer.  The  centre  of  its  roseate  arch 
was  not  more  than  a  point  (by  compass) 
east  of  north.  The  lofty  shore  rose 
dear,  dark,  and  sharp  against  the  morn- 
ing red ;  the  sea  was  white, — white  as 
parity,  and  still  as  peace ;  the  moon  hung 
opposite,  clothed  and  half  hidden  in  a 
glorified  mist ;  a  schooner  lay  moveless, 
dark-sailed,  transformed  into  a  symbol 
of  solitude  and  silence,  beneath.  I 
thought  of  the  world's  myriad  sleepers, 
and  would  fain  have  played  Captain 
Handy  to  them  all  But  Nature  is  in- 
finitely rich,  and  can  afford  to  draw 
cosdy  curtains  about  the  slumber  of  her 
darling.  For,  without  man,  she  were  a 
mother  ever  in  anguish  of  travail,  and 
ever  wanting  a  chilct  to  nurse  with  en- 
tire joy  at  her  breast  Sleep  on,  man, 
while,  with  shadows  and  stars,  with  dy- 
ing 2uid  dawning  of  day,  not  forgetting 


sombreness  of  cloud  and  passion  of 
storm,  the  eternal  mother  dignifies  your 
slumber,  and  waits  till  her  two  suns 
arise  and  shine  together! 

Morning, — ice,  worlds  of  it,  the  wide 
straits  all  full !  A  light  wind  had  been 
fanning  us  for  the  last  two  or  three  hours ; 
and  now  the  ice  lay  fair  in  view,  just 
ahead.  We  had  not  calculated  upon 
meedng  it  here.  At  Port  Mulgrave  they 
told  us  that  the  last  of  it  had  passed 
through  with  a  rush  about  a  week  before. 
Bradford  was  delighted,  and  quickly  got 
out  his  photographic  sickle  to  reap  this 
unexpected  harvest:  for  the  wise  man 
had  brought  along  with  him  a  fine  ap- 
paratus and  a  skilful  photographer.  In 
an  hour  or  two  the  schooner  was  up 
with  it,  and  finding  it  tolerably  open, 
while  tlie  wind  was  a  zephyr,  and  the  sea 
smooth  as  a  pond,  we  entered  into  its 
midst  Water-fowl  —  puffins,  murres, 
duck,  and  the  like  —  hung  about  it,  fur- 
nishing preliminary  employment  to  those 
of  our  number  who  sought  sport  or  spe- 
cimens. It  was  a  delightsome  day,  the 
whole  of  it ;  atmosphere  rare,  pure,  per- 
fect ;  sun-splendor  in  deluge ;  land,  a 
cloud  of  blue  and  snow  on  one  side,  and 
a  tossed  and  lofty  paradise  of  glowing 
gtay,  purple,  or  brown,  on  the  other.  The 
day  would  have  been  hot  but  for  being 
tempered  by  the  ice.  This  seasoned  its 
shining  warmth  with  a  crisp,  exhilarat- 
ing quality,  making  the  sunshine  and 
summer  mildness  like  iced  sherry  or 
Madeira.  It  is  unlike  anything  known 
in  more  southern  climates.  T<here  are 
days  in  March  that  would  resemble  it, 
could  you  take  out  of  them  the  damp, 
the  laxness  of  nerve,  and  the  spring  mel- 
ancholy. There  are  days  in  October 
that  come  nearer;  but  these  differ  by 
their  delicious  half-languors,  while,  by 
their  gorgeousness  of  autumn  foliage, 
and  their  relation  to  the  oldening  year, 
they  are  made  quite  unlike  in  spirit 
This  day  warmed  like  summer  and 
braced  like  winter. 

Once  fairly  taken  into  the  bosom  of 
the  ice-field,  we  had  eyes  for  little  else. 
Its  forms  were  a  surprise,  so  varied  and 
so  beautiful.  I  had  supposed  that  field- 
ice  was  made  up  of  flat  cakes, — and 


42 


la  and  Esquimaux. 


(January, 


caki  of  all  kinds  is  among  tiie  flattest 
things  I  know !  But  here  it  was,  simu- 
lating all  shapes,  even  those  of  animat- 
ed creatures,  with  the  art  of  a  mocking- 
bird, —  and  simulating  all  in  a  material 
pure  as  amber,  though  more  varied  in 
color.  One  saw  about  him  cliffs,  basal- 
tic columns,  frozen  down,  arabesques, 
fretted  traceries,  sculptured  urns,  arches 
supporting  broad  tables  or  sloping  roofs, 
lifted  pinnacles,  boulders,  honey-combs, 
slanting  strata  of  rock,  gigantic  birds, 
mastodons,  maned  lions,  couching  or 
rampant,  —a  fantasy  of  forms,  and,  be- 
tween all,  the  shining,  shining  sea.  In 
sunshine,  these  shapes  were  of  a  glis- 
tening white  flecked  with  stars,  where 
at  points  the  white  was  lost  in  the  glis- 
ten ;  in  half  shadow  the  color  was  gray, 
in  full  shadow  aerial  purple;  while, 
wherever  the  upper  portions  projected 
over  the  sea,  and  took  its  reflection,  as 
they  often  did,  the  color  was  an  infinite, 
emerald  intensity  of  green ;  beneath  all 
which,  under  water,  was  a  base  or  shore 
of  dead  emerald,  a  green  paled  with 
chalk.  Blue  was  not  this  day  seen,  per- 
haps because  this  was  shore-ice  rather 
than  floe, — made,  not  like  the  floes,  of 
frozen  sea,  but  of  compacted  and  satu- 
rated snow. 

Just  before  evening  came,  when  the 
courteous  breeze  folded  its  light  fans 
and  fell  asleep,  we  left  this  field  behind, 
and,  seeing  all  clear  ahead,  supposed 
the  whole  had  been  passed.  In  truth,  as 
we  had  soon  to  learn,  this  twenty-mile 
strip  of  «hore-ice  was  but  the  advance- 
guard  of  an  immeasurable  field  or  ar- 
my of  floe.  For  there  came  down  the 
northern  coast,  in  this  summer  of  1864, 
more  than  a  thousand  miles'  length, 
with  a  breadth  of  about  a  hundred 
miles,  of  fl^e-ice  in  a  field  almost  un- 
broken !  More  than  a  thousand  miles, 
by  accurate  computation  !  The  cour- 
tesy of  the  Westerner — whoj  having 
told  of  seeing  a  flock  of  pigeons  nine 
miles  long,  so  dense  as  to  darken  the 
sun  at  noonday,  and  meeting  objections 
fiiom  a  skeptical  Yankee,  magn^tnimous- 
ly  offered,  as  a  personal  &vor,  to  *'  take 
out  a  quarter  of  a  mile  from  the  thin- 
nest part" — cannot  be  imitated  here. 


I  must  still  say  mart  than  a  thousand 
miles, — and  this,  too,  the  second  nm 
of  ice ! 

Captain  Linklater,  master  of  the  Mo- 
ravian supply-ship)  a  man  of  acute  ob- 
servation and  some  science,  bad,  as  he 
afterwards  told  me  at  Hopedaie,  meas- 
ured the  rate  of  travel  of  the  ice,  and 
found  it  to  be  twenty-seven  miles  a  day. 
Our  passengers  were  sure  they  saw  it 
going  at  the  rate  of  three  or  four  miles 
an  hour.  Captain  Hand]^  looking  with 
experienced  eye,  pronounced  this  esti- 
mate excessive,  and  said  it  went  from 
one  to  one  and  a  half  miles  an  hour,  — 
twenty-four  to  thirty-six  miles  a  day. 
Captain  Linklater,  however,  had  not 
trusted  the  question  to  his  judgment, 
but  established  the  rate  by  accurate 
scientific  observation.  Now  we  were 
headed  off  by  the  ice  and  driven  into 
harbor  on  the  2 2d  of  June ;  we  left 
Hopedaie  and  began  our  return  on  the 
4th  of  August ;  and  between  these  two 
periods  the  ice  never  ceased  running. 
The  Moravian  ship,  which  entered  the 
harbor  of  Hopedaie  half  a  mile  ahead 
of  us,  on  the  31st  of  July,  pushed 
through  it,  and  found  it  eighty-five 
miles  wide.  Toward  the  last  it  was 
more  scattered,  and  at  times  could  not 
be  seen  from  the  coast  But  it  was 
there ;  and  on  the  day  before  our  de- 
parture from  Hopedaie,  August  3,  this 
cheering  intelligence  arrived:  —  "The 
ice  is  pressing  in  upon  the  islands  out- 
side, and  an  easterly  wind  would  block 
us  in ! " 

What  becomes  of  this  ice  ?  Had  one 
lain  in  wait  for  it  two  hundred  miles 
farther  south,  it  is  doubtful  if  he  would 
have  seen  of  it  even  a  vestige.  It 
cannot  melt  away  so  quickly:  a  day 
amidst  it  satisfies  any  one  of  so  much. 
Whither  does  it  go  ? 

Put  that  question  to  a  sealer  or  fish^ 
erman,  and  he  will  answer,  *'  //  sinks.^ 

<<  But,"  replies  that  cheerful  and  con- 
fident gentleman,  Mr.  Current  Impres- 
sion, ''ice  does  n't  sink;  ice  floats." 
Grave  Science,  toQ,  says  the  same. 

I  believe  that  Ignorance  is  right  for 
once.  You  are  becalmed  in  the  midst 
of  floating  ice.    The  current  bears  you 


1 86$.] 


Ice  and  Esquimaux. 


43 


and  it  together ;  but  next  morning  the 
ice  has  vanished !  You  rub  your  eyes, 
but  the  £du:t  is  one  not  to  be  rubbed  out ; 
the  ice  was,  and  is  n't,  there !  No  evi- 
dence exists  that  it  cam  fly,  like  riches ; 
therefore  I  think  it  sinks.  I  have  seen 
it,  too,  not  indeed  in  the  very  act  of 
sinking,  but  so  water-logged  as  barely 
to  keep  its  nose  out  A  block  four  cu- 
bic feet  in  dimension  lay  at  a  subse- 
quent time  beside  the  ship,  and  there 
was  not  a  portion  bigger  than  a  child's 
fist  above  water.  Watching  it,  again, 
when  it  has  been  tolerably  well  swel- 
tered, you  will  see  air-bubbles  inces- 
sandy  escaping.  Evidently,  the  air 
which  it  contains  is  giving  place  to 
water.  Now  it  is  this  air,  I  judge,  which 
keeps  it  afloat ;  and  when  the  process 
of  displacement  has  sufficiently  gone 
on,  what  can  it  do  but  drown,  as  men 
do  under  the  circumstances  ?  This  rea- 
soning may  be  wrong;  but  the  £sict 
remains*  The  reasoning  is  chiefly  a 
guess;  yet,  till  otherwise  informed,  I 
shall  say,  the  KoA-lungs  get  full  of  water, 
and  it  goes  down. 

But  we  have  wandered  while  the  light 
waned,  and  now  return.  It  was  a  gen- 
tle evening.  That  "day,  so  cool,  so 
calm,  so  bright,"  died  sweetly,  as  such 
a  day  should.  The  moon  rose,  not  a 
^obe,  but  a  tall  cone  of  silver,  —  silver 
iiaaX  blushed:  ice-magic  again.  But  she 
recovered  herself  and  reigned  in  her 
true  shape,  queen  of  the  slumber-courts ; 
and  the  world  slept,  and  we  with  it ;  and 
in  our  cabin  the  sleep-talk  was  quieted 
to  ripples  of  murmur. 

JutuTi.  —  Rush!  Rush!  The  water 
was  racing  past  the  ship's  side,  close  to 
my  ear,  as  I  awoke  early.  On  deck : 
the  strait  ahead  was  packed  from  shore 
to  shore  with  ice,  like  a  boy's  brain  with 
fiukcies ;  and  before  a  jolly  gale  we  were 
skimming  into  the  ha/bor  of  Belles 
Amours.  Five  days  here:  tedious. 
The  main  matters  here  were  a  sand- 
beach,  a  girl  who  read  and  loved  Words- 
worth, a  wood-thrush,  a  seal-race,  a 
^  killer's  "  head,  and  ^  cascade.. 

Item,  sand-beach,  with  green  grass, 
k)oking  like  a  meadow,  beyond.  Not 
intrinsically  much  of  an  affidr.    The 


b^h,  on  close  inspection,  proved  soft 
and  dirty,  the  grass  sedge,  die  meadow 
a  bog.  In  the  distance,  however,  and 
as  a  variety  in  this  unswarded  cliff- 
coast,  it  was  sweet,  I  laugh  now  to 
think  how  sweet,  to  the  eyes. 

Item,  girL  There  was  one  house  in 
the  harbor;  not  another  within  three 
miles.  Here  dwelt  a  family  who  spoke 
English,  —  not  a  patois,  but  English,  — 
rare  in  Labrador  as  politicians  in  heaven. 
The  French  Canadians  found  in  South- 
em  Labrador  speak  a  kind  of  skim-milk 
French,  with  a  litde  sour-milk  English  ; 
the  Newfoundland  Labradorians  say 
"  Him  's  good  for  he,"  and  in  general 
use  a  very  "  scaly "  lingo,  learned  from 
cod-fish,  one  would  think.  Here  was  a 
mother,  acceptable  to  Lindley  Murray, 
who  had  instructed  her  children.  One 
of  these  —  S ^  our  best  social  ex- 
plorer, found  her  out — owned  and  read 
a  volume  of  Plato,  and  had  sent  to 
L'Anse  du  Loup,  twenty-four  miles,  to 
borrow  a  copy  of  Wordsworth.  This 
was  her  delight  She  had  copied  con- 
siderable portions  of  it  with  her  own 
hand,  and  could  repeat  from  memory 
many  and  many  a  page. 

**  Full  many  a  gem  of  purest  ny  seiene 

The  dark,  unfathomed  caves  of  ooeaa  boar ; 
Full  many  a  flower  b  bora  to  bluah  unseen, 
And  waste  its  sweetness  on  the  desert  air." 

But  Heaven  has  its  own  economies; 
and  perhaps  floral  **  sweetness  *  is  quite 
as  little  wasted  upon  the  desert  as  upon 
Beacon  Street  or  Fifth  Avenue. 

Item,  a  bird.  We  were  seeking  trout, 
—  only  to  obtain  a  minnow  tricked  in 
trout-marks.  The  boat  crept  slowly  up 
a  deep,  solemn  cove,  over  which,  on 
either  side,  hung  craggy  and  precipi- 
tous hills ;  while  at  its  head  was  a  slope 
covered  with  Liliputian  forest,  through 
which  came  down  a  broad  brook  in  a 
series  of  snowy  terraces.  It  was  a  su- 
perb day,  bright  and  bracing, — just 
bracing  enough  to  set  the  nerves  with- 
out urging  them,  and  exalt  one  to  a 
sense  of  vigorous  repose.  The  oars 
lingered,  yet  not  lazily,  on  the  way; 
there  seemed  time  enough  for  any- 
thing. At  length  we  came,  calm,  wealthy 
in  leisure,  silendy  cheerful,  to  a  bit  of 


44 


Ice  and  Esquimaux. 


[January, 


pleasant  yellow  beach  between  rocks. 
And  just  as  our  feet  were  touching  the 
tawny  sands,  — 

"The  sweetest  throat  of  Solitude 
Unbarred  her  sSrer  gates,  and  slowly  hymned 
To  the  great  heart  of  Silence,  till  it  beat 
Response  with  all  its  echoes  :  for  from  out 
That  far,  immortal  orient,  wherein 
His  soul  abides  'mid  morning  skies  and  dews, 
A  wood-thrush,  angel  of  the  tree-top  heaven, 
Poured  dear  his  pure  soprano  through  the  place. 
Deepening  the  stillness  with  diviner  calm, 
That  gave  to  Silence  all  her  inmost  heart 
In  melody." 

It  was  a  regal  welcome.  What  is  like 
the  note  of  the  wood-thrush  ?  —  so  full 
of  royalty  and  psalm  and  sabbath !  Re- 
gal in  reserve,  however,  no  less  than 
utterance,  the  sovereign  songster  gave 
a  welcome  only,  and  then  was  silent ; 
while  a  fine  piping  warbler  caught  up 
the  theme,  and  discoursed  upon  it  with 
liberal  eloquence.  The  place  to  hear 
the  song"  of  the  wood-thrush  is  wherev- 
er you  can  attain  to  that  enjoyment  by 
walking  five  or  ten  miles  ;  the  place  so 
to  hear  it  that  the  hearing  shall  be,  by 
sober  estimation,  among  the  memorable 
events  of  your  life,  is  at  the  head  of  a 
solemn,  sunny  cove,  on  three  yards  of 
tawny  beach,  in  the  harbor  of  Belles 
Amours,  Labrador. 

Item,  seal-race.  The  male  seals  fight 
with  fury  in  the  season  of  their  rude 
loves.  Two  of  these  had  had  a  battle  ; 
the  vanquished  was  fleeing,  the  victor 
after  him.  They  were  bounding  from 
the  water  like  dolphins.  For  some  time 
I  thought  them  such,  though  I  have 
seen  dolphins  by  thousands.  It  was  a 
surprise  to  see  these  leisurely  and  lux- 
urious animals  spattering  the  water  in 
such  an  ecstasy  of  amative  rage. 

Item,  "  killer."  This  is  a  savage  ce- 
tacean, probably  the  same  with  the 
"  thrasher,"  about  fifteen  feet  in  length, 
blunt-nosed,  strong  of  jaw,  with  cruel 
teeth.  On  its  back  is  a  fin  beginning 
about  two  thirds  the  way  from  tip  to 
tail,  running  close  to  the  latter,  and 
then  sloping  away  to  a  point,  like  the 
jib  of  a  ship.  In  the  largest  this  is 
some  five  feet  long  on  the  back,  and 
eight  or  ten  feet  in  height,  —  so  large, 
that,  when  the  creature  is  swimming 
on  the  surface,  a  strong  side-wind  will 


sometimes  blow  it  over.  It  is  a  blue- 
fish  on  a  big  scale,  or  a  Semmes  in  the 
sea,  hungry  as  famine,  fierce  as  plague, 
dainty  as  a  Roman  epicure,  yet  omniv- 
orous as  time.  The  seal  is  its  South- 
Down  mutton,  the  tongue  of  the  whiale 
its  venison  ;  for  whenever  its  numbers 
are  sufficient,  it  will  attack  this  huge 
cetacean,  and  torture  him  till^he  sub- 
mits and  gives  a  horrible  feast  to  their 
greed.  Captain  Handy  had  seen  thir- 
ty or  forty  of  them  at  this  business. 
They  fly  with  inconceivable  fury  at  their 
victim,  aiming  chiefly  atjthe  lip,  tearing 
great  mouthfuls  away,  which  they  in- 
stantly reject  while  darting  for  another. 
The  bleeding  and  bellowing  monster 
goes  down  like  a  boulder  from  a  clifl^ 
shoots  up  like  a  shell  from  a  mortar, 
beats  the  sea  about  him  all  into  crim- 
soned spray  with  his  tail ;  but  plunge, 
leap,  foam  as  he  may,  the  finny  pirates 
flesh  their  teeth  in  him  still,  still  are 
fresh  in  pursuit^  until  at  length,  to  end 
one  torment  by  submitting  to  another, 
the  helpless  giant  opens  his  mouth,  and 
permits  these  sea-devils  to  devour  the 
quivering  morsel  they  covet.  A  big 
morsel ;  for  the  tongue  of  the  full-sized 
right-whale  weighs  a  ton  and  a  half, 
and  yields  a  ton  of  oil.  The  killer  is 
sometimes  confounded  with  the  gram- 
pus. The  latter  is  considerably  larger, 
has  a  longer  and  slenderer  jaw,  less 
round  at  the  muzzle,  smaller  teeth,  and 
**  is  n't  so  clean  a  made  fish  " ;  for,  in 
nautical  "parlance,  cetaceans  are  still 
fish.  Killers  ft-equently  try  to  rob  whal- 
ers of  their  prize,  and  sometimes  actu- 
ally succeed  in  carrying  it  down,  despite 
the  lances  and  other  weapons  with  which 
their  attack  is  so  strenuously  resisted. 

Item,  cascade.  A  snowy,  broken 
stripe  down  a  mountain-side  ;  taken  to 
be  snow  till  the  ear  better  informed  the 
eye.  Fine  ;  but  you  need  not  go  there 
to  see. 

yune  26. — Off  to  Henley  Harbor,  six- 
ty-five miles,  at  the  head  of  the  Strait 
of  Belle  Isle.  Belle  Isle  itself — sand- 
stone, rich,  the  Professor  said,  in  an- 
cient fossils  —  lay  in  view.  The  anchor 
went  down  in  deep  water,  close  beside 
the  notable  Castle  Island. 


l86$.] 


Ice  and  Esquimaux. 


45 


There  were  some  considerable  fioes 
in  the  harbor,  the  largest  one  aground 
in  a  passage  between  the  two  islands 
by  which  it  is  formed.  And  now  came 
the  blue  of  pure  floe-ice  !  There  is 
nothing  else  like  it  on  this  earth,  but 
the  sapphire  gem  in  its  perfection ;  and 
this  is  removed  from  the  comparison 
by  its  inferiority  in  magnitude.  This 
incomparable  hue  appears  wherever 
deep  shadow  b  interposed  between  the 
eye  and  any  intense,  shining  white. 
The  floe  in  question  contained  two  cav« 
ems  excavated  by  the  sea,,  both  of 
which  were  partially  open  toward  the 
ship.  And  out  of  these  shone,  shone 
on  us,  the  cerulean  and  sapphire  glory  1 
Beyond  this  were  the  deep  blue  waters 
of  York  Bay;  farther  away,  grouped 
and  pushing  down,  headland  behind 
headland,  into  the  bay,  rose  the  purple 
gneiss  hills,  broad  and  rounded,  and 
flecked  with  party-colored  moss  ;  while 
nearer  glowed  this  immortal  blue  eye, 
like  the  bliss  of  eternity  looking  into 
time ! 

Next  day  we  rowed  close  to  this :  I 
hardly  know  how  we  dared  1  Heavens  ! 
such  blue  !  It  grew,  as  we  looked  into 
the  ice-cavern,  deeper,  intenser,  more 
luminous,  more  awful  in  beauty,  the 
ferther  inward,  till  in  the  depths  it  be- 
came not  only  a  shrine  to  worship  at, 
but  a  presence  to  bow  and  be  silent 
before !  It  is  said  that  angels  sing 
and  move  in  joy  before  the  Eternal ; 
but  there  I  learned  that  silence  is  their 
only  voice,  and  stillness  their  ecstatic 
motion  ! 

Meanwhile  the  portals  of  this  sapphire 
sanctuary  were  of  a  warm  rose  hue,  rich 
and  delicate,  —  looking  like  the  blush 
of  mortal  beauty  at  its  nearness  to  the 
heavenly. 

Bradford  is  all  right  in  painting  the 
tntensest  blue  possible,-^ due  care,  of 
course,  being  taken  not  to  extend  it 
uniformly  over  large  sur&ces.  If  he  can 
secure  any  suggestion  of  the  subtilty 
and  luminousness,  —  if  he  can  !  As  I 
come  back,  and  utter  a  word,  he  says 
that  the  only  way  will  be  to  glaze  over 
a  white  ground.  It  had  already  struck 
oe,  that,  as  this  is  the  metiiod  by 


which  Nature  obtains  such  efiects,  it 
must  be  the  method  for  Art  also.  He 
is  on  the  right  track.  '  And  how  the 
gentle  soul  works  ! 

But  while  outward  Nature  here  as- 
sumed aspects  of  beauty  so  surpassing, 
man,  as  if  to  lend  her  the  emphasis  of 
contrast,  appeared  in  the  sorriest  shape. 
I  name  him  here,  that  I  may  vindicate 
his  claim  to  remembrance,  even  when 
he  is  a  blot  upon  the  beauty  around 
him.  I  will  not  forget  him,  even  though 
I  can  think  of  him  only  with  shame. 
To  remember,  however,  is  here  enough. 
We  will  go  back  to  Natiu'e,  -7  though 
she,  too,  can  suckle  ^*  killers." 

On  the  evening  before  our  departure, 
—  for  we  remained  sever^days,  and 
had  a  snow-storm  meanwnne,  —  there 
was  a  glorious  going  down  of  the  sun 
over  the  hills  beyond  York  Day,  with  a 
tender  golden  mist  filling  all  the  west- 
em  heavens,  and  tinting  air  and  water 
between.  So  Nature  renewed  her 
charm.  And  with  that  sun  setting  on 
Henley  Harbor,  we  leave  for  the  pres- 
ent the  miserable,  magnificent  place. 

Jun€  30.  —  Iceberg  !  An  iceberg ! 
The  real  thing  at  last  I  We  left  Hen- 
ley at  ten  A.  m.,  and  were  soon  coming 
up  with  a  noble  berg.  Its  aspect,  on 
our  near  approach,  was  that  of  a  vast 
roof  rising  at  one  end,  beside  which, 
and  about  half  its  height,  was  the  upper 
third  of  an  enormous  cylinder.  Passing 
to  the  west,  along  one  side  of  this  roof^ 
we  beheld  a  vast  cavernous  depression, 
making  a  concave  line  in  its  ridge,  and 
then  dipping  deep,  beyond  view,  into 
the  berg.  The  sharp  upper  rim  of  this 
depression  came  between  us  and  the 
sky,  with  the  bright  shine  of  the  fore- 
noon sun  beyond,  and  showed  a  skirt 
or  fringe  of  infinitely  delicate  luminous 
green,  whose  contrast  with  the  rich 
marble-white  of  the  general  stmcture 
was  beautiful  exceedingly.  With  the* 
exception  of  this,  and  of  a  narrow  blue 
seam,  looking  like  lapis-lazuli,  which 
ran  diagonally  from  summit  to  base, 
the  broad  suiface  of  this  side  had  the 
look  of  snow-white  marble  lace  or  fret- 
work. Passing  thence  to  the  north 
&ce,  we  came  apparently  upon  the  part 


46 


Ice  and  Esquimaux. 


[January, 


at  which  the  berg  separated  from  its 
parent  glacier.  Here  was  a  new  effect, 
and  one  of  great  beauty.  In  material 
it  resembled  the  finest  statuary  marble, 
— but  rather  the  crystalline  marbles  of 
Vermont,  with  their  brilliant  half-spar- 
kle, than  the  dead  polish  of  the  Parian  ; 
while  the  form  and  character  of  this 
fagade  suggested  some  fascinating,  su- 
pernatural consent  of  chance  and  art, 
of  fracture  with  sculpturesque  and  ar- 
chitectural design. 

"  He  works  in  nngs,  ia  magic  rings,  of  chance,**— « 

the  subtlest  thing  ever  said  of  Turner,  — 
might  have  been  spoken  even  more  truly 
of  the  workman  who  wrought  this.  The 
apparent  fineness  of  material  cannot  be 
overstated,"  so  soft  and  powerfuL    "A 

porcelain  fracture,"  said  Ph ^  — well 

Yet  such  porcelain  !  It  were  the  despair 
of  China.  On  the  eastern,  or  cylinder 
side,  there  was  next  the  water  a  strip 
of  intensely  polished  surface,  surmount- 
ed by  an  elaborate  level  cornice,  and 
above  this  the  marble  lace  again. 

The  schooner  soon  tacked,  and  re- 
turned. As  again  we  pass  the  cathe- 
dral cliff  on  the  north,  and  join  the 
western  side  with  this  in  one  view,  we 
are  somewhat  prepared  by  familiarity  to 
mingle  its  majesty  and  beauty,  and  take 
from  them  a  single  impression.  The 
long  Cyclopean  wall  and  vast  Gothic  roof 
of  the  side,  including  many -an  arched, 
rounded,  and  waving  line,  emphasized 
by  straight  lines  of  blue  seam,  are  set 
off  against  the  strange  shining  traceries 
of  the  facade ;  while  the  union  of  flower- 
like softness  and  eternal  strength,  the 
fretted  silver  of  surface,  the  combina- 
ti(fn  of  peak  and  cave,  the  fringe  of  blaz- 
ing emerald  on  the  ridge,  the  glancing, 
flashing  lights  contrasting  with  twilight 
blues  and  purples  of  deep  shadow,  and 
over  all  the  stainless  azure,  and  beneath 
knd  around  all  a  sea  of  beryl  strown 
with  sun-dust, — these  associate  to  en- 
grave on  the  soul  an  impression  which 
even  death  and  the  tomb,  I  would  fain 
believe,  will  be  powerless  to  efface. 
And  if  Art  study  hard  and  labor  long  and 
vehemently  aspire  to  publish  the  truth 
of  this,  she  does  welL    Her  task  is  wor- 


thy, but  is  not  easy:  I  think  a  greater, 
of  the  kind,  has  never  been  attempted. 

The  height  of  this  berg  was  deter- 
mined by  instruments — but  with  a  con- 
jecture only  of  the  distance  —  to  be  one 
hundred  and  eighteen  feet  Captain 
Brown,  however,  who  went  aloft,  and 
thence  formed  a  judgment,  pronounced 
it  not  less  than  one  hundred  and  fifty 
feet  One  naturally  inclines  to  the  more 
moderate  computation.  But,  as  subse- 
quent experience  showed  me  that  judg- 
ments of  distance  in  such  cases  are  al- 
most always  below  the  mark,  I  am  of 
opinion  that  here,  a*  sometimes  in  poli- 
tics and  religion,  seeming  moderation 
may  be  less  accurate  than  seeming  ex- 
cess. 

And,  by  the  way,  Noble's  descriptions 
of  icebergs,  which,  in  the  absence  of 
personal  observation,  might  seem  ex- 
cessive, are  of  real  value.  Finding  a 
copy  of  his  book  on  board,  I  read  it 
with  pleasure,  having  first  fully  made 
my  own  notes,  —  and  refer  to  him  any 
reader  who  may  have  appetite  for  more 
after  concluding  this  chapter. 

Early  this  evening  we  entered  be- 
tween bold  cliffs  into  Square  Island 
Harbor,  latitude  about  53^.  It  is  a 
deep  and  deeply  sheltered  dog's  hole,  — 
dogs  and  dirt  could  make  it  such, — but 
overhung  by  purple  hills,  which  proved, 
on  subsequent  inspection,  to  be  large- 
ly composed  of  an  impure  labradorite. 
Labradorite,  the  reader  may  know,  is  a 
crystallized  feldspar,  with  traces  of  oth- 
er minerals.  In  its  pure  state  it  is  opal- 
escent, exhibiting  vivid  gleams  of  blue, 
green,  gold,  and  copper-color,  and,  more 
rarely,  of  rose,  —  and  is  then,  and  de- 
servedly, reckoned  a  precious  stone. 
The  general  character  of  the  rock  here 
is  sienitic;  but,  besides  this  peculiar 
quality  of  feldspar,  the  hornblende  ap- 
pears as  actinolite,  (ray-stone,)  so  called 
from  the  form  of  its  crystallization ;  while 
the  quartz  element  is  faintly  present  or 
appears  in  separate  masses.  The  purple 
of  the  hills  is  due  not  only  to  the  labra- 
dorite, which  has  that  as  a  stable  color,' 
but  also  to  a  purple  lichen,  which  clothes 
much  of  the  rock  on  this  coast  I  found 
also  fine  masses  of  mica  imbedded  in 


i86s.] 


Ice  "and  Esqitimaux. 


47 


quartz,  edge  npwards,  and  so  compact 
that  its  lamination  was  not  perceptible. 
Indeed,  I  did  not,  with  my  novice  eyes, 
immediately  recognize  it,  for  it  appeared 
a  handsome  copper-colored  rock,  pro- 
jecting slightly  from  the  quartz,  as  if 
more  enduring. 

Next  day  there  was  trouting,  with  a 
little,  and  but  a  little,  better  than  the 
usu2d  minnow  resist 

And  on  the  next,  the  floe-ice  poured 
in  and  packed  the  harbor  Uke^a  box  of 
sardines.  The  scene  became  utterly 
Arctic,  —  rock  above,  and  ice  below. 
Rock,  ice,  and  three  imprisoned  ships ; 
which  last,  in  their  helpless  isolation, 
gave  less  the  sense  of  companionship 
than  of  a  triple  solitude.  And  when 
next  day,  Sunday,  the  third  day  of  July, 
I  walked  ashore  on  the  ice  with  a  hun- 
dred feet  of  water  beneath,  summer 
seemed  a  worn-out  tradition,  and  one 
felt  that  the  frozen  North  had  gone  out 
over  the  world  as  to  a  lawful  inheri- 
tance. 

But  the  new  Czar  reigned  in  beau- 
ty, if  also  in  terror.  Yard-wide  spaces 
cif  emerald,  amethyst,  sapphire,  yellow- 
green  beryl,  and  rose-tinted  crystal,  grew 
as  ^miliar  tq  the  eye  as  paving-blocks 
to  the  dwellers  in  cities.  The  shadows 
of  the  ice  were  also  of  a  violet  purple, 
so  ethereal  that  it  required  a  painter's 
eye  at  once  to  see  it,  though  it  was  un- 
mistakably there ;  and  to  represent  it 
will  task  the  finest  painter's  hand.  Then 
the  spaces  of  water  between  the  floes, 
if  not  too  large,  appeared  uniformly  in 
deep  wine-color, — an  effect  for  which 
one  must  have  more  science  than  I  to 
account  It  is  attributed  to  contrast; 
but  if  thus  illusive,  it  is  at  least  an  illu- 
sion not  to  be  looked  out  of  counte- 
nance. No  local  color  could  assert 
itself  more  firmly.  One  marvellous 
morning,  too,  a  dense,  but  translucent, 
mist  hovered  closely,  beneath  strong 
sunshine,  over  the  ice,  lending  to  its 
innumerable  fimtastic  forms  a  new, 
weird,  witching,  indescribable,  real-un- 
real strangeness,  as  if  the  ice  and  the 
shifM  it  inclosed  and  we  ourselves  were 
all  but  embodied  dreams,  half  come  to 
consciousness,  and  rubbing  our  sur- 


prised moon-eyes  to  gaze  upon  each 
other.  The  power  of  this  mist  to  mul- 
tiply distance  was  not  the  least  part  of 
its  witchery.  A  schooner  ten  rods  off 
looked  as  far  away  as  Cs^Lmus  and 
Abraham. 

p ^as  made  happy  by  finding 

here  a  grasshopper,  which  subsequently 
proved,  however,  a  prize  indeed,  —  but 
not  quite  so  much  of  a  prize  as  he  hoped, 
being  probably  the  young  of  a  species 
previously  known  as  Alpine,  rather  than 
an  adult  identical  with  one  found  on  the 
summit  of  Mount  Washington. 

During  the  latter  part  of  our  duress 
here  we  were  driven  below  by  raw,  in- 
cessant rain,  and  the  confinement  be- 
came irksome.  At  length,  during  the 
day  and  night  of  July  14th,  the  ice  final- 
ly made  off  with  itself,  and  the  next 
morning  the  schooner  followed  suit 
The  ice,  however,  had  not  done  with 
us.  It  lingered  near  the  land,  while 
farther  out  it  was  seen  in  solid  mass, 
making  witch-work,  as  usual,  on  the 
northern  and  eastern  sky ;  and  we  were 
soon  dodging  through  the  more  open 
portion,  still  dense  enough,  close  to  the 
coast  It  was  dangerous  business.  A 
pretty  breeze  blew ;  and  with  anything 
of  a  wind  our  antelope  of  a  schooner 
took  to  her  heels  with  speed.  Lightly 
built, — not,  like  vessels  designed  for 
this  coast,  double-planked  and  perhaps 
iron-prowed, — she  would  easily  have 
been  staved  by  a  shock  upon  this  ada- 
mantine ice.  The  mate  stood  at  the 
bow,  shouting,  ^'  Luff  I  Bear  away  I 
Hard  up  !  Hard  down  1 "  And  his 
voice  wanting  strength  and  his  articu- 
lation distinctness,  1  was  fain,  at  the 
pinch  of  the  game,  to  come  to  his  aid, 
and  trumpet  his  orders  after  him  with 
my  best  stentorship.  The  old  pilot  had 
taken  the  helm ;  but  his  nerves  were 
unequal  to  his  work;  and  a  younger 
man  was  sent  to  take  his  place.  Once 
or  twice  the  ship  struck  smaller  masses 
of  ice,  but  at  so  sharp  an  angle  as  to. 
push  them  and  herself  mutually  aside, 
and  slide  past  without  a  crash.  But  a 
wind  fh>m  the  land  was  steadily  urging 
the  fioe-field  away,  and  at  length  the 
sea  before  us  lay  clear. 


48 


Ice  and  Esquimatix, 


[January; 


At  ten  A.  M.,  we  drew  up  to  a  ma- 
jestic berg,  and  **came  to,"  —  that  is, 
brought  the  schooner  close  by  the  wind 
The  berg  was  one  of  the  noblest  Pic- 
ture to  yourself  two  most  immense 
Gothic  churches  without  transepts,  each 
with  a  tower  in  front.  Place  these  side 
by  side,  but  at  a  remove  equal  to  about 
half  their  length.  Build  up  now  the 
space  between  the  two  towers,  extend- 
ing this  connection  back  so  that  it  shall 
embrace  the  front  third  or  half  of  the 
churches,  leaving  an  open  green  court 
in  the  rear,  and  you  have  a  general  con- 
ception of  this  piece  of  Northern  archi- 
tecture. The  rear  of  each  church,  how- 
ever, instead  of  ascending  vertically, 
sloped  at  an  angle  of  about  ten  degrees, 
and,  instead  of  having  sharp  comers, 
was  exquisitely  rounded.  Elsewhere 
also  were  many  rounded  and  waving 
lines,  where  the  image  of  a  church  would 
suggest  straightness.  Nevertheless^  you 
are  to  cling  with  force  to  that  image  in 
shaping  to  your  mind's  eye  a  picture  of 
this  astonishing  cathedral. 

Since  seeing  the  former  berg,  we  had 
heard  many  tales  of  the  danger  of  ap- 
proaching them.  The  Newfoundlanders 
and  natives  have  of  them  a  mortal  ter- 
ror,—  never  going,  if  it  can  be  avoided, 
nearer  than  half  a  mile,  and  then  always 
on  the  leeward  side.  "They  kill  the 
wind,"  said  these  people,  so  that  one  in 
passing  to  windward  is  liable  to  be  be- 
calmed, and  to  drift  down  upon  them, 
—  to  drift  upon  them,  because  there  is 
always  a  tide  setting  in  toward  them. 
They  chill  the  water,  it  descends,  and 
other  flows  in  to  assume  its  place. 
These,  fears  were  not  wholly  ground- 
less. Icebergs  sometimes  burst  thejur 
hearts  suddenly,  with  an  awful  explo- 
sion, going  into  a  thousand  pieces.  Af- 
ter they  begin  to  disintegrate,  more- 
over, immense  masses  from  time  to 
time  crush  down  from  above  or  surge 
up  from  beneath ;  and  on  all  such  oc- 
casions, proximity  to  them  is  obviously 
not  without  its  perils.  "  The  Colonel," 
brave,  and  a  Greenland  voyager,  was 
more  nervous  about  them  than  anybody 
else.  He  declared,  apparently  on  good 
authority,  that  the  vibration  imparted 


to  the  sea  by  a  ship's  motion,  or  even 
that  communicated  to  the  air  by  the 
human  voice,  would  not  unfrequently 
give  these  irritable  monsters  the  hint 
required  for  a  burst  of  ill-temper, — and 
averred  also  that  our  schooner,  at  the 
distance  of  three  hundred  yards,  would 
be  rolled  over,  like  a  child's  play-boat, 
by  the  wave  which  an  exploding  or  over- 
setting iceberg  would  cause.  And  it 
might,  indeed,  be  supposed,  that,  did 
one  of  tl^se  prodigious  creations  take 
a  notion  to  disport  its  billions  of  tons  in 
a  somersault,  it  would  raise  no  trivial 
commotion. 

At  a  distance,  these  considerations 
weighed  with  me.  I  heard  them  re- 
spectfully, was  convinced,'  and  silently 
resolved  not  to  urge,  indeed,  so  far  as  I 
properly  might,  to  discourage,  nearness 
of  approach.  But  here  all  diese  con- 
victions vanished  away.  I  knew  that 
some  icebergs  were  treacherous,  but 
they  were  others,  not  this  !  There  it 
stood  in  such  majesty  and  magnificence 
of  marble  strength,  that  all  question  of 
its  soundness  was  shamed  out  of  me,  — 
or  rather,  would  have  been  shamed,  had 
it  arisen.  This  was  not  sentiment, — 
it  was  judgment, — my  judgment, — per- 
haps erroneous,  yet  a  judgment  formed 
from  the  facts  as  I  saw  them.  Therefore 
I  determined  to  launch  the  light  skiff 

which  Ph and  I   had  bought  at 

Sleupe  Harbor,  and  row  up  to  the  berg, 
perhaps  lay  my  hand  upon  it 

As  the  skiff  went  over  the  gunwale, 
the  Parson  cried,  — 

"Shall  I  go  with  you?" 

"  Yes,  indeed,  if  you  wish." 

He  seated  himself  in  the  stem ;  I  as- 
sumed the  oars,  (I  row  cross-handed,' 
with  long  oars,  and  among  amateur 
oarsmen  am  a  little  vain  of  my  skill,) 
and  pulled  away.  It  was  a  longer  pull 
than  I  had  thought,  —  suggesting  that 
our  judgment  of  distances  had  been  in- 
sufficient, and  that  the  previous  bei^ 
was  higher  than  our  measurement  had 
made  it 

Our  approach  was  to  rear  of  the  berg, 
— that  is,  to  the  court  or  little  bay  before 
mentioned.  The  temptation  to  enter 
was  great,  but  I  dared  not ;  for  the  long. 


1 865.] 


Ice  and  Esquimaux. 


49 


4eep  ooean-svell  over  which  the  skiff 
akimmed  lik«  a  duck,  not  only  without 
dan^eTv  but  without  the  smallest  per- 
turbation, broke  in  and  out  here  with 
such  force  that  I  knew  the  boat  would 
instantly  be  swept  out  of  my  possession. 
The  Parson,  however,  always  reckless 
of  peril  in  his  enthusiasm,  and  less  ex- 
perienced, cried, — 

**  In  !  in  !     Push  the  boat  in  I " 

^  No,  the  swell  is  too  heavy ;  it  will 
not  do.'' 

•  ^  Fie  i^n  the  swell  I  Never  mind 
whatwiUdoi    Inr 

I  sympathized  too  much  with  him  to 
answer  otherwise  than  by  laying  my 
weight  upon  the  oars,  and  pushing  si- 
lently past  The  water  in  this  bit  of 
bay  was  some  six  or  eight  feet  deep, 
and  the  ice  beneath  it  —  for  the  berg 
was  all  solid  below — showed  in  per- 
fection that  crystalHne  tawny  green 
which  belongs  to  it  under  such  circum- 
stances. I  polled  around  the  curving 
rear  of  the  eastern  church,  with  its  sur- 
£ux  of  niarble  lace,  such  as  we  had 
seen  before,  gazing  upward  and  upward 
at  the  towering  awfulness  and  magnifi- 
cence of  edifice,  myself  frozen  in  admi- 
ration. The  Parson,  under  high  ex- 
citement, rained  his  hortative  oratory 
upon  me. 

^  Nearer !  Nearer  !  Let 's  touch  it  1 
Let 's  lay  our  hands  upon  it !  Don't  be 
fiunt-hearted  now.   It 's  now  or  never ! " 

I  heard  him  as  one  under  the  influ- 
ence of  chloroform  hears  his  attendants. 
He  exhorted  a  stone.  His  words  only 
seemed  to  beat  and  flutter  faintly  against 
me,  like  storm-driven  birds  against  a 
cliff  at  night  My  brain  was  only  in 
my  eyeballs  ;  and  the  arms  that  worked 
mechanically  at  the  oars  belonged  rather 
to  the  boat  than  to  me. 

Saturated  at  last,  if  not  satiated,  with 
seeing,  I  glanced  at  the  water-level,  and 
said, — 

'*  But  see  how  the  surge  is  heaving 
against  it!" 

But  now  it  was  I  that  spoke  to  stone, 
though  not  to  a  silent  one. 

^  Haag.the  surge !  I  'm  here  for  an 
iceberg,  not  to  be  balked  by  a  bit  of 
surf!     It's  not  enough  to  see  ;  I  must 

VOL.  XV.  —  NO.  87.  4 


have  my  hand  on  it  I  I  wish  to  touch 
the  veritable  North  Pole  I " 

It  was  pleasant  to  see  the  ever-ge- 
nial Parson  so  peremptory ;  and  I  lin- 
gered half  wilfully,  not  Unwilling  to  min- 
gle the  relieving  flavor  of  this  pleasure 
with  the  more  awful  delight  of  other  im- 
pressions: said,  however,  at  length, — ' 

"  I  intend  to  go  up  to  it,  when  I  have 
found  a  suitable  place." 

"  Place  1  What  better  place  do  you 
desire  than  this  ?" 

I  could  but  smile  and  pull  on. 

Caution  was  not  unnecessary.  The 
sea  rose  and  fell  a  number  of  feet  be- 
side the  berg,  beating  heavily  against 
it  with  boom  and  hiss ;  and  I  knew  well, 
that,  if  our  boat  struck  fairly,  especially 
if  it  struck  sidewise,  it  would  be  whirled 
over  and  over  in  two  seconds.  Besides, 
where  we  then  were,  there  was  a  cut 
of  a  foot  or  more  into  the  berg  at  the 
water-level, — or  rather,  it  was  excavat- 
ed below,  with  this  projection  above; 
and  had  the  skiff  caught  under  that,  we 
would  drown.  I  had  come  there  not  to 
drown,  nor  to  run  any  risk,  but  to  get 
some  more  intimate  acquaintance  with 
an  iceberg.  Rowing  along,  therefore, 
despite  the  Parson's  moving  hortatives, 
I  at  length  found  a  spot  where  this  pro- 
jection did  not  appear.  Turning  now 
the  skiff  head  on,  I  drove  it  swiftly  to- 
ward the  berg ;  then,  w^hen  its  headway 
Was  sufficient,  shipped  the  oars  quick- 
ly, slipped  into  the  bow,  and,  reaching 
forth  my  hand  and  striking  the  berg, 
sent  the  boat  in  the  same  instant  back 
with  all  my  force,  not  suffering  it  to 
touch. 

**  Now  me  1  Now  me  ! "  shouted  the 
Parson,  brow  hot,  and  eyes  blazing. 
"  You  're  going  to  give  me  a  chance, 
too  ?  I  would  not  miss  it  for  a  king- 
dom]" 

"  Ye9  ;  wait,  wait" 

I  took  the  oars,  got  sea-room,  then 
turned  its  stern,  where  the  Parson  sat, 
toward  the  iceberg,  and  backed  gently 
in. 

"  Put  your  hand  behind  you ;  reach 
out  as  fiar  as  you  can ;  sit  in  the  mid- 
dle ;  keep  cool,  cool ;  don't  turn  your 
body."      ^ 


50 


Ice  and  Esquimaux, 


[January^ 


"  Cool,  oh,  yes  !  I  'm  cool  as  Novem- 
ber,^ he  said,  with  a  face  misty  as  a  hot 
J  uly  morning  with  evaporating  dew.  As 
his  hand  struck  the  ice,  I  bent  the  oars, 
and  we  shot  safely  away. 

"  Hurrah !  hurrah  ! "  he  shouted,  mak- 
ing the  little  boat  rock  and  tremble,  — 
"  hurrah !  This,  now,  is  the  *  adven- 
turous travel  *  we  were  promised.  Now 
I  am  content,  if  we  get  no  more." 

**  Cool ;  you  11  have  us  over." 

"  Pooh  I    Who 's  cooler  ?  " 

We  went  leisurely  around  this  glacial 
cathedral.  The  current  set  with  force 
about  it,  running  against  us  on  the  east- 
em  side.  At  the  front  we  found  the 
**  cornice  "  again,  about  twenty  feet  up, 
sloping  to  the  water,  and  dipping  be- 
neath it  on  either  side ;  below  it,  a 
crystal  surface ;  above,  marble  fretwork. 
This  cornice  indicates  a  former  sea- 
level,  showing  that  the  berg  has  risen 
or  changed  position.  This  must  have 
taken  place,  probably,  by  the  detach- 
ment of  masses ;  so  an  occurrence  of 
this  kind  was  not  wholly  out  of  ques- 
tion, after  all.  There  is  always,  how- 
ever, —  so  I  suspect, — some  preliminary 
warning,  some  audible  crack  or  visible 
vibration.  I  had  kept  in  mind  the  pos- 
sibility of  such  changes,  and  at  the 
slightest  intimation  should  have  darted 
away,  —  a  movement  favored  by  the 
lightness  of  the  skiff,  and  the  extreme 
ease  with  which,  under  the  advantage 
of  a  beautiful  model,  she  was  rowed. 

A  sense  of  awe,  almost  of  fear,  crept 
over  me  now  that  the  adventure  was 
over,  and  I  looked  up  to  the  mighty 
towers  of  the  facade  with  a  somewhat 
humbled  eye ;  and  so,  pulling  slowly  and 
respectfully  along  the  western  side,  made 
away,  solemn  and  satisfied,  to  the  ship. 

I  expected  a  storm  of  criticism  on  our 
return,  but  found  calm.  The  boat  was 
hoisted  in  silently,  and  I  hurried  below, 
to  lie  down  and  enjoy  the  very  peculiar 
entertainment  which  vigorous  rowing 
was  sure  to  afford  me. 

Released  after  a  half-hour's  toasting 
on  the  gridiron,  I  went  on  deck  and 
found  the  Parson  surrounded  by  a  cloud 
of  censure.  The  words  "boyish  fool- 
hardiness/  catching  my  ear,  flushed  me 


^th  some  anger,  —  to  which  emotion  I 
am  not,  perhaps,  of  all  men  least  liable. 
So  I  stumped  a  little  stiffly  to  the  groupy 
and  said, — 

"  I  don't  feel  myself  altogether  a  boy, 
and  foolhardiness  is  not  my  forte." 

"  Well,  success  is  wisdom,"  said  the 
Colonel,  placably.  "You  have  suc- 
ceeded, and  now  have  criticism  at  a 
disadvantage,  I  own." 

Another,  however, — not  a  brave|man 
on  board,  —  stood  to  his  guns. 

"  Experienced  men  say  that  it  is  dan- 
gerous ;  I  hear  to  them  till  I  have  ex- 
perience myself." 

"  Right,  if  so  it  stands  in  your  mind. 
You  judge  thus :  you  follow  your  judg- 
ment I  judge  partly  so,  and  partly 
otherwise,  and  I  follow  my  judgment 
Mere  experience  is  but  a  purblind  wis- 
dom, after  alL  When  I  do  not  at  all 
see  my  own  way,  I  follow  that,  still 
aware  of  its  imperfections ;  where  eyes 
are  of  service,  I  use  them,  learning 
from  experience  caution,  not  subnus- 
sion.  The  real  danger  in  this  case  was 
that  of  being  dashed  against  the  berg ; 
with  coolness  and  some  skill"  (was  there 
a  little  emphasis  on  this  wcMrd  skill  f) 
"  that  danger  could  be  disarmed.  For 
any  other  danger  I  was  ready,  but  did 
not  fear  it  'Boyish?'  The  boyish 
thing,  I  take  it,  is  always  to  be  a 
pendant  upon  other  people's  alarms. 
I  prefer  rather  to  be  kite  than  its  tail 
only." 

"  Well,  each  of  us  thes  follow  his  own 
judgment,"  replied  Candor  ;  "you  act  as 
you  think ;  I  think  you  are  wrong.  .If 
it  were  shooting  a  Polar  bear  now,  — 
there's  pleasure  in  that,  and  it  were 
worth  the  while  to  run  some  risk." 

We  had  tried  for  a  bear  together.  I 
seized  my  advantage. 

"It  is  a  pleasure  to  you  to  shoot  a 
bear.  So  to  me  also.  But  I  would 
rather  get  into  intimacy  with  an  ice- 
berg than  freight  the  ship  with  bears." 

He  smiled  an  end  to  the  colloquy. 
As  I  went  below.  Captain  Handy,  the 
Arctic  whaler,  met  me  with,  — 

"  I  would  as  lief  as  not  spend  a  week 
on  that  bergl  I  have  made  £ut  to 
such,  and  Isdn  for  days.    All  depends 


18650 


KeUlundborg  Church. 


51 


on  the  character  of  the  berg.  If  it 's 
rotting,  look  out!  If  it's  sound  as 
that  one,  you  may  go  to  sleep  on  it" 

I  hastened  up  to  proclaim  my  new 
ally.  ''  You  heed  experience ;  hear  Cap- 
tain Handy."  And  I  launched  his  bolt 
at  the  head  of  Censure,  and  saw  it 
duck,  if  no  more. 

We  saw  after  this,  going  and  return- 
ing, many  bergs,  hundreds  in  alL  With 
one  #f  the  finest,  a  little  more  broken 
and  varied  than  those  previously  de- 
scribed,  we  came  up  at  a  little  past 
noon,  and  the  schooner  stood  off  and 
on  while  Bradford  went  in  the  boat  to 
sketch  it  in  color,  —  Captain  Randy's 
steady  and  skilful  hand  upon  the  scull- 
*  ing-oar.  Bradford  worked  at  it  like  a 
beaver  all  the  afternoon,  and  then  direct- 
ed the  schooner  to  lie  to  through  the 
night,  that  he  might  resume  his  task  in 
the  morning,  —  coveting  especially  the 
effects  of  early  light  The  ardent  man 
was  off  before  three  o'clock.  Nature 
was  kind  to  him ;  he  sketched  the  berg 
under  a  dawn  of  amber  and  scarlet,  fol- 
k>wed  by  floods  on  floods  of  morning 
gold;  and  returned  to  breakfast,  after 
five  hours'  work,  half  in  rapture  and 
half  in  despair.  The  colors,  above  all, 
the  purples,  were  inconceivable,  he  said, 
and  there  was  no  use  trying  to  render 
them.  I  reminded  him  of  Ruskin's 
brave  words :  —  ''He  that  is  not  appalled 


by  his  tasks  will  do  nothing  great' 
But  his  was  an  April  despair,  after  all, 
with  rifted  clouds  and  spring  sunshine 
pouring  through. 

Another  memdrable  one  was  seen 
outside  while  we  were  in  harbor,  storm- 
bound. A  vast  arch  went  through  the 
very  heart  of  it,  while  each  end  rose  to 
a  pinnacle,  —  the  arch  blue,  blue !  We 
were  going  out  to  it;  but,  during  the 
second  night  of  storm,  its  strength  broke, 
and  beneath  blinding  snow  there  re- 
mained only  a  mad  dance  of  waves  over 
the  wreck  of  its  majesty. 

There  was  another,  ciuriously  striped 
with  diagonal  dirt-bands,  whose  fellow- 
ship, however,  the  greens  and  purples 
did  not  disdain. 

Another  had  the  shape  of  three  im- 
mense towers,  seeming  to  siofui  oh  the 
water,  more  than  a  hundred  feet  of 
sea  rolling  between.  The  tallest  tower 
could  not  be  much  less  than  two  hun- 
dred feet  in  height ;  the  others  slightly, 
just  perceptibly,  lower.  This  was  seen 
in  rain,  and  the  purples  here  were  more 
crystalline  and  shining  than  any  others 
which  I  observed. 

These  towers  were  seen  on  our  last 
day  among  the  bergs.  In  my  memory 
they  are  monumental  They  stand  there, 
a  purple  trinity,  to  commemorate  the  ter- 
rors and  glories  that  I  shall  behold  no 
more* 


KALLUNDBORG   CHURCH. 


*'  Tie  adUe,  barn  intii  i 
Imor;Kcn  koauner  Fin, 
Fa*er  din, 
Og  gTer  dig  Eabern  Snares  lfin«  og  hjeite  at  lege  med  t" 


ZtttitUtm  n  ^^MV. 


"  TJUILD  at  Kallundborg  by  the  sea 

13   A  church  as  stately  as  church  may  be, 
And  there  shalt  thou  wed  my  daughter  fidr,» 
Said  the  Lord  of  Nesvek  to  Esbern  Snare. 


J  2  KaUundbarg  Ckurck  [Januaiy, 


9 


And  tiie  Barcm  laughed.    Bat  Esbem  said, 
^  Though  I  lose  my  soul,  I  will  Helva  wed  1 
And  off  he  strode,  in  his  pride  of  will, 
To  the  TroU  who  dwelt  in  Ulshoi  hilL 

*<  Build,  O  Troll,  a  church  for  me 
At  Kallundborg  by  the  mighty  sea; 
Build  it  stately,  and  build  it  fair. 
Build  it  quickly,"  said  Esbem  Snare. 

But  the  sly  Dwarf  said,  "  No  work  is  wrought 
By  Trolls  of  the  Hills,  O  man,  for  nought 
What  wilt  thou  give  for  thy  church  so  £ur  ?  " 
^*Set  thy  own  price,"  quoth  Esbem  Snare. 

'^When  Kallundborg  church  is  builded  well. 
Thou  must  the  name  of  its  builder  teU, 
Or  thy  heart  and  thy  eyes  must  be  my  boon.' 
<<  Build,"  said  Esbem,  <<  and  build  it  soon." 

By  nlg^t  and  by  day  the  Troll  wrought  on ; 
He  hewed  the  timbers,  he  piled  the  stone; 
But  day  by  day,  as  the  walls  rose  &ir, 
Darker  and  sadder  grew  Esbem  Snare. 

He  listened  by  ni^t,  he  watched  by  day, 
He  sought  and  thought,  but  he  dared  not  pray; 
In  yain  he  called  on  the  EUe-maids  shy, 
And  the  Neck  and  the  Nis  gave  no  reply. 

Of  his  evil  bargain  far  and  wide 
A  ramor  ran  through  the  coimtry-side ; 
And  Helva  of  Nesvek,  young'  and  £ur, 
Prayed  for  the  soul  of  Esbem  Snare. 

And  now  the  church  was  wellnigh  done ; 
One  pillar  it  lacked,  and  one  alone ; 
And  the  grim  Troll  muttered,  "^  Fool  thou  art  I 
To-morrow  gives  me  thy  eyes  and  heart ! " 

By  Kallundborg  In  black  despair, 
Through  wood  and  meadow,  walked  Esbem  Snarei 
Till,  worn  and  weary,  the  strong  man  sank 
Under  the  birches  on  Ulshoi  ba^k. 

At  his  last  day's  work  he  heard  the  Troll 
Hammer  and  delve  in  the  quarry's  hole ; 
Before  him  the  church  stood  large  and  fiur: 
**rhave  builded  my  tomb,"  said  Esbem  Snare. 

And  he  closed  his  eyes  the  sight  to  hide, 
When  he  heard  a  light  step  at  his  side : 
"  O  Esbem  Snare ! "  a  sweet  voice  said, 
'^Woukl  I  might  die  now  in  thy  stead  1" 


1865.]  KaUundbarg  Church.  jj 

With  a  grasp  by  love  and  by  fear  made  strongs 
He  held  her  fast,  and  he  held  her  long ; 
With  the  beating  heart  of  a  bird  afeaid. 
She  hid  her  face  in  his  flame-red  beard. 

"  O  love  1 "  he  cried,  "  let  me  look  to-day 
In  thine  eyea  ere  mine  are  plucked  away; 
Let  me  hold  thee  dose,  let  me  feel  thy  heart 
Ere  mine  by  the  Troll  is  torn  apart ! 

^  I  sinned,  O  Helva,  for  love  of  thee  1 
Pray  that  the  Lord  Christ  pardon  me ! " 
But  ^t  ^  she  prayed,  and  faster  still. 
Hammered  the  Troll  in  Ulshoi  Ifill 

He  knew,  as  he  wrought,  that  a  loving  heart 

Was  somehow  baffling  his  evil  art; 

For  more  than  spell  of  Elf  or  TroU 

Is  a  maiden's  prayer  for  her  lover's  souL 

And  Esbem  listened,  and  caught  the  sound 
Of  a  TroU-wife  singing  undergroimd : 
^  To-morrow  comes  Fine,  fether  thine : 
lie  still  and  hush  thee,  baby  mine  1 

^  lie  still,  my  darling !  next  sunrise 
Thou  It  play  with  Esbem  Snare's  heart  and  eyes ! ' 
'^  Ho !  ho  I  ^  quoth  Esbem,  <<  is  that  your  game  ? 
Thanks  to  the  Troll-wife,  I  know  his  name ! " 

The  Troll  he  heard  him,  and  hurried  on 
To  Kallundborg  church  with  the  lacking  stone. 
• «  Too  late,  Gaffer  Fine  ! "  cried  Esbem  Snare ; 
And  TroU  and  pillar  vanished  in  air  I 

That  night  the  harvesters  heard  the  sound 
Of  a  woman  sobbing  underground. 
And  the  voice  of  the  Hill-Troll  loud  with  bkune 
Of  the  careless  singer  who  told  his  name. 

Of  the  Troll  of  the  Church  they  sing  the  rune 
By  the  Northem  Sea  in  the  harvest  moon ; 
And  the  fishers  of  Zealand  hear  him  still 
Scolding  his  wife  in  Ulshoi  hilL 

And  seaward  over  its  groves  of  birch 
Still  looks  the  tower  of  Kallundborg  church, 
Where,  first  at  its  altar,  a  wedded  pair. 
Stood  Helva  of  Nesvek  and  Esbem. Snare  I 


S4 


George  Cruikskank  in  Mexico. 


(Januaiy, 


GEORGE  CRUIKSHANK  IN   MEXICO. 


AND  first,  let  it  be  on  record  that 
his  name  is  George  Cruikshank, 
and  not  Cruickshank.  The  good  old 
man  is  seventy  years  of  age,  if  not  more, 
(the  earliest  drawing  I  have  seen  of  his 
bears  the  date  of  1799,  and  he  could 
scarcely  have  begun  to  limn  in  his  long- 
clothes,;  yet,  with  a  persistence  of  per- 
versity wellnigh  astonishing, — although 
his  name  has  been  before  the  public  for 
considerably  more  than  half  a  century, 
— although  he  has  published  nothing 
anonymously,  but  has  appended  his  fa- 
miliar signature  in  full  to  the  minutest 
scratch ings  of  his  etching-needle,  —  al- 
though he  has  been  the  conductor  of  two 
magazines,  and  of  late  years  has  been 
one  of  the  foremost  agitators  and  plat- 
form-orators in  the  English  temperance 
movement,  —  the  vast  majority  of  his 
countrymen  have  always  spelt  his  sur- 
name "  Cruickshank,"  and  will  continue 
so  to  spell  it,  I  suppose,  even  should 
he  live  as  long  as  Comaro.  I  hope  he 
may,  I  am  sure,  with  or  without  the 
additional  c;  for  his  age  and  his  coun- 
try can  ill  spare  him. 

But  George  Cruikshank  in  Mexico  ! 
What  on  earth  can  the  most  stay-at- 
home  of  British  artists  have  to  do  with 
that  out-of-the-way  old  curiosity-shop 
of  the  American  continent  ?  One  might 
fancy  him  now  —  but  that  it  is  growing 
late: — in  the  United  States.  He  might 
be  invited  to  attend  a  Total  Abstinence 
Convention.  He  might  run  Mr.  J.  B. 
Gough  hard  on  his  favorite  slump.  He 
might  be  tempted,  perchance,  to  cross 
the  ocean  in  the  evening  of  his  da3rs, 
to  note  down,  with  his  inimitable  and 
still  unfaltering  pencil,  some  of  the  hu- 
mors of  Yankee -land.  I  am  certain, 
that,  were  George  Cruikshank  or  Dicky 
Doyle  to  come  this  way  and  g^ve  a 
pictorial  history  of  a  tour  through  the 
•  States,  somewhat  after  the  immortal 
Brown,  Jones,  and  Robinson  pattern, 
the  Americans  would  be  in  a  better  tem- 
per with  their  brothers  in  Old  England 
than  after  reading  some  long  spun-out 


book  of  travels  by  brainless  Cockne3rs 
or  cynical  dyspeptics.  The  laugh  awak- 
ened by  a  droll  picture  hurts  nobody. 
It  is  that  ugly  letter-press  which  smarts 
and  rankles,  and  festers  at  last  into  a 
gangrene  of  hatred.  The  Patriarch  of 
Uz  wished  that  his  enemy  had  written  a 
book.  He  could  have  added  ten  thou- 
sand fold  to  the  venotn  of  the  aspira* 
tion,  had  he  likewise  expressed  a  wish 
that  the  book  had  been  printed. 

You  will  be  pleased  to  understand, 
then,  that  the  name  of  the  gende- 
man  who  serves  as  text  for  this  essay 
is  Cruikshank,  and  not  Cruickshank. 
There  is  an  old  Scottish  family,  I  be- 
lieve, of  that  ilk,  which  spells  its  name 
with  a  c  before  the  k.  Perhaps  the 
admirers  of  our  George  wished  to  give 
something  like  an  aristocratic  smack  to 
his  patronymic,*  and  so  interpolated  the 
objectionable  consonant  There  is  no 
Cruikshank  to  be  foimd  in  the  ''  Court 
Guide,"  but  Cruickshanks  abound.  As 
for  our  artist,  he  is  a  bprgess  among 
burgesses,  —  a  man  of  the  people  par 
excellence^  and  an  Englishman  above 
all.  His  travels  have  been  of  the  most 
limited  nature.  Once,  in  the  course  of 
his  long  life,  and  with  what  intent  you 
shall  presently  hear,  he  went  to  France, 
as  Hogarth  did ;  but  France  did  nt 
please  him,  and  he  came  home  again, 
like  Hogarth,  with  all  convenient  speed, 
—  fortunately,  without  being  clapped  up 
in  jail  for  sketchiiig  the  gates  of  Calais. 
I  believe  that  he  has  not  crossed  the 
Straits  of  Dover  since  George  IV.  was 
king.  I  have  heard,  on  good  authority, 
that  he  protested  strongly,  while  in  for- 
eign parts,  against  the  manner  in  which , 
the  French  ate  new-laid  eggs,  and  against 
the  custom,  then  common  among  the 
peasantry,  of  wearing  wooden  shoes. 
I  am  afVaid  even,  that,  were  George 
hard  pressed,  he  would  own  to  a  dim 
persuasion  that  all  Frenchmen  wear 
wooden  sho^s  ;  also  pigtails  ;  likewise 
cocked  hats.  He  does  not  say  so  in 
sociefy;  but  those  who  have  his  pri- 


1865.] 


Gtorge  Cruikskank  in  Mexico, 


55 


vate  ear  assert  that  his  faith  or  his  de- 
lusion goes  even  £airther  than  this,  and 
that  he  believes  that  all  Frenchnxen  eat 
firogs,  —  that  nine  tenths  of  the  popula- 
tion earn  their  living  as  dancing-mas- 
tersy  and  that  the  late  Napoleon  Buo- 
naparte (George  Cruikshank  always 
spells  the  Corsican  Ogre's  name  with 
a  »)  was  first  cousin  to  ApoUyon,  and 
was  not,  upon  occasion,  averse  to  the 
consumption  of  human  flesh, — babies 
of  British  extraction  preferred.  Can  you 
show  me  an  oak  that  ever  took  so  strong 
a  root  as  prejudice  ? 

Not  that  George  Cruikshank  belongs 
in  any  way  to  the  species  known  as 
"  Fossil  Tories."  He  is  rather  a  fos- 
sil LiberaL  He  was  a  Whig  Radical, 
and  more,  when  the  slightest  suspicion 
of  Radicalism  exposed  an  Englishman 
to  contumely,  to  obloquy,  to  poverty,  to 
fines,  to  stripes,  to  gyves,  and  to  the 
jaiL  He  was  quite  as  advanced  a  pol- 
itician as  William  Cobbett,  and  a  great 
deal  honest^  as  a  man.  He  was  the 
fiist  friend  of  William  Hone,  who,  for 
his  &mous  *' Political  Catechism," — a 
lampoon  on  the  borough-mongers  and 
their  bloated  king,  —  was  tried  three 
times,  on  three  successive  days,  before 
the  cruel  Ellenborough,  but  as  many 
times  acquitted.  George  Cruikshank  in- 
veighed ardently,  earnestly,  and  at  last 
successfully,  with  pencil  and  with  etch- 
ing-point, against  the  atrocious  blood- 
thirstiness  of  the  penal  laws,  —  the  laws 
that  strung  up  from  six  to  a  dozen  unfor- 
tunates on  a  gallows  in  front  of  Newgate 
every  Monday  morning,  often  for  no 
direr  offence  than  passing  a  counterfeit 
one-pound  note.  When  the  good  old 
Tories  wore  top-boots  and  buckskins, 
George  Cruikshank  was  conspicuous 
for  a  white  hat  and  Hessians,  —  the  dis- 
t]n)j[uishing  out^vard  signs  of  ultra-liber- 
alism. He  was,  of  course,  a  Parliamen- 
tary Reformer  in  the  year  '30 ;  and  he  has 
been  a  social  reformer,  and  a  most  use- 
ful one.  ever  since.  Still  is  there  some- 
thing about  this  brave  old  English  wor- 
thy that  approaches  the  fossil  type.  His 
droll  dislike  to  the  French  —  a  hearty, 
good-humored  disfavor,  differing  wide- 
ly from  the  polished  malevolence  of  Mr. 


John  Leech,  who  never  missed  an  op- 
portunity to  represent  the  airy  Gaul  as 
something  repulsive,  degraded,  and  im- 
gentlemanly — I  have  already  noticed. 
Then  George  Cruikshank  has  never 
been  able  to  surmount  a  vague  notion 
that  steamboats  and  steam-engines  are, 
generically  speaking,  a  humbug,  and 
that  the  old  English  sailing  craft  and 
the  old  English  stage-coach  are,  after 
all,  the  only  modes  of  conveyance  wor- 
thy the  patronage  of  Britons,  Against 
exaggerated  hoop-skirts  he  has  all  along 
set  his  £aice,  and  seldom,  if  ever,  con- 
descends to  delineate  a  lady  in  crino- 
line. His  beau-ideal  of  female  beauty 
is  comprised  in  an  hour-glass  waist,  a 
skirt  that  fits  close  to  the  form,  a  san- 
dalled shoe,  and  very  long  ringlets ; 
whereas  tight  lacing,  narrow  skirts,  san- 
dalled shoes,  and  ringlets  have  been 
banished  from  the  English  modes  any 
time  these  fifteen  years.  ThoseTamong 
George's  critics,  too,  who  are  sticklers 
for  exactitude  in  the  ''  abstract  and  brief 
chronicle  of  the  time"  complain  that  his 
dandies  always  wear  straps  to  their  tight 
pantaloons  in  lieu  of  pegtops ;  tliat  their 
vests  are  too  short  and  their  coat-col- 
lars too  high ;  that  they  wear  bell- 
crowned  hats,  and  carry  gold-knobbed 
canes  with  long  tassels  ;  and  that  they 
are  dressed,  in  short,  after  the  feshion 
of  the  year  one,  when  Brummell  or  Pea- 
Green  Haynes  conmianded  the  ton.  It 
is  obvious  that  the  works  of  an  artist 
who  has  refused  to  be  indoctrinated 
with  the  perpetual  changes  of  a  capri- 
cious code  of  dress  would  never  be  very 
popular  with  the  readers  of  "  Punch," — 
a  periodical  which,  pictorially,  owes  its 
very  existence  to  the  readiness  and 
skill  displayed  by  its  draughtsmen  in 
shooting  folly  as  it  flies  and  catching 
the  manners  living  as  they  rise,  and  pil- 
lorying the  madness  of  the  moment 
Were  George  Cruikshank  called  upon, 
for  instance,  to  depict  a  lady  fording  a 
puddle  on  a  rainy  day,  and  were  he 
averse  (for  he  is  the  modestest  of  art- 
ists) to  displaying  too  much  of  her  an- 
kle, he  would  assuredly  make  manifest, 
beneath  her  upraised  skirts,  some  ante- 
diluvian pantalet,  bordered  by  a  pre- 


56 


George  Cruikskank  in  Mexico, 


(January, 


Adamite  frill.  But  the  keen-eyed  Mr. 
Leech  would  be  guilty  of  no  such  an- 
achronism. He  would  discover  that  the 
mysterious  garments  in  question  were 
ofttimes  encircled  by  open-worked  em- 
broidery. Hg  would  find  out  that  the 
ladies  sometimes  wore  Knickerbockers, 
And  this  is  what  the  ladies  like.  Ex- 
aggerate their  follies  as  much  as  you 
please ;  but  woe  be  to  you,  if  you  wrong- 
fully accuse  them  !  You  may  sneer  at, 
you  may  censure,  you  may  castigate 
them  for  what  they  really  do,  but  beware 
of  reprehending  them  for  that  which  they 
have  never  done.  Even  Sir  John  Fal- 
staff  revolted  at  the  imputation  of  hav- 
ing kissed  the  keeper's  daughter.  A 
sermon  against  crinoline,  be  it  ever  so 
fulminating,  finds  ever  an  attentive  and 
smiling  congregation ;  but  venture  to 
preach  against  coal-scuttle  bonnets  — 
until  the  ladies  have  really  taken  to 
wearing  them — and  your  hearers  would 
pull  down  the  pulpit  and  hang  the 
preacher. 

Thus,  although  foreigners  may  ex- 
press wonder  that  a  designer,  who  for 
so  many  years  has  been  in  the  front 
rank  of  English  humorous  artists,  should 
never  have  contributed  to  the  ps^es  of 
our  leading  humorous  periodical,  aston- 
ishment may  be  abated,  when  the  real 
state  of  the  case,  as  I  have  endeavored 
to  put  it,  is  known.  George  Cruikshank 
is  at  once  too  good  for,  and  not  quite 
up  to  the  mark  of  **  Punch."  His  best 
works  have  always  been  his  etchings 
on  steel  and  copper  ;  and  wonderful  ex- 
amples of  chalcographic  brilliance  and 
skill  those  etchings  are,  —  many  of  them 
surpassing  Callot,  and  not  a  few  of  them 
(notably  the  illustrations  to  Ainsworth's 
"Tower  of  London**)  rivalling  Rem- 
brandt. From  the  nature  of  these  en- 
gravings, it  would  be  impossible  to  print 
them  at  a  machine-press  for  a  weekly 
issue  of  fifty  or  sixty  thousand  copies. 
George  has  drawn  nMich  on  wood,  and 
his  wondrous  wood-cuts  —  xylographs, 
if  you  wish  a  more  pretentious  word  — 
to  "Three  Courses  and  a  Dessert," 
"  The  Odd  Volume,''  "  The  Gentleman 
in  Black,"  Grimm's  "  Fairy  Tales,"  "  Phi- 
losophy  in  Sport,'  and   "The  Table- 


Book,*  will  be  long  remembered,  and 
are  now  highly  prized  by  amateurs ;  but 
his  minute  and  delicate  pencil-drawings 
have  taxed  the  energies  of  the  veiy  best 
engravers  of  whom  England  can  boast^ 
— of  Vizetelly,  of  LandellSy  of  Jackson, 
ofThompson,  and  of  Thurston.  George 
Cruikshank  would  never  suffer  his  draw- 
ings on  wood  to  be  slashed  and  choppy 
about  by  hasty  or  incompetent  gravers ; 
and  although  the  ateliers  of  "Punch" 
are  supplied  with  a  first-rate  staff  of 
wood-cutters,  very  great  haste  and  very 
little  care  must  often  be  apparent  in  the 
weekly  pabulum  of  cuts ;  nor  should 
such  an  appearance  excite  surprise, 
when  the  exigencies  of  a  weekly  publi- 
cation are  remembered  The  "  Punch  ' 
artists,  indeed,  draw  with  a.special  ref- 
erence to  that  which  they  Imow  their 
engravers  can  or  cannot  do.  Mr.  Ten- 
niel's  cartoons  are  put  on  wood  precise-  * 
ly  as  they  are  meant  to  be  cut,  in  broad, 
finn,  sweeping  lines,  and  the  wood-en- 
graver has  only  to  scoop  out  the  white 
interstices  between  the  network  of  lines ; 
whereas  Mr.  Leech  dashed  in  a  bold 
pen-and-ink-like  sketch  and  trusted  to 
the  xylographer,  who  knew  his  style  well 
and  of  old,  to  produce  an  engravings 
tant  bien  que  maiy  but  as  bold  and  as 
dashing  as  the  original.  The  secession, 
for  reasons  theological,  from  "Punch* 
of  Mr.  Richard  Doyle,  an  event  which 
took  place  some  fifteen  years  since, 
(how  quickly  time  passes,  to  be  sure ! ) 
was  very  bitterly  regretted  by  his  litera- 
ry and  artistic  conurades ;  and  the  young 
man  who  calmly  gave  up  something  like 
a  thousand  poimds  a  year  for  conscience' 
sake  lost  nothing,  but  gained  rather  in 
the  respect  and  admiration  of  society. 
But  the  wood-engravers  must  have  held 
high  carousal  over  the  defection  of  Mr. 
Doyle.  To  cut  one  of  his  drawings  was 
a  crucial  experiment  His  hand  was  not 
sure  in  its  touch ;  he  always  drew  six 
lines  instead  of  one ;  and  in  the  por- 
trait of  a  lady  from  his  pencil,  the  ago- 
nized engraver  had  to  hunt  through  a 
Cretan  labyrinth  of  faces  before  he  found 
the  particular  countenance  which  Mr. 
Doyle  wished  to  be  engraved 
I  have  strayed  away,  perhaps  unpar- 


1865.] 


G»rge  Cruiktha$tk  in  Mejcko. 


57 


donablyy  from  George  Cruikshank.  To 
those  whose  only  ludicrous  prophet  is 
'^  Punch  ^  he  may  be  comparatively  lit- 
tle known.  But  in  the  great  world  of 
^pictorial  art,  both  in  England  and  on 
the  Continent,  he  worthily  holds  an  illus- 
trious place.  His  name  is  a  household 
word  with  his  countrymen ;  and  when- 
ever a  young  hopeful  displays  ever  so 
crude  an  aptitude  for  caricaturing  his 
schoolmaster,  or  giving  with  slate  and 
pencil  the  £icetious  side  of  his  grand- 
mother's cap  and  spectacles,  he  is  voted 
by  the  unanimous  sufirage  of  fireside 
critics  to  be  a  '*  regular  Cruikshank." 
In  this  connection  I  have  heard  him 
sometimes  called  *'  Crookshanks,"  which 
is  taking,  I  apprehend,  even  a  grosser 
liberty  with  his  name  than  in  the  case 
of  the  additional  Cy  —  '*  Crookshanks  " 
having  seemingly  a  reference,  and  not 
a  complimentary  one,  to  George's  legs. 
This  admirable  artist  and  good  man 
was  the  son  of  old  Isaac  Cruikshank,  in 
his  day  a  famous  engraver  of  lottery- 
Ikkets,  securities  in  which  the  British 
public  are  now  no  longer  by  law  per- 
mitted to  invest,  but  which,  fifty  years 
since,  made  as  constant  a  demand  on 
the  engraver's  art  as,  in  our  time  and 
in  America,  is  made  by  the  thousand 
and  one  joint-stock  banks  whose  picto- 
rial pn>mises*to-pay  fill,  or  should  prop- 
erly fill,  our  pocket-books.  The  abili- 
ties of  Isaac  were  not  entirely  devoted 
to  the  lottery;  and  I  have  at  home, 
fitnn  his  hand,  a  very  rare  and  curious 
etching  of  the  execution  of  Louis  XVI., 
with  an  explanatory  diagram  beneath  of 
the  working  of  the  guillotine.  George 
Cruikshank's  earliest  pencil  -  drawings 
are  dated,  as  I  have  remarked,  before 
the  present  century  drew  breath ;  but  he 
must  have  begtm  to  gain  reputation  as 
a  caricaturist  upon  copper  towards  the 
end  of  the  career  of  Napoleoii  I., — the 
**  Boney  "  to  whom  he  has  adhered  with 
such  constant,  albeit  jocular,  animos- 
ity. He  was  the  natural  successor  of 
James  Gillray,  the  renowned  delineator 
of  **  Farmer  George  and  Little  Nap,* 
and  ^  Pitt  and  Boney  at  Dinner,"  and 
hundreds  of  political  cartoons,  eagerly 
bought  in  their  day,  but  now  to  be  found 


only  in  old  print-shops.  Gillray  was 
a  man  of  vast,  but  misapplied  talents. 
Although  he  etched  caricatures  for  a' 
livelihood,  his  drawing  was  splendid,  — 
wellnigh  Michel- Angelesque, — but  al- 
ways careless  and  outri.  He  was  con- 
tinually betting  crown-bowls  of  punch 
that  he  would  design,  etch,  and  bite  in 
so  many  plates  within  a  given  time,  and, 
with  the  assistance  of  a  private  bowl,  he 
almost  always  won  his  bets ;  but  ^e 
punch  was  too  much  for  him,  in  the  long 
run.  He  went  mad  and  died  miserably. 
George  Cruikshank  was  never  his  pu- 
pil^ nor  did  he  ever  attain  the  freedom 
and  mastery  of  outline  which  the  crazy 
old  reprobate,  who  made  the  fortune  of 
Mr.  Humphries,  the  St  James's  Street 
print-seller,  undeniably  possessed ;  but 
his. handling  was- grounded  upon  Gill- 
ray's  style ;  and  from  early  and  atten- 
tive study  of  his  works  he  must  have 
acquired  that  boldness  of  treatment 
that  rotundity  of  light  and  shade,  and 
that  general  **  fatness,"  or  tnorbidezza^  of 
touch,  which  make  the  works  of  Gill- 
ray  and  Cruikshank  stand  out  from  the 
coarse  scrawls  of  Rowlandson,  and  the 
bald  and  meagre  scratches  of  Sir  Charles 
Bunbury.  Unless  I  am  much  mistak- 
en, one  of  the  first  works  that  brought 
George  into  notice  was  an  etching  pub- 
lished in  1815,  having  reference  to  the 
exile  of  the  detested  Corsican  to  St 
Helena.  But  it  was  in  1821  that  he 
first  made  a  decided  mark.  For  Wil- 
liam Hone  —  a  man  who  was  in  per- 
petual opposition  to  the  powers  that 
were  —  he  drew  on  wood  a  remark- 
able series  of  illustrations  to  the  scur- 
rilous, but  perhaps  not  undeserved,  sat- 
ires against  King  George  IV.,  called, 
"  The  Political  House  that  Jack  Built,' 
"  The  Green  Bag,'  "  A  Slap  at  Slop," 
and  the  like, — all  of  them  having  direct 
and  most  caustic  reference  to  the  scan- 
dalous prosecution  instituted  against' a  * 
woman  of  whom  it  is  difficult  to  say 
whether  she  was  bad  or  mad  or  both, 
but  who  was  assuredly  most  miserable, 
—  the  unhappy  Caroline  of  Brunswick. 
George  Cruikshank's  sketch  of  the  out- 
raged husband,  the  finest  and  stoutest 
gentleman  in  Europe^  being  lowered  by 


58 


Georgi  Cruikshank  in  Manco^ 


Qanuaiy, 


means  of  a  crane  into  a  pair  of  white 
kid  pantaloons  suspended  between  the 
posts  of  his  bed,  was  inimitably  droll, 
and  clearly  disloyal.  But  disloysilty  was 
fashionable  in  the  year  '21. 

For  twenty  years  afterwards  the  his- 
tory of  tlie  artist's  career  is  but  the 
history  of  his  works,  of  his  innumerable 
illustrations  to  books,  and  the  sketch- 
books, comic  panoramas,  and  humor- 
ous cartoons  he  published  on  his  own 
account.  Besides,  I  am  not  writing  a 
life  of  George  Cruikshank,  and  all  this 
time  I  have  been  keeping  him  on  the 
threshold  of  the  city  of  Mexico.  Let  it 
suffice  to  say,  briefly,  that  in  1841  came 
a  stand-point  in  his  life,  through  the 
establishment  of  a  monthly  magazine 
entitled  "George  Cruikshank's  Omni- 
bus." Of  this  he  was  the  sole  illustra- 
tor. The  literary  editor  was  Laman 
Blanchard  ;  and  in  the  "  Omnibus," 
William  Makepeace  Thackeray,  then  a 
gaunt  young  man,  not  much  over  thirty, 
and  quite  unknown  to  &me,  —  although 
he  had  published  "  Yellowplush  "  in 
**  Fraser," — wrote  his  quaint  and  touch- 
ing ballad  of  "  The  King  of  Brentford's 
Testament"  The  "  Omnibus  "  did  not 
run  long,  nor  was  its  running  very  pros- 
perous. George  Cruikshank  seemed  for 
a  while  wearied  with  the  calling  of  a 
caricaturist ;  and  the  large  etchings  on 
steel,  with  which  between  '40  and  '45  he 
illustrated  Ainsworth's  gory  romances, 
indicated  a  power  of  grouping,  a  knowl- 
edge of  composition,  a  familiarity  with 
mediaeval  costume,  and  a  command  over 
chiaroscuro,  which  astonished  and  de- 
lighted those  who  had  been  accustom- 
ed to  regard  him  only  as  a  funny  fellow, 
—  one  of  infinite  whim,  to  be  sure,  but 
still  a  jester  of  jests,  and  nothing  more. 
Unfortunately,  or  fortunately,  as  the 
case  might  be,  —  for  the  rumor  ran  that 
George  intended  to  abandon  caricatur- 
ing altogether,  and  to  set  up  in  earnest 
as  an  historical  painter,  —  there  came 
from  beyond  the  sea,  to  assist  in  illus- 
trating "  Windsor  CasUe,"  a  Frenchman 
named  Tony  Johannot  Who  but  he, 
in  fact,  was  the  famous  master  of  the 
grotesque  who  illustrated "  Don  Quix- 
ote "  and  the  "  Diable  Boiteux '  of  Le 


Sage  ?  To  his  dismay,  George  Cruik- 
shank found  a  competitor  as  eccentric  as 
himself  as  skilful  a  manipulator  of  rem 
acu,  the  etching-point,  and  who  drew 
incomparably  better  than  he,  George « 
Cruikshank,  did.  He  gave  up  the  me- 
diaeval in  disgust;  but  he  must  have 
hugged  himself  with  the  thought  that 
he  had  already  illustrated  Charles  Dick- 
ens's "Oliver  Twist,"  and  that  the 
Frenchman,  powerful  as  he  was,  could 
never  hope  to  come  near  him  in  that 
terrific  etching  of  "  Fagin  in  the  Con- 
demned CelL" 

Again  nearly  twenty  years  have  pass- 
ed, and  George  Cruikshank  still  wav^s 
his  Ithuriel's  spear  of  well-ground  steel, 
and  still  dabbles  in  aquafortis.  An  old, 
old  man,  he  is  still  strong  and  hale.  If 
you  ask  him  a  reason  for  his  thus  rival- 
ling Fontenelle  in  his  patriarchal  green- 
ness, for  his  being  able  at  threescore 
and  ten  to  paint  pictures,  (witness  that 
colossal  oil-painting  of  the  "Triumph 
of  Bacchus,"  to  make  speeches,  and 
to  march  at  the  head  of  his  company  as 
a  captain  of  volunteers,  he  will  give  you 
at  once  the  why  and  because.  He  is  the 
most  zealous,  the  most  conscientious, 
and  the  most  invulnerable  of  total  ab- 
stainers. There  were  days  when  he  took 
tobacco :  witness  that  portrait  of  him- 
self, smoking  a  very  long  meerschaum 
pipe  in  "  Love*s  Triumph,"  etched  about 
1845.  There  were  times  when  he  heard 
the  chimes  at  midnight,  and  partook  of 
that  "  richt  gude  willie  waucht "  which 
tipsy  Scotchmen,  when  they  have  formed 
in  a  ring,  standing  upon  chairs,  each 
with  one  foot  on  the  table,  hiccough- 
ingly  declare  that  we  are  bound  to  take 
for  the  sake  of  "  auld  lang  syne."  But 
George  Cruikshank  has  done  with  wil- 
lie wauchts  as  with  bird's-eye  and  Killi- 
kinick.  For  many  years  he  has  neither 
drunk  no)r  smoked.  He  is  more  than  a 
confessor,  he  is  an  aposde  of  temper- 
ance. His  strange,  wild,  grand  perform- 
ances, "  The  Bottle  "  and  "  The  Drunk- 
ard's Children," — the  first  quite  Ho- 
garthian  in  its  force  and  pungency, — 
fell  like  thunderbolts  among  the  gin- 
shops.  I  am  afraid  that  George  Cruik- 
shank would  not  be  a  very  welcome 


I86s.] 


George  Cruikskank  in  Mexico. 


59 


guest  at  Felix  Booth's  distillery,  or  at 
Barclay  and  Perkins's  brewery.  For,  it 
must  be  granted,  the  sage  is  a  little  in- 
tolerant "  No  peace  with  the  Fiery  Mo- 
loch ! "  «  Ecrasons  Vinfdme  /  "  These 
are  his  mottoes.  He  would  deprive  the 
poor  man  of  the  scantiest  drop  of  beer. 
You  begin  with  a  sip  of  "the  right 
stuff,"  he  teaches  us  in  "The  Bottle," 
and  you  end  by  swigging  a  gallon  of 
vitriol,  jumping  on  your  wife,  and  dying 
in  Bedlam  of  delirium  tremens,  I  have 
not  heard  his  opinions  concerning  cider, 
or  root-beer,  or  effervescing  sarsaparilla, 
or  ginger-pop ;  but  I  imagine  that  each 
and  every  one  of  those  reputed  harmless 
beverages  would  enter  into  his  Index 
Expur gator ius,  "  Water,  water,  every- 
where, and  net  a  drop  [of  alcohol]  to 
drink."  T  is  thus  he  would  quote  Cole- 
ridge. He  is  as  furious  against  tobacco 
as  ever  was  King  James  in  his  "  Coun- 
terblast." He  is  of  the  mind  of  the  old 
divine,  that  "he  who  plays  with  the 
Devil's  rattles  will  soon  learn  to  draw 
his  sword."  In  his  pious  rage  against 
intemperance,  and  with  a  view  to  the 
instruction  of  the  rising  generation,  he 
has  even  published  teetotal  versions  of 
"  Cinderella "  and  "  Jack  the  Giant- 
Killer,"  —  a  proceeding  which  Charles 
Dickens  indignantly  reprobated  in  an 
article  in  "  Household  Words,"  called 
"  Frauds  upon  the  Fairies."  Nearly  the 
last  time  I  met  George  Cruikshank  in 
London  was  at  a  dinner  given  in  hon- 
or of  Washington's  birthday.  He  had 
just  been  gazetted  captain  of  his  rifle 
company,  and  was  good  enough  to  ask 
me  if  I  knew  any  genteel  young  men, 
of  strictly  temperance  principles,  who 
would  like  commissions  in  his  corps. 
I  replied,  that,  so  far  as  principles  were 
concerned,  I  could  recommend  him  five 
hundred  postulants ;  but  that,  as  re- 
garded practice,  most  of  the  young  men 
of  my  acquaintance,  who  had  manifested 
an  ambition  for  a  military  career,  drank 
hard. 

The  which,  oddly  enough,  leads  me 
at  last  to  Mexico.  —  We  had  had,  on  the 
whole,  rather  a  hard  morning  of  it.  The 
Don,  who  was  my  host  in  the  siempre 
leal  y  insigne  ciudad  de  Af^jico^  —  and 


a  most  munificent  and  hospitable  Don 
he  was,  -—  took  me  out  one  day  in  the 
month  of  March  last  to  visit  a  haden^ 
da  or  £arm  which  he  possessed,  called, 
if  I  remember  aright,  La  Escalera.     I 
repeat,  we  had  a  hard  morning  of  it 
We  rose  at  six,  —  and  in  mountain- 
ous Mexico  the  ground  at  early  mom, 
even  during  summer,  is  often  covered 
with  a  frosty  rime.     I  looked  out  of  thtf 
window,  and  when  I  saw  the  leases 
of  the  trees  glistening  with  something 
which  was  not  dew,  and  Popocatepetl 
and  Iztaccihuatl  mantled  with  eternal 
snows  in  the  distance,  I  shivered.    A 
cup  of  chocolate,  a  tortilla  or  thin  grid- 
dle-cake of  Indian  meal,  and  a  paper 
cigar,   just   to    break    your   fast,  and 
then  to  horse.  Tt)  horse !  Do  you  know 
what  it  is,  being  a  poor  horseman,  to  be- 
stride a  full-blood,  full-bred  white  Arab, 
worth  ever  so  many  hundred  pesos  de 
oro,  and,  with  his  flowing  mane  and 
tail,  and  small,  womanly,  vixenish  head, 
beautiful  to  look  upon,  but  which  in 
temper,  like  many  other  beauteous  crea- 
tures I  have  known,  is  an  incarnate 
fiend  ?    The  Arab  they  gave  me  had 
been  the  property  of  a  French  generaL 
I  vehemently  suspect  that  he  had  been 
dismissed  from  the  Imperial  army  for 
biting  a  chef  d^escadron  through  one  of 
his  jackboots,  or  kicking  in  three  of  the 
ribs  of  a  mar^chal  des  logis.    That  was 
hard  enough,  to  begin  with.    Then  the 
streets  of  Mexico  are  execrably  paved, 
and  the  roads  leading  out  of  the  city 
are  fiill  of  what  in  Ireland  are  termed 
"  curiosities,"  to  wit,  holes;  and  my  Arab 
had  a  habit,  whenever  he  met  an  equine 
brother,  and  especially  an  equine  sister, 
on  the  way,  of  screaming  like  a  pos- 
sessed Pythoness,  and  then  of  essaying 
to  stand  on  his  hind  legs.  However,  with 
a  Mexican  saddle,  —  out  of  which  you 
can  scarcely  fall,  even  though  you  had 
a  mind  to  it,  —  and  Mexican  stirrups, 
and  a  pair  of  spurs  nearly  as  big  as 
Catharine-wheels,  the  Arab  and  I  man- 
aged to  reach  the  Church  of  Our  Lady  of 
Guadalupe,  five  miles  out,  and  thence, 
over  tolerably  good  roads,  another  five  . 
miles,  to  the  Escalera.  .  I  wish  they 
would  make  Mexican  &^4^^^  qH  ^^tda.- 


6o 


George  Cruikshank  in  Mexico, 


[January, 


thing  ds6  besides  wood  very  thinly 
covered  with  leather.  How  -devoutly 
did  I  long  for  the  well-stufFed  pig-skin 
of  Hyde  Park!  We  had  an  hour  or 
two  more  hard  work  riding  about  the 
fields,  when  we  reached  the  farm,  watch- 
ing the  process  of  extracting  pulque 
from  the  maguey  or  cactus,  —  and  a  ve- 
ry nast>'  process  it  is,  —  inspecting  the 
•granaries  belonging  to  the  hacienda^ 
and  dodging  between  the  rows  of  In- 
dian com,  which  grows  here  to  so  pro- 
digious a  height  as  to  rival  the  famous 
grain  which  is  said  to  grow  somewhere 
down  South,  and  to  attain  such  an  alti- 
tude that  a  Comanche  perched  upon 
the  head  of  a  girafie  is  invisible  between 
the  rows.  About  noon  we  had  breakfast, 
and  that  was  the  hardest  work  of  all. 
Item^  we  had  mutton-chops,  bee&teaks, 
veal  cutlets,  omelets,  rice,  hominy,  fried 
tomatoes,  and  an  infinity  of  Mexican 
hashes  and  stews  seasoned  with  chiles 
or  red-pepper  pods.  JUm,  we  had  a  huge 
pavOy  a  turkey,  —  a  wild  turkey;  and 
then,  for  the  first  time,  did  I  understand 
that  the  bird  we  Englishmen  consume 
only  at  Christmas,  and  then  declare  to 
be  tough  and  flavorless,  is  to  be  eaten 
to  perfection  only  in«  the  central  re- 
gions of  the  American  continent  The 
flesh  of  this  ^7//?  was  like  soflened.ivo- 
ry,  and  his  fiit  like  unto  clotted  cream. 
There  were  some  pretty  little  tiny  kick- 
shaws in  the  way  of  pine-apples,  musk- 
melons,  bananas,  papaws,  and  custard- 
apples,  and  many  other  tropical  fpiits 
whose  names  I  have  forgotten.  I  think, 
too,  tljat  we  had  some  stewed  iguana 
or  lizard ;  but  I  remember,  that,  af^er 
inflicting  exemplary  punishment  on  a 
bowl  of  sour  cream,  we  wound  up  by 
an  attack  on  an  albacor^  a  young  kid 
roasted  whole,  or  rather  baked  in  a 
lump  of  clay  with  wood-ashes  heaped 
over  him,  and  brought  to  table  on  a 
tea-tray  !  Shade  of  Gargantua,  how  we 
ate !  I  blessed  that  fiery  Arab  for  giv- 
ing me  such  an  appetite.  There  was  a 
good  deal  of  smoking  going  on  at  odd 
times  during  breakfast  ;  but  nobody 
ventured  beyond  a  cigarro  of  paper 
and  fine-cut  before  we  attacked  the 
albacor.  When  coffee  was  served,  each 


man  lighted  zpuro^  one  of  the  bi|^;e8t 
of  Cabafia's  Regalias ;  and  serious  and 
solemn  puffing  then  set  in.  It  was  a 
memorable  breakfiist  Thit  AdmimstrO' 
dory  or  steward  of  the  estate,  had  evi- 
dently done  his  best  to  entertain  his 
patron  the  Don  with  becoming  magnifi- 
cence, nor  were  potables  as  dainty  as 
the  edibles  wanting  to  furnish  forth  the 
feast  There  was /m/7»^  for  those  who 
chose  to  drink  it  I  never  could  stom- 
ach that  fermented  milk  of  human  un- 
kindness,  which  combines  the  odor  of  a 
dairy  that  has  been  turned  into  a  grog- 
shop with  the  flavor  of  rotten  eggs. 
There  was  wine  of  Burgundy  and  wine 
of  Bordeaux;  there  was  Champagne: 
these  three  firom  the  Don's  cellar  in 
Mexico,  and  the  last  csoled,  not  with 
vulgar  ice,  but  with  snow  from  the  sum- 
mit of  Popocatepetl,  —  snow  that  had 
been  there  from  tiie  days  of  Montezuma 
and  Guatimozin;  while  as  chasse  and 
Pousse  to  the  exquisitely  flavored  Mex- 
ican coffee,  grown,  ground,  and  roasted 
on  the  hacienday  we  had  some  very  ripe 
old  French  Cognac,  (1804,  I  think,  was 
the  brand,)  and  some  Peruvian  pisco^  a 
strong  white  cordial,  somewhat  resem- 
bling kirsch'wasser,  and  exceeding 
toothsome.  We  talked  and  laughed  till 
we  grew  sleepy,  (the  edibles  and  pota- 
bles had  of  course  nothing  to  do  with  our 
somnolence,)  and  then,  the  farm-house 
of  the  hacienda  having  seemingly  as 
many  rooms  as  the  Vatican,  each  man 
hied  him  to  a  cool  chamber,  where  he 
found  a  trundle-bed,  or  a  hammock,  or 
a  sofi^  and  gravely  laid  himself  out  for 
an  hour's  siesta.  Then  the  Adminis- 
trador  woke  us  all  up,  and  gleefully 
presented  us  with  an  enormous  bowl 
of  sangaree,  made  of  the  remains  of  the 
Bordeaux  and  the  brandy  and  the  pisco, 
and  plenty  of  ice, — ice  ^is  time, — and 
sugar,  and  limes,  and  slices  of  pine- 
apple, Madam,  —  the  which  he  had 
concocted  during  our  slumber.  We 
drained  this, — one  gets  so  thirsty  after 
breakfast  in  Mexico, — and  then  to  horse 
again  for  a  twelve  miles'  ride  back  to 
the  city.  I  omitted  to  mention  two  or 
three  little  circumstances  which  gave 
a  zest  and  piquancy  to  the  entertain- 


1 86s.] 


George  Cruikshank  in  Mexico. 


6i 


ment  When  we  arrived  at  the  had- 
enda^  although  servitors  were  in  plenty, 
each  cavalier  unsaddled  and  fed  his 
own  steed;  and  when  we  addressed 
ourselves  to  our  sUstay  every  one  who 
did  n*t  find  a  double-barrelled  gun  at 
the  head  of  his  bed  took  care  to  place 
a  loaded  revolver  under  his  pillow.  For 
aocidents  will  happen  in  the  best-regu- 
lated £unilles ;  and  in  Mexico  you  can 
never  tell  at  what  precise  moment  Ca- 
cus  may  be  upon  you. 

Riding  back  to  the  sUmfre  leal  y  in" 
sigm  ciudad  at  about  three  o'clock  in 
the  afternoon,  when  the  sun  was  at  its 
hottest,  was  no  joke.  Baking  is  not 
precisely  the  word,  nor  boiling,  nay,  nor 
frying ;  something  which  is  a  compound 
of  all  these  might  express  the  sensation 
I,  for  one,  felt  Fortunately,  the  Don 
had  insisted  on  my  assuming  the  ortho- 
dox Mexican  riding-costume :  cool  lin- 
en drawers,  cut  Turkish  fashion ;  over 
these,  and  with  just  sufficient  buttons 
in  their  respective  holes  to  swear  by, 
the  leathern  chaparero5Qtovtx2Si& ;  mo- 
rocco slippers,  to  which  were  strapped 
the  Catharine-wheel  spurs;  no  vest; 
no  neckerchief;  a  round  jacket,  with 
quarter  doubloons  for  buttons ;  and  a 
low-crowned  felt  hat,  with  an  enormous 
brim,  a  brim  which  might  have  made 
a  Quaker  envious,  and  have  stricken 
mortification  to  the  soul  of  a  Chinese 
mandarin.  Thb  brim  kept  the  sun  out 
of  your  eyes  ;  and  then,  by  way  of  hat- 
band, there  was  a  narrow,  but  thick 
turban  or  "  pudding,"  which  prevented 
the  rays  of  Sol  from  piercing  through 
your  skull,  and  boiling  your  brains  in- 
to batter.  The  fact  of  the  whole  of 
this  costume,  and  the  accoutrements  of 
your  horse  to  boot,  being  embroidered 
with  silver  and  embellished  with  golden 
bosses,  thus  affording  a  thousand  tan- 
gents for  Phoebus  to  fiy  off  from,  rather 
detracted  finom  the  coolness  of  your  ar- 
ray; but  one  must  not  expect  perfec- 
tion here  l)e]ow.  In  a  stove-pipe  hat,  a 
shooting-coat,  and  riding-cords,  I  should 
have  sttfiered  much  more  firom  the  heat 
As  it  was,  I  confess,  that  when  I  reach- 
ed home,  in  the  Calle  San  Francisco, 
Mexico,  I  was  exceedingly  thankfuL    I 


am  not  used  to  riding  twenty-four  miles 
in  one  day.  I  think  I  had  a  warm  bath 
in  the  interval  between  doffing  the  cha- 
pareros  and  donning  the  pantaloons  of 
every-day  life.  I  think  I  went  to  sleep 
on  a  sofa  for  about  an  hour,  and,  wakingf 
up,  called  for  a  cocktail  as  a  restora- 
tive. Yes,  Madam,  there  are  cocktails 
in  Mexico,  and  our  Don's  body-servant 
made  them  most  scientifically.  I  think 
also  that  I  declined,  with  thanks,  the 
Don's  customary  invitation  to  a  drive  be- 
fore dinner  in  the  Paseo.  Nor  barouche, 
nor  mail-phaSton,  nay,  nor  soft -cush- 
ioned brougham  delighted  me.  I  felt 
very  lazy  and  thoroughly  knocked  up. 

The  Don,  however,  went  out  for  his 
drive,  smiling  at  my  woful  plight  Is 
it  only  after  hard  riding  that  remorse 
succeeds  enjoyment  ?  I  was  left  alone 
in  his  great  caravansary  of  a  mansion. 
I  wandered  from  room  to  room,  from 
corridor  to  corridor,  —  now  glancing 
through  the  yavLdsyH-jalausUs^  and  peep- 
ing at  the  chinas  in  their  ribosos^  and 
the  shovel-hatted  priests  in  the  street 
below  creeping  along  on  the  shady  side 
of  the  way, — now  hanging  over  the  gal- 
lery in  the  inner  court-yard,  listening 
to  the  horses  stamping  in  their  stables 
or  rattiing  their  tethers  against  the 
mangers,  listening  now  to  the  English 
grooms  as  they  whistied  the  familiar 
airs  of  home  while  they  rubbed  their 
charges  down,  and  now  to  the  sleepy, 
plaintive  drone  of  the  Indian  servants 
loitering  over  their  work  in  the  kitch- 
ens.* Then  I  wandered  batk  again,  — 
from  drawing-room  to  dining-room,  from 
bedchamber  to  boudoir.  And  at  last  I 
found  that  I  had  crossed  a  bridge  over 
another  court-yard,  and  gotten  into  an- 
other house,  abutting  on  another  street 
The  Don  was  still  lord  here,  and  I  was 
free  to  ramble.  More  drawing-rooms, 
more  bedchambers,  more  boudoirs,  a 
chapel,  and  at  last  a  library.  Libraries 
are  not  plentiful  in  Mexico.  Here,  on 
many  shelves,  was  a  goodly  store  of 
standard  literature  in  many  languages. 
Here  was  Prescott's  History  of  the 
Conquest,  translated  into  choice  Castil- 
ian,  and  Seflor  Ramirez  his  comments 
thereupon.    Here  was  Don  Lucas  Ala- 


62 


George  Cruikshank  in  Mexico, 


[January, 


man  his  History  of  Mexico,  and  works 
by  Jesuit  fathers  innumerable.  How 
ever  did  they  get  printed  ?  Who  ever 
bought,  who  ever  read,  those  cloudy 
tomes  in  dog  Latin  ?  Here  was  Lord 
Kingsborough's  vast  work  on  Mexican 
Antiquities,  —  the  work  his  Lordship  is 
reported  to  have  ruined  himself  in  pro- 
ducing; and  Macaulay,  and  Dickens, 
and  Washington  Irving,  and  the  British 
Essayists,  and  the  Waverley  Novels, 
and  Shakspeare,  and  Soyer's  Cookery, 
and  one  little  book  of  mine  own  writing : 
a  very  well-chosen  library  indeed 

What  have  we  here  ?  A  fet,  comely, 
gilt-lettered  volume,  bound  in  red  mo- 
rocco, and  that  might,  externally,  have 
passed  for  my  grandmother's  edition  of^ 
Dr.  Doddridge*s  Sermons.  As  I  live, 
't  is  a  work  illustrated  by  George  Cruik- 
shank,—  a  work  hitherto  unknown  to 
me,  albeit  I  fancied  myself  rich,  even  to 
millionnairism,  in  Cruikshankiana.  It 
is  a  rare  book,  a  precious  book,  a  book 
that  is  not  in  the  British  Museum,  a 
book  for  which  collectors  would  gladly 
give  more  doubloons  than  I  lost  at 
monU  last  night ;  for  here  the  most 
moral  people  play  monte.  It  is  un  cos^ 
tumbre  del  pais^  —  a  custom  of  the 
country  ;  and,  woe  is  me  !  I  lost  a  pile 
HwTxt  midnight  and  cock-crow. 

"Life  in  Paris;  or  the  Rambles, 
Sprees,  and  Amours  of  Dick  Wildfire, 
Squire  Jenkins,  and  Captain  0*Shuf&e- 
ton,  with  the  Whimsical  Adventures 
of  the  Halibut  Family,  and  Other  Ec- 
centric Characters  in  the  French  Me- 
tropolis. Embellished  with  Twenty-One 
Comic  Vignettes  and  Twenty-One  Col- 
ored Engravings  of  Scenes  from  Real 
Life,  by  George  Cruikshank.  London : 
Printed  for  John  Cumberland.  1828.* 
This  "  Life  in  Paris  "  was  known  to  me 
by  dim  literary  repute  ;  but  I  had  never 
seen  the  actual  volume  before.  Its  pub- 
lication was  a  disastrous  failure.  Em- 
boldened by  the  prodigious  success  of 
"  Life  in  London,"  —  the  adventures 
in  the  Great  Metropolis  of  Corinthian 
Tom  and  Jerry  —  Somebody  —  and 
Bob  Logic,  Esquire,  written  by  Pierce 
Egan,  once  a  notorious  chronicler  of 
the  prize-ring,  the  compiler  of  a  Slang 


Dictionary,  and  whose  proficiency  in 
argot  and  flash-patter  was  honored  by 
poetic  celebration  from  Byron,  Moore, 
and  Christopher  North,  but  whom  I  re- 
member, when  I  was  first  climbing  into 
public  life,  a  decrepit,  broken-down  old 
man,  —  Mr.  John  Cumberland,  of  Lud- 
gate  Hill,  (the  publisher,  by  the  way,  of 
that  series  of  the  "Acting  Drama"  to 
which,  over  the  initials  of  D — G,  and 
the  figure  of  a  hand  pointing,  some  of 
the  most  remarkable  dramatic  criticisms 
in  the  English  language  are  appended,) 
thought,  not  unreasonably,  that  ''  Life 
in  Paris  "  might  attain  a  vogue  as  ex- 
tensive as  that  achieved  by  "Life  in 
London."  I  don't  know  who  wrote  the 
French  "  Life."  Pierce  Egan  could 
scarcely  have  been  the  author ;  for  he 
was  then  at  the  height  of  a  vicious 
and  ephemeral  popularity ;  and  any 
book,  however  trashy,  with  his  name 
to  it,  would  have  been  sure  to  selL 
This  "Life  in  Paris"  was  very  prob- 
ably the  work  of  some  obscure  hack, 
who,  when  he  was  describing  the  "  ec- 
centric characters  in  the  French  me- 
tropolis," may  not  impossibly  have  been 
vegetating  in  the  Rules  of  the  King's 
Bench  Prison.  But  crafty  Mr.  Cumber- 
land, to  insure  the  success  of  his  enter- 
prise, secured  the  services  of  Geoige 
Cruikshank  as  illustrator.  George  had 
a  brother  Robert,  who  had  caught  some- 
thing of  his  touch  and  manner,  but 
nothing  of  his  humorous  genius,  and 
who  assisted  him  in  illustrating  "  Life 
in  London";  but  "Life  in  Paris"  was 
to  be  all  his  own  ;  and  he  undertook  a 
journey  to  France  in  order  to  study 
Gallic  life  and  make  sketches.  The 
results  were  now  before  me  in  twenty- 
one  small  vignettes  on  wood,  (of  not 
much  account,)  and  of  as  many  large 
aquatint  engravings,  (George  can  aqua* 
tint  as  well  as  etch,)  crowded  with  fig- 
ures, and  displaying  the  unmistakable 
and  inimitable  Cruikshankian  vim  and 
point  There  is  Dick  Wildfire  being 
attired,  with  the  aid  of  the  fristur  and 
the 'tailor,  and  under  the  sneering  in- 
spection of  Sam  Sharp,  his  Yorkshire 
valet,  according  to  the  latest  Parisian 
fiishions.     Next  we   have   Dick  and 


186$.] 


George  Cruikshank  in  Mexico, 


63 


Captain  O'Shuffleton  (an  Irish  adven- 
turer) *^  promenading  in  the  Gardens 
of  the  Tuileries " ;  next,  '*real  life''  in 
the  galleries  of  the  Palais  Royal ;  next, 
Dick,  the  Captain,  Lady  Halibut,  and 
Lydia  *' enjoying  a  lounge  on  the  Ital- 
ian Boulevard."  To  these  succeed  a 
representation  of  a  dinner  at  Vary's ; 
Dick  and  his  companions  ''smashing 
the  glim  on  a  spree  by  lamplight''; 
Dick  and  the  Captain  ''paying  their 
respects  to  the  Fair  LimofuidQre  at  the 
Cafd  des  Mille  Colon  nes  " ;  Dick  intro- 
duced by  the  Captain  to  a  Rougi  et  Noir 
table ;  the  same  and  his  valet  "  showing 
fight  in  a  Caveau  "y  "  Life  behind  the 
Curtain  of  the  Grand  Opera,  or  Dick 
and  the  Squire  larking  with  the  Figih 
ranUs  "y  Dick  and  the  Squire  "  enjoy- 
ing the  sport  at  the  Combat  of  Animals, 
or  Duck  Lane  of  Paris " ;  Dick  and 
Jenkins  "  in  a  Theatrical  Pandemonium^ 
or  the  Cafi^  de  la  Paix  in  all  its  glory  " ; 
"  Life  among  the  Dead,  or  the  Hali- 
but Family  in  the  Catacombs";  "Life 
among  the  Connoisseurs,"  or  Dick  and 
his  friends  "  in  the  Grand  Gallery  of  the 
Louvre  " ;  "  a  Frolic  in  the  Cafi  dEnfer^ 
or  Infernal  Cellar";  "Life  on  Tiptoe, 
or  Dick  quadrilling  it  in  the  Salons  de 
Mars  in  the  Champa  £lysdes " ;  the 
""Entr/e  to  the  Italian  Opcr;i";  the 
"  Mommg  of  the  F^e  of  St  Louis " ; 
the  "  Evening  of  the  same,  with  Dick, 
Jenkins,  and  the  Halibuts  witnessing 
the  CanailU  in  all  their  glory " ;  and, 
finally,  "Life  in  a  Billiard- Room,  or 
Dick  and  the  Squire  au  fait  to  the 
Parisian  Sharpers." 

I  have  said  that  these  illustrations  are 
full  of  point  and  drollery.  They  certainly 
lack  that  round,  full  touch  so  distinctivte 
of  George  Cniikshank,  and  which  he 
learned  from  Gillray ;  but  such  a  touch 
can  be  given  only  when  the  shadows 
as  well  as  the  outlines  of  a  plate  are 
etched ;  and  the  intent  of  an  aquatint  en- 
graving is,  as  the  reader  may  or  may  not 
know,  to  produce  the  effect  of  a  draw- 
ing in  Indian  ink.*    Still  there  is  much 

*  AqoKlmt  engnWiic  fai  Engfand  b  all  but  a  dead 
aft  It  i«  now  employed  only  in  portraits  of  race* 
liorae«,  which  are  never  M>ld  uncolored,  and  in  plates 
of  the  fashions.  The  present  writer  had  the  honor, 
twelve  yean  since,  of  producing  the  last  ''great** 


in  these  pictures  to  deUght  the  Cruik* 
shankian  connoisseur,  —  infinite  variety 
in  physiognomy,  wonderful  minuteness 
and  acciu:acy  in  detail,  and  here  and 
there  sparkles  of  the  true  Hogarthian 
satire. 

But  a  banquet  in  which  the  plates 
only  are  good  is  but  a  Barmecide  feast, 
after  alL  The  letter-press  to  this  "  Life 
in  Paris  "  is  the  vilest  rubbish  imagina- 
ble,—  a  farrago  of  St  Giles's  slang, 
Tottenham  Court  Road  doggerel,  ig- 
norance, lewdness,  and  downright  dul- 
ness.  Mr.  John  Cumberland,  of  Ludgate 
Hill,  took,  accordingly,  very  little  by  hit 
motion.  The  "  Life  "  fell  almost  stillborn 
from  the  press ;  and  George  Cruikshank 
must  have  regretted  that  he  ever  had 
an3rthing  to  do  with  it  The  major  part, 
of  the  impression  must  years  ago  have 
been  used  to  line  trunkis,  inwrap  pies, 
and  singe  geese ;  but  to  our  generation, 
and  to  those  which  are  to  come,  this 
sorry  volume  will  be  more  than  a  curi- 
osity :  it  will  be  literarily  and  artisti- 
cally an  object  of  great  and  constantly 
increasing  value.  By  the  amateur  of 
Cruikshankiana  it  will  be  prized  for  the 
reason  that  the  celebrated  Latin  pam- 
phlet provinjg^  that  Edward  VI.  nev- 
er had  the  toothache  was  prized,  al- 
th9ugb  the  first  and  last  leaves  were 
wanting,  by  Theodore  Hook's  Tom 
HiU.  It  will  be  treasured  for  its  scar- 
city. To  the  student  of  social  history 
it  will  be  of  even  greater  value,  as  the 
record  of  a  state  of  manners,  both  in 
England  and  France,  which  has  whol- 
ly and  forever  passed  away.  The  let- 
ter-press portraits,  drawn  by  the  hack 
author,  of  a  party  of  English  tourists 
are  but  foul  and  stupid  libels;  but 
their  aquatint  portraits,  as  bitten  in  by 
George  Cruikshank,  are,  albeit  exagger- 
ated, true  in  many  respects  to  Nature. 
In  fact,  we  were  used,  when  George  IV, 
was  king,  to  send  abroad  these  over- 
dressed  and  under-bred   clowns   and 

woric  (so  far  as  siae  was  concerned)  undertaken  in 
Engfaind.  It  was  a  monster  panorama,  some  sixty 
feet  long,  reprrsfnring  the  finenl  procesuon  of  the 
Duke  of  Wellington.  It  was  published  by  the  well- 
known  house  of  Ackermann,  in  the  Strand;  and 
the  writer  regrets  to  say  that  the  house  went  bank' 
rupt  very  shortly  afterwards. 


64 


George  Cruikshank  in  Mexico. 


[January, 


Mohawks,  —  whelps  of  the  squirarchy 
and  hobbledeho)rs  of  the  universities,  — 
Squire  Gawkies  and  Squire  Westerns 
and  Tony  Lumpkins,  Mrs.  Malaprops 
and  Lydia  Languishes,  by  the  hundred 
and  the  thousand.  "  The  Fudge  Fam- 
ily in  Paris'*  and  the  letters  of  Mrs. 
Ramsbotham  read  nowadays  like  the 
most  outrageous  of  caricatures ;  but 
they  failed  not  to  hit  many  a  blot  in 
the  times  which  gave  them  birth.  It 
was  really  reckoned  fashionable  in  1828 
to  make  a  visit  to  Paris  the  occasion  for 
the  coarsest  of  "sprees,** — to  get  tipsy 
at  V^ry*s,  —  to  "  smash  the  glims,"  —  to 
parade  those  infamous  Galeries  de  Bois 
in  the  Palais  Royal  which  were  the  com- 
mon haunt  of  abandoned  women,  —  to 
beat  the  gendarmes,  and,  indeed,  the 
first  Frenchman  who  happened  to  turn 
up,  merely  on  the  ground  that  he  was 
a  Frenchman.  But  France  aild  the 
French  have  changed  since  then,  as 
well  as  England  and  the  English.  Are 
these  the  only  countries  in  the  world 
whose  people  and  whose  manners  have 
turned  volU-face  within  less  than  half 
a  century  ?  I  declare  that  I  read  from 
beginning  to  end,  the  other  day,  a  work 
called  "  Salmagundi,**  and  that  I  could 
not  recognize  in  one  single  page  any- 
thing to  remind  me  of  the  New  York 
of  the  present  day.  Thus  in  the  en- 
gravings to  "Life  in  Paris**  are  there 
barely  three  which  any  modem  Parisian 
would  admit  to  possess  any  direct  or 
truthful  reference  to  Paris  life  as  it  is. 
People  certainly  continue  to  dine  at 
V€rf%  J  but  Englishmen  no  longer  get 
tipsy  there,  no  longer  smash  the  plates 
or  kick  the  waiters.  In  lieu  of  dusky 
billiard-rooms,  the  resort  of  duskier 
sharpers,  there  are  magnificent  saloons, 
containing  five,  ten,  and  sometimes 
twenty  billiard-tables.  The  Galeriis  de 
Bois  have  been  knocked  to  pieces  these 
thirty  years.  The  public  gaming-houses 
have  been  shut  up.  There  are  no  lon- 
ger any  brutal  dog-and-bear-baitings  at 
the  Barri^re  du  Combat  There  is  no 
k>nger  a  BelU  UmonadUre  at  the  Ca£6 


des  Mille  Colonnes.  Belles  Limona- 
dQres  (if  I  may  be  permitted  to  use 
one  of  the  most  inelegant,  but  the  most 
expressive,  of  American  colloquialisms) 
are  "  played  out**  The  Catacombs  have 
long  since  been  shut  to  strangers.  The 
Caveau  exists  no  more.  Old  reprobates 
scarcely  remember  the  Cafd  d^Enfer. 
The  F^U  of  St  Louis  is  as  dead  as 
Louis  XVIII.,  as  dead  as  the  Files 
of  July,  as  the  Files  of  the  Republic. 
There  is  but  one  national  festival  now, 
—  and  that  is  on  the  15th  of  August, 
and  in  honor  of  St  Napoleon.  There 
are  no  more  "  glims  **  to  smash ;  the 
old  oil  reverbires  have  been  replaced 
by  showy  gas-lamps,  and  the  sergenis 
de  ville  would  make  short  work  of  any 
roisterers  who  attempted  to  take  lib- 
erties with  them.  The  old  Paris  of 
the  Restoration  and  the  Monarchy  is 
dead ;  but  the  Thane  of  Cawdor  —  I 
mean  George  Cruikshank  —  lives,  a 
prosperous  gentleman. 

I  brought  the  book  away  with  me 
from  Mexico,  all  the  way  down  to  Vera 
Cruz,  and  so  on  to  Cuba,  and  thence 
to  New  York ;  and  it  is  in  Boston  with 
me  now.  But  it  is  not  mine.  The  Don 
did  not  even  lend  it  to  me.  I  had  only 
his  permission  tot  take  it  from  the  libra- 
ry to  my  room",  and  turn  it  over  there ; 
but  when  I  was  coming  away,  that  same 
body-servant,  thinking  it  was  my  prop- 
erty, carefully  packed  it  among  the 
clothes  in  my  portmanteau ;  and  I  did 
not  discover  his  mistake  and  my  tempo- 
rary gain  until  I  was  off.  I  mention  this 
in  all  candor ;  for  I  am  conscious  that 
there  never  was  a  book-collector  yet 
who  did  not,  at  some  period  or  other 
of  his  life,  at  least  meditate  the  com- 
mission of  a  felony.  But  the  Don  is 
coming  to  the  States  this  autumn,  and 
I  must  show  him  that  I  have  not  been 
a  fraudulent  bailee.  I  shall  have  taken, 
at  all  events,  my  fill  of  pleasure  from 
the  book;  and  I  hope  that  George 
Cruikshank  will  live  to  read  what  I 
have  written  ;  and  God  bless  his  hon- 
est old  heart,  anyhow  i 


1865.] 


Leaves  from  an  Officer's  Journal. 


65 


LEAVES  FROM  AN  OFFICER'S  JOURNAL. 


III. 


Camp  Saxtow,  nsas  Bbauvort,  S.  C, 
January  3,  1864. 

ONCE,  and  once  only,  thus  far,  the 
water  has  frozen  in  my  tent ;  and 
the  next  morning  showed  a  dense  white 
frost  outside.  We  have  still  mocking- 
birds and  crickets  and  rosebuds  2Uid 
occasional  noonday  baths  in  the  river, 
though  the  butterflies  have  vanished,  as 
I  remember  to  have  observed  in  Fay- 
al,  after  December.  I  have  been  here 
nearly  six  weeks  without  a  rainy  day ; 
one  or  two  slight  showers  there  have 
been,  once  interrupting  a  drill,  but  never 
dress  parade.  For  climate,  by  day,  we 
might  be  among  the  isles  of  Greece,  — 
though  it  may  be  my  constant  femiliar- 
ity  with  the  names  of  her  sages  which 
suggests  that  impression.  For  instance, 
a  voice  just  now  called,  near  my  tent,  — 
<*  Cato,  whar  's  Plato  ?  » 

The  men  have  somehow  got  the  im- 
pression that  it  is  essential  to  the  valid- 
ity of  a  marriage  that  they  should  come 
to  me  for  permission,  just  as  they  used 
to  go  to  the  master ;  and  I  rather  encour- 
age these  little  confidences,  because  it 
is  so  'entertaining  to  hear  theij^  "  Now, 
Cunncl,"  said  a  ^tering  swain  the  oth- 
er day,  **  I  want  for  get  me  one  good 
iady,**  which  I  approved,  especially  the 
limitation  as  to  number.  Ailerwards  I 
asked  one  of  the  bridegroom's  friends 
whether  he  thought  it  a  good  match. 
••  Oh,  yes,  Cunnel,"  said  he,  in  aU  the 
cordiality  of  friendship,  "John  *s  gwine 
for  marr)'  Venus."  I  trust  the  goddess 
win  prove  herself  a  better  lady  than  she 
appeared  during  her  previous  career 
upon  this  planet  But  this  naturally 
suggests  the  isles  of  Greece  again. 

yanuary  7. — On  first  arriving,  I  found 
a  good  deal  of  anxiety  among  the  officers 
as  to  the  increase  of  desertions,  that  be- 
ing the  rock  on  which  the  **'  Hunter  Regi- 
ment "  split  Now  this  evil  is  very  near- 
ly stopped,  and  we  are  every  day  recov- 
ering the  older  absentees.    One.  of  the 

VOL.  XV,  —  NO.  87.  s 


very  best  things  that  have  happened  to 
us  was  the  half-accidental  shooting  of  a 
man  who  had  escaped  from  the  guard- 
house, and  was  wounded  by  a  squad 
sent  in  pursuit  He  has  sfnce  died ;  and 
this  very  evening,  another  man,  who  es- 
caped with  him,  came  and  opened  the 
door  of  my  tent,  after  being  five  days 
in  the  woods,  almost  without  food  His 
clothes  were  in  rags,  and  he  was  nearly 
starved,  poor  foolish  fellow,  so  that  we 
can  almost  dispense  with  further  punish- 
ment Severe  penalties  would  be  wast- 
ed on  these  people,  accustomed  as  they 
have  been  to  the  most  violent  passions 
on  the  part  of  white  men ;  but  a  mild 
inexorableness  tells  on  them,  just  as  it 
does  on  any  other  children.  It  is  some- 
thing utterly  new  to  them,  and  it  is  thus 
far  perfectly  efficacious.  They  have  a 
great  deal  of  pride  as  soldiers,  and  a 
very  litde  of  severity  goes  a  great  way, 
if  it  be  firm  and  consistent  This  is 
very  encouraging. 

The  single  question  which  I  asked 
of  some  of  the  plantation-superintend- 
ents, on  the  voyage,  was,  "  Do  these  ■ 
people  appreciate  justice?^  If  they 
did,  it  was  evident  that  all  the  rest 
would  be  easy.^  When  a  race  is  de? 
graded  beyond  that  point,  it  must  be- 
very  hard  to  deal  with  them  ;  they  must- 
mistake  all  kindness  for  indulgence, 
all  strictness  for  cruelty.  With  these 
freed  slaves  there  is  no  such  trouble, 
not  a  particle :  let  an  officer  be  only, 
just  and  firm,  with  a  cordial,  kindly  na- 
tion, and  he  has  no  sort  of  difficulty. 
The  plantation  -  superintendents  and 
teachers  have  the  same  experience,  they 
say ;  but  we  have  an  immense  advantage  - 
in  the  military  organization,  which  helps 
in  two  ways:  it  increases  their  self- 
respect,  and  it  gives  us  an  admirable 
machinery  for  discipline,  thus  improv- 
ing both  the  fulcrum  and  the  lever. 

The  wounded  man  dl^d  in  the  hospi- 
tal, and  the  general  vsrdict  seemed  to » 


66 


Leaves  from  an  Officer^s  JaumaL 


Qanuaiy, 


be,  "Him  brought  it  on  heself.**  An- 
other soldier  died  of  pneumonia  on  the 
same  day,  and  we  had  the  funerals  in 
the  evening.  It  was  very  impressive. 
A  dense  mist  came  up,  with  a  moon 
behind  it,  and  we  had  only  the  light  of 
pine-splinters,  as  the  procession  wound 
along  beneath  the  mighty  moss-hung 
branches  of  the  ancient  grove.  The 
groups  around  the  grave,  the  dark  fa- 
ces, the  red  garments,  the  scattered 
lights,  the  misty  boughs,  were  weird 
and  strange.  The  men  sang  one  of 
their  own  wild  chants.  Two  crickets 
sang  also,  one  on  either  side,  and  did 
not  cease  their  little  monotone,  even 
when  the  three  volleys  were  fired  above 
the  graves.  Just  before  the  coffins  were 
lowered,  an  old  man  whispered  to  me 
that  I  must  have  their  position  altered, 
—  the  heads  must  be  towards  the  west ; 
90  it  was  done,  —  though  they  are  in  a 
place  so  veiled  in  woods  that  either  ris- 
ing or  setting  sun  will  find  it  hard  to 
spy  them. 

We  have  now  a  good  regimental  hos- 
pital, admirably  arranged  in  a  deserted 
gin -house,  —  a  fine  well  of  our  own 
digging,  within  the  camp-lines,  —  a  ful- 
allowance  of  tents,  all  floored, — a  wood- 
en cook-house  to  every  company,  with 
sometimes  a  palmetto  mess-house  be- 
side,—  a  substantial  wooden  guard- 
house, with  a  fireplace  five  feet  "  in  de 
clar,"  where  the  men  off  duty  can  dry 
themselves  and  sleep .  comfortably  in 
bunks  afterwards.  We  have  also  a 
great  circular  school-tent,  made  of  con- 
demned canvas,  thirty  feet  in  diameter, 
and  looking  like  some  of  the  Indian 
lodges  I  saw  in  Kansas.  \Ve  now  med- 
itate a  regimental  bakery.  Our  aggre- 
gate has  increased  fr6m  four  hundred 
and  ninety  to  seven  hundred  and  forty, 
besides  a  hundred  recruits  now  waiting 
at  St.  Augustine,  and  we  have  prac- 
tised through  all  the  main  movements 
in  battalion  drill. 

Affairs  being  thus  prosperous,  and 
yesterday  having  been  six  weeks  since 
my  last  and  only  visit  to  Beaufort,  I  rode 
in,  glanced  at  several  camps,  and  dined 
•with  the  General.  It  seemed  absolute- 
fy  iikeredntering  the  world ;  and  I  did 


not  fully  estimate  my  past  seclusion  till 
it  occurred  to  me,  as  a  strange  and  nov- 
el phenomenon,  that  the  soldiers  at  the 
other  camps  were  white. 

January  8 .  —  This  morning  I  went 
to  Beaufort  again,  on  necessary  busi- 
ness, and  by  good  luck  happened  upon 
a  review  and  drill  of  the  white  regi- 
ments. The  thing  that  struck  me  most 
was  that  same  absence  of  uniformity, 
in  minor  points,  that  I  noticed  at  first 
in  my  own  officers.  The  best  regi- 
ments in  the  Department  are  represent- 
ed among  my  captains  and  lieutenants, 
and  very  well  represented,  too ;  yet  it 
has  cost  much  labor  to  bring  them  to 
any  uniformity  in  their  drill.  There  is 
no  need  of  this,  for  the  prescribed 
"  Tactics  **  approach  perfection :  it  is 
never  left  discretionary  in  what  place 
an  officer  shall  stand,  or  in  what  words 
he  shall  give  his  order.  .  All  variation 
would  seem  to  imply  negligence.  Yet 
even  West  Point  occasionally  varies 
from  the  "  Tactics," — as,  for  instance,  in 
requiring  the  line  officers  to  face  down 
the  line,  when  each  is  giving  the  order 
to  his  company.  In  our  strictest  Mas- 
sachusetts regiments  this  is  not  done. 

It  needs  an  artist's  eye  to  make  a 
perfect  drill -master.  Yet  the  small 
points  are  not  merely  a  matter  of  punc- 
tilio; for,  the  more  perfectly  a  battal- 
ion is  drilled  on  the  parade-ground,  the 
more  quietly  it  can  be  handled  in  ac- 
tion. Moreover,  the  great  need  of  uni- 
formity is  this :  that,  in  the  field,  sol- 
diers of  different  companies,  and  even 
of  different  regiments,  are  liable  to  be 
intermingled,  and  a  diversity  of  orders 
may  throw  ever}tliing  into  confusion. 
Confusion  means  Bull  Run. 

I  wished  my  men  at  the  review  to- 
day; for,  amidst  all  the  rattling  and 
noise  of  artillery  and  the  galloping  of 
cavaby,  there  was  only  one  infantry 
movement  that  we  have  not  practised, 
and  that  was  done  by  only  one  regi- 
ment, and  apparently  considered  quite 
a  novelty,  though  it  is  easily  taught,  — 
forming  square  by  Casey's  method :  for- 
ward on  centre. 

It  is  really  just  as  easy  to  drill  a  reg- 
iment as  a  company,  —  perhaps  easier, 


^ 


1865.] 


Leaves  from  an  Officet^s  Journal. 


67 


because  one  has  more  time  to  think; 
but  it  is  just  as  essential  to  be  sharp 
and  decisive,  perfectly  clear-headed,  and 
to  put  life  into  the  men.  A  regiment 
seems  small  when  one  has  learned  how 
to  handle  it,  a  mere  nandful  of  men ; 
and  I  have  no  doubt  that  a  brigade  or 
a  division  would  soon  appear  equally 
smalL  But  to  handle  f\Aitx  judkiausly^ 
—  ah,  that  is  another  af^r  ! 

So  of  governing :  it  is  as  easy  to  gov- 
ern a  regiment  as  a  school  or  a  facto- 
ry, and  needs  like  qualities, — system, 
promptness,  patience,  tact ;  moreover, 
in  a  regiment  one  has  the  aid  of  the  ad- 
mirable machinery  of  the  army,  so  that 
I  see  very  ordinary  men  who  succeed 
very  tolerably. 

Reports  of  a  six  months'  armistice 
are  rife  here,  and  the  thought  is  de- 
plored by  all.  I  cannot  believe  it,  yet 
sometimes  on£  feels  very  anxious  about 
the  ultimate  fite  of  these  poor  people. 
After  the  experience  of  Hungary,  one- 
sees  that  revolutions  may  go  backward  ; 
and  the  habit  of  injustice  seems  so  deep- 
ly impressed  upon  the  whites,  that  it  is 
hard  to  believe  in  the  possibility  of  any- 
thing better.  I  dare  not  yet  hope  that 
the  promise  of  the  President's  Procla- 
mation will  be  kept  For  myself  I  can 
be  indifferent,  for  the  experience  here 
has  been  its  own  daily  and  hourly  re- 
ward ;  and  the  adaptedness  of  the  freed 
slaves  for  drill  and  discipline  is  now 
thoroughly  demonstrated  and  must  soon 
be  universally  acknowledged.  But  it 
would  be  terrible  to  see  this  regiment 
disbanded  or  defrauded. 

yanuary  12.  —  Many  things  glide  by 
without  time  to  narrate  them.  On  Sat- 
urday we  had  a  mail  with  the  Presi- 
dent's Second  Message  of  Emancipa- 
tion, and  the  next  day  it  was  read  to 
the  men.  The  words  themselves  did 
not  stir  them  very  much,  because  they 
have  been  often  told  that  they  were 
free,  especially  on  New- Year's  Day,  and, 
being  unversed  in  politics,  they  do  not 
understand,  as  well  as  we  do,  the  impor- 
tance of  each  additional  guaranty.  But 
the  chaplain  spoke  to  them  afterwards 
very  effectively,  as  usual ;  and  then  I 
proposed  to  them  to  hold  up  their  hands 


and  pledge  themselves  to  be  faithiul  to 
those  still  in  bondage.  They  entered 
heartily  into  this,  and  the  scene  was 
quite  impressive,  beneath  the  great  oak- 
branches.  I  heard  afterwards  that  only 
one  man  refused  to  raise  his  hand,  say- 
ing bluntly  that  his  wife  was  put  of  sla* 
very  with  him,  and  he  did  not  care  to 
fight  The  other  soldiers  of  his  company 
were  very  indignant,  and  shoved  him 
about  among  them  while  marching  back 
to  their  quarters,  calling  him  '*  Coward.'' 
I  was  glad  of  their  exhibition  of  feeling, 
though  it  is  very  possible  that  the  one 
who  had  thus  the  moral  courage  to 
stand  alone  among  his  comrades  might 
be  more  reliable,  on  a  pinch,  than  some 
who  yielded  a  more  ready  assent  But 
the  whole  response,  on  their  part,  was 
very  hearty,  and  will  be  a  good  thing 
to  which  to  hold  them  hereafter,  at  any 
time  of  discouragement  or  demoraliza- 
tion, —  which  was  my  chief  reason  for 
proposing  it  With  their  simple  na- 
tures, it  is  a  great  thing  to  tie  them  to 
some  definite  committal ;  they  never 
forget  a  marked  occurrence,  and  never 
seem  disposed  to  evade  a  pledge. 

It  is  this  capacity  of  honor  and  fidel- 
ity which  gives  me  such  entire  faith  in 
them  as  soldiers.  Without  it,  all  their 
religious  demonstration  would  be  mere 
sentimentality.  For  instance,  every  one 
who  visits  the  camp  is  struck  with  their 
bearing  as  sentinels.  They  exhibit,  in 
this  capacity,  not  an  upstart  conceit,  but 
a  steady,  conscientious  devotion  to  du- 
ty. They  would  stop  their  idolized  Gen- 
eral Saxton,  if  he  attempted  to  cross 
their  beat  contrary  to  orders :  I  have 
seen  them.  No  feeble  or  incompetent 
race  could  do  this.  The  officers  tell 
many  amusing  instances  of  this  fidelity, 
but  I  think  mine  the  best 

It  was  very  dark  the  other  night, — 
an  unusual  thing  here,— and  the  rain 
fell  in  torrents ;  so  I  put  on  my  India- 
rubber  suit,  and  went  the  rounds  of  the 
sentinels,  incognito,  to  test  them.  I  can 
only  say  that  I  shall  never  try  such  an 
experiment  again,  and  have  cautioned 
my  ofEcers  against  it  T  is  a  wonder 
I  escaped  with  life  and  limb, — such  a 
charging  of  bayonets  and  clicking  of 


68 


Leaves  from  an  Officer^ s  Journals. 


[January, 


gua-Iocks.  Sometimes  I  tjempted  them 
by  refusing  to  give  any  countersign,  but 
offering  them  a  piece  of  tobacco,  which 
they  could  not  accept  without  allowing 
me  nearer  than  the  prescribed  bayonet's 
distance.  Tobacco  is  more  than  gold  to 
them,  and  it  was  touching  to  watch  the 
struggle  in  their  minds  ;  but  they  always 
did  their  duty  at  last,  and  I  never  could 
persuade  them.  One  man,  as  if  wishing 
to  crush  all  his  inward  vacillations  at 
one  fell  stroke,  told  me  stoutly  that  he 
never  used  tobacco,  though  I  found  next 
day  tiiat  he  loved  it  as  much  as  any  one 
of  them.  It  seemed  wrong  thus  to  tam- 
per with  their  fidelity ;  yet  it  was  a  vital 
matter  to  me  to  know  how  far  it  could 
be  trusted,  out  of  my  sight  It  was  so 
intensely  dark  that  not  more  than  one 
or  two  knew  me,  even  after  I  had  talked 
with  the  very  next  sentinel,  especially 
as  they  had  never  seen  me  in  India-rub- 
ber clothing,  and  I  can  always  disguise 
my  voice.  It  was  easy  to  distinguish 
those  who  did  make  the  discovery ;  they 
were  always .  conscious  and  simpering 
when  their  turn  came  ;  while  the  others 
were  stout  and  irreverent  till  I  revealed 
myself,  and  then  rather  cowed  and  anx- 
ious, fearing  to  have  offended. 

It  rained  harder  and  harder,  and 
when  I  had  nearly  made  ^e  rounds, 
I  had  had  enough  of  it,  and,  simply  giv- 
ing the  countersign  to  the  challenging 
sentinel,  undertook  to  pass  within  the 
lines. 

"  Halt ! "  exclaimed  this  dusky  man 
and  brother,  bringing  down  his  bayonet, 
—  "  de  countersign  not  correck." 

Now  the  magic  word,  in  this  case, 
was  **  Vicksburg,"  in  honor  of  a  rumored 
victory.  But  as  I  knew  that  these  hard 
names  became  quite  transformed  up- 
on their  lips,  "  Carthage"  being  familiar- 
ized into  Cartridge,  and  "Concord"  in- 
to Corn-cob,  how  could  I  possibly  tell 
what  shade  of  pronunciation  my  friend 
might  prefer  for  this  particular  proper 
name? 

"  Vicksburg,"  I  repeated,  blandly,  but 
authoritatively,  endeavoring,  as  zealous- 
ly as  one  of  Christ/s  Minstrels,  to  as- 
similate my  speech  to  any  supposed  pre- 
dilection of  the  Ethiop  vocal  organs. 


''Halt  darl  Countersign  not  cor- 
reck,"  was-  the  only  answer. 

The  bayonet  still  maintained  a  posi- 
tion which,  in  a  military  point  of  view, 
was  impressive. 

I  tried  persuasion,  orthography, 
threats,  tobacco,  all  in  vain.  I  could 
not  pass  in.  Of  course  my  pride  was 
up  ;  for  was  I  to  defer  to  an  untutored 
African  on  a  point  of  pronunciation  ? 
Classic  shades  of  Harvard,  forbid  !  Af- 
fecting scornful  indifference,  I  tried  to 
edge  away,  proposing  to  myself  to  enter 
the  camp  at  some  other  point,  where 
my  elocution  would  be  better  appreci- 
ated.   Not  a  step  could  I  sdr. 

"  Halt  I "  shouted  my  gentleman  again, 
still  holding  me  at  his  bayonet's  point, 
and  I  wincing  and  halting. 

I  explained  to  him  the  extreme  ab- 
surdity of  this  proceeding,  called  his 
attention  to  the  state  of  the  weather, 
which,  indeed,  spoke  for  itself  so  loud- 
4y  that  we  could  hardly  hear  each  oth- 
er speak,  and  requested  permission  to 
withdraw.  The  bayonet,  with  mute  el- 
oquence, refused  the  application. 

There  flashed  into  my  mind,  with 
more  enjoyment  in  the  retrospect  than 
I  had  experienced  at  the  time,  an  ad- 
venture on  a  lecturing  tour  in  other 
years,  when  I  had  spent  an  hour  in  try- 
ing to  scramble  into  a  coimtry  tavern, 
after  bed-time,  on  the  coldest  night  of 
winter.  On  that  occasion  I  ultimately 
found  myself  stuck  midway  in  the  win- 
dow, with  my  head  in  a  temperature  of 
80**,  and  my  heels  in  a  temperature  of 
— 10°,  with  a  heavy  window-sash  pin- 
ioning the  small  of  my  back.  How- 
ever, I  had  got  safe  out  of  that  dilemma, 
and  it  was  time  to  put  an  end  to  this 
one. 

"  Call  the  corporal  of  the  guard,"  said 
I,  at  last,  with  dignity,  unwilling  either 
to  make  a  night  of  it  or  to  yield  my 
incognito. 

"  Corporal  ob  de  guard  1 "  he  shout- 
ed, lustily, —  " Post  Number  Two!" 
while  I  could  hear  another  sentinel 
chuckling  with  laughter.  This  last  was 
a  special  guard,  placed  over  a  tent,  with 
a  prisoner  in  charge.  Presently  he 
broke  silence. 


1865.] 


Leaves  from  an  Officei^s  Joumed. 


69 


**  Who  am  dat  ?  "  he  asked,  in  a  stage 
whisper.  ''Am  he  a  buckra  [white 
man]  ?  ' 

*'  Dunno  whether  he  been  a  buckra 
or  not,**  responded,  doggedly,  my  Cer- 
berus in  uniform  ;  ^  but  I  's  bound  to 
keep  him  here  till  de  corporal  ob  de 
guard  come." 

Yet,  when  that  dignitary  arrived,  and 
I  revealed  myself^  poor  Number  Two 
appeared  utterly  transfixed  with  terror, 
and  seemed  to  look  for  nothing  less 
than  immediate  execution.  Of  course 
I  praised  his  fidelity,  and  the  next  day 
complimented  him  before  the  guard, 
and  mentioned  him  to  his  captain ;  and 
the  whole  affair  was  very  good  for  them 
alL  Hereafter,  if  Satan  himself  should 
approach  them  in  darkness  and  storm, 
they  will  take  him  for  "de  Cunnel," 
and  treat  him  with  special  severity. 

January  13.  —  In  many  ways  the 
childish  nature  of  this  people  shows 
Itself.  I  have  just  had  to  make  a  change 
of  officers  in  a  company  which  has  con- 
stantly complained,  and  with  good  rea- 
son, of  neglect  and  improper  treatment 
Two  excellent  officers  have  been  as- 
signed to  them ;  and  yet  they  sent  a 
deputation  to  me  in  the  evening,  in  a 
state  of  utter  wretchedness.  "We  's 
bery  grieved  dis  evening.  Gunnel  ; 
^ars  like  we  could  n't  bear  it,  to  lose 
de  Cap*n  and  de  Lieutenant,  all  two  to- 
geder."  Argument  was  useless  ;  and 
I  could  only  fall  back  on  the  general 
theory,  that  I  knew  what  was  best  for 
them,  which  had  much  more  effect ;  and 
I  also  could  cite  the  instance  of  anoth- 
er company,  which  had  been  much  im- 
proved by  a  new  captain,  as  they  read- 
ily admitted.  So  with  the  promise  that 
the  new  officers  should  not  be  "sav- 
age to  we,"  which  was  the  one  thing 
they  deprecated,  I  assuaged  their  woes. 
Twenty-four  hours  have  passed,  and  I 
hear  them  singing  most  merrily  all 
down  that  company-street 

I  often  notice  how  their  griefs  may  be 
dispelled,  like  those  of  children,  mere- 
ly by  permission  to  utter  them  :  if  they 
can  tell  their  sorrows,  they  go  away  hap- 
py, even  without  asking  to  have  any- 
thing done  about  them.    I  observe  also 


a  peculiar  dislike  of  all  intermediate 
control :  they  always  wish  to  pass  by 
the  company  officer,  and  deal  with  me 
personally  for  everything.  General  S^- 
ton  notices  the  same  thing  with  fhe 
people  on  the  plantations  as  regards 
himself.  I  suppose  this  proceeds  part- 
ly from  the  old  habit  of  appealing  to 
the  master  against  the  overseer.  Kind 
words  would  cost  the  master  nothing, 
and  he  could  easily  put  off  any  non-ful- 
filment upon  the  overseer.  Moreover, 
the  negroes  have  acquired  such  consti- 
tutional distrust  of  white  people,  that 
it  is  perhaps  as  much  as  they  can  do  to 
trust  more  than  one  person  at  a  time. 
Meanwhile  this  -  constant  personal  in- 
tercourse is  out  of  the  question  in  a 
well-ordered  regiment ;  and  the  remedy 
for  it  is  to  introduce  by  degrees  more 
and  more  of  system,  so  that  ^eir  imme- 
diate officers  will  become  all-sufficient 
for  the  daily  routine. 

It  is  perfectly  true  (as  I  find  every- 
body takes  for  granted)  that  the  first  es- 
sential for  an  officer  of  colored  troops  is 
to  gain  their  confidence.  But  it  is  equal- 
ly true,  though  many  persons  do  not  ap-^ 
predate  it,  that  the  admirable  methods 
and  proprieties  of  the  regular  army  are 
equally  available  for  all  troops,  and  that 
the  sublimest  philanthropist,  if  he  does 
not  appreciate  this,  is  unfit  to  command 
them.  • 

Another  childlike  attribute  in  these 
men,  which  is  less  agreeable,  is  a  sort 
of  blunt  insensibility  to  giving  physi- 
cal pain.  If  they  are  cruel  to  animals, 
for  instance,  it  always  reminds  me  of 
children  pulling  off  fiies*  legs,  in  a  sort 
of  pitiless,  untaught,  experimental  way. 
Yet  I  should  not  fear  any  wanton  out- 
rage fix)m  them.  After  all  their  wrongs, 
they  are  not  really  revengeful ;  and  I 
would  iix  rather  enter  a  captured  city 
with  them  than  with  white  troops,  for 
they  would  be  more  subordinate.  But 
for  mere  physical  suffering  they  would 
have  no  fine  sympathies.  The  cruel 
things  they  have  seen  and  undergone 
have  helped  to  blunt  them ;  and  if  I 
ordered  them  to  put  to  death  a' dozen 
prisoners,  I  think  they  would  do  it 
without  remonstrance. 


70 


Leaves  from  an  Officei^s  JoumaL 


[January, 


Yet  their  religious  spirit  grows  more 
beautiful  to  me  in  living  longer  with 
tliem :  it  is  ceirtainly  far  more  so  than 
at  first,  when  it  seemed  rather  a  mat- 
ted of  phrase  and  habit  It  influences 
them  both  on  the  negative  and  the  pos- 
itive side.  That  is,  it  cultivates  the 
feminine  virtues  first, — makes  them  pa- 
tient, meek,  resigned.  This  is  very  ev- 
ident in  the  hospital ;  there  is  nothing 
of  the  resdess,  defiant  habit  of  white 
invalids.  Perhaps,  if  they  had  more 
of  this,  they  would  resist  disease  better. 
Imbued  from  childhood  with  the  habit 
of  submission,  drinking  in  through  ev- 
ery pore  that  other-world  trust  which 
Is  the  one  spirit  of  their  songs,  they  can 
endure  everything.  This  I  expected ; 
but  I  am  relieved  to  find  diat  their  re- 
ligion strengtliens  them  on  the  positive 
side  also, — gives  zeal,  energy,  daring. 
They  could  easily  be  made  fanatics,  if 
I  chose ;  but  I  do  not  choose.  Their 
whole  mood  is  essentially  Mohamme- 
dan^ perhaps,  in  its  strength  and  its 
weakness  ;  and  I  feel  the  same  degree 
of  sympathy  that  I  should,  if  I  had  a 
Turkish  command,  —  that  is,  a  sort  of 
sympathetic  admiration,  not  tending  to- 
wards agreement,  but  towards  coopera- 
tion. Their  philosophizing  is  often  the 
highest  form  of  mysticism ;  and  our  dear 
surgeon  declares  that  they  are  all  natu- 
ral transi^endentalists.  The  white  camps 
seem  rough  and  secular,  after  this ;  and 
I  hear  our  men  talk  about  '*  a  religious 
army,**  "  a  Gospel  army,"*  in  their  prayer- 
meetings.  They  are  certainly  evange- 
lizing the  chaplain,  who  was  rather  a 
heretic  at  the  beginning ;  at  least,  this 
is  his  own  admission.  We  have  re- 
cruits on  their  way  fi'om  St.  Augustine, 
where  the  negroes  are  chiefly  Roman 
Catholics  ;  and  it  will  be  interesting  to 
see  how  their  type  of  character  combines 
with  that  elder  creed. 

It  is  time  for  rest ;  and  I  have  just 
looked  out  into  the  night,  where  the 
eternal  stars  shut  down,  in  concave 
protection,  over  the  yet  glimmering 
camp,  and  Orion  hangs  above  my  tent- 
door,  giving  to  me  the  sense  of  strength 
and  assurance  which  these  simple  chil- 
dren obtain  from  their  Moses  and  the 


Prophets.  Yet  external  Nature  does  its 
share  in  their  training;  witness  that 
most  poetic  of  all  their  songs,  which 
always  reminds  me  of  the  "  Lyke-Wake 
Dirge  "^  in  the  ''  Scottish  Border  Min- 
strelsy " :  — 

"  I  kaow  mooQ-rifle,  I  knofMr  star-rise  ; 

Lay  dis  body  down. 
I  walk  in  dc  moonlight,  I  walk  in  de  itariighl. 

To  lay  dis  body  down. 
1 11  walk  in  de  graveyazd,  1 11  walk  thnnigh  de 
gnive)'ard. 

To  by  dis  body  down. 
I  *11  lie  in  de  grave  and  stretch  out  my  anns ; 

Lay  dis  body  down. 
I  go  to  de  Judgment  in  de  evening  ob  de  day 

When  I  lay  dis  body  down  ; 
And  my  soul  and  your  soul  will  meet  in  de  day 

When  I  by  dis  body  down." 

January  14.  —  In  speaking  of  the  mil- 
itary quaUties  of  the  blacks,  I  should 
add,  that  the  only  point  where  I  am 
disappointed  is  one  I  have  never  seen 
raised  by  the  most  incredulous  news- 
paper critics, — namely,  their  physical 
condition.  They  often  look  magnifi- 
centiy  to  my  gymnasium-trained  eye ; 
and  I  always  like  to  observe  them 
when  bathing,  —  such  splendid  muscu- 
lar development,  set  off"  by  that  smooth 
coating  of  adipose  tissue  which  makes 
them,  like  the  South-Sea  Islanders,  ap- 
pear even  more  muscular  than  they  are. 
Their  skins  are  also  of  finer  grain  than 
those  of  whites,  the  surgeons  say,  and 
certainly  are  smoother  and  far  more 
free  from  hair.  Their  weakness  is  pul- 
monary; pneumon]«f  and  pleurisy  are 
their  besetting  ailments ;  they  are  easily 
made  ill,  —  and  easily  cured,  if  prompt- 
ly treated  :  childish  organization  again. 
Guard-duty  injures  them  more  than 
whites,  apparentiy;  and  double-quick 
movements,  in  choking  dust,  set  them 
coughing  badly.  But  then  it  is  to  be 
remembered  that  this  is  their  sickly 
season,  from  January  to  March,  and 
that  their  healthy  season  will  come  in 
summer,  when  the  whites  break  down. 
Still  my  conviction  of  the  physical  su- 
periority of  more  highly  civilized  races 
is  strengthened  on  the  whole,  not  weak- 
ened, by  observing  them.  As  to  avail- 
ability for  military  drill  and  duty  in 
other  respects,  the  only  question  I  ev- 
er hear  debated  among  the  officers  is. 


i86s.] 


Ltaves  from  an  Officer's  Journal. 


71 


whether  they  are  equal  of  superior  to 
whites.  I  have  never  heard  it  sug- 
gested that  they  were  inferior,  although 
I  expected  frequently  to  hear  such  com- 
plaints from  hasty  or  imsuccessful  offi- 
cers. 

Of  one  thing  I  am  sure,  that  their 
best  qualities  will  be  wasted  by  merely 
keeping  them  for  garrison  duty.     They 
seem  peculiarly  fitted  for  offensive  op- 
erations,  and    especially   for    partisan 
warfare ;  they  have  so  much  dash  and 
such  abundant  resources,  combined  with 
such  an  Indian-like  knowledge  of  the 
country  and  its   ways.      These  traits 
have  been  often  illustrated  in  expedi- 
tions sent  after  deserters.   For  instance, 
J  despatched  one  of  my  best  lieutenants 
and  my  best  sergeant  with  a  squad  of 
men  to  search  a  certain    plantation, 
where  there  were  two  separate  negro 
villages.     They  went  by  night,  and  the 
force  was  divided.    The  lieutenant  took 
one  set  of  huts,  the  sergeant  the  other. 
Before  the  lieutenant  had  reached  his 
first  house,  every  man  in  the  village 
was  in  the  woods,  innocent  and  guilty 
alike.     But  the  sergeant's  mode  of  op- 
eration was  thus  described  by  a  cor- 
poral from  a  white  regiment  who  hap- 
j>ened  to  be  in  one  of  the  negro  houses. 
He  said  that  not  a  sound  was  heard 
until  suddenly  a  red  leg  appeared  in 
the  open  doorway,  and  a  voice  outside 
said,  "  Rally."     Going  to  the  door,  he 
observed  a  similar  pair  of  red  legs  be- 
fore every  hut,  and  not  a  person  was 
allowed  to  go  out,  until  the  quarters 
had  been  thoroughly  searched,  and  the 
three  deserters  found.     This  was  man- 
aged by   Sergeant  Prince  Rivers,  our 
color-sergeant,  who  is  provost-sergeant 
ako,  and  has  entire  charge  of  the  pris- 
oners and  of  the  daily  policing  of  the 
camp.     He  is  a  man  of  distinguished 
appearance,  and  in  old  times  was  the 
crack  coachman  of  Beaufort,  in  which 
capacity    he    once   drove    Beauregard 
from  this   plantation  to  Charleston,  I 
believe.    They  i^Ml  me  that  he  was  once 
allowed  to  present  a  petition   to  the 
Governor  of  South  Carolina  in  behalf 
of  slaves,   for  the   redress  of  certain 
grievances  ;  and  that  a  placard,  offering 


two  thousand  dollars  lor  his  recapture, 
is  still  to  be  seen  by  the  wayside  be- 
tween here  and  Charleston.     He  was  a 
sergeant  in  the  old  "  Hunter  Regiment," 
and  was  taken  by  General  Huntef  to 
New  York  last  spring,  where  the  cheif- 
rons  on  his  arm  brought  a  mob  upon 
him  in  Broadway,  whom  he  kept  off  till 
the  police  interfered.    There  is  not  a 
white  officer  in  this  regiment  who  has 
more  administrative  ability,  or  more  ab- 
solute authority  over  the  men ;  tiiey  da 
not  love  him,  but  his  mere  presence 
has  controlling  power  over  them.     He 
writes  well  enough  to  prepare  for  me  a 
daily  report  of  his  duties  in  the  camp : 
if  his  education  reached  a  higher  pointy 
I  see  no  reason  why  he  should  not 
command  the  Army  of  the  Potomac. 
He  is  jet-black,  or  rather,  I  should  say, 
wine-black;  his  complexion,  like  that 
of  others  of  my  darkest  men,  having  a 
sort  of  rich,  clear  depth,  without  a  trace 
of  sootiness,  and  to  my  eye  very  hand- 
some.    His  features  are  tolerably^ regu- 
lar, and  full  of  command,  and  his  fig- 
ure superior  to  that  of  any  of  our  white 
officers, — being  six  feet  high,  perfect- 
ly proportioned,  and  of  apparentiy  in- 
exhaustible strength  and  activity.    His 
gait  is  like  a  panther's ;  I  never  saw 
such  a  tread.      No  anti-slavery  novel 
has  described  a  man  of  such  marked 
ability.     He  makes  Toussaint  perfectly 
intelligible  ;  and  if  there  should  ever  be 
a  black  monarchy  in  South  Carolina,  he 
will  be  its  king. 

January  15.  —  This  morning  is  like 
May.  Yesterday  I  saw  bluebirds  and 
a  butterfly ;  so  this  winter  of  a  fortnight 
is  over.  I  fancy  a  trifle  less  coughing 
in  the  camp.  We  hear  of  other  stations 
in  the  Department  where  the  mortal- 
ity, chiefly  from  yellow  fever,  has  been 

frightful.      Dr.  is  rubbing  his 

hands  professionally  over  the  fearful 
tales  of  the  surgeon  of  a  New  York 
regiment,  just  from  Key  West,  who  has 
had  two  hundred  cases  of  the  fever. 
''  I  suppose  he  is  a  skilful,  highly  edu- 
cated man,"  said  I.  "Yes," he  respond- 
ed with  enthusiasm.  "Why,  he  had 
seventy  deaths ! " — as  if  that  proved  his 
superiority  past  questLon. 


72 


Leaves  from  an  Officei^s  yaumal. 


[Januaiy; 


yanuary  19. 

**  And  first,  sitting  prottd  as  a  king  on  his  throne, 
At  the  head  of  them  all  rode  Sir  Richard  Tyrone.** 

But  I  fancy  that  Sir  Richard  felt  not 
much  better  satisfied  with  his  following 
than  I  to-day.  J.  R.  L.  said  once  that 
nothing  was  quite  so  good  as  turtle- 
soup,  except  mock-turtle ;  and  I  •  have 
heard  ofiicers  declare  that  nothing  was 
so  stirring  as  real  war,  except  some  ex- 
citing parade.  To-day,  for  the  first  time, 
I  marched  the  whole  regiment  through 
Beaufort  and  back,  —  the  first  appear- 
ance of  such  a  novelty  on  any  stage. 
They  did  march  splendidly :  this  all  ad- 
mit M *s  prediction  was  fulfilled  : 

•*  Will  not be  in  bliss  ?  A  thou- 
sand men,  every  one  black  as  a  coal ! " 
I  confess  it  To  look  back  on  twenty 
broad  double-ranks  of  men,  (for  they 
marched  by  platoons,)  —  every  polished 
musket  having  a  black  face  beside  it,  and 
every  face  set  steadily  to  the  front,  —  a 
regiment  of  freed  slaves  marching  on 
into  the  future,  —  it  was  something  to 
remember ;  and  when  they  returned 
through  the  same  streets,  marching  by 
the  flank,  with  guns  at  a  "support,* 
and  each  man  covering  his  file-leader 
handsomely,  the  effect  on  the  eye  was 
almost  as  fine.  The  band  of  the  Eighth 
Maine  joined  us  at  the  entrance  of  the 
town,  and  escorted  us  in.  Sergeant 
Rivers  said  ecstatically  afterwards,  in 
describing  the  affair,  —  "  And  when  dat 
band  wheel  in  before  us,  and  march  on, 
—  my  God !  I  quit  dis  world  altogeder." 
I  wonder  if  he  pictured  to  himself  the 
many  du^y  regiments,  now  unformed, 
which  I  seemed  to  see  marching  up  be- 
hind us,  gathering  shape  out  of  the  dim 
air. 

I  had  cautioned  the  men,  before  leav- 
ing camp,  not  to  be  staring  about  them 
as  they  marched,  but  to  look  straight  to 
the  front,  every  man ;  and  tliey  did  it 
with  their  accustomed  fidelity,  aided  by 
the  sort  of  spontaneous  eye-for-efTect 
which  is  in  all  their  melodramatic  na- 
tures. One  of  them  was  heard  to  say  ex- 
ultingly  afterwards,  —  "We  did  n*t  look 
to  de  right  nor  to  de  leff.  I  did  n*t  see 
notin*  in  Beaufort  Eb'ry  step  was 
worth  a  half-a-dollar."    And  they  all 


marched  as  if  it  were  so.  They  knew 
well  that  they  were  marching  through 
throngs  of  officers  and  soldiers  who  had 
drilled  as  many  months  as  we  had 
drilled  weeks,  and  whose  eyes  would 
readily  spy  out  every  defect  And  I 
must  say,  that,  on  the  whole,  with  a  few 
trivial  exceptions,  those  spectators  be« 
haved  in  a  manly  and  courteous  man- 
ner, and  I  do  not  care  to  write  down  all 
the  handsome  things  that  were  said* 
Whether  said  or  not,  they  were  de- 
served ;  and  there  is  no  danger  that 
our  men  will  not  take  sufficient  satis- 
fection  in  their  good  appearance.  I 
was  especially  amused  at  one  of  our 
recruits,  who  did  not  march  in  the 
ranks,  and  who  said,  after  watching 
the  astonishment  of  some  white  sol- 
diers, —  "  De  buckra  sojers  look  like  a 
man  who  been-a-steal  a  sheep," — that 
is,  I  supjtose,  sheepish. 

After  passing  and  repassing  through 
the  town,  we  marched  to  the  parade- 
ground  and  went  through  an  hour's  drill, 
forming  squares  and  reducing  them,  and 
doing  other  things  which  look  hard  on 
paper  and  are  perfectly  easy  in  fact; 
and  we  were  to  have  been  reviewed  by 
General  Saxton,  but  he  had  been  unex- 
pectedly called  to  Ladies  Island,  and 
did  not  see  us  at  all,  which  was  the  on- 
ly thing  to  mar  the  men*s  enjoyment 
Then  we  marched  back  to  camp,  (three 
miles,)  the  men  singing  the  "John  Brown 
Song,''  and  all  manner  of  things, — as  hap> 
py  creatures  as  one  can  well  conceive. 

It  is  worth  mentioning,  before  I  close, 
that  we  have  just  received  an  article 
about  "  Negro  Troops,"  firom  the  Lon- 
don "  Spectator,"  which  is  so  admirably 
true  to  our  experience  that  it  seems  as 
if  written  by  one  of  us.  1  am  confident 
that  there  never  has  been,  in  any  Amer- 
ican newspaper,  a  treatment  of  the  sub- 
ject so  discriminating  and  so  wise. 

January  21. — To-day  brought  a  visit 
from  Major-General  Hunter  and  hisstafi^ 
by  General  Saxton's  invitation, — the  for- 
mer havinjic  just  arrive*,  in  the  Depart* 
ment  I  expected  them  at  dress  parade, 
but  they  came  during  battalion  drill, 
rather  to  my  dismay,  and  we  were  caught 
in  our  old  clothes.     It  was  our  first  re- 


i8$5.] 


The 


Metropolis. 


73 


view,  and  I  dare  say  we  did  tolerably ; 
but  of  coarse  it  seemed  to  me  that  the 
men  never  appeared  so  ill  before,  — just 
as  one  always  thinks  a  party  at  one's 
own  house  a  failure,  even  if  the  guests 
seem  to  enjoy  it,  because  one  is  so 
keenly  sensitive  to  every  little  thing 
that  goes  wrong.  After  review  and 
drill.  General  Hunter  made  the  men  a 
little  speech,  at  my  request,  and  told 
them  that  he  wished  there  were  fifty 
thousand  of  them.  General  Saxton 
spoke  to  them  afterwards,  and  said  that 
fiifty  thousand  muskets  were  on  their 
way  for  colored  troops.  The  men 
cheered  both  the  Generals  lustily ;  and 
they  were  complimentary  afterwards, 
though  I  knew  that  the  regiment  could 
not  have  appeared  nearly  so  well  as  on 
its  visit  to  Beaufort  I  suppose  I  felt 
like  some  anxious  mamma  whose  chil- 
dren have  accidentally  appeased  at  dan- 
dng-school  in  their  old  clothes. 

General  Hunter  promises  us  all  we 
want,  —  pay  when  the  funds  arrive, 
Springfield  rifled  muskets,  and  blue 
trousers.  Moreover,  be  has  graciously 
consented  that  we  should  go  on  an 


expedition  along  the  coast,  to  pick  up 
cotton,  lumber,  and,  above  all,  recruits. 
I  declined  an  offer  like  this  just  after 
my  arrival,  because  the  regiment  was 
not  drilled  or  disciplined,  not  eveif  the 
officers ;  but  it  is  adl  we  wish  for  now. 

**  Wbat  care  I  how  Uack  I  bef 
Forty  pounds  wili  many  roe»" 

quoth  Mother  Goose.  Forty  rounds 
will  marry  us  to  the  American  Army, 
past  divorcing,  if  we  can  only  use  them 
well.  Our  success  or  failure  may  make 
or  mar  the  prospects  of  colored  troops. 
But  it  is  well  to  remember  in  advance 
that  military  success  is  really  less  satis- 
factory than  any  other,  because  it  may 
depend  on  a  moment's  turn  of  events, 
and  that  may  be  determined  by  some 
trivial  thing,  neither  to  be  anticipated 
nor  controlled.  Napoleon  ought  to  have 
won  at  Waterloo  by  all  reasonable  cal- 
culations; but  who  cares?  All  that  one 
can  expect  is,  to  do  one's  best,  and  to 
take  with  equanimity  the  fortune  of  war,* 

*  In  coming  to  the  record  of  more  active  serrice, 
the  Jounial  form  must  be  abandoned.  The  next 
chapter  will  give  some  account  of  an  expedition  up 
the  Sl  Mary's  River. 


THE  AMERICAN   METROPOLIS. 


A  LITTLE  more  than  two  centuries 
ago  the  site  of  New  York  City  was 
bought  by  its  first  white  owners  for  twen- 
ty-four dollars.  The  following  tabular 
statement  exhibits  the  steps  of  its  pro- 
gressive settiement  since  then. 


Year. 

Population. 

Year. 

Population. 

1656    . 

1,000 

i8ao    . 

.      123,706 

«'>n    . 

a.500 

1835    . 

Z66.089 

t(^f>   . 

■     4.y» 

1830    . 

303,569 

«73«     . 

,     8,638 

»B3$    . 

•70,068 

1756    .    < 

,   10^381 

18^    . 

.      3»a.85a 

»773    .    . 

.   tt.BTe 

1845    . 

.      37*.  an 

1786    . 

.     »3.6f4 

1850    . 

•       5«5.394 

Vffp    .     , 

33.I3* 

1855    . 

639,810 

1800    . 

.    60,489 

i860    . 

814,254 

i8fo    .     . 

•    S6.373 

1864    . 

.    1,000,000+ 

Taking  the  first  census  as  a  point  of 
departure,  the  population  of  New  York 
doubled  itself  in  about  eleven  years. 


During  the  first  century  it  increased 
a  litde  more  than  tenfold.  It  was  dou- 
bled again  in  less  than  twenty  years ; 
the  next  thirty  years  quadrupled  it ;  and 
another  period  of  twenty  years  doubled 
it  once  more.  Its  next  duplication  con- 
sumed the  shorter  term  of  eighteen 
years.  It  more  than  doubled  again  dur- 
ing the  fifteen  years  preceding  the  last 
census ;  and  the  four  years  since  that 
census  have  witnessed  an  increase  of 
nearly  twenty-three  per  cent.  This  final 
estimate  is  of  course  liable  to  correction 
by  next  year's  census,  but  its  error  will 
be  found  on  the  side  of  under-statement, 
rather  than  of  exaggeration. 

The  property  on  the  northwest  comer 
of  Broadway  and  Chamber  Street,  now 


74 


The  American  Metropolis. 


[Jaiiuaiyp 


occupied  in  part  by  one  of  Delmonico^ 
restaurants,  was  purchased  by  a  New 
York  citizen,  but  lately  deceased,  for 
the  sum  of  $i,ooo :  its  present  value  is 
$125,000.  A  single  Broadway  lot,  sur- 
veyed out  of  an  estate  which  cost  r  the 
late  John  Jay  $500  per  acre,  was  recent- 
ly sold  at  auction  for  $  80,000,  and  the 
purchaser  has  refused  a  rent  of  $16,000 
per  annum,  or  twenty  per  cent  on  his 
purchase-money,  for  the  store  which  he 
has  erected  on  the  property.  In  1826, 
the  estimated  total  value  of  real  estate  in 
the  city  of  New  York  was  $64,804,050. 
In  1863,  it  had  reached  a  total  of 
$402,196,652,  thus  increasing  more  than 
sixfold  within  the  lifetime  of  an  ordinary 
business-generation.  In  1826,  the  per- 
sonal estate  of  New  York  City,  so  far  as 
could  be  arrived  at  for  official  purposes, 
amounted  to  $42,434,981.  In  1863,  the 
estimate  of  this  class  of  property- values 
was  $192,000,161.  It  had  thus  more 
than  quadrupled  in  a  generation. 

But.  statistics  are  most  eloquent 
through  illustration.  Let  us  look  dis- 
cursively about  the  city  of  New  York  at 
various  periods  of  her  career  since  the 
opening  of  the  present  century.  I  shall 
assume  that  a  map  of  the  city  is  every- 
where attainable,  and  that  the  reader 
has  a  general  acquaintance  with  the 
physical  and  political  geography  of  the 
United  States. 

Not  far  from  the  beginning  of  the  cen- 
tury, Wall  Street,  as  its  name  implies, 
was  the  northern  boundary  of  the  city 
of  New  York.  The  present  north  boun- 
dary of  civilized  settlement  is  almost 
identical  with  the  statutory  limit  of  the 
city,  or  that  of  the  island  itself.  There 
is  no  perceptible  break,  though  there 
are  gradations  of  compactness,  in  the 
settled  district  between  the  foot  of  the 
island  and  Central  Park.  Beyond  the 
Park,  Haarlem  Lane,  Manhattanville, 
and  Carmansville  take  up  the  thread 
of  civic  population,  and  carry  it,  among 
metropolitan  houses  and  lamp-posts, 
quite  to  the  butment  of  High  Bridge. 
It  has  been  seriously  proposed  to  legis- 
late for  the  annexation  of  a  portion  of 
Westchester  to  the  bills  of  mortality, 
and  this  measure  cannot  fail  to  be  de- 


manded by  the  next  generation ;  but 
for  the  present  we  will  consider  Hi^ 
Bridge  as  the  north  end  of  the  city. 
Let  us  con^)are  the  boundary  remem- 
bered by  our  veterans  with  that  to 
which  metropolitan  settlement  has  been 
pushed  by  them  and  their  children.  In 
the  lifetime  of  our  oldest  business-men, 
the  advance  wave  of  civic  refinement, 
convenience,  luxury,  and  populati^  has 
travelled  a  distance  greater  thaVthat 
from  the  Westminster  Palaces  to  the 
hulks  at  the  Isle  of  Dogs.  When  we 
consider  that  the  population  of  the  Amer- 
ican Metropolis  lives  better,  on  the  aver- 
age, than  that  of  any  earthly  capital,  and 
that  ninety-nine  hundredths  of  slU  out-suf- 
fering poor  are  the  overflow  of  Great  Brit- 
ain's pauperism  running  into  our  grand 
channels  a  little  fisister  than  we  can  di- 
rect its  current  to  the  best  advantage, — 
under  these  circumstances  the  advance 
made  by  New  York  in  less  than  a  cen- 
tury toward  the  position  of  the  world's 
metropolis  is  a  more  important  one 
than  has  been  gained  by  London  be- 
tween the  time  of  Julius  Csesar  and  the 
present  century. 

I  know  an  excellent  business-man 
who  was  bom  in  his  Other's  aristocrat- 
ic residence  in  Beaver  Street  Holbom 
is  as  aristocratic  now.  Another  friend 
of  mine  still  living,  the  freshest  of  sex- 
agenarians, told  me  lately  of  a  walk  he 
took  in  boyhood  which  so  much  iatigued 
him,  that,  when  he  was  a  long  way  out 
in  the  fields,  he  sat  down  to  rest  on  the 
steps  of  a  suburban  hospital.  I  guessed 
BeUevue ;  but  he  replied  that  it  was  the 
New  York  Hospital,  standing  in  what 
we  now  call  the  lower  part  of  Broad- 
way, just  opposite  North  Pearl  Street 
No  part  of  the  Strand  or  of  the  Boule- 
vards is  less  rural  than  the  vast  settled 
district  about  the  New  York  Hospital 
at  this  day.  It  stands  at  least  four  times 
farther  within  than  it  then  did  beyond 
the  circumference  of  New  York  civiliza- 
tion. I  remember  another  illustration 
of  its  relative  situation  early  in  the 
century, — a  story  of  good  old  Doctor 
Stone,  who  excused  himself  firom  his 
position  of  manager  by  saying,  that,  as 
the  infirmities  of  age  grew  on  him,  he 


i86s.] 


The  American  Metropolis. 


75 


found  the  New  York  Hospital  so  far 
out  in  the  country  that  he  should  be 
obliged,  if  he  stayed,  to  keep  ^*  a  horse 
and  ch^er^ 

Many  New- Yorkers,recognized  among 
our  young  and  active  men,  can  recollect 
when  Houston  Street  was  called  North 
Street  because  it  was  practically  the 
northern  boundary  of  the  settled  district 
Middle-aged  men  remember  the  swamp 
of  LIspenard's  Meadow,which  is  now  the 
dryest  part  of  Canal  Street ;  some  re- 
call how  they  crossed  other  parts  of  the 
swamp  on  boards,  and  how  tide- water 
practically  made  a  separate  island  of 
what  is  now  the  northern  and  much  the 
laiger  portion  of  the  city.  Young  men 
recollect  making  Saturday  -  afternoon 
appointments  with  their  schoolfellows 
(there  was  no  time  on  any  other  day) 
to  go  "  clear  out  into  the  country,"  bathe 
in  the  rural  cove  at  the  foot  of  East 
Thirteenth  Street,  and,  refreshed  by 
their  baths,  proceed  to  bird's-nesting  on 
the  wilderness  of  the  Stuy  vesant  Farm, 
where  is  now  situate  Stuyvesant  Park, 
one  of  the  loveliest  and  most  elegant 
pleasure-grounds  open  to  the  New  York 
public,  surrounded  by  one  of  the  best- 
settled  portions  of  the  city,  in  every 
sense  of  the  word.  Still  younger  men 
remember  Fourteenth  Street  as  the  ut- 
most northern  limit  of  the  wave  of  civil- 
ization ;  and  comparative  boys  have  seen 
Franconi's  Hippodrome  pitched  in  a  va- 
cant lot  of  the  suburbs,  where  now  the 
Fifth  Avenue  Hotel  stands,  at  the  en- 
trance to  a  double  mile  of  palaces,  in  the 
northern,  southern,  and  western  direc- 
tions. 

We  may  safely  affirm,  that,  since  the 
organization  of  the  science  of  statistics, 
DO  city  in  the  world  has  ever  multiplied 
its  population,  wealth,  and  internal  re- 
sources of  livelihood  with  a  rapidity 
approaching  that  shown  by  New  York, 
London  has  of  late  years  made  great 
progress  quantitively,  but  her  means  of 
accommoUating  a  healthy  and  happy 
population  have  kept  no  adequate  pace 
with  the  increase  of  numbers.  During 
the  year  1862,  75,000  immigrants  land- 
ed at  the  port  of  New  York ;  in  1863, 
150,000  more ;  and  thus  far  in  1864  (we 


write  in  November)  200,000  have  de- 
barked here.  Of  these  425,000  immi- 
grants, 40  per  cent  have  stayed  in  the 
city.  Of  the  170,000  thus  staying,  90 
per  cent,  or  153,000,  are  British  sub- 
jects ;  and  of  these,  it  is  not  understat- 
ing to  say  that  five  eighths  are  depen- 
dent for  their  livelihood  on  physical  la- 
bor of  the  most  elementary  kind.  By 
comparing  these  estimates  with  the  tax- 
list,  it  will  appear  that  we  have  pushed 
our  own  inherent  vitality  to  an  extent 
of  forty  millions  increase  in  our  taxable 
property,  and  contributed  to  the  support 
of  the  most  gigantic  war  in  human  an- 
nals, during  tlie  period  that  we  received 
into  our  grand  civic  digestion  a  city  of 
British  subjects  as  large  as  Bristol,  and 
incorporated  diem  into  our  own  body 
polidc  with  more  comfort  both  to  mass 
and  particles  than  either  had  enjoyed  at  ^ 
home. 

There  are  still  some  people  who  re- 
gard the  settlement  of  countries  and  the 
selection  of  great  capitals  as  a  matter 
of  pure  romantic  accident.  Philoso- 
phers know,  that,  i(  at  the  opening  of 
the  Adamic  period,  any  man  had  existed 
with  a  perfect  knowled|;e  of  the  world's 
physical  geography  and  the  laws  of  na- 
tional development,  he  would  have  been 
able  to  foretell  a  priori  the  situations  of 
all  the  greatest  capitals.  It  is  a  law 
as  fixed  as  that  defining  the  course  of 
matter  in  the  line  of  least  resistance, 
tiiat  population  flows  to  the  level  where 
the  best  livelihood  is  most  easily  ob- 
tained. The  brute  motives  of  food  and 
raiment  must  govern  in  their  selection 
of  residence  nine  tenths  of  the  human 
race.  A  few  noble  enthusiasts,  like 
those  of  Plymouth  Colofly,  may  leave 
immortal  footprints  on  a  rugged  coast, 
exchanging  old  civilization  for  a  new 
battie  with  savagery,  and  abandoning 
comfort  with  conformity  for  a  good  con- 
science with  privation.  Still,  had  there 
been  back  of  Plymouth  none  of  the  tim- 
ber, the  quarries,  the  running  streams, 
the  natural  avenues  of  inland  communi- 
cation, and  to  some  extent  the  agricul- 
tural capabilities  which  make  good  sub- 
sistence possible,  there  would  have  been 
no  Boston,  no  Lynn,  no  Lowell,  no  New 


76 


The  Ammcan  Metropolis. 


[January, 


Bedford,  no  healthy  or  wealthy  civiliza- 
tion of  any  kind,  until  the  Pilgrim  civ* 
ilizadon  had  changed  its  base.  It  may 
be  generally  laid  down  that  the  men 
who  leave  home  for'truth^s  sake  exile 
themselves  as  much  for  the  privilege  to 
live  truly  and  well  at  once  as  for  the 
mere  opportunity  of  living  truly. 

New  York  was  not  even  in  the  first 
place  setded  by  enthusiasts.  Trade 
with  the  savages,  nice  little  forms  at 
Haarlem,  a  seat  among  the  burgomas* 
ters,  the  feast  of  St  Nicholas,  pipes  and 
Schiedam,  a  vessel  now  and  then  in  the 
year  bringing  over  letters  of  affection 
ripened  by  a  six  months'  voyage,  some 
litUe  ventures,  and  two  or  three  new 
colonists,  —  these  were  the  joys  which 
allured  the  earliest  New  -Yorkers  to  the 
island  now  swarming  from  end  to  end 
«  with  almost  national  vitalities.  Not 
until  1836,  when  the  Italian  Opera  was 
first  domiciled  in  New  York,  on  the 
corner  of  Leonard  and  Church  Streets, 
could  the  second  era  of  metropolitan 
life  be  said  fully  to  have  set  in  there, — 
the  era  when  people  flow  toward  a  city 
for  the  culture  as  well  as  the  livelihood 
which  it  offers  them.  About  the  same 
time  American  studios  began  to  be 
thronged  with  American  picture-buyers ; 
and  there  is  no  need  of  referring  to  the 
rapid  advance  of  American  literature, 
and  the  wide  popularization  of  luxuries, 
dating  from  that  period. 

Long  prior  to  that,  New  York  was 
growing  with  giant  vitality.  She  pos- 
sesses, as  every  great  city  must  possess, 
preeminent  advantages  for  the  support 
of  a  vast  population  and  the  employ- 
ment of  immense  industries.  If  she 
could  not  feed  a  million  of  men  better 
than  Norfolk,  Norfolk  would  be  New 
York  and  New  York  Norfolk.  If  the 
products  of  the  world  were  not  more  eco- 
nomically exchanged  across  her  coun- 
ter than  over  that  of  Baltimore,  Balti- 
more would  need  to  set  about  building 
shelter  for  half  a  million  more  heads  than 
sleep  there  to-night  Perth  Amboy  was 
at  one  time  a  prominent  rival  of  New 
York  in  the  struggle  for  the  position  of 
the  American  Metropolis,  and  is  not  New 
York  only  because  Nature  said  No ! 


Let  us  invite  the  map  to  help  us  in 
our  investigation  of  New  York's  claim 
to  the  metropolitan  rank.  There  are 
three  chief  requisites  for  the  chief  city 
of  every  nation.  It  must  be  the  city  in 
easiest  communication  with  other  coun- 
tries,— on  the  sea-coast,  if  there  be  a 
good  harbor  there,  or  on  some  stream 
debouching  into  the  best  harbor  that 
there  is.  It  must  be  the  city  in  easiest 
communication  with  the  interior,  either 
by  navigable  streams,  or  valleys  and 
mountain -passes,  and  thus  the  most 
convenient  rendezvous  for  the  largest 
number  of  national  interests, — the  place 
where  Capital  and  Brains,  Import  and 
Export,  Buyer  and  Seller,  Doers  and 
Things  to  be  Done,  shall  most  naturally 
make  their  appointments  to  meet  for  ex- 
change. Last,  (and  least,  too, — for  even 
cautious  England  will  people  jungles  for 
money's  sake,)  the  metropolis  must  en- 
joy at  least  a  moderate  sanitary  reputa- 
tion ;  otherwise  men  who  love  Fortune 
well  enough  to  die  for  her  will  not  be 
reinforced  by  another  large  class  who 
care  to  die  on  no  account  whatever. 

New  York  answers  all  these  requi- 
sites better  than  any  metropolis  in  the 
world.  She  has  a  harbor  capable  of 
accommodating  all  the  fleets  of  Chris- 
tendom, both  commercial  and  belliger- 
ent That  harbor  has  a  western  rami- 
fication, extending  from  the  Battery  to 
the  mouth  of  Spuyten  Duyvil  Creek,  — 
a  distance  of  fifteen  miles  ;  an  eastern 
ramification,  reaching  from  the  Battery 
to  the  mouth  of  Haarlem  River,  —  seven 
miles ;  and  a  main  trunk,  interrupted 
by  three  small  islands,  extending  from 
the  Battery  to  the  Narrows,  —  a  dis- 
tance of  about  eight  miles  more.  It  is 
rather  under-estimating  the  capacity  of 
the  East  River  branch  to  average,  its 
available  width  as  low  as  eighty  rods  ; 
a  mile  and  a  half  will  be  a  proportion- 
ately moderate  estimate  for  the  Hudson 
River  branch  ;  the  greatest  available 
width  of  the  Upper  Bay  is  about  four 
miles,  in  a  line  from  the  Long  Island 
to  the  SUten  Island  side.  If  we  add  to 
these  combined  areas  the  closely  adja- 
cent waters  in  hourly  communication 
with  New  York  by  her  tugs  and  light- 


1865-3 


Tht  Amiricem  Miinpolis. 


11 


ersy  her  harbor  will  further  include  a 
portion  of  the  channel  running  west  of 
Staten  Island,  and  of  the  rivers  empty- 
ing into  Newark  Bay,  with  the  whole 
maprificent  and  sheltered  roadstead  of 
the  Lower  Bay,  the  mouth  of  Shrews* 
bury  Inlets  and  a  portion  of  Ran  tan  Bay. 

As  this  paper  must  deal  to  a  sufE* 
cient  extent  with  statistics  in  matters 
of  practical  necessity,  we  will  at  this 
stage  leave  the  reader  to  complete  for 
himself  the  calculation  of  such  a  har- 
bor's capacity.  In  this  respect  in  that 
of  shelter,  of  contour  of  water-front,  of 
accessibility  from  the  high  seas,  New 
York  Harbor  has  no  rival  on  the  conti- 
nent The  Bay  oi  San  Francisco  more 
nearly  equals  it  than  any  other ;  but  that 
is  on  the  Pacific  side,  for  the  present 
much  &rther  from  the  axis  of  national 
civilization,  and  backed  by  a  much  nar* 
rower  agricultxural  tract  We  wilj  not 
refer  to  disadvantages  of  commercial 
exchange,  since  San  Francisco  may  at 
any  time  be  relieved  of  these  by  a  Pa- 
cific Railroad.  On  our  Atlantic  side 
there  is  certainly  no  harbor  which  will 
compare  for  area  and  convenience  with 
that  of  New  York. 

It  is  not  only  the  best  harbor  on  our 
coast,  but  that  in  easiest  communica- 
tion with  other  parts  of  the  country. 
To  the  other  portions  of  the  coast  it  is 
as  neaiiy  central  as  it  could  be  without 
losing  fktally  in  other  respects.  Dela- 
ware and  Chesapeake  Bays  afford  fine 
roadsteads  ;  but  the  low  sand  barrens 
and  wet  alluvial  flats  which  form  their 
•shores  compelled  Philadelphia  and  Bal- 
timore to  retire  their  population  such 
a  distance  up  the  chief  communicating 
rivers  as  to  deprive  them  of  many  im- 
portant advantages  proper  to  a  seaport 
Under  the  influence  of  free  ideas  may 
be  expected  a  wonderful  development 
of  the  advantages  of  Chesapeake  Bay. 
Good  husbandry  and  unshackled  enter- 
prise throughout  Maryland  and  Virginia 
will  astonish  Baltimore  by  an  increase 
of  her  population  and  qonjmerce  bejTond 
the  brightest  speculative  dreams.  The 
full  resources  of  Delaware  Bay  are  far 
from  being  developed.  Yet  Philadelphia 
and  Baltimore  are  forever   precluded 


from  competing  with  New  York,  both 
by  their  greater  distance  from  open  wa- 
ter and  the  comparative  inferiority  of 
the  interior  tracts  with  which  they  have 
ready  communication.'  Below  Chesa- 
peake Bay  the  coast  system  of  great 
river- estuaries  gives  way  to  the  Sea- 
Island  system,  in  which  the  main-land 
is  flanked  by  a  series  of  bars  or  sand- 
banks, separated  from  it  by  tortuous 
and  difficult  lagoons.  The  rivers  which 
empty  into  this  network  of  channels 
are  comparatively  difficult  of  entrance, 
and  but  imperfectly  navigable.  The  iso- 
lation of  the  Sea  Islands  is  enough  to 
make  them  still  more  inconvenient  situ- 
ations than  any  on  the  main-land  for  the 
foundation  of  a  metropolis.  Before  we 
have  gone  far  down  this  system,  we  have 
passed  the  centre  where,  on  mathemati* 
cal  principles,  a  metropolis  should  stand. 
Considered  with  regard  to  the  trib- 
utary interior,  New  York  occupies  a 
position  no  less  central  than  with  re- 
spect to  the  coast  It  is  impossible  to 
study  a  map  of  our  country  without 
momendy  increasing  surprise  at  the 
multiplicity  of  natural  avenues  which 
converge  in  New  York  from  the  rich- 
est producing  districts  of  the  world. 
The  entire  result  of  the  country*s  labor 
seems  to  seek  New  York  by  inevitable 
channels.  Products  run  down  to  the 
managing,  disbursing,  and  balancing 
hand  of  New  York  as  naturaUy  as  the 
thoughts  of  a  man  nm  down  to  the 
hand  which  must  embody  them.  From 
the  north  it  takes  tribute  through  the 
Hudson  River.  This  magnificent  wa- 
ter-course, permitting  the  ascent  of  the 
largest  ships  for  a  hundred  miles,  and 
of  river-craft  for  fifty  miles  farther,  has 
upon  its  eastern  side  a  country  averag- 
ing about  thirty  miles  in  width  to  the 
Taconic  range,  consisting  chiefly  of  the 
richest  grazing,  graun,  and  orchard  land 
in  the  Adantic  States.  Above  the  High- 
lands, the  west  side  of  the  river  be- 
comes a  fertile,  though  narrower  and 
more  broken  agricultural  tract ;  and  at 
the  head  of  navigation,  the  Hudson 
opens  into  another  valley  of  exhausdess 
fertility, — that  of  the  Mohawk, — com- 
ing eastward  firom  the  centre  of  the  State. 


8(3 


The  American  Metropolis. 


(Januaiy^ 


coast  of  capacity  or  convenience  pro- 
portionate to  the  deniands  of  a  national 
emporium.  Though  the  site  of  Paris 
was  chosen  by  a  nation  in  no  sense 
commercial,  and  the  constitutional  pre- 
judices of  the  people  are  of  that  semi- 
barbarous  kind  which  affect  at  the  same 
time  pleasure  and  a  contempt  of  the 
enterprises  which  pay  for  it,  there  has 
been  a  dedded  anxiety  among  the  fore- 
most Frenchmen  since  the  time  of  Col- 
bert to  see  France  occupying  an  influen- 
tial position  among  the  national  fortune* 
hunters  of  the  world.  Napoleon  III. 
shares  this  solicitude  to  an  extent  which 
his  uncle's  hatred  of  England  would 
never  permit  him  to  confess,  though  he 
felt  it  deeply.  The  millions  which  the 
present  Emperor  has  spent  on  Cher- 
bourg afford  a  mere  dtillation  to  his  am- 
bitious .spirit  Their  result  is  a  hand- 
some parade-place,  — a  pretty  stone  toy, 
—  an  unpickable  lock  to  an  indosure 
nobody  wants  to  enter, — a  navy-yard 
for  the  creation'  of  an  armament  which 
has  no  commerce  to  protect  No  won- 
der that  the  discontented  despot  seeks 
to  eke  out  the  quality  of  his  ports  by 
their  plenteous  quantity,  —  seizing  Al- 
giers, —  looking  wistfully  at  the  Red 
Sea,  —  overjoyed  at  any  bargain  which 
would  get  him  Nice,  —  striking  madly 
out  for  empire  in  Cochin  China,  Siam, 
and  the  Padiic  islands,  —  playing  Shy- 
lock  to  Mexico  on  Jecker's  forged  bond, 
that  his  owninconvenient  vessels  might 
have  an  American  port  to  trim  their 
yards  in.  Meanwhile,  to  forget  the  ut- 
ter unfitness  of  Paris  for  the  capital  of 
any  imaginary  Commercial  France,  he 
plays  ship  with  Eugenie  on  the  gentle 
Seine,  or  amuses  himself  with  the  ma- 
rine romance  of  the  Parisian  civic  es- 
cutcheon. 

No  one  will  think  for  an  instant  of 
comparing  Paris  with  New  York  in  re- 
spect to  natural  advantages.  The  capi- 
tals of  the  other  Continental  nations  are 
still  less  susceptible  of  being  brought 
into  tlie  competition.  The  vast  cities 
of  China  are  possible  only  in  the  lowest 
condition  of  individual  liberty,  —  class 
servitude,  sumptuary  and  travel  restric- 
tions, together  with  all  the  other  corn- 


plicated  enginery  of  an  artifidal  bar- 
barism, being  the  only  substitute  for 
natural  cohesion  in  a  community  whose 
immense  mass  can  procure  nothing  but 
the  rudest  necessaries  of  life  from  the 
area  within  which  it  is  confined. 

A  priori^  therefore,  we  might  expect 
that  the  metropolis  of  America  would 
arise  on  New  York  Island,  and  in  pro- 
cess of  time  become  one  of  the  greatest 
capitals  of  the  world. 

The  natural  advantages  which  allured 
New  York's  first  population  have  been 
steadily  developed  and  reinforced  by  ar- 
tifidal ones.  For  the  ships  of  the  world 
she  has  built  about  her  water-front  more 
than  three  hundred  piers  and  bulkheads. 
Allowing  berth-room  for  four  ships  in 
each  bulkhead,  and  for  one  at  the  end  of 
each  pier,  (decidedly  an  under-estimate, 
considering  the  extent  of  some  of  these 
structures,) — the  island  water-front  al- 
ready offers  accommodation  for  the  si- 
multaneous landing  of  eight  hundred 
first-class  foreign  caigoes.  The  docks 
of  Brooklyn,  Jersey  City,  and  Hoboken 
may  accommodate  at  least  as  many  more. 
Something  like  a  quarter  of  all  New  York 
imports  go  in  the  first  instance  to  the 
bonded  warehouse ;  and  this  part,  not 
being  wanted  for  immediate  consump> 
tion  within  the  metropolis  proper,  quite 
as  convenienUy  occupies  the  Long  Isl- 
and or  Jersey  warehouses  as  those  on 
the  New  York  shore.  The  warehouses 
properly  belonging  to  New  York  com- 
merce— containing  her  property  and 
living  on  her  business — received  during 

1861  imports  to  the  value  of  l4i,8i  1,664 ; 
during  1862,  $46,939,451 ;  and  during 
1863,  $61,350,432.  During  the  year 
1 861,  the  total  imports  of  New  York 
amounted  to  $161,684,499, — paying  an 
aggregate  of  duties  of  $21,714,981. 
During  the  year  1862,  the  imports 
amounted  to  $172,486,453,  and  the  du- 
ties to  $52,254,3x8.  During  1863,  the 
imports  reached  a  value  of  $1 84,016,- 
350,  the  duties  on  which  amounted  to 
$58,885,853.  For  the  same  years  the 
exports  amounted  respectively  to  $142,- 
903»689,  $2 16,416,070,  and  $219,256,203, 
—  the  rapid  increase  between  1861  and 

1862  being  no  doubt  oartly  stimulated 


18650 


Tke'AmmcoH  if  Propolis, 


8i 


by  the  disappeannce  of  specie  from 
circnlatioa  under  the  pressure  of  our 
unparalleled  war-expenses,  and  the  con* 
sequent  necessity  of  substituting  in  for- 
eign markets  our  home  products  for  the 
ordinary  basis  of  exchange.  In  1861, 
965  ve»isels  entered  New  York  from  for* 
eign  ports,  and  966  cleared  for  foreign 
ports.    In  1862,  the  former  class  num- 


bered 5,406,  and  the  latter  5,014.  In 
1863,  they  were  respectively  4,983  and 
4,466.  These  statistics,  from  which  the 
immense  whar£sige  and  warehouse  ac- 
commodation of  New  York  may  be  in- 
ferred, are  exhibited  to  better  advantage 
in  the  following  tabular  statement,  kind- 
ly furnished  by  Mr.  Ogden,  First  Audi- 
tor of  the  New  York  Custom-House. 


SioHstics  of  the  Port  of  New  York. 


t 

a 

3 

4 

I 

7 


Tola]  vmhie  of  Exports 

Total  value  of  Imports 

Value  of  Goods  warehoused  during  the  entire  year  . . 
AnuMint  of  Drawbacks  allowed  during  the  entire  year 

Total  amount  of  Duties  paid  during  year 

Na  of  Vessels  entered  from  ForeiniPorts  during  year 
Now  of  Vessels  cleared  to  Foreign  Ports  during  year  . . 


i86x. 


% 
«4^903i689 
x6i,684,499 
4x,8xx,66^ 

57.3*^55 
ax,7i4,98z.xo 


% 


x86a. 


9x6^4x6^070 
179,486^453 

4^939b4S< 

S75f953-9S 
5«.a54.3«7-9» 
5.406 

5.o»4 


X863. 


$ 

2x9^956^903 
x84,ox6»350 

6x,35o»43» 
4S4,04X.44 

58.8»5.«53-4» 


Besides  the  various  berths  or  anchor- 
ages and  the  warehouses  of  New  York, 
commerce  is  still  further  waited  on  in 
our  metropolis  by  one  of  the  most  per- 
fect systems  of  pilot-boat,  steam-tug,  and 
lighter  service  which  have  ever  been 
devised  for  a  harbor.  No  vessel  can 
bring  so  poor  a  foreign  cargo  to  New 
York  as  not  to  justify  the  expense  of  a 
pilot  to  keep  its  insurance  valid,  a  tug 
to  carry  it  to  its  moorings,  and  a  lighter 
to  discharge  it,  if  the  harbor  be  crowd- 
ed or  time  press.  Indeed,  the  first  two 
items  are  matters  of  course ;  and  not 
one  of  them  costs  enough  to  be  called 
a  luxury. 

The  American  river-steamboat  —  the 
palatial  American  steamboat^  as  distin- 
guished from  the  dingy,  clumsy  Eng- 
lish steamer — is  another  of  the  means 
by  which  Art  has  supplemented  New 
YorVs  gifts  of  Nature.  This  magnifi- 
cent triumph  of  sculpturesque  beauty, 
wedded  to  the  highest  grade  of  mechan- 
ical skill,  must  be  from  two  hundred  and 
fifty  to  four  hundred  feet  long,  —  must 
accommodate  from  iis^  hundred  to  two 
thousand  passengers,  —  must  ran  its 
mile  in  three  minutes,  —  must  be  as 
rococo  in  its  upholsterings  as  a  bed- 
chamber of  Versailles,  —  must  gratify 
every  sense,  consult  every  taste,  and 
meet  every  convenience.  Such  a  boat 
as  this  runs  daily  to  every  principal 

vou  XV.— KG.  87.  6 


city  on  the  Sound  or  the  Hudson,  to 
Albany,  *  to  Boston,  to  Philadelphia. 
A  more  venturous  class  of  coasting 
steamers  in  peaceful  times  are  con- 
stantly leaving  for  Baltimore,  Wilming- 
ton, Charleston,  Savannah,  Key  West, 
Mobile,  New  Orleans,  and  Galveston. 
The  immense  commerce  of  the  Erie 
Canal,  with  all  its  sources  and  tributa- 
ries, is  practically  transacted  by  New 
York  City.  Nearly  everything  intended 
for  export,  plus  New  York's  purchases 
for  her  own  consumption,  is  forwarded 
from  the  Erie  Canal  terminus  in  a  se- 
ries of  towsy  each  of  these  being  a  rope- 
bound  fleet,  averaging  perhaps  fifty 
canal-boats  and  barges,  propelled  by  a 
powerfiil  steamer  intercsdated  near  the 
centre.  The  traveller  new  to  Hudson 
River  scenery  will  be  startled,  any  sum- 
mer day  on  which  he  may  choose  to 
take  a  steamboat  trip  to  Albany,  by  the 
apparition,  at  distances  varying  from  one 
to  three  miles  all  the  way,  of  floating 
islands,  settied  by  a  lai^  commercial 
population,  who  like  their  dinner  off 
the  top  of  a  hogshead,  and  follow  the 
laundry  business  to  such  an  extent  that 
they  quite  effloresce  with  wet  shirts,  and 
are  seen  through  a  lattice  of  clothes- 
lines. Let  him  know  that  these  float- 
ing islands  are  but  littie  drops  of  vital 
blood  from  the  great  heart  of  the  West, 
coming  down  die  nation's  main  artery 


8d 


The  American  Metropolis. 


[Januaiy, 


coast  of  capacity  or  convenience  pro- 
portionate to  the  demands  of  a  national 
emporium.  Though  the  site  of  Paris 
was  chosen  by  a  nation  in  no  sense 
commercial,  and  the  constitutional  pre- 
judices of  the  people  are  of  that  semi- 
barbarous  kind  which  aifect  at  the  same 
time  pleasure  and  a  contempt  of  the 
enterprises  which  pay  for  it,  there  has 
been  a  decided  anxiety  among  the  fore- 
most Frenchmen  since  the  time  of  Col- 
bert to  see  France  occupying  an  influen- 
tial position  among  the  national  fortune- 
hunters  of  the  world.  Napoleon  III. 
shares  this  solicitude  to  an  extent  which 
his  uncle's  hatred  of  England  would 
never  permit  him  to  confess,  though  he 
felt  it  deeply.  The  millions  which  the 
present  Emperor  has  spent  on  Cher- 
bourg afford  a  mere  dtillation  to  his  am- 
bitious .spirit  Their  result  is  a  hand- 
some parade-place,  — a  pretty  stone  toy, 
—  an  unpickable  lock  to  an  indosure 
nobody  wants  to  enter, — a  navy-yard 
for  the  creation  of  an  armament  which 
has  no  commerce  to  protect  No  won- 
der that  the  discontented  despot  seeks 
to  eke  out  the  quality  of  his  ports  by 
their  plenteous  quantity, —  seizing  Al- 
giers, —  looking  wistfully  at  the  Red 
Sea,  —  ovCTJoyed  at  any  bargain  which 
would  get  him  Nice,  —  striking  madly 
out  for  empire  in  Cochin  China,  Siam, 
and  the  Pacific  islands, — playing  Shy- 
lock  to  Mexico  on  Jecker's  forged  bond, 
that  his  own*inconvenient  vessels  might 
have  an  American  port  to  trim  their 
yards  in.  Meanwhile,  to  forget  the  ut- 
ter unfitness  of  Paris  for  the  capital  of 
any  imaginary  Commercial  France,  he 
plays  ship  with  Eugenie  on  the  gentle 
Seine,  or  amuses  himself  with  the  ma- 
rine romance  of  the  Parisian  civic  es- 
cutcheon. 

No  one  will  think  for  an  instant  of 
comparing  Paris  with  New  York  in  re- 
spect to  natural  advantages.  The  capi- 
tals of  the  other  Continental  nations  are 
stin  less  susceptible  of  being  brought 
into  the  competition.  The  vast  cities 
of  China  are  possible  only  in  the  lowest 
condition  of  individual  liberty,  —  class 
servitude,  sumptuary  and  travel  restric- 
tions, together  with  all  the  other  com* 


plicated  enginery  of  an  artificial  bar- 
barism, being  ^  only  substitute  for 
natural  cohesion  in  a  community  whose 
immense  mass  can  procure  nothing  but 
the  rudest  necessaries  of  life  from  the 
area  within  which  it  is  confined. 

A  priori^  therefore,  we  might  expect 
that  the  metropolis  of  America  would 
arise  on  New  YcM'k  Island,  and  in  pro- 
cess of  time  become  one  of  the  greatest 
capitals  of  the  world. 

The  natural  advantages  which  allured 
New  York's  first  population  have  been 
steadily  developed  and  reinforced  by  ar- 
tificial ones.  For  the  ships  of  the  world 
she  has  built  about  her  water-front  more 
than  three  hundred  piers  and  bulkheads. 
Allowing  berth-room  for  four  ships  in 
each  bulkhead,  and  for  one  at  the  end  of 
each  pier,  (decidedly  an  under-estimate, 
considering  the  extent  of  some  of  these 
structures,) — the  island  water-front  al- 
ready offers  accommodation  for  the  si- 
multaneous landing  of  eight  hundred 
first-class  foreign  cargoes.  The  docks 
of  Brooklyn,  Jersey  City,  and  Hoboken 
may  accommodate  at  least  as  many  more. 
Something  like  a  quarter  of  all  New  York 
imports  go  in  the  first  instance  to  the 
bonded  warehouse ;  and  this  part,  not 
being  wanted  for  immediate  consump- 
tion within  the  metropolis  proper,  quite 
as  conveniently  occupies  the  Long  Isl- 
and or  Jersey  warehouses  as  those  on 
the  New  York  shore.  The  warehouses 
properly  belonging  to  New  York  com- 
merce— containing  her  property  and 
living  on  her  business — received  during 

1861  imports  to  the  value  of  $41,81 1,664 ; 
during  1862,  $46,939,451 ;  and  during 
1863,  $61,350,432.  During  the  year 
1861,  the  total  imports  of  New  York 
amounted  to  $161,684,499, — paying  an 
aggregate  of  duties  of  $21,714,981. 
During  the  year  1862,  the  imports 
amounted  to  $172,486,453,  and  the  du- 
ties to  $52,254,318.  During  1863,  the 
imports  reached  a  value  of  $184,0 16,- 
350,  the  duties  on  which  amounted  to 
$58,885,853.  For  the  same  years  the 
exports  amounted  respectively  to  $142,- 
903»689,  $2 16,416,070,  and  $2i9,256>203, 
—  the  rapid  increase  between  1861  and 

1862  being  no  doubt  oartly  stimulated 


1865.] 


The' American  Metropolis. 


8i 


hy  the  disappearance  of  specie  from 
drcnlatioii  under  the  pressure  of  our 
unparalleled  war-expenses,  and  the  con* 
sequent  necessity  of  substituting  in  for- 
eign markets  our  home  products  for  the 
ordinary  basis  of  exchange.  In  1861, 
965  Tinsels  entered  New  York  from  for- 
eign portSy  suid  966  cleared  for  foreign 
ports.    la  1862,  the  former  class  num- 


bered 5^406,  and  the  latter  5,014.  In 
1863,  they  were  respectively  4,983  and 
4,466.  These  statistics,  from  which  the 
immense  whar&ge  and  warehouse  ac- 
commodation of  New  York  may  be  in- 
ferred, are  exhibited  to  better  advantage 
in  the  foUowing  tabular  statement,  kind- 
ly furnished  by  Mr.  Ogden,  First  Audi- 
tor of  the  New  York  Custom- House. 


StoHstics  tf  the  Port  of  New  York. 


X 

a 
3 

4 

I 

7 


Total  y3ne  of  Exports 

Total  value  of  Imports  

Value  of  Goods  warehoused  during  the  entire  year  . . 
Amount  of  Drawbacks  allowed  during  the  entire  year 

Tocal  amount  of  Duties  paid  during  year 

Na  of  Vessels  entered  from  Fordan  Ports  during  year 
Na  of  Vessels  cleared  to  Foreign  Forts  during  year  . . 


x86z. 


$ 

161,684,499 
4x,8tx,66A 

S7.3».S5 
91,7x4, 981.  zo 


1860. 


9x6^4x6^070 

179,486^453 

4^939»4SX 

a75.9S3-9a 
5«fa54.3«7-9« 

5.o»4 


X863. 


$ 

x84,ox6k3SO 

6x,350»43a 

4x4,041.44 
58»8»5.853.48 

4.983 
4.666 


Besides  the  various  berths  or  anchor- 
ages and  the  warehouses  of  New  York, 
commerce  is  still  further  waited  on  in 
our  metropolis  by  one  of  the  most  per- 
fect sjTStems  of  pilot-boat,  steam-tug,  and 
lighter  service  which  have  ever  been 
devised  for  a  harbor.  No  vessel  can 
bring  so  poor  a  foreign  cargo  to  New 
York  as  not  to  justify  the  expense  of  a 
pilot  to  keep  its  insurance  valid,  a  tug 
to  carry  it  to  its  moorings,  and  a  lighter 
to  discharge  it,  if  the  harbor  be  crowd- 
ed or  time  press.  Indeed,  the  first  two 
items  are  matters  of  course ;  and  not 
one  of  them  costs  enough  to  be  called 
a  luxury. 

The  American  river-steamboat  —  the 
palatial  American  steamboat,  as  distin- 
guished from  the  dingy,  clumsy  Eng- 
lish steamer — is  another  of  the  means 
by  which  Art  has  supplemented  New 
York's  gifts  of  Nature.  This  magnifi- 
cent triumph  of  sculpturesque  beauty, 
wedded  to  the  highest  grade  of  mechan- 
ical skill,  must  be  from  two  hundred  and 
fifty  to  four  hundred  feet  long,  —  must 
accommodate  fipom  five  hundred  to  two 
thousand  passengers,  —  must  run  its 
mile  in  thive  minutes,  —  must  be  as 
rococo  in  its  upholsterings  as  a  bed- 
chamber of  Versailles,  —  must  gratify 
every  sense,  consult  every  taste,  and 
meet  every  convenience.  Such  a  boat 
as  this  runs  daily  to  every  principal 

VOL.  XV.  — NO.  87.  6 


city  on  the  Sound  or  the  Hudson,  to 
Albany,  -  to  Boston,  to  Philadelphia. 
A  more  venturous  class  of  coasting 
steamers  in  peaceful  times  are  con- 
stantiy  leaving  for  Baltimore,  Wilming- 
ton, Charleston,  Savannah,  Key  West, 
Mobile,  New  Orleans,  and  GaJveston. 
The  immense  commerce  of  the  Erie 
Canal,  with  all  its  sources  and  tributa- 
ries, is  practically  transacted  by  New 
York  Ci^.  Nearly  everything  intended 
for  export,  plus  New  York's  purchases 
for  her  own  consumption,  is  forwarded 
from  the  Erie  Canal  terminus  in  a  se- 
ries of  tows^  each  of  these  being  a  rope- 
bound  fleet,  averaging  perhaps  fifty 
canal-boats  and  barges,  propelled  by  a 
powerfiil  steamer  intercalated  near  the 
centre.  The  traveller  new  to  Hudson 
River  scenery  will  be  startied,  any  sum- 
mer day  on  which  he  may  choose  to 
take  a  steamboat  trip  to  Albany,  by  the 
apparition,  at  distances  varying  from  one 
to  three  miles  all  the  way,  of  floating 
islands,  settied  by  a  large  commercial 
population,  who  like  their  dinner  off 
the  top  of  a  hogshead,  and  follow  the 
laundry  business  to  such  an  extent  that 
they  quite  effloresce  with  wet  shirts,  and 
are  seen  through  a  lattice  of  clothes- 
lines. Let  him  know  that  these  float- 
ing islands  are  but  littie  drops  of  vital 
blood  fix>m  the  great  heart  of  the  West, 
coming  down  die  nation's  main  artery 


82 


The  American  Metropolis, 


Qanuaiy, 


to  nurse  some  small  tissue  of  the  me- 
tropolis ;  that  these  are  "  Hudson  Riv- 
er tows  " ;  and  that,  novel  as  that  phe- 
nomenon may  appear  to  him,  every 
other  fresh  traveller  has  been  equally 
startled  by  it  since  March,  and  will  be 
startled  by  it  till  December.  Another 
ministry  to  New  York  is  performed  by- 
the  night-tows^  consisting  of  a  few  cat- 
tle, produce,  and  passenger  barges  at- 
tached to  a  steamer,  made  up  semi- 
weekly  or  tri-weekly  at  every  town  of 
any  importance  on  the  Hudson  and  the 
Sound.  We  will  not  include  the  large 
fleet  of  Sound  and  Rivet  sloops,  brigs, 
and  schooners  in  the  list  of  New  York's 
artificial  advantages. 

Turning  to  New  York's  land  commu- 
nication with  the  interior,  we  find  the  fol- 
lowing  railroads  radiating  from  the  met- 
ropolitan centre. 

X.  A  Railroad  to  PhOadelphta. 

a.  A  Railroad  to  the  Pennsylvania  Coal  Reskn. 

3.  A  Railroad  to  Piermont  on  the  Hudson. 

4.  A  Railroad  to  Bloomfield  in  New  Jersey. 

5.  A  Railroad  to  Morristown  in  New  Jersey. 
6c  A  Railroad  to  Hackensack  in  New  Jtncy, 

7.  A  Railroad  to  Bti&la 

8.  A  Railroad  to  Albany,  running  along  the  Hudson. 

9.  Another  Railroad  to  Albany,  by  an  interior  route, 
la  A  Railroad  to  New  Haven. 

If.  A  Railroad  to  the  chief  eastern  port  of  Long 
Island. 

IS.  The  Delaware  and  Raritan  Road  to  Philadel- 
phia, connecting  with  New  York  by  daily 
transports  from  pier. 

13.  The  Camden  and  Amboy  Railroad,  connecting 

similarly. 

14.  The  Railroad  to  Elisabeth,  New  Jeney. 

The  chief  eastern  radius  throws  out 
ramifications  to  the  principal  cities  of 
New  England,  thus  affording  liberal 
choice  of  routes  to  Boston,  New  Bed- 
ford, Providence,  and  Portland,  as  well 
as  an  entrance  to  New  Hampshire  and 
Vermont  To  all  of  these  towns,  except 
the  more  southerly,  the  Hudson  River 
Road  leads  as  well,  connecting  besides 
with  railroads  in  every  direction  to  the 
northern  and  western  parts  of  the  State, 
and  with  the  Far  West  by  a  number  of 
routes.  The  main  avenue  to  the  Far 
West  is,  however,  the  Atlantic  and 
Great  Western  Road,  with  its  twelve 
hundred  miles  of  uniform  broad-gauge. 
Along  this  line  the  whole  riches  of  the 
interior  may  resLSonably  be  expected  to 
flow  eastward  as  in  a  trough ;  for  its 


position  is  axial,  and  its  connection  per- 
fect All  the  chief  New  Jersey  railroads 
open  avenues  to  the  richest  mineral  re- 
gion of  the  Atlantic  States,. — to  the  Far 
South  and  the  Far  West  of  the  country. 
Two  or  three  may  be  styled  commut- 
ers' roads,  running  chiefly  for  the  ac- 
commodation of  city  business-men  with 
suburban  residences.  The  Long  Isl- 
and Road  is  a  road  without  important 
branches ;  but  the  majority  of  all  the 
roads  subsidiary  to  New  York  are  ave- 
nues to  some  broad  and  typical  tract  of 
the  interior. 

Let  us  turn  to  consider  how  New  York 
has  provided  for  the  people  as  well  as 
the  goods  that  enter  her  precincts  by 
all  the  ways  we  have  rehearsed.  She 
draws  them  up  Broadway  in  twenty 
thousand  horse-vehicles  per  day,  on  an 
average,  and  from  that  magnificent  av- 
enue, crowded  for  nearly  five  miles  with 
elegant  commercial  structures,  over  two 
hundred  miles  more  of  paved  street,  in 
all  directions.  She  lights  them  at  night 
with  eight  hundred  miles  of  gas-pipe ; 
she  washes  them  and  slakes  their  thirst 
from  two  hundred  and  ninety-one  miles 
of  Croton  main ;  she  has  constructed 
for  their  drainage  one  hundred  and 
seventy-six  miles  of  sewer.  She  vic- 
timizes them  with  nearly  two  thousand 
licensed  hackmen ;  she  Ucenses  twenty- 
two  hundred  car-  and  omnibus-drivers 
to  carry  them  over  twenty-nine  different 
stage-routes  and  ten  horse-railroads,  in 
six  hundred  and  seventy-one  omnibuses 
and  nearly  as  many  cars,  connecting  in- 
timately with  every  part  of  the  city,  and 
averaging  ten  up-and-down  trips  per 
day.  She  connects  them  with  the  ad- 
joining cities  of  ^e  main-land  and  with 
Staten  and  Long  Island  by  twenty  fer- 
ries, running,  on  the  average,  one  boat 
each  way  every  ten  minutes  during  the 
twenty-four  hours.  She  offers  for  her 
guests' luxurious  accommodation  at  lea^t 
a  score  of  hotels,  where  good  living  is 
made  as  much  the  subject  of  high  art 
as  in  the  H6tel  du  Louvre,  besides  mi- 
nor houses  of  rest  and  entertainment,  to 
the  number  of  more  than  five  thousand. 
She  attends  to  their  religion  in  about 
four  hundred  places  of  public  worship. 


186$.] 


The  American  Metropolis. 


83 


She  gives  them  breathing-room  in  a 
dozen  dvic  parks,  the  largest  of  which 
both  Nature  and  Art  destine  to  be  the 
noblest  popular  pleasure-ground  of  the 
civilized  world,  as  it  is  the  amplest  of 
all  save  the  Bois  de  Boulogne.  Central 
Park  covers  an  area  of  843  acres,  and, 
though  only  in  the  fifth  year  of  its  ex- 
istence, already  contains  twelve  •miles 
of  beautifully  planned  and  scientifically 
constructed  carriage-road,  seven  miles 
of  similar  bridle-path,  four  sub-ways  for 
the  passage  of  trade-vehicles  across  the 
Park,  with  an  aggregate  length  of  two 
miles,  and  twenty-one  miles  of  walk. 
As  an  item  of  city  property,  Central 
Park  is  at  present  valued  at  six  million 
dollars ;  but  this,  of  course,  is  quite  a 
nominal  and  unstable  valuation.  The 
,  worth  of  the  Park  to  New  York  proper- 
ty in  general  is  altogether  beyond  cal- 
culation. 

New  York  feeds  her  people  with  about 
two  miUion  slaughter-animals  per  an- 
num. How  these  are  classified,  and 
what  periodical  changes  their  supply 
undergoes,  may  be  conveniendy  seen  by 
the  foUowing  tabular  view  of  the  New 
York  butchers'  receiving-yards  during 
the  twelve  jnonths  of  the  year  1863. 
I  am  indebted  for  it  to  the  experience 
and  courtesy  of  Mr.  Solon  Robinson, 
agricultural  editor  of  the  ^  New  York 
Tribune." 

Receipts  of  Butcher^  Animals  in  New 
York  during  1863. 


Month. 

Beeves. 

Cows. 
393 

Calves. 

Sheep. 

Swine. 

Jan. 
Feb. 

«^349 

1,318 

as.  35a 
24.877 

»38.4»3 

'9^930 

?*3 

1,207 

98.099 

March 

22,187 

a.  594 

39.645 

79*3»o 

April 
Sdfay 

June 
July 

iS,9»t 
t6,7» 
23.785 

636 
440 

'"I 

3.18a'  18,311 
3,510'  20,338 
5,5x6    44,808 

56,516 

20,234 

^ 

a»993    4«.6i4 

40,716 

Auguu 

».347 
30.847 

496 

3,040    49,900 

36.725 

^ 

5»4 

3*654    79*078 

68,646, 

Oct. 

"4.397 

475 

3,2831  64,144     112,265! 

Nov. 
I>ec. 

Tocal 

23,991 
"6.37^ 

518 

3.378 
a,034 

61,083 
60,167 

»83.359 
191,641 

• 

of each 
kind. 

3^091 

6.470 

35.709' 5«9>3«6  z,iot,6i7 

1             1 

Tocal  0 

fall  kind 

«»     i»9 

•7»  •OS- 

ascertained  were 

furnished  from  their 

several  States  in 

the  following  propor- 

tions :  — 

Illinois  cootributed    ....    xz8;693 

New  York     •* 

....     28,985 

Ohio              " 

....     19,269 

Indiana         " 

....     14,232 

Michigan      " 

....      9,074 

Kentucky      " 

....      6,782 

Of  the  total  number  of  beeves  which 
came  into  the  New  York  market  in 
1S63,    those    whose   origin   could   be 


Averaging  the  weight  of  the  cattle 
which  came  to  New  York  market  in 
1863  at  the  moderate  estimate  of  700 
lbs.,  the  metropolitan  supply  of  beef  for 
that  year  amounted  to  189,392,700  lbs. 
This,  at  the  average  price  of  nine  and 
a  quarter  cents  per  pound,  was  worth 
$  1 7,5 18,825.  Proportionably  with  these 
estimates,  the  average  weekly  expendi- 
ture by  butchers  at  the  New  York  yards 
during  the  year  1863  was  $328,865. 

It  is  an  astonishing,  but  indubita- 
ble fact,  that,  while  the  population  of 
New  York  has  increased  sixty-six  per 
cent  during  the  last  decade,  the  con- 
sumption of  beef  has  in  the  same  time 
increased  sixty-five  per  cent  This  in- 
crement might  be  ascribed  to  the  great 
advance  of  late  years  in  the  price  of 
pork, — that  traditional  main  stay  of  the 
poor  man's  housekeeping,  — were  it  not 
that  the  importation  of  swine  has  in- 
creased almost  as  surprisingly.  We  are 
therefore  obliged  to  acknowledge  that 
during  a  period  when  the  chief  growth 
of  our  population  was  due  to  emigra- 
tion from  the  lowest  ranks  of  foreign, 
nationalities,  during  three  years  of  a  de- 
vastating war,  and  inclusive  of  the  great 
financial  crisis  of  1857,  the  increase  in 
consumption  of  the  most  costiy  and 
healthful  article  of  animal  food  lacked 
but  one  per  cent  of  the  increase  of  the 
population.  These  statistics  bear  elo- 
quent witness  to  the  rapid  diffusion  of 
luxury  among  the  New  York  people. 

From  the  table  of  classification  by 
States  we  may  draw  another  interesting 
inference.  It  will  be  seen  that  by  far 
the  largest  proportion  of  the  bullocks 
came  into  the  New  York  market  from 
the  most  remote  of  the  Western  States 
contributing.  In  other  words,  New  York 
City  has  so  perfected  her  connection 
with  all  the  sources  of  supply,  that  dis- 
tance has  become  an  unimportant  ele- 


84 


The  American  Metropolis. 


Uanaary; 


ment  in  her  calculations  of  expense ;  and 
she  can  make  all  the  best  grazing  land 
of  the  country  tributary  to  her  market, 
without  regard  to  the  question  whether 
it  be  one  or  twelve  hundred  miles  of£ 

The  foregoing  butchers'  estimates  are 
as  exact  as  our  present  means  of  infor- 
mation can.  make  them.  Large  numbers 
of  uncounted  sheep  are  consumed  with- 
in the  city  limits,  and  the  unreported 
calves  are  many  more  than  come  to 
light  in  statistics.  Besides  these  main 
staples  of  the  market  which  have  been 
mentioned,  there  is  consumed  in  New 
York  an  incalculable  quantity  of  game 
and  poultry,  preserved  meats  and  fish, 
cheese,  butter,  and  eggs. 

Mr.  James  Boughton,  clerk  of  the 
New  York  Produce  Exchange,  has  been 
good  tnoujgh  to  furnish  me  with  a  tab- 
ular statement  of  the  city's  receipts  of 
produce  for  the  year  ending  April  30, 
1864.  Such  portions  of  it  as  may  show 
the  amount  of  staples,  exclusive  of 
fresh  meat,  required  for  the  regular 
supply  of  the  New  York  market,  are 
presented  in  the  opposite  column. 

A  less  important,  but  still  very  inter- 
esting, class  of  products  entered  New 
York  during  the  same  period,  in  the  fol- 
lowing amounts :  — 


Cotton. 

Sbbd. 

AsHn. 

Whiskbv. 

Oil  Cakb. 

Bait*. 
18,193 
16,909 
13,080 

",<H3 
19,874 

96^009 

94,870 
99,010 
98,949 

3ft  3M 
33.538 

BmJL 

7.343 
3i«96 

9,089 
1,180 
9,3«8 

8,193 
8,441 

94.9X6 

9^999 

PkiM. 
1,401 

x,657 
x,«75 

1,980 

x,457 
x.044 

Bbh. 

91,838 

96,095 

'& 

T7.6s6 
ao»098 

39>594 
39,346 
34*475 
35,575 
99,873 

Sacks. 

9,399 

X4.«HO 

90^190 

Xft853 
4.810 

17,5«> 
««»44X 

9,676 

9,115 

965.685 

15,993 

304,87x 

106,356 

New  York,  during 

the  same  period, 

C7q)orted,-^ 

OfFloor    .    .    .    . 

9,571,744  bWt. 

"  Wheat   .    .    . 

.  15,849,836  btttheb. 

(XMU  •      .      •      « 

•    S»576>779 

"  Cured  Beef    .    . 

113,061  pkg«. 

"       "      Poric    . 

289,757  bW*. 

**  C«tton   .    .    . 

97,561  bakiL 

Deducting  from  the  total  supply  of 
each  of  these  six  staples  such  amounts 
as  were  exported  during  the  year,  we 


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^  Ok  r^  M  00  «n  ^  c^^  ««  n  ^  ^ 

2  00  m  Qti  m  5»*0»  M  ♦?  \8 

aa  1^00  ^otM  0  *•  i»)        MM 


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1865.] 


Tht  American  Metropolis. 


85 


find  a  remainder,  for  annual  metropoli- 
tan consiimption,  amounting,  in  the  case 
of 

Flour to  z,9o8»67i  bbli. 

Vrnnt     .    .    • 
Com   .... 


Cared  Beef . 
"     Ptork. 

Cotton 


«< 


«,976»a57  bushels. 

89^909  pkgB. 
"      909^379  bbb. 
"      138,194  boles. 


We  have  no  room  lor  the  detailB  — 
which  would  embarrass  us,  if  we  should 
attempt  a  statement  —  of  the  cost  of 
clothing  the  New  York  people.  We  will 
merely  remark,  in  passing,  tha^  one  of 
the  laigest  retail  stores  in  the  New  York 
dry-goods  trade  seUs  at  its  counters  ten 
million  dollars'  worth  of  fid>rics  per  an- 
num, and  that  another  concern  in  the 
wholesale  branch  of  the  same  trade  does 
a  yearly  business  of  between  thirty  and 
forty  millions.  As  for  tailors'  shops,  New 
York  is  their  fairy-land,  —  many  emi- 
nent examples  among  them  resembling, 
in  cost,  size,  and  elegance, 'rather  a  Eu- 
ropean pftlace  than  a  republican  place 
of  traffic 

The  most  comprehensive  generaliza- 
tion by  which  we  may  hope  to  arrive  at 
an  idea  of  the  business  of  New  York  is 
that  which  includes  in  tabular  form  the 
statistics  of  the  chief  institutions  which 
employ  and  insure  property. 


On  the  24th  of  September,  1S64,  six- 
ty-three banks  made  a  quarterly  state- 
ment of  their  condition,  under  the  gen- 
eral banking  law  of  the  State.  These 
banks  are  at  present  the  only  ones  in 
New  York  whose  condition  can  be  defi- 
nitely ascertained,  and  their  reported 
capital  amounts  to  $69,219,763.  The 
national  banks  will  go  far  toward  in- 
creasing the  total  metropolitan  banking 
capital  to  one  hundred  millions.  The 
largest  of  the  State  banks  doing  busi- 
ness in  the  city  is  the  Bank  of  Com- 
merce, (about  being  reorganized  on  the 
national  plan,)  with  a  capital  of  ten  mil- 
lions ;  and  the  smallest  possess  capital 
to  the  amount  of  two  hundred  thousand 
dollars. 

Mr.  Camp,  now  at  the  head  of  the 
New  York  Clearing-House,  has  been 
kind  enough  to  furnish  the  following  in- 
teresting statistics  in  regard  to  the  total 
amount  of  business  transactions  man- 
aged by  the  New  York  banks  in  con- 
nection with  the  Clearing-House  during 
the  two  years  ending  on  the  30th  of  last 
September.  Figures  can  scarcely  be 
TsaAt,  more  eloquent  by  illustration 
than  they  are  of  themselves.  I  there- 
fore leave  them  without  other  comment 
than  the  remark  that  the  weekly  ex- 


CUaring'House  Transactums, 


1860. 


October 
November 


1863. 

January 

February 

March 

April 

lay 

June 

July 

August 

Sepccsibef 


EXCRANGBS. 


$  1,081,3^1.314.07 
874,916$,  873.x  5 
90^«35«O9O.39 

1,351,408,363.76 
«."9*a49.05ao7 
i,3«3.9»»8o4.i4 
X,  138,318,367.90 

x.535.4«<.a««-78 

1,353, 1 16^  40a  30 
1,361,668,343.87 
1,466,803,013.90 

».584.»o.»4«47 


BaLAWCXSw 


$54.633. 4x0.57 
47.047.576.93 

44f  630.405- 43 

58,72a.544-70 

5«.5«3.9«3W 
60,456,505.45 

53.539.81a.46 

7o»3»8,306i35 

59»«>3,o75.i6 

63,387.  W  44 
53,130,831.99 

6x.3oa,35a-35 


$14,867,597,848.60   '$677,686,483.61 


3a6B»iae»day«. 

A  wtrofpi  per  4ay^  x863~ 3. 

Ezchaaget $48,586t93x.o7 

a»"4.465.63 


1863. 


October 

November 
December 

1864. 
January 

Febnuuy 
March 
April 
May 

~une 
uly 
August 
September 


\ 


EXCHANGBS. 


$1,900,310,533.77 
1,778,800,987.95 
if745.436i3a5-73 

»i770.3»a. 
9,088, 1 7o,< 

«.753.3a3.94»-53 
9.644.733. 836.34 
«»877,653.r 
x.9e>9,oa9,] 

'.777.753. 537- 53 

1.776,0x^141.53 
3,083,754,368.84 


,I3X.37 

,x8x.43 


$34,097,196,655.93 


Balances. 


$  74,088,4x9.08 
66,895,4*3.^ 
60^577,884.19 

63,689,95a  88 

65.744.935-13 

84.938,940.37 
93.565.5a6.16 

76,338,^63.88 

88, 187,658.93 

73.343.90349 
69,388,834.17 
69.071,337.16 


$885,719,304.93 


309  Bustness  days. 

Avtmg*  ptr  day^  1863 -4. 

Exchanges $77,984,455.30 

Balanrrs 3,866,405.X9 


te  Exchanges  for  Eleren  Yean 

—     -  M  II  «4 


••«••••••  $96,540^603,384.53 

4,678,3X1,016.79 

Total  TiamactioM $  tot, 318,9x3,401. 33 


86 


Ttu  American  Metropolis, 


[January, 


dianges  at  the  Gearing-House  during 
the  past  year  have  repeatedly  amounted 
to  more  than  the  entire  expenses  of  the 
United  States  Government  for  the  same 
period. 

On  the  31st  day  of  December,  1863, 
there  were  10 1  joint-stock  companies 
for  the  underwriting  of  fire-risks,  with 
an  aggregate  capital  of  $23,632,860 ; 
net  assets  to  the  amount  of  $29,269,- 
4.23 ;  net  cash  receipts  from  premiums 
amounting  to  $10,181,031 ;  and  an  av- 
erage percentage  of  assets  to  risks  in 
force  equalling  2.995.  Besides  these 
10 1  joint-stock  concerns,  there  existed 
at  the  same  date  twenty-one  mutual 
fire-insurance  companies,  with  an  ag- 
gregate balance  in  their  £&vor  of  $674,- 
042.  The  rapidity  with  which  mutual 
companies  have  yielded  to  the  com- 
pacter  and  •  more  efficient  form  of  the 
joint-stock  concern  will  be  compre- 
hended when  it  is  kno^n  that  just  twice 
the  number  now  in  being  have  gone  out 
of  existence  diuing  the  last  decade. 
There  are  twelve  marine  insurance 
companies  in  the  metropolis,  with  as- 
sets amounting  to  $24,947,559.  The 
life-insurance  companies  number  thir- 
teen, with  an  aggregate  capital  of 
$1,885,000.  We  may  safely  set  down 
the  property  invested  in  New  York 
insurance  companies  of  all  sorts  at 
$51,139^461.  Add  this  sum  to  the  ag- 
gregate banking  capital  above  stated, 
and  we  have  a  total  of  $120,359,224. 
This  vast  sum  merely  represents  New 
York^s  interest  in  the  management  of 
other  people's  money.  The  bank  is 
employed  as  an  engine  for  operating 
debt  and  credit  Its  capital  is  the  neces- 
sary fuel  for  running  the  machine  ;  and 
.that  fuel  ought  certainly  not  to  cost  more 
than  a  fair-  interest  on  the  products  of 
the  engine.  The  insurance  companies 
guard  the  business-man's  fortune  from 
surprise,  as  the  banks  relieve  him  from 
drudgery ;  they  put  property  and  liveli- 
hood beyond  the  reach  of  accident :  in 
other  words,  they  manage  the  estates  of 
die  community  so  as  to  secure  them 
from  detenoration,  and  charge  a  com- 
mission for  their  stewardship. 

It  is  a  legitimate  assumption  in  this 


part  of  the  country  that  the  money  em* 
ployed  in  managing  property  bears  to 
the  property  itself  an  average  propor* 
tion  of  about  seven  per  cent  Hence 
it  follows  that  the  above-stated  aggre- 
gate banking  and  insurance  capital  of 
$120,359,224  must  represent  and  be 
backed  by  values  to  more  than  four- 
teen times  that  amount.  In  other 
words,  and  in  round  numbers,  we  may 
assert  that  the  bank  and  insurance  in- 
terests of  New  York  are  in  relations 
of  commerce  and  control  with  at  least 
$1,685,029,136.  This  measure  of  met- 
ropolitan influence,  it  must  be  remem- 
bered, is  based  on  the  statistics  attain- 
able mainly  outside  of  cash  sales,  and 
through  only  two  of  the  metropolitan 
agencies  of  commerce. 

I  do  not  know  how  much  I  may  as- 
sist ainy  reader's  further  cofnpreheosion 
of  the  energies  of  the  metropolis  by 
stating  that  it  issues  fifteen  daily  news- 
papers, one  hundred  and  thirty-three 
weekly  or  semi-weekly  journals,  and 
seventy-four  monthly,  semi-monthly,  or 
weekly  magazines,  —  that  it  has  ten 
good  and  three  admirable  public  libra- 
ries,— a  dozen  large  hospitals,  exclu- 
sive of  the  military,  —  thirty  benevo- 
lent societies,  (and  we  are  in  that  re- 
spect for  behind  London,  where  every 
man  below  an  attorney  belongs  to  some 
''union"  or  other,  that  he  may  have 
his  neighbors'  guaranty  against  the 
ever-impending  British  poor-house,) — 
twenty-one  savings-banks,  —  one  the- 
atre where  French  is  spoken,  a  Ger- 
man theatre,  an  Italian  opera-house, 
and  eleven  theatres  where  they  speak 
English.  In  a  general  magazine-article, 
it  is  impossible  to  review  the  hundreds 
of  studios  where  our  own  Art  is  paint- 
ing itself  into  the  century  with  a  vigor 
which  has  no  rival  abroad.  We  can 
treat  neither  the  aesthetic  nor  the  social 
life  of  New  York  with  as  delicate  a  pen- 
cil as  we  would.  Our  paper  has  had  to 
deal  with  broad  £&cts ;  and  upon  these 
we  are  willing  to  rest  the  cause  of  New 
York  in  any  contest  for  metropolitan 
honors.  We  believe  that  New  York  is 
destined  to  be  the  permanent  empori- 
um not  only  of  this  country,  but  of 


186s.] 


• 

The  American  Metropolis, 


87 


the  entire  world, — and  likewise  the  po- 
litical capital  of  the  nation.  Had  the 
White  House  (or,  pray  Heaven !  some 
comeller  structure)  stood  on  Wash- 
ington Heights,  and  the  Capitol  been 
erected  at  Fanwood,  there  would  never 
havebeen  a  Proslavery  Rebellion.  This 
is  a  subject  which  business-men  are 
coming  to  ponder  pretty  seriously. 

After  all.  New  York's  essential  charm 
to  a  New-Yorker  cannot  express  itself 
in  figures,  nor,  indeed,  in  any  adequate 
manner.  It  is  the  city  of  his  soul. 
He  loves  it  with  a  passionate  dignity 
which  will  not  let  him  swagger  like  the 
Cockney  or  twitter  like  the  Parisian. 
His  love  for  New  York  goes  frequently 
unacknowledged  even  to  himself,  until 
a  necessary  absence  of  unusual  length 
teaches  him  how  hard  it  would  be  to 
lose  the  city  of  his  affections  forever. 

It  is  a  bath  of  other  souls.  It  will 
not  let  a  man  harden  inside  his  own 
epidermis.  He  must  affect  and  be  af- 
fected by  multitudinous  varieties  of  tem- 
perament, race,  character.  He  avoids 
grooves,  because  New  York  will  not 
tolerate  grooviness.  He  knows  that  he 
must  be  able,  on  demand,  to  bowl  any- 
where over  the  field  of  human  tastes 
and  sympathies.  Professionally  he  may 
be  a  specialist,  but  in  New  York  his 
specialty  must  be  only  the  axis  around 
which  are  grouped  encyclopaedic  learn- 
ing, fauldess  skill,  and  catholic  intui- 
tions. Nobody  will  waste  a  Saturday 
afternoon  riding  on  his  hobby-horse. 
He  must  be  a  broad-natured  person,  or- 
he  will  be  a  mere  imperceptible  line  on 
the  general  background  of  obscure  cit- 
izens. He  feels  that  he  is  surrounded 
by  people  who  will  help  him  do  his 
best,  yes,  who  will  make  him  do  it,  or 
drive  him  out  to  install  such  as  will.  If 
he  think  of  a  good  thing  to  do,  he  knows 
that  the  market  for  all  good  things  is 
close  around  him.  Whatever  surplus 
of  himself  he  has  for  communication, 
that  he  knows  to  be  absolutely  sure  of  a 
recipient  before  the  day  is  done.  New 
York,  like  Goethe's  Ol3rmpus,  says  to  ev- 
ery man  with  capacity  and  self-faith,  — 

**  Here  is  all  fulne«s,  ye  bcave,  to  reward  yoa : 
Work,  and  despair  oot  I " 


Moreover,  the  moral  air  of  New  York 
City  is  in  certain  respects  the  purest  air 
a  man  can  breathe.  This  may  seem  a 
paradox.  New  Yoric  City  is  not  often 
quoted  as  an  example  of  purity.  To  the 
philosopher  her  atmosphere  is  cleaner 
than  that  of  a  country  village.  As  the 
air  of  a  contracted  space  may  grow 
poisonous  by  respiration,  while  pure  air 
rests  over  the  entire  surface  of  the  earth 
in  virtue  of  being  the  final  solvent  to  all 
terrestrial  decompositions,  so  is  it  pos- 
sible that  a  few  good,  but  narrow  people 
may  get  alone  together  in  the  country, 
and  hatch  a  social  organism  far  more 
morbid  than  the  metropolitan.  In  the 
latter  instahce,  aberrations  counterbal- 
ance each  other,  and  the  body  p#itic, 
cursed  though  it  be  with  bad  officials, 
has  more  vitality  in  it  than  could  be  ex- 
cited by  any  conclave  of  excellent  men 
with  one  idea,  meeting,  however  sol- 
emnly, to  feed  it  with  legislative  pap. 

While  no  man  can  ride  into  metro- 
politan success  on  a  hobby-horse,  pop- 
ular dissent  will  still  take  no  stronger 
form  than  a  quiet  withdrawal  and  the 
permission  to  rock  by  himself.  No 
amount  of  eccentricity  surprises  a  New- 
Yorker,  or  makes  him  imcourteous.  It 
is  difficult  to  attract  even  a  crowd  of 
boys  on  Broadway  by  an  odd  figure, 
£&ce,  manner,  or  costume.  This  has 
the  result  of  making  New  York  an  asy- 
lum for  all  who  love  their  neighbor  as 
themselves,  but  would  a  little  rather 
not  have  him  looking  through  the  key-  * 
hole.  In  New  York  I  share  no  dread- 
ful secrets  with  the  man  next  door.  I 
am  not  in  his  power  any  more  than  if  I 
lived  in  Philadelphia, — nor  so  much,  for 
he  might  get  somebody  to  spy  me  there. 
There  is  no  other  place  but  New  York 
where  my  next-door  neighbor  never  feels 
the  slightest  hesitation  about  cutting  me 
dead,  because  he  knows  that  on  such 
conditions  rests  that  broad  individual 
liberty  which  is  the  glory  of  the  citizen. 

In  fine,  if  we  seek  the  capital  of 
well-paid  labor,  —  the  capital  of  broad 
congenialities  and  infinite  resources, — 
the  capital  of  most  widely  diffused  com- 
fort, luxury,  and  taste,  —  the  capital 
which  to  the  eye  of  the  plain  business- 


88 


Needle  and  Garden. 


[Janaazy; 


man  deserves  to  be  the  nation's  senate- 
seat, —  the  capital  which,  as  the  man 
of  forecast  sees,  must  eventually  be  the 
world's  Bourse  and  market-place, — in 
any  case  we  turn  and  find  our  quest  in 
the  city  of  New  York. 

To-day,  she  might  claim  Jersey  City, 
Hoboken,  Brooklyn,  and  all  the  settled 
districts  £acing~the  island  shore,  with 
as  good  a  grace  as  London  includes  her 
multitudinous  districts  on  both  sides  of 
the  Thames.  Were  all  the  population 
who  live  by  her,  and  legitimately  be- 
long to  her,  now  united  with  her,  as 
some  day  they  must  be  by  absorption, 
New  York  would  now  contain  more 
than  1,300,000  people.  For  this  union 
Ne#York  need  make  no  effort  The 
higher  organization  always  controls  and 
incorporates  the  lower. 


The  release  of  New  York  commerce 
fi*om  the  last  shackles  of  the  South- 
em  ^  long -paper"  system,  combined 
with  the  progressive  restoration  of  its 
moral  freedom  from  the  dungeon  of 
Southern  political  despotism,  has  left, 
for  the  first  time  since  she  was  born, 
our  metropolitan  giantess  unhampered. 
Let  us  throw  away  the  poor  results  of 
our  last  decade !  New  York  thought 
she  was  growing  then ;  but  the  future 
has  a  stature  for  her  which  shall  lift  her 
up  where  she  can  see  and  summon  all 
the  nations.* 

*  In  addidoo  to  the'obligatkms  elsewhere  reoog- 
nized,  an  acknowledgment  is  due  to  the  well-kiiowa 
archaeologist  and  statistician  of  New  York,  —  Mr. 
Valentine, — who  furnished  for  the  purpose  of  this 
article  the  latest  edition  of  his  Manual,  in  advance 
of  its  general  publicatioa,  and  to  the  great  oonveii- 
ienoe  of  dK  writer. 


NEEDLE   AND    GARDEN. 

THE  STORY  OF  A  SEAMSTRESS  WHO  LAID  DOWN  HER  NEEDLE  AND  BECAME 

A  STRAWB£RRY<;iRL,  ' 

WRITTEN    BY    HERSELF. 


INTRODUCTION. 

I  AM  very  sure  that  nothing  was  ever 
ferther  from  my  thoughts  than  the 
writing  of  a  book.  The  pages  which 
follow  were  never  intended  for  publi- 
cation, but  were  written  as  an  amuse- 
ment, sometimes  in  long  winter  even- 
ings, when  it  was  pleasanter  to  be  in- 
doors, and  sometimes  in  summer  dajrs, 
when  most  of  the  circumstances  men- 
tioned in  them  occurred.  I  was  a  long 
time  in  writing  them,  as  they  were  done 
littie  by  littie.  There  was  a  point  in 
them  at  which  I  stopped  entirely.  Then 
I  lent  the  manuscript  to  several  of  my 
acquaintances  to  read.  Some  of  these 
kept  it  only  a  few  days,  and  I  feel  quite 
sure  soon  tired  of  it,  as  it  afterwards  ap- 


peared that  they  had  read  very  little 
of  it :  they  must  have  thought  it  ex- 
tremely dulL  But  these  probably  bor- 
rowed it  only  out  of  compUment,  and  so 
I  was  neither  surprised  nor  mortified. 
The  only  surprise  was,  that  now  and 
then  there  was  one  who  did  have  pa- 
tience to  go  over  it  all,  as  it  was  written 
in  a  common  copy-book,  not  in  a  very 
nice  hand,  and  with  a  great  many  eras- 
ures and  alterations.  But  when  one 
has  a  fiivorite,  it  is  grateful  to  find  even 
a  single  admirer  for  it  So  it  was  with 
me.  I  wrote  frt>m  love  of  the  subject ; 
and  when  any  one  was  kind  enough 
to  give  his  approval,  I  felt  exceedingly 
pleased,  not  because  I  had  a  high  opin- 
ion of  the  matter  myself,  but  only  be- 
cause I  had  written  it    Then  it  must 


i86s.] 


NudU  and  Gardai. 


89 


be  acknowledged  that  my  small  drcle 
of  acquaintances  comprised  more  work- 
ers than  readers.  Those  who  had  a 
taste  for  reading  found  their  time  so  oc* 
cupied  by  the  labor  necessary  to  their 
support  that  but  little  was  left  to  them 
for  indulging  in  books ;  and  the  few  who 
had  leisure  were  probably  such  indiffer- 
ent readers  as  to  make  the  task  of  going 
over  a  blotted  manuscript  too  great  for 
their  patience,  unless  it  were  more  in- 
teresting than  mme. 

At  last,  after  a  very  long  dme,  and 
a  gteat  many  strange  experiences,  the 
manuscript  fell  into  the  hands  of  one 
who  was  an  endre  stranger  to  me,  but 
who  has  since  proved  himself  the  dear- 
est friend  I  ever  had.  He  read  it,  and 
said  it  must  be  published.  But  the 
thought  of  publication  so  frightened  me 
that  it  almost  deprived  me  of  sleep. 
Still,  after  very  long  persuasion,  I  con- 
sented, and  the  whole  was  written  over 
again,  with  a  great  many  things  added. 
When  it  was  all  ready,  he  told  me  I 
must  write  a  preface.  So  I  was  per- 
suaded even  to  this,  though  that  was  a 
new  alarm,  and  I  had  scarcely  recov^ 
ered  from  the  first  I  have  always  been 
retiring,  —  indeed,  quite  out  of  sight; 
and  nothing  has  reconciled  me  to  this 
publicity  but  the  knowledge  that  no  one 
will  be  able  to  discover  me,  unless  it  be 
the  very  few  who  had  patience  to  read 
my  manuscript  Even  they  will  find  it 
so  altered  and  enlarged  as  scarcely  to 
remember  it 

Yet  there  is  another  consideration 
which  ought  to  reconcile  me  to  com- 
ing forward  in  a  way  so  contrary  to  what 
I  had  ever  contemplated.  I  think  the 
story  of  my  quiet  life  may  lead  others 
to  reflect  more  seriously  on  the  griefs, 
the  trials,  and  the  hardships  to  which 
so  many  of  my  sex  are  constantiy  sub- 
jected. It  may  lead  some  of  the  other 
sex  either  to  think  more  of  these  trials, 
or  to  view  them  in  a  new  and  dififerent 
light  from  any  in  which  they  have  here- 
tofore regarded  them.  They  may  even 
think  that  I  have  suggested  a  new  rem- 
edy for  an  old  evil.  I  know  that  many 
such  have  labored  to  remove  the  wrongs 
of  which  poor  and  fiiendless  women  are 


the  victims.  But  while  they  have  al- 
ready done  much  toward  that  humane 
end,  as  much  remains  to  do.  I  make 
no  studied  effort  to  influence  or  direct 
them.  The  contrast  between  my  first 
and  last  experience  was  so  great,  that, 
in  rewriting,  I  added  some  £u:ts  from 
the  experience  of  others  to  give  force 
to  the  redtal  of  my  own.  My  hope  is, 
that  humane  minds  may  be  gratified  by 
a  narrative  so  uneventful,  and  that  they, 
fortified  by  position  and  means,  will  be 
led  to  do  for  others,  in  a  new  direction, 
as  much  as  I,  comparatively  unaided, 
have  been  able  to  do  for  mysell 


CHAPTER   I. 

Having  always  had  a  great  fondness 
for  reading,  I  have  gone  through  every 
book  to  which  my  very  limited  circle 
of  acquaintance  gave  me  access.  Even 
this  small  literary  experience  was  sufii- 
cient  to  impress  upon  my  mind  the  su- 
perior value  of  personal  memoirs.  Of 
all  my  reading,  they  most  interested 
me ;  and  1  have  learned  from  others  that 
such  books  have  most  interested  them. 
Indeed,  biography,  and  personal  narra- 
tive of  all  kinds,  seem  to  command  a 
general  popularity.  Moreover,  we  like 
to  know  fi^m  the  person  himself  what 
he  does,  how  he  thinks  and  feels,  what 
fortunes  or  vicissitudes  he  encounters, 
"how  he -begins  his  career,  and  how  it, 
ends.  AH  biography  gives  us  most  of 
these  particulars,  but  they  are  never  so 
vividly  recited  as  by  the  subject  of  the 
narrative  himself.  Accordingly  what 
was  once  a  kind  of  diary  of  the  most 
unimportant  events  I  have  transformed 
into  a  personal  history.  I  know  the 
transformation  will  not  give  them  any 
importance  they  did  not  originally  pos- 
sess, but  it  gives  me  at  least  one  chance 
of  making  my  recital  interesting. 

All  who  have  any  knowledge  of  the 
city  of  Philadelphia  will  remember  that 
on  its  southern  boundary  there  is  a 
large  district  known  as  the  township 
of  Moyamensing.  Much  of  it  is  now 
incorporated  with  the  recentiy  enlarged 
dty,  but  the  old  name  still  clings  to  it 


90 


Needle  and  Garden, 


[Januaiy, 


There  are  many  thousand  acres  in  this 
district,  which  stretches  from  the  Dela- 
ware to  the  SchuylkilL  The  junction 
of  the  two  Hvers  at  its  lower  end  makes 
it  a  peninsula,  which  has  long  been 
known  as  **  The  Neck."  When  the  city 
'  was  founded  by  William  Penn,  much  of 
this  and  the  adjoining  land  was  in  pos- 
session of  the  Swedes,  who  came  first 
to  Pennsylvania.  They  had  settled  on 
tracts  of  different  sizes,  some  very  large, 
and  some  very  small,  according  to  their 
ability  to  purchase.  It  was  then  cov- 
ered by  a  dense  forest,  which  required 
great  labor  to  clear  it 

My  ancestors  were  among  these  ear- 
ly Swedes.  They  were  so  poor  in  this 
world's  goods  as  to  be  able  to  purchase 
only  forty  acres  of  this  extremely  cheap 
land.  Even  that  was  not  paid  for  in 
money,  but  in  labor.  I  n  time  they  cleared 
it  up,  built  a  small  brick  house  after  the 
quaint  fashion  of  those  early  days,  the 
material  for  which  was  furnished  from 
a  superior  kind  of  clay  underlying  the 
land  all  around  them,  and  thenceforward 
maintained  themselves  from  the  prod- 
ucts of  the  soil,  then,  as  now,  prover- 
bial for  its  fruitftilness.  It  descended  to 
their  children,  most  of  whom  were-equal-^ 
ly  plodding  and  unambitious  with  them- 
selves. All  continued  the  old  occupa- 
tion of  looking  to  the  soil  for  subsist- 
ence ;  and  so  long  as  the  forty  acres 
were  kept  together,  they  lived  welL  But 
as  descendants  multiplied,  and  one  gen-* 
eration  succeeded  to  another,  so  the 
little  hxm  became  subdivided  among 
numerous  heirs,  all  of  whom  sold  to 
strangers,  except  my  father,  who  con- 
sidered himself  happy  in  being  able  to 
secure,  as  his  portion,  the  quaint  old 
homestead,  with  its  then  well-stocked 
garden,  and  a  lot  large  enough  to  make 
his  whole  domain  an  acre  and  a  half. 

I  have  many  times  heard  him  relate 
the  particulars  of  this  acquisition,  and 
say  how  lucky  it  was  for  sdl  of  us  that 
he  secured  it  The  other  heirs,  who 
had  turned  their  acres  into  money,  went 
into  trade  or  speculation  and  came  out 
poor.  With  the  homestead  of  the  first 
settler  my  father  seemed  to  have  inher- 
ited all  his  unambitious  and  plodding 


character.  His  whole  habit  was  quiet, 
domestic,  and  home-loving.  He  was 
content  to  cultivate  his  land  with  the 
spade,  raising  many  kinds  of  fruits  and 
vegetables  for  the  family  and  for  mar- 
ket, and  worldng  likewise  in  the  fields 
and  gardens  of  his  neighbors ;  while  in 
winter  he  employed  himself  in  making 
nets  for  the  fisherme^ 

But  much  of  this  work  for  others  was 
done;  for  gentlemen  who  had  fine  old 
houses,  built  at  least  a  hundred  years 
ago.  The  land  in  Moyamensing  is  so 
beautifully  level,  and  is  so  very  rich  by 
nature,  that  at  an  early  day  in  the  setUe- 
ment  of  the  country  a  great  many  re- 
markably fine  dwellings  were  built  upon 
it,  to  which  extensive  gardens  were  at- 
tached. Father  had  been  in  and  all  over 
many  of  these  mansions,  and  was  fond 
of  describing  their  wonders  to  us.  They 
were  finished  inside  with  great  expense. 
Some  had  curiously  carved  door-frames 
and  mantels,  with  parlors  wainscoted 
clear  up  to  the  ceiling,  and  heavy  mould- 
ings wherever  they  could  be  put  in. 
These  old-time  mansions  were  scat- 
tered thickly  over  this  beautiful  piece 
of  land.  Such  of  them  as  were  built 
nearest  the  city  have  long  since  been 
.swept  away  by  the  extension  of  streets 
and  long  rows  of  new  houses  ;  but  all 
through  the  remoter  portion  of  the  dis- 
trict there  are  many  still  left,  with  their 
fine  gardens  filled  with  the  best  fiiiits 
that  modem  horticulture  has  enabled 
the  wealthy  to  gather  around  them. 

I  remember  many  of  those  that  have 
been  torn  down.  One  or  two  of  them 
were  famous  in  Revolutionary  history. 
The  owners  of  such  as  remained  in 
my  father's  time  were  glad  to  have  him 
take  charge  of  their  gardens.  He  knew 
how  to  bud  or  graft  a  tree,  to  trim  grape- 
vines, and  to  raise  the  best  and  earli- 
est vegetables.  In  all  that  was  to  be 
done  in  a  gendeman*s  garden  he  was  so 
neat,  so  successful,  so  quiet  and  indus- 
trious, that  whatever  time  he  had  to 
spare  from,  his  own  was  always  in  de- 
mand, and  at  the  highest  wages. 

When  not  otherwise  occupied,  my 
mother  also  worked  at  the  art  of  net- 
making.    At  times  she  was  employed  in 


1865.] 


Needle  and  Garden. 


91 


making  up  clothing  for  what  some  years 
ago  were  popularly  called  the  slop- 
shops, mostly  situated  in  the  lower  sec- 
tion of  the  ci^.  These  were  shops  which 
kept  supplies  of  ready-made  clothing 
for  sailors  and  other  transient  people 
who  harbored  along  the  wharves.  It 
was  coarse  work,  and  was  made  up  as 
cheaply  as  possible.  At  that  time  the 
shipping  of  the  port  was  much  of  it  con- 
gregated in  the  lower  part  of  the'City, 
not  isx  from  our  house. 

When  a  little  girl,  I  have  often  gone 
with  my  mother  when  she  went  on  her 
errands  to  these  shops,  doing  what  I 
could  to  help  her  in  carrying  her  heavy 
bundles  to  and  fro ;  and  more  than  once 
I  heard  her  rudely  spoken  to  by  (he  pert 
young  tailor  who  received  her  work,  and 
who  examined  it  as  carefully  as  if  the  ma- 
terial had  been  silk  or  cambric,  instead 
of  the  coarse  fabric  which  constitutes 
the  staple  of  such  establishments.  I 
thus  learned,  at  a  very  early  age,  to 
know  something  of  the  duties  of  needle- 
women, as  well  as  of  the  mortifications 
and  impositions  to  which  their  vocation 
frequentiy  subjects  them. 

My  mother  was  a  beautiful  sewer,  and 
I  am  sure  she  never  turned  in  a  gar- 
ment that  had  in  any  way  been  slight- 
ed. She  knew  how  rude  and  exacting 
this  class  of  employers  were,  and  was 
nice  and  careful  in  consequence,  so  as 
to  be  sure  of  giving  satisfaction.  But 
all  this  care  avaikd  nothing,  in  many 
cases,  to  prevent  rudeness,  and  some- 
times a  refusal  to  pay  the  pitiful  price 
she  had  been  promised.  Her  disposi- 
tion was  too  gentie  and  yielding  for  her 
to  resent  these  impositions  ;  she  was 
unable  to  contend  and  argue  with  the 
rough  creatures  behind  the  counter; 
she  therefore  submitted  in  silence,  some- 
times even  in  tears.  Twice,  I  can  dis- 
tinctiy  remember,  when  these  heartiess 
men  compelled  her  to  leave  her  work  at 
less  than  the  low  price  stipulated,  I  have 
seen  her  tears  fall  in  big  drops  as  she 
took  up  the  mite  thus  grudgingly  thrown 
down  to  her,  and  leave  the  shop,  lead- 
ing me  by  the  hand.  I  could  feel, 
young  as  I  was,  the  hard  nature  of  this 
treatment  1  heard  the  rough  language, 


though  unable  to  know  how  harshly  it 
must  have  grated  on  the  soft  feelings 
of  the  best  mother  that  child  was  ever 
blessed  with. 

But  I  comprehended  nothing  beyond 
what  I  saw  and  heard,  —  nothing  of  the 
merits  of  the  case,  —  nothing  of  the 
nature  and  bearings  of  the  business,  — 
nothing  of  the  severe  laws  of  trade 
which  govern  the  conduct  of  buyer  and 
seller.  I  did  not  know  that  in  a  large 
city  there  are  always  hundreds  of  sew- 
ing-women begging  from  these  hard  em- 
ployers the  privilege  of  toiling  all  day, 
and  half-way  into  the  night,  in  an  oc- 
cupation which  never  brings  even  a  rea- 
sonable compensation,  while  many  times 
the  severity  of  their  labors,  the  confine- 
ment and  privation,  break  down  tiie 
most  robust  constitutions,  and  hurry  the 
weaker  into  a  premature  grave. 

I  was  too  young  to  reason  on  these 
subjects,  though  quick  enough  to  feel 
for  my  dear  mother.  When  I  saw  her 
full  heart  overflow  in  tears,  I  cried  from 
sympathy.  When  we  got  into  the  street, 
and  her  tears  dried  up,  and  her  habitu- 
al cheerfulness  returned,  I  also  ceased 
weeping,  and  soon  forgot  the  cause. 
The  memory  of  a  child  is  blissfully  fugi- 
tive. Indeed,  among  the  blessings  that 
lie  everywhere  scattered  along  our  path- 
way, is  the  readiness  with  which  we  all 
forget  sorrows  that  nearly  broke  down 
the  spirit  when  first  they  fell  upon  us. 
For  if  the  griefs  of  an  entire  life  were 
to  be  remembered,  all  that  we  suffer 
from  childhood  to  mature  age,  the  accu- 
mulation would  be  greater  than  we  could 
bear. 

On  one  occasion,  when  with  my 
mother  at  the  slop-shop,  we  found  a 
sewing-woman  standing  at  the  counter, 
awaiting  payment  for  the  making  of  a 
dozen  summer  vests.  We  came  up  to 
the  counter  and  stood  beside  her, — for 
there  were  no  chairs  on  which  a  sewing- 
woman  might  rest  herself,  however  fa- 
tigued from  carrying  a  heavy  bundle  for 
a  mile  or  two  in  a  hot  day.  And  even 
had  there  been  such  grateful  conven- 
iences, we  should  not  have  been  invited 
to  sit  down ;  and  unless  invited,  no  sew- 
ing-woman would  risk  a  provocation  of 


74 


TIte  American  Metropolis. 


[Jaiiuaxy. 


occupied  in  part  by  one  of  Delmonico's 
restaurants,  was  purchased  by  a  New 
York  citizen,  but  lately  deceased,  for 
the  sum  of  $i,ooo :  its  present  value  is 
$125,000.  A  single  Broadway  lot,  sur- 
veyed out  of  an  estate  which  cost  t  the 
late  John  Jay  $500  per  acre,  was  recent- 
ly sold  at  auction  for  %  80,000,  and  the 
purchaser  has  refused  a  rent  of  $16,000 
per  annum,  or  twenty  per  cent  on  his 
purchase-money,  for  the  store  which  he 
has  erected  on  the  property.  In  1826, 
the  estimated  total  value  of  real  estate  in 
the  city  of  New  York  was  $  64,804,050. 
In  1863,  it  had  reached  a  total  of 
$402,196,652,  thus  increasing  more  than 
sixfold  within  the  lifetime  of  an  ordinary 
business-generation.  In  1826,  the  per- 
sonal estate  of  New  York  City,  so  far  as 
could  be  arrived  at  for  official  purposes, 
amounted  to  $42,434,981.  In  1863,  the 
estimate  of  this  class  of  property- values 
was  $192,000,161.  It  had  thus  more 
than  quadrupled  in  a  generation. 

But,  statistics  are  most  eloquent 
through  illustration.  Let  us  look  dis- 
cursively about  the  city  of  New  York  at 
various  periods  of  her  career  since  the 
opening  of  the  present  century.  I  shall 
assume  that  a  map  of  the  city  is  every- 
where attainable,  and  that  the  reader 
has  a  general  acquaintance  with  the 
physical  and  political  geography  of  the 
United  States. 

Not  far  from  the  beginning  of  the  cen- 
tury. Wall  Street,  as  its  name  implies, 
was  the  northern  boundary  of  the  city 
of  New  York.  The  present  north  boun- 
dary of  civilized  settlement  is  almost 
identical  with  the  statutory  limit  of  the 
city,  or  that  of  the  island  itself.  There 
is  no  perceptible  break,  though  there 
are  gradations  of  compactness,  in  the 
settled  district  between  the  foot  of  the 
island  and  Central  Park.  Beyond  the 
Park,  Haarlem  Lane,  Manhattanville, 
and  Carmansville  take  up  the  thread 
of  civic  population,  and  carry  it,  among 
metropolitan  houses  and  lamp-posts, 
quite  to  the  butment  of  High  Bridge. 
It  has  been  seriously  proposed  to  legis- 
late for  the  annexation  of  a  portion  of 
Westchester  to  the  biUs  of  mortality, 
and  this  measure  cannot  ^1  to  be  de- 


manded by  the  next  generation;  but 
for  the  present  we  will  consider  High 
Bridge  as  the  north  end  of  the  city. 
Let  us  compare  the  boundary  remem- 
bered by  our  veterans  with  that  to 
which  metropolitan  settlement  has  been 
pushedbythemand  their  children.  In 
the  lifetime  of  our  oldest  business-men, 
the  advance  wave  of  civic  refinement, 
convenience,  luxury,  and  population  has 
travelled  a  distance  greater  thaVthat 
from  the  Westminster  Palaces  to  the 
hulks  at  the  Isle  of  Dogs.  When  we 
consider  that  the  population  of  the  Amer- 
ican Metropolis  lives  better,  on  the  aver- 
age, than  that  of  any  earthly  capital,  and 
that  ninety-nine  himdredths  of  all  oursuf- 
fering  poor  are  the  overflow  of  GreatBrit- 
ain's  pauperism  running  into  our  grand 
channels  a  little  faster  than  we  can  di- 
rect its  current  to  the  best  advantage, — 
under  these  circumstances  the  advance 
made  by  New  York  in  less  than  a  cen- 
tury toward  the  position  of  the  world's 
metropolis  is  a  more  important  one 
than  has  been  gained  by  London  be- 
tween the  time  of  Julius  Caesar  and  the 
present  century. 

I  know  an  excellent  business-man 
who  was  bom  in  his  Other's  aristocrat- 
ic residence  in  Beaver  Street  Holbom 
is  as  aristocratic  now.  Another  friend 
of  mine  still  living,  the  freshest  of  sex- 
agenarians, told  me  lately  of  a  walk  he 
took  in  boyhood  which  so  much  fatigued 
him,  that,  when  he  was  a  long  way  out 
in  the  fields,  he  sat  down  to  rest  on  the 
steps  of  a  suburban  hospital.  I  guessed 
Bellevue ;  but  he  replied  that  it  was  the 
New  York  Hospital,  standing  in  what 
we  now  call  the  lower  part  of  Broad- 
way, just  opposite  North  Pearl  Street 
No  part  of  the  Strand  or  of  the  Boule- 
vards is  less  rural  than  the  vast  settled 
district  about  the  New  York  Hospital 
at  this  day.  It  stands  at  least  four  times 
farther  within  than  it  then  did  beyond 
the  circumference  of  New  York  civiliza- 
tion. I  remember  another  illustration 
of  its  relative  situation  early  in  the 
century, — a  story  of  good  old  Doctor 
Stone,  who  excused  himself  from  his 
position  of  manager  by  saying,  that,  as 
the  infirmities  of  age  grew  on  him,  he 


1865.] 


The  American  Metropolis. 


75 


found  the  New  York  Hospital  so  iax 
out  in  the  country  that  he  should  be 
obliged,  if  he  stayed,  to  keep  '*  a  horse 
and  cheer  J* 

Many  New- Yorkers, recognized  among 
our  young  and  active  men,  can  recollect 
when  Houston  Street  was  called  North 
Street  because  it  was  practically  the 
northern  boundary  of  the  settled  district 
Mid.dle-aged  men  remember  the  swamp 
of  LIspenard's  Meadow,which  is  now  the 
dryest  part  of  Canal  Street ;  some  re- 
caU  how  they  crossed  other  parts  of  the 
swamp  on  boards,  and  how  tide-water 
practically  made  a  separate  island  of 
what  is  now  the  northern  and  much  the 
larger  portion  of  the  city.  Young  men 
recollect  making  Saturday  -  afternoon 
appointments  with  their  schoolfellows 
(there  was  no  time  on  any  other  day) 
to  go  *<  clear  out  into  the  country,"  bathe 
in  the  rural  cove  at  the  foot  of  East 
Thirteenth  Street,  and,  refreshed  by 
their  baths,  proceed  to  bird's-nesting  on 
the  wilderness  of  the  Stuy  vesant  Farm, 
where  is  now  situate  Stuy  vesant  Park, 
one  of  the  loveliest  and  most  elegant 
pleasure-grounds  open  to  the  New  York 
public,  surrounded  by  one  of  the  best- 
settled  portions  of  the  city,  in  every 
sense  of  the  word.  Still  younger  men 
remember  Fourteenth  Street  as  the  ut- 
most northern  limit  of  the  wave  of  civil- 
ization ;  and  comparative  boys  have  seen 
Franconi's  Hippodrome  pitched  in  a  va- 
cant lot  of  the  suburbs,  where  now  the 
Fifth  Avenue  Hotel  stands,  at  the  en- 
trance to  a  double  mile  of  palaces,  in  the 
northern,  soutliem,  and  western  direc- 
tions. 

We  may  safely  affirm,  that,  since  the 
organization  of  the  science  of  statistics, 
no  city  in  the  world  has  ever  multiplied 
its  population,  wealth,  and  internal  re- 
sources of  livelihood  with  a  rapidity 
approaching  that  shown  by  New  York. 
London  has  of  late  years  made  great 
progress  quantitively,  but  her  means  of 
accommodating  a  healthy  and  happy 
population  have  kept  no  adequate  pace 
with  the  increase  of  numbers.  During 
the  year  1862,  75,000  immigrants  land- 
ed at  the  port  of  New  York ;  in  1863, 
150,000  more ;  and  thus  far  in  1S64  (we 


write  in  November)  200,000  have  de- 
barked here.  Of  these  425,000  immi- 
grants, 40  per  cent  have  stayed  in  the 
city.  Of  the  170,000  thus  staying,  90 
per  cent,  or  153,000,  are  British  sub- 
jects ;  and  of  these,  it  is  not  understat- 
ing to  say  that  five  eighths  are  depen- 
dent for  their  livelihood  on  physical  la- 
bor of  the  most  elementary  kind.  By 
comparing  these  estimates  with  the  tax- 
list,  it  will  appear  that  we  have  pushed 
our  own  inherent  vitality  to  an  extent 
of  forty  millions  increase  in  our  taxable 
property,  and  contributed  to  the  support 
of  the  most  gigantic  war  in  human  an- 
nals, during  the  period  that  we  received 
into  our  grand  civic  digestion  a  city  of 
British  subjects  as  large  as  Bristol,  and 
incorporated  them  into  our  own  body 
politic  with  more  comfort  both  to  mass 
and  particles  than  either  had  enjoyed  at  ^ 
home. 

There  are  still  some  people  who  re- 
gard the  settlement  of  countries  and  the 
selection  of  great  capitals  as  a  matter 
of  pure  romantic  accident  Philoso- 
phers know,  that,  i(  at  the  opening  of 
the  Adamic  period,  any  man  had  existed 
with  a  perfect  knowIed|;e  of  the  world's 
physical  geography  and  the  laws  of  na- 
tional development,  he  would  have  been 
able  to  foretell  a  priori  Xht  situations  of 
all  the  greatest  capitals.  It  is  a  law 
as  fixed  as  that  defining  the  course  of 
matter  in  the  line  of  least  resistance^ 
that  population  flows  to  the  level  where 
the  best  livelihood  is  most  easily  ob- 
tained. The  brute  motives  of  food  and 
raiment  must  govern  in  their  selection 
of  residence  nine  tenths  of  the  human 
race.  A  few  noble  enthusiasts,  like 
those  of  Plymouth  Colony,  may  leave 
immortal  footprints  on  a  rugged  coast, 
exchanging  old  civilization  for  a  new 
battle  with  savagery,  and  abandoning 
comfort  with  conformity  for  a  good  con- 
science with  privation.  Still,  had  there 
been  back  of  Plymouth  none  of  the  tim- 
ber, the  quarries,  the  running  streams, 
the  natural  avenues  of  inland  communi- 
cation, and  to  some  extent  the  agricul- 
tural capabilities  which  make  good  sub- 
sistence possible,  there  would  have  been 
no  Boston,  no  Lynn,  no  Lowell,  no  New 


7<5 


The  American  Metropolis, 


[January, 


Bedford,  no  healthy  or  wealthy  civiliza- 
tion of  any  kind,  until  the  Pilgrim  civ- 
ilization had  changed  its  base.  It  may 
be  generally  laid  down  that  the  men 
who  leave  home  for' truth's  sake  exile 
themselves  as  much  for  the  privilege  to 
live  truly  and  well  at  once  as  for  the 
mere  opportunity  of  living  truly. 

New  York  was  not  even  in  the  first 
place  settled  by  enthusiasts.  Trade 
with  the  savages,  nice  little  &rms  at 
Haarlem,  a  seat  among  the  burgomas- 
ters, the  feast  of  St.  Nicholas,  pipes  and 
Schiedam,  a  vessel  now  and  then  in  the 
year  bringing  over  letters  of  affection 
ripened  by  a  six  months'  voyage,  some 
little  ventures,  and  two  or  three  new 
colonists,  —  these  were  the  joys  which 
allured  the  earliest  New  -Yorkers  to  the 
island  now  swarming  iVom  end  to  end 
^  with  almost  national  vitalities.  Not 
until  1836,  when  the  Italian  Opera  was 
first  domiciled  in  New  York,  on  the 
corner  of  Leonard  and  Church  Streets, 
could  the  second  era  of  metropolitan 
life  be  said  fully  to  have  set  in  there, — 
the  era  when  people  flow  toward  a  city 
for  the  culture  as  well  as  the  livelihood 
which  it  offers  them.  About  the  same 
time  American  studios  began  to  be 
thronged  with  American  picture-buyers ; 
and  there  is  no  need  of  referring  to  the 
rapid  advance  of  American  literature, 
and  the  wide  popularization  of  luxuries, 
dating  from  that  period. 

Long  prior  to  that,  New  York  was 
growing  with  giant  vitality.  She  pos- 
sesses, as  every  great  city  must  possess, 
preeminent  advantages  for  the  support 
of  a  vast  population  and  the  employ- 
ment of  immense  industries.  If  she 
could  not  feed  a  million  of  men  better 
than  Norfolk,  Norfolk  would  be  New 
York  and  New  York  Norfolk.  If  the 
products  of  the  world  were  not  more  eco- 
nomically exchanged  across  her  coun- 
ter than  over  that  of  Baltimore,  Balti- 
more would  need  to  set  about  building 
shelter  for  half  a  million  more  heads  than 
sleep  there  to-night  Perth  Amboy  was 
at  one  time  a  prominent  rival  of  New 
York  in  the  struggle  for  the  position  of 
the  American  Metropolis,  and  is  not  New 
York  only  because  Nature  said  No ! 


Let  us  invite  the  map  to  help  us  in 
our  investigation  of  New  York's  claim 
to  the  metropolitan  rank.  There  are 
three  chief  requisites  for  the  chief  city 
of  every  nation.  It  must  be  the  city  in 
easiest  communication  with  other  coun- 
tries, —  on  the  sea-coast,  if  there  be  a 
good  harbor  there,  or  on  some  stream 
debouching  into  the  best  harbor  that 
there  is.  It  must  be  the  city  in  easiest 
communication  with  the  interior,  either 
by  navigable  streams,  or  valleys  and 
mountain  -  passes,  and  thus  the  most 
convenient  rendezvous  for  the  largest 
number  of  national  interests, — the  place 
where  Capital  and  Brains,  Import  and 
Export,  Buyer  and  Seller,  Doers  and 
Things  to  be  Done,  shall  most  naturally 
make  their  appointments  to  meet  for  ex- 
change. Last,  (and  least,  too, — for  even 
cautious  England  will  people  jungles  for 
money's  sake,)  the  metropolis  must  en- 
joy at  least  a  moderate  sanitary  reputa- 
tion ;  otherwise  men  who  love  Fortune 
well  enough  to  die  for  her  will  not  be 
reinforced  by  another  large  class  who 
care  to  die  on  no  account  whatever. 

New  York  answers  all  these  requi- 
sites better  than  any  metropolis  in  the 
world.  She  has  a  harbor  capable  of 
accommodating  all  the  fleets  of  Chris- 
tendom, both  commercial  and  belliger- 
ent That  harbor  has  a  western  rami- 
fication, extending  from  the  Battery  to 
the  mouth  of  Spuyten  Duyvil  Creek,  — 
a  distance  of  fifteen  miles  ;  an  eastern 
ramification,  reaching  from  the  Battery 
to  the  mouth  of  Haarlem  River,  —  seven 
miles ;  and  a  main  trunk,  interrupted 
by  three  small  islands,  extending  from 
the  Battery  to  the  Narrows,  —  a  dis- 
tance of  about  eight  miles  more.  It  is 
rather  under-estimating  the  capacity  of 
the  East  River  branch  to  average,  its 
available  width  as  low  as  eighty  rods  ; 
a  mile  and  a  half  will  be  a  proportion- 
ately moderate  estimate  for  the  Hudson 
River  branch  ;  the  greatest  available 
width  of  the  Upper  Bay  is  about  four 
miles,  in  a  line  from  the  Long  Island 
to  the  Staten  Island  side.  If  we  add  to 
these  combined  areas  the  closely  adja- 
cent waters  in  hourly  communication 
with  New  York  by  her  tugs  and  light- 


I86J.] 


Needle  and  Garden, 


95 


I 


watdifulness,  and  intersected  with  dean, 
open  ditches,  to  secure  drainage.  Into 
these  ditches  the  tide  flowed  through 
sluices  in  the  bank,  and  thus  they  were 
always  full  offish. 

These  beautiful  meadows  were  the 
resort  of  thousands  who  resided  in  the 
lower  section  of  the  qity,  for  picnics 
'  and  excursions.  The  roads  through 
them  were  as  level  as  could  possibly 
be,  and  upon  them  were  continual  trot- 
ting-matches.  In  summer,  the  wide 
flats  outside  the  embankment  were  over- 
grown with  reeds,  among  which  gun- 
ners congregated  in  numbers  dangerous 
to  themselves,  shooting  rail  and  reed- 
birds.  Oi)  Sundays  and  other  holidays, 
the  wide  footpath  on  the  high  embank- 
ment was  a  moving  procession  of  peo- 
ple, who  came  out  of  the  city  to  enjoy 
the  fresh  breeze  from  tl^e  river.  All 
who  lived  near  resorted  to  these  £wor- 
ite  grounds. 

Several  other  little  boys  and  girls 
were  to  come  to  our  house  and  go  with 
us.  We  had  long  been  in  the  habit  of 
going  to  the  meadows  to  fish  and  play, 
where  we  had  the  merriest  and  happi- 
est of  times.  Sometimes,  though  the 
meadows  were  only  half  a  mile  from  us, 
we  took  a  slice  or  two  of  bread-and- 
butter  in  a  little  basket,  to  serve  for 
dinner,  so  that  we  could  stay  all  day ; 
for  the  meadows  and  ditches  extended 
several  miles  below  the  city,  and  we 
wandered  and  played  all  the  way  down 
to  the  Point  House.  On  these  trips 
we  caught  sun-fish,  roach,  cat-fish,  and 
sometimes  perch,  and  always  brought 
them  home.  We  generally  got  pro- 
digiously hungry  from  the  exercise  we 
took,,  and  sat  down  on  the  thick  grass 
under  a  tree  to  eat  our  scanty  dinners. 
These  dinner-times  came  very  early  in 
the  day ;  and  long  before  it  was  time  to 
go  home  in  the  afternoon,  we  became 
even  mote  hungry  than  we  had  been  in 
the  morning, — but  our  baskets  had  been 
emptied. 

I  think  these  young  days,  with  these 
innocent  sports  and  recreations,  were 
among  the  happiest  of  my  life.  I  do 
not  think  the  fish  we  caught  were  of 
much  account,  though  fiither  was  al- 


ways glad  to  see  them ;  and  I  remem- 
ber how  he  took  each  one  of  our  bas^ 
kets,  as  we  came  into  the  kitchen,  look- 
ed into  it,  and  turned  over  and  count- 
ed the  fishes  it  contained.  My  brother 
Fred  generally  had  the  most,  and  I  had 
the  fewest :  but  it  seems  that  even  for 
other  things  than  fishes  I  never  had  a 
taking  way  about  me.  Father  was  very 
fond  of  them,  for  mother  had  a  way  of 
fiying  their  little  thin  bodies  into  a  nice 
brown  crisp,  which  made  us  all  a  good 
break&st  So  fiither  had  made  us  lines, 
with  corks  and  hooks,  tied  them  to  nice 
little  poles,  and  showed  us  how  to  use 
them  and  keep  them  in  order,  and  had 
a  comer  in  the  shed  in  which  he  taught 
us  to  set  them  up  out  of  harm's  way. 
Occasionally  he  even  went  with  us  to 
the  meadows  himsel£ 

But  while  I  am  speaking  of  these  dear 
times,  I  must  say  that  we  always  came 
home  happy,  though  tired  and  dirty. 
Sometimes  we  got  into  great  mud-holes 
along  the  ditch-bank,  so  deep  as  to  leave 
a  shoe  sticking  fiist,  compelling  us  to 
trudge  home  with  only  one.  Then, 
when  we  found  a  place  where  the  fish 
bit  sharply,  aU  of  us  rushed  to  the  spot, 
and  pushed  into  the  wild  rose-bushes 
that  grew  in  clumps  upon  the  bank :  for 
I  generally  noticed,  that,  where  the  bush- 
es overhung  the  water  and  made  a  lit- 
tle shade,  the  fish  were  most  abundant 
In  the  scramble  to  secure  a  good  foot- 
hold, the  briers  tore  our  clothes  and 
bonnets,  sometimes  so  as  to  make  us 
£&irly  ragged,  besides  scratching  our 
hands  and  faces  terribly.  Occasionally 
one  of  us  slipped  into  the  ditch,  and  was 
helped  out  dripping  wet ;  but  we  never 
mentioned  such  an  incident  at  home. 
Then  more  than  once  we  were  caught 
in  a  heavy  shower,  with  nothing  but  a 
> rose-bush  or  a  willow-tree  for  shelter; 
and  there  were  often  so  many  of  us  that 
it  was  like  a  hen  with  an  unreasonably 
large  brood  of  chickens,  —  some  must 
stay  out  in  the  wet,  and  aU  such  sur- 
plusage got  soaked  to  the  skin. 

But  we  cared  nothing  for  any  of  these 
things.  Indeed,  I  am  inclined  to  think 
that  we  were  happy  in  proportion  as  we 
got  tired,  hungry,  wet,  and  dirty.  Mother 


96 


NeedU  and  Garden. 


[January, 


never  scolded  us  when  we  came  home  in 
this  condition.  Though  we  smelt  terribly 
of  mud  and  fish,  and  were  often  smeared 
over  with  the  dried  slime  of  a  great 
slippery  eel  which  had  swallowed  the 
hook,  and  coiled  himself  in  knots  all 
over  our  lines,  and  required  three  or 
four  of  the  boys  to  cut  off  his  head  and 
get  the  hook  out,  yet  all  she  did  was 
to  make  us  wash  ourselves  clean,  after 
which  she  gave  us  a  supper  that  tast- 
ed better  than  all  the  suppers  we  get 
now,  and  then  put  us  to  bed.  We  were 
tired  enough  to  go  right  to  sleep ;  but 
it  was  the  fatigue  of  absolute  happi- 
ness,—  light  hearts,  light  consciences, 
no  care,  nothing  but  the  perfect  enjoy- 
ment of  childhood,  such  as  never  comes 
to  us  but  once. 

This  is  a  long  digression,  but  it  could 
not  be  avoided.  I  said,  that,  when  moth- 
er told  me  I  was  to  make  a  shirt  for 
&ther,  we  were  that  very  afternoon  to 
go  down  among  these  dear  old  mead- 
ows and  dirty  ditches  to  fish  and  play. 
Our  lines  were  all  in  order,  and  a  new 
hook  had  been  put  on  mine,  as  on  the 
last  excursion  the  old  one  had  caught 
in  what  the  boys  call  a  '^  blind  eel,"  that 
is,  a  sunken  log,— and  there  it  probably 
remains  to  this  day.  Fred  had  dug 
worms  for  us,  and  they  had  coiled  them- 
selves up  into  a  huge  ball  in  the  shell 
of  an  old  cocoa-nut,  ready  to  be  im- 
paled on  our  hooks.  Everything  was 
prepared  for  a  start,  and  we  were  only 
waiting  for  dinner  to  be  over :  though 
I  can  remember,  that,  whenever  we  had 
such  an  afternoon  before  us,  we  had 
very  little  appetite  to  satisfy.  The  an- 
ticipation and  glee  were  such  that  the 
pervading  desire  was  not  to  eat,  but  to 
be  off. 

But  when  mother  gave  me  the  shirt 
to  make,  I  felt  so  proud  of  the  trust,* 
that  all  desire  to  go  to  the  meadows 
left  me.  I  felt  a  new  sensation,  a  new 
ambition,  a  new  pride.  It  was  very 
strange  that  I  should  thus  suddenly 
give  up  the  ditches,  the  fishing,  the 
scratching,  and  the  dirt ;  for  none  of  us 
loved  them  more  dearly  than  myself. 
But  they  were  old  and  familiar,  and  Ci- 
ther's shirt  was  a  novelty ;  and  novelty 


is  one  of  the  great  attractions  for  the 
young.  So  they  went  without  me,  and 
after  dinner  I  sat  down  to  make  my  first 
shirt 

It  was  to  be  made  in  the  plainest  way ; 
for  fother  had  no  pride  about  his  dress. 
I  cut  it  out  myself,  basted  it  t<^ther, 
then  sewed  it  with  my  utmost  care. 
There  was  to  be  no  nice  work  about 
oolku*  or  wristband,  —  no  troublesome 
plaits  or  gussets,  —  no  machine-made 
bosom  to  set  in, — only  a  few  gathers^ 
— and  all  plain  work  throughout  My 
mother  looked  at  me  occasionally  as 
the  shirt  progressed,  but  found  no  ^ult 
She  did  not  once  stop  me  to  examine 
it ;  but  I  feel  sure  she  must  have  scru- 
tinized  it  carefully  after  I  bad  gone  to 
bed.  I  was  so  particular  in  this,  my 
first  grand  effort  to  secure  the  honors 
of  a  needlewoman,  that  quite  two  days 
were  occupied  in  doing  it 

When  all  done,  I  took  it  to  mother, 
proud  of  my  achievement,  telling  her, 
that,  if  she  had  more  cotton,  I  was  ready 
to  begin  another.  She  looked  over  it 
with  a  slowness  that  I  am  sure  was  in- 
tentional, and  not  at  all  necessary.  The 
wristbands  were  aU  right,  the  buttons  in 
the  proper  places,  the  hemming  she  said 
was  done  welL  Then,  taking  it  up  by 
the  collar,  and  holding  the  garment  at 
full  length  before  her,  so  that  I  could 
see  it  all,  she  asked  me  if  I  saw  anything 
wrong.  I  looked  closely,  but  could  see 
no  mistake.    At  last  she  exclaimed,  — 

''  Why,  my  dear  Lizzie,  this  is  only  a 
bag  with  arms  to  it  I  How  is  your  fa- 
ther to  get  into  it?" 

She  turned  it  all  round  before  me, 
and  showed  me  that  I  had  left  no  open- 
ing at  the  bosom  and  neck,  —  father 
could  never  get  it  over  his  head !  I 
cannot  tell  how  astonished  and  morti- 
fied I  felt  I  cried  as  only  such  a  child 
could  cry.  I  sobbed  and  begged  her 
not  to  show  it  to  fiither,  and  promised 
to  alter  it  immediately,  if  she  would  on- 
ly tell  me  how.  But,  oh,  how  kind  my 
dear  mother  was  in  soothing  my  excited 
feelings !  There  was  not  a  word  of 
blame.  She  made  me  comparatively 
calm  by  immediately  opening  die  l)osom 
as  it  should  have  been  done,  and  show- 


i86s.] 


Mtmorits  of  Authors. 


97 


ing  me  how  to  finish  it  I  hurried  up 
to  my  chamber  to  be  alone  and  out  of 
sight  They  called  me  to  dinner,  but 
my  appetite  had  gone.  Though  my  lit- 
tle heart  was  full,  and  my  hand  trem- 
bled, yet  long  before  night  the  work  was 
done. 

Oh,  how  the  burden  rose  from  my 
spirits  when  my  dear  mother  took  me 
in  her  arms,  kissed  me  tenderly,  and 
said  that  my  mistake  was  nothing  but  a 
trifle  that  I  would  be  sure  to  remem- 
ber, and  that  the  shirt  was  £ur  better 
made  than  she  had  expected!  When 
&ther  came,  in  to  supper,  I  took  it  to 
him  and  told  him  that  /  had  made  it 
He  looked  both  surprised  and  pleased, 


kissed  me  with  even  more  than  hb  us-- 
ual  kindness,  —  I  think  mother  must 
have  privately  told  him  of  my  blunder, 
— and  said  that  he  would  surely  remem- 
ber me  at  Christmas.. 

I  know  that  incidents  like  these  can 
be  of  little  interest  to  any  but  mysel£ 
But  what  more  exciting  ones  are  to  be 
expected  in  such  a  history  as  mine  ? 
If  they  are  related  here,  it  is  because  I 
am  requested  to  record  them.  Still,  ev- 
ery poor  sewing-giri  will  consider  that 
the  making  of  her  first  shirt  is  an  event 
in  her  career,  a  difficulty  to  be  sur- 
mounted,— and  that,  even  when  success- 
fully accomplished,  it  is  in  reality  only 
the  beginning  of  a  long  career  of  toil 


MEMORIES   OF   AUTHORS. 


A  SBRIXS  OF  PORTRAITS  FROM  PERSONAL  ACQUAINTANCE. 

THOMAS  MOORE. 


MORE  than  forty  years  have  passed 
since  I  first  conversed  with  the 
poet  Thomas  Moore.  Afterwards  it  was 
my  privilege  to  know  him  intimately. 
He  seldom,  of  late  years,  visited  Lon- 
don without  spending  an  evening  at  our 
house ;  and  in  1845  ^^  passed  a  happy 
week  at  his  cottage,  Sloperton,  in  the 
county  of  Wilts :  — 

"  Id  my  calendar 
There  are  no  whiter  days  t" 

The  poet  has  himself  noted  the  time 
in  his  diary  (November,  1845). 

It  was  in  the  year  1822  I  made  his 
acquaintance  in  Dul)lin.  He  was  in 
the  full  ripeness  of  middle  age,  —  then', 
as  ever,  "  the  poet  of  all  circles,  and  the 
idol  of  his  own."  As  his  visits  to  his 
native  city  were  few  and  fiu*  between, 
the  power  to  see  him,  and  especially  to 
fUar  him,  was  a  bobn  of  magnitude.  It 
was,  indeed,  a  treat,  when,  seated  at  the 
piano,  he  gav^  voice  to  the  glorious 
'*  Melodies  ^  that  are  justly  regarded  as 
the  most  valuable  of  his  legacies  to  man- 

VOL.  XV.  —  NO.  87.  7 


kind.  I  can  recall  that  evening  as  viv- 
idly as  if  it  were  not  a  sennight  old : 
the  gracefiil  man,  small  and  slim  in  fig- 
ure, his  upturned  eyes  and  eloquent 
fixtures  giving  force  to  the  music  that 
accompanied  the  songs,  or  rather  to 
the  songs  that  accompanied  the  music. 
Dublin  was  then  the  home  of  much  of 
the  native  talent  that  afterwards  found 
its  way*  to  England;  and  there  were 
some.  Lady  Morgan  especially,  whose 
"  evenings  "  drew  together  the  wit  and 
genius  for  which  that  city  has  always, 
been  famous.  To  such  an  evening  I 
make  reference.  It  was  at  the  house  of 
a  Mr.  Steele,  then  High  Sheriff  of  the 
tounty  of  Dublin,  and  I  was  introduced 
there  by  the  Rev.  Charles  Maturin.  The- 
name  is  not  widely  known,  yet  Maturin 
was  fiimous  in  his  day  —  and  for  a' 
day — as  the  author  of  two  successful* 
tragedies,  ''Bertram"  and  ''Manuel,* 
On  which  the  elder  Kean  sustained  the 
leading  parts,)  and  of  several  popular 
novels.    Moreover,  he. was  an.  eloqpent. 


98 


Memories  of  Auiian, 


[January, 


preacher,  although  probably  he  mistook 
his  calling  when  he  entered  the  Church* 
Among  his  many  eccentricities  I  remem* 
ber  one :  it  was  his  habit  to  compose 
while  walking  about  his  large. and  scan* 
tily  furnished  house ;  and  always  on 
such  occasions  he  placed  a  wafer  on 
his  forehead, — a  sign  that  none  of  his 
£unily  or  servants  were  to  address  him 
then,  to  endanger  the  loss  of  a  thought 
that  might  enlighten  a  world.  He  was 
always  in  '^difficulties."  In  Lady  Mor- 
gan's Memoirs  it  is  stated  that  Sir 
Charles  Moigan  raised  a  subscription 
for  Maturin,  and  supplied  him  with  fifty 
pounds.  '*  The  first  use  he  made  of  the 
money  was  to  giTe  a  grand  party.  There 
was  litde  fumitiu^  in  the  reception- 
room,  but  at  one  end  of  it  there  had 
been  erected  an  old  theatrical-property 
throne,  and  under  a  canopy  of  crimson 
velvet  sat  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Maturin ! " 

Among  the  guests  at  Mr.  Steele's 
were  the  poet's  &ther>  mother,  and  sis- 
ter,—  the  sister  to  whom  he  was  so 
fervently  attached  The  father  was  a 
plain,  homely  man,  —  nothing  more,  and 
assuming  to  be  nothing  more,  than  a 
Dublin  tradesman.*  The  mother  evi- 
dendy  possessed  a  fiu*  higher  mind. 
She,  too,  was  retiring  and  unpretend- 
ing,— like  her  son  in  features,  —  with 
the  same  gende,  yet  sparkling  eye,  flex- 
ible and  smiling  mouth,  and  kindly  and 
conciliating  manners.  It  was  to  be 
learned  long  afterwards  how  deep  was 
the  affection  that  existed  in  the  poet's 
heart  for  these  humble  relatives,  —  how 
fervid  the  love  he  bore  them,  —  how 
earnest  the  respect  with  which  he  inva- 
riably treated  them, — nay,  how  elevated 
was  the*  pride  with  which  he  regarded 
them  from  first  to  last 

The  sister,  Ellen,  was,  I  believe, 
slightly  deformed;  at  least,  the  mem- 
ory to  me '  is  that  of  a  small,  delicate 
woman,  With  one  shoulder  "out"  The 
expression  of  her  countenance  beto- 
kened' suffering,  having  that  peculiar 
^sharpness"  which   usually  accompa- 

•  Mrs.  Moore  —  writmg  to  me  m  Mmy,  J864— 
•tUs  me  I  Wve  ■  wrong  impreuion  as  to  Moore*s 
fiuher ;  ihat  be  was  **  handsome,  fuU  of  fta,  and 
with  food  manners.  **  Moore  himself  calls  him  *'  one 
«f  Mature-'s  ^esilemen.** 


Dies  severe  and  continuous  bodily  ail- 
ment* I  saw  more  of  her  some  years 
afterwards^  aad  .knew  that  her  mind 
and  disposition  were  essentially  lov- 
able. 

To  the  mother  —  Anastasia  Moore, 
n^  Codd,  a  humbly  descended,  home- 
ly, and  almost  uneducated  woman  f  — 
Moore  gave  intense  respect  and  devoted 
affection,  from  the  time  that  reason 
dawned  upon  him  to  the  hour  of  her 
death.  To  her  he  wrote  his  first  letter, 
(in  1793,)  ending  with  these  lines :  — 

**  Your  absence  ^1  but  iU  cndiut^ 
And  n^e  10  all  as  -r  Tmomas  Mooks." 

And  in  the  zenith  of  his  fame,  when 
society  drew  largely  ofi  his  thne,  and 
the  highest  and  best  of  the  land  coveted 
a  portion  of  his  leisure,  with  her  he 
corresponded  so  regularly  that  at  her 
death  she  possessed  (it  has  been  so  told 
me  by  Mrs.  Moore)  four  thousand  of 
his  letters.  Never,  according  to  the 
statement  of  Earl  Russell,  did  he  pass 
a  week  without  writing  to  her  iwia^ 
except  during  his  absence  inr  Bermuda, 
when  franks  were  not  to  be  obtained, 
and  postages  were  costly. 

*  Mrs.  Moore  writes  me,  that  I  am  hei«  also 
wrong  in  my  impression.  **Sbe  was  only  a  Ikde 
grown  out  in  one  shoulder,  but  with  good  health ; 
her  expression  was  feeling,  not  suffering.**  **I>eaf 
Ellen,'*  she  adds,  '*  was  the  delight  of  every  one  thai 
knew  her,  —  sang  sweetly,  —  ber  voice  very  like  her 
brother's.  She  died  suddenly,  to  the  grief  of  my 
loving  heart.** 

t  She  was  bom  in  Wexford,  where  her  father  kept 
a  "general  shop."  Moore  u.%d  to  say  pbyfully, 
that  he  was  called,  in  order  to  dignify  his  occupa- 
tion, "a  provision  merchant."  When  on  his  ¥ray  ta 
Bannow  in  1835  to  spend  a  few  days  with  his  friend 
Thomas  Boj'se,  —  a  genuine  gentleman  of  the  good 
old  school,  —  he  records  his  visit  to  the  house  of  his 
maternal  grandfadier.  "  Nothing."  he  says,  "eoubl 
be  more  humble  and  mean  than  the  little  low  housa 
that  remains  to  tell  of  his  whereabouts.** 

I  visited  this  house  in*the  summer  of  1M4.  It  it 
^11  a  small  **  general  shop,"  situate  in  the  old  corn- 
market  of  Wexford.  The  rooms  are  more  than 
usually  quaint  Here  Mrs.  Moore  lived  undl  with- 
in a  few  weeks  of  the  birth'  of  her  illtBtrious  mq. 
We  are  gratified  to  record,  that,  at  our  suggeatioo, 
a  tablet  has  been  placed  over  the  entiaoce'door, 
.stating  In  few  words  the  fact  that  there  the  mother 
was  bom  and  lived,  and  (hat  to  this  house  the  poet 
came,  on  the  s6thof  August,  1835,  when  in  the  aenidi 
of  his  fame,  to  render  homage  to  ber  memory.  He 
thus  writes  of  her  and  her  birthplace  in  his  "  Notes  ** 
of  that  year :  —  **  One  of  the  noblest*minded,  as  well 
as  most  warm-hearted,  of  all  God's  oeatursa  was 
bora  under  diat  lowly  roof." 


i86s.] 


Mtmories  of  Authors, 


99 


When  a  worid  had  tendered  to  him 
its  homage,  stii^  the  homely  woman  was 
his  ^darling  mother,"  to  whom  he  trans- 
mitted a  record  of  his  cares  and  his 
triumphs,  his  anxieties  and»his  hopes, 
as  if  he  considered — as  I  verily  believe 
he  did  consider — that  to  give  her  pleas- 
ure was  the  chief  enjoyment  of  his  life. 
His  sister*-^ "excellent  Nell"  —  occu- 
pied only  a  second  place  in  his  heart ; 
while  his  &ther  received  as  much  of 
his  respect  as  if  he  had  been  the  he- 
reditary representative  of  a  line  of 
kings. 

All  his  life  long,  "  he  continued,"  ac-. 
cording  to  pne  of  the  most  valued  of 
his  correspondents,  "amidst  the  pleas- 
ares  of  the  world,  to  preserve  his  home 
fireside  affections  true  and  genuine,  as 
they  were  when  a  boy." 

To  his  mother  he  writes  of  all  his 
^Eicts  and  fismcies ;  to  her  he  opens  his 
heart  in  its  natural  and  innocent  ful- 
ness ;  tells  her  of  each  thing,  great  or 
small,  that,  interesting  him,  must  in- 
terest her,  —  from  his  introduction  to 
the  Prince,  and  his  visit  to  Niagara,  to 
the  acquisition  of  a  pencil-case,  and  the 
purchase  of  a  new  pocket-handkerchief 
"You,  my  sweet  mother,"  he  writes, 
"can  see  neither  frivolity  nor  egotism 
in  these  details." 

In  1806,  Moore*s  father  received, 
through  the  interest  of  Lord  Moira,  the 
post  of  Barrack- Master  in  Dublin,  and 
thus  became  independent  In  181 5, 
"  Retrenchment "  deprived  him  of  this 
office,  and  he  was  placed  on  half-pay. 
The  family  had  to  seek  aid  from  the 
son,  who  entreated  them  not  to  despond, 
but  rather  to  thank  Providence  for  hav- 
ing permitted  tbem  to  enjoy  the  fruits 
of  office  so  long,  till  he  (the  son)  was 
"in  a  situation  to  keep  them  in  comr 
fort  without  it"  "Thank  Heaven,"  he 
writes  afterwards  of  his  Either,  "  I  have 
been  able  to  make  his  latter  days  tran- 
quil and  comfortable."  When  sitting 
beside  his  death-bed,  (in  1825,)  he  was 
relieved  by  a  burst  of  tears  and  prayers, 
and  by  "  a  sort  of  confidence  that  the 
Great  aivi  Pure  Spirit  above  us  could 
not  be  otherwise  than  pleased  at  what 
He  saw  passing  in  my  mind." 


.  When  Lord  Wellesley,  (Lord-Lieuten- 
ant,) after  the  death  of  the  father,  pro- 
posed to  continue  the  half-pay  to  the 
sister,  Moore  declined  the  offer,  al- 
though, he  adds,  —  "God  knows  how 
useful  such  aid  would  be  to  me,  as  God 
alone  knows  how  I  am  to  support  all  the 
burdens  now  heaped  upon  me  " ;  and  his 
wife  at  home  was  planning  how  "  they 
might  be  able  to  do  with  one  servant," 
in  order  that  they  might  be  the  better 
able  to  assist  his  mothen 

The  poet  was  bom  at  the  comer  of 
Aungier  Street,  Dublin,  on  the  28th  of 
May,  1779,  and  died  at  Sloperton,  on 
the  25th  of  Febmary,*  1852,  at  the  age 
of  seventy-two.  What  a  full  life  it  was ! 
Industry  a  fellow-worker  with  Genius 
for  nearly  sixty  years ! 

He  was  a  sort  of  "show-child"  al- 
most from  his  birth,  and  could  barely 
walk  when  it  was  jestingly  said  of  him, 
he  passed  all  his  nights  with  fairies  on 
the  hills.  Aln\ost  his  earliest  memory 
was  having  been  crowned  king  of  a 
castle  by  some  of  his  playfellows.  At 
bis  first  school  he  was  the  show-boy  of 
the  schoolmaster  :  at  thirteen  years  old 
he  had  written  poetry  that  attracted  and 
justified  admiration.  In  1797  he  was 
"a  man  of  mark";  at  the  University,! 
in  1798,  at  the  age  of  nineteen,  he  had 
made  "considerable  progress"  in  trans- 
lating the  Odes  of  Anacreon ;  and  in 
1800  he  was  "  patronized "  and  flat- 
tered by  the  Prince  of  Wales,  who  was 
"  happy  to  know  a  man  of  his  abilities," 
and  "  hoped  they  might  have  many  op- 
portunities of  enjoying  each  other's  so- 
ciety." 

His  earliest  printed  work,  "  Poems  by 
Thomas  Little,"  has  been  the  subject  of 
much,  and  perhaps  merited,  condemna- 
tion. Of  Moore's  own  feeling  in  refer- 
ence to  these  compositions  of  his  mere, 
and  thoughtless,  boyhood,  it  may  be  right 
to  quote  two  of  the  dearest  of  his  friends. 
Thus  writes  Lisle  Bowles  of  Thomas 

*  1  find  !n  Earl  Russell**  memoir  the  date  givea 
as  the  s6ch  of  February ;  but  Mrs.  Moore  altered  it 
in  my  MSS.  to  February  25. 

t  Trinity  College,  Dublin.  — Thonu»  Moore,  ton 
of  John  Moore,  merchant,  of  DuUin,  aged  14,  pen- 
Moner,  entered  ad  June,  1794.  Tutor,  Dr.  Bur> 
row*. 


100 


Memories  of  Authors. 


[January, 


Moore,  in  allusion  to  these  early  po- 
ems:— 


<«  I 


—  Like  IsnePs  uK^pise  laid 
Upon  unholy  earthly  shrinet ' :  — 

Who,  if,  in  the  unthinking  gayety  of 
premature  genius,  he  joined  the  sirens, 
has  made  ample  amends  by  a  life  of  the 
strictest  virtuous  propriety,  equally  ex- 
emplary as  the  husband,  the  father,  and 
the  man,  —  and  as  far  as  the  muse  is 
concerned,  more  ample  amends,  by  mel- 
odies as  sweet  as  Scriptural  and  sacred, 
and  by  weaving  a  tale  of  the  richest 
Oriental  colors,  which  faithful  affection 
and  pity's  tear  have  consecrated  to  all 
ages."  This  is  the  statement  of  his 
friend  Rogers : — "  So  heartily  has  Moore 
repented  of  having  published  'Little's 
Poems,'  that  I  have  seen  him  shed 
tears,  —  tears  pi  deep  contrition,  — 
when  we  were  talking  of  them." 

I  allude  to  his  early  triumphs  only 
to  show,  that,  while  the^  would  have 
spoiled  nine  men  out  of  ten,  they  failed 
to  taint  the  character  6f  Moore.  His 
modest  estimate  of  himself  was  from 
first  to  last  a  leading  feature  in  his 
character.  Success  never  engendered 
egotism ;  honors  never  seemed  to  him 
only  the  recompense  of  desert ;  he  large- 
ly magnified  the  fiaivors  he  received,  and 
seemed  to  consider  as  mere  "  nothings  " 
the  services  he  rendered  and  the  ben- 
efits he  conferred.  That  was  his  great 
characteristic,  all  his  life.  We  have 
ourselves  ample  evidence  to  adduce  on 
this  head.^  I  copy  the  following  letter 
from  Mr.  Moore.  It  is  dated  "  Sloper- 
ton,  November  29,  1843." 

"  My  dear  Mr.  Hall,  — 

*'I  am  really  and  truly  ashamed  of 
myself  for  having  let  so  many  acts  of 
kindness  on  your  part  remain  unnoticed 
and  unacknowledged  on  mine.  But  the 
world  seems  determined  to  make  me  a 
man  of  letters  in  piore  senses  than  one, 
and  almost  every  day  brings  me  such 
an  influx  of  epistles  from  mere  stran- 
gers that  firiends  hardly  ever  get  a  line 
from  me.  My  friend  Washington  Ir- 
ving used  to  say,  '  It  is  much  easier  to 
get  a  book  from  Moore  than  a  letter.' 
But  this  has  not  been  the  case,  I  am 


sorry  to  say,  of  late ;  for  the  penny-post 
has  become  the  sole  channel  of  my  in- 
spirations. How  am.  I  to  thank  you  suf* 
fidendy  for  all  your  and  Mrs.  Hall's 
kindness  tcf  me  ?  She  must  come  down 
here,  when  the  summer  arrives,  and  be 
thanked  a  quattf*  occhi^ — a  fsa  better 
way  of  thanking  than  at  such  a  cold 
distance.  Your  letter  to  the  mad  Re- 
pealers was  hx  too  good  and  wise  and 
gende  to  have  much  effect  on  such 
rantipoles."  * 

The  house  in  Aungier  Street  I  visit* 
ed  so  recently  as  1864.  It  was  then, 
and  still  is,  as  it  was  in  1779^  the  dweU* 
ing  of  a  grocer, — altered  only  so  ^  as 
that  a  bust  of  the  poet  is  placed  over 
the  door,  and  the  fiict  that  he  was  bom 
there  is  recorded  at  the  side.  May  no 
modem  ''improvement"  ever  touch  it ! 

"  The  great  EmaUuan  conqueror  bid  spare 
The  home  of  Pindaroii  when  temple  and  lower 
^Vent  to  the  ground.** 

This  humble  dwelling  of  the  humble 
tradesman  is  the  house  of  which  the 
poet  speaks  in  so  many  of  his  early 
letters  and  memoranda.  Here,  when  a 
child  in  years,  he  arranged  a  debating 
society,  consisting  of  himself  and  his 
Cither's  two  '*  clerks."  Here  he  picked 
up  a  little  Italian  from  a  kindly  old  priest 
who  had  passed  some  time  in  Italy,  and 
obtained  a  ''smattering  of  French* 
from  an  intelligent  imigri^  named  La 
Frosse.  Here  his  tender  mother  watched 
over  his  boyhood,  proud  of  his  opening 
promise,  and  hopeful,  yet  apprehensive, 
of  his  future.  Here  he  and  his  sister, 
"excellent  Nell,'  acquired  music,  first 
upon  an  old  harpsichord,  obtained  by 
his  Either  in  dischaige  of  a  debt,  and 
afterwards  on  a  piano,  to  buy  which  his 
loving  mother  had  saved  up  all  super- 
fluous pence.  Hence  he  issued  to  take 
country  walks  with  unhappy  Robert 
Emmet  Hither  he  came  —  not  less 
proudly,  yet  as  fondly  as  ever  —  when 
coUege  magnates  had  given  him  honor, 
and  the  King's  Viceroy  had  received 
him  as  a  guest 

*  Alluding  to  a  pamphlet-letter  I  had-  printed,  ad- 
dressed  to  Repealen,  when  die  iiuanity  of  Repeal 
(now  happily  dead)  was  aC  feTcr-lMaL 


1865.] 


of  Authors. 


lOI 


In  1835  he  reoxtls  ''a  visit  to  No. 
12,  Aimgier  Street,  where  I  was  bom.'' 
"Visited  every  part  of  the  house ;  the 
small  old  yard  and  its  appurtenances ; 
the  small,  dark  kitchen,  where  I  used 
to  have  my  bread  and  milk ;  the  front 
and  back  drawing-rooms ;  the  bed- 
n)oms  and  garrets,  —  murmuring, '  On- 
ly think,  a  grocer's  still ! ' "  «  The  many 
thoughts  that  came  rushing  upon  me, 
while  thus  visiting  the  house  where  the 
first  nineteen  or  twenty  years  of  my 
life  were  passed,  may  be  more  easily 
conceived  than  told."  He  records,  with 
greater  unction  than  he  did  his  visit  to 
the  ^nce,  his  sitting  with  the  grocer 
and  his  wife  at  their  table,  and  drinking 
in  a  glass  qf  their  wine  her  and  her 
husband's  '*good  health."  Thence  he 
went,  with  all  his  *^  recollections  of  the 
old  shop  about  him,"  to  a  grand  dinner. 
at  the  Viceregal  Lodge  ! 

I  spring  with  a  single  line  from  the 
year  1822,  when  I  knew  him  first,  to 
the  year  1845,  when  circumstances  en- 
abled us  to  enjoy  the'long-looked-for 
happiness  of  visiting  Moore  and  his  be- 
loved wife  in  their  home  at  Sloperton. 

The  poet  was  then  in  his  sixty-fifth 
year,  and  had  in  a  'great  measure  re- 
tired from  actual  labor ;  indeed,  it  soon 
became  evident  to  us  that  the  feculty 
for  enduring  and  continuous  toil  no 
longer  exited.  Happily,  it  was  not 
absolutely  needed  ;  for,  with  very  lim- 
ited wants,  there  was  a  sufficiency, — 
a  bare  sufficiency,  however,  for  there 
were  no  means  to  procure  either  the. 
elegances  or  the  luxuries  which  so  fre- 
quently become  the  necessities  of  man, 
amd  a  longing  for  which  might  have  been 
excused  in  one  who  had  been  the  friend 
of  peers  and  the  associate  of  princes. 

The  forests  and  fields  that  surround 
Bowood,  the  mansion  of  the  Marquis 
of  Lansdowne,  neighbor  the  poet's  hum- 
ble dwelling.  The  spire  of  the  village 
diorch,  beside  the  p<ntals  of  which  the 
poet  now  sleeps,  is  seen  above  adjacent 
trees.  Laborers'  cottages  are  scattered 
all  about  They  are  a  heavy  and  un- 
imaginative race,  those  peasants  of 
Wiltshire ;  and,  knowing  their  neigh- 
bor had  written  books,  they  could  by 


no  means  get  rid  of  the  idea  that  he 
was  the  writer  of  Maoris  AlmanaCy  and 
perpetually  greeted  him  with  a  saluta- 
tion, in  hopes  to  receive  in  return  some 
prognostic  of  the  weather,  which  might 
guide  them  ill  arrangements  for  seed- 
time and  harvest.  Once,  when  he  had 
lost  his  way,  —  wandering  till  midnight, 
—  he  roused  up  the  inmates  of  a  cot- 
tage, in  search  of  a  guide  to  Sloperton, 
and,  to  his  astonishment,  found  he  was 
close  to  his  own  gate.  "  Ah,  Sir,"  said 
the  peasant,  ^  that  comes  of  yer  sky- 
scraping  ! " 

He  was  fond  of  telling  of  himself 
such  simple  anecdotes  as  this  ;  indeed, 
I  remember  his  saying  that  no  applause 
he  ever  obtained  gave  him  so  much 
pleasure  as  a  compliment  fit>m  a  half- 
wild  countryman,  who  stood  right  in 
his  path  on  a  quay  in  Dublin,  and  ex- 
claimed, slightiy  altering  the  words  of 
Byron,  —  "  Three  cheers  for  Tommy 
Moore,  the  pote.  of  all  circles,  and  the 
darlint  of  his  own ! " 

I  recall  him  at  this  moment,  —  his 
small  form  and  intellectual  face,  rich 
in  expression,  and  that  expression  the 
sweetest,  the  most  gentie,  and  the  kind- 
liest He  had  still  in  age  the  same 
bright  and  clear  eye,  the  same  gracious 
smile,  the  same  suave  and  winning  man- 
ner I  had  noticed  as  the  attributes  of 
his  comparative  youth ;  a  forefalad  not 
remarkably  broad  or  high,  but  singular- 
ly impressive,  firm,  and  foil, — with  the 
organ  of  gayety  large,  and  tiiose  of  be- 
nevolence and  veneration  greatiy  pre- 
ponderating. Temerani,  when  making 
his  bust,  praised  the  form  of  his  ears. 
The  nose,  as  observed  in  all  his  poi^ 
traits,  was  somewhat  upturned.  Stand- 
ing or  sitting,  his  head  was  invariably 
upraised,  owing,  perhaps,  mainly  to  his 
shortness  of  stature,  with  so  much  bod- 
ily activity  as  to  give  him  the  character 
of  restiessness  ;  and  no  doubt  that  us- 
ual accompaniment  of  genius  was  emi- 
nentiy  his.  His  hair,  at  the  time  I  speak 
o^  was  thin  and  very  gray ;  and  he 
wore  his  hat  with  the  jaunty  air  that 
has  been  often  remarked  as  a  peculiar- 
ity of  the  Irish.  In  dress,  although  fiur 
from  slovenly,  he  was  by  no  means  par^ 


I02 


Memories  of  Amk&rs. 


[January, 


ticolar.  Leigh  Hunt,  speaking  of  him 
In  the  prime  of  life,  says, — ^'His  fore- 
head IS  bony  and  full  of  character, 
'With  *  bumps'  of  wit  large  and  radiant 
enough  to  transport  a  phrenologist 
His  eyes  are  as  dark  and  fine  as  you 
would  wish  to  see  under  a  set  of  vine- 
leaves  ;  his  mouth  generous  and  good- 
humored,  with  dimples."  He  adds, — 
"He  was  lively,  poUte,  bustling,  fiiU  of 
amenities  and  acquiescences,  into  which 
he  contrived  to  throw  a  sort  of  roughen- 
ing cordiality,  Uke  the  crust  of  old  Port 
It  seemed  a  happiness  to  him  to  say 
*  Yes."*  Jeffrey,  in  one  of  his  letters, 
says  of  him,  —  "He  is  the  sweetest- 
blooded,  warmest  -  hearted,  happiest, 
hopefuUest  creature  that  ever  set  For- 
tune at  defiance " ;  he  speaks  also  of 
"the  buoyancy  of  his  spirits  and  the 
inward  light  of  his  mind  ^ ;  and  adds,  — 
"  There  is  nothing  gloomy  or  bitter  in 
his  ordinary  talk,  but,  rather,  a  wild, 
rough,  boyish  pleasaptry,  much  more 
like  Nature  than  his  poetry.* 

"  The  light  that  surrounds  him  is  all  from  within." 

He  had  but  little  voice ;  yet  he  sang 
with  a  depth  of  sweetness  that  charmed 
all  hearers :  it  was  true  melody,  and  told 
upon  the  heart  as  well  as  the  ear.  No 
doubt  much  of  this  charm  was  derived 
from  association ;  for  it  was  only  his 
own  "*Melodies  "  he  sang.  It  would  be 
difficult  to  describe  the  effect  of  his  sing- 
ing. I  remember  some  one  saying  to 
me,  It  conveyed  an  idea  of  what  a  mer- 
maid^  song  might  be.  Thrice  I  heard 
him  sing,  "As  a  beam  o'er  the  fiice  of 
•the  waters  may  glow," — once  in  1822, 
once  at  Lady  Blessington's,  and  once 
in  my  own  house.  Those  who  can  re- 
call ^e  touching  words  of  that  song, 
and  unite  them  with  the  deep,  yet  ten- 
der pathos  of  the  music,  will  be  at  no 
loss  to  conceive  the  intense  defigfat  of 
his  auditors.     • 

I  occasionally  met  Moore  in  public, 
and  once  or  twice  at  public  dinners. 
One  of  the  most  agreeable  evenings  I 
ever  passed  was  in  1830,  at  a  dinner 
given  to  him  by  the  members  of  "  The 
Literary  Union."  This  club  was  found- 
ed in  1829  by  the  poet  Campbell    I 


shall  have  to  speak  of  it  when  I  write 
a  "  Memory "  of  him.  Moore  was  in 
strong  health  at  that  time,  and  in  the 
'zenith  of  his  fiune.  There  were  many 
men  of  mark  about  him, — leading  wits 
and  men  of  letters  of  the  age.  He  was 
full  of  life,  sparkliog  and  brilliant  in  all 
-he  said,  rising  every  now  and  then  to 
say  something  that  gave  the  hearers  de- 
\\^\  and  looking  as  if  "dull  care  "  had 
been  ever  powerless  to  check  the  over- 
flowing of  his  soul.  But  although  no 
bard  (^  any  age  knew  better  how  to 

"  Wreathe  the  bowl  with  flowers  of  soul,** 

he  had  acquired  the  power  of  self-re- 
straint,  and  could  stop  when  the  glass 
was  circulating  too  freely.  ^  At  the  mem- 
orable dinner  of  the  Literary  Fund,  at 
which  the  good  Prince  Albert  presided, 
(on  the  xith  of  May,  1842,)  the  two  po- 
ets, Campbell  and  Moore,  had  to  make 
speeches.  The  author  of  the  "  Pleas- 
ures of  Hope,"  heedless  of  the  duty  that 
devolved  upon  him,  had  "  confused  his 
brain."  Moore  came  in  the  evening  of 
that  day  to  our  house ;  and  I  well  re- 
member the  terms  of  true  sorrow  and 
bitter  reproach  in  which  he  spoke  of 
the  lamentable  inf^ession  that  one  of 
tiie  great  authors  of  the  age  and  coun- 
try must  have  left  on  the  mind  of  the 
royal  chairman,  then  new  among  us. 

It  is  gratifying  to  recoiil,  that  the 
temptations  to  which  the  great  lyric 
poet,  Thomas  Moore,  waa  so  often  and 
so  peculiarly  exposed,  were  ever  power- 
less for  wrong. 

Moore  sat  for  his  portrait  to  Shee, 
Lawrence,  Newton,  Madise,  Mulvany, 
and  Richmond,  and  to  the  sculptors 
Temerani,  Chantrey,  Kirk,  and  MiMre. 
On  one  occasion  of  his  sitting,  he  says, 

—  "  Having  nothing  in  my  round  pota- 
to face  but  what  painters  cannot  catch, 

—  mobility  of  character,  —  the  conse- 
quence is,  that  a  portrait  of  me  can  be 
only  one  or  other  of  two  disagreeable 
things, — caput  mariuum^  or  a  caricap 
ture."  Richmond's  pbrtrait  was  taken 
in  1 843.  Moore  says  of  it, — "  The  art- 
ist has  worked  wonders  with  umnan- 
ageable  fiures  such  as  mine."  Of  all  his 
portraits,  this  is  the  one  that  pleases 


1865.] 


Memarus  cf  Authors. 


103 


me  best,  and  most  forcibly  recaHs  him 
to  my  remembrance. 

I  soon  learned  to  love  the  man.  It 
was  easy  to  do  so  ;  for  Nature  had  en* 
dowed  htm  with  that  rare,  but  happy 
gift,  —  to  have  pleasure  in  giving  pleas- 
ure, and  pain  in  giving  pain ;  while  his 
life  was,\>r  at  all  events  seemed  to  be,  a 
comment  on  bis  own  lines  :  — 


"They  may  nil  at  this  life;  from  tfa«  hour  I  be* 
I  'v«  found  it  a  life  full  of  kindocH  and  blUo.** 

I  had  daily  walks  with  htm  at  Slo- 
perton,  —  along  his  "terrace-walk,'*  — 
during  our  brief  visit ;  I  listening,  he 
talking ;  he  now  and  tiien  asking  ques- 
tions, but  rarely  speaking  of  himself  or 
bis  books.  Indeed,  the  only  one  of  his 
poems  to  which  he  made  any  special 
reference  was  his  **'  lines  on  the  Death 
of  Sheridan,"  of  which  he  said,  —  <'  That 
is  one  of  the  few  tilings  I  have  written 
of  which  I  am  really  proud"  And  I  re- 
member startling  him  one  evening  by 
quoting  several  of  his  poems  in  which 
he  had  said  '*hard  things"  of  women, 
—  then,  suddenly  changing,  repealing 
passages  of  an  opposite  character,  and 
his  saying,  ^  You  know  fiir  more  of  my 
poems  than  I  do  mf self" 

The  anecdotes  he  told  me  were  all  of 
the  chss.  of  those  I  have  related, — sim- 
ple, unostentatious.  He  has  been  fre- 
quently charged  with  the  weakness  of' 
undue  respect  for  the  aristocracy.  I 
never  heard  him,  during  the  whole  of 
our  intercourse,  speak  of  great  people 
with  whom  he  had  been  intimate,  nev- 
er a  word  of  the  honors  accorded  to 
hhn  ;  and,  certainly,  he  never  uttered  a 
sentence  of  satire  or  censure  or  harsh- 
ness concerning  any  one  of  his  contem- 
poraries. I  cannot  recall  any  conversa- 
tion with  him  in  which  he  spoke  of  in- 
timacy with  the  great,  and  certainly  no 
anecdote  of  his  fomiliarity  with  men  or 
women  of  the  upper  orders ;  although 
he  conversed  with  me  often  of  those 
who  are  called  the  lower  classes.  I 
remember  his  describing  with  proud 
warmth  his  visit  to  his  ftiend  Boyse, 
at^annow,  in  the  County  of  Welfcwd : 
the  delight  he  enjoyed  at  receding  the 
homage  of  bands  of  the  peasantry,  gath- 


ered to  greet  him ;  the  arches  of  green 
leaves  under  which  he  passed ;  and  the 
dances  with  the  pretty  peasant-girls,  — 
one  in  particular,  with  whom  he  led  off 
a  country-dance.*  Would  that  those 
who  fancied  him  a  tuft-hunter  could 
have  heard  him !  They  would  have  seen 
how  really  humble  was  his  heart  In- 
deed, a  reference  to  his  Journal  will  show 
that  of  all  his  contemporaries,  whenever 
he  spoke  of  them,  he  had  ever  some- 
thing kindly  to  say.  There  is  no  evi- 
dence of  ill-nature  in  any  case, — not 
a  shadow  of  envy  or  jealousy.  The 
sturdiest  Scottish  grazier  coukl  not 
■have  been  better  pleased  than  he  was 
to  see  the  elegant  home  at  Abbotsford, 
or  have  felt  prouder  to  know  that  a  po- 
et had  been  created  a  baronet  When 
speaking  of  Wordsworth's  absorption 
of  all  the  talk  at  a  dinner-table.  Moon 
says,  —  **  But  I  was  well  pleased  to  be 
a  listener."  And  he  records,  that  Gen- 
eral Peachey,  ^who  is  a  neighbor  of 
Southey,  mentions  some  amiable  traits 
of  him." 

The  house  at  Sloperton  is  a  smaD, 
neat,  but  comparatively  poor  cottage, 
'for  «^ich  Mooce  paid  originally  the 
princely  sum  of  forty  pounds  a  year, 
^  ftmaished."  Subsequently,  however,  he 
became  its  tenant  under  a  repairing- 
lease  at  eighteen  pounds  annual  rent 
He  took  possession  of  it  in  November, 
1817.  Bessy  was  ^not  Only  satisfied, 
but  delighted  with  it,  which  shows  the 
humility  of  her  taste,"  writes  Moore  to 
his  mother ;  '*  for  it  is  a  small  thatched 
cottage,  and  we  get  it  furnished  for  forty 
pounds  a  year."  '*  It  has  a  small  garden 
*and  lawn  in  front,  and  a  kitchen-garden 
behhid.  Ak>ng  two  of  the  sides  of  this 
kitchen-garden  is  a  raised  bank," — the 
poefs  "terrace-walk,"  so  he  loved  lo 
call  it  Here  a  small  deal  table  stood 
through  all  weathers ;  for  it  was  his  cus- 
tom to  compose  as  Jie  walked,  and  at 

•  "One  or  tbam  (my  chiflf  wm}  was  a  nmaifc- 
ably  pfetty  girl :  when  I  turned  round  to  her,  m  ^jM 
accompanied  my  triumphal  car,  and  said,  '  This  is  a 
long  journey  for  you,*  she  answered,  with  a  smHfr 
that  would  have  done  your  heart  good,  *Oh,  I  oaly 
wish.  Sir,  it  was  three  hundred  miles  I '  There  *s  for 
you  1  What  wa«  Petrarch  in  the  Capitol  to  thatf  " 
^JoMmal,  ftc.  —  This  "pletty  girl**"  name  is 
and,  itnuig*  to  «y,  aba  stOl  keapa  it* 


I04 


Memarigs  of  Authors, 


[Januaiy, 


this  table  to  pause  and  write  down  his 
tiioughts.  Hence  he  had  always  a  view 
of  the  setting  sun ;  and  I  believe  noth* 
ing  on  earth  gave  him  more  intense 
pleasure  than  practically  to  realize  the 
line, — 

"  Hofw  glorious  the  sun  looked  m  sinking  I " — 

loTy  as  Mrs.  Moore  has  since  told  us,  he 
very  rarely  missed  this  sight 

In  1811,  the  year  of  his  marriage, 
he  lived  at  York  Terrace,  Queen's  Elm, 
Brompton.  Mrs.  Moore  tells  me  it  was 
a  pretty  house :  the  Terrace  was  then 
isolated,  and  opposite  nursery-gardens. 
Long  afterwards  (in  1824)  he  went  to 
Brompton  to  ^  indulge  himself  with  a 
sight  of  that  house."  In  181 2  he  was 
settled  at  Kegworth;  and  in  181 3,  at 
Mayfield  Cottage,  near  Ashbourne,  in 
Derbyshire.  Of  Mayfield,  one  of  his 
friends,  who  twenty  years  afterwards  ac- 
companied him  there  to  see  it,  remarks 
on  the  small,  solitary,  and  now  wretched- 
looking  cottage,  where  all  the  fine  ''ori- 
entalism" and  '*  sentimentalism  "  had 
been  engendered.  Of  this  cottage  he 
himself  writes,  —  '*  It  was  a  poor  place, 
litde  better  than  a  bam ;  but  we  at  once 
took  it  and  set  about  making  it  habitat 
ble.» 

As  Bums  was  made  a  gauger  because 
he  was  partial  to  whiskey,  Moore  was 
made  Colonial  Secretary  at  Bermuda, 
where  his  principal  duty  was  to  ''over- 
haul the  accounts  of  skippers  and  their 
mates."  Being  called  to  England,  his 
af&irs  were  placed  in  charge  of  a  su- 
perintendent, who  betrayed  him,  and  left 
him  answerable  for  a  heavy  debt,  whidi 
rendered  necessary  a  temporary  resi- 
dence in  Paris.  Thatdebt,  however,  was 

^paid,  not  by  the  aid  of  fiiends,  some 
of  whom  would  have  gladly  relieved 
him  of  it,  but  literally  by  "the  sweat 
of  his  brow."  Exactly  so  it  was  when 
the  MS.  "  Life  oi  Byron  "  was  bumed : 
it  was  by  Moore,  and  not  by  the  rela- 
tives of  B)rron,  (neither  was  it  by  aid 

>  of  friends,)  the  money  he  had  received 
was  retumed  to  the  publisher  who  had 
advanced  it  "TKe  glorious  privilege 
of  being  independent"  was,  indeed,  es- 
sentially his,  -*in  his  boyhood,  through- 


out his  manhood,  and  in  advanced  age, 
— always  I 

In  1799  he  came  to  London  to  enter 
at  the  Middle  Temple.  (His  first  lodg- 
ing was  at  44,  George  Street,  Portman 
Square.)  Very  soon  afterwards  we  find 
him  declining  a  loan  of  money  proffer- 
ed him  by  Lady  Donegal  H^tiianked 
God  for  tiie  «many  sweet  things  of  this 
kind  God  threw  in  his  way,  yet  at  that 
moment  he  was  "  terribly  puzzled  how 
to  pay  his  tailor."  In  181 1,  his  friend 
Douglas,  who  had  just  received  a  large 
legacy,  handed  him  a  blank  check,  that 
he  might  fill  it  up  for  any  sum  he  need- 
ed. "  I  did  not  accept  the  offer,"  writes 
Moore  to  his  mother;  "but  you  may 
guess  my  feelings."  Yet  just  then  he 
had  been  compelled  to  draw  on  his  pub> 
lisher.  Power,  for  a  sum  of  thirty  pounds^ 
"to  be  repaid  partly  in  songs,"  and  was 
sending  his  mother  a  second-day  paper, 
which  he  was  enabled  "  to  purchase  at 
rather  a  cheap  rate."  Even  in  1842  he 
was  "haunted  wonyingly,"  not  know^ 
ing  how  to  meet  his  son  Russell's  draft 
fat  one  hundred  pounds ;  and  a  year 
afferwards  he  utterly  drained  his  bank- 
er to  send  fifty  pounds  to  his  son  Tom. 
Once,  being  anxioilb  that  Bessy  should 
have  some  money  for  the  poor  at  Brom- 
ham,  he  sent  a  firiend  five  pounds,  re- 
questing him  to  forward  it  to  Bessy  as 
'from  himself;  and  when  urged  by  some 
thoughtless  person  to  make  a  larger  al- 
lowance to  his  son  Tom,  in  order  that  he 
might  "  live  like  a  gentleman,"  he  writes, 
— "If/  had  thought  but  of  living  like  a 
gentleman,  what  would  have  become  of 
my  dear  fether  and  mother,  of  my  sweet 
sister  Nell,  of  my  admirable  Bessy's 
mother?"  He  declined  to  represent 
Limerick  in  Parliament,  on  the  ground 
that  his  "circumstances  were  not  such 
as  to  justify  coming  into  Parliament  at 
all,  because  to  the  labor  of  the  day  I  am 
indebted  for  my  daily  support"  His 
must  be  a  miserable  soul  who  could 
sneer  at  the  poet  studying  how  he  couki 
manage  to  recompense  the  doctor  whq 
would  "  take  no  fees,"  and  at  his  amuse- 
ment when  Bessy  was  "calculsfting 
whether  they  could  afford  the  expense 
of  a  fiy  to  Devizes." 


1865.] 


of  Authors. 


lOS 


As  with  his  mother,  so  with  his  wife. 
From  the  year  1811,  the  year  of  his 
marriage,*  to  that  of  his  death,  in  1853, 
she  received  from  him  the  contiQual 
homage  of  a  lover ;  away  from  her,  no 
matter  what  were  his  allurements,  he 
was  ever  longing  to  be  at  home.  Those 
who  love  as  he  did  wife,  children,  and 
friends  will  appreciate,  although  the 
worldling  cannot,  such  commonplace 
sentences  as  these  :  —  ^  Pulled  some 
heath  on  Ronan^s  Island  (KiUamey)  to 
send  to  my  dear  Bessy " ;  when  in  It< 
^yy  **  got  letters  from  my  sweet  Bessy, 
more  precious  to  me  than  all  the  won- 
ders I  can  see'' ;  while  in  Paris,  ''send- 
ing for  Bessy  and  my  little  ones ;  wher- 
ever they  are  will  be  home,  and  a  hap- 
py home  to  me."  When  absent,  (which 
was  rarely  for  more  than  a  week,)  no 
natter  where  or  in  what  company,  sel- 
dom a  day  passed  that  he  did  not  write 
a  letter  to  Bessy.  The  home  enjoy- 
ments, reading  to  her,  making  her  the 
depositary  of  all  his  thoughts  and  hopes, 

—  they  were  his  deep  delights,  compen- 
sations for  time  spent  amid  scenes  and 
with  people  who  had  no  space  in  his 
heart  Even  when  in  ^  terrible  request," 
his  thoughts  and  hif  heart  were  there, 

—  in 

"That  dear  Home*  that  aiving  Ark, 

Wheie  love**  troc  light  at  last  I  Ve  fomd. 
Cheering  wtthio,  when  all  grows  <]ark 
And  ooafoctless  and  stormy  rotrnd.** 

This  is  the  tribute  of  Earl  Russell  to 
the  wife  of  the  poet  Moore :  —  ^  The 
excellence  of  his  wife's  moral  character, 
her  energy  and  courage,  her  persever- 
ing economy,  made  her  a  better  and 
even  a  richer  partner  Xo  Moore  than  an 
heiress  of  ten  thousand  a  year  would 
have  been,  with  less  devotion  to  her 
duty,  and  less  steadiness  of  conduct" 
Moore  speaks  of  his  wife's  ^  demo- . 
cratic  pride."  It  was  the  pride  that 
was  ever  above  a  mean  action,  and 
wliich  sustained  him  in  the  proud  in- 
dependence that  marked  his  character 
from  birth  to  death. 

In  March,  1846,  his  diary  contains 
this  sad  passage : — ^  The  last  of  my  five 


*  Moofv  was  married  to  Ikf  tu  Eluabeth  Dyke,  at 
8l  Maithi^  Ouirdh,  oq  the  asth  of  Match,  t6ii. 


children  is  gone,  and  we  are  left  deso- 
late and  alone.  Not  a  single  .relation 
have  I  in  this  world."  His  father  had 
died  in  1825 ;  his  sweet  mother  in  1832 ; 
i'  excellent  Nell "  in  1846 ;  and  his  chil- 
dren one  after  another,  three  of  them 
in  youth,  and  two  grown  up  to  man- 
hood,—  his  two  boys,  Tom  and  Rus- 
sell, the  first-named  of  whom  died  in 
Africa  in  1846^  an  officer  in  the  French 
service ;  the  other  at  Sloperton  in  1842, 
soon  after  his  return  fix>m  India,  hav^ 
ing  been  compelled  by  ill-health  to  re- 
sign his  commission  as  a  lieutenant  in 
the  Twenty-Fifth  Regiment 

In  1835  ^^  influence  of  Lord  Lans- 
downe  obtained  for  Mocmtc  a  pension  of 
three  hundred  pounds  a  year  firom  Lord 
Melbourne's  government,  —  '^  as  due 
from  any  government,  but  much  more 
firom  one  some  of  the  members  of  which 
are  proud  to  think  themselves,  your 
fiiends."  The  "  wolf,  poverty,"  therefore, 
in  his  latter  years,  did  not  prowl  so  con- 
tiniiially  about  his  door.  But  there  was 
no  ftmd  for  luxuries,  none  for  the  extra 
comforts  that  old  age  requires.  Mrs. 
Moore  now  lives  on  a  crown  pension 
of  one  hundred  pounds  a  year,  and  the 
interest  of  the  sum  of  three  thousand 
pounds, — the  sum  advanced  by  the  ev- 
er-liberal firiends  of  the  poet,  the  Long- 
mans, for  the  Memoirs  and  Journal  ed- 
ited by  Lord  John,  now  Earl,  Russell, 
— a  lord  whom  the  poet  dearly  loved. 

When  his  diary  was  published,  as 
fiiom  time  to  time  volumes  of  it  ap- 
peared, slander  was  busy  with  the  £une 
of  one  of  the  best  and  most  upright 
of  all  the  men  that  God  ennobled  by 
(he  gift  of  genius.*    For  my  own  part, 

*  Then  were  two  who  sought  to  throw  filth  opoo 
the  poet*!  grave,  and  they  wen  hU  own  oountrymen,^ 
^Charles  PhUlipe  and  John  Wiiwii  Croker.  The 
former  had  written  a  wretched  and  unmeaning  pam* 
phlet,  which  he  auppremed  when  a  few  copies  only 
wen  inued :  and  I  am  proud  to  believe  it  was  ia 
coQiequence  of  Mmc  remarks  upon  it  written  by  mc, 
for  which  he  commenced,  but  Mibeequently  aban- 
doned, proceeding!  agaimC  me  for  libeL  The  atro* 
ciom  attack  on  Moon  in  the  "Quarteriy  Review" 
wa!  written  by  John  Wilson  Croker.  It  was  the  oM 
iUustntioQ  of  the  dead  lion  and  the  living  dog.  Yet 
Croker  could  at  that  time  be  icarcely  described  at 
living :  it  was  fram  his  death-bed  he  ihot  the  poiioaed 
arrow.  And  what  brought  out  the  venom  t  Merely  a 
few  canlcsB  words  of  Mson's,  in  which  he  described 
Croker  **as  a  scribbler  of  all  work,"  —  words  that 


io6 


Memories  of  AtMers. 


[Januaij, 


I  seek  in  vain  tHroogh  the  eigjht  thick 
volume;3  of  that  diary  for  any  evidence 
that  can  lessen  the  poet  in  this  high  es- 
timate. I  find,  perhaps,  too  many  pas- 
sages fitted  only  for  the  eye  of  love  or 
the  ear  of  sympathy ;  bat  I  read  no  <me 
that  shows  the  poet  other  than  the  de- 
voted and  loving  husband,  the  thougbt- 
•ful  and  a^ctionate  parent,  the  consid- 
erate and  generous  friend. 

It  was  said  of  him  by  Leig^  Hont, 
that  Lord  Byron  summed  up  his  char- 
acter in  a  sentence,  —  "Tommy  loves 
a  lord ! "  Perhaps  he  did ;  but  if  he 
did,  only  such  lords  as  Lansdowne  and 
Russell  were  his  friends.  He  k>ved 
also  those  who  are  "lords  of  humane- 
kind'*  in  a  &r  other  sense;  and,  as  I 
have  shown,  there  is  nothing  in  his 
character  that  stands  out  in  higher  re* 
lief  tiian  his  entire  freedom  from  de- 
pendence.  To  which  of  the  great  did 
hp  apply  during  seasons  of  difficulty 
approaching  poverty  ?  Which  of  them 
did  he  use  for  selfish  purposes  ?  Whose 
patronage  among  them  all  was  profit- 
able ?  To  what  Baal  did  the  poet  Moore 
ever  bend  the  knee  ? 

He  had  a  large  share  of  domestic 
sorrows ;  one  after  another,  his  five  be- 
loved children  died ;  I  have  quoted  his 
words,  "We  are  left  —  alone."  His 
admirable  and  devoted  -wife  survives 
him.  I  visited,  a  short  time  ago,  the 
home  that  is  now  desolate.  If  ever 
man  was  adored  where  adoration,  so 
far  as  earth  is  concerned,  is  most  to  be 
hoped  for  and  valued,  it  is  in  the  cot- 
tage where  the  poet's  widow  lives,  and 
will  die. 

Let  it  be  inscribed  on  his  tomb,  that 

Eari  Russell  would  have  erased,  if  it  had  occurred  to 
•  him  to  do  so.  Another  countryman,  Thomas  Crof* 
ton  CnAcer,  assailed  after  his  death  the  man  whose 
shoe-latchets  he  would  have  been  proud  to  unloose 
during  his  life.  Moreover,  his  eariiest  slanderer  was 
ako  of  his  own  countiy, — an  author  named  QuBk 
Of  a  truth  it  has  been  well  said,  A  prophet  is  never 
without  honor  save  in  his  own  oonntry.  The  proverb 
fa  especially  true  as  regards  Irish  prophets.  Assured* 
ly,  Moore  was,  and  is,  more  popular  in  every  part  of 
the  world  than  he  was  or  is  in  Irelaad.  Tha  rea- 
son is  pbin  :  he  was,  so  to  speak,  of  two  parties,  yet 
of  neither :  the  one  could  not  forgive  his  early  a^* 
rations  for  liberty,  ottered  hi  imperishable  verse :  the 
other  could  not  pardon  what  they  called  his  desertioo 
of  their  cause,  when  he  saw  that  England  was  will- 
lag  to  do^  and  was  doing,  justice  to  Ireland. 


ever,  amid  privations  and  temptations, 
the  allurements  of  grandeur  and  the 
suggestions  of  poverty,,  he  preserved 
his  self-respect ;  bequeathing  no  prop- 
erty, but  leaving  no  debts ;  having  had 
no  ^  testimonial "  of  acknowledgment  or 
reward,  —  seeking  none,  ns^^  avoiding 
any  ^  making  millions  has  debtors  for  in- 
:tense  delight,  and  adaiowtedging  him- 
selfV^  by  ^®  poefs  meed,  ^the  tril>- 
ute  of  a  smile  " ;  never  truckling  to  pow- 
>er ;  laboring  ardently  and  honestly  for 
his  politicad  faith,  but  never  lending  to 
party  that  whidi  was  meant  for  man- 
kind \  {MTOud,  and  rightly  proud,  of  his 
selfobtasned  position,  but  neither  scorn* 
ing  nor  slighting  the  humble  root  from 
which  he  sprang. 

He  was  bom  and  bred  a  Roman  Cath- 
olic; but  his  creed  was  entirdy  and 
purely  catholia  Charity  was  the  out- 
pourii^  of  his  heart ;  its  pervading  es- 
sence was  that  which  he  expressed  in 
one  of  his  Melodies,  — 

**  Shan  I  ask  the  brave  soldier  who  fights  by  my  side, 
In  the  cause  of  mankind,  if  our  creeds  agree  ^ 
Shall  I  give  up  the  friend  I  have  valued  and  trie4 
If  he  kneel  not  before  the  same  altar  with  me  t " 

His  children  were  all  baptized  and 
educated  membei%  of  the  Church  of 
England.  He  attended  the  parish 
church,  and  according  to  the  ritual 
of  the  Church  of  England  he  was  bur- 
ied. 

It  was  not  any  outward  change  of 
religion,  but  homa^  to  a  purer  and 
holier  faith,  that  induced  him  to  have 
his  chikiren  baptized  and  brought  up  as 
members  of  the  English  Church.  *'  For 
myself"  he  says,  "  my  having  married  a 
Protestant  wife  gave  me  opportunity  of 
choosing  a  religion,  at  least  for  my  chil- 
dren ;  and  if  my  marriage  had  no  other 
advantage,  I  should  think  this  quite  suf- 
>  fident  to  be  gratefol  for." 

Moore  was  the  eloquent  advocate  of 
his  country,  when  it  was  oppressed, 
goaded,  and  socially  enthralled;  but 
when  time  and  enlightened  policy  re- 
moved all  distinctions  between  the 
Irishman  and  the  Englishman,  between 
the  Protestant  and  the  Roman  Catholic, 
his  muse  was  silent,  because  content ; 
nay,  he  protested  in  impressive  verse 


i86$0 


Oh  JBcard  the  SnwUy-Siz. 


107 


against  a  continued  agitation  that  re- 
tarded her  progres^y  when  her  claims 
were  admitted,  her  nght»  acknowledged, 
and  her  wrongs  redressed. 

Reference  to  the  genius  of  Moore  is 
needless.  My  object  in  this  ''Mem- 
ory* is  to  offer  homage  to  his  moral 
and  social  worth.  Tlie  world  that  ob- 
tains intense  delight  from  his  poems, 
and  willingly  acknowledges  its  dAt  to 
the  poet,  has  been  less  ready  to  esti- 
mate the  high  and  estimable  character, 
the  loving  and  £uthfiil  nature  of  the  man. 
There  are,  however,  many — may  this 
humble  tribute  augment  the  number !  — 
by  whom  the  memory  of  Thomas  Moore 
is  cherished  in  the  heart  of  heauts ;  to 
whom  the  cottage  at  Sloperton  will  be 
a  shrine  while  they  live, — that  grave 
beside  the  village  church  a  monument 
better  loved  than  that  of  any  other  of 
the  men  of  genius  by  whom  the  world  is 
delighted,  enlightened,  and  refined. 

**  That  God  is  love,"  writes  his  friend 
and  biographer,  Earl  Russell,  "  was  the 
summary  of  his  belief;  that  a  man 
should  love  his  neighbor  as  himself 


seemi  to  have  been  the  rule  of  bis  life.' 
The  Earl  of  Carlisle^  inaugurating  the 
statue  of  the  poet,*  bore  testimony  to 
his  moral  and  social  worth  '*  in  all  the 
jioly  relations  of  life,  —  as  son, 
brother,  as  husband^  as  £ither, 
friend'';  and  on  the  same  occasion, 
Mr.  O'Hagan,  Q^:C,.  thus  expressed 
himself:  — ""  He  was  faithful  to  all  the 
sacred  obligations  and  all  the  dear  char- 
ities of  domestic  life,  •*-  he  was  the  idol 
of  a  household.'' 

Perhaps  a  better,  though  a  iar  briefer, 
summary  of  the  character  of  Thomas 
Moore  than  any  of  these  may  be  given 
in  the  words  of  Dr.  Parr,  who  be- 
queathed to  him  a  ring :  — 

*'  To  one  who  stands  high  in  my  es- 
timation for  original  genius,  for  his  ex- 
quisite sensibility,  for  his  independent 
spirit,  and  incorruptible  integrity." 

*  A  bronze  utatue  of  Moore  has  been  erected  ia 
College  Street,  Dublin.  It  U  a  poor  afiair,  the  pco- 
duction  of  his  MunesakiB,  the  sculptor.  Bad  ac  it 
is,  it  it  made  worse  by  contrast  with  its  neighbor. 
Goldsmith,  —  a  work  by  the  great  Irish  artist,  Foley, 
—  a  work  larely  surpassed  by  the  art  of  the  sctdptor 
at  any  period  in  any  coialry. 


ON    BOARD    THE    SEVENTY-SIX. 

[Written  for  Bryant'k  Serenliedi  Birthday.] 

OUR  ship  lay  tund)ling  in  an  angcy  sea, 
Her  rudder  gone^  her  mainmast  o'er  the  side ; 
Her  scuppers,  from  the  waves'  dutch  staggering  free, 
Trailed  threads  of  priceless  crimson  through  the  tide ; 
Sails,  shrouds,  and  spars  with  pirate  cannon  torn, 
We  lay,  awaiting  mom. 

Awaiting  mom,  such  morn  as  mocks  despair ; 
And  she  that  bore  the  promise  of  the  world 
Within  her  sides,  now  hopeless,  helmless,  barei 
At  random  o'er  the  wildering  waters  hurled ; 
The  reek  of  battle  drifting  slow  a-lee 
Not  suUener  than  we. 

Mom  came  at  last  to  peer  into  our  woe, 

When,  lo,  a  sail !    Now  surely  help  is  nigh ; 

The  red  cross  flames  aloft,  Christ's  pledge ;  but  no^ 

Her  black  guns  grinning  hate,  she  rushes  by 

And  hails  us:  —  *^  Gains  the  leak?    Ah,  so  we  thought! 

Sink,  then,  with  curses  fraught  1 " 


Xo8  Oh  Board  the  Seventy-Six.  [January, 

I  leaned  against  my  gun  still  angry-hot. 
And  my  lids  tingled  with  the  tears  held  back ; 
This  scorn  methought  was  crueller  than  shot ; 
The  manly  death-grip  in  the  battie-wrack. 
Yard-arm  to  yard-arm,  were  more  friendly  fiur 
Than  such  fear-smothered  war. 

> 

There  our  foe  wallowed  like  a  wounded  brute, 
The  fiercer  for  his  hurt  '  What  now  were  best  ? 
Once  more  tug  bravely  at  the  peril's  root. 
Though  death  come  with  it  ?    Or  evade  the  test 
If  right  or  wrong  in  this  God's  worid  of  ours 
Be  leagued  with  higher  powers  ? 

Some,  faintiy  loyal,  felt  their  pulses  lag 
With  the  slow  beat  that  doubts  and  then  despairs ; 
Some,  caitiff,  would  have  struck  the  starry  flag 
That  knits  us  with  our  past,  and  makes  us  heirs 
Of  deeds  high-hearted  as  were  ever  done 
'Neath  the  all-seeing  sun. 

But  one  there  was,  the  Singer  of  our  crew, 
Upon  whose  head  Age  waved  his  peaceful  sign, 
•  But  whose  red  hearf  s-blood  no  surrender  knew ; 

And  couchant  under  brows  of  massive  line, 
The  eyes,  like  guns  beneath  a  parapet. 
Watched,  charged  with  lightnings  yet 

The  voices  of  the  hills  did  his  obey ; 

The  torrents  flashed  and  tumbled  in  his  song ; 

He  brought  our  native  fields  from  far  away. 

Or  set  us  'mid  the  innumerable  throng 

Of  dateless  woods,  or  where  we  heard  the  calm 

Old  homestead's  evening  psalm. 

But  now  he  sang  of  fidth  to  things  unseen, 
Of  freedom's  birtiiright  given  to  us  in  trust ; 
And  words  of  doughty  cheer  he  spoke  between, 
That  made  all  earthly  fortune  seem  as  dust. 
Matched  with  that  duty,  old  as  time  and  new, 
Of  being  brave  and  true. 

We,  listening,  learned  what  makes  the  might  of  words,  — 
Manhood  to  back  them,  constant  as  a  star ; 
His  voice  rammed  home  sur  cannon,  edged  our  swords,* 
And  sent  our  boarders  shouting ;  shroud  and  spar 
Heard  him  and  stiffened ;  the  sails  heard  and  wooed 
The  winds  with  loftier  mood.  • 

In  our  dark  hour  he  manned  our  guns  again ; 
Remanned  ourselves  from  his  own  manhood'^  store  ; 
Pride,  honor,  country  throbbed  through  all  his  strain ; 
And  shall  we  praise  ?    God*s  praise  was  his  before ; 
And  on  our  futile  laurels  he  looks  down ; 
Himself  our  bravest  crown. 


i86s.] 


TJke  Ckimney-Camer. 


109 


THE    CHIMNEY-CORNER. 


I. 


HERE  comes  the  First  of  January, 
Eighteen  Hundred  and  Sixty- 
Five,  and  we  are  ^  settled  comfortably 
into  our  winter  places,  with  our  wihter 
surroundings  and  belongings ;  all  cracks 
and  openings  are  calked  and  listed,  the  ■ 
double  windows  are  in,  the  furnace 
dragon  in  the  cellar  is  ruddy  and  in 
good  liking,  sending  up  his  wanning 
respirations  through  every  pipe,  and 
r^;ister  in  the  house ;  and  yet,  though 
an  artificial  summer  reigns  everywhere, 
like  bees,  we  have  our  swarming-place, 
—  in  my  library.  There  is  my  chimney- 
comer,  and  my  table  permanently  estab- 
lished on  one  side  of  the  hearth ;  and 
each  of  the  female  genus  has,  so  to 
speak,  pitched  her  own  winter-tent  with- 
in sight  of  the  bikze  of  my  camp-fire.  I 
discerned  to-day  that  Jennie  had  surrep- 
titiously appropriated  one  of  the  drawers 
of  my  study-table  to  knitting-needles 
and  worsted ;  and  wicker  work-baskets 
and  stands  of  various  heights  and  siz- 
es seem  to  be  planted  here  and  there 
for  permanence  among  the  bookcases. 
The  canary-bird  has  a  sunny  window, 
and  the  plants  spread  out  their  leaves 
and  unfold  their  blossoms  as  if  there 
were  no  ice  and  snow  in  the  street,  and 
Rover  makes  a  hearth-rug  of  himself  in 
winking  satis&ction  in  front  of  my  fire, 
except  when  Jennie  is  taken  with  a  fit 
of  discipline,  when  he  beats  a  retreat, 
and  secretes  himself  under  my  table. 

Peaceable,  ah,  how  peaceable,  home 
and  quiet  and  warmth  in  winter  I  And 
how,  when  we  hear  the  wind  whistle, 
we  think  of  you,  O  our  brave  brothers, 
cor  saviours  and  defenders,  who  for  our 
sake  have  no  home  but  the  muddy 
camp,  the  hard  pillow  of  the  barrack, 
the  weary  march,  the  uncertain  fajct^  — 
you,  the  rank  and  file,  the  thousand  un- 
noticed ones,  who  have  left  warm  fires, 
dear  wives,  loving  little  children,  with- 
out even  the  hope  of  glory  or  fame, — 
without  even  the  hope  of  doing  any- 


thing remarkable  or  perceptible  for  the 
cause  you  love,  —  resigned  only  to  fill 
the  ditch  or  bridge  the  chasm  over 
which  your  country  shall  walk  to  peace 
and  joy !  Good  men  and  true,  brave 
unknown  hearts,  we  salute  you,  and  feel 
that  We,  in  our  soft  peace  and  security, 
are  not  worthy  of  you !  When  we  think 
of  you,  our  simple  comforts  seem  lux- 
uries all  too  good  for  us,  who  give  so 
little  when  you  give  all ! 

But  there  are  others  to  whom  from 
our  bright  homes,  our  cheerful  fire- 
sides, we  would  ^n  say  a  word,  if  we 
dared. 

>  Think  of  a  mother  receiving  a  letter 
with  such  a  passage  as  this  in  it !  It  is 
extracted  from  one  we  have  just  seen, 
written  by  a  private  in  the  army  of 
Sheridan,  describing  the  death  of  a 
private.  *'  He  fell  instantly,  gave  a  pe- 
culiar smile  and  look,  and  then  closed 
his  eyes.  We  laid  him  down  gently 
at  the  foot  of  a  large  tree.  I  crossed 
his  hands  over  his  breast,  closed  his 
eyelids  down,  but  the  smile  was  still  on 
his  face.  I  wrapped  him  in -his  tent, 
spread  my  pocket-handkerchief  over  his 
fiice,  wrote  his  name  on  a  piece  of  pa- 
per, and  pinned  it  on  his  breast,  and 
there  we  left  him:  we  could  not  find 
pick  or  shovel  to  dig  a  grave.*  There 
it  is !  —  a  history  that  is  multiplying  it- 
self by  hundreds  daily,  the  substance 
of  what  has  come  to  so  many  homes, 
and  must  come  to  so  many  more  be- 
fore the  great  price  of  our  ransom  is 
paid! 

What  can  we  say  to  you,  in  those 
many,  many  homes  where  the  light  has 
gone  out  forever  ?  —  you,  O  ^stthers, 
mothers,  wives,  *sisters,  haunted  by  a 
name  that  has  ceased  to  be  spoken  on 
earth,  —  you,  for  whom  there  is  no 
more  news  from  the  camp,  no  more, 
reading  of  lists,  no  more  tracing  of 
maps,  no  more  letters,  but  only  a  blank, 
dead  silence !    The  batde-cry  goes  on. 


no    - 


The  Ckimney-Comet. 


[January, 


but  for  you  it  is  passed  by !  the  victory 
comes,  but,  oh,  never  more,  to  bring  him 
back  to  you  !  your  offerfi^  to  this  great 
cause  has  been  made,  and  been  taken  ; 
you  have  thrown  into  it  ail  your  living, 
even  all  that  you  had,  and  from  hence- 
forth your  house  is  left  unto  you  deso- 
late !  O  ye  watchers  of  the  cross,  ye 
waiters  by  the  sepulchre,  what  can  be 
said  to  you  ?  We  could  almost  extin^ 
guish  our  own  home-iires,  that  seem 
too  bright  when  we  think  of  your  dark- 
ness ;  the  laugh  dies  on  our  lip,  the. 
lamp  bums  dim  through  our  tears,  and 
we  seem  scarcely  worthy  to  speak  words 
of  comfort,  lest  we  seem  as  those  who 
mock  a  grief  they  cannot  kno^. 

But  is  there  no  consolation  ?  Is  it 
nothing  to  have  had  such  a  treasure  to 
give,  and  to  have  given  it  freely  for  the 
noblest  cause  for  which  ever  battle  was 
set, — for  the  salvation  of  your  country,  . 
for  the  freedom  of  all  mankind  ?  Had 
he  died  a  fruitless  death,  in  the  track 
of  common  life,  blasted  by  fever,  smit- 
ten or  rent  by  crushing  accident,  then 
might  his  most  precious  life  seem  to  be 
as  water  spilled  upon  the  ground ;  but 
now  it  has  been  given  for  a  cause  and 
a  purpose  worthy  even  the  anguish  of 
your  loss  and  sacrifice.  He  has  been 
counted  worthy  to  be  numbered  with 
those  who  stood  with  precious  incense 
between  the  living  and  the  dead,  that 
the  plague  which  was  consuming  us 
might  be  stayed.  The  blood  of  these 
3roung  martyr»  shall  be  the  seed  of  the 
future  church  of  liberty,  and  from  ev- 
ery drop  shall  spring  up  flowers  of 
healing.  O  widow !  O  mother !  blessed 
among  bereaved  women !  there  remains 
to  you  a  treasure  that  belongs  not  to 
those  who  have  lost  in  any  other  wbe, 
—  the  power  to  say,  "  He  died  for  his 
country."  In  all  the  good  that  comes 
of  this  anguish  you  shall  have  a  right 
and  share  by  virtue  of  this  sacrifice. 
The  joy  of  freedmen  bursting  from 
chains,  the  glory  of  a  nation  new-bom, 
the  assurance  of  a  triumphant  future  for 
your  country  and  the  world,  —  all  these 
become  yours  by  the  purchase-money 
of  that  precious  blood. 

Besides  this,  there  are  otiicr  treasures 


that  come  through  sorrow,  and  sorrow 
alone.  There -are  celestial  plants  of 
root  so  long  and  so'  deep  that  the  land 
must  be  torn  and  furrowed,  ploughed  up 
from  the  very  foundation,  before  they 
can  strike  and  flourish ;  and  when  we 
see  how  God's  ploug^i  is  ^riviiqg'  back- 
ward and  f<Mi»rard  aad  across  this>natloii, 
rending,  tearing  up  tender  shoots,  and 
burying  soft  wild-flowers,  we  ask  our- 
selves. What  is  He  going  to  plant  ? 

Not  the  first  year,  nor  the  second, 
after  the  ground  has  been  broken  up^ 
does  the  purpose  of  the  husbandmaa 
appear.  At  first  we  see  only  what  is 
uprooted  and  ploughed  in,  —  the  daisy 
drabbled,  and  the  violet  crushed, — and 
the  first  trees  planted  amid  the  unsight- 
ly furrows  stand  dumb  and  disconsolate, 
irresolute  in  lea(  and  without  flower  or 
fruit  Their  work  is  under  the  ground. 
In  darkness  and  silence  they  are  putting 
forth  long  fibres,  searching  hither  and 
thither  under  the  black  soil  for  tJ^e 
strength  that  years  h«nce  shall  burst 
into  bloom  and  bearing. 

What  is  tme  of  nations  is  trae  of 
individuals.  It  may  seem  now  winter 
and  desolation  with  you.  Your  hearts 
have  been  ploughed  and  harrowed  and 
are  now  frozen  up.  There  is  not  a 
flower  left,  not  a  blade  of  grass,  not  a 
bird  to  sing, — and  it  is  hard  to  believe 
that  any  brighter  flowers,  any  greenisr 
herbage,  shall  spring  up,  tban  those 
which  have  been  tom  away:  and  yet 
there  wilL  Nature  herself  teaches  you 
to-day.  Out-doors  nothing  but  bare 
branches  and  shrouding  snow ;  and  yet 
you  know  that  there  is  not  a  tree  that 
is  not  patiently  holding  out  at  the  end 
of  its  boughs  next  year's  buds,  froien 
indeed,  but  unkilled.  The  rhododen* 
dron  and  the  lilac  have  their  blossoms 
all  ready,  wrapped  in  cere-cloth,  wait- 
ing in  patient  faith.  Under  the  frozen 
ground  the  crocus  and  the  hyacinth 
and  the  tulip  hide  in  their  hearts  the 
perfect  forms  of  future  flowers.  And 
it  is  even  so  with  you :  your  leaf-buds 
of  the  future  are  frozen,  but  not  killed ; 
the  soil  of  your  heart  has  many  flowerA 
under  it  cold  and  still  now,  but  they 
will  yet  come  up  and  bloom. 


1865.] 


The  Chimn^-Cortw. 


Ill 


The  dear  old  book  of  comfort  tells 
of  no  present  healing  for  sorrow.  No 
chastening  fiir  the  present  seemeth  joy^ 
OQS,  but  grievous,  but  afUnuards  it 
yieldeth  peaceable  ihiits  of  righteous- 
ness. We,  as  individuals,  as  a  nation, 
need  to  have  €uth  in  that  afterwards. 
It  is  sure  to  come,  —  sure  as  spring 
and  summer  to  follow  winter. 

There  is  a  certain  amount  of  suffering 
which  must  follow  the  rendii^  of  the 
great  chords  of  life,  suffering  which  is 
natural  and  inevitable ;  it  cannot  be 
aigued  down ;  it  cannot  be  stilled ;  it 
can  no  more  be  soothed  by  any  effort 
of  £uth  and  reason  than  the  pain  of  a 
fractured  hmb,  or  the  agony  of  fire  on 
the  living  flesh.  All  that  we  can  do  is 
to  brace  ourselves  to  bear  it,  calling  on 
God,  as  the  martyrs  did  in  the  fire,  and 
resigning  ourselves  to  let  it  bum  on. 
We  must  be  willing  to  suffer,  since  God 
so  wills.  There  are  just  so  many  waves 
to  go  over  us,  just  so  many  arrows  of 
stinging  thoi^h^  to  be  shot  into  our 
soul,  just  so  many  faintings  and  sink- 
ings and  revivings  only  to  suffer  again, 
belonging  to  and  inherent  in  our  poi^ 
tion  of  sorrow  ;  and  there  is  a  work  of 
healing  that  God  has  placed  in  the 
hands  of  Time  alone. 

Time  heals  all  things  at  last ;  vet  it 
depends  much  on  us  in  our  suffering, 
whether  time  shall  send  us  forth  healed, 
indeed,  but  maimed  and  crippled  and 
Gallons,  or  whether,  looking  to  the  great 
Physician  of  sorrows,  and  coworking 
with  him,  we  come  forth  stronger  and 
£urer  even  for  our  wounds. 

We  call  ourselves  a  Christian  people, 
and  the  peculiarity  of  Christianity  is 
that  it  is  a  worship  and  doctrine  of 
sorrow.  The  five  wounds  of  Jesus,  the 
instruments  of  the  passion,  the  cross, 
the  sepulchre,  —  these  are  its  emblems 
and  watchwords.  In  thousands  of 
churches,  amid  gold  and  gems  and  al« 
tars  fragrant  with  perfume,  are  seen 
the  crown  of  thorns,  the  nails,  the  spear, 
the  cup  of  vinegar  mingled  with  gall,  the 
sponge  that  oould  not  slake  that  burning 
death-thirst ;  and  in  a  voiee  choked  with 
anguish  the  Church  in  many  lands  and 
divers' tongues  prays  from  a^  to  age,  — 


*^  By  thine  agOny  and  bloody  sweat,  by 
thy  cross  and  passion,  by  thy  precious 
death  and  burial ! " — mighty  words  of 
comfort,  whose  meaning  reveals  Itself 
only  to  souls  fainting  in  the  cold  death* 
sweat  of  mortal  anguish  i  They  tell  all 
Chrisdans  that  by  uttermost  distress 
akme  was  the  Captain  of  their  salvation 
made  perfect  as  a  Saviour. 

Sorrow  brings  us  into  the  true  unity 
of  the  Church,  —  that  unity  which  un« 
derlies  .all  external  creeds,  and  unites 
all  hearts  that  have  suffered  deeply 
enough  to  know  that  when  sorrow  is 
at  its  utmost  there  is  but  one  kind  of 
sorrow,  and  but  one  remedy.  What 
matter,  in  cxiremis^  whether  we  be  call-t 
ed  Romanist,  or  Protestant,  or  Greek, 
or  Calvinist  ? 

We  suffer,  and  Christ  suffered;  we 
die,  and  Christ  died ;  he  conquered 
suffering  and  death,  he  rose  and  lives 
and  reigns,  —  and  we  shall  conquer, 
rise,  live,  and  reign ;  the  hours  on  the 
cross  were  long,  the  thirst  was  bitter, 
the  darkness  and  horror  real, — but  they 
ended.  After  the  wail,  '*  My  God,  why 
hast  thou  forsaken  me  ?  "  came  the  calm, 
^  It  is  finished  " ;  pledge  to  us  all  that 
our  '*  It  is  finished  ^  shall  come  alsa 

Christ  arose,  fresh,  joyous,  no  more 
to  die ;  and  it  is  written,  that,  when  the 
disciples  were  gathered  together  in  fear 
and  sorrow,  he  stood  in  the  midst  of 
them,  and  showed  unto  them  his  hands 
and  his  side  ;  and  then  were  they  glad. 
Already  had  the  healed  wounds  of 
Jesus  become  pledges  of  consolation 
to  innumerable  thousands ;  and  those 
who,  like  Christ,  have  suffered  the 
weary  struggles,  the  dim  horrors  of 
the  cross,  —  who  have  lain,  like  him, 
cold  and  chilled  in  the  hopeless  sepul- 
chre, —  if  his  spirit  wakes  them  to  life, 
shall  come  forth  with  healing  power 
for  others  who  have  suffered  and  are 
suffering. 

Count  the  good  and  beautiful  minis* 
trations  that  have  been  wrought  in  this 
world  of  need  and  labor,  and  how  many 
of  them  have  been  wrought  by  hands 
wounded  and  scarred,  by  hearts  that 
had  scarcely  ceased  to  bleed ! 

How  many  priests  of  consolation  is 


112 


The  Ckhmuy-Comer. 


(January; 


God  now  ordaining  by  the  fiery  impd^ 
sition  of  sorrow !  how  many  Sisters  of 
the  Bleeding  Heart,  Daughters  of  Mer- 
cy, Sisters  of  Charity,  are  receiving  their 
first  vocation  in  tears  and  blood ! 

The  report  of  every  battle  strikes  in* 
to  some  home ;  and  heads  &11  low,  and 
hearts  are  shattered,  and  only  God  sees, 
the  joy  that  is  set  before  them,  and  that 
sh^  come  out  of  their  sorrow.  He 
sees  our  morning  at  the  same  moment 
that  He  sees  our  night,  —  sees  us  com- 
forted,  healed,  risen  to  a  higher  life, 
At  the  same  moment  that  He  sees  us 
crushed  and  broken  in  the  dust;  arfd 
so,  though  tenderer  than  we,  He  bears 
our  great  sorrows  for  the  joy  that  is  set 
before  us. 

After  the  Napoleonic  wars  had  deso* 
lated  Europe,  ^e  country  was,  like  all 
countries  after  war,  full  of  shattered 
households,  of  widows  and  orphans  and 
homeless  wanderers.  A  nobleman  of  Si- 
lesia, the  Baron  von  Kottwitz,  who  had 
lost  his  wife  and  all  his  fiunily  in  the  re- 
verses and  sorrows  of  the  times,  found 
himself  alone  in  the  world,  which  looked 
more  dreary  and  miserable  through  the 
multiplying  lenses  of  his  own  tears.  But 
he  was  one  of  those  whose  heart  had 
been  quickened  in  its  death  anguish  by 
the  resurrection  voice  of  Christ;  and 
he  came  forth  to  life  and  comfort  He 
bravely  resolved  to  do  all  that  one  man 
could  to  lessen  the  great  sum  of  misery. 
He  sold  his  estates  in  Silesia,  bought  in 
Berlin  a  large  building  that  had  been 
used  as  barracks  for  the  soldiers,  and, 
fitting  it  up  in  plain,  commodious  apart- 
ments, formed  there  a  great  £unily- 
establishment,  into  which  he  received 
the  wrecks  and  fi*agments  of  fiimilies 
that  had  been  broken  up  by  the  war,  — 
orphan  children,  widowed  and  helpless 
women,  decrepit  old  people,  disabled 
soldiers.  These  he  made  his  family, 
and  constituted  himself  their  &ther  and 
chief.  He  abode  with  them,  and  cared 
for  them  as  a  parent  He  had  schools 
for  the  children ;  the  more  advanced 
he  put  to  trades  and  employments ;  he 
set  up  a  hospital  for  the  sick ;  and  for  all 
he  had  ^e  priesdy  ministrations  of  his 
own  Christ-like  heart    The  celebrated 


Professor  Thohidc,  one  of  the  most 
learned  men  of  modem  Germany,  was 
an  early  protigi  of  the  old  Baron's,  who^ 
discerning  his  talents,  put  him  in  the 
way  of  a  liberal  educatioD.  In  his  ear- 
lier years,  like  many  others  of  the  young 
who  play  with  life,  ignorant  of  its  needs, 
Tholuck  piqued  himself  on  a  lordly  skep- 
ticism with  regard  to  the  commonly  re- 
ceived Christianity,  and  even  wrote  an 
essay  to  prove  the  superiority  of  the  Mo- 
hammedan to  the  Christian  religion.  In 
speaking  of  his  conversion,  he  says,  ^ 
''What  moved  me  was  no  aigument^ 
nor  any  spoken  reproof^  but  simply  that 
divine  image  of  the  old  Baron  walking 
before  my  souL  That  life  was  an  argu- 
ment always  present  to  me,  and  which 
I  never  could  answer ;  and  so  I  became 
a  Christian."  In  the  life  of  this  man  we 
see  the  victory  over  sorrow.  How  many 
with  means  like  his,  when  desolated  by 
like  bereavements,  have  lain  coldly  and 
klly  gazing  on  the  miseries  of  life,  smd 
weaving  around  themselves  icy  tissues 
of  doubt  and  despair,  —  doubting  the 
being  of  a  God,  doubting  the  reality  of 
a  Providence,  doubting  the  divine  love, 
embittered  and  rebellious  against  the 
power  which  they  could  not  resist,  yet 
to  which  they  would  not  submit  1  In 
such  a  chill  heart-fireeze  lies  the  dan- 
ger of  sorrow.  And  it  is  a  mortal  dan- 
ger. It  is  a  torpor  tiiat  must  be  re- 
sisted, as  the  man  in  the  whirling  snows 
must  bestir  himself,  or  he  will  perish. 
The  apathy  of  melancholy  must  be 
broken  by  an  efibrt  of  religion  and  duty« 
The  stagnant  blood  must  be  made  to 
flow  by  active  work,  and  the  cold  hand 
warmed  by  clasping  the  hands  out- 
stretched towards  it  in  sympathy  or 
supplication.  One  orphan  child  taken 
in,  to  be  fed,  clothed,  and  nurtured,  may 
save  a  heart  from  freezing  to  death: 
and  God  knows  this  war  is  making  but 
too  many  orphans ! 

It  is  easy  to  subscribe  to  an  orphan 
asylum,  and  go  on  in  one's  despair 
and  loneliness.  Such  ministries  may 
do  good  to  the  children  who  are  thereby 
saved  from  the  street,  but  they  impart 
little  warmth  and  comfort  to  the  given 
One  destitute  chikl  housed,  taught,  cazed 


.186^.1 


The 


onuK 


III 


fi»V  and  tended  penottaU j,  will  bring 
more  solace  to  a  suffering  heart  than  a 
do»n  maintained  in  an  asylom.  Not 
that  the  child  will  probably  prove  an  an- 
gel, or  even  an  uncommonly  intetesting 
mortaL  It  is  a  prosaic  work,  this  brings 
ing-up  of  duldren,  and  there  can  be  lit- 
tle rosewater  in  it  The  child  may  not 
appreciate  what  is  done  for  him,  may 
not  be  particularly  grateful,  may  have 
disagreeable  fiiults,  and  continue  to  have 
them  after  much  pains  on  ypur  part  to 
eradicate  them, — and  yet  it  is  a  £ict, 
that  to  redeem  one  human  being  from 
destitution  and  ruin,  even  in  some  home<- 
ly  every-day  course  of  ministrations,  is 
one  of  the -best  possible  tonics  and  al- 
teradvea  to  a  sick  and  wounded  spirit 

But  this  is  not  the  only  avenue  to  be* 
nefxcence  which  the  war  opens.  We 
need  but  name  the  service  of  hos- 
pitals, the  care  and  education  of  the 
freedmen,— ^for  these  are  charities  that 
have  long  been  before  the  eyes  of  the 
community,  and«have  employed  thou* 
sands  of  busy  hands :  thousands  of  sick 
and  dying  beds  to  tend,  a  race  to  be 
educated,  civilized,  and  Christianized, 
surely  were  work  enough  for  one  age ; 
and  yet  this  is  not  alL  War  shatters 
ever3rthing,  and  it  is  hard  to  say  what 
in  sodety  wiU  not  need  rebuilding  and 
binding  up  and  strengthening'  anew. 
Not  the  least  of  the  evils  of  war  are  the 
vices  which  a  great  army  engenders 
wherever  it  moves, — vices  peculiar  to 
military  life,  as  others  are  peculiar  to 
peace.  The  poor  soldier  perils  for  us 
not  merely  his  body,  but  hts  souL  He 
kads-a  li&  of  harassing  and  exhausting 
toil  and  privation,  of  violent  strain  on 
the  nervous  energies,  alternating  with 
sudden  collapse,  creating  a  craving  for 
stimulants,  and  endangering  the  forma- 
tion of  iaXal  habits.  What  fwes  and 
harpies  are  those  that  follow  the  army, 
and  that  seek  out  the  soldier  Iq  his 
tent,  fax  from  home,  mother,  wife,  and 
sister,  tired,  disheartened,  and  tempt 
him  to  forget  his  troubles  in  a  momen* 
tary  exhilaration,  that  bums  only  to 
chill  and  to  destroy  I  Evil  angels  are 
always  active  and  indefatigable,  and 
there  must  be  good  aogeb  enlisted  to 

vou  XV.— NO.  %7.  8 


fiice  them ;  and  here  is  emplojrment  for 
the  slack  hand  of  griefl  Ah,  we  have 
known  mothers  bereft  of  sons  in  this 
war,  who  have  seemed  at  once  to  open 
wide  their  hearts,  and  to  become  moth- 
ers to  every  brave  soldier  in  the  fiRd. 
They  have  lived  only  to  work, — and  in 
place  of  one  lost,  their  sons  have  been 
counted  by  thousands. 

And  not  least  of  all  the  fields 'for 
exertion  and  Christian  charity  opened 
by  this  war  is  that  presented  by  wom- 
anhood. The  war  is  abstracting  from 
the  communit}^  its  protecting  and  shel- 
tering elements,  and  leaving  the  help- 
less and  dependent  in  yf^t  dispropor- 
tion. For  years  to  come,  the  average  of 
lone  women  will  be  largely  increased; 
and  the  demand,  always  great,  for  some 
means  by  which  they  may  provide  for 
themselves,  in  the  rude  jostle  of  the 
world,  will  become  more  urgent  and  im- 
perative. 

Will  any  one  sit  pining  away  in  in- 
ert grie^  when  two  streets  off  are  the 
midnight  dance-houses,  where  girls  of 
twelve,  thirteen,  and  fourteen  are  being 
lured  into  the  way  of  swift  destruction  ? 
How  many  of  these  are  daughterS  of 
soldiers  who  have  given  their  hearts' 
blood  for  us  and  our  liberties! 

Two  noble  women  of  the  Society  of 
Friends  have  lately  been  taking  the 
gauge  of  suffering  and  misery  in  our 
land,  visiting  the  hospitals  at  every 
accessible  point,  pausing  in  our  great 
cities,  and  going  in  their  purity  to  those 
midnight  orgies  where  mere  children 
are  being  trained  for  a  life  of  vice  and 
in&my.  They  have  talked  with  these 
poor  bewildered  souls,  entangled  in  toils 
as  terrible  and  inexorable  as  those  of 
the  slave-market,  and  many  of  whom 
are  frightened  and  distressed  at  the  life 
they  are  beginning  to  lead,  and  earnest- 
ly looking  for  the  means  of  escape.  In 
the  judgment  of  these  holy  women,  at 
least  one  third  of  those  with  whom  they 
have  talked  are  children  so  recentiy  en- 
trapped, and  so  capable  of  reformation, 
that  there  would  be  the  greatest  hope 
in  efforts  for  their  salvation.  While 
such  things  are  to  be  done  in  our  land, 
is  there  any  reason  why  any  one  should 


114 


The  Ckhnney-Comer, 


[January, 


die  of  grief?  One  soul  redeemed  will 
do  more  to  lift  the  burden  of  sorrow 
than  all  the  blandishments  and  diver- 
sions  of  art,  all  the  alleviations  of  lux- 
uxT,  all  the  sympathy  of  friends. 

In  the  Roman  Catholic  Church  there 
is  an  order  of  women  called  the  Sisters 
of  the  Good  Shepherd,  who  have  re- 
nounced the  world  to  devote  them- 
selves, their  talents  and  property,  en- 
tirely to  the  work  of  seeking  out  and 
saving  the  fallen  of  their  own  sex ;  and 
the  wonders  worked  by  t^eir  self-deny- 
ing love  on  the  hearts  and  lives  of  even 
the  most  depraved  are  credible  only  to 
those  who  know  that  the  Good  Shep- 
herd Himself  ever  lives  and  works  with 
such  spirits  engaged  in  such  a  work. 
A  similar  order  of  women  exists  in  New 
York,  under  the  direction  of  the  Epis- 
copal Church,  in  connection  with  St 
Luke's  Hospital ;  and  another  in  Eng- 
land, who  tend  the  "  House  of  Mercy  " 
of  Clewer. 

Such  benevolent  associations  offer 
objects  of  interest  to  that  class  which 
most  needs  something  to  fill  the  void 
ma  je  by  bereavement  The  wounds  of 
grief  are  less  apt  to  find  a  cure  in  that 
rank  of  life  where  the  sufferer  has  wealth 
and  leisure.  The  poor  widow,  whose 
husband  was  her  all,  must  break  the 
paralysis  of  grief.  The  hard  necessities 
of  life  are  her  physicians ;  they  send 
her  out  to  unwelcome,  yet  friendly  toil, 
which,  hani  s  it  seems,  has  yet  its 
healing  pcver.  But  the  sufferer  sur- 
rounded by  the  appliances  of  wealth 
and  luxury  may  long  indulge  the  bale- 
ful apathy,  and  remain  in  the  damp 
shadows  of  the  valley  of  death  till 
strength  and  health  are  irrecoverably 
lost  How  Christ-like  is  the  thought 
of  a  woman,  graceful,  elegant,  culti- 
vated, refined,  whose  voice  has  been 
trained  to  melody,  whose  fingers  can 
make  sweet  harmony  with  every  touch, 
whose  pencil  and  whose  needle  can 
awake  the  beautiful  creations  of  art, 
devoting  all  these  powers  to  the  work 
of  charming  back  to  the  sheepfold  those 
wandering  and  bewildered  lambs  whom 
the  Good  Shepherd  still  calls  his  own ! 
Jenny  Lind,  once,  when  she  sang  at  a 


concert  for  destitute  children,  exclaimed 
in  her  enthusiasm,  "Is  it  not  beauti- 
ftd  that  I  can  sing  so  ?  '^  And  so  may 
not  every  woman  feel,  when  her  graces 
and  accomplishments  draw  the  wander- 
er, and  charm  away  evil  demons,  and 
soothe  the  sore  and  sickened  spirit,  and 
make  the  Christian  fold  more  attractive 
than  the  dizzy  gardens  of  false  pleas- 
ure? 

In  such  associations,  and  others  of 
kindred  nature,  how  many  of  the  strick- 
en and  bereaved  women  of  our  coun- 
try might  find  at  once  a  home  and  an 
object  in  life !  Motherless  hearts  might 
be  made  glsid  in  a  better  and  higher 
motherhood ;  and  the  stock  of  earthly 
life  that  seemed  cut  off  at  the  root,  and 
dead  past  recovery,  may  be  grafted 
upon  with  a  shoot  from  the  tree  of  life 
which  is  in  the  Paradise  of  God. 

So  the  beginning  of  this  eventftd 
1S65,  which  finds  us  still  treading  the 
wine-press  of  our  great  conflict,  should 
bring  with  it  a  serene  and  solemn  hope, 
a  joy  such  as  those  had  with  whom 
in  the  midst  of  the  fiery  furnace  there 
walked  one  like  unto  the  Son  of  God. 

The  great  affliction  that  has  come 
upon  our  country  is  so  evidently  the 
ptuifying  chastening  of  a  Father,  rather 
than  the  avenging  anger  of  a  Destroy- 
er, that  all  hearts  may  submit  them- 
selves in  a  solemn  and  holy  calm  still 
to  bear  the  burning  that  shall  make 
us  clean  from  dross  and  bring  us 
forth  to  a  higher  national  life.  Never, 
in  the  whole  course  of  our  history,  have 
such  teacHlngs  of  the  pure  abstract 
Right  been  so  commended  and  forced 
upon  us  by  Providence.  Never  have 
public  men  been  so  constrained  to 
humble  themselves  before  God,  and  to 
acknowledge  that  there  is  a  Judge  that 
ruleth  in  the  earth.  Verily  His  inqui- 
sition for  blood  has  been  strict  and 
awful ;  and  for  every  -stricken  house- 
hold of  the  poor  and  lowly,  hundreds 
of  households  of  the  op[$ressor  have 
been  scattered.  The  land  where  the 
fiamily  of  the  slave  was  first  annihilated, 
and  the  negro,  with  all  the  loves  and 
hopes  of  a  man,  was  proclaimed  to  be 
a  beast  to  be  bred  and  sold  in  market 


i865.] 


God  Savt  the  Flag  I 


115 


With  the  horse  and  the  swine,  —  that 
landy  with  its  fiur  name,  Virginia,  has 
been  made  a  desolation  so  signal,  so 
wonderfiil,  that  the  blindest  passer-by 
cannot  but  ask  for  what  sin  so  awful  a 
doom  has  been  meted  out  The  pro- 
phetic visions  of  Nat  Turner,  who  saw 
the  leaves  drop  blood  and  the  land 
darkened,  have  been  fulfilled.  The  work. 
of  justice  which  he  predicted  is  being 
executed  to  the  uttermost 


But  when  this  strange  work  of  judg- 
ment and  justice  is  consummated,  when 
our  country,  through  a  thousand  battles 
and  ten  thousands  of  precious  deaths, 
shall  have  come  forth  from  this  long 
agony,  redeemed  and  regenerated,  then 
God  Himself  shall  return  and  dwell 
with  us,  and  the  Lord  God  shall  wipe 
away  all  tears  from  all  faces,  and  the 
rebuke  of  His  peo];de  shall  He  utteVly 
take  away. 


GOD    SAVE   THE    FLAG! 


WASHED  in  the  blood  of  the  brave  and  the  blooming^ 
Snatched  from  the  altars  of  insolent  foes, 
Burning  with  star-fires,  but  never  consuming. 
Flash  its  broad  ribands  of  lily  and  rose. 

« 

Vainly  the  prophets  of  Baal  would  rend  it. 

Vainly  his  worshippers  pray  for  its  fall ; 
Thousands  have  died  for  it,  millions  defend  it, 

Emblem  of  justice  and  mercy  to  all : . 

« 

Justice  that  reddens  the  sky  with  her  terrors, 
Mercy  that  comes  with  her  white-handed  train, 

Soothing  all  passions,  redeeming  all  errors. 
Sheathing  the  sabre  and  breaking  the  chain. 

Borne  on  the  deluge  of  old  usurpations. 

Drifted  our  Ark  o*er  the  desolate  seas ; 
This  was  the  rainbow  of  hope  to  the  nations, 

Tom  firom  t&e  storm-cloud  and  flung  to  the  breeze ! 

God  bless  the  Flag  and  its  loyal  defenders. 

While  its  broad  folds  o'er  the  battie-field  wave, 
Till  the  dim  star-wreath  rekindle  its  splendors. 

Washed  from  its  stains  in  the  blood  of  the  brave  I 


Ii6 


Ahm. 


[Januaiy, 


ANNO   DOMINI. 


IT  is  right  and  fitting  that  this  nation 
should  enter  upon  the  new  year  with 
peculiar  gratitude  and  thanksgiving  to 
the  Most  Highb  Through  all  its  exist- 
ence it  has  rejoiced  in  the  sunshine  of 
divine  favor ;  but  never  has  that  £siVor 
been  so  benignly  and  bountifully  be* 
stowed  as  in  these  latter  days.  For  the 
unexampled  material  prosperity  which 
has  waited  upon  our  steps,  —  for  bless- 
ings in  city  and  field,  in  basket  and  store, 
in  all  that  we  have  set  our  hand  unto,  it 
is  meet  that  we  should  render  thanks  to 
the  Good  Giver;  but  for  the  especial 
blessings  of  these  last  four  years,  —  for 
the  sudden  uprising  of  manhood, — for 
the  great  revival  of  justice  and  truth  and 
love,  without  which  material  prosperity 
is  but  a  second  death,  —  for  the  wisdom 
to  do,  the  courage  to  dare,  the  patience 
to  endure,  and  the  godlike  strength  to 
sacrifice  all  in  a  righteous  cause,  let  us 
give  thanks  to-day;  for  in  these  con- 
sists a  people's  life. 

To  every  nation  there  comes  an  hour 
whereon  hang  trembling  the  issues  of 
its  fate.  Has  it  vitality  to  withstand 
the  shock  of  conflict  and  the  turmoil 
of  surprise  ?  Will  it  slowly  gather  it- 
self up  for  victorious  onset  ?  or  will  it 
sink  unresisting  into  darkness  and  the 
grave  ? 

To  this  nation,  as  to  all,  the  question 
came :  Ease  or  honor,  death  or  life  ? 
Subtle  and  savage,  with  a  bribe  in  his 
hand,  and  a  threat  on  his  tongue,  the 
tempter  stood.  Let  it  be  remembered 
with  lasting  gratitude  that  there  was 
neither  pause  nor  parley  when  once  his 
purpose  was  revealed.  The  answer 
came,  —  the  voice  of  millions  like  the 
voice  of  one.  From  city  and  village, 
from  mountain  and  prairie,  from  the 
granite  coast  of  the  Atlantic  to  the 
golden  gate  of  the  Pacific,  the  answer 
came.  It  roared  from  a  thousand  can- 
non, it  flashed  from  a  million  muskets. 
The  sudden  gleam  of  uplifted  swords 
revealed  it,  the  quiver  of  bristling  bay- 
onets wrote  it  in  blood.     A  knell  to 


the  despot,  a  paean  to  the  slave,  it  thun- 
dered round  the  world. 

Then  the  thing  which  we  had  greatly 
feared  came  upon  us,  dnd  that  spectre 
which  we  had  been  afraid  of  came  unto 
usy  and,  behold,  length  of  days  was  in  its 
right  hand,  and  in  its  left  hand  riches 
and  honor.  What  the  lion-hearted  war- 
rior of  England  was  to  the  children  of 
the  Saracens,  that  had  the  gaunt  .mys- 
tery of  Secession  been  to  the  litde  ones 
of  this  generation,  an  evening  phantom 
and  a  morning  fear,  at  the  mere  men- 
tion of  whose  name  many  had  been  but 
too  ready  to  fall  at  the  feet  of  opposition 
and  cry  imploringly,  ''  Take  any  form 
but  that!''  The  phantom  approached, 
put  off  its  shadowy  outlines,  assumed  a 
definite  purpose,  loomed  up  in  horrid 
proportions, — to  come  to  perpetual  end. 
In  its  actual  presence  all  fear  vanished. 
The  contest  waxed  hot,  but  it  wanes 
forever.  Shadow  and  substance  drag 
slowly  down  their  bloody  path  to  disap- 
pear in  eternal  infamy.  The  war  rolls 
on  to  its  close ;  and  when  it  closes,  the 
foul  blot  of  secession  stains  our  histor- 
ic page  no  more.  Another  book  shall 
be  opened. 

Remembering  all  the  way  which  these 
batding  years  have  led  u^,  we  can  only 
say,  'Mt  is  the  Lord's  doing,  and  it  is 
marvellous  in  our  eyes."  Who  dreamed 
of  the  grand,  stately  patience,  the  he- 
roic stren^,  that  lay  dormant  in  the 
hearts  of  this  impulsive,  mercurial  peo- 
ple ?  It  was  always  capable  of  mag- 
nanimity. Who  suspected  its  sublime 
self-poise  ?  Rioting  in  a  reckless,  child- 
ish freedom,  who  would  have  dared  to 
prophesy  that  calm,  clear  foresight  by 
which  it  voluntarily  assumed  the  yoke, 
voiced  all  its  strong  individual  wills  in 
one  central  controlling  will,  and  bent 
with  haughty  humility  to  every  restraint 
that  looked  to  the  rescue  of  its  endan- 
gered liberty  ?  The  cannon  that  smote 
the  walls  of  Sumter  did  a  wild  work. 
Its  voice  of  insult  and  of  sacrilege 
roused  the  fire  of  a  blood  too  brave  to 


1865.] 


/ituu  DomiitL 


M7 


kttOir  its  ooiura^,  too  proud  to  boast  its 
source.  AM  the  heroism  inherited  from 
an  honored  ancestry,  all  the  inborn 
wrath  of  justice  against  iniquity,  all 
that  was  true  to  truth  sprang  up  in« 
stinctively  to  wrest  our  Holy  Land 
from  the  clutch  of  its  worse  than  in<- 
fidels. 

But  that  was  not  the  final  test  The 
final  test  came  afterwards.  The  pas- 
sion of  indignation  flamed  out  as  pas- 
sion  must  The  war  that  had  been 
welcomed  as  a  relief  bore  down  upon 
the  land  with  an  ever-increasing  weight, 
became  an  ever-darkening  shadow.  Its 
romance  and  poetry  did  not  £uie  out, 
but  their  colors  were  lost  under  the  sa- 
ble hues  of  reality.  The  cloud  hung 
over  every  hamlet ;  it  darkened  every 
doorway.  Evea  success  must  have 
been  accompanied  with  sharpest  sor- 
row ;  and  we  had  not  success  to  soften 
sorrow.  Disaster  followed'  close  upon 
delay,  and  delay  upon  disaster,  and  still 
the  nation^s  heart  was  strong.  The 
cloud  became  a  pall,  but  there  was  no 
£dtering.  Men  said  to  one  another, 
anxiously,  —  *'This  cannot  last  We 
must  have  victory.  The  people  will  not 
stand  these  delays.  The  summer  must 
achieve  results,  or  all  is  lost"  The 
summer  came  and  went,  results  were 
not  achieved,  and  still  the  patient  coun- 
try waited,  —  waited  not  supinely,  not 
Indifferently,  but  with  a  still  determi- 
nation, with  a  painfid  longing,  with  an 
eager  endeavor,  with  a  resolute  will,  less 
demonstrative,  but  no  less  definite,  than 
Aat  which  Sumter  roused.  Moments 
of  sadness,  of  gloom,  of  bitter  disap- 
pointment and  deep  indignation  there 
have  been ;  but  never  from  the  first 
moment  of  the  Rebellion  to  this  its  dy- 
ing hour  has  there  been  a  time  when 
the  purpose  of  the  people  to  crush  out 
treason  and  save  the  nation  has  for  a 
single  instant  wavered.  And  never  has 
their  power  lagged  behind  their  pur- 
pose. Never  have  they  withheld  men 
or  money,  but  always  they  have  pressed 
on,  more  eager,  more  generous,  more 
forward  to  give  than  their  leaders  have 
been  to  ask.  Truly,  it  is  not  in  man 
that  walketh  thus  to  dfrect  his  steps ! 


.  And  side  by  side,  with  no  unequal 
step,  the  great  charities  have  attended 
the  great  conflict  Out  of  the  strong 
has  come  forth  sweetness.  From  the 
helmeted  bro^  of  War  has  sprung  a 
fiurer  than  Minerva,  panoplied  not  for 
battle,  but  for  the  tenderest  ministra- 
tions of  Peace.  Wherever  the  red  hand 
of  War  has  been  raised  to  strike,  there 
the  white  hand  of  Pity  has  been  stretch- 
ed forth  to  solace.  Wherever  else  there 
may  have  been  division,  here  there  has 
been  no  division.  Love,  the  essence 
of  Christianity,  self-sacrifice,  the  life  of 
God,  have  forgotten  their  names,  have 
left  the  beaten  ways,  have  embodied 
themselves  in  institutions,  and  lifted  the 
whole  natioa  to  the  heights  of  a  divine 
beneficence.  Old  and  youngf  rich  and 
poor,  bond  and  free,  have  joined  in  of- 
fering an  offering  to  the  Lord  in  the 
persons  of  his  wounded  brethren.  The 
woman  that  was  tender  and  very  deli- 
cate has  brought  her  finest  handiwork ;  « 
the  slave,  whose  just  unmanacled  hands 
were  hardly  yet  ^eft  enough  to  £&shion 
a  freedman's  device,  has  proffered  his 
painfiil  hoards  ;  the  criminal  in  his  cell 
has  felt  the  mysterious  brotherhood 
stirring  in  his  heart,  and  has  pressed 
his  skill  and  cunning  into  the  service 
of  his  countrymen.  Hands  trembling 
with  age  have  steadied  themselves  to 
new  effort ;  litde  fingers  that  had  hard- 
ly learned  their  uses  have  bent  with  un- 
wonted patience  to  the  novelty  of  tasks. 
The  &shion  and  elegance  of  great  cit- 
ies, the  thrift  and  industry  of  rural  vil- 
lages, have  combined  to  relieve  the  suf- 
fering and  comfort  the  sorrowful  Sci- 
ence has  wrought  her  mysteries,  art  fias 
spread  her  beauties,  and  learning  and 
eloquence  and  poetry  have  lavished 
their  free-will  offerings.  The  ancient 
blood  of  Massachusetts  and  the  youth- 
ful vigor  of  California  have  throbbed 
high  with  one  desire  to  give  deserved 
meed  toi  those  heroic  men  who  wear 
their  badge  of  honor  in  scarred  brow 
and  maimed  limb.  The  wonders  of  the 
Old  World,  the  treasures  of  tropical 
seas,  the  boundless  wealth  of  our  own 
fertile  inland,  all  that  the  present  has 
of  marvellous,  all  that  the  past  has  be- 


ii8 


Anno  Domini. 


[Januaiy» 


queathed  most  precious,  —  all  has  been 
poured  into  the  lap  of  this  sweet  charity, 
and  blesseth  alike  him  that  gives  and 
him  that  takes.  It  is  the  old  convoy- 
tion  of  the  Jews,  when  they  brought  the 
Lord's  offering  to  the  work  of  the  taber- 
nacle of  tlie  congregation :  ^  And  they 
came,  both  men  and  women,  and  brought 
bracelets,  and  ear-rings,  and  rings,  and 
tablets,  all  jewels  of  gold ;  and  every 
man  that  offered  offered  an  offering  of 
gold  unto  the  Lord.  And  every  man 
with  whom  was  found  blue  and  purple 
and  scarlet  and  fine  linen  and  goats' 
hair  and  red  skins  of  rams  and  badgers' 
skins  brought  them.  And  all  the  wom- 
en that  were  wise-hearted  did  spin  with 
their  haj^ds,  and  brought  that  which 
they  had  spun,  both  of  blue  and  of 
purple  and  of  scarlet  and  of  fine  linen. 
And  the  rulers  brought  onyx -stones, 
and  stones  to  be  set,  and  spice,  and  oil 
for  the  light  The  children  of  Israel 
brought  a  willing  offering  unto  the  Lord, 
every  man  and  woman." 

Truly,  not  the  least  of  the  compensa- 
tions of  this  war  is  the  new  spirit  which 
it  has  set  astir  jn  human  life,  this  ac- 
knowledged brotherhood  which  makes 
aU  things  common,  which  moves  health 
and  wealth  and  leisure  and  learning  to 
brave  the  dangers  of  the  battle-field  and 
the  horrors  of  the  hospital  for  the  com- 
fort of  its  needy  comrade.  And  inas- 
much as  he  who  hath  done  it  unto  one 
of  the  least  of  these  his  brethren  has 
done  it  unto  the  Master,  is  not  this,  in 
very  deed  and  truth.  Anno  Domini,  the 
Year  of  our  Lord  ? 

And  let  all  devout  hearts  render 
praises  to  God  for  the  hope  we  are  ena- 
bled to  cherish  that  He  will  speedily 
save  this  people  from  their  national 
sin.  From  the  days  of  our  fathers,  the 
land  groaned  under  its  weight  of  woe 
and .  crime  ;  but  none  saw  from  what 
quarter  deliverance  should  come.  Apos- 
tles and  prophets  arose  in  North  and 
South,  prophesying  the  wrath  of  God 
against  a  nation  that  dared  to  hold  its 
great  truth  of  human  brotherhood  in 
unrighteousness,  and  the  smile  of  God 
only  on  him  who  should  do  justly  and 
love   merjcy  and  walk  humbly  before 


Him ;  but  they  died  in  fiiith,  not  having 
obtained  the  promises.  That  faith  in 
God,  and  consequently  in  the  ultimate 
triumph  of  right  over  wrong,  never 
failed ;  but  few,  even  of  the  most  san- 
guine, dared  to  hope  that  their  eyes 
should  see  the  salvation  of  the  Lord. 
Upright  men  spent  their  lives  in  un- 
yielding and  indignant  protest,  not  so 
much  for  any  immediate  result  as  be- 
cause they  could  do  no  otherwise, — be- 
cause the  constant  violation  of  sacred 
right,  the  constant  defilement  and  deg- 
radation of  country,  wrought  so  fiercely 
and  painfully  in  their  hearts  that  they 
could  not  hold  their  peace.  Thou^ 
they  expected  no  sudden  reform,  they 
believed  in  the  indestructibility  of  truth, 
and  knew,  therefore,  that  their  word 
should  not  return  unto  them  void,  but 
waited  for  some  far  future  day  when 
happier  harvesters  should  come  brings 
ing  their  sheaves  with  them.  How 
looks  the  promise  now  ?  A  beneficetit 
Providence  has  outstripped  our  laggard 
hopes.  The  work  which  we  had  so 
summarily  given  over  to  the  wiser  gen- 
erations behind  us  is  rapidly  approach- 
ing completion  beneath  the  strokes  of 
a  few  sharp,  short  years  of  our  own. 
Slavery,  which  was  apologized  for  by 
the  South,  tolerated  by  the  North,  half 
recognized  as  an  evil,  half  accepted  au 
a  compromise,  but  with  every  conscien- 
tious concession  and  every  cowardly 
expedient  sinking  ever  deeper  and 
deeper  into  the  nation's  life,  stands 
forth  at  last  in  its  real  character,  and 
meets  its  righteous  doom.  Public  opin- 
ion, rapidly  sublimed  in  the  white  heat 
of  this  fierce  war,  is  everywhere  crys- 
tallizing. Men  are  learning  to  know 
precisely  what  they  believe,  and,  know- 
ing, dare  maintain.  There  is  no  more 
speaking  with  bated  breath,  no  more 
counselling  of  forbearance  and  non- 
intervention. It  is  no  longer  a  chosen 
few  who  dare  openly  to  denounce  the 
sum  of  all  villanie^  ;  but  loud  and  long 
and  deep  goes  up  the  execration  of  a 
people,  —  the  tenfold  hate  and  horror 
of  men  who  have  seen  the  foul  fiend's 
work,  who  have  felt  his  fangs  fastened 
in  their  own  flesh,  his  poison  working 


1 86s.] 


Anno  Domini. 


119 


in  their  own  hearts'  blood  Hundreds 
of  thousands  of  thinking  men  have  gone 
down  into  his  loathsome  prisQn*house, 
have  looked  upon  his  obscene  features, 
hive  grappled,  shuddering,  with  his 
sUmy  strength ;  ancf  thousands  of  thou- 
sands, watching  them  from  far-off 
Northern  homes,  have  felt  the  chill  of 
disgust  that  crept  through  their  souls. 
The  inmost  abhorrence  of  slavery  that 
fills  the  heart  of  this  people  it  is  impos- 
sible for  language  to  exaggerate.  It  is. 
so  strong,  so  wide-spread,  so  uncom- 
promising, so  fixed  in  its  determination 
to  destroy,  root  and  branch,  the  ac- 
cursed thing,  that  even  the  forces  of 
evil  and  self-seeking,  awed  and  over- 
powered, are  swept  into  the  line  of  its 
procession.  Good  men  and  bad  men, 
fevers  of  country  and  lovers  only  of 
lucre,  men  who  will  fight  to  the  death 
for  a  grand  idea  and  men  who  fight  on- 
ly for  some  low  ambition,  worshippers 
of  God  and  worshippers  of  Mammon, 
ai^  alike  putting  their  hands  to  the 
plough  which  is  to  overturn  and  over- 
turn till  the  ancient  evil  is  uprooted. 
The  very  father  of  lies  is,  perforce,  be- 
come the  servant  of  truth.  That  old 
enemy  which  is  the  Devil,  the  malig- 
nant messenger  of  all  evil,  finds  him- 
self —  somew^t  amazed  and  enraged, 
we  must  believe,  at  his  unexpected  sit- 
uation, —  with  all  his  executive  ability 
undiminished,  all  his  spiritual  strength 
unimpaired,  finds  himself  harnessed  to 
the  chariot  of  human  freedom  and  hu- 
man progress,  and  working  in  his  own 
despite  the  beneficent  wiU  of  God.  So 
He  maketh  the  wrath  of  men  and  devils 
to  praise  Him,  and  the  remainder  of 
wrath  He  will  restrain. 

Unspealcably  cheering,  both  as  a  sign 
of  the  sincerity  of  our  leaders  in  this 
great  day  and  as  a  pledge  of  what  the 
nation  means  to  do  when  its  hands  are 
free,  are  the  little  Christian  colonies 
planted  in  the  rear  of  our  victorious 
armies.  In  the  heart  of  woods  are 
often  seen  large  tracts  of  open  country 
gay  with  a  brilliant  purple  bloom  which 
the  people  call  **  fire-weed,"  because  it 
springs  up  on  spots  that  have  been 
stripped  by  fire.     So,  where  the  old 


plantations  of  sloth  and  servitude  have 
been  consumed  by  the  desolating  flames 
of  war,  spring  up  the  tender  growths 
of  Christian  civilization.  The  filthy 
hovel  is  replaced  by  the  decent  cottage. 
The  squalor  of  slavery  is  succeeded  by 
the  little  adornments  of  ownership.  The 
thrift  of  self-possession  supplants  the 
recklessness  of  irresponsibility.  For 
the  slave-pen  we  have  the  school-housie. 
Where  the  lash  labored  to  reduce  men 
to  the  level  of  brutes,  the  Bible  leads 
them  up  to  the  heights  of  angels.  We 
are  as  yet  but  in  the  beginning,  but  we 
have  begun  right  With  his  staff  the 
slave  passes  over  the  Jordan  of  his  de- 
liverance ;  but  through  the  manly  nur- 
ture and  Christian  training  jvhich  we 
owe  him,  and  which,  we  shall  pay,  he 
shall  become  two  bands.  The  people 
did  not  set  themselves  to  combat  preju- 
dices with  words  alone,  when  the  time 
was  ripe  for  deeds  ;  but  while  the  Gov- 
ernment was  yet  hesitating  whether  to 
put  the  musket  into  his  hand  for  war, 
Christian  men  and  women  hastened  to 
give  him  the  primer  for  peace.  Not 
waiting  for  legislative  enactments,  they 
took  the  freedman  as  he  came  all  pant- 
ing from  the  house  of  bondage ;  they 
ministered  to  his  wants,  strengthened 
his  heart,  and  set  him  rejoicing  on  his 
way  to  manhood.  The  Proclamation 
of  Emancipation  may  or  may  not  be 
revoked ;  but  whom  knowledge  has 
made  a  man,  and  discipline  a  soldier, 
no  edict  can  make  again  a  slave. 

While  the  people  have  been  working 
in  their  individual  capacity  to  right  the 
wrongs  of  generations,  our  constituted 
authorities  have  been  moving  on  stead- 
fastly to  the  same  end.  Military  neces- 
sity has  emancipated  thousands  of 
.slaves,  and  civil  power  has  pressed 
ever  nearer  and  nearer  to  the  abolition 
of  slavery.  In  all  the  confusion  of  war, 
the  trumpet-tones  of  justice  have  rung 
through  our  national  halls  with  no  un- 
certain sound.  With  a  pertinacity  most 
exasperating  to  tyrants  and  infidels,  but 
most  welcome  to  the  friends  of  human 
rights,  Northern  Senators  and  Repre- 
sentatives have  presented  the  claims 
of  the  African  race.    With  many  a  mo- 


120 


ArniQ 


nentary  recession,  the  tide  has  swept 
inresistibly  onward.  Hopes  have  been 
i>affled  only  to  be  strengthened.  Meaa* 
ures  have  been  defeated  only  to  be  re^ 
Hewed.  Defeat  has  been  accepted  but 
as  the  stepping-stone  to  new  endeavor. 
Cautionslyy  warily,  Freedom  has  lain  in 
wait  to  rescue  her  wronged  children. 
Her  watchful  eyes  have  fastened  upon 
every  weakness  in  her  foe :  her  ready 
hand  has  beefl  upraised  wherever  there 
was  a  chance  to  strike.  Quietly,  a^ 
most  unheard  amid  the  loud-resound- 
ing clash  of  arms,  her  decrees  have 
gone  forth,  instinct  with  the* enfran- 
chisement of  a  race.  The  war  began 
with  old  customs  and  prejudices  under 
full  headway,  but  the  new  necessities 
soon  met  them  with  fierce  collision. 
The  first  shock  was  felt  when  the  es- 
caping slaves  of  Rebel  masters  were 
pronounced  free,  and  our  soldiers  were 
forbidden  to  return  them.  Then  the 
blows  came  fiist  and  fiirious,  and  the 
whole  edifice,  reared  on  that  crumbling 
comer-stone  of  Slavery,  reeled  through 
all  its  heaven-defying  heights.  The  gates 
of  Liberty  opened  to  the  slave,  on  golden 
hinges  turning.  The  voice  of  promise 
rang  through  Rebel  encampments,  and 
penetrated  to  the  very  fastnesses  of  Re- 
beUion.  The  ranks  of  the  army  called 
the  fi^edman  to  the  rescue  of  his  race. 
The  courts  of  justice  received  him  in 
witness  of  his  manhood.  Before  every 
foreign  court  he  was  acknowledged  as  a 
citizen  of  his  country,  and  as  entitled  to 
her  protection.  The  capital  of  our  na- 
tion was  purged  of  the  foul  stain  that 
dishonored  her  in  the  eyes  of  the  na- 
tions, and  that  gave  the  lie  direct  to  our 
most  solemn  Declaration.  The  fugitive- 
slave  acts  that  disfigured  our  statute- 
book  were  blotted  out,  and  fugitive^ 
slave  -  stealer  acts  filled  their  vacant 
places.  The  seal  of  freedom,  uncon- 
ditional, perpetual,  and  immediate,  was 
set  upon  the  broad  outl}ing  lands  of 
the  republic,  and  from  the  present  Con- 
gress we  confidently  await  the  crown- 
ing act  which  shall  make  slavery  for- 
ever impossible,  and  liberty  the  one  su- 
preme, universal,  unchangeable  law  in 
every  part  of  our  domains. 


(January; 


What  we  have  done  is  an  earnest  of 
what  we  mean  to  do.    After  nearly  four 
years  of  war,  and  war  on  such  a  scale 
as  the  world  has  never  before  seen,  the 
people  have  once  more,  and  in  terns 
too  emphatic  to  be  misunderstood,  pro- 
claimed their  undying  purpose.    With 
a  unanimity  rarely  equalled,  a  people 
that  had  fought  eight  years  against  a 
tax  of  threepence  on  the  pound,  and 
that  was  rapidly  advancing  to  the  front 
.  tank  of  nations  through  the  victories  of 
peace, — a  people  jealous  of  its  liberties 
and  proud  of  its  prosperity,  has  reelect- 
ed to  the  chief  magistracy  a  man  under 
whose  administration  burdensome  taxes 
have  been  levied,  immense  armies  mar- 
shalled, imperative  drafts  ordered,  and 
fearful  sufferings  endured.    They  have 
done  this  because,  in  spite  of  possible 
mistakes  and  short-comings,  they*  have 
seen  his  grasp  ever  tightening  around 
the  throat  of  Slavery,  his  weapons  ever 
seeking  the  vital  point  of  the  Rebellion. 
They  have  beheld  him  standing  always 
at  his  post,  calm  in  the  midst  of  peril, 
hopefid  when  all  was  dark,  patient  undor 
every  obloquy,  courteous  to  his  bitterest 
foes,  conciliatory  where  conciliation  was 
possible,  inflexible  where  to  yield  was 
dishonor.    Never  have  the  passions  of 
civil  war  betrayed  hini|into  cruelty  or 
hurried  him  into  revenge ;  nor  has  any 
hope  of  personal  benefit  or  any  fear  of 
personal  detriment  stayed  him  when 
occasion  beckoned.    If  he  has  erred,  it 
has  been  on  the  side  of  leniency.    If  he 
has  hesitated,  it  has  been  to  assure  him- 
self of  the  right   Where  there  was  cen- 
sure, he  claimed  it  for  himself;  where 
there  was  praise,  he  has  lavished  it  on 
his  subordinates.    The  strong  he  has 
braved,  and  the  weak  sheltered.    He 
has  rejected  the  counsels  of  his  fiiends 
when  they  were  inspired  by  partisan- 
ship, and  adopted  the  suggestions  of 
opponents  when  they  were  founded  on 
wisdom.  His  ear  has  always  been  open 
to  the  people's  voice,  yet  he  has  never 
suffered  himself  to  be  blindly  driven 
by  the  storm  of  popular  fury.    He  has 
consulted  public  opinion,  as  the  public 
servant  should  ;  but  he  has  not  pandered 
to  public  prejudice,  as  only  demagogues 


18650 


Aww  Dominu 


121 


da  Not  wealdy  impatient  to  secure 
the  approval  of  ^e  country,  lie  has  not 
scorned  to  ejtphun  his  measures  to  the 
mderstanding  of  the  common  people* 
Never  bewildered  by  the  solicitations 
of  party,  nor  terrified  by  the  menace 
of  opposition,  he  has  controlted  with 
moderation,  and  yielded  with  dignity, 
as  the  exigencies  of  the  time  demanded. 
Entering  upon  office  with  his  full  share 
of  the  common  incredulity,  perceiving  no 
more  than  his  fellow-citizens  the  mag- 
nitude of  the  crisis,  he  has  steadily 
risen  to  the  height  of  the  great  argu- 
ment No  suspicion  of  self-seeking 
stains  his  fiiir  fame;  but  ever  mind- 
ful of  his  solemn  oath,  he  seeks  with 
dean  hands  and  a  pure  heart  the  wel- 
fare of  the  whole  country.  Future 
generations  alone  can  do  justice  to  his 
abilify;  his  integrity  is  firmly  estab- 
lished in  the  convictions  of  the  present 
age.  His  reward  is  with  him,  though 
his  work  lies  still  before  him. 

Only  less  significant  than  the  fact  is 
the  manner  of  his  reelection.  All  sec- 
tions of  a  continental  country,  with 
interests  as  diverse  as  latitude  and  lon- 
gitude can  make  them,  came  up  to* se- 
cure, not  any  man*s  continuance  in 
power,  but  the  rule  of  law.  The  Blast 
called  with  her  thousands,  and  the 
West  answered  with  her  tens  of  thou- 
sands. Baltimore  that  day  washed  out 
the  blood-stains  from  her  pavement,  and 
free  Maryland  girded  herself  for  a  new 
career.  Men  who  had  voted  for  Wash- 
ington came  forward  with  the  snows  of 
a  hundred  winters  on  their  brows,  and 
amid  the  silence  and  tears  of  assembled 
throngs  deposited  thAr  ballot  for  Abra* 
ham  Lincc^.  Daughters  led  their  in- 
firm fiithers  to  the  polls  to  be  sure  that 
no  deception  should  mock  their  fail- 
tog  sight  Armless  men  dropped  their 
votes  fi-om  between  their  teeth.  Sick 
men  and  wounded  men,  wounded  on 
the  battle-fields  of  their  country,  were 
borne  on  litters  to  give  their  dying  tes- 
timony to  the  righteous  cause.  Dilet- 
tanteism,  that  would  not  soil  its  dainty 
hands  with  politics,  dared  no  longer 
stand  aloo^  but  gave  its  voice  for 
national  honor  and  national  existence. 


Old  party  ties  snsqpped  asunder,  and 
local  prejudices  shrivelled  in  the  fire  of 
newly  kindled  patriotism.  Turbulence 
and  violence,  awed  by  the  supreme  ma- 
jesty of  a  resolute  nadon,  slunk  away 
and  hid  their  shame  from  the  indignant 
day*  Calmly,  in  the  midst  of  raging 
war,  in  despite  of  threats  and  cajolery, 
with  a  lofty,  unspoken  contempt  for 
those  false  men  who  would  urge  to 
anarchy  and  in&my,  this  great  people 
went  up  to  the  ballot-box,  and  gave  in 
its  adhesion  to  human  equality,  civil 
liberty,  and  universal  freedom.  And  as 
the  good  tidings  of  great  joy  flashed 
over  the  wires  fi*om  every  quarter,  men 
recognized  the  finger  of  God,  and,  lay- 
ing aside  all  lower  exultadon,  gathered 
in  the  public  places,  and,  standing  rev- 
erently with  uncovered  heads,  poured 
forth  their  rapturous  thanksgiving  in 
that  sublime  doxology  which  has  voiced 
for  centuries  the  adoration  of  the  hu- 
man sold :  — 

"  Pniie  God,  from  whom  all  Uesttngs  flow  I 
Praise  Him,  all  creatures  here  below  1 
Praise  Him  above,  ye  heavenly  host  1 
Praise  Father,  Sob,  and  Holy  Ghost  I  " 

So  America  to  the  world  gives  greet- 
ing. So  a  free  people  meets  and  mas- 
ters the  obstacles  that  bar  its  progress. 
So  this  young  republic  speaks  warning 
to  the  old  despotisms,  and  hope  to  the 
struggling  peoples.  Thus  with  the 
sword  she  seeks  peace  under  liberty. 
Striking  off  the  shackles  that  fettered 
her  own  limbs,  emerging  fit)m  the  thick 
of  her  deadly  conflict,  with  many  a 
dint  on  her  armor,  but  with  no  shame 
on  her  brow,  she  starts  on  her  victo- 
rious career,  and  bids  the  suffering  na- 
tions take  heart  With  the  old  lie  torn 
from  her  banner,  the  old  life  shall  come 
back  to  her  symbols.  Her  children 
shall  no  longer  blush  at  the  taunts  of 
foreign  tyrannies,  but  shall  boldly  pro- 
claim her  to  be  indeed  the  land  of  the 
free,  as  she  has  always  been  the  home 
of  the  brave.  Men's  minds  shall  no 
longer  be  confused  by  distinctions  be- 
tween higher  and  lower  law,  to  the  in- 
finite detriment  of  moral  character,-  but 
all  her  laws  shall  be  emanations  from 
the  infinite  source  of  justice.    Marshal- 


122 


Reviews  and  Literofy  Notices. 


[Januajy, 


ling  thus  all  her  forces  on  the  Lord's 
side,  she  may  inscribe,  without  mockery, 
on  her  silver  and  gold,  "In  God  we 
trust**  She  may  hope  for  purity  in  her 
homes,  and  honesty  in  her  councils. 
She  may  fix)nt  her  growing  grandeur 
without   misgiving,    knowing   that   it 


comes  not  by  earthly  might  or  power, 
but  by  the  Spirit  of  ^e  Lord  of  Hosts ; 
and  the  only  voice  of  her  victory,  the 
song  of  her  thanksgiving,  and  her  watch- 
word to  the  nations  shall  be,  "  Glory  to 
God  in  the  highest ;  and  on  earth  peace, 
good-will  toward  men." 


REVIEWS  AND  LITERARY  NOTICES. 


America  and  her  Commentators:  With  a 
Critical  Sketch  of  Travel  in  the  United 
States.  By  Henry  T.  Tuckerman. 
New  York :  Charles  Scribner.  8va  pp. 
46a 

If  a  little  late,  we*  are  none  the  less  sin- 
cere in  extending  to  this  timely  and  excel- 
lent work  a  hearty  welcome.  It  is  full  of 
varied  interest  and  valuable  instruction.  It 
is  equally  adapted  to  attract  and  edify  our 
own  citizens,  and  to  guide  and  inform  those 
foreigners  who  wish  to  know  the  history 
and  facts  of  American  society.  The  object 
of  the  work  is  to  present  a  general  view  of 
the  traits  and  transitions  of  our  country,  as 
they  are  reflected  in  the  records  made  at 
different  periods  by  writers  of  various  na- 
tionalities, and  to  discuss,  in  connection 
with  this  exhibition,  the  temper  and  value 
of  the  principal  critics  of  our  civilization, 
emphasizing  and  indorsing  their  correct  ob- 
servations, pointing  out  and  rectifying  their 
erroneous  ones.  There  are  obviously  many 
great  advantages  in  thus  reverting  to  the  past 
and  examining  the  present  of  American  insti- 
tutions and  life  by  the  help  of  the  literature 
of  travel  in  America, — a  literature  so  richly 
suggestive,  because  so  constantly  modified 
by  the  national  peculiarities  and  personal 
points  of  view  of  the  writers.  Mr.  Tucker- 
man has  improved  these  advantages  with 
care  and  tact.  In  the  prefiice  and  introduc- 
tion, characterized  by  an  ample  command  of 
the  resources  of  the  subject,  easy  discursive- 
ness and  lively  criticism,  he  puts  th^  read- 
er in  possession  of  such  preliminary  infor- 
mation as  he  will  like  or  need  to  have. 
The  body  of  the  work  begins  with  a  por- 
trayal of  America  as  it  appeared  to  its  ear- 
liest discoverers  and  explorers.     The  sec- 


ond chapter  is  devoted  to  the  Jesuit  mis* 
siohsuies,  who,  reviving  the  spirit  of  the 
Crusades,  plunged  into  the  wilderness  to 
convert  the  aborigines  to  Christianity,  and, 
inspired  by  the  wonders  of  the  virgiii  soli- 
tude, became  the  pioneer  writers  of  Ameri- 
can travels.  Chapters  third  and  fourth 
deal  with  the  French  travellers  who  have 
visited  and  written  on  our  country,  from 
Chastellux  to  Laboulaye.  The  similar  list 
of  British  travellers  and  virriters  is  presented 
and  discussed  in  the  fifth  and  sixth  chap- 
ters. Chapter  seventh  is  taken  up  with 
'*  Ehglish  Abuse  of  America  *';  and  the  sub- 
ject has  rarely  been  treated  so  fitly  and 
firmly,  with  such  a  blending  of  just  sever- 
ity and  moderation.  '*  Cockneyism,"  Mr. 
Tuckerman  says,  "  may  seem  not  worthy  of 
analysis,  far  less  of  refutation  ;  but,  as  Syd- 
ney Smith  remarked,  *In  a  country  sur- 
rounded by  dikes,  a  rat  'may  inundate  a 
province*;  and  it  is  the  long  -  continued 
gnawing  of  the  tooth  of  detraction,  that,  at 
a  momentous  crisis,  let  in  the  cold  flood  at 
last  upon  the  nation's  heart,  and  quenched 
its  traditional  love."  The  eighth  chapter  de- 
picts the  views  ancf  characterizes  the  qual- 
ities of  the  Northern  European  authors 
who  have  travelled  in  America  and  written 
concerning  us.  In  the  ninth  chapter  pur 
Italian  visitors  and  critics  are  treated  in 
like  manner.  And  in  the  tenth  chapter  the 
same  task  is  performed  for  the  Americans 
themselves  who  have  journeyed  through  and 
written  on  their  own  country.  Then  fol- 
lows the  conclusion,  recapitulating  and  ap- 
plying the  results  of  the  whole  survey.  And 
the  work  properly  closes  with  an  index,  fur- 
nishing the  reader  facilities  for  immediate 
reference  to  any  passage,  topic,  or  name  he 
wishes  to  find. 


18650 


Reviews  and  Literary  Notices, 


123 


For  the  task  he  has  here  undertaken  Mr. 
TUckerman  is  well  qualified  by  the  varied 
and  comprehensive  range  of  his  knowledge 
and  culture,  the  devotion  of  his  life  to  trav- 
el«  art,  and  study.  His  pages  not  only  il- 
lustrate, they  also  vindicate,  the  character 
and  claims  of  American  nationality.  He 
shows  that  "there  never  was  a  populous 
land  about  which  the  truth  has  been  more 
generalized  and  less  discriminated."  His 
descriptions  of  local  scenery  and  historic 
incidents  recognize  all  that  is  lovely  and 
sublime  in  our  national  landscapes,  all  that 
is  romantic  or  distinctive  in  our  national 
life.  His  humane  and  ethical  sympathies 
are  ready,  discriminating,  and  generous ; 
his  approbations  and  rebukes,  vivid  and 
generally  rightly  applied.  These  and  oth- 
er associated  qualities  lend  interest  and  val- 
ue to  the  biographic  sketches  he  presents 
of  the  numerous  travellers  and.  authors 
whose  works  pass  in  review.  The  pictures 
of  many  of  these  persons — such  as  Mar- 
quette, Volney,  D'AIIessandro,  Bartram  — 
are  psychological  studies  of  much  freshness 
and  force.  • 


Biographical  Sketches  of  Loyalists  of  the 
American  Revolution:  With  an  Histor- 
ical Essay.  By  Lorenzo  Sabine.  Two 
Volumes.  Boston  :  Little,  Brown,  &  Ca 
8va    pp.  608,  60a 

Mr.  Sabine  has  attempted  in  these  vol- 
umes to  present  in  a  judicial  spirit* a  chap- 
ter of  our  Revolutionary  history  which  usu- 
ally bears  the  most  of  passion  in  its  recital, 
—  believing,  as  he  does,  that  impartiality  is 
Identical  with  charity,  in  dealing  with  his 
theme.  The  first  edition  of  his  work,  in  a 
single  volume,  has  been  before  the  public 
seventeen  years.  The  zeal  and  fidelity  of 
his  labor  have  been  well  appreciated.  So 
far  as  his  purpose  has  involved  a  plea  or 
an  apology  for  the  Loyalists  of  the  Ameri- 
can Revolution,  his  critics  who  have  at  all 
abated  their  commendation  of  him  have 
challenged  him  on  the  side  where  he  might 
most  willingly  have  been  supposed  to  err, 
that  of  an  excess  of  leniency.  As  to  the 
class  of  men  with  whom  he  deals  generally 
in  his  introductory  essay,  and  individually  in 
the  elaborate  biographical  sketches  which 
follow,  the  same  difficulty  presents  itself 
which  is  encountered  in  all  attempts  to  can- 
vass the  faults  or  the  characteristics  of  any 
body  of  men  who  bear  a  common  party-name 
or  share  a  common  opinion,  while  in  the  sta- 


ple of  real  "rirtue  or  vice,  of  honor  or  base- 
ness, of  sincerity  or  hypocrisy,  they  may 
represent  the  poles  of  difference.  The  con- 
temporary, estimate  of  the  Tories,  and  in 
large  part  the  treatment  of  them  which  was 
thought  to  be  just,  were,  in  the  main,  ad- 
justed with  reference  to  the  meanest  and 
most  malignant  portion.  Mr.  Sabine,  while 
by  no  means  espousing  the  championship 
even  of  the  best  of  them,  would  have  the 
whole  body  judged  with  the  candor  which 
comes  of  looking  at  their  general  fellowship 
in  the  light  of  its  natural  prejudices,  prepos- 
sessions, and  embarrassments.  It  is  to  be 
considered  also  that  the  best  of  the  class 
were  a  sort  of  warrant  for  the  worst 

Those  who  are  tolerably  well  read  in  the 
biographies  and  histories  of  our  Revolution- 
ary period  are  aware  that  Dr.  Franklin,  who, 
about  most  exciting  and  passion-stirring  sub- 
jects, was  a  man  of  remarkably  moderate 
and  tolerant  spirit,  was  eminently  a  hater  of 
the  Tories,  unrelenting  in  his  animosity  to- 
wards them,  and  sternly  set  against  all  the 
measures  proposed  at  the  Peace  for  their  re- 
lief, either  by  the  British  Government  to  en- 
force our  remuneration  of  their  losses,  or  by 
our  own  General  or  State  Governments  to 
soften  the  penalties  visited  upon  them.  The 
origin  and  the  explanation  of  this  intense 
feeling  of  animosity  toward  the  Loyalists  in 
the  breast  of  that  philosopher  of  moderation 
are  easily  traced  to  one  of  the  most  inter- 
esting incidents  in  his  residence  near  the 
British  Court  as  agent  for  Pennsylvania  and 
Massachusetts.  The  incident  is  connected 
with  the  still  unexplained  mystery  of  his 
getting  possession  of  the  famous  letters  of 
Hutchinson,  Oliver,  etc.  Franklin  was  liv- 
ing and  directing  all  his  practical  efforts  for 
enlightening  and  influencing  those  whom  he 
supposed  to  be  simply  the  ignorant  plotters 
of  mischief  against  the  Colonists,  under  the 
full  and  most  confident,  belief  that  those 
plotters  were  merely  the  stupid  and  con- 
ceited members  of  the  British  Cabinet.  He 
never  had  dreamed  that  he  was  to  look  ei- 
ther above  them  to  the  King,  or  behind  them 
to  any  unknown  instigators  of  their  mischiefl 
With  perfect  good  faith  on  his  own  part,  he 
gave  them  the  benefit  of  their  own  suppos- 
ed ignorance,  wrong-headedness,  wilfulness, 
and  ingenuity,  such  as  it  was,  in  inventing 
irritating  and  oppressive  measures  which,  he 
warned  them,  would  inevitably  alienate  the 
hearts  and  the  allegiance  of  the  Colonists. 
He  records,  that,  while  he  had  never  had  a 
thought  but  such  as  this  imagined  state  of 
the  facts  had  favored,  a  Liberal  member  of 


124 


Reviews  attd  Literary  Notices. 


[Janiiary, 


Parliament,  an  intimate  friend*  of  his,  com- 
ing- to  him  for  a  private  interview,  had  told 
him  that  the  Ministry  were  not  the  prime 
movers  in  this  mischief,  but  were  instigated 
to  it  by  parties  whom  FranMin  little  sus- 
pected of  such  an  agency.  When  the  Doc- 
tor expressed  his  incredulity,  the  friend 
promised  to  give  him  decisive  evidence  of 
the  full  truth  of  his  assertion.  It  came  to 
Franklin  in  a  form  which  astounded  him, 
while  it  opened  his  eyes  and  fixed  his  in- 
dignation upon  a  class  of  men  who  from  that 
moment  onward  were  to  him  the  exponents 
of  all  .malignity  and  baseness.  The  evi- 
dence came  in  the  shape  of  the  originals, 
the  autographs,  of  the  above-named  letters, 
written  by  natives  of  the  Americah  soil, 
office-hoMers  under  the  Crown,  who,  while 
pampered  and  trusted  by  their  constituents 
on  this  side  of  the  water,  were  actually  dic- 
tating, advising,  and  inspiriting  the  measures 
of  the  British  Ministry  most  hateful  to  the 
Colonists.  Franklin  never  overcame  the 
impression  from  that  shock.  When  he  was 
negotiating  the  treaty  of  peace,  he  set  his 
face  and  heart  most  resolutely  against  all 
the  efforts  and  propositions  made  by  the 
representatives  of  the  Crown  to  secure  to 
the  Tories  redress  or  compensation.  He 
insisted  that  Britain,  in  espousing  their  al- 
leged wrongs,  indicated  that  she  herself 
ought  to  remunerate  their  losses  ;•  that  they, 
in  fact,  had  been  her  agents  and  instru- 
ments, as  truly  as  were  her  Crown  officials 
and  troops.  Their  malignant  hostility  to- 
ward their  fellow-Colonists,  and  the  suffer- 
ings and  losses  entailed  on  America  by  their 
open  assertion  of  the  rights  of  the  Crown, 
and  by  the  direct  or  indirect  help  which  op- 
pressive measures  had  received  from  them, 
had  deprived  them  of  all  claim  even  on  the 
pity  of  those  who  had  triumphed  in  spite  of 
them.  At  any  rate,  Franklin  insisted,  and 
it  was  the  utmost  to  which  he  would  assent, 
—  his  irony  and  sarcasm  in  making  the  of- 
fer showing  the  depth  of  his  bitterness  on 
the  subject,  —  that  a  balance  should  be 
struck  between  the  losses  of  the  Loyalists 
and  those  of  the  Colonists  in  the  conflagra- 
tion of  their  sea-ports  and  the  outrages  on 
the  property  of  individual  patriots. 

The  views  and  feelings  of  Franklin  have 
been  essentially  those  which  have  since  pre- 
vailed popularly  among  us  r^parding  the 
old  Tories.  Of  course,  when  hard-pressed, 
he  was  willing  to  recognize  a  difference 
in  the  motives  which  prompted  individu- 
als and  in  the  degrees  of  their  turpitude. 
Mr.  Sabine  gives  us  in  his  introductory  es- 


say a  most  admirable  analysis  of  the  whole 
subject-matter,  with  an  accurate  and  in- 
structive array  of  all  the  facts  bearing  upon 
-iL  No  man  has  given  more  thorough  or 
patient  inquiry  to  it,  or  has  had  bettes  op- 
portunities foe  gathering  materials  oi  prime 
authority  and  perfect  authenticity  for  the 
treatment  of  it.  In  the  biographical  sketch- 
es which  crowd  his  volumes  will  be  found 
matter  of  varied  and  profound  interest, 
alternately  engaging  the  tender  sympathy 
and  firing  the  indignation  of  the  reader. 
One  can  hardly  fkil  of  bethinking  himself 
that  the  moral  and  judicial  refiectiona  which 
come  from  perusing  this  work  will  by  and 
by,  under  some  slight  modifications,  f  ttach 
to  the  review  of  the  characters  and  course 
of  some  men  who  are  in  antagonism  to  their 
country's  cause  in  these  days. 


Broken  Lights:  An  Inquiry  into  the  Present 
Condition  and  Future  Prospects  of  Relig" 
ious  Faith.  By  Frances  Power  Cobbe. 
Boston :  J.  £.  Tilton  &  Ca 

• 
Among  the  countless  errors  of  faith  which 
have  misled  mankind,  there  is  none  more 
dangerous,  or  more  common,  than  that  of 
confounding  the  forms  of  religion  with  re- 
ligion itselC  Too  often,  alike  to  believer 
and  unbeliever,  this  has  proved  the  one  fa- 
tal mistake.  Many  an  honest  and  earnest 
soul,  feeling  the  deep  needs  of  a  spiritual 
life,  but  unable  to  separate  those  things 
which  -the  heart  would  accept  from  those 
against  which  the  reason  revolts,  has  re- 
jected all  together,  and  turned  away  sorrow- 
ful, if  not  scoffing.  On  the  other  hand,  the 
state  of  that  man,  who^  because  his  mind 
has  settled  down  upon  certain  -externals  of 
religion,  deems  that  he  has  secured  its  es- 
sentials also,  is  worse  than  that  of  the  skep- 
tic. The  freezing  traveller,  who  is  driven 
by  the  rocks  (of  hard  doctrine)  and  the 
thorns  (of  doubt)  to  keep  his  limbs  in  mo- 
tion, stands  a  far  better  chance  of  finding 
his  way  out  of  the  wilderness  than  he  who 
lies  down  on  the  softest  bed  of  snow,  flat- 
ters himself  that  all  is  well,  and  dreams  of 
home,  whilst  the  deadly  torpor  creeps  over 
him. 

If  help  and  guidance  and  good  cheer  for 
all  such  be  not  found  in  this  little  volume, 
it  is  certainly  no  fault  of  the  writer's  inten- 
tion. She  brings  to  her  task  the  pow^  of 
profound  conviction,  inspiring  a  devout  wish 
to  lead  others  into  the  way  of  truth.  Be- 
neath the  multiform  systems  of  theology 


1865.] 


Reviews  and  Literary  Notices^ 


125 


the  finds  generally  the  same  firm  foiindap 
tumft  of  £uth,  ^ ''  fiuth  in  the  existence  of 
m  righteous  God,  faith  in  the  Vernal  Law 
of  Morality,  £uth  in  an  Immortal  liie." 
None  enjoys  a  monopoly  of  truth,  although 
all  are  based  upon  it  Each  is  a  light- 
Iwose,  more  or  less  lofty,  and  more  or  less 
illumined  by  the  glory  that  bums  within; 
yet  their  purest  rays  are  only  "broken 
lights."  The  glory  itself  is  infinite :  it  is 
only  through  human  narrowness  and  im« 
perfection  that  it  appears  narrow  and  im- 
perfect The  lighthouse  is  good  in  its 
place:  it  beckons  home,  with  its  "wheel- 
ing arms  of  dark  and  bright,"  many  a  be- 
nighted voyager;  but  we  must  remember 
that  It  is  a  structure  made  with  hands,  and 
not  confound  the  stone  and  iron  of  human 
oontriTance  with  the  great  Source  and  Foun- 
tain of  Light 

The  writer  does  not  grope  with  uncertain 
purpose  among  these  imperfect  rays,  and 
she  is  never  confused  by  them.  To  each 
she  fireely  gives  credit  for  what  it  is  or  has 
been;  but  all  fede  at  last  before  the  un- 
speakable brightness  of  the  rising  sun.  She 
discerns  the  dawn  of  that  day  when  all  our 
little  candles  may  be  safely  extinguished: 
ibr  it  is  not  in  any  church,  nor  in  any  creed, 
nor  yet  in  any  book,  that  all  of  G<xi*s  law 
is  contained ;  but  the  light  of  His  counte- 
nance shines  primarily  on  the  souls  of  men, 
out  of  which  all  religions  have  proceeded, 
and  into  which  we  must  look  for  the  ever 
new  and  ever  vital  fiuth,  which  is  to  the 
unclouded  conscience  what  the  sunshine  is 
to  sight 

Such  is  the  conclusion  the  author  ar- 
rives at  through  an  array  of  arguments  of 
which  we  shall  not  attempt  a  summary.  It 
is  not  necessary  to  admit  what  these  are 
designed  to  prove,  in  order  to  derive  re- 
fiahment  and  benefit  from  the  pure  tone 
of  morality,  the  fervent  piety,  and  the  noUe 
views  of  practical  religion  which  animate 
her  pages.  It  is  not  a  book  to  be  afraid  oC 
No  violent  hand  is  here  laid  upon  the  tem- 
ple ;  but  only  the  scaffoldings,  which,  as  she 
perceives,  obscure  the  beauty  of  the  tem- 
ple, are  taken  away.  Not  only  those  who 
have  rejected  religion  because  they  could 
not  receive  its  dogmas,  but  all  who  have 
struggled  with  their  doub^  and  mastered 
them,  or  thought  they  mastered  them,  nay, 
any  sincere  seeker  for  the  truth,  will  find 
Miss  Cobbe*s  unpretending  treatise  exceed- 
ingly valuable  and  suggestive ;  while  to  any 
on^  interested  in  modem  theological  discus- 
sioiis  we  would  recommend  it  as  contain- 


ing the  latest,  and  perhaps  the  clearest  and 
most  condensed,  statement  of  the  questions 
at  issue  which  these  discussions  have  called 
out 

The  spirit  of  the  book  is  admirable.  Both 
tiie  skeptic  who  sneers  and  the  bigot  who 
denounces  might  leara  a  beautiful  lesson 
from  its  calm,  yet  earnest  pages.  It  is  free 
from  the  brilliant  shallowness  of  Renan, 
and  the  bitterness  which  sometimes  marred 
the  teachings  of  Parker.  It  is  a  generous, 
tender,  noble  book,— enjoying,  indeed,  over 
most  works  of  its  class  a  peculiar  advantage ; 
for,  while  its  logic  has  everywhere  a  mas- 
culine strength  and  clearness,  there  glows 
through  all  an  element  too  long  wanting  to 
our  hard  systems  of  theology,  — an  element 
which' only  woman's  heart  can  supply. 

Yet^  notwithstanding  the  lofty  reason,  the 
fine  intuition,  the  philanthropy  and  hope, 
which  inspire  its  pages,  we  close  the  book 
with  a  sense  of  something  wanting.  The 
author  points  out  the  danger  there  always 
is  of  a  faith  which  is  intellectually  demon- 
strable becoming,  with  many,  a  faith  of 
the  intellect  merely, —  and  frankly  avows 
that  "  there  is  a  cause  why  Theism,  even  in 
warmer  and  better  natures,  too  often  fails 
to  draw  out  that  fervent  piety"  which  is. 
characteristic  of  narrower  and  intenser  be- 
liefe.  This  cause  she  traces  to  the  neglect 
of  prayer,  and  the  consequent  removal  afar 
ofi",  to  vague  confines  of  consciousness,  of 
the  Personality  and  Fatherhood  of  God. 
Her  observations  on  this  important  subject 
are  worthy  of  serious  consideration,  from 
those  rationalists  especially  whose  cold  the- 
ories do  not  admit  anything  so  "unphilo- 
sophical"  as  prayer.  Yet  we  find  in  the 
book  itself  a  want  The  author  —  like 
nearly  all  writers  from  her  point  of  view  — 
ignores  the  power  of  miracle.  Because 
ph3wcal  impossibilities,  or  what  seem  such, 
have  been  so  readUy  accepted  as  facts  ow- 
ing their  origin  to  divine  interposition,  they 
fall  to  the  opposite  extreme  of  denying  the 
occurrence  of  any  events  out  of  the  com- 
mon course  of  Nature's  operations.  Of  the 
positive  and  powerful  ministration  of  angels 
in  human  affairs  they  make  no  account  what- 
ever, or  accept  it  as  a  pleasing  dream ;  and 
they  forget  that  what  we  call  a  miracle  may 
be  as  truly  an  ofispring  of  immutable  law 
as  the  dew  and  the  sunshine,  —  failing  to 
leam  of  the  loadstone,  which  attracts  to  it- 
self splinters  of  steel  contrary  to  all  the 
commonly  observed  laws  of  gravitation,  the 
simple  truth  that  man  also  may  become  a 
magnet,  and,  by  the  power  of  the  divine 


126 


Reviews  and  Literary  Notices. 


[January, 


currents  passing  through  him,  do  many 
things  astonishing  to  every-day  experience. 
The  feats  of  a  vulgar  thaumaturgy,  designed 
to  make  the  ignorant  stare,  may  well  be 
dispensed  with.  But  the  fact  that  "  spiritu- 
alism," with  all  its  crudities  of  doctrine  and 
errors  of  practice,  has  spread  over  Christen- 
dom with  a  rapidity  to  which  the  history  of 
religious  beliefs  affords  no  parallel,  shows 
that  the  realization  of  supernatural  influen- 
ces is.  an  absolute  need  of  the  human  heart 
The  soul  of  the  earlier  forms  of  worship  dies 
out  of  them,  as  this  faith  dies  out,  or  becomes 
merely  traditional ;  and  no  new  system  can 
look  to  fill  their  places  without  it 


Letters  of  Felix  Mendelssohn  Bar- 
THOLDY  front  1833  to  1847.  Two  Vol- 
umes.   Philadelphia :  F.  Leypoldt 

There  are  many  people  who  make  very 
little  discrimination  between  one  musician 
and  another, — who  discern  no  great  gulf  be- 
tween Mendelssohn  and  Meyerbeer,  between 
Hossini  and  Romberg,  between  Spohr  and 
Spontini :  not  in  respect  of  music,  but  of 
character  ;  of  character  in  itself,  and  not  as 
it  may  develop  itself  in  chaste  or  florid, 
sentimental,  gay,  devotional,  or  dramatic 
musical  forms.  And  as  yet  we  have  very 
little  help  in  our  efforts  to  gain  insight  into 
the  inner  nature  of  our  great  musical  artists. 
Of  Meyerbeer  the  world  knows  that  he  was 
vain,  proud,  and  fond  of  money, — but  wheth- 
er he  had  soul  or  not  we  do  not  know; 
the  profound  religiousness  of  Handel,  who 
spent  his  best  years  on  second-rate  operas, 
and  devoted  his  declining  energies  to  ora- 
torio, we  have  to  guess  at  rather  than  reach 
by  direct  disclosure ;  and  till  Mr.  Thayer 
shall  take  away  the  mantle  which  yet  covers 
his  Beethoven,  we  shall  know  but  little  of 
the  interior  nature  of  that  wonderful  man. 
But  Mendelssohn  now  stances  before  us,  dis- 
closed by  the  most  searching  of  all  proces- 
ses, his  own  letters  to  his  own  friends.  And 
how  graceful,  how  winning,  how  true,  ten- 
der, noble  is  the  man  I  We  have  not  dared 
to  write  a  notice  of  these  two  volumes  while 
we,  were  fresh  from  their  perusal,  lest  the 
fascination  of  that  genial,  Christian  pres- 
ence should  lead  us  into  the  same  frame 
which  prompted  not  only  the  rhapsodies 
of  "  Charles  Auchester,"  but  the  same  pas- 
sionate admiration  which  all  England  felt, 
while  Mendelssohn  lived,  and  which  Eliza- 
beth Sheppard  shared,  not  led.  We  lay 
down  these  volumes  after  the  third  perusal, 


blessing  God  for  the  rich  gift  of  such  a  life, 
— a  life,  sweet,  gentle,  calm,  nowise  intense 
nor  passionkte,  yet  swift,  stirring,  and  labo- 
rious even  to  the  point  of  morbidness.  A 
Christian  without  cant ;  a  friend,  not  cling- 
ine.to  a  few  and  rejecting  the  many,  nor 
Qj nuking  his  love  over  the  many  with  no 
dominating  affection  for  a  few  near  ones, 
but  loving  his  own  with  a  tenacity  almost 
unparalleled,  yet  reaching  out  a  free,  gener-, 
ous  sympathy  and  kindly  devotion  even  to 
the  hundreds  who  could  give  him  nothing 
but  their  love.  It  is  thought  that  his  grief 
over  his  sister  Fanny  was  the  occasion  of 
the  rupture  of  a  blood-vessel  in  his  head,  and 
that  it  was  the  proximate  cause  of  his  o^ 
death  ;  and  yet  he  who  loved  with  thisldol- 
atrous  affection  gave  his  hand  to  many 
whose  names  he  hardly  knew.  The  reader 
will  not  overlook,  in  the  second  series  of 
letters,  the  plea  in  behalf  of  an  old  Swiss 
guide  for  remembrance  in  **  Murray,"  nor 
that  long  letter  to  Mr.  Simrock,  the  music- 
publisher,  enjoining  the  utmost  secrecy,  and 
then  urging  the  claims  of  a  man  whom  he 
was  most  desirous  to  help. 

The  letters  from  Italy  and  Switzerland 
were  written  during  the  two  years  with 
which  he  prefaced  his  quarter-century  of 
labor  as  composer,  director,  and  virtuoso. 
They  relate  much  to  Italian  painting,  the 
music  of  Passion  Week,  Swiss  scenery,  his 
stay  with  Goethe,  and  his  brilliant  reception 
in  England  on  his  return.  They  disclose  a 
youth  of  glorious  promise. 

The  second  series  does  not  disappoint 
that  promise.  The  man  is  the  youth  a  little 
less  exuberant,  a  little  more  mature,  but  no 
less  buoyant,  tender,  and  loving.  The  let- 
ters are  as  varied  as  the  claims  of  one's  fam- 
ily differ  from  those  of  the  outside  world, 
but  are  always  Mendelssohnian,  -—  free, 
pure,  unworldly,  yet  deep  and  wise.  They 
continue  down  to  the  very  close  of  his  life. 
They  are  edited  by  his  brother  Paul,  and 
another  near  relative.  Yet  unauthorized 
publications  of  other  letters  will  follow,  for 
Mendelssohn  was  a  prolific  letter  -  writer ; 
and  Lampadius,  a  warm  admirer  of  the 
composer,  has  recently  announced  such  a 
volume.  The  public  may  rejoice  in  this ; 
for  Mendelssohn  was  not  only  purity,  but 
good  sense  itself  he  needs  no  critical  edit- 
ing ;  and  if  we  may  yet  have  more  strictly 
musical  letters  from  his  pen,  the  influence 
of  the  two  volumes  now  under  notice  will 
be  largely  increased. . 

It  is  not  enough  to  say  of  these  voluqaes 
that  they  are  bright,  piquant,  genial,  affec* 


I865-] 


Rwiews  and  Literary  Notices. 


127 


tionate ;  nor  is  it  enough  to  speak  of  their 
artistic  worth,  the  subtile  appreciation  of 
painting  in  the  first  series,  and  of  music 
in  the  second ;  it  is  not  enough  to  refer 
to  the  glimpses  which  they  give  of  emi- 
nent artists,  —  Chopin,  Rossini,  Donizet- 
ti, Hiller,  and  Moscheies,— nor  the  side- 
glances  at  Thorwaldsen,  Bunsen,  the  late 
scholarly  and  art  •  loving  King  of  Prussia, 
Schadow,  Overbeck,  Cornelius,  and  the 
Diisseldorf  painters ;  nor  is  it  enough  to 
dwell  upon  that  delightful  homage  to  fa- 
ther and  mother,  that  confiding  trust  in 
brother  and  sisters,  that  loyalty  to  friends. 
The  salient  feature  of  these  charming  books 
is  the  unswerving  devotion  to  a  great  pur- 
pose ;  the  careless  disregard,  nay^  the  ab- 
rupt refusal,  of  fame,  unless  it  came  in  an 
honest  channel ;  the  naive  modesty  *  that 
made  him  wonder,  even  in  the  very  last  years 
of  his  life,  that  he  could  be  the  man  whose 
entrance  into  the  crowded  halls  of  London 
and  Birmingham  should  be  the  signal  of 
ten  minutes'  protracted  cheering ;  the  refu- 
sal to  set  art  over  against  money ;  the  un- 
willingness to  undertake  the  mandates  of  a 
king,  unless  with  the  cordial  acquiescence 
of  his  artistic  conscience  ;  and  the  immacu- 
late purity,  not  alone  of  his  life,  but  of  his 
thought  How  he  castigates  Donizetti's 
love  of  money  and  his  sloth  1  how  his  whip 
scourges  the  immorality  of  the  French  op- 
era, ^nd  his  whole  soul  abhors  the  sensu- 
ality of  that  stage !  how  steadfitstly  he  re- 
fuses to  undertake  the  composition  of  an 
opera  till  the  faultless  libretto  for  which  he 
patiently  waited  year  after  year  could  be 
prepared !  We  wish  our  religious  socie- 
ties would  call  out  a  few  of  the  letters  of 
this  man  and  scatter  them  broadcast  over 
the  land:  they  would  indeed  be  "leaves 
for  the  healing  of  the  nations." 

There  is  one  lesson  which  may  be  learn- 
ed from  Mendelssohn's  career,  which  is  ex- 
ceptionably  rare  :  it  is  that  Providence  does 
someHwui  bless  a  man  every  way, — giving 
him  all  good  and  no  evil  Where  shall  we 
look  in  actual  or  historic  experience  to  find 
a  parallel  to  Mendelssohn  in  this  ?  He  had 
beauty :  Chorley  says  he  never  looked  upon 
a  handsomer  face.  He  had  grace  and  ele- 
gance. He  spoke  four  languages  with  per- 
fect ease,  read  Greek  and  Latin  with  ^cil- 
tty,  drew  skilfully,  was  fiuniliar  with  the  sci- 
ences, and  never  found  himself  at  a  loss 
with  professed  naturalists.    He  was  a  mem- 


ber of  one  of  the  most  distingui^ed  families 
of  Germany :  his  grandfather  being  Moses 
Mendelssohn,  the  philosopher  ;  his  father,  a 
leading  banker ;  his  uncle  Bartholdy,  a  great 
patron  of  art  in  Rome,  while  he  was  Prus- 
sian minister  there ;  his  brother-in-law  Hen- 
sel,  Court  painter  ;  both  his  sisters  and  his 
brother  Paul  occupying  leading  social  posi- 
tions. He  was  heir-apparent  to  a  great  es- 
tate. He  was  greeted  with  the  applause  of 
England  from  the  outset  of  his  career ; 
"awoke  famous,"  after  the  production  of 
the  "  Midsummer  Overture,"  while  almost 
a  boy ;  never  had  a  piece  fall  short  of  tri- 
umphant success ;  in  fact,  so  commanding 
prestige  that  he  could  find  not  one  who 
would  rationally  blan^e  or  criticize  him,  — 
a  "most  wearying'.'  thing,  he  writes,  that 
every  piece  he  brought  out  was  always 
"  wonderfully  fine."  He  was  loved  by  all, 
and  envied  by  none ;  the  pet  and  joy  of 
Goethe,  who  lived  to  see  his  expectation  of 
Mendelssohn  on  the  road  to  ample  fulfil- 
ment ;  blessed  entirely  in  his  family,  "  the 
course  of  true  love"  running  "smooth" 
from  beginning  to  end  ;  well,  agile,  strong ; 
and  more  than  all  this,  having  a  childlike 
religious  faith  in  Christ,  and  as  happy  as  a 
child  in  his  piety.  His  life  was  cloudless  ; 
those  checks  and  compensations  with  which 
Providence  breaks  up  others'  lot  were  want- 
ing to  his.  We  never  knew  any  one  like 
him  in  this,  but  the  childlike,  sunny  Carl 
Ritter. 

We  still  lack  a  biography  of  Mendelssohn 
which  shall  portray  him  from  without,  as 
these  volumes  do  from  within.  We  learn 
that  one  is  in  preparation  ;  and  when  that 
is  given  to  the  public,  one  more  rich  life  will 
be  embalmed  in  the  memories  of  all  good 
men. 

We  ought  not  to  overlook  the  unique  el- 
egance of  these  two  volumes.  Like  all  the 
publications  of  Mr.  Le}'poldt,  they  are  print- 
ed in  small,  round  letter;  and  the  whole 
appearance  is  creditable  to  the  publisher's 
taste.  The  American  edition  enti rely  eel ips- 
es  the  English  in  this  regard.  Though  not 
advertised  profusely,  the  merit  of  these  Let- 
ters has  already  given  them  entrance  and 
welcome  into  our  most  cultivated  circles : 
but  we  bespeak  for  them  a  larger  audience 
still ;  for  they  are  books  which  our  young 
men,  our  young  women,  our  pastors,  our 
whole  thoughtful  and  aspiring  community, 
ought  to  read  and  circulate. 


» 


128 


Recent  American  Publications* 


(Januaiy. 


RECENT  AMERICAN  PUBLICATIONS. 


Familiar  Letters  from  Europe.  By  Cor- 
iMlius  Conway  Fclton,  late  President  of 
Harvard  University^  Boston.  Ticknor  & 
Fields.     i6mo.    pp.  392.    $1.50. 

Life  and  Campaigns  of  George  B.  McClel- 
Ian,  Major-General  U.  S.  Army.  By  G.  S. 
Hillard.  Philadelphia.  J.  B.  Lippincott  & 
Co.     i2mo.    pp.  396.    $1.50. 

The  Classification  of  the  Sciences:  To 
which  are  added  Reasons  for  dissenting 
from  the  Philosophy  of  M.  Comte.  By  Her- 
bert Spencer,  Author  of  "Illustrations  of 
Universal  Progress,"  etc  New  York.  D. 
Appleton  &  Co.  x6mo.  paper,  pp.  4S. 
25  cts. 

The  Trial:   More  Links  of  the  Daisy 

Chain.     By  the  Author  of  "The  Heir  of 

•Redclyffe."    Two  Volumes  in  One.    New 

York.    D.  Appleton  &  Co.    i6ma    paper. 

pp.389.    *i.75- 
Fireside   Travels.     By   James    Russell 

Lowell.   Boston.    Ticknor  &  Fields.   i6ma 

pp.324.    $1.75. 

Memoir  of  Mrs.  Caroline  P.  Keith,  Mis- 
sionary of  the  Protestant  Episcopal  Church 
to  China.  Edited  by  her  Brother,  William 
C.  Tenney.  New  York.  D.  Appleton  & 
Ca    i6mo.    pp.  z.,  392.    $2.oa 

The  Haunted  Tower.  By  Mrs.  Henry 
Wood.  Philadelphia.  T.  B.  Peterson  & 
Brothers.    8vo.    paper,    pp.  15a    50  cts. 

Emily  Chester.  A  Novel.  Boston.  Tick- 
nor &  Fields.     i2mo.    pp.  367.    $1.75. 

Religion  and  Chemistry;  or,  Proo6  of 
God's  Plan  in  the  Atmosphere  and  its  Ele- 
ments. Ten  Lectures,  delivered  at  the 
Brooklyn  Institute,  Brooklyn,  N.  Y.,  on  the 
Graham  Foundation.  By  Josiah  P.  Cooke, 
Jr.,  Erving  Professor  of  Chemistry  and 
Mineralogy  in  Harvard  University.  New 
York.    Charles  Scribner.     8va    pp.  viiL, 

348.    »3-5o- 

Poems  of  the  War.  By  George  H.  Ba- 
ker. Boston.  Ticknor  &  Fields.  i6mo. 
pp.  vi.,  202.    $i.5a 

Modem  Philology :  Its  Discoveries,  His- 
tory, and  Influence.  By  Benjamin  W. 
Dwight  Second  Series.  New  York. 
Charles  Scribner.  8vo.  pp.  xviiL,  554. 
$6.oa 

The  Ocean  Waife.  A  Stpry  of  Adven- 
tm«  on  Land  and  Sea.  By  Captain  Mayne 
Reid.  With  Illustrations.  Boston.  Tick- 
nor &  Fields.    i6ma    pp.  367.    $i.5a 


Philosophy  as  Absolute  Sdence,  foimded 
in  the  Universal  Laws  of  Being,  and  indud« 
ing  Ontology,  Theology,  and  Psychology, 
made  One,  as  Spirit,  Soul,  and  Body.  By 
E.  L.  and  A.  L.  Frothingham.  Volume  L 
Boston.  Walker,  Wise,  &  Ca  '8va  pp. 
»adv.,  453.    $3.5a 

life  of  Jean  Paul  Frederic  Richter :  Com* 
piled  from  Various  Sources.  Preceded  by 
his  Autobiography.  By  Eliza  Buckminster 
Lee.  Bostoa  Ticknor  &  Fields.  i2ma 
pp.  xvi.,  539.    $2.oa 

The  Winthrops.  A  Novel  New  York. 
Carleton.     i6mo.    pp.  319.    $  1.75. 

The  American  Conflict :  AHistOry  of  tha 
'Great  Rebellion  in  the  United  States  of 
America,  i860- 1864 :  its  Causes,  Incidents, 
and  Results :  intended  to  exhibit  especially 
its  Moral  and  Political  Phases,  with  the 
Drift  and  Progress  of  American  Opinion 
respecting  Human  Slavery,  from  1776  to 
the  Close  of  the  War  for  the  Union.  By 
Horace  Greeley.  Illustrated  by  Portraits 
on  Steel  of  Generals,  Statesmen,  and  other 
Eminent  Men ;  Views  of  Places  of  Historic 
Interest,  Maps,  Diagrams  of  Battle-Fields, 
Naval  Actions,  etc  :  from  Official  Sources. 
Volume  L  Hartford.  A.  D.  Case  ^  Ca 
8va    pp.  648.    $  3.0a 

The  Voice  of  Blood,  in  the  Sphere  of 
Nature  and  of  the  Spirit  World.  By  Rev. 
Samuel  Phillips,  A.  M.  Philadelphia.  Lind- 
say &  Blaldston.    I2ma    pp.  xvl,  384. 

The  Suppressed  Book   about    Slavery. 
Prepared  for  Publication  in  1857,^- never 
published  until  the  Present  Time.     New  ^ 
York.    Carleton.    i6ma    pp.  432.   $3.oa 

Nearer  and  Dearer.  A  Novelette.*  By 
Cuthbert  Bede,  B.  A.,  Author  of  **  Verdant 
Green."  New  York.  Carleton.  i6ma 
pp.  xi.,  225.    $  1.5a 

Annals  of  the  English  Stage,  from  Thom- 
as Betterton  to  Edmund  Kean.  By  Dr. 
Doran,  F.  S.  A.,  Author  of  "Table  Traits," 
etc  New  York.  W.  J.  Widdleton.  2  vols. 
8va    pp.  424,  422.    $4. 5a 

A  Report  of  the  Debates  and  Proceedings 
in  the  Secret  Sessions  of  the  Conference 
Convention,  for  proposing  Amendments  to 
the  Constitution  of  the  United  States,  held 
at  Washington,  D.  C,  in  February,  A.  D. 
1861.  By  L.  £.  Chittenden,  One  of  the 
Delegates.  New  York.  D.  Appleton  & 
Co.    8vo.    pp.  626.    $  5.0a 


THE 


ATLANTIC    MONTHLY. 

4 

A  Magazine  of  Literature,  Art,  and  Politics. 


VOL.  XV.  — FEBRUARY,   1865.  — NO.  LXXXVIII. 


OUR  FIRST  GREAT  PAINTER,  AND  HIS  WORKS. 


ON  the  8th  of  July,  1843,  Washing- 
ton Allston  died.  Twenty-one 
years  have  since  gone  by ;  and  already 
his  name  has  a  fine  flavor  of  the  past 
added  to  its  own  proper  aroma. 

In  twenty-one  years  Art  has  made, 
laige  advances,  but  not  in  the  direction 
of  imagination.  In  that  rare  and  pre- 
cious quality  the  works  of  Allston  re- 
main preeminent  as  before. 

It  is  now  so  long  ago  as  1827  that 
the  first  exhibition  of  pictures  at  the 
Boston  Athenaeum  took  place ;  and  then 
and  there  did  Allston  first  become 
known  to  his  American  public.  Re- 
turned from  Europe  afler  a  long  ab- 
sence, he  had  for  some  years  been  h'v- 
ing  a  retired,  even  a  recluse  life,  was 
personally  known  to  a  few  friends,  and 
by  name  only  to  the  public  The  exhi- 
bition of  some  of  his  pictures  on  this 
occasion  made  known  his  genius  to  his 
fellow*citizens ;  and  who,  having  once 
felt  the  strange  charm  of  that  genius, 
but  recalls  with  jo}'ful  interest  the  hap- 
py hour  when  he  was  first  brought  un- 
der its  influence  ?  I  well  remember, 
even  at  this  distance  in  time,  the  mys- 
tic, charmed  presence  that  hung  about 
the  *' Jeremiah  dictating  his  Prophecy 
to   Baruch   the    Scribe,"    "Beatrice," 


« The  Flight  of  Florimel,"  "  The  Tri- 
umphal Song  of  Miriam  on  the  De- 
struction of  Pharaoh  and  his  Host  in 
the  Red  Sea,"  and  «  The  Valentine."  I 
was  then  young,  and  had  yet  to  learn 
that  the  quality  that  so  attracted  me  in 
these  pictures  is,  indeed,  the  rarest  vir- 
tue in  any  work  of  Art,  —  that,  although 
pictures  without  imagination  are  with- 
out savor,  yet  that  the  larger  number 
pf  those  that  are  painted  are  destitute 
of  that  grace,  —  and  that,  when,  in  later 
years,  I  should  visit  the  principal  gal- 
leries of  Europe,  and  see  the  master- 
pieces of  each  master,  I  still  should  re- 
turn to  the  memory  of  Allston's  works 
as  to  something  most  precious  and 
unique  in  Art  I  have  also,  since  that 
time,  come  to  believe,  that,  while  every 
sensitive  beholder  must  feel  the  charm 
of  Allston's  style,  its  intellectual  ripe- 
ness can  be  fully  appreciated  only  by 
the  aid  of  a  foreign  culture. 

Passing  through  Europe  with  this 
impression  of  Allston's  genius,  in  the 
Venetians  I  first  recognized  his  kin- 
dred ;  in  Venice  I  found  the  school  in 
which  he  had  studied,  and  in  which  Na- 
ture had  fitted  him  to  study :  for  his  eye 
for  color  was  like  his  management  of  it, 
— Venetian.     His  treatment  of  heads 


Xaiered  aocardioc  to  Act  of  CoBfresa,  in  the  year  1865,  by  Ticknor  and  Fiblds,  in  the  Oerk't 

of  the  District  Court  of  the  District  of  Massachusetts 

VOL.  XV. — Na  88.  9 


I30 


Our  First  Great  Painter,  and  his  Works.     [February, 


has  a  round,  ripe,  sweet  fulness  which 
reminds  one  of  the  heads  in  the  ''  Para- 
diso  "  of  Tintoretto,  —  that  work  which 
deserves  a  place  in  the  foremost  rank 
of  the  world's  masterpieces.  The  great 
praise  implied  in  this  comparison  is 
jusdy  due  to  Allston.  llie  texture  and 
handling  of  his  work  are  inimitable. 
Without  any  appearance  of  labor,  all 
crudeness  is  absorbed  ;  the  oudines  of 
objects  are  not'  so  much  softened  as 
emptied  of  their  color  and  substance, 
so  that  the  light  appears  to  pass  them. 
The  finishing  is  so  judicious  that  the 
spectator  believes  he  could  see  more  on 
approaching  nearer.  The  eye  searches 
the  shade,  and  sees  and  defines  the  ob- 
jects at  first  concealed  by  it  The  eye 
is  not  satiated,  but  by  the  most  art^l 
means  excited  to  greater  appetite.  The 
coloring  is  not  so  much  harmonious  as 
harmony  itself,  out  of  which  melodies 
of  color  play  through  the  picture  in  a 
way  that  is  found  in  no  other  master 
but  Paul  Veronese.  As  Allston  him- 
self expressed  it,  he  liked  to  echo  his 
colors ;  and  as  an  echo  is  best  heard 
where  all  else  is  silence,  so  the  pure 
repose  of  these  compositions  gives  ex- 
traordinary value  to  Such  delicate  rep- 
etitions of  color.  The  effect  is,  one 
might  say,  more  musical  than  pictorial. 
This  peculiar  and  musical  effect  is  most 
noticeable  in  the  landscapes.  They  are 
like  odes,  anthems,  and  symphonies. 
They  run  up  the  scale,  beginning  with 
the  low-toned  "Moonlight,"  through 
the  great  twilight  piece  called  "After 
Sunset,'^  the  "  Forest  Scene,"  where 
it  seems  always  afternoon,  the  gray 
"  Mountain  Landscape,"  a  world  com- 
posed of  stem  materials,  the  cool  "  Sun- 
rise on  the  Mediterranean."  up  to  the 
broad,  pure,  Elysian  daylight  of  the 
**  Italian  Landscape,"  with  atmosphere 
fuU  of  music,  color,  and  perfume,  cooled 
and  shaded  by  the  breezy  pines,  open 
£ur  away  to  the  sea,  and  the  sky  peopled 
with  opalescent  clouds,  trooping  wide 
on  their  celestial  errands. 

Of  this  last  landscape  the  poetic 
merit  is  as  great  as  the  artistic  excel- 
lence is  unrivalled.  Whoever  has  made 
pictures  and  handled  colors  knows  well 


that  a  subject  pitched  on  a  high  key 
of  light  is  vasdy  more  difficult  to  man- 
age than  one  of  which  the  highest  light 
is  not  above  the  middle  tint  To  keep 
on  that  high  key  which  belongs  to 
broad  daylight,  and  yet  preserve  har- 
mony, repose,  and  atmosphere,  is  in 
the  highest  degree  difficult ;  but  here 
it  IS  successfully  done,  and  again  re- 
minds us  of  the  Paul  Veronese  treat- 
ment Though  a  quiet  picture,  it  is 
full  of  brilliancy.  It  represents  a  broad 
and  pardy  shaded  expanse,  full,  also, 
of  light  and  sweet  sunshine,  through 
which  the  eye  travels  till  it  rests  on 
the  distant  mountain,  rising  majesti- 
cally in  grand  volcanic  forms  from 
.  the  horizon  plains.  The  sky  is  filled 
with  cloudy  veils,  floating,  prismatic; 
some  quiet  water,  crossed  by  a  bridge 
which  rests  on  round  arches,  is  in  th'e 
middle  distance  ;  and  a  few  trees  near 
the  foreground  form  the  group  from 
which  rises  the  stone-pine,  which  is 
the  principal  feature  in  the  picture, 
'  and  gives  it  its  character.  As  I  write 
this,  I  fear  that  any  reader  who  has 
not  seen  the  picture  to  which  I  refer 
will  immediately  think  of  Tumer^s 
Italian  landscapes,  so  familiar  to  all 
the  world  through  engravings,  where 
a  stone-pine  is  lifted  against  the  sky 
as  a  mass  of  dark  to  contrast  with  the 
mass  of  light  necessarily  in  the  same 
region  of  th^  picture.  But  such  effects, 
however  legitimate  and  powerful  in  the 
hands  of  Turner,  were  not  in  AUston's 
manner ;  they  would  ruin  and  break 
the  still  harmony  which  was  the  law 
of  his  mind  and  of  his  compositions. 
Under  this  tree,  on  the  path,  fall  flick- 
ering spots  of  sunshine,  in  which  sit  or 
stand  two  or  three  figures.  The  scarlet 
and  white  of  their  dresses,  catching  the 
sunshine,  make  the  few  high  notes  that 
cause  the  whole  piece  to  throb  like 
music. 

There  is  also  a  large  Swiss  land- 
•scape,  possessing  in  an  extraordinary 
degree  the  pure,  keen  atmosphere,  as 
well  as  the  grand  mountain  forms,  of 
the  Alpine  spaces.  To  look  on  this 
piece  exhilarates  as  does  the  sight  of 
the  Alps  themselves ;  and  it  strikes  the 


i865.] 


Our  First  Great  Painter,  and  his  Works. 


131 


eye  as  a  shrill  trumpet  sound  the  ear. 
This  bmdscape,  a  grand  antithesis  to 
the  last  described,  marks  a  great  range 
of  power  in  the  mind  tha^  produced 
them  both. 

But  AUston  was  not  a  landscape- 
painter.  His  landscapes  are  few  in 
number,  though  great  in  excellence. 
They  are  poetic  in  the  truest  sense; 
they  are  Isiden  with  thought  and  life, 
and  are  of  *'  imagination  all  compact" 
They  transport  the  beholder  to  a  faxctv 
world,  where,  through  and  behind  the 
lovely  superficies  of  things,  he  sees  the 
hidden  ideal  of  each  member,  —  of 
rock,  sea,  sky,  earth,  and  forest,  —  and 
feels  by  a  clear  magnetism  that  he  is  in 
presence  of  the  very  truth  of  things. 

We  now  come  to  a  class  of  Allston's 
pictures  which  are  known  chiefly,  per- 
haps only,  in  Boston.  They  are  justly 
prized  by  their  owners  as  possessions 
of  inestimable  value ;  they  are  the 
works  that  more  than  others  display 
his  peculiar  genius.  I  allude  to  certain 
ideal  heads  and  figures  called  by  these 
names :  "  Beatrice,"  "  Rosalie,"  "  The 
Bride,"  "The  Spanish  Girl,"  "The 
Evening  Hymn,"  "  The  Tuscan  Girl," 
-  Miriam,"  **  The  Valentine,"  "  Loren- 
zo and  Jessica,"  "  The  Flight  of  Flori- 
mel,"  "  The  Roman  Lady,"  and  others ; 
and  I  shall  give  a  short  description  of 
the  most  important  of  these,  sometimes 
in  my  own  words,  and  sometimes  in 
those  of  one  who  is  the  only  writer  I 
can  find  who  has  said  anything  dis- 
tinctive about  the  works  of  Allston. 
1  refer  to  William  Ware,  who  died  in 
the  act  of  preparing  a  course  of  lec- 
tures on  the  Genius  of  Allston,  —  a  task 
for  which  he  was  well  qualified  by  his 
artistic  organization,  his  long  study  of 
Art,  and  his  clear  appreciation  of  All- 
ston's power. 

In  these  smaller  ideal  pieces  AUstoh 
seems  to  have  found  his  own  genius, 
BO  peculiar  are  they,  so  different  fi^om 
the  works  of  all  other  masters,  and  so 
divine  in  their  expressive  repose.  I 
say  divine  in  their  repose  with  fiiU  in- 
tention ;  for  this  is  a  repose,  not  idle 
and  voluptuous,  not  poetic  and  dreamy, 
but  a  repose  full  of  life,  a  repose  which 


commands  and  controls  the  beholder, 
and  sdrs  within  him  that  idealism 
that  lies  deep  hidden  in  every  mind. 
These  pieces  consist  of,  heads  and  fig- 
ures, mostly  single,  distinct  as  Individ-  ' 
uals,  and  each  a  heaven  of  beauty  in 
itself. 

The  method  of  this  artist  was  to 
suppress  all  the  coarser  beauties  which 
make  up  the  substance  of  common  pic- 
*  tures.  He  was  the  leslst  adcaptandum 
of  workers.  He  avoided  bright  eyes, 
curls,  and  contours,  glancing  lights, 
strong  contrasts,  and  colors  too  crude 
for  hasmony.  He  reduced  his  beauty 
to  her  elements,  so  that  an  inner  beau^ 
might  play  through  her  features.  Like 
the  Catholic  discipline  which  pales  the 
fece  of  the  novice  with  vigils,  seclu- 
sion, and  £asting,  and  thus  makes  room 
and  clears  the  way  for  the  movements 
of  the  spirit,  so  in  these  figures  every 
vulgar  grace  is  suppressed.  No  classic 
contours,  no  languishing  attitudes,  no 
asking  for  admiration, — but  a  severe  and 
chaste  restraint,  a  modest  sweetness, 
a  slumbering  intellectual  atmosphere, 
a  spacefill  self-possession,  eyes  so  sin- 
cere and  pure  that  heaven's  light  shines 
through  them,  and,  beyond  all,  a  hov- 
ering spiritual  life  that  makes  each 
form  a  presence. 

Perhaps  the  two  most  remarkable 
and  original  of  the  pieces  I  have  named 
above  are  the  "  Beatrice  "  and  the  "  Ro- 
salie." Of  the  "  Beatrice  "  there  has 
been  much  discussion  whether  she 
could  have  been  intended  to  represent 
the  Beatrice  of  Dante.  To  me  it  ap- 
pears that  there  is  nothing  like  that 
world-  and  heaven-renowned  lady  in 
this  our  Beatrice.  She  sits  alone :  one 
sees  that  in  the  expression  of  her  eyes. 
Her  dress  is  of  almost  conventxial  sim- 
plicity  ;  the  colors  rich,  but  sober ;  the 
style  flowing  and  mediaeval  She  has 
soft  brown  hair ;  soft,  velvet-soft,  brown 
eyes  ;  features  not  salient,  but  rounded 
into  the  contours  of  the  head ;  her  whole 
expression  receptive,  yet  radiant  with 
sentiment  The  comf^exion  of  a  ten- 
der rose,  equally  diffused,  gives  an  in- 
describable air  of  healthful  delicacy  to 
the  face.    The  expression  of  the  whole 


132 


Our  First  Great  Painter^  and  his  Works,     [February, 


figure  is  that  of  one  in  a  very  dream  of 
sentiment  Her  twilight  eyes  see  with- 
out effort  into  the  very  soul  of  things, 
as  other  eyes  look  at  their  surfaces. 
'  The  sentiment  of  this  figure  is  so  pow- 
erful that  by  its  gentle  charm  it  flEistens 
the  beholder,  who  gazes  and  cannot 
withdraw  his  eyes,  wondering  what  is 
the  spell  that  can  so  hold  fiim  to  that 
£ice,  which  is  hardly  beautiful,  surely 
without  surface  beauty.  I  once  heard 
a  person  who  was  unaccustomed  to  the 
use  of  critical  terms  say -of  these  crea- 
tions of  Allston,  *'  Here  is  beauty,  but 
not  the  beauty  that  glares  on  you  " ; 
and  this  phrase,  so  odd,  but  so  origi- 
nal, well  describes  the  beauty  of  this 
Beatrice,  who,  though  now  transfigured 
by  sentiment  and  capable  of  being  a 
home-goddess,  does  not  seem  intended 
to  shine  in  starry  circles. 

But  for  the  beauty  of  execution  in  this 
picture,  it  is  unsurpassed.  It  is  in  this 
respect  like  the  most  beautiful  things 
ever  painted  by  Raphael, — like  the  Ma- 
donna del  Cardellino,  whose  face  has 
light  within,  ^'  luce  di  dentroy^  as  is  the 
expressive  Italian  phrase, — and  is  also 
like  another  picture  that  I  have  s6en, 
attributed  to  Raphael,  in  the  collection 
of  the  late  Baron  Kestner  at  Rome. 

Visiting  the  extremely  curious  and 
valuable  gallery  of  this  gentleman,  the 
Hanoverian  Minister  at  Rome,  after 
making  us  begin  at  the  beginning, 
among  the  very  early  masters,  he  led  us 
on  with  courteous  determination  through 
his  specimens  of  all  the  schools,  and 
made  us  observe  the  characteristics  of 
each  school  and  each  master,  till  at  last 
we  rested  in  the  last  room,  where  hung 
a  single  picture  covered  with  a  silken 
curtain.  This  at  last,  with  sacred  and 
reverent  ceremony,  was  drawn  aside,  and 
revealed  a  portrait  by  Raphael, — ^the 
portrait  of  a  lady,  young  and  beautiful, 
and  glowing  with  a  tender  sentiment 
which  recalled  to  my  remembrance  these 
heads  by  Allston,  not  alone  in  the  senti- 
ment, but  in  the  masterly  beauty  of  the 
painting.  M.  Kestner  told  us  he  sup- 
posed the  picture  to  be  the  portrait  of 
that  niece  of  Cardinal  Bibbiena  to  whom 
Raphael  was  betrothed.     The  picture 


had  come  into  his  possession  by  one 
of  those  wonderful  chances  which  have 
preserved  so  many  valuable  works  from 
destruction.  At  a  sale  of  pictures  at 
Bologna,  he  told  us  he  noticed  a  very 
ordinary  head,  badly  enough  painted, 
but  with  very  beautiful  hands,  —  hands 
which  betrayed  the  work  of  a  master ; 
and  he  conjectured  this  to  be  some  valu- 
able picture,  hastily  covered  with  coairse 
work  to  deceive  the  emissaries  of  a  con- 
queror when  tliey  came  to  select  and 
carry  off  the  most  valuable  pictures  from 
the  galleries  of  the  conquered  city.  He 
gave  his  agent  orders  to  purchase  it,  and 
when  in  his  possession  a  little  careful 
work  removed  the  upper  colors  and  dis- 
covered one  of  the  most  beautiful  heads 
ever  painted  even  by  Raphael  Though 
it  may  and  will  seem  extravagant,  I  am 
satisfied  that  there  are  several  heads  by 
Allston  that  would  lose  nothing  by  com- 
parison with  this  admirable  work.  In- 
deed, though  M.  Kestner's  picture  is  a 
portrait,  it  is  a  work  so  entirely  in  the 
same  class  with  the  *' Beatrice,"  the 
"  Rosalie,"  the  ^  Valentine,"  and  some 
other  works  of  Allston,  in  sentiment 
and  execution,  that  the  comparison  is 
fairly  challenged. 

"Rosalie"  is  different  from  "Bea- 
trice." She  seems  listening  to  music ; 
and  so  the  little  poem  written  by  the  au- 
thor, and  recited  by  him  when  showing 
the  picture  newly  finished  to  his  friends, 
describes  her.  The  face  indicates,  not 
a  dream  of  sentiment,  like  that  of  ^'  Be- 
atrice," but  rather  a  rapture.  She  is 
*' caught  on  a  higher  strain."  She  is  a 
creature  as  passionate  as  tender ;  more 
like  Juliet  than  like  Miranda ;  fit  to  be 
the  love  of  a  poet,  and  to  reward  his 
song  with  the  overflowing  cup  of  love. 
In  this  figure  also  beauty  melts  into  feel- 
ing. The  composition  of  color  is  mas- 
terly ;  in  the  draperies  it  is  inlaid  in  op- 
posing fields,  by  which  means  the  key 
of  the  whole  is  raised,  and  the  rising 
rapture  of  expression  powerfully  second- 
ed. Did  I  not  fear  to  insist  too  much 
on  what  may  be  only  a  private  fancy,  I 
should  say  that  these  colors  reverberate 
like  some  rich  orchestral  strain  of  mu- 
sic 


i86s.] 


Our  First  Great  Painter^  and  his  Works. 


133 


"  The  Roman  Lady  reading."  This 
Roman  lady  might  be  the  mother  of  the 
Gracchi,  so  stately  and  of  so  grand  a 
style  is  she.  But  she  is  a  modem,  for 
she  reads  from  a  book.  She  might  be 
Vittoria  Colonna,  the  loved  of  Michel 
Angelo,  so  grave,  so  dignified  is  her  as* 
pect  The  whole  figure  is  reading.  A 
vital  intelligence  seems  to  pass  from  the 
eyes  to  the  book.  Nothing  tender  in 
this  woman,  who,  if  a  Roman,  takes  life 
after  the  *'  high  Roman  £iishion.''  The 
beauty  and  perfect  representation  of  the 
hands  should  be  noticed  here,  as  well 
as  in  the  "  Rosalie  "  and  "  Beatrice." 

"  Triumphal  Song  of  Miriam  on  the 
Destruction  of  Pharaoh  and  his  Hosts 
in  the  Red  Sea."  This  is  a  three-quar- 
ter length  figure.  She  stands  singing, 
with  one  hand  holding  the  timbrel,  the 
other  thrown  aloft,  the  whole  form  up- 
borne by  the  swelling  triumphal  song. 
I  hardly  know  what  it  is  in  this  picture 
which  takes  one  back  so  far  into  the 
world's  early  da3rs.  The  figure  is  nei- 
ther antique  nor  modem ;  the  face  is 
not  entirely  of  the  Hebrew  tj^,  but 
the  tossing  exultation  seems  so  truly 
to  carry  off  the  wild  thrill  of  joy  when 
a  people  is  released  from  bondage,  that 
it  is  almost  unnecessary  to  put  the 
words  into  her  mouth,  —  "  Sing  ye  to 
the  Lord,  for  He  hath  triumphed  glori- 
ously ;  the  horse  and  his  rider  hath  He 
thrown  into  the  sea."  This  figure  is 
dramatically  imaginative.  In  looking  at 
it,  one  feels  called  on  to  sing  triumphal 
songs  with  Miriam,  and  not  to  stand  idly 
looking.  The  magnetism  of  the  artist 
at  the  moment  of  conception  powerfully 
seizes  on  the  beholder. 

**The  Valentine"  is  described  by 
William  Ware*  as  follows. 

**For  the  *  Valentine'  I  may  say, 
though  to  some  it  may  seem  an  extrav- 
agance, I  have  never  been  able  to  in- 
vent the  terms  that  would  sufficiently 
express  my  admiration  of  that  picture, 
—  I  mean,  of  its  color ;  though  as  a 
whole  it  is  admirable  for  its  composition, 
for  the  fewness  of  the  objects  admitted, 

•  LtchM  M  tkt  W9rk9  amd  (ktUnt  of  Wask- 
iMgt«m  MUtm.    Boston :  Phillips,  Saminon,  &  Co. 


for  the  simplicity  and  naturalness  of  the 
arrangement  But  the  charm  is  in  the 
color  of  the  flesh,  of  the  head,  of  the  two 
hands.  The  subject  is  a  young  woman 
reading  a  letter,  holding  the  open  letter 
with  both  the  hands.  The  art  can  go 
no  further,  nor  as  I  believe  has  it  ever 
gone  any  further.  Some  pigments  or 
artifices  were  unfortunately  used,  which 
have  caused  the  surfrice  to  crack,  and 
which  require  the  picture  now  to  be 
looked  at  at  a  further  remove  than  the 
work  on  its  own  account  needs  or  re- 
quires; it  even  demands  a  nearer  ap- 
proach, in  order  to  be  well  seen,  than 
these  cracks  will  permit  But  these  ac- 
cidental blemishes  do  not  materially  in- 
terfere with  the  appreciation  and  enjoy- 
ment of  the  picture.  It  has  what  I 
conceive  to  be  that  most  rare  merit, 
—  it  has  the  same  universal  hue  of  na- 
ture  and  truth  in  both  the  shadows  and 
the  lights  which  Nature  has,  but  Art 
almost  never,  and  which  is  the  great 
cross  to  the  artist  The  great  defect 
and  the  great  difficulty,  in  imitating  the 
hues  of  flesh,  lies  in  the  shadows  and 
the  half-shadows.  You  will  often  ob- 
serve  in  otherwise  excellent  works  of 
the  most  admirable  masters,  that,  the 
moment  their  pencil  passes  to  the  shad- 
ows of  the  flesh,  especially  the  half- 
shadows,  troth,  though  not  always  a  cer- 
tain beauty,  forsakes  them.  The  shad- 
ows are  tme  in  their  degree  of  dark,  but 
false  in  tone  and  hue.  They  are  true 
shadows,  but  not  true  flesh.  You  see 
the  form  of  a  &ce,  neck,  arm,  hand  in 
shadow,  but  not  flesh  in  shade  ;  and 
were  that  portion  of  the  form  sundered 
from  its  connection  with  the  body,  it 
could  never  be  told,  by  its  color  alone, 
what  it  was  designed  to  be.  Allston's 
wonderful  merit  is,  (and  it  was*  Titian's,) 
that  the  hue  of  life  and  flesh  is  the  same 
in  the  shadow  as  in  the  light  It  is  not 
only  shadow  or  dark,  but  it  is  flesh  in 
shadow.  The  shadows  of  most  artists, 
even  very  distinguished  ones,  are  green, 
or  brown,  or  black,  or  lead  color,  and 
have  some  strong  and  decided  tint  oth- 
er than  that  of  flesh.  The  difficulty  with 
most  seems  to  have  been  so  insupera- 
ble, that  they  cut  the  knot  at  a  single 


134 


Our  First  Great  Painter,  and  his  Works.      [February, 


blow,  and  surrendered  the  shadows  of 
the  flesh,  as  an  impossibility,  to  green 
or  brown  or  black.  And  in  the  general 
imitation  of  the  flesh  tints  the  greatest 
artists  have  apparently  abandoned  the 
task  in  despair,  and  contented  them- 
selves with  a  correct  utterance  of  form 
and  expression,  with  well -harmonized 
darks  and  lights,  with  little  attention  to 
the  hues  of  Nature.  Such  was  Cara- 
vaggio  always,  and  Guercino  often,  and 
ail  their  respective  followers.  Such 
was  Michel  Angelo,  and  often  Raffaelle, 
—  though  at  other  times  the  color  of 
Rafiaelle  is  not  inferior  in  truth  and 
glory  to  Titian,  greatest  6f  the  Venetian 
colorists :  as  in  his  portraits  of  Leo  X., 
Julius,  and  some  parts  of  his  frescos. 
But  for  the  most  part,  though  he  had 
the  genius  for  everything,  for  color  as 
well  as  form,  yet  one  may  conjecture  he 
found  color  in  its  greatest  excellence 
too  laborious  for  the  careful  elaboration 
which  can  alone  produce  great  results, 
too  cosdy  of  time  and  toil,  the  sacrifice 
too  great  of  the  greater  to  the  less. 
Allston  was  apparently  never  weary  of 
the  labor  which  would  add  one  more 
tint  of  truth  to  the  color  of  a  head  or  a 
hand,  or  even  of  any  object  of  still  life, 
that  entered  into  any  of  his  composi- 
tions. Any  eye  that  looks  can  see  that 
it  was  a  most  laborious  and  difficult 
process  by  which  he  secured  his  re- 
sults, —  by  no  superficial  wash  of  glar- 
ing pigments,  as  in  the  color  of  Rubens, 
whose  carnations  look  as  if  he  had  fin- 
ished the  forms  at  once,  the  lights  and 
the  darks  in  solid  opaque  colors,  and 
then  with  a  free,  broad  brush  or  sponge 
washed  in  the  carmine,  lake,  and  ver- 
milion, to  confer  the  requisite  amount 
of  red,  —  but,  on  the  contrary,  wrought 
out  in  solid  color  from  beginning  to 
end,  by  a  painful  and  sagacious  forma- 
tion, on  the  palette,  of  the  very  tint  by 
which  the  effect,  the  lights,  shadows, 
and  half-shadows,  and  the  thousand 
almost  imperceptible  gradations  of  hue 
which  bind  together  the  principal  mass- 
es of  light  and  shade,  was  to  be  pro- 
duced." 

Here  Mr.  Ware  undoubtedly  errs  in 
attributing  the  success  of  AUston's  flesh 


tints  to  the  use  of  solid  color  alone. 
Such  eflects  are  not  possible  without 
the  aid  of  transj>arent  colors  in  glazing ; 
but  it  is  the  judicious  combination  of 
solid  with  transparent  pigments,  com- 
bined not  bodily  on  the  palette,  but  in 
their  use  on  the  canvas,  that  gives  to 
oil-painting  all  its  unrivalled  power  in 
the  hands  of  a  master.  Allston  vras  ac- 
customed to  inlay  his  pictures  in  solid 
crude  color  with  a  medium  that  har- 
dened like  stone,  and  to  leave  them 
months  and  even  years  to  dry  before 
finishing  them  with  the  glazing  colors, 
which  worked  in  his  hands  like  magic 
over  such  a  well-hardened  surface.  By 
this  nnethod  of  working  he  was  able  to 
secure  solidity  of  appearance,  richness 
of  color,  unity  of  effect,  and  atmospher- 
ic repose  and  tenderness  enveloping  all 
objects  in  the  picture.  Many  of  his  un- 
finished works  are  left  in  the  first  stage 
of  this  process,  showing  precisely  how 
far  he  relied  on  the  use  of  solid  color ; 
and  by  comparing  the  works  left  in  this 
state  with  his  finished  pictures,  one  may 
see  how  much  he  was  indebted  to  the 
use  of.transparent  glazes  for  the  beauty, 
tenderness,  and  variety  of  color  in  the 
last  stages  of  his  work. 

In  1839  there  was  an  exhibition  in 
Boston  of  such  of  the  works  of  Allston 
as  could  be  borrowed  for  the  occasion. 
This  was  managed  by  the  friends  of  the 
artist  for  his  benefit  The  exhibition 
was  held  in  Harding's  Gallery,  a  square, 
well-lighted  room,  but  too  small  for  the 
larger  pictures.  It  was,  however,  the 
best  room  that  could  be  procured  for 
the  purpose.  Here  were  shown  forty- 
five  pictures,  including  one  or  two  draw- 
ings. There  was  something  peculiarly 
happy  in  this  exhibition  of  works  by  a 
single  mind.  On  entering,  the  presence 
of  the  artist  seemed  to  fill  the  room. 
The  door-keeper  held  the  door,  but 
Allston  held  the  room ;  for  his  spirit 
flowed  from  all  the  walls,  and  helped 
the  spectator  to  see  his  work  aright 
This  accompaniment  of  the  artist's  pres- 
ence, which  hangs  about  all  truly  artis- 
tic works,  is  disturbed  in  a  miscellane- 
ous collection,  where  jarring  influences 
contend,  and  the  worst  pictures  outshine 


x865.] 


Our  First  Gnat  Painter,  and  his  Works. 


135 


and  outgiare  the  best,  and  for  a  time 
triumi^  over  them.  But  in  this  exfai* 
bttion  no  such  disturbance  met  one,  but 
rather  one  was  received  into  an  atmos- 
phere of  peace  and  harmony,  and  in 
such  a  temper  beheld  the  pictures. 

The  largest  picture  on  the  walls  was 
'^The  Dead  Man  restored  to  Life  by 
touching  the  Bones  of  the  Prophet 
Elisha.''  This  is  a  great  subject,  greatly 
treated,  foil  of  power  and  expression. 

The  next  in  size  was  *^  Jeremiah  die* 
fating  his  Prophecy  to  Baruch,  the 
Scribe.''  This  picture  contains  two 
figures,  both  seated.  It  is  a  picture 
the  scale  of  which  demands  that  it  be 
seen  from  a  distance,  though  its  perfect 
execution  makes  a  nearer  view  desira* 
Ue  also.  If  it  were  seen  at  the  end  of 
some  church  aisle,  through  arches,  and 
with  a  good  light  upon  it,  the  effect 
would  be  much  enforced.  It  is  a  pic* 
tore  of  extraordinary  expression.  The 
Prophet,  the  grandest  figure  among  the 
sons  of  men,  with  those  strange  eyes 
that  AUston  loved  to  paint,  —  eyes 
which  see  verities,  not  objects,  —  is 
looking  not  upward,  but  forward,,  not 
into  space,  but  into  spirit;  with  one 
hand  raised,  as  if  listening,  he  receives 
the  heavenly  communication,  which  the 
beautiful  youth  at  his  feet  is  writing 
in  a  book.  The  force  and  beauty  of 
this  work  are  unsurpass^  It  is  a  per* 
feet  picture :  grand  in  delfgn,  perfect  in 
composition,  splendid  in  color,  success- 
ful in  execution,  and  the  figures  fidl  of 
expression, — for  the  inspiration  of  the 
Prophet  seems  to  overflow  into  the 
Scribe,  whose  attitude  indicates  enthu- 
siastic receptiveness ;  it  is,  indeed,  in 
every  pictorial  quality  that  can  be  named, 
admirable. 

The  other  pictures  m  this  collection, 
with  the  exception  of  the  large  Swiss 
landscape,  were  of  cabinet  size.  Some 
of  them  have  been  already  described  in 
this  paper.  I  will  give  Mr.  Ware's  de- 
scription of  **^  Lorenzo  and  Jessica,"  and 
of  -The  Spanish  GirL"  Mr.  Ware 
says:  — 

-  But  perhaps  the  most  exquisite  ex- 
amples of  repose  are  the  '  Lorenzo  and 
Jessica,*  and  '  The  Spanish  GurL'  These 


are  works  abo  to  which  no  perfection 
could  be  added,  —  from  which,  without 
loss,  neither  touch  nor  tint  could  be 
subtracted.  We  might  search  through 
all  galleries,  the  Louvre  or  any  other, 
for  their  equals  or  rivals  in  either  con- 
ception or  execution.  I  speak  of  these 
familiarly,  because  I  suppose  you  all  tp 
be  fomiliar  with  them.  The  first  named, 
the  'Lorenzo  and  Jessica,'  is  a  very 
small  picture,  one  of  the  smallest  of 
Allston's  best  ones;  but  no  increase 
of  size  could  have  enlarged  its  beauty 
or  in  any  sense  have  added  to  its  val- 
ue. The  lovers  sit  side  by  side,  their 
hands  clasped,  at  the  dim  hour  of  twi- 
light, all  the  world  hushed  into  silence, 
not  a  cloud  visible  to  speck  the  clear 
expanse  of  the  darkening  sky,  as  if 
themselves  were  the  only  creatures 
breathing  in  life,  and  they  absorbed 
into  each  other,  while  their  eyes,  turned 
in  the  same  direction,  are  turned  upon 
the  &ding  light  of  the  gentle,  but  bril- 
liant planet,  as  it  sinks  below  the  hori- 
zon: the  gentle  l^liancy,  not  the  set- 
ting, the  emblem  of  their  mutual  loves. 
As  you  dwell  upon  the  scene,  your  only 
thought  is.  May  this  quiet  beauty,  this 
delicious  calm,  never  be  disturbed,  but 
may 

*Tbe  peace  of  the  acene  pan  into  the  heart  I ' 

In  the  background,  breaking  the  line 
of  the  horizon,  but  in  fine  unison  with 
the  figures  and  the  character  of  the 
atmosphere,  are  the  foint  outlines  of  a 
villa  of  Italian  architecture,  but  to  whose 
luxurious  halls  you  can  hardly  wish  the 
lovers  should  ever  return,  so  long  as 
they  can  remain  sitting  upon  that  bank. 
It  is  all  painted  in  that  deep,  subdued, 
but  rich  tone,  in  which,  except  by  the 
strongest  light,  the  forms  are  scarcely 
to  be  made  out,  but  to  which,  to  the 
mind  in  some  moods,  a  charm  is  lent, 
surpassing  all  the  glory  of  the»sun. 

^  *•  The  Spanish  Girl '  is  another  exam- 
ple to  the  same  point  It  is  one  of  the 
most  beautifol  and  perfect  of  all  of  Mr. 
Allston's  works.  The  Spanish  girl 
gives  her  name  to  the  picture,  but  it  is 
one  of  those  misnomers  of  which  there 
are  many  among  his  works.  One  who^ 
looks  at  the  picture  scarcely  ever  looks. 


136 


Our  First  Great  Painter^  and  his  Works.     [February, 


at,  certainly  cares  nothing  for,  the  Span- 
ish girl,  and  regards  her  as  merely  giv- 
ing her  name  to  the  picture ;  and  when 
the  mind  recurs  to  it  afterwards,  how* 
ever  many  years  may  have  elapsed,  while 
he  can  recall  nothing  of  the  beauty,  the 
grace,  or  the  charms  of  the  Spanish 
maiden,  the  landscape,  of  which  her  pres- 
ence is  a  mere  inferior  incident,  is  never 
forgotten,  but  remains  forever  .as  a  part 
of  the  furniture  of  the  mind  In  this 
part  of  the  picture,  the  landscape,  it 
must  be  considered  as  one  of  the  most 
felicitous  works  of  genius,  where,  by 
a  few  significant  tints  and  touches, 
there  is  unveiled  a  world  of  beauty. 
You  see  the  roots  of  a  single  hill  on- 
ly, and  a  remote  mountain-summit,  but 
you  think  of  Alps  and  Andes,  and  the 
eye  presses  onwards  till  it  at  last  rests 
on  a  low  cloud  at  the  horizon.  It  is  a 
mere  snatch  of  Nature,  but,  though  only 
that,  every  square  inch  of  the  surface 
has  its  meaning.  It  carries  you  back 
to  what  your  mind  imagines  of  the 
warm,  reddish  tints  of  the  Brown  Moun- 
tains of  Cervantes,  where  the  shepherds 
and  shepherdesses  of  that  pastoral  scene 
passed  their  happy,  sunny  hours.  The 
same  deep  feeling  of  repose  is  shown 
in  all  the  half-developed  objects  of  the 
hill-side,  in  the  dull,  sleepy  tint  Qf  the 
summer  air,  and  in  tiie  warm,  motion- 
less haze  tiiat  wraps  sky,  land,  tree, 
water,  and  cloud.  It  is  quite  wonder- 
ful by  how  few  tints  and  touches,  by 
what  almost  shadowy  and  indistinct 
forms,  a  whole  world  of  poetry  can  be 
breathed  into  the  soul,  and  die  mind 
sent  rambling  oflf  into  pastures,  fields, 
boundless  deserts  of  imaginary  pleas- 
ures, where  only  is  warmth  and  sun- 
shine and  rest,  where  only  poets  dwell, 
and  beauty  wanders  abroad  with  her 
sweeping  train,  and  the  realities  of  the 
working-day  world  are  for  a  few  mo- 
ments happily  forgotten." 

"  The  Flight  of  Florimel "  is  an  up- 
right landscape.  Florimel,  on  a  white 
horse,  is  rushing  with  long  leaps  through 
Ihe  £>rest  The  horse  and  rider  are  so 
near: the  front <of  the  picture  as  to  oc- 
cupy an  important  jsp^oe  in  the  fore- 
jrM)yyg:xd.  The  lady,  An^.<)ces' of  beaten 


gold,  with  fiiir  hair,  and  pale,  fiigfatened 
foce,  clings  with  both  hands  to  her  bri- 
dle, and  half  looks  back  towards  her 
pursuer.  The  color  of  this  picture  is 
of  exquisite  beauty.  The  tender  white 
and  pale  yellows  of  the  horse  and  rider 
show  like  fairy  colors  in  a  6ury  forest 
The  whole  is  wonderfully  light  and  airy, 
flickering  between  light  and  shade.  The 
forest  has  no  heavy  glooms.  The  light 
breaks  through  everywhere.  The  forms 
of  the  trees  are  light  and  piny;  the 
red  soil  is  seen,  the  roots  of  the  trees, 
the  broken  turf,  the  sandy  ground.  All 
the  colors  are  delightfully  broken  up 
in  the  mysterious  half-light  which  con- 
fuses the  outlines  of  every  object,  with- 
out making  them  shadowy.  Such  a  pic- 
ture one  might  see  with  half-shut  eyes 
in  a  sunny  wood,  if  one  had  more  poetry 
than  prose  in  one's  head,  and  were  well 
read  in  the  "  Faerie  Queen." 

^^A  Mother  Watching  her  Sleeping 
Child."  This  is  a  very  small  picture, 
remarkable  only  for  its  tender  sentiment 
and  delightful  coloring.  The  child  is 
nude ;  the  flesh  tints  of  a  tender  rose, 
painted  with  that  luminous  effect  which 
leaves  no  memory  of  paint  or  pencil- 
touch  behind  it 

^  American  Scenery."  This  is  a  small 
landscape,  with  something  of  the  Indian 
Summer  haze ;  and  a  solitary  horseman 
trotting  acrosl^the  foreground  with  an 
indifferent  m^ner,  as  if  he  would  soon 
be  out  of  sight,  wonderfully  enhances 
the  quietness  of  the  scene. 

<♦  Isaac  of  York."  This  head  of  a  Jew 
b  powerfully  painted,  warm  and  rich ; 
as  also  are  two  heads  called  '*  Sketches 
of  Polish  Jews,"  which  were  painted  at 
one  sitting. 

"A  Portrait  of  Benjamin  West,  late 
President  of  the  Royal  Academy,"  has 
all  the  most  admirable  qualities  that  a 
simple  portrait  can  have. 

*'A  Portrait  of  the  Artist,  painted 
in  Rome,"  is  very  interesting,  from  the 
youthful  sweetness  of  the  face. 

"Head  of  St  Peter"  is  a  study  fbr^ 
the  head  of  St  Peter  in  a  laiqge  pic- 
ture of  the  Angel  delivering  Peter  from 
Prison.    In  this  large  picture,    lately 
brought  from  England  to  Boston,  the 


i865.] 


Our  First  Great  Painter,  and  his  Works. 


^37 


head  of  the  angel  is  of  sorpassing  beau- 
ty,, and  makes  a  powerful  contrast  with 
that  of  the  Apostle,  whose  strong  He- 
brew features  are  flooded  with  the  light 
which  surrounds  his  heavenly  deliverer. 

"The  Sisters."  This  picture  repre- 
sents two  young  girls  of  three-quarter 
size,  the  back  of  one  turned  toward  the 
spectator.  In  the  Catalogue  is  a  note 
by  the  artist,  who  sa3rs,  —  '*  The  air  and 
color  of  the  head  with  golden  hair  was 
inutated  from  a  picture  by  Titian,  called 
the  Portrait  of  his  Daughter, — but  not 
the  character  or  the  disposition  of  the 
hair,  which  in  the  portrait  is  a  crop ; 
the  action  of  the  portrait  is  also  dif- 
ferent, holding  up  a  casket  with  both 
faaifds.  The  rest  of  the  picture,  with 
the  exception  of  the  curtain  in  the 
background,  is  original''  Now  this  is 
a  very  modest  as  well  as  honest  state- 
ment of  the  artist ;  (or  both  the  figures 
seem  perfectiy  original,  and  do  not  re- 
call Titian's  Daughter  to  the  memory, 
except  as  an  example  of  a  successful 
study  of  Titian^s  color,  which  I  believe 
all  are  permitted,  nay,  recommended,  to 
imitate,  if  they  can.  It  is,  however, 
quite  true,  that  this  picture  is  less  AU- 
stonian  than  the  rest,  which  makes  his 
explanation  welcome.  It  was  undoubt-. 
edly  painted  as  a  study,  and  was  not 
an  original  suggestion  of  his  own  mind» 
as  almost  everything  he  has  left  evi- 
dentiy  was,  —  if  internal  evidence  is  ev- 
idence enough.  AUston  himself  said, 
that  he  never  painted  anything  that  did 
not  cost  him  his  whole  mind ;  and  those 
who  read  his  genius  in  his  works  can 
easily  believe  this  statement 

''The  Tuscan  GirL"  This  is  a  very 
lovely  littie  picture.  It  is  not  a  study 
of  costume,  but  a  picture  of  dreamy 
girihood  musing  in  a  wood.  The  senti- 
ment of  this  charming  littie  picture  is 
best  described  in  a  littie  poem  with 
which  its  first  appearance  was  accom- 
panied, and  which  opens  thus  :  — 

**  How  plcainat  and  how  nd  the  tuniing  tide 
Of  humaua  life,  when  tide  by  tide 
The  chad  and  youth  begta  to  f  Udo 
Akog  iho  i«lc of  yean: 
The  pure  twin-being  for  a  little  space, 
With  lighttome  heart,  and  yet  a  grairer  face, 
Too  young  for  woe,  hut  not  for  Man  1 " 


I  will  not  occi^y  any  more  space  with 
describing  the  pictures  in  this  unique 
collection*  All  were  not  brought  to- 
gether that  might  have  been.  One  very 
remarkable  small  picture,  called  ^'  Spala- 
tro,  or  the  Bloody  Hand,"  was  not  with 
these.  Its  distance  from  Boston  prob- 
ably prevented  its  being  risked  on  the 
dangers  of  a  long  journey. 

There  are  several  pictures  by  Allston 
in  England.  Of  these  I  cannot  speak, 
as  I  have  not  seen  them.  Of  one,  how- 
ever, "  Elijah  in  the  Desert,"  Mr.  Ware 
gives  so  striking  a  description,  that  I 
will  quote  nearly  the  whole  of  it 

*'I  turn  with  more  pleasure  to  an- 
other work  of  Mr.  Allston,  even  though 
but  few  can  ever  have  seen  it,  but 
which  made  upon  my  own  mind,  when 
I  saw  it  immediately  after  it  was  com- 
pleted, an  impression  of  grandeur  and 
beauty  never  to  be  ef&ced,  and  never 
recalled  without  new  sentiments  of  en- 
thusiastic admiration.  I  refer  to  his 
grand  landscape  of  *  Elijah  in  the  Des- 
ert,'— a  large  picture  of  perhaps  six 
feet  by  four.  It  might  have  been  more 
appropriately  named  an  Asian  or  Ara- 
bian Desert  That  is  to  say,  it  is  a 
very  unfortunate  error  to  give  to  either 
a  picture  or  a  book  a  name  which 
raises  £cdse  expectations;  especially  is 
this  the  case  when  the  name  of  the 
picture  is  a  great  or  imposing  one 
which  greatiy  excites  the  imagination. 
What  could  be  more  so  than  this,  *  Eli- 
jah in  the  Desert,  fed  by  Ravens '  ? 
Extreme  and  fatal  was  the  disappoint- 
ment to  many,  on  entering  the  room, 
when,  looking  on  the  picture,  no  Elijah 
was  to  be  seen;  at  least  you  had  to 
search  for  him  among  the  su^rdinate 
objects,  hidden  away  among  the  gro- 
tesque roots  of  an  enormous  banyan- 
tree  ;  and  the  Prophet,  when  found  at 
last,  was  hardly  worth  the  pains  of 
the  search.  But  as  soon  as  the  intelli- 
gent visitor  had  recovered  from  his  first 
disappointment,  the  objects  which  then 
immediately  filled  the  eye  taught  hin^ 
that,  though  he  had  not  found  what  he 
had  been  promised,  a  Prophet,  he  had 
found  more  than  a  Prophet,  a  land- 
scape which  in  its  sublimity  excited  the 


138 


Our  First  Great  Paifiter,  and  his  Works.     [February, 


imagination  as  powerfully  as  any  gigan- 
tic form  of  the  Elijah  could  have  done, 
even  though  Michel  Angelo  had  drawn 
it  It  is  meant  to  represent,  and  does 
perfectiy  represent,  an  illimitable  desert, 
a  boundless  surface  of  barrenness  and 
desolation,  where  Nature  can  bring  forth 
nothing  but  seeds  of  death,  and  the 
only  tree  there  is  dead  and  withered, 
not  a  leaf  to  be  seen  nor  possible. 
The  only  other  objects,  beside  the  level 
of  the  desert,  either  smooth  with  sand 
or  rough  with  ragged  rock,  are  a  range 
of  dark  mountains  on  the  right,  heavy 
lowering  clouds  which  overspread  and 
overshadow  the  whole  scene,  the  roots 
and  wide-spread  branches  of  an  enor- 
mous banyan-tree,  through  the  tortuous 
and  leafless  branches  of  which  the  dis- 
tant landscape,  the  hills,  rocks,  clouds, 
and  remote  plains  are  seen.  The  roots 
of  this  huge  tree  of  the  desert,  in  all 
directions  from  the  main  trunk,  rise 
upward,  descend,  and  root  themselves 
again  in  the  earth,  then  again  rise,  again 
descend  into  the  ground  and  root  them- 
selves, and  so  on,  growing  smaller  and 
smaller  as  the  processes  repeated,  till 
they  disappear  in  the  general  level  of 
the  plain,  or  lose  themselves  among 
the  rocks,  like  the  knots  and  convolu- 
tions of  a  huge  fiimily  of  boa-constric- 
tors.  The  branches,  which  almost  com- 
pletely fill  the  upper  part  of  the  picture, 
are  done  with  such  truth  to  general 
Nature,  are  so  admirable  in  color,  so 
wonderful  in  the  treatment  of  their  per- 
spective, that  the  eye  is  soon  happily 
withdrawn  from  any  attention  to  the 
roots,  among  which  the  Prophet  sits, 
receiving  the  food  with  which  the  ravens, 
as  they  float  towards  him,  miraculous- 
ly supply  him You  forgot  the 

Prophet,  the  ravens,  the  roots,  and  al- 
most the  branches,  though  these  were 
too  vast  and  multitudinous  to  be  over- 
looked, and  were,  moreover,  truly  char- 
acteristic, and  dwelt  only  upon  the 
heavy  rolling  clouds,  the  lifeless  desert, 
the  sublime  masses  of  the  distant  moun- 
tains, and  the  indeterminate  misty  out- 
line of  the  horizon,  where  earth  and 
heaven  became  one.  The  picture  was, 
therefore,  a  landscape  of  a  most  sublime, 


impressive  character,  and  not  a  mere 
representation  of  a  passage  of  Scripture 
history.  It  would  have  been  a  great 
gain  to  the  work,  if  the  Scripture  pas- 
sage could  have  been  painted  out,  and 
the  desert  only  left  But,  as  it  is,  it 
serves  as  one  fiirther  illustration  of  the 
characteristic  of  Mr.  Allston^s  art,  of 
which  I  have  already  given  several  ex- 
amples. For,  melancholy,  dark,  and  ter- 
rific almost,  as  are  all  the  features  of 
the  scene,  a  strange  calm  broods  over 
it  all,  as  of  an  ocean,  now  overhung 
by  black  threatening  clouds,  dead  and 
motionless,  but  the  sure  precursors  of 
change  and  storm ;  and  over  the  desert 
hang  the  clouds  which  were  soon  to 
break  and  deluge  the  parched  earth  and 
cover  it  again  with  verdure.  But  at 
present  the  only  motion  and  life  is  in 
At  littie  brook  Cherith,  as  it  winds 
along  among  the  roots  of  the  great  tree. 
The  sublime,  after  all,  is  better  ex- 
pressed in  the  calmness,  repose^  and 
silence  of  the  'Elijah,'  than  in  the  tenv- 
pests  of  Poussin  or  Vemet,  Wilson 
or  Salvator  Rosa." 

'^  Belshazzar's  Feast"  Any  criticism 
of  Allston's  works  would  be  very  im- 
perfect which  did  not  speak  of  his  '^  Bel- 
shazzar's  Feast," — because,  though  the 
picture  >was  never  finished,  it  occupied 
so  large  a  part  of  the  life  and  thoi^hta 
of  AUston,  that  it  demands  some  men- 
tion. It  had  been  an  object  of  great 
interest  among  Allston's  friends  before 
it  had  been  seen  by  one  of  them.  It 
was  intended  by  him  to  fulfil  a  commis- 
sion from  certain  gentlemen  of  Boston 
for  a  large  picture,  the  subject  of  which 
was  to  be  chosen  by  himself.  A  sum 
of  money  was  also  placed  at  his  dis- 
posal with  the  commission,  in  order  to 
secure  to  him  leisure  and.  freedom  from 
care,  that  he  might  work  at  his  ease, 
and  do  justice  ta  his  thought  This 
commission  was  the  result  of  the  con- 
fidence in  him  and  his  genius  which 
was  felt  by  those  friends  who  knew  him 
best 

The  picture  was  begun,  went  forward, 
and  was  nearly  completed,   when  an 
important  change  in  the  structure  of. 
the  work  was  determined  on,  and  un- 


i86s.] 


Our  First  Great  Painter,  and  his  Works. 


139 


deitaken  with  great  courage.  As  oftea 
unfortunately  happens  in  such  cases, 
the  interruption  to  the  flow  of  thought 
was  £3ital  to  the  success  of  the  picture* 
It  was  laid  aside  for  many  years,  but 
was  the  work  actually  in  hand  at  the 
time  of  Allston's  death.  When,  after  that 
event,  his  studio  was  entered  by  his 
nearest  friends,  and  the  picture  so  long 
guarded  with  jealous  reserve  was  first 
seen,  it  was  found  to  be  in  a  disorgan- 
ized, almost  chaotic  state.  But  though 
fragmentary,  the  fragments  were  full 
of  interest  Many  passages  were  per- 
fectly painted,  and  the  whole  intention 
was  fidl  of  grandeur  and  beauty.  But  a 
picture  left  in  that  state  should  never 
have  been  publicly  shown.  Deeply  in- 
teresting to  artists,  and  to>  those  familiar 
with  the  genius  of  Allston,  it  could  be 
only  a  puzzling  wonder  to  those  who  go* 
to  an  exhibition  to  see  finished  pictures, 
and  who  do  not  understand  those  which 
are  ndt  finished.  With  this  work  such 
perK>ns  could  have  no  concern.  Yet,  / 
by  what  appears  a  great  error  of  judg- 
ment, this  worse  than  unfinished  picture 
was  made  the  subject  of  a  public  exhi- 
bition, though  in  a  state  of  incomplete- 
ness which  the  artist  during  life  would 
not  permit  his  nearest  friend  to  behold. 
And  as  if  this  violation  of  his  wishes 
were  not  enough,  a  stolen  and  trav- 
estied copy  soon  appeared,  and  was 
heralded  by  placards,  on  which  the 
words  ^^  Great  Picture  by  Washington 
Allston"  were  seen  in  letters  large 
enough  to  be  read  across  the  street,  and 
on  which  the  words  '^  Copy  of  "  were  in 
such  very  small  type  that  they  were 
unnoticed,  except  by  those  who  looked 
for  them.  This  copy  went  to  other 
cities,  and  gave  of  course  a  most  er- 
roneous impression  of  the  great  paint- 
er's genius. 

Among  the  half-finished  pictures 
found  in  the  studio  of  Allston  after  his 
death  were  several  designs  on  canvas 
in  chalk  or  umber.  These  seemed  so 
valuable,  and  their  condition  so  perish- 
able, that  it  was  thought  best  to  have 
them  engraved.  This  was  undertaken 
by  a  firiend  and  admirer  of  the  artist, 
Mr.  S.  H.  Perkins,  who  arranged  the 


designs  and  superintended  the  engrav- 
ing, and  published  the  work  with  the 
aid  of  a  partial  subscription  and  at  his 
own  risk.  The  brothers  Cheney  en- 
graved the  outlines,  and  with  peculiar 
skill  and  feeling  imitated  the  broadly 
expressive  chalk  lines  by  combining 
several  delicately  traced  lines  into  one. 
These  outlines  and  sketches  were  pub- 
lished in  1850.  • 

There  are,  first,  six  plates  of  outlines 
from  heads  and  figures  in  a  picture  of 
"  Michael  setting  the  WatcL"  This 
picture  must  have  been  painted  in  Eng- 
land, and  is  unknown  here  except  by 
these  outlines.-  From  these  alone  great 
strength  of  design  might  be  inferred. 
There  are,  besides, "  A  Sibyl,"  sitting  in 
a  cave-like,  rocky  place,  the  eyes  dilated 
with  thought,  the  mouth  tenderly  fixed ; 
the  cave  is  open  to  the  sea.  This  design 
would  have  proved  one  of  the  most  char- 
acteristic works  of  Allston,  had  it  been 
painted.  ^^  Dido  and  i£neas.''  Then  four 
plates  from  figures  of  angels  in  "  Jacobus 
Dream.''  This  is  a  picture  painted  in 
Engird  for  Lord  Egremont,  and  is  men- 
tioned in  Leslie's  Recollections,  by  the 
editor  of  that  work,  in  a  minor  key  of 
praise.  Then  comes  the  outline  of  a  sin- 
gle figure,  ^  Uriel  sitting  in  the  Sun.'* 
This  picture  was  also  painted  in  England. 
As  Allston  was  fond  of  referring  to  it, 
and  describing  the  methods  he  used  to 
represent  the  light  of  the  sun  behind 
the  angel,  as  if  he  felt  satisfied  with  the 
result,  it  may  be  inferred  that  the  effort 
to  do  so  difficult  a  thing  was  success- 
ful The  sun  was  painted  over  a  white 
ground  with  transparent  glazings  of  the 
primary  colors  laid  and  dried  separate- 
ly, thus  combining  the  colors  prismat- 
ically  to  produce  white  light  The  fig- 
ure of  the  sitting  angel  is  grandly  origi- 
nal,—  of  the  most  noble  proportions, 
and  full  of  watchful  life,  as  of  one  con- 
scious of  a  great  trust 

Then  come  three  compositions,  with 
many  figures, —  "Heliodorus,"  "  Fairies 
on  the  Seashore,"  and  "  Titania's  Court" 
These  show  as  much  power  in  compo- 
sition as  the  single  figures  do  in  design. 

The  ''  Fairies  on  the  Seashore  "  is  an 
exquisitely  graceful  design,  both  in  the 


I40 


• 

Our  First  Great  Painter^  and  his  Works.     [February, 


figures  and  the  landscape.  It  is  a  per- 
fect poem,  even  as  it  stands  in  the  out- 
line. A  strip  of  sea,  a  brealcing  wave, 
a  rocky  island,  and  on  thp  beach  begins 
a  stream  of  fairies,  diminishing  as  it 
curves  up  into  the  sky.  The  last  one 
on  the  shore  seems  lingering,  and  the 
next  one  to  her  draws  her  upwards. 
The  design  when  painted  would  have 
had  the  lower  part  of  the  picture  in  the 
shadow  of  night,  and  the  coming  mom 
in  the  sky,  the  light  of  which  should  be 
caught  on  the  distant  figures  up  among 
the  clouds. 

^'Titania's  Court"  is  in  a  moon* 
lighted  space  in  the  forest  Six  foiries 
are  dancing  in  a  ring.  More  are  com- 
ing out  of  the  depths  of  the  wood  and 
off  its  rocky  heights,  hand  in  hand,  —  a 
flow  of  graceful  figures.  On  the  right 
side  of  the  picture  sits  Titania,  served 
by  her  Indian  page,  who  kneels  before 
her,  holding  an  acorn-cup.  This  page 
is  delicately  differenced  fK)m  the  &iries 
by  his  straight  hair,  his  features,  Asi- 
atic, though  handsome,  his  girdle  and 
bracelets  of  pearis,  and  a  short  striped 
skirt  about  his  loins.  The  fidries  all 
have  flowing  drapery  or  none,  and  fea- 
tures regular  as  Greeks.  Two  litde 
figures  in  the  air  above  Titania's  head 
are  fimning  her  with  butterflies*  wings  ; 
others  are  bringing  water  in  shells  and 
flower-cups ;  others  playing  on  musi- 
cal instruments.  This  is  better  than 
most  pictures  of  this  often-painted  sub- 
ject, because  in  it  £3incy  does  not 
override  imagination,  but  helps  and 
serves  it 

Another  design  was  in  chalk,  on  a 
dark  canvas,  of  a  ship  at  sea  in  a 


aqualL  This  is  wonderfully  imitated  to 
the  engraving,  —  even  all  the  blotches 
and  erasures  are  there.  The  carves 
of  the  waves  in  a  rolling  sea  were  never 
better  caught  in  all  their  subtle  force. 
The  clouds  have  great  suggestions. 

There  is  a  figure  of  **•  The  Prodigal 
Son,"  fix>m  a  pencil  drawing ;  and  a  ''Pro- 
metheus," also  from  a  pencil  sketch. 

Allston  seemed  eqtally  at  home  ia 
drawing  powerful  figures  in  action,  or 
delicate  dreamy  figures  in  repose.  He 
had  the  true  imaginative  power  which 
realizes  and  understands  all  natural 
forms. 

We  have  thus  given  a  few  words  of 
description  to  some  of  these  remade^ 
able  pictures.  We  do  not  hope  to  con- 
vey any  idea*  of  them  to  those  who 
have  not  seen  them,  for  a  picture  is  by 
*its  very  nature  incapable  of  being  de- 
scribed in  words.  That  which  makes 
it  a  picture  takes  it  out  of  the  sphere 
of  words.  Neither  do  we  atten^pt  to 
analyze  the  genius  of  this  gr^kt  painter. 
We  can  enumerate  some  of  his  artistic 
qualities :  his  power  in  color,  so  crea* 
tive ;  the  still,  reposeful  spirit  of  his 
creations,  reminding  one  of  Beato  An- 
gelico ;  his  grandly  expressive  forms ; 
his  powerful  color  compositions ;  and 
above  all,  that  greatest  crowning  mer*. 
it,  that  his  works  are,  almost  without 
exception,  vitalized  by  an  imagiiutive 
force  which  makes  them  living  pres- 
ences. Such  effects  are  not  produced 
by  talent,  however  great,  by  culture, 
however  perfect,  but  by  a  mind  which  is 
a  law  to  itself — in  other  words,  a  ge- 
nius. Such,  and  nothing  less,  was 
Washington  Allston. 


i865.] 


Doctor  Johns. 


141 


DOCTOR   JOHNS. 


L 


IN  the  summer  of  1812,  when  the 
good  people  of  Connecticut  were 
feeling  uncommonly  bitter  about  the 
declaration  of  war  against  England,  and 
were  abusing  Mr.  Madison  in  the  round- 
est terms,  there  lived  in  the  town  of 
Canterbury  a  fiery  old  gentleman,  of 
near  sixty  years,  and  a  sterling  Demo- 
crat, who  took  up  the  cudgels  bravely 
for  the  Administration,  and  stoutly  be- 
labored Governor  Roger  Griswold  for 
his  tardy  obedience  to  the  President  in 
calltng  out  the  militia,  and  for  what  he 
called  his  absurd  pretensions  in  regard 
to  State  sovereignty.  He  was  a  man,* 
too,  who  meant  all  that  he  said,  and 
gave  the  best  proof  of  it  by  offering  his 
military  services, — first  to  the  Gover- 
nor, and  then  to  the  United  States  Gen- 
eral commanding  the  Department 

Nor  was  he  wholly  unfitted :  he  was 
erect,  stanch,  well  knit  together,  and 
had  served  with  immense  credit  in  the 
local  militia,  in  which  he  wore  the  titie 
of  Major.  It  does  not  appear  that  his 
offer  was  immediately  accepted;  but 
the  following  season  he  was  invested 
witii  the  command  of  a  company,  and 
was  ordered  back  and  forth,  to  various 
threatened  points  along  the  seaboard. 
His  home  affairs,  meantime,  were  left 
in  charge  of  his  son,  a  quiet  young  man 
of  four-and-twenty,  who  for  three  years 
had  been  stumbling  with  a  very  reluc- 
tant spirit  through  the  law-books  in  the 
Major's  office,  and  who  shared  neither 
his  father's  ardor  of  temperament  nor  his 
political  opinions.  Eliza,  a  daughter  of 
twenty  summers,  acted  as  mistress  of  the 
house,  and  stood  in  place  of  motfier  to 
a  black-eyed  litde  girl  of  thirteen,  — 
the  Major's  daughter  by  a  second  wife, 
who  had  died  only  a  few  years  before. 

Notwithstanding  the  kick  of  political 
sympathy,  there  was  yet  a  strong  attach- 
ment between  fother  and  son.  The  latter 
admired  immensely  the  energy  and  full- 
souled  ardor  of  the  old  gendenun ;  and 


the  fiither,  in  tam,  was  pfoud  of  the 
calm,  meditative  habit  of  mind  which 
the  son  had  inherited  from  his  mother. 
^  There  is  metal  in  the  boy  to  make  a 
judge  oi^"  the  Major  used  to  say.  And 
when  Benjamin,  shorUy  after  his  gradu- 
ation at  one  of  the  lesser  New  England 
colleges,  had  given  a  hint  of  his  possi- 
ble study  of  theology,  the  Major  an- 
swered with  a  "Pooh I  pooh!'*  which 
disturbed  the  son, — possibly  weighed 
with  him,  —  more  than  the  longest  op- 
posing argument  could  have  done.  The 
manner  of  the  £ptther  had  conveyed,  un- 
wittingly enough,  a  notion  of  absurdity 
as  attaching  to  the  lad's  engaging  in 
such  sacred  studies,  which  overwhelmed 
him  with  a  sense  of  his  own  unworthi- 
ness. 

The  Major,  like  all  sound  Democrats, 
had  always  been  an  ardent  admirer  of 
Mr.  Jefferson  and  of  the  French  polit- 
ical school  Benjamin  had  a  wholesome 
horror  of  both,  —  not  so  much  fi'om  any 
intimate  knowledge  of  their  theories,  as 
by  reason  of  a  strong  religious  instinct, 
which  had  been  developed  under  his 
mother's  counsels  into  a  rigid  and  ex- 
acting Puritanism. 

The  first  wife  of  the  Major  had  left 
behind  her  the  reputation  of  "a  saint" 
It  was  not  undeserved :  her  quiet,  con- 
stant charities, — her  kindliness  of  look 
and  manner,  which  were  in  themselves 
the  best  of  charities,  —  a  gentie,  Chris- 
tian way  she  had  of  dealing  with  all  the 
vagrant  humors  of  her  husband, — and 
the  constancy  of  her  devotion  to  all 
duties,  whether  religious  or  domestic, 
gave  her  better  claim  to  the  saintiy  tide 
than  most  who  wear  it  The  Major 
knew  this,  and  was  very  proud  of  it 
'<  If^"  he  was  accustomed  to  say,  'M  am 
the  most  godless  man  in  the  parish,  my 
wife  is  the  most  godly  woman."  Yet 
his  godlessness  was,  after  all,  rather  out- 
side than  real :  it  was  a  kind  of  ei&ont- 
ery,  provoked  into  noisy  display  by  the 
extravagant  bigotries  of  those  about 
him.    He  did  not  believe  in  monopolies 


142 


Doctor  JohTts. 


[February, 


of  opinion,  but  in  good  average  disper- 
sion of  all  sorts  of  thinking.  On  one 
occasion  he  had  horrified  his  poor  wife 
by  bringing  home  a  full  set  of  Voltaire's 
Works;  but  having  reasoned  her — or 
fimcying  he  had — into  a  belief  in  the 
entire  harmlessness  of  the  offending 
books,  he  gratified  her  immensely  by 
placing  them  out  of  all  sight  and  reach 
of  the  boy  Benjamin. 

He  never  interfered  with  the  severe 
home  course  of  religious  instruction 
entered  upon  by  the  mother.  On  the 
contrary,  he  said,  "  The  boy  will  need  it 
all  as  an  of&et  to  the  bedevilments  that 
will  overtake  him  in  our  profession." 
The  Major  had  a  very  considerable 
country  practice,  and  had  been  twice  a 
member  of  the  Legislature. 

His  second  wife,  a  frivolous,  indolent 
person,  who  had  brought  him  a  hand- 
some dot,  and  left  him  the  pretty  black- 
eyed  Mabel,  never  held  equal  position 
with  the  first  Jt  was  observed,  how- 
ever, with  some  surprise,  that  under  the 
sway  of  the  latter  he  was  more  punc- 
tilious and  regular  in  religious  obser- 
vances than  before,— a  fact  which  the 
shrewd  ones  explained  by  his  old  doc- 
trine of  adjusting  averages. 

Benjamin,  Eliza,  and  Mabel,  —  each 
in  their  way,  —  waited  news  from  the 
military  campaign  of  the  Major  with 
great  anxiety ;  ad^  the  more  because  he 
was  understood  to  be  a  severe  discipli- 
narian, and  it  had  been  rumored  in  the 
parish  that  two  or  three  of  his  company, 
of  rank  Federal  opinions,  had  vowed 
they  would  sooner  shoot  the  captain 
than  any  foreign  enemy  of  the  State. 
The  Major,  however,  heard  no  guns  in 
either  front  or  rear  up  to  the  time  of 
the  British  attack  upon  the  borough  of 
Stonington,  in  midsummer  of  1814.  In 
the  defence  here  he  was  very  active,  in 
connection  with  a  certain  artillery  force 
that  had  come  down  the  river  from  Nor- 
wich ;  and  although  the  attack  of  the 
British  Admiral  was  a  mere  feint,  yet 
for  a  while  there  was  a  very  lively 
sprinkling  of  shot  The  people  of  the 
little  borough  were  duly  frightened,  the 
"  Ramilies  "  seventy-four  gun-ship  of  his 
Majesty  enjoyed  an  excellent  opportu- 


nity for  long-range  practice,  and  the  mi- 
litia gave  an  honest  airing  to  their  pa- 
triotism. The  Major  was  wholly  himsel£ 
'*  If  the  rascals  would  only  attempt  a  land- 
ing ! "  said  he ;  and  as  he  spoke,  a  frag- 
ment of  shell  struck  his  sword-arm  at 
tlie  elbow.  The  wound  was  a  grievous 
one,  and  the  surgeon  in  attendance 
declared  amputation  to  be  nece&sary. 
The  Major  combated  the  decision  for  a 
while,  but  loss  of  blood  weakened  his 
firmness,  and  the  operation  was  gone 
through  with  very  bunglingly.  Next 
morning  a  country  wagon  was  procured 
to  transport  him  home.  The  drive  was 
an  exceeding  rough  one,  and  the  stump 
fell  to  bleeding,  Most  men  would  have 
lain  by  for  a  day  or  two,  but  the  Major 
insisted  upon  pushing  on  for  Canter- 
^  bury,  where  he  arrived  late  at  nighty 
very  Auch  exhausted. 

The  country  physician  declared,  on 
examination  next  morning,  that  some 
readjustment  of  the  amputated  limb  was 
necessary,  which  was  submitted  to  by 
the  Major  in  a  very  irritable  humor. 
Friends  and  enemies  of  the  wounded 
man  were  all  kind  and  full  of  sympathy. 
Miss  Eliza  was  in  a  flutter  of  dreary 
apprehension  that  rendered  her  incapa- 
ble of  doing  anything  effectively.  Ben- 
jamin was  as  tender  and  as  devoted  as 
a  woman.  The  wound  healed  in  due 
time,  but  the  Major  did  not  rally.  The 
drain  upon  his  vitality  had  been  too 
great;  he  fell  into  a  general  decline, 
which  within  a  fortnight  gave  promise 
of  fatal  results.  The  Major  met  the 
truth  like  a  veteran ;  he  arranged  his 
afl^irs,  by  the  sud  of  his  son,  with  a 
great  show  of  method,  —  closed  all  in 
due  time ;  and  when  he  felt  his  breath 
growing  short,  caUed  Benjamin,  and 
like  a  good  officer  gave  his  last  orders. 
"  MabeV  said  he,  **  is  provided  for ; 
it  is  but  just  that  her  mother's  property 
should  be  settled  on  her ;  I  have  done 
so.  For  yourself  and  Eliza,  you  will 
have  need  of  a  close  economy.  I  don't 
think  you  H  do  much  at  law ;  you  once 
thought  of  preaching ;  if  you  think  so 
now,  preach,  Benjamin ;  there 's  some- 
thing in  it ;  at  least  it  's  better  than 
Fed— FcderalisnL" 


i865.] 


Doctor  yohns. 


143 


A  fit  of  coagfaing  seized  him  here, 
from  which  he  never  fairly  rallied.  Ben- 
jamin took  his  hand  when  he  grew  qui- 
et, and  prayed  silently,  while  the  Major 
slipped  off  the  roll  militant  forever. 


II. 


The  funeral  was  appointed  for  the 
second  day  thereafter.    The  house  was 
set  in  order  for  the  occasion.     Chairs 
were  brought  in  from  the  neighbors.    A 
little  table,  with  a  Bible  upon  it,  was 
placed  in  the  entrance-way  at  the  foot 
of  the  stairs,  that  all  might  hear  what 
the  clergyman  should  say.    The  body 
lay  in  the  parlor,  with  the  Major^s  sword 
and  cocked  hat  upon  the  coffin  ;  and  the 
old  gentleman's  face  had  never  worn  an 
air  of  so  much  dignity  as  it  wore  now. 
Death  had  refined  away  all  trace  of  his 
irritable  humors,  of  his  passionate,  hasty 
speech.     It  looked  like  the  &ce  of  a 
good  man,  —  so  said  nine  out  of  ten 
who  gazed  on  it  that  day ;  yet  when  the 
immediate  family  came  up  to  take  their 
last  glimpse,  —  the  two  girls  being  in 
tears,  —  in  that  dreary  half-hour  after  all 
was  arranged,  and  the  fiocking-in  of  the 
neighbors  was  waited  for,  Benjamin,  as 
calm  as  the  dead  £ice  below  him,  was 
asking  himself  if  the  poor  gentleman, 
his  fiither,  had  not  gone  away  to  a  place 
of  torment    He  feared  it ;  nay,  was  he 
not  bound  to  believe  it  by  the  whole 
ibrce  of  his  educadon  ?  and  his  heart, 
in  that  hour,  made  only  a  feeble  revolt 
against  the  belief.    In  the  very  presence 
of  the  grim  messenger  of  the  Eternal, 
who  had  come  to  seal  the  books  and 
close  the  account,  what  right  had  hu- 
man affection  to  make  outcry  ?    Death 
had  wrought  the  work  given  him  to  do, 
like  a  good  servant;  had  not  he,  too, 
—  Benjamin,  —  a  duty  to  fulfil?   the 
purposes  of  Eternal  Justice  to  recog- 
nize, to  sanction,  to  approve?    In  the 
exaltation  of  his  religious  sentiment  it 
seemed  to  him,  for  one  crazy  moment 
at  least,  that  he  would  be  justified  in 
taking  his  place  at  the  little  table  where 
prayer  was  to  be  said,  and  in  setting 
forth,  as  one  who  knew  so  intimately 


the  shortcomings  of  the  deceased,  all 
those  weaknesses  of  the  flesh  and  spirit 
by  which  the  Devil  had  triumphed,  and 
in  warning  all  those  who  came  to  his 
burial  of  the  judgments  of  God  which 
would  surely  fall  on  them  as  on  him,  ex- 
cept they  repented  and  believed.  Was 
he  not,  indeed,  commissioned,  as  it  were, 
by  the  lips  of  the  dead  man  to  '*  cry  aloud 
and  spare  not "  } 

Happily,  however,  the  officiating  cler- 
gyman was  of  a  more  even  temper,  and 
he  said  what  little  he  had  to  say  in  way 
of  "  improvement  of  the  occasion "  to 
the  text  of  "Judge  not,  that  ye  be  not 
judged." 

"  We  are  too  apt,"  said  he,  (and  he 
was  now  addressing  a  company  that 
crowded  the  parlors  and  flowed  over 
into  the  yard  in  front,  where  the  men 
stood  with  heads  uncovered,)  "we  are 
too  apt  to  measure  a  man's  position  in 
the  eye  of  God,  and  to  assign  him  his 
rank  in  the  future,  by  his  conformity 
to  the  external  observances  of  relig- 
ion,—not  remembering,  in  our  compla- 
cency, that  we  see  differently  from  those 
who  look  on  from  beyond  the  world,  and 
that  there  are  mysterious  and  secret 
relations  of  God  with  the  conscience  of 
every  man,  which  we  cannot  measure 
or  adjust  Let  us  hope  that  our  de- 
ceased friend  profited  by  such  to  insure 
his  entrance  into  the  Eternal  City,  whose 
streets  are  of  gold,  and  the  Lamb  the 
light  thereof." 

The  listeners  said  "Amen"  to  this  in 
their  hearts ;  but  the  son,  still  exalted 
by  the  fervor  of  that  new  purpose  which 
he  had  formed  by  the  father's  death- 
bed, and  riveted  more  surely  as  he 
looked  last  on  his  face,  asked  himself 
if  the  old  preacher  had  not  allowed  a 
kindly  worldly  prudence  to  blunt  the 
sharpness  of  the  Word.  "Why  not 
tell  these  friendly  mourners,"  thought 
he,  "that  they  may  well  shed  their 
bitterest  tears,  for  that  this  old  man 
they  mourn  over  has  lived  the  life  of 
the  ungodly,  has  neglected  all  the  ap- 
pointed means  of  escape,  has  died  the 
death  of  the  unrighteous,  and  must 
surely  suffer  the  pains  of  the  second 
death?    Should  not  the  swift  warn- 


144 


Doctor  Johns, 


[February, 


log  be  brought  home  to  me  and  to 
them  ? '' 

Sudden  contact  with  Death  had  re- 
fined all  his  old  religious  impressions 
to  an  intensity  that  shaped  itself  into  a 
faming  sword  of  retribution.  All  this, 
however,  as  yet,  lay  within  his  own 
mind,  not  beating  down  his  natural  af- 
fection, or  his  grief,  but  strugg^ng  for 
reconcilement  with  them;  no  outwaid 
expression,  even  to  those  who  clung  to 
him  so  nearly,  revealed  it  The  me- 
morial-stone which  he  placed  over  his 
father's  grave,  and  which  possibly  is 
standing  now  within  the  old  church- 
yard of  Canterbury,  bore  only  this  :  — 

HbSX  UBS  TMB  BODY  OW 

REUBEN  JOHNS. 

A  GOOD  HUSBAND  ;    A  KIND  FATHER  ; 
A  PATSIOT,   WHO  DIED  FOB  HIS  COUNTXY, 

xsT  Sbtt.,  Z814. 

And  a  little  below, — 

"Christ  died  for  all." 


III. 

It  will  be  no  contravention  of  the 
truth  of  this  epitaph,  to  say  that  the 
Major  had  been  always  a  most  misera- 
ble manager  of  his  private  business  af- 
fiurs ;  it  is  even  doubtful  if  the  kindest 
fathers  and  best  husbands  are  not  apt 
to  be.  Certain  it  is,  that,  when  Ben- 
jamin came  to  ex&mine,  in  connection 
with  a  village  attorney,  (for  the  son  had 
inherited  the  father's  inaccessibility  to 
<' profit  and  loss''  statements,)  such 
loose  accounts  as  the  Major  had  left,  it 
was  found  that  the  poor  gendeman  had 
lived  up  so  closely  to  his  income  — 
whether  as  lawyer  or  military  chieftain 
— as  to  leave  his  little  home  property 
subject  to  the  payment  of  a  good  many 
outstanding  debts.  There  appeared,  in- 
deed, a  great  parade  of  ledgers  and  day- 
books and  statements  of  accounts ;  but 
it  is  by  no  means  unusual  for  those  who 
are  careless  or  ignorant  of  business 
system  to  make  a  pretty  show  of  the 
requisite  implements,  and  to  confuse 


themselves,  in  a  pleasant  way,  with  the 
intricacy  of  their  own  figures. 

The  Major  sinned  pretty  laigely  in 
this  way ;  so  that  it  was  plain,  that,  after 
the  sale  of  all  his  available  effects,  in- 
cluding the  library  with  its  inhibited  Vol- 
taire, there  would  remain  only  enough 
to  secure  a  respectable  maintenance  for 
Miss  Eliza.  To  this  end,  Benjamin  de- 
termined at  once  that  the  residue  of  the 
.estate  should  be  settled  upon  her,  —  re- 
serving only  so  much  as  would  comfort- 
ably maintain  him  during  a  three  years' 
course  of  battling  with  Theology. 

The  younger  sister,  Mabel, — as  has 
already  been  intimated, — was  provided 
for  by  an  interest  in  certain  distinct  and 
dividend-bearing  securities,  which  —  to 
the  honor  of  the  Major  —  had  never 
been  submitted  to  the  alembic  of  his 
figures  and  "accounts  current"  She 
was  placed  at  a  school  where  she  ac- 
complished herself  for  three  or  four 
years ;  and  put  the  seal  to  her  accom- 
plishments by  marrying  very  suddenly, 
and  without  family  consultation,  —  un- 
der which  she  usually  proved  restive,  — 
a  young  fellow,  who  by  aid  of  her  snug 
fortune  succeeded  in  establishing  him-  . 
self  in  a  thriving  business ;  and  as  early 
as  the  year  1820,  Mabel,  under  her  new 
name  of  Mrs.  Brindlock,  was  the  mis- 
tress of  one  of  those  fine  merchant- 
palaces  at  the  lower  end  of  Greenwich 
Street  in  New  York  City,  which  com- 
manded a  view  of  the  elegant  Battery, 
and  were  the  admiration  of  all  coun- 
try visitors. 

Benjamin  had  needed  only  his  fii- 
ther's  hint,  (for  which  he  was  ever  grate- 
ful,) and  the  solemn  scenes  of  his  death 
and  burial,  to  lead  him  to  an  entire 
renunciation  of  his  law-craft  and  to 
an  engagement  in  fervid  study  for  the 
ministry.  This  he  prosecuted  at  first 
with  a  devout  old  gentleman  who  had 
been  a  pupil  of  President  Edwards; 
and  this  private  reading  was  finished 
off  by  a  course  at  Andove^  His 
studies  completed,  he  was  licensed  to 
preach ;  and  not  long  after,  without  any 
consideration  of  what  the  future  of  this 
world  might  have  in  store  for  him,  he 
committed  the  error  which  so  many 


186$.] 


Doctor  yohns. 


HS 


grave  and  serious  men  are  prone  to 
commit,  —  that  is  to  say,  he  married 
hastily,  after  only  two  or  three  months 
of  solemn  courtship,  a  charming  girl 
of  nineteen,  whose  only  idea  of  meet- 
ing the  difficuldes  of  this  life  was 
to  love  her  dear  Benjamin  with  her 
whole  heart,  and  to  keep  the  parlor 
dusted. 

But  unfortunately  there  was  no  parlor 
to  dust  The  consequence  was  that  the^ 
newly  married  couple  were  compelled 
to  establish  a  temporary  home  upon 
the  second  floor  of  the  comfortable 
house  of  Mr.  Handby,  a  well-to-do  hxm- 
er,  and  the  fiither  of  the  bride.  Here 
tiie  new  clergyman  devoted  himself  res- 
olutely to  TOlotson,  to  Edwards,  to  John 
Newton,  and  in  the  intervals  prepared 
some  score  or  more  of  sermons, — .to 
all  which  Mrs.  Johns  devoutly  listening 
in  their  fresh  state,  without  ever  a  wink, 
entered  upon  the  conscientious  dudes 
of  a  wife.  From  time  to  time  some  old 
cleigyman  of  the  neighborhood  would 
ask  the  Major's  son  to  assist  him  in 
the  Sabbath  services ;  and  at  rarer  inter- 
vals the  Reverend  Mr.  Johns  was  invited 
to  some  fiir-away  township  where  the  ill- 
ness or  absence  of  the  setded  minister 
might  keep  the  new  licentiate  for  four 
or  five  weeks  ;  on  which  occasions  the 
late  Miss  Handby  was  most  zealous  in 
preparing  a  world  of  comforts  for  the 
journey,  and  invariably  followed  him  up 
with  one  or  two  double  letters,  *' hop- 
ing her  dear  Benjamin  was  careful  to 
wear  the  muffler  which  his  Rachel  had 
knit  for  him,  and  not  to  expose  his  pre- 
cious throat," — or  "longing  for  that 
quiet  home  of  their  own^  which  would 
not  make  necessary  these  cruel  separa- 
turns,  and  where  she  should  have  the 
uninterrupted  society  of  her  dear  Ben- 
jamin." 

To  aU  such  the  conscientious  hus- 
band dutifully  replied,  "  thankful  for  his 
Rachel's  expression  of  interest  in  such 
a  sinner  as  himself  and  trusting  that 
she  would  not  forget  that  health  or  the 
comforts  of  this  world  were  but  of  com- 
paratively small  importance,  since  this 
was  '  not  our  abiding  city.'  He  trusted, 
too,  that  she  would  not  sdlow  the  transi- 

•vou  XV. — Ma  88.  xo 


toiy  affections  of  this  life,  however  dear 
they  might  be^  to  engross  her  to  the  neg- 
lect of  those  which  were  far  more  im- 
portant He  permitted  himself  to  hope 
that  Rachel "  (he  was  chary  of  endearing 
epithets)  '*  would  not  murmur  against 
the  dispensations  of  Providence,  and 
would  be  content  with  whatever  He 
might  provide ;  and  hoping  that  Mr. 
Handby  and  family  were  in  their  usual 
health,  remained  her  Christian  friend 
and  devoted  husband,  Benjamin  Johns." 

It  so  happened,  that,  after  this  discur- 
sive life  had  lasted  for  some  ten  months, 
a  serious  difficulty  arose  between  the 
clergyman  and  the  parish  of  the  neigh- 
boring town  of  Ashfield.  The  person  who 
served  as  the  spiritual  director  of  the 
people  was  suspected  of  leaning  strong- 
ly toward  some  current  heresy  of  the 
day ;  and  the  suspicion  being  once  set 
on  foot,  there  was  not  a  sermon  the 
poor  man  could  preach  but  some  quid- 
niu}c  of  the  parish  snuffed  somewhere 
in  .it  the  taint  of  the  fidse  doctrine. 
The  due  convocations  and  committees 
of  inquiry  followed  sharply  after,  and 
the  incumbent  received  his  dismissal  in 
due  form  at  the  hands  of  some  "  broth- 
er in  the  bonds  of  the  Gospel." 

A  few  weeks  later,  Giles  Elderkin  of 
Ashfield,  "Society's  Committee,"  in- 
vited, by  letter,  the  Reverend  Benjamin*. 
Johns  to  come  and  "  fill  their  pulpit  the 
following  Lord's  day";  and  added, — 
"  If  you  conclude  to  preach  for  us,  I 
shall  be  pleased  to  have  you  put  up  at 
my  house  over  the  Sabbath." 

"  There  you  are,"  said  Mr.  Handby, 
when  the  matter  was  announced  in  £un- 
ily  conclave,  —  "just  the  man  for  them. 
They  like  sober,  solid  preaching  in  Ash- 
field." 

"  I  call  it  real  providential,"  said'Mrs. 
Handby ;  "  fust-rate  folks,  and  't  a'n't 
a  long  drive  over  for  Rachel" 

Lattie  Mrs.  Johns  looked  upon  the 
grave,  earnest  face  of  her  husband  with 
delight  and  pride,  but  said  nothing. 

"  I  know  Squire  Elderkin,"  says  Mr. 
Handby, meditatively,  —  "a clever  man, 
and  a  forehanded  man,  very.     It 's  a 
rich  parish,  son-in-law ;  they  ought  to  • 
do  well  by  youJ' 


146 


Doctor  Johns^ 


[Februaiy, 


« I  don»t  like,"  says  Mr.  Johns,  "  to 
look  at  what  may  become  my  spiritual 
duty  in  that  light" 

"  I  would  n%"  returned  Mr.  Hand- 
by  ;  '*but  when  you  are  as  old  as  I  am, 
son-in-law,  you  '11  know  that  we  have 
to  keep  a  kind  of  side-look  upon  the 
good  things  of  this  world, — else  we 
should  n't  be  placed  in  it" 

"  He  heareth  the  young  ravens  when 
they  cry,"  said  the  minister,  gravely. 

"Just  it,"  says  Mr.  Handby;  "but 
I  don't  want  your  young  ravens  to  be 
crying." 

At  which  Rachel,  with  the  slightest 
possible  sufiiision  of  color,  and  a  pretty 
affectation  of  horror,  said, — 

"  Now,  papa  I " 

There  was  an  interuption  here,  and 
the  conclave  broke  up ;  but  Rachel,  step- 
ping briskly  to  the  place  she  loved  so 
well,  beside  the  mimster,  said,  softly,  — 

"  I  hope  you  '11  go,  Benjamin ;  and 
do,  please,  preach  that  beautiful  serpon 
on  Revelations." 


IV. 

Thirty  or  forty  years  ago  there  lay 
scattered  about  over  Southern  New 
England  a  great  many  quiet  inland 
towns,  numbering  from  a  thousand  to 
two  or  three  thousand  inhabitants, 
which  boasted  a  little  old-&shioned 
"  society  "  of  their  own,  —  which  had 
their  important  men  who  were  heirs  to 
some  snug  country  property,  and  their 
gambrel  -  roofed  houses  odorous  with 
traditions  of  old-time  visits  by  some 
worthies  of  the  Colonial  period,  or  of 
the  Revolution.  The  good,  prim  dames, 
in  starched  caps  and  spectacles,  who 
presided  over  such  houses,  were  proud 
of  their  tidy  parlors,  —  of  their  old  In- 
dia china,  —  of  their  beds  of  thyme  and 
sage  in  the  garden,  —  of  their  big  Fam- 
ily Bible  with  brazen  clasps, —  and, 
most  times,  of  their  minister. 

One  Orthodox  Congregational  Soci- 
ety extended  its  benignant  patronage 
over  all  the  people. of  such  town ;  or,  if 
astray  £pisoopalian&or  Seven-Day  Bap- 
tist xwere  here  and  there  living  under 


the  wing  of  the  parish,  they  were  re- 
garded with  a  serene  and  stately  gravi- 
ty, as  necessary  exceptions  to  the  law 
of  Divine  Providence, — like  scattered 
instances  of  red  hair  or  of  bow-legs  in 
otherwise  well-favored  fiunilies. 

There  were  no  wires  stretching  over 
the  country  to  shock  the  nerves  of  the 
good  gossips  with  the  thought  that 
their  neighbors  knew  more  than  they. 
^There  were  no'  heathenisms  of  the  cit- 
ies, no  tenpins,  no  travelling  circus,  no 
progressive  yojungmen  of  heretical  ten- 
dencies. Such  towns  were  as  quiet  as 
a  sheepfold.  Sauntering  down  their 
broad  central  street,  along  which  all  the 
houses  were  clustered  with  a  somewhat 
dreary  uniformity  of  aspect,  one  might 
of  a  summer's  day  hear  the  rumble  of 
tl(e  town  mill  in  some  adjoining  valley, 
busy  with  the  town  grist ;  in  autumn, 
the  flip-flap  of  the  flails  came  pulsing 
on  the  ear  from  half  a  score  of  wide- 
open  bams  that  yawned  with  plenty; 
and  in  winter,  the  clang  of  axes  on  the 
near  hills  smote  sharply  upon  the  frosty 
stillness,  and  would  be  straightway  fol- 
lowed by  the  booming  crash  of  some 
great  tree. 

But  civilization  and  the  railways  have 
debauched  all  such  quiet,  stately,  steady 
towns.  There  are  none  of  them  left 
If  the  iron  cordon  of  travel,  by  a  little 
divergence,  has  spared  their  quietude, 
leaving  them  stranded  upon  a  beach 
where  the  tide  of  active  business  nev- 
er flows,  all  their  dignities  are  gone. 
The  men  of  foresight  and  enterprise 
have  drifted  away  to  new  centres  of  in- 
fluence. The  bustling  dames  in  starch- 
ed caps  have  gone  down  childless  to 
their  graves,  or,  disgusted  with  gossip 
at  second  hand,  have  sought  more  im- 
mediate contact  with  the  world.  A  Ger- 
man tailor,  may  be,  has  hung  out  his 
sign  over  the  door  of  some  mouldering 
mansion,  where,  in  other  days,  a  dough- 
ty judge  of  the  county  court,  with  a 
great  rafl  of  children,  kept  his  honors 
and  his  fiimily  warm.  A  slatternly 
"  carryall,"  with  a  driver  who  reeks  of 
bad  spirit,  keeps  up  uneasy  communi- 
cation with  the  outside  world,  travers- 
ing twice  or  three  times  a  day  the 


i86s.] 


Doctor  Johns. 


147 


league  of  drive  which  lies  between  the 
post-office  and  the  railway-station.  A 
few  iron-pated  fanners,  and  a  few  gen- 
tlemen of  Irish  extraction  who  keep 
tavern  and  stores,  divide  among  them- 
selves the  official  honors  of  the  town. 

I(  on  the  other  hand,  the  people 
maintain  their  old  thrift  and  importance 
by  actual  contact  with  some  great  thor- 
ough£ure  of  travel,  their  old  quietude 
is  exploded ;  a  mushroom  station  has* 
sprung  up ;  mushroom  villas  fiank  all 
the  hills ;  the  girls  wear  mushroom 
hats.  A  turreted  monster  of  a  chapel 
fiom  some  flamboyant  tower  bellows 
out  its  Sunday  warning  to  a  new  set 
of  church-goers.  There  is  a  little  co- 
terie of  "superior  intelligences,*'  who 
talk  of  the  humanities,  and  diffuse  their 
aiiy  rationalism  over  here  and  there  a 
circle  of  the  progressive  town.  Even 
the  meeting-house,  which  was  the  great 
congregational  centre  of  the  town  re- 
ligion, has  lost  its  venerable  air,  taken 
off  by  some  neW  fancy  of  variegated 
painting.  The  high,  square  pews  are 
turned  into  low-backed  seats,  that  flame 
on  a  summer  Sunday  with  such  gor- 
geous millinery  as  would  have  shocked 
the  grave  people  of  thirty  years  ago. 
The  deep  bass  note  which  once  pealed 
from  the  belfiry  with  a  solemn  and  soli- 
tary dtgm'ty  of  sound  ha^  now  lost  it 
all  amid  the  jangle  of  a  half-dozen  bells 
of  lighter  and  airier  twang.  Even  the 
par^n  himself  will  not  be  that  grave 
man  of  stately  bearing,  who  met  the 
rarest  fun  only  benignantly,  and  to 
whom  all  the  villagers  bowed, — but 
some  new  creature  full  of  the  logic  of 
the  schools  and  the  latest  convention- 
alisms of  manner.  The  homespun  dis- 
ciples of  other  days  would  be  brought 
grievously  to  the  blush,  if  some  deep 
note  of  the  old  bell  should  suddenly 
summon  them  to  the  presence  of  so 
fine  a  teacher,  encompassed  with  such 
pretty  appliances  of  upholstery ;  and, 
counting  their  chances  better  in  the 
strait  path  they  knew  on  uncarpeted 
floors  and  between  high  pews,  they 
would  slink  back  into  their  graves  con- 
tent,—  all  the  more  content, 'perhaps, 
if  they  should  listen  to  the  service  of 


the  new  teacher,  and,  in  their  common- 
sense  way,  reckon  what  chance  the 
dapper  talker  might  have,  —  as  com- 
pared with  the  solemn  soberness  of  the 
old  pastor,  —  in  opening  the  ponderous 
doors  for  them  upon  the  courts  above. 

Into  this  metamorphosed  condition 
the  town  of  Ashfield  has  possibly  fallen 
in  these  latter  days  ;  but  in  the  good 
year  18 19,  when  die  Reverend  Benja- 
min Johns  yff&  invited  for  the  first  time 
to  fill  its  pulpit  of  an  early  autumn 
Sunday,  it  was  still  in  possession  of  all 
its  palmy  quietude  and  of  its  ancient 
cheery  importance.  And  to  that  old 
date  we  will  now  transfer  ourselves. 


V. 


Every  other  day  the  stage-coach 
comes  into  Ashfield  from  the  north, 
on  the  Hartford  turnpike,  and  rumbles 
through  the  main  street  of.  the  town, 
seesawing  upon  its  leathern  thorough- 
braces.  Just  where  the  pike  forks  into 
the  main  northern  road,  and  where  the 
scattered  farm-houses  begin  to  group 
more  thickly  along  the  way,  the  coun- 
try Jehu  prepares  for  a  triumphant  en- 
try by  giving  a  long,  clean  cut  to  the 
lead-horses,  and  two  or  three  shortened, 
sharp  blows  with  his  doubled  lash  to 
those  upon  the  wheel ;  then,  moisten- 
ing his  lip,  he  disengages  the  tin  horn 
from  its  socket,  and,  with  one  more 
spirited  "chirrup"  to  his  team  and  a 
petulant  flirt  o(  the  lines,  he  gives  outy 
with  tremendous  explosive  efforts,  a*  se- 
ries of  blasts  that  are  heard  all  down 
the  street  Here  and  there  a  blind  is 
coyly  opened,  and  some  old  dame  in 
rufHed  cap  peers  out,  or  some  stout 
wench  at  a  back  door  stands  gazing 
with  her  arms  a-kimbo.  The  horn  rat- 
tles back  into  its  socket  again ;  the 
lines  are  tightened,  and  the  long  lash 
smacks  once  more  around  the  reeking 
flanks  of  the  leaders.  Yonder,  in  his 
sooty  shop,  stands  the  smith,  keeping 
up  with  his  elbow  a  lazy  sway  upon  his 
bellows,  while  he  looks  admiringly  over 
coach  and  team,  and  gives  an  inquisi- 
tive glance  at  the  nigh  leader's  foot,  that 


4 


Doctor  Johns, 


[February, 


he  shod  only  yiesterday.  A  flock  of  geese, 
startled  from  a  mud-puddle  through 
which  the  coach  dashes  on,  rush  away 
with  outstretched  necks,  and  wings  at 
their  widest,  and  a  great  uproar  of  gab- 
ble. Two  school-girls  —  home  for  the 
nooning  —  are  idling  over  a  gateway, 
half  swinging,  half  musing,  gazing  in- 
tently. There  is  a  gambrel-roofed  man- 
sion, with  a  balustrade  along  its  up- 
per pitch,  and  quaint  ogeos  of  ancient 
joinery  over  the  hall-door ;  and  through 
the  cleanly,  scrubbed  parlor- windows 
is  to  be  seen  a  prim  dame,  who  turns 
one  spectacled  glance  upon  the  passing 
coach,  and  then  resumes  her  sewing. 
There  are  red  houses,  with  their  cor- 
ners and  barge-boards  dressed  off  with 
white,  and  on  the  door-step  of  one  a 
green  tub  that  flames  with  a  great  pink 
hydrangea.  Scattered  along  the  way 
are  huge  ashes,  sycamores,  elms,  in 
somewhat  devious  line  ;  and  from  a 
pendent  bough  of  one  of  these  la'^t  a 
trio  of  school-boys  are  seeking  to  beat, 
down  the  swaying  nest  of  an  oriole  with 
a  convergent  fire  of  pebbles. 

The  coach  flounders  on,  —  past  an 
old  house  with  stone  chimney,  (on 
which  an  old  date  stands  coarsely  cut,) 
and  with  front  door  divided  down  its 
middle,  with  a  huge  brazen  knocker 
upon  its  right  half, — with  two  St  Luke*s 
crosses  in  its  lower  panels,  and  two  di- 
amond-shaped "  lights  "  above.  Here- 
about the  street  widens  into  what  seems 
a  common ;  and  not  far  below,  sitting 
squarely  and  authoritatively  in  the  mid- 
dle of  the  common,  is  the  red-roofed 
meeting-house,  with  tall  spire,  and  in 
its  shadow  the  humble  belfry  of  the 
town  academy.  Opposite  these  there 
comes  into  the  main  street  a  highway 
from  the  east ;  and  upon  one  of  the 
comers  thus  formed  stands  the  Eagle 
Tavern,  its  sign  creaking  appetizingly 
on  a  branch  of  an  overhanging  syca- 
more, under  which  the  stage-coach 
dashes  up  to  the  tavern-door,  to  unlade 
its  passengers  for  dinner,  and  to  find  a 
fresh  relay  of  horses. 

Upon  the  opposite  comer  is  the 
country  store  of  Abner  Tew,  Esq.,  post- 
master during  the  successive  adminis- 


trations of  Mr.  Madison  and  Mr.  Mon- 
roe. He  comes  out  presently  from 
his  shop-door,  which  is  divided  hori- 
zontally, the  upper  half  being  open  in 
all  ordinary  weathers ;  and  the  lower 
half,  as  he  closes  it  after  him,  gives  a 
warning  jingle  to  a  little  bell  with- 
in. A  spare,  short,  hatchet-£iced  man 
is  Abner  Tew,  who  walks  over  witfi  a 
prompt  business-step  to  receive  a  leath- 
•em  pouch  from  the  stage-driver.  He 
returns  with  it,  —  a  few  eager  towns- 
people following  upon  his  steps,  —  re- 
enters his  shop,  and  delivers  the  pouch 
within  a  glazed  door  in  the  comer,  where 
the  postmistress  ex  officio^  Mrs.  Abner 
Tew,  a  tall,  gaunt  woman  in  black  bom- 
bazine and  spectacles,  proceeds  to  assort 
the  Ashfield  mail.  By  reason  of  this 
division  of  duties,  the  shop  is  known 
familiarly  as  the  shop  of  "  the  Tew 
partners." 

Among  the  waiting  expectants  who 
loiter  about  among  the  sugar-barrels  of 
the  grocery  department,  there  presently 
appears  —  with  a  new  tinkle  of  the  little 
bell  —  a  stout,  ruddy  man,  just  past  mid- 
dle age,  in  broad-brimmed  white  beaver 
and  sober  homespun  suit,  who  is  met 
with  a  deferential  "  Good  day.  Squire," 
from  one  and  another,  as  he  £dls  succes- 
sively into  short  parley  with  them.  A  self- 
possessed,  cheery  man,  who  has  strong 
opinions,  ahd  does  not  fear  to  express 
them  ;  Selectman  for  the  last  eight  years, 
who  has  presided  in  town-meeting  time 
out  of  mind  ;  member  of  the  Legislature, 
and  once  a  Senator  for  the  district 
This  was  Giles  Elderkin,  Esq.,  the  gen- 
tleman who,  on  behalf  of  the  Ecclesi- 
astical Society,  had  conducted  the  cor- 
respondence with  the  Reverend  Mr. 
Johns ;  and  he  was  now  waiting  his 
reply.  This  is  presently  brought*  to 
him  by  the  postmistress,  who,  catching 
a  glimpse  of  the  Squire  through  the 
glazed  door,  has  taken  the  precaution 
to  adjust  her  cap-strings  and  dexter- 
ously to  flirt  one  or  two  of  the  more 
apparent  creases  out  of  her  dingy  bom- 
\}iazine.  The  letter  brings  acceptance, 
which  the  Squire,  having  made  out  by 
private  study  near  to  the  dusky  window, 
announces  to  Mrs. Tew, —  begging  her  to 


1 865.] 


Doctor  Johns. 


149 


infonn  the  people  who  should  happen 
in  from  ^'up  the  road." 

''I  hope  he  'Usuit,  Squire,''  says 
Mrs.  Tew. 

<*  I  hope  he  may,  —  hope  he  may, 
Mrs.  Tew ;  I  hear  well  of  him ;  there 's 
good  blood  in  him.  I  knew  his  father, 
the  Major,  — likely  man.  I  hope  he 
may,  Mrs.  Tew." 

And  the  Squire,  having  penned  a 
little  notice,  by  fiivor  of  one  of  the  Tew 
partners,  proceeds  to  affix  it  to  the 
meeting-house  door;  after  which  he 
walks  to  his  own  house,  with  the  as- 
sured step  of  a  man  who  is  conscious 
of  having  accomplished  an  important 
duty.  It  is  the  very  house  we  just  now 
saw  with  the  ponderous  ogees  over  its 
front,  the  balustrade  upon  its  roof,  and 
the  dame  in  spectacles  at  the  window  : 
this  latter  being  the  spinster.  Miss 
Meacham,  elder  sister  to  the  wife  of 
the  Squire,  and  taking  upon  herself, 
with  active  zeal  and  a  neatness  that 
knew  no  bounds,  the  office  of  house- 
keeper. This  was  rendered  necessary 
in  a  manner  by  the  engagement  of  Mrs. 
Eklerkin  with  a  group  of  young  flax- 
haired  children,  and  periodic  threats  of 
addition  to  the  same.  The  hospitali- 
ties of  the  house  were  fully  established, 
and  no  state  official  could  visit  the  town 
without  hearty  invitation  to  the  Squire's 
table.  The  spinster  received  the  an- 
nouncement of  the  minister's  coming 
with  a  quiet  gravity,  and  betook  herself 
to  the  needed  preparation. 


VI. 

Mr.  Jorns,  meantime,  when  he  had 
left  the  Handby  parlor,  where  we  saw 
him  last,  and  was  £urly  upon  the  stair, 
had  replied  to  the  suggestion  of  his 
little  wife  about  the  sermon  on  Revela- 
tions with  a.fiigitive  kiss,  and  said, 
« I  wiU  think  of  it,  Rachel." 

And  he  did  think  of  it,  —  thought  of 
it  so  well,  that  he  left  the  beautiful  ser- 
mon in  his  drawer,  and  took  with  him 
a  couple  of  strong  doctrinal  discours- 
es, upon  the  private  hearing  of  which 
his  charming  wife  had  commented  by 


dropping  asleep  ((kx>r  thing!)  in  her 
chair. 

But  the  strong  men  and  women  of 
Ashiield  relished  them  better.  There 
was  a  sermon  for  the  morning  on  '*  Re- 
generation the  work  only  of  grace  " ; 
and  another  for  the  afternoon,  on  the 
outer  leaf  of  which  was  written,  in  the 
parson's  bold  hand,  ''The  doctrine  of 
Election  compatible  with  the  infinite 
goodness  of  God."  It  is  hard  to  say 
which  of  the  two  was  the  better,  or 
which  commended  itself  most  to  the 
church  full  of  people  who  listened. 
Deacon  Tourtelot,  —  a  short,  wiry  man, 
with  reddish  whiskers  brushed  primly 
forward, — sitting  under  the  very  drop- 
pings of  the  pulpit,  with  painful  erect- 
ness,  and  listening  grimly  throughout, 
was  inclined  to  the  sermon  of  the  morn- 
ing. Dame  Tourtelot,  who  overtopped 
her  husband  by  half  a  head,  and  from 
her  great  scoop  hat,  trimmed  with  green, 
kept  her  keen  eyes  fastened  intently 
upon  the  minister  on  trial,  was  enlisted 
in  the  same  belief^  until  she  heard  the 
Deacon's  timid  expression  of  prefer- 
ence, when  she  pounced  upon  him,  and 
declared  for  the  Election  discourse.  It 
was  not  her  way  to  allow  him  to  enjoy 
an  opinion  of  his  own  getting.  Miss 
Almira,  their  only  child,  and  now  grown 
into  a  spare  womanhood,  that  was  dec- 
orated with  another  scoop  hat  akin  to 
the  mother's,  —  from  under  which  hung 
two  yellow  festoons  of  ringlets  tied  with 
lively  blue  ribbons,  —  was  steadfastiy 
observant ;  though  wearing  a  fagged  air 
before  the  day  was  over,  and  consult- 
ing on  one  or  two  occasions  a  littie 
vial  of  <'  salts,"  with  a  side  movement 
of  the  head,  and  an  inquiring  nostril. 

Squire  Elderkin,  having  thrown  him- 
self into  a  comfortable  position  in  the 
comer  of  his  square  pew,  is  cheerfully 
attentive ;  and  at  one  or  two  of  the 
more  marked  passages  of  the  sermon 
bestows  a  nod  of  approval,  and  a  glance 
at  Miss  Meacham  and  Mrs.  Elderkin, 
to  receive  their  acknowledgment  of  the 
same.  The  young  Elderkins  (of  whom 
three  are  of  meeting-house  size)  are 
variously  affected:  Miss  Dora,  being 
turned  of  six,  wears  an  air  of  some 


I50 


Doctor  Johns, 


[February, 


weariness,  and  having  despatched  all 
the  edible  matter  upon  a  stalk  of  cara- 
way, she  uses  the  despoiled  brush  in 
keeping  the  youngest  boy,  Ned,  in  a 
state  of  uneasy  wakefulness.  Bob,  rank- 
ing between  the  two  in  point  of  years, 
and  being  mechanically  inclined,  devotes 
himself  to  turning  in  their  sockets  the 
little  bobbihs  which  form  a  balustrade 
around  the  top  of  the  pew ;  but  being 
diverted  from  this  very  suddenly  by  a 
sharp  squeak  that  calls  the  attention  of 
his  Aunt  Joanna,  he  assumes  the  peni- 
tential air  of  listener  for  full  five  min- 
utes ;  afterward  he  relieves  himself  by 
constructing  a  small  meeting-house  out 
of  the  psalm-books  and  Bible,  his  Aunt 
Joanna's  spectacle-case  serving  for  a 
steeple. 

There  was  an  air  of  subdued  rever- 
ence in  the  new  clergyman,  which  was 
not  only  agreeable  to  the  people  in  it- 
self but  seemed  to  very  many  thought- 
ful ones  to  imply  a  certain  respect  for 
them  and  for  the  parish.  The  men  of 
that  day  in  Ashfield  were  intolerant  o^ 
mere  elegances,  or  of  any  jauntiness  of 
manner.  But  Mr.  Johns  was  so  calm 
and  serious,  and  yet  gave  so  earnest 
expression  to  the  old  beliefs  they  had 
so  long  cherished,  —  he  was  so  clearly 
wedded  to  all  those  rigidities  by  which 
the  good  people  thought  it  a  merit  to 
cramp  their  religious  thinking,  —  that 
there  was  but  one  opinion  of  his  fitness. 

Deacon  Tourtelot,  sidling  down  the 
aisle  afler  service,  out  of  hearing  of  bis 
consort,  says  to  Elderkin,  "  Smart  man, 
Squire." 

And  the  Squire  nods  acquiescence. 
"  Sound  sermonizer,  —  sound  sermon- 
izer.  Deacon." 

These  two  opinions  were  as  good  as 
a  majority-vote  in  the  town  of  Ashfield, 
—  all  the  more  since  the  Squire  was  a 
thorough-going  JeiFersonian  Democrat, 
and  the  Deacon  a  warm  Federalist,  so 
hi  as  the  poor  man  could  be  warm  at 
anything,  who  was  on  the  alert  every 
hour  of  his  life  to  escape  the  hammer 
of  his  wife's  reproaches. 

So  it  happened  that  the  parish  was 
called  together,  and  an  invitation  ex- 
tended to  Brother  Johns  to  continue 


his  ministrations  for  a  month  fiirdier. 
Of  course  the  novitiate  understood  this 
'to  be  the  crucial  test ;  and  he  accepted 
it  with  a  composure, andalackofimpcr- 
tinent  effort  to  please  them  overmudi, 
which  altogether  charmed  them.  On 
four  successive  Saturdays  he  drove 
over  to  Ashfield, — sometimes  stopping 
with  one  or  the  other  of  the  two  dea- 
cons, and  at  other  times  with  Squire  El- 
derkin, —  and  on  one  or  two  occasions 
taking  his  wife  by  special  invitation. 
Of  her,  too,  the  people  of  Ashfield  had 
but  one  opinion :  that  she  was  of  a  duc- 
tile temper  was  most  easy  to  be  seen  ; 
and  there  was  not  a  strong-minded 
woman  of  the  parish  but  anticipated 
with  delight  the  power  and  pleasure  of 
moulding  her  to  her  wishes.  The  hus- 
band continued  to  preach  agreeably  to 
their  notions  of  orthodoxy,  and  at  the 
end  of  the  month  they  gave  him  a 
"  call,"  with  the  promise  of  four  hundred 
dollars  a  year,  besides  sundry  odds  and 
ends  made  up  by  donation  visits  and 
otherwise. 

This  sum,  which  was  not  an  inconsid- 
erable one  for  those  days,  enabled  the 
clergyman  to  rent  as  a  parsonage  the 
old  house  we  have  seen,  with  the  big 
brazen  knocker,  and  diamond  lights  in 
either  half  of  its  green  door.  It  stood 
under  the  shade  of  two  huge  ashes,  at  a 
little  remove  back  from  the  street,  and 
within  easy  walk  from  the  central  com- 
mon. A  heavy  dentilated  cornice,  firom 
which  the  paint  was  peeling  away  in 
flaky  patches,  hung  over  the  windows 
of  die  second  floor.  Within  the  door 
Was  a  little  entry — (for  years  and  years 
the  pastor's  hat  and  cane  used  to  lie 
upon  a  table  that  stood  just  within  the 
door) ;  from  the  entry  a  cramped  stair- 
way, by  three  sharp  angles,  led  to  the 
floor  above.  To  the  right  and  left  were 
two  low  parlors.  The  sun  was  shining 
broadly  in  the  south  one  ^en  the  couple 
first  entered  the  house. 

«'  Good ! "  said  Rachel,  with  her  pleas- 
ant, brisk  tone,  —  <*this  shall  be  your 
study,  Benjamin ;  the  bookcase  here,  the 
table  there,  a  nice  warm  carpet,  we  11 
paper  it  with  blue,  the  Major's  sword 
shall  be  himg  over  the  mantel" 


i86s.] 


Roger  Brooke  Taney. 


151 


"  Tut !  tut ! "  says  the  clei^gyman,  "  a 
sword,  Rachel, — in  my  study  ?  " 

**To  be  sure  I  why  not?"  says  Ra- 
chel ''And  if  you  like,  I  will  hang 
my  picture,  with  the  doves  and  the 
olive-branch,  above  it ;  and  there  shall 
be  a  shelf  for  hyacinths  in  the  win- 
dow." 

Thus  she  ran  on  in  her  pretty  house- 
wifely manner,  cooing  like  the  doves 
she  talked  o^  plotting  the  arrangement 
of  the  parlor  opposite,  of  the  long  din- 
ing-room stretching  athwart  the  house 
in  the  rear,  and  of  the  kitchen  under  a 
roof  of  its  own,  still  farther  back,  —  he 
all  the  while  giving  grave  assent,  as 
if  he  listened  to  her  contrivance:  he 
was  only  listening  to  the  music  of  a 
sweet  voice  that  somehow  charmed  his 
ear,  and  thanking  God  in  his  heart 
that  such  music  was  bestowed  upon  a 
sinful  world,  and  praying  that  he  might 
never  listen  too  fondly. 

Behind  the  house  were  yard,  garden, 
orchard,  and  this  last  drooping  away  to 
a  meadow.  Over  all  these  the  pair  of 
light  feet  pattered  beside  the  master. 
"Here  shall  be  lilies,"  she  said ;  "  there, 
a  great  bunch  of  mother's  peonies ;  and 
by  the  gate,  hollyhocks  " ; — he,  by  this 
time,  plotting  a  sermon  upon  the  vani- 
ties of  the  world. 

Yet  in  due  time  it  came  to  pass  that 


the  parsonage  was  all  arranged  accord- 
ing to  the  fiamdes  of  its  mistress, — even 
to  the  Major's  sword  and  the  twin  doves. 
Esther,  a  stout  middle-aged  dame,  and 
stanch  Congregationalist,  recommended 
by  the  good  women  of  the  parish,  is  in- 
stalled in  the  kitchen  as  maid-of-all- 
work.  As  gardener,  groom,  (a  sedate 
pony  and  square-topped  chaise  forming 
part  of  the  establishment,)  factotum,  in 
short, — there  is  the  frowzy-headed  man 
Larkin,  who  has  his  quarters  in  an  airy 
loft  above  the  kitchen. 

The  brass  knocker  is  scoured  to  its 
brightest  The  parish  is  neighborly. 
Dame  Tourtelot  is  impressive  in  her 
proffers  of  advice.  The  Tew  partners, 
Elderkin,  Meacham,  and  all  the  rest, 
meet  the  new  housekeepers  open-hand- 
ed. Before  mid-winter,  the  smoke  of 
this  new  home  was  piling  lazily  into  the 
sky  above  the  tree-tops  of  Ashfield,  — 
a  home,  as  we  shall  find  by  and  by,  of 
much  trial  and  much  cheer.  Twenty 
years  after,  and  the  master  of  it  was 
master  of  it  still,  —  strong,  seemingly,  as 
ever ;  the  brass  knocker  shining  on  the 
door ;  the  sword  and  the  doves  in  place. 
But  the  pattering  feet,  —  the  voice  that 
made  music,  —  the  tender,  wifely  plot- 
ting, —  the  cheery  sunshine  that  smote 
upon  her  as  she  talked, — alas  for  us ! 
—"All  is  Vanity  I" 


ROGER   BROOKE   TANEY. 


A  LITTLE  more  than  two  centuries 
ago,  Thomas  Hobbes  of  Malmes- 
bury  published  his  great  treatise  on 
government,  under  the  title  of  "  Levi- 
athan ;  or,  the  Matter,  Form,  and  Pow- 
er of  the  Commonwealth,  Ecclesiastical 
and  Civil,"  —  in  which  he  denied  that 
man  b  bom  a  social  being,  that  govern- 
ment has  any  natural  foundation,  and  in 
a  word,  all  of  what  men  now  agree  to  be 
the  first  principles,  and  receive  as  axi- 
oms, of  social  and  civil  science ;  and 


declared  that  man  is  a  beast  of  prey,  a 
wolf,  whose  natural  state  is  war,  and 
that  government  is  only  a  contrivance 
of  men  for  their  own  gain,  a  strong  chain 
thrown  over  the  citizen,  —  organized, 
despotic,  unpriudpled  power.  To  this 
faithless  and  impious  work,  which  at 
least  did  good  by  shocking  the  world 
and  rallylpg  many  of  the  best  minds  to 
develop  and  defend  the  true  prindples 
of  society  and  the  state,  he  put  a  fit 
frontispiece,  a  picture  of  the  vast  form 


142 


Doctor  Johns, 


[February, 


of  opinion,  but  in  good  average  disper- 
sion of  all  sorts  of  thinking.  On  one 
occasion  he  had  horrified  his  poor  wife 
by  bringing  home  a  full  set  of  Voltaire's 
Works ;  but  having  reasoned  her — or 
fancying  he  had — into  a  belief  in  the 
entire  harmlessness  of  the  offending 
books,  he  gratified  her  immensely  by 
placing  them  out  of  all  sight  and  reach 
of  the  boy  Benjamin. 

He  never  interfered  with  the  severe 
home  course  of  religious  instruction 
entered  upon  by  the  mother.  On  the 
contrary,  he  said,  "  The  boy  will  need  it 
all  as  an  of&et  to  the  bedevilments  that 
will  overtake  him  in  our  profession." 
The  Major  had  a  very  considerable 
country  practice,  and  had  been  twice  a 
member  of  the  Legislature. 

His  second  wife,  a  frivolous,  indolent 
person,  who  had  brought  him  a  hand- 
some dot,  and  left  him  the  pretty  black- 
eyed  Mabel,  never  held  equal  position 
with  the  first  .It  was  observed,  how- 
ever, with  some  surprise,  that  under  the 
sway  of  the  latter  he  was  more  punc- 
tilious and  regular  in  religious  obser- 
vances than  before,  —  a  feet  which  the 
shrewd  ones  explained  by  his  old  doc- 
trine of  adjusting  averages. 

Benjamin,  Eliza,  and  Mabel,  —  each 
in  their  way, — waited  news  fi'om  the 
military  campaign  of  the  Major  with 
great  anxiety ;  all  the  more  because  he 
was  understood  to  be  a  severe  discipli- 
narian, and  it  had  been  rumored  in  the 
parish  that  two  or  three  of  his  company, 
of  rank  Federal  opinions,  had  vowed 
they  would  sooner  shoot  the  captain 
than  any  foreign  enemy  of  the  State. 
The  Major,  however,  heard  no  guns  in 
either  front  or  rear  up  to  the  time  of 
the  British  attack  upon  the  borough  of 
Stonington,  in  midsummer  of  1814.  In 
the  defence  here  he  was  very  active,  in 
connection  with  a  certain  artillery  force 
that  had  come  down  the  river  from  Nor- 
wich ;  and  although  the  attack  of  the 
British  Admiral  was  a  mere  feint,  yet 
for  a  while  there  was  a  very  lively 
sprinkling  of  shot  The  people  of  the 
little  borough  were  duly  fi^ghtened,  the 
"  Ramilies  "  seventy-four  gun-ship  of  his 
Majesty  enjoyed  an  excellent  opportu- 


nity for  long-range  practice,  and  the  mi- 
Utia  gave  an  honest  airing  to  their  pa- 
triotism. The  Major  was  wholly  himsel£ 
**  If  the  rascals  would  only  attempt  a  land- 
ing 1 "  said  he ;  and  as  he  spoke,  a  firag- 
ment  of  shell  struck  his  sword-arm  at 
the  elbow.  The  wound  was  a  grievous 
one,  and  the  surgeon  in  attendance 
declared  amputation  to  be  necessary. 
The  Major  combated  the  decision  for  a 
while,  but  loss  of  blood  weakened  his 
firmness,  and  the  operation  was  gone 
through  with  very  bunglingly.  Next 
morning  a  country  wagon  was  procured 
to  transport  him  home.  The  drive  was 
an  exceeding  rough  one,  and  the  stump 
fell  to  bleeding,  Most  men  would  have 
lain  by  for  a  day  or  two,  but  the  Major 
insisted  upon  pushing  on  for  Canter- 
^  bury,  wh^re  he  arrived  late  at  night, 
very  Auch  exhausted. 

The  country  physician  declared,  on 
examination  next  morning,  that  some 
readjustment  of  the  amputated  limb  was 
necessary,  which  was  submitted  to  by 
the  Major  in  a  very  irritable  humor. 
Friends  and  enemies  of  the  wounded 
man  were  all  kind  and  fiill  of  S3rmpathy. 
Miss  Eliza  was  in  a  flutter  of  dreary 
apprehension  that  rendered  her  incapa- 
ble of  doing  anything  effectively.  Ben- 
jamin was  as  tender  and  as  devoted  as 
a  woman.  The  wound  healed  in  due 
time,  but  the  Major  did  not  rally.  The 
drain  upon  his  vitality  had  been  too 
great;  he  fell  into  a  general  decline, 
which  within  a  fortnight  gave  promise 
of  fatal  results.  The  Major  met  the 
truth  like  a  veteran ;  he  arranged  his 
affeirs,  by  the  aid  of  his  son,  with  a 
great  show  of  method,  —  closed  all  in 
due  time  ;  and  when  he  felt  his  breath 
growing  short,  called  Benjamin,  and 
like  a  good  ofiicer  gave  his  last  orders. 
"  Mabe V  said  he,  **  is  provided  for ; 
it  is  but  just  that  her  mother's  property 
should  be  settled  on  her ;  I  have  done 
so.  For  yourself  and  Eliza,  you  will 
have  need  of  a  close  economy.  I  don't 
think  you  11  do  much  at  law ;  you  once 
thought  of  preaching ;  if  you  think  so 
now,  preach,  Benjamin ;  there 's  some- 
thing in  it ;  at  least  it  's  better  than 
Fed  —  Federalism." 


186s.] 


Roger  Brooke  Taney. 


153 


robed  ministers  of  evil  But  as  the  Le- 
viathan, Slavery,  —  the  Mortal  God,  the 
incarnation  of  Evil, — is  growing  more 
and  more  shadowy,  and  men  again  be- 
hold the  heavenly  Guardian  of  their 
State,  Americans  feel,  and  the  world 
agrees,  that  war,  though  it  reaches  other 
classes  and  in  different  form,  is  really 
attended  with  less  horror  and  woe  at 
the  time  than  several  judicial  decisions 
have  occasioned;  and  that  the  lasting 
results  of  battles  are  incalculably  more 
insignificant  than  the  judgments  of 
courts  may  be. 

Roger  Brooke  Taney  was,  when  near- 
ly sixty  years  old,  placed  at  the  head  of 
the  Judiciary,  at  a  critical  time  in  Amer- 
ican afiairs.  The  Slave  Power,  so  suc- 
cessful in  extending  its  dominion,  and 
already  the  controlling  influence  in  the 
government,  was  pressing  its  unholy 
and  arrogant  demands  openly  and  with- 
out shame.  It  had  destroyed  civil  lib- 
erty in  the  Slave  States,  and  wa3  fast 
destroying  it  in  the  Free.  It  was  stifling 
the  right  of  petition  in  Congress,  and 
smothering  free  speech  in  the  States. 
The  Executive  was  recommending  that 
the  mails  should  be  sifted  for  its  safety. 
The  question  of  the  right  of  Slavery 
in  the  Territories  and  the  Free  States 
was  taking  form,  and  the  slave-catchers 
claimed  to  hunt  their  prey  through  the 
Northern  States,  without  regard  to  the 
rights  of  freemen  or  the  law  of  the  land. 
Taney  bad  long  been  known  as  an  as- 
tute and  -skilful  lawyer,  a  man  of  abil- 
ity and  learning  in  his  profession  — 
as  ability  and  learning  are  commonly 
gauged.  He  had  been  Attomey-Gen- 
end  of  Maryland,  and  in  1831  had  been 
appointed  Attorney-General  of  the  Unit- 
ed States. '  He  was  an  ardent  partisan 
supporter  of  the  administration ;  and 
in  1833,  when  Duane  refused  to  remove 
the  deposits,  he  was  appointed  to  the 
Treasury  as  a  willing  servant,  and  did 
not  hesitate  to  do  what  was  expected- 
of  him. 

In  1835,  while  the  country  was  deep- 
ly agitated  by  questions  concerning  the 
rights  of  States  and  the  powers  of  the 
government^  he  was  nominated  to  a 


vacancy  on  the  Supreme  Bench.  His 
opinions  on  those  questions  were  well 
known,  and  the  consideration  of  his 
nomination  indefinitely  postponed 

But  some  time  after  the  death  of  Chief 
Justice  Marshall,  which  occurred  on  the 
6th  of  July,  1835,  Taney  was  nominated 
as  his  successor,  and  in  1836,  the  politi- 
cal complexion  of  the  Senate  having  in 
the  mean  time  changed,  was  confirmed 
by  party  influence,  and  took  his  seat 
at  the  head  of  the  Judiciary  in  January, 

1837. 
He  was  essentially  a  partisan  judge, 

as  much  so  as  were  the  judges  of  King 
Charles,  who  decided  for  the  ship-money 
in  accordance  with  their  previously  an- 
nounced opinions.  The  President  wrote 
him  a  letter  in  which  he  thanked  him 
for  abandoning  the  duties  of  his  profes- 
sion and  promptiy  aiding  him  by  re- 
moving the  deposits ;  and  Webster  de- 
clared he  was  the  pliant  tool  of  the 
Executive.  The  Massachusetts,  Ken- 
tucky, and  New  York  cases  in  the  very 
fiirst  volume  of  the  Reports  showed  that, 
if  not  swift  to  do  the  work  for  which  he 
had  been  selected,  he  did  not  hesitate 
to  embody  his  political  principles  in  ju- 
dicial decisions.  But  we  do  not  intend 
to  examine  these,  or  to  review  the  long 
series  of  decisions,  extending  over  more 
than  a  quarter  of  a  century,  and  through 
more  than  thirty  volumes,  on  the  com- 
mon or  even  the  grander  questions  dis- 
cussed in  that  tribunal,  which  will  all, 
or  nearly  all,  be  unknown,  —  save  to  the 
profession,  —  and  will  have  but  litde  in- 
fluence on  the  welfare  of  the  country  and 
the  course  of  history.  We  would  con- 
sider only  the  more  important  of  those 
decisions  touching  Slavery,  the  cause 
of  this  Revolution,  which  have  already 
shaped  the  course  of  events,  and  be- 
come the  record  of  his  character  as  a 
jurist,  a  patriot,  and  a  man. 

His  private  opinions  about  Slavery 
are  not  matter  of  comment  or  inquiry. 

There  are  two  official  opinions  given 
by  him  while  Attorney-General  in  1831 
which  relate  to  the  matter.  In  one  of 
these  he  had  to  consider  whether  the 
United  States  would  protect  the  right 
of  a  slave -master  over  his  slave,  em- 


154 


Roger  Brooke  Taney. 


[February, 


ployed  as  a  seaman  on  a  ship  trading  to 
one  of  the  States,  in  which  he  expressed 
the  opinion  that  the  United  States  could 
not,  by  treaty,  control  the  several  States 
in  the  exercise  of  their  power  of  declar- 
ing a  slave  free  on  being  brought  within 
their  limits.  In  the  other,  he  held  that 
a  person  removing  his  slaves*  with  him 
to  Texas,  merely  for  a  temporary  so- 
journ, and  with  the  intention  of  return- 
ing again  in  a  short  time  to  the  United 
States,  might  safely  bring  his  slaves 
back  with  him.  But  he  then  declared, 
that  if  the  owner  had  placed  his  slaves 
in  Texas  as  their  domicile,  he  would  be 
liable  to  prosecution,  under  the  act  of 
Congress,  if  he  should  bring  them  back 
into  the  United  States. 

In  1837,  the  very  year  Taney  took 
his  "seat  on  the  Supreme  Bench,  he 
gave  the  opinion  of  the  Court  in  the 
cases  pf  the  Garonne  and  the  Fortune, 
two  vessels  libelled,  under  the  act  of 
181 8,  for  bringing  as  slaves  into  New 
Orleans  persons  who  had,  in  1831  and 
1835,  been  carried  to  France  and  some 
of  them  manumitted  there.  The  judge 
then  said  that,  '^  assuming  that  by 
French  law  they  were  entitled  to  free- 
dom, there  is  nothing  in  this  act  to  pre- 
vent their  mistress  bringing  them  back 
and  holding  them  tu  before*^ 

He  seems  to  have  considered  it  im- 
material, or  to  have  been  ignorant,  that, 
in  accordance  with  the  maxim,  ^  Once 
finee,  forever  free,"  declared  in  the  courts 
of  his  own  State  of  Maryland,  the  courts 
of  Lx>uisiana  held,  as  did  those  of  Ken- 
tucky and  other  States  also,  that,  *^  hav- 
ing been  for  one  mom.ent  in  France,  it 
was  not  in  the  power  of  her  former  owner 
to  reduce  her  again  to  slavery,"  and  to 
have  forgotten  the  doctrines  of  one  of 
his  own  opinions. 

Slavery,  when  he  came  upon  the 
bench,  began  to  look  to  the  Supreme 
Court  as  its  surest  defence. 

The  Prigg  case,  as  it  is  called,  or, 
as  lawyers  call  it,  Prigg  vs.  The  Com- 
monwealth of  Pennsylvania,  was  an 
amicable  suit;  the  parties  in  interest 
being  the  States  of  Maryland  and  Penn- 
sylvania, which  were  represented  by  the 
ablest  counsel,  who  came  into  court,  as 


Johnson,  Attorney-General  of  Pennsyl- 
vania, said,  ''to  terminate  disputes  and 
contentions  which  were  arising,  and 
had  for  years  arisen,  along  the  border 
line  between  them,  on  the  subject  of 
the  escape  and  delivering  up  of  frigiti ve 
slaves."  The  counsel  regarded  them- 
selves, as  he  said,  as  engaged  in  ''  the 
work  of  peace,"  and  "  of  patriotism  al- 


so." 

Edward  Prigg  and  others  were  in- 
dicted in  Pennsylvania  for  kidnapping  a 
negro  woman  on  the  ist  of  April,  1837. 
The  cause  came  to  trial  before  the  York 
Quarter  Sessions,  May  22,  1839  *  <^"^ 
the  counsel  agreed  that  a  special  verdict 
should  be  taken  and  judgment  render- 
ed* and  thereupon  the  case  carried  up, 
so  as  to  present  the  questions  of  law 
arising,  under  the  Pennsylvania  Eman- 
cipation Act  of  1780,  upon  the  United 
States  act  of  1793  touching  fugitives 
from  labor,  and  the  statute  of  Pennsyl- 
vania passed  in  1826,  which  provided 
for  the  seizure  and  surrender  of  fugi- 
tive slaves  and  for  the  punishment  of 
kidnapping.  The  case  was  made  up 
and  presented  in  that  spirit  of  compro- 
mise which  has  been  the  bane  and  de- 
lusion of  America,  (as  if  there  could  be 
any  compromise  of  justice,) — the  coun- 
sel for  Pennsylvania  claiming  that  their 
statute  was  auxiliaiy  to  that  of  the 
United  States,  really  beneficial  to  Slav- 
ery, and  that  they  advocated  the  true 
interests  of  the  South  as  well  as  of  the 
Union  and  the  North,  —  in  order  to 
have  the  Judiciary  authoritatively  settle 
the  vital  question  of  the  rights  of  the 
m<ister  in  the  seizure,  and  of  the  States 
in  the  rendition,  of  fugitive  slaves.  The 
Court  decided,  fully,  that  the  master  had 
a  right  to  seize  his  fugitive  slave  wher- 
ever he  could  find  him,  and  take  him 
back  without  process ;  that  the  law  of 
1793  was  constitutional ;  and  that  the 
United  States  had  the  exclusive  power 
of  legislation  on  that  matter. 

But  this  did  not  satisfy  Chief  Justice 
Taney.  He  agreed  that  the  master  had 
the  right  of  seizure.  He  declared  that 
this  right  was  the  law  of  each  State, 
and  that  no  State  had  power  to  abro- 
gate or  alter  it,  and  foreshadowed  the 


1865.] 


Roger  Brooke  Taney. 


155 


idea  that  the  Constitution  carried  Slav- 
ery over  all  the  Territories  and  States. 
But  he  dissented  from  the  Court  when 
thej  held  the  Pennsylvania  act  to  be 
invalid.  And  without  relying  on  any 
principle,  without  any  discussion  of,  or 
the  slightest  allusion  to,  any  authori- 
ties or  the  great  fundamental  questions 
involved  in  that  issue,  he  coolly  depict- 
ed the  inconveniences  the  slave-catcher 
might  be  subject  to  in  States  where  there 
was  but  one  District  Judge,  and  how  es- 
sentially he  would  be  aided  by  the  State 
legislation ;  and  pointed  out  to  his  breth- 
ren those  ^ consequences^^  which  they 
did  ^  noi  contemplate^^  and  to  which  they 
''did  not  suppose  the  opinion  they  had 
given  would  lead."  And  he  said  that, 
where  the  States  had  such  statutes,  "  it 
had  not  heretofore  been  supposed  ne- 
cessary, in  order  to  justify  those  laws, 
to  refer  them  to  the  questionable  pow- 
ers of  internal  and  local  police.  They 
were  believed  to  stand  upon  surer  and 
safer  grounds,  to  secure  the  delivery  of 
the  fugitive  slave  to  his  lawful  owner*  ^' 

Counsel  said,  "The  long,  impatient 
stni^le  on  that  question  was  nearly 
over.  The  decision  of  this  Court  would 
put  it  at  rest"  It  was  not  so.  This 
decision  was  made  in  1843.  ^"^  fxom. 
that  time  the  strife  over  that  question 
was  more  violent  than  ever.  The  Slave 
Power  took  this  decision  as  a  new  con- 
cession and  guaranty.  It  certainly  af- 
firmed the  right  of  the  master  to  exer- 
cise his  absolute  power,  in  the  most  of- 
fensive form,  to  be  beyond  control  of  all 
legislation  whatever.  State  or  National. 
The  Court  doubtless  meant,  as  the 
States  and  the  counsel  did,  by  giving  to 
Congress  the  exclusive  power  of  legis- 
lation on  the  surrender  of  fugitives  from 
labor,  to  settle  this  question  in  such 
form  as.  to  satisfy  the  Slave  Power. 

If  the  opinion  of  Mr.  Webster  be 
worth  anything,  they  forgot  the  maxim, 
**  Judicis  est  jus  dicere,  non  dare."  Most 
surely  Taney  ignored  his  State-Rights 
doctrines  when,  looking  iax  on  for  the 
interests  of  Slavery  and  the  conven- 
ience of  slave  hunters,  he  held  the  Unit- 
ed States  authorized  to  legislate  on  the 
matter ;  and,  disguising  the  poison  un- 


der the  phrase,  ^  the  Constitution  and 
every  clause  of  it  is  part  of  the  law  of 
every  State  of  the  land,"  he  put  forth 
the  dogma  that  the  rendition  clause 
merely  provided  for  the  rights  of  citi- 
zens, "  put  them  under  protection  of  the 
General  Government,"  and  made  ^'the 
rights  of  the  master  the  law  of  each 
State."  He  was  declaring  a  rule  of  gov- 
ernment, not  a  rule  of  law,  and  creating 
a  theory  for  the  defence  of  property  in 
man. 

In  1850  he  went  a  step  £uther.  A 
Kentucky  slave-owner  had.  been  in  the 
habit  of  letting  some  of  his  slaves  go 
into  Ohio  to  sing  as  minstrels.  ^He  filed 
a  bill  against  a  steamboat  and  her  cap- 
tain to  recover  the  value  of  those  slaves, 
who,  after  their  return,  had  been  carried 
across  the  river  and  escaped.  It  must 
be  remembered  that  they  had  not  first 
escaped,  but  had  been  carried  to  Ohio. 
But  here,  again,  without  recurring  to 
any  of  the  principles  presented  and  &ir- 
ly  involved  in  such  an  issue,  again  look- 
ing far  on  to  consequences  in  the  inter- 
est of  Slavery,  again  ignoring,  not  only 
the  first  principles  of  jurisprudence  and 
the  declared  ends  of  the  Constitution, 
but  even  his  own  political  State- Rights 
doctrine,  (for  if  these  men  had  not  es- 
caped, why  could  not  Ohio  free  them  T) 
he  declared  a  doctrine  pregnant  with 
mischief^  —  that  each  State  had  the  ab- 
solute right  to  decide  the  status  of  all 
persons  within  its  limits.  This,  too, 
has  gone  with  war.  But  his  intent  is 
none  the  less  clear.  The  theory  was 
obviously  stated  with  a  fiur- reaching 
view  to  remote  consequences.  And  it 
must  be  considered  in  connection  with 
the  fact  that,  in  lieu  of  the  old  rule 
which  had  been  recognized  by  the  Slave 
States,  that  a  slave,  by  being  carried  to 
a  Free  State  or  domiciled  for  a  day  in 
a  foreign  country  by  whose  law  he  was 
enfi'anchised,  was  liberated  forever, — 
once  free,  free  forever  and  everywhere, 
— the  Slave  Power  was  beginning  to 
assert  a  new  rule  for  re^nslavement  by 
recapture  and  on  return. 

But  the  Slave  Power,  having  controlled 
the  executive  and  directed  the  legisla- 
tive branch  of  the  government,  again 


iS6 


Roger  Brooke  Tanef, 


[February, 


turned  to  judicial  power  as  the  surest, 
and  best  able  to. work  out  easily  the 
laigest  and  most  lasting  results.  The 
Dred  Scott  case  was  begun  in  1854,  and 
brought  up,  twice  argued,  and  finally 
decided  in  1856 ;  Chief  Justice  Taney 
delivering  the  opinion  of  the  Court 
The  facts  and  result  of  that  case  are 
well  known.  In  a  cause  dismissed  for 
want  of  jurisdiction,  this  Court  pretend- 
ed to  decide  that  no  person  of  African 
slave  descent  could  ever  be  a  citizen  of 
the  United  States,  and  that  the  adop- 
tion of  the  Missouri  Compromise  line  by 
the  Congress  of  1820,  acquiesced  in  for 
thirty-five  years,  was  unconstitutidnaL 
This  doctrine  was  entirely  extrajudicial, 
and,  as  one  of  the  judges  declared,  ^*^a» 
assumption  of  authority." 

We  do  not  propose  to  discuss  this 
decision.  It  was  the  lowest  depth.  It 
probably  did  more  than  all  legislative 
and  executive  usurpations  to  revive  the 
spirit  of  liberty, — to  recall  the  country 
to  the  principles  of  the  founders  of  the 
Constitution.  It  began  the  good  work, 
— evoking  ^^  truth,  by  showing  its  own 
fiendish  principles,  —  which  the  war  is 
likely  to  finish  forever.  We  wish,  how- 
ever, to  give  an  analysis  of  the  doctrines 
and  reasons  on  which  his  decision  was 
based,  and  therefix>m  to  show  what  is 
the  true  place  of  Roger  Brooke  Taney 
as  a  jurist  and  a  patriot 

Now  the  course  of  his  argument  was 
this, — admitting  that  all  persons  who 
were  citizens  of  the  several  States  at 
the  time  of  the  adoption  of  the  Con- 
stitution became  citizens  of  the  United 
States,  to  show  that  persons  of  African 
descent,  whose  ancestors  had  been 
slaves,  were  not  in  any  State  citizens. 

And  first,  he  tries  to  show  this  '*  by 
the  legislation  and  histories  of  the  times, 
and  the  language  used  in  the  Declara- 
tion of  Independence  " ;  and  after  re- 
ferring to  the  laws  of  two  or  three  Colo- 
nies restricting  intermarriage  of  races, 
and  affirming  that,  though  freed,  colored 
persons  were  in  all  the  Colonies  held  to 
be  no  part  of  the  people,  and  declaring 
that  ^in  no  nation  was  this  opinion 
more  uniformly  acted  upon  than  by  the 
English  government  and  people,"  ad- 


mitting that  ''the  general  words  ^ail 
nun  are  created  equal,'  etc.,  would  seem 
to  embrace  the  whole  human  £unily," 
and  that  the  fi:amers  of  the  Declaration 
were  ''  high  in  their  sense  of  honor,  and 
incapable  of  asserting  principles  incon- 
sistent with  those  on  which  they  were 
acting,"  he  argues  that,  because  they 
had  not  fully  carried  out,  and  did  not 
afterwards  fully  carry  out,  their  avowed 
principles  by  instant  and  universal 
emancipation,  therefore  he  can  give  to 
as  plain  and  absolute  words  as  were 
ever  written,  expressive  of  universal 
laws,  a  force  just  opposite  to  their  terms ; 
— a  new  form  of  argument,  which  begins 
by  assuming  the  truth  of  the  proposi- 
tion desired,  and  ends  by  denying  the 
truth  of  the  admitted  premises. 

He  then  proceeds  to  inquire  if  the 
terms  ''  we,  the  people,"  in  the  Consti- 
tution, embraced  the  persons  in  ques- 
tion. Here,  too,  he  admits  that  they 
did  embrace  all  who  were  members 
of  the  several  States.  Then,  turning 
roqnd  the  power  given  Congress  to  end 
the  slave-trade  after  1808,  and  arguing 
from  it  as  a  reserved  right  to  acquire 
property  till  that  time ;  laying  aside  the 
£3ict  tHat  the  ftamers  of  the  Declaration 
had  acted  on  their  declared  principles, 
and  that  in  many  States,  as  in  Massa- 
chusetts and  Vermont,  even  in  South- 
em  States,  as  in  North  Carolina  they 
remained  till  1837,  many  freed  colored 
persons  were  citizens  at  that  time,  with 
the  remark,  that  ^^  the  numbers  that  had 
been  emancipated  at  that  time  ^rere  but 
few  in  comparison  with  those  held  in 
slavery,"  assuming  that  the  very  acts 
of  the  States  suppressing  the  slave-trade 
helped  instead  of  destroying  his  argu- 
ment ;  arguing  from  the  fact  that  Con- 
gress had  not  authorized  the  naturaliza- 
tion of  colored  persons,  or  enrolled  them 
in  the  militia  ;  arguing  even  from  State 
laws  passed  in  the  most  passionate  mo- 
ments as  late  as  1833 »  going  back  to  the 
old  Colonial  acts  of  Maryland  in  1717, 
and  of  Massachusetts  in  1705  ;  even  com- 
ing down  to  the  fiict  that  Caleb  Cushing 
gave  his  opinion  that  they  could  not  have 
passports  as  citizens ;  denying  that  the 
''free  inhabitants"  in  the  Articles  of 


1865.3 


Roger  Brooke  Taney, 


157 


Confederation,  which  he  was  forced  to 
concede  did  in  terms  embrace  freedmen, 
actually  did  include  them,  because  the 
quota  of  land  forces  was  proportioned  to 
the  white  inhabitants, — he  affirmed  that 
they  were  not  and  never  could  become 
citizens,  that  neither  the  States  nor  the 
nation  had  power  to  lift  them  from  their 
abject  condition.  The  United  States 
could  naturalize  Indians.  But  neither  the 
United  States  nor  the  individual  States 
cotild  make  colored  persons  citizens. 

The  Chief  Justice  stated  that  colored 
persons  were  not,  at  the  time  of  the  adop- 
tion of  the  Constitution,  citizens  under 
the  laws  of  the  several  States  and  the 
laws  of  the  civilized  world.  But  he  knew, 
for  it  had  been  shown  to  him  in  the 
arguments,  that  such  persons,  and  many 
who  had  been  slaves,  were  then  citizens 
in  Massachusetts,  New  Hampshire,  and 
North  Carolina,  as  they  likewise  were 
in  Vermont,  Pennsylvania,  and  in  other 
States.     And  he  knew  —  for  in  183 1  he 
himself  said  it  was  "  a  fixed  principle 
of  the  law  of  England,  that  a  slave  be- 
tomes  free  as  soon  as  lie  touches  her 
shores  "  —  that  he  declared  as  law  what 
was  not  the  bw  of  civilized  nations ; 
that  in  1762  Lord  Northington  declared 
that  ''as  soon  as  a  man  sets  foot  on 
English  ground  he  is  free";  and  that  Lord 
Mansfield  had,  in  1772,  held  that  *'  Slav- 
ery is  so  odious  that  it  cannot  be  estab- 
lished without  positive  law."    He  knew 
(or  he  declared  what  he  did  not  know) 
that  at  that  day  the  sentiment  in  France 
was  so  directly  to  the  contrary,  that  in 
179 1  the  law  was  '*  Taut  individu  est 
litre  aussitdt  qu^il  est  en  France,^^    At 
the  time  to  which  he  referred,  public 
opinion  in  the  American  States  and  in 
foreign  countries,  and  the  legislation  of 
the  various  States,  were  just  the  oppo- 
site of  what  he  stated  them  to  be.   Liber- 
ty was  just  at  that  moment  more  truly  the 
sentiment  of  the  country  and  of  states 
in  amity  with  it  than  at  any  other.   The 
assertion,  that  colored  persons  could 
not  be  and  were  not  citizens  of  the  sev- 
eral States,  was  simply  £dse.    In  most 
if  not  in  all  of  the  States  such  persons 
were  ddzens.    In  1776^  the  Quakers 
refused  fellowship  with  such  as  held 


slaves ;  and  that  sect,  through  all  the 
States,  enfi'anchised  their  slaves,  who^ 
on  such  enfiranchisement,  became  citi- 
zens. American  courts  were  not  behind 
the  English  courts.  States  adopted  the 
language  of  the  Declaration  into  their 
Constitutions  for  the  purpose  of  univer- 
sal emancipation,  and  the  courts  de- 
cided that  that  was  its  efiect  At  the 
time  of  the  adoption  of  the  Constitution 
the  leading  men  of  all  sections  consid- 
ered emancipation  essential  to  the  reali- 
zation of  the  American  idea  ;  for  their 
government  was  founded  on  a  theory, 
and  avowed  principles,  which  rendered 
it  necessary,  and  which,  with  the  per- 
fcmnance  of  the  pledges  of  the  States 
and  the  exercise  of  the  powers  directly 
given  to  the  Union,  would  make  liberty 
universal  and  perpetual 

Taney  even  argued  that  persons  of 
African  descent  could  not  be  citizens, 
because  then  they  could  *'  enter  every 
State  when  they  pleased,  without  pass 
or  passport,  and  without  obstruction,  to 
sojourn  there  as  long  as  they  pleased, 
to  go  where  they  pleased,  at  every  hour 
of  the  day  or  night,  without  molestation, 
unless  they  committed  some  violation 
of  law  for  which  a  white  man  would  be 
punished ;  and  it.  would  give  them  fuU 
liberty  of  speech,  in  public  and  in  pri- 
vate, upon  all  subjects  upon  which  its 
own  citizens  might  speak,  to  hold  pub- 
lic meetings,"  and  "  to  bear  arms  "  ! 
As  if  this  would  not  be  to  a  true  jurist 
and  just  judge  expounding  a  Constitu- 
tion made  ''to  establish  justice  "^itself 
the  ground  for  deciding  that  citizenship 
was  opened  to  them  by  emancipation ; 
as  if  die  blessings  of  liberty  ought  not 
to  prevail  over  any  inconveniences  to 
slave-holders. 

His  argument  from  subsequent  legis- 
lation was  perfectly  idle.  For,  at  most, 
the  statutes  of  Naturalization  and  En- 
rolment merely  showed  that  Congress 
did  not  then  choose  to  apply  to  colored 
persons  the  power  given  to  them  in 
absolute  terms,  and  which  he  admits 
they  had  as  to  Indians.  While  in  other 
statutes,  as  that  of  1803,  of  Seamen,  and 
In  several  treaties,  as,  for  instance,  those 
whereby  Louisiaoay  Florida,  and  New 


158 


Roger  Brooke  Taney. 


[Februaiy, 


Mexico  were  acquired,  colored  persons 
are  expressly  named  as  citizens. 

Having  denied  the  clear  fisu:ts  of  his* 
tory,  renounced  the  obligation  of  ex- 
plicit language,  professed  to  stand  on 
an  argument  every  member  of  which 
was  destructive  of  his  conclusion,  he 
thus  stated  the  result :  "  They  were  at 
that  time,"  1789,  *' considered  as  a  sub- 
ordinate and  inferior  class  of  beings, 
who  had  been  subjugated  by  the  domi- 
nant race,  and,  whether:  emancipated  or 
not,  yet  remained  subject  to  their  au- 
thority, and  had  no  rights  or  privileges 
but  such  as  those  who  held  the  power 
and  the  government  might  choose  to 
grant  them  " ;  that  the  opinion  had  ob- 
tained "  for  more  than  a  century  *'  that 
they  were  "beings  of  an  inferior  order," 
with  "  no  rights  which  the  white  man 
was  bound  to  respect,"  who  "might 
justly  and  lawfully  be  reduced  to  slav- 
ery," "  an  ordinary  article  of  merchan- 
dise and  traffic  wherever  a  profit  could 
be  made  of  it " ;  and  this  opinion  was 
then  "fixed  and  universal  in  the  civ- 
ilized portion  of  the  white  race,"  —  "an 
axiom  in  morals  as  well  as  politics." 
He  then  declares,  that  to  call  them 
" citizens "  would  be  "an  abuse  of 
terms"  "not  calculated  to  exalt  the 
character  of  the  American  citizen  in 
the  eyes  of  other  nations." 

No  wonder  the  nations  pointed  the 
finger  of  scorn,  and  cried  out,  "Is  this 
the  perfection  of  beauty,  the  joy  of  the 
whole  earth  ?  Shade  of  Jefferson !  is 
this  the  reading  America  was  to  give 
the  Declaration  ?  Did  you  publish  a 
lie  to  the  world  ?  Spirits  of  Franklin, 
Adams,  and  Washington  !  is  this  your 
work  ?  Americans  1  is  this  your  char- 
acter ? " 

He  declares,  further,  that  the  Court 
has  no  right  to  change  the  construction 
of  the  Constitution  ;  that  "  it  speaks  in 
the  same  words,  with  the  same  mean- 
ing and  intent,  with  which  it  spoke 
when  it  came  firom  the  hands  of  its 
firamers,  and  was  voted  on  and  adopt- 
ed by  the  people  of  the  United  States. 
Any  other  rule  of  construction  would 
abrogate  the  judicial  character  of  this 
Court,  and  make  it  the  mere  reflex  of 


the  popular  opinion  or  passion  of  the 
day.  This  Court  was  not  created  by 
the  Constitution  for  such  purposes. 
Higher  and  graver  trusts  have  been 
confided  to  it ;  and  it  must  not  falter 
in  the  path  of  duty  I "  Would  to  God 
it  had  not  faltered  in  the  path  of  duty, 
that  it  had  beetf  true  to  those  higher  and 
graver  trusts  !  Would  that  it  had  not 
been  the  mere  reflex  of  popular  opinion 
or  the  passion  of  the  day,  that  it  had 
not  abrogated  its  judicial  character! 
Would  that  it  had  read  the  plain  words 
in  the  holy  spirit  in  which  they  were 
written !  Would  that  it  had  left  the 
Constitution  as  it  was,  and,  instead  of 
thus  writing  its  own  condemnation,  had 
shown  how  efficient  an  instrument  that 
Constitution  would  be,  if  fearlessly  used 
to  carry  out  the  great  principles  of  hu- 
manity for  which  its  preamble  declares 
it  was  established ! 

Here  is  the  key  to  the  new  distinction 
between  the  Constitution  as  it  is  and  the 
Constitution  as  it  was.  But  as  it  was 
in  the  beginning,  so  it  is  and  shall  be. 

But  Taney  could  not  stop  here.  Com- 
promises had  been  made  through  the 
other  branches  of  the  government, — 
compromises  held  sacred  for  more  than 
a  generation,  in  the  vain  hope  to  ap- 
pease the  insatiate  lust  of  the  Slave 
Power.  He  went  on  with  a  longer  and 
lower  argument  to  declare  one  branch 
of  the  Compromise  —  the  act  of  Con- 
gress prohibiting  slavery  in  territory 
north  of  36®  30'  —  void. 

Even  more,  —  for  he  seemed  deter- 
mined to  make  clean  work  of  it,  —  he 
went  on  to  say  that  a  slave  who  had 
been  made  free  by  being  taken  (not 
escaping,  but  by  being  carried  by  his 
owner)  to  a  Free  State  was  reduced  to 
slavery  again  on  arriving  back  in  the 
State  fix>m  which  he  had  been  taken, 
and  that  that  was  the  result  of  Strader 
vs,  Graham,  which  declared  that  tiie  s/a- 
tus  of  persons,  whether  free  or  slave,  de- 
pended on  the  State  law.  Here,  again, 
he  sacrificed  his  cherished  party  princi- 
ples to  his  love  for  Slavery.  Else  how 
could  the  State  to  which  the  slave  had 
been  carried  be  deprived  of  its  right  to 
enfiranchisei  or  how  could  the  United 


i86s.] 


Roger  Brookt  Teuuy. 


159 


States  power  be  extended  further  than 
to  the  expressly  granted  case  of  escape  ? 

But  no.  He  was  a  judicial  Calhoun. 
His  dogma  was  that  the  fundamental 
law  guaranteed  property  in  man.  He 
declared  that  therefore  Congress  could 
not  interfere  with  it  in  the  Territories. 
Before  he  was  judge,  h%  admitted  the 
right  of  sojourn.  There  was  but  one 
step  more^  —  the  sacred  right  of  slave 
property  in  Free  States.  It  was  in- 
volved in  what  he  had  akeady  said, 
and  was  not  so  great  an  anomaly  as  he 
had  already  sanctioned ;  for  if  the  Con- 
stitution guarantees  this  property  in 
every  State,  —  if  the  States  do  not  re- 
serve the  power  to  interfere  with  it,  — 
if^  in  case  of  escape,  Congress  has  the 
power  to  reclaim  it,  —  why  is  not  the 
owner  to  be  guaranteed  it  in  the  States 
as  well  as  in  the  Territories  ? 

In  looking  across  this  long  judicial 
Sahara  of  twenty-seven  years,  there  is 
but  one  oasis.  In  the  Amistad  case, 
the  Court  did  declare  that  Cinque  and 
the  rest,  who  had  been  kidnapped,  had 
the  right  to  regain  their  natural  liberty, 
even  at  the  cost  of  the  lives  of  those 
who  held  them  in  bondage ;  and  for 
once  the  Court,  speaking  by  Story,  did 
appeal  to,  the  laws  of  nature  and  of  na- 
tions, and  decide  the  case  ^  upon  the  eter- 
nal pHncipUs  of  justice^'*  But  all  else 
is,  in  the  light  of  this  question  of  Slav- 
ery, by  which  this  age  will  be  remem- 
bered and  judged,  a  dreary,  barren  waste 
of  shifting,  blinding,  stifling  sand. 

History  will  tell  whether  America  is 
to  be  judged  by  the  words  spoken  by 
him  who  so  long  held  the  highest  seat 
in  her  courts.  We  do  not  think  she 
has  £dlen  to  such  a  depth.  He  did  not 
speak  for  her ;  but  he  did  for  himsel£ 

By  this  record  will  the  world  judge 
Chief  Justice  Taney.  His  great  famil- 
iarity with  the  special  practice  ;  his 
knowledge  of  the  peculiar  jurisdiction 
of  his  tribunals ;  his  acquaintance  with 
the  doctrines  and  decisions  of  the  com- 
mon law,  with  equity  and  admiralty; 
his  opinions  on  corporate  and  munici- 
pal powers  and  rights,  on  land  claims, 
State  boundaries,  the  Gaines  case,  the 
Cirard  will,  on  corporations;  his  de- 


dsions  on  patent-rights  and  on  copy- 
rights ;  his  opinions  extending  admi- 
ralty jurisdiction  to  inner  waters,  on 
liability  of  public  officers,  and  rights  of 
State  or  national  taxation,  on  the  liquor 
and  passenger  laws,  on  State  insolvent 
laws,  on  commercial  questions,  on  bel- 
ligerent rights,  and  on  the  organiza- 
tion of  States, — after  doing  service  for 
the  day  in  the  mechanical  branch  of 
his  craft,  will  soon  be  all  forgotten. 
But  the  slavocrats'  revolution  of  the 
last  two  generations,  and  the  Secession 
war,  and  the  triumph  of  Liberty,  will  be 
the  theme  of  the  world  ;  and  he,  of  all 
who  precipitated  them,  will  be  most 
likely,  after  the  traitor  leaders,  to  be 
held  in  infamous  remembrance  ;  for  he 
did  more  than  any  other  individual,  — 
more  than  any  President,  if  not  more  than 
aU,  —  more  in  one  hour  than  the  Legis- 
lature in  thirty  years,  —  to  extend  the 
Slave  Power.  Indeed,  he  had  solemnly 
decided  all  and  more  than  all  that  Pres- 
ident Buchanan,  closing  his  long  politi- 
cal life  of  servility  in  imbecility,  in  De- 
cember, i860,  asked  to  have  adopted  as 
an  '^explanatory  amendment"  of  the 
Constitution,  to  fully  satisfy  the  Slave 
Power.  Well  would  it  have  been  for 
that  Power,  for  a  while  at  least,  had  its 
members  recollected  that  "no  tyranny 
IS  so  secure,  none  so  remediless,  as  that 
of  executive  courts  '* ;  well  for  them,  — 
if  it  is  better  to  rule  in  hell  than  serve 
in  heaven,  —  but  worse  v  for  the  world, 
had  they  been  patient  But  the  dose 
of  poison  was  too  great  Nature  re- 
lieved itself.  War  came,  not  the  ruin, 
but  the  only  salvation,  of  the  state. 

The  movements  of  events  have  been 
so  rapid,  the  work  of  generations  being 
done  in  as  many  years,  that  Taney^s 
character  is  already  historic ;  and  we 
can  judge  of  it  by  his  relation  to  the 
great  event  which  alone  will  preserve 
it  from  oblivion. 

In  judging  his  public  character  as  the 
head  of  the  Judiciary  of  America,  con- 
sider the  cause  he  sought  to  promote, 
his  motives,  the  means  he  used,  his  re- 
sources as  a  jurist  and  a  lawyer  in  that 
cause,  the  intended  effect  and  actual  re- 
sults. 


i6o 


Roger  Brooke  Taney, 


[February, 


And  of  the  cause  this  must  be  said 
and  agreed  by  all,  that  there  was  never 
one  of  which  a  court  could  take  cogni- 
zance in  America,  England,  or  the  world 
so  utterly  evil  and  infamous  as  that  of 
Slavery  in  the  United  States.  Did  he 
realize  its  extent  ?  Yes,  there  were  "few 
freedmen  compared  with  the  slaves," 
say  only  sixty  thousand  out  of  seven 
hundred  thousand  in  1789.  He  fully 
realized  that,  in  repudiating  the  promise 
made  for  those  seven  hundred  thousand, 
a  pledge  made  with  the  most  solemn 
appeal  to  man  and  to  God,  he  utterly 
destroyed  the  rights  and  hopes  of  four 
million  men.  He  knew  he  was  decid- 
ing, for  a  vast  empire,  weal  or  woe ;  and 
he  knew  it  was  woe,  or  he  had  no  sense 
of  justice. 

And  his  motives  ?  He  was  not  venal, 
not  corrupt,  not  a  respecter  of  persons. 
But  there  is  something  bad  besides  ve- 
nality, corruption,  and  personal  partial- 
ity. The  worst  of  motives  is  disposi- 
tion to  serve  the  cause  of  evil  The 
country  knows,  the  world  will  declare, 
none  served  it  so  well.  But  was  he 
conscious  of  serving  it  ?  Yes,  —  unless 
the  traitors  so  eagerly  sought  to  put  all 
these  interests  under  his  jurisdiction 
without  motive,  —  unless  his  eager  and 
unnecessary,  and,  as  was  declared  and 
is  now  agreed,  assumed  jurisdiction 
over  it,  his  "  far-seeing  "  care  and  untir- 
ing defence  of  them,  their  appeal  to  his 
decisions,  were  all  mistakes,  —  unless 
all  these,  and  his  hianner,  their  motives, 
and  the  assured  results,  coincided  so 
as  by  the  law  of  chances  was  impossi- 
ble,—  he  was  conscious.  To  deny  it 
is  to  say  that  he  was  imbued  with  the 
spirit  of  evil. 

The  world  knows  by  what  means  he 
assumed  to  settle  these  questions.  We 
have  seen  something  of  the  nature  of 
his  arguments.  With  these,  too,  men 
are  somewhat  familiar,  and  by  these 
let  them  judge  of  him  as  a  jurist 

There  is  not  in  them  all  one  faint  rec- 
ognition of  the  axioms  of  law,  —  one  po- 
sition founded  on  the  laws  of  nature  or 
the  rules  of  eternal  justice  and  the  right, 
—  one  notice  of  the  great  primal  rules 
laid  down  by  all  jurists  and  great  judges 


of  ancient  and  modem  tiroes,  or  of  the 
precepts  of  religion  by  which  any  magis- 
trate in  a  Christian  land  must  expect  to 
be  governed,  or  to  be  held  infamous  for* 
ever.  Nay,  more :  he  does  not  recog- 
nize at  all  those  fundamental  principles 
of  the  Constitution  and  Declaration 
which  are  staied  in  plain  terms  in  the 
first  lines  of  both.  He  did  worse  than  tor- 
ture and  pervert  language  :  he  reversed 
its  meaning.  He  denied  the  undoubted 
facts  of  history.  He  denied  the  setded 
truths  of  science.  He  slandered  the 
memory  of  the  founders  of  the  govern- 
ment and  framers  of  the  Declaration. 
He  was  ready  to  cover  the  most  glo- 
rious page  of  the  history  of  his  country 
^th  infamy,  and  insulted  the  intelli- 
gence and  virtue  of  the  civilized  world. 

Where,  outside  his  ^^  axiom  in  mar- 
als  and  politics^'^  can  be  found  so  mon- 
strous a  combination  of  ignorance,  injus- 
tice, falsehood,  and  impiety  ?  Ignorant 
of  the  meaning  of  an  "axiom" ;  denying 
the  truths  of  science ;  falsifying  histo- 
ry ;  setting  above  the  Constitution  the 
most  odious  theory  of  tyranny,  long  be- 
fore exploded ;  scoffing  at  the  rules  of 
justice  and  sentiments  of  humanity, — 
he  tied  in  a  knot  those  cords  which 
must  end  the  life  of  his  country  or  be 
burst  in  revolution. 

He  well  knew,  too,  what  would  be  the 
effects  of  his  decision.  Avowedly  he 
was  ready  to  lay  the  time-honored  prin- 
ciples of  civil  right  and  the  ancient  law 
at  the  feet  of  the  Slave  Power.  The  pas- 
sions of  a  mighty  people  never  raged 
more  fiercely  than  whilst  that  last  cause 
was  before  his  court,— save  in  open  war ; 
and  there  was  almost  war  then.  He  well 
knew  nothing  would  so  force  them  to  des- 
peration,— the  desperation  of  unlicensed 
barbarism  or  the  immovable  determi- 
nation of  truth  andjustice  driven  to  the 
wall.  He  knew,  or  if  he  did  not,  was  so 
ignorant  that  he  was  incompetent,  that 
in  such  a  contest  on  such  fundamental 
principles,  such  a  decision  must  end  in 
revolution  and  civil  war.  If  he  dreamed 
of  peace,  then  he  was  ready  to  seal  the 
doom  of  four  million,  and  at  the  end  of 
this  century  of  ten  million  souls. 

In  all  these  decisions  he  appeals  to 


1865.] 


Roger  Brooke  Taney, 


l6l 


no  one  great  principle.  There  is  little 
In  all  his  judgments  to  raise  him  above 
the  rank  of  respectable  jurists  ;  and  in 
these,  presenting  the  direst  occasion 
ever  o^red  to  a  true  lawyer,  to  one  fit 
to  be  called  an  American,  nothing  that 
will  not  cover  his  name  with  infamy, 
where,  on  hx  lesser  occasions.  Hale 
and  Holt,  Somers  and  Mansfield,  cov- 
ered theirs  with  honor,  and  added  to 
the  glory  of  their  country,  and  did  good 
to  mankind. 

He  was  not,  indeed,  of  that  class  of 
the  bad  to  which  the  profane  Jeffreys 
and  Scroggs  and  the  obscene  Kelyng 
belong.  But  he  was  as  prone  to  the 
wrong  as  was  Chief  Justice  Fleming  in 
sustaining  impositions,  and  Chancellor 
Ellesmere  in.  supporting  benevolences 
for  King  James ;  as  ready  to  do  it  as 
Hyde  and  Heath  were  to  legalize  "gen- 
eral warrants  "  '*  by  expositions  of  the 
law " ;  as  Finch  and  Jones,  Brampton 
and  Coventry,  were  to  legalize  '*  ship- 
money  "  for  King  Charles ;  as  swift  as 
Dudley  was  under  Andros ;  as  Bernard 
and  Hutchinson  and  Oliver  were  in  Co- 
lonial times  to  serve  King  George  III. ; 
as  judges  have  been  in  later  times  to 
do  like  evil  work.  Some  of  these,  per- 
haps, had  no  conscious  intent  to  do 
specific  wrong.  Their  failure  was  judi- 
cial blindness;  their  sin,  unconscious 
love  of  evlL  But  this  question  of  Slav- 
ery towers  above  all  others  that  Taney 
ever  had  to  consider ;  America  pro- 
fessed a  loftier  standard  of  justice  than 
England  ever  adopted  ;  the  question  of 
the  liberty  of  a  race  is  more  important, 


the  question  whether  the  State  is  found- 
ed on  might  or  on  right  is  more  vital, 
than  those  of  warrants  and  ship-money, 
benevolences  and  loans ;  ind  Roger 
Brooke  Taney  sinks  below  all  these 
tools  of  Tyranny. 

Hobbes  said,  that,  "when  it  should 
be  thought  contrary  to  the  interest  of 
men  that  have  dominion  that  the  three 
angles  of  a  triangle  should  equal  two 
right  angles,  that  truth  would  be  sup- 
pressed." Taney  did  deny  truths  hx 
plainer  than  that,  —  the  axioms  of  right 
itself.  He  did  more  than  any  other 
man  to  make  actual  that  awful  picture 
of  the  Great  Leviathan,  the  Mortal  God. 
How  just,  how  true,  were  those  last  sym- 
bols of  the  State  founded  on  mortal 
power  !  The  end  of  the  dread  conflict 
of  battle  is  the  same  as  the  end  of  the 
equally  dreadful  issue  of  the  Court 

But  those  he  served  themselves  with 
the  sword  cut  the  knot  he  so  secure- 
ly tied ;  his  own  State  was  tearing  off 
the  poisoned  robe  in  the  very  hour  in 
which  he  was  called  before  the  Judge 
of  alL  America  stood  forth  once  more 
the  same  she  was  when  the  old  man 
was  a  boy.  The  work  which  he  had 
watched  for  years  and  generations,  the 
work  of  evil  to  which  all  the  art  of  man 
and  the  power  of  the  State  had  been 
subservient,  that  work  which  he  sought 
to  finish  with  the  fatal  decree  of  his 
august  bench,  one  cannon-shot  shat- 
tered forever.  • 

He  is  dead.  Slavery  is  dying.  The 
destiny  of  the  country  is  in  ^e  hand  of 
the  Eternal  Lord. 


VOL,  XV.— jia  8S. 


XX 


J  62  .     '^^  Monti*  of  Sl  yoktt  d«  Maiha,         [February, 


THE  MANTLE  OF  ST-  JOHN  DE  MATHA. 

A  Lbcbnd  or  "Tkb  Rbo,  Wuiti^  amd  BLl^^'*  A.  D.  1154-1864. 

A  STRONG  and  mighty  Angel,    * 
Calm,  terrible,  anH  bright, 
The  CTOsi  in  blended  red  and  blue 
Upon  his  mantle  white! 

• 

Two  captives  by  him  kneeling, 

Each  on  his  broken  chain, 
Sang  praise  to  God  who  raiseth 

The  dead  to  life  again ! 

• 
Dropping  his  cross-wrought  mantle, 

"Wear  this,"  the  Angel  said; 
"Take  thon,  O  Freedom's  priest,  its  sign, — 

The  white,  the  blue,  and  red" 

Then  rose  up  John  de  Matha 
In  the  strength  the  Lord  Christ  gave. 

And  begged  through  all  the  land  of  France 
The  ransom  of  the  slave. 

The  gates  of  tower  and  casde 

Before  him  open  flew, 
The  drawbridge  at  his  coming  fell, 

The  door-bolt  backward  drew. 

For  all  men  owned  his  errand. 

And  paid  his  righteous  tax; 
And  the  hearts  of  lord  and  peasant 

Were  in  his  hands  as  wax. 

At  last,  outbound  from  Tunis, 

His  bark  her  anchor  weighed, 
Freighted  with  seven  score  Christian  soub 

Whose  ransom  he  had  paid. 

But,  torn  by  Paynim  hatred,  • 

Her  sails  in  tatters  hung ; 
And  on  the  wild  waves,  rudderless, 

A  shattered  hulk  she  swung. 

"  God  save  us ! "  cried  the  captain, 

"  For  nought  can  man  avail : 
Oh,  woe  betide  the  ship  that  lacks 

Her  rudder  and  her  sail ! 


i865.]  Thi  Mantle  of  St.  John  de  Matia.  163 

** Behind  us  are  the  Moormen; 

At  sea  we  sink  or  strand: 
There  's  death  upon  the  water,  . 

There  's  death  upon  the  Uzuil" 

Then  up  spake  John  de  Matha: 

"Gpd's  errands  never  faiil 
Take  thou  the  mantle  which  I  wear. 

And  msUce  of  it  a  sail" 

They  raised  the  cross-wrought  mantlei 

The  blue,  the  wlyte,  the  red ; 
Aod  .straight  before  the  wind  off-shore 

The  ship  of  Freedom  sped. 

^'Qod  help  us  I''  cried  the  seameOf 

^  For  vain  is  mortal  skill : 
The  good  ship  on  a  stormy  sea 

Is  drifting  at  its  will" 

Then  up  spake  John  de  Matha: 

^  My  mariners,  never  fear  1 
The  Lord  whose  breath  has  filled  her  sail 

May  well  our  vessel  steer ! " 

So  on  through  storm  and  darkness 

They  drove  for  weary  hours; 
And  lo !  the  third  gray  morning  shone 

On  Ostia's  friendly  towers. 

And  on  the  walls  the  watchers 

The  ship  of  mercy  knew, — 
They  knew  hx  off  its  holy  cross, 

The  red,  the  white,  and  blue. 

And  the  bells  in  all  the  steeples 

Rang  out  in  glad  accord, 
To  welcome  home  to  Christian  soil 

The  ransomed  of  the  Lord. 

^o  runs  the  ancient  legend 
By  bard  and  painter  told; 
And  lol  the  cyde  rounds  again, 

The  new  is  as  the  okll 

« 

With  rudder  foully  broken, 

And  sails  by  traitors  torn, 
Our  Country  on  a  midnight  sea 

Is  waiting  for  the  mom. 


164  ^^  Mantle  of  SL  John  de  Maika.  [February, 

Before  her,  nameless  terror; 

Behind,  the  pirate  foe; 
The  clouds  are  black  above  her, 

The  sea  is  white  below. 

The  hope  of  all  who  suffer, 

The  dread  of  all  who  wrong ; 
She  drifls  in  darkness  and  in  storm, 

How  long,  O  Lord!  how  long? 

But  courage,  O  my  mariners ! 

Ye  shall  not  suffer  wreck. 
While  up  to  God  the  freedman's  prayers 

Are  rising  from  your  deck. 

Is  not  your  sail  the  banner 

Which  God  hath  blest  anew, 
The  mantle  that  De  Matha  wore^ 

The  red,  the  white,  the  blue? 

Its  hues  are  all  of  heaven, — 

The  red  of  sunset's  dye, 
The  whiteness  of  the  moon-lit  doadi 

The  blue  of  morning's  sky. 

Wait  cheerily,  then,  O  mariners. 

For  daylight  and  for  land; 
The  breath  of  God  is  in  your  sail. 

Your  rudder  is  His  hand. 

Sail  on,  sail  on,  deep-freighted 

With  blessings  and  with  hopes; 
The  saints  of  old  with  shadowy  hands 

Are  pulling  at  your  ropes. 

Behind  ye  holy  martyrs 

Uplift  the  palm  and  crown; 
Before  ye  unborn  ages  send 

Their  benedictions  down. 

• 
Take  heart  from  John  de  Matha!  — 

God's  enands  never  foil ! 
Sweep  on  through  storm  and  darkness, 

The  thunder  and  the  hail  I 

a 

Sail  on!    The  morning  cometh. 

The  port  ye  yet  shall  win; 
And  all  the  bells  of  God  shall  ring 

The  good  ship  bravely  in ! 


i86$.] 


Needle  and  Garden. 


165 


NEEDLE   AND    GARDEN. 

THE  STORT  OP  A  SEAMSTRESS  WHO  LAID  DOWN  HER  KBBDLE  AND  BECAME 

A  STRAWBERRY-GIRL. 

WRITTEli  BY    HERSELF. 


CHAPTER   IL 

ALL  of  na  childroi  were  sent  to  the 
public  school  as  soon  as  we  were 
old  enoa^  There  was  no  urgency 
required  to  get  us  off  in  the  morn- 
ing, as  we  were  too  fond  of  books 
and  reading  to  be  found  lagging  as  to 
time,  neither  were  we  often  caught  at 
the  tail  of  a  dass.  Fred  was  particu- 
larly smart  in  his  studies,  and  was  gen- 
erally so  much  in  advance  of  myself  as 
to  be  able  to  give  me  great  assistance 
in  things  that  I  did  not  fully  understand, 
and  there  was  so  much  affection  be- 
tween us  that  he  was  always  ready  to 
play  the  teacher  to  us  at  home. 

When  fifteen  years  old,  I  was  taken 
firom  school, — my  education  was  fin- 
ished, —  that  is  to  say,  I  had  received  all 
I  was  to  get,  and  that  was  supposed  to 
be  enough  for  me :  I  was  not  to  shine 
in  the  world.  Though  far  short  of  what 
the  children  of  wealthy  parents  receive 
at  fiuhionable  establishments,  yet  it  was 
quite  sufficient  for  my  station  in  life, 
which  no  one  expected  me  to  rise  above. 
1  had  not  studied  either  French  or  mu- 
sic or  dancings  nor  sported  fine  dresses 
or  showy  bonnets ;  for  our  whole  bring- 
ing up  was  in  keeping  with  our  position. 
Was  I  not  to  be  a  sewing-girl  ?  —  and 
how  improper  it  would  have  been  to 
educate  me  with  tastes  which  all  the 
earnings  of  a  sewing-girl  would  be  un- 
able to  gratify !  I  presume,  that,  if  we 
had  had  the  means,  notwithstanding  our 
peculiarly  strict  training,  we  should  have 
been  indulged  in  some  of  these  superflu- 
ities. I  know  that  1  could  easily  have 
learned  to  enjoy  them  quite  as  much  as 
others  do.  But  we  were  so  taught  at 
home  that  the  desire  for  them  was  never 
so  strong  as  to  occasion  grief  because 


it  could  not  be  gratified.    I  think  we 
were  quite  as  happy  without  them. 

As  soon  as  I  had  left  school,  my 
mother  installed  me  as  her  assistant 
seamstress.  She  had  at  intervals  con- 
tinued to  work  for  the  slop-shops,  in 
spite  of  the  low  prices  and  the  discourte- 
ous treatment  she  received ;  and  now, 
when  established  as  her  regular  helper, 
I  saw  and  learned  more  of  the  trials  in- 
separable from  such  an  employment  I 
had  also  grown  old  enough  to  under- 
stand what  they  were,  and  how  mortify- 
ing to  an  honorable  self-respect  But 
I  took  to  the  needle  with  almost  as  great 
a  liking — at  least  at  the  beginning — as 
to  my  books.  The  desire  to  assist  my 
mother  was  also  an  absorbing  one.  I 
was  as  anxious  to  make  good  wages  as 
she  was ;  for  I  now.  consumed  more  stuff 
for  dresses,  as  well  as  a  more  costly 
material,  and  in  other  ways  increased 
the  family  expenses.  It  was  the  same 
with  Fred  and  Jane,  —  they  were  grow- 
ing older,  and  added  to  the  general  cost 
of  housekeeping,  but  without  being  able 
to  contribute  anything  toward  meeting 
it 

A  girl  in  my  station  in  life  feeb  an 
honorable  ambition  to  clothe  herself 
and  pay  for  her  board,  as  soon  as  she 
reaches  eighteen  years  of  age.  This 
praiseworthy  desire  seems  to  prevail 
universally  with  those  who  have  no  por- 
tion to  expect  from  parents,  if  their  do- 
mestic training  has  been  of  the  right 
character.  It  does  not  spring  from 
exacting  demands  of  either  fiither  or 
mother,  but  from  a  natural  feeling  of 
duty  and  propriety,  and  a  commendable 
pride  to  be  thus  far  independent  If 
able  to  earn  money  at  any  reputable 
employment,  such  girb  eagerly  embrace 
it    They  pay  their  parents  fix>m  their 


1 66 


Needle  and  Garden. 


[February, 


weekly  wages  as  punctuallj  as  if  board- 
ing with  a  stranger,  and  it  is  to  many 
of  them  a  serious  grief  when  dull  times 
come  on  and  prevent  them  fix)m  earning 
suffident'to  cdntfi&tte  these  payments. 

So  tmjustly  low  is  the  established 
scale  of  female  wages,  that  girls  of  this 
class  are  rarely  able  to  save  anything. 
They  earn  from  two  to  three  dollars  per 
week,  and  in  thousands  of  cases  not 
more  than  half  of  the  larger  sum.  It 
is  because  of  these  extremely  small 
wages  that  the  price  of  board  for  a 
working-)»oman  is  established  at  so 
.  low  a  figure, — being  graduated  to  her 
ability  to  pay.  But  low  as  the  price 
may  be,  it  consumes  the  chief  part  of 
her  earnings,  leaving  her  little  to  be- 
stow on  the  apparel  in  which  every 
American  woman  feels  a  proper  pride 
in  clothing  herself.  She  must  dress 
neatly  at  least,  no  matter  how  the  doing 
so  may  stint  her  in  respect  of  all  bodi- 
ly or  mental  recreation ;  for,  with  her,  ap- 
pearance is  everything.  A  mean  dress 
would  in  many  places  exclude  her  from 
employment,  —  while  a  neat  one  would 
insure  it  Then,  if  working  with  other 
girls  in  £ictories,  or  binderies,  or  other 
places  where  girls  are  largely  employed, 
and  where  even  a  fiishionable  style  of 
dress  is  generally  to  be  observed,  she 
feels  it  necessary  to  maintain  a  style 
equal  to  that  of  her  fellow-workers.  Thus 
the  tax  imposed  upon  her  by  the  abso- 
lute necessity  of  keeping  up  a  genteel 
appearance  absorbs  all  the  remainder 
of  her  little  earnings. 

Not  so  with  the  servant-girl  in  a 
£^mily.  She  pa]^  no  board-tax, — her 
earnings  are  all  profit  But  thus  hav- 
ing more  to  spend  on  dress,  she  clothes 
herself  in  expensive  fabrics,  until  she 
generally  outshines  even  her  mistress. 
So  numerous  is  this  class  in  our  coun- 
try, so  high  are  their  wages,  and  so 
uniformly  do  they  spend  their  earnings 
in  costly  goods  of  foreign  manufacture, 
all  now  paying  an  excessive  Import 
duty,  that  I  am  half  inclined  to  think 
these  foreign  cooks  and  chambermaids 
may  even  be  depended  on  to  pay  the  in- 
terest of  the  public  debt,  if  not  the  great 
bulk  of  the   debt  itselfl     Their  con- 


sumption of  imported  fiibrics  on  which 
a  high  duty  is  levied  is  very  laige,  and 
no  increase  of  price  seems  to  prevent 
them  from  continuing  to  purchase. 
Whoever  shall  inquire  of  a  shopkeeper 
on  this  subject  will  be  told  that  this 
class  of  women  generally  buy  the  most 
expensive  goods.  Indeed,  one  has  on- 
ly to  observe  them  in  the  street  to  see 
that  they  all  have  silks  as  essential  to 
their  outfit,  with  abundance  of  laces 
and  other  foreign  stuffs. 

The  change  from  the  low  wages,  the 
liard  work,  and  the  mean  fiire  in  Ireland 
to  the  high  pay,  the  light  work,  and  die 
abundant  food  of  the  kitchens  in  this 
country,  seems  to  produce  a  total  revo- 
lution in  their  habits  and  aspirations. 
Look  at  them  as  they  land  upon  our 
wharves,  all  of  them  in  the  commonest 
attire,  the  very  coarsest  shoes,  many 
without  bonnets.  Mark  the  contrast 
in  their  appearance  which  only  a  few 
months'  employment  as  cooks  or  cham- 
bermaids produces.  Every  thread  of 
the  cheap  home-made  fitbrics  in  which 
they  came  to  this  country  has  disap- 
peared ;  and  in  place  of  tiiem  may  be 
seen  flashy  silks  or  equally  flashy  chintZF- 
es  or  delaines,  all  the  product  of  foreign 
looms.  Every  dollar  .they  may  have 
thus  far  earned  has  been  spent  in-  per- 
sonal adornment  At  home,  extreme- 
ly low  wages  and  scanty  employment 
made  money  comparatively  unattainable* 
Here,  high  wages  and  an  active  compe- 
tition for  their  services  have  put  money 
into  their  hands  so  plenteously  as  to 
open  to  them  a  new  life.  They  see 
that  American  women  generally  dress 
extravagantly ;  that  even  their  own 
countrywomen  whom  they  meet  on 
their  arrival  here  are  expensively  at- 
tired ;  and  the  power  of  these  pernicious 
examples  is  such,  that,  when  aided  by 
that  natural  fondness  for  personal  dec- 
oration which  I  freely  confess  to  be  in- 
herent in  my  sex,  they  begin  their  new 
career  by  imitating  thent  At  home, 
public  example  taught  them  to  be  sav- 
ing of  their  money  ;  here,  it  teadies  no 
other  lesson  than  to  spend  it  There, 
it  came  slowly  and  painfully,  and  was 
consequentiy  valued ;  here,   it  oomes 


1865.] 


NeedU  a$ki  Garden. 


167 


readify  and  fertile  addng,  and  is  parted 
with  almost  as  qukkiy  as  it  has  been 
earned.  I  have  never  been  the  victim 
of  this  conmion  in£itiiation»  to  spend  my 
last  dollar  on  a  dress  that  would  not  be- 
come mj  station;  I  have  been  the  ar- 
chitect of  my  own  bonnets;  I  have 
never  been  the  owner  of  a  silloen  out- 
fit 

The  idea,  of  this  dass  of  women  being 
large  enough  )to  pay  the  interest  on  our 
pul^c  debt,  in  the  shape  of  duties  on 
the  imported  goods  which  they  con- 
sume, will  of  course  excite  a  smile  in 
all  to  whom  it  is  Suggested.  It  will  be 
a  wwnder,  moreover,  how  the  attention 
of  a  quiet  sewing-girl  like  myself  should 
have  been  drawn  to  a  subject  so  exclu- 
sively within  the  domain  of  masculine 
thought.  But  all  know  that  the  nation 
has  been  feeling  the  pressure  of  a  tmi- 
vcrsal  rifte  of  prices.  •  When  any  wom- 
an comes  to  buy  the  commonest  article 
of  dry  goods  for  the  fiunily,  she  finds 
that  foreign  fobrics  are  generally  much 
higher  in  price  than  goods  of  the  same 
qiality  made  in  diis  country.  On  ask- 
ing the  reason  for  this  difference,  she 
is  told  it  is  owing  to  the  tariil^  to  the 
greatly  enhanced  duty  that  has  been 
put  on  foreign  goods,  and  that  those 
who  buy  amd  consume  them  must  pay 
tiiis  dtt^  in  the  shape  of  an  increase 
of  price.  I  have  resolutely  refiised  to 
purchase  the  imported  goods,  and  pre- 
ferred those  made  at  home,  thus  un- 
conscioosly  becoming  a  member  of  the 
woman's  league  for  the  support  of  do- 
mestic manufactures. 

But  it  is  not  so  with  the  army  of 
foreign  servant-girls  among  us.  They 
choose  the  finest  and  most  expensive 
articles,  loaded  as  they  are  with  a  heavy 
duty.  There  are  millions  of  American 
women  who  purchase  in  the  same  way. 
This  craving  after  foreign  luxuries 
seems  to  be  unconquerable  by  any- 
diii^  short  of  absolute  inability  to  in- 
dulge in  it  But  I  suppose  there  must 
always  be  somebody  to  purchase  and 
consume  these  imported  goods.  And 
perhaps,  after  all,  it  is  well  that  there 
shoukL  be ;  for  if  the  nation  is  to  pay 
agreat  sum  every  year  for  interest  out 


of  its  import  duties,  it  could  hardly 
raise  the  means,  unless  there  were  an 
army  of  thoughtless  American  women 
and  Irish  servant-girls  to  help  it  do  so. 
if  they  are  willing  to  undertake  the 
task,  I  am  sure  they  have  my  consent 
If  the  reader  should  be  surprised  at 
the  idea  of  the  interest  on  the  public 
debt  being  paid  from  the  extravagance 
of  one  dass  of  women,  he  will  be  mxxt 
so  at  the  assertion  made  by  a  speaker 
in  the  highest  deliberative  body  in  the 
country,  that  another  class  would  be 
able  to  pay  the  debt  itsel£  He  said 
our  dairy-women  alone  were  able  to  do 
it,  —  that  in  ten  years  they  would  chum 
'  it  out,  —  because  within  that  short  peri- 
od they  would  produce  butter  enough 
to  discharge  the  whole  amount  This 
may  be  aU  true ;  for  how  should  I  know 
the  number  of  cows  in  this  country,  or 
the  disposition  of  the  dairy-maids  ?  But 
I  presume  he  had  not  consulted  them 
as  to  whether  they  were  willing  to  milk 
cows  and  chum  butter  for  a  term  of 
ten  years  for  the  sole  benefit  of  the 
nation.  I  am  inclined  to  think  they 
would  make  no  such  patriotic  sacri- 
fice, except  on  compulsion.  But  with 
tawdry  servant-girls  and  equally  taw- 
dry ladies,  the  case  is  widely  different ; 
the  latter  pursue  their  great  task  volun- 
tarily ;  indeed,  it  would  seem  that  they 
rather  enjoy  it;  so  that  the  more  one 
reflects  on  the  idea,  the  less  a()surd 
does  it  appear. 

It  is  very  certain  that  the  Irish  who 
come  among  us  have  for  many  years 
been  sending  home  millions  of  dollars 
to  pay  the  passage  hither  of  firiends 
whom  they  had  left  behind.  When 
these  friends  arrive  here,  and  have 
earned  money  enough,  they  repeat  the 
process  of  sending  for  others  whom 
they  in  turn  have  left  The  most  lim- 
ited inquiry  will  show  how  tiniversal 
this  system  of  thus  helping  one  anoth- 
er has  become.  Thus  the  stream  of 
remittances  swells  annually.  The  mil- 
lions of  money  so  transmitted  proves 
the  ability  of  this  dass  to  achieve  great 
pecuniary  results  in  a  certain  direc- 
tion. That  they  thus  exert  themselves 
is  strong  evidence  of  the  intense  afiec* 


i68 


Ntedle  and  Garden. 


[Februsay, 


tion  existing  among  them.  There  are 
innumerable  instances  of  the  fiither  of 
a  large  femily  of  children  coming  out 
as  a  pioneer,  then  sending  for  the  most 
useful  child,  and  their  joint  savings  be- 
ing devoted  to  sending  for  others,  un- 
til finally  the  amount  becomes  laige 
enough  to  bring  the  mother  with  the 
younger  children,  —  the  latter  being 
meanwhile  generally  supported  at  home 
from  savings  remitted  with  affectionate 
punctuality  from  this  country,  until  the 
happy  day  when  they,  too,  receive  the 
order  for  a  passage.'  Many  times  the 
.entire  femily  of  a  widowed  mother,  with 
the  mother  herself,  has  been  thus  trans- 
ferred to  our  shores  from  the  savings 
of  the  son  or  daughter  who  first  ven- 
tured over.  I  refer  to  this  remarkable 
trait  in  the  Irish  character,  not  to  cen- 
sure, but  to  praise. 

But  they  remit  only  a  fraction  of  their 
total  earnings,  yet  that  fi-action  consti- 
tutes a  very  large  sum.  The  remainder, 
which  so  many  of  them  spend  principal- 
ly in  dress,  must  be  enormous.  I  have 
neither  the  taste  nor  the  talent  for  re- 
ducing it  to  figures ;  but  the  more  one 
looks  at  this  question,  the  more  reason- 
able does  the  idea  seem  that  the  Irish 
servant-girls,  together  with  the  flash 
women  of  this  country,  have  deliber- 
ately undertaken  to  pay  the  interest  on 
our  gfeat  national  debt 

How  much  it  costs  to  clothe  one  of 
the^e  gaudy  creatures  I  cannot  say ;  but 
the  silks  and  finery  worn  by  them  are 
known  to  every  shopkeeper  as  expensive 
articles.  As  I  have  never  been  able  to 
indulge  in  such,  I  have  been  content  to 
admire  them  as  they  flirted  by  me  in 
the  street,  or  swept  up  the  aisles  of  our 
diurch  on  Sunday.  It  is  so  natural  for 
a  woman  to  admire  ornament  in  dress, 
that  I  could  not  avoid  being  struck  with 
the  finish  of  an  exquisite  bonnet,  the 
shape  of  a  fashionable  cloak,  or  the 
pattern  of  an  elegant  collar.  All  these 
were  paraded  through  the  streets  and 
in  the  church,  as  much  to  my  gratifica* 
jtion  as  to  that  of  the  wearers.  They 
felt  a  pride  in  making  the  display,  and 
I  a  pleasure  in  beholding  it  I  was  like 
the  poor  lodger  in  the  upper  stoiy  of 


an  old  house,  the  windows  of  which 
overlooked  a  magnificent  gaxtdcn.  The 
wealthy  proprietor  had  lavished  on  his 
domain  ail  that  taste  and  art  and  money 
could  command  to  make  it  gorgeous 
with  shrubbery  and  flowers.  The  poor 
lodger,  equally  fond  of  floral  beauties, 
beheld  their  glories,  and  inhaled  their 
soft  perfumes,  as  folly  and  as  appre- 
ciatively as  the  owner.  No  emotion 
of  envy  disturbed  her,  •*  no  longing  to 
possess  that  of  which  she  enjoyed  gra- 
tuitously so  abundant  a  share.  Her 
mere  oversight  was  all  the  possessaon 
she  desired.  * 

It  was  ever  thus  with  me  wfaen«tfae 
'  fine  dresses  of  others  swept  by  me  over 
the  pavement  I  confess  that  I  adsrured, 
but  no  repining  thought  ever  came  to 
disturb  the  perfect  contentment  with 
which  I  regaoided  my  plainer  costume. 
It  was  no  grief  to  me  to  be  unable  to 
indulge  in  these  luxuries.  I  saw  them 
all,  which  was  more  than  even  the  wear- 
ers could  say.  They  wore  them  for  the 
gratification  of  the  crowd  of  lookers-on ; 
and  if  the  crowd  were  gratified,  their 
mission  was  fulfilled.  But  I  did  some- 
times think  upon  the  cost  of  these  ex- 
pensive .outfits, — how  some  girls  equal- 
ly poor  with  me  must  toil  and  struggle 
to  obtain  means  for  an  indulgence  so 
unbecoming  their  position,  —  how  oth- 
ers, the  w«dthy  ones,  who,  having  nev- 
er earned  a  dollar,  knew  nothing  of  its 
value,  clothed  themselves  with  all  the 
lavish  finery  tiiat  money  could  com- 
mandy  while  the  meek  sewing-girl  who 
passed  them  on  her  way  to  the  tailor^s 
might  perhaps  be  kept  firom  starving 
by  the  sums  expended  on  the  rich  silks 
which  hung  round  them  in  superfluous 
flounces,  or  the  costly  brilliants  which 
depended  from  their  ears. 

It  was  said  by  Solomon,  that  '*  every 
wise  woman  buildeth  her  house."  It 
was  averred  by  another  wise  man,  that 
the  mother  of  a  fiimily  must  furnish  it 
with  brains,  and  that  he  never  knew  a 
man  or  woman  of  large  cs^city  who 
had  a  foolish  mother.  It  is  historically 
true  that  the  great  men  of  all  ages  have 
been  the  children  of  wise  and  careful 
mothen.    Such  women  understand  the 


1865.] 


NndU  and  Garden. 


169 


art  of  tIdUuDy  managing  the  whole  ma- 
chinery of  the  &mily.  Taste  and  man- 
ners come  to  sttch  by  nature.  They 
cultivate  the  heart,  the  mind|  and  the 
conscience.  They  moderate  the  aspi- 
rations of  their  daughters,  and  purify 
and  elevate  those  of  their  sons.  It  is 
from  the  influence  which  such  mothers 
•xerctse  over  the  household  that  re- 
spectability and  happiness  result  My 
notfacr  tai^ht  us  moderation  in  our 
vitws,  and  conformity  to  our  position 
in  life,  especially  to  avoid  overstepping 
it  i&  the  article  of  dress.  She  vras  at 
the  very  foundation  of  our  house ;  it 
may  be  said  that  she  built  it  While, 
therehre,  our  appearance  was  uniformly 
neat  asd  genteel,  none  of  us  were  at  any 
time  dressed  extravagantiy.  Thus  edu- 
cated from  childhood,  it  became  a  fixed 
habit  of  the  mind  to  feel  no  envious 
longings  at  the  display  which  others 
made. 

But  curiMity  could  not  be  repressed. 
It  was  always  interesting  to  know  the 
cost  of  this  or  that  fine  article  which 
others  wore.  There  was  littie  difficulty 
in  obtaining  this  information  as  to  the 
outfits  of  our  neighbors.  The  fine  lady 
invariaUy  told,  her  acquaintances  how 
much  her  doak  or  bonnet  cost,  and  fix>m 
these  the  information  was  communicat- 
ed to  the  servants,  whence  it  quickly 
radiated  over  the  entire  neighborhood. 
The  pride  seemed  to  be,  not  that  the 
new  bonnet  was  a  superb  affidr,  but  that 
such  a  fiishionable  artist  produced  it, 
and  that  ft  cost  so  mudi  money.  Had 
it  been  equally  beautifid  at  half  the  cost, 
or  the  handiwork  of  an  obscure  milliner, 
it  would  have  been  considered  mean. 
Thus,  instead  of  a  necessity  for  being 
extravagant,  it  struck  me  there  was  a 
desire  to  be  so,  and  principally  in  order 
tiuit  others,  when  they  looked  on  the 
display,  might  be  awed  into  deference, 
if  not  into  admiration,  by  exact  knowl- 
edge of  the  number  of  dollars  which 
dangled  finom  the  shoulders  of  the  fesh- 
ton2d>le  butterfly.  This  boastfiil  parade 
of  information  as  to  how  much  one 
expends  in  this  or  that  article  implies 
an  undertone  of  vulgarity  peculiar  to 
those  who  have  nothing  but  money  to 


be  proud  o£  The  cultivated  and  truly 
genteel  mind  is  never  guilty  of  it  Yet  it 
somehow  prevails  too  extensively  among 
American  women.  Display  is  a  sort  of 
mania  with  too  many  of  them.  A  fiim- 
ily  in  moderate  circumstances  marries 
off  a  daughter  with  a  portion  of  oAly 
two  or  three  thousand  dollars,  yet  it  is 
all  laid  out  in  furnishing  a  house  which 
is  twice  as  spacious  as  a  first  start  in 
life  can  possibly  require.  Not  a  dollar 
is  saved  for  the  fiiture.  The  wedding 
also  has  its  shams.  Costiy  silver  plate 
is  hired  in  large  quantities  fit>m  the 
manufiicturer,  and  spread  ostentatious- 
ly over  tables,  to  which  the  wedding- 
guests  are  invited,  that  they  may  ad- 
mire the  pretended  presents  thus  insin- 
cerely refM-esented  as  having  been  made 
to  the  bride.  When  the  feast  is  over, 
it  is  all  returned  to  the  maker.  Truth 
is  sacrificed  to  display.  The  latter  must 
be  had,  no  matter  what  may  become  of 
the  former. 

As  I  was  animated  by  the  common 
ambition  of  all  properly  educated  girls 
in  my  position,  to  pay  my  own  way,  so 
I  worked  with  my  needle  with  the  ut- 
most assiduity.  I  worked  constantiy 
on  such  garments  as  my  mother  could 
obtain  from  the  shops,  going  with  her 
to  secure  them,  as  well  as  to  deliver 
such  as  we  had  made  up,  each  of  us 
very  frequentiy  carrying  a  heavy  bundle 
to  and  fira  Should  the  tailor  sell  the 
cheapest  article  in  his  shop,  scarcely^ 
weighing  a  pound,  he  was  all  courtesy- 
to  the  buyer,  and  his  messenger  would' 
be  despatched  half  over  the  city  to  de> 
liver  it  Not  so,  however,  with  the? 
sewing -women.  There  was  no  mes* 
senger  to  wait  on  them ;  their  heavy- 
bundles  they  must  cany  for  themselves. 

The  prices  paid  to  us  were  always; 
low.    As  the  character  of  the  work  va- 
ried, so  did  the  price.    Sometimes  we 
brought  home  shirts  to  make  up  at  only 
twenty  cents  apiece,  sometimes  panta- 
loons at  a  trifle  more,  and  sometimea^ 
vests  at  a  shilling.    No  fine  lady  Icnows; 
how  many  thousand  stitches*  are  re- 
quired to  make  up  one  of  these  gar* 
ments,  because  she  has  never  thus  em- 
ployed her  fingers.     But  L  luiow,  ber- 


I/O 


Needle  and  Gardm. 


[February, 


cause  I  have  often  sat  a  whole  day  and 
fax  into  the  night,  in  making,  a  single 
shirt  No  matter  how  sick  one  might 
feel,  or  how  sultry  and  relaxing  the 
weather,  the  work  must  go  on;  for  it 
must  be  delivered  within  a  specified 
time.  I  have  seen  the  most  heartless 
advertisements  in  the  newspapers,  call- 
ing on  some  one,  giving  even  her  name 
and  the  place  of  her  residence,  to  return 
to  the  tailor  certain  articles  she  had 
taken  to  make  up,  with  a  threat  to  pros- 
ecute her,  if  they  were  not  returned  im* 
mediately.  But  the  poor  sewing -girl 
thus  publicly  traduced  as  a  thief  may 
have  been  taken  ill,  and  been  thus  dis- 
abled from  completing  her  task;  she 
may  have  lived  a  great  distance  from 
the  shop,  and  had  no  one  to  send  with 
notice  of  her  illness,  so  as  to  account 
for  the  non-delivery  of  the  woiic ;  yet 
in  her  helplessness  the  stigma  of  dis- 
honesty has  been  cruelly  cast  upon  her. 
One  of  my  schoolmates,  the  eldest 
chUd  of  a  widow  who  had  five  others  to 
provide  for,  had  just  begun  working  for 
a  shop  situated  a  full  mile  firom  her 
mother's  residence.  She  was  a  bright, 
lively,  and  highly  sensitive  girl  of  six- 
teen. The  day  after  bringing  home  a 
heavy  bundle  of  coarse  pantaloons,  she 
was  taken  down  with  brain-fever.  It 
was  believed  that  she  had  been  over- 
come by  the  effort  required  of  her  young 
and  fragile  frame  in  carrying  the  great 
burden  under  a  hot  noonday  sun.  She 
languished  for  days,  but  with  intervals 
of  consciousness,  during  which  her  in- 
ability to  finish  the  work  at  the  stip- 
ulated time  was  her  constant  anxiety. 
Her  mother  soothed  her  apprehension 
by  assurances  that  a  delay  of  a  few  days 
in  the  delivery  could  be  of  no  conse- 
quenoe;  and  so  believing,  in  fru:t,  she 
sent  nd  message  to  the  tailor  Aat  her 
child  was  ill  and  unable  to  complete 
ber  task.  A  week  of  suffering  thus 
passed.  Saturday  came  and  went  with- 
out tlie  wvrk  being  delivered  to  her  em- 
ployer. But  the  poor  girl  was  better, 
even  con^iralefoent ;  another  week  would 
probablyijeaAbk  her  to  resume  the  nee- 
dle. On  Sunday  I  went  to  see  her. 
She  «aS(<yuet^  iod.in  her  right  mind, 


but  still  anxious  about  her  Mutt  to  be 

punctual 

I  volunteered  to  call  the  next  morn- 
ing and  infcHrm  the  employer  of  her  ill- 
ness. I  did  sa  He  was  in  a  mean 
shop^  whose  whole  contents  had  been 
displayed  in  thick  festoons  of  jackets, 
shirts,  and  pantaloons,  on  the  outside, 
where  a  man  was  pacing  to  and  fro  up- 
on the  pavement,  whose  vocation  it  was 
to  accost  and  convert  into  a  purchaser 
every  passer-by  who  chanced  even  to 
look  at  his  goods.  I  was  most  unfavor- 
ably impressed  with  all  that  I  saw  about 
the  shop.  When  I  went  in,  the  im- 
pression deepened.  There  sat  the  pro- 
prietor in  his  shirt-sleeves,  a  vulgar- 
looking  creature,  smoking  a  cigar ;  nei- 
ther did  he  rise  or  cease  to  pu^  when 
I  accosted  him.  Why  shoukl  he  ?  I 
was  only  a  sewing-girL  I  told  him  my 
business,  —  that  my  firiend  had  been  ill 
and  unable  to  complete  her  work,  but 
that  she  was  now  recovering  and  would 
return  it  before  many  days.  Putting  on 
a  sneer  so  sinister  and  vicious  that  it 
was  long  before  I  ceased  to  carry  it  in 
my  memory,  he  replied, — 

"It  *s  of  no  consequence,  —  I  've 
seen  to  it    She  's  too  late." 

Though  the  man's  manner  was  offen- 
sive, yet  1  attached  no  pauticular  mean- 
ing to  his  words.  But  on  reaching 
home,  my  mother  showed  me  an  adver- 
tisement in  a  widely  circulated  penny^ 
paper  which  we  took,  warning  the  poor 
sick  sewing-girl  to  return  her  work  im- 
mediately, on  pain  of  being  prosecuted. 
There  was  her  name  in  fiiU,  and  the 
number  of  the  house  in  the  little  court 
where  she  lived.  My  mother  was  al- 
most in  tears  over  the  announcement 
We  knew  the  family  well ;  they  were 
extremely  poor,  had  been  greatly  afHict- 
ed.by  sickness,  while  the  mother  was  a 
model  of  patient  industry,  with  so  deep 
a  sense  of  religious  obligation  that  noth- 
ing but  her  perfect  reliance  on  the  wis- 
dom and  goodness  of  God  could  have 
supported  her  through  all  her  multi- 
plied afflictions.  Her  husband  had  been 
for  years  a  miserable  drunkard,  as  well 
as  dreadfiiUy  abusive  of  his  wife  and 
funily.    The  daughter  had  sat  next  to 


1865.] 


Needle  and  Garden. 


171 


me  at  school,  to  and  from  which  we 
had  been  in  the  daily  habit  of  going  to- 
gether. I  had  a  strong  affection  for  her. 
It  was  natural  that  I  should  be  over- 
whelmed with  indignation  at  the  man 
who  had  perpetrated  this  wanton  out- 
rage, and  excited  with  alarm  for  my 
poor  friend,  should  she  be  made  ac- 
quainted with  it  AU  day  I  was  in 
an  agony  of  apprehension  for  her.  It 
was  impossible  for  me  to  go  to  her,  as 
she  lived  a  great  way  oif,  and  we,  too, 
had  work  on  our  hands  which  was 
pressingly  required  at  the  end  of  the 
week. 

But  that  evening  I  stole  off  to  see 
her.  I  had  no  sooner  set  foot  within 
the  narrow  court  than  it  was  apparent 
that  something  had  gone  wrong.  There 
was  a  group  of  neighbors  gathered  round 
the  door,  conversing  in  a  subdued  tone, 
as  if  overtaken  by  a  common  calamity. 
They  told  me  that  my  poor  young  friend 
was  djing !  Some  one,  at  the  very  hotir 
when  I  was  in  the  shop  of  the  unfeel- 
ing tailor,  excusing  the  delinquency  of 
his  sick  sewing-girl,  had  incautiously 
gone  up  into  her  chamber  with  the 
morning  paper,  and,  in  the  absence  of 
her  mother,  had  read  to  the  unfortunate 
girl  the  terrible  proclamation  of  her 
shame.  The  effect  was  immediate  and 
violent  The  fever  on  her  brain  came 
back  with  renewed  intensity,  and  abso- 
lute madness  supervened.  All  day  she 
raved  with  agonizing  incoherency,  no 
medical  skill  availing  to  mitigate  the  vi- 
olence of  the  attack.  As  evening  came 
on,  it  brought  exhaustion  of  strength, 
with  indications  of  speedy  dissolution. 
When  I  reached  the  bedside,  the  poor 
body  lay  calm  and  still ;  but  the  yet 
unconquered  mind  was  breaking  forth 
in  occasional  flashes  of  consciousness. 
Suddenly  starting  up  and  looking  round 
the  group  at  her  bedside,  she  exclaim- 
ed,— 
«  A  thief,  mother !  I  am  not  a  thief!  •* 
Oh,  this  death-bed  — the  first  that  I 
had  ever  seen  —  was  awful  I  But  my 
nervous  organization  enabled  me  to  wit- 
ness it  without  trepidation  or  alarm. 
Love,  sympathy,  regret,  and  indigna- 
tion were  the  only  emotions  that  took 


possession  of  my  heart  I  even  held  in 
my  own  the  now  almost  pulseless  hand 
of  this  poor  victim  of  a  brutal  persecu- 
tion, and  felt  the  lessening  current  of 
her  innocent  life  become  weaker  and 
weaker.  For  three  long  hours — long 
indeed  to  me,  but  far  longer  to  her — 
we  watched  and  prayed.  Suddenly  the 
restlessness  of  immediate  dissolution 
came  over  her.  Turning  to  her  moth- 
er, she  again  exclaimed,  as  if  perfectly 
conscious,  — 

<^  Dear  mother,  tell  them  I  was  not  a 
thief!" 

Oh,  it  was  grievous  unto  heart-break- 
ing to  see  and  hear  all  this  I  But  it  was 
the  last  efibrt,  the  last  word,  the  closing 
scene.  I  felt  the  pulsation  stop  short ; 
I  looked  into  her  £u:e  ;  I  saw  that  res- 
piration had  ceased ;  I  saw  the  lustre 
of  the  living  eye  suddenly  disappear : 
her  gentle  spirit  had  burst  the  shackles 
which  detained  it  here,  and  winged  its 
flight,  we  humbly  trusted,  to  a  mansion 
of  eternal  rest 

Not  until  then  did  a  single  tear  come 
to  relieve  me.  We  sat  by  the  poor  girFs 
bedside  in  weeping  silence.  No  heav- 
ier heart  went  to  its  pillow  that  night 
than  mine. 

I  have  related  this  incident  as  an  il- 
lustration of  the  hazards  to  which  nee- 
dle-women are  exposed  when  dealing 
with  the  more  unprincipled  employers, 
I  will  not  say  that  tragedies  of  this  char- 
acter are  of  frequent  occurrence,  —  or 
that  the  provocation  to  them  has  not 
been  too  often  given.  There,  have  no 
doubt  been  frequent  instances  of  em- 
ployers being  defrauded  by  sewing-wom- 
en who  have  dishonestly  failed  to  return 
the  work  taken  out,  even  giving  to  them 
a  fictitious  name  and  residence.  In  such 
cases,  an  effort  to  obtain  redress  by  pub- 
lic exposure,  the  only  apparent  remedy, 
might  seem  excusable.  But  though  the 
fraud  is  vexatious,  yet,  as  the  utmost 
that  a  sewing-giri  could  steal  would  be 
of  small  value,  the  resort  to  newspaper 
exposure  seems  to  be  a  very  harsh  mode 
of  obtaining  restitution.  It  appears  to 
me  that  vengeance,  more  than  restitu- 
tion, is  the  object  of  him  who  hastily 
adopts  it    It  may  lead  to  sad  and  even 


172 


Needle  and  Garden. 


[February, 


&tal  mistakes, — &tal  to  life  itself  as 
well  as  to  the  purest  reputation,  the 
only  capital  which  too  many  sewing- 
women  possess.    • 

My  weekly  earnings  with  the  nee- 
dle, while  a  girl,  never  reached  a  sum 
more  than  enough  to  board  and  clothe 
me.  But  I  felt  proud  of  being  able  to 
accomplish  even  what  I  did.  When 
any  little  sum  for  recreation  was  want 
ed,  it  was  cheerfully  handed  out  to  me , 
but  our  recreations  were  rare  and  cheap, 
ibr  we  selected  those  which  were  mod- 
erate and  homely.  My  father  taught 
me  to  work  in  the  garden  ;  and  there  I 
spent  many  odd  hours  in  hoeing  among 
the  vegetables  and  flowers,  clearing  the 
beds  of  weeds,  and  raking  the  ground 
smooth  and  even.  This  employmen 
was  beneficial  to  health  and  appetite, 
and  afforded  an  excellent  opportunity 
for  reflection.  He  taught  me  all  the 
botanical  names  that  he  had  picked  up 
from  the  gentlemen  for  whom  he  work- 
ed, having  acquired  an  amusing  fond- 
ness for  remembering  and  repeating 
them.  I  learned  them  all,  because  he 
desired  me  to  do  so,  and  because  I  saw 
it  gratified  him  for  me  to  take  an  inter- 
est in  such  things.  I  do  not  think  this 
kind  of  knowledge  did  him  much  good ; 
for  he  was  unable  to  give  reasons  when 
I  inquired  for  them. 

But  the  use  of  these  sonorous  desig- 
nations for  conmion  things  was  a  sort 
of  conversational  hobby  with  him.  I 
cannot  say  that  he  was  unduly  proud 
of  the  little  draughts  of  learning  he  had 
thus  taken  at  the  neighboring  fountains, 
but  rather  that  it  became  a  sort  of  pas- 
sion with  him,  yet  regulated  by  a  sin- 
cere desire  to  impart  to  his  children  all 
the  knowledge  he  had  himself  acquir- 
ed. There  was  great  merriment  among 
us  when  he  first  began  to  use  some  of 
these  hard  botanical  names.  He  did  so 
with  the  utmost  gravity  of  countenance, 
which  only  increfbsed  our  amusement 
I  remember  one  summer  evening  he 
told  Fred,  on  leaving  the  supper-table, 
to  go  out  and  pull  up  a  Phytolacca  that 
was  going  to  seed  just  over  the  garden- 
fonce.  Fred  stopped  in  amazement  at 
hearing  so  strange  a  word ;  and  I  con- 


fess that  it  bewildered  even  me.  Then 
followed  the  very  explanation  which  fa- 
ther had  intended  to  give.  He  told  us 
it  was  a  poke-bush. 

"  Oh,"  said  Fred,  with  a  broad  laugh, 
« is  that  all  ?  " 

But  the  word  was  forthwith  written 
down,  so  as  to  impress  it  on  our  mem- 
ories, and  none  of  us  have  yet  forgotten 
it  It  was  singular,  moreover,  how  the 
imitative  faculty  gained  strength  among 
us.  We  children  acquired  the  habit  of 
speaking  of  all  our  garden-plants  by  such 
outlandish  names  as  father  then  taught 
us,  —  not  seriously,  of  course,  but  as  a 
capital  piece  of  fiin.  We  knew  no  more 
of  relations  and  affinities  than  he,  and 
so  used  these  names  much  as  parrots 
repeat  the  chance  phrases  they  some- 
times learn ;  still,  the  faint  glimmerings 
of  knowledge  thus  early  shed  upon  our 
minds  came  back  to  us  in  after  life, 
and,  explained  and  illustrated  by  study 
and  observation,  now  serve  as  positive 
lights  to  the  understanding. 

I  thus  learned  a  great  deal  by  work- 
ing in  the  garden,  and  at  the  same  time 
became  extremely  fond  of  it,  taking  the 
utmost  delight  in  planting  the  seeds  and 
watching  the  growth  of  even  a  cabbage- 
head,  as  well  as  in  keeping  the  ground 
clear  of  interloping  weeds.  I  even  learn- 
ed to  combine  the  useful  with  the  beau- 
tiful, which  some  have  declared  to  be 
the  highest  phase  of  art  Fred  did  all 
»the  digging,  and  in  dry  times  was  very 
ready  to  water  whatever  might  be  suf- 
fering from  drought 

My  mother  encouraged  these  labors 
as  aids  to  health.  The  time  they  occu- 
pied could  be  spared  from  the  needle, 
as  the  garden  required  attention  but  a 
few  months,  and  only  occasionally  even 
then,  while  the  needle  could  be  employ- 
ed the  whole  year  round.  Besides,  the 
family  earnings  were  not  all  absorbed 
by  our  weekly  expenses.  We  had  no 
rent  to  pay,  and  there  was  nothing  laid 
out  in  improvements.  Hence  a  small 
portion  of  father's  earnings  was  care- 
fully laid  by  every  week,  —  not  enough 
to  make  us  rich,  but  still  sufficient  to 
prevent  us,  if  continued,  from  ever  be- 
coming poor. 


166$.] 


Needle  and  Garden. 


»73 


While  thus  industriously  working  with 
the  needle,  we  began  to  feel*  the  effect 
on  female  labor  which  the  introduction 
of  sewing-machines  had  occasioned. 
The  prices  given  by  the  tailors  were 
not  only  becoming  less  and  less,  but 
our  employers  were  continually  more 
exacting  as  to  the  quality  of  the  work, 
and  evidently  more  independent  of  us. 
In  very  busy  seasons,  when  they  really 
needed  all  the  clothing  we  could  make 
up,  they  were  courteous  enough,  be- 
cause they  were  then  unable  to  do  with- 
out us.  But  the  introduction  of  sewing- 
machines  seemed  to  revolutionize  their 
behavior.  As  every  movement  of  the 
machine  was  exactly  like  every  other, 
so  there  was  an  astonishing  uniform- 
ity in  the  work  it  performed ;  and  if 
it  made  the  first  stitch  neatly,  all  the 
succeeding  ones  must  be  equally  neat 
Hence  the  beautiful  regularity  of  the 
work  it  turned  out  It  looked  nicer 
tiian  any  we  could  do  by  hand,  though  in 
reality  not  more  substantial  Its  amaz- 
ing rapidity  of  execution  was  another 
element  of  superiority,  against  which, 
it  was  believed,  no  sewing-woman  could 
successfully  contend. 

Heretofore,  I  had  noticed  that  our 
employers  had,  on  numerous  occasions, 
set  up  the  most  frivolous  pretexts  for 
reducing  our  wages.  In  all  my  expe- 
rience they  never  once  advanced  them, 
even  when  crowding  us  so  hard  as  to  ^ 
compel  us  to  sew  half  the  night  The  ' 
standing  cry  was  that  we  must  work 
for  less,  but  there  was  never  a  lisp  of 
giving  us  more.  At  one  time  the  reason 
was — for  reasons  were  plenty  enough 
— that  the  merchant  had  advanced  the 
prices  of  his  cloths ;  at  another,  that  a 
new  tariff  had  enhanced  the  cost  of 
goods ;  at  another,  that  the  men  in  their 
employ  had  struck  for  higher  wages. 
Generally,  the  reason  alleged  for  the 
new  imposition  on  us  was  foolish  and 
onsatisfiaxtory,  and  to  most  women,  who 
know  so  little  of  merchandise  and  tar- 
ifi,  quite  incomprehensible.  The  whole 
drift  was,  that,  as  others  laid  it  on  the 
tailors,  the  latter  must  lay  it  on  the  sew- 
ing-women. But  all  the  reasons  thus 
set  before  us  I  turned  over  in  my  mind, 


and  thought  a  great  deal  about  I  nev- 
er had  the  uncomplaining  timidity  of 
my  mother,  when  dealing  with  these 
men,  —  and  so,  on  more  than  one  occa- 
sion, was  bold  enough  to  speak  out  for 
our  rights.  It  struck  me,  from  the  vaJ 
rious  pretexts  set  up  for  cutting  down 
our  scanty  wages,  that  they  were  untrue, 
and  had  been  trumped  up  for  the  sole 
purpose  of  cheapening  our  work.  Some 
of  them  were  so  transparentiy  fidse  that 
I  wondered  how  any  one  could  have 
the  impudence  to  present  them.  Thostf 
who  did  so  must  have  considered  a 
sewing-woman  as  either  too  dull  to  de- 
tect the  fidlacy,  or  too  timid  to  expose 
and  resent  it 

We  had  on  one  occasion  just  begun 
sewing  for  a  tailor  who  was  considered 
to  be  of  a  better  class,  —  that  is,  one 
who  kept  shop  in  a  fashionable  street, 
and  sold  a  finer  and  better  description 
of  goods  than  were  to  be  found  in  the 
slop-shops,  —  and  while  making  up  a 
dozen  fine  vests,  were  congratulating 
ourselves  on  having  advanced  a  step 
in  our  profession.  The  man  was  very 
civil  to  us,  and  had  justly  acquired  the 
reputation,  among  the  sewing-women, 
of  dealing  £urly  and  courteously  with 
those  he  employed.  When  our  first 
dozen  vests  were  done,  we  took  them 
in.  There  was  decided  commendation 
as  to  the  exceUence  of  the  work, — it 
was  entirely  satisfactory,  —  the  price 
was  paid, — but  if  we  wanted  more,  he 
would  have  to  pay  us  so  much  less. 
This  was  at  the  very  beginning  of  the 
season,  when  such  vests  would  be  in 
demand.  Had  it  been  at  the  close, 
when  sales  were  dull  and  little  work 
needed,  I  could  have  understood  why 
a  reduction  was  demanded,  or  why  no 
more  vests  were  to  be  given  out ;  but 
now  I  could  not,  and  felt  mortified  and 
indignant 

My  mother  said  nothing.  On  such 
occasions  she  invariably  submitted  to 
the  imposition  without  remonstrance. 
It  is  the  misfortune  of  most  sewing- 
women  to  foe  obliged  to  bear  these  hard 
exactions  in  silence.  Continued  em- 
ployment is  with  them  so  great  a  neces- 
sity as  to  compel  them  to  do  so.    But 


174 


NeedU  and  Garden. 


[Februaiy, 


not  feeling  this  m^ncy  myself  and 
being  now  grown  a  little  older,  and  no 
doubt  a  little  bolder,  I  ventured  to  ad* 
dress  the  tailor  in  reply. 

«  Why  do  you  ask  us  to  take  less  for 
our  work,  Sir  ? '' 

«  Goods  have  gone  up,  Miss,"  he  re- 
sponded. "The  importers  charge  us 
twenty  per  cent  more." 

«  Do  you  require  them  to  take  less, 
as  you  do  us  ?  " 

"  Oh,"  said  he,  "  they  're  very  inde* 
pendent  We  may  buy  or  not,  they  say, 
just  as  we  please.  Everybody  wants 
these  goods,  —  they  are  very  scarce  in 
the  market,  and  we  must  pay  the  ad* 
vance  or  go  without  them." 

<<  Then,"  I  added,  "  if  the  goods  are 
so  scarce  and  desirable,  the  vests  made 
of  them  ought  to  be  equally  so,  and 
thus  command  a  corresponding  advance 
from  the  consumer." 

*'  Certainly,"  he  quickly  replied,  "  we 
put  the  advanced  cost  on  the  buyer." 

''  Then  the  same  reason  holds  good 
to  make  him  pay  more  and  us  to  take 
less,"  I  replied,  with  an  impetuosity  of 
tone  and  manner  that  I  could  not  resist 
^  If  you  get  the  advance  out  of  him, 
why  do  you  take  it  off  of  us  ? " 

I  saw  that  my  mother  was  growing 
resdess  and  nneasy,  but  I  continued,  — 

''Do  you  consider  the  reason  you 
have  given  for  reducing  our  scanty 
wages  to  be  either  just  or  generous  ? 
You  require  us  to  sit  up  half  the  night 
to  get  this  work  done,  that  you  may 
supply  customers  who,  by  your  own 
statement,  wiU  pay  you  as  good  a  profit 
on  our  next  week's  work  as  you  get  on 
that  which  we  have  just  delivered.  You 
advance  your  own  prices,  but  cut  down 
ours.  By  tiie  money  paid  us  you  see 
that  we  have  made  only  four  dollars  in 
the  week,  and  now  you  ask  us  to  work 
for  three.  Can  two  women  live  on  three 
dollars  a  week  ?    You  might " 

I  was  so  fully  under  way,  that  there 
is  no  knowing  what  more  I  might  have 
said,  had  not  my  mother  stopped  me 
short.  But  my  indignation  was  roused, 
and  I  was  about  to  begin  again,  when 
the  tailor  interposed  by  saying, — 

''  Do  as  you  please,  Miss,  **-  that 's 


my  price, — and  yours  too,  or  not,  just 
as  you  choose." 

Just  then  the  man's  wife  came  into 
the  shop,  and  called  off  his  attention 
from  U8»  I  noticed  that  she  vras  dressed 
in  the  extreme  of  the  faishion.  There 
were  silks,  and  laces,  and  jewelry  in 
abundance,  the  profits  of  the  unrequit- 
ed toil  of  many  poor  sewing-women.  I 
told  my  mother  we  would  take  no  more 
vests  firom  this  shop,  and  would  look 
for  a  new  employer,  and  started  to  go 
out  But  she,  being  less  excitable,  lin- 
gered, asked  for  a  second  bundle,  and 
came  out  with  it  on  her  arm.  I  carried 
it  home,  but  it  weighed  heavily  on  my 
hands.  We  made  up  the  vests,  but 
the  otherwise  pleasant  labor  of  my  nee- 
dle was  embittered  by  the  reflection  of 
how  great  a  wrong  had  been  done  to 
us.  The  sting  of  this  imposition  con-  , 
tinned  to  rankle  in  my  heart  so  long  as 
we  were  the  bondwomen  of  this  partic- 
ular man. 

This  persistent  tendency  to  a  reduc- 
tion of  wages  acquired  new  strength 
iroxci  the  introducdon  of  sewing-ma- 
chines. As  they  came  gradually  into 
general  use,  we  found  the  cry  raised  in 
all  the  shops  that  machine-work  was 
so  much  better  than  hand-work,  that 
nothing  but  the  former  was  wanted, 
— customers  would  have  no  other.  I 
am  satisfied  that  this  also  was  to  some 
extent  a  mere  pretext  to  accomplish  a 
fi:iesh  reduction  of  prices.  The  work 
may  really  have  been  better  done,  yet, 
notwithstanding  that  £su:t,  we  were  told 
the  shops  would  continue  to  employ  us 
at  hand-work,  if  we  would  do  it  at  the 
same  rate  with  the  machine-work.  It 
was  thus  evident  that  it  was  not  a  ques- 
tion as  to  the  quality  of  the  sewing,  but 
simply  one  of  price.  Machinery  had 
been  made  to  compete  with  muscle,  and 
we  were  fairly  in  a  dilemma  which  oc- 
casioned us  an  amount  of  uneasiness  ^ 
that  was  truly  distressing. 

I  did  not  attempt  to  fly  in  the  face  of 
this  state  of  things  by  argument  or  re- 
pining. I  saw  the  result — at  least  I 
thought  so — fi^m  the  beginning.  To 
satisfy  my  doubts,  I  first  went  to  see  the 
machines  while  in  operation.    How  they 


1865.] 


NeedU  and  Garden. 


175 


could  possibly  oyarcome  the  mechani- 
cal perplexities  of  needle  and  thread  I 
could  not  imagine ;  neither,  when  I  saw 
them  peribrming  their  work  with  such 
beautiful  simplicity,  could  I  clearly  un- 
derstand how  it  was  done.  But  my  cu- 
riosity was  gratified,  and  my  doubts 
resolved,  —  the  great  fad  was  made 
manifest  It  struck  me  with  a  sort  of 
dismay.  My  mother  was  with  me  on 
this  occasion,  and  she  was  quite  as  much 
discouraged  as  myself  for  her  darling 
theory  of  the  supremacy  of  the  needle 
had  been  blown  to  the  winds.  She 
would  be  compelled  to  admit  that  here- 
after the  machine  was  to  be  paramount, 
and  the  seamstress  comparatively  obso- 
lete. 

It  could  not  be  denied  that  the  ma- 
chines were  capable  of  doing  work  as 
beautifully  as  it  could  be  done  by  nee- 
dle-women. Then  we  were  confoimded 
by  the  amazing  rapidity  with  which  they 
made  the  stitches.  We  saw  that  it  was 
vain  to  expect  our  slow  fingers  to  com- 
pete with  the  lightning-like  velocity  at- 
tained by  simply  putting  the  foot  upon 
a  treadle.  I  have  no  doubt  that  thou- 
sands of  sewing-girls,  all  over  the  coun- 
try, were  equally  astonished  and  dis- 
heartened, when  they  came  to  be  as- 
sured of  the  success  of  these  machines. 
They  must  have  seen,  as  we  did,  that 
prices  would  speedily  go  down.  I  ndeed, 
all  who  were  in  immediate  communica- 
tion with  the  tailors  became  aware,  at  a 
very  early  day,  of  the  downward  ten- 
dency. I  confess  that  no  other  result 
was  to  be  expected,  and  that  in  this  in- 
stance the  call  upon  us  was  not  entirely 
a  pretext  of  the  tailors,  but  a  necessity 
forced  upon  them  by  a  new  agency  sud- 
denly introduced  into  their  business, 
which  they  must  immediately  counter- 
act or  embrace,  or  else  give  up  their 
occupation. 

The  first  tailor  who  bought  a  dozen 
machines  found  no  difficidty  in  hav- 
ing as  many  girls  taught  to  operate 
them.  The  makers  saw  to  it«that  no 
impediment  to  their  sale  should  occur 
from  girls  of  ordinary  intelligence  be- 
ing unable  to  use  them ;  so  the  first 
sewers  were  taught  either  by  the  in- 


ventors themselves  or  by  the  skilled 
mechanics  who  constructed  the  ma- 
chines. As  the  girls  learned  quickly, 
so,  when  only  a  small  number  had  be- 
come expert  at  using  them,  they  served 
as  teachers  to  others.  Thus  the  op- 
eratives were  multiplied  almost  as  rap- 
idly as  the  machines.  It  was  quite  as 
difficult,  at  the  first  introduction,  to  ob- 
tain the  machines  as  it  was  to  procure 
operators,  so  immediately  was  the  in- 
vention recognized  by  a  vast  industrial 
interest  as  the  forerunner  of  a  complete 
revolution  in  all  departments  of  sew- 
ing. 

But,  as  already  mentioned,  the  first 
tailor  who  bought  machines  was  able 
to  set  them  at  work  directly.  As  one 
machine  would  perform  about  as  much 
in  a  day  as  ten  women,  the  saving  in 
the  labor  of  the  nine  thus  dispensed 
with  enabled  him  to  reduce  the  price 
*  of  his  manu£2u;tured  goods  to  a  figure 
so  low  that  he  could  undersell  all  others 
in  the  trade.  Cheapness  being  every- 
where the  cry,  he  who  sold  at  the  low- 
est rates  was  able  to  dispose  of  the  most 
goods.  It  is  not  likely  that  he  gave  his 
customers  the  full  benefit  of  all  the  sav- 
ing made  by  discharging  nine  girls  out 
of  ten.  This  was  large ;  for,  while  he 
saved  their  wages,  he  made  little  or 
no  advance  in  those  of  the  remaining 
girl,  who  now  did  on  a  machine  as 
much  work  as  the  whole  ten  had  pre- 
viously done  with  their  needles.  The 
only  difference  to  her  was,  that  she 
dropped  the  needle,  and  employed  a 
machine.  She  was,  in  either  case,  a 
mere  sewing-girl ;  and  if  she  made  her 
two  or  three  dollars  a  week,  it  was 
enough.  She  had  never  made  more : 
why  should  she  be  permitted  to  do  so 
now?  It  would  have  been  altogether 
contrary  to  usage  to  permit  such  a  hand 
to  have  any  benefit  fi'om  any  general 
improvement  or  economy  in  the  em- 
ployer's great  establishment  The  men 
are  fi^quently  able  to  exact  it,  but  the 
women  never. 

A  tailor  thus  underselling  all  others, 
and  yet  making  greater  profits  than 
ever,  invited  imitation  and  competition. 
All  who  were  able  to  procure  machines 


176 


NeedU  and  Garden. 


[February, 


did  so  as  fast  as  the  Inventoi^  could 
supply  the  demand.  This  became  so 
enormous  and  pressing  that  new  manu- 
factories were  speedily  established,  and 
rival  machines  came  into  use  by  scores. 
Clothing -shops  and  other  establish- 
ments went  into  operation  with  a  hun- 
dred machines  in  each,  throwing  multi- 
tudes of  sewing-women  out  of  employ- 
ment. Steam  was  called  in  to  take  the 
place  of  female  fingers.  The  human 
machine  was  suddenly  discarded,  — 
turned  off,  without  notice  or  compunc- 
tion, to  seek  other  occupa^on,  or  to 
suffer  for  want  of  it 

No  wonder  that  we  should  be  dis- 
mayed when  such  a  prospect  as  this 
was  seen  opening  itself  before  us.  Nei- 
ther is  it  to  be  wondered  at  that  prices 
broke  down  as  the  revolution  progress- 
ed. I  was  confounded  at  the  low  rates 
to  which  wages  fell.  The  price  for  mak- 
ing a  shirt  was  reduced  one  half.  Fine* 
bosoms,  crowded  with  plaits  and  full  of 
seams,  were  made  for  a  few  cents  per 
dozen.  Even  the  mean  slop-shop  work 
was  so  poorly  paid,  that  no  woman, 
working  full  time,  could  earn  much 
more  than  a  dollar  a  week.  If  ill,  or 
with  a  fiunily  of  children  to  look  af- 
ter, her  case  was  slpparendy  hopeless. 
How  all  the  sewing-women  thus  sud- 
denly reduced  to  idleness  were  to  gain 
a  livelihood  I  could  not  comprehend.  A 
cry  of  distress  rose  up  from  the  toiling 
faimates  of  many  a  humble  home  around 
us.  The  privilege  to  toil  had  been  sud- 
denly withdrawn  from  them. 

Even  my  mother,  as  I  have  said,  be- 
gan to  wake  up  from  the  delusion  un- 
der which  she  had  hitherto  labored,  that 
the  needle  was  a  woman's  best  and  sur- 
est dependence  ;  for  here  was  a  revolu- 
tion that  had  not  entered  into  her  im- 
agination. Though  not  at  any  time  im- 
poverished or  even  straitened  by  it,  yet 
she  saw  how  others  were ;  and  it  led 
her  to  think  that  women  might  be  not 
only  usefully  employed  at  many  new 
things,  but  that  they  ought  to  be  quali- 
fied by  education  for  even  a  variety  of 
occupations,  so  that,  when  one  staflfgave 
way,  anotKer  would  remain  to  lean  up- 
on.   I  suggested  that  the  reason  why 


so  many  were  at  that  time  idle  was, 
that  all  of  them  had  been  brought  up 
to  do  the  same  thing, '—  to  sew,  —  and 
that  they  did  not  seek  employment  in 
other  pursuits  because  their  industrial 
education  had  not  been  sufficiently  di- 
versified ;  they  were  not  qualified,  and 
consequently  would  not  be  employed. 

A  woman  can  become  expert  at  the 
needle  only  by  proper  training  through  a 
regular  apprenticeship.  If  necessary  in 
that  instance,  it  is  equally  so  in  all  oth- 
ers. Every  great  city  abounds  in  em- 
ployments for  which  women  are  espe- 
cially fitted,  both  mentally  and  physt- 
caUy ;  and  they  are  shut  out  firom  them 
only  for  want  of  proper  training,  and 
the  deplorable  absence  of  available  fii- 
cilities  for  acquiring  it  The  boy  is  ap- 
prenticed, serves  out  his  time,  and  se- 
cures remunerative  wages.  Why  not 
^vt.  a  similar  training  to  his  sister? 
If  girls  were  properly  instructed,  they 
would  be  profitably  employed  It  has 
beei^so  widi  the  seamstress :  why  should 
it  be  otherwise  in  a  different  sphere  ? 

At  no  time  had  we  been  in  the  hab* 
it  of  telling  my  fiither  the  particulars 
of  our  experience  with  the  tailors.  He 
heard  only  incidentally  how  littie  we 
earned,  while  our  greatest  grievances 
were  rarely  spoken  of  before  him.  The 
truth  is,  that  he  had  a  very  poor  opin- 
ion of  the  crafi  I  am  sure,  that,  if  he 
had  known  as  much  of  them  as  we  did, 
it  would  have  been  even  more  unfavor- 
able. But  here  was  an  entirely  new 
trouble  to  be  met  and  overcome,  re- 
quiring the  utmost  wisdom  of  the  whole 
&mily  to  master  It  As  to  our  ceasing 
work,  no  one  dreamed  of  that ;  the  anx- 
iety was,  to  be  kept  at  it  Our  con- 
sultations and  discussions  were  conse- 
quentiy  frequent  and  long.  My  fiither 
joined  in  these  with  great  interest,  but 
could  suggest  no  remedy. 

I  had  noticed  that  our  penny  paper 
was  crowded  with  advertisements  for 
girls  who  understood  working  on  a 
sewing»machine ;  and  I  learned  fi-om' 
several  of  my  acquaintances  that  not 
only  was  the  demand  for  such  opera- 
tives unlimited,  but  that  an  expert  hand 
was  able  to  earn  quite  as  much  as 


1 86s.] 


N»tts  of  «  Pianist. 


177 


With  the  needle  formerly^  while  some 
were  earning  much  more.  It  struck  me 
that  I  had  overlooked  the  important 
&ct  that  all  the  sewing  for  the  public 
was  still  to  be  done  by  women,  even 
though  machines  had  been  invented  on 
whid^  to  do  it :  in  our  first  ciepression, 
we  had  innocently  supposed  that  in  fu- 
ture it  was  to  be  done  by  men.  It  was 
obvious,  then,  tiiat  our  only  course  was 
to  get  machines,  —  one  for  my  moth- 
er, and  one  for  mysel£  I  knew  that 
I  should  learn  quickly,  and  was  sure 
that  I  could  earn  as  much  as  any  one 
else. 

My  mother  entered  heartily  into  the 
plan,  as  it  held  out  to  us  the  certainty  of 
continued  employment  We  explained 
the  case  to  my  father,  and  he  also  ap- 
proved of  the  project,  and  agreed  to 
buy  us  a  machine.  He  thought  it  better 
to  begin  with  only  one,  to  see  whether 
we  could  understand  it,  and  find  a  sale 


for  our  work,  as  well  as  how  we  liked 
it  Besides,  when  these  machines  were 
first  made,  the  inventors  exacted  an  ex- 
orbitant price  for  them,  —  they,  too,  in 
this  way  levying  a  cruel  tax  on  the  sew- 
ing-women. The  cost  at  that  time  was 
fix}m  a  hundred  and  twenty  to  a  hun- 
dred and  fiity  dollars.  My  father  could 
manage  to  provide  us  with  one,  but  the 
expense  of  two  was  more  than  he  could 
assume.  I  was  then  within  a  few  weeks 
of  being  eighteen ;  and  it  was  arranged 
that  I  should  devote  the  intervening 
time  to  learning  how  to  operate  a  ma- 
chine, by  attending  one  of  the  schools 
for  beginners  then  opened  by  lady  teach- 
ers, and  tiiat  the  new  purchase  should 
be  my  birthday  present  So,  paying  ten 
dollars  for  instruction,  and  agreeing  to 
work  eight  weeks  without  wages,  I  took 
my  position,  with  more  than  a  dozen 
oUiers,  as  a  learner  at  the  sewing-ma- 
•chine. 


NOTES    OF   A   PIANIST 


I. 


THERE  is  a  class  of  persons  to 
whom  art  in  general  is  but  a  fash- 
ionable luxury,  and  music  in  particular 
but  an  agreeable  sound,  an  elegant 
superfluity  serving  to  relieve  the  tedium 
of  conversation  at  a  soiree,  and  fill  up 
die  space  between  sorbets  and  supper. 
To  such,  any  philosophical  discussion 
on  the  aesthetics  of  art  must  seem  as 
puerile  an  occupation  as  that  of  the 
fiury  who  spent  her  time  weighing  grains 
of  dust  with  a  spider's  web.  Artists, 
to  whom,  through  a  foreign  prejudice 
which  dates  back  to  the  barbarism  of 
the  Middle  Ages,  they  persist  in  refus- 
ing any  high  place  in  the  social  scale, 
are  to  them  only  petty  tradesmen 
dealing  in  suspicious  wares  0n  most 
instances  unshrewdly,  since  they  rarely 
get  rich,  which  aggravates  their  posi- 
tion) ;  while  what  they  call  performers 

VOL.  XV.  —  NO.  88.  12 


are  looked  upon  by  them  as  mere  trick? - 
sters  or  jugglers,  who  profit  by  the  dex- 
terity of  their  fingers,  as  dancers  and 
acrobats  by  the   suppleness   of  their- 
limbs.    The  painter  whose  works  deco- 
rate their  saloons  figures  in  the  bud- 
get of  their  expenses  on  a  line  with  the 
upholsterer,  whose  hangings  they  speak 
of  in  the  same  breath  with  Church's 
'<  Heart  of  the  Andes,"  and  Rosa  Bon- 
heur's  «  Cattie  Fair." 

It  is  not  for  such  people  that  I  write ; . 
but  there  are  others,  —  and  to  these  L 
address  myself — who  recognize  in  the,- 
artist  the  privileged  instnmient  of  a-. 
moral  and  civilizing  ifafluence ;  who  ap*- 
predate  art  because* they  derive  from  it 
pore  and  ennobling  inspirations ;  who^ 
respect  it  because  it  is  the  highest  ex- 
pression of  human  thought,  aiming  at- 
the  absoliie  ideal ;  andLwho  love  it  aa. 


178 


Notes  of  a  Pianist 


[February, 


we  love  the  friend  to  whom  we  confide 
our  joys  and  sorrows,  and  in  whom  we 
find  a  &ithful  response  to  every  move- 
ment of  the  soul. 

Lamartine  has  said,  with  truth,  *'  Mu- 
sic is  the  literature  of  the  heart;  it 
commences  where  speech  ends."  In 
fsLoX,  music  is  a  psycho-physical  phe- 
nomenon. In  its  germ,  it  is  a  sensa- 
tion ;  in  its  fiill  development,  an  ideal. 
It  is  sufficient  not  to  be  deaf  to  perceive 
music,  at  least,  if  not  to  appreciate  it 
Even  idiots  and  maniacs  are  subject  to 
its  influence.  Not  being  restricted  to 
any  precise  sense,  going  beyond  the 
mere  letter,  and  expressing  only  states 
of  the  soul,  it  has  this  advantage  over 
literature,  that  every  one  can  assimilate 
it  to  his  own  passions,  and  adapt  it  to 
the  sentiments  which  rule  him.  Its 
power,  limited  in  the  intellectual  order 
to  the  imitative  passions,  is  in  that  of 
the  imagination  unlimited.  *  It  responds  < 
to  an  interior,  indefinable  sense  pos- 
sessed by  all,  —  the  ideal 

Literature  is  always  objective :  it 
speaks  to  the  understanding,  and  deter- 
mines in  us  impressions  in  peeping 
with  the  determined  sense  which  it 
expresses.  Music,  on  the  contrary, 
maybe,  in  turn,  objective  and  subjec- 
tive, according  to  the  disposition  in 
which  we  find  ourselves  at  the  moment 
of  hearing  it  It  is  objective  when, 
affected  only  by  the  purely  physical  sen- 
sation of  sound,  we  listen  to  it  passive- 
ly, and  it  suggests  to  us  impressions. 
A  march,  a  waltz,  a  flute  imitating  the 
nightingale,  the  chromatic  scale  imitat- 
ing the  murmuring  of  the  wind  in  the 
^Pastoral  Symphony,"  may  be  taken 
as  examples. 

It  IS  subjective  when,  under  the  em- 
pire of  a  latent  impression,  we  discover 
in  its  general  character  an  accordance 
with  our  psychological  state,  and  we 
assimilate  it  to  ourselves  ;  it  is  then 
like  a  mirror  in  which  we  see  reflected 
the  movements  which  agitate  us,  with 
a  fidelity  all  the  more  exact  fi-om  the 
£Kt  that,  without  being  conscious  of  it, 
we  ourselves  are  the  painters  of  the 
picture  which  uaccUi. itself  before  our 
iiiagpnatinn. 


Let  me  explain.  Play  a  melancholy 
air  to  a  proscript  thinking  of  his  dis- 
tant home ;  to  a  deserted  lover ;  to  a 
mother  mourning  the  loss  of  a  child ; 
to  a  vanquished  warrior ; — and  be  as- 
sured they  will  all  appropriate  to  them- 
selves the  plaintive  harmonies,  and  fancy 
they  detect  in  them  the  accents  of  their 
own  grief. 

The  &ct  of  music  is  still  a  mystery. 
We  know  that  it  is  composed  of  three 
principles,  —  air,  vibration,  and  rhyth- 
mic symmetry.  Strike  an  object  in  an 
exhausted  receiver,  and  it  produces  no 
sound,  because  no  air  is  there ;  touch 
a  ringing  glass,  and  the  sound  stops, 
because  there  is  no  vibration  ;  take 
away  the  rhythm  of  the  simplest  air  by 
changing  the  duration  of  the  notes  that 
compose  it,  and  you  render  it  obscure 
and  unrecognizable,  because  you  have 
destroyed  its  symmetry^ 

But  why,  then,  do  not  several  ham- 
mers striking  in  cadence  produce  mu- 
sic? They  certainly  comply  with  the 
three  conditions  of  air,  vibration,  and 
rhythm.  Why  is  the  accord  of  a  third 
so  pleasing  to  the  ear?  Why  is  the 
minor  mode  so  suggestive  of  sadness  ? 
There  is  the  mystery,  —  there  the  unex- 
plained phenomenon. 

We  restrict  ourselves  to  saying  that 
music,  which,  like  speech,  is  perceived 
through  the  medium  of  the  ear,  does  not, 
like  speech,  call  upon  the  brain  for  an  ex- 
planation of  the  sensation  produced  by 
the  vibration  on  the  nerves ;  it  addresses 
itself  to  a  mysterious  agent  within  us, 
which  is  superior  to  intelligence,  since 
it  is  independent  of  it,  and  makes  us 
feel  that  which  we  can  neither  conceive 
nor  explain. 

Let  us  examine  the  various  attributes 
of  the  musical  phenomenon. 

I.  Music  is  a  physical  agent  It  com- 
municates to  the  body  shocks  which 
agitate  the  members  to  their  base.  In 
churches  the  flame  of  the  candles  oscil- 
lates to  the  quake  of  the  organ.  A 
powerful  orchestra  near  a  sheet  of  wa- 
ter ruffles  its  surface.  A  learned  trav- 
eller speaks  of  an  iron  ring  which  swings 
to  and  fro  to  the  murmur  of  the  Tivoli 
Falls.    In  Switzerland  I  excited  at  will. 


1865.] 


Notes  of  a  ^Pianist. 


179 


in  a  poor  child  afflicted  with  a  frightful 
nervous  malady,  hysterical  and  catalyp- 
tic  crises,  by  playing  in  the  minor  key 
of  £  flat  The  celebrated  Doctor  Ber- 
tier  asserts  that  the  sound  of  a  drum 
gives  him  the  colic.  Certain  medical 
men  state  that  the  notes  of  the  trumpet 
quicken  the  pulse  and  induce  slight  per- 
spiration. The  sound  of  the  bassoon 
is  cold  ;  the  notes  of  the  French  horn 
at  a  distance,  and  of  the  harp,  are  vo- 
luptuous. The  flute  played  softly  in 
the  middle  register  calms  the  nerves. 
The  low  notes  of  the  piano  frighten 
children.  I  once  had  a  dog  who  would 
generally  sleep  on  hearing  music^  but 
the  moment  I  played  in  the  minor  key 
he  would  bark  piteously.  The  dog  of  a 
celebrated  singer  whom  I  knew  would 
moan  bitterly,  and  give  signs  of  violent 
suflfering,  the  instant  that  his  mistress 
chanted  a  chromatic  gamut  A  certain 
chord  produces  on  my  sense  of  hearing 
the  same  eflect  as  the  heliotrope  on  my 
sense  of  smell  and  the  pine-apple  on 
my  sense  of  taste.  Rachel's  voice  de- 
lighted the  esu"  by  its  ring  before  one 
had  time  to  seize  the  sense  of  what  was 
said,  or  appreciate  the  purity  of  her 
diction. 

We  may  afiirm,  then,  that  musical 
sound,  rhythmical  or  not,  agitates  the 
whole  physical  economy, — quickens  the 
pulse,  incites  perspiration,  and  produces 
a  pleasant  momentary  irritation  of  the 
nervous  system. 

2.  Musk  is  a  moral  agent.  Through 
the  medium  of  the  nervous  system,  the 
direct  interpreter  of  emotion,  it  calls 
into  play  the  higher  faculties ;  its  lan- 
guage is  that  of  sentiment  Further- 
more, the  motives  which  have  presided 
over  particular  musical  combinations  es- 
tablish links  between  the  composer  and 
the  listener.  We  sigh  with  Bellini  in 
the  finale  of  La  Sonmambula ;  we  shud- 
der with  Weber  in  the  sublime  phantas- 
magoria of  Der  Freischutz ;  the  mystic 
inspirations  of  Pales trina,  the  masses 
of  Mozart,  transport  us  to  the  celestial 
regions,  toward  which  they  rise  like  a 
melodious  incense.  Music  awakens 
in  OS  reminiscences,  souvenirs,  asso- 
ciations.   When  we  have  wept  over  a 


song,  it  ever  after  seems  to  us  bathed 
in  tears. 

A  celebrated  pianist  tells  me  that,  in 
a  city  where  he  was  giving  concerts, 
he  became  acquainted  with  a  charming 
young  girL  He  was  twenty  years  old, 
and  had  all  the  poetic  and  generous  il- 
lusions of  that  romantic  age.  She  was 
sixteen.  They  loved  each  other  with- 
out daring  to  confess  it^  and  perhaps 
without  knowing  it  themselves.  But 
the  hour  of  separation  came :  he  was 
passing  his  last  evening  at  her  house. 
Observed  by  the  family,  he  could  only 
furtively  join  hands  with  her  at  the  mo- 
ment of  parting.  The  poem  was  but 
commenced,  to  be  arrested  at  the  first 
page :  he  never  saw  her  again.  Dis- 
heartened, distracted  with  grie^  he  wan- 
dered through  the  dark  streets,  until  at 
two  in  the  morning  he  found  himself 
.again  under  her  windows.  She  too  was 
awake.  Their  thoughts,  drawn  togeth- 
er by  that  divine  tie  which  merits  the 
name  of  love  only  in  the  morning  of 
life,  met  in  unison,  for  she  was  playing 
gently  in  the  solitude  of  her  chamber 
the  firsf  notes  of  a  mazurka  which  they 
had  danced  together.  "  Tears  came  to 
my  eyes,"  said  my  friend,  "  on  hearing 
this  music,  which  seemed  to  me  sublime  ; 
it  was  the  stifled  plaint  of  her  heart ;  it 
was  her  grief  which  exhaled  from  her 
fingers  ;  it  was  the  eternal  adieu.  For 
years  I  believed  this  mazurka  to  be  a 
marvellous  inspiration,  and  it  was  not 
till  long  after,  when  age  had  dispelled 
my  illusions  and  obliterated  the  adored 
image,  that  I  discovered  it  was  only  a 
vulgar  and  trivial  commonplace :  the 
gold  was  changed  to  brass." 

The  old  man,  chilled  by  years,  may 
be  insensible  to  the  pathetic  accents 
of  Rossini,  of  Mozart :  but  repeat  to 
him  the  simple  songs  of  his  youth,  the 
present  vanishes,  and  the  illusions  of 
the  past  come  back  again.  I  once  knew 
an  old  Spanish  general  wl^p  detested 
music.  One  day  I  began  to  play  to  him 
my  "  Siege  of  Saragossa,"  in  which  is 
introduced  the  "  Marcha  Real  "•  (Span- 
ish national  air),  and  he  wept  like  a 
child.  This  ^r  recalled  to  him  the  im- 
mortal defence  of  the  heroic  city,  be- 


)8o 


Notes  of  a  Pianist 


[February, 


hind  the  falling  walls  of  which  he  had 
fought  against  the  French,  and  sounded 
to  him,  he  said,  like  the  voice  of  all  the 
holy  affections  expressed  by  the  word 
kom£.  The  mercenary  Swiss  troops, 
when  in  France  and  Naples,  could  not 
hear  the  "  Ranz  des  Vaches  "  (the  shep- 
herd song  of  old  and  rude  Helvetia) 
without  being  overcome  by  it  When 
from  mountain  to  mountain  the  signal 
of  revolt  summoned  to  the  cause  the 
three  insurgent  Cantons,  the  desertions 
caused  by  this  air  became  so  frequent 
that  the  government  prohibited  it.  The 
reader  will  remember  the  comic  effect 
produced  upon  the  French  troops  m  the 
Crimea  by  the .  Highlanders  marching 
^  to  battle  to  the  sound  of  the  bagpipe, 
whose  .harsh,  piercing  notes  inspired 
these  brave  mountaineers  with  valor, 
by  recalling  to  them  their  country  and 
its  heroic  legends.  Napoleon  III.  finds 
himself  compelled  to  allow  the  Arab 
troops  incorporated  into  his  army  their 
barbarous  tam-tam  music,  lest  they  re- 
volt The  measured  beat  of  the  drum 
sustains  the  soldier  in  long  marches 
which  otherwise  would  be  ins}ipport- 
able.  The  Marseillaise  contributed  as 
much  toward  the  republican  victories 
of  1793,  when  France  was  invaded,  as 
the  genius  of  General  Dumouriez. 

3.  Music  is  a  complex  agent  It  acts 
at  once  on  life,  on  the  instinct,  the  forces, 
the  organism.  It  has  a  psychological 
action.  The  negroes  charm  serpents  by 
whistling  to  them ;  it  is  said  that  fawns 
are  captivated  by  a  melodious  voice ; 
the  bear  is  aroused  with  the  fife  ;  cana- 
ries and  sparrows  enjoy  the  flageolet ; 
in  the  Antilles,  lizards  are  enticed  from 
their  retreats  by  the  whistle  ;  spiders 
have  an  affection  for  fiddlers  ;  in  Swit- 
zerland, the  herdsmen  attach  to  the 
necks  of  their  handsomest  cows  a  large 
bell,  of  which  they  are  so  proud,  that, 
while  they  are  allowed  to  wear  it,  they 
march  at  the  head  of  the  herd ;  in  An- 
dalusia, th<f  mules  lose  their  spirit  and 
their  power  of  endurance,  if  deprived 
of  the  numerous  bells  with  which  it  is 
customary  to  deck  these  intelligent  an- 
imals ;  in  the  mountains  .of  Scotland 
and  Switzerland,  the  herds  pasture  best 


to  the  sound  of  the  bagpipe ;  and  in  the 
Oberland,  cattle  strayed  from  the  herd 
are  recalled  by  the  notes  of  the  trumpet 

Donizetti,  a  year  before  his  death,  had 
lost  all  his  faculties,  in  consequence 
of  a  softening  of  the  spinal  marrow. 
Every  means  was  resorted  to  for  re- 
viving a  spark  of  that  intellect  once 
so  vigorous ;  but  all  &iled.  In  a  single 
instance  only  he  exhibited  a  gleam  of 
intelligence ;  and  that  was  on  hearing 
one  of  his  friends  play  the  septette  of 
his  opera  of  "  Lucia."  "  Poor  Donizet- 
ti !  "  said  he  ;  "  what  a  pity  he  should 
have  died  so  soon  I "    And  this  was  all. 

In  1848,  after  the  terrible  insurrec- 
tion which  made  of  Paris  a  vast  slaugh- 
ter-house, to  conceal  my  sadness  and 
my  disgust  I  went  to  the  house  of  one 
of  my  friends,  who  was  superintendent 
of  the  immense  insane  asylum  in  Cler- 
mont-sur-Oise.  He  had  a  small  organ, 
and  was  a  tolerably  good  singer.  I 
composed  a  mass,  to  the  first  perform- 
ance of  which  we  invited  a  few  artists 
from  Paris  and  several  of  the  most 
docile  inmates  of  the  asylum.    I  was 

struck  with  the  bearing  of  the  latter, 
and  asked  my  friend  to  repeat  the  ex- 
periment, and  extend  the  number  of 
invitations.  The  result  was  so  favor- 
able, that  we  were  soon  able  to  form  a 
choir  from  among  the  patients,  of  both 
sexes,  who  rehearsed  on  Saturdays  the 
hymns  and  chants  they  were  to  sing  on 
Sunday  at  mass.  A  raving  lunatic,  a 
priest,  who  was  getting  more  and  more 
intractable  every  day,  and  who  often 
had  to  be  put  in  a  strait-jacket,  noticed 
the  periodical  absence  of  some  of  the 
inmates,  and  exhibited  curiosity  to 
know  what  they  were  doing.  The  fol- 
lowing Saturday,  seeing  some  of  his 
companions  preparing  to  go  to  rehears- 
al, he  expressed  a  desire  to  go  with 
them.  The  doctor  told  him  he  might  go 
on  condition  that  he  would  allow  him- 
self to  be  shaved  and  decently  dressed. 
This  was  a  thorny  point,  for  he  would 
never  attend  to  his  person,  and  be- 
came furious  when  required  to  dress; 
but,  to  our  great  astonishment,  he  con- 
sented at  once.  This  day  he  not  only 
listened  to  the  music  quietly,  but  was 


i86s.] 


Notes  of  a  Pianist. 


i8i 


detected  several  times  joining  his  voice 
with  that  of  the  choir.  When  I  left 
Qennont,  my  poor  old  pil6&t  was  one' 
of  the  most  constant  attendants  at  the 
rehearsals.  He  still  had  his  violent 
periods,  but  they  were  less  frequent ; 
and  when  Saturday  arrived,  he  always 
dressed  himself  with  care,  and  waited 
impatiently  for  the  hour  to  go  to  diapeL 
To  resume :  Music  being  a  physical 
a^nty  —  that  is  to  say,  acting  on  the  in- 
dividual without  the  aid  of  his  intelli- 
gence ;  a  moral  agenty  —  that  is  to  say, 
reviving  his  memory,  exciting  his  im- 
agination, developing  his  sentiment; 
and  a  complex  agpit,  —  that  is  to  say, 
having  a  physiological  action  on  the  in-^ 
stinct,  the  organism,  the  forces,  of  man, 
—  I  deduce  from  this  that  it  is  one  of 
the  most  powerful  means  for  ennobling 
the  mind,  elevating  the  morals,  and, 
above  all,  refining  the  manners.  This 
truth  is  now  so  well  recognized  in  Eu- 
rope that  we  see  choral  societies  —  Or- 
pheons  and  others  —  multiplying  as  by 
enchantment,  under  the  powerful  im- 
pulse given  them  by  the  state.  1  speak 
not  simply  of  Germany,  which  is  a  sing- 
ing nation,  whose  laborious,  peacefiil, 
intelligent  people  have  in  all  time  as- 
sociated choral  music  as  well  with  theur 
labors  as  with  their  pleasures ;  but  I 
may  cite  particularly  France,  which 
counts  ta<lay  more  than  eight  hundred 
Orpheon  societies,  composed  of  work- 
ingmen.  How  many  of  these,  who 
fcvmerly  dissipated  tiieir  leisure  time 
at  drinking-houses,  now  find  an  enno- 
bling recreation  in  these  associations, 
where  the  spirit  of  union  and  fraternity 
is  engendered  and  developed  !  And  if 
we  coold  get  at  the  statistics  of  crime, 


who  can  doubt  that  they  would  show  it 
had  diminished  in  proportion  to  the  in- 
crease of  diese  societies  ?  In  fact,  men 
are  better,  the  heart  is  in  some  sort 
purified,  when  impregnated  with  the 
noble  harmonies  of  a  fine  chorus  ;  and 
it  is  difficult  not  to  treat  as  a  brother 
one  whose  voice  has  mingled  with  your 
own,  and  whose  heart  has  been  united 
to  yours  in  a  community  of  pure  and 
joyful  emotions.  If  Orpheon  societies 
ever  become  established  in  America, 
be  assured  that  bar-rooms,  the  plague 
of  the  country,  will  cease,  with  revolv- 
ers and  bowie-knives,  to  be  popular 
institutions. 

Music,  when  employed  in  the  service 
of  religion,  has  always  been  its  most 
powerful  aujuliary.  The  organ  did 
more  for  Catholicism  in  the  Middle 
Ages  than  all  its  preaching;  and  Pal- 
estrina  and  Marcello  have  reclaimed 
and  still  reclaim  more  infidels  than  all 
the  doctors  of  the  Church. 

We  enter  a  house  of  worship.  Still 
under  the  empire  of  the  external  world, 
we  carry  there  our  worldly  thoughts  and 
occupations ;  a  thousand  distractions 
deter  us  from  religious  reflection  and 
meditation.  The  word  of  the  preacher 
reaches  the  ear  indeed,  but  only  as  a 
vague  sound.  The  sense  of  what  is 
said  is  arrested  at  the  surface,  without 
penetrating  the  heart  But  let  the 
grand  voice  of  the  organ  b^heard,  and 
our  whole  being  is  moved ;  the  physi- 
cal world  disappears,  the  eyes  of  the 
soul  open ;  we  bow  the  head,  we  bend 
the  knee,  and  our  thoughts,  disengaged 
from  matter,  soar  to  the  eternal  regions 
of  the  Good,  the  Beautiful,  and  the 
True. 


1 82  Ganuiut  Hall.  [Februaiy, 


GARNAUT   HALL. 

t 

HERE  or  hereafter  ?    In  the  body  here, 
Or  in  the  soul  hereafter  do  we  writhe, 
Atoning  for  the  malice  of  our  lives  ? 
Of  the  uncounted  millions  that  have  died, 
Not  one  has  slipped  the  napkin  from  his  chin 
And  loosed  the  jaw  to  tell  us  :  even  he, 
The  intrepid  Captain,  who  gave  life  to  find 
A  doubtful  way  through  clanging  worlds  of  ice,  — 
A  fine  inquisitive  spirit,  you  would  think, 
One  to  cross-question  Fate  complacendy. 
Less  for  his  own  sake  than  Science's,  — 
Not  even  he,  with  his  rich  gathered  lore. 
Returns  from  that  datk  journey  down  to  death. 
Here  or  hereafter  ?    Only  this  I  know. 
That,  whatsoever  happen  afterwards. 
Some  men  do  penance  on  this  side  the  grave. 
Thus  Regnald  Gamaut  for  his  cruel  heart 

Owner  and  lord  was  he  of  Gamaut  Hall, 
A  relic  of  the  Norman  conquerors,  — 
A  quaint,  rook-haunted  pile  of  masonry, 
From  whose  top  battlement,  a  windy  height, 
Regnald  could  view  his  twenty  prosperous  farms  ; 
His  creaking  mill,  that,  perched  upon  a  cliff. 
With  outspread  wings  seemed  ever  taking  flight ; 
The  red-roofed  cottages,  the  high-walled  park, 
The  noisy  aviary,  and,  nearer  by. 
The  snow-white  Doric  parsonage,  —  all  his  own. 
And  all  his  own  were  chests  of  antique  plate. 
Horses  and  hounds  and  falcons,  curious  books. 
Chain-armor,  helmets.  Gobelin  tapestry. 
And  half  a  mile  of  painted  ancestors. 
Lord  of  these  things,  he  wanted  one  thing  more, 
Not  having  which,  all  else  to  him  was  dross. 

For  Agnes  Vail,  the  curate's  only  child,  — 
A  little  Saxon  wild-flower  that  had  grown 
Unheeded  into  beauty  day  by  day. 
And  much  too  delicate  for  this  rude  world,  — 
With  that  intuitive  wisdom  of  the  pure. 
Saw  that  he  loved  her  beauty,  not  herself 
And  shrank  from  him,  and  when  he  came  to  speech 
Parried  his  meaning  with  a  woman's  wit. 
Then  sobbed  an  hour  when  she  was  all  alone. 
And  Regnald's  mighty  vanity  was  hurt 
^  Why,  th^n,"  snarled  he,  ''if  I  had  asked  the  Queen 
To  pick  me  some  fair  woman  from  the  Court, 
'T  were  but  the  asking.    A  blind  curate's  girl. 


186$.]  .  Gamaut  Hall.  1 83 

It  seems,  is  somewhat  difficult, — must  have, 
To  warm  her  feet,  our  coronet  withal  1 " 
And  Agnes  evermore  avoided  him, 
Clinging  more  closely  to  the  old  man's  side ; 
And  in  the  chapel  never  raised  an  eye, 
But  knelt  there  like  a  mediaeval  saint, 
Her  holiness  her  buckler  and  her  shield,  — 
That,  and  the  golden  floss  of  her  long  hair. 

And  Regnald  felt  that  somehow  he  was  foiled,  — 
Foiled,  but  not  beaten.    He  would  have  his  way. 
Had  not  the  Gamauts  always  had  their  will 
These  six  or  seven  centuries,  more  or  less  ? 
Meanwhile  he  chafed ;  but  shortly  after  this 
Regnald  received  the  sorest  hurt  of  alL 
For,  one  eve,  lounging  idly  in  the  dose. 
Watching  the  windows  of  the  parsonage, 
He  heard  low  voices  in  the  alder-trees, 
.  Voices  he  knew,  and  one  that  sweetly  said, 
^  Thine  1 "  and  he  paused  with  choking  heart,  and  saw 
Eustace,  his  brother,  and  fitir  Agnes  Vail 
In  the  soft  moonrise  lingering  with  clasped  hands. 
The  two  passed  on,  and  Regnald  hid  himself 
Among  the  brushwood,  where  his  vulpine  ejres 
Dilated  in.  the  darkness  as  they  passed. 
There,  in  the  dark,  he  lay  a  bitter  hour 
Gnawing  his  nails,  and  then  arose  unseen 
And  crept  away  with  murder  in  his  souL 

Eustace  !  curse  on  him,  with  his  handsome  eyes  I 
Regnald  had  envied  Eustace  many  a  day,  — 
Envied  his  fame,  and  that  exceeding  grace 
And  courtliness  which  he  had  learned  at  Court 
Of  Sidney,  Raleigh,  Essex,  and  the  rest : 
'For  when  their  father,  lean  Sir  Egbert,  died, 
Eustace,  whose  fortune  dangled  at  his  thigh, — 
A  Damask  blade,  —  had  hastened  to  the  Court 
To  line  his  purse,  perchance  to  build  a  name ; 
And  hitching  there  the  passion  of  the  time, 
He,  with  a  score  of  doughty  Devon  lads. 
Sailed  with  bold  Drake  into  the  Spanish  seas  ; 
Returning  whence,  with  several  ugly  scars,  — 
Which  made  him  lovelier  in  women's  eyes,  — 
And  many  a  chest  of  ingots,  —  not  the  less 
These  latter  made  him  lovely,  —  sunned  himself 
Sometimes  at  Court,  sometimes  at.  Gamaut  Hall, — 
At  Court,  by  fovor  of  the  Virgin  Queen, 
For  great  Elizabeth  had  smiled  on  him. 

So  Regnald,  who  was  neither  good  nor  brave 
Nor  graceful,  liked  not  Eustace  from  the  starts 
And  this  night  hated  him.    With  angry  brows, 


184  Gamaut  Hall  [Februaty, 

He  sat  in  a  bleak  chamber  of  the  Hall, 

His  fingers  toying  Tdth  his  poniard's  point 

Abstractedly.    Three  times  the  ancient  dock, 

Bolt-upright  like  a  mummy  in  its  case, 

Doled  out  the  hour :  at  lengdi  the  round  red  moon. 

Rising  above  the  ghosdy  poplar-tops, 

Looked  in  on  Regnald  nursing  his  dark  thoughti 

Looked  in  on  the  stiff  portraits  on  the  wall, 

And  dead  Sir  Egbert's  empty  coat-of-maiL 

A  quick  step  sounded  on  the  gravel-walk, 
And  then  came  Eustace,  humming  a  sea-song^ 
Of  how  the  Grace  of  Devon,  with  ten  guns, 
And  Master  Raleigh  on  the  quarter-deck, 
Bore  down  and  tackled  the  great  galleon, 
Madre  de  Dios,  raked  her  fore  and  aft. 
And  took  her  bullion,  — singing,  light  at  heart, 
His  first  love's  first  kiss  warm  upon  his  lip. 
Straight  onward  came  yoimg  Eustace  to  his  death  ! 
For  hidden  behind  the  arras  near  the  stair 
Stood  Regnald,  like  the  Demon  in  the  play. 
Grasping  his  rapier  part-way  down  the  blade 
To  strike  the  foul  blow  with  its  heavy  hilt 
Straight  on  came  Eustace,  —  blithely  ran  the  song^ 
"  Old  England* s  darlings  are  her  hearts  ofoak?^ 
The  lights  were  out^  and  not  a  soul  astir. 
Or  else  the  dead  man's  scabbard,  as  it  clashed 
Against  the  marble  pavement  when  he  fell, ' 
Had  brought  a  witness.    Not  a  breath  or  sound, 
Only  the  sad  wind  wailing  in  the  tower, 
Only  the  mastiff  growling  in  his  sleep. 
Outside  the  gate,  and  pawing  at  his  dream. 

Now  in  a  wing  of  that  old  gallery. 
Hung  with  the  relics  of  forgotten  feuds, 
A  certain  door,  which  none  but  Regnald  knew, 
Was  fashioned  like  the  panels  of  the  wall, 
And  so  concealed  by  carven  grapes  and  flowers 
A  man  could  search  for  it  a  dozen  years 
And  swear  it  was  not,  though  his  touch  had  been 
Upon  the  very  panel  where  it  was. 
The  secret  spring  that  opened  it  unclosed 
An  inner  door  of  iron-studded  oak. 
Guarding  a  narrow  chamber,  where,  perchance. 
Some  bygone  lord  of  Gamaut  Hall  had  hid 
His  threatened  treasure,  or,  most  like,  bestowed 
Some  too  adventurous  antagonist 
Sealed  In  the  compass  of  that  stifling  room, 
A  man  might  live,  at  best,  but  half  an  hour. 

Hither  did  Regnald  bear  his  brother's  corse 
And  set  it  down.    Perhaps  be  paused  to  gaze 


1865.]  Gamaut  Hall  185 

A  moment  on  the  quiet  moonlit  fece, 
The  £u:e  yet  beatttiflil  with  new-told  love ! 

Perhaps  his  heart  misgave  him,  —  or,  perhaps 

NoW|  whether  't  was  some  dark  avenging  Hand^ 
Or  whether 't  was  some  fatal  freak  of  wind, 
*We  may  not  know,  but  suddenly  the  door 
Without  slammed  to,  and  there  was  Regnald  shut 
Beyond  escape,  for  on  the  inner  side 
Was  neither  spring  nor  bolt  to  set  him  fi^ee  ! 

Mother  of  Mercy !  what  were  a  whole  life 
Of  pain  and  penury  and  conscience-smart 
To  that  half-hour  of  Regnald's  with  his  Dead  ? 

—  The  joyous  sun  rose  over  the  white  cliffs 
Of  Devon,  sparkled  through  the  poplar-tops, 
And  broke  the  death-like  slumber  of  the  HalL 
The  keeper  fetched  dieir  break&st  to  the  hounds  ; 
The  smart,  young  osder  whistled  in  the  stalls  ; 
The  pretty  housemaid  tripped  from  room  to  room ; 
And  grave  and  grand  behind  his  master's  chair, 
But  wroth  within  to  have  the  partridge  spoil, 
The  senile  butler  waited  for  his  lord. 
But  neither  Regnald  nor  young  Eustace  came. 
And  when  't  was  found  that  neither  slept  at  Hall 
That  night,  their  couches  being  still  unpressed, 
The  servants  stared.    And  as  the  day  wore  on, 
And  evening  came,  and  then  another  day, 
And  yet  another,  till  a  week  had  gone. 
The  wonder  spread,  and  riders  sent  in  haste 
Scoured  the  country,  dragged  the  neighboring  streams, 
Tracked  wayward  footprints  to  the  great  chalk  blufis, 
But  found  not  Regnald,  lord  of  Garnaut  HalL 
The  place  that  knew  him  knew  him  never  more. 

The  red  leaf  withered  and  the  green  leaf  grew. 
And  Agnes  Vail,  the  little  Saxon  rose. 
Waxed  pale  and  paler,  till  the  country-folk 
Half  guessed  her  ffite  was  somehow  intertwined 
With  that  dark  house.    When  her  pure  soul  had  passed,  — 
Just  as  a  perfume  floats  from  out  the  world,  — 
Wild  tales  were  told  of  how  the  brothers  loved 
The  self^-same  maid,  whom  neither  one  would  wed 
Because  the  other  loved  her  as  his  life  ; 
And  that  the  two,  at  midnight,  in  despair. 
From  one  sheer  cliff  plunged  headlong  in  the  sea. 
And  when,  at  night,  the  hoarse  east-wind  rose  high. 
Rattled  the  lintels,  clamoring  at  the  door,  • 
The  children  huddled  closer  round  the  hearth 
And  whispered  very  sofdy  with  themselves^ 
"  That 's  Master  Regnald  looking  for  his  Bride  1 " 


1 86  Gamaut  HalL  [February, 

The  red  leaf  withered  and  the  green  leaf  grew. 
Decay  and  dolor  settled  on  the  HalL 
The  wind  went  howling  in  the  dismal  rooms. 
Rustling  the  arras  ;  and  the  wainscot-mouse 
Gnawed  through  the  mighty  Gamauts  on  the  wall. 
And  made  a  lodging  for  her  glossy  young  * 

In  dead  Sir  Egbert's  empty  coat-of-mail ; 
The  griffon  dropped  from  off  the  blazoned  shield ; 
The  stables  rotted  ;  and  a  poisonous  vine 
Stretched  its  rank  nets  across  the  lonely  lawn. 
For  no  one  went  there,  —  t  was  a  haunted  spot 
A  legend  killed  it  for  a  kindly  home,  — 
A  grim  estate,  which  every  heir  in  turn 
Left  to  the  orgies  of  the  wind  and  rain. 
The  newt,  the  toad,  the  spider,  and  the  mouse. 

The  red  leaf  withered  and  the  green  leaf  grew. 
And  once,  't  is  said,  the  Queen  reached  out  her  hand 
And  let  it  rest  on  Cecil's  velvet  sleeve, 
And  said,  '^  I  prithee,  Cecil,  tell  us  now. 
Was  't  ever  known  what  happened  to  those  men,  — 
Those  Gamauts  ?  —  were  they  never,  never  found  ?  " 
The  weasel  face  had  £un  lo9ked  wise  for  her, 
But  no  one  of  that  century  ever  knew. 

The  red  leaf  withered  and  the  green  leaf  grew. 
And  in  that  year  the  good  Prince  Albert  died 
The  land  changed  owners,  and  the  new-made  lord 
Sent  down  his  workmen  to  revamp  the  Hall 
And  make  the  waste  place  blossom  as  the  rose. 
By  chance,  a  workman  in  the  eastern  wing. 
Fitting  the  cornice,  stumbled  on  a  door. 
Which  creaked,  and  seemed  to  open  of  itself ; 
And  there  within  the  chamber,  on  the  flags, 
He  saw  two  figures  in  outlandish  guise 
Of  hose  and  doublet,  —  one  stretched  out  full-length, 
And  one  half  fallen  forward  on  his  breast, 
Holding  the  other's  hand  with  vice-like  grip : 
One  face  was  calm,  the  other  sad  as  death, 
With  something  in  it  of  a  pleading  look. 
As  might  befall  a  man  that  dies  at  prayer. 
Amazed,  the  workman  hallooed  to  his  mates 
To  see  the  wonder ;  but  ere  they  could  come. 
The  figures  crumbled  and  were  shapeless  duat 


i86s.] 


The  Pleiades  of  ConneciicuL 


187 


THE   PLEIADES    OF    CONNECTICUT. 


IN  that  remote  period  of  history  which 
is  especially  visited  upon  us  in  oiur 
school-days,  in  expiation  of  the  sins  of 
our  fore^thers,  there  flourished  seven 
poets  at  the  court  of  Ptolemy  Philadel- 
phus.  Royal  favor  and  amiable  dispo- 
sitions united  them  in  a  dub:  public 
applause  and  self-appreciation  led  them 
to  call  it  The  Pleiades.  In  the  middle 
of  the  sixteenth  century,  Pierre  Ron- 
sard,  emulous  of  Greek  £une,  took  to 
him  six  other  poets  more  wretched  than 
himself,  and  made  up  a  second  Pleiades 
for  France.  The  third  rising  of  this 
rhythmical  constellation  was  seen  in 
Connecticut  a  long  time  ago. 

Connecticut  is  pleasant,  with  wooded 
hills  and  a  beautiftd  river;  plenteous 
with  tobacco  and  cheese ;  fruitful  of 
merchants,  missionaries,  sailors,  ped- 
dlers, and  singlewomen;  —  but  there 
are  no  poets  known  to  exist  there,  un- 
less it  be  that  well-paid  band  who  write 
the  rhymed  puf!s  of  cheap  garments  and 
cosmetics.  The  brisk  little  democratic 
State  has  turned  its  brains  upon  its  ma- 
chinery. Not  a  snug  valley,  with  a  few 
drops  of  water  at  the  bottom  of  it,  but 
rattles  with  the  manufacture  of  notions, 
great  and  small, — axes  and  pistols,  car« 
riages  and  clocks,  tin  pans  and  t03rs, 
hats,  garters,  combs,  buttons,  and  pins. 
You  see  that  the  enterprising  natives 
can  turn  out  any  article  on  which  a  profit 
may  be  made,  —  except  poetry..  That 
product,  you  would  say,  was  out  of  the 
question.  Nevertheless,  the  species 
poet,  although  extinct,  did  once  exist 
on  that  soil.  The  evidence  is  conclu- 
sive that  palaeozoic  verse-makers  wan- 
dered over  those  hills  in  bygone  ages. 
Their  moss-grown  remains,  still  visi- 
ble here  and  there,  are  as  unmistakable 
as  the  footprints  of  the  huge  wading 
birds  in  the  red  sandstone  of  Middle- 
town  and  Chatham.  O^  la  poisU  va- 
telle  se  nicker  t  How  came  the  Muses 
to  settle  in  Connecticut  ? 


Dr.  Samuel  Peters,  in  his  trustwor- 
thy history  of  the  Colony,  gives  no 
answer  to  this  question ;  but  among 
the  oldest  inhabitants  of  remote  Bark- 
hamstead,  for  whom  it  is  said  General 
Washington  and  the  worthies  of  his  date 
still  have  a  being  in  the  flesh,  there  lin- 
gers a  mythological  tradition  which  may 
explain  this  aberration  of  Connecticut 
character.    The  legend  runs  thus. 

In  the  first  half  of  the  eighteenth 
century,  English  readers  were  enter- 
tained with  elaborate  allegories,  in 
which  the  passions,  the  vices,  and  even 
the  habits  of  mankind  were  personified. 
Lighter  ethical  topics  were  served  up 
in  letters  from  Philotryphus,  Septimius, 
or  others  ending  in  »j,  and  in  commu- 
nications fi'om  Flirtilla,  Jack  Modish, 
and  Co.  Eastern  tales  and  apologues, 
meditations  on  human  life,  essays  on 
morality,  inquiries  as  to  whether  the 
arts  and  sciences  were  serviceable  or 
prejudicial  to  the  human  race,  disserta- 
tions on  the  wisdom  and  virtue  of  the 
Chinese,  were  all  the  fashion  in  litera- 
ture. The  Genius  of  authorship,  or  the 
Demon,  if  you  prefer  it,  was  so  precise, 
refined,  exquisite  in  manner,  and  so 
transcendentally  moral  in  ethics,  that 
he  had  become  almost  insufierable  to 
his  master,  Apollo.  The  God  was  a 
littie  tired,  if  the  truth  were  known, 
with  the  monotonous  chant  of  Pope,  in 
spite  of  his  wit  He  began  to  think 
that  something  more  was  required  to 
satisfy  the  soul  than  polished  periods 
and  abstract  didactic  morality,  —  and 
was -not  much  surprised  when  he  ob- 
served that  Prior,  after  dining  with  Ad- 
dison and  Co.,  liked  to  finish  the  even- 
ing with  a  common  soldier  and  his  wife, 
and  refresh  his  mind  over  a  pipe  and 
a  pot  of  beer.  But  Pope  was  dead,  and 
so  was  Thomson,  and  Goldsmith  not 
yet  heard  from.  There  was  a  £unine 
of  literary  invention  in  England.  Out 
of  work  and  wages  for  himself  and  his 


1 88 


The  PUiades  of  Connecticut. 


[February, 


troupe^  '^  disgiisted  at  the  age  and  dime, 
barren  of  every  glorious  theme,"  Phoe- 
bus Apollo  determined  to  emigrate. 
Berkeley  had  reported  fiivorably  of  the 
new  Western  Continent :  it  was  a  land 
of  poetical  promise  to  the  Bishop. 

*'  There  shall  be  sung  another  golden  age^ 
The  rise  of  empire  and  of  arts ; 
The  good  and  great  inspiring  epic  ngv, 
The  wisest  heads  and  noble*  hearti.'' 

Trusting  in  the  judgment  of  a  man 
who  had  every  virtue  under  heaven,  the 
God  of  Song  shipped  with  the  tuneful 
Nine  for  America.  Owing,  perhaps,  to 
insufficiency  of  transportation,  the  Gra- 
ces were  left  behind.  The  vessel  sailed 
past  Rhode  Island  in  a  fog,  and  disem- 
barked its  precious  freight  at  New  Ha- 
ven, in  the  Colony  of  Connecticut  In 
the  pleasant  summer  weather,  the  dis- 
tinguished foreigners  travelled  north- 
ward as  far  as  Litchfield  Hill,  and  thence 
to  Hartford,  on  the  banks  of  the  beau- 
tiful river.  They  found  the  land  well 
wooded  and  well  watered ;  the  natives 
good-natured,  industrious,  and  intelli- 
gent :  but  the  scenery  was  monotonous 
to  the  Pierian  colonists,  and  the  people 
distastefid.  The  clipped  hair  and  peni- 
tential scowl  of  the  men  made  heavy 
the  hearts  of  the  Muses  ;  their  daugh- 
ters and  wives  had  a  sharp,  harsh,  pert 
"  tang  "  in  their  speech,  that  grated  up- 
on the  ears  of  Apollo,  who  held  with 
King  Lear  as  to  the  excellence  of  a  low, 
soft  voice  in  woman.  Each  native 
seemed  to  the  strangers  sadly  alike  in 
looks,  dress,  manners,  and  pursuits,  to 
every  other  native.  Of  Art  they  were 
absolutely  ignorant  They  built  their 
temples  on  the  same  model  as  their  bams. 
Poetry  meant  Psalms  sung  through  their 
noses  to  the  accompaniment  of  a  bass- 
viol.  Of  other  musical  instruments, 
they  knew  only  the  Jews-harp  for  home 
delectation,  and  the  drum  and  fife  for 
training-days.  Doctrinal  religion  fur- 
nished them  with  a  mental  relaxation 
which  supplied  the  place  of  amuse- 
ment Sandemanians,  Adamites,  Peter- 
ites,  Bowlists,  Davisonians,  and  Roger- 
eens,  though  agreeing  mainly  in  essen- 
tials, found  vast  gratification  in  playing 


against  each  other  at  theological  dia- 
lectics. On  one  cardinal  point  of  dis- 
cipline only  —  the  necessitv  of  admin- 
istering creature  comfort  to  the  sinful 
body  —  did  all  sects  zealously  unite. 
They  offered  copious,  though  coarse, 
libations  to  Bacchus,  in  the  spirit-star- 
ring nun  of  their  native  land.* 

After  careful  observation,  the  nine 
ladies  conferred  together,  and  decided 
that  in  this  part  of  the  world  their 
sphere  of  usefulness  was  limited  and 
their  mission  a  fiiilure.  Polymnia,  Ura- 
nia, and  Clio  might  get  into  good  so- 
ciety, but  Thalia  and  Terpsichore  were 
sure  to  be  set  in  the  stocks  ;  and  what 
was  poor  Erato  to  expect,  but  a  whip* 
ping,  in  a  commonwealth  that  forbade 
its  women  to  uncover  their  necks  or  to 
expose  their  arms  above  the  wrists? 
They  made  up  their  minds  not  to  "lo» 
Gate";  packed  up  barbiton  and  phor- 
minx,  mask  and  cothum,  took  the  first 
ship  bound  to  Europe,  and  quietly  sailed 
away.  Their  stay  was  .short,  but  they 
left  their  mark.  To  thb  day  Phcebes 
are  numerous  in  Connecticut,  and  nine 
women  to  one  man  has  become  the 
customary  proportion  of  the  sexes.  As 
Greece  had  Parnassus,  Helicon,  and 
Pindus,  Connecticut  had  New  Haven^ 
Hartford,  and  Utchfield  Hill,  —  halting- 
places  of  the  illustrious  travellers.  There 
they  scattered  the  seeds  of  poetry, — 
seeds  which  fell  upon  stony  places,  but^ 
wanned  by  the  genial  influence  of  the 
Sun-God,  sprang  up  and  brought  forth 
such  finit  as  we  shaill  see. 

John  Trumbull  was  born  in  Water- 
town,  A.  D.  1750 ;  two  years  later,  in 
Northampton,  came  Timothy  Dwight: 
both  of  the  best  New  England  breed : 
Dwight, -a  grandson  of  Jonathan  Ed- 
wards; Trumbull,  cousin  to  kind  old 
Governor  Trumbull,  (whose  pompous 
manner  in  transacting  the  most  trifling 
public  business  amused  Chastellux  and 
the  Hussar  officers  at  Windham,)  and 
consequently  second  cousin  to  the  son 

*  It  may  faitetest  tempenuioe  men  to  learn  that 
•omewhat  kier  than  the  period  aOuded  to  above, 
Coimecticut  paid  exeit*  on  400^000  gallona  of  mm 
yeariy,  —  about  twogaUons  to  each  hihafaitaat»  youag 
and  old,  male  and  female* 


i86s.] 


The  Pleiades,  of  CannecticuL 


189 


of  the  Governor,  Colonel  John  Trum- 
bull, whose  paintings  might  possibly 
have  added  to  the  amusement  of  the 
gay  Frenchmen,  had  they  stayed  in 
America  long  enough  to  see  them. 
Cowley,  Milton,  and  Pope  lisped  in 
numbers ;  but  the  precocity  of  Trum- 
bull was  even  more  surprising.  He 
passed  his  college  examination  at  the 
age  of  eight,  in  the  lap  of  a  Dr.  Em- 
mons ;  but  was  remanded  to  the  nur- 
sery to  give  his  stature  time  to  catch 
up  with  his  acquirements.  Dwight,  too, 
was  ready  for  college  at  eight,  and  was 
actually  entered  at  thirteen. 

About  this  time  there  were  symptoms 
of  an  xsthetical  thaw  in  Connecticut 
There  had  been  no  such  word  as  play 
in  the  dictionary  of  the  New-England- 
ers.  They  worked  hard  on  their  stony 
soil,  and  read  hard  in  their  stony  books 
of  doctrine.  That  stimulant  to  the 
mind,  outside  of  daily  routine,  which 
the  human  race  must  have  under  all 
circumstances,  (we  call  it  excitement 
nowadays,)  was  found  by  the  better  sort 
in  theological  quarrels,  by  the  baser 
in  New  England  rum,  —  the  two  things 
most  cheering  to  the  spirit  of  man,  if  By- 
ron is  to  be  believed.  Education  meant 
solid  learning,  —  that  is  to  say,  studies 
bearing  upon  divinity,  law,  medicine,  or 
merchandise ;  and  to  peruse  works  of 
the  imagination  was  considered  an  idle 
waste  of  time,  —  indeed,  as  partaking 
somewhat  of  the  nature  of  sin.  But  the 
growing  taste  of  Connecticut  was  no 
longer  satisfied  with  Dr.  Watts's  moral 
lyrics,  whose  jingle  is  still  so  instructive 
and  pleasant  to  extreme  youth.  Milton 
and  Dryden,  Thomson  and  Pope,  were 
read  and  admired  ;  **  The  Spectator  " 
was  quoted  as  the  standard  of  style  and 
of  good  manners ;  and  daring  spirits 
even  ventured  upon  Richardson's  nov- 
els and  **  Tristram  Shandy." 

While  in  this  literary  revival  all  Yale 
was  anxious,  young  Dwight  and  Trum- 
bull were  indulging  in  hope.  Smitten 
with  the  love  of  verse,  Dwight  an- 
nounced his  rising  genius  (these  are  the 
words  of  the  "Connecticut  Magazine 
and  New  Haven  Gazette  " )  by  versions 
of  two  odes  of  Horace,  and  by  "  Ameri- 


ca," a  poem  after  the  manner  of  Pope's 
"  Windsor  Forest"  At  the  age  of  nine- 
teen he  invoked  the  venerable  Muse  who 
has  been  called  in  as  the  **  Poet's  Lud- 
na,"  since  Homer  established  her  pro- 
fessional reputation,  and  dashed  boldly 
at  the  epic,  —  "  the  greatest  work  hu- 
man nature  is  capable  of"  His  great 
work  was  *'  The  Conquest  of  Canaan." 
Trumbull,  more  modest,  wrote  "The 
Progress  of  Dulness,"  in  three  cantos. 
To  these  young  men  of  genius  came 
later  two  other  nurslings  of  the  Muses, 
—  David  Humphreys  from  Derby,  and 
Joel  Barlow  from  Reading.  They  caught 
the  poetical  distemper.  Barlow,  fired 
by  Dwight's  example,  began  **  The  Vis- 
ion of  Columbus."  The  four  friends, 
young  and  hopeful,  encouraging  and 
praising  each  other,  gained  some  lo- 
cal reputation  by  fugitive  pieces  in  imi- 
tation of  English  models,  published 
"  Spectator  "  essays  in  the  New  Haven 
papers,  and  forestalled  all  cavillers  by 
damning  the  critics  afler  the  method 
used  by  Dryden  and  Pope  against 
Settle  and  Cibber. 

Trumbull  chose  the  law  as  a  profes- 
sion, and  went  to  Boston  to  finish  his 
studies  in  1773.  A  clerk  in  the  office  of 
John  Adams,  who  lodged  with  Cushing, 
Speaker  of  the  Massachusetts  House, 
could  have  read  but  little  law  in  the 
midst  of  that  political  whirlwind  which 
was  driving  men  of  every  trade  and  pro- 
fession into  revolution.  Boston  stub- 
bornly persevered  in  the  resolution  not 
to  consume  British  goods,  notwithstand- 
ing the  efforts  of  the  Addressers  and 
Protesters  and  Tories  generally,  who 
preached  their  antiquated  doctrines  of 
passive  obedience  and  divine  right,  and 
painted  in  their  darkest  colors  the  pri- 
vation and  suffering  caused  by  the  block- 
ade. Trumbull  joined  the  Whigs,  pen 
in  hand,  and  laid  stoutly  about  him 
both  in  prose  and  verse.  Then  came 
the  skirmish  at  Lexington,  and  all  New 
England  sprang  to  arms.  Dwight  join- 
ed the  army  as  chaplain.  Humphreys 
volunteered  on  Putnam's  staff.  Bar- 
low served  in  the  ranks  at  the  Battle  of 
White  Plains ;  and  then,  after  devoting 
his  mind  to  theology  for  six  weeks^  ac- 


190 


The  Pleiades  of  Connecticut. 


[February; 


cepted  the  position  of  chaplain  in  a 
Massachusetts  regiment  The  little 
knot  of  poets  was  broken  up.  One  of 
them  asked  in  mournful  numbers, — 

"Amid  the  roar  of  drums  and  guns» 
When  meet  again  the  Muses' aoos  f  ** 

They  met  again  after  the  thunder 
and  lightning  were  over,  but  in  another 
place.  New  Haven  saw  the  rising  of 
the  constellation ;  its  meridian  bril- 
liancy shone  upon  Hartford.  At  the 
close  of  the  war,  the  four  poetical  lumi- 
naries, as  they  were  called  by  the  "  Con- 
necticut Magazine  and  New  Haven 
Gazette,"  hung  up  the  sword  in  Hart- 
ford and  grasped  the  lyre.  The  epi- 
demic of  verse  broke  out  again.  The 
four  added  to  their  number  Dr.  Lemuel 
Hopkins,  a  physician,  Richard  Alsop,  a 
gentieman  of  much  cultivation,  and 
Theodore  Dwight,  a  younger  brother 
of  Timothy.  There  were  now  seven 
stars  of  the  first  magnitude.  Many  oth- 
er aspirants  to  a  place  in  the  heavenis 
were  necessarily  excluded ;  among  them, 
two  are  worthy  of  notice, — Noah  Web- 
ster, who  was  already  then  and  there 
meditating  his  method  for  teaching  the 
American  people  to  mispel^  and  Oliver 
Wolcott,  afterward  Secretary  of  the 
Treasury.  Bound  by  the  sweet  influ- 
ences of  the  Pleiades,  Wolcott  wrote  a 
poem, — "  The  Judgment  of  Paris."  His 
biographer,  who  has  read  it,  has  given 
his  critical  opinion  that  "it  would  be 
much  worse  than  Barlow^s  epic,  were  it 
not  much  shorter." 

The  year  1783  brought  peace  with 
England,  but  it  found  matters  in  a  dan- 
gerous and  unsetded  state  at  home.  Af- 
ter seven  years  of  revolution  it  takes 
some  time  to  bring  a  people  down  to  the 
safe  and  sober  jog-trot  of  every-day  life. 
The  lower  classes  were  demoralized  by 
the  license  and  tumult  of  war,  and  by 
poverty ;  they  were  surly  and  turbulent, 
and  showed  a  disposition  to  shake  off 
yokes  domestic  as  well  as  foreign, — 
the  yoke  of  taxation  in  particular :  for 
every  man  of  them  believed  that  he  had 
already  done  more,  suffered  more,  and 
paid  more,  than  his  £iir  share.  The 
calamity  of  a  worthless  paper  legal-ten- 


der currency  added  to  the  general  dis* 
content  Hence  any  public  measure 
involving  further  disbursements  met 
with  angry  opposition.  Large  arrears  of 
pay  were  due  to  soldiers,  and  bounties 
had  been  promised  te  induce  them  to 
disband  peacefully,  and  to  compensate 
them  for  the  depreciation  of  the  curren- 
cy. Congress  had  also  granted  five 
years'  extra  pay  to  officers,  in  lieu  of 
the  half-pay  for  life  which  was  first  vot- 
ed. The  army,  in  consequence,  be- 
came very  xmpopular.  A  great  clamor 
was  raised  against  the  Cincinnati  So- 
ciety, and  factious  patriots  pretended 
to  see  in  it  the  foundation  of  an  hered- 
itary aristocracy.  The  public  irritabil- 
ity, excited  by  pretexts  like  these,  broke 
out  into  violence.  In  Connecticut,  mobs 
collected  to  prevent  the  army  officers 
from  receiving  the  certificates  for  the 
five  years'  pay,  and  a  convention  was 
assembled  to  elect  men  pledged  to  non- 
payment Shay  and  Shattuck  headed  an 
insurrection  in  Massachusetts.  There 
were  riots  at  Exeter,  in  New  Hamp- 
shire. When  Shay's  band  was  defeat- 
ed and  driven  out  of  the  State,  Rhode 
Island — then  sometimes  called  Rogue's 
Island,  fh)m  her  paper -money  opera- 
tions —  refused  to  give  up  the  reftigee 
rebels.  The  times  looked  gloomy.  The 
nation,  relieved  from  the  foreign  pressure 
which  had  bound  the  Colonies  togeth- 
er, seemed  tumbling  to  pieces ;  each 
State  was  an  independent  sovereignty, 
fi'ee  to  go  to  ruin  in  its  own  way.  The 
necessi^  for  a  strong  central  govern- 
ment to  replace  English  rule  became 
evident  to  all  judicious  men ;  for,  as  one 
Pelatiah  Webster  remarked,  "  Thirteen 
staves,  and  ne'er  a  hoop,  cannot  make 
a  barrel."  The  Hartford  Wits  had  fought 
out  the  war  against  King  George  ;  they 
now  took  up  the  pen  against  King  Mob, 
and  placed  themselves  in  rank  with  the 
friends  of  order,  good  government,  and 
union.  Hence  the  **  Anarchiad."  An 
ancient  epic  on  '*the  Restoration  of 
Chaos  and  Substantial  Blight "  was  dug 
up  in  the  ruins  of  an  old  Indian  fort, 
where  Madoc,  the  m3^hical  Welsh  Co- 
lumbus, or  some  of  his  descendants, 
had  buried  it   Colonel  Humphreys,  who 


i865.] 


The  Pleiades  of  Connecticut 


191 


had  read  the  ^  RoUlad  ^  in  England, 
suggested  the  plan ;  Barlow,  Hopkins, 
and  Trumboll  joined  with  him  in  carry- 
ing it  ont  Extracts  from  the  "  Anar- 
chiad  "  were  prepared  when  wanted,  and 
the  verses  applied  fresh  to  the  enfeebled 
body  politic.  They  chanted  the  dan- 
gers and  difficulties  of  the  old  Federa- 
tion and  the  advantages  of  the  new  Con- 
stitution. Union  was  the  burden  of 
their  song ;  and  they  took  a  prophetic 
view  of  the  stormy  future,  if  thirteen 
independent  States  should  divide  this 
territory  between  them. 

**  Shall  lordly  Hodaon  part  contending  powers, 
And  braad  Potomac  lave  two  hostile  !^ores? 
Unit  Allegfaany*s  sacred  summits  bear 
The  impious  bulwarks  of  perpetual  war? 
His  bundled  streams  receive  your  heroes  shun, 
And  bear  yoiir  sons  inglorious  to  the  main?** 

We,  misirrimij  have  lived  to  see  it, 
and  to  see  modem  Shayites  vote  to  es- 
tablish such  a  state  of  things  forever. 

When  the  new  government  was  firm- 
ly setded  and  found  to  work  well,  the 
same  class  of  men  who  had  opposed  the 
Union  formed  the  Anti-Federal,  Dem- 
ocratic, or  French  party.  The  Hartford 
school  were  FederaUsts,  of  course. 
Theodore  Dwight  and  Alsop,  assisted 
by  Dr.  Hopkins,  published  in  the  local 
papers  ''The  Political  Greenhouse" 
and  **The  Echo,"  —  an  imitation  of 
••The  Anti- Jacobin,"  — "to  check  the 
progress  of  &lse  taste  in  writing,  and  to 
stem  the  torrent  of  Jacobinism  in  Amer- 
ica and  the  hideous  morality  of  revolu- 
tionary madness."  It  was  a  place  and 
time  when,  in  the  Hartford  vocabulary, 

**  ^uriot  stood  synonymous  with  rogue  **  i 

and  their  versified  squibs  were  let  off 
at  men  rather  than  at  measures.  As 
a  specimen  of  their  mode  of  treat- 
ment, let  us  take  Matthew  Lyon,  first 
an  Irish  redemptioner  bought  by  a  fiu*- 
mer  in  Derby,  then  an  Anti-Federal 
champion  and  member  of  Congress 
from  Vermont;  once  fiunous  for  pub- 
lishing Barlow's  letter  to  Senator  Bald- 
win, —  for  his  trial  under  the  Alien  and 
Sedition  Act, — for  the  personal  difficul- 
ty when 


"He 

To 
And 


the  luBgi 
Ms 
thus 


The  Hartford  poets  notice  him  thus : — 

"  This  beast  within  a  few  short  years 
Was  purchased  for  a  yoke  of  steers ; 
But  now  the  wise  Vermonfeers  say 
He 's  worth  six  hundred  oents  a  day." 

Other  leaders  of  the  Anti- Federal 
party  &re  no  better.  Mr.  Jeflferson's 
literary  and  scientific  whims  came  in 
for  a  share  of  ridicule. 

*'  Great  nre  of  stories  past  belief; 
Historian  of  the  Mingo  chief ; 
Philosopher  of  Indians'  hair ; 
Inventor  of  a  rocking-chair ; 
The  correspondent  of  Maxzel, 
And  Banneker,  less  black  than  he,"  H  seq. 

The  paper  containing  this  paragraph 
had  the  felicity  of  being  quoted  in  Con- 
gress by  the  Honorable  John  Nicholas, 
of  Virginia,  to  prove  that  Connecticut 
wished  to  lead  the  United  States  into  a 
war  with  France.  The  honorable  gen- 
tieman  read  on  until  he  came  to  the  pas- 
sage,— 

"  Eaich  Jacobin  began  to  stir, 
And  sat  as  thotigh  on  chestnut-burr," 

when  he  stopped  short  Mr.  Dana  of 
Connecticut  took  up  the  quotation  and 
finished  it,  to  the  great  amusement  of 
the  House. 

The  last  number  was  published  in 
1805.  As  we  look  over  the  "  Echo,"  and 
find  nothing  in  it  but  doggerel,  — gener- 
ally very  dull  doggerel, — we  might  won- 
der at  the  applause  it  obtained,  if  we 
did  not  recollect  how  fiercely  the  two 
great  parties  engaged  each  other.  In 
a  riot,  any  stick,  stone,  or  ignoble  fig- 
ment of  household  pottery  is  valuable 
as  a  missile  weapon. 

While  the  constellation  was  shin- 
ing resplendent  over  Connecticut,  each 
bright  star  had  its  own  particular  twin- 
kle. Trumbull  had  his  "Progress  of 
Dulness,"  in  three  cantos, — an  imita- 
tion, in  manner,  of  Goldsmith's  "  Double 
Transformation."  The  title  is  happy. 
The  decline  of  Miss  Harriet  Simper 
fi'om  bellehood  to  an  autumnal  marriage, 
in  Canto  III.,  is  more  tiresome  than  the 
progress  of  Tom  Brainless  fi'om  the 
plough-tail  to  the  pulpit,  in  Canto  I. 
The  Reverend  Mr.  Brainless,  when  call- 
ed and  settied,  — 

'*  On  Sunday  in  his  best  array 
Deab  forth  the  dulness  of  the  day." 


xg2 


The  Pleiades  4ff  ConneUiciU^ 


[February, 


These  two  lines,  descriptive  unfoortn- 
nately,  of  too  many  ministrations,  are  all 
that  have  survived  of  the  three  cantos. 
Trumbull's  chef  d^ceuvre  is  "  M cFin- 
gal,"  begun  before  the  war  and  finished 
soon  after  the  peace.  The  poem  covers 
the  whole  Revolutionary  period,  fitm 
the  Boston  tea-party  to  the  final  humil- 
iation of  Great  Britain :  Lord  North  and 
General  Gage,  Hutchinson,  Judge  Oli- 
ver, and  Treasurer  Gray ;  Doctors  Sam. 
Peters  and  Seabury ;  passive  obedience 
and  divine  right;  no  taxation  without 
representation;  Rivington  the  printer, 
Massachusettensis,  and  Samuel  Adams ; 
Yankee  Doodle;  who  began  the  war? 
town-meetings,  liberty*poles,  mobs,  tar- 
ring, feathering,  and  smoking  Tories; 
Tryon«  Galloway,  Burgoyne,  Prescott, 
Guy  Carleton ;  paper-money,  regulation, 
and  tender ;  in  short,  all  tiie  men  and 
topics  which  preserve  our  polyphiloso- 
phohistorical  societies  fix)m  lethargic  ex- 
tinction. ^  McFingal "  hit  the  taste  of 
the  times ;  it  was  very  successful  But 
although  thirty  editions  were  sold  in 
shops  or  hawked  about  by  peddlers, 
there  was  no  copyright  law  in  the  land, 
and  Trumbull  took  more  praise  than 
solid  pudding  by  his  poetry.  It  was  re- 
printed in  England,  and  found  its  way 
to  France.  The  Marquis  de  Chastel- 
lux,  an  author  himself  took  an  especial 
interest  in  American  literature.  He 
wrote  to  congratulate  Trumbull  upon 
his  excellent  poem,  and  took  the  op- 
portunity to  lay  down  "the  condi- 
tions prescribed  for  burlesque  poetry." 
'^  These,  Sir,  you  have  happily  seized 
and  perfecdy  complied  with.  ....  I 
believe  that  you  have  rifled  every  flow- 
er which  that  kind  of  poetry  could  of- 
fer. ....  Nor  do  I  hesitate  to  assure 
you  that  I  prefer  it  to  every  work  of 
the  kind,  —  even  to  Hudibras."  Not- 
withstanding the  opinion  of  the  pom- 
pous Marquis,  nobody  reads  "McFin- 
gaL"  Time  has  blotted  out  most  of 
the  four  cantos.  There  are  left  a  few 
lines,  often  quoted  by  gentiemen  of  the 
press,  and  invariably  ascribed  to  "  Hu- 
dibras  " :  — 

"  For  any  man  with  half  an  eye 
What  stands  before  him  can  ci|iy ; 


Bdt  opdoiiharp  it  aeedi»  I 
To  see  what  is  not  to  be 


"  But  as  MM  aaskets  ao  eoatifve  k 
As  oft  to  miss  the  marie  they  drive  at; 
And  though  well  aimed  at  duck  or  plover, 
and  kick  theirs 


*'  No  man  e'er  felt  the  halter  diaw 
Widi  good  opinion  of  the  law." 

The  last  two  verses  have  passed  into 
immortality  as  a  proverb.  Perhaps  a 
few  other  grains  of  com  might  be  picked 
out  of  these  hundred  and  seventy  pages 
of  chafll 

Dr.  Dwight  staked  his  fame  on  ^  The 
Conquest  of  Canaan,"  an  attempt  to 
make  an  Iliad  out  of  the  Old  Testa- 
ment Eleven  books;  nine  thousand 
six  hundred  and  seventy -two  dreary 
verses,  full  of  batUes  and  thunder- 
storms ;  peopled  with  Irad,  Jabin,  Han- 
niel,  Hezron,  Zimri,  and  others  Uke 
them,  more  colorless  and  shadowy  than 
the  brave  Gyas  and  the  brave  Goan- 
thus.  Not  a  line  of  this  epic  has  sur- 
vived. Shorter  and  much  better  is 
"Greenfield  Hill,"  a  didactic  poem, 
composed,  the  author  said,  to  amuse 
and  to  instruct  in  economical,  political, 
and  moral  sentiments.  Greenfield  was, 
for  a  time,  the  scene  of  the  Doctor's 
professional  labors.  His  descriptions 
of  f^ew  England  character,  of  the  pros- 
perity and  comfort  of  New  England  life, 
are  accurate,  but  not  vivid.  The  book 
is  full  of  good  sense,  but  there  is  little 
poetry  in  it  True  to  the  literary  in- 
stincts of  the  Pleiads,  he  shines  with 
reflected  light,  and  works  after  Thom- 
son and  Goldsmith  so  closely  that  in 
many  passages  imitation  passes  into 
parody. 

Like  Timotheus  of  Greece,  Timothy 
of  Connecticut 

'*  to  hb  breathing  flute  and  sonndmg  lyre 
Could  swell  the  soul  to  nge,  or  kindle  soft  deure.* 

He  wrote  a  war  chant;  he  wrote  psalms ; 
and  there  is  a  song  in  the  "  Litch- 
field Collection  "  in  which  he  attempts 
to  kindle  soft  desire.  Here  is  an  ex- 
tract:— 


fi 


No  longer,  than,  fiur  maid,  delay 
The  promised  sosMB  of  blia^ 

Nor  idly  give  aaother  day 
The  joys  assigned  to  lUk 


i86s.] 


Tlu  PUiades  of  Co»neetic$tt. 


193 


"Quit,  dien,  oh,  qah,  dion  lovely' maid  I 
Thy  bashful  Tirgm  pride,"— 

and  so  on  sings  the  Doctor.  Who 
would  have  thought  that 

'*  profouad  Solomon  would  tone  a  jig, 
.  «  Or  Nestor  play  at  paahpm  with  the  bojrs,** 

as  Shakspeare  has  it  ?  who  would  have 
expected  erotic  tints  and  Epicurean  mo- 
rality from  the  author  of  "  The  Conquest 
of  Canaan/'  and  of  four  volumes  of  or- 
thodox and  weighty  theology  ? 
The  «  Ode  to  Columbia," 

*'  Columbia  I  Columbia  I  to  glory  arise, 
The  queen  of  the  world  and  the  child  of  die  skies !" 

written  when  Dwight  was  a  chaplain  in 
the  Revolutionary  Army,  is  probably 
more  known  to  the  moderns  than  any 
of  his  poetical  efforts.  It  is  a  vision  of 
the  future  greatness  of  the  new -bom 
nation,  —  short,  spirited,  and  finished 
with  more  care  than  he  was  in  the  habit 
of  giving  to  his  verses. 

In  like  manner  the  brave  and  biu'ly 
Colonel 


If ' 


'  Humphreys  charmed  the  listening  throng ; 
Sweetly  he  sang  amid  the  clang  of  arms.** 

At  Washington's  head-quarters  in 
Peekskill  he  composed  ''An  Address 
to  the  Armies  of  the  United  States." 
It  was  recited  publicly  in  London,  and 
translated  by  Chastellux  into  French 
prose.  Three  years  later  he  published 
a  poem  on  the  '*  Happiness  of  Amer- 
ica," which  ran  through  ten  editions. 
In  it  the  gallant  man -at -rhymes  tells 
the  story  of  his  own  campaigns :  — 

'*  From  whom  I  learnt  the  martial  art ; 
Widi  what  high  chiefs  I  played  my  eariy  part : 
With  Parsons  first,  whose  eye  with  piercing  kea 
Reads  through  their  hearts  the  characters  of  men. 
Then  how  I  aided  in  the  following  scene 
Death-daring  Putnam,  then  immortal  Greene. 
Then  how  great  Washington  my  youth  approved, 
In  rank  preferred  and  as  a  parent  loved ; 
(For  each  fine  feeling  in  his  bosom  blends,  — 
The  first  of  heroes,  sages,  patriots,  friends  0 
With  him  what  hount  on  warlike  plans  I  spent 
Beneath  the  shadow  of  th*  imperial  tent ;  . 

With  htm  how  oft  I  went  the  nightly  round 
Through  moving  hosts,  or  slept  on  tented  ground  ; 
From  him  how  oft  (nor  far  below  the  first 
In  high  behests  and  coaifideatial  trust,)  — 
From  him  how  oft  I  bore  the  dread  conunands 
Which  destined  for  the  fight  the  eager  bands  ; 
With  him  how  oft  I  passed  th*  eventful  day. 
Rode  by  liis  side  as  down  the  kmg  array 
His  awful  Toice  the  columns  taught  to  form. 
To  point  tlie  thunders  and  to  pour  the  •feona.'* 

VOL.  XV. — NO.  88.       ,  13 


This  extract  will  give  a  £Eiir  idea  of 
the  Colonel's  manner.  A  poem  on  **  The 
Future  Glory  of  the  United  States  of 
America,''  another  on  ^  The  Industry 
of  the  United  States  of  America,"  and 
<<The  Death  of  General  Washington," 
make  up  his  credentials  to  a  seat  on  the 
American  Parnassus. 

Joel  Barlow,  "Virgilian  Barlow,"  is 
the  most  remarkable  of  the  cluster.  He 
started  in  the  race  of  life  with  ten  com- 
petitors of  his  own  blood,  and  came  in 
a  successful  adventurer  in  both  hemi- 
spheres. After  serving  in  the  army 
with  musket  and  prayer-book,  he  prac- 
tised law,  edited  a  newspaper,  kept  a 
book-shop,  — and  having  e^diausted  the 
variety  of  callings  offered  by  Connecti- 
cut, went  to  France  as  agent  for  the  Sci- 
oto Land  Comi5any,  and  opened  an  office 
in  Paris  with  a  grand  flourish  of  adver- 
tisements. '*  Farms  for  sale  on  the  banks 
of  the  Ohio,  la  belle  rivihre;  the  finest 
district  of  the  United  States  !  Health- 
ful and  delightful  climate  ;  scarcely  any 
frost  in  winter ;  fertile  soil ;  a  boundless 
inland  navigation;  magnificent  forests 
of  a  tree  from  which  sugar  flows ;  ex- 
ceUent  fishing  and  fowling ;  venison  in 
abundance ;  no  wolves,  lions,  or  tigers ; 
no  taxes ;  no  military  duty.  All  these 
unexampled  advantages  offered  to  colo- 
nists at  five  shillings  the  acre  ! "  The 
speculation  took  well.  Nothing  was 
talked  of  but  the  free  and  rural  life  to. 
be  led  on  the  banks  of  the  Scioto.  Bris- 
sot's  foolish  book  on  America  confirmed, 
the  promises  of  Barlow,  and  stimulated 
the  ardor  of  purchasers. 

The  Scioto  Company  turned  out  to< 
be  a  swindling  land-company,  the  pre- 
cursor of  many  that  have  resembled  it. . 
The  lands  they  offered  had  been  bought. 
of  the  Ohio  Company,  but  were  nev- 
er paid  for.     When  the  poor  French 
barbers,  fiddlers,  and  bakers,  as  they 
are  called  in  a  contemporary  narrative, 
reached  the  banks  of  la  belle  riviere, 
they  found  that  their  titie-deeds  were 
good  for  nothing,  and  that  the  woods . 
produced   savages   instead  of   sugar. 
Some  died  of  privation,   some  were 
scalped,  and  some  found  their  way  to 
New  Orleans.    The  few  who  remained* 


194 


The  Pleiades  of  Connecticut 


[February, 


eventually  obtained  a  grant  of  a  few 
acres  from  the  Ohio  Company,  by  pay- 
ing for  them  over  again. 

In  the  mean  time  the  French  Revo- 
lution had  broken  out,  and  Barlow  saw 
the  visions  and  dreamed  the  dreams  of 
the  enthusiasts  of  that  day.  He  drop- 
ped the  land  business,  and  he  dropped 
his  New  England  prejudices,  religious 
as  well  as  political,  and  his  New  Eng- 
land common  sense.  Connecticut  men 
who  wander  into  other  lands  and  other 
opinions  seem  peculiarly  subject  to  such 
violent  transformations.  Some  of  the 
most  ignivorous  of  our  Southern  coun- 
trymen are  the  offspring  of  Connecti- 
cut ;  and,  strange  as  it  may  appear,  the 
sober  land  of  the  pumpkin  and  onion 
exports  more  arbiters  of  elegance  and 
punctilio,  more  judges  ^thout  appeal 
of  horses,  wine,  and  beauty,  more  gen- 
tlemen of  the  most  sensitive  and  demon- 
strative honor,  than  any  other  Northern 
State. 

Inspired  by  the  instincts  of  his  race, 
Barlow  fancied  he  saw  the  approach 
of  a  new  era  of  perfection.  To  hasten 
its  advent  in  England,  he  translated 
Volney's  "  Ruins,"  and  went  to  London 
to  publish  his  translation.  There  he 
wrote  his  "Advice  to  the  Privileged 
Casses,"  a  political  pamphlet,  and  be- 
came an  active  member  of  the  Consti- 
tution Society.  The  Society  commis- 
sioned him  as  delegate  to  the  French 
Convention,  with  an  address  of  congrat- 
ulation and  a  gif%  of  a  thousand  pairs  of 
shoes.  The  Convention  rewarded  him 
with  the  dignity  of  Citoyen  Fran^ais, 
Barlow  adopted  the  character,  and  car- 
ried it  out  He  sang  at  a  supper  a 
parody  of  "  God  save  the  King,**  com- 
posed by  himself. 

"  Fame,  let  thy  trumpet  touad  I 
Tell  all  the  world  around 

How  Capet  relit 
And  when  great  George's  poll 
Shall  in  the  basket  roll, 
I^t  mercy  then  control 
The  Guillotine  1 

*'  God  save  the  Guillotine, 
TUl  Eagland't  King  and  Qoeea 

Her  power  shall  prove ; 
When  all  the  weptred  crew 
Have  paid  their  homage  to 

TbcOniUotivr 


A  few  years  before,  Barlow  had  ded« 
icated  the  "  Vision  of  Columbus  "  to 
poor  Capet,  whose  destruction  he  cel- 
ebrates so  pleasantly,  —  with  many  as* 
surances  of  the  gratitude  of  America, 
and  of  his  own  veneration.  '*  Ccelumt 
non  animumj^  would  never  have  been 
written,  if  Horace  had  properly  under- 
stood Connecticut  character. 

Barlow's  zeal  was  pleasing  to  the  rul- 
ers of  France.  They  sent  him  and  the 
Abb^  Gr^goire  to  revolutionize  Savoy, 
and  to  divide  it  into  departments.  Af- 
ter his  return,  he  became  rich  by  spec- 
ulation, and  lived  handsomely  in  the 
Hdtel  de  Clermont -Tonnerre.  His  rep- 
utation extended  to  his  own  country. 
The  United  States  employed  him  to 
negotiate  with  the  Barbary  pirates,  — 
that  is  to  say,  to  buy  off  the  wretched 
cutthroats  who  infested  the  Mediterra- 
nean. He  went  to  Africa,  and  made 
arrangements  which  were  considered 
advantageous  then,  and  would  be  hoot- 
ed at  as  disgraceful  now.  In  the  treaty 
with  Algiers  occurred  a  passage  that 
gave  great  offence  to  his  friends  at 
home,  and  to  Federalists  in  generaL 
It  was  to  this  effect,  if  not  in  these 
words :  "  That  the  government  of  the 
United  States  is  not,  in  any  sense, 
foufkded  on  the  Christian  religion." 

In  1805,  after  seventeen  years  of  ab- 
sence. Barlow  returned  to  America, 
built  himself  a  house  near  Washing- 
ton, and  called  it  Kalorama.  Jefferson 
and  the  Democrats  received  him  with 
open  arms ;  he  embraced  them  with 
equal  warmth,  and  was  a  very  great 
man  for  some  time.  A  new  edition  of 
the  "  Columbiad  "  completed  his  feme, 
—  an  edition  gotten  up  at  his  own  ex- 
pense, with  engravings  by  his  friend 
Robert  Fulton ;  the  paper,  type,  illus- 
trations, and  binding,  far  superior  to 
anything  as  yet  produced  by  American 
lAiblishers.  At  the  request  of  the  Pres- 
ident, Barlow  went  back  to  France  as 
Minister,  in  the  place  of  General  Arm- 
strong. It  was  the  winter  of  the  Rus- 
sian campaign.  A  personal  interview 
with  the  Emperor  on  the  subject  of  the 
Berlin  and  Milan  Decrees  seemed  neces- 
sary, and  Barlow  hurried  to  Wilna  to 


1865.] 


The  Pleiades  of  Connecticut. 


195 


meet  him.  The  weather  was  unusually 
severe,  the  roads  rough,  and  the  accom- 
modations wretched.  Cold  and  exposure 
Wought  on  a  violent  illness ;  and  Barlow 
expired  in  a  miserable  hut  near  Cracow. 
The  "Columbiad"  is  an  enlarge- 
ment, or  rather  a  dilution,  of  the  "  Vis- 
ion of  Columbus,"  by  the  addition  of 
some  two  thousand  verses.  The  epic 
opens  with  Columbus  in  prison ;  to  him 
enters  Hesper,  an  angel.  The  angel 
leads  Columbus  to'  the  Mount  of  Vis- 
ion, whence  he  beholds  the  panorama 
of  the  Western  Continent  he  had  dis- 
covered. Hesper  acts  as  showman, 
and  explains  the  tableaux  as  they  roll 
on.  He  points  out  the  geographical 
features  of  America,  not  forgetting  Con- 
necticut River;  relates  the  history  of 
Mexico  and  of  Peru,  and  explains  the 
origin  of  races,  cautioning  Columbus 
against  the  theory  of  several  Adams. 
Turning  north,  he  describes  the  settle- 
ment of  the  English  colonies,  and  nar- 
rates the  old  French  War  of  General 
Wolfe  and  the  American  Revolution, 
with  the  customary  episodes,  —  Sara- 
toga, Yorktown,  Major  Andrd,  Miss 
McCrea,  and  the  prison-ships.  Final- 
ly, the  angel  predicts  the  glory  of  the 
world's  future, — perpetual  peace,  unre- 
stricted commerce,  public  works,  health 
and  longevity,  one  universal  language. 
The  globe,  "  one  confederate,  independ- 
ent sway,"  shall 

**SpRad  with  the  •un,  and  bound  the  walks  of  day; 
One  central  system,  one  all-niling  soul, 
lire  thraugh  the  parts^  and  regulate  the  whole." 

There  is  evidently  no  room  for  the 
serpent  Secession  in  Barlow's  paradise. 
This  grand  federation  of  the  terrestrial 
ball  is  governed  by  a  general  council 
of  clderiy  married  men,  **  long  rows  of 
reverend  sires  sublime,"  presided  over 
b)'  a  **sire  elect  shining  in  peerless 
grandeur."  The  delegates  hold  their 
sessions  in  Mesopotamia,  within  a  *'  sa- 
cred mansion "  of  high  architectural 
pretensions. 

**0b  rocks  of  adamant  the  walls  ascend. 
Tall  cotuaas  heave,  and  sky-tike  arches  bend  ; 
Brifht  o'er  the  golden  roof  the  glittering  spiret 
Far  in  the  concave  meet  the  miuc  firea ; 
FO0  bbaiag  firoiiCa»  with  gates  unfolding  high, 
Look  wi*h  immortal  splendor  round  the  sky.** 


In  the  spacious  court  of  the  capitol 
of  the  world  stands  the  statue  of  the 
Genius  of  Earth,  holding  Truth*s  mighty 
mirror  in  his  hand*  On  the  pedestal 
are  carved  the  noblest  arts  of  man. 
Beneath  the  footstool  of  the  Genius, 

"all  destructive  things, 
The  mask  of  priesthood  and  the  mace  of  kings» 
Lie  trampled  in  the  dust ;  for  here,  at  last, 
Frrfud,  folly,  error,  all  their  emblems  cast 
Each  envoy  here  unloads  his  weary  hand 
Of  some  old  idol  from  his  native  land. 
One  flmgs  a  pagod  on  the  mingled  heap ; 
One  lays  a  crescent,  one  a  crocs  to  sleep ; 
Swords,  sceptres,  mitresi  cxownsand  globes  and  star^ 
Codes  of  ialae  fame  and  stimulants  to  wars, 
Sink  in  the  settling  mass.    Since  guile  began, 
These  are  the  agents  of  the  woes  of  man." 

It  will  be  observed  that  Barlow  im- 
proved slightly  upon  the  old  loyalist 
cry,  "  Une  lot;  un  rot,  une  foiP  One 
government,  one  reverend  sire  elect, 
and  no  religion,  was  his  theory  of  the 
future  of  mankind. 

Few  men  in  these  degenerate  days 
have  the  endurance  to  read  the  "  Co- 
lumbiad  "  through  ;  but  "  Hasty  Pud- 
ding," whi^h  Barlow  celebrated  in  verse 
as  good  sound  republican  diet,  may  be 
read  with  some  pleasure.  It  belongs 
to  the  same  class  of  poems  as  Phil- 
ips's  "  Cider,"  Dyer's  "  Fleece,"  and 
Grainger's  "  Sugar-Cane,"  and  is  quite 
as  good  as  most  of  them. 

There  is  little  to  be  said  about  Alsop. 
He  was  a  scholarly  gentleman,  who 
published  a  few  mild  versions  from  the 
Italian  and  the  Scandinavian,  and  a 
poem  on  the  "  Memory  of  Washing- 
ton," and  was  considerate  enough  not 
to  publish  a  poem  on  the  '*  Charms  of 
Fancy,"  which  still  exists,  we  believe, 
in  manuscript  In  some  verses  ex- 
tracted from  it  by  the  editors  of  the 
"  Cyclopaedia  of  American  Literature  " 
we  recognize  with  interest  that  trav- 
eller of  the  future  who  is  to  moralize 
over  the  ruins  of  the  present,  —  known 
to  all  readers  as  Macaulay's  New- 
Zealander,  although  Goldsmith,  Kirke 
\yhite,  and  others  had  already  intro- 
duced him  to  the  public.  Alsop  brings 
this  Wandering  Jew  of  literature  from 
Nootka  Sound  to  gaze  on  **many  a 
shattered  pile  and  broken  stone,"  where 
"  fair  Bostonia,"  "  York's  proud  empo- 


196 


The  Pleiades  of  Connecticut. 


[February, 


rium,"  or  Philadelphia,  ^<  caught  the 
admiring  gaze." 

The  wild-eyed,  excitable  Dr.  Hopkins 
had  more  vigor  and  originality  than  his 
brother  stars.  There  is  much  rough 
humor  in  his  burlesque  of  the  essay  of 
Brackenridge  of  Pittsburg  on  the  In- 
dian War :  — 

**  As  if  our  God 
One  single  thought  on  Indians  e'er  bestowed  \ 
To  them  his  carer  extends,  or  even  knew, 
Before  Columbus  told  him,  where  they  grew  " ; 

and  in  his  epitaph  on  the  ''Victim  of 
a  Cancer  Quack  "  :  — 

"  The  case  was  this  :  —a  pimple  rose 
Southeast  a  little  of  his  nose, 
Which  daily  reddened  and  grew  bigger, 
As  too  much  drinking  gave  it  vigor  " ; 

and  in  the  "  Hypocrite's  Hope  " :  — 

"  Blest  is  the  man  who  from  ^e  womb 
To  laintshtp  him  betakes ; 
And  when  too  soon  his  child  shall  come^ 
A  kmg  confession  makes** ; 

and  in  the  squib  on  Ethan  Allen's  infi- 
del book :  — 

«'  Lo  I  AUen  'scaped  fitm  British  jails, 
His  toshes  broke  by  biting  nails, 
Appears  in  hyperborean  skies, 
To  tell  the  world  the  Bible  lies." ' 

Dr.  Hopkins  published  very  little; 
he  might  be  excused,  if  he  had  written 
more. 

Addison  said,  he  never  yet  knew  an 
author  who  had  not  his  admirers.  The 
Connecticut  authors  were  no  exception 
to  this  rule.  To  begin  with,  they  ad- 
mured  themselves,  and  they  admired  one 
another ;  each  played  squire  to  his  gift- 
ed inend,  ancf  sounded  the  trumpet  of 
his  £une.  It  was,  '^  See !  Trumbull 
leads  the  train,"  or  "  the  ardent  throng  " ; 
<"  Trumbull  I  earliest  boast  of  Fame  "  ; 
"•  Lo  \  Trumbull  wakes  the  lyre." 

**  Superior  poet,  in  whose  classic  strain 
In  bright  accordance  wit  and  fancy  reign ; 
Whose  powers  of  genius  in  their  ample  fange 
Comprise  each  subject  and  each  tuneful  change, 
Each  charm  of  melody  to  Phoebos  dear. 
The  grave,  the  gay,  the  imder,  the  •evcre." 

Barlow  is  «*  a  Child  of  Genius  " ;  Co- 
lumbus owes  much  of  his  glory  to  him. 

**  In  Virgilian  Bariow's  tunefiil  lines         • 
With  added  splendor  great  Columbus  shines." 

Then  we  have  "  Majestic  Dwight,  sub- 
lime in  epic  strain  " ;  "  Blest  Dwight " ; 
Dwight  of  "Homeric   fire."     Colonel 


Humphreys  is  fiilly  up  to  the  regulation 
standard :  — 

'*  In  lore  of  nations  skilled  and  brave  in  arms. 
See  Humphreys  glorious  from  the  field  retire. 
Sheathe  the  glad  sword  and  string  the  sounding  lyre." 

Dwight  thought  "McFingal"  much 
superior  to  "  Hudibras  " ;  and  Hopkin- 
son,  the  author  of  "Hail  Columbia," 
mentions,  as  a  melancholy  instance  of 
aesthetic  hallucination,  that  Secretary 
Wolcott,  whose  taste  in  literature  was 
otherwise  good,  had  an  excessive  admi- 
ration for  "  The  Conquest  of  Canaan." 
A  general  chorus  of  neighbors  and 
fi-iends  rose  in  the  columns  of  the  "  Con- 
necticut Magazine  and  New  Haven  Ga- 
zette " :  —  "It  is  with  a  noble  and  pa- 
triotic pride  that  America  boasts  of  her 
Barlow,  Dwight,  Trumbull,  and  Hum- 
phreys, the  poetical  luminaries  of  Con- 
necticut " ;  and  all  true  New-£ngland- 
ers  preferred  their  home-made  verses 
to  the  best  imported  article.  The  fame 
of  the  Seven  extended  into  the  neigh- 
boring States ;  Boston,  not  yet  the 
Athens  of  America,  confessed  "that 
Pegasus  was  not  backed  by  better 
horsemen  from  any  part  of  the  Un- 
ion." But  the  glory  grew  fainter  as 
the  distance  increased  from  the  centre 
of  illumination.  In  New  York,  praise 
was  qualified.  The  Rev.  Samuel  Miller 
of  that  city,  who  published  in  1800  "  A 
Brief  Retrospect  of  the  Literature  of  the 
Eighteenth  Century,"  calls  Mr.  Trum- 
bull a  respectable  poet,  thinks  that  Dr. 
Dwight»s  "  Greenfield  Hill "  is  entitied 
to  considerable  praise,  and  finds  much 
poetic  merit  in  Mr.  Barlow^s  "  Vision  "  ; 
but  he  closes  the  chapter  sadly,  with 
a  touch  of  Johnson's  vigor :  —  "  The 
annals  of  American  literature  are  short 
and  simple.  The  history  of  poverty  is 
usually  neither  very  various  nor  very 
interesting."  Farther  South  the  voice 
of  the  scofier  was  heard.  Mr.  Robert 
Morris  ventured  to  say  in  the  Assembly 
of  Pennsylvania,  that  America  had  not 
as  yet  produced  a  good  poet  Great 
surprise  and  indignation,  when  this 
speech  reached  the  eyes  of  the  Connec- 
ticut men  1  Morris  might  understand 
banking,  but  in^  taste  he  was  ahi^urdly 
deficient    No  poets  !  What  did  !:e  call 


1 86s.] 


The  Pleiades  of  Connecticut. 


197 


John  Trumbull  of  Hartford,  and  Joel 
Barlow,  author  of  "The  Vision  of  Co- 
lumbus "  ?  "  We  appeal  to  the  bar  of 
taste,  whether  the  writings  of  the  poets 
now  living  in  Connecticut  are  not  equal 
to  anything  which  the  present  age  can 
produce,  in  the  English  language." 

Cowper  showed  excellent  sense  when 
he  wrote, —"Wherever  else  I  am  ac- 
counted dull,  let  me  at  least  pass  for  a 
genius  at  Olney."  The  Hartford  Wits 
passed  for  geniuses  in  Connecticut, 
which  is  better,  as  far  as  the  genius  is 
concerned,  than  any  extent  or  duration 
of  posthumous  £ime.  Let  their  shades, 
then,  be  satisfied  with  the  good  things 
in  the  way  of  praise  they  received  in 
their  lives ;  for  between  us  and  them 
there  is  fixed  a  great  gulf  of  oblivion, 
into  which  Time,  the  merciless  critic 
from  whose  judgment  there  is  no  ap- 
peal, has  tumbled  their  works. 

In  1793,  a  volume  of  "American 
Poems,  Selected  and  Original,"  was 
published  in  Litchfield  by  subscription. 
A  second  volume  was  promised,  if  the 
first  met  with  "  that  success  which  the 
value  of  the  poems  it  contained  seemed 
to  warrant " ;  but  no  second  volume  ap- 
peared. When  Hopkins  died,  in  1801, 
the  constellation  was  sinking  fast  to  the 
horizon ;  a  few  years  later  it  had  set, 
and  only  elderly  inhabitants  remem- 
bered when  the  Down-Eastern  sky  was 
made  bright  by  it  Barlow's  magnifi- 
cent edition  revived  the  recollection  for 
a  time,  and  the  old  defiant  cry  was 
raised  again,  that  the  ^  Columbiad  "  was 
comparable,  not  to  say  superior,  to  any 
poem  tluit  had  appeared  in  Europe  since 
the  independence  of  the  United  States. 
But  En^ish  reviewers  refused  to  chime 
in.  Their  critical  remarks  were  not 
flattering,  although  merciful  as  com- 
pared with  the  jeers  of  the  "  Edinburgh  " 
at  Byron's  "Hours  of  Idleness,"  or 
the  angry  abuse  with  which  the  earlier 
productions  of  the  Lake  School  were 
received.  Nevertheless,  Paulding,  In- 
gersoU,  and  Walsh,  indignant,  sprang  to 
their  quills,  and  attacked  the  prejudiced 
British  with  the  argu'mtntum  ad  homu 
nem^  England's  "sores  and  blotches," 
etc  ;    the    argumentum    Tu    quoque, 


"  We  Ve  as  good  a  poet  as  you  are,  and 
a  better,  too " ;  and,  lastly,  pleaded 
minority  in  bar  of  adverse  criticism, 
"  We  are  a  young  nation,"  and  so  on. 
This  was  to  yield  the  point  If  a  young 
nation  necessarily  writes  verses  similar 
in  quality  to  those  of  very  young  per- 
sons. It  would  always  be  proper  to  take 
Uncle  Toby's  advice,  "and  say  no 
more  about  it"  Deaf  to  Walsh's  "  Ap- 
peal," and  to  Inchiquin's  "  Letters," 
Sydney  Smith,  as  late  as  January,  1820, 
asked,  in  the  "  Edinburgh,"  that  weU- 
known  and  stinging  question,  "  In  the 
four  quarters  of  the  globe,  who  reads 
an  American  book  ?  "  Even  at  4iome, 
«  Hesper  "  and  «  The  Mount  of  Vision  " 
soon  £ided  out  of  sight  At  that  time, 
1808  -  1810,  readers  of  verse  had,  not  to 
mention  Cowper,  "  The  Lay  of  the  Last 
Minstrel "  and  "  Marmion,"  "  Gertrude 
of  Wyoming,"  "Thalaba,"  Moore's 
"  Anacreon,"  and  two  volumes  by  Wil- 
liam Wordsworth,  —  poems  with  which 
the  American  producer  was  unable  to 
compete.  In  1820  Samuel  G.  Goodrich 
of  Hartford  published  a  complete  edi- 
tion of  Trumbull's  works  in  two  vol- 
umes, the  type  large  and  the  paper  ex- 
cellent, —  with  a  portrait  of  the  author, 
and  good  engravings  of  McFingal  in 
the  Cellar,  and  of  Abijah  Mann  bearing 
the  Town  Resolves  of  Marshfield  to 
Boston.  The  sale  did  not  repay  the 
outlay.  When  Trumbull  died,  in  1831, 
he  was  as  completely  forgotten  as  any 
Revolutionary  colonel  or  captain. 

Humphreys  once  feeling,  that,  in  spite 
of  all  his  struggles,  he  was  not  doing 
much,  exclaimed, — 


«« 


Why,  niggard  limgiiage,  doie  dum  balk  my  aoult " 


He  did  not  see  the  reason  why:  his 
soul  had  not  much  to  say.  This  was 
the  trouble  with  them  all.  There  was 
not  a  spark  of  genuine  poetic  fire  in  the 
Seven.  Xhey  sang  without  an  ear  for 
music;  they  strewed  their  pages  with 
fiided  artificial  flowers  which  they  mis- 
fbok  for  Nature,  and  endeavored  to 
overcome^sterility  of  imagination  and 
want  of  passion  by  veneering  with  mag- 
niloquent epithets.  They  padded  their 
ill-favored  Muse,  belaced  and  berufHed 


198 


The  Pleiades  of  Comtectkui. 


[February, 


her,  and  covered  her  with  garments 
stiffened  with  tawdry  embroidery  to 
hide  her  leanness  ;  they  overpowdered 
and  overrouged  to  <give  her  the  beauty 
Providence  had  refused.  I  say  their 
'  Muse,  but  they  had  no  Muse  of  their 
own  ;  they  imported  an  inferior  one  from 
England,  and  tried  her  in  every  style,  — 
Pope's  and  Dryden's,  Goldsmith's  and 
Gray's,  and  never  rose  above  a  poor 
imitation ;  producing  something  which 
looked  like  a  model,  but  lacked  its  fla- 
vor :  'wooden  poetry,  in  short,  —  a  gen- 
uine product  of  the  soil. 

Judging  from  their  allusions  to  them- 
selves no  one  of  the  Seven  mistrusted 
his  own  poetical  powers  or  the  gifts  of 
his  colleagues.  They  seem  to  have 
died  in  their  error,  unrepentant,  in  the 
comfortable  hope  of  an  hereafter  of 
lame.  Their  works  have  faded  out  of 
sight  like  an  unfinished  photograph. 
It  was  a  sad  waste  of  human  endeavor, 
a  profidess  employment  of  labor,  un- 
usual in  Connecticut* 

But,  although  thus  *^  wrecked  upon 
the  rock  of  rhyme,"  these  bards  of  Con- 
necticut were  not  mere  waste-paper  of 
mankind,  as  Franklin  sneeringly  called 
our  poets,  but  sensible,  well-educated 
gentlemen  of  good  English  stock,  of 
the  best  social  position,  and  industrious 
in  their  business ;  for  Alsop  was  the 
only  one  who  "left  no  calling  for  the 
idle  trade."  Hopkins  stood  at  the  head 
of  his  profession.  Dwight  was  beloved 
and  respectegl  as  minister,  legislator, 
theologian,  and  President  of  Yale  Col- 
lege. Trumbull  was  a  member  of  the 
State  Legislature,  State's  Attorney,  and 
Judge  of  the  Supreme  Court.  Hum- 
phreys served  on  Washington's  staff, 
received  a  sword  from  Congress  for  his 
gallantry  at  Yorktown,  was  Secretary 
of  Legation  at  Paris,  Minister  to  Portu- 

*  Philip  Freneau,  whose  Jacobin  newspaper  was 

despised  by  all  good  Federalists  wrote  better  verses 
than  the  All  Connecticut  Seven.  His  "  Indian  Rury- 
ing-Ground  "  is  worthy  of  a  place  in  an  anthology. 
This  stanxa  has  often  been  ascribed  to  Campbell ;  it  is 
as  good  as  any  one  in  Schiller's  "  Nadowessie  Death* 
Lament,*'  — 

"  By  midnight  moons,  o*er  glistening  dews, 
Tn  vestments  for  the  chase  arrayed, 
The  hunter  still  the  deer  pursues ; 
The  hunter  and  the  deer  a  shade.** 


gal  and  Spain,  and  introduced  merino 
sheep  into  New  England.  Barlow,  as 
we  have  already  seen,  was  Ambassador 
to  France  at  the  time  of  his  death.  All 
of  these,  except  Trumbull,  had  borne 
arms,  and  did  not  throw  away  their 
shields  like  Archilochus  and  Horace. 
They  were  sincere  patriots,  who  honest- 
ly predicted  a  future  of  boundless  prog- 
ress in  wealth,  science,  religion,  and 
virtue  for  the  United  States,  —  the  ex- 
emplar of  liberty  and  justice  to  the  world, 
"  surpassing  all  nations  that  have  ever 
existed,  in  magnitude,  felicity,  and  du- 
ration." And  on  the  other  hand,  every 
one  of  them  believed  in  the  decline  and 
impending  fall  of  their  old  enemy,  Great 
Britain.  Barlow's  "  Hesper  "  «ven  hints 
that  a  Columbus  from  New  England 
may  one  day  rediscover  the  Old  World. 
After  the  peace,  when  the  closer 
union  of  the  States  under  one  general 
government  was  proposed,  the  Hartford 
Wits  worked  hard  to  argue  down  and 
to  laugh  down  the  bitter  and  absurd  op- 
position which  sprang  up.  That  great 
question  was  settied  definitively  by  the 
adoption  of  the  new  Constitution,  and 
another  took  its  place :  How  is  this 
document  to  be  interpreted  ?  The  Hert- 
ford men,  excepting,  of  course,  Joel  Bar- 
low, the  Lost  Pleiad  of  the  group,  whose 
head  had  been  turned  by  the  bewilder- 
ing theories  of  his  French  fellow-citi- 
zens, were  warmly  in  favor  of  adminis- 
tering the  new  government  on  Federal 
principles.  Were  not  the  Federalists 
right  ?  More  than  thirty  years  ago,  De 
Tocqueville  pronounced  in  their  favor  ; 
De  Witt,  in  his  recent  essay  on  Jeffer- 
son, comes  to  the  same  decisi6n  :  both 
observers  who  have  no  party-feelings 
nor  class-prejudices  to  mislead  them. 
And  have  not  the  last  few  years  given 
us  all  light  enough  to  see  that  abstract- 
ly, as  statesmen,  the  Federal  leaders 
were  right  ?  As  politicians,  in  the  de- 
graded American  sense  of  the  word,  they 
were  unskilful ;  they  accelerated  tiie 
downfall  of  their  party  by  injudicious 
measures  and  by  petty  rivalries.  But 
although  their  ruin  might  have  been  ad- 
journed, it  could  not  have  been  avoided ; 
we  now  know  that  their  fate  was  inevita- 


l865.] 


The  Pleiades  of  Connecticut. 


199 


ble.  The  democracy  must  have  run  over 
them  and  trodden  them  out  by  the  sheer 
brute  force  of  numbers  ;  no  superiority 
in  wisdom  or  in  virtue  could  have  saved 
them  long. 

In  those  hot  and  angry  days  a  mania 
politica  raged  among  the  inhabitants 
of  the  United  States.  One  could  no 
longer  recognize  the  sensible  people 
who  had  fought  the  British  stoutly  for 
seven  years,  without  the  slightest  idea 
that  they  were  struggling  for  anything 
more  than  independence  of  foreign  rule. 
Thomas  Paine  and  Joel  Barlow,  grad- 
uates of.  the  great  French  Revolution 
University,  had  come  to  teach  them 
the  new  jargon :  the  virtue  and  wis- 
dom of  the  people ;  the  natural  rights 
of  man  ;  the  natural  propensity  of  rul- 
ers and  priests  to  ignore  them ;  and 
other  similar  high-sounding  words,  the 
shibboleth  and  the  mainstay  of  the  Dem- 
ocratic party  to  this  day.  The  Anti- 
Federalists  were  as  much  pleased  to 
learn  that  they  had  been  contending 
for  these  beautiful  phrases  as  was  Mon- 
sieur Jourdain  when  told  he  had  been 
speaking  de  la  prose  all  his  life.  They 
assumed  the  title  of  Citizen,  invented 
that  of  Citess  to  please  strong-minded 
sisters,  and  became  as  crazy  as  Mon- 
sieur Jourdain  when  invested  with  the 
dignity  of  Mamamouchi.  They  pro- 
claimed that  the  government  of  the 
United  States,  like  all  other  govern- 
ments, was  naturally  hostile  to  the 
rights  of  the  people  ;  France  was  their 
only  hope ;  if  the  leafued  despotisms 
succeeded  against  her,  they  would  soon 
send  their  engines  of  destruction  among 
them.  They  planted  trees  of  liberty, 
and  danced  about  them,  and  sang  the 
Carmaisjnole  with  variations  from  Yan- 
kee Doodle ;  they  offered  their  lives 
for  liberty,  which  was  in  no  danger,  not 
even  from  their  follies  ;  and  swore  de- 
struction to  tyrants,  as  if  that  unpop- 
ular class  of  persons  existed  in  the 
United  States.  They  were  the  people, 
— the  wise,  the  pure, — who  could  do  no  t 
wrong.  The  Federalists  were  aristo- 
crats, monocrats,  —  lovers  of  court  cer- 
emonies and  levees,  chariots  and  ser- 
vants and  plate.     The  distinguished 


chief  of  the  French  party,  whose  ^  heart 
was  a  perpetual  bleeding  fountain  of 
philanthropy,"  was  not  above  pretend- 
ing to  believe  that  his  opponents  were 
striving  to  **•  establish  the  hell  of  mon- 
archy "  in  this  republican -paradise,  and 
were  '*  ready  to  surrender  the  commerce 
of  the  country,  and  almost  every  privi- 
lege as  a  free,  sovereign,  and  indepen- 
dent nation,  to  the  British.''  Even 
such  a  man  as  Samuel  Adams,  at  a 
dinner  on  board  of  a  French  frigate, 
could  put  the  bonnet  rouge  on  his  ven- 
erable head,  and  pray  that  '^  France 
alone  might  rule  the  seas." 

The  New-Englanders  laughed  at  the 
charge  of  monarchical  predilections,  so 
absurdly  inconsistent  with  their  history, 
their  laws,  habits,  and  feelings.  Before 
the  war,  leading  men  in  other  Colonies 
'  had  affected  to  dread  their  levelling  pro- 
pensities ;  and  General  Charles  Lee 
had  said  of  them,  with  some  truth,  that 
they  were  the  only  Americans  who  had 
a  single  republican  qualification  or  idea. 
Freedom  was  an  old  fireside  acquaint- 
ance ;  they  knew  that  the  dishevelled, 
hysterical  creature  the  Gallo- Democrats 
worshipped  was  a  delusion,  and  feared 
she  might  prove  a  snare.  Their  com- 
mon sense  taught  them  to  pay  little 
attention  to  a  priori  disquisitions  on 
natural  rights,  social  compacts,  etc., — 
metaphysics  of  politics,  nugatory  for 
all  practical  American  purposes,  —  and 
to  reject  as  ridiculous  the  promised 
millennium  of  supreme  reason  and  per- 
fected man.  From  a  long  experience 
in  the  management  of  public  affiurs, 
they  learned  that  our  new  government 
was  in  danger  from  its  weakness  rather 
than  fh>m  its  strength ;  hence  they  re- 
jected the  fatal  doctrine  of  IState  rights, 
the  root  of  the  greatest  political  evil, 
Secession.  In  the  theories  and  in  the 
measures  of  the  Democrats,  in  the  very 
absurdity  of  the  accusations  made 
against  themselves,  they  thought  they 
perceived  a  reckless  purpose  to  relax 
authority  for  the  sake  of  popularity, 
which  would  lead  to  mob-rule,  more 
distastefril  to  the  orderly  Yankee  than 
any  other  form  of  tyranny.  Moreover, 
in  the  Eastern  States  most  of  the  Anti- 


2CX) 


The  Pleiades  of  Connecticut. 


[February, 


Federalists  belonged  to  the  lowest  class 
of  society ;  and,  not  content  with  uig- 
ing  their  pernicious  public  policy,  the 
more  turbulent  of  the  party  showed  a 
strong  inclination  to  adopt  French  prin- 
ciples in  religion  and  morals,  as  well  as 
in  government  Robespierre  had  an- 
nounced pompously,  ^^LAtkdsme  est 
aristocratiqtu,^^  New  England  Federal- 
ists thought  it  democratic  on  this  side 
of  the  ocean.  If  they  must  choose  be- 
tween the  Tri-Color  and  the  Cross  of 

• 

St  George,  they  preferred  the  Cross. 
There  was  no  guillotine  in  Great  Brit- 
ain,— no  capering  about  plaster  statues 
of  the  Goddess  of  Reason ;  people  read 
their  Bibles,  went  to  church,  and  re- 
spected the  holy  sacrament  of  matri- 
mony. But  they  wished  for  neither  a 
France  nor  an  England ;  they  desired 
to  make  an  America  after  their  owci 
hearts,  —  religious,  just,  orderly,  and 
industrious ;  they  believed  that  on  the 
Federalist  plan  such  a  nation  coidd  be 
built  up,  and  on  no  other ;  they  opposed 
Jeflfersonian  politics  then  as  they,  op- 
pose Jeffersonian  -  Davis  politics  now, 
and  they  were  as  heartily  abused  then 
as  they  have  been  since,  and  as  fool- 
ishly. 

It  must  be  confessed  that  the  Hart- 
ford Wits  did  ample  injustice  to  their 
antagonists.  Mr.  Jefferson  was  cer- 
tainly not  an  Avatar  of  the  enemy  of 
mankind,  nor  were  his  followers  athe- 
ists, anarchists,  and  rogues.  But  in 
1799  there  were  no  shabbier  Democrats 
than  those  of  Connecticut  If  we  may 
judge  of  the  old  race  by  a  few  surviving 
specimens,  we  may  pardon  our  poets, 
if  they  added  contempt  to  theoretical 
disapprobation,  and,  in  their  eagerness 
to 

*'  Confound  their  poUtics  ** 

and 

"  Expose  their  knavish  tricks,** 

allowed  their  feelings  to  exaggerate  the 
unpleasant  traits  of  the  master  and  of 
his  disciples. 

The  Hartford  men  were  on  the  losing* 
side.   Federalism  expired  with  the  elec- 
tion of  Monroe.    Its  degenerate  suc- 
cessor, Whiggism,  had  no  principles  of 
value,  and  only  lagged  in  the  rear  of 


tiie  Democratic  advance.  Statesman- 
ship and  good  sense  went  hopelessly 
down  before  the  discipline  of  party  and 
the  hunger  for  office;  and  with  each 
year  it  became  easier  to  catch  a  well- 
meaning,  but  short-sighted  public  in  any 
trap  baited  with  the  usual  ad  captan^ 
dum  commonplaces.  We  are  very  fre- 
quently told  that  ^  History  is  philosophy 
teaching  by  example, "-r- one  of  those 
copy-book  apophthegms  which  people 
i>ve  to  repeat  as  if  they  contained  im- 
portant truth.  But  the  teachings  of 
history  or  of  philosophy  never  reach 
the  ears  of  the  multitude ;  they  are 
drowned  by  the  din  of  selfish  rogues  or 
of  blind  enthusiasts.  Poor  stupid  hu- 
manity goes  round  and  round  like  a 
mill-horse  in  a  dreary  ring  of  political 
follies.  The  cast-off  sophisms  and  rhe- 
torical rubbish  of  a  past  generation  are 
patched  up,  scoured,  and  offered  to  the 
credulous  present  as  something  novel 
and  excellent  People  do  not  know 
how  often  the  rotten  stuff  has  been  used 
and  thrown  away,  and  accept  it  readily. 
After  a  while,  they  discover  to  their  cost, 
as  their  ancestors  did  before  them,  that 
it  is  good  for  nothing.  But  even  if  it 
were  possible  to  have  a  grand  interna- 
tional patent-office  for  political  devices, 
where  the  venerable  machines,  so  often 
reinvented  to  break  down  again,  could 
be  labelled  worthless,  and  exhibited  to 
ail  the  world,  I  fear  that  the  newest  pet 
demagogue  would  persuade  the  voters 
of  his  district,  in  spite  of  their  eyes,  that 
he  had  contrived  an  improvement  to 
make  some  one  of  the  rickety  old  things 
work.  No  wonder  that  Dr.  Franklin 
lost  patience,  when  he  saw  how  sad- 
ly reason  was  perverted  by  ignorance, 
selfishness,  and  wickedness,  and  wished 
^  that  mankind  had  never  been  endowed 
with  a  reasoning  feculty,  since  they 
know  so  little  how  to  make  use  of  it, 
and  so  often  mislead  themselves  by  it, 
and  that  they  had  been  furnished  with 
a  good  sensible  instinct  instead  of  it" 

Connecticut  should  be  proud  of- her 
poets :  not  as  literary  luminaries  of  the 
first  magnitude,  but  as  manly  citizens, 
who  sincerely  loved  justice,  order,  self- 
cotitrol, — in  two  words,  genuine  free- 


i86s.] 


Ic£  and  Esq$dma$ix. 


20 1 


dom ;  as  cultivated  gentlemen,  who  be- 
longed to  a  dass  no  longer  numer- 
ous. 


sBsIl,  ihii  blete  aednded  State 
Sdn  meets  uninoired  tine  blasts  of  Fate." 

Unmoved,  indeed,  as  in  Federal  times, 
but  suffering  sadly  from  depletion.  The 
great  West  and  the  dty  of  New  York 
have  sucked  her  best  blood.  There 
still  remain  inventive  machinists,  acute 
money-changers,  acutest  peddlers ;  but 
the  seed  of  the  Af  uses  has  run  out  No 


more  Pleiades  at  Hartford;  no  three 
^'mighties,"  like  Hosmer,  Ellsworth, 
and  Johnson ;  no  lawyers  of  infinite  wit, 
like  Tracy  and  Daggett;  no  Wolcotts 
or  Shermans:  but  the  small  State  can 
boast  that  she  has  still  within  her  bor- 
ders many  sons  full  of  the  spirit  shown 
by  Comfort  Sage  and  by  Return  Jona- 
than Meigs,  when  they  marched  for  Bos- 
ton at  the  head  of  their  companies  as 
soon  as  the  news  of  Lexington  reached 
Connecticut 


ICE   AND    ESQUIMAUX. 


CHAPTER  IIL 

SniDS  AND  BOY*S  PLAY. 

OUR  schooner  sailed  once  up  and 
down  the  coast  of  Labrador,  skirt- 
ing it  for  a  distance  of  five  hundred 
miles ;  but  in  these  papers  I  sail  back 
and  forth  as  many  times  as  I  please. 
Having,  therefore,  followed  up  the  ice, 
I  am  again  at  Sleupe  Harbor,  our  first 
port,  and  invite  thee  to  go  with  us  in  a 
day's  pursuit  of  Eider- Duck ;  for  among 
these  innumerable  islands  the  eider 
breeds,  and  not  elsewhere  in  consider- 
able numbers,  so  &r  as  we  could  learn, 
short  of — somewhere  in  the  remote 
North.  Bradford,  this  morning,  June 
15  th,  has  hired  the  two  Canadians  to 
take  him  to  the  bird-haunts  in  their  own 
boat,  and  to  shoot  for  him, — kindly  offer- 
ing a  place  to  the  Judge  and  myself. 

The  word  Eiikr  had  long  been  to  me 
a  name  to  conjure  with.  At  some  fiir- 
away  period  in  childhood  it  got  imbed- 
ded in  my  fancy,  and  in  process  of  time 
had  acquired  that  subtilest,  indefinable 
£isctnation  which  belongs  only  to  im- 
aginative reminiscence.  In  the  future, 
I  suppose,  all  this  existence  will  have 
beccnne  such  a  childhood,  its  earth 
changed  to  sky,  its  dulness  sharpened 
to  a  tender,  delicious  poignancy  of  al- 
lurement and  suggestion.  And  were  it 
not  bliss  enough  for  an  immortality,  this 


boundless  deepening  and  refining  of  ex- 
perience through  memory  and  imagina- 
tion? Only  to  feel  thrilling  in  one's 
being  chords  of  connection  with  times 
immeasurably  bygone  I  only  to  be  fed 
with  ethereal  remembrance  out  of  a 
youth  scarcely  less  ancient  than  the 
stars !  Pity  Tithonus  no  more ;  or  pity 
him  only  because  in  him  age  had  be- 
come the  enemy  of  itself^  and  spilled 
the  wine  from  its  own  cup. 

The  wind  was  ahead,  and  blew  freshly 
down  through  the  wilderness  of  islands, 
sweeping  between  granite  shores  along 
many  and  many  a  winding  channel ;  the 
boat  careened  almost  to  her  gunwale, 
yielding  easily  at  first,  but  holding  hard 
when  well  down,  as  good  boats  will ;  the 
waves  beat  saucily  against  her,  now  and 
then  also  catching  up  a  handful  of  spray, 
and  flinging  it  full  in  our  faces,  not  for- 
bearing once  or  twice  to  dash  it  between 
the  open  lips  of  a  talker,  salting  his 
speech  somewhat  too  much  for  his  com- 
fort, though  not  too  much  for  the  en- 
tertainment of  his  interlocutors ;  while 
overhead  the  rifted  gray  was  traversed 
by  whited  seams,  making  another  wil- 
derness of  islands  in  the  clouds.  We 
had  gone  a  mile,  and  were  now  sail* 
ing  smoothly  in  the  lee  of  an  island, 
when  Bradford  exclaimed,  "  See  there ! 
What  's  that?  Why,  that  's  a  'sea- 
goose.'    Can  you  get  him  for  me  ?  "  (to 


202 


Ice^  and  Esquimaux. 


[February, 


the  elder  Canadian).  I  had  snuggled 
down  in  the  bottom  of  the  boat,  and 
sprang  up,  expecting,  from  the  word 
<*  goose,"  to  see  a  large  and  not  hand- 
some bird,  when  instead  appeared  the 
tiniest  tid-bit  of  swimming  elegance  that 
eye  ever  beheld.  Reddish  about  neck 
and  breast,  gracefid  as  a  swan  in  form 
and  motion,  while  not  larger  than  a 
swallow,  light  as  the  lightest  feather  on 
the  water,  turning  its  curving  neck  and 
dainty  head  to  look, — it  seemed  more 
like  an  embodied  fancy  than  a  creature 
inured  to  the  chill  of  Arctic  seas  and 
the  savagery  of  Arctifc  storms.  What 
goose  first  gave  it  the  name  '^  sea- 
goose  "  passes  conjecture.  "  Sea-£ury  " 
were  more  appropriate. 

This  was  the  Hyperborean  Phalarope, 
—  a  big  name  for  so  tiny  a  creature. 
Nuttall  says  that  in  1833  great  numbers 
of  them  appeared  about  Chelsea  Beaclv 
Ruddy,  airy,  fairy,  feathered  Graces,  they 
must  seem  in  our  practical  Yankee  land 
like  a  mythology  on  wings,  a  flock  of 
exquisite  old  Grecian  fancies,  flitting, 
light,  and  sweetly  strange,  and  almost 
impossible,  through  the  atmosphere  of 
modem  industries. 

Soon  a  new  attraction.  It  was  a  bird 
in  the  water  quite  near,  about  the  sixe 
of  a  pigeon,  though  slenderer,  glossy 
black,  save  a  patch  of  pure  white  on  the 
wing,  and  with  an  eye  that  glittered  like 
a  black  jewel 

'^  Sea-pigeon,"  said  the  artist,  and  de- 
sired his  skilful  Canadian  to  secure  the 
prize.  The  other  arose  and  took  delib- 
erate aim.  The  bird,  now  not  more  than 
ten  yards  distant,  did  not  offer  to  fly,  and 
made  no  attempt  to  swim  away,  but  kept 
its  paddles  well  under  it,  with  its  hesid 
turned  from  us,  while  it  swung  lighdy 
from  side  to  side,  glancing  backward 
with  its  keen,  audacious  eye,  now  over 
this  shoulder,  now  over  that  The  gun 
flashed ;  the  shot  spattered  over  the  spot 
where  a  bird  had  been ;  but  quicker  ^zsi 
a  flash  that  creature  was  under  water 
and  well  out  of  harm's  way !  The  shot 
could  have  been  scarcely  out  of  the  muz- 
zle before  he  had  disappeared.  To  see 
such  inconceivable  celerity  reminded 
one  that  the  vrings  of  gnats,  which  vi- 


brate fifteen  thousand  times  in  a  second, 
and  light,  that  makes  {^nde  Tyndale) 
twenty  and  odd  million^  of  undulations 
in  going  an  inch,  are  not  without  their 
fellow-wonders  in  Nature.  Meanwhile 
the  whole  performance  was  so  cool  and 
neat  that  1  could  not  afterwards  help 
thinking  of  this  creature  as  a  humorist, 
and  picturing  it  as  quietly  chuckling  to 
itself  under  water.  With  reason,  too  ; 
for  above  water  was  such  a  prolonged 
and  ludicrous  starie  of  amazement  from 
at  least  three  pairs  of  eyes  as  might  sat- 
isfy the  most  immoderate  appetite  for 
the  laughable. 

This  artful  dodger  was  the  Black 
Guillemot  It  cannot  be  shot,  if  its  eye 
is  on  the  fowler.  Eager  for  "speci- 
mens," I  tried  my  long,  powerful  duck- 
ing-gun upon  it  an  hour  or  two  later, 
sufficiently  to  prove  this.  The  birds 
would  wait  and  watch,  all  the  while 
glancing  from  side  to  side,  and  dip,  dip, 
dipping  their  bills  in  the  water  with  in- 
finite wary  quickness  of  movement,  and 
yet  with  an  air  of  audacious  unconcern ; 
but  the  pull  at  the  trigger  seemed  to 
touch  some  nerve  in  them,  and  by  the 
same  act  you  fired  your  shot  at  them 
and  fired  them  under  water. 

The  curious  dipping  of  the  bill  just 
alluded  to  is  mentioned  as  character- 
istic of  the  Phalaropes,  .though  I  did 
not  observe  it,  and  is  thought  to  be  a 
snapping-up  of  minute  Crustacea.  But 
in  the  case  of  the  Black  Guillemot,  I 
question  if  this  be  its  true  explanation. 
The  bird  makes  this  movement  only 
when  on  the  alert  Several  of  them  are 
frolicking  together ;  you  show  yourself 
and  instantly  their  bills  begin  to  dip,  — 
each  movement  being  quick  as  light- 
ning, bu^  with  a  second  of  space  be- 
tween. I  thought  it  partly  an  escape- 
valve  for  their  nervous  excitement,  and 
partly  a  keeping  in  practice  of  their 
readiness  to  dive.  To  suppose  them 
taking  food  under  such  circumstances, 
—  one  would  fiiin  think  himself  more 
formidable  in  their  eyes  than  that  cool- 
ness would  imply. 

In  the  afternoon,  however,  of  this 
day — to  anticipate  a  littie  —  my  speci- 
men was  obt^ed.     While  the  boat 


i86s.] 


Ice  and  Esquimaux, 


203 


waited  at  the  shore  of  a  low  island,  the 
Judge  and  I  sauntered  up  the  smooth, 
bare  granite  slope  to  the  ridge,  and, 
looking  over  a  breast-high  wall  of  solid 
rock,  ;5aw  a  flock  of  these  birds  in  a 
cove  on  the  opposite  side. 

'*  Shall  I  fire  ? "  I  said. 

"You  could  n't  hit  them;  they  are 
more  than  two  gunshots  ofE  However," 
added  the  Judge,  presendy,  "  your  Long 
Tom  will  reach  one  gunshot  and  fire 
one  and  a  half  more;  it  will  do  no 
harm  to  try." 

I  fired  at  the  farthest ;  they  went 
under,  but  when  they  returned  to  the 
surfiice  one  had  come  to  grief.  1  walked 
leisurely  towards  them,  and  stood  on  the 
shore,  reloading ;  but  they  gave  me  no 
heed  ;  they  were  intent  on  their  stricken 
comrade.  Gathering  around  him,  they 
began  pulling  at  him  with  their  bills, 
trying  to  replace  him  in  an  upright  po- 
sition. The  poor  fellow  strove  to  com- 
ply, for  he  was  not  yet  quite  dead ;  but 
quickly  fell  over  again  on  the  side.  They 
renewed  their  efforts,  assiduously  play- 
ing Good  Samaritan  to  this  brother  who 
had  fallen  among  human  thieves.  At 
last  they  got  impatient,  and  pecked  at 
him  sharply,  evidendy  looking  on  him 
as  wanting  in  pluck.  They  had  seemed 
very  human  before  ;  but  when  they  be- 
gan to  be  vexed  at  him  because  he 
would  not  gratify  their  benevolence  with 
the  sense  of  success,  I  really  could  see 
no  reason  why  they  should  be  mas- 
querading there  in  feathers,  being  as 
human  as  anybody  I 

It  was  an  elegant  bird,  with  its  fine 
shape,  its  plumage  of  glossy  jet  and 
snow,  and  its  legs  of  bright  scarlet, 
bright  as  flame.  Use  it  has,  too,  for 
its  flame-legs  in  the  fiigid  seas  it  fi^e- 
quents ;  for  it  is  found  in  the  uttermost 
North,  and  dares  all  the  severities  of 
Polar  cold* 

But  we  have  got  into  the  afternoon 
too  quickly,  and  now  return  to  our  morn- 
ing pursuit  of  eider-duck.  It  was  not 
long  after  the  above  spectacle  of  magic 
disappearance  that  the  elder  Canadian 
rose,  went  forward,  and  fired  his  piece. 
Two  large  birds,  one  black  and  white, 
the  other  brown,  sprang  up  firom  tthe 


water  and  flew  briskly  away, — flew,  as  I 
thought,out  of  sight ;  the  man  meanwhile 
returning  to  his  seat  and  the  helm,  with 
the  same  composed  silence,  and  the 
same  attractive,  inscrutable  face  as  be- 
fore. But  three  hundred  yards  farther 
on  we  came  to  the  male  bird,  quite  dead. 
I  was  near  firing  upon  it,  being  led  by 
its  motion  on  the  waves  to  think  it 
alive,  and  not  in  the  least  connecting  it 
with  the  bird  I  had  but  just  now  seen 
flying  off  in  all  apparent  health,  —  when 
the  Canadian,  touching  Bradford,  and 
pointing,  said  quieUy,  "  Dead,"  and  the 
latter  shouted  to  me  accordingly.  Pres- 
endy, as  the  boat  swept  past,  I  stooped 
and  drew  it  in,  —  a  beautiful  creature, 
with  velvety  violet  black  accompanied 
by  dark  olive-green  about  the  head, 
while  the  neck,  breast,  and  back  were 
white  as  snow,  and  all  the  rest  a  glis- 
^tening  black. 

"  An  eider !  King  eider ! "  cried  the 
Artist,  joyfully.  Then,  ^^  Is  n't  it  a  king 
eider  ? "  he  said  to  the  Canadian,  hold- 
ing it  up. 

The  other  nodded. 

"Really  a  king  eider!"  murmured 
the  Artist,  as  he  now  bent  over  it  with 
bright  eyes. 

It  was  not,  but  the  male  of  the  other 
species,  though  I  knew  no  better  at  the 
time.  The  king  duck  is  one  of  the 
most  Arctic  of  all  Arctic  birds,  and  con- 
descends to  Lower  Labrador  only  in 
winter,  nor  then  frequently;  A  tem- 
perature at  the  freezing-point  is  to  him 
a  mere  oven,  which  one  should  be  a 
salamander  to  live  in ;  with  the  ther- 
mometer thirty  or  forty  degrees  iower, 
he  is  still  sweltered ;  while  his  custom  of 
growing  his  own  coat,  though  it  saves 
him  firom  shoddy,  expense,  and  Paris 
fashions,  has  the  disadvantage  that  he 
cannot  strip  it  off  at  pleasure,  not  even 
when  away  from  the  ladies  and  the  din- 
ner-table. He  is  fain,  therefore,  to  keep 
well  away  toward  the  Polar  North,  wliere 
the  climate  is  more  temperate  and  pleas- 
ing, leaving  Newfoundlanders  and  Lab- 
radorians  to  roast  themselves,  if  they 
will  do  so. 

While  the  boat  sailed  on,  still  seek- 
ing the  eider-island,  —  which  at  first,  so 


2o6 


Ice  and  Esquimaux, 


[February, 


Some  patches  of  shrubbery,  two  and  a 
half  or  three  feet  high,  —  the  first  ap- 
proach to  woody  growth  I  had  seen,  — 
drew  my  attention ;  and  it  is  curious 
now  to  think  what  importance  they  had 
in  my  eyes,  as  if  here  were  the  promise 
of  a  new  world  I  hastened  towards 
them,  forgetting  the  coveted  ducks ;  and 
the  Canadian's  gun,  which  sounded  in 
the  distance,  did  not  reawaken  my  am- 
bition. Forgetting  or  remembering 
were  probably  much  the  same ;  for  I 
had  scarcely  fired  a  gun  in  twenty  and 
odd  years,  never  had  taken  a  bird  on  the 
wing,  and,  besides,  must  now  fire  firom 
the  left  shoulder,  —  the  right  eye  being 
like  Goldsmith's  tea-cups,  "  wisely  kept 
for  show."  But  as  I  touched  the  shrub- 
bery there  was  a  stir,  a  rustle,  a  whirr, 
and  away  went  a  large  brown  bird,  scur- 
rying off  toward  the  sea.  Upon  the 
impulse  of  the  moment,  I  up  gun,  and 
blazed  afler.  To  my  amazement,  the 
bird  fell.  I  stumped  off  for  my  prize, 
actually  achieving  a  sort  of  run,  the  first 
for  years,  —  pretty  sure,  however,  that 
the  creature  was  making  game  of  me 
rather  than  I  of  it,  and  would  rise  and 
flirt  its  tail  in  my  face  when  I  should  be 
near  enough  to  make  the  mockery  poig- 
nant No,  the  poor  thing's  game  was 
up.  It  was  a  large  bird,  of  an  orange- 
brown  hue,  mottled  with  faint  white 
and  shadings  of  black.  A  powerftil  re- 
lenting came  over  me,  and  I  could  have 
sat  down  and  cried  like  a  baby,  had 
that  been  suitable  for  a  "boy"  of  my 
years. 

"  Do  you  know  that  was  pretty  well 
done  ? "  cried  a  voice. 

It  was  Bradford,  who  was  hurrying 
up.  I  had  no  heart  to  answer ;  I  was 
not  jolly. 

"  Why,  it 's  a  female  eider,"  he  said, 
when  near  ;  "  you  *ve  shot  an  eider  on 
the  wing!" 

O  temporal  0  mares f  then  the 
Elder  was  glad  I  — all  his  compunction 
drowned  in  the  pleasure  of  connecting 
himself,  even  through  the  gates  of 
death,  with  a  youthful  fescination. 

It  now  occurred  to  r- 
conjecture  proved  corr 
plats  of  shrubbery  mi 


ing-places  for  the  duck  The  Canadi- 
ans, whose  behavior  was  all  along  mjrs- 
terious,  had  forborne  to  give  us  any 
hint  I  was  vexed  at  tliem  then,  but 
had  no  reason  perhaps.  This  was  their 
larder,  which  they  could  not  wish  to 
impoverish.  Besides,  fishermen  and 
visitors  on  this  coast  are  so  sweeping 
and  ruthless  in  their  destructions,  that 
one  might  reasonably  desire  to  protect 
the  birds  against  them.  It  .is  not  so 
much  by  shooting  the  birds  as  by  de- 
stroying their  eggs  that  the  mischief  is 
done.  A  party  will  take  possession  of 
an  island  at  night,  carry  off  every  egg 
that  can  be  found,  and  throw  it  into  the 
sea,  —  then,  returning  next  forenoon, 
take  the  fi'esh  eggs  laid  in  the  mean  time 
for  food.  On  the  whole,  I  feel  less  like 
blaming  our  guides  than  like  returning 
to  make  apologies.  Yet  to  us  also  the 
ducks  are  necessary,  for  we  have  no 
fresh  meat  but  such  as  our  guns  ob- 
tain ;  and  to  one  seeking  health,  this 
was  a  matter  of  some  serious  moment 

The  elder  Canadian  has  also  shot  a 
duck,  and,  besides,  a  red-breasted  diver, 
a  noble  bird ;  and  with  these  prizes  we 
set  sail  for  another  island,  frequented 
Ijy  "  Tinkers."  The  day  meanwhile  had 
cleared,  the  sun  shone  richly,  and  we 
began  to  see  somewhat  of  the  glory,  as 
well  as  grimness,  of  Labrador.  Away 
to  the  southwest,  eminent  over  the  less- 
er islands,  rose  Mecatina,  all  tossed 
into  wild  billows  of  blue,  with  purple 
in  the  hollows ;  while  to  the  north  the 
hills  of  the  mainland  lifted  themselves 
up  to  hold  fellowship  with  it  in  height 
and  hue. 

"Tinktfr,"  we  found,  meant  Murre 
and  Razor-Billed  Auk.  These  are  finely 
shaped  birds,  black  above  and  white 
below,  twice  the  size  of  a  pigeon,  and 
closely  resembling  each  other,  save  in 
the  bill.  That  of  the  murre  is  not  no- 
ticeable ;  but  the  other's  is  singularly 
shaped,  and  marked  with  delicate,  finely 
cut  grooves,  the  central  one  being  nice- 
ly touched  with  a  line  of  white,  while  a 
simIki»Jilir<>ad  of  white  runs  from  the 


u.« 


■itiR#»  ?t  suggested 
t  this  bill, 


1865.] 


Ice  dnd  Esquimaux. 


205 


with  the  labored  propulsion  of  the  duck. 
A  few  slow  waves  of  the  wing,  and  there 
it  is  high  in  the  air ;  then  a  droop,  a  de- 
cline, but  so  light  and  soft,  so  exquisite- 
ly graduated,  that  the  downward  drift 
of  a  feather  seems  lumpish  and  leaden 
in  the  comparison;  then  again  up  it 
goes  with  such  an  ease  as  if  it  rose  by 
specific  levity,  like  smoke  from  a  chim- 
ney in  a  day  of  calm ;  and  aloft  it  wheels, 
diclesy  flcMttSf  and  at  length  sails  on  its 
broad  vans  away,  passing  in  a  few  min- 
utes over  wide  spaces,  and  yet,  with 
its  leisurely  stroke,  seeming  engaged 
only  in  airing  its  pinions.  One  might 
£mcy  it  the  very  spirit  of  motion  im- 
aged in  a  picturesque  symboL 

In  that  delightful  book,  ''Out-Door 
Papers,"  the  author  celebrates  charm- 
ingly the  charm  of  birds ;  but  I,  who 
am  more  humanist  than  naturalist, 
would  say  rather,  What  exhaustless  fas- 
cination in  their  flight ! — for  this  appears 
to  touch  by  some  subtile  suggestion  up- 
on the  hope  or  dream  of  man.  I  am, 
indeed,  now — though  always,  please 
God,  a  boy  —  not  so  young  a  boy  as 
once,  when  I  could  be  unhappy  for  the 
want  of  wings,  and  deem,  for  a  moment, 
dial  life  is  little  worth  without  them ; 
yet  never  does  a  bird  fly  in  my  view, 
especially  if  its  flight  be  lofty  and  sus- 
tained, but  it  seems  to  carry  some  deep, 
immemorial  secret  of  my  existence,  as 
if  my  immortal  life  flew  with  it  Sweet 
fugitive,  when  will  it  fly  with  me  ? 
Whenever  it  does, — and  something  as- 
sures me  that  one  day  it  will,  —  then 
the  new  heavens  and  new  earth  !  Mean- 
iriiile  the  intimation  of  it  puts  to  the 
lip  some  unseen  cup,  out  of  which,  in 
a  soft  ecstasy  of  pain  that  is  better  than 
pleasure,  I  quaff  peace,  peace.  It  is 
not  always  nor  often  that  one  is  open 
to  this  supreme  charm ;  but  it  comes  at 
times,  and  then  to  hope  all  and  believe 
all  is  easy  as  to  breathe. 

This  mood  also  carries  me  farther 
than  almost  anything  else  into  child- 
hood \  for,  in  the  height  of  it,  I  can  go 
back  by  link  after  link  of  remembrance, 
and  see  myself  .  .  .  there  . . .  and  there 
.  .  .  and  there  again  .  .  .  and  at  last 
deep  into  the  rosy  sufiiision  of  dawn,  ^- 


stiU  looking  upi  and  intent  on  that  airy 
motion.  To  this  day  I  know  birds  bet- 
ter by  their  flight  than  by  their  forms, 
unless  it  be  the  form  of  the  wing. 

I  tried  to  see  what  it  is  which  gives 
to  the  flight  of  some  birds  that  look  of 
majestic  ease.  Partly  it  is  due  to  the 
sk)w  stroke,  but  more,  I  thought,  to 
the  flexibility  of  the  wing,  and  to  the 
fact  that  this  is  less  directly  up-and- 
down  in  its  action  than  that  of  the  duck, 
for  example.  The  chief  effort  of  the 
duck  \\  to  sustain  its  weight  Conse- 
quently the  wing  must  lie  flat  (compar- 
atively) upon  the  air,  and  be  kept  straight 
out,  economizing  its  vertical  pressure ; 
and  hence  the  noticeable  stif&iess  and 
toilsomeness  of  its  progression.  The 
gull,  less  conoerned  to  sustain  itself 
uses  the  wing  more  flexibly,  bending 
it  slightly  at  the  elbow,  and  pressing 
back  the  outer  portion  with  each  stroke. 
So  a  heavy  swimmer  must  keep  his 
hands  flat,  pressing  down  upon  the  wa- 
ter to  hold  up  his  head ;  while  one  who 
swims  verylighdy  handles  them  more 
freely  and  flexibly,  using  them  at  pleas- 
ure to  assist  his  progress.  Yet  the 
matter  refuses  to  be  wholly  explained, 
and  remains  partly  a  mystery.  Dar- 
win, when  in  Patagonia,  observed  con- 
dors circling  in  the  air,  and  saw  them 
sail  half  an  hoiu-  by  the  watch  without 
any  smallest  vibration  of  the  wings  and 
without  the  smallest  perceptible  de- 
scent I  used  in  boyhood  to  see  bald 
eagles  do  the  same  for  a  considerable 
period,  though  I  never  timed  them  ex- 
actly, and  wonder  at  it  now  as  I  did 
then.  • 

Away  now  to  another  island,  still  seek- 
ing ducks.  Arrived,  the  Canadians 
land,  in  order,  in  Bradford's  behalf,  to 
have  the  first  chance  ;  while  the  Judge 
and  I,  who  pretend  to  no  skill  with  the 
gun,  remain  awhile  behind.  The  island 
had  the  shape  described  in  our  first 
paper:  a  gentle  slope  and  rock-beach 
on  one  side, — a  steep,  broken,  half-pre- 
cipitous descent  on  the  other.  Land- 
ing presentiy,  I  went  slowly  along  the 
slope, — slowly,  for  one's  feet  sank  deep 
at  every  step  in  the  elastic  moss,  so  that 
it  was  like  walking  on  a  feather-bed. 


2o6 


Ice  and  Esquimaux, 


[February, 


Some  patches  of  shrubbery,  two  and  a 
half  or  three  feet  high,  —  the  first  ap- 
proach to  woody  growth  I  had  seen,  — 
drew  my  attention ;  and  it  is  curious 
now  to  think  what  importance  they  had 
in  my  eyes,  as  if  here  were  the  promise 
of  a  new  world.  I  hastened  towards 
them,  forgetting  the  coveted  ducks ;  and 
the  Canadian's  gun,  which  sounded  in 
the  distance,  did  not  reawaken  my  am- 
bition. Forgetting  or  remembering 
were  probably  much  the  same ;  for  I 
had  scarcely  fired  a  gun  in  twenty  and 
odd  years,  never  had  taken  a  bird  on  the 
wing,  and,  besides,  must  now  fire  fi'om 
the  left  shoulder,  —  the  right  eye  being 
like  Goldsmith's  tea-cups,  "wisely  kept 
for  show."  But  as  I  touched  the  shrub- 
bery there  was  a  stir,  a  rustle,  a  whirr, 
and  away  went  a  large  brown  bird,  scur- 
rying off  toward  the  sea.  Upon  the 
impulse  of  the  moment,  I  up  gun,  and 
blazed  after.  To  my  amazement,  the 
bird  fell.  I  stumped  off  for  my  prize, 
actually  achieving  a  sort  of  run,  the  first 
for  years,  —  pretty  sure,  however,  that 
the  creature  was  making  game  of  me 
rather  than  I  of  it,  and  would  rise  and 
flirt  its  tail  in  my  face  when  I  should  be 
near  enough  to  make  the  mockery  poig- 
nant No,  the  poor  thing's  game  was 
up.  It  was  a  large  bird,  of  an  orange- 
brown  hue,  mottled  with  faint  white 
and  shadings  of  black.  A  powerful  re- 
lenting came  over  me,  and  I  could  have 
sat  down  and  cried  like  a  baby,  had 
that  been  suitable  for  a  "boy"  of  my 
years, 

"  Do  you  know  that  was  pretty  well 
done  ? "  cried  a  voice. 

It  was  Bradford,  who  was  hunying 
up.  I  had  no  heart  to  answer ;  I  was 
not  jolly. 

"  Why,  it 's  a  female  eider,"  he  said, 
when  near  ;  "  you  Ve  shot  an  eider  on 
the  wing ! " 

O  tempera/  O  mores/  then  the 
Elder  was  glad !  — all  his  compunction 
drowned  in  the  pleasure  of  connecting 
himself,  even  through  the  gates  of 
death,  with  a  youthful  fascination. 

It  now  occurred  to  me  —  and  the 
conjecture  proved  correct  —  that  these 
plats  of  shrubbery  must  serve  as  hid- 


ing-places for  the  duck.  The  Canadi- 
ans, whose  behavior  was  all  along  mys- 
terious, had  forborne  to  give  us  any 
hint  I  was  vexed  at  tliem  then,  but 
had  no  reason  perhaps.  This  was  their 
larder,  which  they  could  not  wish  to 
impoverish.  Besides,  fishermen  and 
visitors  on  this  coast  are  so  sweeping 
and  ruthless  in  their  destructions,  that 
one  might  reasonably  desire  to  protect 
the  birds  against  them.  It  .is  not  so 
much  by  shooting  the  birds  as  by  de- 
stroying their  eggs  that  the  mischief  is 
done.  A  party  will  take  possession  of 
an  island  at  night,  carry  off  every  egg 
that  can  be  found,  and  throw  it  into  the 
sea,  —  then,  returning  next  forenoon, 
take  the  fi'esh  eggs  laid  in  the  mean  time 
for  food.  On  the  whole,  I  feel  less  like 
blaming  our  guides  than  like  returning 
to  make  apologies.  Yet  to  us  also  the 
ducks  are  necessary,  for  we  have  no 
fresh  meat  but  such  as  our  guns  ob- 
tain ;  and  to  one  seeking  health,  this 
was  a  matter  of  some  serious  moment 

The  elder  Canadian  has  also  shot  a 
duck,  and,  besides,  a  red-breasted  diver, 
a  noble  bird ;  and  with  these  prizes  we 
set  sail  for  another  island,  frequented 
tiy  "  Tinkers."  The  day  meanwhile  had 
cleared,  the  sun  shone  richly,  and  we 
began  to  see  somewhat  of  the  glory,  as 
well  as  grimness,  of  Labrador.  Away 
to  the  southwest,  eminent  over  the  less- 
er islands,  rose  Mecatina,  all  tossed 
into  wild  billows  of  blue,  with  purple 
in  the  hollows ;  while  to  the  north  the 
hills  of  the  mainland  lifted  themselves 
up  to  hold  fellowship  with  it  in  height 
and  hue. 

"Tinktfr,"  we  found,  meant  Murre 
and  Razor-Billed  Auk.  These  are  finely 
shaped  birds,  black  above  and  white 
below,  twice  the  size  of  a  pigeon,  and 
closely  resembling  each  other,  save  in 
the  bill.  That  of  the  murre  is  not  no- 
ticeable ;  but  the  other's  is  singularly 
shaped,  and  marked  with  delicate,  finely 
cut  grooves,  the  central  one  being  nice- 
ly touched  with  a  line  of  white,  while  a 
similar  thread  of  white  runs  fi-om  the 
bill  to  the  e}'e. 

I  notice  it  thus,  because  it  suggested 
to  me  a  reflection.   Looking  at  this  bill, 


i865.] 


Ice  and  Esquimaux. 


207 


I  asked  myself  how  Darwin's  theory 
comported  with  it    "  The  struggle  for 
life»"  —  are  all  the  forms  of  organic  ex- 
istence due  to  yiat  ?    But  how  did  the 
struggle  for  life  cut  these  grooves,  paint 
these  ornamental  lines?     ''Beauty  is 
its  own  excuse  for  being";  and  that 
Nature  respects  beauty  is,  to  my  mind^ 
nothing  less  than  &tal  to  the  Parwinian 
hypothesis.     That  his  law  exists  as  a 
modifying  influence  I  freely  admit,  and 
accredit  him  with  an  important  addition 
to  our  thought  upon  such  matters  ;  that 
it  is  the  sole  formative  influence  I  shall 
be  better  prepared  to  believe  when  I 
see  that  *beauty  is  not  regarded  in  Na- 
ture, but  is  a  mere  casual  attendant 
iqx>n  use.    The  artist  Greenough  did, 
indeed,  strenuously  maintain  this  last 
But  the  sloth  and  the  bird-of-paradise 
are  equally  useful  to  themselves ;   if 
beauty  were  but  an  aspect  of  use,  these 
should  be  equally  comely  in  our  eyes. 
No;  ''the  struggle  for  life''  has  not 
grooved  the  bill  of  the  auk,  and  painted 
the  tail  of  the  peacock,  any  more,  so 
fiir  as  I  can  see,  than  it  has  given  to 
evening  and  morning  their  scarlet  and 
gold.     And  so  my  auk  said  to  me, 
"  Any  attempt  to  string  existence  upon  • 
a  single  thread  has  £uled  and  will  fail, 
unless  it  be  that  thread  which  man  can 
never  formulate,  never  stretch  out  into  a 
straight  line,  —  the  Eternal  Unity,  God." 
These  birds  have  a  catlike  instinct 
of  fidelity  to  old  haunts,  and,  having 
once  chosen  a  habitat,  adhere  to  it,  de- 
spite many  a  year  of  persecution.  They 
prefer  inaccessible  clifls,  on  every  pro- 
jecting shelf  and  jut  of  which  the  eggs 
are  laid,  but  abo  inhabit  islands  where 
are   many  clefts,  fissures,   and  holes 
made  by  tumbled  masses  of  rock.    This 
at  which  we  had  arrived  was  not  much 
more  than  a  hundred  feet  high ;  and 
the  clifls  in  which  it  terminated  on  one 
side  were  scarcely  to  be  named  inac- 
cessible.    The  number  of  birds  upon 
it  seemed  to  our  novice-eyes  immense, 
but  at  a  later  period  would  have  seem- 
ed  trivial     They  are   always   flying 
about  the  shores,  and  have  also  a  laud- 
able curiosity,  which  leads  them  to  in- 
vestigate when  any  stnwge  form  ap- 


pears or  any  strange  noise  is  made  in 
the  neighborhood  of  their  homes. 

On  landing,  the  Judge  made  off  to 
the  left,  and  was  soon  heard  from, — 
as  it  afterwards  appeared,  with  imme- 
diate success.  The  Canadian  and  my- 
self took  our  station  upon  a  broad  plat- 
form some  forty  feet  above  the  sea, 
with  steep  rocks  behind,  and  were  soon 
busily  engaged  in  —  missing  !  It  was 
nothing  but  bang! pish  /  bang! pshaw! 
for  half  an  hour.  It  could  not  be  said 
that  the  birds  were  indiflerent  to  the 
prospect  of  being  immortalized  as  speci- 
mens. On  the  contrary,  they  showed 
an  appreciation  of  the  honor,  and  an 
open  zeal  to  obtain  it,  which-  were 
worthy  of  the  highest  commendation. 
But  they  very  properly  declined  to  be 
bungled  even  into  a  taxidermist  para- 
dise. Nothing  could  be  more  admira- 
bly orthodox  than  their  resolution  to 
be  immortalized  secundum  artemj  and 
considering  how  many  are  ready  to 
sneak,  without  the  sniallest  regard  to 
desert  or  self-respect,  into  any  attain- 
able post  mortem  felicity,  this  honor- 
able cut  direct  to  all  mere  auJIrmsd 
and  heterodox  inductions  into  happi- 
ness begot  in  me  toward  these  crea- 
tui*es  sentiments  of  the  highest  con- 
sideration. All  the  while  they  kept 
flying  past,  often  near,  but  always  go- 
ing through  the  air  like  a  dart,  as  if 
they  would  say,  "  Take,  but  earn  !  " 

At  first  the  effect  of  this  superior 
behavior  on  their  part  was  to  produce 
humiliation,  and>  along  with  this,  a 
weak,  nervous  excitement,  and  an  at- 
tempt to  reach  my  ends  by  mere  deter- 
mination. I  accordingly  got  to  pulling 
upon  them  with  a  vehemence  which 
probably  disturbed  my  aim,  as  if  I  had 
been  drawing  at  a  halibut  rather  than 
at  a  trigger.  But  the  gates  which  are 
appointed  to  fly  open  l)efore  a  high  l)e- 
havior  are  but  as  the  barred  gates  of 
Destiny  toward  mere  low  strength.  The 
gods  and  birds  were  immitigable.  I 
must  do  better,  not  merely  do  more. 

Meditating  on  these  matters,  and 
moved  by  the  lofty  demeanor  of  my 
chaUengers,  I  at  length  proceeded  se- 
riously to  self-amendment     Exchang- 


2o8 


Ice  and  EsquitnauXi 


[February, 


ing  my  large  duck-shot  for  some  of 
smaller  size,  I  no  longer  blurted  at  my 
auk  when  he  was  just  abreast ;  but, 
deferentially  allowing  him  to  pass,  and 
then,  aiming  after  him,  as  if  I  accepted 
his  lead,  I  gently  suggested  to  him  my 
desires ;  whereupon,  in  the  most  be- 
coming manner,  he  descended  and 
plumped  into  the  sea,  without  so  much 
as  .flapping  a  wing,  or  being  guilty  of 
the  faintest  impropriety.  It  was  beau- 
tifuL  Continuing  this  behavior,  I  found 
my  attentions  uniformly  reciprocated. 
Once,  indeed,  when  I  fell  into  a  shade 
of  brusquerUy  the  individual  whom  I 
had  complimented  stood  upon  his  self- 
respect,  and,  as  I  thought,  flew  away ; 
but  Bradford,  who  had  courteously 
come  up  just  as  I  began  to  succeed, 
was  so  kind  as  to  see  him  £dl  punctil- 
iously into  the  water,  when  he  had 
gone  far  enough  to  suggest  a  repri- 
mand of  my  slight  unseemliness.  And 
now,  when  the  Artist  was  Christian 
enough  to  exclaim,  ''Why,  Blank,  I 
did  not  know  you  were  such  a  shot !  " 
I  thought  it  high  time  to  rest  on  my 
(back  and)  laurels.  Reposing,  there- 
fore, upon  the  round  leathern  pillow 
which  was  my  inseparable  and  inval- 
uable companion,  I  enjoyed  my  spine- 
ache  cum  dignitaU  till  the  others  were 
ready  to  return. 

On  the  way  to  the  ship  an  eider 
sprang  up  from  a  steep  ridge  we  were 
passing,  and  fell  in  a  second,  Bradford 
exclaiming,  **  That 's  the  best  shot  to- 
day!"   The   yawl  soon  followed  us. 

Ph had   taken  two  eiders  on  the 

wing;  we  had  six  in  all.  Others 
brought  auks  and  murres ;  but  the 
Judge  still  led  the  van.  Next  morn- 
ing the  Colonel  and  Judge  brought  in 
four  eiders,  —  the  last  for  the  entire 
voyage.  Others  were  afterward  seen, 
but  only  seen.  The  Parson,  some  weeks 
later,  closed  our  intrusive  intimacy  with 
them  by  an  attempt  to  capture  some  of 
theur  young  in  the  water.  It  could  n't 
be  done.  They  were  only  a  few  days 
old,  but,  rich  in  pre-natal  instruction, 
they  always  waited  until  the  hand  was 
just  upon  them,  —  not  to  waste  any  part 
of  their  stay  beneath  water,  —  and  then 


— under  in  a  moment  One  saw  that 
pirate  saddle -back  must  needs  bestir 
himself  in  order  to  catch  them,  and 
one  could  appreciate  the  sagacity  of 
the  mother  duck  in  hurrying  her  brood, 
almost  as  soon  as  they  are  bom,  into 
the  water.      ^ 

And  so  fu^well,  eiders !  If  all  goes 
to  my  wish,  you  shall  yet  have  a  place 
on  other-wcM'ld  islands  and  seas,  where 
saddle-backs  shall  not  pillage  your  nests, 
nor  coat-backs  point  at  you  any  Long 
Toml 

We  give  account  only  of  what  was 
characteristic,  and  therefore  will  now 
jump  five  weeks  of  time  and  a  hundred 
leagues  of  space.  But  since  this  is  a 
long  leap,  a  few  stepping-stones  will  be 
convenient  The  Parson,  then,  has 
brought  in  on  the  way  a  nice  batch  of 
velvet  duck,  noticeable  for  their  ex- 
tremely large,  oval,  elevated,  scariet 
nostrils;  we  have  shot  at  seals,  and 
almost  hit  them  in  the  most  admirable 
manner ;  we  have  hunted  for  an  indu- 
bitable polar  bear, — and  found  a  dog 
and  a  midnight  mystification ;  we  have 
played  at  chess,  euchre,  backgammon, 
whist,  debating-club,  story-telling,  night- 
mare,— one  of  our  number  developing 
an  incomparable  genius  for  the  last ;  we 
have  played  at  getting  tolerable  cook- 
ing out  of  two  slovens,  one  of  whom 
knows  nothing,  and  the  other  everything 
but  his  business, — and  have  lost  the 
game ;  we  have  plajred  at  catching  trout, 
and  found  this  the  best  joke  of  alL 
There  are  beautiftd  brook-trout  on  the 
coast  of  Labrador.  They  say  so ;  it  is 
so.  Beautiful  trout, — mostly  visible  to 
the  naked  eye  1  Not  many  of  them,  but 
enough  to  gratify  an  elegant  curiosity. 

But  here  we  are,  July  21,  lat  54^  30'. 
Bradford  has  hooked  an  iceberg,  and 
will  ^  play  him  "  for  the  afternoon.  Half 
a  mile  off  is  an  island  of  the  character 
common  to  most  of  the  innumerable  isl* 
ands  strown  all  along  from  Cape  Charies 
to  Cape  Chudleigh, — an  alp  submerged 
to  within  three  hundred  feet  of  the  sum- 
mit Such  islands,  and  such  a  coast! 
But  this  is  a  notable'' bird-island."  So 
three  of  us  are  set  ashore  there  with  our 


1865.] 


hi  and  Esquimaux. 


209 


gmiB,  the  iiide£itigaUe  Professor  com- 
ing along  aUo  with  his  perpetual  net 

The  island — which  is  rather  two  isl- 
ands than  one,  for  straight  through  it, 
toward  the  eastern  extremity,  goes  the 
narrowest  possible  chasm — proved  pre- 
cipitous and  inaccessible^  save  in  a  bit 
of  inlet  at  the  hither  opening  of  this 
chasm  and  on  three  rods  of  sloping  rock 
to  the  right  Like  almost  all  its  fellows, 
however,  it  raised  one  side  higher  than 
the  other ;  and  conjecturing  that  the  far- 
ther and  higher  face  would  be  the  favor- 
ite haunt  of  these  cliff-loving  birds,  — 
muires  and  auks^again, — I  left  my  com- 
panions* busily  shooting  near  the  land- 
ing, and  made  my  way  up  and  across. 
It  was  no  easy  task,  for  the  wild  rock 
was  tossed  and  tilted,  broken  and  heap- 
ed and  saw-toothed,  as  if  it  represented 
some  savage  spasm  or  fit  of  madness  in 
Nature.  But  clambering,  sliding,  creep- 
ing, zigzagging,  turning  back  to  find  new 
openings,  and  in  every  manner  persist- 
ing, I  slowly  got  on ;  while  deep  down 
in  the  chasm  on  my  left, — a  hundred 
feet  deep,  and  in  the  middle  not  more 
than  a  foot  wide,  though  champered 
away  a  litde  at  the  top,  —  the  water 
surged  in  and  out  with  a  thunderous, 
muffled  sough  and  moan,  like  a  Titan 
under  the  earth,  pinned  down  eternally 
in  pain.  It  was  awfiiUy  impressive,  — 
so  impressive  that  I  reflected  neither 
upon  it  nor  on  myself  With  this  im- 
mitigable, adamantine  wildness  about 
me,  and  that  abysmal,  booming  stifle 
of  plaint,  to  which  all  the  air  trembled, 
sounding  from  below,  I  became  another 
being,  and  the  very  universe  was  no 
longer  itself;  past  and  future  were  not, 
and  I  was  a  dumb  atomy  creeping  over 
the  bare  peaks  of  existence,  while  out 
of  the  blind  heart  of  the  world  issued 
an  everlasting  prayer, — a  prayer  with- 
out hope !  And  tiiis^  too,  if  not  boy's 
play,  was  a  true  piece  of  boy-experience. 
I  can  recall  —  and  better  now  by  the 
aid  of  this  half- hoar  —  moments  in 
childhood  when  existence  became  thus 
awful,  when  it  overpowered,  overwhelm- 
ed me,  and  when  tiipe,  instead  of  melt- 
ing in  golden  ripeness  into  the  fruitful 
eternity  that  lies  before,  seemed  to  &li 

YOU  XV. — NO.  88.  14 


back,  doomed  forever,  into  the  naked 
eternity  behind.  Goethe's  "  Erl-King," 
almost  alone  in  modem  literature,  touch- 
es truly,  and  on  its  shadowed  side,  the 
immeasurable  secret  which  haunts  and 
dominates  the  heart  of  a  child ;  while 
Wordsworth's  "  Ode  on  the  Intimations 
of  Immortality  in  Childhood  "  is  our  no- 
blest suggestion  of  its  illuminated  ob- 
verse side. 

At  length  I  issued  upon  the  opposite 
£ice  of  the  island,  and  found  myself  on 
a  shelf  of  rock  about  three  feet  wide, 
with  one  hundred  and  fifty  feet,  more 
or  less,  of  vertical  clifif  beneadi,  and 
about  the  same  height  of  half-cliff  be- 
hind and  above.  It  was  a  pretty  perch, 
and  gave  one  a  feeling  of  consequence ; 
for  what  pigmy  perched  on  Alps  ever 
fiuled  to  consider  his  elevation  one  of 
stature  strictly,  and  not  at  all  of  posi- 
tion ?  The  outer  edge  of  the  shelf  rose, 
inclosing  me  as  in  a  box,  so  that  I  was 
safe  as  the  owner  of  an  annuity  based 
upon  United  States  securities.  Away 
to  my  right  the  perpendicular  cliff  rose 
higher  still,  and,  being  there  covered 
with  clefts,  cavelets,  and  narrow  shelves, 
was  the  peculiar  home  of  the  birds,  who 
had  taken  possession  of  this  island  on 
a  long  lease. 

Their  numbers  were  inconceivable. 
Two  hundred  yards  off  in  the  water  was 
an  island  of  them,  an  acre  of  feathery 
black.  To  the  right  I  could  see  them 
now  and  then  ascending  in  literal  clouds ; 

and  the  sober  Ph ,  who  rowed  along 

here  beyond  my  view,  saw  the  cliffs,  as 
he  looked  up,  white  for  a  half-mile  with 
their  snowy  breasts,  and  could  find  no 
words  to  express  his  sense  of  their  mul- 
titude. 

But  so  fiu*  as  I  was  concerned, — for  my 
convades  did  better,  —  it  was  the  birds 
themselves  that  did  the  sporting  that  af- 
ternoon. They  came  streaming  by,  nev- 
er crowding  together  so  that  more  than 
one  could  be  included  in  the  chances' 
of  shot,  but  incessantly  trailing  along, 
and  scurrying  past  with  the  speed  of  ;ui 
arrow.  I  peppered  away,  with  little  re- 
sult but  that  of  spicing  their  afternoon's- 
enjoyment  for  them ;  for  the  wicked  crea- 
tures took  it  all  in  the  jolliest  way,  fling- 


210 


Ice  and  Esquimaux. 


[Februarjr, 


ing  themselves  past  with  a  flirt  and  a 
wink,  just  as  if  I  had  been  no  lord  of 
creation  at  alL  I  had  disdained  to  shoot 
them  when  at  rest ;  for  there  seemed  to 
be  some  ancient  compact  between  us^ 
by  which  they  were  to  have  their  chance 
and  I  mine.  But  when  one  came  and 
planted  himself  on  a  little  jut  thirty 
yards  to  my  right,. and  mocked  me  with 
a  look  of  patronage,  seeming  to  regard 
me  as  the  weaker  party  and  to  incline 
to  my  side,  I  broke  the  pact,  and,  mask- 
ing my  hurt  conceit  under  some  virtuous 
indignation  against  him  as  a  deserter 
and  traitor,  turned  and  smote  him  under 
the  fifth  rib. 

And  now  it  came  upon  me  that  I  must 
secure  that  bird.  To  shoot  without  ob- 
taining were  mere  wantonness.  Yes, 
I  would  have  him,  and  justify  myself 
to  myself.  To  do  it  was  difficult,  even 
in  Labradorian  boy-eyes.  Between  me 
and  the  auk  the  upper  half  of  the  cliff 
made  a  deep  recess,  terminating  in  a 
right  angle,  with  a  platform  of  granite 
some  seventy-five  feet  below.  Along  both 
&ces  of  this  recess,  nearly  on  a  level 
with  myself,  ran  a  shelf  not  more  than 
six  inches  wide,  with  vertical  wall  above 
and  beneath ;  and  on  this  I  must  go. 
I  began,  therefore,  working  along  this, 
proceeding  with  care,  observing  my 
footing,  and  clutching  with  my  hands 
whatever  knob  or  crevice  I  could  find. 
But  when  near  the  angle,  I  found  that 
the  shelf  terminated  some  two  feet  short 
of  its  apex,  and  began  again  at  about  the 
same  distance  beyond.  Seeking  about 
cautiously  for  finger-hold,  I  reached  out 
my  left  foot,  and  planted  it  on  the  op- 
posite side,  but  could  not  stretch  tut 
enough  to  make  a  place  for  the  right 
foot  when  I  should  withdraw  it  1  be- 
gan debating  with  myself,  whether,  in 
case  I  should  swing  across  and  rest  on 
the  left  foot  alone,  I  could  work  this 
along  and  make  room  for  the  right  I 
knew  that  the  process  would  have  to  be 
repeated  on  my  return  ;  so  I  must  esti- 
mate two  chances  at  once. 

And  now  for  the  first  time,  as  I  stood 
tiius,  some  faint  misgiving  arose  in  me, 
some  faint  question  whether  I  was  not 
doing  one  unjustifiable  thing  to  avoid 


doing  anotlier.  It  occurred  to  me  that 
there  was  another  personage, — not  a 
bird-seeking  boy,  like  this  one  here,  bot 
a  grave  man, — with  whom  I  had  an  im«* 
portant  connection^  and  who  cherished 
serious  purposes  and  had  many  hopes 
of  worthy  labor  yet  to  folfiL  Was  I 
doing  the  fiiir  thing  by  kim  f  He  was 
not  here,  to  be  sore ;  I  had  left  him 
somewhere  between  Worcester  and  Lab- 
rador, with  due  pledge  of  reunion  ;  but 
even  in  his  absence  he  was  to  be  con- 
sidered. Besides,  he  was  my  master, 
and  though  he  had  permitted  me  to  go 
gambolling  off  by  myself  on  my  prom- 
ise to  bring  him  back  a  more  service- 
able spine,  yet  his  claim  remained,  and 
I  should  be  dishonorable  to  ignbre  it 

At  first,  indeed,  these  considerations 
seemed  vague,  fiu'-fetched,  little  better 
than  afiectations.  The  clear  thing  to 
be  done  was  to  get  that  bird.  This 
done,  I  could  consider  the  rest  To 
admit  any  other  thought  militated  in 
some  way  against  the  singleness  and 
compactness  of  my  being.  Wise  or 
unwise,  what  had  I  to  do  with  far-off 
matters  of  that  sort?  My  business 
was  to  succeed  in  a  certain  task,  not  to 
be  sage  and  so  forth.  I  actually  felt 
a  kind  of  shame  to  be  debating  any 
other  than  the  all-important  question. 
Can  I  get  my  right  foot  over  here  be- 
side the  left?  Nor  was  it  till  certain 
£u:es  pictured  themselves  to  my  mind, 
that  the  heart  took  part  with  reason, 
and  the  tangential  left  foot  returned, 
rounding  itself  once  more  into  the  t}rop- 
er  orbit  of  my  life.  I  had  been  stand- 
ing there  perhaps  a  minute. 

It  was  an  invaluable  experience.  It 
carried  me  farther  into  the  heart  of  the 
boy-world  than  I  had  gone  for  twenty- 
five  years  and  more.  And  as  the  boy- 
world  is  the  big  world,  the  life  of  too 
many  being  but  another  and  less  at- 
tractive phase  of  boyhood,  it  supplied 
a  gloss  to  the  book  of  daily  observation, 
which  I  could  on  no  account  part  with. 
The  inconceivable  indifference  of  most 
men  to  considerations  of  speculative 
truth  became  conceivable.  The  way  in 
which  the  axioms  of  sages  slip  ofi"  ftom 
multitudes,  as  mere  vague  "glittering 


i86s.] 


Ice  and  Esquimaux., 


211 


generalities,''  good  enough  for  cherish- 
ers  of  the  ''intuitions"  to  Hsp  of  hf 
moonlight,  but  sheer  fiddle-dee-dee  to 
firmly  built  men,  —  the  commentary  of 
the  able  lawyer  upon  Emerson's  lec- 
tnre,  ^  I  don't  understand  it,  but  my  girls 
do ! "  —  all  this  appears  in  a  new  light 
Are  not  most  men  working  along  some 
dtf^  financial  or  other,  after  a  bird? 
And  do  they  not  honestly  regard  it  as 
mere  nonsense  to  be  thinking  about 
being  sage  and  so  forth,  when  the  real 
question  is  how  to  get  the  right  foot 
across  here  beside  the  left  ? 

I  had  gone  back  to  my  perch,  where 
a  rueful,  puerile  remorse  tugged  now 
and  then  at  my  elbow,  and  said,  *'  But 
that  bird  !  You  have  n't  given  up  that 
bird?"  when  the  Professor  appeared 
on  the  apex  of  the  island  above,  shout- 
ing, ''Here's  a"— hawk,  I  thought  he 
said,  and  caught  up  my  gun.  But  what  ? 
Fox?    Yes, —  " blue  fox." 

Now,  then,  up  the  cliff !  Creep,  crawl, 
^gglC)  slide,  clamber,  scramblej  clutch, 
dimb,  here  jumping  —  actually  jump- 
ing, 1 1 — over  a  crevice,  then  drawing 
myself  round  an  insuperable  jut  by  two 
honest  sturdy  weeds  — many  thanks  to 
them !  — which  had  the  consideration  to 
be  there  and  to  plant  themselves  firmly 
in  the  rock ;  at  last  I  reached  the  height, 
puffing  like  a  high-pressure  steam-en- 
gine. • 

«*  H-h-h-where  --  ff !  ff !  —  h-is-ee  ?  " 

"  Right  over  here.  I  've  been  chas- 
ing him  this  last  half-hour.  'Finally, 
the  audacious  little  rascal  would  stick 
up  his  head  over  a  rock,  and  bark  at 
me. 


» 


I  soon  had  him ;  and  was  again  struck 
with  the  vivacity  which  may  be  exhib- 
ited by  a  creature  whose  life  is  really 
ended.  As  I  fired,  the  animal  gave  a 
loud  "  whisb  !  "  and  sped  away  like  the 
wind,  disappearing  behind  a  jut  of  rock 
five  or  six  rods  farther  away ;  but  five 
feet  from  that  point  I  found  it  dead. 
This  post  morUm  activity,  they  told  me, 
was  made  possible  by  the  small  size  of 
the  shot  Perhaps,  then,  a  creature 
slain  with  a  missile  sufficiently  subtile 
might  go  an  indefinite  time  without 
finding  it  out,  supposing  itself  alive  and 


well  Institutions  and  politicians,  we 
have  all  known,  possess  this  power  of 
ignoring  their  own  decease.  Judaism 
has  been  dead  these  eighteen  hundred 
years ;  yet  here  are  Jew  synagogues  in 
New  York  and  Boston*  Were  tiie  like 
true  of  individuals,  it  might  explain  to  us 
some  lives  which  seem  inexplicable  oa 
any  other  hypothesis.  I  think,  for  ex* 
ample,  of  some  editors,  who  are  evi- 
dendy  post-dating  their  decease;  and 
when  these  go  on  writing  leading  arti- 
cles, and  being  sweet  upon  "  our  breth- 
ren of  the  South,"  one  does  not  say, 
"Disloyal,"  but  only,  "So  long  in 
learning  what  has  happened !  " 

My  prize  was  the  white  fox,  a  year 
old,  and  not  quite  in  adult  costume. 
How  it  got  upon  this  island  were  mat- 
ter for  conjecture.    Probably  on  the  ice. 

Another  skip,  —  and  here  we  are  up- 
on another  of  these  summits  surround- 
ed by  sesi.  The  home  of  Puffins  this  is. 
The  puffin  is  an  odd  littie  fellow,  small- 
er than  the  auk,  but  of  the  same  gen- 
eral hue,  with  a  short  neck  and  a  queer 
bill  This  is  very  thin  from  side  to 
side,  twice  as  wide  up  and  down  as  it 
is  long,  strongly  marked  with  concen- 
tric scarlet  ridges,  and  altogether  agrees 
so  littie  with  this  plain-looking  bird,  that 
one  can  scarcely  regard  it  as  belong- 
ing naturally  to  him,  and  fancies  that 
he  must  lay  it  aside  at  night,  as  people 
do  false  teeth.  It  is  an  easy  bird  to 
take  fiying ;  for,  on  seeing  you,  it  peaks 
its  wings  downward  in  a  mannei'  inde- 
scribably prim  and  prudish,  and  scales 
past,  turning  its  stubby  neck,  and  in- 
specting you  with  an  air  of  comical, 
muddy  gravity  and  curiosity.  My  com- 
rade, Ph ,  got  two  dozen  to  my  eight ; 

but  I  was  consoled  with  a  large  Arctic 
fidcon,  which  had  been  dining  at  fash- 
ionable hours  on  a  fuU-grown  puffin, 
having  set  its  table  in  a  deep  gorge 
between  vertical  walls.  It  was  of  the 
kind  called  by  Audubon  Fako  Labra* 
dora^  concerning  which  Professor  Baird, 
of  the  Smithsonian  Institute,  who  has 
had  the  kindness  to  write  to  me,  doubts 
whether  it  may  not  be  an  immature 
stage  of  Falco  CafuUcans,  one  of  the 
two  undoubted  species  of  Arctic  fal- 


21^. 


Id  and  EsquifHaux. 


[Fcbruaiy, 


cons.  Captain  Handy,  however,  a  very 
observant  and  intelligent  man,  was  sure, 
from  the  feeling  of  the  bones,  that  it 
must  be  an  old  bird. 

Once  more  only  I  will  ask  the  read- 
er to  accompany  me.  We  had  gone 
ashore  in  a  place  called  Stag  Bay,  not 
to  hunt  stags,  but  to  seek  a  bear,  to 
whose  acquaintance  we  seemed  to  have 
obtained  a  preliminary  introduction  by 
trustworthy  informations.  Bruin,  how- 
ever, positively  declined  the  smallest 
approach  to  intimacy,  refusing  even  to 
look  at  our  cards,  and  sending  out  the 
most  hopeless  '*  Not  at  home."  Sepa- 
rating, therefore,  we  strolled  on  the 
beach,  —  for  a  beach  there  actually  was 
at  this  place,  —  and  observing  some 
Piping  Plovers,  tiny  waders,  I  made  for 
them.  One  of  them  stood  as  sentinel 
on  a  rock,  and,  thinking  the  ornithol- 
ogist might  like  him  for  a  specimen,  I 
fired.  The  large  shot  scattered  around 
him,  the  distance  being  considerable, 
without  injury;  but  I  insisted  on  his 
being  dead,  and  searched  as  if  enough 
of  searching  would  in  some  way  cause 
him  to  be  so.  It  woidd  n*t,  however ; 
and  I  was  about  turning  away,  when,  a 
rod  or  two  off,  I  saw  him  evidently  des- 
perately wounded.  *'  Ah  1  there  is  my 
bird,  after  all,'*  I  muttered,  and  started 
with  a  leisurely  step  to  pick  it  up.  Ter- 
rified at  my  approach,  the  little  wretch 
began  to  hobble  and  flutter  away,  keep- 
ing about  his  original  distance.  I  quick- 
ened my  pace  ;  he  exerted  his  broken 
strength  still  more,  and  made  out  to 
mend  his.  I  walked  as  rapidly  as  I 
could ;  but  new  terror  lent  the  poor 
thing  new  wings,  and  it  contrived  —  I 
could  not  for  my  life  conjecture  how  — 
to  keep  a  little  beyond  my  reach.  It 
would  not  do  to  leave  him  suffering 
thus ;  and  I  coaxed  myself  into  a  quick 
run,  when  up  the  little  hypocrite  sprang, 
and  scudded  away  like  a  bee  !  Not  the 
£untest  suspicion  of  its  being  otherwise 


than  at  death's  door  had  entered  my 
mind  until  that  moment,  though  I  had 
seen  this  trick  less  skilfully  performed 
before. 

Returning,  I  went  to  the  top  of  the 
beach  and  began  examining  the  coarse 
glass  which  grew  there,  thinking  that 
the  nests  must  be  hereabout,  and  de- 
sirous of  a  peep  at  the  eggs.  I  had 
hardly  pushed  my  foot  in  this  grass  a 
few  times,  when  another  wounded  bird 
appeared  but  a  few  feet  off.  The  emer- 
gency being  uncommon,  it  put  forth  all 
its  histrionic  power,  and  never  Booth 
or  Siddons  did  so  well.  With  breast 
ploughing  in  the  sand,  head  felling  help- 
lessly from  side  to  side,  feet  kicking 
out  spasmodically  and  yet  feebly  be- 
hind, and  wings  fluttering  and  beating 
brokenly  on  the  beach,  it  seemed  the 
very  symbol  of  fear,  pain,  and  weakness. 
I  made  a  sudden  spring  forward,  —  off 
it  went,  but  immediately  returned  when 
I  pushed  my  foot*  again  toward  the 
grass,  renewing  its  speaking  panto- 
mime. I  could  not  represent  siJfering 
so  well,  if  I  really  felt  it  With  a  con- 
vulsive kick,  its  poor  little  helpless  head 
went  under,  and  it  tumbled  over  on  the 
side  ;  then  it  swooned,  was  dying ;  the 
wings  flattened  out  on  the  sand,  quiv- 
ering, but  quivering  less  and  less ;  it 
gasped  with  open  mouth  and  closing 
eye,  but  the  gasps  grew  fainter  and  Wint- 
er ;  at  last  it  lay  still,  dead ;  but  when 
I  poked  once  more  in  the  grass,  it  re- 
vived to*  endure  another  spasm  of  ag- 
ony, and  die  again.  <*  Dear,  witty  lit- 
tle Garrick,"  I  said,  "  had  you  a  thou- 
sand lives  and  ten  thousand  eggs,  I 
would  not  for  a  kingdom  touch  one  of 
them ! "  and  I  wished  he  could  show 
me  some  enemy  to  his  peace,  that  I 
might  make  war  upon  the  felon  forth- 
with. 

And  in  this  becoming  frame  of  mind 
I  ended  my  chapter  of  **  Boy's  Play  in 
Labrador." 


18650 


Memories  of  Auihan. 


213 


THE   OLD    HOUSE. 

MY  little  birds,  with  backs  as  brown 
As  sand,  and  throats  as  white  as  fiOBt^ 
I  've  searched  the  summer  up  and  down, 

And  think  the  other  birds  have  lost 
The  tunes  you  sang,  so  sweet,  so  low, 
About  the  old  house,  long  ago. 

My  little  flowers,  that  with  your  bloom 

So  hid  the  grass  you  grew  upon, 
A  child's  foot  scarce  had  any  room 

Between  you,  —  are  you  dead  and  gone  ? 
I  've  searched  through  fields  and  gardens  rare, 
Nor  found  your  likeness  anywhere. 

My  little  hearts,  that  beat  so  high 
With  love  to  God,  and  trust  in  men, 

Oh,  come  to  me,  and  say  if  I 
But  dream,  or  was  I  dreaming  then. 

What  time  we  sat  within  the  glow 

Of  the  old-house  hearth,  long  ago  7 

My  little  hearts,  so  fond,  so  true, 
I  searched  the  world  all  far  and  wide,' 

And  never  found  the  like  of  you : 
God  grant  we  meet  the  other  side 

The  darkness  'twixt  us  now  that  stands, 

In  that  new  house  not  made  with  hands  I 


MEMORIES   OF    AUTHORS. 


A  SERIES  OF  PORTRAITS  FROM  PERSONAL  ACQUAINTANCE. 

COLERIDGE. 


IN  1816  the  wandering  and  unsettled 
ways  of  the  poet  were  calmed  an3 
harmonized  in  the  home  of  the  Gillmans 
at  Highgate,  where  the  remainder  of  his 
days,  nearly  twenty  years,  were  passed 
in  entire  quiet  and  comparative  happi- 
ness. Mr.  Gillman  was  a  surgeon ;  and 
it  is  understood  that  Coleridge  went  to 
reside  with  him  chiefly  to  be  under  his 
surveillance,  to  break  himself  of  the  fear- 


ful habit  he  had  contracted  of  opium- 
eating,  — a  habit  that  grievously  impair- 
ed his  mind,  engendered  self-reproach, 
and  embittered  the  best  years  of  his 
life.*  He  was  the  guest  and  the  be- 
loved friend  as  well  as  the  patient  of 
Mr.  Gillman;  and  the  devoted  attach- 

*  De  Quincey  more  than  inammes*  that,  instead 
of  Gillman  perwiading  Coleridge  to  relinquish  opi- 
um, Coleridge  seduced  Gillman  into  taking  it. 


214 


Memories  of  AuAors. 


[February, 


ment  of  that  excellent  man  and  his  esti- 
mable wife  supplied  the  calm  content- 
ment and  seraphic  peace,  such  as  might 
have  been  the  dream  of  the  poet  and 
the  hope  of  the  man.  Honored  be  the 
name  and  reverenced  the  memory  of 
this  true  friend!  He  died  on  the  ist 
of  June,  1837,  having  arranged  to  pub- 
lish a  life  of  Coleridge,  of  which  he  pro- 
duced but  the  first  volume.* 

Coleridge's  h^it  of  taking  opium  was 
no  secret  In  1 8 16  it  must  have  reached 
a  fearful  pitch.  It  had  produced  *'  dur- 
ing many  years  an  accumulation  of  bod- 
ily suffering  that  wasted  the  frame,  poi- 
soned the  sources  of  enjoyment,  and 
entailed  an  intolerable  mental  load  that 
scarcely  knew  cessation  *' ;  the  poet  him- 
self called  it  *'  the  accursed  drug."  In 
1 8 14  Cotde  wrote  him  a  strong  protest 
against  this  terrible  and  ruinous  habit, 
entreating  htm  to  renounce  it  Coleridge 
said  in  reply,  "  You  have  poured  oil  into 
the  raw  and  festering  wound  of  an  old 
friend,  Cottle,  but  it  is  oil  of  vitriol ! " 
He  accounts  for  the  '< accursed  habit'' 
by  stating  that  he  had  taken  to  it  first  to 
obtain  relief  fix>m  intense  bodily  suffer- 
ing ;  and  he  seriously  contemplated  en- 
tering a  private  insane  asylum  as  the 
surest  means  of  its  removal.  His  re- 
morse was  terrible  and  perpetual;  he 
was  *' rolling  rudderless,"  **the  wreck 
of  what  he  once  was,"  '*  wretched,  help* 
less,  and  hopeless." 

He  revealed  this  ^  dominion  "  to  De 
Quincey  ''with  a  deep  expression  of  hor^ 
ror  at  the  hideous  bondage."  It  was 
this  ''conspiracy  of  himself  agsunst  him- 
self" that  was  the  poison  of  his  life. 
He  describes  it  with  frantic  pathos  as 
"the  scourge,  the  curse,  the  one  al- 
mighty blight,  which  had  desolated  his 
life,"  the  thief 

"to  steal 
From  my  own  nature  all  the  natural  man.** 

Gfllroan  pubUalied  but  ooe  volume  of  a  Life  of 
Coleridge.  The  volume  he  gave  me  contains  his 
corrections  for  another  edition.  Oe  Quincey  says  of 
It  that  *' it  is  a  thing  deader  than  a  doof^nail, —>  which 
is  wailing  vainly,  and  for  thousands  of  year?  *3  doom- 
ed to  wait,  for  its  sister  volume,  namely,  Volume 
Second.*  It  must  be  ever  regretted,  dmt  of  the  po- 
et's hiter  life,  of  which  he  knew  so  much,  he  wrote 
nothing ;  hut  the  world  was  Justified  in  eapectmg  in 
the  details  of  hb  earlier  pilftimage  MNBethiag  which 
it  did  not  get 


The  habit  was,  it  would  seem,  com- 
menced in  1802 ;  and  if  Mr.  Cottle  is  to 
be  credited,  in  18 14  he  had  been  long 
accustomed  to  take  "fiiom  two  quarts 
of  laudanum  in  a  week  to  a  pint  a  day.** 
He  did,  however,  ultimately  conquer  it 

It  was  during  his  residence  with  Mn 
Gillman  that  I  knew  Coleridge.  He 
had  arranged  to  write  for  "  The  Amu- 
let " ;  and  circumstances  warranted  my 
often  seeing  him, — a  privilege  of  which 
I  gladly  availed  myself  In  this  home  at 
Highgate,  where  all  even  of  his  whims 
were  studied  with  affectionate  and  at- 
tentive care,  he  preferred  the  quiet  of 
home  influences  to  the  excitements  of 
society ;  and  although  I  more  than  once 
met  there  his  fiiend  Charles  Lamb,  and 
other  noteworthy  men,  I  usually  found 
him,  to  my  delight,  alone.  There  he 
cultivated  flowers,  fed  his  pensioners, 
the  birds,  and  wooed  the  little  children 
who  gambolled  on  the  heath,  where  he 
took  his  daily  walks. 

It  is  a  beautiful  view, — such  as  can 
be  rarely  seen  out  of  England, — that 
which  the  poet  had  from  the  window  of 
his  bed-chamber.  Underneath,  a  valley, 
rich  in  "Patrician  trees,"  divides  the 
hill  of  Highgate  from  that  of  Hamp* 
stead ;  the  tov^er  of  the  old  church  at 
Hampstead  rises  above  a  thick  wood, 
— a  dense  forest  it  seems,  although  here 
and  there  a  graceful  villa  stands  out 
fiiom  among  the  dark  green  drapery  that 
infolds  it  It  was  easy  to  imagine  the 
poet  often  contrasting  this  scene  with 
that  of  "Brockan's  sov'ran  height," 
where  no  "  finer  influence  of  friend  or 
child "  had  greeted  him,  and  exclaim- 
ing*— 

"O  thou  Queen  I 
Thou  delegated  Deity  of  Earth, 
O  dear,  dear  England  I " 

^  And  what  a  wonderfiil  change  there 
is  in  the  scene,  when  the  pilgrim  to  this 
shrine  at  Highgate  leaves  the  garden 
and  walks  a  few  steps  beyond  the  elm 
avenue  that  still  fronts  the  house  ! 

Forty  years  have  brought  houses  all 
about  die  heath,  and  shut  in  the  pros- 
pect ;  but  from  any  ascent  you  may  see 
regal  Windsor  on  one  side  and  Graves- 
end  on  the  other, — twenty  miles  of  view, 


1865.] 


Memories  of  Authors. 


«i5 


look  which  way  you  will  But  when  the 
poet  dwelt  there,  all  London  was  within 
ken,  a  few  yards  from  his  door. 

The  house  has  undergone  some  chan- 
ges, but  the  garden  is  much  as  it  was 
when  I  used  to  find  the  poet  feeding 
his  birds  there :  it  has  the  same  wall  — 
mdss-covered  now — that  overhangs  the 
dell ;  a  shady  tree-walk  shelters  it  from 
sun  and  rain,  — it  was  the  poet's  walk  at 
midday ;  a  venerable  climber,  the  Gly- 
cenas,  was  no  doubt  planted  by  the  po- 
et's hand :  it  was  new  to  England  when 
the  poet  was  old,  and  what  more  likely 
than  that  his  friends  would  have  bidden 
him  plant  it  where  it  has  since  flourished 
forty  years  or  more  ? 

I  was  fortunate  in  sharing  some  of 
the  regard  of  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Gillman ; 
after  the  poet's  death,  they  gave  me  his 
inkstand,  (a  plain  inkstand  of  wood,) 
which  is  before  me  as  I  write,  and  a 
myrtle  on  which  his  eyes  were  fixed  as 
he  died.  It  is  now  an  aged  and  gnarled 
tree  in  our  conservatory.* 

One  of  the  very  few  letters  of  Cole- 
ridge I  have  preserved  I  transcribe,  as 
it  illustrates  his  goodness  of  heart  and 
willingness  to  put  himself  to  inconven- 
ience for  others. 

*  Mrs.  Gillman  gave  me  also  the  following  sonnet. 
I  believe  it  never  to  have  been  published ;  but  al- 
though she  requested  I  "  would  not  have  copies  of 
it  made  to  give  away,**  I  presiune  the  prohibition 
cannot  now  be  binding,  after  a  lapse  of  thirty  yean 
since  I  received  it  The  poet,  he  who  wrote  the 
•onnet,  suid  the  admirable  woman  to  whom  it  was 
addressed,  have  long  since  met. 

"SONNET  ON  THE  LATE  SAMUEL  TAY- 
LOR COLERIDGE. 

"And  thou  art  gone,  most  loved,  most  honored 

friend  i 
No,  never  more  thy  gentle  voice  shall  Uend 
With  air  of  Earth  its  ptu'e,  ideal  tones,  — 
Binding  in  one,  as  with  harmonious  zones. 
The  heart  and  intellect    And  I  no  more 
Shall  with  thee  gaxe  on  that  unfathomed  deep. 
The  Human  Soul :  as  when,  pushed  off  the  shore, 
Thy  mystic  bark  would    through    the   darkneaa 

sweep, 
Itself  the  while  so  bright  I    For  oft  we  seemed 
As  on  some  starless  sea,  — all  dark  above, 
All  dark  below,  — yet,  onward  as  we  drove. 
To  plough  up  light  that  ever  round  us  streamed 
But  he  who  mourns  is  not  as  one  bereft 
Of  all  he  loved :  thy  living  Truths  are  left. 

"Washington  Allstow. 


(I 


Cambridge  Forty  MmtsmchuMitSy  America, 

"  For  my  »tiU  dear  friend,  Mrs.  Gillmaa,  of  tha 
Grove,  Highgate.** 


*«  Dear  Sir,"— it  runs,—"  I  received 
some  five  days  ago  a  letter  depicting 
the  distress  and  urgent  want  of  a  widow 
and  a  sister,  with  whom,  during  the  hus- 
band's lifetime,  I  was  for  two  or  three 
years  a  housemate  ;  and  yesterday  the 
poor  lady  came  up  herself,  almost  clam- 
orously soliciting  me,  not,  indeed,  to  as- 
sist her  from  my  own  purse,  —  for  she 
was  previously  assured  that  there  was 
nothing  therein, — but  to  exert  myself  to 
collect  the  sum  of  twenty  pounds,  which 
would  save  her  fxx)m  God  knows  what 
On  this  hopeless  task,  —  for  perhaps 
never  man  whose  name  had  been  so 
often  in  print  for  praise  or  reprobation 
had  so  few  intimates  as  myself, — when 
I  recollected  that  before  I  left  Highgate 
for  the  seaside  you  had  been  so  kind  as 
to  intimate  that  you  considered  some 
trifle  due  to  me, — whatever  it  be,  it  will 
go  some  way  to  eke  out  the  sum  which 
I  have  with  a  sick  heart  been  all  this 
day  trotting  about  to  make  up,  guinea 
by  guinea.  You  will  do  me  a  real  ser- 
vice, (for  my  health  perceptibly  sinks 
under  this  unaccustomed  flurry  of  my 
spirits,)  if  you  could  make  it  conven- 
ient to  indose  to  me,  however  small 
the  sum  may  be,  if  it  amount  to  a 
bank-note  of  any  denomination,  direct- 
ed 'Grove,  Highgate,'  where  I  am, 
and  expect  to  be  any  time  for  the  next 
eight  months.  In  the  mean  time,  be- 
lieve me 

"  Yours  obliged, 

**  S.  T.  COLERIDGB. 
"4th  December,  iSaS." 

I  find  also,  at  the  back  of  one  of  his 
manuscripts,  the  following  poem,  which 
I  believe  to  be  unpublished  ;  for  I  can- 
not trace  it  in  any  edition  of  his  collect- 
ed works. 

LOVE'S    BURIAL-PLACE.— A   MADRIGAL. 

Lady.    If  Love  be  dead. 

Poet.  And  I  aver  it. 

Lady.    Tell  roe,  Bard,  where  Love  lies  buried. 

PmL    hwt  lies  btuied  where  't  was  bora : 
O  gentle  Dame,  think  it  no  scorn, 
If  in  my  fancy  I  presume 
To  call  tfiy  boeom  poor  Love's  tomb^  — 
And  <m  that  tomb  to  read  the  line, 
"  Here  lies  a  Love  that  once  seemed  miner 
But  caught  a  cold,  as  I  divine. 
And  died  at  length  of  a  dediiM  l" 


216 


Memories  pf  Authors, 


[February, 


I  here  copy  his  autograph  lines,  as 
he  wrote  them  in  Mrs.  Hall*s  album. 
They  will  be  found,  too,  as  a  note,  in 
the  "  Biographia  Literaria." 

"ON  THE  PORTRAIT  OF  THE  BUTTER- 
FLY ON  THE  SECOND  LEAF  OF  THIS 
ALBUM. 

"The  butterfly  the  ancient  Grecians  made 
The  soul's  fair  emblem,  and  its  only  name : 
But  of  the  soul  escaped  the  slavish  trade 
Of  earthly  life  I    For  in  this  mortal  frame 
Oun  is  the  reptile's  lot,  much  toil,  much  blame. 
Manifold  motions,  making  little  speed. 
And  to  deform  and  kill  the  things  whereon  ire 
feed  I 

"S.T.  COUUUOGB. 

'30th  April,  1830.** 


«. 


All  who  had  the  honor  of  the  po- 
et's friendship  or  acquaintance  speak 
of  the  marvellous  gift  which  gave  to 
this  illustrious  man  almost  a  charac- 
ter of  inspiration.  The  wonderful  el- 
oquence of  his  conversation  can  be 
comprehended  only  by  those  who  have 
heard  him  speak.  It  was  sparkling  at 
times,  and  at  times  profotmd ;  but  the 
melody  of  his  voice,  the  impressive 
solenmity  of  his  manner,  the  radiant 
glories  of  his  inteUectuai  countenance, 
bore  ofi^  as  it  were,  the  thoughts  of 
the  listener  from  his  discourse ;  and  it 
was  rarely  that  he  carried  away  from 
the  poet  any  of  the  gems  that  fell  from 
his  lips. 

Montgomery  describes  the  poetry  of 
Coleridge  as  like  electricity,  *'  flashing  at 
rapid  intervals  with  the  utmost  intensity 
of  effect," — and  contrasts  it  with  th^t 
of  Wordsworth,  like  galvanism,  "not 
less  powerful,  but  rather  continuous 
than  sudden  in  its  wonderful  influence.*' 
But  of  his  poems  it  is  needless  for  me  to 
speak ;  some  of  them  are  familiar  to  all 
readers  of  the  English  tongue  through- 
out the  world.  Wilson,  in  the  "  Noc- 
tes,"  says, ''  Wind  him  up,  and  away  he 
goes,  —  discoursing  most  excellent  mu- 
sic, without  a  discord,  full,  ample,  in- 
exhaustible, serious,  and  divine  " ;  and 
in  another  place, '*'  He  becomes  inspired 
by  his  own  silver  voice,  and  pours  out 
wisdom  like  a  sea."  Wordsworth  speaks 
of  him  ''  as  quite  an  epicure  in  sound." 
The  painter  Haydon  speaks  of  his  elo- 
quence and  'Mazy  luxury  of  poetical 


outpouring";  and  Rogers  (*' Table- 
Talk")  is  reported  to  have  said,  ''One 
morning,  breakfasting  with  me,  he  talk- 
ed for  three  hours  without  tntennission, 
so  admirably  that  I  wish  every  word  he 
uttered  had  been  written  down " :  but 
he  does  not  quote  a  single  sentence  of 
all  the  poet  said ;  *  and  a  writer  in  the 
^  Quarterly  Review  "  expresses  his  be- 
lief that  nothing  is  too  high  far  the 
grasp  of  his  conversation,  nothing  too 
low :  it  glanced  from  earth  to  heaven, 
from  heaven  to  earthy  with  a  speed  and 
a  splendor,  an  ease  and  a  power,  that 
almost  seemed  inspired."  (Nor  did  I 
ever  find  him  incoherent,  as  some  have 
pretended  ;  but  I  agree  with  De  Quin- 
cey,  that  he  had  the  laigest  and  most 
spacious  intellect,  the  subtiiest  and  the 
most  comprehensive  that  has  yet  exist- 
ed among  men.)  Of  Coleridge,  Shelley 
writes,  — 

"  All  things  he  seemed  to  understand, 
Of  old  or  new,  at  sea  or  land. 
Save  his  own  soul,  which  was  a  mist." 

I  have  listened  to  him  more  than 
once  for  above  an  hour,  of  course  with- 
out putting  in  a  single  word :  I  would 
as  soon  have  bellowed  a  loose  song 
while  a  nightingale  was  singing.  There 
was  rarely  much  change  of  counte- 
nance ;  his  face  was  at  that  time  (it  is 
said  from  his  habit  of  opium-eating) 
overladen  with  flesh,  and  its  expres- 
sion impaired ;  yet  to  me  it  was  so 
tender  and  gentle  and  gracious  and 
loving,  that  I  .could  have  knelt  at  the 
old  man's  feet  almost  in  adoration. 
My  own  hair  is  white  now  ;  yet  I  have 
much  the  same  feeling  as  I  had  then, 
whenever  the  form  of  the  venerable 
man  rises  in  memory  before  me.  I 
cannot  recall  now,  and  I  believe  could 
not  recall  at  the  time,  so  as  to  preserve, 
as  a  cherished  thing  in  my  remem- 
brance, a  single  sentence  of  the  many 
sentences  I  heard  him  utter;  yet  in 
his  "  Table  -Talk  "  there  is  a  world  of 
wisdom,  —  and  that  is  only  a  collection 
of  scraps,  chance-gathered.  If  any  left 
his   presence   unsatisfied,  it   resulted 

*  Madame  de  Slaiil  is  reported  to  have  said  that 
Coleridge  was  '*  rich  in  a  moiwlQgue,  but  peor  in  a 
dialogue.** 


i865.] 


Memories  of  Authors. 


2lJ 


rather  from  the  superabundance  than 
the  paucity  of  the  feast* 

I  can  recall  many  evening  rambles 
with  him  over  the  high  lands  that  look 
down  on  London ;  but  the  memory  I 
cherish  most  is  linked  with  a  crowded 
street,  where  the  clumsy  and  the  coarse 
jostled  the  old  man  eloquent,  as  if  he 
had  been  earthly,  of  the  earth.  It  was 
in  the  Strand :  he  pointed  out  to  me 
the  window  of  a  room  in  the  office  of 
the  "  Morning  Post,"  where  he  had  con- 
sumed much  midnight  oil ;  and  then  for 
half  an  hour  he  talked  of  the  sorrowful 
joy  he  had  often  felt,  when,  leaving  the 
office  as  day  was  dawning,  he  heard 
tile  song  of  a  caged  lark  that  sang  his 
orisons  from  the  lattice  of  an  artisan, 
who  was  rising  to  begin  his  labor  as 
the  poet  was  pacing  homewards  to  rest 
after  his  work  all  night  Thirty  years 
had  passed ;  but  that  unforgotten  mel^ 
ody,  that  dear  bird^s  song,  gave  him 
then  as  much  true  pleasure  as  when, 
to  his  wearied  head  and  heart,  it  was 
the  matin  hymn  of  Nature. 

I  remember  once  meeting  him  in  Pa- 
ternoster Row.  He  was  inquiring  his 
way  to  Bread  Street,  Cheapside ;  and 
of  course  I  endeavored  to  explain  to 
him,  that,  if  he  walked  straight  on  for 
about  two  hundred  yards  and  took  the 
fourth  turning  to  the  right,  it  would  be 
the  street  he  wanted.  I  perceived  him 
gazing  so  vague  and  unenlightened, 
that  I  could  not  help  expressing  my 
surprise,  as  I  looked  earnestly  at  his 
forehead  and  saw  the  organ  of  locality 
unusually  prominent  above  the  eye- 
brows. He  took  my  meaning,  laughed, 
and  said,  **  I  see  what  you  are  looking 
at  Why,  at  school  my  head  was 
beaten  into  a  mass  of  bumps,  because  I 
could  not  point  out  Paris  in  a  map  of 
France."     It  is  said  that  Spurzheim 

*  It  may  ooc  be  forgotten  that  the  Rev.  Edward 
Irviag,  in  dedicadng  to  Coleridge  one  of  his  booki^ 
acknowledges  obligatiooa  to  the  venerable  sage  for 
■any  valuable  tcachinga,  **as  a  spiritual  man  and 
as  a  Christian  paalor" :  lesioas  derived  from  his 
**e0tnfena/iMu**  coacemtng  the  revelations  of  the 
Christian  iatth,  —  "helps  m  the  way  of  truth,** — 
**tnm  listening  to  his  discourses.  **  Coleridge  has 
ttid,  **  he  never  found  the  smallest  hitch  or  impedi- 
sBcat  in  the  fullect  utterance  of  Ms  most  subtile  ba- 
by wad  of 


pronounced  him  to  be  a  mathematician, 
and  affirmed  that  he  could  not  be  a 
poet  'Such  qpinion  the  great  phre- 
nologist could  not  have  expressed  ;  for 
undoubtedly  he  had  a  large  organ  of 
ideality,  although  at  first  it  was  not 
perceptible,  in  consequence  of  the  great 
breadth  and  height  of  his  profound 
forehead. 

More  than  once  I  met  there  that 
most  remarkable  man,  —  *' martyr  and 
saint,"  as  Mrs.  Oliphant  styles  him,  and 
as  perhaps  he  was,  —  the  Rev.  Edward 
Irving.  The  two^  he  and  Coleridge, 
were  singular  contrasts,  —  in  appear- 
ance, that  is  to  say,  for  their  minds  and 
souls  were  in  harmony.*  The  Scotch 
minister  was  tall,  powerful  in  frame, 
and  of  great  physical  vigor,  '<  a  gaunt 
and  gigantic  figure,"  his  long,  black, 
curly  hair  hanging  partially  over  his 
shoulders.  His  features  were  laige 
and  strongly  marked ;  but  the  expres- 
sion was  grievously  marred,  like  that 
of  Whitefield,  by  a  squint  that  deduced 
much  fipom  his  ''apostolic"  character, 
and  must  have  operated  prejudicially 
as  regarded  his  mission.  His  mouth 
was  exquisitely  cut  It  might  have 
been  a  model  for  a  sculptor  who  de- 
sired to  portray  strong  will  combined 
with  generous  sympathy.  Yet  he  lookr 
ed  what  he  was,  —  a  brave  man,  a 
man  whom  no  abuse  could  humble,  no 
injuries  subdue,  no  oppression  crush. 
To  me  he  realized  the  idea  of  the  Bap- 
tist St  John ;  and  I  imagine  the  com- 
parison must  have  been  made  often. 

In  the  pulpit,  where,  I  lament  to  say, 
I  heard  Irving  but  once,  and  then  not 
under  the  peculiar  influences  that  so 
often  swayed  and  guided  him,  he  was 
undoubtedly  an  orator,  thoroughly  ear- 
nest in  his  work,  and,  beyond  all  ques- 
tion, deeply  and  solemnly  impressed 
with  the  truths  of  the  mission  to  which 

*  Their  friendship  Ixisted  for  years,  and  was  foil 
of  kindness  on  the  part  of  the  philoaopher,  and  of 
reverential  respect  on  that  of  Irving,  who,  following 
the  natural  instinct  of  his  own  ingenuous  nature, 
changed  in  an  instant  in  such  a  presence  from  the 
orator,  who,  qwaknig  in  God*s  name,  aaauoMd  a  ear* 
tmia  austere  poaq>  of  position,  —  more  like  an  au- 
thoritative priest  than  a  simple  presbyter, — into  the 
simple  and  candid  listener,  more  ready  to 
Im  was  to  leadL 


2l8 


Memories  of  Authors. 


[February, 


he  was  devoted  At  times,  no  doubt, 
his  maimer,  action,  and  appearance  bor- 
dered on  the  grotesque  ;  but  it  was  im- 
possible' to  listen  without  being  car- 
ried away  by  the  intense  fervor  and 
fiery  zeal  with  which  he  dwelt  on  the 
promises  or  annunciated  the  threats  of 
the  Prophets,  ^  his  predecessors/*  His 
vehemence  was  often  startling,  some- 
times appalling.  Leigh  Hunt  called 
him,  with  much  truth,  ''  the  Boaneiges 
of  the  Temple."  He  was  a  soldier,  as 
well  as  a  servant,  of  the  cross.  Few 
men  of  his  age  aroused  more  bitter  or 
more  unjust  and  unchristian  hostility. 
He  was  in  advance  of  his  time ;  per- 
haps, if  he  were  living  now,  he  would 
still  be  so  ;  for  the  spirituality  of  his  na- 
ture cannot  yet  be  understood.  There 
were  not  wanting  those  who  decried 
him  as  a  pretender,  a  hypocrite,  and  a 
cheat  Those  who  knew  him  best  de- 
pose to  the  honesty  of  his  heart,  the 
depth  of  his  convictions,  the  fervor  of 
his  fiaith ;  and  many  yet  live  who  will 
indorse  this  eloquent  tribute  of  his 
biographer :  —  "To  him,  mean  thoughts 
and  unbelieving  hearts  were  the  only 
things  miraculous  and  out  of  Nature  " ; 
he  "  desired  to  know  nothing  in  heav- 
en or  earth,  neither  comfort  nor  peace 
nor  any  consolation,  but  the  will  and 
work  of  the  Master  he  loved."  Irving 
died  comparatively  young :  there  were 
but  forty-two  years  between  his  birth 
and  death.  More  than  thirty  years 
have  passed  since  he  was  called  from 
earth  ;  and  to  this  generation  the  name 
of  Edward  Irving  is  Uttie  more  than  a 
sound,  '^  signifying  nothing."  Yet  it 
was  a  power  in  his  day ;  and  the  seed 
he  scattered  cannot  all  have  fallen 
among  thorns.  His  love  for  Coleridge 
was  devoted,  a  mingling  of  admiration, 
affection,  and  respect 

They  were  made  acquainted  by  a 
mutual  friend,  Basil  Montagu,  who  him- 
self occupied  no  humble  station  in  in- 
tellectual society.  His  **  evenings" 
were  often  rare  mental  treats.  He  pre- 
sented the  most  refined  picture  of  a 
gentieman,  tall,  slight,  courteous,  seem- 
ingly ever  smiling,  yet  without  an  ap- 
proach to  insincerity.  He  had  the  esteem 


of  his  contemporaries,  and  the  homage 
of  the  finer  spirits  of  his  time.  They 
were  earned  and  merited.  Those  who 
knew  him  knew  also  his  wife.  Mrs. 
Montagu  was  one  of  the  most  admira- 
ble women  I  have  ever  known :  she 
was  likened  to  Mrs.  Siddons,  and  for- 
cibly recalled  the  portraits  of  that  ad- 
mirably gifted  woman.  Tall  and  stately, 
and  with  evidence,  which  Time  had  by 
no  means  obliterated,  of  great  beauty 
in  youth,  her  expression  somewhat  se- 
vere, yet  gracious  in  manner  and  gen- 
erous in  words.  She  had  been  the 
honored  associate  of  many  of  the  most 
intellectual  men  and  women  of  the  age ; 
and  not  a  few  of  them  were  her  £sl- 
miliar  fiiends.* 

I  Whenever  it  was  my  privilege  to  be 
admitted  to  the  evening  meetings  at 
Highgate,  I  met  some  of  the  men  who 
were  then  &mous,  and  have  since  be- 
come parts  of  the  literature  of  England. 

I  attended  one  of  the  lectures  de- 
livered by  Coleridge  at  the  Royal  In- 
stitution, and  I  strive  to  recall  him  as 
he  stood  before  his  audience.  There 
was  but  littie  animation  ;  his  theme  did 
not  seem  to  stir  him  into  life ;  even 
the  usual  repose  of  his  countenance 
was  rarely  broken  up;  he  used  littie 
or  no  action;  and  his  voice,  though 
mellifluous,  was  monotonous :  he  lacked, 
indeed,  that  earnestness  without  which 
no  man  is  truly  eloquent 

At  the  time  I  speak  o^  he  was  grow- 
ing corpulent  and  heavy  :  being  seldom 
fipee  from  pain,  he  moved  apparentiy 
with  difficulty,  yet  liked  to  walk  up  and 
down  and  about  the  room  as  he  talked, 
pausing  now  and,  then  as  if  oppressed 
by  suffering. 

I  need  not  say  that  I  was  a  silent 
listener  during  the  evenings  at  High- 
gate  to  which  I  have  referred,  when 
there  were  present  some  of  those  who 
now  "  rule  us  from  their  urns  "  ;  but 
I  was  firee  to  gaze  on  the  venerable 
man, -^  one  of  the  humblest,  but  one 
of  the  most  fervid,  perhaps,  of  the  wor- 

*  "  Barry  Corawall  **  is  the  husband  of  her  daugb* 
ler  by  a  prior  marnage ;  and  Adelaide  Procter,  dur> 
ing  her  bcief  life,  made  a  naim  chat  will  live  with  the 
best  poets  of  our  day. 


i86s.] 


Memori^  of  Authors. 


219 


^4>pers  by  whom  he  yn&  surrounded,  — 
and  to  treasure  in  memory  the  poet's 
gracious  and  loving  looks,  the  "  thick, 
waving^  silver  hair,"  the  still,  dear,  blue 
ejre ;  and  on  such  occasions  I  used  to 
leave  him  as  if  I  were  in  a  lyaking 
dream,  trying  to  recall,  here  and  there, 
a  sentence  of  the  many  weighty  amd 
mellifluous  sentences  I  had  heard, — 
seldom  with  success,  —  and  feeling  at 
the  moment  as  if  I  had  been  surfeited 
*    with  honey. 

The  portrait  of  Coleridge  is  best 
drawn  by  his  friend  Wordsworth,  and 
it  sufficiently  pictures  him :  — 

*'  A  Botkeable  man,  with  large,  gray  ejres, 
And  a  paU  lace,  that  seemed  undoubtedly 
As  if  a  hUoming  face  it  ought  to  be ; 
Heavy  his  lo«r-huag  lip  did  oft  appeafi 
Depressed  by  weight  of  moving  phantasy ; 
Pkxifound  his  forehead  was,  though  not  aerere.** 

Wordsworth  elsewhere  speaks  of  him 
as  ^the  brooding  poet  with  the  heav- 
enly eyes/'  and  as  ^  often  too  much  in 
love  with  his  own  dejection."  The 
earliest  word-portrait  we  have  of  him 
was  drawn  by  Wordsworth's  sister  in 
1797: — "At  first  I  thought  him  very 
plain, — that  is,  for  about  three  minutes. 
He  is  pale,  thin,  has  a  wide  mouth, 
thick  lips,  longish,  loose-growing,  half- 
cuzling,  rough,  black  hair.  His  eye  is 
large  and  full,  and  not  dark,  but  gray, 
— such  an  eye  as  would  receive  from  a 
heavy  soul  the  dullest  expression,  but 
it  speaks  every  emotion  of  his  animated 
mind.  He  has  fine,  dark  eyebrows,  and 
an  overhanging  forehead." 

This  is  De  Quincey's  sketch  of  him 
in  1807 :  —  *Mn  height  he  seemed  about 
five  feet  eight  inches,  in  reality  he  was 
an  inch  and  a  half  taller.*  His  person 
was  broad  and  full,  and  tended  even  to 
corpulence;  his  complexion  was  £iir, 
though  not  what  painters  technically 
can  fair,  because  it  was  associated  with 
black  hair ;  his  eyes  were  soft  and  large 
in  their  expression,  and  it  was  by  a  pe- 
culiar appearance  of  haze  or  dimness 
which  mixed  with  their  light"  ''A 
lady  of  Bristol,"  writes  De  Quincey, 

*  De  Qumcey  elsewhere  states  his  height  to  be  five 
ieet  lea,  —  exactly  the  height  of  Wordsworth  :  both 

in  the  studio  of  Haydoo. 


^  assured  me  she  had  not  seen  a  young 
man  so  engs^ng  in  his  exterior  as 
Coleridge  when  young,  in  1796.  He 
had  then  a  blooming  and  healthy  com- 
plexion, beautiful  and  luxuriant  hair, 
falling  in  natural  curls  over  his  shoul- 
ders." 

Lockhart  says,  —  ''Coleridge  has  a 
grand  head,  but  very  ill-balanced,  and 
the  features  of  the  f^  are  coarse ;  al- 
though, to  be  sure,  nothing  can  sur- 
pass the  depth  of  meaning  in  his  eyes, . 
and  the  unutterable  dreamy  luxury  of 
his  lips." 

Hazlitt  describes  him  in  early  man- 
hood as  "with  a  complexion  clear  and 
even  light,  a  forehead  broad  and  high, 
as  if  built  of  ivory,  with  large  project- 
ing eyebrows,  and  his  eyes  rolling  be- 
neath them  like  a  sea  with  darkened 
lustre.  His  mouth  was  rather  open, 
his  chin  good-humored  and  round,  and 
his  nose  small  His  hair,  black  and 
glossy  as  the  raven's  wing,  fell  in  smooth 
masses  over  his  forehead,  —  long,  lib- 
eral hair,  peculiar  to  enthusiasts." 

Sir  Humphry  Davy,  writing  of  Cole- 
ridge in  1808,  says,  —  **  His  mind  is  a 
wilden^ess,  in  which  the  cedar  and  the 
oak,  which  might  aspire  to  the  skies, 
are  stunted  in  their  growth  by  under- 
wood, thorns,  briers,  and  parasitical 
plants ;  with  the  most  exalted  genius, 
enlarged  views,  sensitive  heart,  and  en- 
lightened mind,  he  will  be  the  victim 
of  want  of  order,  precision,  and  reg- 
ularity." 

Leigh  Hunt  speaks  of  his  open,  in- 
ddlent,  good-natured  mouth,  and  of  his 
forehead  as  **  prodigious, — a  great  piece 
of  placid  marble." 

Wordsworth  again :  — 


« 


Noisy  he  was,  and  gamesome  as  a  boy, 
Toiaiiig  his  Umba  about  him  in  delight* 


In  the  autumn  of  1833,  Emerson,  on 
his  second  visit  to  England,  called  on 
Coleridge.  He  found  him  ''  to  appear- 
ance a  short,  thick,  old  man,  with  bright 
blue  eyes,  and  fine  clear  complexion." 

A  minute  and  certainly  a  true  picture 
is  that  which  Carlyle  formed  of  him,  in 
words,  some  years  later,  and  probably 
not  long  before  his  removal  firom  earth : 


220 


Jff^morus  of  Authors: 


[February; 


— <<  Brow  and  head  were  round,  and  of 
massive  weight,  but  the  fsice  was  flabby 
and  irresolute.  The  deep  eyes,  of  a 
light  hazel,  -were  as  full  of  sorrow  as  of 
inspiration ;  confused  pain  looked  mild- 
ly from  them,  as  in  a  kind  of  mild  as- 
tonishment The  whole  figure  and  air, 
good  and  amiable  otherwise,  might  be 
called  flabby  and  irresolute, — expres- 
sive of  weakness  under  possibility  of 
strength.  He  hung  loosely  on  his  limbs, 
.with  knees  bent  and  stooping  attitude ; 
in  walking  he  rather  shuffled  than  de- 
cisively stepped ;  and  a  lady  once  re- 
marked, he  never  could  fix  which  side 
of  the  garden-walk  would  suit  him  best, 
but  continually  shifted  in  corkscrew 
fashion,  and  kept  trying  both.  A  heavy- 
laden,  high-aspiring,  and  surely  much- 
suffering  man.  His  voice,  naturally  soft 
and  good,  had  contracted  itself  into  a 
plaintive  snuffle  and  sing-song  \  he  spoke 
as  if  preaching,  —  you  would  have  said 
preaching  earnestly,  and  also  hopeless- 
ly, the  weightiest  things.'' 

Such,  according  to  these  high  author- 
ities, was  the  outer  man  Coleridge,  —  he 
who 

"  in  bewitching  words,  with  happy  hoDrt^ 
Did  chant  the  vision  of  that  ancient  ouui, 
That  bright^eyed  mariner." 

There  are  several  portraits  painted  of 
him.  The  best  would  appear  to  be  that 
which  was  made  by  AUston,  at  Rome,  in 
1806.  Wordsworth  speaks  of  it  as  **  the 
only  likeness  of  the  great  original  that 
ever  gave  me  the  least  pleasure."  That 
by  Northcote  strongly  recalls  him  to  n)y 
remembrance :  the  dreamy  eyes ;  the  full, 
round,  yet  pale  face,  — 


"  that  seemed  undoubtedly 
As  if  a  blooming  face  it  ought  to  be  ** ; 

the  pleasant  mouth ;  the  "  low-hung " 
lip  ;  the  broad  and  lofty  forehead,  — 


«« 


Plofound,  though  not  seifere. 


In  his  later  days  he  took  snuff  largely. 
"  Whatever  he  may  have  been  in  youth," 
writes  Mr.  Gillman,  ^\n  manhood  he 
was  scrupulously  clean  in  his  person, 
and  especially  took  great  care  of  his 
hands  by  frequent  ablutions." 


Although  in  his  youth  and*  earlier 

manhood  Coleridgie  had  been 

"through  life 
Chasing  chanoe-«taxted  frieodsUpa," 


not  loqg  before  his  death  he  is 
as  ''  thankful  for  the  deep,  calm  peace 
of  mind  he  then  enjoyed,  —  a  peace 
such  as  he  had  never  before  ezperien« 
ced,  nor  scarcely  hoped  for."  All  things 
were  then  looked  at  by  him  through  an 
atmosphere  by  which  all  were  reconciled 
and  harmonized. 

It  is  true,  he  did  but  little  of  the  prom* 
ised  and  purposed  much.  His  friend. 
Justice  Talfourd,  while  testifying  to  the 
benignity  of  his  nature,  describes  his 
life  as  ''  one  splendid  and  sad  prospec- 
tus,"—  and,  according  to  Wordsworth, 
."his  mental  power  was  frozen  at  its 
marvellous  source  " ;  *  yet  what  a  world 
of  wealth  he  has  bequeathed  to  us,  al- 
Uiough  the  whole  produce  of  his  pen,  in 
poetry,  is  compressed  within  one  single 
small  volume  I 

Thus  writes  Talfourd,  in  his  *'  Memo- 
rials of  Charles  Lamb  " : — "  After  a  long 
and  painful  illness,  borne  with  heroic  pa- 
tience, which  concealed  the  intensity  of 
his  sufferings  from  the  by-standers,  Cole- 
ridge died," — if  that  can  be  called  death 
which  removes  the  soul  fh>m  its  impedi- 
ment of  day,  extends  immeasurably  its 
sphere  of  usefidness,  and  perpetuates 
the  power  to  benefit  mankind  so  long 
as  earth  endures. 

Within  a  few  inonths  past  I  again 
drove  to  Highgate,  and  visited  the  house 
in  which  the  poet  passed  so  many  ha|^y 
years  of  calm  contentment  and  seraph* 
ic  peace,  —  again  repeated  those  lines 
which,  next  to  his  higher  faith,  were  the 
faith  by  which  his  life  was  ruled  and 
guided:  — 


(« 


He  prayeth  best  who  loveth  best 
All  things  both  great  and  small ; 

For  the  dear  God  who  loveth  us, 
He  made  and  loveth  alll" 


*  Very  early  in  his  life,  Lord  Egmont  said  of  him, 
"he  talks  very  much  like  an  angel,  and  does  nothing 
at  all."  De  Quincey  Wftaks  of  his  indolence  as  **  in- 
conceivable ;  **  and  Joseph  Cottle  relates  some  amus- 
ing instances  of  his  forgetfulness,  even  of  the  hour 
at  which  he  had  arranged  to  deliver  a  lecture  to  an 
audience. 


i865.] 


The  Chimney-Comer, 


221 


His  remains  He  in  a  vault  in  the  grave- 
yard of  the  old  church  at  Highgate. 
He  was  a  stranger  in  the  parish  where 
he  died,  notwithstanding  his  long  resi- 
dence there,  and  was  therefore  interred 
alone ;  not  long  afterwards,  however, 
the  vault  was  built  to  receive  the  body 
of  his  wife :  there  they  rest  together. 
It  is  inclosed  by  a  thick  iron  grating, 


and  the  interior  is  lined  with  white  mar- 
ble. When  I  visited  the  tomb  in  1864, 
one  of  the  marble  slabs  had  accidentally 
given  way,  and  the  coflEin  was  partially 
exposed.  I  laid  my  hand  upon  it  in 
solemn  reverence,  and  gratefully  re- 
called to  memory  him  who,  in  his  own 
emphatic  words,  had 

"  Here  fouad  life  in  death." 


THE   CHIMNEY-CORNER. 


II. 

LITTLE    FOXES. 


ft  T>  APA,  what  are  you  going  to  give 

X  us  this  winter  for  our  evening 
readings  ?  "  said  Jennie. 

"  I  am  thinking,  for  one  thing,"  I  re- 
plied, *^  of  preaching  a  course  of  house- 
hold sermons  from  a  very  odd  text 
prefixed  to  a  discourse  which  I  found 
at  the  bottom  of  the  pamphlet-barrel  in 
the  garret" 

^  Don't  say  sermon,  papa,  —  it  has 
such  a  dreadful  sound ;  and  on  winter 
evenings  one  wants  something  enter- 
taining." 

''Well,  treatise,  then,"  said  I,  <<or 
discourse,  or  essay,  or  prelection  ;  I  'm 
not  particular  as  to  words." 

**  But  what  is  the  queer  text  that  you 
found  at  the  bottom  of  the  pamphlet- 
barrel?" 

^  It  was  one  preached  upon  by  your 
mother's  great -great -grandfather,  the 
very  savory  and  much-respected  Sim- 
eon Shuttleworth,  'on  the  occasion  of 
the  melancholy  defections  and  divisions 
among. the  godly  in  the  town  of  West 
Dofield';  and  it  runs  thus,  —  ''Take 
us  the  foxes^  the  little  foxes,  that  spoil 
the  vines:  for  our  vines  have  tender 
grapes:' 

^  It 's  a  curious  text  enough ;  but  I 
can*t  imagine  what  you  are  going  to 
aake  of  it." 

"Simptyan  essay  on  Little  Foxes," 


said  I ;  **  by  which  I  mean  those  un- 
suspected, unwatched,  insignificant  little 
causes  that  nibble  away  domestic  hap- 
piness, and  make  home  less  than  so  no* 
ble  an  institution  should  be.  You  may 
build  beautiful,  convenient,  attractive 
houses, — you  may  hang  the  walls  with 
lovely.pictures  and  stud  them  with  gems 
of  Art ;  and  there  may  be  living  there  to- 
gether persons  bound  by  blood  and  af- 
fection in  one  common  interest,  leading 
a  life  common  to  themselves  and  apart 
from  others ;  and  these  persons  may 
each  one  of  them  be  possessed  of  good 
and  noble  traits ;  there  may  be  a  com- 
mon basis  of  affection,  of  generosity, 
of  good  principle,  of  religion ;  and  yet, 
through  the  influence  of  some  of  these 
perverse,  nibbling,  insignificant  little 
foxes,  half  the  clusters  of  happiness  on 
these  so  promising  vines  may  fail  to 
come  to  maturity.  A  little  community 
of  people,  all  of  whom  would  be  willing 
to  die  for  each  other,  may  not  be  able 
to  live  happily  together;  that  is,  they 
may  have  &r  less  happiness  than  their 
circumstances,  their  fine  and  excellent 
traits,  entitle  them  to  expect 

The  reason  for  this  in  general  is  that 
home  is  a  {face  not  only  of  strong  af- 
fections, but  of  entire  unreserves  ;  it  is 
life's  undress  rehearsal,  its  back-room, 
its  dressing-room,  from  which  we  go 


222 


The  Chimn^-Comer. 


[February, 


forth  to  more  careful  and  guarded  in- 
tercourse, leaving  behind  .us  much  di^ 
bris  of  cast-off  and  every-day  clothing. 
Hence  has  arisen  the  common  proverb, 
'No  man  is  a  hero  to  l&s  vaUt-dt' 
chambre^j  and  the  common  warning, 
*  If  you  wish  to  keep  your  friend,  don -t 
go  and  live  with  him.' " 

**  Which  is  only  another  way  of  say- 
ing/* said  my  wife,  ''  that  we  are  all  hu- 
man and  imperfect ;  and  the  nearer  you 
get  to  any  human  being,  the  more  de- 
fects you  see.  The  characters  that  can 
stand  the  test  of  daily  intimacy  are  about 
as  numerous  as  four-leaved  clovers  in  a 
meadow ;  in  general,  those  who  do  not 
annoy  you  with  positive  faults  bore  you 
with  their  insipidity.  The  evenness  and' 
beauty  of  a  strong,  well-defined  nature, 
perfectly  governed  and  balanced,  is  about 
the  last  thing  one  is  likely  to  meet  with 
in  one's  researches  into  life." 

"  But  what  I  have  to  say,"  replied  I, 
**is  this,  — that,  fomily-life  being  a  state 
of  unreserve,  a  state  in  which  there  are 
few  of  those  barriers  and  veils  that  keep 
people  in  the  world  from  seeing  each 
other's  defects  and  mutually  jarring  and 
grating  upon  each  other,  it  is  remark- 
able that  it  is  entered  upon  and  main- 
tained generally  with  less  reflection,  less 
care  and  forethought,  than  pertain  to 
most  kinds  of  business  which  men  and 
women  set  their  hands  to.  A  man  does 
not  undertake  to  run  an  engine  or  man- 
age a  piece  of  machinery  without  some 
careful  examination  of  its  parts  and* ca- 
pabilities, and  some  inquiry  whether  he 
have  the  necessary  knowledge,  skill, 
and  strength  to  make  it  do  itself  and 
him  justice.  A  man  does  not  try  to 
play  on  the  violin  without  seeing  if  his 
fingers  are  long  and  flexible  enough  to 
bring  out  the  harmonies  and  raise  his 
performance  above  the  grade  of  dismal 
scraping  to  that  of  divine  music.  What 
should  we  think  of  a  man  who  should 
set  a  whole  orchestra  of  instruments 
upon  playing  together  without  the  least 
provision  or  forethought  as  to  their 
chording,  and  then  howl  ftid  tear  his 
hair  at  the  result  ?  It  is  not  the  fault 
of  the  instruments  that  they  grate  harsh 
thunders  together ;  they*may  each  be 


noble  and  of  celestial  temper ;  but  unit- 
ed without  regard  to  their  nature,  dire 
confusion  is  the  result  Still  worse 
were  it,  if  a  man  were  supposed  so  stu- 
pid aft  to  expect  of  each  instrument  a 
rSU  opposed  to  its  nature, — if  he  asked 
of  the  octave-flute  a  bass  solo,  and  con- 
demned the  trombone  because  it  could 
not  do  the  wofk  of  the  maJny-voiced  vio- 
lin. 

"Yet  just  so  carelessly  is  the  work 
of  forming  a  family  often  performed.  A 
man  and  woman  come  together  from 
some  affinity,  some  partial  accord  of 
their  nature  which  has  inspired  mutual 
affection.  There  is  genendly  very  little 
careful  consideration  of  who  and  what 
they  are,  —  no  thought  of  the  reciprocal 
influence  of  mutual  traits, — no  previous 
chording  and  testing  of  the  instruments 
which  are  to  make  lifelong  harmony  or 
discord,  —  and  after  a  short  period  of 
engagement,  in  which  all  their  mutual 
relations  are  made  as  opposite  as  pos- 
sible to  those  which  must  follow  mar- 
riage, these  two  furnish  tlieir  house  and 
begin  life  together.  Ten  to  one,  the 
domestic  roof  is  supposed  at  once  the 
proper  refuge  for  relations  and  friends 
on  both  sides,  who  also  are  introduced 
into  the  interior  concert  without  any 
special  consideration  of  what  is  likely 
to  be  the  operation  of  character  on  char- 
acter, the  play  of  instrument  with  in- 
strument ;  then  follow  children,  each  of 
whom  is  a  separate  entity,  a  separate 
will,  a  separate  force  in  the  £unily ;  and 
thus,  with  the  lesser  forces  of  servants 
and  dependants,  a  family  is  made  up. 
And  there  is  no  wonder  if  all  these 
chance-assorted  instruments,  playing  to- 
gether, sometimes  make  quite  as  much 
discord  as  harmony.  For  if  the  hus- 
band and  wife  chord,  the  wife's  sister 
or  husband's  mother  may  introduce  a 
discord  ;  and  then  again,  each  child  of 
marked  character  introduces  another 
possibility  of  confusion.  The  conser- 
vative forces  of  human  nature  are  so 
strong  and  so  various,  that  with  all  these 
drawbacks  the  family  state  is  after  all 
the  best  and  purest  happiness  that  earth 
affords.  But  then,  with  cultivation  and 
care,  it  might  be  a  great  deal  happier. 


i86s.] 


The  Chimney-Comer. 


121 


Vexj  fiur  pears  have  been  nosed  by 
droi^ing  a*  seed  into  a  good  soil  and 
letting  it  alone  for  years ;  but  finer 
and  choicer  are  raised  by  the  watch- 
logs,  tendings,  prunings  of  the  garden- 
er. Wild  grape-vines  bore  very  fine 
grapes,  and  an  abundance  of  them,  be- 
fore our  firiend  Dr.  Grant  took  up  his 
abode  at  lona,  and,  studying  the  laws 
of  Nature,  conjured  up  new  species  of 
rarer  fnxit  and  flavor  out  of  the  old. 
And  so,  if  all  the  little  foxes  that  infest 
our  domestic  vine  and  fig-tree  were 
once  hunted  out  and  killed,  we  might 
have  fairer  clusters  and  firuit  all  win- 
ter.'' 

**  But,-  papa,"  said  Jennie,  **  to  come 
Id  the  foxes ;  let 's  know  what  they  are." 

''Well,  as  the  text  says,  little  foxes, 
the  pet  foxes  of  good  people,  unsus- 
pected little  animals,  —  on  the  whole, 
often  thought  to  be  really  creditable  Hi- 
de beasts,  that  may  do  good,  and  at  all 
events  cannot  do  much  harm.  And  as 
I  have  taken  to  the  Puritanic  order  in 
my  discourse,  I  shall  set  them  in  sev- 
ens, as  Noah  did  his  clean  beasts  in 
the  ark.  Now  my  seven  little  foxes  are 
tiiese :— Fault-finding,  Intolerance,  Ret- 
icence, Irritability,  Exactingness,  Dis- 
courtesy, Self-WilL  And  here,"  turning 
to  my  sermon,  "  is  what  I  have  to  say 
about  the  first  of  them." 

Fault-finding, — a  most  respectable 
little  animal,  that  many  people  let  run* 
freely  among  their  domestic  vines,  un- 
der tibe  notion  that  he  helps  the  growth 
of  the  grapes,  and  is  the  principal  means* 
of  keeping  them  in  order. 

Now  it  may  safely  be  set  down  as  a 
maxim,  that  nobody  likes  to  be  found 
fiuilt  with,  but  everybody  likes  to  find 
fuilt  when  things  do  not  suit  him. 

Let  my  courteous  reader  ask  him-  or 
herself  if  he  or  she  does  not  experi- 
ence a  relief  and  pleasure  in  finding 
£ialt  with  or  about  whatever  troubles 
them. 

This  appears  at  first  sight  an  anoma- 
ly in  the  provisions  of  Nature.  Genei^ 
aOy  we  are  so  constituted  that  what  it 
is  a  pleasure  to  us  to  do  it  is  a  pleas- 
m  to  our  neighbor  to  have  us  da    It* 


is  a  pleasure  to  give,  and  a  pleasure  to 
receive.  It  is  a  pleasure  to  love,  and 
a  pleasure  to  be  loved;  a  pleasure  to 
admire,  a  pleasure  to  be  admired.  It 
is  a  pleasu]%  also  to  find  hxHt,  but  fUft 
a  pleasure  to  be  found  fiiult  with.  Fur- 
thermore, those  people  whose  sensi- 
tiveness of  temperament  leads  them  to 
find  the  most  fault  are  precisely  those 
who  can  least  bear  to  be  found  feult 
with ;  they  bind  heavy  burdens  and 
grievous  to  be  borne,  and  lay  them  on 
other  men's  shoulders,  but  they  them- 
selves cannot  bear  the  weight  of  a  fin- 
ger. 

Now  the  difficulty  in  the  case  is  this : 
There  are  things  in  life  that  need  to 
be  altered ;  and  that  things  may  be  al- 
tered, they  must  be  spoken  of  to  the 
people  whose  business  it  is  to  make 
the  change.  This  opens  wide  the  door 
of  fault-finding  to'  well-disposed  peo- 
ple, and  gives  them  latitude  of  con- 
science to  impose  on  their  fellows  all 
the  annoyances  which  they  themselves 
feeL  The  hxher  and  mother  of  a  fiun- 
ily  are  fault-finders,  ex  officio;  and  to 
them  flows  back  the  tide  of  every  sep- 
arate individual's  complaints  in  the  do- 
mestic circle,  till  often  the  whole  air  of 
the  house  is  chilled  and  darkened  by 
a  drizzling  Scotch  mist  of  querulous- 
ness.  Very  bad  are  these  mists  for 
grape-vines,  and  produce  mildew  in. 
many  a  fair  cluster. 

Enthusius  fails  in  love  with  Hermi— 
one,  because  she  looks  like  a  moon- 
beam,— because  she  is  ethereal  as  a. 
summer  cloud,  spirituelU,     He  com- 
mences forthwith  the  perpetual  ado- 
ration system  that  precedes  marriage.. 
He  assures  her  that  she  is  too  good  for 
this  world,  too  delicate  and  &ir  for  any 
of  the  uses  of  poor  mortality, — that  she 
ought  to  tread  on  roses,  sleep  on  the 
douds, — that  she  ought  never  to  shed 
a  tear,  know  a  lEitigue,  or  make  an  exer- 
tion, but  live  apart  in  some  bright,  ethe- 
real sphere  worthy  of  her  charms.    All 
which  is  duly  chanted  in  her  ear  in 
moonlight  waJks  or  sails,  and  so  often  ^ 
repeated  that  a  sensible  girl  may  be- 
excused  for  believing. that. a  little  of  it*. 
may  be  true.  • 


224 


The  Chimney^Ccmer, 


[February, 


Now  comes  marriage,  —  and  it  turns 
out  that  Enthusius  is  very  particular  as 
to  his  coffee,  that  he  is  excessively  dis- 
turbed, if  his  meals  are  at  all  irregtiUur, 
and  that  he  cannot  be  comfortable  with 
any  table  arrangements  which  do  not 
resemble  those  of  his  notable  mother, 
lately  deceased  in  the  odor  of  sanctity ; 
he  also  wants  his  house  in  perfect  order 
at  all  hours.  Still  he  does  not  propose 
to  provide  a  trained  housekeeper ;  it  is 
all  to  be  effected  by  means  of  certain 
raw  Irish  girls,  under  the  superintend- 
ence of  this  angel  who  was  to  tread  on 
roses,  sleep  on  clouds,  and  never  know 
an  earthly  care.  Neither  has  Enthu- 
sius ever  considered  it  a  part  of  a  hus- 
band's duty  to  bear  personal  inconve- 
niences in  silence.  He  would  freely 
shed  his  blood  for  Hermione,— nay,  has 
often  frantically  proposed  the  same  in 
the  hours  of  courtship,  when  of  course 
nobody  wanted  it  done,  and  it  could 
answer  no  manner  of  use ;  and  thus  to 
the  idyllic  dialogues  of  that  period  suc- 
ceed such  as  these :  — ' 

*^  My  dear,  this  tea  is  smoked  :  can't 
you  get  Jane  into  the  way  of  making  it 
better  ? " 

"  My  dear,  I  have  tried  ;  but  she  will 
not  do  as  I  tell  her." 

**Well,  all  I  know  is,  other  people 
can  have  good  tea,  and  I  should  think 
we  might" 

And  again  at  dinner :  — 

«*My  dear,  this  mutton  is  overdone 
again ;  it  is  always  overdone." 

»*  Not  always,  dear,  because  you  recol- 
lect on  Monday  you  said  it  was  just 
right." 

"  Well,  almost  always." 

"Well,  my  dear,  the  reason  to-day 
was,  I  had  company  in  the  parlor,  and 
could  not  go  out  to  caution  Bridget,  as 
I  generally  do.  It  's  very  difficult  to 
get  things  done  with  such  a  girl." 

•"My  mother's  things  were  always 
well  done,  no   matter  what  her  girl 


was. 


)i 


Again :  "  My  dear,  you  must  speak 
to  the  servants  about  wasting  the  coal. 
I  never  saw  such  a  consumption  of  fuel 
in  a  family  of  our  size  " ;  or,  "My  dear, 
how  can  you  let  Maggie 'tear  the  morn- 


hig  paper  ?  "or, "  My  dear,  I  shall  actual- 
ly have  to  give  up  coming  to  dinner,  if 
my  dinners  cannot  be  regular  " ;  or, "  My 
dear,  I  wish  you  would  look  at  the  way 
my  shirts  are  ironedf — it  is  perfectly 
scandalous  "  ;  or,  "  My  dear,  you  must 
not  let  Johnnie  finger  the  mirror  in  the 
parlor  " ;  or,  "  My  dear,  you  must  s^p 
the  children  from  playing  in  the  garret " ; 
or, "  My  dear,  you  must  see  that  Maggie 
does  n't  leave  the  mat  out  on  the  railing 
when  she  sweeps  the  front  hall " ;  and 
so  on,  up-stairs  and  down-stairs,  in  the 
lady's  chamber,  in  attic,  garret,  and 
cellar,  "  my  dear  "  is  to  see  that  noth* 
ing  goes  wrong,  and  she  is  found  fiuilt 
with  when  anything  does. 

Yet  Enthusius,  when  occasionally  he 
finds  his  sometime  angel  in  tears,  and 
she  tells  him  he  does  not  love  her  as 
he  once  did,  repudiates  the  charge  with 
all  his  heart,  and  declares  he  loves 
her  more  than  ever, — and  perhaps  he 
does.  The  only  thing  is  that  she  has 
passed  out  of  the  plane  of  moonshine 
and  poetry  into  that  of  actualities. 
While  she  was  considered  an  angel,  a 
star,  a  bird,  an  evening  cloud,  of  course 
there  was  nothing  to  be  found  £&ult  with 
in  her ;  but  now  that  the  angel  has  be- 
come chief  business-partner  in  an  earth- 
ly working  firm,  relations  are  different 
Enthusius  could  ^y  the  same  things 
over  again  under  the  same  circum- 
stances, but  unfortunately  now  they 
never  are  in  the  same  circumstances. 
Enthusius  is  simply  a  man  who  is  in 
the  habit  of  speaking  from  impulse, 
and  sapng  a  thing  merely  and  only  be- 
cause he  feels  it  Before  marriage  he 
worshipped  and  adored  his  wife  as  an 
ideal  being  dwelUng  in  the  land  of 
dreams  and  poetries,  and  did  his  very 
best  to  make  her  unpractical  and  un- 
fitted to  enjoy  the  life  to  which  he 
was  to  introduce  her  after  marriage. 
After  marriage  he  still  yields  unreflect- 
ingly to  present  impulses,  which  are  no 
longer  to  praise,  but  to  criticize  and 
condemn.  The  very  sensibility  to  beau- 
ty and  love  of  elegance,  which  made  him 
admire  her  before  marriage,  now  trans- 
ferred to  the  arrangement  of  the  do- 
mestic mdnage^  lead  him  daily  to  per- 


1865.] 


The  Chimney-Comer, 


225 


oeive  a  hundred  defects  and  find   a 
hundred  annoyances. 

Thus  far  we  suppose  an  amiable,  sub- 
missive wife,  who  is  only  grieved|  not 
p9>voked,  —  who  has  no  sense  of  in- 
justice,  and  meekly  strives  to  make  good 
the  hard  conditions  of  her  lot  Such 
poor,  little,  fiided  women  have  we  seen, 
looking  for  all  the  world  like  plants  that 
have  been  nursed  and  forced  into  bloom 
in  the  steam-heat  of  the  conservatory, 
and  are  now  sickly  and  yellow,  dropping 
leaf  by  leaf,  in  the  dry,  dusty  parlor. 

But  there  is  another  side  of  the  pic- 
ture,—  where  the  wife,  provoked  and 
indignant,  takes  up  the  fault-finding 
trade  in  return,  and  with  the  keen  ar- 
rows of  her  woman's  wit  searches  and 
penetrates  every  joint  of  the  husband's 
armor,  showing  herself  full  as  unjust 
and  i2iX  more  culpable  in  this  sort  of 
conflict 

Saddest  of  all  sad  things  is  it  to  see 
two  once  very  dear  fiiends  employing 
all  that  peculiar  knowledge  of  each  oth- 
er which  love  had  given  them  only  to 
harass  and  provoke,  —  thrusting  and 
piercing  with  a  certainty  of  aim  that 
only  past  habits  of  confidence  and  af- 
fection could  have  put  in  their  power, 
wounding  their  own  hearts  with  every 
deadly  thrust  they  make  at  one  another, 
and  an  for  such  ine^ppressibly  miserable 
trifles  as  usually  form  the  openings  of 
£uilt-finding  dramas. 

For  the  contentions  that  loosen  the 
very  foundations  of  love,  that  crumble 
away  all  its  fine  traceries  and  carved 
work,  about  what  miserable,  worthless 
things  do  they  commonly  begin  !  —  a 
dinner  underdone,  too  much  oil  con- 
sumed, a  newspaper  torn,  a  waste  of  coal 
or  soap,  a  dish  broken  !  —  and  for  this 
miserable  sort  of  trash,  very  good,  very 
generous,  very  religious  people  will 
sometimes  waste  and  throw  away  by 
double-handfuls  the  very  thing  for  which 
houses  are  built,  and  coal  burned,  and 
all  the  paraphernalia  of  a  home  estab- 
lished, —  their  happiness.  Better  cold 
coffee,  smoky  tea,  burnt  meat,  better 
any  inconvenience,  any  loss,  than  a  loss 
of  Icve;  and  nothing  so  surely  bums* 
away  love  as  constant  fault-finding. 

VOL.  XV.  —  NO.  88.  15 


For  fiiult-finding  once  allowed  i&  a 
habit  between  two  near  and  dear  firiends 
comes  in  time  to  establish  a  chronic 
soreness,  so  that  the  mildest,  the  most 
reasonable  suggestion,  the  gentlest  im- 
plied reproof,  occasions  burning  irrita- 
tion ;  and  when  this  morbid  stage  has 
once  set  in,  the  restoration  of  love  seems 
wellnigh  impossible. 

For  example  :  Enthusius,  having  got 
up  this  morning  in  the  best  of  humors, 
in  the  most  playful  tones  begs  Hermi- 
one  not  to  make  the  tails  of  her  g& 
quite  so  long  \  and  Hermione  fires  up 
with  — 

"  And,  pray,  what  else  would  n't  you 
wish  me  to  do  ?  Perhaps  you  would 
be  so  good,  when  you  have  leisure,  as 
to  make  out  an  alphabetical  list  of  the 
things  in  me  that  need  correcting." 

"  My  dear,  you  are  unreasonable." 

^  I  don't  think  so.  I  should  like  to 
get  to  the  end  of  the  requirements  of 
my  lord  and  master  sometimes." 

"  Now,  my  dear,  you  really  are  very 
silly." 

^  Please  say  something  original,  my 
dear.  I  have  heard  that  till  it  has  lost 
the  charm  of  novelty." 

^  Come  now,  Hermione,  don't  let 's 
quarrel." 

"  My  dear  Sir,  who  thinks  of  quar- 
relling ?  Not  I  ;  I  'm  sure  I  was  only 
asking  to  be  directed.  I  trust  some 
time,  if  I  live  to  be  ninety,  to  suit  your 
&stidious  taste.  I  trust  the  coffee  is 
right  this  morning,  and  the  tea,  and 
the  toast,  and  the  steak,  and  the  ser- 
vants, and  the  front-hall  mat,  and  the 
upper-story  hall-door,  and  the  base- 
ment premises ;  and  now  I  suppose 
I  am  to  be  trained  in  respect  to  my 
general  education.  I  shall  set  about 
the  tails  of  my  g&  at  once,  but  trust 
you  will  prepare  a  list  of  any  other  littie 
things  that  need  emendation." 

Enthusius  pushes  away  his  coffee, 
and  drums  on  the  table. 

<Mf  I  might  be  allowed  one  small 
criticism,  my  dear,  I  should  observe 
that  it  is  not  good  manners  to  drum  on 
the  table,"  said  his  fair  opposite. 

^  Hermione,  you  are  enough  to  drive 
a  man  frantic!"   exclaims  Enthusius, 


226 


The  Ckitrntey-Comer. 


[February, 


rusftng  out  with  bitterness  in  his  soul, 
and  a  determination  to  take  his  dinner 
at  Delmonico's. 

Enthusius  feels  himself  an  abused 
man,  and  thinks  there  never  was  such 
a  sprite  of  a  woman,  —  the  most  utterly 
unreasonable,  provoking  human  being 
he  ever  met  with.  What  he  does  not 
think  of  is,  that  it  is  his  own  incon- 
siderate, constant  fault-finding  that  has 
made  every  nerve  so  sensitive  and  sore, 
that  the  mildest  suggestion  of  advice  or 
reproof  on  the  most  indifferent  subject 
is  impossible.  He  has  not,  to  be  sure, 
been  the  guilty  partner  in  this  morn- 
ing's encounter  ;  he  has  said  only  what 
is  fair  and  proper,  and  she  has  been 
unreasonable  and  cross  ;  but,  after  all, 
the  &ult  is  remotely  his. 

When  Enthusius  awoke,  after  mar- 
riage, to  find  in  his  Hermione  in  very 
deed  only  a  bird,  a  star,  a  fiower,  but 
no  housekeeper,  why  did  he  not  face 
the  matter  like  an  honest  man  ?  Why 
did  he  not  remember  all  the  fine  things 
about  de{)endence  and  uselessness  with 
which  he  had  been  filling  her  head  for  a 
year  or  two,  and  in  common  honesty 
exact  no  more  from,  her  than  he  had 
bargained  for?  Can  a  bird  make  a 
good  business-manager  ?  Can  a  flower 
oversee  Biddy  and  Mike,  and  impart 
to  their  uncircumcised  ears  the  high 
crafts  and  mysteries  of  elegant  house- 
keeping ? 

If  his  little  wife  has  to  learn  her  do- 
mestic rSU  of  household  duty,  as  most 
girls  do,  by  a  thousand  mortifications, 
a  thousand  perplexities,  a  thonsand 
failures,  let  him,  in  ordinary  fairness, 
make  it  as  easy  to  her  as  possible. 
Let  him  remember  with  what  admiring 
smiles,  before  marriage,  he  received  her 
pretty  professions  of  utter  helplessness 
and  incapacity  in  domestic  matters,  find- 
ing only  poetry  and  grace  in  what,  after 
marriage,  proved  an  annoyance. 

And  if  a  man  find^  that  he  has  a 
wife  ill  adapted  to  wifely  duties,  does 
it  follow  that  'the  best  thing  he  can  do 
is  to  blurt  out,  without  form  or  cere- 
mony, all  the  criticisms  and  corrections 
which  may  occur  to  him  in  the  many 
details  of  household  life  ?    He  would 


not  dare  to  speak  with  aa  little  prefiu:e» 
apology,  or  circumlocution,  to  his  busi- 
ness-manager, to  his  butcher,  or  his 
baker.  When  Enthusius  was  a  bach- 
elor, he  never  criticized  the  table  ^t 
his  boarding-house  without  some  re* 
flection,  and  studying  to  take  unto  him- 
self acceptable  words  whereby  to  soft- 
en the  asperity  of  the  criticism.  The 
laws  of  society  require  that  a  man 
should  qualify,  soften,  and  wisely  time 
his  admonitions  to  those  he  meets  in 
the  outer  world,  or  they  will  turn  again 
and  rend  him.  But  to  his  own  wife,  in 
his  own  house  and  home,  he  can  find 
fisiult  without  ceremony  or  softening. 
So  he  can ;  and  he  can  awake,  in  the 
course  of  a  year  or  two,  to  find  his 
wife  a  changed  woman,  and  his  home 
unendurable.  He  may  find,  too,  that 
unceremonious  fault-finding  is  a  game 
that  two  can  play  at,  and  that  a  woman 
can  shoot  her  arrows  with  far  more  pre- 
cision and  skill  than  a  man. 

But  the  fault  lies  not  always  on  the 
side  of  the  husband.  Quite  as  often 
is  a  devoted,  patient,  good-tempered 
man  harassed  and  hunted  and  baited 
by  the  inconsiderate  fault-finding  of  a 
wife  whose  principal  talent  seems  to  lie 
in  the  ability  at  first  glance  to  discover 
and  make  manifest  the  weak  point  in 
everything. 

We  have  seen  the  most  generous, 
the  most  warm-hearted  and  obliging  of 
mortab,  under  this  sort  of  training,  made 
the  most  morose  and  disobliging  of  hus- 
bands. Sure  to  be  found  fault  with, 
whatever  they  do^  they  have  at  last 
ceased  doing.  The  disappointment  of 
not  pleasing  they  have  abated  by  not 
trying  to  please. 

We  once  knew  a  man  who  married  a 
spoiled  beauty,  whose  murmurs,  exac- 
tions, and  caprices  were  infinite.  He 
had  at  last,  as  a  refuge  to  his  wearied 
nerves,  settled  down  into  a  habit  of 
utter  disregard  and  neglect;  he  treat- 
ed her  wishes  and  her  complaints  with 
equal  indifference,  and  went  on  with 
his  life  as  nearly  as  possible  as  if  she 
did  not  exist  He  silently  provided 
for  her  what  he  thought  proper,  with- 
out?  troubling  Wmself  to  notice  her  re- 


1865] 


The  Chimney-Comer. 


227 


qu^ts  or  listen  to  her  grievances.  Sick- 
ness came,  but  the  heart  of  her  husband 
was  cold  and  gone ;  there  was  no  S3rm- 
pathy  left  to  warm  her.  Death  came, 
and  he  breathed  freely  as  a  man  re- 
leased. He  married  again,  —  a  woman 
with  no  beauty,  but  much  love  and 
goodness,  — a  woman  who  asked  little, 
blamed  seldom,  and  then  with  all  the  tact 
and  address  which  the  utmost  thought- 
fulness  could  devise;  and  the  passive, 
negligent  husband  became  the  atten* 
tivc,  devoted  slave  of  her  will.  He  was 
in  her  hands  as  clay  in  the  hands  of  the 
potter ;  the  least  breath  or  suggestion  of 
criticism  from  her  lips,  who  criticized  so 
littie  and  so  thoughtfully,  weighed  more 
with  him  than  many  outspoken  words. 
So  different  is  the  same  human  being, 
according  to  the  touch  of  the  hand  which 
plays  upon  him ! 

I  have  spoken  hitherto  of  fault- 
finding as  between  husband  and  wife : 
its  consequences  are  even  worse  as  re- 
spects children.  The  habit  once  suffered 
to  grow  up  between  the  two  that  con- 
stitute the  head  of  the  family  descends 
and  nms  through  all  the  branches. 
*  Children  are  more  hurt  by  indiscrimi- 
nate, thoughtiess  &ult-finding  than  by 
any  other  one  thing.  Often  a  child  has 
all  the  sensitiveness  and  all  the  suscep- 
tibility of  a  grown  person,  added  to  the 
£iults  of  childhood.  Nothing  about  him 
is  right  as  yet;  he  is  immature  and 
faulty  at  all  points,  and  everybody  feels 
at  perfect  liberty  to  criticize  him  to  right 
and  left,  above,  below,  and  auround,  till 
he  takes  refuge  either  in  callous  hard- « 
ness  or  irritable  moroseness. 

A  bright,  noisy  boy  rushes  in  from 
school,  eager  to  tell  his  mother  some- 
thing he  has  on  his  heact,  and  Num- 
ber One  cries  out,  — 

"  Oh,  you  Ve  lefk  the  door  open  !  I 
do  wish  you  would  n't  always  leave  the 
door  open !  And  do  look  at  the  mud  on 
your  shoes  !  How  many  times  must  I 
tell  you  to  wipe  your  feet  ?  '* 

**  Now  there  you  Ve  thrown  your  cap 
on  the  SO&  again.  When  will  you  laam 
to  hang  it  up  ?  " 

^  Don't  put  your  slate  there ;  that  is 
n't  the  place  for  it" 


''How  dirty  your  hands  are!  what 
have  you  been  doing?" 

''Don't  sit  in  .that  chair;  you  break 
the  springs,  jouncing." 

"  Mercy  i  how  your  hair  looks  I  Do 
go  up-stairs  and  comb  it" 

"  There,  if  you  have  n't  torn  the  braid 
all  off  your  coat!  Dear  me,  what  a 
boy!" 

"Don't  speak  so  loud;  your  voice 
goes  through  my  head." 

"  I  want  to  know,  Jim,  if  it  was  you 
that  broke  up  that  barrel  that  I  have 
been  saving  for  brown  flour." 

"  I  believe  it  was  you,  Jim,  that  hack- 
ed the  edge  of  my  razor." 

"Jim 's  been  writing  at  my  desk,  and 
blotted  three  sheets  of  the  best  paper." 

Now  the  question  is,  if  any  of  the 
grown  people  of  the  family  had  to  run 
the  ganUet  of  a  string  of  criticisms  on 
themselves  equally  true  as  those  that 
salute  unlucky  Jim,  would  they  be  any 
better-natiured  about  it  than  he  is? 

No ;  but  they  are  grown-up  people ; 
they  have  rights  that  others  are  bound 
to  respect  Everybody  cannot  tell. them 
exactiy  what  he  thinks  about  everything 
they  do.  If  every  one  could  and  did, 
would  there  not  be  terrible  reactions  ? 

Servants  in  general  are  only  grown- 
up children,  and  the  same  considera- 
tions apply  to  them.  A  raw,  untrained 
Irish  girl  introduced  into  an  elegant 
house  has  her  head  bewildered  in  every 
direction.  There  are  the  gas-pipes,  the 
water-pipes,  the  whole  paraphernalia 
of  elegant  and.  delicate  conveniences, 
about  which  a  thousand  litUe  details 
are  to  be  learned,  the  neglect  of  any 
one  of  which  may  flood  the  house,  or 
poison  it  with  foul  air,  or  bring  innu- 
merable inconveniences.  The  setting 
of  a  genteel  table  and  the  waiting  upon 
it  involve  fifty  possibilities  of  mistake, 
each  one  of  which  will  grate  on  the 
nerves  of  a  whole  family.  There  is  no 
wonder,  then,  that  the  occasions  of  fiiult- 
finding  in  £imilies  are  so  constant  and 
harassing ;  and  there  is  no  wonder  that 
mistress  and  maid  often  meet  each 
other  on  the  terms  of  the  bear  and  the 
man  who  feU  together  fifty  feet  down 
from  the  limb  of  a  high  tree,  and  lay  at 


228 


The  Chimney-Comer. 


[February, 


the  bottom  of  it,  looking  each  other  in 
the  face  in  helpless,  growling  despair. 
The  mistress  is  rasped,  irritated,  de- 
spairing, and  with  good  reason:  the 
maid  is  the  same,  and  with  equally  good 
reason.  Yet  let  the  mistress  be  sud- 
denly introduced  into  a  printing-office, 
and  required,  with  what  little  teaching 
could  be  given  her  in  a  few  rapid  direc- 
tions, to  set  up  the  editorial  of  a  morn- 
ing paper,  and  it  is  probable  she  would 
be  as  stupid  and  bewildered  as  Biddy 
in  her  beautifully  arranged  house. 

There  are  elegant  houses  which,  from 
causes  like  these,  are  ever  vexed  like 
the  troubled  sea  that  cannot  rest  Lit- 
erally, their  table  has  become  a  snare 
before  them,  and  that  which  should  have 
been  for  their  welfare  a  trap.  Their  gas 
and  their  water  and  their  fire  and  their 
elegancies  and  ornaments,  all  in  un- 
skilled, blundering  hands,  seem  only 
so  many  guns  in  the  hands  of  Satan, 
through  which  he  fires  at  their  Chris- 
tian graces  day  and  night,  —  so  that,  if 
their  house  is  kept  in  order,  their  tem- 
per and  religion  are  not 

I  am  speaking  now  to  the  conscious- 
ness of  thousands  of  women  who  are 
in  will  and  purpose  real  saints.  Their 
souls  go  up  to  heaven  —  its  love,  its 
purity,  its  rest  —  with  every  hynm  and 
prayer  and  sacrament  in  church ;  and 
they  come  home  to  be  mortified,  dis- 
graced, and  made  to  despise  themselves, 
for  the  unlovely  tempers,  the  hasty 
words,  the  cross  looks,  the  universad 
nervous  irritability,  that  result  from 
this  constant  jarring  of  finely  toned 
chords  under  unskilled  hands. 

Talk  of  hair-cloth  shirts,  and  scourg- 
ings,  and  sleeping  on  ashes,  as  means 
of  saintship !  there  is  no  need  of  them 
in  our  country.  Let  a  woman  once  look 
at  her  domestic  trials  as  her  hair-cloth, 
her  ashes,  her  scourges,  —  accept  them, 
—  rejoice  in  them,  —  smile  and  be  quiet, 
silent,  patient,  and  loving  under  them,  — 
and  the  convent  can  teach  her  no  more ; 
she  is  a  victorious  saint 

When  the  damper  of  the  furnace  is 
turned  the  wrong  way  by  Paddy,  after 
the  five  hundredth  time  of  explanation, 
and  the  whole  £aunily  awakes  coughing^ 


sneezing,  strangling, — when  the  gas  is 
blown  out  in  the  nursery  by  Biddy,  who 
has  been  instructed  every  day  for  weeks 
in  the  danger  of  such  a  proceeding, — 
when  the  tumblers  on  the  dinner-table 
are  found  dim  and  streaked,  after  weeks 
of  training  in  the  simple  business  of 
washing  and  wiping,— when  the  ivory- 
handled  knives  and  forks  are  left  soak- 
ing in  hot  dish-water,  after  incessant 
explanations  of  the  consequences,  ~« 
when  four  or  five  half-civilized  beings, 
above,  below,  and  all  over  the  house, 
are  constantiy  forgetting  the  most  im- 
portant things  at  the  very  moment  it 
is  most  necessary  they  should  remem- 
ber them,  —  there  is  no  hope  for  the 
mistress  morally,  unless  she  can  in  very 
deed  and  truth  accept  her  trials  relig- 
iously, and  conquer  by  accepting.  It 
is  not  aposdes  alone  who  can  take 
pleasure  in  necessities* and  distresses, 
but  mothers  and  housewives  also,  if 
they  would  learn  of  the  Apostle,  might 
say,  *^When  I  am  weak,  then  am  I 
strong." 

The  burden  ceases  to  gall  when  we 
have  learned  how  to  carry  it  We  can 
suffer  patiendy,  if  we  see  any  good  come 
of  it,  and  say,  as  an  old  black  woman 
of  our  acquaintance  did  of  an  event  that 
crossed  her  purpose,  ''Well,  Lord,  if 
it  's  youj  send  it  along.*' 

But  that  this  may  be  done,  that  home- 
life,  in  our  unsettled,  changing  state  of 
society,  may  become  peaceful  and  rest- 
ful, there  is  one  Christian  grace,  much 
treated  of  by  mystic  writers,  that  must 
jpetum  to  its  honor  in  the  Christian 
Church.  I  mean  —  the  grace  of  si- 
lence. 

No  words  can  express,  no  tongue  can 
tell,  the  value  of  not  speaking.  "  Speech 
is  silvern,  but  silence  is  golden,*'  is  an 
old  and  very  precious  proverb. 

"But,"  say  many  voices,  "what  is 
to  become  of  us,  if  we  may  not  speak  ? 
Must  we  not  correct  our  children  and 
our  servants  and  each  other  ?  Must  we 
let  people  go  on  doing  wrong  to  the  end 
of  the  chapter  ?  " 

No ;  fault  must  be  found ;  feults  must 
be  told,  errors  corrected.  Reproof  and 
admonition  are  duties  of  householders 


i86s.] 


The  Chimney-Comer. 


229 


to  their  fiunilies,  and  of  all  true  friends 
to  one  another. 

But,  gentle  reader,  let  us  look  over 
iifey  our  own  lives  and  the  lives  of  oth- 
ets,  and  ask,  How  muck  of  the  £iult- 
finding  which  prevails  has  the  least  ten- 
dency to  do  any  good  ?  How  much  of 
it  is  well-timed,  well-pointed,  deliberate, 
and  just,  so  spoken  as  to  be  effective  ? 

^  A  wise  reprover  upon  an  obedient 
ear "  is  one  of  the  rare  things  spoken 
of  by  Solomon,  —  the  rarest,  perhaps,  to 
'  be  met  with.  How  many  really  religious 
people  put  any  of  their  religion  into  their 
manner  of  performing  this  most  difficult 
office  ?  We  find  fault  with  a  stove  or 
fiiniace  which  creates  heat  only  to  go 
up  chimney  and  not  warm  the  house. 
We  say  it  is  wastefuL  Just  so  wasteful 
often  seem  prayer-meetings,  church- 
services,  and  sacraments ;  they  create 
and  excite  lovely,  gentle,  holy  feelings, 
— but,  if  these  do  not  pass  out  into  the 
atmosphere  of  daily  life,  and  warm  and 
dear  the  air  of  our  homes,  .there  is  a 
great  waste  in  our  religion. 

We  have  been  on  oiu-  knees,  confess- 
ing humbly  that  we  are  as  awkward  in 
*  beivenly  things,  as  unfit  for  the  Heav- 
enly Jerusalem,  as  Biddy  and  Mike,  and 
the  little  beggar-girl  on  our  door-steps, 
are  for  our  parlors.  We  have  deplored 
our  errors  daily,  hourly,  and  confessed 
that  ^the  remembrance  of  them  is  griev- 
ous unto  us,  the  burden  of  them  is  in- 
tolerable," and  then  we  draw  near  in 
the  sacrament  to  that  Incarnate  Divin- 
ity whose  infinite  love  covers  all  our 
imperfections  with  the  mantle  of  His 
perfections.  But  when  we  return,  do 
we  take  our  servants  and  children  by 
the  throat  because  they  are  as  untrain- 
ed and  awkward  and  careless  in  earthly 
things  as  we  have  been  in  heavenly? 
Does  no  remembrance  of  Christ's  infi- 
nite patience  temper  our  impatience, 
when  we  have  spoken  seventy  times 
seven,  and  our  words  have  been  dis- 
regarded ?  There  is  no  mistake  as  to 
the  sincerity  of  the  religion  which  the 
church  excites.  What  we  want  is  to 
have  it  used  in  common  life,  instead  of 
going  up  like  hot  air  in  a  fireplace  to 
lose  itself  in  the  infinite  abysses  above. 


In  reproving  and  fault-finding,  we 
have  beautifiil  examples  in  Holy  Writ 
When  Saint  Paul  has  a  reproof  to  ad- 
minister to  delinquent^hristians,  how 
does  he  temper  it  with  gentleness  and 
praise !  how  does  he  first  make  hon- 
orable note  of  all  the  good  there  is  to 
be  spoken  of  1  how  does  he  give  assur- 
ance of  his  prayers  and  love  I  —  and 
when  at  last  the  arrow  flies,  it  goes 
all  the  straighter  to  the  mark  for  this 
carefiilness. 

But  there  was  a  greater,  a  purer,  a 
lovelier  than  Paul,  who  made  His  home 
on  earth  with  twelve  plain  men,  igno- 
rant, prejudiced,  slow  to  learn,  —  and 
who  to  the  very  day  of  His  death  were 
still  contending  on  a  point  which  He 
had  repeatedly  explained,  and  troubling 
His  last  earthly  hours  with  the  old  con- 
test, "  Who  should  be  greatest"  When 
all  else  fiiiled,  on  His  knees  before  them 
as  their  servant,  tenderiy  performing  for 
love  the  office  of  a  slave,  he  said,  *Mf 
I,  your  Lord  and  Master,  have  washed 
your  feet,  ye  also  ought  to  wash  one 
another's  feet" 

When  parents,  employers,  and  mas- 
ters learn  to  reprove  in  this  spirit,  re- 
proofs will  be  more  effective  than  they 
now  are.  It  was  by  the  exercise  of 
this  spirit  that  F^nelon  transformed  the 
proud,  petulant,  irritable,  selfish  Duke 
of  Burgundy,  making  him  humble,  gen- 
de,  tolerant  of  others,  and  severe  only 
to  himself:  it  was  he  who  had  for  his 
motto,  that  ^  Perfection  alone  can  bear 
with  imperfection." 

But  apart  from  the  fitult-finding  which 
has  a  definite  aim,  how  much  is  there 
that  does  not  profess  or  intend  or  try  to 
do  anything  more  than  givQ  vent  to  an 
irritated  state  of  feeling !  The  nettle 
stings  us,  and  we  toss  it  with  both  hands 
at  our  neighbor ;  the  fire  bums  us,  and 
we  throw  coals  and  hot  ashes  at  all  and 
sundry  of  those  about  us. 

There  is  fretfulness^  a  mizzling,  driz- 
zling rain  of  discomforting  remark ;  there 
is  ^rvM^/iff^,  a  northeast  storm  that  nev- 
er clears ;  there  is  scoldings  the  thunder- 
storm with  lightning  and  hail.  All  these 
are  worse  than  useless ;  they  are  posi- 
tive sins^  by  whomsoever  indulged, — 


2*30 


The  Chimney-corner, 


[February, 


sins  as^eat  and  real  as  many  that  are 
shuddered  at  in  polite  society. 

AU  these  am  for  the  most  part  but 
the  venting  onTur  fellow-beings  of  mor- 
bid feelings  resulting  from  dyspepsia, 
overtaxed  nerves,  or  general  ill  health. 

A  minister  eats  too  much  mince-pie, 
goes  to  his  weekly  lecture,  and,  seeing 
only  half  a  dozen  people  there,  pro- 
ceeds to  grumble  at  those  half-dozen 
for  the  sins  of  such  as  stay  away.  ^  The 
Church  is  cold,  there  is  no  interest  in 
religion,''  and  so  on :  a  simple  outpour- 
ing of  the  blues. 

You  and  I  do  in  one  week  the  work 
we  ought  to  do  in*six ;  we  overtax  nerve 
and  brain,  and  then  have  weeks  of  dark- 
ness in  which  everything  at  home  seems 
running  to  destruction.  The  servants 
never  were  so  careless,  the  children 
never  so  noisy,  the  house  never  so  dis- 
orderly, the  State  never  so  ill-governed, 
the  Church  evidently  going  over  to  An- 
tichrist The  only  thing,  after  all,  in 
which  the  existing  condition  of  affiurs 
differs  from  that  of  a  week  ago  is,  that 
we  have  used  up  our  nervous  energy, 
and  are  looking  at  the  world  through 
blue  spectacles.  We  ought  to  resist 
the  devil  of  fault-finding  at  this  point, 
and  cultivate  silence  as  a  grace  till  our 
nerves  are  rested.  There  are  times 
when  no  one  should  trust  himself  to 
judge  his  neighbors,  or  reprove  his  chil- 
dren and  servants,  or  find  fault  with  his 
friends,'—  for  he  is  so  sharp-set  that  he 
cannot  strike  a  note  without  striking 
too  hard.  Then  is  the  time  to  try  the 
grace  of  silence,  and,  what  is  better  than 
silence,  the  power  of  prayer. 

But  it  being  premised  that  we  are 
never  \o  fret,  never  to  grumble,  never 
to  scold,  and  yet  it  being  our  duty  in 
some  way  to  niake  known  and  get  rec- 
tified the  faults  of  others,  it  remains 
to  ask  how;  and  on  this  head  we  will 
improvise  a  parable  of  two  women. 

Mrs.  Standfisist  is  a  woman  of  high 
tone,  and  possessed  of  a  powfer  of  moral 
principle  that  impresses  one  even  as 
sublime.  All  her  perceptions  of  right 
and  wrong  are  clear,  exact,  and  mi- 
nute; she  is  charitable  to  the  poor, 
kind  to  the  sick  and  suffering,  and 


devoutly  and  earnestly  religious.  In 
all  the  minutiae  of  woman's  life  she 
manifests  an  inconceivable  precision 
and  perfection.  Everything  she  does 
is  perfectly  done.  She  is  true  to  all 
her  promises  to  the  very  letter,  and  so 
punctual  that  railroad  time  might  be 
kept  by  her  instead  of  a  chronometer. 

Yet,  with  all  these  excellent  traits, 
Mrs.  Standfast  has  not  the  faculty  of 
making  a  happy  home.  She  is  tliat 
most  hopeless  of  fisiult-finders,  —  a'  &ult- 
finder  f^om  principle.  She  has  a  high,' 
correct  standard  for  everything  in  the 
world,  from  the  regulation  of  the  thoughts 
down  to  the  spreading  of  a  sheet  or 
the  hemming  of  a  towel ;  and  to  this 
exact  standard  she  feels  it  her  duty  to 
bring  every  one  in  her  household.  She 
does  not  often  scold,  she  is  not  ac- 
tually fretful,  but  she  exercises  over  her 
household  a  calm,  inflexible  severity, 
rebuking  every  fault;  she  overlooks 
nothing,  she  excuses  nothing,  she  will 
accept  of-  nothing  in  any  part  of  her 
domain  but  absolute  perfection ;  and 
her  reproofis  are  aimed  with  a  true  and 
steady  point,  and  sent  with  a  force  that 
makes  them  felt  by  the  most  obdurate. 

Hence,  though  she  is  rarely  seen  out 
of  temper,  and  seldom  or  never  scolds, 
yet  she  drives  every  one  around  her  to 
despair  by  the  use  of  the  calmest  and 
most  elegant  English.  Her  servants 
fear,  but  do  not  love  her.  Her  husband, 
an  impulsive,  generous  man,  somewhat 
inconsiderate  and  careless  in  his  habits, 
is  at  times  perfectly  desperate  under 
the  accumulated  load  of  her  disappro- 
bation. Her  children  regard  her  as 
inhabiting  some  high,  distant,  unap- 
proachable mountain-top  of  goodness, 
whence  she  is  always  looking  down 
with  reproving  eyes  on  naughty  boys 
and  girls.  They  wonder  how  it  is  that 
so  excellent  a  mamma  should  have  chil- 
dren who,  let  them  try  to  be  good  as 
hard  as  they  can,  are  always  sure  to  do 
something  dreadful  every  day. 

The  trouble  with  Mrs.  Standfast  is, 
not  that  she  has  a  high  standard,  and 
not  that  she  purposes  and  means  to 
bring  every  one  up  to  it,  but  that  she 
does  not  take  the  right  way.    She  baa 


1865.] 


The  Chimney-Comer. 


231 


set  it  down,  diat  to  blame  a  wrong-doer 
IS  the  only  way  to  cure  wrong,  ^he 
has  never  learned  that  it  is  as  much 
her  duty  to  praise  as  to  blame,  and  that 
people  are  drawn  to  do  right  by  being 
prised  when  they  do  it,  rather  than 
driven  by  being  blamed  when  they  do 
not 

Right  across  the  way  from  Mrs. 
Standfast  is  Mrs.  Easy,  a  pretty  litde 
creature,  with  not  a  tithe  of  her  moral 
worth,  —  a  merry,  pleasure-loving  wom- 
an, of  no  particular  force  of  principle, 
whose  great  object  in  life  is  to  avoid  its 
disagreeables  and  to  secure  its  pleas- 
ures. 

Little  Mrs.  Easy  is  adored  by  her 
husband,  her  children,  her  servants, 
merely  because  it  is  her  nature  to  say 
pleasant  things  to  every  one.  It  is  a 
mere  tact  of  pleasing,  which  she  uses 
without  knowing  it  While  Mrs.  Stand- 
£ist,  surveying  her  well-set  dining-ta- 
ble,  runs  her  keen  eye  over  everything, 
and  at  last  brings  up  with, ''  Jane,  look 
at  that  black  spot  on  the  salt-spoon ! 
I  am  astonished  at  your  carelessness ! " 

—  Mrs.  Easy  would  say,  "  Why,  Jane, 
where  did  you  learn  to  set  a  table  so 
nicely  ?    All  looking  beautifully,  except 

—  ah!  let  's  see — just  give  a  rub  to 
this  salt-spoon  ;  —  now  all  is  quite  per- 
fect" Mrs.  Standfast's  servants  and 
children  hear  only  of  their  failures  ; 
these  are  always  before  them  and  her. 
Mrs.  Easy's  servants  hear  of  their  suc- 
cesses. She  praises  their  good  points  ; 
tells  them  they  are  doing  well  in  this, 
that,  and  the  other  particular ;  and  final- 
ly exhorts  them,  on  the  strength  of 
having  done  so  many  things  well,  to 
improve  in  what  is  yet  lacking.  Mrs. 
Easy's  husband  feels  that  he  is  always 
a  hero  in  her  eyes,  and  her  children  feel 
that  they  are  dear  good  children,  not- 
withstanding Mrs.  Easy  sometimes  has 
her  little  tifis  of  displeasure,  and  scolds 
roundly  when  something  falls  out  as  it 
should  not 

The  two  fitmilies  show  how  miy:h 
more  may  be  done  by  a  very  ordinary 
woman,  through  the  mere  instinct  of 
praising  and  pleasing,  than  by  the  great- 
est worth,  piety,  and  principle,  seeking 


to  lift  human  nature  by  a  lever  that 
never  was  meant  to  lift  it  by. 

The  faults  and  mistakes  of  us  poor 
human  beings  are  as  often  perpetuated 
by  despair  as  by  any  other  one  thin^. 
Have  we  not  all  been  burdened  by  a 
consciousness  of  faults  that  we  were 
slow  to  correct  because  we  felt  dis- 
couraged ?  Have  we  not  been  sensible 
of  a  real  help  sofhedmes  from  the  pres- 
ence of  a  friend  who-  thought  well  of 
us,  believed  in  us,  $et  our  virtues  in 
the  best  light,  and  put  our  faults  in  the 
background  ? 

Let  us  depend  upon  it,  that  the  flesh 
and  blood  that  are  in  us  —  the  needs,  the 
wants,  the  despondencies  —  are  in  each 
of  our  feUows,  in  every  awkward  ser- 
vant and  careless  child. 

Finally,  let  us  all  resolve, — 

First,  to  attain  to  the  grace  of  si- 
lence. 

Second,  to  deem  all  fault-finding 
that  does  no  good  a  sin  ;  and  to  resolve, 
when  we  are  happy  ourselves,  not  to  poi- 
son the  atmosphere  for  our  neighbors 
by  calling  on  them  to  remark  every 
painful  and  disagreeable  feature  of  their 
daily  life. 

Third,  to  practise  the  grace  and  vir- 
tue of  PRAISE.  We  have  all  been 
taught  that  it  is  our  duty  to  praise  God, 
but  few  of  us  have  reflected  on  our  du- 
ty to  praise  men  ;  and  yet  for  the  same 
reason  that  we  should  praise  the  divine 
goodness  it  is  our  duty  to  praise  human 
excellence. 

We  should  praise  our  friends,  —  our 
near  and  dear  ones;  we  should  look 
on  and  think  of  their  virtues  till  their 
faults  &de  away ;  and  when  we  love 
most,  and  see  most  to  love,  then  only 
is  the  wise  time  wisely  to  speak  of  what 
should  still  be  altered. 

Parents  should  look  out  for  occasions 
to  commend  their  children,  as  carefully 
as  they  seek  to  reprove  their  faults ; 
and  employers  should  praise  the  good 
their  servants  do  as  strictly  as  they 
blame  the  eviL 

Whoever  undertakes  to  use  this  weap- 
on will  And  that  praise  goes  farther  in 
many  cases  than  blame.  Watch  till  a 
blundering  servant  does  something  well, 


232 


Pro  Patria. 


[February, 


and  then  praise  him. for  it,  and  you 
will  see  a  new  fire  lighted  in  the  eye,  and 
often  you  will  find  that  in  that  one  re- 
spect at  least  you  have  secured  excel- 
lence thenceforward. 

When  you  blame,  which  should  be 
seldom,  let  it  be  alone  with  the  per- 
son, quiedy,  considerately,  and  with  all 
the  tact  you  are  possessed  o£  The 
^hion  of  reproving  Children  and  ser- 
vants in  the  presence  of  others  cannot 
be  too  much  deprecated.  Pride,  stub- 
bornness, and  self-will  are  aroused  by 
this,  while  a  more  private  reproof  might 
be  received  with  thankfulness. 

As  a  general  rule,  I  would  say,  treat 


children  in  these  respects  just  as  you 
w6uld  grown  people ;  they  are  ^own 
people  in  miniature,  and  need  as  care- 
ful consideration  of  their  feelings  as  any 
of  us. 

Lastly,  let  us  all  make  a  bead-roll,  a 
holy  rosary,  of  all  that  is  good  and  agree- 
able in  our  position,  our  surroundings, 
our  daily  lot,  of  all  that  is  good  and 
agreeable  in  our  firiends,  our  children, 
our  servants,  and  charge  ourselves  to 
repeat  it  daily,  till  the  habit  of  our 
minds  be  to  praise  and  to  commend; 
and  so  doing,  we  shall  catch  and  kill 
one  Littie  Fox  who  hath  destroyed 
many  tender  grapes. 


PRO     PATRIA 


I*  M.  S.,  JUN., 
Sefult.  Dec  2x,  1S64. 


DRIFT,  snows  of  winter,  o'er  the  turf 
That  hides  in  death  his  cherished  form ! 
And  roar,  ye  pine-trees,  like  the  surf 
That  breaks  before  this  eastern  storm ! 

O  turbulent  December  blast ! 

O  night  tempestuous  and  grim  I 
Ye  cannot  chill  or  overcast 

The  tender  thought  that  dwells  on  him  1 

Wilder  the  tumult  he  defied, 

Darker  the  leaden  storm  he  braved. 
Where  swept  the  batUe's  smoking  tide, 

And  banners,  torn  and  blackened,  waved. 

Not  scathless  he  amid  the  fray : 

"Shot  through  the  lungs," — the  message  went: 
Now  surely  Love  shall  find  a  way  • 

To  hold  him  here  at  home  content 

"Oh,  thou  hast  done  enough,"  Love  cried, 
"  For  duty,  fiune, — enough,  indeed  1 " 

He  touched  his  sabre,  and  replied, — 
"  It  is  our  country's  hour  of  need." 


1865.] 


A  Fortnight  with  the  Sanitary. 

Back  to  the  field,  from  respite  brie^ 
Back  to  the  battle's  fiery  breath, 

Hurried  our  young  high-hearted  chief 
To  lead  the  charge  where  waited  Death. 

Oh,  &llen  in  manliood's  ^rest  noon, — 
We  will  remember,  'mid  our  sighs, 

He  never  3delds  his  life  too  soon. 
For  country  and  for  right  who  dies. 


233 


A  FORTNIGHT  WITH  THE  SANITARY. 


FOR  three  years  I  had  been  a  thor- 
ough believer  in  the  United  States 
Sanitary  Commission.  Reading  care- 
fixlly  its  publications,  listening  with  tear- 
fiil  interest  to  the  narrations  of  those 
who  had  been  its  immediate  workers 
at  the  fix>nt,  following  in  imagination 
its  campaigns  of  love  and  mercy,  fi'om 
Antietam  to  Gettysburg,  fi-om  Belle 
Plain  to  City  Poin^  and  thence  to  the 
very  smoke  and  carnage  of  the  actual 
battle-field,  I  had  come  to  cherish  an 
unfeigned  admiration  for  it  and  its  work. 
For  three  years,  too,  I  had  been  an 
earnest  laborer  at  one  of  its  outposts,  — 
striving  with  others*  ever  to  deepen  the 
interest  and  increase  the  fidelity  of  the 
loyal  men  and  women  of  a  loyal  New 
England  town.  I  was  prepared  then, 
both  fi-om  my  hearty  respect  for  the 
charity  and  fi^m  my  general  conception 
of  the  nature  and  vastness  of  its  opera- 
tions, to  welcome  every  opportunity  to 
improve  my  knowledge  of  its  plans  and 
practical  workings.  I  therefore  gladly 
accepted  the  invitation  which  came  to 
me  to  visit  the  head-quarters  of  the  Com- 
mission at  Washington,  and  to  examine 
for  myself  the  character  and  amount  of 
the  benefits  which  it  confers. 

The  evening  of  August  23d  found  me, 
after  a  speedy  and  pleasant  trip  south- 
ward, safely  ensconced  in  the  sanctum 
of  my  good  fiiend  Mr.  Knapp,  the  head 
of  the  Special  Relief  Department  Start- 
ing from  that  base  of  operations,  I 
spent  two  crowded  weeks  in  ceaseless 


inquiries.  Every  avenue  of  informa- 
tion was  thrown  wide  open.  Two  days 
I  wandered,  but  not  aimlessly,  fi'om  of- 
fice to  office,  firom  storehouse  to  store- 
house, fi'om  soldiers'  home  to  soldiers' 
home,  conversing  with  the  men  who 
have  given  themselves  up  unstintedly 
to  this  charity,  examining  the  books  of 
the  Commission,  gathering  statistics, 
seeing,  as  it  were,  the  hungry  soldier 
fed  and  the  naked  soldier  clothed,  and 
the  sick  and  wounded  soldier  cared  for 
with  a  more  than  fraternal  kindness. 
I  visited  the  hospitab,  and  with  my 
own  hands  distributed  the  Sanitary  del- 
icacies to  the  sufiering  men.  Steaming 
down  the  Chesapeake,  and  up  the  James, 
and  along  its  homeless  shores,  I  came 
to  City  Point ;  was  a  day  and  a  night 
on  board  the  Sanitary  barges,  whence 
full  streams  of  comfort  are  flowing  with 
an  unbroken  current  to  all  our  diverg- 
ing camps  ;  passed  a  tranquil,  beautifiil 
Sabbath  in  that  city  of  the  sick  and 
wounded,  whose  white  tents  look  down 
from  the  bluffs  upon  the  turbid  river ; 
rode  thirteen  miles  out  almost  to  the 
Weldon  Road,  then  in  sharp  contest 
between  our  Fifth  Army  Corps  and  the 
Rebels  ;  fi-om  the  hills  which  Baldy 
Smith  stormed  in  June  saw  the  spires 
of  Petersburg  ;  went  fi-om  tent  to  tent 
and  fi-om  bedside  to  bedside  in  the  field 
hospitals  of  the  Fifth  and  Ninth  Corps, 
where  the  luxuries  prepared  by  willing 
hands  at  home  were  bringing  life  and 
strength  to  fevered  lips  and  broken  bod- 


234 


A  Fortnight  with  the  Sanitary. 


[Februaiy, 


ies.  I  came  back  with  my  courage  re- 
animated, and  with  a  more  perfect  faith 
in  the  ultimate  triumph  of  the  good 
cause.  I  came  back  with  a  heartier  re- 
spect for  our  soldiers,  whose  patience 
in  hardship  and  courage  in  danger  are 
rivalled  only  by  the  heroism  with  which 
they  bear  the  pains  of  sickness  and 
wounds.  I  came  back  especially  with 
the  conviction,  that,  no  matter  how  much 
we  had  contributed  to  the  Sanitary  work, 
we  had  done  only  that  which  it  was  our 
duty  to  do,  and  that,  so  long  as  we  could 
furnish  shelter  for  our  families  and  food 
for  our  children,  it  was  our  plain  obliga- 
tion to  give  and  to  continue  giving  out 
of  our  riches  or  out  of  our  poverty. 

I  have  felt  that  in  no  way  could  I 
do  better  service  than  by  seeking  to 
answer  for  others  the  very  questions 
which  my  fortnight  with  the  Sanitary 
has  answered  for  me.  Most,  no  doubt, 
have  a  general  conviction  that  the  char- 
ity inaugurated  by  the  Sanitary  Com- 
mission is  at  once  marvellous  in  its  ex- 
tent and  unique  in  the  history  of  war. 
All,  perhaps,  are  prepared  to  allow  that 
the  heart  which  conceived  such  an  en- 
terprise, and  the  mind  which  organized 
it,  and  the  persistent  will  which  carried 
it  to  a  successful  issue,  are  entitied  to 
all  the  praise  which  we  can  give  them. 
Few  will  deny  now  that  this  and  kin- 
dred associations,  by  decreasing  the 
waste  of  war,  will  affect  in  an  important 
degree  our  national  fortunes.  And  most, 
indeed,  know  something  even  about  the 
details  of  Sanitary  work.  They  compre- 
hend, at  least,  that  through  its  agency 
many  a  homely  comfort  and  many  a 
home  luxury  find  their  way  to  the  wards 
of  great  hospitals.  They  have  seen,  too, 
the  Commission  step  forward  in  great 
emergencies,  after  some  terrible  battie, 
when  every  energy  of  Government  was 
burdened  and  overburdened  by  the  gi- 
gantic demands  of  the  hour,  and  from 
its  storehouses  send  thousands  of  pack- 
ajres,  and  from  its  offices  hundreds  of 
relief  agents,  to  help  to  meet  almost  un- 
precedented exigencies. 

But  what  people  wish  to  know,  and 
what,  despite  aU  that  has  been  written, 


they  do  not  know  fully  and  definitely,  is 
how  and  when  and  where,  and  through 
what  channels  and  by  what  methods,  the 
Commission  works :  precisely  how  the 
millions  which  have  been  poured  into 
its*  treasury  from  public  contributions 
and  private  benefactions  have  been  coin- 
ed into  comfort  for  the  soldier, — how 
the  thousands  and  hundreds  of  thou- 
sands of  garments  which  have  gone 
forth  to  unknown  destinations  have  been 
made  warmth  for  his  body  and  cheer  to 
his  soul.  The  whole  height  and  depth 
and  length  and  breadth  of  Sanitary 
work,  what  varied  activities  and  what 
multiform  charities  are  included  in  the 
great  circumjprence  of  its  organization, 
— of  that  not  one  in  twenty  has  any 
adequate  conception.  And  all  about 
that  is  what  everybody  wishes  to  know. 
The  curiosity,  moreover,  which  dictates 
such  queries,  is  a  natural  and  laudable 
curiosity.  Those  who  have  given  at 
every  call,  and  often  from  scanty  means, 
and  those  who  have  plied  the  needle 
summer  and  winter,  early  and  late,  have 
a  right  to  put  such  questions.  The 
Commission  wishes  to  answer  all  prop- 
er inquiries  fully  and  unreservedly.  •  It 
would  throw  open  its  operations  to  the 
broadest  sunlight  It  believes  that  the 
more  entirely  it  is  known,  in  its  suc- 
cesses and  its  failures  alike,  the  more 
sure  it  is  to  be  liberally  sustained.  To 
bring  the  humblest  contributor  from  the 
most  distant  branch,  as  it  were,  into  im- 
mediate communication  with  the  fix>nt 
is  a  work  most  desirable  to  be  done. 
I  do  not  wish  to  glorify  the  Commis- 
sion, nor  to  theorize  about  it,  nor  to  dis- 
cuss its  relative  merit  as  compared  with 
that  of  kindred  organizations, — but  rath- 
er to  tell  just  what  it  is  doing,  precisely 
where  the  money  goes,  and  exactiy  what 
kinds  of  good  are  attempted. 

The  work  of  the  Sanitary  Commis- 
sion may  be  naturally  and  convenientiy 
classed  under  five  heads. 

First,  the  work  undertaken  for  the 
prevention  of  sickness  and  suffering. 

Second,  the  Special  Relief  Depart- 
ment. 

Third,  the  Hospital  Directory. 


i86s.] 


A  Fortnight  loith  the  Sanitary. 


235 


Fourth,  the  assistance  given  to  sta- 
tionary hospitals. 

Fifth,  the  grand  operations  in  the 
front,  on  or  near  the  actual  battle- 
field. 

The  efforts  for  the  prevention  of  suf- 
fering and  sickness  are  first  in  order  of 
time,  and  possibly  first  in  importance. 
When  this  war  commenced,  we  had  no 
wounded  and  we  had  no  sick.  What 
we  did  have  was  a  crowd  of  men  full 
of  untrained  courage,  but  who  knew  lit- 
tle or  nothing  about  military  discipline, 
and  as  litde  in  regard  to  what  was 
necessary  for  the  preservation  of  their 
health.  What  we  did  have  was  hun- 
dreds and  thousands  of  officers,  taken 
fiom  every  walk  of  life,  who  were,  for 
the  most  part,  men  of  great  natural  in- 
telligence, but  who  did  not  at  all  com- 
prehend that  it  was  their  duty  not  only 
to  lead  their  men  in  battle,  but  to  care 
for  their  health  and  their  habits,  and 
who  had  never  dreamed  that  such  home- 
ly considerations  as  what  are  the  best 
modes  of  cooking  food,  what  are  the 
most  healthy  localities  in  which  to  pitch 
tents,  what  is  the  right  position  for 
drains,  had  anything  to  do  with  the  art 
of  war.  What  we  did  have  was  sur- 
geons, many  of  whom  had  achieved  an 
honorable  reputation  in  the  walks  of 
civil  life,  but  who,  on  this  new  field, 
were  alike  inexperienced  and  untried. 
The  manifest  danger  was,  that  this  mass 
of  living  valor  and  embodied  patriotism 
would  simply  be  squandered,  —  that,  as 
in  the  terrible  Walcheren  Expedition,  or 
in  the  Crimea,  the  men  whose  strength 
and  courage  might  decide  a  campaign 
would  only  furnish  food  for  the  hospi- 
tal and  the  grave. 

Who  should  avert  this  danger  ?  The 
Government  could  not  It  had  no  time 
to  sit  down  and  study  sanitary  science. 
It  was  bringing  together  everything, 
where  it  found  —  nothing.  Out  of 
fiumers  and  merchants  and  students 
it  was  organizing  the  most  efficient  of 
armies.  It  was  sending  its  agents  all 
over  the  world  to  buy  guns  and  mu- 
nitions of  war.  It  was  tasking  our 
Victories  to  produce  blankets  and  over- 


coats, knapsacks  and  haversacks,  wag- 
ons and  tents,  and  all  that  goes  to 
make  up  the  multifarious  equipment  of 
an  army.  It  was  peering  into  our  dock- 
yards to  find  steamers  and  sailing-ves- 
sels out  of  which  to  gather  makeshift 
navies,  until  it  could  find  leisure  to  build 
stancher  ships.  Manifestiy  the  Gov- 
ernment had  no  time  for  such  i.  work. 
The  existing  Medical  Bureau  was  hard- 
ly equal  to  the  task.  Organized  to  take 
charge  of  an  army  of  ten  thousand  men, 
in  the  twinkling  of  an  eye  that  army 
became  five  hundred  thousand.  At  the 
beginning  of  the  war  the  medical  staff 
must  have  been  very  busy  and  very 
heavily  burdened.  With  great  hospi- 
tals to  build,  with  troops  of  willing,  but 
young  and  inexperienced  surgeons  to 
train  to  a  knowledge  of  their  duties  and 
to  send  east  and  west  and  north  and 
south,  with  every  department  of  medical 
science  to  be  enlarged  at  once  to  the  pro- 
portions of  the  war,  it  had  littie  leisure 
for  excursions  into  fi'esh  fields  of  inqui- 
ry. That  it  brought  order  so  quickly 
out  of  chaos,  that  it  was  able  to  extem- 
porize a  good  working  system,  is  a  suf- 
ficient testimony  to  its  general  fideli- 
ty and  efficiency.  It  was  the  Sanitary 
Commission  which  undertook  this  spe- 
cial duty.  It  undertook  to  find  out 
some  of  the  laws  of  health  which  apply 
to  army  life,  and  then  to  scatter  the 
knowledge  of  those  laws  broadcast 

Prevention,  therefore,  effort  not  so 
much  to  comfort  and  cure  the  sick  sol- 
dier as  to  keep  him  fi-om  being  sick  at 
all,  was,  in  order  of  time,  properly  the 
first  work.  And  it  is  doubtful  whether 
at  the  outset  anything  more  was  con- 
templated. The  memorial  to  the  War 
Department  in  May,  1861,  says  ex- 
plicitiy  that  the  object  of  the  Commis- 
sion 'Ms  to  bring  to  bear  upon  the 
health,  comfort,  and  morale  of  our 
troops  the  fullest  and  ripest  teachings 
of  sanitary  science.''  How  many  of  the 
contributors  to  the  funds  of  the  Society 
are  aware  what  an  immense  work  in 
this  direction  has  been  undertaken,  and 
how  much  has  been  accomplished  to 
prevent  sickness  and  the  consequent 
depletion  and  perhaps  defeat  of  our 


236 


A  Fortnight  with  the  Samtaty. 


[Februaiy, 


armies  ?  As  I  have  already  indicated, 
at  the  commencement  of  the  war  we 
knew  little  or  nothing  about  what  was 
necessary  to  keep  men  in  military  ser- 
vice well,  —  what  food,  what  clothing, 
what  tents,  what  camps,  what  recrea- 
tions, what  everything,  I  may  say. 
Now  the  Sanitary  Commission  has 
made  Searching  inquiries  touching  ev- 
ery point  of  camp  and  soldier  life, — 
gathering  in  £u:ts  from  all  quarters, 
and  seeking  to  attain  to  some  fixed 
sanitary  principles.  It  has  sent  the 
most  eminent  medical  men  on  tours  of 
inspection  to  all  our  camps,  who  have 
put  questions  and  given  hints  to  the 
very  men  to  whom  they  were  of  the 
most  direct  importance.  As  a*  result, 
we  have  a  mass  of  £Eicts,  which,  in  the 
breadth  of  the  field  which  they  cover, 
in  the  number  of  vital  questions  which 
they  settle,  and  in  the  fulness  and  ac- 
curacy of  the  testimony  by  which  they 
are  sustained,  are  worth  more  than  all 
the  sanitary  statistics  of  all  other  na- 
tions put  together. 

And  we  are  to  consider  that  these 
inquiries  were  fi'om  the  beginning  turn- 
ed to  practical  use.  If  you  look  over 
your  pile  of  dlisty  pamphlets,  very  like- 
ly you  will  find  a  little  Sanitary  tract 
entitled,  "Rules  for  Preserving  the 
Health  of  the  Soldier."  This  was  is- 
sued almost  before  the  war  had  seri- 
ously begun.  Or  you  will  come  across 
some  republished  European  medical 
paper  containing  the  last  results  of  the 
last  foreign  investigations.  So  early 
was  the  good  seed  of  sanitary  knowl- 
edge sown.  We  must  remember,  too, 
how  many  mooted,  yet  vital  questions 
have  now  been  put  to  rest  Take  an 
example,  —  Quinine.  Everybody  had 
a  general  notion  that  quinine  was  as 
valuable  as  a  preventive  of  disease 
as  a  cure.  But  how  definite  was  our 
knowledge  ?  How  many  knew  when 
and  in  what  positions  and  to  what  ex- 
tent it  was  valuable  ?  As  early  as  186 1 
the  Commission  prepared  and  pub- 
lished what  has  been  justly  termed  an 
exhaustive  monograph  on  the  whole 
subject,  collecting  into  a  brief  space 
all  the  best  testimony  bearing  upon  the 


question.  This  was  the  beginning  of 
an  investigation  which,  pursued  through 
a  vast  number  of  cases,  has  demon- 
strated, that,  in  peculiar  localities  and 
under  certain  circumstances,  quinine  in 
fiill  doses  is  an  almost  absolute  neces^ 
sity.  And  in  such  localities,  and  under 
such  circumstances,  Government  issues 
now  a  daily  ration  to  every  man,  saving 
who  can  tell  how  many  valuable  lives  ? 
One  more  illustration,  —  Camps.  Sup- 
pose you  were  to  lead  a  thousand  men 
into  the  Southern  country.  Would  you 
know  where  to  encamp  them  ?  whether 
with  a  southern  or  a  northern  exposure  ? 
on  a  breezy  hill,  or  in  a  sheltered  val- 
ley ?  beneath  the  shade  of  groves,  or 
out  in  the  broad  sunshine?  Could 
you  tell  what  kind  of  soil  was  healthi- 
est, or  how  near  to  each  other  you  could 
safely  pitch  your  tents,  or  whether  it 
would  be  best  for  your  men  to  sleep  on 
the  bare  ground  or  on  straw  or  en  pine 
botighs  ?  Yet,  if  you  inquire,  you  will 
find  that  all  these  questions  and  count- 
less others  are  definitely  settled,  — 
thanks  in  a  great  measure  to  the  Sani- 
tary Commission,  which  has  gladly  giv- 
en its  ounce  of  prevention,  that  it  may 
spare  its  pound  of  cure. 

If  you  imagine  that  the  need  of  this 
work  of  prevention  has  ceased,  you  are 
greatly  mistaken.  Only  last  summer, 
in  the  single  month  of  June,  the  Com- 
mission distributed,  in  the  Army  of  the 
Potomac  alone,  over  a  hundred  tons  of 
canned  finits  and  tomatoes,  and  not  less 
than  five  thousand  barrels  of  pickleis 
and  fresh  vegetables.  It  is  hardly  too 
much  to  say  that  what  the  Commission 
did  in  this  respect  has  gone  far  towards 
enabling  our  gallant  army  to  disappoint 
the  hopes  of  the  enemy,  and  to  hold, 
amid  the  deadly  assaults  of  malaria,  the 
vantage-ground  which  it  has  won  before 
Petersburg  and  Richmond.  All  through 
the  spring  and  summer,  too,  at  Chatta- 
nooga, on  the  very  soil  which  war  had 
ploughed  and  desolated,  invalid  soldiers 
have  been  cultivating  hundreds  of  acres 
of  vegetables.  And  on  the  rugged  sides 
of  Missionary  Ridge,  and  along  the 
sunny  slopes  of  Central  Tennessee,  the 
same  forethought  has  brought  to  per- 


186$.] 


A  Fortnight  with  the  Sanitary, 


m 


fectioxi,  in  many  a  deserted  vineyard, 
the  purple  glory  of  the  grape.  And 
this  not  merely  to  cure,  but  to  prevent, 
to  keep  up  the  strength  and  vigor  of  the 
brave  men  who  hkve  marched  victori- 
ously from  the  banks  of  the  Ohio  to 
Atlanta. 

Nor  is  it  likely  that  the  value  of  this  . 
office  will  cease  so  long  as  the  war  lasts 
In  the  future,  as  in  the  past,  new  con- 
ditions, new  exigencies,  and  new  dan- 
gers will  arise.  And  to  the  end  the 
foresight  which  guards  will  be  as  true  a 
friend  to  the  soldier  as  the  kindness 
which  assuages  his  pains.  Looking 
back,  therefore,  upon  the  whole  field, 
and  speaking  with  a  full  understanding 
of  the  meaning  of  the  language,  I  am 
ready  to  affirm,  that,  if  the  Sanitary 
Commission  had  undertaken  nothing 
but  the  work  of  preventing  sickness, 
and  had  accomplished  nothing  in  any 
other  direction,  the  army  and  the  coun- 
try would  have  received  in  that  alone 
an  ample  return  for  all  the  money  which 
has  been  lavished. 

I  come  now  to  the  Special  Relief 
Department  I  should  call  this  a  sort 
of  philanthropic  drag-net,  differing  from 
that  mentioned  in  the  Gospel  in  that  it 
seems  to  gather  up  nothing  bad  which 
needs  to  be  thrown  away.  In  other 
words,  it  appeared  to  me  as  though  any 
and  every  kind  of  Sanitary  good  which 
ought  to  be  done,  and  yet  was  not  large 
enough  or  distinct  enough  to  constitute 
a  separate  branch,  was  set  down  as 
Special  Relief.  The  whole  system  of 
homes  and  lodges  to  feed  the  hungry 
and  shelter  the  homeless  comes  directly 
under  the  head  of  Special  Reliefl  The 
immense  collection  of  back  pay,  boun- 
ties, pensions,  and  prize-money,  which 
is  made  gratuitously  by  the  Commis- 
sion, is  Special  Relief.  Visits  to  the 
hospitals  are  under  the  direction  of  this 
same  department  And  even  the  Direc- 
tory and  the  vast  work  done  at  the  front 
perhaps  legitimately  belong  to  it  We 
can  readily  conceive,  therefore,  that  the 
Commission  has  no  department  which 
is  larger  or  more  important,  or  which 
covers  so  wide  and  diversified  a  field 


of  activity.    Let  us  survey  that  field  a 
little  closer. 

Sanitary  homes  and  lodges,  —  what 
are  they  ?  A  soldier  is  discharged,  or 
he  has  a  furlough.  He  is  not  well  and 
strong, — and  he  has  no  money,  certain- 
ly none  to  spare.  He  ought  not  to  sleep 
on  the  ground,  and  he  ought  not  to  go 
hungry.  But  what  is  everybody's  busi- 
ness is  apt  to  be  nobody's  business. 
Fortunately  the  Commission  has  seen 
and  met  this  want  In  Washington,  on 
H  Street,  there  is  a  block  of  rough,  but 
comfortable  one-story  wooden  buildings, 
erected  for  various  purposes  of  Special 
Relief,  and,  amongst  others,  for  the  very 
one  which  I  have  mentioned.  In  the 
first  place,  there  is  a  large  room  con- 
taining ninety-six  berths,  where  any  sol- 
dier, having  proper  claims,  can  obtain 
decent  lodging  free  of  expense.  In  the 
second  place,  there  is  a  kitchen,  and  a 
neat,  cheeriul  dining-room,  with  seats 
for  a  hundred  and  fifty.  Here  plain  and 
substantial  meals  are  furnished  to  all 
comers.  This  table  of  one  hundred 
and  fifty  has  often,  and  indeed  usually, 
to  be  spread  three  times ;  so  that  the 
Commission  feeds  daily  at  this  place 
alone  some  four  hundred  soldiers,  and 
lodges  ninety  to  a  hundred  more.  The 
home  which  I  have  now  described  is 
simply  for  transient  calls. 

Near  the  depot  there  is  a  home  of  a- 
more  permanent  character.  When  a 
soldier  is  discharged  fi'om  the  service^ 
the  Government  has,  in  the  nature  of 
the  case,  no  further  charge  of  him* 
Supposcf  now  that  he  is  taken  sick,  with 
no  money  in  his  purse  and  no  friends 
near.  Can  you  imagine  a  position  more 
forlorn  ?  And  forlorn  indeed  it  would 
be,  were  it  not  for  the  Commissiom 
The  sick  home  is  a  large  three-story 
building,  with  three  or  four  one-story 
buildings  added  on  each  side.  Here 
there  is  furnished  food  for  all ;  then  one 
hundred  and  fifty  beds  for  those  who  are. 
not  really  sick,  but  only^  ailing  and  worn 
out;  then  baUiing-rooms ;  and,  finally, 
a  reading-room.  There  is  here,  too,  a 
hospital  ward,  with  the  requisite  nurses . 
and  medical  attendance.  In  this  ward. 
I  saw  a  little  boy,  apparently  not .  ovor. 


238 


A  Fortnight  with  the  Sanitary, 


[February, 


twelve  years  of  age,  who  had  strayed 
from  his  home,  —  if^  alas,  he  had  one ! 
— and  followed  to  the  field  an  Ohio  regi- 
ment of  hundred-days'  men,  and  who 
had  been  taken  sick  and  lefr  behind. 
Who  he  was  or  where  from  nobody 
knew.  Tenderly  cared  for,  but  likely 
to  die !  A  sad  sight  to  look  upon  1 
One  feature  more.  .  Every  Tuesday, 
Thursday,  and  Saturday  a  physician 
goes  from  the  home  in  Washington  to 
^ew  York,  taking  charge  of  those  who 
are  too  sick  or  too  crippled  to  care  for 
themselves ;  while  the  relief  agents  pro- 
cure for  the  sick  soldier  the  half-price 
ticket  to  which  he  is  entitled,  or  else 
give  him  one,  and  such  articles  of  cloth- 
ing as  are  needful  to  send  him  in  com- 
fort to  his  own  home. 

I  must  not  £ail  to  speak  in  this  con- 
nection of  another  beautiful  ministry, 
—  the  home  for  soldiers'  wives  and 
mothers.  A  soldier  is  like  other  hu- 
man beings.  In  his  sickness  he  yearns 
for  a  sight  of  the  familiar  faces,  and 
sends  for  wife  or  mother ;  or  wife  or 
mother,  unable  to  bear  longer  the  un- 
certainty, when  she  can  get  no  tidings 
from  the  absent,  starts  for  Washington. 
There,  searching  vainly  for  husband  or 
son,  she  spends  all  or  nearly  all  her 
money.  Or  if  she  finds  him,  it  may  well 
be  that  he  has  no  funds  with  which  to 
help  her.  In  the  little  buildings  on  one 
side  of  the  refuge  for  the  sick  are  rooms 
where  some  sixty-five  can  receive  de- 
cent lodging  and  nourishing  food  ;  and 
if  actually  penniless,  the  Commission 
will  procure  them  tickets  and  send  them 

back  to  their  filends. 

ft 

We  often  hear  people  wondering,  al- 
most in  a  skeptical  tone,  where  all  the 
Commission's  money  goes.  When  I 
was  at  Washington  and  City  Point,  I 
only  asked  where  it  all  came  f^om.  Con- 
sider what  it  must  cost  simply  to  feed 
and  lodge  these  soldiers  and  their  wives 
at  Washii^on.  And  then  remember 
that  this  is  but  oujS  of  many  similar 
homes  scattered  everywhere:  at  Balti- 
more, Washington,  and  Alexandria,  in 
the  Eastern  Department ;  at  Louisville, 
Nashville,  Chattanooga,  in  the  West- 
cm  ;  at  New  Orleans  and  Baton  Rouge, 


in  the  Southwestern ;  and  at  many  an- 
other place  beside.  And,  finally,  reflect 
that  this  whole  system  of  homes  is  real- 
ly but  one  portion  of  one  branch  of  San- 
itary work. 

The  collection  of  back  pay,  bounties, 
and  pensions,  —  how  many  have  a  defi- 
^  nite  idea  of  this  work  ?  Not  many,  I  sus- 
pect Yet  it  takes  all  the  time  of  many 
persons  to  accomplish  it,  and  it  was  the 
branch  of  Sanitary  work  which  awaken- 
ed in  my  own  mind  the  deepest  regard ; 
for  it  has  its  foundation  in  a  higher  vir- 
tue than  any  mere  sentimental  charity, 
— yea,  in  tlie  highest  virtue  known  in 
heaven  or  on  earth,  — justice.  However 
impossible  it  may  be  to  prevent  such 
occurrences,  certainly  it  is  a  cruel  and 
undeserved  hardship  to  a  soldier  who 
has  served  faithfully  and  fought  for  his 
country,  and  has  perhaps  been  wounded 
and  almost  died  at  the  post  of  honor 
and  duty,  that  he  should  be  unable  to 
obtain  his  hard-earned  pittance,  when, 
too,  he  needs  it  for  his  own  comfort, 
or  when  it  may  be  that  his  family  need 
it  to  keep  them  from  absolute  suffer- 
ing. 

Look  at  a  single  class  of  these  collec- 
tions, —  the  back  pay  of  sick  men.  Gov- 
ernment, we  all  allow,  must  have  some 
system  in  its  disbursements.  It  should 
not  pay  money  without  a  voucher,  and 
the  proper  voucher  of  a  soldier  is  the 
pay-roll  of  the  regiment  or  company  of 
which  he  is  a  member.  Now  a  siek  or 
wounded  man  drops  out  of  the  ranks. 
He  gets  into  a  field  hospital  to  which 
he  does  not  belong.  He  is  transferred 
from  one  hospital  to  another,  from  hos- 
pital to  convalescent  camp,  and  finally, 
.  it  may  be,  is  put  on  the  list  of  men  to 
be  discharged  for  physical  disability. 
Meanwhile  his  commanding  officer  does 
not  know  where  he  is,  cannot  trace  him, 
thinks  it  very  likely  tJiat  he  is  a  desert- 
er. On  pay-day  the  man's  name  is  not 
on  the  roll,  and,  having  no  voucher,  he 
gets  no  money.  You  say  that  there 
ought  to  be  a  remedy.  There  is  none. 
It  would  be  difficult  to  devise  one. 
What  shall  the  soldier  do  ?  He  cannot 
go  froo^  point  to  point  to  collect  evi- 
dence, for  he  is  sick.    Besides,  he  is 


I86s.] 


A  Fortnight  with  the  Sanitary. 


239 


ntteiiy  ignorant  of  the  necessary  forms. 
If  he  applies  to  a  lawyer,  it  costs  him 
often  from  one  half  to  three  quarters  of 
all  he  gets.  Very  likely  the  lawyer  can- 
not afford  to  take  care  of  one  or  two 
petty  cases  for  a  less  price.  In  this 
emergency  the  Commission  steps  in, 
and,  with  its  knowledge  of  routine  and 
its  credit  in  all  quarters,  obtains  for  the 
poor  feUow  for  nothing  what  he  has  in 
vain  sought  for  in  other  ways.  Take 
one  single  case,  and  what  they  would 
<^  at  the  Relief  Office  an  easy  case. 
Study  it  attentively,  and  you  will  get  an 
idea  of  all  cases,  —  and  you  will  under- 
stand, moreover,  how  much  work  has 
to  be  done,  and  how  impossible  it  wotdd 
be  for  a  sick  man  to  do  it. 

Charles  W.  J is  a  member  of 

Company  K,  One  Hundred  and  Twenty- 
First  New  York  Regiment,  and  he  has 
been  transferred  to  this  company  and 
regiment  from  Company  F  of  the  Six- 
teenth New  York.  He  has  been  thus 
transferred  for  the  reason  that  the  Six- 
teenth New  York  is  a  two  years'  regi- 
ment, w^hose  time  has  expired,  while 
he  \9  a  three  years'  recruit,  who  has  a 
jear  or  two  more  to  serve.  Now  he 
claims  that  pay  is  due  him  from  No- 
vembeF  i,  1863,  to  August  i,  1864,  and 
that  he  needs  his  pay  very  much  to  send 
home  to  his  wife.  He  represents  that 
he  was  at  Schuyler  Hospital  from  the 
time  he  left  the  ranks  until  December  1 7, 
1863 ;  that  then  he  was  sent  to  Conva- 
lescent Camp,  New  X^rk  Harbor ;  and 
on  December  29  to  Can^^  of  Distri- 
bution at  Alexandria;  whence,  Febru- 
ary 8,  1864,  he  was  brought  to  Staun- 
ton Hospital,  Washington,  where  he 
now  is.  He  has  never  joined  his  new 
regiment,  has  only  been  transferred 
with  others  to  its  rolls.  His  new  offi- 
cers have  never  seen  him,  and  do  not 
know  where  he  is.  The  relief  agent  hears 
the  story  and  then  sets  about  proving 
»all  its  details :  first,  that  the  man  was 
a  member  of  the  Sixteenth  New  York 
Regiment ;  second,  that  he  has  been 
transferred  to  the  One  Hundred  and 
Twenty- First  Regiment;  third,  that 
he  has  never  been  paid  beyond  Novem- 
ber I,  1863 ;  fourth,  that  he  has  really 


been  in  the  various  hospitals  and  camps 
which  he  mentions.  This  evidence  is 
procured  by  writing  to  agents  and  sur- 
geons at  convalescent  and  distributing 
camps,  and  at  Hospital  Schuyler,  and 
by  examining  the  rolls  of  the  Sixteenth 
and  One  Hundred  and  Twenty -First 
Regiments.  In  a  few  days  or  weeks 
the  man's  story  is  proved  to  be  correct^ 
and  he  is  put  into  a  position  to  receive 
his  pay, — a  satis&ction  not  simply  in  a 
pecuniary  sense,  but  also  to  his  soldier- 
ly pride,  by  removing  an  undeserved 
diarge  of  desertion. 

Now  I  beg  my  readers  not  to  imagine 
that  this  is  a  difficult  case.  At  the  Relief 
Rooms  they  treasure  up  and  mysteri- 
ously display,  much  as  I  suspect  a  sol- 
dier would  flaunt  a  captiured  battie-flag, ' 
a  certain  roll  of  paper,  I  dare  not  say 
how  many  yards  long,  covered  with  cer- 
tificates from  one  end  to  the  other,  ob- 
tained from  all  parts  of  the  country  and 
from  all  sorts  of  persons,  and  all  neces- 
sary in  order  to  secure  perhaps  a  three 
or  six  months'  pay  of  one  sick  soldier. 
The  correspondence  of  the  back -pay 
department  is  itself  a  burden.  From 
thirty  to  forty  letters  on  an  average  are 
received  daily  at  one  of  its  offices.  They 
are  written  in  all  languages,  — r  Englisl^ 
German,  French, — and  must  be  read, 
translated,  and  the  ideas,  conveyed  oft- 
en in  the  blindest  style,  ascertained  and 
answered. 

A  new  branch  has  been  recently  add- 
ed,—  the  collection  of  pay  for  the  fam- 
ilies of  those  who  are  prisoners  in  Reb- 
eldom.  But  as  this  involves  no  new 
principles  or  fresh  details,  I  pass  it  by. 
Another  Slass  of  cases  should  receive  a 
moment's  notice.  This  includes  the  col- 
lection of  bounties  for  discharged  sol- 
diers, of  pensions  for  wounded  Soldiers, 
of  bounty,  back  pay,  and  pensions  for 
the  families  of  deceased  soldiers,  and 
of  prias-money  for  sailors.  These  cases 
are  not,  as  a  general  rule,  as  intricate 
as  those  which  I  have  already  consid- 
ered, inasmuch  as  the  proper  depart- 
ments have  a  regular  system  of  inves- 
tigation, and  take  up  and  examine  for 
themselves  each  case  in  its  turn.  All 
that  the  Commission  does  is  to  put  the 


240 


A  Fortnight  with  the  Sanitary. 


[February, 


soldier  on  the  right  track,  and  to  make 
out  and  present  for  him  the  fitting  ap- 
plication. It  undertook  this  because 
Washington  was  infested  with  a  horde 
of  sharpers,  who,  by  false  representa- 
tions, defrauded  the  soldiers  out  of 
large  sums. 

1  cannot  more  appropriately  dose 
this  branch  of  my  subject  than  by  stat- 
ing the  simple  fact,  that  during  the 
months  of  July  and  August  the  relief 
agents  examined  and  brought  to  a  suc- 
cessful issue  809  cases  of  back  pay  and 
bounty-money,  averaging  $  125,  —  203 
cases  of  invalid  pensions,  378  cases  of 
widows'  pensions,  and  10  cases  of  naval 
pensions,  averaging  $8  a  month, — and 
121  cases  of  prize-money,  averaging 
>8o. 

I  have  only  to  add  that  the  amount 
of  good  which  can  be  done  in  this  direc- 
tion seems  to  be  limited  only  by  the 
capacity  of  those  who  undertake  to  do 
it.  A  relief  agent  said  to  me,  in  con- 
versation, that  in  one  hospital  in  Phila- 
delphia there  were  several  hundreds 
who  claimed,  but  were  unable  to  collect 
their  just  dues,  —  and  that  what  was 
true  of  this  hospital  was  true  to  a  less 
extent  of  all  of  them. 

The  Hospital  Directory  is  a  most  in- 
teresting branch  of  Sanitsiry  work.  Not 
because  it  will  compare  with  many  other 
branches  in  extent  of  usefulness,  but 
because  it  shows  what  a  wide-reaching 
philanthropy  is  at  work,  seeking  to  fur- 
nish every  possible  alleviation  to  the 
inevitable  hardships  of  war.  Whoever 
has  at  any  time  had  a  sick  or  wounded 
friend  in  the  army  knows  how  difficult 
it  often  is  to  obtain  any  intelligence 
about  him.  I  have  in  mind  a  poor 
woman,  who  exhausted  every  resource 
in  seeking  to  ascertain  the  whereabouts 
of  a  sick  son,  and  who  never  received 
any  tidings  of  him,  until  one  day,  months 
after,  he  came  home,  worn-out  and  brok- 
en, to  die.  The  regiment  is  in  active 
service  and  passes  on,  while  the  sick 
man  goes  back.  He  has  several  trans- 
fers, too,  —  first  to  the  corps  hospital 
on  the  field,  then  to  the  army  hospital 
at  City  Point,  then  to  Washii^;ton,  and 


very  possibly  again  to  some  hospital  in 
Baltimore,  Philadelphia,  or  other  city 
or  town  £urther  north,  and  on  that 
account  believed  to  be  more  healthy. 
Meanwhile,  amid  all  these  changes,  the 
man  may  be  delirious,  or  from  some 
other  cause  unable  to  communicate 
with  his  fiiends.  How  shall  they  get 
information  ?  The  Commission  under- 
takes to  keep  a  correct  list  of  all  the 
sick  and  wounded  men  who  are  in  reg- 
ular hospitals.  They  obtain  their  infor- 
mation from  the  official  returns  of  the 
surgeons.  I  do  not  mean  to  say  that 
these  lists  are  absolutely  correct  They 
approximate  as  nearly  to  correctness  as 
they  ever  can,  until  surgeons  are  per- 
fectly prompt  and  careful  in  their  re- 
ports. 

The  amount  of  work  done  is  very 
great  Seven  hundred  thousand  names 
have  been  recorded  in  this  Directory, 
between  October,  1862,  and  July,  1864. 
From  ten  to  twenty-five  applications  for 
information  are  made  each  day  by  letter, 
and  from  one  hundred  to  two  hundred 
and  fifty  personally  or  through  the  va- 
rious State  agencies.  Branch  offices, 
working  upon  a  similar  plan,  have  been 
established  at  Louisville  and  elsewhere. 

• 

The  subject  of  assistance  to  regular 
hospitals  may  be  despatched  in  a  few 
words,  —  not  because  the  gifts  are  in- 
significant, but  because  the  method  of 
giving  is  so  regular  and  easy  to  explain. 
Whenever  the  surgeon  of  any  hospital 
needs  articles  which  are  extras,  and  so 
not  supplied  by  the  Government,  or 
which,  if  allowed,  the  Government  is 
deficient  in  at  the  time,  he  makes  a 
requisition  upon  the  Commission ;  and 
if  his  requisition  is  deemed  to  be  a 
reasonable  one,  it  is  approved,  and  the 
goods  delivered  on  his  receipt  for  the 
same.  As  to  the  amount  given,  I  can 
only  say  that  something  is  sent  almost 
every  day  even  to  the  hospitals  near. 
Washington  and  the  great  cities,  and 
that  the  amount  bestowed  increases 
just  in  proportion  to  the  distance  of  the 
hospital  from  the  great  Government 
centres  of  supply.  This  is  a  noiseless 
and    unostentatious    charity,  —  some- 


186$.] 


A  Fortnight  with  the  Sanifaty, 


241 


If  I  am  tempted  to  think,  too  nc^se- 
leas  and  unostentatious.  A  few  weeks 
ago,  a  lady  firiend  visited  one  of  the  hos- 
pitals near  Washington,  carrying  with 
her  fi9r  distribution  some  Sanitary  goods. 
She  gave  a  handkerchief  to  one  of  the 
sick  men.  He  took  it,  looked  at  it,  read 
the  mark  in  the  comer,  paused  as  if  he 
had  received  a  new  idea,  and  then  spoke 
<mt  his  mind  thus : — **  I  have  been  in  this 
hospital  six  months,  and  this  is  the  first 
tiring  I  ever  received  from  the  Sanitary 
Commission."  —  **  But,"  she  replied, 
**  have  you  not  had  this  and  that  ?  "  men- 
tioning several  luxuries  supplied  to  this 
very  hospital  for  extra  diet — '*  Oh,  yes, 
often !  "  —  "  Well,  every  one  of  these  ar- 
ticles came  from  the  Sanitary  Commis- 
sion." 

Just  now  the  Sanitary  is  seeking  to 
enter  into  closer  relations  with  the  hos- 
pitals through  the  agency  of  regular 
visitors.  The  advantages  of  such  a 
policy  are  manifest  The  reports  of  the 
visitors  will  enable  the  directors  to  see 
more  clearly  the  real  wants  of  the  sick ; 
and  the  frequent  presence  and  inquiries 
of  such  visitors  will  tend  to  repress  the 
ondne  appropriation  of  hospital  stores 
by  attendants.  But  the  highest  benefit 
will  be  the  change  and  cheer  it  will  in- 
troduce into  the  monotony  of  hospital 
life.  If  you  are*  sick  at  home,  you  are 
glad  to  have  your  neighbor  step  in  and 
bring  the  healthy  bracing  air  of  out- 
door life  into  the  dimness  and  languor 
of  your  invalid  existence.  Much  more 
does  the  sick  soldier  like  it,  —  for  en- 
nui, fer  more  than  pain,  is  his  great 
boixlea.  When  I  was  at  Washing- 
ton, I  accepted  with  great  satis&ction 
an  invitation  to  go  with  a  Sanitary 
visitor  on  her  round  of  duty.  When 
we  came  to  the  hospital,  I  asked  the 
ward-master  if  he  would  like  to  have  me 
distribute  among  his  patients  the  arti- 
cles I  had  brought  He  said  that  he 
shoold,  for  he  thought  It  would  do  the 
poor  feUows  good  to  see  me  and  re- 
ceive the  gifts  from  my  own  hands. 
The  moment  I  entered  there  was  a  stir. 
Those  who  could  hobble  about  stumped 
iq>  to  me  to  see  what  was  going  on ; 
some  others  sat  up  iqjied,  fiiU  of  alert- 

VOL.  XV.  —  Na  88.  16 


ness ;  while  the  sickest  greeted  me  with 
a  languid  smile.  As  I  went  from  cot 
to  cot,  the  politeness  of  /a  beiU  France^ 
with  which  a  little  Frenchman  in  the 
comer  touched  the  tassel  of  his  varie- 
gated nightcap  at  me,  and  the  untrans- 
latable gutturals,-  full  of  honest  satis- 
faction, with  which  his  German  neigh- 
bor saluted  me,  and  the  *'  God  bless 
your  honor,"  which  a  cheery  son  of  Old 
Erin  showered  down  upon  me,  and  the 
simple  "  Thank  you,  Sir,"  which  came 
up  on  all  sides  from  our  true-hearted 
New  England  boys,  were  alike  refresh- 
ing to  my  soul.  No  doubt  the  single 
peach  or  two  which  with  hearty  good- 
will were  given  to  them  were  as  good 
as  a  feast ;  and  it  may  be  that  the 
little  comforts  which  I  left  behind  me, 
and  which  had  been  home  thither  on 
the  wings  of  this  divine  charity,  per- 
haps from  some  village  nestling  among 
the  rocky  hills  of  New  England,  or  from 
some  hamlet  basking  in  the  sunlight  on 
the  broad  prairies  of  the  West,  had 
magic  power  to  bring  to  that  place  of 
suffering  some  breath  of  the  atmosphere 
of  home  to  cheer  the  sinking  heart,  or 
some  fragrant  memory  of  far-off  home- 
affection  to  make  it  better.  I  came 
away  with  the  feeling  that  visits  from 
sunny-hearted  people,  and  gifts  from 
friendly  hands,  must  be  fi  positive  bless- 
ing to  these  sick  and  wounded  peo- 
ple. 

Of  coarse  the  deepest  throb  of  inter- 
est is  given  to  the  work  at  the  front 
of  battie.  That  is  natural.  It  is  work 
done  on  ^e  very  spots  where  the  for- 
tunes of  our  nation  are  being  decided,  — 
on  the  spots  whither  all  eyes  are  turned, 
and  towards  which  all  our  hopes  and 
prayers  go  forth.  It  is  work  surrounded 
by  every  element  of  pathos  and  of  tragic 
interest  The  wavering  fortunes  of  the 
fight,  the  heroic  courage  which  sustains' 
a  doubtful  conflict,  the  masterly  skill 
that  turns  disaster  Into  triumph,  the  aw- 
ful carnage,  the  terrible  suffering,  the 
manly  patience  of  the  wounded,  all  com- 
bine to  fix  the  attention  there  and  upon 
everything  which  is  transacted  there. 
The  questions  constantiy  asked, — ^What 


242 


A  Foritnght  with  the  Sanitaty. 


[February, 


is  the  Sanitary  doing  at  the  front  ?  what 
at  City  Point?  what  at  Winchester? 
are  natural  questions.  Let  me  state 
first  the  general  plan  and  method  of 
what  I  may  call  a  Sanitary  campaign, 
and  afterwards  add  what  I  saw  with 
my  own  eyes  at  City  Point  and  before 
Petersburg,  and  what  I  heard  from 
those  who  had  themselves  been  actors 
in  the  scenes  which  they  described. 

When  the  army  moves  out  from  its 
encampment  to  the  field  of  active  war- 
£u^,  two  or  three  Sanitary  wagons, 
loaded  with  hospital  stores  of  all  sorts, 
and  accompanied  by  a  sufficient  number 
of  relief  agents,  move  with  each  army 
corps.  These  are  for  the  supply  of  pres- 
ent need,  and  for  use  during  the  march, 
or  after  such  skirmishes  and  fights  as 
may  occur  before  the  Commission  can 
establish  a  new  base.  In  this  way  some 
of  the  Commission  agents  have  followed 
General  Grant's  army  all  the  way  from 
the  Rapidan,  through  the  Wilderness, 
across  the  Mattapony,  over  the  James, 
on  to  the  very  last  advance  towards 
the  Southside  Railroad,  —  refillin^^  their 
wagons  with  stores  as  opportunity  has 
occurred.  As  soon  now  as  the  march 
*  commences  and  the  campaign  opens, 
preparations  upon  an  extensive  scale 
are  made  at  Washington  for  the  great 
probable  demand.  Steamers  are  charter- 
ed, loaded,  and  "sent  with  a  large  force 
of  relief  agents  to  the  vicinity  of  the 
probable  battle-fields;  or  if  tfie  cam- 
paign is  away  from  water  communica- 
tion, loaded  wagons  are  held  in  readi- 
ness. The  moment  the  locality  of  the 
struggle  is  determined,  then,  ynder  the 
orders  of  the  Provost  Marshal,  an  empty 
house  is  seized  and  made  the  Sanitary 
head  -  quarters  or  general  storehouse ; 
or  else  some  canal-barge. is  moored  at 
the  crazy  Virginia  wharf,  and  used  for  the 
same  purpose.  This  storehouse  is  kept 
constantly  full  from  Washington,  or  else 
flrom  Baltimore  and  New  York;  and 
the  branch  depots  which  are  now  es- 
tablished in  each  army  corps*  are  fed 
firom  it,  while  the  hospitals  in  their  turn 
make  requisitions  for  all  needful  sup- 
plies on  these  branch  depots.  That  is  to 
say,  the  arrangements,  though  rougher 


and  less  permanent  in  their  character, 
approximate  very  nearly  to  the  arrange- 
ments at  Washington. 

A  few  details  need  to  be  added. 
Where  the  distance  firom  the  battle-fieki 
to  the  base  of  supplies  is  great,  what 
are  called  feeding-stations  are  establish- 
ed every  few  miles,  and  here  the  wound- 
ed on  foot  or  in  ambulances  can  stop 
and  take  the  refreshments  or  stimulants 
necessary  to  sustain  them  on  their  pain- 
ful journey.  At  the  steamboat-landing 
the  Commission  has  a  lodge  and  agents, 
with  crackers  and  beef-tea,  coffee  and 
tea,  ice-water  and  stimulants,  ready  to 
be  administered  to  such  as  need.  Re- 
L'ef  agents  go  up  on  the  boats  to  help 
care  for  the  wounded ;  and  at  Washing- 
ton the  same  scene  of  active  kindness 
is  often  enacted  on  their  arrival  as  at 
their  departure.  This  is  the  general 
plan  of  action  everywhere,  modified  to 
suit  circumstances,  but  always  essen- 
tially the  same.  It  will  apply  just  as 
well  West  as  East,  —  only  for  the  names 
Baltimore,  Washington,  and  City  Point, 
you  must  put  Louisville,  NashvUle,  and 
Chattanooga. 

When  I  was  at  City  Point,  the  base 
of  operations  had  been  established 
there  more  than  two  months ;  and 
though  there  was  much  sickness,  and 
the  wounded  were  bdng  brought  in 
daily  by  hundreds  from  the  prolonged 
struggle  for  the  Weldon  Road,  every- 
thing moved  on  with  the  regularity  of 
clock-work.  As  you  neared  the  land- 
ing, coming  up  the  James,  you  saw,  a 
little  fiirther  up  the  river,  the  red  flag 
of  the  Sanitary  Commission  floating 
over  the  three  barges  which  were  its 
office,  its  storehouse,  and  its  distrib- 
uting store  for  the  whole  Army  of  the 
Potomac.  Climbing  up  the  steep  road 
to  the  top  of  the  bluff,  and  advancing 
over  the  undulating  plain  a  mile,  you 
come  to  a  city,  —  the  city  of  hospitals. 
The  white  tents  are  arranged  in  lines 
of  almost  mathematical  accuracy.  The 
camp  is  intersected  by  roads  broad  and 
dean.  Every  corps,  and  every  division 
of  every  corps,  has  its  allotted  square. 
Somewhere  in  these  larger  squares  your 
eye  will  be  sure  jp  catch  sight  of  th« 


1 865.] 


A  Fortnight  with  the  Sanitaty. 


243 


Sanitary  flag,  2md  beneath  it  a  tent, 
where  is  the  corps  station.  You  enter, 
and  you  find  within,  if  not  as  great  an 
amount,  at  least  as  varied  a  supply, 
of  hospital  stores  as  you  would  find 
anywhere,  waiting  for  surgeons'  orders. 
To  a  very  great  extent,  the  extra  diet 
for  all  the  ^ick  and  wounded  is  fur- 
nished firom  these  stores ;  and  very 
largely  the  cooking  of  it  is  overseen  by 
ladies  connected  with  the  Commission. 
In  every  corps  there  are  fi*om  five  to  fif- 
teen relief  agents,  whose  duty  it  is  to 
go  through  the  wards  once,  twice,  three 
times  in  each  day,  to  see  what  the  sick 
need  for  their  comfort,  to  ascertain  that 
they  really  get  what  is  ordered,  and  in 
every  way  to  alleviate  suffering  and  to 
promote  cheerfulness  and  health. 

I  shall  never  forget  a  tour  which  I 
made  with  a  relief  agent  through  the 
wards  for  the  blacks,  both  because  it 
showed  me  what  a  watchful  supervision 
a  really  £uthful  person  can  exercise,  and 
because  it  gave  such  an  opportunity  to 
observe  closely  the  conduct  of  these 
people.  The  demeanor  of  the  colored 
patients  is  really  beautiful,  —  so  gentle, 
so  polite,  so  grateful  for  the  least  kind- 
ness. And  then  the  evidences  of  a  de- 
sire for  mental  improvement  and  relig- 
ious life  which  meet  you  everywhere 
are  vtiy  touching.  Go  from  bed  to 
bed,  and  you  see  in  their  hands  prim- 
ers, spelling-books,  and  Bibles,  and  the 
poor,  worn,  sick  creatures,  the  moment 
they  feel  one  throb  of  returning  health, 
striving  to  master  their  alphabet  or 
spell  out  their  Bible.  In  the  evening, 
or  rather  in  the  fading  twilight,  some 
two  hundred  of  them  crept  from  the 
wards,  and  seated  themselves  in  a  cir- 
cle around  a  black  exhorter.  Relig- 
ion to  them  was  a  real  thing;  and  so 
their  worship  had  the  beauty  of  sincer- 
ity, while  I  ought  to  add  that  it  was 
not  marked  by  that  grotesque  extrava- 
gance sometimes  attributed  to  it  One 
cannot  but  think  better  of  the  whole 
race  after  the  experience  of  such  a 
Sabbath.  The  only  drawback  to  your 
satis^tion  is,  that  they  die  quicker 
and  firom  less  cause  than  the  whites. 
They  have  not  the  same  stubborn  hope- 


fulness   and    hilarity.     Why,    indeed, 
should  they  have  ? 

Speaking  of  the  white  soldiers,  ev- 
erybody who  goes  into  their  hospitals 
is  happily  disappointed, — you  see  so 
much  order  and  cheerfiilness,  and  so 
little  evidence  of  pain  and  misery.  The 
soldier  is  quite  as  much  a  hero  in  the 
hospital  as  on  the  battle-field.  Give 
him  anything  to  be  cheerful  about,  and 
he  will  improve  the  opportunity.  You 
see  men  who  have  lost  an  arm  or  a  leg, 
or  whose  heads  have  been  bruised  al- 
most out  of  likeness  to  humanity,  as 
jolly  as  they  can  be  over  litde  comforts 
and  pleasures  which  ordinary  eyes  can 
hardly  see  with  a  magnifying-glass.  So 
it  happens  that  a  camp  of  six  thousand 
sick  and  wounded,  which  seems  at  a 
distance  a  concentration  of  human  mis- 
ery that  you  cannot  bear  to  behold, 
when  near  does  not  look  half  so  lugu- 
brious as  you  expected ;  and  you  are 
tempted  to  accuse  the  sick  men  of  hav- 
ing entered  into  a  conspiracy  to  look 
unnaturally  happy. 

If  you  go  back  now  six  or  thirteen 
miles  to  the  field  hospitals,  you  find 
nothing  essentially  different  The  sys- 
tem and  its  practical  workings  are  the 
same.  But  it  is  a  perpetual  astonish- 
ment to  find  that  here,  near  to  the 
banks  of  a  river  that  has  not  a  respect- 
able village  on  its  shores  from  Fortress 
Monroe  to  Richmond,  —  here,  in  a 
houseless  and  desolate  land  which  can 
be  reached  only  by  roads  which  are  in- 
tersected by  gullies,  which  plunge  into 
sloughs  of  despond,  which  lose  them- 
selves in  the  ridges  of  what  were  once 
cornfields,  or  meander  amid  stumps  of 
what  so  lately  stood  a  forest,  —  that 
here  you  have  every  comfort  for  the 
sick :  all  needed  articles  of  clothing, 
the  shirts  and  drawers,  the  socks  and 
slippers  ;  and  all  the  delicacies,  too,  the 
farinas,  the  jellies,  the  canned  meats 
and  fruits,  the  concentrated  milk,  the 
palatable  drinks  and  stimulants,  and 
even  fresh  fruits  and  vegetables.  And 
in  such  profusion,  too !  I  asked  the 
chief  agent  of  the  Commission  in  the 
Ninth  Corps  how  many  orders  he  filled 
in  a  day.    **  Look  for  yourselC"    I  took 


«44 


A  Fortnight  with  the  Sanitaty. 


[Felmiary, 


down  the  orders  ;  and -there  they  were, 
one  hundred  and  twenty  strong,  some 
for  little  and  some  for  much,  some  for 
a  single  article  and  some  for  a  dozen 
articles. 

But  it  is  not  in  camps  of  long  stand- 
ing that  the  wounded  and  sick  suffer 
for  want  of  care  or  lack  of  comforts. 
It  is  when  the  base  is  suddenly  changed, 
when  all  order  is  broken  up,  when  there 
are  no  tents  at  hand^  when  the  stores 
are  scattered,  nobody  knows  where,  af- 
ter a   great   battle  perhaps,  and  the 
wounded  are  pouring  in  upon  you  like 
a  £ood,  and  when  it  seems  as  if  no  hu- 
man energy  and  no  mortal  capacity  of 
transportation  could  supply  the  wants 
both  of  the  well  and  the  sick,  the  almost 
insatiable  demands  of  the  battle-field  and 
the  equally  unfathomable  needs  of  the 
hospital,  it  is  then  that  the  misery  comes, 
and  it  is  then  that  the  Commission  does 
its  grandest  work.    After  die  Battles  of 
the  Wilderness  and  Spottsylvania,  twen- 
ty-five thousand  wounded  were  crowd- 
ed into  Fredericksburg,  where  but  ten 
thousand  were  expected.     For  #time 
supplies  of  all  kinds  seemed  to  be  liter- 
ally exhausted.    There  were  no  beds. 
There  was  not  even  straw.    There  were 
not  surgeons  enough  nor   attendants 
enough.     There  was  hardly  a  supply 
of  food.    Some  found  it  di^cult  to  get 
a  drop  of  cold  itater.    Poor,  wounded 
men,  who  had  wearily  trudged  from  the 
batde-field  and  taken  refuge  in  a  de- 
serted house,  remained  hours  and  a  day 
without  cafe,  and  without  seeing  the 
£3Lce  of  any  but  their  wounded  comrades. 
Then  the  Sanitary  Commission  sent  its 
hundred  and  fifty  agents  to  help  the 
overburdened  surgeons.     Then  every 
morning  it-despatched  its  steamer  down 
the  Potomac  crowded  with  necessaries 
and  comforts.    Then  with  ceaseless  in- 
dustry its  twenty  wagons,  groaning  un- 
der their  burden,  went  to  and  fro  over 
the  wretched  road  from  Belle  Plain  to 
Fredericksburg.     A   credible    witness 
aays  that  for  several  days  nearly  all  the 
bfluidages  and  a  large  proportion  of  the 
hospital  supplies  came  from  its  treas- 
ury.    No  mind  can  discern  and  no 
tongue  can  declare  what  valuable  lives 


it  saved  and  what  sufferings  it  alleviat* 
ed.  Who  shall  say  that  Christian  charity 
has  not  its  triumphs  proud  as  were  ever 
won  on  battle-field  ?  If  the  Commission 
could  boast  only  of  its  first  twenty-four 
hours  at  Antietam  and  Gettysburg  and 
its  forty-eight  hours  at  Fredericksburg, 
it  would  have  earned  the  everlasting 
gratitude  and  praise  of  all  true  men. 

But  is  there  not  a  reverse  to  this  pic- 
ture ?  Are  there  no  drawbacks  to  this 
success  ?  Is  there  no  chapter  of  abor- 
tive plans,  of  unfaithful  agents,  of  sur- 
geons and  attendants  appropriating  or 
squandering  charitable  gifts  ?  These 
are  questions  which  are  often  honestly 
asked,  and  the  doubts  which  they  ex- 
press or  awaken  have  cooled  Kht  zeal 
and  slackened  the  industry  of  many  an 
earnest  worker.  There  is  no  end  to  the 
stories  which  have  been  put  in  circula- 
tion. I  remember  a  certain  mythical 
blanket  which  figured  in  the  early  part 
of  the  war,  and  which,  though  despatch- 
ed to  the  soldior,  was  found  a  few  weeks 
after  by  its  owner  adorning  the  best  bed 
of  a  hotel  in  Washington.  To  be  sure, ' 
it  seemed  to  have  pursued  a  wandering 
life,  —  for  now  it  was  sent  from  the  full 
stores  of  a  lady  in  Lexington,  and  now 
it  was  stripped  perhaps  by  a  poor  wid- 
ow from  the  bed  of  her  children,  and 
then  it  was  heard  from  far  off  in  the 
West,  ever  seeking,  but  never  reaching, 
its  true  destination.  Without  heeding 
any  such  stories,  although  they  have 
done  infinite  mischief,  I  answer  to  hon- 
est queries,  that  I  have  no  doubt  that 
sometimes  the  stores  of  the  Commis- 
sion are  both  squandered  and  misap- 
propriated. I  do  not  positively  know 
it ;  but  I  am  sure  that  it  would  be  a 
miracle,  if  they  were  not  It  would  be 
the  first  time  in  human  history  that  so 
large  and  varied  a  business,  and  extend- 
ing over  such  a  breadth  of  country  and 
such  a  period  of  time,  was  transacted 
without  waste.  Look  at  the  fiicts. 
Here  are  thousands  of  United  States 
surgeons  and  attendants  of  all  ages  and 
characters  through  whose  hands  many 
of  these  gifts  must  necessarily  go.  What 
wonder,  if  here  and  there  one  should 


i86s.] 


A  FortM^ht  with  the  Sanitary. 


245 


be  found  whose  principles  were  weaker 
than  his  appetites  ?  Consider  also  the 
temptations.  These  men  are  hard-work- 
ed, often  scantily  fed-  Every  nerve  is 
tried  by* the  constant  presence  of  suf- 
fering, and  every  sense  by  fetid  odors. 
Would  it  be  surprising,  if  they  some- 
times craved  the  luxuries  which  were 
so  close  at  hand  ?  Moreover,  the  Com- 
mission employs  hundreds  of  men,  the 
very  best  it  can  get,  but  it  would  be  too 
much  to  ask  that  all  should  be  mod- 
els of  prudence,  watchfulness,  and  in- 
tegrity. 

I  allow,  then,  that  some  misappropri- 
ation is  not  improbable.  At  the  same 
time  I  do  say,  that  every  department 
IS  vigilantiy  watched,  and  that  the  loss- 
es are  trivial,  compared  with  the  im- 
mense benefits.  I  do  say,  emphati- 
cally, that  to  bring  a  wholesale  charge 
against  whole  classes,  whose  members 
are  generally  as  high-minded  and  honor- 
able as  any  other,  to  accuse  them  as  a 
body  of  wretched  peculations,  is  simply 
^se  and  slanderous.  I  maintain  that 
fidelity  is  the  rule,  and  that  its  reverse 
is  the  petty  exception ;  and  that  it  would 
be  in  opposition  to  all  rules  by  which 
men  conduct  their  lives  to  suffer  such 
exceptions  to  influence  our  conduct,  or 
diminish  our  contributions  to  a  good 
cause.  In  business  how  often  we  are 
harassed  by  petty  dishonesty  or  great 
frauds !  Nevertheless,  the  tide  of  busi- 
ness sweeps  on.  Why  ?  Because  the 
good  so  out^veighs  the  eviL  The  rail- 
road employee  is  negligent,  and  some 
terrible  accident  occurs.  But  the  rail- 
road keeps  on  running  all  the  same; 
for  the  public  convenience  and  welfare 
are  the  law  of  its  life,  and  private  peril 
and  loss  but  an  occasional  episode.  By 
the  same  rule,  we  support,  without  mis- 
giving, the  Commission,  because  the 
good  which  it  certainly  does,  and  the 
suffering  it  relieves,  in  their  immensity 
cover  up  and  put  out  of  sight  mistakes, 
which  are  incident  to  all  human  enter- 
prise, and  which  are  guarded  against 
with  all  possible  vigilance. 

But  allow  all  the  good  which  is 
daimed,  and  that  the  good  far  tran- 


scends any  possible  evil,  and  then  we 
are  met  by  these  further  questions  :  Is 
such  an  organization  necessary  ?  Can- 
not Government  do  the  work  ?  And  if 
so,  ought  not.  Government  to  do  it  t 

I  might  with  propriety  answer :  Sup- 
pose that  Government  ought  to  do 
the  work  and  does  not,  shall  we  fold 
our  hands  and  let  our  soldiers  suffer  ? 
But  the  truth  is,  Government  does  do 
its  duty.  Some  persons  foolishly  ex- 
aggerate the  work  of  the  Commission. 
They  talk  as  though  it  were  the  only 
salvation  of  the  wounded,  as  though 
the  Government  let  everything  go,  and 
that,  if  the  Commission  and  kindred 
societies  did  not  step  in,  there  would 
not  be  so  much  as  a  wreck  of  our  army 
left.  Such  talk  is  simply  preposterous. 
The  Commission,  considered  as  a  free, 
spontaneous  offering  of  a  loyal  people' 
to  the  cause  of  our  common  country,  is 
a  wonderful  enterprise.  The  Commis- 
sion, standing  ready  to  supply  any  de- 
ficiency, to  remedy  any  defect,  and  to 
meet  any  unforeseen  emergency,  has 
done  f  good  work  that  cannot  be  for-  < 
gotten.  But,  compared  with  what  Gov- 
ernment expends  upon  the  sick,  its  re- 
sources are  nothing.  I  have  not  the 
figures  at  hand,  though  I  have  seen 
them  ;  and  it  is  hardly  too  much  to  say, 
that,  where  the  society^  has  doled  out  a 
penny,  the  Government  has  lavished  a 
pound. 

No  sane  defender,  therefore,  of  this 
charity  supports  it  on  any  such  ground 
as  that  it  is  the  principal  benefactor  of 
the  soldier.  The  Commission  alone 
could  no  more  support  our  hospitals 
than  it  could  the  universe.  But  the 
homely  adage,  "  It  is  best  to  have  two 
strings  to  your  bow,"  applies  wonderful- 
ly to  the  case.  In  practical  life  men  act 
upon  this  maxim.  They  like  to  have  an 
adjunct  to  the  best- working  machinery,  a 
sort  of  reserved  power.  Every  sensible 
person  sees  that  our  mail  arrangements 
furnish  to  the  whole  people  admirable 
facilities.  Nevertheless,  we  like  to  have 
an  express,  and  occasionally  to  send 
letters  and  packages  by  it.  When  the 
children  are  sick,  there  is  nothing  so 
good  as  the  advice  of  the  trusted  family 


346 


A  Fortnight  with  the  Sanitary. 


[February, 


physician  and  the  unwearied  care  of  the 
mother.  Yet  when  the  physician  has 
done  his  work  and  gone  his  way,  and 
when  the  mother  is  worn  out  by  days 
of  anxiety  and  nights  of  watching,  we 
deem  it  a  great  blessing,  if  there  is  a 
kind  neighbor  who  will  come  in,  not  to 
assume  the  work,  but  to  help  it  on  a 
little.  The  Commission,  looking  at  the 
hospitals  and  the  armies  from  a  different 
point  of  view,  sees  much  that  another 
overlooks,  and  in  an  emergency,  when 
all  help  is  too  little,  brings  fresh  aid  that 
is  a  priceless  blessing.  To  the  plain, 
substantial  volume  of  public  appropria- 
tions it  adds  the  beautiful  supplement 
of  private  benefactions.  That  is  all  that 
it  pretends  to  do. 

There  are  some  special  reflections 
that  bear  upon  the  point  which  we  are 
considering.  This  war  was  sprung  up- 
on an  unwarlike  people.  The  officers 
of  Government,  when  they  entered  up- 
on their  work,  had  no  thought  of  the 
gigantic  burdens  which  have  fallen  upon 
their  shoulders.  Since  the  war  began, 
Government,  like  everybody  else,  has 
had  to  learn  new  duties,  and  to  learn 
them  amid  the  stress  and  perplexity 
of  a  great  conflict  And  among  other 
things,  it  has  been  obliged,  in  some  re- 
spects, to  recast  its  medical  regulations 
to  meet  the  prodigious  enlargement  of 
its  medical  work.  Beyond  a  doubt,  much 
help,  which,  on  account  of  this  imperfec- 
tion of  the  medical  code  itself^  or  of  the 
inexperience  of  many  who  administered 
it,  was  needed  by  our  hospitals  at  the 
commencement  of  the  war,  is  not  need- 
ed now,  and  much  help  that  is  needed 
now  may  not,  if  the  war  lasts,  be  needed 
in  the  future.  But  it  takes  time  to  move 
the  machinery  of  a  great  state.  And 
when  any  change  is  to  become  the  per- 
manent law  of  public  action,  it  ought  to 
take  both  time  and  thought  to  effect  it 
You  do  not  wish  to  alter  and  re-alter 
the  framework  of  a  state  or  of  a  state's 
activity  as  you  would  patch  up  a  ruinous 
old  house.  If  you  work  at  all  in  any 
department,  you  should  wish  to  work 
on  a  massive,  well-considered  plan,  so 
that  what  you  do  may  last  It  is  not 
likely,  therefore,  that,  in  the  great  field 


of  suffering  which  the  war  has  laid 
open  to  us,  the  public  ministries  will 
either  be  so  quickly  or  so  perfectly  ad- 
justed as  to  make  private  ministries  a 
superfluity. 

Neither  do  we  reflect  enough  upon 
the  limitations  of  human  power.  We 
think  sometimes  of  Government  as  a 
great  living  organism  of  boundless  re- 
sources. But,  afler  all,  in  any  depart- 
ment of  state,  what  plans,  what  over- 
looks, what  vitalizes,  is  one  single  human 
mind.  And  it  is  not  easy  to  get  minds 
anywhere  clear  enough  and  capacious 
enough  for  the  large  duties.  It  is  easy 
to  obtain  men  who  can  command  a 
company  well  It  is  not  difficult  to 
find  those  who  can  control  efficiently  a 
regiment  There  are  many  to  whom 
the  care  of  five  thousand  men  is  no 
burden ;  a  few  who  are  adequate  to  an 
army  corps.  But  the  generals  who  can 
handle  with  skill  a  hundred  thousand 
men,  and  make  these  giant  masses  do 
their  bidding,  are  the  rare  jewels  in 
war*s  diadem.  Even  so  is  it  in  every 
department  of  life.  It  is  perhaps  im- 
possible to  find  a  mind  which  can  sweep 
over  the  whole  field  of  our  medical  oper- 
ations, and  prepare  for  every  emergency 
and  avoid  every  mistake ;  not  because 
all  men  are  unfaithful  or  incapable,  but 
because  there  must  be  a  limit  to  the 
most  capacious  intellect  Looking  sim- 
ply at  the  structure  of  the  human  mind, 
we  might  have  foreseen,  what  £aicts  have 
amply  demonstrated,  that  in  a  war  of 
such  magnitude  as  that  which  we  are 
now  waging  there  always  must  be  room 
for  an  organization  like  the  Sanitary 
Commission  to  do  its  largest  and  no- 
blest work. 

But,  above  and  beyond  all  such  re- 
flections, there  are  great  national  and 
patriotic  consideratiqns  which  more 
than  justify,  yea,  demand,  the  existence 
of  our  war  charities.  Allowing  that  the 
outward  comfort  of  the  soldier  (and  who 
would  grant  it  ?)  might  be  accomplished 
just  as  well  in  some  other  way,  —  al- 
lowing that  in  a  merely  sanitary  aspect 
the  Government  could  have  done  all 
that  voluntary  organizations  have  un- 
dertaken, and  have  done  it  as  well  as 


1 86s.] 


A  Fortnight  with  the  Sanitary. 


247 


they  or  better  than  they,  —  even  then 
we  do  not  allow  for  a  moment  that 
what  has  been  spent  has  been  wasted. 
What  is  the  Sanitary  Commission,  and 
what  are  kindred  associations,  but  so 
many  bonds  of  love  and  kindness  to 
bind  the  soldier  to  his  home,  and  to 
keep  him  always  a  loyal  citizen  in  every 
hope  and  in  every  heart-throb  ?  This 
is  the  influence  which  we  can  least  of 
all  afford  to  lose.  He  must  have  been 
blind  who  did  not  see  at  the  outset 
of  the  war,  that,  beyond  the  immediate 
danger  of  the  hour,  there  were  other 
perils.  We  were  trying  the  most  tre- 
mendous experiment  that  was  ever 
tried  by  any  people.  Out  of  the  most 
peacefid  of  races  we  were  creating  a 
nation  of  soldiers.  In  a  few  months, 
where  there  seemed  to  be  scarcely  the 
elements  of  martial  strength,  we  were 
oiganizing  an  army  which  was  to  be  at 
once  gigantic  and  efficient  Who  could 
calculate  the  effect  of  such  a  swift 
change  ?  The  questions  many  a  patri- 
otic heart  might  have  asked  were  these  : 
When  this  wicked  Rebellion  is  ended, 
—  when  these  myriads  of  our  brethren 
whose  lives  have  been  bound  up  in  that 
wondrous  collective  life,  the  life  of  a 
great  army,  shall  return  to  their  quiet 
homes  by  the  hills  and  streams  of  New 
England  or  on  the  rolling  prairies  of 
the  West,  will  they  be  able  to  merge 
their  life  again  in  the  simple  life  of  the 
community  out  of  which  they  came  ? 
Will  they  find  content  at  the  plough, 
by  the  loom,  in  the  workshop,  in  the 
tranquil  labors  of  civil  life  ?  Can  they, 
in  short,  put  off  the  harness  of  the 
soldier,  and  resume  the  robe  of  the  cit- 
izen ?  Many  a  one  could  have  wished 
to  say  to  every  soldier,  as  he  went  forth 
to  the  war,  ^  Remember,  that,  if  God 
spares  your  life,  in  a  few  months  or  a 
few  years  you  will  come  back,  not  offi- 
cers, not  privates,  but  sons  and  hus- 
bands and  brothers,  for  whom  some 
home  is  waiting  and  some  human  heart 
throbbing.  Never  forget  that  your  true 
home  is  not  in  that  fort  beside  those 
frowning  cannon,  not  on  that  tented 
field  amid  the  glory  and  power  of  mili- 
tary array,  but  that  it  nesties  beneath 


yonder  hill,  or  stands  out  in  sunshine 
on  some  fertile  plain.  Remember  that 
you  are  a  citizen  yet,  with  every  in- 
stinct, with  every  sympathy,  with  every 
interest,  and  with  every  duty  of  a  cit- 


}i 


izen. 

Can  we  overestimate  the  influence  of 
these  associations,  of  these  Soldiers*- Aid 
Societies,  rising  up  in  every  city  and 
^lage,  in  producing  just  such  a  state 
of  mind,  in  keeping  the  soldier  one  of 
us,  one  of  the  people  ?  Five  hundred 
thousand  hearts  following  with  deep  in- 
terest his  fortunes,  —  twice  five  hu/idred 
thousand  hands  laboring  for  his  com- 
fort, —  millions  of  dollars  freely  lavished 
to  relieve  his  sufferings,  -;-  millions  more 
of  tokens  of  kindness  and  good-will  go- 
ing forth,  every  one  of  them  a  message 
from  the  home  to  the  camp :  what  is 
all  this  but  weaving  a  strong  network 
of  alliance  between  civil  and  military 
life,  between  the  citizen  at  home  and 
the  citizen  soldier  ?  If  our  army  is  a 
remarkable  body,  more  pure,  more  clem- 
ent, more  patriotic  than  other  armies,  — 
if  our  soldier  is  everywhere  and  always 
a  true-hearted  citizen, —  it  is  because  the 
army  and  soldier  have  not  been  cast  off 
from  public  sympathy,  but  cherished 
and  bound  to  every  free  institution  and 
every  peaceful  association  by  golden 
cords  of  love.  The  good  our  Commis- 
sions have  done  in  this  respect  cannot 
be  exaggerated  ;  it  is  incalculable. 

Nor  should  we  forget  the  influence 
they  have  had  on  ourselves, —  the  re- 
flex influence  which  they  have  been 
pouring  back  into  the  hearts  of  our  peo- 
ple at  home,  to  quicken  their  patriotism. 
We  often  say  that  the  sons  and  broth- 
ers are  what  the  mothers  and  sisters 
make  them.  Can  you  estimate  the  elec- 
tric force  which  runs  like  an  irresistible 
moral  contagion  from  heart  to  heart  in 
a  community  all  of  whose  mothers  and 
daughters  are  sparing  that  they  may 
spend,  and  learning  the  value  of  liberty 
and  country  by  laboring  for  them  }  It 
does  not  seem  possible,  that,  amid  the 
divers  interests  and  selfish  schemes  of  * 
men,  we  ever  could  have  sustained  this 
war,  and  carried  it  to  a  successful  issue, 
had  it  not  been  for  the  moral  cement 


248 


Aft. 


[February, 


which  these  wide-spread  philanthropic 
enterprises  have  supplied.  Every  man 
who  has  given  liberally  to  support  the 
Commission  has  become  a  missionary 
of  patriotism  ;  every  woman  who  has  cut 
and  made  the  garments  and  rolled  the 
bandages  and  knit  the  socks  has  become 
a  missionary.  And  so  the  country  has 
been  full  of  missionaries,  true-hearted 
and  loyal,  pleading, ''  Be  patient,  put  ^ 
with  inconveniences,  suffer  exactions, 
bear  anything,  rather  than  sacrifice  the 
nationality  our  fathers  bequeathed  to 
us ! "  And  if  our  country  is  saved,  it 
will  be  in  no  small  degree  because  so 
many  have  been  prompted  by  their  be- 
nevolent activity  to  take  a  deep  personal 
interest  in  the  struggle  and  in  the  men 
who  are  carrying  on  the  struggle. 

These  national  and  patriotic  influen- 
ces are  the  crowning  blessings  which 
come  in  the  train  of  the  charities  of 
the  war;  and  they  constitute  one  of 


their  highest  daims  to  our  afiection 
and  respect  The  unpatriotic  utter- 
ances which  in  these  latter  days  so 
often  pain  our  ears,  the  weariness  of 
burdens  which  tempt  so  many  to  be 
ready  to  accept  anything  and  to  sacri- 
fice anything  to  be  rid  of  them,  admon- 
ish us  that  we  need  another  uprising 
of  the  people  and  another  re-birth  of 
patriotism ;  and  they  show  us  that  we 
should  cherish  more  and  more  every- 
thing which  fosters  noble  and  national 
sentiments.  And  when  this  war  is 
over,  and  the  land  is  redeemed,  and  we 
come  to' ask  what  things  have  strength- 
ened us  to  meet  and  overcome  our  com- 
mon peril,  may  we  not  prophesy  that 
high  among  the  instrumentalities  which 
have  husbanded  our  strength,  and  fed 
our  patriotism,  and  knit  more  closely 
the  distant  parts  of  our  land  and  its 
divided  interests,  will  be  placed  the 
United  States  Sanitary  Commission? 


ART. 


HARRIET  HOSMER'S  ZENOBIA, 


IT  took  a  long  while  for  artists  to  under- 
stand that  the  Greek  face  was  the  ideal 
face  merely  to  Greek  sculptors.  During  the 
baser  ages  of  the  sculpturesque  art,  (how  far 
towards  our  own  day  the  epicycle  inclusive 
of  those  ages  extended  it  would  be  invidi- 
ous for  us  to  say,)  sculpture  consisted  of 
the  nearest  imitation  of  Greek  models  which 
was  possible  of  attainment  by  talenU^  with 
an  occasional  intercalated  genius^  hampered 
by  prevailing  modes.  That  the  Greek  face 
was  beautiful^  none  could  doubt  That  in 
the  sovereign  points  of  intellect  it  was  the 
absolute  beau-ideal  is  open  to  great  doubt 
Apart  from  all  such  questions,  the  foct  of 
subservience  exists.  Even  Benjamin  Rob- 
ert Haydon,  the  man  who  thought  himself 
called  to  be  the  aesthetic  saviour  of  the  age, 
knew  no  other,  no  better  way  of  making 
himself  master  of  solid  form  than  by  lying 
down  in  the  cold  with  a  candle  before  the 
Elgin  marbles.    Let  not  this  be  mistaken 


as  a  slur  upon  one  of  the  most  devoted  men 
in  history,  —  a  man  who  surely  lived,  and 
who,  aside  from  the  pangs  of  poverty,  prob- 
ably died,  for  the  regeneration  of  Art  We 
only  mean  to  select  an  instance  preeminent 
over  all  that  can  be  mentioned,  to  show  that 
until  a  very  late  date  even  the  most  learned 
men  in  the  Art-world  had  not  cut  loose  from 
the  fascination  of  old  models,  considered 
not  as  suggestive,  but  as  dominant  There 
is  nothing  in  the  sculptors  of  Haydon*s  pe- 
riod to  prove  that  their  view  differed  essen- 
tially from  that  of  the  most  self-devoted 
theorist  among  painters. 

•  We  hold  that  it  has  been  left  for  America 
to  complete  the  aesthetic,  as  well  as  the  so- 
cial and  political  emancipation  of  the  world. 
The  fact  that  pre-Raphaeltsm  began  in  Eng* 
land  (we  refer  to  the  mw  saints  standing 
on  their  toe*nails,  not  the  M  ones)  proves 
nothing  respecting  the  origination  of  Art's 
highest  liberty.    In  the  first  place,  the  man 


186$.] 


Art3 


249 


who  was  selected  by  the  Elisha  to  be  the 
Elijali  of  the  school  would  under  no  drcum- 
ttuices  have  chosen  a  fiery  chariot  to  go  up 
hi,  but  would  have  taken  the  Lord  Mayor's 
coach,  (if  he  could  have  got  it  without  pay- 
iQg,)  and,  like  a  true  Englishman,  been  pre- 
ceded by  heralds,  and  after-run  by  lackeys. 
The  Idea  of  Turner  en  mariyn  is  to  a 
calm  spectator  simply  amusing.  If  "  a  neg- 
lected disciple  of  Truth  *'  had  met  him  out 
a-sketching,  and  asked  him  for  help,  or  a 
peep,  he  would  have  shut  up  his  book  with 
a  slap,  and  said,  like  the  celebrated  laird, 
**  Puir  hodie  I  fifC  a  penny  for  yer  ain  «/*." 
»  In  the  second  place,  this  Elijah  never  drop* 
ped  his  mantle  on  the  soi'disant  Elisha. 
Search  over  the  whole  range  of  walls  where 
(with  their  color  somewhat  the  worse  for 
time)  Turner's  pictures  are  preserved,  and 
If  any  critic  but  Ruskin's  self  can  find  the 
qualities  which  unite  Turner  with  modem 
pre-Raphaelism,  we  will  buy  the  view  of 
Koln  and  make  it  a  present  to  him.  In  the 
third  place,  apart  from  all  ancestry  or  in- 
dorsement, we  regard  modern  pre- Raphael- 
ism,  as  a  school  full  of  vital  mistakes.  It  re- 
fuses to  acknowledge  this  preeminent,  eter- 
nal iixX  of  Art,  that  the  entire  truth  of  Nature 
cannot  be  copied:  in  other  words  and  larger, 
that  the  artist  must  select  between  the  ma- 
jor and  the  minor  facts  of  the  outer  world ; 
that,  before  he  executes,  he  must  pronounce 
whether  he  will  embody  the  essential  effect, 
that  which  steals  on  the  soul  and  possesses 
It  without  painful  analysis,  or  the  separate 
details  which  belong  to  the  geometrician 
and  destroy  the  effect, — still  further,  wheth- 
er he  will  make  us  feel  what  Nature  says, 
or  examine  below  her  voice  into  the  vibra- 
tion of  the  chorda  vocales. 

We  have  not  touched  on  pre-Raphaelism 
with  the  idea  of  attacking  it,  still  less  of  de- 
lending  it,  and  not  at  all  of  discussing  it 
Our  view  has  been  simply  to  excuse  the  as« 
■ertion  that  with  America  has  begun,  must 
necessarily  begin  and  belong,  the  enfran- 
dusement  of  Art  from  subservience  to  a 
type, — the  opening  of  its  doors  into  the 
open  air  ojf  aesthetic  catholicity. 

Years  ago,  the  writer  in  several  places 
presented  to  the  consideration  of  American 
Axt-Iovers  the  plaster  bust  of  "The  Old 
Tirapper,"  as  one  of  the  foremost  things 
which  up  to  that  period  had  been  done  by 
any  man  for  such  enfranchisement  as  that 
reined  to  above.  Palmer,  the  noble  mas- 
ter and  teacher  of  the  sculptor  who  created 
this  bust,  had  done  many  things  entirely 
ootiide  of  the  old  ring-fence,  had  made  him- 


self frmious  by  them ;  but  this,  on  some  ac- 
counts, seemed  to  us  the  due^  because  tho 
most  audacious  of  alL  What  did  it  repre« 
sent  ?  Simply  an  old,  worn,  peril-tried,  bat- 
tle-scarred man,  who  had  fought  grisUes  and 
Indians,— walked  leagues  with 'his  canoe 
on  his  back,  —  camped  under  snow-peaks, 
— dined  on  his  rifle's  market,  — <  had  nothing 
but  his  heroic  pluck,  patience,  and  Ameri- 
can  individuality,  to  fascinate  people,  —  and 
now,  under  a  rough  fur  cap  of  his  own  mak- 
ing, showed  a  face  without  a  line  that  was 
Greek  in  it,  and  said  to  Launt  Thompson^ 
*'  Make  me,  if  you  dare ! " 

What  we  then  admired  in  '*The  Old 
Trapper  "  we  now  admire  in  Miss  Hosmer's 
"Zenobia," 

There  now  stands  on  exhibition  in  this 
country  one  of  the  finest  examples  of  the 
spirit  which  animates  our  best  American 
artists  in  their  selection  of  ideals,  and  their 
execution  of  them  on  the  catholic  principle. 

Miss  Hosmer  has  not  thought  it  neces- 
sary to  color  her  statue,  because  she  knew 
that  the  utmost  capability  of  sculpture  is 
the  expression  of  form,  -—  that,  had  sne  col- 
ored it,  she  would  have  brought  it  into  com- 
petition with  a  Nature  entirely  beyond  her 
in  mere  details,  and  made  it  a  doll  instead 
of  a  statue.  Neither  has  she  made  it  a  trav- 
el-stained woman  with  a  carpet-bag,  because 
in  history  all  mean  details  melt  away,  and 
we  see  its  actors  at  great  distances  like  the 
Athen(^,  and  because  our  whole  idea  of  Ze- 
nobia  is  this :  — 

A  Queen  led  in  Chains, 

Neither  has  she  made  her  Zenobia  a  Greek 
woman,  because  she  was  a  Palmyrene. 
What* she  has  made  her  is  this:  — 

Our  idea  of  Zenobia  won  from  Romance  and 

History, 

This  Zenobia  Is  a  queen.  She  is  proud 
as  she  was  when  she  sat  in  pillared  state, 
under  gorgeous  canopies,  with  a  hundred 
slaves  at  her  beck,  and  a  devoted  people 
within  reach  of  her  couriers.  She  does  not 
tremble  or  swerve,  though  she  has  her  head 
down.  That  head  is  bowed  only  because 
she  is  a  woman,  and  she  will  not  give  the 
look  of  love  to  the  man  who  has  forced  her 
after  him.  Her  lip  has  no  weakness  in  it 
She  is  a  hsdy^  and  knows  that  there  is  some- 
thing higher  than  joy  or  pain.  Miss  Hos- 
mer has  evidently  believed  nothing  of  the 
legends  to  the  efiiect  that  she  did  swerve 
afterward*  else  she  could  not  have  put  that 


250 


Reviews  and  Literary  Notices, 


[Februaxy, 


noble  soul  in  her  heroine's  mouth.  Or  did 
she  believe  the  swerving,  she  must  have  felt 
that  Aurelian  had  the  right,  after  all  pain 
and  wrong,  to  come  and  claim  the  queen, 
—to  say, — 

"  I  did  'all  this  wrong  for  you,  and  you 
were  worth  it" 

The  face  (perhaps,  with  the  present  ne- 
cessities of  a  catholicized  Art,  its  most  im- 
portant excellence)  is  not  a  Greek  face,  but 
a  much  fiurther  Oriental. 

The  bas-reliefs  of  Layard*s  Nineveh  are 
not  more  characteristic,  national,  faithful  to 
the  probable  facts  in  that  best  aspect  of  facts 
with  which  Art  has  to  da 

As  for  the  figure,  none  of  those  who  from 
Roman  studios  have  hitherto  sent  us  their 
work  have  ever  given  a  juste/  idea  of  their 
advancement  in  the  understanding  of  the 
human  anatomy.  The  bones  of  the  right 
metatarsus  show  as  they  would  under  the 
flesh  of  a  queenly  foot  The  right  foot  is 
the  one  flexed  in  Zenobia's  walking,  and 
that  foot  has  never  been  used  to  support 
the  weight  of  burdens;  it  has  gone  bare 
without  being  soiled.  The  shoulders  per- 
fectly carry  the  head,  and  no  anatomist  could 
suggest  a  place  where  they  might  be  bent  or 
erected  in  truer  relative  proportion  to  either 
of  the  feet  The  dejection  of  the  right  arm 
is  a  wonderful  compromise  between  the 
valor  of  a  queen  who  has  fought  her  last 
and  best,  and  the  grief  of  a  woman  who  has 
no  further  resource  left  to  her  womanliness. 


Both  arms,  in  their  anatomy,  in  their  truth- 
fulness to  the  queenly  circumstances,  may 
equally  delight  and  challenge  criticism.  The 
chains  which  the  queen  carries  are  smaller 
than  we  suspect  a  Roman  conqueror  put 
even  upon  a  woman  and  a  queen  ;  but  let 
that  pass, — for  they  do  not  hurt  the  har- 
mony of  the  idea,  and  are  simply  a  matter  of 
detail,  which  womanly  sympathy  n4ght  well 
have  erred. in  since  chivalric  da>'s,  though 
their  adherence  to  actual  truth  would  not 
have  blemished  the  idea.  At  all  events,  Ze- 
nobia  holds  them  like  a  queen,  so  as  not 
to  hurt  her.  She  will  remember  her  glory, 
and  not  be  too  forcibly  reminded  of  her  loss* 

The  drapery  of  the  statue  is  a  subordi- 
nate matter;  but  that  has. been  attended 
to  as  true  artists  attend  to  even  the  least 
things  which  wait  on  a  great  idea.  The 
tassels  of  the  robe  have  been  chiselled  by 
Miss  Hosmer*s  marble  -  cutter  with  a  care 
which  shows  t^t  the  last  as  well  as  'the  first 
part  of  the  work  went  on  under  her  wom- 
anly supervision.  Every  fold  of  the  robe, 
which  must  have  been  copied  from  the  cast, 
fidls  and  swings  before  our  eyes  as  the  po- 
sition .demands.  Grace  and  truth  lie  in  the 
least  wrinkle  of  a  garment  which  needs  no 
after-cast  of  the  anatomist's  cloak  of  char- 
ity to  hide  a  sin. 

In  many  respects,  we  regard  Miss  Hos- 
mer's  "  Zenobia  "  as  one  of  the  very  highest 
honors  paid  by  American  Art  to  our  earliest 
assertions  of  its  dominant  destiny. 


REVIEWS  AND  LITERARY  NOTICES. 


Patriotism  in  Poetry  and  Prose.  Being  Se- 
lected Passages  from  Lectures  and  Patri- 
otic Readings.  By  Jamks  K  Murdoch. 
Philadelphia:  J.  B.  Lippincott  &  Ca 
i2mo. 

This  volume,  published  in  aid  of  the 
funds  of  the  Sanitary  Commission,  is  one  of 
the  indications  of  the  patriotism  of  the  time. 
Mr.  Murdoch,  an  eminent  and  estimable 
actor  and  elocutionist,  has  been  engaged, 
ever  since  the  war  began,  in  doing  his  part 
towards  rousing  and  sustaining  the  enthu- 
siasm of  the  people,  by  scattering  the  burn- 
ing words  of  patriotic  poets  in  our  Western 
camps  and  towns.  The  volume  contains 
specimens  of  lyric  poetry  which  have  stood 


the  test  of  actual  delivery  before  soldiers 
who  were  fadng  the  grim  realities  of  war. 
Sometimes  the  elocutionist  has  been  so  near 
the  enemy  as  to  have  a  shell  come  into  whiz- 
zing or  screaming  competition  with  the  clear 
and  ringing  tones  of  his  voice;  at  other 
times,  he  has  cheered  with  "  The  American 
Flag,"  "Old  Ironsides,"  or  "The  Union," 
audiences  shivering  with  cold  and  £unish- 
ing  on  a  short  allowance  of  hard-tack.  He 
has  seen  the  American  soldier  under  all 
drcumstances,  and  practically  understands 
all  the  avenues  to  his  heart  and  brain. 
Many  of  the  poems  in  the  volume  which 
have  obtained  a  national  popularity  were 
originally  written  at  his  suggestion.  This 
is  especially  true  of  the  sounding  lyrics  ol 


1 86s.] 


Reviews  and  Literary  Notices. 


251 


Boker,  Read,  and  Janvier.  His  own  hearty 
and  well-considered  words,  so  lull  of  manly 
feeling  and  genuine  patriotism,  9it  none 
the  worse  for  catching  a  little  of  that  infla- 
tion which  the  sights  of  the  hospital  and 
the   battle-field,  and  a  sympathy  with  the 
average  sentiment  of  sensitive  crowds,  are 
ao  sure  to  provoke  in  an  earnest  and  ardent 
niind.    The  poets  who  are  represented  in 
this  volume  have  cause  for  gratification  in 
the  assurance  that  they  have  been  more 
generally  read  than  any  of  their  American 
contemporaries.    It  is  estimated  that  Mr. 
Murdoch  has  recited  their  pieces  to  a  quar- 
ter of  million  of  people  during  the  last 
four  years.    In  the  hospital,  in  the  camp, 
before  the  lyceum  audience,  they  have  been 
made  to  do  their  good  work  of  comforting, 
rousing,  or  inflaming  their  auditors.    They 
have  sent  many  a  volunteer  to  the  fi'ont, 
and  nerved  him  afterwards  at  the  moment 
of  danger.    And  certainly  the  fiiends  of 
the  soldiers  will  desire  to  read  what  sol- 
diers have  so  heartily  applauded,  especially 
as  the  money  they  give  for  the  book  goes 
to  sustain  the  most  popular  and  beneficent 
of  all  charities. 


Pkilotophy  as  Absolute  icieftce,  founded  in 
the  Universal  Laws  of  Beings  and  includ- 
ing Ontology^  Theology^  and  Psychology 
ptade  one,  as  Spirit,  Soul,  and  Body,  By 
£.  U  and  A.  L.  Frothingham.  Volume 
L    Boston :  Walker,  Wise,  &  Co. 

We  must  go  back  to  the  time  when  a 
certain  &ther  and  son  of  Crete  stretched 
their  waxen  wings  and  soared  boldly  into 
space,  to  discover  any  "  external  represen- 
tation '*  of  the  sublime  attempt  of  the  au- 
thors, of  this  volume.  Yet  it  may  reason- 
ably be  objected  that  in  the  Daedalian  le- 
gend we  can  detect  but  a  partial  and  decep- 
tive correspondence ;  for,  whereas  we  read 
that  one  of  the  ancient  voyagers,  having 
ventured  too  near  the  sun,  met  his  end  by 
a  distressing  casualty,  it  is  certain,  that, 
when  the  reader  loses  sight  of  this  mod- 
em fiunily-excursion  in  the  metaphysical 
ether,  both  parties  are  pushing  vigorously 
on,  wings  in  capital  condition,  wind  never 
better,  and  the  grand  tour  of  the  universe 
in  process  of  most  happy  accomplishment 
And  let  it  here  be  mentioned  that  the  sen- 
ior of  the  gentlemen  whose  names  are  given 
upon  the  title-page  is  understood  to  re- 
semble the  classical  artificer  in  being  in- 
ventor and  manufMiturer  of  pinions  for  the 


two.  Mr.  K  L.  Frothingham  is  to  be  re- 
garded as  substantially  the  author  of  the 
volume  before  us. 

And  so  Philosophy  is  not  dead,  after  all  t 
Mr.  Lewes's  rather  handsome  resolutions, 
of  which  copies  have  been  forwarded  to 
the  friends  of  the  supposed  deceased,  turn 
out  to  be  premature;  Dr.  Mansel's  pious 
obituary  is  an  impertinence;  Comte  and 
Buckle,  Mill  and  Spencer,  are  not  the 
spendthrift  heirs  of  her  homestead  estate  in 
Dreamland.  The  Positive  Mrs.  Gamp  may 
continue  to  assure  us  that  the  bantling 
"  never  breathed  to  speak  on  in  this  wale," 
but  the  perennial  showman  persists  in  de- 
picting it  "  quite  contrairy  in  a  livin'  state, 
and  performing  beautifiil  upon  the  'arp." 
We  play  wilh  metaphors,  hesitating  to 
characterize  this  latest  Minerva-birth.  For 
it  is  either  that  "  new  sensation  "  demanded 
by  the  Sir  Charles  Coldstream  who  has 
used  up  all  religions  and  all  philosophies, 
or,  being  a  reductio  ad  adsurdum  oi  specu* 
lative  pretension,  it  fiilfils  the  promise  of  a 
recent  quack  advertisement,  and  is  in  very 
truth  "The  MeUphysical  Cure." 

Perhaps  it  were  better  to  cancel  the  pre- 
ceding paragraphs.  Is  not  any  savor  of 
banter  out  of  place  in  the  reception  we  are 
bound  to  accord  to  an  alleged  solution  of 
the  unthinkable  problem  which  underlies 
creation  and  man's  position  therein?  If 
the  impulse  which  first  controlled  us  is  not 
denied  expression,  it  is  because  it  implies 
at  once  the  worst  that  can  be  said  of  a  very 
extraordinary  performance.  Let  this  worst 
be  written  roughly,  and  in  a  single  sen- 
tence. To  the  vast  majority  of  upright  and 
thoughtfiil  men  who  are  at  present  living 
and  laboring  in  the  world,  Mr.  Frothing- 
ham's  '*  Philosophy  as  Absolute  Science  " 
can  be  saved  from  being  infinitely  repulsive 
only  by  being  infinitely  ridiculous.  But 
to  stop  with  this  assertion  would  give  no 
adequate  impression  of  an  earnest  and  most 
conscientious  work.  A  remarkable  mind, 
even  if  a  misdirected  one,  has  mounted  up- 
on the  battiements  of  its  system,  and  pro- 
claimed victory  over  all  things.  Of  all  tell- 
ers of  marvels,  Swedenborg  alone  is  so  ab- 
solutely free  from  a  vulgar  ftjiatidsm,  and 
so  innocent  of  any  appeal  to  passion,  preju- 
dice, or  taste.  With  an  equipoise  of  dis- 
position which  is  almost  provoking,  Mr. 
Frothingham  annoiinces  as  dogmas  specu- 
lations from  whose  sweep  and  immensity 
the  human  mind  recoils.  Having  posited 
his  principles,  he  confidently  proceeds  to 
deduce  a  system  which  shall  include  every 


252 


Reviews  and  Literary  Notices. 


[Februaiy, 


spiritual  and  material  fact  of  which  man  can 
take  cognizance.  And  he  is  too  genuine  a 
philosopher  to  be  troubled  at  the  practical 
application  of  his  discoveries.  He  repudi- 
ates with  contempt  whatever  expression  has 
been  found  for  the  energy  of  the  purest  and . 
noblest  leaders  of  modem  society.  Escu- 
lapius  is  not  accommodated  with  the  sacri- 
fice of  so  much  as  a  February  chicken.  The 
manly  works  of  Wilberforce  and  Garrison, 
the  gracious  influence  of  Channing,  the  stal- 
wart conviction  of  Parker,  the  deep  percep- 
tion of  Emerson,  —  all  these  must  be  beaten 
down  under  our  feet  as  the  incarnate  Satan 
of  the  litany.  But  if  this  is  rather  rough 
treatment  for  the  advance-guard  of  civiliza- 
tion, the  brethren  in  the  rear  pnk  are  pre- 
vented from  taking  the  comfort  to  which 
they  seem  to  be  justly  entitled.  For  we 
are  utterly  unable  to  understand  what  a  re- 
cent reviewer  means  in  commending  this 
work  to  conservatives  as  a  noble  text-book 
and  grand  summary  of  arguments  in  favor 
of  their  positions.  The  truth  is,  that  no 
conservative  can  possibly  accept  the  system. 
For  it  is  constantly  shown  that  what  may 
be  called  a  progressive  btmUversemmt  is  to 
every  individual  a  necessary  advance,  se- 
curing to  him  experiences  which  are  essen- 
tial to  the  realization  of  that  spiritual  con- 
sciousness which  is  alone  capable  of  receiv- 
ing the  Absolute  Philosophy.  The  editor  of 
the  "Richmond  Examiner"  most  become 
as  he  of  the  "  Liberator,"  and  the  Bishop 
of  Vermont  must  meditate  a  John  Brown 
raid,  before  either  of  them  can  receive  the 
ultimate  redemption  now  published  to  the 
world. 

From  what  Mr.  Frothingham  calls  "an 
intenial-natural  point  of  observation,"  which 
we  understand  to  be  that  of  a  great  major- 
ity of  the  most  intelligent  and  gifted  people 
at  present  on  the  earth,  the  results  of  this 
scheme  appear  so  fidse  and  contradictory 
as  to  furnish  its  very  adequate  refutation. 
Nevertheless,  there  doubtless  exists  a  class 
of  spiritually  minded,  cultivated,  unsatisfied 
men  and  women  who  will  feel  that  the  so- 
ber sincerity  of  this  voice  crying  in  the  com- 
mercial wilderness  must  challenge  a  respect- 
ful hearing.  Such  persons  will  find  no  dif- 
ficulty in  accepting  the  statement,  that  a 
system  of  Absolute  Truth  must  be  "con- 
trary to  the  natural  conceptions  of  the 
mind,  to  the  facts  of  th»  natural  conscious- 
ness, and  to  the  inclinations  of  the  natural 
heart"  Their  past  experiences  have  told 
them  that  no  precision  of  human  speech 
can  reveal  a  spiritual  condition,  or  even 


render  intelligible  the  highest  mental  op- 
erations. Instead  of  the  "  thxs-will-never- 
do  "  dictum  of  superficial  and  carnal  criti- 
cism, they  will  offer  patient  study,  and  be 
content  that  much  shall  appear  fcK>lish  and 
meaningless  until  a  change  in  the  interior 
being  can  interpret  it  aright  It  is  just  to 
mention  that  a  very  lew  persons  of  the  char- 
acter described  have  already  received  Mr. 
Frothingham's  philosophy,  and  profess  to 
find  it  full  of  instruction  and  delight  And 
let  it  not  be  concealed  that  no  one  who  did 
not  possess  the  very  abundant  leisure  ne- 
cessary for  investigation  and  meditation, 
and  had  not  passed  through  mental  states 
represented  by  Romanism,  Protestantism, 
Unitarianism,  and  Transcendentalism,  could 
be  accepted  by  the  veriest  neophyte  as  a 
competent  reviewer.  We  attempt  nothing 
more  than  a  very  humble  notice  which  may 
bring  the  existence  of  this  latest  salvation 
before  some  of  the  scattered  fellowship  who 
are  ready  for  it  We  despair  of  making 
any  statement  concerning  it  which  believ- 
ers would  not  consider  ludicrously  inade- 
quate or  absolutely  fiilse.  All  and  singular 
are  accordingly  warned  that  what  is  here 
printed  comes  from  a  mental  point  of  view 
totally  opposed  to  the  alleged  Truth,  as 
well  as  fh>m  that  limited  amount  of  appli- 
cation which  a  regular  calling  in  the  week 
and  customary  church-going  on  Sunday  has 
left  at  our  disposal 

Mr.  Frothingham  claims  to  have  obtained 
cognizance  of  certain  laws  which  govern 
the  relations  of  the  Universe.  He  maintains 
that  the  natural  understanding  of  man  is 
led  through  various  educative  processes  to 
that  vague  and  variously  interpreted  condi- 
tion known  as  Transcendentalism.  This 
final  manifestation,  although  no  other  than 
Antichrist  and  the  Man  of  Sin  in  person, 
is  a  necessary  forerunner  of  our  possible  re- 
demption through  acceptance  of  the  ulti- 
mate Gospel.  For  external  philosophy  has 
here  reached  its  lowest  form,  which  is  ne- 
cessarily self-destructive ;  and  so  ends  what 
may  be  called  the  natural  development  of 
the  human  consciousness.  The  personal 
principle  has  achieved  its  utmost  might  of 
self-assertion  against  that  which  is  univer- 
sal. Selfishness  now  appears  in  its  most 
destructive  form,  demanding  the  liberty  in- 
stead of  the  subjection  of  men.  Sympathy 
usurps  the  seat  of  Justice,  the  individual 
is  cruel  under  pretence  of  being  kind,  and 
fanaticism  and  mischief  are  baptized  as  Du- 
ty. The  divinely  ordained  institutions  of 
society  are  sacrificed,  and  ruin  and  chaos 


x86s.] 


Reviews  and  Literary  Notices, 


m 


Ineritably  result  Having  shown  that  Phi- 
losophy, developed  in  its  natural  fonn,  can 
produce  nothing  better  than  Pantheism, 
Athebm,  Anthropomorphism,  and  Skepti- 
cism, there  arises  an  inquiry  for  the  causes 
which  have  produced  these  seemingly  un- 
happy results.  And  now  it  appears  *'  that 
the  Consciousness  must  be  developed  in  its 
natural  form  from  a  natural  point  of  view 
before  its  spiritual  form  can  be  developed ; 
and  therefore  that  Philosophy  must  be  de- 
veloped as  a  natural  production  in  three 
spheres  before  it  can  be  realized  as  a  Uni- 
versal Spiritual  Science."  Again,  the  Cause 
of  All  has  hitherto  been  conceived  from  a 
pagan.  Unitarian,  and  naturalistic  point  of 
view.  For,  if  we  understand  Mr.  Frothing- 
ham,  the  Pope  is  not  a  whit  sounder  than 
M.  Renan, — the  Head  of  the  Church  be- 
ing unable  to  "consciously  appropriate" 
hb  own  theological  formularies,  until,  gov- 
erned by  a  Unitarian  and  naturalistic  law, 
they  are  contradicted  in  being  incarnated. 
Philosophy,  then,  hitherto  demanding  that 
everything  should  be  realized  from  one  Uni- 
versal Cause  or  Substance,  "has  failed  to 
explain  the  nature  of  God  and  the  nature 
of  man  from  any  rational  point  of  view." 
It  has  been  obliged  to  "  recognize  necessity 
as  the  universal  law  of  life,  and  to  con- 
ceive the  production  of  the  phenomenal 
from  the  absolute, — therefore  of  man  from 
God ;  and  also  the  production  of  the  finite 
from  the  infinite, — therefore  of  diversity 
from  unity,  of  evil  from  goocf,  and  of  death 
from  life;  which  is  the  greatest  violation 
of  rationality  that  can  possibly  be  suppos- 
ed.** But  it  is  now  time  to  state,  or  rather 
funtly  to  adumbrate,  the  grand  assumption 
of  this  singular  work.  There  are  held  to  be 
two  Spiritual  Causes,  whose  union  is  the 
condition  of  all  existence.  Each  of  these 
Causes,  represented  under  the  terms  of  In- 
finite and  Finite  Law,  are  conceived  to  be 
threefold  principles  which  act  and  operate 
together  as  Death  and  Life.  Neither  the 
Infinite  nor  the  Finite  Principle  can  obtain 
definite  manifestation  without  the  aid  of  the 
other ;  but  there  is  a  capacity  in  the  latter 
for  becoming  receptive  and  productive  from 
the  former.  And  from  this  august  union 
come  all  the  works  of  creation,  where  death 
Is  still  made  productive  from  life,  evil  from 
good,  the  natural  from  the  spiritual,  —  this 
last  happy  productiveness  never  taking  place 
by  any  development  of  the  natural,  but  only 
t^  means  of  a  spiritual  conception  and  birtlL 
Every  individual  must  commence  his  exist- 
ence as  a  dualistic  substance  necessarily 


discordant  and  unreal.  Through  various 
'appearances,  representing  an  experience  of 
opposing  spiritual  laws,  he  reaches  a  posi- 
tion where  true  spiritual  life  becomes  possi- 
ble through  presentation  to  the  conscious- 
ness of  the  opposing  Spiritual  Laws  already 
noticed.  The  solemn  moment  of  choice, 
when  for  the  first  and  only  time  man  can 
be  said  to  be  a  free  agent,  has  now  arrived. 
Affinities  for  the  Laws  of  Death  and  life 
are  felt  within  him.  He  may  become  pro- 
ductive from  the  Infinite  for  universal  ends, 
or  from  the  Finite  for  those  which  are  per- 
sonal He  is  saved  or  lost  at  his  own  elec- 
tion. 

Within  the  limits  to  which  we  are  re- 
stricted, it  is  iippossible  to  give  any  account 
of  the  multiplex  and  abstruse  details  into 
which  the  system  is  carried.  The  present 
volume  contains  an  ontology  constructed 
upon  the  new  basis.  It  shows  varied  study, 
and  abounds  in  ponderous  quotations  and 
laborious  analyses.  It  will  be  profoundly 
interesting  to  the  few  who  are  able  to  ac- 
cept as  axioms  the  teacher's  assumptions, 
and  to  trace  a  vigorous  deduction  in  the 
changes  which  are  rung  upon  a  small  set 
of  words.  By  a  legitimate  course  of  rea- 
soning from  his  primal  conception,  Mr. 
Frothingham  claims  to  have  demonstrated 
the  fact  of  Tripersonality  in  the  Deity.  He 
finds  the  universal  law  of  spiritual  life 
through  Marriage  or  the  union  of  opposites 
through  voluntary  sacrifice.  It  is  likewise 
maintained  that  all-  the  important  state- 
ments of  Absolute  Science  are  represent- 
ed in  Philosophy,  the  Scriptures,  and  the 
Church, — each  abounding  in  poetic  sym- 
bols of  absolute  facts  now  for  the  first  time 
revealed.  The  Bible  is  held  to  be  of  super- 
natural origin  and  universal  application,  — 
though  of  course  its  real  significance  has 
hitherto  been  hidden  from  men.  An  exe- 
gesis of  the  Book  of  Job  is  given  in  the 
appendix  as  a  specimen  of  what  may  be 
disclosed  in  the  sacred  records  from  this 
ultimate  position  of  beliefl 

Mr.  Frothingham*s  claims  are  in  some 
measure  those  of  a  seer.  His  immense 
show  of  philosophical  apparatus,  his  prodi- 
gality of  logical  balance-wheels  and  escape- 
ments, resemble  the  superfluous  clock-work 
of  the  '*  automaton  *'  which  plays  its  game 
as  the  gentleman  concealed  inside  shall 
judge  expedient  It  is  of  course  impossi- 
ble to  prove  the  Two  Absolutes,  or  the 
wonderful  marriage  which  takes  place  be- 
tween them.  Mr.  Frothingham  sees  that 
•Q  it  ia.    Men  of  aspirations  as  high,  and  of 


254 


Reviews  and  Literary  Notices, 


[February, 


intellect  as  cultivated,  will  think  that  they 
have  no  difficulty  in  seeing  quite  as  dis- 
tinctly that  so  it  is  not  Others,  lovers  of 
Truth,  zealous  for  human  welfare,  may  look 
up  a  moment  from  their  patient  study  of 
phenomena  in  their  coexistences  and  suc- 
cessions, and  humbly  confess  their  inabil- 
ity to  see  into  the  matter  at  all.  But  it  is 
to  be  observed  that  the  most  distinguished 
representatives  of  the  two  classes  of  the 
world's  instructors  have  at  present  come 
to  nearly  identical  conclusions  as  to  what 
should  be  the  aims  of  human  society.  Mr. 
Henry  James  and  Mr.  Herbert  Spencer, 
Mr.  Emerson  and  Dr.  Draper,  would  find 
little  difficulty  in  working  together  in  a  state 
cabinet  or  on  a  legislative  committee. 
Without  discussing  the  breadth  or  charac- 
ter  of  their  several  knowledges  or  intui- 
tions, they* would  probably  approve  the 
same  measures,  and  agree  in  the  routine 
which,  under  existing  circumstances,  it  was 
best  to  pursue.  But  unless  Mr.  Frothing- 
ham  should  be  wrecked  upon  a  desolate 
island,  and  there  be  visited  by  picnics  of 
Transcendentalists  from  whom  he  might  oc- 
casionally reclaim  a  Caucasian  Man  Friday, 
we  cannot  see  what  practical  parturition  can 
come  of  his  mighty  labor.  He  offers  nothing 
which  is  capable  of  becoming  incorporated 
with  the  existing  intelligence  of  the  age. 
He  furnishes  no  acceptable  basis  for  the 
caution  of  maturity  or  the  generous  vision 
of  youth.  Charles  Lamb's  redpe  for  wit- 
nessing with  any  quietude  of  conscience  the 
artificial  comedy  of  the  last  century  was, 
to  regard  the  whole  as  a  passing  pageant, 
and  to  accept  with  cheerful  unconcern  its 
issues  for  life  and  death.  Some  such  state 
of  mind  must  be  commended  to  the  student 
of  this  Philosophy.  Let  him  be  indifferent 
to  that  great  act  of  political  justice  which 
Abraham  Lincoln  was  constrained  to  da 
Let  him  have  no  glow  of  satisfaction  in  the 
improved  condition  of  woman,  allowed  to 
own  herself  and  to  hold  the  property  which 
her  labor  accumulates.  Let  him  not  re- 
member how  she  has  repaid  every  effort 
made  in  her  behalf  by  marking  the  gauge 
upon  the  thermometer  of  civilization,  and 
by  raising  man  as  he  raises  her.  In  short, 
let  him  provisionally  stand  upon  such  a 
platform  as  might  be  constructed  by  a  com- 
mittee of  which  Legree  was  chairman  and 
Bluebeard  the  rest  of  it,  and  if  he  does  not 
accept  "  Absolute  Science,"  he  will  at  least 
be  patient  in  reading  what  may  be  said  in 
its  behal£  But  if,  in  justice  to  ourselves, 
we  present  the  obvious  objections  of  the 


general  reader,  in  justice  to  Mr.  Frothing- 
ham,  we  are  bound  to  confess  that  they 
shrivel  in  the  blaze  of  special  illumination 
with  which  he  has  been  fiivored.  He  grants 
the  value  of  effort  as  it  appears  in  the  ac- 
cepted channels  of  the  day,  but  contends 
that  its  value  is  confined  to  the  develop- 
ment and  growth  of  the  individual  who 
exercises  it  It  furnishes  a  groundwork 
which  at  the  right  time  shall  provide  the 
material  suggestive  of  supernatural  thought 
It  prepares  the  sacrifice  that  will  be  neces- 
sary in  view  of  the  new  order  of  spiritual 
experiences  now  presented  for  the  first  time 
to  the  consciousness  of  man. 

It  scarcely  need  be  said  that  Mr.  Frothing- 
ham  does  not  expect  to  make  many  prose- 
lytes. He  is  well  aware  that  his  stupendous 
^  of  a  supreme  and  ultimate  Philosophy 
will  produce  no  perceptible  effect  upon  the 
public.  A  complaint  of  taxes  and  a  gossip 
of  stocks  continue  audible ;  but  no  neighbcMr 
drops  in  to  tell  us  that  the  Mystery  of  Mys- 
teries has  received  elucidation,  and  that  a 
man  may  know  even  as  he  is  known.  It  is 
fortunate  that  the  lofty  aim  of  a  sincere  and 
earnest  thinker  is  its  own  sufficient  recom- 
pense. The  quality  of  mind  which  struggles 
out  of  the  easy-going  electidsm  which  at 
present  contents  the  majority  of  cultivated 
men,  and  achieves  a  position  where  our  poor 
half-truths  combine  in  a  grand  organic  whole, 
is  beyond  the  reach  of  human  congratula- 
tion. And  the  results  of  such  conscientious 
and  arduous  striving  we  are  bound  to  re- 
ceive with  respect  To  the  disciples  of 
Mr.  Frothingham  we  shall  doubtless  seem 
to  have  uttered  some  superficial  common- 
places about  his  creed,  and  have  displa3red 
our  total  inability  to  penetrate  to  its  true 
profundities.  They  will  probably  say  that 
his  theory  can  tolerate  no  partial  state- 
ment, and  that  the  attempts  of  the  unini- 
tiated can  compass  nothing  but  caricature 
and  burlesque.  We  cordially  give  them 
the  advantage  of  this  supposed  stricture, 
and  as  cordially  refer  all  earnest  inquirers 
to  this  first  instalment  of  the  heroic  work. 
We  say  htroic^  and  would  abate  the  adjec- 
tive of  no  jot  of  meaning.  It  requires  the 
stuff  of  which  heroes  are  made  to  promul- 
gate a  religious  idea  so  unadapted  to  the 
conscious  demands  of  any  order  or  con- 
dition of  men.  A  few  persons  of  redun- 
dant leisure,  touched  with  the  restlessness 
in  belief  which  is  characteristic  of  the  time, 
may  thread  the  mazes  of  ''Absolute  Sci- 
ence *'  until  they  awaken  the  desirable  per- 
ception of  its  coherency  and  strength.     We 


l86s.] 


Rtviews  and  Literary  Notices. 


255 


know  that  there  is  somewhere  a  flock  await- 
ing the  leadership  of  any  vigorous  mind 
which  does  not  doubt  its  mission,  and  mocks 
at  all  question  and  compromise.  Especial- 
ly  is  it  the  duty  of  those  who  feel  that  they 
have  attained  the  necessary  condition  of 
"  transcendental  imbecility  "  to  test  the  enor- 
mous pretension  of  a  doctrine  of  whose  re- 
ception they  alone  are  capable.  Whether 
Mr.  Frothingham's  book  is  wise  and  satis- 
fying, they  only  can  tell  us.  It  is  our  hum- 
bler duty  to  declare  that  we  have  found  it 
decidedly  interesting,  and  perfectly  harm- 
less. The  old  charge  of  corrupting  youth 
cannot  l>e  preferred  against  this  newest  of 
philosophers.  For  as  error  is  dangerous 
ooly  in  proportion  to  its  plausibility,  the 
risk  encountered  by  the  reader  Is  infinites- 
imaL 


LtMng  toward  Sunset      By    I*    Maria 
Chudl     Boston:  Ticknor  &  Fields. 

For  forty  years  it  has  been  the  good  fortune 
of  Mrs.  Child  to  achieve  a  series  of  separate 
literary  successes,  whose  accumulated  value 
justly  gives  her  a  high  claim  to  gratitude. 
Every  one  of  her  chief  works  has  been  a 
separate  venture  in  some  new  field,  always 
daring,  always  successful,  always  valuable. 
Her  ''Juvenile  Miscellany*'  was  the  delight 
of  all  American  childhood,  when  childish 
books  were  few.  Her  "  Hobomok  "  was  one 
of  the  very  first  attempts  to  make  this  coun- 
try the  scene  of  historical  fiction.  In  the 
freshness  of  literary  success,  she  did  not 
hesitate  to  sacrifice  all  her  newly  won  pop- 
ularity, for  years,  by  the  publication  of  her 
remarkable  "  Appeal  for  the  Class  of  Amer- 
icans called  Afi-icans,"  a  book  unsurpassed 
in  ability  and  comprehensiveness  by  any  of 
the  innumerable  later  works  on  the  same 
subject, — works  which  would  not  even  now 
svpersede  it,  except  that  its  fiicts  and  statis- 
tics have  become  obsolete.  Time  and  the 
progress  of  tlie  community  at  length  did  her 
justice  once  more,  and  her  charming  "  Let- 
ters from  New  York  *'  brought  all  her  popu- 
larity back.  Turning  away,  however,  from 
fine  won  by  such  light  labors,  she  devoted 
years  of  her  life  to  the  compilation  of  her 
great  work  on  the  "  Progress  of  Religious 
Ideas,**  a  book  unequalled  in  the  English 
laqgnage  as  a  magazine  of  the  religious 
aspirations  of  the  race.  And  now,  still 
loBgiiig  to  look  in  some  new  direction,  she 
finds  that  direction  in  "  Sunset,**— the  only 
region  towards  which  her  name  and  her 


nature  have  alike  excused  her  firom  turning 
her  gaze  before. 

This  volume  is  a  collection  of  essays  and 
poems,  old  and  new,  original  and  selected, 
but  all  bearing  on  the  theme  of  old  age. 
Her  authors  range  from  Cicero  to  Dickens, 
from  Mrs.  Barbauld  to  Theodore  Parker. 
The  book  includes  that  unequalled  essay 
by  Jean  Paul,  '*  Recollections  of  the  Best 
Hours  of  Life  for  the  Hour  of  Death*'; 
and  then  makes  easily  the  transition  to  that 
delicious  scene  of  humor  and  pathos  from 
*'  Cranford,"  where  dear  Miss  Matty  meets 
again  the  lover  of  her  youth.  Some  trifling 
errors  might  be  noticed  here  and  there,  such 
as  occur  even  in  books  looking  this  side  of 
"Sunset":  as  when  Bums*s  line,  "But 
now  your  brow  is  beld,  John,**  is  needless- 
ly translated  into  "But  now  your  head's 
turned  bald,  John,** -^  where  the  version  is 
balder  than  the  head.  It  is  singular,  too, 
how  long  it  takes  to  convince  the  commu- 
nity that  Milton  did  not  write  the  verses, 
"  I  am  old  and  blind,'*  and  that  Mrs.  Howell 
of  Philadelphia  did.  Mrs.  Child  discreetly 
cites  for  them  no  author  at  all,  and  thus 
escapes  better  than  the  editor  of  the  new 
series  of  "  Hymns  for  the  Ages,"  who  boldly 
appends  to  the  poem, "  Milton,  x6o8~  1674." 
Yet  Mrs.  Child's  early  ventures  in  the  way 
of  writing  speeches  for  James  Otis  and  ser- 
mons for  Whitefield  should  have  made  her 
a  sharper  detective  of  the  ingenuity  of  others. 
Those  successful  imitations,  published  origi- 
nally in  her  novel  of  "The  Rebels,"  have 
hardly  yet  ceased  to  pass  current  in  the 
school  elocution-books. 

Nothing  occurs  to  us  as  being  omitted 
from  this  collection,  which  justly  belongs 
there,  unless  she  could  have  rescued  fit>m 
the  manuscript  that  charming  essay,  read 
by  President  Quincy  at  a  certain  Cambridge 
dinner,  wherein  that  beloved  veteran-— 
Rosdus  sua  arte — taught  his  academic  chil- 
dren to  grow  old. 


The  Autohufgrapky  tfa  Neat  Engiatul  Farm' 
House,  A  Book.  By  N.  H.  CHAMBER- 
LAIN.   New  York :  Carleton. 

We  have  read  this  little  book  with  some 
tenderness,  and  have  been  interested  in  its 
calm,  homelike  pictures.  The  author  ap- 
pears to  have  been  drawn  by  a  sincere  af- 
finity towards  the  poet  to  whom  he  does 
himself  the  honor  to  dedicate  his  story  in 
words  of  simple  and  sincere  appreciation. 

There  is  a  pellucid  stillness,  like  that  of 


256 


Rtviews  and  Literary  Notices. 


[Febfuaryi 


a  summer  lake,  over  Uie  pages  wherein  the 
story  lies  reflected.  And  this  perhaps  we 
may  consider  to  be  the  charm  and  value  of 
the  book.  Qut  the  author  does  nqt  .remem- 
ber that  only  those  things  are  read  which 
must  he  said ;  therefore  the  simple  incidents 
of  his  narrative  are  forced  into  a  growth 
of  many  instead  of  few  chapters,  and  the 
long-drawn  cord  becomes  weak,  and  will 
not  easily  lead  us  to  the  end.  He  also  be- 
trays his  lack  of  art  by  printing  verses 
which  stick  like  deep  sea*shells  far  below 
the  high-water  mark  of  poetry.  Never- 
theless, there  is  a  fine  New  England  color 
and  flavor  in  the  book ,  which '  attract  us, 
and  a  gentle,  high-minded  peaoe  reigns 
throughout  the  volume. 

Is  the  author  young  ?  we  are  tempted  to 
ask.  Then  let  him  turn  priest  straight- 
way, and  enter  the  temple  of  Art,  and  let 
him  weave  his  pictures  sacredly  of  the  pure 
gold  fibres  of  inspiration  and  thought 


Lowell  Lectures,  The  Problem  of  Human 
Destiny ;  or.  The  End  of  Providence  in 
the  World  and  Man,  By  Orville  Dew- 
ey, D.  D.    New  York :  James  Miller. 

The  publication  of  a  second  edition  of 
this  thoughtful,  genial,  and  eloquent  vol- 
ume enables  us  to  correct  the  omission  of 
not  noticing  it  on  its  first  appearance  a 
few  months  ago.  Originally  prepared  as  a 
course  of  lectures  for  the  l^owell  Institute, 
and  repeated  with  marked  success  in  vari- 
ous cities  of  the  Union,  the  mode  of  treat- 
ment is  of  course  popular  rather  than  scien- 
tific. The  subject  is  necessarily  complicated 
with  the  problem  of  evil ;  but  the  design  is 
not  so  much  to  attempt  a  new  solution  of 
the  problem  as  to  present,  in  a  vivid  and 
impressive  form,  certain  invigorating  and 
consoling  truths  which  relieve  the  weight 
of  its  burden.  The  most  comprehensive 
definition  of  evil,  to  all  minds  which  are 
forced,  by  the  contradiction  involved  in  the 
affirmation  of  two  Infinites,  to  deny  its  es- 
sential existence,  is  that  which  declares  it 
to  be  imperfect  good.  But  as  this  defini- 
tion implies  that  evil  characterizes  all  grades 
of  created  being,  and  includes  the  saint 
singing  in  heaven  as  well  as  the  savage 
prowling  in  the  woods,  it  carries  with  it 
litUe  help  or  satis&ction  to  the  practical 
will  and  oonsdenoe.  Dr.  Dewey  takes  up 
the  problem  at  one  or  two  removes  firom  its 
Durelv  abstract  essence,  mm!  fa»*ow  on  ita 


concrete  manifestations,  and  the  compensa-* 
tions  for  its  existence  in  the  system  of  the 
world.  The  leading  ideas  he  aims  to  incul* 
cate  are  these :  that  the  system  of  the  moral 
world  is  a  system  of  spontaneous  develop- 
ment, having  for  its  object  human  culture  ; 
that  man,  being  firee,  must  do,  within  the 
sphere  of  his  permitted  activity,  what  he 
will,  and  therefore  is  free  to  do  what  is 
wrong ;  that,  in  order  that  his  growth  may 
be.  free  and  rational,  the  system  of  treat- 
ment under  which  he  lives  must  be  one  of 
general  laws,  and  not  of  capricious  expe- 
dients; and  that  there  are  two  restraints 
on  his  wild  or  pernicious  activity, — one  in- 
ward, firom  his  moral  nature,  the  other  out- 
ward, from  material  Nature.  After  illus- 
trating these  at  considerable,  though  by  no 
means  tedious  length.  Dr.  Dewey  proceeds 
to  exhibit  the  adaptation  of  the  material 
world  to  human  culture,  —  the  physical  and 
moral  constitution  of  man,  and  the  com- 
plexity of  his  being, — the  mental  and  moral 
activity  elicited  by  his  connection  with  Na- 
ture and  life, — the  problems  of  pain,  hered- 
itary evil,  and  death,  which  afiect  his  indi- 
vidual existence, — the  problems  of  bad  or 
defective  institutions  and  usages,  religious, 
political,  and  warlike,  which  afiect  his  social 
existence, — and  the  testimony  of  history  to 
human  progress,  and  to  the  principles  of 
human  spontaneity  and  divine  control  wUch 
underlie  it 

But  this  bare  Enumeration  conveys  no 
impression  of  the  richness  of  the  author's 
matter  or  the  fineness  of  his  spirit  The 
volume  is  full  of  interesting  facts,  gathered 
from  a  wide  range  of  thoughtful  reading, 
literary,  historical,  theological,  and  scien- 
tific, and  of  fiacts,  too,  which  are  associated 
with  thoughts  and  related  to  a  plan.  The 
judgments  expressed  on  all  the  vital  ques- 
tions which  come  up  in  the  discussion  of 
the  theme  bear  the  impress  of  genuine  con- 
victions. They  are  not  merely  the  assent 
of  the  understanding  to  propositions,  but 
of  the  soul  to  truths ;  and  many  must  have 
been  subjected  to  the  test  of  personal  expe- 
rience as  well  as  mental  scrutiny.  The  first 
requisite  of  a  work  on  the  problem  of  hu- 
man destiny  is,  that  it  should  kindle  the 
reader  into  sympathy  with  human  natnre, 
and  lodge  in  his  mind  an  abiding  convic- 
tion of  the  reality  of  human  progress ;  and 
this  requisite  Dr.  Dewey's  volume  satisfies 
better  than  many  treatises  of  more  scien- 
tific exactness  and  more  ambitious  preten- 
sions. 


THE 


ATLANTIC    MONTHLY. 

A  Magazine  of  Literature,  Art,  and  Politics. 


VOL.  XV.  — MARCH,  1865.  — NO.  LXXXIX. 


THE    STORY    OF    A    YEAR. 


I. 


MY  story  begins  as  a  great  many 
stories  have  begun  within  the  last 
three  years,  and  indeed  as  a  great  many 
have  ended  ;  for,  when  the  hero  is  de- 
spatched, does  not  the  romance  come  to 
a  stop  ? 

In  early  May,  two  years  ago,  a  young 
ample  I  wot  of  strolled  homeward  from 
an  evening  walk,  a  long  ramble  among 
the  peaceful  hills  which  inclosed  their 
rustic  home.  Into  these  peaceful  hills 
the  young  man  had  brought,  not  the  ru- 
mor, (which  was  an  old  inhabitant,)  but 
some  of  the  reality  of  war, — a  little 
whiff  of  gunpowder,  the  clanking  of  a 
sword ;  for,  although  Mr.  John  Ford 
had  his  campaign  still  before  him,  he 
wore  a  certain  comely  air  of  camp-life 
which  stamped  him  a  very  Hector  to 
the  steady-going  villagers,  and  a  very 
pretty  fellow  to  Miss  Elizabeth  Crowe, 
his  companion  in  this  sentimental  strolL 
And  was  he  not  attired  in  the  great 
brightness  of  blue  and  gold  which  be- 
fits a  freshly  made  lieutenant?  This 
was  a  strange  sight  for  these  happy 
Northern  glades  ;  ftM*,  although  the  first 
Revolution  had  boomed  awhile  in  their 


midst,  the  honest  yeomen  who  defend- 
ed them  were  clad  in  sober  homespun, 
and  it  is  well  known  that  His  Majesty's 
troops  wore  red. 

These  young  people,  I  say,  had  been 
roaming.  It  was  plain  that  they  had 
wandered  into  spots  where  the  bram- 
bles were  thick  and  the  dews  heavy,  — 
nay,  into  swamps  and  puddles  where 
the  April  rains  were  still  undried* 
Ford's  boots  and  trousers  had  imbibed 
a  deep  foretaste  of  the  Virginia  mud ; 
his  companion's  skirts  were  fearfully  be-, 
draggled  What  great  enthusiasm  had 
made  our  friends  so  unmindful  of  their 
steps  ?  What  blinding  ardor  had  kin- 
dled these  strange  phenomena :  a  young 
lieutenant  scornful  of  his  first  uniform, 
a  well-bred  young  lady  reckless  of  her 
stockings  ? 

Good  reader,  this  narrative  is  averse 
to  retrospect 

Elizabeth  (as  I  shall  not  scruple  to 
call  her  outright)  was  leaning  upon  her 
companion's  arm,  half  moving  in  con- 
cert with  him,  and  half  allowing  herself 
to  be  led,  with  that  instinctive  acknowl- 
edgment of  dependence  natural  to  a 
young  girl  who  has  just  received  the 
assurance  of  lifelong  protection.  Ford 
was  lounging  along  with   that   calm. 


Eateied  according  to  Act  of  Congress,  in  the  year  t86s,  by  Ticknor  and  Fislds,  in  the  Oerk's  Office 

of  the  District  Court  of  the  District  of  Mtwachinfttta. 

VOL.  XV.  —  NO.  89.  17 


258 


The  Story  of  a  Year. 


[March, 


swinging  stride  which  often  bespeaks, 
when  you  can  read  it  aright,  the  an- 
swering consciousness  of  a  sudden  rush 
of  manhood.  A  spectator  might  have 
thought  him  at  this  moment  profoundly 
conceited.  The  young  girl's  blue  veil 
was  dangling  from  his  pocket ;  he  had 
shouldered  her  sun-umbrella  after  the 
fashion  of  a  musket  on  a  march :  he 
might  carry  these  trifles.  Was  there 
not  a  vague  longing  expressed  in  the 
strong  expansion  of  his  stalwart  shoul- 
ders, in  the  fond  accommodation  of  his 
pace  to  hers, — her  pace  so  submissive 
and  slow,  that,  when  he  tried  to  match 
it,  they  almost  came  to  a  delightful  stand- 
still, —  a  silent  desire  for  the  whole  fair 
burden  ? 

They  made  their  way  up  a  long  swell- 
ing mound,  whose  top  commanded  the 
sunset  The  dim  landscape  which 
had  been  brightening  all  day  to  the 
green  of  spring  was  now  darkening  to 
the  gray  of  evening.  The  lesser  hills, 
the  farms,  the  brooks,  the  fields,  or- 
chards, and  woods,  made  a  dusky  gulf 
before  the  great  splendor  of  the  west 
As  Ford  looked  at  the  clouds,  it  seem- 
ed to  him  that  their  imagery  wafi  all  of 
war,  their  great  uneven  masses  were 
marshalled  into  the  semblance  of  a  bat- 
tle. There  were  columns  charging  and 
columns  flying  and  standards  floating, 
—  tatters  of  the  reflected  purple  ;  and 
great  captains  on  colossal  horses,  and 
a  rolling  canopy  of  cannon-smoke  and 
fire  and  blood.  The  backgroimd  of 
the  clouds,  indeed,  was  like  a  land  on 
fire,  or  a  battle-ground  illumined  by  an- 
other sunset,  a  country  of  blackened 
villages  and  crimsoned  pastures.  The 
tumult  of  the  clouds  increased  ;  it  was 
hard  to  believe  them  inanimate.  You 
might  have  fencied  them  an  army  of 
gigantic  souls  playing  at  football  with 
the  sun.  They  seemed  to  sway  in  con- 
fiised  splendor ;  the  opposing  squadrons 
bore  each  other  down ;  and  then  sud- 
denly they  scattered,  bowling  with  equal 
velocity  towards  north  and  south,  and 
gradually  fiiding  into  the  pale  evening 
sky.  The  purple  pennons  sailed  away 
and  sank  out  of  sight;  caught,  doubtless, 
upon  the  brambles  of  the  intervening 


plain.  Day  contracted  itself  into  a  fiery 
ball  and  vanished. 

Ford  and  Elizabeth  had  quietly  watch- 
ed this  great  mystery  of  the  heavens. 

^*  That  is  an  allegory,"  said  the  young 
man,  as  the  sun  went  under,  looking 
into  his  companion's  face,  where  a  pink 
flush  seemed  still  to  linger :  "  it  means 
the  end  of  the  war.  The  forces  on  both 
sides  are  withdrawn.  The  blood  that 
has  been  shed  gathers  itself  into  a  vast 
globule  and  drops  into  the  ocean." 

'*  I  'm  afi^id  it  means  a  shabby  com- 
promise," said  Elizabeth.  "  Light  disap- 
pears, too,  and  the  land  is  in  darkness." 

''Only  for  a  season,"  answered  the 
other.  ''We  mourn  our  dead.  Then 
light  comes  again,  stronger  and  bright- 
er than  ever.  Perhaps  you  'U  be  cry- 
ing for  me,  Lizzie,  at  that  distant  day." 

"  Oh,  Jack,  did  n't  you  promise  not 
to  talk  about  that  ? "  says  Lizzie,  threat- 
ening to  anticipate  the  performance  in 
question. 

Jack  took  this  rebuke  in  silence,  gaz- 
ing soberly  at  the  empty  sky.  Soon 
the  young  girl's  eyes  stole  up  to  his 
face.  If  he  had  been  looking  at  any- 
thing in  particular,  I  think  she  would 
have  followed  the  direction  of  his  glance ; 
but  as  it  seemed  to  be  a  very  vacant  one, 
she  let  her  eyes  rest 

"Jack,"  said  she,  after  a  pause,  "I 
wonder  how  you  'U  look  when  you  get 
back." 

Ford's  soberness  gave  way  to  a  laugh. 

"  Uglier  than  ever.  I  shall  be  all  in- 
crusted  with  mud  and  gore.  And  then 
I  shall  be  magnificently  sun-burnt,  and 
I  shall  have  a  beard." 

"  Oh,  you  dreadful ! "  and  Lizzie  gave 
a  little  shout  "Really,  Jack,  if  you 
have  a  beard,  you  'U  not  look  like  a 
gentleman." 

"Shall  I  look  like  a  lady,  pray?" 
'says  Jack. 

"  Are  you  serious  ? "  asked  Lizzie. 

"To  be  sure.  I  mean  to  alter  my 
fiu:e  as  you  do  your  misfitting  garments, 
— take  in  on  one  side  and  let  out  on  the 
other.  Is  n't  that  the  process  ?  I  shall 
crop  my  head  and  cultivate  my  chin." 

"  You  've  a  very  nice  chin,  my  dear, 
and  I  think  it 's  a  shame  to  hide  it" 


1 86s.] 


The  Story  of  a  Year. 


259 


*^  Yes,  I  know  my  chin  's  handsome ; 
but  wait  till  you  see  my  beard." 

*'Ob,  the  vanity  I "  cried  Lizzie,  "  the 
vanity  of  men  in  their  faces  !  Talk  of 
women ! "  and  the  silly  creature  look- 
ed up  at  her  lover  with  most  inconsis- 
tent satisfaction. 

''Oh,  the  pride  of  women  in  their 
husbands ! "  said  Jack,  who  of  course 
knew  what  she  was  about 

**  You  're  not  my  husband,  Sir.  There 

's  many  a  sUp" But  the  young 

girl  stopped  short 

'^'Twixt  the  cup  and  the  lip,''  said 
Jack.  '^Go  on.  I  can  match  your 
proverb  vrith  another.  *  There  's  many 
a  true  word,'  and  so  forth.  No,  my 
darling :  I  'm  not  your  husband.  Per- 
haps I  never  shall  be.  But  if  anything 
happens  to  me,  you  '11  take  comfort 
won't  you?" 

"^  Never  I "  said  Lizzie,  tremulously. 

**^  Oh,  but  you  must ;  otherwise,  Liz* 
ae,  I  should  think  our  engagement  in* 
excusable.  Stuff!  who  am  I  that  you 
should  cry  for  me  ? " 

^  You  are  the  best  and  wisest  of  men. 
I  don't  care  ;  you  ar^." 

*^  Thank  you  for  your  great  love,  my 
dear.  That  's  a  delightful  illusion. 
But  I  hope  Time  will  kill  it,  in  his  own 
good  way,  before  it  hurts  any  one.  I 
know  so  many  men  who  are  worth  in- 
finitely more  than  I  —  men  wise,  gener- 
ous, and  bmye  —  that  I  shall  not  feel 
as  if  I  were  leaving  you  in  an  empty 
world." 

^  Oh^  my  dear  friend  ! "  said  Lizzie, 
after  a  pause,  ^'  I  wish  you  could  advise 
me  aU  my  life." 

''Take  care,  take  care,"  laughed 
Jack;  "you  don't  know  what  you  are 
bargaining  for.  But  will  you  let  me 
say  a  word  now?  If  by  chance  I  'm 
taken  out  of  the  world,  I  want  you  to 
beware  of  that  tawdry  sentiment  which* 
enjoins  you  to  be  '  constant  to  my  mem- 
ory.' My  memory  be  hanged  1  Re- 
member me  at  my  best,  —  that  is,  full- 
est of  the  desire  of  humility.  Don't 
inflict  me  on  people.  There  are  some 
widows  and  bereaved  sweethearts  who 
remind  me  of  the  peddler  in  that  horri- 
ble murder-story,  who  carried  a  corpse 


in  his  pack.  Really,  it 's  (heir  stock  in 
trade.  The  only  justification  of  a  man's 
personality  is  his  rights.  What  rights 
has  a  dead  man  ?  —  Let 's  go  down." 

They  turned  southward  and  went  jolt- 
ing down  the  hill. 

''Do  you  mind  this  talk,  Lizzie?" 
asked  Ford. 

"  No,"  said  Dzzie,  swallowing  a  sob, 
unnoticed  by  her  companion  in  the  sub- 
lime egotism  of  protection ;  "  I  like  it" 

**  Very  well,"  said  the  young  man,  "  I 
want  my  memory  to  help  you.  When  I 
am  down  in  Virginia,  I  expect  to  get  a 
vast  deal  of  good  from  thinking  of  you, 
—  to  do  my  work  better,  and  to  keep 
straighter  altogether.  Like  all  lovers, 
I  'm  horribly  selfish.  I  expect  to  see 
a  vast  deal  of  shabbiness  and  baseness 
and  turmoil,  and  in  the  midst  of  it  all  I 
'm  sure  the  inspiration  of  patriotism  will 
sometimes  fiul.  Then  I  '11  think  of  you. 
I  love  you  a  thousand  times  better  than 
my  country,  Liz. — Wicked  ?  So  much 
the  worse.  It 's  the  truth.  But  if  I  find 
your  memory  makes  a  milksop  of  me,  I 
shall  thrust  you  out  of-  the  way,  without 
ceremony,  —  I  shall  cl2^>  you  into  my 
box  or  between  the  leaves  of  my  Bible, 
and  only  look  at  you  on  Sunday." 

"  I  shall  be  very  glad,  Sir,  if  that 
makes  you  open  your  Bible  frequently," 
says  Elizabeth,  rather  demurely. 

''  I  shall  put  one  of  your  photographs 
against  every  page,"  cried  Ford  ;  "  and 
then  I  think  I  shall  not  lack  a  text  for 
my  meditations.  Don't  you  know  how 
Catholics  keep  little  pictures  of  their 
adored  Lady  in  their  prayer-books  ?  " 

"  Yes,  indeed,"  said  Lizzie ;  "  I  should 
think  it  would  be  a  very  soul-stirring 
picture,  when  you  are  marching  to  the 
firont,  the  night  before  a  battle,  —  a  poor, 
stupid  girl,  knitting  stupid  socks,  in  a 
stupid  Yankee  village." 

Oh,  the  craft  of  artless  tongues !  Jack 
strode  along  in  silence  a  few  moments, 
splashing  straight  through  a  puddle ; 
then,  ere  he  was  quite  clear  of  it,  he 
stretched  out  his  arm  and  gave  his  com- 
panion a  long  embrace. 

"  And  pray  what  am  I  to  do,"  resum- 
ed Lizzie,  wondering,  rather  proudly 
perhaps,  at  Jack's  averted  face,  "  while 


26o 


The  Story  of  a  Year. 


[March, 


you  are  marching  and  countermarching 
in  Virginia  ?  " 

"  Your  duty,  of  course,"  said  Jack,  in 
a  steady  voice,  which  belied  a  certain 
little  conjecture  of  Lizzie's.  ^  I  think 
you  will  find  the  sun  will  rise  in  the 
east,  my  dear,  just  as  it  did  before  you 
were  engaged." 

"  I  'm  sure  I  did  n't  suppose  it 
would  n't,"  says  lizzie* 

*<  By  duty  I  don't  mean  anything  dis- 
agreeable, Liz,"  pursued  the  young 
man.  *^  I  hope  you  11  take  your  pleas- 
ure, too.  I  wish  you  might  go  to  Bos- 
ton, or  even  to  Leatherborough,  for  a 
month  or  two." 

**  What  for,  pray  ?  " 

«  What  for  ?  Why,  for  the  fun  of  it : 
to  *  go  out,'  as  they  say." 

^Jack,  do  you  think  me  capable  of 
going  to  parties  while  you  are  in  dan- 
ger ? " 

"  Why  not  ?  Why  should  I  have  all 
the  fun  ?  " 

"  Fun  ?  I  *m  sure  you  're  welcome 
to  it  alL  As  for  me,  I  mean  to  make  a 
new  beginning." 

"  Of  what  ? " 

"Oh,  of  ever3rthing.  In  the  first 
place,  I  shall  begin  to  improve  my  mind. 
But  don't  you  think  it 's  horrid  for  wom- 
en to  be  reasonable  ?  " 

"  Hard,  say  you  ?  " 

"  Horrid,  —  yes,  and  hard  too.  But 
I  mean  to  become  so.  Oh,  girls  are 
such  fools,  Jack !  I  mean  to  learn  to 
like  boiled  mutton  and  history  and  plain 
sewing,  and  all  that  Yet,  when  a  girl 's 
engaged,  she 's  not  expected  to  do  any- 
thing in  particular." 

Jack  laughed,  and  said  nothing ;  and 
Lizzie  went  on. 

^  I  wonder  what  your  mother  will 
say  to  the  news.    I  think  I  know." 

«  What  ?  " 

"  She  '11  say  you  Ve  been  very  unwise. 
No,  she  won't :  she  never  speaks  so  to 
you.  She  '11  say  I  've  been  very  dis- 
honest or  indelicate,  or  something  of 
that  kind.  No,  she  won't  either :  she 
does  n't  say  such  things,  though  I  'm 
sure  she  thinks  them.  I  don't  know 
what  she  '11  say." 

"  No,  I  think  not,  Lizzie,  if  you  in- 


dulge in  such  conjectures.  My  mother 
never  speaks  without  thinking.  Let  us 
hope  that  she  may  think  fiivorably  of 
our  plan.    Even  if  she  does  n't " 

Jack  did  not  finish  his  sentence,  nor 
did  Lizzie  urge  him.  She  had  a  great 
respect  for  his  hesitations.  But  in  a 
moment  he  began  again. 

^  I  was  going  to  say  this,  Lizzie :  I 
think  for  the  present  our  engagement 
had  better  be  kept  quiet" 

Lizzie's  heart  sank  with  a  sudden 
disappointment  Imagine  the  feelings 
of  the  damsel  in  the  fairy-tale,  whom 
the  disguised  enchantress  had  just  em- 
powered to  utter  diamonds  and  pearis, 
should  the  old  beldame  have  straight- 
way added  that  for  the  present  made- 
moiselle had  better  hold  her  tongue. 
Yet  the  disappointment  was  brie£  I 
think  this  enviable  young  lady  would 
have  tripped  home  tadking  very  hard  to 
herself,  and  have  been  not  ill  pleased 
to  find  her  little  mouth  turning  into 
a  tightly  clasped  jewel-casket  Nay, 
would  she  not  on  this  occasion  have 
been  thankfid  for  a  large  mouth,  —  a 
mouth  huge  and  unnatural,  —  stretching 
fit)m  ear  to  ear?  Who  wish  to  cast 
their  pearls  before  swine  ?  The  young 
lady  of  the  pearls  was,  after  all,  but  a 
barnyard  miss.  Lizzie  was  too  proud 
of  Jack  to  be  vain.  It 's  well  enough  to 
wear  our  own  hearts  upon  our  sleeves ; 
but  for  those  of  others,  when  intrusted 
to  our  keeping,  I  think  we  had  better 
find  a  more  secluded  lodging. 

"You  see,  I  think  secrecy  would 
leave  us  much  freer,"  said  Jack,-— 
"  leave  you  much  fireer." 

**  Oh,  Jack,  how  can  you  ? "  cried 
Lizzie.  "  Yes,  of  course ;  I  shall  be 
felling  in  love  with  some  one  else. 
Freer !    Thank  you.  Sir ! " 

"Nay,  Lizzie,  what  I  'm  saying  is 
really  kinder  than  it  sounds.  Perhaps 
you  will  thank  me  one  of  these  days." 

"  Doubtless  !  I  've  already  taken  a 
great  £uicy  to  George  Mackenzie."  ' 

"  Will  you  let  me  enlarge  on  my  sag- . 
gestion  ?  " 

"  Oh,  certainly  I  You  seem  to  have 
yom*  mind  quite  made  up." 

"  I  confess  I  like  to  toke  account  of 


i865j 


The  Story  of  a  Year? 


261 


possibilities.  Don't  jou  know  mathe- 
matics are  my  hobby?  Did  you  ever 
study  algebra  ?  I  always  have  an  eye 
on  the  unknown  quantity.'' 

''Noy  I  never  studied  algebra.  I 
agree  with  you,  that  we  had  better  not 
speak  of  our  engagement" 

"  That 's  right,  my  dear.  You  Ve  al- 
ways right  But  mind,  I  dont  want 
to  bind  you  to  secrecy.  Hang  it,  do  as 
you  please  !  Do  what  comes  easiest  to 
you,  and  you  11  do  the  best  thing.  What 
made  me  speak  is  my  dread  of  the  hor- 
rible publicity  which  clings  to  all  this 
business.  Nowadays,  when  a  girl  's 
engaged,  it 's  no  longer, '  Ask  mamma,' 
simply ;  but, '  Ask  Mrs.  Brown,  and  Mrs. 
Jones,  and  my  large  circle  of  acquaint- 
ance, —  Mrs  Grundy,  in  short'  I  say 
nowadays,  but  I  suppose  it  's  always 
been  so." 

*^  Very  well,  we  11  keep  it  all  nice  and 
quiet,"  said  Lizzie,  who  would  have  been 
ready  to  celebrate  her  nuptials  accord- 
ing to  the  rites  of  the  Esquimaux,  had 
Jack  seen  fit  to  suggest  it 

"  I  know  it  does  n't  look  well  for  a 
lover  to  be  so  cautious,"  pursued  Jack ; 
"but  you  understand  me,  Lizzie,  don't 
you?" 

''I  don't  entirely  understand  you, 
but  I  quite  trust  you." 

**  God  bless  you  !  My  prudence,  you 
see,  is  my  best  strength.  Now,  if  ever, 
I  need  my  strength.  When  a  man's 
a-wooing,  Lizzie,  he  is  all  feeling,  or  he 
ought  to  be ;  when  he 's  accepted,  then 
he  begins  to  think." 

^  And  to  repent,  I  suppose  you  mean." 

''Nay,  to  devise  means  to  keep  his 
sweetheart  from  repenting.  Let  me  be 
frank.  Is  it  the  greatest  fools  only  that 
are  the  best  lovers  ?  There 's  no  tell- 
ing what  may  happen,  Lizzie.  I  want 
you  to  marry  me  with  your  eyes  open. 
I  don't  want  you  to  feel  tied  down  or 
taken  in.  You  're  very  young,  you  know. 
You  're  responsible  to  yourself  of  a  year 
hence.  You  're  at  an  age  when  no  girl 
can  count  safely  from  year's  end  to 
year's  end." 

''And  you,  Sir ! "  cries  Lizzie  ;  "one 
would  think  you  were  a  grand£ither." 

"  Well,  I  'm  on  the  way  to  it    I  'm 


a  pretty  old  boy.  I  mean  what  I  say. 
I  may  not  be  entirely  frank,  but  I  think 
I  'm  sincere.  It  seems  to  me  as  if  I  'd 
been  fibbing  all  my  life  before  I  told 
you  that  your  affection  was  necessary 
to  my  happiness.  I  mean  it  out  and 
out  I  never  loved  any  one  before,  and 
.  I  never  will  again.  If  you  had  refused 
me  half  an  hour  ago,  I  should  have  died 
a  bachelor.  I  have  no  fear  for  m3rsel£ 
But  I  have  for  you.  You  said  a  few 
minutes  ago  that  you  wanted  me  to  be 
your  adviser.  Now  you  know  the  func- 
tion of  an  adviser  is  to  perfect  his  vic- 
tim in  the  art  of  walking  with  his  eyes 
shut    I  sha'n't  be  so  crueL" 

Lizzie  saw  fit  to  view  these  remarks 
in  a  humorous  Ught  "How  disinter- 
ested !  "  quoth  she :  "  how  very  self- 
sacrificing  !  Bachelor  indeed !  For  my 
part,  I  think  I  shall  become  a  Mor- 
mon ! "  —  I  verily  believe  the  poor  mis- 
informed creature  frmded  that  in  Utah 
it  is  the  ladies  who  are  guilty  of  po- 
lygamy. 

Before  many  minutes  they  drew  near 
home.  There  stood  Mrs.  Ford  at  the 
garden-gate,  looking  up  and  down  the 
road,  with  a  letter  in  her  hand. 

"  Something,  for  you,  John,"  said  his 
mother,  as  they  approached.  "  It  looks 
as  if  it  came  from  camp.  —  Why,  Eliza- 
beth, look  at  your  skirts  f " 

"  I  know  it,"  says  Lizzie,  giving  the 
articles  in  question  a  shake.  "  What  is 
it,  Jack  ?  " 

"  Marching  orders ! "  cried  the  young 
man.  "  The  regiment  leaves  day  after 
to-morrow.  I  must  leave  by  the  early 
train  in  the  morning.  Hurray  !  "  And 
he  diverted  a  sudden  gleeful  kiss  into,  a 
filial  salute. 

They  went  in.  The  two  women  were 
silent,  after  the  manner  of  women  who 
suffer.  But  Jack  did  little  else-  than 
laugh  and  talk  and  circumnavigate  the 
parlor,  sitting  first  here  and  then  there, 
—  close  beside  Lizzie  and  on  the  oppo- 
site side  of  the  room.  After  a  while 
Miss  Crowe  joined  in  his  laughter,  but 
I  think  her  mirth  might  have  been  cs- 
solved  into  articulate  heart-beats.  After 
tea  she  went  to  bed,  to  give  Jack  oppoi^ 
'tunity  for  his  last  filial  (panchenunis^ 


262 


The  Story  of  a  Year. 


[March, 


How  generous  a  man's  intervention 
makes  women !  But  Lizzie  promised 
to  see  her  lover  off  in  the  morning. 

"  Nonsense ! "  said  Mrs.  Ford. "  You'll 
not  be  up.  John  will  want  to  breakfast 
quietly." 

"  I  shall  see  you  off,  Jack,"  repeated 
the  young  lady,  from  the  threshold. 

Elizabeth  went  up  stairs  buoyant  with 
her  young  love.  It  had  dawned  upon 
her  like  a  new  life,  —  a  life  positively 
worth  the  living.  Hereby  she  would 
subsist  and  cost  nobody  anything.  In 
it  she  was  boundlessly  rich.  She  would 
make  it  the  hidden  spring  of  a  hundred 
praiseworthy  deeds.  She  would  begin 
the  career  of  duty :  she  would  enjoy 
boundless  equanimity :  she  would  raise 
her  whole  being  to  the  level  of  her 
sublime  passion.  She  would  practise 
charity,  humility,  piety,  —  in  fine,  all  the 
virtues :  together  with  certain  marceaux 
of  Beethoven  and  Chopin.  She  would 
walk  the  earth  like  one  glorified.  She 
would  do  homage  to  the  best  of  men 
by  inviolate  secrecy.  Here,  by  I  know 
not  what  gentle  transition,  as  she  lay 
in  the  quiet  darkness,  Elizabeth  covered 
her  pillow  with  a  flood  of  tears. 

Meanwhile  Ford,  down-stairs,  began 
in  this  fashion.  He  was  lounging  at 
his  manly  length  on  the  sofa,  in  his 
slippers. 

"  May  I  light  a  pipe,  motfier  ?  ** 

"  Yes,  my  love.  But  please  be  care- 
ful of  your  ashes.  There  's  a  news- 
paper." 

"  Pipes  don't  make  ashes.  —  Mother, 
what  do  you  think  ?  "  he  continued,  be- 
tween the  puffs  of  his  smoking ;  "  I  Ve 
got  a  piece  of  news." 

"  Ah  ? "  said  Mrs.  Ford,  fumbling 
for  her  scissors ;  "  I  hope  it  's  good 
news." 

"  I  hope  you  11  think  it  so.  I  've 
been  engaging  myself"  —  puflfj  —  puff 
—  "  to  Lizzie  Crowe."  A  cloud  of  puffs 
between  his  mother's  face  and  his  own. 
When  they  cleared  away,  Jack  felt  his 
mother's  eyes.  Her  work  was  in  her 
lap.  "To  be  married,  you  know,"  he 
.  added. 

In  Mrs.  Ford's  view,  like  the  king  in 
that  of  the  British  Constitution,  her 


only  son  could  do  no  wrong.  Prejudice 
is  a  stout  bulwark  against  surprise. 
Moreoi?er,  Mrs.  Ford's  motherly  instinct 
had  not  been  entirely  at  fault  Still,  it 
had  by  no  means  kept  pace  with  fact 
She  had  been  silent,  partly  from  doubt, 
partly  out  of  respect  for  her  son.  As 
long  as  John  did  not  doubt  of  himself 
he  was  right  Should  he  come  to  do 
so,  she  was  sure  he  would  speak.  And 
now,  when  he  told  her  the  matter  was 
settled,  she  persuaded  herself  that  he 
was  asking  her  advice. 

**  I  've  been  expecting  it,"  she  said, 
at  last 

"  You  have  ?  why  did  n't  you  speak  ?  " 

"  Well,  John,  I  can't  say  I  've  been 
hoping  it" 

"  Why  not  ?  " 

•**  I  am  not  sure  of  Lizzie's  heart," 
said  Mrs.  Ford,  who,  it  may  be  well  to 
add,  was  very  sure  of  her  own. 

Jack  began  to  laugh.  "  What 's  the 
matter  with  her  heart  ?  " 

*^  I  think  Lizzie  's  shallow,"  said  Mrs. 
Ford ;  and  there  was  that  in  her  tone 
which  betokened  some  satisfaction  with 
this  adjective. 

"  Hang  it !  she  is  shallow,"  said  Jack. 
"  But  when  a  thing 's  shallow,  you  can 
see  to  the  bottom.  Lizzie  does  n't  pre- 
tend to  be  deep.  I  want  a  wife,  mother, 
that  I  can  understand.  That 's  the  on- 
ly wife  I  can  love.  Lizzie  's  the  only 
girl  I  ever  understood,  and  the  first  I 
ever  loved.  I  love  her  very  much, — 
more  than  I  can  explain  to  you." 

"  Yes,  I  confess  it 's  inexplicable.  It 
seems  to  me,"  she  added,  with  a  bad 
smile,  "  like  infatuation." 

Jack  did  not  like  the  smile ;  he  liked 
it  even  less  than  the  remark.  He  smoked 
steadily  for  a  few  moments,  and  then 
he  said, — 

"Well,  mother,  love  is  notoriously 
obstinate,  you  know.  We  shall  not  be 
able  to  take  the  same  view  of  this  sub- 
ject :  suppose  we  drop  it" 

''Remember  that  this  is  your  last 
evening  at  home,  my  son,"  said  Mrs. 
Ford. 

"  I  do  remember.  Therefore  I  wish 
to  avoid  disagreement" 

There  was  a  pause.    The  young  man 


i86s.] 


The  Story  of  a  Year, 


263 


smoked,    and   his   mother   sewed,  in 
silence. 

^  I  think  my  position,  as  Xizzie's 
guardian,"  resumed  Mrs.  Ford,  "en- 
tides  me  to  an  interest  in  the  matter." 
*  Certainly,  I  acknowledged  your  in- 
terest by  telling  you  of  our  engage- 
ment" 

Further  pause. 

"Will  you  allow  me  to  say,"  said 
Mrs.  Ford,  after  a  while,  "  that  I  think 
this  a  Utde  selfish  ?  " 

**  Allow  you  ?  Certainly,  if  you  par- 
ticularly desire  it  Though  I  confess 
it  is  n't  very  pleasant  for  a  man  to  sit 
and  hear  his  future  wife  pitched  into, 
—  by  his  own  mother,  too." 

"John,  I  am  surprised  at  your  lan- 
guage." 

"  I  beg  your  pardon,"  and  John  spoke 
more  gently.  "You  must  n't  be  sur- 
prised at  anything  from  an  accepted 
lover.  —  I  *m  sure  you  misconceive  her. 
In  fiu:t,  mother,  I  don't  believe  you 
know  her." 

Mrs.  Ford  nodded,  with  an  infinite 
depth  of  meaning ;  and  from  the  grim- 
ness  with  which  she  bit  off  the  end  of 
her  thread  it  might  have  seemed  that 
she  fancied  herself  to  be  executing  a 
human  vengeance. 

"  Ah,  I  know  her  only  too  well !  " 

"  And  you  don't  like  her  ?  " 

Mrs.  Ford  performed  another  decapi- 
tation of  her  thread. 

"  Well,  I  'm  glad  Lizzie  has  one  friend 
in  the  world,"  said  Jack. 

**  Her  best  friend,"  said  Mrs.  Ford, 
"  is  the  one  who  flatters  her  least  I 
see  it  all,  John.  Her  pretty  face  has 
done  the  business." 

The  young  man  flushed  impatiently. 

"Mother,"  said  he,  "you  are  very 
much  mistaken.  I  'm  not  a  boy  nor  a 
fool  You  trust  me  in  a  great  many 
things  ;  why  not  trust  me  in  this  ?  " 

"My  dear  son,  you  are  throwing 
yourself  away.  You  deserve  for  your 
companion  in  life  a  higher  character 
than  that  girl" 

I  think  Mrs.  Ford,  who  had  been  an 
excellent  mother,  would  have  liked  to 
give  her  son  a  wife  fashioned  on  her 
own  model 


"  Oh,  come,  mother,'!  said  he,  "  that 's 
twaddle.  I  should  be  thankfid,  if  I  were 
half  as  good  as  Lizzie." 

"  It 's  the  truth,  John,  and  your  con- 
duct—  not  only  the  step  you  've  taken, 
but  your  talk  about  it  —  is  a  great  dis- 
appointment to  me.  If  I  have  cher- 
ished any  wish  of  late,  it  is  that  my 
darling  boy  should  get  a  wife  worthy 
of  him.  The  household  governed  by 
Elizabeth  Crowe  is  not  the  home  I 
should  desire  for  any  one  I  love." 

"  It  'a  one  to  which  you  should  al- 
ways be  welcome.  Ma'am,"  said  Jack. 

"  It 's  not  a  place  I  should  feel  at 
home  in,"  replied  his  mother. 

"  I  'm  sorry,"  said  Jack.  And  he  got 
up  and  began  to  waUc  about  the  room. 
"  Well,  well,  mother,"  he  said  at  last, 
stopping  in  front  of  Mrs.  Ford,  "we 
don't  understand  each  other.  One  of 
these  days  we  shall.  For  the  present 
let  us  have  done  with  discussion.  I  'm 
half  sorry  I  told  you." 

"  I  *m  glad  of  such  a  proof  of  your 
confidence.  But  if  you  had  n't,  of  course 
Elizabeth  would  have  done  so." 

"  No,  Ma'am,  I  think  not" 

"  Then  she  is  even  more  reckless  of 
her  obligations  than  I  thought  her." 

"  I  advised  her  to  say  nothing  about 
it" 

Mrs.  Ford  made  no  answer.  She 
began  slowly  to  fold  up  her  work. 

"  I  think  we  had  better  let  the  matter 
stand,"  continued  her  son.  "  I  'm  not 
afraid  of  time.  But  I  wish  to  make  a 
request  of  you  :  you  won't  mention  this 
conversation  to  Lizzie,  will  you?  nor 
allow  her  to  suppose  that  you  know  of 
our  engagement?  I  have  a  particular 
reason." 

Mrs.  Ford  went  on  smoothing  out 
her  work.  Then  she  suddenly  looked 
up. 

"  No,  my  dear,  1 11  keep  your  secret 
Give  me  a  kiss." 


IL 


I  HAVE  no  intention  of  following  Lien- 
tenant  Ford  to  the  seat  of  war.  Thtf 
exploits  of  his  campaign  are  recorded 


264 


The  Staty  of  a  Year. 


[March, 


in  the  public  journals  of  the  day,  where 
the  curious  may  still  peruse  them.  My 
own  taste  has  alwa3rs  been  for  unwrit- 
ten history,  and  my  present  business  is 
with  the  reverse  of  the  picture. 

After  Jack  went  o£^  the  two  ladies 
resumed  their  old  homely  life.    But  the 
homeliest  life  had  now  ceased  to  be 
repulsive  to  Elizabeth.    Her  common 
duties  were  no  longer  wearisome :  for 
the  first  time,  she  experienced  the  deli- 
cious companionship  of  thought    Her 
chief  task  was  still  to  sit  by  the  window 
knitting  soldiers'  socks ;  but  even  Mrs. 
Ford  could  not  help  owning  that  she 
worked  with  a  much  greater  diligence, 
yawned,  rubbed  her  eyes,  gazed  up  and 
down  the  road  less,  and  indeed  produced 
a  much  more  comely  article.    Ah,  me  1 
if  half  the  lovesome  fancies  that  flitted 
through  Lizzie's  spirit  in  those  busy 
hours  could  have  found  their  way  into 
the  texture  of  the  dingy  j^am,  as  it  was 
slowly  wrought  into  shape,  the  eventual 
wearer  of  the  socks  woidd  have  been  as 
light-footed  as  Mercury.    I  am  afraid  I 
should  make  the  reader  sneer,  were  I 
to  rehearse  some  of  this  little  fooPs 
diversions.    She  passed  several  hours 
daily  in  Jack's  old  chamber :  it  was  in 
this  sanctuary,  indeed,  at  the  sunny 
south  window,   overlooking  the  long 
road,  the  wood- crowned  heights,  the 
gleaming  river,  that  she  worked  with 
most  pleasure  and  profit  Here  she  was 
removed  fi-om  the  untiring  glance  of  the 
elder  lady,  from  her  jarring  questions 
and  commonplaces ;  here  she  was  alone 
with  her  love,  —  that  greatest  common- 
place in  life.    Lizzie  felt  in  Jack's  room 
a  certain  impress  of  his  personality. 
The  idle  &ncies  of  her  mood  were  bod- 
ied forth  in  a  dozen  sacred  relics.  Some 
of  these  articles  Elizabeth  carefully  cher- 
ished.   It  was  rather  late  in  the  day  for 
her  to  assert  a  literary  taste, — her  read- 
ing having  begun  and  ended  (naturally 
enough)  with  the  ancient  fiction  of  the 
^  Scottish  Chiefs."    So  she  could  hard- 
ly help  smiling,  herself,  sometimes,  at 
her  interest  in  Jack's  old  college  tomes. 
She  carried  several  of  them  to  her  own 
apartment,  and  placed  them  at  the  foot 
of  her  little  bed,  on  a  book-shelf  adorned, 


besides,  with  a  pot  of  spring  violets, 
a  portrait  of  General  McClellan,  and  a 
likeness  of  Lieutenant  Ford.  She  had 
a  vague  belief  that  a  loving  study  ci 
their  well-thumbed  verses  would  rem- 
edy, in  some  degree,  her  sad  intellec- 
tual deficiencies.  She  was  sorry  she 
knew  so  little :  as  sorry,  that  is,  as  she 
might  be,  for  we  know  that  she  was 
shallow.  Jack's  omniscience  was  one 
of  his  most  awful  attributes.  And  yet 
she  comforted  herself  with  the  thought, 
that,  as  he  had  forgiven  her  ignorance, 
she  herself  might  surely  forget  it  Hap- 
py Lizzie,  I  envy  you  this  easy  path  to 
knowledge !  The  volume  she  most  fre- 
quently consulted  was  an  old  German 
*'  Faust,"  over  which  she  used  to  fum- 
ble with  a  battered  lexicon.  The  secret 
of  this  preference  was  in  certain  margin- 
al notes  in  pencil,  signed  ^  J."  I  hope 
they  were  really  of  Jack's  making. 

Lizzie  was  always  a  small  walker. 
Until  she  knew  Jack,  this  had  been 
quite  an  unsuspected  pleasure.  She 
was  afiraid,  too,  of  the  cows,  geese,  and 
sheep, — all  the  agricultural  spectra  of 
the  feminine  imagination.  But  now  her 
terrors  were  over.  Might  she  not  play 
the  soldier,  too,  in  her  own  humble  way  ? 
Often  with  a  beating  heart,  I  fear,  but 
still  with  resolute,  elastic  steps,  she  re- 
visited Jack's  old  haunts ;  she  tried  to 
love  Nature  as  he  had  seemed  to  love 
it ;  she  gazed  at  his  old  sunsets ;  she 
fiithomed  his  old  pools  with  bright 
plummet  glances,  as  if  seeking  some* 
lingering  trace  of  his  features  in  their 
brown  depths,  stamped  there  as  on  a 
fond  human  heart ;  she  sought  out  his 
dear  name,  scratched  on  the  rocks  and 
trees, — and  when  night  came  on,  she 
studied,  in  her  simple  way,  the  great 
starlit  canopy,  under  which,  perhaps, 
her  warrior  lay  sleeping ;  she  wander- 
ed through  the  green  glades,  singing 
snatches  of  his  old  ballads  in  a  clear 
voice,  made  tuneful  with  love,  —  and  as 
she  sang,  there  mingled  with  the  ever- 
lasting murmur  of  the  trees  the  fiunt 
sound  of  a  muffled  bass,  borne  upon  the 
south  wind  like  a  distant  drum-beat,  re- 
sponsive to  a  bugle.  So  she  led  for 
some  months  a  very  pleasant  idyllic  life, 


196$.] 


The  Story  of  a  Year. 


265 


fiice  to  hxx,  with  a  stfong,  vivid  mem- 
oiy,  which  gave  everything  and  asked 
nodiing.  These  were  doubtless  to  be 
(and  she  half  knew  it)  the  happiest  days 
of  her  lifie.  Has  life  any  bliss  so  great 
as  this  pensive  ecstasy  ?  To  know  that 
tibe  golden  sands  are  dropping  one  by 
one  makes  servitude  freedom,  and  pov- 
erty riches. 

In  spite  of  a  certain  sense  of  loss, 
Lizzie  passed  a  very  blissful  summer. 
She  enjoyed  the  deep  repose  which,  it 
is  to  be  hoped,  sanctifies  all  honest 
betrothals.  Possible  calamity  weighed 
lightly  upon  her.  We  know  that  when 
the  columns  of  battle-smoke  leave  the 
field,  they  journey  through  the  heavy 
air  to  a  thousand  quiet  homes,  and  play 
about  the  crackling  blaze  of  as  many 
firesides.  But  Lizzie's  vision  was  never 
douded.  Mrs.  Ford  might  gaze  into 
die  thickening  summer  dusk  and  wipe 
her  spectacles ;  but  her  companion  huin- 
med  her  old  bsdlad-ends  with  an  unbrok- 
en voice.  She  no  more  ceased  to  smile 
under  evil  tidings  than  the  brooklet 
ceases  to  ripple  beneath  the  iMt>jected 
shadow  of  the  roadside  willow.  The 
sdf^ven  promises  of  that  tearful  night 
of  parting  were  forgotten.  Vigilance 
had  no  place  in  Lizzie's  scheme  of  heav- 
enly idleness.  The  idea  of  moralizing 
in  EljTsium! 

It  must  not  be  supposed  that  Mrs. 
Ford  was  indifferent  to  Lizzie's  mood. 
§he  studied  it  watchfully,  and  kept  note 
of  all  its  variations.  And  among  the 
things  she  learned  was,  that  her  compan- 
ion knew  of  her  scrutiny,  and  was,  on 
the  wfioky  indifferent  to  it  Of  the  full 
extent  of  Mis.  Ford's  observation,-how- 
ever,  I  think  Lizzie  was  hardly  aware. 
She  was  like  a  reveller  in  a  brilliantly 
lighted  room,  with  a  curtainless  win- 
dow, conscious,  and  yet  heedless,  of 
passers-by.  And  Mrs.  Ford  may  not 
inaptly  be  compared  to  the  chilly  spec- 
tator on  die  dark  side  of  the  pane.  Very 
few  words  passed  on  the  topic  of  their 
common  thoughts.  From  the  first,  as  we 
have  seen,  Lizzie  guessed  at  her  guar- 
dian's probable  view  of  her  engagement : 
an  abasement  incurred  by  John.  Lizzie 
lacked  what  is  called  a  sense  of  duty ; 


and,  unlike  the  majority  of  such  tem^ 
peraments,  which  contrive  to  be  buoy- 
ant on  the  glistening  bubble  of  Dignity, 
she  had  likewise  a  modest  estimate  of 
her  dues.  Alack,  my  poor  heroine  had 
no  pride  1  Mrs.  Ford's  silent  censure 
awaJcened  no  resentment  It  sounded 
in  her  ears  like  a  dull,  soporific  hum. 
Lizzie  was  deeply  enamored  of  what  a 
French  book  terms  her  ahes  intellectu" 
elUs,  Her  mental  comfort  lay  in  the 
ignoring  of  problems.  She  possessed 
a  certain  native  insight  which  revealed 
many  of  the  horrent  inequalities  of  her 
pathway ;  but  she  found  it  so  cruel  and 
disenchanting  a  £iculty,  that  blindness 
was  infinitely  preferable.  She  preferred 
repose  to  order,  and  mercy  to  justice. 
She  was  speculative,  without  being  crit- 
ical She  was  continually  wondering 
but  she  never  inquired.  This  world 
was  the  riddle;  the  next  alone  would 
be  the  answer. 

So  she  never  felt  any  desire  to  have 
an  ''understanding"  with  Mrs.  Ford. 
Did  the  old  lady  misconceive  her?  it 
was  her  own  business.  Mrs.  Ford  ap- 
parentiy  felt  no  desire  to  set  herself 
right  You  see,  Lizzie  was  ignorant  of 
her  fiiend's  promise.  There  were  mo- 
ments when  Mrs.  Ford's  tongue  itched 
to  speak.  There  were  others,  it  is 
true,  when  she  dreaded  any  explana- 
tion which  would  compel  her  to  forfeit 
her  displeasure.  Lizzie's  happy  self- 
sufficiency  was  most  irritating.  She 
grudged  the  young  girl  the  dignity 
of  her  secret;  her  own  actual  knowl- 
edge of  it  rather  increased  her  jeal- 
ousy, by  showing  her  the  importance 
of  the  scheme  from  which  she  was  ex- 
cluded. Lizzie,  being  in  perfect  good- 
humor  with  the  world  and  with  her- 
self abated  no  jot  of  her  personal  def- 
erence to  Mrs.  Ford.  Of  Jack,  as  a 
good  friend  and  her  guardian's  son,  she 
spoke  very  freely.  But  Mrs.  Ford  was 
mistrustful  of  this  senu-confidence.  She 
would  not,  she  oflen  said  to  herself^  be 
wheedled  against  her  principles.  Her 
principles  I  Oh  for  some  shining  blade 
of  purpose  to  hew  down  such  stubborn 
stakes !  Lizzie  had  no  thought  of  flat- 
tering her  companion.    She  never  de- 


266 


The  Story  of  a  Year. 


[March, 


ceived  any  one  but  herself.  She  could 
not  bring  herself  to  value  Mrs.  Ford's 
good-will.  She  knew  that  Jack  often 
suffered  from  his  mother's  obstinacy. 
So  her  unbroken  humility  shielded  no 
unavowed  purpose.  She  was  patient 
and  kindly  from  nature,  from  habit 
Yet  I  think,  that,  if  Mrs.  Ford  could 
have  measured  her  benignity,  she  would 
have  preferred,  on  the  whole,  the  most 
open  defiance.  "Of  all  things,"  she 
would  sometimes  mutter,  "  to  be  patron- 
ized by  that  little  piece ! "  It  was  very 
disagreeable,  for  instance,  to  have  to 
listen  to  portions  of  her  own  son's  let- 
ters. 

These  letters  came  week  by  week, 
flying  out  of  the  South  like  white- winged 
carrier-doves.  Many  and  many  a  time, 
for  very  pride,  Lizzie  would  have  liked  a 
larger  audience.  Portions  of  them  cer- 
tainly deserved  publicity.  They  were 
far  too  good  for  her.  Were  they  not 
better  than  that  stupid  war-correspond- 
ence in  the  "Times,"  which  she  so  often 
tried  in  vain  to  read  ?  They  contained 
long  details  of  movements,  plans  of  cam- 
paigns,* military  opinions  and  conjec- 
tures, expressed  with  the  emphasis  ha- 
bitual to  young  sub-lieutenants.  I  doubt 
whether  General  Halleck's  despatches 
laid  down  the  law  more  absolutely  than 
Lieutenant  Ford's.  Lizzie  answered  in 
her  own  fashion.  It  must  be  owned 
that  hers  was  a  dull  pen.  She  told  her 
dearest,  dearest  Jack  how  much  she 
loved  and  honored  him,  and  how  much 
she  missed  him,  and  how  delightful  his 
last  tetter  was,  (with  those  beautifully 
drawn  diagrams,)  and  the  village  gossip, 
and  how  stout  and  strong  his  mother 
continued  to  be, — and  again,  how  she 
loved,  etc.,  etc.,  and  that  she  remained 
his  loving  L.  Jack  read  these  'effusions 
as  became  one  so  beloved.  I  should  not 
wonder  if  he  thought  them  very  bril- 
liant 

The  summer  waned  to  its  close,  and 
through  myriad  silent  stages  began  to 
darken  into  autumn.  Who  can  tell  the 
story  of  those  red  months  ?  I  have  to 
chronicle  another  silent  tfttnsition.  But 
as  I  can  find  no  words  delicate  and 
fine  enough  to  describe  the  multifold 


changes  of  Nature,  so,  too,  I  must  be 
content  to  give  you  the  spiritual  £iicts 
in  gross. 

John  Ford  became  a  veteran  down 
by  the  Potomac.  And,  to  tell  the  truth, 
Lizzie  became  a  veteran  at  home.  That 
is,  her  love  and  hope  grew  to  be  an  old 
story.  She  gave  way,  as  the  strongest 
must,  as  the  wisest  will,  to  time.  The 
passion  which,  in  her  simple,  shallow 
way,  she  had  confided  to  the  woods  and 
waters  reflected  their  outward  varia- 
tions ;  she  thought  of  her  lover  less,  and 
with  less  positive  pleasure.  The  golden 
sands  had  run  out  Perfect  rest  was 
over.  Mrs.  Ford's  tacit  protest  began 
to  be  annoying.  In  a  rather  resentful 
spirit,  Lizzie  forbore  to  read  any  more 
letters  aloCid.  These  were  as  regular 
as  ever.  One  of  them  contained  a 
rough  camp-photograph  of  Jack's'  new- 
ly^ bearded  visage.  Lizzie  decfjired  it 
was  "  too  ugly  for  anything,"  and  thrust 
It  out  of  sight  She  found  herself  skip- 
ping his  military  dissertations,  which 
were  still  as  long  and  written  in  as 
handsome  a  hand  as  ever.  The  "  too 
good,"  which  used  to  be  uttered  rather 
proudly,  was  now  rather  a  wearisome 
truth.  When  Lizzie  in  certain  critical 
moods  tried  to  qualify  Jack's  tempera- 
ment, she  said  to  herself  that  he  was 
too  literal.  Once  he  gave  her  a  little 
scolding  for  not  writing  oftener.  "  Jack 
can  make  no  allowances,"  murmured 
Lizzie.  "He  can  understand  no  feel- 
ings but  his  own.  i  remember  he  used 
to  say  that  moods  were  diseases.  His 
mind  is  too  healthy  for  such  things ; 
his  heart  is  too  stout  for  ache  or  pain. 
The*  night  before  he  went  off  he  told 
me  that  Reason,  as  he  calls  it,  was  the 
rule  of  life.  I  suppose  he  thinks  it  the 
rule  of  love,  too.  But  his  heart  is 
younger  than  mine,  —  younger  and  bet- 
ter. He  has  lived  through  awful  scenes 
of  danger  and  bloodshed  and  cruelty, 
yet  his  heart  is  purer."  Lizzie  had  a 
horrible  feeling  of  being  blasie  of  this 
one  affection.  "  Oh,  God  bless  him  ! " 
she  cried.  She  felt  much  better  for  the 
tears  in  which  this  soliloquy  ended.  I 
fear  she  had  begun  to  doubt  her  ability 
to  cry  about  Jack. 


i86s.] 


The  Story  of  a  Year. 


267 


III. 

C&RiSTMAS  came.  The  Army  of  the 
Potomac  had  stacked  its  muskets  and 
gone  into  winter-quarters.  Miss  Crowe 
received  an  invitation  to  pass  the  sec- 
ond fortnight  in  February  at  the  great 
manufacturing  town  of  Leatherborough. 
Leatherborough  is  on  the  railroad,  two 
hours  south  of  Glenham,  at  the  mouth 
of  the  great  river  Tan,  where  this  noble 
stream  expands  into  its  broadest  smile, 
or  gapes  in  too  huge  a  &shion  to  be  dis- 
guised by  a  bridge. 

"  Mrs.  Littlefield  kindly  invites  you 
for  the  last  of  the  month,"  said  Mrs. 
Ford,  reading  a  letter  behind  the  tea-urn. 

It  suited  Mrs.  Ford's  purpose — a 
purpose  which  I  have  not  space  to  elab- 
orate—  that  her  }^oung  charge  should 
now  go  forth  into  society  and  pick  up 
acquaintances. 

Two  sparks  of  pleasure  gleamed  in 
Elizabeth's  eyes.  But,  as  she  had  taught 
herself  to  do  of  late  with  her  protectress, 
she  mused  before  answering. 
■  "  It  is  my  desire  that  you  should  go," 
said  Mrs.  Ford,  taking  silence  for  dis- 
sent 

The  sparks  went  out 

'*  I  intend  to  go,''  said  Lizzie,  rather 
grimly.  '<  I  am  much  obliged  to  Mrs. 
yttlefield." 

Her  companion  looked  up. 

**  I  intend  you  shall.  You  will  please 
to  write  this  morning." 

For  the  rest  of  the  week  the  two 
stitched  together  over  muslins  and  silks, 
and  were  very  good  friends.  Lizzie 
could  scarcely  help  wondering  at  Mrs. 
Ford's  zeal  on  her  behalf.  Might  she 
not  have  referred  it  to  her  guardian's 
principles  ?  Her  wardrobe,  hitherto 
fashioned  on  the  Glenham  notion  of 
elegance,  was  gradually  raised  to  the 
Leatherborough  standard  of  fitness.  As 
she  took  up  her  bedroom  candle  the 
night  before  she  left  home,  she  said,  — 

^  I  thank  you  very  much,  Mrs.  Foni, 
for  having  worked  so  hard  for  me, — 
for  having  taken  so  much  interest  in 
my  outfit  If  they  ask  me  at  Leather- 
borough who  made  my  things,  I  shall 
certainly  say  it  was  you." 


Mrs.  Littlefield  treated  her  3roung 
finend  with  great  kindness.  She  was  a 
good-natured,  childless  matron.  She 
found  Lizzie  very  ignorant  and  very 
pretty.  She  was  glad  to  have  so  great 
a  beauty  and  so  many  lions  to  show. 

One  evening  Lizzie  went  to  her  room 
with  one  of  the  maids,  carrying  half  a 
dozen  candles  between  them.  Heaven 
forbid  that  I  should  cross  that  virgin 
threshold — for  the  present !  But  we  will 
wait  We  will  allow  them  two  hours. 
At  the  end  of  that  time,  having  gent- 
ly knocked,  we  will  enter  tlie  sanctua- 
ry. Glory  of  glories !  The  faithful  at- 
tendant has  done  her  work.  Our  lady 
is  robed,  crowned,  ready  for  worship- 
pers. 

I  trust  I  shall  not  be  held  to  a  mi- 
nute description  of  our  dear  Lizzie's  per- 
son and  costume.  Who  is  so  great  a 
recluse  as  never  to  have  beheld  young 
ladyhood  in  full  dress  ?  Many  of  us 
have  sisters  and  daughters.  Not  a  few 
of  us,  I  hope,  have  female  connections 
of  another  degree,  yet  no  less  dear. 
Others  have  looking-glasses.  I  give 
you  my  word  for  it  that  Elizabeth  made 
as  pretty  a  show  as  it  is  possible  to  see. 
She  was  of  course  well-dressed.  Her 
skirt  was  of  voluminous  white,  puffed 
and  trimmed  in  wondrous  sort  Her 
hair  was  profusely  ornamented  with 
curls  and  braids  of  its  own  rich  sub- 
stance. From  her  waist  depended  a 
ribbon,  broad  and  blue.  White  with 
coral  ornaments,  as  she  wrote  to  Jack 
in  the  coiu^e  of  the  week.  Coral  orna- 
ments, forsooth  !  And  pray,  Miss,  what 
of  the  other  jewels  with  which  your  per- 
son was  decorated, — the  rubies,  pearls, 
and  sapphires  ?  One  by  one  Lizzie  as- 
sumes her  modest  gimcracks :  her  brace- 
let, her  gloves,  her  handkerchief,  her 
fan,  and  then — her  smile.  Ah,  that 
strange  crowning  smile ! 

An  hour  later,  in  Mrs.  Litdefild's  pret- 
ty drawing-room,  amid  music,  lights,  and 
talk.  Miss  Crowe  was  sweeping  a  grand 
curtsy  before  a  tall,  sallow  man,  whose 
name  she  caught  from  her  hostess's  re- 
dundant murmur  as  Bruce.  Five  min- 
utes later,  when  the  honest  matron  gave 
a  glance  at  her  newly  started  enterprise 


268 


•  The  Story  of  a  Year. 


[March, 


from  the  other  side  of  the  room,  she 
said  to  herself  that  really,  for  a  plain 
coantry-girl,  Miss  Crowe  did  this  kind 
of  thing  very  well  Her  next  glimpse 
of  the  couple  showed  them  whirling 
round  the  room  to  the  crashing  thrum 
of  the  piano.  At  eleven  o'clock  she 
beheld  them  linked  by  their  finger-tips 
in  the  dazzling  mazes  of  the.reeL  At 
half- past  eleven  she  discerned  them 
charging  shoulder  to  shoulder  in  the 
serried  columns  of  the  Lancers.  At 
midnight  she  tapped  her  young  friend 
gently  with  her  £ui. 

^  Your  sash  is  impinned,  my  dear.  — 
I  think  you  have  danced  often  enough 
with  Mr.  Bruce.  If  he  asks  you  again, 
you  had  better  refuse.  It 's  not  quite 
the  thing.  —  Yes,  my  dear,  I  know. — 
Mr.  Simpson,  will  you  be  so  good  as  to 
take  Miss  Crowe  down  to  supper  ?  " 

I  'm  afraid  young  Simpson  had  rather 
a  snappish  partner. 

After  the  proper  interval,  Mr.  Bruce 
called  to  pay  his  respects  to  Mrs.  Lat- 
tlefield.  He  found  Miss  Crowe  also 
in  the  drawing-room.  Lizzie  and  he 
met  like  old  friends.  Mrs.  Littlefield 
was  a  willing  listener ;  but  it  seemed 
to  her  that  she  had  come  in  at  the  sec- 
ond act  of  the  play.  Bruce  went  off 
with  Miss  Crowe's  promise  to  drive 
with  him  in  the  afternoon.  In  the  af- 
ternoon he  swept  up  to  the  door  in  a 
prancing,  tinkling  sleigh.  After  some 
minutes  of  hoarse  jesting  and  silvery 
laughter  in  the  keen  wintry  air,  he 
swept  away  again  with  Lizzie  curled  up 
in  the  bufialo-robe  beside  him,  like  a 
kitten  in  a  rug.  It  was  dark  when  they 
returned.  When  Lizzie  came  in  to  the 
sitting-room  fire,  she  was  congratulated 
by  her  hostess  upon  having  made  a 
"  conquest" 

*<  I  think  he  's  a  most  gentlemanly 
man,"  says  Lizzie. 

'*  So  he  is,  my  dear,"  said  Mrs.  Lit- 
tlefield ;  *^  Mr.  Bruce  is  a  perfect  gen- 
tleman. He  's  one  of  the  finest  young 
men  I  know.  He  's  not  so  young  ei- 
ther. He  's  a  little  too  3rellow  for  my 
taste ;  but  he  's  beautifully  educated. 
I  wish  you  could  hear  his  French  ac- 
cent    He  has  been  abroad  I  dont 


know  how  many  years.  The  firm  of 
Bruce  and  Robertson  does  an  immense 
business." 

''And  I  'm  so  glad,"  cries  Lizzie, 
«he  's  coming  to  Glenham  in  March  I 
He  's  going  to  take  his  sister  to  the 
water-cure." 

<< Really ? ~ poor  thing!  She  has 
very  good  maimers." 

<<  What  do  you  think  of  his  k)oks  ? '' 
asked  Lizzie,  smoothing  her  feather. 

**  I  was  speaking  of  Jane  Bruce.  I 
think  Mr.  Bruce  has  fine  eyes." 

"  I  must  say  I  like  tall  men,"  says 
Miss  Crowe. 

^  Then  Robert  Bruce  is  3rour  man," 
laughs  Mr.  Littlefield.  '<  He  's  as  tall 
as  a  bell-tower.  And  he  's  got  a  bell- 
clapper  in  his  head,  too." 

^  I  believe  I  will  go  and  take  off  my 
things,"  remarks  Aiiss  Crowe,  flinging 
up  her  curls. 

Of  course  it  behooved  Mr.  Bruce  to 
caU  the  next  day  and  see  how  Miss 
Crowe  had  stood  her  drive.  He  set  a 
veto  upon  her  intended  departure,  and 
presented  an  invitation  from  his  sister 
for  the  following  week.  At  Mrs.  Lit- 
tlefield's.  instance,  Lizzie  accepted  the 
invitation,  despatched  a  laconic  note 
to  Mrs.  Ford,  and  stayed  over  for  Miss 
Bruce's  party.  It  was  a  grand  affiur. 
Miss  Bruce  was  a  very  great  lady :  she 
treated  Miss  Crowe  with  every  atten- 
tion. Lizzie  was  thought  by  some  per- 
sons to  look  prettier  than  ever.  The 
vaporous  gauze,  the  sunny  hair,  the 
coral,  the  sapphires,  the  smile,  were 
displayed  with  renewed  success.  The 
master  of  the  house  was  unable  to 
dance ;  he  was  summoned  to  sterner 
duties.  Nor  could  Miss  Crowe  be  in* 
duced  to  perform,  having  hurt  her  foot 
on  the  ice.  This  was  of  course  a  dis- 
appointment ;  let  us  hope  that  her  en- 
tertainers made  it  up  to  her. 

On  the  second  day  after  the  party, 
Lizzie  returned  to  Glenham.  Good  Mr. 
Littlefield  took  her  to  the  station,  steal- 
ing a  moment  finom  his  predous  busi- 
ness-hours. 

^  There  are  your  checks,"  said  he ; 
<^be  sure  you  don't  lose  them.  Put 
them  in  your  glove." 


i865.] 


The  ^Stoty  of  a  Year. 


269 


Lizzie  gave  a  little  scream  of  merri- 

**  Mr.  Littlefield,  how  can  you  ?  I  Ve 
a  reticule.  Sir.  But  I  really  don't  want 
you  to  stay." 

**Wcll,  I  confess,"  said  her  com- 
panion. —  "  Hullo  !  there  's  your  Scot- 
tish chief !  I  '11  get  him  to  stay  with 
you  till  the  train  leaves.  He  may  be 
going.    Bruce ! " 

«  Oh,  Mr.  Littlefield,  don't ! "  cries 
Lizzie.  ^Perhaps  Mr.  Bruce  is  en- 
gaged." 

Bruce's  tall  figure  came  striding  to- 
wards them.  He  was  astounded  to  find 
that  Miss  Crowe  was  going  by  this 
train.  Delightful !  He  had  come  to 
meet  a  firiend  who  had  not  arrived. 

"  Littlefield,"  said  he,  "  you  can't  be 
spared  firom  your  business.  I  will  see 
Miss  Crowe  off."      * 

When  the  elder  gentleman  had  de- 
parted, Mr.  Bruce  conducted  his  com- 
panion into  the  car,  and  found  her  a 
comfortable  seat,  equidistant  from  the 
torrid  stove  and  the  fingid  door.  Then 
he  stowed  away  her  shawls,  umbrella, 
and  reticule.  She  would  keep  her 
mufif?  She  did  well.  What  a  pretty 
fur! 

<'  It 's  just  like  your  collar,"  said  Liz- 
zie. ^  I  wish  I  had  a  muff  for  my  feet," 
she  pursued,  tapping  on  the  floor. 

"  Why  not  use  some  of  those  shawls  ?  " 
said  Bruce ;  ^  let  's  see  what  we  can 
make  of  them." 

And  he  stooped  down  and  arranged 
them  as  a  rug,  very  neatly  and  kindly. 
And  then  he  called  himself  a  fool  for 
not  having  used  the  next  seat,  which 
was  empty ;  and  the  wrapping  was  done 
over  again. 

"  I  'm  so  afiaid  you  11  be  carried  off! " 
said  Lizzie.    **•  What  would  you  do  ?  " 

^  I  think  I  should  make  the  best  of 
it    And  you  ?  " 

"  I  would  tell  you  to  sit  down  there  " ; 
and  she  indicated  the  seat  &cing  her. 
He  took  it  "  Now  you  'U  be  sure  to," 
said  Elizabeth. 

'^  I  'm  afiraid  I  shall,  unless  I  put  the 
newspaper  between  us."  And  he  took 
it  out  of  his  pocket  "  Have  you  seen 
the  news  ?  " 


<<No,"  says  Lizzie,  elongating  her 
bonnet-ribbons.  ''What  is  it?  Just 
look  at  that  party." 

**  There  's  not  much  news.  There  's 
been  a  scrimmage  on  the  Rappahan- 
nock. Two  of  our  regiments  engaged, 
—  the  Fifteenth  and  the  Twenty-Eighth. 
Did  n't  you  tell  me  you  had  a  cousin  or 
something  in  the  Fifteenth  ?  " 

''  Not  a'  cousin,  no  relation,  but  an 
intimate  fiiend,  —  my  guardian's  son. 
What  does  the  paper  say,  please  ? " 
inquires  Lizzie,  very  pale. 

Bruce  cast  his  eye  over  the  report 
''  It  does  n't  seem  to  have  amounted  to 
much  ;  we  drove  back  the  enemy,  and 
recrossed  the  river  at  our  ease.  Our 
loss  only  fifty.  There  are  no  names," 
he  added,  catching  a  glimpse  of  Liz- 
zie's pallor^  —  ''  none  in  this  paper  at 
least" 

In  a  few  moments  appeared  a  news* 
boy  crying  the  New  York  journals. 

"  Do  you  think  the  New  York  papers 
would  have  any  names  ?  "  asked  Lizzie. 
"We  can  try,"  said  Bruce.  And  he 
bought  a  ''Herald,"  and  unfolded  it 
"Yes,  there  is  a  list,"  he  continued, 
some  time  after  he  had  opened  out  the 
sheet.  "  What 's  your  friend's  name  ?  " 
he  asked,  fit>m  behind  the  paper. 

"  Ford,  —  John  Ford,  second  lieu- 
tenant," said  Lizzie. 
There  was  a  long  pause. 
At  last  Bruce  lowered  the  sheet,  and 
showed  a  face  in  which  Lizzie's  pallor 
seemied  ^ntly  reflected. 

"There  is  such  a  name  among  the 
wounded,"  he  said ;  and,  folding,  the 
paper  down,  he  held  it  out,  and  gently 
crossed  to^he  seat  beside  her. 

Lizzie  took  the  paper,  and  held  it 
dose  to  her  eyes.  But  Bruce  could  not 
help  seeing  that  her  temples  had  turned 
from  white  to  crimson. 

"  Do  you  see  it  ?  "  he  asked  ;   "  I 
sincerely  hope  it 's  nothing  very  bad." 
"  Severely*^  whispered  Lizzie. 
"  Yes,  but  that  proves  nothing.  Those 
things  are  most  unreliable.     Do  hope 
for  the  best" 

Lizzie  made  no  answer.  Meanwhile 
passengers  had  been  brushing  in,  and 
the  car  was  full.    The  engine  began  to 


270 


The  Story  of  a  Year. 


[March» 


puff,  and  the  conductor  to.  shout.    The 
train  gave  a  jog. 

"  You  'd  better  go,  Sir,  or  you  *11  be 
carried  off,''  said  Lizzie,  holding  out  her 
hand,  with  her  face  still  hidden. 

''May  I  go  on  to  the  next  station 
with  you  ?  "  said  Bruce. 

Lizzie  gave  him  a  rapid  look,  with  a 
deepened  flush.  He  had  fancied  that 
she  was  shedding  tears.  But  those 
eyes  were  dry;  they  held  fire  rather 
than  water. 

"  No,  no,  Sir ;  you  must  not  I  in- 
sist   Good  bye." 

Bruce's  offer  had  cost  him  a  blush, 
too.  He  had  been  prepared  to  back 
it  with  the  assurance  that  he  had  busi- 
ness ahead,  and,  indeed,  to  make  a  little 
business  in  order  to  satisfy  his  con- 
science.   But  Lizzie's  answer  was  finaL 

"  Very  well,"  said  he,  ^^^ood  bye.  You 
have  my  real  sympathy.  Miss  Crowe. 
Don't  despair.    We  shall  meet  again." 

The  train  rattled  away.  Lizzie  caught 
a  glimpse  of  a  tall  figure  with  lifted  hat 
on  the  platform.  But  she  sat  motion- 
less, with  her  head  against  the  window- 
frame,  her  veil  down,  and  her  hands 
idle. 

She  had  enough  to  do  to  think,  or 
rather  to  feel.  It  is  fortunate  that  the 
utmost  shock  of  evil  tidings  often  comes 
first  After  that  everything  is  for  the 
better.  Jack's  name  stood  printed  in 
that  &tal  column  like  a  stem  signal  for 
despair.  Lizzie  felt  conscious  of  a  cri- 
sis which  almost  arrested  her  breath. 
Night  had  fallen  at  midday :  what  was 
the  hour  ?  A  tragedy  had  stepped  into 
her  life :  was  she  spectator  or  actor  ? 
She  found  herself  face  \xp  &ce  with 
death :  was  it  not  her  own  soul  mas- 
querading in  a  shroud  ?  She  sat  in  a 
half-stupor.  She  had  been  aroused 
from  a  dream  into  a  waking  nightmare. 
It  was  like  hearing  a  murder-shriek 
while  you  turn  the  page  of  your  novel 
But  I  cannot  describe  these  things.  In 
time  the  crushing  sense  of  calamity 
loosened  its  grasp.  Feeling  lashed  her 
pinions.  Thought  struggled  to  rise. 
Passion  was  still,  stunned,  floored.  She 
had  recoiled  like  a  receding  wave  for 
a  stronger  onset    A  hundred  ghastly 


fears  and  fancies  strutted  a  moment, 
pecking  at  the  young  girl's  naked  heart, 
like  sandpipers  on  the  weltering  beach. 
Then,  as  with  a  great  murmurous  rush, 
came  the  meaning  of  her  grief.  The 
flood-gates  of  emotion  were  opened. 

At  last  passion  exhausted  itself,  and 
Lizzie  thought  Bruce's  parting  words 
rang  in  her  ears.  She  did  her  best  to 
hope.  She  refkcted  that  wounds,  even 
severe  wounds,  did  not  necessarily  mean 
death.  Death  might  easily  be  warded 
off.  She  would  go  to  Jack  ;  she  would 
nurse  him ;  she  would  watch  by  him  ; 
she  would  cure  him.  Even  if  Death 
had  already  beckoned,  she  would  strike 
down  his  hand :  if  Life  had  already 
obeyed,  she  would  issue  the  stronger 
mandate  of  Love.  She  would  stanch 
his  wounds ;  she  would  unseal  his  eyes 
with  her  kisses  ;  she  would  call  till  he 
answered  her. 

Lizzie  reached  home  and  walked  up 
the  garden  path.  Mrs.  Ford  stood  in 
the  parlor  as  she  entered,  upright,  pale, 
and  rigid.  Each  read  the  other's  coun- 
tenance. Lizzie  went  towards  her  slow- 
ly and  giddily.  She  must  of  course  kiss 
her  patroness.  She  took  her  listless 
hand  and  bent  towards  her  stem  lips. 
Habitually  Mrs.  Ford  was  the  most  im- 
demonstrative  of  women.  But  as  Liz- 
zie looked  closer  into  her  face,  she  read 
the  signs  of  a  grief  infinitely  more  po- 
tent than  her  own.  The  formal  kiss 
gave  way:  the  young  girl  leaned  her 
head  on  the  old  woman's  shoulder  and 
burst  into  sobs.  Mrs.  Ford  acknowl- 
edged those  tears  with  a  slow  inclina- 
tion of  the  head,  full  of  a  certain  grim 
pathos :  she  put  out  her  arms  and 
pressed  them  closer  to  her  heart 

At  last  Lizzie  disengaged  herself  and 
sat  down. 

"  I  am  going  to  him,"  said  Mrs.  Ford. 

Lizzie's  dizziness  returned.  Mrs.  Ford 
was  going,  —  and  she,  she  ? 

"  I  am  going  to  nurse  him,  and  with 
God's  help  to  save  him." 

"  How  did  you  hear  ?  " 

"  I  have  a  telegram  from  the  surgeon 
of  the  regiment " ;  and  Mrs.  Ford  held 
out  a  paper. 

Lizzie  took  it  and  read :  "  Lieutenant 


186$.] 


The  Story  of  a  Year, 


271 


Ford  dangerously  wounded  in  the  ac« 
tion  of  yesterday.  You  had  better 
come  on." 

''I  should  like  to  go  myself"  said 
Lizzie :  *'  I  think  Jack  would  like  to 
have  me." 

*'  Nonsense !  A  pretty  place  for  a 
young  girl !  I  am  not  going  for  senti- 
ment ;  I  am  going  for  use." 

Lizzie  leaned  her  head  back  in  her 
diair,  and  closed  her  eyes.  From  the 
moment  they  had  fallen  upon  Mrs.  Ford, 
she  had  felt  a  certain  quiescence.  And 
now  it  was  a  relief  to  have  responsibility 
denied  her.  Like  most  weak  persons, 
she  was  glad  to  step  out  of  the  current 
of  life,  now  that  it  had  begun  to  quicken 
Into  action.  In  emergencies,  such  per- 
sons are  tacidy  counted  out ;  and  they 
as  tacitly  consent  to  the  arrangement. 
Even  to  the  sensitive  spirit  there  is  a 
certain  meditative  rapture  in  standing 
on  the  quiet  shore,  (beside  the  ruminat- 
ing cattle,)  and  watching  the  hurrying, 
eddying  flood,  which  makes  up  for  the 
k)ss  of  dignity.  Lizzie's  heart  resumed 
its  peaceful  throbs.  She  sat,  almost 
dreamily,  with  her  eyes  shut. 

^  I  leave  in  an  hour,"  said  Mrs.  Ford. 
*I  am  going  to  get  ready.  —  Do  you 
hear  ?  " 

The  young  girl's  silence  was  a  deeper 
consent  than  her  companion  supposed. 


IV. 

It  was  a  week  before  Lizzie  heard 
from.  Mrs.  Ford.  The  letter,  when  it 
came,  was  very  brief.  Jack  sdll  lived. 
The  wounds  were  three  in  number,  and 
very  serious ;  he  was  unconscious ;  he 
had  not  recognized  her ;  but  still  the 
chances  either  way  were  thought  equal. 
They  would  be  much  greater  for  his  re- 
covery nearer  home ;  but  it  was  impos- 
sible to  move  him.  ^  I  write  from  the 
midst  of  horrible  scenes,"  said  the  poor 
lady.  Subjoined  was  a  list  of  necessary 
medicines,  comforts,  and  delicacies,  to 
be  boxed  up  and  sent 

For  a  while  Lizzie  found  occupation 
in  writing  a  letter  to  Jack,  to  be  read  in 
his  first  lucid  moment,  as  she  told  Mrs. 


Ford.  This^  lady's  man -of- business 
came  up  from  the  village  to  superintend 
the  packing  of  the  boxes.  Her  direc- 
'  tions  were  stricdy  followed ;  and  in  no 
point  wer^  they  found  wanting.  Mr. 
Mackenzie  bespoke  Lizzie's  admiration 
for  their  friend's  wonderftd  clearness  of 
memory  and  judgment  '*I  wish  we 
had  that  woman  at  the  head  of  af&irs," 
said  he.  ^  'Gad,  I  'd  apply  for  a  Briga- 
dier-Generalship." —  **  I  *d  apply  to  be 
sent  South,"  thought  Lizzie.  When  the 
boxes  and  letter  were  despatched,  she 
sat  dov/n  to  await  more  news.  Sat 
down,  say  I  ?  Sat  down,  and  rose,  and 
wondered,  and  sat  down  again.  These 
were  lonely,  weary  days.  Very  different 
are  the  idleness  of  love  and  the  idleness 
of  grief.  Very  different  is  it  to  be  alone 
with  your  hope  and  alone  with  your 
despair.  Lizzie  foiled  to  rally  her  mus- 
ings. I  do  not  mean  to  say  that  her 
sorrow  was  very  poignant,  although  she 
fancied  it  was.  Habit  was  a  great  force 
in  her  simple  nature ;  and  her  chief 
trouble  now  was  that  habit  refused  to 
work.  Lizzie  had  to  grapple  with  the 
stem  tribulation  of  a  decision  to  make, 
a  problem  to  solve.  She  felt  that  there 
was  some  spiritual  barrier  between  her- 
self and  repose.  So  she  began  in  her 
usual  fashion  to  build  up  a  false  repose 
on  the  hither  side  of  belief.  She  might 
as  well  have  tried  to  float  on  the  Dead 
Sea.  Peace  eluding  her,  she  tried  to 
resign  herself  to  tumult  She  drank 
deep  at  the  well  of  selfrpity,  but  found 
its  waters  brackish.  People  are  apt  to 
think  that  they  may  temper  the  penal- 
ties of  misconduct  by  self-commisera- 
tion, just  as  they  season  the  long  after- 
taste of  beneficence  by  a  littie  spice  of 
self-applause.  But  the  Power  of  Good 
is  a  more  grateful  master  than  the  Devil. 
What  bliss  to  gaze  into  the  smooth 
giu^ling  wake  of  a  good  deed,  while 
the  comely  bark  sails  on  with  floating 
pennon  1  What  horror  to  look  into  the 
muddy  sediment  which  floats  round  the 
piratic  keel !  Go,  sinner,  and  dissolve 
it  with  your  tears  I  And  you,  scofiing 
friend,  there  is  the  way  out !  Or  would 
ydu  prefer  the  window  ?  I  'm  an  honest 
man  forevermore. 


272 


The  Story  cf  a  Year. 


[March, 


One  night  Lisne  had  a  dreamt — & 
rather  disagreeable  one,  —  which  haunt- 
ed  her  during  many  waking  hours.  It 
seemed  to  her  that  she  was  walking  in 
a  lonely  place,  with  a  tall,  dark-eyed  man 
who  called  her  wife.  Suddenly,  in  the 
shadow  of  a  tree,  they  came  upon  an 
unburied  corpse.  Lizzie  proposed  to 
dig  him  a  grave.  They  dug  a  great 
hole  and  took  hold  of  the  corpse  to  lift 
him  in ;  when  suddenly  he  opened  his 
eyes.  Then  they  saw  that  he  was  cov- 
ered with  wounds.  He  looked  at  them 
intendy  for  some  time,  turning  his  eyes 
from  one  to  the  other.  At  last  he  sol- 
emnly said,  "  Amen  1 "  and  closed  his 
eyes.  Then  she  and  her  companion 
placed  him  in  the  grave,  and  shovelled 
the  earth  over  him,  and  stamped  it  down 
with  their  feet 

He  of  the  dark  eyes  and  he  of  the 
wounds  were  the  two  constandy  recur- 
ring figures  of  Lizzie's  reveries.  She 
could  never  think  of  John  without  think- 
ing of  the  courteous  Leatherborough 
gendeman,  too.  These  were  the  data 
of  her  problem.  These  two  figures 
stood  like  opposing  knights,  (the  black 
and  the  white,)  foremost  on  the  great 
chess-board  of  fstte.  Lizzie  was  the 
wearied,  puzzled  player.  She  would 
idly  finger  the  other  pieces,  and  shift 
them  carelessly  hither  and  thither ;  but 
it  was  of  no  avail :  the  game  lay  between 
die  two  knights.  She  would  shut  her 
eyes  and  long  for  some  kind  hand  to 
come  and  tamper  with  the  board ;  she 
would  open  them  and  see  the  two 
knights  standing  immovable,  face  to 
fiure.  It  was  nothing  new.  A  £uicy 
had  come  in  and  offered  defiance  to  a 
&ct;  they  must  fight  it  out  Lizzie 
generously  inclined  to  the  fimcy,  the 
unknown  champion,  with  a  reputation 
to  make.  Call  her  bias/e,  if  you  like, 
this  littie  girl,  whose  record  told  of  a 
couple  of  dances  and  a  single  lover, 
heartless,  old  before  her  time.  Perhaps 
she  deserves  your  scorn.  I  confess 
she  thought  herself  ill-used.  By  whom  ? 
by  what  ?  wherein  ?  These  were  ques- 
tions Miss  Crowe  was  not  prepared  to 
answer.  Her  intellect  was  unequal  to 
the  stem  logic  of  human  events.    She 


expected  two  and  two  to  make  five :  as  ^^  bet  jack ' 
why  should  they  not  for  the  npiice?ixitKiii  od 
She  was  like  an  actor  who  finds  himself  -i^iielaT.  as  I 
on  the  stage  with  a  half-learned  part  andtvo,  tiot  she 
without  sufficient  wit  to  eztemporixe.:::^.  speak  to 
Pray,  where  is  the  prompter  ?  Alas,  £7^2:  si^  c< 
Elisabeth,  that  you  had  no  mother ! -ssel  and  )i 
Young  girls  are  prone  to  fancy  that  when  -^  whether 
once  they  have  a  lover,  they  have  every-  ;  ^^jposc  Mr 
thing  they  need :  a  conclusion  incon-  ^-^bl  her 
sistent  with  the  belief  entertained  by  .^d insane? 
many  persons,  that  life  begins  with  love.  . ;,  ^r  ^y^^^ 
Lizzie's  fortunes  became  old  stories  to  .^Iiersej] 
her  before  she  had  half  read  thetn  --^-j^^] 
through.  Jack's  wounds  and  danger  ,  ^^  ^  i^:^ 
were  an  old  story.  Do  not  suppose  ..^^  ,^  ^ 
that  she  had.exhausted  the  lessons,  the  ~ 
suggestions  of  these  awful  events,  their 
inspirations,  exhortations,  —  that  she 
had  wept  as  became  the  horror  of  the  *"^  '^"'^ 
tragedy.  No :  the  curtain  had  not  yet  ^:. J. 
&llen,  yet  our  young  lady  had  begun  to  7  r.*^ ' 
yawn.  To  yawn?  Ay,  and  to  long  1\^"'^ 
for  the  afterpiece.  Since  the  tragedy  7\^^^^^^ 
dragged,  might  she  not  divert  herself  '  ■^~' ' 
with  that  well-bred  man  beside  her  ?  ->  s^  ^ 

Elizabeth  was  far  from  owning  to  her-      ~  ~'  -' 
self  that  she  had  fallen  away  fix>m  her     ;*  ^'^  - 
love.    For  my  own  part,  I  need  no  bet-     t '  ^  ^ 
ter  proof  of  the  fact  than  the  dull  per-     ^  ^^^ 
sistency  with  which  she  denied  it  What     "-^-tr. 
accusing  voice  broke  out  of  the  still-     ''-r^i: 
ness?     Jack's  nobleness  and   magna-r      ^'^^  ii 
nimity  were  the  hourly  theme  of  her     "'^--~ 
clogged  fajicy.    Again  and  again  she  de-     "^  ^:  t^ 
clared  to  herself  that  she  was  unworthy     "X~  :: 
of  them,  but  that,  if  he  would  only  re-        ^  r ;: 
cover  and  come  home,  she  would  be  his      '  "-'  u: 
eternal  bond-slave.     So  she  passed  a 
very  miserable  month.     Let  us  hope       -  :_:  .j 
that  her  childish  spirit  was  being  tem- 
pered to  some  useful  purpose.    Let  us         ^  • . 
hope  so.  ^-  ■_■, 

She  roamed  about  the  empty  house        .-t 
with*  her  footsteps  tracked  by  an  unlaid  ^  ^ 

ghost  She  cried  aloud  and  said  that 
she  was  very  imhappy;  she  groaned 
and  called  herself  wicked.  Then,  some- 
times, appalled  at  her  moral  perplexi- 
ties, she  deckired  that  she  was  neither 
wicked  nor  unhappy ;  she  was  content- 
ed, patient,  and  wise.  Other  girls  had  ' 
lost  their  lovers :  it  was  the  present  way 
of  life.     Was  she  weaker  than  most 


.■■~i 


_  1 


.  T- 


-    'J 


1865.] 


The  Story  of  a  Year. 


273 


women  ?  Nay,  but  Jack  was  the  best 
of  men.  If  he  would  only  come  back 
directly,  without  delay,  as  he  was,  sense- 
less, dying  even,  that  she  might  look  at 
him,  touch  him,  speak  to  him !  Then 
she  would  say  that  she  could  no  longer 
answer  for  herself,  and  wonder  (or  pre- 
tend to  wonder)  whether  she  were  no*t 
going  mad.  Suppose  Mrs.  Ford  should 
come  back  and  find  her  in  an  unswept 
room,  pallid  and  insane  ?  or  suppose  she 
should  die  of  her  troubles?  What  if 
slie  should  kill  herself?  —  dismiss  the 
servants,  and  close  the  house,  and  lock 
herself  up  with  a  knife  ?  Then  she 
would  cut  her  arm  to  escape  from  dis- 
may at  what  she  had  already  done ;  and 
then  her  courage  would  ebb  away  with 
her  blood,  and,  having  so  £ir  pledged 
herself  to  despair,  her  life  would  ebb 
away  with  her  courage ;  and  then,  alone, 
in  darkness,  with  none  to  help  her,  she 
would  vainly  scream,  and  thrust  the 
knife  into  her  temple,  and  swoon  to 
death.  And  Jack  would  come  back, 
and  burst  into  the  house,  and  wander 
through  the  empty  rooms,  calling  her 
name,  and  for  all  answer  get  a  death- 
scent  I  These  imaginings  were  the  more 
creditable  or  discreditable  to  Lizzie,  that 
she  had  never  read  '^  Romeo  and  Juli- 
et" At  any  rate,  they  served  to  dissi- 
pate time,  —  heavy,  weary  time,  —  the 
more  heavy  and  weary  as  it  bore  dark 
foreshadowings  of  some  momentous 
event  If  that  event  would  only  come, 
whatever  it  was,  and  sever  this  Gordian 
knot  of  doubt ! 

The  days  passed  slowly :  the  leaden 
sands  dropped  one  by  one.  The  roads 
were  too  bad  for  walking ;  so  Lizzie 
was  obliged  to  confine  her  restlessness 
to  the  narrow  bounds  of  the  empty 
house,  or  to  an  occasional  journey  to 
the  village,  where  people  sickened  her 
by  their  dull  indifference  to  her  spiritual 
agony.  Still  they  could  not  fail  to  re- 
mark how  poorly  Miss  Crowe  was  look- 
ing. This  was  true,  and  Lizzie  knew 
it  I  think  she  even  took  a  certain  com- 
fort in  her  pallor  and  in  her  Ruling  in- 
terest in  her  dress.  There  was  some 
satisfaction  in  displaying  her  white  roses 
amid  the  apple -cheeked  prosperity  of 

VOL,  XV.  — NO.  89b  18 


Main  Street    At  last  Miss  Cooper,  the 
Doctor's  sister,  spoke  to  her :  — 

'*  How  'is  it,  Elizabeth,  you  look  so 
pale,  and  thin,  and  worn  out?  What 
you  been  doing  with  yourself  ?  Falling 
in  love,  eh?  It  is  n't  right  to  be  so 
much  alone.  Come  down  and  stay  with 
us  awhile,  —  till  Mrs.  Ford  and  John 
come  back,"  added  Miss  Cooper,  who 
wished  to  put  a  cheerful  face  on  the 
matter. 

For  Miss  Cooper,  indeed,  any  other 
face  would  have  been  difficult  Lizzie 
agreed  to  come.  Her  hostess  was  a 
busy,  unbeautifiil  old  maid,  sister  and 
housekeeper  of  the  village  physician. 
Her  occupation  here  below  was  to  per- 
form the  forgotten  tasks  of  her  fellow- 
men,  —  to  pick  up  their  dropped  stitches, 
as  she  herself  declared.  She  was  never 
idle,  for  her  general  cleverness  was  com- 
mensiu^te  with  mortal  needs.  Her  own 
story  was,  that  she  kept  moving,  so  that 
folks  could  n't  see  how  ugly  she  was. 
And,  in  fact,  her  existence  was  manifest 
through  her  long  train  of  good  deeds, — 
just  as  the  presence  of  a  comet  is  shown 
by  its  tail  It  was  doubtless  on  the 
above  principle  that  her  visage  was  agi- 
tated by  a  perpetual  laugh. 

Meanwhile  more  news  had  been  com- 
ing from  Virginia.  "  What  an  absurdly 
long  letter  you  sent  John,"  wrote  Mrs. 
Ford,  in  acknowledging  the  receipt  of 
the  boxes.  ^  His  first  lucid  moment 
would  be  very  short,  if  he  were  to  take 
upon  himself  to  read  your  effusions. 
Pray  keep  your  long  stories  till  he  gets 
well."  For  a  fortnight  the  young  sol- 
dier remained  the  same, — feverish,  con- 
scious only  at  intervals.  Then  came  a 
change  for  the  worse,  which,  for  many 
weary  days,  however,  resulted  in  nothing 
decisive.  "  If  he  could  only  be  moved 
to  Glenham,  home,  and  old  sights,"  said 
his  mother,  *^  I  should  have  hope.  But 
think  of  the  journey!"  By  this  time 
Lizzie  had  stayed  out  ten  days  of  her 
visit 

One  day  Miss  Cooper  came  in  from 
a  walk,  radiant  with  tidings.  Her  &ce, 
as  I  have  observed,  wore  a  continual 
smile,  being  dimpled  and  punctured  all 
over  with  merriment,  —  so  that,  when  an 


274 


The  Story  of  a  Year. 


[March, 


unusual  cheerfulness  was  super-difiused, 
it  re^mbled  a  tempestuous  little  pool 
into  which  a  great  stone  has  been  cast 

*^  Guess  who 's  come/'  said  she,  going 
up  to  the  piano,  which  Lizzie  was  care- 
lessly fingering,  and  putting  her  hands 
on  the  young  girl's  shoulders.  "Just 
guess ! " 

Lizzie  looked  up. 

**  Jack,"  she  half  gasped. 

"  Oh,  dear,  no,  not  that !  How  stupid 
of  me  1  I  mean  Mr.  Bruce,  your  Leath- 
erborough  admirer." 

"  Mr.  Bruce  !  Mr.  Briice ! "  said  Liz^ 
zie.    ^  Really  ?  " 

**  True-as  I  live.  He  's  come  to  bring 
his  sister  to  the  Water-Cure.  I  met 
them  at  the  post-office." 

Lizzie  felt  a  strange  sensation  of  good 
news.  Her  finger-tips  were  on  fire. 
She  was  deaf  to  her  companion's  rat- 
tling chronicle.  She  broke  into  the 
midst  of  it  with  a  figment  of  some 
triumphant,  jubilant  melody.  The  keys 
rang  beneath  her  flashing  hands.  And 
then  she  suddenly  stopped,  and  Miss 
Cooper,  who  was  taking  off  her  bonnet 
at  the  mirror,  saw  that  her  fsice-was 
covered  with  a  burning  flush. 

That  evening,  Mr.  Bruce  present- 
ed himself  at  Doctor  Cooper's,  with 
whom  he  had  a  slight  acquaintance.  To 
Lizzie  he  was  infinitely  courteous  and 
tender.  He  assured  her,  in  very  pretty 
terms,  of  his  profound  sympathy  with 
her  in  her  cousin's  danger,  —  her  cous- 
in he  still  called  him,  —  and  it  seemed 
to  Lizzie  that  until  that  moment  no  one 
had  begun  to  be  kind.  And  then  he 
began  to  rebuke  her,  playfully  and  in 
excellent  taste,  for  her  pale  cheeks. 

"Is  n't  it  dreadful  ?  "  said  Miss  Coop- 
er. "  She  looks  like  a  gHbst  I  guess 
she  's  in  love." 

"  He  must  be  a  good-for-nothing  lover 
to  make  his  mistress  look  so  sad.  If  I 
were  you,  I  'd  give  him  up,  Miss  Crowe." 

"  I  did  n't  know  I  looked  sad,"  said 
Lizzie. 

"  You  don't  now,"  said  Miss  Cooper. 
"  You  're  smiling  and  blushing.  A'n't 
she  blushing,  Mr.  Bruce?" 

"  I  think  Miss  Crowe  has  no  more 
than  her  natural  color,"  said  Bruce,  drop- 


ping his  eye-glass.  What  have  you 
been  doing  all  this  while  since  we  part* 
ed?" 

*'  All  this  while  ?  it 's  only  six  weeks. 
I  don't  know.  Nothing.  What  have 
you  ?  " 

"  I  've  been  doing  nothing,  too.  It 's 
fiard  work." 

"  Have  you  been  to  any  more  par- 
ties ?  " 

"  Not  one." 

"  Any  more  sleigh-rides  ?  " 

"  Yes.  I  took  one  more  dreary  drive 
all  alone,  —  over  that  same  road,  you 
know.  And  I  stopped  at  the  farm-house 
again,  and  saw  the  old  woman  we  had 
the  talk  with.  She  remembered  us,  and 
asked  me  what  had  become  of  the  young 
lady  who  was  with  me  before.  I  told 
her  you  were  gone  home,  but  that  I 
hoped  soon  to  go  and  see  you.  So  she 
sent  you  her  love  " 

"  Oh,  how  nice ! "  exclaimed  Lizzie. 

"  Was  n't  it  ?  And  then  she  made 
a  certain  little  speech;  I  won't  repeat 
it,  or  we  shall  have  Miss  Cooper  talking 
about  your  blushes  again." 

"  I  know,"  cried  the  lady  in  question : 
"  she  said  she  was  very  " 

"  Very  what  ? "  said  Lizzie. 

•*  Very  h-a-n-d what  every  one 

sa)rs." 

"  Very  handy  ?  "  asked  Lizzie.  "  I  'm 
sure  no  one  ever  said  that" 

"  Of  course,"  said  Bruce  ;  "  and  I  an- 
swered what  every  one  answers." 

**  Have  you  seen  Mrs.  Littlefield  late- 
ly?" 

"  Several  times.  I  called  on  her  the 
day  before  I  left  town,  to  see  if  she  had 
any  messages  for  you." 

"  Oh,  thank  you !  I  hope  she  's 
well." 

"Oh,  she  's  as  jolly  as  ever.  She 
sent  you  her  love,  and  hoped  you  would 
come  back  to  Leatherborough  very  soon 
again.  I  told  her,  that,  however  it  might 
be  with  the  first  message,  the  second 
should  be  a  joint  one  fi*om  both  of  us." 

"You  're  very  kind.  I  should  like 
very  much  to  go  again.  —  Do  you  like 
Mrs.  Littlefield  ?  "* 

"Like  her?  Yes.  Don't  you?  She's 
thought  a  very  pleasing  woman." 


1 86s.] 


The  Story  of  a   Year. 


275 


"Oh,  she  's  very  nice.  —  I  don't 
think  she  has  much  conversation/' 

"  Ah,  I  'm  afraid  you  mean  she  does 
n't  backbite.  We  've  always  found 
plenty  to  talk  about" 

*'That  *s  a  very  significant  tone. 
What,  for  instance  ?  " 

"Well,  we  have  talked  about  Miss 
Crowe." 

"  Oh,  you  have  ?  Do  you  call  that 
having  plenty  to  talk  about  ? " 

"We  have  talked  about  Mr.  Bruce, 
—  have  n't  we,  Elizabeth  ?  "  said  Miss 
Cooper,  who  had  her  own  notion  of 
being  agreeable. 

It  was  not  an  altogether  bad  notion, 
perhaps  ;  but  Bruce  found  her  interrup- 
tions rather  annoying,  and  insensibly 
allowed  them  to  shorten  his  visit  Ye^ 
as  it  was,  he  sat  till  eleven  o'clock,  — 
a  stay  quite  unprecedented  at  Glen- 
ham. 

When  he  left  the  house,  he  "went 
splashing  down  the  foad  with  a  very 
elastic  tread,  springing  over  the  starlit 
puddles,  and  trolling  out  some  senti- 
mental ditty.  He  reached  the  inn,  and 
went  up  to  his  sister's  sitting-room. 

**  Why,  Robert,  where  have  you  been 
all  this  while  .^  "  said  Miss  Bruce. 

"  At  Dr.  Cooper's." 

"  Dr.  Cooper's  ?  I  should  think  you 
had !    Who  's  Dr.  Cooper  ?  " 

"  Where  Miss  Crowe  's  staying.** 

"  Miss  Crowe  ?  Ah,  Mrs.  Littlefield's 
friend  !     Is  she  as  pretty  as  ever  ?" 

"  Prettier,  —  prettier,  —  prettier.  Ta^ 
ra-ta!  tara-ta/" 

"  Oh,  Robert,  do  stop  that  singing  \ 
You  '11  rouse  the  whole  house."' 


V. 


Late  one  afternoon,  at  dusk,  about 
three  weeks  after  Mr.  Bruce's  arrival, 
Lizzie  was  sitting  alone  by  the  fire,  in 
Miss  Cooper's  parlor,  musing,  as  be- 
came the  place  and  hour.  The  Doctor 
and  his  sister  came  in,  dressed  for  a 
lecture. 

"  I  'm  sorry  you  won't  go,  my  dear," 
said  Miss  Cooper.  "  It 's  a  most  inter- 
esting subject :  •  A  Year  of  the  War.* 


AH  the  battles  and  things  described, 
you  know."  • 

**  I  'm  tired  of  war,"  said  Lizzie. 
« Well,  weU,  if  you  're  tired  of  the 
war,  we  '11  leave  you  in  peace.  Kiss 
me  good-bye.  What  's  the  matter  ? 
You  look  sick.  You  are  homesick,  a'n't 
you  ?** 

"  No,  no,  —  I  'm  very  well." 

"  Would  you  like  me  to  stay  at  home 
with  you  ?  " 

"  Oh,  no  !  pray,  don't !  " 

"Well,  we  '11  tell  you  all  about  it 
Will  they  have  programmes,  James  ? 
I  'U  bring  her  a  programme.  —  But  you 
really  feel  as  if  you  were  going  to  be  ilL 
Feel  of  her  skin,  James." 

"  No,  you  need  n't.  Sir,"  said  Lizzie. 
"  How  queer  of  you,  Miss  Cooper  !  I 
'm  perfectly  well." 

And  at  last  her  friends  departed. 
Before  long  the  servant  came  with  the 
lamp,  ushering  Mr.  Mackenzie. 

"  Good  evening.  Miss,"  said  he.  "  Bad 
news  from  Mrs.  Ford." 

"  Bad  news  ?  " 

"  Yes,  Miss.  I  've  just  got  a  letter 
stating  that  Mr.  John  is  growing  worse 
and  worse,  and  that  they  look  for  his 
death  from  hour  to  hour.  —  It's  very 
sad,"  he  added,  as  Elizabeth  was  si- 
lent 

"  Yes,  it 's  very  sad,"  said  Lizzie. 

"  I  thought  you  'd  like  to  hear  it" 

«  Thank  you." 

"  He  was  a  very  noble  young  fellow," 
pursued  Mr.  Mackenzie. 

Lizzie  made  no  response. 

"  There  's  the  letter,"  said  Mr.  Mac- 
kenzie, handing  it  over  to  her. 

Lizzie  opened  it 

"  How  long  she  is  reading  it ! " 
thought  her  visitor.  "You  can't  see 
so  far  from  the  light,  can  you,  Miss  ?  " 

"Yes,"  said  Lizzie.  —  "His  poor 
mother  !    Poor  woman  ! " 

"  Ay,  indeed,  Miss,  — she  's  the  one 
to  be  pitied." 

"Yes,  she  's  the  one  to  be  pitied," 
said  Lizzie.  "  Well ! "  and  she  gave 
him  back  the  letter. 

"  I  thought  you  'd  like  to  see  it,"  said 
Mackenzie,  drawing  on  his  gloves  ; 
and  then,  after  a  pause,  —  "I  '11  caB 


276 


The  Story  of  a  Year. 


[March, 


again,  Miss,  if  I  hear  anything  more. 
Good,  night ! " 

Lizzie  got  up  and  lowered  the  light, 
and  then  went  back  to  her  sofa  by  the 
fire. 

Half  an  hour  passed ;  it  went  slowly ; 
but  it  passed.  Still  lying  there  in  the 
dark  room  on  the  so&,  Lizzie  heard  a 
ring  at  the  door -bell,  a  man's  voice 
and  a  man's  tread  in  the  halL  She 
rose  and  went  to  the  lamp.  As  she 
turned  it  up,  the  parlor-door  opened. 
Bruce  came  in. 
^  "I  was  sitting  in  the  dark,"  said  Liz- 
zie ;  *'  but  when  I  heard  you  coming,  I 
raised  the  light" 

**  Are  you  afraid  of  me  ?  "  said  Bruce. 

"  Oh,  no !  I  'U  put  it  down  again. 
Sit  down." 

"  I  saw  your  friends  going  out,**  pur- 
sued Bruce  ;  '^  so  I  knew  I  should  find 
you  alone.  —  What  are  you  doing  here 
in  the  dark?" 

"  1  Ve  just  received  very  bad  news 
from  Mrs.  Ford  about  her  son.  He  's 
much  worse,  and  will  probably  not 
live." 

"  Is  it  possible  ?  " 

^  I  was  thinking  about  that" 

^  Dear  me  !  Well  that 's  a  sad  sub- 
ject I  'm  told  he  was  a  very  fine  young 
man." 

"He  was, — very,"  said  Lizzie. 

Bruce  was  silent  awhile.  He  was  a 
stranger  to  the  young  officer,  and  felt 
that  he  had  nothing  to  offer  beyond  the 
commonplace  expressions  of  S3nnpathy 
and  surprise.  Nor  had  he  exactly  the 
measure  of  his  companion's  interest  in 
him. 

"  If  he  dies,"  said  Lizzie,  "  it  will  be 
under  great  injustice."  k. 

"  Ah !  what  do  you  metn  ?  " 

<*  There  was  n't  a  braver  man  in  the 
army." 

"  I  suppose  not" 

"  An4,  oh,  Mr.  Bruce,"  continued  Liz- 
zie, "he  was  so  clever  and  good  and 
generous !   I  wish  you  had  known  him." 

"  I  wish  I  had.  But  what  do  you 
mean  by  injustice  ?  Were  these  quali- 
ties denied  him  ?  " 

^  No  indeed  I  Every  one  that  looked 
at  him  could  see  that  he  was  perfect" 


"Where  's  the  injustice,  then?  It 
ought  to  be  enough  for  him  that  you 
should  think  so  highly  of  him." 

"  Oh,  he  knew  that,"  said  Lizzie. 

Bruce  was  a  little  puzzled  by  his 
companion's  manner.  He  watched  her, 
as  she  sat  with  her  cheek  on  her  hand, 
looking  at  the  fire.  There  was  a  long 
pause.  Either  they  were  too  firiendly  or 
too  thoughtful  for  the  silence  to  be  em- 
barrassing.   Bruce  broke  it  at  last 

"  Miss  Crowe,"  said  he,  "  on  a  certain 
occasion,  some  time  ago,  when  you  first 
heard  of  Mr.  Ford'^  wounds,  I  offered 
you  my  company,  with  the.  wish  to  con- 
sole you  as  far  as  I  might  for  what 
seemed  a  considerable  shock.  It  was, 
perhaps,  a  bold  offer  for  so  new  a  fnend ; 
but,  nevertheless,  in  it  even  then  my 
heart  spoke.  You  turned  me  off.  Will 
you  let  me  repeat  it?  Now,  with  a 
better  right,  will  you  let  me  speak  out 
all  my  heart  ?  " 

Lizzie  heard  this  speech,  which  was 
delivered  in  a  slow  and  hesitating  tone, 
without  looking  up  or  moving  her  head, 
except,  perhaps,  at  the  words  "  turned 
me  off."  After  Bruce  had  ceased,  she 
still  kept  her  position. 

"  You  '11  not  turn  me  off  now  ?  "  add- 
ed her  companion. 

She  dropped  her  hand,  raised  her 
head,  and  looked  at  him  a  moment :  he 
thought  he  saw  the  glow  of  tears  in  her 
eyes.  Then  she  sank  back  upon  the 
sofa  with  her  face  in  the  shadow  of  the 
mantel-piece. 

"  I  don't  understand  you,  Mr.  Bruce," 
said  slie. 

"Ah,  Elizabeth  I  am  I  such  a  poor 
speaker.  How  shall  I  make  it  plain? 
When  I  saw  your  friends  leave  home 
half  an  hour  ago,  and  reflected  that  you 
would  probably  be  alone,  I  determined 
to  go  right  in  and  have  a  talk  with  you 
that  I  've  long  been  wanting  to  have. 
But  first  I  walked  half  a  mile  up  the 
road,  thinking  hard,  —  thinking  how  I 
should  say  what  I  had  to  say.  I  made 
up  my  mind  to  nothing,  but  that  some- 
how or  other  I  should  say  it  I  would 
trust,  —  I  do  trust  to  your  firankness, 
kindness,  and  sympathy,  to  a  feeling 
corresponding  to  my  own.    Do  you  un- 


186$.] 


Tke  Story  of  a  Year. 


277 


derstand  that  feeling?  Do  you  know 
that  I  love  you  ?  I  do,  I  do,  I  do !  You 
must  know  it  If  you  don't,  I  solemnly 
swear  it  I  solemnly  ask  you,  Elizabeth, 
to  take  me  for  yoiir  husband." 

While  Bruce  said  these  words,  he 
rose,  with  their  rising  passion,  and  came 
and  stood  before  Lizzie.  Again  she 
was  motionless. 

"  Does  it  take  you  so  long  to  think  ?  " 
said  he,  trying  to  read  her  indistinct 
features  ;  and  he  sat  down  on  the  sofe 
beside  her  and  took  her  hand. 

At  last  Lizzie  spoke. 

**  Are  you  sure,"  said  she,  "  that  you 
love  me?" 

"As  sure  as  that  I  breathe.  Now, 
Elizabeth,  make  me  as  sure  that  I  am 
k>ved  in  return." 

"It  seems  very  strange,  Mr.  Bruce,' 
said  Lizzie. 

"  What  seems  strange  ?  Why  should 
it  ?  For  a  month  I  *ve  been  tiying,  in 
a  hundred  dumb  ways,  to  make  it  plain ; 
and  now,  when  I  swear  it,  it  only  seems 
strange ! " 

"  What  do  you  love  me  for  ?  " 

"  For  ?    For  yourself,  Elizabeth." 

".Myself?    I  am  nothing." 

"  I  love  you  for  what  you  are,  —  for 
your  deep,  kind  heart,  —  for  being  so 
perfectly  a  woman." 

Lizzie  drew  away  her  hand,  and  her 
lover  rose  and  stood  before  her  again. 
But  now  she  looked  up  into  his  face, 
questioning  when  she  should  have  an- 
swered, drinking  strength  from  his  en- 
treaties for  her  replies.  There  he  stood 
before  her,  in  the  glow  of  the  firelight, 
in  all  his  gentlemanhood,  for  her  to  ac- 
cept or  reject  She  slowly  rose  and 
gave  him  the  hand  she  had  withdrawn. 

"  Mr.  Bruce,  I  shall  be  very  proud  to 
love  you,"  she  said. 

And  then,  as  if  this  effort  was  beyond 
her  strength,  she  half  staggered  back  to 
the  S0&  again.  And  still  holding  her 
hand,  he  sat  down  beside  her.  And 
there  they  were  still  sitting  when  they 
heard  the  Doctor  and  his  sister  come 
in. 

For  three  days  Elizabeth  saw  nothing 
of  Mr.  Mackenzie.  At  last,  on  the  fourth 
day,  passing  his  office  in  the  village,  she 


went  in  and  asked  for  him.  He  came 
out  of  his  litde  back  parlor  with  his 
mouth  full  and  a  beaming  &ce. 

"Good-day,  Miss  Crowe,  and  good 
news  1 " 

"  Good  news  ?  "  cried  Lizzie. 

"  Capital ! "  said  he,  looking  hard  at 
her,  while  he  put  on  his  spectacles. 
"  She  writes  that  Mr.  John  —  won't  you 
take  a  seat  ?  —  has  taken  a  sudden  and 
unexpected  turn  for  the  better.  Now  's 
the  moment  to  save  him ;  it 's  an  equal 
risk.^  They  were  to  start  for  the  North 
the  second  day  after  date.  The  surgeon 
comes  with  them.  So  they  '11  be  home 
—  of  course  they  '11  travel  slowly — in 
four  or  five  days.  Yes,  Miss,  it  's  a 
remarkable  Providence.  And  that  no- 
ble young  man  will  be  spared  to  the 
country,  and  to  those  who  love  him,  as 
I  do." 

"  I  had  better  go  back  to  the  house 
and  have  it  got  ready,"  said  Lizzie,  for 
an  answer. 

"Yes,  Miss,  I  think  you  had.  In 
fact,  Mrs.  Ford  made  that  request" 

The  request  was  obeyed.  That  same 
day  Lizzie  went  home.  For  two  days 
she  found  it  her  interest  to  overlook, 
assiduously,  a  general  sweeping,  scrub- 
bing, and  provisioning.  She  allowed 
herself  no  idle  moment  until  bed-time. 

Then But  T  would  rather  not  be  the 

chamberlain  of  her  agony.  It  was  the 
easier  to  work,  as  Mr.  Bruce  had  gone 
to  Leatherborough  on  business. 

On  the  fourth  evening,  at  twilight, 
John  Ford  was  borne  up  to  the  door 
on  his  stretcher,  with  his  mother  stalk- 
ing beside  him  in  rigid  grief,  and  kind, 
silent  friends  pressing  about  witli  help- 
ing hands. 


«< 


Home  they  broug;fat  her  warrior  dead, 
She  nor  swooned  nor  uttered  cry." 


It  was,  indeed,  almost  a  question, 
whether  Jack  was  not  dead.  Death  is 
not  thinner,  paler,  stiller.  Lizzie  moved 
about  like  one  in  a  dream.  Of  course, 
when  there  are  so  many  sympathetic 
friends,  a  man's  family  has  nothing  to 
do,  —  except  exercise  a  little  self-con- 
trol. The  women  huddled  Mrs.  Ford 
to  bed;  rest  was  imperative;  she  was 


278 


The  Story  of  a  Year, 


[March, 


killing  herself.  And  it  was  significant 
of  her  weakness  that  she  did  not  resent 
this  advice.  In  greeting  her,  Lizzie  felt 
as  if  she  were  embracing  the  stone  im- 
age on  the  top  of  a  sepulchre.  She,  too^ 
had  her  cares  anticipated.  Good  Doctor 
Cooper  and  his  sister  stationed  them- 
selves at  the  young  man's  couch. 

The  Doctor  prophesied  won^ous 
things  of  the  change  of  climate ;  he 
was  certain  of  a  recovery.  Lizzie  found 
herself  very  shortly  dealt  with  as  an 
obstacle  to  this  consummation.  Access 
to  John  was  prohibited.  "  Perfect  still- 
ness, you  know,  my  dear,''  whispered 
Miss  Cooper,  opening  his  chamber-door 
on  a  crack,  in  a  pair  of  very  creaking 
shoes.  So  for  the  first  evening  that  her 
old  friend  was  at  home  Lizzie  caught 
but  a  glimpse .  of  his  pale,  senseless 
face,  as  she  hovered  outside  the  long 
train  of  his  attendants.  If  we  may  sup- 
pose any  of  these  kind  people  to  have 
had  eyes  for  aught  but  the  sufferer,  we 
may  be  sure  that  they  saw  another  vis- 
age equally  sad  and  white.  The  suf- 
ferer ?    It  was  hardly  Jack,  after  all. 

When  Lizzie  was  turned  from  Jack's 
door,  she  took  a  covering  from  a  heap 
of  draperies  that  had  been  hurriedly 
tossed  down  in  the  hall :  it  was  an  old 
army-blanket  She  wrapped  it  round 
her,  and  went  out  on  the  verandah.  It 
was  nine  o'clock ;  but  the  darkhess 
was  filled  with  light.  A  great  wanton 
wind  —  the  ghost  of  the  raw  blast  which 
travels  by  day — had  arisen,  bearing 
long,  soft  gusts  of  inland  spring.  Scat- 
tered clouds  were  hurrying  across  the 
white  sky.  The  bright  moon,  careering 
in  their  midst,  seemed  to  have  wan- 
dered forth  in  frantic  quest  of  the  hid- 
den stars. 

Lizzie  nestled  her  head  in  the  blan- 
ket, and  sat  down  on  the  steps.  A 
strange  earthy  smell  lingered  in  that 
faded  old  rug,  and  with  it  a  faint  per- 
fume of  tobacco.  Instantly  the  young 
girl's  senses  were  transported  as  they 
had  never  been  before  to  those  ^-off 
Southern  battle-fields.  She  saw  men 
lying  in  swamps,  puffing  their  kindly 
pipes,  drawing  their  blankets  closer, 
canopied  with  the  same  luminous  dusk 


that  shone  down  upon  her  comfortable 
weakness.  Her  mind  wandered  amid 
these  scenes  till  recalled  to  the  present 
by  the  swinging  of  the  garden-gate. 
She  heard  a  firm,  well-known  tread 
crunching  the  gravel  Mr.  Bruce  came 
up  the  path.  As  he  drew  near  the 
steps,  Lizzie  arose.  The  blanket  fell 
back  from  her  head,  and  Bruce  started 
at  recognizing  her. 

**HuUoI  You,  Elizabeth ?  What's 
the  matter?" 

Lizzie  made  no  answer. 

"Are  you  one  of  Mr.  Ford's  watch- 
ers ? "  he  continued,  coming  up  the 
steps  ;  **  how  is  he  ?  " 

Still  she  was  silent  Bruce  put  out 
his  hands  to  take  hers,  and  bent  for- 
ward as  if  to  kiss  her.  She  half  shook 
him  off,  and  retreated  toward  the  door. 

"  Good  heavens  !  "  cried  Bruce  ; 
"  what 's  the  matter  ?  Are  you  moon- 
struck ? '  Can't  you  speak  ?  " 

**  No,  —  no,  —  not  to-night,"  said 
Lizzie,  in  a  choking  voice.  "  Go  away, 
—  go  away  !  " 

She  stood  holding  the  door-handle, 
and  motioning  him  off.  He  hesitated 
a  moment,  and  then  advanced.  She 
opened  the  door  rapidly,  and  went  in. 
He  heard  her  lock  it  He  stood  look- 
ing at  it  stupidly  for  some  time,  and 
then  slowly  turned  round  and  walked 
down  the  steps. 

The  next  morning  Lizzie  arose  with 
the  early  dawn,  and  came  down  stairs. 
She  went  into  the  room  where  Jack 
lay,  and  gently  opened  the  door.  Miss 
Cooper  was  dozing  in  her  chair.  Lizzie 
crossed  the  threshold,  and  stole  up  to 
the  bed.  Poor  Ford  lay  peacefully  sleep- 
ing. There  was  his  old  face,  after  all,  — 
his  strong,  honest  features  refined,  but 
not  weakened,  by  pain.  Lizzie  softly 
drew  up  a  low  chair,  and  sat  down  be- 
side him.  She  gazed  into  his  face,  — 
the  dear  and  honored  fiu:e  into  which 
she  had  so  often  gazed  in  health.  It 
was  strangely  handsomer :  body  stood 
for  less.  It  seemed  to  Lizzie,  that,  as 
the  fabric  of  her  lover's  soul  was  more 
clearly  revealed,  —  the  veil  of  the  tem- 
ple rent  wellnigh  in  twain,  —  she  could 
read  the  justification  of  all  her  old  wor- 


1 86s.] 


The  Story  of  a  Year. 


279 


ship.  One  of  Jack's  hands  lay  outside 
the  sheets,  —  those  strong,  supple  fin- 
gers, once  so  cunning  in  workmanship, 
so  frank  in  friendship,  now  thinner  and 
whiter  than  her  own.  After  looking  at 
it  lor  some  time^  Lizzie  gently  grasped 
St  Jack  slowly  opened  his  eyes.  Liz- 
zie's hesurt  began  to  throb  ;  it  was  as  if 
the  stillness  of  the  sanctuary  had  given 
a  sign.  At  first  there  was  no  recogni- 
tion in  the  young  man's  gaze.  Then 
the  dull  pupils  began  visibly  to  bright- 
en. There  came  to  his  lips  the  com- 
mencement of  that  strange  moribund 
smile  which  seems  so  ineffably  satirical 
of  the  things  of  this  world.  O  impos- 
ing spectacle  of  death  I  O  blessed 
soul,  marked  for  promotion  I  What 
earthly  fevor  is  like  thine  ?  Lizzie  sank 
down  on  her  knees,  and,  still  clasping 
John's  hand,  bent  closer  over  him. 

^' Jack, — dear,  dear  Jack,"  she  whis- 
pered, "do  you  know  me?" 

The  smile  grew  more  intense'.  The 
poor  fellow  drew  out  his  other  hand, 
and  slowly,  feebly  placed  it  on  Lizzie's 
head,  stroking  down  her  hair  with  his 
fingers. 

**  Yes,  yes,"  she  murmured ;  "  you 
know  me,  don't  you  ?  I  am  Lizzie, 
Jack.     Don't  you  remember  Lizzie  ?  " 

Ford  moved  his  lips  inaudibly,  and 
went  on  patting  her  head. 

"  This  is  home,  you  know,"  said  Liz- 
zie ;  **  this  is  Glenham.  You  have  n't 
forgotten  Glenham  ?  You  are  with 
your  mother  and  me  and  your  friends. 
Dear,  darling  Jack  !  " 

Still  he  went  on,  stroking  her  head ; 
and  his  feeble  lips  tried  to  emit  some 
sound.  Lizzie  laid  her  head  down  on 
the  pillow  beside  his  own,  and  still 
his  hand  lingered  caressingly  on  her 
hair. 

"  Yes,  yoQ  know  me,"  she  pursued  ; 
^you  are  with  your  friends  now  forev- 
er,— with  those  who  will  love  and  take 
care  of  you,  oh,  forever!" 

"  I  'm  very  badly  wounded,"  mur- 
mured Jack,  close  to  her  ear. 

"Yes,  yes,  my  dear  boy,  but  your 
wounds  are  healing.  I  will  love  you 
and  nurse  you  forever." 

"  Yes,  Lizzie,  our  old  promise,"  said 


Jack :  and  his  hand  fell  upon  her  neck, 
and  with  its  feeble  pressure  he  drew 
her  closer,  and  she  wet  his  face  with 
her  tears. 

Then  Miss  Cooper,  awakening,  rose 
and  drew  Lizzie  away. 

"  I  am  sure  you  excite  him,  my  dear. 
It  is  best  he  should  have  none  of  his 
fiimily  near  him,  —  persons  with  whom 
he  has  associations,  you  know." 

Here  the  Doctor  was  heard  gently 
tapping  on  the  window,  and  Lizzie  went 
round  to  the  door  to  admit  him. 

She  did  not  see  Jack  again  all  day. 
Two  or  three  times  she  ventured  into 
the  room,  but  she  was  banished  by  a 
frown,  or  a  finger  raised  to  the  lips.  She 
waylaid  the  Doctor  frequently.  He  was 
blithe  and  cheerful,  certain  of  Jack's 
recovery.  This  good  man  used  to  ex- 
hibit as  much  moral  elation  at  the  pros- 
pect of  a  cure  as  an  orthodox  believer 
at  that  of  a  new  convert :  it  was  one 
more  body  gained  from  the  Devil.  He 
assured  Lizzie  that  the  change  of  scene 
and  climate  had  already  begun  to  tell : 
the  fever  was  lessening,  the  worst  symp- 
toms disappearing.  He  answered  Liz- 
zie's reiterated  desire  to  ilo  something 
by  directions  to  keep  the  house  quiet 
and  the  sick-room  empty. 

Soon  after  breakfast,  Miss  Dawes,  a 
neighbor,  came  in  to  relieve  Miss  Coop- 
er, and  this  indefatigable  lady  transferred 
her  attention  to  Mrs.  Ford.  Action  was 
forbidden  her.  Miss  Cooper  was  delight- 
ed for  once  to  be  able  to  lay  down  the  law 
to  her  vigorous  neighbor,  of  whose  fine 
judgment  she  had  always  stood  in  awe. 
Having  bullied  Mrs.  Ford  into  taking 
her  breakfast  in  the  little  sitting-room, 
she  closed  the  doors,  and  prepared  for 
"  a  good  long  talk."  Lizzie  was  careful 
not  to  break  in  upon  this  interview.  She 
had  bidden  her  patroness  good  morn- 
ing, asked  after  her  health,  and  received 
one  of  her  temperate  osculations.  As 
she  passed  the  invalid's  door.  Doctor 
Cooper  came  out  and  asked  her  to  go 
and  look  for  a  certain  roll  of  bandages, 
in  Mr.  John's  trunk,  which  had  been 
carried  into  another  room.  Lizzie  has- 
tened to  perform  this  task.  In  fum- 
bling through  the  contents  of  the  trunk, 


28o 


The  Story  of  a  Year. 


[March, 


she  came  across  a  packet  of  letters  in  a 
well-known  feminine  hand-writing.  She 
pocketed  it,  and,  after  disposing  of  the 
bandages,  went  to  her  own  room,  locked 
the  door,  and  sat  down  to  examine  the 
letters.  Between  reading  and  thinking 
and  sighing  and  (in  spite  of  herself) 
smiling,  this  process  took  the  whole 
morning.  As  she  came  down  to  dinner, 
she  encountered  Mrs.  Ford  and  Miss 
Cooper,  emerging  from  the  sitting-room, 
the  good  long  talk  being  only  just  con- 
cluded. 

"How  do  you  feel.  Ma'am?"  she 
asked  of  the  elder  lady,  —  "  rested  ?  " 

For  all  answer  Mrs.  Ford  gave  a 
look  —  I  had  almost  said  a  scowl  —  so 
hard,  so  cold,  so  reproachful,  that  Lizzie 
was  transfixed.  But  suddenly  its  sick- 
ening meaning  was  revealed  to  her.  She 
turned  to  Miss  Cooper,  who  stood  pale 
and  fluttering  beside  the  mistress,  her 
everlasting  smile  glazed  over  with  a 
piteous,  deprecating  glance ;  and  I  fear 
her  eyes  flashed  out  the  same  message 
of  angry  scorn  they  had  just  received. 
These  telegraphic  operations  are  very 
rapid.  The  ladies  hardly  halted :  the 
next  moment  found  them  seated  at  the 
dinner- table  with  Miss  Cooper  scruti- 
nizing her  napkin-mark  and  Mrs.  Ford 
sa3ring  grace. 

Dinner  was  eaten  in  silence.  When 
it  was  over,  Lizzie  returned  to  her  own 
room.  Miss  Cooper  went  home,  and 
Mrs.  Ford  went  to  her  son.  Lizzie 
heard  the  firm  low  click  of  the  lock  as 
she  closed  the  door.  Why  did  she  lock 
It  ?  There  was  something  fetal  In  the 
silence  that  followed.  The  plot  of  her 
little  tragedy  thickened.  Be  it  so  :  she 
would  act  her  part  with  the  rest.  For 
the  second  time  in  her  experience,  her 
mind  was  lightened  by  the  intervention 
of  Mrs.  Ford.  Before  the  scorn  of  her 
own  conscience,  (which  never  came,)  be- 
fore Jack's  deepest  reproach,  she  was 
ready  to  bow  down, — but  not  before  that 
long-faced  Nemesis  in  black  silk.  The 
leaven  of  resentment  began  to  work. 
She  leaned  back  in  her. chair,  and  folded 
her  arms,  brave  to  await  results.  But 
before  long  she  fell  asleep.  She  was 
aroused  by  a  knock  at  her  chamber-door. 


The   afternoon   was  fax  gone.     Miss 
Dawes  stood  without 

"Elizabeth,  Mr.  John  wants  very 
much  to  see  you,  with  his  love.  Come 
down  very  gently :  his  mother  is  lying 
down.  Will  you  sit  with  him  while  I 
take  my  dinner  ? —  Better  ?  Yes,  ever 
so  much." 

Lizzie  betook  herself  with  trembling 
haste  to  Jack's  bedside. 

He  was  propped  up  with  pillows.  His 
pale  cheeks  were  slightly  flushed.  His 
eyes  were  bright  He  raised  himself 
and,  for  such  feeble  arms,  gave  Lizzie 
a  long,  strong  embrace. 

"  I  've  not  seen  you  all  day,  Lizzie," 
said  he.    "  Where  have  you  been  ?  " 

"Dear  Jack,  they  would  n't  let  me 
come  near  you.  I  begged  and  prayed. 
And  I  wanted  so  to  go  to  you  in  the 
army ;  but  I  could  n't  I  wish,  I  wish 
I  had ! " 

"  You  would  n't  have  liked  it,  Lizzie. 
I  'm  glad  you  did  n't  It 's  a  bad,  bad 
place." 

He  lay  quietly,  holding  her  hands  and 
gazing  at  her. 

"  Can  I  do  anything  for  you,  dear  ?  " 
asked  tlie  young  girl.  "  I  would  work 
my  life  out  I  'm  so  glad  you  're  bet- 
ter ! " 

It  was  some  time  before  Jack  answer- 
ed,— 

"  Lizzie,"  said  he,  at  last,  "  I  sent  for 
you  to  look  at  you.  —  You  are  more 
wondrously  beautiful  than  ever.  Your 
hair  is  brown,  —  like  —  like  •  nothing ; 
your  eyes  are  blue  ;  your  neck  is  white. 
Well,  well  I " 

He  lay  perfectly  motionless,  but  for 
his  eyes.  They  wandered  over  her  with 
a  kind  of  peaceful  glee,  like  sunbeams 
playing  on  a  statue.  Poor  Ford  lay, 
indeed,  not  unlike  an  old  wounded 
Greek,  who  at  fkUing  dusk  has  crawl- 
ed into  a  temple  to  die,  steeping  the 
last  dull  intenral  in  Idle  admiration  of 
sculptured  Artemis. 

"  Ah,  Lizzie,  this  is  already  heaven  ! " 
he  murmured. 

"It  will  be  heaven  when  you  get 
well,"  whispered  Lizzie. 

He  smiled  into  her  eyes :  — 

"You   say  more   than   you   mean. 


i865.] 


The  Frozen  Harbor. 


281 


There  should  be  perfect  truth  between 
us.  Dear  Lizzie,  I  am  not  going  to  get 
welL  They  are  all  very  much  mistaken. 
I  am  going  to  die.  I  Ve  done  my  work. 
Death  makes  up  for  everything.  My 
great  pain  is  in  leaving  you.  But  you, 
too,  will  die  one  of  these  days ;  remem- 
ber that  In  all  pain  and  sorrow,  re- 
member that" 

Lizzie  was  able  to  reply  only  by  the 
tightening  grasp  of  her  hands. 

"  But  there  is  something  more,"  pur- 
sued Jack.  ''  Life  is  as  good  as  death. 
Your  heai%  has  found  its  true  keeper ; 
so  we  shall  all  three  be  happy.  Tell 
him  I  bless  him  and  honor  him.  Tell 
him  God,  too,  blesses  him.  Shake 
hands  with  him  for  me,"  said  Jack,  fee- 
bly moving  his  pale  fingers.  *'  My  moth- 
er," he  went  on,  —  "be  very  kind  to 
her.  She  will  have  great  grie^  but  she 
will  not  die  of  it  She  '11  live  to  great 
age.  Now,  Lizzie,  I  can't  talk  any 
more  ;  I  wanted  to  say  farewell.  You 
*U  keep  me  farewell,  —  you  '11  stay  with 
me  awhile,  —  won't  you  ?  I  11  look  at 
you  till  the  last  For  a  litde  while  you 
'11  be  mine,  holding  my  hands  —  so  — 
until  death  parts  us." 

Jack  kept  his  promise.  His  eyes 
were  fixed  in  a  firm  gaze  long  after  the 
sense  had  left  them. 

In  the  early  dawn  of  the  next  day, 
Elizabeth  left  her  sleepless  bed,  opened 
the  window,  and  looked  out  on  the  wide 
prospect,  still  cool  and  dim  with  depart- 
ing night     It  offered  freshness  and 


p>eace  to  her  hot  head  and  restless  heart 
She  dressed  herself  hastily,  crept  down 
stairs,  passed  the  death-chamber^  and 
stole  out  of  the  quiet  house.  She  turn- 
ed away  from  the  still  sleeping  village 
and  walked  towards  the  open  country. 
She  went  a  long  way  without  knowing 
it  The  sun  had  risen  high  when  she 
bethought  herself  to  turn.  As  she  came 
back  along  the  brightening  highway, 
and  drew  near  home,  she  saw  a  tall  fig- 
ure standing  beneath  the  budding  trees 
of  the  garden,  hesitating,  apparentiy, 
whether  to  open  the  gate.  Lizzie  came 
upon  him  almost  before  he  had  seen 
her.  Bruce's  first  movement  was  to 
put  out  his  hands,  as  any  lover  might ; 
but  as  Lizzie  raised  her  veil,  he  drop- 
ped them. 

"  Yes,  Mr.  Bruce,"  said  U zzie,  "  I  'U 
give  you  my  hand  once  more, — in  £ure- 
welL" 

"  Elizabeth  I "  cried  Bruce,  half  stupe- 
fied, "  in  God's  name,  what  do  you  mean 
by  these  crazy  speeches  ?  " 

'^I  mean  welL  I  mean  kindly  and 
humanely  to  you.  And  I  mean  justice 
to  my  old — old  love." 

She  went  to  him,  took  his  listiess 
hand,  without  looking  into  his  .wild, 
smitten  face,  shook  it  passionately,  and 
then,  wrenching  her  own  from  his  grasp, 
opened  the  gate  and  let  it  swing  behind 
her. 

"  No  1  no  !  no ! "  she  almost  shriek- 
ed, turning  about  in  the  path.  *'  I  for- 
bid you  to  follow  me ! " 

But  for  all  that,  he  went  in. 


THE    FROZEN    HARBOR. 


WHEN  Winter  encamps  on  our  borders, 
And  dips  his  white  beard  in  the  rills. 
And  lays  his  shield  over  highway  and  field, 

And  pitches  his  tents  on  the  hills,  — 
In  the  wan  light  I  wake,  and  see  on  the  lake, 

Like  a  glove  by  the  night-winds  blown, 
With  fingers  that  crook  up  creek  and  brook, 
His  shining  gaunUet  thrown. 


282  The  Frozen  Harbor.  [March, 

Then  over  the  lonely  harbor^ 

In  the  quiet  and  deadly  cold 
Of  a  single  night,  when  only  the  bright. 

Cold  constellations  behold, 
Without  trestle  or  beam,  without  mortise  or  seam. 

It  swiftly  and  silently  spread 
A  bridge  as  of  steel,  which  a  Titan's  heel 

In  the  early  light  might  tread. 

Where  Morning  over  the  waters 

Her  web  of  splendor  spun. 
Till  the  wave,  all  a^twinkle  with  ripple  and  wrinkle. 

Hung  shimmering  in  the  sun,  — 
Where  the  liquid  lip  at  the  breast  of  the  ship 

Whispered  and  laughed  and  kissed, 
And  the  long,  dark  streamer  of  smoke  from  the  steamer 

Trailed  off  in  the  rose-tinted  mist,  — 

Now  all  is  gray  desolation. 

As  up  from  the  hoary  coast. 
Over  snow-fields  and  islands  her  white  arms  in  silence 

Outspreading  like  a  ghost. 
Her  feet  in  shroud,  her  forehead  in  cloud, 

Pale  walks  the  sheeted  Dawn  : 
The  sea's  blue  rim  lies  shorn  and  dim, 

In  the  purple  East  withdrawn. 

Where  floated  the  fleets  of  commerce, 

With  proud  breasts  cleaving  the  tide,  — 
Like  emmet  or  bug  with  its  burden,  the  tug 

Hither  and  thither  plied,  — 
Where  the  quick  paddles  flashed,  where  the  dropped  anchor  plashed. 

And  rattled  the  running  chain. 
Where  the  merchantman  swung  in  the  current,  where  sung 

The  sailors  their  far  refrain,  — 

Behold !  when  ruddy  Aurora 

Peeps  from  her  opening  door, 
Faint  gleams  of  the  sun  like  fairies  run 

And  sport  on  a  crystal  floor ; 
Upon  the  river's  bright  panoply  quivers 

The  noon's  resplendent  lance ; 
And  by  night  through  the  narrows  the  moon's  slanted  arrows 

Icily  sparkle  and  glance. 

Flown  are  the  flocks  of  commerce. 

Like  wild  swans  hurrying  south  ; 
The  lighter,  belated,  is  frozen,  full-freighted, 

Within  the  harbor's  mouth ; 
The  brigantine,  homeward  bringing 

Sweet  spices  from  afar, 
All  night  must  wait  with  her  fragrant  freight 

Below  the  lighthouse  star. 


1865.]  The  Frozen  Harbor.  283 

The  ships  at  their  anchors  are  frozeiii 

From  rudder  to  sloping  chain : 
Rock-like  they  rise :  the  low  sloop  lies 

An  oasis  in  the  plain. 
Like  reeds  here  and  there,  the  tall  masts  bare 

Upspring :  as  on  the  edge 
Of  a  lawn  smooth-shaven,  around  the  haven 

The  shipping  grows  like  sedge. 

Here,  weaving  the  nnion  of  cities, 

With  hoar  wakes  belting  the  blue, 
From  slip  to  slip,  past  schooner  and  ship^ 

The  ferry's  shuttles  flew :  — 
Now,  loosed  from  its  stall,  on  the  yielding  wall 

The  steamboat  paws  and  rears  ; 
The  citizens  pass  on  a  pavement  of  glass, 

And  climb  the  frosted  piers. 

Where,  in  the  November  twilight. 

To  the  ribs  of  the  skeleton  bark 
That  stranded  lay  in  the  bend  of  the  bay, 

Motionless,  low,  and  dark. 
Came  ever  three  shags,  like  three  lone  hags. 

And  sat  o'er  the  troubled  water, 
Each  nursing  apart  her  shrivelled  heart. 

With  her  mantle  wrapped  about  her, — 

Now  over  the  ancient  timbers 

Is  built  a  magic  deck ; 
Children  run  out  with  laughter  and  shout 

And  dance  around  the  wreck ; 
The  fisherman  near  his  long  eel-spear 

Thrusts  in  through  the  ice,  or  stands 
With  fingers  on  lips,  and  now  and  then  whips 

His  sides  with  mittened  hands. 

Alone  and  pensive  I  wander 

Far  out  from  the  city-wharf 
To  the  buoy  below  in  its  cap  of  snow, 

Low  stooping  like  a  dwarf ; 
In  the  fading  ray  of  the  dull,  brief  day 

I  wander  and  muse  apart,  — 
For  this  frozen  sea  is  a  symbol  to  me 
•     Of  many  a  human  heart 

I  think  of  the  hopes  deep  sunken 

Like  anchors  under  the  ice,  — 
Of  souls  that  wait  for  Love's  sweet  freight 

And  the  spices  of  Paradise : 
Far  off  their  barks  are  tossing 

On  the  billows  of  unrest. 
And  enter  not  in,  for  the  hardness  and  sin 

That  close  the  secret  breast 


284  ^^  Frozen  Harbor.  [March, 

I  linger,  until,  at  evening, 

The  town-roofs,  towering  high, 
Uprear  in  the  dimness  their  tall,  dark  chimne}^^. 

Indenting  the  sunset  sky. 
And  the  pendent  spear  on  the  edge  of  the  pier 

Signals  my  homeward  way, 
As  it  gleams  through  the  dusk  like  a  walrus's  tusk 

On  the  floes  of  a  polar  bay. 

Then  I  think  of  the  desolate  households 

On  which  the  day  shuts  down,  — 
What  misery  hides  in  the  darkened  tides 

Of  life  in  yonder  town  I 
I  think  of  the  lonely  poet 

In  his  hours  of  coldness  and  pain, 
His  fendes  fidl-freighted,  like  lighters  belated, 

All  frozen  within  his  bndn. 

And  I  hearken  to  the  moanings 

That  come  from  the  burdened  bay : 
As  a  camel,  that  kneels  for  his  lading,  reels, 

And  cannot  bear  it  away. 
The  mighty  load  is  slowly 

Upheaved  with  struggle  and  pain 
From  centre  to  side,  then  the  groaning  tide 

Sinks  heavily  down  again. 

So  day  and  night  you  may  hear  it 

Panting  beneath  its  pack. 
Till  sailor  and  saw,  till  south  wind  and  thaw, 

Unbind  it  from  its  back. 
O  Sun !  will  thy  beam  ever  gladden  the  stream 

And  bid  its  burden  depart  ? 
O  Life !  all  in  vain  do  we  strive  with  the  chain 

That  fetters  and  chills  the  heart  ? 

Already  in  vision  prophetic 

On  yonder  height  I  stand : 
The  gulls  are  gay  upon  the  bay. 

The  swallows  on  the  land ;  — 
'T  is  spring-time  now ;  like  an  aspen-bough 

Shaken  across  the  sky. 
In  the  silvery  light  with  twinkling  flight 

The  rustling  plovers  fly.  * 

Aloft  in  the  sunlit  cordage 

Behold  the  climbing  tar, 
With  his  shadow  beside  on  the  sail  white  and  vdde. 

Climbing  a  shadow-spar  1 
tJp  the  glassy  stream  with  issuing  steam 

The  cutter  crawls  again. 
All  winged  with  cloud  and  buzzing  loud, 

Like  a  bee  upon  the  pane. 


1865.]  At  AndersonvilU.  285 

The  brigantine  is  bringing 

Her  cargo  to  the  quay, 
The  sloop  flits  by  like  a  butterfly. 

The  schooner  skims  the  sea. 
O  young  heart's  trust,  beneath  the  crust 

Of  a  chilling  world  congealed ! 
O  love,  whose  flow  the  winter  of  woe 
•       With  its  icy  hand  hath  sealed ! 
• 
Learn  patience  from  the  lesson  1 

Though  the  night  be  drear  and  long, 
To  the  darkest  sorrow  there  comes  a  morrow, 

A  right  to  every  wrong. 
And  as,  when,  having  run  his  low  course,  the  red  Sun 

Comes  charging  gayly  up  here. 
The  white  shield  of  Winter  shall  shiver  and  splinter 

At  the  touch  of  his  golden  spear,  — 

Then  rushing  under  the  bridges, 

And  crushing  among  the  piles, 
In  gray  mottled  masses  the  drift-ice  passes, 

Like  seaward-floating  isles ;  — 
So  Life  shall  return  from  its  solstice,  and  bum 

In  trappings  of  gold  and  blue,  * 

The  world  shall  pass  like  a  shattered  glass. 

And  the  heaven  of  Love  shine  through. 


AT    ANDERSONVILLE. 

• 

DRAKE  TALCOTT,  a  Union  pris-  the  cracker  point  of  view,  possessed 
oner,  marched  with  other  prisoners  likewise  a  mighty  will,  and  a  stubborn, 
seventy-five  miles  to  Danville,  on  thir-  tenacious  endurance,  nowise  weakened 
teen  crackers.  They  travelled  from  there  by  the  discipline  of  two  years  of  camp 
to  Andersonville,  six  days  by  rail,  on  and  battle  ;  and  not  only  marched  witli 
four  crackers  a  day,  and,  as  a  con-  courage  and  elasticity,  but  actuallv  set 
sequence  of  the  rations,  came  in  due  himself,  out  of  the  abundance  of  his 
course  of  time  to  a  general  sense  of  resources,  to  spur  the  flagging  spirits 
emptiness,  and  an  incorrigible  tenden-  of  his  comrades,  as  they  huddled  in 
cy  to  think  of  roast  beef^  boiled  chicken,  disconsolate  confusion  about  the  little 
fried  oysters,  and  other  like  dainties ;  station  at  Andersonville. 
and  many  of  the  prisoners,  after  bat-  "  Boys,"  said  our  orator,  *'  the  Rebels 
tling  awhile  with  the  emptiness  and  the  keep  their  best  generals  for  their  Home 
mental  tendency,  fell  down  exhausted,  Guard.  Lee  and  Early,  and  the  rest 
and  were  stowed  away  in  the  wagons  of  the  crew,  are  lambs  and  sucking 
following  on  in  the  rear  of  the  train,  doves  to  Generals  Starvation,  Wear- 
But  Talcott,  though  with  youth  and  the  'em-out,  and  Grumble,  —  especially  that 
brawn  and  muscle  and  lusty  craving,  last-named  fellow,  who  is  the  worst  of 
vitality  of  an  athlete  against  him  in  the  three,  because  he  comes  under  our 


286 


At  Andersonville. 


[March, 


own  colors,  and  we  feel  shy  about  firing 
on  our  own  men.  I  believe  we  are  all 
too  apt  to  think  that  muscles  are  the 
vital  forces,  and  that  man  lives  by  beef; 
but,  boys,  muscles  are  only  hammers, 
and  it  takes  a  thought  to  raise  them ; 
and  though  beef  is  good  eating,  and  we 
should  all  like  a  slice  uncommonly,  let 
me  tell  you,  when  it  is  n't  to  be  had, 
that  backbone  is  the  next  thing  to  it,  and 
it  is  surprising  how  long  a  man  can  live 
on  it  For  it  is  the  brain  that  is  the  com- 
mander-in-chief, and  does  the  strategy 
and  the  planning  for  this  precious  life 
that  we  all  set  such  store  by, — the  brain, 
that  I  used  to  think  a  lazy  bummer,  that 
lived  at  the  stomach's  expense ;  and 
when  the  quartermaster  —  that  's  the 
stomach  —  telegraphs  up  that  he 's  £urly 
cleaned  out,  not  a  half-ration  left,  says 
our  little  commander,  cool  and  calm, 
^  Serve  out  grit  and  backbone  to  the 
troops,  and  send  out  the  senses  on  a 
scout'  And,  men,  if  you  Ve  got  the  grit, 
and  keep  on  the  sharp  look-out,  you  are 
likely  to  get  on  ;  but  shut  down  on  grum- 
bling,— that 's  a  luxury  for  fellows  that 
get  three  meals  a  day ;  for  while  you 
are  busy  about  that,  Starvation  and 
Wear-*em-out  will  sail  in  at  you,  and 
once  you  get  weak  in  the  knees,  and 
limp  in  the  back,  and  dizzy  in  the  head, 
you  're  played  out  Remember,  we 
are  n't  going  to  Belle  Isle.  I  don't 
know  anything  about  Andersonville,  but 
it  can't  be  so  bad  as  that  hole." 

The  men  cheered.  Up  came  an  offi- 
cer on  the  double-quick. 

"  What 's  the  row  about  now  ?  You 
Yankees  are  always  chattering  like 
crows." 

"  So  you  scarecrows  come  to  look  af- 
ter us,"  retorted  Drake,  quick  as  light : 
at  which  poor  piece  of  wit  the  soldiers 
were  pleased  to  laugh  vociferously, — 
the  irritating  laugh  that  assumes  your 
defeat,  without  granting  you  a  hearing, 
—  before  which  the  man  in  authority, 
not  having  the  art  of  looking  like  a 
fool  with  propriety,  retreated,  reddening 
and  snarling,  but  turned  on  the  plat- 
form of  the  cars,  and  flung  back  this 
Parthian  arrow  at  the  laughing  Yan- 
kees :  — 


''You  're  a  bad  lot  of  men,  saucy  as 
the  Devil ;  but  I  reckon  you  '11  get  the 
impudence  taken  out  of  you  here,  d— d 
quick !  ** 

**  It  is  all  you  have  left  them  to  take, 
anyhow,"  said  a  voice,  —  and  "That's 
so,"  chorused  the  crowd ;  and  the  whis- 
tle sounding,  the  Captain,  whose  reign 
was  over,  departed,  hard-iiit  and  growl- 
ing, but  left,  so  to  speak,  his  sting  be- 
hind him :  for  the  last  of  his  speech  had 
one  terrible  merit,  —  it  was  true. 

The  prisoners,  over  a  thousand  strong, 
were  formed  in  line  and  ordered  to 
march.  As  they  tramped  along  the  dus- 
ty road,  they  strained  their  eyes,  ea- 
gerly, but  furtively,  for  the  first  show 
of  their  prison.  Seeing  tents  on  the 
left,  there  was  a  little  stir  among  them, 
but  that  proved  to  be  a  Rebel  camp; 
then  some  one  spied  heights  topped 
with  cannon,  and  '*  Now,"  said  they, 
**we   are    close    upon  it,"    and   then 

stopped  short  for  wonder,  for  here  the 
road  ended,  ran  butt  against  the  wall 
of  a  huge  roofless  inclosure,  made  of 
squared  pines  set  perpendicularly  and 
close  together  in  the  ground. 

''  Is  it  a  pen  ?  "  asked  one,  doubtfully. 

"Yes,  yours,"  retorted  one  of  the 
guard,  with  a  grin,  —  "the  Stockade 
Prison." 

The  word  ran  down  the  line  like  a 
shiver,  and  the  men  stood  mute,  eying 
each  other  doubtfully.  And  now,  if  I 
could,  I  would  get  at  your  hearts,  you 
who  read  this,  and  you  should  not  read 
mistily,  and  hold  the  story  at  loose  ends 
as  it. were,  but  feel  by  the  answering 
throb  within  yourselves  what  thoughts 
gnawed  at  the  hearts  of  these  men  un- 
der their  brave  show  of  indifference: 
for  though  these  be  facts,  facts  written 
are  disembodied,  and,  like  spirits,  have 
no  power  to  speak  to  you,  unless  you 
give  them  the  voice  of  your  sympathy ; 
and  without  that,  I  question  which 
touches  you  most  deeply,  a  thousand 
rats  following  the  Pied  Piper  of  Hame- 
lin,  and  wondering,  as  he  neared  the 
wharves,  where  the  Dense  they  were 
going,  or  the  thousand  Union  soldiers 
standing  stunned  before  a  gate  from 
which  should  have  wailed  forth,  as  they 


i86s.] 


At  AndersoHville. 


2S7 


filed    through,    ^^  Leave    all   hope  be- 
hind f' 

They  were  hardly  in,  when  there  was 
a  scramble,  and  a  cry  of  **  Rations  1 " 
and  came  lumbering  a  train  of  wagons, 
bringing  the  day's  supplies.  There  were 
at  this  time  under  torture  twenty-eight 
thousand   prisoners,  —  more  than  the 
population  of  Hartford  ;    and  as   the 
Southern  Confederacy,  a  Christian  asso- 
ciation, and  conducting  itself  with  many 
appeals  to  Christian  principle,  believes 
the  wind  is  tempered  to  the  shorn  lamb, 
and  so  shears  the  Yankees  as  close  as 
possible,  these  men  had  all  been  for- 
mally fleeced  of  such  worldly  gear  as 
blankets,  money,  and   extra  clothing. 
Some  further  shearing  there  had  been 
also,  but  irregular,  depending  chiefly  on 
the  temper  of  the  captors,  —  stripping 
them  sometimes  to  shirt  and  drawers, 
leaving  them  occasionally  jacket  and 
shoes  ;  so  now  most  were  barefooted, 
most  in  rags,  and  some  had  not  even 
rags.    They  had  lain  on  the  bare  earth, 
sodden  with  damp  or  calcined  into  dust, 
and  borne  storm  and  heat*  helplessly, 
without  even  the  shelter  of  a  board, 
till  they  were  burned  and  wasted  to  the 
likeness  of  haggard  ghosts ;  most  had 
forgotten   hope,  many  decency ;  some 
were  dying,  and  crawled  over  the  ground 
with  a  woful  persistency  that  it  would 
have  broken  your  heart  to  see ;  they  were 
all  fasting,  for  the  day's  rations,  tossed 
to  them  the  afternoon  before,  had  been 
devoured,  as  was  the  custom,  at  a  sin- 
gle meal,  and  proved  scant  at  that ;  and 
they  crowded  wolfishly  about  the  wag- 
ons, the  most  miserable,  pitiable  mob 
that  ever  had  mothers,  wives,  and  sis- 
ters at  home  to  pray  for  them. 

The  new  comers  looked  on  amazed, 
and  "  How  about  Belle  Isle  now  ?  "  they 
said  bitterly  to  Drake.  He,  poor  fellow, 
was  having  his  first  despondent  chill, 
and  sneering  at  himself  for  having  it, 
after  all  his  fine  talk  about  "backbone  " ; 
and  finding  reasons  for  despair  thicken, 
the  harder  he  tried  to  make  elbow-room 
for  hope,  till  altogether  confounded  at 
the  muddle,  he  flung  up  thought,  with 
'*  Brain  *s  full  and  stomach 's  empty,  and 
it  \  ill  talking  between  a  full  man  and 


a  fasting,'*  and  set  about  cooking  his  ra* 
tions.  "  But  first  catch  your  hare,"  cries 
Mrs.  Glass.  Drake  had  his  hare,  such 
as  it  was,  but  found  something  quite  as 
important  lacking,  — wood. 

*'  1  say,  my  friend,  where  do  we  find 
fuel  ? ''  he  asked  of  a  man  sitting  quiet- 
ly on  the  ground. 

"  Where  the  Israelites  found  the  straw 
for  their  bricks, "  was  the  answer.  "  There 
is  no  special  provision  made,  unless  it 
be  an  occasional  permit  to  forage  out- 
side, under Hold  off  there !  — don't 

touch  that,  man,  unless  you  want  to  be 
cooked  yourself  for  supper !  —  that 's  the 
'deadline'!" 

Drake  drew  back  from  a  light  railing 
running  parallel  with  the  inclosure,  on 
which  he  had  nearly  laid  his  hand. 

<'  What  the  Dense  is  the  dead  line  ?  " 

'^  The  new  way  to  pay  old  debts,  and 
put  a  Yankee  out  of  the  world  cheap. 
Show  so  much  as  your  litUe  finger  out- 
side of  that,  and  the  guard  nails. you 
with  a  bullet ;  and  as  they  like  that  sort 
of  thing,  they  blaze  away  whenever  they 
get  a  chance,  —  which  is  once  or  twice  a  • 
day,  —  for  our  men  expose  themselves 
voluntarily.  When  Satan  said,  'Skin 
for  skin,  yea,  all  that  a  man  hath  vrill 
he  give  for  his  life,'  he  had  n't  invented 
the  Stockade  Prison." 

The  man  who  said  these  things,  in  a 
quiet,  unexcited  way,  as  if  discussing 
some  abstraction  of  the  schools,  not 
murder,  was  too  wan  and  wasted,  too 
shrunken  and  despairing,  to  aflford  a 
guess  as  to  what  manner  of  man  he 
might  have  been,  and  too  unkempt  and 
ragged  for  any  inference  concerning  his' 
rank,  having  neither  jacket,  cap,  nor 
shoes,  matted  hair  and  beard,  torn  shirt 
and  ragged  trousers :  but  his  look  of  re- 
solved i>atience,  and  an  occasional  smile 
while  he  talked,  sadder  than  tears,^  made 
Drake's  stout  heart  twinge  with  pain. 
"A  strong  soul  in  a  feeble  body,"  he 
said  to  himself,  as  he  walked  on ;  and 
furthermore,  "  The  man  that  can  smile 
here  like  that  is  near  heaven,  and  fit 
for  it" 

Presently  he  came  on  a  farmer  selling 
wood  by  the  stick,  price  in  proportion 
to  its  size,  and  as  many  times  its  value 


288 


At  Andersonville. 


[March, 


as  the  Rebel,  by  his  own  showmg,  ex- 
ceeds the  Yankee.  Drake  had  money, 
spite  of  shearing  and  searching.    He 

had  hidden  it But  I  forbear  to  <ell 

of  what  ingenious  shift  he  had  availed 
himself^  for  1  remember,  that,  spite  of  its 
well-known  loyalty,  the  "Atlantic  Month- 
ly ''  runs  the  blockade.  First  he  passed 
the  man,  prudence  pulling  him  by  the 
sleeve,  and  searched  lynx-eyed  for  chips 
or  twigs,  over  ground  scoured  daily,  in 
such  faint  hope  as  his,  by  thousands ; 
but  he  might  as  well  have  dragged  a 
brook  for  the  wreck  of  a  seventy-four 
among  its  pebbles.  Having  wasted  a 
precious  half-hour  of  fading  daylight,  he 
came  back  to  the  dealer  to  find  his  stock 
on  the  rise ;  for  the  influx  of  new  comers 
had  produced  an  upward  tendency  in  a 
market  sensitive  as  that  of  Wall  Street. 
Lest  it  should  swell  quite  beyond  the 
compass  of  his  pocket,  he  maide  haste 
to  buy,  —  scores  of  meagre  wretches 
looking  anxiously  on.  That  pitiful  sight 
made  his  heart  sore  again ;  and  he  hard- 
ly persuaded  himself  to  take  his  wood 
•  and  be  off,  till  he  remembered  the  poor 
fellow  whom  he  had  left  resigned  and 
hopeless,  sitting  quietly  on  the  ground 
while  all  was  eager  stir  about  him,  and 
hurried  back  to  the  spot  where  he  had 
seen  him  to  find  him  gone.  He  had 
crawled  away,  and  was  lost  in  that  great 
throng. 

Not  to  be  balked  entirely,  Drake 
shared  his  firing  with  those  around  him ; 
and  Virtue,  in  place  of  her  usual  promis- 
sory note,  gave  him  his  reward  instant- 
ly, in  the  shape  of  a  tin  cup  belonging 
to  one  of  the  party,  and  their  sole  cook- 
ing-utensil, —  for  the  prison  authorities 
fiimish  none.  His  rations  —  a  day's 
rations,  remember  —  were  eight  ounces 
of  Indian  meal,  cob  and  kernel  ground 
together,  (as  with  us  for  pigs,)  and 
sour,  ( a  common  occurrence,)  and  two 
ounces  of  condemned  pork  (not  to  ap- 
pear again  in  our  pages,  as  it  proved 
too  strong  even  for  poor  Drake's  hun- 
ger). He  brought  water  in  the  cup 
from  a  ditch  that  traversed  the  inclos- 
ure,  and  filtered  it  through  a  bit  of  cloth 
torn  from  his  shirt;  and  the  meal  be- 
ing mixed  with  this  water,  (salt  was 


not  even  hinted  at,  the  market  price  of 
that  article  being  four  dollars  a  pound 
at  Andersonville,)  it  was  placed  on  a 
strip  of  wood  before  the  fire,  to  bake 
up  to  the  half-raw  point,  that  being  the 
highest  perfection  attainable  in  Drake's 
kitchen :  for  a  range  and  a  steady  heat 
find  the  baking  of  meal,  so  mixed,  no 
easy  matter.  Eight  ounces  of  meal 
make  a  cake  six  inches  long,  five  broad, 
and  half  an  inch  thick :  that  is  to  say, 
Drake's  dinner  and  supper  for  that  day, 
and  his  breakfast  and  dinner  for  the 
next  day,  were  in  the  mass  six  inch- 
es long,  five  inches  broad,  and  half 
an  inch  thick.  Give  the  figures  an  In- 
dian-meal consistency,  you  who  are  not 
of  that  order  of  Stoics  that  endures  its 
neighbor's  sufierings  without  a  groan. 
Try  the  experiment  in  your  own  kitchen. 
One  baking  will  carry  conviction  farther 
than  batches  of  statistics.  Drake  being 
^  famished  chose  to  take  four  meals  in  one, 
— improvident  man !  That  done,  he 
went  to  bed :  quite  an  elaborate  arrange- 
ment, as  practised  among  us,  what  with 
taking  off  of  clothes,  and  possibly  wash- 
ing and  combing,  and  pulling  up  of  sheets 
and  coverlets,  and  fitting  of  pillows  to 
neck  and  shoulders ;  but  nothing  can 
be  more  simple  than  the  way  they  do  it 
there.  You  just  lie  down  wherever  you 
are,  —  and  sleep,  if  you  can.  Drake 
could  and  did  sleep  most  soundly. 

This  was  our  hero's  first  taste  of  pris- 
on-life. But  a  little  reading  and  much 
talk  about  camp-fires  and  behind  earth- 
works—  when  there  was  a  lull  in  the 
storm  of  shot  and  shell  —  had  etched 
out  for  him  certain  crude  theories,  for 
which  he  was  as  ready  to  do  battle  as 
any  other  hot-headed  lad  of  twenty- 
three.  "  Starvation  is  the  masked  bat- 
tery that  plays  the  Dense  with  us  all," 
he  insisted ;  "  and  we  must  take  that,  or 
be  taken  out  —  feet  foremost  As  for 
your  «;i£w,' good  Incredulity  and  Unbe- 
lief, where  there  is  an  end,  and  the  will 
to  reach  it,  the  means  are  tolerably  sure 
to  be  lying  around  loose  somewhere." 
But  examinations  for  candidates,  and 
the  hundred-pound  hail,  and  the  sharp 
beak  of  the  ram  for  the  untried  monitor, 
are  facts  for  theories ;  and  without  the 


i865.] 


At  AndersonvilU, 


289 


proof  of  these,  none  of  the  three  have 
the  positive  value  of  a  skillet  that  has 
been  tried.  We  have  Drake's  theory. 
Here  are  the  ^ts. 

No  cooking-utensils  were  allowed  the 
prisoner ;  no  blankets  were  allowed  the 
prisoner ;  no  shelter  of  any  sort  was  al- 
lowed the  prisoner ;  no  tools  or  materi- 
als to  construct  a  shelter  were  allowed 
the  prisoner ;  no  means  of  living  as  a 
civilized  man  were  allowed  the  pris- 
oner ;  no  way  of  helping  himself  as  a 
savage  was  allowed  tiie  prisoner.  The 
rations  were  at  all  times  insufficient, 
and  frequently  so  foul  that  starvation 
itself  could  not  swallow  them :  conse- 
quence, stomach  and  body  weakened 
by  a  perpetual  hunger,  and  in  many 
cases  utter  inability  to  retain  food,  good 
or  bad.  More  than  that,  the  sluggish 
water-course  that  served  as  tlieir  res- 
ervoir crept  across  their  pen  foul  and 
thick  with  the  tUbris  of  the  Rebel  camp 
above,  and  in  the  centre  filtered  through 
the  spongy  ground,  and  creamed  and 
mantled  and  spread  out  loathsomely  in- 
to a  hateful  swamp ;  and  the  fierce  sun, 
beating  down  on  its  slimy  surface,  drew 
from  its  festering  pools  and  mounds  of 
refuse  a  vapor  of  death,  and  the  pris- 
oners breathed  it ;  and  the  reek  of  un- 
washed and  diseased  bodies  crowding 
close  on  each  other,  and  the  sickening, 
pestilential  odor  of  a  huge  camp  without 
sewerage  or  system  of  policing,  made  the 
air  a  horror,  and  the  prisoners  breath- 
ed it 

Drake  woke,  stifling  with  the  heat  and 
horrible  steam,  and  turning  and  throw- 
ing out  his  arm,  only  yet  half  awake, 
struck  on  something  cold  and  stiff:  the 
corpse  of  some  poor  feUow  who  had 
died  there  in  the  night  beside  him. 
Drake,  in  a  two  years'  campaign,  had 
grown  familiar  with  death,  but  could 
not  yet  receive  him  as  a  bed -fellow, 
and  scrambled  up  in  sickening  horror 
to  a  day  in  which  there  was  no  break- 
£ut  to  eat,  no  arms  to  clean,  no  shoes 
to  black,  no  dress  to  change,  no  work 
of  any  sort  to  do,  no  letters  to  write  or 
hope  for,  no  books  to  read,  no  dinner  to 
prepare,  at  least  till  four  p.m.,  when  they 
served  out  rations,  —  nothing  to  fix  the 

VOL.  XV.  —  NO.  89.  19 


eye,  or  offer  subject  of  thought,  but  the 
general  and  utter  wretchedness.  Nor 
could  Drake  and  his  fellows  take  refuge 
in  that  unconscious  self-gratulation  with 
which  we  see  the  miseries  of  our  neigh- 
bors ;  for  the  future  here  threw  vshad- 
ows  backward.  That  skeleton,  (I  use 
the  word  not  in  the  exaggerated  sense 
in  which  we  are  apt  to  apply  it,  but 
advisedly ;  and  I  mean  a  living  human 
being,  whose  skin  is  literally  drawn  over 
hideously  projecting  bones,  and  who, 
having  actually  lost  all  rounding -out 
and  filling  of  flesh,  has  grown  transpar- 
ent, so  that  by  holding  an  arm  in  the 
light  you  may  see  the  blood-vessels  and 
the  inner  edges  of  the  bones,) — this 
skeleton  lying  there  was,  perhaps,  what 
Drake  should  be  two  months  hence; 
those  men  quarrelling,  hyena -like,  for 
the  "job"  of  burying  their  dead  com- 
rades, that  scarred  old  man  moaning 
for  a  compass,  because  he  had  lost  his 
way  and  could  not  find  the  North,  were 
not  lower  or  more  pitiful  than  Drake 
might  yet  be :  for  stout  heart  and  brave 
blood  and  quick  brain  have  no  charm 
against  fkmine,  pestilence,  and  a  steady 
pressure  of  misery  in  all  possible  forms. 

The  majority  of  his  comrades  sank 
helplessly  into  this  quaking  bog.  Out 
of  fifty  captured  of  his  regiment,  Wil- 
liams, a  delicate  lad,  sickened  at  once ; 
Dean,  a  stout  old  Scotchman,  was  close 
on  idiocy  in  a  month ;  Allan,  the  color- 
bearer,  was  shot  by  the  guard, — he  had 
slipped  near  the  dead  line,  and  fallen 
with  his  head  outside ;  fourteen  were 
dead  of  disease ;  twelve  more  sank  in 
rayless,  hopeless  apathy;  and  Drake— 
was  b^sy  on  *•  A  History  of  the  Stock- 
ade Prison."  The  way  in  which  he  got 
the  idea  and  his  stationery  is  worth 
telling. 

There  had  fallen  upon  him  a  dread  of 
motion,  —  a  sombre  endurance,  —  a  dis- 
couraged sense  of  thirty  thousand  hope- 
less men  dragging  him  down  to  despair, 
— a  dark  cloud  that  shut  out  God  and 
home  and  help,— an  inability  to  compose 
and  fix  his  drowsy,  reeling  thought,  that 
spun  off  dizzily  to  times  at  school,  and 
love  and  laughter  at  home,  and  lapsed 
itself  in  forgetfulness,  and  ceased  to  be 


290 


At  AndersanviUe. 


[March, 


even  dreamy  speculation.  Drake,  in 
short,  was  going  to  the  bottom  with  his 
theory  about  his  neck,  when  a  "  Provi- 
dence/' —  the  modem  way  of  dodging 
an  acknowledgment  to  God,  whom,  by 
the  by,  our  poor  boy  had  quite  omitted 
in  his  little  theory  of  self-preservation, 
—  in  the  curious  shape  of  an  official 
blunder,  stepped  in  to  his  rescue.  A 
cook-house  was  in  erection  without  the 
limits  of  their  pen,  and,  though  no  car- 
penter, Drake  was  set  with  others  to 
work  under  guard.  The  first  glimpse 
of  the  open  country,  stretching  away  to 
meet  the  low  horizon,  brought  back  the 
half-forgotten  thought  of  Freedom ;  and 
the  very  trail  of  her  robe  is  so  glorious, 
that  even  this  poor  savage  liberty  of 
rock  and  clod  roused  in  him  anew  wit 
to  devise  and  courage  to  endure.  He 
worked  then  so  merrily  and  with  such 
good  heart,  that  an  admiring  inspector 
more  than  hinted  <*  at  the  pity  it  was  to 
see  a  decent  young  fellow  like  him  shut 
up  in  the  pen  yonder.'' 

**  So  I  think,"  returned  Drake,  calm- 
ly, cutting  away  at  his  board. 

The  official  edged  a  little  closer. 

"Why  don't  you  come  over  to  us, 
then?  The  Confederacy  gives  good 
wages.  Our  Government  knows  how 
to  pay  its  men.'' 

"  Right  there ! "  retorted  Drake.  "  The 
Confederacy  pays  its  servants  in  death 
and  ruin,  which,  as  you  say,  are  the 
just  wages  of  a  traitor.  As  for  me,  I 
want  no  more  of  Georgia  soil  than  will 
make  me  a  grave.  That  is  as  much  as 
a  man  can  own  here  now  and  be  hon- 
est" 

It  was  then,  from  some  occult  con* 
nection  of  ideas  too  subtile  for  search- 
ing out,  that  he  imagined,  first,  a  his- 
tory of  the  Stockade  Prison.  He  se- 
cured a  number  of  long,  thin  boards, 
and  planed  them  smooth,  for  foolscap, 
pointed  bits  of  wood  for  pens,  manu- 
factured his  ink  firom  the  rust  of  some 
old  nails,  and  made  himself  a  knife  by 
grinding  two  pieces  of  iron  hoop  one 
upon  the  other,  and,  his  work  on  the 
cook-house  at  an  end,  set  bravely  about 
his  history,  when  Fate  nipped  it,  as  she 
has  done  many  a  more  promising  one 


before  it ;  for  even  when  on  the  finsd 
flourish  of  his  title,  he  heard  a  sound 
between  a  groan  and  a  sigh,  and;  turn- 
ing, saw  Corny  Keegan,  a  strapping 
Irishman,  and  sergeant  in  his  regiment, 
lying  near  him.  Drake  put  the  tail  on 
his  ff,  and  then  some  uneasy  conscious- 
ness would  have  him  look  again  over  the 
edge  of  his  board  at  the  sergeant ;  for, 
though  there  were  scores  of  men  lying 
within  view  on  the  ground,  there  was 
something  in  the  **  give  "  and  laxity  of 
Corny's  posture  that  augured  ill  for  him 
in  Drake's  experienced  eyes,  and,  lay- 
ing the  history  aside,  he  went  over  and 
kneeled  down  beside  him.  The  man's 
eyes  were  closed,  and  a  dull,  yellowish 
pallor  had  taken  the  place  of  the  usual 
brick  tint  of  his  face.  Drake  essayed  to 
lift  his  heavy  head  and  shoulders  ;  but 
Corny  settled  back  again  with  a  groan. 

**Och!  wurral  Musther  Talcott,  lave 
me  alone.  It 's  dead  I  am,  kilt  intirely, 
wid  the  wakeness.  Divil  's  the  bit  of 
wood  I  've  had  these  two  days,  and  not 
a  cint  or  a  frind  to  the  fore,  and  I  'm 
jist  afther  mixin'  the  male  here  with 
wather,  thinkin'  to  ate  it  that  way,  but 
it  stuck  in  me  throat,  and  I  'm  all  on 
a  thrimble,  and  it 's  a  gone  man  is  Cor- 
ny Keegan  ;  though  it 's  not  fur  meself 
that  I  'd  make  moan,  sence  it 's  aisier 
dyin'  than  livin',  only  the  ould  mother 

and  Mary  that  '11  fret  and Holy 

Mother !  there  comes  the  sickness,  bad 
scran  to  it !  " 

You  see  now  how  it  happened  unto 
the  History  of  the  Stockade  Prison  to 
vanish  in  smoke ;  for  Drake,  having 
neither  wood  nor  the  money  to  buy  it, 
made  a  fire  with  his  precious  boards, 
and  baked  Corny's  raw  meal  in  a  cake, 
which,  the  poor  fellow  devoured  with 
a  half-starved  avidity  that  made  Drake 
ashamed  of  the  reluctance  with  which 
he  had  offered  up  his  sacrifice.  A  litde 
comer  of  his  cake  Corny  left  untouched, 
saying,  — 

**  That  's  fiir  the  poor  crathur  over 
beyant." 

"  What  poor  creature  ?  "  asked  Drake ; 
but  Corny's  eyes  were  fixed  on  the 
pens  and  ink,  and  the  sorry  remains  of 
his  foolscap,  —  a  half-strip  of  board. 


iiB65.] 


At  Andersonville. 


291 


**  Och  !  murtfaer  !  Musther  Talcott, 
and  wuz  it  thim  bits  of  board  ye  's  writ- 
in'  on  ?  and  ye  's  burned  thim  fur  me, 
afther  all  the  throuble  ye  took  wid  thim  ? 
and  to  think  of  the  thick  head  of  me,  to 
ate  up  all  that  illigant  histhry,  when  I  'd 
heerd  the  boys  talkin'  on  it,  by  the 
same  token,  an*d  bad  scran  to  me  I  The 
Lord  be  good  to  ye  fur  your  kindness, 
Musther  Talcott,  and  make  your  bed 
as  soft  as  your  heart  is,  and  give  ye 
a  line  in  the  Book  of  Life  fur  the  one 
I  've  ate,  and  " 

"  But  the  poor  creature,  Corny." 

<'  Thrue  for  you ;  and  I  'm  a  baste 
for  forgettin'  him,  and  him  starvin'  the 
while.  It  's  jist  Cap'n  Ireland,  if  ye 
chance  to  mind  him.  He  was  tiie  illi'> 
gant  officer  and  the  kind-hearted  man ; 
and  to  see  him  now !  If  ye  '11  come 
away,  Musther  Talcott,  I  'm  quite  done 
wid  the  wakeness,  and  it  's  jist  over 
here  beyant  that  he  's  lyin',  poor  jon- 
tleman,  that  '11  not  be  long  lyin'  any- 
where out  of  his  grave." 

Corny  pointed,  as  he  spoke,  to,  a 
man,  or,  rather,  a  bundle  of  rags  hav- 
ing some  £eunt  outlines  of  humanity, 
on  the  ground  before  them,  —  limbs 
'  out  helplessly,  face  set  and  ghastly, 
hardly  a  stir  among  his  tatters  to  as- 
sure them  that  he  yet  breathed ;  and 
Drake  recognized  with  a  thrill  of  hor- 
ror, though  more  wan,  more  woful, 
more  shadow-like,  if  possible,  the  man 
who  had  so  moved  his  compassion  on 
the  night  of  his  arrival.  Keegan  knelt 
beside  him,  and  put  his  comer  of  cake 
to  the  sufferer's  mouth,  saying,  "  Ate  a 
bit,  Cap'n  dear ;  thry  now  " ;  and  then, 
seeing  that  the  food  rested  on  white 
and  quiet  lips,  —  **  Cap'n,  don't  ye  hear 
roe  ?  It 's  Corny,  that  spoke  wid  ye  a 
while  back.  Saints  be  merciful  to  us, 
he  's  gone  !  " 

^  He  is  not  so  happy,"  said  Drake, 
savagely;  *'he  has  only  ^Eiinted.  He 
has  days  of  such  torture  as  this  before 
him.  It  would  be  a  mercy  to  him,  and 
I  'm  not  sure  but  good  religion,  to  put 
him  outside  of  the  dead  line.  I  wonder 
why  they  don't  tie  us  to  the  cannon's 
mouth  at  once.  Here  I  you  !  guard, 
there  !  holla  !  " 


This  last  was  addressed  to  a  soldier 
in  the  Rebel  gray,  who  was  proceed- 
ing leisurely  past,  but  who,  on  hearing 
himself  so  unceremoniously  summoned, 
turned  and  came  slowly  towards  them. 

''Here  is  a  man,"  said  Drake,  pas- 
sionately, ''who  is  dying,  not  because 
it  pleases  God  to  take  him,  but  because 
it  pleases  you  to  starve  him.  We  have 
no  wood  to  make  a  fire,  no  food  to 
give  him,  unless  it  is  this  scrap  of  meal 
that  he  cannot  swallow;  but  you  can 
save  him,  and  will,  if  you  are  a  man,  and 
have  a  man's  heart  under  that  dress." 

The  soldier  stared,  but,  bei^g  a 
phlegmatic  animal,  heard  him  quietly 
to  the  end,  and  opened  his  jaws  to  an- 
swer with  due  deliberation. 

''If  you  don't  like  our  rules,  you 
should  n't  have  come  here,  you  know. 
And  we  have  n't  any  orders  about  wood : 
you  are  to  look  out  for  yourselves.  As 
for  the  man,  if  he  's  sick,  why  don't 
you  take  him  to  the  stockade  yonder, 
where  the  doctor  is  examining  for  ad- 
mittance to  the  hospital  ?  —  though  I 
don't  see  the  use :  he  's  too  far  gone." 

Drake  and  Corny  lifted  the  poor 
wasted  frame,  that  seemed  all  too  frail 
to  hold  the  flickering,  struggling  breath, 
and  carried  it  to  a  small  stockade 
crowded  with  men  desirous  to  enter 
the  hospital.  The  first  assistant  to 
whom  they  applied  was  a  nervous  por- 
cupine, fretted  with  overwork,  and  re- 
pulsed them  roughly. 

"  What  is  the  use  of  bringing  a  dead 
man  here  ?  We  have  enough  living 
ones  on  hand." 

''Och,  and  that  's  no  raison,  sence 
it  's  aisy  to  see  thim  's  the  kind  you 
like  best,''  muttered  Corny ;  but  Drake 
silenced  him  hastily. 

"  Keep  a  civil  tongue.  Corny.  They 
're  the  masters  here ;  smd  it  will  only 
be  the  worse  for  poor  Ireland,  if  you 
anger  them.  Here's  another;  we  'U 
try  him." 

But  Number  Two  was  Sir  Impertur- 
bability, and,  without  even  looking  to- 
wards them,  answered^  in  a.  hard,  even 
tone,  "  Our  number  is  filled ;  you  are 
too  late,"  and,  without  lifting  an  eyer 
laah,  went  on  with  his  work. 


292 


At  Andersonville. 


[March, 


Drake  grew  white  to  the  lips.  The 
great  veins  started  out  on  his  forehead, 
and  his  fingers  worked  nervously ;  but 
it  was  Comy's  turn  to  interfere. 

"  Musther  Talcott,  sure  and  ye  *11  not 
mind  what  that  spalpeen 's  saying ;  and 
there 's  the  docthor  himself  beyant,  and 
a  kind  and  pleasant  jontleman  he  is. 
Jist  lift  the  Cap*ny  aisy  now,  and  we  '11 
see  what  the  docthor  'U  say  to  him." 

For  the  third  time,  then,  Drake  made 
his  appeal  in  behalf  of  the  poor  fellow 
at  his  feet  The  doctor  heard  him  kind- 
ly, but  answered,  as  his  assistant  had 
done,  that  their  number  was  full  for  the 
day,  and  was  moving  on,  when  Talcott 
caught  him  by  the  arm. 

"  Doctor,"  he  said,  sternly,  "  one  of 
your  assistants  refuses  my  comrade  be- 
cause he  is  a  dying  man  ;  another  tells 
me,  as  you  have  done,  that  your  num- 
ber is  full  for  the  day.  Your  own  eyes 
can  tell  you,  that,  if  not  dying  now,  he 
will  be  before  to-morrow,  of  want  and 
exposure.  I  know  nothing  of  your 
rules  ;  but  I  do  know,  that,  if  my  com- 
rade's life  is  to  be  saved,  it  is  to  be 
saved  now,  and  that  you  have  the 
means^  if  means  there  are,  for  its  salva- 
tion ;  and  let  the  awful  guilt  of  the  cru- 
elty that  brought  him  here  weigh  down 
whose  neck  it  will,  as  there  is  a  God 
above  us,  I  do  not  see  how  you  can 
write  yourself  free  of  murder,  or  think 
your  hands  clean  from  blood,  if  you 
send  him  back  to  die." 

«  God  forbid  !  God  forbid  ! "  answer- 
ed the  doctor,  shrinking  from  Drake's 
vehemence.  "You  are  unjust,  young 
man ;  it  is  not  my  will,  but  my  power 
to  help,  that  is  limited.  However,  he 
shall  not  be  sent  back  ;  we  will  do  for 
him  what  we  can,  if  I  have  to  lodge 
him  in  my  own  house." 

"And  did  n't  I  tell  ye  the  docthor 
was  the  kind  jontleman  ?  "  cried  Corny, 
joyfully.  "  Thoufh  the  hospital  is  no 
sich  great  matther :  jist  a  few  tints ;  but 
thin  he  '11  be  gettin'  a  bed  there,  and 
belike  a  dhrap  of  whiskey  or  a  sup  of 
porridge :  and  if  he  gits  on,  it  's  you 
he  has  to  thank  for  it ;  fitr  if  it  had  n't 
6een  fiir  your  prachement,  my  sowl,  the 
docthor  would  have  turned  him  off,  too ; 


and  long  life  to  you,  says  Corny  Kee- 
gan,  and  may  you  niver  be  needin'  any- 
body's tongue  to  do  the  like  fur  you ! " 

Drake  made  no  answer;  after  tl\p 
fever  comes  the  chill,  and  he  was  think- 
ing drearily  of  the  smouldering  "  Histo* 
ry,"  and  of  the  intolerable  leaden  hours 
stretching  out  before  hhn;  but  it  was 
not  in  Comy's  nature  to  remain  silent 

"It  's  the  ouid  jontleman  wid  the 
scythe  that  takes  us  down,  afther  all, 
Musther  Talcott ;  the  hours  and  hours 
that  we  sit  mopin',  wid  our  fingers  as 
limp  as  a  lady's,  and  our  stomachs  clat- 
terin'  like  an  impty  can,  and  sorra  a 
thing  to  think  of  but  the  poor  crathurs 
that 's  dead,  rest  their  souls  !  and  whin 
our  turn  's  comin ;  and  it  's  wishin'  I 
am  that  it  was  in  the  days  of  the  fairies^ 
and  that  the  quane  of  thim  ud  jist  give 
us  a  call,  till  I  'd  ask  her  if  she  'd  iver 
a  pipe  and  its  full  of  tobacky  about  her, 

—  or,  failin'  that,  if  she  'd  hoppen  to 
have  a  knife  in  her  pocket,  till  I  cut  out 
the  ould  divil  Jeff  on  the  gallows,  and 
give  him  what  he  'd  git,  if  we  iver  put 
our  hands  on  him." 

"  A  knife,"  repeated  Dralke,  starting 
from  his  abstraction,  and  fumbling  in  his 
pocket,  from  which  he  drew  an  old  bit* 
of  iron.  "  I  am  not  the  queen  of  the 
furies  ;  but  with  this  you  can  hang  Jeff 
and  his  cabinet  in  effigy,  if  you  choose, 
and  can  find  the  material  to  carve." 

"  Arrah,  and  that 's  aisy,  wid  illigant 
bones  like  these,  that  chips  off  like  mar- 
ble or  wud  itself ;  but  I  'm  misdoubtin* 
I  'm  robbin'  ye,  Musther  Talcott" 

"  I  have  another,"  said  Drake,  produ- 
cing it ;  and  as  he  did  so,  there  breathed 
upon  him,  like  a  breeze  from  home,  a 
recoUection  of  the  dim  light  shining  in 
an  old  library  down  on  a  broad>leaved 
volume  resting  on  a  carved  rack, — of  a 
brown-tressed  girl  who  stood  with  him 
before  it,  her  head  just  at  his  shoulder, 
looking  at  the  cathedral  on  its  page, — 
of  the  chance  touch  of  a  little  hand  on 
his, — of  the  brush  of  a  perfumed  sleeve, 

—  of  the  flitting  color  in  her  clear  cheek, 
— of  a  subtile  magic,  interweaving  blush, 
perfume,  picture,  and  thought  of  Alice. 
Dainty  pinnacle  and  massive  arch  and 
carved  buttress  were  photographed  on 


i865.] 


At  Andenottville. 


293 


his  brain,  and  arch  and  pinnacle  and 
buttress  could  be  notched  out  in  bone 
by  his  poor  skill,  — and  if  he  died,  some 
kindly  comrade  should  carry  it  to  Alice, 
and  it  should  tell  her  what  he  had  left 
unsaid, — and  if  he  lived,  he  would  take 
It  to  her  himself,  and  it  should  serve  him 
for  the  text  of  liis  story.  That  the  carv- 
ing of  a  design  so  intricate,  on  so  minute 
a  scale,  must  prove  tedious  argued  in  its 
fiivor ;  and  putting  off  mourning  weeds 
for  his  history,  he  took  to  this  new  love 
with  a  complacency  that  excited  Comy's 
special  admiration. 

*'  Sure,  and  it  's  a  beautiful  thing  is 
religion ;  and  the  Divil  fly  away  wid  me, 
if  I  don't. be  afther  gittin*  it  meself! 
Here  's  Musther  Talcott :  if  he  was  fur 
carving  a  fort  or  a  big  gun,  the  eyes 
and  the  &ce  of  him  would  be  litde  but 
scowls  and  puckers  ;  and  there  he  sits, 
though  it 's  only  the  dumb  likeness  of 
a  church  that  he  's  at,  by  the  same  to- 
ken that  it 's  no  bigger  than  me  thumb, 
and,  by  the  howly  piper,  you  'd  think 
the  light  that  flings  away  from  the  big 
colored  ^ndy  down  the  church  was 
stramin'  in  his  face,  he  looks  so  paceful- 
like  ;  and  he  no  betther  than  a  heretic 
nayther,  though  he  's  the  heart  of  a 
good  Catholic,  as  no  one  knows  betther 
than  meself." 

Indeed,  Comy's  gratitude  never  grew 
cold  Few  sentences  of  his  that  did 
not  end,  like  the  one  just  quoted,  in 
eulogiums  on  "  Musther  Talcott"  If 
Drake  was  busy  with  his  cathedral, 
there  sat  Corny,  a  few  paces  distant, 
hacking  at  Jeff  Davis.  If  Drake,  who 
had  resolved  himself  into  a  sort  of  duo- 
decimo edition  of  the  Sanitary  Commis- 
sion, was  about  his  work  of  mercy, 
there  was  Corny,  a  shadow  at  his  heels, 
bringing  water,  lifting  the  poor  groan- 
ing wretches,  and  adding  his  word  of 
comfort.  "  Cheer  up,  honey,  and  do 
jist  as  Musther  Talcott  says  ;  for  it 's  nixt 
to  iverything  that  he  knows,  and  thim 
things  that  he  don't  know  is  n't  worth  a 
body's  attintion."  And  when  Drake 
himself  was  ailing,  it  was  Corny  who 
tended  him  with  terrified  solicitude,  for- 
aged for  his  wood,  and  cooked  his  ra- 
tions.   ^  When  Drake  was  ailing  1 "  — 


that  was  often.  His  courage  was  un- 
daunted, his  hope  perhaps  higher,  but 
he  had  grown  perceptibly  weak  and  lan- 
guid ;  and  there  were  days  — many,  alas ! 
— when  he  lay  quietiy  on  the  ground, 
giving  an  occasional  lazy  touch  to  his 
cathedral,  while  Corny,  as  he  laughing- 
ly said,  ruled  in  his  stead. 

It  was  on  one  of  these  days  that  there 
arose  a  sudden  stii;  and  commotion 
throughout  the  camp,  a  deep  and  joyful 
hum,  that  went  from  mouth  to  mouth ; 
and  men  were  seen  running  hastily  from 
all  quarters,  the  rush  setting  towards 
the  gate,  and  drawing  in  even  the  sick, 
who  crawled  and  hobbled  along  with 
the  stream,  at  the  risk  of  being  tram- 
pled by  the  excited  throng,  struggling 
and  crowding  on  pellmell.  While  Drake 
looked  on  in  surprise.  Corny  made  his 
appearance,  his  eyes  sparkling  with 
pleasure. 

*<  News,  Musther  Talcott  dear  1  an 
ye  wuz  dyin',  here  's  news  to  put  the 
strength  in  yer  legs!  Letthers  from 
home,  and  they  say  there  's  five  thou- 
sand on  'em;  and  there  's  an  officer 
chap,  wid  a  mouth  like  a  thrap,  countin' 
'em  as  if  he  was  a  machine,  foj  all  the 
wuruld,  and  bad  'cess  to  him !  wid  the 
poor  boys  crowdin',  and  heart-famished 
for  only  a  look  at  thim,  the  crumpled 
things,  for  it 's  battiiered  they  is !  and 
he,  the  spalpeen,  won't  let  one  of  'em 
touch  'em,  and  no  more  feelin'  with  him 
than  if  he  was  a  gun,  instead  of  the  son 
of  one ;  and  I  'm  cock-sure  I  read  yer 
name,  Musther  Talcptt,  and  there  's 
mine  too  on  the  back  of  a  letther,  and 
that  's  from  Mary,  hurra !  and  God 
bless  her !  and  come,  Musther  Talcott, 
fur  they  '11  be  dalin'  out  the  letthers  or 
iver  we  get  there." 

Drake  rose  at  once ;  but  a  description 
of  his  sensations,  as  he  hastily  made 
his  way  towards  the  throng  that  surged 
about  the  impertuvbable  official  like  a 
sea,  is  beyond  the  power  of  words.  The 
overwhelming  surprise  and  joy  of  a  man 
who  in  that  evil  den  had  almost  forgot- 
ten home  and  the  possibility  of  hearing 
from  it,  and  his  agonizing  uncertainty, 
could  be  fathomed  only  by  the  poor 
wretches  suffering  like  him,  who  anx- 


294 


At  AnderscnvilU. 


[March, 


iously  pressed  on  the  Rebel  officer,  and 
clutched  at  the  letters^  and  fell  back  sick 
with  impatience  and  suspense  at  his  for* 
mal  delay.  At  last  he  opened  his  grim 
jaws.    The  men  listened  breathlessly. 

''All  right.  Men,  there  is  ten  cents 
postage  due  on  each  letter." 

An  instant's  stunned  pause,  and 
then  half  a  dozen  voices  speaking  to- 
gether :  **  Why,  man,  you  must  have 
had  ten  cents  on  each  of  these  letters, 
before  they  crossed  the  lines  "  ;  and 
"  How  can  we  pay  postage  .?  "  "  He 
knows  we  have  no  money " ;  "  What 
good  will  the  bits  of  paper  do  him  at  all, 
at  all  ?  "  But  the  man  kept  on  like  an 
automaton. 

"  My  orders  are  to  collect  ten  cents 
on  each  letter;  and  I  am  here  to  obey 
orders,  not  to  argue." 

Meanwhile  those  in  the  rear  ranks 
had  heard  indistinctly  or  not  at  all,  and 
pressed  on  those  in  front  to  know  the 
meaning  of  the  sudden  recoil,  —  for  the 
men  had  instinctively  given  back,  — and 
being  told,  buzzed  it  on  to  those  behind 
them ;  and  there  began*  in  the  crowd  a 
low,  deep  hum,  growing  louder,  as  mut- 
tering rose  to  curses, — growing  fiercer, 
for  there  is  nothing  half  so  savage  as 
despair  that  has  been  fooled  with  a 
hope,  —  swelling  into  a  wave  of  indig- 
nation that  swept  and  swayed  the  whole 
throng  with  it,  and  seemed  an  instant 
to  threaten  and  topple  over  the  officer 
in  their  midst  But  it  came  to  nought. 
The  prudent  nudged  their  neighbors, 
"  With  the  cannon,  boys,  they  can  rake 
us  on  all  sides  "  ;  and  the  angrier  ones 
fell  apart  in  little  groups,  and  talked  in 
whispers,  and  glared  menacingly  at  the 
guard,  but  made  no  further  demonstra- 
tion. Those  who  were  happy  enough 
to  possess  the  money  received  their 
letters  :  the  feebler  ones  crawled  away 
with  tears  furrpwing  their  wan  cheeks ; 
and  the  unmoved  official  thrust  the  re- 
maining letters  of  mother,  father,  wife, 
and  children  of  these  men  into  the  bags 
before  their  longing  eyes ;  and  even 
while  the  miserable  men  flung  them- 
selves before  him,  and  with  outstretched 
hands  tried  to  hold  him  back,  the  gate 
clanged  after  him. 


Drake,  who  long  ago  had  spent,  his 
little  hoard,  had  received  this  terrible 
blow  in  entire  silence,  and  turned  to 
go  without  comment  or  answer  to  Cor* 
ny's  vociferations.  But  eyes  were  dim, 
or  hea^  was  reeling ;  for  a  few  paces  on 
he  stumbled,  and  would  have  fallen  over 
a  soldier  lying  in  his  path,  but  for  Cor* 
ny,  who  was  close  behind  him,  and  who 
at  once  assailed  the  man  over  whom 
Drake  had  tripped,  and  who  still  lay 
quietly,  without  even  a  stir  or  motion 
of  his  head. 

''  Ye  lazy  spalpeen !  what  the  Divi} 
are  ye  stretched  out  there  for,  to  break 
dacent  folk's  necks  over  the  length  of 

ye  ?    Stir  yourself,  or  I  '11 " Then 

with  a  sudden  and  total  change  of  tone, 
as  he  looked  more  closely  into  the  quiet 
fiice, ''  The  Saints  pity  us  !  it 's  Cap'n 
Ireland ;  and  in  the  name  of  Hiven,  how 

came  yer  Honor  here  on  the Och ! 

Lord  forgive  me !  Talking  to  a  dead 
corpse  !  Och  I  wurra !  wurra !  Musther 
Talcott,  it 's  dead  he  is,  sure !  kilt  this 
time  intirely ! " 

*'  You  may  well  say  kiUed,"  said  a 
soldier  who  had  joined  them.  ''If  ever 
a  man  committed  murder,  then  that 
man  did  that  kicked  him  out  of  the 
hospital  to  die." 

"What  is  that  ?"  demanded  Drake, 
who  had  seemed  in  a  sort  of  stupor, 
but  roused  out  of  it  fiercely  at  the  man's 
last  words.  "  Do  you  know  what  you 
are  saying  ?  " 

"  I  think  I  ought,"  returned  the  sol- 
dier. "  I  was  in  the  hospital  at  the 
time  ;  I  'm  only  just  out ;  and  I  saw  it 
myself.  The  assistant  surgeon  stops 
at  his  bed,  where  he  laid  only  ju^t 
breathing  like,  and  says  he, '  What  man 
is  this  ?  I  've  seen  him  before ' ;  and 
says  some  one,  '  His  name  is  Ireland ' ; 
and  says  the  surgeon,  like  a  flash, '  Ire- 
land ?  Ireland  of  the  — th  ?  Do  you 
know  what  that  is?  It  is  a  colored 
regiment,  and  this  Abolition  scoundrel 
is  the  captain  of  it  I  knew  I  had  seen 
him.  Here  !  put  him  out ;  let  him  go 
and  herd  with  the  rest ' ;  and  when 
some  one  said  he  was  dying  any  way, 
said  the  surgeon,  with  a  string  of  oaths, 
'  Put  him  out,  I  tell  you ;  the  bed  is  too 


1865.] 


At  AndersonviUe. 


295 


good  for  him ' ;  and  then,  Sir,  when  the 
poor  young  gentleitaan,  who  was  dizzy- 
like, and  did  n't  understand,  fell  down 
beside  the  door,  from  weakness,  that — 
that  infernal  brute  kicked  him,  and  swore 
at  him,  as  vermin  that  cumbered  the 
ground ;  and  the  men  brought  him  away 
here,  Sir,  it 's  two  days  back,  and  he  's 
just  passed  away  " ;  and  kneeling  beside 
the  body,  and  lifting  the  poor  wasted 
hands,  '^  I  swear,  if  ever  I  get  back,  to 
revenge  his  death,  and  never  to  let 
sword  or  pistol  drop  while  this  cursed 
Rebellion  is  going  on." 

^  Amin !  "  said  Corny,  solemnly,  and 
**  Amen"  formed  itself  on  Drake's  white 
lips ;  but  by  some  curious  mental  pro- 
cess his  thoughts  would  wander  away 
from  the  stiffening  body  before  him  to 
a  vision  of  home,  and  Sabbaths  when 
sweet-toned  bells  called  quiet  families 
to  church,  and  little  children  playing 
about  the  doorsteps,  and  peaceful  wom- 
en in  sunny  houses,  and  gay  girls  wav- 
ing on  men  to  battle  through  glittering 
streets,  and  prayers,  and  looks  of  love, 
and  songs,  and  flowers,  and  Alice ;  and 
in  on  this  rolled  suddenly  a  sense  of 
what  was  actually  around  him,  as  under 
a  calm  sky  and  out  of  a  still  sea  swoops 
sometimes  suddenly  some  huge  wave  in 
on  the  quiet  beach.  He  saw  about  him 
rags,  filth,  men  sick,  men  dying,  men 
dead,  men  groaning,  men  cursing,  men 
gibbering.  There  rose  up  before  him 
the  gnm  succession  of  days  of  hunger, 
pain,  sorrow,  and  loneliness,  already 
past ;  there  came  upon  him  a  terrible 
threatening  of  days  to  come,  yet  worse, 
— without  hope  or  relief,  unless  at  the 
dead  line.  He  rose,  staggering,  and 
with  a  wild  and  desperate  look  that 
startled  Corny. 

^Fur  the  lord's  sake,  wud  ye  de- 
sthroy  yerself?"  cried  the  feithful  fel- 
low, throwing  his  arms  about  him  to 
hold  him  fast  ^  Och,  honey !  ye  're  a 
heretic,  and  the  good  Lord  's  a  Cath- 
olic ;  but  thin  He  made  us  all,  and  He 
has  pity  on  the  poor  crathurs  that  's 
sufierin'  here,  or  His  heart  's  harder 
nor  Corny 's :  the  Saints  forgive  me  fur 
such  a  spache !  Pray,  Miisther  Talcott, 
pray" 


*^  Pray  1 "  exclaimed  Drake ;  "  is  there 
a  God  looking  down  here  ?  " — and  drop- 
ping on  his  knees,  he  gasped  out,  — 

"O  God!  if  Thou  dost  yet  hear, 
save  me — from  going  mad!"  and  fell 
forward  at  Cbrny's  feet,  senseless. 

He  was  carried  to  the  hospital,  and 
lay  there  weeks,  lost  in  the  delirium  of 
a  fever ;  and  every  morning  there  peer- 
ed in  at  the  inner  door  of  the  stockade 
a  huge  shock  of  hair,  and  a  red,  anxious 
face,  with, — 

"  The  top  of  the  mornin'  to  ye,  doc- 
thor,  and  it  's  ashamed  I  am  to  be  af- 
ther  throublin'  ye  so  often ;  but  will  yer 
Honor  plase  to  tell  me  how  Musther 
Talcott  is  the  day?" — and  having  re- 
ceived the  desired  information.  Corny 
would  take  himsejf  off  with  blessings 
''on  his  Honor,  that  had  consideration 
for  the  feelings  of  the  poor  Irishman." 

One  morning  there  was  a  change  in 
the  programme. 

"  I  have  good  news  for  you,  Corny," 
said  the  kindly  doctor.  '^  Talcott  is  out 
of  danger." 

''  Hurray !  ai)d  the  Saints  be  praised 
fur  that ! "  shouted'  Corny,  cutting  a  ca- 
per. 

"  But  I  have  better  news  yet,"  contin- 
ued the  doctor,  watching  Corny  closely. 
*'  His  name  is  on  the  list  of  exchanged 
prisoners,  and  he  will  be  sent  home  on 
Thursday  next"  ' 

Corny's  face  fell. 

"Is  he,  yer  Honor  ? "  very  hesl^pti^-  ♦ 
ly ;  and  then,  suddenly  clearing  up,  ^wA 
hurra  fur  that,  too !  and  I  'm  an^ongrate* 
ful  haste  to  be  sorry  that  he  's  to  be 
clear  of  this  hole,  —  bad  scran  to  it !  — 
and  long  life  till  him,  and  a  blessin' 
go  wid  him !  and  if"  —  choking  —  "  we 
don't  mate  on  earth,  sure  the  Lord 
won't  kape  him  foriver  in  purgatory, 
and  he  so  kind  and  feelin'  for  the 
sick." 

The  doctor  could  not  suppress  a  laugh 
at  this  limited  hope. 

"  But,  Corny,  what  if  you  are  to  be 
sent  home  too  ? " 

"Me?  —  and  was  it  me  yer  Honor 
was  sayin'  ?  Och«  Hivin  bless  ye  fur  that 
word  ! — and  it 's  not  laughin'  at  me  is 
yer  Honor  ?    Sure  ye  'd  niver  have  the 


296 


Doctor  Johns. 


[March, 


heart  to  chate  a  poor  boy  like  that  All 
the  Saints  be  praised !  I  'm  a  man  agin, 
and  not  a  starvin'  machine ;  and  I  shall 
see  ye,  Mary,  mavoumeen !  but,  och,  the 
poor  boys  that  we  're  lavin' !  Hurra !  how 
iver  will  I  ate  three  males  a  day,  and 
slape  under  a  blanket,  and  think  of  thim 
on  the  ground  and  starvin'  by  inches  !  " 
During  the  remainder  of  his  stay, 
Corny  balanced  between  joy  and  his  self- 
ishness in  being  joyful,  in  a  manner  suf- 
ficiently ludicrous,  —  breaking  out  one 
moment  in  the  most  extravagant  demon- 
stration, to  be  twitched  from  it  the  next 
by  a  penitential  spasm.    As  for  Drake, 


hardly  yet  clear  of  the  shadows  that 
haunted  his  fever,  he  but  mistily  com- 
prehended the  change  that  was  before 
him;  and  it  will  need  weeks  and  per- 
haps months  of  home-nursing  and  watch- 
ing before  body  and  mind  can  win  back 
their  former  strength  and  tone. 

Meanwhile,  people  of  the  North,  what 
of  the  poor  boys  left  beliind  at  Ander- 
sonville,  starving,  'as  Corny  said,  by 
inches,  with  the  winter  before  them, 
and  their  numbers  swelled  by  the  hun- 
dreds that  a  late  Rebel  paper  gleefully 
announces  to  be  on  their  way  from  more 
Northern  prisons  ? 


DOCTOR    JOHNS. 


VII. 


IT  was  not  easy  in  that  day  to  bring 
together  the  opinion^  of  a  Connecti- 
cut parish  that  had  been  jostled  apart 
by  a  parochial  quarrel^  and  where  old 
grievances  were  festering.  Indeed,  it 
is  never  easy  to  do  this,  and  Unite  opin- 
ions upon  a  new  comer,  unless  he  have 
some  rare  gift  of  eloquence,  which  so 
dazes  the  good  people  that  they  can  no 
longer  remember  their  petty  griefs,  or 
unless  he  manage  with  rare  tact  to  pass 
lightly  over  the  sore  points,'  and  to 
anoint  tbem  by  a  careful  hand  with 
such  healing  salves  as  he  can  concoct 
out  of  his  pastoral  charities.  Mr.  Johns 
had  neither  art  nor  eloquence,  as  com- 
monly understood ;  yet  he  effected  a 
blending  of  all  interests  by  the  simple, 
earnest  gravity  of  his  character.  He 
Ignored  all  angry  disputation  ;  he  ig- 
nored its  results.  He  came  as  a  shep- 
herd to  a  deserted  sheepfold  ;  he  came 
to  preach  the  Bible  doctrines  in  their 
literalness.  He  had  no  reproofs,  save 
for  those  who  refused  the  offers  of 
God's  mercy,  —  no  commendation,  save 
for  those  who  sought  ^is  grace  whose 
favor  is  life  everlasting.  There  were 
no  metaphysical  niceties   in   his  dis- 


courses, athwart  which  keen  disputants 
might  poise  themselves  for  close  and 
angry  conflict ;  he  recognized  no  neces- 
sities but  the  great  ones  of  repentance 
and  faith ;  and  all  the  mysteries  of 
the  Will  he  was  accustomed  to  solve  by 
grand  utterance  of  that  text  which  he 
loved  above  all  others, — however  much 
it  may  have  troubled  him  in  his  discus- 
sion of  Election,  —  '*  Whosoever  wilLt 
let  him  come  and  drink  of  the  water  of 
life  freely." 

Inheriting  as  he  did  all  the  religious 
affinities  of  his  mother,  these  were  com- 
pacted and  made  sensitive  by  years  of 
silent  protest  against  the  proud  world- 
ly sufficiency  of  his  father,  the  Major. 
Such  qualities  and  experience  found  re- 
pose in  the  unyielding  dogmas  of  the 
Westminster  divines.  At  thirty  the 
clerg3rman  was  as  aged  ^s  most  men  of 
forty-five,  —  seared  by  the  severity  of 
his  opinions,  and  the  unshaken  tenacity 
with  which  he  held  them.  He  was  by 
nature  a  quiet,  almost  a  tinCd  man ; 
but  over  the  old  white  desk  and  crim- 
son cushion,  with  the  choir  of  singers 
in  his  front  and  the  Bible  under  his 
hai^d,  he  grew  into  wonderful  boldness. 
He  cherished  an  exalted  idea  of  the 
dignity  of  his  office,  —  a  dignity  which 


1865.] 


Doctor  yokns. 


297 


he  determined  to  maintain  to  the  ut- 
most of  his  power ;  but  in  the  pulpit 
only  did  the  full  measure  of  this  exalta- 
tion come  over  him.  Thence  he  looked 
down  serenely  upon  the  flock  of  which 
he  was  the  appointed  guide,  and  among 
whom  his  duty  lay.  The  shepherd  lead- 
ing his  sheep  was  no  figure  of  speech 
for  him  ;  he  was  commissioned  to  their 
care,  and  was  conducting  them  —  old 
men  and  maidens,  boys  and  gray-haired 
women  —  athwart  the  dangers  of  the 
world,  toward  the '  great  fold.  On  one 
side  always  the  fires  of  hell  were  gap- 
ing ;  and  on  the  other  were  blazing  the 
great  candlesticks  aroimd  the  throne. 

But  when,  on  some  occasion,  he  had, 
under  the  full  weight  of  his  office,  in- 
veighed against  a  damning  evil,  and,  as 
l)e  fondly  hoped  by  the  stillness  in  the 
old  meeting-house,  wrought  upon  sin- 
ners effectually,  it  was  disheartening  to 
be  met  by  some  hoary  member  of  his 
flock,  whom  perhaps  he  had  borne  par- 
ticularly in  mind,  and  to  be  greeted 
cheerfully  with,  **  Capital  sermon,  Mr. 
Johns !  those  are  the  sort  that  do  the 
business  !  I  like  those,  parson  !  "  The 
poor  man,  humiliated,  would  bow  his 
thanks.  He  lacked  the  art  (if  it  be  an 
art)  to  press  the  matter  home,  when 
he  met  one  of  his  parishioners  thus. 
Indeed,  his  sense  of  the  importance 
of  his  calling  and  his  extreme  con- 
scientiousness gaye  him  an  air  of  ti- 
midity outside  the  pulpit,  which  offer- 
ed great  contrast  to  that  which  he  wore 
in  the  heat  of  his  sermonizing.  Not 
that  he  forgot  the  dignity  of  his  posi- 
tion for  a  moment,  but  he  wore  it  too 
trenchantly ;  he  could  never  unbend  to 
the  free  play  of  side -talk.  Hence  he 
could  not  look  upon  the  familiar  spirit 
of  badinage  in  ^hich  some  of  his  breth- 
ren of  the  profession  indulged,  without 
serious  doubts  of  their  complete  sub- 
mission to  the  Heavenly  King.  Always 
the  wcigfit  of  his  solemn  duties  press- 
ed sorely  on  him ;  always  amid  pitfalls 
he  was  conducting  his  little  flock  to- 
ward the  glories  of  the  Great  Court 
There  is  many  a  man  narrowed  and 
sharpened  by  metaphysical  inquiry  to 
such  a  degree  as  to  count  the  indirec- 


tion and  freedom  of  kindly  chat  irk- 
some, and  the  occasion  of  a  needless 
blunting  of  that  quick  mental  edge  with 
which  he  must  scathe  aU  he  touches. 
But  the  stiffness  of  Mr.  Johns  was  not 
that  of  constant  mental  strain  ;  he  did 
not  refine  upon  his  dogmas;  but  he 
gave  them  such  hearty  entertainment, 
and  so  inwrapped  his  spirit  with  their 
ponderous  gravity,  that  he  could  not 
disrobe  in  a  moment,  or  uncover  to  ev- 
ery chance  comer. 

It  is  quite  possible  that  by  reason 
of  this  grave  taciturnity  the  clergyman 
won  more  surely  upon  the  respect  of 
his  people.  ''He  is  engrossed,"  said 
they, ''  witli  greater  matters  ;  and  in  all 
secular  af&irs  he  recognizes  our  supe- 
rior discernment"  Thus  his  inaptitude 
in  current  speech  was  construed  by 
them  into  a  delicate  flattery.  They 
greatly  relished  his  didactic,  argument- 
ative sermonizing,  since  theirs  was  a 
religion  not  so  much  of  the  sensibilities 
as  of  the  intellect  They  agonized  to- 
ward the  truth,  if  not  by  intense  think- 
ing, yet  by  what  many  good  people  are 
apt  to  mistake  for  it,  —  immense  endu- 
rance of  the  prolix. thought  of  others. 

If  the  idea  of  universal  depravity  had 
been  ignored,  --  as  it  someti(nes  is  in 
these  latitudinarian  days,  —  or  the  no- 
tion of  any  available  or  worthy  Chris- 
tian culture,  as  distinct  from  a  direct 
and  clearly  defined  agenlcy,  both  as  to 
time  and  force,  of  the  Spirit,  had  been 
entertained,  he  would  have  lo^t  half  of 
the  elements  by  which  his  arguments 
gained  logical  sequence.  But,  laboring 
his  way  from  stake  to  stake  of  the  old 
dogmas  of  the  Westminster  divines,  he 
fastened  to  them  stoutly,  and  swept 
round  from  each  as  a  centre  a  great 
scathing  circle  of  deductions,  that  beat 
wofully  upon  the  heads  of  imbelievers. 
And  if  a  preacher  attack  only  unbe- 
lievers, he  has  the  world  with  him,  now 
as  then  ;  it  is  only  he  who  has  the  bad 
taste  to  meddle  with  thdl  caprices  of 
believers  who  gets  the  raps  and  the 
orders  of  dismissal. 

Thus  it  happened  that  good  Mr. 
Johns  came  to  win  the  good-will  of  all 
the  parish  of  Ashfidld,  while  he  chal- 


298 


Doctor  yohm. 


[March, 


lenged  their  respect  by  his  uniform 
gravity.  It  is  even  possible  that  a  con- 
sciousness of  a  certain  stateliness  and 
stifihess  of  manner  became  in  some 
measure  a  source  of  pride  to  him,  and 
that  he  enjoyed,  in  his  subdued  way, 
the  disposition  of  the  lads  of  the  town 
to  give  him  a  wide  pass,  instead  of 
brushing  brusquely  against  him,  as  if  he 
were  some  other  than  the  parson. 

In  those  days  he  wrote  to  his  sister 
Eliza, — 

'*  We  are  fairly  settled  in  a  pleasant 
home  upon  the  main  street  The  meet- 
ing-house, which  you  will  remember,  is 
near  by;  and  I  have,  by  the  blessing 
of  God,  a  full  attendance  every  Lord's 
day.  They  listen  to  my  poor  sermons 
with  commendable  earnestness ;  and  I 
trust  they  may  prove  to  them  *a  savor 
of  life  unto  life.'  We  also  find  the  peo- 
ple of  the  toMm  neighborly  and  kind. 
Squire  Elderkin  has  proved  particularly 
so,  and  is  a  very  energetic  man  in  all 
matters  relating  to  the  parish.  I  fear 
greatly,  however,  that  he  still  lacks  the 
intimate  favor  of  God,  and  has  not  hum- 
bled himself  to  entire  submission.  Yet 
he  is  constant  in  his  observance  of 
nearly  all  the  outward  forms  of  devo- 
tion and  .of  worship  ;  and  we  hear  of 
his  charities  in  every  house  we  enter. 
Strange  mystery  of  Providence,  that  he 
should  not  long  since  have  been  brok- 
en down  by  grace,  and  become  in  all 
things  a  devout  follower  of  the  Master ! 
I  hope  yet  to  see  him  brought  a  hum- 
ble suppliant  into  the  fold.  His  wife 
is  a  most  excellent  person,  lowly  in  her 
faith,  and  zealous  of  good  works.  The 
same  may  also  be  said  of  their  worthy 
maiden  sister,  Miss  Joanna  Meacham, 
who  is,  of  a  truth,  a  matron  in  Israel. 
Rachel  and  myself  frequentiy  take  tea 
at  their  house  ;  and  she  is  much  inter- 
ested in  the  little  family  of  Elderkins, 
who,  I  am  glad  to  say,  enjoy  excellent 
advantages,  and  such  of  them  as  are 
of  proper  age  are  duly  taught  in  the 
Shorter  Westminster  Catechism. 

"  Deacon  Tourtelot,  another  of  our 
neighbors,  is  a  devout*  man  ;  and  Dame 
Tourtelot  (as  she  is  commonly  called) 
is  a  woman  of  quite  extraordinary  zeal 


and  capacity.  Their  daughter  Almini 
is  untiring  in  attendance,  and  suds  the 
services  by  singing  treble.  Deacon 
Simmons,  who  lives  at  quite  a  distance 
from  us,  is  represented  to  be  a  man  of 
large  means  and  earnest  in  the  faiith. 
He  has  a  large  farm,  and  also  a  distil- 
lery, both  of  which  are  said  to  be  man- 
aged with  great  foresight  and  prudence. 
I  trust  that  the  reports  which  I  hear, 
occasionally  of  his  penuriousness  are 
not  wholly  true,  and  that  in  due  time 
his  hand  will  be  opened  by  divine  grace 
to  a  more  effectual  showing  forth  of  the 
deeds  of  charity.  I  do  not  allow  my- 
self to  entertain  any  of  the  scandsJs 
which  unfortunately  belong  more  or 
less  to  every  parish,  and  which  so  in- 
terrupt the  growth  of  that  Christian 
love  which  is  the  parent  of  all  virtues  ; 
and  I  trust  that  these  good  people  may 
come  in  time  to  see  that  it  is  better  to 
live  together  in  harmony  than  to  fo- 
ment those  bickerings  which  have  led 
so  recendy  to  the  dismissal  of  my  poor 
brother  in  the  Gospel.  Our  home  af- 
&irs  are,  I  believe,  managed  prudently, 
—  the  two  servants  being  most  excel- 
lent persons,  and  my  little  Rachel  a 
very  sunbeam  in  the  house." 

And  the  little  sunbeam  writes  to  Mrs. 
Handbyat  about  the  same  date, — we 
will  say  from  six  to  eight  months  after 
their  entry, — 

"  Everything  goe?  on  delightfully^ 
dear  mamma.  Esther  is  a  good  creat- 
ure, and  helps  me  wonderfully.  You 
would  laugh  to  see  me  fingering  the 
raw  meats  at  the  butcher's  cart  to 
choose  nice  pieces,  which  I  really  can 
do  now ;  and  it  is  fortunate  I  can,  for 
the  goodman  Benjamin  knows  positive- 
ly nothing  of  such  things,  and  I  am 
sure  would  n't  be  abl^  to  tell  mutton 
from  beef. 

*  "The  littie  parlor  is  nicely  furnished  ; 
there  is  an  elegant  hair  sofa,  and  over 
the  mantel  is  the  portrait  of  Major 
Johns ;  and  then  the  goodman  has  in- 
sisted upon  hanging  under  the  looking* 
glass  my  old  sampler  in  crewel^  with  a 
gilt  frame  around  it ;  on  the  table  is  the 
illustrated  *  Pilgrim's  Progress'  papa 
gave  me,  and  a  volume  of  'Calmet's 


1865-] 


Doctor  yokns.- 


299 


Dictionary'  I  have  taken  out  of  the 
study,  —  it  is  full  of  such  beautiful  pic-- 
tures,  —  and  *  Mrs.  Hannah  More '  in 
fiili  gilt  The  big  Bible  you  gave  us, 
the  goodman  says,  is  too  large  for  easy 
handling ;  so  it  is  kept  on  a  stand  in 
the  comer,  with  the  great  fly-brush  of 
peacock's  feathers  hanging  over  it  I 
have  put  charming  blue  chintz  curtains 
in  the  spare  chamber,  and  arranged  ev- 
erything there  very  nicely  ;  so  that,  be-- 
fore  a  certain  events  you  must  be  sure 
to  come  and  take  possession. 

^  Last  night  we  took  tea  again  with 
the  Elderkins,  and  Mrs.  Elderkin  was 
as  kind  to  me  as  ever,  and  Miss  Meach- 
am  is  an  excellent  woman,  and  the  lit- 
tle ones  are  loves  of  children  ;  and  I 
wish  you  could  see  them.  But  you  will, 
you  know,  quite  soon.  Sometimes  I 
fidl  to  crying,  when  I  think  of  it  all ;  and 
then  the  goodman  comes  and  puts  his 
hand  on  my  head,  and  says,  —  ^  Rachel  I 
Rachel,  ray  dear  !  is  this  your  gratitude 
for  all  God*s  mercies  ? '  And  then  I 
jump  up,  and  kiss  his  grave  face,  and 
laugh  through  my  tears.  He  is  a  dear 
good  man.  This  is  all  very  foolish,  I 
suppose  ;  but,  mamma^  is  n't  it  the  way 
with  all  women  ? 

'^Dame  Tourtelot  is  a  great  storm 
of  a  creature,  and  she  comes  down  upon 
us  every  now  and  then,  and  advises  me 
about  the  housekeeping  and  the  table, 
and  the  servants,  and  Benjamin,  —  giv- 
ing me  a  great  many  good  hints,  I  sup- 
pose ;  but  in  such  a  way,  and  calling 
me  *  my  child,'  as  makes  me  feel  good 
for  nothing,  and  as  if  I  were  not  fit  to 
be  mistress.  Miss  Almira  is  a  quiet 
thing,  and  has  a  piano.  She  dresses 
very  queerfyj  and,  1  have  been  told,  has 
written  poetry  for  the  *  Hartford  Cou- 
rant,'  over  two  stars —  ♦  *.  She  seems 
a  good  creature,  though,  and  comes  to 
see  us  often.  The  chaise  is  ^  great  com- 
fort, and  our  old  horse  Dobbins  is  a 
good,  sober  horse.  Benjamin  often 
takes  me  with  him  in  his  drives  to  see 
the  parishioners  who  live  out  of  town. 
He  tells  me  about  the  trees  and  the 
flowers,  and  a  thousand  matters  I  never 
heard  of.  Indeed,  he  is  a  good  man, 
and  he  knows  a  world  of  things." 


The  tender-hearted,  kind  soul  makes 
her  way  into  the  best  graces  of  the  peo- 
ple of  Ashfleld :  the  older  ones  charm- 
ed with  'that  blithe  spirit  of  hers,  and 
all  the  younger  ones  mating  easily  with 
her  simple,  outspoken  naturalness.  She 
goes  freely  everywhere ;  she  is  not  stifle 
ened  by  any  ceremony,  nor  does  she 
carry  any  stately  notions  of  the  dignity 
of  her  office,  —  some  few  there  may  be 
who  wish  that  she  had  a  keener  sense 
of  the  importance  of  her  position  ;  she 
even  bursts  unannounced  into  the  lit- 
tle glazed  comer  of  the  Tew  partners, 
where  she  prattles  away  with  tlie  se- 
date Mistress  Tew  in  good,  kindly  fash- 
ion, winning  that  stifl"  old  lady's  heart, 
and  moving  her  to  declare  to  all  cus- 
tomers that  the  parson's  wife  has  no 
pride  about  her,  and  is  ''a  dear  little 
thing,  to  be  sure  ! " 

On  summer  evenings,  Dobbins  is  to 
be  seen,  two  or  three  times  in  the  week, 
jogging  along  before  the  square-topped 
chaise,  upon  some  highway  that  leads 
into  the  town,  with  the  parson  seated 
within,  with  slackened  rein,  and  in 
thoughtful  mood,  from  which  he  rouses 
himself  from  time  to  time  with  a  testy 
twitch  and  noisy  chirmp  that  urge  the 
poor  beast  into  a  faster  gait  All  the 
while  the  little  wife  sits  beside  him,  as 
if  a  twittering  sparrow  had  nestled  it- 
self upon  the  same  perch  with  some 
grave  owl,  and  sat  with  him  side  by  side, 
watching  for  the  big  eyes  to  turn  up- 
on her,  and  chirping  some  pretty  re- 
sponse for  every  solemn  utterance  of 
the  wise  old  bird  beside  her. 


VIII. 

» 

On  the  return  from  one  of  these  pa* 
rochial  drives,  not  long  after  their  es- 
tablishment at  Ashfleld,  it  happened 
that  the  good  parson  and  his  wife  were 
not  a  little  startled  at  sight  of  a  stranger 
lounging  •  familiarly  at  their  door.  A 
little  roof  jutted  out  over  the  entrance 
to  the  parsonage,  without  any  appar- 
ent support,  and  flanking  the  door  were 
two  plank  seats,  with  their  ends  toward 
the  street,  cut  away  into  the  shape  of 


300 


Doctor  Johns. 


[March, 


those  '^  settles  "  which  used  to  be  seen 
in  country  taverns,  and  which  here 
seemed  to  invite  a  quiet  out-of-door 
gossip.  But  th^  grave  manner  of  the 
parson  had  never  invited  to  a  very  fa- 
miliar use.  of  this  loitering-place,  even 
by  the  most  devoted  of  the  parishion- 
ers ;  and  the  appearance  of  a  stranger 
of  some  two-and-thirty  years,  with  some- 
thing in  his  manner,  as  much  as  in  his 
dress,  which  told  of  large  familiarity 
with  the  world,  lounging  upon  this  little 
porch,  had  amazed  the  passers-by,  as 
much  as  it  now  did  tlie  couple  who 
drove  up  slowly  in  the  square-topped 
chaise. 

"Who  can  it  be,  Benjamin?"  says 
Rachel. 

"  I  really  can't  say,"  returns  the  par- 
son. 

"  He  seems  very  much  at  home,  my 
dear,"  —  as  indeed  he  does,  with  bis  feet 
stretched  out  upon  the  bench,  and  eye- 
ing curiously  the  approaching  vehicle. 

As  it  draws  near,  his  observation  be- 
ing apparently  satisfactory,  he  walks 
briskly  down  to  the  gate,  and  greets 
the  parson  with, — 

**My  dear  Johns,  I  'm  delighted  to 
see  you  1 " 

At  tliis  the  parson  knew  him,  and 
greets  him, — 

"  Maverick,  upon  my  word  ! "  and  of- 
fers his  hand. 

"  And  this  is  Mrs.  Johns,  I  suppose," 
says  the  stranger,  bowing  graciously. 
"  Allow  me.  Madam  "  ;  and  he  assists 
her  to  alight  "  Your  husband  and  my- 
self were  old  college-friends,  partners 
of  the  same  bench,  and  I  've  used  no 
ceremony,  you  see,  in  finding  him  out" 

Rachel,  eyeing  him  furtively,-  and 
with  a  little  rustic  courtesy,  "is  glad 
to  see  any  of  her  husband's  old  friends." 

The  parson  —  upon  his  feet  now  — 
shakes  the  stranger's  hand  heartily 
again. 

"  I  am  very  glad  to  see  you,  Maver- 
ick ;  but  I  thought  you  were  •ut  of  the 
country." 

"  So  I  have  been,  Johns ;  am  home 
only  upon  a  visit,  and  hearing  by  ac- 
cident that  you  had  become  a  clergy- 
man—  as  I  always  thought  you  would 


— ai^d  were  settled  hereabout,  I  deter- 
mined to  run  down  and  see  you  before 
sailing  again." 

"You  must  stop  with  me.  Rachel, 
dear,  will  you  have  the  spare  room 
made  ready  for  Mr.  Maverick?" 

"  My  dear  Madam,  don't  give  your- 
self the  least  trouble  ;  I  am  an  old  trav- 
eller, and  can  make  myself  quite  com- 
fortable at  the  tavern  yonder ;  but  if  it 
's  altogether  convenient,  I  shall  be  de- 
lighted to  pass  the  night  under  the  roof 
of  my  old  friend.  I  shall  be  off  to-mor- 
row noon,"  continued  he,  turning  to  the 
parson,  "and  until  then  I  want  you  to 
put  ofif  your  sermons  and  make  me  one 
of  your  parishioners." 

So  they  all  went  into  the  parsonage 
together. 

Frank  Maverick,  as  he  had  said,  had 
shared  the  same  bench  with  Johns  in 
college ;  and  between  them,  unlike  as 
they  were  in  character,  there  had  grown 
up  a  strong  friendship,  —  one  of  those 
singular  intimacies  which  bind  the  grav- 
est men  to  the  most  cheery  and  reck- 
less. Maverick  was  forever  running 
into  scrapes  and  consulting  the  cool 
head  of  Johns  tq  help  him  out  of  them. 
There  was  never  a  tutor's  windows  to 
be  broken  in,  or  a  callithumpian  frolic, 
(which  were  in  vogue  in  those  days,) 
but  Maverick  bore  a  hand  in  both; 
and  somehow,  by  a  marvellous  address 
that  belonged  to  him,  always  managed 
to  escape,  or  at  most  to  receive  only 
some  grave  admonition  from  the  aca- 
demic authorities.  Johns  advised  with 
him,  (giving  as  serious  advice  then  as 
he  could  give  now,)  and  added  from 
time  to  time  such  assistance  in  his 
studies  as  a  plodding  man  can  always 
lend  to  one  of  quick  brain,  who  makes 
no  reckoning  of  time. 

Upon  a  certain  occasion  Maverick 
had  gone  over  with  Johns  to  his  home, 
and  the  Major  had  taken  an  immense 
£aincy  to  the  buoyant  young  fellow,  so 
full  of  spirits,  and  so  charmingly  frank. 
"  If  your  characters  could  only  be  weld- 
ed together,"  he  used  to  say  to  his  son, 
"you  would  both  be  the  better  for  it; 
he  a  little  of  your  gravity,  and  you  some- 
thing of  his  rollicking  carelessness." 


1 86s.] 


Doctor  Johns. 


301 


This  bound  Johns  to  his  friend  Biore 
closely  than  ever.  There  was,  more- 
over, great  honesty  and  conscientious- 
ness in  the  lad's  composition :  he  could 
beat  in  a  tutor's  window  for  the  frolic 
of  the  thing,  and  by  way  of  paying  off 
some  old  grudge  for  a  black  mark  ;  but 
there  was  a  strong  spice  of  humanity 
at  the  bottom  even  of  his  frolics.  It 
happened  one  day,  that  his  friend  Ben 
Johns  told  him  that  one  of  the  bats 
which  had  done  terrible  execution  on 
the  tutor's  windows  had  also  played 
havoc  on  his  table,  breaking  a  bottle 
of  ink,  and  deluging  some  half-dozen 
of  the  tutor's  books  ;  "  and  do  you 
know,"  said  Johns,  '^  the  poor  man  who 
has  made  such  a  loss  is  saving  up  all 
his  pay  here  for  a  mother  and  two  or 
three  fatherless  children?" 

**  The  Dense  he  is ! "  said  Maverick, 
and  his  hand  went  to  his  pocket,  which 
was  always  pretty  full.  "  I  say,  Johns, 
don't  peach  on  me,  but  I  think  I  must 
have  thrown  that  bat,  (which  Johns  knew 
to  be  hardly  possible,  for  he  had  only 
come  up  at  the  end  of  the  row,)  and  I 
want  you  to  get  this  money  to  him,  to 
make  those  books  good  again.  Will 
you  do  it,  old  fellow  ? " 

This  was  the  sort  of  character  to  win 
upon  the  quiet  son  of  the  Major.  "If 
he  were  only  more  earnest,"  he  used  to 
say,  —  "  if  he  could  give  up  his  trifling, 
—  if  he  would  only  buckle' down  to  seri- 
ous study,  as  some  of  us  do,  what  great 
things  he  might  accomplish  ! "  A  com- 
mon enough  fancy  among  those  of  riper 
years,  —  as  if  all  the  outlets  of  a  man's 
nerve-power  could  be  dammed  into 
what  shape  the  possessor  would ! 

Maverick  was  altogether  his  old  self 
this  night  at  the  parsonage.  Rachel 
listened  admiringly,  as  he  told  of  his 
travel  and  of  his  foreign  experiences. 
He  was  the  son  of  a  merchant  of  an 
Eastern  seaport  who  had  been  long  en- 
gaged in  the  Mediterranean  trade,  with 
a  branch  house  at  Marseilles ;  and 
thither  Frank  had  gone  two  or  three 
years  after  leaving  college,  to  fill  some 
.subordinate  post,  and  finally  to  work 
his  way  into  a  partnership,  which  he  now 
held    Of  course  he  had  not  lived  there 


those  seven  or  eight  years  last  past  with- 
out his  visit  to  Paris ;  and  his  easy,  care* 
less  way  of  describing  what  he  had  seen 
there  in  Napoleon's  day. —  the  fetes,  the 
processions,  the  display  —  was  a  kind 
of  talk  not  often  heard  in  a  New  Eng- 
land village,  and  which  took  a  strong 
hold  upon  the  imagination  of  Rachel. 

'*And  to  think,"  says  the  parson, 
"that  such  a  people  are  wholly  infi- 
del !  " 

"Well,  well,  I  don't  know,"  says 
Maverick ;  "  I  think  I  have  seen  a  good 
deal  of  £aith  in  the  Popish  churches." 

"  Faith  in  images ;  faith  in  the  Vir- 
gin ;  faith  in  mummery,"  says  Johns, 
with  a  sigh.  "  'T  is  always  the  scarlet 
woman  of  Babylon ! " 

"  I  know,"  says  Maverick,  smiling, 
"these  things  are  not  much  to  your 
taste ;  but  we  have  our  Protestant 
chapels,  too." 

"  Not  much  better,  I  fear,"  says  Johns. 
"  They  are  sadly  impregnated  with  the 
Genevese  Socinianism." 

This  was  about  the  time  that  the  or- 
thodox  Louis  Empaytaz  was  suffering 
the  rebuke  of  the  Swiss  church  author- 
ities for  his  "  Considerations  upon  the 
Divinity  of  Jesus  Christ."  Aside  from 
this,  all  the  parson's  notions  of  French 
religion  and  of  French  philosophy  were 
of  the  most  aggravated  degree  of  bit- 
terness. That  set  of  Voltaire,  which 
the  Major,  his  &ther,  had  once  pur- 
chased, had  not  been  without  its  fhiit, 

—  not  legitimate,  indeed,  but  most  de- 
cided. The  books  so  cautiously  put  out 
of  sight  —  like  all  such  —  had  caught 
the  attention  of  the  son ;  whereupon 
his  mother  had  given  him  so  terrible 
an  account  of  French  infidelity,  and 
such  a  fearful  story  of  Voltaire's  dying 
remorse,  —  current  in  orthodox  circles, 

—  as  had  caught  strong  hold  upon  the 
mind  of  the  boy.  All  Frenchmen  he 
had  learned  to  look  upon  as  the  chil- 
dren of  Satan,  and  their  language  as 
the  language  of  helL  With  these  sen- 
timents very  sincerely  entertained,  he 
regarded  his  poor  friend  as  one  living 
at  the  very  door-posts  of  Pandemonium, 
and  hoped,  by  God's  mercy,  to  throw 
around  him  even  now  a  litUe  of  the 


302 


Doctor  Johfis^ 


[Marchy 


protecting  grace  which  should  keep  him 
from  utter  destruction.  But  though  this 
was  uppermolBt  in  his  mind,  it  did  not 
forbid  a  grateful  outflow  of  his  old  sym- 
pathies and  expressions  of  interest  in 
all  that  concerned  his  friend.  It  seem- 
ed to  him  that  his  easy  refinement  of 
manner,  in  such  contrast  with  the  cer- 
emonious stififhess  of  the  New  England 
customs  of  speech,  was  but  the  sliming 
over  of  the  Serpent's  tongue,  prepara- 
tory to  a  dreadifiil  swallowing  of  soul 
and  body;  and  the  careless  grace  of 
talk,  which  so  charmed  the  innocent 
Rachel,  appeared  to  the  exacting  Puri- 
tan a  ^oken  of  the  enslavemeht  of  his 
old  friend  to  sense  and  the  guile  of  this 
world. 

Nine  o'clock  was  the  time  for  evening 
payers  at  the  parsonage,  which  under  no 
circumstances  were  ever  omitted ;  and 
as  the  little  clock  in  the  dining-room 
chimed  the  hour,  Mr.  Johns  rose  to  lead 
the  way  from  his  study,  where  they  had 
passed  the  evening. 

•*  It  's  our  hour  for  family  prayer," 
says  Johns ;  '^  will  you  come  with 
us  ?  " 

"  Most  certainly,"  says  Maverick,  ris- 
ing. "  I  should  be  sorry  not  to  have  this 
little  scene  of  New  England  life  to  take 
back  with  me :  it  will  recall  home  pleas- 
antly." 

The  servants  were  summoned,  and 
the  parson  read  in  his  wonted  way  a 
chapter,  —  not  selected,  but  designated 
by  the  old  book-mark,  which  was  car- 
ried forward  from  day  to  day  through- 
out the  sacred  volume.  In  his  prayer 
the  parson  asked  specially  for  Divine 
Grace  to  overshadow  all  those  journey- 
ing from  their  homes,  —  to  protect  them, 
—  to  keep  alive  in  their  hearts  the  teach- 
ings of  their  youth,  —  to  shield  them 
from  the  insidious  influences  of  sin  and 
of  the  world,  and  to  bring  them  in 
God's  own  good  time  into  the  fold  of 
the  elect 

Shortly  after  prayers  Rachel  retired 
for  the  night  The  parson  and  his  old 
friend  talked  for  an  hour  or  more  in 
tiie  study,  but  always  as  men  whose 
thoughts  were  unlike  :  Maverick  filled 
and  exuberant  with  the  prospects  of  this 


life  ;«and  the  parson,  by  a  settled  pur- 
pose, which  seemed  like  instinct,  mak- 
ing all  his  observations  bear  upon  fu- 
turity. 

"  The  poor  man  has  grown  very  nar- 
row," thought  Maverick. 

And  yet  Johns  entered  with  friendly 
interest  into  the  schemes  of  his  com- 
panion. 

*^So  you  count  upon  spending  your 
life  there  ?  "  says  the  parson. 

'Mt  is  quite  probable^"  says  Mave- 
rick. ''  I  am  doing  exceedingly  well ; 
the  climate,  bating  some  harsh  winds  in 
winter,  is  enjoyable.  Why  should  n't 
I?" 

"  It 's  a  question  to  put  to  your  con- 
science," says  Johns,  '*  not  to  me.  A 
man  can  but  do  his  duty,  as  well  there 
as  here  perhaps.  A  little  graft  of  New- 
Englandism  may  possibly  work  good. 
Do  you  mean  to  marry  in  France,  Ma- 
verick ?  ** 

A  shade  passed  over  the  face  of  his 
friend ;  but  recovering  himself,  with  a 
little  musical  laugh,  he  said, — 

''I  really  can't  say:  there  are  very 
charming  women  there,  Johns." 

**  I  am  afraid  so,"  uttered  the  parson, 
dryly. 

**  By  the  way,"  said  Maverick,  — 
**  you  will  excuse  me, — but  you  will  be 
having  a  family  by  and  by," — at  which 
the  parson  fairly  blushed,  —  '*  you  must 
let  me  send  over  some  little  gift  for 
your  first  boy;  it  sha'n't  be  one  that 
will  harm  him,  though  it  comes  from 
our  heathen  side  of  the  world." 

''  There 's  a  gift  you  might  bestow, 
Maverick,  that  I  should  value  beyond 
price.'* 

"  Pray  what  is  it  ?  " 

"  Live  such  a  life,  my  friend,  that  I 
could  say  to  any  boy  of  mine,  *■  Follow 
the  example  of  that  man.' " 

*'  Ah,"  said  Maverick,  with  his  easy, 
infectious  laugh,  **  that 's  more  than  I 
can  promise.  To  tell  the  truth,  Johns, 
I  don't  believe  I  could  by  any  possibility 
£dl  into  the  prim,  stiff  ways  which  make 
a  man  conmieiidable  hereabout  Even 
if  I  were  religiously  disposed,  or  should, 
ever  think  of  adopting  your  profession, 
I  fancy  I  should  take  to  the  gown  and 


1865.] 


Doctor  Johns, 


303 


litargy,  as  giving  a  little  freer  movement 
to  my  taste.  You  don't  like  to  think 
of  that,  1  'U  wager.*' 

''You  might  do  worse  things,"  said 
the  parson,  sadly. 

''1  know  I  might,"  said  Maverick, 
thoughtfully ;  ^  I  greatly  fear  1  shalL 
Yet  it 's  not  altogether  a  bad  life  I  *m 
looking  forward  to,  Johns:  we'll  say 
ten  or  fifteen  more  years  of  business 
on  the  other  side ;  marrying  sometime 
in  the  interval,  —  certainly  not  until  I 
have  a  good  revenue ;  then,  possibly, 
I  may  come  over  among  you  again, 
establish  a  pretty  home  in  the  neigh- 
borhood of  one  of  your  towns;  look 
after  a  girl  and  boy  or  two,  who  may 
have  come  into  the  family;  get  the 
title  of  Squire ;  give  ^rly  to  the  mis- 
sionary societies ;  take  my  place  in  a 
good  big  family-pew ;  dabble  in  politics, 
perhaps,  so  that  people  shall  dub  me 
'  Honorable ' :  is  n't  that  a  £ur  show, 
Johns  ?  " 

There  was  a  thief  in  the  candle,  which 
the  parson  removed  with  the  snuffers. 

•*  As  for  yourself,"  continued  Mave- 
rick, "  they  '11  give  you  the  title  of  Doc- 
tor after  a  few  years ! "  —  The  parson 
raised  his  hand,  as  if  to  put  away  the 
thought  —  **  I  know,"  continued  his 
friend,  ^  you  don't  seek  worldly  honors : 
but  they  will  drift  upon  you ;  they  '11 
all  love  you  hereabout,  in  spite  of  your 
seriousness  (the  parson  smiled) ;  you  '11 
have  your  house  full  of  children ;  you  '11 
be  putting  a  wing  here  and  a  wing 
there ;  and  when  I  come  back,  twenty 
years  hence,  if  I  live,  I  shall  find  you 
comfortably  gray,  and  your  pretty  wife 
in  spectacles,  knitting  mittens  for  the 
}'oungest  boy,  and  the  oldest  at  college, 
and  your  girls  grown  into  tall  village 
belles ;  —  but,  Johns,  don't,  I  beg,  be 
too  strict  with  them;  you  can't  make 
a  merry  young  creature  the  better  by 
insisting  upon  seriousness ;  you  can't 
crowd  goodness  into  a  body  by  pound- 
ing upon  it  What  are  you  thinking  of, 
Johns  ?  " 

The  parson  was  sitting  with  his  eyes 
bent  upon  a  certain  figure  in  the  green 
and  red  Scotch  carpet 

^  Thinking,  Maverick,  that  in  twenty 


years'  time,  if  alive,  we  may  be .  less  fit 
for  heaven  than  we  are  to-day." 

There  was  a  pitying  kindliness  in  the 
tone  of  the  minister,  as  he  said  this, 
which  touched  Maverick. 

"There  's  no  doubt  on  your  score, 
Johns,  God  bless  you  !  But  we  must 
paddle  our  own  boats :  I  dare  say  you  '11 
come  out  a  long  way  before  me ;  you  al- 
ways did,  you  know.  Every  man  to  his 
path." 

**  There  's  but  tf«^,"  said  Johns,  sol- 
emnly, ''  that  leadeth  to  eternal  rest" 

'*  Yes,  I  know,"  says  Maverick,  with 
a  gay  smile  upon  his  face,  which  the 
parson  remembered  long  after, ''  We  are 
the  ^ats ;  but  you  must  have  a  little 
pity  on  us,  for  all  that" 

With  these  words  they  parted  for  the 
night 

Next  morning,  before  the  minister 
.  was  astir,  Maverick  was  strolling  about 
the  garden  and  the  village  street,  and  at 
breakfast  appeared  with  a  little  bunch 
of  violets  he  had  gathered  from  Rachel's 
flower-patch,  and  laid  them  by  her 
plate.  (It  was  a  graceful  attention,  that 
not  even  the  clerg3m>an  had  ever  paid 
to  her.)  And  he  further  delighted  her 
with  a  description  of  some  floral  fi§te 
which  he  had  witnessed  at  Marseilles, 
in  the  year  of  the  Restoration. 

^  They  welcomed  their  old  masters, 
then  ?  "  said  the  parson. 
' "  Perhaps  so ;  one  can  never  say. 
The  French  express  their  joy  with 
flowers,  and  they  bury  their  grief  with 
flowers.  I  like  them  for  it;  I  think 
there  's  a  ripe  philosophy  in  it" 

*'A  heathen  philosophy,"  said  the 
minister. 

At  noon  Maverick  left  upon  the  old 
swaying  stage-coach,  —  looking  out,  as 
he  passed,  upon  the  parsonage,  with 
its  quaintly  panelled  door,  and  its  dia- 
mond lights,  of  which  he  long  kept 
the  image  in  his  mind.  That  brazen 
knocker  he  seemed  to  hear  in  later 
years,  beating, — beating  as  if  his  brain 
lay  under  it 

''  I  think  Mr.  Frank  Maverick  is  a 
most  charming  man,"  said  the  pretty 
Mrs.  Johns  to  her  husband 

''He  is,  Rachel,  and  generous  and 


304 


Doctor  Johns. 


[March, 


open-hearted,  —  and  yet,  in  the  sight 
of  Heaven,  I  fear,  a  miserable  sinner." 

"  But,  Benjamin,  my  dear,  we  are  all 
sinners." 

"All,  —  all,  Rachel,  God  help  us  !  " 


IX. 

In  December  of  the  year  1820  came 
about  a  certain  event  of  which  hint  has 
been  already  given  by  the  party  chiefly 
concerned;  and  Mrs.  Johns  presented 
her  husband  with  a  fine  boy,  who  was 
in  due  tim^  christened  —  Reuben. 

Mrs.  Handby  was  present  at  this 
eventful  period,  occupying  the  guest- 
chamber,  and  delighting  in  all  the  little 
adornments  that  had  been  prepared  by 
the  loving  hands  of  her  daughter  ;  and 
upon  the  following  Sabbath,  Mr.  Johns, 
for  the  first  time  since  his  entrance  up-, 
on  the  pastoral  duties  of  Ashfield,  ven- 
tured to  repeat  an  old  sermon.  Dame 
Tourtelot  had  been  present  on  the  mo- 
mentous occasion,  with  such  a  tempest 
of  suggestions  in  regard  to  the  wrap- 
pings and  feeding  of  the  new  comer, 
that  the  poor  mother  had  quiedy  begged 
the  good  clergyman  to  decoy  her,  on 
her  next  visit,  into  his  study.  This  he 
did,  and  succeeded  in  fastening  her 
with  a  discussion  upon  the  import  of 
the  word  baptize^  in  which  he  was  in  a 
fair  way  of  being  carried  by  storm,  if 
he  had  not  retreated  under  cover  of  his 
Greek  Lexicon. 

Mrs.  Elderkin  had  been  zealous  in 
neighborly  offices,  and  had  brought,  in 
addition  to  a  great  basket  of  needed 
appliances,  a  silver  porringer,  which, 
with  wonderful  foresight,  had  been  or- 
dered fi'om  a  Hartford  jeweller  in  ad- 
vance. The  out-of-door  man,  Larkin, 
took  a  well-meaning  pride  in  this  acces- 
sion to  the  family,  —  walking  up  and 
down  the  street  with  a  broad  grin  upon 
his  face.  He  also  became  the  bearer, 
in  behalf  of  the  Tew  partners,  of  a  cer- 
tain artful  contrivance  of  tin  ware  for 
the  speedy  stewing  of  pap,  which,  con- 
sidering that  the  donors  were  childless 
people,  was  esteemed  a  very  great  mark 
of  respect  for  the  minister. 


Would  it  be  strange,  if  the  £ither  felt 
a  new  ambition  stirring  in  him,  as  he 
listened  from  his  study  to  that  cry  of  a 
child  in  the  house  ?  He  does  feel  it, 
and  struggles  against  it  Are  not  all 
his  flock  his  spiritual  children  ?  and  is 
he  not  appointed  of  Heaven  to  lead 
them  tovrard  the  rest  which  is  prom- 
ised ?  Should  that  babe  be  more  to 
him  than  a  hundred  others  who  are 
struggling  through  life's  snares  weari- 
ly ?  It  may  touch  him,  indeed,  cruelly 
to  think  it ;  but  is  not  the  soul  of  the 
most  worthless  person  of  his  parish  as 
large  in  the  eye  of  the  Master  as  this 
of  his  first-born  ?  Shall  these  human 
ties  supplant  the  spiritual  ones  by  which 
we  are  all  coheirs  of  eternal  death  or 
of  eternal  life  ?  And  in  this  way  the 
minister  schools  himself  against  too 
demonstrative  a  joy  or  love,  and  prays 
God  silently  that  His  gif^  may  not  be  a 
temptation. 

For  all  this,  however,  there  is  many 
a  walk  which  would  have  been  taken 
of  old  under  the  orchard  trees  now 
transferred  to  the  chamber,  where  he 
paces  back  and  forth  with  the  babe  in 
his  arms,  soothing  its  outcry,  as  he 
thinks  out  his  discourse  for  the  follow* 
ing  Sabbath. 

In  due  time  Mrs.  Handby  returns 
to  her  home.  The  little  child  pushes 
through  its  first  month  of  venturesome 
encounter  with  the  rough  world  it  has 
entered  upon  bravely ;  and  the  house- 
hold is  restored  to  its  uniform  placidity. 
The  affairs  of  the  parish  follow  their 
accustomed  course.  From  time  to  time 
there  are  meetings  of  the  "Consocia- 
tion," or  other  ministerial  assemblages, 
in  the  town,  when  the  parsonage  is 
overflowing,  and  Rachel,  with  a  simple 
grace,  is  compelled  to  do  the  honors  to 
a  corps  of  the  Congregational  brother- 
hood. As  for  the  parson,  he  was  like 
a  child  in  all  household  matters.  Over 
and  over  he  would  invite  his  brethren 
flocking  in  from  the  neighboring  vil- 
lages to  pass  the  night  with  him,  when 
Rachel  would  decoy  him  into  a  comer, 
and  declare,  with  a  most  pitiable  look 
of  distress,  that  not  a  bed  was  unoc- 
cupied in  the  house.    Whereupon  the 


i865.] 


Doctor  Johns. 


305 


goodman  wotdd  qtiietly  take  his  hat, 
and  trudge  away  to  Squire  Elderkin's, 
or,  on  rarer  occasions,  to  Deacon  Tour- 
telof  s,.  and  ask  the  &vor  of  lodging 
with  them  one  of  his  clerical  brethren. 

At  other  times,  before  some  such 
occasion  of  clerical  entertainment,  the 
little  housewife,  supported  by  Esther 
with  broom  and  a  great  array  of  mops, 
would  wait  upon  the  parson  in  his 
study  and  order  him  away  to  his  walk 
in  the  orchard,  —  an  order  which  the 
poor  man  never  ventured  to  resist ;  but, 
taking  perhaps  a  pocket  volume  of  Dod- 
dridge, or  of  Cowper,  —  the  only  poet 
he  habitually  read, — he  would  saJly  out 
with  hat  and  cane,  —  this  latter  a  gift 
of  an  admiring  parishioner,  which  it 
pleased  Rachel  he  should  use,  and 
which  she  always  brought  to  him  at 
%uch  times,  with  a  little  childish  mime 
of  half-entreaty  and  half-command  that 
it  was  not  in  his  heart  to  resist,  and 
which  on  rare  occasions  (that  were  sub- 
ject of  self-accusation  afterward)  pro- 
voked him  to  an  answering  kiss.  At 
which  Rachel:  — 

^  Now  go  and  leave  us,  please  ;  there 
's  a  good  man  !  And  mind,"  (shaking 
her  forefinger  at  him,)  "  dinner  at  half 
past  twelve :  Larkin  will  blow  the  shell" 

The  parson,  as  he  paced  back  and 
forth  under  the  apple-trees,  out  of  sight, 
and  feeling  the  need  of  more  vigorous 
exercise  than  his  usual  meditative  gait 
afforded,  would  on  occasions  brandish 
his  cane  and  assume  a  military  air  and 
stride,  (he  remembered  the  Major's  only 
too  well)  getting  in  a  glow  with  tlie  un- 
usual movement,  and  in  the  heat  of  it 
thanking  God  for  all  the  blessings  that 
had  befallen  him :  a  pleasant  home ; 
a  loving  wife ;  a  little  boy  to  bear  the 
name,  in  which,  with  all  his  spiritual 
tendencies,  he  yet  took  a  very  human 
pride  ;  health, — and  he  whisked  his  cane 
as  vigorously  as  ever  the  Major  had  done 
his  cumbrous  sword, — the  world*s  com- 
forts ;  a  congregation  that  met  him  kind- 
ly, that  listened  kindly.  Was  he  not 
leading  them  in  the  path  of  salvation, 
and  rejoicing  in  the  leadership? 

And  then,  to  himself,  —  ''Be  careful, 
careful,  Benjamin  Johns,  that  you  take 

VOL.  XV. — NO.  89.  20 


not  too  great  a  pride  in  this  work  and 
home  of  yours.  You  are  but  an  instru- 
ment in  greater  hands ;  He  doeth  .mkh 
you  what  seemeth  Him  best  Let  not 
the  enticements  of  the  world  be  too  near 
your  thought"  18  this  way  it  was  that 
the  minister  pruned  down  all  the  shoots 
of  his  natural  afiections,  lest  they  might 
prove  a  decoy  to  him,  and  wrapped  him- 
self ever  more  closely  in  the  rigors  of 
his  chosen  theology. 

As  the  boy  Reuben  grows,  and  gains 
a  firmer  footing,  he  sometimes  totters 
beside  the  clergyman  in  these  orchard 
walks,  clinging  blindly  to  his  hand,  and 
lifting  his  uncertain  feet  with  great  effort 
over  the  interrupting  tufts  of  grass,  un- 
heeded by  the  minister,  who  is  ponder- 
ing some  late  editorial  of  the  "  Boston 
Recorder."  But  &r  oftener  the  boy  is 
with  the  mother,  burying  his  fiice  in  that 
dear  lap  of  hers, — lifting  the  wet  fiaice 
to  have  tears  kissed  away  and  forgotten. 
And  as  he  thrives  and  takes  the  strength 
of  three  or  four  years,  he  walks  beside 
her  under  the  trees  of  the  village  street, 
clad  in  such  humble  finexy  as  the  Hand- 
by  grandparents  maj  have  bestowed; 
and  he  happens  oftenest,  on  these  strolls 
with  Rachel,  into  the  hospitable  home 
of  the  Elderkins,  where  there  are  little 
ones  to  romp  with  the  boy.  Most  no- 
ticeable of  all,  just  now,  one  Philip  El- 
derkin,  (of  whom  more  will  have  to  be 
said  as  this  story  progresses,)  only  a 
year  the  senior  of  Reuben,  but  of  flar 
stouter  frame,  who  looks  admiringly  on 
the  minister's  child,  and  as  he  grows 
warm  in  play  frights  him  with  some 
show  of  threat,  which  makes  the  little 
Reuben  run  for  cover  to  the  arms  of 
Rachel.  Whereat  the  mother  kisses 
him  into  boldness,  and  tells  him  that 
Phil  is  a  good  boy  and  means  no  harm 
to  him. 

Often,  too,  in  the  square-topped  chaise, 
the  child  is  seated  on  a  little  stool  be- 
tween the  parson  and  his  wife,  as  they 
drive  away  upon  their  visits  to  the  out- 
skirts of  the  parish,  —  puzzling  them 
with  those  strange  questions  which 
come  firom  a  boy  just  exploring  hi&  way 
into  the  world  of  talk. 

"Benjamin,"  says  Rachel,  as.  they 


3o6 


Doctor  Johns. 


[Maix:h| 


were  nearing  home  upon  one  of  these 
drives,  *'  Reuben  is  quite  a  large  boy 
now,  you  know ;  have  you  ever  written 
to  yoiu*  Mend,  Mr.  Maverick  ?  You  re- 
member he  promised  a  gift  for  him." 

**^  Never,"  said  tHI  minister,  whose 
goodness  rarely  took  the  shape  of  let- 
ter-writing, —  least  of  all  where  the  task 
would  seem  to  remind  of  a  promised 
&vor. 

"  You  Ve  not  forgotten  it  ?  You  Ve 
not  forgotten  Mr.  Maverick  ?  " 

"  Not  forgotten,  Rachel,  —  not  for- 
gotten to  pray  for  him." 

«  I  would  write,  Benjamin ;  it  might 
be  something  that  would  be  of  service 
to  Reuben.  PUase  don't  forget  it,  Ben- 
jamin." 

And  the  minister  promised. 

In  the  autumn  of  1 824,  —  the  minister 
of  Ashfield  being  still  in  good  £ivor  with 
nearly  all  his  parishioners,  and  his  wife 
Rachel 'being  still  greatly  beloved, — a 
rumor  ran  through  the  town,  one  day, 
that  there  was  serious  illness  at  the 
parsonage,  the  Doctor's  horse  and  sad- 
dle-bags being  observed  in  waiting  at 
the  front  gate  for  two  hours  together. 
Following  close  upon  this,  the  Tew 
partners  reported  —  having  received 
undoubted  information  from  Larkin, 
who  still*kept  in  his  old  service  —  that 
a  daughter  was  bom  to  the  minister, 
but  so  feeble  that  there  were  grave 
doubts  if  the  young  Rachel  could  sur- 
vive. The  report  was  well  founded; 
and  after  three  or  four  days  of  desperate 
struggle  with  life,  the  poor  child  dropped 
away.  Thus  death  came  into  the  par- 
sonage with  so  fiiint  and  shadowy  a 
tread,  it  hardly  startled  one.  The  babe 
had  been  christened  in  the  midst  of  its 
short  struggle,  and  in  this  the  father 
found  such  comfort  as  he  could ;  yet 
reckoning  the  poor,  fluttering  little  soul 
as  a  sinner  in  Adam,  through  whom 
all  men  fell,  he  confided  it  with  a  great 
sigh  to  God. 

It  would  have  been  well,  if  his  grief 
had  rested  there.  But  two  days  there- 
after there  was  a  rumor  on  the  village 
street,  —  flying  like  the  wind,  as  such 
rumors  do,  from  house  to  house, — 
<*  The  minister's  wife  is  dead  I " 


^  I  want  to  know  1 "  said  Mrs.  Tew, 
lifting  herself  from  he^  task  of  assort- 
ing the  mail,  and  removing  her  specta- 
cles in  nervous  haste.  **  Do  tell !  It 
a'n't  possible  !    Miss  Johns  dead  ?  " 

"Yes,"  says  Larkin,  "as  true  as  I 
live,  she  's  dead  " ;  and  his  voice  broke 
as  he  said  it,  —  the  kind  little  woman 
had  so  won  upon  him. 

Squire  Elderkin,  like  a  good  Chris- 
tian, came  hurrying  to  the  parsonage 
to  know  what  this  strange  report  could 
mean.  The  study  was  unoccupied. 
With  the  familiarity  of  an  old  Mend 
he  made  his  way  up  the  cramped  stairs. 
•  The  chamber-door  was  flung  wide  open : 
there  was  no  reason  why  the  whole 
parish  might  not  come  in.  The  nurse, 
sobbing  in  a  comer,  was  swaying  back 
and  forth,  her  hands  folded  across  her 
lap.  Reuben,  clinging  to  the  coverlet, 
was  feeling  his  way  along  the  bed,  if 
by  chance  his  mother's  hand  might 
catch  hold  upon  his  ;  and  the  minister 
standing  with  a  chair  before  him,  his 
eyes  turned  to  heaven  (the  same  calm 
attitude  which  he  took  at  his  evening 
prayer-meeting)  was  entreating  God  to 
"  be  over  his  house,  to  strengthen  him, 
to  pour  down  his  Spirit  on  him,  to  bind 
up  the  bruised  hearts, —  to  spare, — 
spare  " 

Even  the  stout  Squire  Elderkin  with- 
draws outside  the  door,  that  he  may 
the  better  conceal  his  emotion. 

The  death  happened  on  a  Friday. 
The  Squire,  after  a  few  faltering  expres- 
sions of  sympathy,  asked  regarding  the 
burial.  "  Should  it  not  be  on  Sunday  ?  " 

"  Not  on  Sunday,"  says  Mr.  Johns  ; 
"God  help  me.  Squire,  —  but  this  is 
not  a  work  of  necessity  or  mercy.  Let  it 
be  on  Monday." 

"On  Monday,  then,"  said  Elderkin, 
—  '^and  let  me  take  the  arrangement 
of  it  all  off  your  thought ;  and  we  will 
provide  some  one  to  preach  for  you  on 
the  Sabbath." 

"  No,  Mr.  Elderkin,  no  ;  I  am  always 
myself  in  the  pulpit  I  shall  find  cour- 
age there." 

And  he  did.  A  stranger  would  not 
have  suspected  that  the  preacher's  wife 
lay  dead  at  home;  the  same  unction 


i86s.] 


Doctor  Johns. 


307 


and  earnestness  that  had  always  char- 
acterized him ;  the  same  unyielding 
rigidity  of  doctrine  :  "  Except  ye  repent^ 
ye  shall  all  likeimse  perishJ*^ 

Once  only — it  was  in  the  reading  of 
the  las(  hymn  in  the  afternoon  service 
— his  voice  broke^  and  he  sat  down  half 
through.  But  as  the  song  rose  under 
the  old  roof  of  the  meeting-house,  his 
courage  rose  with  it  He  seemed 
ashamed  of  the  transitory  weakness. 
What  right  had  he  to  bring  private 
griefs  to  such  a  place?  What  right 
had  the  leader  to  faint,  when  the  army 
were  pressing  forward  to  the  triumph 
God  had  promised  to  the  faithful  ?  So 
it  was  in  a  kind  of  ecstasy  that  he  rose, 
and  joined  with  a  firm,  loud  voice  in 
the  final  doxology. 

One  or  two  of  the  good  old  ladies, 
with  a  sad  misconception  of  the  force 
that  was  in  him,  and  of  the  divine  aid 
which  seemed  vouchsafed  to  him  during 
the  service,  came  to  him,  as  he  passed 
out,  to  give  him  greeting  and  a  word  of 
condolence.  For  that  time  only  he 
passed  them  by,  as  if  tliey  had  been 
wooden  images.  His  spirit  had  been 
strained  to  its  uttermost,  and  would 
bear  no  more.  He  made  his  way  home 
with  an  ungainly,  swift  gait,  —  home 
to  the  dear  bedside,  —  down  upon  his 
knees, — struggling  with  his  weakness, 
— praying. 

At  the  tea-hour  Esther  knocked ;  but 
in  vain.  An  hour  after,  his  boy  came,  — 
came  at  the  old  woman's  suggestion, 
(who  had  now  the  care  of  him,)  and 
knelt  by  his  side. 

"  Reuben,  —  my  boy !  " 

<'  She  *s  in  heaven,  is  n't  she,  fa- 
ther ?  " 

^  God  only  knows,  my  son.  He  hath 
mercy  on  whom  He  will  have  mercy." 

Small  as  he  was,  the  boy  flushed  at 
this:  — 

''  I  iVink  it 's  a  bad  God,  if  she  is  n't 
in  heaven.' 

''  Nay,  Reuben,  little  one,  blaspheme 
not :  His  ways  are  mot  as  our  ways. 
Kiss  her  now,  and  we  will  sit  down  to 
our  supper." 

And  so  they  passed  out  together  to 
their  lonely  repast   It  had  been  a  cheer- 


ful meal  in  da3rs  gone,  this  Sunday's 
supper.  For  the  dinner,  owing  to  the 
scruples  of  the  parson,  was  but  a  cold 
lunch  always ;  and  in  the  excited  state 
in  which  the  preacher  found  himself 
between  services,  there  was  little  of 
speech ;  even  Reuben's  prattle,  if  he 
ventured  upon  it,  caught  a  quick  "  Hist ! " 
from  the  mamma.  But  with  the  return 
of  Esther  from  the  afternoon  Bible-class, 
there  was  a  big  fire  lighted  in  the  kitch- 
en, and  some  warm  dishes  served,  such 
as  diffused  an  appetizing  odor  through 
the  house.  The  clergyman,  too,  wore 
an  air  of  relief,  having  preached  his  two 
sermons,  and  showing  a  capital  appe- 
tite, like  most  men  who  have  acquitted 
themselves  of  a  fatiguing  duty.  Besides 
which,  the  parson  gtiarded  that  old  New 
England  custom  of  beginning  his  Sab- 
bath at  sundown  on  Saturday,  —  so  that, 
by  the  time  the  supper  of  Sunday  was 
fairly  over,  Reuben  could  be  counting 
it  no  sin,  if  he  should  steal  a  run  into 
the  orchard.  Nay,  it  is  quite  probable 
that  the  poor  little  woman  who  was  dead 
had  always  welcomed  cheerily  the  open- 
ed door  of  Sunday  evening,  and  the  re- 
laxing gravity,  as  night  fell,  of  her  hus- 
band's starched  look. 

What  wonder,  if  she  had  loved,  even 
as  much  as  the  congregational  singing, 
the  music  of  the  birds  at  the  dusk  of  a 
summer's  day?  It  was  hard  measure 
which  many  of  the  old  divines  meted 
out,  in  excluding  from  their  ideas  of 
worship  all  alliance*with  the  charms  of 
Nature,  or  indeed  with  any  beauties  save 
those  which  were  purely  spiritual.  It 
is  certain  that  the  poor  woman  had  en- 
joyed immensely  those  Sabbath-evening 
strolls  through  the  garden  and  orchard, 
hand  in  hand  with  Reuben  and  the 
minister,  —  with  such  keen  and  exhil- 
arating sense  of  God's  goodness,  of 
trust  in  Him,  of  hope,  as  was  not 
invariably  wakened  by  the  sermons  of 
her  Benjamin. 

On  the  evening  of  which  we  speak, 
the  father  and  son  walked  down  the 
orchard  alone.  The  birds  sang  their 
merriest  as  day  closed  in ;  and  as  they 
turned  upon  their  walk,  and  the  good 
man  saw  through  the  vista  of  garden 


3o8         Ancient  Mining  on  the  Shores  of  Lake  Superior,   [March, 


and  (orchard  a  bright  lightflitting  across 
an  upper  window  of  his  house,  the  mad 
hope  flashed  upon  him  for  an  instant 
(such  baseless  ^cies  will  sometimes 
possess  the  calmest  minds)  that  she  had 
waked,— his  Rachel, — and  was  there  to 
meet  him.    The  next  moment  the  light 


and  the  hope  were  gone.  His  fingers 
gave  such  a  convulsive  grip  upon  the 
hand  of  his  little  boy  that  Reuben  cried 
out  with  paini  **Papa,  papa,  you  hurt 
me  I " 

The  parson  bent  down  and  kissed 
him. 


ANCIENT  MINING  ON  THE  SHORES  OF  LAKE  SUPERIOR. 


IN  the  month  of  March,  1848,  Sam- • 
uel  O.  Knapp  and  J.  B.  Townsend 
discovered,  firom  tracks  in  the  snow,  that 
a  hedgehog  had  taken  up  his  winter- 
quarters  in  a  cavity  of  a  ledge  of  rocks, 
'  about  twelve  miles  from  Ontonagon, 
Lake  Superior,  in  the  neighborhood  of 
the  Minnesota  Copper  Mine.  In  order  to 
capture  their  game,  they  procured  a  pick 
and  shovel,  and  commenced  an  excava- 
tion by  removing  the  vegetable  mould 
and  rubbish  that  had  accumulated  about 
the  mouth  of  what  proved  to  be  a  small 
cavern  in  the  rock.  At  the  depth  of  a 
few  feet  they  discovered  numerous  stone 
hammers  or  mauls ;  and  they  saw  that 
the  cavern  was  not  a  natural  one,  but 
had  been  worked  out  by  human  agency, 
and  that  the  stone  implements,  found  in 
great  profusion  in  and  about  it,  were 
the  tools  used  in  making  the  excava- 
tion. Further  examination  developed  a 
well-defined  vein  of  native  copper  run- 
ning through  the  rock ;  and  it  was  evi- 
dently with  a  view  of  getting  this  metal 
that  this  extensive  opening  had  been 
made. 

This  was  the  first  instance  where 
"ancient  diggings"  —  as  they  are  fa- 
miliarly called  in  the  Lake  Superior 
region — were  ever  recognized  as  such  ; 
and  this  artificial  cavern  presents  the 
most  conclusive  proofs  that  a  people  in 
the  remote  past  worked  those  mines. 
Upon  the  discovery  of  this  mine,  atten- 
tion was  at  once  directed  to  numerous 
other  cavities  and  depressions  in  the 
surface  of  the  earth  at  this  and  other 
points,  and  the  result  was  that  neariy  a 


hundred  andent  pits  were  found,  and 
in  all  of  them  mining-tools  of  various 
kinds.^  These  ancient  mines  or  pits  are 
not  restricted  to  one  locality,  but  ex- 
tend over  the  entire  length  of* the  cop- 
per region,  from  tiie  eastern  extremity 
of  Keweenaw  Point  to  the  Porcupine 
Mountains,  a  distance  oi  nearly  one 
hundred  miles. 

In  some  of  the  ancient  diggings,  the 
stone  hammers  have  the  marks  of  hard 
usage,  fractured  or  battered  faces,  and 
a  large  proportion  of  them  are  broken 
and  unfit  for  use ;  but  in  other  pits  the 
hammers  are  all  sound,  and  many  of 
them  have  the  appearance  of  never  hav- 
ing been  used.  These  hammers,  or 
mauls,  which  are  of  various  sizes,  and 
not  uniform  in  shape,  are  water -worn 
stones,  of  great  hardness,  similar  in  all 
respects  to  those  that  are  found  in  abun- 
dance on  the  shore  of  the  Lake,  or  in 
the  gravel-banks  of  that  region.  They 
are  generally  trap-rock,  embracing  the 
varieties  of  gray,  porphyritic,  hombUnd- 
ic,  sienitic,  and  amygdaloidal  trap,  and 
appear  to  have  had  no  labor  expended 
upon  them  except  the  chiselling  of  a 
groove  around  the  middle  for  the  pur- 
pose of  attaching  a  withe  to  serve  as 
a  handle.  In  a  few  instances,  J  have 
noticed  small  hammers,  usually  egg- 
shaped,  without  a  groove ;  and  the  bat- 
tered or  worn  appearance  at  one  end 
was  all  that  induced  the  belief  that  they 
were  ever  used  for  hammering. 

These  hammers  are  usually  from  six 
to  eight  inchep  in  length,  and  from  eight 
to  twelve  inches  in  circumference,  and 


1865.]       AnciefU  Mining  on  the  Shores  of  Lake  Superior,         309 


weigh  from  four  to  eight  pounds ;  but 
I  have  measured  specimens  that  were 
twenty-four  inches  in  circumference  at 
the  groove,  and  would  weigh  thirty 
pounds.  It  seems  hardly  probable  that 
one  man  could  wield  so  ponderous  a 
tool;  and  from  the  fact  that  some  of 
the  large  mauls  have  two  grooves 
around  them^  it  is  presumed  that  two 
men  were  employed  in  using  them. 

Stone  hammers  are  found  in  all  Ht^ 
ancient  diggings,  and  in  some  instan- 
ces the  number  is  almost  incredible. 
From  the  pits  near  the  Minnesota 
mines  it  is  estimated  that  ten  cart- 
loads have  been  removed ;  I  was  in- 
formed that  a  well  there  was  entirely 
stoned  up  with  them,  and  from  the 
great  number  still  remaining  I  am  in- 
clined Ut  believe  the  report  A  still 
greater  number  are  said  to  have  been 
found  at  the  Mesnard  and  Pontiac 
Mines,  in  the  Portage  Lake  district 
Farther  east,  in  the  vicinity  of  the  Cliff 
and  Central  Mines,  they  are  also  abun- 
dant ;  and  it  would  seem,  from  the  cir- 
cumstance of  their  being  invariably 
found  in  the  pits,  that  the  law  among 
the  ancient  miners  was  similar  to  the 
one  adopted  by  the  adventurers  in  Cali- 
fornia a  few  years  since,  who  established 
their  claims  by  leaving  their  toojs  upon 
the  land  or  in  the  pits  where  they  were 
digging  for  gold. 

In  addition  to  the  stone  implements, 
copper  chisels,  wedges,  or  ''gads,"  are 
often  found  in  the  abandoned  mines; 
and  in  the  vicinity,  as  well  as  in  places 
more  remote,  other  copper  relics  are 
found,  consisting  of  knives,  spear-points, 
and  rings,  like  the  bracelets  of  the  pres- 
ent day.  In  a  collection  at  the  Douglas 
House,  in  Houghton,  Portage  Lake,  are 
ornaments  of  this  kind,  and  also  some 
spear-heads,  nicely  wrought  and  simi- 
lar in  shape  and  size  to  the  blade  of 
a  spontoon.  But  I  have  never  seen  a 
copper  relic  that  had  the  appearance 
of  having  been  melted.  They  invaria- 
bly appear  to  have  been  cut  and  ham- 
mered into  shape  from  a  mass  of  native 
copper. 

Colonel  Charles  Wluttiesey,  of  Cleve- 
land, Ohio,  who  has  examined  these 


''ancient  diggings,"  has  several  inter- 
esting relics,  some  of  which  he  has  fig- 
ured and  described  in  the  thirteenth 
volume  of  the  "  Smithsonian  Contribu- 
tions to  Knowledge."  In  the  Vermont 
State  Cabinet  is  a  spear-head  of  native 
copper,  about  six  inches  long,  which 
was  found  in  WiUiston,  Vermont,  in 

1843. 

It  may  be  proper  here  to  remark, 
that  the  copper  in  these  relics  is  tough- 
er than  that  which  has  been  fused,  and 
so  is  the  native  copper  of  Lake  Supe- 
rior ;  and  occasionally  in  these  copper 
relics  blotches  and  grains  of  native  sil- 
ver are  found.  •  These  circumstances 
serve  to  establish  the  fact,  that  the  ma- 
terial of  which  the  implements  were 
made  was  obtained  at  Lake  Superior ; 
for  there,  and  nowhere  else  in  America, 
is  native  silver  found  in  grains,  and  * 
sometimes  in  considerable  masses,  im- 
bedded in  a  matrix  of  native  copper.  I 
well  remember,  when  a  boy,  reading 
an  article  relating  to  the  "  Lost  Arts," 
in  which  the  fact  was  stated,  that  a 
piece  of  metal  consisting  of  pure  cop- 
per and  silver  had  been  found  in  Ham- 
ilton County,  Ohio,  and  that  a  copper 
knife  had  been  found  in  one  of  the  an- 
cient mounds  at  Marietta,  which  had 
distinct  blotches  of  pure  silver  in  it 
The  writer  of  the  article  claimed  that 
the  people  who  manufactured  that  knife 
were  in  the  possession  of  an  art,  now 
lost,  by  which  copper  and  silver  could 
be  melted  and  indiscriminately  mixed, 
but  upon  cooling  would  separate  and 
remain  distinct  and  pure,  instead  of 
forming  an  alloy.  The  discovery  of 
native  copper  and  silver  similarly  asso- 
ciated in  the  Lake  Superior  mines  has 
not  only  destroyed  this  theory,  but  has 
established  beyond  a  doubt  the  locality 
whence  that  copper  knife,  and  other  rel- 
ics found  in  the  ancient  mounds  and 
elsewhere,  were  obtained. 

Billets  of  wood  that  bear  the  marks 
of  a  tolerably  sharp-cutting  tool  are 
often  found  in  the  old  mines  where 
water  has  been  suffered  to  remain  since 
their  abandonment  In  the  Waterbury 
Mine  wooden  shovels  were  found  about 
three  and  one  half  feet  long,  some  of 


30O 


Doctor  Johns, 


[March, 


those  '^  settles  "  which  used  to  be  seen 
in  country  taverns,  and  which  here 
seemed  to  invite  a  quiet  out-of-door 
gossip.  But  thjB  grave  manner  of  the 
parson  had  never  invited  to  a  very  &- 
miliar  use.  of  this  loitering-place,  even 
by  the  most  devoted  of  tlie  parishion- 
ers ;  and  the  appearance  of  a  stranger 
of  some  two-and-thirty  years,  with  some- 
thing in  his  manner,  as  much  as  in  his 
dress,  which  told  of  large  familiarity 
with  the  world,  lounging  upon  this  little 
porch,  had  amazed  the  passers-by,  as 
much  as  it  now  did  the  couple  who 
drove  up  slowly  in  the  square-topped 
chaise. 

'^Who  can  it  be,  Benjamin?"  says 
Rachel. 

"  I  really  can't  say,"  returns  the  par- 
son. 

"  He  seems  very  much  at  home,  my 
dear,"  —  as  indeed  he  does,  with  his  feet 
stretched  out  upon  the  bench,  and  eye- 
ing curiously  the  approaching  vehicle. 

As  it  draws  near,  his  observation  be- 
ing apparendy  satisfactory,  he  walks 
briskly  down  to  the  gate,  and  greets 
the  parson  with, — 

^^My  dear  Johns,  I  'm  delighted  to 
see  you ! " 

At  tliis  the  parson  knew  him,  and 
greets  him, — 

*•*•  Maverick,  upon  my  word  1 "  and  of- 
fers his  hand. 

*'*'  And  this  is  Mrs.  Johns,  I  suppose," 
says  the  stranger,  bowing  graciously. 
'*  Allow  me.  Madam  "  ;  and  he  assists 
her  to  alight  ''  Your  husband  and  my- 
self were  old  college-friends,  partners 
of  the  same  bench,  and  I  've  used  no 
ceremony,  you  see,  in  finding  him  out" 

Rachel,  eyeing  him  furtively,-  and 
with  a  little  rustic  courtesy,  "is  glad 
to  see  any  of  her  husband's  old  friends." 

The  parson — upon  his  feet  now  — 
shakes  the  stranger's  hand  heartUy 
again. 

"  I  am  very  glad  to  see  you,  Maver- 
ick ;  but  I  thought  you  were  eut  of  the 
country." 

"  So  I  have  been,  Johns ;  am  home 
only  upon  a  visit,  and  hearing  by  ac- 
cident that  you  had  become  a  clexgy- 
man — as  I  always  thought  you  would 


— ai^d  were  settled  hereabout,  I  deter^ 
mined  to  run  down  and  see  you  before 
sailing  again." 

"  You  must  stop  with  me.  Rachel, 
dear,  will  you  have  the  spare  room 
made  ready  for  Mr.  Maverick?" 

"  My  dear  Madam,  don't  give  your- 
self the  least  trouble  ;  I  am  an  old  trav- 
eller, and  can  make  myself  quite  com- 
fortable at  the  tavern  yonder ;  but  if  it 
's  altogether  convenient,  I  shall  be  de- 
lighted to  pass  the  night  under  the  roof 
of  my  old  friend.  I  shall  be  off  to-mor- 
row noon,"  continued  he,  turning  to  the 
parson,  "and  until  then  1  want  you  to 
put  off  your  sermons  and  make  me  one 
of  your  parishioners." 

So  they  all  went  into  the  parsonage 
together. 

Frank  Maverick,  as  he  had  said,  bad 
shared  the  same  bench  with  Johns  in 
college ;  and  between  them,  unlike  as 
they  were  in  character,  there  had  grown 
up  a  strong  friendship,  —  one  of  those 
singular  intimacies  which  bind  the  grav- 
est men  to  the  most  cheery  and  reck- 
less. Maverick  was  forever  running 
into  scrapes  and  consulting  the  cool 
head  of  Johns  tq  help  him  out  of  them. 
There  was  never  a  tutor's  windows  to 
be  broken  in,  or  a  callithumpian  frolic, 
(which  were  in  vogue  in  those  days,) 
but  Maverick  bore  a  hand  in  both; 
and  somehow,  by  a  marvellous  address 
that  belonged  to  him,  always  managed 
to  escape,  or  at  most  to  receive  only 
some  grave  admonition  from  the  aca- 
demic authorities.  Johns  advised  with 
him,  (giving  as  serious  advice  then  as 
he  could  give  now,)  and  added  from 
time  to  time  such  assistance  in  his 
studies  as  a  plodding  man  can  always 
lend  to  one  of  quick  brain,  who  makes 
no  reckoning  of  time. 

Upon  a  certain  occasion  Maverick 
had  gone  over  with  Johns  to  his  home, 
and  the  Major  had  taken  an  immense 
fancy  to  the  buoyant  young  fellow,  so 
full  of  spirits,  and  so  charmingly  frank. 
"  If  your  characters  could  only  be  weld- 
ed together,"  he  used  to  say  to  his  son, 
"  you  would  both  be  the  better  for  it ; 
he  a  little  of  your  gravity,  and  you  some- 
thing of  his  rollicking  carelessness." 


1 86s.] 


Doctor  Johns, 


301 


This  bound  Johns  to  his  friend  tiore 
closely  than  ever.  There  was,  more- 
over, great  honesty  and  conscientious- 
ness in  the  lad's  composition :  he  could 
beat  in  a  tutor's  window  for  the  frolic 
of  the  thing,  and  by  way  of  paying  off 
some  old  grudge  for  a  black  mark  ;  but 
there  vras  a  strong  spice  of  humanity 
at  the  bottom  even  of  his  frolics.  It 
happened  one  day,  that  his  friend  Ben 
Johns  told  him  that  one  of  the  bats 
'which  had  done  terrible  execution  on 
the  tutor's  windows  had  also  played 
havoc  on  his  table,  breaking  a  bottle 
of  ink,  and  deluging  some  half-dozen 
of  the  tutor's  books  ;  '^  and  do  you 
know,"  said  Johns,  "  the  poor  man  who 
has  made  such  a  loss  is  saving  up  all 
his  pay  here  for  a  mother  and  two  or 
three  fatherless  children  ?  " 

*•  The  Dense  he  is  ! "  said  Maverick, 
and  his  hand  went  to  his  pocket,  which 
was  always  pretty  full.  "  I  say,  Johns, 
don't  peach  on  me,  but  I  think  I  must 
have  thrown  that  bat,  (which  Johns  knew 
to  be  hardly  possible,  for  he  had  only 
come  up  at  the  end  of  the  row,)  and  I 
want  you  to  get  this  money  to  him,  to 
make  those  books  good  again.  Will 
you  do  it,  old  fellow  ?  " 

This  was  the  sort  of  character  to  win 
npon  the  quiet  son  of  the  Major.  "  If 
he  were  only  more  earnest,"  he  used  to 
say,  —  "  if  he  could  give  up  his  trifling, 
—  if  he  would  only  buckle' down  to  seri- 
ous study,  as  some  of  us  do,  what  great 
things  he  might  accomplish  ! "  A  com- 
mon enough  &ncy  among  those  of  riper 
years,  —  as  if  all  the  outlets  of  a  man's 
nerve-power  could  be  dammed  into 
what  shape  the  possessor  would ! 

Maverick  was  altogether  his  old  self 
this  night  at  the  parsonage.  Rachel 
listened  admiringly,  as  he  told  of  his 
travel  and  of  his  foreign  experiences. 
He  was  the  son  of  a  merchant  of  an 
Eastern  seaport  who  had  been  long  en- 
gaged in  the  Mediterranean  trade,  with 
a  branch  house  at  Marseilles ;  and 
thither  Frank  had  gone  two  or  three 
years  after  leaving  college,  to  fill  some 
.subordinate  post,  and  finally  to  work 
his  way  into  a  partnership,  which  he  now 
held.    Of  course  be  had  not  lived  there 


those  seven  or  eight  years  last  past  with- 
out his  visit  to  Paris ;  and  his  easy,  care- 
less way  of  describing  what  he  had  seen 
there  in  Napoleon's  day. —  the  fetes,  the 
processions,  the  display  —  was  a  kind 
of  talk  not  often  heard  in  a  New  Eng- 
land village,  and  which  took  a  strong 
hold  upon  the  imagination  of  Rachel. 

''And  to  think,"  says  the  parson, 
''that  such  a  people  are  wholly  infi- 
del !  " 

"Well,  well,  I  don't  know,"  says 
Maverick ;  "  I  think  I  have  seen  a  good 
deal  of  fiiith  in  the  Popish  churches." 

"  Faith  in  images ;  faith  in  the  Vir- 
gin ;  faith  in  mummery,"  says  Johns, 
with  a  sigh.  "'Tis  always  the  scarlet 
woman  of  Babylon ! " 

"  I  know,"  says  Maverick,  smiling, 
"these  things  are  not  much  to  yonr 
taste ;  but  we  have  our  Protestant 
chapels,  too." 

"  Not  much  better,  I  fear,"  says  Johns. 
"  They  are  sadly  impregnated  with  the 
Genevese  Socinianism." 

This  was  about  the  time  that  the  or- 
thodox  Louis  Empaytaz  was  suffering 
the  rebuke  of  the  Swiss  church  author- 
ities for  his  "  Considerations  upon  the 
Divinity  of  Jesus  Christ."  Aside  from 
this,  all  the  parson's  notions  of  French 
religion  and  of  French  philosophy  were 
of  the  most  aggravated  degree  of  bit- 
terness. That  set  of  Voltaire,  which 
the  Major,  his  father,  had  once  pur- 
chased, had  not  been  without  its  fruit, 

—  not  legitimate,  indeed,  but  most  de- 
cided. The  books  so  cautiously  put  out 
of  sight  —  like  all  such  —  had  caught 
the  attention  of  the  son ;  whereupon 
his  mother  had  given  him  so  terrible 
an  account  of  French  infidelity,  and 
such  a  fearful  story  of  Voltaire's  dying 
remorse,  —  current  in  orthodox  circles, 

—  as  had  caught  strong  hold  upon  the 
mind  of  the  boy.  All  Frenchmen  he 
had  learned  to  look  upon  as  the  chil* 
dren  of  Satan,  and  their  language  as 
the  language  of  helL  With  these  sen- 
timents very  sincerely  entertained,  he 
regarded  his  poor  friend  as  one  living 
at  the  very  door-posts  of  Pandemonium, 
and  hoped,  by  God's  mercy,  to  throw 
around  him  even  now  a  lit^e  of  the 


292 


At  AndenanvilU. 


[March, 


Drake  grew  white  to  the  lips.  The 
great  veins  started  out  on  his  forehead, 
and  his  fingers  worked  nervously ;  but 
it  was  Comy's  turn  to  interfere. 

^  Musther  Talcott,  sure  and  ye  '11  not 
mind  what  that  spalpeen 's  saying ;  and 
there 's  the  docthor  himself  beyant,  and 
a  kind  and  pleasant  jontleman  he  is. 
Jist  lift  the  Cap'n,  aisy  now,  and  we  'U 
see  what  the  docthor  'U  say  to  him." 

For  the  third  time,  then,  Drake  made 
his  appeal  in  behalf  of  the  poor  fellow 
at  his  feet  The  doctor  heard  him  kind- 
ly, but  answered,  as  his  assistant  had 
done,  that  their  number  was  full  for  the 
day,  and  was  moving  on,  when  Talcott 
caught  him  by  the  arm. 

"  Doctor,"  he  said,  sternly,  "  one  of 
your  assistants  refuses  my  comrade  be- 
cause he  is  a  dying  man  ;  another  tells 
me,  as  you  have  done,  that  your  num- 
ber is  fixll  for  the  day.  Your  own  eyes 
can  tell  you,  that,  if  not  dying  now,  he 
will  be  before  to-morrow,  of  want  and 
exposure.  I  know  nothing  of  your 
rules  ;  but  I  do  know,  that,  if  my  com- 
rade's life  is  to  be  saved,  it  is  to  be 
saved  now^  and  that  you  have  the 
means,  if  means  there  are,  for  its  salva- 
tion ;  and  let  the  awfiil  guilt  of  the  cru- 
elty that  brought  him  here  weigh  down 
whose  neck  it  will,  as  there  is  a  God 
above  us,  I  do  not  see  how  you  can 
write  yourself  free  of  murder,  or  think 
your  hands  clean  from  blood,  if  you 
send  him  back  to  die." 

"  God  forbid  !  God  forbid  ! "  answer- 
ed the  doctor,  shrinking  from  Drake's 
vehemence.  *'You  are  unjust,  young 
man  ;  it  is  not  my  will,  but  my  power 
to  help,  that  is  limited.  However,  he 
shall  not  be  sent  back  ;  we  will  do  for 
him  what  we  can,  if  I  have  to  lodge 
him  in  my  own  house." 

*<And  did  n't  I  tell  ye  the  docthor 
was  the  kind  jontleman  ?  "  cried  Corny, 
joyfully.  *'  Thouf h  the  hospital  is  no 
sich  great  matther :  jist  a  few  tints ;  but 
thin  he  '11  be  gettin'  a  bed  there,  and 
belike  a  dhrap  of  whiskey  or  a  sup  of 
porridge :  and  if  he  gits  on,  it  's  you 
he  has  to  thank  for  it ;  fur  if  it  had  n't 
6een  fur  your  prachement,  my  sowl,  the 
docthor  would  have  turned  him  off,  too ; 


and  long  life  to  you,  says  Corny  Kee- 
gan,  and  may  you  niver  be  needin'  any- 
body's tongue  to  do  the  like  fur  you ! " 

Drake  made  no  answer ;  after  tl^ 
fever  comes  the  chill,  and  he  was  think- 
ing drearily  of  the  smouldering  *'  Histo* 
ry,"  and  of  the  intolerable  leaden  hours 
stretching  out  before  hhn;  but  it  was 
not  in  Comy's  nature  to  remain  silent 

"It  's  the  ould  jontleman  wid  the 
scythe  that  takes  us  down,  afther  all, 
Musther  Talcott ;  the  hours  and  hours 
that  we  sit  mopin',  wid  our  fingers  as 
limp  as  a  lady's,  and  our  stomachs  clat- 
terin'  like  an  impty  can,  and  sorra  a 
thing  to  think  of  but  the  poor  crathurs 
that 's  dead,  rest  their  souls  !  and  whin 
our  turn  's  comin ;  and  it  's  wishin'  I 
am  that  it  was  in  the  days  of  the  fairies, 
and  that  the  quane  of  thim  ud  jist  give 
us  a  call,  till  I  'd  ask  her  if  she  'd  iver 
a  pipe  and  its  full  of  tobacky  about  her, 
— or,  failin'  that,  if  she  'd  hoppen  to 
have  a  knife  in  her  pocket,  till  I  cut  out 
the  ould  divil  Jeff  on  the  gallows,  and 
give  him  what  he  'd  git,  if  we  iver  put 
our  hands  on  him." 

"  A  knife,"  repeated  Drake,  starting 
from  his  abstraction,  and  fumbling  in  his 
pocket,  from  which  he  drew  an  old  bit* 
of  iron.  "  I  am  not  the  queen  of  the 
£uries  ;  but  with  this  you  can  hang  Jeff 
and  his  cabinet  in  effigy,  if  you  choose, 
and  can  find  the  material  to  carve." 

"  Arrah,  and  that 's  aisy,  wid  illigant 
bones  like  these,  that  chips  off  like  mar- 
ble or  wud  itself ;  but  I  'm  misdoubtin' 
I  'm  robbin'  ye,  Musther  Talcott" 

"  I  have  another,"  said  Drake,  produ- 
cing it ;  and  as  he  did  so,  there  breathed 
upon  him,  like  a  breeze  from  home,  a 
recollection  of  the  dim  light  shining  in 
an  old  library  down  on  a  broad-leaved 
volume  resting  on  a  carved  rack, — of  a 
brown- tressed  girl  who  stood  with  him 
before  it,  her  head  just  at  his  shoulder, 
looking  at  the  cathedral  on  its  page, — 
of  the  chance  touch  of  a  little  hand  on 
his, — of  the  brush  of  a  perfumed  sleeve, 
— of  the  flitting  color  in  her  clear  cheek, 
— of  a  subtile  magic,  interweaving  blush, 
perfume,  picture,  and  thought  of  Alice. 
Dainty  pinnacle  and  massive  arch  and 
carved  buttress  were  photographed  on 


1865.] 


At  Andersottville. 


293 


his  brain,  and  arch  and  pinnacle  and 
buttress  could  be  notched  out  in  bone 
by  his  poor  skill, — and  if  he  died,  some 
kindly  comrade  should  carry  it  to  Alice, 
and  it  should  tell  her  what  he  had  left 
unsaid, — and  if  he  lived,  he  would  take 
it  to  her  himself,  and  it  should  serve  him 
for  the  text  of  tiis  story.  That  the  carv- 
ing of  a  design  so  intricate,  on  so  minute 
a  scale,  must  prove,  tedious  argued  in  its 
£ivor ;  and  putting  off  mourning  weeds 
for  his  history,  he  took  to  this  new  love 
with  a  complacency  that  excited  Comy's 
special  admiration* 

^  Sure,  and  it  's  a  beautiful  thing  is 
religion ;  and  the  Divil  fly  away  wid  me, 
if  I  don't. be  afther  gittin'  it  meself! 
Here  's  Musther  Talcott :  if  he  was  fur 
carving  a  fort  or  a  big  gun,  the  eyes 
and  the  face  of  him  would  be  little  but 
scowls  and  puckers  ;  and  there  he  sits, 
though  it 's  only  the  dumb  likeness  of 
a  church  that  he  's  at,  by  the  same  to- 
ken that  it 's  no  bigger  than  me  thumb, 
and,  by  the  howly  piper,  you  'd  think 
the  light  that  flings  away  from  the  big 
colored  ^indy  down  the  church  was 
stranun*  in  his  face,  he  looks  so  paceful- 
like  ;  and  he  no  betther  than  a  heretic 
nayther,  though  he  's  the  heart  of  a 
good  Catholic,  as  no  one  knows  betther 
than  meself." 

Indeed,  Corny 's  gratitude  never  grew 
cold.  Few  sentences  of  his  that  did 
not  end,  like  the  one  just  quoted,  in 
eulogiums  on  **  Musther  Talcott"  If 
Drake  was  busy  with  his  cathedral, 
there  sat  Corny,  a  few  paces  distant, 
hacking  at  Jeff  Davis.  If  Drake,  who 
had  resolved  himself  into  a  sort  of  duo- 
decimo edition  of  the  Sanitary  Commis- 
sion, was  about  his  work  of  mercy, 
there  was  Corny,  a  shadow  at  his  heels, 
bringing  water,  lifting  the  poor  groan- 
ing wretches,  and  adding  his  word  of 
comfort.  "  Cheer  up,  honey,  and  do 
jist  as  Musther  Talcott  says  ;  for  it 's  nixt 
to  iverything  that  he  knows,  and  thim 
things  that  he  don't  know  is  n't  worth  a 
body's  attintion."  And  when  Drake 
himself  was  ailing,  it  was  Corny  who 
tended  him  with  terrified  solicitude,  for- 
aged for  his  wood,  and  cooked  his  ra- 
tions.   **  When  Drake  was  ailing  1 "  — 


that  was  oflen.  His  courage  was  un- 
daunted, his  hope  perhaps  higher,  but 
he  had  grown  perceptibly  weak  and  lan- 
guid ;  and  there  were  days  — many,  alas ! 
— when  he  lay  quietiy  on  the  ground, 
giving  an  occasional  lazy  touch  to  his 
cathedral,  while  Corny,  as  he  laughing- 
ly said,  ruled  in  his  stead. 

It  was  on  one  of  these  days  that  there 
arose  a  sudden  stic  and  commotion 
throughout  the  camp,  a  deep  and  joyful 
hum,  that  went  from  mouth  to  mouth ; 
and  men  were  seen  running  hastily  from 
all  quarters,  the  rush  setting  towards 
the  gate,  and  drawing  in  even  the  sick, 
who  crawled  and  hobbled  along  with 
the  stream,  at  the  risk  of  being  tram- 
pled by  the  excited  throng,  struggling 
and  crowding  on  pellmell.  While  Drake 
looked  on  in  surprise.  Corny  made  his 
appearance,  his  eyes  sparkling  with 
pleasure. 

*'  News,  Musther  Talcott  dear  1  an 
ye  wuz  dyin',  here  's  news  to  put  the 
strength  in  yer  legs !  Letthers  from 
home,  and  they  say  there  's  five  thou- 
sand on  'em ;  and  there  's  an  officer 
chap,  wid  a  mouth  like  a  thrap,  countin' 
'em  as  if  he  was  a  machine,  fqr  all  the 
wuruld,  and  bad  'cess  to  him !  wid  the 
poor  boys  crowdin',  and  heart-famished 
for  only  a  look  at  thim,  the  crumpled 
things,  for  it 's  batthered  they  is  !  and 
he,  the  spalpeen,  won't  let  one  of  'em 
touch  'em,  and  no  more  feelin'  with  him 
than  if  he  was  a  gun,  instead  of  the  son 
of  one ;  and  I  'm  cock-sure  I  read  yer 
name,  Musther  Talcptt,  and  there  's 
mine  too  on  the  back  of  a  letther,  and 
that  's  from  Mary,  hurra !  and  God 
bless  her .'  and  come,  Musther  Talcott, 
fur  they  '11  be  dalin'  out  the  letthers  or 
iver  we  get  there." 

Drake  rose  at  once ;  but  a  description 
of  his  sensations,  as  he  hastily  made 
his  way  towards  the  throng  that  surged 
about  the  imperturbable  official  like  a 
sea,  is  beyond  the  power  of  words.  The 
overwhelming  surprise  and  joy  of  a  man 
who  in  that  evil  den  had  almost  forgot- 
ten home  and  the  possibility  of  hearing 
from  it,  and  his  agonizing  uncertainty, 
could  be  fathomed  only  by  the  poor 
wretches  suffering  like  him,  who  anx- 


294 


At  AndersonvilU, 


[March, 


iously  pressed  on  the  Rebel  officer,  and 
clutched  at  the  letters,  and  fell  back  sick 
with  impatience  and  suspense  at  his  for- 
mal delay.  At  last  he  opened  his  grim 
jaws.    The  men  listened  breathlessly. 

"  All  right  Men,  there  is  ten  cents 
postage  due  on  each  letter." 

An  instant's  stunned  pause,  and 
then  half  a  dozen  voices  speaking  to- 
gether: "Why,  man,  you  must  have 
had  ten  cents  on  each  of  these  letters, 
before  they  crossed  the  lines  " ;  and 
"  How  can  we  pay  postage  ?  "  **  He 
knows  we  have  no  money " ;  "  What 
good  will  the  bits  of  paper  do  him  at  all, 
at  all  ?  "  But  the  man  kept  on  like  an 
automaton. 

**  My  orders  are  to  coUect  ten  cents 
on  each  letter ;  and  I  am  here  to  obey 
orders,  not  to  argue." 

Meanwhile  those  in  the  rear  ranks 
had  heard  indistinctly  or  not  at  all,  and 
pressed  on  those  in  front  to  know  the 
meaning  of  the  sudden  recoil,  —  for  the 
men  had  instinctively  given  back,  — and 
being  told,  buzzed  it  on  to  tliose  behind 
them ;  and  there  began*  in  tlie  crowd  a 
low,  deep  hum,  growing  louder,  as  mut- 
tering rose  to  curses, — growing  fiercer, 
for  there  is  nothing  half  so  savage  as 
despair  that  has  been  fooled  with  a 
hope,  —  swelling  into  a  wave  of  indig- 
nation that  swept  and  swayed  the  whole 
throng  with  it,  and  seemed  an  instant 
to  threaten  and  topple  over  the  officer 
in  their  midst  But  it  came  to  nought 
The  prudent  nudged  their  neighbors, 
"  With  the  cannon,  boys,  they  can  rake 
us  on  all  sides  "  ;  and  the  angrier  ones 
fell  apart  in  little  groups,  and  talked  in 
whispers,  and  glared  menacingly  at  the 
guard,  but  made  no  further  demonstra- 
tion. Those  who  were  happy  enough 
to  possess  the  money  received  their 
letters  :  the  feebler  ones  crawled  away 
with  tears  furrowing  their  wan  cheeks ; 
and  the  unmoved  official  thrust  the  re- 
maining letters  of  mother,  father,  wife, 
and  children  of  these  men  into  the  bags 
before  their  longing  eyes ;  and  even 
while  the  miserable  men  flung  them- 
selves before  him,  and  with  outstretched 
hands  tried  to  hold  him  back,  the  gate 
clanged  after  him. 


Drake,  who  long  ago  bad  spent,  his 
little  hoard,  had  received  this  terrible 
blow  in  entire  silence,  and  turned  to 
go  without  comment  or  answer  to  Corr 
ny's  vociferations.  But  eyes  were  dim, 
or  hea^  was  reeling ;  for  a  few  paces  on 
he  stumbled,  and  would  have  fiJlen  over 
a  soldier  lying  in  his  path,  but  for  Cor* 
ny,  who  was  close  behind  him,  and  who 
at  once  assailed  the  man  over  whom 
Drake  had  tripped,  and  who  still  lay 
quietly,  without  even  a  stir  or  motion 
of  his  head. 

*'  Ye  lazy  spalpeen !  what  the  Divi) 
are  ye  stretched  out  there  for,  to  break 
dacent  folk's  necks  over  the  length  of 

ye  ?    Stir  yourself,  or  I  'U  " Then 

with  a  sudden  and  total  change  of  tone, 
as  he  looked  more  closely  into  the  quiet 
£aice,  '*  The  Saints  pity  us  !  it 's  Cap'n 
Ireland ;  and  in  the  name  of  Hiven,  how 

came  yer  Honor  here  on  the Och ! 

Lord  forgive  me !  Talking  to  a  dead 
corpse  !  Och !  wurra !  wurra !  Musther 
Talcott,  it 's  dead  he  is,  sure !  kilt  this 
time  intirely ! " 

''You  may  well  say  killed,"  said  a 
soldier  who  had  joined  them.  'Mf  ever 
a  man  committed  murder,  then  that 
man  did  that  kicked  him  out  of  the 
hospital  to  die." 

<<  What  is  that  ? "  demanded  Drake, 
who  had  seemed  in  a  sort  of  stupor, 
but  roused  out  of  it  fiercely  at  the.  man's 
last  words.  '^  Do  you  know  what  you 
are  saying  ?  " 

"  I  think  I  ought,"  returned  the  sol- 
dier. '^  I  was  in  the  hospital  at  the 
time  ;  I  'm  only  just  out ;  and  I  saw  it 
myself.  The  assistant  surgeon  stops 
at  his  bed,  where  he  laid  only  just 
breathing  like,  and  says  he, '  What  man 
is  this  ?  I  've  seen  him  before ' ;  and 
says  some  one,  '  His  name  is  Ireland ' ; 
and  says  the  surgeon,  like  a  flash,  *  Ire- 
land ?  Irehmd  of  the  — th  ?  Do  you 
know  what  that  is?  It  is  a  colored 
regiment,  and  this  Abolition  scoundrel 
is  the  captain  of  it  I  knew  I  had  seen 
him.  Here  !  put  him  out ;  let  him  go 
and  herd  with  the  rest ' ;  and  when 
some  one  said  he  was  dying  any  way, 
said  the  surgeon,  with  a  string  of  oaths, 
*  Put  him  out,  I  tell  you ;  the  bed  is  too 


i865.] 


At  AndersonvilU. 


295 


good  for  him ' ;  and  then,  Sir,  when  the 
poor  young  gentleitaan,  who  was  dizzy- 
like,  and  did  n't  understand,  fell  down 
beside  the  door,  from  weakness,  that — 
that  infernal  bmte  kicked  him,  and  swore 
at  him,  as  vermin  that  cumbered  the 
ground  ;  and  the  men  brought  him  away 
here.  Sir,  it 's  two  days  back,  and  he  's 
just  passed  away  " ;  and  kneeling  beside 
the  body,  and  lifting  the  poor  wasted 
hands,  ^  I  swear,  if  ever  I  get  back,  to 
revenge  his  death,  and  never  to  let 
sword  or  pistol  drop  while  this  cursed 
Rebellion  is  going  on." 

^  Amin !  "  said  Corny,  solemnly,  and 
^  Amen  "  formed  itself  on  Drake's  white 
lips ;  but  by  some  curious  mental  pro- 
cess bis  thoughts  would  wander  away 
from  the  stiffening  body  before  him  to 
a  vision  of  home,  and  Sabbaths  when 
sweet-toned  bells  called  quiet  families 
to  church,  and  litde  children  playing 
about  the  doorsteps,  and  peaceful  wom- 
en in  sunny  houses,  and  gay  girls  wav- 
ing on  men  to  batUe  through  glittering 
streets,  and  prayers,  and  looks  of  love, 
and  songs,  and  flowers,  and  Alice ;  and 
in  on  this  rolled  suddenly  a  sense  of 
what  was  actually  around  him,  as  under 
a  calm  sky  and  out  of  a  still  sea  swoops 
sometimes  suddenly  some  huge  wave  in 
on  the  quiet  beach.  He  saw  about  him 
rags,  filth,  men  sick,  men  dying,  men 
dead,  men  groaning,  men  cursing,  men 
gibbering.  There  rose  up  before  him 
the  grim  succession  of  days  of  hunger, 
pain,  sorrow,  and  loneliness,  already 
past ;  there  came  upon  him  a  terrible 
threatening  of  days  to  come,  yet  worse, 
— without  hope  or  relief,  unless  at  the 
dead  line.  He  rose,  staggering,  and 
with  a  wild  and  desperate  look  that 
startled  Corny. 

**'  Fur  the  Lord's  sake,  wud  ye  de- 
sthroy  yerself?"  cried  the  ^thful  fel- 
low, throwing  his  arms  about  him  to 
hold  him  fast  ^  Och,  honey  I  ye  're  a 
heretic,  and  the  good  Lord  's  a  Cath- 
olic ;  but  thin  He  made  us  all,  and  He 
has  pity  on  the  poor  crathurs  that  's 
sufferin'  here,  or  His  heart  's  harder 
nor  Comy's :  the  Saints  forgive  me  fur 
such  a  spache !  Pray,  Musther  Talcott, 
pray  " 


'*  Pray  1 "  exclaimed  Drake ;  "•  is  there 
a  God  looking  dowQ  here  ? " — and  drop- 
ping on  his  knees,  he  gasped  out,  — 

"O  God!  if  Thou  dost  yet  hear, 
save  me— from  going  mad!"  and  fell 
forward  at  Cbrny's  feet,  senseless. 

He  was  carried  to  the  hospital,  and 
lay  there  weeks,  lost  in  the  delirium  of 
a  fever ;  and  every  morning  there  peer- 
ed in  at  the  inner  door  of  the  stockade 
a  huge  shock  of  hair,  and  a  red,  anxious 
face,  with, — 

"  The  top  of  the  momin'  to  ye,  doc- 
thor,  and  it  's  ashamed  I  am  to  be  af- 
ther  throublin'  ye  so  often  ;  but  will  yer 
Honor  plase  to  tell  me  how  Musther 
Talcott  is  the  day?"  —  and  having  re- 
ceived the  desired  information.  Corny 
would  take  himself  off  with  blessings 
*•*'  on  his  Honor,  that  had  consideration 
for  the  feelings  of  the  poor  Irishman." 

One  morning  there  was  a  change  in 
the  programme. 

"  I  have  good  news  for  you,  Corny," 
said  the  kindly  doctor.  *'  Talcott  is  out 
of  danger." 

'<  Hurray !  aqd  the  Saints  be  praised 
fur  that ! "  shouted'  Corny,  cutting  a  ca- 
per. 

"  But  I  have  better  news  yet,"  contin- 
ued the  doctor,  watching  Corny  closely. 
**  His  name  is  on  the  list  of  exchanged 
prisoners,  and  he  will  be  sent  home  on 
Thursday  next."  -^ 

Corny's  ^e  fell. 

"Is  he,  yer  Honor  ?  "  very  hesl^ptii^- 
ly ;  and  then,  suddenly  clearing  up,  ^  wl 
hurra  fur  that,  too !  and  I  'm  an^ongrace- 
ful  baste  to  be  sorry  that  he  's  to  be 
clear  of  this  hole,  —  bad  scran  to  it !  — 
and  long  life  till  him,  and  a  blessin' 
go  wid  him !  and  if"  —  choking  —  "  we 
don't  mate  on  earth,  sure  the  Lord 
won't  kape  him  foriver  in  purgatory, 
and  he  so  kind  and  feelin'  for  the 
sick." 

The  doctor  could  not  suppress  a  laugh 
at  this  limited  hope. 

'*  But,  Corny,  what  if  you  are  to  be 
sent  home  too  ?  " 

"Me?  —  and  was  it  me  yer  Honor 
was  sayin'  ?  Och,  Hivin  bless  ye  fur  that 
Word !  — and  it 's  not  laughin'  at  me  is 
yer  Honor  ?    Sure  ye  'd  niver  have  the 


296 


Doctor  Johns. 


[Marchi 


heart  to  chate  a  poor  boy  like  that  All 
the  Saints  be  praised !  I  'm  a  man  agin, 
and  not  a  starvin'  machine ;  and  I  shall 
see  ye,  Mary,  mavourneen !  but,  och,  the 
poor  boys  that  we  're  lavin'  I  Hurra !  how 
iver  will  I  ate  three  males  a  day,  and 
slape  under  a  blanket,  and  think  of  thim 
on  the  ground  and  starvin'  by  inches  ! " 
During  the  remainder  of  his  stay, 
Corny  balanced  between  joy  and  his  self- 
ishness in  being  joyful,  in  a  manner  suf- 
ficiently ludicrous,  —  breaking  out  one 
moment  in  the  most  extravagant  demon- 
stration, to  be  twitched  from  it  the  next 
by  a  penitential  spasm.    As  for  Drake, 


hardly  yet  clear  of  the  shadows  that 
haunted  his  fever,  he  but  mistily  com- 
prehended the  change  that  was  before 
him;  and  it  will  need  weeks  and  per- 
haps months  of  home-nursing  and  watch- 
ing before  body  and  mind  can  win  back 
their  former  strength  and  tone. 

Meanwhile,  people  of  the  North,  what 
of  the  poor  boys  left  behind  at  Ander- 
sonville,  starving,  'as  Corny  said,  by 
inches,  with  the  winter  before  them, 
and  their  numbers  swelled  by  the  hun- 
dreds that  a  late  Rebel  paper  gleefully 
announces  to  be  on  their  way  from  more 
Northern  prisons  ? 


DOCTOR    JOHNS. 


VII. 


IT  was  not  easy  in  that  day  to  bring 
together  the  opinion;  of  a  Connecti- 
cut parish  that  had  been  jostled  apart 
by  a  parochial  quarrel;  and  where  old 
grievances  were  festering.  Indeed,  it 
is  never  easy  to  do  this,  and  iCnite  opin- 
ions upon  a  new  comer,  unless  he  have 
some  rare  gift  of  eloquence,  which  so 
dazes  the  good  people  that  they  can  no 
longer  remember  their  petty  griefs,  or 
unless  he  manage  with  rare  tact  to  pass 
lightly  over  the  sore  points,'  and  to 
anoint  tfiem  by  a  careful  hand  with 
such  healing  salves  as  he  can  concoct 
out  of  his  pastoral  charities.  Mr.  Johns 
had  neither  art  nor  eloquence,  as  com- 
monly understood ;  yet  he  effected  a 
blending  of  all  interests  by  the  simple, 
earnest  gravity  of  his  character.  He 
ignored  all  angry  disputation  ;  he  ig- 
nored its  results.  He  came  as  a  shep- 
herd to  a  deserted  sheepfold  ;  he  came 
to  preach  the  Bible  doctrines  in  their 
literalness.  He  had  no  reproofs,  save 
for  those  who  refused  the  offers  of 
God's  mercy,  —  no  commendation,  save 
for  those  who  sought  ^is  grace  whose 
£eivor  is  life  everlasting.  There  were 
no  metaphysical   niceties   in   his  dis- 


courses, athwart  which  keen  disputants 
might  poise  themselves  for  close  and 
angry  conflict ;  he  recognized  no  neces- 
sities but  the  great  ones  of  repentance 
and  £a.ith ;  and  all  the  mysteries  of 
the  Will  he  was  accustomed  to  solve  by 
grand  utterance  of  that  text  which  he 
loved  above  all  others, — however  much 
It  may  have  troubled  him  in  his  discus- 
sion of  Election,  —  "Whosoever  a////, 
let  him  come  and  drink  of  the  water  of 
life  freely." 

Inheriting  as  he  did  all  the  religious 
affinities  of  his  mother,  these  were  com- 
pacted and  made  sensitive  by  years  of 
silent  protest  against  the  proud  world* 
ly  sufficiency  of  his  father,  the  Major. 
Such  qualities  and  experience  found  re- 
pose in  the  unyielding  dogmas  of  the 
Westminster  divines.  At  thirty  the 
clergyman  was  as  aged  tis  most  men  of 
forty-five,  —  seared  by  the  severity  of 
his  opinions,  and  the  unshaken  tenacity 
with  which  he  held  them.  He  was  by 
nature  a  quiet,  almost  a  tinfid  man ; 
but  over  the  old  white  desk  and  crim- 
son cushion,  with  the  choir  of  singers 
in  his  front  and  the  Bible  under  his 
haqd,  he  grew  into  wonderful  boldness. 
He  cherished  an  exalted  idea  of  the 
dignity  of  his  office,  —  a  dignity  which 


1865.] 


Doctor  yohns. 


297 


he  determined  to  maintain  to  the  ut- 
most of  his  power ;  but  in  the  pulpit 
only  did  the  full  measiu'e  of  this  exalta- 
tion come  over  him.  Thence  he  looked 
down  serenely  upon  the  flock  of  which 
he  was  the  appointed  guide,  and  among 
whom  his  duty  lay.  The  shepherd  lead- 
ing his  sheep  was  no  figure  of  speech 
for  him  ;  he  was  commissioned  to  their 
care,  and  was  conducting  them  —  old 
men  and  maidens,  boys  and  gray-haired 
women  —  athwart  the  dangers  of  the 
world,  toward  the '  great  fold.  On  one 
side  always  the  fires  of  hell  were  gap- 
ing ;  and  on  the  other  were  blazing  the 
great  candlesticks  around  the  throne. 

But  when,  on  some  occasion,  he  had, 
under  the  full  weight  of  his  office,  in- 
veighed against  a  damning  evil,  and,  as 
lie  fondly  hoped  by  the  stillness  in  the 
old  meeting-house,  wrought  upon  sin- 
ners effectually,  it  was  disheartening  to 
be  met  by  some  hoary  member  of  his 
flock,  whom  perhaps  he  had  borne  par- 
ticularly in  mind,  and  to  be  greeted 
cheerfully  with,  **  Capital  sermon,  Mr. 
Johns  \  those  are  the  sort  that  do  the 
business  !  I  like  those,  parson  1 "  The 
poor  man,  humiliated,  would  bow  his 
thanks.  He  lackecj  the  art  (if  it  be  an 
art)  to  press  the  matter  home,  when 
he  met  one  of  his  parishioners  thus. 
Indeed,  his  sense  of  the  importance 
of  his  calling  and  his  extreme  con- 
scientiousness gaye  him  an  air  of  ti- 
midity outside  the  pulpit,  which  offer- 
ed great  contrast  to  that  which  he  wore 
in  the  heat  of  his  sermonizing.  Not 
that  he  forgot  the  dignity  of  his  posi- 
tion for  a  moment,  but  he  wore  it  too 
trenchantly ;  he  could  never  unbend  to 
the  free  play  of  side  -  talk.  Hence  he 
could  not  look  upon  the  familiar  spirit 
of  badinage  in  n^hich  some  of  his  breth- 
ren of  the  profession  indulged,  without 
serious  doubts  of  their  complete  sub- 
mission to  the  Heavenly  King.  Always 
the  weigfit  of  his  solemn  duties  press- 
ed sorely  on  him ;  always  amid  pitfalls 
he  was  conducting  his  little  flock  to- 
ward the  glories  of  the  Great  Court 
There  is  many  a  man  narrowed  and 
sharpened  by  metaphysical  inquiry  to 
such  a  degree  as  to  count  the  indirec- 


tion and  freedom  of  kindly  chat  irk- 
some, and  the  occasion  of  a  needless 
blunting  of  that  quick  mental  edge  with 
which  he  must  scathe  all  he  touches. 
But  the  stiffness  of  Mr.  Johns  was  not 
that  of  constant  mental  strain  ;  he  did 
not  refine  upon  his  dogmas;  but  he 
gave  them  such  hearty  entertainment, 
and  so  inwrapped  his  spirit  with  their 
ponderous  gravity,  that  he  could  not 
disrobe  in  a  moment,  or  uncover  to  ev- 
ery chance  comer. 

It  is  quite  possible  that  by  reason 
of  this  grave  taciturnity  the  clergyman 
won  more  surely  upon  the  respect  of 
his  people.  *'  He  is  engrossed,"  said 
they,  ^  with  greater  matters  ;  and  in  all 
secular  af&irs  he  recognizes  our  supe- 
rior discernment''  Thus  his  inaptitude 
in  current  speech  was  construed  by 
them  into  a  delicate  flattery.  They 
greatly  relished  his  didactic,  argument- 
ative sermonizing,  since  theirs  was  a 
religion  not  so  much  of  the  sensibilities 
as  of  the  inteUect  They  agonized  to- 
ward the  truth,  if  not  by  intense  think- 
ing, yet  by  what  many  good  people  are 
apt  to  mistake  for  it,  —  immense  endu- 
rance of  the  prolix  thought  of  others. 

If  the  idea  of  universal  depravity  had 
been  ignored,  —  as  it  sometimes  is  in 
these  latitudinarian  days,  —  or  the  no- 
tion of  any  available  or  worthy  Chris- 
tian culture,  as  distinct  from  a  direct 
and  clearly  defined  ageirfcy,  both  as  to 
time  and  force,  of  the  Spirit,  had  been 
entertained,  he  would  have  lo^t  half  of 
the  elements  by  which  his  arguments 
gained  logical  sequence.  But,  laboring 
his  way  from  stake  to  stake  of  the  old 
dogmas  of  the  Westminster  divines,  he 
fastened  to  them  stoutly,  and  swept 
round  from  each  as  a  centre  a  great 
scathing  circle  of  deductions,  that  beat 
wofiilly  upon  the  heads  of  unbelievers. 
And  if  a  preacher  attack  only  unbe- 
lievers, he  has  the  world  with  him,  now 
as  then  ;  it  is  only  he  who  has  the  bad 
taste  to  meddle  with  thdl^  caprices  of 
believers  who  gets  the  raps  and  the 
orders  of  dismissal. 

Thus  it  hap^ned  that  good  Mr. 
Johns  came  to  win  the  good-will  of  all 
the  parish  of  Ashfidd,  while  he  chal- 


3i8 


Needle  and  Garden. 


[March, 


ciaiy  fund  with  which  he  was  to  be  bur- 
ied. Through  all  her  •difficulties  the 
poor  needle  -  woman  had  managed  to 
pay  the  society's  dues,  foreseeing  what 
the  end  would  be,  and  she  was  now  en- 
titled to  draw  the  forty  dollars.  My 
mother  immediately  obtained  from  her 
an  order  for  the  money,  drew  it,  kept  it 
from  the  rapacious  set  who  watched  for 
it,  and  made  it  an  efficient  means  of 
immediate  comfort 

The  ministerial  undertaker  was  of 
course  present  at  the  funeral.  He  was 
evidently  as  keen  after  business  as  he 
was  powerful  in  prayer.  When  the 
hour  for  moving  from  the  house  had 
arrived,  he  approached  the  widow  and 
whispered  to  her  that  he  could  not  think 
of  letting  the  coffin  leave  the  premises 
until  some  one  had  become  surety  for 
the  payment  of  his  bill !  My  mother 
and  myself  both  sat  near  the  widow, 
and  heard  this  extraordinary  and  ill- 
timed  demand.  I  was  amazed  and  dis- 
gusted at  the  indecency  of  the  man  in 
not  urging  it  at  the  proper  time,  and 
pressing  it  at  so  improper  a  one.  But 
my  mother  told  him  to  proceed,  and 
that  she  would  pay  the  bill. 

All  these  enormities  were  new  things 
to  me.  I  had  seen  nothing,  I  had  im- 
agined nothing,  so  every  way  terrible  as 
came  within  my  notice  under  the  squal- 
id roof  of  this  poor  needle  -  woman. 
But  my  mother  had  long  been  in  the 
habit  of  penetrating  into  the  abodes 
of  the  sick  and  destitute ;  and  though 
shocked  by  the  new  combination  of  re- 
ligion and  trade  which  she  here  witness- 
ed, yet  she  regarded  it  only  as  a  fresh 
development  of  the  selfishness  and  hy- 
pocrisy of  human  nature.  This  poor 
womaA  and  her  family  must  live.  How, 
thought  I,  is  she  to  do  so  in  this  sea- 
son of  declining  prices  of  the  only  work 
she  is  able  to  perform  ?  If  she  could 
survive  such  a  crisis  so  uncomplaining- 
ly, and  be  willing  to  take  to  her  bosom 
the  helpless  foundling  left  upon  her  door- 
step, what  cause  was  there  for  me  to  com- 
plain ?  Sorrows  gathered  all  round  her 
pathway,  while  only  blessings  clustered 
about  mine.  I  learned  a  lesson  of  thank- 
fulness that  has  never  been  forgotten. 


If  there  had  been  need  of  such  ex- 
hibitions of  positive  distress  as  teach- 
ers of  contentment,  others  -were  not 
wanting  within  my  little  circle.  One 
of  my  cousins,  a  girl  of  my  own  age, 
ambitious  to  support  herself^  had  been 
successful  in  obtaining  a  situation  as 
saleswoman  in  a  highly  fashionable 
shop,  where  the  most  costly  goods  were 
sold  in  large  quantities,  and  to  which, 
of^ course,  the  mdst  dashing  customers 
resorted.  I  always  thought  her  a  truly 
beautiful  girL  She  was  tall  and  emi- 
nently graceful,  her  &ce  expressing  the 
virtue  and  intelligence  of  her  mind :  for 
I  cannot  understand  that  true  beauty 
can  exist  without  these  corresponding 
mental  harmonies,  any  more  than  a 
shadow  without  the  substance. 

My  taste  in  such  matters  may  be 
defective,  because  it  lacks  the  cultiva- 
tion which  fashion  gives.  Such  as  I 
possess  is  altogether  natural.  To  my 
primitive  apprehension,  therefore,  the 
attractions  of  a  fine^  formed  neck  or 
arm  receive  no  addition  from  being 
encircled  by  chains  of  gold  or  brace- 
lets of  pearls.  When  charmed  with 
the  appearance  of  a  beautiful  woman  in 
simple  robes,  who  is  there,  if  told  that 
the  profuse  expenditure  that  would  have 
been  required  to  cover  her  with  bril- 
liants had  been  employed  in  charity,  — 
that  she  had  used  it  as  a  fund  to  relieve 
the  wants  of  the  needy,  to  minister  to 
the  sick,  to  comfort  the  widow,  to  sup- 
port and  educate  the  destitute  orphan, 
—  who  is  there  that  would  not  feel  the 
loftier  emotions  of  his  nature  mingling 
with  his  admiration  ? 

At  home  my  cousin  had  been  seated  at 
her  needle,  but  in  her  new  employment 
she  found  herself  compelled  to  stand. 
There  was  neither  bench  nor  chair  nor 
stool  behind  the  counter,  on  which 
she  could  for  a  moment  rest  a  body 
which  had  never  been  accustomed  to  so 
long-continued  and  unnatural  a  strain 
upon  its  powers.  It  was  the  peremp- 
tory order  of  the  wealthy  proprietor 
that  no  girl  employed  in  the  shop 
should  on  any  occasion  sit  down. 
There  were  soft  stools  for  the  repose 
of  customers  who  had  money  to  spend. 


186$.] 


NeedU  and  Garden. 


319 


but  not  even  a  block  for  the  weary 
saleswoman  who  had  money  to  earn. 
The  rich  lady,  who  had  promenaded 
tbe  street  until  fotigued  by  the  exertion 
of  displaying  her  new  bonnet  over  miles 
of  pavement,  came  in  and  rested  her- 
self while  pricing  goods  she  did  not  in- 
tend to  buy.    There  was  a  seat  for  all 
such.    The  unoccupied  saleswoman  had 
been  seeking  relief  from  the  strain  up- 
on her  muscles  by  leaning  back  againJl 
the  shelves,  but  on  the  entrance  of  a 
customer  she  must  be  all  obsequious- 
ness.   While  she  might  have  rested, 
she  was  unfeelingly  forbidden  to  do  so. 
Now  tlie  customer  must  be  waited  on, 
no  matter  how  completely  she  may  be 
overcome  by  fatigue  or  prostrated  by 
lassitude.    Either  was  sufficient  to  de- 
stroy her  spirits ;  the  combination  of 
the  two,  springing  from  a  fixed  cause, 
was  sure  to  undermine  her  health. 

My  cousin  suffered  keenly  from  this 
almost  imexampled  cruelty.  She  came 
home  at  night  worn  out  by  the  strain 
upon  her  muscular  system.  Her  spine 
was  the  seat  of  a  chronic  uneasiness. 
All  day  she  was  upon  her  feet,  being 
allowed  no  other  rest  than  such  as  she 
might  get  by  leaning  against  the  shelv- 
ing. At  the  week's  end  she  was  fairly 
overcome.  Sunday  was  hardly  a  day 
of  recreation,  because  she  was  rarely 
free  from  pain  induced  by  this  uninter- 
mitted  standing.  All  this  was  suffered 
for  the  sum  of  four  dollars  a  week.  It 
is  true  that  she  had  earned  less  at  her 
needle,  but  then  her  health  had  been 
remarkable  for  its  robustness.  Her  in- 
creased earnings  now  were  the  price  of 
that  health. 

Nor  were  others  among  the  sales- 
women less  dangerously  affected  than 
hersel£  Some,  of  feeble  organization, 
quickly  broke  down,  under  this  unnat- 
ural discipline,  and  abandoned  the  shop, 
sometimes  rendered  temporary  invalids, 
sometimes  permanently  disabled,  while 
but  few  returned  to  fill  their  thankless 
places.  Reading,  while  in  the  shop, 
whether  employed  or  not,  was  out  of 
the  question,  as  that  also  was  strictly 
prohibited  There  was  therefore  no 
recreatioa  either  of  body  or  mind,  even 


when  it  might  have  been  harmlessly 
permitted.  It  was  either  work  or  ab- 
solute idleness,  but  in  no  case  rest  or 
relaxation. 

Under  this  monstrous  system  of  tor- 
ture my  cousin  at  length  broke  down 
so  completely  that  she,  too,  was  com- 
pelled to  leave  the  establishment  Her 
resolute  spirit  led  her  to  endure  it  too 
long.  When  she  did  give  up,  it  was  in 
the  hope  that  entire  rest  would  bring 
relief.  But  it  never  came.  Her  physi- 
cal organization,  strong  as  it  was  by 
nature,  had  been  so  deranged  that  re- 
cuperation was  impossible.  Medicine 
could  do  nothing  for  her.  A  curva- 
ture of  the  spine  had  been  established, 
— she  soon  became  unable  to  sit  up^  — 
and  at  this  writing  she  lies  compara- 
tively helpless  in  her  bed,  still  beautiful 
in  her  helplessness.  Her  health  was 
permanently  ruined  by  the  barbarism 
of  a  man  so  destitute  of  sympathy  for 
a  working-girl  as  to  deny  her  the  cheap 
privilege  of  sitting  down  when  she  could 
do  him  no  good,  by  standing  up.  Yet 
the  great  establishment  is  still  contin- 
ued, with  all  its  gorgeous  display  of 
plate-glass  windows,  its  polished  coun- 
ters, its  wealth  of  costly  goods,  and  its 
long  array  of  tortured  saleswomen. 

These  instances  of  complicated  afflic- 
tion among  needle-women  by  no  means 
embrace  all  that  came  under  my  notice. 
They  were  so  numerous  that  it  was 
impossible  for  me  to  avoid  seeing  and 
feeling  that  no  such  grief  had  been 
permitted  to  come  (fver  me.  I  trust 
that  my  heart  was  sufficiently  grateful 
for  this  immunity,  —  for  I  became  sat- 
isfied, that,  if  we  were  to  thank  God 
for  all  His  blessings,  we  should  have 
little  time  to  complain  of  misfortunes. 
I  know  that  I  endeavored  to  be  so.  I 
labored  to  take  a  cheering  view  of  what 
we  then  considered  a  very  gloomy  pros- 
pect And  this  disposition  to  contrast 
our  condition  with  that  of  others,  while 
it  taught  me  wisdom,  brought  with  it 
a  world  of  consolation.  I  saw  that 
there  was  a  bright  side  to  everything,  — 
that  the  sky  was  oftener  blue  than  black ; 
and  my  floral  experiences  in  the  garden 
taught  me  that  it  was  the  sunshine,  and 


320 


Needle  and  Garden, 


[March, 


not  the  cloud,  that  makes  the  flower. 
It  became  my  study  to  look  only  on  the 
bright  side  of  things,  convinced,  that, 
if  the  present  were  a  little  overcast, 
there  was  a  future  for  us  that  would 
be  all  delightful  I  was  full  of  hope ; 
and  the  eye  of  hope  can  discover  a 
star  in  the  thickest  darkness,  a  rainbow 
even  in  the  blackest  cloud. 

Hence  I  went  cheerfully  to  learn  the 
art  of  operating  a  sewing-machine,  in 
which  I  soon  became  so  expert  as  to 
prove  a*  profitable  pupil.  There  were 
from  a  dozen  to  twenty  learners  beside 
myself,  some  few  of  whom  were  edu- 
cated and  agreeable  girls,  the  daughters 
of  &milies  moving  in  genteel  circles, 
who  had  come  there  with  a  sensible 
ambition  to  acquire  a  thorough  knowl- 
edge of  the  art.  With  these  I  formed 
a  very  pleasant  acquaintance,  so  that 
•  my  apprenticeship  of  a  few  weeks,  in- 
stead of  being  a  dull  and  lifeless  pro- 
bation, calculated  to  depress  my  spirits, 
was  really  an  agreeable  episode  in  my 
quiet  career,  cheering  by  its  new  asso- 
ciations, and  invigorating  by  reason  of 
the  unmistakable  evidences  occurring 
almost  daily  that  a  sewing-girl  was 
probably  the  last  machine  whose  labor 
was  to  become  obsolete. 

The  fame  of  these  schools  for  female 
operatives  went  all  over  the  country, 
and  attracted  crowds  of  visitors.  Some 
of  these  were  fine  ladies  of  superficial 
minds,  who  came  from  mere  curiosity, 
so  as  to  be  able  to  say  that  they  had 
seen  a  sewing-rnachine.  I  was  often 
struck  with  the  shallow,  unmeaning 
questions  which  these  butterflies  of 
fashion  propounded  to  us.  Some  of 
them  made  the  supercilious,  but  dis- 
reputable boast,  that  they  had  never 
taken  a  stitch  in  the  whole  course  of 
their  lives.  But  the  great  throng  of 
inquirers  consisted  of  women  who  had 
families  dependent  on  their  needles, 
and  of  young  girls  like  myself,  obliged 
also  to  depend  upon  the  labor  of  their 
fingers.  All  such  were  deeply  interest- 
ed in  the  new  art,  and  their  inquiries 
were  practical  and  to  the  point  They 
expressed  the  same  astonishment,  on 
seeing  the  rapidity  with  which  the  ma- 


chine performed  its  work,  that  I  had 
felt  when  first  beholding  it 

With  so  great  a  throng  continually 
.around  us,  asking  questions,  stopping 
the  machines  to  examine  the  sewing, 
and  begging  for  scraps  with  a  row  of 
stitches  made  in  them,  ^hich  they  might 
take  away  to  inspect  at  leisure,  as  well 
as  to  exhibit  to  others,  there  were  days 
shen  the  pupils  were  able  to  produce 
only  a  very  small  amount  of  work.  But 
we  soon  discovered  that  this  deficiency 
made  but  little  difference  to  our  teacher. 
The  school  was  in  reality  a  mere  show- 
shop,  a  place  of  exhibition  established 
by  the  machine-makers,  in  which  to  dis- 
play and  advertise  their  wares  more 
thoroughly  to  tl^e  public.  We  pupils 
were  the  unconscious  mouthpieces  of  the 
manufecturers.  We  paid  the  teacher  for 
the  privilege  of  learning  to  work  the  ma- 
chines, and  the  manufacturers  paid  her 
a  commission  for  all  that  she  disposed 
of.  Between  the  two  sets  of  contribu- 
tors to  her  purse  she  must  have  done  a 
profitable  business.  She  was  at  no  ex- 
pense except  for  rent,  as  the  manufac- 
turers loaned  her  the  machines,  while 
we  did  all  the  work.  She  had  more 
orders  for  the  latter  than  we  could  get 
through  with,  as  the  demand  fi-om  the 
tailors  was  so  urgent  as  to  show  very, 
plainly  that  the  great  proportion  of  all 
the  future  sewing  was  to  be  done  by 
the  machine  instead  of  by  hand. 

When  I  first  went  into  this  school- 
room I  noticed  a  number  of  unemployed 
machines  arranged  in  one  part  of  it  Af- 
ter a  week's  apprenticeship,  I  observed 
some  of  them  leaving  the  room  every 
day,  while  new  ones  came  in  to  occupy 
the  vacant  places.  The  first  had  been 
sold,  the  last  were  also  to  be  disposed  of^ 
and  this  active  sale  continued  as  long  as 
I  remained.  The  fact  was  very  apf>ar- 
ent,  that  this  public  exhibition  of  the 
capacity  of  the  new  machine  was  oper- 
ating on  the  community  as  the  most 
efficient  mode  of  advertising  that  could 
have  been  adopted.  The  machines  went 
everywhere,  over  city  and  country,  even 
at  the  monstr9us  prices  demanded  for 
them.  Many  fashionable  ladies  became 
purchasers,   thinking,   no  doubt,   that 


i86s.] 


Needle  and  Garden, 


321 


dothing  could  be  made  up  by  merely 
catting  it  out  and  placing  it  before  the 
machine. 

Thus  the  most  ingeniously  potent 
agencies  were  invoked  to  bring  the  new 
invention  rapidly  and  extensively  into 
use.  Its  real  merit  happened  to  be  such 
that  it  fulfilled  all  the  promises  with 
which  it  had  been  presented  to  the  pub- 
lic Hence  it  became  a  fixture  in  evf  ry 
great  establishment  where  sewing-wom- 
en were  usually  employed.  As  the  lat- 
ter acquired  a  knowledge  of  the  ma- 
chine, each  of  these  establishments  be- 
came a  school  in  which  new  hands  were 
converted  into  skilful  operatives,  until 
the  primary  schools,  like  that  where  I 
had  been  instructed,  were  abandoned 
from  lack  of  pupils. 

But  I  picked  up  a  great  many  useful 
ideas  at  the  school,  besides  acquiring, 
as  already  remarked,  a  new  and  assur- 
ed confidence  in  the  future  prospects  of 
the  sewing-woman.  It  seemed  clear  to 
my  mind,  that,  under  the  new  order  of 
things,  the  needle  was  still  to  be  plied 
by  her;  whatever  work  it  was  to  do 
would  be  superintended  and  directed  by 
her.  It  was  in  reality  only  a  new  turn 
given  to  an  old  employment  More- 
over, it  struck  me  that  more  of  it  would 
be  called  for  than  ever,  because  I  had 
noticed  that  the  speed  of  the  machine 
in  making  stitches  had  already  led  to 
patting  treble  and  quadruple  the  usual 
number  into  some  garments.  Having 
achieved  the  useful,  it  was  quickly  ap- 
plied to  the  ornamental  Clothing  was 
not  to  be  made  up,  in  the  future,  as  plain- 
ly as  it  had  been  in  the  past  Hence  the 
prospect  of  more  work  being  required 
involved  the  probability  of  a  greater  de- 
mand for  female  labor.  But  whether  it 
was  to  be  more  remunerative, — wheth- 
er the  sewing-girl  who  might  turn  out 
ten  times  as  much  in  a  day  as  she  for- 
merly did  would  receive  an  increase  of 
wages  in  any  degree  proportioned  to  the 
increase  of  work  performed,  was  a  prob- 
lem which  the  future  alone  could  solve. 
I  did  not  believe  that  any  such  measure 
of  justice  would  be  accorded  to  her.  It 
would  be  to  the  men,  but  not  to  the 
women.    Yet  I  was  willing  to  take  the 

VOL.  XV.  —  NO.  89.  21 


future  on  trust,  for  it  now  looked  infi- 
nitely brighter  than  ever. 

Among  the  pupils  of  this  school  was 
a  young  lady  of  twenty,  whose  affiible 
and  sociable  disposition  won  strongly 
on  my  admiration,  while  her  robust  good 
sense  commanded  my  utmost  respect 
The  machines  we  operated  were  close 
to  each  other,  so  that  I  had  the  good 
fortune  to  have  constant  opportunities 
of  conversing  with  her.  Her  name  was 
Effie  Logan,  and  she  was  one  of  three 
daughters  of  a  merchant  who  had  ac- 
quired an  ample  competency.  In  com- 
pany with  his  wife,  he  came  once  or 
twice  a  week  to  visit  the  school  and  see 
his  daughter  at  work.  With  great  con- 
sideration for  me.  Miss  Effie  introduced 
me  to  her  parents,  at  the  same  time  add- 
ing some  highly  complimentary  expla- 
nations as  to  who  I  was,  and  how  atten- 
tive I  had  been  in  teaching  her  to  use 
the  machine.  This  adoption  of  me-,  as 
her  friend  established  a  sort  of  good 
feeling  in  the  parents  toward  me,  so 
that  at  each  visit  to  the  school  they 
greeted  me  in  a  way  so  cordial  as  great- 
ly to  attach  me  to  them.  It  was  an  un- 
expected kindness  from  an  entirely  new 
quarter,  and  increased  my  affection  for 
Miss  Effie. 

Her  parents,  it  appeared,  were  hav- 
ing all  their  children  taught  an  art  or 
profession  of  some  kind.  One  of  the 
daughters,  having  a  talent  for  drawing, 
was  learning  the  art  of  engraving  on 
wood.  The  youngest,  being  passion- 
ately fond  of  flowers,  and  possessed  of 
great  artistic  genius,  was  a  regular  ap- 
prentice in  an  artificial-flower  manufisu:- 
tory.  Miss  Effie,  the  eldest,  had  had 
her  musical  talent  so  cultivated  under  a 
competent  master,  that  she  was  now 
qualified  to  act  as  organist  in  a  church, 
or  to  teach  a  class  of  pupils  at  the  pi- 
ano; but  not  satisfied  with  this,  she 
had  insisted  on  being  instructed  in  the 
use  of  the  sewing-machine.  Both  she 
and  her  parents  seemed  so  wholly  free 
from  the  false  pride  which  wealth  so 
frequently  engenders  in  the  American 
mind,  that  she  came,  without  the  least 
hesitation,  to  a  public  school,  and  sat 
down  as  a  learner  beside  the  very  hum- 


322 


Needle  and  Garden. 


[March, 


blest  of  tt^  When  her  parents  came 
to  inspect  her  work,  I  am  certain  they 
were  gratified  with  all  they  saw  of  what 
she  was  doing. 

I  confess  that  the  whole  conduct  of 
this  £unily  was  as  great  a  surprise  to 
me  as  it  was  a  comfort  and  encourage- 
ment. Mrs.  Logan  always  made  the 
kindest  inquiries  about  my  parents,  but 
in  the  politest  way  imaginable, — no  im- 
pertinent questions,  but  such  as  showed 
that  she  felt  some  interest  in  me.  I 
think  that  Effie  must  have  spoken  very 
£ivorably  of  me  to  her  parents  when  at 
home,  but  I  could  not  understand  why, 
as  I  was  not  near  so  afiEiible  ai\d  pleas- 
ant in  my  manners  as  she  was.  But 
an  intimacy  had  grown  up  between  us ; 
she  had  won  my  whole  confidence; 
and  as  confidence  usually  begets  confi- 
dence, so  she  probably  took  to  me  from 
the  force  of  that  harmony  of  thought 
and  feeling  which  comes  spontaneously 
from  conomunion  of  congenial  souls. 

One  day  the  teacher  of  the  school 
had  been  called  out  on  other  business, 
leaving  me  to  attend  to  visitors  and 
customers.  The  throng  that  morning 
was  so  great  that  it  was  full  two  o'clock 
before  I  found  time  to  sit  down,  hun- 
gry enough,  to  the  slight  dinner  I  had 
brought  with  me  in  a  little  basket  I 
had  taken  only  the  first  mouthful,  when 
Miss  Effie  came  in  from  dining  at  home. 
She  drew  her  chair  close  up  to  me,  her 
sweet  £ice  blooming  with  the  roses  of 
perfect  health,  and  her  bright  eyes 
sparkling  with  animation  and  intelli- 
gence. Much  as  I  admired  and  loved 
her,  I  thought  she  had  never  before 
looked  so  perfecdy  beautiful 

^  Lizzie,''  she  said,  taking  in  her  hand 
a  spool  of  cotton  to  adjust  on  her  ma- 
chine, ''  how  1  like  this  work !  Pa  in- 
tends to  buy  me  a  machine  as  soon  as  I 
have  completed  my  apprenticeship  here. 
He  don't  believe  there  is  any  real  gen- 
tility in  the  idleness  of  a  girl  who,  be- 
cause she  happens  to  be  rich,  or  to  have 
great  expectations,  chooses  to  do  noth- 
ing but  fiitter  away  her  time  on  com- 
pany and  parties  and  dress  and  trifles 
unwordiy  of  a  sensible  woman.  He  has 
brought  us  all  up  to  think  as  he  does. 


He  tells  us  that  every  woman  should  be 
so  educated,  that,  if  at  any  time  com- 
pelled by  reverse  of  fortune  to  support 
herself,  she  would  be  able  to  do  so. 
Why,  he  made  us  all  learn  the  old 
story  of  the  Basket- Maker  before  we 
were  ten  years  old.  It  was  only  last 
week  that  he  said  there  was  no  know- 
ing what  migh^  happen  to  us  girls,  — 
yon  know,  Lizzie,  there  are  three  of  us, 
—  that  some  day  we  might  possibly  be 
married."  • 

I  am  sure  that  the  faintest  of  all  in- 
nocent blushes  rose  up  from  the  half- 
conscious  heart  of  the  truly  lovely 
speaker  as  she  uttered  the  word,  giving 
to  her  cheeks  a  tinge  of  crimson  that 
added  new  beauty  to  the  soft  expression 
which  her  countenance  habitually  wore. 

^*  Possibly^  did  you  say.  Miss  Effie  ?  " 
I  interposed.  *'You  might  have  said 
probably^ — but  would  have  been  nearer 
the  truth,  if  you  had  said  certainly J^ 

"  Oh,  Lizzie,  how  you  talk  !  "  she  re- 
joined ;  and  there  was  an  unmistakable 
deepening  of  h^r  blushes.  But  in  a 
moment  she  resumed :  — 

*'  Pa  remembers  how  his  mother  was 
left  a  widow  with  five  young  children, 
but  with  neither  trade  nor  money,  and 
how  both  she  and  he  had  to  struggle 
for  a  mere  subsistence,  she  at  keeping 
boarders,  and  he  as  apprentice  to  a 
mean  man,  who  gave  him  only  the 
smallest  weekly  pittance.  He  says 
that  we  shall  never  go  out  into  the 
world  as  destitute  of  resources  as  his 
mother  was,  and  so  we  all  have  what 
may  really  be  called  trades.  My  broth- 
er is  in  the  counting-house,  keeping 
the  books,  and  is  provided  for.  But 
you  don't  know  how  we  have  all  been 
laughed  at  by  our  acquaintances,  and 
sneered  at  by  impudent  people,  who, 
though  not  at  all  acquainted  with  us, 
undertake  to  prescribe  what  we  should 
and  what  we  should  not  do.  They  call 
us  work-women  I  With  them,  work  of 
any  kind  is  regarded  as  degrading,  es- 
pecially if  done  by  a  woman,  and  more 
especially  if  she  is  to  be  paid  for  it" 

"Ah,  Miss  Effie,  you  have  touched 
the  weak  spot  <^  our  national  charac* 
ter,"  I  responded. 


1865] 


Needle  and  Garden. 


323 


**  Yes,"  she  resumed,  "  it  is  the  mis- 
fortune of  American  women  to  enter- 
tain the  idea  that  working  for  a  living 
is  dishonorable,  and  never  to  be  done, 
unless  one  be  driven  to  it  by  actual 
want  Why,  even  when  positively  suf- 
cring  for  want  of  food  and  fuel,  I 
have  known  some  to  conceal  or  dis- 
guise the  fact  of  their  working  for  oth- 
ers by  all  sorts  of  artifice.  To  suffer 
in  secret  was  genteel  enough,  but  to 
work  openly  was  disgraceful !  A  girl 
of  my  acquaintance^  was  accidentally 
discovered  to  be  selling  her  work  at  a 
public  depository,  and  forthwith  went 
to  apologizing  for  doing  so,  as  if  she 
had  been  guilty  of  a  crime,  instead  of 
having  nobly  striven  to  earn  a  living. 
The  ridiculous  pride  of  another  seduced 
her  into  a  falsehood  :  she  declared  that 
the  work  she  had  been  selling  for  her 
own  support  was  for  the  benefit  of  a 
church.  This  senseless  pride  exists  in 
all  classes.  From  the  sham  gentility 
it  spreads  to  the  daughters  of  working- 
men.  They  are  educated  to  consider 
work  as  a  disgrace,  and  hence  the  idle 
lives  so  many  of  them  lead.  It  is  the 
strangest  thing  imaginable,  that  parents 
who  rose  from  poverty  to  independence 
by  the  hardest  kind  of  bodily  labor 
should  thus  bring  up  their  children. 
No  such  teaching  was  ever  given  to 
me.  I  can  sit  here  at  my  machine,  and 
kx>k  the  finest  lady  of  my  acquaintance 
in  the  face.  She  may  some  day  wish 
that  she  had  been  my  fellow-appren- 
tice." 

"  Where  do  our  girls  learn  this  notion 
of  its  being  disgraceful  for  a  woman  to 
support  herself  ?  "  I  inquired. 

^  Learn  it  ?  It  is  taught  them  ev- 
erywhere," she  responded-  "  I  some- 
times think  it  is  bom  with  them.  They 
drink  it  in  with  their  mother's  milk. 
They  grow  up  with  it  as  a  daily  lesson, 
—  the  lesson  of  avoiding  work,  and  of 
considering  it  delicate  and  genteel  and 
refined  to  say  that  they  never  cooked  a 
meal,  or  swept  the  parlor,  or  took  a 
stitch  with  the  needle,  actually  priding 
themselves  upon  the  amount  of  igno- 
rance of  useftil  things  that  they  can  ex- 
hibit   They  make  the  grand  mistake 


of  assuming  that  sensible  men  will  ad- 
mire them  for  this  display  of  folly.  So 
they  drag  on  until  there  occurs  a  pros- 
pect of  marriage,  when  they  suddenly 
wake  up  to  a  consciousness  of  their 
utter  unfitness  to  become  the  head  of 
a  family.  Why,  I  know  at  this  moment 
a  young  lady  of  this  description,  who 
expects  in  a  few  months  to  become  a 
wife,  and  whose  cultivated  ignorance 
of  household  duties  is  now  the  ridi- 
cule of  her  mother's  cook  and  cham- 
bermaid. The  prospect  of  marriage 
alarmed  her  for  her  total  ignorance  of 
domestic  duties.  She  had  never  made 
her  own  bed,  or  dusted  the  fbmiture ; 
and  as  to  getting  up  a  dinner,  she  knew 
even  less  than  a  squaw.  She  is  now 
vainly  seeking  to  acquire,  within  a  few 
months,  those  branches  of  -domestic 
knowledge  which  she  has  been  a  whole 
life  neglecting  and  despising.  She  hat- 
ed work :  it  was  not  genteel.  Yet  she  is 
eagerly  plunging  into  marriage  with  the 
first  man  who  has  offered  himself^  fool- 
ish enough,  no  doubt,  to  suppose  that 
in  her  new  position  she  will  have  even 
less  to  look  after.  Formerly,  she  did 
nothing :  now,  she  expects  to  do  even 
less. 

"But  what,"  continued  Miss  Efiie, 
''  is  this  poor  creature  to  do,  if  death  or 
poverty  or  vice  should  overtake  her  hus- 
band, and  she  should  be  thrown  on  her 
own  slender  resources  P    She  is  driven 
to  seek  employment  of  some  kind,  —  to  > 
attend  in  a  shop,  (for  somehow  that  is . 
considered  rather  more  genteel  than 
most  other  occupations,)  or  to  sew,  or 
to  fold  books,  or  do  something  else. 
But  she  knows  nothing  of  these  several*, 
arts ;  and  employers  want  skilled  labor, . 
not  novices.  She  once  boasted  that  she : 
had  never  been  obliged  to  work»  and. 
now  she  realizes  how  much  such  absurd, 
boasting  is  worth.    What  then  ?   Why, 
greater  privation  and  suffering,  because 
of  her  total  unfitness  for  any  station  in 
which  she  might  otherwise  obtain  a 
living,  —  the  extremity  of  this  destitur 
tion  being  sometimes  such  that  she  is* 
driven  to  the  last  shame  to  which  fe*- 
male  virtue  can  be  made  to  -submit" 

''  You  say,  Miss  Effie,  that  these  fool- 


324 


Needle  and  Garden. 


[March, 


xsh  lessons  are  taught  by  the  mothers  ; 
but  do  the  fi&thers  inculcate  no  wiser 
ones  ?  Have  they  nothing  to  say  as  to 
the  proper  training  of  their  daughters  ?  '* 
I  inquired,  deeply  interested  in  all  she 
said.  She  knew  a  great  deal  more  than 
I  did.  And  why  should  she  not  know 
more  ?  Was  she  not  full  two  years  older  ? 
'^The  fathers  do,  in  many  cases, 
teach  better  lessons  than  these ;  but 
their  good  effects  are  too  commonly 
neutralized  by  the  persistent  vanity  and 
pride  of  the  mothers.  Even  the  £sithers 
are  too  neglectful  of  the  future  wel- 
fiure  of  their  daughters.  The  sons  are 
suitably  cared  for,  because  of  the  gen- 
erally accepted  understanding  that  ev- 
ery man  must  support  himsel£  They 
are  therefore  trained  to  a  profession,  or 
to  some  useful  branch  of  business.  But 
the  daughters  are  expected  to  be  sup- 
ported by  their  future  husbands,  hence 
are  taught  to  wait  and  do  nothing  until 
the  husbands  come  along.  If  these 
conveniences  should  oflfer  within  a  rea- 
sonable time,  and  do  well  and  prosper, 
the  result  is  agreeable  enough.  But  no 
sort  of  provision  is  made  for  the  hus- 
band's not  showing  himself^  or,  if  he 
does,  for  his  subsequent  loss  by  death, 
or  for  his  turning  out  either  unfortunate 
or  a  vagabond.  Even  the  daughter's 
natural  gifts,  often  very  brilliant  ones, 
are  left  uncultivated.  If  she  has  a  tal- 
ent for  music,  she  receives  only  a  super- 
ficial knowledge  of  the  piano,  instead 
of  such  an  education  as  would  qualify 
her  to  teach.  No  one  expects  her  to 
work,  it  is  true ;  but  why  not  fit  her 
for  It,  nevertheless  ?  Another  develops 
a  talent  for  nursing,  the  rare  and  price- 
less qualification  of  being  efiicient  in 
the  sick-room.  Why  not  cultivate  this 
talent,  and  enlarge  its  value  by  the 
study  of  medsdne  ?  The  parents  are 
rich  enough  to  give  to  these  talents  the 
fiallest  development  They  do  so  with 
those  of  their  sons ;  why  refuse  in  the 
case  of  their  daughters  ?  Our  sex  ren- 
decs  us  comparatively  helpless,  exclud- 
ing -us  fix>m  many  avenues  to  profitable 
employment  where  .'we  should  be  at  all 
times  welcome,  if  the  unaccountable 
|U3de.iof  parents  jdlid^iu»t.;s^t  us  out  by 


refusing  to  have  us  so  taught  that  we 
could  enter  them.  The  prejudice  against 
female  labor  begins  with  parents ;  and 
•the  unreflecting  vanity  and  rashness  of 
youth  give  it  a  £ital  hold  on  us.  My 
parents  have  never  entertained  it  They 
have  taught  us  that  there  is  more  to  be 
proud  of  in  being  dependent  solely  on 
our  own  exertions  than  in  living  idle 
lives  on  either  their  means  or  those  of 
any  husband  who  may  happen  to  have 
enough  of  his  own." 

'Mt  is  very  odd,  Miss  Effie,"  I  re- 
plied, "  for  you  to  entertain  these  opin- 
ions, they  are  so  different  from  those 
of  rich  people ;  and  it  is  very  encour- 
aging to  me  to  hear  you  express  them* 
But  I  should  have  expected  nothing 
less  noble  from  you,  you  are  so  good 
and  generous." 

<'  Why,  Lizzie,  what  do  you  mean  ?  " 
she  exclaimed.  **  It  is  not  goodness, 
but  merely  common  sense.  What 
brought  me  here  to  be  a  pupil  in  this 
school?  Not  the  desire  to  do  good 
to  others,  but  to  improve  myself, — a 
little  selfishness,  after  all." 

'*  But,"  I  inquired,  ^  will  this  unnat* 
ural  prejudice  against  the  respectability 
of  female  labor  ever  die  out  ?  You  know 
that  I  am  to  be  a  sewing-girl,  not  from 
choice,  like  you,  but  from  necessity. 
You  learn  the  use  of  a  machine  only  as 
a  prop  to  lean  upon  in  a  very  remote 
contingency ;  I,  to  make  it  the  staff  for 
all  my  future  life.  You  will  continue 
to  be  a  lady,  —  indeed.  Miss  Effie,  you 
never  can  be  an3rthing  else,  —  but  I 
shall  be  only  a  sewing-girl.  The  preju- 
dice will  never  attach  to  you,  but  it 
will  always  cling  to  me.  How  cruel  it 
seems  that  the  world  should  consider 
as  ladies  all  who  can  afford  to  be  idle, 
and  all  working-women  as  belonging 
to  a  lower  class,  because  God  com- 
pels them  to  labor  for  the  life  He  has 
given  them  I " 

''Dear  Lizzie,"  she  exclaimed,  in 
tones  so  modulated  to  extreme  softness 
as  to  show  that  her  feelings  had  been 
deeply  touched  both  by  the  matter  and 
the  manner  of  my  inquiry,  *'  you  must 
banish  all  such  thoughts  from  your 
mind.     For  His  own  wise  purposes, 


1865.] 


NeedU  and  Garden. 


325 


God  has  placed  you  in  a  position  in 
which  you  have  a  mission  of  some  kind 
to  fiilfiL  That  position  is  an  honorable  • 
one,  because  it  requires  you  to  labor, 
and  it  is  none  the  less  honorable  be- 
cause others  are  not  required  to  do  so. 
They  also  have  their  several  missions, 
which  we  cannot  understand.  If  it  be 
r^arded  as  mean  for  women  to  work, 
it  is  in  the  pride  of  man  that  so  false  a 
standard  of  respectability  has  been  set 
up,  not  in  the  word  or  wisdom  of  God. 
To  which  shall  we  pay  the  most  re« 
spect  ?  The  former,  we  know,  brings 
constant  bitterness  ;  the  latter,  we  know 
equally  weU,  is  unchangeably  good  As 
it  is  our  duty  to  submit  to  it  here,  so, 
durough  the  Saviour,  is  it  our  only  trust 
hereafter.  It  is  not  labor  that  degrades 
tts,  but  temper,  behavior,  character.  If 
all  these  be  vicious,  can  mere  money  or 
exemption  from  labor  make  them  re- 
spectable?   You  know  it  cannot 

''You,''  she  continued,  in  a  tone  so* 
impressive,  that,  even  amid  the  clatter 
of  twenty  machines  around  me,  not  a 
word  was  lost, — "  you  may  be  sure  that 
this  prejudice  against  women  working 
for  their  own  support  will  never  die  out. 
It  is  one  of  those  excrescences  of  the 
human  mind  that  cannot  .be  extirpated. 
It  is  a  distortion  of  the  reasoning  fas> 
alty  itself^  unworthy  of  a  sensible  per- 
son, and  is  generally  exhibited  only  by 
those  who,  while  boasting  of  exemption 
for  themselves,  have  really  little  or 
nothing  else  to  boast  of.  It  is  the  in- 
firmity of  small  minds,  not  a  peculiarity 
of  great  ones.  Prejudices  are  like  house- 
hold vermin,  and  the  human  mind  is 
like  the  traps  we  set  for  them.  They 
get  in  with  the  greatest  facility,  but  find 
it  impossible  to  get  out  Beware  of  en- 
tertaining them  yourself^  Lizzie.  Shun 
everything  like  repining  at  what  you 
call  your  position  as  a  sewing -girL 
Take  care  of  your  conscience,  for  it 
will  be  your  crown.  Labor  for  con- 
tented thoughts  and  aspirations,  for 
they  will  bring  you  rest  Your  heart 
can  be  made  happy  in  itself,  if  yoti  so 
choose,  and  your  best  happiness  will 
ahrays  be  found  within  your  own  bo- 


lonL 


n 


"  Do  not  misunderstand  me.  Miss 
Effie,''  I  replied  ;  "  I  was  not  repining, 
but  merely  asking  an  explanation.  My 
mother  has  sought  to  teach  me  not 
only  contentment,  but  thankfiiless  for 
for  my  condition." 

"  Indeed,''  she  responded,  "  both  you 
and  I  have  abundant  cause  for  thank- 
fulness to  God  for  the  multitude  of  mer- 
cies He  is  extending  to  us.  You  know 
how  this  poor  girl  behind  us,  Lucy  An- 
derson, is  situated,"  raising  her  hand 
and  pointing  over  her  shoulder  toward 
a  thin,  pale  girl  of  seventeen,  who  was 
working  a  machine. 

'^  I  do  not  know  her  history,"  I  an- 
swered. 

"  Well,"  said  Miss  Effie,  « that  girl's 
mother  was  a  washerwoman.  She  did 
the  heavy  washing  for  a  very  rich  man's 
family.  They  put  her  into  an  open 
shed,  on  a  cold,  damp  pavement  This 
work  she  had  been  doing  for  them  for 
several  years,  in  the  same  bleak  place, 
and  in  all  weathers.  While  warm  and 
comfortable  herself  the  pampered  mis- 
tress of  the  family  gave  no  thought  to 
the  dangerous  exposure  to  which  she 
subjected  this  slave  of  the  washtub. 
Thus  working  all  day,  in  thin  shoes,  on 
damp  bricks,  and  whUe  a  penetrating 
easterly  rain  was  falling,  the  poor  wom- 
an was  next  morning  laid  up  with  the 
worst  form  of  rheumatism.  Medicine 
and  nursing  were  of  no  avail  She  be- 
came bedridden,  —  the  disease  attacked 
all  the  joints  of  her  firame,  ossification 
succeeded,  and  in  the  end  she  was 
unable  to  move  either  her  body  or 
limbs.  Every  joint  was  stiff  and  rigid. 
The  vital  organs  alone  were  spared. 
For  twelve  years  she  has  been  in  that 
condition, — she  is  so  now, — my  moth- 
er saw  her  only  yesterday.  Can  you 
imagine  anything  more  terrible  ?  Poor, 
dependent  on  her  daily  earnings,  with 
young  children  around  her,  and  a  widow, 
only  think  of  her  agonies  of  mind  and 
body  I  Yet,  among  the  vital  powers  still 
left  to  this  afflicted  woman,  was  the  pow- 
er to  approach  the  Throne  of  Grace  in 
prayer  so  acceptable  that  the  answer  was 
that  peace  which  passeth  all  understand- 
ing.   The  body  had  been  disabled ;  but 


326 


Needle  and  Garden. 


[March, 


the  mind  had  been  quickened  to  a  new 
and  saving  activity,  —  she  had  drawn 
nearer  to  God." 

What  could  I  do  but  listen  in  mute 
attention  to  this  heart  -  awakening  re- 
cital ?  I  looked  round  at  Lucy  Ander- 
son in  lively  sympathy  with  what  I  had 
heard  How  little  did  her  appearance 
give  token  of  the  deep  domestic  grief 
^at  must  have  setded  upon  her  young 
heart!  How  deceptive  is  the  human 
countenance  I  Though  pale  and  fra« 
gile,  yet  her  &ce  sparkled  with  cheer- 
fulness. 

Miss  Effie  went  on  with  her  story ;  — 
she  was  mistress  of  the  art  of  conversa* 
tion;  and  conversation  is  sometimes 
a  serious  matter ;  for  there  are  persons 
with  whom  an  hour's  talk  would  weak- 
en one  more  than  a  day's  listing,  —  but 
not  so  with  Miss  Effie.  She  resumed 
by  saying,  — 

<*  Would  you  believe  that  the  rich 
£unily  in  whose  service  this  poor  wash- 
erwoman destroyed  her  health  have  nev- 
er called,  nor  even  sent,  to  know  Jiow 
she  was  getting  on  ?.  When  she  first 
fidled  to  take  her  usual  two-days'  stand 
at  the  washtub,  they  inquired  the  rea- 
son of  her  absence,  but  there  all  concern 
ended.  They  sought  out  a  new  drudge ; 
the  gap  was  filled  to  their  liking,  and 
the  world  moved  on  as  gayly  as  afore- 
time. They  gave  up  no  personal  ease 
or  comfort  that  they  might  see  or  min- 
ister to  the  suffering  woman  ;  they  de- 
nied themselves  no  luxury  for  her  sake. 
Yet  the  money  they  spent  in  giving  a 
single  party  would  have  kept  this  dually 
for  a  twelvemonth.  The  cost  of  their 
ostentatious  greenhouse  would  have 
paid  for  a  nurse,  and  educated  the  two 
orphan  bo3rs  until  able  to  go  to  trades. 
They  had  seen  these  twin  boys  tied  to 
the  washtub  in  their  own  bleak  shed, 
that  the  mother  might  pursue  her  labor 
without  interruption  ;  yet  as  they  gave 
no  thought  to  the  widow,  so  the  or- 
phans never  intruded  on  their  recrea- 
tions. Now,  Lizzie,  such  people  are 
miprofitable  servants  in  the  sight  of 
God.  And  if  the  ostrich  were  to  strip 
off  their  feathers,  the  silkworm  their 
dresses,  the  kid  their  gloves,  and  the 


marten  demand  his  furs,  what  would  be 
their  state  in  the  sight  of  man  ?    Bare 

•  unto  nakedness  !  This  unlawful  love 
for  lawful  things  is  one  of  the  beset- 
ting snares  of  the  great  enemy  of  souls." 
If  I  had  ever  been  addicted  to  repin- 
ing, or  had  had  no  lessons  to  teach  me 
how  wrong  the  habit  was,  here  was  a 
new  one  to  induce  contentment  But  I 
had  been  preserved  from  all  such  temp- 
tations. The  strong  good  sense  dis- 
played by  Miss  Logan  in  our  frequent 
conversations  not  only  informed  my 
understanding  on  a  variety  of  subjects, 
but  gave  my  thoughts  a  new  turn,  and 
powerfully  encouraged  me  to  persever- 
ance. She  infused  into  me  new  life 
and  cheerfulness.  Suq^  women  are  the 
jewels  of  society.  Their  strong  minds, 
regulated  by  a  judicious  education  at  the 
hands  of  sensible  parents,  become  bril- 
liant as  well  as  trustworthy  guides  to  all 
who  may  be  fortunate  enough  to  come 

•within  the  circle  which  they  illuminate. 
It  is  such  women  that  have  been,  and 
must  continue  to  be,  the  mothers  of 
great  men.  Mind  must  be  transmissi- 
ble by  inheritance,  and  chiefly  from  the 
mother ;  else  the  histories  of  statesmen, 
heroes,  and  distinguished  men  in  the 
various  walks  of  life,  would  not  so  uni- 
formly record  the  virtues  of  the  women 
frt>m  whose  maternal  teachings  their 
eminence  was  to  be  traced. 

The  company  of  sewing-girls  collect- 
ed together  in  this  school-room  was  of 
course  a  very  miscellaneous  one.  The 
£aices  were  changing  almost  daily,  some 
by  expiration  of  their  apprenticeship,  and 
some  by  being  sent  away  as  trouble- 
some, incompetent,  or  vicious.  All  who 
left  us  had  their  places  immediately 
filled  from  a  list  of  candidates  which 
the  teacher  had  in  a  book,  so  that,  while 
one  throng  of  learners  was  departing, 
another  was  entering.  If  one  could 
have  gone  into  the  domestic  history  of 
all  the  girls  who  came  and  went  even 
during  my  short  stay,  he  would  have 
found  some  experiences  to  surpass  any- 
thing that  has  ever  occurred  to  me.  I 
do  not  know  how  it  happened,  but  most 
of  these  girls  were  quite  desirous  of 
making  my  acquaintance,  and  of  their 


1 865.] 


NeedU  and  Garden. 


327 


own  motion  became  extremely  sociable. 
I  was  sociable  in  return,  from  an  in- 
stinct of  my  nature.  I  never  lost  any- 
thing by  thus  meeting  them  halfway  in* 
the  endeavor  to  be  polite  and  afiable, 
but  on  the  contrary  learned  much,  gain- 
ed much,  and  secured  invaluable  friends. 
Nor  did  I  ever  repel  the  amicable  ap- 
proaches even  of  the  most  humble,  as  I 
very  early  discovered  that  none  were  so 
Ignorant  as  not  to  be  able  to  communi- 
cate some  little  item  of  knowledge  to 
which  I  had  been  a  stranger. 

There  was  a  lady  among  these  pupils 
who  was  in  many  respects  very  different 
from  all  the  others.  I  think  her  age 
must  have  been  at  least  thirty-five.  I 
did  not  ask  if  it  were  so ;  and  as  she 
never  mentioned  it  herself,  that  circum- 
stance was  hint  enough  for  me  to  remain 
silent  I  never  could  understand  why 
so  many  women  are  so  amusingly  anx- 
ious to  conceal  their  age,  sometimes  be- 
coming quite  affironted  when  even  a  con- 
jecture is  hazarded  o&  the  subject  This 
lady  was  unmarried ;  perhaps  that  may 
have  been  one  reason  for  her  unwilling- 
ness to  speak  of  her  age.  But  was  not 
I  unmarried,  and  what  repugnance  have 
I  ever  felt  to  avowing  mine  ? 

However,  Miss  Hawley  was  extreme- 
ly sociable  with  me,  though  certainly  old 
enough  to  be  my  mother,  and  made  me 
die  depositary  of  many  incidents  in  her 
Kfe.  She  was  the  eldest  of  three  sis- 
ters, all  orphans,  all  unmarried,  all  de- 
pendent on  themselves  for  a  living,  and 
an,  at  one  time,  so  absurdly  proud,  that, 
in  the  struggle  to  keep  up  appearances, 
and  conceal  from  their  acquaintances 
die  £ict  that  they  were  doing  this  or  that 
thing  for  a  maintenance,  they  subjected 
themselves  to  privations  which  embar- 
rassM  much  of  their  efforts,  while  they 
Med  to  secure  the  concealment  they 
sought  Though  women  of  undoubted 
sense  and  excellent  education,  yet  they 
acted  as  foolishly  as  the  ostrich,  which, 
when  hunted  to  cover,  thrusts  his  head 
into  a  bush,  and  is  weak  enough  to 
think  that  his  whole  body  is  concealed, 
when  it  stands  out  not  only  a  target, 
but  a  fixed  one,  for  the  hunter's  rifle. 
So  these  women  took  it  for  granted,  that, 


if  they  ran  to  the  cover  of  a  chamber 
from  which  all  visitors  should  be  ex- 
cluded, their  acquaintances  would  be 
ignorant  of  how  they  occupied  their 
time,  or  by  what  means  they  lived. 

Yet  they  could  not  fsdl  to  be  aware  that 
everybody  who  knew  anything  of  them 
knew  their  history  abo,  —  that  it  was 
notorious  that  their  &ther,  a  merchant, 
had  died  not  worth  a  cent,  and  that  they 
had  been  compelled  to  abandon   the 
fine  house  in  which  he  had  kept  up  a 
style  so  expensive  as  greatiy  to  in- 
crease the  hardship  of  their  subsequent 
destitution.  Like  a  thousand  others,  he 
had  lived  up  to  the  limit  of  his  income* 
No  doubt,  all  of  them  might  have  been 
well  married,  but  for  the  lavish  habits 
as  to  fashion  and  expenditure  in  which 
they  indulged  themselves.  These  might 
be  afforded  by  their  £ither  so  long  as 
his  annual  gains  continued  large.    But 
the  nxany  worthy  young  men  who  vis- 
ited and  admired  them  refused  to  en- 
tertain the  idea  of  manias  with  girls 
whose  mere  personal  outfit  cost  a  sum 
equal  to  the  year's  salary  of  a  first-class 
clerk,  or  the  annual  profits  of  one  who 
had  just  commenced  business  for  him- 
sel£  They  held  that  the  girl  whose  hab- 
its were  so  expensive  should  bring  with 
her  a  fortune  large  enough  to  support 
them,  or  remain  as  she  was,  taking  the 
sure  consequences  on  her  own  shoul- 
ders, and  not  throwing  them  on  theirs. 
They  were  in  &ct  afiraid  of  girls  who 
manifestiy  had  no  prudence,  no  econ- 
omy, and  who  appeared  to  be  wholly 
unconscious  that  the  only  admiration 
worth  securing  is  that  of  the  good  and 
wise. 

But  the  vices  of  the  old  mode  of  liv- 
ing clung  to  them  in  their  new  and 
humbler  abode,  keeping  them  slaves  to 
a  new  set  of  appearances.  They  had 
never  done  any  work  of  consequence, 
hardly  their  own  sewing.  What  was 
even  worse,  they  had  been  brought  up 
to  consider  work,  for  a  lady,  disgrace- 
ful. Women  might  work,  but  not  la- 
dies ;  or  when  the  latter  undertook  it^ 
they  ceased  to  be  such,  and  certainly  so, 
if  working  for  a  living.  No  pride  could 
have  been  more  tyrannous  or  absurd 


328 


Needle  and  Garden. 


[March, 


than  this.  For  a  whole  year  after  their 
father's  death,it  ruled  them  with  despotic 
supremacy.  They  prided  themselves  on 
doing  nothing,  and  subsisted  on  the  sale 
of  trinkets,  jewelry,  and  books,  which 
they  had  acquired  in  palmier  days.  The 
circle  of  acqiuiintances  for  whose  good 
opinion  they  submitted  to  these  humili- 
ating sacrifices  knew  all  the  while  that 
the  life  they  were  living  was  a  sham ;  but 
they  themselves  seemed  wholly  uncon* 
scions  of  it,  as  well  as  of  the  light  in 
which  it  was  regarded  by  those  about 
them. 

Why  should  such  a  woman  come  to 
a  school  like  this,  where  a  willingness 
to  work  was  a  condition  of  admission, 
and  that  work  to  be  done  in  public? 
What  could  bring  about  so  strange  a 
reversal  of  thought  and  habit  ?  One  of 
her  sisters  had  recently  died,  after  a 
protracted  illness,  during  which  her 
heart  had  been  merdfidly  smitten  with 
a  conviction  of  the  hoUowness  and  sin- 
fulness of  her  previous  life.  Its  idle, 
trifiing,  aimless  tendency  had  been  set 
before  her  in  all  its  emptiness.  She  saw 
that  she  had  been  living  without  God, 
bound  up  in  the  love  of  temporal  things, 
and  so  effectually  ensnared  by  worldly 
pride  that  her  whole  fear  had  been  of 
man,  instead  of  her  Creator.  Thus  in 
mercy  called  to  judgment,  that  grace, 
of  whose  saving  efficacy  we  have  the 
divine  assurance,  brought  repentance 
of  sin,  and  led  her  to  the  Saviour,  and, 
abasing  herself  at  his  cross,  the  heavy 
burden  was  lifted  from  her  heart  Her 
condemnation  of  the  frivolous  lives  that 
she  and  her  sisters  had  been  leading 
was  so  earnest  and  impressive,  that,  aid- 
ed by  the  continual  prayers  of  a  truly 
contrite  heart  for  pardon  for  herself  and 
awakened  consciences  for  them,  they  al- 
so were  brought  to  Christ  This  mighty 
transformation  accomplished,  her  mis- 
sion seemed  to  be  jfidfilled,  and  she 
passed  into  the  unseen  world  in  peaceful 
assurance  of  forgiveness  and  acceptance. 
Thus,  though  our  lots  are  cast  in  places 
seemingly  diverse  and  barren,  each  has 
his  own  specific  duty  to  perform,  some 
appointed  mission  to  fulfil,  though  ex- 
actly what  it  is  may  not  be  apparent  to 


us.  As  fellow-workers  in  the  world,  if 
we  make  it  our  chief  study  to  do  the 
Master's  will,  that  which  is  thus  re- 
quired of  us  will  in  His  own  time  so 
unfold  itself  to  our  spiritual  imderstand- 
ing  that  we  cannot  be  deceived  respect- 
ing it 

I  am  satisfied  that  between  the  func- 
tions of  life,  as  developed  in  the  mate- 
rial and  moral  world,  there  is  an  analogy 
as  instructive  as  it  is  beautiful  It  over- 
comes external  circumstances  by  the 
power  of  an  invisible  law.  Philosophers 
have  discovered  that  the  human  body 
maintains  a  uniform  temperature,  wheth- 
er it  shiver  in  the  snow-hut  of  the  Es- 
quimaux, or  drip  with  perspiration  in 
the  cane-fields  of  the  tropics.  But  let 
life  depart,  and  it  fiills  to  that  of  the  sur- 
rounding objects.  Decay  immediately 
begins.  So,  when  religious  vitality  is 
maintained  in  the  heart,  the  corrupting 
influences  of  the  world  remain  inopera- 
tive. This  vitality  having  been  infused 
into  the  heart  of  Miss  Hawley,  the  fer- 
vor of  her  spirit  rose  to  a  higher  tem- 
perature than  that  of  all  surrounding  ob- 
jects. She  could  no  longer  assimilate 
with  them. 

If  her  strong  personal  pride,  her  ob- 
sequious deference  to  appearances  and 
the  opinion  of  the  world,  were  hence- 
forth overcome  or  kept  in  subjection, 
it  was  only  as  she  took  up  the  cross  in 
obedience  to  the  convictions  of  duty. 
She  told  me  it  was  the  hardest  trial  of 
her  life  to  come  to  this  public  school ;  it 
was  the  greatest  cross  to  her  natural  af- 
fections she  had  ever  experienced.  But 
the  bitterness  of  the  cup  had  now  meas- 
urably passed  away  firom  her.  Strength 
came  with  animating  promptitude  as  the 
answer  to  prayer.  Her  spiritual  life  be- 
came more  healthy  and  vigorous  as  her 
approaches  to  the  mercy-seat  were  hum- 
ble and  fi'equent  Cheerfiilness  became 
an  ever-present  attendant  She  had  put 
all  pride  behind  her,  and  because  of  her 
abasement  had  risen  above  the  world. 
Henceforth  she  was  to  support  herself 
by  her  own  acknowledged  labor.  She 
had  been  so  changed  by  the  grace  of 
God  in  her  heart,  that  she  regarded 
with  astonishment  the  secret  insinceri- 


1865] 


Needle  and  Garden. 


329 


ties  she  had  formerly  been  guilty  of  in 
seeking  to  conceal  the  extent  of  the  ne- 
cessity to  which  she.  had  been  reduced. 
I  have  never  seen  nor  heard  of  her  since 
I  left  the  school ;  but  the  remembrance 
of  her  subdued  and  patient  spirit  can* 
not  soon  be  ef&ced. 

How  true  it  is,  as  some  one  has  beau- 
tifully said,  that  inifinite  toil  would  not 
enable  us  to  sweep  away  a  mist,  but 
that  by  ascending  a  little  we  may  often 
look  over  it  altogether, — and  that  so  it 
is  with  our  moral  improvement!  We 
wrestle  fiercely  with  vicious  habits  that 
would  have  no  hold  on  us,  if  we  ascend- 
ed to  a  higher  moral  atmosphere.  An- 
other has  declared  that  at  five  years  of 
age  the  fi^ither  begins  to  rub  the  mother 
out  of  his  child ;  that  at  ten  the  school- 
master rubs  out  the  father ;  that  at  twen- 
ty a  trade  or  a  profession  rubs  out  the 
schoolmaster;  that  at  twenty -five  the 
world  rubs  out  all  its  predecessors,  and 
gives  a  new  education,  till  we  are  old 
enough  and  wise  enough  to  take  relig- 
ion and  common  sense  for  our  pastors, 
when  we  employ  the  rest  of  our  lives 
in  unlearning  what  we  have  previously 
learned. 

The  contrast  between  the  two  ladies 
with  whom  I  was  thus  fortunate  enough 
to  become  intimately  acquainted  was 
so  remarkable  that  it  could  not  £ul  to 
m2Lke  an  impression  on  me.  It  was  ev- 
ident that  education,  the  training  which 
each  had  received  at  the  parental  fire- 
side, had  led  them  into  widely  divergent 
paths  of  thought  and  conduct     Both 


were  possessed  of  sterling  good  sense  ; 
both  had  lived  in  affluence ;  both,  so  far 
as  mere  school-learning  was  concerned, 
had  been  thoroughly  educated.  Had 
Miss  Logan  received  the  same  training 
as  Miss  Hawley,  it  may  be  fairly  as- 
sumed that  she  would  have  fallen  a  vic- 
tim to  the  same  pride  and  folly ;  and 
had  the  latter  been  trained  at  home  as 
carefully  and  as  sensibly  as  the  former, 
who  can  doubt,  that,  with  the  same  sub- 
stratum of  good  sense,  she  would  have 
proved  as  great  a  comfort  to  herself 
and  as  shining  an  example  to  others  ? 
I  am  sure  it  was  a  lesson  to  me,  con- 
vincing me  anew,  that,  where  faitli  and 
works  do  not  go  together,  both  are 
wanting,  and  that,  if  they  once  part  com- 
pany, each  of  them  must  die. 

When,  at  the  termination  of  my  brief 
apprenticeship,  the  time  came  for  me 
to  leave  the  school  and  to  part  from 
Miss  Effie,  —  she  to  go  to  her  elegant 
home,  I  to  the  little  old  brick  house  in 
the  fields,  and  with  prospects  so  entire- 
ly different  from  hers,  —  I  am  sure  it 
was  the  hardest  trial  I  had  yet  been 
called  upon  to  bear.  I  should  never 
see  her  again.  I  had  no  longings  for 
the  life  she  led ;  for  as  yet  I  had  har- 
bored no  other  thought  than  that  of 
perfect  contentment  with  my  own.  But 
her  society  was  so  delightful,  the  tone 
of  her  mind  so  lofty,  her  condescension 
so  grateful,  her  whole  manners  so  cap- 
tivating, that  I  looked  upon  her  as  my 
guide,  philosopher,  and  firiend,  and  1 
cried  bitterly  when  I  left  her. 


330 


Memories  of  Authors. 


[March, 


MEMORIES    OF    AUTHORS. 


A  SERIES  OF  PORTRAITS  FROM  PERSONAL  ACQUAINTANCE. 

MISS  LANDON. 


WITH  unmingled  pain  I  write  the 
name  of  Laetitia  Elizabeth  Lan* 
don,  —  the  L.  E.  L.,  whose  poems  were 
for  so  long  a  period  the  delight  of  all 
readers,  old  and  young. 

We  were  among  the  few  friends  who 
knew  her  intimately.  But  it  was  not  in 
her  nature  to  open  her  heart  to  any  one ; 
her  large  organ  of  '*  secretiveness  "  was 
her  bane ;  she  knew  it  and  deplored  it ; 
it  was  the  origin  of  that  mbconception 
which  embittered  her  whole  life,  the 
mainspring  of  that  calumny  which  made 
feme  a  mockery  and  glory  a  deceit 
But  I  may  say,  that,  when  slander  was 
busiest  with  her  reputation,  we  had  the 
best  means  to  confute  it,  —  and  did. 
For  some  years  there  was  not  a  single 
week  during  which,  on  some  day  or 
other,  morning  or  evening,  she  was  not 
a  guest  at  our  house ;  yet  this  blight  in 
her  spring-time  undoubtedly  led  to  the 
&tal  marriage  which  eventuated  in  her 
mournful  and  mysterious  death. 

The  calumny  was  of  that  kind  which 
most  deeply  wounds  a  woman.  How  it 
originated,  it  was  at  the  time,  and  is  of 
course  now,  impossible  to  say.  Proba* 
bly  its  source  was  nothing  more  than  a 
sneer,  but  it  bore  Dead-Sea  fruit  A  slan- 
der more  utterly  groundless  never  was 
propagated.  It  broke  off  an  engage- 
ment that  promised  much  happiness 
with  a  gentleman,  then  eminent,  and 
since  famous,  as  an  author :  not  that  he 
at  any  time  gave  credence  to  the  foul 
and  wicked  rumor ;  but  to  ker  "  in- 
quiry*' was  a  sufficient  blight,  and  by 
her  the  contract  was  annulled. 

The  utter  impossibility  of  Its  being 
other  than  false  could  have  been  proved, 
not  only  by  us,  but  by  a  dozen  of  her 
intimate  friends,  whose  evidence  would 
have  been  without  question  and  con- 
clusive. She  was  living  in  a  school  for 
young  ladies  :  seen  daily  by  the  ladies 


who  kept  that  school,  and  by  the  pupils^ 
In  one  of  her  letters  to  Mrs.  Hall,  she 
writes,  '*  I  have  lived  nearly  all  my  life, 
since  childhood,  with  the  same  people. 
The  Misses  Lance  were  strict,  scrupu- 
lous, and  particular,  —  moreover,  from 
having  kept  a  school  so  long,  with  hab- 
its of  minute  observation.  The  affec- 
tion they  feel  for  me  can  hardly  be 
undeserved.  I  would  desire  nothing 
more  than  to  refer  to  their  opinion." 
Dr.  Thomson,  her  constant  medical 
friend  and  adviser,  testified  long  after- 
wards to  her  "  estimable  qualities,  gen- 
erous feelings,  and  exalted  virtues.''  It 
would,  indeed,  have  been  easy  to  ob- 
tain proof  abundant ;  but  in  such  cases 
the  very  effort  to  lessen  the  evil  aug- 
ments it ;  there  was  no  way  of  fighting 
with  a  shadow;  it  was  found  impos- 
sible to  trace  the  rumor  to  any  actual 
source.  Few  then,  and  perhaps  none 
now,  can  tell  how  deeply  the  poisoned 
arrow  entered  her  heart  If  ever  wom- 
an was,  Lsetitia  Landon  was,  '^  done  to 
death  by  slanderous  tongues." 

I  have  touched  upon  this  theme  re- 
luctantly,— perhaps  it  might  have  been 
omitted  altogether,  —  but  it  seems  to 
me  absolutely  necessary,  in  order  to 
comprehend  the  character  of  the  poet 
towards  her  close  of  life,  and  the  secret 
of  her  marriage,  which  so  "  unequally 
yoked  "  her  to  one  utterly  unworthy. 

Here  is  a  passage  from  one  of  her 
letters  to  Mrs.  Hall, — without  a  date, 
—  but  it  must  have  been  written  in 
1837,  when  she  was  suffering  terribly 
under  the  blight  of  evil  tongues :  — 

"  I  have  long  since  discovered  that 
I  must  be  prepared  for  enmity  I  have 
never  provoked,  and  unkindness  I  have 
little  deserved.  God  knows,  that,  if^ 
when  I  do  go  into  society,  I  meet  with 
more  homage  and  attention  than  most, 
it  is  dearly  bought    What  is  my  life  ? 


186$.] 


Memories  of  Authors. 


331 


One  day  of  drudgery  afler  another; 
difficulties  incurred  for  others,  which 
have  ever  pressed  upon  me ;  health, 
which  every  year,  by  one  severe  ill- 
ness after  another,  shows  is  taxed  be- 
yond its  strength;  envy,  malice,  and 
all  uncharitableness :  these  are  the 
fruits  of  a  successful  literary  career  for 
a  woman." 

She  was  sJow  to  believe  that  false  and 
bitter  words  could  harm  her.  At  first 
they  seemed  but  to  inspire  her  with  a 
dangerous  bravery  in  her  innocence, 
and  to  increase  a  practice  we  always 
deplored,  of  saying  things  for  effect  in 
which  she  did  not  believe.  It  was  no 
use  telling  her  this;  she  would  argue 
that  a  conversation  of  facts  would  be  as 
dull  as  a  work  on  algebra,  and  that  all 
she  did  was  to  put  her  poetry  into  prac- 
tice. In  these  moods  you  might  as  well 
attempt  to  imprison  a  sunbeam  as  keep 
*faer  to  matter-of>fact ;  and  the  misery 
was,  that  gradually  the  number  of  de- 
tractors increased,  who  caught  up  these 
*'  effective  "  scraps,  and  set  them  in  cir- 
culation. 

She  was  not  more  than  fifteen  years 
old  when  the  letters  "  L,  E.  L."  —  ap- 
pended to  some  verses  in  the  ^  Litera- 
ry Gazette  " — riveted  public  attention ; 
and  when  it  became  known  that  the 
author  was  scarcely  in  her  teens,  a  full 
gush  of  popularity  burst  upon  her  that 
might  have  turned  older  heads  and  stead- 
ier dispositions.  She  became  a  '*  lion," 
courted  and  flattered  and  fdted;  yet 
never  was  she  misled  by  the  notion  that 
popularity  is  happiness,  or  lip-service 
the  true  homage  of  the  heart 

She  was  residing  at  Old  Brompton, 
when  her  first  poem  appeared  in  the 
**  Literary  Gazette,"  which  Mr.  Jerdan 
had  not  long  previously  established.  It 
would  be  difficidt  to  conceive  the  enthu- 
siasm excited  by  the  magical  three  let- 
ters appended  to  the  poems,  whenever 
they  appeared.  Mr.  Jerdan  was  a  near 
neighbor  of  the  Landons,  and  he  thus 
refers  to  their  residence  at  Old  Bromp- 
ton:— 

^  My  cottage  overlooked  the  man- 
sion and  grounds  of  Mr.  Landon,  the 
father  of  *  L.  £.  L,'  at  Old  Brompton, 


a  narrow  lane  onfy  dividing  our  resi- 
dences. My  first  recollection  of  the 
future  poetess  is  that  of  a  plump  girl, 
grown  enough  to  be  almost  mistaken 
for  a  woman,  bowling  a  hoop  round  the 
walks,  with  a  hoop-stick  in  one  hand 
and  a  book  in  the  other,  reading  as  she 
ran,  and  as  well  as  she  could  manag- 
ing both  exercise  and  instruction  at  the 
same  time.'' 

She  was  bom  on  the  14th  of  August^ 
1802,  at  Hans  Place,  Chelsea,  where 
her  father,  a  junior  partner  in  the  pros^ 
perous  house  of  Adair,  army -agents, 
then  resided.  And  in  that  locality,  with 
few  brief  intervals,  the  whole  of  her  life 
was  passed. 

When  we  first  knew  her,  in  1825,  she 
lived  with  her  grandmother  in  Sloane 
Street ;  subsequently  she  was  a  boarder 
in  the  school-establishment  of  the  Miss- 
es Lance,  at  No.  22,  Hans  Place,  the 
house  in  which  she  had  been  a  pupil 
when  but  six  years  old;  and  here  she 
was  residing  up  to  within  a  few  months 
of  her  marriage,  when,  in  consequence 
of  the  retirement  of  the  Misses  Lance, 
she  became  an  inmate  in  the  family  of 
Mrs.  Sheddon. 

Her  grandmother's  grave  was,  if  I 
recollect  rightly,  the  third  that  was  made 
in  the  graveyard  of  Holy  Trinity,  Bromp- 
ton. Her  lines  on  this  ^<  new  "  church- 
yard will  be  remembered.  I  attended 
the  old  lady's  funeral,  Mrs.  Hall  hav- 
ing received  from  Miss  Landon  this 
letter :  — 

^  I  have  had  time  to  recover  the  first 
shock,  —  and  it  was  great  weakness  to 
feel  so  sorry,  though  even  now  I  do  not 
like  to  think  of  her  very  sudden  death. 
I  am  thankful  for  its  giving  her  so  little 
confinement  or  pain ;  she  had  never 
known  illness,  and  would  have  borne 
it  impatiently, — a  great  addition  to  suf- 
fering. I  am  so  very  grateful  to  Mr. 
Hall,  for  I  really  did  not  know  what 
to  do.  Her  funeral  is  fixed  for  Friday ; 
the  hour  will  be  arranged  to  his  and  Mr. 
Jerdan's  convenience." 

Mrs.  Hall  supplies  me  with  the  fol- 
lowing particulars  concerning  her  early 
acquaintance  and  intercourse  with  Miss 
LandoxL 


332 


Memories  of  Authors, 


[March, 


''  I  forget  how  it  came  about,  but  my 
husband  was  introduced  to  a  certain  lit- 
tle Miss  Spence,  who,  on  the  strength 
of  having  written  something  about  the 
Highlands,  was  most  decidedly  blue, 
when  blue  was  by  no  means  so  general 
a  color  as  it  is  at  present  She  had  a 
lodging  of  two  rooms  in  Great  Quebec 
Street,  and  ^ patronised^  young  //'///- 
raieursj  inviting  them  to  her  '  humble 
abode,'  where  tea  was  made  in  the  bed- 
room, and  where  it  was  whispered  the 
butter  was  kept  cool  in  the  wash-hand- 
basin  !  There  were  '  lots '  of  such-like 
small  scandals  about  poor  Miss  Spence's 
*  humble  abode ' ;  still  people  liked  to 
go ;  and  my  husband  was  invited,  with 
a  sort  of  apology  to  poor  me,  who,  nev- 
er having  published  anything  at  that 
time,  was  considered  ineligible ;  it  was 
'a  rule,'  and  Miss  Spence, in  her  'hum- 
ble abode,'  lived  by  rule. 

'*  Of  course  I  had  an  account  of  the 
party  when  Mr.  Hall  came  home.  I 
coveted  to  know  who  was  there,  and 
what  everybody  wore  and  said.  I  was 
told  that  Lady  Caroline  Lamb  was  there, 
enveloped  in  the  folds  of  an  ermine 
cloak,  which  she  called  a  *  cat- skin,' 
and  that  she  talked  a  great  deal  about 
a  periodical  she  wished  to  get  up,  to  be 
called  'Tabby's  Magazine';  and  with 
her  was  an  exceedingly  haughty,  bril- 
liant, and  beautiful  girl,  Rosina  Wheel- 
er,—  since  well  known  as  Lady  Bul- 
wer  Lytton,  —  and  who  sat  rather  im- 
patiently at  the  feet  of  her  eccentric 
'Gamaliel'  Miss  Emma  Roberts  was 
one  of  the  favored  ladies,  and  Miss 
Spence  (who,  like  all '  Leo-hunters,'  de- 
lighted in  novelty)  had  just  caught  the 
author  of  *  The  Mummy,'  Jane  Webb, 
who  was  as  gentle  and  unpretending 
then  as  she  was  in  after-years,  when, 
laying  aside  romance  for  reality,  she 
became  a  great  helper  of  her  husband, 
Mr.  Loudon,  in  his  laborious  and  valua- 
ble works.  When  I  heard  Miss  Benger 
was  there,  in  her  historic  turban,  I 
thought  how  fortunate  that  I  had  re- 
mained at  home  !  I  had  always  a  ter- 
ror of  tall,  commanding  women,  who 
blink  down  upon  you,  and  have  the 
unmistakable  air  about  them  of  'Be- 


hold me !  have  I  not  pronounced  sen- 
tence upon  Queen  Elizabeth,  and  set 
my  mark  on  the  Queen  of  Scots  1  *  Still, 
I  quite  appreciated  the  delight  of  meet* 
ing  under  the  same  roof  so  many  ce- 
lebrities, and  was  cross-questioning  my 
husband,  when  he  said,  '  But  there  was 
one  lady  there  whom  I  promised  you 
should  call  on  to-morrow.' 

"  Imagine  my  mingled  delight  and 
dismay! — delight  at  the  bare  idea  of 
seeing  A^  who  must  be  wellnigh  suf- 
focated with  the  perfume  of  her  own 
'  Golden  Violet,'  the  idol  of  my  imagi- 
nation, —  dismay  !  for  what  should  I 
say  to  her  ?  what  would  she  say  to  me  ? 

"  And  now  I  must  look  back,  —  back 
to  the  '  long  ago.' 

"And  yet  I  can  hardly  realize  the 
sweep  of  years  that  have  gone  over  so 
many  who  have  since  become  near  and 
dear  to  us.  At  that  first  visit,  I  saw 
Laetitia  Landon  in  her  grandmamma's* 
modest  lodging  in  Sloane  Street, — a 
bright -eyed,  sparkling,  restless  little 
girl,  in  a  pink  gingham  frock,  —  graft- 
ing clever  things  on  commonplace  noth- 
ings, frolicking  firom  subject  to  subject 
with  the  playfulness  of  a  spoiled  child, 
—  her  dark  hair  put  back  from  her  low, 
but  sphere-like  forehead,  only  a  little 
above  the  most  beautiful- eyebrows  that 
a  painter  could  imagine,  and  falling  in 
curls  around  her  slender  throat  We 
were  nearly  of  the  same  age,  but  I  had 
been  almost  a  year  married,  and  if  I 
had  not  supported  myself  on  my  dignity 
as  a  married  woman,  should  have  been 
more  than  nervous,  on  my  first  intro- 
duction to  a  'living  poet,'  though  the 
poet  was  so  different  from  what  I  had 
imagined.  Her  movements  were  as 
rapid  as  those  of  a  squirrel.  I  wondered 
how  any  one  so  quick  could  be  so  grace- 
ful She  had  been  making  a  cap  for 
grandmamma,  and  would  insist  upon 
the  old  lady's  putting  it  on,  that  I 
might  see  'how  pretty  it  was.'  To 
this  grandmamma  (Mrs.  Bishop)  ob- 
jected, — she '  could  n't '  and  she '  would 
n't '  try  it  on,  — '  how  could  Laetitia  be 
80  silly?' — and  then  Laetitia  put  the 
great  beflowered,  beribboned  thing  on 
her  own  dainty  little  head,  with  a  grave 


186$.] 


Memories  of  Authors. 


333 


look,  like  a  doud  on  a  rose,  and  folding 
her  pretty  little*  hands  over  her  pink 
firocky  made  what  she  called  a  '  Sir 
Roger  de  Coverley'  curtsy,  skipping 
backwards  into  the  bedroom,  and  rush- 
ing in  again,  having  deposited  out  of 
sight  the  cap  she  was  so  proud  of  con- 
structing, took  my  hands  in  hers,  and 
asked  me  '  if  we  should  be  friends.' 

** '  Friends !  *  I  do  not  think  that  dur- 
ing the  long  indmacy  that  followed  that 
child-like  meeting,  extending  from  the 
year  '26  to  her  leaving  England  in  '38, 
during  which  time  I  saw  her  frequently 
every  day,  and  certainly  every  week, 
—  I  do  not  think  she  ever  loved  me 
as  I  loved  her,  —  how  could  she? — 
but  I  was  proud  of  the  confidence  and 
regard  she  did  accord  me,  and  would 
have  given  half  my  own  happiness  to 
shelter  her  fi^m  the  envy  and  evil  that 
,  embittered  the  spring  and  summer-time 
of  her  blighted  life.  It  always  seemed 
to  me  impossible  not  to  love  her,  not 
to  cherish  her.  Perhaps  the  greatest 
magic  she  exercised  was,  that,  after  the 
fint  rush  of  remembrance  of  all  that 
wonderful  young  woman  had  written 
had  subsided,  she  rendered  you  com- 
pletely oblivious  of  what  she  had  done 
by  the  irresistible  charm  of  what  she 
was.  You  forgot  all  about  her  books,  — 
you  only  felt  the  intense  delight  of  life 
with  her  ;  she  was  penetrating  and 
sympathetic,  and  entered  into  your  feel- 
ings so  entirely  that  you  wondered  how 
'the  littie  witch'  could  read  you  so 
readily  and  so  rightly, — and  if,  now  and 
then,  you  were  starded,  perhaps  dis- 
mayed, by  her  wit,  it  was  but  the 
prick  of  a  diamond  arrow.  Words  and 
thoughts  that  she  flung  hither  and  thith- 
er, without  design  or  intent  beyond  the 
amusement  of  the  moment,  come  to  me 
still  with  a  mingled  thrill  of  pleasure 
and  pain  that  I  cannot  describe,  and 
that  my  most  friendly  readers,  not  hav- 
ing known  her,  could  not  understand. 

**  When  I  knew  her  first,  she  certainly 
looked  much  younger  than  she  was. 
When  we  talked  of  ages,  which  we  did 
the  first  day,  I  found  it  difficult  to  be- 
lieve she  was  more  than  seventeen,  — 
she  was  so  slight,  so  fragile,  so  girlish 


in  her  gestures  and  manners.  In  after- 
days  I  often  wondered  what  made  her 
so  graceful.  Her  neck  was  short,  her 
shoulders  high.  You  saw  these  defects 
at  the  first  glance,  just  as  you  did  that 
her  nose  was  retroussi^  and  that  she 
was  underhung,  which  ought  to  have 
spoiled  the  expression  of  her  mouth,  — 
but  it  did  not :  you  saw  all  this  at  once, 
but  you  never  thought  about  it  after  the 
first  five  minutes.  Her  complexion  was 
clear,  her  hair  dark  and  silken,  and  the 
lashes  that  sheltered  her  gray  eyes  long 
and  slightiy  upturned.  Her  voice  was 
inexpressibly  sweet  and  modulated,  but 
there  was  a  melancholy  cadence  in  it, 
—  a  fall  so  full  of  sorrow  that  I  often 
looked  to  see  if  tears  were  coming: 
no,  the  smile  and  eyes  were  beaming  in 
perfect  harmony,  but  it  was  next  to  im- 
possible:, to  believe  in  her  happiness, 
with  the  memory  of  that  cadence  still 
in  the  ear. 

'*  Like  all  workers  I  have  known  inti- 
mately, she  had  a  double  existence,  an 
inner  and  an  outer  life.  Many  times, 
when  I  have  witnessed  her  suffering, 
either  from  those  spasmodic  attacks 
that  sapped  the  foundation  of  her  life, 
or  from  the  necessity  for  work  to  pro- 
vide for  the  comforts  and  luxuries  of 
those  who  never  spared  her,  I  have 
seen  her  enter  the  long,  narrow  room 
that  opened  on  the  garden  at  Hans 
Place,  and  flash  upon  a  morning  visitor 
as  if  she  had  not  a  pain  or  a  care  in 
the  world,  dazzling  the  senses  and  cap- 
tivating the  affections  of  some  new  ac- 
quaintance, as  she  had  done  mine,  and 
sending  them  away  in  the  firm  belief 
of  her  individual  happiness,  and  the 
conviction  that  the  melancholy  which 
breathes  through  her  poems  was  as- 
sumed, and  that  her  real  nature  was 
buoyant  and  joyous  as  that  of  a  lark 
singing  between  earth  and  heaven !  If 
they  could  but  have  seen  how  the 
cloud  settied  down  on  that  beaming 
face,  if  they  had  heard  the  deep-drawn 
sigh  of  relief  that  the  litUe  play  was 
played  out,  and  noted  the  languid  step 
with  which  she  mounted  to  her  attic, 
and  gathered  her  young  limbs  on  the 
common    seat,   opposite  the  common 


•334 


Memories  of  Authors. 


[March, 


table,  whereon  she  worked,  they  would 
have  arrived  at  a  directly  opposite  and 
a  too  true  conclusion,  that  the  melan- 
choly was  real,  the  mirth  assumed. 

^  My  next  visit  to  her  was  after  she 
left  her  grandmamma's,  and  went  to 
reside  at  22,  Hans  Place.  Miss  Emma 
Roberts  and  her  sister  at  that  time 
boarded  in  Miss  Lance's  school,  and 
Miss  Landon  found  there  a  room  at  the 
top  of  the  house,  where  she  could  have 
the  quiet  and  seclusion  her  labor  re- 
quired, and  which  her  Idnd-natured,  but 
restless  grandmother  prevented.  She 
never  could  understand  how  '  speaking 
one  word  to  Letty,  just  one  word,  and 
not  keeping  her  five  minutes  away  from 
that  desk,  where  she  would  certainly 
grow  humped  or  crooked,'  could  inter- 
fere with  her  work !  She  was  one  of 
those  stolid  persons  who  are  the  bane 
of  authors,  who  think  nothing  of  the 
lost  idea,  and  the  unravelling  of  the 
web,  when  a  train  of  thought  is  broken 
by  the  *only  one  word,'  'only  a  mo- 
ment,' which  scatters  thoughts  to  the 
wind,  —  thoughts  that  can  no  more 
be  gathered  home  than  the  thistle- 
down that  is  scattered  by  a  passing 
breeze. 

"She  continued  to  reside  in  that 
onostentatious  home,  obedient  to  the 
rules  of  the  school  as  the  youngest 
pupil,  dining  with  the  children  at  their 
early  hour,  and  returning  to  her  sanctu- 
ary, whence  she  sent  forth  rapidly  and 
continuously  what  won  for  her  the  ado- 
ration of  the  young  and  the  admiration 
of  the  old.  But  though  she  ceased  to 
reside  with  her  grandmother,  she  was 
most  devoted  in  her  attentions  to  her 
aged  relative,  and  trimmed  her  caps 
and  bonnets  and  quilled  her  frills  as 
usual  I  have  seen  the  old  lady's  bor- 
ders and  ribbons  mingled  with  pages 
of  manuscript,  and  known  her  to  put 
aside  a  poem  to  'settle  up'  grand- 
mamma's cap  for  Sunday.  These  were 
the  minor  duties  in  which  she  indulged ; 
but  her  grandmother  owed  the  greater 
part,  if  not  the  entire,  of  her  comfort  to 
the  generous  and  unselfish  nature  of 
that  gifted  girl  Her  mother  1  never 
saw:  morally  nf^tm  all  her  arrange- 


ments, she  was  menially  yrrongf^-^ztud 
the  darling  poet  of  the  public  had  no 
loving  sympathy,  no  tender  care  from 
her.  L.  £.  L.  had  passed  thi%>ugh  the 
sufferings  of  a  neglected  childhood,  and 
but  for  the  love  of  her  grandmother 
she  would  have  known  next  to  nothing 
of  the  love  of  motherhood.  Thus  she 
was  left  alone  with  her  genius :  for  ad- 
miration, however  grateful  to  a  woman's 
senses,  never  yet  filled  a  woman's  heart 

''When  I  first  knew  her,  and  for  some 
time  after,  she  was  childishly  untidy 
and  negligent  in  her  dress :  her  frocks 
were  tossed  on,  as  if  buttons  and  strings 
were  unnecessary  incumbrances,  —  one 
sleeve  off  the  shoulder,  the  other  on,  — 
and  her  soft,  silky  hair  brushed  'any 
how ' :  but  Miss  Emma  Roberts,  whose 
dress  was  always  iii  good  taste,  de- 
termined on  her  reformation,  and  grad- 
ually the  young  poet,  as  she  expressed 
it,  'did  not  know  herself.'  1  use  the 
epithet  '  young,'  because  she  was  won- 
derfully youthful  in  appearance,  and 
positively  as  she  grew  older  looked 
younger,  —  her  delicate  (x>mplexion,  the 
transparent  tenderness  of  her  skin,  and 
the  playful  expression  of  her  child-like 
features  adding  to  the  deception. 

"  I  was  one  day  suddenly  summoned 
to  Hans  Place,  and  drawn  into  a  con- 
sultation on  the  important  subject  of  a 
fancy-ball,  which  Miss  Landon  and 
Miss  Emma  Roberts  had  'talked  over' 
Miss  Lance  to  let  them  pve  to  their 
friends.  They  wished  me  to  appear  as 
the  'wild  Irish  girl,'  or  the  genius  of 
Erin,  with  an  Irish  harp,  to  which  I 
was  to  sing  snatches  of  the  melodies* 
Miss  Spence  was  there  in  consultation, 
as  she  'knew  everybody.'  She  con- 
gratulated me  on  my  iUdut  as  an  author- 
ess, ( I  had  recently  published  my  first 
book,  'Sketches  of  Irish  Character,') 
and  politely  added,  '  Now  you  are  one 
of  us,  I  shall  be  happy  to  receive  you  at 
my  humble  abode.' 

"I  begged  to  decline  the  proposal 
concerning  the  wild  Irish  girl  and  the 
Irish  harp,  but  agreed  to  carry  a  bas- 
ket of  flowers.  Certainly  the  fite-gvi- 
ers  worked  'with  a  will,'  turned  the 
great  house  '  out  of  windows,'  convert- 


1865.] 


Memories  of  Authors^ 


335 


tng  the  two  schooKrooms^  big  and  little, 
into  a  ball-room,  and  decorating  it  rich- 
ly with  green  leaves  and  roses,  real  and 
artifkaaL  I  congratulated  them  on  the 
prospect  *Yes,'  said  Mbs  Landon, 
'the  mechanical  getting-up  is  all  very 
well ;  I  wish  all  that  is  termed  "  dash- 
11^"  did  not  lie  in  the  tomb  of  the  Duch- 
bss  of  Gordon.  A  quadrille  is  but  still 
life  put  into  motion.  Our  faces,  like  our 
summers,  want  sunshine.  Old  Frois- 
sart  complained  in  his  day,  that  the 
English,  after  their  fiuhion,  ^^s'amusent 
mmUt  trisUnunU^*  A  ball-room  is  mere- 
ly **  Arithmetic  and  the  use  of  figures 
taught  here."  A  youfag  lady  in  a  qua- 
drille might  answer,  —  "  I  am  too  busy 
to  laugh,  —  I  am  making  my  calcula- 
tions." And  yet  ours  is  not  a  marrying 
age  ;  the  men  have  discovered  that  ser- 
vants and  wives  are  so  expensive, — still 
a  young  lady's  delight  in  a  ball,  if  not 
raisomnable^  has  always — quelqne  rau 
son  /  and  I  am  determined,  if  I  die  in 
the  cause,  that  ours,  shall  be  a  suc- 
cess ! '  Her  conversation  was  always 
epigrammatic* 

^  It  seems  absurd  that  a  ball  should 
be  the  first  great  event  of  my  literary 
life.  There  I  saw  for  the  first  time 
many  persons  who  became  in  after- 
years  intimate  friends,  and  whose  names 
are  now  parts  of  the  history  of  the  lit- 
erature of  their  country.  *Mr.'  Ed- 
ward Bulwer,  then  on  the  threshold  of 
fiune,  *came  out'  in  military  uniform. 
L.  £•  L.  assured  me  he  was  very  clever, 
had  written  a  novel,  and  *  piles  of  po- 
etry,' and  would  be  wonderful  soon, 
but  that  he  was  much  too  handsome  for 
an  author ;  at  which  opinion,  h'ttie  Miss 
Spence,  in  a  plum-pudding  sort  of  tur- 
ban, with  a  bird  -  of  -  paradise  bobbing 
over  the  front,  and  a  fan  even  larger 
than  poor  Lady  Morgan's,  agitated  her 
sultana's  dress,  and  assured  me  that 
*  nothing  elevated  the  expression  of 
beauty  so  much  as  literature,*  and  that 
'young  things,  like  many  of  the  pres- 
ent company;  would  not  look  as  well  in 
ten  years  I '  Mr.  Bulwer  was  certainly 
pronounced  by  the  ladies  tlje  handsom- 
est youth  in  the  room.  The  gentiemen 
endeavored  to  put  him  down  as  *  effem- 


inate,' but  all  in  vain.  They  called  him 
^  a  fair,  dehcate,  very,  very  young  man,' 
—  *  a  boy,'  in  fiwt.  I  remember  wonder- 
ing at  the  searching  expression  of  his 
large,  wandering,  bluish  eyes,  that  seem- 
ed looking  in  and  out  at  everybody  and 
at  everything.  The  lady  of  his  love 
was  there,  and  she  ought  to  have  been 
dressed  as  the  Sultana  poor  Miss  Spence 
burlesqued.  Nature  had  bestowed  on 
her  an  Oriental  style  of  beauty,  and  she 
would  have  come  out  well  in  Oriental 
costume  \  but  she  chose  the  dress  of  a 
Swiss  peasant,  which,  being  more  juve- 
nile, brought  her  nearer  to  her  lover's 
age.  She  certainly  was  radiantiy  beau- 
tiful She  had  a  mouth  like  '  chiselled 
coral,'  and  eyes  fierce  as  an  eagle's  or 
tender  as  a  dove's,  as  passion  moved  her. 
Her  uncle.  Sir  John  Milly  Doyle,  then 
an  old  man  of  mark  in  the  military 
world,  was  naturally  proud  of  his  beau- 
tiful charge,  and  companioned  her  that 
evening. 

^  Miss  Benger's  turban  was  a  formi- 
dable rival  to  that  of  Miss  Spence.  The 
historian  was  long  and  lanky,  according 
to  the  most  approved  historical  ^hion ; 
consequentiy  her  turban  was  above  the 
crowd,  while  poor  Miss  Spence's  was 
nearly  crushed  by  it,  and  was  all  too 
frequently  shoved  on  one  side  by  the 
whirling  dancers.  At  last,  in  despair, 
she  donned  a  handkerchief '  tying  it 
under  her  chin,  and  wherever  she 
went  she  wished  the  gentie  -  hearted 
Miss  Webb  to  follow,  appealing  after 
this  fashion  to  the  merry  crowd:  — 
*  Please  let  me  pass ;  I  am  Miss  Spence, 
and  this  lady  is  Miss  Webb,  author  of 
«  The  Mummy,"— "The  Mummy,"  Sir.' 
But  Miss  Webb  effected  her  escape; 
and  the  last  time  I  saw  littie  Miss 
Spence  that  evening,  she  had  scrambled 
up  into  one  of  those  so-called  '  educa- 
tion-chairs,' in  which  poor  girls  were 
compelled  to  sit  bolt  upright  for  several 
hours  of  the  day,  by  way  of  keeping 
their  shoulders  flat  and  strengthening 
their  spine. 

"  I  remember  *  Father  Prout  of  Wa- 
tergrass  Hill'  that  evening,  —  then  a 
smooth-£iced,  rosy-cheeked  young  man. 
Jane  and  Anna  Maria  Porter  joined 


336 


Memories  of  Authors. 


[March, 


the  party  late  in  the  evening.  They 
came  from  Esher,  and,  though  not  in 
direct  &ncy-dresses,  added  to  the  effect 
of  the  gathering.  Jane  was  dressed  in 
black,  which  was  only  relieved  by  a  dia- 
mond sparkling  on  her  throat  Her 
sweet,  melancholy  features  and  calm 
beauty  contrasted  well  with  the  bright 
sunshine  of  her  sister's  round,  girlish 
face.  She  was  dressed  in  white,  soft 
blue  gauze  floating  round  her  like  a 
haze.  L.  £.  L.  ( who  personated  a  flow- 
er-girl in  a  white  chip  hat)  called  the 
sisters  '  the  Evening  and  Morning 
Stars.'  I  was  so  proud  of  a  compli- 
ment Jane  paid  me  on  my  new  dignity 
of  authorship, — a  compliment  from  the 
author  of  the  *  Scottish  Chiefs,'  — the 
book  that  in  childhood  I  had  read 
stealthily  by  moonlight,  coiled  up  in 
my  nursery-window,  just  near  enough 
to  the  sea  to  hear  its  music,  while  the 
fate  of  Sir  WiUiam  Wallace  made  my 
heart  pant  and  my  tears  flow ! 

"  I  saw  there  fbr  the  first  time  Julia 
Pardoe.  She  had  just  returned  from 
Portugal,  and  was  escorted  by  her  lit- 
tle, round  &ther,  the  Major.  She  was 
then  in  her  dawn  of  life  and  litera- 
ture, having  published  two  volumes 
about  Portugal,  —  a  pretty  little  feiry 
of  a  girl,  with  a  wealth  of  flaxen  hair,  a 
complexion  made  up  of  lilies  and  roses, 
with  tiny  feet  in  white  satin  bottines 
with  scarlet  heels,  and  a  long,  sweeping 
veil  of  blue  gauze  spangled  with  silver 
stars.  I  think  she  dressed  as  some  Por- 
tuguese or  Spanish  character ;  for  I  re- 
member a  high  comb  in  her  hair.  I  can 
only  now  recall  her  floating  about  under 
the  blue  gauze  veil 

"  I  remember  one  group  of  Quakers 
among  the  glittering  throng,  who  looked 
sufficiently  quaint  to  attract  attention, 
while  the  matron  of  the  party  said  clev- 
er, caustic  things,  diflering  in  quality 
as  well  as  quantity  firom  the  sparkling, 
playful  jests  and  repartees,  that,  as  the 
evening  passed,  were  flung  about  by 
Mr.  Jerdan,  the  popular  editor  of  the 
'Literary  Gazette,'  the  oracle  of  that 
time,  and  stammered  forth  by  Dr.  Ma- 
ginn.  "  The  Doctor  "  and  Mr.  Jerdan 
and  Theodore  Hook  entered  together, 


three  men  of  mark,  from  whom  much 
was  expected — after  supper. 

"  The  Quaker  matron  was  Mrs.  Trol- 
lope,  a  portly  lady,  of  any  age  between 
thirty  and  forty,  staid  and  sedate,  as 
became  her  .character,  and  attentive  to 
her  'thees'  and  'thous,'  which  lent 
their  cloak  for  plain  speaking,  of  which 
she  was  not  chary.  She  frequently 
admonished  her  daughters — ;  perhaps 
adopted  for  the  evening  —  against  the 
vanities  by  which  they  were  encom- 
passed on  every  side,  —  satirizing  and 
striking  home,  but  never  exhibiting  ill- 
temper  or  actual  bitterness.  The  char- 
acter was  well  'sustained  throughout 
the  evening,  and  occasioned  quite  as 
much  fear  as  fun.  When  -  Theodore 
Hook  asked  her,  according  to  the  fash- 
ion of  those  days,  to  take  wine  with 
him,  she  answered,  'Friend,  I  think 
thou  hast  had  enough  already,  and  so 
have  I.'  There  was  nothing  particu- 
larly wise  or  witty  in  the  words ;  but 
their  truth  was  so  evident,  and  the 
manner  in  which  they  were  spoken  so 
clear  and  calm,  that  they  were  followed 
by  a  roar  of  laughter  tfiat  for  a  little 
time  upset  the  mighty  humorist,  though, 
in  the  extempore  song  in  which  he  ral- 
lied, he  did  not  forget  that 

'  He  had  jost  received  a  wallop 
Frc«i  the  would-be  Quaker  TroUope.* 

"  We  enjoyed  most  thoroughly  the  in- 
tercourse commenced  thus  early  in  our 
married  life  with  the  spirits  of  our  time ; 
and  I  remember  entering  into  grave 
debate  with  L.  £.  L.  whether  it  would 
be  possible  for  us  to  give  a  party  that 
might  be,  as  it  were,  the  shadow  of  hers. 
A  £uicy-ball  was  out  of  the  question. 
We  proposed  a  conversazione^  with  first- 
rate  music ;  but  in  that  Miss  Landon 
could  not  sympathize.  '  It  was  all  very 
well,'  she  said ;  '  I  had  a  talent  for 
listening ;  she  had  not ;  and  if  I  must 
have  music,  let  there  be  a  room  where 
the  talkers  could  congregate,  and  nei- 
ther disturb  others  nor  be  themselves 
disturbed.'  The  only  thing  she  dis- 
liked in  dancing  was  the  trial  of  keeping 
time  ;  and  |o  do  this,  she  was  obliged 
to  count 

^  The  conversaMtone  was  determined 


1865.3 


Memories  of  Authors. 


337 


onj  and  the  invitations  issued ;  and  then 
my  husband  and  I  began  to  count  the 
cost  Of  course,  if  done,  it  must  be  well 
done.  The  method  was  not  clear ;  it  was 
very  cloudy ;  and  there  was  only  one  way 
to  make  it  clear.  We  were  but  'chil- 
dren of  a  larger  growth/  and  we  had  a 
•money-box,'  —  not  one  of  those  pretty 
cedar  inventions,  with  a  lock  and  key 
and  a  slit  in  the  cover,  that  we  now  use 
at  bazaars,  but  a  big,  shapeless,  round- 
about thing  of  earthen-ware,  with  a  slit 
in  the  middle.  We  had  intended  its 
contents  should  gratify  another  £incy, 
but  now  it  would  be  the  very  thing  to 
sacrifice ;  so  we  locked  ourselves  into 
the  drawing-room,  placed  the  box  on 
the  hearth-rug,  and  in  a  moment  the 
brown  roundabout  was  smashed, — 
and  there  was  quite  a  heap  of  silver, 
and  a  iittie  brightening  of  gold  !  We 
had  never  put  in  any  gold.  We  were 
astonished,  and  counted  our  treasure 
with  great  delight  My  husband  ac- 
cused me  of  conveying  the  gold  by 
some  cunning  art  into  the  box ;  and  / 
was  indignant  that  he  should  have  done 
so  without  my  knowledge.  A  quarrel 
was  imminent,  when  we  thought  per- 
haps it  was  the  hand  of  the  dear  mother 
that  had  dropped  in  the  gold.  Yes,  that 
was  her  ruse ;  and  we  would  have  it 
that  the  party  cost  us  nothings  because 
the  contents  of  the  money-box  never 
had  been  counted  on :  it  was  a  treas- 
ure-trove, —  nothing  more.  We  were 
particularly  anxious  to^  be  thought  pru" 
deni;  and,  in  our  triumph,  (for  the  par- 
ty, every  one  said,  was  a  brilliant  suc- 
cess,) we  communicated  the  fact  to 
U  £.  L.  that  the  f>arty  had  cost  noth- 
ing I  She  laughed,  and  determined  to 
set  up  a  money-box  on  her  own  ac- 
count ;  but,  poor  girl,  her  money  was 
anticipated  by  her  dependants  before 
she  received  it 

•*  I  remember  once  meeting  her  com- 
ing out  of  Youngman's  shop,  in  Sloane 
Street,  and  walking  home  with  her. 
*■  I  have  been,*  she  said,  *  to  buy  a  pair 
of  gloves,  —  the  only  money  spent 
on  myself  out  of  the  three  hundred 
potmds  I  received  for  "Romance  and 
Reality.'' '    That  same  day  she  spoke 

VOL.  XV.  —  NO.  89.  22 


of  having  lived  in  Sloane  Street  when 
a  child.  Her  mother's  manage  must 
have  been  curiously  conducted ;  for  I 
remember  her  sa]ring,  'On  Sundays 
my  brother  and  myself  were  often  left 
alone  in  the  house  with  one  servant, 
who  always  went  out,  locking  us  in ; 
and  we  two  children  used  to  sit  at  the 
open  parlor-window  to  catch  the  smell 
of  the  one-o'clock  dinners  that  went 
past  from  the  bake-house,  well  knowing 
that  no  dinner  awaited  us.'" 

In  the  zenith  of  her  fame,  and  to- 
wards her  terrible  close  of  life,  the 
personal  appearance  of  Miss  Landon 
was  highly  attractive.  Though  small 
of  stature,  her  form  was  remarkably 
graceful ;  and  in  society  she  paid 
special  attention  to  dress.  She  would 
have  b^en  of  perfect  symmetry,  were 
it  not  that  her  shoulders  were  rather 
high. 

There  were  few  portraits  of  Miss 
Landon  painted,  although  she  was  ac- 
quainted with  many  artists,  and  had  in- 
tense love  of  Art  Her  friend  Maclise 
painted  her  three  or  four  times ;  but  I 
know  of  no  other  portraits  of  her,  except 
that  by  Mr.  Pickersgill,  which  I  always 
thought  the  most  to  resemble  her,  albeit 
the  likeness  is  not  flattering. 

She  first  met  the  Ettrick  Shepherd 
at  our  house.    When  Hogg  was  pre- 
sented  to   her,    he   looked   eamesdy 
ilown  at  her,  for  perhaps  half  a  min- 
ute, and    then   exclaimed,  in  a  rich, 
manly,  Scottish  voice,  "Eh,  I  did  na   \ 
think  ye  'd  been  sae  bonnie.    I  've  said   L 
mony  hard  things  aboot  ye.    I  '11  do 
sae  na  mair.    I  did  na  think  ye  'd  been  / 
sae  bonnie." 

Mrs.  Opie,  who  also  met  her  at  our 
dwelling,  paid  her  a  questionable  com- 
pliment,—  that  she  was  "the  prettiest 
butterfly  she  had  ever  seen  " :  and  I  re- 
member the  st^d  Quaker  shaking  her 
finger  at  the  young  poetess,  and  remark- 
ing, "  What  thou  art  saying  thou  dost 
not  mean." 

Miss  Jewsbury,  (the  elder  sister  of 
the  accomplished  authoress,  Geraldine,) 
whose  fiite  somewhat  resembled  her 
own,  said  of  her,  "  She  was  a  gay  and 


338 


Memories  of  Authors, 


[March, 


gifted  thing" ;  but  Miss  Jewsbuiy  knew 
her  only  "  in  the  throng." 

In  short,  I  have  rarely  known  a 
woman  so  entirely  fascinating  as  Miss 
Landon ;  and  this  arose  mainly  from  her 
large  sympathy.  She  was  pla)rful  with 
the  young,  sedate  with  the  old,  and  con- 
siderate and  reflective  with  the  middle- 
aged.  She  could  be  tender  and  she 
could  be  severe,  prosaic  or  practical, 
and  essentially  of  and  with  whatever 
party  she  happened  to  be  among.  I 
remember  this  faculty  once  receiving  an 
illustration.  She  was  taking  lessons  in 
riding,  and  had  so  much  pleased  the 
riding-master  that  at  parting  he  com- 
plimented her  by  saying,  —  "  Well, 
Madam,  we  are  all  born  with  a  genius 
for  something,  and  yours  is  for  horse- 
manship." 

One  of  the  many  writers  who  mourned 
her  wrote,  — "  Apart  from  her  literary 
abilities  and  literary  labors,  she  was,  in 
every  domestic  relation  of  life,  honor- 
able, generous,  dutiful,  self-denying,  — 
zealous,  disinterested,  and  untiring  in 
her  friendship."     • 

Her  industry  was  wonderful.  She 
was  perpetually  at  work,  although  often 
—  nay,  generally  —  with  little  of  phys- 
ical strength,  and  sometimes  utterly 
prostrated  by  illness.  Yet  the  work 
must  be  done,  as  her  poems  and  prose 
were  usually  for  periodical  publications, 
and  a  given  day  of  the  month  it  was 
impossible  to  postpone. 

Poetry  she  wrote  with  great  ease  and 
rapidity.  In  one  of  her  letters  to  Mrs. 
Hall  she  says,  —  "I  write  poetry  with 
far  more  ease  than  I  do  prose.  In 
prose,  I  often  stop  and  hesitate  for  a 
word ;  in  poetry,  never.  Poetry  always 
carries  me  out  of  myself.  I  forget  ev- 
erything in  the  world  but  the  subject 
that  has  interested  my  imagination.  It 
is  the  most  subtile  and  insinuating  of 
pleasures  ;  but,  like  all  pleasures,  it  is 
dearly  bought  It  is  always  succeeded 
by  extreme  depression  of  spirits,  and 
an  overpowering  sense  of  bodily  fa- 
tigue." And  in  one  of  her  letters  to 
me,  she  observes,  —  "Writing  poetry 
is  like  writing  one's  own  native  lan- 
guage, and  writing  prose  is  like  writing 


in  a  strange  tongue."  In  fiict,  she 
coidd  have  improvised  admirable  verses 
without  hesitation  or  difficulty. 

She  married  Mr.  Maclean,  then  Gov- 
ernor of  the  Gold  Coast,* — a  man  who 
neither  knew,  felt,  nor  estimated  her 
value.  He  wedded  her,  I  am  con- 
vinced, only  because  he  was  vain  of 
her  celebrity ;  and  she  married  him  on- 
ly because  he  enabled  her  to  change 
her  name,  and  to  remove  from  that  so- 
ciety in  which  just  then  the  old  and 
infamous  slander  had  been  revived. 
There  was  in  this  case  no  love,  no 
esteem,  no  respect, — and  there  could 
have  been  no  discharge  of  duty  that 
was  not  thankless  and  irksome. 

They  were  married  a  fortnight,  at 
least,  before  the  wedding  was  an- 
nounced, even  to  friends.  A  sad  story 
was  some  time  afterwards  circulated,  — 
the  truth  of  which  I  have  no  means  of 
knowing,  —  that  Mr.  Maclean  had  been 
engaged  to  a  lady  in  Scotland,  which 
engagement  he  had  withdrawn,  and  that 
she  was  in  the  act  of  sealing  a  letter  to 
him  when  her  dress  caught  fire,  and 
she  was  burnt  to  death. 

The  last  time  I  saw  L.  £.  L.  was  in 
Upper  Berkeley  Street,  Connaught 
Square,  on  the  27th  of  June,  1838,  soon 
after  her  marriage,  when  she  was  on 
the  eve  of  her  fatal  voyage.  A  farewell 
party  was  given  to  some  of  her  friends 
by  Mrs.  Sheddon,  with  whom  she  then 
boarded,  —  the  Misses  Lance  having 
resigned  their  school  When  the  prop- 
er time  arrived,  there  was  a  whisper 
round  the  table,  and,  as  I  was  the  old- 
est of  her  friends  present,  it  fell  to  my 
lot  to  propose  her  health.  I  did  so 
with  the  warmth  I  felt.  The  chances 
were  that  we  should  never  meet  again ; 
and  I  considered  myself  free  to  speak 
of  her  in  terms  such  as  could  not  but 
have  gratified  any  husband,  —  except 
the  husband  she  had  chosen,  —  and 
sought  to  convey  to  Maclean's  mind 
the  high  respect,  as  well  as  affection, 
with  which  we  all  regarded  her.    The 

*  She  was  married  on  the  7th  of  June,  18381  to 
Mr.  Maclean,  at  Si  Mary's,  Bryaa^iton  Square, — her 
brother,  the  Rev.  Whittington  Landon,  officiating^. 
The  bride  was  given  away  by  her  long  and  attached 
friend,  Sir  Lytton  Bulwer. 


i865.] 


Memories  of  Authors. 


339 


reader  may  imagine  the  chUl  that  came 
over  the  party  when  Maclean  rose  to 
return  thanks.  He  merely  said,  "If 
Mrs.  Maclean  has  as  many  friends  as 
Mr.  Hall  says  she  has,  I  only  wonder 
they  allowed  her  to  leave  them."  One 
by  one  the  guests  rose  and  departed, 
with  a  brief  and  mournful  farewell. 
Probably  not  one  of  them  all  ever  saw 
her  again. 

She  sailed  with  her  husband  for  Afri- 
ca on  the  5th  of  July,  1838.  On  the 
15th  of  August  she  landed,  and  on  the 
15th  of  October  she  was  dead  !  —  dy- 
ing, according  to  a  coroner's  jury,  **  of 
having  incautiously  taken  a  dose  of 
prussic  acid." 

The  circumstances  of  her  death  will 
be  forever  a  mystery ;  for  her  husband 
has  since  *'  died  and  made  no  sign " ; 
but  no  one  ever  heard  of  her  having 
had  this  horrible  medicine  in  her  pos- 
session. Dr.  Thomson,  who  made  up 
her  medicine-chest,  and  who  had  been 
her  attendant  for  many  years,  declared 
he  never  prescribed  it  for  her ;  and  it 
was  next  to  impossible  she  could  have 
possessed  it  To  the  various  rumors 
that  arose  out  of  her  death  I  do  not 
allude.  I  do  not  believe  she  committed 
suicide ;  nay,  I  am  sure  she  did  not, 
although  I  know  she  was  most  wretch- 
ed in  her  mournful  banishment,  most 
miserable  in  her  changed  condition,  and 
that,  if  her  past  years  had  been  gloomy, 
her  future  was  very  dark  ;  but  I  believe 
that  poison  in  some  shape — not  from 
the  small  vial  which  it  was  said  was 
found  in  her  hand  —  was  administered 
by  the  African  woman  who  is  known  to 
have  been  her  predecessor, — one  of 
those 

"  ChOdren  of  the  South 
With  whom  revenge  is  virtue." 

The  following  letter  from  L.  £•  L.  was 
received  by  Mrs.  Hall  on  the  3d  of  Jan- 
uary, 1839.  ^^  ^^  without  a  date.  On 
the  1st  we  had  heard  of  her  death.  It 
was  a  "  ship-letter,"  but  the  mark  of  the 
place  at  which  it  was  posted  is  indis- 
tinct 

^'My  dear  Mrs.  Hall,  —  I  must 
send  you  one  of  my  earliest  epistles  from 


the  tropics ;  and  as  a  ship  is  just  sailing, 
I  will  write,  though  it  can  only  be  a  few 
hurried  lines.  I  can  tell  you  my  whole 
voyage  in  three  words,  —  six  weeks' 
sea-sickness ;  but  I  am  now  as  well  as 
possible,  and  have  been  ever  since  I 
landed.  The  castle  is  a  very  noble 
building,  and  all  the  rooms  large  and 
cool,  while  some  would  be  pretty  even 
in  England.  That  where  I  am  writing 
is  painted  a  deep  blue,  with  some  splen- 
did engravings;  indeed,  fine  prints 
seem  quite  a  passion  with  the  gentle- 
men here.  Mr.  Maclean's  library  is 
filled  up  with  bookcases  of  African 
mahogany,  and  portraits  oftdistinguish- 
ed  authors.  I,  however,  never  approach 
it  without  due  preparation  and  humil- 
ity, so  crowded  is  it  with  scientific 
instruments,  telescopes,  chronometers, 
barometers,  gasometers,  etc.,  none  of 
which  may  be  touched  by  hands  pro- 
fane. On  three  sides,  the  batteries  are 
dashed  against  by  the  waves ;  on  the 
fourth  is  a  splendid  land  view.  The 
hills  are  covered  to  the  top  with  what 
we  should  call  wood,  but  is  here  called 
bush.  This  dense  mass  of  green  is 
varied  by  some  large,  handsome,  white 
houses  belonging  to  different  gentlemen, 
and  on  two  of  the  heights  are  small 
forts  built  by  Mr.  Maclean.  The  cocoa- 
trees  with  their  long  fan-like  leaves  are 
very  beautiful.  The  natives  seem  to 
be  obliging  and  intelligent,  and  look 
very  picturesque  with  their  fine  dark 
figures,  with  pieces  of  the  country  doth 
flung  round  them.  They  seem  to  have 
an  excellent  ear  for  music :  the  band 
plays  all  the  old  popular  airs,  which  they 
have  caught  fix>m  some  chance  hearing. 
The  servants  are  very  tolerable,  but 
they  take  so  maify  to  work.  The  pris- 
oners do  the  scouring,  and  fiucy  Uiree 
or  four  men  cleaning  a  room  that  an  old 
woman  in  England  would  do  in  an  hour, 
— besides  the  soldier  who  stands  by, 
his  bayonet  drawn  in  his  hand.  All  my 
troubles  have  been  of  a  housekeeping 
kind,  and  no  one  could  begin  on  a  more 
plentiful  sfock  of  ignorance  than  my- 
self. However,  like  $indbad  the  Sailor 
in  the  cavern,  I  begin  to  see  daylight 
I  have  numbered  and  labelled  my  keys, 


340 


Our  Oldest  Fritnd. 


[March, 


(their  name  is  Legion,)  and  every  morn- 
ing I  take  my  way  to  the  stwe,  give  out 
flour,  sugar,  butter,  etc,  and  am  learning 
to  scold,  if  I  see  any  dust  or  miss  the 
customary  polish  on  the  tables.  I  am 
actually  getting  the  steward  of  the  ship, 
who  is  my  right  hand,  to  teach  me  how 
to  make  pastry.  I  will  report  progress 
in  the  next  We  live  almost  entirely 
on  ducks  and  chickens ;  if  a  sheep  be 
killed,  it  must  be  eaten  the  same  day. 
The  bread  is  very  good,  palm  wine  be- 
ing used  for  yeast;  and  yams  are  an 
excellent  substitute  for  potatoes.  The 
fruit  generally  is  too  sweet  for  my  lik- 
ing; but  the  oranges  and  pine-apples 
are  delicious.  You  cannot  think  the 
complete  seclusion  in  which  I  live; 
but  I  have  a  great  resource  in  writ- 
ing, and  I  am  very  well  and  very  happy. 
But  I  think  even  more  than  I  expect- 


ed, if  that  be  possible,  of  my 
friends. 

Your  truly  affectionate 

L.  £.  Maclean. 

She  had  signed  her  name  "L.  £. 
Landon,'*  but  had  erased  '^Landon," 
and  written  in  "Maclean,"  adding, 
"  How  difficult  it  is  to  leave  off  an  old 
custom !  ** 

Poor  girl !  She  thus  fulfilled  her  own 
mournful  prediction,  though  speaking 
of  another :  — 


(( 


Where  my  father's  bonei  are  lyings 
There  my  bones  will  never  Ik  ! 

Mine  shall  be.a  lonelier  endtai^ 

Mine  shall  be  a  wilder  giave. 
Where  the  shout  and  shriek  are  blendin|^ 

Where  the  tempest  meets  the  wave  : 
Or  periiaps  a  fate  more  looely. 

In  some  drear  and  distant  ward. 
Where  my  weary  eyes  meet  only 

Hired  nurse  and  sollen  guard." 


OUR  OLDEST  FRIEND. 
Read  to  "The  Boys  of  '29,"  Jan.  5,  1865. 

I  GIVE  you  the  health  of  the  oldest  friend 
That,  short  of  eternity,  earth  can  lend, — 
A  friend  so  faithful  and  tried  and  true 
.That  nothing  can  wean  him  from  me  and  you. 

When  first  we  screeched  in  the  sudden  blaze 
Of  the  daylight's  blinding  and  blasting  rays. 
And  gulped  at  the  gaseous,  groggy  air. 
This  old,  old  friend  stood  waiting  there. 

And  when,  with  a  kind  of  mortal  strife. 
We  had  gasped  and  choked  into  breathing  life. 
He  watched  by  the  cradle,  day  and  nighty 
And  held  our  hands  till  we  stood  upright 

From  gristie  and  pulp  our  frames  have  grown 
To  stringy  muscle  and  solid  bone  ; 
While  we  were  changing,  he  altered  not ; 
We  might  forget,  but  he  never  forgot 

He  came  with  us  to  the  college  class,  — 
Littie  careH  he  for  the  steward's  pass  1 
All  the  rest  must  pay  their  fee. 
But  the  grim  old  dead-head  entered  free. 


I 


1S65.]  Our  Oldest  Friend.  341 

He  stayed  with  us  while  we  counted  o'er 
Four  times  each  of  the  seasons  four  ; 
And  with  every  season,  from  year  to  year, 
The  dear  name  Classmate  he  made  more  dear. 

He  never  leaves  as,  —  he  never  wiU, 
Till  our  hands  are  cold  and  our  hearts  are  still ; 
On  birthdays,  and  Christmas,  and  New- Year's  too, 
He  always  remembers  both  me  and  you. 

Every  year  this  isuthful  fHend 

His  little  present  is  sure  to  send ; 

Every  year,  wheresoever  we  be. 

He  wants  a  keepsake  from  you  and  me. 

How  he  loves  us  !  he  pats  our  heads. 
And,  lo  !  they  are  gleaming  with  silver  threads ; 
And  he  's  always  begging  one  lock  of  hair. 
Till  our  shining  crowns  have  nothing  to  wear. 

At  length  he  will  tell  us,  one  by  one, 
^  My  child,  your  labor  on  earth  is  done ; 
And  now  you  must  journey  ^Szx  to  see 
My  elder  brother,  —  Eternity !  " 

And  so,  when  long,  long  years  have  passed, 
Some  dear  old  fellow  will  be  the  last,  — 
Never  a  boy  alive  but  he 
Of  all  our  goodly  company ! 

When  he  lies  down,  but  not  till  then. 
Our  kind  Class- Angel  will  drop  the  pen 
That  writes  in  the  day-book  kept  above 
Our  lifelong  record  of  fiuth  and  love. 

So  here  's  a  health  in  homely  rhyme 
To  our  oldest  classmate.  Father  Time  ! 
May  our  last  survivor  live  to  be 
As  bald,  but  as  wise  and  tough  as  he  I 


342 


Edward  Everett 


[March, 


EDWARP    EVERETT. 


AT  the  funeral  of  Mr.  Everett,  on 
the  19th  of  January,  the  persons 
who  acted  as  pall-bearers,  and  accom- 
panied the  body  to  the  grave,  had  been 
appointed  to  that  service  by  the  gov- 
ernment of  the  city  of  Boston. 

They  represented  respectively  the 
Commonwealth,  the  City,  the  Supreme 
Bench,  the  University,  the  American 
Academy,  the  Historical  Society,  the 
Public  Library,  the  Union  Club,  and  the 
United  States  Army  and  Navy.  The 
officers  of  the  Army  and  Navy  highest 
in  rank  on  this  station  represented  these 
services ;  the  other  organizations  were 
represented,  in  each  case,  by  their  high- 
est officers. 

The  Governor  received  at  the  same 
time  the  following  despatch ;  — 

"  It  is  impracticable  for  the  President 
and  the  Cabinet  to  leave  the  capital  to 
attend  the  funeral. 

"  The  President  of  the  United  States 
and  the  heads  of  departments  tender  to 
the  Commonwealth  of  Massachusetts 
their  condolence  on  the  lamented  death 
of  Edward  Everett,  who  was  worthy  to 
be  enrolled  among  the  noblest  of  the 
nation's  benefactors." 

Why  do  you  call  that  man  a  private 
citizen,  to  whom  every  officer  in  the  Na- 
tion, in  the  Commonwealth,  and  in  the 
City,  unites  in  paying  homage  }  Why 
do  you  select  the  leading  man  in  every 
class  of  service  to  be  present  to  repre- 
sent you  at  his  open  grave  ? 

The  true  answer  to  these  questions, 
and  the  true  explanation  of  the  univer- 
sal feeling  expressed  in  public  and  in 
private  when  he  died,  are  not  found  with- 
out reference  to  some  traits  of  moral 
constitution,  to  which  it  is  well,  I  be- 
lieve, to  call  attention  now.  To  those 
traits  of  character,  —  as  shown  through 
life,  —  rather  than  to  specific  gifts  of  in- 
tellectual power,  is  Mr.  Everett's  singu- 
larly varied  success  to  be  ascribed.  You 
may  say,  if  you  please,  that  it  requires  a 
very  rare  mental  genius  and  even  very 
rare  physical  endowment  to  carry  out 


the  behests  of  such  resolution  as  I  am 
to  describe.  This,  of  course,  is  true. 
But  unless  you  have  the  moral  determi- 
natioii  which  compels  your  vivid  mind 
to  plan,  and  your  well-built  machine  to 
work  for  you,  you  get  no  such  life.  The 
secret — if  it  is  to  be  called  such  —  of 
this  wonderful  life,  is  the  determination 
to  do  the  special  thing  which  at  the  mo- 
ment is  to  be  done.  Mr.  Everett  was 
no  admirer  of  Carlyle.  But  long  before 
Carlyle  began  to  tell  men  ^*to  do  the 
thing  that  came  next  them,"  Mr.  Ever- 
ett had  been  doing  it,  with  a  steady  con- 
fidence that  he  could  do  it.  Now  the 
things  that  come  next  men  in  America 
are  very  various.  That  is  the  reason 
why  he  has  been  doing  very  various 
things.  That  is  the  reason  why  Presi- 
dent and  Cabinet,  Navy  and  Army, 
University,  Bench,  and  Academy,  City 
and  Commonwealth,  meet,  by  theif  first 
representatives,  at  his  grave,  in  recog- 
nition of  specific  service  of  the  most 
eminent  character  which  he  has  ren- 
dered to  each  of  them,  and  which  it 
would  be  a  shame  for  them  to  fail  to 
own. 

In  a  little  sketch  of  his  college  life, 
which  he  once  sent  me,  there  is  an  esti- 
mate —  made  at  the  age  of  sixty-one  — 
of  his  own  standing  when  he  was  a 
Sophomore,  in  comparison  with  some 
of  his  classmates.  Some  of  those  he 
names  have  passed  on  before  him ;  two 
of  them  remain  with  us,  to  be  honored 
always  for  the  fruits  of  that  scholar- 
ship which  he  observed  so  young.  '  I 
think  there  can  be  nothing  wrong  in 
publishing  a  recollection,  which,  by  ac- 
cident, gives  a  hint  as  to  the  method 
of  his  own  after-life  to  which  I  have 
alluded. 

"  I  was  considered,  I  believe,  as  tak- 
ing rank  among  the  few  best  scholars 
of  the  [Sophomore]  class,  although  there 
was  no  branch  in  which  I  was  not  equal- 
led—  and  in  several  I  was  excelled  — 
by  some  of  my  classmates,  except  per- 
haps Metaphysics.    Thus,  I  was  sur- 


1865] 


Edward  Everett. 


343 


passed  by  Cooper  in  Latin,  but  he  was 
wholly  deifident  in  Mathematics,  and  re- 
garded with  pity,  not  altogether  unmix- 
ed with  contempt,  all  who  had  a  taste 
for  that  study.  Story,  a  brother  of  Mr. 
Justice  Story,  excelled  me  in  Greek,  but 
he  neglected  everything  else,  and  seem- 
ed to  get  at  the  Greek  rather  by  intui- 
tion than  study.  Fuller,  Gray,  and  Hunt 
were  my  superiors  in  Mathematics ;  but 
in  other  studies  I  was  the  'rival  of  Ful- 
ler, and  Hunt  made  no  pretensions  to 
general  scholarship; — for  the  branch 
in  which  he  excelled  he  had  a  decided 
genius.  Gilman  was  a  more  practised 
writer  than  I ;  so  was  Damon ;  and 
Frothingham  greatly  excelled  me  in 
speaking,  and  was  in  everything  a  high- 
ly accomplished  scholar.  If  I  had  any 
strong  point,  it  was  that  ofnegUcting  no 
branch  and  doing  about  equaliy  well  in 

aiu: 

Jle  had  occasion  enough  to  show  in 
life  that  it  is  a  very  strong  pointy 
this  ^  of  neglecting  no  branch,  and  do)> 
ing  ecpially  well  in  ail."  And  in  hift 
estimates  of  other  men,  I  think, — ^thougi 
he  was  more  charitable  in  his  judgment^ 
than  any  man  I  have  ever  known,  —  he 
always  had  latent  the  feeling  that  men 
could  do  almost  anything  they  really 
resolved  to  do.  You  could  never  per- 
suade him  tfiat  a  public  speaker  could 
not  leara  to  speak  welL  He  did  not 
pretend  that  all  men  could  speak  equal- 
ly well,  but  he  really  thought  that  it 
was  the  duty  of  a  man,  who  meant  to 
speak  in  public,  to  train  himself  in  voice, 
in  intonation,  in  emphasis,  so  as  to  speak 
simply,  and  without  attracting  attention 
to  any  £ii1ure.  He  thought  any  man 
could  do  this  as  truly  as  any  man  could 
acquire  a  good  handwriting.  And  any 
one  who  knew  him  knows  that  he  con- 
sidered this  art  as  easily  attained  as 
the  arts  by  which  we  clean  our  faces  or 
our  hands^ 

Starting  upon  life  with  this  principle, 
that  he  would  do  what  had  to  be  done, 
—  if  nobody  else  appeared  to  do  it, — 
and  that  he  could  do  it,  too,  —  he  soon 

*  **  Far  if  ooe  has  anythinf;  worth  writing,  it  is 
mUy  worth  while  to  write  it  so  it  caa  be  read.**  — 
A  ddrut  mi  Srnrrg* 


found  himself  with  work  enough  on  his 
hands.  English's  flippant  attack  on  the 
New  Testament  Scriptures  appeared 
while  Mr.  Everett  was  minister  of  Brat- 
tie-Street  Church.  Because  it  appear- 
ed, he  considered  it  his  place  to  de- 
fend the  New  Testament  against  that 
specific  attack ;  and  he  did  it  The 
**  Defence  of  Christianity,"  which  he 
then  published,  is  of  value,  chiefly  as 
a  piece  of  controversy  belonging  to  the 
history  of  opinion  in  this  neighborhood 
at  that  moment  Controversy  has  long 
since  taken  other  grounds.  For  that 
purpose,  at  that  moment,  the  book  did 
its  work  completely.  It  exhausted  the 
points  which  Mr.  English  raised,  and 
exhausted  them  in  a  way  which  requir- 
ed very  patient  study.  Mr.  Everett 
once  said  that  to  compile  the  chs^ter 
on  the  quotations  of  the  Old  Testament 
by  the  New  Testament  writers,  he  went 
through  the  whole  of  the  Mischna  in 
the  edition  of  Surenhusius,  in  six  vol- 
umes folio.  This  chapter,  I  may  say  in 
passing,  is  the  chapter  of  most  perma- 
nent value  in  the  *^  Defence."  Now 
this  "  Defence,"  the  work. of  a  boy  of 
twenty  years  of  age,  was  written  in  the 
midst  of  the  demands  made  upon  the 
popular  preacher  in  one  of  the  largest 
parishes  fn  Boston,  in  a  few  months' 
time,  —  sent  to  the  printer  chapter  by 
chapter.  And  Mr.  Everett  said  of  it,  in 
after-life,  that,  if  it  did  not  seem  like 
affectation,  he  would  say  that  it  was  re- 
laxation from  the  work  he  was  doing  in 
the  pulpit.  I  have  no  doubt  it  was.  I 
have  no  thought  that  he  was  specially 
fitted  for  that  work.  It  illustrates  rath- 
er his  moral  force  of  determination. 
He  thought  that  particular  charge  of 
Mr.  English's  ought  to  be  answered. 
Nobody  else  answered  it  And  there- 
fore he  did  it  himself.  He  knew  he 
could  do  it,  if  it  must  be  done.  If  he 
had  not  prepared  for  it^  he  must  pre* 
pare  for  it  then. 

But  the  reader  will  observe,  I  hope, 
that  he  does  not  in  the  "  Defence  "  at- 
tempt anything  else  than  the  task  he 
had  assigned.  Here  is  no  general 
Apology.  It  is  no  discussion  of  the 
Evidences.      It  is  a  specific  duty, — 


344 


Edward  Everett, 


[March, 


which  he  had  assigned  to  himself, — 
cleanly,  neatly,  and  thoroughly  done. 
He  knew  what  he  was  going  to  do,  when 
he  began ;  and  he  knew,  when  he  had 
finished  what  he  could  do.  His  victo- 
ries, his  life  through,  will  all  be  found,  I 
€iink,  to  illustrate  that  sort  of  steady, 
but  determined  resolution, — determin- 
ed, in  the  sense  that,  before  he  began, 
the  bounds  were  established  for  the 
work  which  was  to  be  done. 

When  he  went  to  Congress,  for  in- 
stance, in  1824,  he  had  been  widely 
known,  in  this  part  of  the  country  at 
least,  as  a  scholar  who  had  travelled  in 
Europe,  and  as  one  of  the  leaders  in 
the  movement  in  favor  of  the  Greeks. 
Very  naturally,  Mr.  Taylor  appointed 
him  on  the  Committee  on  Foreign  Re* 
lations,  and  in  that  capacity  he  served 
all  the  time  he  was  in  the  House.  ^  I 
devoted  myself^"  he  said  of  that  part  of 
ills  iife,  ''  mainly  to  the  dischai^e  of  that 
part  of  the  public  business  which  was 
intrusted  to  me " ;  that  is,  to  the  for- 
eign relations.  There  were  enough 
other  interests  in  those  years  to  which 
he  might  have  devoted  himsel£  But 
this  was  the  sub-department  which  had 
been  assigned  to  him,  and  therefore  he 
devoted  himself  to  it  If  it  had  been 
Indian  Afi^rs,  or  the  Militia,'^e  would 
have  devoted  himself  to  either  of 
those ;  and  I  think  he  would  have  dis- 
tinguished himself  in  either  of  them 
as  much  as  he  did  in  the  other. 

In  this  connection,  it  is  to  be  observ- 
ed, that,  though  few  men  worked  as  rap- 
idly or  as  easily  as  he,  this  same  moral 
determination  appeared  in  the  resolute- 
ness with  which  he  refused  to  do  any- 
thing till  he  was  satisfied  with  his  own 
preparation.  The  thing  might  not  re- 
quire any,  and  then  he  made  none.  But 
if  it  was  an  occasion  which  he  thought 
deserved  preparation,  no  haste  nor  press- 
ure nor  other  excuse  availed  to  induce 
him  to  attempt  what  he  had  not  made 
the  fit  preparation  for.  I  think  nothing 
really  made  him  so  indignant  with  us 
who  were  his  juniors,  as  that  we  would 
half  do  things,  instead  of  taking  time  to 
do  them  as  well  as  we  could.  Yet,  when 
the  necessity  came,  he  could  achieve 


things  that  no  other  man  would  have 
dreamed  of  on  such  short  notice.  There 
are  stories  of  his  feats  in  this  way  which 
need  not  be  repeated  here. 

I  have  heard  people  speak  of  his  po- 
litical life,  especially  of  late  years,  as  if 
it  were  a  great  riddle ;  and,  in  eulogies 
on  him  since  his  death,  I  find  men  speak- 
ing as  if  he  underwent  some  great  re- 
vulsion of  character  when  Fort  Sumter 
was  attacked  in  1861.  I  think  there  is 
no  such  mystery  about  it  The  secret 
— if  secret  it  is  to  be  called  —  of  his 
politics  was  blazoned  in  almost  every 
speech  he  ever  made,  if  people  could 
only  train  themselves  to  think  that  a 
public  man  really  believes  what  he  says. 
It  was  this,  that  at  heart  he  believed  in 
the  people.  He  believed  they  had  vir- 
tue enough  and  good  sense  enough  to 
carry  them  through  any  difficulty  they 
would  ever  get  into.  He  did  not  be- 
lieve in  total  depravity.  He  did  not, 
therefore,  believe  in  theirs.  And  when 
he  had  any  appeal  to  make  to  the  peo- 
ple, he  appealed  to  their  supposed  vir- 
tue, and  not  to  their  supposed  .vices, — 
he  spoke  to  their  good  sense,  and  not 
to  their  folly.  Mr.  Eperson  says  some- 
where, diat  he  gave  people  no  new 
thoughts.  I  do  not  think  this  is  true. 
It  is,  however,  very  certain  that  he  gave 
them  no  buncombe.  He  believed  in 
them,  in  their  good*  sense,  and  in  their 
average  virtue.  He  knew  that  every- 
thing depended  on  them.  He  was  ea- 
ger to  educate  the  people,  therefore,  and 
aU  the  people.  He  did  not  believe  it 
possible  to  educate  any  of  them  too 
well.  And  if  you  had  asked  him,  the 
day  he  died,  what  had  been  the  central 
idea  of  his  life,  he  would  have  said  it- 
was  the  education  of  the  people.  His 
life  was  full  of  it  His  speeches  were 
fidl  of  it  Nothing  so  provoked  him  as 
any  snobbism  which  wanted  to  hinder  it 
When  he  was  President  of  the  College, 
—  I  think  in  1848,  —  there  was  a  black 
boy  in  the  High  School  at  Cambridge, 
fitting  for  college.  Some  gendemen  in 
Alabama,  who  had  sons  there,  or  on 
their  way  there,  wrote  to  Mr.  Everett 
to  remonstrate  against  the  boy's  en- 
tering.    He  replied,  that  the  College 


i865.] 


Edward  Everett. 


345 


was  endowed  to  educate  all  comers; 
that,  if  the  black  boy  could  pass  his 
examination,  as  he  hoped  he  could,  he 
would  be  admitted ;  and  that,  if,  as  they 
seemed  to  suppose,  all  the  whiter  stu- 
dents ^thdrew,  the  College  would  then 
be  conducted  on  its  endowments  for 
the  black  boy  alone.  And  that  was  no 
exceptional  reply.  It  was  his  way  of 
looking  at  such  things. 

Now  it  is  very  true  that  a  man  like 
that  makes  no  demagogue  appeals  to 
the  people.  He  will  not  be  apt  to  ally 
himself  with  any  specially  radical  party. 
He  will  never  say  that  an  unwashed 
man  has  as  good  chance  for  godliness 
as  a  washed  man,  because  he  will  not 
believe  it  He  will  never  say  that  an 
ignorant  man's  vote  is  as  good  as  a 
sensible  man's,  because  he  will  not  be-  ^ 
lieve  that  But  in  any  question  where 
the  rights  of  men  are  on  onp  side  and 
the  rights  of  classes  on  the  other,  he  will ' 
pronounce  for  the  rights  of  men.  Ac- 
cordingly, his  verdict  was  stiffly  against 
the  Missouri  Compromise  in  1820  and 
1 82 1.  He  said  it  was  unwise  and  unjust 
When,  in  1836,  it  came  time,  under  that 
Compromise,  to  admit  the  State-of  Ar- 
kansas, —  the  next  Slave  State  after 
Missouri, — he  said  that  we  were  not 
bound  to  admit  her  with  slavery,  that 
the  Compromise  was  not  binding,  and 
never  could  be  made  binding;  it  was 
unwise  and  unjust  Because  he  had 
said  so,  he  considered  himself  estopped 
from  saying  that  it  was  binding,  and 
sacred,  and  inviolable,  and  all  that,  in 
1854,  when  the  rest  of  us  made  it  into 
a  new-found  palladium  of  liberty.  He 
would  not  argue  the  Nebraska  question 
On  the  Compromise,  but  on  the  original 
principles  of  the  popular  rights  involved. 
It  is  the  same  confidence  in  the  peo- 
ple which  shines  through  the  letter  to 
Baron  Hiilsemann,  which  he  wrote  at 
the  request  of  Mr.  Webster,  and  through 
his  answer  to  the  proposal  of  the  Three 
Powers  that  we  should  guaranty  Cuba 
to  Spain.  It  may  be  necessary  for  pop- 
ular freedom  that  Spain  shall  not  have 
Cuba.  The  same  thing  is  in  all  his  re- 
views of  the  Basil  Halls  and  other  trav- 
ellers.   I  do  not  suppose  he  liked  u 


dirty  table-cloth  better  than  Mrs.  Trol- 
lope  did.  I  do  not  suppose  he  liked  a 
Virginia  fence  better  than  Cobbett  did. 
But  he  knew  that  table-cloths  could  be 
washed,  and  Virginia  fences  changed  in 
time  for  hedges  and  walls.  And  he 
was  willing  to  wait  for  such  changes,  ~* 
even  with  all  the  elegance  people  talk 
of,  —  if  he  were  sure  that  the  education 
of  the  people  was  going  forward,  and  the 
lines  of  promotion  were  kept  open. 

When,  therefore,  the  issue  of  1861 
came,  there  was  no  question,  to  any-, 
body  who  knew  him  well,  where  he  1 
woidd  stand.'  He  would  stand  with  the 
democratic  side  against  the  aristocratic 
side.  And  the  issue  of  this  war  is  the 
issue  between  democracy  and  oligarchy. 
Persons  who  did  not  believe  in  the 
people  did  not  stand  on  the  democratic 
side.  Persona  who  thought  a  republi- 
can government  had  been  forced  on  us 
by  misfortune,  and  that  we  must  sim- 
ply make  the  best  of  it,  did  not  stand 
there.  They  did  not  believe  that  this 
time  the  people  could  get  through.  So 
they  thought  it  best  to  stop  before  be- 
ginning. He  knew  the  people  could  go 
through  anything.  So  he  thought  it 
best  to  hold  firm  to  the  end. 

Some  of  the  most  amusing  of  the  de- 
tails of  his  early  life,  which,  with  his 
wonderful  memory,  he  was  rather  fond 
of  relating,  belong  to  his  experiences 
in  education. 

Here  is  his  account  of  his  first  at-* 
tendance  at  the  central  town-school  of 
Dorchester,  after  he  had  left  a  dame- 
schooL 

'Hn  this  school,  on  first  entering  it, 
I  was  placed  at  the  bottom  of  the  lowest 
class ;  but  even  that  was  a  position  be- 
yond my  previous  attainments.  Unable 
to  spell  the  words  which  formed  the 
lesson,  I  used,  when  they  came  down  to 
me  from  the  boy  above,  to  say  just  what 
he  did,  not  being  far  enough  advanced 
to  insinuate  a  blunder  of  my  own.  But 
in  the  course  of  a  few  months  I  made 
great  progress.  In  writing  I  was  rather 
forward.  I  can  remember  writing  1799 
at  the  bottom  of  the  page  in  my  copy- 
book ;  and  this  is  the  oldest  date  which 
as  a  date  I  can  recollect    I  was  then. 


346 


Edward  Everett. 


[March, 


five  years  old.*  My  £either  having,  as  a 
reward  for  my  improvement,  promised 
me  a  bough  ten  'writing-book,'  as  it  was 
called,  instead  of  a  sheet  of  paper  fold- 
ed at  home,  with  which  children  usually 
began,  the  brilliant  prospect  melted  me 
almost  to  tears. 

"Each  boy  in  those  days  provided 
his  own  Mnk-hom,'  as  it  was  called. 
Mine  was  a  ponderous  article  of  lead, 
cast  by  myself  at  the  kitchen  fire,  with 
a  good  deal  of  aid  firom  the  hired  man 
^ho  was  employed  in  the  summer  to 
work  the  little  farm.  For  pens  we 
bought  two  goose-quills  fresh  fi-om  the 
wing,  for  a  cent ;  older  boys  paid  that 
sum  for  a  single  '  Dutch  quilL'  .... 

^\n  the  year  1802,  a  new  district 
school-house  was  built  near  our  resi- 
dence, to  which  I  was  transferred  firom 
the  school  on  the  meeting-house  hilL  It 
was  kept  by  Mr.  Wilkes  Allen,  afterwards 
a  respectable  clergyman  at  Chelmsford. 
I  was  now  between  eight  and  nine  years 
old.  My  eldest  brother  had  left  school, 
and  was  in  a  counting-room  in  Boston ; 
my  second  brother  had  entered  college ; 
and  as  we  were  almost  all  of  us  little 
folks  at  Mr.  Allen's,  I*  was  among  the 
most  advanced.  I  began  the  study  of 
arithmetic  at  this  time,  using  Pike  as 
the  text-book.  I  recollect  proceeding 
to  the  extraction  of  the  cube-root,  with- 
out the  slightest  comprehension  of  the 
principle  of  that  or  any  of  the  simplest 
arithmetical  operations.  I  could  have 
comprehended  them,  had  they  been  ju- 
diciously explained,  but  I  could  not  pen- 
etrate them  without  aid.  At  length  I 
caught  a  glimpse  of  the  principle  of  de- 
\  cimals.  I  thought  I  had  made  a  discov- 
ery as  confidently  as  Pythagoras  did 
when  he  demonstrated  the  forty-seventh 
proposition  of  the  first  book  of  Euclid. 
I  was  proportionately  annoyed  when  I 
afterwards  discovered  that  I  had  been 
anticipated  in  finding  out  that  '  a  deci- 

*  In  another  scrup  of  his  reminiscences,  he  says : 
"The  oldest  political  event  of  which  I  have  any 
recollection  is  that  of  the  qmui  French  War  of  1798. 
This  I  remember  only  in  connection  with  the 
family  talk  of  the  price  of  flour,  which  it  was  said 
would  cost  twenty  dollars  a  barrel  As  we  used 
principally  brown  bread,  this  was  of  leas  conse- 
quence ;  although  the  price  of  Indian  com  and  meal 
was  probably  increased  also.** 


mal  is  a  fraction  whose  denominator  is 
a  unit  with  as  many  ciphers  annexed 
as  the  numerator  has  places,*  or  rath- 
er in  finding  out  precisely  what  this 
meant'' 

He  entered  college  in  1807,  and  thus 
describes  his  first  experiences  there. 

'*  I  was  thirteen  years  old  in  April, 
and  entered  a  Freshman  the  following 
August,  being  the  youngest  member' of 
my  class.  I  lived  the  first  year  with 
my  classmate,  Charles  P.  Curtis,  in  a 
wooden  building  standing  at  the  corner 
of  the  Main  and  Church  Streets.  It 
was  officially  known  as  the  '  College 
House,'  but  known  by  the  students  as 
'Wiswall's  Den,'  or,  more  concisely, 
*  The  Den,'  — whether  from  its  comfort- 
less character  as  a  habitation  or  from 
some  worse  cause  I  do  not  know. 
There  was  a  tradition  that  it  had  been 
the  scene  of  a  horrid  domestic  tragedy, 
and  that  it  was  haunted  by  the  ghosts 
of  the  Wiswalls  ;  but  I  cannot  say  that 
during  the  twelvemonth  I  lived  in  '  The 
Den'  this  tale  was  confirmed  by  my 
own  experience. 

"  We  occupied  the  southwest  comer- 
chamber,  up  two  flights  of  stairs,  —  a 
room  about  fourteen  feet  square,  in 
which  were  contained  two  beds  and 
the  rest  of  our  furniture,  and  our  fuel, 
which  was  wood,  and  was  kept  under 
the  beds.  Two  very  small  closets  af- 
forded a  little  additional  space ;  but  the 
accommodations  were  certainly  far  from 
brilliant.  A  good  many  young  men 
who  go  to  college  ar€  idlers ;  some, 
worse  than  idlers.  I  suppose  my  class 
in  this  respect  was  like  other  classes ; 
but  there  was  a  fair  proportion  of  faith- 
ful, studious  students,  and  of  well-con- 
ducted young  men.  I  was  protected 
in  part,  perhaps,  by  my  youth,  from  the 
grosser  temptations.  I  went  through 
the  prescribed  studies  of  the  year  — 
which  were  principally  a  few  books  of 
Livy  and  Horace  for  the  Latin,  and '  Col- 
lectanea Graeca  Majora'  for  the  Greek 
—  about  as  well  as  most  of  the  class  ; 
but  the  manner  in  which  the  ancient 
languages  were  then  studied  was  de- 
plorably superficial.  It  was  confined 
to  the  most  cursory  reading  of  the  text 


1 86s.] 


Edward  Everett. 


347 


Besides  the  Latin  and  Greek  languages, 
we  had  a  weekly  recitation  in  Lowth^s 
English  Grammar,  and  in  the  Hebrew 
Grammar,  without  points  j  also  in  Arith- 
metic and  History,  the  last  from  Mil- 
lot's  Compend  as  a  text-book.  In  all 
these  branches  there  was  an  entire  want 
of  apparatus  ;  and  the  standard,  com- 
pared with  that  which  now  exists,  was 
extremely  low.  And  yet,  in  all  re- 
spects, I  imagine  a  great  improvement 
had  taken  place,  in  reference  to  college 
education,  on  the  state  of  things  which 
existed  in  the  previous  generation.  The 
intense  political  excitement  of  the  Rev- 
olutionary period  seems  to  have  unset- 
tled the  minds  of  men  from  the  quiet 
pursuits  of  life." 

Reminiscences  like  these  of  his  own 
lead  one  to  speak  of  his  memory,  which 
was  of  all  kinds,  and  wonderful  in  all 
His  memory  for  things  was  as  remark- 
able as  that  for  words,  —  a  parallel  I 
have  known  in  very  few  men.  In  this 
double  memory  lay  his  power,  which 
often  excite^  the  surprise  of  other 
speakers,  of  introducing  into  a  dis- 
course which  he  had  written  out,  and, 
as  men  said,  committed  to  memory,  a 
passage  purely  extempore,  so  precisely 
that  no  patch  could  be  observed  at  the 
junctures.  The  truth  is,  that  it  was 
not  a  matter  of  much  account  with  him 
whether  he  had  written  out  a  statement 
of  a  foct  or  not.  He  was  sure  of  the 
&ct  And  in  simple  narrative  he  was 
as  willing  to  use  extempore  language 
as  language  prepared.  Mr.  Emerson 
says,  in  some  not  very  flattering  criti- 
cisms on  him,  —  "It  was  remarked,  for 
a  man  who  threw  out  so  many  facts,  he 
M-as  seldom  convicted  of  a  blunder." 
I  do  not  think  he  had  any  system  of 
training  memory,  beyond  that  of  using 
it  and  calling  on  it  pitilessly,  which  is, 
I  believe,  the  central  rule  regarding  it 

Here  is  a  curious  story  of  a  feat  of 
memory,  in  his  sketch  of  his  Sophomore 
year. 

^  I  have  mentioned  Metaphysics  as 
a  study  in  which  I  succeeded.  I  mean, 
of  course,  only  that  I  prepared  myself 
thoroughly  in  the  text-books.  Watts's 
Logic  was  the  first  book  studied  in  this 


branch,  —  not  a  very  inviting  treatise, 
compared   with    that    of   Archbishop 
Whately,  but  easily  comprehended,  and 
not  repulsive.    The  account  of  the  syl- 
logistic method  amused  me ;  and  the 
'barbarous  stanza  describing  the  vari- 
ous syllogistic  modes  and  figures  dwelt 
for  a  long  time  in  my  memory,  and  has 
not  wholly  faded  away.    Locke's  'Es- 
say concerning  Human  Understanding ' 
came  next    This  was  more  difficult    I 
recollect  we  used  to  make  sport  of  the 
first  sentence  in  the  'Epistle  to  the 
Reader,*  which  was,  *  I  here  put  into  thy 
hands  what  has  been  the  diversion  of 
some  of  my  idle  and  heavy  hours :  if  it 
has  the  good  luck  to  prove  so  of  any  of 
thine,  and  thou  hast  but  half  so  much 
pleasure  in  reading  as  I  had  in  writing 
it,  thou  wilt  as  little  think  thy  money, 
as   I  do  my  pains,  111  bestowed.'     I 
cannot  say  that  we  any  of  us  derived 
much  diversion  from  it ;  but  I  over- 
came its  difficulty  by  the  resolute  pur- 
pose to  accomplish  whatever  was  re- 
quired.   We  recited  from  it  three  times 
a  day,  the  four  first  days  of  the  week, 
the  recitation  of  Thursday  afternoon 
being  a  review  of  the  rest    We  were 
expected  to  give  the  substance  of  the 
author's  remarks,  but  were  at  liberty' 
to  condense  them,  and  to  use  our  own 
words.     Although    the   style   of  Mr. 
Locke  is  not  remarkably  compact,  it 
required  a  greater  maturity  of  mind 
than  is  possessed  by  many  boys  of 
fourteen  to  abridge  his  paragraphs,  or 
state  his  principles  or  their  illustrations 
more  concisely  than  he  does  himself. 
I  had  at  that  time  a  memory  which 
recoiled   from   nothing;    and    I.  soon 
found  that  the  shortest  process  was  to 
learn  the  text  by  heart  nearly  verbatim, 
I  recollect  particularly,  on  one  occasion 
of  the  review  on  Thursday  afternoon, 
that  I  was  called  upon  to  recite  early, 
and,  commencing  with  the  portion  of 
the  week's  study  which  came  next,  I 
went  on  repeating  word  for  word  and 
paragraph  after  paragraph,  and  finally, 
not  being  stopped  by  our  pleased  tu- 
tor,* page  after  page,  till  I  finally  went 
through  in  that  way  the  greater  part 

*  Mr.  Hedge,  with  whom  this  was  a  favorite  passage. 


348 


Edward  Everett. 


[March, 


of  the  eleven  recitations  of  the  week. 
The  celebrated  passage  on  the  Mem- 
ory happened  to  be  included.  A  por- 
tion of  it^  after  the  lapse  of  forty-seven 
years,  remains  in  my  recollection  as  dis- 
tinctly as  it  did  the  day  after  ^ I  learned  • 
it.  I  refer  to  the  passage  beginnings 
^Thus  the  ideas,  as  well  as  children, 
of  our  youth  often  die  before  us ;  and 
our  minds  represent  to  us  those  tombs 
to  which  we  are  approaching,  where, 
though  the  brass  and  nurble  remain, 
yet  the  inscriptions  are  e£Gciced  by 
time,  and  the  imagery  moulders  away.' 

*'  I  may  observe,  that,  beautiful  as  is 
this  language  beyond  anything  else  in 
the  work  of  Locke,  it  will  not  stand  the 
test  of  criticism.  There  is  no  resem-. 
blance  between  what  befalls  the  ideas 
and  the  children  of  our  youth ;  and  sup- 
posing there  were  such  a  resemblance, 
there  is  not  the-  slightest  analogy  be- 
tween the  premature  decease  of  the 
ideas  and  the  children  of  our  youth  and 
the  disappearance  of  monumental  in- 
scriptions and  imagery  from  the  brass 
and  marble  of  tombs.  But  I  feel  asham- 
ed of  this  attempt  to  pick  flaws  in  this 
beautiful  passage." 

But  I  must  not  dwell  on  these  remi- 
niscences. I  am  tempted  to  refer  any 
reader  interested  in  his  work  in  the  ed- 
ucation of  the  people  to  an  article  on 
that  subject  in  the  seventh  volume  of 
Mr.  Barnard's  "Journal  of  Education." 

I  once  heard  him  say  that  the  mental 
faculty  which  had  been  of  most  use  to 
him  and  had  given  him  most  pleasure 
was  his  facility  in  acquiring  language. 
He  said  this  on  occasion  of  a  visit  to  a 
county  prison,  where  they  had  taken 
him  to  the  cell  of  a  person  whom  no 
one  could  understand.  I  think  he  had 
been  called  a  Greek ;  but  he  proved  to 
be  an  Italian.  Mr.  Everett  was  then 
Governor  of  the  Commonwealth,  and 
this  was  an  official  visit  It  was  a  pret- 
^  illustration  of  republican  institutions, 
that  this  poor  prisoner  in  his  solitude 
should  first  hear  his  own  language  from 
the  chief  magistrate.  Mr.  Everett  ad- 
dressed him  first  in  the  language  of  his 
supposed  country,  —  I  think  in  Greek, 
—  and  changed  to  Italian,  when  the 


prisoner  spoke  to  him.  He  spoke 
French,  German,  Italian,  and  the  Ro- 
maic with  ease.  He  read  the  whole 
Hebrew  Testament  in  his  youth,  and 
in  Germany  made  considerable  progress 
in  Arabic ;  but  I  do  not  think  that  he 
kept  up  his  Oriental  languages  in  later 
years.  He  was  fond  of  exercising  him- 
self in  the  other  languages  named,  and 
almost  always  h^d  some  stated  corre- 
spondence on  his  hands  in  each  of 
them. 

Unless  he  really  loved  correspond- 
ence, as  some  men  do,  I  believe,  I 
cannot  conceive  that  even  so  conscien- 
tious a  man  as  he  should  have  kept  his 
correspondence  in  such  perfect  order, 
answered  letters  of  every  kind  so  faith- 
fully, so  fully,  and  so  agreeably.  The 
last  day  of  his  life,  a  sick  man  as  he 
was,  he  seems  to  have  written  a  dozen 
letters.  Everybody  had  an  answer,  and 
a  kind  one.  He  was,  I  think,  the  last 
man  living  who  courteously  acknowl- 
edged printed  documents.  Certainly 
there  is  no  one  left  to  do  so  among 
men  whose  habits  I  haVe  heard  of. 
But  he  would  not  fail  in  any  kindness 
or  courtesy.  At  times  his  correspond- 
ence rose  into  a  position  of  real  dignity. 
Thus,  after  Fort  Sumter,  while  we  still 
carried  the  Rebels'  mails  for  them,  he 
wrote  steadily  through  all  his  working- 
hours  of  every  day  to  his  Southern  cor- 
respondents, who  were  sending  him  all 
sorts  of  Billingsgate.  And  he  wrote 
them  the  truth.  "It  is  the  only  way 
they  see  a  word  of  truth,"  he  said.  "  Look 
at  that  newspaper,  and  that,  and  that'* 
Till  the  mails  stopped,  they  had  not  to 
blame  him,  if  they  were  benighted.  I 
wish  that  series  of  letters  might,  even 
now,  be  published  separately. 

In  such  duties,  coming  next  his  hand, 
he  spent  a  busy  life.  Every  life  has  a 
dream,  a  plan,  of  what  we  are  going  to 
do,  when  we  can  do  what  we  wilL  I 
think  his  was  the  preparation  of  his 

work  on  International  Law. AaJ.have 

said,  it  became  his  duty  to  study  this 
as  early  as  1825.  I  remember  hearing 
'him  speak  of  his  plans  regarding  it  in 
1839.  He  set  his  work  aside,  most 
unwillingly,  when,  in  face  of  his  own 


i865.] 


Edward  Everett. 


349 


first  determination  and  the  advice  of 
his  best  friends,  he  became  President 
of  Harvard  College.  As  soon  as  he; 
was  released  frt>m  that  position  he  turn- 
ed to  it  again.  During  this  last  winter 
he  had  hoped  to  deliver  at  the  Law 
School  a  course  of  lectures  on  the  sub^ 
ject ;  and  a  part  of  these  are  certainly 
in  form  ready  for  delivery..  But  from 
^is  thread,  or  this  dream,  the  demands 
of  present  duty  have  constantly  called 
him  away.  He  has  done,  from  day  to 
day,  what  had  to  be  done,  rather  than 
what  he  wanted  to  do.  A  better  rec- 
ord  this,  though  men  forget  him  to-mor- 
row, than  the  £une  of  any  Grotius  even, 
if  Grotius  had  not  deserved  like  praise, 
better  than  the  fame  of  any  book-man 
of  ^em  alL 

^ebmvenam-andhe^abrave 
man,  though  in  personal  intercourse  he 
was  really  shy, — the  brave  man,  who, 
with  all  his  might,  and  all  God's  strengdi 
assisting,  will  lend  body  and  mind  to 
such  daily  duty  for  other  men,  earns  his 
laurels,  when  he  wins  them,  in  more 
fields  than  one  or  two.  It  is  because 
Mr.  Everett  so  lived,  that  in  his  death 
his  memory  receives  such  varied  hon- 
ors. He  had  served  the  Navy ;  the  last 
interruption  to  his  favorite  study  had 
been  the  devotion  of  the  autumn  months 
to  the  great  charity  which  builds  the 
Sailors'  Home.  He  had  served  the  Ar- 
my, not  merely  by  sending  a  son  into  it, 
'4>y  ''personal  representatives,"  I  know 


not  how  many,  whose  bounties  he  had 
paid,  —  but  by  the  steady  effort  in  all  the 
charities  for  the  wounded,  and  by  the 
counsel,  private  as  often  as  public,  for 
which  every  department  of  the  State  turn- 
ed to  him.  He  had  served  the  Union, 
all  men  know  how.  He  had  served  the 
Bench,  not  simply  as  a  student  of  the 
branch  of  law  which  he  had  chosen  to 
illustrate,  but  in  the  steady  training  of 
the  people  to  the  sacredness  of  law. 
He  had  insisted  on  the  higher  educa* 
tion  of  the  people ;  and  so  had  fairly 
won  the  honors  of  the  Academy,  in  those 
early  days  when  men  believed  that  there 
were  Moral  Sciences,  and  did  not  debase 
the  name  of  Science  by  confining  it  to 
the  mere  chaff  of  things  weighed  and 
measured.  His  studies  of  History  are 
remembered,  for  some  special  cause,  in 
almost  every  Historical  Society  in  the 
land.  He  had  served  the  University  in 
every  station  known  to  her  constitution. 
He  was  in  the  service  of  the  City  in  that 
Public  Library  of  which  he  was,  more 
than  any  man,  the  founder,  which  com* 
pletes  her  system  of  universal  education. 
He  had  served  the  State  as  her  chief 
magistrate.  And  in  every  work  of  life 
he  served  the  Nation  as  her  first  citizen. 
These  varied  lines  of  duty — in  which 
''he  neglected  no  branch,  but  did  about 
equally  well  in  all" — were  fitiy  called 
to  men's  memories,  as  they  saw  the  cir- 
cle of  distinguished  friends  and  fellow^ 
laborers  who  met  around  his  grave.    V 


I  •  — 


350 


Notes  of  a  Pianist, 


[March, 


NOTES    OF   A    PIANIST. 


II. 


WRITTEN  without  method,  dotted 
down  carelessly  and  currente  ca- 
lamo  on  the  leaves  of  my  pocket-book, 
the  notes  I  now  publish  were  never  in- 
tended to  be  read  by  any  one  but  my- 
self. A  wanderer  for  many  long  years, 
I  have  contracted  the  habit  of  making 
daily  memoranda  of  the  fleeting,  eva- 
nescent impressions  of  my  travels,  and 
thus  giving  them  a  more  tangible  form. 
These  notes,  drawn  up  hastily  and  for 
myself  alone,  have  no  literary  merit 
whatever,  but  they  most  unequivocally 
tell  the  truth.  Is  this  an  adequate  com- 
pensation for  the  numerous  negligences 
of  style  which  criticism  may  discover  in 
them  ?  You  answer  my  question  affirm- 
atively, my  dear  M ,    Be  that  as  it 

may,  these  reminiscences  of  travel  have 
often  solaced  the  ennui  and  fatigue  of 
my  erratic  life.  In  writing  of  the  pres- 
ent, the  bitterness  of  the  past  vanished ; 
and  again,  if  the  present  were  tedious  or 
fraught  with  care,  I  reverted  to  the  sun- 
ny pages  of  the  time  that  is  no  more, 
and  revived  the  sweet  emotions  of  the 
long-forgotten  past 

Under  your  patronage  I  now  place 
these  poor  leaves.  They  have  been 
the  partners  of  my  joys  and  my  griefs, 
of  my  toils  and  my  leisure,  during  the- 
last  three  years  that  have  whirled  me 
relentlessly  in  that  most  monotonous, 
yet  agitated  circle,  yclept  "a  life  of 
concerts."  Should  you  find  evidence 
too  flagrant,  even  for  your  prepossessed 
eyes,  of  the  inexperience  of  my  pen, 
bear  in  mind,  I  pray  you,  that  I  am  but 
a  musician,  and  only  a  pianist  at  that. 

January y  1862.  Once  more  in  New 
York,  after  an  absence  of  six  years !  — 
Six  years  madly  squandered,  scattered 
to  the  winds,  as  if  life  were  infinite,  and 
youth —  eternal !  Six  years,  in  the  space 
of  which  I  have  wandered  at  random  be- 
neath the  blue  skies  of  the  tropics,  yield- 
ing myself  up  indolently  to  the  caprice 


of  Fortune,  giving  a  concert  wherever  I 
happened  to  find  a  piano,  sleeping  wher- 
ever night  overtook  me,  on  the  green 
grass  of  the  savanna,  or  under  the  palm- 
leafed  roof  of  a  vegueroj  who  shared 
with  me  his  com-tartiilaj  coffee,  and 
banana.s,  and  thought  himself  amply  re- 
munerated, when,  at  dawn,  I  took  my 
departure  with  a  ^^Dias  se  lo  pague  d 
K."  (May  God  reward  you !)  to  which  he 
responded  by  a  "  Vaya  K  con  Dias  I " 
(God  be  with  you!) — these  two  forrau- 
Ix  constituting,  in  such  unsophisticated 
countries,  the  entire  operation,  so  in- 
geniously perfected  by  civiUzed  na- 
tions, which  generally  is  known  by  the 
name  of  **  settling  the  hotel-bilL"  And 
when  at  last  I  became  weary  of  the 
same  horizon,  I  crossed  an  arm  of  the 
sea,  and  landed  on  some  neighboring 
isle,  or  on  the  Spanish  Main.  Thus, 
in  succession,  I  have  visited  all  the 
Antilles,  —  Spanish,  French,  English, 
Dutch,  Swedish,  Danish ;  the  Guianas, 
and  the  coasts  of  Para.  At  times,  hav- 
ing become  the  idol  of  some  obscure 
pueblo^  whose  untutored  ears  I  had 
charmed  with  its  own  simple  ballads, 
I  would  pitch  my  tent  for  five,  six,  eight 
months,  deferring  my  departure  from 
day  to  day,  until  finally  I  began  seri- 
ously to  entertain  the  idea  of  remain- 
ing there  forevermore.  Abandoning 
myself  to  such  influences,  I  lived  with- 
out care,  as  the  bird  sings,  as  the 
flower  expands,  as  the  brook  flows,  ob- 
livious of  the  past,  reckless  of  the  fu- 
ture, and  sowed  both  my  heart  and  my 
purse  with  the  ardor  -of  a  husbandman 
who  hopes  to  reap  a  hundred  ears  for 
every  grain  he  confides  to  the  earth. 
But,  alas !  the  fields,  where  is  garnered 
the  harvest  of  expended  doubloons,  and 
where  vernal  loves  bloom  anew,  are  yet 
to  be  discovered ;  and  the  result  of  my 
double  prodigality  was,  that  one  fine 
morning  I  found  myself  a  bankrupt  in 
heart,  with  my  purse  at  ebb-tide. 


1865.] 


Notes  of  a  PioHtst. 


351 


Saddenly  disgusted  with  the  world 
and  with  myself,  weary,  discouraged, 
mistrusting  men,  (ay,  and  women,  too,)  I 
fled  to  a  desert  on  the  extinct  volcano  of 

M y  where,  for  several  months,  I  lived 

the  life  of  a  cenobite,  with  no  companion 
but  a  poor  lunatic,  whom  I  had  met  on 
a  smaJl  island,  and  who  had  attached 
himself  to  me.  He  followed  me  every- 
where, and  loved  me  with  that  absurd 
and  touching  constancy  of  which  dogs 
and  madmen  alone  are  capable.  My 
friend,  whose  insanity  was  of  a  mild  and 
harmless  character,  fancied  himself  the 
greatest  genius  in  the  world.  He  was, 
moreover,  under  the  impression  that 
he  suffered  from  a  gigantic,  monstrous 
tooth.  Of  the  two  idiosyncrasies,  the  lat- 
ter alone  made  his  lunacy  discernible,  — 
too  many  individuals  being  affected  with 
the  other  symptom  to  render  it  an  anom- 
alous feature  of  the  human  mind.  My 
friend  was  in  the  habit  of  protesting 
that  this  enormous  tooth  increased  pe- 
riodically and  threatened  to  encroach 
upon  his  entire  jaw.  Tormented,  at  the 
same  time,  with  the  desire  of  regenerat- 
ing humanity,  he  divided  his  leisure  be- 
tween the  study  of  dentistry,  to  which 
he  applied  himself  in  order  to  impede 
the  progress  of  his  hypothetical  tyrant, 
and  a  voluminous  correspondence  which 
he  kept  up  with  the  Pope,  his  brother, 
and  the  Emperor  of  the  French,  his 
cousin.  In  the  latter  occupation  he 
pleaded  the  interests  of  humanity,  styled 
himself''  the  prince  of  thought,''  and  ex- 
alted me  to  the  dignity  of  his  illustrious 
friend  and  benefactor.  In  the  midst  of 
the  wreck  of  his  intellect,  one  thing  still 
survived, — h  is  love  of  music.  H  e  play- 
ed the  violin,  and,  strange  as  it  may 
appear,  although  insane,  he  could  not 
understand  the  so-called  music  of  the 
future. 

My  hut,  perched  on  the  verge  of  the 
crater,  at  the  very  summit  of  the  moun- 
tain, commanded  a  view  of  all  the  sur- 
rounding country.  The  rock  upon  which 
it  was  built  projected  over  a  preci- 
pice, whose  abysses  were  concealed 
by  creeping  plants,  cactus,  and  bam- 
boos. The  species  of  table-rock  thus 
formed  had  been  encircled  with  a  rail- 


ing and  transformed  into  a  terrace,  on  a 
level  with  the  sleeping-room,  by  my  pre- 
decessor in  Uiis  hermitage.  His  last 
wish  had  been  to  be  buried  there ;  and 
from  my  bed  I  could  see  his  white  toml>- 
Stone  gleaming  in  the  moonlight,  a  few 
steps  from  my  window.  Every  evening 
I  rolled  my  piano  out  upon  the  terrace, 
and  there,  £icing  the  most  Incomparably 
beautiful  landscape,  all  bathed  in  the 
soft  and  limpid  atmosphere  of  the  trop- 
ics, I  poured  forth  on  the  instrument, 
and  for  myself  alone,  the  thoughts  with 
which  that  scene  inspired  me.  And 
what  a  scene !  Picture  to  yourself  a 
gigantic  amphitheatre  hewn  out  of  the 
mountains  by  an  army  of  Titans :  right 
and  left,  immense  virgin  forests,  full  of 
those  subdued  suid  distant  harmonies 
which  are,  as  it  were,  the  voices  of  Si- 
lence ;  before  me,  a  prospect  of  twenty 
leagues,  marvelfously  enhanced  by  the 
extreme  transparency  of  the  air ;  above, 
the  azure  of  the  sky ;  beneath,  the  crev- 
iced sides  of  the  mountain  sweeping 
down  to  the  plain ;  a£ir,  the  waving  sa- 
vannas ;  beyond  them,  a  grayish  speck 
(the  distant  city);  and  encompassing 
them  all,  the  immensity  of  the  ocean, 
closing  the  horizon  with  its  deep  blue 
line.  Behind  me  was  a  rock  on  which 
a  torrent  of  melted  snow  dashes  its 
white  foam,  and  there,  diverted  from 
its  course,  rushes  with  a  mad  leap 
and  plunges  headlong  into  the  gulf 
that  yawns  beneath  my  window. 

Amid  such  scenes  I  composed  "  R^ 
ponds -moi  la  Marche  des  Gibaros,** 
«  Polonia,"  «  Columbia,"  "  Pastorelhi  e 
Cavaliere,"  "Jeunesse,"  and  many  other 
unpublished  works.  I  allowed  my  fin- 
gers to  run  over  the  keys,  wrapped  up 
in  the  contemplation  of  these  wonders, 
while  my  poor  friend,  whom  I  heeded  but 
littie,  revealed  to  me,  with  a  childish  lo- 
quacity, the  lofty  destiny  he  held  in  re- 
serve for  humanity.  Can  you  conceive 
the  contrast  produced  by  this  shattered 
intellect,  expressing  at  random  its  dis- 
jointed thoughts,  as  a  disordered  clock 
strikes  by  chance  any  hour,  and  the  ma- 
jestic serenity  of  the  scene  around  me  ? 
I  felt  it  instinctively.  My  misanthropy 
gave  way ;  I  became  indulgent  towards 


352 


Notes  of  a  Pianist, 


[March, 


myself  and  manldnd,  and  the  wounds 
of  my  heart  dosed  once  more.  My  de- 
spair was  soothed,  and  soon  the  sun  of 
the  tropics,  which  tinges  all  things  with 
gold,  dreams  as  well  as  fruits,  restored 
me  with  new  confidence  and  vigor  to  my 
wandering^. 

I  relapsed  into  the  life  and  manners 
of  these  primitive  countries ;  if  not 
strictly  virtuous,  they  are,  at  all  events, 
terribly  attractive.  Existence  in  a  trop- 
ical wilderness,  in  the  midst  of  a  volup- 
tuous and  half-^vilized  race,  bears  no 
resemblance  tcb  that  of  a  London  cock- 
ney, a  Parisian  lounger,  or  an  American 
Quaker.  Times  there  were,  indeed, 
when  a  voice  was  heard  within  me  that 
spoke  of  nobler  aims.  It  reminded  me 
of  what  I  once  was,  of  what  I  yet  might 
be,  and  commanded  imperatively  a  re- 
turn to  a  healthier  and  more  active  life. 
But  I  had  allowed  myself  to  be  ener- 
vated by  this  baneful  languor,  this  in- 
sidious far  niente^  and  my  moral  tor- 
por was  such  that  the  mere  thought  of 
reappearing  before  a  polished  audi- 
ence struck  me  as  superlatively  absurd. 
"  Where  was  the  object  ?  "  I  would  ask 
myself.  Moreover,  it  was  too  late ;  and 
I  went  on  dreaming  with  open  eyes,  ca- 
reering on  horseback  through  the  sa- 
vannas, listening  at  break  of  day  to  the 
prattie  of  the  parrots  in  the  guava-trees, 
at  night&ll  to  the  chirp  of  the  grillos 
in  the  cane-fields,  or  else  smoking  my 
cigar,  taking  my  coffee,  rocking  myself  in 
a  hammock,  —  in  short,  enjoying  all  the 
deUghts  that  are' the  very  heart-blood 
of  a  guajiro,  and  out  of  tiie  sphere  of 
which  he  can  see  but  death,  or,  what 
is  worse  to  him,  the  feverish  agitation 
of  our  Northern  society.  Go  and  talk 
of  the  funds,  of  the  landed  interest,  of 
stock-jobbing  to  this  Sybarite,  lord  of 
the  wilderness,  who  can  live  all  the  year 
round  on  luscious  bananas  and  delicious 
cocoa-nuts,  which  he  is  not  even  at  the 
trouble  of  planting, — who  has  die  best 
tobacco  in  the  world  to  smoke,  —  who 
replaces  to-day  the  horse  he  had  yester- 
day by  a  better  one  chosen  from  the 


first  caballada  he  meets,  —  who  re- 
quires no  further  protection  from  the 
cold  than  a  pair  of  linen  trousers^  in 
that  favored  clime  where  the  seasons 
roll  on  in  one  perennial  summer, — who, 
more  than  all  this,  finds  at  eve,  under 
the  rustling  palm-trees,  pensive  beauties 
eager  to  reward  with  their  smiles  the 
one  who  murmurs  in  their  ears  those 
three  words,  ever  new,  ever  beautiful, 
"  Yo  te  quiero:' 

Moralists,  I  am  aware,  condemn  this 
life  of  inaction  and  mere  pleasure ;  and 
they  are  right  But  poetry  is  often  in 
antagonism  with  vinuous  purposes ;  and 
now  that  I  am  shivering  und&r  the  icy 
wind  and  dull  sky  of  the  North,  —  that 
I  must  needs  listen  to  discussions  on 
Erie,  Prairie  du  Chien,  Harlem,  and 
Cumberland,  —  that  I  read  in  tiie  papers 
the  lists  of  the  killed  and-  wounded,  — 
that  havoc  and  conflagration,  violence 
and  murder,  are  perpetrated  all  around 
me,  —  I  find  myself  excusing  the  half- 
civilized  inhabitant  of  the  savanna,  who 
prefers  his  poetical  barbarism  to  our 
barbarous  progress. 

Unexpectedly  brought  back  to  the 
stem  realities  of  life  by  a  great  afiliction, 
I  wished  to  destroy  every  link  that  con- 
nected me  with  the  six  years  I  had 
thrown  away.  It  was  at  this  period  that 
Strakosch  wrote  to  me,  offering  an  en- 
gagement for  a  tour  of  concerts  through 
the  United  States.  I  hesitated  an  in- 
stant ;  one  sad  look  was  cast  upon  the 
vanished  days,  I  breathed  a  regret,  and 
—  signed.  The  dream  was  over ;  I  was 
saved;  but  who  could  say,  i^  in  the 
rescue,  youth  and  poetry  had  not  per- 
ished ?  Poetry  and  youth  are  of  a  vol- 
atile mood, — tiiey  are  butterflies.  Shut 
them  up  in  a  cage,  and  they  will  dash 
their  delicate  wings  to  pieces  against  its 
bars.  Endeavor  to  direct  them  as  they 
soar,  and  you  cramp  their  flight,  you 
deprive  them  of  their  audacity, — two 
qualities  which  are  often  to  be  met  with 
in  inexperience,  and  the  loss  of  which  — 
am  I  wrong  in  saying  so  ? — is  not  always 
compensated  by  maturity  of  talent. 


i86S.] 


The  Chimney-Comer, 


353 


.    THE    CHIMNEY-CORNER. 


III. 


LITTLE    FOXES. — PART  IL 


IT  was  that  Christmas-day  that  did  it ; 
I  'm  quite  convinced  of  that ;  and 
the  way  it  was  is  what  I  am  going  to 
tell  you. 

You  see,  among  the  various  family 
customs  of  us  Crowiields,  the  observ- 
ance of  all  sorts  of  fites  and  festivals 
has  always  been  a  matter  of  prime  re- 
gard ;  and  among  all  the  festivals  of 
the  round  ripe  year,  none  is  so  joyous 
and  honored  among  us  as  Christmas. 

Let  no  one  upon  this  prick  up  the 
ears  of  Archaeology,  and  tell  us  that  by 
the  latest  calculations  of  chronologists 
our  ivy-grown  and  holly-manded  Christ- 
mas is  all  a  hum,  —  that  it  has  been  de- 
monstrated, by  all  sorts  of  signs  and  ta- 
bles, that  the  august  event  it  celebrates 
did  not  take  place  on  the  25  th  of  De- 
cember. Supposing  it  be  so,  what  have 
we  to  do  with  that?  If  so  awful,  so 
joyous  an  event  ever  took  place  on  our 
earth,  it  is  surely  worth  commemoration. 
It  is  the  event  we  celebrate,  not  the 
iinu.  And  if  all  Christians  for  eighteen 
hundred  years,  while  warring  and  wran- 
gling on  a  thousand  other  points,  have 
agreed  to  give  this  one  25th  of  Decem- 
ber to  peace  and  good-will,  who  is  he 
that  shsill  gainsay  them,  and  for  an  his- 
toric scruple  turn  his  back  on  the  friend- 
ly greetings  of  all  Christendom  ?  Such 
a  man  is  capable  of  rewriting  Milton's 
Christmas  Hymn  in  the  style  of  Stem- 
hold  and  Hopkins. 

In  Our  house,  however,  Christmas  has 
always  been  a  high  day,  a  day  whose 
expectation  has  heki  waking  all  the  lit- 
tle eyes  in  our  bird's  nest,  when  as  yet 
there  were  only  little  ones  there,  each 
sleeping  with  one  eye  open,  hoping  to 
be  the  happy  first  to  wish  the  merry 
Christmas  and  grasp  the  wonderful 
stocking. 

This  yiear  our  whole  fatpily  train  of 
married  girls  and  boys,  with  the  various 

VOL.  XV. — Ma  89.  23 


toddling  tribes  thereto  belonging,  held 
high  festival  around  a  wonderful  Christ- 
mas-tree, the  getting-up  and  adorning  of 
which  had  kept  my  wife  and  Jennie  and 
myself  busy  for  a  week  beforehand.  If 
the  little  folks  think  these  trees  grow 
up  in  a  night,  without  labor,  they  know 
as  little  about  them  as  they^do  about 
most  of  the  other  blessings  which  rain 
down  on  their  dear  litde  thoughtless 
heads.  Such  scrambling  and  clamber- 
ing and  fussing  and  tying  and  untying, 
such  alterations^  and  rearrangements, 
such  agilities  in  getting  up  and  down 
and  everywhere  to  tie  on  tapers  and 
gold  balls  and  glittering  things  innu- 
merable, to  hang  airy  dolls  in  gracefiil 
positions,  to  make  branches  bear  stiffly 
up  under  loads  of  pretty  things  which 
threaten  to  make  the  tapers  turn  bot- 
tom upward !  Part  and  parcel  of  all 
this  was  I,  Christopher,  most  reckless 
of  rheumatism,  most  careless  of  dignity, 
the  round,  bald  top  of  my  head  to  be 
seen  emerging  everywhere  from  the 
thick  boughs  of  the  spruce,  now  devis- 
ing an  airy  settiement  for  some  gossa- 
mer-robed doll,  now  adjusting  far  back 
on  a  stiff  branch  Tom's  new  littie  skates, 
now  balancing  bags  of  sugar-plums  and 
candy,  and  now  combating  desperate- 
ly with  some  contumacious  taper  that 
would  turn  slantwise  or  crosswise,  or 
anywise  but  upward  as  a  Christian  ta- 
per should, — regardless  of  Mrs.  Crow- 
field's  gentie  admonitions  and  sugges- 
tions, sitting  up  to  most  dissipated 
hours,  springing  out  of  bed  suddenly 
to  change  some  arrangement  in  the 
middle  of  the  night,  and  up  long  be- 
fore the  lazy  sun  at  dawn  to  execute 
still  other  arrangements.  If  that  Christ- 
mas-tree had  been  a  fort  to  be  taken,  or 
a  campaign  to  be  planned,  I  could  not 
have  spent  more  time  and  strength  on 
it    My  zeal  so  far  outran  even  &at  of 


354 


The  ChimnejhCofner. 


[Maich» 


sprightly  Miss  Jennie,  that  she  could  ac- 
count for  it  only  by  saucily  suggesting 
that  papa  must  be  £cist  getting  into 
second  childhood. 

But  did  n't  we  have  a  splendid  light- 
ing-up?  Did  n't  I  and  my  youngest 
grandson,  litde  Tom,  head  the  procession 
magnificent  in  paper  soldier-caps,  blow- 
ing tin  trumpets  and  beating  drums,  as 
we  marched  round  the  twinkling  glories 
of  our  Christmas-tree,  all  glittering  with 
red  and  blue  and  green  tapers,  and  with 
a  splendid  angel  on  top  with  great  gold 
wings,  the  cutting-out  and  adjusting  of 
which  had  held  my  eyes  waking  for 
nights  before  ?  I  had  had  oceans  of  trou- 
ble with  that  angel,  owing  to  an  unlucky 
sprain  in  his  left  wing,  which  had  requir- 
ed constant  surgical  attention  through 
the  week,  and  which  I  feared  might  fall 
loose  again  at  the  in^>ortant  and  bliss- 
fid  moment  of  exhibition :  but  no,  the 
Fates  were  in  our  favor ;  the  angel  be- 
haved beautifully,  and  kept  his  wings 
as  crisp  as  possible,  and  the  tapers  all 
burned  splendidly,  and  the  little  folks 
were  as  crazy  widi  delight  as  my  most 
ardent  hopes  could  have  desired ;  and 
then  we  romped  and  played  and  frolicked 
as  long  as  little  eyes  could  keep  open, 
and  long  after ;  and  so  passed  away  our 
Christmas. 

I  had  foigotten  to  speak  of  the  Christ- 
mas-dinner, that  solid  feast  of  faX  things, 
on  which  we  also  luxuriated.  Mrs. 
Crowfield  outdid  all  household  traditions 
in  that  feast :  the  turkey  and  the  chick- 
ens, the  jellies  and  the  sauces,  the  pies 
and  the  pudding,  behold,  are  they  not 
written  in  the  tablets  of  Memory  which 
remain  to  this  day  ? 

The  holidays  passed  away  hilarious- 
ly, and  at  New -Year's  1,  according 
to  time-honored  custom,  went  forth  to 
make  my  calls  and  see  my  fiur  firiends, 
while  my  wife  and  daughters  stayed  at 
home  to  dispense  the  hospitalities  of 
the  day  to  their  gentlemen  ftionds.  All 
was  merry,  cheerful,  and  it  was  agreed 
on  all  hands  that  a  more  joyous  holi- 
day season  had  never  flown  over  us. 

But,  somehow,  the  week  after,  I  be- 
gan to  be  sensible  of  a  running-down  in 
2ie  wheels.   I  had  an  article  to  write  for 


the  ''Atlantic,"  but  felt  mopish  and 
could  not  write.  My  dinner  had  not  its 
usual  relish,  and  I  Jiad  an  indefinite 
sense  everywhere  of  something  going 
wrong.  My  coal  bill  came  in,  and  I  felt 
sure  we  were  being  extravagant,  and 
that  our  John  Furnace  wasted  the  coaL 
My  grandsons  and  granddaughters  came 
to  see  us,  and  I  discovered  that  they  had 
high-pitched  voices,  and  burst  in  with- 
out wiping  their  shoes,  and  it  sudden- 
ly occurred  powerfully  to  my  mind  that 
tiiey  were  not  being  well  brought  up,  — 
evidently,  they  were  growing  up  rude 
and  noisy.  I  discovered  several  tum- 
blers and  plates  with  the  edges  chipped, 
and  made  bitter  reflections  on  the  care- 
lessness of  Irish  servants ;  our  crock- 
ery was  going  to  destruction,  along  with 
the  rest  Then,  on  opening  one  of  my 
paper-drawers,  I  found  that  Jennie's  one. 
drawer  of  worsted  had  overflowed  into 
two  or  three ;  Jennie  was  growing  care- 
less ;  besides,  worsted  is  dear,  and  girls 
knit  away  small  fortunes,  without  know- 
ing it,  on  litde  duds  that  do  nobody 
any  good.  Moreover,  Maggie  had  three 
times  put  my  slippers  into  the  hall-closet, 
instead  of  leaving  them  where  I  want- 
ed, under  my  study-table.  Mrs.  Crow- 
field  ought  to  look  after  things  more ; 
every  servant,  firom  end  to  end  of  the 
house,  was  getting  out  of  the  traces ;  it 
was  strange  she  did  not  see  it 

All  this  I  vented,  frova  time  to  time, 
in  short,  crusty  sayings  and  doings,  as 
fieely  as  if  I  had  n't  just  written  an 
article  on  ^  Little  Foxes "  in  the  last 
''Atlantic,"  till  at  length  my  eyes  were 
opened  on  my  own  state  and  condition. 

It  was  evening,  and  I  had  just  laid 
up  the  fire  in  the  most  approved  style 
of  architecture,  and,  projecting  my  feet 
into  my  slippers,  sat  spitefully  cutting 
the  leaves  of  a  caustic  review. 

Mrs.  Crowfiekl  took  the  tonga  and 
altered  the  disposition  of  a  stick. 

"  My  dear,"  I  said,  "  I  do  wish  you  'd 
let  the  fire  alone,— you  always  put  it  out" 

"  I  was  merely  admitting  a  little  air 
between  the  sticks,"  said  my  wife. 

"You  always  make  matters  worse, 
when  you  touch  the  fire." 

As  if  in  contradiction,  a  bright  toogne 


18650 


The  Ckimnty-Comer. 


355 


of  flame  darted  up  between  the  sticks, 
and  the  fire  began  chattering  and  snap- 
ping defiance  at  me.  Now,  if  there  's 
anything  which  would  provoke  a  saint, 
it  is  to  be  jeered  and  snapped  at  in  that 
-way  by  a  man's  own  fire.  It 's  an  un- 
bearable impertinence.  I  threw  out  my 
leg  impatiently,  and  hit  Rover,  who  yelp- 
ed a  yelp  that  finished  the  upset  of  my 
nerves.  I  gave  him  a  hearty  kick,  that 
he  might  have  something  to  yelp  for, 
and  in  the  movement  upset  Jennie's  em- 
broidery-basket 

«Oh,  papal'* 

**  Confound  your  baskets  and  balls ! 
diey  are  everywhere,  so  that  a  man  can't 
move ;  useless,  wastefiil  things,  too." 

*  Wasteful?"  said  Jennie,  coloring 
indignantly;  for  if  there  's  anything 
Jennie  piques  herself  upon,  it  's  econ- 
omy. 

''Yes,  wasteful,  —  wasting  time  and 
money  both.  Here  are  hundreds  of 
shivering  poor  to  be  clothed,  and 
Christian  females  sit  and  do  nothing 
bat  crochet  worsted  into  useless  knick- 
nacks.  If  they  would  be  working  for 
the  poor,  there  would  be  some  sense 
in  it  But  it 's  all  just  alike,  no  real 
Christianity  in  the  world,  —  nothing 
bat  organized  selfishness  and  self-in- 
dulgence." 

**  My  dear,"  ssud  Mrs.  Crowfield,  "you 
are  not  well  to-night  Things  are  not 
quite  so  desperate  as  they  appear.  You 
have  n*t  got  over  Christmas-week." 

"  I  am  welL  Never  was  better.  But 
I  can  see,  I  hope,  what  's  before  my 
eyes;  and  the  fact  is,  Mrs.  Crowfield, 
things  must  not  go  on  as  they  are  going. 
There  must  be  more  care,  more  atten- 
tion to  details.  There  's  Maggie, — 
diat  girl  never  does  what  she  is  told. 
You  are  too  slack  with  l^er.  Ma'am. 
She  will  light  the  fire  with  the  last  pa- 
per, and  she  won't  put  my  slippers  in 
the  right  place;  and  I  can't  have  my 
study  made  the  general  catch -all  and 
menagerie  for  Rover  and  Jennie,  and 
her  baskets  and  balls,  and  for  all  the 
funily  titter." 

Just  at  this  moment  I  overheard  a 
sort  of  aside  firom  Jennie,  who  was  swell- 
ing with  icpitssed  indignation  at  my 


attack  on  her  worsted.  She  sat  with 
her  back  to  me,  knitting  energetically, 
and  said,  in  a  low,  but  very  decisive  tone, 
as  she  twitched  her  yam,  — 

"  Now  if  /  should  talk  in  that  way, 
people  would  call  me  crass^ — and  that 's 
the  whole  of  it" 

I  pretended  to  be  looking  into  the  fire 
in  an  absent-minded  state ;  but  Jennie's 
words  had  started  a  new  idea.  Was  that 
it  ?  Was  that  the  whole  matter  ?  Was 
it,  then,  a  fact,  that  the  house,  the  ser- 
vants, Jennie  and  her  worsteds,  Rover 
and  Mrs.  Crowfield,  were  all  going  on 
pretty  pmch  as  usual,  and  that  the  only 
difficulty  was  that  I  was  cross  f  How 
many  times  had  I  encouraged  Rover  to 
lie  just  where  he  was  lying  when  I  kick- 
ed himl  How  many  times,  in  better 
moods,  had  I  complimented  Jennie  on 
her  neat  littie  fancy-works,  and  declared 
that  I  liked  the  social  companionship  of 
ladies'  work-baskets  among  my  papers ! 
Yes,  it  was  clear.  After  all,  things  wertf 
much  as  they  had  been;  only  I  was 
cross. 

Cross,  I  put  it  to  myself  in  that  sim- 
ple, old-£sishioned  word,  instead  of  say- 
ing that  I  was  out  of  spirits,  or  ner- 
vous, or  using  any  of  the  other  smooth 
phrases  with  which  we  good  Christians 
cover  up  our  littie  sins  of  temper.  ^  Here 
you  are,  Christopher,"  said  I  to  m3rself, 
'^  a  literary  man,  with  a  somewhat  deli- 
cate nervous  organization  and  a  sensi- 
tive stomach,  and  you  have  been  eating 
like  a  sailor  or  a  ploughman ;  you  have 
been  gallivanting  and  merry-making  and 
playing  the  boy  for  two  weeks ;  up  at 
all  sorts  of  irregular  hours,  and  into  all 
sorts  of  boyish  performances ;  and  the 
consequence  is,  that,  like  a  thoi^tiess 
young  scapegrace,  you  have  used  up  in 
ten  days  the  capital  of  nervous  energy 
that  was  meant  to  last  you  ten  weekf. 
You  can't  eat  your  cake  and  have  it  too, 
Christopher.  When  the  nervous -fluid 
source  of  cheerfiilness,  giver  of  pleasant 
sensations  and  pleasant  views,  is  all 
spent,  yoo  can't  feel  cheerfiil;  things 
cannot  look  as  they  did  when  yon  were 
fiill  of  life  and  vigor.  When  ^e  tide  is 
out,  there  is  nothing  but  unsightiy,  ill- 
smelUng  tide-mud,  and  you  can't  help  it ; 


356 


The  Ckimney-Camer, 


[March, 


but  you  can  keep  your  senses, — you  can 
know  what  is  the  matter  with  you, — you 
can  keep  from  visiting  your  overdose  of 
Christmas  mince-pies  and  candies  and 
jocularities  on  the  heads  of  Mrs.  Crow- 
field,  Rover,  and  Jennie,  whether*  in  the 
form  of  virulent  morality,  pungent  criti- 
cisms, or  a  free  kick,  such  as  you  just 
gave  the  poor  brute." 

"  Come  here,  Rover,  poor  dog  1 "  said 
I,  extending  my  hand  to  Rover,  who 
cowered  at  tlie  farther  corner  of  the 
room,  eying  me  wistfully,  —  "  come 
here,  you  poor  doggie,  and  make  up 
with  your  master.  There,  there.!  Was 
his  master  cross  ?  Well,  he  knows  it 
We  must  forgive  and  forget,  old  boy, 
must  n't  we  ? "  And  Rover  nearly  broke 
his  own  back  and  tore  me  to  pieces  with 
his  tumultuous  tail-waggings. 

"  As  for  you,  puss,"  1  said  to  Jennie, 
*M  am  much  obliged  to  you  for  your 
free  suggestion.  You  must  take  my 
^cynical  moralities  for  what  they  are 
worth,  and  put  your  little  traps  into 
as  many  of  my  drawers  as  you  like." 

In  short,  I  made  it  up  handsomely 
all  around, — even  apologizing  to  Mrs. 
Crowfield,  who,  by  the  bye,  has  sum- 
mered and  wintered  me  so  many  years, 
and  knows  all  my  airs  and  cuts  and 
crinkles  so  well,  that  she  took  my  irri- 
table unreasonable  spirit  as  tranquilly 
as  if  I  had  been  a  baby  cutting  a  new 
tooth. 

"  Of  course,  Chris,  I  knew  what  the 
matter  was ;  don't  disturb  yourself," 
she  said,  as  I  began  my  apology ;  '*  we 
understand  each  other.  But  there  is 
one  thing  I  have  to  say ;  and  that  is, 
that  yoiu*  article  ought  to  be  ready." 

"  Ah,  weU,  then,"  said  I,  "  like  other 
great  writers,  I  shall  make  capital  of 
my  own  sins,  and  treat  of  the  second 
little  £unily  fox ;  and  his  name  is  — 

IRRITABILITY. 

Irritability  is,  more  than  most  un- 
lovely states,  a  sin  of  the  flesh.  It  is 
not,  like  envy,  malice,  spite,  revenge, 
a  vice  which  we  may  suppose  to  belong 
equally  to  an  embodied  or  a  disembodied 
spirit   In  fact,  it  comes  nearer  to  being 


physical  depravity  than  anything  I  know 
o£  There  are  some  bodily  states,  some 
conditions  of  the  nerves,  such  that  we 
could  not  conceive  of  even  an  angelic 
spirit  confined  in  a  body  thus  disor- 
dered as  being  able  to  do  any  more 
than  simply  endure.  It  is  a  state  of 
nervous  torture ;  and  the  attacks  which 
the  wretched  victim  makes  on  others 
are  as  much  a  result  of  disease  as  the 
snapping  and  biting  of  a  patient  con- 
vulsed with  hydrophobia. 

Then,  again,  there  are  other  people 
who  go  through  life  loving  and  beloved, 
desired  in  every  circle,  held  up  in  the 
church  as  examples  of  the  power  of 
religion,  who,  after  all,  deserve  no  cred- 
it for  these  things.  Their  spirits  are 
lodged  in  an  animal  nature  so  tran- 
quil, so  cheerful,  all  the  sensations 
which  come  to  them  are  so  fresh  and 
vigorous  and  pleasant,  that  they  can- 
not help  viewing  the  world  charitably 
and  seeing  everything  through  a  glo- 
rified medium.  The  ill-temper  of  oth- 
ers does  not  provoke  them ;  perplex* 
ing  business  never  sets  their  nerves 
to  vibrating ;  and  all  their  lives  long 
they  walk  in  the  serene  sunshine  of 
perfect  animal  health. 

Look  at  Rover  there.  He  is  never 
nervous,  never  cross,  never  snaps  or 
snarls,  and  is  ready,  the  moment  after 
the  grossest  affront,  to  wag  the  tail  of 
forgiveness,  —  all  because  kind  Nature 
has  put  his  dog's  body  together  so  that 
it  always  works  harmoniously.  If  ev- 
ery person  in  the  world  were  gifted  with 
a  stomach  and  nerves  like  his,  it  would 
be  a  &r  better  and  happier  world,  no 
doubt  The  man  said  a  good  thing  who 
made  the  remark  that  the  foundsftion  of 
all  intellectual  and  moral  worth  must  be 
laid  in  a  good  healthy  animal. 

Now  I  think  it  is  undeniable  that  the 
peace  and  happiness  of  the  home-circle 
are  very  generally  much  invaded  by 
the  recurrence  in  its  members  of  these 
states  of  bodily  irritability.  Every  per- 
son, if  he  thinks  the  matter  over,  will 
see  that  his  condition  in  life,  the  char- 
acter of  his  firiends,  his  estimate  of 
their  virtues  and  failings,  his  hopes  and 
expectations,  are  all  very  much  mod- 


1 865.] 


The  Chimney-Comer. 


357 


ified  by  these  things.  Cannot  we  all 
remember  going  to  bed  as  very  ill- 
used,  persecuted  indiiTiduals,  all  whose 
friends  were  unreasonable,  whose  life 
was  full  of  trials  and  crosses,  and  wak- 
ing up  on  a  bright  bird-singing  morning 
to  find  all  these  illusions  gone  with  the 
fogs  of  the  night  ?  Our  friends  are  nice 
people,  after  all ;  the  little  things  that 
annoyed  us  look  ridiculous  by  bright 
sunshine ;  and  we  are  fortunate  indi- 
Tiduals. 

The  philosophy  of  life,  then,  as  far 
as  this  matter  is  concerned,  must  con- 
sist of  two  things :  first,  to  keep  our- 
selves out  of  irritable  bodily  states  ; 
and,  second,  to  imderstand  and  control 
these  states,  when  we  cannot  ward  them 
off. 

Of  course,  the  first  of  these  is  the 
most  important ;  and  yet,  of  all  things, 
it  seems  to  be  least  looked  into  and 
understood.  We  find  abundant  rules 
for  the  government  of  the  tongue  and 
temper ;  it  is  a  slough  into  which,  John 
Banyan  hath  it,  cart-loads  of  whole- 
some instructions  have  been  thrown ; 
bat  how  to  get  and  keep  that  healthy 
state  of  brain,  stomach,  and  nerves 
which  takes  away  the  temptation  to  ill- 
temper  and  anger  is  a  subject  which 
moral  and  religious  teachers  seem 
scarcely  to  touch  upon. 

Now,  without  running  into  technical, 
physiological  language,  it  is  evident,  as 
regards  us  human  beings,  that  there  is 
a  power  by  which  we  live  and  move  and 
have  our  being,  —  by  which  the  brain 
thinks  and  wills,  the  stomach  digests, 
the  blood  circulates,  and  all  the  different 
provinces  of  the  little  man-kingdom  do 
their  work.  This  something — call  it 
nervous  fluid,  nervous  power,  vital  en- 
ergy, life -force,  or  anything  else  that 
you  will  —  is  a  perfectly  understood, 
if  not  a  definable  thing.  It  is  plain, 
too,  that  people  possess  this  force  in 
very  different  degrees:  some  generat- 
ing it  as  a  high-pressure  engine  does 
steam,  and  using  it  constant!^,  with 
an  apparendy  inexhaustible  flow;  and 
others  who  have  little,  and  spend  it 
quickly.  We  have  a  common  saying, 
that  this  or  that  person  is  soon  used 


up.  Now  most  nervous,  irritable  states 
of  temper  are  the  mere  physical  result 
of  a  used-up  condition.  The  person 
has  overspent  his  nervous  energy,  — 
like  a  man  who  should  eat  up  on  Mon- 
day the  whole  food  which  was  to  keep 
him  for  a  week,  and  go  growling  and 
faint  through  tlie  other  days;  or  the 
quantity  of  nervous  force  which  was 
wanted  to  carry  on  the  whole  system  in 
all  its  parts  is  seized  on  by  some  one 
monopolizing  portion,  and  used  up  to 
the  loss  and  detriment  of  the  rest 
Thus,  with  men  of  letters,  an  exorbi- 
tant brain  expends  on  its  6wn  work- 
ings what  belongs  to  the  other  offices 
'  of  the  body :  the  stomach  has  nothing 
to  carry  on  digestion;  the  secretions 
are  badly  made ;  and  the  imperfectiy 
assimilated  nourishment,  that  is  con- 
veyed to  every  littie  nerve  and  tissue, 
carries  with  it  an  acrid,  irritating  qual- 
ity, producing  general  restiessness  and 
discomfort  So  men  and  women  go 
s^i^ggl^x^g  on  through  their  three-score 
and  ten  years,  scarcely  one  in  a  thou- 
sand knowing  through  life  that  perfect 
balance  of  parts,  that  appropriate  har- 
mony of  energies,  that  make  a  healthy, 
kindly  animal  condition,  predisposing  to 
cheeriulness  and  good-will. 

We  Americans  are,  to  begin  with,  a 
nervous,  excitable  people.  Multitudes 
of  children,  probably  the  great  majority 
in  the  upper  walks  of  life,  are  born  into 
the  world  with  weaknesses  of  the  ner- 
vous organization,  or  of  the  brain  or 
stomach,  which  make  them  incapable  of 
any  strong  excitement  or  prolonged  ex- 
ertion without  some  lesion  or  derange- 
ment ;  so  that  they  are  continually  be* 
ing  checked,  laid  up,  and  invalided  in 
the  midst  of  their  drugs.  Life  here  in 
America  is  so  fervid,  so  fast,  our  cli- 
mate is  so  stimulating,  with  its  clear, 
bright  skies,  its  rapid  and  sudden  chan- 
ges of  temperature,  that  the  tendencies 
to  nervous  disease  are  constantiy  aggra- 
vated. 

Under  these  circumstances,  unless 
men  and  women  make  a  conscience,  a 
religion,  of  saving  and  sparing  some- 
thing of  themselves  expressly  for  home- 
life  and  home-consumption,  it  must  fol- 


358 


Tke  Ckmney^Cermr. 


[March, 


low  that  home  will  often  be  merely  a 
sort  of  refuge  for  us  to  creep  into  when 
we  are  used  up  and  irritable. 

Papa  is  up  and  ofi^  after  a  hasty  break- 
&8ty  and  drives  all  day  in  his  business, 
putting  into  it  all  there  is  in  him,  letting 
it  drink  up  brain  and  nerve  and  body 
and  soul,  and  coming  home  jaded  and 
exhausted,  so  that  he  cannot  bear  the 
cry  of  the  baby,  and  the  frolics  and 
pattering  of  the  nursery  seem  horrid 
and  needless  confttsion.  The  litde  ones 
say,  in  their  plain  vernacular,  '^Papa  is 


19 


cross. 

Mamma  goes  out  to  a  party  diat  keeps 
her  up  till  one  or  two  in  the  morning, 
breathes  bad  air,  eats  indigestible  food, 
and  the  next  day  is  so  nervous  that  ev- 
ery straw  and  thread  in  her  domestic 
path  is  insufferable. 

Papas  that  pursue  business  thus  day 
after  day,  and  mammas  that  go  into 
company,  as  it  is  called,  night  after 
night,  what  is  there  left  in  ot  of  them 
to  make  an  agreeable  fireside  with,  to 
brighten  their  home  and  inspire  their 
children  ? 

True,  the  man  sa3rs  he  cannot  help 
himself,  —  business  requires  it  But 
what  is  the  need  of  rolling  up  money 
at  the  rate  at  which  he  is  seeking  to 
do  it?  Why  not  have  l.ess,  and  take 
some  time  to  enjoy  his  home,  and  cheer 
up  his  wife,  and  form  the  minds  of  his 
children  ?  Why  spend  himself  down  to 
the  last  drop  on  the  world,  and  give  to 
the  dearest  friends  he  has  only  the  bit- 
ter dregs  ? 

Much  of  the  preathing  which  the  pul- 
pit and  the  Church  have  levelled  at  fesh- 
ionable  amusements  has  friiled  of  any 
effect  at  all,  because  wrongly  put  A 
cannonade  has  been  opened  upon  dan- 
cing, for  example,  and  all  for  reasons 
that  will  not,  in  the  least,  bear  looking 
into.  It  is  vain  to  talk  of  dancing  as  a 
sin  because  practised  in  a  dying  world 
where  souls  are  passing  into  eternity. 
If  dancing  is  a  sin  for  this  reason,  so  is 
playing  marbles,  or  frolicking  with  one's 
children,  or  enjoying  a  good  dinner,  or 
doing  fifty  other  things  which  nobody 
ever  dreamed  of  objecting  to. 

If  the  preacher  were  to  say  that  any- 


thing is  a  sin  which  uses  up  the  strength 
we  need  for  daily  duties,  and  leaves  us 
fagged  out  and  irritable  at  just  those 
times  and  in  just  those  places  when 
and  where  we  need  most  to  be  healthy, 
cheerful,  and  self-possessed,  he  would 
say  a  thing  that  none  of  his  hearers 
would  dispute.  If  he  should  add,  that 
dancing-parties,  beginning  at  ten  o'clock 
at  night  and  ending  at  four  o'clock  in 
tiie  morning,  do  use  up  the  strength, 
weaken  the  nerves,  and  leave  a  person 
wholly  unfit  for  any  home  duty,  he 
would  also  be  saying  what  very  few 
people  would  deny ;  and  then  his  case 
would  be  made  out  If  he  should  say 
that  it  is  wrong  to  breathe  bad  air  and 
fill  the  stomach  with  unwholesome  dain- 
ties, so  as  to  make  one  restless,  ill-na- 
tured, and  irritable  for  days  after,  he 
would  also  say  what  few  would  deny, 
and  his  preaching  might  have  some 
hope  of  success. 

The  true  manner  of  judging  of  the 
worth  of  amusements  is  to  try  them  by 
their  effects  on  the  nerves  and  spirits 
the  day  after.  True  amusement  ought 
to  be,  as  the  word  indicates,  recreation, 
— something  that  refreshes,  turns  us 
out  anew,  rests  the  mind  and  body  by 
change,  and  gives  cheerfulness  and  alac- 
rity to  our  return  to  duty. 

The  true  objection  to  all  stimulants, 
alcoholic  and  narcotic,  consists  simply 
in  this,  —  that  they  are  a  form  of  over- 
draft on  the  nervous  energy,  which  helps 
us  to  use  up  in  one  hour  the  strength 
of  whole  days. 

A  man  uses  up  all  the  fair,  legal  in- 
terest of  nervous  power  by  too  much 
business,  too  much  care,  or  too  much 
amusement  He  has  now  a  demand  to 
meet  He  has  a  complicate  account  to 
make  up,  an  essay  or  a  sermon  to  write, 
and  he  primes  himself  by  a  cup  of  cof- 
fee, a  cigar,  a  glass  of  spirits.  This 
is  exactly  the  procedure  of  a  man  who, 
having  used  the  interest  of  his  money, 
begins  to  dip  into  the  principal.  The 
strength  a  man  gets  in  this  way  is  just 
so  much  taken  out  of  his  life-blood ;  it 
is  borrowing  of  a  merciless  creditor,  who 
will  exact,  in  time,  the  pound  of  flesh 
nearest  his  heart 


1865.] 


Tie  Ckimiuy-Corrur. 


359 


Much  of  the  irritaibifity  which  spoils 
home  happiness  is  the  letting -down 
from  tiie  over-exdtement  of  stimulus. 
Some  will  drink  cofiee,  when  they  own 
e^ery  day  that  it  makes  them  nervous ; 
some  will  drug  themselves  with  tobac- 
co^ and  some  with  akohol,  and,  for  a 
few  horns  of  extra  brightness,  give 
themselves  and  their  friends  many 
homrs  when  amiability  or  agreeableness 
is  quite  out  of  the  question.  There  are 
people  calling  themselves  Christians 
who  Uve  in  miserable  thraldom,  forever 
in  debt  to  Nature,  forever  overdrawing 
on  their  just  resources,  and  using  up 
their  patrimony,  because  they  have  not 
the  moral  courage  to  break  away  from 
a  miserable  appetite. 

The  same  may  be  said  of  number- 
less indulgences  of  the  palate,  which 
tax  the  stomach  beyond  its  power,  and 
bring  on  all  the  horrors  of  indigestion. 
It  is  almost  impossible  for  a  confirmed 
dyspeptic  to  act  like  a  good  Christian ; 
but  a  good  Christian  ought  not  to  be- 
come a  confirmed'  dyspeptic.  Reason- 
able self-control,  abstaining  from  all  un- 
seasonable indulgence,  may  prevent  or 
put  an  end  to  dyspepsia,  and  many 
sufler  and  make  their  friends  suffer  only 
because  they  will  persist  in  eating  what 
they  know  is  hurtful  to  them. 

But  it  is  not  merely  in  worldly  busi- 
ness, or  fashionable  amusements,  or  the 
gratification  of  appetite,  that  people  are 
tempted  to  overdraw  and  use  up  in  ad- 
vance their  life-force.  It  is  done  in 
wajrs  more  insidious,  because  connected 
with  our  moral  and  religious  fiiculties. 
There  are  religious  exaltations  beyond 
the  regular  pulse  and  beatings  of  ordi- 
nary nature,  that  quite  as  surely  gravi- 
tate downward  into  the  mire  of  irrita- 
bility. The  ascent  to  the  third  heaven 
lets  even  the  Apostle  down  to  a  thorn 
in  the  flesh,  the  messenger  of  Satan  to 
bafifet  him. 

It  is  the  temptation  of  natures  in 
which  the  moral  fiiculties  predominate 
to  overdo  in  the  outward  expression  and 
activities  of  religion  till  they  are  used 
op  and  irritable,  and  have  no  strength 
left  to  set  a  good  example  in  domestic 
life. 


The  Reverend  Mr.  X.  in  the  pulpit 
to-day  appears  with  the  £ux  of  an  an* 
gel ;  he  soars  away  into  those  regions  of 
exalted  devotion  where  his  people  can 
but  &intiy  gaze  after  him ;  he  tells  them 
of  the  victory  that  overcometh  the  world, 
of  an  unmoved  fiuth  that  fears  no  evil, 
of  a  serenity  of  love  that  no  outward 
event  can  ruffle ;  and  all  look  after  him 
and  wonder,  and  wish  they  could  so  soar. 

Alasl  the  exaltation  which  inspires 
these  subhme  conceptions,  these  celes- 
tial ecstasies,  is  a  double  and  treble  draft 
on  Nature,  — and  poor  Mrs.  X.  knows, 
when  she  hears  him  preaching,  that  days 
of  miserable  reaction  are  before  her. 
He  has  been  a  fortnight  driving  before 
a  gale  of  strong  excitement,  doing  all 
the  time  twice  or  thrice  as  much  as  in 
his  ordinary  state  he  could,  and  sustain- 
ing himself  by  the  stimulus  of  strong 
coffee.  He  has  preached  or  exhorted 
every  night,  and  conversed  with  relig- 
ious inquirers  every  day,  seeming  to 
himself  to  become  stronger  and  stron- 
ger, because  every  day  more  and  more 
excitable  and  excited.  To  his  hearers, 
with  his  flushed  sunken  cheek  and  his 
glittering  eye,  he  looks  like  some  spirit- 
ual being  just  trembling  on  his  flight 
for  upper  worlds  ;  but  to  poor  Mrs.  X., 
whose  husband  he  is,  things  wear  a 
very  different  aspect  Her  woman  and 
mother  instincts  tell  her  that  he  is  draw^ 
ing  on  his  life-capital  with  both  hands, 
and  that  the  hours  of  a  terrible  settle- 
ment must  come,  and  the  days  of  dark- 
ness will  be  many.  He  who  spoke  so 
beautifully  of  the  peace  of  a  soul  made 
perfect  will  not  be  able  to  bear  the  cry 
of  his  baby  or  the  pattering  feet  of  any 
of  the  poor  littie  Xs.,  who  must  be  sent 

"  Anywhere,  anywhme, 
Out  of  hU  sight " ; 

he  who  discoursed  so  devoutiy  of  perfect 
trust  in  God  will  be  nervous  about  the 
butcher's  bill,  sure  of  going  to  ruin  be- 
cause both  ends  of  the  salary  don't  meet ; 
and  he  who  could  so  admiringly  tell  of 
the  silence  of  Jesus  under  provocation 
will  but  too  often  speak  unadvisedly  with 
his  lips.  Poor  Mr.  X.  will  be  morally 
insane  for  dajrs  or  weeks,  and  absolutely 
incapable  of  preaching  Christ  in  the  way 


360 


The  Chimney-'Canur. 


[March, 


that  is  the  most  effective,  by  setting  Him . 
forth  in  his  own  daily  example. 

What  then  ?  must  we  not  do  the  work 
of  the  Lord  ? 

Yes,  certainly ;  but  the  first  work  of 
the  Lord,  that  for  which  provision  is 
to  be  made  in  the  first  place,  is  to  set  a 
good  example  as  a  Christian  man.  Bet- 
ter labor  for  years  steadily,  diligently,  do- 
ing every  day  only  what  the  night's  rest 
can  repair,  avoiding  those  cheating  stim- 
ulants that  overtax  Nature,  and  illus- 
trating the  sayings  of  the  pulpit  by  the 
daily  life  in  the  family,  than  to  pass  life 
in  exaltations  and  depressions. 

The  same  principles  apply  to  hear- 
ers as  to  preachers.  Religious  services 
must  be  judged  of  like  amusements,  by 
their  effect  on  the  life.  If  an  overdose 
of  prayers,  hynms,  and  sermons  leaves 
us  tired,  nervous,  and  cross,  it  is  only 
not  quite  as  bad  as  an  overdose  of 
feshionable  folly. 

It  could  be  wished  that  in  every  neigh- 
borhood there  might  be  one  or  two  calm, 
sweet,  daily  services  which  should  morn- 
ing and  evening  unite  for  a  few  solemn 
moments  the  hearts  of  all  as  in  one  fam- 
ily, and  feed  with  a  constant,  unnoticed 
daily  supply  the  lamp  of  faith  and  love. 
Such  are  some  of  the  daily  prayer-meet- 
ings which  for  eight  or  ten  years  past 
have  held  their  even  tenor  in  some  of 
our  New  England  cities,  and  such  the 
morning  and  evening  services  which  we 
are  glad  to  see  obtaining  in  the  Episco- 
pal churches.  Everything  which  brings 
religion  into  habitual  contact  with  life, 
and  makes  it  part  of  a  healthy,  cheer- 
fixl  average  living,  we  hail  as  a  sign 
of  a  better  day.  Nothing  is  so  good 
for  health  as  daily  devotion.  It  is  the 
best  soother  of  the  nerves,  the  best 
antidote  to  care ;  and  we  trust  erelong 
that  all  Christian  people  will  be  of  one 
mind  in  this,  and  that  neighborhoods 
will  be  fitmilies  gathering  daily  around 
one  altar,  praying  not  for  themselves 
merely,  but  for  eafh  other. 

The  conclusion  of  the  whole  matter  is 
this :  Set  apart  some  provision  to  make 
merry  with  ai  homey  and  guard  that  re- 
serve as  religiously  as  the  priests  guard- 
ed the  shew-bread  in  the  temple.    How- 


ever great  you  are,  however  good,  how- 
ever wide  the  general  interests  that  you 
may  control,  you  gain  nothing  by  neg- 
lecting home-duties.  You  must  leave 
enough  of  yourself  to  be  able  to  bear 
and  forbear,  give  and  forgive,  and  be  a 
source  of  life  and  cheerfulness  around 
the  hearthstone.  The  great  sign  given 
by  the  Prophets  of  the  coming  of  the 
Millennium  is, — what  do  you  suppose  ? 
—  '*  He  shall  turn  the  heart  of  the  la- 
thers to  the  children,  and  the  heart  of 
tiie  children  to  their  fathers,  lest  I  come 
and  smite  the  earth  with  a  curse." 

Thus  much  on  avoiding  unhealthy, 
irritable  states. 

But  it  still  remains  that  a  large  num- 
ber of  people  will  be  subject  to  them 
unavoidably  for  these  reasons. 

First,  The  use  of  tobacco,  alcohol, 
and  other  kindred  stimulants,  for  so  ma- 
ny generations,  has  vitiated  the  brain 
and  nervous  system,  so  that  it  is  not 
what  it  was  in  former  times.  Michelet 
treats  of  this  subject  quite  at  large  in 
some  of  his  late  works ;  and  we  have  to 
face  the  hd  of  a  generation  bom  with 
an  impaired  nervous  organization,  who 
will  need  constant  care  and  wisdom  to 
avoid  unhealthy,  morbid  irritation. . 

There  is  a  temperment  called  the 
HYPOCHONDRIAC,  to  which  many  per- 
sons, some  of  them  the  brightest,  the 
most  interesting,  the  most  gifted,  are 
bom  heirs,  —  a  want  of  balance  of  the 
nervous  powers,  which  tends  constant- 
ly to  periods  of  high  excitement  and 
of  consequent  depression,  —  an  unfor- 
tunate inheritance  for  the  possessor, 
though  accompanied  often  with  the  great- 
est talents.  Sometimes,  too,  it  is  the 
unfortunate  lot  of  those  who  have  not 
talents,  who  bear  its  burdens  and  its 
anguish  without  its  rewards. 

People  of  this  temperament  are  sub- 
ject to  fits  of  gloom  and  desponden- 
cy, of  nervous  irritability  and  suffering, 
which  darken  the  aspect  of  the  whole 
world  to  them,  which  present  lying  re- 
ports of  their  firiends,  of  themselves,  of 
the  circumstances  of  their  life,  and  of 
all  with  which  they  have  to  do. 

Now  the  highest  philosophy  for  per- 
sons thus  afflicted  is  to  imderatand  them- 


1865] 


The  ChimnQhComer. 


36X 


selves  and  their  tendencies,  to  know 
that  these  fits  of  gloom  and  depression 
are  just  as  much  a  form  of  disease  as  a 
fever  or  a  toothache,  to  know  that  it 
is  the  peculiarity  of  the  disease  to  fill 
the  mind  with  wretched  illusions,  to 
make  them  seem  miserable  and  unlove- 
ly to  themselves,  to  make  their  nearest 
friends  seem  unjust  and  unkind,  to  make 
all  events  appear  to  be  going  wrong 
and  tending  to  destruction  and  ruin. 

The  evils  and  burdens  of  such  a  tem- 
perament are  half  removed  when  a  man 
once  knows  that  he  has  it  and  recogniz- 
es it  for  a  disease,  when  he  does  not 
trust  himself  to  speak  and  act  in  those 
bitter  hours  as  if  there  were  any  truth 
in  what  he  thinks  and  feels  and  sees. 
He  who  has  not  attained  to  this  wis- 
dom overwhelms  his  fiiends  and  his 
£unily  with  the  waters  of  bitterness  ; 
he  stings  with  unjust  accusations,  and 
makes  his  fireside  dreadfiil  with  fancies 
which  are  real  to  him,  but  false  as  the 
ravings  of  fever. 

A  sensible  person,  thus  diseased,  who 
has  found  out  what  ails  him,  will  shut 
his  mouth  resolutely,  not  to  give  utter- 
ance to  the  dark  thoughts  that  infest 
his  soul. 

A  lady  of  great  brilliancy  and  wit, 
who  was  subject  to  these  periods,  once 
said  to  me,  ^  My  dear  Sir,  there  are 
times  when  I  know  I  am  possessed  of 
the  Devil,  and  then  I  never  let  myself 
speak."  And  so  this  wise  woman  car- 
ried her  burden  about  with  her  in  a  de- 
termined, cheerfiil  reticence,  leaving  al- 
ways the  impression  of  a  cheery,  Idnd- 
ly  temper,  when,  if  she  had  spoken  out 
a  tithe  of  what  she  thought  and  felt 
in  her  morbid  hours,  she  would  have 
driven  all  her  friends  from  her,  and 
made  others  as  miserable  as  she  was 
herself.  She  was  a  sunbeam,  a  life- 
giving  presence  in  every  family,  by  the 
power  of  self-knowledge  and  self-control. 

Such  victories  as  this  are  the  victo- 
ries of  real  saints. 

But  if  the  victim  of  these  glooms  is 
once  tempted  to  lift  their  heavy  load  by 
the  use  of  af^  stimulus  whatever^  he 
or  she  is  a  lost  man  or  woman.  It  is 
from  this  sad  class  more  than  any  other 


that  the  vast  army  of  drunkards  and 
opium-eaters  is  recruited.  The  hypo- 
chondriacs belong  to  the  class  so  well 
described  by  that  brilliant  specimen  of 
them.  Dr.  Johnson,  —  those  who  can 
practise  abstinence,  but  not  temper- 
ance. They  cannot,  they  will  not  be 
moderate.  Whatever  stimulant  they 
take  for  relief  will  create  an  uncontrol- 
lable appetite,  a  burning  passion.  The 
temperament  itself  lies  in  the  direction 
of  insanity.  It  needs  the  most  health- 
ful, careful,  even  regime  and  manage- 
ment to  keep  it  within  the  bounds  of 
soundness ;  but  the  introduction  of 
stimulants  deepens  its  gloom  almost 
to  madness. 

All  parents,  in  the  education  of  their 
children,  should  lookout  for  and  under- 
stand the  signs  of  this  temperament  It 
appears  in  early  childhood  ;  and  a  child 
inclined  to  fits  of  depression  should  be 
marked  as  a  subject  of  the  most  thought- 
ful, painstaking  physical  and  moral  train- 
ing. All  over-excitement  and  stimulus 
should  be  carefully  avoided,  whether  in 
the  way  of  study,  amusement,  or  diet 
Judicious  education  may  do  much  to 
mitigate  the  unavoidable  pains  and  pen- 
alties of  this  most  undesirable  inherit- 
ance. 

The  second  class  of  persons  who  need 
wisdom  *in  the  control  of  their  moods  is 
that  large  class  whose  unfortunate  cir- 
cumstances make  it  impossible  for  them 
to  avoid  constandy  overdoing  and  over«> 
drawing  upon  their  nervous  energies, 
and  who  therefore  are  always  exhausted 
and  worn  out  Poor  souls,  who  labor 
daily  under  a  burden  too  heavy  for 
them,  and  whose  fretfiilness  and  im- 
patience are  looked  upon  with  sorrow, 
not  anger,  by  pitying  angels.  Poor 
mothers,  with  families  of  little  children 
clinging  round  them,  and  a  baby  that 
never  lets  them  sleep;  hard-working 
men,  whose  utmost  toil,  day  and  night, 
scarcely  keeps  the  wolf  fix>m  the  door ; 
and  all  the  hard-lablring,  heavy-laden, 
on  whom  the  burdens  of  life  press  fiir 
beyond  their  strength. 

There  are  but  two  things  we  know  of 
for  these,  —  two  only  remedies  for  the 
irritation  that  comes  of  these  exhaus- 


362 


The  Popular  Ledun. 


[March, 


lions :  the  habit  of  silence  towards 
men,  and  of  speech  towards  God.  The 
heart  must  utter  itself  or  burst ;  but 
let  it  learn  to  commune  constandy  and 
intimately  with  One  always  present  and 
always  sympathizing.  This  is  the  great, 


the  only  safeguard  against  fretfiilness 
and  complaint  Thus  and  thus  only 
can  peace  spring  out  of  confusion,  and 
the  breaking  chords  of  an  overtaxed 
nature  be  strung  anew  to  a  celestial 
harmony* 


THE    POPULAR    LECTURE. 


THE  popular  lecture,  in  the  North- 
em  States  of  America,  has  become, 
in  Yankee  parlance,  ''an  institution"; 
and  it  has  attained  such  prevalence  and 
power  Uiat  it  deserves  more  attention 
and  more  respect  firom  those  who  as- 
sume the  control  of  the  motive  influen- 
ces of  society  than  it  has  hitherto  re- 
ceived. It  has  been  the  habit  of  cer- 
tain literary  men,  (more  particularly  of 
such  as  do  not  possess  a  gift  for  public 
speech,)  and  of  certain  literary  maga- 
zines, (managed  by  persons  of  delicate 
habit  and  weak  lungs,)  to  regard  and  to 
treat  the  popular  lecture  with  a  meas- 
ure of  contempt  For  the  last  fifteen 
years  the  dowh&Il  of  what  has  been 
popularly  denominated  *'The  Lecture 
System  "  has  been  confidentiy  predicted 
by  those  who,  granting  them  the  wisdom 
vHiich  they  assume,  should  have  been  so 
well  acquainted  with  its  nature  and  its 
adaptation  to  a  permanent  popular  want 
as  to  see  that  it  must  live  and  thrive 
until  something  more  practicable  can  be 
contrived  to  take  its  place.  If  anything 
more  interesting,  cheaper,  simpler,  or 
more  portable  can  be  fbund  than  a  vig- 
orous man,  with  a  pleasant  manner,  good 
voice,  and  something  to  say,  then  the 
popular  lecture  will  certainly  be  super- 
seded ;  but  the  man  who  will  invent  this 
substitute  is  at  present  engaged  on  a 
new  order  of  architecture  and  the  prob- 
lem of  perpetual  mdlion,  with  such  pros- 
pect of  full  employment  for  the  present 
as  will  give  '*  the  lecture  system  "  suffi- 
cient time  to  die  gracefully.  An  insti- 
tution which  can  maintain  its  foothold 
in  the  popular  regard  throughout  such 


a  war  as  has  challenged  the  interest  and 
taxed  the  eneigies  of  this  nation  during 
the  last  three  years  is  one  which  will 
not  easily  die ;  and  the  history  of  the 
popular  lecture  proves,  that,  wherever  it 
has  been  once  established,  it  retains  its 
place  through  all  changes  of  social  ma- 
terial and  all  phases  of  pc^tical  and  re- 
ligious influence.  Circumstances  there 
may  be  which  will  bring  intermissions 
in  its  yearly  operations ;  but  no  in- 
stance can  be  found  of  its  permanent 
relinquishment  by  a  community  which 
has  once  enjoyed  its  privileges,  and  ac- 
quired a  taste  for  the  food  and  inspinir 
tion  which  it  furnishes. 

An  exposition  of  the  character  of  the 
popular  lecture,  the  machinery  by  which 
it  is  supported,  and  the  results  which  it 
aims  at  and  accomplishes,  cannot  be 
without  interest  to  thoughtful  readers. 

What  is  the  popular  lecture  in  Amer- 
ica ?  It  will  not  help  us  in  this  inquest 
to  refer  to  a  dictionary;  for  it  is  not 
necessary  that  the  petformance  which 
Americans  call  a  lecture  should  be  an 
instructive  discourse  at  alL  A  lecture 
before  the  Young  Men's  Associations 
and  lecture  organizations  of  the  country 
is  any  characteristic  utterance  of  any 
man  who  speaks  in  their  employment 
The  word  "lecture"  covers  generally 
and  generically  all  the  orations,  decla- 
mations, dissertations,  exhortations,  re- 
citations, humorous  extravaganzas,  nar- 
ratives of  travel,  harangues,  sermons, 
semi-sermons,  demi-semi>sermons,  and 
lectures  proper,  which  can  be  crowded 
into  what  is  called  "  a  course,"  but  which 
might  be  more  properly  called  a  bun- 


1865.] 


Tie  Popular  Lecture. 


363 


ifle,'tiie  bimdle  depending  for  its  size 
upon  the  depth  of  the  managerial  purse. 
Ten  ortwelve  lectures  are  the  usual  num- 
ber, although  in  some  of  the  larger  cities^ 
beginning  early  in  *'  the  lecture  sea- 
son," and  ending  late,  the  number  giv- 
en may  reach  twenty. 

The  machinery  for  the  management 
and  support  of  these  lectures  is  as  sim- 
ple as  possible,  the  lecturers  themselves 
having  nothing  to  do  with  it  There  are 
librury  associations  or  lyceum  associa- 
tions, composed  principally  of  young 
men,  in  all  the  cities  and  large  villages, 
which  institute  and  manage  courses  of 
lectures  every  winter,  for  the  double 
purpose  of  interesting  and  instructing 
the  public  and  replenishing  their  treas- 
ury. The  latter  object,  it  must  be  con- 
fessed, occupies  the  principal  place,  al- 
though, as  it  depends  for  its  attain- 
ment on  the  success  of  the  former,  the 
public  is  as  well  served  as  if  its  enter- 
tainment were  alone  consulted.  In  the 
smlller  towns  there  are  usually  tempo- 
rary associations,  organized  for  the  sim- 
ple purpose  of  obtaining  lecturers  and 
managing  the  business  incident  to  a 
course.  Not  unfrequently,  ten,  twen- 
ty, or  thirty  men  pledge  themselves  to 
make  up  any  deficiency  there  may  be  in 
the  funds  required  for  the  season's  en- 
tertainmtots,  and  place  the  management 
in  the  hands  of  a  committee.  Some- 
times two  or  three  persons  call  them- 
selves a  lecture-committee,  and  employ 
lecturers,  themselves  risking  the  possi- 
\At  loss,  and  dividing  among  themselves 
any  profits  which  their  course  may  pro- 
duce. The  opposition  or  independent 
courses  in  the  larger  cities  are  often  in- 
stituted by  such  organizations, — some- 
times, indeed,  by  a  single  person,  who 
has  a  natural  turn  for  this  sort  of  enter- 
prise. The  invitations  to  lecturers  are 
usually  sent  out  months  in  advance, 
though  very  few  courses  are  definitely 
provided  for  and  arranged  before  the 
first  of  November.  The  fees  of  lectur- 
ers range  firom  fifty  to  a  hundred  dol- 
lars. A  few  uniformly  command  the 
latter  sum,  and  lecture-committees  find 
it  for  their  interest  to  employ  them.  It 
is  to  t>e  presumed  that  the  universal 


rise  of  prices  will  change  these  figures 
somewhat 

The  popular  lecture  is  tiie  most  pure^ 
ly  democratic  of  all  our  democratic  in- 
stitutions. The  people  hear  a  second 
time  only  those  who  interest  tiiem.  If 
a  lecturer  cannot  engage  the  interest  of 
his  audience,  his  £ime  or  greatness  or 
learning  will  pass  for  nothing.  A  lec- 
ture-audience will  forgive  extravagance, 
but  never  dulness.  They  will  give  a 
man  one  chance  to  interest  them,  and 
if  he  fiuls,  that  is  the  last  of  him.  The 
lectufe-commtttees  understand  this,  and 
gauge  the  public  taste  or  the  public  hu- 
mor as  delicately  as  the  most  accom- 
plished theatrical  manager.  The  man 
who  receives  their  invitation  may  gen- 
erally be  certain  that  the  public  wish, 
either  to  see  or  hear  him.  Popularity  is 
the  test  Only  popularity  after  trial,  or 
notoriety  before,  can  draw  houses.  Only 
popularity  and  notoriety  can  pay  expens- 
es and  swell  the  balanpe  of  profit  No- 
toriety in  the  various  walks  of  life^and 
the  personal  influence  of  fiiends  and 
admirers  can  usually  secure  a  single 
hearing,  but  no  outside  influence  can 
keep  a  lecturer  permanendy  in  the  fiekL 
If  tiie  people  *^  love  to  hear ''  him,  he 
can  lecture  froxa  Maine  to  California 
six  months  in  the  year ;  if  not,  he  can- 
not get  so  much  as  a  second  invita- 
tion. 

One  of  the  noticeable  features  of  the 
public  humor  in  this  matter  is  the  aver- 
sion to  professional  lecturers, — to  those 
who  nudce  lecturing  a  business,  with  no 
higher  aim  than  that  of  getting  a  living. 
No  calling  or  profession  can  possibly  be 
more  legitimate  than  that  of  the.  lectur- 
er; there  is  nothing  immodest  or  other- 
wise improper  in  the  advertisement  of 
a  man's  literary  wares ;  yet  it  is  true, 
beyond  dispute,  that  the  public  do  not 
regard  with  favor  those  who  make  lec- 
turing their  business,  particularly  if  they 
present  themselves  uninvited.  So  well 
is  this  understood  by  this  class  of  lee* 
turers  that  a  part  of  their  machinery 
consists  of  invitations  numerously  sign- 
ed, which  invitations  are  written  and 
circulated  by  themselves,  their  interest- 
ed friends,  or  their  authorized  agents, 


364 


The  Popular  Lecture, 


[March, 


and  published  as  their  apology  for  ap- 
pearing. A  man  who  has  no  odier  place 
in  the  world  than  that  which  he  makes 
for  himself  on  the  platform  is  never  a 
popular  favorite,  unless  he  uses  the  plat- 
form for  the  advocacy  of  some  great 
philanthropic  movement  or  reform,  into 
which  he  throws  unselfishly  the  leading 
efforts  of  his  life.  Referring  to  the  his- 
tory of  the  last  twenty  years,  it  will 
readily  be  seen  that  those  who  haive  un- 
dertaken to  make  lecturing  a  business, 
without  side  pursuit  or  superior  aim, 
are  either  retired  from  the  field  or  are 
very  low  in  the  public  fiivor.  The  public 
insist,  that,  in  order  to  be  an  acceptable 
lecturer,  a  man  must  be  something  else, 
that  he  must  begin  and  remain  some* 
thing  else ;  and  it  will  be  found  to-day 
that  those  only  who  work  worthily  in 
other  fields  have  a  permanent  hold  up- 
on the  affections  of  lecture-going  people. 
It  is  the  public  judgment  or  caprice  that 
the  work  of  the  lecturer  shall  be  inci- 
dental to  some  worthy  pursuit,  from 
which  that  work  temporarily  calls  him. 
There  seems  to  be  a  kind  of  coquetry  in 
this.  The  public  do  not  accept  of  those 
who  are  too  openly  in  the  market  or 
who  are  too  easily  won.  They  prefer 
to  entice  a  man  from  his  chosen  love, 
and  account  his  &vors  sweeter  because 
the  wedded  favorite  is  deprived  of 
them. 

A  lecturer's  first  invitation,  in  conso- 
nance with  these  £sicts,  is  almost  always 
suggested  by  his  excellence  or  notoriety 
in  some  department  of  life  that  may  or 
may  not  be  allied  to  the  platform.  If 
a  man  makes  a  remarkable  speech,  he 
is  very  naturally  invited  to  lecture ;  but 
he  is  no  more  certain  to  be  invited  than 
he  who  wins  a  batde.  A  showman  gets 
his  first  invitation  for  the  same  reason 
that  an  author  does,  —  because  he  is 
notorious.  Nearly  all  new  men  in  the 
lecture-field  are  introduced  through  the 
popular  desire  to  see  notorious  or  fa- 
mous people.  A  man  whose  name  is 
on  the  popular  tongue  is  a  man  whom 
the  popular  eye  desires  to  see.  Such  a 
man  will  always  draw  one  audience; 
and  a  single  occasion  is  all  that  he 
is  engaged  for.    After  getting  a  place 


upon  the  platform,  it  is  for  him  to  prove 
his  power  to  hold  it  If  he  does  not 
lecture  as  well  as  he  writes,  or  fights, 
or  walks,  or  lifts,  or  leaps,  or  hunts 
lions,  or  manages  an  exhibition,  or 
plays  a  French  horn,  or  does  anything 
which  has  made  him  a  desirable  man 
for  curious  people  to  see,  then  he  makes 
way  for  the  next  notoriety.  Very  few 
courses  of  lectures  are  delivered  in  the 
cities  and  larger  villages  that  do  not 
present  at  least  one  new  man,  who  is 
invited  simply  because  people  are  curi- 
ous to.  see  him.  The  popular  desire  is 
strong  to  come  in  some  way  into  per- 
sonal contact  with  those  who  do  remark- 
able things.  They  cannot  be  chased  in 
the  street ;  they  can  be  seen  only  to  a 
limited  extent  in  the  drawing-room ; 
but  it  is  easy  to  pay  twenty-five  cents 
to  hear  them  lecture,  with  the  privilege 
of  looking  at  them  for  an  hour  and  crit- 
icizing them  for  a  week. 

It  is  a  noteworthy  fact,  in  this  con- 
nection, that,  while  there  are  thousaiAs 
of  cultivated  men  who  would  esteem  it 
a  privilege  to  lecture  for  the  lecturer's 
usual  fee,  there  are  hardly  more  than 
twenty-five  in  the  country  whom  the 
public  considers  it  a  privilege  worth  pay- 
ing for  to  hear.  It  is  astonishing,  that, 
in  a  country  so  fertile  as  this  in  the 
production  of  gifted  and  cultivated  men, 
so  few  find  it  possible  to  establish  them- 
selves upon  th«  platform  as  popular  fa- 
vorites. If  the  Accepted  ones  were  in 
a  number  of  obvious  particulars  alike, 
there  could  be  some  intelligent  gener- 
alizing upon  the  subject ;  but  men  pos- 
sessing fewer  points  of  resemblance,  or 
presenting  stronger  contrasts,  in  style 
of  person  and  performance,  than  the 
established  favorites  of  lecture-going 
people,  cannot  be  found  in  the  world ; 
and  if  any  generalization  be  attempted, 
it  must  relate  to  matters  below  the  sur- 
£u:e  and  beyond  the  common  apprehen- 
sion. It  is  certain  that  not  always  the 
greatest  or  the  mos^  brilliant  or  the 
most  accomplished  men  are  to  be  found 
among  the  popular  lecturers.  A  man 
may  make  a  great,  even  a  brilliant 
speech  on  an  important  public  ques- 
tion, and  be  utterly  dreary  in  the  lee- 


1865.] 


The  Popular  Lecture. 


365 


ture-room.  There  are  multitudes  of 
eloquent  clergymen  who  in  their  pul- 
pits command  the  attention  of  immense 
congregations,  yet  who  meet  with  no 
acknowledgment  of  power  upon  the 
platform. 

In  a  survey  of  those  who  are  the 
established  ^vorites,  it  will  be  found 
that  there  are  no  slaves  among  them. 
The  people  will  not  accept  those  who 
are  creed-bound,  or  those  who  bow  to 
any  authority  but  God  and  themselves. 
They  insist  that  those  who  address 
them  shall  be  absolutely  free,  and  that 
they  shall  speak  only  for  themselves. 
Party  and  sectarian  spokesmen  find  no 
permanent  place  upon  the  platform. .  It 
is  only  when  a  lecturer  cuts  loose  from 
all  his  conventional  belongings,  and 
speaks  with  thought  and  tongue  unfet- 
tered, that  he  finds  his  way  to  the  pop- 
ular heart  This  freedom  has  some- 
times been  considered  dangerous  by 
the  more  conservative  members  of  so- 
ciety ;  and  they  have  not  unfi^quently 
managed  to  get  the  lectures  into  their 
own  hands,  or  to  organize  courses  repre- 
senting more  moderate  views  in  matters 
of  society,  politics,  and  religion ;  but 
their  efforts  have  uniformly  proved  fail- 
ures. The  people  have  always  refused 
to  support  lectures  which  brought  be- 
fore them  the  bondmen  of  creeds  and 
parties.  Year  after  year  men  have 
been  invited  to  address  audiences  three 
fourths  of  whom  disagreed  utterly  with 
the  sentiments  and  opinions  which  it 
was  well  understood  such  men  would 
present,  simply  because  they  were  free 
men,  with  minds  of  their  own  and 
tongues  that  would  speak  those  minds 
or  be  dumb.  Names  could  be  men- 
tioned of  those  who  for  the  last  fifteen 
years  have  been  established  fiivorites 
in  communities  which  listened  to  them 
respectfully,  nay,  applauded  them  warm- 
ly, and  then  abused  them  for  the  re- 
mainder of  the  year. 

It  is  not  enougii,  however,  that  a  lec- 
turer be  free.  He  must  have  something 
fresh  to  say,  or  a  fresh  and  attractive 
way  of  saying  that  which  is  not  alto- 
gether new.  Individuality,  and  a  cer- 
tain personal  quality  which,  for  lack  of 


a  better  name,  is  called  magnetism,  are 
also  essential  to  the  popular  lecturer. 
People  desire  to  be  moved,  •>  be  acted 
upon  by  a  strong  and  positive  nature. 
They  like  to  be  furnished  with  fresh 
ideas,  or  with  old  ideas  put  into  a  fresh 
and  practical  form,  so  that  they  can  be 
readily  apprehended  and  appropriated. 

And  here  comes  the  grand  difficulty 
which  every  lecturer  encounters,  and 
over  which  so  many  stumble  into  fail- 
ure,—  that  of  interesting  and  refresh- 
ing men  and  women  of  education  and 
culture,  and,  at  the  same  time,  of  pleas- 
ing, moving,  and  instructing  those  of 
feebler  acquirements  or  no  acquire- 
ments at  all.  Most  men  of  fine  powers 
faJX  before  a  popular  audience,  because 
they  do  not  fully  apprehend  the  thing 
to  be  done.  They  almost  invariably 
*  write  above  the  level  of  one  half  of  their 
audience,  and  below  the  level  of  the 
other  halfl  In  either  event,  they  fail, 
and  have  the  mortification  of  seeing 
others  of  inferior  gifts  succeed  through 
a  nicer  adaptation  of  their  literary  wares 
to  the  wants  of  the  market.  Much  de- 
pends upon  the  choice  of  a  subject  If 
that  be  selected  from  those  which  touch 
universal  interests  and  address  com- 
mon motives,  half  the  work  is  done.  A 
clear,  simple,  direct  style  of  composi- 
tion, apt  illustration,  (and  the  power  of 
this  is  marvellous,)  and  a  distinct  and 
pleasant  delivery,  will  do  much  to  com- 
plete the  success. 

It  is  about  equally  painful  and  amus- 
ing to  witness  the  efforts  which  some 
men  make  to  write  down  to  the  sup- 
posed capacity  of  a  popular  audience. 
The  puerilities  and  buffooneries  that 
are  sometimes  undertaken  by  these 
men,  for  the  purpose  of  conciliating  the 
crowd,  certainly  amuse  the  crowd,  and 
so  answer  their  end,  though  not  in  a 
way  to  bring  reputation  to  the  actors. 
No  greater  mistake  can  possibly  be 
made  than  that  of  regarding  an  Ameri- 
can lecture-going  audience  with  con- 
tempt There  is  no  literary  tribunal 
in  tills  country  that  can  more  readily 
and  justiy  decide  whether  a  man  has 
anything  to  say,  and  can  say  it  well, 
than  a  lecture-audience  in  one  of  the 


366 


The  Popular  Lecture. 


[March, 


smaller  cities  and  larger  villages  of  the 
-Northern  States.  It  is  quite  common 
to  suppoib  that  a  Western  audience 
demands  a  lower  grade  of  literary  ef- 
fort, and  a  rougher  style  of  speech,  than 
an  Eastern  audience.  Indeed,  there 
are  those  who  suppose  that  a  lecture 
which  would  fiilly  meet  the  demands 
of  an  average  Eastern  audience  would 
be  beyond  the  comprehension  of  an  av- 
erage Western  audience  ;  but  the  lec- 
turer who  shall  accept  any  such  as- 
sumption as  this  will  find  himself  very 
unpleasantly  mistaken.  At  the  West, 
the  lecture  is  both  popular  and  fashion- 
able, and  the  best  people  attend  it  A 
lecturer  may  always  be  certain,  then, 
that  the  best  he  can  do  will  be  thor- 
oughly appreciated.  The  West  is  not 
particularly  tolerant  of  dull  men ;  but 
if  a  man  be  alive,  he  will  find  a  market 
there  for  the  best  thought  he  produces. 

In  the  larger  cities  of  the  East,  the 
opera,  the  play,  the  frequent  concert, 
the  exhibition,  the  club-house,  the  so- 
cial assembly,  and  a  variety  of  public 
gatherings  and  public  excitements,  take 
from  the  lecture-audiences  the  class 
that  furnishes  the  best  material  in  the 
smaller  cities  ;  so  that  a  lecturer  rarely 
or  never  sees  his  best  audiences  in  New 
York,  or  Boston,  or  Philadelphia. 

Another  requisite  to  popularity  up- 
on the  platform  i»  earnestness.  Those 
who  imagine  that  a  permanent  hold 
upon  the  people  can  be  obtained  by 
amusing  them  are  widely  mistaken. 
The  popular  lecture  has  fiiUen  into  dis- 
repute with  many  worthy  persons  in 
consequence  of  the  admission  of  buf- 
foons and  triflers  to  the  lecturer's  plat- 
form ;  and  it  is  an  evil  which  ought  to  be 
remedied.  It  is  an  evil,  indeed,  which 
is  slowly  working  its  own  remedy.  It 
is  a  disgraceful  fiict,  that,  in  order  to 
draw  together  crowds  of  people,  men 
have  been  admitted  to  the  platform 
whose  notoriety  was  won  by  the  gross- 
est of  literary  charlatanism,  —  men 
whose  only  hold  upon  the  public  was 
gained  by  extravagances  of  thought  and 
expression  which  would  compromise  the 
dignity  and  destroy  the  self-respect  of 
any  man  of  character   and   common 


sense.  It  is  not  enough  that  these  per- 
sons quickly  disgust  their  audiences, 
and  have  a  brief  life  upon  the  list 
They  ought  never  to  be  introduced  to 
the  public  as  lecturers ;  and  any  mo- 
mentary augmentation  of  receipts  that 
may  be  secured  from  the  rabble  by 
the  patronage  of  such  mountebanks  is 
more  than  lost  by  the  disgrace  they 
bring  and  the  damage  they  do  to  what 
is  called  "The  Lecture  System."  It 
is  an  insult  to  any  lyceum-audience 
to  suppose  that  it  can  have  a  strong 
and  permanent  interest  in  a  trifler; 
and  it  is  a  gross  injustice  to  every  re- 
spectable lecturer  in  the  field  to  intro- 
duce into  his  guild  men  who  have  no 
better  motive  and  no  higher  mission 
than  the  stage-clown  and  the  negro- 
minstrel.  .^  , 

But  the  career  of  triflers  is  always 
short    Only  he  who  feels  that  he  has 
something  to  do  in  making  the  world* 
wiser  and  better,  and  who,  in  a  bold  and ' 
manly  way,  tries  persistentiy  to  do  it,  is 
always  welcome ;  and  this  fact — an  in-  \ 
controvertible  one  —  is  a  sufficient  vin-/ 
dication  of  the  popular  lecture  from  all 
the  aspersions  that  have  been  cast  upon 
it  by  disappointed  aspirants  for  its  hon- 
ors, and  shallow  observers  of  its  ten- 
dencies and  results.  ^ 

The  choice  of  a  subject  has  already 
been  spoken  of  as  a  matter  of  impor- 
tance, and  a  word  should  be  said  touch- 
ing its  manner  of  treatment  This  in- 
troduces a  discussion  of  the  kind  of 
lecture  which  at  the  present  time  is 
mainly  in  demand.  Many  wise  and 
good  men  have  questioned  the  charac- 
ter of  the  popuhur  lecture.  In  their 
view,  it  does  not  add  sufficiently  to  the 
stock  of  popular  knowledge.  The  re- 
sults are  not  solid  and  tangible.  They 
would  prefer  scientific,  or  historical,  or 
philosophical  discourses.  •  This  convic- 
tion is  so  strong  with  these  men,  and  the 
men  themselves  are  so  much  respected, 
that  the  people  are  iadined  to  coincide 
with  them  in  the  matter  of  theory,  while 
at  the  same  time  they  refuse  to  give 
their  theory  practical  entertainment 
One  reason  why  scientific  and  historical 
lectures  are  not  popular  is  to  be  found 


1865.] 


The  Popular  Ltcture. 


367 


in  the  difficulty  of  obtaining  lecturers 
who  have  sufficient  ingenuity  and  en- 
thusiasm to  make  such  lectures  interest- 
ing. The  number  of  men  in  the  United 
States  who  can  make  such  lectures  at- 
tractive to  popular  audiences  can  be 
counted  on  the  lingers  of  a  single  hand. 
We  have  had  but  one  universally  pop- 
ular lecturer  on  astronomy  in  twenty 
years,  and  he  is  now  numbered  among 
the  precious  sacrifices  of  the  war.  There 
is  only  one  entirely  acceptable  popular 
lecturer  on  the  natural  sciences  in  New 
England ;  and  what  is  he  among  so 
many? 

But  this  class  of  lectures  has  not  been 
widely  successful,  even  under  the  most 
fiivorable  circumstances,  and  with  the 
very  best  lecturers ;  and  it  is  to  be  ob- 
served, that  they  grow  less  successful 
with  the  increasing  intelligence  of  the 
people.  In  this  fact  is  to  be  found  an 
entirely  rational  and  competent  explana- 
donf  of  their  failure.  The  schools  have 
done  so  much  toward  popularizing 
science,  and  the  circulating-library  has 
rendered  so  ^miliar  the  prominent  ^cts 
of  history,  that  men  and  women  do  not 
go  to  the  lecture  to  learn,  and,  as  fiir  as 
any  appreciably  practical  benefit  is  con- 
cerned, do  not  need  to  go.  It  is  only 
when  some  eminent  enthusiast  in  these 
walks  of  learning  consents  to  address 
them  that  they  come  out,  and  then  it  is 
rather  to  place  themselves  under  the 
influence  of  his  personality  than  to  ac- 
quire the  knowledge  which  he  dispenses. 
Facts,  if  they  are  identified  in  any  spe- 
cial way  with  the  experience  and  life 
of  the  lecturer,  are  always  acceptable ; 
but  fiicts  which  are  recorded  in  books 
find  a  poor  market  in  the  popular  lec- 
ture-room. Thus,  while  purely  histori- 
cal and  scientific  lectures  are  entirely 
neglected,  narratives  of  personal  travel, 
which  combine  much  of  historical  and 
scientific  interest,  have  been  quite  pop- 
ular, and,  indeed,  have  been  the  spe- 
dsdties  of  more  than  one  of  die  most 
popular  of  American  lecturers,  whose 
names  will  be  suggefsted  at  once  by 
this  statement 

Twenty  years  ago  the  first  popular 
lectures  on  anatomy  and  physiotogy 


were  given,  and  a  corps  of  lecturers 
came  up  and  swept  over  the  whole 
country,  with  much  of  interest  and  in- 
struction to  the  people  and  no  small 
profit  to  themselves.  These  lectures 
called  the  attention  of  educators  to  these 
sciences.  Text-books  for  schools  and 
coUeges  were  prepared,  and  anatomy 
and  physiology  became  common  stud- 
ies for  the  young.  In  various  ways» 
through  school-books  and  magazines 
and  newspapers,  there  has  accumulated 
a  stock  of  popular  knowledge  of  these 
sciences,  and  an  apprehension  of  the 
limit  of  their  practical  usefulness,  which 
have  quite  destroyed  the  demand  for 
lectures,  upon  them.  Though  a  new 
genoation  has  risen  since  the  lecture 
on  anatomy  and  physiology  was  the 
rage,  no  leaner  field  could  possibly  be 
found  than  that  which  the  country  now 
presents  to  the  popular  lecturer  on  these 
sciences.  These  facts  are  interesting  in 
themselves,  and  they  serve  to  illustrate 
the  truth  of  that  which  has  been  stated 
touching  lectures  upon  general  histori- 
cal and  scientific  subjects. 

For  £u:ts  alone  the  modem  American 
public  does  not  go  hungry.  American 
life  is  crowded  with  fiicts,  to  which  the 
newspaper  gives  daily  record  and  difiu- 
sion.  Ideas,  motives,  thoughts,  these 
are  always  in  demand.  Men  wish  for 
nothing  more  than  to  know  how  to 
classify  their  facts,  what  to  do  with 
them,  how  to  govern  them,  and  how 
fiir  to  be  governed  by  them ;  and  the 
man  who  takes  the  fects  with  which 
the  popular  life  has  come  into  contact 
and  association,  and  draws  from  them 
their  nutritive  and  motive  power,  and 
points  out  their  relations  to  individ- 
ual and  universal  good,  and  organizes 
around  them  the  popular  thought,  and 
uses  them  to  give  direction  to  the  pop- 
ular life,  and  does  all  this  with  master- 
ly skill,  is  the  man  whose  houses  are 
never  large  enough  to  contain  those 
who  throng  to  hear  him.  This  is  the 
popular  lecturer,  par  exctlUna.  The 
people  have  an  earnest  desire  to  know 
what  a  strong,  independent,  free  man 
has  to  say  about  those  facts  which  touch 
the  experience,  the  direction,  and  the 


368 


The  Popular  Ltctun. 


[March, 


/ 


duty  of  their  daily  life  ;  and  the  lecturer 
who  with  a  hearty  hum2Ln  sympathy 
addresses  himself  to  this  desire,  and 
enters  upon  the  service  with  genuine 
enthusiasm,  wins  the  highest  reward 
there  is  to  be  won  in  his  field  of  effort 
The  more  ill-natured  critics  of  the 
popular  lecturer  have  reflected  with 
ridicule  upon  his  habit  of  repetition. 
A  lecturer  in  full  employment  will  de- 
liver the  same  discourse  perhaps  fifty 
or  a  hundred  tiroes  in  a  single  season. 
There  are  probably  half  a  dozen  fovor- 
ite  lectures  which  have  been  delivered 
from  two  hundred  to  five  hundred  times 
within  the  last  fifteen  years.  It  does, 
indeed,  at  first  glance,  seem  ridiculous 
for  a  man  to  stand,  night  after  night,  and 
deliver  the  same  words,  with  the  origi- 
nal enthusiasm  apparently  at  its  full 
height ;  and  some  lecturers,  with  an  ex- 
tra spice  of  mirthfiilness  in  their  com- 
position, have  given  public  record  of 
their  impressions  in  this  respect  There 
are,  however,  certain  facts  to  be  coh- 
sidered  which  at  least  relieve  him  from 
the  charge  of  literary  sterility.  A  lec- 
ture often  becomes  famous,  and  is  de- 
manded by  each  succeeding  audience, 
whatever  tiie  lecturer's  preferences  may 
be.  There  are  lectures  called  for  every 
year  by  audiences  and  committees  which 
the  lecturer  would  be  glad  never  to  see 
again,  and  which  he  never  would  see 
again,  if  he  were  to  consult  his  own 
judgment  alone.  Then  the  popular  lec- 
turer, as  has  been  already  intimated,  is 
usually  engaged  during  two  thirds  of 
the  year  in  some  business  or  profession 
whose  duties  forbid  the  worthy  prepa- 
ration of  more  than  one  discourse  for 
winter  use.  Then,  if  he  has  numerous 
engagements,  he  has  neither  time  nor 
strength  to  do  more  than  his  nightly 
work ;  for,  among  all  the  pursuits  in 
which  literary  men  engage,  none  is 
more  exhaustive  In  its  demands  upon 
the  nervous  ener^  than  that  of  con- 
stant lecturing.  The  fulfilment  of  from 
seventy-five  to  ninety  engagements  in- 
volves, in  round  numbers,  ten  thousand 
miles  of  railroad-travel,  much  of  it  in 
the  night,  and  all  of  it  during  the  most 
unpleasant  season  of  the  year.    There 


is  probably  nodiing  short  of  a  military 
campaign  that  is  attended  by  so  many 
discomforts  and  genuine  hardships  as 
a  season  of  active  lecturing.  Unless 
a  man  be  young  and  endowed  with  an 
extraordinary  amount  of  vital  power, 
he  becomes  entirely  unfitted  by  his 
nightly  work,  and  the  dissipation  con- 
sequent upon  constant  change  of  scene, 
for  consecutive  thought  and  elaborate 
composition. 

It  is  fortunate  for  the  lecturer  that 
there  is  no  necessity  for  variety.  The 
oft-repeated  lecture  is  new  to  each 
new  audience,  and,  being  thoroughly  in 
hand,  and  entirely  fisimiliar,  is  delivered 
with  better  effect  than  if  the  speaker 
were  fi^quenUy  choosing  fit)m  a  well- 
furnished  repertory.  It  is  popularly  sup- 
posed that  a  lecturer  loses  all  interest 
in  a  performance  which  he  repeats  so 
many  times.  This  supposition  is  cor- 
rect, in  certain  aspects  of  the  matter, 
but  not  in  any  sense  which  detracts 
from  his  power  to  make  it  interesting 
to  others.  It  is  the  general  experience 
of  Jecturers,  that,  until  they  have  deliv- 
ered a  discourse  fi-om  ten  to  twenty 
times,  they  are  themselves  unable  to 
measure  its  power ;  so  that  a  perform- 
ance which  is  offered  at  first  timidly 
and  with  many  doubts  comes  at  length 
to  be  delivered  confidentiy,  and  with 
measurable  certainty  of  acceptance  and 
success.  The  grand  interest  of  a  lec- 
turer is  in  his  new  audience,  in  his 
experiment  on  an  assembly  of  fi'esh 
minds.  The  lecture  itself  is  regarded 
only  as  an  instrument  by  which  a  de- 
sirable and  important  result  is  to  be 
achieved ;  and  familiarity  with  it,  and 
steady  use  in  its  elocutionary  handling, 
are  conditions  of  the  best  success.  Hav- 
ing selected  the  subject  which,  at  the 
time,  and  for  the  times,  he  considers 
freshest  and  most  fruitful,  and  with 
thorough  care  written  out  all  he  has 
to  say  upon  it,  there  is  no  call  for  re- 
currence to  minor  themes,  either  as  re- 
gards the  credit  of  the  lecturer  or  the 
best  interests  df  those  whom  he  ad- 
dresses. 

What  good  has  the  popular  lecture 
accomplished?    Its  most  endiusiastic 


1865.] 


The  Popular  Lecture. 


369 


advocates  will  not  assert  that  it  has 
added  greatly  to  the  stock  of  popular 
knowledge,  in  science  or  art,  in  history, 
philosophy,  or  literature ;  yet  the  most 
modest  of  them  may  daim  that  it  has 
bestowed  upon  American  society  a  per- 
nument  good  oi  incalculable  value.  The 
relentless  foe  of  all  bigotry  in  politics 
and  religion,  the  constant  opponent  of 
every  form  of  bondage  to  party  and  sect, 
the  practical  teacher  of  the  broadest  tol> 
eiation  of  individual  opinion,  it  has  had 
more  to  do  with  the  steady  melioration 
of  the  prejudices  growing  out  of  denom- 
inational interests  in  Church  and  State 
than  any  other  agency  whatever.  The 
platform  of  the  lecture -hall  has  been 
common  ground  for  the  representatives 
of  adl  our  social,  political,  and  religious 
organizations.  It  is  there  that  orthodox 
and  heterodox,  progressive  and  conserv- 
ative, have  won  respect  for  themselves 
and  toleration  for  their  opinions  by  the 
demonstration  of  their  own  manhood, 
and  the  recognition  of  the  common  hu- 
man brotherhood ;  for  one  has  only  to 
prove  himself  a  true  man,  and  to  show 
a  universal  sympathy  with  men,  to  se- 
cure popular  toleration  for  any  opinion 
be  may  hold.  Hardly  a  decade  has  pass- 
ed away  since,  in  nearly  every  Northern 
State,  men  suffered  social  depredation 
in  consequence  of  their  politicU  and  re- 
ligious opinions.  Party  and  sectarian 
names  have  been  freely  "Used  as  re- 
proachfid  and  even  as  disgraceful  epi- 
thets. To  call  a  man  by  the  name  which 
be  bad  chosen  as  the  representative  of 
his  political  or  religious  opinions  was 
considered  equivalent  to  calling  him  a 
knave  or  a  fool ;  and  if  it  happened  that 
be  was  in  the  minority,  his  name  alone 
was  r^arded  as  the  stamp  of  social  deg- 
radation. Now,  thanks  to  the  influence 
of  the  popular  lecture  mainly,  men  have 
made,  and  are  rapidly  making,  room  for 
each  other.  A  man  may  be  in  the  mi- 
nority now  without  consequentiy  being 
in  personal  disgra^.  Men  of  liberal 
and  even  latitudlnarian  views  are  gen- 
erously received  in  orthodox  commu- 
nities, and  those  of  orthodox  faith  are 
^adly  welcomed  by  men  who  subscribe 
to  a  shorter  creed  and  bear  a  broader 

VOL.  XV.  —  KG.  89.  24 


charter  of  life  and  liberty.  There  cer- 
tainly has  never  been  a  time  in  the  his- 
tory of  America  when  there  was  such 
generous  and  general  toleration  of  all 
men  and  all  opinions  as  now;  and  as 
the  popular  lecture  has  been  universal, 
with  a  determined  aim  and  a  manifest 
influence  toward  this  end,  it  is  but  £dr 
to  claim  for  it  a  prominent  agency  in 
the  result 

Another  good  which  may  be  counted 
among  the  fruits  of  the  popular  lecture 
is  the  education  of  the  public  taste  in  in-* 
tellectual  amusements.  The  end  which 
the  lecture-goer  seeks  is  not  always  im- 
provement, in  any  respect  Multitudes 
of  men  and  women  have  attended  the 
lecture  to  be  interested,  and  to  be  inter- 
ested intellectually  is  to  be  intellectually 
amused.  Lecturers  who  have  appealed 
simply  to  the  emotional  nature,  without 
attempting  to  engage  the  intellect,  have 
ceased  to  be  popular  favorites.  So  flir 
as  the  popular  lecture  has  taken  hold 
of  the  affections  of  a  community,  and 
secured  its  constant  support,  it  has  de- 
stroyed the  desire  for  all  amusements 
of  a  lower  grade ;  and  it  will  be  found, 
that,  generally,  those  who  attend  the 
lecture  rarely  or  never  give  their  pat- 
ronage and  presence  to  the  bufiboneries 
of  the  day.  They  have  found  some- 
thing better, — something  with  more  of 
flavor  in  the  eating,  with  more  of  nu- 
triment in  the  digestion.  How  great  a 
good  this  is  those  only  can  judge  who 
realize  that  men  will  have  amusements 
of  some  sort,  and  that,  if  they  cannot 
obtain  such  as  will  elevate  them,  they 
will  indulge  in  such  as  are  frivolous  and 
dissipating.  The  lecture  does  quite  as 
much  for  elevated  amusement  out  of  the 
hall  as  in  it  The  quickening  social  in- 
fluence of  an  excellent  lecture,  particu- 
larly in  a  community  where  life  flows 
sluggishly  and  all  are  absorbed  in  man- 
ual labor,  is  as  remarkable  as  it  is  benef- 
icent The  lecture  and  the  lecturer  are 
the  common  topics  of  discussion  for  a 
week,  and  the  conversation  which  is  so 
apt  to  cling  to  health  and  the  weather  is 
raised  above  the  level  of  commonplace. 

Notwithstanding  the  fact  that  a  moi- 
ety, or  a  majority,  of  the  popular  lectur- 


370 


The  Popular  Lecture. 


[March, 


ers  are  clergymen,  the  lecture  has  not 
always  received  the  favor  of  the  cloth. 
Indeed,  there  has  often  been  private  and 
sometimes  public  complaint  on  the  part 
of  preachers,  that  the  finished  produc- 
tions of  the  lecturer,  the  results  of 
long  and  patient  elaboration,  rendered 
doubly  attractive  by  a  style  of  delivery 
to  be  won  only  by  frequent  repetition 
of  the  same  discourse,  have  brought  the 
hastily  prepared  and  plainly  presented 
Sunday  sermon  into  an  unjust  and  dam- 
gaging  comparison.  The  complaint  is  a 
strange  one,  particularly  as  no  one  has 
ever  claimed  that  the  highest  style  of 
eloquence  or  the  most  remarkable  mod- 
els of  rhetoric  are  to  be  found  in  the 
lecture*hall.  There  has,  ^t  least,  been 
no  general  conviction  that  a  standard 
of  excellence  in  English  and  its  utter- 
ance has  been  maintained  there  too  high 
for  the  comfort  and  credit  of  the  pulpit 
It  is  possible,  therefore,  that  the  pulpit 
betrays  its  weak  point,  and  needs  the 
comparison  which  it  deprecates.  A  man 
of  brains  will  gratefully  receive  sugges- 
tions from  any  quarter.  That  impulses 
to  a  more  ^miliar  and  direct  style  of 
sermonizing,  a  brighter  and  better  elo- 
cution, and  a  bolder  utterance  of  per- 
sonal convictions,  have  come  to  the  pul- 
pit from  the  platform,  there  is  no  ques- 
tion. This  feeling  on  the  part  of  preach- 
ers is  by  no  means  universal,  however ; 
for  some  of  them  have  long  regarded 
the  lecture  with  contempt,  and  have 
sometimes  resented  it  as  an  imperti- 
nence. And*  it  may  be  (for  there  shall 
be  no  quarrel  in  the  matter)  that  lec- 
turers are  quacks,  and  that  lectures,  like 
homoeopathic  remedies,  are  very  con- 
temptible things ;  but  they  have  pleas- 
antiy  modified  the  doses  of  the  old  prac- 
tice, however  slow  the  doctors  are  to 
confess  it ;  and  so  much,  at  least,  may 
be  counted  among  the  beneficent  results 
of  the  system  under  discussion. 

Last  in  the  brief  enumeration  of  the 
benefits  of  the  popular  lecture,  it  has 
been  the  devoted,  consistent,  never  tir- 
ing champion  of  universal  liberty.  If 
the  popular  lecturer  has  not  been  a  pow- 
er in  this  nation  for  the  overthrow  of 
American  Slavery,  —  for  its  overthrow 


in  the  conscientious  convictions  and  the 
legal  and  conventional  festnesses  of  the 
nation, — then  have  the  fnends  of  op- 
pression grossly  lied;  for  none  have 
received  their  malicious  and  angry  ob- 
jurgations more  unsparingly  than  our 
plain-speaking  gentieman  who  makes 
his  yearly  circuit  among  the  lyceums. 
No  champion  of  slavery,  no  advocate 
of  privilege,  no  apologist  for  systema- 
tized and  legalized  wrong  has  ever  been 
able  to  establish  himself  as  a  popular 
lecturer.  The  people  may  listen  re- 
spectfully to  such  a  man  once ;  but, 
having  heard  him,  they  drop  him  forev- 
er. In  truth,  a  man  cannot  be  a  popu- 
lar lecturer  who  does  not  plant  himself 
upon  the  eternal  principles  of  justice. 
He  must  be  a  democrat,  a  believer  in 
and  an  advocate  of  the  equal  rights  of 
men.  A  slavery -loving,  slavery -up- 
holding lecturer  would  be  just  as  much 
of  an  anomaly  as  a  slavery-loving  and 
slavery-singing  poet  The  taint  so  vi- 
tiates the  whole  aesthetic  nature,  so  poi- 
sons the  moral  sense,  so  palsies  the 
finer  powers,  so  destroys  all  true  sympa- 
thy with  universal  humanity,  that  the 
composition  of  an  acceptable  lecture 
becomes  impossible  to  the  man  who 
bears  it  The  popular  lecture,  as  it  has 
been  described  in  this  article,  has  never 
existed  at  the  South,  and  could  not  be 
tolerated  there.  Until  within  three 
years  it  has  never  found  opportunity 
for  utterance  in  the  capital  of  the  na- 
tion ;  but  where  liberty  goes,  it  makes 
its  way,  and  helps  to  break  the  way  for 
liberty  everywhere. 

It  is  a  noteworthy  &ct,  that  the  popu- 
lar lecturer,  though  the  devoted  advo- 
cate of  freedom  to  the  slave,  has  rarely 
been  regarded  as  either  a  trustworthy  or 
an  important  man  in  the  party  which 
has  represented  his  principles  in  this 
country.  He  has  always  been  too  free 
to  be  a  partisan,  too  radical  and  intracta- 
ble for  a  party  seeking  power  or  striving 
to  preserve  it  No  party  of  any  consid- 
erable magnitude  has  ever  regarded  him 
as  its  expositor.  A  thousand  times  have 
party-speakers  and  party-organs,  pro- 
fessing principles  tdenticad  with  his  own, 
washed  their  hands  of  all  responsibility 


1865] 


The  Hour  of  Victory, 


371 


for  his  utterances.  Even  now,  when  the 
sound  of  falling  shackles  is  in  the  air, 
and  the  smoke  of  the  torment  of  the  op- 
pressor fills  the  sky,  old  partisans  of 
fireedom  cannot  quite  forget  their  stupid 
and  hackneyed  animosities,  but  still  be- 
moan the  baleful  influence  of  this  fiery 
itinerant  Representative  of  none  but 
himself,  disowned  or  hated  by  all  par- 
ties, acknowledging  responsibility  to 
God  and  his  own  conscience  only,  he 
has  done  his  work,  and  done  it  well, — 
done  it  amid  careful  questionings  and 
careless  curses, — done  it,  and  been  roy- 
ally paid  for  it,  when  speakers  who  fairly 
represented  the  political  and  religious 
prejudices  of  the  people  could  not  have 
called  around  them  a  baker's  dozen,  with 
tickets  at  half-price  or  at  no  price  at  alL 


When  the  cloud  which  now  envelops 
the  country  shall  gather  up  its  sulphur- 
ous folds  and  roll  away,  tinted  in  its 
retiring  by  the  smile  of  God  beaming 
fi*om  a  calm  sky  upon  a  nation  redeem- 
ed to  fireedom  and  justice,  and  the  his- 
toriauy  in  the  light  of  that  smile,  shall 
trace  home  to  their  fountains  the  streams 
of  influence  and  power  which  will  then 
join  to  form  the  river  of  the  national 
life,  he  will  find  one,  starting  fiir  inland 
among  the  mountains,  longer  than  the 
rest  and  mightier  than  most,  and  will 
recognize  it  as  the  confluent  outpouring 
of  living.  Christian  speech,  from  ten 
thousand  lecture -platforms,  on  which 
free  men  stood  and  vindicated  the  right 
of  man  to  freedom. 


THE    HOUR   OF   VICTORY. 

MERIDIAN  moments  !  grandly  given 
To  cheer  the  warrior's  soul  fi-om  heaven ! 
God's  ancient  boon,  vouchsafed  to  those 
Who  battle  long  with  Freedom's  foes, — 
Oh,  what  in  life  can  claim  the  power 
To  match  with  that  divinest  hour? 


I  see  the  avenging  angel  wave 
His  banner  o'er  the  embatded  brave; 
I  hear  above  Hate's  trumpet-blare 
The  shout  that  rends  the  smoking  air, 
And  then  I  know  at  whose  command 
The  victor  sweeps  the  Rebel  landl 

Enduring  Valor  lifts  his  head 

To  count  the  flying  and  the  dead; 

Returning  Virtue  still  maintains 

The  right  to  break  unhallowed  chains; 

While  sacred  Justice,  bom  of  God, 

Walks  regnant  o'er  the  bleeding  sod. 


372        The  Causes  of  Foreign  Enmity  to  the  United  States,    [March, 


THE    CAUSES    OF    FOREIGN    ENMITY   TO    THE 

UNITED    STATES. 


THE  hostility  of  foreign  governments 
to  the  United  States  is  due  as 
much  at  least  to  dread  of  their  growing 
power  as  dish'ke  of  their  democracy ;  and 
accordingly  the  theory  of  the  Secession- 
ists as  to  the  character  of  our  Union  has 
been  as  acceptable  to  the  understand- 
ings of  our  foreign  enemies  as  the  acts 
of  the  Rebels  against  its  government 
have  been  pleasing  to  their  sympathies. 
They  well  know  that  a  union  of  States 
whose  government  recognized  the  right 
of  Secession  would  be  as  weak  as  an 
ordinary  league  between  independent 
sovereignties ;  and  as  the  rapid  growth 
of  the  States  in  population,  wealth,  and 
power  is  certain,  they  naturally  desire, 
that,  if  united,  these  States  shall  be  an 
aggregation  of  forces,  neutralizing  each 
other,  rather  than  a  fusion  of  forces, 
which,  for  general  purposes,  would  make 
them  a  giant  nationality.  Accordingly, 
centralized  France  reads  to  us  edifying 
homilies  on  the  advantages  of  disinte- 
gration; and  England,  rich  with  the 
spoils  of  suppressed  insurrections,  ad- 
jures us  most  plaintively  to  respect  the 
sacred  rights  of  rebellion.  The  simple 
explanation  of  this  hypocrisy  or  irony 
is,  that  both  France  and  England  are 
anxious  that  the  strength  of  the  United 
States  shall  not  correspond  to  their  bulk. 
The  looser  the  tie  of  union,  the  great- 
er-the  number  of  confederacies  into 
which  the  nation  should  split,  the  safer 
they  would  feel.  The  doctrine  of  the 
inherent  and  undivided  sovereignty  of 
the  States  will  therefore  find  resolute 
champions  abroad  as  long  as  it  has  the 
most  inconsiderable  Csiction  to  support 
it  at  home. 

The  European  nations  are  kept  in 
order  by  what  is  called  the  Balance  of 
Power,  and  this  policy  they  would  de- 
light to  see  established  on  this  continent 
Should  the  different  States  of  the  Amer- 
ican Union  be  occupied,  like  the  Eu- 
ropean states,  in  checking  each  other, 
they  could  not  act  as  a  unit,  and  their 


terrific  rate  of  growth  in  wealth  and  pop- 
ulation, as  compared  with  that  of  the 
nations  across  the  Atlantic,  would  not 
excite  in  the  latter  such  irritation  and 
alarm.  The  magic  which  has  changed 
English  abolitionists  into  partisans  of 
slaveholders,  and  French  imperialists 
into  champions  of  insurrection,  came 
from  the  figures  of  the  Census  Reports. 
It  is  calculated  that  the  United  States, 
if  the  rate  of  growth  which  obtained  be- 
tween 1850  and  i860  is  continued,  will 
have,  forty  years  hence,  a  hundred  mil- 
lions of  inhabitants,  and  four  hundred 
and  twenty  thousand  millions  of  dollars 
of  taxable  wealth,  —  over  three  times 
the  present  population,  and  pver  ten 
times  the  present  wealth,  of  the  richest 
of  European  nations.  It  is  probable 
that  this  concrete  fact  exerts  more  in- 
fluence on  the  long-headed  statesmen 
of  Europe  than  any  abstract  dislike  of 
democracy.  The  only  union  which  they 
could  bring  against  such  a  power  would 
be  a  league,  a  confederacy,  a  continu- 
ous and  subsisting  treaty,  between  sov- 
ereign powers.  Is  it  surprising  that 
they  should  wish  our  union  to  be  of 
the  same  character?  Is  it  surprising 
that  the  contemplation  of  a  government, 
whether  despotic  or  democratic,  which 
could  act  directly  on  a  hundred  millions 
of  people,  with  the  supreme  right  of 
taxing  property  to  the  amount  of  four 
hundred  and  twenty  billions  of  dollars, 
should  fill  them  with  dismay  ? 

The  inherent  weakness  of  a  league, 
even  when  its  general  object  is  such  as 
to  influence  the  passions  of  the  nations 
which  compose  it,  is  well  known  to  all 
European  statesmen.  The  various  alli- 
ances against  France  show  the  insuper- 
able difficulties  in  the  way  of  giving  to 
confederacies  of  sovereign  states  a  uni- 
ty and  efficiency  corresponding  to  their 
aggregate  strength,  and  the  necessity 
which  the  leaders  of  such  alliances  are 
always  under  of  expending  half  their  skill 
and  energy  in  preventing  the  loosely 


1 86s.]      The  Causes  of  Foreign  Enmity  to  the  United  States.        37^ 


compacted  league  from  falling  to  pieces. 
The  alliance  under  the  lead  of  Wil- 
liam III.  barely  sustained  itself  against 
Louis  XIV.,  though  William  was  the 
ablest  statesman  in  Europe,  and  had 
been  trained  in  the  tactics  of  confed- 
eracies from  his  cradle.  The  alliance 
under  the  lead  of  Marlborough  owed  its 
measure  of  success  to  his  infinite  ad- 
dress and  miraculous  patience  as  much 
as  to  his  consummate  military  genius ; 
and' the  ignominious  '^ secession"  of 
England,  in  the  treaty  of  Utrecht,  end- 
ed in  making  it  one  of  the  most  con- 
spicuous examples  of  the  weakness  of 
such  combinations.  When  the  excep- 
tional military  genius,  as  in  the  case  of 
Frederick  and  Napoleon,  has  been  on 
the  side  of  the  single  power  assailed, 
Che  results  have  been  all  the  more  re- 
markable. The  coalition  against  Fred- 
erick, the  ruler  of  five  millions  of  people, 
was  composed  of  sovereigns  who  ruled 
a  hundred  millions ;  and  at  the  end  of 
seven  years  of  war  they  had  not  suc- 
ceeded in  wringing  permanently  fi'om 
his  grasp  a  square  mile  of  territory. 
The  first  coalitions  against  Napoleon 
resulted  only  in  making  him  the  master 
of  Europe ;  and  he  was  crushed  at  last 
merely  by  the  dead  weight  of  the  na- 
tions which  the  senselessness  of  his  po^ 
litical  passions  brought  down  upon  his 
empire.  Indeed,  the  trouble  with  all 
leagues  is,  that  they  are  commanded, 
more  or  less,  by  debating-societies ;  and 
a  debating-society  is  weak  before  a  man. 
The  Southern  Confederacy  is  a  confed- 
eracy only  in  name ;  for  no  despotism 
in  Europe  or  Asia  has  more  relentless 
unity  of  purpose,  and  in  none  does  de- 
bate exercise  less  control  over  execu- 
tive affiiirs.  All  the  powers  of  the  gov- 
ernment ar6  practicaUy  absorbed  in  Jef- 
ferson Davis,  and  a  rebellion  in  the  name 
of  State  Rights  has  ended  in  a  military 
autocracy,  in  which  all  rights,  personal 
and  State,  are  suspended. 

Now,  as  it  is  impossible  for  Europe- 
an governments  to  combine  efficiently 
against  such  a  colossal  power  as  the 
United  States  promise  within  a  few 
generations  to  be,  provided  the  unity 
of  the  nation  Is   preserved  with   its 


growth,  they  naturally  favor  every  ele- 
ment of  disintegration  which  will  re- 
duce the  separate  States  to  the  condi- 
tion of  European  states.  Earl  Rus- 
sell's famous  saying,  that  *'  the  North  is 
fighting  for  power,  the  South  for  inde- 
pendence," is  to  be  interpreted  in  this 
sense.  What  he  overlooked  was  the 
striking  £act  which  distinguishes  the 
States  of  the  American  Republic  fron) 
the  states  of  Europe.  The  latter  are 
generally  separated  by  race  and  nation- 
ality, or,  where  composed  of  heterogene- 
ous materials,  are  held  together  by  mil- 
itary power.  The  people  of  the  United 
States  are  homogeneous,  and  rapidly  as- 
similate into  American  citizens  the  for- 
eigners they  so  cordially  welcome.  No 
man  has  lifted  his  hand  against  the  gov- 
ernment as  an  Irishman,  a  Frenchman, 
a  German,  an  Italian,  a  Dane,  but  only 
as  a  slaveholder,  or  as  a  citizen  of  a 
State  controlled  by  slaveholders.  The 
insurrection  was  started  in  the  interest 
of  an  institution,  and  not  of  a  race.  To 
compare  such  a  rebellion  with  Euro- 
pean rebellions  is  to  confuse  things  es- 
sentially distinct  The  American  gov- 
ernment Is  so  constituted  that  nobody 
has  an  interest  in  overturning  it,  unless 
his  Interest  is  opposed  to  that  of  the 
mass  of  the  citizens  with  whom  he  is 
placed  on  an  equality;  and  hence  his 
treason  is  necessarily  a  revolt  against 
the  principle  of  equal  rights.  In  Eu- 
rope, it  is  needless  to  say,  every  rebel- 
lion with  which  an  American  can  sym- 
pathize is  a  rebellion  in  favor  of  the 
principle  against  which  the  slavehold- 
ers' rebellion  is  an  armed  protest  An 
insurrection  in  Russia  to  restore  serf- 
dom, an  insurrection  in  Italy  to  restore 
the  dethroned  despots,  an  Insurrection 
in  England  to  restore  the  Stuart  system 
of  kingly  government,  an  Insurrection 
an3rwhere  to  restore  what  the  progress 
of  civilization  had  made  contemptible 
or  accursed,'  would  be  the  only  fit  paral- 
lel to  the  insurrection  of  the  Southern 
Confederates.  The  North  is  fighting 
for  power  which  Is  Its  due,  because  it 
is  just  and  right;  the  South  is  fight- 
ing for  independence.  In  order  to  re- 
move all  checks  on  its  purpose  to  op- 


374         ^^  Causes  of  Foreign  Enmity  to  the  United  States,   [March, 


press  and  enslave.  The  fact  that  the 
power  for  which  the  North  fights  is 
a  very  different  thing  from  the  power 
which  a  European  monarchy  struggles 
to  preserve  and  extend,  the  fact  that 
it  is  the  kind  of  power  which  oppress- 
ed nationalities  seek  in  their  efforts 
for  independence,  only  makes  our  for- 
eign critics  more  apprehensive  of  its 
effects.  It  is  a  dangerous  power  to 
them,  because,  founded  in  the  consent 
of  the  people,  there  is  no  limit  to  its 
possible  extension,  except  in  the  mad- 
ness or  guilt  of  that  portion  of  the 
people  who  are  restive  under  the  re- 
straints of  justice  and  impatient  under 
the  rule  'of  freedom. 

It  would  be  doing  cruel  wrong  to 
Earl  Russell's  intelligence  to  suppose 
that  be  really  believed  what  he  said, 
when  he  drew  a  parallel  between  the 
American  Revolution  and  the  Rebellion 
of  the  Confederate.  States,  and  asserted 
that  the  right  of  the  Southern  States 
to  secede  from  the  American  Union 
was  identical  with  the  right  of  the 
Colonies  to  sever  their  connection  with 
Great  Britain.  We  believe  the  Col- 
onies were  right  in  their  revolt  But 
if  the  circumstances  had  been  different, 
— if  since  the  reign  of  William  III. 
they  had  nominated  or  controlled  al- 
most every  Prime  Minister,  had  sh2^)ed 
the  policy  of  the  British  Empire,  had 
enjoyed  not  only  a  representation  in 
Parliament,  but  in  the  basis  of  repre- 
sentation had  been  fovored  with  a  spe- 
cial discrimination  in  their  fevor  against 
Kent  and  Yorkshire,  —  if  both  in  the 
House  of  Lords  and  the  House  of  Com- 
mons they  had  not  only  been  dominant, 
but  had  treated  the  Bentincks,  Caven- 
dishes, and  Russells,  the  Montagus, 
Walpoles,  and  Pitts,  with  overbearing 
insolence, — and  if^  after  wielding  power 
so  long  and  so  arrogantly,  they  had 
rebelled  at  the  first  turn  in  political 
afllairs  which  seemed  to  indicate  that 
they  were  to  be  reduced  firom  a  position 
of  superiority  to  one  of  equality,  —  if 
our  forefathers  had  acted  after  this  wild 
fashion,  we  should  not  only  think  that 
the  Revolution  they  achieved  was  al- 
together unjustifiable,  but  we  sho**^ 


blush  at  the  thought  of  being  descended 
fix)m  such  despot-demagogies.  This 
is  a  very  feeble  statement  of  the  case 
which  would  connect  the  Revolt  of  the 
American  Colonies  with  the  Revolt  of 
the  American  Liberticides ;  and  Earl 
Russell  is  too  well-informed  a  states- 
man not  to  know  that  his  parallel  fiiils 
in  every  essential  particular.  He  threw 
it  out,  as  he  threw  out  his  sounding  an- 
tithesis about  '* power"  and  *Mnde- 
pendence,"  to  catch  ears  not  specially 
blessed  with  brains  between  them. 

But  European  statesmen,  in  order  to 
promote  the  causes  of  American  dis- 
sensions, are  willing  not  only  to  hazard 
fidlades  which  do  not  impose  on  their 
own  understandings,  but  to  give  aid  and 
comfort  to  iniquities  which  in  Europe 
have  long  been  antiquated.  They  thus 
tolerate  chattel  slavery,  not  because 
they  sympathize  with  it,  but  because  it 
is  an  element  of  disturbance  in  the 
growth  of  American  power.  Though 
it  has  for  centuries  been  outgrown  by 
the  nations  of  Western  Europe,  and  is 
repugnant  to  all  their  ideas  and  senti- 
ments, they  are  willing  to  give  it  their 
moral  support,  provided  it  will  break 
up  the  union  of  the  people  of  the  States, 
or  remain  as  a  constantiy  operating 
cause  of  enmity  between  the  sections 
of  a  reconstructed  Union.  They  would 
tolerate  Mormonism  or  Atheism  or 
Diabolism,  if  they  thought  it  would 
have  a  similar  effect ;  but  at  the  same 
time  they  would  not  themselves  legal- 
ize polygamy,  or  deny  the  existence 
of  God,  or  inaugurate  the  worship  of 
the  Devil.  Indeed,  while  giving  slavery 
a  politic  sanction,  they  despise  in  their 
hearts  the  people  who  are  so  barbarous 
as  to  maintain  such  an  institution ;  and 
the  Southern  rebel  or  Nortiiem  dema- 
gogue who  thinks  his  championship  of 
slavery  really  earns  him  any  European 
respect  is  under  that  kind  of  delusion 
which  it  is  always  for  the  interest  of 
the  plotter  to  cultivate  in  the  tool.  It 
was  common,  a  few  years  ago,  to  rep- 
resent the  Abolitionist  as  the  dupe  or 
agent  of  the  aristocracies  of  Europe. 
It  certainly  might  be  supposed  that 
'"^~"^'\s  who  made  this  foolish  charge 


1865.]      The  Causes  of  Foreign  Enmity  to  the  United  States.        375 


weY«  competent  at  least  to  see  that  the 
present  enemy  of  the  tuiity  of  the 
American  people  is  the  pro-slavery  hr 
natic,  and  that  it  is  on  his  knavery  or 
stupidity  that  the  ill-wishers  to  Amer- 
ican unity  now  chiefly  rely. 

For  the  war  has  compelled  these  ill- 
wishers  to  modify  their  most  cherished 
theory  of  democracy  in  the  United 
States.  They  thought  that  the  marvel- 
lous energy  for  military  combination, 
developed  by  a  democracy  suddenly 
emancipated  firom  oppression,  such  as 
was  presented  by  the  French  people  in 
the  Revolution  of  1789,  was  not  the 
characteristic  of  a  democracy  which  had 
grown  up  under  democratic  institutions. 
The  first  was  anarchy //i/j  the  dictator ; 
the  second  was  merely  '^  anarchy //vj 
the  constable."  They  had  an  obstinate 
prepossession,  that,  in  a  settled  democ- 
racy like  ours,  the  selfishness  of  the 
individual  was  so  stimulated  that  he 
became  incapable. of  self-sacrifice  for 
the  public  good.  The  ease  with  which 
the  government  of  the  United  States 
has  raised  men  by  the  million  and 
money  by  the  billion  has  overturned 
this  theory,  and  shown  that  a  republic, 
of  which  individual  liberty  and  general 
equality  form  the  animating  principles, 
can  still  rapidly  avail  itself  of  the  prop- 
erty and  personal  service  of  all  the  in- 
dividuals who  compose  it,  and  that  self- 
seeking  is  not  more  characteristic  of  a 
democracy  in  time  of  peace  than  self- 
sacrifice  is  characteristic  of  the  same 
democracy  in  time  of  war.  The  over- 
whelming and  apparently  unlimited 
power  of  a  government  thus  0/  the 
people  and  for  the  people  is  what  the 
war  has  demonstrated,  and  it  very  nat- 
urally excites  the  fear  and  jealousy  of 
governments  which  are  based  on  less 
firm  foundations  in  the  popular  mind 
and  heart  and  wilL 

It  is  doubtless  true  that  many  candid 
foreign  thinkers  fiivor  the  disintegra- 
tion of  the  American  Union  because 
they  believe  that  the  consolidation  of 
its  power  would  make  it  the  meddlesome 
tyrant  of  the  world.  They  admit  that 
the  enterprisei  skill,  and  labor  of  the 
people,  applied  to  the  unbounded  un- 


developed resources  of  the  country, 
will  enable  them  to  create  wealth  very 
much  faster  than  otlier  nations,  and 
that  the  population,  fed  by  continual 
streams  of  immigration,  will  also  in- 
crease with  a  corresponding  rapidity. 
They  admit,  that,  if  kept  united,  a  few 
generations  will  be  sufficient  to  make 
them  the  richest,  largest,  and  most 
powerful  nation  in  the  world.  But  they 
also  fear  that  this  nation  will  be  an 
armed  and  aggressive  democracy,  de- 
ficient in  public  reason  and  public  con- 
science, disposed  to  push  unjust  claims 
with  insolent  pertinacity,  and  im- 
pelled by  a  spirit  of  propagandism 
which  will  continually  disturb  the  peace 
of  Europe.  It  is  curious  that  this  im- 
pression is  derived  firom  the  actions  of 
the  government  while  it  was  controlled 
by  the  traitors  now'in  rebellion  against 
it,  and  fi'om  the  professions  of  those 
Northern  demagogues  who  are  most  in 
sympathy  with  European  opinion  con- 
cerning the  justice  and  policy  of  the 
war.  Mr.  Fernando  Wood,  the  most 
resolute  of  all  the  Northern  advocates 
of  peace,  recommended  firom  his  seat 
in  Congress  but  a  month  ago,  that  a 
compromise  be  patched  up  with  the 
Rebels  on  the  principle  of  sacrificing 
the  negro,  and  then  that  both  sections 
unite  to  seize  Canada,  Cuba,  and  Mex- 
ico. The  kind  of  ''  democracy ''  which 
Mr.  Jefferson  Davis  and  Mr.  Fernan- 
do Wood  represent  is  the  kind  of  de- 
mocracy which  has  always  been  the 
great  disturber  of  our  foreign  rela- 
tions, and  it  is  a  democracy  which  will 
be  rendered  powerless  by  the  triumph 
of  the  national  arms.  The  United 
States  of  1900,  with  their  population  of 
a  hundred  millions,  and  their  wealth  of 
four  hundred  and  twenty  billions,  will, 
we  believe,  be  a  power  for  good,  and  not 
for  evil.  They  will  be  strong  enough  to 
make  their  rights  respected  everywhere ; 
but  they  will  not  force  their  ideas  on. 
other  nations  at  the  point  of  the  bay- 
onet; they  will  not  waste  their  ener- 
gies in  playing  the  part  of  the  armed 
propagandist  of  democratic  opinions  in 
Europe ;  and  the  contagion  of  their 
principles  will  only  be  the  natural  re- 


376 


Reviews  and  Literary  Notices. 


[March, 


suit  of  the  example  of  peace,  prosper- 
ity, freedom,  and  justice,  which  they 
will  present  to  the  world.  JLn  Europe, 
where  power  commonly  exists  only  to 
be  abused,  this  statement  would  be  re- 
ceived with  an  incredulous  smile ;  but 


we  haye  no  reason  to  doubt,  that,  among 
the  earnest  patriots  who  are  urging  on 
the  present  war  for  Liberty  and  Union 
to  a  victorious  conclusion,  it  would  be 
considered  the  most  commonplace  of 
truths. 


REVIEWS    AND    LITERARY    NOTICES. 


The  Se<r,  or  Commonplaces  Jiefreshed,  By 
Leigh  Hunt.  In  Two  Voliunes.  Bos- 
ton: Roberts  Brothers. 

Among  the  books  most  prized,  in  our 
modest  private  book-room,  are  some  which 
bear  th%  delicate  and  graceful  autograph  of 
Leigh  Hunt,  having  floated  from  his  desert- 
ed library  to  these  American  shores.  There 
is  the  Apollonius  from  which  came  the  text 
of  his  poem  of  "The  Panther"; — this  is 
his  mark  against  the  legend,  on  page  sixty- 
nine  ;  and  here  is  the  old  engraving  of  Apol- 
lonius, which  he  no  doubt  inserted  as  a 
frontispiece  to  the  book.  Here  again  is  his 
copy  of  Rousseau's  "Confessions,"  Hoi- 
yoake's  translation,  annotated  through  and 
through  with  Hunt's  humane  and  penetrat- 
ing criticisms  on  a  nature  with  which  his 
own  had  much  in  common,  though  purer 
and  sweeter.  This  volume  of  Milton's  "  Mi- 
nor Poems  "  was  his  also,  with  the  rich  and 
varied  notes  of  Warton,  the  edition  of  whose 
literary  charms  he  somewhere  speaks  with 
such  delight  Here  also  is  Forster's  "  Per- 
ennial Calendar,"  a  book  of  rural  gossip, 
such  as  Leigh  Hunt  thoroughly  enjoyed ; 
and  this  copy  of  Aubrey  dc  Vere's  Poems 
was  a  present  from  the  authpr.  Above  all, 
perhaps,  one  dwells  with  interest  on  a  vol- 
ume of  Hennell's  "  Christianity  and  Infidel- 
ity," riddled  through  and  through  by  pen- 
and-ink  underscorings,  extending  sometimes 
to  every  line  upon  a  page.  The  book  ends 
with  a  generous  paragraph  in  assertion  of 
the  comfort  and  sufficiency  of  Natural  Re- 
ligion ;  and  after  it  comes,  written  originally 
in  pencil,  then  in  ink  again,  always  with  the 
same  firm  and  elegant  handwriting,  the  in- 
dorsement, "Amen.  So  be  it  L.  H.  July 
14th,  1857."  This  was  written  in  his  sev- 
enty-third year,  two  years  before  his  death, 
and  this  must  have  been  about  the  time 
of  Hawthorne's  visit  to  him.     Read  the 


"Amen"  in  the  light  of  that  beautiful  de- 
scription of  patient  and  frugal  old  age,  and 
it  is  a  touching  and  noble  memorial 

Americans  often  fancied  that  they  noticed 
something  American  in  Leigh  Hunt's  pky" 
sifue  and  manners,  without  knowing  how 
near  he  came  to  owning  a  CisaUantic  birth. 
His  mother  was  a  Philadelphian ;  and  his 
father,  a  West-Indian,  resided  in  this  coun<* 
try  until  within  a  few  years  of  his  death. 
It  is  fitting,  therefore,  that  our  publishers 
should  keep  his  writings  in  the  market,  and 
this  is  well  done  in  this  handsome  edition  of 
"  The  Seer."  These  charming  essays  will 
bear  preservation ;  none  are  more  saturated 
with  cultivated  taste  and  literary  allusion, 
and  in  none  are  more  graceful  pictures  paint- 
ed on  a  slighter  canvas.  If  there  is  an  oc- 
casional impression  of  fragility  and  super- 
ficiality, it  is  yet  wholly  in  character,  and 
seems  not  to  interfere  with  the  peculiar 
charm.  Hunt,  for  instance,  writes  a  de- 
lightful paper  on  the  theme  of  "  Cricket," 
without  ten  allusions  to  the  game,  or  one 
indication  of  ever  having  stopped  to  watch 
it  He  discourses  deliciously  upon  Anacre- 
on's  "  Tettix," — the  modem  Cicada,  —  and 
then  calls  it  a  beetle.  There  is  apt,  indeed, 
to  be  a  pervading  trace  of  that  kind  of 
conscious  effort  which  is  technically  called 
"  book-making,"  and  one  certainly  finds  the 
entertainment  a  little  frothy,  at  times,  com* 
pared  with  the  elder  essayists.  Neverthe- 
less, Leigh  Hunt's  roaes  always  bloom,  his 
breezes  are  always  "redolent  of  joy  and 
youth,"  and  his  sunny  spirit  pervades  even 
a  rainy  day.  Chaucer  and  Keats  never  yet 
have  found  a  more  delicate  or  discriminat- 
ing critic;  and  his  paper  on  Wordsworth, 
beside  the  fine  touches,  has  solider  quali- 
ties that  command  one's  admiration.  The 
personal  memorials  of  the  author's  literary 
friends  have  a  peculiar  charm  to  us  in  this 
land  and  generation,  for  whom  Hazlitt  and 


1865.] 


Rtviews  and  Literary  Notices. 


377 


Keats  are  names  almost  as  shadowy  and  ro- 
mantic as  Amadis  or  Lancelot ;  but  best  of 
all  b  his  noble  tribute  to  Shelley.  After 
speaking  (Vol.  II.  p.  138)  of  the  deep  phi- 
lanthropy which  lay  beneath  the  apparent 
cynicism  of  Hazlitt,  he  thus  continues :  -^ 
**  But  only  imagine  a  man  who  should  feel 
tlus  interest  too,  and  be  deeply  amiable, 
and  have  great  sufferings,  bodily  and  men- 
tal, and  know  his  own  errors,  and  waive  the 
daim  of  his  own  virtues,  and  manifest  an 
miceasing  considerateness  of  the  comforts 
of  those  about  him,  in  the  very  least  as  well 
as  greatest  *things, — surviving,  in  the  pure 
life  of  his  heart,  all  mistake,  all  misconcep- 
tion, all  exasperation,  and  ever  having  a 
soft  word  in  his  extremity,  not  only  for  those 
who  consoled,  but  for  those  who  distressed 
him ;  and  imagine  how  we  must  have  loved 
kiwi^    It  was  Mr.  Shelley." 

Such  an  epitaph  writes  the  character  not 
only  of  him  who  receives  the  tribute,  but 
of  him  who  pays  it.  And  if  there  ever  lived 
a  literary  man  who  might  fitly  claim  for  his 
funeral  stone  the  inscription,  *'Lord,  keep 
my  memory  green,"  it  was  the  sweet-tern* 
pmd,  floweploving  Leigh  Hunt 

^'  Christ  and  his  Salvation,  In  Sermons  va- 
rio\]sIy  related  thereto.  By  Horace 
Bush  NELL.  New  York  :  Charles  Scrib- 
ner. 

These  sermons  are  distinguished  from 
the  ordinary  discourses  of  the  pulpit  by 
being  the  product  not  merely  of  religious 
faith  and  feeling,  but  of  religious  genius. 
They  embody  the  thought  and  experience 
of  a  life,  and  the  ideas  they  inculcate  are 
not  so  much  the  dogmas  of  a  sect  as  the 
divinations  of  an  individual.  "This  is 
Christianity  as  it  has  been  verified  in  my 
consciousness,"  might  be  taken  as  the  motto 
of  the  volume.  The  result  is,  that  the  col- 
lection is  an  addition  to  religious  literature, 
and  will  be  read  with  satisfaction  for  its 
stimulating  effect  on  the  religious  sense  by 
hundreds  who  may  disagree  with  its  direct 
teachings. 

The  two  most  striking  and  characteristic 
sermons  in  the  volume  are  the  first  and  the 
last,  respectively  entitled,  *'  Christ  waiting 
to  find  Room,"  a  masterly  analysis  of  the 
worldliness  of  the  so-called  Christian  world, 
and  **  Heaven  Opened,"  a  plea  equally  mas- 
terly for  the  existence  in  man  df  a  super- 
natural  sense  to  discern  supernatural  things. 
Between  these  come  the  sermons  entitled, 
''The  Gentleness  of  God,"  *'The  Insight 


of  Love,"  "Salvation  for  the  Lost  Con- 
dition," '*The  Bad  Mind  makes  a  Bad 
Element,"  and  "The  Wrath  of  the  Lamb,** 
which  illustrate  so  well  the  union  in  Dr. 
Bushneirs  mind  of  practical  sagacity  and 
force  of  thought  with  keenness  and  reach 
of  spiritual  vision,  that  we  select  them  from 
the  rest  as  particularly  worthy  of  the  read- 
er's attention.  Indeed,  to  have  written 
•these  discourses  is  to  have  done  the  work 
of  a  ministry. 

The  peculiarity  of  the  whole  volume,  and 
a  singular  peculiarity  in  a  collection  of  ser- 
mons, is  the  absence  of  commonplace.  The 
writer's  method  in  thinking  is  to  bring  his 
mind  into  close  contact  with  things  instead 
of  phrases, — to  think  round  his  subject, 
and  think  into  his  subject,  and,  if  possible, 
think  through  his  subject  to  the  law  on 
which  it  depends ;  and  ^us,  when  his  think- 
ing results  in  no  novelty  of  view,  it  is  still 
the  indorsement  of  an  accepted  truth  by  a 
fresh  perception  of  it  Truths  in  such  a 
process  never  put  on  the  character  of  tru- 
isms, but  are  as  vital  to  the  last  observer  as 
to  the  first  There  is  hardly  a  page  in  the 
volume  which  is  not  originsd,  in  the  sense 
of  recording  original  impressions  of  objects, 
individually  seen,  grasped,  and  examined. 
There  are  numerous  originalities  of  a  dif- 
ferent kind,  which  may  not  be  so  pleasing 
to  some  classes  of  Christians, — as  when  he 
aims  to  show  that  an  accredited  spiritual 
form  does  not  express  a  corresponding  spir- 
itual fact,  or  as  when  he  splits  some  shell 
of  creed  which  imprisons  rather  than  em- 
bodies the  kernel  of  foith,  and  lets  the  op- 
pressed truth  go  firee. 

This  power  of  penetrating  thought,  so 
determined  as  at  times  to  wear  a  look  ofi 
doggedness, — this  anal3rsis  which  shrinks 
from  no  problems,  which  is  provoked  by 
obstacles  into  intenser  efibrt,  and  which  is 
almost  fimatical  in  its  desire  to  get  at  the 
idea  and  reason  of  everything  it  probes,  >* 
is  relieved  by  a  richly  sympathetic  and 
imaginative  nature, — indeed,  is  so  welded 
with  it,  that  insight  and  analysis  serve  each 
other,  and  cool  reason  gives  solidity  to  ec- 
static experience.  Perhaps  as  a  seer  Dr. 
Bushnell  may  be  more  certain  of  recognition 
than  as  a  reasoner.  Whatever  may  be 
thought  of  the  orthodoxy  of  the  doctrines 
he  has  rationalixed,  there  can  be  no  doubt 
as  to  the  reality  of  the  spiritual  states  he 
has  described.  His  intellectual  method, 
may  be  wrong  or  incomplete,  but  it  in  some 
way  enables  him  to  reach  the  •  substance  of 
Chxistian  life  4md  tight,  and  love,  and  JQj. 


378 


Reviews  and  Literary  Notices. 


[March, 


There  are  passages  in  the  Tolome  which  are 
all  aglow  with  the  sacred  fire  of  that  rap* 
ture  which  rewards  only  those  souks  that 
soar  into  the  regions  where  the  objects  that 
kindle  it  abide;  and  this  elevation  which 
touches  ecstasy,  this  effluence  from  the 
spiritual  mood  of  the  writer,  is  not  limited 
to  special  bursts  of  eloquence,  but  gleams 
along  the  lines  of  many  a  clinching  argu- 
ment, and  flashes  out  from  many  an  un- 
cadenced  period. 

The  style  of  the  book  is  what  might  be 
expected  from  the  character  sy(  the  author 
and  the  processes  of  his  thinking.  The 
mental  state  dictates  the  form  of  the  sentence 
and  the  selection  of  the  words.  Thought 
and  expression,  so  to  speak,  breed  in  and 
in.  There  is  a  certain  roughness  in  the 
strength  of  the  man,  which  is  ever  asserting 
itself  through  his  cultured  vigor ;  and  in 
the  diction,  rustic  plainness  of  speech  alter- 
nates with  the  nomenclature  of  metaphys- 
ics, rugged  sense  with  lifting  raptures,  and 
curt,  blunt,  homely  expression  with  vivid, 
animating,  and  harmonious  eloquence.  But 
whatever  may  be  his  form  of  words,  he  al- 
ways loads  them  with  meaning,  and  with 
his  own  meaning.  He  is  not  a  fluent  writ- 
er, but  his  resources  of  expression  ever 
correspond  to  his  richness  of  thought 
And  ijf  his  style  cannot  be  said  to  bend 
gracefully  to  the  variations  of  his  subject, 
it  still  bends  and  does  not  break.  In  fe- 
licity and  originality  of  epithet,  the  usual 
sign  of  a  writer's  genuineness  of  perception, 
he  is  excelled  by  no  theologian  of  the  time. 
He  also  has  that  power  of  pithy  and  pointed 
language  which  so  condenses  a  statement 
of  a  fact  or  principle  that  it  gives  forth  the 
diamond  sparkle  of  epigram.  The  effect . 
of  wit  is  produced  while  the  purpose  is  the 
gravest  possible :  as  when  he  tells  some 
brother  religionists,  who  base  their  creeds 
on  the  hyperboles  of  Scripture,  that  they 
mistake  interjections  for  propositions, — or 
as  when  he  reproves  those  pretenders  to 
grace  who  count  it  apparently  "  a  kind  of 
merit  that  fhey  live  loosely  enough  to  make 
salvation  by  merit  impossible." 

The.  animaifing  spirit  of  the  volume  b  a 

desiFe  to  ■  bring  »en*s  minds  into  contact 

.with  what  is  vital  in  religion,  and  this  leads 

(to:Siany*«  sharp  csmment  both  on  the 

( dogmatism  of  sec^  ^nd  the  rationalism  of 

.  critics.    Dr.  Bushiidn  always  seeks  that  in 

i«digion  which  r««t.«ie»dly  illumines   the 

imhfd,'  but  invigorates  the  frill.    It  is  not 

the  form  of  a  doctrine.vbut'fhe  force  in  the 

iprm,.and  its  pow^^to  JTopSttt  ibrce  to  the 


believer,  which  engages  his  attention.  In 
pursuing  this  method  he  displays  alternate- 
ly the  qualities  of  an  interpreter  and  of 
an  iconoclast ;  but  his  object  is  the  same, 
whether  he  evolves  unexpected  meanings 
from  an  accredited  dogma,  or  assails  the 
sense  in  which  it  is  generally  received.  And 
so  tenacious  is  his  hold  on  the  life  of  Chris- 
tianity, and  so  vivid  his  mode  of  presenting 
it,  thsU  both  dogmatist  and  rationalist  most 
jfeel,  in  reading  his  volume,  that  he  has 
given  its  proper  prominence  to  much  in 
Christianity  which  their  methods  tempt 
them  to  overlook.  • 


T^e  Morrisons,  a  Story  of  Domestic  Lift,  By 
Mrs.  Margaret  Hosmer.  New  York : 
John  Bradburn, 

Full  of  improbabilities,  and  becoming 
lifrid  with  domestic  tragedies  at  the  end, 
this  stbry  has  yet  a  sincerity  and  earnest- 
ness of  style  that  may  entitle  it  to  be  called 
respectable,  among  the  mass  of  American 
stories.  Novels  are  being  sold  by  the  five 
thousand  which  have  far  less  ability  in 
characterization  or  in  grouping.  The  per- 
sons remain  in  one's  memory  as  real  indi- 
viduals, which  is  saying  a  good  deal ;  the 
dialogue,  though  excessive  in  quantity,  is 
neither  tame  nor  flippant ;  and  there  is  an 
attractive  compactness  in  the  plot,  which  is 
all  comprised  within  one  house  in  an  un- 
known city.  But  this  plot  soon  gets  beyond 
the  author's  grasp,  nevertheless ;  she  cre- 
ates individualities,  and  can  do  nothing  with 
them  but  kill  them.  The  defects,  however, 
are  those  of  inexperience,  the  merits  are  the 
author's  own.  The  value  of  her  next  book 
will  probably  be  in  inverse  ratio  to  the  suc- 
cess of  this  :  should  this  fail,  she  may  come 
to  something ;  should  this  succeed,  there  is 
small  hope  for  her. 

Studies  for  Stories,  6y  Jean  Ingeiow. 
Boston :  Roberts  Brothers. 

These  narratives  are  probably  called 
'<  Studies  for  Stories,"  as  the  catalogue  of 
the  Boston  Public  Library  is  called  an  **  In- 
dex to  a  Catalogue  " :  this  being  a  profes- 
sion of  humility,  implying  that  a  proper 
story,  like  a  regular  catalogue,  should  be 
a  much  more  elaborate  affair.  Neverthe- 
less, a  story,  even  if  christened  a  study,  must 
be  criticized  by  the  laws  of  stories  and  no 
other. 

Tried  by  this  standard,  we  must  admit 


l86s.] 


Reviews  and  Literary  Notices. 


379 


that  Miss  logelow's  prose,  though  possess- 
ing many  merits,  has  not  quite  the  chann 
of  her  verses.  With  a  good  deal  of  skill  in 
depicting  character,  and  with  a  style  that 
b  not  unpleasing,  though  rather  formal  and 
old-lashioned,  she  has  no  serious  drawback 
except  a  very  promltaent  and  unpleasant 
morail  tendency,  which  is,  indeed,  made  so 
conspicuous  that  one  rather  resents  it,  and 
feels  a  slight  reaction  in  £aiVor  of  vice.  One 
is  disposed  to  apply  to  so  oppressively  di- 
dactic an  author  the  cautious  criticism  of  Tal- 
leyrand on  his  female  friend,  —  '*  She  is  in- 
sufferable, but  that  is  her  only  feult"  For 
this  demonstrativeness  of  ethics  renders  it 
necessary  for  her  to  paint  her  typical  sin- 
ners in  colors  of  total  blackness,  and  one 
seldom  finds,  even  among  mature  offenders, 
such  unmitigated  scoundrels  as  she  exhibits 
in  their  teens.  They  do  not  move  or  talk 
like  human  beings,  but  like  lay  figures  into 
which  certain  specified  sins  have  been  pour- 
ed. This  is  an  artistic  as  well  as  ethical  er- 
ror. As  Porson  finely  said  to  Rogers,  '*  In 
drawing  a  villain,  we  should  always  furnish 
him  with  something  that  may  seem  to  justi- 
fy him  to  himself" ;  and  Schiller,  in  his 
aesthetic  writings,  lays  down  the  same  rule. 
Yet  this  censurable  habit  does  not  seem  to 
proceed  from  anything  cynical  in  the  au- 
thor's own  nature,  but  rather  from  inexpe- 
rience, and  from  a  personal  directness  which 
moves  only  in  straight  lines.  It  seems  as 
if  she  were  so  single-minded  in  her  good 
intents  as  to  assume  all  bad  people  equally, 
single-minded  in  evil ;  but  they  are  not 

Thus,  in  "  The  Cumbercrs,"  the  fault  to 
be  assailed  is  selfishness,  and,  in  honest  zeal 
to  show  It  in  its  most  formidable  light,  she 
builds  up  her  typical  **  Cumberer  "  into  such 
a  complicated  monster,  so  stupendous  in 
her  self-absorption,  as  to  be  infinitely  less 
beneficial  to  the  reader  than  a  poerely  ordi- 
nary inconsistent  human  being  would  have 
been.  The  most  selfish  younger  sister  read- 
ing this  story  would  become  a  Pharisee,  and 
thank  God,  that,  whatever  her  peccadilloes, 
she  was  not  so  bad  as  this  Amelia.  "  My 
Great- Aunt's  Picture  "  does  the  same  for  the 
vice  of  envy ;  "  Dr.  Deane*s  Governess  "  for 
discontent,  and  so  on ;  only  that  this  last  sto- 
ry is  so  oddly  mixed  up  with  English  class- 
distinctions  and  conventionalisms  that  one 
hardly  knows  when  the  young  lady  is  sup- 
posed to  be  doing  right  and  when  doing 
wrong.  The  same  puzzle  occurs  in  the 
closing  story,  "Emily's  Ambition,"  where 
the  censurable  point  of  the  aspiration  con- 
Asts  in  being  dissatisfied  with  the  humbler 


vocation  of  school-teaching,  and  in  pining 
after  the  loftier  career  of  milliner,  which  in 
this  community  would  seem  like  turning  so- 
cial gradations  upside-down. 

By  fiur  the  ablest  of  the  five  "  studies,"  at 
least  in  its  opening,  is  the  school-story  of 
"  The  Stolen  Treasure,"  which,  with  a  high- 
flown  name,  and  a  most  melodramatic  and 
commonplace  ending,  shows  yet  great  pow- 
er in  the  delineation  and  grouping  of  char- 
acters. The  young  school-girls  are  as  real 
as  those  of  Charlotte  Bronte ;  and  although 
the  typical  maidenly  desperado  is  present, 
—  lying  and  cheating  with  such  hopeless 
obviousness  that  it  seems  as  if  they  must 
all  have  had  to  look  very  hard  the  other 
way  to  avoid  finding  her  out,  —  yet  there 
is  certainly  much  promise  and  power  in  the 
narrative.  Let  us  hope  that  the  modesty 
of  the  title  of  this  volume  really  indicates  a 
lofty  purpose  in  its  author,  and  that  she 
will  learn  to  avoid  exaggeration  of^  charac- 
ter as  she  avoids  exaggeration  of  style. 


ColUctum  Dt  Vries.    German  Series.    Vols. 
I.*X.    Boston :  De  Vries,  Ibarra,  &  Ca 

The  present  high  price  of  imported  books, 
which  is  stimulating  our  publishers  to  rival 
their  English  compeers  in  typographical  tri- 
umphs, is  also  creating  an  important  class  of 
German  reprints,  to  which  attention  should 
certainly  be  called.  Until  lately  the  chief 
business  in  this  line  has  been  done  by  Phila- 
delphia houses,  but  we  now  have  editions 
from  Boston  publishers  which  surpass  all 
predecessors  in  accuracy  and  beauty.  In- 
deed, the  average  issues  of  the  German 
press  abroad  do  not  equal  these  in  execu- 
tion ;  and  though  the  books  issued  are  thus 
far  small,  yet  the  taste  shown  in  the  selec- 
tion gives  them  a  peculiar  value. 

First  comes  Hans  Andersen's  ever-charm- 
ing "  Picture  -  Book  without  Pictures,"  — 
tales  told  by  the  Moon,  as  she  looks  in  at 
the  window  of  a  poor  student  There  is 
also  a  separate  edition  of  this  little  work, 
issued  by  the  same  house,  with  English 
notes  for  students,  by  Professor  Simonson 
of  Trinity  College. 

Next  comes  "  Prinzessin  Ilse,"  a  grace- 
ful little  story  by  Von  Ploennies,  almost 
as  charming  as  "  Undine," — with  its  scene 
laid  in  the  Hartz  Forest,  by  the  legend- 
haunted  Ilsenstein.  Then  follows  a  similar 
wreath  of  fiincies,  called  "  Was  sich  der 
Wald  erzahlt,"  by  GusUv  zu  Putlitz,  in 
which  fir-trees   and  foxgloves  tell   their 


38o 


N 


Reviews  and  Literary  Notices, 


[March, 


<i 


«( 


tales,  and  there  are  sermons  in  stones  and 
all  the  rest  of  it  Why  is  it  that  no  lan- 
guage but  the  German  can  possibly  con* 
struct  a  Mdhrcken^  scf  that  Englishmen  and 
Americans  grow  dull,  and  Frenchmen  insuf- 
ferable, whenever  they  attempt  that  delicious 
mingling  of  the  ideal  and  the  real  ? 

Then  we  have  two  of  the  most  popular 
novelettes  of  Paul  Heyse,  "Die  Einsa- 
men  "  and  "  Anfang  und  Ende,"  —  two 
first -class  lesthetic  essays  by  Hermann 
Grimm,  on  the  Venus  of  Milo  and  on  Ra- 
phael and  Michel  Angelo, — and  two  com- 
edies by  Gustav  zu  Putlitz.  There  is  also 
Von  EichendorfiTs  best  novel,  which  in  Ber- 
lin went  through  four  editions  in  a  year, 

Aus  dem  Leben  eines  Taugenichts,"  or 

Memoirs  of  a  Good-for-Nothinig," — and, 
finally,  Tieck's  well-known  story  of  "  The 
Elves,"  and  his  "Tragedy  of  Little  Red 
Riding-Hood." 

Among  these  various  attractions  every 
reader  of  German  books  will  certainly  find 
something  to  enjoy ;  and  these  editions 
should  be  extensively  used  by  teachers^  as 
the  separate  volumes  can  be  easily  obtained 
by  mail,  and  the  average  cost  of  each  is  but 
about  half  a  dollar.  We  hope  yet  to  see 
editions  equally  good  of  the  complete  works 
of  the  standard  German  authors,  printed  in 
this  country  and  for  American  readers.  Un- 
der present  circumstances,  they  can  be  more 
cheaply  produced  than  imported. 

Reynard  the  Fox,  A  Burlesque  Poem,  from 
the  Low-German  Original  of  the  Fifteenth 
Century.  Boston:  De  Vries,  Ibarra,  <k 
Co. 

The  mocking  legends  of  the  Wolf  and 
the  Fox  were  wielded  without  mercy  by 
many  mediaeval  satirists,  against  the  human 
animals  of  those  species,  then  prevailing  in 
courts  and  cloisters.  But  the  jokes  took 
their  most  permanent  form  in  the  ^ble  of 
**  Reyneke  de  Vos,'*  first  published  in  the 
year  1498.  Written  in  Low-German  by 
Nicholas  Bauman,  under  the  pseudonym 
of  Hinrek  van  Alkmer,  the  satire  did  a  sim- 
ilar work  to  that  done  by  Rabelais,  and  Boc- 
caccio, and  Piers  Plowman.  It  has  since 
been  translated  into  many  languages,  and 
as  Goethe  at  last  thought  it  worth  putting 
iato  German  hexameters,  one  may  still  find 
it  worth  reading  in  English  Hudibrastic 
rhymes.  The  present  attractive  edition  is 
a  reprint  of  the  paraphrase  -'  " —  ^'^Itau. 
published  at  Hamburg  r 
for  some  reason,  this  f 


the  present  issue.  New  or  old,  the  yersion 
is  executed  with  much  spirit,  and  is,  to  say 
the  least,  easier  reading  than  Goethe's  hex- 
ameters. 


751^  Cradle  of  Rebeltums:  A  History  0/  t/u 
Secret  Societies  of  France.  By  LuciEN  DE 
LA  HoDDE.    New  York :  John  Bradbum. 

• 

The  translator  of  this  sharp  and  pungent 
sketch  of  the  later  French  revolutionists  is 
understood  to  be  General  John  W.  Phelps 
of  Vermont, — a  man  whose  personal  ser- 
vices, despite  some  eccentric  traits,  will  give 
him  an  honorable  place  in  the  history  of 
these  times.  It  is  possible  that  readers  may 
not  agree  ¥nth  him  in  his  estimate  of  the 
dangers  to  be  incurred  by  American  insti- 
tutions firom  secret  societies.  They  are  a 
thing  essentially  alien  to  our  temperament 
The  Southern  plotters  of  treason  were  cer- 
tainly open  enough;  it  was  we  who  were 
blind.  The  "  Know-Nothing  "  movement 
was  a  sort  of  political  carnival,  half  jest, 
half  earnest,  and  good  for  that  trip  .only. 
If  anything  could  have  created  secret  so- 
cieties, it  would  have  been  the  Fugitive- 
Slave- Law  excitement :  that,  indeed,  pro- 
duced tl^em  by  dozens,  but  they  almost 
always  died  still  -  bom,  and  whatever  was 
really  done  in  the  revolutionary  line  was 
effected  by  very  informal  cooperation. 

Indeed,  even  the  French  nation  is,  by  its 
temperament,  less  inclined  to  deep  plotting 
than  any  nation  of  Southern  Europe,  and  as 
De  la  Hodde  himself  admits,  "  not  one  of 
our  revolutions  during  the  last  sixty  years 
has  been  the  work  of  conspirators. "  "  There 
is  but  one  maker  of  revolutions  in  France, 
and  that  is  Paris,  —  idle,  sophistical,  dis- 
appointed, restless,  evil-minded  Paris.  We 
all  know  h^."  "  Of  one  thing  we  may  rest 
assured :  the  greater  part  of  our  revolutions 
signify  nothing."  And  this  has  been  noto- 
riously true  since  the  days  of  the  Fronde. 

Vet  the  moral  of  the  book  is  not  without 
value,  and  its  historic  interest  is  considera- 
ble, taken  in  connection  with  the  other  me- 
moirs of  the  same  epoch.  The  style  is  rather 
piquant,  and  the  translation  good,  though  a 
little  sti£  The  writer  is  an  Orleanist,  and 
thinks  the  Revolution  of  1848  a  mere  whim 
of  the  populace,  favored  by  a  "  vertigo  "  on 
the  part  of  Louis  Philippe.  It  was  "an 
I, ^^.-^  -»«ble  contingency, — sovereign 

^7  to  a  revolt,  without  the 


^ed  under  the 


1 86s.] 


Reviews  an4  Literary  Notices.. 


381 


Republic,  to  which  the  author  professes  due 
loyalty.  He  suggests,  however,  that,  as  no 
one  is  required  by  duty  to  fall  in  love  with 
a  very  ugly  woman  who  may  have  been  im- 
posed on  him  in  marriage,  so  he  is  not  yet 
very  much  smitten  with  the  Republic.  But 
he  is  ready  to  respect  tlie  dame,  if  she  proves 
to  deserve  it,  as  a  legitimate  connection. 


Cafe  Cod.    By  Henry  D.  Thoreau.    Bos- 
ton :  Ticknor  and  Fields. 

Caps  Cod  is  photographed  at  last,  for 
Thoreau  has  been  there.  Day  by  day,  with 
his  stout  pedestrian  shoes,  he  plodded  along 
that  level  beach, — the  eternal  ocean  on  one 
side,  and  human  existence  reduced  to  its 
simplest  elements  on  the  other, — and  he 
pitilessly  weighing  each.  His  mental  pro- 
cesses never  impress  one  with  opulence  and 
luxuriance,  but  rather  with  a  certain  sublime 
tenacity,  which  extracts  nutriment  from  the 
most  barren  soil.  He  is  therefore  admira- 
bly matched  against  Cape  Cod ;  and  though 
his  books  on  softer  aspects  of  Nature  may 
have  a  mellower  charm,  there  is  none  in 
which  the  very  absence  of  mellowness  can 
so  well  pass  for  an  added  merit 

No  doubt  there  are  passages  which  err 
upon  the  side  of  bareness.  Cape  Cod  itself 
certainly  errs  that  way,  and  so  often  does 
our  author;  and  when  they  are  combined, 
the  result  of  desiccation  is  sometimes  as- 
tounding. But  so  much  the  truer  the  pic- 
ture. If  Vedder*s  "  Lair  of  the  Sea-Serpent " 
had  the  rank  verdure  of  the  "  Heart  of  the 
Andes,"  the  kraken  would  still  be  as  un- 
impressive on  canvas  as  in  the  newspapers. 
No  one  ever  dared  to  exhibit  Cape  Cod 
*Mong,  and  lank,  and  brown"  enough  be- 
fore, and  hence  the  value  of  the  book.  For 
those  who  insist  on  chlorophylle^  is  there  not 
"  Azarian  "  ?  If  the  dear  public  will  tolerate 
neither  the  presence  of  color  in  a  picture, 
nor  its  absence,  it  is  hard  to  suit 

Yet  it  is  worth  remembering,  that  Tho- 
reau's  one  perfect  poem, — and  one  of  the 
most  perfect  in  American  literature,  —  "  My 
life  is  like  a  stroll  upon  the  beach,"  must 
have  been  suggested  by  Cape  Cod  or  some 
kindred  locality.  And  it  is  not  the  savage 
grandeur  of  the  sea  alone,  but  its  delicate 
loveliness  and  its  ever-budding  life,  which 
will  be  found  recorded  forever  in  some  of 
these  wondrous  pages,  intermixed  with  the 
statistics  of  fish-fiakes  and  the  annals  of  old 
Bten's  diseases. 

But  in  his  stem  realism,  the  author  em- 


ploys what  he  himself  calls  "Panurgic" 
plainness  of  speech,  and  deals  with  the  hor- 
rors of  the  sea-shore  as  composedly  as  with 
its  pearls.  His  descriptions  of  the  memori- 
als of  shipwrecks,  for  instance,  would  be 
simply  repulsive,  but  that  his  very  dryness 
has  a  sort  of  disinfectant  quality,  like  the 
air  of  California,  where  things  the  most 
loathsome  may  lie  around  us  without  mak- 
ing the  air  impure. 

He  shows  his  wonted  formidable  accura- 
cy all  through  these  pages,  and  the  critic 
feels  a  sense  of  bewildered  exultation  in  de- 
tecting him  even  in  a  slip  of  the  pen, — as 
when  in  the  note  on  page  228  he  gives  to 
the  town  of  Rockport,  on  Cape  Ann,  the 
erroneous  name  of  Rockland.  After  this 
discovery,  one  may  dare  to  wonder  at  his 
finding  a  novelty  in  the  *'  Upland  Plover," 
and  naming  it  among  the  birds  not  heard 
in  the  interior  of  the  State,  when  he  might 
be  supposed  to  have  observed  it,  in  sum- 
mer, near  Mount  Wachusett,  where  its 
wail  adds  so  much,  by  day  or  night,  to  the 
wildness  of  the  scenery.  Yet  by  the  trivial- 
ity of  these  our  criticisms  one  may  measure 
the  astonishing  excellence  of  his  books. 

This  wondrous  eye  and  hand  have  passed 
away,  and  left  no  equal  and  no  second.  Ev- 
erything which  Thoreau  wrote  has  this  pe- 
culiar value,  that  no  other  observing  powers 
were  like  his ;  no  one  else  so  laboriously 
verified  and  exhausted  the  £u:ts ;  and  no 
other  mind  rose  from  them,  at  will,  into  so 
subtile  an  air  of  meditation,  —  meditation 
too  daring  to  be  called  devout,  by  church 
or  world,  yet  too  pure  and  lofty  to  merit 
any  lower  name.  Lyddas  has  died  once 
more,  and  has  not  left  his  peer. 

Cape  Cod  does  not  change  in  its  traits, 
but  only  in  its  boundaries,  and  this  book 
will  stand  for  it,  a  century  hence,  as  it  now 
does.  It  is  the  Cape  Odyssey.  Near  the 
end,  moreover,  there  is  a  remarkable  chap- 
ter on  previous  explorers,  which  shows,  by 
its  patient  thoroughness,  and  by  the  fearless 
way  in  which  the  author  establishes  facts 
which  had  eluded  Hildreth  and  Bancroft, 
that,  had  he  chosen  history  for  his  vocation, 
he  could  have  extracted  its  marrowas  faith- 
fully as  that  of  his  more  customary  themes. 
Yet  the  grand  ocean  •  pictures  which  this 
book  contains  remind  us  that  it  was  the  do- 
main of  external  Nature  which  was  his  pe- 
culiar province ;  and  this  sublime  monotone 
of  the  surges  seems  his  fitting  dirge,  now 
that — to  use  the  fine  symbol  of  one  who 
was  his  comrade  on  this  very  excursion— 
his  bark  has  "  sunk  to  another  sea." 


382 


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[March^ 


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383 


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THE 


ATLANTIC    MONTHLY. 

A  Magazhte  of  Literature,  Art,  and  Politics. 


VOL.   XV.  — APRIL,   1865.  — NO.  XC 


ADVENTURES  OF  A  LONE  WOMAN. 


«  T  WILL  go  and  see  the  oil,"  re- 

i-  .marked  Miselle,  at  the  end  of  a 
reverie  of  ten  minutes. 

Caleb  laid  the  ^'Morning  Joximal" 
upon  the  table,  and  prepared  himself 
cadmly  to  accept  whatever  new  dispen- 
sation Providence  ahd  Miselle  had  allot- 
ted him. 

''  Whaling  ? "  inquired  he. 

*'No,  not  whaling.  I  am  going  to 
the  Oil  Springs." 

^  By  all  means.  They  lie  in  the  re- 
motest portion  of  Pennsylvania ;  they 
are  inaccessible  by  railway ;  such  con- 
veyances and  such  wretched  inns  as 
are  to  be  found  are  crowded  with  law- 
less men,  rushing  to  the  wells  to  seek 
their  fortunes,  or  rushing  away,  savage 
at  having  utterly  lost  them.  At  thist 
season  the  roads  are  likely  to  be  impass- 
able from  mud,  tfa»  weather  to  be  stor- 
my.   When  do  you  propose  going  ?  " 

'^  Next  Monday,"  replied  MiseUe,  se- 
renely. 

*'  And  with  whom  ?  You  know  that 
I  cannot  accompany  you." 

*'  I  did  not  dream  of  incurring  such  a 
responsibility.    I  go  alone." 

Caleb  resumed  the  ''Morning  Jour- 
nal"   Miselle  wrote  a  letter,  signed  her 


name,  and  tossed  it  across  the  table, 
saying,— 

"There,  I  have  written  to  Friend 
Williams,  who  has,  as  his  sister  tells 
me,  set  up  a  shanty  and  a  wife  on  Oil 
Creek.  I  will  go  to  them  and  so  avoid 
your  wretched  inns,  and  at  the  same 
time  secure  a  guide  competent  to  con- 
duct my  explorations.  '  As  for  the  con- 
veyances, the  roads,  and  the  lawless 
travellers,  if  men  are  not  afraid  to  en- 
counter them,  surely  a  woman  need  not 
be." 

"  Be  cautious,  Miselle.  This  grain 
.of  practicability  in  the  shape  of  Friend 
Williams  is  spoiling  the  unity  of  your 
plan.  At  first  it  was  a  charmingly  con- 
sistent absurdity." 

«  But  now  ?  " 

"  Now  it  is  merely  foolishly  hazard- 
ous, and  I  suppose  you  will  undertake 
it  It  is  your  kismet;  it  is  Fate  ;  and 
what  am  I,  to  resist  Destiny  ?  Go,  child, 
— my  blessing  and  my  bank-book  are 
your  own." 

"  And  *  Je  suis  Tedesco  ! ' "  pompous- 
ly quoted  Miselle;  so  no  more  was 
said  upon  the^subject,  until  the  young 
woman,  having  received  an  answer  to 
her  letter,  claimed  the  treasures  prom- 


Eoterea  accordiog  to  Act  of  Coiigre««  in  the  year  1865,  \fj  Tiocnor  aivd  Fields,  ta  the  QerkS  Office 

of  the  Dinriet  Coun  of  the  District  of  Menechuiett^ 

VOL.  XV.— NO.  90.  25 


386 


Adventures  of  a  Lone  Woman. 


[April, 


ised  by  Caleb,  and  shortly  after  fared 
forth  upon  her  adventurous  way. 

The  journey  from  Boston  to  New 
York  has  for  most  persons  lost  the  ex- 
citement of  novelty ;  but  excitement 
of  another  sort  is  to  be  obtained  by 
choosing  a  route  where  mile  after  mile 
of  the  roadway  is  lined  with  wrecks  of 
recent  accidents,  and  the  papers  sold  in 
the  cars  brim  over  with  horrible  details 
of  death  and  maiming  in  consequence. 
Nor  can  it  be  considered  either  whole- 
some or  comfortable  to  be  removed  in 
the  middle  of  a  November  night  from  a 
warm  car  to  a  ferry-boat,  and  thence  to 
another  train  of  cars  without  fire  and 
almost  without  seats,  —  the  suggestive 
apology  being,  that  so  many  carriages 
had  been  ** smashed"  lately  that  the 
enterprising  managers  of  the  road  had 
been  obliged  to  buy  an  old  excursion- 
train  from  another  company.  Mean- 
time, what  became  of  the  unfortunate 
women  who  had  no  kind  companion 
to  purvey  for  them  blankets  and  pillows 
from  the  mephitic  sleeping-car,  and 
cups  of  hot  tea  from  unknown  sources, 
Miselle  cannot  conjecture. 

New  York  at  midday,  from  the  stand- 
point of  Fifth  Avenue  or  Central  Park, 
is  a  very  splendid  and  attractive  place, 
we  shall  adl  agree ;  but  New  York  in- 
volved in  a  wilderness  of  railway  sta- 
tion at  six  o'clock  of  a  rainy  autumn 
morning  is  quite  the  reverse.  Cabmen, . 
draymen,  porters,  all  assume  a  new  fe- 
rocity of  bearing,  horses  are  more  cru- 
elly lashed,  ignorant  wayfarers  more 
crushingly  snubbed,  new  trunks  more 
recklessly  smashed,  than  would  be  pos- 
sible at  a  later  hour  of  the  day ;  and  that 
large  class  of  persons  who  may  be  de- 
nominated intermittent  gentlemen  fold 
up  their  politeness  with  their  travelling- 
shawls  and  put  it  away  for  a  friture  oc- 
casion. 

Solaced  by  a  breakfisist  and  rest,  Mi- 
selle bade  good-bye  to  her  attentive  es- 
cort, and  ^et  forth  alone  to  view  New 
York  with  the  critical  eye  of  a  Bosto- 
nian. 

Her  first  experience  was  significant ; 
and  in  the  course  of  a  three-mile  drive 
down  Broadway,  she  had  time,  while 


standing  in  the  middle  of  an  omnibus, 
where  were  seated  nine  young  gentle- 
men, for  much  complacent  compari- 
son of  the  manners  of  the  two  cities. 
Indeed,  after  twelve  hours  of  atten- 
tive study,  Miselle  discovered  but  two 
points  of  superiority  in  the  New  Baby- 
lon over  the  Modem  Athens,  and  these 
were  chocolate-creams  and  policemen : 
the  first  were  delicious,  the  last  civil 

Six  o'clock  arrived,  and  the  '*  Light- 
ning Express,"  over  the  Erie  Railway, 
bore,  among  other  less  important  freight, 
Miselle  and  her  fortunes.  But,  unfor- 
tunately for  the  interest  of  this  narra- 
tive, she  had  unwittingly  selected  an 
"off-night"  for  her  journey;  neither 
horrible  accident  nor  raid  of  bold  ma- 
rauders enlivened  the  occasion;  and 
undisturbed,  the  reckless  passengers 
slept  throughout  the  night,  as  men  have 
slept  who  knew  that  a  scaffold  waited 
for  them  with  the  morning's  light 

Only  Miselle  could  not  rest  The 
steady  rapidity  of  motion,  —  the  terrible 
power  of  this  force  that  man  has  made 
his  own,  and  yet  not  so  wholly  his  own 
but  that  it  may  at  any  moment  break 
from  his  control,  asserting  itself  master, 
—  the  dim  light  and  motionless  figures 
about  her, — all  these  things  wrought  up- 
on her  fancy,  until,  through  the  gray  mist 
of  morning,  great  round  hills  stood  up  at 
either  hand  with  deep  valleys  between, 
frx>m  whose  nestling  hamlets  lights  be- 
gan to  twinkle  out  as  if  great  swarms 
of  fireflies  sheltered  there.  Then,  as 
morning  broke,  the  wild  scenery,  grow- 
ing more  distinct,  told  the  traveller  that 
she  was  far  from  home. 

Gray  and  craggy  4iills,  wild  ravines, 
stormy  mountain-streams,  dizzy  heights 
where  the  traveller  looking  down  re- 
membered Tarpeia,  gloomy  caverns, 
suggesting  Simms's  theory  of  an  inte- 
rior worldj  —  none  of  these  were  home- 
like ;  and  Miselle  began  to  fancy  herself 
an  explorer,  a  Franklin,  a  Frdmont,  a 
Speke,  until  the  train  stopped  at  Hor- 
nellsville  for  breakfast,  and  she  was 
reminded,  while  watching  the  operations 
of  her  fellow-passengers,  of  Du  Chaillu 
peeping  from  behind  tree-trunks  at  the 
domestic  pursuits  of  the  gorilla. 


1 865.] 


Adventures  of  a  Lone  Woman. 


387 


About  noon  the  cars  stopped  at  Cor- 
ry,  Pennsylvania,  the  entrance  of  the 
oil  region  and  terminus  of  the  Oil  Creek 
Railway ;  and  Miselle,  stepping  from 
the  train  into  a  dense  cloud  of  driving 
rain  and  oily  men,  felt  one  sudden  pang 
of  doubt  as  to  her  future  course,  and 
almost  concluded  it  should  be  to  await 
upon  the  platform  the  £astem>bound 
express  due  there  in  a  few  hours.  This 
dastardly  impulse,  however,  was  speed- 
ily put  to  flight  by  the  superior  terror 
of  the  ridicule  sure  to  greet  such  a  re- 
turn, and,  assuming  a  determined  mien, 
Miselle  took  possession  of  Corry. 

Three  years  ago  the  census  of  this 
place  would  have  given  so  many  foxes, 
so  many  woodchucks,  so  many  badgers, , 
raccoons,  squirrels,  and  tree-toads ;  now 
it  numbers  four  thousand  men,  wom- 
en, and  children,  and  the  *'  old  families  " 
have  withdrawn  to  the  aristocradc  se- 
clusion of  the  forest  beyond. 

For  the  accommodation  of  these  new- 
comers a  thousand  buildings  of  various 
sorts  have  been  erected,  —  much  as  a 
child  takes  his  toy-village  from  the  box 
and  sets  it  here  or  there,  as  the  whim  of 
the  moment  dictates.  Here  is  also  a 
large  oil-refinery  belonging  to  Mr.  Dow- 
ner of  Boston,  where  a  good  many  of 
the  four  thousand  find  employment ; 
and  here,  too,  are  several  inns,  the  best 
one  called  '*  The  Boston  House." 

Hither  Miselle  betook  herself^  confi- 
dently expecting  to  find  either  Mr.  Wil- 
liams or  a  message  from  him  awaiting 
her  ;  but,  behold,  no  friend,  no  letter ! 

What  was  to  be  done  next?  Mr. 
Dick,  asked  a  similar  question  by 
Miss  Betsy  Trotwaod,  replied,  *'  Feed 
him." 

Miselle  adopted  the  suggestion.  The 
hour  was  one  p.  m.,  and  the  general  re- 
past was  concluded  ;  but  a  special  table 
was  soon  prepared,  whereat  she  and  a 
gentleman  of  imposing  appearance,  call- 
ed Viator  Ignotus,  were  soon  seated,  be- 
fore a  dinner,  of  which  the  intention 
was  excellent,  but  the  execution  as  fetal 
as  most  executions. 

Viator  ate*  in  silence,  occasionally 
starUing  his  companion  by  wild  plunges 
across  the  table,  knife  in  hand    At  first 


she  was  inclined  to  believe  him  a  dan- 
gerous madman ;  but  finding  that  the 
various  dishes,  and  not  herself,  were 
the  objects  of  attack,  ishe  refi^ined  from 
flight,  and  considerately  pushed  every- 
thing within  convenient  stabbing  dis- 
tance of  the  blade,  which  unweariedly 
continued  to  wave  in  glittering  curves 
from  end  to  end  of  the  table  long  after 
she  had  finished. 

The  banquet  over,  Miselle  found  the 
drawing-room,  and  in  company  with  a 
woman,  a  girl,  a  baby,  and  a  lawless 
stove,  devoted  herself  to  the  study  of 
Corry  as  seen  through  a  window  stream- 
ing with  rain.  Tired  at  last  of  this  ex- 
hilarating pursuit,  she  engaged  in  single 
combat  with  the  stove,  and,  being  sig- 
nally beaten,  resolved  to  try  a  course 
of  human  nature  as  developed  in  her 
companions. 

She  soon  learned  that  the  girl  was  in 
reality  a  matron  of  seventeen,  and  the 
actual  proprietor  of  the  baby,  whom, 
nevertheless,  she  appeared  to  regard  as 
a  mysterious  phenomenon  attached  to 
the  elder  woman,  whom  she  addressed 
as  ''Mam."  In  this  view  the  grand- 
mother seemed  to  coincide,  and  re- 
marked, naively,  — 

''  Why,  lor,  Ma'am,  she  and  her  hus- 
band a'n't  nothing  but  two  babies  their- 
selves.  She  hadn't  never  been  away  from 
her  folks,  nor  he  from  hisn,  till  t'other 
day  he  got  bit  with  the  ile-fever,  and 
nothing  would  do  but  to  tote  down  here 
to  the  Crik  and  make  his  fortin.  They 
was  chirk  enough  when  they  started ;  but 
about  a  week  ago  he  come  home,  and 
I  tell  you  he  sung  a  little  smaller  than 
when  he  was  there  last.  He  was  clean 
discouraged :  there  wa'n't  no  ile  to  be 
had,  'thout  you  'd  got  money  enough  to 
live  on,  to  start  with  ;  and  victuals  and 
everything  else  was  so  awful  dear,  a 
poor  man  would  get  run  out  'fore  he  'd 
realized  the  fust  thing ;  wust  of  all  was, 
Clementiny  was  so  homesick  she  could 
n't  neither  sleep  nor  eat ;  andjthe  amount 
was,  he  'd  stop  'long  with  father  in  the 
shop,  and  I  should  go  and  fetch  home 
the  two  babies.  So  here  I  be,  and  a  time 
1  've  had  gittin'  'em  along,  I  tell  you.^^ 

'*  It 's  hard  travelling  down  Oil  Creek, 


388 


Adventures  of  a  Lone  Woman. 


[April, 


then  ?  "  asked  Miselle,  with  a  personal 
interest  in  the  question. 

"  Hard !  Reckon  you  '11  say  that,  arter 
you  've  tried  it.  How  fur  be  you  going  ?  " 

**  To  Tarr  Farm." 

"  Lor,  yes.  Well  now  how  d*  y*  allow 
to  git  ttfere  ? " 

**  1  am  hoping  to  meet  a  friend  here 
who  will  know  all  about  the  way ;  but  if 
he  fails  me,  I  shall  ask  the  people  at 
the  railway  station." 

"  No  need  to  go  so  fur.  I  kin  tell  ye 
the  hull  story,  for  it  *s  from  Tarr  Farm 
I  fetched  the  gal  and  young  'un  tills 
very  morning." 

**  Indeed  ?  What  is  the  best  route, 
then  ?  " 

'*  Well,  you  'U  take  the  railroad  down 
to  Schaeffer's,  and  from  there  you  start 
down  the  Crik  either  in  a  stage  or  a 
boat.  But  I  would  n't  recommend  the 
stage  nohow.  You  don't  look  so  very 
nigged,  and  if  you  wa'n't  killed,  you  'd 
be  scared  to  death.  So  you  'U  hev  to 
look  up  a  boat." 

'*  What  sort  of  boat  ?  "  asked  Miselle, 
£undy. 

*'  Oh,  a  flatboat  They  come  up  loaded 
with  ile,  and  going  back  they  like  lust 
rate  to  catch  a  passenger.  But  don't 
you  give  'em  too  much.  They  'd  cheat 
you  out  of  your  eye-teeth,  but  I  '11  bet 
you  they  found  I  was  too  many  for  'enu 
Don't  you  give  more  than  a  dollar,  no- 
how ;  and  I  made  'em  take  the  two  of 
us  for  a  dollar  'n'  'alf." 

*'  How  far  is  it  from  Schaeffer's  to  Tarr 
Farm  ?  Perhaps  'I  could  walk,"  sug- 
gested Miselle,  modestly  distrusting 
her  own  power  in  dealing  with  a  rapa- 
cious ilatboatman. 

'^Well,  it's  five  mild,  more  or  less. 
Think  you  could  fbot  it  that  fiir  ?  " 

**  Oh,  yes,  very  easily.  Is  the  road 
pretty  good  ?  " 

^  My  gracious  goodness  !  Qemen- 
tiny,  she  wants  to  know  if  the  road  down 
the  Crik  is  *  pretty  good ' ! " 

^Reckon  you  ha'n't  travelled  round 
much  in  these  parts.  Where  d'y' 
b'long  ?  "  asked  the  ingenuous  Qemen- 
tina,  after  a  prolonged  stare  at  the  be- 
nighted stranger. 

Having  satisfied  herself  for  the  time 


being  with  human  nature,  Miselle  re- 
turned to  the  window,  and  found  the 
landscape  mistier  than  ever. 

She  was  still  considering  her  probable 
success  in  finding  an  oil-boat  and  an  oll« 
man  to  take  her  down  the  Creek,  and 
steadily  turning  her  back  upon  the  vision 
of  theEastem-bound  Lightning  Express, 
when  a  lady  followed  by  a  gentleman  ran 
up  the  steps  of  the  Boston  House,  and 
presentiy  entered  the  dreary  parlor, 
transforming  it,  as  she  did  so,  to  a  cheer- 
ful abiding-place,  by  the  magic  of  youth, 
beauty,  and  grace.  Miselle  devoured 
her  with  her  eyes,  as  did  Crusoe  the 
human  footstep  on  his  desert  island. 
An  answering  glance,  a  suppressed 
.smile  on  either  side,  and  an  understand- 
ing was  established,  an  alliance  com* 
pleted,  a  tie  more  subtile  than  Freema* 
sonry  confessed. 

In  ten  minutes  Miselle  and  her  new 
friend  had  conquered  the  lawless  stove, 
had  seated  themselves  before  it,  and 
were  confiding  to  each  other  the  mis- 
chances that  had  left  them  stranded 
upon  the  shore  of  Corry,  —  Miselle  for 
the  night,  Melusina  until  two  o'clock  in 
the  morning. 

Tea-time  surprised  this  interchange 
of  ideas,  and  so  sunny  had  Miselle's 
mood  become  that  she  was  able  to  eat 
and  drink,  even  though  confronted  by 
the  baby  and  its  youthful  mother,  whose 
knife  impartially  deposited  in  her  own 
mouth  and  the  in^t's  portions  of  beef- 
steak, potatoes,  short-cake,  toast,  pie, 
and  cake,  varied  with  spoonfuls  of  hot 
tea,  at  which  the  wretched  littie  victim 
blinked  and  choked,  but  still  swallowed. 

After  tea,  the  infant,  excited  by  re- 
fireshment  nearly  to  the  point  of  convul- 
sions, was  restored  to  its  grandmother, 
while  the  mother  played  upon  a  mourn- 
ful instrument  called  a  melodeon,  and 
sang  various  popular  songs  in  a  power- 
ful, but  uncultivated  voice. 

When  she  was  done,  Miselle  persuad- 
ed Melusina  to  take  her  seat  at  the  in- 
strument, and  straightway  the  house 
was  filled  with  such  melody  of  sweet 
German  love-songs,  operatic  morceaux, 
and  stirring  battie-h3rmns,  that  the  open 
doorway  thronged  with  uncouth  forms, 


1 86s.] 


Adventures  of  a  Lone  Woman. 


389 


gathering  aa  did  the  monsters  to  Arion's 
harp.  But  when  at  last  the  clear  voice 
rang  out  the  melody  of  the  ''  Star-Span- 
gled Banner/'  the  crowd  took  up  the 
chorus,  and  rendered  it  with  a  heartfelt 
entiiusiasm  more  significant  than  any 
music ;  for  it  was  almost  election-day, 
and  the  old  query  of  ^  How  will  Penn- 
sylvania go  ?  "  had  all  day  been  urged 
among  every  knot  of  men  who  gathered 
to  talk  'of  the  country's  prospects. 
Then  came  the  good  old  ''John  Brown 
Song,"  and  the  '^  Marseillaise,"  which 
should  be  snatched  from  its  Rebel  ap- 
proprSators,  on  the  same  principle  by 
which  Doctor  Byles  adapted  sacred 
words  to  popular  melodies. 

The  music  over,  the  4ittle  crowd  dis- 
persed, and  the  baby,  with  its  brace  of 
mothers,  gone  to  bed,  the  new  friends 
sat  cozily  down  and  enjoyed  an  hour  or 
two  of  feminine  gossip,  exchanged  kiss- 
es, cards,  and  photographs,  and  so  bade 
good-bye. 

It  seems  a  trifling  matter  enough  in 
the  telling,  but  to  the  lonely  Miselle 
this  chance  encounter  with  a  comrade 
was  enough  to  change  the  whole  as- 
pect of  aflairs ;  and  she  sat  down  to 
breakfast  the  next  morning,  strong  ill 
the  £sdth  of  a  brilliant  victory  over  bad 
roads,  oily  boats,  and  rapacious  boat- 
men. 

A  plank  walk  from  the  hotel  to  the 
station  elevates  the  foot-passenger  in 
Corry  above  the  mud  of  the  streets, 
through  whose  depths  flounders  a  crowd 
of  wagons  laden  with  crude  oil  for  the 
refinery,  with  refined  oil  for  the  fi-eight- 
trains,  with  carboys  of  chemicals,  with 
merchandise,  and  with  building  mate- 
rials for  yet  more  houses. 

Everything  here  is  new.  Not  one  of 
the  thousand  buildings  is  yet  five  years 
old ;  and  of  the  four  thousand  people, 
not  the  most  easily  acclimated  could  yet 
tell  how  the  climate  agrees  with  him. 
Indeed,  it  is  so  absolately  new  that  it 
has  not  yet  reached  the  raw  barrenness 
of  a  new  place. 

Nature  does  not  cede  her  royalty  ex- 
cept under  strong  compulsion,  and  still 
does  battle  in  the  streets  of  Corry  with 
the  four  thousand,  who  have  not  yet 


found  time  to  get  out  the  stumps  of  the 
hastily  felled  trees,  to  "  improve  "  a  wild 
water-course  that' dashes  down  from  the 
bluff  and  crosses  the  main  street  be- 
tween a  tailor's  shop  and  a  restaurant, 
or  even  to  trample  to  death  the  wild- 
wood  ferns  and  forest  flowers  which 
linger  on  its  margin.  When  the  Coriola- 
nians  have  attended  to  these  little  mat- 
ters, their  city  will  look  even  newer 
than  at  present  Then  shall  their  grand- 
children bring  other  trees  and  set  them 
along  the  streets,  and  dig  wells  and 
fountains,  where  Kuhlebom  may  rise 
to  bemoan  the  desolation  of  his  ancient 
domain. 

Probably  firom  sjnnpathy  with  the 
bulk  of  their  freight,  the  passenger-cars 
upon  the  Oil  Creek  Railway  are  so 
streaked  with  oil  upon  the  outside,  and 
so  imbued  with  oil  within,  as  to  suggest 
having*been  used  on  excursions  to  the 
bottoms  of  the  various  wells ;  but  unin- 
viting as  is  their  appearance,  they  are 
always  crowded,  and  Miselle  shared  her 
seat  with  a  portly  gentleman,  whom  at 
the  second  glance  she  recognized  as 
Viator  Ignotus,  and  he,  presently  allud- 
ing to  the  £ict  of  their  having  dined 
together  the  previous  day,  a  conversa- 
tion grew  up,  through  which  Miselle, 
much  to  her  amusement,  was  initiated 
into  the  cabinet  secrets  of  the  two  or 
throe  railway  companies  who  divide 
the  travel  of  the  West,  and  who  would 
appear  to  cherish  very  much  the  same 
jesdousies  and  avenge  their  grievances 
in  much  the  same  manner  as  Mrs.  Jones 
and  Mrs.  Brown  with  their  neighbor- 
hood qiuuTels.  Then  Viator,  producing 
from  his  pocket  sundry  maps  and  charts, 
foretold  the  career  of  railways  yet  un- 
born, and  discoursed  learnedly  upon 
their  usefulness,  or,  as  he  phrased  it, 
their  ^  paying  prospects."  Finally,  the 
subject  of  railways  exhausted,  or  rather 
run  out,  Viator  paid  his  companion  the: 
compliment  of  inquiring  of  her  the  con<^ 
dition  of  pubhc  feeling  in  her  native 
State  as  regarded  the  election ;  and  the 
af&irs  of  the  nation  were  not  yet  com- 
pletely arranged  when  the  train  arrived 
at  Titusville,  and  Viator  departed 

The  dty  of  Titusville  is  probaHj-the 


390 


Adventures  of  a  Lone  Woman, 


[April, 


most  forlorn  and  dreary  looking  place 
in  these  United  States.  To  describe 
the  irregular  rows  of  shanties  bordering 
on  impassable  sloughs  of  mud,  the  sce- 
nery, the  pigs,  and  the  people,  were  a 
thankless  task,  as  the  most  eloquent 
words  would  fall  short  of  the  reality. 
In  one  of  the  principal  streets  the  black- 
ened stumps  still  stand  so  thickly  that . 
the  laden  wagons  meander  among  them 
as  sinuously  as  the  path  which  foxes 
and  squirrels  wore  there  only  three 
years  ago,  —  while  in  curious  contrast 
with  this  avenue  and  the  surrounding 
buildings  stands  a  handsome  brick 
church,  with  a  gilded  cross  upon  its 
spire,  the  one  thing  calm  and  stead&st 
in  the  dismal  scene. 

When  the  train  again  moved  on,  the 
seat  vacated  by  Viator  was  taken  by  a 
young  woman  bound  for  Oil  City,  where 
her  husband  awaited  her ;  but  the  home- 
sickness epidemic  among  the  female 
population  of  the  Creek  had  already 
seized  upon  her  so  strongly  as  to  unfit 
her  for  conversation ;  and  Miselle  de- 
voted herself  to  the  dismal  landscape, 
privately  agreeing  with  her  companion 
that  it  was  ''  the  God-forsakenest-look- 
ing  place  she  ever  see." 

On  either  side  the  road  lay  swamps, 
their  gaunt  trees  festooned,  or  rather 
garroted,  with  vines,  and  draped  with 
gray  moss  ;  while  all  about  and  among 
them  lay  their  comrades  already  pros- 
trate and  decaying.  On  the  higher 
lands  fields  had  been  fenced  in,  and 
cleared  by  burning  the  trees,  whose 
charred  skeletons  still  stood,  holding 
black  and  fleshless  arms  to  heaven  in 
mute  appeal  against  man's  reckless 
abuse  of  Nature's  dearest  children. 

Later  Miselle  took  occasion  to  ex- 
press her  horror  at  the  wholesale  de- 
struction of  her  beloved  forests  to  a 
land-owner  of  the  region.  He  laughed, 
and  stared  at  the  sentimental  folly,  and 
then  said,  conclusively, — 

"  Oh,  but  the  land,  you  know,  —  we 
want  to  get  at  the  land ;  and  the  quick- 
est way  of  disposing  of  the  trees  is  the 
best" 

"  But  even  if  they  must  be  felled,  it 
is  wicked  to  destroy  them  entirely,  when 


80  many  people  freeze  to  death  every 
winter  for  want  of  fuel" 

**'  Well,  I  suppose  they  do,"  said  the 
land-owner,  suppressing  a  yawn.  ^  But 
we  can*t  send  them  this  wood,  you 
know,  or  even  get  it  down  Oil  Creek, 
where  there  is  a  market" 

'*  At  least,  the  poor  people  about  here 
need  never  be  cold.  I  suppose  fuel  is 
very  cheap  through  all  tiiis  country, 
is  n't  it  ?  " 

<'  Down  the  Creek  we  pay  ten  dollars 
a  cord  for  all  the  wood,  and  a  dollar  a 
bushel  for  all  the  coal  we  bum,  and 
both  grow  within  a  mile  of  the  wells ; 
but  the  trouble  is  the  labor.  Every 
man  about  here  is  in  oil,  somehow  or 
another ;  and  even  the  dinners  back  of 
the  Creek  prefer  bringing  their  horses 
down  and  teaming  oil  to  working  the 
land  or  felling  wood.  This  is  emphat- 
ically the  oil  region." 

Arrived  at  Schaeffer's  or  Shaflfer's 
Farm,  the  present  terminus  of  the  Oil 
Creek  Railway,  *  Miselle  was  relieved 
from  much  anxiety  by  seeing  upon  the 
platform  Friend  Williams,  to  whom  she 
had,  in  a  fit  of  temporary  insanity,  writ- 
ten that  she  should  leave  home  on 
Tuesday  instead  of  Monday. 

"And  how  shall  we  go  down  the 
Creek?"  asked  she,  when  the  first 
greetings  had  been  exchanged. 

**  In  the  packet-boat,  to  be  sure.  The 
hack-carriage  will  take  us  right  down 
to  the  wharf." 

Miselle  opened  her  eyes.  Here  was 
metropolitan  luxiuy  1  Here  was  ultra 
civilization  in  the  heart  of  the  wilder- 
ness !  Oil-boats  and  lumber-wagons, 
avaunt !  Those  women  at  Corry  had 
evidently  been  practising  upon  her  ig- 
norance, and  amusing  themselves  with 
her  terrors  ! 

A  sudden  rush  of  citizens  toward  the 
edge  of  the  platform  interrupted  these 
meditations. 

«  What  is  it  ?"  asked  Miselle,  wUdly, 
as  her  companion  seized  her  arm,  and 
hurried  her  along  with  the  crowd. 

"  The  carriage.  There  is  a  rush  for 
places.  There !  we  're  too  late,  I  'm 
afraid." 

They  halted,  as  he  spoke,  beside  a 


i86s-.] 


Adventures  of  a  Lone  Woman. 


391 


long,  heavy  wagon,  such  as  is  used  in 
the  Eastern  States  for  drawing  wood, 
springless,  with  boards  laid  across  for 
seats,  and  with  no  means  of  access  save 
the  clumsy  wheels.  Upon  an  elevated 
perch  in  front  sat  the  driver,  grinning 
over  his  shoulder  at  the  scrambling 
crowd  of  passengers,  most  of  whom 
were  now  loaded  upon  the  wagon,  while 
a  circle  of  disappointed  aspirants  danced 
wildly  around  it,  looking  for  a  yet  pos- 
sible nook  or  cranny. 

"  Can't  you  make  room  for  this  lady  ? 
I  will  walk,"  vociferated  Mr.  Williams. 

''Can't  be  did,  Capting.  Reckin, 
though,  both  on  ye  kin  hitch  on  next 
load,"  drawled  the  driver,  turning  his 
horses  into  the  slough  of  mud  extend- 
ing in  every  direction. 

*'  I  will  walk  with  you.  How  fax  is 
it  ?  "  asked  Miselle,  after  a  brief  con- 
templation of  the  prospect 

"Not  so  very  far;  but  the  mud  is 
about  two  feet  deep  all  the  way,  and 
you  might  soil  your  feet,"  suggested 
Mr.  Williams,  with  a  quizzical  smile. 

The  objection  was  unanswerable ;  and 
Miselle,  folding  herself  in  the  mantle 
of  resignation,  waited  until  the  next 
troubling  of  the  pool,  when,  rushing 
with  the  rest,  she  was  safely  hoisted 
into  the  cart,  and  the  drive  commenced. 

"You  had  better  cling  to  my  arm 
here ;  it 's  a  mud-hole  ;  don't  be  fright- 
ened," exclaimed  Mr.  Williams,  as  the 
horses  suddenly  disappeared  from  view, 
and  the  wagon  poised  itself  an  instant 
on  the  edge  of  a  chasm,  and  then  plung- 
ed madly  after  them. 

^  Heavens  !  what  has  happened  ? 
Have  they  run  away?  Did  n't  the 
driver  see  where  they  were  going? 
There  !  we  're  going  o  —  ver  1 "  shriek- 
ed Miselle. 

"  No,  no ;  we  're  all  right  now,  don't 
you  see  ?  The  poor  nags  are  n't  likely 
to  run  much  here ;  and  though  the 
driver  saw  it  well  enough,  he  could  n't 
help  going  through.  That  's  a  fair 
specimen  of  the  road  all  down  the 
Creek*  Now  here  's  a  gully.  Cling  to 
me,  and  don't  be  frightened." 

It  is  very  easy  to  say,  "Don't  be 
frightened";  but  when  a  wagon  with 


four  wheels  travels  for  a  considerable 
distance  upon  only  two,  while  those  on 
the  upper  side  are  spinning  round  in 
the  air,  and  the  whole  affair  inclines  at 
a  right  angle  toward  a  bottomless  gulf 
of  mud,  it  is  rather  difficult  for  a  ner- 
vous person  to  heed  the  injunction. 

Miselle  did  not  shriek  this  time ;  but 
she  fancies  the  "  sable  score  of  fingers 
four  remain  on  the  "  arm  "  impressed," 
to  which  she  clung  during  the  ordeaL 

Another  plunge,  a  lurch,  a  twist,  a 
sharp  descent,  and  the  breathless  horses 
halted  on  the  bank  of  a  stream  whose 
shallow  waters  were  crowded  with  flat- 
boats,  generally  laden  with  oil. 

"  Here  is  the  packet-boat,"  remarked 
Mr.  Williams,  with  mischievous  smile, 
as  he  lifted  his  charge  from  the  "  hack- 
carriage,"  and  led  her  toward  one  of 
these  boats,  a  trifle  dirtier  than  the  rest, 
with  planks  laid  across  for  seats,  and 
several  inches  of  water  in  the  bottom. 
In  shape  and  size  it  much  resembled 
the  mud-scows  navigating  the  waters 
of  Back  Bay,  Boston,  and  was  propelled 
by  a  gigantic  paddle  at  either  end. 

Miselle's  Ungering  vision  of  a  neat 
litde  steamboat  with  a  comfortable  cab- 
in died  away ;  and  she  placed  herself 
without  remark  upon  Uie  board  se- 
lected for  her,  accepting  from  her  at- 
tentive companion  the  luxury  of  a  bit 
of  plank  for  her  feet,  —  an  invidious 
distinction,  regarded  with  much  disap- 
proval by  her  fellow-passengers. 

The  sad  and  homesick  lady  was 
again  Miselle's  nearest  neighbor,  and 
now  found  her  tongue  in  expressions 
of  dismay  and  apprehension  so  vehe- 
ment and  sincere  that  her  auditor  hard- 
ly knew  whether  to  weep  with  her  or  • 
smile  at  her. 

Fifty  luckless  souls,  more  or  less  de-  • 
cently  clothed  in  bodies,  having  been 
crowded  upon  the  raft,  the  shore-line 
was  cast  ofi^  and  she  drifted  magnifi- 
cently out  into  the  stream,  and  stuck 
fast  about  a  rod  from  the  landing. 

The  most  terrific  oaths,  the  most 
strenuous  exertion  of  the  paddles,  fail- 
ing to  move  her,  "  a  team  "  was  loudly 
called  for  by  the  irate  passengers,  and 
presendy  appeared  in  the  shape  of  two 


392 


Adventures  of  a  Lone  IVoman^ 


[April, 


horses  with  a  small  blae  boy  perched 
upon  one  of  them.  These  were  hitched 
to  the  forward  part  of  the  boat,  and  the 
swearing  and  pushing  recommenced, 
with  an  accompaniment  of  slashing 
Mows  upon  the  backs  of  the  unfortu- 
nate horaes,  who  strained  and  plunged, 
but  all  to  no  effect,  until  another  boat 
appeared  round  the  bend,  slowly  towed 
up  against  the  stream  by  two  more 
horses  witii  a  placid  driver,  whose  less 
placid  wife  sat  upon  a  throne  of  oil-bar- 
rels in  the  centre  of  the  craft,  alter- 
nately smoking  a  clay  pipe  and  shout- 
ing pro&ne  instructions  to  her  husband 
touching  the  management  of  the  boat 
To  this  dual  boatman  the  skipper  of 
the  packet  loudly  appealed  for  aid,  de- 
siring him  to  "  crowd  along  and  give  us 
a  swell" 

'<  What  in  nater  was  ye  sich  a  cussed 
fool  as  ter  git  stuck  fer  ? "  replied  the 
two  heads ;  and  in  spite  of  the  disap- 
proval conveyed  by  the  question,  the 
stranger  boat  was  driven  as  rapidly  as 
possible  close  beside  the  packet,  the  re- 
sult being  a  long  wave  or  <*  swell,*'  ena- 
bling that  luckless  craft  to  float  off  into 
the  deeper  water. 

*'  Now,  genlemen,  locate,  if  you  please ; 
please  to  locate,  genlemen !  You  cap- 
ting  with  the  specs  on,  ef  yer  don't  sit 
down,  I  'U  hev  to  ax  3rer  to,"  vociferated 
the  skipper;  and  the  passengers  were 
nearly  seated  when  the  boat  grounded 
again,  and  was  this  time  got  off  only  by 
the  aid  of  a  double  team,  a  swell,  and 
the  shoulders  of  the  captain  and  several 
of  the  passengers,  who  walked  ih  and 
out  of  the  boat  as  recklessly  as  New- 
foundland dogs.    After  this  style,  the 

•  passage  of  five  miles  was  handsomely 
accomplished  in  six  hours,  and  it  was 

*  the  gloaming  of  a  November  day  when 
Miselle,  cold,  wet,  and  weary,  first  set 
foot,  or  rather  both  her  feet,  deep  in 
the  mud  of  Tarr  Farm,  and  dambered 
through  briers  and  scrub  oak  up  the 
blufi^  where  stood  her  friend's  house, 
and  where  the  panacea  of  '*a  good  cup 
of  tea  and  a  night's  rest "  soon  closed 
the  eventful  day. 

The  next  morning  was  meant  for  an 
artisty  and  it  is  to  be  hoped  that  there 


was  one  at  Tarr  Farm  to  see  the  cur- 
tain of  fog  slowly  lifting  from  the  bright 
waters  of  the  Creek,  and  creeping  up  the 
bluff  beyond  it,  until  it  melted  into  the 
clear  blue  sky,  and  let  the  sunshine 
come  glancing  down  the  valley,  where 
groups  of  derricks,  long  lines  of  tanks, 
engine-houses,  counting-rooms  replaced 
the  forest  growth  of  a  few  years  pre- 
vious, and  crowds  of  workmen,  inter- 
spersed with  overseers  and  proprietors 
on  foot  or  horseback,  superseded  the 
wild  creatures  hardly  yet  driven  from 
their  life-long  haunt . 

Through  the  whole  extent  of  Oil 
Creek,  one  picturesque  feature  never 
£uls  :.this  is  the  alternation  of  bluff  and 
flat  on  the  opposite  sides  of  the  Creek, 
so  that  the  voyager  never  finds  him- 
self between  two  of  either,  —  but,  as 
the  bluff  at  his  right  hand  sinks  into  a 
plain,  he  finds  the  plain  at  the  left  rising 
sharply  into  a  bluff 

It  is  in  these  flats  that  the  oil  is  found ; 
and  each  of  them  is  thickly  studded  with 
derricks  and  engine-buildings,  each  rep- 
resenting a  distinct  well,  witii  a  name 
of  its  own,  —  as  the  Hyena,  the  Uttie 
Giant,  the  Phoenix,  the  Sca'at  Cat,  the 
Utde  Mac,  the  Wild  Rabbit,  the  Grant, 
Bumside,  and  Sheridan,  with  several 
himdred  more.  The  flats  themselves 
are  generally  known  as  Farms,  with  the 
names  of  the  original  proprietors  still 
prefixed,  —  as  the  Widow  McClintock 
Farm,  Story  Farm,  Tarr  Farm,  and  the 
rest 

Few  of  these  god-parents  of  the  soil 
are  at  present  to  be  found  upon  it :  many 
of  them  in  the  beginning  of  the  oil  specu- 
lation having  sold  out  at  moderate  prices 
to  shrewd  adventurers,  who  made  them- 
selves rich  men  before  the  dispossessed 
Rip  Van  Winkles  awoke  to  a  conscious- 
ness of  what  was  going  on  about  them. 
Some,  more  fortunate  or  more  far-sight- 
ed, still  hold  possession  of  the  land,  but 
enjoy  their  enormous  incomes  in  the 
cities  and  places  of  fashionable  resort, 
where  their  manners  and  habits  intro- 
duce a  refreshing  element  of  novelty. 

Few  proprietors  can  be  persuaded  to 
seU  the  golden  goose  outright ;  and  the 
most  usual  course  is  for  the  individual 


i86s.] 


Adventures  of  a  Lone  Woman. 


393 


or  company  intending  to  sink  a  well  to 
bay  what  is  called  a  working  interest 
in  the  soil,  the  owner  retaining  a  land 
interest  or  royalty,  through  which  he 
claims  half  the  proceeds  of  the  well^ 
while  the  lessee  may,  after  months  of 
expense  and  labor,  abandon  the  enter- 
prise with  only  his  labor  for  his  pains. 
These  failures  are  also  a  great  source 
of  annoyance  to  the  proprietors:  for 
many  of  these  abandoned  wells  require 
only  capital  to  render  them  available  | 
but  the  finances  of  the  first  speculator 
being  e^diausted,  no  new  one  will  risk 
his  money  in  them,  while  the  old  lease 
would  interfere  with  his  right  to  the 
*  proceeds. 

Even  the  land  for  building  purposes 
is  only  leased,  with  the  proviso  that  the 
tenant  must  move,  not  only  himself^  but 
his  house,  whenever  the  landlord  sees 
fit  to  explore  his  cellar  or  flower-garden 
for  oil. 

A  land  interest  obtained,  the  precise 
spot  for  breaking  ground  is  selected 
somewhat  by  experience,  but  more  by 
chance, — all  "oil  territory"  being  ex- 
pected to  yield  oil,  if  properly  sought 
An  engine-house  and  derrick  are  next 
put  up,  the  latter  of  timber  in  the  mod- 
em wells,  but  in  the  older  ones  simply 
of  slender  saplings,  sometimes  still  root- 
ed in  the  earth.  A  steam-engine  is  next 
set  up,  and  the  boring  commences. 

By  means  of  a  spile-driver,  an  iron 
pipe,  sharp  at  the  lower  edge  and  about 
six  inches  in  diameter,  is  driven  down 
untfl  it  rests  upon  the  solid  rock,  usual- 
ly at  a  depth  of  about  fifty  feet  The 
earth  is  then  removed  from  the  inside 
of  this  pipe  by  means  of  a  sand-pump, 
and  the  "  tools  "  attached  to  a  cable  are 
placed  within  it 

These  tools,  consisting  of  a  centre- 
YAt  and  a  rammer,  are  each  thirty  or 
thirty -five  feet  in  length,  and  weigh 
about  eight  hundred  pounds.  At  short 
intervals  these  are  replaced  by  the  sand- 
pump,  which  removes  the  drillings. 

The  first  three  strata  of  rock  are  usu- 
ally slate,  sandstone,  and  soapstone. 
Qeneath  these,  at  a  depth  of  two  hun- 
dred feet,  lies  the  second  sandstone,  and 
from  this  adl  the  first  yield  of  oil  was 


taken ;  but,  though  good  in  quality,  this 
supply  was  speedily  exhausted,  and  the 
modem  wells  are  carried  directly  through 
this  second  sandstone,  through  the  slate 
and  soapstone  beneath,  to  the  third  sand- 
stone) in  whose  crevices  lies  the  largest 
yield  yet  discovered.  The  proprietors 
of  old  wells  are  now  reaming  them  out 
and  sinking  their  shafts  to  the  required 
depth,  which  is  about  four  hundred  and 
fifi^feet 

The  oil  announces  itself  in  various 
ways :  sometimes  by  the  escape  of  gas ; 
sometimes  by  the  appearance  of  oil  upon 
the  cable  attached  to  the  tools ;  some- 
times by  the  dropping  of  the  tools,  show- 
ing that  a  crevice  has  been  reached ; 
and  in  occasional  happy  instances  by 
a  rush  of  oil  spouting  to  the  top  of  the 
derrick,  and  tossing  out  the  heavy  tools 
like  feathers. 

Such  a  well  as  this,  known  as  a  fiow^ 
ing  well,  is  the  best  *'find"  possible,  as 
the  fortunate  borer  has  nothing  more  to 
do  than  to  put  down  a  tubing  of  cast- 
iron  artesian  pipe,  lead  the  oil  firom  its 
mouth  into  a  tank,  and  then,  sitting  un- 
der his  own  vine  and  fig-tree,  leave  his 
fortune  to  accumulate  by  daily  additions 
of  thousands  of  dollars.  A  flowing  well, 
stmck  while  Miselle  was  upon  the 
Creek,  yielded  fifteen  hundred  barrels 
per  day,  the  oil  selling  at  the  well  for 
ten  dollars  and  a  half  the  barrel 

But  should  the  oil  decline  to  flow,  or, 
having  flowed,  cease  to  do  so,  a  force- 
pump  is  introduced,  and,  driven  by  the 
same  engine  that  bored  the  well,  brings 
up  the  oil  at  a  rate  varying  from  three 
to  three  hundred  barrels  per  day.  The 
Phillips  Well,  on  Tarr  Farm,  originally 
a  flowing  well,  producing  two  thousand 
barrels  per  day,  now  pumps  about  three 
hundred  and  thirty,  and  is  considered 
a  first-dass  well. 

Before  reaching  oil,  the  borer  not  un- 
fi^uently  comes  upon  veins  of  water, 
either  salt  or  fresh ;  and  this  water  is 
excluded  from  the  shaft  by  a  leathern 
case  applied  about  the  pipe  and  filled 
with  flax-seed.  The  seed,  swollen  by 
the  moisture,  completely  fills  the  space 
remaining  between  the  tube  and  the 
walls  of  the  shaft,  so  that  no  water 


394 


Advefitures  of  a  Lane  Woman. 


[April, 


reaches  the  piL  But  whenever  the  tub- 
ing with  its  seed-bags  is  withdrawn,  the 
water  rushing  down  **  drowns  "  not  only 
its  own  well,  but  all  such  as  have  sub- 
terraneous communication  with  it  In 
this  manner  one  of  the  most  important 
wells  upon  the  Creek  avenged  itself 
some  time  ago  upon  a  too  successful 
rival  by  drawing  its  tubing  and  letting 
down  the  water  upon  both  wells.  The 
rival  retaliated  by  drawing  its  own  tub- 
ing, with  a  like  result,  and  the  propri- 
etors of  each  lost  months  of  time  and 
hundreds  of  thousands  of  dollars  before 
the  quarrel  could  be  adjusted 

From  the  mouth  of  the  shaft,  elevated 
some  fifteen  feet  above  the  sur£ice  of 
the  ground,  the  oil  either  flows  or  is 
pumped  into  an  immense  vat  or  tank, 
and  from  this  is  led  to  another  and  an- 
other, until  a  large  well  will  have  a  se- 
ries of  tanks  connected  like  the  joints 
of  a  rattlesnake 's  tail  I  nto  the  last  one 
is  put  a  faucet,  and  the  oil  drawn  into 
barrels  is  either  carried  to  the  local  re- 
finery, or  in  its  crude  condition  is  belt- 
ed to  the  railway,  or  to  Oil  City,  and 
thence  down  the  Alleghany. 

One  of  the  principal  perils  attending 
oil-seeking  is  that  of  fire.  Petroleum, 
in  its  crude  state,  is  so  highly  impreg- 
nated with  gas  and  with  naphtha  or 
benzine  as  to  be  very  inflammable, — 
a  fiict  proved,  indeed,  many  years  ago^ 
when,  as  history  informs  us, 

**  General  Clarke  kindled  the  vapor, 
Stayed  about  an  hour,  and  left  it  a*buming," 

unconsciously  turning  his  back  upon  a 
fortune  such  as  probably  had  never  en- 
tered the  worthy  knight's  imagination. 

The  petroleum  once  ignited,  it  is  very 
hard  to  extinguish  the  flames ;  and  Mr. 
Williams  told  of  being  one  of  a  company 
of  men  who  labored  twenty-four  hours 
in  vain  to  subdue  a  burning  well.  They 
tried  water,  which  only  aggravated  the 
trouble ;  they  tried  covering  the  well 
with  earth,  but  the  gas  permeated  the 
whole  mass  and  blazed  up  more  defiant- 
ly than  ever ;  they  covered  the  mound 
of  earth  with  a  carpet,  (paid  for  at  the 
value  of  cloth  of  gold,)  and  the  carpet 
i^ith  wet  sand,  but  a  bad  smell  of  burn- 
ed wool  was  the  only  result    Finally, 


some  incipient  Bonaparte  hit  upon  the 
expedient  of  dividing  the  Allies,  who 
together  defied  mankind,  and,  bringing 
a  huge  oil-tank,  inverted  it  over  the 
sand,  the  carpet,  the  earth,  and  the 
well,  by  this  time  one  blazing  mass. 
Fire  thus  cut  off  from  Air  succumbed, 
and  the  battle  was  over. 

^  There  was  no  one  hurt  that  time," 
pursued  Friend  Williams,  in  a  tone  of 
airy  reminiscence  ;  *'  but  mostly  at  our 
fires  there  '11  be  two  or  three  people 
burned  up,  and  more  women  than  men, 
I  've  noticed.  Either  it 's  their  clothes, 
or  they  get  scared  and  don't  look  out 
for  themselves.  Now  there  was  the 
Widow  McClintock  owned  that  farm 
above  here.  She  was  worth  her  hun- 
dreds of  thousands  of  dollars,  but  she 
would  put  kerosene  on  her  fire  to  make 
it  bum.  So  one  day  it  caught,  and  she 
caught,  and  in  half  an  hour  there  was 
no  such  thing  as  Widow  McClintock  on 
Oil  Creek.  Still  all  the  women  keep 
right  on  pouring  kerosene  into  their 
stoves,  and  every  litde  while  one  of 
them  goes  after  the  Widow. 

"  Then  there  was  a  woman  who  sent 
to  the  refinery  for  a  pail  of  alkali  to  clean 
her  floor.  The  man  thought  he  'd  get 
benzine  instead ;  and  just  as  he  got  into 
the  house,  th&  fire  from  his  pipe  drop- 
ped into  it,  and  the  whole  shanty  was 
in  a  blaze  before  the  poor  woman  knew 
what  had  happened.  The  stupid  fool 
that  was  to  blame  got  ofl^  but  the  wom- 
an burned  up. 

^Then  there  was  a  wom^n  whose 
house  was  afire,  and  she  would  rush 
back,  after  she  had  been  dragged  out, 
to  look  for  her  pet  teacups,  and  she  was 
Jsumed  up.    And  so  they  go." 

Sometimes  also  the  tanks  of  crude  oil 
take  fire,  and  these  conflagrations  are 
said  to  present  a  splendid  spectacle, — 
the  resinous  parts  of  the  oil  burning 
with  a  fierce  deep-red  flame  and  send- 
ing up  volumes  of  smoke,  through  which 
are  emitted  lightning-like  flashes  ex- 
ploding the  ignited  gas. 

Like  some  other  things,  including  peo- 
ple, this  unappeasable  substance  con- 
ceals its  terrors  beneath  a  placid  exte- 
rior, and  lies  in  its  great  tanks,  or  in 


1865.] 


Adventures  of  a  Lone  WomoH, 


395 


shallow  pits  dug  for  it  in  the  earth,  look- 
ing neither  volcanic  nor  even  combusti- 
ble, but  more  like  thin  green  paint  than 
anything  else,  except  when  it  has  be- 
come adulterated  with  water,  when  it 
assumes  a  bilious,  yellow  appearance, 
exceedingly  uninviting  to  the  spectator. 
In  this  case  it  is  allowed  to  remain  un- 
disturbed in  the  tank  until  the  oil  and 
water  have  separated,  when  the  latter  is 
drawn  off  at  the  bottom. 

Wandering  one  day  among  groves  of 
derricks  and  villages  of  tanks,  Miselle 
and  her  guide  came  upon  a  building 
containing  a  pair  of  truculent  monsters 
in  a  high  state  of  activity.  These  were 
introduced  to  her  as  a  steam  force-pump 
and  its  attendant  engine ;  and  she  was 
told  that  they  were  at  that  moment 
sucking  up  whole  tanks  of  oil  from  the 
neighboring  wells,  and  pumping  it  up 
the  precipitous  blufi^  through  the  lonely 
forest,  over  marsh  and  moor,  hill  and 
dale,  to  the  great  Humboldt  Refinery, 
more  than  three  miles  distant,  in  the 
town  of  Plummer,  as  it  is  called, — al- 
though, in  point  of  fact,  Plummer,  Tarr 
Farm,  and  several  other  settlements  be- 
long to  the  township  of  Comptanter. 

There  was  something  about  this  brace 
of  monsters  very  fascinating  to  MiseUe. 
They  seemed  like  subjected  genii  closed 
in  these  dull  black  cases  and  this  nar- 
row shed,  and  yet  embracing  miles  of  ' 
territory  in  their  invisible  arms.  Even 
the  genius  of  Aladdin's  lamp  was  not  so 
powerful,  for  he  was  obliged  to  betake 
himself  to  the  scene  of  the  wonders  he 
was  to  enact;  —  and  if  imprisoned  as 
closely  as  these,  could  not  have  trans- 
ferred enough  oil  from  Tarr  Farm  to 
Plummer  to  fill  his  own  lamp.  ♦ 

Afterward,  in  rambling  through  the 
woods,  Miselle  often  came  upon  the 
mound  raised  above  the  buried  pipe, 
and  always  regarded  it  with  the  same 
admiring  awe  with  which  the  fisherman 
of  Bagdad  probably  looked  at  the  cop- 
per vessel  wherein  Solomon  had  so  cun- 
ningly **  canned  "  the  rebellious  Afrit. 

Leaving  the  shed  of  the  monsters, 
Miselle  followed  her  guide  out  of  the 
throng  of  derricks  and  •  tanks,  and  a 
short  distance  up  the  hill,  to  the  pictur- 


esque site  of  Messrs.  Barrows  and  Ha- 
zleton's  Refinery,  the  only  one  now  in 
operation  on  Tarr  Fann. 

Entering  a  low  brick  building  called 
the  stiU-house,  she  found  herself  in  a 
passage  between  two  brick  walls,  pierced 
on  either  hand  for  five  or  six  oven-doors, 
while  overhead  the  black  roof  was  di- 
vided into  panels  by  a  system  of  iron 
pipes  through  which  the  crude  oil  was 
conducted  to  the  caldrons  above  the 
iron  doors. 

The  presiding  genius  of  the  place  was 
a  very  fat,  dirty,  but  intelligent  Irish- 
man, known  as  Tommy,  who  came  for- 
ward with  the  politeness  of  his  nation 
to  greet  the  visitors,  and  explain  to  them 
the  mysteries  under  his  charge. 

''And  give  a  guess.  Ma'am,  if  ye 
plase,  at  what  we  Ve  got  a-buming  un- 
dher  our  big  pot  here,"  suggested  he, 
with  a  hand  upon  one  of  the  oven* 
doors. 

'*  Soft  coal,"  ventured  MiseUe,  remem* 
bering  her  experience  at  the  glass* 
works. 

"  Not  a  bit  of  it  U  's  the  binzole 
intirely.  We  makes  the  ile  cook  itself 
an'  not  a  hape  of  fu'l  does  it  git,  but 
what  it  brings  along  itself." 

'*  Seething  the  kid  in  its  mother's 
milk,"  remarked  Miselle  to  herself! 

'<  It  's  this  pipe  fetches  the  binzole 
from  the  tank  outside,  and  the  mouth 
of  it 's  widin  the  door ;  and  this  is  the 
stop-cock  as  lets  it  on." 

So  saying,  Tommy  threw  open  the 
oven-door,  and  pointed  to  the  black  end 
of  a  pipe  just  within.  At  the  same 
time  he  turned  a  handle  on  the  out- 
side, and  let  on  a  stream  of  benzine  or 
naphtha,  which  blazed  fiercely  up  with  a 
lurid  flame  strongly  suggestive  of  the 
pictured  reward  of  evil-doers  in  another 
life. 

Next,  Tommy  proceeded  to  explain, 
after  his  own  fashion,  how  the  oil  in 
the  caldrons  above,  urged  by  these 
fires,  departed  in  steam  and  agony 
through  long  pipes  called  worms,  the 
only  outlet  from  the  otherwise  air-tight 
stills,  which  worms,  wriggling  out  at 
the  end  of  the  building,  plunged  into 
a  bath  of  cold  water  provided  for  them 


396 


Adventures  of  a  Lone  Woman, 


[April, 


in  a  hQge  square  tank  fed  by  a  bright 
mountain -stream  winding  down  from 
the  bluff  above  in  a  &shion  so  pictur- 
esque as  to  be  quite  out  of  keeping 
with  its  ultimate  destination. 

Emerging  from  their  cold  bath,  the 
worms,  crawling  along  the  ground  be- 
hind the  still-house,  arrived  at  the  back 
of  another  building,  called  the  test* 
room ;  and  here  each  one,  making  a 
sharp  turn  to  enable  him  to  enter,  was 
pierced  at  the  angle  thus  formed,  and  a 
vertical  pipe  some  ten  feet  in  length 
inserted. 

The  object  of  these  pipes  was  to  car- 
ry ofif  the  gas  stiU  mingled  with  the  oil ; 
and,  looking  attentively,  Miselle  could 
distinguish  a  flickering  column  ascend- 
ing from  each  pipe  and  forming  itself 
so  humanly  against  the  evening  sky  as 
to  vindicate  the  superstition  of  the  Sax- 
ons, who  first  named  this  ether  ^i>/. 

'*What  a  splendid  illumination,  if 
only  those  ten  pipes  were  lighted  some 
dark  night !  "  suggested  Miselle. 

"  Phe  -  ew !  An'  yer  lumemation 
would  n't  stop,  there  long,  I  can  tell 
yer.  Ma'am,"  retorted  Tommy.  **  The 
whole  works  ud  be  in  a  swither  'fore 
iver  we  'd  time  to  ax  what  was  comin'." 

"  They  would  ?    And  why  ?  " 

''The  binzole,  Ma'am,  the  binzole. 
It  's  the  Divil's  own  stuff  to  manage, 
an'  there  's  no  thrustin'  it  wid  so  much 
as  the  light  uv  a  pipe  nigh  hand  The 
air  is  full  of  it ;  and  if  you  was  so 
much  as  to  sthrike  a  match  here  where 
we  stand,  it  ud  be  all  day  wid  us  'fore 
we  'd  time  to  think  uv  it  You  should 
know  that  yersilf^  Sir,"  continued  he, 
turning  to  Mr.  Williams. 

"  Yes,"  returned  that  gentieman,  with 
a  grimace.  **  I  learned  the  nature  of 
benzine  pretty  thoroughly  when  I  first 
came  on  the  Creek.  I  had  been  at  work 
over  one  of  the  wells,  and  got  my 
clothes  pretty  oily,  but  thought  I  would 
not  ask  my  wife  to  meddle  with  them. 
So  I  sent  for  a  pail  of  benzine,  and, 
shutting  myself  up  in  my  shop,  set  to 
work  to  wash  my  clothes.  I  succeeded 
very  well  for  a  first  attempt ;  and  when 
I  had  done,  and  hung  them  up  to  dry, 
I  felt  quite  proud.     Then,  as  it  was 


pretty  c<^d,  I  thought  I  would  put  a  lit- 
tie  fire  in  the  stove,  and  get  them  dried 
to  carry  away  before  my  men  came  in 
to  work  the  next  morning.  So  I  put 
some  kindling  in  the  stove,  and  scraped 
a  match  on  my  boot ;  but  I  had  n't  time 
to  touch  it  to  the  shavings  before  the 
whole  air  was  aflame,  not  catching  from 
one  point  to  another,  but  flashing  through 
the  whole  place  in  an  instant,  and  snap* 
ping  all  around  my  head  like  a  bunch 
of  fire-crackers.  I  rushed  for  the  door ; 
but  before  I  could  get  out  I  was  pretty 
well  singed,  and  there  was  no  such 
thing  as  saving  a  single  article.  All 
went  together,  —  shop,  stock,  'tools, 
clothes,  and  everything  else.  That  's 
benzine." 

"That  's  binzole,"  echoed  Tommy, 
"  An'  now,  Ma'am,  come  in,  if  yer  plase, 
to  the  tistin'-rooHL" 

Miselle  complied,  and,  stepping  into 
the  littie  room,  saw  first  two  parallel 
troughs  running  its  entire  length,  and 
terminating  at  one  end  in  a  pipe  leading 
through  the  side  of  the  building.  Into 
each  of  these  troughs  half  the  pipes 
were  at  this  moment  discharging  a  col- 
orless, odorless  fluid,  the  apotheosis,  as 
it  were,  of  petroleum. 

Tommy,  perching  himself  upon  a  high 
stool  beside  the  troughs,  regarded  his 
visitors  with  calm  superiority,  and  was 
evidentiy  disposed,  in  this  his  strong- 
hold, to  treat  with  them  ex  cathedra, 

"There,  thin,  Ma'am,"  began  he, 
"  that 's  what  I  call  iligant  lie  intirely. 
Look  at  it  jist  1 " 

And  taking  from  its  shelf  a  long  tu- 
bular glass,  he  ladled  up  some  of  the 
oil,  and  held  it  to  the  light  for  inspec- 
tion. 

When  this  had  been  duly  admired, 
the  professor  informed  his  audience 
that  the  first  product  of  the  still  is  the 
gas,  which  is  led  off  as  previously  de- 
scribed. Next  comes  naphtha,  benzine, 
or,  as  Tommy  and  his  comrades  call  it, 
"binzole."  This  dangerous  substance 
is  led  fix)m  the  troughs  of  the  testing- 
house  to  a  subterraneous  tank,  the  trap- 
cover  of  which  was  subsequently  lifted, 
that  the  visitors  might  peep,  as  into  the 
den  of  some  malignant  wild  creature. 


1 865.] 


Adventures  of  a  Lone  Woman. 


397 


From  this  it  is  again  drawn,  and,  mixed 
-with  the  heavy  oil  or  residuum  of  the 
still,  is  principKsdly  used  for  fuel,  as  be- 
fore described. 

''And  how  soon  do  you  cut  off  for 
cnl  ?  "  inquired  Mr.  Williams,  carelessly. 

The  bx  man  gave  him  a  look  of  sol- 
emn indignation,  and  proceeded  without 
heeding  the  interruption. 

<^Whin  I  joodge,  Ma'am,  that  the 
binzole  is  nigh  run  out,  I  tist  it  with  a 
hydcr-rometer,  this  a-way." 

And  Tommy,  descending  from  the 
stool,  took  from  the  shelf  first  a  tin  pot 
strongly  resembling  a  shaving-mug,  and 
then  a  little  glass  instrument,  with  a 
tube  divided  into  sections  by  numbered 
lines,  and  a  bulb  half  filled  with  quick- 
silver at  the  base. 

Filling  the  shaving-mug  with  oil,  the 
lecturer  dropped  into  it  his  hydrometer, 
which,  after  gracefully  dancing  up  and 
down  for  a  moment,  remained  stationary. 

•*  It 's  at  55<>  you  '11  find  it  Look  for 
yersilf,  Ma'am,"  he  resumed,  with  the 
serene  confidence  of  the  prestidigitateur 
who  informs  the  audienqe  that  the  miss- 
ing handkerchief  will  be  found  in  ^  that 
gentleman's  pocket" 

Miselle  examined  the  figures  at  nigh- 
oil  mark,  and  found  that  they  were  actu- 
ally 550. 

^*  The  binzole,  you  see,  Ma'am,  is  so 
thin  that  the  hyder-rometer  drops  right 
down  over  head  an'  ears  in  it ;  but  as 
it  gits  to  be  ile,  it  comes  heavier  an' 
stouter,  an'  kind  uv  buoys  it  up,  until 
at  lin'th  an'  at  last  the  6o<>  line  comes 
crapin'  up  in  sight  Thin  I  thry  it  by 
the  fire  tist  I  puts  some  in  a  pan  over 
a  sperit-lamp,  and  keep  a-thryin'  an'  a- 
thr)nn'  it  wid  a  thermometer ;  an'  whin 
it 's  'most  a-bilin',  I  puts  a  lighted  match 
to  the  ile,  an'  if  it  blazes,  there  's  still 
too  much  binzole,  an'  I  lets  it  run  a  bit 
longer.  But  if  all  's  right,  I  cuts  off 
the  binzole,  and  the  nixt  run  is  ile  sech 
as  you  see  it  The  longer  it  runs,  the 
heavier  it  grows ;  and  whin  it  gits  so 
that  the  hydei^rometer  stands  at  42^^,  I 
cuts  off  agin.  Thin  the  next  run  is 
heavy  ile,  thick  and  yaller,  and  that 
does  n't  come  in  here  at  all,  but  is 
drawn  from  the  still,  and  mixed  wid 


crude  ile,  and  stilled  over  agin ;  and 
whin  no  more  good  's  to  be  got  uv  it, 
it 's  mighty  good  along  wid  the  binzole 
to  keep  the  pot  a-bilin'  in  beyant" 

''You  don't  use  the  fire  test  in  this 
building,  I  presume,  do  you  ? "  . 

"  Indade,  no.  Ma'am.  There 's  niver 
a  light  nor  yit  a  lanthem  allowed  here." 

"  But  you  run  all  night  How  do  you 
get  light  in  this  room  ?  "  inquired  Mr. 
Williams. 

''From  widout  Did  niver  ye  mind 
the  windys  uv  this  house  ?  " 

And  the  professor,  dismounting  from 
his  stool,  led  the  way  to  the  outside  of 
the  building,  where  he  pointed  to  two 
picturesque  little  windows  near  the  roof, 
each  furnished  with  a  deep  hood  and  a 
shelf,  as  if  Tommy  had  been  expected 
to  devote  his  leisure  hours  to  the  culti* 
vation  of  mignonette. 

"  See  now ! " 

And  the  burly  lecturer  pointed  im« 
pressively  to  a  laborer  at  this  moment 
approaching  with  a  large  lighted  lan- 
tern in  each  hand.  These,  placed  up< 
on  the  mignonette  shelves,  and  snugly 
protected  from  wind  and  rain  by  the 
deep  hoods,  threw  a  clear  light  into  the 
test-room,  and  brought  out  in  grotesque 
distinctness  the  arabesque  pattern 
wrought  with  dust  and  oil  upon  Tom- 
my's broad  visage. 

"And  that 's  how  we  gits  Ught,  Sir," 
remarked  the  professor,  in  conclusion, 
as,  with  a  dignified  salutation  of  &re- 
weU,  he  disappeared  in  the  still-house. 

Admonished  by  the  lanterns  and  the 
fading  glory  of  the  west,  Miselle  and 
her  host  now  bent  their  steps  home- 
ward, deferring,  like  Scheherezade,  *'  still 
finer  and  more  wonderfid  stories  until 
the  next  morning." 

At  their  next  visit  to  the  Refinery,  the 
visitors  were  committed  to  a  litde  wiry 
old  man,  called  Jimmy,  who  first  showed 
them  a  grewsome  monster,  own  cousin 
to  him  who  threw  oil  from  Tarr  Farm 
to  Plummer.  This  one  was  called  an 
air-pump,  and,  with  his  attendant  steam- 
engine,  inliabited  a  house  by  himselfi 
His  work  will  presendy  be  explained. 

The  next  building  was  the  treating^ 
house,  where  stand  huge  tanks  con- 


398 


Adventures  of  a  Lane  Woman. 


[April. 


taining  the  oil  as  drawn  from  the  test- 
ing-room. From  these  it  is  conducted 
by  pipes  to  the  iron  vats,  called  treat- 
ing-tanks,  and  there  mixed  with  vitriol, 
alicali,  and  other  chemicals,  in  certain 
exact  proportions.  The  monster  in 
the  next  building  is  now  set  in  opera- 
tion, and  forces  a  stream  of  compressed 
air  through  a  pipe  from  top  to  bottom 
of  the  tank,  whence,  following  its  natu- 
ral law,  it  loses  no  time  in  ascending  to 
the  surface  with  a  noisy  ebullition,  just 
like,  as  Jimmy  remarked,  "a  big  pot 
over  a  sthrong  fire." 

This  mixing  operation  was  formerly 
performed  by  hand  in  a  much  less  effec- 
tual manner,  the  steam  air-pump  being 
a  recent  improvement 

The  work  of  the  chemicals  accom- 
plished,, the  oil  is  cleansed  of  them  by 
the  introduction  of  water,  and  after  an 
interval  of  quiet  the  mass  separates  so 
thoroughly  that  the  water  and  chemicals 
can  be  drawn  off  at  the  bottom  of  the 
vat  with  very  little  disturbance  to  the 
oil 

From  the  treating-house  the  perfect- 
ed oil  is  drawn  to  the  tanks  of  the  bar- 
relling-shed,  and  filled  into  casks  ready 
for  exportation.  A  large  cooper's  shop 
upon  the  premises  supplies  a  portion  of 
the  barrels,  but  is  principally  used  in 
repairing  the  old  ones. 

The  oil  is  next  teamed  to  the  Creek, 
and  either  pumped  into  decked  boats, 
to  be  transported  in  bulk,  or,  still  in 
barrels,  is  loaded  upon  the  ordinary 
flatboats.  During  a  large  portion  of 
the  year,  however,  neither  of  these  can 
make  the  passage  of  the  shallow  Creek 
without  the  aid  of  a  "  pond-fresh."  This 
occurs  when  the  millers  near  the  head 
of  the  Creek  open  their  dams,  and  by 
the  sudden  influx  of  water  give  a  gigan- 
tic "  swell "  to  the  boats  patiently  await- 
ing it  at  every  **  farm,"  from  Schaeffer's 
to  Oil  City. 

Sometimes,  however,  the  boatmen, 
like  the  necromancer's  student  who  set 
the  broomstick  to  bringing  water,  but 
could  not  remember  the  spell  to  stop  it, 
find  that  it  is  unsafe  to  set  great  agen- 
cies at  work  without  the  power  of  con- 
trolling them.    Last  May,  for  instance, 


occurred  a  pond-fresh,  long  to  be  re* 
membered  on  Oil  Creek,  when  the 
stream  rose  with  such  furious  rapidity 
that  the  loaded  boats  became  unman- 
ageable, crowding  and  dashing  togeth- 
er, staving  in  the  sides  of  the  great 
oil-in-bulk  boats,  and  grinding  the  float- 
ing barrels  to  splinters.  Not  even  the 
thousands  of  gallons  of  oil  thus  shed 
upon  the  stormy  waters  were  sufficient 
to  assuage  either  their  wrath  or  that 
of  the  boatmen,  who,  as  their  respective 
craft  piled  one  upon  another,  sprang 
to  "repel  boarders"  with  oaths,  fists, 
boat-hooks,  or  whatever  other  weapons 
Nature  or  chance  had  provided  them. 
This  scene  of  anarchy  lasted  several 
days,  and  some  cold-blooded  photog- 
rapher amused  himself^  *'  after  "  Ne- 
ro, in  taking  views  of  it  from  different 
points.  Copies  of  these  pictures,  com- 
memorating such  destruction  of  proper- 
ty, temper,  and  propriety  as  Oil  Creek 
never  witnessed  before,  are  hung  about 
the  "  office  "  of  the  Refinery,  with  which 
comfortable  apartment  the  visitors  fin« 
ished  their  toi\r. 

Here  they  were  offered  the  compll- 
pliments  of  the  season  and  locality  in  a 
collation  of  chestnuts ;  and  here  also 
they  were  invited  to  inspect  a  stere- 
oscope, which,  with  its  accompanying 
views,  is  considered  on  Tarr  Farm  as 
admirable  a  wonder  as  was,  doubdess, 
Columbus's  watch  by  the  aborigines  of 
the  New  World.  Dearer  to  Miselle 
than  chestnuts  or  stereoscope,  howev- 
er, were  the  information  and  the  anec- 
dotes placed  at  her  service  by  the  gen- 
tlemen of  the  establishment,  albeit  in- 
voluntarily; and  with  her  friends  she 
shortly  after  departed  from  Barrows 
and  Hazleton's  Refinery,  filled  with  con- 
tent and  gratitude. 

The  noticeable  point  in  the  society 
of  Tarr  Farm,  or  rather  in  the  human 
scenery,  for  society  there  is  none,  is  the 
absurd  mingling  of  inharmonious  mate- 
rial. As  in  the  toy  called  Prince  Ru- 
pert's Drop,  a  multitude  ^f  unassimilat- 
ed  particles  are  bound  together  by  a 
master  necessity.  Remove  the  neces- 
sity, and  in  the  flash  of  an  eye  the  par- 
ticles scatter  never  to  reunite. 


1 865.] 


AdveHtures  of  a  Lone  Woman. 


399 


In  her  two  days'  tour  of  Tarr  Farm, 
Miselle  talked  with  gentlemen  of  birth 
and  education,  gentlemen  whose  man- 
ners contrasted  oddly  enough  with  their 
coarse  clothes  and  knee  -  high  boots ; 
also  with  intermittent  genUemen,  who 
felt  Tarr  Farm  to  be  no  fit  theatre  for 
the  exercise  of  their  acquired  polite- 
ness ;  also  with  men  like  Tommy  and 
Jimmy,  whose  claims  lay  not  so  much 
in  aristocratic  connection  and  gentle 
breeding  as  in  a  thorough  appredation 
of  the  matter  in  hand ;  also  with  a  less 
pleasing  variety  of  mankind,  men  who, 
originally  ignorant  and  debased,  have 
through  lucky  speculations  acquired 
immense  wealth  without  the  habits  of 
body  and  mind  fitiy  accompanying  it 

Various  ludicrous  anecdotes  are  told 
of  this  last  class,  but  none  droller  than 
that  of  the  millionnaire,  who,  after  the 
growth  of  his  fortune,  sent  his  daugh- 
ter, already  arrived  at  woman's  estate, 
to  school,  that  she  might  learn  read- 
ing, writing,  and  other  accomplishments. 
Af^er  a  reasonable  time  the  father  visit- 
ed the  school,  and  inquired  concerning 
his  daughter's  progress.'  This  he  was 
informed  was  but  small,  owing  to  a 
*'want  of  capacity." 

"Capacity!  capacity!*'  echoed  the 
father,  thrusting  his  hands  into  his 
well-lined  pockets;  "well,  by  ginger, 
if  the  gal  's  got  no  capacity,  I  've  got 
the  money  to  buy  her  one,  cost  what 
it  may ! " 

Another  young  fellow,  originally  em- 
ployed in  a  very  humble  position  by  one 
of  the  oil  companies,  suddenly  acquired 
a  fortune,  and  removed,  to  another  part 
of  the  country.  Returning  for  a  visit  to 
the  scene  of  his  former  labors,  he  stood 
inspecting  the  operations  of  a  cooper  at 
work  upon  an  oil-barrel.  The  two  men 
had  formerly  been  comrades,  but  this 
fiict  the  rich  man  now  found  it  con- 
venient to  forget,  and  the  poor  one  was 
too  proud  to  remember. 

"  Pray,  Cooper,"  inquired  the  former 
at  last,  tapping  the  barrel  superciliously 
with  his  cane,  "are  you  able  to  make 
tiiis  thing  oil-tight  ?  " 

"  I  believe  so,"  retorted  Cooper,  dry- 
ly.   "Was  you  ever  troubled  by  their 


leaking,  when  you  rolled  them  through 
the  mud  from  the  well  to  the  Creek  ?  " 

Through  all  this  fungus  growth  it  is 
rather  difficult  to  come  at  the  indigenous 
product  of  the  soil ;  and  Miselle  found 
none  of  whose  purity  she  could  be  sure, 
except  the  youth  who  drove  her  from 
Tarr  Farm  to  SchaefTer's  on  her  return. 
Arriving  in  sight  of  the  railway,  this 
puer  tngenuusy  pointing  to  the  track, 
inquired,  — 

"A%'  be  thot  what  the  keers  rides 
on?" 

"  Yes,"  said  Mr.  Williams,  "  that  's 
the  track." 

"An'  yon  's  the  wagons  whar  ye  'U 
set  ? "  pursued  he,  pointing  to  some 
platform-cars,  waiting  to  be  loaded  with 
oil-barrels. 

"  Hardly.  Those  are  where  the  oil 
sits." 

"  Be  ?  Then  yon  's  for  the  fowks, 
I  reckon?"  indicating  a  line  of  box 
freight-cars  a  littie  farther  on. 

"  No,  not  exactly.  Those  are  the 
passenger-cars,  away  up  the  track,  with 
windows  and  steps." 

"An'  who  rides  in  the  lofl  up  atop  ?  " 
inquired  the  youth,  after  a  prok)nged 
stare. 

This  question,  referring  to  the  raised 
portion  of  the  roof^  universal  in  Western 
cars,  being  answered,  Mr.  Williams  in- 
quired, in  his  turn,  — 

"  Did  you  never  see  the  railway  be- 
fore ?  " 

"  Never  seed  'em  till  this  minute. 
Fact,  1  never  went  fiirder  from  home 
than  Tarr  Farm  'fore  to-day.  'Spect 
there  's  a  many  won'erful  sights  'twixt 
here  an'  Eri',  be  n't  there  ?  " 

Imagine  a  full-grown  lad,  in  these 
United  States,  whose  ideas  are  bounded 
by  the  city  of  Erie  ! 

Not  indigenous  to  the  soil,  but  a  firm- 
ly rooted,  exotic  growth,  was  the  sonsy 
Scotch  family  whom  Miselle  was  taken 
to  see,  the  Sunday  after  her  arrival. 

Two  years  ago  their  picturesque  log- 
cabin  stood  almost  in  a  wilderness,  with 
the  farm-house  of  James  Tarr  its  only 
neighbor.  Now  the  derricks  are  crowd- 
ing up  the  hill  toward  it,  until  only  a 
narrow  belt  of  woodland  protects  it  from 


400 


Adventures  of  a  Lone  Woman. 


[April, 


invasion.  In  front,  a  small  flower-gar- 
den still  showed  some  autunm  blooms 
at  the  time  of  Miselle's  visit,  and  was 
the  only  attempt  at  floricxilture  seen  \xf 
her  on  Oil  Creek. 

With  traditional  Scotch  hospitsdity, 
the  mistress  of  the  house,  seconded  by 
Maggie  and  Belle,  the  elder  daughters, 
insisted  that  the  proposed  call  should 
include  dinner;  and  Miselle,  nothing 
loath,  was  glad  that  her  friends  allowed 
themselves  to  be  prevailed  upon  ^  stay. 

*'  It 's  no  that  we  hae  onything  fit  to 
gie  ye,  but  ye  maun  just  talc'  the  wull 
for  the  deed,"  said  the  good  mother,  as 
she  bustled  about,  and  set  before  her 
guests  a  plain  and  plentiful  meal,  where 
all  was  good  enough,  and  the  fresh 
bread  and  newly  churned  butter  some- 
thing more. 

"It  's  Maggie  's  baith  baker  and 
dairy -woman,"  said  the  well -pleased 
dame,  in  answer  to  a  compliment  upon 
these  viands.  "And  it 's  she  '11  be  gay 
and  proud  to  gie  ye  all  her  ways  about 
it,  gif  ye  '11  ask  her." 

So  Maggie,  being  questioned,  describ- 
ed the  process  of  making  "  salt-rising  " 
breadf  and  to  the  recipe  added  a  friendly 
caution,  that,  if  allowed  to  ferment  too 
long,  the  dough  would  become  "  as  sad 
and  dour  as  a  stane,  and  though  you 
br'ak  your  heart  over  it,  wad  ne'er  be 
itsel'  again." 

From  a  regard  either  to  etiquette  or 
convenience,  only  the  heads  of  the  fam- 
ily, and  Jamie,  the  eldest  son,  a  fine 
young  giant,  of  one  -  and  -  twenty,  sat 
down  with  the  guests:  the  girls  and 
younger  children  waiting  upon  table, 
and  sitting  down  afterward  with  anoth- 
er visitor,  an  intelligent  negro  farmer, 
one  of  the  most  pleasing  persons  Mi- 
selle encountered  on  her  travels. 

Dinner  over,  it  was  proposed  that 
Maggie  and  Belle  should  accompany 
Mr.  and  Mrs.  Williams  and  Miselle 
on  a  visit  to  some  coal-mines  about  a 
mile  farther  back  in  the  forest,  and,  with 
the  addition  of  a  young  man  named 
John,  who  chanced  in  on  a  Sunday- 
evening  call  to  one  of  the  young  ladies, 
the  party  set  forth. 

The  day  was  the  sweetest  of  the  In- 


dian summer,  and  the  walk  through 
woods  of  chestnut  and  hemlock  was  as 
charming  as  possible,  and  none  the  less 
so  for  the  rustic  coquetries  of  pretty 
BeUe  Miller,  whose  golden  hair  was  the 
precise  shade  of  a  lock  once  shown  to 
Miselle  as  a  veritable  relic  of  Prince 
Charlie. 

The  forest  road  ended  abruptly  in  a 
wide  glade,  where  stood  the  shanty  oc- 
cupied by  the  miners,  a  shed  for  the 
donk^  employed  in  dragging  out  the 
coal,  and,  finally,  the  ruinous  tunnel 
leading  horizontally  into  a  disused  mine. 
The  wooden  tram-way  on  which  the 
coal^rar  had  formerly  run  still  remained ; 
and  cautiously  walking  upon  this  cause- 
way through  the  quagmire  of  mud,  Mi- 
selle and  Mr.  WiUiams  penetrated  some 
distance  into  the  mine,  but  saw  nothing 
more  wonderful  than  mould  and  other 
fungi,  bats  and  toads.  Retracing  their 
steps,  they  followed  the  tram-way  to  its 
termination  at  the  top  of  a  high  bank, 
down  which  the  coals  were  shot  into 
a  cart  stationed  below.  This  coal  is 
of  an  inferior  quality,  bituminous,  and 
largely  mixed  with  slate.  It  sells  read- 
ily, however,  upon  the  Creek,  at  a  dollar 
a  bushel,  for  use  in  the  steam-engines. 

The  sight-seers  having  satisfied  their 
curiosity  with  regard  to  the  mine,  and 
having  paid  a  short  visit  to  the  don- 
keys, were  quietly  resuming  their  walk, 
when  out  from  the  abode  of  the  miners 
poured  a  tumultuous  crowd  of  men, 
women,  and  children,  who  surrounded 
the  little  party  in  a  menacing  manner, 
while  their  leader,  a  stalwart  fellow, 
called  Brennan,  seized  John  by  the  arm, 
and,  shaking  a  sledge-hammer  fist  in  his 
&ce,  inquired  what  he  meant  by  coming 
to  "  spy  round  an  honest  man's  house, 
and  make  game  of  his  betters  ? " 

It  was  in  vain  that  John  attempted 
to  disabuse  the  mind  of  his  assailant 
of  this  view  of  his  visit  to  the  old  mine ; 
and  indeed  his  argument  could  not  even 
have  been  heard,  as  Brennan  was  now 
violently  reiterating,  — 

"  Tak'  yer  coorse,  thin  1  Why  don't 
ye  tak'  yer  coorse  ?  " 

The  advice  was  sensible,  and  the  par- 
ty left  to  themselves  would  undoubtedly 


i86s.] 


Adventures  of  a  Lone  Woman. 


401 


have  followed  it;  in  fect^  the  females 
of  the  party  had  already  taken  their 
**  coorse ''  along  the  homeward  path  as 
fiist  as  their  feet  would  carry  them,  ex- 
cepting Miselle,  who  contented  herself 
with  stepping  behind  a  great  pine-tree, 
and  watching  thence  this  new  develop- 
ment of  human  nature. 

From  angry  words  the  miners  were 
not  long  in  proceeding  to  blows,  and  a 
short  joust  ensued,  in  which  Williams 
and  John  gallandy  held  the  lists  against 
six  or  eight  assailants,  who  would  have 
been  more  dangerous,  had  they  not  been 
all  day  celebrating  the  wedding  of  one 
of  their  number.  Suddenly,  however,  the 
leader  of  the  colliers  darted  by  John, 
who  was  opposing  him,  and  pounced  up- 
on poor  Belle  Miller,  who  with  her  com- 
panions had  paused  at  a  litde  distance 
to  give  vent  to  their  feelings  in  a  chorus 
of  dismal  shrieks.  Whether  these  irri- 
tated Mr.  Brennan's  weakened  nerves, 
or  whether  he  had  merely  the  savage 
instinct  of  reaching  the  strong  through 
the  weak,  cannot  be  certainly  known ; 
but  the  fiict  of  her  forcible  capture  was 
rendered  sufficiently  obvious  by  the  cries 
that  rent  the  air,  and  the  heart  of  the 
young,  man  John,  who,  neglecting  his 
own  safety  in  an  attempt  at  rescue,  re- 
ceived a  stunning  blow  from  his  oppo- 
nent, and  fell  bleeding  to  the  earUi. 

Satisfied  with  the  result  of  his  ex- 
periment, Brennan,  leaving  his  captive 
in  custody  of  his  own  party,  attempted 
another  raid  upon  the  defenceless  flock ; 
but  this  time  Friend  Williams,  summon- 
ed by  the  voice  of  his  wife,  darted  to  her 
rescue,  and,  with  a  happy  blow,  laid  the 
giant  upon  his  back,  where  he  lay  for 
some  moments  admiring  the  evening 
sky. 

Brave  as  were  the  two  knights,  how- 
ever, and  manifest  as  was  the  right, 
Victory  would  probably  have  "perched 
upon  the  banners  of  the  strongest  bat- 
talions," had  not  an  unexpected  diver- 
sion put  a  sudden  end  to  the  combat 

This  came  from  the  side  of  the  as- 
sailants, in  the  pleasing  shape  of  a 
pretty  young  woman,  who,  rushing  for- 
ward, flung  her  arms  about  the  neck  of 
one  of  the  leaders  of  the  mob,  crying,  — 

YOU  XV.  —  NO.  90.  26 


"  Patrick  Maloney,  did  n't  you  stand 
before  the  altar  with  me  this  day,  and 
vow  to  God  to  be  a  true  and  faithful 
husband  ?  And  is  this  all  the  respect 
you  show  me. on  my  wedding-day  ?  " 

The  appeal  was  not  without  its  force, 
and  Patrick,  pausing  to  consider  of  it, 
was  surrounded  by  the  more  pacific  of 
his  own  party,  among  whom  now  ap- 
peared **  Big  Tommy  "  from  the  Refin- 
ery, who  loudly  vouched  for  the  charac- 
ter of  the  visitors,  claiming  them  indeed 
as  warm  and  dear  friends  of  his  own. 

During  the  stormy  council  of  war 
ensuing  among  the  attacking  party, 
the  womankind  of  the  attacked  ven-( 
tured  to  approach  near  enough  to  im- 
plore their  champions  to  withdraw, 
while  yet  there  was  time.  This  pacific 
counsel  they  finally  consented  to  follow, 
and  were  led  away  breathing  vengeance 
and  discontent,  when  John  suddenly 
paused,  exclaiming, — 

"  Where 's  Belle  ?  They  Ve  got  her. 
Come  on,  Williams !  we  are  n't  going 
to  leave  the  girl  among  'em,  surely ! " 

At  this  Maggie  and  Mrs.  Williams 
uplifted  their  voices  in  deprecation  of 
fiirther  hostilities,  protesting  that  they 
should  die  at  once,  if  their  protectors 
were  to  desert  them,  and  using  many 
other  feminine  and  magnanimous  argu- 
ments in  favor  of  a  speedy  retreat 

But  while  yet  the  question  of  her 
rescue  was  undecided.  Belle  appeared, 
flushed,  tearful,  and  voluble  in  reproach 
against  the  friends  who  had  deserted 
her.  She  attributed  her  final  escape  to 
a  free  use  of  her  tongue,  and  repeated 
certain  pointed  remarks  which  she  had 
addressed  to  her  custodian,  who  finally 
shook  her,  boxed  her  ears,  and  bade 
her  begone. 

On  hearing  this  recital,  John  was  for 
returning  at  once  and  avenging  the  in- 
sult ;  but  the  rest  of  the  party,  remem- 
bering the  golden  maxim  of  Hudibras, 

**  He  who  fighta  and  niiu  away 
May  live  to  fight  another  day," 

prevailed  on  him  to  wait  for  retaliation 
until  a  more  favorable  opportunity. 

It  may  be  satisfactory  to  the  reader 
to  hear,  that,  after  Miselle  had  left  Oil 
Creek,  she  was  informed  that  Mr.  Wil- 


402 


Adventures  of  a  Lone  Woman. 


[April, 


liams,  John,  and  a  body  of  men,  equal 
in  number  to  the  colliers,  paid  them  a 
visit,  with  authority  from  the  owner  of 
the  mine  to  pull  down  their  house  and 
eject  them  from  the  premises.  They  al« 
so  contemplated,  it  is  supposed,  a  more 
direct  and  personal  vengeance  ;  but^ 
on  making  known  their  intentions,  the 
pretty  bride  a^n  appeared,  and,  as- 
saulting poor  Williams  with  a  whole 
battery  of  tearful  eyes,  trembling  lips, 
and  eloquent  appeals,  vindicated  once 
more  the  superiority  of  woman's  wiles 
to  man's  determination.  An  abject  apol- 
ology  from  the  colliers,  and  a  decided 
^intimation  from  the  "  Regulators ''  of  the 
consequences  sure  to  follow  any  future 
incivility  to  visitors,  closed  the  affiur, 
and  the  parties  separated  without  fur- 
ther hostilities. 

The  evening  was  so  far  advanced 
when  the  little  party  of  fugitives  were 
once  more  tn  route,  that  a  proposed 
visit  to  a  working  mine  at  some  littie 
distance  was  given  up,  and  at  the  door 
of  the  farm-house  the  party  dispersed 
to  their  respective  homes. 

The  next  day  had  been  appointed  for 
a  visit  to  Oil  City,  the  farthest  and  most 
important  station  upon  the  Creek ;  and 
one  object  in  visiting  the  house  was  to 
c'^S^c  Jamie,  with  his  ''team,"  for  the 
expedition.  It  fortunately  happened 
that  the  old  Scotchman  and  his  wife 
were  going  to  Oil  City  on  the  same  day, 
and  it  was  arranged  that  the  two  parties 
should  unite. 

At  an  early  hour  in  the  morning, 
therefore,  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Williams,  with 
Miselle,  once  more  climbed  the  moun- 
tain to  the  litde  log-house,  and  found 
Jamie  just  harnessing  a  pair  of  fine 
black  horses  to  a  wagon,  similar  to  the 
''hack-carriage"  of  Schaeffer's  Fann. 
In  the  bottom  was  a  quantity  of  clean 
hay,  and  across  the  sides  were  fasten- 
ed two  planks,  covered  with  bedquilts. 
Upon  one  of  these  were  seated  Mr.  and 
Mrs.  Williams,  while  Miselle  was  invit- 
ed to  the  post  of  honor  beside  Mrs. 
Miller,  and  the  old  Scotchman  shared 
the  driver's  seat  with  his  son. 

"  Dinna  ye  be  feared  now,  dearie. 
Our  Jamie  's  a  car'fu'  driver,  wi'  all  his 


wild  ways,"  said  the  old  woman  kindly, 
as  the  wagon,  with  a  premonitory  lurch 
and  twist,  turned  into  the  forest  road. 

Road  I  Let  the  reader  call  to  mind 
the  most  precipitous  wooded  mountain 
of  his  acquaintance,  and  fiuicy  a  road 
formed  over  it  by  the  simple  process 
of  cutting  off  the  trees,  leaving  the 
stumps  and  rocks  undisturbed,  and  then 
fimcy  himself  dragged  over  it  in  a  spring- 
less  wagon  behind  two  fast  horses. 

"  £h,  then  1  It  males  an  auld  body's 
banes  ache  sair,  siccan  a  road  as  yon  1 " 
said  the  Scotchwoman,  with  a  significant 
grimace,  as  the  wagon  paused  a  moment 
at  the  foot  of  a  perpendicular  ascent 

"  I  reckon  ye  wad  nae  ken  whatten 
the  Auld  Country  roads  were  med  for, 
gin  ye  suld  see  them.  They  're  nae  like 
this,  ony  way." 

The  dear  old  creature  had  entered  the 
United  States  through  the  St  Lawrence 
and  the  Lakes,  and  supposed  Tarr  Farm 
to  be  America.  Miselle  was  so  weak  as 
to  try  to  describe  the  aspect  of  things 
about  her  native  city,  and  was  evident- 
ly suspected  of  patriotic  romancing  for 
her  pains. 

But  such  magnificent  views  !  Such 
glimpses  of  fiir  mountain-peaks,  seen 
through  vistas  of  rounded  hills  !  Such 
flashing  streams,  tumbling  heels  over 
head  across  the  forest  road  in  their 
haste  to  mingle  with  the  blue  waters 
of  the  Alleghany  I  Such  wide  stretches 
of  country,  as  the  road  crept  along  the 
mountain  -  brow,  or  curved  sinuously 
down  to  the  far  valley! 

Pictures  were  there,  as  yet  unoopied, 
that  should  hold  Church  breathless,  with 
the  pencil  of  the  Andes  and  Niagara 
quivering  in  his  fingers, — pictures  that 
Turner  might  weU  cross  the  seas  to 
look  upon ;  but  Miselle  remembers  them 
through  a  distracting  mist  of  bodily 
terror  and  discomfort,  —  as  some  paint- 
er showed  a  dance  of  demons  encircling 
a  maiden's  couch,  while  above  it  hung 
her  first  love-dream. 

"  Yon  in  the  valley,  where  the  wood 
looks  so  yaller,  is  a  sulphur  spring ;  an' 
here  in  the  road  's  the  place  where  I  'm 
going  to  tip  you  all  over,"  suddenly  re- 
marked Jamie,  twisting  himself  round 


186$.] 


Adv«tturu  of  a  Lone  Woman. 


403 


on  the  box  to  enjoy  the  consternation 
of  his  female  passengers,  while  the  wag- 
on paused  on  the  verge  of  a  long  gully, 
some  six  feet  in  depth,  occupying  the 
whole  middle  of  the  road. 

"WuU  ye  get  out?"  continued  he, 
addressing  Miselle  for  the  first  time. 

**^  Had  we  better  ?  "  asked  she,  trem* 
ulously. 

^  If  you  're  easy  scared.  But  I  'm  no 
going  to  upset,  I  '11  promise  you." 

«"  Then  I  '11  stay  in,"  said  Miselle,  in 
the  desperate  courage  of  extreme  cow- 
ardice ;  and  the  wagon  went  on,  two 
wheels  deep  in  the  guUy,  crumbling 
down  the  clayey  mud,  two  wheels  high 
on  the  mountain-side,  crashing  through 
brush  and  over  stones.  And  yet  there 
was  no  upset 

"  Did  n't  I  tell  ye  ?  "  inquu^d  Jamie, 
again  twisting  himself  to  look  in  Mi- 
selle's  white  face,  with  a  broad  smile 
of  delight  at  her  evident  terror. 

^  Be  done,  you  bold  bairn !  Is  n't 
he  a  sturdy,  stirring  lad.  Ma'am  ?  "  said 
the  proud  mother,  as  Jamie,  addressing 
himself  again  to  his  work,  shouted  to 
the  black  nags,  and  put  them  along  the 
bit  of  level  road  in  the  valley  at  a  pace 
precluding  all  further  conversation. 

Another  precipitous  ascent,  where 
the  road  had  been  mended  by  felling  a 
large  tree  across  it,  over  whose  trunk 
the  horses  were  obliged  to  pull  the 
heavy  wagon,  and  then  an  equally  pre- 
cipitous descent,  gave  a  view  of  the 
Alleghany  River  and  Oil  Creek,  with 
Oil  City  at  their  confluence,  and  a  back- 
ground of  bluffs  and  mountains  cutting 
sharp  against  the  clear  blue  sky. 

This  view  Miselle  contemplated  with 
one  eye ;  but  the  other  remained  rigid- 
ly fixed  upon  the  road  before  her. 

Even  Jamie  paused,  and  finally  sug- 
gested, — 

^  Reckon,  men,  you  'd  best  get  out 
and  walk  alongside.  The  women  can 
stay  in ;  and  if  she  's  going  over,  you 
can  shore  up." 

Under  these  cheerful  auspices  the 
descent  was  accomplished,  and,  by  some 
miracle,  without  accident 

At  the  foot  of  the  bluff  commences 
the  slough  in  which  Oil  City  is  set; 


and  2A  it  deepened,  the  j^oraes  gradu- 
ally sank  firom  view,  until  only  their 
backs  were  visible,  floundering  through 
a  sea  of  oily  mud  of  a  peculiarly  tena- 
cious character.  Miselle  has  the  warn- 
ing of  Munchausen  before  her  eyes ; 
but,  in  all  sadness,  she  avers  that  in  the 
principal  street  of  Oil  City,  and  at  the 
door  of  the  principal  hotel,  the  mud 
was  on  that  day  above  the  hubs  of  the 
wagon-wheels. 

Having  refreshed  themselves  in  body 
and  mind  at  the  Petroleum  House, 
where  a  lady  in  a  soiled  print  dress 
and  much  jewelry  kindly  played  at  them 
upon  a  gorgeous  piano,  the  party  went 
forth  to  view  the  city. 

The  same  mingling  of  urgent  civili- 
zation and  unsubdued  Nature  observa- 
ble in  Corry  characterizes  Oil  City  to 
a  greater  extent  On  one  side  (^  the 
street,  crowded  with  oil -wagons,  the 
fi^ight  of  each  worth  thousands  of  dol- 
lars, stand  long  rows  of  dwellings,  shops^ 
and  warehouses,  all  built  within  two 
years,  and  on  the  other  impinges  a  bluff 
still  covered  with  its  forest  growth  of 
shrubs  and  wood-plants,  —  while  upon 
the  frowning  firont  of  a  cliff  that  has  for 
centuries  faced  nothing  meaner. than 
the  Alleghany,  with  its  mountain  back- 
ground, some  Vandal  has  daubed  the 
advertisement  of  a  quack  nostrum. 

Farther  on,  where  the  bluff  is  less 
precipitous,  it  has  been  graded  after  a 
fashion ;  and  the  houses  built  at  the 
upper  side  of  the  new  street  seem  to 
be  sliding  rapidly  across  it  to  join  their 
opposite  neighbors,  which,  in  their  turn, 
are  sinking  modestly  into  the  mud. 

A  plank  sidewalk  renders  it  possible 
to  walk  through  the  principal  streets 
of  this  city ;  but  temptation  to  do  so  is 
of  the  slightest 

Monotonous  lines  of  fi^il  houses, 
shops  whose  scanty  assortment  of  goods 
must  be  sold  at  enormous  prices  to  pay 
the  expense  of  transportation  from  New 
York  or  Philadelphia,  crowds  of  oil- 
speculators,  oil -dealers,  oil -teamsters* 
a  clumsy  bridge  across  the  Creek,  a 
prevailing  atmosphere  of  petroleum,  — 
such  is  Oil  City. 

At  the  water-side  the  view  is  some- 


404 


Adventures  of  a  Lane  Woman. 


[April, 


what  more  interesting.  No  wharves 
have  yet  been  built ;  and  the  swarming 
ilatboats  *'tie  up*'  ail  along  the  bank, 
just  as  they  used  to  do  three  years  ago, 
when,  with  a  freight  of  lumber  instead 
of  oil,  they  stopped  for  the  night  at  the 
solitary  little  Dutch  tavern  then  monop- 
olizing the  site  of  the  present  city. 

A  rakish  little  stem-wheel  steamer 
lay  in  tlie  stream,  bound  for  Pittsburg, 
and  sorely  was  Miselle  tempted  to  take 
passage  down  the  Alleghany  in  her ; 
but  lingering  memories  of  home  and  the 
long-suffering  Caleb  at  last  prevailed, 
and,  with  a  sigh,  she  turned  her  back 
upon  the  beauti^l  river,  and  retraced 
her  steps  through  yards  crowded  with 
barrels  of  oil  waiting  for  shipment,  —  oil 
in  rows,  oil  in  stacks,  oil  in  columns, 
and  oil  in  pyramids  wellnigh  as  tall  and 
as  costly  as  that  of  Cheops  himsel£ 

Returned  to  the  Petroleum  House, 
Miselle  bade  a  reluctant  good-bye  to  the 
kindly  Scots,  who  here  took  stage  for 
Franklin,  and  watched  them  float  away, 
as  it  appeared,  upon  the  sea  of  mud  in 
a  wagon-body  whose  wheels  and  horses 
were  too  nearly  submerged  to  make  any 
noticeable  feature  in  the  arrangement 

Soon  after,  Jamie  appeared  at  the 
door  of  the  parlor  nominally  to  an- 
nounce himself  ready  to  return ;  but, 
after  a  fierce  struggle  with  his  natural 
modesty  of  disposition,  he  advanced 
into  the  room,  and  silently  laid  two  of 
the  biggest  apples  that  ever  grew  in 
the  laps  of  Mrs.  Williams  and  Miselle. 
Putting  aside  all  acknowledgments  with 
**  Ho  !  what  's  an  apple  or  two  ?  "  the 
woodsman  next  proceeded  on  a  tour  of 
inspection  round  the  room,  serenely  un- 
conscious of  the  magnificent  scorn  with- 
ering him  from  the  eyes  of  the  jewelled 
lady,  who  now  reclined  upon  a  broken- 
backed  so^  taking  a  leisurely  survey 
of  the  strangers. 

Jamie  paused  some  time  at  the  piano. 

''And  what  might  such  a  thing  as 
that  cost  noo  ?  "  asked  he,  at  length, 
giving  the  case  a  little  back-handed 
blow. 

"  About  eight  hundred  dollars,"  ven- 
tured Miselle;  to  whom  the  inquiry  was 
addressed. 


Jamie  opened  his  wide  black  eyes. 

''Hoot!  Feyther  could  ha'  bought 
Jim  Tarr's  whole  £suin  for  that,  three 
year  ago,"  said  he ;  and,  with  one  more 
contemptuous  stare  at  the  piano,  he  left 
the  room,  and  was  presently  seen  in 
the  stable -yard,  shouldering  from  hia 
path  a  wagon  laden  with  coals. 

Soon  after,  Miselle  and  her  friends 
gladly  bade  farewell  to  Oil  City,  leaving 
the  scornful  lady  seated  at  the  piano  ex- 
ecuting the  charming  melody  of  "  We  're 
a  band  of  brothers  from  the  old  Granite 
State." 

Having  entered  the  city  by  the  hill- 
road,  it  was  proposed  to  return  along 
the  Creek,  although,  as  Jamie  candidly 
stated,  the  road  "might,  like  enough, 
be  a  thought  worser  than  the  other." 

And  it  was. 

Before  the  oil  fever  swept  through 
this  region,  a  man  might  have  travelled 
from  the  mouth  of  the  Creek  to  its 
head-waters,  and  seen  no  more  build- 
ings than  he  could  have  numbered  on 
his  ten  fingers.  Now  the  line  of  der* 
ricks,  shanties,  engine-houses,  and  oil- 
tanks  is  continuous  through  the  whole 
distance;  and  thousands  of  men  may 
be  seen  to-day  accumulating  millions 
of  dollars  where  three  years  ago  the 
squirrel  and  his  wife,  hoarding  theur 
winter  stores,  were  the  only  creatures 
that  took  thought  for  the  morrow. 

After  its  incongruous  mixture  of  so- 
ciety, the  social  peculiarity  of  Oil  Creek 
is  a  total  disregard  of  truth. 

A  mechanic,  a  tradesman,  or  a  boat- 
man makes  the  most  solemn  promise 
of  service  at  a  certain  time.  Terms  are 
settled,  a  definite  hour  appointed  for  the 
fulfilment  of  the  contract ;  the  man  de- 
parts, and  is  seen  no  more.  His  em- 
ployer is  neither  disappointed  nor  an- 
gry ;  he  expects  nothing  else. 

A  cart  laden  with  country  produce 
enters  the  settlement  from  the  farms 
behind  it  Every  housewife  drops  her 
broom,  and  rushes  out  to  waylay  the 
huckster,  and  induce  him  to  sell  her  the 
provisions  already  engaged  to  her  neigh- 
bor. Happy  she,  if  stout  enough  of  arm 
to  convey  her  booty  home  with  her ;  for 
if  she  trust  the  vendor  to  leave  it  at  her 


1865.] 


Adventures  of  a  Lone  Woman. 


405 


house,  even  after  paying  him  his  price, 
she  may  bid  good-bye  to  the  green  de- 
lights, as  eagerly  craved  here  as  on  a 
long  sea-voyage. 

This  "  peculiar  institution  "  is  all  very 
well,  doubtless,  for^  those  who  under: 
stand  it,  but  is  somewhat  inconvenient 
to  a  stranger,  as  Miselle  discovered  dur- 
ing the  three  days  she  was  trying  to 
leave  Tarr  Farm. 

On  the  third  morning,  after  waiting 
two  hours  upon  the  bank  of  the  Creek 
for  a  perjured  boatman,  Mr.  Williams 
rushed  desperately  into  a  crowd  of 
teamsters  and  captured  the  youth  whose 
first  impressions  of  a  railway  have  been 
chronicled  on  a  preceding  page.  Prob- 
ably even  he,  had  time  been  allowed 
to  consider  the  proposition  at  length, 
would  have  declined  the  journey ;  but, 
overborne  by  the  vehemence  of  his  em- 
ployer, he  found  himself  well  upon  the 
road  to  Schaeffer's  Farm  before  he  had 
by  any  means  decided  to  go  thither. 

The  pleasantest  part  of  the  ^carriage 
exercise''  on  this  road  is  fording  the 
Creek,  a  course  adopted  wherever  the 
bluff  comes  down  to  the  bank,  and  the 
fiat  reappears  upon  the  opposite  side, 
no  one  having  yet  spent  time  to  grade 
a  continuous  road  on  one  side  or  the 
other.  A  railway  company  has,  how- 
ever, made  a  beginning  in  this  direc- 
tion ;  and  it  is  promised  that  in  anoth- 
er year  the  traveller  may  proceed  from 
Schaeffer's  to  Oil  City  by  rail. 

At  Titusville  Miselle  bade  good-bye 
to  her  kind  friend  Williams,  and  once 
more  took  herself  under  her  own  pro- 
tection. 

Spending  the  night  at  Corry,  she  next 
day  found  herself  in  the  city  of  Erie, 
and  could  have  fancied  it  Heidelberg 
instead,  the  signs  bearing  such  names 
as  Schultz,  Seelinger,  Jantzen,  Cronen- 
berger,  Heidt,  and  Heybeck.  Hans 
Preuss  sells  bread,  Valentin  Ulrich 
manufactures  saddles,  and  P.  Loesch 
keeps  a  meat-market,  with  a  sign  rep- 
resenting one  gentleman  holding  a  mad 
bull  by  a  bit  of  packthread  tied  to  his 
horns,  while  an  assistant  leisurely  strolls 
up  to  annihilate  the  creature  with  a  tack- 
hammer. 


Here,  too,  a  little  beyond  the  middle 
of  the  town,  was  a  girl  herding  a  flock 
of  geese,  precisely  as  did  the  princess 
in  the  "  Briider  Grimm  Tales,"  while  a 
doltish  boy  stared  at  her  with  just  the 
imbecile  admiration  of  Kurdkin  for  the 
wily  maiden  who  combed  her  golden 
hair  and  chanted  her  naughty  spell  in 
the  same  breath.  > 

A  litde  farther  on  stood  a  charming 
old  Dutch  cottage  with  cabbages  in  the 
front  yard,  and  a  hop-vine  clambering 
the  porch.  An  infant  Teuton  swung 
upon  the  gate,  who,  being  addressed 
by  Miselle,  lisped  an  answer  in  l^igh 
Dutch,  while  his  mother  shrilly  ex- 
changed the  news  with  her  next  neigh- 
bor in  the  same  tongue. 

Two  hours  sufficed  to  exhaust  the 
wonders  of  Erie,  and  Miselle  gladly 
took  the  cars  for  Buffalo,  and  on  the 
road  thither  fell  in  with  a  good  Samari- 
tan, who  solaced  her  weary  faintness 
with  delicate  titbits  of  grouse,  shot  and 
roasted  upon  an  Ohio  pratrie. 

At  Buffalo  waited  the  Eastern-bound 
cars  of  the  New- York  Central  Railway ; 
but  only  twenty  miles  farther  on,  thun- 
dered Niagara,  and  Miselle  could  not 
choose  but  obey  the  sonorous  sum- 
mons. So,  after  spending  the  night  at 
a  '^  white  man's "  hotel  in  Bufi^o,  the 
next  morning  found  her  standing,  an 
insignificant  atom,  before  one  of  the 
world's  great  wonders.  One  or  two 
other  travellers,  however,  have  men- 
tioned Niagara;  and  Miselle  refrains 
from  expressing  more  than  her  thanks 
for  the  kindness  which  enabled  her  to 
fulfil  her  darling  wish  of  standing  be- 
hind the  great  fall  on  the  Canada  side. 

Truly,  it  is  no  empty  boast  that  places 
Americans  preeminent  over  the  men  of 
every  other  nation  in  their  courtesy  to 
women;  and  Miselle  would  fain  most 
gratefully  acknowledge  the  constant  at- 
tention and  kindness  everywhere  offer- 
ed to  her,  while  never  once  was  she 
annoyed  by  obtrusive  or  unwelcome  ap- 
proach ;  and  not  the  vast  resources  of 
her  country,  not  the  grandeur  of  Niag- 
ara, give  her  such  pride  and  satisfac- 
tion as  does  the  new  knowledge  she 
has  gained  of  her  countrymen. 


4o6  Tfie  Spaniard^  Graves.  [April, 


THE    SPANIARDS'    GRAVES 


AT  TH£  ISUES  OF  SHOALS. 

O  SAILORS,  did  sweet  eyes  look  after  you, 
^  The  day  you  sailed  away  from  sunny  Spain? 
Bright  eyes  that  followed  fading  ship  and  crew, 

Melting  in  tender  rain? 

Did  no  one  dream  of  that  drear  night  to  be, 

Wild  with  the  wind,  fierce  with  the  stinging  snow, 
When,  on  yon  granite  point  that  frets  the  sea, 

The  ship  met  her  death-blow  ? 

Fifty  long  years  ago  these  sailors  died : 

(None  know  how  many  sleep  beneath  the  waves:) 
Fourteen  gray  headstones,  rising  side  by  side, 

Point  out  their  nameless  graves, 

Lonely,  unknown,  deserted,  but  for  me. 

And  the  wild  birds  that  flit  with  mournful  cry, 
And  sadder  winds,  and  voices  of  the  sea 

That  moans  perpetually.       ^ 

» 

Wives,  mothers,  maidens,  wistfully,  in  vain 

Questioned  the  distance  for  the  yearning  sail, 
That,  leaning  landward,  should  have  stretched  again 

White  arms  wide  on  the  gale, 

To  bring  back  their  beloved.    Year  by  year, 

Weary  they  watched,  till  youth  and  beauty  passed, 
And  lustrous  eyes  grew  dim,  and  age  drew  near, 

And  hope  was  dead  at  last 

Still  summer  broods  o*er  that  delicious  land, 

Rich,  fragrant,  warm  with  skies  of  golden  glow : 
Live  any  yet  of  that  forsaken  band 

Who  loved  so  long  ago  ? 

O  Spanish  women,  over  the  far  seas. 

Could  I  but  show  you  where  your  dead  repose ! 
Could  I  send  tidings  on  -this  northern  breeze, 

That  strong  and  steady  blows  1 

Dear  dark-eyed  sisters,  you  remember  yet 

These  you  have  lost,  but  you  can  never  know 
One  stands  at  their  bleak  graves  whose  eyes  are  wet 

With  thinking  of  your  woe  I 


1865.] 


Grit. 


407 


GRIT. 


THERE  is  am  influential  foim  of 
practical  force,  compounded  of 
strong  will,  strong  sense,  and  strong 
egotism,  which  long  waited  for  a  strong 
monosyllable  to  announce  its  nature. 
Facts  of  character,  indeed,  are  never 
at  rest  until  they  have  become  terms 
of  language ;  and  that  peculiar  thing 
which  is  not  exactly  courage  or  hero- 
ism, but  which  unmistakably  is  ^  Grit," 
has  coined  its  own  word  to  blurt  out 
its  own  quality.  If  the  word  has  not 
yet  pushed  its  way  into  classic  usage, 
or  effected  a  lodgement  in  the  diction- 
aries, the  force  it  names  is  no  less  a 
reality  of  the  popular  consciousness, 
and  the  word  itself  ho  less  a  part  of 
popular  speech.  Men  who  possessed 
the  thing  were  just  the  men  to  snub 
elegance  and  stun  propriety  by  giving 
it  an  inelegant,  though  vitally  appro- 
priate name.  There  is  defiance  in  its 
very  sound.  The  word  is  used  by  vast 
numbers  of  people  to  express  their 
highest  ideal  of  manliness,  which  is 
^real  grif  It  is  impossible  for  any- 
body to  acquire  the  reputation  it  con- 
fers by  the  most  dexterous  mimicry  of 
its  outside  expressions ;  for  a  swift 
analysis,  which  drives  directly  to  the  . 
heart  of  the  man,  instantly  detects  the 
impostor  behind  the  braggart,  and 
curtly  declares  him  to  lack  ^iht  true 
grit"  The  word  is  so  close  to  the 
thing  it  names,  has  so  much  pith  and 
point,  is  so  tart  on  the  tongue,  and  so 
stings  the  ear  with  its  meaning,  that 
foreigners  ignorant  of  the  language 
might  at  once  feel  its  significance  by 
its  griding  utterance  as  it  is  shot  impa- 
tiently through  the  resisting  teeth. 

Grit  is  in  the  g^in  of  character.  It 
may  generally  be  described  as  heroism 
materialized,  —  spirit  and  will  thrust 
into  heart,  brain,  and  backbone,  so  as 
to  form  part  of  the  physical  substance 
of  the  man.  The  feeling  with  which  it 
rushes  into  consciousness  is  akin  to 
physical  sensation ;  and  the  whole 
body  —  every  nerve,  muscle,  and  drop 


of  blood — is  thrilled  with  purpose  and 
passion.  <^ Spunk"  does  not  express 
it ;  for  ^<  spunk,"  besides  being  petiU 
in  itself,  is  courage  in  effervescence 
rather  than  courage  in  essence.  A  per- 
son usually  cowardly  may  be  kicked  or 
bullied  into  the  exhibition  of  spunk; 
but  the  man  of  grit  carries  in  his  pres- 
ence a  power  which  spares  him  the  ne- 
cessity of  resenting  insult;  for  insult 
sneaks  away  fi'om  his  look.  It  is  not 
mere  '^ pluck";  for  pluck  also  comes 
by  fits  and  starts,  and  can  be  discon- 
nected firom  the  other  elements  of  char- 
acter. A  tradesman  once  had  the  pluck 
to  demand  of  Talleyrand,  at  the  time 
that  trickster-statesman  was  at  the 
height  of  his  power,  when  he  intended 
to  pay  his  bill ;  but  he  was  instantly  ex- 
tinguished by  the  impassive  insolence 
of  Talleyrand's  answer,  —  **  My  £uth, 
how  curious  you  are  !  "  Considered  as 
an  efficient  force,  it  is  sometimes  be- 
low heroism,  sometimes  above  it :  belew 
heroism,  when  heroism  is  the  perma- 
nent condition  of  the  soul ;  above  hero- 
ism, when  heroism  is  simply  the  soul's 
transient  mood.  Thus,  Demosthenes 
had  flashes  of  splendid  heroism,  but 
his  valor  depended  on  his  genius  being 
kindled,  —  his  brave  actions  flaming 
out  from  mental  ecstasy  rather  than 
intrepid  character.  The  moment  his 
will  dropped  fi-om  its  eminence  of  im- 
passioned thought,  he  was  scared  by 
dangers  which  common  soldiers  faced 
with  gay  indifference.  Erskine,  the 
great  advocate,  was  a  hero  at  the  bar  ; 
but  when  he  entered  the  House  of 
Commons,  there  was  something  in  the 
fixed  imperiousness  and  scorn  of  Pitt 
which  niade  him  feel  inwardly  weak 
and  fluttered.  Erskine  had  flashes  of 
heroism ;  Pitt  had  consistent  and  per- 
sistent grit  If  we  may  take  the  judg- 
ment of  Sir  Sidney  Smith,  Wellington 
had  more  grit  than  Napoleon  had  hero- 
ism. Just  before  the  Battle  of  Wa- 
terloo, Sir  Sidney,  at  Paris,  was  told 
that  the  Duke  had  decided  to  keep  his 


4o8 


Grit. 


[April, 


position  at  all  events.  "  Oh ! "  he  ex- 
claimed, "  if  the  Duke  has  said  that,  of 
course  t*  other  fellow  must  give  way." 

And  .this  is  essentially  the  sign  of 
grit,  that,  when  it  appears,  t'  other  fellow 
or  t'  other  opinion  must  give  way.    Its 
power  comes  from  its  tough  hold  on  the 
real,  and  the  surly  boldness  with  which 
it  utters  and  acts  it  out    Thus,  in  so- 
cial life,  it  puts  itself  in  rude  opposi- 
tion to  all  those  substitutes  for  reali- 
ty which  the  weakness  and  hypocrisy 
and  courtesy  of  men  find  necessary  for 
'their  mutual  defence.    It  denies  that  it 
has  ever  surrendered  its  original  rights 
and  aboriginal  force,  or  that  it  has  as- 
sented to  the  social  compact.    When  it 
goes  into  any  company  of  civilized  per- 
sons, its  pugnacity  is  roused  by  seeing 
that  social  life  does  not  rest  on  the  vigor 
of  the  persons  who  compose  it,  but  on 
the  authority  of  certain  rules  and  man- 
ners to  which  all  are  required  to  con- 
form.   These  appear  to  grit  as  external 
defences,  thrown  up  to  protect  elegant 
feebleness  against  any  direct  collision 
with  positive  character,  and  to  keep 
men  and  women  at  a  respectfiil  distance 
from  ladies  and  gentlemen.    Life  is  car- 
ried on  there  at  one  or  more  removes 
from  the  realities  of  life,  on  this  princi- 
dple,  that,  '*  I  won't  speak  the  truth 
of  you,  if  you  won't  speak  the  truth  of 
me '' ;  and  the  name  of  this  principle  is 
politeness.    It  is  impolite  to  tell  foolish 
men  that  they  are  foolish,  mean  men 
that  they  are  mean,  wicked  men  that 
they  are  wicked,  traitorous  men  that 
they  are  traitors ;  for  smooth  lies  ce- 
ment what   impolite  veracities  would 
shatter.    The  system,  it  is  contended, 
on  the  whole,  civilizes  the  individuals 
whose  natures  it  may  repress,  and  is 
better  than  a  sincerity  which  would  set 
them  by  the  ears,  and  put  a  veto  on  all 
social  intercourse  whatever.  But  strong 
as  may  be  the  argument  in  favor  of  the 
S3rstem,  it  is  certainly  as  important  that 
it  should  be  assailed  as  that  it  should 
exist,  and  that  it  should  be  assailed  from 
within ;  for,  carried  out  unchecked  to  its 
last  consequences,  it  results  in  sinking 
its  victims  into  the  realm  of  vapors  and 
vacuity,  its  representative  being  the  all* 


accomplished  London  man  of  fashion 
who  committed  suicide  to  save  himself 
from  the  bore  of  dressing  and  undress- 
ing. Besides,  in  **good  society,''  so 
called,  the  best  sentiments  and  ideas 
can  sometimes  get  expression  only 
through  the  form  of  bad  manners.  It 
is  charmmg  to  be  in  a  circle  where  hu- 
man nature  is  pranked  out  in  purple  and 
fine  linen,  and  where  you  sometimes  see 
manners  as  beautiful  as  the  master- 
pieces of  the  arts ;  yet  some  people  can- 
not get  rid  of  the  uneasy  consciousness 
that  a  subtle  tyranny  pervades  the  room 
.  and  ties  the  tongue, — that  philanthropy 
is  impolite,  that  heroism  is  ungenteel, 
that  truth,  honor,  freedom,  humanity, 
strongly  asserted,  are  marks  of  a  vul- 
gar mind ;  and  many  a  person,  daring 
enough  to  defend  his  opinions  anywhere 
else  by  speech  or  by  the  sword,  quails 
in  the  parlor  before  some  supercilious 
coxcomb, 

'*  Weak  in  his  watery  mile 
And  educated  whisker,** 

who  can  still  tattle  to  the  girls  that  the 
reformer  is  "  no  gentleman." 

Now  how  different  all  this  is,  when  a 
man  of  social  grit  thrusts  himself  into  a 
drawing-room,  and  with  an  easy  audaci- 
ty tosses  out  disagreeable  facts  and  im- 
^hionable  truths,  the  porcelain  crash- 
ing as  his  words  fall,  and  saying  every- 
thing that  no  gentleman  ought  to  say, 
indifferent  to  the  titter  or  terror  of  the 
women  and  the  offended  looks  and 
frightened  stare  of  the  men.  How  the 
gilded  lies  vanish  in  his  presence !  How 
be  states,  contradicts,  confutes!  how 
he  smashes  through  proprieties  to  reali- 
ties, flooding  the  room  with  his  aggres- 
sive vitality,  mastering  by  main  force  a 
position  in  the  most  exclusive  set,  and, 
by  being  perfectly  indifferent  to  their 
opinion,  making  it  impossible  for  them 
to  put  him  down !  He  thus  becomes  a 
social  power  by  becoming  a  social  reb- 
el, — persecutes  conventional  politeness 
into  submission  to  rude  veracity, — estab- 
lishes an  autocracy  of  man  over  the  gen- 
tleman,— and  practises  a  kind  of  '^  Come- 
Outerism,"  while  insisting  on  enjoying 
all  the  advantages  of  Go-Inierism,  Ben 
Jonson  in  the  age  of  Elizabeth,  Samuel 


i86s.] 


Grit. 


409 


Johnson  in  the  last  century,  Carlyle  and 
Brougham  in  the  present,  are  prominent 
examples  of  this  somewhat  insolent  man- 
hood in  the  presence  of  social  forms. 
It  is,  however,  one  of  the  rarest,  as  it 
is  one  of  the  ugliest,  kinds  of  human 
strength ;  it  requires,  perhaps,  in  its 
combination,  full  as  many  defects  as 
merits ;  and  how  difficult  is  its  justifiable 
exercise  we  see  in  the  career  of  so  illus- 
trious a  philanthropist  as  Wilberforce, 
— a  man  whose  speech  in  Parliament 
showed  no  lack  of  vivid  conceptions  and 
smiting  words,  a  man  whom  no  threats 
of  personal  violence  could  intimidate, 
and  who  would  cheerfully  have  risked 
his  life  for  his  cause,  yet  still  a  man  who 
could  never  forget  that  he  was  a  Tory 
and  a  gentiemaii,  who  had  no  grit  be- 
fore lords  and  ladies,  whose  Abolition- 
ism was  not  sufficiendy  blunt  and  down- 
right in  the  good  company  of  cabinet 
ministers,  whose  sensitive  nature  flinch- 
ed at  the  thought  of  being  conscientious- 
ly *impolite  and  heroically  ill-natured, 
and  whose  manners  were  thus  frequent- 
ly in  the  way  of  the  ^11  efficiency  of  his 
morals.  In  many  respects  a  hero,  in  all 
respects  benevolent,  he  still  was  not  like 
RomiUy,  a  man  of  grit  Politeness  has 
been  defined  as  benevolence  in  small 
things.  .To  be  benevolent  in  great 
things,  decorum  must  sometimes  yield 
to  duty;  and  Draco,  though  in  the 
king's  drawing-room,  and  loyally  sup- 
porting in  Parliament  the  measures  of 
the  ministry,  is  still  Draco,  though  cru- 
elty in  him  has  learned  the  dialect  of 
fashion  and  clothed  itself  in  the  privi- 
leges of  the  genteel 

Proceeding  from  social  life  to  busi- 
ness life,  we  shall  find  that  it  is  this  un- 
amiable,  but  indomitable,  quality  of  grit 
which  not  only  acquires  fortunes,  but 
preserves  them  after  they  have  been 
acquired  The  ruin  which  overtakes 
so  many  merchants  is  due  not  so  much 
to  their  lack  of  business  talent  as  to  their 
lack  of  business  nerve.  How  many  lov- 
able persons  we  see  in  trade,  endowed 
with  brilliant  capacities,  but  cursed  with 
yielding  dispositions, —who  are  resolute 
in  no  business  habits  and  fixed  in  no 
business  principles, — who  are  prone  to 


follow  the  instincts  of  a  weak  good-na- 
ture against  the  ominous  hints  of  a  clear 
intelligence,  now  obliging  this  friend  by 
indorsing  an  unsafe  note,  and  then  pleas- 
ing that  neighbor  by  sharing  his  risk 
in  a  hopeless  speculation,  —  and  who, 
after  all  the  coital  they  have  earned  by 
their  industry  and  sagacity  has  been 
sunk  in  benevolent  attempts  to  assist 
blundering  or  plundering  incapacity, 
are  doomed,  in  their  bankruptcy,  to  be 
the  mark  of  bitter  taunts  from  growling 
creditors  and  insolent  pity  from  a  gossip- 
ing public.  Much  has  been  said  about 
the  pleasures  of  a  good  conscience ;  and 
among  these  I  reckon  the  act  of  that 
man  who,  having  wickedly  lent  certain 
moneys  to  a  casual  acquaintance,  was 
in  the  end  called  upon  to  advance  a  sum 
which  transcended  his  honest  means, 
with  a  dark  hint,  that,  if  the  money  was 
refused,  there  was  but  one  thing  for 
the  casual  acquaintance  to  do, — that  is, 
to  commit  suicide.  The  person  thus  so- 
licited, in  a  transient  fit  of  moral  enthu- 
siasm, caught  at  the  hint,  and  with  great 
earnestness  advised  the  casual  acquaint- 
ance to  do  it,  on  the  ground  that  it  was 
the  only  reparation  he  could  make  to 
the  numerous  persons  he  had  swindled. 
And  this  advice  was  given  with  no  fear 
that  the  guilt  of  that  gentieman's  blood 
would  lie  on  his  soul,  for  the  mission  of 
that  gentieman  was  to  continue  his  ex- 
istence by  sucking  out  the  life  of  others, 
and  his  last  thought  was  to  destroy  his 
own ;  and  it  is  hardly  necessary  to  an- 
nounce that  he  is  still  alive  and  spon- 
ging. Indeed,  a  courageous  merchant 
must  ever  be  ready  to  face  the  fact  that 
he  will  be  called  a  curmudgeon,  if  he 
will  not  ruin  himself  to  please  others, 
and  a  weak  fool,  if  he  does.  Many  a 
fortune  has  melted  away  in  the  hesi- 
tating utterance  of  the  placable  "  Yes," 
which  might  have  been  saved  by  the  un- 
hesitating utterance  of  the  implacable 
"  No  I "  Indeed,  in  business,  the  per- 
fection of  grit  is  this  power  of  saying 
**  No,"  and  saying  it  with  such  wrathful 
emphasis  that  the  whole  race  of  vam- 
pires and  harpies  are  scared  fi'om  your 
counting-room,  and  your  reputation  as 
unenterprising,  unbearable  niggard  is 


4IO 


Grit. 


[Aprils 


fiiUy  established  among  all  borrowers 
of  money  never  meant  to  be  repaid,  and 
all  projectors  of  schemes  intended  for 
the  benefit  of  the  projectors  alone.  At 
the  expense  of  a  litde  temporary  oblo- 
quy, a  man  can  thus  conquer  the  right 
to  mind  his  own  business ;  and  having 
done  this,  he  has  shown  his  possession 
of  that  nerve  which,  in  his  business, 
puts  inexorable  purpose  into  clear  con- 
ceptions, follows  out  a  plan  of  opera- 
tions with  sturdy  intelligence,  and  con- 
ducts to  fortune  by  the  road  of  real 
enterprise,  ^any  others  may  evince 
equal  shrvwoness  in  framing  a  project, 
but  they  hesitate,  become  timid,  become 
confused,  at  some  step  in  its  develop- 
ment. Their  character  is  not  strong 
enough  to  back  up  their  intellect  But 
the  iron-like  tenacity  of  the  merchant 
of  grit  holds  on  to  the  successful  end. 

You  can  watch  the  operation  of  this 
quality  in  every-day  business  transac- 
tions. Your  man  of  grit  seems  never 
deficient  in  news  of  the  markets,  though 
he  may  employ  no  telegraph-operator. 
Thus,  about  two  years  ago,  a  great  Bos- 
ton holder  of  flour  went  to  consider- 
able expense  in  obtaining  special  intel- 
ligence, which  would,  when  generally 
known,  carry  flour  up  to  ten  dollars  and 
a  half  a  barrel.  Another  dealer,  sus- 
pecting something,  went  to  him  and 
said,  "  What  do  you  say  flour 's  worth 
to-day  ? "  —  "  Oh,"  was  the  careless  an- 
swer, **I  suppose  it  might  bring  ten 
dollars." — "  Well,"  retorted  the  querist, 
grufHy,  ^  I  Ve  got  five  thousand  barrels 
on  hand,  and  I  should  like  to  see  the 
man  who  would  give  me  ten  dollars  a 
barrel  for  it ! "  —  "  I  will,"  said  the  other, 
quickly,  disclosing  his  secret  by  the 
eagerness  of  his  manner.  '^  WeU," 
was  the  reply,  ^  all  I  can  say  is,  then, 
that  I  have  seen  the  man."  . 

The  importance  of  this  quality  as  a 
business  power  is  most  apparent  in 
those  frightful  panics  which  periodically 
occur  in  our  country,  and  which  some- 
times tax  the  people  more  severely  than 
wars  and  standing  armies.  In  regard 
to  one  of  the  last  of  these  financial  hur- 
ricanes, that  of  1857,  there  can  be  little 
doubt,  that,  if  the  acknowledged  holders 


of  financial  power  had  been  men  of  real 
grit,  it  might  have  been  averted  ;  there 
can  be  as  little  doubt,  that,  when  it  bursty 
if  they  had  been  men  of  real  grit,  it 
might  have  been  made  less  disastrous. 
But  they  kept  nearly  all  their  sails  set 
up  to  the  point  of  danger,  and  when  the 
tempest  was  on  them  ignominiously 
took  to  their  boats  and  abandoned  the 
ship.  And  as  for  the  crew  and  passen- 
gers, it  was  the  old  spectacle  of  a  ship- 
wreck, —  individuals  squabbling  to  get 
a  plank,  instead  of  combining  to  con- 
struct a  raft 

Indeed,  there  was  something  pitiable 
in  the  state  of  things  which  that  panic 
revealed  in  the  business  centres  of  the 
country.  Common  sense  seemed  to  be 
disowned  by  mutual  consent ;  an  in- 
fectious fear  went  shivering  from  man 
to  man ;  and  a  strange  finscination  led 
people  to  increase  by  suspicions  and 
reports  the  peril  which  threatened  their 
own  destruction.  Men,  being  thus 
thrown  back  upon  the  resources  of 
character,  were  put  to  terrible  tests. 
As  the  intellect  cannot  act  when  the 
will  is  paralyzed,  many  a  merchant^ 
whose  debts  really  bore  no  proportion 
to  his  property,  was  seen  sitting,  like 
the  French  prisoner  in  the  iron  cage 
whose  sides  were  hourly  contracting, 
stupidly  gazing  at  the  bars  which  were 
closing  in  upon  him,  and  feeling  in  ad- 
vance the  pang  of  the  iron  which  was 
to  cut  into  his  flesh  and  crush  his  bones. 

In  invigorating  contrast  to  the  panic- 
smitten,  we  had  the  privilege  to  witness 
many  an  example  of  the  grit-inspired. 
Then  it  was  that  the  grouty,  taciturn, 
obstinate  trader,  so  unpopular  in  ordi- 
nary times,  showed  the  stuff  he  was 
made  of.  Then  his  bearing  was  cheer 
and  hope  to  all  who  looked  upon  him. 
How  he  girded  himself  for  the  fight, 
resolved,  if  he  died,  to  die  hard  !  How 
he  tugged  with  obstacles  as  if  they  were 
personal  affronts,  and  hurled  them  to 
the  right  and  to  the  left !  How  grandly, 
amid  the  chatter  of  the  madmen  about 
him,  came  his  few  words  of  sense  and 
sanity  I  And  then  his  brain,  brightened, 
not  bewildered,  by  the  danger,  how  clear 
and  alert, it  was,  how  fertile  in  expe* 


i865.] 


GriL 


411 


dients,  how  firm  m  principles,  with  a 
glance  tHat  pierced  through  the  ignorant 
present  to  the  future,  seeing  as  calmly 
and  judging  as  accurately  in  the  tem- 
pest as  it  had  in  the  sunshine.  Never 
losing  heart  and  never  losing  head,  with 
as  strong  a  grip  on  his  honor  as  on  his 
property,  detesting  the  very  thought 
of  failure,  knowing  that  he  might  be 
broken  to  pieces,  but  determined  that 
he  would  not  weakly  '*  go  to  pieces,''  he 
performed  the  greatest  service  to  the 
community,  as  well  as  to  himself  by 
resolutely,  at  any  sacrifice,  paying  his 
debts  when  they  became  due.  It  is  a 
pity  that  such  austere  Luthers  of  com- 
merce, trade-militant  instead  of  church- 
militant,  who  meet  hard  times  with  a 
harder  will,  had  not  a  little  beauty  in 
their  toughness,  so  that  grit,  lifted  to 
heroism,  would  allure  affection  as  well 
as  enforce  respect  But  their  sense 
is  so  rigid,  their  integrity  so  gruff,  and 
their  courage  so  unjoyous,  that  all  the 
genial  graces  fly  their  companionship  ; 
and  a  libertine  Sheridan,  with  Ancient 
Pistol's  motto  of  ''Base  is  the  slave 
that  pays,"  will  often  be  more  popular, 
even  among  the  creditor  portion  of  the 
public,  than  these  crabbed  heroes,  and, 
if  need  be,  surly  martyrs,  of  mercantile 
honesty  and  personal  honor. 

In  regard  to  public  life,  and  the  influ- 
ence of  this  rough  manliness  in  politics, 
it  is  a  matter  of  daily  observation,  that, 
in  the  strife  of  parties  and  principles, 
backbone  without  brain  will  carry  it 
against  brain  without  backbone.  A 
politician  weakly  and  amiably  in  the 
right  is  no  match  for  a  politician  tena- 
ciously and  pugnaciously  in  the  wrong. 
You  cannot,  by  tying  an  opinion  to  a 
man's  tongue,  make  him  the  represent- 
ative of  that  opinion  ;  and  at  the  close 
of  any  battle  for  principles,  his  name 
will  be  found  neither  among  the  dead 
nor  among  the  wounded,  but  among 
the  missing.  The  true  motto  for  a  par- 
ty is  neither  "  Measures,  not  men,"  nor 
**  Men,  not  measures,"*  but  ^  Measures 
im  men,"  —  measures  which  are  in  their 
blood  as  well  as  in  their  brain  and  on 
their  lips.  Wellington  said  that  Napo- 
leon's presence  in  the  French  army  was 


'  equivalent  to  forty  thousand  additional 
soldiers ;  and  in  a  legislative  assembly, 
Mirabeau  and  John  Adams  and  John 
Quincy  Adams  are  not  simply  persons 
who  hold  a  single  vote,  but  forces  whose 
power  thrills  through  the  whole  mass 
of  voters.  Mean  natures  always  feel  a 
sort  of  terror  before  great  natures ;  and 
many  a  base  thought  has  been  unut- 
tered,  many  a  sneaking  vote  withheld, 
tiirough  the  fear  inspired  by  the  rebuk- 
ing presence  of  one  noble  man. 

Opinions  embodied  in  men,  and  thus 
made  aggressive  and  militant,  are  the 
opinions  which  mark  the  union  of 
thought  with  grit  A  politician  of  this 
class  is  not  content  to  comprehend  and 
wield  the  elements  of  power  already  ex- 
isting in  a  commimity,  but  he  aims  to 
make  his  individual  conviction  and  pur- 
pose dominant  over  the  convictions  and 
purposes  of  the  accredited  exponents 
of  public  opinion.  He  cares  little  about 
his  unpopularity  at  the  start,  and  dog- 
gedly persists  in  his  course  against 
obstacles  which  seem  insurmountable. 
A  great,  but  mischievous,  example  of 
this  power  appeared  in  our  own  gener- 
ation in  the  person  of  Mr.  Calhoun,  a 
statesman  who  stamped  his  individual 
mind  on  the  policy  and  thinking  of  the 
country  more  definitely,  perhaps,  than 
any  statesman  since  Hamilton,  though 
his  influence  has,  on  the  whole,  been 
as  evil  as  Hamilton's  was,  on  the  whole, 
beneficent  Keen-sighted,  far-sighted, 
and  inflexible,  Mr.  Calhoun  clearly  saw 
the  logical  foundations  and  logical  re- 
sults of  the  institution  of  Slavery ;  and 
though  at  first  called  an  abstractionist 
and  a  fanatic  by  the  looser  thinkers  of 
his  own  region,  his  inexorable  argu- 
mentation, conquering  by  degrees  pol- 
iticians who  could  reason,  made  itself 
felt  at  last  among  politicians  who  could 
not  reason  ;  and  the  conclusions  of  his 
logic  were  adopted  by  thousands  whose 
brains  would  have  broken  in  the  at- 
tempt to  follow  its  processes.  One  of 
those  rare  deductive  reasoners  whose 
audacity  marches  abreast  their  genius, 
he  would  have  been  willing  to  fight  to 
the  last  gasp  for  a  conclusion  which  he 
had  laboriously  reached  by  rigid  deduc- 


412 


Grit. 


[April, 


tion  through  a  score  of  intermediate 
steps,  from  premises  in  themselves  re- 
pugnant to  the  primal  instincts  both  of 
reason  and  humanity.  Always  ready 
to  meet. anybody  in  argument,  he  de- 
tested all  reasoners  who  attempted  to 
show  the  fallacy  of  his  argument  by 
pointing  out  the  dangerous  results  to 
which  it  led.  In  this  he  sometimes 
brought  to  mind  that  inflexible  profess- 
or of  the  deductive  method  who  was 
timidly  informed  that  his  principles,  if 
carried  out,  would  split  the  world  to 
pieces.  ^  Let  it  split,"  was  his  care- 
less answer  ;  ''  there  are  enough  more 
planets."  By  pure  intellectual  grit, 
he  thus  effected  a  revolution  in  the 
ideas  and  sentiments  of  the  South,  and 
through  the  South  made  his  mind  act 
on  the  policy  of  the  nation.  The  pres- 
ent war  has  its  root  in  the  principles  he 
advocated.  Never  flinching  from  any 
logical  consequence  of  his  principles, 
Mr.  Calhoun  did  not  rest  until  through 
him  religion,  morality,  statesmanship, 
the  Constitution  of  the  United  States, 
the  constitution  of  man,  were  all  bound 
in  black.  Chattel  slavery,  the  most 
nonsensical  as  well  as  detestable  of 
oppressions,  was,  to  him,  the  most 
beneficent  contrivance  of  human  wis- 
dom. He  called  it  an  institution  :  Mr. 
Emerson  has  more  happily  styled  it  a 
destitution.  At  last  the  chains  of  his 
iron  logic  were  heard  clanking  on  the 
whole  Southern  intellect  Reasoning 
the  most  masterly  was  employed  to  an- 
nihilate the  first  principles  of  reason ; 
the  understanding  of  man  was  insanely 
placed  in  direct  antagonism  to  his  mor- 
al instincts  ;  and  finally  the  astounding 
conclusion  was  reached,  that  the  Crea- 
tor of  mankind  has  his  pet  races, — that 
God  himself  scouts  his  colored  chil- 
dren, and  nicknames  them  ^  Niggers." 
It  is  delicious  to  watch  the  exulting 
amd  somewhat  contemptuous  audacity 
with  which  he  hurries  to  the  unfore- 
seen conclusion  those  who  have  once 
been  simple  enough  to  admit  his  prem- 
ises. Towards  men  who  have  some 
logical  capacity  his  tone  is  that  of  re- 
spectful impatience ;  but  as  he  goads 
on  the  reluctant  and  resentful  victims 


of  his  reasonii^^,  who  loiter  and  limp 
painfidly  in  the  steps  of  his  rapid  de- 
ductions, he  seems  to  say,  with  ironic 
scorn,  *'A  little  faster,  my  poor  cripples ! " 

So  confident  was  Mr.  Calhoun  in  his 
capacity  to  demonstrate  the  validity  of 
his  horrible  creed,  that  he  was  ever 
eager  to  measure  swords  with  the  most 
accomplished  of  his  antagonists  in  the 
duel  of  debate.  And  it  must  be  said 
that  he  despised  all  the  subterfuges  and 
evasions  by  which,  in  ordinary  contro- 
versies, the  real  question  is  dodged, 
and  went  direcdy  to  the  heart  of  the 
matter,  —  a  resolute  intellect,  burning 
to  grapple  with  another  resolute  intel- 
lect in  a  vital  encounter.'  In  common 
legislative  debates,  on  the  contrary, 
there  is  no  vital  encounter.  The  exas- 
perated opponents,  personally  coura- 
geous, but  deficient  in  clear  and  fixed 
ideas,  mutually  contrive  to  avoid  the 
things  essentisd  to  be  discussed,  while 
wantoning  in  all  the  forms  of  discus- 
sion. They  assert,  brag,  browbeat, 
dogmatize,  domineer,  pummel  each  oth- 
er with  the  argumenium  ad  hominem^ 
and  abundandy  prove  that  they  stand 
for  opposite  opinions ;  we  watch  them 
as  we  watch  the  feints  and  hits  of  a 
couple  of  pugilists  in  the  ring;  but 
after  the  sparring  is  over,  we  find  that 
neither  the  Southern  champion  nor  the 
Northern  bruiser  has  touched  the  inner 
reality  of  the  question  to  decide  which 
they  stripped  themselves  for  the  fight 
In  regard  to  the  intellectual  issue,  they 
are  like  two  bullies  enveloping  them- 
selves in  an  immense  concealing  dust 
of  arrogant  words,  and,  as  they  fearfully 
retreat  from  personal  collision,  shouting 
fiiriously  to  each  other,  <'  Let  me  get  at 
him  1 "  And  this  is  what  is  commonly 
called  grit  in  politics, — abundant  back- 
bone to  face  persons,  deficient  brain- 
bone  to  encounter  principles. 

Not  so  was  it  when  two  debaters  like 
Mr.  Calhoun  and  Mr.  Webster  engaged 
in  the  contest  of  argument  -Take,  for 
example,  as  specimens  of  pure  mental 
manliness,  their  speeches  in  the  Senate, 
in  1833,  on  the  question  whether  or  not 
the  Constitution  is  a  compact  between 
sovereign  States.     Give  Mr.  Calhoun 


I86S.] 


Grit. 


413 


those  two  words,  "  compact  **  and  "  sov- 
ereign," and  he  conducts  you  logically 
to  Ntdlification  and  to  all  the  conse- 
quences of  Nullification.  Andrew  Jack- 
son, a  man  in  his  kind,  of  indomitable 
resolution,  intended  to  arrest  the  argu- 
ment at  a  convenient  point  by  the  sword, 
and  thus  save  himself  the  bother  of  go- 
ing £3uther  in  the  chain  of  inferences 
than  he  pleased.  Mr.  Webster  grap- 
pled with  the  argument  and  with  the 
man ;  and  it  is  curious  to  watch  that 
spectacle  of  a  meeting  between  two  such 
hostile  minds.  Each  is  confident  of  the 
strength  of  his  own  position ;  each  is 
eager  for  a  close  hug  of  dialectics.  Far 
from  avoiding  the  point,  they  drive  di- 
rectly towards  it,  clearing  their  essential 
propositions  from  mutual  misconception 
by  the  sharpest  analysis  and  exactest 
statement  To  get  their  minds  near 
each  other,  to  think  close  to  the  sub- 
ject, to  feel  the  griding  contact  of  pure 
intellect  with  pure  intellect,  and,  as  spir- 
itual beings,  to  conduct  the  war  of  rea- 
son with  spiritual  weapons,  —  this  is 
their  ambition.  Conventionally  cour- 
teous to  each  other,  they  are  really  in 
the  deadliest  antagonism ;  for  their  con- 
test is  the  tug  and  strain  of  soul  with 
soul,  and  each  feels  that  defeat  would 
be  worse  than  death.  No  nervous  irri- 
tation, no  hard  words;  no  passionate  re- 
criminations, no  flinching  from  unex^ 
pected  difficulties,  no  substitution  of 
declamatory-  sophisms  for  rigorous  in- 
ferences, —  but  close,  calm,  ruthless 
grapple  of  thought  with  thought  To 
each,  at  the  time,  life  seems  to  depend 
on  the  issue, — not  merely  the  life  which 
a  sword-cut  or  pistol-bullet  can  destroy, 
but  immortal  life,  the  life  of  immaterial 
minds  and  personalities,  thus  brought 
into  spiritual  feud.  They  know  very 
well,  that,  whatever  be  the  real  result, 
the  Webster-men  will  give  the  victory 
of  argument  to  Webster,  the  Calhoun- 
men  the  victory  of  argument  to  Calhoun ; 
but  that  consideration  does  not  enter 
their  thoughts  as  they  prepare  to  close 
in  that  combat  which  is  to  determine, 
not  to  the  world,  but  to  each  other,  which 
is  the  stronger  intellect,  and  which  is 
in  the  right    Few  ever  appreciate  great 


men  in  this  hostile  attitude,  not  of  their 
passions,  but  of  their  minds ;  and  those 
who  do  it  the  least  are  their  fririous  par- 
tisans. Most  people  are  contented  with 
the  argument  that  tells,  and  are  apt  to 
be  bored  with  the  argument  which  re- 
futes ;  but  a  true  reasoner  despises 
even  his  success,  if  he  feels  that  two 
persons,  himself  and  his  opponent,  know 
that  he  is  in  the  wrong.  AAd  the  strain 
on  the  whole  being  in  this  contest  of 
intellect  with  intellect,  and  the  reluc- 
tance with  which  the  most  combative 
enter  it  unless  they  are  consciously 
strong,  is  well  illustrated  by  Dr.  John- 
son's remark  to  some  friends,  when 
sickness  had  relaxed  the  tough  fibre  of 
his  brain,  —  "If  that  fellow  Burke  were 
here  now,  he  would  kill  me." 

A  peculiar  kind  of  grit,  not  falling 
under  any  of  the  specisd  expressions  I 
have  noted,  yet  partaking  in  some  de- 
gree of  all,  is  illustrated  in  the  charac- 
ter of  Lieutenant-General  Grant  With- 
out an  atom  of  pretension  or  rhetoric, 
with  none  of  the  exteifnal  signs  of  ener- 
gy and  intrepidity,  making  no  parade  of 
the  immovable  purpose,  iron  nerve,  and 
silent,  penetrating  intelligence  God  has 
put  into  him,  his  tranquil  greatness  is 
hidden  from  superiicial  scrutiny  behind 
a  cigar,  as  President  Lincoln's  is  be- 
hind a  joke.  When  anybody  tries  to 
coax,  cajole,  overawe,  browbeat,  or  de- 
ceive Lincoln,  the  President  nurses  his 
leg,  and  is  reminded  of  a  story ;  when 
anybody  tries  the  same  game  with 
Grant,  the  General  listens  and  — 
smokes.  If  you  try  to  wheedle  out  of 
him  his  plans  for  a  campaign,  he  stol- 
idly smokes  ;  if  you  call  him  an  im- 
becile and  a  blunderer,  he  blandly  lights 
another  cigar ;  if  you  praise  him  as  the 
greatest  general  living,  he  placidly  re- 
turns the  puff  from  his  regalia ;  and  if 
you  tell  him  he  should  run  for  the  Pres- 
idency, it  does  not  disturb  the  equanim- 
ity with  which  he  inhales  and  exhales 
the  unsubstahtial  vapor  which  typifies 
the  politician's  promises.  While  you 
are  wondering  what  kind  of  man  this 
creature  without  a  tongue  is,  you  are 
suddenly  electrified  with  the  news  of 
some  splendid  victory,  proving  that  be- 


414 


Grit. 


[April, 


hind  the  cigar,  and  behind  the  face  dis- 
charged of  all  tell-tale  expression,  is  the 
best  brain  to  {^an  and  the  strongest 
heart  to  dare  among  the  generals  of 
the  Republic. 

It  is  curious  to  mark  a  variation  of  this 
intellectual  hardihood  and  personal  force 
when  the  premises  are  not  in  the  solid- 
ities, but  in  the  oddities  of  thought  and 
character,  and  whim  stands  stiffly  up  to 
the  remotest  inferences  which  may  be 
deduced  from  its  insanest  freaks  of  in- 
dividual opinion.  Thus  it  is  said  that 
in  one  of  our  country  towns  there  is  an 
old  gentleman  who  is  an  eccentric  hat- 
er of  women ;  and  this  crotchet  of  his 
character  he  carries  to  its  extreme  logi- 
cal consequences.  Not  content  with 
general  declamation  against  the  sex,  he 
turns  eagerly,  the  moment  he  receives 
the  daily  newspaper,  to  the  list  of  deaths; 
and  if  he  sees  the  death  of  a  woman  re- 
corded, he  gleefully  exclaims,  —  **  Good ! 
good  !  there  's  another  of  'em  gone  ! " 

We  have  heard  of  a  man  who  had 
conceived  a  violent  eccentric  prejudice 
against  negroes  ;'and  he  was  not  con- 
tent with  chiming  in  with  the  usual  cant 
of  the  prejudice  that  they  ought  not  to  be 
allowed  in  our  churches  and  in  our  rail- 
road-cars, but  vociferated,  that,  if  he  had 
his  way,  they  should  not  be  allowed  in 
Africa !  The  advantage  of  grit  in  this 
respect  is  in  its  annihilating  a  prejudice 
by  presenting  a  vivid  vision  of  its  theo- 
retical consequences.  Carlyle  has  an 
eccentric  hatred  of  the  eighteenth  cen- 
tury, its  manners,  morals,  politics,  re- 
ligion, and  men.  He  has  expressed  this 
in  various  ways  for  thirty  years ;  but  in 
his  last  work,  the  ''Life  of  Frederick 
the  Great,"  his  prejudice  reached  its 
logical  climax  in  the  assertion,  that  the 
only  sensible  thing  the  eighteenth  cen- 
tury ever  did  was  blowing  out  its  own 
brains  in  the  French  Revolution. 

Again,  in  discussion,  some  men  have 
felicity  in  replying  to  a  question,  others 
a  felicity  in  replying  to  the  motive  which 
prompted  the  question.  In  one  case 
you  get  an  answer  addressed  to  your 
understanding ;  in  the  other,  an  answer 
which  smites  like  a  slap  in  the  face. 
Thus,  when  a  pert  skeptic  asked  Mar- 


tin Luther  where  God  was  before  He 
created  heaven,  Martin  stunned  his 
querist  with  the  retort,  —  "  He  was 
building  hell  for  such  idle,  presumptu- 
ous, fluttering,  and  mquisitive  spirits  as 
you."  And  everybody  will  recollect  the 
story  of  the  self-complacent  cardinal 
who  went  to  confess  to  a  holy  monk, 
and  thought  by  self-accusation  to  get 
the  reputation  of  a  saint 

^  I  have  been  guilty  of  every  kind  of 
sin,"  snivelled  the  cardinal. 

"  It  is  a  solemn  &ct,"  replied  the  im- 
passive monk. 

''  I  have  indulged  in  pride,  ambition, 
malice,  and  revenge,"  groaned  the  car- 
dinal 

''It  is  too  true,"  answered  the  monk. 
^  "  Why,  you  fool,"  exclaimed  the  en- 
raged dignitary,  "  you  don't  imagine 
that  I  mean  all  this  to  the  letter !  " 

"  Ho  !  ho ! "  said  the  monk,  "  so  you 
have  been  a  liar,  too,  have  you  ?  " 

This  relentless  rebuker  of  shams  fur- 
nishes us  with  a  good  transition  to  an- 
other department  of  the  subject,  name- 
ly, moral  hardihood,  or  grit  organized 
in  conscience,  and  applying  the  most 
rigorous  laws  of  ethics  to  the  practical 
affairs  of  life.  Now  there  is  a  wide  dif- 
ference between  moral  men,  so  called, 
and  men  moralized, — between  men  who 
lazily  adopt  and  lazily  practise  the  con- 
ventional moral  proprieties  of  the  time, 
and  men  transformed  into  the  image  of 
inexorable,  unmerciful  moral  ideas,  men 
in  whom  moral  maxims  appear  organ- 
ized as  moral  might.  There  are  thou- 
sands who  are  prodigal  of  moral  and 
benevolent  opinions,  and  honestly  elo- 
quent in  loud  professions  of  what  they 
would  do  in  case  circumstances  called 
upon  (hem  to  act ;  but  when  the  occa- 
sion is  suddenly  thrust  upon  them,  when 
temptation,  leering  into  every  comer 
and  crevice  of  their  weak  and  selfish 
natures,  connects  the  notion  of  virtue 
with  the  reality  of  sacrifice,  then,  in  that 
sharp  pinch,  they  become  suddenly  ap- 
prised of  the  difference  between  rhet- 
oric and  rectitude,  and  find  that  their 
speeches  have  been  far  ahead  of  their 
powers  of  performance.  Thus,  in  one 
of  Gerald  Griffin's  novels,  there  is  a 


1865.] 


Grit. 


415 


scene  in  which  a  young  Irish  student, 
fresh  from  his  scholastic  ethics,  amazes 
the  company  at  his  father's  table,  who 
are  all  devout  believers  in  the  virtues  of 
the  hair-trigger,  by  an  eloquent  decla- 
mation against  the  folly  and  the  sin  of 
duelling.  At  last  one  of  the  set  gets 
sufficient  breath  to  call  him  a  coward. 
The  hot  Irish  blood  is  up  in  an  instant, 
a  tumbler  is  thrown  at  the  head  of  the 
doubter  of  his  courage,  and  in  ten  sec- 
onds the  young  moralist  is  crossing 
swords  with  his  antagonist  in  a  duel 
But  the  characteristic  of  moral  grit 
is  equality  with  the  occasions  which 
exact  its  exercise.  It  is  morality  with 
thews  and  sinews  and  blood  and  pas- 
sions, —  morality  made  man,  and  eager 
to  put  its  phrases  to  the  test  of  action. 
It  gives  and  takes  hard  blows,  —  aims 
not  only  to  be  upright  in  deed,  but 
downright  \p.  word,  —  silences  with  a 
''Thus  saith  the  Lord"  all  palliations 
of  convenient  sins,  —  scowls  ominously 
at  every  attempt  to  reconcile  the  old 
feud  between  the  right  and  the  expe- 
dient and  make  them  socially  shake 
hands,  —  and  when  cant  taints  the  air, 
dears  it  with  good  wholesome  rage  and 
execration.  On  the  virtues  of  this  stub- 
bom  conscientiousness  it  is  needless  to 
dilate;  its  limitations  spring  from  its 
tendency  to  disconnect  morality  from 
mercy,  and  law  from  love,  —  its  too  fre- 
quent substitution  of  moral  antipathies 
for  moral  in^ght,  —  and  its  habit  of 
describing  individual  men,  not  as  they 
are  in  themselves,  but  as  they  appear  to 
its  offended  conscience.  Understand- 
ing sin  better  than  it  understands  sin- 
ners, it  sometimes  sketches  phantoms 
rather  than  paints  portraits,  —  identifies 
the  weakly  wicked  with  the  extreme  of 
Satanic  wickedness, — and  in  its  assaults, 
pitches  at  its  adversaries  rather  than 
really  pitches  into  them.  But,  in  a  large 
moral  view,  the  light  of  intellectual  per- 
ception should  shine  far  in  advance  of 
the  heat  of  ethical  invective,  and  an 
ounce  of  characterization  is  worth  a 
ton  of  imprecations.  Indeed,  moral 
grit,  relatively  admirable  as  it  is,  par- 
takes of  the  inherent  defect  of  other 
and  lower  kinds  of  grit,  inasmuch  as 


its  force  is  apt  to  be  as  unsympa- 
thetic as  it  is  uncompromising,  as  un- 
gracious as  it  is  invincible.  It  drives 
rather  than  draws,  cuffs  rather  than 
coaxes.  Intolerant  of  human  infirmity, 
it  is  likewise  often  intolerant  of  sdl 
forms  of  human  excellence  which  do 
not  square  with  its  own  conceptions  of 
right ;  and  its  philanthropy  in  the  ab- 
stract is  apt  to  secrete  a  subtile  misan- 
thropy in  the  concrete.  Brave,  unself- 
ish, self-sacrificing,  and  flinching  from 
no  consequences  which  its  principles 
may  bring  upon  itself,  it  flinches  from 
no  consequences  which  they  may  bring 
upon  others ;  and  its  attitude  towards 
the  laws  and  customs  of  instituted  im- 
perfection is  almost  as  sourly  belligerent 
as  towards  those  of  instituted  iniquity. 
Men  of  this  austere  and  somewhat 
crabbe(^  rectitude  maybe  found  in  every 
department  of  life,  but  they  are  most 
prominent  and  most  efficient  when  they 
engage  in  fhe  reform  of  abuses,  whether 
*those  abuses  be  in  manners,  institutions, 
or  religion ;  and  here  they  never  shrink 
from  the  rough,  rude  work  of  the  cause 
they  espouse.  They  are  commonly 
adored  by  their  followers,  commonly 
execrated  by  their  opponents ;  but  they 
receive  the  execration  as  the  most  con- 
vincing proof  that  they  have  performed 
their  duties,  as  the  shrieks  of  the  wound- 
ed testify  to  the  certainty  of  the  shots. 
Indeed,  they  take  a  kind  of  grim  delight- 
in  so  pointing  their  invective  that  the 
adversaries  of  their  principles  are  turned 
into  enemies  of  their  persons,  and  scout 
at  all  fame  which  does  not  spring  finom 
obloquy.  As  they  thus  exist  in  a  state 
of  war,  the  gentler  elements  of  their 
being  fall  into  the  background ;  the 
bitterness  of  the  strife  works  into  their 
souls,  and  g^ves  to  their  conscientious 
wrath  a  certain  Puritan  pitilessness  of 
temper  and  tone.  In  the  thick  of  the^ 
fight,  their  battle-cry  is,  ^  No  quarter  to 
the  enemies  of  God  and  man  I " — and 
as,  unfortunately,  ther^  arefew  men  who, 
tried  by  their  standards,  are  friends  of 
man,  population  very  palpably  thins  as 
the  lava-tide  of  their  invective  sweeps 
over  it,  and  to  the  mental  eye^men  disr 
appear  as  man  emergegL. 


4i6 


Grit. 


[April, 


The  gulf  which  3rawns  between  un- 
compromising moral  obligation  and 
compromising  human  conduct  is  so  im- 
mense that  these  fierce  servants  of  the 
Lord  seem  to  be  ^natics  and  .vision- 
aries. But  history  demonstrates  that 
they  are  among  the  most  practical  of 
all  the  forces  which  work  in  human 
affairs ;  for,  without  taking  into  account 
the  response  which  their  inflexible  mo- 
rality finds  in  the  breasts  of  inflexibly 
moral  men,  their  morality,  in  its  appli- 
cation to  common  life,  often  becomes 
materialized,  and  shows  an  intimate  con- 
nection with  the  most  ordinary  human 
appetites  and  passions.  They  com- 
mune with  the  mass  of  men  through 
the  subtile  freemasonry  of  discontent 
Compelled  to  hurl  the  thunderbolts  of 
the  moral  law  against  injustice  in  pos- 
session, they  unwittingly  set  fi^e  to  in- 
justice smouldering  in  unrealized  pas- 
sions ;  and  their  speech  is  translated 
and  transformed,  in  its  passage  into 
the  public  mind,  into  some  such  shape 
as  this  :  — "  These  few  persons  who 
are  dominant  in  Church  and  State,  and 
who,  while  you  physically  and  spiritu- 
ally starve,  are  fed  £at  by  the  products 
of  your  labor  and  the  illusions  of  your 
superstition,  are  powerful  and  prosper- 
ous, not  from  any  virtue  in  themselves, 
but  from  the  violation  of  those  laws 
which  God  has  ordained  for  the  be- 
neficent government  of  the  universe. 
Their  property  and  their  power  are  the 
signs,  not  of  their  merits,  but  of  their 
sins."  The  instinctive  love  of  property 
and  power  are  thus  addressed  to  over- 
turn the  present  possessors  of  property 
and  power ;  and  the  vices  of  men  are 
unconsciously  enlisted  in  the  service 
of  the  regeneration  of  man.  The  mo- 
tives which  impel  whole  masses  of  the 
community  are  commonly  different  from 
the  motives  of  those  reformers  who 
urge  the  community  to  revolt ;  and  their 
fervent  denunciations  of  injustice  bring 
to  their  side  thousands  of  men  who, 
perhaps  unconsciously  to  themselves, 
only  desire  a  chance  to  be  unjust  The 
annals  of  all  emancipations,  revolutions, 
and  reformations  are  disfigured  by  this 
fssX   J3ettor  than  what  they  supplant, 


their  good  is  still  relative,  not  abso- 
lute. 

In  the  history  of  religious  reforms, 
few  men  better  illustrate  this  hard  mor^ 
al  manliness,  as  distinguished  from  the 
highest  moral  heroism,  than  the  sturdy 
Scotch  reformer,  John  Knox.  Tena- 
cious, pugnacious,  thoroughly  honest 
and  thoroughly  earnest,  superior  to  all 
physical  and  moral  fear,  destitute  equal* 
ly  of  fine  sentiments  and  weak  emo- 
tions, blurting  out  unwelcome  opinions 
to  queens  as  readily  as  to  peasants,  and 
in  words  which  hit  and  hurt  like  knocks 
with  the  fist,  he  is  one  of  those  large, 
but  somewhat  coarse-grained  natures, 
that  influence  rude  populations  by  hav- 
ing so  much  in  common  with  them,  and 
in  which  the  piety  of  the  Christian,  the 
thought  of  the  Protestant,  and  the  zeal 
of  the  mart}T  are  curiously  blended 
with  the  ferocity  of  the  ^demdgogue. 
Jenny  Geddes,  at  the  time  when  Arch- 
bishop Laud  attempted  to  force  Episco- 
pacy upon  Scotland,  is  a  fair  specimen 
of  the  kind  of  character  which  the  teach- 
ings and  the  practice  of  such  a  man 
would  tend  to  produce  in  a  nation. 
This  rustic  heroine  was  present  when 
the  new  bishop,  hateful  to  Presbyterian 
eyes,  began  the  service,  with  the  smooth 
saying,  "  Let  us  read  the  Collect  of  the 
Day."  Jenny  rose  in  wrath,  and  cried 
out  to  the  surpliced  official  of  the  Lord, 
—  **  Thou  foul  thief,  wilt  thou  say  mass 
at  my  lug  ?  "  and  hurled  her  stool  at  his 
head.  Then  rose  cries  of  "  A  Pope ! 
a  Pope !  Stone  him  ! "  And  "  the  wor- 
ship of  the  Lord  in  Episcopal  decency 
and  order  "  was  ignominiously  stopped. 
And  in  the  next  reign,  when  the  same 
thing  was  attempted,  the  Covenanters, 
the  true  spiritual  descendants  of  Knox, 
opposed  to  the  most  brutal  persecution 
a  fierce,  morose  heroism,  strangely  com- 
pounded of  barbaric  passion  and  Chris- 
tian fortitude.  They  were  the  most  per- 
fect sp>ecimens  of  pure  moral  grit  the 
world  has  ever  seen.  In  the  great  the- 
ological humorist  of  the  nineteenth  cen- 
tury, the  Reverend  Sydney  Smith,  the 
legitimate  intellectual  successor  of  the 
Reverend  Rabelais  and  the  Reverend 
Swift  and  the  Reverend  Sterne,  their  sul- 


i86s.] 


Grit. 


417 


len  intrepidity  excites  a  mingled  feeling, 
in  which  fun  strives  with  admiration. 
In  arguing  against  all  intolerance,  the 
intolerance  of  the  church  to  which  he 
belonged  as  well  as  the  intolerance  of 
the  churches  to  which  he  was  opposed, 
he  said  that  persecution  and  bloodshed 
had  no  effect  in  preventing  the  Scotch, 
''that  metaphysical  people,  from  going 
to  heaven  in  their  true  way  instead  of 
our  true  way";  and  then  comes  the 
humorous  sally,  —  "With  a  little  oat- 
meal for  food  and  a  little  sulphdr  for 
friction,  allaying  cutaneous  irritation 
with  one  hand  and  grasping  his  Calvin- 
istical  creed  with  the  other,  Sawney  ran 
away  to  the  flinty  hills,  sung  his  psalm 
out  of  tune  his  own  way,  and  listened 
to  his  sermon  of  two  hours  long,  amid 
the  rough  and  imposing  jnelancholy  of 
the  tallest  thisdes."  Bui  from  the  grav- 
er historian,  developing  the  historic  sig- 
nificance of  their  determined  resistance 
to  the  insolent  claims  of  ecclesiastical 
authority,  their  desperate  hardihood 
elicits  a  more  fitting  tribute.  "  Hunted 
down,"  he  says,  "  like  wild  beasts,  tor- 
tured till  their  bones  were  beaten  flat^ 
imprisoned  by  hundreds,  hanged  by 
scores,  exposed  at  one  time  to  the  li- 
cense of  soldiers  from  England,  aban- 
doned at  another  time  to  the  mercy  of 
bands  of  marauders  from  the  Highlands, 
they  still  stood  at  bay  in  a  mood  so 
savage  that  the  boldest  and  mightiest 
oppressor  could  not  but  dread  the  au- 
dacity of  their  despair." 

But  the  man  who,  in  modem  times, 
stands  out  most  prominently  as  the  rep- 
resentative of  this  tough  *  physical  and 
moral  fibre  is  Oliver  Cromwell,  the 
greatest  of  that  class  of  Puritans  who 
combined  the  intensest  religious  pas- 
sions with  the  powers  of  the  soldier  and 
the  statesman,  and  who,  in  some  wild 
way,  reconciled  their  austere  piety  with 
remorseless  efficiency  in  the  world  of 
&cts.  After  all  the  materials  for  an 
accurate  judgment  of  Cromwell  which 
have  been  collected  by  the  malice 
of  his  libellers  and  the  veneration  of 
his  partisans,  he  is  still  a  puzzle  to 
psychologists ;  for  no  one,  so  far,  has 
bridged  the  space  which  separates  the 

VOL.  XV.  —  NO.  90.  27 


seeming  anarchy  of  his  mind  firom  the 
executive  decision  of  his  conduct  A 
coarse,  strong,  massive  English  nafture, 
thoroughly  impregnated  with  Hebrew 
thought  and  Hebrew  passion,  —  demo- 
cratic in  his  sympathy  with  the  rudest 
political  and  religious  feelings  of  his 
party,  autocratic  in  the  consciousness 
of  superior  abilities  and  tyrannic  will, 
—  emancipated  from  the  illusions  of 
vanity,  but  not  from  those  of  ambition 
and  pride, — shrinking  from  no  duty  and 
no  policy  from  the  fear  of  obloquy  or 
the  fear  of  death,  —  a  fanatic  and  a  plA- 
itician, — a  demagogue  and  a  dictator, — 
seeking  the  kingdom  of  heavex^  but  de- 
termined to  take  the  kingdom  of  Eng- 
land by  the  way, — believing  in  God,  be- 
lieving in  himself^  and  believing  in  his 
Ironsides,  —  clothing  spiritual  £uth  in 
physical  force,  and  backing  dogmas  and 
prayers  with  pikes  and  cannon,  —  anx- 
ious at  once  that  his  troops  should 
trust  in  God  and  keep  their  powder 
dry,  —  with  a  mind  deep  indeed,  but 
distracted  by  internal  conflicts,  and 
prolific  .only  in  enormous,  half-shaped 
ideas,  which  stammer  into  expression 
at  once  obscure  and  ominous,  the  lan- 
guage a  strange  compound  of  the  slang 
of  the  camp  and  the  mystic  phrases 
of  inspired  prophets  and  aposdes, — 
we  still  feel  throughout,  that,  what- 
ever may  be  the  contradictions  of  his 
character,  they  are  not  such  as  to  im- 
pair the  ruthless  energy  of  his  wilL 
Whatever  he  dared  to  think  he  dared 
to  do.  No  practical  emergency  ever 
found  him  deficient  either  in  sagacity 
or  resolution,  however  it  might  have 
found  him  deficient  in  mercy.  He  over- 
rode the  moral  judgments  of  ordinary 
men  as  fiercely  as  he  overrode  their 
physical  resistance,  crushing  prejudices 
as  well  as  Parliaments,  ideas  as  well  as 
armies ;  and  whether  his  task  was  to 
cut  off*  the  head  of  an  unmanageable 
king,  or  disperse  an  unmanageable  le- 
gislative assembly,  or  massacre  an  un- 
manageable Irish  garrison,  or  boldly 
establish  himself  as  the  uncontrolled 
supreme  authority  of  the  land,  he  ever 
did  it  thoroughly  and  unrelentingly,  and 
could  always  throw  the  responsibility 


4^8 


Grii. 


[April, 


of  the  deed  on  the  God  of  battles  and 
the  God  pf  CromwelL  In  all  this  we 
observe  the  operation  of  a  colossal  prac- 
tical force  rather  tiian  an  ideal  power, 
of.  grit  rather  than  heroism.  However 
much  he  may  command  that  portion  of 
our  sympathies  which  thrill  at  the  touch 
of  vigorous  action,  there  are  other  sen- 
timents of  our  being  which  detect  some- 
thing partial,  vulgar,  and  repulsive  even 
in  his  undisputed  greatness. 

In  trutii,  grit,  in  its  highest  forms,  is 
not  a  form  of  coiurage  deserving  of  un- 
ited respect  and  admiration.  Admit- 
ting its  immense  practical  influence  in 
public  Vid  private  life,  conceding  its 
value  in  the  rough,  direct  struggle  of 
person  with  person  and  opinions  with 
institutions,  it  is  still  by  no  means  the 
top  and  crown  of  heroic  character ;  for 
it  lacks  the  element  of  beauty  and  the 
element  of  sympathy ;  it  is  individual, 
unsocial,  bigoted,  relatively  to  occasions; 
and  its  force  has  no  necessary  connec- 
tion with  grandeur,  generosity,  and  en- 
largement of  soul  Even  in  great  men, 
like  Cromwell,  there  is  something  in  its 
aspect  which  is  harsh,  ugly,  haggard, 
and  ungenial ;  even  in  them  it  is 
strong  by  the  stifling  of  many  a  gener- 
ous thought  and  tolerant  feeling ;  and 
when  it  descends  to  animate  sterile 
and  sttmted  natures,  endowed  with  suf- 
ficient will  to  make  their  meanness  or 
malignity  efficient,  its  unfruitful  force 
is  absolutely  hateful  It  has  done  good 
work  for  the  cause  of  truth  and  right ; 
but  it  has  also  done  bad  work  for  the 
cause  of  falsehood  and  wrong :  for  evil 
has  its  grit  as  well  as  virtue.  As  it 
lacks,  suppresses,  or  subordinates  im- 
agination, it  is  shorn  of  an  important 
portion  of  a  complete  manhood  ;  for  it 
not  only  loses  the  perception  of  beauty, 
but  the  power  of  passing  into  other 
minds.  It  never  takes  the  point  of 
view  of  the  persons  it  opposes ;  its  object 
is  victory,  not  insight ;  and  it  thus  &ils 
in  that  modified  mercy  to  men  which 
springs  from  an  interior  knowledge  of 
their  characters.  Even  when  it  is  the 
undaunted  force  through  which  moral 
wrath  expresses  its  hatred  of  injustice 
and  wrong,  its  want  of  imaginative  per- 


jception  makes  it  somewhat  caricature 
the  sinners  it  invdghs  against  It  con- 
verts imperfect  or  immoral  men  into 
perfect  demons,  which  humanity  as 
well  as  reason  refuses  to  accept ;  and 
it  is  therefore  not  surprising  that  the 
prayer  of  its  indignant  morality  some- 
times is,  *' Almighty  God,  condemn 
them,  for  they  knottf  what  they  do  I " 
But  we  cannot  forget  that  there  sounds 
down  the  ages,  from  the  saddest  and 
most  triumphant  of  all  mart3rrdoms,  a 
different  and  a  diviner  pra3rer,  -r^  **  Fa- 
ther, forgive  them,  for  they  know  mot 
what  they  do !  " 

Indeed,  however  much  we  may  be 
struck  with  the  startiing  immediateness 
of  effect  which  follows  the  exercise  of 
practical  force,  we  must  not  forget  the 
immense  agency  in  human  affiurs  of  the 
ideal  powers  of  the  souL  These  work 
creatively  from  within  to  mould  charac- 
ter, not  only  inflaming  great  passions, 
but  touching  the  springs  of  pity,  ten- 
derness, gentieness,  and  love, — above 
all,  infusing  that  wide-reaching  sympa- 
thy which  sends  the  individual  out  of 
the  grit-guarded  fortress  of  his  person- 
ality into  the  wide  plain  of  the  race. 
The  culmination  of  these  ideal  i>owers 
is  in  genius  and  heroism,  which  draw 
their  inspiration  from  ideal  and  spirit- 
ual sources,  and  radiate  it  in  thoughts 
beautifully  large  and  deeds  beautifully 
brave.  They  do  not  merely  exert 
power,  they  communicate  it  If  you 
are  overcome  by  a  man  of  grit,  he  inso- 
lentiy  makes  you  conscious  of  your  own 
weakness.  If  you  are  overcome  by 
genius  and  heroism,  you  are  made  par- 
ticipants in  their  strength ;  for  they 
overcome  only  to  invigorate  and  uplift. 
They  sweep  on  their  gathering  disci- 
ples to  the  object  they  have  in  view,  by 
making  it  an  object  of  affection  as  well 
as  duty.  Their  power  to  allure  and  to 
attract  is  not  lost  even  when  their  goal 
is  the  stake  or  the  cross.  They  never, 
in  transient  ignominy  and  pain,  lose 
sight  and  feeling  of  the  beauty  and 
bliss  inseparably  assockited  with  good- 
ness and  virtue ;  and  the  happiest 
death-beds  have  often  been  on  the  rack 
or  in  the  flame  of  the  hero-martyr.  And 


1865.] 


The  Pettibene  Lineage. 


419 


they  are  also,  in  their  results,  great 
practical  influences;  for  they  break 
down  the  walls  which  separate  man 
from  man,  —  by  magnanimous  thought 
or  magnanimous  act  shame  us  out  of  our 
bitter  personal  contentions,  and-  flash 
the  sentiment  of  a  common  nature  into 
our  individual  hatreds  and  oppositions. 
As  grit  decomposes  society  into  an 
aggregate  of  strong  and  weak  persons, 
genius  and  heroism  unite  them  in  one 
humanity.  Thus,  not  many  years  ago, 
we  were  all  battling  about  the  higher 
law  and  the  law  to  return  fugitive 
slaves.  It  was  argument  against  ar- 
gument, passion  against  passion,  per- 
son against  person,  grit  against  grit 
The  notions  advanced  regarding  virtue 
and  vice,  justice  and  injustice,  human- 
ity and  inhumanity,  were  as  difierent 


as  if  the  controversy  had  not  been  be* 
tween  men  and  men,  but  between  men 
and  cattle.  There  were  no  signs  among 
the  combatants  that  they  had  the  com- 
mon reason  and  the  Oommon  instincts 
of  a  common  nature.  Then  came  a 
woman  of  genius,  who  refused  to  cred- 
it the  horrible  conceit  that  the  diversity 
was  essential,  who  resolutely  believed 
that  the  human  heart  was  a  unit,  and 
whose  glance,  piercing  the  mist  of  opin- 
ions and  interests,  saw.  in  the  deep  and 
universal  sources  of  humane  and  hu- 
man action  the  exact  point  where  hef 
blow  would  tell ;  and  in  a  novel  unex- 
ampled in  the  annals  of  literature  for 
popular  effect,  shook  the  whole  pubUc 
reason  and  public  conscience  of  the 
country,  by  the  most  searching  of  all 
appeals  to  its  heart  and  imagination. 


THE    PETTIBONE    LINEAGE. 


MY  name  is  Esek  Pettibone,  and  I 
wish  to  affirm  in  the  outset  that 
it  is  a  good  thing  to  be  well-born.  In 
thus  connecting  the  mention  of  my  name 
with  a  positive  statement,  I  am  not 
unaware  that  a  catastrophe  lies  coiled 
ap  in  the  juxtaposition.  But  I  cannot 
help  writing  plainly  that  I  am  still  in 
fiivor  of  a  distinguished  family- tree. 
EsTO  PERPETUA  !  To  have  had  some- 
body for  a  great-grandfather  that  was 
somebody  is  exciting.  To  be  able  to 
look  back  on  long  lines  of  ancestry 
that  were  rich,  but  respectable,  seems 
decorous  and  all  right  The  present 
Earl  of  Warwick,  I  think,  must  have 
an  idea  that  strict  justice  has  been  done 
him  in  the  way  of  being  launched  prop- 
erty into  the  world.  I  saw  the  Duke 
of  Newcastle  once,  and  as  the  former  in 
Conway  described  Mount  Washington, 
I  thought  the  Duke  felt  a  propensity 
to  "hunch  up  some."  Somehow  it  is 
pleasant  to  look  down  on  the  crowd  and 
have  a  conscious  right  to  do  so. 

Left  an  orphan  at  the  tender  age  of 
four  years,  having,  no  brothers  or  sis- 


ters to  prop  me  round  with  young  aflfec- 
tions  and  sympathies,  I  fell  into  three 
pairs  of  hands,  excellent  in  their  way, 
but  peculiar.  Patience,  Et^iice,  atid 
Mary  Ann  Pettibone  were  my  aunts  on 
my  father's  side.  All  my  mother's  re- 
lations kept  shady  when  the  lonely  or- 
phan looked  about  for  protection  ;  but 
Patience  Pettibone,  in  her  stately  way, 
said, — **  The  "boy  belongs  to  a  good  fiim- 
ily,  and  he  shall  never  want  while  his 
three  aunts  can  support  him."  So  I 
went  to  live  with  my  plain,  but  benig- 
nant protectors,  in  the  State  of  New 
Hampshire. 

During  my  boyhood,  the  best-drilled 
lesson  that  fell  to  my  keeping  was  this : 
—  "Respect  yourself.  We  come  of 
more  than  ordinary  parentage.  Supe- 
rior blood  was  probably  concerned  in 
getting  up  the  Pettibones.  Hold  your 
head  erect,  and  some  day  you  shall  have 
proof  of  your  high  lineage." 

I  remember  once,  on  being  told  that 
I  must  not  share  my  juvenile  sports 
with  the  butcher's  three  littie  beings, 
I  begged  to  know  why  not    Aunt  £u- 


420 


The  Pettibone  Lhieage. 


[April, 


nice  looked  at  Patience,  and  Mary  Ann 
knew  what  she  meant 

^  My  child,"  slowly  murmured  the  eld- 
est sister,  '*  our  family  no  doubt  canie  of 
a  very  old  stock ;  perhaps  we  belong  to 
^e  nobility.  Our  ancestors,  it  is  thought, 
came  over  laden  with  honors,  and  no 
doubt  were  embarrassed  with  riches, 
though  the  latter  importation  has  dwin- 
dled in  the  lapse  of  years.  Respect 
yourself^  and  when  you  grow  up  you 
will  not  regret  t^at  your  old  and  care- 
ful aunt  did  not  wish  you  to  play  with 
butchers'  ofilspring.'' 

I  felt  mortified  that  I  had  ever  had 
a  desire  to  *' knuckle  up''  with  any  but 
kings'  sons  or  sultans'  little  boys.  I 
longed  to  be  among  my  equals  in  the 
urchin-line,  and  fly  my  kite  with  only 
high-bom  youngsters. 

Thus  I  lived  in  a  constant  scene  of 
self-enchantment  on  the  part  of  the  sis- 
ters, who  assumed  all  the  port  and  feel- 
ing that  properly  belong  to  ladies  of 
quality.  Patrimonial  splendor  to  come 
danced  before  their  dim  eye^ ;  and  hand- 
some settiements,  gay  equipages,  and  a 
general  grandeur  of  some  sort  loomed 
up  in  the  future  for  the  American  branch 
of  the  House  of  Pettibone. 

It  was  a  life  of  opulent  self-delusion, 
which  my  aunts  were  never  tired  of  nurs- 
ing ;  and  I  was  too  young  to  doubt  the 
reality  of  it  All  the  members  of  our 
Uttie  household  held  ilp  their  heads, 
as  if  each  said,  in  so  many  words, 
'*  There  is  no  original  sin  'in  our  com- 
position, whatever  of  that  commodity 
there  may  be  mixed  up  with  the  com- 
mon clay  of  Snowborough." 

Aunt  Patience  was  a  star,  and  dwelt 
apart  Aunt  Eunice  looked  at  her 
through  a  determined  pair  of  specta- 
cles, and  worshipped  while  she  gazed. 
The  youngest  sister  lived  in  a  dreamy 
state  of  honors  to  come,  and  had  con- 
stant zoological  visions  of  lions,  grif- 
fins, and  unicorns,  drawn  and  quartered 
in  every  possible  style  known  to  the 
Heralds'  College.  The  Reverend  He- 
brew Bullet,  who  used  to  drop  in  quite 
often  and  drink  several  compulsory 
glasses  of  home-made  wine,  encour- 
aged his  three  parishioners  in  their 


aristocratic  notions,  and  extolled  them 
for  what  he  called  their  "  stooping  down 
to  every-day  life."  He  differed  with 
the  ladies  of  our  house  only  on  one 
point  He  contended  that  the  unicorn 
of  the  Bible  and  the  rhinoceros  of  to- 
day were  one  and  the  same  animal  My 
aunts  held  a  different  opinion. 

In  the  sleeping -room  of  my  Aunt 
Patience  reposed  a  trunk.  Often  dur- 
ing my  childish  years  I  longed  to  lift 
the  lid  and  spy  among  its  contents  the 
treasures  my  young  fancy  conjured  up 
as  lying  there  in  state.  I* dared  not 
ask  to  have  the  cover  raised  for  my 
gratification,  as  I  had  often  been  told 
I  was  "  too  litde  "  to  estimate  aright 
what  that  armorial  box  contained. 
"  When  you  grow  up,  you  shall  see  the 
inside  of  it,"  Aunt  Mary  Ann  used  to 
say  to  me ;  and  so  I  wondered,  and 
wished,  but  all  in  vain.  I  must  have 
the  virtue  of  j'^rj  before^  could  view 
the  treasures  of  past  magnificence  so 
long  'entombed  in  that  wooden  sar- 
cophagus. Oiice  I  saw  the  faded  sis- 
ters bending  over  the  trunk  together, 
and,  as  I  thought,  embalming  some- 
thing in  camphor.  *  Curiosity  impelled 
me  to  linger,  but,  under  some  pretext, 
I  was  nodded  out  of  the  room. 

Although  my  kinswomen's  means 
were  far  from  ample,  they  determined 
that  Swiftmouth  College  should  have 
the  distinction  of  calling  me  one  of  her 
sons,  and  accordingly  I  was  in  due  time 
sent  for  preparation  to  a  neighboring 
academy.  Years  of  study  and  hard  fare 
in  country  boarding-houses  told  upon 
my  self-importance  as  the  descendant 
of  a  great  Englishman,  notwithstanding 
all  my, letters  from  the  honored  three 
came  freighted  with  counsel  to  '^  respect 
myself  and  keep  up  the  dignity  of  the 
fiimily."  Growing-up  man  forgets  good 
counsel  The  Arcadia  of  respectability 
is  apt  to  give  place  to  the  levity  of  foot- 
ball and  other  low -toned  accomplish- 
ments. The  book  of  life,  at  that  period, 
opens  readily  at  fiin  and  frolic,  and  the 
insignia  of  greatness  give  the  school- 
boy no  envious  pangs. 

I  was  nineteen  when  I  entered  the 
hoary  halls  of  Swiftmouth.    I  call  them 


1865.] 


The  Pettibone  Lineage, 


421 


hoary,  because  they  had  been  built  more 
than  fifty  years.  To  me  they  seemed 
uncommonly  hoary,  and  I  snuffed  antiq- 
uity in  the  dusty  purlieus.  I  now  began 
to  study,  in  good  earnest,  the  wisdom, 
of  the  past  I  saw  clearly  the  value  of 
dead  men  and  mouldy  precepts,  espe- 
cially if  the  former  had  been  entombed 
a  thousand  years,  and  if  the  latter  were 
well  done  in  sounding  Greek  and  Latin. 
I  began  to  reverence  royal  lines  of  de- 
ceased monarchs,  and  longed  to  con- 
nect my  own  name,  now  growing  into  col- 
lege popularity,  with  some  far-off  mighty 
one  who  had  ruled  in  pomp  and  lux- 
ury-his  obsequious  people.  The  trunk 
in  Snowborough  troubled  my  dreams. 
In  that  receptacle  still  slept  the  proof 
of  our  family  distinction.  "  I  will  go,'' 
quoth  I,  ''to  the  home  of  my  aunts 
next  vacation  and  there  learn  how  we 
became  mighty,  and  discover  precisely, 
why  we  don't  practise  to-day  our  inher- 
ited claims  to  glory." 

I  went  to  Snowborough.  Aunt  Pa- 
tience was  now  anxious  to  lay  before  her 
impatient  nephew  the  proof  he  burned 
to  behold.  But  first  she  must  explain. 
All  the  old  family  documents  and  let- 
ters were,  no  doubt,  destroyed  in  the 
great  fire  of  '98,  as  nothing  in  the  shape 
of  parchment  or  paper  implying  nobil- 
ity had  ever  been  discovered  in  Snow- 
borough, or  elsewhere.  But — there  had 
been  preserved,  for  many  years,  a  suit 
of  imperial  clothes,  that  had  been  worn 
by  their  great-grandfather  in  England, 
and,  no  doubt,  in  the  New  World  also. 
These  garments  had  been  carefully 
watched  and  guarded ;  for  were  they 
not  the  proof  that  their  owner  be- 
longed to  a  station  in  life,  second,  if 
second  at  all,  to  the  royal  court  of 
King  George  itself.^  Precious  casket, 
into  which  I  was  soon  to  have  the  priv- 
ilege of  gazing  I  Through  how  many 
long  years  these  fond,  foolish  virgins 
had  lighted  their  unflickering  lamps  of 
expectation  and  hope  at  this  cherished 
okl  shrine  1 

I  was  now  on  my  way  to  the  &m- 
Hy  repository  of  all  our  greatness.  I 
went  up  stairs  "  on  the  jump."  We  all 
knelt  down  before  the  well-preserved 


box ;  and  my  proud  Aunt  Patience,  in 
a  somewhat  reverent  manner,  turned 
the  key.  My  heart,  —  I  am  not  asham- 
ed to  confess  it  now,  although  it  is  for- 
ty years  since  the  quartette,  in  search 
of  family  honors,  were  on  their  knees 
that  summer  afternoon  in  Snowborough, 
—  my  heart  beat  high.  I  was  about  to 
look  on  that  which  might  be  a  duke's 
or  an  earl's  regalia.  And  I  was  de- 
scended from  the  owner  in  a  direct 
line  !  I  had  lately  been  reading  Shak- 
speare's  ''  Titus  Andronicus " ;  and  I 
remembered,  there  before  the  trunk, 
the  lines, — 

"  O  ncred  receptacle  of  my  joya, 
Sweet  cell  of  virtue  and  nobility  I** 

The  lid  went  up,  and  the  sisters  began 
to  unroll  the  precious  garments,  which 
seemed  all  enshrined  in  aromatic  gums 
and  spices.  The  odor  of  that  interior 
lives  with  me  to  this  day ;  and  I  grow 
faint  with  the  memory  of  that  hour. 
With  pious  precision  the  clothes*  were 
uncovered,  and  at  last  the  whole  suit 
was  laid  before  my  expectant  eyes. 

Reader !  I  am  an  old  man  now,  and 
have  not  long  to  walk  this  planet.  But, 
whatever  dreadful  shock  may  be  in  re- 
serve for  my  declining  years,  I  am  cer- 
tain I  can  bear  it ;  for  I  went  through  that 
scene  at  Snowborough,  and  still  live ! 

When  the  garments  were  fidly  dis- 
played, all  the  aunts  looked  at  me.  I 
had  been  to  college  ;  I  had  studied 
Burke's  "Peerage";  I  had  been  once 
to  New  York.  Perhaps  I  could  imme- 
diately name  the  exact  station  in  noble 
British  life  to  which  that  suit  of  clothes 
belonged.  I  could ;  I  saw  it  all  at  a 
glance.  I  grew  flustered  and  pale.  I 
dared  not  look  my  poor  deluded  female 
relatives  in  the  face. 

"  What  rank  in  the  peerage  do  these 
gold-laced  garments  and  big  buttons 
betoken  ?  "  cried  all  three. 

"  //  is  a  suit  of  servant's  livery  / " 
gasped  I,  and  fell  back  with  a  shudder. 

That  evening,  after  the  sun  had  gone 
down,  we  buried  those  hateful  garments 
in  a  ditch  at  the  bottom  of  the  gardener 
Rest  there,  perturbed  body-coat,  yellow 
trousers,  brown  gaiters,  and  all ! 

"Vain  pomp  and  gloffy  of  thu  world,  I  hate  ye  I" 


422 


Up  the  St.  Mary's. 


[April 


UP  THE  ST.   MARY'S. 


IF  Sergeant  Rivers  was  a  natural  king 
among  my  dusky  soldiers,  Corporal 
Robert  Sutton  was  the  natural  prime* 
minister.  If  not  in  all  respects  the 
ablest,  he  was  the  wisest  man  in  our 
ranks.  As  large,  as  powerful,  and  as 
black  as  our  good-looking  Color -Ser- 
geant, but  mcH^  heavily  built  and  with 
less  personal  beauty,  he  had  a  more 
massive  brain  and  a  far  more  medita- 
tive and  systematic  intellect  Not  yet 
grounded  even  in  the  spelling-book,  his 
modes  of  thought  were  nevertheless 
strong,  lucid,  and  accurate ;  and  he 
yearned  and  pined  for  intellectual  com- 
panionship beyond  all  ignorant  men 
whom  I  have  ever  met  I  believe  that 
he  would  have  talked  all  day  and  all 
night,  for  days  together,  to  any  officer 
who  could  instruct  him,  until  his  com- 
panion, at  least,  fell  asleep  exhausted. 
His  comprehension  of  the  whole  prob- 
lem of  Slavery  was  more  thorough  and 
fu'-reaching  than  that  of  any  Abolition- 
isty  so  fiir  as  its  social  and  military  as- 
pects went;  in  that  direction  I  could 
teach  him  nothing,  and  he  taught  me 
much.  But  it  was  his  methods  of 
thought  which  always  impressed  me 
chiefly :  superficial  brilliancy  he  left  to 
others,  and  grasped  at  the  solid  truth. 
Of  course  his  interest  in  the  war  and  in 
the  regiment  was  unbounded;  he  did 
not  take  to  driU  with  especial  readiness, 
but  he  was  insatiable  of  it  and  grudged 
every  moment  of  relaxation.  I  ndeed,  he 
never  had  any  such  moments ;  his  mind 
was  at  work  all  the  time,  even  when  he 
was  singing  hymns,  of  which  he  had 
endless  store*  He  was  not,  however, 
one  of  our  leading  religionists,  but  his 
moral  code  was  solid  and  reliable,  like 
his  mental  processes.  Ignorant  as  he 
waSy  the  *' years  that  bring  the  philo- 
sophic mind'*  had  yet  been  his,  and 
most  of  my  young  officers  seemed  boys 
beside  him.  He  was  a  Florida  man,  and 
had  been  chiefly  employed  in  lumbering 
and  piloting  on  the  St  Mary's  River, 
which  divides  Florida  from  Georgia. 


.Down  this  stream  he  had  escaped  in  a 
"dug-out,"  and  after  thus  finding  the 
way,  had  returned  (as  had  not  a  few  of 
my  men,  in  other  cases )  to  bring  away 
wife  and  child.  "  I  would  n't  have  leflT 
my  child,  Cunnel,"  he  said,  ^th  an  em« 
phasis  that  sounded  the  depths  of  his 
strong  nature.  And  up  this  same  river 
he  was  always  imploring  to  be  allowed 
to  guide  an  expedition. 

Many  other  men  had  rival  proposi- 
tions to  urge,  for  they  gained  self-confi- 
dence fi-om  drill  and  guard-duty,  and 
were  growing  impatient  of  inaction. 
"Ought  to  go  to  work,  Sa, — don't  be- 
lieve in  we  lyin'  in  camp,  eatin'  up  the 
perwisions."  Such  were  the  quaint  com- 
.plaints,  which  I  heard  with  joy.  Look- 
ing over  my  note-books  of  that  period, 
I  find  them  filled  with  topographical 
memoranda,  jotted  down  by  a  flickering 
candle,  firom  the  evening  'talk  of  the 
men,  —  notes  of  vulnerable  points  along 
the  coast,  charts  of  rivers,  locations  of 
pickets.  I  prized  these  conversations 
not  more  for  what  I  thus  learned  of  the 
country  than  for  what  I  learned  of  the 
men.  One  could  thus  measure  their 
various  degrees  of  accuracy  and  their 
average  military  instinct ;  and  I  must 
say  that  in  every  respect,  save  the  ac- 
curate estimate  of  distances,  they  stood 
.  the  test  well.  But  no  project  took  my 
fimcy  so  much,  after  all,  as  that  of  the 
delegate  fix>m  the  St  Mary's  River. 

The  best  peg  on  which  to  hang  an 
expedition  in  the  Department  of  the 
South,  in  those  days,  was  the  promise 
of  lumber.  Dwelling  in  the  very  land 
of  Southern  pine,  the  Department  au- 
thorities had  to  send  North  for  it,  at  a 
vast  expense.  There  was  reported  to 
be  plenty  in  the  enemy's  country,  but 
somehow  the  colored  soldiers  were  the 
only  ones  who  had  been  lucky  enough 
to  obtain  any,  thus  far,  and  the  supply 
brought  in  by  our  men,  after  flooring  the 
ttnts  of  the  white  regiments  and  our 
own,  was  running  low.  An  expedition 
of  white  troops,  foxur  companies,  with 


i86$.] 


Up  the  St.  Marj^s. 


423 


two  steamers  and  two  schooners,  had 
lately  returned  empty-handed,  after  a 
week's  foraging;  and  now  it  was  our 
torn.  They  said  the  mills  were  all  burn- 
ed ;  but  should  we  go  up  the  St  Mary's, 
Corporal  Sutton  was  prepared  to  offer 
more  lumber  than  we  had  transporta- 
tion to  carry.  This  made  the  crown- 
ing charm  of  his  suggestion.  But  there 
is  never  any  danger  of  erring  on  the 
side  of  secrecy,  in  a  military  depart- 
ment ;  aad  I  resolved  to  avoid  all  undue 
publici<S|f  for  our  plans,  by  not  finally 
deciding  on  any  until  we  should  get 
outside  the  bar.  This  was  happily  ap- 
proved by  my  superior  officers,  Major- 
General  Hunter  and  Brigadier-General 
Saxton ;  and  I  was  accordingly  permit- 
ted to  take  three  steamers,  with  four 
hundred  and  sixty-two  officers  and  men, 
and  two  or  three  invited  guests,  and  go 
down  the  coast  on  my  own  responsibil- 
ity. We  were,  in  short,  to  win  otu*  spurs ; 
and  \{y  as  among  the  Araucanlans,  our 
spurs  were  made  of  lumber,  so  much 
the  better.  The  whole  history  of  the 
Department  of  the  South  had  been  de- 
fined as  ''  a  military  pic-nic,''  and  now 
we  were  to  take  our  share  of  the  enter- 
tainment. 

It  seemed  a  pleasant  share,  when,  after 
the  usual  vexations  and  delays,  we  found 
ourselves  gliding  down  the  full  waters 
of  Beaufort  River,  the  three  vessels  hav- 
ing sailed  at  different  hours,  with  orders 
to  rendezvous  at  St  Simon's  Island,  on 
the  coast  of  Georgia.  Until  then,  the 
flag-ship,  so  to  speak,  was  to  be  the 
"Ben  De  Ford,"  Captain  Hallett,— 
this  being  by  hi  the  largest  vessel,  and 
carrying  most  of  the  men.  Major  S  trong 
was  in  command  upon  the  *'John  Ad- 
ams," an  army  gunboat,  carrying  a  thir- 
ty-pound Parrott  gun,  two  ten -pound 
Parrotts,  and  an  eight- inch  howitzer. 
Captain  Trowbridge  (since  promoted 
Lieutenant-Colonel  of  the  regiment)  had 
charge  of  the  famous  ''  Planter,"  brought 
away  firom  the  Rebels  by  Robert  Small ; 
she  carried  a  ten -pound  Parrott  gun, 
and  two  howitzers.  The  John  Adams 
was  our  m^n  reliance.  She  was  an  old 
East- Boston  ferry-boat,  a  "  double-end- 
er,"  admirable  for  river-work,  but  unfit 


for  sea-service.  She  drew  seven  feet 
of-water ;  the  Planter  drew  only  four ; 
but  the  latter  was  very  slow,  and  being 
obliged  to  go  to  St  Simon's  by  an  inner 
passage,  would  delay  us  from  the  begin- 
ning. She  delayed  us  so  much,  before 
the  end,  that  we  virtually  parted  com- 
pany, and  her  career  .was  almost  entire- 
ly separated  firom  our  own. 

From  boyhood  I  have  had  a  fancy  for 
boats,  and  have  seldom  been  without  a 
share,  usually  more  or- less  fractional,  in 
a  rather  indeterminate  number  of  punts 
and  wherries.  But  when,  for  the  first 
time,  I  found  myself  at  sea  as  Commo- 
dore of  a  fleet  of  armed  steamers, — for 
even  the  Ben  De  Ford  boasted  a  six- 
pound^r  or  so,  —  it  seemed  rather  an 
unexpected  promotion.  But  it  is  a  char- 
acteristic of  army  life,  tha,t  one  adapts 
one's  sel(  as  coolly  as  in  a  dream,  to 
the  most  novel  responsibilities.  One 
sits  on  court-martial,  for  instance,  and 
decides  on  the  life  of  a  fellow-creature, 
without  being  asked  any  inconvenient 
questions  as  to  previous  knowledge  of 
Blackstone ;  and  after  such  an  experi- 
ence, shall  one  shrink  fi'om  wrecking  a 
steamer  or  two  in  the  cause  of  the  na- 
tion }  So  I  placidly  accepted  my  naval 
establishment,  as  if  it  were  a  new  form 
of  boat-club,  and  looked  over  the  charts, 
balancing  between  one  river  and  anoth- 
er, as  if  deciding  whether  to  pull  up  or 
down  Lake  Quinsigamond.  If  military 
life  ever  contemplated  the  exercise  of 
the  virtue  of  humility  under  any  cir- 
cumstances, this  would  perhaps  have 
been  a  good  opportunity  to  begin  its 
practice.  But  as  the  ''Regulations" 
clearly  contemplated  nothing  of  the 
kind,  and  as  I  had  never  met  with  any 
precedent  which  looked  in  that  direc- 
tion, I  had  learned  to  check  promptly 
all  such  weak  proclivities. 

Captain  Hallett  proved  the  most  frank 
and  manly  of  sailors,  and  did  everything 
for  our  comfort  He  was  soon  warm  in 
his  praises  of  the  demeanor  of  our  men, 
which  was  very  pleasant  to  hear,  as  this 
was  the  first  time  that  colored  soldiers 
in  any  number  had  been  conveyed  on 
board  a  transport,  and  I  know  of  no 
place  where  a  white  volunteer  appears 


424 


Up  the  St.  Marys. 


[April, 


to  so  much  disadvantage.  His  mind 
craves  occupation,  his  body  is  intensely 
uncomfortable,  the  daily  emergency  is 
not  great  enough  to  call  out  his  heroic 
qualities,  and  he  is  apt  to  be  surly,  dis- 
contented, and  impatient  even  of  sani- 
tary rules.  The  Southern  black  soldier, 
on  the  other  hand,  is  seldom  sea-sick, 
(at  least,  such  is  my  experience,)  and,  if 
properly  managed,  is  equally  contented, 
whether  idle  or  busy ;  he  is,  moreover, 
so  docile  that  all  needful  rules  are  exe- 
cuted with  cheerful  acquiescence,  and 
the  quarters  can  therefore  be  kept  clean 
and  wholesome.  Very  forlorn  faces  were 
soon  .visible  among  the  officers  in  the 
cabin,  but  I  rarely  saw  such  among  the 
men. 

Pleasant  still  seemed  our  enterprise, 
as  we  anchored  at  early  morning  in  the 
quiet  waters  of  St.  Simon's  Sound,  and 
saw  the  light  fall  softly  on  the  beach  and 
the  low  bluffs,  on  the  picturesque  plan- 
tation-houses which  nestled  there,  and 
the  graceful  naval  vessels  that  lay  at 
anchor  before  us.  When  we  afterwards 
landed,  the  air  had  that  peculiar  Medi- 
terranean translucency  which  Southern 
islands  wear ;  and  the  plantation  we  vis- 
ited had  the  loveliest  tropical  garden, 
though  tangled  and  desolate,  which  I 
havo  ever  seen  in  the  South.  The  de- 
serted house  was  embowered  in  great 
blossoming  shrubs,  and  filled  with  hya- 
cinthine  odors,  among  which  predomi- 
nated that  of  the  little  Chickasaw  roses 
which  everywhere  bloomed  and  trailed 
around.  There  were  fig-trees  and  date- 
palms,  crape-myrtles  and  wax-myrtles, 
Mexican  agaves  and  English  ivies,  ja- 
ponicas,  bananas,  oranges,  lemons,  ole- 
anders, jonquils,  great  cactuses,  and  wild 
Florida  lilies.  This  was  not  the  planta- 
tion which  Mrs.  Kemble  has  since  made 
historic,  although  that  was  on  the  same 
island ;  and  I  could  not  waste  much  sen- 
timent over  it,  for  it  had  belonged  to 
a  Northern  renegade,  Thomas  Butler 
King.  Yet  I  felt  then,  as  I  have  felt 
a  hundred  times  since,  an  emotion  of 
heart-sickness  at  this  desecration  of  a 
homestead,  —  and  especially  when,  look- 
ing from  a  bare  upper  window  of  the 
empty  house  upon  a  range  of  broad. 


'flat,  sunny  roofs,  such  as  children  love 
to  play  on,  I  thought  how  that  place 
might  have  been  loved  by  yet  innocent 
hearts,  and  I  mourned  anew  the  sacri- 
lege of  war. 

1  had  visited  the  flag-ship  Wabash 
ere  we  left  Port-Royal  Harbor,  and  had 
obtained  a  very  kind  letter  of  introduc- 
tion from  Admiral  Dupont,  that  stately 
and  courtiy  potentate,  elegant  as  one's 
ideal  French  marquis ;  and  under  these 
credentials  1  received  polite  attention 
from  the  naval  officers  at  St  $}mon's, 
—  Acting  .Volunteer  Lieutenant  £udd, 
U.  S.  N.,  of  the  gunboat  Pofomska, 
and  Acting  Master  Moses,  U.  S.  N., 
of  the  barque  Femandina.  They  made 
valuable  suggestions  in  regard  to  the 
different  rivers  along  the  coast,  and 
gave  vivid  descriptions  of  the  last  pre- 
vious trip  up  the  St  Mary's,  under- 
taken by  Captain  Stevens,  U.  S.  N.,  in 
the  gunboat  Ottawa,  when  he  had  to 
fight  his  way  oast  batteries  at  every 
bluff  in  descending  the  narrow  and 
rapid  stream.  I  was  warned  that  no 
resistance  would  be  offered  to  the  as- 
cent, but  only  to  our  return ;  and  was 
further  cautioned  against  the  mistake, 
then  common,  of  underrating  the  cour- 
age of  the  Rebels.  "It  proved  impos- 
sible to  dislodge  those  fellows  from  the 
banks,"  my  informant  said ;  *^  they  had 
dug  rifle-pits,  and  swarmed  like  hor- 
nets, and  when  fairly  silenced  in  one 
direction,  they  were  sure  to  open  upon 
us  from  another."  All  this  sounded 
alarming,  but  it  was  nine  months  before 
that  the  event  had  happened ;  and  al- 
though nothing  had  gone  up  the  river 
since,  I  was  satisfied  that  the  resistance 
now  to  be  encountered  was  very  much 
smaller.  And  something  must  be  risked, 
anywhere. 

We  were  delayed  all  that  day  in  wait- 
ing for  our  consort,  and  improved  our 
time  by  verifying  certain  rumors  about 
a  quantity  of  new  railroad-iron  which 
was  said  to  be  concealed  in  the  aban- 
doned Rebel  forts  on  St  Simon's  and 
Jekyll  Islands,  and  which  would  have 
much  value  at  Port  Royal,  if  we  could 
only  unearth  it  Some  of  our  men  had 
worked  upon   these  very  batteries,  so 


1 865.] 


Up  the  St.  Marjfs. 


425 


that  they  could  easily  guide  us ;  and  by 
the  additional  discovery  of  a  large  flat- 
boat  we  were  enabled  to  go  to  work  in 
earnest  upon  the  removal  of  the  treas- 
ure. These  iron  bars,  surmounted  by  a 
dozen  feet  of  sand,  formed  an  invulner- 
able roof  for  the  magazines  and  bomb- 
proofs  of  the  fort,  and  the  men  enjoyed 
demolishing  them  far  more  than  they 
had  relished  their  construction.  Though 
the  day  was  the  24th  of  January,  186^, 
the  sun  was  very  oppressive  upon  the 
sands  ;  but  all  were  in  the  highest  spir- 
its, and  worked  with  the  greatest  ztiX, 
The  men  seemed  to  regard  these  mass- 
ive bars  as  their  first  trophies  ;  and  if 
the  rails  had  been  wreathed  with  roses, 
they  could  not  have  been  got  out  in 
more  holiday  style.  Nearly  a  hundred 
were  obtained  that  day,  besides  a  quan- 
tity of  five-inch  plank  with  which  to 
barricade  the  very  conspicuous  pilot- 
houses of  the  John  Adams. 

Still  another  day  we  were  delayed, 
and  could  still  keep  at  this  work,  not 
neglecting  some  foraging  on  the  island, 
from  which  horses,  cattle,  and  agricul- 
tural implements  were  to  be  removed, 
and  the  few  remaining  colored  families 
transferred  to  Femandina.  I  had  now 
become  quite  anxious  about  the  miss- 
ing steamboat,  as  the  inner  passage,  by 
which  alone  she  could  arrive,  was  ex- 
posed at  certain  points  to  fire  from  Rebel 
batteries,  and  it  would  have  been  un- 
pleasant  to  begin  with  a  disaster.  I 
remember,  that,  as  I  stood  on  deck,  in 
the  still  and  misty  evening,  listening 
with  strained  senses  for  some  sound  of 
approach,  I  heard  a  low  continuous 
noise  from  the  distance,  more  wild  and 
desolate  than  anything  in  my  memo- 
ry can  parallel  It  came  from  within 
the  vast  girdle  of  mist,  and  seemed  like 
the  cry  of  a  myriad  of  lost  souls  upon 
the  horizon's  verge ;  it  was  Dante  be- 
come audible :  and  yet  it  was  but  the 
accumulated  cries  of  innumerable  sea- 
fowl  at  jthe  entrance  of  the  outer  bay. 

Late  that  night  the  Planter  arrived. 
We  left  St  Simon's  on  the  following 
morning,  reached  Fort  Clinch  by  four 
o'clock,  and  there  transferring  two  hun- 
dred men  to  the  very  scanty  quarters 


of  the  John  Adams,  allowed  the  larger 
transport  to  go  into  Femandina,  while 
the  two  other  vessels  were  to  ascend 
the  St.  Mary's  River,  unless  (as  proved 
inevitable  in  the  end)  the  defects  in 
the  boiler  of  the  Planter  should  oblige 
her  to  remain  behind.  That  night  I 
proposed  to  make  a  sort  of  trial-trip 
up  stream,  as  far  as  Township  Landing, 
some  fifteen  miles,  there  to  pay  our  re- 
spects to  Captain.  Clark's  company  of 
cavalry,  whose  camp  was  reported  to  lie 
near  by.  This  was  included  in  Corporal 
Sutton's  programme,  and  seemed  to  me 
more  inviting,  and  far  more  usefiil  to 
the  men,  than  any  amount  of  mere  for- 
aging. The  thing  really  desirable  ap- 
peared to  be  to  get  them  under  fire  as 
soon  as  possible,  and  to  teach  them,  by 
a  few  small  successes,  the  application 
of  what  they  had  learned  in  camp. 

I  had  ascertained  that  the  camp  of 
this  company  lay  five  miles  firom  the 
landing,  and  was  accessible  by  two 
roads,  one  of  which  was  a  lumber-path, 
not  commonly  used,  but  which  Corpo- 
ral Sutton  had  helped  to  construct,  and 
along  which  he  could  easily  guide  us. 
The  plan  was  to  go  by  night,  surround 
the  house  and  negro  cabins  at  the  land- 
ing, (to  prevent  an  alarm  from  being 
given,)  then  to  take  the  side  path,  and 
if  all  went  well,  to  surprise  the  camp ; 
but  if  they  got  notice  of  our  approach, 
through  their  pickets,  we  should,  at 
worst,  have  a  fight,  in  which  the  best 
man  must  win. 

The  moon  was  bright,  and  the  river 
swift,  but  easy  of  navigation  thus  far. 
Just  below  Township  I  landed  a  small 
advance  force,  to  surround  the  houses 
silently.  With  them  went  Corporal 
Sutton ;  and  when,  after  rounding  the 
point,  I  went  on  shore  with  a  larger 
body  of  men,  he  met  me  with  a  silent 
chuckle  of  delight,  and  with  the  infor- 
mation that  there  was  a  negro  in  a 
neighboring  cabin  who  had  just  come 
from  the  Rebel  camp,  and  could  give  the 
latest  information.  While  he  hunted 
up  this  valuable  auxiliary,  I  mustered 
my  detachment,  winnowing  out  the  men 
who  had  coughs,  (not  a  few,)  and  send- 
ing them  ignominiously  on  board  again : 


426 


Up  the  St.  Jfar/s. 


[April, 


a  process  I  had  regularly  to  perform, 
during  this  first  season  of  catarrh,  on 
all  occasions  where  quiet  was  needed. 
The  only  exception  tolerated  at  this  time 
was  in  the  case  of  one  man  who  offered  a 
solemn  pledge,  that,  if  unable  to  restrain 
his  cough,  he  would  lie  down  on  the 
ground,  scrape  a  little  hole,  and  cough 
into  it  unheard.  The  ingenmty  of  this 
proposition  was  irresistible,  and  the 
eager  patient  was  allowed  to  pass  mus- 
ter. 

It  was  after  midnight  when  we  set 
off  upon  our  excursion.  I  had  about  a 
hundred  men,  marching  by  the  flank, 
with  a  small  advanced  guard,  and  also  a 
few  flankers,  where  the  ground  permit- 
ted. I  put  my  Florida  company  at  the 
head  of  the  column,  and  had  by  my  side 
Captain  Metcalf,  an  excellent  officer, 
and  Sergeant  Mclntyre,  his  first  ser- 
geant We  plunged  presently  into  pine 
woods,  whose  resinous  smell  I  can  still 
remember.  Corporal  Sutton  marched 
near  me,  with  his  captured  negro  guide, 
whose  first  fear  and  suUenness  had 
yielded  to  the  magic  news  of  the  Presi- 
dent's Proclamation,  then  just  issued, 
of  which  Governor  Andrew  had  sent  me 
a  large  printed  supply;  —  we  seldom 
found  men  who  could  read  it,  but  they  all 
seemed  to  feel  more  secure  when  they 
held  ^t  in  their  hands.  We  marched  on 
through  the  woods,  with  no  sound  but 
the  peeping  of  the  frogs  in  a  neighbor- 
ing marsh,  and  the  occasional  yelping 
of  a  dog,  as  we  passed  the  hut  of  some 
''cracker.'^  This  yelping  always  made 
Corporal  Sutton  uneasy :  dogs  are  the 
detective  officers  of  Slavery's  police. 

We  had  halted  once  or  twice,  to  close 
up  the  ranks,  and  had  marched  some 
two  miles,  seeing  and  hearing  nothing 
more.  I  had  got  all  I  could  out  of  our 
new  guide,  and  was  striding  on,  rapt  in 
pleasing  contemplation.  All  had  gone 
so  smoothly  that  I  had  merely  to  fan- 
cy the  rest  as  being  equally  smooth. 
Already  I  fancied  our  litde  detachment 
bursting  out  of  the  woods,  in  swift  sur- 
prise, upon  the  Rebel  quarters, — already 
the  opposing  commander,  after  hastily 
firing  a  charge  or  two  from  his  revolver, 
(of  course  above  my  head,)  had  yielded 


at  discretion,  and  was  gracefully  tender- 
ing, in  a  stage  attitude,  his  unavailing 

sword,  —  when  suddenly 

There  was  a  trampling  of  feet  among 
the  advanced  guard  as  they  came  con- 
fusedly to  a  halt,  and  almost  at  the 
same  instant  a  more  ominous  sound,  as 
of  galloping  horses  in  the  path  before 
us.  The  moonlight  outside  the  woods 
gave  that  dimness  of  atmosphere  with- 
in which  is  more  bewildering  than  dark- 
ness, because  the  eyes  cannot  adapt 
themselves  to  it  so  welL  Yet  I  fancied, 
and  others  aver,  that  they  saw  the  lead- 
er of  an  approaching  party,  mounted 
on  a  white  horse  and  reining  up  in  the 
pathway ;  others,  again,  declare  that  he 
drew  a  pistol  from  the  holster  and  took 
aim  ;  others  heard  the  words,  ''  Charge 
in  upon  them !  Surround  them  I  "  But 
all  this  was  confused  by  the  opening 
rifle-shots  of  our  advanced  guard,  and, 
as  clear  observation  was  impossible,  I 
made  the  men  fix  their  bayonets  and 
kneel  in  the  cover  on  each  side  the 
pathway,  and  I  saw  with  delight  the 
brave  fellows,  with  Sergeant  Mclntyre 
at  their  head,  settling  down  in  the  grass 
as  coolly  and  warily  as  if  wild  turkeys 
were  the  only  game.  Perhaps  at  the 
first  shot,  a  man  fell  at  my  elbow.  I 
felt  it  no  more  than  if  a  tree  had  fallen, 
—  I  was  so  busy  watching  my  own  men 
and  the  enemy,  and  planning  what  to 
do  next  Some  of  our  soldiers,  misun- 
derstanding the  order,  "  Fix  bayonets," 
were  actually  charging  mth.  them,  dash- 
ing off  into  the  dim  woods,  with  noth- 
ing to  charge  at  but  the  vanishing  tail 
of  an  imaginary  horse,  —  for  we  could 
really  see  nothing.  This  zeal  I  noted 
with  pleasure,  and  also  with  anxiety,  as 
our  greatest  danger  was  from  confusion 
and  scattering  ;  and  for  infantry  to  pur- 
sue cavalry  would  be  a  novel  enter- 
prise. Captain  Metcalf  stood  by  me 
well  in  keeping  the  men  steady,  as  did 
Assistant-Surgeon  Minor,  and  Lieuten- 
ant, now  Captain,  Jackson.  How  the 
men  in  the  rear  were  behaving  I  could 
not  tell, — not  so  coolly,  I  afterwards 
found,  because  they  were  more  entirely 
bewildered,  supposing,  until  the  shots 
came,  that  the  column  had  simply  halted 


i86s.] 


Up  the  St.  Mary's. 


427 


for  a  moment's  rest,  as  had  been  done 
once  or  twice  before.  They  did  not 
know  who  or  where  their  assailants 
might  be,  and  the  &lk>f  the  man"beside 
me  created  a  hasty  rumor  that  I  was 
killed,  so  that  it  was  on  the  whole  an 
alarming  experience  for  them.  They 
kept  together  very  tolerably,  however, 
while  our  assailants,  dividing,  rode  along 
on  each  side  through  the  open  pine- 
barren,  firing  into  our  ranks,  but  mostly 
over  the  heads  of  the  men.  My  soldiers 
in  turn  fired  rapidly, — too  rapidly,  being 
yet  beginners, — and  it  was  evident,  that, 
dim  as  it  was,  both  sides  had  opportu- 
nity to  do  some  execution. 

I  could  hardly  tell  whether  the  fight 
had  lasted  ten  minutes  or  an  hour,  when, 
as  the  enemy's  fire  had  evidently  ceased 
or  slackened,  I  gave  the  order  to  cease 
firing.  But  it  was  very  difficult  at  first 
to  make  them  desist :  the  taste  of  gun- 
powder was  too  intoxicating.  One  of 
them  was  heard  to  mutter,  indignantly, 
—  **  Why  de  Cunnel  order  Cease  firings 
when  de  Secesh  blazin'  away  at  de  rate 
ob  ten  dollar  a  day  ? "  Every  inci- 
dental occurrence  seemed  somehow  to 
engrave  itself  upon  my  perceptions, 
without  interrupting  the  main  course 
of  thought.  Thus  I  know,  that,  in  one 
of  the  pauses  of  the  affair,  there  came 
waiDng  through  the  woods  a  cracked 
female  voice,  as  if  calling  back  some 
stray  husband  who  had  run  out  to  join 
in  the  affiray,  —  *'  John,  John,  are  you  go- 
ing to  leave  me,  John  ?  Are  you  going 
to  let  me  and  the  children  be  killed, 
John  ? "  I  suppose  the  poor  thing's 
fears  of  gunpowder  were  very  genuine, 
but  it  was  such  a  wailing  squeak,  and 
so  infinitely  ludicrous,  and  John  was 
probably  ensconced  so  very  safely  in 
some  hollow  tree,  that  I  could  see  some 
of  the  men  showing  all  their  white  teeth 
in  the  very  midst  of  the  fight  But 
soon  this  sound,  with  all  others,  had 
ceased,  and  left  us  in  peaceful  posses- 
sion of  the  field 

I  have  made  the  more  of  this  h'ttle 
afEur  because  it  was  the  first  stand-up 
fight  in  which  my  men  had  been  en- 
gaged, though  they  had  been  under  fire, 
in  an  irregular  way,  in  their  small  early 


expeditions.  To  me  personally  the 
event  ¥ras  of  the  greatest  value  :  it  had 
given  us  all  an  opportunity  to  test  each 
other,  and  our  abstract  surmises  were 
changed  into'positive  knowledge.  Here- 
after it  was  of  small  importance  what 
nonsense  might  be  talked  or  written 
about  colored  troops ;  so  long  as  mine 
did  not  fiinch,  it  mside  no  difference  to 
me.  My  brave  young  officers,  them- 
selves mostly  new  to  danger,  viewed 
the  matter  much  as  I  did ;  and  yet  we 
were  under  bonds  of  life  and  death  to 
form  a  correct  opinion,  which  was  more 
than  could  be  said  of  the  Northern  ed- 
itors, and  our  verdict  was  proportionate- 
ly of  greater  value. 

I  was  convinced  fi'om  appearances 
that  we  had  been  victorious,  so  £ur, 
though  I  could  not  suppose  that  this 
would  be  the  last  of  it  We  knew 
neither  the  numbers  of  the  enemy,  nor 
their  plans,  nor  their  present  condi- 
tion :  whether  they  had  surprised  us  or 
whether  we  had  surprised  them  was  all 
a  mystery.  Corporal  Sutton  was  ui^g^ent 
to  go  on  and  complete  the  enterprise. 
All  my  impulses  said  the  same  thing ; 
but  then  I  had  the  most  explicit  injunc- 
tions from  General  Saxton  to  risk  as 
litde  as  possible  in  this  first  enterprise^ 
because  of  the  fatal  effect  on  pubh'c  sen- 
timent of  even  an  honorable  defeat 
We  had  now  an  honorable  victory,  so  far 
as  it  went ;  the  officers  and  men  around 
me  were  in  good  spirits,  but  the  rest  of 
the  column  might  be  nervous;  and  it 
seemed  so  important  to  make  the  first 
fight  an  entire  success,  that  I  thought 
it  wiser  to  let  well  alone ;  nor  have  I 
ever  changed  this  opinion.  For  one's 
self,  Montrose's  verse  may  be  well  ap- 
plied,—"  To  win  or  lose  it  alL"  But 
one  has  no  right  to  deal  thus  lightly 
with  the  fortunes  of  a  race,  and  that 
was  the  weight  which  I  always  felt  as 
resting  on  our  action.  If  my  raw  in- 
fantry force  had  stood  unflinching  a 
night-surprise  fit>m  '*  de  hosa  cavalry," 
as  they  reverentially  termed  them,  I 
felt  that  a  good  beginning  had  been 
made.  All  hope  of  surprising  the  en- 
emy's camp  was  now  at  an  end  ;  I  was 
willing  and  ready  to  fight  the  cavalry 


428 


Up  the  St.  Marys. 


[April, 


over  again,  but  it  seemed  wiser  that  we, 
not  they,  should  select  the  ground. 

'  Attending  to  the  wounded,  therefore, 
and  making  as  we  best  could  stretchers 
for  those  who  were  to  be*  carried,  in- 
cluding the  remains  of  the  man  killed 
at  the  first  discharge,  ( Private  William 
Parsons  of  Company  G,)  and  others  who 
seemed  at  the  point  of  death,  we  march- 
ed through  the  woods  to  the  landing,  — 
expecting  at  every  moment  to  be  in- 
volved in  another  fight     This  not  oc- 
curring, I  was  more  than  ever  satisfied 
that  we  had  won  a  victory  ;  for  it  was 
obvious  that  a  mounted  force  would  not 
allow  a  detachment  of  infantry  to  march 
two  miles  through  open  woods  by  night 
without  renewing  the  fight,  unless  they 
themselves  had  suffered  a  good  deal. 
On  arrival  at  the  landing,  seeing  that 
there  was  to  be  no  immediate  afihiy,  I 
sent  most  of  the  men  on  board,  and 
called  for  volunteers  to  remain  on  shore 
with  me  and  hold  the  plantation-house 
till  morning.     They  eagerly  offered ; 
and  I  was  glad  to  see  them,  when  post- 
ed as  sentinels  by  Lieutenants  Hyde 
and  Jackson,  who  stayed  with  me,  pace 
their  beats  as  steadily  and  challenge  as 
coolly  as  veterans,  though  of  course 
there    was    some    powder  wasted    on 
imaginary  foes.     Greatly  to  my  sur- 
prise, however,  we  had  no  other  ene- 
mies to  encounter.     We  did  not  yet 
know  that  we  had  killed  the  first  lieu- 
tenant of  the  cavalry,  and  that  our  op- 
ponents had  retreated  to  the  woods  in 
dismay,  without  daring  to  return  to  their 
camp.    This  at  least  was  the  account 
we  heard  from  prisoners  afterwards,  and 
was  evidently  the  tale  current  in  the 
neighborhood,  though  the  statements 
published  in  Southern  newspapers  did 
not  correspond.   .Admitting  the  death 
of  Lieutenant  Jones,  the  Tallahassee 
"Floridian"  of  February  14th  stated 
that ''  Captain  Clark,  finding  the  enemy 
in  strong  force,  fell  back  with  his  com- 
mand to  camp,  and  removed  his  ord- 
nance and  commissary  and  other  stores, 
with  twelve  negroes  on  their  way  to  the 
enemy,  captured  on  that  day." 

In  the  morning,  my  invaluable  sur- 
geon, Dr.  Rogers,  sent  me  his  report 


of  killed  and  wounded ;  and  I  have  been 
since  permitted  to  make  the  following 
extracts  from  his  notes  :  —  *'  One  man 
killed  •instantly  by  ball  through  the 
heart,  and  seven  wounded,  one  of  whom 
will  die.  Braver  men  never  lived.  One 
man  with  two  buUet-holes  through  the 
large  muscles  of  the  shoulders  and 
neck  brought  off  from  the  scene  of 
action,  two  miles  distant,  two  muskets ; 
and  not  a  murmur  has  escaped  his  lips. 
Another,  Robert  Sutton,  with  three 
wounds,  —  one  of  which,  being  on  the 
skull,  may  cost  him  his  life, — would 
not  report  himself  till  compelled  to  do 
so  by  his  officers.  While  dressing  his 
wounds,  he  quietly  talked  of  what  they 
had  done,  and  of  what  they  yet  could 
do.  To-day  I  have  had  the  Colonel 
order  him  to  obey  me.  He  is  perfecdy 
quiet  and  cool,  but  takes  this  whole 
affair  with  the  religious  bearing  of  a 
man  who  realizes  that  freedom  is  sweet- 
er than  life.  Yet  another  soldier  did 
not  report  himself  at  all,  but  remained 
all  night  on  guard,  and  possibly  I  should 
not  have  known  of  his  having  had  a 
buck-shot  in  his  shoulder,  if  some  du- 
ty requiring  a  sound  shoulder  had  not 
been  required  of  him  to-day."  This 
last,  it  may  be  added,  had  persuaded  a 
comrade  to  dig  out  the  buck-shot,  for 
fear  of  being  ordered  on  the  sick-list 
And  one  of  those  who  were  carried  to 
the  vessel  —  a  man  wounded  through 
the  lungs — asked  only  if  I  were  safe, 
the  contrary  having  been  reported.  An 
officer  may  be  pardoned  some  enthusi- 
asm for  such  men  as  these. 

The  anxious  night  having  passed 
away  without  an  attack,  another  prob- 
lem opened  with  the  morning.  For 
the  first  time,  my  officers  and  men  found 
themselves  in  possession  of  an  enemy's 
abode ;  and  though  there  was  but  little 
temptation  to  plunder,  I  knew  that  I 
must  here  begin  to  draw  the  line.  I 
had  long  since  resolved  to  prohibit  ab- 
solutely all  indiscriminate  pilfering  and 
wanton  outrage,  and  to  allow  nothing 
to  be  taken  or  destroyed  but  by  proper 
authority.  The  men,  to  my  great  sat- 
isfaction, entered  into  this  view  at  once, 
and  so  did  (perhaps  a  shade  less  read- 


i86s.] 


Up  the  St.  Marys. 


429 


ily,  in  some  cases)  the  officers.  The 
greatest  tro^le  was  with  the  steamboat- 
hands,  and  I  resolved  to  let  them  go 
ashore  as  little  as  possible.  M<vt  arti- 
cles of  furniture  were  already,  however, 
before  our  visit,  gone  from  the  planta- 
tion-house, which  was  now  used  only  as 
a  picket-station.  The  only  valuable  arti- 
cle was  a  piano-forte,  for  which  a  regu- 
lar packing-box  lay  invitingly  ready  out- 
side. I  had  made  up  my  mind  to  bum 
all  picket-stations,  and  all  villages  from 
which  I  should  be  coverdy  attacked, 
and  nothing  ^t ;  and  as  this  house 
was  destined  to  the  flames,  I  should 
have  left  the  piano  in  it,  but  for  the  se- 
ductions of  that  box.  With  such  a  re- 
ceptacle ail  ready,  even  to  the  cover,  it 
would  have  seemed  like  flying  in  the 
&ce  of  Providence  not  to  put  the  piano 
in.  I  ordered  it  removed,  therefore, 
and  afterwards  presented  it  to  the  school 
for  colored  children  at  Femandina. 
This  I  mention  because  it  was  the  only 
article  of  property  I  ever  took  or  know- 
ingly suffered  to  be  taken,  in  the  ene- 
my's country,  save  for  legitimate  mili- 
tary uses,  from  first  to  last ;  nor  would 
I  have  taken  this,  but  for  the  thought  of 
the  school,  and,  as  aforesaid,  the  temp- 
tation of  the  box.  If  any  other  officer 
has  been  more  rigid,  with  equal  oppor- 
tunities, let  him  cast  the  first  stone. 

I  think  the  zest  with  which  the  men 
finally  set  fire  to  the  house  at  my  order 
was  enhanced  by  this  previous  abste- 
miousness ;  but  there  is  a  fearful  fasci- 
nation in  the  use  of  fire,  which  every 
child  knows  in  the  abstract,  and  which 
I  found  to  hold  true  in  the  practice. 
On  our  way  down  river  we  had  oppor- 
tunity to  test  this  again. 

The  ruined  town  of  St  Mary's  had  at 
that  time  a  bad  reputation,  among  both 
naval  and  military  men.  Lying  but  a 
short  distance  above  Femandina,  on 
the  Georgia  side,  it  was  occasionally 
visited  by  our  gunboats.  I  was  in- 
formed that  the  only  residents  of  the 
town  were  three  old  women,  who  were 
apparently  kept  there  as  spies,  —  that, 
on  our  approach,  the  aged  crones  would 
come  out  and  wave  white  handkerchiefs, 
—  that  they  would  receive  us  hospi- 


tably, profess  to  be  profoundly  loyal; 
and  exhibit  a  portrait  of  Washington, 
—  that  they  would  solemnly  assure  us 
that  no  Rebel  pickets  had  been  there 
for  many  weeks, — but  that  in  the  ad- 
joining yard  we  should  find  fresh  horse- 
tracks,  and  that  we  should  be  fired  up- 
on by  guerrillas  the  moment  we  left  the 
whar£  My  officers  had  been  much  ex- 
cited by  these  tales  ;  and  I  had  assured 
them,  Uiat,  if  this  programme  were  lit- 
erally carried  out,  we  would  straightway 
return  and  bum  the  town,  or  what  was 
left  of  it,  for  our  share.  It  was  essen-. 
tial  tb  show  my  officers  and  men,  thatf 
while  rigid  against  irregular  outrage, 
we  could  still  be  inexorable  against  the 
enemy^ 

We  had  previously  planned  to  stop 
at  this  town,  on  our  way  down  river, 
for  some  valuable  lumber  which  we  had 
espied  on  a  wharf;  and  gliding  down 
the  swift  current,  shelling  a  few  bluffii 
as  we  passed,  we  soon  reached  it. 
Punctual  as  the  figures  in  a  panorama, 
appeared  the  old  ladies  with  their  white 
handkerchiefs.  Taking  possession  of 
the  town,  much  of  which  had  previ- 
ously been  destroyed  by  the  gunboats, 
and  stationing  the  color-guard^  to  their 
infinite  delight,  in  the  cupola  of  the 
most  conspicuous  house,  I  deployed 
skirmishers  along  the  exposed  suburb^ 
and  set  a  detail  of  men  at  work  on  the 
lumber.  After  a  stately  and  decorous 
interview  with  the  queens  of  society  at 
St  Mary's,  —  is  it  Scott  who  says  that 
nothing  improves  the  manners  Uke  pi* 
racy  ?  —  I  peacefully  withdrew  the  men 
when  the  work  was  done.  There  were 
£aces  of  disappointment  among  the 
officers, — for  all  felt  a  spirit  of  mis- 
chief, after  the  last  night's  adventure,  -^ 
when,  just  as  we  had  fairly  swung  out 
into  the  stream  and  were  under  way, 
there  came,  like  the  sudden  burst  of  a 
tropical  tornado,  a  regular  little  hail- 
storm of  bullets  into  the  open  end  of 
the  boat,  driving  evexy  gunner  in  an 
instant  from  his  post,  and  surprising 
even  those  who  were  looking  to  tie  sur- 
prised. The  shock  was  but  for  a  sec- 
ond ;  and  though  the  bullets  had  patter- 
ed precisely  like  the  sound  of  hail  upon 


430 


Vp  theSu  Mary's. 


[April. 


the  iron  cannon,  yet  nobody  was  hurt. 
With  very  respectable  promptness,  order 
was  restored,  our  own  shells  were  flying 
into  the  woods  from  which  the  attack 
proceeded,  and  we  were  steaming  up  to 
the  wharf  again,  according  to  promise. 

Who  shall  describe  the  theatrical  at- 
tiindes  assumed  by  the  old  ladies  as 
tiiey  reappeared  at  the  front  door — 
being  Inckily  out  of  direct  range — and 
set  the  handkerchiefs  in  wilder  motion 
than  ever?  They  brandished  them, 
they  twirled  them  after  the  manner  of 
.the  domestic  mop,  tiiey  clasped  their 
4iands,  handkerchiefs  included.  Mean- 
while  their  friends  in  the  wood  popped 
away  steadily  at  us,  with  small  effect ; 
and  occasionally  an  invisible  field-piece 
thundered  feebly  from  another  quarter, 
with  equally  invisible  results.  Reaching 
the  wharf,  one  company,  under  Lieuten- 
ant (now  Captain)  Danilson,  was  prompt- 
ly deployed  in  search  of  our  assailants, 
who  soon  grew  silent  Not  so  the  old 
ladies,  when  I  announced  to  them  my 
purpose,  and  added,  with  extreme  re- 
gret, that,  as  the  wind  was  high,  I 
should  bum  only  that  half  of  the  town 
which  lay  to  leeward  of  their  house, 
which  did  not,  after  all,  amount  to  much. 
Between  gratitude  for  this  degree  of 
mercy  and  imploring  appeals  for  great- 
er, the  treacherous  old  ladies  manoeu- 
vred with  clasped  hands  and  demon- 
strative handkerchiefs  around  me,  im- 
pairing the  effect  of  their  eloquence  by 
constantly  addressing  me  as  <*  Mr.  Cap- 
tain " ;  for  I  have  observed,  that,  while 
the  sternest  officer  is  greatly  propitiated 
by  attributing  to  him  a  rank  a  little 
higher  than  his  own,  yet  no  one  is  ever 
mollified  by. an  error  in  the  opposite 
direction.  I  tried,  however,  to  disre- 
gard ^uch  low  considerations,  and  to 
strike  the  correct  mean  betwixt  the 
sublime  patriot  and  the  unsanctified  in- 
cendiary, while  I  could  find  no  refuge 
from  weak  contrition  save  in  greater 
and  greater  depths  of  courtesy;  and 
so  melodramatic  became  our  interview 
tiiat  some  of  the  soldiers  still  maintain 
that  *^  dem  dar  ole  Secesh  women  been 
a-gwine  for  kiss  de  Cunnel,"  before  we 
ended.    But  of  this  monstrous  accusa- 


tion I  wish  to  register  an  explicit  de- 
nial, once  for  all.  ^ 

Ehropping  down  to  Femandina  un- 
molest^  after  this  afiair,  we  were  kindly 
received  by  the  military  and  naval  com- 
manders, —  Colonel    Hawley,    of  the 
Seventh  Connecticut,  (now  Brigadier- 
General  Hawley,)  and  Lieutenant-Com- 
mander Hughes,  U.  S.  N.,  of  the  gun- 
boat Mohawk.    It  turned  out  very  op- 
portunely that  both  of  these  officers  had 
special  errands  to  suggest  still  farther 
up  the  St  Mar/s,  and  precisely  in  the 
region  where  I  wished  to  go.    Colonel 
Hawley  showed  me  a  letter  from  the 
War  Department,  requesting  him  to 
ascertain  the  possibility  of  obtaining  a 
supply  of  brick  for  Fort  Ginch  from 
the  brick3rard  which  had  furnished  the 
original  materials,  but  which  had  not 
been  visited  since  the  perilous  river- 
trip  of  the  Ottawa.   Lieutenant  Hughes 
wished  to  obtain  information  for  the 
Admiral  respecting  a  Rebel  steamer— 
the  Berosa  —  said  to  be  lying,  some- 
where up  the  river,  and  awaiting  her 
chance  to  run  the  blockade.    I  jumped 
at  the  opportunity.    Berosa  and  brick- 
yard, —  both   were   near  Woodstock, 
the  former  home  of  Corporal  Sutton ; 
he  was  ready  and  eager  to  pilot  us  up 
the  river ;  the  moon  would  be  just  right 
that  evening,  setting  at  3h.  19m.  A.  M. ; 
and  our  boat  was  precisely  the  one  to 
undertake  the  expedition.     Its  double- 
headed  shape  was  just  what  was  need- 
ed in  that  swift  and  crooked  stream ; 
the  exposed  plot-houses  had  been  tol- 
erably barricaded  with  the  thick  planks 
from  St  Simon's ;  and  we  further  ob- 
tained some  sand-bags  from  Fort  Clinch, 
through  the  aid  of  Captain  Sears,  the 
oflScer  in  charge,  who  had  originally 
suggested  the  expedition  after  brick. 
In  return  for  this  aid,  the  Planter  was 
sent  back  to  the  wharf  at  St  Mary's, 
to  bring  away  a  considerable  supply  of 
the  same  precious  article,  which  we  had 
observed  near  the  wharf.     Meanwhile 
the  John  Adams  was  coaling  from  naval 
supplies,  through  the  kindness  of  Lieu- 
tenant Hughes ;  and  the  Ben  De  Ford 
was  taking  in  the  lumber  which  we  had 
yesterday  brought  down.   It  was  a  great 


1865.] 


Vp  the  St.  Afaty's. 


431 


disappointment  to  be  unable  to  take  the 
latter  \'essel  up  the  river;  but  I  waa 
unwillingly  convinced^  that,  though  the 
depth  of  water  might  be  sufficicmt,  yet 
her  length  would  be  unmanageable  in 
the  swift  current  and  sharp  turns.  The 
Planter  must  also  be  sent  on  a  separate 
cruise,  as  her  weak  and  disabled  mar 
chinery  made  her  useless  for  my  pur- 
pose. Two  hundred  men  were  there- 
fore transferred,  as  before,  to  the  nar- 
row hoki  of  the  John  Adams,  in  addi- 
tion to  the  company  permanently  sta- 
tioned on  board  to  work  the  guns.  At 
seven  o'clock  on  the  evening  of  Janu- 
ary 29th,  beneath  a  lovely  moon,  we 
steamed  up  the  river. 

Never  shall  I  forget  the  mystery  and 
excitement  of  that  night  I  know  noth- 
ing in  life  more  fascinating  than  the 
nocturnal  ascent  of  an  unknown  river, 
leading  far  into  an  enemy's  country, 
where  one  glides  in  the  dim  moonlight 
between  dark  hills  and  meadows,  each 
turn  of  the  channel  making  it  seem  like 
an  inland  lake,  and  cutting  you  off  as 
by  a  barrier  from  all  behind,  —  with  no 
sign  of  human  life,  but  an  occasional 
picket-fire  left  glimmering  beneath  the 
bank,  or  the  yelp  of  a  dog  from  some 
low-lying  plantation.  On  such  occa- 
sions, every  nerve  is  strained  to  its  ut- 
most tension ;  all  dreams  of  romance 
appear  to  promise  immediate  fulfilment ; 
all  lights  on  board  the  vessel  are  ob- 
scured, loud  voices  are  hushed ;  you 
£uicy  a  thousand  men  on  shore,  and 
yet  see  nothing ;  the  lonely  river,  un- 
accustomed to  furrowing  keels,  lapses 
by  the  vessel  with  a  treacherous  sound ; 
and  all  the  senses  are  merged  in  a  sort 
of  anxious  trance.  Three  times  I  have 
had  in  full  perfection  this  fascinating 
experience ;  but  that  night  was  the  firsts 
and  Its  zest  was  the  keenest  It  will 
come  back  to  me  in  dreams,  if  I  live 
a  thousand  years. 

I  feared  no  attack  during  our  ascend 
—  that  danger  was  for  our  return ;  but 
I  feared  the  intricate  navigation  of  the 
river,  though  I  did  not  fully  know,  till 
tfie  actual  experience,  how  dangerous 
it  was.  We  passed  without  trouble  far 
above  the  scene  of  our  first  fight,-— 


the  Battle  of  the  Hundred  Pines,  as  my 
ofilcers  had  baptized  it;  and  ever,  as 
we  ascended,  the  banks  grew  steeper, 
the  current  swifter,  the  channel  more 
tortuous  and  more  incumbered  with 
projecting  branches  and  drifting  wood. 
No  piloting  less  skilful  than  that  of 
Corporal  Sutton  and  his  mate,  James 
Bezzard,  could  have  carried  us  through, 
I  thought ;  and  no  side-wheel  steamer 
less  strong  than  a  ferry-boat  could  have 
borne  the  crash  and  force  with  which 
we  struck  the  wooded  banks  of  the 
river.  But  the  powerful  paddles,  built 
to  break  the  Northern  ice,  could  crush, 
the  Southern  pine  as  well;  and  we 
came  safely  out  of  entanglements  that 
at  first  seemed  formidable.  We  had 
the  tide  with  us,  which  makes  steering 
far  more  difficult;  and,  in  the  sharp 
angles  of  the  river,  there  was  often  no 
resource  but  to  run  the  bow  boldly  on 
shore,  let  the  stem  swing  round,  and 
then  reverse  the  motion.  As  the  re<* 
versing  machinery  was  generally  out  of 
order,  the  engineer  stupid  or  frightened, 
and  the  captain  excited,  this  involved 
moments  of  tolerably  concentrated  anx- 
iety. Eight  times  we  grounded  in  the 
upper  waters,  and  once  lay  aground  for 
half  an  hour ;  but  at  last  we  dropped 
anchor  before  the  litde  town  of  Wood- 
stock, after  moonset  and  an  hour  before 
daybreak,  just  as  I  had  planned,  and  so 
quietly  that  scarcely  a  dog  bsu'ked,*  and 
not  a  soul  in  the  town,  as  we  afterwards 
found,  knew  of  our  arrivaL 

As  silently  as  possible,  the  great  fiat- 
boat  which  we  had  brought  from  St 
Simon's  was  filled  with  men.  Major 
Strong  was  sent  on  shore  with  two  com- 
panies,— those  of  Captain  James  and 
Captain  Metcalf, — with  instructions  to 
surround  the  town  quietly,  allow  no  one 
to  leave  it,  molest  no  one,  and  hold  as 
temporary  prisoners  every  man  whom 
he  found.  I  watched  them  push  off  into 
the  darkness,  got  the  remaining  force 
ready  to  land,  and  then  paced  the  deck 
for  an  hour  in  silent  watchfulness,  wait- 
ing for  rifle-shots.  Not  a  sound  came 
from  the  shore,  save  the  barking  of  dc^ 
and  the  morning  crow  of  cocks  ;  the 
time  seemed  interminable ;  but  when 


432 


Vp  the  St.  Mary's. 


[April. 


daylight  came,  I  landed,  and  found  a 
pair  of  scarlet  trousers  pacing  on  their 
beat  before  every  house  in  the  village, 
and  a  small  squad  of  prisoners,  stunted 
and  forlorn  as  FalstafiPs  ragged  regi- 
ment, already  in  hand.  I  observed  with 
delight  the  good  demeanor  of  my  men 
towards  these  forlorn  Anglo-Saxons, 
and  towards  the  more  tumultuous  wom- 
en. Even  one  soldier,  who  threatened 
to  throw  an  old  termagant  into  the  river, 
took  care  to  append  the  courteous  epi- 
thet "  Madam." 

I  took  a  survey  of  the  premises.  The 
chief  house,  a  pretty  one  with  pictu- 
resque outbuildings,  was  that  of  Mrs. 
A.,  who  owned  the  mills  and  lum- 
ber-wharves adjoining.  The  wealth  of 
these  wharves  had  not  been  exagger- 
ated. There  was  lumber  enough  to 
freight  half  a  dozen  steamers,  and  I 
half  regretted  that  I  had  agreed  to  take 
down  a  freight  of  bricks  instead.  Fur- 
ther researches  made  me  grateful  that 
I  had  already  explained  to  my  men  the 
difference  between  public  foraging  and 
private  plunder.  Along  the  river-bank 
I  found  building  after  building  crowded 
with  costly  furniture,  all  neatly  packed, 
just  as  it  was  sent  up  from  St  Mary's 
when  that  town  was  abandoned.  Pianos 
were  a  drug ;  china,  glass-ware,  mahog- 
any, pictures,  all  were  here.  And  here 
were  my  men,  who  knew  that  their  own 
labor  had  earned  for  their  masters  these 
luxuries,  or  such  as  these ;  their  own 
wives  and  children  were  still  sleeping 
on  the  floor,  perhaps,  at  Beaufort  or 
Femandina;  and  yet  they  submitted, 
almost  without  a  murmur,  to  the  en- 
forced abstinence.  Bed  and  bedding 
for  our  hospitals  they  might  take  from 
those  store-rooms, — such  as  the  sur- 
geon selected, — also  an  old  flag  which 
we  found  in  a  corner,  and  an  old  field- 
piece,  (which  the  regiment  still  possess- 
es,)— but  after  this  the  doors  were  closed* 
and  left  unmolested.  It  cost  a  struggle 
to  some  of  the  men,  whose  wives  were 
destitute,  I  know ;  but  their  pride  was 
very  easily  touched,  and  wh^n  this  ab- 
stinence was  once  recognized  as  a  rule, 
they  claimed  it  as  an  honor,  in  this  and 
all  succeeding  expeditions.   I  flatter  my- 


self, that,  if  they  had  once  been  set  upon 
wholesale  plimdering,  they  would  have 
done  it  as  thoroughly  as  their  betters ; 
but  I  have  always  been  infinitely  grate- 
fid,  both  for  the  credit  and  for  the  disci- 
pline of  the  regiment, — as  well  as  for 
the  men's  subsequent  lives, — that  the 
opposite  method  was  adopted. 

When  the  morning  was  a. little  ad- 
vanced, I  called  on  Mrs.  A.,  who  re- 
ceived me  in  quite  a  stately  way  at  her 
own  door  with  *'  To  what  am  I  indebted 
for  the  honor  of  this  visit,  Sir  ?  "  The 
foreign  name  of  the  £unily,  and  the  trop- 
ical look  of  the  buildings,  made  it  seem 
(as,  indeed,  did  all  the  rest  of  the  ad- 
venture) Uke  a  chapter  out  of  "  Amyas 
Leigh  " ;  but  as  I  had  happened  to  hear 
that  the  lady  herself  was  a  Philadelphian 
and  her  deceased  husband  a  New-York- 
er, I  could  not  feel  even  that  modicum 
of  reverence  due  to  sincere  Southerners. 
However,  I  wished  to  present  my  cre- 
dentials ;  so,  calling  up  my  companion, 
I  said  that  I  believed  she  had  been  pre- 
viously acquainted  with  Corporal  Rob- 
ert Sutton  ?  I  never  saw  a  finer  bit  of 
unutterable  indignation  than  came  over 
the  face  of  my  hostess,  as  she  slowly 
recognized  him.  She  drew  herself  up, 
and  dropped  out  the  monosyllables  of 
her  answer  as  if  they  were  so  many 
drops  of  nitric  acid.  ''Ah,"  quoth  my 
lady,  ''  we  called  him  Bob ! " 

It  was  a  group  for  a  painter.  The 
whole  drama  of  the  war  seemed  to  re- 
verse itself  in  an  instant,  and  my  tall, 
well-dressed,  imposing,  philosophic  Cor- 
poral dropped  down  the  immeasurable 
depth  into  a  mere  plantation  "Bob" 
again.  So  at  least  in  my  imagination ; 
not  to  that  personage  himself.  Too 
essentially  dignified  in  his  nature  to  be 
moved  by  words  where  substantial  real- 
ities were  in  question,  he  simply  turned 
from  the  lady,  touched  his  hat  to  me, 
and  asked  if  I  would  wish  to  see  the 
slave -jail,  as  he  had  the  keys  in  his 
possession. 

If  he  fancied  that  I  was  in  danger  of 
being  overcome  by  blandishments  and 
needed  to  be  recalled  to  realities,  it  was 
a  master-stroke. 

I  must  say,  that,  when  the  door  of  that 


i86s.] 


Up  the  St.  Mar/s. 


433 


▼illanous  edifice  was  thrown  open  before 
mc,  I  felt  glad  that  my  main  interview 
with  Its  lady  proprietor  had  passed  be- 
fore I  saw  it     It  was  a  small  building, 
like  a  Northern  com-bam,  and  seemed 
to  have  as  prominent  and  as  legitimate 
a  place  among  the  outbuildings  of  the 
establishment     In  the  middle  of  the 
floor  was  a  large  staple  with .  a  rusty 
chain,  like  an  ox-chain,  for  fastening  a 
victim  down.    When  the  door  had  been 
opened  after  the  death  of  the  late  pro- 
prietor, my  informant  said  a  man  was 
found  padlocked  in  that  chain.     We 
found  also  three  pairs  of  stocks  of  va- 
rious construction,  two  of  which  had 
smaller  as  well  as  larger  holes,  evident- 
ly for  the  feet  of  women  or  children. 
In  a  building  near  by  we  found  some- 
thing far  more  complicated,  which  was 
perfectly  unintelligible  till  the  men  ex- 
plained all  its  parts :  a  machine  so  con- 
trived that  a  person  once  imprisoned  in 
it  could  neither  sit,  stand,  nor  lie,  but 
must  support  the  body  half  raised,  in 
a  position  scarcely  endurable.     I  have 
since  bitterly  reproached  myself  for  leav- 
ing this  piece  of  ingenuity  behind ;  but  it 
would  have  cost  much  labor  to  remove 
it,  and  to  bring  away  the  other  trophies 
seemed  then  enough.     I  remember  the 
unutterable  loathing  with  which  I  leaned 
against  the  door  of  that  prison-house ; 
I  had  thought  myself  seasoned  to  any 
conceivable  horrors  of  Slavery,  but  it 
seemed  as  if  the  visible  presence  of  that 
den  of  sin  would  choke  me.     Of  course 
it  would  have  been  burned  to  the  ground 
by  us,  but  that  this  would  have  involved 
the  sacrifice  of  every  other  building  and 
all  the  piles  of  lumber,  and  for  the  mo- 
ment it  seemed  as  if  the  sacrifice  would 
be  righteous.     But  I  forbore,  and  only 
took  as  trophies  the  instruments  of  tor- 
ture and  the  keys  of  the  jail. 

We  found  but  few  colored  people  in 
this  vicinity ;  some  we  brought  away 
with  us,  and  an  old  man  and  woman 
preferred  to  remain.  All  the  white  males 
whom  we  found  I  took  as  hostages,  in 
order  to  shield  us,  if  possible,  from  at- 
tack on  our  way  down*river,  explaining 
to  them  that  they  would  be  put  on  shore 
when  the  dangerous  points  were  passed. 

vou  xv.-»-NO.  90.  28 


I  knew  that  their  wives  could  easily 
send  nQtice  of  this  fact  to  the  Rebel 
forces  alon^  the  river.  My  hostages 
were  a  forlorn  -  looking  set  of  "  crack- 
ers," far  inferior  to  our  soldiers  in/Ay- 
sigue^  and  yet  quite  equal,  the  latter  de- 
clared, to  the  average  material  of  the 
Southern  armies.  None  were  in  uni- 
form, but  this  proved  nothing  as  to  their 
being  soldiers.  One  of  them,  a  merd 
boy,  was  captured  at  his  own  door,  with 
gun  in  hand.  It  was  a  fowling-piece, 
which  he  used  only,  as  his  mother  plain- 
tively assured  me,  "  to  shoot  little  birds 
with."  As  the  guileless  youth  had  for 
this  purpose  loaded  the  gun  with  eigh- 
teen buck-shot,  we  thought  it  justifiable 
to  confiscate  both  the  weapon  and  the 
owner,  in  mercy  to  the  birds. 

We  took  from  this  place,  for  the  use 
of  the  army,  a  flock  of  some 'thirty  sheep, 
forty  bushels  of  rice,  some  other  pro- 
visions, tools,  oars,  and  a  little  lumber, 
leaving  all  possible  space  for  the  bricks 
which  we  expected  to  obtain  just  below. 
I  should  have  gone  farther  up  the  river, 
biit  for  a  dangerous  boom  which  kept 
back  a  great  number  of  logs  in  a  large 
brook  that  here  fell  into  the  St  Mary^s ; 
the  stream  ran  with  force,  and  if  the 
Rebels  had  wit  enough  to  do  it,  they 
might  in  ten  minutes  so  choke  the  river 
with  drift-wood  as  infinitely  to  enhance 
our  troubles.  So  we  dropped  down 
stream  a  mile  or  two,  found  the  very 
brickyard  from  which  Fort  Clinch  had 
been  constructed,  —  still  stored  with 
bricks,  and  seemingly  unprotected.  Here 
Sergeant  Rivers  again  planted  his  stand- 
ard, and  the  men  toiled  eagerly,  for  sev- 
eral hours,  in  loading  our  boat  to  the 
utmost  with  the  bricks.  Meanwhile  we 
questioned  black  and  white  witnesses, 
and  learned  for  the  first  time  that  tl\^ 
Rebels  admitted  a  repulse  at  Township 
Landing,  and  that  Lieutenant  Jones  and 
ten  of  their  number  were  killed, — though 
this  I  fancy  to  have  been  an  exaggera- 
tion. They  also  declared  that  the  mys- 
terious steamer  Berosa  was  lying  at 
tlie  head  of  the  river,  but  was  a  broken- 
down  and  worthless  affair,  and  would 
never  get  to  sea.  The  result  has  since 
proved  this ;  for  the  vessel  subsequently 


434 


Up  the  St  Mary's. 


[April, 


ran  the  blockade  and  foundered  near 
sfhore,  the  crew  barely  escaping  with 
their  lives.  I  had  the  pleasure,  as  it 
happened,  of  being  the  first  person  to 
forward  this  information  to  Admiral  Du- 
pont,  when  it  came  through  the  pickets, 
many  months  after,  —  thus  concluding 
my  report  on  the  Berosa. 
,  Before  the  work  at  the  yard  was  over, 
the  pickets  reported  mounted  men  in 
the  woods  near  by,  as  had  previously 
been  the  report  at  Woodstock.  This 
admonished  us#to  lose  no  time;  and 
as  we  left  the  wharf,  immediate  arrange- 
ments were  made  to  have  the  gun-crews 
all  in  readiness,  and  to  keep  the  rest  of 
the  men  below,  since  their  musketry 
would  be  of  little  use  now,  and  I  did 
not  propose  to  risk  a  life  unnecessarily. 
The  chief  obstacle  to  this  was  their  own 
eagerness  ;  penned  down  on  one  side, 
they  popped  up  on  the  other ;  their  offi- 
cers, too,  were  eager  to  see  what  was 
going  on,  and  were  almost  as  hard  to 
cork  down  as  the  men.  Add  to  this, 
that  the  vessel  was  now  very  crowded, 
and  that  I  had  to  be  chiefly  on  the  hur- 
ricane-deck with  the  pilots.  Captain 
Clifton,  master  of  the  vessel,  was  brave 
to  excess,  and  as  much  excited  as  the 
men  ;  he  could  no  more  be  kept  in  the 
little  pilot-house  than  they  below ;  and 
when  we  had  passed  one  or  two  bluffs, 
with  no  sign  of  an  enemy,  he  grew  more 
and  more  irrepressible,  and  exposed  him- 
self conspicuously  on  the  upper  deck. 
Perhaps  we  all  were  a  little  lulled  by  ap- 
parent safety ;  for  myself,  I  lay  down  for 
a  moment  on  a  settee  in  a  state-room, 
having  been  on  my  feet,  almost  without 
cessation,  for  twenty-four  hours. 

Suddenly  there  swept  down  from  a 
bluff  above  us,  on  the  Georgia  side,  a 
fhingling  of  shout  and  roar  and  rattle  as 
of  a  tornado  let  loose ;  and  as  a  storm 
of  bullets  came  pelting  against  the  sides 
of  the  vessel  and  through  a  window, 
there  went  up  a  shrill  answering  shout 
from  our  own  men.  It  took  but  an  in- 
stant for  me  to  reach  the  gun -deck. 
After  all  my  efforts,  the  men  had  swarm- 
ed once  more  from  below,  and  already, 
crowding  at  both  ends  of  the  boat,  were 
loading  and  firing  with  inconcci^ 


rapidity,  shouting  to  each  other,  ^  Neb- 
er  gib  it  up  1 ''  and  of  course  having  bo 
steady  aim,  as  the  vessel  glided  and 
whirled  in  the  swift  current  Mean- 
while the  officers  in  charge  of  the  large 
guns  had  their  crews  in  order,  and  our 
shells  began  to  fly  over  the  blufis,  which/ 
as  we  now  saw,  should  have  been  shell- 
ed in  advance,  only  that  we  had  to  econ- 
omize ammunition.  The  other  soldiers 
I  drove  below,  almost  by  main  force, 
wi^  the  aid  of  their  cheers,  who  be- 
haved exceedingly  well,  giving  the  men 
leave  to  fire  from  the  open  port-holes 
which  lined  the  lower  deck,  almost  at 
the  water's  leveL  In  the  very  midst  of 
the  miUey  Major  Strong  came  from  the 
upper  deck,  with  a  fiace  of  horror,  and 
whispered  to  me,  —  "Captain  Clifton 
was  killed  at  the  first  shot  by  my  side." 

If  he  had  said  that  the  vessel  was  on 
Are,  the  shock  would  hardly  have'  been 
greater.  Of  course,  the  military  com- 
mander on  board  a  steamer  is  almost 
as  helpless  as  an  unarmed  man,  so  far 
as  the  risks  of  water  go.  A  seaman  must 
command  there.  In  the  hazardous  voy- 
age of  last  night,  I  had  learned,  though 
unjustly,  to  distrust  every  official  on 
board  the  steamboat  except  this  excit- 
able, brave,  warm-hearted  sailor ;  and 
now,  among  these  added  dangers,  to 
lose  him  1  The  responsibility  for  his 
life  also  thrilled  me ;  he  was  not  among 
my  soldiers,  and  yet  he  was  killed.  I 
thought  of  his  wife  and  children,  of  whom 
he  had  spoken  ;  but  one  learns  to  think 
rapidly  in  war,  and,  cautioning  the  Ma- 
jor to  silence,  I  went  up  to  the  hiuri- 
cane-deck  and  drew  in  the  helpless 
body,  that  it  should  be  safe  from  fur- 
ther desecration,  and  then  looked  to  see 
where  we  were. 

We  were  now  gliding  past  a  safe  reach 
of  marsh,  while  our  assailants  wereYid- 
ing  by  cross-paths  to  attack  us  at  the 
next  bluff.  It  was  Reed's  Bluflf  where 
we  were  first  attacked,  and  Scrubby 
Bluflf  I  think,  was  next.  They  were 
shelled  in  advance,  but  swarmed  man- 
fully to  the  banks  again  as  we  swept 
round  one  of  tlie  sharp  angles  of  tlie 
stnam'  beneath  their  fire.  My  men 
V  pretty  well  imprisoned  below 


l86s.] 


Up  tlu  St,  Mary's. 


435 


in  the  hot  and  crowded  hold,  and  ac- 
tually fought  each  other,  the  officers 
afterwards  said,  for  places  at  the  open 
port-holes,  from  which  to  aim.  Others 
implored  to  be  landed,  exclaiming  that 
they  "  supposed  de  Cunnel  knew  best," 
but  it  was  "  mighty  mean  "  to  be  shut 
up  down  below,  when  they  might  be 
"fightin*  de  Secesh  in  eU  clar  field,^ 
This  clear  field,  and  no  £avor,  was  what 
they  thenceforward  sighed  for.  But  in 
such  difficult  navigation  it  would  have 
been  madness  to  think  of  landing,  al- 
though one  daring  Rebel  actually  sprang 
upon  the  large  boat  which  we  towed 
astern,  where  he  was  shot  down  by  one 
of  our  sergeants.  This  boat  was  soon 
after  swamped  and  abandoned,  then 
taken  and  repaired  by  the  Rebels  at  a 
later  date,  and  finally,  by  a  piece  of  dra- 
matic completeness,  was  seized  by  a 
party  of  fiigitive  slaves,  who  escaped  in 
it  to  our  lines,  and  some  of  whom  en- 
listed in  my  own  regiment 

It  has  always  been  rather  a  mystery 
to  me  why  the  Rebels  did  not  fell  a  few 
trees  across  the  stream  at  some  of  the 
many  sharp  angles  where  we  might  so 
easily  have  been  thus  imprisoned.  This, 
however,  they  did  not  attempt,  and  with 
the  skilful  pilotage  of  our  trusty  Corpo- 
ral —  philosophic  as  Socrates  through 
all  the  din,  and  occasionally  relieving 
his  mind  by  taking  a  shot  with  his  rifie 
through  the  high  port-holes  of  the  pilot- 
house— we  glided  safely  on.  The  steam- 
er did  not  ground  once  on  the  descent, 
and  the  mate  in  command,  Mr.  Smith, 
did  his  duty  very  well.  The  plank 
sheathing  of  the  pilot-house  was  pen- 
etrated by  few  bullets,  though  struck 
by  so  many  outside  that  it  was  visited 
as  a  curiosity  after  our  return  {  and 
even  among  the  gun-crews,  though  they 
had  no  protection,  not  a  man  was  hurt 
As  we  approached  some  wooded  bluft^ 
usually  on  the  Georgia  side,  we  could 
see  galloping  along  the  hillside  what 
seemed  a  regiment  of  mounted  riflemen, 
and  could  see  our  shell  scatter  them  ere 
we  approached.  Shelling  did  not,  how- 
ever, prevent  a  rather  fierce  fusilade 
from  our  old  friends  of  Captain  Clark's 
company   at  Waterman's    Bluff,  near 


Township  Landing ;  but  even  this  did  no 
serious  damage,  and  this  was  the  last 

It  was  of  course  impossible,  while 
thus  running  the  gauntlet,  to  put  our 
hostages  ashore,  and  I  could  only  ex- 
plain to  them  that  they  must  thank 
their  own  friends  for  their  inevitable 
detention.  I  was  by  no  means  proud  of 
their  forlorn  appearance,  and  besought 
Colonel  Hawley  to  take  them  off  my 
hands  ;  but  he  was  sending  no  flags  of 
truce  at  that  time,  and  liked  their  looks 
no  better  than  I  did.  So  I  took  them 
to  Port  Royal,  where  they  were  after- 
wards sent  safely  across  the  lines.  Our 
men  were  pleased  at  taking  them  back 
with  us,  as  they  had  already  said,  regret- 
fully, ^'  S'pose  we  leave  dem  Secesh  at 
Femandina,  General  Saxby  won't  see 
'em," — as  if  they  were  some  new  nat- 
ural curiosity,  which  indeed  they  were. 
One  soldier  further  suggested  the  ex- 
pediency of  keeping  them  permanently 
in  camp,  to  be  used  as  marks  for  the 
guns  of  the  relieved  guard  every  morn- 
ing. But  this  was  rather  an  ebullition 
of  foncy  than  a  sober  proposition. 

Against  these  levities  I  must  put  a 
piece  of  more  tragic  eloquence,  which  I 
took  down  by  night  on  the  steamer's 
deck  from  the  thrilling  harangue  of  Cor- 
poral Adam  Ashton,  one  of  our  most 
gifted  prophets,  whose  influence  over 
the  men  was  unbounded.  *'When  I 
heard,"  he  said  '*  de  bombshell  a-scream- 
in'  troo  de  woods  like  de  Judgment  Day, 
I  said  to  myself,  *  If  my  head  was  took 
off  to-night,  dey  could  n't  put  my  soul  in 
de  torments,  perceps  [except]  God  was 
my  enemy ! '  And  when  de  rifle-bullets 
came  whizzin'  across  de  deck,  I  cried 
aloud,  '  God  help  my  congregation  f 
Boys,  load  and  fire!'" 

I  must  pass  briefly  over  the  few  re- 
maining days  of  our  cruise.  At  Fer- 
nandina  we  met  the  Planter,  which  had 
been  successful  on  her  separate  expedi- 
tion, and  had  destroyed  extensive  salt- 
works at  Crooked  River,  under  charge 
of  the  energetic  Captain  Trowbridge, 
efficiently  aided  by  Captain  Rogers. 
Our  commodities  being  in  part  deliver- 
ed at  Femandina,  our  decks  being  full, 
coal  nearly  out,  and  time  up,  we  called 


436 


Up  tlu  St.  Mary's. 


[April, 


once  more  at  St  Simon's  Sound,  bring- 
ing away  the  remainder  of  our  railroad- 
iron,  with  some  which  the  naval  officers 
had  {Mreviously  disinterred,  and  then 
steamed  back  to  Beaufort  Arriving 
there  at  sunrise,  (February  2,  1863,)  I 
made  my  way  vnth  Dr.  Rogers  to  Gen- 
eral Saxton's  bed-room,  and  laid  be- 
fore him  the  keys  and  shackles  of  the 
slave-prison,  with  my  report  of  the  good 
conduct  of  the  men, — as  Dr.  Rogers 
remarked,  a  message  from  heaven  and 
another  from  helL 

Slight  as  this  expedition  now  seems 
among  the  vast  events  of  the  war,*  the 
future  student  of  the  newspapers  of  that 
day  will  find  that  it  occupied  no  little 
space  in  their  columns,  so  intense  was 
the  interest  which  then  attached  to  the 
novel  experiment  of  employing  black 
troops.  So  obvious,  too,  was  the  value, 
during  this  raid,  of  their  local  knowl- 
edge and  their  enthusiasm,  that  it  was 
impossible  not  to  find  in  its  successes 
new  suggestions  for  the  war.  Certainly 
I  would  not  have  consented  to  repeat 
the  enterprise  with  the  bravest  white 
troops,  leaving  Corporal  Sutton  and  his 
mates  behind,  for  I  should  have  expect- 
ed to  fiail.  For  a  year  after  our  raid 
the  Upper  St  Mary's  remained  unvis- 
ited,  till  in  1864  the  large  force  with 
which  we  held  Florida  secured  peace 
upon  its  banks  ;  then  Mrs.  A.  took  the 
oath  of  allegiance,  the  Government 
bought  her.remaining  lumber,  and  the 
John  Adams  again  ascended  with  a  de- 
tachment of  my  men  under  Lieutenant 
Parker,  and  brought  a  portion  of  it  to 
Fernandina.  By  a  strange  turn  of  for- 
tune. Corporal  Sutton  (now  Sergeant) 
was  at  this  time  in  jail  at  Hilton  Head, 
under  sentence  of  court-martial  for  an 
alleged  act  of  mutiny,  —  an  affair  in 
which  the  general  voice  of  our  officers 
sustained  him  and  condemned  his  ac- 
cusers, so  that  he  soon  received  a  full 
pardon,  and  was  restored  in  honor  to 
his  place  in  the  regiment,  which  he  has 
ever  since  held. 

Nothing  can  ever  exaggerate  the  fas- 
cinations of  war,  whether  on  the  largest 
or  smallest  scale.  When  we  settled 
down  into  camp-life  again,  it  seemed 


like  a  butterfly's  folding  its  wings  to 
enter  the  chrysalis.  None  of  us  could 
listen  to  the  crack  of  a  gun  without  re- 
calling instantly  the  sharp  shots  that 
spilled  down  from  the  bluffs  of  the  St 
Mary's,  or  hear  a  sudden  trampling  of 
horsenaen  by  night  without  recalling 
the  sounds  which  startled  us  on  the 
Field  of  the  Hundred  Pines.  The 
memory  of  our  raid  was  preserved  in 
the  camp  by  many  legends  of  adven- 
ture, growing  vaster  and  more  incredi- 
ble as  time  wore  on, — and  by  the  morn- 
ing appeals  to  the  surgeon  of  some 
veteran  invalids,  who  could  now  cut  off 
all  reproofs  and  suspicions  with  "  Doc- 
tor, I 's  been  a  sickly  pusson  eber  since 
de  expeditions^  But  to  me  the  most 
vivid  remembrancer  was  the  flock  of 
sheep  which  we  had  "  lifted."  The  Post 
Quartermaster  discreetly  gave  us  the 
charge  of  them,  and  they  filled  a  gap  in 
the  landscape  and  in  the  larder, — which 
last  had  before  presented  one  unvaried 
round  of  impenetrable  beef.  Mr.  Oba- 
diah  Oldbuck,  when  he  decided  to  adopt 
a  pastoral  life,  and  assumed  the  pro- 
visional name  of  Thyrsis,  never  looked 
upon  his  flocks  and  herds  with  more 
unalloyed  contentment  than  I  upon  that 
fleecy  &mily.  I  had  been  familiar,  in 
Kansas,  with  the  metaphor  by  which 
the  sentiments  of  an  owner  were  cred- 
ited to  his  property,  and  had  heard  of 
a  pro-slavery  colt  and  an  anti-slavery 
cow.  The  feet  that  these  sheep  were 
but  recently  converted  from  "  Secesh  " 
sentiments  was  their  crowning  charm. 
Methought  they  frisked  and  fattened  in 
the  joy  of  their  deliverance  from  the 
shadow  of  Mrs.  A.'s  slave-jail,  and 
gladly  contemplated  translation  into 
mutton-broth  for  sick  or  wounded  sol- 
diers. The  very  slaves  who  once,  per- 
chance, were  sold  at  auction  witTi  yon 
aged  patriarch  of  the  flock,  had  now  as- 
serted their  humanity  and  would  devour 
him  as  hospital  rations.  Meanwhile  our 
shepherd  bore  a  sharp  bayonet  without 
a  crook,  and  I  felt  myself  a  peer  of 
Ulysses  and  Rob  Roy,  —  those  sheep- 
stealers  of  less  elevated  aims,  —  when 
I  met  in  my  daily  rides  these  wandering 
trophies  of  our  wider  wanderings. 


i86s.] 


Robin  Badfellow.  —  Ice  and  Esquimaux. 


437 


ROBIN    BADFELLOW. 

FOUR  bluish  eggs  all  in  the  moss ! 
Soft-lined  home  on  the  cherry-bough ! 
Life  is  trouble,  and  love  is  loss,— » 
There  *s  only  one  robin  now ! 

You  robin  up  in  the  cherry-tree^ 

Singing  your  soul  away, 
Great  is  the  grief  befallen  me, 

And  how  can  you  be  so  gay? 

Long  ago  when  you  cried  in  the  nest, 

The  last  of  the  sickly  brood, 
Scarcely  a  pin-feather  warming  your  breast, 

Who  was  it  brought  you  food  ? 

Who  said,  "Music,  come  fill  his  throat, 

Or  ever  the  May  be  fled"? 
Who  was  it  loved  the* wee  sweet  note 

And  the  bosom's  sea-shell  red? 

Who  said,  "Cherries,  grow  ripe  and  big, 
Black  and  ripe  for  this  bird  of  mine  "  ? 

How  little  bright-bosom  bends  the  twig, 
Drinking  the  black-heart's  wine  I 

Now  that  my  da^'s  and  nights  are  woe, 
Now  that  I  weep  for  love's  dear  sake, 

There  you  go  singing  away  as  though 
Never  a  heart  could  break! 


ICE   AND    ESQUIMAUX. 


CHAPTER   IV. 


AUTOCHTHONES. 


JULY  30.  —  At Hopedale, lat 55® 30', 
we  come  upon  an  object  of  first- 
class  interest,  worthy  of  the  gravest 
study,  —  an  original  and  pre- Adamite 
man.  In  two  words  I  give  the  reader 
a  key  to  my  final  conclusions,  or  im- 
pressions, concerning  the  Esquimaux 
race. 


Original:  Shakspeare  is  a  copyist, 
and  England  a  plagiarism,  in  comparison 
with  this  race.  The  Esquimaux  has 
done  all  for  himself:  he  has  developed 
his  own  arts,  adjusted  himself  by  his 
own  wit  to  the  Nature  which  surrounds 
him.  Heir  to  no  Rome,  Greece,  Persia, 
India,  he  stands  there  in  the  sole  strength 
of  his  native  resources,  rich  only  in  the 
traditionary  accomplishments  of  his  own 
race.  Cut  off  equally  from  the  chief 
bounties  of  Nature,  he  has  small  share 


438 


Ice  and  Esquimaux. 


[April. 


in  the  natural  wealth  of  mankind.  When 
Ceres  came  to  the  earth,  and  blessed 
it,  she  forgot  him.  The  grains,  the  do- 
mestic animals,  which  from  the  high 
plateaus  of  Asia  descended  with  the 
fathers  of  history  to  the  great  fields  of 
the  world,  to  him  came  not  The  sole 
domestic  animal  he  uses,  the  dog,  is  not 
the  same  with  that  creature  as  known 
elsewhere :  he  has  domesticated  a  woli^ 
and  made  a  dog  for  himself. 

Not  only  is  he  original,  but  one  of 
the  most  special  of  men,  related  more 
strictly  than  almost  any  other  to  a  par- 
ticular aspect  of  Nature.  Inseparable 
from  the  extreme  North,  the  sea-shore, 
and  the  seal,  he  is  himself,  as  it  were, 
a  seal  come  to  feet  and  hands,  and  prey- 
ing upon  his  more  primitive  kindred. 
The  cetacean  of  the  land,  he  is  local- 
ized, like  animals,  —  not  universal,  like 
civilized  man.  He  is  no  inhabitant  of 
the  globe  as  a  whole,  but  is  contained 
within  special  poles.  His  needle  does 
not  point  north  and  south ;  it  is  com- 
manded by  special  attractions,  and  points 
only  from  shore  to  sea  and  from  sea  to 
shore  in  the  arctic  zone.  Nor.  is  this 
relation  to  particular  phases  of  Nature 
superficial  merely,  a  relation  of  expe- 
dient and  convenience ;  it  penetrates, 
saturates,  nay.  anticipates  and  moulds 
him.  Whether  he  has  come  to  this 
correspondence  by  original  creation  or 
by  slow  adjustment,  he  certainly  does 
now  correspond  in  his  whole  physical 
and  mental  structure  to  the  limited  and 
special  surroundings  of  his  life,  —  the 
seal  itself  or  the  eider-duck  not  more. 

He  is  pre- Adamite,  I  said,  — and 
name  him  thus  not  as  a  piece  of  rhetori- 
cal smartness,  but  in  gravest  character- 
ization. 

The  first  of  human  epochs  is  that 
when  the  thoughts,  imaginations,  beliefs 
of  men  become  to  them  objects^  on  which 
further  thought  and  action  are  to  be  ad- 
justed, on  which  further  thought  and  ac- 
tion may  be  based.  So  long  as  man  is 
merely  responding  to  outward  and  phys- 
ical circumstances,  so  long  he  is  living 
by  bread  alone,  and  has  no  history.  It 
is  when  he  begins  to  respond  to  himself^ 
-—  to  create  necessities  and  supplies  out 


of  his  own  spirit, — to  build  architectures 
on  foundations  and  out  of  materials  that 
exist  only  in  virtue  of  his  own  spiritual 
activity,  —  to  live  by  bread  which  grows, 
not  out  of  the  soil,  but  out  of  the  soul, 
— it  is  then,  then  only,  that  history  be- 
gins. This  one  may  be  permitted  to 
name  the  Adamite  epoch. 

The  Esquimaux  belongs  to  that  pe- 
riod, more  primitive,  when  man  is  sim- 
ply responding  to  outward  Nature,  to 
physical  necessities.  He  invents,  but 
does  not  create  ;  he  adjusts  himself  to 
circumstances,  but  not  to  ideas  ;  he 
works  cunningly  upon  materials  which 
he  has  founds  but  never  on  material 
which  owes  its  existence  to  the  produc- 
tive force  of  his  own  spirit 

In  going  to  look  upon  the  man  of  this 
race,  you  sail,  not  merely  over  seas,  but 
over  ages,  epochs,  unknown  periods  of 
time,  —  sail  beyond  antiquity  itselfj  and 
issue  into  the  obscure  existence  that 
antedates  history.  Arrived  there,  you 
may  turn  your  eye  to  the  historical  past 
of  man  as  to  a  barely  possible  future. 
Palestine  and  Greece,  Moses  and  Ho- 
mer, as  yet  are  not  Who  shall  dare  to 
say  that  they  can  be  t  Surely  that  were 
but  a  wild  dream !  Expel  the  impossi- 
ble fancy  from  your  mind !  Go,  spear 
a  seal,  and  be  a  reasonable  being !  — 
Never  enthusiast  had  a  dream  of  the 
future  so  unspeakably  Utopian  as  actual 
history  becomes,  when  seen  from  the 
Esquimaux,  or  pre- Adamite,  point  of 
view. 

Swiss  lakes  are  raked,  Belgian  caves 
spaded  and  hammered,  to  find  relics  of 
old,  pre-historical  races.  Go  to  Labra- 
dor, and  you  find  the  object  sought 
above  ground.  There  he  is,  preserving 
all  the  characters  of  his  extinct  con- 
geners, —  small  in  stature,  low  and 
smooth  in  cranium,  held  utterly  in*  the 
meshes  of  Nature,  skilled  only  to  meet 
ingeniously  the  necessities  she  imposes, 
and  meeting  them  rudely,  as  man  ever 
does  till  the  ideal  element  comes  in: 
for  any  fine  feeling  of  even  physical 
wants,  any  delicacy  of  taste,  any  high 
notion  of  comfort,  is  due  less  to  the 
animal  than  to  the  spiritual  being  of 
man. 


1865.] 


let  and  Esquimaux. 


439 


A  little  sophisticated  he  is  now,  get- 
ting to  feel  himself  obsolete  in  this 
strange  new  world.  He  begins  to  bor- 
row, and  yet  is  unable  radically  to 
change;  outwardly  he  gains  a  very 
little  from  civilization,  and  grows  in- 
wardly poorer  and  weaker  by  all  that 
he  gains.  His  day  wanes  apace ;  soon 
it  will  be  past  He  begins  to  nurse  at 
the  breasts  of  the  civilized  world ;  and 
the  foreign  aliment  can  neither  sustain 
his  ancient  strength  nor  give  him  new. 
Civilization  forces  upon  him  a  rivalry 
to  which  he  is  unequal ;  it  wrests  the 
seal  from  his  grasp,  thins  it  out  of  his 
waters  ;  and  he  and  his  correlative  die 
away  together. 

We  reached  Hopedale,  as  intimated 
above,  on  the  morning  of  the  30th  of  July, 
at  least  a  month  later  than  had  been 
hoped.  The  reader  will  see  by  the  map 
that  this  place  is  about  half  way  from 
the  Strait  of  Belle  Isle  to  Hudson^s 
Strait  We  were  to  go  no  fiiirther  north. 
This  was  a  great  disappointment ;  for 
the  expectation  of  all,  and  the  keen 
desire  of  most,  had  been  to  reach  at 
least  Cape  Chudleigh,  at  the  opening  of 
Hudson's  Strait  Ice  and  storm  had 
hindered  us :  they  were  not  the  only 
hindrances. 

**-  The  Fates  are  against  us,"  said  one. 

"  It  is  true,"  answered  the  Elder,  — 
*^  the  Fates  are  against  us :  I  know  of 
nothing  more  fatal  than  imbecility." 

However,  we  should  be  satisfied  ;  for 
here  we  have  fairly  penetrated  the  great 
solitudes  of  the  North.  Lower  Labra- 
dor is  visited  by  near  forty  thousand 
fishermen  annually,  and  vessels  there 
are  often  more  frequent  than  in  Boston 
Bay.  But  at  a  point  not  far  from  the 
fifty-fifth  parallel  of  latitude  you  leave  all 
thes^  behind,  and  leave  equally  the  white 
residents  of  the  coast :  to  fishermen  and 
residents  alike  the  region  beyond  is  as 
littie  known  as  the  interior  of  Australia. 
There  their  world  comes  to  an  end; 
there  the  unknown  begins.  Knowledge 
and  curiosity  alike  pause  there  ;  toward 
all  beyond  their  only  feeling  is  one  of 
vague  dislike  and  dread.  And  so  1 
doubt  not  it  was  with  the  ordinary  in- 


habitant of  Western  £iux)pe  before  the 
discovery  of  America.  The  Unknown, 
breaking  in  surf  on  his  very  shores,  did 
not  invite  him,  but  dimly  repelled. 
Thought  about  it,  attraction  toward  it, 
would  seem  to  him  far-fetched,  gratui- 
tous, affected,  indicating  at  best  a  feath- 
er-headed flightiness  of  mind.  The  sail- 
ors of  Columbus  probably  regarded  him 
much  as  Sancho  Panza  does  Don  Quix- 
ote, with  an  obscure,  overpowering  awe, 
and  yet  with  a  very  definite  contempt 

On  our  return  we  passed  two  Yankee 
fishermen  in  the  Strait  of  Belle  Isle. 
The  nearer  hailed. 

"  How  far  down  [up]  have  you  been  ?  " 

•"  To  Hopedale." 

"  Where  ?  "  —  in  the  tone  of  one  who 
hears  distincdy  enough,  but  cannot  be- 
lieve that  he  hears. 

"  Hopedale." 

«  H-o-p-e-d-a-l-e !  Where  the  Devil 's 
that  ?  " 

"A  hundred  and  fifty  miles  beyond 
Cape  Harrison."  (Cape  Weback  on  the 
map.) 

Inarticulate  gust  of  astonishment  in 
response. 

'*  Where  did  be  say  ?  "  inquires  some 
one  in  the  ^ther  schooner. 

" 1    He  's  been  to  the  North 

Pole  I " 

To  him  it  was  all  North  Pole  beyond 
Cape  Harrison,  and  he  evidentiy  looked 
upon  us  much  as  he  might  upon  the 
apparition  of  the  Flying  Dutchman,  or 
some  other  spectre-ship. 

The  supply-ship  which  yearly  visits 
the  Moravian  stations  on  this  coast  an- 
chored in  the  harbor  of  Hopedale  ten 
minutes  before  us :  we  had  been  rapid- 
ly gaining  upon  her  in  our  Flying  Yan- 
kee for  the  last  twenty  miles.  Signal- 
guns  had  answered  each  other  from  ship 
and  shore  ;  the  missionaries  were  soon 
on  board,  and  men  and  women  were 
fiUling  into  each  other's  arms  with  joy- 
ful, mournful  kisses  and  tears.  The 
ship  returned  somq  missionaries  after 
long  absence ;  it  brought  also  a  betroth- 
ed lady,  next  day  to  be  married :  there 
was  occasion  for  joy,  even  beyond  wont 
on  these  occasions,  when,  year  by  year, 
the  missionary-exiles  feel  with  bound- 


440 


Ice  and  Esquimaux, 


[April, 


ing  blood  the  touch  of  civilization  and 
fatherland.  But  now  those  who  came 
on  board  brought  sad  tidings,  —  for  one 
of  their  ancient  colaborers,  closely  akin 
to  the  new  comers,  had  within  a  day  or 
two  died.  Love  and  death  the  world 
over ;  and  also  the  hope  of  love  without 
death. 

Our  eyes  have  been  drawn  to  them  ; 
it  is  time  to  have  a  peep  at  Hopedale. 

I  had  been  so  long  looking  forward 
to  this  place,  had  heard  and  thought  of 
it  so  much  as  an  old  mission-station, 
where  was  a  village  of  Christian  Es- 
quimaux, that  I  fully  expected  to  see  a 
genuine  village,  with  houses,  wharves, 
streets.  It  would  not  equal  our  towns, 
of  course.  The  people  were  not  clean- 
ly ;  the  houses  would  be  unpainted,  and 
poor  in  comparison  with  ours.  I  had 
taken  assiduous  pains  to  tone  down  my 
expectations,  and  felt  sure  that  I  had 
moderated  them  liberally,  —  nay,  had 
been  philosophical  enough  to  make  dis- 
appointment impossible,  and  open  the 
opposite  possibility  of  a  pleasant  sur- 
prise. I  conceived  that  in  this  respect 
I  had  done  the  discreet  and  virtuous 
thing,  and  silently  moralized,  not  with- 
out self-complacency,  upon  the  folly  of 
carrying  through  the  world  expectations 
which  the  fact,  when  seen,  could  only 
put  out  of  countenance.  "  Make  your 
expectations  zero,"  I  said  with  Sartor. 

I  need  not  put  them  below  zero.  That 
would  be  too  cold  an  anticipation  to 
carry  even  to  this  latitude.  Zero :  a 
poor,  shabby  village  these  Christian 
Esquimaux  will  have  built,  even  after 
nigh  a  century  of  Moravian  tuition. 
Still  it  will  be  a  real  village,  not  a  dis- 
tracted jumble  of  huts,  such  as  we  bad 
seen  below. 

The  prospect  had  been  curiously 
pleasing.  True,  I  desired  much  to  see 
the  unadulterated  Esquimaux.  But 
that  would  come,  I  had  supposed,  in 
the  further  prosecution  of  our  voyage. 
Here  I  could  see  what  they  would  be- 
come under  loving  instruction, — could 
gauge  their  capabilities,  and  thus  an- 
swer one  of  the  prime  questions  I  had 
brought 

A  real  Hopedale,  after  all  this  wild, 


sterile,  hopeless  coast !  A  touch  of  dv« 
ilization,  to  contrast  with  the  impression 
of  that  Labradorian  rag-tag  existence 
which  we  had  hitherto  seen,  and  which 
one  could  not  call  human  without  cough- 
ing !  I  like  deserts  and  wilds, — but,  if 
you  please,  by  way  of  condiment  or 
sauce  to  civilization,  not  for  a  full  meaL 
I  have  not  the  heroic  Thoreau-diges- 
tion,  and  grow  thin  after  a  time  on  a 
diet  of  moss  and  granite,  even  when 
they  are  served  with  ice.  Lift  the  cur- 
tain, therefore,  and  let  us  look  forth- 
with on  your  Hopedale. 

"Hopedale?  Why,  here  it  is, — 
look ! " 

Well,  I  have  been  doing  nothing  less 
for  the  last  half-hour.  If  looking  could 
make  a  village,  I  should  begin  to  see  one. 
There,  to  be  sure,  is  the  mission-house, 
conspicuous  enough,  quaint  and  by  no 
means  unpleasing.  It  is  a  spaciou% 
substantial,  two-story  edifice,  painted  in 
two  shades  of  a  peculiar  red,  and  look- 
ing for  all  the  world  as  if  a  principal 
house,  taken  from  one  of  those  little 
German  toy-villages  which  are  in  vogue 
about  Christmas,  had  been  enormously 
magnified,  and  shipped  to  Labrador. 
There,  too,  and  in  similar  colors,  is  the 
long  chapel,  on  the  centre  of  whose 
roof  there  is  a  belfiy,  which  looks  like 
two  thirds  of  an  immense  red  t^;g^  drawn 
up  at  the  top  into  a  spindle,  and  this 
surmounted  by  a  weathercock,  —  as  if 
some  giant  hsui  attempted  to  blow  the 
6gg  from  beneath,  and  had  only  blown 
out  of  it  this  small  bird  with  a  stick  to 
stand  on !  Ah,  yes  1  and  there  is  the 
pig-sty,  —  not  in  keeping  with  the  rest, 
by  any  means !  It  must  be  that  they 
keep  a  pig  only  now  and  then,  and  for  a 
short  time,  and  house  it  any  way  for 
that  little  while.  But  no,  it  is  not  a 
piggery ;  it  is  not  a  building  at  aU  ;  it  is 
some  chance  heap  of  rubbish,  which 
will  be  removed  to-morrow. 

The  mission-station,  then,  is  here; 
but  the  village  must  be  elsewhere. 
Probably  it  is  on  the  other  side  of  this 
point  of  land  on  which  the  house  and 
chapel  are  situated ;  we  can  see  that 
the  water  sweeps  around  there.  That 
is  the  case,  no  doubt ;  Hopedale  is  over 


1865.] 


Ice  and  Esquitnaux, 


441 


therei  After  dinner  we  will  row  around, 
and  have  a  look  at  it 

After  dinner,  however,  we  decide  to 
go  first  and  pay  our  respects  to  the  mis- 
sionaries. They  are  entided  to  the  pre- 
cedence. We  long,  moreover,  to  take 
the  loving,  self-sacrificing  men  by  the 
hand;  while,  aside  firom  their  special 
claims  to  honor,  it  will  be  so  pleasant 
to  meet  cultivated  human  beings  once 
more!  They  are  Germans,  but  their 
head-quarters  are  at  London ;  they  will 
speak  English ;  and  if  their  vocabulary 
prove  scanty,  we  will  try  to  eke  it  out 
with  bits  of  German. 

We  row  ashore  in  our  own  skiff,  land, 

and Bless  us !  what  is  this  now  ? 

To  the  right  of  the  large,  neat,  comfort- 
able mission-house  is  a  wretched,  squal- 
id spatter  and  hotch-potch  of — ^hat  in 
the  world  to  call  them  ?  Huts  ?  Hov- 
els ?  One  has  a  respect  for  his  mother- 
tongue,  — above  all,  if  he  have  assumed 
obligations  toward  it  by  professing  the 
function  of  a  writer ;  and  any  term  by 
which  human  dwellings  are  designated 
must  be  taken  cum  grano  saliSy  if  ap^ 
plied  to  these  structures.  '*  It  cannot 
be  that  this  is  Christian  Hopedale!" 
Softly,  my  good  Sir;  it  can  he,  for  it 
is! 

Reader,  *do  you  ever  say,  **Whew- 
w-w  "  ?  There  were  three  minutes,  on 
the  3oth  of  July  last,  during  which  that 
piece  of  interjectional  eloquence  seemed 
to  your  humble  servant  to  embody  the 
whole  dictionary! 

To  get  breath,  let  us  turn  again  to 
the  mission-mansion,  which  now,  under 
the  effect  of  sudden  contrast,  seems  too 
magnificent  to  be  real,  as  if  it  had  been 
built  by  enchantment  rather  than  by  the 
labor  of  man.  This  is  situated  half  a 
dozen  rods  from  the  shore,  at  a  slight 
elevation  above  it,  and  looks  pleasanUy 
up  the  bay  to  the  southwest  The  site 
has  been  happily  chosen.  Here,  for  a 
wonder,  is  an  acre  or  two  of  land  which 
one  may  call  level, — broader  toward  the 
shore,  and  tapering  to  a  point  as  it  runs 
back.  To  the  right,  as  we  face  it,  the 
ground  rises  not  ytxy  brokenly,  giving 
a  small  space  for  the  bunch  of  huts, 
then  falls  quickly  to  the  sea;  while 


beyond,  and  toward  the  ocean,  islands 
twenty  miles  deep  close  in  and  shelter  alL 
To  the  left  go  up  again  the  perpetual 
hills,  hills.  Everywhere  around  the  bay 
save  here,  on  island  and  main,  the  im- 
mitigable gneiss  hills  rise  bold  and  sud- 
den firom  the  water,  now  dimly  impur- 
pled  with  lichen,  now  in  nakedness  of 
rock  surface,  yet  beautified  in  their  bare 
severity  by  alternating  and  finely  wav- 
ing stripes  of  lightest  and  darkest  gray, 
-—as  if  to  show  sympathy  with  the  bil- 
lowy heaving  of  the  sea. 

Forward  to  the  mansion.  In  front  a 
high,  strong,  neat  picket-fence  incloses 
a  pretty  fiower-yard,  in  which  some  ex- 
oVics,  tastefully  arranged,  seem  to  be 
flourishing  well.  We  knock ;  with  no 
manner  of  haste,  and  with  no  seeming 
of  cordial  willingness,  we  are  admitted, 
are  shown  into  a  neat  room  of  good 
size,  and  entertained  by  a  couple  of  the 
brethren. 

One  of  these  only,  and  he  alone 
among  the  missionaries,  it  appeared, 
spoke  English.  This  was  an  elderly, 
somewhat  cold  and  forbidding  person- 
age, of  Secession  sympathies.  He  had 
just  returned  from  Europe  after  two 
years*  absence,  was  fresh  from  London, 
and  put  on  the  true  Exeter- Hall  whine 
in  calling  ours  '<a  n-dreadful  n-war.'' 
He  did  not  press  the  matter,  however, 
nor  in  any  manner  violate  the  rdU  of 
cold  courtesy  which  he  had  assumed; 
and  it  was  chiefly  by  the  sudden  check 
and  falling  of  the  countenance,  when  he 
found  us  thorough  Unionist,  that  his 
sympathies  were  betrayed.  Wine  and 
rusks  were  brought  in,  both  delicious,  — 
the  latter  seeming  like  ambrosia,  after 
the  dough  cannon-balls  with  which  our 
^'head  cook  at  the  Tremont  House" 
had  regaled  us.  After  a  stay  of  civil 
brevity  we  took  our  leave,  and.  so  clos- 
ed an  interview  in  which  we  had  been 
treated  with  irreproachable  politeness, 
but  in  which  the  heart  was  forbidden 
to  have  any  share. 

First  the  missionaries;  now  the  na- 
tives. The  squat  and  squalid  huts,  stuck 
down  upon  the  earth  without  any  pre- 
tence of  raised  foundation,  and  jumbled 
together,  comer  to  side,  back  to  fi^nt. 


442 


Ice  and  Esquimaux. 


[April, 


any  way,  as  if  some  wind  had  blown 
them  there,  did  not  improve  on  acquaint- 
ance. The  walls,  five  feet  high,  were 
built  of  poles  some  five  inches  m  diam- 
eter ;  the  low  roo(  made  of  similar  poles, 
was  heavily  heaped  with  earth.  What 
with  this  deep  earth-covering,  and  with 
their  grovelling  toward  the  earth  in 
such  a  flat  and  neighborly  fashion,  they 
had  a  dreadfully  under -foot  look,  and 
seemed  rather  dens  than  houses.  Many 
were  ragged  and  rotten,  all  inconceiva- 
bly cheerless.  No  outhouses,  no  in- 
closures,  no  vegetation,  no  relief  of  any 
kind.  About  and  between  them  the 
swardless  ground  is  all  trodden  into 
mud.  Prick-eared  Esquimaux  dogs 
huddle,  sneak,  bark,  and  snarl  around, 
with  a  free  fight  now  and  then,  in  which 
they  all  fall  upon  the  one  that  is  getting 
the  worst  of  it  Before  the  principal 
group  of  huts,  in  the  open  space  be- 
tween them  and  the  mansion,  a  dead 
dog  lies  rotting;  children  lounge  list- 
lessly, and  babies  toddle  through  the 
slutch  about  it  Here  and  there  a  full- 
grown  Esquimaux,  in  greasy  and  un- 
couth garb,  loiters,  doing  nothing,  look- 
ing nothing. 

I,  for  one,  was  completely  overcrowed 
by  the  impression  of  a  bare  and  aimless 
existence,  and  could  not  even  wonder. 
Christian  Hopedale  !  *'  Leave  all  hope, 
ye  that  enter  here  !  ** 

At  5  p.  M.  the  chapel-bell  rings,  and 
at  once  the  huts  swarm.  We  follow  the 
crowd.  They  enter  the  chapel  by  a  door 
at  the  end  nearest  their  dens,  and  seat 
themselves,  the  women  at  the  farther, 
the  men  at  the  hither  extreme,  all  facing 
a  raised  desk  at  the  middle  of  one  side. 
Behind  them,  opposite  this  pulpit,  is  an 
organ.  Presently,  from  a  door  at  the  far- 
ther end,  the  missionaries  file  in,  some 
twelve  in  number ;  one  enters  the  pulpit, 
the  others  take  seats  on  either  side  of 
him,  facing  the  audience,  and  at  a  digni- 
fied remove.  The  conductor  of  the  ser- 
vice now  rises,  makes  an  address  in  Es- 
quimaux a  minute  and  a  half  long,  then 
gives  out  a  hymn, —  the  hymns  number- 
ed in  German,  as  numbers,  to  any  extent, 
are  wanting  to  the  Esquimaux  language. 
All  the  congregation  join  in  a  solid  old 


German  tune,  keeping  good  time,  and 
making,  on  the  whole,  better  congre- 
gational music  than  I  ever  heard  else- 
where,—  unless  a  Baptist  conventicle 
in  London,  Bloomsbury  Chapel,  furnish 
the  exception.  After  this  another,  then 
another;  at  length,  when  half  a  dozen 
or  more  have  been  sung,  missionaries 
and  congregation  rise,  the  latter  stand 
in  mute  and  motionless  respect,  the  mis- 
sionaries file  out  with  dignity  at  their 
door ;  and  when  the  last  has  disappear- 
ed, the  others  begin  quiedy  to  disperse. 

This  form  of  worship  is  practised  at 
the  hour  named  above  on  each  week- 
day, and  the  natives  attend  with  noticea- 
ble promptitude.  There  are  no  prayers, 
and  the  preliminary  address  in  this  case 
was  exceptional. 

Sunday y  July  31.  —  I  had  inquired  at 
what  hour  the  worship  would  begin  this 
day,  and,  with  some  hesitancy,  had  beeif 
answered,  *' At  half  past  nine."  But  the 
Colonel  abo  had  asked,  and  his  interloc- 
utor, after  consulting  a  card,  said,  <<  At 
ten  o*clock."  At  ten  we  went  ashore. 
Finding  the  chapel-door  still  locked,  I 
seated  myself  on  a  rock  in  front  of  the 
mission-house,  to  wait  The  sun  was 
warm  (the  first  warm  day  for  a  month) ; 
the  mosquitoes  swarmed  in  myriads ;  I 
sat  there  long,  wearily  beating  them  ofE 
Faces  peeped  out  at  me  from  the  win- 
dows, then  withdrew.  Presently  Brad- 
ford joined  me,  and  began  also  to  fight 
mosquitoes.  More  faces  at  the  win- 
dows ;  but  when  I  looked  towards  them, 
thinking  to  discover  some  token  of  hos- 
pitable invitation,  they  quickly  disap- 
peared After  half  an  hour,  the  master 
of  the  supply-ship  came  up,  and  entered 
into  conversation ;  in  a  minute  one  of 
the  brethren  appeared  at  the  door,  and 
invited  him  to  enter,  but  without  no- 
ticing Bradford  and  myself.  I  took  my 
skiff  and  rowed  to  the  schooner.  Fif-' 
teen  minutes  later  the  chapel-bell  rang. 

I  confess  to  some  spleen  that  day 
against  the  missionaries.  When  I  ex- 
pressed it,  Captain  French,  the  pilot,  an 
old,  prudent  pious  man,  "  broke  out" 

"  Them  are  traders,"  said  he.  "  I 
don't  call  'em  missionaries  ;  I  call  'em 
traders.    They  live  in  luxury ;  the  na- 


18650 


Ice  and  Esquimaux. 


443 


tives  work  for  'em,  and  get  for  pay  just 
what  they  choose  to  give  'em.  They 
fleece  the  Esquimaux  ;  they  take  off  of 
'em  all  but  the  skin.  They  are  just 
traders ! " 

My  spleen  did  not  last  There  was 
some  cause  of  coldness,  —  I  know  not 
what.  The  missionaries  afterwards  be- 
came  cordial,  visited  the  schooner^  and 
exchanged  presents  with  us.  I  believe 
them  good  men.  If  their  relation  to 
the  natives  assume  in  some  degree  a 
pecuniary  aspect,  it  is  due  to  the  neces- 
sity of  supporting  the  mission  by  the 
profits  of  traffic.  If  they  preserve  a 
stately  distance  toward  the  Esquimaux, 
it  is  to  retain  influence  over  them.  If 
they  allow  the  native  mind  to  confound 
somewhat  the  worship  of  God  with  the 
worship  of  its  teachers,  it  is  that  the 
native  mind  cannot  get  beyond  personal 
felations,  and  must  worship  something 
tangible.  That  they  are  not  at  all  en- 
tangled in  the  routine  and  material 
necessities  of  their  positicm  I  do  not 
assert ;  that  they  do  not  carry  in  it 
something  of  noble  and  self-forgetful 
duty  nothing  I  have- seen  will  persuade 
me. 

August  I.  —  We  go  to  push  eur  ex- 
plorations among  the  Esquimaux,  and 
invite  the  reader  to  make  one  of  the 
party.  Enter  a  hut  The  door  is  five 
feet  high,  —  that  is,  the  height  of  the 
walL  Stoop  a  littie, — ah,  there  goes 
a  hat  to  the  ground,  and  a  hand  to  a 
hurt  pate  !  One  must  move  carefully 
in  these  regions,  which  one  hardly 
knows  whether  to  call  sub-  or  supra- 
terranean. 

This  door  opens  into  a  sort  of  porch 
occupying  one  end  of  the  den  ;  the 
floor,  earth.  Three  or  four  large,  dirty 
dogs  lie  dozing  here,  and  start  up  with 
an  aspect  of  indescribable,  half-crouch- 
ing, mean  malignity,  as  we  enter ;  but 
a  sharp  word,  with  perhaps  some  men- 
ace of  stick  or  cane,  «ends  the  cow- 
ardly brutes  sneaking  away.  In  a  cor- 
ner is  a  circle  of  stones,  on  which 
cooking  is  done ;  and  another  day  we 
may  find  the  £unily  here  picking  their 
food  out  of  a  pot,  and  serving  them- 
selves to  it,  with  the  fingers.    Save  this 


primitive  fireplace,  and  perhaps  a  ket- 
Ue  for  the  dogs  to  lick  clean,  this  porch 
is  bare. 

From  this  we  crouch  into  the  living- 
room  through  a  door  two  and  a  half  or 
three  feet  high,  and  find  ourselves  in 
an  apartment  twelve  feet  square,  and 
lighted  by  a  small,  square  skin  window 
in  the  roof.  The  only  noticeable  furni- 
ture consists  of  two  board  beds,  with 
skins  for  bed-clothes.  The  women  sit 
on  these  beds,  sewing  upon  seal-skin 
boots.  They  receive  us  with  their 
characteristic  fat  and  phlegmatic  good- 
nature, a  pleasant  smile  on  their  chub- 
bv  cheeks  and  in  their  dark,  dull  eyes, 
—  making  room  for  us  on  the  bedside. 
Presentiy  others  come  in,  mildly  curi- 
ous to  see  the  strangers,  —  all  with  the 
same  aspect  of  unthinking,  good-tem- 
pered, insensitive,  animal  content  The 
head  is  low  and  smooth ;  the  cheek- 
bones high,  but  less  so  than  those  of 
American  Indians ;  the  jowl  so  broad 
and  heavy  as  sometimes  to  give  the  en- 
semble of  head  and  &ce  the  outline  of  a 
cone  truncated  and  rounded  off  above. 
In  the  females,  however,  the  cheek  is 
so  extremely  plump  as  perfectiy  to  pad 
these  broad  jaws,  giving,  instead  of  the 
prize-fighter  physiognomy,  an  aspect 
of  smooth,  gentle  heaviness.  Even 
without  this  fleshy  cheek,  which*  is  not 
noticeable,  and  is  sometimes  noticeably 
wanting,  in  the  men,  there  is  the  same 
look  of  heavy,  well-tempered  tameness. 
The  girls  have  a  rich  blood  color  in 
their  swarthy  cheeks,  and  some  of  them 
are  really  pretty,  thougfi  always  in  a 
lumpish,  domestic  -  animal  style.  The 
hands  and  feet  are  singularly  small ;  the 
fingers  short,  but  nicely  tapered.  Take 
hold  of  the  hand,  and  you  are  struck 
with  its  cetacean  feel.  It  is  not  flabby, 
but  has  a  peculiar  blubber-like,  elastic 
compressibility,  and  seems  not  quite 
of  human  warmth. 

See  them  in  their  houses,  aixd  you 
see  the  horizon  of  their  life.  In  these 
fax  faces,  with  their  thoughtiess  content, 
in  this  pent-up,  greasy,  wooden  den, 
the  whole  is  told.  The  air  is  close  and 
fetid  with  animal  exhalations.  The  en- 
trails and  part  of  the  flesh  of  a  sealy 


444 


Ice  and  Esquimaux. 


[April, 


tvhich  lie  on  the  floor  in  a  comer,  —  to 
furnish  a  dinner,  —  do  not  make  the  at- 
mosphere nor  the  aspect  more  agree- 
able. Yet  you  see  that  to  them  this  is 
comfort,  this  is  completeness  of  exist- 
ence. If  they  are  hungry,  they  seek 
food.  Food  obtained,  they  return  to 
eat  and  be  comfortable  until  they  are 
again  hungry.  Their  life  has,  on  this 
earth  at  least,  no  farther  outlook.  It 
sallies,  it  returns,  but  here  is  the  frui- 
tion ;  for  is  not  the  seal-fiesh  dinner 
there,  nicely  and  neatly  bestowed  on 
the  floor  ?  Are  they  not  warm  }  ( The 
den  is  swelteringly  hot.)  Are  they  not 
fed  ?    What  would  one  have  more  ?  , 

Yes,  somewhat  more,  namely,  tobac- 
co, — and  also  second-hand  clothes,  with 
which  to  be  fine  in  church.  For  these 
they  will  barter  seal-skins,  dog-skins, 
seal-skin  boots,  a  casual  bear-skin,  bird- 
spears,  walrus  -  spears,  anything  they 
have  to  vend,  —  concealing  their  traf- 
fic a  little  from  the  missionaries.  Col- 
ored glass  beads  were  also  in  request 

among  the  women.  Ph had  brought 

some  large,  well-made  pocket-knives, 
which,  being  useful,  he  supposed  would 
be  desired/  Not  at  all ;  they  were  fum- 
bled indifferently,  then  invariably  de- 
clined. But  a  plug  of  tobacco,  —  ah, 
that  now  is  something ! 

The*  men  wear  tight  seal-skin  trou- 
sers and  boots,  with  an  upper  garment 
of  the  same  material,  made  like  a  Guern- 
sey frock.  In  winter  a  hood  is  added, 
but  in  summer  they  all  go  bareheaded, 
—  the  stif!;  black  hair  chopped  squarely 
off  across  the  low  forehead,  but*  longer 
behind.  The  costume  of  the  females  is 
more  pyeculiar,  —  seal-skin  boots,  seal- 
skin ^users,  which  just  spring  over 
the  hips,  and  are  there  met  by  a  body- 
garment  of  seal-skin  more  lightly  col- 
ored. Over  this  goes  an  astonishing 
article  of  apparel  somewhat  resembling 
the  dress-coat  in  which  unhappy  civ- 
ilization sometimes  compels  itself  to 
masquerade,  but  —  truth  stranger  than 
fiction  I  —  considerably  more  ugly.  A 
long  tail  hangs  down  to  the  very  heels ; 
a  much  shorter  peak  comes  do^Ti  in 
front ;  at  the  sides  it  is  scooped  out 
below,  showing  a  small  portion  of  the 


light-colored  body-garment,  which  iire- 
sistibly  suggests  a  very  dirty  article  of 
lady-linen  whereon  the  eyes  of  civilized  ' 
decorum  forbear  to  look,  while  an  ad- 
venturous imagination  associates  it  on- 
ly with  snowy  whiteness.  The  whole 
is  surmounted  by  an  enormous  peaked 
hood;  in  which  now  and  then  one  sees 
a  baby  carried. 

This  elegant  garment  was  evidently 
copied  from  th^  skin  of  an  animal, — 

so  Ph acutely  suggested.  The  high. 

peak  of  the  hood  represents  the  ears  ; 
the  arms  stand  for  the  fore  legs ;  the 
downward  peak  in  front  for  the  hind 
legs  sewed  together ;  the  rear  dangler 
represents  the  tail.  I  make  no  doubt 
that  our  dress-coat  has  the  same  origin, 
though  the  primal  conception  has  been 
more  modified.  It  is  a  bear-skin  plus 
Paris. 

Is  the  reader  sure  of  his  ribs  and 
waistcoat-buttons  ?  If  so,  he  may  ven- 
ture to  look  upon  an  Esquimaux  wom- 
an walkings  —  which  I  take  to  be  the 
most  ludicrous  spectacle  in  the  world. 
Conceive  of  this  short,  squat,  chunky, 
lumpish  figure  in  the  costume  described, 
—  grease  ad  libitum  being  added.  The 
form  IS  so  plump  and  heavy  as  very 
much  to  project  the  rear  dangler  at  the 
point  where  it  leaves  the  body,  while 
below  it  fells  in,  and  goes  with  a  con- 
tinual muddy  slap,  slap,  against  the 
heels.  The  effect  of  this,  especially  in 
the  profile  view,  is  wickedly  laughable, 
but  the  gait  makes  it  more  so.  The 
walk  is  singularly  slow,  unelastic,  loggy, 
and  is  characterized  at  each  step  by  an 
indescribable,  sudden  sag  or  slump  at 
the  hip.  As  she  thus  slowly  and  heavily 
chums  herself  along,  the  nether  slap 
emphasizes  each  step,  as  it  were,  with 
an  exclamation-point ;  while,  as  the  foot, 
advances,  the  shoulder  and  the  whole 
body  on  the  same  side  turn  and  sag 
forward,  the  opposite  shoulder  and  side 
dragging  back,  —  as  if  there  were  a 
perpetual  debate  between  the  two  sides 
whether  to  proceed  or  not  It  was  so 
laughable  that  it  made  one  sad ;  for 
this,  too,  was  a  human  being.  The  gait 
of  the  men,  on  the  contrary,  is  free  and 
not  ungraceful. 


1865.] 


Ice  and  Esquimaux. 


445 


August  3. — An  Esqtumaux  wedding ! 
In  the  chapel,  —  Moravian  ceremony,  — 
so  iax  not  noticeable.  Costume  same 
as  above,  only  of  white  cloth  heavily 
embroidered  with  red.  Demeanor  per- 
fect Bride  obliged  to  sit  down  mid- 
way in  the  ceremony,  overpowered  with 
emotion.  She  did  so  with  a  simple, 
quiet  dignity,  that  would  not  have  mis- 
become a  duchess. 

When  the  ceremony  was  ended,  the 
married  pair  retired  mto  the  mission- 
house,  and  half  an  hour  later  I  saw  them 
going  home. .  This  was  the  curious  part 
of  the  affair.  The  husband  walked  be- 
fore, taking  care  not  to  look  behind, 
-  doing  the  indifferent  and  unconscious 
with  great  assiduity,  and  evidently  mak- 
ing it  a  matter  of  serious  etiquette  not 
to  know  that  any  one  followed.  Four 
rods  behind  comes  the  wife,  doing  the 
•unconscious  with  equal  industry.  She 
is  not  following  this  man  here  in  front, 

—  bless  us,  no,  indeed  !  —  but*  is  simply 
walking  out,  or  gping  to  see  a  neighbor, 
this  nice  afternoon,  and  does  not  ob- 
serve that  any  one  precedes  her.  Fol- 
lowing that  man  ?  Pray,  where  were 
you  reared,  that  you  are  capable  of  so 
discourteous  a  supposition?  Jt  gave 
me  a  malicious  pleasure  to  see  that  the 
pre-Adamite  man,  as  well  as  the  rest  of 
us,  imposes  upon  himself  at  times  these 
difficult  duties,  toting  about  that  foolish 
face,  so  laboriously  vacant  of  precisely 
that  with  which  it  is  brimming  full. 

To  adjust  himself  to  outward  Nature, 

—  that,  we  said,  is  the  sole  task  of  the 
primitive  man.  The  grand  success  of 
the  Esquimaux  in  this  direction  is  the 
kayak.  This  is  his  victory  and  his 
school  It  is  a  seal-skin  Oxford  or 
Cambridge,  wherein  he  takes  his  degree 
as  master  of  the  primeval  arts.  Here 
be  acquires  not  only  physical  strength 
and  quickness,  but  self-possession  also, 
men^  agility,  the  instant  use  of  his 
wits,  —  here  becomes,  in  fine,  a  culti" 
voted  man. 

It  is  no  trifling  matter.  Years  upon 
years  must  be  devoted  to  these  studies. 
Oxford  and  Cambridge  do  not  task  one 
more,  nor  exhibit  more  degrees  of  suc- 
cess.   Some  £sul,  and  never  graduate  \ 


some  become  illustrious  for  kayak-eru- 
dition. 

This  culture  has  also  the  merit  of 
entire  seriousness  and  sincerity.  Life 
and  death,  not  merely  a  name  in  the 
newspapers,  are  in  it  Of  all  vehicles, 
on  land  or  sea,  to  which  man  intrusts 
himself,  the  kayak  is  safest  and  un- 
safest  It  is  a  very  hair-bridge  of  Mo- 
hammed :  security  or  destruction  is  in 
the  finest  poise  of  a  moving  body,  the 
turn  of  a  hand,  the  thought  of  a  4no- 
ment  Every  time  that  the  Esquimaux 
spears  a  seal  at  sea,  he  pledges  his 
life  upon  his  skill.  With  a  touch,  with 
a  moment's  loss  of  balance,  the  tipsy 
craft  may  go  over ;  over,  the  oar,  with 
which  it  is  to  be  restored,  may  get  en- 
tangled, may  escape  from  the  hand,  may 
—  what  not?  For  all  what-nots  the 
kayaker  must  preserve  instant  prepara- 
tion ;  and  with  his  own  life  on  the  tip  of 
his  fingers,  he  must  make  its  preserva- 
tion an  incidental  matter.  He  is  there, 
not  to  save  his  life,  but  t9  capture  a 
seal,  worth  a  few  dollars  !  It  is  his 
routine  work.  Different  from  getting 
up  a  leading  article,  making  a  plea  in 
court,  or  writing  Greek  iambics  for  a 
bishopric ! 

Probably  there  is  no  race  of  men  on 
earth  whose  ordinary  avocations  present 
so  constantly  the  alternative  of  rarest 
skill  on  the  one  hand,  or  instant  destruc- 
tion on  the  other.  And  for  these  avo- 
cations one  is  fitted  only  by  a  scholarship, 
which  it  requires  prolonged  schooling, 
the  most  patient  industry,  and  the  most 
delicate  consent  of  mind  and  body  to 
attain.  If  among  us  the  highest  uni- 
versity-education were  necessary,  in 
order  that  one  might  live,  marry,  and 
become  a  householder,  we  should  but 
parallel  in  our  degree  the  scheme  of 
their  life. 

Measured  by  post- Adamite  standards, 
the  life  of  the  Esquimaux  is  a  sorry 
affair ;  measured  by  his  own  standards, 
it  is  a  piece  of  perfection.  To  see  the 
virtue  of  his  existence,  you  must,  as  it 
were,  look  at  him  with  the  eyes  of  a 
wolf  or  fox,  —  must  look  up  from  that 
low  level,  and  discern,  so  hx  above,  this 
skilled  and  wondrous  creature,  who  by 


446 


Ice  and  Esquimaux. 


[Aprfl, 


ingenuity  and  self-schooling  has  con- 
verted his  helplessness  into  power,  and 
made  himself  the  plume  and  crown  of 
the  physical  world. 

In  the  kayak  the  Fsquimaux  attains 
to  beauty.  As  he  rows,  the  extremes 
of  the  two-bladed  oar  revolve,  describ- 
ing rhythmic  circles ;  the  body  holds  it- 
self in  airy  poise,  and  the  light  boat 
skims  away  with  a  look  of  life.  The 
speed  is  greater  than  our  swiftest  boats 
attain,  and  the  motion  graceful  as  that 
of  a  flying  bird.  Kayak  and  rower  be- 
come to  the  eye  one  creature  ;  and  the 
civilized  spectator  must  be  stronger 
than  I  in  his  own  conceit  not  to  feel  a 
little  humble  as  he  looks  on. 

We  had  racing  one  calm  evening. 
Three  kayaks  competed:  tlie  prize — 
O  Civilization !  —  was  a  plug  of  tobacco. 
How  the  muscles  swelled  !  How  the 
airy  things  flew !  "  Hi !  Hi ! "  jockey 
the  lookers-on :  they  fly  swifter  still. 
Up  goes  another  plug,  —  another  !  — 
another  !  —  and  the  kayaks  half  leap 
from  the  water.    It  was  sad  withal. 

The  racing  over,  there  was  a  new 
feat.  One  of  the  kayakers  placed  him- 
self in  his  linle  craft  directly  across  the 
course ;  another  stationed  himself  at  a 
distance,  and  then,  pushing  his  kayak 
forward  at  his  utmost  speed,  drove  it 
directly  over  the  other !  The  high  slop- 
ing bow  rose  above  the  middle  of  the 
stationary  kayak  on  which  it  impinged, 
and,  shooting  up  quite  out  of  water,  the 
boat  skimmed  over. 

The  Esquimaux  is  an  honest  crea- 
ture.    I  had  engaged  a  woman  to  make, 
me  a  pair  of  fur  boots,  leaving  my  name 

on  a  slip  of  paper.     L ,  next  day, 

roaming  among  the  huts,  saw  her  hang- 
ing them  out  to  dry.  Enamored  of  them, 
and  ignorant  of  our  bargain,  he  sought 
to  purchase  them ;  but  at  the  first  to- 
ken of  his  desire,  the  woman  rushed 
into  the  hut,  and  brought  forth  the  slip 
of  paper,  as  a  sufficient  answer  to  all 
question  on  that  matter.  L hav- 
ing told  me  of  the  incident,  and  in- 
formed me  that  he  had  elsewhere  bar- 
gained for  a  similar  pair,  I  was  wicked 
enough  tp  experiment  upon  this  fidelity, 
desirous  of  learning  what  J  could.  Tak- 


ing, thereTore,  some  clothes,  which  I 
knew  would  be  desired,  and  among  them 
a  white  silk  handkerchief  bordered  with 
blue,  which  had  been  purchased  at  Port 
Mulgrave,  all  together  far  exceeding  in 
value  the  stipulated  price,  I  sought  the 
hut,  and  began  admiring  the  said  boots, 
now  nearly  finished.     Instantly  came 

forth  the  inevitable  slip  with  L 's 

name  upon  it  Making  no  sign,  I  pro- 
ceeded to  unroll  my  package.  The  good 
creature  was  intensely  taken  with  its 
contents,  arid  gloated  over  them  with 
childish  delight  But  though  she  rum- 
maged every  comer  to  "find  somewhat 
to  exchange  with  me  for  them,  it  evi- 
dently did  not  even  enter  her  thoughts 
to  offer  me  the  boots.  I  took  them  up 
and  admired  them  again  ;  she  imme- 
diately laid  her  hand  on  the  slip  of  pa- 
per. So  I  gave  her  the  prettiest  thing 
I  had,  and  left  with  a  cordial  okshni 
(good-bye). 

This  honesty  is  attributed  to  mission- 
ary instruction,  and  with  the  more  color 
as  the  untaught  race  is  noted  for  steal- 
ing from  Europeans  everything  they 
can  lay  hands  on.  It  is  only,  how- 
ever, from  foreigners  that  they  were 
ever  accustomed  to  steal.  Toward 
each  other  they  have  ever  been  among 
the  most  honest  of  human  beings.  Civ- 
ilization and  the  seal  they  regarded 
as  alike  lawful  prey.  The  mission- 
aries have  not  implanted  in  them  a 
new  disposition,  but  only  extended  the 
scope  of  an  old  and  marked  character- 
istic. 

At  the  same  time  their  sense  of  pe- 
cuniary obligation  would  seem  not  to 
extend  over  long  periods.  Of  the  mis- 
sionaries in  winter  they  buy  supplies 
on  credit,  but  show  little  remembrance 
of  the  debt  when  summer  comes.  All 
must  be  immediate  with  them ;  nei- 
ther their  thought  nor  their  moral  sense 
can  carry  far ;  they  are  equally,  im- 
provident for  the  future  and  forgetful 
of  the  past  The  mere  Nature -man 
acts  only  as  NatAre  and  her  neces- 
sities press  upon*^him ;  thought  and 
memory  are  with  him  the  offspring  of 
sensation ;  his  brain  is  but  the  femi- 
nine spouse  of  his  stomach  and  blood. 


i865.] 


Ice  and  Esquimaux. 


447 


— receptive  and  respondent,  rather  than 
virile  and  original. 

Partly,  however,  this  seeming  forget- 
fiilness  is  susceptible  of  a  different  ex- 
planation. They  evidently  feel  that 
the  mission-house  owes  them  a  living. 
They  make  gardens,  go  to  church  and 
save  their  souls,  for  the  missionaries  ;  it 
is  but  fair  that  they  should  be  fed  at  a 
pinch  in  return. 

This  remark  may  seem  a  sneer.  Not 
so  ;  my  word  for  it.  I  went  to  Hope- 
dale  to  study  this  race,  with  no  wish 
but  to  find  in  them  capabilities  of  spir- 
itual growth,  and  "with  no  resolve  but  to 
see  the  fact,  whatever  it  should  be,  not 
with  wishes,  but  with  eyes.  And,  point- 
edly against  my  desire,  I  saw  this, — 
that  the  religion  of  the  Esquimaux  is, 
nine  parts  in  ten  at  least,  a  matter  of 
personal  relation  between  him  and  the 
missionaries.  He  goes  to  church  as 
the  dog  follows  his  master,  —  expecting 
a  bone  and  hoping  for  a  pat  in  return. 
He  comes  promptly  at  a  whistle  (the 
chapel-bell) ;  his  docility  and  decorum 
are  unimpeachable  ;  he  does  what  is 
expected  of  him  with  a  pleased  wag  of 
the  tail ;  but  it  is  still,  it  is  always,  the 
dog  and  his  master. 

The  pre- Adamite  man  is  not  distinc- 
tively religious  ;  for  religion  implies 
ideas,  in  the  blood  at  least,  if  not  in  the 
brain,  as  imagination,  if  not  as  thought ; 
and  ideas  are  to  him  wanting,  are  im- 
possible. His  whole  being  is  summed 
and  concluded  in  a  relationship  to  the 
external,  the  tangible,  to  things  or  per- 
sons ;  and  his  relation  to  persons  goes 
beyond  animal  instinct  and  the  %ense  of 
physical  want  only  upon  the  condition 
that  it  shall  cling  inseparably  to  them. 
The  spiritual  instincts  of  humanity  are 
in  him  also,  but  obscure,  utterly  ob- 
scure, not  having  attained  to  a  circula- 
tion in  the  blood,  much  less  to  intellec- 
tual liberation.  Obscure  they  are,  fix- 
ed, in  the  bone,  locked  up  in  phosphate 
of  lime.  Ideas  touch  them  only  as  ideas 
lose  their  own  shape  and  hide  them- 
selves under  physical  forms. 

Wm  he  outgrow  himself?  Will  he 
become  post-Adamite,  a  man  to  whom 
ideas  are  realities  ?    I  desire  to  say  yes, 


and  cannot  Again  and  again,  in  chap- 
el and  elsewhere,  I  stood  before  a  group, 
and  questioned,  questioned  their  £&ces, 
to  find  there  some  prophecy  of  future 
growth.  And  again  and  again  these 
faces,  with  their  heavy  content,  with 
their  dog-docility,  with  thei^  expression 
of  utter  limitation,  against  which  noth- 
ing in  them  struggled,  said  to  me, — 
'*  Your  quest  is  vain  ;  we  are  once  and 
forever  Esquimaux."  Had  they  been 
happy,  had  they  been  unhappy,  I  had 
hoped  for  them.  They  were  neither: 
they  were  contented.  A  half-animal, 
African  exuberance,  token  of  a  spirit 
obscure  indeed,  but  rich  and  efferves- 
cent, would  open  for  them  a  future.  One 
sign  of  dim  inward  struggle  and  pain, 
as  if  the  spirit  resented  his  imprison- 
ment, would  do  the  same.  Both  were 
wanting.  They  ruminate ;  life  is  the 
cud  they  chew. 

The  Esquimaux  are  celebrated  as 
gluttons.  This,  however,  is  but  one 
half  the  fact.  They  can  eat,  they  can 
also  fast,  indefinitely.  For  a  week  they 
gorge  themselves  without  exercise,  and 
have  no  indigestion ;  for  a  week,  exer- 
cising vigorously,  they  live  on  air,  froz- 
en air,  too,  apd  experience  no  exhaus- 
tion. Last  winter  half  a  dozen  appeared 
at  Square- Island  Harbor,  sent  out  their 
trained  dogs,  drove  in  a  herd  of  deer, 
and  killed  thirteen.  They  immediately 
encamped,  gathered  fuel,  made  fires,  be- 
gan to  cook  and  eat,  —  ate  themselves 
asleep ;  then  waked  to  cook,  eat,  and 
sleep  again,  until  the  thirteenth  deer 
had  vanished.  Thereupon  they  de- 
camped, to  travel  probably  hundreds  of 
miles,  and  endure  days  on  days  of  se- 
vere labor,  before  tasting,  or  more  than 
tasting,  food  again. 

The  same  explanation  serves.  These 
physical  capabilities,  not  to  be  attained 
by  the  post- Adamite  man,  belong  to  the 
primitive  races,  as  to  hawks,  gulls,  and 
beasts  of  prey.  The  stomach  of  the 
Esquimaux  is  his  cellar,  as  that  of  the 
camel  is  a  cistern,  wherein  he  lays  up* 
stores. 

August  ^ — This  day  we  sailed  away 
from  Hopedale,  heading  homeward,-^ 
leaving  behind  a  race  of  men  who  were* 


448 


Ice  and  Esquitnaux* 


[April, 


to  me  a  problem  to  be  solved,  if  possi- 
ble. All  my  impressions  of  them-  are 
summed  in  the  epithet,  often  repeated, 
pre-Adamite.  In  applying  this,  I  affirm 
nothing  respecting  their  physical  origin. 
All  that  is  to  me  an  open  question,  to 
be  closed  when  I  have  more  light  than 
now.  It  may  be,  that,  as  Mr.  Agassiz 
maintains,  they  were  created  originally 
just  as  they  are.  For  this  hypothesis 
much  may  be  said,  and  it  may  be  freely 
confessed  that  in  observing  them  I  felt 
myself  pressed  somewhat  toward  the  ac- 
ceptance of  it  as  a  definite  conclusion. 
It  may  be  that  they  have  become  what 
they  are  by  slow  modification  of  a  type 
common  to  all  races, — that,  with  an- 
other parentage,  they  have  been  made 
by  adoption  children  of  the  icy  North, 
whose  breath  has  chilled  in  their  souls 
the  deeper  powers  of  man's  being.  This 
it  will  be  impossible  for  me  to  deny  un- 
til I  have  investigated  more  deeply  the 
influence  of  physical  Nature  upon  man, 
and  learned  more  precisely  to  what  de- 
gree the  traditions  of  a  people,  consti- 
tuting at  length  a  definite  social  atmos- 
phere, may  come  to  penetrate  and  shape 
their  individual  being.  I  do  not  pro- 
nounce ;  I  wait  and  keep  the  eyes  open. 
Doubtless  they  are  God's  children ;  and 
knowing  this,  one  need  not  be  fretfully 
impatient,  even  though  vigilantly  ear^ 
nest,  to  know  the  rest 

In  naming  them  pre-Adamite  I  mean 
two  things. 

First,  that  they  have  stopped  short 
of  ideas,  that  is,  of  the  point  where  hu- 
man history  begins.  They  belong,  not 
to  spiritual  or  human,  but  to  outward 
and  physical  Nature.  There  they  are 
a  great  success. 

Secondly,  in  this  condition  of  mere 
response  to  physical  Nature,  their  whole 
being  has  become  shapen,  determined, 
fixed.  They  have  no  future.  Civiliza- 
tion affects  them,  but  only  by  mechan- 
ical modification,  not  by  vital  refi^sh- 
ment  and  renewal  The  more  they  are 
instructed^  the  weaker  they  become. 

They -^amge,  and  are  unchangeable. 

Unchangeable :  if  they  assume  in  any 
degree. the > ideas  and  habits  of  dviliza- 


tion,  it  is  only  as  their  women  some- 
times put  on  calica  gowns  over  their 
seal-skin  trousers.  Thb  modification  is 
not  even  skin-deep.  It  is  a  curious 
illustration  of  this  immobility,  that  no 
persuasion,  no  authority,  can  make  them 
fishermen.  Inseparable  firom  the  sea- 
shore, the  Esquimaux  will  not  catch  a 
fish,  if  he  can  catch  a  dinner  otherwise. 
The  missionaries,  both  as  matter  of  pa* 
temal  care  and  as  a  means  of  increasing 
their  own  traffic,  —  by  which  the  station 
is  chiefly  sustained,  —  have  done  their 
utmost  to  make  the  natives  bring  in  fish 
.  for  sale,  and  have  failed.  These  people 
are  first  sealers,  then  hunters ;  some  at- 
traction in  the  blood  draws  them  to  these 
occupations ;  and  at  last  it  is  an  attrac* 
tion  in  the  blood  which  they  obey. 

Yet  on  the  outermost  suiface  of  their 
existence  they  change,  and  die.  At 
Hopedale,  out  of  a  population  of  some 
two  hundred,  twenty-four  died  in  the 
month  of  March  last/  At  Nain,  where 
the  number  of  inhabitants  is  about  the 
same,  twenty -one  died  in  the  same 
month ;  at  Okkak,  also  twenty  -  one. 
More  than  decimated  in  a  month  ] 

The  long  winter  sufibcation  in  their 
wooden  dens,  which  lack  the  ventilar 
tion  of  the  igioe  that  their  untaught  wit 
had  devised,  has  doubtless  much  to  do 
with  this  mortality.  But  one  feels  that 
there  is  somewhat  deeper  in  the  case. 
One  feels  that  the  hands  of  the  great 
horologe  of  time  have  hunted  around 
the  dial,  till  they  have  found  the  hour 
of  doom  for  this  primeval  race.  Now 
at  length  the  tolling  bdl  says  to  them, 
**  No  more  !  on  the  earth  no  more  !  " 

Farewell,  geological  man,  chefdoeu" 
vrcy  it  may  be,  of  some  earlier  epoch, 
but  in  this  a  grotesque,  grown-up  baby, 
never  to  become  adult  I  As  you  are, 
and  as  in  this  world  you  must  be,  I 
have  seen  you ;  but  in  my  heart  is  a 
hope  for  you  which  is  greater  than  my 
thought, — a  hope  which,  though  deep 
and  sure,  does  not  define  itself  to  the 
understanding,  and  must  remain  un«> 
spoken.  There  is  a  Heart  to  which 
you,  too,  are  dear ;  and  its*  throbs  are 
pulsations  of  Destiny. 


1865.] 


Doctor  Johns. 


449 


DOCTOR    JOHNS. 


XL 


THERE  were  scores  of  people  in 
Ashfield  who  would  have  been 
delighted  to  speak  consolation  to  the 
bereaved  clergyman ;  but  he  was  not 
a  man  to  be  approached  easily  with 
the  ordinary  phrases  of  sympathy.  He 
bore  himself  too  sternly  under  his  grief. 
What,  indeed,  can  be  said  in  the  face  of 
affliction,  where  ,the  manner  of  the  suf- 
ferer seems  to  say,  "  God  has  done  it, 
and  God  does  all  things  well "  ?  Or- 
dinary human  sympathy  falls  below 
such  a  standpoint,  and  is  wasted  in  the 
utterance. 

Yet  there  are  those  who  delight  in 
breaking  in  upon  the  serene  dignity 
which  this  condition  of  mind  implies 
with  a  noisy  proffer  of  consolation,  and 
an  aggravating  rehearsal  of  the  occa- 
sion for  it ;  as  if  such  comforters  en- 
tertained a  certain  jealousy  of  the  se- 
renity they  do  not  comprehend,  and 
were  determined  to  test  its  sufficiency. 
Dame  Tourtelot  was  eminently  such  a 
person. 

*Mt  's  a  dreadful  blow  to  ye,  Mr. 
Johns,"  said  she,  *'  I  know  it  is.  Al- 
miry  is  almost  as  much  took  down  by 
it  as  you  are.  ^'  She  was  such  a  lovely 
woman,'  she  says ;  and  the  poor,  dear 
little  boy, — won^t  you  let  him  come 
and  pass  a  day  or  two  with  us  ?  Al- 
miry  is  very  fond  of  children." 

"Later,  later,  my  good  woman," 
says  the  parson.  '^I  can't  spare  the 
boy  now  ;  the  house  is  too  empty." 

"Oh,  Mr.  Johns,  —  the  poor  lonely 
thing  !  "  ( And  she  says  this,  with  her 
hands  in  black  mits,  clasped  together.) 
"  It 's  a  bitter  blow  1  As  I  was  a-say- 
in'  to  the  Deacon,  *  Such  a  lovely  young 
woman,  and  such  a  good  comfortable 
home,  and  she,  poor  thing,  enjoyin'  it 
so  much ! '  I  do  hope  you  'U  bear  up 
under  it,  Mr.  Johns." 

"By  Gxxl's  help,  I  will,  my  good 
wom^n." 

Dame  Tourtelot  was  disappointed  to 

VOL.  XV.  —  NO.  90.  29 


find  the  parson  wincing  so  little  as  he 
did  under  her  stimulative  sympathy. 
On  returning  home,  she  opened  her 
views  to  the  Deacon  in  this  style  :  — 

*'  Tourtelot,  the  parson  is  not  so  much 
brok,e  down  by  this  as  we  've  been 
thinkin' ;  he  was  as  cool,  when  I  spoke 
to  him  to-day,  as  any  man  I  ever  see  in 
my  life.  The  truth  is,  she  was  a  flighty 
young  person,  nowa3rs  equal  to  the 
parson.  I  've  been  a-suspectin'  it  this 
long  while  ;  she  never,  in  my  opinion, 
took  a  real  hard  hold  upon  him.  But, 
Tourtelot,  you  should  go  and  see  Mr. 
Johns  ;  and  I  hope  you  'U*  talk  conso- 
lingly and  Scripterally  to  him.  It  's 
your  duty." 

And  hereupon  she  shifted  the  nee- 
dles in  her  knitting,  and,  smoothing 
down  the  big  blue  stocking-leg  over 
her  knee,  cast  a  glance  at  the  Deacon 
which  signified  command.  The  dame 
was  thoroughly  mistress  in  her  own 
household,  as  well  as  in  the  households 
of  not  a  few  of  her  neighbors.  Long 
before,  the  meek,  mild-mannered  little 
man  who  was  her  husband  had  by  her 
active  and  resolute  negotiation  been 
made  a  deacon  of  the  parish, — for  which 
office  he  was  not  indeed  ill-fitted,  being 
religiously  disposed,  strict  in  his  observ- 
ance of  all  duties,  and  well-grounded  in 
the  Larger  CatechisnL  He  had,  more- 
over, certain  secular  endowments  which 
were  even  more  marked,  —  among  them, 
a  wonderful  instinct  at  a  bargain,  which 
had  been  polished  by  Dame  Tourtelot's 
superior  address  to  a  wonderful  degree 
of  sharpness ;  and  by  reason  of  this  the 
less  respectful  of  the  townspeople  were 
accustomed  to  say,  "The  Deacon  is 
very  small  at  home,  but  great  in  a  trade." 
Not  that  the  Deacon  could  by  any  means 
be  called  an  avaricious  or  miserly  man : 
he  had  always  his  old  Spanish  milled 
quarter  ready  for  the  contribution-box 
upon  Collection-Sundays ;  and  no  man 
in  the  parish  brought  a  heavier  turkey 
to  the  parson's  larder  on  donation-days : 
but  he  could  no  more  resist  the  sharp- 


450 


Doctor  Johns. 


[April, 


ening  of  a  bargain  than  he  could  resist 
a  command  of  his  wife.  He  talked  of 
a  good  trade  to  the  old  heads  up  and 
down  the  village  street  as  a  lad  talks 
of  a  new  toy. 

''Squire,''  he  would  say,  addressing 
a  neighbor  on  the  Common,  ''  what  do 
you  s'pose  I  paid  for  that  brindle  yeV- 
lin'  o'  mine  ?    Give  us  a  guess." 

''Waal,  Deacon,  I  guess  you, paid 
about  ten  dollars." 

"  Only  eight ! "  the  Deacon  would 
say,  witb  a  smile  that  was  fiiirly  lumi- 
nous, — ''  and  a  pootty  likely  critter  I 
call  it  for  eight  dollars." 

"  Five  hogs  this  year,"  ( in  this  way  the 
Deacon  was  used  to  soliloquize,)  —  '*  I 
hope  to  make  'em  three  hundred  apiece. 
The  price  works  up  about  Christmas  : 
Deacon  Simmons  has  sold  his'n  at 
five,  —  distillery-pork  ;  that  's  sleezy, 
wastes  in  bilin' ;  folks  know  it :  mine, 
bein'  corn-fed,  ought  to  bring  half  a  cent 
more,  —  and  say,  for  Christmas,  six; 
that  'II  give  a  gain  of  a  cent,  —  on  ^\^ 
hogs,  at  three  hundred  apiece,  will  be 
fifteen  dollars.  That  '11  pay  half  my 
pew-rent,  and  leave  somethin'  over  for 
Almiry,  who 's  always  wantin'  fresh  rib- 
bons about  New- Year's." 

The  Deacon  cherished  a  strong  dread 
of  formal  visits  to  the  parsonage  :  first, 
because  it  involved  his  Sunday  toilet, 
in  which  he  was  never  easy,  except  at 
conference  or  in  his  pew  at  the  meet- 
ing-house ;  and  next,  because  he  count- 
ed it  necessary  on  such  occasions  to 
give  a  Scriptural  garnish  to  his  talk,  in 
which  attempt  he  almost  always,  under 
the  authoritative  look  of  the  parson, 
blundered  into  difficulty.  Yet  Tourte- 
lot,  in  obedience  to  his  wife's  sugges- 
tion, and  primed  with  a  text  firom  Mat- 
thew, undertook  the  visit  of  condolence, 
—  and,  being  a  really  kind-hearted  man, 
bore  himself  well  in  it  Over  and  over 
the  good  parson  shook  his  hand  in 
thanks. 

''  It  'II  all  be  right,"  says  the  Deacon. 
'''Blessed  are  the  mourners,'  is  the 
Scripteral  language,  *  for  they  shall  in- 
herit the  earth.' " 

"No,  not  that.  Deacon,"  says  the 
minister,  to  whom  a  misquotation  was 


like  a  wound  in  the  flesh ;  "  the  last 
thing  I  want  is  to  inherit  the  earth. 
'  They  shall  be  comforted,'  —  that  s  the 
promise.  Deacon,  and  I  count  on  it" 

It  was  mortifying  to  his  visitor  to  be 
caught  napping  on  so  familiar  a  text ; 
the  parson  saw  it,  and  spoke  consoling- 
ly. But  if  not  strong  in  texts,  the  Dea- 
con knew  what  his  strong  points  were  ; 
so,  before  leaving,  he  invites  a  little  off- 
hand discussion  of  more  familiar  topics. 

'*  Pootty  tight  spell  o'  weather  we  'vc 
been  havin',  Parson." 

"  Rather  cool,  certainly,"  says  the 
unsuspecting  clergyman. 

"  Got  all  your  winter's  stock  o'  wood 
inyit?" 

"  No,  I  have  n't,"  says  the  parson. 

"  Waal,  Mr.  Johns,  I  've  got  a  lot  of 
pastur'-hickory  cut  and  corded,  that 's 
weU  seared  over  now,  —  and  if  you  'd 
like  some  of  it,  I  can  let  you  have  it 
very  reasonable  indeed,^''  # 

The  sympathy  of  the  Elderldns,  if 
less  formal,  was  nohe  the  less  hearty. 
The  Squire  had  been  largely  instru- 
mental in  securing  the  settlement  of 
Mr.  Johns,  and  had  been  a  political 
friend  of  his  father's.  In  early  life  he 
had  been  engaged  in  the  West  India 
trade  from  the  neighboring  port  of 
Middletown ;  and  on  one  or  two  occa- 
sions he  had  himself  made  the  voyage 
to  Porto  Rico,  taking  out  a  cargo  of 
horses,  and  bringing  back  sugar,  mo- 
lasses, and  rum.  But  it  was  remarked 
approvingly  in  the  bar-room  of  the 
Eagle  Tavern  that  this  foreign  travel 
had  not  made  the  Squire  proud,  —  nor 
yet  the  moderate  fortune  which  he  had 
secured  by  the  business,  in  which  he 
was  still  understood  to  bear  an  interest 
His  paternal  home  in  Ashfield  he  had 
fitted  up  some  years  before  with  balus- 
trade and  other  architectural  adorn- 
ments, which,  it  was  averred  by  the 
learned  in  those  matters,  were  copied 
from  certain  palatial  residences  in  the 
West  Indies. 

The  Squire  united  eminently  in  him- 
self all  those  qualities  which  a  Connec- 
ticut observer  of  those  times  expressed 
by  the  words,  "  right  down  smart  man." 
Not  a  turnpike   enterprise   covdd   be 


i86s.] 


Doctor  yokns. 


451 


i 


started  in  that  quarter  of  the  State,  but 
the  Squire  was  enlisted,  and  as  share- 
holder or  director  contributed  to  its 
execution.  A  clear-headed,  kindly,  en- 
ergetic man,  never  idle,  prone  rath- 
er to  do  needless  things  than  to  do 
nothing ;  an  ardent  disciple  of  the  Jef- 
fersonian  school,  and  in  this  combat- 
ing many  of  those  who  relied  most 
upon  his  sagacity  in  matters  of  busi- 
ness ;  a  man,  in  short,  about  whom  it 
was  always  asked,  in  regard  to  any  ques- 
tion of  town  or  State  policy,  "What 
does  the  Squire  think  ? ''  or  "  How  does 
the  Squire  mean  to  vote  ?  "  And  thfe 
Squire's  opinion  was  sure  to  be  a  round, 
hearty  one,  which  he  came  by  honestly, 
and  about  which  one  who  thought  dif- 
ferently might  safely  rally  his  columns 
of  attack.  The  opinion  of  Giles  Elder- 
kin  was  not  inquired  into  for  the  sake 
of  a  tame  following-after,  —  that  was  not 
the  ConnectFcut  mode,  —  but  for  the 
sake  of  discussing  and  toying  with  it : 
very  much  as  a  sly  old  grimalkin  toys 
with  a  mouse,  —  now  seeming  to  enter- 
tain it  kindly,  then  giving  it  a  run,  then 
leaping  after  it,  crunching  a  limb  of  it, 
bearing  it  off  into  some  private  comer, 
giving  it  a  new  escape,  swallowing  it 
perhaps  at  last,  and  appropriating  it  by 
long  process  of  digestion.  And  even 
then,  the  shrewd  Connecticut  man,  if 
accused  of  modulating  his  own  opinions 
after  those  of  the  Squire,  would  say, 
**No,  I  allers  thought  so." 

Such  a  man  as  Giles  Elderkin  is  of 
course  ready  with  a  hearty,  outspoken 
word  of  cheer  for  his  minister.  Nay, 
the  very  religion  of  the  Squire,  which 
the  parson  had  looked  upon  as  some- 
what discursive  and  human,  —  giving 
too  large  a  place  to  good  works, — was 
decisive  and  to  the  point  in  the  present 
emergency. 

**It  *s  God's  doing,"  said  he;  "we 
must  take  the  cup  He  gives  us.  For 
the  best,  is  n't  it,  Parson?" 

"  1  do.  Squire.    Thank  God,  I  can." 

There  was  good  Mrs.  Elderkin — who 
made  up  by  her  devotion  to  the  special 
tenets  of  the  clergyman  many  of  the 
shortcomings  of  the  Squire  —  insisted 
upon  sending  for  the  poor  boy  Reuben, 


that  he  might  forget  his  grief  in  her 
kindness,  and  in  frolic  with  the  Elder- 
kins  through  that  famous  garden,  with 
its  huge  hedges  of  box, — such  a  garden 
as  was  certainly  not  to  be  niatched  else- 
where in  Ashfield.  The  same  good 
woman,  too,  sends  down  a  wagon-load 
of  substantial  things  from  her  larder, 
for  the  present  relief  of  th6  stricken 
household ;  to  which  the  Squire  has 
added  a  little  round  jug  of  choice  San- 
ta Cruz  rum, — remembering  the  long 
watches  of  the  parson.  This  may  shock 
us  now ;  and  yet  it  is  to  be  feared  that 
in  our  day  the  sin  of  hypocrisy  is  to  be 
added  to  the  sin  of  indulgence :  the  old 
people  nesded  under  no  cover  of  liver 
specifics  or  bitters.  Reform  has  made 
a  grand  march  indeed ;  but  the  Devil, 
with  his  square  bottles  and  Scheidam 
schnapps,  has  kept  a  pretty  even  pace 
with  it 

XII. 

The  boy  Reuben,  in  those  first  weeks 
after  his  loss,  wandered  about  as  if  in  a 
maze,  wondering  at  the  great  blank  that 
death  had  made ;  or^  warming  himself 
at  some  out -door  sport,  he  rushed  in 
with  a  pleasant  forgetfulness,  —  shout- 
ing, — up  the  stairs, — to  the  accustomed 
door,  and  bursts  in  upon  the  cold. cham- 
ber, so  long  closed,  where  the  bitter 
knowledge  comes  upon  him  fresh  once 
more.  Esther,  good  soul  that  she  is, 
has  heard  his  clatter  upon  the  floor,  his 
bound  at  the  old  latch,  and,  fancying 
what  it  may  mean,  has  come  up  in  time 
to  soothe  him  and  bear  him  off  with 
her.  The  parson,  forging  some  sermon 
for  the  next  Sabbath,  in  the  room  at  the 
foot  of  the  stairs,  hears,  may-be,  the 
stifled  sobbing  of  the  boy,  as  the  good 
Esther  half  leads  and  half  drags  him 
down,  and  opens  his  door  upon  them. 

"What  now,  Esther?  Has  Reuben 
caught  a  fall  ?  " 

"  No,  Sir,  no  fall ;  he  's  not  harmed, 
Sir.  It 's  only  the  old  room,  you  know, 
Sir,  and  he  quite  forgot  himself." 

"  Poor  boy !  Will  he  come  with  me, 
Esther  ?  " 

"  No,  Mr.  Johns.  I  '11  find  something 
11  amuse  him ;  hey,  Ruby  ?  " 


452 


Doctor  Johns, 


[Aprils 


And  the  parson  goes  back  to  his 
desk,  where  he  forgets  himself  in  the 
glow  of  that  great  work  of  his.  He  has 
been  taught,  as  never  before,  that  "all 
flesh  is  grass."  He  accepts  his  loss 
as  a  punishment  for  having  thought  too 
much  and  fondly  of  the  blessings  of  this 
life  \  henceforth  the  flesh  and  its  affec- 
tions shall  be  mortified  in  him.  He  has 
transferred  his  bed  to  a  litde  chamber 
which  opens  from  his  study  in  the  rear, 
and  which  is  at  the  end  of  the  long 
dining-room,  where  every  morning  and 
evening  the  prayers  are  said,  as  before. 
The  parishioners  see  a  light  burning 
in  the  window  of  his  study  far  into  the 
night. 

For  a  time  his  sermons  are  more  emo- 
tional than  before.  Oftener  than  in  the 
earlier  days  of  his  settlement  he  in- 
dulges in  a  forecast  of  those  courts 
toward  which  he  would  conduct  his 
people,  and  which  a  merciful  God  has 
provided  for  tliose  who  trust  in  Him ; 
and  there  is  a  coloring  in  these  pic- 
tures which  his  sermons  never  showed 
in  the  years  gone. 

"We  ask  oursdves,**  said  he,  "my 
brethren,  if  we  shall  knowingly  meet 
there  —  where  we  trust  His  grace  may 
give  us  .entrance  —  those  from  whom 
you  and  I  have  parted ;  whether  a  fond 
and  joyous  welcome  shall  greet  us,  not 
alone  from  Him  whom  to  love  is  life, 
but  from  those  dear  ones  who  seem  to 
our  poor  senses  to  be  resting  under  the 
sod  yonder.  Sometimes  I  believe  that 
by  God's  great  goodness,"  (and  here  he 
looked,  not  at  his  people,  but  above,  and 
kept  his  eye  fixed  there)  —  "I  believe 
that  we  shall ;  that  His  great  love  shall 
so  delight  in  making  complete  our  hap- 
piness, even  by  such  little  memorials  of 
our  earthly  affections  (which  must  seem 
like  waifs  of  thistie-down  beside  the 
great  harvest  of  His  abounding  grace) ; 
tiiat  all  the  dear  faces  of  those  writ- 
ten in  the  Golden  Book  shall  beam  a 
welcome,  all  the  more  bounteous  be- 
cause reflecting  His  joy  who  has  died 
to  save." 

And  the  listeners  whispered  each  oth- 
er as  he  paused,  "He  thinks  of  Ra- 
chel" 


With  his  «yes  still  fixed  above,  he 
goes  on, — 

"  Sometimes  I  think  thus ;  but  often- 
er  I  ask  myself  *  Of  what  value  shall 
human  ties  be,  or  their  memories,  in  His 
august  presence  whom  to  look  upon  is 
life  ?  What  room  shall  there  be  for 
other  affections,  what  room  for  other 
memories,  than  tiiose  of '  the  Lamb  that 
was  slain '  ? 

**  Nay,  my  brethren,"  (and  here  he 
turns  his  eyes  upon  them  again,)  "we 
do  know  in  our  hearts  that  many  whom 
we  have  loved  fondly — in£amts,  fathers, 
mothers,  wives,  may-be  —  shall  neven 
never  sit  with  the  elect  in  Paradise ;  and 
shall  we  remember  these  in  heaven,  go- 
ing away  to  dwell  with  the  Devil  and  his 
angels  ?  Shall  we  be  tortured  with  the 
knowledge  that  some  poor  babe  we  look- 
ed upon  only  for  an  hour  is  wearing  out 
ages  of  suffering  ?*  '  No,'  you  may  say, 
'  for  we  shall  be  possessed  in  that  day 
of  such  sense  of  the  ineffable  justice  of 
God,  and  of  His  judgments,  that  all  shall 
seem  right.*  Yet,  my  brethren,  if  this 
sense  of  His  supreme  justice  shall  over- 
rule all  the  old  longings  of  our  hearts, 
even  to  the  suppression  of  the  dearest 
ties  of  earth,  where  they  conflict  with 
His  ordained  purpose,  will  they  not  also 
overrule  all  the  longings  in  respect  of 
friends  who  are  among  the  elect,  in 
such  sort  that  the  man  we  counted  our 
enemy,  the  man  we  avoided  on  earth, 
if  so  be  he  have  an  inheritance  in  heav- 
en, shall  be  met  with  the  same  yearning 
of  the  heart  as  if  he  were  our  brother  ? 
Does  this  sound  harshly,  my  brethren? 
Ah,  let  us  beware,  —  let  us  beware  how 
we  entertain  any  opinions  of  that  future 
condition  of  holiness  and  of  joy  prom- 
ised to  the  elect,  which  are  dependent 
upon  these  gross  attachments  of  earth, 
which  sure  colored  by  our  short-sighted 
views,  which  are  not  in  every  iota  ac- 
cordant with  the  universal  love  of  Him 
who  is  our  Master  1 " 

"This  man  lives  above  the  world," 
said  the  people ;  and  if  some  of  them 
did  not  give  very  cordial  assent  to  these 
latter  views,  they  smothered  their  dis- 
sent by  a  lofty  expression  of  admira- 
tion ;  they  felt  it  a  duty  to  give  them 


1 86s.] 


Doctor  yohns. 


453 


Open  acceptance,  to  venerate  the  speak- 
er the  more  by  reason  of  their  utter- 
ance. And  yet  their  limited  acceptance 
diffused  a  certain  chill,  very  likely,  over 
their  religious  meditations.  But  it  was 
a  chill  which  unfortunately  they  counted 
it  good  to  entertain,  —  a  rigor  of  faith 
that  must  needs  be  bo^ie.  It  is  doubt- 
ful, indeed,  if  they  did  not  make  a  merit 
of  their  placid  intellectual  admission  of 
such  beliefs  as  most  violated  the  natural 
sensibilities  of  the  heart  They  were 
so  sure  that  affectionate  instincts  were 
by  nature  wrong  in  their  tendencies,  so 
eager  to  cumulate  evidences  of  the  orig- 
inal depravity,  that,  when  their  parson 
propounded  a  theory  that  gave  a  shock 
to  their  natural  affections,  they  submit- 
ted with  a  kind  of  heroic  pride,  howev- 
er much  their  hearts  might  make  silent 
protest,  and  the  grounds  of  such  a  pro- 
test they  felt  a  cringing  unwillingness 
to  investigate.  There  was  a  determined 
shackling  of  all  the  passional  nature. 
What  wonder  that  religion  took  a  harsh 
aspect  ?  As  if  intellectual  adhesion  to 
theological  formulas  were  to  pave  our 
way  to  a  knowledge  of  the  Infinite ! — as 
if  our  sensibilities  were  to  be  outraged 
in  the  march  to  Heaven !  —  as  if  all 
the  emotional  nature  were  to  be  clipped 
away  by  the  shears  of  the  doctors,  leav- 
ing only  the  metaphysic  ghost  of  a  soul 
to  enter  upon  the  joys  of  Paradise ! 

Within  eight  months  af^er  his  loss, 
Mr.  Johns  thought  of  Rachel  only  as  a 
gift  that  God  had  bestowed  to  try  him, 
and  had  taken  away  to  work  in  him  a 
humiliation  of  the  heart  More  severely 
than  ever  he  wrestled  with  the  dogmas 
of  his  chosen  divines,  harnessed  them 
to  his  purposes  as  preacher,  and  wrought 
on  with  a  zeal  that  knew  no  abatement 
and  no  rest 

In  the  spring  of  1825  Mr.  Johns  was 
invited  by  Governor  Wolcott  to  preach 
the  Election  Sermon  before  the  Legisla- 
ture convened  at  Hartford :  an  honora- 
ble duty,  and  one  which  he  was  abun- 
dantly competent  to  fulJ&l.  The  "  Hart- 
ford Courant"  of  that  date  said, — ''A 
large  auditory  was  collected  last  week 
to  listen  to  the  Election  Sermon  by  Mr. 
Johns,  minister  of  Ashfield.    It  was  a 


sound,  orthodox,  and  interesting  dis- 
course, and  won  the  undivided  attention 
of  all  the  listeners.  We  have  not  re- 
cently listened  to  a  sermon  more  able 
or  eloquent" 

In  that  day  evexr  country  editors  were 
church-goers  and  God-fearing  men. 


XIII. 

In  the  latter  part  of  the  summer  of 
1826,  —  a  reasonable  time  having  now 
elapsed  since  the  death  of  poor  Rachel, 
— the  gossips  of  Ashfield  began  to  dis- 
cuss the  lonely  condition  of  their  pas- 
tor, in  connection  with  any  desirable  or 
feasible  amendment  of  it  The  sin  of 
such  gossip — if  it  be  a  sin  —  is  one  that 
all  the  preaching  in  the  world  will  nev- 
er extirpate  from  country  towns,  where 
the  range  of  talk  is  by  the  necessity  of 
the  case  exceedingly  limited.  In  the 
city,  curiosity  has  an  omnivorous  maw 
by  reason  of  position,  and  finds  such 
variety  to  feed  upon  that  it  is  rarely — 
except  in  the  case  of  great  political  or 
public  scandal — personal  in  its  atten- 
tions ;  and  what  we  too  freely  reckon  a 
perverted  and  impertinent  country  taste 
is  but  an  ordinary  appetite  of  hunumity, 
which,  by  the  limitation  of  its  feedinj^- 
ground,  seems  to  attach  itself  perverse- 
ly to  private  relations. 

There  were  some  invidious  persons 
in  the  town  who  had  remarked  that 
Miss  Almira  Tourtelot  had  brought 
quite  a  new  fervor  to  her  devotional 
exercises  in  the  parish  within  the  last 
year,  as  well  as  a  new  set  of  ribbons  to 
her  hat ;  and  two  maiden  ladies  oppo- 
site, of  distinguished  pretensions  and 
long  experience  of  life,  had  observed 
that  the  young  Reuben,  on  his  passage 
back  and  forth  from  the  Elderkins,  had 
sometimes  been  decoyed  within  the 
Tourtelot  yard,  and  presented  by  the 
^miring  Dame  Tourtelot  with  fresh 
doughnuts.  The  elderly  maiden  ladies 
were  perhaps  uncharitable  in  their  con- 
clusions ;  yet  it  is  altogether  probable 
that  the  Deacon  and  his  wife  nay  have 
considered,  in  the  intimacy  of  their  fire- 
side talk,  the  possibility  of  some,  time 


454 


Doctor  Johm. 


[April, 


claiming  the  minister  as  a  son-in-law. 
Questions  like  this  are  discussed  in  a 
great  many  femilies  even  now. 

Dame  Tourtelot  had  crowned  with 
success  all  her  schemes  in  life,  save 
one.  Almira,  her  daughter,  now  verg- 
ing upon  her  thirty-second  year,  had 
long  been  upon  the  anxious-seat  as  re- 
garded matrimony ;  and  with  a  senti- 
mental turn  that  incited  much  reading 
of  Cowper  and  Montgomery  and  (if  it 
must  be  told) "  Thaddeus  of  Warsaw," 
the  poor  girl  united  a  sickly,  in-door 
look,  and  a  peaked  countenance,  which 
had  not  attracted  wooers.  The  won- 
derful executive  capacity  of  the  mother 
had  unfortunately  debarred  her  from 
any  active  interest  in  the  household; 
and  though  the  Tourtelots  had  actually 
been  at  the  expense  of  providing  a  pia- 
no for  Almira,  (the  only  one  in  Ashfield,) 
—  upon  which  the  poor  girl  thrummed, 
thinking  of  *'  Thaddeus,"  and,  we  trust, 
of  better  things, — this  had  not  won  a 
roseate  hue  to  her  &ce,  or  quickened 
in  any  perceptible  degree  the  alacrity  of 
her  admirers. 

Upon  a  certain  night  of  later  Octo- 
ber, after  Almira  has  retired,  and  when 
the  Tourtelots  are  seated  by  the  little 
fire,  which  the  autumn  chills  have  ren- 
dered necessary,  and  into  the  embers 
oi  which  the  Deacon  has  cautiously 
thrust  the  leg  of  one  of  the  fire-dogs, 
preparatory  to  a  modest  mug  of  flip, 
(with  which,  by  his  wife's  permission, 
he  occasionally  indulges  himself,)  the 
good  dame  calls  out  to  her  husband, 
who  is  dozing  in  his  chair, — 

"  Tourtelot ! " 

But  she  is  not  loud  enough. 

"  Tourtelot  !  you  're  asleep  ! " 

**  No,"  says  the  Deacon,  rousing  him- 
self,—«  only  thinkin\" 

"What  are  you  thinkin'  of,  Tourte- 

Jot?" 

"Thinkin*— thinkin',"  says  the  Dea- 
con, rasped  by  the  dame's  sharpness 
into  sudden  mental  cflfort,  —  "  thinkin', 
Huldy,  if  it  is  n't  about  time  to  butcher : 
we  butchered  last  year  nigh  upon  the 
twentieth." 

**  Nonsense  t "  says  the  dame ;  ^  what 
about  the  parson  ?  " 


"  The  parson  ?  Oh !  Why,  the  par- 
son 'U  take  a  side  and  two  hams." 

*'  Nonsense  ! "  says  the  dame,  with  a 
great  voice ;  **  you  're  asleep,  Tourtelot 
Is  the  parson  goin'  to  *marry,  or  is  n't 
he  ?  that 's  what  I  want  to  know  " ;  and 
she  rethreads  her  needle. 

(She  can  do  it  by^  candle-light  at  fifty- 
five,  that  woman ! ) 

"  Oh,  marry  I "  replies  the  Deacon, 
rousing  himself  more  thoroughly, — 
"waal,  I  don't  see  no  signs,  Huldy. 
If  he  doos  mean  to,  he  's  sly  about  it ; 
dgn't  you  think  so,  Huldy  ?  " 

The  dame,*  who  is  intent  upon  her 
sewing  again,  —  she  is  never  without 
her  work,  that  woman !  —  does  not  deign 
a  reply. 

The  Deacon,  after  lifting  the  fire-dog, 
blowing  off  the  ashes,  and  holding  it  to 
his  face  to  try  the  heat,  says,  — 

"  I  guess  Almiry  ha'n't  much  of  a 
chance." 

"  What 's  the  use  of  your  guessin'  ?  " 
says  the  dame ;  '*  better  mind  your 
flip." 

Which  the  Deacon  accordingly  does, 
stirring  it  in  a  mild  manner,  until  the 
dame  breaks  out  upon  him  again  ex- 
plosively :  — 

"Tourtelot,  3rou  men  of  the  parish 
ought  to  talk  to  the  parson ;  it  a'n't 
right  for  things  to  go  on  this  way.  That 
boy  Reuben  is  growin'  up  wild ;  he 
wants  a  woman  in  the  house  to  look 
arter  him.  Besides,  a  minister  ought 
to  have  a  wife ;  it  a'n't  decent  to  have 
the  house  empty,  and  only  Esther  there. 
Women  want  to  feel  they  can  drop  in 
at  the  parsonage  for  a  chat,  or  to  take 
tea.  But  who  's  to  serve  tea,  I  want  to 
know?  Who  's  to  mind  Reuben  in 
meetin'  ?  He  broke  the  cover  off  the 
best  hymn-book  in  the  parson's  pew 
last  Sunday.  Who  's  to  prevent  him 
a-breakin'  all  the  hymn-bqpks  that  be- 
long to  the  parish  ?  You  men  ought 
to  speak  to  the  parson ;  and,  Tourte- 
lot, if  the  others  won't  do  it,  you  must?^ 

The  Deacon  was  fairly  awake  now. 
He  pulled  at  his  whiskers  deprecatingly. 
Yet  he  clearly  foresaw  that  the  emer- 
gency was  one  to  be  met ;  the  manner 
of  Dame  Tourtelot  left  no  room  for 


1865.] 


Doctor  Johns. 


455 


doubt ;  and  he  was  casting  about  for 
such  Scriptural  injunctions  as  might  be 
made  available,  when  the  dame  inter- 
,  nipted  his  reflections  in  more  amiable 
humor,  — 

'Mt  is  n*t  Almiry,  Samuel,  I  think  o( 
but  Mr.  Johns  and  the  good  of  the  par- 
ish. I  really  don't  know  if  Almiry  would 
£u)cy  the  parson ;  the  girl  is  a  good 
deal  taken  up  with  her  pianny  and 
books  ;  but  there  's  the  Hapgoods,  op- 
posite ;  there  's  Joanny  Meacham  " 

"  You  Ul  never  make  that  do,  Huldy," 
said  the  Deacon,  stirring  his  flip  com- 
posedly ;  "  they  're  nigh  on  as  old  as 
the  parson." 

"Never  you  mind,  Tourtelot,"  said 
the  dame,  sharply ;  ^  only  you  hint  to 
the  parson  that  they  're  good,  pious 
women,  all  of  them,  and  would  make 
proper  ministers'  wives.  Do  you  think 
I  don^t  know  what  a  man  is,  Tourtelot } 
Humph ! "  And  she  threads  her  needle 
again. 

The  Deacon  was  apt  to  keep  in  mind 
his  wife's  advices,  whatever  he  might 
do  with  Scripture  quotations.  So  when 
he  called  at  the  parsonage,  a  few  da3rs 
after,  —  ostensibly  to  learn  how  the  min- 
ister would  like  his  pork  cut, — it  hap- 
pened that  litde  Reuben  came  bound- 
ing in,  and  that  the  Deacon  gave  him 
a  fatherly  pat  upon  the  shoulder. 

"Likely  boy  you  've  got  here,  Mr. 
Johns, — likely  boy.  But,  Parson,  don't 
you  think  he  must  feel  a  kind  o'  han- 
kerin'  arter  somebody  to  be  motherly 
to  him  ?  I  'most  wonder  that  you  don't 
feel  that  way  yourself,  Mr.  Johns." 

"God  comforts  the  mourners,"  said 
the  clergyman,  seriously. 

^  No  doubt,  no  doubt.  Parson ;  but 
He  sometimes  provides  comforts  ag'in 
which  we  shet  our  eyes.  You  won't 
think  hard  o'  me,  Parson,  but  I  've  heerd 
say  about  the  village  that  Miss  Meach- 
am or  one  of  the  Miss  Hapgoods  would 
make  an  excellent  wife  for  the  minis- 
ter." 

The  parson  is  suddenly  very  grave. 

"  Don't  repeat  such  idle  gossip,  Dea- 
con. I  'm  married  to  my  work.  The 
Gospel  is  my  bride  now." 

"  And  a  very  good  one  it  is,  Parson. 


But  don't  you  think  that  a  godly  wom- 
an for  helpmeet  would  make  the  work 
more  effectooal  ?  Miss  Meacham  is  a 
pa^em  of  a  person  in  the  Sunday 
school.  The  women  of  the  parish  would 
rather  like  to  find  the  doors  *of  the  par- 
sonage openin'  for  'em  ag'in." 

"  That  is  to  be  thought  of  certainly," 
said  the  minister,  musingly. 

"You  won't  think  hard  o'  me,  Mr. 
Johns,  for  droppin'  a  word  about  this 
matter?"  says  the  Deacon,  rising  to 
leave.  "And  while  I  think  on  *t.  Par- 
son, I  see  the  sill  under  the  no'theast 
comer  o'  €ie  meetin'-house  has  a  little 
settle  to  it  I  *ve  jest  been  cuttin'  a 
few  sdcks  o'  good  smart  chestnut  tim- 
ber ;  and  if  the  Committee  thinks  best, 
I  could  haul  down  one  or  two  on  'em 
for  repairs.  It  won't  cost  nigh  as  much 
as  pine  lumber,  and  it  's  every  bit  as 
good." 

Even  Dame  Tourtelot  would  have 
been  satisfied  with  the  polidc  way  of 
the  Deacon,  both  as  regarded  the  wife 
and  the  prospective  bargain.  The  next 
evening  the  good  woman  invited  the 
clergyman  —  begging  him  "  not  to  for- 
get the  dear  little  boy  "  —  to  tea. 

This  was  by  no  means  the  first  hint 
which  the  minister  had  had  of  the  ten- 
dency of  village  gossip.  The  Tew  part- 
ners, with  whom  he  had  fiillen  upon 
very  easy  terms  of  familiarity,  —  both 
by  reason  of  fi'equent  visits  at  their  lit- 
de shop,  and  by  reason  of  their  steady 
attendance  upon  his  ministrations,-^ 
often  dropped  hints  of  the  smallness 
of  the  good  man's  grocery  account,  and 
insidious  hopes  that  it  might  be  doubled 
in  size  at  some  day  not  fax  off 

Squire  Elderkin,  too,  in  his  blufl^. 
hearty  way,  had  occasionally  compli- 
mented the  clergyman  upon  the  in- 
creased attendance  latterly  of  ladies 
of  a  certain  age,  and  had  drawn  his 
attention  particularly  to  the  ardent  zeal 
of  a  buxom,  middle-aged  widow,  who 
lived  upon  the  skirts  of  the  town,  and 
was  "  the  owner,"  he  said,  "  of  as  pret- 
ty a  piece  of  property  as  lay  in  the 
county." 

"Have  you  any  knack  at  farming, 
Mr.  Johns  ?  "  continued  he»  playfully. 


456 


Doctor  yoktu. 


[April, 


"Farming?  why?"  says  the  inno- 
cent parson,  in  a  maze. 

"Because  I  am  of  opinion,  Mr. 
Johns,  that  the  wfdow's  linle  property 
might  be  rented  by  you,  under  condi- 
tions of  joint  occupancy,  on  very  easy 
terms." 

Such  badinage  was  so  warded  off  by 
the  ponderous  gravity  which  the  parson 
habitually  wore,  that  men  like  Elderldn 
loved  occasionally  to  launch  a  quiet 
joke  at  him,  for  the  pleasure  of  watch- 
ing the  rebound. 

When,  however,  the  wide-spread  gos- 
sip of  the  town  had  taken  th#  shape  (as 
in  the  talk  of  Deacon  Tourtelot)  of  an 
incentive  to  duty,  the  grave  clergyman 
gave  to  it  his  undivided  and  prayerful 
attention.  It  was  over -true  that  the 
boy  Reuben  was  running  wild.  No  lad 
in  Ashfield,  of  his  years,  could  match 
him  in  mischiefl  There  was  surely  need 
of  womanly  direction  and  remonstrance. 
It  was  eminently  proper,  too,  that  the 
parsonage,  so  long  closed,  should  be 
opened  freely  to  all  his  flock ;  and  the 
truth  was  so  plain,  he  wondered  it  could 
have  escaped  him  so  long.  Duty  re- 
quired that  his  home  should  have  an 
established  mistress ;  and  a  mistress 
he  forthwith  determined  it  should  have. 

Within  three  weeks  from  the  day  of 
the  tea-drinking  with  the  Tourtelots,  the 
minister  suggested  certain  changes  in 
the  long-deserted  chamber  which  should 
bring  it  into  more  habitable  condition. 
He  hinted  to  his  man  Larkin  that  an 
additional  fire  might  probably  be  needed 
in  the  house  during  the  latter  part  of 
winter;  and  before  January  had  gone 
out,  he  had  most  agreeably  surprised 
the  delighted  and  curious  Tew  partners 
with  a  very  lai^e  addition  to  his  usual 
orders, — embracing  certain  condiments 
in  the  way  of  spices,  dried  fruits,  and 
cordials,  which  had  for  a  long  time  been 
foreign  to  the  larder  of  the  parsonage. 

Such  indications,  duly  commented 
on,  as  they  were  most  zealously,  could 
not  fail  to  excite  a  great  buzz  of  talk 
and  of  curiosity  throughout  the  town. 

"  I  knew  it,"  says  Mrs.  Tew,  author- 
itatively, setting  back  her  spectacles 
from  her  postal  duties; — "these  *ere 


grave  widowers  are  allers  the  first  to 
pop  off,  and  git  married." 

"  Tourtelot !  "  said  the  dame,  on  a 
January  night,  when  the  evidence  had 
come  in  overwhelmingly,  —  "  Tourte- 
lot !  what  does  it  all  mean  ?  " 

"  D*n'  know,"  says  the  Deacon,  stir- 
ring his  flip»  —  **dV  know.  It  's  my 
opinion  the  parson  has  his  sly  humors 
abput  him." 

"  Do  you  think  it 's  true,  Samuel  ?  " 

"Waal,Huldy,  — 1^«." 

"  Tourtelot !  fijiish  your  flip,  and  go 
to  bed :  it 's  past  ten." 

And  the  Deacon  went 


XIV. 

Toward  the  latter  end  of  the  winter 
there  arrived  at  the  parsonage  the  new 
mistress, — in  the  person  of  Miss  Eliza 
Johns,  the  elder  sister  of  the  incum- 
bent, and  a  spinster  of  the  ripe  age  of 
three  -  and  -  thirty.  For  the  last  twelve 
years  she  had  maintained  a  lonely,  but 
matronly,  command  of  the  old  home- 
stead of  the  late  Major  Johns,  in  the 
town  of  Canterbury.  She  was  intensely 
proud  of  the  memory  of  her  father,  and 
of  his  father  before  him,  —  every  inch 
a  Johns.  No  light  cause  could  have 
provoked  her  to  a  sacrifice  of  the  name ; 
and  of  weightier  causes  she  had  been 
spared  the  triaL  The  marriage  of  her 
brother  had  always  been  more  or  less 
a  source  of  mortification  to  her.  The 
Handbys,  though  excellent  plain  peo- 
ple, were  of  no  particular  distinction. 
Rachel  had  a  pretty  fiice,  with  which 
Benjamin  had  grown  suddenly  dement- 
ed. That  source  of  mortification  and 
of  disturbed  intimacy  was  now  buried 
in  the  grave.  Benjamin  had  won  a 
reputation  for  dignity  and  ability  which 
was  immensely  gratifying  to  her.  She 
had  assured  him  of  it  again  and  again 
in  her  occasional  letters.  The  success 
of  his  Election  Sermon  had  been  an 
event  of  the  greatest  interest  to  her, 
which  she  had  expressed  in  an  epistle 
of  three  pages,  with  every  comma  in 
its  place,  and  fiill  of  gratulations.  Her 
commas  were  always  in  place ;  so  were 


1865.] 


Doctor  Johns. 


457 


her  stops  of  all  kinds :  her  precision 
was  something  marvellous.  This  pre- 
cision had  enabled  her  to  manage  the 
little  property  which  had  been  left  her  in 
such  a  way  as  to  maintain  always  about 
her  establishment  an  air  of  well-ordered 
thrift.  She  concealed  adroitly  all  the 
shifts  —  if  there  were  any  —  by  which 
she  avoided  the  reproach  of  seeming 
poor. 

In  person  she  was  not  unlike  her  fa- 
ther, the  Major,  —  tall,  erect,  with  a 
dignified  bearing, 'and  so  trim  a  figure, 
and  so  elastic  a  step  even  at  her  years, 
as  would  have  provoked  an  inquisitive 
follower  to  catch  sight  of  the  face.  This 
was  by  no  means  attractive.  Her  fea- 
tures were  thin,  her  nose  unduly  prom- 
inent ;  and  both  eye  and  mouth,  though 
well  formed,  carried  about  them  a  kind 
of  hard  positiveness  that  would  have 
challenged  respect,  perhaps,  but  no 
warmer  feeling.  Two  little  curls  were 
flattened  upon  either  temple ;  and  her 
neck-tie,  dress,  gloves,  hat,  were  always 
most  neatly  arranged,  and  ordered  with 
the  same  precision  that  governed  all  her 
action.  In  the  town  of  Canterbury  she 
was  an  jnstitution.  Her  charities  and 
all  her  religious  observances  were  me- 
thodical, and  never  omitted.  Her  whole 
life,  indeed,  was  a  discipline.  Without 
any  great  love  for  children,  she  still  had 
her  Bible-class ;  and  it  was  rare  that 
the  weather  or  any  other  cause  forbade 
attendance  upon  its  duties.  Nor  was 
there  one  of  the  litde  ones  who  listened 
to  that  clear,  sharp,  metallic  voice  of 
hers  but  stood  in  awe  of  her ;  not  one 
that  could  say  she  was  unkind ;  not 
one  who  had  ever  bestowed  a  childish 
gift  upon  her,  —  such  little  gifts  as 
children  love  to  heap  on  those  who 
have  found  the  way  to  their  hearts. 

Sentiment  had  never  been  eflusive  in 
her ;  and  it  was  now  limited  to  quick 
sparkles,  that  sometimes  flashed  into  a 
page  of  her  reading.  As  regarded  the 
serious  question  of  marriage,  implying 
a  home,  position,  the  married  dignities, 
it  had  rarely  disturbed  her;  and  now 
her  imaginative  forecast  did  not  grapple 
it  with  any  vigor  or  longing.  I(  indeed, 
it  had  been  possible  that  a  man  of  high 


standing,  character,  cultivation, — equal, 
in  short,  to  the  Johnses  in  every  way,  — 
should  woo  her  with  pertinacity,  she 
might  have  been  disposed  to  yield  a 
dignified  assent,  but  not  unless  he 
could  be  made  to  understand  and  ade- 
quately appreciate  the  immense  fitvor 
she  was  conferring.  In  short,  the  suit- 
or who  could  abide  and  admit  her  ex- 
alted pretensions,  and.  submit  to  them, 
would  most  infallibly  be  one  of  a  char- 
acter and  temper  so  far  inferior  to  her 
own  that  she  would  scorn  him  from  the 
outset  This  dilemma,  imposed  by  the 
rigidity  of  her  smaller  dignities,  that 
were  never  mastered  or  overshadowed 
either  by  her  sentiment  or  her  passion, 
not  only  involved  a  life  of  celibacy,  but 
was 'a  constant  justification  of  it,  and 
made  it  eminently  easy  to  be  borne. 
There  are  not  a  few  maiden  ladies  who 
are  thus  lightered  over  the  shoals  of  a 
solitary  existence  by  the  buoyancy  of 
their  own  intemperate  vanities. 

Miss  Johns  did  not  accept  the  invita- 
tion of  her  brother  to  undertake  the 
charge  of  his  household  without  due 
codsideration.  She  by  no  means  left 
out  of  view  the  contingency  of  his  pos- 
sible future  marriage ;  but  she  trusted 
largely  to  her  own  influences  in  mak- 
ing it  such  a  one,  if  inevitable,  as 
should  not  be  discreditable  to  the  family 
name.  And  under  such  conditions  she 
would  retire  with  serene  contentment 
to  her  own  more  private  sphere  of  Can- 
terbury,—  or,  if  circumstances  should 
demand,  would  accept  the  position  of 
guest  in  the  house  of  her  brother.  Nor 
did  she  leave  out  of  view  her  influence 
in  the  training  of  the  boy  Reuben.  She 
cherished  her  own  hopes  of  moulding 
him  to  her  will,  and  of  making  him  a 
pride  to  the  family. 

There  was  of  course  prodigious  ex- 
citement in  the  parsonage  upon  her 
arrival.  Esther  had  done  her  best  at 
all  household  appliances,  whether  of 
kitchen  or  chamber.  The  minister  re- 
ceived her  with  his  wonted  quietude, 
and  a  brotherly  kiss  of  salutation.  Reu- 
ben gazed  wonderingly  at  her,  and  was 
thinking  dreamily  if  he  should  ever 
love  her,  while  he  felt  the  dreary  rustie 


458 


Doctor  Johns. 


[April, 


of  her  black  ^Ik  dress  swooping  round 
as  she  stooped  to  embrace  him.  ''I 
hope  Master  Reuben  is  a  good  boy," 
said  she  ;  "  your  Aunt  Eliza  loves  all 
good  boys." 

He  had  nothing  to  say;  but  only 
looked  back  into  that  cold  gray  eye,  as 
she  lifted  his  chin  with  her  gloved  hand. 

'^  Benjamin,  there  's  a  strong  look  of 
the  Handbys ;  but  it 's  your  forehead. 
He  's  a  little  man,  I  hope/'  and  she 
patted  him  on  the  head. 

Still  Reuben  looked  — wonderingly — 
at  her  shining  silk  dress,  at  her  hat,  at 
the  little  curls  on  either  temple,  at  the 
guard-chain  which  hung  from  her  neck 
with  a  glittering  watch-key  upon  it,  at 
the  bright  buckle  in  her  belt,  and  most 
of  all  at  the  gray  eye  which  seemed  to 
look  on  him  from  fax  away.  And  with 
the  same  stare  of  wonderment,  he  fol- 
lowed her  up  and  down  throughout  the 
house. 

At  night,  Esther,  who  has  a  chamber 
near  him,  creeps  in  to  say  good-night 
to  the  lad,  and  asks,  — 

"  Do  you  like  her,  Ruby,  boy  ?  Do 
you  like  your  Aunt  Eliza  ?  " 

"  I  d'n  know,"  sa3rs  Reuben.  "  She 
says  she  likes  good  boys ;  don't  you 
like  bad  uns,  Esther?" 

"But  you  're  not  very  bad,"  says 
Esther,  whose  orthodoxy  does  not  for- 
bid kindly  praise. 

*'  Did  n't  mamma  like  bad  uns,  Es- 
ther?" 

"  Dear  heart ! "  and  the  good  crea- 
ture gives  the  boy  a  great  hug ;  it  could 
not  have  been  warmer,  if  he  had  been 
her  child. 

The  household  speedily  felt  the  pres- 
ence of  the  new  comer.  Her  precision, 
her  method,  her  clear,  sharp  voice,  — 
never  raised  in  anger,  never  falling  to 
tenderness,  —  ruled  the  establishment 
Under  all  the  cheeriness  of  the  old 
management,  there  had  been  a  sad  lack 
of  any  economic  system,  by  reason  of 
which  the  minister  was  constantly  over- 
running his  little  stipend,  and  making 
awkward  appeals  from  time  to  time  to 
the  Parish  Committee  for  advances.  A 
small  legacy  that  had  be£adlen  the  late 
Mrs.  Johns,  and  which  had  gone  to  the 


purchase  of  the  parsonage,  had  brought 
relief  at  a  very  perplexing  crisis ;  but 
against  all  similar  troubles  Miss  Johns 
set  her  &ce  most  resolutely.  There 
was  a  daily  examination  of  btutchers' 
and  grocers'  accounts,  that  had  been 
previously  unknown  to  the  household. 
The  kitchen  was  placed  under  strict 
regimen,  into  the  observance  of  which 
the  good  Esther  slipped,  not  so  much 
from  love  of  it,  as  from  total  inability 
to  cope  with  the  magnetic  authority  of 
the  new  mistress.  Nor  was  she  harsh 
in  her  manner  of  command. 

**  Esther,  my  good  woman,  it  will  be 
best,  I  think,  to  have  breakfast  a  little 
more  promptly,  —  at  half*  past  six,  we 
will  say,  —  so  that  prayers  may  be  over 
and  the  room  free  by  eight ;  the  minis- 
ter, you  know,  must  have  his  morning 
in  his  study  undisturbed." 

*'*■  Yes,  Marm,"  sa)rs  Esther ;  and  she 
would  as  soon  have  thought  of  flying 
over  the  house-top  in  her  short  gown 
as  of  questioning  the  plan. 

Again,  the  mistress  says,  —  '*  Larkin, 
I  think  it  would  be  well  to  take  up  those 
scattered  bunches  of  lilies,  and  place 
them  upon  either  side  of  the  .walk  in 
the  garden,  so  that  the  flowers  may  be 
all  together." 

"  Yes,  Marm,"  says  Larkin. 

And  much  as  he  had  leved  the  little 
woman  now  sleeping  in  her  grave,  who 
had  scattered  flowers  with  an  errant 
fancy,  he  would  have  thought  it  prepos- 
terous to  object  to  an  order  so  calmly 
spoken,  so  evidently  intended  for  exe- 
cution. There  was  something  in  the 
tone  of  Miss  Johns  in  giving  directions 
that  drew  off  all  moral  power  of  objec- 
tion as  surely  as  a  good  metallic  con- 
ductor would  free  an  overcharged  cloud 
of  its  electricity. 

The  parishioners  were  not  slow  to 
perceive  that  new  order  prevailed  at  the 
quiet  parsonage.  Curiosity,  no  less  than 
the  staid  proprieties  which  governed 
the  action  of  the  chief  inhabitants,  had 
brought  them  early  into  contact  with 
the  new  mistress.  She  received  all  with 
dignity  and  with  an  exactitude  of  de- 
portment that  charmed  the  precise  ones 
and  that  awed  the  younger  folks.    The 


j86s.] 


Doctor  Johns. 


459 


bustling  Dame  Tourtelot  had  come 
among  the  earliest,  and  her  brief  report 
was,  —  '*  Tourtelot,  Miss  Johns  's  as 
smart  as  a  steel  trap.'' 

Nor  was  the  spinster  sister  without  a 
degree  of  cultivation  which  commend- 
ed her  to  the  more  intellectual  people 
of  Ashfield.  She*  was  a  reader  of 
''Rokeby"  and  of  Miss  Austen's  nov- 
els, of  Josephus  and  of  Rollings  ''An- 
cient History."  The  Miss  Hapgoods, 
who  were  the  blue  -  stockings  of  the 
place,  were  charmed  to  have  such  an 
addition  to  the  cultivated  circle  of  the 
parish.  To  make  the  success  of  Miss 
Johns  still  more  decided,  she  brought 
with  her  a  certain  knowledge  of  the 
conventionalisms  of  the  city,  by  reason 
of  her  occasional  visits  to  her  sister 
Mabel,  (now  Mrs.  Brindlock  of  Green- 
wich Street,)  which  to  many  excellent 
women  gave  larger  assurance  of  her 
position  and  dignity  than  all  besides. 
Before  the  first  year  of  her  advent  had 
gone  by,  it  was  quite  plain  that  she 
was  to  become  one  of  the  prominent 
directors  of  the  female  world  of  Ash- 
field. 

Only  in  the  parsonage  itself  did  her 
influence  find  its  most  serious  limita- 
tions,—  and  these  in  connection  with 
the  boy  Reuben. 


XV. 

There  is  a  deep  emotional  nature  in 
the  lad,  which,  by  the  time  he  has  reach- 
ed his  eighth  year,  —  Miss  Eliza  having 
now  been  in  the  position  of  mistress  of 
the  household  a  twelvemonth,  —  works 
itself  off  in  explosive  tempests  of  feel- 
ing, with  which  the  prim  spinster  has 
but  bxtX  sympathy.  No  care  could  be 
more  studious  and  complete  than  that 
with  which  she  looks  after  the  boy's 
wardrobe  and  the  ordering  of  his  little 
chamber ;  his  supply  of  mittens,  of  stock- 
ings, and  of  underclothihg  is  always  of 
the  most  ample  ;  nay,  his  caprices  of  the 
table  are  not  wholly  overlooked,  and 
she  hopes  to  win  upon  him  by  the  dish- 
es that  are  most  toothsome ;  but,  how- 
ever grateful  for  the  moment,  his  boy- 


ish  affections  can  never  make  their  way 
with  any  force  or  passionate  flow  through 
the  stately  proprieties  of  manner  with 
which  the  spinster  aunt  is  always  hedg- 
ed about 

He  wanders  away  after  school-hours 
to  the  home  of  the  Elderkins,  —  Phil 
and  he  being  sworn  friends,  and  the 
good  mother  of  Phil  always  having 
ready  for  him  a  beaming  look  of  wel- 
come and  a  tender  word  or  two  that 
somehow  always  find  their  way  straight 
to  his  heart  He  loiters  with  Larkin, 
too,  by  the  great  stable-yard  of  the  inn, 
though  it  is  forbidden  ground.  He 
breaks  in  upon  the  precise  woman's  rule 
of  punctuality  sadly ;  many  a  cold  dish 
he  eats  sulkily, — she  sitting  bolt  upright 
in  her  place  at  the  table,  looking  dovm 
at  him  with  glances  which  are  every  one 
a  punishment  Other  times  he  is  strays 
ing  in  the  orchard  at  the  hour  of  some 
home-duty,  and  the  active  spinster  goes 
to  seek  him,  and  not  threateningly,  but 
with  an  assured  step  and  a  firm  grip 
upon  the  hand  of  the  loiterer,  which  he 
knows  not  whether  to  count  a  6ivor  or 
a  punishment,  (and  she  as  much  at  a 
loss,  so  inextricably  interwoven  are 
her  notions  of  duty  and  (^  kindness,) 
leads  him  homeward,  pl3ring  him  with 
stately  precepts  upon  the  sin  of  negli- 
gence, and  with  earnest  story  of  the 
dreadful  fate  which  is  sure  to  overtake 
all  bad  boys  who  do  not  obey  and  keep 
''  by  the  ndes  " ;  and  she  instances  those 
poor  lads  who  were  eaten  by  the  bears, 
of  whom  she  has  read  to  him  the  story 
in  the  Old  Testament 

''  Who  was  it  they  called  '  bald-head,' 
Reuben  ?    Elisha  or  Elijah  ?  " 

He,  in  no  mood  for  reply,  is  sulkily 
beating  off  the  daisies  with  his  feet,  as 
she  drags  him  on  ;  sometimes  hanging 
back,  with  impotent,  yet  concealed  strug- 
gle, which  she — not  deigning  to  notice 
— overcomes  with  even  sharper  step, 
and  plies  him  the  more  closely  with  the 
dire  results  of  badness,  —  has  not  fin- 
ished her  talk,  indeed,  when  they  reach 
the  door -step  and  enter.  There  he, 
fuming  now  with  that  long  struggle, 
fuming  the  more  because  he  has  con- 
cealed it,  makes  one  violent  discharge 


460 


Doctor  Johns, 


[April, 


with  a  great  frown  on  his  little  &ce, 
''  You  Ve  an  ugly  old  thing,  and  I  don't 
like  you  one  bit ! " 

Esther,  good  soul,  within  hearing  of 
it,  lifts  her  hands  in  apparent  horror, 
but  inwardly  indulges  in  a  wicked  chuc- 
kle over  the  boy's  spirit 

But  the  minister  has  heard  him,  too, 
and  gravely  summons  the  offender  into 
his  study. 

"  My  son,  Reuben,  this  is  very  wrong." 

And  the  boy  breaks  into  a  sob  at  this 
stage,  which  is  a  great  relie£ 

"My  boy,  you  ought  to  love  your 
aunt." 

"  Why  ought  I  ?  "  says  he. 

'*  Why  ?  why  ?  Don't  you  know  she 
*s  very  good  to  you,  and  takes  excellent 
care  of  you,  and  hears  you  say  your 
catechism  every  Saturday  ?  You  ought 
to  love  her." 

"  But  I  can't  make  myself  love  her, 
if  I  don't,"  saysf  the  boy. 

"  It  is  your  duty  to  love  her,  Reuben ; 
and  we  can  all  do  our  duty." 

Even  the  staid  clergyman  enjoys  the 
boy's  discomfiture  under  so  ordiodox 
a  proposition.  Miss  Johns,  however, 
breaks  in  here,  having  overheard  tfie 
latter  part  of  the  talk :  — 

"  No,  Benjamin,  I  wish  no  love  that 
is  given  frpm  a  sense  of  duty.  Reuben 
sha'n't  be  forced  into  loving  his  Aunt 
Eliza." 

And  there  is  a  subdued  tone  in  her 
speech  which  touches  the  boy.  But  he 
is  not  ready  yet  for  surrender ;  he  watch- 
es gravely  her  retirement,  and  for  an 
hour  shows  a  certain  preoccupation  at 
his  play ;  then  his  piping  voice  is  heard 
at  the  foot  of  the  stairway, — . 

**  Aunt  Eliza !    Are  you  there  ?  " 

"  Yes,  Master  Reuben ! " 

Master !  It  cools  somewhat  his  gen- 
erous intent ;  but  he  is  in  for  it ;  and  he 
climbs  the  stair,  sidles  uneasily  into  the 
chamber  where  she  sits  at  her  work, 
stealing  a  swift,  inquiring  look  into  that 
gray  eye  of  hers,  — 

**I  say — Aunt  Eliza — I  'm  sorry  I 
said  that  —  you  know  what" 

And  he  looks  up  with  a  little  of  the 
old  yearning, — the  yearning  he  used  to 
feel  when  another  sat  in  that  place. 


*<Ah,  that  is  right,  Master  Reuben! 
I  hope  we  shall  be  friends,  now." 

Another  disturbed  look  at  her, — re- 
membering the  time  when  he  would  have 
leaped  into  a  mother's  arms,  after  such 
struggle  with  his  self-will,  and  found 
gladness.  That  is  gone ;  no  swift  em- 
brace, no  tender  hand  toying  with  his 
hair,  beguiling  him  from  play.  And 
he  sidles  out  again,  half  shamefaced  at 
a  surrender  that  has  wrought  so  little. 
Loitering,  and  playing  with  the  balus- 
ters as  he  descends,  the  swift,  keen 
voice  comes  after  him, — 

''  Don't  soil  the  paint,  Reuben ! " 

"  I  have  n't" 

And  the  swift  command  and  as  swift 
retort  put  him  in  his  old,  wicked  mood 
again,  and  he  breaks  out  into  a  defiant 
whistle.  (Over  and  over  the  spinster 
has  told  him  it  was  improper  to  whistle 
in-doors.)  Yet,  with  a  lingering  desire 
for  sjrmpathy,  Reuben  makes  his  way 
into  his  Other's  study ;  and  the  minis- 
ter lays  down  his  great  folio,  —  it  is 
Poole's  "Annotations," — and  says, — 

«  Well,  Reuben  I " 

"I  told  her  I  was  sorry,"  says  the 
boy ;  "  but  I  don't  believe  she  likes  me 
much." 

"Why,  my  son?" 

"  Because  she  called  me  Master,  and 
said  it  was  very  proper.'^ 

"  But  does  n't  that  show  an  interest 
in  you?" 

"  I  don't  know  what  interest  is." 

"  It 's  love." 

"Mamma  never  called  me  Master," 
said  Reuben. 

The  grave  minister  bites  his  lip,  beck- 
ons his  boy  to  him,  —  "  Here,  my  son ! " 
— passes  his  arm  around  him,  had  al- 
most drawn  him  to  his  heart,— 

"There,  there,  Reuben;  leave  me 
now ;  I  have  my  sermon  to  finish.  I 
hope  you  won't  be  disrespectful  to  your 
aunt  again.    Shut  the  door." 

And  the  minister  goes  back  to  his 
work,  ironly  hdnest,  mastering  his  sen- 
sibilities, tearing  great  gaps  in  his  heart, 
even  as  the  anchorites  once  fretted  their 
bodies  with  hair-cloth  and  scourgings. 

In  the  summer  of  1828  Mr.  Johns 
was  called  upon  to  preach  a  special  dls- 


1865.] 


Doctor  Johns. 


461 


course  at  the  Commencement  exercises 
of  the  college  from  which  he  had  re- 
ceived his  degree ;  and  so  sterlingly 
orthodox  was  his  sermon,  at  a  crisis 
when  some  sister  colleges  were  bolster- 
ing up  certain  new  theological  tenets 
which  had  a  strong  taint  ofneresy,  that 
the  old  gendemen  who  held  rank  as 
fellows  of  his  college,  in  a  burst  of  zeal, 
bestowed  upon  Uie  worthy  man  the  ti- 
tle of  D.  D.  It  was  not  an  honor  he  had 
coveted ;  indeed,  he  coveted  no  human 
honors  ;  yet  this  was  more  wisely  given 
than  most :  his  dignity,  his  sobriety, 
his  rigid,  complete  adherence  to  all  the 
accepted  forms  of  religious  belief  made 
him  a  safe  recipient  of  the  title. 

The  spinster  sister,  with  an  ill-con- 
cealed pride,  was  most  zealous  in  the 
bestowal  of  it ;  and  before  a  month  had 
passed,  she  had  forced  it  into  current 
use  throughout  the  world  of  Ashfield. 

Did  a  neglectful  neighbor  speak  of 
the  good  health  of  ''Mr.  Johns,"  the 
mistress  of  the  parsonage  said, — "  Why, 
yes,  the  Doctor  is  working  very  hard,  it 
is  true ;  but  he  is  quite  well ;  the  Doc- 
tor is  remarkably  welL" 

Did  a  younger  church  -  sister  speak 
in  praise  of  some  late  sermon  of  *'  the 
minister,''  Miss  Eliza  thanked  her  in  a 
dignified  way,  and  was  sure  ^  the  Doc- 
tor ''  would  be  most  happy  to  hear  that 
his  efforts  were  appreciated. 

As  for  Larkin  and  Esther,  who  stum- 
bled dismally  over  the  new  title,  the 
spinster  plied  them  urgently. 

^  Esther,  my  good  woman,  make  the 
Doctor's  tea  very  strong  to-night" 

''Larkin,  the  Doctor  won't  ride  to- 
day ;  and  mind,  you  must  cut  the  wood 
for  the  Doctor's  fire  a  littie  shorter." 

Reuben  only  rebelled,  with  the  mis- 
chief of  a  boy :  — 

"  What  for  do  you  call  papa  Doctor  ? 
He  don't  carry  saddle-bags." 

To  the  quiet,  staid  man  himself  it  was 
a  wholly  indifferent  matter.  In  the  sol- 
itude of  his  study,  however,  it  recalled 
a  neglected  duly,  and  in  so  far  seemed 
a  blessing.  By  such  paltry  threads  are 
the  colors  woven  into  our  life !  It  re- 
called his  friend  Maverick  and  his  jaun- 
ty prediction;  and  upon  that  came  to 


him  a  recollection  of  the  promise  which 
he  had  made  to  Rachel,  that  he  would 
write  to  Maverick. 

So  the  minister  wrote,  telling  his  old 
friend  what  grief  had  stricken  his  house, 

—  how  his  boy  and  he  were  left  alone, 

—  how  the  church,  by  favor  of  Provi- 
dence, had  grown  under  his  preaching, 

—  how  his  sister  had  come  to  be  mis- 
tress of  the  parsonage,  —  how  he  had 
wrought  the  Master's  work  in  fear  and 
trembling ;  and  after  this  came  godly 
counsel  for  the  exile.  . 

He  hoped  that  light  had  shone  up- 
on him,  even  in  the  "dark  places'* 
of  infidel  France,  —  that  he  was  not 
alienated  from  the  faith  of  his  fathers, 

—  that  he  did  not  make  a  mockery,  as 
did  those  around  him,  of  the  holy  insti- 
tution of  the  Sabbath. 

"  My  friend,"  he  wrote,  "  God's  word 
is  true ;  God's  laws  are  just ;  He  will 
come  some  day  in  a  chariot  of  fire. 
Neither  moneys  nor  high  places  nor 
worldly  honors  nor  pleasures  can  stay 
or  avert  the  stroke  of  that  sword  of  di- 
vine justice  which  will  *  pierce  even  to 
the  dividing  asunder  of  the  joints  and 
n^arrow.'  Let  no  siren  voices  beguile 
you.  Without  the  gift  of  His  grace  who 
died  that  we  might  live,  there  is  no 
hope  for  kings,  none  for  you,  none  for 
me.  I  pray  you  consider  this,  my  fiiend ; 
for  I  speak  as  one  commissioned  of 
God." 

Whether  these  words  of  the  minister 
were  met,  after  their  transmission  over 
seas,  with  a  smile  of  derision,  —  with  an 
empty  gratitude,  that  said,  "  Good  fel- 
low!" and  forgot  their  burden, — with 
a  stitch  of  the  heart,  that  made  solemn 
pause  and  thoughtfulness,  and  short, 
vain  struggle  against  the  habit  of  a  life, 
we  will  not  say ;  our  story  may  not  tell, 
perhaps.  But  to  the  mind  of  the  par- 
son it  was  clear  that  at  some  great 
coming  day  it  would  be  known  of  all 
men  where  the  seed  that  he  had"  sown 
had  foUen,  —  whether  on  good  ground 
or  in  stony  places. 

The  cross-ocean .  mails  were  slow  in 
those  days ;  and  it  was  not  until  nearly 
four  months  after  the  transmission  of 
the  Doctor's  letter — be  having  almost 


462 


Our  First  Citizen. 


[April, 


forgotten  it — ^.that  Reuben  came  one 
day  bounding  in  from  the  snow  in  mid- 
winter, his  cheeks  aflame  with  the 
keen,  frosty  air,  his  eyes  dancing  with 
bojrish  excitement:  — 

"A  letter,  papa !  a  letter !  —  and  Mr, 
Troop  "  ( it  is  the  new  postmaster  under 
the  Adams  dynasty)  *^says  it  came  all 
the  way  from  Europe.  It 's  got  a  funny 
post-mark." 


The  minister  lays  down  his  book,  — 
takes  the  letter,  —  opens  it, — reads,  — 
paces  up  and  down  his  study  thought- 
fully, —  reads  again,  to  the  end. 
^  Reuben,  call  your  Aunt  Eliza."  • 
There  is  inatter  in  the  letter  that  con- 
cerns her,  —  that  in  its  issues  will  con- 
cern the  boy,  —  that  may  possibly  give 
a  new  color  to  the  life  of  the  panonage, 
and  a  new  direction  to  our  story. 


OUR   FIRST   CITIZEN.* 

WINTER'S  cold  drift  lies  glistening  o*er  his  breast ; 
For  him  no  spring  shall  bid  the  leaf  unfold  : 
What  Love  could  speak,  by  sudden  grief  oppressed, 
What  swiftly  summoned  Memory  tell,  is  told. 

Even  as  the  bells,  in  one  consenting  chime, 
FiUed  with  their  sweet  vibrations  all  the  air, 

So  joined  all  voices,  in  that  mournful  time, 
His  genius,  wisdom,  virtues,  to  declare. 

• 

What  place  is  left  for  words  of  measured  praise, 
TiU  calm-eyed  History,  with  her  iron  pen, 

Grooves  in  the  unchanging  rock  the  final  phrase 
That  shapes  his  image  in  the  souls  of  men  ? 

Yet  while  the  echoes  still  repeat  his  name, 
While  countless  tongues  his  full-orbed  life  rehearse, 

Love,  by  his  beating  pulses  taught,  will  claim 
The  breath  of  song,  the  tuneful  throb  of  verse,  — 

Verse  that,  in  ever-changing  ebb  and  flow, 

Moves,  like  the  laboring  heart,  with  rush  and  rest, 

Or  swings  in  solemn  cadence,  sad  and  slow. 
Like  the  tired  heaving  of  a  grief-worn  breast 

This  was  a  mind  so  rounded,  so  complete,  — ^ 

No  partial  gift  of  Nature  in  excess,  — 
That,  like  a  single  stream  where  many  meet, 

Each  separate  talent  counted  something  less. 

A  little  hillock,  if  it  lonely  stand. 
Holds  o'er  the  fields  an  undisputed  reign ; 

While  the  broad  summit  of  the  table-}and 
Seems  with  its  belt  of  clouds  a  level  plain. 


*  Read  at  the  meeting  of  Uie  Manachusetti  Historical  Society,  Jan.  jo»  18(5. 


\ 


1865.]  Our  First  Citizen.  463 

Servant  of  all  his  powers,  that  £cLtthful  slave,^ 
Unsleeping  Memory,  strengthening  with  his  toils, 

To  every  ruder  task  his  shoulder  gave, 
And  loaded  every  day  with  golden  spoils. 

Order,  the  law  of  Heaven,  was  throned  supreme 
O'er  action,  instinct,  impulse,  feeling,  thought ; 

True  as  the  dial's  shadow  to  the  beam. 

Each  hour  was  equal  to  the  charge  it  brought 

Too  large  his  compass  for  the  nicer  skill 

That  weighs  the  world  of  science  grain  by  grain ; 

All  realms  of  knowledge  owned  the  mastering  will 
That  claimed  the  franchise  of  his  whole  domain. 

Earth,  air,  sea,  sky,  the  elemental  fire. 
Art,  history,  song,  —  what  meanings  lie  in  each 

Found  in  his  cunning  hand  a  stringless  lyre. 
And  poured  their  mingling  music  through  his  speech.  , 

Thence  flowed  those  anthems  of  our  festal  days. 

Whose  ravishing  division  held  apart 
The  lips  of  listening  throngs  in  sweet  amaze. 

Moved  in  all  breasts  the  self-same  human  heart 

Subdued  his  accents,  as  of  one  who  tries 
To  press  some  care,  some  haunting  sadness  down ; 

His  smile  half  shadow ;  and  to  stranger  eyes 
The  kingly  forehead  wore  an  iron  crown. 

He  was  not  armed  to  wrestle  with  the  storm, 

To  fight  for  homely  truth  with  vulgar  power  ; 
Grace  looked  from  every  feature,  shaped  his  form,  — 

The  rose  of  Academe,  —  the  perfect  flower  1 

Such  was  the  stately  scholar  whom  we  knew 

In  those  ill  days  of  soul-enslaving  calm. 
Before  the  blast  of  Northern  vengeance  blew 

Her  snow-wreathed  pine  against  the  Southern  palm. 

Ah,  God  forgive  us  !  did  we  hold  too  cheap 
The  heart  we  might  have  known,  but  would  not  see, 

And  look  to  find  the  nation's  friend  asleep 
Through  the  dread  hour  of  her  Gethsemane  ? 

That  wrong  is  past ;  we  gave  him  up  to  Death 

With  all  a  hero's  honors  round  his  name ; 
As  martyrs  coin  their  blood,  he  coined  his  breath. 

And  dimmed  the  scholar's  in  the  patriot's  fame. 

So  shall  we  blazon  on  the  shaft  we  raise,  — 
Telling  our  grief,  our  pride,  to  unborn  years,  — 

'^  He  who  had  lived  the  mark  of  all  men's  praise 
Died  with  the  tribute  of  a  nation's  tears." 


464 


Needle  and  Garden. 


[April, 


NEEDLE    AND    GARDEN 

THE  STORY  OF  A  SEAMSTRESS  WHO  LAID  DOWN  HER  NEEDLE  AND  BECAUE 

A  STRAWBERRY-GIRL. 


WRITTEN  BY  HERSELF. 


CHAPTER  IV. 

I  QUITTED  the  sewing-school  on  a 
Friday  evening,  intending  to  put  my 
things  in  order  the  following  day :  for 
Monday  was ,  my  birthday,  —  I  should 
then  be  eighteen,  and  was  to  go  with  my 
father  and  select  a  sewing-machine. 

As  before  mentioned,  he  had  usually 
employed  ^all  his  spare  time  in  winter, 
when  there  was  no  garden-work  to  be 
done,  in  making  seines  for  the  fisher- 
men. These  were  very,  great  affiiirs, 
being  used  in  the  shad-fishery  on  the 
Delaware ;  and  as  they  were  many  hun- 
dred yards  in  length,  they  required  a 
large  gang  of  men  to  manage  them. 
This  employment  naturally  brought  him 
an  extensive  acquaintance  among  the 
fishermen,  by  whom  he  was  always  in- 
vited to  participate  in  their  first  haul- 
ing of  the  river,  at  the  breaking  up  of 
winter.  As  he  was  quite  as  fond  of  this 
exciting  labor  as  we  *had  been  of  fish- 
ing along  the  ditches,  he  never  failed 
to  accept  these  invitations.  He  not  on- 
ly enjoyed  the  sport,  but  he  was  anx- 
ious to  see  how  well  the  seines  would 
operate  which  he  had  sat  for  weeks  in 
making.  In  addition  to  this,  there  was 
the  further  gratification  of  being  asked 
to  accept  of  as  many  of  the  earliest 
shad  as  he  could  carry  away  in  his 
hand.  It  was  a  perquisite  which  we 
looked  for  and  prized  as  much  as  he 
did  himself.  This  recreation  was  of 
course  attended  with  much  exposure, 
being  always  entered  on  in  the  gusty, 
chilly  weather  of  the  early  spring. 

The  morning  after  my  quitting  school 
saw  him  leaving  us  by  daybreak  to  go 
on  one  of  these  fishing-excursions,  tak- 
ing my  brother  with  him.  It  was  in 
April,  a  cold,  raw,  and  blustering  time, 
and   they  would  be  gone  all  day.    I 


had  put  my  little  matters  in  order, — 
though  there  was  really  very  little  to  do 
in  this  way,  as  neither  my  wardrobe  nor 
chamber  was  crowded  with  superflui- 
ties,— and  having  decided  among  our- 
selves where  the  machine  should  stand, 
I  sat  down  with  my  mother  and  sister 
to  sew.  The  weather  had  changed  to 
quite  a  snow-storm,  with  angry  gusts  of 
wind ;  but  our  small  sitting-room  was 
warm  and  cheerful.  We  drew  round 
the  stove,  and  discussed  the  events  of 
the  coming  week.  We  were  to  try 
the  machine  on  the  work  which  my 
mother  and  sister  then  had  in  the  house, 
— for  Jane  had  long  since  left  school, 
and  was  actively  employed  at  home.  She 
had  gone  through  a  similar  training  with 
mysel£  I  was  to  teach  both  mother  and 
her  the  use  of  the  machine ;  and  we  had 
determined,  that,  as  soon  as  Jane  had 
become  sufficiently  expert  as  an  oper- 
ator, she  was  to  obtain  a  situation  in 
some  establishment,  and  our  earnings 
were  to  be  saved,  until,  with  father's 
assistance,  we  could  purchase  machines 
for  her  and  mother.  We  made  up  our 
minds  that  we  could  accomplish  this 
within  a  year  at  farthest  Thus  there 
was  much  before  and  around  us  to  cheer 
our  hearts  and  fill  them  with  the  bright- 
est anticipations.  It  seemed  to  me, 
that,  if  I  had  been  travelling  in  a  long 
lane,  I  was  now  approaching  a  delight- 
ful turn,  —  for  it  has  been  said  that 
there  is  none  so  long  as  to  be  without 
one. 

We  had  dined  frugally,  as  usual,  and 
mother  had  set  away  an  ample  pro- 
vision for  the  two  absentees,  who  inva- 
riably came  home  with  great  appetites. 
Our  work  had  been  resumed  around 
the  stove,  and  all  was  calm  and  comforta- 
ble within  the  little  sitting-room,  though 
without  the  wind  had  risen  higher  and 


1 86s.] 


Needle  and  Garden. 


465 


the  snow  fell  faster  and  faster,  when 
the  door  was  suddenly  opened,  and  as 
suddenly  shut,  by  the  wife  of  a  neigh- 
bor, who,  with  hands  claspi^d  together, 
as  if  overcome  by  some  terrible  grief, 
rushed  toward  where  my  mother  was 
sitting,  and  exclaimed, — 

*'  Oh,  Mrs.  Lacey !  how  can  I  tell 
you  ?  " 

"What  is  It?"  eagerly  inquired  my 
mother,  starting  from  her  seat,  and  cast- 
ing from  her  the  work  on  which  she  had 
been  engaged.  '^  What  is  it  ?  Speak ! 
What  has  happened  ?  "  she  cried,  wild 
at  the  woman's  apparent  inability  to 
communicate  the  tidings  she  had  evi- 
dently come  to  relate. 

Regaining  her  composure  in  some 
measure,  the  latter,  covering  her  face 
with  her  hands,  and  bursting  into  tears, 
sobbed  out,  — 

"He  *s  drowned ! " 

"Oh!  which  of  them?"  shrieked 
my  mother,  wringing  her  hands,  and 
every  vestige  of  color  in  her  cheeks  sup- 
planted by  a  pallor  so  frightfid  that  it 
struck  dismay  to  my  hesut. 

A  mysterious  instinct  had  warned 
her,  the  moment  the  woman  spoke  the 
first  words,  that  some  calamity  had  over- 
taken us. 

"  Which  of  them  ?  "  she  repeated,  with 
frantic  impetuosity.  "  Is  it  my  husband 
or  my  son  ?  Speak !  speak  1  My  heart 
breaks ! " 

"Your  husband,  Mrs.  Lacey,"  the 
woman  replied ;  and  as  if  relieved  from 
the  crushing  burden  she  had  thus  trans- 
ferred from  her  own  spirit  to  ours,  she 
sank  back  exhausted  into  a  chair. 

"  Oh  I  when,  where,  and  how  ?  "  de- 
manded my  mother.  "  Are  you  sure  it 
is  true  ?    Who  brought  the  news  ?  " 

"  Your  own  son,  Ma'am ;  he  sent  me 
here  to  tell  you,"  answered  the  woman. 

The  door  opened  at  the  moment,  and 
Fred,  accompanied  by  several  of  the 
neighbors,  entered  the  room.  Crying 
as  if  his  heart  would  break,  he  called 
out, — 

"  Oh,  mother !  it 's  too  true, — father 
is  gone ! " 

This  confirmation  of  the  withering 
blow  broke  her  down.    I  saw  that  she 


was  tottering  to  a  fall,  and  threw  my 
arms  round  her  just  in  time  to  prevent 
it  We  laid  her  on  the  settee,  insensible 
to  everything  about  her. 

As  the  news  of  our  great  bereave- 
ment spread,  the  neighbors  crowded  in, 
offering  their  sympathy  and  aid  It  was 
very  kind  of  them,  but,  alas !  could  do 
nothing  towards  lightening  its  weight 
The  story  of  how  my  dear  father  came 
to  his  untimely  end  was  at  length  re- 
lated to  us.  He  had  gone  out  upon 
the  river  in  a  boat  from  which  a  seine 
was  being  cast,  and  by  accident,  no  one 
could  tell  exactly  how,  had  ^en  over- 
board. Being  no  swimmer,  and  the  wa- 
ter of  icy  coldness,  he  sank  immediate- 
ly, without  again  coming  to  the  sur&ce. 
Strong  arms  were  waiting  to  seize  him, 
upon  rising,  but  the  deep  had  closed 
over  him. 

I  know  not  how  it  was,  but  the  pros- 
tration of  my  poor  mother  seemed  to 
give  me  new  strength  to  bear  up  under 
this  terrible  affliction.  Oh  !  that  was  a 
sad  evening  for  us,  and  the  birthday  to 
which  all  had  looked  forward  with  so 
much  pleasure  as  the  happiest  of  my 
life  was  to  be  the  saddest  Morning 
— it  was  Sunday — broi^ht  compara- 
tive calmness  to  my  mother.  But  she 
was  broken  down  by  the  awful  sudden- 
ness of  the  blow.  She  wept  over  the 
thought  that  «he  bad  died  without  her 
being  near  him, — thai  there  had  been 
no  opportunity  for  parting  words, — that 
she  was  not  able  to  close  his  dying  eyes. 
She  could  have  borne  it  better,  if  she 
had  been  permitted  to  speak  to  him,  to 
hear  him  say  fiirewell,  before  deatii 
shut  out  the  world  from  his  view. 
Then  there  was  the  painful  anxiety  as 
to  recovering  the  body.  It  had  sunk 
in  deep  water,  in  the  middle  of  the 
river,  and  it  was  tmcertain  how  far  the 
strong  current  might  have  swept  it 
away  from  the  spot  where  the  accident 
occurred.  The  neighbors  had  already 
begun  to  search  for  it  with  drags,  and 
all  through  that  gk>omy  Sundj^y  had 
continued  their  hbor  without  success ; 
for  they  were  not  watermen,  and  there- 
fore knew  little  of  the  proper  methods 
of  procedure. 


VOL.  XV.  —  NO.  90. 


30 


466 


Needle  and  Garden. 


[April, 


Days  passed  away  in  this  distressing 
uncertainty.  Our  pastor,  Mr.  Seeley, 
missing  Fred  and  Jane  from  Sunday- 
school,  as  well  as  myself  from  the 
charge  of  my  class,  and  learning  the 
cause  of  our  absence,  came  down  to 
see  us.  His  consolations  to  my  mother, 
his  sympathy,  his  prayers,  revived  and 
strengthened  her.  Finding  that  her 
immediate  anxiety  was  about  the  recov- 
ery of  the  body,  he  told  her  that  the 
bodies  of  drowned  persons  were  seldom 
found  without  a  reward  being  offered 
for  them,  and  that  one  must  be  prom- 
ised in  the  present  case.  This  sugges- 
tion brought  up  the  question  of  pay- 
ment, and  for  the  first  time  in  our  •af- 
fliction it  was  recollected  that  my  father 
had  always  persisted  in  carrying  in  his 
pocket-wallet  all  the  money  be  had  sav- 
ed, and  thus  whatever  he  might  have 
accumulated  was  with  him  at  the  time 
of  his  death.  Following,  nevertheless, 
the  advice  of  our  excellent  pastor,  a 
reward  of  fifty  dollars  was  advertised, 
and  just  one  week  from  the  £aital  day 
the  body  was  brought  to  our  now  deso- 
lated home.  But  the  wallet,  with  its  con- 
tents, had  been  abstracted.  The  little 
fimd  my  mother  had  always  managed 
to  keep  on  hand  was  too  small  to  meet 
this  heavy  draft  of  the  reward  in  addi- 
tion to  that  occasioned  by  the  funeral, 
so  that,  when  that  sad  ceremony  was 
over,  we  found  ourselves  beginning  the 
world  that  now  opened  on  us  incum- 
bered with  a  debt  of  fifty  dollars. 

But  though  borne  down  by  the  weight 
of  our  affliction,  we  were  far  from  being 
hopelessly  discouraged.  It  is  true  that 
my  young  hopes  had  been  suddenly 
blasted.  The  bright  pictures  of  the 
future  which  we  had  painted  in  our  lit- 
tle sitting-room  the  very  morning  of 
the  day  that  our  calamity  overtook  us 
had  all  faded  from  sight,  and  were  re- 
membered only  in  contrast  with  the  dark 
shadows  that  now  filled  their  places. 
The  cup^  brimming  with  joyous  antici- 
palions,  had  been  dashed  from  my  lips. 
•  My  birthday  passed  in  sorrow  and  gloom. 
Bttt  I  roused  myself  from  a  torpor  which 
wonki  have  been  likely  to  increase  by 
giviag  way  to  it,  and  put  on  all  the  en- 


ergy of  which  I  was  capable.  I  fel^ 
that,  while  I  had  griefs  for  the  dead,  I 
had  duties  to  perform  to  the  living. 
The  staff  on  which  we  had  mainly  lean- 
ed for  support  had  been  Uken  away,  and 
we  were  now  left  to  depend  exclusively 
on  our  own  exertions.  I  saw  that  the 
condition  of  my  mother  devolved  the 
chief  burden  on  me,  and  I  determined 
that  I  would  resolutely  assume  it 

I  had*  Fred  immediately  apprenticed 
to  an  iron-founder  in  the  neighborhood ; 
and  thenceforward,  by  his  weekly  al- 
lowance for  board,  he  became  a  con- 
tributor to  the  common  support  My 
knowledge  of  the  sewing-machine  se- 
cured for  me  a  situation  in  a  large  es- 
tablishment, in  which  more  than  thirty 
other  girls  were  employed  in  making 
bosoms,  wristbands,  and  collars  for 
shirts  ;  and  I  gradually  recovered  from 
what  at  first  was  the  bitter  disappoint- 
ment of  having  no  machine  of  my  own. 

I  have  seen  it  stated  in  the  newspa- 
per, that,  when  some  cotton  had  been 
imported  into  a  certain  manufacturing 
town  in  England,  where  all  the  mills 
had  long  been  closed  for  want  of  a 
supply  from  this  country,  the  people, 
who  were  previously  in  the  greatest 
distress,  went  out  to  meet  it  as  it  was 
approaching  the  town,  and  the  women 
wept  over  the  bales,  and  kissed  them, 
and  then  sang  a  hymn  of  thanksgiv- 
ing for  the  welcome  importation.  It 
would  give  them  work !  It  was  with 
a  feeling  akin  to  this  that  I  took  my 
position  in  the  great  establishment  re- 
ferred to,  having  also  succeeded  in  ob- 
taining a  situation  for  my  sister,  whom 
I  instructed  in  the  use  of  the  machine 
until  she  became  as  expert  an  operator 
as  mysel£ 

The  certainty  of  employment,  even 
at  moderate  wages,  relieved  my  mind 
of  many^  domestic  cares,  while  the  em- 
plo3rment  itself  was  a  further  reliefl  It 
was,  moreover,  infinitely  more  agree* 
able  than  working  for  the  slop-shops, 
or  even  for  the  most  fashionable  tailors. 
Our  duties  were  defined  and  simple, 
and  there  was  no  unreasonable  hurry, 
and  no  night- work :  we  had  our  even- 
ings to  ourselves.    As  usual  with  sew- 


1865.] 


Needle  and  Garden.- 


467 


ing- women,  the  pay  was  invariably 
smalL  The  old  formula  had  been  ad- 
hered to,  —  that  because  the  cost  of  a 
sewing- woman's  board  was  but  triflings 
therefore  her  wages  should  be  graduat- 
ed to  a  figure  just  above  it  She  was  not 
permitted,  as  men  are,  to  earn  too  much. 
My  sister  and  I  were  sometimes  able  to 
earn  eight  dollars  a  week  between  us, 
sometimes  only  six.  But  this  little  in- 
come was  the  stay  of  the  fiamily.  And 
it  was  well  enough,  so  long  as  we  had 
no  sickness  to  interrupt  our  work  and 
lessen  the  moderate  sum. 

They  paid  off  the  girls  by  gas-light 
on  Saturday  evening.  As  we  had  a 
long  walk  to  reach  home,  the  streets 
through  which  we  passed  presented,  on 
that  evening,  an  animated  appearance. 
A  vast  concourse  of  work  -  women,  la- 
borers, mechanics,  clerks,  and  others, 
who  had  also  received  their  weekly 
wages,  thronged  the  streets.  There 
were  crowds  of  girls  from  the  binder- 
ies, mostly  well  dressed,  and  sewing- 
women  carrying  great  bundles  to  the 
tailors,  many  of  them,  without  doubt, 
uncertain  as  to  whether  their  work 
would  be  accepted,  just  as  we  had  been 
in  former  days.  As  the  evening  ad- 
vanced, the  shops  of  all  descriptions 
for  the  supply  of  family -stores  were 
crowded  by  the  wives  of  workmen  thus 
paid  off,  and  the  sewing-girls  or  their 
mothers,  all  purchasing  necessaries  for 
the  coming  week,  thus  immediately  dis- 
bursing the  vast  aggregate  paid  out  on 
Saturday  for  wages. 

The  quickness  with  which  I  secured 
emplojrment  on  the  sewing-machine, 
because  of  my  having  qualified  myself 
to  operate  it,  was  a  new  confirmation 
of  my  idea  that  women  are  engaged  in 
so  few  occupations  only  because  they 
have  not  been  taught  Employers  want 
skilful  workers,  not  novices  to  whom 
they  are  compelled  to  teach  every- 
thing. But  what  was  to  be  the  ulti- 
mate effect  on  female  labor  of  the  in- 
troduction of  this  machine  had  been  a 
doubtful  question  with  me  until  now. 
I  worked  so  steadily  in  this  establish- 
ment, the  occupation  was  so  constant, 
as  well  as  so  light,  with  far  more  bodily 


exercise  than  formerly  when  sitting  in 
one  position  over  the  needle,  and  the 
wages  were  paid  so  punctually,  with  no 
mean  attempts  to  cut  us  down  on  the 
false  plea  of  imperfect  work,   that   I- 
came  insensibly  to  the  conclusion  that 
a  vast  benefit  had  been  conferred  on 
the  sex   by  its  introduction.    Yet  the 
apprehensions  felt  by  all  sewing- wom- 
en, when  the  new  instrument  was  Erst 
brought  out,  were  perfectiy,  natural.     I 
have  read  that  similar  apprehensions 
were  entertained  by  others  on  similar 
occasions.     When  the  lace  -  machines 
were  first  introduced  in  Nottingham, 
they  were  destroyed  by  riotous  mobs 
of  hand-loom  weavers,  who  feared  the 
ruin  of  their  business.    But  where,  fifty 
years  ago,  there  were  but  a  hundred  and 
forty  lace-machines  in  use  in  England, 
there  are  now  thirty-five  hundred,  while 
the  price  of  lace  has  fallen  from  a  hun- 
dred shillings  the  square  yard  to  six- 
pence.   Before  this  lace-machinery  was 
invented,  England  manufactured  only 
two  million  dollars*  worth  per  annum, 
and  in  doing  so  employed  only  eight 
thousand  hands ;  whereas  now  she  pro- 
duces thirty  million  dollars'  worth  annu- 
ally, and  employs  a  hundred  and  thirty 
thousand  hands.    It  has  been  the  same 
with  power -looms,  reapers,  threshing- 
machines,  and  every  other  contrivance 
to  economize  human  labor.    I  am  sure 
that  my  brother  would  be  thrown  out 
of  employment,  if  there  were  no  steam- 
engine  to  operate  the  foundry  where  he 
is  at  work,  and  that,  if  there  were  no 
sewing-machines,  my  sister  and  myself 
would  be  compelled  to  join  the  less  for- 
tunate army  of  seamstresses  who  still 
labor  so  unrequitedly  for  the  slop-shops. 
To  satisfy  my  mind  on  this  subject, 
*I  have  looked  into  such  books  as  I  have 
had  time  and  opportunity  to  consult,  and 
have  found  evidence  of  the  fact,  that, 
the  more  we  increase  our  facilities  for 
performing  work  with  speed  and  cheap- 
ness, the  more  we  shall  hav6  to  do,  and 
so  the  more  hands  will  be  required  to 
do  it    The  time  was  when  it  was  con- 
sidered so  great  an  undertaking  for  a 
man  to  farm  a  hundred  acres,  that  very 
few  persons  were  found  cultivating  a 


468 


'Needle  and  Garden, 


[April; 


larger  tract.  But  now,  with  every  farm- 
ing process  facilitated  by  the  use  of  la- 
bor-saving machines,  there  are  farms 
of  ten  thousand  acres  better  managed 
than  were  formerly  those  of  only  a 
hundred  acres.  There  would  be  no 
penny  paper  brought  daily  to  our  door/ 
unless  the  same  wonderful  revolution 
had.  been  made  in  all  the  processes  of 
the  paper-mill,  and  in  the  speed  of  print- 
ing-presses. If  I  had  doubted  what  was 
to  be  the  consequence  of  bringing  ma- 
chinery into  competition  with  the  sew- 
ing-women. It  was  owing 'to  my  utter 
ignorance  of  how  other  great  revolu- 
tions had  affected  the  labor  of  different 
classes  of  workers. 

This  doubt  thus  satisfactorily  resolv- 
ed, it  very  soon  became  with  me  a  ques- 
tion for  profound  wonder,  what  became 
of  the  immensely  increased  quantity  of 
clothing  which  was  manufactured  by  so 
many  thousands  of  machines.  I  could 
not  learn  that  our  population  had  sud- 
denly increased  to  an  extent  sufficient 
to  account  for  the  enlarged  consump- 
tion that  was  evidently  taking  place.  I 
had  heard  that  there  were  nations  of 
savages  who  considered  shirts  a  sort 
of  superfluity,  and  who  moved  about  in 
very  much  the  same  costume  as  that  in 
which  our  primal  mother  clothed  her- 
self just  previously  to  indulging  in  the 
forbidden  fruit  But  they  could  not 
have  thus  suddenly  taken  to  the  wear- 
ing of  machine-made  shirts.  Tliere  was 
a  paragraph  also  in  our  paper  which 
stated  that  the  usual  dress  in  hot  weath- 
er, in  some  parts  of  our  own  South,  was 
only  a  hat  and  spurs.  This,  however, 
I  regarded  as  a  piece  of  raillery,  and 
was  not  inclined  to  place  much  faith  in 
it.  But  I  had  never  heard  that  any  other 
portion  of  our  people  were  in  the  habit 
of  going  without  shirts  or  pantaloons. 
If  such  had  been  the  practice,  and  if 
it  had  on  the  instant  been  renounced, 
it  would  have  accounted  for  the  sudden 
and  unprecedented  demand  which  now 
sprang  up  for  these  indispensable  arti- 
cles of  dress.  Or  if  the  fashion  had  so 
changed  that  men  had  taken  to  wearing 
t>vo  shirts  instead  of  one,  that  also  might 
account  for  it,— though  the  wearing  of 


two  would  be  considered  as  great  an 
eccentricity  as  the  wearing  of  none. 

I  found  that  others  with  whom  I  con- 
versed on  the  subject  were  equally  sur* 
prised  with  myself  Even  some  who 
were  concerned  in  carrying  on  the  es- 
tablishment in  which  we  were  employed 
could  not  account  for  the  immediate  ab- 
sorption of  the  vastly  increased  quanti- 
ties of  work  that  were  turned  out  Few 
could  tell  exactiy  why  more  was  wanted 
than  formerly,  nor  where  it  went  The 
only  fact  apparent  was  that  there  was 
a  demand  for  thrice  as  much  as  before 
sewing-machines  were  brought  into  use. 
My  own  conclusion  was  eventually  this, 
— that  distant  sections  of  our  country 
were  supplied  exclusively  from  these 
manufactories  in  the  great  cities,  which 
combined  capital,  eneigy,  and  enterprise 
in  the  creation  of  an  immense  business. 
Yet  I  could  not  understand  why  people 
in  those  distant  sections  did  not  estab- 
lish manufactories  of  their  own.  They 
had  quite  as  much  capital,  and  could 
procure  machines  as  readily,  while  the 
population  to  be  supplied  was  imme- 
diately at  their  doors. 

I  had  always  heard  that  the  South 
and  West  had  never  at  any  time  man- 
ufactured their  own  clothing.  I  knew 
that  the  Southern  women,  particularly, 
were  so  ignorant  and  helpless  that  they 
had  always  been  dependent  on  the 
North  for  almost  everything  they  wore, 
from  the  most  elaborate  bonnet  down 
to  a  pocket  pin-cushion,  and  that  the 
supplying  of  their  wardrobes,  by  the 
men  -  milliners  of  this  section,  was  a 
highly  lucrative  employment  As  it  is 
a  difficult  matter  to  divert  any  business 
from  a  channel  in  which  it  has  long 
flowed,  I  concluded  that  our  North- 
em  dealers,  having  always  commanded 
these  dista!nt  markets,  would  easily  re- 
tain them  by  adapting  their  business  to 
the  change  of  circumstances.  They  had 
the  trade  already,  and  could  keep  it  flow- 
ing in  its  old  channels  by  promptly  avail- 
ing themselves  of  the  new  invention. 

They  did  so  without  hesitation, — 
indeed,  the  great  struggle  was  as  to 
who  should  be  first  to  do  it, — and  not 
only  kept  their  business,  but  obtained 


1 86s.] 


Needle  and  Garden. 


469 


for  it  an  unprecedented  increase.  In 
doing  this  they  must  have  displaced 
thousands  of  sewing -women  all  over 
the  country,  as  their  cheaper  fabrics  en- 
abled them  to  undersell  the  latter  every- 
where. I  know  that  this  was  the  first 
effect  here,  and  it  is  difficult  to  under- 
stand how  in  other  places  it  should  have 
been  otherwise.  These  sewing-women 
must  have  been  deprived  of  work,  or  the 
consumers  of  clothing  must  have  im- 
mediately begun  to  purchase  and  wear 
double  or  treble  as  much  as  they  had 
been  accustomed  to.  I  do  not  doubt 
that  the  consumption  increased  from 
the  mere  fact  of  increased  cheapness. 
I  believe  it  is  an  invariable  law  of  trade, 
that  consumption  increases  as  price  di- 
minishes. If  silks  were  to  fall  to  a  shil- 
ling a  yard,  everybody  would  turn  away 
from  cotton  shirts.  As  it  was,  shirts 
were  made  without  collars,  and  the  col- 
lars were  produced  in  great  manufacto- 
ries by  steam.  They  were  made  by  mil- 
lions, and  by  millions  they  were  con- 
sumed. They  were  sold  in  boxes  of  a 
dozen  or  a  hundred,  at  two  or  thre^cents 
apiece,  according  to  the  wants  of  the 
buyer.  He  could  appear  once  or  twice 
a  day  in  all  the  glory  of  an  apparently 
clean  shirt,  according  to  his  ambition 
to  shine  in  a  character  which  might 
be  a  very  new  one.  Judging  by  the 
consumption  of  these  conveniences,  it 
would  seem,  that,  if  one  had  only  a  clean 
collar  to  display,  it  was  of  little  conse- 
quence whether  he  had  a  shirt  or  not 

To  digress  a  moment,  I  will  observe, 
that,  when  I  first  saw  these  ingenious 
contrivances  to  escape  the  washerwom- 
an's bill,  as  well  as  the  cuffs  made  by 
the  same  process  for  ladies*  use,  they 
both  struck  me  so  favorably,  while 
their  cheapness  was  so  surprising,  that 
my  curiosity  w^as  inflamed  to  see  and 
know  how  they  were  made.  In  com- 
pany with  my  sister,  I  visited  the  man- 
ufactory. It  was  in  a  large  building, 
and  employed  many  hands,  who  oper- 
ated with  machinery  that  exceeds  my 
ability  to  describe.  They  took  a  whole 
piece  of  thin,  cheap  muslin,  to  each  side 
of  which  they  pasted  a  covering  of  the 
finest  white  paper  by  passing  the  three 


layers  between  iron  rollers.  The  paper 
and  m^uslin  were  inYoIls  many  hundred 
feet  long.  The  beautiful  product  of 
this  union  was  then  parted  into  strips 
of  the  proper  width  and  dried,  then 
passed  through  hot  metal  rollers,  com- 
bining friction  with  pressure,  whence  it 
was  delivered  with  a  smooth,  glossy, 
enamelled  surface.  The  material  for 
many  thousand  collars  was  thus  enam- 
elled in  five  minutes.  It  was  then  cut 
by  knives  into  the  different  shapes  and 
sizes  required,  and  so  rapidly  that  a 
man  and  boy  could  make  more  than 
ten  thousand  in  an  hour.  Every  collar 
was  then  put  through  a  machine  which 
printed  upon  it  imitation  stitches,  so 
exactly  resembling  the  best  work  of  a 
sewing-machine  as  to  induce  the  belief 
that  the  collar  was  actually  stitched. 
Two  girls  were  working  or  attending 
tw^o  of  these  machines,  and  the  two 
produced  nearly  a  hundred  collars  per 
minute,  0/  about  sixty  thousand  daily. 
The  button-holes  were  next  punched 
with  even  greater  rapidity,  then  the 
collar  was  turned  over  so  nicely  that  no 
break  occurred  in  the  material.  Then 
they  were  counted  and  put  in  boxes, 
and  were  ready  for  market 

Besides  these  shirt-collars,  there  was 
a  great  variety  of  ladies'  worked  cuffs 
and  collars,  adapted  to  every  taste,  and 
imitating  the  finest  linen  with  the  nicest 
exactness,  but  all  made  of  paper.  Some 
hundreds  of  thousands  of  these  were 
piled  up  around,  ready  for  counting  and 
packing,  sufficient,  it  appeared  to  me,  to 
supply  our  whole  population  for  a  twelve- 
month. They  were  sold  so  cheaply,  also, 
that  it  cost  no  more  to  buy  a  new  collar 
than  to  wash  an  old  one.  Like  friction- 
matches,  they  were  used  only  once  and 
then  thrown  away  ;  hence,  the  consump- 
tion being  perpetual,  the  production  was 
continuous  the  year  round. 

I  inquired  of  the  proprietor  how  he 
accounted  for  the  immense  consump- 
tion of  these  articles,  without  which  the 
world  had  been  getting  on  comfortably 
for  so  many  thousand  years. 

"  Why,"  said  he,  **  we  have  been  for- 
tunate enough  to  create  a  new  want 
Perhaps  we  did  not  really  create  the 


470 


Needle  and  Garden. 


[April, 


want,  but  only  discovered  that  an  unsat- 
isfied one  existed.  •  It  is  all  the'  same 
in  either  case.  Any  great  convenience 
or  luxury,  heretofore  unknown  to  the 
public,  when  fairly  set  before  them  is 
sure  to  come  into  general  use.  It  has 
been  so,  in  my  experience,  with  many 
things  that  were  not  thought  of  twenty 
years  ago.  I  have  been  as  much  puz- 
zled to  account  for  the  unlimited  con- 
sumption of  cuffs  and  collars  as  you  are 
to  know  why  so  much  more  clothing  is 
used  now  than  before  sewing-machines 
came  into  operation.  But  the  increased 
cheapness  of  a  thing,  whether  old  or 
new,  and  the  convenience  of  getting  it, 
are  the  great  stimulants  to  enlarged  con- 
sumption, —  and  as  these  conditions  are 
present,  so  will  be  the  latter." 

'*  But  when  you  began  this  business, 
did  you  expect  to  sell  so  many  ?  "  I  in- 
quired. 

"We  did  not,"  he  replied,  "and  are 
ourselves  surprised  at  the  qifantity  we 
sell.  Besides,  there  are  several  other 
factories,  which  produce  greater  num- 
bers than  we  do.  But  when  I  reflect 
on  the  extent  to  which  the  business  has 
already  gone,  I  find  the  facts  to  be  only 
in  keeping  with  results  in  other  cases. 
I  have  thought  and  read  much  on  the 
very  subject  which  so  greatly  interests 
you.  Some  years  ago  I  was  puzzled  to 
account  for  the  immensely  increased 
circulation  of  newspapers,  —  rising,  in 
some  instances,  from  one  thousand  up 
to  forty  thousand.  I  knew  that  our 
population  had  not  grown  at  one  tenth 
that  rate,  yet  the  circulation  went  on  ex- 
tending. One  day  I  asked  a  country 
postmaster  how  he  accounted  for  it 
*  Why,'  he*  replied,  *  the  question  is 
easily  answered  ;  —  where  a  man  for- 
merly took  only  one  paper,  he  now 
takes  seven.  Cheap  postage,  and  the 
establishment  of  news-agents  all  over 
the  country,  enable  the  people  to  get 
papers  at  less  cost  and  with  only  half 
the  trouble  of  twenty  years  ago.  The 
power  of  production  is  complete,  and 
the  machinery  of  distribution  has  kept 
pace  with  it  The  people  don't  ac- 
tually need  the  papers  any  more  now 
than  they  did  then,  but  the  convenience 


of  having  them  brought  to  their  doors 
induces  them  to  buy  six  or  seven  where 
they  formerly  bought  only  one.  That  *s 
the  way  it  happens.' " 

"Then,"  continued  my  polite  and 
communicative  informant,  "look  at  the 
article  of  pins.  You  ladies,  who  use  so 
many  more  than,  our  sex,  have  never 
been  able  to  tell  what  becomes  of  them. 
You  know  that  of  late  years  you  have 
been  using  the  American  solid -head 
pins,  which  were  produced  so  cheaply 
as  immediately  to  supersede  the  foreign 
article.  Now,"  said  he,  with  a  smile, 
**  don't  you  think  you  use  up  six  pins 
where  you  formerly  used  only  one? 
Careful  people,  twenty  years  ago,  when 
they  saw  one  on  the  pavement,  or  on  the 
parlor-floor,  stopped  and  picked  it  up  ; 
but  now  they  pass  it  by,  or  sweep  it  into 
the  dust-pan.  Is  it  not  so,  and  have  not 
careful  people  ceased  to  exist  ?  " 

I  confess  that  the  illustration  was  so 
full  of  point  that  some  indistinct  convic- 
tion of  its  truth  came  over  me  ;  it  was 
really,  my  own  experience. 

"  So  you  see,"  he  continued,  "  that, 
while  of  all  these  new  and  cheaply  man- 
ufactured articles  there  is  a  vast  con- 
sumption, there  is  also  a  vast  waste. 
People  —  that  is,  prudent  people — gen- 
erally t^ke  care  of  things  according  to 
their  cost  You  don't  wear  your  best 
bonnet  in  the  rain.  It  is  precisely  so 
with  our  cuffs  and  collars.  We  sell 
them  so  cheaply  that  some  people  wear 
three  or  four  a  day,  while  a  careful  per- 
son would  make  one  suffice.  When  the 
collar  was  attached  to  the  shirt,  it  served 
for  a  much  longer  time ;  what  but  cheap- 
ness and  convenience  can  tempt  to  such 
wastefulness  now  ?  My  family,  at  least 
the  female  portion,  use  these  articles 
about  as  extravagantly,  and  I  think  your 
whole  sex  must  be  equally  fond  of  in- 
dulging in  the  same  lavish  use  of  them, 
—  otherwise  the  consumption  could  not 
be  so  great  as  you  see  it  is." 

I  could  not  but  inwardly  plead  guilty 
.to  this  weakness  of  indulging  in  clean 
cuffs  and  collars^ — neither  could  I  £ul 
to  recognize  the  soundness  of  this 
reasoning,  which  m^ist  have  grown  out 
of  superior  knowledge.    It  gave   me 


1 865.] 


NeedU  and  Gardtn. 


471 


new  light,  and  settled  a  great  many 
doubts. 

*'  I  suppose^  Miss,"  he  resumed,  as  if 
unwilling  to  leave  anything  unexplained, 
^  you  use  friction  -  matches  at  home  ? 
Now  you  know  how  cheap  they  are,  — 
two  boxes  for  a  cent.  But  I  reciember 
when  one  box  sold  for  twenty-five  cents. 
People  were  then  careful  how  they  used 
them,  and  it  was  not  everybody  who 
could  afford  to  do  so.  The  flint  and 
tinder-box  were  long  in  going  out  of 
use.  But  how  is  it  iy)w?  Instead  of 
one  match  serving  to  light  a  cigar,  the 
smokers  use  two  or  three.  They  waste 
them  because  they  are  cheap,  carrying 
them  loose  in  their  pockets,  that  they 
may  always  have  enough,  with  some  to 
throw  away. 

"Take  the  article  of  hoop-skirts. 
Women  did  very  well  without  them, 
and  looked  quite  as  weU,  at  least 
in  my  opinion.  But  some  ingenious 
man  conceived  the  idea  of  tempting 
them  with  a  new  want,  and  they  were 
at  once  persuaded  into  believing  that 
hoop-skirts  were  indispensabl<^  to  a 


to  your  door,  where  it  continues  for 
months  to  trip  up.  the  feet  of  every  way- 
faririg  man  quite  *as  provokingly  as  it 
sometimes  tripped  up  those  of  the  wear- 
er. It  is  the  waste  of  hoop-skirts,  as 
much  as  anything  else,  that  keeps  the 
manufacture  so  brisk. 

"Then,  again,"  he  continued,  as  if 
expanded  by  the  skirts  he  had  just 
been  speaking  of,  "look  at  the  long 
dresses  which  the  ladies  now  wear. 
See  how  tlie  most  costly  stuf&  are 
dragging  over  the  pavement,  sweeping 
up  the  filth  with  which  it  is  covered. 
To  speak  of  the  foul  condition  into 
which  such  draggletailed  dresses  must 
soon  get  is  positively  sickening.  If  a 
dozen  of  them  were  thrown  into  a  closet 
and  left  there  for  a  few  hours,  I  have 
no  doubt  they  would  bum  of  spontane- 
ous combustion." 

I  was  half  inclined  to  take  fire  my- 
self at  hearing  this,  but  remained  silent, 
and  he  proceeded. 

"  Sef,  too,  what  a  constant  fidget  the 
wearers  are  in,  under  the  incumbrance 
of  a  dress  so  foolishly  long  as  to  re- 


genteel  appearance.     They  were  adopt-  /quire  the  use  of  both  hands  to  keep  it 


ed  all  over  the  country  with  a  rapidity 
that  outstripped  that  of  the  cuffs  and 
collars,  —  not,  perhaps,  that  as  many 
were  manufactured,  because,  if  that  had 
been  the  case,  they  could  not  have  been 
consumed,  unless  each  woman  had  worn 
two  or  three.  And  they  may  in  fact  wear 
two  or  three  each,  —  I  don*t  know  how. 
that  is,  —  but  look  at  the  waste  already 
visible.  Every  week  or  two,  new  pat- 
terns are  brought  out,  better,  lighter,  or 
prettier  than  the  last ;  whereupon  the  old 
ones  are  thrown  aside,  though  not  half 
worn.  Why,  Miss,  do  you  know  that 
your  sex  are  carrying  about  them  some 
thousands  of  tons  of  brass  and  steel  in 
the  shape  of  these  skirts  ?  As  to  the 
waste,  it  is  already  so  large  as  to  have 
become  a  public  nuisance.  An  old  hat 
or  shoe  may  be  given  away  to  somebody, 
— an  0I4  scrubbing-brush  may  be  dis- 
posed of  by  putting  it  into  the  stove ; 
but  as  to  an  old  skirt,  who  wants  it  ? 
You  cannot  burn  it ;  the  very  beggars 
will  not  take  it ;  and  hence  it  is  thrown 
into  the  street,  or  into  the  alley  close 


at  a  cleanly  elevation.  I  presume  the 
ladies  wear  these  ridiculous  trains  be- 
cause they  think  they  look  more  graceful 
in  them.  But  do  you  know,  Miss,  that 
our  sex  feel  the  most  profound  contempt  ' 
for  a  woman  who  is  so  weak  as  to  make  . 
such  an  exhibition  of  folly  ?  It  might  do 
for  great  people,  at  a  ^reat  party,  —  but 
in  dirty,  sloppy,  muddy  streets,  by  ser- 
vant-girls as  well  as  by  fashionable  wom- 
en, it  is  considered  not  only  indecent, 
but  as  evincing  a  want  of  common  sense. 
Moreover,  the  quantity  of  material  de- 
stroyed by  thus  dragging  over  the  pave- 
ment is  very  great.  It  must  amount 
to  thousands  of  yards  annually,  and*  it 
appears  to  me  that  the  more  it  costs 
per  yard,  the  more  of  it  is  devoted  to 
street-sweeping.  Here  is  wastefulness 
by  wholesale." 

"  But  do  you  think  the  same  remarks 
apply  to  the  case  of  the  greatly  increased 
amount  of  clothing  that  is  now  manu- 
factured by  the  sewing-machines  ?  "  I 
inquired. 

^  Certainly,    Miss,"   he   responded. 


472 


Needle  attd  Garden, 


[April, 


^' There  are  not  a  great  many  more 
people  in  this  country  now  to  be  cloth- 
ed than  there  were  three  years  ago; 
yet  at  least  three  times  as  much  cloth- 
ing is  manufactured.  The  question  is 
as  to  how  it  is  consumed.  I  do  not 
suppose  that  men  wear  two  coats  or 
shirts,  or  that  any  ever  went  without 
them.  But  the  increased  cheapness  has 
led  to  increased  waste,  exactly  as  in  the 
case  of  pins  and  matches.  Clothing  be- 
ing obtainable  at  lower  prices  than  were 
ever  known  before  in  this  country,  it 
is  purchased  in  unnecessary  quantities, 
just  like  the  newspapers,  and  not  taken 
care  of.  Thousands  of  men  now  have 
two  or  three  coats  where  they  formerly 
had  only  one.  It  is  these  extra  outfits, 
and  this  continual  waste,  that  keep  up 
the  production  at  'which  you  are  so 
much  astonished.  The  facts  afford  you 
another  illustration  of  the  great  law  of 
supply  and  demand,— that  as  you  cheap- 
en and  multiply  products  or  manufac- 
tures of  any  kind,  so  will  the  cdhsump- 
tion  of  them  increase.  If  pound-cake 
could  be  had  at  the  price  of  corn-bread, 
does  it  not  strike  you  that  the  commu-\ 
nity  would  consume  little  else  ?  The  cry 
for  pound-cake  would  be  universal, — it 
would  be,  in  fact,  in  everybody's  mouth. *' 

*'  But,"  I  again  inquired,  *'  will  this 
extraordinary  demand  for  the  products 
of  the  sewing-machine  continue?  I 
have  told  you  that  I  am  a  sewing-girl, 
and  hence  feel  a  deep  interest  in  learn- 
ing all  I  can  upon  the  subject'' 

'*  Judging  from  appearances,  it  must," 
was  his  reply.  "  We  are  the  most  ex- 
travagant people  in  the  world.  We  con- 
sume, per  head,  more  coffee,  tea,  and 
sugar,  jewelry,  silks,  and  cotton,  than 
the*  people  of  any  other  country  on  the 
face  of  the  earth.  Our  women  wear 
more  satins  and  laces,  and  our  men 
smoke  more  high-priced  cigars,  than 
those  of  any  other  part  of  the  world. 
They  eat  more  meat,  drink  more  liquor, 
and  spend  more  in  trifles.  And  it  is 
not  likely  that  they  contemplate  any 
reformation  of  these  lavish  habits,  at 
least  while  wages  keep  up  to  the  pres- 
ent rates.  Were  it  proposed,  I  think 
that  coats  and  shirts  would  be  about 


the  last  things  the  men  would  b^gia 
with,  and  paper  cuffs  and  collars  among 
the  last  the  women  would  repudiate. 
They  are  fond  enough  of  changing  their 
clothes,  but  have  no  idea  of  doing  with- 
out them." 

"  I  nptice,"  I  observed,  "  that  you  em- 
ploy girls  in  your  establishment,  several 
being  occupied  in  feeding  the  stamping- 
rollers.  Could  a  man  feed  those  rollers 
more  efficiently  than  a  girl  ?  or  would 
they  turn  out  more  work  in  a  week,  if 
attended  by  ^  m^n  than  by  a  girl  ?  " 

''  Not  any  more,"  he  answered. 

<'  Do  the  girls  receive  as  much  wages 
as  the  men  ? "  I  added. 

**  About  one  third  as  much,"  he  re- 
plied. 

"  But,"  I  suggested,  "  if  they  perform 
as  much  work  as  men  could,  why  do  you 
pay  them  so  much  less  ? " 

''Competition,  Miss,"  he  answered. 
''There  is  a  constant  pressure  on  us 
from  girls  seeking  employment,  and  this 
keeps  down  wages.  Besides,  those  whom 
we  do  employ  come  here  wholly  igno- 
rant of  what  they  are  required  to  do. 
Some  "have  never  worked  a  day  in  their 
lives.  It  requires  time  to  teach  them, 
and  while  being  taught  they  spoil  a 
great  deal  of  material.  It  is  a  long 
time  before  they  become  really  skilled 
hands.  You  can  have  no  conception  of 
the  kind  of  help  that  offers  itself  to  us 
every  week.  Parents  don't  seem  to  edu- 
cate their  daughters  to  anything  useful ; 
and  our  girls  nowadays  appear  to  have 
little  or  notliing  to  do  in-doors.  Former- 
ly they  had  plenty  of  household  duties, 
as  a  multitude  of  things  were  done  at 
home  which  even  the  poorest  old  wom- 
an never  thinks  of  doing  now.  The 
baker  now  makes  their  bread ;  the  spin- 
ning, the  weaving,  the  knitting,  and  sew- 
ing are  taken  out  of  their  hands  by  ma- 
chinery ;  and  if  women  want  work,  they 
must  go  out  and  seek  it,  just  as  those 
do  who  apply  to  us.  Machinery  has 
undoubtedly  effected  a  great  revolution 
in  all  home -employments  for  women, 
compelling  many  to  be  idle;  and  not 
being  properly  encouraged  to  adopt  new 
employments  in  place  of  the  old  ones, 
they  remain  idle  until  forced  to  work 


1^5] 


NetdU  and  Garden. 


473 


ibr  bread,  and  then  go  out  in  search 
of  occupation,  knowing  no  more  of  one 
half  the  things  we  want  them  to  do 
than  mere  children.'' 

**  But  when  they  become  skilled," 
I  again  asked,  "  you  do  not  pay  them 
as  high  wages  as  you  pay  the  men, 
though  they  do  as  much  and  as  well  ?  " 

^  Women  don't  need  as  much,"  he 
replied.  **  They  can  live  on  less,  they 
pay  less  board,  have  fewer  wants,  and 
less  occasion  for  money." 

''But  don't  you  thi|»k,".  I  rejoined, 
"  that,  if  you  gave  them  the  money,  they 
would  find  the  wants,  and  that  the  scar- 
city of  the  former  is  the  true  reason  for 
the  limitation  of  the  latter?  Do  not 
working -women  live  on  the  little  they 
get  only  because  they  are  compelled  to  ?  " 

"It  may  be  so,"  he  answered.  " Our 
wants  are  born  with  us,  —  and  as  one 
set  is  supplied,  another  rises  up  to  de- 
mand gratification.  But  they  offer  to 
work  for  these  wages,  and  why  should 
we  give  them  more  than  they  ask  ?  " 

"  But  how  is  it  witli  the  women  with 
fiiimilies,  the  widows  ? "  I  suggested. 
"  Have  they  no  more  wants  than  young 
girls  ?  If  the  fewer  necessities  of  the 
girls  be  a  reason  for  giving  them  low 
wages,  why  should  not  the  more  numer- 
ous ones  of  the  widows  be  as  potent  a 
reason  for  giving  them  better  wages  ?  " 

^  Competition  again.  Miss,"  he  re- 
sponded. "The  prices  at  which  the 
girls  work  govern  the  market" 

There  was  no  getting  over  facts  like 
these.  Let  me  look  at  the  subject  in 
whatever  aspect  I  might,  it  seemed  im- 
possible that  female  labor  should  be 
adequately  paid  by  any  class  of  em- 
ployers. But  on  the  present  occasion 
this  was  an  incidental  question.  The 
primary  one,  why  so  much  more  sewing 
was  required  for  the  people  now  than 
formerly,  was  answered  measurably  to 
my  satisfaction.  I  thought  a  great  deal 
on  this  subject,  because  now,  since  the 
loss  of  our  main  family-dependence,  I 
was  more  interested  in  its  solution.  I 
think  I  settled  down  into  accepting  the 
foregoing  facts  and  opinions  as  embody- 
ing a  satis&ctory  explanation ;  and  sd- 
though  not  exactly  set  at  ease,  yet  the 


conclusion  then  embraced  has  not  been 
changed  by  any  subsequent  discovery. 
The  gendeman  referred  to  may  have 
been  altogether  wrong  in  some  parts  of 
his  argument,  but  I  was  too  little  vers- 
ed in  matters  of  trade,  and  the  laws  of. 
supply  and  demand,  to  show  wherein  he 
was  so.  It  seemed  to  me  a  strange  ar- 
gument, that  the  consumption  of  things 
was  to  be  so  largely  attributed  to  waste- 
fulness. But  I  suppose  this  must  be 
what  people  call  political  economy,  and 
how  should  I  be  expected  to  know  any- 
thing of  that  ?  I  knew  that  in  our  litde 
family  the  utmost  economy  was  prac- 
tised. I  have  turned  or  fixed  up  the 
same  bonnet  as  many  as  four  times,  put- 
ting on  new  trimmings  at  very  little  ex- 
pense, and  making  it  look  so  different 
every  time  that  none  suspected  it  of  be- 
ing the  old  bonnet  altered,  while  many 
of  my  acquaintances  admired  it  as  a  new 
one,  some  qf  them  even  inquiring  what 
it  cost,  and  who  was  the  milliner  that 
made  it*  We  never  thought  of  giving 
one  away  until  it  had  gone  through  many 
such  transformations,  nor,  in  fact,  undl 
it  was  actually  used  up,  at  least  for  me. 
Even  when  mine  had  seen  such  long  and 
severe  service,  my  sister  Jane  fell  heir  to 
it,  though  without  knowing  it,  —  for  she 
had  more  pride  than  myself,  and  was 
much  more  particular  about  her  good 
looks.  Hence,  when  the  thing  was  at 
all  feasible,  my  veteran  bonnet  was 
transformed,  in  private,  into  a  very  fair 
new  one  for  her.  She  had  been  familiar 
with  my  head -gear  for  so  many  years 
that  I  often  wondered  how  she  failed 
to  detect  the  disguises  I  put  upon  it ; 
and  I  had  as  much  as  I  could  do  to 
keep  from  laughing,  when  I  brought 
to  her,  what  we  invariably  called  her 
new  bonnet  As  she  grew  older,  she 
became  more  exacting  in  her  tastes, 
and  at  the  same  dme  foolishly  suspi- 
cious of  the  mysterious  origin  of  her 
new  bonnets, — just  as  if  they  were  any 
worse  for  my  having  worn  them  for 
years !  I  presume  her  mortification  will 
be  extreme,  when  she  comes  to  read 
this.  As  to  old  clothes,  they  were  nurs- 
ed up  quite  as  carefully,  though  Jane 
had  her  full  inheritance  of  boUi  mine 


474 


Needle  and  Garden, 


[April, 


and  mother's.  When  entirely  past  ser- 
vice, they  were  cut  up  into  carpet-rags, 
from  which  we  obtained  the  wannest  cov- 
ering for  our  floors*  Thus  practising  no 
wastefulness  ourselves,  it  was  difficult 
to  understand  how  the  national  waste- 
fulness could  be  great  enough  to  insure 
the  prosperity  of  a  multitude  of  exten- 
sive manufacturing  establishments.  But 
our  premises  were  very  humble  ones 
from  which  to  start  an  argument  of  any 
description: 

Yet,  when  the  attention  of  an  inquir- 
ing mind  is  directed  toward  any  given 
subject,  it  is  astonishing  how,  if  only 
a  little  observation  is  practised,  it  will 
unfold  and  expand  itself.  In  my  walks 
to  and  from  the  factory  there  lay  numer- 
ous open  lots  or  commons,  all  of  which 
afforded  abundant  evidence  of  the  extent 
to  which  this  public  wastefulness  was 
carried.  Heretofore  I  had  passed  on 
without  noticing  much  about  them.  But 
now  I  observed  that  they  wer^  heaped 
up  with  great  piles  of  coal-ashes,  from 
which  cropped  out  large  quantities  of 
the  unburnt  mineral,  as  black  and  shin- 
ing as  when  it  came  from  the  mines. 
There  were  thousands  of  loads  of  this 
residuum,  in  which  many  hundred  tons 
of  pure  coal  must  have  been  thus  waste- 
fully  thrown  away.  In  other  parts  of 
the  city  the  same  evidence  of  careless- 
ness existed,  so  that  the  waste  of  a 
single  city  in  the  one  article  of  coal 
must  be  enormous.  Then,  over  these 
commons  were  scattered,  almost  daily, 
the  remains  of  clothing,  old  hats,  bon- 
nets, and  the  indestructible  hooi>-skirts, 
of  which  the  collar -maker  had  com- 
plained as  being  in  everybody's  way, 
as  much  so  when  out  of  use  as  when 
in.  Somebody  had  been  guilty  oli  waste- 
fulness in  thus  casting  these  thmgs  away. 
But  though  losses  to  some,  they  were 
gains  to  others.  By  early  daylight  the 
rag-pickers  came  in  platoons  to  gather 
up  all  these  waifs.  The  hats,  the  bon- 
nets, and  the  clothing  were  quickly  ap- 
propriated by  women  and  children  who 
had  come  out  of  the  narrow  courts  and 
hovels  of  the  city  in  search  of  what 
they  knew  was  an  every -day  harvest 
These  small  gatherings  of  the  rag-j)ick- 


ers  amounted  to  hundreds  of  dollars 
daily.  Then  there  was  another  class 
of  searchers  after  abandoned  treasure, 
in  the  persons  of  other  women  and  chil- 
dren, who,  with  pronged  or  pointed 
sticks,  worked  their  way  into  the  piles 
of  ashes,  and  picked  out  basketfiils  of 
coal  as  heavy  as  they  could  carry,  and 
in  this  laborious  way  provided  them- 
selves with  summer  and  winter  fuel. 

There  was  living  near  us  a  man  who 
made  a  business  of  gathering  up  the 
offal  of  several  hundred  kitchens  in  the 
city,  as  food  for  pigs.  I  know  that  he 
grew  rich  at  this  vocation.  He  lived 
in  a  much  better  house  than  ours,  and 
his  wife  and  daughters  dressed  as  ex- 
pensively as  the  wealthiest  women. 
They  had  a  piano,  and  music  in  abun- 
dance. He  had  several  carts  which 
were  sent  on  their  daily  rounds  through 
the  city,  collecting  the  kitchen  -  waste 
of  boarding-houses,  hotels,  and  private 
families.  The  quantity  of  good,  whole- 
some food  which  these  carts  brought 
away  to  be  fed  to  pigs  was  incredible. 
It  was  a  common  thing  to  see  whole 
loaves  of  bread  taken  out  bf  the  fam- 
ily swill  -  tub,  with  joints  of  meat  not 
half  eaten,  sound  vegetables,  and  frag- 
ments of  other  food,  as  palatable  and 
valuable  as  the  portion  that  had  been 
consumed  on  the  table.  It  seemed  as 
if  there  were  hundreds  of  femilies  who 
made  it  a  point  never  to  have  food 
served  up  a  second  time.  The  waste 
by  this  thriftlessness  was  great.  I 
doubt  not  that  some  men  must  have 
been  kept  poor  by  such  want  of  proper 
oversight  on  the  part  of  their  wives,  as 
I  know  that  it  enriched  the  individual 
who  gathered  up  the  fat  crumbs  which 
fell  from  their  tables.  I  think  it  must 
be  quite  true  that  ''fat  kitchens  make 
lean  wills." 

These  slight  incidental  confirmations 
of  the  theory  of  national  wastefulness 
came  under  my  daily  notice.  I  had  here- 
tofore overlooked  them,  but  now  they 
attracted  my  attention.  Then  I  had 
only  to  direct  my  eye  to  other  and  high- 
er fields  of  observation  to  be  sure  that 
it  had  some  foundation.  The  streets, 
the  shop-window*,  were  eloquent  wit- 


i86s.] 


Needle  and  Garden. 


475 


nesses  for  it  The  waste  of  clothing 
material  consequent  on  the  introduc- 
tion of  hoop-skirts  was  seen  to  be  pro- 
digious. '  It  was  not  only  the  poor  thin 
body  that  was  now  to  be  covered  with 
finery,  but  the  huge  balloon  in  which 
fashion  required  that  that  body  should 
be  enveloped.  I  thought,  now  that  the 
subject  was  one  for  study,  that  I  could 
see  it  running  through  almost  every- 
thing. 

This  wastefulness,  then,  was  to  be 
the  ground  on  which  the  sewing-woman 
was  to  rest  her  hopes  of,  continued 
employment  It  might  be  good  hold- 
ing-ground in  times  of  high  general 
prosperity,  when  money  was  abundant 
and  circulation  active ;  but  how  would  it 
be  when  reverses  of  any  kind  overtook 
the  nation  ?  As  extravagance  was  the 
rulonow,  it  occurred  to  me  that  so  would 
a  stringent  economy  be  the  rule  then. 
The  old  hats  that  were  usually  thrown 
away  upon  the  commons  would  be  re- 
juvenated and  worn  again,  —  the  parsi- 
mony of  one  crisis  seeking  to  make  up 
for  the  v^Lstefulness  of  another;  for 
when  a  sharp  turn  of  hard  times  comes 
round,  everybody  takes  to  economizing. 
There  are  older  heads  and  more  ob- 
servant minds  than  my  own,  that  must 
remember  how  these  things  have  worked 
in  bygone  years.  These  have  had  the 
experience  of  a  whole  lifetime  to  enable 
them  to  judge :  I  was  a  mere  inquirer 
on  the  threshold  of  a  very  brief  one. 

Our  employment  at  the  factory  kept 
us  comfortable.  In  time  we  were  able 
to  earn  something  more  than  when  we 
began.  Our  good  pastor  had  lent  us 
the  money  with  which  to  pay  the  re- 
ward for  recovering  my  dear  father's 
body ;  and  as  my  mother  had  a  great 
dread  t)f  being  in  debt,  we  had  prac- 
tised a  most  rigid  economy  at  home 
in  order  to  save  enough  to  repay  him. 
This  we  did,  a  few  dollars  at  a  time, 
until  we  had  finally  paid  the  whole. 
Though  he  frequently  came  down  to 
see  my  mother  in  her  loneliness,  yet 
he  never  alluded  to  the  matter  of  the 
loan,  and  actually  declined  taking  any 
part  of  it  until  it  was  almost  forced 


upon  him.  He  even  offered,  on  one 
occasion,  to  increase  the  loan  to  any 
extent  that  my  mother  might  think  ne- 
cessary for  her  comfort,  and  in  various 
ways  manifested  a  strong  disposition  to 
do  everything  for  us  that  he  could.  We 
had  all  been  favorite  pupils  in  his  Sun- 
day school,  where  I  had  soon  been  pro- 
moted to  the  position  of  a  teacher. 
Finding,  also,  that  we  were  fond  of 
reading,  he  had  lent  us  books  from  his 
own  library,  and  even  invited  me  to 
come  and  select  for  myself.  I  some- 
times accepted  these  invitations,  and 
occasionally  chose  books  on  subjects 
that  seemed  to  surprise  him  very  much. 
But,  after  all,  are  not  a  few  books  well 
chosen  better  than  a  great  library  ? 

The  lending  of  the  money  at  the  time 
we  were  in  so  much  distress  was  of  in- 
expressible value  to  us.  But  as  every- 
day life  is  a  leaf  in  one's  history,  so  was 
this  pecuniary  experience  in  ours.  I 
had  innocently  supposed  that  the  chief 
value  of  money  was  to  supply  one's  own 
wants,  but  I  now  learned  that  its  highest 
capacity  for  good  lay  in  its  power  of 
ministering  to  the  necessities  of  others. 
I  have  read  that  in  prosperity  it  is  the 
easiest  thing  to  find  a  friend,  but  that 
in  adversity  it  is  of  all  things  the  most 
difficult  I  know  that  in  trouble  we 
often  come  off  better  than  we  expect, 
and  always  better  than  we  deserve.  But 
men  of  the  noblest  dispositions  are  apt 
to  consider  themselves  happiest  when 
others  share  their  happiness  with  them. 
Our  pastor  lent  us  this  little  sum  of 
money  at  a  time  when  it  was  of  the  ut- 
most value  to  us ;  but  it  was  done  in  a 
way  so  hearty,  and  so  unobtrusive,  as 
to  add  immeasurably  to  the  obligation. 
Indeed,  I  sometimes  think  that  a  pecu- 
niary favor  which  is  granted  grudging- 
ly is  no  favor  at  all. 

Still,  while  at  work  in  the  factory, 
there  were  many  things  to  think  of, 
and  some  inconveniences  to  submit  to. 
The  long  walks  to  it  were  unpleasant 
in  stormy  weather,  and  occasionally  we 
were  compelled  to  lose  a  day  or  two  from 
this  cause.  But  then  the  out-door  ex- 
ercise in  fine  weather  was  beneficial  to 
health,  and  we  were  spared  the  public 


476 


Needle  and  Garden. 


[April, 


mortification  of  carrying  great  bundles  of 
made-up  clothing  through  the  streets: 
for,  let  a  sewing-girl  feel  as  independent 
as  she  may,  she  does  not  covet  the  be- 
ing everywhere  known  as  belonging  to 
that  class  of  workers.  Her  bundle  is 
the  badge  of  her  profession.  My  sister 
had  a  great  deal  of  pride  on  this  point 
She  was  extremely  nice  about  her  looks. 
There  was  a  neat  jauntiness  in  her  ap- 
pearance, of  which  she  seemed  to  be 
fully  conscious  ;  and  as  she  grew  up  to 
womanhood,  I  think  it  became  more 
apparent  in  all  her  actions.  She  was 
really  a  very  attractive  girl,  —  certainly 
so  to  me, — and  she  must  have  been 
more  so  to  the  other  sex,  as  I  noticed 
that  the  men  about  the  establishment 
were  more  courteous  to  her  than  they 
were  to  me.  Even  our  employer  treat- 
ed her  with  a  deferential  politeness  that 
he  did  not  extend  to  others,  and  when 
paying  us  our  wages,  always  had  a  com- 
plimentary remark  for  Jane,  as  if  seek- 
ing to  win  the  good  opinion  of  one  who 
seemed  to  be  a  general  favorite. 

But  I  confess  that  during  all  the  time 
we  were  working  in  the  factory  I  sighed 
for  the  possession  of  a  machine  of  my 
own,  so  that  I  could  be  more  at  home 
with  my  mother  in  her  loneliness :  for 
when  we  left  her  in  the  morning  we  car- 
ried our  dinners  with  us,  leaving  her 
to  her  own  thoughts  during  the  whole 
day.  The  grief  at  my  father's  loss  had 
by  no  means  been  overcome,  for  with 
all  of  us  it  was  something  more  than 
the  shadow  of  a  passing  cloud.  Person- 
ally, I  cared  nothing  for  the  carrying 
of  a  bundle  through  the  streets,  even 
though  it  made  proclamation  of  my  be- 
ing a  sewing-girL  Then  as  to  exercise 
or  recreation,  I  could  have  abundance  in 
the  garden.  As  it  was,  I  still  continued 
to  see  it  kept  in  order.  Fred  was  very 
good  in  doing  all  I  wanted.  He  would 
rise  early  before  breakfast,  and  do  any 
digging  it  required,  and  in  the  evening, 
after  returning  from  the  foundry,  would 
attend  to  many  other  things  about  it 
as  they  needed.  I  was  equally  indus- 
trious ;  and  now  that  it  was  wholly  left 
£br  me  to  see  to,  my  fondness  for  it  in- 


creased, while  I  came  to  understand  its 
management  more  thoroughly  than  when 
my  father  was  sole  director. .  The  more 
I  had  to  do,  the  more  I  learned.  Then 
there  were  times  when  I  rose  in  the 
morning  feeling  so  poorly  that  it  was 
a  tax  upon  both  spirits  and  strength  to 
tramp  the  long  distance  to  the  £fictory ; 
yet  it  would  have  been  no  hardship  to 
work  at  a  machine  at  home,  or  to  do  an 
hour's  gardening.  I  think  my  esumings 
could  have  been  made  quite  as  large  as 
they  were  at  the  factory,  as  the  owner 
of  a  machine  generally  received  a  little 
more  pay  than  when  working  on  one 
belonging  to  her  employer;  and  I  felt 
quite  sure  that  there  would  be  no  diffi- 
culty in  obtaining  abundance  of  work. 
My  doubts  on  this  point  had  been  pret- 
ty well  settled. 

But  we  had  no  hundred  and  thirty  or 
forty  dollars  to  lay  out  for  a  machine 
now,  and  there  was  no  prospect  of  our 
being  able  to  save  enough  to  purchase 
one.  Hence  I  never  even  hinted  to  my 
mother  what  my  wishes  vere,  as  it  would 
only  be  to  her  a  fresh  anxiety.  I  did 
mention  the  subject  to  my  sister,  but 
she  did  not  seem  to  favor  my  plans.  She 
was  a  great  favorite  at  the'fkctory,  and 
why  should  not  the  factory  be  as  great 
a  favorite  with  her  ?  I  have  no  doubt 
that  our  pastor,  who  was  as  wealthy  as 
he  was  generous  and  good,  would  have 
promptly  loaned  us,  or  even  me,  the 
money ;  but  he  had  heard  nothing  of  the 
fact  that  my  father's  sudden  death  had 
alone  prevented  my  obtaining  a  ma- 
chine, nor  during  his  frequent  visits  to 
our  house  did  we  ever  mention  what  we 
had  then  expected  or  what  I  now  so 
much  desired.  Besides,  it  would  be  a 
great  debt,  so  large  that  I  should  have 
hesitated  about  incurring  it  We  had 
been  a  long  while  in  getting  clear  of  the. 
otiier,  and  the  apparent  hopelessness 
of  discharing  one  nearly  three  times  as 
great,  and  that,  too,  from  my  individual 
earnings,  was  such,  that  in  the  end  I  con- 
cluded it  would  be  better  for  me  to  avoid 
the  debt  by  doing  without  the  machine, 
than  to  have  it  only  on  condition  of  buy- 
ing it  on  credit 


1 


i865.] 


Memories  of  Authors, 


477 


MEMORIES    OF    AUTHORS. 


A  SERIES  OF   PORTRAITS   FROM   PERSONAL  ACQUAINTANCE. 
THEODORE  HOOK  AND  HIS  FRIENDS. 


THEODORE  EDWARD  HOOK 
was  born  in  Charlotte  Street,  Bed: 
ford  Square,  on  the  22d  of  September, 
1788.  His  father  was  an  eminent  mu- 
sical composer,  who  "  enjoyed  in  his 
time  success  and  celebrity '' ;  his  elder 
brother  James  became  Dean  of  Wind- 
sor, whose  son  is  the  present  learned 
and  eloquent  Dean  of  Chichester ;  the 
mother  of  both  was  an  accomplished 
lady,  and  also  an  author. 

His  natural  talent,  therefore,  was  ear- 
ly nursed.  Unfortunately,  the  green- 
room was  the  too  frequent  study  of  the 
youth ;  for  his  father's  fame  and  income 
were  chiefly  derived  from  the  composi- 
tion of  operetta  songs,  for  which  Theo- 
dore usually  wrote  the  libretti.  When 
little  more  than  a  boy  he  had  produced 
perhaps  thirty  farces,  and  in  1808  gave 
birth  to  a  novel  Those  who  remember 
the  two  great  actors  of  a  long  period, 
Mathews  and  Liston,  will  be  at  no  loss 
to  comprehend  the  popularity  of  Hook's 
farces :  for  they  were  his  "  props." 

In  1 812,  when  his  finances  were  low, 
and  the  chances  of  increasing  them  lim- 
ited, and  when,  perhaps,  also,  his  consti- 
tution had  been  tried  by  **  excesses,"  he 
received  the  appointment  of  Account- 
ant-General  and  Treasurer  at  the  Mau- 
ritius,— a  post  with  an  income  of  two 
thousand  pounds  a  year.  Hook  seems 
to  have  derived  his  qualifications  for 
this  office  from  his  antipathy  to  arith- 
metic and  his  utter  unfitness  for  busi- 
ness. 

The  result  might  have  been  easily 
foreseen.  In  1819  he  returned  to  Eng- 
land :  the  cause  may  be  indicated  by  his 
very  famous  pun,  when,  the  Governor 
of  the  Cape  having  expressed  a  hope 
that  he  was  not  returning  beqiuse  of 
ill  health,  he  was  "sorry  to  say  they 
think  there  is  something  wrong  in  the 
chesL^^    He  was  found  guilty  of  owing 


twelve  thousand  pounds  to  the  Govern* 
ment:  yet  he  was  '^  without  a  shilling 
in  his  pocket"  If  public  funds  had 
been  abstracted,  he  was  none  the  rich- 
er, and  there  was  certainly  no  suspicion 
that  the  money  had  been  dishonestly 
advantageous  to  him. 

Although  kept  for  years  in  hot  water, 
battling  with  the  Treasury,  it  was'  not 
until  1823  that  the  penalty  was  exacted, 
— some  time  after  the  ''John  Bull "  had 
made  him  a  host  of  enemies.  Of  course, 
as  he  could  not  pay  in  purse,  he  was 
doomed  to  '*  pay  in  person."  After 
spending  some  months  *'  pleasantly  "  at 
a  dreary  sponging-house  in  Shoe  Lane, 
where  there  was  ever  ''an  agreeable 
prospect,  barring  the  windows,"  he  was 
removed  to  the  "  Rules  of  the  Bench," 
residing  there  a  year,  being  discharged 
from  custody  in  1825. 

Hook,  while  in  the  Rules,  was  un* 
der  very  little  restraint ;  he  was  almost 
as  much  in  society  as  ever,  taking  spe- 
cial care  not  to  be  seen  by  any  of  his 
creditors,  who  might  have  pounced  upon 
him  and  made  the  Marshal  responsible 
for  the  debt  The  danger  was  less  in 
Hook's  case  than  in  that  of  others,  for 
his  principal  "  detaining  creditor "  was 
the  King.  I  remember  his  telling  me, 
that,  during  his  "confinement"  in  the 
Rules,  he  made  the  acquaintance  of  a 
gentleman,  who,  while  a  prisoner  there, 
paid  a  visit  to  India.  The  story  is  this. 
The  gentleman  called  one  morning  on 
the  Marshal,  who  said,  — 

"  Mr. y  I  have  not  had  the  {Meas- 
ure to  see  you  for  a  long  time." 

"No  wonder,"  was  the  answer;  "for 
since  you  saw  me  last  I  have  been  to 
India." 

In  reply  to  a  look  of  astonished  in- 
quiry, he  explained, — 

*'  I  knew  my  af&irs  there  were  so 
intricate  and  involved  that  no  one  but 


V 


478 


Memories  of  Autkars. 


[April, 


myself  could  unravel  them ;  so  I  ran 
the  risk,  and  took  my  chance.  I  am 
back  with  ample  funds  to  pay  all  my 
debts,  and  to  live  comfortably  for  the 
rest  of  my  days." 

Mr.  Hook  did  not  say  if  the  gentle- 
man had  obtained  from  his  securities  a 
license  for  what*he  had  done;  but  the 
anecdote  illustrates  the  extreme  laxi- 
\y  enjoyed  by  prisoners  in  the  Rules, 
(which  extended  to  several  streets,)  as 
compared  with  the  doleful  incarceration 
to  which  poor  debtors  were  subjected, 
who  in  those  days  often  had  their  mis- 
erable home  in  a  jail  for  debts  that 
might  have  been  paid  by  shillings. 

Hook  then  took  up  his  residence  at 
Putney,  from  which  he  afterwards  re- 
moved to  a  *' mansion"  in  Cleveland 
Street,  but  subsequently  to  Fulham, 
where  the  remainder  of  his  life  was 
passed,  and  where  he  died.  It  was  a 
small,  detached  cottage.  It  is  of  this 
cottage  that  Lockhart  says,  **  We  doubt 
if  its  interior  was  ever  seen  by  half  a 
dozen  people  besides  the  old  confiden- 
tial worshippers  of  Bull's  mouth." 

He  resided  here  in  comparative  ob- 
scurity. It  gave  him  a  pleasant  pros- 
pect of  Putney  Bridge,  and  of  Putney 
on  the  opposite  side  of  the  river.  As 
the  Thames  flowed  past  the  bottom  of 
his  small  and  narrow  garden,  he  had  a 
perpetually  cheerful  and  changing  view 
of  the  many  gay  passers-by  in  small 
boats,  yachts,  and  steamers.  The  only 
room  of  the  cottage  I  ever  saw  was 
somewhat  coarsely  furnished :  a  few 
prints  hung  on  tlie  walls,  but  there  was 
no  evidence  of  those  suggestive  refine- 
ments which  substitute  intellectual  for 
animal  gratifications,  in  the  internal  ar- 
rangements of  a  domicile  that  becomes 
necessarily  a  workshop. 

Hookas  love  of  practical  joking  seems 
to  have  commenced  early.  Almost  of 
that  character  was  his  well-known  an- 
swer to  the  Vice-Chancellor  at  Oxford, 
when  asked  whether  he  was  prepared 
to  subscribe  to  the  Thirty- Nine  Arti- 
cles, —  "  Certainly,  to  forty  of  them,  if 
you  please  "  ;  and  his  once  meeting  the 
Proctor  dressed  in  his  robes,  and  being 
questioned,  "  Pray,  Sir,  are  you  a  mem- 


ber of  this  University?"  he  replied, 
"  No,  Sir ;  pray  are  you  ?  " 

In  the  Memoirs  of  Charles  Math- 
ews by  his  widow  abundant  anec- 
dotes are  recorded  of  these  practical 
jokes;  but,  in  fact,  "Gilbert  Gurney," 
which  may  be  regarded  as  an  autobi- 
ography, is  full  of  them.  Mr.  Barham, 
his  biographer,  also  relates  several,  and 
states,  that,  when  a  young  man,  he  had 
a  "  museum  "  containing  a  large  and  va- 
ried collection  of  knockers,  sign-paint- 
ings, barbers'  poles,  and  cocked  hats, 
gathered  together  during  his  predatory 
adventures ;  but  its  most  attractive  ob* 
ject  was  "  a  gigantic  Highlander,"  lifted 
from  the  shop-door  of  a  tobacconist  on 
a  dark,  foggy  night  These  ^  enterprises 
of  great  pith  and  moment "  are  detailed 
by  himself  in  fulL  The  most "  glorious  " 
of  them  has  been  often  told :  how  he 
sent  through  the  post  some  four  thou- 
sand letters,  inviting  on  a  given  day  a 
huge  assemblage  of  visitors  to  the  house 
of  a  lady  of  fortune,  living  at  54,  Bemers 
Street  They  came,  beginning  with  a 
dozen  sweeps  at  daybreak,  and  includ- 
ing lawyers,  doctors,  upholsterers,  jewel- 
lers, coal-merchants,  linen-drapers,  art- 
ists, even  the  Lord  Mayor,  for  whose 
behoof  a  special  temptation  was  invent- 
ed. In  a  word,  there  was  no  conceiva- 
ble trade,  profession,  or  calling  that  was 
not  summoned  to  augment  the  crowd  of 
foot-passengers  and  carriages  by  which 
the  street  was  thronged  from  dawn  till 
midnight ;  while  Hook  and  a  friend  en- 
joyed the  confusion  fi-om  a  room  oppo- 
site.* Lockhart,  in  the  "  Quarterly," 
states  that  the  hoax  was  merely  the 
result  of  a  wager  that  Hook  would 
in  a  week  make  the  quiet  dwelling  the 
most  famous  house  in  all  London.  Mr. 
Barham  affirms  that  the  lady,  Mrs. 
Tottenham,  had  on  some  account  fallen 
under  the  displeasure  of  the  formida- 
ble trio,  Mr.  Hook  and  two  unnamed 
friends. 

His  conversation  was  an  unceasing 
stream  of  wit,  of  which  he  was  profuse, 
as  if  he  knew  the  source  to  be  in  ex- 


) 


•  In  "Gflbcrt  Gumey,"  Hook  makes  Daly  i»y, 
I  am  the  man  :  I  did  it ;  for  originality  of  thought 
and  design,  I  €l0  chink  that  wa*  perfect** 


t« 


k865.] 


Memories  of  Authors. 


479 


haustibk.  He  never  kept  it  for  dis- 
play, or  for  company,  or  for  those  only 
who  knew  its  value :  wit  was,  indeed,  as 
natural  to  him  as  commonplace  to  com- 
monplace characters.  It  was  not  only 
in  puns,  in  repartees,  in  lively  retorts, 
in  sparkling  sentences,  in  brilliant  illus- 
trations, or  in  apt  or  exciting  anecdote, 
that  this  faculty  was  developed.  I  have 
known  him  string  together  a  number 
of  graceful  verses,  every  one  of  which 
was  fine  in  composition  and  admirable 
in  point,  at  a  moment^s  notice,  on  a 
subject  the  most  inauspicious,  and  ap- 
parently impossible  either  to  wit  or 
rhyme, — yet  with  an  effect  that  delighted 
a  party,  and  might  have  borne  the  test 
of  criticism  the  most  severe.  These 
verses  he  usually  sang  in  a  sort  of 
recitative  to  some  tune  with  which  all 
were  familiar,  —  and  if  a  piano  were  at 
hand,  he  accompanied  himself  with  a 
gentle  strain  of  music. 

Mrs.  Mathews  relates  that  she  was 
present  once  when  Hook  dined  with 
the  Drury-Lane  Company,  at  a  ban- 
quet given  to  Sheridan  in  honor  of  his 
return  for  Westminster.  The  guests  were 
numerous,  yet  he  made  a  verse  upon 
every  person  in  the  room:  —  "Every 
action  was  turned  to  account;  every 
circumstance,  the  look,  the  gesture,  or 
any  other  accidental  effect,  served  as 
occasion  for  wit"  Sheridan  was  aston- 
ished at  his  extraordinary  faculty,  and 
declared  that  he  could  not  have  imag- 
ined such  power  possible,  had  he  not 
witnessed  it 

People  used  to  give  him  subjects  the 
most  unpromising  to  test  his  powers. 
Thus,  Campbell  records  that  he  once 
supplied  him  with  a  theme,  ''Pepper 
and  Salt,''  and  that  he  amply  seasoned 
the  song  with  both. 

I  was  present  when  this  rare  faculty 
was  put  to  even  a  more  severe  test,  at  a 
party  at  Mr.  Jerdan's,  at  Grove  House, 
Brompton, — a  house  long  si  nee  removed 
to  make  room  for  Ovington  Square.  It 
was  a  large  supper  -  party,  and  many 
men  and  women  of  mark  were  present : 
for  the  "  Literary  Gazette  "  was  then  in 
the  zenith  of  its  power,  worshipped  by 
all  aspirants  for  fame,  and  courted  even 


by  those  whose  laurels  had  been  won. 
Its  editor,  be  his  shortcomings  what 
they  might,  was  then,  as  he  had  ever 
been,  ready  with  a  helping  hand  for 
those  who  needed  help :  a  lenient  crit- 
ic, a  generous  sympathizer,  who  pre- 
ferred pushing  a  dozen  forward  to 
thrusting  one  back.       * 

Hook,  having  been  asked  for  his 
song,  and,  as  usual,  demanding  a  theme, 
one  of  the  guests,  either  facetiously  or 
maliciously,  called  out,  "  Take  Yates's 
big  nose."  ( Yates,  the  actor,  was  one 
of  the  party.)  To  any  one  else  such  a 
subject  would  have  been  appalling :  not 
so  to  Hook.  He  rose,  glanced  once  or 
twice  round  the  table,  and  chanted  (so 
to  speak)  a  series  of  verses  perfect  in 
rhythm  and  rhyme ;  the  incapable  theme 
being  dealt  with  in  a  spirit  of  fun,  hu- 
mor, serious  comment,  and  absolute  phi- 
losophy, utterly  inconceivable  to  those 
who  had  never  heard  the  marvellous 
improvisator,  —  each  verse  describing 
something  which  the  world  considered 
great,  but  which  became  small,  when 
placed  in  comparison  with 

"Yates's big  nose  1'* 

It  was  tlie  first  time  I  had  met  Hook, 
and  my  astonishment  was  unboimded. 
I  found  it  impossible  to  believe  the  song 
was  improvised ;  but  I  had  afterwards 
ample  reason  to  know  that  so  thorough 
a  triumph  over  difficulties  was  with  him 
by  no  means  rare. 

I  had  once  a  jovial  day  with  him  on 
the  Thames,  —  fishing  in  a  punt  on  the 
river  opposite  the  Swan  at  Thames- 
Ditton.  Hook  was  in  good  health  and 
good  spirits,  and  brimful  of  mirth.  He 
loved  the  angler's  craft,  though  he  sel- 
dom followed  it;  and  he  spoke  with 
something  like  affection  of  a  long-ago 
time,  when  bobbing  for  roach  at  the 
foot  of  Fulham  Bridge,  the  fisherman 
perpetually  raising  or  lowering  his  float, 
according  to  the  ebb  and  flow  of  the 
tide. 

A  record  of  his  "  sayings  and  doings," 
that  glorious  day,  from  early  mom  to  set 
of  sun,  would  fill  a  goodly  volume.  It 
was  fine  weather,  and  fishing  on  the 
Thames  is  lazy  fishing ;  for  the  gudgeons 
bite  freely,  and  there  is  little  labor  in 


480 


Memories  of  Authors. 


[April, 


** landing"  them.  It  is  therefore  the 
perfection  of  the  dolce  far-niente^  giving 
leisure  for  talk,  and  frequent  desire  for 
refreshment  Idle  time  is  idly  spent; 
but  the  wit  and  fun  of  Mr.  Hook  that 
day  might  have  delighted  a  hundred  by- 
sitterS)  and  it  was  a  grief  to  me  that  I 
was  the  only  listener.  Hook  then  con- 
ceived —  probably  then  made  —  the 
verses  he  afterwards  gave  the  "New 
Monthly,"  entitled  "  The  Swan  at  Dit- 
ton." 

The  last  time  I  saw  Hook  was  at 
Prior's  Bank,  Fulham,  where  his  neigh- 
bors, Mr.  Bay  lis  and  Mr.  Whitmore, 
had  given  an  "entertainment,"  the  lead- 
ing feature  being  an  amateur  play, — 
for  which,  by  the  way,  I  wrote  the 
prologue.  Hook  was  then  in  his 
decadence,  —  in  broken  health,  —  his 
animal  spirits  gone, — the  cup  of  life 
drained  to  the  dregs. .  It  was  morning 
before  the  guests  departed,  yet  Hook 
remained  to  the  last ;  and  a  light  of 
other  days  brightened  up  his  features) 
as  he  opened  the  piano,  and  began  a 
recitative.  The  theme  was,  of  course, 
the  occasion  that  had  brought  the  party 
together,  and  perhaps  he  never,  in  his 
best  time,  was  more  original  and  point- 
ed.    I  can  recall  two  of  the  lines,  — 

"  They  may  boast  of  their  Fulham  omnibus, 
But  this  is  the  Fulham  ftage." 

There  was  a  fair  young  boy  standing 
by  his  side,  while  he  was  singing.  One 
of  the  servants  suddenly  opened  the 
drawing-room  shutters,  and  a  flood  of 
light  fell  upon  the  lad's  head :  the  effect 
was  very  touching,  but  it  became  a 
thousand  times  more  so,  as  Hook,  avail- 
ing himself  of  the  incident,  placed  his 
hand  upon  the  youth's  brow,  and  in  trem- 
ulous tones  uttered  a  verse,  of  which 
I  recall  only  the  concluding  lines,  — 

*'  Ym  yon  is  the  dawn  of  the  morning^ 
For  me  is  the  solemn  good-night.'' 

He  rose  from  the  piano,  burst  into 
tears,  and  lefr  the  room.  Few  of  those 
who  were  present  saw  him  afterwards.* 
All  the  evening  Hook  had  been  low 
in  spirits.     It  seemed  impossible    to 

*  Mr.  Barham  has  a  ccmfiased  accouot  of  this  in- 
ctdent.  He  was  not  present  on  the  occasion,  as  I 
was,  standing  close  by  the  piano  when  it  occurred. 


Stir  btm  into  animation,  antQ  the  cause 
was  guessed  at  by  Mr.  Blood,  a  sur- 
geon, who  was  at  that  time  an  actor  at 
the  Haymarkct  He  prescribed  a  ^ass 
of  Sherry,  and  retired  to  procure  it,  re- 
turning presently  with  a  bottle  of  pale 
brandy.  Having  administered  two  or 
three  doses,  the  machinery  was  wound 
up,  and  the  result  was  as  I  have  d^ 
scribed  it 

I  give  one  more  instance  of  bis  ready 
wit  and  rapid  power  of  rhyme.  He  bad 
been  idle  for  a  fortnight,  and  had  writ- 
ten nothing  for  the  "John  Bull "  news- 
paper. The  clerk,  however,  took  him 
his  salary  as  usual,  and  on  entering  his 
room  said,  "  Have  you  heard  the  news  ? 
the  king  and  queen  of  the  Sandwich 
Islands  are  dead,''  ( they  had  just  died  in 
England  of  the  small-pox,)  "  and,"  add- 
ed the  clerk,  "  we  want  something  about 
them."—  "  Instantly,"  cried  Hook, "  you 
shall  have  it :  — 

'*  *  Waiter,  two  Sandwiches,'  cried  Death. 

And  their  wild  Majesties  resigned  their  breadk* 

The  "John  Bull"  was  established 
at  the  close  of  the  year  1820,  and  it  is 
said  that  Sir  Walter  Scott,  having  been 
consulted  by  some  leader  among  ^  high 
Tories,"  suggested  Hook  as  the  person 
precisely  suited  for  the  required  task. 
The  avowed  purpose  of  the  publication 
was  to  extinguish  the  party  of  the  Queen, 
—  Caroline,  wife  of  George  IV. ;  and  in 
a  recldess  and  frightful  spirit  the  work 
was  done.  She  died,  however,  in  1821, 
and  persecution  was  arrested  at  her 
grave.  Its  projectors  and  proprietors 
had  counted  on  a  weekly  sale  of  seven 
hundred  and  fifty  copies,  and  prepared 
accordingly.  By  the  sixth  week  it  had 
reached  a  sale  of  ten  thousand,  and  be- 
came a  valuable  property  to  "  all  con- 
cerned." Of  course,  there  were  many 
prosecutions  for  libels,  damages  and 
costs  and  incarceration  for  breaches  of 
privilege ;  but  all  search  for  actual  delin- 
quents was  vain.  Suspicions  were  rife 
enough,  but  positive  proofs  there  were 
none. 

Hook  was  of  course  in  no  way  im- 
plicated in  so  sckndalous  and  slander- 
ous a  publication  !  On  one  occasion 
there  appeared  among  the  answers  to 


1865.] 


Memories  of  AuOwrs. 


481 


correspondents  a  paragraph  purporting 
to  be  a  reply  from  Mr.  Theodore  Hook, 
'disavowing  all  connection  with  the 
paper."  The  gist  of  thi  paragraph  was 
this  :  —  "  Two  things  surprise  us  in  this* 
business :  the  first,  that  anything  we 
have  thought  worthy  of  giving  to  the 
public  should  have  been  mistaken  for 
Mr.  Hook's  ;  and  secondly,  that  s%ich  a 
person  as  Mr,  Hook  should  think  him- 
self disgraced  by  a  connection  with 
•John  BulL'" 

Even  now,  at  this  distance  of  time, 
few  of  the  contributors  are  actually 
known ;  among  them  were  undoubted- 
ly John  Wilson  Croker,  and  avowedly 
Haynes  Bayly,  Barham,  and  Dr.  Ma- 
ginn. 

In  1836,  when  I  had  resigned  the 
"  New  Monthly  "  into  the  hands  of  Mr. 
Hook,  he  proposed  to  me  to  take  the  sub- 
editorship  and  general  literary  manage- 
ment of  the  "John  Bull"  That  post  I 
undertook,  retaining  it  for  a  year.  Our 
^  business  "  was  carried  on,  not  at  the 
"John  Bull"  office,  but  at  Easty's  Ho- 
tel, in  Southampton  Street,  Strand,  in 
two  rooms  on  the  first  floor  of  that  tav- 
ern. Mr.  Hook  was  never  seen  at  the 
office ;  his  existence,  indeed,  was  not 
recognized  there.  If  any  one  had  ask- 
ed for  him  by  name,  the  answer  would 
have  been  that  no  such  person  was 
known.  Although  at  the  period  of 
which  I  write  there  was  no  danger  to 
be  apprehended  from  his  walking  in 
and  out  of  the  small  office  in  Fleet 
Street,  a  time  had  been  when  it  could 
not  have  been  done  without  personal 
peril.  Editorial  work  was  therefore 
conducted  with  much  secrecy,  a  confi- 
dential person  communicating  between 
the  editor  and  the  printer,  who  never 
knew,  or  rather  was  assumed  not  to 
know,  by  whom  the  articles  were  written. 
In  1836,  some  years  before,  and  dur- 
ing the  years  afterwards,  no  paragraph 
was  inserted  that  in  the  remotest  de- 
gree assailed  private  character.  Polit- 
ical hatreds  and  personal  hostilities  had 
grown  less  in  vogue,  and  Hook  had 
lived  long  enough  to  be  tired  of  assail- 
ing those  whom  he  rather  liked  and  re- 
spected.   The  bitterness  of  his  nature 

VOU  XV.  —  NO.  90.  31 


(if  it  ever  existed,  which  I  much  doubt) 
had  worn  out  with  years.  Undoubtedly 
much  of  the  brilliant  wit  of  thi  •*  John 
Bull "  had  evaporated,  in  losing  its  dis- 
tinctive feature.  It  had  lost  its  power, 
and  as  a  "  property "  dwindled  to  com- 
parative insignificance.  Mr.  Hook  de- 
rived but  small  income  from  the  editor- 
ship during  the  later  years  of  his  life. 
I  will  believe  that  higher  and  more  hon- 
orable motives  than  those  by  which  he 
had  been  guided  during  the  fierce  and 
turbulent  party-times,  when  the  "John 
Bull "  was  established,  had  led  him  to 
relinquish  scandal,  slander,  and  vitu- 
peration, as  dishonorable  weapons.  I 
know  that  in  my  time  he  did  not  use 
them  ;  his  advice  to  me,  on  more  than 
one  occasion,  while  acting  under  him, 
was  to  remember  that  "  abuse  "  seldom 
effectually  answered  a  purpose,  and  that 
it  was  wiser  as  well  as  safer  to  act  on 
the  principle  that  "praise  undeserved 
is  satire  in  disguise."  All  that  was  evil 
in  the  "John  Bull"  had  been  absorbed 
by  two  infamous  weekly  newspapers, 
"  The  Age  "  and  "  The  Satirist."  They 
were  prosperous  and  profitable.  Hap- 
pily, no  such  newspapers  now  exist ;  the 
public  not  only  would  not  buy,  they 
would  not  tolerate,  the  personalities,  the 
indecencies,  the  gross  outrages  on  pub- 
lic men,  the  scandalous  assaults  on  pri- 
vate character,  that  made  these  publi- 
cations "good  speculations"  at  the  pe- 
riod of  which  I  write,  and  undoubtedly 
disgraced  the  "John  Bull  "during  the 
early  part  of  its  career. 

No  wonder,  therefore,  that  no  such 
person  as  Mr.  Theodore  Hook  was  con- 
nected with  the  "John  Bull"  He  in- 
variably denied  all  such  connection, 
and  perse veringly  protested  against  the 
charge  that  he  had  ever  written  a  line 
in  it  I  have  heard  it  said,  that,  during 
the  troublous  period  of  the  Queen's 
trial,  Sir  Robert  Wilson  met  Hook  in 
the  street,  and  said,  in  a  sort  of  confi- 
dential whisper,  —  "  Hook,  I  am  to  be 
traduced  and  slandered  in  the  'John 
Bull  *  next  Sunday."  Hook,  of  course, 
expressed  astonishment  and  abhorrence. 
"  Yes,"  continued  Wilson,  "and  if  I  am, 
I  mean  to  horsewhip  you  the  first  time 


482 


Memories  of  Aui/wrs, 


[April, 


you  come  in  my  way.  Now  stop;  I 
know  you  have  nothing  to  do  with  that 
newspaper, — you  have  told  me  so  a 
score  of  times ;  nevertheless,  if  the  ar- 
ticle, which  is  purely  of  a  private  na- 
ture, appears,  let  the  consequences  be 
what  they  may,  I  will  horsewhip^^w/" 
The  article  never  did  appear.  I  can 
give  no  authority  for  this  anecdote,  but 
I  do  not  doubt  its  truth. 

I  knew  Sir  Robert  Wilson  in  1823, 
and  was  employed  by  him  to  copy  and 
arrange  a  series  of  confidential  docu- 
ments, relative  to  the  Spanish  war  of 
independence,  between  the  Cortes  and 
the  Government,  the  result  of  which 
was  an  engagement  to  act  as  his  private 
secretary,  and  to  receive  a  commission 
in  the  Spanish  service,  in  the  event  of 
Sir  Robert's  taking  a  command  in  Spain. 
He  went  to  Spain,  leaving  me  as  secre- 
tary to  the  fund  raised  in  that  year  in 
England  to  assist  the  cause.  Fortu- 
nately for  me,  British  aid  began  and 
ended  with  these  subscriptions ;  no 
force  was  raised.  Sir  Robert  returned 
without  taking  service  in  Spain,  and  I 
was  saved  from  the  peril  of  becoming  a 
soldier.  Sir  Robert  was  a  tall,  slight 
man^  of  wiry  form  and  strong  consti- 
tution, handsome  both  in  person  and 
features,  with  the  singularly  soldier-like 
air  that  we  read  so  much  of  in  books. 
In  those  days  of  fervid  and  hopeful 
youth,  the  story  of  Sir  Robert's  chival- 
ric  and  successful  efforts  to  save  the  life 
of  Lavalette  naturally  touched  my  heart, 
and  if  I  had  remained  in  his  service,  he 
would  have  had  no  more  devoted  fol- 
lower. During  my  engagement  as  Sec- 
retary to  the  Spanish  Committee,  (lead- 
ing members  of  which  were  John  Cam 
Hobhouse,  Joseph  Hume,  and  John 
Bowring,)  I  contributed  articles  to  the 
"British  Press,/'  —  a  daily  newspaper, 
long  since  deceased,  —  and  this  led  to 
my  becoming  a  Parliamentary  report- 
er. 

I  apologize  for  so  much  concerning 
myself,  —  a  subject  on  which  I  desire 
to  say  as  little  as  possible,  —  but  in  this 
**  Memory  "  it  is  more  a  necessity  to  (fo 
80  than  it  will  be  hereafter. 

I  have  another  story  to  tell  of  these 


editorial  times.  One  day  a  gentleman 
entered  the  **John  Bull"  office,  evi- 
dently in  a  state  of  extreme  exasper- 
ation, armed  wi^  a  stout  cudgel.  His 
application  to  see  the  editor  was  an- 
swered by  a  request  to  walk  up  to  the 
second-floor  front  room.  The  room 
was  empty ;  but  presently  there  entered 
to  him  a  huge,  tall,  broad-shouldered 
fellow,  who,  in  unmitigated  brogue, 
asked,  — 

"  What  do  you  plase  to  want,  Sir  ?  " 
"  Want !  "  said  the  genUeman,  —  "I 
want  the  editor." 
**  I  'm  the  idditur,  Sir,  at  your  sar- 


vice. 


» 


Upon  which  the  gentleman,  seeing 
that  no  good  could  arise  from  an  en- 
counter with  such  an  "editor,"  made  his 
way  down  stairs  and  out  of  the  house 
without  a  word. 

In  1836  Mr.  Hook  succeeded  me  in 
the  editorship  of  the  "  New  Monthly 
Magazine."  The  change  arose  thus. 
When  Mr.  Colbum  and  Mr.  Bcntley 
had  dissolved  partnership,  and  each  had 
his  own  establishment,  much  jealousy, 
approaching  hostility,  existed  between 
them.  Mr.  Bentley  had  announced  a 
comic  miscellany,  —  or  rather,  a  maga- 
zine of  which  humor  was  to  be  the 
leading  feature.  Mr.  Colbum  imme- 
diately conceived  the  idea  of  a  rival 
in  that  line,  and  applied  to  Hook  to 
be  its  editor.  Hook  feadily  complied. 
The  terms  of  four  hundred  pounds  per 
annum  having  been  settled,  as  usual 
he  required  payment  in  advance,  and 
"  then  and  there "  received  bills  for 
his  first  year's  salary.  Not  long  after- 
wards Mr.  Colburn  saw  the  impolicy 
of  his  scheme.  I  had  strongly  reason- 
ed against  it,  —  representing  to  him 
that  the  "  New  Monthly"  would  lose  its 
most  valuable  contributor,  Mr.  Hook, 
and  other  useful  allies  with  him, — that 
the  ruin  of  the  "  New  Monthly  "  must  be 
looked  upon  as  certain,  while  the  suc- 
cess of  his  "  Joker's  Magazine  "  was 
problematical  at  best  Such  arguments 
prevailed ;  and  he  called  upon  Mr. 
Hook  with  a  view  to  relinquish  his  de- 
sign. Mr.  Hook  was  exactly  of  Mr. 
Colburn's  new  opinion.     He  had  re- 


1865.1 


Memories  of  Authors. 


483 


ceived  the  money,  and  was  not  dis- 
posed, even  if  he  had  been  able,  to 
give  it  back,  but  suggested  his  becoming 
editor  of  the  '^  New  Monthly,"  and  in 
that  way  working  it  out  The  project 
met  the  views  of  Mr.  Colburn ;  and  so 
it  was  arranged. 

.  But  when  the  plan  was  communicat- 
ed to  me,  I  declined  to  be  placed  in  the 
position  of  sub-editor.  I  knew,  that, 
however  valuable  Mr.  Hook  might  be 
as  a  large  contributor,  he  was  utterly 
unfitted  to  discharge  editorial  duties, 
and  that,  as  sub-editor,  I  could  have 
no  power  to  do  aught  but  obey  the  or- 
ders of  my  superior,  while,  as  co-editor, 
I  could  both  suggest  and  object,  as  re- 
garded articles  and  contributors.  This 
view  was  the  view  of  Mr.  Colburn,  but 
not  that  of  Mr.  Hook.  The  conse- 
quence was  that  I  retired.  As  to  the 
conduct  of  the  "  New  Monthly ''  in  the 
hands  of  Mr.  Hook,  until  it  came  into 
those  of  Mr.  Hood,  and,  not  long  after- 
wards, was  sold  by  Mr.  Colburn  to  Mr. 
Harrison  Ainsworth,  it  is  not  requisite 
to  speak. 

A  word  here  of  Mr.  Colburn.  I  cher- 
ish the  kindlier  memory  of  that  emi- 
nent bibliopole.  He  has  been  charged 
with  many  mean  acts  as  regards  au- 
thors ;  but  I  know  that  he  was  often 
liberal,  and  always  considerate  towards 
them.  He  could  be  implacable,  but 
also  forgiving;  and  it  was  ever  easy 
to  move  his  heart  by  a  tale  of  sorrow 
or  a  case  of  distress.  For  more  than 
a  quarter  of  a  century  he  led  the  gen- 
eral literature  of  the  kingdom ;  and  I 
bdievehis  sins  of  omission  and  com- 
mission were  very  few.  Such  is  my 
impression,  resulting  from  six  years' 
continual  intercourse  with  him.  He 
was  a  little,  sprightly  man,  of  mild  and 
kindly  countenance,  and  of  much  bod- 
ily activity.  His  peculiarity  was,  that 
he  rarely  or  never  finished  a  sentence, 
appearing  as  if  he  considered  it  hazard- 
ous to  express  fully  what  he  thought 
Consequently  one  could  seldom  under- 
stand what  was  his  real  opinion  upon 
any  subject  he  debated  or  discussed. 
His  debate  was  always  a  ''possibly" 
or  ''perhaps";  his  discussion  invari- 


ably led  to  no  conclusion  for  or  against 
the  matter  in  hand. 

It  was  during  my  editorship  of  the 
"  New  Monthly  "  that  the  best  of  all 
Hook's  works,  "  Gilbert  Gurney,"  was 
published  in  that  magazine.  The  part 
for  the  ensuing  number  was  rarely 
ready  until  the  last  moment,  and  more 
than  once  at  so  late  a  period  of  the 
month,  that,  unless  in  the  printer's 
hands  next  morning,  its  publication 
would  have  been  impossible.  I  have 
driven  to  Fulham  to  £nd  not  a  Jine 
of  the  article  written ;  and  I  have  wait- 
ed, sometimes  nearly  all  night,  until  the 
manuscript  was  produced.  Now  and 
then  he  would  relate  to  me  one  of  the 
raciest  of  the  anecdotes  before  he  pen- 
ned it  down,  —  sometimes  as  the  raw 
statement  of  a  fact  before  it  had  re- 
ceived its  habiliments  of  fiction,  but 
more  often  as  even  a  more  brilliant 
story  than  the  reader  found  it  on  the 
first  of  the  month.* 

Hook  was  in  the  habit  of  sending 
pen-and-ink  sketches  of  himself  in  his 
letters.  I  have  one  of  especial  interest, 
in  which  he  represented  himself  down 
upon  knees,  with  handkerchief  to  eyes. 
The  meaning  was  to  indicate  his  grief 
at  being  late  with  his  promised  article 
for  the  "  New  Monthly,"  and  his  beg- 
ging pardon  thereupon.  He  had  great 
facility  for  taking  off  likenesses,  and  it 
is  said  was  once  suspected  of  being 
the  "  H.  B."  whose  lithographic  draw- 
ings of  eminent  or  remarkable  persons 
startled  society  a  few  years  ago  by  their 
rare  graphic  power  and  their  striking 
resemblance, — barely  bordering  on  car- 
icature. 

Here  is  Hook's  contribution  to  Mrs. 
Hall's  album :  — 

"  Having  been  requested  to  do  that 
which  I  never  did  in  my  life  before,  — 
write  two  charades  upon  two  given  and 
by  no  means  sublime  words,  —  here  are 
they.  It  is  right  to  say  that  they  are  to 
be  taken  with  reference  to  each  other. 

*  Hts  biographer  does  not  seem  aware  that  for 
icversU   mooths  before  be   became   editor   of   the- 
"  New  Monthly  **  he  wrote  the   "  Monthly  Com- 
mentary "  for  that  magaxine,  — a  pleasant,  piquaat, . 
and  sometimes  severe  series  of  comments  00  the. 
leading  topics  or  events  of  the  month. 


484 


Memories  of  Authors. 


[April, 


"  My  lint  is  ia  triumphs  moit  usttaDy  found : 
Old  houses  and  trees  show  my  second ; 
My  whole  is  long,  spiral,  red,  tufted,  and  roundi 
And  with  beef  ia  most  excellent  reckonecL 

"  My  first  for  age  hath  great  repute ; 
My  second  is  a  tailor ; 
My  whole  is  like  the  other  root,  — 
Only  a  Uttle  paler. 

<<  Theodore  E.  Hook. 

"  September  4,  1835. 

"  Do  you  give  them  up  ? 

''Car-rot.    Par-snip:' 

The  reader  will  permit  me  here  to 
introduce  some  memories  of  the  imme- 
diate contemporaries  and  allies  of  Hook, 
whose  names  are,  indeed,  continually 
associated  with  his,  and  ifdio,  on  the 
principle  of  ''birds  of  a  feather,"  may 
be  properly  considered  in  association 
with  this  master-spirit  of  them  all. 

The  Reverend  Mr.  Barham,  whose 
notes  supplied  material  for  the  ''Me- 
moirs of  Hook,"  edited  by  his  son,  and 
whose  "  Ingoldsby  Legends "  are  Ul- 
mous,  was  a  stout,  squat,  and  "  hearty- 
looking  "  parson  of  the  old  school  His 
fiice  was  full  of  humor,  although  when 
quiescent  it  seemed  dull  and  heavy ;  his 
eyes  were  singularly  small  and  inexpres- 
sive, whether  from  their  own  color  or 
the  light  tint  of  the  lashes  I  cannot 
say,  but  they  seemed  to  me  to  be  what 
are  called  white  eyes.  I  do  not  believe 
that  in  society  he  had  much  of  the  spar- 
kle that  characterized  his  friend,  or  that 
might  have  been  expected  in  so  formi- 
dable a  wit  of  the  pen.  Sam  Beazley, 
on  the  contrary,  was  a  light,  airy,  grace- 
ful person,  who  had  much  refinement, 
without  that  peculiar  manner  which  be- 
speaks the  well-bred  gentleman.  He 
was  the  Daly  of  "Gilbert  Gumey," 
whose  epitaph  was  written  by  Hook 
long  before  his  death, — 

"  Here  lies  Sam  Beaseley, 
Who  lived  and  died  easily."  * 

Wben  I  knew  him,  he  was  practising 

*Mr-  Peabe,  the  dramatist,  who  wrote  most  of 
the  **  Mathews  at  Home,**  attributes  this  epiuph 
ta  John  Hardwicke.  Lockhart  gives  it  to  Hook. 
Hook  pictures  Beazley  in  "  Gilbert  Guniey  ": — **  His 
«oaversatia%.was  full  of  droll  conceits,  mixed  with  a 
coosiderable'degree  of  superior  talent,  and  the  stron- 
feat  evtdeafe  of  ggpeial  aoquireaicnts  and  accom- 
pltshmentiif'' 


as  an  architect  in  Soho  Square.  He 
was  one  of  Hook's  early  friends,  but 
I  believe  they  were  not  in  close  inti- 
macy for  many  years  previous  to  the 
death  of  Hook.  It  was  by  Beazley  that 
the  present  Lyceum  Theatre  was  built 

Tom  Hill  was  another  of  Hook's  more 
fiimiliar  associates.  He  is  the  Hull  of 
"  Gilbert  Gumey,"  and  is  said  to  have 
been  the  original  of  Paul  Pry,  (which 
Poole,  however,  strenuously  denied,) — 
a  belief  easily  entertained  by  those  who 
knew  the  man.  A  little,  round  mah  he 
was,  with  straight  and  well -made -up 
figure,  and  rosy  cheeks  that  might  have 
graced  a  milkmaid,  when  his  years  num- 
bered certainly  fourscore.*  But  his 
age  no  one  everjcnew.  The  story  is 
well  known  of  James  Smith  asserting 
that  it  never  could  be  ascertained,  for 
that  the  register  of  his  birth  was  lost  in 
the  fire  of  London,  and  Hook's  com- 
ment,—  "Oh,  he  's  much  older  than 
that :  he  's  one  of  the  little  Hills  that 
skipped  in  the  Bible."  He  was  a  merry 
man,  toujours  gai,  who  seemed  as  if 
neither  trouble  nor  anxiety  had  ever 
crossed  his  threshold  or  broken  the 
sleep  of  a  single  night  of  his  long  life. 
His  peculiar  faculty  was  to  find  out 
what  everybody  did,  from  the  minister 
of  state  to  the  stable-boy;  and  there 
are  tales  enough  told  of  his  chats  with 
child-maids  in  the  Park,  to  ascertain 
the  amounts  of  their  wages,  and  with 
lounging  footmen  in  Grosvenor  Square, 
to  learn  how  many  guests  had  dined  at 
a  house  the  day  previous.  His  curios- 
ity seemed  bent  upon  prying  into  small 
things  ;  for  secrets  that  involved  serious 
matters  he  appeared  to  care  nothing. 
"  Pooh,  pooh.  Sir,  don't  tell  me ;  I  hap- 
pen to  know  1 "  That  phrase  was  con- 
tinually coming  from  his  lips. 

Of  a  far  higher  and  better  order  was 
Hook's  fiiend,  Mr.  Brodrick,  —  so  long 
one  of  the  police  magistrates,  —  a  gen- 
tleman of  large  acquirements  and  ster- 
ling rectitude.  Nearly  as  much  may  be 
said  of  Dubois,  more  than  half  a  century 

*  '*  He  was  plump,  short,  with  an  intelligent  coun* 
tenancc,  and  n«ar>sigbted,  with  a  cooatitutioa  aad 
complexion  fresh  enough  to  look  forty,  when  /  be- 
lieved htm  to  be  at  least  four  times  that  age."^ 


V 


i86s.] 


Memories  of  AutJiors. 


485 


ago  the  editor  of  a  then  popular  maga- 
zine, "  The  Monthly  Mirror."  Dubois, 
in  his  latter  days,  enjoyed  a  snug  sine- 
cure, and*  lived  in  Sloane  Street  He 
was  a  pleasant  man  in  face  and  in  man- 
ners, and  retained  to  the  last  much  of 
the  humor  that  characterized  the  pro- 
ductions of  his  earlier  years.  To  the 
admirable  actor  and  estimable  gende- 
man,  Charles  Mathews,  I  can  merely 
allude.  His  memory  has  received  full 
honor  and  homage  from  his  wife ;  but 
there  are  few  who  knew  him  who  will 
hesitate  to  indorse  her  testimony  to  his 
many  excellences  of  head  and  heart 

Among  leading  contributors  to  the 
"  New  Monthly,"  both  before  and  af- 
ter the  advent  of  Mr.  Hook,  was  John 
Poole,  the  author  of  "  Little  Pedling- 
ton,"  "  Paul  Pry,"  and  many  other  pleas- 
ant works,  not  witty,  but  full  of  true 
humor.  He  was,  when  in  his  prime,  a 
pleasant  companion,  though  nervously 
sensitive,  and,  like  most  profession^ 
jokers,  exceedingly  irritable  whenever 
a  joke  was  made  to  teU  against  him- 
self. It  is  among  my  njpmories,  that, 
during  the  first  month  of  my  editorship 
of  the  *'  New  Monthly,"  I  took  from  a 
mass  of  submitted  manuscripts  one  writ- 
ten in  a  small,  neat  hand,  entitled  ^  A 
New  Guide- Book."  I  had  read  it  near- 
ly half  through,  and  was  about  to  fling 
it  with  contempt  among  "  the  rejected  " 
before  J  discovered  its  point  I  had 
perused  it  so  far  as  an  attempt  to  de- 
scribe an  actual  watering-place,  and  to 
bring  it  into  notoriety.  When,  how- 
ever, I  did  discover  the  real  purpose 
of  the  writer,  my  delight  was  large  in 
proportion.  The  manuscript  was  the 
first  part  of  ''  Little  Pedlington,"  which 
subsequently  grew  into  a  booL 

It  is,  and  was  at  the  time,  general- 
ly believed  that  Tom  Hill  suggested 
the  character  of  Paul  Pry.  Poole  nev- 
er would  admit  this.  In  a  sort  of  ram- 
bling autobiography  which  he  wrote  to 
accompany  his  portrait  in  the  '*  New 
Monthly,^  he  thus  gives  the  origin  of 
the  play. 

"  The  idea  of  the  character  of  Paul 
Pry  was  suggested  to  me  by  the  follow- 
ing anecdote,  related  to  me  several  years 


ago  by  a  beloved  friend.  An  idle  old 
lady,  living  in  a  narrow  street,  had  pass- 
ed so  much  of  her  time  in  watching  the 
affairs  of  her  neighbors,  that  she  at 
length  acquired  the  power  of  distin- 
guishing the  sound  of  every  knocker 
within  hearing.  It  happened  that  she 
fell  iU  and  was  for  several  days  confined 
to  her  bed.  Unable  to  observe  in  per- 
son what  was  going  on  without,  she 
stationed  her  maid  at  the  window,  as  a 
substitute,  for  the  performance  of  that 
duty.  But  Betty  soon  grew  weary  of 
that  occupation ;  she  became  careless 
in  her  reports,  impatient  and  tetchy 
when  reprimanded  for  her  negligence. 

"  *  Betty,  what  are  you  thinking  about  ? 
Don't  you  hear  a  double  knock  at  No. 
9?    Who  is  it?' 

"  *  The  first-floor  lodger.  Ma'am.' 

''  *  Betty,  Betty,  I  declare  I  must  give 
you  warning.  Why  don't  you  tell  me 
what  that  knock  is  at  No.  54?' 

"  *  Why,  lor,  it 's  only  the  baker  with 
pies.' 

"  *  Pies,  Betty  ?  What  can  they  want 
with  pies  at  54?  They  had  pies  yes- 
terday ! ' " 

Poole  had  the  happy  knack  of  turn- 
ing every  trifling  incident  to  valuable 
account  I  remember  his  telling  me 
an  anecdote  in  illustration  of  this  fac- 
ulty.  I  believe  he  never  printed  it  Be- 
ing at  Brighton  one  day,  he  strolled  in- 
to an  hotel  to  get  an  early  dinner,  took 
his  seat  at  a  table,  and  was  discussing 
his  chop  and  ale,  when  another  guest  en- 
tered, took  his  stand  by  the  fire,  and  be- 
gan whistling.    After  a  minute  or  two, — 

"  Fine  day,  Sir,"  said  he. 

"  Very  fine,"  answered  Poole. 

"  Business  pretty  brisk  ? " 

"  I  believe  so." 

'^  Do  anything  with  Jones  on  the  Pa- 
rade ?  " 

**  Now,"  said  Poole,  "  it  so  happened 
that  Jones  was  the  grocer  from  whom 
I  occasionally  bought  a  quarter  of  a 
pound  of  tea ;  so  I  answered,  — 

" '  A  little.' 

« <  Good  man,  Sir,'  quoth  the  stranger. 

"  *  Glad  to  hear  it  Sir.' 

**'Do  anything  with  Thomson  in 
King  Street?' 


486 


Memories  of  Authors, 


[April, 


**  *  No,  Sir.* 

"  *  Shaky,  Sir.* 

"  *  Sorry  to  hear  it,  Sir ;  recommend 
Mahomet's  baths  ! ' 

*'*  Anything  with  Smith  in  James 
Street  ? ' 

**  *  Nothing,  —  I  have  heard  the  name 
of  Smith  before,  certainly ;  but  of  this 
particular  Smith  I  know  nothing.' " 

The  stranger  looked  at  Poole  ear- 
nestly, advanced  to  the  table,  and  with 
his  arms  a-kimbo  said,  — 

"  By  Jove,  Sir,  I  begin  to  think  you 
are  a  gentleman  !  " 

"  I  hope  so.  Sir,"  answered  Poole ; 
"  and  I  hope  you  are  the  same ! " 

"  Nothing  of  the  kind,*"  said  the  stran- 
ger ;  *'  and  if  you  are  a  gentleman,  what 
business  have  you  here  ?  " 

Upon  which,  he  rang  the  bell,  and,  as 
the  waiter  entered,  indignantly  exclaim- 
ed,— 

"That  's  a  gentleman,  —  turn  him 
out !  ** 

Poole  had  unluckily  entered  and  tak- 
en his  seat  in  the  commercial  room  of 
the  hotel ! 

All  who  knew  Poole  know  that  he 
was  ever  full  of  himself,  —  believing 
his  renown  to  be  the  common  talk  of 
the  world.  A  whimsical  illustration  of 
this  weakness  was  lately  told  me  by  a 
mutual  friend.  When  at  Paris  recent- 
ly, he  chanced  to  say  to  Poole,  **0f 
course  you  are  full  of  all  the  theatres.** 
— "  No,  Sir,  I  am  not,**  he  answered,  sol- 
emnly and  indignantly.  "  Will  you  be- 
lieve this?  I  went  to  the  Op^ra  Co- 
mique,  told  the  Director  I  wished  a 
free  admission ;  he  asked  me  who  I 
was ;  I  said,  '  John  Poole.*  Sir,  I  ask 
you,  will  you  believe  thisf  He  said, 
he  did  tCt  know  me/^^ 

The  Queen  gave  him  a  nomination 
to  the  Charter- House,  where  his  age 
might  have  been  passed  in  ease,  re- 
spectability, comfort,  and  competence ; 
but  it  was  impossible  for  one  so  rest- 
less to  bear  the  wholesome  and  neces- 
sary restraint  of  that  institution.  He 
came  to  me  one  day,  boiling  over  with 
indignation,  having  resolved  to  quit  its 
quiet  cloisters,  his  principal  ground  for 
complaint  being  that  he  must  dine  at 


two  o'clock  and  be  within  walls  by  ten. 
He  resigned  the  appointment,  but  sub- 
sequently obtained  one  of  the  Crown 
pensions,  took  up  his  final  abode  in 
Paris,  where,  during  the  last  ten  years 
of  his  life,  he  lived,  if  that  can  be 
called  "life**  which  consisted  of  one 
scarcely  ever  interrupted  course  of  self- 
sacrifice  to  eau'de-vie.  His  mind  was 
of  late  entirely  gone.  I  met  him  in 
1 86 1,  in  the  Rue  St  Honor^,  and  he 
*  did  not  recognize  me,  a  circumstance  I 
could  scarcely  regret. 

I  am  not  aware  of  any  details  con- 
cerning his  death.  When  I  last  in- 
quired concerning  him,  all  I  could  learn 
was  that  he  had  gone  to  live  at  Bou- 
logne,—  that  two  quarters  had  passed 
without  any  application  from  him  for 
hi^  pension,  —  and  that  therefore,  of 
course,  he  was  dead.  His  death,  how- 
ever, was  a  loss  to  none,  and  1  believe 
not  a  grief  to  any. 

He  was  a  tall,  handsome  man,  by  no 
means  "jolly,**  like  some  of  his  contem- 
porary wits,  —  rather,  I  should  say,  in- 
clined to  be  t^iturn  ;  and  I  do  not  think 
his  habits  of  drinking  were  excited  by 
the  stimulants  of  society.*  Little,  I  be- 
lieve, is  known  of  his  life,  even  to  the 
actors  and  playwrights,  with  whom  he 
chiefly  associated,  from  the  time  when 
his  burlesque  of  "  Hamlet  Travestie  ** 
(printed  in  i8io)  commenced  his  career 
of  celebrity,  if  not  of  fame,  to  his  death, 
(in  the  year  1862, 1  believe,)  being  then 
probably  about  seventy  years  old. 

I  knew  Dr.  Maginn  when  he  was  a 
schoolmaster  in  Cork.  He  had  even 
then  established  a  high  reputation  for 
scholastic  knowledge,  and  attained  some 
eminence  as  a  wit ;  and  about  the  year 
1820  astounded  "  the  beautiful  city  **  by 
poetical  contributions  to  "  Blackwood's 
Magazine,**  in  which  certain. of  its  lit- 
erary citizens  were  somewhat  scurri- 
lously  assailed  I  was  one  of  them. 
There  were  two  parties,  who  had  each 
their  "society.**  Maginn -and  a  sur- 
geon named  GosneU  were  tite  leaders 

•  He  played  a  fwacttcal  jolce  upon  the  acton  of 
the  Brighton  Theatre,  who  were  dcrective  of  a  letter 
in  their  dialogue,  by  sending  to  them  a  packet,  con- 
cainiog,  oo  cards  of  various  aiies,  the  letter  H. 


r86s.] 


Memories  of  Authors. 


487 


of  one :  they  were,  for  the  most  part, 
wild  and  reckless  men  of  talent  The 
other  society  was  conducted  by  the 
more  sedate  and  studious.  Gosnell 
wrote  the  ottava  rtma  entitled  "Dan- 
iel O'Kourke,"  which  passed  through 
three  or  four  numbers  of**  Blackwood  "  : 
he  died  not  long  aflerwards  in  London, 
one  of  the  many  unhappy  victims  of 
misgoverned  passions. 

Maginn  was  also  one  of  the  earlier 
contributors  to  the  **  Literary  Gazette," 
and  Jerdan  has  recorded  with  what  de- 
light he  used  to  open  a  packet  directed 
in  the  well-known  hand,  with  the  .post- 
mark Cork.  The  Doctor,  it  is  said,  was 
invited  to  London  in  order  to  share  witli 
Hook  the  labors  of  the  "John  Bull." 
I  believe,  however,  he  was  but  a  very 
limited  help.  Perlnaps  the  old  adage, 
**  Two  of  a  trade,"  applied  in  this  case ; 
certain  it  is  that  he  subsequently  found 
a  more  appreciative  paymaster  in  West- 
macott,  who  conducted  **  The  Age,"  a 
newspaper  then  greatly  patronized,  but, 
as  I  have  said,  one  that  now  would  be 
universally  branded  with  the  term  "  in- 
famous." • 

It  is  known  also  that  be  became  a 
leading  contributor  to  **  Eraser's  Maga- 
zine,'' —  a  magazine  that  took  its  name 
less  from  its  publisher,  Fraser,  than 
from  its  first  editor,  Fraser,  a  barrister, 
whose  fate,  I  have  understood,  was  as 
mournful  as  his  career  had  been  dis- 
creditable. The  particulars  of  Maginn's 
duel  with  Grantley  Berkeley  are  well 
knoVn.  It  arose  out  of  an  article  in 
"Fraser,"  reviewing  Berkeley's  novel, 
in  the  course  of  which  he  spoke  in  utter- 
ly unjustifiable  terms  of  Berkeley's  moth- 
er. Mr.  Berkeley  was  not  satisfied  with 
inflicting  on  the  publisher  so  severe  a 
beating  that  it  was  the  proximate  cause 
of  his  death,  but  called  out  the  Doctor, 
who  manfully  avowed  the  authorship. 
Each,  it  is  understood,  fired  ^v^  shots, 
without  further  effect  than  that  one  ball 
struck  the  whisker  of  Mr.  Berkeley  and 
another  the  boot  of  Maginn,  and  when 
Fraser,  who  was  Maginn's  second,  asked 
if  there  should  be  another  shot,  Maginn 
is  reported  to  have  said,  "  Blaze  away, 
by !  a  barrel  of  powder !  " 


The  career  01  Maginn  in  London  waLs^ 
to  say  the  least,  mournful.  Few  men 
ever  started  with  better  prospects ;  there 
was  hardly  any  position  in  the  state  to 
which  he  might  not  have  aspired.  His 
learning  was  profound ;  his  wit  of  the 
tongue  and  of  the  pen  ready,  pointed, 
caustic,  and  brilliant ;  his  writings,  es- 
says, tales,  poems,  scholastic  disquisi- 
tions, in  short,  his  writings  upon  all 
conceivable  topics,  were  of  the  very 
highest  order ;  "  O'Doherty  "  is  one  of 
the  names  that  made  "  Blackwood  "  fa- 
mous. His  acquaintances,  who  would 
willingly  have  been  his  friends,  were 
not  only  the  men  bf  genius  of  his  time, 
but  among  them  were  several  noblemen 
and  statesmen  of  power  as  well  as  rank. 
In  a  word,  he  might  have  climbed  to 
the  highest  round  of  the  ladder,  with 
helping  hands  all  the  way  up  :  he  stum- 
bled at  its  base. 

Maginn's  reckless  habits  soon  told 
upon  his  character,  and  almost  as  soon 
on  his  constitution.  They  may  be  il- 
lustrated by  an  anecdote  related  of  him 
in  Barham's  Life  of  Hook.  A  friend, 
when  dining  with  him,  and  praising  his 
wine,  asked  where  he  got  it  **  At  the 
tavern,  close  by,"  said  the  Doctor. 
"  A  very  good  cellar,"  said  the  guest ; 
"  but  do  you  not  pay  rather  an  extrava- 
gant price  for  it  ?  "  **  I  don't  know,  I 
don't  know,"  returned  the  Doctor ;  "  I 
believe  they  do  put  down  something  in 
a  book."  And  I  have  heard  of  Ma- 
ginn a  story  similar  to  that  told  of 
Sheridan,  that,  once  when  he  accepted 
a  bill,  he  exclaimed  to  the  astonished 
creditor,  "Well,  thank  Heaven,  that 
debt  is  off  ray  mind  !  " 

It  is  notorious  that  Maginn  wrote  at 
the  same  time  for  the  "Age,"  outra- 
geously Tory,  and  for  the  "  True  Sun," 
a  violently  Radical  paper.  For  many 
years  he  was  editor  of  the  "  Standard." 
It  was,  however,  less  owing  to  his  thor- 
ough want  of  principle  than  to  his  habits 
of  intoxication  that  his  position  was  low, 
when  it  ought  to  have  been  high,  —  that 
he  was  indigent,  when  he  might  have 
been  rich, —  that  he  lost  self-respect,  and 
the  respect  of  all  with  whom  he  came 
in  contact,   except  the  few  "kindred 


488 


Memories  of  Authors. 


[April, 


spirits  "  who  relished  the  flow  of  wit, 
and  little  regarded  tlie  impure  source 
whence  it  issued.  The  evil  seemed  in- 
curable ;  it  was  indulged  not  only  at 
noon  and  night,  but  in  the  morning. 
He  was  one  of  the  eight  editors  engag- 
ed by  Mr.  Murray  to  edit  the  "  Repre- 
sentative "  during  the  eight  months  of 
its  existence.  I  was  a  reporter  on  that 
paper  of  great  promise  and  large  hopes. 
One  evening  Maginn  himself  under- 
took to  write  a  notice  of  a  £incy-ball 
at  the  Opera-House  in  aid  of  the  dis- 
tressed weavers  of  Spitalfields.  It  was 
a  grand  affair,  patronized  by  the  royal 
family  and  a  vast  proportion  of  the 
aristocracy  of  Englajxd.  Maginn  went, 
of  course  inebriated,  and  returned  worse. 
He  contemplated  the  af&ir  as  if  it  had 
taken  place  among.the  thieves  and  demi- 
reps of  Whitechapel,  and  so  described 
it  in  the  paper  of  the  next  morning. 
Well  I  remember  the  wrath  and  indig- 
nation of  John  Murray,  and  the  univer- 
sal  disgust  the  article  excited. 

I  may  relate  another  anecdote  to  il- 
lustrate this  sad  characteristic.  It  was 
told  to  me  by  one  of  the  Doctor's  old 
pupils  and  most  intimate  and  steady 
friends,  Mr.  Quinten  Kennedy  of  Cork. 
A  gentleman  was  anxious  to  secure  Ma- 
ginn's  services  for  a  contemplated  h't- 
erazy  undertaking  of  magnitude,  and  the 
Doctor  was  to  dine  with  him  to  arrange 
the  aflair.  Kennedy  was  resolved,  that, 
a(  all  events,  he  should  go  to  the  dinner 
sober,  and  so  called  upon  him  before 
he  was  up,  never  leaving  him  for  a  mo- 
ment all  day,  and  resolutely  resisting 
every  imploring  appeal  for  a  dram.  The 
hour  of  six  drew  near,  and  they  ^allied 
out  On  the  way,  Kennedy  found  it  al- 
most impossible,  even  by  main  force, 
to  prevent  the  Doctor  entering  a  public- 
house.  Passing  an  undertaker's  shop, 
the  Doctor  suddenly  stopped,  recollect- 
ed he  had  a  message  there,  and  begged 
Kennedy  to  wait  for  a  moment  outside, 
—  a  request  which  was  readily  com- 
plied with,  as  it  was  thought  there  could 
be  no  possible  danger  in  such  a  place. 
Maginn  entered,  with  his  handkerchief 
to  his  eyes,  sobbing  bitterly.  The  un- 
dertaker, recognizing  a  prospective  cus- 


tomer, sought  to  subdue  his  grief  with 
the  usual  words  of  consolation,  —  Ma- 
ginn blubbering  out,  "  Everything  must 
be  done  in  the  best  style,  no  expense 
must  be  spared,  —  she  was  worthy,  and 
I  can  afford  it."  The  undertaker,  see- 
ing such  intense  grie(  presented  a  seat, 
and  prescribed  a  little  brandy.  After 
•  proper  resistance,  both  w^ere  accepted ; 
a  botde  was  produced  and  emptied,  glass 
after  glass,  with  suggested  'Mnstruc- 
tions  "  between  whiles.  At  length  the 
Doctor  rose  to  join  his  wondering  and 
impatient  friend,  who  soon  saw  what 
had  happened.  He  was,  even  before 
dinner,  in  such  a  state  as  to  preclude 
all  business-talk ;  and  it  is  needless  to 
add  that  the  contemplated  arrangement 
was  never  entered  into. 

He  lived  in  wretchedness,  and  died  in 
misery  in  1842.  His  death  took  place  at 
Walton-on-Thames,  and  in  the  church- 
yard of  that  village  he  is  buried.  Not 
long  ago  I  visited  the  place,  but  no  one 
could  point  out  to  me  the  precise  spot 
of  his  interment  It  is  without  a  stone, 
without  a  mark,  lost  among  the  clay  sep- 
ulchres of  the  throng  who  had  no  firiend^ 
to  inscribe  a  name  or  ask  a  memory.* 

Maginn  was  rather  under  than  above 
the  middle  size ;  his  countenance  was 
swarthy,  and  by  no  means  genial  in 
expression.  He  had  a  peculiar  thick- 
ness of  speech,  not  quite  a  stutter.  Lat- 
terly, excesses  told  upon  him,  producing 
their  usual  effects :   the  quick  intelli- 

*  While  on  hU  death-bed.  Sir  Robert  Peel  wnt 
him  a  sum  of  money,  probably  not  the  first  ilt  ar- 
rived in  time  to  pay  his  funeral  expenses.  In  Sep- 
tember, 1843,  a  sut»cription  was  made  for  the  widow 
and  children  of  Dr.  Maginn,  —  Dr.  Gtffard  (then  ed* 
itor  of  the  **  Standard  **}  and  Lrockhart  being  trustees 
in  England,  the  Bishop  of  Cork  and  the  Provost  of 
Trinity  College,  Dublin,  in  Ireland,  and  Professor 
Wilson  in  Scotland.  The  card  that  was  issued  said 
truly,  — "No  one  ever  listened  to  Mi^gtnn's  coo- 
versation,  or  perused  even  the  hastiest  of  his  minor 
writings,  without  feeling  the  interest.of  very  extraor- 
dinary talent ;  his  classical  learning  was  profound  and 
accurate ;  his  mastery  of  modem  languages  almost 
unrivalled ;  his  knowledge  of  mankind  and  their  af- 
fairs great  and  multifarious**:  but  it  did  not  state 
tnily,  that.  '*in  all  his  essays,  vene  or  prose,  serious 
or  comic,  he  never  tnespassed  against  deconun  or 
sound  morals,"  or  that  "  the  keenness  of  his  wit  was 
combined  with  such  playfulness  of  fancy,  good-hu- 
mor, and  kindness  of  naturtl  sentiment,  that  hb  mer- 
its were  ungrudgingly  acknowledged  even  by  those 
of  politics  most  different  from  his  own.** 


1 86s.] 


Memories  of  Authors. 


489 


gence  of  his  &ce  was  lost ;  his  features 
were  sullied  by  unmistakable  signs  of 
an  ever-degrading  habit ;  he  was  old  be- 
fore his  time. 

He  is  another  sad  example  to  "warn 
and  scare  '* ;  a  life  that  might  have  pro- 
duced so  much  yielded  comparatively 
nothing ;  and  although  there  have  been 
several  suggestions,  from  Lockhart  and 
others,  to  collect  his  writings,  they  have 
never  been  gathered  together  from  the 
periodical  tombs  in  which  they  lie  bur- 
ied, and  now,  probably,  they  cannot  be 
all  recognized. 

From  what  I  have  written,  the  reader 
will  gather  that  I  knew  Hook  only  in 
his  decline,  the  relic  of  a  manly  form, 
the  decadence  of  a  strong  mind,  and  the 
comparative  exhaustion  of  a  brilliant  wit 
Leigh  Hunt,  speaking  of  him  at  a  much 
earlier  period,  thus  writes :  —  **  He  was 
tall,  dark,  and  of  a  good  person,  with 
small  eyes,  and  features  more  round 
than  weak :  a  face  that  had  character 
and  humor,  but  no  refinement''  And 
Mrs.  Mathews  describes  him  as  with 
sparkling  eyes  and  expressive  features, 
of  manly  form,  and  somewhat  of  a  dandy 
in  dress.  When  in  the  prime  of  man- 
hood and  the  zenith  of  fame,  Mr.  Bar- 
ham  says,  "  He  was  not  the  tuft-hunter, 
but  the  tuft-hunted  " ;  and  it  is  easy  to 
believe  that  one  so  full  of  wit,  so  redo- 
lent of  fun,  so  rich  in  animal  spirits, 
must  have  been  a  marvellously  coveted 
acquaintance  in  the  society  where  he 
was  CO  eminently  qualified  to  shine : 
from  that  of  royalty  to  the  major  and 
minor  clubs,  —  from  "  The  Eccentrics  " 
to  '*  The  Garrick,"  of  which  he  was  all 
his  life  long  a  cherished  member. 

In  1825,  when  I  first  saw  him,  he  was 
above  the  middle  height,  robust  of  frame, 
and  broad  of  chest,  well-proportioned, 
with  evidence  of  great  physical  capacity. 
His  complexion  was  dark,  as  were  his 
eyes ;  tliere  was  nothing  fine  or  elevated 
in  his  expression ;  indeed,  his  features, 
when  in  repose,  were  heavy ;  it  was  oth- 
erwise when  animated ;  yet  his  man- 
ners were  those  of  a  gentleman,  less  per- 
haps from  inherent  faculty  than  from  the 
polish  which  refined  society  ever  gives. 


^e  is  described  as  a  man  of  "  iron 
energies,"  and  certainly  must  have  had 
an  iron  constitution ;  for  his  was  a  life 
of  perpetual  stimulants,  intellectual  as 
well  as  physical 

When  I  saw  him  last,  —  it  was  not  long 
before  his  death, — he  was  aged,  more  by 
care  than  time ;  his  face  bore  evidence 
of  what  is  falsely  termed  "  a  gay  life  " ; 
his  voice  had  lost  its  roundness  and 
force,  his  form  its  buoyancy,  his  intel- 
lect its  strength,  — 

"Alas  I  how  chaoged  from  him, 
That  life  of  pleasure,  and  that  soul  of  whim  I " 

Yet  his  wit  was  ready  still;  he  con- 
tinued to  sparkle  humor  even  when 
exhausted  nature  failed ;  and  his  last 
words  are  said  to  have  been  a  brilliant 
jest 

At  length  the  iron  frame  wore  down. 
He  was  haunted  by  pecuniary  difficul- 
ties, yet  compelled  to  daily  work,  not 
only  for  himself^  but  for  a  family  of 
children  by  a  person  to  whom  he  was 
not  married  He  then  lived  almost  en- 
tirely on  brandy,  and  became  incapable 
of  digesting  animal  food. 

Well  may  his  fiiend  Lockhart  say, 
''He  came  forth,  at  best,  from  a  long 
day  of  labor  at  his  writing-desk,  after 
his  faculties  had  been  at  the  stretch,  — 
feeling,  passion,  thought,  fancy,  excita- 
ble nerves,  suicidal  brain,  all  worked, 
perhaps  well-nigh  exhausted." 

And  thus,  "at  best,"  while  "seated 
among  the  revellers  of  a  princely  ss^ 
loon,"  sometimes  losing  at  cards  among 
his  great  "friends"  more  money  than 
he  could  earn  in  a  month,  his  thoughts 
were  laboring  to  devise  some  mode  of 
postponing  a  debt  only  from  one  week 
to  another.  Well  might  he  have  com- 
pared, as  he  did,  his  position  to  that  of 
an  alderman  who  was  required  to  relish 
his  turtle-soup  while  forced  to  eat  it  sit- 
ting on  a  tight  rope  1 

The  last  time  he  went  out  to  dinnei* 
was  with  Colonel  Shadwell  Clarke,  at 
Brompton  Grove.  While  in  the  draw- 
ing-room he  suddenly  turned  to  the 
mirror  and  said,  "  Ay !  I  see  I  look  as 
I  am,  —  done  up  in  purse,  in  mind,  and 
in  body,  too,  at  last !  " 

He  died  on  the  24th  of  August,  1841. 


490 


The  Chimney-Comer, 


[April, 


Yes,  when  I  knew  most  of  him,-  he 
was  approaching  the  close,  not  of  a 
long,  but  of  a  ""  fast "  liie ;  he  had  ill 
used  Time,  and  Time  was  not  in  his 
debt !  He  was  tall  and  stout,  yet  not 
healthfully  stout ;  with  a  round  face 
which  told  too  much  of  jovial  nights 
and  wasted  days,  —  of  toil  when  the 
head  aches  and  the  hand  shakes, — of 
the  absence  of  self-respect,  —  of  morn- 
ings of  ignoble  rest  to  gather  strength 
for  evenings  of  useless  energy,  —  of,  in 
short,  a  mind  and  constitution  vigorous 
and  powerful :  both  had  been  sadly  and 
grievously  misapplied  and  misused. 

No  writer  concerning  Hook  can  claim 
for  him  an  atom  of  respect  His  history 
is  but  a  record  of  written  or  spoken  or 
practical  jokes  that  made  no  one  wiser 
or  better ;  his  career  "  points  a  moral " 
indeed,  but  it  is  by  showing  the  wisdom 
of  virtue.  In  the  end,  his  friends,  so 
called,  were  ashamed  openly  to  give 
him  help,  —  and  although  bailiffs  did 
not,  as  in  the  case  of  Sheridan, 

"Seize  his  last  blanket," 

his  death-bed  was  haunted  by  appre- 
hensions of  arrest ;  and  it  was  a  re- 
lief, rather  than  a  loss  to  society,  when 
a  few  comparatively  humble  mourners 
laid  him  in  a  corner  of  Fulham  church- 
yard. 


Alas  !  let  not  those  who  read  the  rec- 
ords of  many  distinguished,  nay,  many 
illustrious  lives,  imagine,  that,  because 
men  of  genius  have  too  often  cherished 
the  perilous  habit  of  seeking  consolation 
or  inspiration  from  what  it  is  a  libel  on 
Nature  to  call  **  tlie  social  glass,"  it  is 
therefore  reasonable  or  excusable,  or 
can  ever  be  innocuous.  Talfourd  may 
gloss  it  over  in  Lamb,  as  ^verting  a  vis- 
ion -terrible ;  Beattie  may  deplore  it  in 
Campbell,  as  having  become  a  dismal 
necessity ;  the  biographer  of  Hook  may 
lightly  look  upon  the  curse  as  the  spring- 
head of  his  perpetual  wit  I  will  not 
continue  the  list, — it  is  frightfully  long. 
Hook  is  but  one  of  many  men  of  rare 
intellect,  large  mental  powers,  with  fac- 
ulties designed  and  calculated  to  benefit 
mankind,  who  have  sacrificed  charac- 
ter, life,  I  had  almost  said  soul,  to 
habits  which  are  wrongly  and  wickedly 
called  pleasures, — the  pleasures  of  the 
table.  Many,  indeed,  are  they  who  have 
thus  made  for  themselves  miserable  des- 
tinies, useless  or  pernicious  lives,  and 
unhonored  or  dishonorable  graves.  I 
will  add  the  warning  of  Wordsworth, 
when  addressing  the  sons  of  Burns :  — 

"  But  ne*er  to  a  seductive  lay 
Let  faith  be  given, 
Nor  deem  the  light  that  leads  astny 
is  light  from  heaven.*' 


THE    CHIMNEY-CORNER. 


IV. 


LITTLE    FOXES.  —  PART   III. 


BEING  the  true  copy  of  a  paper 
read  in  my  library  to  my  wife  and 


Jennie. 


REPRESSION. 


I  AM  going  now  to  write  on  another 
cause  of  family  unhappiness,  more  sub- 
tile than  either  of  those  before  enumer- 
ated. 


In  the  General  Confession  of  the 
Church,  we  poor  mortals  all  unite  in 
saying  two  things :  "  We  have  left 
undone  those  things  which  we  ought 
to  have  done,  and  we  have  done  those 
things  which  we  ought  not  to  have 
done."  These  two  heads  exhaust  the 
subject  of  human  frailty. 

It  is  the  things  left  undone  which  we 
ought  to  have  done,  the  things  left  un- 


1865.] 


The  Chimney-Comer. 


491 


said  which  we  ought  to  have  said,  that 
constitute  the  subject  I  am  now  to  treat 
of. 

- 1  remember  my  school-day  specula- 
tions over  an  old  "  Chemistry  "  I  used 
to  study  as  a  text-book,  which  inform- 
ed me  that  a  substance  called  Caloric 
exists  in  all  bodies.  In  some  it  ex- 
ists in  a  latent  state  :  it  is  there,  but  it 
affects  neither  the  senses  nor  the  ther- 
mometer. Certain  causes  develop  it, 
when  it  raises  the  mercury  and  warms 
the  hands.  I  remember  the  awe  and 
wonder  with  which,  even  then,  I  reflected 
on  the  vast  amount  of  blind,  deaf,  and 
dumb  comforts  which  Nature  had  thus 
stowed  away.  How  mysterious  it  seem- 
ed to  me  that  poor  families  every  win- 
ter should  be  shivering,  freezing,  and 
catching  cold,  when  Nature  had  all  this 
latent  caloric  locked  up  in  her  store- 
closet,  -^  when  it  was  all  around  them, 
in  everything  they  touched  and  han- 
dled! 

In  the  spiritual  world  there  is  an  ex- 
act analogy  to  this.  There  is  a  great 
life-giving,  warming  power  called  Love, 
which  exists  in  human  hearts  dumb 
and  unseen,  but  which  has  no  real  life, 
no  warming  power,  till  set  free  by  ex- 
pression. 

Did  you  ever,  in  a  raw,  chilly  day, 
just  before  a  snow-storm,  sit  at  work  in 
a  room  that  was  judiciously  warmed  by 
an  exact  thermometer  ?  You  do  not 
freeze,  but  you  shiver  ;  your  fingers  do 
not  become  numb  with  cold,  but  you 
have  all  the  while  an  Mneasy  craving 
for  more  positive  warmth.  You  look 
at  the  empty  grate,  walk  mechanical- 
ly towards  it,  and,  suddenly  awaking, 
shiver  to  see  that  there  is  nothing 
there.  You  long  for  a  shawl  or  cloak ; 
you  draw  yourself  within  yourself ;  you 
consult  the  thermometer,  and  are  vexed 
to  find  that  there  is  nothing  there  to 
be  complained  of,  —  it  is  standing  most 
provokingly  at  the  exact  temperature 
that  all  the  good  books  and  good  doc- 
tors pronounce  to  be  the  proper  thing, 
—  the  golden  mean  of  health  ;  and  yet 
perversely  you  shiver,  and  feel  as  if  the 
face  of  an  open  fire  would  be  to  you  as 
the  smile  of  an  angel. 


Such  a  lifelong  chill,  such  an  habitual 
shiver,  is  the  lot  of  many  natures,  which 
are  not  warm,  when  all  ordinary  rules 
tell  them  they  ought  to  be  warm, — 
whose  life  is  cold  and  barren  and  mea- 
gre, —  which  never  see  the  blaze  of 
an  open  fire. 

I  will  illustrate  my  meaning  by  a 
page  out  of  my  own  experience. 

I  was  twenty-one  when  I  stood  as 
groomsman  for  my  youngest  and  favor- 
ite sister  Emily.  I  remember  her  now 
as  she  stood  at  the  altar,  —  a  pale, 
sweet,  flowery  face,  in  a  half-shimmer 
between  smiles  and  tears,  looking  out 
of  vapory  clouds  of  gauze  and  curls 
and  all  the  vanishing  mysteries  of  a 
bridal  morning. 

Everybody  thought  the  marriage  such 
a  fortunate  one  !  —  for  her  husband  was 
handsome  and  manly,  a  man  of  worth, 
of  principle  good  as  gold  and  solid  as 
adamant, — and  Emmy  had  always  been 
such  a  flossy  little  kitten  of  a  pet,  so 
full  of  all  sorts  of  impulses,  so  sensi- 
tive and  nervous,  we  thought  her  kind, 
strong,  composed,  stately  husband  made 
just  on  purpose  for  her.  "It  was 
quite  a  Providence,"  sighed  all  the  el- 
derly ladies,  who  snifled  tenderly,  and 
wiped  their  eyes,  according  to  approved  • 
custom,  during  the  marriage  ceremony. 

I  remember  now  the  bustle  of  the 
day,  —  the  confused  whirl  of  white 
gloves,  kisses,  bridemaids,  and  bride- 
cakes, the  losing  of  trunk-keys  and 
breaking  of  lacings,  the  tears  of  mam- 
ma —  God  bless  her  !  —  and  the  jokes 
of  irreverent  Christopher,  who  could, 
for  the  life  of  him,  see  nothing  so  very 
dismal  *in  the  whole  phantasmagoria, 
and  only  wished  he  were  as  well  off 
himself. 

And  so  Emmy  was  wheeled  away 
from  us  on  the  bridal  tour,  when  her 
letters  came  back  to  us  almost  every 
day,  just  like  herself,  merry,  frisky  lit- 
tle bits  of  scratches,  —  as  full  of  little 
nonsense  -  beads  as  a  glass  of  Cham- 
pagne, and  all  ending  with  telling  us 
how  perfect  he  was,  and  how  good,  and 
how  well  he  took  care  of  her,  and  how 
happy,  etc.,  etc. 

Then   came   letters   from    her  new 


492 


The  Chimney-Corner, 


[April, 


home.  His  liouse  was  not  yet  built ; 
but  while  it  was  building,  they  were  to 
live  with  his  mother,  who  was  "such 
a  good  woman,"  and  his  sisters,  who 
were  also  "  such  nice  women." 

But  somehow,  after  this,  a  change 
came  over  Emmy's  letters.  They  grew 
shorter ;  they  seemed  measured  in 
their  words ;  and  in  place  of  sparkling 
nonsense  and  bubbling  outbursts  of 
glee,  came  anxiously  worded  praises 
of  her  situation  and  surroundings,  evi- 
dently written  for  the  sake  of  arguing 
herself  into  the  belief  that  she  was  ex- 
tremely happy. 

John,  of  course,  was  not  as  much  with 
her  now :  he  had  his  business  to  attend 
to,  which  took  him  away  all  day,  and  at 
night  he  was  very  tired.  Still  he  was 
very  good  and  thoughtful  of  her,  and 
how  thankful  she  ought  to  be  !  Anc^his 
mother  was  very  good  indeed,  and  did 
all  for  her  that  she  could  reasonably  ex- 
pect, —  of  course  she  could  not  be  like 
her  own  mamma ;  and  Mary  and  Jane 
were  very  kind,  —  **  in  their  way,"  she 
wrote,  but  scratched  it  out,  ana  wrote 
over  it, "  very  kind  indeed."  They  were 
the  best  people  in  the  world,  —  a  great 
deal  better  than  she  was ;  and  she  should 
t  try  to  learn  a  great  deal  from  them. 

"  Poor  little  Em  ! "  J[  said  to  myself, 
"  I  am  afraid  these  very  nice  people  are 
slowly  freezing  and  starving  her."  And 
so,  as  I  was  going  up  into  the  moun- 
tains for  a  summer  tour,  I  thought  I 
would  accept  some  of  John's  many  in- 
vitations and  stop  a  day  or  two  with 
them  on  my  way,  and  see  how  matters 
stood.  John  had  been  known  among  us 
in  college  as  a  taciturn  fellow,  but  good 
as  gold.  I  had  gained  his  friendship 
by  a  regular  siege,  carrying  parallel  af- 
ter parallel,  till,  when  I  came  into  the 
fort  at  last,  I  found  tlie  treasures  worth 
taking. 

I  had  little  difficulty  in  finding  Squire 
Evans's  house.  It  was  the  house  of 
the  village, — a  true,  model,  New  Eng- 
land house,  —  a  square,  roomy,  old-fash- 
ioned mansion,  which  stood  on  a  hill- 
side under  a  group  of  great,  breezy  old 
elms,  whose  wide,  wind -swung  arms 
arched  over  it  like  a  leafy  firmament 


Under  this  bower  the  substantial  white 
house,  with  all  its  window-blinds  closed, 
with  its  neat  white  fences  all  tight  and 
trim,  stood  in  its  faultless  green  turfy 
yard,  a  perfect  Pharisee  among  houses. 
It  looked  like  a  house  all  finished,  done, 
completed,  labelled,  and  set  on  a  shelf 
for  preservation ;  but,  as  is  usual  with 
this  kind  of  edifice  in  our  dear  New 
England,  it  had  not  the  slightest  appear- 
ance of  being  lived  in,  not  a  door  or 
window  open,  not  a  wink  or  blink  of 
life  :  the  only  suspicion  of  human  hab- 
itation was  the  thin,  pale-blue  smoke 
from  the  kitchen-chimney. 

And  now  for  the  people  in  the  house. 

In  making  a  New  England  visit  in 
winter,  was  it  ever  your  fortune  to  be 
put  to  sleep  in  the  glacial  spare-cham- 
ber, that  had  been  kept  from  time  im- 
memorial as  a  refrigerator  for  guests, 
—  that  room  which  no  ray  of  daily  sun- 
shine and  daily  living,  ever  warms, 
whose  blinds  are  closed  the  whole  year 
round,  whose  fireplace  knows  only  the 
complimentary  blaze  which  is  kindled 
a  few  moments  before  bed-time  in  an 
atmosphere  where  you  can  see  your 
breath  ?  Do  you  remember  the  pro- 
cess of  getting  warm  in  a  bed  of  most 
faultless  materia],  with  linen  sheets  and 
pillow-cases,  slippery  and  cold  as  ice  ? 
You  did  get  warm  at  last,  but  you  warm- 
ed your  bed  by  giving  out  all  the  heat 
of  your  qwn  body. 

Such  are  some  families  where  you 
visit.  They  are  of  the  very  best  quali- 
ty, like  your  sheets,  but  so  cold  that  it 
takes  aU  the  vitality  you  have  to  get 
them  warmed  up  to  die  talking-point 
You  think,  the  first  hour  after  your  ar- 
rival, that  they  must  have  heard  some 
report  to  your  disadvantage,  or  that  you 
misunderstood  your  letter  of  invitation, 
or  that  you  came  on  the  wrong  day ;  but 
no,  you  find  in  due  course  that  you  were 
invited,  you  were  expected,  and  they  are 
doing  for  you  the  best  they  know  how, 
and  treating  you  as  they  suppose  a 
guest  ought  to  be  treated. 

If  you  are  a  warm-hearted,  jovial  fel- 
low, and  go  on  feeling  your  way  discreet- 
ly, you  gradually  thaw  quite  a  little  place 
round  yourself  in  the  domestic  circle, 


1 865.] 


Tk^  Chimney-Comer. 


493 


till,' by  the  time  you  are  ready  to  leave, 
you  really  begin  to  think  it  is  agree- 
able to  stay,  and  resolve  that  you  will 
come  again.  They  are  nice  people ; 
they  like  you ;  at  last  you  have  got  to 
feeling  at  home  with  them. 

Three  months  after,  you  go  to  see 
them  again,  when,  lo !  there  you  are, 
back  again  just  where  you  were  at 
first  The  little  spot  which  you  had 
thawed  out  is  frozen  over  again,  and 
again  you  spend  all  your  visit  in  thaw- 
ing it  and  getting  your  hosts  limbered 
and  in  a  state  for  comfortable  converse. 

The  first  evening  that  I  spent  in  the 
wide,  roomy  front-parlor,  with  Judge 
Evans;;  his  wife,  and  daughters,  fully 
accounted  for  the  change  in  Emmy's 
letters.  Rooms,  I  verily  believe,  get 
saturated  with  the  aroma  of  their  spirit- 
ual atmosphere  ;  and  there  are  some  so 
stately,  so  correct,  that  they  would  para- 
lyze even  the  friskiest  kitten  or  the  most 
impudent  Scotch  terrier.  At  a  glance, 
you  perceive,  on  entering,  that  nothing 
but  correct  deportment,  an  erect  pos- 
ture, and  strictly  didactic  conversation 
is  possible  there. 

The  family,  in  fisict,  were  all  eminent- 
ly didactic,  bent  on  improvement,  la- 
boriously useful.  Not  a  good  work  or 
charitable  enterprise  could  put  forth  its 
head  in  the  neighborhood,  of  which  they 
were  not  the  support  and  life.  Judge 
Evans  was  the  stay  and  staff  of  the  vil- 
lage and  township  of ;  he  bore  up 

the  pillars  thereof.  Mrs.  Evans  was 
known  in  the  gates  for  all  the  proper- 
ties and  deeds  of  the  virtuous  woman, 
as  set  forth  by  Solomon ;  the  heart  of 
her  husband  did  safely  trust  in  her. 
But  when  I  saw  them,  that  evening, 
sitting,  in  erect  propriety,  in  their  re- 
spective comers  each  side  of  the  great, 
stately  fireplace,  with  its  tall,  glisten- 
ing brass  andirons,  its  mantel  adorned 
at  either  end  with  plated  candlesticks, 
with  the  snuffer-tray  in  the  middle, — 
she  so  collectedly  measuring  her  words, 
talking  in  all  those  well-worn  grooves  of 
correct  conversation  which  are  design- 
ed, as  the  phrase  goes,  to  '*  entertain 
strangers,"  and  the  Misses  Evans,  in 
the  best  of  grammar  and  rhetoric,  and 


in  most  proper  time  and  way  possible, 
showing  themselves  for  what  they  were, 
most  high-principled,  well-informed,  \rf 
telligent  women, —  I  set  myself  to  spec- 
ulate on  the  cause  of  the  extraordinary 
sensation  of  stiffness  and  restraint  which 
pervaded  me,  as  if  I  had  been  dipped 
in  some  petrifying  spring  and  was  be- 
ginning to  feel  myself  slightly  crusting 
over  on  the  exterior. ' 

This  kind  of  conversation  is  such  as 
admits  quite  easily  of  one's  carrying  on 
another  course  of  thought  within ;  and 
so,  as  I  found  myself  like  a  machine, 
striking  in  now  and  then  in  good  time 
and  tune,  I  looked  at  Judge  Evans,  sit- 
ting there  so  serene,  self- poised,  and 
cold,  and  began  to  wonder  if  he  had  ev- 
er been  a  boy,  a  young  man,  —  if  Mrs. 
Evans  ever  was  a  girl,  —  if  he  was  ever 
in  love  with  her,  and  what  he  did  when 
he  i^s. 

I  thought  of  the  lock  of  Emmy's  hair 
which  I  had  observed  in  John's  writing- 
desk  in  days  when  he  was  falling  in 
love  with  her,  —  of  sundry  little  move- 
ments in  which  at  awkward  moments  I 
had  detected  my  grave  and  serious  gen- 
tleman when  I  had  stumbled  accidental- 
ly upon  the  pair  in  moonlight  strolls  or 
retired  corners, — and  wondered  whether 
the  models  of  propriety  before  me  had 
ever  been  convicted  of  any  such  human 
weaknesses.  Now,  to  be  sure,  I  could 
as  soon  imagine  the  stately  tongs  to  walk 
up  and  kiss  the  shovel  as  conceive  of  any 
such  bygone  effusion  in  those  dignified 
individuals.  But  how  did  they  get  ac- 
quainted ?  how  came  they  ever  to  be 
married? 

I  looked  at  John,  and  thought  I  saw 
him  gradually  stiffening  and  subsiding 
into  the  very  image  of  his  father.  As 
near  as  a  young  fellow  of  twenty-five 
can  resemble  an  old  one  of  sixty-two, 
he  was  growing  to  be  exactly  like  him, 
with  the  same  upright  carriage,  the  same 
silence  and  reserve.  Then  I  looked  at 
Emmy:  she,  too,  was  changed,  —  she, 
the  wild  little  pet,  all  of  whose  pretty  in- 
dividualities were  dear  to  us,  —  that  lit- 
tle unpunctuated  scrap  of  life's  poetry, 
full  of  little  exceptions  referable  to  no 
exact  rule,  only  to  be  tolerated  under  the 


/ 


494 


Tiie  Ckimmy-Comer, 


[April, 


wide  score  of  poetic  license.  Now,  as 
she  sat  between  the  two  Misses  Evans, 
I  fought  I  could  detect  a  bored,  anx- 
ious expression  on  her  little  mobile  face, 
— an  involuntary  watchfulness  and  self- 
consciousness,  as  if  she  were  trying  to 
be  good  on  some  quite  new  pattern. 
She  seemed  nervous  about  some  of  my 
jokes,  and  her  eye  went  apprehensively 
to  her  mother-in-law  in  the  comer  ;  she 
tried  hard  to  laugh  and  make  things  go 
merrily  for  me  ;  she  seemed  sometimes 
to  Ipok  an  apology  for  me  to  them,  and 
then  again  for  them  to  me.  For  my- 
self, I  felt  that  perverse  inclination  lo 
shock  people  which  sometimes  comes 
over  one  in  such  situations.  I  had  a 
great  mind  to  draw  Emmy  on  to  my 
knee  and  commence  a  brotherly  romp  ' 
with  her,  to  give  John  a  thump  on  his 
very  upright  back,  and  to  propose  to 
one  of  the  Misses  Evans  to  strike  up  a 
waltz,  and  get  the  parlor  into  a  general 
whirl,  before  the  very  face  and  eyes  of 
propriety  in  the  comer  :  but  **  the  spir- 
its ''  were  too  strong  for  me ;  I  could 
n*t  do  it        • 

I  remembered  the  innocent,  saucy 
freedom  with  which  Emmy  used  to  treat 
her  John  in  the  days  of  their  engage- 
ment,— the  litde  ways,  half  loving,  half 
mischievous,  in  which  she  alternate- 
ly petted  and  domineered  over  him. 
Now  she  called  him  *'  Mr.  Evans/*  with 
an  anxious  affectation  of  matronly  grav- 
ity. Had  they  been  lecturing  her  into 
these  conjugal  proprieties  }  Probably 
not.  I  felt  sure,  by  what  I  now  expe- 
rienced in  myselfi  that,  were  I  to  live  in 
that  family  one  week,  all  such  little  de- 
viations from  the  one  accepted  pattern 
of  propriety  would  fall  off,  like  many- 
colored  sumach  -  leaves  after  the  first 
hard  frost  I  began  to  feel  myself  slow- 
ly stiffening,  my  courage  getting  gently 
chilly.  I  tried  to  tell  a  story,  but  had 
to  mangle  it  greatly,  because  I  felt  in 
the  air  around  me  that  parts  of  it  were 
too  vernacular  and  emphatic ;  and  then, 
as  a  man  who  is  freezing  makes  des- 
perate efforts  to  throw  off  the  spell,  and 
finds  his  brain  beginning  to  turn,  so  I 
was  beginning  to  be  slightly  insane,  and 
was  haunted  with  a  desire  to  say  some 


horribly  improper  or  wicked  thing  which 
should  start  them  all  out  of  their  chairs. 
Though  never  given  to  profane  expres- 
sions, I  perfectly  hankered  to  let  out 
a  certain  round,  unvarnished,  wicked 
wosd,  which  I  knew  would  create  a  tre- 
mendous commotion  on  the  surface  of 
this  enchanted  miU-pond,  —  in  fact,  I 
was  so  afraid  that  I  should  make  some 
such  mad  demonstration,  that  I  rose  at 
an  early  hour  and  begged  leave  to  retire. 
Emmy  sprang  up  with  apparent  relief^ 
and  offered  to  get  my  candle  and  mar- 
shal me  to  my  room. 

When  she  had  ushered  rae  into  the 
chilly  hospitality  of  that  stately  apart- 
ment, she  seemed  suddenly  disenchant- 
ed. She  set  down  the  candle,  ran  to 
me,  fell  on  my  neck,  nestled  her  litUe 
head  under  my  coat,  laughing  and  cry- 
ing, and  calling  me  her  dear  old  boy ; 
she  ^pulled  my  whiskers,  pinched  my 
ear,  mmmaged  my  pockets,  danced 
round  me  in  a  sort  of  wild  joy,  stun- 
ning me  with  a  voHey  of  questions, 
without  stopping  to  hear  the  answer 
to  one  of  them;  in  short,  the  wild 
littie  elf  of  old  days  seemed  suddenly 
to  come  back  to  me,  as  I  sat  down 
and  drew  her  on  to  my  knee.       * 

*Mt  does  look  so  like  home  to  see 
you,  Chris  !  —  dear,  dear  home  !  —  and 
the  dear  old  fojks  !  There  never,  never 
was  such  a  home  !  —  everybody  there 
did  just  what  they  wanted  to,  did  n't 
they,  Chris  ?  —  and  we  love  each  other, 
don't  we  ?  " 

"  Emmy,"  said  I,  suddenly,  and  very 
improperly,  "  you  are  n't  happy  here." 

"  Not  happy  }  "  she  said,  with  a  half- 
frightened  look,  —  *'  what  makes  you  say 
so  ?  OJi,  you  are  mistaken.  I  have  ev- 
erything to  make  me  happy.  I  should 
be  very  unreasonable  and  wicked,  if  I 
were  not  I  am  very,  very  happy,  I  as- 
sure you.  Of  course,  you  know,  every- 
body can't  be  like  our  folks  at  home* 
That  I  should  not  expect,  you  know,  — 
people's  ways  are  different,  —  but  then, 
when  you  know  people  are  so  good, 
and  all  that,  why,  of  course  you  must 
be  thankful,  be  happy.  It 's  better  for 
me  to  learn  to  control  my  feelings,  you 
know,  and  not  give  way  to  impulses. 


1865.] 


The  Chimney-Con$er. 


495 


They  are  sill  so  good  here,  they  never 
give  way  to  their  feelings,  —  they  always 
do  right  Oh,  they  are  quite  wonderful ! " 

^*And  agreeable?"  said  I. 

''Oh,  Chris,  we  must  nH  think  so 
much  of  that  They  certainly  are  n^t 
pleasant  and  easy,,  as  people  at  home 
are ;  but  they  are  never  cross,  they 
never  scold,  they  always  are  good.  And 
we  ought  n't  to  think  so  much  of  living 
to  be  happy ;  we  ought  to  think  more 
of  doing  right,  doing  our  duty,  don't 
you  think  so  ?  " 

"All  undeniable  truth,  Emmy;  but, 
for  all  that,  John  ,seems  stiff  as  a  ram- 
rod, and  their  front -parlor  is  like  a 
tomb.  You  must  n't  let  them  petrify 
him." 

Her  face  clouded  over  a  little. 

''John  is  different  here  from  what  he 
was  at  our  house.    He  has  been  brought 
up  differently,  —  oh,  entirely  differently 
from  what  we  were ;  and  when  he  comes 
back  into  the  old  house,  the  old  busi- 
ness, and  the  old  place  between  his 
lather  and  mother  and  sisters,  he  goes 
back  into  the  old  ways.    He  loves  me 
ail  the  same,  but  he  does  not  show  it 
in  yie  same  ways,  and  I  must  learn, 
you  know,  to  take  it  on  trust    He  is 
very  busy,  —  works  hard  all  day,  and  all 
for  me ;  and  mother  says  women  are 
unreasonable  that  ask  any  other  proof 
of  love  from  their  husbands  than  what 
they  give  by  working  for  them  all  the 
time.     She  never  lectures   me,  but  I 
know  she   thought  I  was  a  silly  little 
petted  child,  and  she  told  me  one  day 
how  she  brought  up  John.    She  never 
petted  him ;  she  put  him  away  alone 
to  sleep,  from  the   time   he   was   six 
months  old ;  she  never  fed  him  out  of 
his  regular  hours  when  he  was  a  baby, 
no  matter  how   much  he   cried;   she 
never  let  him  talk  baby-talk,  or  have 
any  baby-talk  talked  to  him,  but  was 
very  careful  to  make  him  speak  all  his 
words  plain  from  the  very  first ;   she 
never  encouraged  him  to  express  his 
love  by  kisses  or  caresses,  but  taught 
him  that  the  only  proof  of  love  was 
exact  obedience.     I  remember  John's 
telling  me  of  his  running  to  hec  once 
and  hugging  her  round  the  neck,  when 


he  had  come  in  without  wiping  his 
shoes,  and  she  took  off  his  arms  and 
said, '  My  son,  this  is  n't  the  best  way 
to  show  love.  I  should  be  much  bet- 
ter pleased  to  have  you  come  in  quietly 
and  wipe  your  shoes  than  to  come  and 
.kiss  me  when  you  forget  to  do  what 
I  say.' " 

"  Dreadfril  old  jade  ! "  said  I,  irrev- 
erently, being  then  only  twenty-three. 

"  Now,  Chris,  I  won't  have  anything 
to  say  to  you,  if  this  is  the  way  you 
are  going  to  talk,"  said  Emily,  pou\ing, 
though  a  mischievous  gleam  darted  in- 
to^ her  eyes.  **  Really,  however,  I  think 
she  carried  things  too  far,  though  she  is 
so  good.  I  only  said  it  to  excuse  John, 
^  and  show  how  he  was  brought  up." 

"  Poor  fellow ! "  said  I.  "  I  know  now 
why  he  is  so  hopelessly  shut  up,  and 
walled  up.  Never  a  warmer  heart  than 
he  4ceeps  stowed  away  there  inside  of 
the  fortress,  with  the  drawbridge  dowa 
and  moat  all  roi^nd." 

"  They  are  all  warm-hearted  inside," 
said  Emily.  "Would  you  think  she 
did  n't  love  him  ?  Once  when  he  was 
sick,  she  watched  with  him  seventeen 
nights  without  taking  off  her  clothes  ; 
she  scarcely  would  eat  all  the  time : 
Jane  told  me  so.  She  loves  him  better 
than  she  loves  herself.  It 's  perfectly 
dreadful  sometimes  to  see  how  intense 
she  is  when  anything  concerns  him ; 
it 's  \itx  principle  that  makes  her  so  cold 
and  quiet" 

"  And  a  devilish  one  it  is  ! "  said  I. 

"  Chris,  you  are  really  growing  wick- 
ed!" 

"  I  use  the  word  seriously,  and  in 
good  faith,"  said  I.  "  Who  but  the 
Father  of  Evil  ever  devised  such  plans 
for  making  goodness  hateful,  and  keep- 
ing the  most  heavenly  part  of  our  na- 
ture so  under  lock  and  key  that  for  the 
greater  part  of  our  lives  we  get  no  use 
of  it  ?  Of  what  benefit  is  a  mine  of 
love  burning  where  it  warms  nobody, 
does  nothing  but  blister  the  soul  with- 
in with  its  imprisoned  heat  ?  Love  re- 
pressed grows  morbid,  acts  in  a  thou- 
sand perverse  ways.  These  thj'ee  wom- 
en, I  'U  venture  to  say,  are  living  in  the 
family  here  like  three  frozen  islands, 


496 


The  Chimney-Comer. 


[April, 


knowing  as  little  of  each  other's  inner 
life  as  if  parted  by  eternal  barriers  of  ice, 
—  and  all  because  a  cursed  principle  in 
the  heart  of  the  mother  has  made  her 
bring  them  up  in  violence  to  Nature." 

"  WeU,'^  said  Emmy,  "  sometimes  I 
do  pity  Jane ;  she  is'  nearest  my  age, 
and,  naturally,  I  think  she  was  some- 
thing like  me,  or  might  have  been.  The 
other  day  I  remember  her  coming  in 
looking  so  flushed  and  ill  that  I  could 
n't  help  asking  if  she  were  unwelL  The 
tears  came  into  her  eyes  ;  but  her  moth- 
er looked  up,  in  her  cool,  business-like 
way,  and  said,  in  her  dry  voice,  — 

"  'Jane,  what 's  the  matter  ? * 

''  *■  Oh,  my  head  aches  dreadfully,  and 
I  have  pains  in  all  my  limbs ! ' 

''I  wanted  to  jump  and  run  to  do 
something  for  her,  —  you  know  at  our 
house  we  feel  that  a  sick  person  must 
be  waited  on,  —  but  her  mother  only 
isaid,  in  the  same  dry  way,  — 

**  *  Well,  Jane,  you  've  probably  got  a 
cold ;  go  into  the  kitchen  and  make  your- 
self some  good  boneset  tea,  soak  your 
feet  in  hot  water,  and  go  to  bed  at 
once';  and  Jane  meekly  departed. 

''  I  wanted  to  spring  and  do  these 
things  for  her ;  but  it  's  curious,  in 
this  house  I  never  dare  offer  to  do  any- 
thing ;  and  mother  looked  at  me,  as 
she  went  out,  with  a  significant  nod,  — 

"  *  That 's  always  my  way ;  if  any  of 
the  children  are  sick,  I  never  coddle 
them ;  it 's  best  to  teach  them  to  make 
as  light  of  it  as  possible.' " 

"  Dreadful !  "  said  I. 

''Yes,  it  is  dreadful,"  said  Emmy, 
drawing  her  breath,  as  if  relieved  that 
she  might  speak  her  mind ;  "  it 's  dread- 
ful to  see  these  people,  who  I  know  love 
each  other,  living  side  by  side  and  nev- 
er saying  a  loving,  tender  word,  never 
doing  a  litde  loving  thing,  —  sick  ones 
crawling  off  alone  like  sick  animals, 
persisting  in  being  alone,  bearing  every- 
thing alone.  But  I  won't  let  them  ;  I 
will  insist  on  forcing  my  way  into  their 
rooms.  I  would  go  and  sit  with  Jane, 
and  pet  her  and  hold  her  hand  and  bathe 
her  head,  though  I  knew  it  made  her 
horridly  uncomfortable  at  first ;  but  I 
thought  she  ought  to  learn  to  be  petted 


in  a  Christian  way,  when  she  was  sick. 
I  will  kiss  her,  too,  sometimes,  though 
she  takes  it  just  like  a  cat  that  is  n't  used 
to  being  stroked,  and  calls  me  a  silly 
girl ;  but  I  know  she  is  getting  to  like 
it  What  is  the  use  of  people's  loving 
each  other  in  this  horridly  cold,  stingy, 
silent  way  ?  If  one  of  them  were  dan- 
gerously ill  now,  or  met  with  any  seri- 
ous accident,  I  know  there  would  be  no 
end  to  what  the  others  would  do  for  her ; 
if  one  of  them  were  to  die,  the  others 
would  be  perfectly  crushed :  but  it  would 
all  go  inward, — drop  sileptly  down  into 
that  dark,  cold,  frozen  well ;  they  could 
n't  speak  to  each  other ;  they  could  n't 
comfort  each  other ;  they  have  lost  the 
power  of  expression ;  they  absolutely 

"  Yes,"  said  I,  "  they  are  like  the  fa- 
kirs who  have  held  up  an  arm  till  it  has 
become  stiffened,  —  they  cannot  now 
change  its  position ;  like  the  poor  mutes, 
who,  being  deaf^  have  become  dumb 
through  disuse  of  the  organs  of  speech. 
Their  education  has  been  like  those  iron 
suits  of  armor  into  which  little  boys  were 
put  in  the  Middle  Ages,  solid,  inflexible, 
put  on  in  childhood,  enlarged  with,  ev- 
ery year's  growth,  till  the  warm  human 
frame  fitted  the  motdd  as  if  it  had  been 
melted  and  poured  into  it  A  person 
educated  in  this  way  is  hopelessly  crip- 
pled, never  will  be  what  he  might  have 
been." 

•     "  Oh,  don't  say  that,  Chris  ;  think  of 
John ;  think  how  good  he  is." 

"  I  do  think  how  good  he  is," — with 
indignation,  —  **and  how  few  know  it, 
too.  I  think,  that,  with  the  tenderest, 
truest,  gentlest  heart,  the  utmost  ap- 
preciation of  human  friendship,  he  has 
passed  in  the  world  for  a  cold,  proud, 
selfish  man.  If  your  frank,  impulsive, 
incisive  nature  had  not  unlocked  gates 
and  opened  doors,  he  would  never  have 
known  the  love  of  woman :  and  now  he 
is  but  half  disenchanted ;  he  every  day 
tends  to  go  back  to  stone." 

«'  But  I  sha'n't  let  him ;  oh,  indeed,  I 
know  the  danger!  I  shall  bring  him 
out  I  shall  work  on  them  all.  I  know 
they  are  beginning  to  love  me  a  good 
deaJ :  in  the  first  place,  because  I  be- 


i86s.] 


The  Chimney-Comer. 


497 


long  to  John,  and  everything  belong- 
ing to  him  is  perfect;  and  in  the  sec- 
ond place," 

^In  the  second  place,  because  they 
expect  to  weave,  day  after  day,  the  fine 
cobweb  lines  of  their  cold  system  of  re- 
pression around  you,  which  will  harden 
and  harden,  and  tighten  and  tighten,  till 
you  are  as  stiif  and  shrouded  as  any  of 
them.  You  remind  me  of  our  poor  little 
duck :  don't  you  remember  him  ? " 

''  Yes,  poor  fellow !  how  he  would  stay 
out,  and  swim  round  and  round,  while 
the  pond  kept  freezing  and  freezing,  and 
his  swimming -place  grew  smaller  and 
smaller  every  day ;  but  he  was  such  a 
plucky  little  fellow  that " 

*'  That  at  last  we  found  him  one  morn- 
ing frozen  tight  in,  and  he  has  limped 
ever  since  on  his  poor  feet" 

''  Oh,  but  I  won't  freeze  in,"  she  said, 
laughing. 

<*  Take  care,  Emmy !  You  are  sen- 
sitive, approbative,  delicately  organiz- 
ed; your  whole  nature  inclines  you  to 
give  way  and  yield  to  the  nature  of  those 
around  you.  One  little  lone  duck  such 
as  you,  however  warm-blooded,  light- 
hearted,  cannot  keep  a  whole  pond  from 
freezing.  While  you  have  any  influ- 
ence, you  must  use  it  all  to  get  John 
away  from  these  surroimdings,  where 
you  can  have  him  to  yourself." 

'*  Oh,  you  know  we  are  building  our 
house ;  we  shall  go  to  housekeeping 
soon." 

"  Where  ?  Gose  by,  under  the  very 
guns  of  this  fortress,  where  all  your 
housekeeping,  all  your  little  manage- 
ment, will  be  subject  to  daily  inspec- 
tion." 

"  But  mamma  never  interferes,  never 
advises,  —  unless  I  ask  advice." 

'^  No,  but  she  influences ;  she  lives, 
she  looks,  she  is  there  ;  and  while  she 
is  there,  and  while  your  home  is  within 
a  stone's  throw,  the  old  spell  will  be  on 
your  husband,  on  your  children,  if  you 
have  any ;  you  will  feel  it  in  the  air ;  it 
will  constrain,  it  will  sway  you,  it  will 
rule  your  house,  it  will  bring  up  your 
children." 

**  Oh,  no  1  never  !  never !  I  never 
could  1  I  never  will  1    If  God  should 


give  me  a  dear  little  chOd,  I  will  not  let 
it  grow  up  in  these  hateful  ways ! " 

"  Then,  Emmy,  there  will  be  a  con- 
stant, still,  undefined,  but  real  firiction 
of  your  life-power,  from  the  silent  grat- 
ing of  your  wishes  and  feelings  on  the 
cold,  positive  millstone  of  their  opinion ; 
it  will  be  a  life-battie  with  a  quiet,  in- 
visible, pervading  spirit,  who  will  never 
show  himself  in  fair  fight,  but  who  will 
be  around  you  in  the  very  air  you  breathe, 
at  your  pillow  when  you  lie  down  and 
when  you  rise.  There  is  so  much  in 
these  firiends  of  yours  noble,  wise,  se- 
verely good, — their  aims  are  so  high, 
their  efficiency  so  great,  their  virtues  so 
many, — that  they  will  act  upon  you  with 
the  force  of  a  conscience,  subduing, 
drawing,  insensibly  constraining  you  in- 
to their  moulds.  They  have  stronger 
wills,  stronger  natures  than  yours ;  and 
between  the  two  forces  of  your  own 
nature  and  theirs  you  will  be  always 
oscillating,  so  that  you  will  never  show 
what  you  can  do,  working  either  in  your 
own  way  or  yet  in  theirs :  your  life  will 
be  a  failure." 

''  Oh,  Chris,  why  do  you  discourage 
me  ?  " 

"  I  am  trying  tonic  treatment,  Emily ; 
I  am  showing  you  a  real  danger ;  I  am 
rousing  you  to  flee  from  it  John  is 
making  money  £ut ;  there  is  no  reason 
why  he  should  always  remain  buried  in 
this  town.  Use  your  influence  as  they 
do, — daily,  hourly,  constantly, — to  pre- 
dispose him  to  take  you  to  another 
sphere.  Do  not  always  shrink  and 
yield ;  do  not  conceal  and  assimilate 
and  endeavor  to  persuade  him  and  your- 
self that  you  are  happy ;  do  not  put  the 
very  best  face  to  him  on  it  all ;  do  not 
tolerate  his  relapses  daily  and  hour- 
ly into  his  habitual,  cold,  inexpressive 
manner ;  and  don't  lay  aside  your  own 
little  impulsive,  outspoken  ways.  Re- 
spect your  own  nature,  and  assert  it; 
woo  him,  argue  with  him ;  use  all  a 
woman's  weapons  to  keep  him  from 
falling  back  into  the  old  Castie  Doubt- 
ing where  he  lived  till  you  let  him  out 
Dispute  your  mother's  hateful  dogma, 
that  love  is  to  be  taken  for  granted 
without  daily  proof  between  lovers ;  cry 


VOL.  XV.  —  NO.  90. 


33 


498 


The  Chimney-Comer, 


[April, 


down  htent  caloric  in  the  market ;  in* 
sist  that  the  mere  fact  of  being  a  wife 
is  not  enough,  —  that  the  words  spolcen 
once,  years  ago,  are  not  enough,  —  that 
love  needs  new  leaves  every  summer  of 
life,  as  much  as  your  elm-trees,  and  new 
branches  to  grow-  broader  and  wider, 
and  new  flowers  at  the  root  to  cover 
the  ground. 

**  Oh,  but  I  have  heard  that  there  is 
no  surer  way  to  lose  love  than  to  be 
exacting,  and  that  it  never  comes  for  a 
woman^s  reproaches." 

"All  tnie  as  Gospel,  Emmy.  I  am 
not  speaking  of  reproaches,  or  of  un- 
reasonable self-assertion,  or  of  ill-tem- 
per,— you  could  not  use  any  of  these 
forces,  if  you  would,  you  poor  little 
chick !  I  am  speaking  now  of  the  high- 
est duty  we. owe  our  friends,  the  no- 
blest, the  most  sacred,  —  that  of  keep- 
ing their  own  nobleness,  goodness,  pure 
and  incorrupt  Thoughtless,  instinc- 
tive, unreasoning  love  and  self-sacri- 
fice, such  as  many  women  long  to  be- 
stow on  husband  and  children,  soil  and 
lower  the  very  objects  of  their  love. 
You  may  grow  saintly  by  self-sacrifice ; 
but  do  your  husband  and  children  grow 
saintly  by  accepting  it  without  return  ? 
I  have  seen  a  verse  which  says,  — 

'  They  who  kneel  at  woman's  s^ne 
Breathe  on  it  a*  they  how.* 

Is  not  this  true  of  all  unreasoning  love 
and  self-devotion  ?  U  we  let  our  friend 
become  cold  and  selfish  and  exacting 
without  a  remonstrance,  we  are  no  true 
lover,  no  true  friend.  Any  good  man 
soon  learns  to  discriminate  between 
the  remonstrance  that  comes  from  a 
woman's  love  to  his  soul,  her  concern 
for  his  honor,  her  anxiety  for  his  moral 
development,  and  the  pettish  cry  which 
comes  from  her  own  personal  wants. 
It  will  be  your  own  fault,  if,  for  lack 
of  anything  you  can  do,  your  husband 
relapses  into  these  cold,  undemonstra- 
tive habits  which  have  robbed  his  life 
of  so  much  beauty  and  enjoyment 
These  dead,  barren  ways  of  living  are 
as  unchristian  as  they  are  disagree- 
able ;  and  you,  as  a  good  little  Chris- 
tian sworn  to  fight  heroicaUy  unHer 
Christ's  banner,  must  make  headway 


against  this  sort  of  fiunuy  Antichrist, 
though  it  comes  with  a  show  of  supe- 
rior sanctity  and  self-sacrifice.  Re- 
member, dear,  that  the  Master's  family 
had  its  outward  tokens  of  love  as  weft 
as  its  inward  lifi^  The  beloved  leaned 
on  His  bosom ;  and  the  traitor  could 
not  have  had  a  sign  for  his  treachery, 
had  there  not  been  a  daily  kiss  at  meet* 
ing  and  parting  with  His  children." 

"  I  am  glad  you  have  said  all  this," 
said  Emily,  '<  because  now  I  feel  stron- 
ger for  it  It  does  not  now  seem  so  self- 
ish for  me  to  want  what  it  is  better  for 
John  to  give.  Yes,  I  must  seek  what 
will  be  best  for  him." 

And  so  the  littie  one,  put  on  the 
track  of  self-sacrifice,  began  to  see  her 
•way  clearer,  as  many  littie  women  of 
her  sort  do.  Make  them  look  on  self- 
assertion  as  one  form  of  martyrdom, 
and  they  will  come  into  it 

But,  for  all  my  eloquence  on  this 
evening,  the  house  was  built  in  the 
self-same  spot  as  projected ;  and  the 
family  life  went  on,  under  the  shadow 
of  Judge  Evans's  elms,  much  as  if  I 
had  not  spoken.  Emmy  became  moth- 
er of  two  fine,  lovely  boys,  and  waxed 
dimmer  and  ^nter ;  while  with  her 
phjTsical  decay  came  increasing  need 
of  the  rule  in  the  household  of  mamma 
and  sisters,  who  took  her  up  energeti- 
cally on  eagles'  wings,  and  kept  her 
house,  and  managed  her  children  :  for 
what  can  be  done  when  a  woman  hov- 
ers half  her  time  between  life  and 
death  ? 

At  last  I  spoke  out  to  John,  that  the 
climate  and  atmosphere  were  too  severe 
for  her  who  had  become  so  dear  to 
him, — to  them  all ;  and  then  they  con- 
sented that  the  change  much  talked  of 
and  tirged,  but  always  opposed  by  the 
parents,  should  be  made. 

John  bought  a  pretty  cottage  in  our 
neighborhood,  and  brought  his  wife 
and  boys  ;  and  the  effect  of  change  of 
moral  atmosphere  verified  all  my  pre- 
dictions. In  a  year  we  had  our  own 
blooming,  joyous,  impulsive  little  Emily 
once  more, — full  of  life,  full  of  cheer,  full 
of  energy,  —  looking  to  the  ways  of  her 
household,  —  the  merry  companion  of 


1865.] 


The  Ckimtuy-Comer. 


499 


her  g^rowing  boys, — the  blithe  empress 
over  her  husband,  who  took  to  her 
genial  sway  as  in  the  old  happy  days 
of  courtship.  The  nightmare  was  past, 
and  John  was  as  joyous  as  any  of  us  in 
hfs  freedom.  As  Emmy  said,  he  was 
turned  right  side  out  for  life ;  and  we 
all  admired  the  pattern.  And  that  is 
the  end  of  my  story. 

And  now  for  the  moral,  —  and  that 
Is,  that  life  consists  of  two  parts,  —  Ex- 
pression and  Repression^ — each  of  which 
has  its  solemn  duties.  To  love,  joy, 
hope,  &]th,  pity,  belongs  the  duty  of 
expression:  to  anger,  envy,  malice,  re- 
venge, and  all  uncharitableness  belongs 
the  duty  of  repression. 

Some  very  religious  and  moral  peo- 
ple err  by  applying  repression  to  both 
classes  alike.  They  repress  equally  the 
expression  of  love  and  of  hatred,  of  pity 
and  of  anger.  Such  forget  one  great 
law,  as  true  in  the  moral  world  as  in  the 
physical,  —  diat  repression  lessens  and 
deadens.  Twice  or  thrice  mowing  will 
kiU  off  the  sturdiest  crop  of  weeds ;  the 
roots  die  for  want  of  expression.  A 
compress  on  a  limb  will  stop  its  grow- 
ing ;  the  surgeon  knows  this,  and  puts 
a  tight  bandage  around  a  tumor;  but 
what  if  we  put  a  tight  bandage  about 
the  heart  and  lungs,  as  some  young  la- 
dies of  my  acquaintance  do,  —  or  ban- 
dage the  feet,  as  they  do  in  China? 
And  what  if  we  bandage  a  nobler  in- 
ner faculty,  and  wrap  iov€  in  grave- 
clothes  ? 

But  again  there  are  others,  and  their 
number  is  legion, — perhaps  you  and  I, 
reader,  may  know  something  of  it  in 
ourselves,  —  who  have  an  instinctive 
habit  of  repression  in  regard  to  all  that 
is  noblest  and  highest  within  them, 
which  they  do  not  feel  in  their  lower 
and  more  unworthy  nature.  ' 

It  comes  for  easier  to  scold  our 
fnend  in  an  angry  moment  than  to  say 
how  much  we  love,  honor,  and  esteem 
him  in  a  kindly  mood.  Wrath  and  bit- 
terness speak  themselves  and  go  with 
their  own  force ;  love  is  shame-fiiiced, 
looks  shyly  out  of  the  window,  lingers 
long  at  the  door-latch. 

How  much  freer  utterance   among 


many  good  Christians  h^ve  anger,  con- 
tempt, and  censoriousness,  than  tender- 
ness and  love !  Ikaie  is  said  loud  and 
with  all  our  force.  /  love  is  said  with 
a  hesitating  voice  and  blushing  cheek. 

In  an  angry  mood  we  do  an  injury  to 
a  loving  heart  with  good,  strong,  free 
emphasis ;  but  we  stammer  and  hang 
back  when  our  diviner  nature  tells  us 
to  confess  and  ask  pardon.  Even  when 
our  heart  is  broken  with  repentance, 
we  haggle  and  linger  long  before  we 
can 

'*  Thrown  away  the  woner  part  of  it* 

How  many  live  a  stingy  and  niggard- 
ly life  in  regard  to  their  richest  inward 
treasures !  They  live  with  those  they 
love  dearly,  whom  a  few  more  words 
and  deeds  expressive  of  this  love  would 
make  so  much  happier,  richer,  and  bet- 
ter ;  and  they  cannot,  will  not,  turn  the 
key  and  give  it  out  People  who  in 
their  very  souls  really  do  love,  esteem, 
reverence,  almost  worship  each  other, 
live  a  barren,  chilly  life  side  by  side, 
busy,  anxious,  preoccupied,  letting  their 
love  go  by  as  a  matter  of  course,  a  last 
year's  growth,  with  no  present  buds  an<L 
blossoms. 

Are  there  not  sons  and  daughters  who 
have  parents  living  with  them  as  angels 
unawares,  — husbands  and  wives,  broth- 
ers and  sisters,  in  whom  the  material  for 
a  beautiful  life  lies  locked  away  in  un- 
fruitful silence,  —  who  give  time  to  ev- 
erything but  the  cultivation  and  expres- 
sion of  mutual  love  ? 

The  time  is  coming,  they  think,  in 
some  far  future,  when  they  shall  find 
leisure  to  enjoy  each  other,  to  stop  and 
rest  side  by  side,  to  discover  to  each 
other  these  hidden  treasures  which  lie 
idle  and  unused. 

Alas  1  time  flies  and  death  steals  on, 
and. we  reiterate  the  complaint  of  one 
in  Scripture,  —  "  It  came  to  pass,  while 
thy  servant  was  busy  hither  and  thither, 
the  man  was  gone." 

The  bitterest  tears  shed  over  graves 
are  for  words  left  unsaid  and  deeds  left 
undone.  "  She  never  knew  how  I  loved 
her."  "  He  never  knew  what  he  was  to 
me."  *'  I  always  meant  to  make  more 
pf  our  friendship."    "  I  did  not  know 


500 


The  Otimfky-Comer. 


[Aprit 


what  he  was  to  me  till  he  was  gone." 
Such  words  are  the  poisoned  arrows 
which  cruel  Death  shoots  backward  at 
us  £rom  the  door  of  the  sepulchre. 

How  much  more  we  might  make  of 
our  £unily  life,  of  our  friendships,  if  ev- 
ery secret  thought  of  love  blossomed 
into  a  deed !  We  are  not  now  speak- 
vag  merely  of  personal  caresses.  These 
may  or  may  not  be  the  best  language 
of  affection.  Many  are  endowed  with 
a  delicacy,  a  fiutidiousness  of  physical 
oi:]^;ani2ation,  which  shrinks  away  from 
too  much  of  these,  repelled  and  over- 
powered. But  there  are  words  and 
looks  and  little  observances,  thoughtful- 
nesses,  watchful  little  attentions,  which 
speak  of  love,  which  make  it  manifest, 
and  there  is  scarce  a  £unily  that  might 
not  be  richer  in  heart-wealth  for  more 
of  them. 

It  is  a  mistake  to  suppose  that  rela- 
tions must  of  course  love  each  other  be- 
cause they  .are  relations.  Love  must  be 
cultivated,  and  can  'be  increased  by  ju- 
dicious culture,  as  wild  fruits  may  double 
their  bearing  under  the  hand  of  a  gar- 
dener; and  love  can  dwindle  and  die 
out  by  neglect,  as  choice  flower-seeds 
planted  in  poor  soU  dwindle  and  grow 
single. 

Two  causes  in  our  Anglo-Saxon  na» 
ture  prevent  this  easy  faculty  and  flow 
of  expression  which  strike  one  so  pleas- 
antly in  the  Italian  or  the  French  life : 
the  dread  of  flattery,  and  a  constitu- 
tional shyness. 

^  I  perfecdy  longed  to  tell  So-and-so 
how  I  admired  her,  the  other  day,''  saya 
Miss  X. 

**  And  why  in  the  world  did  n't  yoa 
tell  her  ?  " 

**  Oh,  it  would  seem  like  flattery,  you 
know." 

Now  what  is  flattery  ? 

Flattery  is  insincere  praise  given  from 
interested  motives,  not  the  sincere  ut- 


terance to  a  fnend  of  what  we  deem 
good  and  lovely  in  him. 

And  so,  for  fear  of  flattering,  these 
dreadfully  sincere  peof^e  go  on  side  by 
side  with  those  they  love  and  admire, 
giving  them  all  the  time  the  impression 
of  utter  indifference.  Parents  are  so 
afraid  of  exciting  pride  and  vanity  in 
their  children  by  the  expression  of  tiieir 
love  and  approbation,  that  a  child  some- 
times goes  sad  and  discouraged  by 
their  side,  and  learns  wiUi  surprise,  in 
some  chance  way,  that  they  are  proud 
and  fond  of  him.  There  are  times 
when  the  open  expression  of  a  father's 
love  would  be  worth  more  than  church 
or  sermon  to  a  boy ;  and  his  father  can- 
not utter  it,  will  not  show  it 

The  other  thing  that  represses  the 
utterances  of  love  is  the  characteristic 
i^^)^M«rxofthe  Anglo-Saxon  blood.  Odd- 
ly enough,  a  race  bom  of  two  demon- 
strative, out-spoken  nations  —  the  Ger- 
man and  the  French  —  has  an  habitual 
reserve  that  is  Uke  neither.  There  is  a 
powerlessness  of  utterance  in  our  blood 
that  we  should  fight  against,  and  strug- 
gle outward  towards  expression.  We 
can  educate  ourselves  to  it,  if  we  know 
and  feel  the  necessity ;  we  can  make  it 
a  Christian  duty,  not  only  to  love,  but  to 
be  loving,  —  not  only  to  be  true  friends, 
but  to  show  ourselves  friendly.  We  can 
make  ourselves  say  the  kind  things  that 
rise  in  our  hearts  and  tremble  back  on 
our  lips,  —  do  the  gentie  and  helpful 
deeds  which  we  long  to  do  and  shrink 
back  from ;  and,  litde  by  littie,  it  will 
grow  easier,  —  the  love  spoken  will 
bring  back  the  answer  of  love,  —  the 
kind  deed  will  bring  back  a  kind  deed 
in  return, — till  the  hearts  in  the  frtmily- 
cirde,  instead  of  being  so  many  frozen, 
icy  islands,  shall  be  full  of  warm  airs 
and  echoing  bird-voices  answering  back 
and  fbrtk  with  a  constant  melody  of 
love. 


1865.]  Mr.  Hosea  Biglow  to  the  Editor  of  the  Atlantic  Monthly.  501 


MR.   HOSEA  BIGLOW  TO  THE  EDITOR  OF  THE 

ATLANTIC  MONTHLY. 


DEAR  SlR,— Your  letter  come  to  ban', 
Requestin'  me  to  please  be  fimny; 
But  I  a'n't  made  upon  a  plan 

Thet  knows  wut  's  comin',  gall  or  honey: 
Ther'  's  times  the  world  doos  look  so  queer, 

Odd  &ncies  come  afore  (  call  *em; 
An'  then  agin,  for  half  a  year, 
No  preacher  'thout  a.  call  's  more  solemn. 

You  're  'n  want  o'  sunthin'  light  an'  cute, 

Rattlin'  an'  shrewd  an'  kin'  o'  jingleish. 
An'  wish,  pervidin'  it  'ould  suit, 

I  'd  take  an'  citify  my  English. 
I  ken  write  long-tailed,  ef  I  please, — 

But  when  I  'm  jokin',  no,  I  thankee ; 
Then,  'fore  I, know  it,  my  idees 

Run  helter-skelter  into  Yankee. 

Sence  I  begun  to  scribble  rhyme, 

I  tell  ye  wut,  I  ha'n't  ben  fooUn' ; 
The  parson's  books,  life,  death,  an'  time 

Hev  took  some  trouble  with  my  schoolin'; 
Nor  th'  airth  don't  git  put  out  with  me, 

Thet  love  her  'z  though  she  wuz  a  woman; 
Why,  th'  a'n't  a  bird  upon  the  tree 

But  half  forgives  my  bein'  human. 

An'  yit  I  love  th'  unhighschooled  way 

01'  farmers  faed  when  I  wuz  younger; 
Their  talk  wuz  meatier,  an'  'ould  stay, 

While  book-froth  seems  to  whet  your  hunger, 
For  puttin'  in  a  downright  lick 

'Twixt  Humbug's  eyes,  ther'  '«  few  can  match  it, 
An'  then  it  helves  my  thoughts  ez  slick 

£z  stret-grained  hick<M7  doos  a  hatchet 

But  when  I  can't,  I  can't,  thet  's  all. 

For  Natur'  won't  put  up  with  gullin';         « 
Idees  you  hev  to  shove  an'  haul 

Like  a  druv  pig  a'n't  wuth  a  mullein ; 
Live  thoughts  a'n't  sent  for ;  thru  all  rifts 

O'  sense  they  pour  an'  resh  ye  onwards, 
Like  nvers  when  south-lyin'  drifts 

Feel  thet  the  airth  is  wheelin'  sunwards. 


502  Mr.  Hosea  Biglow  to  the  Editor  of  the  Atlantic  Monthly.  [April, 

Time  wuz,  the  rhymes  come  crowdin'  thick 

£z  office-seekers  arter  'lection,  .\ 

An'  into  ary  place  'ould  stick 

•Without  no  bother  nor  objection ; 
But  sence  the  war  my  thoughts  hang  back 

£z  though  I  wanted  to  enlist  'em. 
An'  substitutes,  —  wal,  they  don't  lack, 

But  then  they  '11  slope  afore  you  've  mist  'em. 

« 

Nothin'  don't  seem  like  wut  it  wuz ; 

I  can't  see  wut  there  is  to  hinder, 
An'  3rit  my  brains  jes'  go  buzz;  buzz, 

Like  bumblebees  agin  a  winder ; 
'Fore  these  times  come,  in  all  airth's  row, 

Ther'  wuz  one  quiet  place,  my  head  in, 
Where  I  could  hide  an'  think,  —  but  now 

It  's  all  one  teeter,  hopin'j  dreadin'. 

« 

Where  's  Peace?    I  start,  some  clear-blown  night, 

When  gaunt  stone  walls  grow  numb  an'  number, 
An',  creakin'  'cross  the  snow-crust  white. 

Walk  the  col'  starlight  into  summer; 
Up  grows  the  moon,  an'  swell  by  swell 

Thru  the  pale  pasturs  silvers  dimmer 
Than  the  last  smile  thet  strives  to  tell 

O'  love  gone  heavenward  in  its  shimmer. 

,  I  hev  ben  gladder  o'  sech  things 

Than  cocks  o'  spring  or  bees  o'  clover, 
They  filled  my  heart  with  livin'  springs, 

But  now  they  seem  to  fipeeze  'em  over; 
Sights  innercent  ez  babes  on  knee, 

Peaceful  ez  eyes  o'  pastur'd  cattie, 
Jes'  coz  they  be  so,  seem  to  me 

To  rile  me  more  with  thoughts  o'  battle 

In-doors  an'  out  by  spells  I  try ; 

Ma'am  Natur'  keeps  her  spin-wheel  goin', 
But  leaves  my  natur*  stiff  an'  dry 

£z  fiel's  o'  clover  arter  mowin' ; 
An'  her  jes'  keepin'  on  the  same. 

Calmer  than  clock-work,  an'  not  carin', 
An'  findin'  nary  thing  to  blame, 

Is  wus  than  ef  she  took  to  swearin'. 

Snow-flakes  come  whisperin'  on  the  pane 

The  charm  makes  blazin'  logs  so  pleasant^ 
But  I  can't  hark  to  wut  they  're  say'n'. 

With  Grant  or  Sherman  oilers  present; 
The  chimbleys  shudder  in  the  gale, 

Thet  lulls,  then  suddin  takes  to  flappin' 
Like  a  shot  hawk,  but  all 's  ez  stale 

To  me  ez  so  much  sperit-rappin'. 


1865.]  Mr,  Hosea  Biglow  to  the  Editor  of  the  Atlantic  Monthly.   503 

Under  the  yaller-pines  I  house, 

When  sunshine  makes  'em  all  sweet-scented. 
An'  hear  among  their  furry  boughs 

The  baskin'  west-wind  purr  contented, — 
While  'way  o'erhead,  ez  sweet  an'  low 

£z  distant  bells  thet  ring  for  meetin'. 
The  wedged  wil'  geese  their  bugles  blow. 

Further  an'  further  South  retreatin'. 

Or  up  the  slippery  knob  I  strain 

An'  see  a  hunderd  hills  like  islan's 
Lift  their  blue  woods  in  broken  chain 

Out  o'  the  sea  o'  snowy  silence; 
The  £u'm-smokeSy  sweetes'  sight  on  airth, 

Slow  thru  the  winter  air  a-shrinkin', 
Seem  kin'  o'  sad,  an'  roun'  the  hearth 

Of  empty  places  set  me  thinkin'. 

Beaver  roars  hoarse  with  meltin'  snows, 

An'  rattles  di'mon's  from  his  granite ; 
Time  wuz,  he  snatched  away  my  prose, 

An'  into  psalms  or  satires  ran  it; 
But  he,  nor  all  the  rest  thet  once 

Started  my  blood  to  country-dances, 
Can't  set  me  goin'  more  'n  a  dunce 

Thet  ha'n't  no  use  for  dreams  an'  fancies. 

Rat-tat-tat-tattle  thru  the  street 

I  hear  the  drummers  makin'  riot, 
An'  I  set  thinkin'  o'  the  feet 

Thet  follered  once  an'  now  are  quiet, — 
White  feet  ez  snowdrops  innercent, 

Thet  never  knowed  the  paths  o'  Satan, 
Whose  comin'  step  ther'  's  ears  thet  won't. 

No,  not  lifelong,  leave  off  awaitin'. 

Why,  ha'n't  I  held  'em  on  my  knee  ? 

Did  n't  I  love  to  see  'em  growin'. 
Three  likely  lads  ez  wal  could  be. 

Handsome  an'  brave  an'  not  tu  knowin'  ? 
I  set  an'  look  into  the  blaze 

Whose  natur*,  jes'  like  their'n,  keeps  dimbin', 
Ez  long  'z  it  lives,  in  shinin'  ways, 

An'  half  despise  myself  for  rhymin'. 

Wut  's  words  to  them  whose  faith  an'  truth 

On  War's  red  techstone  rang  true  metal, 
•  Who  ventered  life  an'  love  an'  youth 

For  the  gret  prize  o'  death  in  battle? 
To  him  who,  deadly  hurt,  agen 

Flashed  on  afore  the  charge's  thunder, 
Tippin'  with  fire  the  bolt  of  men 

lliet  rived  the  Rebel  line  asunder? 


504 


"  If  Massa  put  Guns  into  our  Hafis^  [^nl, 

'T  a*n*t  right  to  hev  the  young  go  fust. 

All  throbbin'  full  o'  gifb  an'  graces, 
Leavin'*  life's*  paupers  dry  ez  dust 

To  try  an'  make  b'lieve  fill  their  places: 
Nothin'  but  tells  us  wut  we  miss, 

Ther*  's  gaps  our  lives  can't  never  fey  In, 
An'  thet  vmrld  seems  so  fur  from  this 

Lef '  for  us  loafers  to  grow  gray  in  t 

My  eyes  cloud  up  for  rain ;  my  mouth 

Will  take  to  twitchin'  roun'  the  comers; 
I  pity  mothers,  tu,  down  South, 

For  all  they  sot  among  the  scomers : 
I  'd  sooner  take  my  chance  to  stan' 

At  Jedgment  where  your  meanest  slave  is. 
Than  at  God's  bar  hoi'  up  a  han' 

£z  drippin'  red  ez  your'n,  Jeff  Davis  I 

Come,  Peace !  not  like  a  mourner  bowed 

For  honor  lost  an'  dear  ones  wasted, 
But  proud,  to  meet  a  people  proud, 

With  eyes  thet  tell  o'  triumph  tasted! 
Come,  with  han'  grippin'  on  the  hilt. 

An*  step  thet  proves  ye  Victory's  daughter  1 
Longin'  for  you,  our  sperits  wilt 

Like  shipwrecked  men's  on  raf 's  for  water  I 

Come,  while  our  country  feels  the  lift 

Of  a  gret  instinct  shoutin'  forwards. 
An'  knows  thet  freedom  a'n't  a  gift 

Thet  tarries  long  in  hans'  o'  cowards ! 
Come,  sech  ez  mothers  prayed  for,  when 

They  kissed  their  cross  with  lips  thet  qoiveredy 
An'  bring  feir  wages  for  brave  men, 

A  nation  saved,  a  race  delivered  1 


"IF    MASSA    PUT   GUNS    INTO    OUR    HAN'S." 


THE  record  of  any  one  American 
who  has  grown  up  in  the  nurture 
of  Abolitionism  has  but  little  value  by  it- 
self considered  ;  but  as  a  representative 
experience,  capable  of  explaining  all 
enthusiasms  for  liberty  which  have  cre- 
ated ^'fenatics  "  and  martyrs  in  our  time, 
let  me  recall  how  I  myself  came  to  hate 
Slavery. 
The  training  began  while  I  was  a  babe 


unborn.  A  few  months  before  I  saw  the 
light,  my  father,  mother,  and  sister  were 
driven  from  their  house  in  New  York 
by  a  furious  mob.  When  they  came 
cautiously  back,  their  home  was  quitt 
as  a  fortress  the  day  aAer  it  has  been 
blown  up.  The  front-parlor  was  full  of 
paving-stones ;  the  carpets  were  cut  to 
pieces ;  the  pictures,  the  furniture,  and 
the  chandelier  lay  in  one  common  wreck; 


1865.] 


"If  Massa  put  Guns  into  our  Httris" 


505 


and  the  walls  were  covered  with  inscrip- 
tions ot*  mingled  insult  and  glory.  Over 
the  mantel-piece  had  been  charcoaled 
"  Rascal " ;  over  the  pier-table,  "  Aboli- 
tionist" We  did  not  £u'e  as  badly  as 
several  others  who  rejoiced  in  the  spoil- 
ing of  their  goods.  Mr.  Tappan,  in 
Rose  Street,  saw  a  bonfire  made  of  all 
he  had  in  the  world  that  could  make  a 
home  or  ornament  it 

Among  the  earliest  stories  which  were 
told  me  in  the  nursery,  I  recollect  the 
martyrdom  of  Nat  Turner,  —  how  Love- 
joy,  by  night,  but  in  light,  was  sent  quite 
beyond  the  reach  of  human  pelting, — and 
all  the  things  which  Toussaint  did,  with 
no  white  man,  but  with  the  whitest  spirit 
of  all,  to  help  him.  As  to  minor  suffer- 
ers for  the  cause  of  Freedom,  I  should 
know  that  we  must  have  entertained 
Abolitionists  at  our  house  largely,  since 
even  at  this  day  I  find  it  hard  to  rid  my- 
self of  an  instinctive  impression  that  the 
common  way  of  testifying  disapproba- 
tion of  a  lecturer  in  a  small  country-town 
is  to  bombard  him  with  obsolete  eggs, 
carried  by  the  audience  for  that  pur- 
pose. I  saw  many  at  my  father's  table 
who  had  enjoyed  the  honors  of  that  ova- 
tion. 

I  was  four  years  old  when  I  learned 
that  my  father  combined  the  two  func- 
tions of  preaching  in  a  New  England 
college  town  and  ticket-agency  on  the 
Underground  Railroad.  Four  years  old 
has  a  sort  of  literal  mindedness  about 
it  Most  littie  boys  that  I  knew  had  an 
idea  that  professors  of  religion  and  pro- 
fessors in  college  were  the  same,  and 
that  a  real  Christian  always  had  to 
wear'  black  and  speak  Greek.  So  I 
could  be  pardoned  for  going  down  cel- 
lar and  watching  behind  old  hogsheads 
by  the  hour  to  see  where  the  cars  came 
in. 

A  year  after  that  I  casually  saw  my 
first  passenger,  but  regretted  not  also 
to  have  seen  whether  he  came  up  by 
the  coal-bin  or  the  meat-safe.  His  name 
was  Isidore  Smith,;  so,  to  protect  him 
from  Smith,  my  &ther,  being-  a  consci- 
entious man,  baptized  him  into  a  liberty 
to  say  that  his  name  was  John  Peterson. 
I  held  the  blue  bowl  which  served  for 


font  To  this  day  I  feel  a  sort  of  semi- 
accountability  for  John  Peterson.  I  have 
asked  after  him  every  time  I  have  cross- 
ed the  Suspension  Bridge  since  I  grew 
up.  In  holding  that  baptismal  bowl  I 
suppose  I  am,  in  a  sense,  his  godfather. 
Half  a  godfather  is  better  than  none, 
and  in  spite  of  my  size  I  was  a  very 
earnest  one. 

There  are  few  godchildren  for  whom 
I  should  have  had  to  renounce  fewer 
sins  than  for  thee,  brave  John  Peter- 
son I 

John  Peterson  had  been  baptized  be- 
fore. No  sprinkling  that,  but  an  immer- 
sion in  hell !  He  had  to  strip  to  show 
it  to  us.  All  down  his  back  were  welts 
in  which  my  father  might  lay  his  finger ; 
and  one  gash  healed  with  a  scar  into 
which  I  could  put  my  small,  boyish  fist 
The  former  were  made  by  the  whip 
and  branding-irons  of  a  Virginia  plant- 
er, — the  latter  by  the  teeth  of  his  blood- 
hounds. When  I  saw  that  black  back,  I 
cried ;  and  my  fitther  might  have  chosen 
the  place  to  baptize  in,  even  as  John 
Baptist  did  iCnon,  ^  because  there  was 
much  water  there." 

John  stayed  with  us  three  or  four 
weeks  and  then  got  moody.  Nobody 
in  the  town  twitted  him  as  a  runaway. 
He  was  inexhaustibly  strong  in  health, 
and  never  tired  of  doing  us  service  as 
gardener,  porter,  errand-boy,  and,  on  oc- 
casion, cook.  In  few  places  could  his 
hard -won  freedom  be  less  imperilled 
•than  with  us.  At  last  the  secret  of  his 
melancholy  came  out  He  burst  into 
tears,  one  morning,  as  he  stood  with  the 
fresh-polished  boots  at  the  door  of  my 
Other's  study,  and  sobbed,  — 

''  Massa,  I  's  got  to  go  an'  fetch  dat 
yer  gal  *n'  little  Pompey,  'r  I  *8  be  done 
dead  afore  de  yeah  's  out ! " 

As  always,  a  woman  in  the  case  ! 

Had  it  been  his  own  case,  I  think  I 
know  my  fiither  well  enough  to  believe 
tiiat  he  would  have  started  dfrectiy  South 
for  "dat  yer  gal  'n'  littie  Pompey," 
though  he  had  to  fiice  a  frowning  world. 
But  being  John's  counsellor,  his  r6U  was 
to  counsel  moderation,  and  his  duty  to 
put  before  him  the  immense  improbabil- 
ity of  his  ever  making  a  second  passage 


5o6 


^^If  Massa  put  Guns  into  ouy  Han's'' 


[April, 


of  the  Red  Sea,  if  he  now  returned.  If 
he  were  caught  and  whipped  to  death, 
of  what  benefit  could  he  be  to  his  wife 
and  child  ?  Why  not  stay  North  and 
buy  them  ? 

But  the  marital  and  the  parental  are 
also  the  automatic  and  the  immediate. 
Reason  with  love !  As  well  with  orange- 
boughs  for  bearing  orange-buds,  or  wa* 
ter  upon  its  boiling-point  I  When  John's 
earnestness  made  my  father  realize  that 
this  is  the  truth,  he  gave  John  all  the 
available  ftmds  in  the  underground  till, 
and  started  him  off  at  six  in  the  room- 
ing. I  was  not  awake  when  he  went, 
and  felt  that  my  luck  was  down  on  me. 
I  never  shoidd  see  that  hole  where  the 
black  came  up. 

For  six  months  the  Care-Taker  of 
Ravens  had  under  His  sole  keeping  a 
brave  head  as  black  as  theirs,  and  a 
heart  like  that  of  the  pious  negro,  who, 
in  a  Southern  revival-hymn  is  thus  re- 
ferred to :  — 

"Oi  Oi 

Him  hab  fiice  jus*  like  de  crow, 

But  dc  Lor*  gib  him  heart  like  snow." 

(The  most  Southern  slaves,  who  had 
never  travelled  and  seen  snow,  found 
greater  reality  in  the  image  of  ^  cotton 
wool,"  and  used  to  sing  the  hynm  with 
that  variation.)  At  the  end  of  Uiat  time, 
contrary  to  our  most  sanguine  expecta- 
tions, John  Peterson  appeared.  Nor 
John  Peterson  alone,  for  when  he  rang 
our  door-bell  he  put  into  the  arms  of  a 
nice-looking  mulatto  woman  of  thirty  a, 
little  youngster  about  two  years  old. 

A  new  servant,  with  some  trepida- 
tion, showed  them  up  to  ^'Massa's" 
study.  We  had  weeded  John's  dialect 
of  that  word  before  he  went  away,  but 
he  had  been  six  months  since  then  in 
a  servile  atmosphere.  He  stood  at  the 
open  study -door.  My  &ther  stopped 
shaving,  and  let  the  lather  dry  on  his 
&ce,  as  he  shielded  with  his  hand  the 
eyes  he  in  vain  tried  to  believe.  Yes, 
veritably,  John  Peterson! 

But  John  Peterson  could  not  speak. 
He  choked  visibly ;  and  then^  pointing 
to  the  two  beside  him,  blurted  out, — 

*'  I 's  done  did  it,  Massa !  '*  and  broke 
entirely  down. 


Again  it  was  iEnon  generally,  and 
there  was  more  baptizing  done. 

John  had  made  a  march  somewhat 
like  Sherman's.  He  had  crossed  the 
entire  States  of  Virginia  and  Maryland, 
carrying  two  non-combatants,  and  no 
weapon  of  his  own  but  a  knife, — subsist- 
ing his  army  on  the  enemy  all  the  way, 

—  using  negro  guides  £reely,  but  never 
sending  them  back  to  their  masters,  — 
and  terminating  his  brilliant  campaign 
with  an  act  of  bold,  unconstitutional 
confiscation.  He  could  n't  have  found 
a  Chief-Jusdce  in  the  world  to  uphold 
him  in  it  at  that  time. 

Hiding  by  day  and  walking  by  night, 
with  his  boy  strapped  to  his  back  and 
his  wife  by  his  side,  he  had  come  within 
thirty  miles  of  the  Maryland  line,  when 
one  night  the  full  moon  flashed  its  Ju- 
das lantern  full  upon  him,  and,  being  in 
the  high-road,  he  naturally  enough  ^'  tuk 
a  scar'."   Freedom  only  thirty  miles  o£^ 

—  that  vast  territory  behind  him,  three 
times  traversed  for  her  dear  sake  and 
Love's, — a  slave-owner's  stable  close 
by, — a  wife  and  a  baby  crouching  in 
the  thicket,  —  God  above  saying,  **  The 
laborer  is  worthy  of  his  hire."  No 
Chief-Justice  in  the  world  could  have 
convinced  that  man. 

With  an  inspired  touch,  —  the  tactus 
eruditus  of  a  bitter  memory  and  a  glo- 
rious (hope, — Joha  felt  for  and  found 
the  best  horse  in  the  stable,  saddled 
him,  led  him  out  without  awakening  a 
soul,  and,  mounting,  took  his  wife  be- 
fore him  with  the  baby  in  her  arms.  A 
pack  of  deerhounds  came  snuffing  about 
him  as  he  rode  off;  but,  for  a  wonder, 
they  never  howled. 

<<  Oh,  Massa  1 "  said  John,  «  when  I 
see  dat,  I  knowed  we  was  safe  anyhow. 
Dat  Lor'  dat  stop  de  moufs  of  dem 
dogs  was  jus'  de  same  as  Him  dat  shut 
de  moufs  of  de  lions  in  Dannelindelines- 
den."  (I  write  it  as  he  pronounced  it 
I  think  he  thought  it  was  a  place  in  the 
Holy  Land.)  "  When  I  knowed  dat  was 
de  same  Lor',  an'  He  come  down  dar 
to  help  me,  I  rode  along  jus'  as  quiet  as 
little  Pompey  dar,  an'  neber  feared  no 
moon." 

When  he  reached  the  Pennsylvania 


i86s.] 


"If  Massa  put  Guns  into  our  Han's." 


507 


border  he  turned  back  the  horse,  and 
proceeded  on  his  way  through  a  land 
where  as  yet  there  was  no  Fugitive- 
Slave  Law,  and  those  who  sought  to  ob- 
struct the  progress  of  the  negro-hunter 
were,  as  they  ever  have  been,  many. 

After  that  I  got  by  accident  into  a 
Northern  school  -with  Southern  princi-' 
pals. 

i^thetically  it  was  a  good  school 
We  wore  kid  gloves  when  we  went  to 
meeting,  and  sat  in  a  gallery  like  a  sort 
of  steamer  over  the  boiler,  in  which  dea- 
cons and  other  large  good  people  were 
stewing,  through  long,  hot  Sunday  after- 
noons. If  we  went  to  sleep,  or  ate  cloves 
not  to  go  to  sleep,  we  were  punched  in 
the  back  with  a  real  gold-headed  cane. 
The  cane  we  felt  proud  of,  because  it 
bad  been  presented  by  the  boys,  and  it 
was  a  perpetual  compliment  to  us  to  see 
that  cane  go  down  the  street  with  our 
principal  after  it ;  but  nothing  could 
have  exceeded  our  mortification  at  be- 
ing punched  with  it  in  full  sight  of  the 
girls'-school  gallery  opposite,  we  having 
our  kid  gloves  on  at  the  time,  and  in 
some  instances  coats  with  tails,  like 
men. 

When  I  say  "  Southern  "  principals, 
I  do  not  mean  to  indicate  their  nativity ; 
for  I  suppose  no  Southerner  ever  taught 
a  Northerner  anything  until  i^uU  Run, 
when  the  lesson  was,  not  to  despise  one's 
enemy,  but  to  beat  him.  Nor  do  I  in- 
tend to  call  them  pro -slavery  men  in 
the  obnoxious  sense.  Like  many  good 
men  of  the  day,  they  depended  large- 
ly on  Southern  patronage,  and  opposed 
adl  discussion  of  what  they  called  '*  po- 
litical differences."  At  that  day,  in  most 
famous  schools,  ^  Liberty  "  used  to  be 
cut  out  of  a  boy's  composition,  if  it 
meant  anything  more  than  an  exhibi- 
tion-day splurge  with  reference  to  the 
eagle  and  the  banner  in  the  immediate 
context 

Among  the  large  crowd  of  young 
Southerners  sent  to  this  school,  I  began 
preaching  emancipation  in  my  pinafore. 
Mounted  upon  a  window-seat  in  an  al- 
cove of  the  great  play-hall,  I  passed  re- 
cess after  recess  in  haranguing  a  multi- 


tude upon  the  subject  of  Freedom,  with 
as  little  success  as  most  apostles,  and 
with  only  less  than  their  crown  of  mar- 
tyrdom, because,  though  small  boys  are 
more  malicious  than  men,  they  cannot 
hit  so  hard. 

On  one  occasion,  brought  to  bay  by 
a  sophism,  I  answered  unwisely,  but 
made  a  good  friend.  A  litde  Southerner 
(as  often  since  a  large  one)  turned  on 
me  fiercely  and  said,  — 

"  Would  you  marry  a  nigger  ?  " 

Resolved  to  die  by  my  premises,  I 
gave  a  great  gulp  and  said,  — 

"  Yes  I " 

Of  course  one  general  shout  of  deris- 
ion ascended  from  the  throng.  Noth- 
ing but  the  ringing  of  the  bell  prevent- 
ed me  from  accepting  on  the  spot  the 
challenge  to  a  fist-fight  of  a  boy  whom 
Lee  has  since  cashiered  from  his  colo- 
nelcy for  selling  the  commissions  in 
his  regiment  After  school  I  was  taken 
in  hand  by  a  gendeman,  then  one  of 
our  belles-lettres  teachers,  but  now  a 
well-known  and  eloquent  divine  in  New 
York  city,  who  for  the  first  time  showed 
me  how  to  beat  an  antagonist  by  avoid- 
ing his  deductions. 

"TeU  G.  the  next  time,"  said  the 
present  Rev.  Dr.  W.,  "  that,  if  you  saw 
a  poor  beggar-woman  dying  of  cold  and 
hunger,  you  would  do  all  in  your  power 
to  help  her,  though  you  might  be  far 
enough  from  wandng  to  marry  her." 

How  many  a  non-sequitur  of  people 
who  did  n't  sit  in  the  boys'  gallery  has 
this  simple  little  formula  of  Dr.  w.'s 
helped  me  to  shed  aside  since  then  I 

Just  after  the  John  Brown  raid,  I 
went  to  Florida.  I  remained  in  the 
State  from  the  first  of  January  till  the 
first  week  of  the  May  following.  I 
found  there  the  climate  of  Utopia,  the 
scenery  of  Paradise,  and  the  social  sys- 
tem of  HeU. 

I  am  inclined  to  think  that  the  author 
of  the  pamphlet  which  last  spring  ad- 
vocated amalgamation  was  a  Floridian. 
The  most  open  relations  of  concubinage 
existed  between  white  chevaliers  and 
black  servants  in  the  towil  of  Jackson- 
ville.   I  was  not  surprised  at  the  fact,. 


5o8 


"J/  Massa  put  Gum  into  our  Han's! 


[April, 


but  was  surprised  at  its  openness.  The 
particular  friend  of  one  fomily  belonging 
to  the  cream  of  Florida  society  was  a 
gentleman  in  thriving  business  who  had 
for  his  mistress  the  waiting-nudd  of  the 
daughters.  He  used  to  sit  composedly 
with  the  young  ladies  of  an  evening,  — 
one  of  them  playing  on  the  piano  to 
him,  the  other  smiling  upon  him  over 
a  bouquet,  —  while  the  woman  he  had 
afflicted  with  the  burdens,  without  giv- 
ing her  the  blessings,  of  marriage,  came 
in  curtsying  humbly  with  a  tea-tray. 
Everybody  understood  the  relation  per- 
fectiy;  but  not  even  the  pious  shrug- 
ged their  shoulders  or  seemed  to  care. 
One  day,  a  lank  Virginian,  wintering 
South  in  the  same  hotel  with  myself 
began  pitching  into  me  on  the  subject 
of  ^  Northern  amalgamators."  *I  called 
to  me  a  pretty  little  boy  with  the  faint- 
est tinge  of  umber  in  his  skin,  and 
pointed  him  to  the  lank  Virginian  with- 
out a  word  The  lank  Virginian  under- 
stood the  answer,  and  sat  down  to  read 
Bledsoe  on  the  Soul.  Bledsoe,  as  a 
slave-labor  growth  in  metaphysics,  (in- 
deed, the  only  Southern  metaphysician, 
if  we  except  Governor  Wise,)  is  much 
coddled  at  the  South.  I  believe,  besides, 
that  he  proves  the  divine  right  of  Sla- 
very a  priori.  If  he  begins  with  the 
**  Everlasting  Me,"  he  must  be  just  the 
kind  of  reading  for  a  slave  aristocrat 

It  is  very  amusing  to  hear  the  South- 
erners talk  of  arming  their  slaves.  I 
often  heard  them  do  it  in  Florida.  I 
have  read  such  Richmond  Congress  de- 
bates as  have  transpired  upon  the  sub- 
ject I  do  not  believe  that  any  impor- 
tant steps  will  be  taken  in  the  matter. 
I  have  known  a  master  mad  with  fear, 
when  he  saw  an  old  gun-stock  protrud- 
ing from  beneath  6ne  of  those  dog-heaps 
of  straw  and  sacking  called  beds,  in 
the  negro-quarters.  The  fact  that  it 
had  been  thrown  away  by  himself,  had 
no  barrel  attached  to  it,  and  was  picked 
up  by  a  colored  boy  who  had  a  passion 
for  carving,  hardly  prevented  the  man 
from  giving. the  innocent  author  of  his 
fnght  a  round  "  nine-and-thirty."  When 
I  was  in  Florida,  a  peculiar  set  of  marks, 


like  the  technical  *'  blaze,"  were  found 
on  certain  trees  in  that  and  the  adjoin* 
ing  State  westward.  The  people  were 
alive  in  an  instant  There  were  edito- 
rials and  meetings.  The  Southern  heart 
was  fired,  and  fired  ofL  There  was  ev- 
ery indication  of  a  negro  uprising,  and 
those  marks  pointed  the  way  to  the 
various  rendezvous.  When  they  were 
discovered  to  be  the  work  of  some  in* 
significant  rodent,  who  had  put  himself 
on  bark-tonic  to  a  degree  which  had 
never  chanced  to  be  observed  before, 
nobody  seemed  ashamed,  for  everybody 
said,  —  "  Well,  it  was  best  to  be  on  the 
safe  side ;  the  thing  might  have  hap- 
pened just  as  well  as  not"  I  do  not 
believe,  that  one  thinking  Southern  man 
(if  any  such  there  be  in  the  closing 
hours  of  a  desperate  conspiracy)  has 
any  more  idea  of  arming  his  negroes 
than  of  translating  San  Domingo  to  the 
threshold  of  his  home.  I  should  like 
to  see  the  negroes  whom  I  knew  most 
thoroughly  intrusted  with  blockade-run 
rifies,  just  by  way  of  experiment  Let 
me  recall  a  couple  of  these  acquaint* 
ances. 

The  St  John's  River  is  one  of  the 
most  picturesque  and  beautiful  streams 
in  the  world.  Its  bluffs  never  rise  high- 
er than  fifty  or  sixty  feet ;  it  has  no 
abrupt  precipices ;  the  whole  formation 
about  it  is  tertiary  and  drift  or  modem 
terrace  ;  but  its  first  eighty  miles  from 
its  mouth  are  broad  as  a  bay  of  the  sea, 
and  its  narrow  upper  course  above  Pi- 
latka,  where  current  supersedes  tide,  is 
all  one  dream  of  Eden,  —  an  infinitely 
tortuous  avenue,  peopled  with  myriads 
of  beautiful  wild-birds,  roofed  by  over- 
hanging branches  of  oak,  magnolia,  and 
cypress,  draped  with  the  moss  that 
tones  down  those  solitudes  into  a  sort 
of  day-moonlight,  and,  in  the  greatest 
contrast  with  this,  festooned  by  the 
lavish  clusters  of  odorous  yellow  jas- 
mine and  many-hued  moming-glor)',  — 
the  latter  making  a  pillar  heavy  with 
triumphal  wreaths  of  every  old  stump 
along  the  plashy  brink,  —  the  former 
swinging  from  tree-top  to  tree-top  to 
knit  the  whole  tropic  wilderness  into 


126$.] 


If  Massa  put  Guns  into  our  Han's" 


509 


a  tangle  of  emerald  chains,  drooping 
lamps  0/ golden  fire,  and  censers  of  be- 
wildering fragrance. 

To  the  hunting,  fishing,  and  explora- 
tion of  such  a  river  I  was  never  sorry 
that  I  had  brought  my  own  boat  It  was 
one  of  the  chefs  ^(tceuvres  of  my  old 
schoolmate  IngersoU,  —  a  copper-fast- 
ened, clinker-built  pleasure-boat,  pull- 
ing two  pairs  of  sculls,  fifteen  feet  long, 
ccHnfortably  accommodating  six  per- 
sons, and  adorned  by  the  builder  with 
a  complimentary  blue  and  gilt  back- 
board of  mahogany  and  a  pair  of  pre- 
sentation tiller-ropes  twisted  from  white 
and  crimson  silk. 

In  this  boat  I  and  the  companion  of 
my  exile  took  much  comfort  When 
we  intended  only  a  short  row,  —  some 
trifle  of  ten  or  twelve  miles,  —  we  al- 
ways pulled  for  ourselves  ;  but  on  long 
tours,  where  the  faculties  of  observa- 
tion would  have  been  impaired  by  the 
£itigue  of  action,  we  employed  as  our 
oarsman  a  black  man  wliom  1  shall  call 
Sol  Cutter,  —  not  knowing  on  which 
side  of  the  lines  he  may  be  at  present 

Sol,  when  we  first  discovered  him, 
was  hovering  around  the  Jacksonville 
wharves,  looking  for  a  job.  It  is  so 
novel  to  see  that  kind  of  thing  in  the 
South,  that  I  asked  him  if  he  was  a 
free  negro.  He  replied,  that  he  was  the 
slave  of  a  gendeman  who  allowed  him 
to  buy  his  time.  He  said  ^  allowed  " ; 
but  I  suspect  that  the  truer,  though 
less  delicate,  way  of  putting  it  would 
have  been  to  say  *'  obliged  "  him  to,  for 
the  sake  of  a  living.'  SoPs  ^  Mossa 
Cutter"  bad  remaining  to  him  none 
of  the  paternal  acres ;  and  it  never 
having  occurred  to  him,  that,  when 
lands  and  houses  all  are  spent,  then 
learning  is  most  excellent,  he  possessed 
none  of  that  nous  which  would  have 
enabled  a  Northern  man  to  outflank 
embarrassments  by  directing  his  forces 
into  new  channels.  Having  worked  a 
plantation,  when  he  had  no  longer  any 
plantation  to  work  he  was  compelled 
to  send  his  negroes  into  the  street  to 
earn  an  elefSmosynary  living  for  him. 
This  was  no  obloquy.  How  many  such 
men  has  eveiy  Soudiem  traveller  seen. 


—  "sons  of  the  first  South  Carolina 
£unilies,"  —  parodying  the  Caryatides 
against  the  sunny  wall  of  some  low 
grog-shop  during  a  whole  winter  after- 
noon, —  their  eyes  lisdess,  their  hands 
in  their  pockets,  their  legs  outstretched, 
their  backs  bent,  their  conversation  a 
languid  mixture  of  Cracker  dialect  and 
overseer  slang,  their  negroes'  earnings 
running  down  their  throats  at  intervals, 
as  they  change  their  outside  for  a  tem- 
porary inside  position,  —  and  all  the 
well-dressed  citizens  addressing  them 
cheerfully  as  "  Colonel "  and  "  Major," 
without  a  blush  of  shame,  as  they  go 
by  J  Goldwin  Snuth  was  right  in  point- 
ing at  such  men  as  one  of  the  former 
palliations  for  the  social  invectives  of 
the  foreign  tourist,  —  though  any  such 
tourist  with  brains  need  not  have  mis- 
taken them  for  sample  Americans,  hav- 
ing already  been  in  Boston,  New  York, 
and  Philadelphia.  The  trouble  is,  that 
foreign  tourists,  as  a  rule,  do  not  have 
brains.  At  any  rate,  they  may  say  to 
us,  as  Artemus  Ward  of  his  gifts  of 
eloquence,  —  "I  havs  them,  but  —  I 
have  n't  got  them  with  me." 

Sol  Cuttfer  paid  his  master  eight  dol- 
lars a  week.  As  he  had  to  keep  him- 
self out  of  his  remainder  earnings,  he 
was  naturally  more  enterprising  than 
most  slaves ;  and  I  took  a  fancy  to  him 
immediately.  From  the  day  I  found 
him,  he  always  went  out  with  me  on. 
my  long  rows. 

The  middle  of  a  river  six  miles  wide  > 
is  the  safest  place  that  can  be  found  at. 
the  South,  for  insurrectionary  conver- 
sation.   Even  there  I  used  to  wonder 
whether  the  Southerners  had  not  given . 
secret-service  money  to  the  alligators. 
who  occasionally  stuck  their  knobby 
noses  above  the  flood  to  scent,  our* 
colloquies. 

Sol  was  pulling  away  steadily,  having 
<* got  his  second  wind"  at  the  end i of 
the  fijvt  mile,    f  was  sittingwith  tiller- 
ropes  in  hand,  and  studying  his  strong- 
featured,  but  utterly  eipoessionless  £u:e, . 
with  deep  curiosity.    His  face  was  one : 
over  which  the  hot  loller  of  a  great  ag- 
ony  has  passed^  smofttbing  out  all. its. 
meaning. 


5IO 


^If  Massa  put  Gum  into  our  Han^s!* 


[April, 


"So  your  master  sells  you  your 
time  ?  " 

"Yes,  Mossa."  (Always  ^ Mossa^ 
never  "  Massa^'*  so  fer  South  as  this.) 

"Do  you  support  your  wife  and  chil- 
dren as  well  as  yourself  ?  " 

A  convulsive  gulp  on  the  part  of  Sol, 
but  no  reply. 

"  Have  you  never  been  married  ?  " 

**  Yes,  Mossa." 

"Is  your  wife  dead  f  " 

"  I  hope  so, — to  de  good  God,  I  hope 
so,  Mossa  I " 

Sol  leaned  forward  on  his  oars  and 
stopped  rowing.  He  panted,  he  gnashed 
his  teeth,  he  frothed  at  the  mouth,  and 
when  I  thought  he  must  be  an  epileptic, 
he  lifted  himself  up  with  one  strong 
shudder,  and  turning  on  me  a  face^tem 
as  Cato's, —  , 

"  Nebber,  nebber^  nebber,  shall  I  see 
wife  or  chil'  agin ! " 

I  then  said  openly  that  I  was  an 
Abolitionist,  —  that  I  believed  in  every 
*  man's  right  to  freedom,  —  and  that,  ais 
to  the  safest  friend  in  the  world,  he 
might  tell  me  his  story, — which  he 
thereupon  did,  and  which  was  afterward 
abundantly  corroborated  by  pro-slavery 
testimony  on  shore. 

"  Mossa  Cutter "  had  fallen  heir  in 
South  Carolina  to  a  good  plantation 
and  thirty  likely  "  niggers."  At  the  age 
of  twenty-five  he  sold  out  the  former 
and  emigrated  to  Florida  with  the  latter. 
The  price  of  the  plantation  rapidly  dis- 
appeared at  horse-races,  poker-parties, 
cock-fights,  and  rum-shops.  If  Mossa 
Cutter  speculated,  he  was  always  un- 
successful, because  he  was  alwa3rs  hot- 
headed and  always  drunk. 

Jn  process  of  time  "debts  of  honor" 
f(r\^  the  sheriff's  hammer  had  dissipat- 
ed his  entire  clientage  of  blacks,  with 
the  exception  of  Sol,  a  pretty  yellow 
woman  with  a  nice  baby,  who  were 
respectively  Sol's  wife^  and  child,  and  a 
handsome  quadroon  boy  of  seventeen, 
wbo  was.  Mossa  Cutter's  body-servant 

Sol.caiT^  to  the  quarters  one  night 
and  found  tkis  wife  and  child  gone.  They 
wena  on  their  way  to  Tallahassee  in  a 
oofHe  "Which 'had  been  made  up  as  a 
■y^Hfin  .  sjMnuJation   on   the   cheerful 


Bourse  of  Jacksonville.  Four  doors 
away  Mossa  Cutter  could  be  s^en  be- 
tween the  flaunting  red  curtains  of  a 
bar-room  window,  drinking  Sol's  heart's 
blood  at  sixpence  the  tumblerful. 

Sol,  I  hear  they  are  going  to  put  an 
English  musket  in  your  hands  ! 

Sol  fell  paralyzed  to  the  ground.  A 
moment  after,  he  was  up  on  his  feet 
again,  and,  without  thought  of  nine 
o'clock,  pass,  patrol,  or  whipping-house, 
rushing  on  the  road  likely  to  be  taken  by 
chain-gangs  to  Tallahassee.  He  reach- 
ed the  "  Piny  Woods  "  timber  on  the 
outskirts  of  the  town.  No  one  had  no- 
ticed him,  and  he  struck  madly  through 
the  sand  that  floors  those  forests,  know- 
ing no  weariness,  for  his  heart-strings 
pulled  that  way.  He  travelled  all  night 
without  overtaking  them ;  but  just  as 
the  first  gray  dawn  glimmered  between 
the  piny  plumes  behind  him,  he  heard 
the  coarse  shout  of  drivers  close  ahead, 
and  found  himself  by  the  fence  of  a 
log-hut  where  the  gang  had  huddled 
down  for  its  short  sleep.  It  was  now 
light  enough  to  travel,  and  the  drivers 
were  "geeing  "  up  their  human  cattle. 

Sol  rushed  to  his  wife  and  baby.  As 
the  man  and  woman  clasped  each  other 
in  fi^antic  caress,  the  driver  came  up^ 
and,  kicking  them,  bade  them  with  an 
oath  to  have  done. 

"  Whose  nigger  are  you  ?  "  (to  SoL) 

"I  belong  to  Mossa  Cutter.  I  's 
come  to  be  taken  along." 

"  Did  he  send  you  ?  " 

"  He  did  so,  Sah.  He  tol'  me  par* 
ticlar.  I  done  run  hard  to  catch  up 
wid  you  gemplemen,  Mossa.  Mossa 
Cutter  he  sell  me  to-day  to  be  sol'  in 
de  same  lot  wid  Nancy." 

The  drivers  went  aside  and  talked  for 
a  while,  then  took  him  on  with  them, 
and,  for  a  wonder,  did  sell  Sol  and 
Nancy  in  the  same  lot  Nancy's  and 
the  baby's  price  had  one  good  use  to 
Sol,  for  it  kept  Mossa  Cutter  for  a  week 
too  drunk  to  know  of  his  loss  or  care 
for  his  recovery. 

Sol  was  the  coachman,  Nancy  the 
laundress,  of  a  gentleman  residing  at 
the  capital.  Their  master  had  the  hap- 
py eccentricity  of  getting  more  amiable 


i86s.] 


"If  Massa  put  Guns  into  our  Han's." 


5" 


with  every  rum-toddy ;  and  as  he  never 
for  any  length  of  time  discontinued  rum- 
toddies,  the  days  of  Sol  and  Nancy  at 
Judge  Q.*s  were  halcyon. 

They  had  not  counted  on  one  of  the 
drivers  going  back  to  Jacksonville,  meet- 
ing Mossa  Cutter  over  his  libations,  and 
confidentially  confessing  to  him,  — 

"  I  tuk  a  likely  boy  o*  youm  over  to 
Tallahassee  in  that  gang  month  afore 
last." 

Sol,  if  they  had  put  a  British  gun 
in  your  hands  then  / 

Mossa  Cutter  swooped  down  on  them 
in  the  midst  of  their  happiness,  —  re- 
fused to  let  Judge  Q.  ransom  Sol  at 
twice  his  value,  —  and  tore  him  from 
his  wife  and  child.  Returning  with  him 
to  Jacksonville,  he  beat  him  almost  to 
death,  —  after  which,  he  sent  him  out  on 
the  wharves  to  earn  their  common  living. 

A  few  nights  after  the  return  of  Sol, 
Mossa  Cutter  came  home  with  mania 
apotu.  His  handsome  quadroon  body- 
servant  was  sitting  up  for  him.  Mossa 
Cutter  said  to  him,  —  » 

"You  have  the  sideboard  -  keys, — 
bring  me  that  decanter  of  brandy." 

The  boy  replied,  — 

**  Oh,  don't,  dear  Mossa !  you  surely 
kill  you'self ! " 

Upon  this,  his  master,  damning  him 
for  a  "  saucy,  disobedient  nigger,"  drew 
his  bowie-knife  and  inflicted  on  him  a 
frightful  wound  across  the  abdomen, 
frt>m  which  he  died  next  day.  A  Jack- 
sonville jury  brought  in  a  verdict  of 
accidental  death. 

That  might  have  been  another  good 
occasion  to  hand  Sol  a  musket  I 

Not  having  any,  he  remained  in  the 
proud  and  notorious  position  of"  Mossa 
Cutter's  Larst  Niggah." 

In  a  certain  part  of  Florida  (obvious 
reasons  will  show  themselves  for  leav- 
ing it  indefinite)  I  enjoyed  the  acquaint- 
ance of  two  Southern  gendemen,  —  gen- 
tlemen, however,  of  widely  different 
kinds.  One  was  a  general,  a  lawyer,  a 
rake,  a  drunkard,  and  white ;  the  other 
was  a  body-servant,  a  menial,  an  edu- 
cated man,  a  fine  man-of-business,  a  Sir 
RogA  in  his  manners,  and  black.    The 


two  had  been  brought  up  together,  the 
black  having  been  given  to  the  white 
gentleman  during  the  latter's  second 
year.  "They  had  played  marbles  in 
the  same  hole,"  the  General  said.  I 
know  that  Jim  was  unceasing  in  his  at- 
tentions to  his  master,  and  that  his  mas« 
ter  could  not  have  lived  without  them. 
A  sort  of  attachment  of  fidelity  certain- 
ly did  exist  on  Jim's  side ;  and  the  most 
selfish  man  must  feel  an  attachment  of 
need  for  the  servant  who  could  manage 
his  bank-account  and  superintend  his 
entire  interests  much  more  successfully 
than  himself^ — who  could  tend  him  with- 
out complaint  through  a  week's  sleep- 
lessness, when  he  had  the  horrors, — ^who 
was  in  fact,  to  all  intents  and  purposes, 
his  own  only  responsible  manifestation 
to  the  world. 

Jim's  wife  was  dead,  but  had  left  him 
two  sons  and  a  daughter.  When  I  first 
saw  him,  none  of  them  had  been  sold 
from  him.  The  boys  were  respectively 
eighteen  and  twenty  years  old.  Their 
sister  had  just  turned  sixteen,  and  was 
a  nice-lOoking,  modest,  mulatto  girl, 
whom  her  father  idolized  because  she 
was  looking  more  and  more  every  day 
"  like  de  oder  Sally  dat  's  gone,  Mossa." 

A  week  after  he  said  that  to  me,  Sally 
on  earth  might  well  have  prayed  to  Sally 
in  heaven  to  take  her,  for  she  was  sold 
away  into  the  horrors  of  concubinage  to 
one  of  the  wickedest  men  on  the  river. 

To  describe  the  result  of  this  act  up- 
on Jim  is  beyond  my  power,  if  indeed 
my  heart  would  allow  me  to  repeat 
such  sorrow.  It  was  not  violent, — but, 
O  South,  South,  lying  on  a  volcano,  if 
all  your  negroes  had  been  violent,  how 
much  better  for  you ! 

Jim,  I  hear  they  intend  to  give  you 
arifie! 

Well,  as  to  that,  I  remember  Jim  had 
heard  of  such  things. 

Boarding  at  the  same  hotel  with  the 
General,  I  sat  also  at  the  same  table. 
When  he  was  well  enough  to  come 
down  to  his  meals,  he  occupied  the  third 
chai^  below  me  on  the  opposite  side. 

One  night,  when  all  the  boarders  but 
ourselves  had  left  the  tea-room,  the  Gen- 
eral, being  confidentially  sober,  (I  say 


512 


^If  Massa  put  Guns  into  our  Han^s!*  [April. 


sober,  for  when  he  reached  the  confi- 
dential he  was  on  the  rising  scale,)  be- 
gan talking  politics  with  me. 

"I  see  in  the  'Mercury,'"  said  the 
General,  "  that  some  of  your  Northern 
scum  are  making  preparations  for  an- 
other John  Brown  raid  into  Virginia.'' 

"  Oh,  no,  I  fancy  not  That 's  sensa- 
tion." 

**  Well,  now,  you  just  look  h*y'ere ! 
If  they  do  come,  d*  ye  know  what  /  *m 
gwine  to  do !  If  I  'm  too  feeble  to  walk 
or  ride  a  hoss,  I  'U  crawl  on  my  knees 
to  the  banks  of  the  Potomac,  and  " 

<<What,  with  those  ne^  Northern- 
made  pantaloons  on?" 

^  D'  interrupt  me.  Sir.  I  'U  crawl  on 
my  knees  to  the  bank  of  the  Potomac 
and  defend  Old  Virginny  to  the  last 
gasp.  She  's  my  sister.  Sir !  So  'U  all 
the  negroes  fight  for  her.  Talk  about 
our  not  trusting  'em  1  Here  's  Jim. 
He  's  got  all  the  money  I  have  in  the 
world ;  takes  care  of  me  when  I  'm  sick ; 
comes  after  me  to  the  Gem  when  I  *m — 
a  little  not  myself,  you  know ;  sees  me 
home ;  puts  me  to  bed,  and  never  leaves 
me.  Faithful  as  a  hound,  by  Heavens ! 
Why,  I  'd  trust  him  with  my  life  in  a 

minute.  Sir!     Yes,  Sir,  and Oh, 

yes  !  we  '11  just  arm  our  niggers,  and  put 
'em  in  the  front  ranks  to  make  'em  shoot 
their  brothers.  Sir ! " 

I  said,  '<  Ah  ?  "  and  the  General  went 
out  to  take  a  drink,  leaving  Jim  and  my- 
self alone  together  at  the  table. 

The  remaining  five  minutes,  before 
I  finished  my  tea,  Jim  seemed  very  rest- 
less. Just  as  I  rose  to  go^  he  said  to 
me, — 

*'  Mossa,  could  you  hab  de  great  kin'- 
ness  to  come  out  to  de  quarters  to  see 
Peter?"  (his  eldest  boy,) — "he  done 
catch  bery  bad  col',  Sah." 

I  was  physician  in  ordinary  to  the 
servants  in  that  hotel  In  every  distress 
they  called  on  me.  I  told  Jim  that  I 
would  gladly  accompany  him.  When 
we  got  to  a  considerable  distance  from 
the  main  houses,  Jim  stopped  under  an 
immense  magnolia,  and,  drawing  me  in- 
to its  shade,  said,  after  a  sweeping  glance 
in  all  directions, — 

'<0h,  Mossa!  is  dat  true,  dat  dem 


dere  Abolitionists  is  a-comin'  down  here 
to  save  us,  —  to  redeem  us,  Mossa  ?  Is 
dey  a-comin'  to  take  pity  on  us,  Mossa, 
an'  take  dis  people  out  of  hell  ?  Oh,  is 
dey,  is  dey,  Mossa  ?  " 

I  told  Jim  that  they  werfe  very  weak 
and  few  in  number  just  now ;  but  that 
in  a  few  years  there  would  be  nobody 
but  them  at  the  North,  and  then  they  'd 
come  down  a  hundred  thousand  strong. 
(I  said  one  hundred  thousand,  the  mod- 
em army  not  yet  having  been  dreamed 
of.)    I  told  him  to  bide  the  Lord's  time. 

He  cast  a  fainting  glance  over  to  that 
window  in  the  negro  quarters,  dark  now, 
where  his  little  Sally  used  to  ply  her 
skilful  needle.  Then  he  tossed  his 
hands  wildly  into  the  air,  and  cried 
out, — 

"  Lord^s  time !  Oh,  is  der  any  Lord  ?  " 

I  clasped  him  by  the  hand  and  said,  — 

•*  Kf^,  my  poor,  broken-hearted  — 
brother/'' 

That  word  feU  on  his  ear  for  the  first 
time  from  a  white  man's  lips,  and  the 
stupefaction  of  it  was  a  countercheck  to 
his  grief 

He  became  perfectly  calm,  and  clasp- 
ed me  by  the  hands  gently,  like  a  child. 

"Mossa,  you  mean  dat?  To  me, 
Mossa  ?  Dear  Mossa,  den  I  will  try 
for  to  bide  de  Lord's  time !  But," 
(here  his  face  grew  black  in  the  grow- 
ing moonlight,  with  a  deeper  blackness 
than  complexion,) — "but,  if  de  Mossas 
only  do  put  de  guns  into  our  ban's,  oh, 
dey  '^ II  find  out  which  side  we '//  turn  'em 
on!" 

Jim,  I  hope  yon  have  arms  in  your 
hands  long  ere  this,  and  have  done  good 
work  with  them !  I  hope  Sol  has  also. 
Either  of  you  has  enough  of  the  mr  ^^ 
intra  to  make  a  good  soldier.  As  you 
won't  know  what  that  means,  Jim  and 
Sol,  I  'U  tell  you, — it 's  a  broken  heart 

But  whether  Sol  and  Jim  have  arms 
in  their  hands  or  not,  by  all  means  arm 
the  rest 

Wanted,  two  hundred  thousand  Brit- 
ish muskets  to  arm  as  many  likely  nig- 
gers, — all  warranted  equal  to  samples, 
Sol  and  Jim,  —  same  make,  same  tem- 
per. Blockade-runners  had  better  ap- 
ply immediately.  « 


THE 


ATLANTIC    MONTHLY. 

A  Magazine  of  Literature,  Art,  and  Politics. 


VOL.  XV.  — MAY,   1865.  — NO.   XCI. 


WITH    THE    BIRDS. 


NOT  in  the  spirit  of  exact  science, 
but  rather  with  the  freedom  of 
love  and  old  acquaintance,  would  I  cel- 
ebrate some  of  the  minstrels  of  the  field 
and  forest,  —  these  accredited  and  au- 
thenticated poets  of  Nature. 

All  day,  while  the  rain  has  pattered 
and  murmured,  have  I  heard  the  notes 
of  the  Robin  and  the  Wood-Thrush ; 
the  Red-Eyed  Flycatcher  has  pursued 
his  game  within  a  few  feet  of  my  win- 
dow, darting  with  a  low,  complacent 
warble  amid  the  dripping  leaves,  look- 
ing as  dry  and  unruffled  as  if  a  drop  of 
nun  had  never  touched  him ;  the  Cat- 
Bird  has  flirted  and  attitudinized  on  my 
garden  -  fence ;  the  House -Wren  stop- 
ped a  moment  between  the  showers, 
and  indulged  in  a  short,  but  spirited, 
rehearsal  under  a  large  leaf  in  the 
grape-arbor ;  the  King- Bird  advised  me 
of  his  proximity,  as  he  went  by  on  his 
mincing  flight ;  and  the  Chimney-Swal- 
lows have  been  crying  the  child's  rid- 
dle of  **  Chippy^  chippy^  chirtyo^^  about 
the  house-top. 

With  these  angels  and  ministers  of 
grace  thus  to  attend  me,  even  in  the 
seclusion  of  my  closet,  I  am  led  more 
than  ever  to  expressions  of  love  and 


admiration.  I  understand  the  enthusi- 
asm of  Wilson  and  Audubon,  and  see 
how  one  might  forsake  house  and 
home  and  go  and  live  with  them  the 
free  life  of  the  woods. 

To  the  dissecting,  classifying  scien- 
tist a  bird  may  be  no  more  perfect  or 
lovable  than  a  squirrel  or  a  fish  ;  yet  to 
me  it  seems  that  all  the  excellences  of 
the  animal  creation  converge  and  cen- 
tre in  this  nymph  of  the  air ;  a  warbler 
seems  to  be  the  finishing  stroke. 

First,  there  is  its  hght,  delicate,  a^al 
organization, — consequently,  its  vivaci- 
ty, its  high  temperature,  the  depth  and 
rapidity  of  its  inspirations,  and  likewise 
the  intense,  gushing,  lyrical  character 
(^  its  life.  How  hot  he  is  1  how  fut 
he  lives  i  — as  if  his  air  had  more  oxy- 
gen than  ours,  or  his  body  less  clay. 
How  slight  a  wound  kills  him  1  how 
exquisite  his  sensations  I  how  perfect 
his  nervous  system !  and  hence  how 
large  his  brain !  Why,  look  at  the  cer- 
ebral development  of  this  tiny  songster, 
•—-almost  a  third  larger,  in  proportion 
to  the  size  of  its  body,  than  that  of 
Shakspeare  even  1  Does  it  mean  noth- 
ing ?  You  may  observe  that  a  warbler 
has  a  much  larger  brain  and  a  much 


Eateretl  according  to  Act  of  Congresn,  in  the  year  1865,  by  Tick  nor  and  Fiblds,  ia  the  Qerk't  Oftee 

of  the  District  Court  of  the  District  of  BCasauhusetbk 

VOL.  XV.  —  NO.  91.  33 


5H 


Wit  A  the  Birds. 


[May, 


finer  cerebral  organization  throughout 
than  a  bird  of  prey,  or  any  of  the  Picus 
&mily  even.  Does  it  signify  nothing  ? 
I  gaze  into  the  eyes  of  the  Gazelle,  — 
eyes  that  will  admit  of  no  epithet  or 
comparison,  —  and  the  old  question  of 
preexistence  and  transmigration  rises 
afresh  in  my  mind,  and  something  like 
a  dim  recognition  of  kinship  passes.  I 
turn,  this  Thrush  in  my  hand,  —  I  re- 
member its  strange  ways,  the  curious 
look  it  gave  me,  its  ineffable  music,  its 
freedom,  and  its  ecstasy, — and  I  trem- 
ble lest  I  have  slain  ^  being  diviner 
than  myself 

And  then  there  is  its  freedom,  its  su- 
perior powers  of  locomotion,  its  triumph 
over  time  and  space.  The  reptile  meas- 
ures its  length  upon  the  ground ;  the 
quadruped  enjoys  a  more  complete  libr 
eration,  and  is  related  to  the  earth  less 
closely;  man  more  still;  and  the  bird 
most  of  alL  Over  our  heads,  where 
our  eyes  travel,  but  our  bodies  follow 
not,  —  in  the  free  native  air,  —  is  his 
home.  The  trees  are  his  temples  and 
his  dwellings,  and  the  breezes  sing  his 
lullaby.  He  needs  no  sheltering;  for 
the  rain  does  not  wet  him.  He  need 
fear  no  cold  ;  for  the  tropics  wait  upon 
his  wings.  He  is  the  nearest  visible 
representation  of  l  spirit  I  know  of. 
He  flUsy  —  the  superlative  of  locomo* 
tion;  the  poet  in  his  most  audacious 
dreams  dare  confer  no  superior  power 
on  flesh  and  blood.  Sound  and  odor 
are  no  more  native  to  the  air  than  is 
the  Swallow.  Look  at  this  marvellous 
creature  1  He  can  reverse  the  order 
of  the  seasons,  and  almost  keep  the 
morning  or  the  sunset  constantly  in  his 
eye,  or  outstrip  the  west-wind  cloud. 
Does  he  subsist  upon  air  or  odor,  that 
he  is  forever  upon  the  wing,  and  never 
deigns  to  pick  a  seed  or  crumb  from 
the  earth  ?  Is  he  an  embodied  thought 
projected  from  the  brain  of  some  mad 
poet  in  the  dim  past,  and  sent  to  teach 
OS  a  higher  geometry  of  curves  and 
spirals  ?  See  him  with  that  feather 
high  in  air,  dropping  it  and  snapping 
it  up  again  in  the  very  glee  of  super- 
abundant vitality,  and  in  his  sudden  ev- 
olutions and  spiral  gamboUings  seem- 


ing more  a  creature  of  the  imagination 
than  of  actual  sight ! 

And,  again,  their  coming  and  goin^ 
how  curious  and  suggestive  I  We  go 
out  in  the  morning,  and  do  Thrush  or 
Vireo  is  to  be  heard  ;  we  go  out  again, 
and  every  tree  and  grove  is  musical ; 
yet  again,  and  all  is  silent.  Who  saw 
th^m  come  ?  who  saw  them  depart  \ 
This  pert  littie  Winter -Wren,  for  in- 
stance, darting  in  and  out  the  fence,  div- 
ing under  the  rubbish  here  and  com- 
ing up  yards  away,  —  how  does  he 
manage  with  those  littie  circular  wings 
to  compass  degrees  and  zones,  and  ar- 
rive always  in  the  nick  of  time  ?  Last 
August  I  saw  him  in  the  remotest  wilds 
of  the  Adirondack,  impatient  and  in- 
quisitive as  usual ;  a  few  weeks  later, 
on  the  Potomac,  I  was  greeted  by  the 
same  hardy  litUe  busybody.  Doe^  he 
travel  by  easy  stages  from  bush  to 
bush  and  from  wood  to  wood  ?  or  has 
that  compact  litde  body  force  and  coiur- 
age  to  brave  the  night  and  the  upper 
air,  and  so  achieve  leagues  at  one  pull  ? 
And  yonder  Bluebird,  with  the  hue  of 
the  Bermuda  sky  upon  his  back,  as 
Thoreau  would  say,  and  the  flush  of  its 
dawn  upon  his  breast,  —  did  he  come 
down  out  of  heaven  on  that  bright 
March  morning  when  he  told  us  so 
sofUy  and  plaintively,  that,  if  we  pleas- 
ed, spring  had  come  ? 

About  the  middle  of  September  I  go 
out  in  the  woods,  and  am  attracted  by 
a  faint  piping  and  lisping  in  the  tops 
of  the  Oadcs  and  Chestnuts.  \  Tiny  fig- 
ures dart  to  and  fro  so  rapidly  that  it 
pains  the  eye  to  follow  them,  and  I 
discover  that  the  Black-Poll  Warbler  is 
paying  me  a  return  visit  Presently  I 
likewise  perceive  a  troop  of  Redstarts, 
.or  Green-Backed  Warblers,  or  Golden 
and  Ruby- Crowned  Wrens,  flashing 
through  the  Chestnut-branches,  or  hang- 
ing like  jewels  on  the  Cedar-sprays.  A 
week  or  two  later,  and  my  darlings  are 
gone,  another  love  is  in  my  heart,  and 
other  voices  fill  my  ears.  But  so  unap- 
parent  and  mysterious  are  the  coming 
and  going,  that  I  look  upon  each  as  a 
special  Providence,  and  value  them  as 
visitants  from  another  sphere. 


1865.] 


WitA  Hu  Birds. 


515 


The  migration  of  the  Pigeons,  Ducks, 
and  Geese  is  obvious  enough ;  we  see 
them  stream  across  the  heavens,  or  hear 
their  (iang  in  the  night ;  but  these  min- 
strels of  the  field  and  forest  add  to  their 
other  charms  a  shade  of  mystery,  ancl 
pique  the  imagination  by  their  invisible 
and  unknown  joumeyings.  To  be  sure, 
we  know  they  follow  the  opening  season 
north  and  the  retreating  summer  south  ; 
but  who  will  point  to  the  parallels  that 
mark  the  limits  of  their  wandering,  or 
take  us  to  their  most  secret  haunts  ? 

What  greater  marvel  than  this  simple 
gift  of  music  ?  What  beside  birds  and 
the  human  species  sing?  It  is  the 
crowning  gift ;  through  it  the  field  and 
forest  are  justified.  Nature  said,  *'  These 
rude  forms  and  forces  must  have  a 
spokesman  of  their  own  niu-sing ;  here 
are  flowers  and  odor,  let  there  be  mu- 
sic also."  I  suspect  the  subtile  spirit 
of  the  meadow  took  form  in  the  Bob- 
olink, that  the  high  pasture-lands  be- 
got the  Vesper-Sparrow,  and  that  from 
the  imprisoned  sense  and  harmony  of 
the  forests  sprang  the  Wood-Thrush. 

From  the  life  of  birds  being  on  a 
knore  intense  and  vehement  scale  than 
that  of  other  animals  result  their  mu- 
sical gifts  and  their  holiday  expression 
of  joy.  How  restless  and  curious  they 
are  !  Their  poise  and  attitudes,  how  va- 
rious, rapid,  and  graceful  f  They  are  a 
study  for  an  artist,  especially  as  exhib- 
ited in  the  Warblers  and  Flycatchers : 
their  looks  of  alarm,  of  curiosity,  of 
repose,  of  watchfiilness,  of  joy,  so  ob- 
vious and  expressive,  yet  as  impossible 
of  reproduction  as  their  music.  Even 
yf  the  naturalist  were  to  succeed  In  im- 
parting all  their  wild  extravagances  of 
poise  and  motion  to  their  inanimate 
forms,  his  birds,  to  say  the  least,  would 
have  a  very  theatrical  or  melodramatic 
Aspect,  and  seem  unreal  in  proportion 
to  their  fidelity  to  Nature.  I  have  seen 
a  Blue  Jay  alone,  saluting  and  admiring 
himself  in  the  mirror  of  a  little  pool  of 
water  from  a  low  overhanging  branch, 
assume  so  many  graceful,  novel,  as  well 
as  ridiculous  and  fantastic  attitudes,  as 
would  make  a  taxidermist  run  mad  to 
attempt  to  reproduce ;  and  the  rich  med- 


ley of  notes  he  poured  forth  at  the 
same  time^— chirping,  warbling,  cooing, 
.  whistling,  chattering,  revealing  rare  mu- 
sical and  imitative  powers— would  have 
been  an  equally  severe  test  to  the  com<« 
poser  who  should  have  aspired  to  re- 
port them ;  and  the  indignant  air  of 
outraged  privacy  he  assumed,  on  find- 
ing himself  discovered,  together  with 
his  loud,  angry  protest,  as,  with  crown 
depressed  and  pltunage  furled,  he  rap- 
idly ascended  to  the  topmost  branch  of 
a  tall  Birch,  the  better  to  proclaim  my 
perfidy  to  the  whole  world,  would  have 
excited  the  interest  and  applause  of  the 
coolest  observer. 

So  much  in  a  general  s^nse ;  but  let 
me  discriminate ;  ^  for  my  purpose 
holds"  to  call  my  fovorites  by  name, 
and  point  them  out  to  you,  as  the  tune- 
ful procession  passes. 

Every  stage  of  the  advancing  season 
gives  prominence  to  certain  birds  as  to 
certain  flowers.  The  Dandelion  tells 
me  when  to  look  for  the  Swallow,  and 
I  know  the  Thrushes  will  not  linger 
when  the  Orchis  is  in  bloom.  In  my 
latitude,  April  is  emphatically  the  month 
of  the  Robin.  In  large  numbers  they 
scour  the  fields  and  groves.  You  hear 
their  piping  in  the  meadow,  in  the  pas- 
ture, on  the  hillside.  Walk  in  the  woods, 
and  the  dry  leaves  rustle  with  the  whir 
of  their  wings,  the  air  is  vocal  with 
their  cheery  call.  In  excess  of  joy  and 
vivacity,  they  run,  leap,  scream,  chase 
each  other  through  the  air,  diving  and 
sweeping  among  the  trees  with  perilous 
rapidity. 

In  that  free,  fiucinating,  half- work 
and  half-play  pursuit,  —  sugar-makings 
— a  pursuit  which  still  lingers  in  many 
parts  of  New  York,  as  in  New  Englanc^ 
the  Robin  is  one's  boon  companion. 
When  the  day  is  sunny  and  the  ground 
bare,  you  meet  him  at  all  points  and 
hear  him  at  all  hours.  At  sunset,  on 
the  tops  of  the  tall  Maples,  with  look 
heavenward,  and  in  a  spirit  of  utter  aban- 
donment, he  carols  his  simple  strain. 
And  sitting  thus  amid  the  stark,  silent 
trees,  above  the  wet,  cold  earth,  with 
the  chill  of  winter  still  in  the  air,  there 
is  no  fitter  or  sweeter  songster  in  the 


5i6 


Witk  the  Birds. 


[May, 


whole  round  year.  It  is  in  keeping  with 
the  scene  and  the  occasion,  j^dw  round 
and  genuine  the  notes  are,  and  how 
eagerly  our  ears  drink  them  in  !  The 
first  ut;terance,  and  the  spell  of  winter 
is  thoroughly  broken  and  the  remem- 
brance of  it  afar  off 

Robin  is  one  of  the  most  native  and 
democratic  of  our  birds ;  he  is  one  of 
the  family,  and  seems  much  nearer  to 
us  than  those  rare,  exotic  visitants,  as 
the  Orchard'Starling  or  Rose-Breasted 
Grosbeak,  with  their  distant,  high-bred 
ways.  Hardy,  noisy,  fix>licsome,  neigh- 
borly and  domestic  in  his  ways,  strong 
of  wing  and  bold  in  spirit,  he  is  the 
pioneer  of  the  Thrush  fiunily,  and  well 
worthy  of  the  finer  artists  whose  com- 
ing he  heralds  and  in  a  measure  pre- 
pares us  for. 

I  could  wish  Robin  less  native  and 
plebeian  in  one  respect,  —  the  building 
of  his  nest  Its  coarse  material  and 
rough  masonry  are  creditable  neither 
to  his  skill  as  a  workman  nor  to  his 
taste  as  an  artist  I  am  the  more  for- 
cibly reminded  of  his  deficiency  in  this 
respect  from  observing  yonder  Hum- 
ming-Bird's nest,  which  is  a  marvel  of 
fitness  and  ad^^tation,  a  proper  set- 
ting for  this  winged  gem,  —  die  body 
of  it  composed  of  a  white,  felt-like  sub- 
stance, probably  the  down  of  some  plant 
or  the  wool  of  some  worm,  and  toned 
down  in  keeping  with  the  branch  on 
which  it  sits  by  minute  tree-lichens, 
woven  together  by  threads  as  fine  and 
fifail  as  gossamer.  From  Robin's  good 
looks  and  musical  turn  we  might  rea- 
sonably predict  a  domicil  of  equal  fit- 
ness and  elegance.  At  least  I  demand 
of  him  as  clean  and  handsome  a  nest 
as  the  King-Bird's,  whose  harsh  jingle, 
compared  with  Robin's  evening  melo- 
dy, is  as  the  clatter  of  pots  and  kettles 
beside  the  tone  of  a  flute.  I  love  his 
note  and  ways  better  even  than  those 
of  the  Orchard-Starling  or  the  Balti- 
more Oriole ;  yet  his  nest,  compared 
with  theirs,  is  a  half-subterranean  hut 
contrasted  with  a  Roman  villa.  There 
IS  something  courtly  and  poetical  in  a 
pensile  nest  Next  to  a  castle  in  the 
air  is  a  dwelling  suspended  to  the  slen- 


der branch  of  a  tall  tree,  swayed  and 
rocked  forever  by  the  wind.  Why  need 
wings  be  afi^d  of  fjadling  ?  Why  build 
only  where  boys  can  climb?  After 
all,  we  must  set  it  doilfn  to  the  account 
of  Robin's  democratic  turn;  he  is  no 
aristocrat,  but  one  of  the  people ;  and 
therefore  we  should  expect  stability 
in  his  workmanship^  rather  than  ele- 
gance. 

Another  April  bird,  which  makes  her 
appearance  sometimes  earlier  and  some- 
times later  than  Robin,  and  whose  mem- 
ory I  fondly  cherish,  fs  the  Phcebe-Bird, 
{Afuscicapa  nuncioia^  the  pioneer  of 
the  Flycatchers.  In  the  inland  farming 
districts,  I  used  to  notice  her,  on  some 
bright  morning  about  Easter-day,  pro- 
claiming her  arrival  with  much  variety 
of  motion  and  attitude,  fi:t>m  the  peak 
of  the  bam  or  hay-shed.  As  yet,  you 
may  have  heard  only  the  plaintive,  home- 
sick note  of  the  Bluebird,  or  the  faint 
trill  of  the  Song-Sparrow ;  and  Phcebe's 
clear,  vivacious  assurance  of  her  veri- 
table bodily  presence  among  us  again 
is  welcomed  by  all  ears.  At  agreeable 
intervals  in  her  lay  she  describes  a  cir- 
cle or  an  eUipse  in  the  air,  ostensibly 
prospecting  for  insects,  but  really,  I 
suspect,  as  an  artistic  flourish,  thrown 
in  to  make  up  in  some  way  for  the  de- 
ficiency of  her  musical  performance.  If 
plainness  of  dress  indicates  powers  of 
song,  as  it  usually  does,  then  Phoebe 
ought  to  be  unrivalled  in  musical  abil- 
ity, for  surely  that  ashen-gray  suit  is 
the  superlative  of  plainness ;  and  that 
form,  likewise,  though  it  might  pass  for 
the  *'  perfect  figure  "  of  a  bird,  measured 
by  Joe  Gargery's  standard,  to  a  fastidi- 
ous taste  would  present  exceptionable 
points.  The  seasonableness  of  her  com- 
ing, however,  and  her  civil,  neighborly 
ways,  shall  make  up  for  all  deficiencies 
in  song  and  plumage,  and  remove  any 
suspicions  we  may  have  had,  that,  per- 
haps, from  some  cause  or  other,  she  was 
in  some  slight  dis&vor  with  Nature.  Af- 
ter a  few  weeks  Phoebe  is  seldom  seen, 
except  as  she  darts  firom  her  moss-cov- 
ered nest  beneath  some  bridge  or  shelv- 
ing cliff. 

Another  April  comer,  who  arrives 


186$.] 


JVM  the  Birds. 


517 


shortly  after  Robin  -  Redbreast,  with 
whom  he  associates  both  at  this  season 
and  in  the  autumn,  is  the  Golden-Wing- 
ed Woodpecker^  alias,  "High-Hole," 
alias, "  Flicker,"  alias,  «  Yanip."  He  is 
an  old  favorite  of  my  boyhood,  and  his 
note  to  me  means  very  much.  He  an- 
nounces his  arrival  by  a  long,  loud  call, 
repeated  from  the  dry  branch  of  some 
tree,  or  a  stake  In  the  fence.  —  a  thor- 
oughly melodious  April  sound.  I  think 
how  Solomon  finished  that  beautiful 
climax  on  Spring,  "And  the  voice  of 
the  turtle  is  heard  in  our  land,"  and 
see  that  a  description  of  Spring  in  this 
^urming  country,  to  be  equally  charac- 
teristic, should  culminate  in  like  man- 
ner, —  "  And  the  call  of  the  High-Hole 
comes  up  from  the  wood." 

It  is  a  loud,  strong,  sonorous  call,  and 
does  not  seem  to  imply  an  answer,  but 
rather  to  subserve  some  purpose  of  love 
or  music.  It  is  "Yarup's"  proclama- 
tion of  peace  and  good-will  to  all.  On 
looking  at  the  matter  closely,  I  perceive 
that  most  birds,  not  denominated  song- 
sters, have,  in  the  springj  some  note  or 
sound  or  call  that  hints  of  a  song,  and 
answers  imperfectly  the  end  of  beauty 
and  art  As  a  "  brighter  iris  comes  up- 
on the  burnished  dove, "''and  the  fancy  of 
the  young  man  turns  lightly  to  thoughts 
of  his  pretty  cousin,  so  the  same  renew- 
ing spirit  touches  the  "  silent  singers," 
and  they  are  no  longer  dumb ;  &intly 
they  lisp  the  first  syllables  of  the  mar- 
vellous tale.  Witness  the  clear,  sweet 
whistle  of  the  Gray-Crested  Titmouse, 
—  the  soft,  nasal  piping  of  the  Nut- 
hatch, —  the  amorous,  vivacious  warble 
of  the  Bluebird,  —  the  long,  rich  note 
of  the  Meadow- Lark,  —  the  whistle  of 
the  Quail,  —  the  drumming  of  the  Par- 
tridge,—  the  animation  and  loquacity 
of  the  Swallows,  and  the  like.  Even 
the  Hen  has  a  homely,  contented  carol ; 
and  I  credit  the  Owls  with  a  desire  to 
fill  the  night  with  music.  All  birds  are 
incipient  or  would-be  songsters  in  the 
spring.  I  find  corroborative  evidence 
of  this  even  in  the  crowing  of  the  Cock. 
The  flowering  of  the  Maple  is  not  so 
obvious  as  that  of  the  Magnolia ;  nev- 
ertlieless,  there  is  actual  inflorescence. 


Neither  Wilson  nor  Audubon,  I  be- 
lieve, awards  any  song  to  that  familiar 
little  Sparrow,  the  Socialisj  yet  who- 
that  has  observed  him  sitting  by  the 
wayside,  and  repeating,  with  devout  at- 
titude, that  fine  sliding  chant,  does  not 
recognize  the  neglect  ?  Who  has  heard 
the  Snow-Bird  sing.^  Not  the  ornithol- 
ogist, it  seems ;  yet  he  has  a  lisping 
warble  very  savory  to  the  ear.  I  have 
heard  him  indulge  in  it  even  in  February. 

Even  the  Cow-Bunting  feels  the  mu- 
sical tendency,  and  aspires  to  its  ex- 
pression, trith  the  rest  Perched  upon 
the  topmost  branch  beside  his  mate  or 
mates,  — for  he  is  quite  a  polygamist, 
and  usually  has  two  or  three  demure 
little  ladies  in  foded  black  beside  him, 
—  generally  in  the  early  part  of  the  day^ 
he  seems  literally  to  vomit  up  his  notes. 
Apparently  with  much  labor  and  effort, 
they  gurgle  and  blubber  up  out  of  him^ 
falling  on  the  ear  with  a  peculiar  subtile 
ring,  as  of  turning  water  fi'om  a  glass 
jug,  and  not  without  a  certain  pleasing 
cadence. 

Neither  is  the  common  Woodpecker 
entirely  insensible  to  the  wooing  of  the 
spring,  and,  like  the  Partridge,  testifies 
his  appreciation  of  melody  after  quite  a 
primitive  fiishion.  Passing  through  the 
woods,  on  some  clear,  still  morning  in 
March,  while  the  metallic  ring  and  ten- 
sion of  winter  are  still  in  the  earth  and 
air,  the  silence  is  suddenly  broken  by 
long,  resonant  hammering  upon  a  dry 
limb  or  stub.  It  is  Downy  beating  a 
reveille  to  Spring.  In  the  utter  stillness 
and  amid  the  rigid  forms  we  listen  with 
pleasure,  and  as  it  comes  to  my  ear  oftr 
ener  at  this  season  than  at  any  other,  I 
freely  exonerate  the  author  of  it  fi'om 
the  imputation  of  any  gastronomic  mo- 
tives, and  credit  him  with  a  genuiat 
musical  performance. 

It  is  to  be  expected,  therefore^  that 
"  Yellow-Hammer  "  will  respond  to. the 
general  tendency,  and  contribute  his  part 
to  the  spring  chorus.  His  April  call  is 
his  finest  touch,  his  most  musical  ex- 
pression. 

I  recall  an  ancient  Maple  standing 
sentry  to  a  large  Sugar-Bush,  that,  year 
after  year,  afibrded  prolectijcui  to  a  brood 


5i8 


WiiA  ttu  Birds. 


[May, 


of  Yellow-tlammers  in  its  decayed  heart 
A  week  or  two  before  the  nesting  seemed 
actually  to  have  begun,  three  or  four  of 
these  birds  might  be  seen,  on  almost  any 
bright  morning,  gambolling  and  courts 
ing  amid  its  decayed  branches.  Some- 
times you  would  hear  only  a  gentle,  per- 
suasive cooing,  or  a  quiet,  confidential 
chattering,  —  then  that  long,  loud  call, 
taken  up  by  first  one,  then  another,  as 
they  sat  about  upon  the  naked  limbs,  — 
anon,  a  sort  of  wild,  rollicking  laughter, 
intermingled  with  various  cries,  yelps, 
and  squeals,  as  if  some  inciddht  had  ex- 
cited their  mirth  and  ridicule.  Whether 
this  social  hilarity  and  boisterousness  is 
in  celebration  of  the  pairing  or  mating 
ceremony,  or  whether  it  is  only  a  sort 
of  annual  ^  house-warming  "  common 
among  High- Holes  on  resuming  their 
summer  quarters,  is  a  question  upon 
which  I  reserve  my  judgment 

Unlike  most  of  his  kinsmen,  the 
Golden- Wing  prefers  the  fields  and  the 
borders  of  the  forest  to  the  deeper  se- 
clusion of  the  woods, — and  hence,  con- 
trary to  the  habit  of  his  tribe,  obtains 
most  of  his  subsistence  firom  the  ground, 
boring  for  ants  and  crickets.  He  is  not 
quite  satisfied  with  being  a  Woodpeck- 
er. He  courts  the  society  of  the  Robin 
and  the  Finches,  abandons  the  trees  for 
the  meadow,  and  feeds  eagerly  upon 
berries  and  grain.  What  may  be  the 
final  upshot  of  this  course  of  living  is 
a  question  worthy  the  attention  of  Dar- 
win. Will  his  taking  to  the  ground  and 
his  pedestrian  feats  result  in  lengthen- 
ing his  legs,  his  feeding  upon  berries 
and  grains  subdue  his  tints  and  soft- 
en his  voice,  and  his  associating  with 
Robin  put  a  song  into  his  heart  ? 

Indeed,  what  would  be  more  interest- 
ing than  the  history  of  our  birds  for  the 
last  two  or  three  centuries  ?  There  can 
be  no  doubt  that  the  presence  of  man 
has  exerted  a  very  marked  and  fiiend- 
ly  influence  upon  them,  since  they  so 
multiply  in  his  society.  The  birds  of 
California,  it  is  said,  were  mostly  silent 
till  after  its  settlement,  and  I  doubt  if 
the  Indians  heard  the  Wood-Thrush  as 
we  hear  him.  Where  did  the  Bobolink 
disport  himself  before  there  were  mead- 


ows in  the  North  and  rice-fields  in  the 
South  ?  Was  he  the  same  .blithe,  mer- 
ry-hearted beau  then  as  now?  And 
the  Sparrow,  the  Lark,  and  the  Gold-i 
finch,  birds  that  seem  so  indigenous  to 
the  open  fields  and  so  averse  to  the 
woods, — we  cannot  conceive  of  their 
existence  in  a  vast  wilderness  and  with- 
out man.  Did  they  grow,  like  the  flow- 
ers, when  the  conditions  favorable  to 
their  existence  were  established? 

But  to  return.  The  Bluebird  and 
Song-Sparrow,  these  universal  &vor- 
ites  and  firstlings  of  the  spring,  come 
before  April,  and  their  names  are 
household  words. 

May  is  the  month  of  the  Swallows 
and  the  Orioles.  There  are  many  other 
distinguished  arrivals,  indeed  nine  tenths 
of  the  birds  are  here  by  the  last  week 
in  May,  yet  the  Swallows  and  Orioles 
are  the  most  conspicuous.  The  bright 
plumage  of  the  latter  seems  really  like 
an  arrival  from  the  tropics.  I  see  them 
flash  through  the  blossoming  trees,  and 
all  the  forenoon  hear  their  incessant 
warbling  and  wooing.  The  Swallo?rs 
dive  and  chatter  about  the  bam,  or 
squeak  and  build  beneath  the  eaves; 
the  Partridge  drums  in  the  fresh  un- 
folding woods ;  the  long,  tender  note  of 
the  Meadow- Lark  comes  up  from  the 
meadow;  and  at  sunset,  fix>m  every 
marsh  and  pond  come  the  ten  thousand 
voices  of  the  Hylas.  May  is  the  trans- 
ition month,  and  exists  to  connect 
April  and  June,  the  root  with  the 
flower. 

With  June  the  cup  is  full,  our  hearts 
are  satisfied,  there  is  no  more  to  be 
desired.  The  perfection  of  the  season* 
among  other  things,  has  brought  the 
perfection  of  the  song  and  plumage  of 
the  birds.  The  master  artists  are  all 
here  ;  and  the  expectations  excited  by 
the  Robin  and  the  Song-Sparrow  are 
fully  justified.  The  Thrushes  have  all 
come;  and  I  sit  down  upon  the  first 
rock,  with  hands  full  of  the  pink  Azalea, 
to  listen.  With  me,^the  Cuckoo  does 
not  arrive  till  June ;  and  often  the  Gold- 
finch, the  King-Bird,  the  Scarlet  Tan- 
ager  delay  their  coming  till  then.  In 
the  meadows  the  Bobolink  is  in  all  his 


i865.] 


WiiA  th«  Birds. 


519 


glory;  in  the  high  pastures  the  Field- 
Sparrow  sings  his  breezy  vesper-hymn ; 
and  the  woods  are  unfolding  to  the  mu- 
sic of  the  Thrushes. 

The  Cuckoo  is  one  of  the  most  soli- 
tary birds  of  our  forests,  and  is  strange- 
ly tame  and  quiet,  appearing  equally 
untouched  by  joy  or  grief,  fear  or  an- 
ger. Is  he  an  exile  from  some  other 
sphere,  and  are  his  loneliness  and  in- 
difference the  result  of  a  hopeless,  yet 
resigned  soul?  Or  has  he  passed 
through  some  terrible  calamity  or  be- 
reavement, that  has  overpowered  his 
sensibilities,  rendering  him  dreamy  and 
semi-conscious  ?  Something  remote 
seems  ever  weighing  upon  his  mind. 
He  deposits  his  eggs  in  the  nests  of 
other  birds,  having  no  heart  for  work 
or  domestic  care.  His  note  or  call  is 
as  of  one  lost  or  wandering,  and  the 
£uiner  says  is  prophetic  of  rain.  Amid 
the  general  joy  and  the  sweet  assur- 
ance of  things,  I  love  to  listen  to  this 
strange  clairvoyant  calL  Heard  a  quar- 
ter of  a  mile  away,  coming  up  from  the 
dark  bosom  of  the  forest  or  out  from 
the  sombre  recesses  of  the  mountain, 
like  the  voice  of  a  muezzin  calling  to 
prayer  in  the  Oriental  twilight,  it  has 
a  peculiar  fascination.  He  wanders 
from  place  to  place, 

"An  iDTisible  thing, 
A  Yoice,  a  mystery.'* 

You  will  probably  hear  him  a  score  of 
times  to  seeing  him  once.  I  rarely  dis- 
cover him  in  the  woods,  except  when 
on  a  protracted  stay ;  but  when  in  June 
he  makes  his  gastronomic  tour  of  the 
garden  and  orchard,  regaling  himself 
upon  canker-worms,  he  is  quite  notice- 
able. Since  food  of  some  kind  is  a 
necessity,  he  seems  resolved  to  burden 
himself  as  little  as  possible  with  the 
care  of  obtaining  it,  and  so  devours 
these  creeping  horrors  with  the  utmost 
matter-of-course  air.  At  this  time  he 
is  one  of  the  tamest  birds  in  the  or- 
chard, and  will  allow  you  to  approach 
within  a  few  yards  of  him.  I  have  even 
come  within  a  few  feet  of  one  without 
seeming  to  excite  his  fear  or  suspicion. 
He  is  quite  unsophisticated,  or  else 
royally  indifferent 


Without  any  exception,  his  plumage 
is  the  richest  brown  I  am  acquainted 
with  in  Nature,  and  is  imsurpassed  in 
the  qualities  both  of  firmness  and  fine- 
ness. Notwithstanding  the  disparity  in 
size  and  color,  he  has  certain  peculiari- 
ties that  remind  one  of  the  Passenger- 
Pigeon.  His  eye,  with  its  red  circle, 
the  shape  of  his  head,  and  his  motions 
on  alighting  and  taking  flight,  quickly 
suggest  the  resemblance  ;  though  in 
grace  and  speed,  when  on  the  wing, 
he  is  far  inferior.  His  tail  seems  dis- 
proportionately long,  like  that  of  the 
Red  Thrush,  and  his  flight  among  the 
trees  is  very  still,  contrasting  strongly 
with  the  honest  clatter  of  the  Robin  or 
Pigeon. 

Have  you  heard  the  song  of  the  Field- 
Sparrow  ?  If  you  have  lived  in  a  pas- 
toral country  with  broad  upland  pas- 
tures, you  could  hardly  have  missed  him. 
Wilson,  I  believe,  calls  him  the  Grass- 
Finch,  and  was  evidently  unacquaint- 
ed with  his  powers  of  song.  The  two 
white  lateral  quills  in  his  tail,  and  his 
habit  of  running  and  skulking  a  few 
yards  in  advance  of  you  as  you  walk 
through  the  fields,  are  sufficient  to  iden- 
tify him.  Not  in  meadows  or  orchards, 
but  in  high,  breezy  pasture  -  grounds, 
will  you  look  for  hinu  His  song  is 
most  noticeable  after  sundown,  when 
other  birds  are  silent ;  for  which  rea- 
son he  has  been  aptly  called  the  Ves- 
per-Sparrow. The  farmer  following  his 
team  from  the  field  at  dusk  catches  his 
sweetest  strain.  His  song  is  not  so 
brisk  and  varied  as  that  of  the  Song- 
Sparrow,  being  softer  and  wilder,  sweet- 
er and  more  plaintive.  Add  the  best 
parts  of  the  lay  of  the  latter  to  the  sweet, 
vibrating  chant  of  the  Wood-Sparrow, 
and  you  have  the  evening  hymn  of  the 
Vesper-Bird, — the  poet  of  the  plain, 
unadorned  pastures.  Go  to  those  broad, 
smooth,  up-lying  fields  where  the  cat- 
tle and  sheep  are  grazing,  and  sit  down 
in  the  twilight  on  one  of  those  warm, 
clean  stones,  and  listen  to  this  song. 
On  every  side,  near  and  remote,  from 
out  the  short  grass  which  the  herds  are 
cropping,  the  strain  rises.  Two  or  three 
long,  silver  notes  of  peace  and  rest,  end- 


520 


WifA  the  Birds. 


[May, 


ing  in  some  subdued  trills  and  quavers, 
constitute  each  separate  song.  Often 
you  will  catch  only  one  or  two  of  the 
bars,  the  breeze  having  blown  the  mi- 
nor part  away.  Such  unambitious,  qui- 
et, unconscious  melody !  It  is  one  of 
the  most  characteristic  sounds  in  Na- 
ture. The  grass,  the  stones,  the  stub- 
ble, the  furrowj  the  quiet  herds,  and  the 
warm  twilight  amoiig  l}:e  hills  are  all 
subtilely  expressed  in  this  song;  this 
is  what  they  are  at  last  capable  of. 

The  femsde  builds  a  plain  nest  in  the 
open  field,  without  so  much  as  a  bush 
or  thistle  or  tuft  of  grass  to  protect  it 
or  mark  its  site ;  you  may  step  upon  it, 
or  the  cattle  may  tread  it  into  the  ground. 
But  the  danger  from  this  source,  I  pre- 
sume, the  bird  considers  less  than  that 
from  another.  Skunks  and  foxes  have 
a  very  impertinent  curiosity,  as  Finchie 
well  knows, — and  a  bank  or  hedge,  or 
a  rank  growth  of  grass  or  thistles,  that 
might  promise  protection  and  cover  to 
mouse  or  bird,  these  cunning  rogues 
would  be  apt  to  eiqplore  most  thorough- 
ly. The  Partridge  is  undoubtedly  ac- 
quainted with  the  same  process  of  rea- 
soning ;  for,  like  the  Vesper- Bird,  she, 
too,  nests  in  open,  unprotected  places, 
avoiding  all  show  of  concealment, — 
coming  fi'om  the  tangled  and  almost 
impenetrable  parts  of  the  forest,  to  the 
clean,  open  woods,  where  she  can  com- 
mand all  the  approaches  and  fiy  with 
equal  ease  in  any  direction. 

One  of  the  most  marvellous  little 
songsters  whose  acquaintance  I  claim 
is  the  White -Eyed  Flycatcher.  He 
seems  to  have  been  listened  to  by  un- 
appreciative  ears,  for  I  know  no  one 
who  has  made  especial  mention  of  him. 
His  song  is  not  particularly  sweet  and 
soft ;  on  the  contrary,  it  is  a  little  hard 
and  shrill,  like  that  of  the  Indigo-Bird 
or  Oriole ;  but  for  fluency,  volubility, 
execution,  and  power  of  Tknitation,  he  is 
unsurpassed  (and  in  the  last-named  par- 
ticular unequalled)  by  any  of  our  North- 
cm  birds.  His  ordinarj*  note  is  forci- 
ble and  emphatic,  but,  as  stated,  not 
especially  musical :  Chick-a-reW-chick^ 
he  seems  to  say,  hiding  himself  in  the 
low,  dense  undergrowth,  and  eluding 


your  most  vigilant  search,  as  if  playing 
some  part  in  a  game.  But  in  July  or 
August,  if  you  are  on  good  terms  with 
the  sylvan  deities,  you  may  listen  to  a 
fiu*  more  rare  and  artistic  performance. 
Your  first  impression  will  be  that  that 
cluster  of  Azalea  or  that  clump  of 
Swamp-Huckleberry  conceals  three  or 
four  different  songsters,  each  vying  with 
the  others  to  lead  tlie  chorus.  Such  a 
medley  of  notes,  snatched  from  half  the 
songsters  of  the  field  and  forest,  and 
uttered  with  the  utmost  clearness  and 
rapidity,  I  am  sure  you  cannot  hear  short 
of  the  haunts  of  the  genuine  Mocldng- 
Bird.  If  not  fully  and  accurately  repeat- 
ed, there  are  at  least  suggested  the  notes 
of  the  Robin,  Wren,  Cat-Bu-d,  High- 
Hole,  Goldfinch,  and  Song- Sparrow. 
The  pip^  pip,  of  the  last  is  produced  so 
accurately  that  I  verily  believe  it  would 
deceive  the  bird  herself,— and  the  whole 
uttered  in  such  rapid  succession  that  it 
seems  as  if  the  movement  that  gives 
the  concluding  note  of  one  strain  must 
form  the  first  note  of  the  next  The 
effect  is  very  rich,  and,  to  my  ear,  en- 
tirely unique.  The  performer  is  very 
careful  not  to  reveal  himself  in  the  mean 
time  ;  yet  there  is  a  conscious  air  about 
the  strain  that  impresses  one  with  the 
idea  that  his  presence  is  understood 
and  his  attention  courted.  A  tone  of 
pride  and  glee,  and,  occasionally,  of 
bantering  jocoseness,  is  discernible.  I 
believe  it  is  only  rarely,  and  when  he 
is  sure  of  his  audience,  that  he  dis- 
plays his  parts  in  this  manner.  You 
are  to  look  for  him,  not  in  tall  trees  or 
deep  forests,  but  in  low,  dense  shrub- 
bery about  wet  places,  where  there  are 
plenty  of  gnats  and  mosquitoes. 

The  Winter-Wren  is  another  mar- 
vellous songster,  in  speaking  of  whom 
it  is  difficult  to  avoid  superlatives.  He 
is  not  so  conscious  of  his  powers  and 
so  ambitious  of  effect  as  the  White- 
Eyed  Flycatcher,  yet  you  will  not  be 
less  astonished  and  delighted  on  hear- 
ing him.  He  possesses  the  fluency, 
volubility,  and  copiousness  for  which 
the  Wrens  are  noted,  and  besides  these 
qualides,  and  what  is  rarely  found  con- 
joined with  them,  a  wild,  sweet,  rh3rth- 


i865.] 


WitA  the  Birds. 


5'" 


i 


mical  cadence  that  holds  you  entranced. 
I  shall  not  soon  forget  that  perfect  June 
day,  when,  loitering  in  a  low,  ancient 
Hemlock,  in  whose  cathedral  aisles  the 
coolness  and  freshness  seemed  peren- 
nial, the  silence  was  suddenly  broken 
by  a  strain  so  rapid  and  gushing,  and 
touched  with  such  a  wild,  sylvan  plain- 
tiveness,  that  I  listened  in  amazement. 
And  so  shy  and  coy  was  the  little  min- 
strel, that  I  came  twice  to  the  woods  be- 
fore I  was  sure  to  whom  I  was  h'stening. 
In  summer,  he  is  one  of  those  birds  of 
the  deep  Northern  forests,  that,  like  the 
Speckled  Canada  Warbler  and  the  Her- 
mit-Thrush, only  the  privileged  ones 
hear. 

The  distribution  of  plants  in  a  given 
locality  is  not  more  marked  and  defined 
than  that  of  the  birds.  Show  a  bot- 
anist a  landscape,  and  he  will  tell  you 
where  to  look  for  the  LadyVSlipper, 
the  Columbine,  or  the  Harebell.  On 
the  same  principles  the  ornithologist 
will  direct  you  where  to  look  for  the 
Hooded  Warbler,  the  Wood-Sparrow, 
or  the  Chewink.  In  adjoining  coun- 
ties, in  the  same  latitude,  and  equally 
inland,  but  possessing  a  different  geo- 
logical formation  and  different  forest- 
timber,  you  will  observe  quite  a  differ- 
ent class  of  birds.  In  a  country  of  the 
Beech  and  Maple  I  do  not  find  the  same 
songsters  that  I  know  where  thrive  the 
Oak,  Chestnut,  and  Laurel  In  going 
from  a  district  of  the  Old  Red  Sandstone 
to  where  I  walk  upon  the  old  Plutonic 
Ro(:k,  not  fifty  miles  distant,  I  miss  in 
the  woods  tiie  Veery,  the  Hermit- 
Thrush,  the  Chestnut- Sided  Warbler, 
the  Blue-Backed  Warbler,  the  Green- 
Backed  Warbler,  the  Black  and  Yellow 
Warbler,  and  many  others, — and  find  hi 
their  stead  the  Wood-Thrush,  the  Che- 
wink, the  Redstart,  the  Yellow-Throat, 
the  Yellow  -  Breasted  Flycatcher,  the 
White-Eyed  Flycatcher,  the  Quail,  and 
the  Turtle-Dove. 

In  my  neighborhood  here  in  the 
Highlands  the  distribution  is  very 
marked.  South  of  the  village  I  inva- 
riably find  one  species  of  birds, — north 
of  it,  another.  In  only  one  locality,  full 
of  Azalea  and  Swamp- Huckleberry,  I 


am  always  sure  of  finding  the  Hooded 
Warbler.  In  a  dense  undergrowth  of 
Spice-Bush,  Witch-Hazel,  and  Alder,  I 
meet  the  Worm -Eating  Warbler.  In 
a  remote  clearing,  covered  with  Heath 
and  Fern,  with  here  and  there  a  Chest- 
nut and  an  Oak,  I  go  to  hear  in  July 
the  Wood-Sparrow,  and  returning  by  a 
stumpy,  shallow  pond,  1  am  sure  to  find 
the  W?ter-Thrush. 

Only  one  locality  within  my  range 
seems  to  possess  attractions  for  all 
comers.  Here  one  may  study  almost 
the  entire  ornithology  of  the  State.  It 
is  a  rocky  piece  of  ground,  long  ago 
cleared,  but  now  £;ist  relapsing  into  the 
wildness  and  freedom  of  Nature,  and 
marked  by  those  half-cultivated,  half- 
wild  features  which  birds  and  boys  love. 
It  is  bounded  on  two  sides  by  the  vil- 
lage and  highway,  crossed  at  various 
points  by  carriage-roads,  and  threaded 
in  all  directions  by  paths  and  by-ways, 
along  which  soldiers,  laborers,  and  tru- 
ant schoolboys  are  passing  at  all  hours 
of  the  day.  It  is  so  far  escaping  fi^m 
the  axe  and  the  bushwhack  as  to  have 
opened  communication  with  the  forest 
and  mountain  beyond  by  straggling  lines 
of  Cedar,  Laurel,  and  Blackberry.  The 
ground  is  mainly  occupied  with  Cedar 
and  Chestnut,  with  an  undergrowth,  in 
many  places,  of  Heath  and  Bramble. 
The  chief  feature,  however,  is  a  dense 
growth  in  the  centre,  consisting  of  Dog- 
wood, Water-Beech,  Swamp-Ash,  Alder, 
Spice-Bush,  Hazel,  etc.,  with  a  net-work 
of  Smilax  and  Frost-Grape.  A  little  zig- 
zag stream,  the  draining  of  a  swamp  be- 
yond, which  passes  through  this  tangle- 
wood,  accounts  for  many  of  its  features 
and  productions,  if  not  for  its  entire  ex- 
istence. Birds  that  are  not  attracted 
by  the  Heath  or  the  Cedar  and  Chestnut 
are  sure  to  find  some  excuse  for  visit- 
ing this  miscellaneous  growth  in  the 
centre.  Most  of  the  common  birds  lit- 
erally throng  this  inclosure ;  and  I  have 
met  here  many  of  the  rarer  species,  such 
as  the  Great  -  Crested  Flycatcher,  the 
Solitary  Warbler,  the  Blue -Winged 
Swamp  -  Warbler,  the  Worm  -  Eating 
Warbler,  the  Fox-Sparrow,  etc.  The 
absence  of  all  birds  of  prey,  and  the 


522 


WitA  the  Birds. 


[May, 


great  number  of  flies  and  insects,  both 
the  result  of  proximity  to  the  village,  are 
considerations  which  no  Hawk-fearing, 
peace-loving  minstrel  passes  over  light- 
ly :  hence  the  popularity  of  the  resort 

But  the  crowning  glory  of  all  these 
Robins,  Flycatchers,  and  Warblers  is 
the  Wood-Thrush.  More  abundant  than 
all  other  birds,  except  the  Robin  and 
Cat- Bird,  he  greets  you  from  every  rock 
and  shrub.  Shy  and  reserved  when  he 
first  makes  his  appearance  in  May,  be* 
fore  the  end  of  June  he  is  tame  and 
fiimiliar,  and  sings  on  the  tree  over 
your  head,  or  on  the  rock  a  few  paces  in 
advance.  A  pair  even  built  their  nest 
and  reared  their  brood  within  ten  or 
twelve  feet  of  the  piazza  of  a  large  sum- 
mer-house in  the  vicinity.  But  when 
the  guests  commenced  to  arrive  and  the 
piazza  to  be  thronged  with  gay  crowds,  I 
noticed  something  like  dread  and  fore- 
boding in  the  manner  of  the  mother- 
t^ird ;  and  from  her  still,  quiet  ways, 
and  habit  of  sitting  long  and  silently 
within  a  few  feet  of  the  precious  charge, 
it  seemed  as  if  the  dear  creature  had 
resolved,  if  possible,  to  avoid  all  obser- 
vation. 
The  Hermit-ThrusbjtheWood-Thrush, 
and  the  Vccry  (Jwr/iirj  Wilsanii)  are  our 
peers  >of  song.  The  Mocking-Bird  un- 
doubtedly possesses  the  greatest  range 
of  mere  talent,  the  most  varied  execu- 
tive ability,  and  never  £bu1s  to  surprise 
and  delight  one  anew  at  each  hearing ; 
but  being  mosdy  an  imitator,  he  nev- 
er approaches  the  serene  beauty  and 
sublimity  of  the  Hermit -Thrush.  The 
word  that  best  expresses  my  feelings, 
on  hearing  the  Mocking-Bird,  is  adxni- 
ration,  though  the  first  emotion  is  one 
of  surprise  and  incredulity.  That  so 
many  and  such  various  notes  should 
proceed  from  one  throat  is  a  marvel, 
and  we  regard  the  performance  with  feel- 
ings akin  to  those  we  experience  on 
witnessing  the  astounding  feats  of  the 
athlete  or  gymnast, — and  this,  notwith- 
standing many  of  the  notes  imitated 
have  all  the  freshness  and  sweetness  of 
tjie  originaL  The  emotions  excited  by 
the  songs  of  these  Thrushes  belong  to 
a  higher  order,  springing  as  they  do 


from  our  deepest  sense  of  the  beauty 
and  harmony  of  the  world. 

The  Wood-Thrush  is  worthy  of  all, 
and  more  than  all,  the  praises  he  has 
received ;  and  considering  the  number 
of  his  appreciative  listeners,  it  is  not 
a  litde  surprising  that  his  relative  and 
superior,  the  Hermit  -  Thrush,  should 
have  received  so  little  notice.  Both  the 
great  ornithologists,  Wilson  and  Audu- 
bon, are  lavish  in  their  praises  of  the 
former,  but  have  little  or  nothing  to 
say  of  the  song  of  the  latter.  Audubon 
says  it  is  sometimes  agreeable,  but  evi- 
dendy  has  never  heard  it  Nuttall,  I 
am  glad  to  find,  is  more  discriminating^ 
and  does  the  bird  fuller  justice.  Pro- 
fessor Baird,  of  the  Smithsonian  Insti- 
tution, a  more  recent  authority,  and  an 
excellent  observer,  tells  me  he  regards 
it  as  preeminently  our  finest  songster. 

It  is  quite  a  rare  bird,  of  very  shy 
and  secluded  habits,  being  found  in  the 
Middle  and  Eastern  States,  during  the 
period  of  song,  only  in  the  deepest  and 
most  remote  forests,  usually  in  damp 
and  swampy  localities.  On  this  account 
the  people  in  the  Adirondack  region  call 
it  the  "  Swamp  AngeL''  Its  being  so 
much  of  a  recluse  accounts  for  the  com- 
parative ignorance  that  prevails  in  re- 
gard to  it 

The  cast  of  its  song  is  so  much  like 
that  of  the  Wood-Thrush,  that  an  en- 
thusiastic admirer  of  the  latter  bird,  as 
all  admirers  are,  would  be  quite  apt  to 
mistake  it  for  the  strain  of  his  £ivorite, 
observing  only  how  unusually  well  he 
sings.  I  myself  erred  in  this  manner, 
and  not  till  I  had  shot  the  bird  in  the 
midst  of  his  solemn  hymn  —  a  hard 
thing  to  do,  I  assure  you  —  was  I  aware 
that  my  Wood-Thrush  had  a  superior. 
I  believe  so  good  an  observer  as  Tho- 
reau  has  confounded  the  songs  of  the 
two  birds,  as  he  speaks  of  having  heard 
the  Wood-Thrush  in  the  forests  of 
Northern  Maine,  where  the  law  of  geo- 
graphical distribution  would  lead  one 
to  look  for  only  the  Hermit 

The  song  of  this  Thrush  is  of  unpar- 
alleled sweetness  and  sublimity.  There 
is  a  calmness  and  solemnity  about  it  that 
suggest^  in  Nature  perpetual  Sabbath 


i86s.] 


mtA  the  Birds. 


523 


and  perennial  J07.  How  vain  seem 
our  hurry  and  ambition !  Clear  and  se- 
rene, strong  and  melodious,  falling  soft* 
ly,  yet  flowing  fiv,  these  notes  inspire 
me  with  a  calm,  sacred  enthusiasm.  I 
hear  him  most  in  the  afternoon,  but 
occasionally  at  nightfall  he  ^  pours  his 
pure  soprano," 

"  Deepening  the  sflenoe  with  diviner  cahn.** 

I  have  known  one  to  sit  for  hours  in 
the  jipper  branches  of  a  tall  Maple  in 
an  opening  in  a  remote  wood,  and  sing 
till  all  other  birds  seemed  as  if  pausing 
to  listen.  Attempting  to  approach  him 
at  such  times,  I  have  called  to  my  aid 
numerous  devices, — such  as  keeping 
the  range  of  a  tree,  skulking  close  to  the 
ground,  carrying  a  lai^e  bush  in  front 
of  me,  —  but  all  to  no  purpose.  Sud- 
denly the  strain  would  cease,  and  while 
waiting  for  him  to  commence  again,  I 
would  see  him  dart  off  to  a  lower  tree, 
or  into  a  thick  undergrowth  of  Witch- 
HazeL  When  I  had  withdrawn,  he 
would  resume  his  perch  and  again  take 
up  his  song.  At  other  times  I  have 
come  abruptly  upon  him  while  singing 
on  a  low  stump,  without  his  seeming  to 
notice  me  at  alL 

I  think  his  song,  in  form  and  man- 
ner, is  predsely  that  of  the  Wood- 
Thrush,— differing  from  it  in  being  more 
wild  and  ethereal,  as  well  as  stronger 
and  clearer.  It  is  not  the  execution 
of  the  piece  so  much  as  the  tone  of  the 
instrument  that  is  superior.  In  the 
subdued  trills  and  quavers  that  occur 
between  the  main  bars,  you  think  his 
tongue  must  be  more  resonant  and  of 
finer  metal  In  uttering  the  tinkling, 
bead -like  de,  de^  de^  he  is  more  £adle 
and  exquisite ;  in  the  longer  notes  he 
possesses  greater  compass  and  power, 
and  is  more  prodigal  of  his  finer  tones. 
How  delicately  he  syllables  the  minor 
parts,  weaving,  as  it  were,  the  finest  of 
silver  embroideries  to  the  main  texture 
of  his  song ! 

Those  who  have  heard  only  the  Wood- 
Thrush  commit  a  very  pardonable  error 
in  placing  him  first  on  the  list  of  our 
songsters.  He  is  truly  a  royal  min- 
strely  andy  considering  his  liberal  dis- 


tribution throughout  our  Atlantic  sea* 
board,  perhaps  contributes  more  than 
any  other  bird  to  our  sylvan  melody.. 
One  may  object,  that  he  spends  a  little 
too  much  time  in  tuning  his  instru- 
ment, yet  his  careless  and  uncertain 
touches  reveal  its  rare  compass  and 
power. 

He  is  the  only  songster  of  my  ac- 
quaintance, excepting  the  Canary,  that 
displays  different  degrees  of  proficiency 
in  the  exercise  of  his  musical  gifts.  Not 
long  since,  while  walking  one  Sunday 
in  the  edge  of  an  orchard  adjoining  a 
wood,  I  heard  one  that  so  obviously 
and  unmistakably  surpassed  all  his  ri- 
vals, that  my  companion,  though  slow 
to  notice  such  things,  remarked  it  won- 
deringly ;  and  with  one  accord  we 
threw  ourselves  upon  the  grass  and 
drank  in  the  bounteous  melody.  It 
was  not  different  in  quality  so  much  as  ' 
in  quantity.  Such  a  flood  of  it !  Such 
magnificent  copiousness  !  Such  long, 
trilling,  deferring,  accelerating  preludes ! 
Such  sudden,  ecstatic  overtures  would 
have  intoxicated  the  dullest  ear.  He 
was  really  without  a  compeer,  a  master 
artist  Twice  afterward  I  was  con- 
scious of  having  heard  the  same  bird. 

The  Wood-Thrush  is  the  handsom- 
est species  of  this  family.  In  grace  and 
elegance  of  manner  he  has  no  equal 
Such  a  gentle,  high-bred  air,  and  such 
inimitable  ease  and  composure  in  his 
flight  and  movement !  He  is  a  poet  in 
Very  word  and  deed.  His  carriage  is 
music  to  the  eye.  His  performance  of 
the  commonest  act,  as  catching  a  bee- 
tle or  picking  a  worm^from  the  mud, 
pleases  like  a  stroke  of  wit  or  eloquence. 
Was  he  a  prince  in  the  olden  time, 
and  do  the  regal  grace  and  mien  still 
adhere  to  him  in  his  transformation? 
What  a  finely  proportioned  form  !  How 
plain,  yet  rich  his  color,  —  the  bright 
russet  of  his  back,  the  clear  white  of 
his  breast,  with  the  distinct  heart-shap- 
ed spots  1  It  may  be  objected  to  Robin 
that  he  is  noisy  and  demonstrative  ;  he 
hurries  away  or  rises  to  a  branch  with 
an  angry  note,  and  flirts  his  wings  in 
ill-bred  suspicion*  The  Mavis,  or  Red 
Thrush,  sneaks  and  skulks  lilce  a  cul- 


5^4 


WM  the  Birds. 


[May, 


prit,  hiding  In  the  densest  Alders ;  the 
Cat- Bird  is  a  coquette  and  a  flirt,  as 
well  as  a  sort  of  female  Paul  Pry ;  and 
the  Chewink  shows  his  inhospitality  by 
espying  your  movements  like  a  Japan- 
ese. The  Wood-Thrush  has  none  of 
these  under -bred  traits.  He  regards 
me  unsuspiciously,  or  avoids  me  with 
a  noble  reserve, — or,  if  I  am  quiet  and 
incurious,  graciously  hops  toward  me, 
as  if  to  pay  his  respects,  or  to  make  my 
acquaintance.  Pass  near  his  nest,  un- 
der the  very  branch,  within  a  few  feet 
of  his  mate  and  brood,  and  he  opens 
not  his  beak ;  he  concedes  you  the  right 
to  pass  there,  if  it  lies  in  your  course ; 
but  pause  an  instant,  raise  3rour  hand 
toward  the  defenceless  household,  and 
his  anger  and  indignation  are  beautiful 
to  behold. 

What  a  noble  pride  he  has !  Late 
one  October,  after  his  mates  and  com- 
panions had  long  since  gone  South,  I 
noticed  one  for  several  successive  dajrs 
in  the  dense  part  of  this  next-door 
wood,  flitting  noiselessly  about,  very 
grave  and  silent,  as  if  doing  penance 
for  some  violation  of  the  code  of  honor. 
By  many  gentle,  indirect  approaches,  I 
perceived  that  part  of  his  tail-feathers 
were  undeveloped.  The  sylvan  prince 
could  not  think  of  returning  to  court  in 
this  plight,  —  and  so,  amid  the  fidling 
leaves  and  cold  rains  of  autumn,  was 
patiently  biding  his  time. 

The  soil,  mellow  flute  of  the  Veery 
fills  a  place  in  the  chorus  of  the  woods 
that  the  song  of  the  Vesper-Sparrow 
fills  in  the  chorus  of  the  fields.  It  has 
the  Nightingale's  habit  of  singing  in 
the  twilight,  and  possesses,  I  believe, 
all  of  the  Nightingale's  mellowness  and 
serenity.  Walk  out  toward  the  forest 
in  the  warm  twilight  of  a  June  day,  and 
when  fifty  rods  distant  you  will  hear 
their  soft,  reverberating  notes,  repeated 
and  prolonged  with  exquisite  melodi- 
ousness, rising  from  a  dozen  different 
throats. 

It  is  one  of  the  simplest  strains  to  be 
heard,— as  simple  as  the  curve  in  form, 
and  mellower  than  the  tenderest  tones 
of  the  flute, — delighting  from  the  pure 
dement  of  harmony  and  beauty  it  con- 


tains, and  not  from  any  novel  or  fimtaa- 
tic  modulation  of  it^ — thus  contrasting 
strongly  with  such  rollicking,  hilarious 
songsters  as  the  Bobolink,  in  whom  we 
are  chiefly  pleased  with  the  tintinnabu* 
lation,  the  verbal  and  labial  excellencct 
and  the  evident  conceit  and  delight  of 
the  performer. 

I  hardly  know  whether  I  am  more 
pleased  or  annoyed  with  the  Cat-Bird. 
Perhaps  she  is  a  little  too  common,  and 
her  part  in  the  general  chorus  a  little 
too  conspicuous.  If  you  are  listening 
for  the  note  of  another  bird,  she  is  sure 
to  be  prompted  to  the  most  loud  and 
protracted  singing,  drowning  all  other 
sounds ;  if  you  sit  quietly  down  to  ol>- 
serve  a  favorite  or  study  a  new  corn- 
er, her  curiosity  knows  no  bounds,  and 
you  are  scanned  and  ridiculed  from  ev- 
ery point  of  observation.  Yet  I  would 
not  miss  her;  I  would  only  subordi- 
nate her  a  little,  make  her  less  con- 
spicuous. 

She  is  the  parodist  of  the  woods, 
and  there  is  ever  a  mischievous,  ban- 
tering, half-ironical  undertone  in  her  lay, 
as  if  she  were  conscious  of  mimicking 
and  disconcerting  some  envied  songster. 
Ambitious  of  song,  practising  and  re- 
hearsing in  private,  she  yet  seems  the 
least  sincere  and  genuine  of  the  sylvan 
minstrels,  as  if  she  had  taken  up  mnsic 
only  to  be  in  the  fashion,  or  not  to  be 
outdone  by  the  Robins  and  Thrushes. 
In  other  words,  she  seems  to  sing  from 
some  outward  motive,  and  not  fi^m  in- 
ward joyousness.  She  is  a  good  versi- 
fier, but  not  a  great  poet  Vigorousy 
rapid,  copious,  not  without  fine  touches, 
but  destitute  of  any  high,  serene  melo- 
dy, her  performance,  like  that  of  Tho- 
reau's  squirrel,  always  implies  a  specta- 
tor. 

There  is  a  certain  air  and  polish  about 
her  strain,  however,  like  that  in  the  vi- 
vacious conversation  of  a  well-bred  lady 
of  the  world,  that  conu&ands  respect 
Her  maternal  instinct,  also,  is  very 
strong,  and  that  simple  structure  of 
dead  twigs  and  dry  grass  is  the  centre 
of  much  anxious  solicitude.  Not  long 
since,  while  strolling  through  the  woods, 
my  attention  was  attracted  to  a  small^ 


l86s.] 


Witk  th4  Birds. 


525 


densely  grown  swamp,  hedged  in  with 
Eglantine,  Brambles,  and  the  everlast- 
ing Smilax,  from  which  proceeded  loud 
cries  of  distress  and  alarm^  indicating 
that  some  terrible  calamity  was  threat- 
ening my  sombre-colored  minstrel.  On 
effecting  an  entrance,  which,  however, 
was  not  accomplished  till  I  had  doffed 
coat  and  hat,  so  as  to  diminish  the  sur- 
face exposed  to  the  thorns  and  brambles, 
and  looking  around  me  from  a  square 
yard  of  terra  firma,  1  found  myself  the 
spectator  of  a  loathsome,  yet  fascinat- 
ing scene.  Three  or  four  yards  from 
me  was  the  nest,  beneath  which,  in  long 
festoons,  rested  a  huge  black  snake ;  a 
bird,  two  thirds  grown,  was  slowly  dis- 
appearing between  his  expanded  jaws. 
As  they  seemed  unconscious  of  my 
presence,  I  quietly  observed  the  pro- 
ceedings. By  slow  degrees  he  com- 
passed the  bird  about  with  his  elasdc 
mouth ;  his  head  flattened,  his  neck 
writhed  and  swelled,  and  two  or  three 
undulatory  movements  of  his  glistening 
body  finished  the  work.  Then,  with 
marvellous  ease,  he  cautiously  raused 
himself  up,  his  tongue  flaming  from  his 
mouth  the  while,  curved  over  the  nest, 
and,  with  wavy,  subde  motions,  ex- 
plored the  interior.  I  can  conceive  of 
nothing  more  overpoweringly  terrible  to 
an  unsuspecting  fiunily  of  burds  than 
the  sudden  appearance  above  their  dom- 
icile of  the  head  and  neck  of  this  arch- 
enemy. It  is  enough  to  petrify  the 
blood  in  their  veins.  Not  finding  the 
object  of  his  search,  he  came  stream- 
ing down  from  the  nest  to  a  lower  limb^ 
and  commenced  extending  his  research- 
es in  other  directions,  sliding  stealthily 
through  the  branches,  bent  on  captur- 
ing one  of  the  parent  birds.  That  a 
legless,  wingless  creature  should  move 
with  such  ease  and  rapidity  where  only 
birds  and  squirrels  are  considered  at 
home,  lifting  himself  up»  letting  him- 
self down,  running  out  on  the  yielding 
boughs,  and  traversing  with  marvellous 
celerity  the  whole  length  and  breadth 
of  the  thicket,  was  truly  surprising. 
One  thinks  of  the  great  myth,  of  the 
Tempter  and  the  '*  cause  of  all  our  woe," 
and  wonders  if  the  Arch  One  is  not  now 


plajring  off  some  of  his  pranks  before 
him.  Whether  we  call  it  snake  or  devil 
matters  littie.  I  could  but  admire  his 
terrible  beauty,  however,  his  black,  shin- 
ing folds,  his  easy,  gliding  movemenl^ 
head  erect,  eyes  glistening,  tongue  play- 
ing like  subtile  flame,  and  the  invisible 
means  of  his  almost  winged  locomo- 
tion. 

The  parent  birds,  in  the  mean  while, 
kept  up  the  most  agonizing  cry,  —  at 
times  fluttering  furiously  about  their  pur- 
suer, and  actually  laying  hold  of  his  tail 
with  their  beaks  and  claws.  On  being 
thus  attacked,  the  snake  would  suddenly 
double  upon  himself  and  follow  his  own 
body  back,  thus  executing  a  strategic 
movement  that  at  first  seemed  almost 
to  paralyze  his  victim  and  place  her 
within  his  grasp.  Not  quite,  however. 
Before  his  jaws  could  close  upon  the 
coveted  prize  the  bird  would  tear  her- 
self away,  and,  apparentiy  faint  and 
sobbing,  retire  to  a  higher  branch.  His 
reputed  powers  of  fascination  availed 
him  littie,  though  it  is  possible  that 
a  more  timid  and  less  combative  bird 
might  have  been  held  by  the  fatal  spelL 
Presentiy,  as  he  came  gliding  down  the 
slender  body  of  a  leaning  Alder,  his  at- 
tention was  attracted  by  a  slight  move- 
ment of  my  arm ;  eying  me  an  instant, 
with  that  crouching,  utter,  motionless 
gaze  which  I  believe  only  snakes  and 
devils  can  assume,  he  turned  quickly, 
—  a  feat  which  necessitated  something 
like  crawling  over  his  own  body, — and 
glided  off  through  the  branches,  evi- 
dentiy  recognizing  in  me  a  representap 
tive  of  the  ancient  parties  he  once  so 
cunningly  ruined.  A  few  moments  after, 
as  he  lay,  carelessly  disposed  in  the  top 
of  a  rank  Alder,  trying  to  look  as  much 
like  a  crooked  branch  as  his  supple, 
shining  form  would  admit,  the  old  ven- 
geance overtook  him.  I  exercised  my 
prerogative,  and  a  well-directed  missile 
in  the  shape  of  a  stone,  brought  him 
looping  and  writhing  to  the  ground. 
After  1  had  completed  his  downfall, 
and  quiet  had  been  partially  restored, 
a  half-fledged  member  of  the  bereaved 
household  came  out  from  his  hiding- 
placCi  and,  jumping  upon  a  decayed 


526 


With  the  Birds. 


[May, 


branchy  chirped  vigorously,  no  doubt 
in  celebration  of  the  victory.  What  the 
fonotions  of  the  parent  birds  were,  on 
seeing  their  destroyer's  head  so  thor- 
oughly bruised,  and  a  part  of  their  little 
ones  at  least  spared  to  them,  I  can  only 
conjecture;  but  I  imagined  the  news 
spread  immediately,  and  that  my  praises 
as  the  deliverer  were  sung  in  that  neig^- 
IXM'hood  ever  after. 

Till  the  middle  of  July  there  is  a  gen«- 
eral  equilibrium ;  the  tide  stands  poised ; 
the  holiday-spirit  is  unabated.  But  as 
the  harvest  ripens  beneath  the  long,  hot 
da3rs,  the  melody  gradually  ceases.  The 
young  are  out  of  the  nest  and  must 
be  cared  for,  and  the  moulting  season 
is  at  hand.  After  the  Cricket  has  com- 
menced to  drone  his  monotonous  refrain 
beneath  your  window,  you  wiU  not,  till 
another  season,  hear  the  Wood-Thrush 
in  all  his  matchless  eloquence.  The 
Bobolink  has  become  careworn  and  fret- 
ful, and  blurts  out  snatches  of  his  song 
between  his  scolding  and  upbraiding,  as 
you  approach  the  vicinity  of  his  nest, 
oscillating  between  anxiety  for  his  brood 
and  solicitude  for  his  musical  reputa- 
tion. Some  of  the  Sparrows  still  sing, 
and  occasionally  across  the  hot  fields, 
from  a  tall  tree  in  the  edge  of  the  for- 
est, comes  the  rich  note  of  the  Scarlet 
Tanager.  This  tropical  -  colored  bird 
loves  the  hottest  weather,  and  I  hear 
him  more  in  dog-days  than  at  any  other 
time. 

The  remainder  of  the  summer  is  the 
carnival  of  the  Swallows  and  Flycatch- 
ers. Flies  and  insects,  to  any  amount, 
are  to  be  had  for  the  catching ;  and  the 
opportunity  is  well  improved.  See  that 
sombre,  ashen  -  colored  Pewee  on  yon- 
der branch.  A  true  sportsman  he,  who 
never  takes  his  game  at  rest,  but  always 
on  the  wing.  You  vagrant  Fly,  you  pur- 
blind Moth,  beware  how  you  come  with- 
in his  range  t  Observe  his  attitude. 
You  might  think  him  studying  the  at- 
mosphere or  the  light,  for  he  has  an  air 
of  contemplation  and  not  of  watchful- 
ness. But  step  doser ;  observe  the  cu- 
rious movement  of  his  head,  his  ^  eye 
in  a  fine  frenzy  rolling,  glancing  from 
heaven  to  earth,  from  earth  to  heaven.*' 


His  sight  is  microsoopic  and  his  ahn 
sure.  Quick  as  thought  he  has  seized 
his  victim  and  is  back  to  his  perch. 
There  is  no  strife,  no  pursuit,  —  one 
fell  swoop  and  the  matter  is  ended. 
That  littie  Sparrow,  as  you  will  ob- 
serve, is  less  skilled.  It  is  the  Sacuh 
lis,  and  he  finds  his  subsistence  prop- 
erly in  various  seeds  and  the  larvae  of 
insects,  though  he  occasionally  has  high- 
er aspirations,  and  seeks  to  emulate  the 
Pewee,  commencing  and  ending  his  ca- 
reer as  a  Flycatcher  by  an  awkward 
chase  after  a  Beetie  or  ^  Miller.*'  He  is 
hunting  around  in  the  grass  now,  I  sus- 
pect, with  the  desire  to  indulge  this  &- 
vorite  whim.  There !  —  the  opportuni- 
ty is  afforded  him;  Away  goes  a  lit- 
tie cream-colored  Meadow-Moth  in  the 
most  tortuous  course  he  is  capable  o( 
and  away  goes  Sociaiis  in  pursuit  The 
contest  is  quite  comical,  though  I  dare 
say  it  is  serious  enough  to  the  Moth. 
The  chase  continues  fot  a  few  yards, 
when  there  is  a  sudden  rushing  to  coir- 
er  in  the  grass, — then  a  taking  to*wing 
again,  when  the  search  has  become  too 
dose,  and  the  Moth  has  recovered  his 
wind.  Sociaiis  chirps  angrily,  and  is 
determined  not  to  be  beaten.  Keeping 
with  the  slightest  efibrt,  upon  the  heels 
of  the  fugitive,  he  is  ever  on  the  point  of 
halting  to  snap  him  up,  but  never  quite 
does  it, — and  so,  between  disappoint- 
ment and  expectation,  is  soon  chsgust- 
ed,  and  returns  to  pursue  his  more  le- 
gitimate means  of  subsistence. 

In  striking  contrast  to  this  serio- 
comic strife  of  the  Sparrow  and  the 
Moth,  is  the  Pigeon-Hawk's  pursuit  of 
the  Sparrow  or  the  Goldfinch.  It  is  a 
race  of  surprising  speed  and  agility. 
It  is  a  test  of  wing  and  wind.  Every 
muscle  is  taxed,  and  every  nerve  strain- 
ed. Such  cries  of  terror  and  conster- 
nation on  the  part  of  the  bird,  tacking 
to  die  right  and  left,  and  making  the 
most  desperate  efforts  to  escape,  and 
such  silent  determination  on  Uie  part 
of  the  Hawk,  pressing  the  bird  so  dose- 
ly,  flashing  and  turning  and  timing  his 
movements  with  those  of  the  pursued 
as  accurately  and  as  inexorably  as  if  the 
two  constituted  one  body»  exdte  feci- 


i86s.] 


Wiik  the  Birds. 


527 


!ng  of  a  deep  interest.  You  mount  the 
fence  or  rush  out  of  your  way  to  see 
the  issue.  The  only  salvation  for  the 
bird  is  to  adopt  the  tactics  of  the  Moth, 
seeking  instantly  the  cover  of  some 
tree,  bush,  or  hedge,  where  its  smaller 
size  enables  it  to  move  about  more  rap- 
idly. These  pirates  are  aware  of  this, 
and  therefore  prefer  to  talce  their  prey 
by  one  fell  swoop.  You  may  see  one 
of  them  prowling  through  an  orchard, 
with  the  Yellowbirds  hovering  about 
him,  crying^  Pi-fyy  P^'tyi  i^  the  most 
desponding  tone ;  yet  he  seems  not  to 
regard  them,  knowing,  as  do  they,  that 
in  the  dose  branches  they  are  as  safe 
as  if  in  a  wall  of  adamant 

August  is  the  month  of  the  high-sail- 
ing Hawks.  The  Hen- Hawk  is  the 
most  noticeable.  He  likes  the  haze 
and  the  calm  of  these  long,  warm  days. 
He  is  a  bird  of  leisure,  and  seems  al- 
ways at  his  ease.  How  beautiful  and 
majestic  are  his  movements  !  So  self- 
poised  and  easy,  such  an  entire  absence 
of  haste,  such  a  magnificent  amplitude 
of  circles  and  spirals,  such  a  haughty, 
imperial  grace,  and,  occasionally,  such 
daring  atrial  evolutions  ! 

With  slow,  leisurely  movement,  rare- 
ly vibrating  his  pinions,  he  mounts  and 
mounts  in  an  ascending  spiral  till  he 
appears  a  mere  speck  against  the  sum- 
mer sky ;  then,  if  the  mood  seizes  him, 
with  wings  half-closed,  like  a  bent  bow, 
he  will  cleave  the  air  almost  perpendic- 
ularly, as  if  intent  on  dashing  himself 
to  pieces  against  the  earth ;  but  on 
nearing  the  ground,  he  suddenly  mounts 
again  on  broad,  expanded  wing,  as  if 
rebounding  upon  the  air,  and  sails  leis- 
urely away.  It  is  the  sublimest  feat 
of  the  season.  One  holds  his  breath 
till  he  se^s  him  rise  again.  Somedmes 
a  squirrel  or  bird  or  an  unsuspecting 
barn-fowl  is  scathed  and  withered  be- 
neath this  terrible  visitation. 

If  inclined  to  a  more  gradual  and  less 
precipitous  descent,  he  fixes  his  eye  on 
some  distant  point  in  the  earth  beneath 
him,  and  thither  bends  his  course.  He 
is  still  almost  meteoric  in  his  speed  and 
boldness.  You  see  his  path  down  the 
heavens,  straight  as  a  line ;  if  near,  you 


hear  the  rush  of  bis  wings ;  his  shadow 
hurtles  across  the  fields,  and  in  an  in- 
stant you  see  him  quietly  perdhed  upoa 
some  low  tree  or  decayed  stub  in  a 
swamp  or  meadow,  with  reminiscences 
of  firogs  and  mice  stirring  in  his  maw. 
'  When  the  south-wind  blows,  it  is  i 
study  to  see  three  or  four  of  these  air- 
kings  at  the  head  of  the  valley  far  up 
toward  the  mountain,  balancing  and  os- 
cillating upon  the  strong  current :  now 
quite  stationary,  except  a  slight  trem- 
ulous motion  like  the  poise  of  a  rope- 
dancer,  then  rising  and  falling  in  long 
undulations,  and  seeming  to  resign 
themselves  passively  to  the  wind ;  or, 
again,  sailing  high  and  level  far  above 
the  mountain's  peak; — no  bluster  and 
haste,  but,  as  stated,  occasionaUy  a  ter- 
rible earnestness  and  speed.  Fire  at 
him  as  he  sails  overhead,  and,  unless 
wounded  badly,  he  will  not  change  his 
course  or  gait 

His  flight  is  a  perfect  picture  of  re- 
pose in  motion.  He  might  sleep  or 
dream  in  that  level,  effortless,  aimless 
sail.  It  strikes  the  eye  as  more  sur- 
prising than  the  flight  of  the  Pigeon 
and  Swallow  even,  in  that  the  effort  put 
forth  is  so  uniform  and  delicate  as  to 
escape  observation,  giving  to  the  move- 
ment an  air  of  buoyancy  and  perpetuity, 
the  effluence  of  power  rather  than  the 
conscious  application  of  it 

The  calmness  and  dignity  of  this 
Hawk,  when  attacked  by  Crows  or  the 
King -Bird,  are  well  worthy  of  him. 
He  seldom  deigns  to  notice  his  noisy 
and  furious  antagonists,  but  deliberate- 
ly wheels  about  in  that  atrial  spiral, 
and  mounts  and  mounts  till  his  pur- 
suers grow  dizzy  and  return  to  earth 
again.  It  is  quite  original,  this  mode 
of  getting  rid  of  an  xmworthy  opponent, 
rising  to  neights  where  the  braggart  Is 
dazed  and  bewildered  and  loses  his 
reckoning!  I  am  not  sure  but  it  is 
worthy  of  imitation. 

But  summer  wanes,  and  autumn  ap- 
proaches. The  songsters  of  the  seed- 
time are  silent  at  the  reaping  of  the 
harvest  Other  minstrels  take  up  the 
strain.  It  is  the  heyday  of  insect  life. 
The  day  is  canopied  with  musical  sound. 


528 


Gold  Egg^ 


[May, 


All  the  songs  of  the  spring  and  summer 
appear  to  be  floating,  softened  and  re- 
fined, in  the  upper  air.  The  birds,  in  a 
new,  but  less  holiday  suit,  turn  their 
£iices  southward.  The  Swallows  flock 
and  go ;  the  Bobolinks  flock  and  go ; 
silendy  and  unobserved,  the  Thrushes 


go.  Autumn  arrives,  bringing  Finches, 
Warblers,  Sparrows,  and  Kinglets  from 
the  North.  Silently  the  procession  pass- 
es. Yonder  Hawk,  sailing  peacefully 
away  till  he  is  lost  in  the  horizon,  is  a 
symbol  of  the  closing  season  and  the 
departing  birds. 


GQLD    EGG.— A    DREAM-FANTASY. 

HOW  A  STUDENT  IN  SEARCH  OF  THE  BEAUTIFUL  FELL  ASLEEP  OVER  HERR 
PROFESSOR  DOCTOR  VISCHER'S  *'  WISSENSCHAFT  DES  ScS5nEN,"  AND  WHAT 
CAME  THEREOF. 

I. 

I  SWAM  with  undulation  soft. 
Adrift  on  Vischer's  ocean. 
And,  from  my  cockboat  up  aloft. 
Sent  down  my  mental  plummet  oft, 
In  hope  to  reach  a  notion. 

2. 

But  from  the  metaphysic  sea 

No  bottom  was  forthcoming. 
And  all  the  while  (so  drowsily  1) 
In  one  eternal  note  of  B 

My  German  stove  kept  humming. 


What  's  Beauty  ?  mused  I.    Is  it  toM 

By  synthesis  ?  analysis  ? 
Have  you  not  made  us  lead  of  gold  ? 
To  feed  your  crucible,  not  sold 

Our  temple's  sacred  chalices? 


Then  o'er  my  senses  came  a  change: 

My  book  seemed  all  traditions, 
Old  legends  of  profoundest  range. 
Diablerie,  and  stories  strange 
Of  goblins,  elves,  magicians. 


Truth  was,  my  outward  eyes  were  closed. 

Although  I  did  not  know  it; 
Deep  into  Dreamland  I  had  dozed, 
And  found  me  suddenly  transposed 

From  proser  into  poet 


1 86s.]  Gold  Egg.  529 


So  what  I  read  todc  flesh  and  blood 

And  turned  to  living  creatures ; 
The  words  were  but  the  dingy  bud 
That  bloomed,  like  Adam  from  the  mud. 
To  human  forms  and  features. 

7. 

I  saw  how  Zeus  was  lodged  once  more 

By  Baucis  and  Philemon; 
The  text  said,  ^  Not  alone  of  yore, 
But  every  day  at  every  door 

Knocks  still  the  masking  Demon." 

8. 

Daucon  't  was  printed  in  the  book; 

And  as  I  read  it  slowly, 
The  letters  moved  and  changed  and  took 
Jove's  stature,  the  Olympian  look 

Of  painless  melancholy. 


He  paused  upon  the  threshold  worn:  — 

*'With  coin  I  cannot  pay  you; 
Yet  would  I  fain  make  some  return, — 
You  will  not  the  gift's  cheapness  spurn,- 
Accept  this  fowl,  I  pray  you. 

10. 

• 
^  Plain  feathers  wears  my  Hemera, 

And  has  frt>m  ages  olden; 
She  makes  her  nest  in  common  hay; 
And  yet,  of  all  the  birds  that  lay, 

Her  eggi^  alone  are  golden." 

II. 

He  turned  and  could  no  more  be  seen. 

Old  Baucis  stared  a  moment, 
Then  tossed  poor  pardet  on  the  green, 
And  with  a  tone  half  jest,  half  apleen, 

Thus  made  her  housewife's  comment:- 

12. 

^The  stranger  had  a  queerish  fiice, 
His  smile  was  most  unpleasant; 
And  though  he  meant  it  for  a  grace, 
Yet  this  old  hen  of  barnyard  race 
Was  but  a  stingy  present 
VOL.  XT.  —  NO.  91.  34 


530  Gold  Egg.  [May, 

^  She  's  quite  too  old  for  laying  eggs,  — 

Nay,  even  to  make  a  soup  of; 
It  only  needs  to  see  her  legs, — 
You  might  as  well  boil  down  the  pegs 

I  made  the  brood-hen's  coop  of  I 

14. 

*^More  than  three  hundred  such  do  I 

Raise  every  year,  her  sisters ; 
Go,  in  the  woods  your  fortune  try, 
All  day  for  one  poor  earth-worm  pry, 

And  scratch  your  toes  to  blisters ! " 

15- 

Philemon  found  the  rede  was  good ; 

And  turning  on  the  poor  hen, 
He  clapped  his  hands,  he  stamped,  hallooed, 
Hunting  die  exile  toward  the  wood. 

To  house  with  snipe  and  moor-hen. 

Id 

A  poet  saw  and  cried,  —  ''Hold!  hold! 

What  are  you  doing,  madmam  ?     ' 
Spurn  you  more  wealth  than  can  be  tdld. 
The  fowl  that  lays  the  eggs  of  gold. 

Because  she  's  plainly  dad,  man  ?" 

To  him  Philemon,^''  I  11  not  balk 

Thy  will  with  any  shackle ; 
Wilt  add  a  burden  to  thy  walk  ? 
Then  take  her  without  further  talk ; 

You  .'re  both  bilkt  fit  to  cackle ! " 

i& 

But  scarce  the  poet  touched  the  bird, 

It  rose  to  stature  regal; 
And  when  her  cloud-wide  wings  she  stirred, 
A  whisper  as  of  doom  was  heard, — 

'T  was  Jove's  bolt-bearing  eagle. 

As  ^en  firom  fiur-off  doodbergs  springs 

A  crag,  and,  hurtling  under, 
From  diff  to  cliff  the  rumor  flings, 
So  she  fi^m  flight-foreboding  wings 

Shook  out  a  murmurous  thunder. 


186$.]  Gold  Egg.  531 


20. 


She  gripped  the  poet  to  her  breast. 

And  ever  upward  soarings 
Earth  seamed  a  new-moon  m  the  West, 
And  then  one  light  among  the  rest 

Where  squadrons  lie  at  mooring. 


2U 


How  know  I  to  what  o'er-world  seat 

The  eagle  bent  her  courses  ? 
The  waves  that  seem  its  base  to  beat. 
The  gales  that  round  it  weave  and  fleet, 
Are  life's  creative  forces. 

Here  was  the  bird's  primeval  nest, 

High  on  a  promontory 
Star-pharosed,  where  she  takes  her  rest, 
And  broods  new  aeons  'neath  her  breast. 

The  future's  unfledged  glory.  - 

23. 

I  knew  not  how,  but  I  was  there^ 

All  feeling,  hearing,  seeing; 
It  was  not  wind  that  stirred  my  hair, 
But  living  breath,  the  essence  rare 

Of  unembodied  being. 

24. 

And  in  the  nest  an  egg  of  gc^d 

Lay  wrapt  in  its  own  lustre. 
Gazing  whereon,  what  depths  untold 
Within,  what  wonders  manifold 

Seemed  silendy  to  muster ! 

25- 

Do  visions  of  such  inward  grace 
Still  haunt  our  life  benighted  ? 

It  glowed  as  when  St  Peter's  hotf 

Illumed,  forgets  its  stony  race. 
And  seems  to  throb  self-lighted* 

26. 

One  saw  therein  the  life  of  man,  — 

Or  so  the  poet  found  it; 
The  yolk  and  white,  conceive  who  can. 
Were  the  ^taA  earth,  that,  floating,  span 

In  the  soft  heaven  around  it 


532  Gold  Egg.  [May, 

27. 

I  knew  this  as  one  knows  in  dreaniy 

Where  no  effects  to  causes 
Are  chained  as  in  our  work-day  scheme,* 
And  then  was  wakened  by  a  scream 

Sent  up  by  frightened  Baucis. 

28. 

''Bless  Zeus!"  she  cried,  ''I  'm  safe  bdow!" 

First  pale,  then  red  as  coral ; 
And  I,  still  drowsy,  pondered  slow. 
And  seemed  to  find,  but  hardly  know, 

Something  like  this  for  moniL 

Each  day  the  world  is  bom  anew 

For  him  who  takes  it  righdy ; 
Not  fresher  that  which  Adam  knew, 
Not  sweeter  that  whose  moonlit  dew 

Dropped  on  Arcadia  nightly. 

JO- 

Rightly?  —  that  's  simply:  't  is  to  see 

Some  substance  casts  these  shadows 
Which  we  call  Life  and  History, 
That  aimless  seem  to  chase  and  flee 

Like  wind-gleams  over  meadows. 

31- 

Simply?  —  that  's  nobly:  't  is  to  know 

That  God  may  still  be  met  with, 
Nor  groweth  old,  nor  doth  bestow 
This  sense,  this  heart,  this  brain  aglow, 

To  grovel  and  forget  with. 

32- 

Beauty,  Herr  Doctor,  trust  in  me^ 
%  No  chemistry  will  win  you; 

Charis  still  rises  from  the  sea: 
If  you  can't  find  her,  mi^t  it  be 
The  trouble  was  within  yoa  ? 


i865.] 


Out  of  th0  Sea. 


533 


OUT    OF   THE    SEA. 


A  RAW,  gusty  afternoon :  one  of  the 
last  dragging  breaths  of  a  nor'east- 
cr,  which  swept,  in  the  beginning  of  No- 
vember, from  the  Atlantic  coast  to  the 
base  of  the  AUeghanies.  Jt  lasted  a 
week,  and  brought  the  winter, — for  au- 
tumn had  lingered  unusually  late  that 
year ;  the  fat  bottom-lands  of  Pennsyl- 
vania, yet  green,  deadened  into  swamps, 
as  it  passed  over  them :  summery,  gay 
bits  of  lakes  among  the  hills  glazed  over 
with  muddy  ice ;  the  forests  had  been 
kept  warm  between  the  western  moun- 
tains, and  held  thus  late  even  their 
summer's  strength  and  darker  autumn 
tints,  but  the  fierce  ploughing  winds  of 
this  storm  and  its  cutting  sleet  left  them 
a  mass  of  broken  boughs  and  rotted 
leaves.  In  feet,  the  sun  had  loitered 
80  long,  with  a  friendly  look  back-turn- 
ed into  these  inland  States,  that  people 
forgot  that  the  summer  had  gone,  and 
skies  and  air  and  fields  were  merry-mak- 
ing together,  when  they  lent  their  color 
and  vitality  to  these  few  bleak  days,  and 
then  suddenly  found  that  they  had  en- 
tertained winter  unawares. 

Down  on  the  lee  coast  of  New  Jersey, 
however,  where  the  sea  and  wind  spend 
the  year  making  ready  for  their  winter's 
work  of  shipwreck,  this  storm,  though 
grayer  and  colder  there  than  elsewhere, 
toned  into  the  days  and  nights  as  a  some- 
thing entirely  matter-of-course  and  con- 
sonant In  summer  it  would  have  been 
at  home  there.  Its  aspect  was  different, 
also,  as  I  said.  But  little  rain  fell  here ; 
the  wind  lashed  the  ocean  into  fury  along 
the  coast,  and  then  rolled  in  long,  melan- 
choly howls  into  the  stretches  of  barren 
sand  and  interminable  pine  forests ;  the 
horizon  contracted,  though  at  all  times 
it  is  narrower  than  anywhere  else,  the* 
dome  of  the  sky  wider,  —  clouds  and  at- 
mosphere forming  the  scenery,  and  th^ 
land  but  a  round,  flat  standing-place: 
but  now  the  sun  went  out ;  the  air 
grew  livid,  as  though  death  were  com- 
ing through  it ;  solid  masses  of  gray, 
wet  mist  moved,  slower  than  the  wind. 


from  point  to  point,  like  gigantic  ghosts 
gathering  to  the  call  of  the  murderous 
sea. 

''Yonder  go  the  shades  of  Ossian's 
heroes,"  said  Mary  Defourchet  to  her 
companion,  pointing  through  the  dark- 
ening air. 

They  were  driving  carefully  in  an  old- 
fashioned  gig,  in  one  of  the  luUs  of  the 
storm,  along  the  ^Agit  of  a  pine  wood, 
early  in  the  afternoon.  The  old  Doc- 
tor,— for  it  was  MacAulay,  (Dennis,) 
from  over  in  Monmouth  County,  she  was 
with, — the  old  man  did  not  answer, 
having  enough  to  do  to  guide  his  mare, 
the  sleet  drove  so  in  his  eyes.  Besides, 
he  was  gruffer  than  usual  this  afternoon, 
looking  with  the  trained  eyes  of  an  old 
water-dog  out  to  the  yellow  line  of  the 
sea  to  the  north.  Miss  Defourchet  pull- 
ed the  oil-skin  cloth  closer  about  her 
knees,  and  held  her  tongue ;  she  rel- 
ished the  excitement  of  this  fierce  fight- 
ing the  wind,  though ;  it  suited  the 
nervous  tension  which  her  mind  had 
undergone  lately. 

It  was  a  queer,  lonesome  country, 
this  lee  coast,  —  never  so  solitary  as 
now,  perhaps ;  older  than  the  rest  of 
the  world,  she  fancied,  —  so  many  of 
Nature's  voices,  both  of  bird  and  veg- 
etable, had  been  entirely  lost  out  of 
it :  no  wonder  it  had  grown  unfruitful, 
and  older  and  dumber  and  sad,  listening 
for  ages  to  the  unremorseful,  cruel  cries 
of  the  sea;  these  dead  bodies,  too, 
washed  up  every  year  on  its  beaches, 
must  haunt  it,  though  it  was  not  guilty. 
She  began  to  say  something  of  this  to 
Doctor  Dennis,  tired  of  being  silent 

^  Your  country  seems  to  me  always 
to  shut  itself  out  from  the  world,"  she 
said ;  ^  from  the  time  I  enter  that  deso- 
late region  on  its  border  of  dwarf  oaks 
and  gloomy  fires  of  the  charcoal-burn- 
ers, I  think  of  the  old  leper  and  his  cry 
of  '  Unclean !  unclean  1 ' " 

MacAulay  glanced  anxiously  at  her, 
trying  to  keep  pace  with  her  meaning. 
*    ^  It 's  a  lonesome  place  enough,"  he 


534 


Out  of  the  Sta. 


[May, 


said,  slowly.  ^  There  be  but  the  two  or 
three  fiurm-keepers ;  and  the  places  go 
from  fiither  to  son,  fother  to  son.  The 
linen  and  caxpet*mats  in  that  house  you 
're  in  now  come  down  from  the  times 
before  Washington.  Stay-at-home,  qui- 
et people, — only  the  men  that  follow  the 
water,  in  each  generation.  There  be 
but  little  to  be  made  from  these  flats  of 
'  white  sand.  Yes,  quiet  enough:  the 
beasts  of  prey  are  n't  scaret  out  of  these 
pine  forests  yet  I  heard  the  cry  of  a 
panther  the  other  night  only,  coming 
from  Tom's  River :  close  by  the  road  it 
was:  sharp  and  sorrowful,  like  a  lost 
child.  ^- As  for  ghosts,"  he  continued, 
after  a  (houghtfuLpause,  ^  I  don't  know 
any  that  would  have  reason  for  walking, 
without  it  was  Captain  Kidd.  His  treas- 
ure 's  buried  along-shore  here." 

'*  Ay  ?  "  said  Mary,  looking  up  shrewd- 
ly into  his  h,c^ 

''  Yes,"  he  answered,  shaking  his  head 
slowly,  and  measuring  his  whip  with 
one  eye.  '*  Along  here,  many  's  the 
Spanish  half-dollar  I  've  picked  up  my- 
self among  the  kelp.  They  do  say  they 
're  from  a  galleon  that  went  ashore  come 
next  August  thirty  years  ago,  but  I  don't 
know  that" 

^And  the  people  in  the  hamlet?" 
questioned  Mary,  nodding  to  a  group 
of  scattered,  low-roofed  houses. 

''Clam -fishers,  the  maist  o'  them. 
There  be  quite  a  many  wrackers,  but 
they  live  fiirther  on,  towards  Bamegat 
But  a  wrack  draws  them,  like  buzzards 
to  a  carcass." 

Miss  Defourchet's  black  eye  kindled, 
as  if  at  the  prospect  of  a  good  tragedy. 

''Did  you  ever  see  a  wreck  going 
down?"  she  asked,  eagerly. 

"  Yes," — shutting  his  grim  lips  tighter. 

"  That  emigrant  ship  last  fall  ?  Seven 
hundred  and  thirty  souls  lost,  they  told 


n 


me. 

"  I  was  not  here  to  know,  thank  God," 
shortly. 

"  It  would  be  a  sensation  for  a  life- 
time," —  cuddling  back  into  her  seat, 
with  no  hopes  of  a  story  from  the  old 
Doctor. 

MacAulay  sat  up  stiffer,  his  stem 
p^Y  tye  srannii^  the  ocean-line  again. 


as  the  mare  turned  into  the  more  open 
plains  of  sand  sloping  down  to  the  sea. 
It  was  up-hill  work  with  him,  talking 
to  this  young  lady.  He  was  afraid  of 
a  woman  who  iiad  lectured  in  public, 
nursed  in  the  hospitals,  whose  blood 
seemed  always  at  fever  heat,  and  whose 
aesthetic  taste  could  seek  the  point  of 
view  from  which  to  observe  a  calami^ 
so  horrible  as  the  emigrant  ship  going 
down  with  her  load  of  lives.  "  She 
's  been  fed  on  books  too  much,"  he 
thought  "  It 's  the  trouble  with  young 
women  nowadays."  On  the  other  hand, 
for  himself,  he  had  lost  sight  of  the 
current  of  present  knowledges, — he 
was  aware  of  that,  finding  how  few 
topics  in  common  there  were  between 
them;  but  it  troubled  the  self-reliant 
old  fellow  but  little.  Since  he  left  Yale, 
where  he  and  this  girl's  uncle.  Doctor 
Bowdler,  had  been  chums  together,  he 
had  lived  in  this  out-of-the-way  comer 
of  the  world,  and  many  of  the  rough 
ways  of  speaking  and  acting  of  the  peo- 
ple had  clung  to  him,  as  their  red  mud 
to  his  shoes.  As  he  grew  older,  he  did 
not  care  to  brush  either  o£ 

Miss  Defourchet  had  been  a  weight 
on  his  mind  for  a  week  or  more.  Her 
guardian,  Doctor  Bowdler,  had  sent  her 
down  to  board  in  one  of  the  farm-hous- 
es. "  The  sea-air  will  do  her  good,  phys- 
ically," he  said  in  a  note  to  his  old  chum, 
with  whom  he  always  had  kept  up  a  lin- 
gering intercourse ;  "  she  's  been  over- 
worked lately, — sick  soldiers,  you  know. 
Mary  went  into  the  war  con  amore,  like 
all  women,  or  other  happy  people  who 
are  blind  of  one  eye.  Besides,  she  is  to 
be  married  about  Christmas,  and  before 
she  begins  life  in  eamest  it  would  do 
her  good  to  fiice  something  real  Noth- 
ing like  living  by  the  sea,  and  with  those 
homely,  thorough  -  blood  Quakers,  for 
bringing  people  to  their  simple,  natural 
selves.  By  the  way,  you  have  heard 
of  Dr.  Birkenshead,  whom  she  marries  ? 
though  he  is  a  surgeon,  —  not  exactly  in 
your  profession.  A  surprisingly  young 
man  to  have  gained  his  reputation.  I 
'm  glad  Mary  marries  a  man  of  so  much 
mark ;  she  has  pulled  alone  so  long,  she 
needs  a  master."     So  MacAulay  had 


1 86s.] 


Ottt  of  the  Sea. 


535 


taken  pains  to  drive  the  young  lady  out^ 
as  to-day,  and  took  a  general  fetheriy 
sort  of  chafge  of  her,  for  his  old  Mend's 
sake. 

Doctor  Bowdler  had  frankly  told  his 
niece  his  reasons  for  wishing  her  to  go 
down  to  the  sea-shore.  They  nettled 
her  more  than  she  chose  to  show.  She 
was  over  tiiirty,  an  eager  humanitari- 
an, had  taught  the  freedmen  at  Port 
Royal,  gone  to  Gettysburg  and  Antie- 
tarn  with  sanitary  stores, — surely,  she 
did  not  need  to  be  told  that  she  had  yet 
to  begin  life  in  earnest  I  But  she  was 
not  sorry  for  the  chance  to  rest  and 
think.  After  she  married  she  would  be 
taken  from  the  quiet  Quaker  society  in 
Philadelphia,  in  which  she  always  had 
moved,  to  one  that  would  put  her  per- 
sonal and  mental  powers  to  a  shaxp 
proof;  for  Birkenshead,  by  right  of  his 
professional  frime,  and  a  curiously  at- 
tractive personal  eccentricity,  had  grad- 
ually become  the  nucleus  of  one  of  the 
best  and  most  brilliant  circles  in  the 
country,  men  and  women  alike  distin- 
guished for  their  wit  and  skill  in  extract- 
ing the  finest  tones  from  life  while  they 
Uved.  The  quiet  Quaker  giri  was  se- 
cretly on  her  mettle,  —  secretly,  too,  a 
little  afraid.  The  truth  was,  she  knew 
Doctor  Birkenshead  only  in  the  glare 
of  public  life ;  her  love  for  him  was,  as 
yet,  only  a  delicate  intellectual  appre- 
ciation that  gave  her  a  keen  delight 
She  was  anxious  that  in  his  own  world 
he  should  not  be  ashamed  of  her.  She 
was  glad  he  was  to  share  this  breathing- 
space  with  her;  they  could  see  each 
Other  unmasked.  Doctor  Bowdler  and 
he  were  coming  down  from  New  York 
on  Ben  Van  Note's  lumber- schooner. 
It  was  due  yesterday,  but  had  not  yet 
arrived. 

^You  are  sure,"  MacAuIay  said  to 
her,  as  they  rode  along^  '^that  they  will 
come  with  Ben  ? '' 

"Quite  sure.  They  preferred  it  to 
the  cars  for  the  novelty  of  the  thing, 
and  the  storm  lulled  the  day  they  were 
to  salL  Could  the  schooner  make  this 
mlet  in  a  sea  like  that  ?  " 

Doctor  Dennis,  stooping  to  arrange 
the  harness,  pretended  not  to  hear  h«r. 


^Ben,  at  least,"  he  thought,  '<  knows 
that  to  near  the  bar  to-day  means  death." 

^*  One  would  think,"  he  added  aloud, 
^that  Dick  Bowdler's  gray  hairs  and 
thirty  years  of  preaching  would  have 
sobered  his  love  of  adventure.  He  was 
a  foolhardy  chap  at  college." 

Miss  Defourdiet's  glance  grew  troub- 
led, as  she  looked  out  at  the  gathering 
gloom  and  the  crisp  bits  of  yellow  foam 
blown  up  to  the  carriage-wheels.  Doc- 
tor Dennis  turned  the  mare's  head,  thus 
hiding  the  sea  from  them ;  but  its  cry 
sounded  for  miles  inland  to-day, — an 
awful,  inarticulate  roar.  All  else  was 
solemn  silence.  The  great  salt  marshes 
rolled  away  on  one  side  of  the  road,  lush 
and  rank,  —  one  solitary  dead  tree  rising 
from  them,  with  a  fish-hawk's  uncouth 
nest  lumbering  its  black  trunk;  they 
were  still  as  the  grave;  even  the  ill- 
boding  bird  was  gone  long  ago,  and 
kept  no  more  its  lonely  vigil  on  the 
dead  limb  over  wind  and  wave.  She 
glanced  uneasily  from  side  to  side :  high 
up  on  the  beach  lay  fragments  of  old 
wrecks ;  burnt  spars  of  vessels  drifted 
ashore  to  tell,  in  their  dumb  way,  of  cap- 
tain and  crew  washed,  in  one  quick  mo- 
ment, by  this  muddy  water  of  the  A%- 
lantic,  into  that  sea  fan  off  whence  no 
voyager  has  come  back  to  bring  the 
tidings.  Land  and  sea  seemed  to  her 
to  hint  at  this  thing,  —  this  awful  sea, 
cold  and  dark  beyond.  What  did  the 
dark  mystery  in  the  cry  of  the  surf  mean 
but  that?  That  was  the  only  sound. 
The  heavy  silence  without  grew  intoler- 
able to  her :  it  foreboded  eviL  The  cold, 
yellow  light  of  day  lingered  long.  Over- 
head, cloud  after  cloud  rose  frtnn  the  frur 
watery  horizon,  and  drove  swiftly  and 
silently  inland,  bellying  dark  as  it  went, 
carrying  the  storm.  As  the  horse's 
hoo&  struck  hard  on  the  beach,  a  bird 
rose  out  of  the  marsh  and  trailed  dirough 
the  air,  its  long  legs  dragging  behind  it, 
and  a  blaze  of  light  feathers  on  its  breast 
catching  a  dull  glow  in  the  £uling  even- 
ing. 

"The  blue  heron  flies  low,"  said  the 
Doctor.  "  That  means  a  heavier  storm. 
It  scents  a  wreck  as  keenly  as  a  Bame- 
gat  pirate." 


536 


Out  of  the  Sm. 


[May, 


^  It  is  fishing,  maybe  ?  "  said  Mary, 
trying  to  rouse  hersell 

**  It 's  no  a  canny  fisher  that,"  shaking 
his  head.  **  The  fish  yon  'd  find  in  its 
nest  come  firora  the  deep  waters,  where 
heron  never  flew.  Well,  they  do  say," 
in  answer  to  her  look  of  inquiry,  **•  that 
on  stormy  nights  it  sits  on  the  beach 
with  a  phosphoric  light  under  its  win^ 
and  so  draws  them  to  shore." 

*'How  soon  will  the  storm  be  on 
us  ?  "  after  a  pause. 

**  In  not  less  than  two  hours.  Keep 
your  heart  up,  child.  Ben  Van  Note 
is  no  fool.  He  'd  keep  clear  of  Squan 
Beach  as  he  would  of  hell's  mouth,  such 
a  night  as  this  is  going  to  be.  Your 
friends  are  all  safe.  We  '11  drive  home 
as  soon  as  we  've  been  at  the  store  to 
see  if  the  mail 's  brought  you  a  letter." 

He  tucked  in  his  hairy  overcoat  about 
his  long  legs,  and  tried  to  talk  cheerful- 
ly as  they  drove  along,  seeing  how  pale 
she  was. 

**  The  store  "  for  these  two  counties 
was  a  large,  one-roomed  frame  building 
on  the  edge  of  the  great  pine  woods, 
painted  bright  pink,  with  a  wooden  blue 
lady,  the  old  figure-head  of  some  sloop, 
over  the  door.  The  stoop  outside  was 
filled  with  hogsheads  and  boxes ;  inside 
was  the  usual  stock  of  calicoes,  china- 
ware,  molasses-barrels,  and  books ;  the 
post-office,  a  high  desk,  on  which  lay 
half  a  dozen  letters.  By  the  dingy  little 
windows,  on  which  the  rain  was  now 
beating  sharply,  four  or  five  dirty  sail- 
ors and  clam -diggers  were  gathered, 
lounging  on  the  counter  and  kegs,  while 
one  read  a  newspaper  aloud  slowly. 
They  stopped  to  look  at  Miss  Defour- 
chet,  when  she  came  in,  and  waited  by 
the  door  for  the  Doctor.  The  gloomy 
air  and  forlorn-looking  shop  contrasted 
and  threw  into  bright  relief  her  pretty, 
delicate  little  figure,  and  the  dainty  car- 
riage-dress she  wore.  All  the  daylight 
that,  was  in  the  store  seemed  at  once  to 
cling  to  and  caress  the  rare  beauty  of  the 
small  face,  with  its  eager  blue  eyes  and 
dark  brown  curls.  There  was  one  wom- 
an in  the  store,  sitting  on  a  beer-cask,  a 
small,  sharp-set  old  wife,  who  drew  her 
muddy  shoes  up  under  her  petticoats 


out  of  Mary's  way,  but  did  not  k>ok  at 
her.  Miss  Defourcbet  befenged  to  a 
fiunily  to  whom  the  ease  that  noiiey 
gives  and  a  certain  epicureanism  of 
taste  were  naturaL  She  stood  there 
wondering,  not  unkindly,  what  these 
poor  creatures  did  with  their  lives,  and 
their  dull,  cloddish  days ;  what  could 
they  know  of  the  keen  pains,  the  pleas- 
ures, the  ambitions,  or  loves,  that  enno- 
bled wealthier  souls  ? 

'<  This  be  yer  papper,  Doctor,"  said 
one ;  **  but  we  've  not  just  yet  finished  it" 

'<  All  right,  boys ;  Jem  Dexter  can 
leave  it  to-night,  as  he  goes  by.  Any 
mail  for  me,  Joe  ?  'But  you  're  waiting, 
Mother  Phebe  ?  "  —  turning  with  a  sud- 
den gentleness  to  the  old  woman  near 
Mary. 

'*  Yes,  I  be.  ^  But  it  don't  matter.  Jo- 
seph, serve  the  Doctor,"  —  beating  a 
tattoo  on  the  counter  with  her  restless 
hands. 

The  Doctor  did  not  turn  to  take  his 
letters,  however,  nor  seem  to  heed  the 
wind  which  was  rising  fitfully  each  mo- 
ment without,  but  leaned  leisurely  on 
the  counter. 

*'  Did  you  expect  a  letter  to-day  ?  " — 
in  the  same  subdued  voice. 

She  gave  a  scared  look  at  the  men  by 
the  window,,  and  then  in  a  whisper, — 

*^  From  my  son,  Derrick,  —  yes.  The 
folks  here  tsike  Derrick  for  a  joke,  —  an' 
me.  But  1  'm  expectin'.  He  said  he  'd 
come,  thee  sees  ?  " 

"  So  he  did." 

"Well,  there  's  none  horn  Derrick 
to-day.  Mother  Phebe,"  said  the  burly 
storekeeper,  taking  his  stubby  pipe  o\it 
of  his  mouth. 

She  caught  her  breath. 

"  Thee  looked  carefully,  Joseph  ?  " 

He  nodded.  She  began  to  unbutton 
a  patched  cotton  umbrella,  —  her  lips 
moving  as  people's  do  sometimes  in  die 
beginning  of  second  childhood. 

<M  '11  go  home,  then.  I  'U  be  back 
mail-day,  Wednesday,  Joseph.  Four 
days  that  is, — Wednesday." 

'*  Lookee  here  now,  Gran  1 "  positive- 
ly, la3ring  down  the  pipe  to  give  effect  to 
his  words ;  ''you  're  killin'  yersel^  you 
'\-trottin'  here  all  winter. 


i86s.] 


Out  of  the  Sea. 


537 


an'  what  sort  of  a  report  of  yerself  '11 
yer  make  to  Derrick  by  spring  ?  When 
that  'ere  letter  comes,  if  come  it  do,  I  've 
said  I  'd  put  on  my  cut  an'  run  up  with 
it  See  there ! " — pulling  out  her  thin 
calico  skirt  before  the  Doctor,--**  soak- 
ed, she  is." 

"  Thee 's  kind,  Joseph,  but  thee  don't 
know," — drawing  her  frock  back  with 
a  certain  dignity.  "When  my  boy's 
handwrite  comes,  I  must  be  here.  I 
learned  writin'  on  purpose  that  I  might 
read  it  first," — turning  to  Mary. 

'*  How  long  has  your  boy  been  gone  ?  " 
asked  Miss  Defourchet,  heedless  of 
Joseph's  warning  "  Hush-h ! " 

**  Twenty  years,  com^  Febuaiy,"  ea- 
gerly volunteered  one  or  two  voices  by 
the  window.  "  She 's  never  heerd  a  word 
in  that  time,  an'  she  never  misses  a 
mail-day,  but  she  's  expectin',"  added 
one^  with  a  coarse  laugh. 

"  None  o'  that,  Sam  Venners,"  said 
Joe,  sharply.  "  If  so  be  as  Dirk  said 
he  'd  come,  be  it  half-a-hunder*  years, 
he  11  Stan'  to 't  I  knowed  Dirk.  Many 
's  the  clam  we  toed  out  o'  th'  inlet  yon- 
ner.  He  's  not  the  sort  to  hang  round, 
gnawin'  out  the  old  folk's  meat-pot,  as 
some  I  cud  name.    He  " 

» I  '11  go,  if  thee  '11  let  me  apast,"  said 
the  old  woman,  humbly  curtsying  to  the 
men^  who  now  jammed  up  the  doorway. 

'^  It 's  a  cussed  shame,  Venners,"  said 
Joe,  when  she  was  out  "Why  can't 
yer  humor  the  old  gran  a  bit  ?  She  's 
the  chicken-heartedest  woman  ever  I 
knowedf"  explanatory  to  Miss  Defour- 
chet, "an'  these  ten  years  she  's  been 
mad-like,  waitin'  for  that  hang-dog  son 
of  hers  to  come  back." 

Mary  followed  her  out  on  the  stoop, 
where  she  stood,  her  ragged  green  um- 
brella up,  her  sharp  little  face  turned 
anxiously  to  the  faix  sea-line. 

" Bad !  bad  I"  she  muttered,  looking 
at  Mary. 

"  The  storm  ?  Yes.  But  you  ought 
not  to  be  out  in  such  weather,"  kindly, 
putting  her  furred  hand  on  the  skinny 
arm. 

The  woman  smiled, — a  sweet,  good- 
homored  smile  it  was,  in  spite  of  her 
meagre,  hungry  oki  face. 


"  Why,  look  there,  young  woman," — 
pulling  up  her  sleeve,  and  showing  the 
knotted  tendons  and  thick  muscles  of 
her  arm.  "  I  'm  pretty  tough,  thee  sees. 
There  's  not  a  boatman  in  Ocean  Coun- 
ty could  pull  an  oar  with  me  when  I 
was  a  gell,  an'  I  'm  tough  yet," — hook- 
ing her  sleeve  again. 

The  smile  haunted  Miss  Defourchet ; 
where  had  she  seen  it  before  ? 

"  Was  Derrick  strongly  built  ?  "—idly 
wishing  to  recall  it. 

"  Thee 's  a  stranger ;  maybe  thee  has 
met  my  boy  ?  "—turning  on  her  sharply. 
**No,  that 's  silly," — the  sad  vagueness 
coming  back  into  the  faded  eyes.  Af- 
ter a  pause,  —  "  Derrick,  thee  said  ? 
He  was  short,  the  lad  was,  —  but  with 
legs  and  arms  as  tender  and  supple  as 
a  wild-cat's.  I  loss  much  of  my  strength 
when  he  was  bom ;  it  was  wonderful, 
for  a  woman,  before ;  I  giv  it  to  him. 
I  'm  glad  of  that  1  I  thank  God  that 
I  giv  it  to  him!" — her  voice  sinking, 
and  growing  wilder  and  faster.  "  Why ! 
why ! " 

Mary  took  her  hand,  half-scared,  look- 
ing in  at  the  store-door,  wishing  Doctor 
Dennis  would  come. 

The  old  woman  tottered  and  sat  down 
on  the  lower  rung  of  a  ladder  standing 
there.  Mary  could  see  now  how  the  long 
sickness  of  the  hope  deferred  had  touch- 
ed the  poor  creature's  brain,  gentle  and 
loving  at  first  She  pushed  the  wet  yel- 
low sun-bonnet  back  from  the  gray  hair ; 
she  thought  she  had  never  seen  such 
unutterable  pathos  or  tragedy  as  in  this 
little  cramped  figure,  and  this  old  £Eice, 
turned  forever  watching  to  the  sea. 

"Thee  does  n't  know;  how  should 
thee  ?  "—gently,  but  not  looking  at  her. 
"  Thee  never  bad  a  son ;  an'  when  thee 
has,  it  will  be  bom  in  wedlock.  Thee 
's  rich,  an'  well  taught  I  was  jess  a 
clam-fisher,  an'  knowed  nothin'  but  my 
baby.  His  father  was  a  gentleman : 
come  in  spring,  an'  gone  in  th'  fidl,  an' 
that  was  the  last  of  him.  That  hurt  a 
bit,  but  I  had  Derrick.  Ohy  Derrick  f 
Derrick  I  ^^  —  whispering,  rocking  her- 
self to  and  fro  as  if  she  held  a  baby,  coo- 
ing over  the  uncouth  name  with  an  awful 
longing  and  tenderness,  ia  the  sound. 


538 


Out  of  the  Sea. 


[May, 


Miss  Defourchet  was  silent.  Some- 
tbing  in  all  this  awed  her ;  she  did  not 
understand  it 

**  I  mind,"  she  wandered  on,  "  when 
the  day's  work  was  done,  I  'd  hold  him 
in  my  arms, — so, — and  his  sleepy  little 
fece  would  turn  up  to  mine.  I  seemed 
to  begin  to  loss  him  after  he  was  a  ba- 
by,"— with  an  old,  worn  sigh.  "He 
went  with  other  bo3rs.  The  Weirs  and 
Hallets  took  him  up ;  they  were  town- 
bred  people,  an'  he  soon  got  other  no- 
tions from  mine,  an'  talked  of  things  I  'd 
heerd  nothin'  of.  I  was  very  proud 
of  my  Derrick  ;  but  I  knowed  I  'd  loss 
him  all  the  same.  I  did  washin'  an' 
ironin'  by  nights  to  keep  him  dressed 
like  the  others,  —  an*  kep'  myself  out  o' 
their  way,  not  to  shame  him  with  his 
mother." 

**  And  was  he  ashamed  of  you  ? ''  said 
Mary,  her  face  growing  hot 

«  Thee  did  not  know  my  little  boy," 
— the  old  woman  stood  up,  drawing  her- 
self to  her  full  height  **  His  wee  body 
was  too  full  of  pluck  an'  good  love  to 
be  shamed  by  his  mother.  I  mind  the 
day  I  come  on  them  suddint,  by  the 
bridge,  where  they  were  standin',  him 
an'  two  o*  the  Hallets.  I  was  carryin' 
a  basket  of  herrings,  llie  Hallets  they 
flushed  up,  an'  looked  at  him  to  see 
what  he  'd  do ;  for  they  never  named 
his  mother  to  himf*I  heerd.  The  road 
was  deep  with  mud ;  an'  as  I  stood  a 
bit  to  balance  myself,  keepin'  my  head 
tiuned  from*  him,  before  I  knew  aught, 
my  boy  had  me  in  his  arms,  an'  car- 
ried me  t'  other  side.  I  'm  not  a  heavy 
weight,  thee  sees,  but  his  face  was  all 
aglow  with  the  laugh. 

"  *  There  you  are,  dear,'  he  says,  put- 
tin'  me  down,  the  wind  blowin'  his 
brown  hair. 

"One  of  the  Hallets  brought  my 
basket  over  then,  an'  touched  his  hat 
as  if  I  'd  been  a  lady.  That  was  the 
last  time  my  boy  had  his  arms  about 
me:  x»xt  week  he  went  away.  That 
Aiglxt  I  heerd  him  in  his  room  in  the 
loft,  here  an'  there,  here  an'  there,  as 
if  be  could  n't  sleep,  an*  so  for  many 
sights,  comio'  down  in  the  momin'  with 
hi&ejEes.xedjA'.  swollen,  but  full  of  the 


laugh  an'  joke  as  always.  The  HalletB 
were  with  him  constant,  those  days. 
Judge  Hallet,  their  £&ther,  were  goin' 
across  seas,  Derrick  said.  So  one  nighty 
I  'd  got  his  tea  ready,  an'  were  waitin' 
for  him  by  the  fire,  loiittin', — when  he 
come  in  an'  stood  by  the  mantel-shelf, 
lookin'  down  at  me,  steady.  He  had  on 
his  Sunday  suit  of  blue,  Jim  Devines 
giv  him. 

"'Where  be  yer  other  clothes,  my 
son  ? '  I  said. 

"  *  They  're  not  clean,'  says  he.  *  I  've 
been  hauUn'  mari  for  Springer  this 
week.  He  paid  me  to-night ;  the  mon- 
ey 's  in  the  kitchen-cupboard.' 

"  I  looked  up  at  that,  for  it  was  work 
I  'd  never  put  him  ta 

" '  It  '11  buy  thee  new  shoes,'  said  I. 

'^  *  I  did  it  for  you,  mother,'  he  says, 
suddint,  puttin'  his  hand  over  his  ejres. 
*  I  wish  things  were  different  with  you^' 

"  *  Yes,  Derrick.' 

^  I  went  on  with  my  knittin' ;  for  I 
never  talked  much  to  him,  for  the  shame 
of  my  bad  words,  since  he  M  learned 
better.  But  I  wondered  what  he  meant ; 
for  wages  was  high  that  winter,  an'  I 
was  doin'  welL 

" '  If  ever,'  he  says,  speakin'  low  an' 
^ter,  Mf  ever  I  do  an3rthing  that  gives 
you  pain,  you  '11  know  it  was  for  love 
of  you  I  did  it  Not  for  myself  God 
knows !  To  make  things  different  for 
you.' 

" '  Yes,  Derrick,'  I  says,  knittin'  on, 
for  I  did  n't  understan'  thin.  After- 
wards I  did.  The  room  was  dark,  an' 
it  were  dead  quiet  for  a  bit ;  then  the 
lad  moved  to  the  door. 

"'Where  be  thee  goin',  Derrick?' 
I  sdd. 

"He  come  back  an'  leaned  on  my 
chair. 

"  *  Let  me  tell  you  when  I  come  back,' 
he  said.  *  You  'U  wait  for  me  ? '  stoopin' 
down  an'  kissin'  me. 

"  I  noticed  that,  for  he  did  not  like  to 
kiss,  —  Derrick.  An'  his  lips  were  hot 
an'  dry. 

" '  Yes,  I  11  wait,  my  son,'  I  sakL 
'  Thee  '11  not  be  gone  long  ? ' 

"  He  did  not  answer  that,  but  kissed 
me  again,  an'  went  out  quickly. 


x865.] 


Out  of  the  Sea. 


539 


^  I  sat  an'  wadled  long  that  nighty  an' 
-searched  till  mornin'.  There  's  been 
a  many  nights  an'  days  since,  but  I  Ve 
never  found  him.  The  Hallets  all  went 
that  night*  an'  I  heerd  Derrick  went  as 
waiter-boy,  so 's  to  get  across  seas.  It 's 
twenty  years  now.  But  I  think  he  '11 
come," — looking  up  with  a  laugh. 

Miss  Defourchet  started ;  where  had 
she  known  this  woman  ?  The  sudden 
flicker  of  a  smile,  followed  by  a  quick 
contraction  of  the  eyelids  and  mouth, 
was  peculiar  and  curiously  sensitive 
and  sad ;  somewhere  in  a  picture  may- 
be^ she  had  seen  the  same. 

Doctor  Dennis,  who  had  waited  pur- 
posely, came  out  now  on  the  stoop. 
Miss  Defourchet  looked  up.  The  dark- 
ness had  gathered  while  they  stood 
there;  the  pine  woods,  close  at  the 
right,  began  to  lower  distant  and  shape- 
less ;  now  and  then  the  wind  flapped  a 
raw  dash  of  rain  in  their  £u:es,  and  then 
was  suddenly  stilL  Behind  them,  two  or 
three  tallow  candles,  just  lighted  in  the 
store,  sputtered  dismal  circles  of  dingy 
glare  in  the  damp  fog ;  in  front,  a  vague 
slope  of  wet  night,  in  which  she  knew 
lay  the  road  and  the  salt  marshes ;  and 
far  beyond,  distinct,  the  sea-line  next 
the  sl^,  a  great  yellow  phosphorescent 
belt,  apparently  higher  than  their  heads. 
Nearer,  unseen,  the  night-tide  was  sent 
in :  it  came  with  a  regular  muffled  throb 
that  shook  the  ground.  Doctor  Dennis 
went  down,  and  groped  about  his  horse, 
adjusting  the  harness. 

'^The  poor  beast  is  soaked  to  the 
marrow :  it  's  a  dull  night :  d'  ye  hear 
how  full  the  air  is  of  noises  ?  " 

^It  be  the  sea  makin'  ready,"  said 
Joe,  in  a  whisper,  as  if  it  were  a  sen- 
tient thing  and  omld  hear.  He  touched 
the  old  woman  on  the  arm  and  beckoned 
her  inside  to  one  of  the  candles. 

''  There  be  a  scrap  of  a  letter  come 
for  you;  but  keep  quiet  Ben  Vam 
Note's  scrawl  of  a  handwrite,  think." 

The  letters  were  large  enough,— 
printed,  in  fact :  she  read  it  but  once. 

**'  Your  Dirk  come  Aboord  the  Chief 
at  New  York.  I  knowed  him  by  a  mark 
on  his  wrist — the  time  jim  ballet  cut 
him  you  mind,   he  is  aged  and  Differ- 


entt  name.  I  kep  close,  we  sail  today 
and  111  Breng  him  Ashor  tomorrer  nite 
plese  God.   be  on  Handd." 

She  folded  the  letter,  crease  by  crease, 
and  put  it  quietly  in  her  pocket  Joe 
watched  her  curiously. 

<<  D'  Ben  say  when  the  Chief  ud  nm 
in?" 

"  To-night" 

"  Bah-h  1  there  be  n't  a  vessel  with- 
in miles  of  this  coast^ — without  a  gale 
drives  'm  in." 

She  did  not  seem  to  hear  him :  was 
feeling  her  wet  petticoats  and  sleeves. 
She  would  shame  Derrick,  after  all,  with 
this  patched,  muddy  frock !  She  had 
worked  so  long  to  buy  the  black  silk 
gown  and  white  neckercher  that  was 
folded  in  the  bureau-drawer  to  wear  the 
day  he  'd  come  back ! 

<'  When  he  come  back  ! " 

Then,  for  the  first  time,  she  realized 
what  she  was  thinking  about  Coming 
Uhfughi/ 

Presendy  Miss  Defourchet  went  to 
her  where  she  was  sitting  on  a  box  in 
the  dark  and  rain. 

^'Are  you  sick?"  said  she,  putting 
her  hand  out 

"Oh,  no,  dear!"  softly,  putting  the 
fingers  in  her  own,  close  to  her  breast, 
crying  and  sobbing  quieUy.  '*Thee 
hand  be  a'most  as  soft  as  a  baby's 
foot,"  after  a  while,  fimcying  the  lit- 
tie  chap  was  creeping  into  her  bosom 
again,  thumping  with  his  fax  feet  and 
fists  as  he  used  to  da  Her  very 
blood  used  to  grow  wild  and  hot  when 
he  did  that,  she  loved  him  so.  And  her 
heart  to-night  was  just  as  warm  and 
light  as  then.  He  was  coming  back, 
her  boy :  maybe  he  was  poor  and  sick, 
a  worn-out  man ;  but  in  a  few  hours  he 
would  be  here,  and  lay  his  tired  head 
on  her  breast,  and  be  a  baby  again. 

Joe  went  down  to  the  Doctor  with  a 
lantern. 

'^Van  Note  meant  to  run  in  the 
Chief  to-night,"  —  in  an  anxious,  in- 
quiring whisper. 

"  He  's  not  an  idiot ! " 

"  No,— but,  bein'  near,  the  wind  may 
drive  'em  on  the  bar.    Look  yonder." 

*'  See  that,  too^  Joe  ?  "  said  bow-legged 


540 


Out  of  the  Sea. 


[May. 


Phil,  from  Tom's  River,  who  was  up 
that  night 

•  **  That  yellow  line  has  never  been  in 
the  sky  since  the  night  the  James  Fra- 
zier Ack'h  !  it 's  come  /  " 

He  had  stooped  to  help  Doctor  Dennis 
with  his  harness,  but  now  fell  forward, 
clapping  his  hands  to  his  ears.  A  ter- 
rible darkness  swept  over  them;  the 
whole  air  was  filled  with  a  fierce,  risping 
crackle ;  then  came  a  sharp  concussion, 
that  seemed  tp  tear  the  earth  asunder. 
Miss  Defourchet  cried  aloud:  no  one 
answered  her.  In  a  few  moments  the 
darkness  slowly  lifted,  leaving  the  old 
yellow  lights  and  fogs  on  sea  and  land. 
The  men  stood  motionless  as  when  the 
tornado  passed,  Doctor  Dennis  leaning 
on  his  old  mare,  having  thrown  one  arm 
about  her  as  if  to  protect  her,  his  stem 
face  awed. 

"  There  's  where  it  went,"  said  Joe, 
coolly,  drawing  his  hands  from  his  pock- 
ets, and  pointing  to  a  black  gap  in  the 
pine  woods.  ''The  best  ^ums  in  this 
Jersey  country  lie  back  o*  that  I  told 
you  there  was  death  in  the  pot,  but  I 
did  n't  think  it  ud  'a'  come  this  fash- 


ion. 


» 


"  When  will  the  storm  be  on  us  ?  " 
asked  Mary,  trembling. 

Joe  laughed  sardonically. 

**  Have  n't  ye  hed  enough  of  it  ?  " 

"  There  will  be  no  rain  after  a  gust 
like  that,"  said  MacAulay.  "  I'  11  try 
and  get  you  home  now.  It  has  done 
its'  worst  It  will  take  years  to  wipe 
out  the  woe  this  night  has  worked." 

The  wind  had  fallen  into  a  dead  si- 
lence, frightened  at  itself.  And  now  the 
sudden,  awful  thunder  of  the  sea  broke 
on  them,  shaking  the  sandy  soil  on 
which  they  stood. 

"  Thank  God  that  Van  Note  is  so 
trusty  a  sailor  as  you  say  \ "  said  Mary, 
buttoning  her  fiirs  closer  to  her  throat. 
"They  're  back  in  a  safe  harbor,  I 
doubt  not" 

Joe  and  Doctor  Dennis  exchanged 
significant  glances  as  they  stood  by  the 
mare,  and  then  looked  again  out  to  sea. 

"  Best'  get  her  home,"  said  Joe,  in  a 
whisper. 

Doctor   Dennis   nodded,   and  they 


made  haste  to  bring  the  gig  up  to  the 
horse-block. 

Old  Phebe  Trull  had  been  standing 
stirless  since  the  gust  passed.  She 
drew  a  long  breath  when  Mary  touched 
her,  telling  her  to  come  home  with  them. 

^  That  was  a  sharp  blow.  I  'm  an 
old  Bamegat  woman,  an'  I  've  known 
no  such  cutters  as  that  But  be  '11 
come.  I  'm  expectin*  my  boy  to-night, 
young  woman.  I  'm  goin'  to  the  beach 
now  to  wait  for  him, — for  Derrick." 

In  spite  of  the  queer  old  face  peering 
out  from  the  yellow  sun-bonnet,  with 
its  flabby  wrinkles  and  nut-cracker  jaws, 
there  was  a  fine,  delicate  meaning  in 
the  smile  with  which  she  waved  hef 
hand  down  to  the  stormy  beach. 

**  What 's  that  ?  "  said  Doctor  Den- 
nis, starting  up,  and  holding  his  hand 
behind  his  ear.  His  sandy  face  grew 
pale. 

"  I  heard  nothing,"  s^d  Mary. 

The  next  moment  she  caught  a  doll 
thud  in  the  watery  distance,  as  if  some 
pulse  of  the  night  had  throbbed  fever- 
ishly. 

Bow-legged  Phil  started  to  his  feet 

**  It  's  the  gun  of  the  Chief !  Van 
Note  's  goin'  down ! "  he  cried,  with  a 
horrible  oath,  and  hobbled  off,  followed 
by  the  other  men. 

"His  little  brother  Benny  be  on  her," 
said  Joe.  "  May  God  have  mercy  on 
their  souls ! " 

He  had  climbed  like  a  cat  to  the  raft- 
ers, and  thrown  down  two  or  three  ca- 
bles and  anchors,  and,  putting  them 
over  his  shoulders,  started  soberly  for 
the  beach,  stopping  to  look  at  Miss 
Defourchet,  crouched  on  the  floor  of 
the  store. 

"  You  'd  best  see^fter  her,  Doctor. 
Ropes  is  all  we  can  do  for  'em.  No 
boat  ud  live  in  that  sea,  goin'  out" 

Going  down  through  the  clammy  fog, 
his  feet  sinking  in  the  marsh  with  the 
weight  he  carried,  he  could  see  red 
lights  in  the  mist,  gathering  towards 
shore. 

"  It 's  the  wrackers  goin*  down  to  be 
ready  for  momin'." 

And  in  a  few  moments  stood  beside 
them  a  half-dozen  brawny  men,  witlt 


i86s.] 


Out  of  the  Sea, 


541 


their  legs  and  chests  bare.  The  beach 
on  which  they  stood  glared  white  in 
the  yellow  light,  giving  the  effect  of  a 
landscape  in  Polar  seas.  One  or  two 
solitary  headlands  loomed  gloomily  up, 
covered  with  snow.  In  front,  the  wa- 
ters at  the  edge  oi  the  sea  broke  at 
their  feet  in  long,  solemn,  monotonous 
swells,  that  reverberated  like  thunder, 
—  a  death-song  for  the  work  going  on 
in  the  chaos  beyond. 

^  Thar  's  no  use  doin'  anything  out 
thar,"  said  one  of  the  men,  nodding 
gloomily  to  a  black  speck  in  the  foam- 
ing helL  *^  She  be  on  the  bar  this  ten 
minutes,  an'  she  's  a  mean-built  crafl, 
that  Chief." 

**  Could  n't  a  boat  run  out  from  the 
inlet  ?  "  timidly  ventured  an  eager,  blue- 
eyed  little  fellow. 

"No,  Snap,"  said  Joe,  letting  his 
anchor  fell,  and  clearing  his  throat 
"Well,  there  be  the  end  of  old  Ben, 
hey?  Be  yer  never  tired,  yer  cruel 
devil  ?  "  turning  with  a  sudden  fierce- 
ness to  the  sly  foam  creeping  lazily 
about  his  feet 

There  was  a  long  silence. 

"  Bowlegs  tried  it,  but  his  scow  stud 
still,  an'  the  breakers  came  atop  as  if 
it  war  a  clam-shell.  He  war  n't  five 
yards  from  shore.    His  Ben 's  aboard." 

Another  peal  of  a  g^n  from  the 
schooner  broke  through  the  dark  and 
storm. 

"  God  1  I  be  sick  o'  sittin'  on  shor', 
an'  watchin'  men  drownin'  like  rats  on 
a  raft,"  said  Joe,  wiping  the  foam  from 
his  thick  lips,  ^nd  trotting  up  and  down 
the  sand,  keeping  his  back  to  the  ves- 
sel 

Some  of  the  men  sat  down,  their 
hands  clasped  about  their  knees,  look- 
ing gravely  out 

"  What  cud  we  do,  Joey  ?  "  said  one. 
"  Thar  be  Hannah  an'  the  children ; 
we  kin  give  Hannah  a  lift  But  as  for 
Ben,  it  's  no  use  thinkin'  about  Ben 
no  more." 

The  little  clam-digger  Snap  was  kin- 
dling a  fire  out  of  the  old  half-btimt 
wrecks  of  vessels. 

••  It 's  too  late  to  give  'cm  wamin'," 
he  said ;  "  but  it  11  let  'em  see  we  're 


watchin'  'em  at  the  last  One  ud  like 
fiiends  at  the  last" 

The  fire  lighted  up  the  shore,  throw- 
ing long  bars  of  hot,  greenish  flame  up 
the  fog. 

**  Who  be  them,  Joe  ?  "  whispered  a 
wrecker,  as  two  dim  figures  came  down 
through  the  marsh. 

"  She  hev  a  sweetheart  aboord.  Don't 
watch  her." 

The  men  got  up,  and  moved  away, 
leaving  Miss  Defourchet  alone  with 
Doctor  Dennis.  She  stood  so  quiet, 
her  eyes  glued  on  the  dull,  shaking 
shadow  yonder  on  the  bar,  that  he 
thought  she  did  not  care.  Two  figures 
came  round  from  the  inlet  to  where  the 
water  shoaled,  pulling  a  narrow  skiff. 

"  Hillo !  "  shouted  Doctor  Dennis. 
"  Be  you  mad  ?  " 

The  stouter  of  the  figures  hobbled 
up.  It  was  Bowlegs.  His  voice  was 
deadened  in  the  cold  of  the  fog,  but 
he  wiped  the  hot  sweat  from  his  face. 

*'  In  God's  name,  be  thar  none  of  ye 
ull  bear  a  hand  with  me  ?  Ud  ye  sit 
here  an'  see  'em  drown  ?  Benny  's 
thar,  —  my  Ben." 

Joe  shook  his  head. 

"  My  best  friend  be  there,"  said  the 
old  Doctor.  **  But  what  can  ye  do  ? 
Your  boat  will  be  paper  in  that  sea, 
PhiL" 

"  That 's  so,"  droned  out  one  or  two 
of  the  wreckers,  dully  nodding. 

"  Curses  on  ye  for  cowards,  then  I " 
cried  Bowlegs,  as  he  plunged  into  the 
surf,  and  righted  his  boat  "Look 
who  's  my  mate,  shame  on  ye  ! " 

His  mate  shoved  the  skiff  out  with 
an  oar  into  the  seething  breakers,  turn- 
ing to  do  it,  and  showed  them,  by  the 
far-reaching  fire-light,  old  Phebe  Trull, 
stripped  to  her  red  woollen  chemise 
and  flannel  petticoat,  her  yellow,  mus- 
cular arms  and  chest  bare.  Her  peak- 
ed old  face  was  set,  and  her  faded  blue 
eye  aflame.  She  did  not  hear  the  cry 
of  horror  from  the  wreckers. 

"  Ye  've  a  better  pull  than  any  white- 
liver  of  'em,  from  Tom's  to  Barnegat," 
gasped  Bowlegs,  struggling  against  the 
surf. 

She  was  wrestling  for  life  with  Death 


542 


Out  of  ike  Sea. 


[May, 


itself;  but  the  quiet,  tender  smile  did 
not  leave  her  face. 

''  My  God  !  ef  I  cud  pull  as  when  I 
was  a  gell !  "  she  muttered.  "  Der- 
rick, I  *m  comin' !  I  'm  comin',  boy !  " 

The  salt  spray  wet  their  little  fire  of 
logs,  beside  which  Snap  sat  crying,  — 
put  it  out  at  last,  leaving  a  heap  of 
black  cinders.  The  night  fell  heavier 
and  cold ;  boat  and  schooner  alike  were 
long  lost  and  gone  in  outer  darkness. 
As  they  wandered  up  and  down,  chilled 
and  hopeless,  they  could  not  see  each 
other's  £ices,  —  only  the  patch  of  white 
sand  at  their  feet  When  they  shouted, 
no  gun  or  cry  answered  them  again. 
All  was  silence^  save  the  awful  beat  of 
the  surf  upon  the  shore,  going  on  for- 
ever with  its  count,  count  of  the  hours 
until  the  time  when  the  sea  shall  at  last 
give  up  its  dead. 

• 

Ben  Van  Note  did  not  run  the  Chief 
in  near  shore  purposely;  but  the  fog 
was  dense,  and  Ben  was  a  better  sailor 
than  pilot  He  took  the  wheel  himself 
about  an  hour  before  they  struck, — the 
two  or  three  other  men  at  their  work  on 
deck,  with  haggard,  anxious  faces,  and 
silent :  it  is  not  the  manner  of  these 
Jersey  coast -men  to  chatter  in  heavy 
weather. 

Philbricky  Doctor  Bowdler's  boy,  loun- 
ged beside  Ben,  twisting  a  greasy  lan- 
tern :  "  a  town-bred  fellow,"  Ben  said ; 
''put  him  in  mind  of  young,  rank  cheese." 

"  You  *d  best  keep  a  sharp  eye,  Van 
Note,"  he  said;  "this  is  a  dirty  bit 
of  water,  and  you  've  two  great  men 
aboard :  one  patcher  of  the  body,  t'  oth- 
er of  the  souL" 

"  I  vally  my  own  neck  more  than 
either,"  growled  Ben,  and  after  a  while 
forced  himself  to  add,  ^*He  *s  no  back- 
bone, —  the  little  fellow  with  your  mas- 
ter, I  mean." 

"  Umph ! "  superciliously.  "  I  *d  like 
to  see  the  'litde  fellow'  making  neat 
bits  out  of  that  carcass  of  yours  !  His 
dainty  white  fingers  carve  off  a  fellow's 
legs  and  arms,  caring  no  more  than  if 
they  were  painting  flowers.  He  is  a 
neat  flower-painter.  Dr.  Birkenshead ; 
moulds  in  clay,  too." 


He  stared  as  Van  Note  burst  into  a 
coarse  guflaw. 

"Flower -painter,  eh?  Well,  well, 
young  man.  You  *d  best  go  below. 
It  's  dirtier  water  than  you  think." 

Doctors  Bowdler  and  Birkenshead 
were  down  in  the  little  cabin,  reading 
by  the  dull  light  of  a  coal -oil  lamp. 
When  the  vessel  began  to  toss  ito  furi- 
ously, the  elder  man  rose  and  paced 
fussily  to  and  fro,  rubbing  his  fingers 
through  his  iron-gray  hair.  His  com- 
panion was  too  much  engrossed  by  hia 
paper  to  heed  him.  He  had  a  small, 
elegantly  shaped  figure, — the  famous 
surgeon, — a  dark  face,  drawn  by  a  few 
heavy  lines ;  looking  at  it,  you  felt,  that, 
in  spite  of  his  womanish  delicacies  of 
habit,  which  lay  open  to  all,  never  apol- 
ogized for,  he  was  a  man  whom  you 
could  not  approach  familiarly,  though 
he  were  your  brother  bom.  He  stop- 
ped reading  presently,  slowly  folding 
the  newspaper  straight,  and  laying  it 
down. 

•  "  That  is  a  delicioas  blunder  of  the 
Administration,"  with  a  little  giu-gling 
laugh  of  thorough  relish.  "You  re- 
member La  Rochefoucauld's  aphorism, 
'One  is  never  so  easily  deceived  as 
when  one  seeks  to  deceive  others'?" 

Doctor  Bowdler  looked  tmcomforta- 
ble. 

"A  selfish  French  Philistcr,  La 
Rochefoucauld  ! "  he  blurted  out  "  I 
feel  as  if  I  had  been  steeped  in  mean- 
ness and  vulgarity  all  my  life,  when  I 
read  him." 

"  He  knew  men,"  said  die  other,  cool- 
ly, resetting  a  pocket  set  of  chessmen 
on  the  board  where  they  had  been  play- 
ing, —  "  Frenchmen,"  shortly. 

"  Doctor  Birkenshead,"  after  a  pause, 
"  you  appear  to  have  no  sympathies  with 
either  side,  in  this  struggle  for  the  na- 
tion's life.  You  neither  attack  nor  de- 
fend our  government" 

"In  plain  English,  I  have  no  patri- 
otism ?  Well,  to  be  honest,  I  don't  • 
comprehend  how  any  earnest  seeker  for 
truth  can  have.  If  my  country  has 
truth,  so  far  she  nourishes  me,  and  I 
am  grateful;  if  not, — why,  the  air  is 
no  purer  nor  the  government  more  wor- 


i86s.] 


Out  of  the  Sea, 


543 


thy  of  reverence  because  I  chanced  to 
be  bom  here." 

"Why,  Sir,"  said  the  Doctor,  stop- 
piog  short  and  growing  red|  ''you  could 
apply  such  an  argument  as  that  to  a 
man's  feeling  for  his  wife  or  child  or 
mother ! " 

''So  you  could,"  looking  closely  at 
the  queen  to  see  the  carving. 

Doctor  Bowdler  looked  at  him  search- 
ingly,  and  then  began  his  angry  walk 
again  in  silence.  What  was  the  use  of 
answering  ?  No  wonder  a  man  who  talk- 
ed in  that  way  was  famed  in  this  country 
and  in  Europe  for  his  coolness  and  skill 
in  cutting  up  living  bodies.  And  yet*-- 
remorsefiilly,  looking  fiirdvely  at  him 
—  Birkenshead  was  not  a  hard  fellow, 
after  alL  There  was  that  pauper-hos- 
pital of  his ;  and  he  had  known  him 
turn  sick  when  operating  on  children, 
and  damn  the  people  who  brought  them 
to  him. 

Doctor  Bowdler  was  a  litde  in  dread 
of  this  Aiture  husband  of  his  niece,  feel- 
ing there  was  a  great  gulf  between  them 
intellectually,  the  surgeon  having  a  rare 
power  in  a  line  of  life  of  which  he  knew 
nothing.  Besides,  he  could  not  under- 
stand him,  —  not  his  homely,  keen  little 
£ice  even.  The  eyes  held  their  own 
thought,  and  never  answered  yours ;  but 
on  the  mouth  there  was  a  forlorn  de- 
pression sometimes,  like  that  of  a  man 
who,  in  spite  of  his  £une,  felt  himself 
alone  and  neglected.  It  rested  there 
now,  as  he  idly  fingered  the  chessmen. 

"  Mary  will  kiss  it  away  in  time,  may- 
be,"— doubting,  as  he  said  it,  whether 
Mary  did  not  come  nearer  the  man's 
head  than  his  heart  He  stopped,  look- 
ing out  of  the  hole  by  the  ladder  that 
served  the  purpose  of  a  window. 

"It  grows  blacker  every  minute.  I 
shall  begin  to  repent  tempting  you  on 
such  a  harebrained  expedition.  Doc- 
tor." 

"  No.  This  Van  Note  seems  a  cau- 
tious sailor  enough,"  carelessly. 

"  Yes.  He 's  on  his  own  ground,  too. 
We  ought  to  run  into  Squan  Inlet  by 
morning.    Did  you  speak  ?  " 

Birkenshead  shook  his  head ;  the 
Doctmr  noticed,  however,  that  his  hand 


had  suddenly  stopped  moving  the  chess- 
men ;  he  rested  his  chin  in  the  other. 

"  Some  case  he  has  left  worries  him," 
he  thought  "  He 's  not  the  man  to  rel- 
ish this  wild-goose  chase  of  mine.  It 's 
bad  enough  for  Mary  to  jar  against  his 
quiet  tastes  with  her  reforming  whims, 
without  my" 

"  I  would  regret  bringing  you  here," 
*  he  said  aloud,  "if  I  did  not  think  you 
would  find  a  novelty  in  this  shore  and 
people.  This  coast  is  hardly  'canny,' 
as  MacAulay  would  say.  It  came,  lit- 
erally, out  of  the  sea.  Sometime,  ages 
ago,  it  belonged  to  the  bed  of  the  ocean, 
and  it  never  has  reconciled  itself  to  the 
life  of  the  land ;  its  Flora  is  different 
from  that  of  the  boundaries ;  if  you  dig 
a  few  feet  into  its  marl,  you  find  layers 
of  shells  belonging  to  deep  soundings, 
sharks'  teeth  and  bones,  and  the  like. 
The  people,  too,  have  a  'YnarveUously 
fishy  and  ancient  smeU.' " 

The  little  man  at  the  table  suddenly 
rose,  pushing  the  chessmen  from  him. 

"What  is  there  to  wonder  at?"  — 
with  a  hoarse,  unnatural  laugh.  "  That 's 
Nature.  You  cannot  make  fat  pastures 
out  of  sea-sand,  any  more  than  a  thor- 
ough-blood gentilhomme  out  of  a  clam- 
digger.  The  shark's  teeth  will  show, 
do  what  you  wilL"  He  pulled  at  his 
whiskers  nervously,  went  to  the  win- 
dow, motioning  Doctor  Bowdler  rough- 
ly aside.  "  Let  me  see  what  the  night 
is  doing." 

The  old  gentleman  stared  in  a  grave 
surprise.  What  had  he  said  to  startle 
Birkenshead  so  utterly  out  of  himself  ? 
The  color  had  left  his  face  at  the  first 
mention  of  this  beach ;  his  very  voice 
was  changed,  coarse  and  thick,  as  if 
some  other  man  had  broken  out  through 
him.  At  that  moment,  while  Doctor 
Bowdler  stood  feebly  adjusting  his 
watch-chain,  and  eying  his  compan- 
ion's back,  like  one  who  has  found  a 
panther  in  a  domestic  cat,  and  knows 
not  when  he  will  spring,  the  tornado 
struck  the  ocean  a  few  feet  from  their 
side,  cleaving  a  path  for  itself  into  deep 
watery  walls.  There  was  an  instant's 
reeling  and  intense  darkness,  then  the 
old  Doctor  tried  to  gather  himself  up, 


544 


Out  of  the  Sea. 


[May, 


bruised  and  sick,  from  the  companion* 
way,  where  he  had  been  thrown. 

'*  Better  lie  still,"  said  Birkenshead, 
in  the  gentle  voice  with  which  he  was 
used  to  calm  a  patient 

The  old  gentleman  managed  to  sit  up 
on  the  floor.  By  the  dull  glare  of  the 
cabin-lantern  he  could  see  the  surgeon 
sitting  on  the  lower  rung  of  the  ladder, 
leaning  forward,  holding  his  head  in  his 
hands. 

"Strike  a  light,  can't  you,  Birkens- 
head  ?  What  has  happened  ?  Bah  1 
this  is  horrible  !  I  have  swallowed  the 
sea- water  !  Hear  it  s;wash  against  the 
sides  of  the  boat !  Is  the  boat  going 
to  pieces?" 

"And  there  met  us  'a  tempestuous 
wind  called  Euroclydon,* "  said  Birkens- 
head,  looking  up  with  a  curious  smile. 

"  Did  therf  ?  " — rubbing  his  shoulder. 
"  I  Ve  kept  clear  of  the  sea  so  far,  and 

I  think  in  future Hark !  what  's 

that  ?  "  as  through  the  darkness  and  the 
thunderous  surge  of  the  water,  and  the 
short,  fierce  calls  of  the  men  on  board, 
came  a  low  shivering  crack,  distinct  as 
a  human  whisper.  "  What  is  it,  Birk- 
enshead  ?  "  impatiently,  when  the  other 
made  no  answer. 

"The  schooner  has  struck  the  bar. 
She  is  going  to  pieces." 

The  words  recalled  the  old  servant  of 
Christ  from  his  insane  fright  to  himsel£ 

"  That  means  death !  does  it  not  ?  " 

"Yes." 

The  two  men  stood  silent,  —  Doctor 
Bowdler  with  his  head  bent  and  eyes 
closed.    He  looked  up  presently. 

"  Let  us  go  on  deck  now  and  see 
what  we  can  do,"  —  turning  cheerfully. 

"  No,  there  are  too  many  there  al- 
ready." 

There  was  an  old  tin  life-preserver 
hanging  on  a  hook  by  the  door ;  the  sur- 
geon climbed  up  to  get  it,  and  began 
buckling  it  about  the  old  man  in  spite 
of  his  remonstrances.  The  timbers 
groaned  and  strained,  the  boat  trembled 
like  some  great  beast  in  its  death-agony, 
settled  heavily,  and  then  the  beams  on 
one  side  of  them  parted.  They  stood 
on  a  shelving  plank  floor,  snapped  off 
two  feet  from  them,  the  yellow  sky  over- 


head, and  the  breakers  crunching  their 
footing  away. 

"  O  God ! "  cried  Bowdler,  when  he 
looked  out  at  the  sea.  He  wa^  not  a 
brave  man ;  and  he  could  not  see  it, 
when  he  looked ;  there  was  but  a  horror 
of  great  darkness,  a  thunder  of  sound, 
and  a  chilly  creeping  of  salt-water  up 
his  legs,  as  if  the  great  monster  licked 
his  victim  with  his  lifeless  tongue. 
Straight  in  front  of  them,  at  the  very 
edge  of  the  horizon,  he  thought  the 
little  clam-digger's  fire  opened  a  tunnel 
of  greenish  light  into  the  night,  "  dull 
and  melancholy  as  a  scene  in  Hades." 
They  saw  the  men  sitting  around  the 
blaze  with  their  hands  clasped  about 
their  knees,  the  woman's  figure  alone, 
and  watching. 

"  Mary ! "  cried  the  old  man,  in  the 
shrill  extremity  of  his  agony. 

His  companion  shivered.     ^ 

"Take  this  from  me,  boy!"  cried 
Doctor  Bowdler,  trying  to  tear  off  the 
life-preserver.  "  It 's  a  chance.  I  *ve 
neither  wife  nor  child  to  care  if  I  live 
or  die.  You  're  young ;  life  's  beginning 
for  you.  I  've  done  with  it  Ugh ! 
this  water  is  deadly  cold.  Take  it,  I 
say." 

"  No,"  said  the  other,  quietly  restrain* 
ing  him. 

"  Can  you  swim  ?  " 

"In  this  sea?" — with  a  half-smile, 
and  a  glance  at  the  tossing  breakers. 

"  You  *11  swim  ?  Promise  me  you  'D 
swim !  And  if  I  come  to  shore  and 
see  Mary?" 

Birkenshead  had  regained  the  reti- 
cent tone  habitual  to  him. 

"Tell  her,  I  wish  I  had  loved  her 
better.  She  will  understand.  I  see 
the  use  of  love  in  this  l^t  hour." 

"Is  there  any  one  else ? " 

"  There  used  to  be  some  one.  Twen- 
ty years  ago  I  said  I  would  come,  and 
I  *m  coming  now." 

"  I  don't  hear  you." 

Birkenshead  laughed  at  his  own 
thought,  whatever  it  was.  The  devil 
who  had  tempted  him  might  have  found 
in  the  laugh  an  outcry  more  bitter  than 
any  agony  of  common  men. 

The  planks  beneath  their  feet  sank 


1865.] 


Out  of  the  Sea, 


545 


inch  by  inch.  They  were  shot  off  from 
the  larboard  side  of  the  vessel  For  a 
time  they  had  heard  oaths  and  cries  from 
the  other  men,  but  now  all  was  silent 

*'  There  is  no  help  coming  from 
shore," —(the  old  man's  voice  was  weak- 
ening,)—  ''and  this  footing  is  giving 
way." 

^  Yes,  it 's  going.  Lash  your  arms  to 
me  by  your  braces,  Doctor.  I  can  help 
you  for  a  few  moments." 

So  saying,  Birkenshead  tore  off  his 
own  coat  and  waistcoat;  but  as  he 
turned,  the  coming  breaker  dashed  over 
their  heads,  he  heard  a  faint  gasp,  and 
when  his  eyes  were  clear  of  the  salt, 
he  saw  the  old  man's  gray  hair  in  the 
midst  of  a  sinking  wave. 

**  I  wish  I  could  have  saved  him,"  he 
said,  —  then  made  his  way  as  best  he 
could  by  feet  and  hands  to  a  bulk  of 
timber  standing  out  of  the  water,  and 
sitting  down  there,  clutched  his  hands 
about  his  knees,  very  much  as  he  used 
to  do  when  he  was  a  clam*digger  and 
watched  the  other  boys  bringing  in 
their  hauls. 

"  Twenty  years  ago  I  said  I  'd  come, 
and  I  'm  coming,"  he  went  on  repeating. 

Derrick  Trull  Mras  no  coward,  as  boy 
or  man,  but  he  made  no  effort  to  save 
himself;  the  slimy  water  washed  him 
about  like  a  wet  rag.  He  was  alone  now, 
if  never  before  in  those  twenty  years ; 
his  world  of  beautiful,  cultured,  grace- 
ful words  and  sights  and  deeds  was 
not  here,  it  was  utterly  gone  out ;  there 
was  no  God  here,  that  he  thought  of ; 
he  was  quite  alone  :  so,  in  sight  of  this 
lee  coast,  the  old  love  in  that  life  dead 
years  ago  roused,  and  the  mean  crime 
dragged  on  through  every  day  since 
gnawed  all  the  manliness  and  courage 
out  of  him. 

She  would  be  asleep  now,  old  Phebe 
Trull, — in  the  room  off  the  brick  kitch- 
en, her  wan  limbs  curled  up  under  her 
check  nightgown,  her  pipe  and  noggin 
of  tea  on  the  oven-shelf;  he  could 
smell  the  damp,  musty  odor  of  the  slop- 
sink  near  by.  What  if  he  could  reach 
shore?  What  if  he  were  to  steal  up 
to  her  bed  and  waken  her  ? 

**  It  '8  Derrick,  back,  mother,"  he 

VOL.  XV.  —  NO.  91.  35 


would  say.  How  the  old  creature  would 
skirl  and  cry  over  her  son  Derrick !  — 
Derrick !  he  hated  the  name.  It  be- 
longed to  that  time  of  degradation  and 
stinting  and  foulness. 

Doctor  Birkenshead  lifted  himself  up. 
Pish  !  the  old  fish- wife  had  long  since 
forgotten  her  scapegrace  son,— thought 
him  dead,  //e  was  dead.  He  wondered 
— and  this  while  every  swash  of  the  salt- 
water brought  death  closer  up  to  his  lips 
—  if  Miss  Defourchet  had  seen  ''  Moth- 
er Phebe."  Doubtless  she  had,  and  had 
made  a  sketch  of  her  to  show  him ;  — 
but  no,  she  was  not  a  picturesque  pau- 
per,— vulgar,  simply.  The  water  came 
up  closer ;  the  cold  of  it,  and  the  extrem- 
ity of  peril,  or,  maybe,  this  old  gnawing 
at  the  heart,  more  virulent  than  eidier, 
soon  drew  the  streng^th  out  of  his  body : 
close  study  and  high  living  had  made 
the  joints  less  supple  than  Derrick 
Trull's :  he  lay  there  limp  and  unable, — 
his  brain  alert,  but  fickle.  It  put  the 
watery  death  out  of  sight,  and  brought 
his  familiar  every-day  life  about  him: 
the  dissecting-room  ;  curious  cases  that 
had  puzzled  him ;  drawing-rooms,  beau- 
tiful women ;  he  sang  airs  from  the 
operas,  sad,  broken  little  snatches,  in  a 
deep,  mellow  voice,  finely  trained,— ^^- 
ments  of  a  litany  to  the  Virgin.  Birk- 
enshead's  love  of  beauty  was  a  hun- 
gry monomania ;  his  brain  was  filled 
with  memories  of  the  pictures  of  the 
Ideal  Mother  and  her  Son.  One  by 
one  they  came  to  him  now,  the  holy 
woman -type  which  for  ages  supplied 
to  the  world  that  tenderness  and  pity 
which  the  Church  had  stripped  from 
God.  Even  in  his  delirium  the  man  of 
fastidious  instincts  knew  this  was  what 
he  craved ;  even  now  he  rememl)ered 
other  living  mothers  he  had  known, 
delicate,  nobly  bom  women,  looking  on 
their  babes  with  eyes  full  of  all  gracious 
and  pure  thoughts.  With  the  sharp 
contrast  of  a  dream  came  the  old  dam- 
digger,  barefoot  in  the  mud,  her  basket 
of  soiled  clothes  on  her  shoulder, — her 
son  Derrick,  a  vulgar  lad,  aping  gen- 
tility, behind  her.  Closer  and  closer 
came  the  waters;  a  shark's  gray  hide 
glittered  a  few  feet  from  him.    Death, 


546 


Out  of  the  Sea. 


[May, 


sure  of  his  prey,  nibbled  and  played 
with  it ;  in  a  little  wliile  he  lay  supine 
and  unconscious. 

Reason  came  back  to  him  like  an 
electric  shock  ;  for  all  the  parts  of  Dr. 
Birkenshead's  organization  were  instinc- 
tive, nervous,  like  a  woman's.  When 
it  came,  the  transient  delirium  had 
passed ;  he  was  his  cool,  observant  self. 
He  lay  on  the  wet  floor  of  a  yawl  skiff, 
his  head  resting  on  a  man's  leg ;  the 
man  was  rowing  with  even,  powerful 
strokes,  and  he  could  feel  rather  than 
see  in  the  darkness  a  figure  steering. 
He  was  saved.  His  heart  burned  with 
a  sudden  glorious  glow  of  joy,  and  ge- 
nial, boyish  zest  of  life,  —  one  of  the 
excesses  of  his  nature.  He  tried  to 
speak,  but  his  tongue  was  stiff,  his 
throat  dry ;  he  could  have  caressed  the 
man's  slimy  sleeve  that  touched  his 
cheek,  he  was  so  glad  to  live.  The 
boatman  was  in  no  humor  for  caresses ; 
he  drew  his  labored  breath  sharply, 
fighting  the  waves,  rasping  out  a  sullen 
oath  when  they  baffled  him.  The  little 
surgeon  had  tact  enough  to  keep  si- 
lent ;  he  did  not  care  to  talk,  either. 
Life  rose  before  him  a  splendid  possi- 
bility, as  never  before.  From  the  silent 
figure  at  the  helm  came  neither  word 
nor  motion.  Presently  a  bleak  morn- 
ing wind  mingled  with  the  fierce,  inces- 
sant nor'easter ;  the  three  in  the  yawl, 
all  sea-bred,  knew  the  difference. 

*'  Night  ull  break  soon,"  said  Bow- 
legs. 

It  did  break  in  an  hour  or  two  into 
a  ghastly  gray  dawn,  bitter  cold,  —  the 
slanting  bars  of  sharp  light  from  beyond 
the  sea-line  falling  on  the  bare  coast,  on 
a  headland  of  which  moved  some  black, 
uneasy  figures. 

"  Th'  wrackers  be  thar." 

There  was  no  answer. 

"  Starboard !    Hoy,  Mother  Phebe ! " 

She  swayed  her  arms  round,  her  head 
still  fallen  on  her  breast  Doctor  Birk- 
enshead,  from  his  half-shut  e3res,  could 
see  beside  him  the  half-naked,  withered 
old  body,  in  its  dripping  flannel  clothes. 
God!  it  had  come,  then,  the  time  to 
choose!  It  was  she  who  had  saved 
him!  she  was  here,  —  alive! 


"  Mother ! "  he  cried,  trying  to  rise. 

But  the  word  died  in  his  dry  throat ; 
his  body,  stiff  and  icy  cold,  refused  to 
move. 

"  What  ails  ye  ?  "  growled  the  man, 
looking  at  her.  '*  Be  ye  giv'  out  so  near 
land  }  We  >e  had  a  jolly  seinin'  to- 
gether," laughing  savagely,  **  ef  we  did 
miss  the  fish  we  went  for,  an'  brought 
in  this  herrin'." 

"  Thee  little  brother 's  safe.  Bowlegs," 
said  the  old  woman,  in  a  feeble,  far- 
off  voice.  *'  My  boy  ull  bring  him  to 
shore." 

The  boatman  gulped  back  his  breath ; 
it  sounded  like  a  cry,  but  he  laughed  it 
down. 

''You  think  yer  Derrick  ull  make 
shore,  eh  ?  Well,  I  don't  think  that  ar 
way  o'  Ben.  Ben  's  gone  under.  It 's 
not  often  the  water  gets  a  ten-year-old- 
er like  that  I  raised  him.  It  was  I 
sent  him  with  Van  Note  this  run.  That 
makes  it  pleasanter  now ! "  The  words 
were  grating  out  stem  and  sharp. 

"Thee  knows  Derrick  said  he  'd 
come,"  the  woman  said  simply. 

She  stooped  with  an  effort,  after  a 
while,  and,  tiirusting  her  hand  under 
Doctor  Birkenshead's  shirt,  felt  his 
chest 

''It  's  a  mere  patchin'  of  a  body. 
He  's  warm  yet  Maybe,"  looking 
closely  into  the  face,  "  he  'd  have  seen 
my  boy  aboord,  an'  could  say  which 
way  he  tuk.  A  drop  of  raw  liquor  ull 
bring  him  round." 

Phil  glanced  contemptuously  at  the 
surgeon's  fine  linen,  and  the  diamond 
solitaire  on  the  small,  white  hand. 

"It  's  not  likely  that  chap  ud  know 
the  deck-hands.  It 's  the  man  Doctor 
Dennis  was  expectin'." 

"Ay?"  vaguely. 

She  kept  her  hand  on  the  feebly  beat- 
ing heart,  chafing  it  He  lay  there,  look- 
ing her  straight  in  the  eyes;  in  hers 
—  dull  with  the  love  and  waiting  of  a 
life  —  there  was  no  instinct  of  recogni- 
tion. The  kind,  simple,  blue  eyes,  that 
had  watched  his  baby  limbs  grow  and 
strengthen  in  her  arms  1  How  gray  the 
hair  was !  but  its  bit  of  curl  was  in  it 
yet    The  same  dear  old  face  that  he 


i865.] 


Out  of  the  Sea. 


547 


) 


used  to  hurry  home  at  night  to  seel 
Nobody  had  loved  him  but  this  woman, 
—  never;  if  he  could  but  struggle  up 
and  get  his  head  on  her  breast !  How 
he  used  to  lie  there  when  he  was  a  big 
boy,  listening  to  the  same  old  stories 
night  after  night,  —  the  same  old  sto- 
ries !  Something  homely  and  warm  and 
true  was  waking  in  him  to-night  that  had 
been  dead  for  years  and  years  ;  this  was 
no  matter  of  aesthetics  or  taste,  it  was 
real,  reaL  He  wondered  if  people  felt 
in  this  way  who  had  homes,  or  those 
simple  folk  who  loved  the  Lord. 

Inch  by  inch,  with  hard,  slow  pulls, 
they  were  gaining  shore.  Mary  De- 
fourchet  was  there.  If  he  came  to  her 
as  the  clam-digger's  bastard  son,  own- 
ing the  lie  he  had  practised  half  his 
life,  —what  then  ?  He  had  fought  hard 
for  his  place  in  the  world,  for  the  ease 
and  culture  of  his  life,  —  most  of  all,  for 
the  society  of  thorough-bred  and  refined 
men,  his  own  kindred.  What  would  they 
say  to  Derrick  Trull,  and  the  mother  he 
had  kept  smothered  up  so  long?  All 
this  with  his  eyes  fixed  on  hers.  The 
cost  was  counted.  It  was  to  give  up 
wife  and  place  and  fame, — all  he  had 
earned.  It  had  not  been  cheaply  earn- 
ed. All  Doctor  Birkenshead's  habits 
and  intellect,  the  million  ner\-ous  whims 
of  a  sensitive  man,  rebelled  against  the 
sacrifice.  Nothing  to  batde  them  down 
but what  ? 

«  Be  ye  hurt,  Mother  Phebe  ?  What 
d'  yer  hold  yer  breath  for  ?  " 

She  evaded  him  with  a  sickly  smile. 

"We  're  gainin'.  Bowlegs.  It 's  but 
a  few  minutes  till  we  make  shore. 
He  '11  be  there,  if —  if  he  be  ever  to 
come." 

"  Yes,  Gran,"  with  a  look  of  pity. 

The  wind  stood  still ;  it  held  its 
breath,  as  though  with  her  it  waited. 
The  man  strained  against  the  tide  till 
the  veins  in  his  brawny  neck  stood  out 
purple.  On  the  bald  shore,  the  dim 
figures  gathered  in  a  cluster,  eagerly 
watching.  Old  Phebe  leaned  forward, 
shading  her  eyes  with  her  hand,  peer* 
ing  from  misty  headland  to  headland 
with  bated  breath.  A  faint  cheer  reach- 
ed them  from  land. 


''Does  thee  know  the  voices,  Bow- 
legs?"—  in  a  dry  whisper. 

"  It  be  the  wreckers." 

**  Oh  1  —  Derrick,"  after  a  pause, 
"would  be  too  weak  to  cheer;  he  *d 
be  worn  with  the  swimmin'.  Thee  must 
listen  sharp.  Did  they  cry  my  name 
out  ?  as  if  there  was  some'ut  for  me  ?  " 

"  No,  Mother,"  gruffly.  "  But  don't  ye 
lose  heart  after  twenty  years'  waitin'." 

"  I  '11  not." 

As  he  pulled,  the  boatman  looked  over 
at  her  steadily. 

"  I  never  knowed  what  this  was  for  ye, 
till  now  I  've  loss  Ben,"  he  said,  gently. 
"  It 's  as  if  you  'd  been  lossin*  him  ev- 
ery day  these  twenty  years." 

She  did  not  hear  him ;  her  eyes,  strain- 
ing, scanned  the  shore ;  she  seemed  to 
grow  blind  as  they  came  nearer ;  pass- 
ed her  wet  sleeve  over  them  again  and 
again. 

"Thee  look  for  me.  Bowlegs,"  she 
said,  weakly. 

The  yawl  grated  on  the  shallow  wa- 
ters of  the  bar ;  the  crowd  rushed  down 
to  the  edge  of  the  shore,  the  black  fig- 
ures coming  out  distinct  now,  half  a 
dozen  of  the  wreckers  going  into  the 
surf  and  dragging  the  boat  up  on  the 
beach.  She  turned  her  head  out  to  sea, 
catching  his  arm  with  both  hands. 

^  Be  there  any  strange  face  to  shore  ? 
Thee  did  n't  know  him.  A  little  face, 
full  o'  th'  laugh  an'  joke,  an'  brown  curls 
blown  by  the  wind." 

"The  salt  's  in  my  eyes.  I  can't 
rightly  see.  Mother  Phebe." 

The  surgeon  saw  Doctor  Bowdler 
waiting,  pale  and  haggard,  his  fat  little 
arms  outstretched :  the  sea  had  spared 
him  by  some  whim,  then.  When  the 
men  lifted  him  out,  another  familiar  hoit 
looked  down  on  him :  it  was  Mary.  She 
had  run  into  the. surf  with  them,  and 
held  his  head  in  her  arms. 

"  I  love  you  !  I  love  you  I  "  she  sob- 
bed, kissing  his  hand. 

"  There  be  a  fire  up  by  the  bathing- 
houses,  an'  hot  coffee,"  said  old  Doctor 
Dennis,  with  a  kindly,  shrewd  glance  at 
the  fiunous  surgeon.  "  Miss  Defourchet 
and  Snap  made  it  for  you.  Sfu  knew 
you,  lying  m  the  yawL" 


548 


Out  of  the  Sea, 


[May, 


Birkenshead,  keeping  her  hand,  turn- 
ed to  the  forlorn  figure  standing  shiver- 
ing alone,  holding  both  palms  pressed 
to  her  temples,  her  gray  hair  and  clothes 
dripping. 

^  Thee  don't  tell  me  that  he  's  here, 
Bowlegs,"  she  said.  "  There  might  be 
some  things  the  wrackers  hes  found 
up  in  the  bathin'-houses.  There  might, 
—  in  the  bathin'-houses.  It 's  the  last 
day,  —  it 's  twenty  year  " 

Doctor  Birkenshead  looked  down  at 
the  beautiful  flushed  face  pressed  close 
to  his  side,  then  pushed  it  slowly  from 
him.  He  went  over  to  where  the  old 
woman  stood,  and  kneeled  beside  her 
in  the  sand,  drawing  her  down  to  him. 

"Mother,"  he  said,  "it  's  Derrick, 
mother.    Don*t  you  know  your  boy  ?  " 

With  the  words  the  boy's  true  spirit 
seemed  to  come  back  to  him,  —  Derrick 
Trull  again,  who  went  with  such  a  hot, 
indignant  heart  to  win  money  and  place 
for  the  old  mother  at  home.  He  buried 
his  head  in  her  knees,  as  she  crouched 
over  him,  silent,  passing  her  hands 
quickly  and  lightly  over  his  iace. 

"  God  forgive  me ! "  he  cried.  "  Take 
my  head  in  your  arms,  mother,  as  you 
used  to  do.  Nobody  has  loved  me  as 
you  did.    Mother !  mother ! " 

Phebe  Trull  did  not  speak  one  word. 
She  drew  her  son's  bead  close  into  her 
trembling  old  arms,  and  held  it  there 
motionless.  It  was  an  old  way  she  had 
of  caressing  him. 

Doctor  Dennis  drew  the  eager,  won- 
dering crowd  away  from  them. 

'<I  don't  understand,"  said  Doctor 
Bowdler,  excitedly. 

"  I  do,"  said  his  niece,  and,  sitting 
down  in  the  sand,  looked  out  5tead£ut- 
ly  to  sea. 

Bow-legged  Phil  drove  the  anchor 
into  the  beach,  and  pulled  it  idly  out 
again. 

"I  've  some'ut  here  for  you,  Phil," 
said  Joe,  gravely.  '^The  water  washed 
it  up." 

The  fellow's  teeth  chattered  as  he 
took  it 

«  WeU,  ye  know  what  it  is  ?  "  fiercely. 
*^  Only  a  bit  of  a  Scotch  cap," —  hoMing 
it  up  on  his  fist    ^  I  bought  it  down  at 


Port  Monmouth,  Saturday,  for  him.  I 
was  a-goin*  to  take  him  home  this  week 
up  to  the  old  folks  in  Connecticut  I 
kin  take  that  instead,  an'  tell  'em  whar 
our  Benny  is." 

"  That 's  so,"  said  Joe,  his  eye  twink- 
ling as  he  looked  over  Phil's  shoul* 
der. 

A  fat  little  hand  slapped  the  said 
shoulder,  and  "  Hillo,  Boitlegs  ! "  came 
in  a  small  shout  in  his  ear.  Phil  turn- 
ed, looked  at  the  boy  from  head  to  foot, 
gulped  down  one  or  two  heavy  breaths. 

"  Hi !  you  young  vagabond,  you  1 " 
he  said,  and  went  suddenly  back  to  his 
anchor,  keeping  his  head  down  on  his 
breast  for  a  long  while. 

He  had  piled  up  the  sand  at  her  back 
to  make  her  a  seat  while  they  waited 
for  the  wagons.  Now  he  sat  on  her 
skirts,  holding  her  hands  to  warm  them. 
He  had  almost  forgotten  Mary  and  the 
Doctor.  Natiure  or  instinct,  call  it  what 
you  will,  some  subtile  whim  of  blood 
called  love,  brought  the  old  clam-digger 
nearer  to  him  than  all  the  rest  of  the 
world*  He  held  the  bony  fingers  tight, 
looked  for  an  old  ring  she  used  to  wear, 
tried  to  joke  to  bring  out  the  flicker  of 
a  smile  on  her  mouth,  leaned  near  to 
catch  her  breath.  He  remembered  how 
curiously  sweet  it  used  to  be,  like  new 
milk. 

The  dawn  opened  clear  and  dark 
blue ;  the  sun  yet  waited  below  the 
stormy  sea.  Though  they  sat  there  a 
long  while,  she  was  strangely  quiet,  — 
did  not  seem  so  much  afraid  of  htm  as 
she  used  to  be  when  he  began  to  rise 
above  her, — held  his  hand,  with  a  bright, 
contented  face,  and  said  little  else  than 
"  My  boy !  my  boy ! "  under  her  breath. 
Her  eyes  followed  every  movement  of 
his  face  with  an  insatiate  hunger ;  yet 
the  hesitation  and  quiet  in  her  motions 
and  voice  were  unnatural  He  asked 
her  once  or  twice  if  she  were  ilL 

«Wait  a  bit,  an'  I  '11  teU  thee.  Der- 
rick," she  said.  *'Thee  must  remem- 
ber I  'm  not  as  young  as  I 'was  then," 
with  a  smile.  "  Thee  must  speak  fiist, 
my  son.  I  'd  like  to  hear  of  diee  gran' 
home,  if  thee  's  wiUin'." 

He  told  her,  as  he  would  to  please  a 


I86s.] 


Out  of  the  Sat. 


549 


child,  of  the  place  and  fame  and  wealth 
he  had  won ;  but  it  had  not  the  effect 
he  expected.  Before  he  had  finished, 
the  look  in  her  eyes  grew  vague  and 
distant  Some  thought  in  the  poor  clam- 
digger^s  soul  made  these  things  but  of 
little  moment     She  interrupted  him. 

"  There  be  one  yonner  that  loves  my 
boy.  I  'd  like  to  speak  a  word  to  her 
before Call  her,  Derrick." 

He  rose  and  beckoned  to  Miss  De- 
foorchet  When  she  came  near,  and 
saw  the  old  woman's  face,  she  hurried, 
and,  stooping  down  quickly,  took  her 
bead  in  her  arms. 

"  Derrick  has  come  back  to  you,"  she 
said.  "  Will  you  let  him  bring  me  with 
him  to  call  you  mother  P  " 

"  Mary  ?  " 

She  did  not  look  at  him.  Old  Phebe 
pushed  her  back  with  a  searching  look. 

**  Is  it  true  love  you  '11  give  my  boy  ?*' 

"  I  Ul  try."  In  a  lower  voice,  —  "I 
never  loved  him  so  well  as  when  he 
came  back  to  you." 

The  old  woman  was  silent  a  long  time. 

**  Thee  *s  right  It  was  good  for  Der- 
rick to  come  back  to  me.  I  don't  know 
what  that  big  world  be  like  where  thee 
an'  Derrick  's  been.  The  sea  keeps 
talkin'  of  it,  I  used  to  think ;  it  's 
kep'  moanin'  with  the  cries  of  it  But 
the  true  love  at  home  be  worth  it  all. 
I  knowed  that  always.  I  kep'  it  for 
my  boy.  He  went  from  it,  but  it 
brought  him  back.  Out  of  the  sea  it 
brought  him  back." 

He  knew  this  was  not  his  mother's 
usual  habit  of  speech.  Some  great 
truth  seemed  coming  closer  to  the  old 
fish-wife,  lifting  her  forever  out  of  her 
baser  self.  She  leaned  on  the  girl  be- 
side her,  knowing  her,  in  spite  of  blood 
and  education,  to  be  no  truer  woman 
than  herself.  The  inscrutable  meaning 
of  the  eyes  deepened.  The  fine,  sad 
smile  came  on  the  face,  and  grew  fixed 
there.  She  was  glad  he  had  come,  — 
that  was  all.  Mary  was  a  woman ;  her 
insight  was  quicker. 

"Where  are  you  hurt?"  she  said, 
softly. 


"  Hush  !  don't  fret  the  boy.  It  was 
the  pullin'  last  night,  think.  I  *m  not 
as  strong  as  when  I  was  a  gell." 

They  sat  there,  watching  the  dawn 
break  intq  morning.  Over  the  sea  the 
sky  opened  into  deeps  of  silence  and 
light.  The  surf  rolled  in,  in  long,  low, 
grand  breakers,  like  riders  to  a  battle- 
field, tossing  back  their  gleaming  white 
plumes  of  spray  when  they  touched  the 
shore.  But  the  wind  lulled  as  though 
something  more  solemn  waited  on  the 
land  than  the  sea's  rage  or  the  quiet 
of  the  clouds. 

"  Does  thee  mind,  Derrick,"  said  Ws 
mother,  with  a  low  laugh,  "how  thee 
used  to  play  with  this  curl  ahint  my 
ear  ?  When  thee  was  a  bit  baby,  thee 
begun  it  I  Ve  kep'  it  ever  since.  It 
be  right  gray  now." 

"  Yes,  mother." 

He  had  crept  closer  to  her  now.  In 
the  last  half-hour  his  eyes  had  grown 
clearer.  He  dared  not  look  away  from 
her.  Joe  and  Bowlegs  had  drawn  near, 
and  Doctor  Bowdler.  They  stood  si- 
lent, with  their  hats  off.  Doctor  Bow- 
dler felt  her  pulse,  but  her  son  did  not 
touch  it  His  own  hand  was  cold  and 
clammy ;  his  heart  sick  with  a  nameless 
dread.    Was  he,  then,  just  too  late  ? 

«  Yes,  I  did.  I  kep'  it  for  thee,  Der- 
rick.  I  always  knowed  thee  'd  come," 
—  in  a  lower  voice.  "There  's  that 
dress,  too.  I  'd  like  thee  to  've  seen 
me  in  that ;  but " 

"  Take  her  hands  in  yours,"  whis- 
pered Mary. 

"  Is  it  thee,  my  son  ?  " — with  a  smile. 
After  a  long  pause,  —  "I  kep'  it,  an'  I 
kep*  true  love  for  thee.  Derrick.  God 
brought  thee  back  for 't,  I  think.  It  be 
the  best,  after  all.  He  '11  bring  thee  to 
me  for  *t  at  th'  last,  my  boy, — my  boy ! " 

As  the  faint  voice  lingered  and  died 
upon  the  words,  the  morning  sun  shone 
out  in  clear,  calm  glory  over  the  still 
figures  on  the  beach.  The  others  had 
crept  away,  and  left  the  three  alone 
with  God  and  His  great  angel,  in  whose 
vast  presence  there  is  no  life  save  Love, 
no  future  save  Love's  wide  eternity. 


% 


550 


My  StudetU  Life  at  HqfwyL 


[May, 


MY    STUDENT    LIFE    AT    HOFWYL. 


THERE  flourished,  in  the  heart  of 
the  Swiss  Republic,  during  some 
twenty  or  twenty-five  years,  commencing 
about  the  year  1810,  an  educational  in- 
stitution, in  the  nature  of  a  private  col- 
lege, which,  though  it  attracted  much 
public  attention  at  the  time,  being  no- 
ticed with  commendation,  as  I  remem- 
ber, in  a  report  made  by  the  Count  Ca- 
po d'  I  stria  to  the  Emperor  Alexander 
of  Russia,  yet  has  never,  I  think,  been 
appreciated  at  its  full  deserts,  nor  gen- 
enilly  recognized  for  the  admirable  in- 
stitution it  was,  —  unparalleled,  in  the 
character  of  the  spirit  which  pervaded 
it,  and  in  many  of  the  practical  results 
obtained,  by  any  establishment  for  learn- 
ing that  has  ever  come  under  my  ob- 
servation. 

I  was  educated  there,  from  the  age 
of  sixteen  or  seventeen  to  twenty.  Pass- 
ing into  its  tranquil  scenes  from  the 
quiet  of  home  and  the  hands  of  a  pri- 
vate tutor,  with  the  sunny  hopes  and 
high  ideal  and  scanty  experience  of 
youth,  much  that  I  found  there  appear- 
ed to  me  at  the  time  but  natural  and 
in  the  ordinary  course  of  things,  which 
now,  by  the  light  of  a  life's  teachings, 
and  by  comparison  with  the  realities  as 
I  have  found  them,  seems  to  me,  as  I 
look  back,  rather  in  the  nature  of  a 
dream  of  fancy,  tinged  with  the  glamour 
of  optimism,  than  like  the  things  one 
really  meets  with  in  the  work-a-day 
world.  I  say  this,  after  making  what 
I  think  due  allowance  for  the  Claude- 
Lorraine  tints  in  which  youth  is  wont 
to  invest  its  early  recollections. 

It  was  one  of  several  public  institu- 
tions for  education  founded  by  the  be- 
nevolent enterprise  of  a  very  remark- 
able man.  Emanuel  von  Fellen- 
BERG  was  bom  of  a  patrician  £amily  of 
Bern.  His  father  had  been  a  member 
of  the  Swiss  Government,  and  a  friend 
of  the  celebrated  Pestalozzi,  — a  friend- 
ship which  descended  to  the  son.  His 
mother  was  a  descendant  of  the  stout 
Van  Trompy  the  Dutch  admiral,  who 


was  victor  in  more  than  thirty  engage- 
ments, and  whose  spirit  and  courage  she 
is  said  to  have  inherited.  To  this  no- 
ble woman  young  Fellenberg  owed  ideas 
of  liberty  and  philanthropy  beyond  the 
age  in  which  he  lived  and  the  aristo- 
cratic class  to  which  he  belonged. 

Educated  at  Colmar  and  Tubingen, 
the  years  immediately  succeeding  his 
college  life  were  spent  in  travels,  which 
brought  him,  at  the  age  of  twenty-three, 
and  just  after  the  death  of  Robespierre, 
to  Paris,  where  he  had  an  opportunity 
of  studying  men  in  the  subsiding  tumult 
of  a  terrible  revolution. 

The  result  appears  to  have  been  a 
conviction  that  the  true  element  of  hu- 
man progress  was  to  be  found  less  in 
correction  of  the  adult  than  in  training 
of  the  youth.  His  mind  imbued  with 
the  two  great  ideas  of  freedom  and  edu- 
cation, he  returned  to  his  nadve  Bern ; 
but  taking  part  there  against  the  French, 
he  was  banished,  remaining  in  Germa- 
ny an  exile  for  several  years,  and  during 
that  period  planning  emigration,  with 
several  friends,  to  the  United  States. 
This  intention  he  abandoned,  on  being 
recalled  to  his  native  country,  and  there 
offered  important  diplomatic  and  mili- 
tary service.  In  the  latter  capacity  he 
quelled  an  insurrection  of  the  peasantry 
in  the  Oberland  ;  but,  prompted  by  that 
sympathy  for  the  laboring  classes  which 
was  a  strong  element  in  his  character, 
he  granted  these  people  terms  so  liberal 
that  his  Government  refused  to  ratify 
them,  whereupon  he  threw  up  his  com- 
mission, recurring  to  his  favorite  educa- 
tional projects,  and  serving  for  a  time 
on  the  Board  of  Education  in  Bern. 

But  it  soon  became  apparent  that  the 
ideas  of  his  colleagues  and  himself  dif- 
fered too  widely  to  permit  united  action. 
They  were  thinking  of  the  commonplace 
routine  of  school  instruction,  —  reading, 
writing,  arithmetic,  and  the  like.  He 
looked  to  education  as  the  regenerating 
agent  of  the  world, — that  agent  without 
the  aid  of  which  liberty  runs  into  li- 


I86S.] 


My  Student  Life  at  Ho/ivy  I. 


551 


cense,  and  the  rule  of  the  many,  as 
he  had  witnessed  it  in  terror  -  stricken 
France,  may  become  one  of  the  worst 
forms  of  despotism.  He  looked  be- 
yond mere  pedagogical  routine  or  for- 
mal learning,  to  the  living  spirit,  —  to 
the  harmonious  development  of  every 
human  faculty  and  affection,  intellectu- 
al, moral,  spiritual.. 

Resigning  his  situation  on  the  Ber- 
nese Board  of  Education,  Fellenberg 
expended  a  large  fortune  in  the  pur- 
chase of  the  estate  of  Hofwyl,  about 
two  leagues  from  Bern,  and  the  erection 
there  of  the  buildings  necessary  to  carry 
into  effect  his  own  peculiar  views. 

It  was  a  favorite  idea  of  his,  that  so- 
ciety can  be  most  effectually  influenced 
for  good  by  training  its  extremes  in  so- 
cial position :  those,  on  the  one  hand, 
who  are  bom  to  wealth  and  station, 
whence  are  usually  chosen  lawgivers, 
statesmen,  leaders  of  public  opinion ; 
and  those,  on  the  other  hand,  bom  to  a 
heritage  of  ignorance  and  neglect,  and 
too  often  trained  even  from  tender  age 
to  vice  and  violence.  He  sought  to 
bring  these  extremes  of  European  so- 
ciety into  harmonious  relation  with  each 
other, — to  raise  the  one  from  hereditary 
dependence  and  degradation,  to  imbue 
the  other  with  healthy  ideas  of  true  no- 
bility in  place  of  the  morbid  prejudices 
of  artificial  rank.  In  both  these  efforts 
he  was  eminently  successful,  —  in  the 
latter,  more  so,  in  my  judgment,  than 
any  educator  of  his  age. 

The  establishments  of  Hofwyl  prop- 
er *  were,  accordingly,  two  in  number, 
quite  distinct  from  each  other :  the  Vehr- 
ii'Knaben,  ( Vehrli's  boys,)  as  they  were 
called,  from  the  name  of  their  admira- 
ble young  teacher,  Vehrli,  essentially 
an  agricultural  school,  on  the  manual- 
labor  principle  ;  and  the  college,  of 
which  it  is  my  chief  object  to  sketch  the 
plan  and  its  results.  To  this  latter  in- 
stitution, in  consequence  of  the  numer- 
ous and  expensive  branches  taught  and 

*  There  was,  besides,  a  primary  school  for  boys  up 
to  the  ace  of  twelve  or  thirteen  at  Diemerawyl,  tome 
milca  from  Hofwyl ;  and  there  had  been  originally 
a  normal  ichool,  which,  thoufh  popular  among  the 
teachers  of  Switzerland,  gave  umbrage  to  the  Oov- 
cmmeat,  and  was  merged  In  the  VehrU  instituttoo. 


the  great  number  of  professors  employ- 
ed, (about  one  to  each  four  students,) 
those  only,  with  few  exceptions,  could 
obtain  admission  whose  parents  pos- 
sessed ample  means,  —  the  exceptions 
being  the  sons  of  a  few  of  Fellenberg's 
Swiss  friends,  in  moderate  circumstan- 
ces, whom,  when  they  showed  great 
promise,  he  admitted  with  litde  or  no 
charge.  It  was  by  associating  these 
with  his  own  children  in  their  studies 
that  the  nucleus  of  this  college  was 
originally  formed. 

From  their  very  inception,  these  pro- 
jects met  with  discouragement  and  op- 
position, especially  from  the  patrician 
class,  to  which  Fellenberg  belonged. 
Even  in  republican  Switzerland,  these 
men  held  that  their  rank  exonerated 
them  from  any  occupation  that  savored 
much  of  utility ;  and  it  was  with  a  feel- 
ing almost  of  dishonor  to  their  order 
that  they  saw  one  of  their  number  stoop 
(it  was  thus  they  phrased  it)  to  the  ig- 
noble task  of  preceptor.  It  need  hard- 
ly be  said  that  Fellenberg  held  on  his 
way,  undisturbed  by  the  idle  noise  of 
prejudice  like  this. 

Into  the  Vehrli  school  were  received 
destitute  orphans^  foundlings,  and  those 
whose  parents  were  too  indigent  to  pro- 
vide for  their  education.  Their  time 
was  divided  nearly  equally  between  the 
labors  of  the  field  and  the  lessons  of 
the  school.  They  were  trained  as  farm- 
ers and  teachers.  Besides  the  ordinary 
branches,  they  were  well  grounded  in 
botany  and  drawing,  and  made  great 
proficiency  in  vocal  music.  Vehrli  de- 
voted himself,  heart  and  soul,  to  the  in- 
struction of  these  children.  He  worked 
with  them,  studied  with  them,  wore  the 
same  homely  dress,  partook  of  the  same 
plain  fare,  slept  in  the  same  dormitory, 
—  in  short,  spent  his  life  wholly  among 
them.  After  a  time  his  pupils  were  in 
great  request  throughout  Europe,  both 
as  teachers  and  as  agricultural  super- 
intendents. I  found  one  of  them,  when 
many  years  since  I  visited  Holland,  in- 
tirusted  with  the  care  of  a  public  semi- 
nary supported  by  the  Dutch  Govern- 
ment, and  his  employers  highly  appre- 
ciated his  character  and  abilities.    The 


552 


My  Student  Life  at  HofwyL 


[May, 


children  remained  till  they  were  of  age, 
repaying  by  their  labor  in  the  latter 
years  a  portion  of  the  expenses  of  their 
early  education.  Ultimately  this  school 
became  nearly  self-supporting. 

Between  Vehrli's  children,  as  we 
used  to  call  them,  and  ourselves  there 
was  not  much  communication.  We  met 
occasionally  only;  but  when  we  did 
meet,  there  existed  the  most  friendly 
relations  between  us.  I  saw  but  little 
of  the  internal  arrangements  of  that 
establishment,  and  am  unable,  at  this 
distance  of  time,  to  furnish  detailed  in- 
formation regarding  it  I  proceed  to 
give  some  account  of  the  college,  of 
which,  for  three  years,  I  was  a  student 

Of  that  little  republic  it  can  truly  be 
said,  that  its  tranquillity  was  never  dis- 
turbed by  one  dividing  prejudice  of 
rank,  of  country,  or  of  religion.  We 
had  among  our  number  (usually  amount- 
ing to  one  hundred  students)  dukes  and 
princes,  some  of  them  related  to  crown- 
ed heads ;  and  we  had  the  recipients, 
already  alluded  to,  of  Fellenberg'a 
bounty;  but  not  in  word  or  bearing 
was  there  aught  to  mark  difference  of 
artificial  rank.  We  had  Swiss,  Ger- 
mans, Russians,  Prussians,  Dutch, 
French,  Italians,  English,  and  I  know 
not  what  other  nationalities ;  but  not 
one  unkindly  sentiment  or  illiberal  pre- 
judice arose  among  us  on  account  of 
birthplace.  We  had  Protestants,  Cath- 
olics, members  of  the  Greek  Church, 
and  members  of  no  church  at  all ;  but 
never,  in  language  or  feeling,  did  I  per- 
ceive any  shade  of  coldness  or  aver- 
sion that  had  its  rise  in  theological  dif- 
ferences. Fellenberg  had  succeeded 
in  instilling  into  our  little  community 
his  own  noble  principles  of  republican 
dignity,  cosmopolitan  amity,  and  relig- 
ious toleration. 

No  one  was  addressed  by  his  title ; 
and  to  the  tuft-hunters  of  English  uni- 
versities it  will  appear  scarcely  credible 
that  I  lived  several  weeks  as  a  student 
at  Hofwyl  before  I  accidentally  learned 
who  were  the  princes  and  other  nobles, 
and  who  the  objects  of  M.  de  Fellen- 
berg's  charity.  It  was,  I  think,  some 
six  weeks  or  two  months  after  my  ar- 


rival that  I  was  conversing  with  a  good- 
natured  fellow  -  student,  with  whom  I 
had  become  well  acquainted  under  his 
familiar  nickname  of  Stosser.  I  re- 
marked to  him  that  before  I  reached 
Hofwyl  I  had  heard  that  there  were 
several  noblemen  there,  and  I  asked 
what  had  become  of  them. 

"Why,"  said  he,«8miling,  "they  are 
here  still." 

"Indeed!"  said  I;  "which  are 
they  ?  " 

He  requested  me  to  guess.  I  named 
several  of  the  students  who  had  ap- 
peared to  me  to  have  the  greatest  con- 
sideration among  their  fellows.  He 
shook  his  head,  and  laughed.  "  These 
are  all  merchants  and  commoners.  Try 
again."  I  did  so,  but  with  no  better 
success ;  and  at  last  he  named,  to  my 
surprise,  several  young  men  who  had 
seemed  to  me  to  have  but  an  indiffer- 
ent share  of  influence  or  respect, — 
among  the  rest,  one  who  was  slight- 
ingly treated,  and  avoided  rather  than 
sought,  by  his  companions.  He  was 
the  nephew  of  the  King  of  Wiirtemberg. 

A  day  or  two  afterwards  I  chanced 
to  learn  that  the  young  man  whom  I 
had  thus  questioned  was  himself  a  Rus- 
sian prince,  grandson  of  the  noted  Su- 
waroff,  —  Catharine's  Suwaroff.  He 
had  charge  of  our  flock  of  goats,  of 
which  I  shall  by-and-by  have  occasion 
to  speak ;  and  he  took  to  the  office 
very  kindly. 

In  like  manner,  it  might  have  puzzled 
me,  after  a  three -years'  residence,  to 
call  to  mind  whether  those  with  whom 
I  was  as  intimate  as  with  my  own 
brother  were  Protestants  or  Catholics 
or  neither ;  and  at  this  distance  of  time 
I  have  forgotten.  The  reason  is  sim- 
ple :  we  never  debated  on  theologi- 
cal subjects  at  all.  M.  de  Fellenberg. 
read  to  us  occasional  lectures  on  relig- 
ion ;  but  they  were  practical,  not  doc- 
trinal, —  embracing  those  essentials 
which  belong  to  all  Christian  sects, 
thus  suiting  Protestant  and  Catholic 
alike.  The  Catholics,  it  is  true,  had 
from  time  to  time  a  priest  to  confess 
them,  who  doubtiess  enjoined  the  reg- 
ular weekly  £iist ;  yet  we  of  the  Prot- 


1865] 


My  Student  Life  at  HofwyL 


553 


estant  persuasion  used,  I  believe,  to 
eat  as  much  fish  and  as  many  frogs 
on  Fridays  as  they. 
.  A  striking  feature  in  our  system  of 
instruction  was  the  absence  of  ail  pun- 
ishment, except  such  as  was  seif-infiict- 
ed,  under  a  code  of  laws  of  our  own, 
hereafter  to  be  noticed.  Twice,  or  per- 
haps three  times,  during  the  term  of  my 
residence,  one  of  the  pupils,  on  account 
of  repeated  inattention,  or  for  similar 
venial  cause,  was  requested  by  the  pro- 
fessor, during  the  course  of  the  recita- 
tion, to  leave  the  room.  But  this  was 
quite  an  event,  to  be  talked  of  for  a 
week,  so  contrary  was  it  to  the  regular, 
quiet,  uncoercing  routine  of  the  institu- 
tion. No  expulsion  ever  occurred.  I 
do  not  myself  remember  to  have  re- 
ceived, either  from  M.  de  Felienberg  or 
from  any  of  his  professors,  one  harsh 
word  during  the  three  happy  years  I 
spent  at  Hofwyl. 

The  mildness  with  which  the  stu- 
dents were  treated  by  their  instructors 
reacted  upon  them  in  their  intercourse 
with  each  other.  Duels,  so  common 
among  the  students  of  German  univer- 
sities, were  an  unheard-of  absurdity, 
though  we  had  a  fencing-master,  and 
took  regular  lessons  in  the  use  of  the 
small  sword,  skill  in  the  management 
of  which  was  considered  an  indispensa- 
ble item  in  the  education  of  a  gentle- 
man. Quarrels  such  as  elsewhere  ter- 
minate in  blows  were  scarcely  known 
among  us.  I  recall  but  two,  both  of 
which  were  immediately  arrested  by 
the  spectators,  who  felt  their  college 
dishonored  by  such  an  exhibition  of 
evil  passion  and  violence.  One  of  these 
was  commenced  by  a  youth  coming 
only  two  weeks  before  from  an  English 
school.  The  other  occurred,  one  even- 
ing when  a  small  party  of  us  had  assem- 
bled in  a  private  room,  between  a  fiery 
young  Prussian  count  and  a  sturdy, 
unbending  Swiss.  The  dispute  grew 
warm,  and  was  about  to  proceed  to  ex- 
tremities, when  we  who  were  by-stand- 
ers  made  no  scruple  to  terminate  it  in 
our  own  way.  We  pounced  upon  the 
disputants  without  warning,  carried 
them  off,  each  to  his  own  room,  on  our 


shoulders,  and  there,  with  a  hearty 
laugh  at  their  foUy,  set  them  down  to 
cool.  All  this  was  done  so  suddenly 
and  so  good-naturedly  that  they  them- 
selves could  not  refrain  fi'om  joining  in 
the  merriment  which  so  whimsical  a 
conclusion  to  their  quarrel  had  elicited. 

I  have  heard  and  read  much  of  the 
pluck  and  manliness  that  are  supposed 
to  grow  out  of  the  English  habit  of 
settling  school  quarrels  by  boxing,  after 
the  fashion  of  prize-fighters  in  the  ring. 
But  I  do  not  think  it  would  have  been  a 
very  safe  experiment  for  one  of  these 
pugilistic  young  gendemen  to  offer  an 
insult  to  a  Hofwyl  student,  even  though 
the  manhood  of  this  latter  had  never 
been  tested  by  pounding  another's  face 
with  his  fist  Brutality  and  cowardice  are 
often  close  allies ;  and  his  anger,  when 
roused,  is  most  to  be  dreaded,  who  so 
bears  himself  as  to  give  no  one  just 
cause  of  offence.  Boxing-matches  and 
duels  are  becoming,  as  they  ought  to 
be,  like  the  ordeal  by  combat,  antiquat- 
ed modes  of  testing  the  courage  or  set- 
tling the  disputes  whether  of  bojrs  or 
men,  among  the  civilized  portion  of 
mankind. 

But  though  little  prone  to  quarrel,  our 
indignation,  I  must  confess,  was  some- 
times readily  enough  roused,  when  occa- 
sion called  it  forth.  I  remember  an  in- 
stance in  which,  perhaps,  the  conserva- 
tive portion  of  my  readers  may  think 
we  carried  matters  somewhat  to  an  ex- 
treme. 

It  happened  that  three  officers  of  dis- 
tinction from  the  Court  of  Wiirtemberg 
arrived,  one  day,  on  a  visit  to  M.  de  Fel- 
ienberg. They  desired  to  see  their  sov- 
ereign's nephew,  the  same  Prince  Alex- 
ander of  Wiirtemberg  to  whom  I  have 
already  alluded  as  being  no  favorite 
among  us.  He  was  accordingly  sent 
for;  and  the  interview  took  place  in 
an  open  space  in  front  of  M.  de  Fellen- 
berg*s  Schloss,  where  four  or  five  stu- 
dents, of  whom  I  was  one,  happened 
to  be  at  the  time,  not  more  than  eight 
or  ten  steps  distant  The  officers,  as 
they  approached  the  Prince,  uncovered, 
and  stood,  during  the  conversation 
which  ensued,  with  their  plumed  hats 


554 


My  Student  Life  at  Hofwyl. 


[May, 


in  their  hands.  The  young  man,  on  the 
contrary,  whose  silly  airs  had  been  a 
chief  cause  of  his  unpopularity  among 
us,  did  not  remove  the  little  student- 
cap  he  wore,  but  remained  covered, 
without  any  intimation  to  his  visitors 
to  resume  their  hats. 

This  was  too  much  for  us.  "Do 
look  I "  said  one  of  our  group,  —  "if 
there  is  n't  that  fellow  Alexander  stand- 
ing with  his  cap  on,  and  letting  these 
officers  talk  to  him  bareheaded ! "  And 
then,  raising  his  voice  so  as  to  be  heard 
by  the  parties  concerned,  he  said, — 
^'  Alexander,  take  off  your  cap  1 " 

But  the  cap  did  not  stir.  We  took  a 
step  or  two  nearer,  and  another  of  our 
party  said, — 

*' Alexander,  if  you  don't  take  that 
cap  off,  yourself,  1  '11  come  and  take  it 
oflf  for  you." 

This  time  the  admonition  had  effect. 
The  cap  was  slowly  removed,  and  we 
remained  to  make  sure  that  it  was  not 
resumed,  until  the  officers,  bowing  low, 
took  their  leave,  —  carrying,  I  fear,  to 
their  royal  master  no  very  favorable 
report  touching  the  courtly  manners 
of  HofwyL 

It  was  small  marvel  that  an  institu- 
tion of  practice  so  democratically  het- 
erodox should  awaken  the  jealousy  of 
European  legitimacy.  And  it  was  prob- 
ably with  feelings  more  of  sorrow  than 
surprise,  that  Fellenberg,  about  the 
year  1822,  received  from  the  Austrian 
authorities  a  formal  intimation  that  no 
Austrian  subject  would  thereafter  be 
allowed  to  enter  the  college,  and  an 
order  that  those  who  were  then  study- 
ing there  should  instantly  return  home. 
Than  this  tyrannical  edict  of  the  Aus- 
trian autocrat,*  the  same  who  did  not 
blush  to  declare  "that  he  desired  to 
have  lojral  subjects,  not  learned  men, 
in  his  dominions,"  no  greater  com- 
pliment could  have  been  paid  to  Fel- 
lenberg or  his  institutions. 

The  course  of  instruction  pursued 
at  Hofwyl  included  the  study  of  the 
Greek,  Latin,  French,  and  German  Ian- 

*  Francis  II.,  Metternich-Ied.  H»  words  were  : 
**Je  ne  veux  pas  dcs  savants  dans  mes  Etats;  je 
veux  dcs  boos  sujeu.** 


guages,  the  last  of  which  was  the  lan- 
guage of  our  college,  —  history,  geog- 
raphy, chemistry,  mechanics, —  mathe- 
matics, in  a  thorough  course,  embracing 
the  highest  branches,  —  drawing,  and 
music,  vocal  and  instrumental, — andg 
finally,  riding,  fencing,  and  gymnastics. 
The  recitations  {Stunden^  that  is,  haurs^ 
we  called  them,  for  each  lasted  a  single 
hour  only)  were  essentially  conversa- 
tional The  lessons  in  drawing,  howev- 
er, extended  to  two  consecutive  hours, 
and  included  copying  from  the  antique. 
There  was  a  riding-school  and  a  con- 
siderable stud  attached  to  the  college  ; 
and  the  highest  class  were  in  the  habit 
of  riding  out  once  a  week  with  M.  de 
Fellenberg,  many  of  whose  practical  life- 
lessons,  given  as  I  rode  by  his  side  dur- 
ing these  pleasant  excursions,  I  well  re- 
member yet 

The  number  of  professors  was  large, 
compared  to  that  of  the  taught,  being 
from  twenty-five  to  thirty,  though  the 
college  seldom  contained  more  than 
one  hundred  students.  The  number  in 
each  class  was  small,  usually  from  ten 
to  fifteen. 

Latin  and  Greek,  though  thoroughly 
taught,  did  not  engross  the  same  pro- 
portion of  time  which  in  many  other 
colleges  is  devoted  to  them.  Not  more 
time  was  given  to  each  than  to  ancient 
and  modern  history,  and  less  than  to 
mathematics.  This  last  was  a  special 
object  of  study.  It  was  taught,  as  was 
history,  by  extempore  lectures,  while 
the  students  took  notes  in  short-hand  ; 
and  we  seldom  employed  any  printed 
work  to  aid  us,  in  the  evening,  in  mak- 
ing out  from  recollection,  aided  by  these 
notes,  a  written  statement  of  the  propo- 
sitions and  their  solution,  to  be  handed, 
next  day,  to  the  professor.  This  plan 
impressed  on  our  minds,  not  indeed  the 
exact  form  of  words  or  the  particular 
set  of  phrases  of  the  books,  but  the 
essential  principles  of  the  science, — so 
that,  when,  in  after  years,  amid  the  busi- 
ness of  life,  details  and  demonstrations 
had  faded  from  my  memory,  I  have 
never  found  difficulty  in  working  th^se 
out  afresh,  and  recalling  and  rearrang- 
ing them,  without  aid  from  books. 


i865.] 


My  Student  Life  at  Hofwyl. 


555 


One  little  incident  connected  with  my 
mathematical  studies  still  comes  back 
to  me  with  a  pleasant  impression.  My 
chief  college  friend  was  young  De  Saus- 
sure,  grandson  of  the  naturalist  of  that 
name,  who,  the  first  with  a  single  ex- 
ception, reached  the  summit  of  Mont 
Blanc.  The  subject  of  our  lecture  was 
some  puzzling  proposition  in  the  dif- 
ferential calculus,  and  De  Saussure 
propounded  to  the  professor  a  knotty 
difficulty  in  connection  with  it  The 
professor  replied  unsatisfactorily.  My 
friend  still  pressed  his  point,  and  the 
professor  rejoined  very  learnedly  and 
ingeniously,  but  without  really  meeting 
the  case;  whereupon  De  Saussure  si- 
lendy  assented,  as  if  quite  satisfied. 

"  You  were  not  satisfied  with  that  ex- 
planation," said  I  to  De  Saussure,  as  we 
walked  to  our  rooms. 

"  Of  course  not,"  was  his  reply ;  "but 
would  you  have,  had  me  before  the  class 
shame  the  good  man  who  takes  so  much 
pains  with  us  and  is  usually  so  clear- 
headed ?  We  must  work  it  out  oiu:- 
selves  to-night" 

This  trifle  may  afford  a  glimpse  of 
the  relation  between  professor  and  stu- 
dent at  Hofwyl.  There  was  no  antag- 
onism between  them.  The  former  was 
regarded,  not  as  a  pedagogue,  from 
whom  to  stand  aloof,  —  not,  because  of 
his  position  of  authority,  as  a  natural 
enemy,  to  be  resisted,  so  far  as  resis- 
tance was  safe,  —  but  as  an  elder  friend, 
whom  it  was  a  privilege  (and  it  was 
one  often  enjoyed)  to  converse  with, 
out  of  college  hours,  in  a  £a.miliar  way. 
During  the  hours  of  recreation,  the  pro- 
fessors frequently  joined  in  our  games. 
Nor  did  I  observe  that  this  at  all  di- 
minished the  respect  we  entertained  for 
them  or  the  progress  we  made  under 
their  care. 

Emulation  was  limited  among  us  to 
that  which  naturally  arises  among  young 
men  prosecuting  the  same  studies.  It 
was  not  artificially  excited.  There  were 
no  prizes  ;  there  was  no  taking  rank  in 
classes ;  there  was  not  even  the  ex- 
citement of  public  examinations.  Many 
may  think  this  a  hazardous  experiment 
I  am  not  sure  whether  classical  profi- 


ciency did  not,  to  a  certain  extent,  suf- 
fer from  it.  I  am  not  sure  whether 
somp  sluggards  did  not,  because  of  it, 
lag  behind.  Yet  the  general  proficiency 
in  learning  was  satisfactory ;  and  the 
student,  when  he  entered  the  world, 
missed  no  college  excitants,  but  bore 
with  him  a  love  and  a  habit  of  study 
needing  no  spur,  and  which  insured 
the  continuance  of  education  far  be- 
yond the  term  of  his  college  years. 
For  he  had  learned  to  seek  knowledge 
for  itself,  for  the  pleasing  occupation  it 
brings,  for  the  power  it  gives,  for  the 
satisfaction  it  leaves  behind ;  and  he  re- 
quired no  more  highly  seasoned  induce- 
ments to  continue  the  search  through 
life. 

Yet  it  was  not  the  peculiar  mode  of 
imparting  instruction,  nor  yet  the  va- 
riety, the  extent,  and  the  utility  of  the 
knowledge  acquired,  that  chiefly  charac- 
terized the  institution  of  the  Swiss  pa- 
triot It  was  the  noble  spirit  of  free- 
dom, the  purity  of  motive,  the  indepen- 
dence of  purpose,  the  honesty  of  con- 
duct, the  kindness  of  intercourse,  the 
union  and  forbearance  and  high-spirit- 
ed republicanism,  pervading  alike  our 
hours  of  study,  of  amusement,  and  of 
social  converse.  These  it  was  that  dis- 
tinguished Hofwyl ;  and  these  it  is  that 
still  cause  its  former  pupils  to  look 
back  on  the  years  spent  within  its 
peaceful  precincts  as  the  best  and  the 
happiest  of  their  lives. 

To  such  results  there  mainly  contrib- 
uted a  remarkable  feature  in  the  econo- 
my of  the  institution  I  have  been  de* 
scribing,  —  a  feature,  so  far  as  I  know, 
not  adopted  in  any  similar  institution, 
at  least  to  the  extent  to  which  it  was 
carried  by  us. 

I  have  said  that  reward  and  punish- 
ment by  the  college  authorities,  or  by 
M.  de  Fellenberg,  their  head,  were  vir- 
tually excluded  from  this  system.  Con- 
sidering the  heterogeneous  materials 
that  were  collected  together  from  half 
the  nations  of  the  world,  some  having 
been  nursed  and  petted  in  the  lap  of 
aristocracy,  and  others,  probably,  sent 
thither  because  their  parents  could  not 
manage  them  at  home,  —  considering. 


556 


My  Student  Life  at  HofwyL 


[May, 


too,  the  comparatively  late  age  at  which 
students  enter  such  a  college,  many  of 
them  just  from  schools  where  severity 
was  the  rule  and  artificial  reward  the 
stimulant, — considering  all  this,  I  doubt 
whether  the  mild,  uncoercing,  paternal 
government  of  Hofwyl  would  have  been 
a  success,  but  for  the  peculiarity  here 
referred  to  coming  in  aid  of  our  teach- 
ers, and  supplying  motives  and  re- 
straints to  ourselves.  It  was  in  this 
wise. 

Hofwyl  was  not  only  an  institution 
for  education,  it  was  also  an  indepen- 
dent, self-governing  community.  It  had 
its  code  of  laws,  its  council  of  legisla- 
tion, its  court  of  judges,  its  civil  and 
military  officers,  its  public  treasury.  It 
had  its  annual  elections,  by  ballot,  at 
which  each  student  had  a  vote, — its 
privileges,  equally  accessible  to  all, — 
its  labors  and  duties,  in  which  all  took 
a  share.  It  proposed  and  debated  and 
enacted  its  own  laws,  from  time  to  time 
modifying  them,  but  not  often  nor  rad- 
ically. It  acted  independently  of  the 
professors,  and  of  Fellenberg  himself, 
except  that  our  foster-father  {Pflege- 
vater^  as  we  used  to  call  him)  retained 
a  veto,  which,  however,  like  Queen 
Victoria,  he  never  exercised.  Never, 
I  think,  were  laws  framed  with  a  more 
single  eye  to  the  public  good,  or  more 
strictly  obeyed  by  those  who  framed 
them. 

Nor  was  this  an  unwilling  obedience, 
an  eye-service  constrained  by  fear  or 
force.  It  was  given  cheerfully,  honest- 
ly. We  had  ourselves  assisted  in  fram- 
ing, and  given  our  votes  in  enacting, 
our  code  of  laws.  We  felt  them  to  be 
our  own,  and  as  such  it  became  a  point 
of  honor  with  us  to  conform  to  them  in 
spirit  as  in  letter. 

I  know  not  whether  the  idea  of  this 
juvenile  self  -  regulating  republic  (Ve^ 
rein,  we  called  it)  originated  with  Fel- 
lenberg or  with  some  of  the  stu- 
dents ;  but,  whatever  its  origin,  I  be- 
lieve it  to  have  been  the  chief  lever 
that  raised  the  moral  and  social  charac- 
ter of  our  college  to  the  height  it  ulti- 
mately attained.  It  gave  birth  to  pub- 
lic spirit,  and  to  social  and  civic  vir- 


tues. It  nurtured  a  conscious  indepen- 
dence, that  submitted  with  pleasure  to 
what  it  knew  to  be  the  will  of  the  whole, 
and  felt  itself  bound  to  submit  to  noth- 
ing else.  It  created  young  republicans, 
and  awakened  in  them  that  devotion  to 
the  public  welfare  and  that  zeal  for  the 
public  good,  which  we  seek  too  often, 
alas,  in  vain,  in  older,  but  not  wiser, 
communities. 

When  I  said  that  we  had  no  rewards 
at  Hofwyl,  I  ought  to  have  admitted 
that  the  annual  election  to  the  offices  of 
our  Verein  acted  indirectiy  as  a  power- 
ful stimulus  to  industry  and  good  con- 
duct At  these  elections  was  to  be  read, 
as  on  a  moral  thermometer,  the  gradu- 
ated scale  of  public  opinion.  The  re- 
sult of  each  election  informed  us  with 
certainty  who  had  risen  and  who  had 
fallen  in  the  estimate  of  his  fellows. 

For  it  was  felt  that  public  opinion 
among  us,  enlightened  and  incorrupt, 
operated  with  strict  justice.  In  that 
young  commonwealth,  to  deserve  well 
of  the  republic  was  to  win  its  confidence 
and  obtain  testimonial  of  its  approba- 
tion. There  not  one  sinister  motive 
swayed  our  votes, — neither  favoritism, 
nor  envy,  nor  any  selfish  inducement 
There  was  not  even  canvassing  for  fa- 
vorite candidates.  There  was  quiet, 
dispassionate  discussion  of  respective 
merits ;  but  the  one  question  which  the 
elector  asked  himself  or  his  neighbor 
was,  "  Who  can  fill  most  efficiently  such 
or  such  an  office  ? " — the  answer  to  that 
question  furnishing  the  motive  for  de- 
cision. I  cannot  call  to  mind  a  single 
instance,  during  the  three  years  I  pass- 
ed at  Hofwyl,  in  which  even  a  suspicion 
of  an  electioneering  cabal  or  other  fac- 
tious proceeding  attached  to  an  elec- 
tion among  us.  It  can  scarcely  be  said 
that  there  were  candidates  for  any  of- 
fice. Preferment  was,  indeed,  highly 
valued,  as  a  testimonial  of  public  confi- 
dence ;  but  it  was  not  sought,  directly 
or  indirectly,  and  was  accepted  rather 
as  imposing  duty  than  conferring  privi- 
lege. The  Lacedemonian,  who,  when 
he  lost  his  election  as  one  of  the  Three 
Hundred,  went  away  rejoicing  that  there 
were  found  in  Sparta  three  hundred  bet- 


1 865.] 


My  Student  Life  at  HofwyL 


557 


ter  men  than  he,  is  extolled  as  a  model 
of  ideal  virtue.  Yet  such  virtue  was  mat- 
ter of  common  occurrence  and  of  little 
remark  at  HofwyL  There  were  not 
only  one  or  two,  but  many  among  us, 
who  would  have  sincerely  rejoiced  to 
find  others,  more  capable  than  them- 
selves, preferred  to  office  in  their  stead 

All  this  sounds,  I  dare  say,  Utopian 
and  extravagant  As  I  write,  it  seems 
to  m3rself  so  widely  at  variance  with  a 
five-and-twenty  years'  experience  of  pub- 
lic life,  that  I  should  scruple  at  this  dis- 
tance of  time  to  record  it,  had  I  not, 
thirty  years  ago,  when  my  recollections 
were  fresh,  noted  them  down  minutely 
and  conscientiously.  It  avails  nothing 
to  tell  me  that  such  things  cannot  be, — 
for  at  Hofwyl  they  were.  I  describe  a 
state  of  society  which  I  witnessed,  of 
which  I  was  myself  a  part 

As  partial  explanation,  I  may  state, 
that  to  office,  among  us,  was  attached 
no  patronage  and  no  salary. 

The  proceeds  of  our  public  treasury, 
{Armenktuse^  we  called  it)  to  which  each 
contributed  according  to  his  means  and 
inclination,  went  exclusively  for  the  re- 
lief of  the  poor.  We  had  a  superintend- 
ent of  the  poor,  and  a  committee  whose 
duty  it  was  to  visit  the  Indigent  fami- 
lies in  our  neighborhood,  ascertain  their 
wants  and  their  character,  and  afford 
them  relief,  especially  in  winter.  This 
relief  was  given  in  the  form  sometimes 
of  money,  sometimes  of  food,  clothing, 
or  furniture ;  to  some  we  furnished 
goats,  selected  when  in  milk  from  a 
fkxrk  we  had,  and  which  were  left  with 
them  for  a  longer  or  shorter  period.  Our 
fund  was  ample,  and  I  think  judiciously 
dispensed. 

The  laws  and  regulations  of  our  Ve- 
rein  extended  to  the  police  and  the 
moral  government  of  our  littie  com- 
munity. The  students  were  divided 
into  six  circles,  (Kreise^  and  for  the 
government  of  each  of  these  we  elect- 
ed a  guardian  or  councillor  (Knisratk), 
These  were  our  most  important  officers, 
—  their  province  embracing  the  social 
life  and  moral  deportment  of  each  mem- 
ber of  the  Kreis,  This,  one  might 
imagine,  would  degenerate  into  an  in- 


quisitorial or  intermeddling  surveillance; 
but  in  practice  it  never  did.  Each  Kreis 
was  a  band  of  friends,  and  its  chief  was 
the  friend  most  valued  and  esteemed 
among  them.  It  had  its  weekly  meet- 
ings ;  and  I  remember,  in  all  my  life, 
no  pleasanter  gatherings  than  these. 
Myself  a  Kreisraik  towards  the  close 
of  my  student  life,  I  bore  home  with 
me  no  more  valued  memorial  than  a 
brief  letter  of  farewell,  expressive  of 
affection  and  gratitude,  signed  by  each 
member  of  the  Kreis, 

Our  judiciary  consisted  of  a. bench  of 
three  judges,  whose  sessions  were  held 
in  our  principal  hall  with  all  due  formal- 
ity,—  two  sentinels,  with  swords  drawn, 
guarding  the  doors.  The  punishments 
within  its  power  to  inflict  were  a  vote  of 
censure,  fines,  deprivation  of  the  right 
of  suffice,  declaration  of  ineligibility  to 
office,  and  degradation  from  office.  This 
last  punishment  was  not  inflicted  on  any 
student  during  my  residence  at  HofwyL 
Trials  were  very  rare;  and  I  do  not 
remember  one,  except  for  some  venial 
offence.  The  offender  usually  pleaded 
his  own  cause ;  but,  if  he  preferred  it, 
he  might  procure  a  friend  to  act  as  his 
advocate. 

The  dread  of  public  censure,  thus 
declared  by  sentence  after  formal  trial, 
was  great  and  influential  among  us*  Its 
power  may  be  judged  from  the  following 
example. 

Two  German  princes,  sons  of  a 
wealthy  nobleman,  the  Prince  of  Tour 
and  Taxis,  having  been  furnished  by 
their  father  with  a  larger  allowance  of 
pocket-money  than  they  could  legiti- 
mately spend  at  Hofwyl,  conceived  a 
somewhat  irregular  mode  of  disposing 
of  part  of  it  They  were  in  the  habit 
of  occasionally  getting  up  late  at  night, 
after  all  their  comrades  had  retired  to 
rest,  and  proceeding  to  the  neighboring 
village  of  Buchsee,  there  to  spend  an 
hour  or  two  in  a  tavern,  smoking  and 
drinking  iager^bier. 

Now  we  had  no  strict  college  bounds, 
and  no  prohibition  against  entering  a 
tavern,  though  we  knew  that  M.  de  Fel- 
lenbeig  objected  to  our  contracting  the 
latter  habit    Our  practice  on  Sundays 


558 


My  Student  Life  at  HofwyL 


[May, 


may  illustrate  this.  That  day  was  strict- 
ly kept  and  devoted  to  religious  exer- 
cises until  midday,  when  we  dined.  Af- 
ter dinner  it  was  given  up  to  recreation. 
And  our  favorite  Sunday  recreation  was, 
to  form  into  parties  of  two  or  three  and 
sally  forth,  Ziegenhainer  in  hand,  on  ex- 
cursions many  miles  into  the  beautiful 
and  richly  cultivated  rolling  country  that 
surrounded  us,  usually  ascending  some 
eminence  whence  we  could  command 
a  full  view  of  the  magnificent  Bernese 
Alps,  their  summits  covered  with  eter- 
nal snow.  It  sometimes  happened  that 
on  these  excursions  we  were  overtaken 
by  a  storm,  or  perhaps,  having  wander- 
ed farther  than  we  intended,  were  tired 
and  hungry.  In  either  case,  we  did 
not  scruple  to  enter  some  country  tav- 
ern and  procure  refreshments  there. 
But  whenever  we  did  so,  it  was  a  cus- 
tom—  not  a  written  law,  but  a  custom 
sanctioned  by  all  our  college  traditions 
—  to  visit,  on  our  return,  the  professor 
who  had  charge  of  the  domestic  depart- 
ment of  our  institution, — a  short,  stout, 
middle-aged  man,  the  picture  of  good- 
humor,  but  not  deficient  in  decision  and 
energy  when  occasion  demanded,  —  it 
was  our  uniform  custom  to  call  upon 
this  gentleman,  Herr  Lippe,  and  inform 
him  that  we  had  visited  such  or  such 
a  tavern,  and  the  occasion  of  our  doing 
so.  A  benignant  smile,  and  his  usual 
"  It  is  very  well,  my  sons,"  closed  such 
interviews. 

But  the  use  of  tobacco —^  passing 
strange,  that,  in  a  German  college !  — 
was  forbidden  by  our  rules ;  so  also  was 
a  departure,  after  the  usual  hour  of  rest, 
from  the  college  buildings,  except  for 
good  reason  shown.  Thus  Max  and 
Fritz  Taxis  (so  the  youths  were  called) 
had  become  offenders,  amenable  to  jus- 
tice. 

The  irregularity  of  which  they  had 
been  guilty,  the  only  one  of  the  kind 
I  recollect,  became  known  accidentally 
to  one  of  our  number.  There  existed 
among  us  not  even  the  name  of  inform- 
er ;  it  was  considered  a  duty  to  give 
notice  to  the  proper  authorities  of  any 
breach  of  our  laws.  This  was  accord- 
ingly done  in  the  present  instance ;  and 


the  brothers  were  officially  notified  that 
on  the  following  day  their  case  would 
be  brought  up,  and  they  would  be  heard 
in  their  own  defence.  The  elder  of  the 
two.  Max,  held  some  minor  office ;  and 
the  sentence  would  probably  have  been 
a  vote  of  censure  or  a  fine  for  both, 
and  a  forfeiture  of  the  office  in  the  case 
of  the  elder  brother.  But  this  was  more 
than  they  could  make  up  their  minds  to 
bear.  Accordingly,  the  night  previous 
to  their  trial,  they  decamped  secretly, 
hired  a  carriage  at  a  neighboring  vil- 
lage, and,  being  well  provided  with 
money,  returned  to  their  parents. 

We  afterwards  ascertained  that  M. 
de  Fellenberg  did  not  send  after  them, 
in  pursuit  or  otherwise,  —  did  not  even 
write  to  their  parents,  but  suffered  the 
fugitives  to  tell  their  own  story  in  their 
own  way. 

The  result  was,  that  in  a  few  weeks 
the  father  came,  bringing  with  him  the 
runaways,  and  asking,  as  a  favor,  that 
M.  de  Fellenberg  would  once  more  make 
trial  of  them, ->  which  he  very  wiU- 
ingly  did.  They  were  received  by  us 
with  kindness,  and  no  allusion  was  ev- 
er made  to  the  cause  of  their  absence. 
They  remained  several  years,  quiet  and 
law-abiding  members  of  our  Vereitij 
but  neither  attained  to  any  office  of 
trust  again. 

Our  recreations  consisted  of  public 
games,  athletic  exercises,  gymnastics, 
and  —  what  was  prized  above  all — an 
annual  excursion  on  foot,  of  about  six 
weeks'  duration. 

One  of  our  most  favorite  amusements 
in  the  way  of  athletic  exercise  was 
throwi ng  the  lance  (Z/7irjer^ifft;^r/2fif).  The 
weapons  used  were  stout  ashen  spears, 
from  six  to  seven  feet  long,  heavily 
shod  with  iron,  and  sharp-pointed  ;  the 
target,  a  squared  log  of  hard  wood 
firmly  set  in  the  ground,  about  six  feet 
high, — the  upper  portion,  or  head,  which 
it  was  the  chief  object  to  hit,  a  sep- 
arate block,  attached  to  the  trunk  by 
stout  hinges.  This  exercise  required 
great  strength  as  well  as  skiU.  A  dozen 
or  more  engaged  in  it  at  a  time,  divided 
into  two  sides  of  supposed  equal  force ; 
and  the  points  gained  by  each  stroke 


18650 


My  Student  Life  at  Hofwyl. 


559 


were  reckoned  according  to  its  power 
and  accuracy,  —  double,  if  the  head  was 
struck,  and  one  point  added  whenever 
the  spear  remained  fixed  in  the  wood 
without  touching  the  ground.  We  at- 
tained great  skill  in  this  exercise. 

We  had  fencing-lessons  twice  a  week ; 
and  there  were  many  swordsmen  in  the 
elder  classes  who  need  not  have  feared 
any  ordinary  antagonist  Of  this  a 
fencing-master  from  a  neighboring  Can- 
ton, on  occasion  of  a  visit  to  our  teach- 
er, had  one  day  tangible  and  some- 
what mortifying  proof. 

Much  has  been  said,  sometimes  in 
ridicule,  sometimes  in  condemnation,  of 
gymnastic  exercises.  We  spent  an  hour 
a  day,  just  before  dinner,  in  the  gym- 
nasium. And  my  three-years'  experi- 
ence induces  me  to  regard  these  exer- 
cises, judiciously  conducted,  not  only 
as  beneficial,  but  indispensable  to  a 
complete  system  of  education.  They 
are  to  the  body  what  intellectual  labors 
are  to  the  mind.  They  produce  a  vigor, 
an  agility,  an  address,  a  hardihood,  a 
presence  of  mind  in  danger,  which  I 
have  never  seen  attained  to  the  same 
extent  under  any  other  circumstances. 
They  fortify  the  health  and  strengthen 
the  nerves.  Their  mental  and  moral 
influence,  also,  is  great  My  observa- 
tion convinces  me  that  they  equalize  the 
spirits,  invigorate  the  intellect,  and  calm 
the  temper.  I  am  witness  to  the  iaxX 
that  no  one  among  the  Hofviryl  students 
was  injured  by  them  in  any  way,  and 
that  very  many  acquired  a  strength  and 
an  address  that  astonished  themselves. 
I  myself  had  been  in  feeble  health  for 
several  years  before  my  arrival ;  yet  I 
left  Hofwyl,  not  only  perfectly  well,  but 
athletic ;  and  I  have  not  had  a  serious 
illness  since.  I  cannot  believe,  that,  un- 
der a  well-regulated  system,  gymnastics 
cause  injury  or  expose  to  danger. 

Our  annual  excursions,  which  were 
undertaken  in  the  charming  autumn  of 
that  bright  and  beautiful  climate,  by 
those  among  our  students  who,  like 
myself,  were  too  far  from  home  to  re- 
turn thither  during  the  holidays,  were 
looked  forward  to,  for  weeks,  with  bril- 
liant anticipations  of  pleasure,  which, 


strange  to  say,  were  realized.  Our  fa- 
vorite professor,  Herr  Lippe,  accom- 
panied  us  on  these  expeditions.  Our 
number  was  commonly  from  thirty  to 
thirty-five. 

It  was  usually  about  the  first  of  Au- 
gust, that,  equipped  in  the  plain  student- 
costume  of  the  college,  with  knapsack 
on  shoulder,  and  long,  iron-shod  moun- 
tain-staff in  hand,  we  went  forth,  an 
exultant  party,  on  ''the  journey,"  as 
we  called  it  Previously  to  our  de- 
parture, Herr  Lippe,  at  a  public  meet- 
ing of  the  intended  excursionists,  had 
chalked  out  for  us  the  proposed  route ; 
and  when  we  found,  as  on  two  occasions 
we  did,  that  it  extended  beyond  the  val- 
leys and  mountain-passes  of  Switzer- 
land to  the  lakes  of  Northern  Italy,  our 
enthusiasm  broke  forth  in  bursts  of 
applause. 

Our  usual  day's  journey  was  eighteen 
or  twenty  miles,  sometimes  twenty-five 
or  even  more.  We  break^ted  very 
early,  walked  till  about  midday,  when  we 
sought  some  shady  nook  where  we  could 
enjoy  a  lunch  of  bread  and  wine,  with 
grapes,  or  goat's -milk  cheese,  when 
these  luxuries  could  be  procured.  Then 
we  despatched,  in  advance,  some  of  our 
best  pedestrians,  as  commissariat  of  the 
party,  to  order  supper  preparatory  to 
our  arrival.  How  joyfully  we  sat  down 
to  that  evening  meal !  How  we  talked 
over  the  events  of  the  day,  the  magnifi- 
cent scenes  we  had  passed  through,  the 
little  adventures  we  had  met  with  I  The 
small  country  taverns  seldom  furnished 
more  than  six  or  eight  beds;  so  that 
more  than  three  fourths  of  our  number 
usually  slept  in  some  barn  well  furnish- 
ed with  hay  or  straw.  How  soundly  we 
slept,  and  how  merry  the  awaking ! 

There  were  among  us,  as  among  Ger- 
man students  there  always  are,  excel- 
lent musicians,  well-trained  to  sing  their 
stirring  national  airs,  or  gems  fh>m  the 
best  operas,  or  the  like,  —  duets,  trios, 
quartets.  After  our  frugal  noonday 
meal  in  the  shade,  or  perhaps  when  we 
had  surmounted' some  mountain-pass, 
and  came  suddenly,  as  we  reached  the 
verge  of  the  descent,  upon  some  mag- 
nificent expanse  of  valley  or  champaign 


56o 


My  Student  Life  at  Hofwyl. 


[May, 


scenery  stretching  out  far  beneath  us, 
it  was  our  habit  to  call  a  halt  for  mu- 
sic. The  fresh  grass,  dotted,  perhaps, 
with  Alpine  roses,  furnished  seats ; 
and  our  vocalists  drawing  from  their 
knapsaclcs  the  slender  cahier  contain- 
ing melodies  expressly  selected  for  the 
occasion  and  arranged  in  parts,  we 
had,  under  the  most  charming  circum- 
stances, an  impromptu  concert  I  have 
heard  much  better  music  since,  but 
never  any  that  1  enjoyed  more. 

On  one  of  these  excursions  we  passed 
by  Napoleon's  wonderful  road,  the  Sim- 
plon,  into  one  of  the  most  beautiful  re- 
gions of  Italy.  The  first  night  at  Bave- 
no  was  delicious.  The  soft  Italian  air, 
—  the  moonlight  on  the  placid  lake,  on 
the  softly  rounded  olive-clad  hills,  on 
the  trellised  vines,  so  picturesque,  com- 
pared to  the  formal  vineyards  of  France, 
— all  in  such  contrast  to  the  giant  moun- 
tain-peaks of  granite,  snow-covered,  cut- 
ting through  the  clouds,  the  vast  gla- 
cier, bristling  with  ice -blocks,  sliding 
down,  an  encroacher  on  the  valley's 
verdure,  —  in  such  marvellous  contrast 
to  all  that  region  of  rock  and  ice  and 
mountain-torrent  and  rugged  path,  and 
grand,  rude,  wild  majesty  of  aspect,  it 
seemed  like  passing  in  a  single  day 
into  another  and  a  gentler  world. 

Then  came  the  quiet  excursions  on 
the  lakes,  —  Lugano,  Maggiore,  Como : 
such  a  rest  to  our  blistered  feet !  Those 
blisters  were  a  drawback;  but  what 
episode  in  human  life  has  none?  We 
strayed  through  the  lime-groves  of  the 
Isola  Bella,  where  I  exchanged  the  few 
words  of  Italian  of  which  I  was  mas- 
ter with  a  £iir  and  courteous  madonna 
who  crossed  our  path,  —  ascended,  by 
clambering  up  within  one  of  the  folds 
of  the  Saint's  short  mantle,  the  gigantic 
bronze  statue  of  the  holy  Borromeo, 
sat  down  inside  the  head,  and  looked 
out  through  the  eyebrows  on  the  lake 
under  whose  waters  lies  buried  the  wide- 
brimmed  shovel-hat  which  once  covered 
the  shaven  crown,  but  was  swept  off  by 
the  storm-wind  one  wiriter  night 

Throughout  the  term  of  these  chaxm- 


ing  excursions  the  strictest  order  was 
observed.  And  herein  was  evinced  the 
power  of  that  honorable  party -spirit 
prevalent  among  us,  which  imposed  on 
every  one  of  us  a  certain  charge  as  to 
the  good  conduct  of  the  whole,  —  mak- 
ing each,  as  it  were,  alive  to  the  faults 
and  responsible  for  the  misconduct  of 
our  little  community.  Rude  noise,  un- 
seemly confusion,  the  least  approach  to 
dissipation  at  a  tavern,  or  any  other  vi- 
olation of  propriety  on  the  road,  would 
have  been  considered  as  an  insult  to  the 
college.  And  thus  it  happened  that  we 
established  throughout  Switzerland  a 
character  for  decorum  such  as  no  other 
institution  ever  obtained. 

Nor  did  influences  thus  salutary 
cease  with  the  term  of  our  college  life. 
So  far  as  I  know  anything  of  the  after 
fortunes  of  my  college  mates,  they  did 
honor  to  their  alma  mater,  —  if  older 
and  more  learned  foundations  will  not 
grudge  our  institution  that  name.  As  a 
body,  they  were  distinguished  for  prob- 
ity and  excellent  conduct ;  some  attain- 
ed eminence.  Even  that  Alexander  of 
Wiirtemberg,  whom  we  so  lightly  es- 
teemed, I  afterwards  heard  spoken  of 
as  one  of  the  most  estimable  young 
princes  of  the  court  he  graced.  Seven 
years  ago  I  met  at  Naples  (the  first 
time  since  I  left  Hofwyl)  our  quondam 
Master  of  the  Goats,  now  an  officer  of 
the  Emperor  of  Russia's  household,  and 
governor  of  one  of  the  Germano-Rus- 
sian  provinces.  We  embraced  after  the 
hearty  German  Cushion,  —  still  address- 
ed each  other,  as  of  old,  with  the  familiar 
du  and  dich^  —  sat  down,  forgetting  the 
present,  and  were  soon  deep  in  college 
reminiscences,  none  the  less  interesting 
that  they  were  more  than  thirty  years 
old. 

Over  these  old  reminiscences  I  find 
myself  lingering.  Yet  they  have  stretch- 
ed already,  perhaps,  as  fsu*  as  may  inter- 
est others.  With  me  they  have  left  a 
blessing, — a  belief  which  existing  abus- 
es cannot  shake  nor  worldly  skepticisms 
destroy :  an  abiding  £uth  in  human  vir^ 
tue  and  in  social  progress. 


1865.]  The  Grave  by  the  Lake.  561 


\ 


THE   GRAVE    BY   THE   LAKE. 

WHERE  the  Great  Lake's  sunnj  smiles 
Dimple  round  its  hundred  isles, 
And  the  mountain's  granite  ledge' 
Cleaves  the  water  like  a  wedge, 
Ringed  about  with  smooth,  gray  stones, 
Rest  the  giant's  mighty  bones; 

Close  beside,  in  shade  and  gleaim, 
Laughs  and  ripples  Melvin  stream ; 
Melvin  water,  mountain-bom, 
All  fair  flowers  its  banks  adorn ; 
All  the  woodland's  voices  meet. 
Mingling  with  its  murmurs  sweet 

Over  lowlands  forest-grown, 
Over  waters  island-strown. 
Over  silver-sanded  beach, 
Leaf-locked  bay  and  misty  reach, 
Melvin  stream  and  burial-heap, 
Watch  and  ward  the  mountains  keepi 

Who  that  Titan  cromlech  fills  ? 

Forest-kaiser,  lord  o'  the  hills  ? 

Kni^t  who  on  the  birchen  tree 

Carved  his  savage  heraldry?. 

Priest  o'  the  pine-wood  temples  dim, 

Prophet,  sage,  or  wizard  grim  ? 

• 

Rugged  type  of  primal  man, 

Grim  utilitarian, 

Loving  woods  for  hunt  and  prowl^ 

Lake  and'  hill  for  fish  and  fowl. 

As  the  brown  bear  blind  and  dull 

To  the  grand  and  beautiful: 

Not  for  him  the  lesson  drawn 
From  the  mountains  smit  with  dawn. 
Star-rise,  moon-rise,  flowers  of  May, 
Sunset's  purple  bloom  of  day, — 
Took  his  life  no  hue  from  thence» 
Poor  amid  such  affluence  ? 

Haply  unto  hill  and  tree 
All  too  near  akin  was  he: 
Unto  him  who  stands  afiu* 
Nature's  marvels  greatest  are ; 
Who  the  mountain  purple  seeks 
Must  not  dimb  the  hi|^er  peaks. 
VOL.  XV. — NO.  91.  36 


562  T^he  Grave  by  the  Lake.  [May, 

Yet  who  koows  in  winter  tramp. 
Or  the  midnight  of  the  camp, 
What  revealings  &int  and  far, 
Stealing  down  from  moon  and  star^ 
Kindled  in  that  human  clod 
Thought  of  destiny  and  God  ? 

Stateliest  forest  patriarch, 

Grand  in  robes  of  skin  and  bark. 

What  sepulchral  mysteries, 

What  weird  fimeral-rites,  were  his  ? 

What  sharp  wail,  what  drear  lament, 

Back  scared  wolf  and  eagle  sent  ? 

Now,  whatever  be  may  have  been, 
Low  he  lies  as  other  men ; 
On  his  mound  the  partridge  drums, 
There  the  noisy  blue-jay  comes; 
Rank  nor  name  nor  pomp  has  he 
In  the  grave's  democracy. 

Part  thy  blue  lips.  Northern  lake! 
Moss-grown  rocks,  your  silence  break! 
Tell  the  tale,  thou  ancient  tree ! 
Thou,  too,  slide-worn  Ossipee! 
Speak,  and  tell  us  how  and  when 
Lived  and  died  this  king  of  men ! 

Wordless  moans  the  ancient  pine ; 
Lake  and  mountain  give  no  sign ; 
Vain  to  trace  this  ring  of  stones ; 
Vain  the  search  of  crumbling  bones : 
Deepest  of  all  mysteries. 
And  the  saddest,  silence  is. 

Nameless,  noteless,  clay  with  day 
Mingles  slowly  day  by  day; 
But  somewhere,  for  good  or  ill, 
That  dark  soul  is  living  still ; 
Somewhere  yet  that  atom's  force 
Moves  the  light-poised  universe. 

Strange  that  on  his  burial-sod 
Harebells  bloom,  and  golden-rod, 
While  the  soul's  dark  horoscope 
Holds  no  starry  sign  of  hope ! 
Is  the  Unseen  with  sight  at  odds  ? 
Nature's  pity  more  than  God's  ? 

Thus  I  mused  by  Melvin  side, 
While  the  summer  eventide 
Made  the  woods  and  inland  sea 
And  the  mountains  mjrsteryi 


1865.]  The  Grave  by  the  Lake.    ^  563 

And  the  hush  of  earth  and  air 
Seemed  the  pause  before  a  prayer, — 

Prayer  for  him,  for  all  who  rest, 

Mother  Earth,  upon  thy  breast, —  * 

Lapped  on  Christian  turf^  or  hid 

In  rock-cave  or  pyramid: 

All  who  sleep,  as  all  who  live, 

Well  may  need  the  prayer,  •*  Forgive  I " 

Desert-smothered  caravan, 
Knee-deep  dust  that  once  was  man. 
Battle-trenches  ghasdy  piled, 
Ocean-floors  with  white  bones  tiled, 
Crowded  tomb  and  mounded  sod, 
Dumbly  crave  that  prayer  to  God. 

Oh,  the  generations  old 

Over  whom  no  church-bells  tolled, 

Chrisdess,  lifting  up  blind  eyes 

To  the  silence  of  the  skies ! 

For  the  innumerable  dead 

Is  my  soul  disquieted. 

Where  be  now  these  silent  hosts  ? 
Where  the  camping-ground  of  ghosts  \ 
Where  the  spectral  conscripts  led 
To  the  white  tents  of  the  dead  ? 
What  strange  shore  or  chartless  sea 
Holds  the  awful  mystery? 

Then  the  wann  sky  stooped  to  make      ^ 
Double  sunset  in  the  lake ; 
While  above  I  saw  with  it. 
Range  on  range,  the  mountains  lit; 
And  the  calm  and  splendor  stole 
Like  an  answer  to  my  souL 

• 
Hear'st  thou,  O  of  little  fiuth, 
What  to  thee  the  mountain  saith, 
What  is  whispered  by  the  trees  ?  — 
^'  Cast  on  God  thy  care  for  these ; 
Trust  Him,  if  thy  sight  be  dim : 
Doubt  for  them  is  doubt  of  Him. 

^' Blind  must  be  their  dose-shut  e3re8 
Where  like  night  the  sunshine  lies, 
Fiery-linked  the  self-forged  chain      ' 
Binding  ever  sin  to  pain. 
Strong  their  prison-house  of  will, 
But  without  He  waiteth  stilL 


5^4 


Ice  and  Esquimaux. 


[May, 


''  Not  with  hatred's  undertow 
Doth  the  Love  Eternal  flow; 
Every  chain  that  spirits  wear 
Crumbles  in  the  breath  of  prayer ; 
And  the  penitent's  desire 
Opens  every  gate  of  fire. 

"  Still  Thy  love,  O  Christ  arisen, 
Yearns  to  reach  these  souls  in  prison! 
Through  aU  depths  of  sin  and  loss 
Drops  the  plummet  of  Thy  cross ! 
Never  yet  abyss  was  found 
Deeper  than  that  cross  could  sound!" 

Therefore  well  may  Nature  keep 
Equal  faith  with  all  who  sleep, 
Set  her  watch  of  hills  around 
Christian  grave  and  heathen  mound, 
And  to  cairn  and  kirkyard'  send 
Summer's  flowery  dividend. 

Keep,  O  pleasant  Melvin  stream, 
Thy  sweet  laugh  in  shade  and  gleam ! 
On  the  Indian's  grassy  tomb 
Swing,  O  flowers,  your  bells  of  bloom ! 
Deep  below,  as  high  above. 
Sweeps  the  circle  of  God's  love. 


ICE    AND    ESQUIMAUX, 


CHAPTER   V. 


TERRA  INCOGNITA. 


LABRADOR,  geologists  tell  us,  is 
the  oldest  portion  of  the  American 
Continent  It  was  also,  and  aside  from 
the  visits  of  the  Scandinavians,  the  first 
to  be  discovered  by  Europeans,  —  the 
Cabots  having  come  to  land  here  more 
than  a  year  before  Columbus  found  the 
tropic  mainland  on  his  third  voyage. 
And  to-day  it  is  that  part  of  the  conti- 
nent which  has  been  least  explored. 
No  one,  to  my  knowledge,  has  ever 
crossed  it :  perhaps  no  one  could  do  so. 
I  am  not  aware  that  any  Em^opean  has 
penetrated  it  deeply.     Hinds  pushed 


up  some  hundred  and  fifty  miles  from 
the  Gulf  coast,  and  thought  this  feat 
one  which  deserved  two  octavos  of 
commemoration.  The  coast,  for  some 
four  hundred  miles  in  extent,  is  visited 
annually  by  hosts  of  fishermen;  but 
twenty  miles  from  tide-water  it  is  as  lit- 
tle known  to  them  as  to  the  Bedouins. 
We  are  now,  however,  able  to  affirm 
that  the  interior  is  all  one  immense  el- 
evated plateau.  Information  which  I 
obtained  from  an  elderly  missionary  at 
Hopedale,  together  with  numerous  in- 
dications that  an  intelligent  naturalist 
would  know  how  to  construe,  enabled 
P to  determine  this  fact  with  con- 
fidence. It  is  a  table-land  "varying 
firom  five  to  twenty-five  hundred  feet  in 


i86s.] 


Ice  and  Esquimaux. 


56s 


height"  Here  not  a  tree  grows,  not  a 
blade  of  grass,  only'lichens  and  moss. 
What  a  vast  and  terrible  waste  it  must 
be  I  Where  else  upon  the  earth  are  all' 
the  elements  of  desolation  so  combined  ? 
The  missionary  in  question  had  pene- 
trated to  the  borders  of  this  <:£?/// desert, 
and  looked  out  over  it  "  No  up  und 
down,"  he  said.  "  No  dree.  Notting 
grow.    All  level" 

Within  some  one  hundred  and  fifty 
miles  of  the  coast  this  terrible  table- 
land breaks  up  into  wild  hills,  separated 
by  valleys  that  plunge  down  suddenly, 
in  rocky  steeps,  from  the  heights,  more 
gorges  than  valleys.  These  hills  are 
all  fearfully  scarred.  One  sees  in  them 
abundant  record  of  the  Titanic  old- 
time  warfare  between  rock  and  ice.  A 
prodigious  contest  it  was.  Sometimes 
the  top  of  a  hill — clean,  live  rock  — 
was  sliced  off,  as  with  a  knife.  ''  Like 
the  tops  of  our  conical  cheeses,  when 
they  came  to  the  table,"  said  P , 

The  valleys  are  wooded  with  fir, 
spruce,  larch,  and,  more  to  the  south, 
with  birch.  At  a  distance  from  the  sea 
and  in  favorable  situations  these  trees 
grow  to  good  forest  size,  even  beyond 
the  middle  latitudes  of  Labrador.  In 
latitude  53°  a  resident  told  me  that  trees 
were  found  eighteen  inches  in  diameter. 
This  statement  was  derided  when  I  told 
It  on  board,  and  the  witty  Judge  kept  the 
table  in  a  roar  for  half  an  hour  with 
pleasantries  about  it  But  at  Hope- 
dale,  two  and  a  half  degrees  farther 
north,  we  learned  that  sticks  of  timber 
fifty  feet  in  length  were  often  brought 
to  the  station ;  while  one  had  found  its 
way  there  which  was  fifty-six  feet  long 
and  ten  inches  in  diameter  at  the  small- 
er end. 

Toward  the  sea  these  forests  dwindle, 
till  on  the  immediate  coast  they  wholly 
disappear.  At  Caribou  Island,  which, 
the  reader  will  remember,  is  south  of 
the  Strait  of  Belle  Isle,  I  found  in  a 
ravine  some  sadly  stunted  spruces,  firs, 
and  larches,  not  more  than  three  feet 
high,  —  melancholy,  wind  -  draggled, 
fnghtened- looking  shrubs,  which  had 
wondrously  the  air  of  lifelong  ill-usage. 
The  tangled  tops  were  mostly  flattened 


and  pressed  over  to  one  side,  and  alto- 
gether they  seemed  so  piteous,  that  one 
wished  to  say,  '*  Nobody  shall  do  so  to 
you  any  more,  poor  things ! "  Excepting 
these,  the  immediate  coast,  for  five  or 
six  hundred  miles  that  we  skirted  ity 
was  absolutely  treeless. 

Up  in  the  bays,  however,  trees  were 
found,  and,  curiously  enough,  they  were 
larger  and  more  plentiful  in  high  lati- 
tudes than  farther  south.  This  puzzled 
me  much  at  first  Evidently,  however, 
it  was  due  in  part  to  the  nature  of  the 
rock.  At  Sleupe  Harbor,  latitude  51®,* 
this  was  granite  ;  *  farther  on  it  was  si- 
enite ;  then  the  sienite  showed  a  strong 
predominance  of  feldspar ;  then  it  be- 
came an  impure  Labradorite ;  then  pass- 
ed into  gneiss ;  the  gneiss  became  soft, 
stratified,  and  frequently  intersected  by 
trap ;  —  and  with  every  softer  quality  of 
rock  there  was  an  improvement  in  vege- 
tation. This  was  particularly  observa- 
ble at  L*Anse  du  Loup,  where  there  is 
a  red  sandstone  formation  extending 
some  miles  along  the  sea  and  a  mile  or 
two  inland.  Here  we  seemed  suddenly 
transported  to  a  Southern  climate,  so 
soft  was  the  scenery,  so  green  the  sur- 
face. The  effect  was  enhanced  by  the 
aspect  of  the  sandstone  clifl^  which,  in 
alternating  horizontal  shades  of  red, 
fronts  the  sea,  with  a  vertical  height  of 
three  hundred  feet  for  the  whole  extent 
of  this  formation,  —  so  ruddy  and  glow- 
ing under  the  su^hine,  as  we  sailed 
past,  that  one  felt  warmed  by  the  sight 
But  a  little  farther  back  rose  the  same 
old  hard-hearted  hiUs,  cold,  broken,  and 
bare  as  ever. 

But  the  difference  in  soil  does  not 
wholly  explain  the  difference  in  vegeta- 
tion. In  the  mission-garden  at  Caribou 
Island  next  to  nothing  will  grow ;  in  the 
garden  at  Hopedale,  four  degrees  £ir- 
ther  north,  though  the  rock  here  is 
very  hard,  I  found  half  an  acre  of  po- 
tatoes in  blossom,  the  tops  about  six 
inches  high,  together  with  beets,  car- 
rots, cabbages,  onions,  nice   cunant- 

*  Potiibly  deaite.  I  omitted  to  male*  ft  nots,  and 
speak  frocD  recoUcctioa.  If  lienite,  very  hard,  the 
quarts  clemeat  prtdomiaatuig,  as  the  feldspar  does 
frzther  north. 


566 


he  and  Esquimaur^ 


[May, 


busheSi  and  rhubarb  growing  luxuri- 
antly. These  are  all  started  under  cov- 
er, and  are  not  set  out  in  the  garden 
until  toward  the  end  of  June,  and  a 
great  deal  of  Esquimaux  labor  must  go 
to  their  production ;  yet  it  is  doubtful 
whether  the  same  pains  would  bring 
about  the  same  result  at  the  Caribou 
station. 

It  is  the  sea  that  dooms  Labrador, 
and  the  relation  of  the  coast  to  this  does 
much  to  determine  its  fertility,  or  rather 
its  barrenness.  Half  way  across  the 
'ocean,  in  latitude  54^,  Captain  Unklater 
found  the  temperature  of  the  water  54°, 
Fahrenheit;  near  the  Labrador  coast, 
in  the  same  latitude,  the  temperature 
was  but  34%  two  degrees  only  above 
the  freezing  point !  It  is  in  facts  like 
this  that  one  gets  a  key  to  the  climate 
not  only  of  Labrador,  but  of  Eastern 
North  America.  Out  of  the  eternal  ice 
of  the  North  the  current  presses  down 
along  the  coast,  chilling  land  and  air 
wherever  it  touches.  Where  the  coast 
retreats  somewhat,  and  is  well  barricad- 
ed with  islands,  the  rigor  of  the  climate 
is  mitigated ;  where  it  lies  fully  exposed 
to  the  Arctic  current,  even  though  much 
further  south,  the  life  is  utterly  chilled 
out  of  it  Now  Hopedale  lies  behind  a 
rampart  of  islands  twenty  miles  deep ; 
while  the  portion  of  the  Arctic  current 
which  splits  off  at  the  head  of  New- 
£Mindland,  and  pushes  down  through 
the  strait,  presses  close  past  Caribou 
Island  This  explains  the  sterility  of 
the  latter. 

The  Arctic  current  varies  much  in 
different  years,  not  only  in  the  amount 
of  ice  it  brings,  l^t  also  in  its  direction. 
Unexpected  effects  depend  upon  this 
variation.  It  will  be  remembered  that 
in  1863  several  ships  were  wrecked  on 
Cape  Race,  owing  to  some  "  unaccount- 
able "  disturbance  of  the  currents.  The 
Gulf  Stream,  it  was  found  at  length,  ran 
thirty  miles  farther  north  than  usuaL 
Was  this  unaccountable  ?  When  Cap- 
tain Handy,  our  whaling  Mentor,  was 
penetrating  Hudson's  Strait  in  June, 
1863,  he  found  vast  headlands  of  floe 
ice  resting  against  the  land,  and  push* 
ing  fiu*  out  to  sea. 


"  Mr.  Bailey,"  said  he  to  his  mate, 
*'  there  will  be  many  wrecks  on  Cape 
Race  this  year." 

The  prediction  was  fulfilled.  Do  you 
see  why  it  should  be  ? 
•  The  fioe  ice  rose  ten  feet  above  the 
water;  it  therefore  extended  near  one 
hundred  feet  beneath.  At  this  depth 
it  acted  upon  the  current  precisely  as 
if  it  were  land,  pushing  the  former  far 
to  the  east  The  current,  therefore,  did 
not  meet  and  repel  the  Gulf  Stream 
at  the  usual  point ;  and  the  latter  was 
thus  at  liberty  to  press  on  beyond  its 
custom  to  the  north.  Captain  Handy 
not  only  saw  the  facts  before  him,  but 
reasoned  upon  them.  Even  when  these 
immense  bodies  of  ice  do  not  rest  upon 
the  land,  they  produce  the  same  effect 
At  the  depth  of  a  hundred  feet  they 
go  below  the  current  into  the  still  wa- 
ter or  counter  current  beneath,  and 
thus  still  resist  the  surface  flow. 

The  coast  of  Labrador  has  no  fellow 
for  sternness  and  abruptness  on  the 
earth.  Huge  headlands,  stubborn  cliffs, 
precipitous  hills  rise  suddenly  from  the 
sea,  bold,  harsh,  immitigable,  yet  soft- 
ened by  their  aspect  of  gray  endurance. 
Hacked  and  scored,  tossed,  fissured,  and 
torn,  weather-beaten  and  bleached,  their 
bluntness  becomes  grave,  their  hardness 
pathetic.  About  their  cavemed  bases 
the  billow  thunders  in  perpetual  assault, 
proclaiming  the  purpose  of  the  sea  to 
reclaim  what  it  has  lost  Above,  the 
frost  inserts  its  potent  lever,  and  flings 
down  from  time  to  time  some  bellow- 
ing fragment  to  its  ally  below.  The 
shores,  as  if  to  escape  from  this  war- 
&re,  hurry  down,  and  plunge  to  quiet 
depths  of  ocean,  where  the  surge  nev- 
er heaves,  nor  frost,  even  by  the  deep 
ploughshare  of  its  icebergs,  can  reach. 
It  is,  indeed,  a  terrible  coast,  and  re- 
mains to  represent  that  period  in  Na- 
ture when  her  powers  were  all  Titanic, 
untamed,  —  playing  their  wild  game, 
with  hills  for  toss-coppers  and  seas  for 
soap-bubbles,  or  warring  with  the  ele- 
ments themselves  for  weapons. 

The  harbors  are  very  deep.  In  some 
twenty  that  we  visited  there  was  but  a 
single  exception.    In  fact,  it  is  com- 


i86s.] 


Ice  and  Esquimaux. 


567 


monly  only  in  little  coves  boxed  up  by 
high  walls  of  rock,  where  one  side 
threatens  the  ship's  bowsprit  and  the 
other  her  stern,  that  an  ordinary  cable 
will  reach  bottom.  You  anchor  in  a 
granite  tub,  where  one  hardly  dares  lean 
over  the  rail  for  fear  of  bumping  his 
head  against  the  clif&,  and  see  half 
your  chain  spin  out  before  ground  is 
touched.  Jack  sometimes  wonders,  as 
the  cable  continues  to  rush  through  the 
hawse-hoie,  whether  he  has  not  dropped 
anchor  into  a  hole  through  the  earth, 
and  speculates  upon  the  probability  of 
fishing  up  a  South-Sea  island  when  he 
shall  again  heave  at  the  windlass. 

A  Labrador  summer  has  commonly 
a  brief  season  during  which  the  heat 
seems  to  Englishmen  ''intense,''  and 
even  to  an  American  noticeable.  Captain 
French,  the  old  pilot,  told  me  that  he 
had  been  at  Indian  Harbor  (far  to  the 
north)  when  for  three  weeks  an  awning 
over  the  deck  was  absolutely  necessa- 
ry, and  when  a  fish  left  in  the  sun  an 
hour  would  be  spoiled.  Last  summer, 
however,  was  the  coldest  aac!  rainiest 
known  for  many  years.  Once  the  ther- 
mometer rose  to  73**,  Fahrenheit,  once 
again  to  70°,  but  five  days  in  six  it  did 
not  at  nine  in  the  morning  vary  more 
than  two  or  three  degrees  from  42^,  and 
half  the  time  the  mercury  would  be 
found  precisely  at  this  mark.  The  low- 
est temperature  observed  was  34^.  This 
was  on  the  28th  and  29th  of  July,  when 
we  had  a  furious  snow-storm,  which  last* 
cd  twenty-four  hours,  with  twelve  hours 
of  wild  rain,  sleet,  and  hail  interposed. 
In  consequence  of  this  rain  and  of  the 
constant  melting,  there  remained  on  the 
steep  hillsides  only  three  inches'  depth 
of  snow  when  the  storm  ceased,  though 
in  the  hollows  it  was  foimd  a  foot  deep. 
In  the  deeper  ravines  the  snow  of  win- 
ter lasts  through  the  year,  and  was 
found  by  us  in  the  middle  of  August 

We  were,  however,  treated  to  a  few 
days  which  left  no.  room  for  a  wish : 
for  the  best  day  of  a  Labrador  summer 
is  the  best  day  of  all  summers  what- 
soever. Herodotus  says  that  Ionia  was 
allowed  to  possess  the  finest  climate 
of  all  the  world ;  and  in  Smyrna  I  be- 


lieved him,  for  there  were  May  days 
when  each  breath  seemed  worth  one's 
being  bom  to  enjoy.  But  all  days  yield 
to  those  of  Labrador  when  the  better 
genius-  of  its  climate  prevails.  Then 
one  feels  the  serenity  of  power^  then 
all  his  blood  is  exalted  and  pure,  and 
the  globules  sail  through  his  veins  like 
rich  argosies  before  trade-winds.  Then 
an  irritable  haste  and  a  weak  lassi* 
tude  are  alike  impossible ;  one's  nerves 
are  made  of  a  metal  finer  than  steel, 
and  he  becomes  truly  a  lord  in  Nature^ 

It  was  on  such  a  day  that  we  ran" 
some  fifty  miles  through  a  passage,  re- 
sembling a  river,  between  islands  and 
the  main.  The  wind  blew  warm  and 
vigorous  from  the  land, — sometimes, 
when  it  came  to  us  without  passing  over 
considerable  spaces  of  water,  seeming 
positively  hot,  as  if  it  came  fi'om  an 
oven ;  yet  in  such  an  atmosphere  one 
felt  that  he  could  live  forever,  either  in 
an  oven  or  in  the  case  of  an  icebeig, 
and  wish  only  to  live  there  forever  I 
A  great  fleet  of  schooners  was  pushing 
swiftly  along  this  passage,  on  its  way  to 
fishing-grounds  in  the  North ;  and  as 
we  flew  past  one  and  another,  while  the 
astonished  crews  gathered  at  the  side 
to  stare  at  our  speed,  our  schooner 
seemed  the  very  genius  of  Victory,  and 
our  wishes  to  be  supreme  powers.  I 
have  never  elsewhere  experienced  so 
cool  and  perfect  an  exhilaration, — 
physical  exhilaration,  that  is. 

In  the  early  afternoon  a  dense  haze 
filled  the  sky.  The  sun,  seen  through 
this,  became  a  globe  of  glowing  ruby, 
and  its  glade  on  the  sea  looked  as  if  the 
water  had  been  strown,  almost  enough 
to  conceal  it,  with  a  crystalline  ruby 
dust,  or  with  fine  mineral  spicula  of 
vermilion  bordering  upon  crimson.  The 
peculiarity  of  this  ruddy  dust  was  that 
it  seemed  to  possess  boifyy  and,  while  it 
glowed,  did  not  in  the  smallest  degree 
dazzle,  —  as  if  the  brilliancy  of  each 
ruby  particle  came  from  the  heart  ofWt 
rather  than  from  the  surface.  The 
effect  was  in  truth  indescribable,  and 
I  try  to  suggest  it  with  more  sense  of 
helplessness  than  I  have  felt  hitherto 
in  preparing  these  papers.  It  was  beau- 


568 


Ice  and  Esquimaux. 


[May, 


tiftil  biyond  expression,  —  any  expres- 
sion, at  least,  whicli  is  at  my  command. 

Such  a  spectacle,  I  suppose,  one  might 
chance  to  see  anywhere,  Uiough  the 
chance  certainly  never  occurred  to  me 
before. ,  It  could  scarcely  have  escaped 
me  through  want  of  attention,  for  I 
could  well  believe  myself  a  child  of  the 
sun,  so  deep  an  appeal  to  my  feeling  is 
made  by  effects  of  light  and  color: 
light  before  alL 

But  the  atmosphere  of  Labrador  has 
its  own  secret  of  beauty,  and  charms 
the  e}re  with  aspects  which  one  may  be 
pardoned  for  believing  incomparable  in 
their  way.  The  blue  of  distant  hills 
and  mountains,  when  observed  in  clear 
sunshine,  is  subtile  and  luminous  to  a 
degree  that  surpasses  admiration.  I 
have  seen  the  Camden  Heights  across 
the  waters  of  Penobscot  Bay  when  their 
blue  was  equally  profound ;  for  these 
hiUs^  beheld  over  twenty  miles  or  more 
of  sea,  do  a  wonderful  thing  in  the  way 
of  color,  lifting  themselves  up  there 
through  all  the  long  summer  days,  a 
very  marvel  of  solemn  and  glorious 
beauty.  The  iCgean  Sea  has  a  charm 
of  atmosphere  which  is  wanting  to  Pe- 
nobscot Bay,  but  the  hue  of  its  heights 
cannot  compare  with  that  of  the  Cam- 
den Hills.  Those  of  Labrador,  howev- 
er, maintain  their  supremacy  above  even 
these,— above  alL  They  look  like  frozen 
sky.  Or  one  might  &ncy  that  a  vast  heart 
or  core  of  amethyst  was  deeply  overlaid 
with  colorless  crystal,  and  shone  through 
with  a  softened,  lucent  ray.  Such  trans- 
parency, such  intense  delicacy,  such  re- 
finement of  hue !  Sometimes,  too,  there 
is  seen  in  the  deep  hollows,  between 
the  lofty  billows  of  blue,  a  purple  that 
were  fit  to  clothe  the  royalty  of  immor- 
tal kings,  while  the  blue  itself  is  flecked 
as  it  were  \nth  a  spray  of  white  light, 
which  one  might  guess  to  be  a  pre- 
cipitate of  sunshine. 

This  was  wonderful ;  but  more  won- 
derful and  most  wonderful  was  to  come. 
It  was  given  me  once  and  once  again 
to  look  on  a  vision,  an  enchantment,  a 
miracle  of  all  but  impossible  beauty,  in- 
credible until  seen,  and  even  when  seen 
scarcely  to  be  credited^  save  by  an  act 


of  fbuth.  We  had  sailed  up  a  deep  bay, 
and  cast  anchor  in  a  fine  large  harbor 
of  the  exactest  horseshoe  shape.  It  was 
bordered  immediately  by  a  gentle  ridge' 
some  three  hundred  feet  high,  which 
was  densely  wooded  with  spruce,  fir, 
and  larch.  Beyond  this  ridge,  to  the 
west,  rose  mountainous  hills,  while  to 
the  south,  where  was  the  head  of  the 
harbor,  it  was  overlooked  immediately 
by  a  broad,  noble  mountain.  It  had 
been  one  of  those  white -skied  days, 
when  the  heavens  are  covered  by  a 
uniform  filmy  fleece,  and  the  light  comes 
as  if  it  had  been  filtered  through  milk; 
But  just  before  sunset  this  fleece  was 
rent,  and  a  river  of  sunshine  streamed 
across  the  ridge  at  the  head  of  the  har* 
bor,  leaving  the  mountain  beyond,  and 
the  harbor  itself  with  its  wooded  sides, 
still  in  shadow.  And  where  that  shine 
fell,  the  foliage  changed  fi-om  green  to  a 
glowing,  luminous  red-brown,  expressed 
with  astonishing  force,  —  not  a  trace, 
not  a  hint  of  green  remaining !  Beyond 
it,  the  mountain  preserved  its  whited 
gray ;  nearer,  on  either  side,  the  woods 
stood  out  in  clear  green ;  and  separat- 
ed from  these  by  the  sharpest  line,  rose 
this  ridge  of  enchanted  forest  You 
will  inchne  to  think  that  one  might 
have  seen  through  this  illusion  by  try- 
ing hard  enough.  But  never  were  the 
colors  in  a  paint-pot  more  definite  and 
determined. 

This  was  but  the  beginning.  I  had 
turned  away,  and  was  debating  with  my- 
self whether  some  such  color,  seen  on 
the  Scotch  and  English  hills,  had  not 
given  the  hint  for  those  uniform  browns 
which  Turner  in'  his  youth  copied  fix>m 
his  earlier  masters.  When  I  looked  back, 
the  sunshine  had  flooded  the 'mountain, 
and  was  bathing  it  all  in  the  purest  rose- 
red.  Bathing  it?  No,  the  mountain 
was  solidly  converted,  transformed  to 
that  hue !  The  power,  the  simplicity, 
the  translucent,  shining  depth  of  the 
color  were  all  that*you  can  imagine,  if 
you  make  no  abatements,  and  task  your 
imagination  to  the  utmost  This  rose- 
ate hue  no  rose  in  the  garden  of  Ori- 
ent or  Occident  ever  surpassed.  Small 
spaces  were  seen  where  the  color  be- 


i86s.] 


Ice  and  Esquimaux. 


569 


came  a  pure  ruby,  which  could  not  have 
been  more  lustrous  and  intense,  had  it 
proceeded  from  a  polished  ruby  gem  ten 
rods  in  dimension.  .  Color  could  go  no 
£uther.  Yet  if  the  eye  lost  these  for  a 
moment,  it  was  compelled  somewhat  to 
search  for  them, —  so  p9werful,  so  bril- 
liant was  the  rose  setting  in  which  they 
were  embosomed. 

One  must  remember  how  near  at  hand 
all  this  was,  —  not  more  than  a  mile  or 
two  away.  Rock,  cavern,*dift»^l  the  de- 
tails of  rounded  swell,  rising  'peak,^nd 
long  descending  slope,  could  be  seen 
with  entire  distinctness.  The  moun- 
tain rose  close  upon  us,  broad,  massive, 
real, — but  all  in  this  glorious,  this  'tru- 
ly ineffable  transformation.  \X^^&  not 
distance  that  lent  enchantm^ifl  here.  It 
was  not  lent;  it  was  real  as  rock,  as 
Nature ;  it  confronted,  outfaced,  over- 
whelmed you ;  for,  enchantment  so  im- 
mediate and  on  such  a  scale  of  gran- 
deur and  gorgeousness,  —  who  could 
stand  up  before  it  ?   ' 

In  sailing  out  of  the  bay,  next  day,  we 
saw  this  and  the  neighbor  mountain  un- 
der noon  sunshine.  ( Lat  55**  20'.)  They 
were  the  handsomest  we  saw,  apparent- 
ly composed  in  part  of  some  fine  min- 
eral, perhaps  pure  Labradorite.  In  the 
full  light  of  day  these  spaces  shone  like 
polished  silver.  My  first  impression  was 
that  they  must  be  patches  of  snow,  but 
a  glance  at  real  spots  of  snow  corrected 
me.  These  last,  though  more  distinct- 
ly white,  had  not  the  high,  soft,  silver 
shine  of  the  mineral.  Doubtless  it  was 
these  ^ountain-gems  which,  under  the 
magic  touch  of  sunset  light,  had  the 
evening  before  appeared  like  vast  ru- 
bies, blazing  amidst  the  rose  which  sur- 
rounded them. 

And  this  evening  the  spectacle  of  the 
preceding  one  was  repeated,  though 
more  distantly  and  on  a  larger  scale. 

Ph thought  it  the  finer  of  the  two. 

Far  away  the  mountain  height  towered, 
a  marvel  of  aSrial  blue,  while  broad 
spurs  reaching  out  on  either  side  were 
clothed,  the  one  in  shiny  rose-red,  the 
other  in  ethereal  roseate  tints  super* 
imposed  upon  azure ;  and  farther  away, 
to  the  soatheast,  a  mountain  range  lay 


all  in  solid  carmine  along  the  horizon, 
as  if  the  earth  blushed  at  the  touch  of 
heaven. 

*'  I  invite  and  announce  the  mountains 
which  possess  pure  brightness,  which 
have  much  brightness,  created  by  Maz- 
da, pure,  lords  of  purity."  So  sang  the 
Zarathustrian  priest,  chanting  the  Vis- 
pereds  of  the  A  vesta, — deep -hearted 
child  of  the  world,  himself  now  shining 
on  the  far-away  horizon  of  human  his- 
tory. 

All  the  wildness  and  waste,  all  the 
sternest  desolations  of  the  whole  earth, 
brought  together  to  wed  and  enhance 
each  other,  and  then  relieved  by  splen- 
dor without  equal,  perhaps,  in  the  world, 
—  that  is  Labrador. 

I  have  dreamed  that  it  was  created 
on  this  wise.  Ahriman,  having  long 
been  defeated  in  his  evil  purposes  by 
Ormuzd,  fied  away  secretly  to  a  distant 
part  of  the  world,  and  there  in  silence 
made  a  land  which  should  be  utterly  his 
own.  He  brought  together  every  ele- 
ment of  dread  and  terror, — barrenness, 
brokenness,  dreariness,  fearful  cold, 
blinding  fog,  crushing  ice,  sudden  sav- 
age change.  And  when  it  was  com- 
pleted, he  rejoiced  in  his  heart  and  said^ 
"This  is  perfect Jn  badness,  it  cannot 
be  redeemed,  it  is  wholly  and  forever 
mine,  it  is  mine ! "  Then  Ormuzd, 
lord  of  light,  heard  the  voice  of  that 
accursed  joy,  and,  looking,  beheld  the 
evil  work.  And  he  saw  that  it  could 
not  be  redeemed,  that  it  was  fixed  for- 
ever in  its  evil  state.  Then  he  came 
to  it,  and,  seeking  to  change  nothing, 
uplifted  over  it  a  token  of  immortal, 
unutterable  beauty,  that  even  this  land 
might  bear  witness  to  his  celestial  sov- 
ereignty. 

But  these  waste  lands  have  use  as 
well  as  beauty.  At  Sleupe  Harbor  dwelt 
one  Michael  Cant^,  the  patriarch  of  the 
neighborhood,  if  neighborhood  it  were 
to  be  called,  where  were  only  three 
houses  within  a  space  of  as  many  miles. 
His  years  were  now  threescore  and  ten, 
but  he  was  hale  as  a  pine  forest  and 
sweet  as  maple  sap.  A  French  Cana- 
dian, he  spoke  English,  not  only  like  a! 
native,  but  like  a  well-bred  native, — was 


/ 


S70 


Ice  and  Esquimaux. 


[May, 


not  ignorant  of  thoughts  and  books,  — 
and  altogether  seemed  a  man  superior 
to  most  in  nature,  intelligence,  and  man- 
ners. His  birthplace  was  Quebec,  and 
he  had  formerly  possessed  a  very  con- 
siderable fortune ;  but  losing  this  through 
fraud,  and  finding  himself  desei  ted  by 
^  summer  friends,"  he  had  conceived  a 
disgust  at  polite  society,  and  escaped  to 
these  solitudes.  Here  his  wounds  had 
healed,  and  his  nature  recovered  its 
tone.  His  labors  prospered ;  a  healthy 
and  handsome  fiEimily  grew  up  to  enrich 
his  household ;  and  no  regrets  drew 
him  back  to  the  big  world  he  had  left 
behind.  Nature  preserves  to  herself 
the  right  of  asylum,  no  matter  how  the 
Louis  Napoleon  of  dvilization  may  de- 
mand its  surrender,  —  preserves  a  place 
of  rest  and  refuge  for  the  weary  hearts 
which  are  self- sent  into  spiritual  ex- 
ile. 

It  is  also  to  be  considered  whether 
this  terrible  region  does  not  play  a  most 
serviceable  part  in  the  physical  geogra- 
phy of  the  continent  I  have  not  science 
enough  to  speak  here  with  entire  con- 
fidence; and  yet  I  am  rationally  con- 
vinced Without  the  ice-fields  in  the 
North,  and  the  frigid  current  which 
these  send  down  to  meet  the  tepid  wa- 
ters of  the  Gulf  Streain,  would  not  this 
Idw  and  level  America,  with  its  dry  at- 
mosphere, suffer  fearfully  for  want  of 
r^n  ?  woiild  it  not,  indeed,  be  one  great 
desert?  Could  we  dispense  with  the 
collisions  and  sudden  interchanges  of 
cold  and  hot  currents  of  air  which  are 
due  to  these  causes  ?  Do  we  not  ob- 
tain thus  the  same  effects  which  in  South 
America  are  produced  by  the  snowy 
summits  of  the  Andes  ?  J'he  cold  cur- 
rent meets  the  warm,  chills  its  vapor, 
precipitates  this  in  fiiiitfui  rain.  Our 
northeast  winds  are  the  chief  bringers 
of  rain.  Take  these  away,  and  what 
about  wheat  and  com  ?  Take  away 
Labrador  and  the  Arctic  current,  and 
what  about  northeast  winds  ?  They 
would  still  blow ;  would  they  still  force 
the  warm  air  to  yield  its  vapor  for  the 
benefit  of  our  fields  ?  The  extreme 
changeableness  of  our  climate  is,  I  am 
fiilly  persuaded,  connected  very  closely 


and  indispensably  with  the  fertility  of 
the  continent  Thank  God,  therefore, 
for  Labrador! 


/CHAPTER  VL 


LIFE  ON  BOARD. 


I  HAVE  recounted  above  the  manner 
in  which  the  good  divinity  spoiled  the 
Labrador  triumph  of  the  malign  god. 
To  that  veracious  history  belongs  the 
following  addendum.  The  evil  power 
was  deeply  chagrined  to  be  so  robbed 
of  his  victory.  Rubbing  his  brow  with 
vexation,  he  chanced  to  break  the  skin 
with  his  nails.  The  venom  of  the  viper 
is  poisonous  to  its  own  blood ;  and  in 
like  manner,  the  malignity  of  tlie  demon 
afflicted  his  own  flesh  with  a  festering 
pain.  The  slight  anguish  gave  him  a 
thought  ^'Ha!  now  I  have  it!''  he 
cried ;  "  now  I  will  be  quits  with  him  I " 
He  caused,  accordingly,  a  boggy  moss 
to  grow  in  the  hoUows  of  this  dreary 
land,  and  made  this  to  generate  in  count- 
less multitudes  a  small,  winged,  ven- 
omous fiend,  named  mosquito,  **Ahri- 
man  is  victor,  after  all !  '*  he  shouted,  as 
the  humming  imps  trooped  forth  upon 
the  air. 

I  think  he  was  ! 

Delighted  with  this  success,  the  de- 
mon tried  to  repeat  it  in  other  lands ; 
but  it  fared  with  him  as  with  every 
genius,  good  or  bad,  who  begins  to  re- 
peat himself:  the  imitation  was  but  a 
feeble  copy  of  the  original.  Th^mos- 
quito  of  Labrador  would  spoil  TEden 
itself.  The  imitated  fiend  I  am  indif- 
ferent to,  but  firom  the  original  spare 
me! 

We  were  spared  in  a  degree.  Ormuzd 
turned  the  weapons  of  his  enemy  against 
himself:  rain,  hail,  and  snow  fought  for 
us  against  the  mosquito ;  but  when  fair 
weather  came,  this  pest  came  with  it. 
It  is  clear  that  Dante  was  not  a  man  of 
genius !  Otherwise  he  would  have  put 
the  mosquito  (the  original,  of  course)  in 
his  "  Inferno." 

Ennui  is  always  to  be  sufiered  on  a 
long  voyage.    We  had  it,  enough  of  it| 


i865.] 


Ice  and  Esquimaux. 


571 


and  to  spare,  yet  always  broken  by  days 
of  high  delight. 

During  the  early  part  of  the  voyage, 
wliile  we  were  still  sailing,  or  even  dur- 
ing considerable  detentions  in  harbor, 
there  was  novelty  and  incident  enough 
to  give  the  mind  employment  The 
weather  was  fine ;  the  ftun  shone ;  we 
LVed  on  deck,  in  company  with  sun,  sea, 
sky,  horizon ;  and  the  mere  relief  from 
the  narrowness  of  in-door  life,  the  wide 
fellowship  with  the  elements  in  which 
we  were  established,  sufficed  of  them- 
selves to  invest  our  days  with  an  unfail- 
ing charnu  I  was  peculiarly  happy,  for 
I  love  the  sea.  All  its  ordinary  aspects 
delight  me  in  a  very  deep  and  heartfelt 
way.  These  were  varied  in  the  present 
instance  with  much  that  to  me  was  far 
from  being  ordinary.  Ever  there  was 
some  ascending  shore,  some  towering 
island  or  prodigious  clifi^  some  enticing 
bird,  some  magnificence  of  morning  or 
evening ;  and  besides  all  these  and  a 
hundred  attractions  more,  there  were 
ti>e  beauty  and  terror  of  berg  and  floe- 
field,  the  marvel  of  the  ice.  For  a  time, 
therefore,  all  was  enchantment  If  we 
made  a  harbor,  if  we  left  one,  expecta- 
tion sailed  with  us  ;  we  ^uicied .  new 
scenes,  new  adventures,  —  the  delight 
of  exploration  yet  fierce  in  our  souls. 

But  now  comes  a  change.  The  nov- 
elty wears  away ;  we  get  in  some  degree 
the  gauge  of  the  scenery  and  the  variety 
of  circumstance ;  the  dawdling,  snail- 
foot,  insufferable  creep  of  the  ship  from 
one  fisherman^s  dog's -hole  to  another 
becomes  inexcusable ;  the  weather  con- 
spires against  us ;  the  sportsman  won- 
ders why  he  had  brought  gun  and  fishing- 
rod  ;  even  Science  grows  weary  at  times 
in  its  limited  and  hampered  inspection. 
For  more  than  five  weeks  our  average 
progress  along  the  coast  was  eight  miles 
a  day  I  The  ice  and  the  weather  were 
partly  responsible  for  this  lagging ;  but 
there  were  other  causes,  at  which  I  for- 
bear to  hint  more  definitely.  Suffice  it 
to  say  that  they  were  of  a  kind  that  one 
finds  it  hard  to  be  charmed  with ;  and 
the  Elder  will  here  confide  to  the  read- 
er that  he  was  in  the  end  at  much  vexed 
individual 


Ennui  overtook  us  first  in  Square 
Island  Harbor.  During  our  long  du- 
ress there,  outward  objects  of  interest 
began  to  fail,  and  each  man  was  thrown 
back  in  some  degree  upon  his  own  re- 
sources. 

Now  follows  a  special  development 
of  idiosyncrasy,  and  with  it  of  friction. 
Kept  below  much  of  the  time  by  inclem- 
ent weather,  w^e  are  crowded  and  jum-* 
l^ed  incessantly  together ;  you  jostle 
against  the  shoulders  of  one,  you  rub 
elbows  with  another,  you  clamber  over 
the  knees  of  a  third ;  the  members  of 
the  company  are  thrust  together  more 
closely  than  husband  and  wife  in  the 
narrowest  household,  and  there  is  no 
exhaustless  spousal  love,  no  nameless 
mutual  charm  of  man  and  woman,  to 
relieve  the  sharpness  of  contact  Every 
man's  peculiarities  come  out;  and  as 
there  is  no  space  between  one  and  an- 
other, every  man's  peculiarities  jar  upon 
those  of  his  neighbor.  One  is  rampant 
just  when  another  is  moodily  silent ;  one 
wishes  to  sleep  when  another  must  shout 
or  split 

For  a  while,  however,  these  idiosyn- 
crasies amuse.  We  are  rather  pleased 
with  them  as  a  resource  than  vexed  by 
them  as  an  annoyance.  We  are  as  yet 
full  of  the  sense  of  power ;  we  are  equal 
to  occasion,  and  like  to  feel  our  inde- 
pendence of  outward  support  So  our 
young  people  run  out  into  all  sorts  of 
riotous  fun,  and,  sooth  to  say,  the  older 
do  not  always  refuse  a  helping  hand. 
The  "  Nightingale  Club  "  becomes  a 
*'  Night-Owl  Club " ;  there  are  whis- 
tling choruses,  laughing  choruses,  weep- 
ing, howling,  stamping  choruses,  cho- 
ruses of  huzzas,  of  mock-complaint; 
there  are  burglaries,  spectres,  lampoons, 
and  what  not?  At  last  these  follies 
became  tiresome,  and  every  man  was 
brought  to  the  marrow-bones  of  his 
endurance. 

Now,  then,  impatience,  impatience! 
The  abominable  cooking,  the  dawdling 
progress, — how  was  one  to  endure 
them  ?  Especially  when  we  had  turn- 
ed homeward,  and  were  sluggishly  re- 
peating the  ground  already  traversed* 
did  the  delay  become  almost  insupport- 


572 


Ice  and  Esquimaux. 


[May, 


able.  At  length,  on  the  24th  of  Au- 
gust, we  fairly  said  good-bye  to  Lab- 
rador, and  came  sweeping  southward 
with  the  matchless  speed  of  which  our 
schooner  was  capable  when  she  got 
a  chance.  It  wellnigh  tore  Bradford's 
heart-strings  to  leave  his  icebergs  once 
ard  for  ail  behind ;  for  a  more  fascinated 
human  being  I  believe  there  never  was 
than  this  true  enthusiast  while  on  that 
coast  He  must  paint  the  bergs  with 
rare  power,  must  get  the  very  spirit 
and  suggestion  of  them  on  canvas, 
or  his  soul  will  quit  him,  and  make  off 
north! 

P ^  the  indefatigable,  would  also 

have  gladly  stayed  longer,  I  believe. 
Our  voyage  had  not  extended  so  far  as 
he  desired  to  go,  but  had  been  fruitful 
of  results,  nevertheless.  Besides  mak- 
ing important  observations  upon  the 
action  of  glacial  and  coast  ice,  counting 
upwards  of  seventy-five  raised  beaches, 
obtaining  convincing  indications  of  a 
great  central  table-land,  and  establish- 
ing by  abundant  detail  a  resemblance 
amounting  almost  to  identity  between 
the  insect  Fauna  of  X^brador  and  that 
of  the  summit  of  Mount  Washington, 
he  had  been  able  to  collect  indubitable 
evidence  that  there  exists  a  sub-Arctic 
group  of  marine  animals  inhabiting  the 
shores  of  Labrador  and  Newfoundland. 
This  last  is  aL^esult  of  especial  impor- 
tance, as  this  group,  owing  to  the  want 
of  material,  had  been  overlooked  by 
preceding  naturaUsts.  This  gentleman, 
whose  industry  and  zeal  in  scientific 
research  are  literally  boundless,  and  are 
matched  with  much  penetration,  de- 
signs visiting  the  North  of  Europe  to 
make  comparisons  between  the  land  of 
the  Lapps  and  Finns  and  the  sub- Arctic 
regions  of  America;  and  I  make  no 
doubt  that  American  science  will  ob- 
tain honor  in  his  person. 


The  rest  of  us,  however,  breathed 
fireer  now  that  we  were 

HOMEWARD  BOUND. 

Wide  swells  aloft  the  snowy  sail, 

^ew  life  comes  flowing  on  the  gale. 

Joy  I  joy  1  our  exile  all  is  past  1 

We  're  homewafd  bound,  homeward  at  last  I 

111  fates  are  strong,  but  God  is  stronger  ; 

The  loved  that  wait  shall  wait  no  longer ; 

Our  wake  is  white  with  happy  foam. 

And  blithe  the  skies  to  fan  us  home. 

O  UisB  of  friendship,  bliss  of  heaven  I 
O  heart  of  love,  earth's  angel  leaves  I 
The  speed  of  winds  is  in  your  feet, 
Soon  hands  will  join  and  lips  will  meet 

Now  through  our  land  roll  far  and  wide 
War's  lurid  flame  and  crimson  tide ; 
But  glory  Uushes  through  her  woe, 
And  both  to  share  with  joy  we  go.  - 

Farewell,  grim  North  I    Possess  thy  throne. 
And  reign  amid  thy  bergs  alone ; 
Now  turn  our  hearts  to  truer  poles. 
To  native  shores  and  kindred  souls. 

Ill  fates  are  strong,  but  God  is  stronger ; 

The  loved  that  wait  shall  wait  no  longer  ; 

Our  wake  is  white  with  happy  foam. 

And  blithe  the  skies  to  fan  us  home. 

September  i.— The  Gulf  had  waylaid 
us,  with  a  fierce  storm  in  readiness. 
Our  reckoning  was  wrong ;  we  just  es- 
caped going  ashore  in  the  pitchy  dark- 
ness ;  and,  to  mend  all,  the  ship  took 
fire  I  The  flames  were  soon  quenched, 
but  St  Lawrence  Neptune  kept  trying 
to  put  them  out  for  twelve  hours  after- 
ward ;  and  such  a  drenching  1  But 
here  we  are  between  the  shores  of  No- 
va Scotia  and  Cape  Breton  Isle.  Port 
Mulgrave,  two  miles  away  over  the 
calm  water  and  beneath  the  floods  of 
sunshine,  looks  like  a  little  paradise, 
(painted  white,)  after  all  my  reviling 
it  And  fields,  too! — green  fields  and 
forests  !  Could  one  ever  again  wish 
more  pleasure  than  to  look  on  sward- 
ed fields  and  wooded  hills  ?  Yes,  — 
besides  this,  the  pleasure  of  remember'- 
ing  Labrador ! 


186$.] 


Notes  of  a  Pianist. 


573 


{ 


NOTES    OF    A    PIANIST. 


III. 


NEW  YORK,  February,  1862.— 
One  thing  surprises  me.  It  is  to 
find  New  York,  to  say  the  least  of  it,  as 
brilliant  as  when  I  took  my  departure 
for  the  Antilles  in  1857.  In  general, 
the  press  abroad  relates  the  events  of 
our  war  with  such  a  predetermined  pes- 
simist spirit,  that  at  a  distance  it  is 
impossible  to  form  a  correct  estimate 
of  the  state  of  the  country.  For  the 
last  year  I  have  read  in  the  papers 
statements  to  this  effect :  —  **  The  thea- 
tres are  closed ;  the  terrorism  of  Robes- 
pierre sinks  into  insignificance,  com- 
pared to  the  excesses  of  the  Ameri- 
cans ;  the  streets  of  New  York  are  del- 
uged with  blood  "  (I  very  nearly  had  a 
duel  in  Puerto  Rico  for  venturing  to 
question  the  authenticity  of  this  last 
assertion,  propounded  by  a  Spanish 
officer) ;  ^  in  short,  the  North  is  in  a 
starving  condition." 

"  How  can  you  think  of  giving  con- 
certs to  people  who  are  in  want  of 
bread  ?  "  was  the  remark  of  my  fiiends, 
on  being  apprised  of  my  resolution  to 
return  to  the  United  States ;  and,  in  all 
humility,  I  must  acknowledge  that  the 
same  question  suggested  itself  not  un- 
fi'equently  to  my  mind,  when  I  discussed 
within  me  the  expediency  of  my  voyage. 
I  have  still  in  my  possession  a  news- 
paper in  which  a  correspondent  states 
the  depreciation  of  our  currency  to  be 
such  that  he  actually  saw  a  baker  refuse 
to  take  a  dollar  fi-om  a  famished  laborer 
in  exchange  for  a  loaf  of  bread. 

The  number  of  these  trustworthy  cor- 
respondents has  increased  in  the  direct 
ratio  of  our  prosperity,  the  development 
of  our  resources,  and  the  umbrage  these 
blessings  give  to  the  enemies  of  demo- 
cratic principles.  There  are  very  few 
governments  that  would  not  deem  it  a 
matter  of  duty  to  exult  over  the  ruin 
of  our  republican  edifice.  Fear  actu- 
ates the  less  enlightened ;  jealousy  is 
the  motive  of  the  more  liberaL    A  cel- 


ebrated statesman  once  said  to  me,  ^  A 
republic  is  theoretically  a  very  fine 
thing,  but  it  is  a  Utopia."  Like  the 
man  in  antiquity,  who,  on  hearing  mo- 
tion denied,  refuted  the  assertion  sim- 
ply by  rising  and  walking,  we  had  hith- 
erto put  the  "Utopia"  into  practice; 
and  tlie  thing  did  march  on,  and  proved 
a  reality.  The  argument  was  peremp- 
tory. A  principle  can  be  discussed ;  a 
fact  \h  undeniable.  Although  refracted 
by  the  organs  of  the  foreign  press,  the 
light  of  truth  still  flashed  at  times  upon 
the  people  in  Europe,  and  taught  it  to 
reflect.  When  our  troubles  broke  out, 
I  was  in  Martinique.  In  all  the  Antil- 
les,—  Spanish,  French,  Danish,  Eng- 
lish, Swedish,  Dutch,  —  it  was  but  one  • 
unanimous  cry,  "  Did  not  we  say  so  ?  " 
and  the  truthful  and  independent  cor- 
respondents immediately  embraced  this 
opportunity  to  redouble  their  zeal,  and 
forthwith  began  to  multiply  like  mos- 
quitoes in  a  tropical  swamp  after  a  sum- 
mer shower. 

But  it  is  not  my  province  to  pro- 
nounce upon  lofty  political  and  moral 
questions.  I  would  merely  say  that 
New  York,  for  a  deserted  city,  is  sin- 
gularly animated  ;  that  Broadway  yes- 
terday was  thronged  with  pretty  wom- 
en, who,  famished  as  they  are,  present, 
nevertheless,  the  delusive  appearance 
of  health,  and  brave  with  heroic  indif- 
ference the  bloody  tumults  of  which  our 
streets  are  daily  the  theatre ;  that  Art 
is  not  so  utterly  dead  among  us  but 
that  Maretzek  gives  '*  Un  Ballo  in  Mas- 
chera  "  to  crowded  houses,  and  Church 
sees  his  studio  filled  with  amateurs  de- 
sirous of  admiring  his  magnificent  and 
strange  **  Icebergs,"  which  he  has  just 
finished. 

It  is  difficult  to  account  for  the  ex- 
treme ignorance  of  many  foreigners 
with  regard  to  the  political  and  intel- 
lectual standing  of  the  United  States, 
when  one  considers  the  extent  of  our 


574 


Notes  of  a  Pianist 


[May, 


commerce,    which   covers    the    entire 
world  like  a  vast  net,  or  when  one  views 
the  incessant  tide  of  immigration  which 
thins  the  population  of  Europe  to  our 
profit     A   French   admiral,  Viscount 
Duquesne,  inquired  of  me  at  Havana, 
in  1853,  if  it  were  possible  to  venture 
in  the  vicinity  of  St  Louis  without  ap- 
prehending being  massacred  by  the  In- 
dians.   The  father  of  a  talented  French 
pianist   who   resides    in   this  country 
wrote  a  few  years  since  to  his  son  to 
know  if  the  furrier  business  in  the  city 
of  New  York  was  exclusively  carried 
on  by  Indians.  Her  Imperial  Highness 
the  Grand-Duchess  of  Russia,  on  see- 
ing Bamum's  name  in  an  American 
paper,  requested  me  to  tell  her  if  he 
were  not  one  of  our  prominent  states- 
men.    For  very  many  individuals  in 
Europe,  the   United   States  have  re- 
mained  just   what   they   were   when 
Chateaubriand  wrote  "Les  Natchez," 
and  saw  parrots  (?)  on  the  boughs  of 
the  trees  which  the  majestic  ^^Micha- 
sibi  "  rolled  down  the   current  of  its 
mighty  waters.    All  this  may  seem  im- 
probable, but  I  advance  nothing  that  I 
am  not  fully  prepared  to  prove.    There 
is,  assuredly,  an  intelligent  class  of  peo- 
ple who  read  and  know  the  truth ;  but, 
unfortunately,  it  is  not  the  most  numer^ 
ous,  nor  the  most  inclined  to  render  us 
justice.    Proudhon  himself — that  bold, 
vast  mind,  ever  struggling  for  the  tri- 
umph of  light  and  progress  —  regards 
the  pioneer  of  the  West  merely  as  an 
heroic  outlaw,  and  the  Americans  in 
general  as  half-civilized  savages.   From 
Talleyrand,  who  said,  "  VAmkrique  est 
un  pays  de  cochons  sales  et  de  sales  c<h 
chonsy^  down  to  Zimmermann,  the  di- 
rector of  the  piano-classes  at  the  Con- 
servatory of  Paris,  who,  without  hear- 
ing me,  gave  as  a  reason  for  refusing 
to  receive  me  in  1841,  that  "America 
was  a  country  that  could  produce  noth- 
ing but  steam-engines,''  there  is  scarce- 
ly an  eminent  man  abroad  who  has  not 
made  a  thrust  at  the  Americans.  -»  It 
may  not  be  irrelevant  to  say  here  that 
the  little  Louisianian  who  was  refused 
as  a  pupil  in  1841  was  called  upon  in 
185 1  to  sit  as  a  judge  on  the  same 


bench  with  Zimmermann,  at  the  "  Con- 
cours  "  of  the  Conservatory. 

Unquestionably  there  are  many  blanks 
in  certain  branches  of  our  civilization. 
Our  appreciation  of  the  fine  arts  is  not 
always  as  enlightened,  as  discriminating, 
as  elevated,  as  it  might  be.    We  look 
upon  them  somewhat  as  interlopers,  par- 
asites, occupying  a  place  to  which  they 
have  no  legitimate  right  Our  manners, 
like  the  machinery  of  our  government, 
are  too  new  to  be  smooth  and  polished ; 
they  occasionally  grate.    We  are  more 
prone  to  worship  the  golden  calf,  in  ' 
bowing  down  before  the  favorites  of 
Fortune,  than  disposed  to  kill  the  &tted 
calf  in  honor  of  the  elect  of  thought 
and  mind.    Each  and  every  one  of  us 
thinks  himself  as  good  and  better  than 
any  other  man :  an  invaluable  creed, 
when  it  engenders  self-respect;   but, 
alas  I  when  we  put  it  in  practice,  it  is 
generally  with  a  view  of  pulling  down 
to  our  level  those  whose  level  we  could 
never  hope  to  reach.  Fortunately,  these 
litde  weaknesses  are  not  national  traits. 
They  are  inherent  in  all  new  societies, 
and  will  completely  disappear  when  we 
shall  attain  the  full  development  of  our 
civilization  with  the  maturity  of  age. 

My  impresarios^  Strakosch  and  Gran, 
have  made  the  important  discovery,  that 
my  first  concert  in  New  York,  on  my 
return  from  Europe  in  1853,  took  place 
the  nth  of  February,  and  consequently 
have  decided  to  defer  my  reappearance 
for  a  few  days  in  order  that  it  may  fall 
upon  the  nth  of  February,  1862.  The 
public  (which  takes  not  the  remotest 
interest  in  the  thing)  has  been  duly  in- 
formed of  this  memorable  coincidence 
by  all  the  papers. 

Query  by  some  of  my  friends :  "  Wh^ 
do  you  say  such  and  such  things  in  the 
advertisements  ?  Why  do  you  not  elim- 
inate such  and  such  epithets  fipom  the 
bills?" 

Answer :  Alas  f  are  you  ignorant  of 
the  fact  that  the  artist  is  a  piece  of 
merchandise,  which  the  impresario  has 
purchased,  and  which  he  sets  off  to  the 
best  advantage  according  to  his  own 
taste  and  views?    You  might  as  well 


i86s.] 


Ndtes  of  a  Pianist. 


575 


upbraid  certain  pseudo-gold-mines  for 
declaring  dividends  which  they  will 
never  pay,  as  to  render  the  artist  respon- 
sible for  the  puffs  of  his  managers.  A 
poor  old  negress  becomes,  in  the  hands 
of  the  Jupiter  of  the  Museum,  the  nurse 
of  Washington;  after  that,  can  you 
marvel  at  the  magniloquent  titles  cou- 
pled with  my  name  ? 

The  artist  is  like  the  stock  which  is 
to  be  quoted  at  the  board  and  thrown 
upon  the  market  The  impresario  and 
his  agents,  the  broker  and  his  clique, 
cry  out  that  it  is  '^  excellent,  superb, 
unparalleled,  —  the  shares  are  being 
carried  off  as  by  magic,  —  there  remain 
but  very  few  reserved  seats."  (The 
house  will  perhaps  be  futt  of  dead-heads, 
and  th&  broker  may  be  meditating  a 
timely  failure.)  Nevertheless,  the  pub- 
lic rushes  in,  and  the  money  follows  a 
similar  course.  If  the  stock  be  really 
good,  the  founders  of  the  enterprise  be- 
come millionnaires.  I  f  the  artist  has  tal- 
ent, the  impresario  occasionally  makes 
his  (the  impresario^ s)  fortune.  In  case 
both  stock  and  artist  prove  bad,  they 
£dl  below  par  and  vanish  after  having 
made  (quite  innocently)  a'^rtain  num- 
ber of  victims.  Now,  in  all  sincerity, 
of  the  two  humbugs,  do  you  not  prefer 
that  of  thfc  impresario  t  At  all  events, 
it  is  less  expensive. 

I  heard  Brignoli  yesterday  evening  in 
*«  Martha."  The  favorite  tenor  has  still 
his  charming  voice,  and  has  retained, 
despite  the  progress  of  an  embonpoint 
that  giv^s  him  some  uneasiness,  the 
aristocratic  elegance  which,  added  to 
his  fine  hair  and  ^  beautiful  throat,"  has 
made  him  so  successful  with  the  &ir 
sex.  Brignoli,  notwithstanding  the  de- 
fects his  detractors  love  to  heap  upon 
him,  is  an  artist  I  sincerely  admire. 
The  reverse  of  vocalists,  who,  I  am 
sorry  to  say,  are  for  the  most  part  vul- 
gar ignoramuses,  he  is  a  thorough  mu- 
sician, and  perfectly  qualified  to  judge 
a  musical  work.  His  enemies  would 
be  surprised  to  learn  that  he  knows  by 
heart  Hummers  Concerto  in  A  minor. 
He  learned  it  as  a  child  when  he  con* 
templated  becoming  a  pianist,  and  still 


plays  it  charmingly.  Brignoli  knows 
how  to  sing,  and,  were  it  not  for  the  ex- 
cessive fear  that  paralyzes  all  his  facul- 
ties before  an  audience,  he  would  rank 
among  the  best  singers  of  the  day. 

I  met  Brignoli  for  the  first  time  at 
Paris  in  1849.  ^^  was  then  very  young, 
and  had  just  jmade  his  dibut  at  the 
Theatre  ItalienJ  in  "  L»  Elisire  d'  Amo- 
re,"  under  the  sentimental  patronage 
of  Mme.  R.,  wife  of  the  celebrated  bary- 
tone. In  those  days  Brignoli  was  very 
thin,  very  awkward,  and  his  timidity  was 
rendered  more  apparent  by  the  prox- 
imity of  his  protectress.  Mme.  R.  was 
an  Italian  of  commanding  stature,  im- 
passioned and  jealous.  She  sang  badly, 
although  possessed  of  a  fine  voice,  which 
she  was  less  skilful  in  showing  to  ad- 
vantage than  in  displaying  the  luxuriant 
splendor  of  her  raven  hair.  The  pub- 
lic, initiated  into  the  secret  of  the  green- 
room, used  to  be  intensely  amused  at 
the  piteous  attitudes  of  Nemorino  Bri- 
gnoli, contrasting,  as  they  did,  with  the 
ardent  pantomime  of  Adina  R.,  who 
looked  by  his  side  like  a  wounded  lion- 
ess. Poor  woman !  What  has  been 
your  fate  ?  The  glossy  tresses  of  which 
you  were  so  proud  in  your  scenes  of 
insanity,  those  tresses  that  brought 
down  the  house  when  your  talent  might 
have  failed  to  do  so,  are  now  frosted 
with  the  snow  of  years.  Your  husband 
has  forsaken  you.  After  a  long  career 
of  success,  he  has  buried  his  fame  un- 
der the  orange-groves  of  the  Alhambra. 
There  he  directs,  according  to  his  own 
statement,  (but  I  can  scarce  credit  it,) 
the  phantom  of  a  Conservatory  for 
singing.  I  am  convinced  he  has  too 
much  taste  to  break  in  upon  the  poet- 
ical silence  of  the  old  Moorish  palace 
with  portamenti,  trills,  and  scales,  and 
I  flatter  myself  that  the  plaintive  song 
of  the  nightingales  of  the  Generalife 
and  the  soft  murmur  of  the  Fountain 
of  the  Lions  are  the  only  concerts  that 
echo  gives  to  the  breeze  that  gently 
sighs  at  night  fi'om  the  mountains  of 
the  Sierra  Nevada.  Alas  !  poor  woman', 
your  locks  are  silvered,  and  Brignoli  — 
has  grown  fat!  *^Sie  transit  gioria 
mundi!^^ 


576 


Diplaincuy  of  the  Revolution. 


[May, 


DIPLOMACY  OF  THE  REVOLUTION. 


WHEN  a  European  speaks  about 
the  Araerican  Revolution,  he 
speaks  of  it  as  the  work  of  Washington 
and  Franklin.  These  two  names  em- 
body for  his  mind  all  the  phases  of  the 
contest,  and  explain  its  result  The 
military  genius  of  Washington,  going 
hand  in  hand  with  the  civil  genius  of 
Franklin,  fills  the  foreground  of  his  pic- 
ture. He  has  heard  of  other  names, 
and  may  remember  some  of  them  ;  but 
.  these  are  the  only  ones  which  have 
taken  their  place  in  his  memory  at  the 
side  of  the  great  names  of  European 
history. 

In  part  this  is  owing  to  the  impor- 
tance which  all  Europeans  attach  to  the 
French  alliance  as  one  of  the  chief 
causes  of  our  success.  For  then,  as 
now,  France  held  a  place  among  the 
great  powers  of  the  world  which  gave 
importance  to  all  her  movements.  With 
direct  access  to  two  of  the  principal 
theatres  of  European  strife  and  easy 
access  to  the  third,  she  never  raised 
her  arm  without  drawing  immediate 
attention.  If  less  powerful  than  Eng- 
land on  the  ocean,  she  was  more  pow- 
erful there  than  any  other  nation ;  and 
even  England's  superiority  was  often, 
and  sometimes  successfully,  contested 
The  adoption  by  such  a  power  of  the 
cause  of  a  people  so  obscure  as  the 
people  of  the  "Thirteen  Colonies" 
then  w^ere  was,  in  the  opinion  of  Eu- 
ropean statesmen,  decisive  of  its  suc- 
cess. The  fact  of  our  actual  pov- 
erty was  known  to  all ;  few,  if  any, 
knew  that  we  possessed  exhaustless 
sources  of  wealth.  Our  weakness  was 
on  the  surface,  palpable,  manifest,  forc- 
ing itself  upon  attention  ;  our  strength 
lay  out  of  sight,  in  rich  veins  which 
none  but  eyes  familiar  with  their  secret 
windings  could  trace.  Thus  the  French 
alliance,  as  the  European  interpreted  it, 
was  the  alliance  of  wealth  with  pov- 
erty, of  strength  with  weakness,  — 
a  magnanimous  recognition  of  efforts 
which  without  that  recognition  would 


have  been  vain.  What,  then,  must 
have  been  the  persuasive  powers,  the 
commanding  genius,  of.  the  man  who 
procured  that  recognition ! 

Partly,  also,  this  opinion  is  owing  to 
the  personal  character  and  personal  po- 
sition of  Franklin.  Franklin  was  pre- 
eminently a  wise  man,  wise  in  the  spec- 
ulative science  and  wise  in  the  practical 
art  of  life.  Something  of  the  maturity 
of  age  seems  to  have  tempered  the  live- 
liest sallies  of  his  youth,  and  much  of 
the  vivacity  of  youth  mingles  with  the 
sober  wisdom  of  his  age.  Thoughtful 
and  self-controlling  at  twenty,  at  seven- 
ty his  ripe  experience  was  warmed  by 
a  genial  glow.  He  entered  upon  life 
with  the  feeling  that  he  had  a  part  to 
perform,  and  the  conviction  that  his  hap- 
piness would  depend  upon  his  perform- 
ing it  well  What  that  part  was  to  be 
was  his  earliest  study ;  and  a  social 
temperament,  combining  with  a  sound 
judgment,  quickly  taught  him  that  the 
happiness  of  the  individual  is  insepa- 
rably connected  with  the  happiness  of 
the  species.  Thus  life  became  his  study 
as  a  condition  of  happiness ;  man  and 
Nature,  as  the  means  of  obtaining  it 
He  sought  to  control  his  passions  as  he 
sought  to  control  the  lightning,  that  he 
might  strip  them  of  their  power  to  harm. 
Sagacious  in  the  study  of  causes,  he  was 
still  more  sagacious  in  tracing  their  con- 
nection with  effects ;  and  his  specula- 
tions often  lose  somewhat  of  their 
grandeur  by  the  simple  and  unpretend- 
ing directness  with  which  he  adapts 
them  to  the  common  understanding  and 
makes  them  minister  to  the  common 
wants  of  life.  The  ambition  which 
quickened  his  early  exertions  met  an 
early  reward.  He  was  ambitious  to 
write  well,  and  he  became  one  of  the 
best  writers  in  our  language.  He  was 
ambitious  of  knowledge,  and  he  laid  it 
up  in  such  stores  that  men  sought  his 
conversation  in  order  to  learn  from  him. 
He  was  ambitious  of  pecuniary  inde- 
pendence, and  he  accumulated  a  fortune 


I86S.] 


Diflcmaey  <^  th*  Reoobttiom. 


577 


that  made  him  master  of  his  time  and 
actions.  He  was  ambitioas  of  inflnence, 
and  he  obtained  a  rare  control  over  the 
thoughts  and  the  passions  of  men.  He 
was  ambitious  of  fkme,  and  he  connected 
his  name  with  the  boldest  and  grandest 
discovery  of  his  age. 

Living  thus  in  harmony  with  himself, 
he  enjoyed  the  rare  privilege  of  living 
in  equal  harmony  with  the  common 
mind  and  the  advanced  mind  of  his 
contemporaries.  He  entered  into  every- 
day wants  and  feelings  as  if  he  had 
never  looked  beyond  them,  and  thus 
made  himself  the  counsellor  of  the  peo-. 
pie.  He  appreciated  the  higher  wants 
and  nobler  aspirations  of  our  nature, 
and  thus  became  the  companion  and 
friend  of  the  philosopher.  His  interest 
in  the  present — and  it  was  a  deep  and 
active  interest  —  did  not  prevent  him 
from  looking  forward  with  kindling  sym- 
pathies to  the  future.  Like  the  diligent 
husbandman  of  whom  Cicero  tells  us, 
he  could  plant  trees  without  expecting 
to  see  their  fruit  If  he  detected  folly 
with  a  keen  eye,  he  did  not  revile  it 
with  a  bitter  heart  Human  weakness, 
in  his  estimate  of  life,  formed  an  insepa- 
rable part  of  human  nature,  the  extremes 
of  virtue  often  becoming  the  starting- 
points  of  vice,  —  better  treated,  all  of 
them,  by  playful  ridicule  than  by  stem 
reproo£  He  might  never  have  gone 
with  Howard  in  search  of  abuses,  but 
he  would  have  drawn  such  pictures  of 
those  near  home  as  would  have  made 
some  laugh  and  some  blush  and  all 
unite  heartily  in  doing  away  with  them. 
With  nothing  of  the  ascetic,  he  could 
impose  self-denial  and  bear  it  Like 
Erasmus,  he  may  not  have  aspired  to 
become  a' martyr,  —  but  in  those  long 
voyages  and  journeys,  which,  in  his  in- 
firm old  age,  he  undertook  in  his  coun- 
try's service,  there  was  much  of  the 
sublimest  spirit  of  martyrdom.  His 
philosophy,  a  philosophy  of  observation 
and  induction,  had  taught  hiro  caution 
in  the  formation  of  opinions,  and  can- 
dor in  his  judgments.  With  distinct 
ideas  upon  most  subjects,  he  was  never 
so  wedded  to  his  own  views  as  to  think 
that  all  who  did  not  see  things  as  he 

VOL.  XV. — NO.  91.  37 


did  must  be  wilfully  blind  His  justly 
tempered  Acuities  lost  none  of  their  se- 
rene activity  or  gentie  philanthropy  by 
age.  Hamilton  himself,  at  thirty,  did 
not  labor  with  more  earnestness  in 
the  formation  of  the  Constitution  than 
Franklin  at  eighty-one ;  and  as  if  in 
solemn  record  of  his  own  interpretation 
of  it,  his  last  public  act,  with  eternity  frill 
-  in  view,  was  to  head  a  memorial  to  Con- 
gress for  the  abolition  of  the  slave-trade. 

That  such  a  man  should  produce  a 
strong  impression  upon  the  excitable 
mind  of  France  must  be  evident  to  ev- 
ery one  who  knows  how  excitable  that 
mind  is.  But  to  understand  his  public 
ais  ?rell  as  his  personal  position,  not  so 
much  at  the  Frendi  Court  as  at  the  court 
oi  French  opinion,  we  must  go  back  a 
dozen  years  and  see  what  that  opinion 
had  been  since  the  Peace  of  1763. 

The  Treaty  of  Paris,  like  all  treaties 
between  equ^s  founded  upon  the  tem- 
*  porary  superiority  of  one  over  tlK  oth- 
er, had  deeply  wounded,  not  the  vanity 
only,  but  the  pride  of  France.  Hum- 
bled in  the  eyes  of  her  rival,  humbled 
in  the  eyes  of  Europe,  she  was  still  more 
profoundly  humbled  in  her  own  eyes. 
It  was  a  barbed  and  venomous  arrow, 
haughtily  left  to  rankle  in  the  wound. 
For  highminded  Frenchmen,  it  was 
henceforth  the  wisdom  as  well  as  the 
duty  of  France  to  prepare  the  means 
and  hasten  the  hour  of  revenge.  It  was 
then  that  the  eyes  of  French  statesmen 
were  first  opened  to  the  true  position  of 
the  American  Colonies.  It  was  then 
that  they  first  saw  how  much  the  pros- 
perity of  the  parent  state  depended 
upon  the  sure  and  constant  flow  of 
wealth  and  strength  from  this  exhaust-- 
less  source.  Then,  too,  they  first  saw, 
that,  in  obedience  to  the  same  law  by 
which  they  had  grown  into  strength, 
these  Colonies,  in  due  time,  must  grow 
into  independence ;  and  in  this  inde- 
pendence, in  this  severing  of  ties  which 
they  foresaw  English  pride  would  cling 
to  long  after  English  avidity  had  stripped 
them  of  their  natural  strength,  there  was 
the  prospect  of  full  and  sweet  revenge. 

Scarce  a  twelvemonth  had  passed 
from  the  signing  of  the  Treaty  of  Paris, 


1 


578 


Diploma<y  of  the  RevoluHan^ 


IMay. 


when  the  first  French  emissary,  an  offi- 
cer of  the  French  navy,  was  sdready  at 
his  work  in  the  Colonies.  Passing  to 
and  fro,  travelling  here  and  there,  mov- 
ing from  place  to  place  as  any  common 
traveller  might  have  done,  his'  eyes  and 
his  ears  were  ever  open,  his  note-book 
was  ever  in  his  hand,  and,  without  awak- 
ening the  suspicions  of  England,  the  first 
steps  in  a  work  to  which  the  Duke  of 
Choiseul  looked  forward  as  the  crown- 
ing glory  of  his  administration  were 
wisely  and  surely  taken.  They  were 
prompdy  followed  up.  The  French  Am- 
bassador in  England  established  rela- 
tions with  Colonial  agents  in  London 
which  enabled  him  to  follow  the  pro- 
gress of  the  growing  discontent  and  an- 
ticipate the  questions  which  must  soon 
be  brought  forward  for  decision.  Frank- 
lin's examination  before  the  House  of 
Commons  became  the  text  of  an  elabo- 
rate despatch,  harmonizing  with  the  re- 
port oi  his  secret  agent,  and  opening  a 
prospect  which  even  the  weary  eyes  of 
Louis  XV.  could  not  look  upon  without 
some  return  of  the  spirit  that  had  won 
for  his  youth  the  long  forfeited  tide  of 
the  Well-Beloved.  \X  was  not  the  first 
time  tliat  the  name  of  the  great  philos- 
opher had  been  heard  in  the  council- 
chamber  of  Versailles.  But  among  the 
secret  agents  of  France  we  now  meet 
for  the  first  time  the  name  of  De  Kalb, 
a  name  consecrated  in  American  histo- 
ry by  the  life  that  he  laid  down  for  us 
on  the  fatal  field  of  Camden.  Scarce  a 
step  was  taken  by  the  English  Ministry 
that  was  not  instanUy  communicated 
by  the  Ambassador  in  London  to  the 
French  Minister  at  Versailles,  with  spec- 
uladons,  always  ingenious,  often  pro- 
found, upon  its  probable  results.  Scarce 
a  step  was  taken  in  the  Colonies  with- 
out attracting  the  instant  attention  of 
the  French  agent  Never  were  events 
more  closely  studied  or  their  character 
better  understood.  When  troops  were 
sent  to  Boston,  the  English  Ministry 
was  not  without  serious  apprehensions 
of  resistance.  But  when  the  tidings  of 
their  peaceful  landing  came,  while  the 
English  were  exulting  in  their  success, 
the  French  Ambassador  rejoiced  that 


the  wisdom  of  the  Cdaoial  leaders  had 
withheld  them  from  a  form  of  opposi- 
tion for  which  they  were  not  yet  ready. 
The  English  Ministry  was  preparing  to 
enter  upon  a  system  of  coercion  at  the 
point  of  the  bayonet.  "  If  the  Colonists 
submit  under  the  pressure,"  said  Choi- 
seul, '*  it  will  only  be  in  appearance  and 
for  a  short  time.'' 

Meanwhile  his  active  brain  was  teem- 
ing with  projects;  the  letters  of  his 
agents  were  teeming  with  suggestions. 
France  counsels  caution,  dreads  the 
effects  of  hasty  measures ;  for  the  Col- 
onists have  not  yet  learned  to  look  up- 
on France  as  a  fiiend,  and  premature 
action  might  serve  only  to  bind  them 
more  firmly  to  England.  Du  Ch&telet 
proposes  that  France  and  Spain,  sacri- 
ficing their  old  colonial  system,  should 
open  their  colonial  ports  to  the  products 
of  the  English  Colonies, — thus  inflicting 
a  fatal  blow  upon  England's  commerce, 
*  while  they  supplant  her  in  the  affections 
of  the  Colonists.  A  clerk  in  the  De- 
partment of  Commerce  goes  still  far- 
ther, advocating  a  full  emancipation  of 
the  French  Colonies,  both  to  throw  off  a 
useless  burden  and  to  increase  the  ir- 
ritation of  the  English  Colonies  b/  the 
spectacle  of  an  independence  which 
they  were  not  permitted  to  share. 

There  is  nothing  in  history  more  hu- 
miliating than  to  see  on  what  small  hin- 
ges great  events  sometimes  turn.  Of 
all  the  disgraceful  intrigues  of  a  palace 
filled  with  intrigues  from  the  day  of  its 
foundation,  there  is  none  half  so  dis- 
graceful as  the  overthrow  of  the  Duke 
of  Choiseul  in  1770.  And  yet,  vile  as  it 
was  both  by  its  motive  and  by  its  agents, 
it  marks  an  important  point  in  the  pro- 
gress of  American  independence.  A 
bow  more,  a  sarcasm  less,  might  have 
confirmed  the  power  of  a  man  whose 
deep-rooted  hatred  of  England  was  £ast 
hastening  to  its  natural  termination,  an 
open  rupture ;  and  a  prematiu'e  rupture 
would  have  brought  the  Colonists  into 
the  field,  either  as  the  subjects  of  Eng- 
land or  as  the  allies  of  France. .  To  se- 
cure the  dependence  of  the  Colonies, 
England  would  have  been  compelled  to 
make  large  concessions  ;   and  timely 


1865.] 


Diplomacy  of  the  Revolution, 


579 


concessions  might  have  put  off  the  day 
of  separation  for  another  century.  To 
secure  the  alliance  of  the  Colonies, 
France  would  have  been  compelled  to 
take  upon  herself  the  burden  of  the 
war ;  a  French  general  might  have  led 
our  armies ;  French  gold  might  have 
paid  our  troops ;  we  might  have  been 
spared  the  sufferings  of  Valley  Forge, 
the  humiliation  of  bankruptcy;  but 
where  would  have  been  the  wise  dis- 
cipline of  adversity  ?  and  if  great  ex- 
amples be  as  essential  to  the  formation 
of  national  as  of  individual  character, 
what  would  the  name  of  independence 
have  been  to  us,  without  the  example 
of  our  Washington? 

French  diplomacy  had  little  to  do 
with  the  American  events  of  the  next 
five  years.  England,  unconscious  how 
near  she  had  been  to  a  new  war  with 
her  old  enemy,  held  blindly  on  in  her 
course  of  irritation  and  oppression ;  the 
Colonies  continued  to  advance  by  sure 
steps  from  resistance  by  votes  and  re- 
solves to  resistance  by  the  sword. 
When  Louis  XVI.  ascended  the  throne 
in  1774,  and  Vergennes  received  the 
portfolio  of  Foreign  Affairs,  domestic  in- 
terests pressed  too  hard  upon  them  to 
allow  of  their  resuming  at  once  the  vast 
plans  of  the  fallen  minister.  Unlike 
that  minister,  Vergennes,  a  diplomatist 
by  profession,  prefem^d  watching  and 
waiting  events  to  hastening  or  antici- 
pating them.  But  to  watch  and  wait 
events  like  those  which  were  then  pass- 
ing in  the  Colonies  without  being  drawn 
into  the  vortex  was  beyond  the  power 
of  even  his  well-trained  and  sagacious 
mind.  In  1775,  ^  French  emissary  was 
again  taking  the  measure  of  Ameri- 
can perseverance,  French  ambassadors 
were  again  bringing  forward  American 
questions  as  the  most  important  ques- 
tions of  their  correspondence.  That 
expression  which  has  been  put  into  so 
many  mouths  as  a  summing  up  of  the 
value  of  a  victory  was  applied  in  sub- 
stance by  Vergennes  to  the  Battle  of 
Bunker  Hill,  —  •*  Two  more  victories  of 
this  kind,  and  the  English  will  have  no 
army  left  in  America.*' 

And  while  thus  tempted  by  this  proof 


of  American  strength,  his  wavering  mind 
was  irritated  by  the  apprehension  of 
some  sudden  outbreak  of  English  ar- 
rogance ;  for  the  Ambassador  wrote 
that  Whigs  and  Tories  might  yet  unite 
in  a  war  against  France  in  order  to  put 
an  end  to  the  troubles  in  the  Colonies, 
— and  no  Frenchman  had  forgotten  that 
£ngland  began  the  War  of  1755  ^X  ^^ 
open  violation  of  international  law,  by 
seizing  three  hundred  French  merchant 
ships  and  casting  into  prison  ten  thou- 
sand Fretich  sailors  before  the  declara- 
tion of  hostilities.  Thus  events  pre- 
pared the  way  for  American  diplomacy, 
and,  more  powerful  than  the  prudence 
of  Vergennes  or  the  pacific  longings  of 
Louis  XVI.,  compelled  them  to  decide' 
and  act,  when  they  would  still  gladly 
have  discussed  and  waited. 

And,  moreover,  a  new  element  had 
been  introduced  into  the  councils  of 
.  statesmen, — or  rather,  an  element  hith- 
erto circumscribed  and  resisted  had  be- 
gun to  act  with  irresistible  force.  Pub- 
lic opinion,  speaking  through  the  press 
by  eloquent  pens,  through  coffee-houses 
and  saloons  by  eloquent  voices,  called 
loudly  for  action  in* the  name  of  human- 
ity and  in  the  still  more  exciting  name 
of  French  honor.  Litde  as  most  French- 
men knew  about  America,  they  knew 
enough  about  England  to  believe  that 
in  her  disputes  with  other  nations  she 
was  apt  to  be  in  the  wrong, — and  if  with 
other  nations,  why  not  with  her  own 
colonies  ?  The  longing  for  revenge, 
which  ever  since  the  Treaty  of  Paris 
filled  some  comer  of  every  French 
heart,  grew  stronger  at  the  near  ap- 
proach of  so  abundant  a  harvest ;  nor 
did  it  lose  any  of  its  sweetness  from 
the  reflection  that  their  enemy  himself 
was  doing  what  they  never  could  have 
done  alone  to  prepare  it  for  them. 

But  humanity,  too,  was  a  powerful 
word.  Men  could  not  read  Rousseau 
without  being  led  to  think  more  earnest- 
ly, if  not  always  more  profoundly,  upon 
the  laws  of  social  organization.  They 
could  not  read  Voltaire  without  a  clear- 
er perception  of  abuses  and  a  more  vig- 
orous contempt  for  the  systems  which 
had  put  the  many  into  the  hands  of  the 


S8o 


DipJomacy  of  tfu  RevoUUMt. 


[May, 


few  to  be  butchered  or  butchers  at  theSr 
will  They  could  not  read  Montesquieu 
without  feeling  that  there  was  a  future 
in  store  for  them  for  which  the  long 
past  had  been  patiently  laboring,  and 
longing,  as  they  read,  to  hasten  its  com- 
ing. In  that  future,  mankind*  were  to 
rise  higher  than  they  had  ever  risen  be- 
fore ;  rulers  and  ruled  were  to  act  in 
fruitful  harmony  for  their  common  good ; 
the  brightest  virtues  of  Greece,  the  pur- 
est virtues  of  Rome,  were  to  revive  in 
some  new  form  of  society,  not  very 
definitely  conceived  by  the  understand- 
ing, but  which  floated  in  magnificent 
visions  before  the  glowing  imagination, 

I  hasten  reluctantly  over  this  part  of 
my  subject ;  for  the  formation  of  public 
opinion  in  France  and  its  action  upon 
Government,  even  while  all  the  forms 
of  an  almost  absolute  monarchy  were 
preserved,  is  an  important  chapter  in 
the  history  of  European  civilization. 
But  hasten  I  must,  merely  calling  at- 
tention to  the  existence  of  this  element, 
and  reminding  my  reader,  that,  chrono- 
logically, of  the  two  parts  which  com- 
posed this  opinion,  hatred  for  England 
had  been  at  work  ever  since  1763,  while 
sympathy  with  the  Colonists  was  rather 
an  individual  than  a  public  feeling  till 
late  in  1776. 

It  was  at  Versailles,  and  not  at  Paris, 
that  action  began.  Vergennes*s  first  step 
was  to  send  another  agent,  no  longer 
mierely  to  observe  and  report,  but  to  as- 
certain, though  without  compromising 
the  French  Government,  how  far  the 
Americans  were  prepared  for  French 
intervention.  English  suspicions  were 
already  awakened.  Already  the  Eng- 
lish Minister  had  informed  the  French 
Ambassador,  upon  the  authority  of  a 
private  letter  of  General  Lee  to  General 
Burgoyne,  that  the  Americans  were  sure 
of  French  aid.  It  was  not  without  great 
difficulty  that  the  new  agent,  De  Bon- 
vouloir,  could  find  a  safe  conveyance. 
But  by  December  he  was  already  in 
Philadelphia,  and,  though  still  pretend- 
ing to  be  a  mere  traveller,  soon  in  full 
communication  with  the  Committee  of 
Secret  Correspondence. 

The  appointment  of  this  committee, 


(m  the  29th  of  November,  1775,  '^  ^c 
beginning  of  the  history  of  our  foreign 
relations.  Then  began  our  attempts  to 
gain  admission  into  the  great  family  of 
nations  as  an  independent  power, — at- 
tempts not  always  judiciously  directed, 
attended  in  some  instances  with  disap- 
pointment and  mortification,  but  crown- 
ed at  last  with  as  full  a  measi«re  of 
success  as  those  who  understood  mon- 
archy and  Europe  could  have  antici- 
pated. Two  of  its  members,  Franklin 
and  Dickinson,  were  already  known 
abroad,  where,  at  a  later  day,  Jay  also 
was  to  make  himself  an  enduring  name. 
The  other  two,  Johnson  and  Harrison, 
enjoyed  and  merited  a  high  Colonial 
reputation. 

There  can  be  but  littie  doubt  that 
Franklin*s  keen  eye  quickly  penetrated 
the  veil  under  M^hich  De  Bonvouloir  at- 
tempted to  conceal  his  real  character. 
It  was  not  the  first  time  that  he  had 
been  brought  into  contact  with  French 
diplomacy,  nor  the  first  proof  he  had 
seen  that  France  was  watching  the  con- 
test in  the  hope  of  abasing  the  power 
of  her  rival.  While  agent  in  London 
for  four  Colonies,  —  a  true  ambassador, 
if  to  watch  events,  study  character,  give 
timely  warning  and  wise  counsel  be  the 
office  of  an  ambassador,  —  he  had  lived 
on  a  friendly  footing  iivith  the  French 
legation,  and  pro$ted  by  it  to  give  them 
correct  views  of  the  character  and  feel- 
ings of  the  Colonies.  And  now,  re- 
ducing the  question  to  these  simple 
heads,  he  asked, — 

^^  How  is  France  disposed  towards 
us  ?  If  favorably,  what  assurance  will 
she  give  us  of  it  ? 

"  Can  we  have  from  France  two  good 
engineers,  and  how  shall  we  apply  for 
tiiem? 

*'  Can  we  have,  by  direct  communica- 
tion, arms  and  munitions  of  war,  and 
fi^e  entrance  and  exit  for  our  vessels 
in  French  port5  ?  " 

But  whatever  reliance  they  may  have 
placed  on  the  French  emissary,  the 
Committee  were  unwilling  to  confine 
themselves  to  this  as  the  only  means 
of  opening  communication  with  Euro- 
pean powers.     During  a  visit  to  Hoi- 


i865.] 


Diplomacy  of  the  Revolution, 


581 


land,  Franklin  had  formed  the  acquaint- 
ance of  a  Swiss  gentleman  of  the  name 
of  Dumas,  —  a  man  of  great  learning 
and  liberal  sentiments,  and  whose  socisd 
position  gave  him  access  to  sure  sources 
of  information.  To  him  he  now  ad- 
dressed himself  with  the  great  question 
of  the  moment :  —  "  If  we  throw  off  our 
depeildence  upon  Great  Britain,  will  any 
court  enter  into  alliance  with  us  and  aid 
lis  for  the  sake  of  our  commerce  ?  " 

Such,  then,  was  the  starting-point  of 
our  diplomatic  history,  the  end  and  aim 
of  all  our  negotiations :  alliance  and  aid 
for  the  sake  of  our  commerce. 

But  we  should  greatly  mistake  the 
character  of  the  times,  if  we  supposed 
that  this  point  was  reached  without 
many  and  warm  debates.  When  the 
question  was  first  started  in  Congress, 
that  body  was  found  t^  be  as  much  di- 
vided upon  this  as  upon  any  of  the  oth- 
er subjects  which  it  was  called  upon  to 
discuss.  With  Franklin,  one  party  held, 
that,  instead  of  asking  for  treaties  with 
European  powers,  we  should  first  con- 
quer our  independence,  when  those  pow- 
ers, allured  by  our  commerce,  would 
come  and  ask  us ;  the  other,  with  John 
Adams,  that,  as  our  true  policy  and  a 
mark  of  respect  from  a  new  nation  to 
old  ones,  we  ought  to  send  ministers  to 
all  the  great  courts  of  Europe,  in  order 
to  obtain  the  recognition  of  our  inde- 
pendence and  form  treaties  of  amity  and 
commerce.  Franklin,  who  had  already 
outlived  six  treaties  of  "  firm  and  last- 
ing peace,"  and  now  saw  the  seventh 
swiftly  approaching  its  end,  might  well 
doubt  the  efficacy  of  those  acts  to  which 
•  his  young  and  impetuous  colleague  at- 
tached so  much  importance.  But  in 
Congress  the  majority  was  with  Adams, 
and  for  a  while  tlsere  was  what  Gouver* 
neur  Morris  called  a  rage  for  treaties. 

The  Committee  of  Secret  Correspond- 
ence, as  I  have  already  said,  was  form- 
ed in  November,  1775.  One  of  its  first 
measures  was  to  appoint  agents,  —  Ar- 
thur Lee  for  London,  Dumas  for  the 
Hague,  and,  early  in  the  following  year, 
Silas  Deane  for  France.  Lee  immedi- 
ately opened  relations  with  the  French 
Court  by  means  of  the  French  Ambas* 


sador  in  London;  and  Deane,  on  his 
arrival  in  France  in  June,  followed  them 
up  with  great  intelligence  and  zeal.  A 
million  of  livres  was  placed  by  Vergennes 
in  the  hands  of  Beaumarchais,  who  as- 
sumed the  name  of  Hortalez  &  Co.,  and 
arranged  with  Deane  the  measures  for 
transmitting  the  amount  to  America  in 
the  shape  of  arms  and  supplies. 

And  now  the  Declaration  of  Inde- 
pendence came  to  add  the  question  of 
recognition  to  the  question  of  aid.  But 
recognition  was  a  declaration  of  war, 
and  to  bring  the  French  Government  to 
this  decisive  pass  required  the  highest  di- 
plomatic skill  supported  by  dignity  and 
weight  of  character.  The  Colonies  had 
but  one  man  possessed  of  these  quali- 
fications, and  that  man  was  Franklin. 

The  history  of  diplomacy,  with  its 
long  record  of  solemn  entrances  and 
brilliant  processions,  its  dazzling  pic- 
tures of  thrones  and  courts,  which  make 
the  head  dizzy  and  the  heart  sick,  has 
no  scene  half  so  grand  as  the  entrance 
of  this  unattended,  unushered  old  man 
into  France,  in  December,  1776.  No 
one  knew  of  his  coming  until  he  stood 
among  them ;  and  then,  as  they  looked 
upon  his  serene,  yet  grave  and  thought- 
ful ^e,  —  upon  his  g^y  hairs,  which 
carried  memory  back  to  the  fatal  year 
of  Ramillies  and  the  waning  glories  of 
the  great  Louis,  —  on  the  right  hand 
which  .had  written  words  of  persuasive 
wisdom  for  prince  and  peasant,  which 
had  drawn  the  lightning  firom  its  home 
in  the  heavens,  and  was  now  stretched 
forth  with  such  an  imperial  grasp  to 
strip  a  sceptre  they  all  hated  of  its  rich- 
est jewel, — a  feeling  of  reverential  awe 
came  over  them,  and  they  bowed  them- 
selves before  him  as  in  the  secret  depths 
of  their  hearts  they  had  never  bowed  to 
emperor  or  king.  ''He  is  at  Nantes, 
he  is  on  the  road,"  was  whispered  from 
mouth  to  mouth  in  the  saloons  of  the 
capital,  as  his  landing  became  known. 
Some  asserted  confidently  that  he  had 
already  reached  Paris,  others  that  he 
might  be  hourly  expected.  Then  came 
the  certainty :  he  had  slept  at  Versailles 
•the  night  of  the  aist,  had  come  to  P^uris 
at  two  the  next  afternoon,  and  now  wa« 


582 


Diplomacy  of  the  Revolution. 


[May, 


at  his>  Icxigings  in  the  Rue  de  TUniver- 
sit^. 

No  one,  perhaps,  was  more  surprised 
than  Franklin  to  find  himself  the  object 
of  such  universal  attention.  But  no 
one  knew  better  than  he  how  to  turn 
it  to  account  for  the  accomplishment  of 
his  purpose.  In  a  few  days  he  with- 
drew to  the  quiet  little  village  of  Passy, 
at  easy  distance  both  from  the  city  and 
the  court,  —  and,  without  endeavoring 
to  increase  the  public  curiosity  by  an  air 
of  mystery  or  seclusion,  kept  himself 
sufficiently  in  the  background  to  pre- 
vent that  curiosity  from  losing  its  stim- 
ulant by  too  great  a  familiarity  with  its 
object  Where  men  of  science  met  for 
the  discussion  of  a  new  theory  or  the 
trial  of  a  new  experiment,  he  was  to  be 
seen  amongst  them  with  an  unpretend- 
ing air  of  intelligent  interest,  and  wise 
suggestions,  never  indiso'eetly  proffer- 
ed, never  indiscreetly  withheld.  Where 
humane  men  met  to  discuss  some  ques- 
tion of  practical  benevolence,  or  philos* 
ophers  to  debate  some  principle  of  social 
organization,  he  was  always  prepared  to 
take  his  part  with  apt  and  £u'-reaching 
illustrations  from  the  stores  of  his  med- 
itation and  experience.  Sometimes  he 
was  to  be  seen  in  places  of  amusement, 
and  always  with  a  genial  smile,  as  if  in 
his  s}'mpathy  with  the  enjoyment  of  oth- 
ers he  had  forgotten  his  own  perplexi- 
ties and  cares.  In  a  short  time  he  had 
drawn  around  him  the  best  minds  of 
the  capital,  and  Uud  his  skilful  hand  on 
the  public  pulse  with  an  unerring  accu- 
racy of  touch,  which  told  him  when  to 
sp^dc  and  when  to  be  silent,  when  to 
urge  and  when  to  leave  events  to  their 
natural  progress.  Evor  active,  ever  vigi^ 
lant,  no  opportunity  was  suffered  to  es- 
cape him,  and  yet  no  one  whose  good- 
will it  was  desirable  to  propitiate  was 
disgusted  by  injudicious  importunity. 
Even  Veigennes,  who  knew  that  his 
coming  was  the  signal  of  a  new  favor 
to  be  asked,  found  in  his  way  of  asking 
it  such  a  cheerful  recognition  of  its  true 
character,  so  considerate  an  exposition 
of  the  necessities  which  made  it  urgent, 
that  he  never  saw  him  come  without* 
pleasure.    If  he  had  been  a  vain  nuuif 


he  would  have  enjoyed  his  portion  too 
much  to  make  good  use  of  it  for  the 
cause  he  came  to  serve.     If  he  had 
been  a  weak  man,  he  would  have  fallen 
under  the  control  of  the  opinion  which 
it  was  his  office  to  guide.   If  be  had  m^ 
possessed  a  pure  and  genuine  sympathy 
with  human  nature,  he  would  not  have 
been  able,  at  the  age  of  seventy,  to  enter 
into  the  feelings  of  a  people  so  different 
from  those  among  whom  he  had  always 
lived.    And  if  he  had  not  been  stimu- 
lated by  earnest  convictions,  and  gov- 
erned by  high  principles,  he  would  not 
have  been  able  to  withstand  the  fre- 
quent and  insidious  attempts  that  were 
made  to  shake  his  fortitude  and  under- 
mine his  fidelity.     But  in  him,  as  in 
Washington,  there  was  a  rare  predom- 
inance of  that  sound  common -sense 
which  is-  man's  #urest  guide  in  his  rela- 
tions with  events,  and  that  firm  belief 
in  the  progress  of  humanity  which  is  his 
best  reliance  in  his  relations  with  men. 
Congress  had  given  him  two  asso- 
ciates in  his  commission  to  France,  — 
Silas  Deane  of  Connecticut,  and  Arthur 
Lee  of  Virginia.     Deane  had  been  a 
member  of  Congress,  was  active,  enter- 
prising, and  industrious ;  but  his  judg- 
ment was  not  sound,  his  knowledge  of 
men  not  extensive,  his  acquaintance  with 
great  interests  and  his  experience  of 
great  af&irs  insufficient  for  die  impor- 
tant position  in  which  he  was  placed, 
Lee  had  lived  long  in  England,  was  an 
accomplished  scholar,  a  good  writer,  £»- 
miliar  with  the  character  of  European 
statesmen  and  the  pc^dcs  of  European 
courts, — but  vain,  jealous,  irritable,  sus- 
picious, ambitious  of  the  first  honors, 
and  disposed  to  look  upon  every  one 
who  attracted  more  attention  than  him- 
self  as  his  natural  enemy.   Deane,  deep- 
ly impressed  with  the  importance  of 
Franklin's  social  position  for  the  fulfil- 
ment of  their  common  duties,  although 
energetic  and  active,  cheerfully  yielded 
the  precedence  to  his  more  experienced 
colleague.    Lee,  conscious  of  his  own 
accomplishments,  regarded  the  defer- 
ence paid  to  Franklin  as  an  insult  to 
himself^  and  promptiy  resumed  in  Paris 
the  war  of  petty  intrigue  and  secret 


186$.] 


D^lomacy  of  the  Revolution. 


583 


accusaticm  which  a  few  years  before 
he  had  waged  agaiiut  him  in  England 
In  this  vile  course  Congress  soon  un- 
wittingly gave  him  a  worthy  coadjutor, 
by  appointing,  as  Commissioner  to  Tus- 
cany, Ralph  Izaurd  of  South  Carolina, 
who,  without  rendering  a  single  service, 
without  even  going  near  the  court  to 
which  he  was  accredited,  continued  for 
two  years  to  draw  his  salary  and  abuse 
Dr.  Franklin. 

When  Franklin  reached  Paris,  he 
Ibund  that  Deane  had  already  made 
himself  a  respectable  position,  and  that^ 
through  Caron  de  Beaumarchais,  the 
brilliant  author  of  "  Figaro,''  the  French 
Government  had  begun  that  system  of 
pecuniary  aid  which  it  continued  to  ren- 
der through  the  whole  course  of  the  war. 
Vergennes  granted  the  Commissioners 
an  early  interview,  listened  respectfully 
to  their  statements,  asked  them  for  a 
memorial  to  lay  before  the  King,  as- 
sured them  of  the  personal  protection 
of  the  French  Court,  promised  them  ev- 
ery commercial  facility  not  incompatible 
with  treaty  obligations  with  Great  Brit- 
ain, and  advised  them  to  seek  an  in- 
terview with  the  Spanish  Ambassador. 
The  memorial  was  promptly  drawn  up 
and  presented.  A  copy  of  it  was  given 
to  the  Spanish  Ambassador  to  lay  be- 
fore the  Court  of  Madrid.  Negotiations 
were  £urly  opened. 

But  Franklin  soon  became  convinced 
that  the  French  Government  had  marked 
out  for  itself  a  line  of  policy,  from  which, 
as  it  was  founded  upon  a  just  apprecia- 
tion of  its  own  interests,  it  would  not 
swerve,  —  that  it  wished  the  Americans 
success,  was  prepared  to  give  them  se- 
cret aid  in  arms  and  money  and  by  a 
partial  opening  of  its  ports,  —  but  that  it 
was  compelled  by  the  obligations  of  the 
Family  Compact  to  time  its  own  move- 
ments in  a  certain  measure  by  those  of 
Spain,  and  was  not  prepared  to  involve 
itself  in  a  war  with  England  by  an  open 
acknowledgment  of  the  independence 
of  the  Colonies,  until  they  had  given 
fuller  proof  of  the  earnestness  of  their 
Intentions  and  of  their  ability  to  bear 
their  part  in  the  contest  Nor  was 
he  long  in  perceiving  that  the  French 


Government  was  giving  the  Colonies 
money  which  it  sorely  needed  for  paying 
its  own  debts  and  defraying  its  own  ex- 
penses, —  and  thus,  that,  however  well- 
disposed  it  might  be,  there  were  cer- 
tain limits  beyond  which  it  was  not  in 
its  power  to  go.  It  was  evident,  there- 
fore, to  his  just  and  sagacious  mind^ 
that  to  accept  the  actual  policy  of  France 
as  the  gauge  of  a  more  open  avowal  un- 
der more  favorable  circumstances,  and 
to  recognize  the  limits  which  her  finan- 
cial embarrassments  set  to  her  pecuni- 
ary grants,  was  the  only  course  that  he 
could  pursue  without  incurring  the  dan- 
ger of  defeating  his  own  negotiations 
by  excess  of  zeal.  Meanwhile  there 
was  enough  to  do  in  strengthening  the 
ground  already  gained,  in  counteracting 
the  insidious  efforts  of  English  emis- 
saries, in  correcting  erroneous  impres- 
sions, in  awakening  just  expectations* 
in  keeping  up  that  public  interest  which 
had  so  large  a  part  in  the  formation  of 
public  opinion,  and  in  so  regulating  the 
action  of  that  opinion  as  to  make  it  bear 
with  a  firm  and  consistent  and  not  im« 
welcome  pressure  upon  the  action  of 
Government  And  in  doing  this  he  had 
to  contend  not  only  with  the  local  dif- 
ficulties of  his  position,  but  with  the 
difficulty  of  uncertain  communications : 
months  often  intervening  between  the 
sending  of  a  despatch  and  the  receiv- 
ing of  an  answer,  and  affording  news- 
mongers abundant  opportunities  for  idle 
reports  and  unfounded  conjectures,  and 
enemies  ample  scope  for  malicious  false- 
hoods. 

It  was  a  happy  circumstance  for  the 
new  state,  that  her  chief  representative 
was  a  man  who  knew  how  to  wait  with 
dignity  and  when  to  act  with  energy ; 
for  it  was  this  just  appreciation  of  cir- 
cumstances that  gave  him  such  a  strong 

«  hold  upon  the  mind  of  Vergennes,  and 
imparted  such  weight  to  aU  his  applicar 
tions  for  aid.  No  sooner  had  Congress 
begun  to  receive  money  from  Europe 
than  it  began  to  draw  bills  upon  its 
agents  there,  and  often  without  any  cer- 
tainty that  those  agents  would  be  in 

.  a  condition  to  meet  them.  Bills  were 
drawn  on  Mr.  Jay  when  he  was  sent  to 


574 


Notes  of  a  Pianist. 


[May, 


commerce,    which   covers    the    entire 
world  like  a  vast  net,  or  when  one  views 
the  incessant  tide  of  immigration  which 
thins  the  population  of  Europe  to  our 
profit     A   French   admiral,  Viscount 
Duquesne,  inquired  of  me  at  Havana, 
in  1853,  if  it  were  possible  to  venture 
in  the  vicinity  of  St  Louis  without  ap- 
prehending being  massacred  by  the  In- 
dians.   The  feither  of  a  talented  French 
pianist  who   resides    in   this  country 
wrote  a  few  years  since  to  his  son  to 
know  if  the  furrier  business  in  the  city 
of  New  York  was  exclusively  carried 
on  by  Indians.  Her  Imperial  Highness 
the  Grand- Duchess  of  Russia,  on  see- 
ing Bamum's  name  in  an  American 
paper,  requested  me  to  tell  her  if  he 
were  not  one  of  our  prominent  states- 
men.    For  very  many  individuals  in 
Europe,  the  United   States  have  re- 
mained   just   what   they   were   when 
Chiteaubriand  wrote  "Les  Natchez," 
and  saw  parrots  (?)  on  the  boughs  of 
the  trees  which  the  majestic  ^^  Mhcha- 
sibi  "  rolled  down  the   current  of  its 
mighty  waters.    All  this  may  seem  im- 
probable, but  I  advance  nothing  that  I 
am  not  fully  prepared  to  prove.    There 
is,  assuredly,  an  intelligent  class  of  peo- 
ple who  read  and  know  the  truth ;  but, 
unfortunately,  it  is  not  the  most  numer-r 
ous,  nor  the  most  inclined  to  render  us 
justice.    Proudhon  himself — that  bold, 
vast  mind,  ever  struggling  for  the  tri- 
umph of  light  and  progress  —  regards 
the  pioneer  of  the  West  merely  as  an 
heroic  outlaw,  and  the  Americans  in 
general  as  half-civilized  savages.   From 
Talleyrand,  who  said,  "  VAmirique  est 
un  pays  de  cochons  sales  et  de  sates  cO" 
chonsy^  down  to  Zimmermann,  the  di- 
rector of  the  piano-classes  at  the  Con- 
servatory of  Paris,  who,  without  hear- 
ing me,  gave  as  a  reason  for  refusing 
to  receive  me  in  1841,  that  *' America 
was  a  country  that  could  produce  noth- 
ing but  steam-engines,"  there  is  scarce- 
ly an  eminent  man  abroad  who  has  not 
made  a  thrust  at  the  Americans.  —  It 
may  not  be  irrelevant  to  say  here  that 
the  little  Louisianian  who  was  refused 
as  a  pupil  in  1841  was  called  upon  in 
185 1  to  sit  as  a  judge  on  the  same 


bench  with  Zimmermann,  at  the  *'  Qm^ 
caurs  "  of  the  Conservatory. 

Unquestionably  there  are  many  blanks 
in  certain  branches  of  our  civilization. 
Our  appreciation  of  the  fine  arts  is  not 
always  as  enlightened,  as  discriminating, 
as  elevated,  as  it  might  be.  We  look 
upon  them  somewhat  as  interlopers,  par- 
asites, occupying  a  place  to  which  they 
have  no  legitimate  right  Our  manners, 
like  the  machinery  of  our  government, 
are  too  new  to  be  smooth  and  polished ; 
they  occasionally  grate.  We  are  more 
prone  to  worship  the  golden  calf,  in 
bowing  down  beifbre  the  favorites  of 
Fortune,  than  disposed  to  kill  the  £itted 
calf  in  honor  of  the  elect  of  thought 
and  mind.  Each  and  every  one  of  us 
thinks  himself  as  good  and  better  than 
any  other  man :  an  invaluable  creed, 
when  it  engenders  self-respect ;  but, 
alas  !  when  we  put  it  in  practice,  it  is 
generally  with  a  view  of  pulling  down 
to  our  level  those  whose  level  we  could 
never  hope  to  reach.  Fortunately,  these 
little  weaJoiesses  are  not  national  traits* 
They  are  inherent  in  all  new  societies, 
and  will  completely  disappear  when  w9 
shall  attain  the  full  development  of  our 
civilization  with  the  maturity  of  age. 

My  impresarios,  Strakosch  and  Gran, 
have  made  the  important  discovery,  that 
my  first  concert  in  New  York,  on  my 
return  from  Europe  in  1853,  took  place 
the  nth  of  February,  and  consequently 
have  decided  to  defer  my  reappearance 
for  a  few  days  in  order  that  it  may  fall 
upon  the  11^  of  February,  1862.  The 
public  (which  takes  not  the  remotest 
interest  in  the  thing )  has  been  duly  in- 
formed of  this  memorable  coincidence 
by  all  the  papers. 

Query  by  some  of  my  friends :  "  Why 
do  you  say  such  and  such  things  in  the 
advertisements  ?  Why  do  you  not  elim- 
inate such  and  such  epithets  firom  the 
bUls  ?  " 

Answer :  Alas  \  are  you  ignorant  of 
the  fact  that  the  artist  is  a  piece  of 
merchandise,  which  the  impresario  has 
purchased,  and  which  he  sets  off  to  the 
best  advantage  according  to  his  own 
taste  and  views?    You  might  as  well 


i86s.] 


Notes  of  a  Pianist. 


575 


upbraid  certain  pseudo-gold-mines  for 
declaring  dividends  which  they  will 
never  pay,  as  to  render  the  artist  respon- 
sible for  the  pufis  of  his  managers.  A 
poor  old  negress  becomes,  in  the  hands 
of  the  Jupiter  of  the  Museum,  the  nurse 
of  Washington;  after  that,  can  you 
marvel  at  the  magniloquent  titles  cou* 
pled  with  my  name  ? 

The  artist  is  like  the  stock  which  is 
to  be  quoted  at  the  board  and  thrown 
upon  the  market  The  impresario  and 
his  agents,  the  broker  and  his  clique, 
cry  out  that  it  is  "excellent,  superb, 
unparalleled,  —  the  shares  are  being 
carried  off  as  by  magic,  —  there  remain 
but  very  few  reserved  seats.**  (The 
house  will  perhaps  be  full  of  dead-heads, 
and  th&  broker  may  be  meditating  a 
timely  failure.)  Nevertheless,  the  pub- 
lic rushes  in,  and  the  money  follows  a 
similar  course.  If  the  stock  be  really 
good,  the  founders  of  the  enterprise  be- 
come millionnaires.  If  the  artist  has  tal- 
ent, the  impresario  occasionally  makes 
his  (the  iffipresario's)  fortune.  In  case 
both  stock  and  artist  prove  bad,  they 
fa\\  below  par  and  vanish  after  having 
made  (quite  innocently)  a'^rtain  num- 
ber of  victims.  Now,  in  all  sincerity, 
of  the  two  humbugs,  do  you  not  prefer 
that  of  the  impresario  f  At  all  events, 
it  is  less  expensive. 

I  heard  Brignoli  yesterday  evening  in 
"  Martha."  The  favorite  tenor  has  still 
his  charming  voice,  and  has  retained, 
despite  the  progress  of  an  embonpoint 
that  gives  him  some  uneasiness,  the 
aristocratic  elegance  which,  added  to 
his  fine  hair  and  "  beautiful  throat,"  has 
made  him  so  successful  with  the  &ir 
sex.  Brignoli,  notwithstanding  the  de- 
fects his  detractors  love  to  heap  upon 
him,  is  an  artist  I  sincerely  admire. 
The  reverse  of  vocalists,  who,  I  am 
sorry  to  say,  are  for  the  most  part  vul- 
gar ignoramuses,  he  is  a  thorough  mu- 
sician, and  perfectly  qualified  to  judge 
a  musical  work.  His  enemies  would 
be  surprised  to  learn  that  he  knows  by 
heart  HummeFs  Concerto  in  A  minor. 
He  learned  it  as  a  child  when  he  con- 
templated becoming  a  pianist,  and  still 


plays  it  charmingly.  Brignoli  knows 
how  to  sing,  and,  were  it  not  for  the  ex- 
cessive fear  that  paralyzes  all  his  facul- 
ties before  an  audience,  he  would  rank 
among  the  best  singers  of  the  day. 

I  met  Brignoli  for  the  first  time  at 
Paris  in  1849.  He  was  then  very  young, 
and  had  just  .made  his  delmt  at  the 
Theatre  Italien,  in  "  L'  EUsire  d'  Amo- 
re,"  under  the  sentimental  patronage 
of  Mme.  R.,  wife  of  the  celebrated  bary- 
tone. In  those  days  Brignoli  was  very 
thin,  very  awkward,  and  his  timidity  was 
rendered  more  apparent  by  the  prox- 
imity of  his  protectress.  Mme.  R.  was 
an  Italian  of  commanding  stature,  im- 
passioned and  jealous.  She  sang  badly, 
although  possessed  of  a  fine  voice,  which 
she  was  less  skilful  in  showing  to  ad« 
vantage  than  in  displaying  the  luxuriant 
splendor  of  her  raven  hair.  The  pub- 
lic, initiated  into  the  secret  of  the  green- 
room, used  to  be  intensely  amused  at 
the  piteous  attitudes  of  Nemorino  Bri- 
gnoli, contrasting,  as  they  did,  with  the 
ardent  pantomime  of  Adina  R.,  who 
looked  by  his  side  like  a  wounded  lion- 
ess. Poor  woman  \  What  has  been 
your  fate  ?  The  glossy  tresses  of  which 
you  were  so  proud  in  your  scenes  of 
insanity,  those  tresses  that  brought 
down  the  house  when  your  talent  might 
have  failed  to  do  so,  are  now  frosted 
with  the  snow  of  years.  Your  husband 
has  forsaken  you.  After  a  long  career 
of  success,  he  has  buried  his  fame  un- 
der the  orange-groves  of  the  Alhambra. 
There  he  directs,  according  to  his  own 
statement,  (but  I  can  scarce  credit  it,) 
the  phantom  of  a  Conservatory  for 
singing.  I  am  convinced  he  has  too 
much  taste  to  break  in  upon  the  poet- 
ical silence  of  the  old  Moorish  palace 
with  portamenti,  trills,  and  scales,  and 
I  flatter  myself  that  the  plaintive  song 
of  the  nightingales  of  the  Generalife 
and  the  soft  murmur  of  the  Fountain 
of  the  Lions  are  the  only  concerts  that 
echo  gives  to  the  breeze  that  gently 
sighs  at  night  from  the  mountains  of 
the  Sierra  Nevada.  Alas  !  poor  woman, 
your  locks  are  silvered,  and  Brignoli  — 
has  grown  fat !  *^  Sic  transit  gloria 
mundi/^^ 


586 


Diplomacy  of  the  Revolution. 


[May, 


and,  backed  by  the  brilKant  success  of 
the  campaign  of  1781,  and  the  votes  of 
the  House  of  Coinmons  in  favor  of  rec- 
onciliation, succeeded  in  obtaining  a 
public  recognition  in  the  spring  of  1782, 
and  concluding  a  treaty  in  the  autumn. 

All  these  things  were  more  or  less 
upon  the  sur&ce,  —  done  and  doing 
more  or  less  openly.  But  under  the 
surfece  the  while,  and  known  only  to 
those  directly  concerned  therein,  were 
covert  attempts  on  the  part  of  England 
to  open  communications  with  Franklin 
by  means  of  personal  friends.  There 
had  been  nothing  but  the  recognition  of 
our  independence  that  England  would 
not  have  given  to  prevent  the  alliance 
with  France  ;  and  now  there  was  noth- 
ing that  she  was  not  ready  to  do  to 
prevent  it  from  accomplishing  its  pur- 
pose. And  it  adds  wonderfully  to  our 
conception  of  Franklin  to  think  of  him 
as  going  about  with  this  knowledge,  in 
addition  to  the  knowledge  of  so  much 
else,  in  his  mind,  —  this  care,  in  addi- 
tion to  so  many  other  cares,  ever  weigh- 
ing upon  his  heart.  Little  did  jealous, 
intriguing  Lee  know  of  these  things ; 
petulant,  waspish  Izard  still  less.  A 
mind  less  sagacious  than  Franklin's 
might  have  grown  suspicious  under 
the  influences  that  were  employed  to 
awaken  his  distrust  of  Vergennes.  And 
a  character  less  firmly  established  would 
have  lost  its  hold  upon  Vergennes  amid 
the  constant  efforts  that  were  made  to 
shake  his  confidence  in  the  gratitude 
and  good  faith  of  America.  But  Frank- 
lin, who  believed  that  timely  faith  was 
a  part  of  wisdom,  went  directly  to  the 
French  Minister  with  the  propositions 
of  the  English  emissaries,  and  frankly 
telling  him  all  about  them,  and  taking 
counsel  of  him  as  to  the  manner  of 
meeting  them,  not  only  stripped  them 
of  their  power  to  harm  him,  but  con- 
verted the  very  measures  which  his  en- 
emies had  so  insidiously,  and,  as  th^ 
deemed,  so  skilfully  prepared  for  his 
ruin,  into  new  sources  of  strength. 

Of  the  proffers  of  mediation  in  which 
first  Spain  and  then  Russia  and  the 
German  Emperor  were  to  take  so  im- 
portant a  part,  as  they  bore  no  fruit, 


it  is  sufficient  to  observe,  in  passing, 
how  little  Eiuropean  statesmen  under- 
stood the  business  in  which  they  were 
so  ready  to  intermeddle,  and  what  a 
curious  spectacle  Catharine  and  Kau- 
nitz  present,  seeking  to  usher  into  the 
congress  of  kings  the  first  true  repr^ 
sentative  of  that  great  principle  of  pop- 
ular sovereignty  which  was  to  make  all 
their  thrones  totter  and  tremble  under 
them.  It  may  be  aidded,  that  they  fur- 
nished that  self-dependence  of  John 
Adams  which  too  oftin  degenerated  in- 
to arrogance  an  occasion  to  manifest 
itself  in  a  nobler  light ;  for  he  refused 
to  take  part  in  the  discussions  in  any 
other  character  than  as  the  representa- 
tive of  an  independent  power. 

Meanwhile  events  were  hastening 
the  inevitable  termination*  In  Europe, 
England  stood  alone,  without  either 
open  or  secret  sympathy.  In  June, 
1779,  a  war  with  Spain  had  followed 
the  French  war  of  1778.  In  July,  1780, 
the  ''armed  neutrality"  had  defined 
the  position  of  the  Northern  powers 
adversely  to  her  maritime  pretensions. 
War  was  declared  with  Holland  in  De- 
cember of  the  same  year.  In  America, 
the  campaign  of  1781  had  stripped  her 
of  her  Southern  conquests,  and  efiisu:ed 
the  impression  of  her  early  victories. 
At  home  her  people  were  daily  growipg 
more* and  more  resdess  under  the  press- 
ure of  taxation ;  and  even  the  country 
gentlemen,  who  had  stood  by  the  Min- 
istry so  long  in  the  hope  of  transferring 
their  own  burden  to  the  shoulders  of 
their  American  brethren,  began  to  give 
evident  tokens  of  discontent  It  was 
clear  that  En^and  must  consent  to 
peace.  And  yet  she  still  stood  bravely 
up,  presenting  a  bold  front  to  each  new 
enemy :  a  grand  spectacle  in  one  light, 
for  there  is  always  something  grand  in 
indomitable  courage  ;  but  a  sad  one  in 
the  true  lig^t,  and  one  from  which  a 
hundred  years  hence  the  philosophic 
historian  will  turn  with  a  shudder,  when, 
summing  up  all  these  events,  and  ask- 
ing what  all  this  blood  was  shed  for,  he 
shows  that  the  only  principle  at  stake 
on  her  part  was  that  pernicious  claim  to 
control  the  industry  of  the  world,  which, 


i86s.] 


Diphmacy  of  the  RtvobitioH. 


587 


had  she  succeeded,  would  have  dried 
np  the  sources  of  prosperity  in  Ameri-' 
ca,  as  it  is  fast  drying  them  up  in  Ire* 
land  and  in  India.* 

Nor  was  peace  less  necessary  to  her 
rival.  The  social  revolution  which  the 
two  last  reigns  had  rendered  inevitable 
was  moving  with  gigantic  strides  to- 
wards its^loody  consummation.  The 
last  well-founded  hope  of  reforms  that 
should  probe  deep  enough  to  anticipate 
revolution  had  disappeared  with  Turgot 
The  statesmanship  of  Vergennes  had 
no  remedy  for  social  disease.  It  was  a 
statesmanship  of  alliances  and  treaties 
and  wars,  traditional  and  sometimes 
brilliant^*  but  all  on  the  surface,  leav- 
ing the  wounded  heart  untouched,  the 
sore  spirit  unconsoled.  The  financial 
skill  of  Necker  could  not  reach  the  evil. 
It  was  mere  banking  skilly  and  nothing 
more, --very  respectable  in  its  time  and 
place,  filling  a  few  mouths  more  with 
bread,  but  failing  to  see,  although  told 
of  it  long  ago  by  one  who  never  erred, 
that  ^  man  does  not  live  by  bread  alone." 
The  finances  were  in  hopeless  disorder. 
The  resources  of  the  country  were  al- 
most exhausted.  Public  fiaiith  had  been 
strained  to  the  utmost  National  for- 
bearance had  been  put  to  humiliating 
tests  under  the  Isist  reign  by  the  par- 
tition of  Poland  and  the  Peace  of  Kai- 
nardji ;  and  the  sense  of  self-respect 
had  not  been  fully  restored  by  the  Amer- 
ican War.  And  although  no  one  yet 
dreamed  of  what  seven  swift  years  were 
to  bring  forth,  all  minds  were  agitated 
by  a  mysterious  conscimisness  of  the 
approaching  tempest 

In  1782  the  overtures  of  England 
began  to  assume  a  more  definite  form. 
Franklin  saw  that  the  time  for  decisive 
action  was  at  hand,  and  prepared  him- 
self for  it  with  his  wonted  calm  and  de- 
liberate appreciation  of  circumstances. 
That  France  was  sincere  he  could  not 
doubt,  after  all  the  proofs  she  had  given 
of  her  sincerity ;  nor  could  he  doubt 
that  she  would  concur  heartily  in  pre- 

*  I  oumoC  deny  myself  the  pleasure  of  referHnf 
in  ihtt  coonectioa  to  Mr.  Carey's  admimble  expo> 
ittton  of  this  lact  in  his  "Principles  of  Political 
Science.** 


paring  the  way  for  a  lasting  peace.  He 
had  the  instructions  of  Congress  to 
guide  him  in  what  America  woukl  claim ; 
and  his  own  mind  was  quickly  made  up 
as  to  what  England  must  yield.  Four 
points  were  indispensable :  a  full  recog- 
nition of  independence ;  an  immediate 
withdrawal  of  her  troops ;  a  just  set* 
tlement  of  boundaries, — those  of  Can- 
ada being  confined,  at  least,  to  the  limits 
of  the  Act  of  1774 ;  and  the  freedom  of 
the  fisheries.  Without  these  there  could 
be  no  treaty.  But  to  make  the  work 
of  peace  sure,  he  suggested,  as  equally 
useful  to  bot^  parties,  four  other  con- 
cessions, the  most  important  of  which 
were  the  giving  up  of  Canada,  and  se- 
curing equal  privileges  in  English  an4 
Irish  ports  to  the  ships  of  b6th  naticms. 
The  fbur  necessary  articles  became  the 
real  basis  of  the  treaty. 

John  Adams,  John  Jay,  and  Henry 
Laurens  were  joined  with  him  in  the 
commission.  Jay  was  first  on  the 
ground,  reaching  Paris  in  June ;  Adams 
came  in  October ;  Latn^ns  not  till  No- 
vember, when  the  preliminary  articles 
were  ready  for  signature.  They  all  ac- 
cepted Franklin's  four  articles  as  the 
starting-point  But,  unfortunately,  they 
did  not  all  share  Franklin's  well-found- 
ed confidence  in  the  sincerity  of  the 
French  Government  Jay's  mind  was 
embittered  by  the  tergiversations  of 
Spain.  Adams  had  not  foi^tten  his 
former  disagreements  with  Veigennes, 
and  hated  Franklin  so  bitterly  that  he 
could  hardly  be  prevailed  upon  to  treat 
him  with  the  civility  which  his  age  and 
position  demanded,  much  less  with  the 
consideration  which  the  interest  of  his 
country  required.  Both  Jay  and  Adams 
were  under  the  influence  of  that  hos- 
tility to  France  which  prevailed  as  ex- 
tensively in  the  Colonies  as  in  the  moth- 
er country, — an  hostility  which  neither 
of  them  was  at  sufficient  pains  to  con- 
chal,  although  neither  of  them,  perhaps, 
was  fiiUy  conscious  of  it  It  was  this 
feeling  that  kept  them  both  aloof  from 
the  French  Minister,  and  made  them 
so  accessible  to  English  influences. 
And  it  was  a  knowledge  of  this  feeling 
which  three  years  later  suggested  to 


588 


Diplomaty  of  tfu  Rtvolutum. 


[May. 


George  III.  that  well-known  insinua- 
tion about  Adams's  dislike  to  French 
manners,  which  would  have  been  a 
scathing  sarcasm,  if  it  had  noC  been  an 
inexcusable  impertinence* 

The  English  agents  availed  them- 
selves skilfully  of  those  sentiments,  — 
sowing  suspicions,  -fostering  doubts, 
and  not  shrinking,  there  is  strong  rea- 
son to  suppose,  from  gross  exaggera- 
tion and  deliberate  fiilsehood.  The 
discussion  of  articles,  like  all  such  dis- 
cussions, was  protracted  by  the  efforts 
of  each  party  to  make  the  best  terms, 
and  the  concealing  of  re^f  intentions  in 
the  hope  of  extorting  greater  conces- 
sions. But  England  was  really  prepared 
to  yield  all  that  America  was  really  pre- 
pared to  claim;  France,  in  spite  of 
the  suspicions  of  Adams  and  Jay,  was 
really  sincere ;  and  on  the  30th  of  No- 
vember, 1782,  the  preliminary  articles 
were  signed. 

Franklin's  position  was  difficult  and 
delicate.  He  knew  the  importance  of 
peace.  He  knew  that  the  instructions 
of  Congress  required  perfect  openness 
towards  the  French  Minister.  He  be- 
lieved that  the  Minister  deserved,  both 
by  his  past  kindness  and  present  good 
intentions,  to  be  treated  with  perfect 
openness.  But  both  his  colleagues 
were  against  him.  What  should  he  do  ? 
Refer  the  difference  to  Congress,  and 
meanwhile  bold  the  country  in  painful 
and  expensive  suspense  ?  What  could 
he  do  but  submit,  as  he  had  done 
through  life,  to  the  circumstances  which 
he  could  not  control,  and  give  the  ap- 
pearance of  unanimity  to  an  act  which 
the  good  of  his  country  required  to  be 
unanimous  ? 

He  signed  the  preliminaries,  and  sub- 
mitted to  the  reproach  of  personal  and 
public  ingratitude  as  he  had  submitted 
to  the  taunts  of  Wedderbum.    History 


has  justified  his  confidence, — the  most 
careful  research  having  failed  to  bring 
to  li^t  any  confirmation  of  the  sus^ 
picions  of  his  colleagues.  And  Ver- 
gennes,  though  nettled  for  the  moment, 
understood  Franklin's  position  too  well 
to  lay  the  act  at  his  door  as  an  expres- 
sion of  a  real  opinion. 

Much  time  and  long  discuuions  were 
still  required  to  convert  the  prelimina- 
ries into  a  final  treaty ;  for  the  compli- 
cated interests  of  England,  France,  and 
Spain  were  to  be  taken  into  the  account 
But  each  party  longed  for  peace ;  each 
party  needed  it ;  and  on  the  3d  of  Sep- 
tember, 1783,  another  Treaty  of  Paris 
gave  once  more  the  short-lived,  though 
precious  boon  to  Europe  and  America. 

During  Franklin's  residence  at  the 
Court  of  France,  and  mainly  through 
his  influence,  that  court  had  advanced 
to  Congress  three  millions  of  livres  a 
year  as  a  loan,  had  increased  it  to  four 
millions  in  1781,  had  the  same  year  add- 
ed six  millions  as  a  free  gift  to  the  three 
millions  with  which  she  began,  and  be- 
come security  for  the  regular  payment 
of  the  interest  upon  a  loan  of  ten  mil- 
lions to  be  raised  in  Holland.* 

Nor  will  it  be  inappropriate  to  add, 
that,  before  he  sailed  upon  his  mission 
to  France,  he  called  in  all  the  money  he 
could  command  in  specie  (between  three 
and  four  thousand  pounds)  and  put  it 
into  the  public  treasury  as  a  loan, — 
and  that  while  the  young  men,  Adams 
and  Jay,  were  provided  with  competent 
secretaries  of  legation,  he,  though  bow- 
ed down  by  age  and  disease,  and  with 
ten  times  Uieir  work  to  do,  was  left  to 
his  own  resources,  and,  but  for  the  as- 
sistance of  his  grandson,  would  have 
been  compelled  to  do  it  all  with  his  own 
hand. 

*  In  all,  eighteen  minkms  u  a  loan,  sad  aine  mil> 
as  a  free  gift. 


1865] 


Our  Battte-LaurmUe. 


589 


OUR    BATTLE-LAUREATE. 


tfJT  OW  came  the  Muses  to  settle  in 

mTjl  Connecticut?"  This  was  the 
question  of  a  writer  in  the  *' Atlantic 
Monthly  "  last  February,  whose  history 
of  the  *'  Pleiades  "  of  that  State  we  read 
with  a  pleasure  which  we  doubt  not  was 
shared  by  all  who  saw  it,  except  per- 
haps a  few  who  did  not  relish  the  famil^ 
iar  way  in  which  the  feather  duster  was 
whisked  about  the  statuettes  of  the 
seven  (Hi  minamm  gentium  who  once 
reigned  in  Hartford  and  New  Haven. 

**  There  still  remain  inventive  ma- 
chinists, acute  money-changers,  acutest 
peddlers ;  but  the  seed  of  the  Muses 
has  run  out  No  more  Pleiades  at  Hart* 
ford." 

In  the  July  number  of  our  elder  brother, 
the  **  North  American,"  one  of  the  ablest 
of  American  critics  said  of  an  author 
who  had  just  published  a  small  volume, 
''In  him  the  nation  has  found  a  new 
poet,  vigorous,  original,  and  thoroughly 
native."  **  We  have  had  no  such  war- 
poetry,  nor  an3rthing  like  it  His  '  Riv- 
er-Fight '  is  the  finest  lyric  of  the  kind 
since  J^rayton's  ^  Battle  of  Agincourt' " 

The  author  of  this  volume,  which  is 
entided  ^  Lyrics  of  a  Day,  or  Newspaper 
Poetry,  by  a  Volunteer  in  the  U.  S.  Ser- 
vice," and  of  which  a  second  edition 
has  just  been  issued  by  Carleton  in  New 
York,  is  Mr.  Henry  Howard  Brown- 
ell  of  East  Hartford,  taught  in  a  school 
at  that  place,  a  graduate  of  Trinity  Col- 
lege, a  nephew  of  the  late  Bishop  Brown- 
ell  of  Connecticut  The  good  which 
came  out  of  Nazareth,  as  all  remember, 
claimed  another  birthplace.  If  the  au- 
thor of  the  '*  Pleiades  "  asks  Nathanael's 
question,  putting  Hartford  for  Nazareth, 
and  we  tell  him  to  come  and  see,  we 
shall  have  to  say  that  Providence  was 
our  new  poef  s  birthplace,  and  that  his 
lineage  divides  itself  between  Rhode 
Island  and  Massachusetts.  But  the  good 
has  come  to  us  from  the  Connecticut 
Nazareth. 

If  Drayton  had  fought  at  Agincburt, 
if  Campbell  had  held  a  sabre  at  Hohen- 


linden,  if  Scott  had  been  in  the  saddle 
¥rith  Marmion,  if  Tennyson  had  charged 
with  the  Six  Hundred  at  Balaklava, 
each  of  these  poets  might  possibly  have 
pictured  what  he  said  as  faithfully  and 
as  fearfully  as  Mr.  Brownell  has  painted 
the  sea-fights  in  which  he  took  part  as 
a  combatant  But  no  man  can  tell  a 
stoiiy  at  second  hand  with  the  truth  of 
incident  which  belongs  to  an  eye-wit- 
ness who  was  pout  of  what  he  saw.  As 
a  mere  relator,  therefore,  of  the  sights 
and  sounds  of  great  naval  battles,  Mr. 
Brownell  has  a  fresh  story  to  telL  Not 
only  so,  but  these  naval  battles  are  not 
like  any  the  Okl  World  ever  saw.  One 
or  two  *'  Monitors  "  would  have  settled 
in  half  an  hour  the  fight  which  .«:schy- 
lus  shared  at  Salamis.  The  galleys 
** rammed"  each  other  at  Actium;  but 
there  was  no  Dahlgren  or  Sawyer  to 
thunder  from  their  decks  or  turrets. 
The  artillery  roared  at  Trafalgar ;  but 
there  were  no  iron-dads  to  tilt  at  each 
other,  meeting  with  a  shock  as  of  ten 
thousand  knights  in  armor  moulded 
into  one  mailed  Centaur  and  crashing 
against  such  another  monster. 

But,  again,  a  man  may  see  a  fight  and 
be  able  to  describe  it  truthfully,  yet  he 
may  be  unable  to  describe  it  dramati- 
cally. He  must  have  the  impressibility 
of  tiie  poetical  nature  to  take  in  all  its 
scenes,  and  the  vocabulary  of  an  artist 
to  reproduce  them.  But,  for  some  rea- 
son or  other,  poets  are  not  very  often 
found  under  fire,  unless  it  be  that  of 
the  critics.  The  temperament  which 
makes  men  insensible  to  danger  is  rarely 
the  gift  of  those  who  are  so  organized 
as  to  be  sensitive  to  the  more  ethereal 
skyey  influences.  The  violet  end  of 
the  spectrum  and  the  invisible  rays 
beyond  it  belong  to  the  poet,  fiuthest 
from  the  red,  which  is  the  light  that 
shines  round  the  soldier. 

It  happens  rarely  that  poets  put 
their  delicate-fibred  brains  in  the  paths 
of  bullets,  but  it  does  happen.  K5mer 
fell  with  his  last  song  on  his  lips.   Fitz- 


S90 


Our  Battle-LaunaU, 


[May, 


James  O'Brien  gave  his  life  as  well  as 
his  chants  to  our  cause.  Mr.  Brownell 
has  weathered  the  great  battle*8torxiis 
on  the  same  deck  with  Farragut,  and 
has  told  their  story  as  nobly  as  his  lead- 
er made  the  story  for  him  to  telL  We 
cannot  find  any  such  descriptions  as  his, 
if  for  no  other  reason  than  that  already 
mentioned,  that  there  have  been  no  such 
scenes  to  describe. 

But  Mr.  Brownell's  genius  is  excep- 
tional, as  well  as  his  experience.  He 
can  compose  his  verses  while  the  battle 
is  going  on  around  him.  During  the 
engagement  with  Fort  Powell,  he  was 
actually  pencilling  down  some  portions 
of  the  "  Bay  Fight,''  when  he  received 
a  polite  invitation  to  step  down  to  the 
gun-Kleck  and  '*  try  a  shot  at  'em  with, 
the  Sawyer."  He  took  minntes  of  every- 
tiling  as  it  happened  during  the  contest^ 
so  that  the  simple  record  and  the  poeti- 
cal delineation  nm  into  each  other.  We 
take  the  liberty  to  quote  a  few  words 
from  a  note  he  kindly  sent  in  answer  to 
some  queries  of  our  own. 

''Some  of  the  descriptions  [in  the 
*  Bay  Fight ']  might  seem  exaggerated, 
but  better  authorities  than  I  am  say  they 
are  not  To  be  sure,  blood  and  powder 
are  pretty  freely  mixed  for  the  paindng 
of  it ;  but  these  were  the  predominant 
elements  of  the  sceney—the  noise  being 
almost  indescribable,  and  the  ship,  for 
all  the  forward  half  of  her,  being  an  ab- 
solute '  slaughter-house.'  Though  we 
had  only  twenty-five  killed  and  twenty- 
eight  woxmded  (some  of  whom  after- 
wards died)  on  that  day,  yet  numbers 
were  torn  into  fragments,  (men  with 
their  muscles  tense,  subjected  to  violent 
concussion,  seem  as  brittle  as  glass^ 
causing  the  deck  and  its  surroundings 
to  present  a  most  strange  spectacle." 

We  can  understand  better  after  this 
the  lines  — 

"And  now,  as  we  looked  ahead. 
All  for'ard,  the  \oug  white  deck 

Was  growmf  a  strange  dull  red, . . . 

Red  Trom  mitnmatf  to  bitts  I 
Red  on  bulwark  and  wale,  — 

Red  by  combing  and  hatch,  — 
Red  o*er  netting  and  lall  I " 

The  two  great  battle -poems  ht^OL, 


each  of  them,  with  beautiful  descriptive 
lines,  move  on  with  gradually  kindling 
fire,  reach  the  highest  ii^tensity  of  ac> 
tion,  till  the  words  themselves  have  the 
weight  and  the  rush  of  shot  and  shdl, 
and  the  verses  seem  aflame  with  the  pas- 
sion of  the  conflict, — then,  as  the  strife 
calms  itself  after  the  victory  is  won,  the 
wild  dithyrambic  stanzas  rock  them- 
selves into  sweet,  even  cadences.  No 
one  can  £ul  to  be  struck  with  the  free- 
dom and  robustness  of  the  language, 
the  irregular  strength  of  the  rhythm, 
the  audacious  felicities  of  the  rhyme. 
There  are  hints  which  remind  us  of 
many  fiimous  poets, — hints,  not  imita* 
tions.  There  can  be  no  doabt  that 
these  were  either  coincidences  or  un- 
conscious tricks  of  memory.  To  us 
they  seem  beauties,  not  defects,  in  po- 
ems of  such  originality,  as  in  a  new  mu- 
sical composition  a  few  notes  in  some 
well-remembered  sequence  often  seem 
to  harmonize  the  crudeness  of  the  new- 
er strain,  —  as  in  many  flowers  and 
fruits  Nature  herself  repeats  a  streak 
of  color  or  a  dash  of  flavor  belonging  to 
some  alien  growth. 
Thus,  Drayton  says, — 

*'  With  Spanish  yew  so  strong^ 
Arrows  a  doth-yard  long,  • 

That  like  to  setpents  Jtev." 

And  Brownell, — 

*'  Trust  me,  our  berth  was  hot ; 
Ah,  wickedly  well  they  shot ; 
How  their  death-bolu  howled  and  simmfi* 

A  mere  coincidence,  in  all  probability, 
but  the  word  one  which  none  but  a 
poet  could  have  used.  There  are  rem- 
iniscences of  Cowper's  grand  and  sim- 
ple lines  on  the  "  Loss  of  the  Royal 
George,"  of  Campbell's  "  BatUe  of  the 
Baltic,"  of  Tennyson's  *"  Charge  of  the 
Six  Hundred,"  not  one  of  which  but  has 
a  pleasing  effect  in  the  midst  of  such 
vigorous  pictures  as  the  new  poet  has 
given  us  fresh  from  the  terrible  original 
The  most  obvious  criticism  is  one 
which  applies  to  tiie  "  River  Fight,"  and 
which  is  directed  against  what  might  be 
thought  an  overstraining  of  the  singa* 
lar  power  in  the  use  of  words  which  is 
one  of  Mr.  Brownell's  most  remarkable 


1865J 


Doctor  Johns, 


591 


oharacteristiGS.   ^  General  Orders,"  not 

essential  to  the  poem,  may  be  admired 
as  a  Umr  dejbrcs^  but  cannot  be  prop- 
erly called  poetry.  It  is  a  condensed, 
versified  edict, — true,  no  doubt,  to  the 
prose  original,  but  on  the  whole  bet- 
ter printed  by  itself,  if  printed  at  all, 
than  suffered  to  distract  the  reader  from 
the  main  narration  by  its  elaborate  in- 
genuity. 

These  two  poems— the  "  River  Fight  ** 
and  the  '<  Bay  Fight  "—are  better  adapt- 
ed for  public  reading  and  declamation 
than  almost  any  in  our  literature.  They 
hush  any  circle  of  listeners,  and  many 
cannot  hear  those  exquisitely  tender 
passages  which  are  found  toward  the 
close  of  each  without  yielding  them  the 
tribute  of  their  tears.  They  are  to  all 
the  drawing-room  battle-poems  as  the 
torn  flags  of  our  victorious  armadas  to 
the  stately  ensigns  that  dressed  their 
ships  in  the  harbor. 

Such  pictures,  if  they  do  not  kill  ev- 
erything hung  on  the  waUs  with  them, 
make  even  a  brilliant  canvas  look 
comparatively  lustreless.  Yet  the  first 
poem  of  Mr.  Brownell's  which  ever  at- 
tracted our  attention,  <*  The  Fall  of  Al 
Accoub,"  is  of  great  force,  and  shows 
much  of  the  same  red  light  and  black 
shadow,  much  of  the  same  Vulcanic 


power  over  words,  as  with  blast  and 
forge  and  hammer,  which  startle  us  in 
the  two  battle-pieces.  The  lines  *' An- 
nus Memorabilis,"  dated  Jan.  6th,  1861, 
read  like  prophecy  in  1865.  ''Wood 
and  Coal"  (November,  1863)  gives  a 
presage  of  the  fire  which  the  flame  of 
the  conflict  would  kindle.  *'  The  Burial 
of  the  Dane "  shows  the  true  human 
sympathy  of  the  writer,  in  its  simple, 
pathetic  narrative ;  and  the  story  of  the 
*'  Old  Cove  "  had  a  wider  circulation  and 
a  heartier  reception  than  almost  any 
prose  effort  which  has  been  called  forth 
by  the  ''  All  we  ask  is  to  be  let  alone  " 
of  the  arch  traitor. 

The  *'  Lyrics  of  a  Day  "  are  too  mod- 
estly named.  Our  literature  cannot  for- 
get the  masterpieces  in  this  litUe  volume 
in  a  day,  a  year,  or  an  age.  The  War 
of  Freedom  against  Slavery  has  creat- 
ed a  devilish  enginery  of  its  own :  iron 
for  wood,  steam  for  wind  and  muscle, 
''  Swamp- Angels  "  and  thousand-pound- 
ers in  place  of  the  armaments  that  gain- 
ed the  Battie  of  the  Nile  and  toppled 
over  the  chimneys  of  Copenhagen.  New 
modes  of  warfare  thundered  their  de- 
mand for  a  new  poet  to  describe  them ; 
and  Nature  ha^  answered  in  the  voice 
of  our  BatUe- Laureate,  Henry  Howard 
BrownelL 


DOCTOR    JOHNS. 


XVL 

MISS  ELIZA  being  fiiirly  seated 
in  the  Doctor's  study,  with  great 
eagerness  to  hear  what  might  be  the 
subject  of  his  communication,  the  par- 
son, with  the  letter  in  his  hand,  asked 
if  she  remembered  an  old  college  friend, 
Maverick,  who  had  once  paid  them  a 
vacation  visit  at  Canterlmry. 

"  Perfectly,"  said  Miss  Eliza,  whose 
memory  was  both  keen  and  retentive  ; 
"and  I  remember  that  you  have  said 
he  once  passed  a  night  with  you,  dur- 


ing the  lifetime  of  poor  Rachel,  here 
at  AshfiekL  You  have  a  letter  from 
him  ?  " 

''I  have,"  said  the  parson;  "and  it 
brings  a  proposal  about  which  I  wish 
your  opinion."  And  the  Doctor  cast 
his  eye  over  the  letter. 

"  He  expresses  deep  sympathy  at  my 
loss,  and  alludes  very  pleasantiy  to  the 
visit  you  speak  of,  all  which  I  will  not 
read ;  after  this  he  says, '  I  littie  thought, 
when  bantering  you  in  your  litUe  study 
upon  your  family  prospects,  that  I  too 
was  destined  to  become  the  &ther  of  a 


592 


Doctor  Johus. 


[May, 


child,  within  a  couple  of  years.  Yet  it  is 
even  so ;  and  the  responsibility  weighs 
upon  me  greatly.  I  love  my  AdHe  with 
my  whole  heart ;  I  am  sure  you  cannot 
love  your  boy«  more,  though  perhaps 
more  wisely." 

"And  he  had  never  told  you  of  his 
marriage  ?  "  said  the  spinster. 

"  Never ;  it  is  the  only  line  I  have 
had  from  him  since  his  visit  ten  years 
ago." 

The  Doctor  goes  on  with  the  read- 
ing:— 

"It  may  be  from  a  recollection  of 
your  warnings  and  of  your  distrust  of 
the  French  character,  or  possibly  it 
may  be  from  the  prejudices  of  my  New 
England  education,  but  I  cannot  en- 
tertain pleasantly  the  thought  of  her 
growing  up  to  womanhood  under  the 
influences  which  are  about  her  here. 
What  those  influences  are  you  will  not 
expect  me. to  explain  in  detail.  I  am 
sure  it  will  be  enough  to  win  upon  your 
sympathy  to  say  that  they  are  Popish 
and  thoroughly  French.  I  feel  a  strong 
wish,  therefore,  —  much  as  I  am  attach- 
ed to  the  dear  child, — to  give  her  the 
advantages  of  a  New  England  education 
and  training.  And  with  this  wish,  my 
thought  reverts  naturally  to  the  calm 
quietude  of  your  little  town  and  of  your 
household ;  for  I  cannot  doubt  that  it 
is  the  same  under  the  care  of  your  sis- 
ter as  in  the  old  time." 

"  I  am  glad  he  thinks  so  well  of  me," 
said  Miss  Eliza,  but  with  an  irony  in 
her  tone  that  she  was  sure  the  good 
parson  would  never  detect 

The  Doctor  looks  at  her  thoughtfully 
a  moment,  over  the  edge  of  the  letter, — 
as  if  he,  toa,  had  his  quiet  comparisons 
to  make,  —  then  goes  on  with  the  let- 
ter:— 

"  This  wish  may  surprise  you,  since 
you  remember  my  old '  battlings  with 
what  I  counted  the  rigors  of  a  New 
England  '  bringing-up ' ;  but  in  this  case 
I  should  not  fear  them,  provided  I  could 
assure  myself  of  your  kindly  super- 
vision. For  my  little  Ad^le,  besides  in- 
heriting  a  great  flow  of  spirits  (from  her 
father,  you  will  say)  and  French  blood, 
has  been  used  thus  far  to  a  catholic  lata- 


tude  of  talk  and  manner  in  all  about  her, 
which  will  so  £u-  counterbalance  the 
gravities  of  your  region  as  to  leave  her, 
I  think,  upon  a  safe  middle  ground.  At 
any  rate,  I  see  enough  to  persuade  me 
to  choose  rather  the  errors  that  may 
grow  upon  her  girlhood  there  than  those 
that  would  grow  upon  it  here. 

"  Frankly,  now,  may.  1  ask  you  to  un* 
dertake,  with  your  good  sister,  for  a  few 
years,  the  responsibility  which  1  have 
suggested  ?  " 

The  Doctor  looked  over  the  edge  of 
the  sheet  toward  Miss  Eliza. 

"  Read  on,  Benjamin,"  said  she. 

"  The  matter  of  expenses,  I  am  happy 
to  say,  is  one  which  need  not  enter  into 
your  consideration  of  the  question.  My 
business  successes  have  been  such  that 
any  estimate  which  you  may  make  of 
the  moneys  required  will  be  at  your  call 
at  the  office  of  our  house  in  Newbury- 
porL 

^  I  have  the  utmost  faith  in  you,  my 
dear  Johns;  and  I  want  you  to  have 
faith  in  the  earnestness  with  which  I 
press  this  proposal  on  your  notice. 
You  will  wonder,  perhaps,  how  the 
mother  of  my  little  Ad^le  can  be  a  party 
to  such  a  plan ;  but  I  may  assure  you, 
that,  if  your  consent  be  gained,  it  will 
meet  with  no  opposition  in  that  quar- 
ter. This  fact  may  possibly  confirm 
some  of  your  worst  theories  in  regard 
to  French  character ;  and  in  this  letter, 
at  least,  you  will  not  expect  me  to  com- 
bat them. 

"  I  have  said  that  she  has  lived  thus 
far  under  Popish  influences;  but  her 
religious  character  is  of  course  un- 
formed; indeed,  she  has  as  yet  devel- 
oped in  no  serious  direction  whatever ; 
I  think  you  will  find  a  tabula  rasa  to 
write  your  tenets  upon.  But,  if  she 
comes  to  you,  do  not,  I  beg  of  you,  grave 
them  too  harshly ;  she  is  too  bird-like 
to  be  treated  with  severity ;  and  I  know 
that  under  all  your  g^vity,  my  dear 
Johns,  there  is  a  kindliness  of  heart, 
which,  if  you  only  allowed  it  utterance, 
would  win  greatly  upon  this  little  fond- 
ling of  mine.  And  I  think  that  her 
open,  laughing  &ce  may  win  upon  you. 

"  AdMe  has  been  taught  English,  and 


1865.] 


Doctor  yohns. 


593 


I  have  pttrposely  held  all  my  prattle 
with  her  in  the  same  tongue,  and  her 
familiarity  with  it  is  such  that  you  would 
hardly  detect  a  French  accent  I  am 
not  particularly  anxious  that  she  should 
maintain  her  knowledge  of  French; 
still,  should  a  good  opportunity  occur, 
and  a  competent  teacher  be  available,  it 
might  be  well  for  her  to  do  so.  In  all 
such  matters  I  should  rely  gready  on 
your  judgment 

"  Now,  my  dear  Johns,"  -* — 

Miss  Eliza  interrupts  by  sajring,  "  I 
think  your  friend  is  very  ^miliar,  Ben- 
jamin." 

"  Why  not  ?  why  not,  Eliza  ?  We 
were  boys  together." 

And  he  continues  with  the  letter :  — 

"  My  dear  Johns,  I  want  you  to  con- 
sider this  matter  fairly ;  I  need  not  tell 
you  that  it  is  one  that  lies  very  near  my 
heart  Should  you  determine  to  accept 
the  trust,  there  is  a  ship  which  will  be 
due  at  this  port  some  four  or  five  months 
from  now,  whose  master  I  know  well, 
and  with  whom  I  should  feel  safe  to 
trust  my  little  Ad^le  for  the  voyage, 
providing  at  the  same  time  a  female 
attendant  upon  whom  I  can  rely,  and 
who  will  not  leave  the  little  voyager 
until  she  is  &irly  under  your  wing.  In 
two  or  three  years  thereafter,  at  most, 
I  hope  to  come  to  receive  her  from  you ; 
and  then,  when  she  shall  have  made  a 
return  visit  to  Europe,  it  is  quite  pos- 
sible that  I  may  establish  myself  in  my 
own  country  again.  Should  you  wish 
it,  I  could  arrange  for  the  attendant  to 
remain  with  her ;  but  I  confess  that  I 
should  prefer  the  contrary.  I  want  to 
separate  her  for  the  time,  so  fiur  as  I 
can,  from  a//lht  influences  to  which  she 
has  been  subject  here ;  and  further  than 
this,  I  have  a  strong  faith  in  that  self- 
dependence  which  seems  to  me  to  grow 
out  of  your  old-£uhioned  New  England 
training." 

"  That  is  all,"  said  the  Doctor,  quietly 
folding  the  letter.  "  What  do  you  think 
of  the  proposal,  Eliza  ?  " 

"I  like  it,  Benjamin." 

The  spinster  was  a  woman  of  quick 
decision.  Had  it  been  proposed  to  re- 
ceive an  ordinary  pupil  in  the  house  for 

VOL.  XV. — NO.  91.  38 


any  pecuniary  consideration,  her  pride 
would  have  revolted  on  the  instant 
But  here  was  a  child  of  an  old  friend 
of  the  Doctor,  a  little  Christian  waif, 
as  it  were,  floating  toward  them  from 
that  unbelieving  world  of  France. 

"  Surely  it  will  be  a  worthy  and  an 
honorable  task  for  Benjamin"  (so 
thought  Miss  Eliza)  ''to  redeem  this 
little  creature  flrom  its  graceless  for- 
tune ;  possibly,  too,  the  companionship 
may  soften  that  wild  boy,  Reuben.  This 
French  girl,  Ad^le,  is  rich,  well-bom ; 
what  if,  from  being  inmates  of  the  same 
house,  the  two  should  come  by-and-by 
to  be  joined  by  some  tenderer  tie  ? " 

The  possibility,  even,  of  such  a  dawn 
of  sentiment  under  the  spinster's  watch- 
ful tutelage  was  a  delightful  subject  of 
reflection  to  her.  It  is  remarkable  how 
even  the  cunningest  and  the  coolest 
of  practical-minded  women  delight  in 
watching  the  growth  of  sentiment  in 
others,  —  and  all  the  more  strongly,  if 
they  can  foster  it  by  their  artifices  and 
provoke  it  into  demonstration. 

Miss  Johns,  too,  without  being  imagi- 
native, prefigured  in  her  mind  the  image 
of  the  little  French*  stranger,  with  for- 
eign air  and  dress,  tripping  beside  her 
up  the  meeting-house  aisle,  looking 
into  h^r  face  confidingly  for  guidance, 
attracting  the  attention  of  the  simple 
townspeople  in  such  sort  that  a  distinc- 
tion would  belong  to  htr  pro/eg^  which 
would  be  pleasantly  reflected  upon  her- 
self. A  love  of  distinction  was  the  spin- 
ster's prevailing  sin, — a  distinction  grow- 
ing out  of  the  working  of  good  deeds, 
if  it  might  be,  but  at  any  rate  some 
worthy  and  notable  distinction.  The 
Doctorate  of  her  good  brother,  his  oc- 
casional discourses  which  had  been  sub- 
ject of  a  public  mention  that  she  never 
forgot,  were  objects  of  a  more  than  sis- 
terly fondness.  If  her  sins  were  ever 
to  meet  with  a  punishment  in  the  flesh, 
they  would  know  no  sharper  one  than 
in  a  humiliation  of  her  pride. 

« I  think,"  said  she,  "  that  you  can 
hardly  decline  the  proposal  of  Mr.  Mav- 
•erick,  Benjamin." 

^  And  you  will  take  the  home  care 
of  her  ?  "  asked  the  Doctor. 


594 


Doctor  Johns, 


[May> 


<<  Certainly.  She  would  at  first,  I 
suppose,  attend  school  with  Reuben 
and  the  young  Elderjkins?" 

'^  Probably,"  returned  the  Doctor ; 
**  but  the  more  special  religious  training 
which  I  fear  the  poor  girl  needs  must 
be  given  at  home,  Eliza." 

"Of  course,  Benjamin." 

It  wa^  further  agreed  between  the  two 
that  a  French  attendant  would  make  a 
very  undesirable  addition  to  the  house- 
hold, as  well  as  sadly  compromise  their 
efforts  to  build  up  the  little  stranger  in 
full  knowledge  of  the  faith. 

The  Doctor  was  earnest  in  his  con- 
victions of  the  duty  that  lay  before  him, 
and  his  sister's  consent  to  share  the 
charge  left  him  free  to  act  He  felt  all 
the  best  impulses  of  his  nature  chal- 
lenged by  the  proposal.  Here,  at  least, 
was  one  chance  to  snatch  a  brand  from 
the  burning, — to  lead  this  poor  little 
misguided  wayfarer  into  those  paths 
which  are  ''paths  of  pleasantness." 
No  image  of  French  grace  or  of  French 
modes  was  prefigured  to  the  mind  of 
the  parson ;  his  imagination  had  differ- 
ent range.  He  saw  a  young  innocent 
(so  fu"  as  any  child  in  his  view  could 
be  innocent)  who  prattled  in  the  terri- 
ble language  of  Rousseau  and  Voltaire, 
who  by  the  providence  of  God  had  been 
bom  in  a  realm  where  all  iniquities 
flourished,  and  to  whom,  by  the  further 
and  richer  providence  of  God,  a  means 
of  escape  was  now  offered.  He  would 
no  more  have  thought  of  declining 
the  proposed  service,  even  though  the 
poor  girl  were  dressed  in  homespun 
and  clattered  in  sabots,  than  he  would 
have  closed  his  ear  to  the  cry  of  a 
drowning  child. 

Within  that  very  week  the  Doctor 
wrote  his  reply  to  Maverick.  He  as- 
sured him  that  he  would  most  gladly 
undertake  the  trust  he  had  proposed, 
—  ''hoping,  by  God's  grace,  to  lead  the 
little  one  away  firom  the  delusions  of 
sense  and  the  abominations  of  An- 
tichrist, to  the  fold  of  the  fiuthful." 

"  I  could  wish,"  he  continued,  "that 
you  had  given  me  more  definite  infor-. 
mation  in  regard  to  the  character  of  her 
early  religious  instruction,  and  told  me 


how  &r  the  child  may  still  remain  under 
the  mother's  influence  in  this  respect ; 
for,  next  to  special  interposition  of  Di- 
vine Grace,  I  know  no  influence  so 
strong  in  determining  religious  ten- 
dencies as  the  early  instruction  or  ex- 
ample of  a  mother. 

"My  sister  has  promised  to  give 
home  care  to  the  little  stranger,  and 
will,  I  am  sure,  welcome  her  with  zeaL 
It  will  be  our  purpose  to  place  your 
daughter  at  the  day-school  of  a  worthy 
person,  Miss  Betsey  Onthank,  who  has 
had  large  experience,  and  under  whosp 
tuition  my  boy  Reuben  has  been  for 
some  time  established.  My  sister  and 
myself  are  both  of  opinion  that  the  pres- 
ence of  any  French  attendant  upon  the 
child  would  be  undesirable. 

"I  hope  that  God  may  have  mercy 
upon  the  French  people, — and  that 
those  who  dwell  temporarily  among 
them  may  be  watched  over  amd  be  gra- 
ciously snatched  from  the  great  destruc- 
tion that  awaits  the  ungodly." 


XVII, 

Meantime  Reuben  grew  into  a  knowl- 
edge of  all  the  town  mischief,  and  into 
the  practice  of  such  as  came  within  the 
scope  of  his  years.  The  proposed  ia- 
troduction  of  the  young  stranger  from 
abroad  to  the  advantages  of  the  par- 
sonage home  did  not  weigh  upon  his 
thought  gready.  The  prospect  of  such 
a  change  did  not  soften  him,  whatever 
might  come  of  the  event  In  his  pri- 
vate talk  with  Esther,  he  had  said,  "  I 
hope  that  French  girl  '11  be  a  clever  un ; 

if  she  a'n't,  I  'U  " and  he  doubled 

up  a  litde  fist,  and  shook  it,  so  that 
Esther  laughed  outright 

Not  that  the  boy  had  any  cruelty  in 
him,  but  he  was  just  now  leamiog  from 
his  older  companions  of  the  village,  who 
were  more  steeped  in  iniquity,  that  de- 
fiant manner  by  which  the  Devil  in  aU 
of  us  makes  his  first  pose  preparatory 
to  the  onslaught  that  is  to  come, 

"  Nay,  Ruby,  boy,"  said  Elsther,  when 
she  had  recovered  from  her  laughter, 
"you  would  n't  hurt  the  little  un,  would 


i865.] 


Doctor  Johns. 


595 


je  ?  Don't  3re  want  a  little  playfellow^ 
Ruby  ? »» 

"I  don't  play  with  girls,  I  don't," 
said  Reuben.  ^But,  I  say,  Esther, 
what  '11  papa  do,  if  she  dances  ?  " 

**What  makes  the  boy  think  she  'II 
dance?"  said  Esther. 

<<  Because  the  Geography  says  the 
French  people  dance ;  and  Phil  Elder- 
kin  showed  me  a  picture  with  girls 
dancing  under  a  tree,  and,  says  he, 
*That  's  the  sort  that 's  comin'  to  y'r 
house.' " 

"  Well,  I  don't  know,"  said  Esther, 
"  but  I  guess  your  Aunt  Eliza  *d  cure 
the  dancin'." 

"  She  would  n't  cure  me,  if  I  wanted 
to,"  said  Reuben,  who  thought  it  needful 
to  speak  in  terms  of  bravado  about  the 
spinster,  with  whom  he  kept  up  a  series 
of  skirmishing  fights  from  week  to  week. 
The  truth  is,  the  keen  eye  of  the  good 
lady  ferreted  out  a  great  many  of  his 
pet  plans  of  mischief,  and  nipped  them 
before  they  had  time  to  ripen.  Over 
and  over,  too,  she  warned  him  against 
the  evil  associates  whom  he  would  find 
about  the  village  tavern,  where  he 
strayed  from  time  to  time  to  be  witness 
to  some  dog-fight,  or  to  receive  a  com- 
mendatory glance  of  recognition  from 
one  Nat  Boody,  the  tavern-keeper's  son, 
who  had  run  away  two  years  before  and 
made  a  vojrage  down  the  river  in  a  sloop 
laden  with  apples  and  onions  to  "  York." 
He  was  a  head  taller  than  Reuben,  and 
the  latter  admired  him  intensely:  we 
never  cease  admiring  those  ^a  head 
taller"  than  ourselves.  Reuben  abso- 
lutely pined  in  longing  wonderment  at 
tiie  way  in  which  Nat  Boody  could 
crack  a  coach-whip,  and  with  a  couple 
of  hickory  sticks  could  "call  the  roll" 
upon  a  pine  table  equal  to  a  drum-major. 
Wonderful  were  the  stories  this  boy 
could  tell,  to  special  cronies,  of  his  ad- 
ventures in  the  city :  they  beat  the  Ge- 
ography * '  all  hollow."  Such  an  air,  too, 
as  this  Boody  had,  leaning  against  the 
pump-handle  by  his  fiither's  door,  and 
making  cuts  at  an  imaginary  span  of 
horses  !  —  such  a  pair  of  twilled  trousers, 
cut  like  a  man's ! — such  a  jacket,  widi 
lapeb  to  the  pockets,  which  he  said 


''the  sailors  wore  on  the  sloops,  and 
caUed  'em  monkey-jackets"!  —  such  a 
way  as  he  had  of  putting  a  quid  in  his 
mouth  t  for  Nat  Boody  chewed.  It  is 
not  strange  that  Reuben,  feeling  a  little 
of  ugly  constraint  under  the  keen  eye 
of  the  spinster  Eliza,  should  admire 
greatly  the  free-and-easy  manner  of  the 
tavern-boy,  who  had  such  fiuniliarity 
with  the  world  and  such  large  range 
of  action.  The  most  of  us  neveir  get 
over  a  wonderment  at  the  composure 
and  complacency  which  spring  from  a 
wide  knowledge  of  the  world ;  and  the 
man  who  can  crack  his  whip  well, 
though  only  at  an  imaginary  pair  of 
horses,  is  sure  to  have  a  throng  of 
admirers. 

By  this  politic  lad,  Nat  Boody,  the 
innocent  Reuben  was  decoyed  into 
many  a  little  bargain  which  told  more 
for  ^e  shrewdness  of  the  tavern  than 
for  that  of  the  parsonage.  Thus,  he 
bartered  one  day  a  new  pocket-knife, 
the  gift  of  his  Aunt  Mabel  of  Green- 
wich Street,  for  a  knit  Scotch  cap,  half- 
worn,  which  the  tavern  traveUer  as- 
sured him  could  not  be  matched  for 
any  money.  And  the  parson's  boy, 
going  back  with  this  trophy  on  his 
head,  looking  very  consciously  at  those 
who  give  an  admiring  stare,  is  pounced 
upon  at  the  very  door-step  by  the  inde- 
£itigable  spinster. 

"What  now,  Reuben?  Where  in. 
the  world  did  you  get  that  cap  ?  " 

"  Bought  it,"  —  in  a  grand  way. 

"But  it  's  worn,"  says  the  aunt 
«Ouf!  whose  was  it?" 

"Bought  it  of  Nat  Boody,"  says 
Reuben  ;  "  and  he  says  there  is  n't  an- 
other can  be  had." 

"  Bah  ! "  says  the  spinster,  making  a 
dash  at  the  cap,  which  she  seizes,  and, 
straightway  rushing  in-doors,  souses  in 
a  kettle  of  boiling  water. 

After  which  comes  off  a  new  skir- 
mish, followed  by  the  partial  defeat  of 
Reuben,  who  receives  such  a  combing 
down  (with  sundry  killed  and  wounded) 
as  he  remembers  for  a  month  there- 
after. 

The  truth  is,  that  it  was  not  alto~ 
gether  from  adnuration  of  the  accom*' 


596 


Doctor  Johm. 


[May, 


plished  Nat  Boody  that  Reuben  was 
prone  to  linger  about  the  tavern  neigh- 
borhood. The  spinster  had  so  strongly 
and  constantly  impressed  it  upon  him 
that  it  was  a  low  and  vulgar  and  wicked 
place,  that  the  boy,  growing  vastly  in- 
quisitive in  these  years,  was  curious  to 
find  out  what  shape  the  wickedness 
took ;  and  as  he  walked  by,  sometimes 
at  dusk,  when  thoroughly  infused  with 
the  last  teachings  of  Miss  Eliza,  it 
seemed  to  him  that  he  might  possibly 
catch  a  glimpse  of  the  hoofs  of  some 
devil  (as  he  had  seen  devils  pictured 
in  an  illustrated  Milton)  capering  about 
the  doorway,  —  and  if  he  had  seen  them, 
truth  compels  us  to  say  that  he  would 
have  felt  a  strong  inclination  to  foUow 
them  up,  at  a  safe  distance,  in  order  to 
see  what  kind  of  creatures  might  be 
wearing  them.  But  he  was  far  more 
apt  to  see  the  lounging  figure  of  the 
shoemaker  firom  down  the  street,  or  of 
Mr.  Postmaster  Troop,  coming  thither 
to  have  an  evening's  chat  about  Vice- 
President  Calhoun,  or  William  Wirt 
and  the  Anti-Masons.  Or  possibly,  it 
might  be,  he  would  see  the  light  heels 
of  Suke  Boody,  the  pretty  daughter  of 
the  tavern-keeper,  who  had  been  pro- 
nounced by  Phil  Elderkin,  who  knew, 
(being  a  year  his  senior,)  the  handsom- 
est girl  in  tlie  town.  This  might  well 
be ;  for  Suke  was  just  turned  of  fifteen, 
with  pink  arms  and  pink  cheeks  and 
blue  eyes  and  a  great  fiock  of  brown 
hair:  not  very  startling  in  her  beauty 
on  ordinary  days,  when  she  appeared 
in  a  pinned-up  quilted  petticoat,  and 
her  curls  in  papers,  sweeping  the  tav- 
ern-steps ;  but  of  a  Saturday  afternoon, 
in  red  and  white  calico,  with  the  curls 
all  streaming,  —  no  wonder  Phil  Elder- 
kin,  who  was  tall  of  his  age,  thought 
her  handsome.  So  it  happened  that 
the  inquisitive  Reuben,  not  finding  any 
cloven  feet  in  his  furtive  observations, 
but  encountering  always  either  the  rosy 
Suke,  or  "  Scamp,"  (which  was  Nat's 
pet  fighting-dog,)  or  the  shoemaker,  or 
the  .ipund-fac^d  Mr.  Boody  himself 
could  justify  and  explain  his  aunt's 
charge  of  the  tavern  wickedness  only 
j^.distrihutiog  it  over  them  alL    And 


when,  one  Sunday,  Miss  Suke  appeared 
at  meeting  (where  she  rarely  went)  in 
hat  all  aflame  with  ribbons,  Reuben, 
sorely  puzzled  at  the  sight,  says  to  his 
Aunt  Eliza,  — 

*'Why  did  n't  the  sexton  put  her 
out  ?  " 

"  Put  her  out ! "  says  the  spinster, 
horrified,  —  "  what  do  you  mean,  Reu- 
ben?" 

"  Is  n't  she  wicked  ?  "  says  he ;  «  she 
came  fix>m  the  tavern,  and  she  lives  at 
the  tavern." 

"•  But  don't  you  know  that  preaching 
is  for  the  wicked,  and  that  the  good  had 
much  better  stay  away  than  the  bad  ?  " 

'<  Had  they  ?  "  said  Reuben,  thought- 
fully, pondering  if  there  did  not  lie 
somewhere  in  this  averment  the  basis 
for  some  new  moral  adjustment  of  his 
own  conduct 

There  are  a  vast  many  prim  preach- 
ers, both  male  and  female,  in  all  times, 
who  imagine  that  certain  styles  of 
wickedness  or  vulgarity  are  to  be  ap- 
proached with  propriety  only  across  a 
church; — as  if  better  preaching  did 
not  lie,  nine  times  out  of  ten,  in  the 
touch  of  a  hand  or  a  whisper  in  the 
ear! 

Pondering,  as  Reuben  did,  upon  the 
repeated  warnings  of  the  spinster  against 
any  familiarity  with  the  tavern  or  tavern 
people,  he  came  in  time  to  reckon  the 
old  creaking  sign-board  of  Mr.  Boody, 
and  the  pump  in  the  inn-yard,  as  the 
pivotal  points  of  all  the  town  wicked- 
ness, just  as  the  meeting-house  was  the 
centre  of  all  the  town  goodness;  and 
since  the  great  world  was  very  wicked, 
as  he  knew  from  overmuch  iteration 
at  home,  and  since  communication  with 
that  wicked  world  was  kept  up  mostiy 
by  the  stage-coach  that  stopped  every 
noon  at  the  tavern-door,  it  seemed  to 
him  that  relays  of  wickedness  must  flow 
into  the  tavern  and  town  daily  upon  that 
old  swaying  stage-coach,  just  as  relays 
of  goodness  might  come  to  the  meeting- 
house on  some  old  lumbering  chaise  of 
a  neighboring  parson,  who  once  a  month, 
perhaps  would  "exchange"  with  the 
Doctor.  And  it  confirmed  in  Reuben's 
mind  a  good  deal  that  was  taught  him 


1 865.] 


Doctor  Johns. 


597 


about  natural  depravity,  when  he  found 
himself  looking  out  with  very  much 
more  eagerness  for  the  rumbling  coach, 
that  kept  up  a  daily  wicked  activity 
about  the  tavern,  than  he  did  for  Parson 
Hobson,  who  snuffled  in  his  reading, 
and  who  drove  an  old,  thin-tailed  sorrel 
mare,  with  lopped  ears  and  lank  jaws, 
that  made  passes  at  himself  and  Phil, 
if  they  teased  her,  as  they  always  did. 

So,  too,  he  came  to  regard,  in  virtue 
of  misplaced  home  instruction,  the  mon- 
key-jacket of  Nat  Boody,  and  his  fight- 
ing-dog "Scamp,"  and  the  pink  arms 
and  pink  cheeks  and  brown  ringlets  of 
Suke  Boody,  as  so  many  tyi^es  of  human 
wickedness ;  and,  by  parity  of  reason- 
ing, he  came  to  look  upon  the  two  flat 
curls  on  either  temple  of  his  Aunt  Eli- 
za, and  her  pragmatic  way,  and  upon 
the  yellow  ribbons  within  the  scoop-hat 
of  Almira  Tourtelot,  who  sang  treble 
and  never  went  to  the  tavern,  as  the 
types  of  goodness.  What  wonder,  if 
he  swayed  more  and  more  toward  the 
broad  and  easy  path  that  lay  around 
the  tavern-pump,  ("  Scamp  "  lying  there 
biting  at  the  flies,)  and  toward  the  bar- 
room, with  its  flaming  pictures  of  some 
past  menagerie-show,  and  big  tumblers 
with  lemons  atop,  rather  than  to  the 
strait  and  narrow  path  in  which  his  Aunt 
Eliza  and  Miss  Almira  would  guide  him 
with  sharp  voices,  thin  faces,  and  decoy 
of  dyspeptic  doughnuts  ? 

Phil  and  he  sauntering  by  one  day, 
Phil  says,  — 

"  Darst  you  go  in,  Reub  ?  " 

Phil  was  under  no  law  of  prohibition. 
And  Reuben,  glancing  around  the  Com- 
mon, says,  — 

"  Yes,  /  11  go." 

«  Then,"  says  Phil,  "we  'U  call  for  a 
glass  of  lemonade.  FeUows  'most  al- 
ways order  somethin',  when  they  go 


in." 

So  Phil,  swelling  with  his  ten  years, 
and  tall  of  his  age,  walks  to  the  bar  and 
calls  for  two  tumblers  of  lemonade, 
which  Old  Boody  stirs  with  an  appetiz- 
ing rattle  of  the  toddy-stick, — dropping, 
meantime,  a  query  or  two  about  the 
Squire,  and  a  look  askance  at  the  par- 
son's boy,  who  is  trying  very  hard  to 


wear  an  air  as  if  ht^  too,  were  ten,  and 
knew  the  ropes. 

"  It 's  good,  a'n't  it  ?  "  says  Phil,  put- 
ting down  his  money,  of  which  he  al- 
ways had  a  good  stock. 

"  Prime ! "  says  Reuben,  with  a  smack 
of  the  lips. 

And  then  Suke  comes  in,  hunting  over 
the  room  for  last  week's  "  Courant ";  and 
the  boys,  with  furtive  glances  at  those 
pink  cheeks  and  brown  ringlets,  go  down 
the  steps. 

"  A'n't  she  handsome  ?"  says  Phil. 

Reuben  is  on  the  growth.  And  when 
he  eats  dinner  that  day,  with  the  grave 
Doctor  carving  the  rib-roast  and  the 
prim  aunt  ladling  out  the  sauces,  he  is 
elated  with  the  vague,  but  not  unpleas- 
ant consciousness,  that  he  is  beginnhig 
to  be  £uniliar  with  the  world 


XVIII. 

It  was  some  four  or  five  months  after 
the  despatch  of  the  Doctor's  letter  to 
Maverick  before  the  reply  came.  ^  His 
friend  expressed  the  utmost  gratitude 
for  the  Doctor^s  prompt  and  hearty  ac- 
ceptance of  his  proposaL  With  his  lit- 
tle Ad^le  frolicking  by  him,  and  festen- 
ing  more  tenderly  upon  his  heart  every 
year,  he  was  sometimes  half- disposed 
to  regret  the  scheme ;  but,  believing  it 
to  be  for  her  good,  and  confident  of  the 
integrity  of  those  to  whom  he  intrusted 
her,  he  reconciled  himself  to  the  long 
separation. 

It  does  not  come  within  the  limits  of 
this  simple  New  England  narrative  to 
enter  upon  any  extended  review  of 
the  fiunily  relations  or  the  life  of  Mav- 
erick abroad.  Whatever  details  may 
appear  incidentally,  as  the  story  pro- 
gresses, the  reader  will  please  to  re- 
gard as  the  shreds  and  ravelled  edges 
of  another  and  distinct  life,  which  can- 
not be  fiurly  interwoven  with  the  home- 
spun one  of  the  parsonage,  nor  yet  be 
wholly  brushed  clear  of  our  story. 

"  I  want,"  said  Maverick  in  his  let- 
ter, "  that  Ad^le,  while  having  a  thor- 
ough womanly  education,  should  grow 
up  with  simple  tastes.    I  think  I  see  a 


598 


Doctor  Johns. 


[May. 


little  tendency  in  her  to  a  good  many 
idle  coquetries  of  dress,  (which  you  will 
set  down,  I  know,  to  her  French  blood,) 
which  I  trust  3rX)ur  good  sister  will  see 
the  prudence  of  correcting.  My  fortune 
is  now  such  that  I  may  reasonably  hope 
to  put  luxuries  within  her  reach,  if  they 
be  desirable ;  but  of  this  I  should  pre- 
fer that  she  remain  ignorant  I  want  to 
see  established  in  her  what  you  would 
call  those  moral  and  religious  bases  of 
character  that  will  sustain  her  under  any 
possible  reverses  or  disappointments. 
You  will  smile,  periiaps,  at  n^  talking 
in  this  strain ;  but  if  I  have  been  a£oat 
in  these  matters,  at  least  you  will  do  me 
the  credit  that  may  belong  to  hoping 
better  things  for  my  litde  Ad^le.  It 's 
not  much,  I  know;  but  I  do  sincerely 
desire  that  she  may  find  some  rallying- 
point  of  courage  and  of  faith  within  her- 
self against  any  possible  misfortune.  Is 
it  too  much  to  hope,  that,  under  your 
guidance,  and  under  the  quiet  religious 
atmosphere  of  your  little  town,  she  may 
find  such,  and  that  she  may  possess  her- 
self of  the  consolations  of  the  faith  you 
teach,  without  sacrificing  altogether  her 
natural  French  vivacity  ? 

*'  And  now,  my  dear  Johns,  I  come  to 
refer  to  a  certain  allusion  in  your  letter 
with  some  embarrassment  You  speak 
of  the  weight  of  a  mother's  religious 
influence,  and  ask  what  it  may  have 
been.  Since  extreme  childhood,  Ad^le 
has  been  almost  entirely  under  the  care 
of  her  godmother,  a  quiet^ld  lady,  who, 
though  a  devotee  of  the  Popish  Church, 
you  must  allow  me  to  say,  is  a  down- 
right good  Christian  woman.  I  am  quite 
sure  that  she  has  not  pressed  upon  the 
conscience  of  little  Ad^le  any  bigotries 
of  the  Church.  My  wish  in  this  matter 
I  am  confident  that  she  has  religiously 
regarded,  and  while  giving  the  example 
of  her  own  faith  by  constant  and  daily 
devotions,  I  think,  as  I  said  in  my  pre- 
vious letter,  that  you  will  find  the  heart 
of  my  little  girl  as  open  as  the  sky.  Why 
it  is  that  the  mother's  relations  with  the 
child  have  been  so  broken  you  will  8par& 
ihe  the  pain  of  explaining. 

"  Would  to  God,  I  think  at  times, 
that  I  had  married  years  ago  one  nur- 


tured in  our  old-&shioned  fiiith  of  New 
England,  —  some  gentle,  pure,  loving 
soul  i  Shall  I  confess  it,  Johns  ?  —  the 
little  glimpse  of  your  lost  Rachel  gave 
me  an  idea  of  the  tenderness  and  deptli 
of  devotion  and  charming  womanliness 
of  many  of  those  whom  I  had  counted 
stiff  and  utterly  repulsive,  which  I  nev- 
er had  before. 

'^  Pardon  me,  my  friend,  for  an  allu- 
sion which  may  provoke  your  grief^  and 
which  may  seem  utterly  out  of  place  in 
the  talk  of  one  who  is  just  now  confid- 
ing to  you  his  daughter. 

*' Johns,  I  have  this  faith  in  you,  from 
our  college<Klays :  I  know  that  on  the 
score  of  the  things  touched  upon  in 
the  last  paragraphs  of  my  letter  you 
will  not  press  me  with  inquiries.  It  is 
enough  for  you  to  know  that  my  life 
has  not  been  all  *  plain-sailing.'  For 
the  present,  let  us  say  nothing  of  the 
griefs. 

'*As  little  AdMe  comes  to  me,  and 
sits  upon  my  knee,  as  I  write,  I  almost 
lose  courage. 

♦' '  Adfele,'  I  say,  *  will  you  leave  your 
father,  and  go  far  away  over  seas,  to 
stay  perhaps  for  years  ? ' 

*'  *  You  talk  nonsense,  papa,'  she  says, 
and  leaps  into  my  arms. 

'*  My  heart  cleaves  strangely  to  her : 
I  do  not  know  wholly  why^  And  yet 
she  must  go :  it  is  best 

**The  vessel  of  which  I  spoke  will 
sail  in  three  weeks  from  the  date  of  my 
letter  for  the  port  of  New  York.  I  have 
made  ample  provision  for  her  comfort 
on  the  passage  ;  and  as  the  date  of  the 
ship's  arrival  in  New  York  is  uncertain, 
I  must  beg  you  to  arrange  with  some 
friend  there,  if  possible,  to  protect  the 
little  stranger,  until  you  are  ready  to 
receive  hen  I  inclose  my  draft  for 
three  hundred  dollars,  which  I  trust 
may  be  sufficient  for  a  yearns  mainte- 
nance, seeing  that  she  goes  well  provid- 
ed with  clothing :  if  otherwise,  you  will 
please  infonn  me.'' 

Dr.  Johns  was  not  a  man  to  puzzle 
himself  with  idle  conjectures  in  regard 
to  the  private  aflairs  of  his  friend. 
With  aU  kind  feeling  for  him,  — and 
Maverick's  confidence  in  the  Doctor 


i86s.] 


Doctor  yohfis. 


599 


had  insensibly' given  large  growth  to  it, 
—  the  parson  dismissed  the  whole  af- 
fair with  this  logical  reflection :  — 

**My  poor  friend  has  been  decoyed 
into  marrying  a  Frenchwoman.  French- 
women (like  Frenchmen)  are  all  children 
of  Satan.  He  is  now  reaping  the  bitter 
results. 

"  As  for  the  poor  child,"  thought  the 
Doctor,  and  his  heart  glowed  at  the 
thought,  "  I  will  plant  her  little  feet  up- 
on safe  places.  With  God's  help,  she 
shall  come  into  the  fold  of  the  elect" 

He  arranges  with  Mrs.  Brindlock  to 
receive  the  child  temporarily  upon  her 
arrivaL  Miss  Eliza  puts  even  more 
than  her  usual  vigor  and  system  into 
her  arrangements  for  the  reception  of 
the  new  comer.  Nothing  could  be  neat- 
er than  the  little  chamber,  provided 
with  its  white  curtains,  its  spotless  lin- 
en, its  dark  old  mahogany  furniture,  its 
Testament  and  Catechism  upon  the  toi- 
let-table ;  one  or  two  vases  of  old  china 
had  been  brought  up  and  placed  upon 
brackets  out  of  reach  of  the  little  hands 
that  might  have  been  tempted  by  their 
beauty,  and  a  coquettish  porcelain  im- 
age of  a  flower-girl  had  been  added  to 
the  other  simple  adornments  which  the 
ambitious  spinster  had  lavished  upon 
the  chamber.  Her  pride  as  housekeep- 
er was  piqued.  The  young  stranger 
must  be  duly  impressed  with  the  advan- 
tages of  her  position  at  the  start 

**  There,"  said  she  to  Esther,  as  she 
gave  a  flnishing  touch  to  the  disposal 
of  the  blue  and  white  hangings  about 
the  high-post  bedstead,  "I  wonder  if 
that  will  be  to  the  taste  of  the  little 
French  lady!" 

"  I  should  think  it  might,  Marm  ;  it 's 
the  beautifullest  room  I  ever  see, 
Marm." 

Reuben,  boy-like,  passes  in  and  out 
with  an  air  of  affiected  indifference,  as 
if  the  arrangements  for  the  new  arrival 
had  no  interest  for  him ;  and  he  whis- 
tles more  deflandy  than  ever. 

XIX. 

In  early  September  of  1829,  when 
the  orchard  behind  the  parsonage  was 


glowing  with  its  burden  of  fruit,  when 
the  white  and  crimson  hollyhocks  were 
lifting  their  slanted  pagodas  of  bloom 
all  down  the  garden,  and  the  buckwheat 
was  whitening  with  its  blossoms  broad 
patches  of  the  hillsides  east  and  west  of 
Ashfield,  news  came  to  the  Doctor  that 
his  expected  guest  had  arrived  safely  in 
New  York,  and  was  waiting  his  pres- 
ence there  at  the  elegant  home  of  Mrs. 
Brindlock.  And  Sister  Mabel  writes 
to  the  Doctor  in  the  letter  which  con- 
veys intelligence  of  the  arrival,  —  "She 
's  a  charming  h'tde  witch ;  and  if  you 
don't  like  to  take  her  with  you,  she  may 
stay  here."  Mrs.  Brindlock  had  no 
children. 

A  visit  to  New  York  was  an  event 
for  the  parson.  The  spinster,  eager  for 
his  good  appearance  at  the  home  of  her 
stylish  sister,  insisted  upon  a  toilet  that 
made  the  poor  man  more  awkward  than 
ever.  Yet  he  did  not  think  of  rebelling. 
He  rejoiced,  indeed,  that  he  did  not 
dwell  where  such  hardships  would  be 
daily  demanded ;  but  remembering  that 
he  was  bound  to  a  city  of  strangers,  he 
recalled  the  Scriptural  injunction, — 
^  Render  unto  Caesar  the  things  which 
be  Caesar's." 

The  Brindlocks,  well-meaning  and 
showy  people,  received  the  parson  with 
an  effervescence  of  kindness  that  dis- 
turbed him  almost  as  much  as  the  stiff 
garniture  in  which  he  had  been  invest- 
ed by  the  solicitude  of  Miss  Eliza ;  and 
when,  in  addition  to  his  double  embar- 
rassment, a  litde  saucy -eyed,  brown- 
faced  girl,  full  of  mirthful  exuberance, 
with  her  dark  hair  banded  in  a  way  that 
was  utterly  str^ge  to  him,  and  with  co- 
quettish bows  of  ribbon  at  her  throat, 
at  either  armlet  of  her  jaunty  frock,  and 
all  down  either  side  of  her  silk  pinafore, 
came  toward  him  with  a  smiling  air, 
as  if  she  were  confident  of  his  caresses, 
the  awkwardness  of  the  poor  Doctor 
was  complete. 

But,  catching  sight  of  a  certain  frank 
oudook  in  the  litde  face  which  reminded 
him  of  his  friend  Maverick,  he  felt  his 
heart  stirred  within  him,  and  in  his  grave 
way  dropped  a  kiss  upon  her  forehead* 
while  he  took  both  her  hands  in  his. 


6oo 


Doctor  Johns. 


[May, 


"  This,  then,  is  litUe  Adaly  ? " 

"  Ha  !  ha ! "  laughed  Ad^le,  merrily, 
and,  turning  round  to  her  new-found 
friends,  says,  —  "  My  new  papa  calls  me 
'  Adaly  I " 

The  straightforward  parson  was,  in- 
deed, as  inaccessible  to  French  words 
as  to  French  principles.  Ad^le  had 
somehow  a  smack  in  it  of  the  Gallic 
Pandemonium :  Adaly,  to  his  ear,  was 
a  far  honester  sound. 

And  the  child  seemed  to  fancy  it,  — 
whether  for  its  novelty,  or  the  kindliness 
tliat  beamed  on  her  from  the  gravest 
face  she  had  ever  seen,  it  would  be  hard 
to  say. 

''  Call  me  Adaly,  and  I  will  call  you 
New  Papa,"  said  she. 

And  though  the  parson  was  not  a 
bargaining  man,  every  impulse  of  his 
heart  went  to  confirm  this  arrangement 
It  was  flattering  to  his  self-love,  if  not 
to  his  principles,  to  have  apparent  sanc- 
tion to  his  prejudices  against  French 
forms  of  speech ;  and  the  "  New  Papa  '* 
on  the  lips  of  this  young  girl  touched 
him  to  the  quick.  Wifeless  men  are 
more  easily  accessible  to  demonstra- 
tions of  even  apparent  affection  on  the 
part  of  young  girls  than  those  whose 
sympathies  are  hedged  about  by  matri- 
monial relations. 

From  all  this  it  chanced  that  the  best 
possible  understanding  was  speedily  es- 
tablished between  the  Doctor  and  his 
little  ward  from  beyond  the  seas.  For 
an  hour  after  his  arrival,  the  little  crea- 
ture hung  upon  his  chair,  asking  ques- 
tions about  her  new  home,  about  the 
schools,  about  her  playmates,  patting 
the  great  hand  of  the  Doctor  with  her 
litde  fingers,  and  reminding  him  sadly 
of  days  utterly  gone. 

Mrs.  Brindlock,  with  her  woman's 
curiosity,  seizes  an  occasion,  before  they 
leave,  to  say  privately  to  the  Doctor,  — 

''Benjamin,  the  child  must  have  a 
strange  mother  to  allow  this  long  sepa- 
ration, and  the  little  creature  so  loving 
as  she  is." 

*'  It  would  be  strange  enough  for  any 
but  a  Frenchwoman,"  said  he. 

<<  But  AdMe  is  full  of  talk  about  her 
&tber  and  her  godmother ;  yet  she  can 


tell  me  scarce  anything  .of  her  mother. 
There  's  a  mystery  about  it,  Benjamin." 

**  There  's  a  mystery  in  all  our  livesy 
Mabel,  and  will  be  until  the  last  day 
shall  come." 

The  parson  said  this  with  extreme 
gravity,  and  then  added, — 

'^  He  has  written  me  regarding  it,  — 
a  very  unfortunate  marriage,  I  fear. 
Only  this  much  he  has  been  disposed 
to  communicate ;  and  for  myself,  I  am 
only  concerned  to  redeem  his  litUe  girl 
from  gross  worldly  attachments  to  the 
truths  which  take  hold  upon  heaven." 

The  next  day  the  Doctor  set  off  home- 
ward upon  the  magnificent  new  steam- 
boat Victory,  which,  with  two  wonder- 
ful smoke-pipes,  was  then  plying  through 
the  Sound  and  up  the  Connecticut  Riv- 
er. It  was  an  object  of  almost  as  much 
interest  to  the  parson  as  to  his  litde 
companion.  A  sober  costume  had  now 
replaced  the  coquettish  one  with  its 
furbelows,  which  Ad^le  had  worn  in  the 
city ;  but  there  was  a  bright  lining  to 
her  littie  hat  that  made  her  brown  face 
more  piquant  than  ever.  And  as  she 
inclined  her  head  jauntily  to  this  side 
or  that,  in  order  to  a  better  listening  to 
the  old  gentleman's  somewhat  tedious 
explanations,  or  with  a  saucy  smile  cut 
him  short  in  the  midst  of  them,  the 
parson  felt  his  heart  warming  more  and 
more  toward  this  poor  child  of  heathen 
France.  Nay,  he  felt  almost  tempted 
to  lay  his  lips  to  the  little  white  ears 
that  peeped  forth  from  the  masses  of 
dark  hair  and  seemed  fairly  to  quiver 
with  the  eagerness  of  their  listening. 

With  daylight  of  next  morning  came 
sight  of  the  rambling  old  towns  that  lay 
at  the  river's  mouth,  —  being  litUe  more 
than  patches  of  gray  and  white,  strewed 
over  an  almost  treeless  country,  with 
some  central  spire  rising  above  them. 
Then  came  great  stretches  of  open  pas- 
ture, scattered  over  with  huge  gray 
rocks,  amid  which  litde  flocks  of  sheep 
were  rambling ;  or  some  herd  of  young 
catde,  startied  by  the  splashing  of  the 
paddles,  and  the  great  plumes  of  smoke, 
tossed  their  tails  in  the  air,  and  galloped 
away  in  a  fright,  —  at  which  Ad^le  clap- 
ped her  hands,  and  broke  into  a  lau^ 


i86s.] 


Doctor  Johns, 


6oi 


that  was  as  cheery  as  the  new  dawn. 
Next  came  low,  flat  meadows  of  sedge, 
over  which  the  tide  oozed  slowly,  and 
where  flocks  of  wild  ducks,  scared  from 
their  feeding -ground,  rose  by  scores, 
and  went  flapping  oflt  seaward  in  long, 
black  lines.  And  from  between  the 
hills  on  either  side  came  glimpses  of 
swamp  woodland,  in  the  midst  of  which 
some  maple,  earlier  than  its  green  fel- 
lows, had  taken  a  tinge  of  orange,  and 
flamed  in  the  eyes  of  the  little  traveller 
with  a  gorgeousness  she  had  never  seen 
in  the  woods  of  Provence.  Then  came 
towns  nestling  under  blufls  of  red  quar- 
ry-stones, towns  upon  wooded  plains, — 
all  with  a  white  newness  about  them  ; 
and  a  brig,  with  horses  on  its  deck, 
piled  over  with  bales  of  hay,  comes  drift- 
ing lazily  down  with  the  tide,  to  catch 
an  offing  for  the  West  Indies ;  and  queer- 
shaped  flat-boats,  propelled  by  broad- 
bladed  oars,  surge  slowly  athwart  the 
stream,  ferrying  over  some  traveller,  or 
some  fish-peddler  bound  to  the  '^  P'int " 
for  **  sea-food." 

Toward  noon  the  travellers  land  at  a 
shambling  dock  that  juts  into  the  river, 
from  which  point  they  are  to  make  their 
way,  in  such  country  vehicle  as  the  lit- 
tle village  will  supply,  across  to  Ash- 
field.  And  when  they  are  £drly  seated 
within,  the  parson,  judging  that  acquaint- 
ance has  ripened  sufficiently  to  be  put 
to  serious  uses,  says,  with  more  than 
usual  gravity, — 

'*  I  trust,  Adaly,  that  you  are  grateful 
to  God  for  having  protected  you  from 
all  the  dangers  of  the  deep." 

^  Do  you  think  there  was  much  dan- 
ger, New  Papa  ?  " 

«  There,  's  always  danger,"  said  the 
parson,  gravely.  **  The  Victory  might 
have  been  blown  in  pieces  last  night, 
and  we  all  been  killed,  Adaly." 

*'  Oh,  terrible  ! "  says  Adde.  <<  And 
did  such  a  thing  ever  really  happen  ?  " 

"  Yes,  my  child" 

"Tell  me  all  about  it.  New  Papa, 
please";  and  she  put  her  little  hauid 
in  his. 

**  Not  now,  Adaly, — not  now.  I  want 
to  know  if  you  have  been  taught  about 
God,  in  your  old  home." 


**  Oh,  the  good  God  I  To  be  sure  I 
have,  over  and  over  and  over";  and 
she  made  a  little  piquant  gesture,  as  if 
the  teaching  had  been  sometimes  wea- 
risome. 

This  gayety  of  speech  on  such  a  theme 
was  painful  to  the  Doctor. 

"  And  you  have  been  taught  to  pray, 
Adaly  ?  " 

'<  Oh,  yes  !  Listen  now.  Shall  I  tell 
you  one  of  my  prayers,  New  Papa  ?  Voy- 
ons^  how  is  it " 

"  Never  mind,  — never  mind,  Adaly ; 
not  here,  not  here.  We  are  taught  to 
enter  into  our  closets  when  we  pray." 

**  aosets  ?  " 

**  Yes,  my  child,  —  to  be  by  ourselves, 
and  to  be  solemn." 

'^  I  don't  like  solemn  people  much," 
said  Ad^le,  in  a  quiet  tone. 

**  But  do  you  love  God,  my  child  ?  " 

"  Love  Him  ?  To  be  sure  I  do " ; 
and  afrer  a  little  pause,  —  ^All  good 
children  love  Him ;  and  I  'm  good,  you 
know.  New  Papa,  don't  you  ?  " — and  she 
turned  her  eyes  up  toward  him  with  a 
half-coaxing,  half-mischievous  look  that 
came  near  to  drive  away  all  his  solem- 
nity. 

"  Ah,  Adaly !  Adaly !  we  are  all  wick- 
ed 1 "  said  he. 

Ad&le  stared  at  him  in  amazement 

"  You,  too  !  Yet  papa  told  me  you 
were  so  good  1  Ah,  you  are  telling  me 
now  a  litde — what  you  call  —  lie !  a'n't 
you.  New  Papa  ?  " 

And  she  looked  at  him  with  such  a 
frank,  arch  smile,  —  so  like  the  memory 
he  cherished  of  the  college-boy,  Mav- 
erick,—  that  he  could  argue  the  matter 
no  further,  but  only  patted  her  little 
hand,  as  it  lay  upon  the  cushion  of  the 
carriage,  as  much  as  to  say,  —  "Poor 
thing !  poor  thing  1 " 

Upon  this,  he  fell  away  into  a  train 
of  grave  reflection  on  the  method  which 
it  would  be  best  to  pursue  in  bringing 
this  little  benighted  wanderer  into  the 
fold  of  the  fruthful. 

And  he  was  still  musing  thus,  when 
suddenly  the  spire  of  Ashfield  broke 
upon  the  view. 

"  There  it  is,  Adaly  !  There  is  to  be 
your  new  home  ! " 


602 


Tlie  CkintnghCamer. 


[May, 


"  Where  ?  where  ?  "  says  Ad^le,  ea- 
gerly. 

And  straightway  she  is  all  aglow  with 
excitement.  Her  swift  questions  pat- 
ter on  the  ears  of  the  old  gentleman 
thick  as  rain-drops.  She  looks  at  the 
houses,  the  hills,  the  trees,  the  &ce  of 
every  passer-by,  —  wondering  how  she 
shall  like  them  all ;  fashioning  to  her- 
self some  image  of  the  boy  Reuben 


and  of  the  Aunt  Eliza  who  are  to 
meet  her  ;  yet,  through  all  the  tCM"- 
rent  of  her  vexed  &ncies,  carrying  a 
great  glow  of  hope,  and  entering,  with 
all  her  fresh,  girlish  enthusiasms  un- 
checked, upon  that  new  phase  of  life, 
so  widely  different  from  anything  she 
has  yet  experienced,  under  the  grave 
atmosphere  of  a  New  England  parson- 
agc. 


THE   CHIMNEY-CORNER. 


V. 


LITTLE  FOXES. — PART  IV. 


PERSISTENCE. 

MY  little  foxes  are  interesting  lit- 
tle beasts ;  and  I  only  hope  my 
reader  will  not  get  tired  of  my  charm- 
ing menagerie  before  1  have  done 
showing  him  their  nice  points.  He 
must  recollect  there  are  seven  of  them, 
and  as  yet  we  have  shown  up  only 
three ;  so  let  him  have  patience. 

As  before  stated,  little  Coxes  are  the 
little  pet  sins  of  us  educated  good 
Christians,  who  hope  that  we  have  got 
above  and  far  out  of  sight  of  steal- 
ing, lying,  and  those  other  gross  evils 
against  which  we  pray  every  Sunday, 
when  the  Ten  Commandments  are  read. 
They  are  not  generally  considered  of 
dignity  enough  to  be  fired  at  from  the 
pulpit ;  they  seem  to  us  too  trifling  to 
be  remembered  in  church ;  they  are 
like  the  red  spiders  on  plants,  —  too 
small  for  the  perception  of  the  naked 
eye,  and  only  to  be  known  by  the  shnvw 
elling  and  dropping  of  leaf  after  leaf  that 
ought  to  be  green  and  flourishing. 

I  have  another  little  fox  in  my  eye, 
who  is  most  active  and  most  mischiev- 
ous in  despoiling  the  vines  of  domes- 
tic happiness, — in  fact,  who  has  been 
guilty  of  destroying  more  grapes  than 
anybody  knows  ofl    His  name  I  find  it 


difficult  to  give  with  exactness.  In  my 
enumeration  I  called  him  Stlf-WiU; 
another  name  for  him  —  periiaps  a  bet- 
ter one  —  might  be  PersisUnu* 

Like  many  another,  this  fault  is  the 
ovemction  of  a  most  necessary  and 
praiseworthy  quality.  The  power  of 
firmness  is  given  to  man  as  the  very 
granite  foundation  of  life.  Without  it, 
tiiere  would  be  nothing  accomplished ; 
all  human  plans  would  be  unstable  as 
water  on  an  inclined  plane.  In  every 
well -constituted  nature  there  must  be 
a  power  of  tenacity,  a  gift  of  persever- 
ance of  will ;  and  that  man  might  not 
be  without  a  foundation  for  so  needful 
a  property,  the  Creator  has  laid  it  in 
an  animal  foculty,  which  he  possesses 
in  common  witii  the  brutes. 

The  animal  power  of  firmness  is  a 
brute  force,  a  matter  of  brain  and  spi- 
nal cord,  differing  in  different  animals. 
The  force  by  which  a  bulldog  holds  on 
to  an  antagonist^  the  persistence  with 
which  a  mule  will  plant  his  four  feet 
and  set  himself  against  blows  and  men- 
aces, are  good  examples  of  the  pure  an- 
imal phase  of  a  property  which  exists 
in  human  beings,  and  forms  the  fbundie- 
tion  for  that  heroic  endurance,  for  that 
perseverance,  which  carries  on  all  the 
great  and  noble  enterprises  of  life. 


1 865.] 


The  C/Umney-Comer. 


603 


The  domestic  fault  we  speak  of  is 
the  wild,  uncultured  growth  of  this  fac- 
ulty, the  instinctive  action  of  firmness 
uncontrolled  by  reason  or  conscience, 
— in  common  parlance,  the  being  ^^set 
in  one's  way^  It  is  the  animal  in- 
stinct of  being  *<set  in  one's  way" 
which  we  mean  by  self-will  or  per- 
sistence ;  and  in  domestic  life  it  does 
the  more  mischief  from  its  working  as 
an  instinct  unwatched  by  reason  and 
unchallenged  by  conscience. 

In  that  pretty  new  cottage  which  you 
see  on  yonder  knoll  are  a  pair  of  young 
people  just  in  the  midst  of  that  hap- 
py bustle  which  attends  the  formation 
of  a  first  home  in  prosperous  circum- 
stances, and  with  all  the  means  of  mak- 
ing  it  charming  and  agreeable.  Carpen- 
ters, uphobterers,  and  artificers  await 
their  will ;  and  there  remains  for  them 
only  the  pleasant  task  of  arranging  and 
determining  where  all  their  pretty  and 
agreeable  things  shall  be  placed.  Our 
Hero  and  Leander  are  decidedly  nice 
people,  who  have  been  through  all  the 
proper  stages  of  being  in  love  with  each 
other  for  the  requisite  and  suitable  time. 
They  have  written  each  other  a  letter 
every  day  for  two  years,  beginning  with 
•*  My  dearest,''  and  ending  with  "Your 
own,"  etc. ;  they  have  sent  each  other 
flowers  and  rings  and  locks  of  hair ; 
they  have  worn  each  other's  pictures 
on  their  hearts  ;  they  have  spent  hours 
and  hours  talkiBg  over  all  subjects  un- 
der the  sun,  and  are  convinced  that 
never  was  there  such  sympathy  of 
souls,  such  unanimity  of  opinion,  such 
a  just,  reasonable,  perfect  foundation* 
Uyt  mutual  esteem. 

Now  it  is  quite  true  that  people  may 
have  a  perfect  agreement  and  sympa- 
thy in  their  higher  intellectual  nature, 
—  may  like  the  same  books,  quote  the 
same  poetry,  agree  in  the  same  princi- 
ples, be  united  in  the  same  religion,  — 
and  nevertheless,  when  they  come  to- 
gether in  the  simplest  af&ir  of  every- 
day business,  may  find  themselves  jar- 
.ring  and  impinging  upon  each  other  at 
every  step,  simply  because  there  are  to 
each  person,  in  respect  of  daily  person** 
al  habits  and  personal  likes  and  dis- 


likes, a  thousand  little  mdividualities 
with  which  reason  has  nothing  to  do, 
which  are  not  subjects  for  the  use  of 
logic,  and  to  which  they  never  think 
of  applying  the  power  of  religion,-^ 
which  can  only  be  set  down  as  the  pos- 
itive ultimate  facts  of  eidstence  with  two 
people. 

Suppose  a  blue-jay  courts  and  wins 
and  weds  a  Baltimore  oriole.  During 
courtship  there  may  have  been  delight- 
fully sympathetic  conversation  on  the 
charm  of  being  free  birds,  the  felicity 
of  soaring  in  the  blue  summer  air.  Mr. 
Jay  may  have  been  all  humility  and  all 
ecstasy  in  comparing  the  discordant 
screech  of  his  own  note  with  the  war- 
bling tenderness  of  Miss  Oriole.  But, 
once  united,  the  two  commence  busi- 
ness relations.  He  is  firmly  convinced 
that  a  hole  in  a  hollow  tree  is  the  only 
reasonable  nest  for  a  bird ;  she  is  pos- 
itive that  she  should  die  there  in  a 
month  of  damp  and  rheumatism.  She 
never  heard  of  going  to  housekeeping 
in  anything  but  a  nice  little  pendulous 
bag  swinging  down  from  under  the 
branches  of  a  breesy  elm ;  he  is  sure 
he  should  have  water  on  the  brain  be- 
fore summer  was  over,  from  constant 
vertigo,  in  such  swaying,  unsteady  quar- 
ters, —  he  would  be  a  sea-sick  blue-jay 
on  land,  and  he  cannot  think  of  it  She 
knows  now  he  don't  love  her,  or  he 
never  would  think  of  shutting  her  up 
in  an  old  mouldy  hole  picked  out  of 
rotten  wood ;  and  he  knows  she  does  n't 
love  him,  or  she  never  would  want  to 
make  him  uncomfortable  all  his  days  by 
tilting  and  swinging  him  about  as  no 
decent  bird  ought  to  be  swung.  Both 
are  dead-set  in  their  own  way  and  opin- 
ion ;  and  how  is  either  to  be  convinced 
that  the  way  which  seemeth  right  unto 
the  other  is  not  best  ?  Nature  knows 
this,  and  therefore,  in  her  feathered 
tribes,  blue-jays  do  not  mate  with  ori- 
oles ;  and  so  bird-housekeepii^  goes 
on  in  peace. 

But  men  and  women  as  diverse  in 
their  physical  tastes  and  habits  as  blue- 
jays  and  orioles  are  wooing  and  wed- 
ding every  day,  and  coming  to  the  busir 
ness  of  neat-building,  alias  housekeep- 


6o4 


Ttte  Chimney-Comer. 


[May, 


ing,  with  predilections  as  violent,  and 
as  incapable  of  any  logical  defence, 
as  the  oriole's  partiality  for  a  swing- 
nest  and  the  jay's  preference  of  rotten 
wood. 

Our  Hero  and  Leander,  then,  who 
are  arranging  their  cottage  to>day,  are 
examples  just  in  point  They  have 
both  of  them  been  only  children,  — both 
the  idols  of  circles  where  they  have 
been  universally  deferred  to.  Each  in 
his  or  her  own  circle  has  been  look- 
ed up  to  as  a  model  of  good  taste, 
and  of  course  each  has  the  habit  of 
exercising  and  indulging  very  distinct 
personal  tastes.  They  truly,  deeply  es- 
teem, respect,  and  love  each  other,  and 
for  the  very  best  of  reasons, — because 
there  are  s}Tnpathies  of  the  very  high- 
est kind  between  them.  Both  are  gen- 
erous and  affectionate, — both  are  high- 
ly cultiu'ed  in  intellect  and  taste, — 
both  are  earnestly  religious ;  and  yet, 
with  all  this,  let  me  tell  you  that  the 
first  year  of  their  married  life  will  be 
worthy  to  be  recorded  as  a  year  of 
battles.  Yes,  these  fiiends  so  true, 
these  lovers  so  ardent,  these  individ- 
uals in  themselves  so  admirable,  can- 
not come  into  the  intimate  relations  of 
life  without  an  effervescence  as  great 
as  that  of  an  acid  and  alkali ;  and  it 
will  be  impossible  to  decide  which  is 
most  in  fault,  the  add  or  the  alkali, 
both  being  in  their  way  of  the  very 
best  quality. 

The  reason  of  it  all  is,  that  both  are 
intensely  ^*- set  in  their  way^^  and  the 
ways  of  no  two  human  beings  are  alto- 
gether coincident  Both  of  them  have 
tiie  most  sharply  defined,  exact  tastes 
and  preferences.  In  the  simplest  mat- 
ter both  have  a  way^ — an  exact  way, 
•—which  seems  to  be  dear  to  them  as 
life's  blood.  In  the  simplest  appetite  or 
taste  they  know  exactly  what  they  want, 
and  cannot,  by  any  argument,  persua- 
sion, or  coaxing,  be  made  to  want  any- 
thing else. 

For  example,  this  morning  dawns 
bright  upon  them,  as  she,  in  her  tidy 
morning  wrapper  and  trimly  laced 
boots,  comes  stepping  over  the  bales 
and  boxes  which  are  discharged  on 


the  verandah  ;  while  he,  for  joy  of  his 
new  acquisition,  can  hardly  let  hers 
walk  on  her  own  pretty  feet,  and  is 
making  every  fond  excuse  to  lift  het 
over  obstacles  and  carry  her  into  her 
new  dwelling  in  triumph. 

Carpets  are  put  down,  the  floors  glow 
under  the  hands  of  obedient  workmen, 
and  now  the  furniture  is  being  wheel- 
ed in. 

"  Put  the  piano  in  the  bow-window,*' 
says  the  lady. 

"  No,  not  in  the  bow-window,"  says 
the  gentleman. 

•*  Why,  my  dear,  of  course  it  must  go 
in  the  bow-window.  How  awkward  it 
would  look  anywhere  else  !  I  have  al- 
ways seen  pianos  in  bow-windows." 

"My  love,  certainly  you  would  not 
think  of  dashing  that  beautifiil  prospect 
from  the  bow-window  by  blocking  it  up 
with  the  piano.  The  proper  place  is 
just  here,  in  the  comer  of  the  room. 
Now  try  it" 

"  My  dear,  I  think  it  looks  dreadfully 
there ;  it  spoils  the  appearance  of  the 
room." 

"  Well,  for  my  part,  my  love,  I  think 
the  appearance  of  the  room  would  be 
spoiled,  if  you  filled  up  the  bow-window. 
Think  what  a  lovely  place  that  would 
be  to  sit  in!" 

"Just  as  if  we  could  n't  sit  there  be- 
hind the  piano,  if  we  wanted  to ! "  says 
the  lady. 

"But  then,  how  mnch  more  ample 
and  airy  the  room  looks  as  you  open 
the  door,  and  see  through  the  bow- 
window  down  that  little  glen,  and  that 
distant  peep  of  the  village -spire!" 

"  But  I  never  could  be  reconciled  to 
the  piano  standing  in  the  comer  in  that 
way,"  says  the  lady.  "  /  insist  upon  it, 
it  ought  to  stand  in  the  bow-window : 
it 's  the  way  mamma's  stands,  and  Aunt 
Jane's,  and  Mrs.  Wilcox's ;  everybody 
has  their  piano  so." 

" If  it  comes  to  insisting,*  sa3rs  the 
gentleman,  "  it  strikes  me  that  is  a  game 
two  can  play  at" 

"  Why,  my  dear,  you  know  a  lady's 
parlor  is  her  own  ground.'* 

"  Not  a  married  lady's  parlor,  I  im- 
agine.   I  believe  it  is  at  least  equally  her 


1865.] 


The  ChimtighCarngt. 


605 


husband's,  as  he  expects  to  pass  a  good 
portion  of  his  time  there." 

''  But  I  don't  think  you  ought  to  in- 
sist on  an  arrangement  that  really  is 
disagreeable  to  me,"  says  the  lady. 

*'  And  I  don't  think  you  ought  to  in- 
sist on  an  arrangement  that  is  really 
disagreeable  to  me,"  says  the  gentle- 
man. 

And  now  Hero's  cheeks  flush,  and 
the  spirit  bums  within,  as  she  says,  -^ 

*'  Well,  if  you  insist  upon  it,  I  sup- 
pose it  must  be  as  you  say ;  but  I  shall' 
never  take  any  pleasure  in  playing  on 
it " ;  and  Hero  sweeps  from  the  apart- 
ment, leaving  the  victor  very  unhappy 
in  his  conquest 

He  rushes  after  her,  and  finds  her 
up-stairs,  sitting  disconsolate  and  weep- 
ing on  a  packing-box. 

*<  Now,  Hero,  how  silly  1  Do  have  it 
your  own  way.    I  '11  give  it  up." 

"  No,  —  let  it  be  as  you  say.  I  for- 
got that  it  was  a  wife's  duty  to  sub- 
mit" 

'^Nonsense,  Hero!  Do  talk  like  a 
rational  woman.  Don't  let  us  quarrel 
like  children."' 

*'  But  it  's  so  evident  that  I  was  in 
the  right" 

"  My  dear,  I  cannot  concede  that  you 
were  in  the  right ;  but  I  am  willing  it 
should  be  as  you  say." 

''Now  I  perfectly  wonder,  Leander, 
that  you  don't  see  how  awkward  your 
way  is.  It  would  make  me  nervous  ev- 
ery time  I  came  into  the  room,  and  it 
would  be  so  dark  in  that  comer  that  I 
never  could  see  the  notes." 

*'  And  I  wonder.  Hero,  that  a  wom-  - 
an  of  your  taste  don't  see  how  shut- 
ting up  that  bow -window  spoils  the 
parlor.    It 's  the  very  prettiest  feature 
of  the  room." 

And  so  round  and  round  they  go, 
stating  and  restating  their  arguments, 
both  getting  more  and  more  nervous 
and  combative,  both  declaring  them- 
selves perfectly  ready  to  yield  the  point 
as  an  oppressive  exaction,  but  to  do 
battle  for  their  own  opinion  as  right  and 
reason,  —  the  animal  instinct  of  self- 
will  meanwhile  rising  and  rising  and 
growing  stronger  and  stronger  on  botili 


sides.  But  meanwhile  in  the  heat  of  ar- 
gument some  side-issues  and  personal 
reflections  fly  out  like  splinters  in  the 
shivering  of  lances.  He  tells  her,  in  his 
heat,  that  her  notions  are  formed  from  • 
deference  to  models  in  fashionable  life, 
and  that  she  has  no  idea  of  adaptation, 
— and  she  tells  him  that  he  is  domi- 
neering, and  dictatorial,  and  wanting  to 
have  everything  his  own  way ;  and  in 
fine,  this  battle  is  fought  off  and  on 
through  the  day,  with  occasional  ar- 
mistices of  kisses  and  makings-up, — 
treacherous  tmces,  which  are  all  brok- 
en up  by  the  fiital  words,  *'  My  dear,  af- 
ter all,  you  must  admit  /  was  in  the 
right,"  which  of  course  is  the  signal  to 
fight  the  whole  battle  over  again. 

One  such  jM^longed  struggle  is  the 
parent  of  many  lesser  ones,  —  the  afore- 
named splinters  of  injurious  remark  and 
accusation,  which  flew  out  in  the  heat  of 
argument,  remaining  and  festering  and 
giving  rise  to  nervous  soreness ;  yet^ 
where  there  is  at  the  foundation  real, 
genuine  love,  and  a  good  deal  of  it,  the  * 
pleasure  of  making  up  so  balances  the 
pain  of  the  controversy  that  the  two  do 
not  perceive  exactly  what  they  are  do- 
ing, nor  suspect  that  so  deep  and  wide 
a  love  as  theirs  can  be  seriously  affect- 
ed by  causes  so  insignificant 

But  the  cause  of  difficulty  in  both, 
the  silent,  unwatched,  intense  power  of 
self-will  in  trifles,  is  all  the  while  precip- 
itating them  into  new  encounters.  For 
example,  in  a  bright  hour  between  the 
showers.  Hero  arranges  for  her  Lean- 
der a  repast  of  peace  and  good-will,  and 
compounds  lor  him  a  salad  which  is  a 
chef  (fcntvri  among  salads.  Leander 
is  abo  bright  and  propitious ;  but  after 
tasting  the  salad,  he  pushes  it  silendy 
away. 

''  My  dear,  you  don't  like  your  salad." 

"^  No,  my  dear  ;  I  never  eat  anything 
with  salad  oil  in  it" 

''  Not  eat  salad  oil  ?  How  absurd ! 
I  never  heard  of  a  salad  without  oil" 
And  the  lady  looks  disturbed. 

"  But,  my  dear,  as  I  tell  you,  I  never 
take  it  I  prefer  simple  sugar  and  vin- 
egar." 

''Sugar  and  vinegar  1    Why,  Lean* 


6o6 


TA*  ChimHty-Comtr. 


[May, 


der,  I  'm  astonished !  How  very  Amr- 
geais  /  You  must  really  try  to  like  my 
salad '' — (spoken  in  a  coaxing  tone). 

''My  dear,  I  never  try  to  like  any- 
thing new.  I  am  satisfied  with  my  old 
tastes.'' 

"Well,  Leander,  I  must  say  that 
is  very  ungracious  and  disobliging  of 
you." 

^  Why  any  more  than  for  you  to  an- 
noy me  by  forcing  on  me  what  I  don't 
like  ?  " 

*'  But  you  would  like  it,  if  you  would 
only  try.  People  never  like  olives  till 
they  have  eaten  three  or  four,  and 
then  they  become  passionately  fond  of 
them." 

''Then  I  think  they  are  very  silly 
to  go.  through  all  that  trouble,  when 
there  are  enough  things  that  they  do 
like." 

"Now,  Leander,  I  don't  think  that 
seems  amiable  or  pleasant  at  all.  I 
think  we  ought  to  try  to  accommo- 
date ourselves  to  the  tastes  of  our 
friends." 

"  Then,  my  dear,  suppose  you  try  to 
like  your  salad  with  sugar  and  vine- 
gar. 

"  But  it 's  so  gauchi  and  un£uhion- 
able !  Did  you  ever  hear  of  a  salad 
made  with  sugar  and  vinegar  on  a  ta- 
ble in  good  society  ?" 

"My  mother's  table,  I  believe,  was 
good  society^  and  I  learned  to  like  it 
there.  The  truth  is,  Hero,  for  a  sensi- 
ble woman,  you  are  too  fond  of  mere 
fashiobable  and  society  notions." 

"Yes,  you  told  me  that  last  week, 
and  I  think  it  was  very  unjust, — very 
unjusty  indeed  "  —  (uttered  with  empha- 
sis). 

"No  more  unjust  than  your  telling 
me  that  I  was  dictatorial  and  obsti- 
nate." 

"Well,  now,  Leander,  dear,  you  must 
confess  that  you  are  rather  obstinate." 

"  I  don't  see  the  proo£" 

"  You  insist  on  your  own  ways  and' 
opinions  so,  heaven  and  earth  won't  turn 
you." 

"  Do  I  insist  on  mine  more  than  you 
on  yours  ?  " 

"  Certainly,  you  do." 


**  I  don't  think  so." 
Hero  casts  up  her  eyes  and  repeats 
with  expression,  — 


(I 


Oh,  wad  some  power  the  giftie  gie  us 
To  see  oursels  as  others  see  us  !** 


"  Precisely,"  says  Leander.  "I  would 
that  prayer  were  answered  in  your  case, 
my  dear." 

"  I  think  yoo  tsike  pleasure  in  provok- 
ing me,"  says  the  lady. 

"  My  dear,  how  saUy  smd  childish  all 
this  is ! "  says  the  gentleman.  "  Why 
can't  we  let  each  other  alone  ?  " 

«  You  began  it" 

"  No,  my  dear,  begging  your  psirdon, 
I  did  not" 

"  Certainly,  Leander,  you  did." 

Now  a  conversation  of  this  kind 
may  go  on  hour  after  hour,  as  long  as 
the  respective  parties  have  breath  and 
strength,  both  becoming  secretly  more 
and  more  "  set  in  their  way."  On  both 
sides  is  the  consciousness  that  they 
might  end  it  at  once  by  a  very  simple 
concession. 

She  might  say, — "Well,  dear,  you 
shall  always  have  your  salad  as  you 
like  " ;  and  he  might  say,  —  "  My  dear, 
I  will  try  to  like  your  salad,  if  you  care 
much  about  it " ;  and  if  either  of  them 
would  utter  one  of  these  sentences,  the 
other  would  soon  follow.  Either  would 
give  up,  if  the  other  would  set  the  ex- 
ample ;  but  as  it  is,  they  remind  us  of 
nothing  so  much  as  two  cows  that  we 
have  seen  standing  with  locked  horns 
in  a  meadow,  who  can  neither  advance 
nor  recede  an  inch.  It  is  a  mere  dead- 
lock of  the  animal  instinct  of  firmness ; 
reason,  conscience,  religion  have  noth- 
ing to  do  with  it 

The  questions  debated  in  this  style 
by  our  young  couple  were  surprising- 
ly numerous :  as,  for  example,  whether 
their  fiivorite  copy  of  Turner  should 
hang  in  the  parlor  or  in  the  library, — 
whether  their  pet  little  landscape  should 
hang  against  the  wall,  or  be  placed  on 
an  easel, — whether  the  bust  of  Psyche 
should  stand  on  the  marble  table  in  the 
hall,  or  on  a  bracket  in  the  library ;  all 
of  which  points  were  debated  with  a 
breadth  of  survey,  a  richness  of  imagery. 


l8fiS.] 


The  Chimney-Comer. 


607 


a  vigor  of  discaMion,  that  would  be 
peifecdy  astonishing  to  any  one  who 
did  not  know  how  much  two  very  self- 
willed  argumentative  people  might  find 
to  say  on  any  point  under  heaven*  Ev- 
erything in  classical  antiquity,  —  every- 
thing in  Kugler's  "  Hand-Book  of  Paint- 
ing," — every  opinion  of  living  artists,  — 
brides  questions  social,  moral,  and  re- 
ligious,— all  mingled  in  the  grand  pU- 
Ue  :  because  there  is  nothing  in  creation 
that  is  not  somehow  connected  with  ev- 
erything else. 

Dr.  Johnson  has  said,  —  ^^  There 
are  a  thousand  £&miliar  disputes  which 
reason  never  can  decide ;  questions 
that  elude  investigation,  and  make  log- 
ic ridiculous ;  cases  where  something 
must  be  done,  and  where  little  can  be 
said." 

With  all  deference  to  the  great  mor- 
alist, we  must  say  that  this  statement 
argues  a  very  limited  knowledge  of 
the  resources  of  talk  possessed  by  two 
very  cultivated  and  very  self-willed  per- 
sons fairly  pitted  against  each  other  in 
practical  questions ;  the  logic  may  in- 
deed be  ridiculous,  but  such  people  as 
our  Hero  and  Leander  find  no  cases 
under  the  sun  where  something  is  to 
be  done,  yet  where  litde  can  be  said. 
And  these  wretched  wranglings,  this  in- 
terminable labyrinth  of  petty  disputes, 
waste  and  crumble  away  that  high  ideal 
of  truth  and  tenderness,  which  the  real, 
deep  sympathies  and  actual  worth  of 
their  characters  entitled  them  to  form. 
Their  married  life  is  not  what  they  ex- 
pected; at  times  they  are  starded  by 
the  reflection  that  they  have  somehow 
grown  unlovely  to  each  other ;  and  yet, 
if  Leander  goes  away  to  pass  a  week, 
and  thinks  of  his  Hero  in  the  distance, 
be  can  compare  no  other  woman  to  her ; 
and  the  days  seem  long  and  the  house 
empty  to  Hero  while  be  is  gone ;  both 
wonder  at  themselves  when  they  look 
over  their  petty  bickerings,  but  neither 
knows  exactly  how  to  catch  the  litde 
fox  that  spoils  their  vines. 

It  is  astonishing  how  much  we  think 
about  ourselves,  yet  to  how  little  pur- 
pose, —  how  very  clever  people  will  talk 
and  wonder  about  themselves  and  each 


other,  and  yet  go  on  year  after  year,  not 
knowing  how  to  use  either  themselves 
or  each  other,  —  not  having  as  much 
practical  philosc^hy  in  the  matter  of 
their  own  characters  and  that  of  their 
friends  as  they  have  in  respect  of  the 
screws  of  their  gas-fixtures  or  the  man- 
agement of  their  water-pipes. 

*<  But  /  won't  have  any  such  scenes 
with  my  wife,"  says  Don  Posidvo.  '^  I 
won't  marry  one  of  your  clever  women ; 
they  are  always  positive  and  disagree- 
able. /  look  for  a  wife  of  a  gentle  and 
yielding  nature,  that  shall  take  her  opiur 
ions  from  me,  and  accommodate  her 
tastes  to  mine."  And  so  Don  Positive 
goes  and  marries  a  pretty  litUe  pink-and- 
white  concern,  so  lisping  and  soft  and 
delicate  that  he  is  quite  sure  she  cannot 
have  a  will  of  her  own.  She  is  the 
moon  of  his  heavens,  to  shine  only  by 
his  reflected  light 

We  would  advise  our  gentlemen 
friends  who  wish  to  enjoy  the  felicity 
of  having  their  own  way  not  to  try  the 
experiment  with  a  pretty  fool;  for  the 
obstinacy  of  cleverness  and  reason  is 
nothing  to  the  obstinacy  of  foUy  and 
inanity. 

Let  our  friend  once  get  in  the  seat 
oi^site  to  him  at  table  a  pretty  crea- 
ture who  cries  for  the  moon,  and  insists 
that  he  don't  love  her  because  he  does 
n't  get  it  for  her ;  and  in  vain  may  he 
display  his  superior  knowledge  of  as- 
tronomy, and  prove  to  her  that  the 
moon  is  not  to  be  got.  She  listens 
with  her  head  on  one  side,  and  after 
he  has  talked  himself  quite  out  of 
breath,  repeats  the  very  same  sentence 
she  began  the  discussion  with,  without 
variation  or  addition. 

If  she  wants  darling  Johnny  taken 
away  from  school,  because  cruel  teach- 
ers will  not  give  up  the  rules  of  the 
institution  for  his  pleasure*  in  vain  does 
Don  Positivo,  in  the  most  select  and 
superior  English^  enlighten  her  on  the 
necessity  of  habits  of  self-control  and  or- 
der for  a  boy, — the  impossibility,  that  a 
teacher  should  make  exceptions  for  their 
particular  darling, --the  absolute,  perish- 
ing need  that  the  boy  should  begin  to  do 
something.    She  hears  him  all  throi^h. 


6o8 


The  CMmney'Comer. 


[May, 


and  then  says,  **  I  don't  know  anything 
about  that  I  know  what  I  want:  I 
want  Johnny  taken  away."  And  so  she 
weeps,  sulks,  storms,  entreats,  lies  awake 
nights,  has  long  fits  of  sick-headache, 
—  in  short,  shows  that  a  pretty  animal, 
without  reason  or  cultivation,  can  be, 
in  her  way,  quite  as  formidable  an  an- 
tagonist as  the  most  clever  of  her  sex. 

Leander  can  sometimes  vanquish  his 
Hero  in  fair  fight  by  the  weapons  of 
good  logic,  because  she  is  a  woman  ca- 
pable of  appreciating  reason,  and  able 
to  feel  the  force  of  the  considerations 
he  adduces ;  and  when  he  does  van- 
quish and  carry  her  captive  by  his  bow 
and  spear,  he  feeb  that  he  has  gained  a 
victory  over  no  ignoble  antagonist,  and 
he  becomes  a  hero  in  his  own  eyes. 
Though  a  woman  of  much  will,  still  she 
is  a  woman  of  much  reason ;  and  if  he 
has  many  vexations  with  her  pe^nacity, 
he  is  never  without  hope  in  her  good 
sense ;  but  alas  for  him  whose  wife  has 
only  the  animal  instinct  of  firmness,  with- 
out any  development  of  the  judgment  or 
reasoning  faculties !  The  conflicts  with 
a  woman  whom  a  man  respects  and  ad- 
mires are  often  extremely  trying;  but 
the  conflicts  with  one  whom  he  cannot 
help  despising  become  in  the  end  sim- 
ply disgusting. 

But  the  inquiry  now  arises.  What  shall 
be  done  with  all  the  questions  Dr.  John- 
son speaks  o^  which  reason  cannot 
decide,  which  elude  investigation,  and 
make  logic  ridiculous, — cases  where 
something  must  be  done,  and  where 
little  can  be  said? 

Read  Mrs.  Ellis's  « Wives  of  Eng- 
land," and  you  have  one  solution  of  the 
problem.  The  good  women  of  Eng- 
land are  there  informed  that  there  is 
to  be  no  discussion,  that  everything  in 
the  manage  is  to  follow  the  rule  of  the 
lord,  and  that  the  wife  has  but  one 
hope,  namely,  that  grace  may  be  given 
him  to  know  exacdy  what  his  own  will 
is.  ^^V^iaty  c*est  moij^  is  the  lesson 
which  every  English  husband  learns  of 
Mrs.  Ellis,  and  we  should  judge  from 
the  pictures  of  English  novels  that  this 
''awful  right  divine"  is  insisted  on  in 
detail  in  domestic  life* 


Miss  Edgeworth  makes  her  magnifi- 
cent General  Clarendon  talk  about  his 
*' commands"  to  his  accomplished  and 
elegant  wife;  and  he  rings  the  parlor- 
bell  with  such  an  air,  calls  up  and  in- 
terrogates trembling  servants  with  such 
awful  majesty,  and  lays  about  him  gen- 
erally in  so  very  military  and  tremen- 
dous a  style,  that  we  are  not  surprised 
that  poor  little  Cecilia  is  frightened  into 
lying,  being  half  out  of  her  wits  in  ter- 
ror of  so  very  martial  a  husband. 

During  his  hours  of  courtship  he  ma- 
jestically informs  her  mother  that  he 
never  could  consent  to  receive  as  his 
wife  any  woman  who  has  had  another 
attachment ;  and  so  the  poor  puss,  like 
a  naughty  giri,  conceals  a  little  school- 
girl flirtation  of  bygone  days,  and  thus 
gives  rise  to  most  agonizing  and  tragic 
scenes  with  her  terrible  lord,  who  petri- 
fies her  one  morning  by  suddenly  draw- 
ing the  bed-curtains  and  flapping  an 
old  love-letter  in  her  eyes,  asking,  in 
tones  of  suppressed  thunder,  "  Cedlia, 
is  this  your  writing?" 

The  more  modem  female  novelists  of 
England  give  us  representations  of  their 
view  of  the  right  divine  no  less  strin- 
gent In  a  very  popular  story,  called 
*' Agatha's  Hust^md,"  the  plot  is  as  fol- 
lows. A  man  marries  a  beautiful  girl 
with  a  large  fortune.  Before  the  mar- 
riage, he  discovers  that  his  brother,  who 
has  been  guardian  of  the  estate,  has 
fraudulentiy  squandered  the  property, 
so  that  it  can  only  be  retrieved  by  the 
strictest  economy.  For  the  sake  of  get- 
ting her  heroine  into  a  situation  to  illu»- 
trate  her  moral,  the  authoress  now  makes 
her  hero  give  a  solemn  promise  not  to 
divulge  to  his  wife  or  to  any  human  be- 
ing the  fraud  by  which  she  sufiers. 

The  plot  of  the  story  then  proceeds 
to  show  how  very  badly  the  young  wife 
behaves  when  her  husband  takes  her  to 
mean  lodgings,  deprives  her  of  wonted 
luxuries  and  comforts,  and  obstinately 
refuses  to  give  any  kind  of  sensible  rea- 
son for  his  conduct  Instead  of  looking 
up  to  him  with  blind  faith  and  unques- 
tioning obedience,  following  his  direc- 
tions without  inquiry,  and  believing  not 
only  without  evidence,  but  against  ap- 


i86s.] 


The  ChifHney-'CorHer, 


609 


parent  evidence,  that  he  is  the  bouI  of 
honor  and  wisdom,  this  perverse  Aga- 
tha murmurs,  complains,  thinks  herself 
very  ill-used,  and  occasionally  is  even 
wicked  enough,  in  a  very  mild  way,  to 
say  so,  —  whereat  her  husband  looks 
like  a  martyr  and  suffers  in  silence ; 
and  thus  we  are  treated  to  a  volume 
of  mutual  distresses,  which  are  at  last 
ended  by  the  truth  coming  out,  the 
abused  husband  mounting  the  throne 
in  glory,  and  the  penitent  wife  falling 
in  the  dust  at  his  feet,  and  confessing 
what  a  wretch  she  has  been  all  along 
to  doubt  him. 

The  authoress  of  Jane  Eyre  describes 
the  process  of  courtship  in  much  the 
same  terms  as  one  would  describe  the 
breaking  of  a  horse.  Shirley  is  con- 
tumacious and  self-willed,  and  Moore, 
her  lover  and  tutor,  gives  her  ^^Le 
Ckeval  dompti^^iw  a  French  lesson, 
as  a  gentle  intimation  of  the  work  he 
has  in  hand  in  paying  her  bis  addresses ; 
and  after  long  struggling  against  his 
power,  when  at  last  she  consents  to  his 
love,  he  addresses  her  thus,  under  the 
figure  of  a  very  fierce  leopardess :  — 

''Tame  or  wild,  fierce  or  subdued, 
you  are  mine,^'* 

And  she  responds :  — 

''  I  am  glad  I  know  my  keeper  and 
am  used  to  him.  Only  his  voice  will 
I  follow,  only  his  hand  shall  manage 
me,  only  at  his  feet  will  I  repose." 

The  accomplished  authoress  of  ^  Na- 
thalie" represents  the  struggles  of  a 
young  girl  engaged  to  a  man  far  older 
than  herself,  extremely  dark  and  heroic, 
fond  of  behaving  in  a  very  unaccounta- 
ble manner,  and  declaring,  nevertheless, 
in  very  awful  and  mysterious  tones,  that 
he  has  such  a  passion  for  being  believed 
in,  that,  if  any  one  of  his  friends,  under 
the  most  suspicious  circumstances,  ad- 
mits one  doubt  of  his  honor,  all  will  be 
over  between  them  forever. 

After  establishing  his  power  over 
Nathalie  fully,  and  amusing  himself  qui- 
etly for  a  time  with  the  contemplation 
of  her  perplexities  and  anxieties,  he  at 
last  unfolds  to  her  the  mysterious  coun- 
sels of  his  will  by  declaring  to  another 
of  her  lovers,  in  her  presence,  that  he 

VOL.  XV.  —  NO.  91.  39 


^  has  the  intention  of  asking  this  young 
lady  to  become  his  wife."  During  the 
engagement,  however,  he  contrives  to 
disturb  her  tranquillity  by  insisting  pre- 
maturely on  the  right  divine  of  hus- 
bands, and,  as  she  proves  fractious,  an- 
nounces to  her,  that,  much  as  he  loves 
her,  he  sees  no  prospect  of  future  hap- 
piness in  their  union,  and  that  they  had 
better  part 

The  rest  of  the  story  describes  the 
struggles  and  anguish  of  the  two,  who 
pass  through  a  volume  of  distresses, 
he  growing  more  cold,  proud,  severe, 
and  misanthropic  than  ever,  all  of  which 
is  supposed  to  be  the  fault  of  naughty 
Miss  Nathalie,  who  might  have  made  a 
saint  of  him,  could  she  only  have  found 
her  hi^est  pleasure  in  letting  him  have 
his  own  way.  Her  conscience  distresses 
her ;  it  is  aU  her  fiinlt ;  at  last,  worn  out 
in  the  strife,  she  resolves  to  be  a  good 
girl,  goes  to  his  library,  finds  him  alone, 
and,  in  spite  of  an  insulting  reception, 
humbles  herself  at  his  feet,  gives  up  all 
her  naughty  pride,  b^s  to  be  allowed 
to  wait  on  him  as  a  handmaid,  and  U 
rewarded  by  his  graciously  announcing, 
that,  since  she  \rill  stay  with  him  at  all 
events,  she  may  stay  as  his  wife ;  and 
the  story  leaves  her  in  the  last  sentence 
sitting  in  what  we  are  informed  is  the 
only  true  place  of  happiness  for  a  wom- 
an, at  her  husband's  feet 

This  is  the  solution  which  the  most 
cultivated  women  of  England  give  of  the 
domestic  problem,  according  to  these 
&ir  interpreters  of  English  ideas. 

The  British  lion  on  his  own  domestic 
hearth,  standing  in  awful  majesty  with 
his  back  to  the  fire  and  his  hands  un- 
der his  coat-tails,  can  be  supposed  to 
have  no  such  disreputable  discussions 
as  we  have  described  ;  since  his  part- 
ner, as  Miss  Bronte  says,  has  learned  to 
know  her  keeper,  and  her  place  at  his 
feet,  and  can  conceive  no  happiness  so 
great  as  hanging  the  p^ture  and  setting 
the  piano  exactiy  as  he  likes. 

Of  course  this  will  be  met  with  a 
general  shriek  of  horror  on  the  part 
of  our  fiur  republican  firiends,  and  an 
equally  general  disclaimer  on  the  part 
of  our  American  gentlemeut  who^  so 


6io 


The  Chimttey^CortieK 


[May, 


fiur  as  we  know,  would  be  quite  em- 
barrassed by  the  idea  of  assuming  any 
such  pronounced  position  at  the  fire- 
side. 

The  genius  of  American  institutions 
is  not  towards  a  display  of  authority. 
All  needed  authority  exists  among  us, 
but  exists  silendy,  with  as  little  external 
manifestation  as  possible. 

Our  President  is  but  a  fellow-citizen, 
personally  the  equal  of  other  citizens. 
We  obey  him  because  we  have  chos- 
en him,  and  because  we  find  it  con- 
venient, in  regulating  our  afiairs,  to 
have  one  final  appeal  and  one  deciding 
voice. 

The  position  in  which  the  Bible  and 
the  marriage  service  place  the  husband 
in  the  fiimily  amounts  to  no  more.  He 
is  the  head  of  the  family  in  all  that 
relates  to  its  material  interests,  its  le- 
gal relations,  its  honor  and  standing  in 
society;  and  no  true  woman  who  re- 
spects herself  would  any  more  hesitate 
to  promise  to  yield  to  him  this  position 
and  the  deference  it  implies  than  an  offi- 
cer of  State  to  yield  to  the  President 
But  because  Mr.  Lincoln  is  officially 
above  Mr.  Seward,  it  does  not  follow 
that  there  can  be  nothing  between  them 
but  absolute  command  on  the  one  part 
and  prostrate  submission  on  the  other ; 
neither  does  it  follow  that  the  superior 
claims  in  all  respects  to  regulate  the 
affairs  and  conduct  of  the  inferior. 
There  are  still  wide  spheres  of  individ- 
ual freedom,  as  there  are  in  the  case  of 
husband  and  wife ;  and  no  sensible  man 
but  would  feel  himself  ridiculous  in  en- 
tering another's  proper  .sphere  with  the 
voice  of  authority. 

The  inspired  declaration,  that  ''the 
husband  is  the  head  of  the  wife,  even 
as  Christ  is  the  head  of  the  Church,''  is 
certainly  to  be  qualified  by  the  evident 
points  of  difference  in  the  subjects  spok- 
en of.  It  certainly  does  not  mean  that 
any  man  shall  be  invested  with  the  rights 
of  omnipotence  and  omniscience,  but 
simply  that  in  the  &mily  state  he  is 
the  head  and  protector,  even  as  in  the 
Church  is  the  Saviour.  It  is  merely  the 
announcement  of  a  great  natural  law  of 
society  which  obtains  through  all  the 


tribes  and  races  of  men, — a  great  and 
obvious  fact  of  human  existence. 

The  silly  and  senseless  reaction 
against  this  idea  in  some  otherwise 
sensible  women  is,  I  think,  owing  to 
the  kind  of  extravagances  and  over- 
statements to  which  we  have  alluded. 
It  is  as  absurd  to  cavil  at  the  word 
obfy  in  the  marriage  ceremony  as  for  a 
military  officer  to  set  himself  against  the 
etiquette  of  the  army,  or  a  man  to  re- 
fuse the  freeman's  oath. 

Two  young  men  every  way  on  a  foot- 
ing of  equality  and  friendship  may  be 
one  of  them  a  battalion-commander  and 
the  other  a  stafi'-officer.  It  would  be 
alike  absurd  for  the  one  to  take  airs 
about  not  obeying  a  man  every  way  his 
equal,  and  for  the  other  to  assume  airs 
of  lordly  dictation  out  of  the  sphere  of 
his  military  duties.  The  mooting  of  the 
question  of  marital  authority  between 
two  well-bred,  well-educated  Christian 
people  of  the  nineteenth  century  is  no 
less  absurd. 

While  the  husband  has  a  certain  pow- 
er confided  to  him  for  the  support  and 
maintenance  of  the  family,  and  for  the 
preservation  of  those  relations  which  in- 
volve its  good  name  and  well-being  be- 
fore the  world,  he  has  no  claim  to  an  au- 
thoritative exertion  of  will  in  reference 
to  the  little  personal  tastes  and  habits 
of  the  interior.  He  has  no  divine  right 
to  require  that  everything  shall  be  ar- 
ranged to  please  him,  at  the  expense  of 
his  wife's  preferences  and  feelings,  any 
more  than  if  he  were  not  the  head  of 
the  household.  In  a  thousand  indif^ 
ferent  matters  which  do  not  touch  the 
credit  and  respectability  of  the  family, 
he  is  just  as  much  bound  sometimes  to 
give  up  his  own  will  and  way  for  the 
comfort  of  his  wife  as  she  is  in  certain 
other  matters  to  submit  to  his  decisions. 
In  a  large  number  of  cases  the  husband 
and  wife  stand  as  equal  human  beings 
before  God,  and  the  indulgence  of  un- 
checked and  inconsiderate  self-will  on 
either  side  is  a  sin. 

It  is  my  serious  belief  tiiat  writings 
such  as  we  have  been  considering  do 
barm  both  to  men  and  women,  by  insen- 
sibly inspiring  in  the  one  an  idea  of  a 


1865.] 


The  CUmnqr-Camer. 


6ll 


licensed  prerogalive  of  selfishness  and 
self-will»  and  in  the  other  an  irrational 
and  indiscreet  servility. 

Is  it  any  benefit  to  a  man  to  find  in 
the  wife  of  his  bosom  the  flatterer  of 
his  egotism,  the  acquiescent  victim  of 
his  little  selfish  exactions,  to  be  nursed 
and  petted  and  cajoled  in  all  his  faults 
and  fiLult-findlngs,  and  to  see  everybody 
fidling  prostrate  before  his  will  in  the 
domestic  circle  ?  Is  this  the  true  way 
to  make  him  a  manly  and  Christ-like 
man  ?  It  is  my  belief  that  many  so- 
called  good  wives  have  been  accessory 
to  making  their  husbands  very  bad 
Christians. 

However,  then,  the  little  questions 
of  difference  in  every-day  life  are  to  be 
disposed  of  between  two  individuals, 
it  is  in  the  worst  possible  taste  and 
policy  to  undertake  to  settle  them  by 
mere  authority.  All  romance,  all  po- 
etry, all  beauty  are  over  forever  with  a 
couple  between  whom  the  struggle  of 
mere  authority  has  begun.  No,  there 
is  no  way  out  of  difficulties  of  this  de- 
scription but  by  the  application,  on 
both  sides,  of  good  sense  and  religion 
to  the  little  differences  of  life. 

A  little  reflection  will  enable  any  per- 
son to  detect  in  himself  that  setness 
in  trifles  which  is  the  result  of  the 
unwatched  instinct  of  self-will,  and  to 
establish  over  himself  a  jealous  guar- 
dianship. 

Every  man  and  every  woman,  in  their 
self  -  training  and  self  -  culture,  should 
study  the  art  of  giving  up  with  a  good 
grace.  The  charm  of  polite  society  is 
formed  by  that  sort  of  freedom  and  fa- 
cility in  all  the  members  of  a  circle 
which  makes  each  one  pliable  to  the 
influences  of  the  others,  and  S3rmpa- 
thetic  to  slide  into  the  moods  and  tastes 
of  others  without  a  jar. 

In  courteous  and  polished  circles, 
there  are  no  stiflf  railroad-tracks,  cut- 
ting straight  through  everything,  and 
grating  harsh  thunders  all  along  their 
course,  but  smooth,  meandering  streams, 
tranquilly  bending  hither  and  thither  to 
every  undulation  of  the  flowery  banks. 
What  makes  the  charm  of  polite  soci- 
ety would  make  no  less  the  charm  of 


domestic  life ;  but  it  can  cone  only  by 
watchfulness  and  self-discipltne  in  each 
individual 

Some  people  have  much  more  to 
struggle  with  in  this  way  than  others. 
Nature  has  made  them  precise  and 
exact  They  are  punctilious  in  their 
hours,  rigid  in  their  habits,  pained  by 
any  deviation  from  regular  rule. 

Now  Nature  is  always  perversely  or- 
dering that  men  and  women  of  just  this 
disposition  should  become  desperately 
enamored  of  their  exact  opposites.  The 
man  of  rules  and  formulais  and  hours 
has  his  heart  carried  off  by  a  gay,  care- 
less little  chit,  who  never  knows  the 
day  of  the  month,  tears  up  the  news- 
paper, loses  the  door-key,  and  makes 
curl-papers  out  of  the  last  bill ;  or,  /«r 
contra^  our  exact  and  precise  little  wom- 
an, whose  belongings  are  like  the  waxen 
cells  of  a  bee,  gives  her  heart  to  some 
careless  fellow,  who  enters  her  sanctum 
in  muddy  boots,  upsets  all  her  litde  nice 
household  divinities  whenever  he  is  go- 
ing on  a  hunting  or  fishing  bout,  and 
can  see  no  manner  of  sense  in  the  dis- 
composure she  feels  in  the  case. 

What  can  such  couples  do,  if  they 
do  not  adopt  the  compromises  .of  rea^ 
son  and  sense,^if  each  arms  his  or  her 
own  peculiarities  with  the  back  force 
of  persistent  self-will,  and  runs  them 
over  the  territories  of  the  other  ? 

A  sensible  man  and  woman,  finding 
themselves  thus  placed,  can  govern 
themselves  by  a  just  philosophy,  and, 
instead  of  carrying  on  a  life-battle,  can 
modify  their  own  tastes  and  require- 
ments, turn  their  eyes  from  traits  which 
do  not  suit  them  to  those  which  do,  re- 
solving, at  all  events,  however  reasona- 
ble be  the  taste  or  propensity  which 
they  sacrifice,  to  give  up  all  rather  than 
have  domestic  strife. 

There  is  one  form  which  persistency 
takes  that  is  peculiarly  trying :  I  mean 
that  persistency  of  opinion  which  deems 
it  necessary  to  stop  and  raise  an  argu- 
ment in  self-defence  on  the  slightest 
personal  criticisnL 

John  tells  his  wife  that  she  is  half  an 
hour  late  with  her  break£ut  this  morn- 
ing, and  she  indignantly  denies  it 


6l2 


The  CAtmney-Camer. 


[May, 


<<  But  k)ok  at  my  watch  I" 

•*  Your  watch  is  n't  right" 

**  I  set  it  by  raih-oad  time." 
•    <^  Well,  that  was  a  week  ago ;  that 
watch  of  yours  always  gains." 

*^  No,  my  dear,  you  're  mistaken." 

^  Indeed  I  'm  not  Did  I  not  hear 
you  telling  Mr.  B about  it  ?  " 

'*  My  dear,  that  was  a  year  ago^  — 
before  I  had  it  cleaned." 

*^  How  can  you  say  so,  John  ?  It  was 
only  a  month  ago." 

^  My  dear,  you  are  mistaken." 

And  so  the  contest  goes  on,  each 
striving  for  the  last  word. 

This  love  of  the  last  word  has  made 
more  bitterness  in  families  and  spoiled 
more  Christians  than  it  is  worth.  A 
thousand  litde  differences  of  this  kind 
would  drop  to  the  groimd,  if  either  par- 
ty would  let  them  drop.  Suppose  John 
is  mistaken  in  saying  breakfast  is  late, 
—  suppose  that  fifty  of  the  little  criti> 
cisms  which  we  make  on  one  another 
are  well*  or  ill-founded,  are  they  worth 
a  discussion  ?  Are  they  worth  ill-tem- 
pered words,  such  as  are  almost  sure  to 
grow  out  of  a  discussion  ?  Are  they 
worth  throwing  away  peace  and  love 
for?  Are  they  worth  the  destruction 
of  the  only  fair  ideal  left  on  earth,  — 
a  quiet,  happy  home?  Better  let  the 
most  unjust  statements  pass  in  silence 
than  risk  one's  temper  in  a  discussion 
upon  them. 

Discussions,  assuming  the  form  of 
warm  arguments,  are  never  pleasant  in- 
gredients of  domestic  life,  never  safe 
recreattoas  between  near  friends.  They 


are,  generally  speakings  mere  unsus- 
pected vents  for  self-will,  and  the  cases 
are  few  where  they  do  anything  more 
than  to  make  both  parties  more  positive 
in  their  own  way  than  they  were  be- 
fore. 

A  calm  comparison  of  opposing  views, 
a  fair  statement  of  reasons  on  either 
side,  may  be  valuable ;  but  when  warmth 
and  heat  and  love  of  victory  and  pride 
of  opinion  come  in,  good  temper  and 
good  manners  are  too  apt  to  step  out 

And  now  Christopher,  having  come 
to  the  end  of  his  subject,  pauses  for 
a  sentence  to  dose  with.  There  are 
a  few  lines  of  a  poet  that  sum  up  so 
beautifully  all  he  has  been  saying  that 
he  may  be  pardoned  for  closing  with 
tiiem. 

**  Afais  I  how  light  a  ornae  may  move 
Dhwotion  between  hearts  that  lore : 
Hearts  that  the  worid  has  vainly  tried. 
And  sorrow  but  more  closely  tied  ; 
That  stood  the  storm  when  waves  were  roag^ 
Yet  in  a  sumy  hour  &I1  off, 
Like  ships  that  have  gone  down  at  sea 
When  heaven  was  all  tianquHlity  I 
A  something  light  as  air,  a  look, 
A  word  uokrad,  or  wnngly  taken,  — * 
Oh,  love  that  tempests  never  shook, 
A  breath,  a  touch  like  this  hath  shaken  f 
For  ruder  words  will  soon  rush  in 
To  ipread  the  breach  that  words  begin. 
And  eyes  forget  the  gentle  ray 
They  wore  in  courtship's  smiling  day. 
And  voices  lose  the  tone  which  shed 
A  tenderness  round  all  they  said,  — 
Till,  fast  declining,  one  by  one. 
The  sweetnesses  of  love  are  gone. 
And  hearts  so  lately  mingled  seem 
Like  broken  clouds,  or  like  the  stream. 
That,  smiling,  left  the  mounuin-brow 
As  though  its  waters  ne'er  could  sever. 
Yet,  ere  it  reach  the  plain  below, 
Braaks  into  floods  that  pan  forever." 


i86s.] 


Needle  and  GardetK 


613 


NEEDLE   AND    GARDEN. 

THE  STORY  OF  A  SEAMSTRESS  WHO  LAID  DOWN  HER  NEEDLE  AND  BECABffB 

A  STRAWBERRY-GIRL. 


WRITTEN    BY    HERSELF. 


CHAPTER  V. 

I  IMAGINE,  that,  if  one  went  into 
any  of  the  numerous  places,  in  this 
or  any  other  city,  where  numbers  of 
women  are  assembled  as  workers,  or  to 
any  of  the  charitable  institutions  where 
orphan  children  are  taken  in  and  cared 
for,  and  were  to  institute  a  general  ex- 
amination of  the  inmates  as  to  their 
personal  history,  he  would  find  few  of 
them  but  had  experiences  to  relate  of 
a  kind  to  make  the  heart  ache.  From 
my  own  incidental  inquiry  and  observa- 
tion of  these  classes,  it  would  appear 
that  they  afford  representatives  of  every 
phase  of  domestic  and  pecuniary  suf- 
fering. I  read  of  kindred  sufferings 
which  occasionally  happen  to  the  high- 
born and  wealthy,  but  here  I  have  come 
in  personal  contact  with  those  in  humble 
life  to  whom  such  trials  seem  to  be  a 
perpetual  inheritance. 

In  our  factory  there  was  one  operator 
on  a  machine  with  whom  I  never  could 
gain  an  acquaintance  beyond  the  usual 
morning  salutation  which  passed  be- 
tween most  of  us  as  we  came  in  to  our 
daily  employment  To  me  she  was  re- 
served and  taciturn,  and  it  was  evident 
that  there  was  no  disposition  on  her  part 
to  be  sociable.  But  somehow  she  fell 
in  with  my  sister's  gay,  open,  and  pre- 
possessing manner,  and  there  grew  up 
a  sort  of  passionate  intimacy  between 
them  that  I  could  not  account  for,  as 
she  was  much  older  than  Jane.  When 
we  stopped  work  at  noon,  they  alwa)*s 
dined  together  by  themselves,  in  a  cor- 
ner of  the  room,  and  a  close  and  in- 
cessant conversation  was  carried  on  be- 
tween them,  for  an  hour  at  a  time,  as 
if  they  had  been  lovers.  There  must 
have  been  great  mutual  outpourings  of 
confidence,  for  my  sister  soon  became 


acquainted  with  the  minutest  particu- 
lars of  her  new  finend's  singular  life. 

This  woman's  name  was  Vane.  Who 
her  fether  was  no  one  knew  but  her 
mother.  When  a  child,  she  had  lived 
with  the  latter  in  what  was  at  that  time 
the  remains  of  a  wooden  hut,  that  must 
have  been-  among  the  very  first  buUd* 
ings  erected  in  the  forest  which  covered 
the  northwestern  portion  of  what  is  now 
the  suburbs  of  the  great  city  around  us. 
In  this  little  obscure  home  the  two  lived 
entirely  alone.  They  had  neighbors, 
of  course,  but  none  of  them  could  tell 
how  they  contrived  to  subsist  The 
mother  did  no  work,  except  for  herself 
and  her  child ;  she  had  but  a  small  gar* 
den  in  front  of  the  house,  the  embellish- 
ment of  which  was  her  particular  care ; 
and  she  was  surrounded  with  books, 
in  the  reading  of  which  she  spent  all 
her  leisure  time,  having  little  intercourse 
with  her  neighbors.  The  gossips  that 
exist  everywhere  in  society,  if  curious 
about  her  af&irs,  could  discover  noth- 
ing as  to  how  she  lived  so  comfortably 
without  any  visible  means. 

When  the  daughter,  Sabrina,  grew 
up  to  sixteen,  her  beauty,  the  character 
she  developed,  and  her  general  conduct 
were  the  topic  of  quite  as  much  rural 
conversation  and  remark  as  had  been 
the  mystery  that  hung  around  the  moth- 
er. Gradually  drawn  out  into  the  neigh- 
boring  society,  her  great  personal  at- 
tractions, added  to  her  shrewdness  and 
good  sense,  made  her  so  much  admired 
as  to  collect  around  her  a  train  of  suit- 
ors, who  seemed  to  consider  her  being 
fetherless  as  of  no  more  consequence  to 
them  than  it  was  to  hersel£ 

But  there  was  in  her  temperament  an 
undercurrent  of  ambition  so  strong  as 
to  cause  her  to  receive  their  advances 
toward  tender  acquaintance  with  a  frees* 


6i4 


Needle  and  Garden, 


[May, 


ing  coldness,  while  at  the  same  time  it 
rendered  her  positively  unhappy.    She 
felt  superior  to  her  condition,  and  she 
longed  to  rise  above  it    Her  mind  had 
attained  to  a  premature  development 
while  feeding  almost  exclusively  on  its 
own  thoughts,  —  for  she  had  never  been 
fond  of  books,  though  there  were  many 
around  her.     Her  sole  occupations  had 
been  the  schoolt  the  needle,  and  assist- 
ing her  mother  in  the  management  of 
their  flower-garden.    For  this  last  she 
had  a  decided  taste,  and  they  had  con- 
cealed the  time-worn  character  of  the 
•  old  house  they  occupied  by  covering  it 
with  a  luxuriance  of  floral  wealth,  so 
tastefully  arranged,  and  so  profuse  and 
gorgeous,  that  travellers  on  the  dusty 
highway  on  which  it  stood  would  stop 
to  admire  the  remarkable  blending  of 
the  climbing  rose,  the  honeysuckle,  and 
the  grape. 

Thus  filled  with  indefinite  longings, 
she  grew  up  to  womanhood  without  any 
proper  direction  from  her  mother.  She 
had  no  sympathy  with  her  uncultivated 
suitors.  She  sighed  for  something  high- 
er, an  ideal  that  was  far  oE,  indistinct, 
and  dim.  Good  offers  of  marriage  from 
neighboring  workmen  of  fair  character 
and  prospects  she  stubbornly  declined, 
sometimes  with  a  tartness  that  quite 
confounded  the  swain  whom  her  well- 
known  character  had  half-intimidated 
before  he  ventured  on  the  dangerous 
proposal.  Love  had  not  yet  unsealed 
the  deep  fountain  of  her  singularly  con- 
stituted heart  But  I  suppose  that  there 
must  somewhere  be  a  key  to  every  wom- 
an's affections,  and  that  it  is  generally 
found  in  but  few  hands,  —  sometimes 
in  safe  ones,  sometimes  in  very  danger- 
ous ones.     It  was  so  with  Sabrina. 

One  evening,  at  a  party,  she  became 
acquainted  with  a  young  sprig  of  the 
medical  profession,  who  was  captivated 
by  her  beauty.  The  fellow  was  loqua- 
cious, prepossessing,  and  bold,  with  an 
air  of  high  life  and  fashion  about  him 
to  which  Sabrina  had  not  been  accus- 
tomed. But  though  unsteady,  insin- 
cere, and  wholly  unworthy  of  her,  yet 
the  glitter  of  his  style  and  manr 
her  heart,  and  an  -'-'-— ~A.n* 


riage  took  place  between  them,  which 
he,  for  some  unexplained  reason,  re- 
quired of  her  to  keep  secret  She  was 
yoimg  and  inexperienced,  and  so  happy 
in  her  prospects  as  to  give  but  little 
thought  to  the  obligation  to  conceal- 
ment A  future  was  opening  to  her 
such  as  she  bad  longed  for ;  her  ambi- 
tious aspirations  for  a  higher  destiny 
were  about  to  be  realized. 

Somehow  the  neighborhood  became 
possessed  of  her  secret,  —  not,  how- 
ever, from  her,  but  by  that  intuition 
which  reveals  to  lookers-on  the  sure 
finale  of  an  intimacy  such  as  every  one 
saw  had  grown  up  between  her  and  the 
young  physician.  Her  future  was  said 
to  be  a  briUiant  one ;  she  was  to  be 
rich,  and  a  great  lady.  There  were  ab- 
surd and  wide-spread  exaggerations  of 
an  almost  every-day  occurrence.  Some 
sneered  while  they  repeated  them,  as  if 
envious  of  her  elevation,  while  others 
went  so  far  as  to  suggest  surmises  un- 
worthy of  her  virtue.  But  Sabrina 
heard  nothing  of  what  the  litde  world 
around  her  said  or  thought  Happy  in 
her  own  heart,  she  was  unconcerned 
as  to  all  beyond. 

Months  passed  away,  when  all  at  once 
her  lover  ceased  his  visits.  This,  too, 
was  immediately  obser\'ed  by  all  the  gos- 
sips of  the  neighborhood.  It  was  said 
that  she  had  been  cruelly  deceived,  even 
ruined.  But  she  no  more  than  others 
was  able  to  account  for  this  unexpect- 
ed abandonment  The  truth  eventual- 
ly came  out,  however.  The  father  of 
her  lover  had  heard  the  common  rumor, 
that  his  son  was  about  marrying  an 
obscure  and  fatherless  girl,  questioned 
him,  and  warned  him  of  the  consequen- 
ces. It  was  the  first  serious  intimation 
the  young  man  had  received  that  his 
secret  was  known,  and  he  resolved  to 
cast  off  the  poor  girl,  seeking  to  pacify 
the  reproaches  of  his  conscience  by  ac- 
cusing her  of  having  divulged  it  There 
was  not  a  manly  impulse  in  his  bosom  ; 
he  gave  her  no  opportunity  for  explana- 
tion, but  forsook  her  on  the  instant 
For  a  time  the  victim  of  this  faith- 
'ss  sunk  under  the  weight  of  her 
»ir*       -      *-    Yitr  proud  spirit 


i86s.] 


NeedU  and  Garden. 


615 


the  mortification  was  almost  beyond  en< 
durance.  And  if  Divine  Providence  bad 
not  mercifully  given  to  us»  to  woman  es- 
pecially, strength  according  to  our  day, 
tempering  the  wind  to  the  shorn  lamb, 
the  world  would  be  peopled  with  per- 
petual mourners.    But  there  is 


M 


No  grief  so  great  but  runneth  to  an  end : 
No  bap  to  hard  but  will  in  time  amend.** 


She  bore  up  bravely,  and  in  time 
her  strong  mind  recovered  in  a  good 
degree  its  equilibrium.  But  she  was 
now  a  subdued  and  thoughtful  woman. 
Four  years  passed  away,  during  which 
her  former  admirers  gradually  gathered 
around  her  again,  solicitous,  as  before, 
to  win  her  favor.  To  one  of  them  she 
gave  her  hand,  —  her  heart  was  yet 
another's.  Years  of  an  unhappy  mar- 
ried life  went  over  her,  brightening  no 
cloud  above  her  head,  admitting  no 
sunshine  into  her  heart  All  her  am- 
bitious aspirations  had  been  blasted, 
all  her  early  hopes  wrecked.  Marriage 
had  proved  no  blessing  to  a  mind  so 
ill-regulated.  Her  mother  died,  and 
then  her  husband.  The  secret  source 
from  which  the  mother  had  been  sup- 
plied with  means  was  unknown  to  the 
daughter,  and  she  had  still  pride  enough 
to  refrain  from  all  endeavor  to  solve  the 
mystery.  No  one  was  able  to  do  so 
during  the  lifetime  of  the  former,  — who 
was  there  to  do  it  after  her  death  ? 

Thus  thrown  upon  herself  when  only 
twenty-six  years  of  age,  she  went  to 
work ;  and  when  we  came  to  the  facto- 
ry, we  found  her  there,  the  most  indus- 
trious and  skilful  of  all  the  op>erators. 
Employment  gave  a  new  turn  to  her 
thoughts.  New  associations  opened 
other  and  more  hopeful  views  to  her 
mind.  She  became  cheerful,  sometimes 
animated,  and,  with  my  sister,  intimate 
and  confiding. 

But  if  interested  in  what  my  sister 
thus  learned  of  her  history,  I  was  to  be 
still  more  surprised  by  the  subsequent 
portion  of  it  to  which  I  was  myself  a 
witness. 

One  day  a  gendeman  came  into  the 
room  where  we  were  at  work,  and  ob- 
tained from  the  proprietor  permission 


to  examine  the  mode  in  which  it  was 
carried  on.  His  age  was  probably  fifty, 
and  his  dress  and  manner  evinced  pol- 
ish and  acquaintance  with  society:  if 
dress  was  ever  an  index  of  wealth,  his 
abo  indicated  that  He  went  slowly 
round  among  the  machines,  stopping  be* 
fore  each,  and  courteously  addressing 
and  entering  into  a  brief  conversation 
with  the  several  operators  in  turn.  Sa- 
brina  was  working  a  machine  between 
my  sister  and  myself.  When  he  came 
to  her,  he  had  more  to  say  than  to  any 
of  the  others ;  and  while  conversing  with 
her,  the  proprietor  came  up^  and,  speak- 
ing to  her  on  some  business  matter,  ad- 
dressed her  by  name,  ^  Sabrina*" 

The  stranger  heard  it  He  gazed  on 
her  long  and  silendy.  Sabrina  was  his 
own  child,  for  whose  discovery  he  had 
come  among  us !  There  cocdd  be  no 
mutual  recognition  by  face  and  feature, 
because  neither  had  ever  seen  the  other 
before, — the  heardess  parent  had  never 
kissed  or  fondled  his  own  child !  —  they 
had  lived  total  strangers.  There  was 
no  excitement  at  the  moment,  nothing 
that  could  be  called  a  scene,  —  no  symp- 
tom of  remorse  on  the  part  of  the  one, 
nor  of  affectionate  recognition  by  the 
other.  I  could  know  nothing,  therefore, 
of  their  relations  to  each  other,  even 
though  I  saw  them  at  the  very  moment 
the  parent  was  identifying  bis  daughter. 
All  these  curious  frurts  were  communi- 
cated to  us  afterwards. 

That  very  evening  Sabrina  quitted* 
her  employment  at  the  foctory,  and  was. 
taken  to  her  father's  house,  acknowl- 
edged as  his  child,  her  future  to  be: 
made  by  him  as  cloudless  as  in  the  past 
his  own  shameless  neglect  had  caused, 
it  to  be  gloomy. 

If  in  such  a  refuge  as  this  factory^ 
there  were  gathered  many  examples 
of  the  ups  and  downs  of  life,  it  was  a 
blessing  that  such  an  establishment  ex- 
isted. Here  was  a  certainty  of  employe 
ment  at  wages  on  which  a  woman  could, 
live.  But,  generally,  such  £wtories  ac- 
commodated only  what  might  be  called 
the  better  order  of  workers,  —  that  is,, 
the  least  necessitous. 

The  press  has  been  for  yean  exaltr 


6i6 


Needle  atid  Garden. 


[May, 


faig  the  character  and  attainments  of  the 
working-women  of  New  England,  eel* 
ebrating  their  thrift,  their  intelligence, 
their  neatness,  even  their  personal  love- 
liness,  until  the  fame  of  their  numerous 
virtues  has  overshadowed,  at  least  on 
paper,  that  of  all  others,  extending  even 
to  European  circles,  and  becoming  a 
theme  for  foreign  applause.  But  from 
what  I  have  seen  of  the  working-wom- 
en of  my  native  city,  I  am  satisfied  that 
their  merits  have  been  undervalued  as 
much  as  their  numbers  have  been  under- 
estimated. Both  in  the  sewing-school 
and  in  the  £ictory,  there  were  girls  who 
were  patterns  of  all  that  is  modest, 
beautiful,  and  womanly,  many  of  them 
graduates  of  the  public  schools,  and 
worthy  to  be  wedded  to  the  best  among 
the  other  sex.  No  Lowell  factory  could 
turn  out  a  larger  or  more  interesting 
army  of  young  and  virtuous  girls  than 
some  of  the  establishments  here  in 
which  the  sewing-machine  is  driven  by 
steam. 

Then,  as  regards  numbers,  this  city 
has  a  female  manufacturing  population 
to  which  that  of  the  largest  manufac- 
turing towns  in  New  England  can  bear 
no  comparison.    To  particularize. 

The  book -binderies  reckon  three 
thousand  in  their  various  establish- 
ments, who  fold  and  sew  the  sheets, 
and  work  the  ruling-machines.  I  have 
seen  in  one  of  these  establishments  a 
collection  of  young  women  whose  man- 
ners and  deportment  could  not  be  ex- 
celled in  any  assembly  of  their  fash- 
ionable and  wealthy  sisters :  the  pro- 
prietor never  came  in  among  them  with- 
out removing  his  hat  As  the  work 
they  do  is  light  and  cleanly,  so  the 
dress  of  the  workers  is  neat  and  tidy. 
These  earn  two  doUars  and  upward  per 
week.  Some  hundreds  of  others  are 
employed  in  printing-offices,  feeding 
the  paper  to  book-presses:  these  are 
able  to  earn  more.  Another  class  are 
emplo3red  in  coloring  maps  and  prints, 
and  among  these  are  some  who  exhibit 
taste  and: skill  fitted  to  a  much  higher 
department  of  the  arts.  Thus  the  busi- 
ness of  publishing,  in  neariy  all  its 
hraochfis,  is  largely  aided  by  the  labor 


of  intelligent  women, — and  it  might  be 
still  more  so,  if  they  were  taught  the 
truly  feminine,  as  well  as  intellectual 
art,  of  type-setting. 

Thousands  among  us  are  engaged  in 
binding  shoes,  some  by  machinery^  and 
some  by  hand  ;  but  the  wages  they  re- 
ceive are  miserably  smalL  The  cloth- 
ing-stores employ  some  six  thousand, 
but  also  paying  so  little  that  every  tai- 
lor's working-woman  seeks  the  earliest 
opportunity  of  changing  her  employ- 
ment for  something  better.  The  hat- 
trimmers  probably  number  two  thou- 
sand, while  the  cap-makers  constitute  a 
numerous  body,  whose  wages  average 
three  dollars  per  week.  Several  hun- 
dred educated  girls,  possessed  of  a  fine 
taste,  are  employed  in  making  artificial 
flowers.  The  establishments  in  which 
umbrellas  and  parasols  are  made  de- 
pend almost  exclusively  on  the  labor  of 
women,  while  the  millinery  and  straw- 
goods  branches  owe  most  of  their  pros- 
perity and  merit  to  the  handiwork  of 
female  taste  and  skill.  There  are  many 
who  work  for  the  dentists,  manufactur* 
ing  artificial  teeth.  Even  at  tlie  re- 
pulsive business  of  cigar-making,  in  at 
close,  unwholesome  atmosphere  contin- 
ually loaded  with  tobacco-fumes,  there 
are  many  hundred  women  who  earn 
bread  for  themselves  and  their  fami- 
lies. 

There  is  a  lower  class  of  workers 
who  find  employment  in  the  spinning- 
mills  and  power -loom  factories  that 
abound  among  us,  and  these  number 
not  less  than  two  thousand.  They  are 
the  children  of  weavers  who  came  from 
England,  Ireland,  Scotland,  and  Ger- 
many. They  have  been  brought  up 
from  childhood  to  fill  the  bobbin  or 
attend  the  spindle  or  the  loom,  and  are 
therefore  skilled  hands,  young  as  many 
of  them  are.  I  have  known  more  than 
one  affecting  instance  of  aged  parents 
having  been  comfortabty  maintained  by 
daughters  belonging  to  this  class. 

It  has  been  one  of  the  plumes  in  the 
cap  of  New  England  factory-girls,  tliat 
they  kept  themselves  genteel  on  facto- 
ry-wages, educated  their  brothers,  sup- 
ported their  parents,  and  yet  had  some- 


186s.] 


NeidU  and  Garden. 


f>lj 


thing  over  when  they  came  to  be  mar* 
riecL  I  never  could  understand  how 
such  financial  marvels  could  be  accom- 
plished on  the  wages  of  a  mill-girL 
But  I  have  seen  great  things  in  the 
same  line  done  among  the  untidy  girls 
of  foreign  parentage  who  work  in  the 
cotton  and  woollen  factories  of  our  city. 
These,  however,  have  toiled  on  silendy 
and  in  obscuri^,  with  no  poet  to  cele- 
brate their  doings,  no  newspaper  to 
sound  their  praises,  no  magazine  to 
trumpet  forth  their  devotion,  their  vir- 
tue, or  even  their  beauty. 

I  cannot  give,  with  either  fulness  or 
accuracy,  the  industrial  statistics  of  a 
city  like  this ;  nor  would  I  volunteer  thus 
to  increase  the  dulness  of  my  narrative, 
if  it  were  in  my  power  to  do  so.  But  it 
will  be  seen,  that,  wherever  a  door  stands 
open  into  which  woman  may  enter  and 
obtain  the  privilege  to  toil,  she  is  sure 
to  ask  for  admission.  Wages  are  al- 
ways a  consideration,  but  employment 
of  some  kind,  whether  remunerative  or 
not,  is  a  greater  one.  Of  the  thousands 
thus  toiling  at  all  kinds  of  labor,  some 
descriptions  of  which  are  necessarily 
unhealthy,  there  are  many  whose  once 
robust  frames  have  become  attenuated 
and  weary  unto  wearing  out,  whose  mid- 
night couch,  instead  of  being  one  of  re- 
pose, is  racked  with  cough  and  restiess- 
ness  and  pain.  The  once  brilliant  eyes 
have  lost  their  lustre,  the  once  rosy 
cheeks  their  fresh  and  glowing  bloom. 
The  young  girl  £aules  under  unnatural 
labor  protracted  fax  into  the  night  If 
she  should  &il  to  toil  thus,  some  infirm 
parent  would  go  without  food.  The  sick 
widow,  older  in  years,  and  ferther  trav- 
elled round  the  long  circuit  of  human 
sorrow,  dares  not  indulge  in  the  rest 
that  is  necessary  even  to  life,  lest  hun- 
gry children,  as  well  as  herself,  should 
be  even  more  severely  pinched  by  fiim- 
ine.  No  wonder  tiiiat  they  knock  at 
every  door  where  a  littie  money  may  be 
had  for  a  great  amount  of  labor. 

But  it  must  be  granted,  that,  if  the 
employments  to  which  American  wom- 
en are  compelled  to  resort  are  often  se- 
vere, and  less  remunerative  than  they 
ought  to  be,  they  are  by  no  means  so 


unsuited  to  the  sex  as  some  which 
women  are  forced  into  in  other  coun- 
tries. Only  a  few  years  ago  many 
thousands  of  females  were  working  un- 
der-groimd  in  the  English  coal-mines. 
When  laws  were  enacted  to  abolish  this 
unsuitable  employment,  they  still  con- 
tinued to  work  at  the  mouth  of  the  mine, 
and  are  thus  employed  at  this  moment 
They  labor  in  the  coke-works  and  coal- 
pits ;  they  receive  the  ores  at  the  pit's 
mouth,  and  dress  and  sort  them.  The 
hard  nature  of  the  employment  may  not 
be  actually  injurious  to  health,  yet  it 
quite  unsexes  them.  Their  whole  de- 
meanor becomes  as  coarse  and  rude  as 
their  degrading  occupation.  As  they  la- 
bor at  men's  work,  so  they  wear  men's 
clothing.  A  stranger  would  feel  sure 
that  they  were  men,  and  it  would  be  by 
their  conversation  alone  that  he  could 
identify  them  as  women.  He  would 
think  it  strange,  to  hear  persons  dress- 
ed like  men  conversing  together  about 
their  husbands,  unless  he  had  been  in- 
formed who  they  were. 

A  celebrated  English  author  speaks 
thus  particularly  of  these  unhappy  wom- 
en :~*^  Some  few  months  since,  happen- 
ing to  be  in  Wigan,  my  attention  was 
directed  to  the,  to  me,  unwonted  spec- 
tacle of  one  of  those  female  colliers  re- 
turning homewards  from  her  daily  la- 
bor. It  was  difficult  to  believe  that  the 
unwomanly -looking  being  who  passed 
before  me  was  actually  a  female;  yet 
such  was  the  case.  Clad  in  coarse, 
greasy,  and  patched  fustian  unmention- 
ables and  jacket,  thick  canvas  shirt, 
great  heavy  hob-nailed  boots,  her  fea- 
tures completely  begrimed  with  coal- 
dust,  her  hard  and  homy  hands  carry- 
ing the  spade,  pick,  drinking-tin,  sieve, 
and  other  paraphernalia  of  her  occupa- 
tion, her  not  irregular  features  wearing 
a  bold,  defiant  expression,  and  nothing 
womanly  about  her  except  two  or  three 
latent  evidences  of  feminine  weakness, 
in  the  shape  of  a  coral  necklace,  a  pair 
of  glittering  ear-rings,  and  a  bonnet, 
which,  aa  regards  shape,  size,  and  col- 
or, strongly  resembled  the  fim-tail  hat  of 
a  London  coal-heaver, — she  proceeded 
unabashed  through  the  crowded  streets. 


6i8 


NeedU  and  Garden. 


[May. 


no  one  appearing  to  regard  the  degrad* 
ing  spectacle  as  being  anything  un- 
usual'' 

Some  work  in  the  potteries  at  the  lar 
borious  task  of  preparing  the  clay,  and 
others  in  the  brick-yards,  in  open  weath- 
er, and  on  the  wet  clay,  with  naked  feet 
At  other  times  the  same  women  are 
forced,  by  the  nature  of  their  employ- 
ment, to  walk  over  hot  pipes,  obliging 
them  to  wear  heavy  wooden  shoes  to 
protect  their  feet  from  being  burned. 
Every  stranger  who  sees  these  women 
at  their  work  is  shocked  at  the  impro- 
priety and  dangerous  nature  of  their 
occupation. 

So  far  exceeding  masculine  strength 
and  endurance  are  the  tasks  imposed  on 
thousands  of  English  dairy- women,  that 
they  constitute  a  special  class  of  pa- 
tients with  the  medical  Acuity,— pining 
and  perishing  under  maladies  arising 
entirely  from  over-fatigue  and  insuffi- 
cient rest 

There  are  multitudes  of  women  in 
Liverpool  who  work  daily  on  the  farms 
around  that  city.  They  walk  four  or 
five  miles  to  the  scene  of  their  toil, 
where  they  are  required  to  be  by  six  in 
the  summer  months  and  seven  in  the 
winter.  They  work  all  day  at  the  se- 
verest agricultural  labor,  wielding  a 
heavy,  clumsy  hoe,  digging  potatoes, 
grubbing  up  stones  from  the  soil,  stoop- 
ing on  the  ground  in  weeding,  and 
compelled  even  to  the  unfeminine  and 
offensive  employment  of  spreading  ma- 
nure. For  a  day's  work  at  what  men 
alone  should  be  required  to  do,  they 
receive  but  a  shilling !  Then,  worn 
out  with  fatigue,  having  eaten  little 
more  than  the  crust  they  brought  with 
them,  —  for  what  more  can  be  afforded 
by  one  who  earns  only  a  shilling  a  day  ? 
—  they  drag  themselves  back  at  night- 
£dl  over  the  increasingly  weary  miles 
which  they  traversed  in  the  morning. 
What  comforts  can  fall  to  the  lot  of 
such  ?  What  a  domestic  life  must  such 
unhappy  creatures  lead ! 

There  are  yet  others,  in  that  land 
which  boasts  of  its  high  civilization, 
who  live  by  carrying  to  the  city  im- 
mense loads  of  sand  for  sixpence  a  day, 


—  harder  work  than  carT3ring  a  hod. 
Other  women  may  be  daily  seen  collect- 
ing fresh  manure  along  the  streets  and 
docks  of  Liverpool 

In  certain  rooms  of  the  great  English 
cotton-mills,  the  high  temperature  main- 
tained there  compels  the  women  to  work 
in  a  half-naked  condition.  This  con- 
stant exposure  of'  one  half  the  body 
speedily  destroys  all  fepiinine  modesty. 
Added  to  this  is  an  extreme,  but  un- 
avoidable, filthiness  of  person.  These 
poor  creatures  part  with  their  health 
almost  as  quickly  as  with  Jtheir  modes- 
ty. They  become  hollow-cheeked  and 
pale,  while  their  coarse  laugh  and  ges- 
tures indicate  a  deep  demoralization. 

There  are  many  English  women  en- 
gaged in  the  occupation  of  nail-making. 
They  work  in  glass-houses,  glue-works, 
nursery-gardens,  at  ordinary  £uin-work. 
On  some  of  the  canals  they  manage 
the  boats,  open  the  locks,  drive  the 
horses,  and  sometimes  even  draw  the 
boats  with  the  line  across  their  shoul- 
ders. In  short,  wherever  the  lowest  and 
dirtiest  drudgery  is  to  be  done,  there 
they  are  almost  invariably  to  be  found. 
For  wages,  they  sometimes  get  tenpence 
a  day,  sometimes  only  sixpence.  If  they 
perform  overwork,  they  get  a  penny  an 
hour, — a  penny  for  the  hauling  of  a 
canal-boat  for  an  hour  1  Here  is  pov- 
erty in  its  most  abject  condition,  and 
hard  work  in  its  most  killing  form. 
Their  victims  are  necessarily  toilwom, 
degraded,  and  hopelessly  immonl. 

It  is  such  extreme  destitution  that 
drives  women  to  crime.  In  an  Eng- 
lish paper-mill,  where  the  girls  worked 
at  counting  the  sheets  in  a  room  by 
themselves,  and  made  good  wages,  they 
were  all  well-behaved  and  respectable. 
In  another  department  of  the  same  mill, 
where  the  work  was  dirty  and  the  wages 
only  a  shilling  a  day,  they  were  almost 
uniformly  of  bad  character.  The  base 
employment  degraded  them,  —  the  star- 
vation wages  demoralized  them.  Phil- 
anthropy has  not  been  deaf  to  the  cries 
of  these  unhappy  classes,  and  has  made 
repeated  and  herculean  efforts  to  im- 
prove their  condition  and  reform  their 
morals.   But  the  stumbling-block  of  ez- 


186$.] 


NudU  and  Garden. 


619 


cessively  low  wages  was  alwajrs  in  the 
way.  It  was  found,  that,  until  the  phys- 
ical condition  was  improved,  the  ordi- 
nary wants  of  life  supplied,  the  moral 
status  was  incapable  of  elevation. 

I  grant  that  no  one  item  of  this  long 
pttalogue  of  calamities  has  yet  overtak- 
en the  women  of  our  own  country.  It 
would  seem  that  the  fact  must  be,  that 
in  other  lands  the  sex  is  not  more  de- 
graded than  it  was  centuries  ago,  but 
that  it  has  never  been  permitted  to  rise 
to  its  true  level  Once  put  down,  it  has 
always  been  kept  down. 

The  contrast  between  the  condition 
of  women  in  foreign  countries  and  their 
condition  here  is  too  striking  to  be  over^ 
looked.  We  have  our  hardships,  our 
trials,  our  privations ;  but  what  are  they 
to  those  of  our  European  sisters  ?  If 
we  get  low  wages,  they  are  in  most 
cases  sufficient  to  enable  us  to  main- 
tain a  respectable  position  and  a  de- 
cent appearance.  If  the  influence  of 
caste  is  felt  among  us,  if  by  some  it  is 
considered  ungenteel  to  work,  this  pre- 
judice is  not  of  American  growth,  but 
was  transferred  to  our  shores  from  the 
very  people  with  whom  woman  is  de- 
graded to  the  level  of  the  brutes.  The 
first  settlers  brought  it  with  them,  and 
it  has  descended  to  us  as  an  inheritance. 
While  it  is  our  province  to  confront  it, 
we  should  do  so  bravely. 

But  as  yet,  no  woman  here  is  com- 
pelled to  engage  in  labor  that  involves 
the  necessity  of  dressing  like  a  man. 
The  law  itself  forbids  such  change  of 
dress ;  and  when  it  was  proposed,  some 
years  ago,  to  so  alter  our  costume  as 
to  make  it  half  male  and  half  female, 
not  for  working  purposes,  but  for  mere 
personal  convenience,  the  public  senti- 
ment of  the  nation  ridiculed  and  frown- 
ed it  down.  The  other  sex  has  been 
educated  to  regard  us  with  a  respect 
and  deference  too  sincere  to  permit 
these  foreign  degradations  to  overtake 
us ;  while  the  spirit  of  independence  in- 
liised  by  the  nature  of  our  government* 
the  unrestricted  intercourse  of  all  class- 
es with  each  other,  and  that  robust  train- 
ing of  thought  which  it  is  impossible 
that  any  American  woman  should  £&il 


to  receive,  will  forever  place  us  above 
the  shocking  contingencies  to  which  the 
poor  laborious  Englishwoman  is  expos- 
ed. If^  in  common  with  her,  we  are  com- 
pelled to  work,  our  labor  will  keep  us  re- 
spectable, though  it  fiiil  to  make  us  rich. 

These  are  some  of  the  compensa- 
tions which  fell  to  the  lot  of  the  Ameri- 
can working-woman.  There  are  many 
others,  —  too  many,  indeed,  to  be  recit- 
ed here.  Chief  among  them  is  the  re- 
spect and  courtesy  accorded  to  us  by  all 
classes.  A  public  insult  to  a  well-be- 
haved woman  is  never  heard  of.  We 
may  travel  unattended  over  the  vast  net- 
work of  railroads  that  traverse  our  coun- 
try, and  passenger  and  conductor  will 
vie  with  each  other  in  paying  us  not 
only  respect,  but  attention.  The  for- 
mer instinctively  rises  from  his  seat 
that  we  may  be  accommodated.  It  is 
the  same  in  all  public  places, — in  the 
streets,  in  churches,  and  in  places  of 
public  entertainment  At  table  we  are 
served  first  In  short,  as  we  respect 
ourselves,  so  will  others  respect  us. 
The  laws  have  been  modified  in  our  &- 
vor.  The  property  of  a  woman  is  her 
own,  whether  married  or  single.  It  is 
subject  to  no  invasion  by  her  husband's 
creditors,  yet  her  dower  in  his  estate 
remains  good. 

These  are  substantial  concessions  to 
our  sex,  and  they  are  prime  essentials 
to  personal  comfort  For  my  part,  I 
am  content  with  them,  asking  no  oth- 
er. I  have  never  slept  uneasily  be- 
cause the  law  did  not  permit  me  to 
vote  or  to  become  a  candidate  for  of- 
fice. The  time  was,  as  I  have  heard, 
when  women  voted,  all  who  were  eigh- 
teen years  old  being  entiUed  to  depos- 
it their  ballots.  They  mingled  in  the 
crowds  about  the  polls,  and  became  as 
violentiy  agitated  by  partisan  excite- 
ments as  the  men.  Those  who  would 
have  been  quiet  home  bodies,  had  no 
such  foolish  liberty  been  allowed  them, 
became  zealous  politicians ;  while  oth- 
ers, to  whom  excitement  of  some  kind 
was  a  necessity  of  life,  turned  to  this, 
and  became  so  wild  with  political  furor 
as  to  unsex  themselves,  —  if  throwing 
all  modesty  be  doing  sa    They 


620 


NeeeUe  and  Garden. 


[May, 


carried  placards  in  their  hands  among^ 
the  crowd  to  influence  voters,  distrib- 
uted handbills  and  tickets,  entered  into 
£uniliar  conversation  with  total  stran- 
gers, many  of  them  persons  of  infiunous 
character,  and  pleaded  and  wrangled 
with  them  to  secure  their  votes.  They 
obeyed  literally  the  injunction  of  mod- 
em  political  managers  to  ^  vote  early," 
—  so  many  mere  girls  swearing  that 
they  were  of  legal  age,  when  they  were 
in  reality  much  younger,  that  the  sin- 
gular statistical  dislocation  became  ap- 
parent, that  there  were  no  women  in 
the  country  under  eighteen  years  old. 
With  so  loose  a  morality  on  this  point, 
it  cannot  be  doubted  that  the  other  in- 
junction, to  **vote  often,"  was  as  gen- 
erally obeyed.  I  Jiave  no  positive  in- 
formation as  to  how  the  married  wom- 
en who  thus  devoted  themselves  to  elec- 
tioneering managed  their  domestic  con- 
cerns,— who  prepared  the  dinner,  who 
rocked  the  cradle,  who  tended  the  baby, 
— or  whether  these  cares  were  thrust 
upon  the  husbands.  History  is  silent 
on  this  subject;  but  the  more  practi- 
cal minds  of  the  men  of  this  generation 
can  readily  conceive  how  inconvenient 
it  would  be  for  them  to  be  transformed 
into  cooks  and  dry-nurses. 

I  have  had  no  ambition  to  parade  in 
Bloomer  costume,  or  to  be  otherwise 
eccentric,  even  where  it  happened  to  be 
more  comfortable.  Neither  have  I  fig- 
ured as  the  chairman  or  secretary  of  a 
woman's  convention,  nor  had  my  name 
ringing  through  the  newspapers  as  an 
impatient  struggler  after  more  rights 
than  I  now  possess.  I  do  not  think 
that  I  should  be  happier  by  being  per- 
mitted to  vote,  and  am  sure  there  is  no 
office  I  can  think  of  that  I  would  have 
for  the  asking.  But  I  was  never  one 
of  the  strong-minded  of  my  sex.  I 
know  that  there  are  such,  and  that 
even  in  this  noisy  world  they  have 
made  themselves  heard.  How  attend 
tively  they  have  been  listened  to  I  will 
not  stop  to  inquire.  I  have  always  be- 
lieved that  the  truest  self-respect  lies, 
not  in  the  exaction  of  questionable  pre- 
rogatives, but  in  seeking  to  attain  that 
shining  eminence  to  which  the  common 


sentiment  of  our  fellow-beings  will  con- 
cede honor  and  admiration  as  its  right* 
fill  due. 

Yet  the  picture  which  represents  the 
true  condition  of  our  working-women 
has  undeniably  its  harsh  and  melan- 
choly features.  It  shows  a  daily,  con<^ 
stant  struggle  for  adequate  compensa- 
tion. There  is  everywhere  a  discrimi- 
nation against  them  in  the  matter  of 
wages,  as  compared  with  those  of  men. 
It  looks,  in  some  cases,  indeed,  as  if 
women  were  employed  only  because 
they  can  be  had  at  cheaper  rates. 

Probably  the  gay  ladies  covered  with 
brilliants  that  flash  out  accumulated  lus- 
tre firom  the  foodights  of  the  theatres 
they  nightly  visit  have  no  suspicion  that 
the  delicate  and  graceful  girls  they  see 
upon  the  stage  are  victims  of  this  same 
unjust  discrimination  as  regards  com- 
pensation. I  have  never  been  inside  a 
theatre,  and  know  nothing  of  the  stage, 
or  of  the  dancing-girls,  except  what  I 
hear  and  read.  But  I  can  readily  im- 
agine how  beautifiil  these  young  crea- 
tures must  appear,  dressed  in  light  and 
gracefiil  attire,  bringing  out  by  all  the 
well-known  artifices  of  theatrical  cos- 
tume the  most  captivating  charms  of 
fiice  and  figure.  As  they  crowd  up- 
on the  stage  in  tableaux,  which  with- 
out long  and  toilsome  rehearsal  would 
become  mere  confixsed  and  aimless 
groupings  of  gayly  dressed  dancers, 
they  take  their  appointed  places,  and 
with  a  symmetricsd  unity  repeat  the 
graceful  combinations  of  attitude  and 
movement  they  have  so  laboriously  ac- 
quired in  private.  The  crowded  house 
is  electrified  by  the  complicated,  yet 
truly  beautiful  display.  All  is  fiiir  and 
happy  on  the  outside.  No  step  is  pain- 
fiil,  no  grief  shows  itself,  no  conscious- 
ness of  wrong  appears,  no  fiice  but  is 
wreathed  in  smiles.  The  show  of  per- 
fect happiness  is  complete. 

But  do  the  crowds  of  rich  men  who 
occupy  box  and  pit  bestow  a  thought 
on  the  domestic  life  of  these  }'Ottng 
ghrls  ?  Do  their  wives  and-  daughters, 
lolling  on  cushioned  seats,  clothed  in 
purple  and  fine  linen,  and  waited  on  by 
a  host  9f  obsequfotts  fops,  ever  think 


i86S.] 


Needle  and  Garden. 


621 


whether  the  dancing-girls  have  a  do- 
mestic life  of  any  kind  or  not  ?  They 
came  to  the  theatre  to  be  amused, — 
not  to  meditate ;  why  should  they  per- 
mit their  amusement  to  be  clouded  by 
a  single  thought  as  to  whether  any  oth- 
ers but  themselves  are  happy  ? 

Sometimes,  in  the  evolutions  of  the 
dance,  the  gossamer  dresses  of  these 
ballet-girls  are  caught  in  the  blaze  of 
the  footlights,  instantly  enveloping  them 
in  fire,  and  burning  them  to  a  crisp,  — 
and  they  are  borne  from  the  theatre 
to  the  grave.  Yet  these  girls,  thus 
nightly  exposed  to  so  frightful  a  death, 
are  paid  a  third  to  a  half  less  than  men 
employed  in  the  same  vocation,  and 
who  by  dress  are  exempt  from  such 
hazards.  Moreover,  the  wardrobe  of 
the  men  is  furnished  by  the  theatrical 
manager,  —  while  the  g^ls,  those  even 
who  receive  but  five  dollars  a  week, 
are  compelled  out  of  this  slender  sum 
to  supply  their  own.  They  must  change 
it  also  at  every  caprice  of  fiishion  or 
of  the  manager,  sometimes  at  very 
short  notice,  and  are  expected,  no  mat- 
ter how  heavy  the  heart  or  how  light 
the  purse,  to  come  before  the  public 
the  impersonation  of  taste  and  elegance 
and  happiness.  A  single  dress  will  at 
times  consume  the  whole  salary  of  a 
month;  and  to  obtain  it  even  at  that 
cost,  the  ballet-girl  must  work  on  it 
with  her  ovm  hands  day  and  night 
She  must  submit  to  these  impositions, 
or  give  up  her  occupation,  when  per- 
haps she  can  find  nothing  better  to  do. 

The  star-actor,  the  strutting  luminary 
of  the  theatre,  whether  native  or  im- 
ported,—  he  who  receives  the  highest 
salary  for  the  least  work, — when  the 
performance  is  closed,  unrobes  himself 
and  departs,  with  no  care  or  oversight 
of  the  drapery  in  which  he  charmed  his 
audience.  He  leaves  it  in  the  dressing- 
room, —  it  is  the  manager*s  tinsel,  not 
his,  —  and  the  owner  may  see  to  it  or 
not  Not  so  the  poor  ballet-girl,  whose 
elaborate  performances  have  been  an  in- 
dispensable feature  of  the  evening's  en- 
tertainment    Her  gossamer  dress,  her 


costly  wreaths  of  flowers,  her  nicely  fit- 
ting slippers,  are  carefully  packed  up» — 
for  they  are  her  own,  her  capital  in  trade, 
and  must  be  taken  care  of.  The  well- 
paid  actor  goes  to  the  most  fashionable 
restaurant,  gorges  himself  with  rich  dish- 
es and  costly  wines,  then  seeks  his  bed 
to  dream  blissfully  over  his  fat  salary 
and  his  luxurious  supper.  The  ballet- 
girl  takes  up  her  solitary  walk  for  the 
humble  home  in  which  perhaps  an  in- 
firm mother  is  anxiously  waiting  her  re- 
turn, exposed  to  such  libertine  insults 
as  the  midnight  appearance  of  a  young 
girl  on  the  street  is  sure  to  invite.  It 
is  many  hours  since  she  dined ;  she  is 
fatigued  and  hungry,  but  she  sups  up- 
on a  crust,  or  the  cold  remains  of  what 
was  at  best  a  meagre  dinner,  with  pos- 
sibly a  cup  of  tea,  boiled  by  herself  at 
midaight,  —  then  goes  wearily  to  bed, 
and  sleeps  as  well  as  one  so  hard-work- 
ed and  so  poorly  paid  may  be  able  to. 

The  gay  crowds  who  spend  their 
evenings  at  the  theatres  are  permitted 
to  see  but  one  side  of  this  tableau. 
The  curtain  lifts  upon  the  group  of 
smiling  ballet-girls,  but  it  never  un- 
veils their  private  life.  The  theatre  is 
intended  to  amuse,  not  to  excite  com- 
miseration for  the  realities  of  every-day 
life  around  us.  Why  should  anything 
disagreeable  be  aUowed  ?  If  it  sought 
to  make  people  unhappy,  it  would  soon 
become  an  obsolete  institution. 

With  all  these  impositions,  actresses 
and  ballet-girls  are  proverbially  more 
tractable  than  actors,  less  exacting,  more 
uncomplaining,  more  unfiiilingly  prompt 
in  their  attendance  and  in  the  discharge 
of  their  arduous  duties.  Why,  then,  are 
they  sui>jected  to  such  grinding  injus- 
tice, except  because  of  their  weakness  ? 
And  who  will  wonder,  that,  thus  kept 
constantly  poor,  they  should  sometimes 
fidl  away  from  virtue  ?  Their  profes- 
sion surrounds  them  with  temptations 
sufficiendy  numerous  and  insidious; 
and  when  to  these  is  added  the  crown- 
ing one  of  promised  relief  from  hopeless 
penury,  shall  Pity  refuse  a  tear  to  the 
unhappy  victims  ? 


622  Casiles.  [May, 


CASTLES. 

THERE  is  a  picture  in  my  brain 
That  only  fsuies  to  come  again: 
The  sunlight,  through  a  veil  of  rain 

To  leeward,  gilding 
A  narrow  stretch  of  brown  sea-sand ; 
A  light-house  half  a  league  from  land ; 
And  two  young  lovers  hand  in  hand 
A-cas  tie-building. 

Upon  the  budded  apple-trees 

The  robins  sing  by  twos  and  threes, 

And  even  at  the  feintest  breeze 

Down  drops  a  blossom; 
And  ever  would  that  lover  be 
The  wind  that  robs  the  bourgeoned  tree^ 
And  lifts  the  soft  tress  daintily 

On  Beauty*s  bosom. 

Ah,  graybeard,  what  a  happy  thing 
It  was,  when  life  was  in  its  spring, 
To  peep  through  Love's  betrothal  ring 

At  Fields  Elysian, 
To  move  and  breathe  in  magic  air. 
To  think  that  all  that  seems  is  £url  — 
Ah,  ripe  young  mouth  and  golden  hair. 

Thou  pretty  vision ! 

Well,  well,  —  I  think  not  on  these  two, 
But  the  old  wound  breaks  out  anew. 
And  the  old  dream,  as  if  't  were  true, 

In  my  heart  nestles; 
Then  tears  come  welling  to  my  eyes, 
For  yonder,  all  in  saintly  guise. 
As  't  were,  a  sweet  dead  woman  lies 

Upon  the  trestles! 


1865.] 


Fair  Play  the  Best  Policy. 


623 


FAIR   PLAY   THE   BEST   POLICY. 


IT  IS  said  that  Lord  Eldon,  the  typi- 
cal conservative  of  his  day,  shed 
tears  of  sincere  regret  on  the  abolition 
of  the  death-penalty  for  five-shilling 
thefts.  The  unfortunate  Lord  Eldons 
of  our  own  day  must  be  weeping  in  riv- 
ers. Slavery  is  dead,  and  the  freedmen 
are  its  bequest  Through  a  Red  Sea 
which  no  one  would  have  dared  to  con- 
template, we  have  attained  to  the  Prom- 
ised Land.  By  the  sublimest  revenge 
which  history  has  placed  on  record,  we 
have  returned  good  for  evil,  and  have 
punished  those  who  wronged  us  by  re- 
quiring them  to  cease  from  doing  wrong. 
The  grand  poetic  justice  by  which  Mary- 
land, the  first  State  to  shed  her  brothers' 
blood,  has  been  the  first  to  be  trans- 
formed into  a  condition  of  happy  liberty, 
only  symbolizes  a  like  severity  of  kind- 
ness in  store  for  all.  Five  years  of  de- 
vastating war  will  have  only  rounded  the 
sublime  cycle  of  retribution  predicted  so 
tersely  by  Whittier  long  ago :  — 

**  Have  they  chained  our  free-born  men  f 
Let  us  uachain  then*.** 

The  time  has  come  to  put  in  practice 
that  fine  suggestion  of  the  wise  foreign 
traveller.  Von  Raumer,  which  some  of 
us  may  remember  to  have  read  with  al- 
most hopeless  incredulity  twenty  years 
ago.  ''  The  European  abolition  of  the 
dependent  relations  between  men  of  one 
and  the  same  race  was  an  easy  matter, 
compared  with  the  task  which  Ameri- 
cans have  to  perform.  But  if,  on  the 
one  part,  this  task  carries  with  it  many 
cares,  pains,  and  sufferings,  on  the  oth- 
er hand,  the  necessary  instruction  and 
guardianship  of  the  blacks,  and  their 
final  reconciliation  with  the  whites,  offer 
an  employment  so  noble,  influential,  and 
sublime,  that  the  Americans  should  tes- 
tify with  awe  and  humility  their  grati- 
tude to  Providence  for  intrusting  them 
with  this  duty  also,  in  addition  to  many 
others  of  the  greatest  importance  to  the 
progress  of  the  race.  Were  its  perform- 
ance really  impossible,  it  would  not 
have  been  imposed." 


In  important  periods,  words  are 
events ;  and  history  may  be  read  in  the 
successive  editions  of  a  dictionary.  The 
transition  from  the  word  "  serf"  to  the 
word  *' citizen"  marked  no  European 
epoch  more  momentous  than  that  re- 
vealed by  the  changes  in  our  American 
vocabulary  since  the  war  began.  In 
the  newspapers,  the  speeches,  the  gen- 
eral orders,  one  finds,  up  to  a  certain 
time,  a  certain  class  recognized  only  as 
^  slaves."  Suddenly  the  slaves  vanish 
from  the  page,  and  a  race  of  *^  contra- 
bands" takes  their  place.  After  an- 
other interval,  these,  too,  gradually  dis- 
appear, and  the  liberated  beings  are 
caUed  *' freedmen."  The  revolution  is 
then  virtually  accomplished ;  and  noth- 
ing remains  but  to  rectify  the  details, 
and  drop  the  d.  When  the  freedmen 
are  lost  in  the  mass  of  freemen,  then 
the  work  will  be  absolutely  complete ; 
and  the  retrospect  of  its  successive 
stages  will  be  matter  for  the  antiqua- 
ry alone. 

Corresponding  with  these  verbal 
milestones,  one  may  notice  successive 
stages  of  public  sentiment  as  to  the 
class  thus  variously  designated.  It  was 
usually  considered  that  the  <' slaves" 
were  a  vast  and  almost  hopeless  mass 
of  imbruted  humanity.  It  was  generally 
feared  that  the  ''contrabands"  would 
prove  a  race  of  helpless  paupers,  whose 
support  would  bankrupt  the  nation.  It 
is  almost  universally  admitted  th^t  the 
''freedmen"  are  industrious,  intelli- 
gent, self-supporting,  soldierly,  eager 
for  knowledge,  and  far  more  easily 
managed  than  an  equal  number  of 
white  refugees. 

There  is  no  doubt  that  these  last 
developments  were  in  some  degree  a 
surprise  to  Abolitionists,  as  well  as  to 
pro-slavery  prophets.  They  compelled 
the  admission,  either  that  slavery  was 
less  demoralizing  than  had  been  sup- 
posed, or  else  that  this  particular  type 
of  human  nature  was  less  easy  to  de- 
moralize.   It  is  but  a  few  years  since 


624 


Fair  Play  the  Best  Policy. 


[May, 


anti-slavery  advocates  indignantly  re- 
jected the  assertion  that  the  English 
peasantry  were  more  degraded  than 
the  slaves  of  South  Carolina.  Yet  no 
dweller  on  the  Sea  Islands  can  now 
read  a  book  like  Kay's  '^  Social  Con- 
dition of  the  English  People,"  without 
perceiving  that  the  families  around  him, 
however  fresh  from  slavery,  have  the 
best  of  the  comparison.  In  the  one 
class  the  finer  instincts  of  humanity 
seem  dead;  in  the  lowest  specimens 
of  the  other  those  instincts  are  but 
sleeping.  I  have  seen  men  and  women 
collected  from  the  rice-fields  by  the 
hundred,  at  the  very  instant  of  trans- 
ition from  slavery  to  freedom.  They 
were  starved,  squalid,  ragged,  and  igno- 
rant to  the  last  degree ;  but  I  could  not 
call  them  degraded,  for  they  had  the 
instincts  of  courtesy  and  the  profound- 
est  religious  emotions.  There  was  none 
of  that  hard,  stolid,  besotted  dulness 
which  seems  to  reduce  the  English 
peasant  below  the  level  of  the  brutes 
he  tends. 

And  what  is  surprising,  above  all,  in 
the  freedman's  condition,  is,  not  that  it 
shows  a  recuperative  power,  but  that  it 
has  such  a  wonderful  suddenness  in  the 
recoil.  It  is  not  a  growth,  but  a  spring. 
It  reverses  the  nihil  per  saltum  of  the 
philosophers.  In  watching  them,  one 
is  constantly  reminded  of  those  trances 
produced  by  some  violent  blow  upon 
the  head,  from  which  the  patient  sud- 
denly recovers  with  powers  intact  One 
looks  for  a  gradual  process,  and  beholds 
a  sudden  illumination.  This  abates  a 
little  pf  one's  wrath  at  slavery,  perhaps, 
though  the  residuum  is  quite  sufficient ; 
but  it  infinitely  enhances  one's  hopes 
for  the  race  set  free.  It  shows  that 
they  have  simply  risen  to  the  stature 
of  men,  and  must  be  treated  accord- 
ingly. 

And,  indeed,  when  one  thinks  how 
unexampled  in  our  tame  experience  is 
the  event  which  has  thus  suddenly  rais- 
ed them  from  their  low  estate,  one  must 
expect  to  find  something  unexampled 
in  the  result  This  is  true  even  where 
liberty  has  come  merely  as  a  thing  to 
be  passively  received ;  but  in  many 


cases  the  personal  share  of  the  fireed- 
man  has  been  anything  but  passive. 
What  can  most  of  us  know  of  the  awful 
thrill  which  goes  through  the  soul  of  a 
man,  when,  having  come  over  a  hun- 
dred miles  of  hourly  danger  out  of 
slavery  to  our  lines,  with  rifie-bullets 
whizzing  round  him  and  bloodhounds 
on  the  trail  behind,  he  counts  that  for 
a  preliminary  trip  only,  and,  having 
thus  found  the  way,  goes  back  through 
that  hundred  miles  of  peril  yet  again, 
and  brings  away  his  wife  and  child? 
As  Hawtho|iie's  artist  fiung  his  hope- 
less pencil  into  Niagara,  so  all  one's 
puny  literary  art  seems  utterly  merged 
and  swept  away  in  the  magnificent  flood 
of  untaught  eloquence  with  which  some 
such  nameless  man  will  pour  out  his 
tale.  Two  things  seem  worth  record- 
ing, and  no  third :  the  passionate  emo* 
tions  of  the  humblest  negro,  as  they 
burst  into  language  at  such  a  time,  — 
and  the  very  highest  triumph  of  the  very 
greatest  dramatic  genius,  if  perchance 
some  Shakspeare  or  Goethe  could  im- 
agine a  kindred  utterance.  Anything 
intermediate  must  be  worthless  and  un- 
availing. 

Now  there  is  no  doubt,  that,  under 
this  great  stimulus,  the  freedmen  will 
do  their  part ;  the  anxious  question  is, 
whether  we  of  the  North  are  ready  to 
do  ours.  Our  part  consists  not  chiefly 
in  money  and  old  clothes,  nor  even  in 
school-books  and  teachers.  The  es- 
sential thing  which  we  need  to  give 
them  is  justice ;  for  that  must  be  the 
first  demand  of  every  rational  being. 
Give  them  justice,  and  they  can  dis- 
pense even  with  our  love.  Give  them 
the  most  exuberant  and  zealous  love» 
and  it  may  only  hurt  them,  if  it  leads 
us  to  subject  them  to  fatal  experiments, 
and  to  fancy  them  exceptions  to  the 
universal  laws. 

Cochin  well  says,  —  '^  To  have  set 
men  at  liberty  is  not  enough :  it  is 
necessary  to  place  them  in  society." 
That  American  emancipation  should  be 
a  success  is  more  important  to  every 
one  of  us  than  the  whole  sugar-crop 
of  Louisiana  or  the  whole  rice-crop  of 
Georgia.     Secure  this  result,  and  the 


1865.] 


Fair  Play  tlie  Bat  Polity  . 


625 


future  opens  for  this  nation  a  larger 
horizon  than  the  most  impassioned 
Fourth-of-July  orator  in  the  old  times 
dared  to  draw.  Fail  iii  this  result,  and 
the  future  holds  endless  disorders,  with 
civil  war  reappearing  at  the  end.  If, 
therefore,  there  be  any  general  princi- 
ple to  assert,  any  essential  method  to 
inculcate,  its  adoption  is  the  most  es- 
sential statesmanship.  Twenty  mil- 
lions of  white  men,  with  ballots  and 
school-houses,  will  be  tolerably  sure  to 
thrive,  whatever  be  the  legislation : 
legislation  for  them  is  secondary,  be- 
cause they  are  assured  in  their  own 
strength.  But  four  millions  of  black 
men,  just  freed,  and  as  yet  unprovided 
with  any  of  these  tools, — the  fate  of 
the  nation  may  hinge  on  a  single  error 
in  legislating  for  them. 

Now  there  are  but  two  systems  pos- 
sible in  dealing  with  an  emancipated 
people.  All  minor  projects  are  modi- 
fications of  these  two.  There  is  the 
theory  of  preparation,  under  some  form, 
and  there  is  the  theory  of  fair  play. 
Preparation  is  apprenticeship,  prescrip- 
tion,—  the  bargains  of  the  freedman 
made  for  him,  not  by  him.  Fair  play  is 
to  remove  all  obstructions,  including 
the  previous  monopoly  of  the  soil, — 
to  recognize  the  freedman's  right  to  all 
social  and  political  guaranties,  and  then 
to  let  him  alone. 

There  is  undoubtedly  room  for  an 
honest  division  of  opinion  on  this  fun- 
damental matter,  among  persons  equal- 
ly sincere.  Even  among  equally  well- 
informed  persons  there  may  be  room 
for  difference,  although  it  will  hardly  be 
denied  that  those  who  favor  the  theory 
of  "  preparation  "  are  in  general  those 
who  take  a  rather  low  view  of  the  ca- 
pacities of  the  emancipated  race.  The 
policy  pursued  in  Louisiana,  for  in- 
stance, was  undoubtedly  based  at  the 
outset,  whatever  other  reasons'  have 
since  been  adduced,  on  the  theory  that 
the  freedmen  would  labor  only  under 
compulsion.  I  have  seen  an  elabo- 
rate argument,  from  a  leading  officer  in 
that  Department,  resting  the  whole  the- 
ory on  precisely  this  assumption.  '*  The 
negro,  bom  and  reared  in  ignorance, 

VOL.  XV.  —  NO.  91.  40 


could  not  for  years  be  taught  to  proper- 
ly understand  and  respect  the  obliga- 
tions of  a  contract  His  ideas  of  free- 
dom were  merged  in  the  &ct  that  he 
was  to  be  fed  and  clothed  and  supported 
in  idleness."  Whatever  excuses  may 
since  have  been  devised  for  the  system, 
this  was  its  original  postulate.  To  sup- 
pose it  true  would  be  to  reject  the  vast 
bulk  of  evidence  already  accumulated, 
all  demonstrating  the  ft^edmen*s  will- 
ingness to  work.  Yet  if  the  assumption 
be  false,  any  system  founded  on  it  nrast 
be  regarded  by  the  freedmen  as  an  in- 
sult, and  must  fail,  unless  greatly  modi- 
fied. 

In  organizing  emancipation,  one  great 
principle  must  be  kept  steadily  in  mind. 
All  men  will  better  endure  the  total 
withholding  of  all  their  rights  than  a 
system  which  concedes  half  and  keeps 
hack  the  other  half.  This  has  been  ad- 
mirably elucidated  by  De  Tocqueville 
in  his  ''Ancien  Rdgime,"  in  showing 
that  the  very  prosperity  of  the  reign  of 
Louis  XVI.  prepared  the  way  for  its 
overthrow^  "The  French  found  their 
position  the  more  insupportable,  the 
better  it  became.  ....  It  often  hap- 
pens that  a  people  which  has  endured 
the  most  oppressive  laws  without  com- 
plaint, and  as  if  it  did  not  feel  them, 
throws  them  off  violently  the  instant  the 
burden  is  lightened,  ....  and  experi- 
ence shows  that  the  most  dangerous 
moment  to  a  bad  government  is  usually 
that  in  which  it  begins  to  mend.  The 
evil  which  one  suflers  patiently  as  in- 
evitable seems  insuppoortable  as  soon 
as  he  conceives  the  idea  of  escaping  it 
All  that  is  then  taken  from  abusef  seems 
to  uncover  what  remains,  and  render 
the  feeling  of  it  more  poignant  The 
evil  has  become  less,  it  is  true,  but  the 
sensibility  is  keener." 

Every  one  who  is  fiimiliar  with  the 
freedmen  knows  that  this  could  not 
be  a  truer  description  of  their  case,  if 
every  word  hsul  been  written  expressly 
for  them.  The  most  timid  laborer  on 
the  remotest  plantation  will  not  bear 
from  his  superintendent  or  his  teacher 
the  injustice  he  bore  from  his  master. 
The  best-disciplined  black  soklier  wiU 


626 


Fair  Play  ike  Best  Policy. 


[May, 


not  take  from  his  captain  one  half 
the  t)rranny  which  his  overseer  might 
safely  have  inflicted.  Freedom  they 
tmderstand ;  slavery  they  understand. 
When  they  become  soldiers,  they  know 
that  part  of  their  civil  rights  are  to  be 
temporarily  waived;  and  as  soon  as 
they  can  read,  they  study  the  "Army 
Regulations,"  to  make  sure  that  they 
concede  no  more.  Neither  as  citizens 
nor  as  soldiers  do  they  retain  the  fac- 
ulty of  dumb,  dead  submission  which 
sustains  them  through  every  conceiv- 
able wrong  while  enslaved.  Before  a 
blow  from  his  master  the  slave  helpless- 
ly cowers,  and  takes  refuge  in  silent 
and  inert  despair.  He  draws  his  head 
into  his  shell,  like  a  turtle,  and  simply 
endures.  Liberate  him,  he  quits  the 
shell  forever,  and  the  naked  palpitating 
tissue  is  left  bare.  Afterwards,  every 
touch  reaches  a  nerve,  smd  every  nerve 
excites  a  whole  muscular  system  in  re- 
flex action. 

I  remember  an  amusing  incident 
which  took  place  while  1  was  on  picket 
at  Port  Ro^al.  Complaints,  began  to 
come  in  against  a  certain  neighboring 
superintendent,  an  ex-clergyman,  whose 
demeanor  was  certainly  not  creditable 
to  his  cloth,  but  whose  offences  would 
have  seemed  slight  enough  in  the  old 
plantation  times.  Still  they  were  enough 
to  exasperate  the  people  under  his 
charge,  and  the  ill  feeling  extended 
rapidly  among  the  black  soldiers,  many 
of  whom  had  been  slaves  on  that  very 
island.  At  last  their  captain  felt  it 
necessary  to  interfere.  "Has  it  ever 
occurred  to  you,  my  dear  Sir,"  he  one 
day  asked  the  superintendent,  "that 
you  are  in  some  danger  from  these  sol- 
diers whom  you  meet  every  day  with 
their  guns  in  the  picket  paths  ?  "  —  The 
official  colored  and  grew  indignant  "  Do 
you  mean  to  say,  Sir,  that  your  men  are 
forming  a  conspiracy  to  murder  me  ?  "  — 
"  By  no  means,"  returned  the  courteous 
captain.  "  I  trust  you  will  find  my  sol- 
diers too  well  disciplined  for  any  such 
impropriety.  But  you  may  not  have 
noticed  that  the  regiment  has  at  present 
exceedingly  poor  guns,  which  often  jgo 
off  at  half-cock,  so  that  no  one  can  be 


held  responsible.  It  was  but  the  other 
day  that  one  of  our  own  officers  was 
shot  dead  by  such  an  accident," — which 
was  unhappily  true,  —  "and  consider, 

my  dear  Sir,  how  very  painful" 

"  I  understand  you,  I  understand  you," 
interrupted  the  excited  divine,  putting 
spurs  to  his  horse.  It  was  a  remarka- 
ble coincidence  that  we  never  heard  an- 
other complaint  from  that  plantation. 

It  was  this  new-bom  sensitiveness 
that  brought  to  so  sudden  a  close  the 
attempted  apprenticeship  of  the  British 
West  Indies.  Cochin,  the  wisest  re- 
cent critic,  fully  recognizes  this  connec- 
tion of  events.  "  Either  the  regulations 
were  incomplete,  or  the  masters  failed 
in  their  observance,  or  such  failures 
were  not  repressed,  so  that  the  slaves 
were  in  many  places  maltreated  and 
mutinous.  In  proportion  as  the  mo- 
ment of  freedom  approached,  some 
broke  loose  prematurely  from  their  du- 
ties, others  aspired  prematurely  to  their 
rights.  Patience  long  delayed  is  easier 
than  patience  whose  end  is  approach- 
ing ;  it  is  at  the  last  moment  that  one 
grows  weary  of  waiting." 

The  best  preparation  for  freedom  is 
freedom.  It  is  of  infinite  importance 
that  we  should  avail  ourselves  of  the 
new-bom  self-reliance  of  the  freedmen 
while  its  first  vigor  lasts,  and  guard 
against  sacrificing  those  generous  aspi- 
rations which  are  the  basis  of  all  our 
hope.  It  is  not  now  doubted  (except, 
perhaps,  in  Louisiana)  that  the  first 
eager  desire  of  the  emancipated  slave 
is  to  own  land  and  support  his  own 
household.  I  remember  that  one  of 
the  ablest  sergeants  in  the  First  South 
Carolina  Volunteers,  when  some  of  us 
tried  to  convince  him  that  the  colored 
people  attached  too  much  importance 
to  the  mere  ownership  of  land,  utterly 
refused  all  acquiescence  in  the  criticism. 
"  We  shall  still  be  slaves,"  he  said,  in 
an  impassioned  way,  "  until  eb'ry  man 
can  raise  him  own  bale  ob  cotton,  and 
put  him  brand  upon  it,  and  say,  Dis  is 
mdneJ*  And  it  was  generally  admitted 
in  the  Department  of  the  South,  that 
the  freedmen  on  Port  Royal  Island, 
who  had  mostly  worked  for  themselves. 


i865.] 


Fair  Play  the  Best  Policy, 


627 


had  made  more  decided  progress,  and 
were  more  fitted  for  entire  self-reliance, 
than  those  who  had  remained  as  labor- 
ers on  the  plantations  owned  by  Mr. 
Philbrick  and  his  associates  upon  St 
Helena  Island.  Yet  it  would  be  im- 
possible to  try  the  sjrstem  of  tenant-in- 
dustry more  judiciously  than  it  was  tried 
under  those  circumstances ;  and  if  even 
that  was  found,  on  the  whole,  to  retard 
the  development  of  self-reliance  in  the 
freedmen,  what  must  it  be  where  this 
is  a  part  of  a  great  system  of  coercion, 
and  where  the  mass  of  the  employers 
are  still  slaveholders  at  heart? 

It  is  a  fact  of  the  greatest  impor- 
tance, that  King  Cotton  turns  out  to 
be  a  thorough  citizen-king,  and  adapts 
himself  very  readily  to  changed  events. 
The  great  Southern  staple  can  be  raised 
by  small  cultivators  as  easily  as  com 
or  potatoes ;  and  difficulty  begins  only 
when  sugar  and  rice  are  to  be  pro- 
duced. Yet  it  will  not  be  long  before 
these  also  will  come  within  reach  of  the 
freedmen,  if  they  continue  their  pres- 
ent tendency  towards  joint-stock  op- 
erations. In  the  colored  regiments  of 
South  Carolina  there  are  oiiganizations 
owning  plantations,  saw-mills,  town-lots, 
and  a  grocery  or  two :  they  even  medi- 
tate a  steamboat  A  few  of  these  as- 
sociations no  doubt  will  go  to  pieces, 
through  fraud  or  inexperience.  I  ndeed, 
I  knew  of  one  which  was  nearly  broken 
asunder  by  the  president's  taking  a 
£uicy  to  send  in  his  resignation:  no 
other  member  knew  the.  meaning  of 
that  hard  word,  and  they  were  disposed 
to  think  it  a  declaration  of  hostilities 
from  the  presiding  officer.  But  even  if 
such  associations  all  fail,  for  the  pres- 
ent, the  training  which  they  give  will  be 
no  failure ;  and  when  we  consider  that 
there  are  already  individuals  among  the 
freedmen  who  have  by  profitable  ven- 
tures laid  up  twenty  or  thirty  thousand 
dollars  within  three  years,  it  seems  no 
extravagant  ambition  for  a  joint-stock 
company  to  aim  at  a  rice-milL 

The  Sea  Islands  of  South  Carolina 
and  Georgia,  where,  from  the  very  be- 
ginning, under  the  limited  authority 
of  General  Saxton,  the  most  favorable 


results  of  emancipation  have  been  at- 
tained, are  now  to  be  the  scene  of  a 
larger  experiment,  still  under  the  same 
wise  care.  The  obje<^ions  urged  by 
General  Butler,  with  his  usual  acute- 
ness,  against  some  details  of  the  project 
of  General  Sherman,  must  not  blind  us 
to  its  real  importance.  Its  implied  ex- 
clusions can  easily  be  modified ;  but 
the  rights  which  it  vests  in  the  freed- 
men are  a  substantial  fiict,  which,  when 
once  established,  it  will  require  a  revo- 
lution to  overthrow.  The  locality  fixed 
for  the  experiment  is  singularly  favor- 
able. There  is  no  region  of  the  country 
where  a  staple  crop  can  be  grown  so 
profitably  by  small  landholders.  There 
is  no  agricultural  region  so  defensible, 
in  a  military  aspect  So  difficult  is  the 
navigation  of  the  muddy  tide-streams 
which  endlessly  intersect  these  islands, 
—  so  narrow  are  the  connecting  cause- 
ways,—  so  completely  is  every  plan- 
tation surrounded  and  subdivided  by 
hedges,  ditches,  and  earthworks,  long 
since  made  for  agricultural  purposes, 
and  now  most  available  for  defence,  — 
that  nothing  this  side  of  the  famous 
military  region  of  La  Vend^  (which 
this  district  much  resembles)  can  be 
more  easily  held  by  peasant  proprie- 
tors. 

The  mere  accidents  of  the  war  have 
often  led  to  the  experiment  of  leaving 
small  bodies  of  colored  settlers,  in  such 
favorable  localities,  to  support  and  de- 
fend themselves.  This  was  successful- 
ly done,  for  instance,  on  Barnwell  Isl- 
and, a  tract  two  or  three  miles  square, 
which  lies  between  Port  Royal  Island 
and  the  main,  in  the  direction  of  Poco- 
taligo,  and  is  the  site  of  the  Rhett  Plan- 
tation, described  in  Mr.  W.  H.  RusselUs 
letters.  This  region  was  entirely  be- 
yond our  picket  lines,  and  was  sepa- 
rated from  them  by  a  navigable  stream, 
while  from  the  Rebel  lines  it  was.  divid- 
ed only  by  a  narrow  creek  that  would 
have  been  fordable  at  low  water,  but 
for  the  depth  of  mud  beneath  and  around 
it  On  this  island  a  colony  of  a  hun- 
dred or  thereabouts  dweU  in  peace, 
with  no  resident  white  man,  jand  only 
an  occasional  visit  from  their  superin- 


628 


Fair  Play  the  Best  Polity. 


[May, 


tendent  There  were  some  twenty  able- 
bodied  settlers  who  did  picket  duty 
every  night,  by  a  system  of  their  own, 
and  for  many  hiontlis  there  was  no 
alarm  whatever, -*- the  people  raising 
their  cotton  and  supporting  tiiemselves. 
This  went  on,  until,  by  a  fatal  error  of 
judgment,  the  men  were  all  conscripted 
into  the  army.  This  was  soon  discov- 
ered by  the  Rebels,  who  presently  began 
to  make  raids  upon  the  island,  so  that 
ultimately  the  whole  population  had  to 
be  withdrawn. 

Extend  such  settlements  indefinitely, 
and  we  have  the  system  adopted  by 
General  Sherman.  It  is  a  system  which, 
like  every  other  practicable  method, 
must  depend  on  military  authority  at 
last,  and  for  which  the  army  should 
therefore  be  directly  responsible.  The 
main  argument  for  intrusting  the  care 
of  the  freedmen  to  a  bureau  of  the 
War  Department  is,  that  it  must  come 
to  be  controlled  by  that  Department, 
at  any  rate,  and  that  it  is  best  to  have 
the  responsibility  rest  where  the  pow- 
er lies.  On  conquered  territory  there 
can  be  but  one  authority,  and  no  con- 
ceivable ingenuity  can  construct  any 
other  system.  If  authority  is  apparently 
divided,  then  either  the  military  com- 
mander does  not  understand  his  busi- 
ness, or  he  is  hampered  by  impractica- 
ble orders  and  should  ask  to  be  relieved. 
This  is  what  has  paralyzed  the  action 
of  every  military  governor,  a  title  which 
implies  a  perfectly  anomalous  function, 
certain  to  lead  to  trouble*  Almost  all 
the  great  good  effected  by  General  Sax- 
ton  has  been  achieved  In  spite  of  that 
function,  not  by  means  of  it ;  and  it 
was  not  until  he  was  placed  in  military 
command  of  the  post  of  Beaufort  that 
he  was  able,  even  in  that  limited  region, 
to  establish  any  satisfactory  authority. 
All  else  that  he  did  was  by  sufierance, 
and  often  he  could  not  even  obtain 
sufferance. 

While  the  war  lasts,  martial  law  must 
last  After  martial  law  ceases,  civil 
institutions,  whatever  they  may  then 
be,  must  resume  control.  It  is  there- 
fore essential  that  all  the  rights  of  the 
freedmen  should  be  put  upon  a  sure 


basis  during  the  contest ;  but,  whatev- 
er method  be  adopted,  the  real  control 
must  inevitably  rest  with  the  War  De* 
partment  It  cannot  be  transferred  to 
civilians;  nor  is  there  reason  to  sup- 
pose it  desirable  for  the  freedmen  that 
it  should.  Whatever  be  the  disorder 
resulting  from  military  command,  it  has 
the  advantage  of  being  more  definite 
and  intelligible  than  civil  mismanage- 
ment; there  is  always  some  one  who 
can  be  held  responsible,  and  the  offend- 
er is  far  more  easily  brought  to  account 
On  this  point  I  speak  from  personal  ex- 
perience. In  South  Carolina  I  have  seen 
outrages  persistently  practised  among 
the  freedmen  by  civilians,  for  which  a 
military  officer  could  have  been  cash- 
iered in  a  month.  I  have  oftener  been 
appealed  to  for  redress  agsnnst  civil- 
ians than  against  officers  or  soldiers. 
I  have  been  compelled  to  post  senti- 
nels to  keep  superintendents  away  from 
their  own  plantations,  to  prevent  dis- 
turbance. I  have  been  a  member  of  a 
military  commission  which  sentenced  to 
the  pillory  an  eminent  Sunday-school 
teacher  who  had  been  convicted  of  the' 
unlawful  sale  of  whiskey, — and  this  in 
a  community  into  which  the  majority  of 
the  civilians  had  come  with  professedly 
benevolent  intent 

The  truth  is,  that  abuses^  acts  of  op- 
pression towards  the  freedmen,  do  not 
proceed  from  mere  antecedent  prejudice 
in  the  army  or  anywhere  else.  They 
proceed  from  the  temptations  of  power, 
and  from  that  impatience  which  one  is 
apt  to  restrain  among  his  equals  and  to 
indulge  among  his  inferiors.  The  irri- 
tability of  an  Abolitionist  may  lead  him 
to  outrages  as  great  as  those  which 
spring  from  the  selfishness  of  a  mere 
soldier.  It  is  becoming  almost  prover- 
bial, in  colored  regiments,  that  radical 
anti-slavery  men  make  the  best  and  the 
worst  officers :  the  best,  because  of 
their  higher  motives  and  more  elevated 
standard ;  the  worst,  because  they  are 
often  ungovemed,  insubordinate,  iropar 
tient,  and  will  sometimes  venture  on 
high-handed  acts,  under  the  fervor  of 
their  zeal,  such  as  a  mere  soldier  would 
not  venture  to  commit  Yet  in  an  army 


l86s.] 


Fair  Play  the  Best  Policy. 


629 


such  aberrations,  like  all  others,  yield 
to  discipline.  But  on  a  solitary  planta- 
tion the  temptations  and  immunities  of 
the  slave-driver  recur ;  and  I  have  seen 
men  yield  to  these,  who  had  safely 
passed  the  ordeal  of  persecution  and 
mobs  at  home. 

It  was  thus,  perhaps,  that  General 
Sherman  and  his  advisers  felt  justified 
in  adopting  the  theory  of  absolute  sep- 
aration, on  the  Sea  Islands,  —  seeing 
that  the  companionship  of  Southern 
white  men  would  be  an  evil,  and  that  of 
Northern  men  by  no  means  an  unmixed 
good.  Yet  it  seems  altogether  likely 
that  the  system  is  so  far  wrong,  and 
will  be  modified.  Separation  is  better 
than  "  preparation,"  and  is  a  good  an- 
tidote to  it.  It  IS  better  to  assume  the 
freedmen  too  self-reliant  than  too  feeble, 
—  better  to  exclude  white  men  than  to 
give  them  the  monopoly  of  power.  Nev- 
ertheless, the  principle  of  exclusion  is 
wrong,  though  it  is  happily  a  wrong  not 
fundamental  to  the  system,  and  hence 
easily  corrected.  If  the  people  of  any 
village  desire  to  introduce  a  white  teach- 
er, the  prohibition  would  become  an  ob- 
vious outrage,  which  hardly  any  ad- 
ministration would  risk  the  odium  of 
maintaining.  The  injury,  in  a  business 
point  of  view,  done  by  separation  would 
perhaps  strike  deeper,  and  be  harder  to 
correct.  Here,  for  instance,  is  the  flour- 
ishing negro  village  of  Mitchellville, 
just  outside  of  the  fortifications  of  Hil- 
ton Head.  All  that  is  produced  in  the 
numerous  garden-patches  of  the  suburb 
is  to  be  sold  in  the  town  ;  all  the  cloth- 
ing that  is  to  be  worn  in  the  suburb 
must  be  obtained  in  exchange  for  the 
garden -products.  Yet,  if  newspaper  cor- 
respondents tell  truth,  the  temporary 
commander  of  that  post  has  taken  it  on 
himself  to  forbid  white  men  from  trad- 
ing in  Mitchellville,  or  black  men  at  HiK 
ton  Head.  How,  then,  is  business  to  be 
transacted  ?  Are  the  inhabitants  of  the 
town  to  be  allowed  to  come  to  the  sally- 
port of  the  fortifications,  hand  out  a 
yard  of  ribbon  and  receive  two  eggs  in 
return?  If  the  entire  exchanges  are 
to  be  intrusted  to  a  few  privileged  fa- 
vorites, black  or  white,  then  another 


source  of  fraud  is  added  to  those  which 
lately,  in  connection  with  the  recruiting 
bounties,  have  been  brought  to  bear  up- 
on the  freedmen  of  that  Department, 
and,  if  the  truth  be  told,  under  the 
same  auspices  from  which  this  order 
proceeds.  Be  this  as  it  may,  it  seems 
a  pity  that  these  poor  people,  who  are 
just  learning  what  competition  means, 
and  will  walk  five  miles  farther  to  a 
shop  where  dry  goods  are  retailed  a 
little  cheaper,  should  be  checked  and 
hampered  in  their  little  commerce  by  an 
attempt  to  abolish  all  the  laws  of  politi- 
cal economy  in  their  fiivor. 

If  the  freedmen  were  a  race  like  the 
Indians,  wasting  away  by  unseen  laws 
through  the  mere  contact  of  the  white 
man,  the  case  would  be  very  different. 
Or  if  they  were  a  timid  and  dependent 
race,  needing  to  be  thrust  roughly  from 
the  nest,  like  young  birds,  and  made 
self-dependent,  the  difference  would  be 
greater  still.  But  it  is  not  so.  The 
negro  race  fits  into  the  white  race,  and 
thrives  by  its  side ;  and  the  farther 
South,  the  greater  the  thriving.  The 
emancipated  slave  is  also  self-relying, 
and,  if  fair  play  be  once  given,  can  hold 
his  own  against  his  former  master, 
whether  in  trade  or  in  war.  He  is 
improvident  while  in  slavery,  as  is  the 
Irishman  in  Ireland,  because  he  has  no 
opportunity  to  be  anything  else.  Shift 
the  position,  and  the  man  changes  with 
it,  —  becoming,  whether  Irishman  or 
negro,  a  shrewd  economist,  and  rather 
formidable  at  a  bargain.  Almost  every 
freedman  is  cheated  by  a  white  man 
once  after  his  emancipation,  and  many 
twice  ;  but  when  it  comes  to  the  third 
bargain,  it  is  observed  that  mere  Anglo- 
Saxon  blood  is  not  sufficient  to  secure 
a  victory. 

It  is  claimed  that  this  principle  of 
separation  was  adopted  after  consulta- 
tion with  the  leading  colored  men  of 
Savannah,  and  that  the  only  dissenter 
was  the  Rev.  James  Lynch,  a  North- 
em  colored  man.  But  it  also  turns 
out  that  Mr.  Lynch  was  the  only  man 
among  them  who  had  ever  seen  the 
experiment  tried  of  the  mingling  of  the 
races  in  a  condition  of  liberty.    He  is 


630 


Fair  Play  the  Best  Policy. 


[May, 


a  man  of  marked  energy  and  ability, 
and  has  been  for  two  years  one  of  the 
most  useful  missionaries  in  the  neigh- 
borhood of  Port  RoyaL  Some  weight 
is,  no  doubt,  to  be  attached  to  the  opin- 
ions of  those  who  had  known  white 
men  only  as'  masters  ;  but  we  should 
not  wholly  ignore  tlie  judgment  of  the 
only  delegate  who  had  met  them  on 
equal  terms.  In  restoring  men  from 
the  trance  of  slavery,  the  instincts  of 
the  patient,  though  doubtless  an  impor- 
tant fact,  are  not  the  only  point  to  be 
considered.  It  may  be  true,  as  Hip- 
pocrates said,  that  the  second-best  rem- 
edy will  succeed  better  than  the  best, 
if  die  patient  likes  it  best  But  it  is 
not  safe  to  forget  that  those  who  have 
never  known  their  brother-men  except 
in  the  light  of  oppressors  may  have 
some  crude  notions  on  political  econ- 
omy which  a  milder  experience  might 
change.  At  any  rate,  the  more  exclu- 
sive features  of  General  Sherman's 
project  may  be  changed  by  a  stroke 
of  the  pen ;  and  so  £u*  as  it  tends  to 
secure  the  freedmen  in  permanent  pos- 
session of  the  Sea  Islands,  it  is  almost 
an  unmingled  good. 

The  truth  is,  that,  in  these  changing 
days,  none  of  these  specific  *'  systems  " 
are  very  important  '*  Separation  "  is 
interesting  chiefly  because  it  is  the 
last  project  reported ;  ^*  preparation," 
because  it  was  the  last  but  one.  What 
is  needed  is  not  so  much  a  **  system  " 
as  the  setded  resolution  to  do  daily 
justice.  Let  any  military  commander 
merely  determine  to  treat  the  emanci- 
pated black  population  precisely  as  he 
would  treat  a  white  population  under 
the  same  circumstances,  —  to  encour- 
age industry,  schoob,  savings-banks, 
and  all  the  rest,  but  not  interfere  with 
any  of  them  too  much,  —  and  he  will 
have  General  Saxton's  method  and  his 
success.  The  question  what  to  do 
with  the  soil  is  far  more  embarrassing 
than  what  to  do  with  the  freedmen; 
and  happily  the  soil  also  can  be  let 
alone,  and  the  freedmen  will  take  care 
of  that  and  of  themselves  too.  We 
must  say  to  the  cotton  lords,  as  Home 
Tooke  said  to  Lord  Somebody  in  Eng- 


land, —  *Mf,  as  you  claim,  power  should 
follow  property,  then  we  will  take  from 
you  the  property,  and  the  power  shall 
follow."  And  fortunately  for  us,  the 
same  logic  of  events  points  to  the  po- 
litical enfranchisement  of  the  black  loy- 
alists, as  the  only  way  to  prevent  Con- 
gress from  being  replenished  with  plot- 
ting and  disloyal  men.  Fair  play  to 
them  is  thus  £iiir  play  to  all  of  us ;  and, 
like  Tony  Lumpkin,  in  Goldsmith's 
comedy,  if  we  are  indifferent  as  to  dis- 
appointing those  who  depend  upon  us, 
we  may  at  least  be  trusted  not  to  dis- 
appoint ourselves. 

The  lingering  caste  -  institutions  in 
the  Free  States,  —  as  the  exclusive 
street-cars  of  Philadelphia,  the  separate 
schools  of  New  York,  the  speciad  gal- 
lery reserved  for  colored  people  in  Bos- 
ton theatres, — must  inevitably  pass  away 
with  the  institution  which  they  merely 
reflect  The  perfect  acquiescence  with 
which  abolition  of  these  things  is  re- 
garded, so  soon  as  it  takes  effect,  shows 
how  littie  they  are  really  sustained  by 
public  opinion.  These  are  local  mat- 
ters, mere  corollaries,  and  will  setUe 
themselves.  They  are  not  upheld  by 
any  conviction,  and  scarcely  even  by 
prejudice,  but  by  an  impression  in  each 
citizen^s  mind  that  there  is  some  other 
citizen  who  is  not  prepared  for  the 
change.  When  it  comes  to  the  point, 
it  is  found  that  everybody  is  perfecUy 
prepared,  and  that  the  objections  were 
merely  traditional  Who  has  ever  heard 
of  so  much  as  a  petition  to  restore  any 
of  the  unjust  distinctions  which'  have 
thus  been  successively  outgrown  ? 

But  in  our  vast  national  dealings  with 
the  freedmen,  we  still  drift  from  experi- 
ment to  experiment,  and  adopt  no  set- 
tied  piupose.  Did  this  proceed  from 
the  difficulty  of  wise  solution,  in  so  vast 
a  problem,  one  could  blame  it  the  less. 
But  thus  far  the  greatest  want  has  been, 
not  of  wisdom,  but  of  fidelity,  —  not  of 
constructive  statesmanship,  but  rather 
of  pains  to  discern  and  of  honesty  to 
observe  the  humbler  path  of  daily  jus- 
tice. When  we  consider  that  the  or- 
der which  laid  the  basis  for  the  whole 
colored  army  —  the  'instructions"  of 


1 86s.] 


Reviews  and  Literary  Notices. 


631 


the  Secretary  of  War  to  Brigadier- 
General  Saxton,  dated  August  25,  1862 
—  was  so  carelessly  regarded  by  the 
War  Department  that  it  was  not  even 
placed  on  file,  but  a  copy  had  to  be 
supplied,  the  year  following,  by  the 
officer  to  whom  it  was  issued,  it  is 
obvious  in  what  a  hap-hazard  way  we 
have  stumbled  into  the  most  momen- 
tous acts.  A  government  that  still  re- 
pudiates a  duty  so  simple  as  the  payment 


of  arrears  due  under  its  own  written 
pledges  to  the  South  Carolina  soldiers 
can  hardly  shelter  itself  behind  the  plea 
of  any  complicated  difficulties  in  its 
problem.  Let  us  hope  that  the  freed- 
men,  on  their  part,  will  be  led  by  some 
guidance  better  than  our  example :  that 
they  will  not  neglect  their  duties  as 
their  rights  have  been  neglected,  and 
not  wrong  others  as  they  have  been 
wronged 


REVIEWS  AND  LITERARY  NOTICES. 


Autobiography^  Correspondence^  etc,,  of  Ly^ 
man  Beechir,  D.  D.  Edited  by  Charles 
Beecher.  With  Illustntdons.  In  Two 
Volumes.  New  York.  Harper  &  Broth- 
ers. 

Reading  this  life  of  Dr.  Beecher  is  like 
walking  over  an  ancient  battle-field,  silent 
and  grass-grown,  but  ridged  with  graves, 
and  showing  still  by  its  conformation  the 
disposidon  of  the  troops  which  once  strug- 
gled there  in  deadly  contest, — and  while 
we  linger,  lo  I  the  graves  are  graves  no 
more.  The  dry  bones  come  together, — 
sinew  and  flesh  form  upon  them,— the  skin 
covers  them  about,  ^- the  breath  enters  in- 
to them,— they  live  and  stand  upon  their 
feet,  an  exceeding  great  and  mighty  army. 
Drums  beat,  swords  flash,  and  the  war  of 
the  Titans  rages  again  around  us. 

The  life  of  Dr.  Beecher  is  closely  inwov- 
en with  the  ecclesiastical  history  of  New 
England.  Ecclesiastical,  like  civil  history, 
is  chiefly  a  military  record ;  and  through 
both  these  volumes  a  sound  of  battle  is  in 
the  land,  and  of  great  destruction.  We  who 
have  fallen  on  comparatively  quiet  days  can 
hardly  conceive  the  intensity  and  violence 
of  the  excitement  that  glowed  at  our  theo- 
logical centres,  and  flamed  out  even  to  their 
circumferences,  when  the  great  Unitarian 
controversy  was  at  its  height,— when  Park- 
Street  Church  alone  of  the  Boston  church- 
es stood  firm  in  the  ancient  faith,  and  her 
site  was  popularly  christened  "  Hell  -  Fire 
Comer,'* — when,  later,  the  Hanover-Street 
Church  was  known  as  "  Beecher*s  Stone 
Jug  "  and  the  firemen  refused  to  play  upon 


the  flames  that  were  destroying  it  There 
were  giants  on  the  earth  in  those  days,  and 
they  wrestled  in  giant  fiishion. 

AU  this  conflict  Dr.  Beecher  saw,  and  a 
laige  part  of  it  he  was.  In  Connecticut  he 
had  drawn  his  sword  against  intemperance, 
"  Toleration,"  and  other  forms  of  what  he 
considered  evil,  and  had  been  recognized 
as  a  mighty  man  of  valor  in  his  generation ; 
but  it  was  in  this  Unitarian  controversy  that 
he  leaped  to  the  battlements  of  Zion,  sound- 
ed the  alarm  through  the  land,  and  took  his 
place  henceforth  as  leader  of  the  hosts  of 
the  elect  "  I  had  watched  the  whole  prog- 
ress," he  says,  "and  read  with  eagerness 
everything  that  came  out  on  the  subject 
My  mind  had  been  heating,  heating,  heat- 
ing. Now  I  had  a  chance  to  strike."  And 
strike  he  did,  blows  rapid  and  vigorous, 
whose  echoes  ring  even  through  these  silent 
pages.  It  was  to  him  a  real  war&re.  His 
speech  ran  naturally  to  military  phrase.  He 
saw  the  foe  coming  in  like  a  flood.  "  The 
enemy,  driven  from  the  field  by  the  immor- 
tal Edwards,  have  returned  to  the  charge, 
and  now  the  battle  is  to  be  fought  over 
again."  "The  time  has  at  length  fiilly 
come  to  take  hold  of  the  Unitarian  contro- 
versy by  the  horns."    "  The  enemies 

are  collecting  their  energies  and  meditating 
a  comprehensive  system  of  attack,  which 
demands  on  our  part  a  corresponding  con- 
cert of  action."  "  Let  the  stand  taken  be 
had  in  universal  and  everlasting  remem- 
brance, and  we  shall  soon  get  the  enemy 
out  of  the  camp."  "  Wake  up,  ministers, 
form  conspiracies  against  error,  and  scat- 
ter firebrands  in  the  enemy's  camp."    "  A 


632 


Reviews  and  Literary  Notices. 


[May, 


schism  in  our  ranks,  with  the  enemy  before 
and  behind  us,  would  indeed  be  confusion 
in  the  camp."  "  It  is  the  moment  to  charge 
as  Wellington  did  at  Waterloo."  "  Will 
Walker  and  his  friends  feel  as  if  my  gun 
was  loaded  deep  enough  for  the  first  shot, 
and  will  the  Orthodox  think  I  have  done  so 

faa  suflSdent  execution  ? As  the  game 

is  out  of  sight,  I  must  depend  on  those  who 
are  near  to  tell  me  what  are  the  effects  of 
the  first  fire."  "  My  sermons  on  Depravity 
are  point-blank  shot" 

Nor  was  the  fight  between  Unitarian  and 
Orthodox  alone.  Even  within  the  ranks 
of  the  ^ithful  dissensions  arose,  and  many 
a  time  and  oft  had  Dr.  Beecher  to  defend 
himself  against  the  charges,  the  insinua- 
tions, and  the  suspicions  of  his  brethren. 
To  the  eyes  of  the  more  cautious  or  the 
more  inert  his  adventurous  feet  seemed  ev- 
er approaching  the  verge  of  heresy.  Just 
where  original  sin  ceases  to  be  original  and 
becomes  acquired, —just  where  innate  ill- 
desert  meets  voluntary  transgression,  — just 
where  moral  government  raises  the  standard 
of  rebellion  against  Absolutism,^just  where 
New  Haven  theology  branches  off  fi^om  ultra 
Orthodoxy  on  the  debatable  ground,  the 
border  •  land  of  metaphysics  and  religion. 
Dr.  Beecher  and  his  brethren  were  engaged 
in  perpetual  skirmishiiig. 

It  is  not  our  province  to  dedde  or  even 
to  discuss  the  points  at  issue.  Uninitiated 
laymen  may  perhaps  be  pardoned  for  hear- 
ing in  all  this  din  of  battle  but  the  echo  of 
the  Schoolmen's  guns.  Whether  the  two- 
year-old  liaby  who  dashes  his  bread-and- 
butter  on  the  floor,  in  wrath  at  the  lack  of 
marmalade,  does  it  because  of  a  prevailing 
effectual  tendency  in  his  nature,  or  in  con* 
sequence  of  his  federal  alliance  with  Adam, 
or  from  a  previous  surfeit  of  plum-cake,  is 
a  question  which  seems  to  bear  a  general 
family  likeness  to  the  inquiry,  whether  there 
ia  such  a  thing  as  generic  bread-and-butter, 
or  only  such  spedfic  slices  as  arouse  infant 
ire  and  nourish  infant  tissue.  But  around 
both  dasses  of  questions  strife  has  waxed  hot 
Both  have  called  out  the  utmost  strength  of 
the  ablest  minds,  and  both,  however  fine- 
spun they  may  seem  to  the  uninstructed  eye, 
have  contributed  in  no  small  measure  to  the 
loenttl  and  moral  health  of  the  world.  But 
while  we  would  not  make  so  great  a  mistake 
^  to  look  with  a  superdlious  smile  either 
upon  the  conflict  between  Nominalism  and 
Realism  or  on  that  between  the  Old  and  the 
New  School  theology,  (notwithstanding  we 
might  find  countenance  in  Dr.  Pond  of  Ban- 


gor, who  writes  to  Dr.  Beecher,  "  In  Maine 
we  do  not  sympathize  very  deeply  in  your 
Presbyterian  squabbles,  except  to  look  on 
and  laugh  at  you  all ! ")  it  may  be  permitted 
us  as  laymen  to  confess  a  greater  interest 
in  the  phenomena  than  in  the  event  of  the 
struggle.  We  leave  it,  therefore,  to  our  ec- 
desiastical  contemporaries  to  descend  into 
the  arena  and  fight  their  battles  o'er  again, 
content  ourselves  to  stand  without  and  give 
thanks  for  the  Divine  voice  that  rises  above 
the  dash  of  contending  creeds,  saying  alike 
to  wise  and  foolish,  **  God  so  loved  the  world 
that  he  gave  his  only  begotten  Son,  that 
whosoever  believeth  in  him  should  not  per- 
ish, but  have  everlasting  life." 

Spite  of  all  the  truculence  of  his  lan- 
guage, and  through  all  his  strenuous  thrust 
and  parry,  Dr.  Beecher's  sincerity,  integrity, 
and  piety  shine  forth  unclouded.  Looking 
at  this  memorial  in  one  aspect,  he  seems  to 
have  assumed  a  charge  which  Mr.  Lincoln 
has  professed  himself  unable  to  undertake, 
namely,  to  '*run  the  churches."  He  evi- 
dently believed  that  the  Lord  had  commit- 
ted to  the  clergy,  of  whom  he  was  chief^  the 
building  up  of  a  great  ecclesiastical  edifice, 
whose  foundation  should  be  laid  in  New 
England,  but  whose  wings  should  presently 
cover  the  whole  land.  Individual  church- 
es were  the  pillars  of  this  edifice.  Now  in 
Boston,  now  in  New  Haven,  now  at  Cin- 
cinnati, he  watched  its  progress,  noting  a 
fault,  praising  an  excellence,  repairing  mis- 
takes, strengthening  weaknesses.  It  was 
the  business  and  the  delight  of  his  life.  He 
had  his  agents  throughout  the  country.  The 
churches  might  be  many,  but  the  cause  was 
on^  Ever  watchful,  ever  active,  he  spoke 
of  his  measures  and  his  plans  in  just  such 
terse,  homely  phrase  as  any  house-carpen- 
ter would  use.  Doubtless  the  fragile  rev- 
erence of  many  a  clerical  cumberer  of  the 
ground  was  shocked  by  his  familiar  use  of 
their  sacred  edge-tools.  One  can  imagine 
the  thrill  of  horror  with  which  the  Rever- 
end Cream  Cheese,  of  the  Church  of  the 
Holy  (Self-)  Assumption,  would  hear  the 
assertion,  that  *'  it  was  as  finely  organized  a 
church  as  ever  trod  shoe-leather."  Our  ele- 
gant Unitarian  friends  have  probably  quite 
forgotten,  and  will  hardly  thank  us  for  re- 
minding them,  that  there  ever  was  a  time 
when  they  "  put  mouth  to  ear,  and  hand  to 
pocket,  and  said,  Si-boy  P*  Our  decorous 
Calvinistic  D.  D.s  would  scarcely  recognize 
thdr  own  dogmas  at  the  inquir}'-meetin^ 
where  **  language  of  simplicity  came  along, 
and  they  'd  see  me  talking  'way  down  in  Ian- 


i86s.] 


Reviews  emd  Literary  Notices. 


633 


gnage  fit  for  children And  tben  the 

language  of  free  agency  and  ability  came 
along, ....  and  they  *d  stick  ap  their  ears. 
....  But  next  minute  came  along  the  plea 
of  morality  and  self-dependence^  and  I  took 
them  by  the  nape  of  the  neck  and  twisted 
their  head  off.'*  There  must  have  been  great 
inertness  in  New  England  at  the  time  of  his 
first  visit  to  Boston,  when  "  nobody  seemed 
to  have  an  idea  that  there  was  anything  but 
what  God  had  locked  up  and  frozen  from 
all  eternity.  The  bottom  of  accountability 
had  fallen  out  My  first  business  was  to 
put  it  in  again."  The  coldness  and  indiffer- 
ence of  the  Church,  which  ministers  usual- 
ly employ  the  vivid  language  of  the  Bible 
regarding  the  ways  of  Zion  to  portray,  he 
described  in  the  equally  vivid,  but  less  dig- 
nified New  England  vernacular.  "  What 
did  I  do  at  Litchfield  but  to  *  boost '  ?  They 
all  lay  on  me,  and  moved  very  little,  except 
•a  myself  and  God  moved  them.  I  spent 
sixteen  of  the  best  years  of  my  life  at  a 
dead  lift  in  boosting."  And  we  greatly  fear 
that  the  reverend  seigniors  in  Synod  and 
Presbytery,  notwithstanding  their  firm  faith 
in  Total  Depravity,  will  be  sadly  scandal- 
ized at  hearing  it  announced,  *'  That  was  a 
scampy  concern,  that  Old  School  General 
Assembly,  and  is  still." 

But  he  would  make  a  great  mistake  who 
should  infer,  that,  in  thus  busily  and  ener- 
getically building  up  the  temple,  Dr.  Beech- 
er  forgot  the  glory  of  the  Lord  which  was 
to  dwell  in  it.  He  treated  it,  indeed,  as 
a  business  matter,  but  it  was  the  business 
of  immortal  souls  and  of  the  Most  High 
God.  No  merely  professional  attachment 
bound  him  to  it ;  there  was  no  contemplat- 
ing it  from  a  public  and  a  private  point  of 
view ;  Uit  his  whole  inner  and  outer  life  was 
enlisted.  Not  only  the  religious  public,  but, 
what  is  even  more  rare,  his  own  femily,  were 
vitalized  with  his  spirit  and  drawn  into  his 
train.  The  doctrines  that  he  preached  from 
the  pulpit  had  been  discussed  over  the  wood- 
pile in  the  cellar.  His  public  teachings  had 
first  been  household  words.  The  Epistles, 
death,  a  preexistent  state,  were  talked  over 
by  the  fireside.  Theology  took  precedence 
even  of  the  baby  in  the  funily  letters.  One 
breath  announces  that  he  could  not  find  any 
trout  at  Guilford,  and  the  next  that  he  has 
preached  his  sermon  on  Depravity.  Cath- 
arine writes,  that  the  house  needs  paper 
and  paint  very  much,  father's  afternoon  ser- 
mon perfectly  electrified  her,  and  his  last 
article  will  make  all  smoke  again.  Harriet 
records,  with  great  inward  exultation,  that, 


on  their  Western  journey,  father  preached, 
and  gave  them  the  Taylorite  heresy  on  Sin 
and  Decrees  to  the  highest  notch,  and  what 
was  amusing,  he  established  it  from  the 
"  Confession  of  Faith,"  and  so  it  went  high 
and  dry  above  all  objections,  and  delighted 
his  audience,  who  had  never  heard  it  chris- 
tened heresy.    He  sets  forth  to  attend  the 
Synod,  accompanied  by  his  son  Henry,  with 
one  rein  in  the  right  hand,  and  one  in  the 
left,  and  an  apple  in  each,  biting  them  alter- 
nately, and  alternately  telling  Tom  how  to 
get  the  harness  mended,  and  showing  Hen- 
ry the  true  doctrine  of  Original  Sin.  His  fa- 
therly heart  yearned  over  his  children ;  with 
voice  and  pen  and  a  constant  watchful  ten- 
derness, he  kxiew  no  rest  till  the  whole  elev- 
en had  adopted  the  faith  for  which  he  so  ear- 
nestiy  contended.    The  genius  of  Napoleon 
elicited  almost  a  personal  affection,  and  he 
read  every  memoir  from  St  Helena  with  the 
earnest  desire  of  shaping  out  of  those  last 
conversations  some  hope  for  his  future.    He 
mourned  for  Byron  as  for  a  friend,  lamenting 
sorely  that  wasted  life,  and  was  sure,  that,  if 
Byron  **  could  only  have  talked  with  Taylor 
and  me,  it  might  have  got  him  out  of  his 
troubles."   Indeed,  he  evidenUy  considered 
"  Taylor  and  me,"  not  to  say  me  and  Taylor, 
the  two  pillars  of  Orthodoxy, — in  no  wise 
from  vanity,  but  in  the  simplicity  of  truth. 
He  spoke  of  his  own  feats  with  an  openness 
that  could  proceed  only  from  a  guileless 
heart    The  work  of  the  Lord  was  the  one 
thing  that  absorbed  him,  to  the  oblivion  of 
all  lesser  interests.    He  was  as  absolutely 
free  from  vanity  on  the  one  side  as  from  en- 
vy on  the  other.  Lyman  Beecher  as  Lyman 
Beecher  had  no  existence.    Lyman  Beecher 
as  God's  servant  was  the  verity.    He  re- 
joiced in  the  prosperity  of  the  sacred  cause : 
if  it  was  Beecher's  hand  that  furthered  it, 
he  exulted ;  if  another  than  Beecber's,  it  was 
all  the  same.    There  was  no  room  in  his 
mind  for  any  petty  personal  jealousy.    He 
stood  in  nobody's  way.    He  enjoyed  ev- 
ery man's  success.    So  the  building  rose, 
it  was  of  small  moment  who  wielded  the 
hammer.    Ever  on  the  watch  for  indica- 
tions of  the  mind  and  will  of  God,  it  was 
firom  zeal,  not  ambition,  that  he  waited  for 
no  precedence,    but  pushed  through  the 
opened  door,  opened  it  never  so  narrowly. 
In  doubt  as  to  what  is  the  true  meaning  of 
some  ** providence,"  he  advises  "to  take 
hold  of  the  end  of  the  rope  that  is  put  into 
your  hand,  and  pull  it  till  we  see  what  is 
on  the  other  end." 
Yet,  with  all  his  electric  enthusiasm,  be 


634 


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[May. 


was  wise  in  his  generation  and  beyond  his 
generation,  and  in  some  respects  beyond 
our  own.  He  watched  for  souls  as  one 
that  must  give  account.  He  adapted  means 
to  ends.  He  was  careful  not  by  fierce  op- 
position to  push  doubt  into  error.  When 
a  drunkard  died,  he  remembered  that  '*  his 
Mother  was  an  habitual  drinker,  and  he  was 
nursed  on  milk-punch,  and  the  thirst  was  in 
his  constitution  *' ;  so  he  hoped  "  that  God 
saw  it  was  a  constitutional  infirmity,  like 
any  other  disease."  He  reduced  the  dog- 
ma of  Total  Depravity  to  the  simple  prop- 
osition, "that  men  by  nature  do  not  love 
God  supremely,  and  their  neighbor  as  them- 
selves.'* He  stoutly  resisted  the  attempt  to 
overawe  belief,  either  his  own  or  another's. 
He  refused  to  expend  his  strength  in  con- 
tending with  the  friends  of  Christ,  when  there 
was  so  much  to  be  done  against  his  foes. 
Yet  he  was  as  far  as  possible  firom  that  nar- 
row sectarianism  which  sees  no  evil  in  its 
own  ranks  and  no  good  in  those  of  its  ad- 
versaries. He  denounced  the  faults  of  the 
Orthodox  as  heartily  as  those  of  the  Unita- 
rians. Standing  in  the  forefi'ont  of  Calvin- 
ism, he  did  not  hesitate  to  say,  "  It  is  my 
deliberate  opinion  that  the  false  philosophy 
which  has  been  employed  for  the  exposition 
of  the  Calvinistic  system  has  done  more  to 
obstruct  the  march  of  Christianity,  and  to 
paralyze  the  saving  power  of  the  Gospel, 
and  to  raise  up  and  organize  around  the 
Church  the  unnumbered  multitude  to  be- 
hold and  wonder  and  despise  and  perish, 

than  all  other  causes  beside Who  of 

us  are  to  suffer  the  loss  of  the  most  wood 
and  hay  by  the  process  [of  purging  out  this 
felse  philosophy]  I  cannot  tell ;  but  all  mine 
is  at  the  Lord's  service  at  any  time ;  and 
if  all  which  is  in  New  England  should  be 
brought  out  and  laid  in  one  pile,  I  think  it 
would  make  a  great  bonfire." 

Unfortunately,  there  was  something  worse 
in  the  Church  than  false  philosophy,  unless 
this  book  very  grievously  falsifies  facts.  Her 
bitterest  foe  would  hardly  dare  charge  upon 
Zion  such  iniquity  as  the  friendly  unbosom- 
ing in  these  pages  reveals.  Wily  intrigue, 
reckless  perversion  of  language,  rule  or  ruin, 
such  things  as  we  regret  to  see  even  in  a  po- 
litical caucus,  are  to  be  found  in  abundance 
in  the  counsels  of  men  who  profess  to  be 
working  only  for  the  glory  of  God  and  the 
good  of  souls.  Insinuations  of  craft  and  cow- 
ardice are  set  on  foot,  where  direct  charges 
lail  for  want  of  evidence.  Rumor  is  made  to 
do  the  work  which  reason  cannot  accomplish. 
Private  letters  are  surreptitiously  published, 


the  publication  defended  as  done  with  the 
•  permission  of  the  writer,  and  testimony  to 
the  contrary  refiised  a  hearing.  Extracts 
are  taken  out  of  their  connection  and  made 
to  carry  a  different  meaning  from  that  which 
they  originally  bore.  What  cannot  be  pat 
down  by  evidence  is  to  be  put  down  by  od- 
ium. There  is  a  **  cool  and  deliberate  deter- 
mination on  the  part  of  one  half  the  Presby- 
terian Church  to  inflict  upon  the  other  half 
all  the  injury  possible."  Dr.  Beecher's  son, 
himself  a  prominent  clergyman,  is  forced  to 
confess,  that,  "  for  a  combination  of  mean- 
ness and  guilt  and  demoralizing  power  in 
equal  degrees  of  intensity,  I  have  never 
known  anything  to  exceed  the  conspiracy 
in  New  England  and  in  the  Presbyterian 
Church  to  crush  by  open  falsehood  and 
secret  whisperings  my  father  and  others, 
whom  they  have  in  vain  tried  to  silence 
by  argument  or  to  condemn  in  the  courts 
of  the  Church."  And  yet,  as  Dr.  Beecher 
stands  forth  in  this  biography,  in  native 
honor  dad,  so,  undoubtedly,  does  Brother 
Nettleton  stand  forth  in  his  biography,  and 
Brother  Woods  in  his,  and  Brother  Wilson 
in  his,  and  all  the  brethren  in  theirs, — all 
honorable  men.  We  venture  to  say  that 
not  one  of  these  reverend  traducers  and 
mischief-makers  was  "dealt  with"  by  his 
church  for  his  evil-doing.  We  make  no 
doubt  he  went  through  life  without  loss  of 
prestige  or  diminution  of  sanctity,  and  was 
bewailed  at  his  death  by  the  sons  of  the 
prophets  in  tenderest  phrase,  "  My  lather ! 
my  Either !  the  chariot  of  Israel,  and  the 
horsemen  thereof."  . 

We  do  not  attribute  these  shamefiil  pro* 
ceedings  to  Orthodoxy,  still  less  to  Chris- 
tianity. Perhaps  it  is  a  (act  of  our  fallen 
nature,  as  Dr.  Beecher  asserted,  that  '*  Adam 
and  grace  will  do  twice  as  much  as  grace 
alone."  But  surely  all  these  things  hap- 
pened  unto  them  for  ensamples,  and  they 
are  written  for  our  admonition.  Seeing  how 
unlovely  is  the  spectacle  of  bickering  and 
bitterness,  let  Christians  of  every  name  look 
well  to  their  steps,  saying  often  one  to  an- 
other, and  especially  repeating  in  concert, 
at  the  opening  of  every  council,  conference, 
synod,  and  assembly,  — 


« 


Let  dogs  delight  to  bark  and  bite, 
For  God  bath  made  them  so ; 

Let  beam  and  h'ons  growl  and  figh^ 
For  *t  IB  their  nature,  toa 

"  But,  brethren,  we  will  never  let 
Our  angry  passions  rise  ; 
Our  little  hands  were  never  made 
To  tear  each  ocher'a  eyea^** 


1 86s.] 


Reviews  and  Literary  Notices, 


635 


This  biography,  as  the  title-page  asserts, 
Is  edited  rather  than  written.  By  familiar 
talk  and  private  letters,  the  subject  is  made, 
as  £tf  as  possible,  to  tell  his  own  story. 
What  remains  is  supplied  by  the  pens  of 
different  members  of  the  family  and  of  old 
friends.  The  result  is  a  composite,  the  con- 
nections of  whose  parts  we  do  not  always 
readily  discern.  But  what  the  book  lacks 
in  coherence  is  more  than  made  up  in  accu- 
racy and  vividness.  We  obtain,  by  glimpses 
of  the  man,  a  far  more  exact  knowledge  of 
his  character  and  work  than  we  should  by 
ever  so  steady  a  contemplation  of  some  oth- 
er man*s  symmetrical  rendering  of  his  life. 
We  feel  the  beating  of  his  great,  fiery  heart 
We  delight  in  his  large,  loving  nature.  We 
partake  in  his  honest  indignation.  We 
smile,  sometimes  not  without  tears,  at  his 
childlike  simplicity.  We  sit  around  the 
household  hearth,  join  in  the  theological 
disputation,  and  share  the  naive  satisfaction 
of  the  whole  Beecher  family  with  themselves 
and  each  other.  We  see  how  it  was  that 
the  father  set  them  all  a-spinning  each  in 
his  own  groove,  but  all  bearing  the  unmis- 
takable Beecher  stamp.  We  feel  his  irre- 
sistible energy,  his  burning  zeal,  his  mag- 
netic force  yet  thrilling  through  the  land 
and  arousing  every  sluggish  power  to  come 
to  the  help  of  the  Lord  against  the  mighty. 
For  such  a- life  there  is  indeed  no  death. 


Engineer  and  Artillery  OperatUms  against 
the  Defences  of  Charleston  Harbor  in  1863. 
Comprising  the  Descent  upon  Morris  Isl- 
and, the  Demolition  of  Port  Sumter,  the 
Reduction  of  Forts  Wagner  and  Gregg. 
With  Observations  on  Heavy  Ordnance, 
Fortifications,  etc.  By  L.  A.  Gillmore, 
Major  of  Engineers,  Major -General  of 
Volunteers,  and  Commanding  General  of 
the  Land  Forces  engaged.  Published  by 
Authority.  New  York:  D.  Van  Nos- 
trand. 

Just  after  Major-General  Hunter  was  re- 
moved—or, as  the  delicate  military  phrase 
went,  "temporarily  relieved"— from  the 
command  of  the  Department  of  the  South, 
there  was  a  report  current  in  those  parts 
of  a  conversation,  perhaps  imaginary,  be- 
tween President  Lincoln  and  the  relieved 
General,  on  his  arrival  at  Washington.  The 
gossip  ran,  that  on  General  Hunter's  inquir- 
ing the  cause  of  his  removal,  the  good-na- 
tured President  could  only  say  that  "  Hor- 
ace Greeley  said  he  had  found  a  man  who 


could  do  the  job,**  The  job  was  the  taking 
of  Charleston,  and  the  "coming  man*'  was 
Brigadier  -  General  (now  Major-General) 
Gillmore.  The  so-called  "siege  of  Charles- 
ton," after  being  the  nine-days'-wonder  of 
two  continents,  dwindled  to  a  mere  daily 
item  in  the  dingy  newspapers  of  that  defi- 
ant dty, — an  item  contemptuously  sand- 
wiched between  the  meteorological  record 
and  the  deaths  and  marriages.  The  "  com- 
ing man  "  came  and  went,  being  in  his  turn 
"temporarily  relieved,"  and  consigned  to 
that  obscurity  which  is  the  Nemesis  of  ma- 
jor-generals. He  is  more  fortunate,  how- 
ever, than  some  of  his  compeers,  in  expe- 
riencing almost  at  once  the  double  resur- 
rection of  autobiography  and  reappointment 
Whether  his  new  career  be  more  or  less 
successful  than  the  old  one,  the  autobiogra- 
phy is  at  least  worth  printing,  so  far  as  it 
goes.  Had  an  instalment  of  it  appeared 
when  the  siege  of  Charleston  was  at  its 
height,  it  would  have  been  translated  into 
a  dozen  European  languages,  and  would 
have  been  read  more  eagerly  in  London  and 
Paris  than  even  in  Washington.  Even  now 
it  will  be  read  with  interest,  and  with  re- 
spect to  rifled  ordnance  will  be  a  perma- 
nent authority. 

The  total  impression  left  behind  by  Gen- 
eral Gillmore,  in  his  former  career  in  the 
Department  of  the  South,  was  that  of  an 
unwearied  worker  and  an  admirable  engi- 
neer officer.  Military  gifts  are  apt  to  be 
specific,  and  a  specialist  seldom  gains  repu- 
tation in  the  end  by  being  raised  to  those 
elevated  posts  which  require  a  combina- 
tion of  faculties.  If  the  object  of  General 
Gillmore's  original  appointment  was  to  si- 
lence Fort  Sumter  and  to  throw  shell  into 
Charleston,  he  was  undout>tedIy  the  man 
who  could  "  do  the  job."  If  the  aim  was 
to  take  Charleston  with  a  small  military 
force,  or  even  a  large  one,  the  wisdom  of 
the  choice  was  less  clear.  If  the  intent 
was  to  govern  an  important  Department, 
without  reference  to  further  conquests,—- 
to  regulate  trade,  organize  industry,  free  the 
slaves,  educate  the  freedmen,— then  the  se- 
lection was  still  more  doubtful  For  this 
sphere  of  action,  which  had  seemed  so  im- 
portant to  Mitchell  and  to  Hunter,  was  for- 
eign to  Gillmore's  whole  habits  and  temper- 
ament,  and  he  never  could  galvanize  him- 
self into  caring  lor  it  His  strong  point, 
after  all,  was  in  dealing  with  metal  rather 
than  with  men,  white  or  black.  And  as 
(since  the  disaster  at  Olustee)  he  can  hardly 
be  charged  with  any  squeamish  unwilling- 


636 


Reviews  and  Literary  Notices. 


[May, 


ness  to  throw  upon  others  the  chief  respon- 
sibility of  any  seeming  ^ilures  of  his  own, 
it  is  perhaps  fortunate  that  in  this  book  he 
is  able  to  keep  chiefly  upon  the  ground 
where  he  is  strongest 

Yet,  after  all,  the  work  is  historical  as 
well  as  scientific.  And  there  is  in  it  such 
a  mingling  of  great  questions  of  philanthro- 
py with  mere  questions  of  grooving,  and 
black  soldiers  jostle  so  inextricably  with 
black  guns,  that  the  common  reader  and 
the  mere  student  of  human  nature  will  find 
an  interest  in  the  book,  as  well  as  that  in- 
telligent lady  of  our  acquaintance,  who,  hav- 
ing heard  of  the  brilliant  ornithology  of  the 
tropics,  was  eager  to  read  about  the  hun- 
dred-pound '*  Parrotts  "  of  South  Carolina. 

As  to  the  guns,  the  contributions  of  this 
superbly  illustrated  volume  are  of  the  very 
greatest  value.  Nothing  in  print  equals  it, 
except  Mr.  HoUey's  recent  great  treatise, 
some  of  whose  tables  are  here  also  employed 
by  permission.  Here  we  find  the  most  au- 
thentic statements,  both  as  to  the  work  done 
by  the  large  rifled  gims,  and  as  to  that  trick 
of  bursting  which  is  their  gravest  weakness. 
But  for  this,  the  heavy  ordnance  of  Parrott 
would  be  a  magnificent  success.  And  when 
we  consider  that  six  two-hundred  pounders 
and  seventeen  one-hundred  pounders  were 
burst  during  the  siege  of  Charleston,  as  re- 
corded in  this  volume, — that  five  one-hun- 
dred pounders  are  said  to  have  been  burst 
in  a  single  week  on  Morris  Island  at  a  later 
period,  and  that  Adnural  Porter  reports  six 
similar  instances  during  the  first  attack  on 
Fofrt  Fisher, — it  was  certainly  worth  while 
in  the  publisher  of  this  work,  with  his  usual 
liberality,  to  devote  a  long  series  of  admira- 
ble plates,  prepared  under  the  direction  of 
Captain  Mordecai,  to  the  details  of  these 
dangerous  fractures. 

It  is  generally  admitted  that  the  smaller 
<*  PauTott "  guns,  including  the  thirty  pound- 
ers, approach  very  near  perfection.  The 
large  calibres  have  precisely  the  same  mer- 
its, as  respects  range,  accuracy,  and  sim- 
plicity of  construction  and  manipulation. 
This  their  work  against  Fort  Sumter  shows. 
But  the  deficiency  of  endurance  belongs  to 
the  large  guns  alone ;  since  the  smaller,  after 
an  immense  amount  of  service,  have  shown 
no  sort  of  weakness.  Yet,  if  the  principle 
be  correct,  on  which  the  latter  are  strength- 
ened, there  seems  no  reason  why  the  same 
degree  of  endurance  may  not  yet  be  secured 
for  the  larger.  It  is  simply  a  mechanical 
problem,  whose  solution  cannot  be  far  oft 

The  guns  have  burst  both  longitudinally 


and  laterally,  and  in  quite  a  variety  of  posi- 
tion and  service.  General  Tumer*s  sugges- 
tion, that  an  important  secondary  cause  of 
bursting  is  the  presence  of  sand  within  the 
bore,  among  the  ever-blowing  sand-hills  of 
the  Sea  Islands,  seems  justified  by  the  fact 
that  in  the  naval  service  the  accidents  have 
been  far  less  fiequent, — a  thing  in  all  re- 
spects fortunate,  by  the  way,  as  such  explo- 
sions on  board  ship  involve  fiir  greater  sac- 
rifice of  life  than  on  land.  Another  second- 
ary cause  is  the  premature  explosion  of  shell 
within  the  bore,  a  defect  which  should  be 
also  remediable.  Indeed,  the  "Parrott** 
shell  were  at  first  notoriously  defective,  of- 
ten bursting  too  soon  or  not  at  all,  and  thus 
losing  much  of  their  usefulness ;  though  this 
defect  has  now  been,  in  a  great  degree,  rem- 
edied. Tfaue  discussion  of  the  whole  subject 
in  this  book  seems  reasonable  and  unpreju- 
diced, and  a  letter  from  the  maker  of  the 
guns,  at  the  end,  gives  with  equal  candor 
his  side  of  the  question. 

General  Gillmore*s  narrative  of  his  mili- 
tary operations  is  exceedingly  interesting, 
and  generally  clear  and  simple.  The  de* 
scent  upon  Morris  Island  from  Folly  Island 
was  undoubtedly  one  of  the  most  skilful 
achievements  of  the  war.  Under  the  su- 
perintendence of  Brigadier-General  Vogdes, 
forty-seven  pieces  of  artillery,  with  two  hun- 
dred rounds  of  ammunition  for  each  gun,  and 
provided  with  suitable  parapets,  splinter- 
proof  shelters,  and  magazines,  were  placed 
in  position,  by  night,  within  speaking  dis- 
tance of  the  enemy's  pickets,  and  within 
view  of  their  observatories.  And  yet  all 
this  immense  piece  of  work  was  done  with 
such  profound  secrecy,  that,  when  the  first 
shot  from  these  batteries  fiell  among  the  en- 
emy, it  astounded  them  as  if  it  had  come 
fix>m  the  planet  Jupiter.  At  the  time,  this 
brilliant  success  was  merged  in  the  greater 
prospective  brilliancy  of  the  expected  re- 
sults. Now  that  the  results  have  fiuled  to 
follow,  we  can  perhaps  do  more  justice  to 
the  remarkable  skill  displayed  in  the  pre* 
limtnary  movements. 

So  far  as  this  report  is  concerned,  Gen- 
eral Gillmore  shows  no  disposition  to  do  in- 
justice to  other  officers.  In  reprinting  the 
daily  correspondence  with  Admiral  Dahl- 
gren  it  might  have  been  better  to  omit  or  ex- 
plain some  hasty  expressions  of  censure,  •— 
as  where  a  young  naval  lieutenant  is  charged 
<on  page  333)  with  defeating  an  important 
measure  by  acting  without  orders,  though 
the  fact  was,  that  the  officer  was  not  undtf 
General  Gillmore*s  oidexs  at  all,  and  simply 


1865.] 


Reviews  and  Literary  Notices. 


637 


followed  the  instnictions'of  hu  immediate 
commander.  But  in  dealing  with  officers 
of  higher  rank  he  is  more  discreet,  and  his 
implied  criticisms  on  Admiral  Dahlgren  are 
not  so  severe  as  might  have  been  expected. 
They  are  not  nearly  so  sharp  as  those  which 
were  constantly  heard,  during  the  siege, 
from  the  officers  of  the  navy ;  and  the  Ad- 
miral's telegraphic  note  on  page  327,  -'  My 
chief  pilot  infonns  me  a  gale  is  coming 
on,  and  I  am  coming  into  the  creek,"  was 
the  source  of  very  unpardonable  levity  on 
board  some  of  the  gun-boats. 

In  the  few  passages  relating  to  the  col- 
ored troops,  in  the  main  report,  the  author 
shows  evident  pains  in  the  statement,  with 
rather  unsatisfactory  results.  The  style  sug- 
gests rather  the  adroitness  of  the  politician 
than  the  frankness  of  the  soldier.  This 
is  the  case,  for  instance,  in  his  narrative  of 
the  unsuccessful  assault  upon  Fort  Wag- 
ner, where  he  uses  language  which  would 
convey  the  impression,  to  nine  readers  out 
of  ten,  that  it  was  somehow  a  reproach  to 
the  Fifty-Fourth  Massachusetts  that  it  was 
thrown  into  disorder,  and  that  this  disorder 
checked  the  progress  of  the  rest  Of  course 
this  was  so, — because  it  led  the  charge.  It 
is  not  usual  to  say,  in  preparing  a  very  brief 
narrative  of  some  railway  collision,  that  the 
leading  car  *'was  thrown  into  a  state  of 
great  disorder,  which  reacted  unfavorably 
upon,  and  delayed  the  progress  of,  those 
whkh  followed.'*  Yet  it  is  hardly  less  ab- 
surd to  say  it  of  the  leading  battalion  in  a 
night  attack  on  a  fortress  almost  impregna- 
ble. The  leading  car  takes  the  brunt  of 
the  shock  precisely  because  it  is  in  that 
position,  and  so  does  the  leading  regiment 
How  well  the  Fifty-Fourth  Massachusetu 
bore  the  test  is  recognized  by  its  being  ap- 
parently included  in  the  final  admission,  that 
"  the  behavior  of  the  troops,  under  the  cir- 
cumstances, was  unexceptionable."  But  a 
fractional  share  in  a  line  and  a  half  of  rath- 
er chilly  praise  is  hardly  an  equivalent  for 
three  lines  of  implied  individual  censure. 
Had  Brigadier-General  Strong  lived  to  tell 
the  story  of  that  night,  it  would  have  been 
stated  less  diplomatically  than  by  Major- 
General  Gillmore. 

The  report  of  Major  Brooks  on  the  work- 
ing qualities  of  the  colored  troops  is  for 
more  discriminating  and  more  valuable,  as 
are  the  appended  statements  of  Captain 
Walker  and  Lieutenant  Farrand.  Major 
Brooks,  as  chief  of  engineerings  sent  circu- 
lars to  six  different  officers  who  had  super- 
intended fodgue  parties  in  the  trencfaesi 


covering  inquiries  on  five  points  relating  to 
efficiency  and  courage.  The  report  may  be 
found  at  page  259  of  the  book,  constituting 
Appendix  XIX.  (misprinted  XIV.)  to  the 
Journal  of  Major  Brooks. 

The  statement  is  probably  as  fair  as  the 
^ts  in  the  compiler's  possession  could 
make  it ;  yet  it  is  seriously  vitiated  by  the 
scantiness  of  those  iacts.  In  answer  to  one 
question,  for  example,  we  are  told  that  "  all 
agree  that  the  colored  troops  recruited  from 
Free  States  are  superior  to  those  recruited 
from  Slave  States."  But  only  two  regi- 
ments of  the  latter  class  appear  to  have 
come  under  Major  Brooks's  observation  at 
alL  One  of  these  was  a  perfectly  raw  regi- 
ment, which  had  never  had  a  day's  drill 
when  it  was  placed  in  the  trenches,  but 
which  was  kept  constantly  at  work  there, 
although  an  order  had  been  issued  forbid- 
ding white  recruits  from  being  so  employed. 
The  other  was  a  regiment  composed  chiefly 
of  South  Carolina  conscripts^  enlisted  in  ut- 
ter disregard  of  pledges  previously  given, 
and  of  course  unwilling  soldiers.  It  was 
absurd  to  institute  a  comparison  between 
these  troops  and  a  regiment  so  well  trained 
and  officered  as  the  Fifty- Fourth  Massachu- 
setts. Longer  experience  has  shown  that 
there  is  no  great  choice  between  the  North- 
em  and  Southern  negro,  as  military  mate- 
rial ;  and  the  preferences  of  an  officer  will 
usually  depend  upon  which  he  has  been  ac- 
customed to  command.  Many,  certainly, 
are  firm  in  the  conviction  that  the  freed 
slave  makes  the  best  soldier. 

In  other  points  the  report  carries  with 
it  some  of  the  needful  corrections,  at  least 
for  a  careful  reader.  For  instance.  Major 
Brooks's  general  summary  is,  that  **the 
black  is  more  timorous  than  the  white,  but 
is  in  a  corresponding  degree  more  docile 
and  obedient,  hence  more  completely  un- 
der the  control  of  his  conunander,  and 
much  more  influenced  by  his  example." 
But  when  we  read  on  the  previous  page 
that  the  white  soldiers  were  allowed  to  take 
their  arms  into  the  trenches,  and  that  the 
black  soldiers  were  not,  it  makes  the  whole 
comparison  nearly  worthleis.  It  is  noto- 
rious that  the  presence  or  absence  of  man- 
hood in  the  bravest  soldier  often  seems  to 
be  determined  by  the  mere  fact  that  he  has 
a  gun  in  his  hand ;  and  had  the  object  been 
to  annihilate  all  vestige  of  miliUry  pride  in 
tae  colored  troops,  it  could  not  have  been 
better  planned  than  by  this  and  other  dis- 
tinctions maintained  during  a  large  part  of 
the  siege  of  Charleston.   That,  while  smart- 


638 


Reviews  and  Literary  Notices. 


[May, 


ing  under  the  double  deprivation  both  of  a 
soldier's  duty  and  of  a  soldier's  pay,  they 
should  have  so  behaved  as  to  merit  a  re- 
port so  fevorable  as  that  of  Major  Brooks, 
is  one  of  the  greatest  triumphs  they  have 
yet  achieved.  This  volume  contains  the 
record  of  what  they  did  The  story  of  what 
they  underwent  is  yet  to  be  told ;  for  even 
of  his  two  famous  "  orders "  General  Gill- 
more  judiciously  makes  no  mention  here. 

Thus  mingled,  in  this  superb  work,  are 
the  points  of  strength  and  weakness.  It 
remains  only  to  add  that  the  typographical 
and  artistic  execution  is  an  honor  to  our 
literature,  and  adds  to  the  laurels  previous- 
ly won  in  the  same  department  by  the  pub- 
lisher. Where  all  else  is  so  admirable,  it 
seems  a  pity  to  have  to  lament  the  absence 
of  an  index.  The  division  of  the  work 
among  several  different  authors  makes  this 
defect  peculiarly  inconvenient 


General  Todlebeti's  History  of  the  Defence  of 
Sebastopoi,  1854-5.  A  Review.  By  Wil- 
liam Howard  Russell.  New  York: 
D.  Van  Nostrand. 

It  does  not  yet  appear  whether  our  great 
civil  war  will  leave  behind  it  materials  for  de- 
bate as  acrimonious  as  that  which  has  gather- 
ed round  the  affair  in  the  Crimea.  If  Gener- 
al Butler  and  Admiral  Porter  live  and  thrive, 
there  seems  a  fair  chance  that  it  may.  In 
that  case  it  will  be  interesting  to  read  how 
General  Todleben,  in  a  parallel  case,  sub- 
stitutes the  Russian  bear  for  the  monkey  in 
the  fable,  pats  each  combatant  on  the  shoul- 
der, and  presents  each  with  a  shell,  while 
extracting  for  himself  the  oyster. 

Mr.  Russell's  **  Review  "  is  rather  a  par- 
aphrase and  a  condensation, — the  original 
work  of  the  Russian  General  being  too  cost- 
ly even  for  the  English  market  The  task 
of  the  English  editor  is  done  with  his  usual 
spirit,  and  with  all  the  more  zest  from  an 
evident  enjoyment  of  finding  Mr.  Kinglake 
in  the  wrong.  Between  his  sympathies  as 
a  Briton  and  his  sympathies  as  a  literary 
man  there  is  sometimes  a  struggle.  But 
we  Americans  can  do  more  justice  to  Mr. 
Russell  than  in  those  days  of  national  inno- 
cence when  we  knew  not  Mackay  and  Gal* 
lenga  and  Sala ;  and  it  must  be  admitted 
that  the  tone  of  the  present  book  is  manly 
and  impartial. 

Kinglake's  description  of  the  Battle  of 
the  Alma  will  always  remain  as  one  of  the 
masterpieces  of  literature  in  its  way ;  but  it 


is  noticeable  that  Todleben  entirely  ignores 
some  of  the  historian's  most  dramatic  ef- 
fects, and  also  knocks  away  much  of  his 
underpinning  by  demolishing  the  reputation 
of  General  Kiriakoff,  his  favorite  Russian 
witness.  Kinglake  says  that  Eupatoria  was 
occupied  by  a  small  body  of  English  troops* 
and  tells  a  good  story  about  it :  Todleben 
declares  that  the  Allies  occupied  it  with 
more  than  three  thousand  men  and  eight 
field-guns.  Kinglake  represente  Lord  Rag- 
lan as  forcing  the  French  officers,  with  great 
difficulty,  to  disembark  the  troops  at  a  spot 
of  his  own  selection :  Todleben  gives  to 
Canrobert  and  Martinprey  the  whole  credit 
of  the  final  choice  and  of  all  the  arrange- 
ments.   And  so  on.     - 

On  the  side  of  the  Russians,  the  most  in- 
teresting points  brought  out  by  Todleben 
are  their  fearful  disadvantage  as  regarded 
the  armament  of  the  infantry,  (these  being 
decimated  by  the  rifles  of*  the  Allies  long 
before  the  Russians  were  near  enough  to 
use  their  smooth-bores,)  and  the  popular 
enthusiasm  inspired  by  the  war  in  Russia. 
'*  The  Czar  was  aided  by  the  spontaneous 
contributions  of  his  people.  Great  supplies 
were  forwarded  by  private  individuals  of  all 
that  an  army  could  need."  "  From  all  parts 
of  the  empire  persons  sent  lint,  bandages, 
etc,  by  post  to  the  army."  These  arc 
phrases  which  bring  us  back  to  the  daily 
experience  of  our  own  vaster  struggle. 

As  respects  the  Allies,  Todleben  uniform- 
ly credits  the  French  army  with  more  of 
every  military  quality  than  the  English,  save 
personal  courage  alone.  From  the  com- 
manding general  to  the  lowest  private,  ev- 
ery technical  detail  of  duty  seems  to  have 
been  better  done  by  the  French.  At  the 
height  of  the  siege,  it  became  "a  war  of 
sorties "  on  the  part  of  the  Russians,  and 
Todleben  saySf^**Apropos  of  those  sorties, 
it  is  indispensable  to  make  the  remark  here, 
that  the  French  guarded  their  trenches  with 
much  more  vigilance,  and  defended  them  with 
incomparably  more  tenacity,  than  the  Eng- 
lish. It  frequently  happened  that  our  volun- 
teers approached  the  English  trenches  with- 
out being  perceived,  and  without  even  firing 
a  single  shot,  and  found  the  soldiers  of  the 
guard  sitting  in  the  trench  in  the  most  perfect 
security,  fiur  from  their  firelocks,  which  were 
stacked  in  piles*  With  the  French,  matters 
were  quite  difierent  They  were  always  on 
the  ^1  vhfe,  so  that  it  rarely  happened  we 
were  able  to  get  near  them  without  having 
been  remarked,  and  without  having  to  re- 
ceive beforehand  a  sharp  fire  of  musketry.'* 


i865.] 


Reviews  and  Literary  Notices. 


639 


This,  however,  as  Russell  remarks,  was 
when  the  English  anny  was  at  its  lowest 
condition  of  neglect ;  but  that  simply  trans- 
«  fers  the  indictment  to  another  count  And 
it  is  interesting  to  observe,  that  Russell's 
claim  for  the  English  army  and  Todleben's 
claim  for  the  Russian  army  come  at  last  to 
about  the  same  point,  namely,  that  the  indi- 
vidual  soldier  is  in  each  case  tough  and  res- 
olute to  the  last  degree.  But  this  is  only 
the  beginning  of  the  merits  of  the  French 
army,  which  to  individual  courage  super- 
adds all  that  organization  can  attain. 

As  to  the  poor  Turks,  they  are  dismissed 
with  much  the  same  epitaph  which  might 
long  since  have  been  written  for  our  colored 
troops,  if  some  of  our  Department  com- 
manders had  been  suffered  to  have  their 
way :— >"As  to  the  Turks,  the  Allies  despised 
them,  and  the  English  used  them  as  beasts 
of  burden ;  in  short,  they  lost  three  hun- 
dred men  a  day,  till  they  almost  perished 
out,  and  the  remains  of  their  army  were 
sent  away." 

In  view  of  the  grander  issues  of  our  own 
pending  contest,  with  its  vaster  scale  of 
munitions  and  of  men,  one  cannot  always 
feel  the  due  interest  hi  successive  pages 
about  battles  like  **  Little  Inkermann," 
where  the  total  of  Russian  killed  and 
wounded  comprised  twenty-five  officers  and 
two  hundred  and  forty-five  men.  But  it 
is  not  numbers  which  make  a  contest  mem- 
orable. Even  the  mere  contemplation  of 
the  Crimean  War  had  an  appreciable  influ- 
ence on  the  military  training  of  the  Amer- 
ican people;  and  the  clear  narratives  of 
Todleben,  written  '*in  his  usual  elaborate 
engineering  way,  in  which  every  word  is 
used  like  a  gabion,"  form  a  good  sequel  to 
that  unconscious  instruction.  / 

Vanity  Fair,  A  Novel  without  a  Hera 
By  William  Makepeace  Thackeray. 
With  Illustrations  by  the  Author.  New 
York :  Harper  &  Brothers.   3  vols.    i2mo. 

In  the  novels  of  Thackeray,  essay  is  so 
much  mixed  up  with  narrative,  and  com- 
ment with  characterization,  that  they  can 
hardly  be  thoroughly  appreciated  in  pocMr 
editions.  The  temptation  to  skip  is  almost 
irresistible,  when  wisdom  can  be  purchased 
only  at  the  expense  of  eyesight  We  are 
therefore  glad  to  welcome  the  commence- 
ment of  a  new  edition  of  his  writings,  over 
whose  pages  the  reader  can  linger  at  his 
pleasure,  and  quietly  enjoy  subtUtics  of 


humor  and  observation  which  in  previous 
perusals  he  overlooked.  The  present  vol- 
umes, published  by  the  Harpers,  are  among 
the  most  tastefiil  and  comely  products  of  the 
Cambridge  University  Press.  Printed  in 
large  type  on  tinted  paper,  elegantly  bound 
in  green  cloth,  and  with  a  fac-simile  of  the 
author's  autograph  on  the  cover,  every  copy 
has  the  appearance  of  being  a  presentation 
copy.  No  English  edition  of  "  Vanity  Fair  " ' 
is  equal  to  this  American  one  in  respect 
either  to  convenience  of  form  or  beauty  of 
mechanical  execution.  The  illustrations  are 
numerous,  well  engraved,  and  embody  the 
writer's  own  conceptions  of  his  scenes  and 
characters,  and  are  often  deliciously  humor- 
ous. 

"  Vanity  Fair,"  though  it  does  not  include 
the  whole  extent  of  Thackeray's  genius,  is 
the  most  vigorous  exhibition  of  its  leading 
characteristics.  In  freshness  of  feeling,  elas- 
ticity of  movement,  and  unity  of  aim,  it  is 
favorably  distinguished  firom  its  successors, 
which  too  often  give  the  impression  of  being 
composed  of  successive  accumulations  of 
incidents  and  persons,  that  drift  into  the 
story  on  no  principle  of  artistic  selection 
and  combination.  The  style,  while  it  has 
the  radness  of  individual  peculiarity  and 
the  careless  ease  of  familiar  gossip,  is  as 
clear,  pure,  and  flexible  2ls  if  its  sentences 
had  been  subjected  to  repeated  revision,  and 
every  pebble  which  obstructed  its  lucid  and 
limpid  flow  had  been  laboriously  removed. 
The  characterization  is  almost  perfect  of  its 
kind.  Becky  Sharp,  the  Marquis  of  Steyne, 
Sir  Pitt  Crawley  and  the  whole  Crawley 
family,  Amelia,  the  Osbomes,  Major  Dob- 
bin, not  to  mention  others,  are  as  well 
known  to  most  cultivated  people  as  their 
most  intimate  acquaintances  in  the  Vanity 
Fair  of  the  actual  world.  It  has  always 
seemed  to  us  that  Mr.  Osborne,  the  Either 
of  George,  a  representation  of  the  most 
hateful  phase  of  English  character,  is  one 
of  the  most  vividly  true  and  life-like  of  all 
the  delineations  in  the  book,  and  more  of  a 
typical  personage  than  even  Becky  or  the 
Marquis  of  Steyne.  Thackeray's  theory  of 
characterization  proceeds  generally  on  the 
assumption  that  the  acts  of  men  and  women 
are  directed  not  by  principle,  but  by  instincts,  | 
selfish  or  amiable, — that  toleration  for  hu-  • 
man  weakness  is  possible  only  by  lowering  > 
the  standard  of  human  capacity  and  obliga- 
tion,— and  that  the  preliminary  condition  of  ' 
an  accurate  knowledge  of  human  character 
is  distrust  of  ideals  and  repudiation  of  pat- 
terns.    This  view  is  narrow,  and  by  no; 


\ 


640 


Recettt  American  Publications. 


[May. 


means  covers  all  the  facts  of  history  and 
human  life,  but  what  relative  truth  it  has 
is  splendidly  illustrated  in  "Vanity  Fair." 
There  is  not  a  person  in  the  book  who 
excites  the  reader's  respect,  and  not  one 
who  fails  to  excite  his  interest  The  mor- 
bid quickness  of  the  author's  perceptions 
of  the  selfish  element,  even  in  his  few  amia- 
ble characters,  is  a  constant  source  of  sur- 
prise. The  novel  not  only  has  no  hero,  but 
implies  the  non-existence  of  heroism.  Yet 
the  fascination  of  the  book  is  indisputable, 
and  it  is  due  to  a  variety  of  causes  besides 
its  mere  exhibition  of  the  worldly  side  of 
life.  '  Among  these,  the  perfect  intellectual 
honesty  of  the  writer,  the  sad  or  satirical 
sincerity  with  which  he  gives  in  his  evidence 
against  human  nature,  is  the  most  promi- 
nent With  all  his  lightness  of  manner,  he 
is  essentially  a  witness  under  oath,  and  tes- 
tifies only  to  what  he  is  confident  he  knows. 
Perhaps  this  quality,  rare  not  only  in  novel- 
writing,  but  in  all  writing,  would  not  com- 
pensate for  the  limitation  of  his  perceptions 
and  the  repulsiveness  of  much  that  he  per- 
ceives, were  it  not  for  the  peculiar  charm 
of  his  representation.  It  is  here  that  the 
individuality  of  the  man  appears,  and  it 
presents  a  combination  of  sentiments  and 
powers  more  original  perhaps  than  the  mat- 
ter of  his  works.  Take  from  "  Vanity  Fair  " 
that  special  element  of  interest  which  comes 
from  Thackeray's  own  nature,  and  it  would 
lose  the  greater  portion  of  its  fascination. 
It  is  not  so  much  what  is  done,  as  the  way 


in  which  it  is  done,  that  surprises  and  de- 
lights ;  and  the  manner  is  always  inimitable, 
even  when  the  matter  is  common. 


Seaside  and  fireside  Fairies,  Translated 
from  the  German  of  George  Blum  and 
Louis  WahL  By  A.  L.  Wistar.  Phila- 
delphia :  Ashmead  &  Evans. 

These  pretty  fairy  stories  peep  at  ns  oat 
of  German-land  through  a  pleasant,  dear 
translation,  and  they  remind  us  how  easily 
the  German  mind  rises  into  the  region  of 
the  supernatural  and  loves  to  dwell  in  air- 
bom  castles.  The  beautiful  instinct  of  rev- 
erence common  to  child-life  is  readily  taken 
advantage  of  by  writers  for  the  young ;  but 
where  in  England  we  find  in  stories  some 
angel-mother  who  discovers  the  treachery 
of  her  governess  and  teaches  her  own  chil- 
dren, or  a  rotund  uncle  who  tips  the  boys» 
providentially,  as  it  seems,  in  Germany  the 
protectors  of  children  possess  no  nearer 
abode  than  the  land  of  Fairy,  and  their  pres- 
ence is  as  rare  as  that  of  the  Indian  **  Van- 
ishers."  Perhaps,  even  among  American 
children,  the  tales  which  approximate  more 
nearly  to  their  experience  hold  the  strongest 
attractive  power  ;  yet,  in  the  wide  range  of 
the  commingled  races  of  the  United  States, 
there  must  be  many  children  who  long  for 
stories  of  that  dear  Dream-land  familiar  to 
their  thoughts,  and  to  whom  these  stories 
would  be  a  happy  era  in  childhood's  expe- 
rience. 


RECENT  AMERICAN  PUBLICATIONS. 


Lectures  on  the  Science  of  Language, 
delivered  at  the  Royal  Institution  of  Great 
Britain,  in  February,  March,  April,  and 
May,  1863.  By  Max  Miiller,  Fellow  of  All- 
Souls  College,  Oxford;  Correspondent  de 
rinstitut  de  France.  Second  Series.  With 
Thirty-One  Illustrations.  New  York.  C 
Scribner.     lama    pp.622.    $3.00. 

Meditations  on  the  Essence  of  Christian- 
ity, and  on  the  Religious  Questions  of  the 
Day.  By  M.  Guizot  Translated  firom  the 
French,  under  the  Superintendence  of  the 
Author.  New  York.  C.  Scribner.  i2mo. 
pp.356.    $1.75. 

The  Beautiful  Widow.  By  Mrs.  Percy 
B.  Shelley.  Philadelphia.  T.  B.  Peterson 
&  Brothers.    i2mo.    ppi  244.    #2.oa 


The  Differential  Calculus :  with  Unusual 
and  Particular  Analysis  of  its  Elementary 
Principles,  and  Copious  Illustrations  of  its 
Practical  Application.  By  John  Spare, 
A.  M.,  M.  D.  Boston.  Bradley,  Dayton, 
&  Co.     i2mo.    pp.  XX.,  244.    ^2.oa 

Vest-Pocket  Lexicon.  An  English  Dic- 
tionary of  all  except  Familiar  Words ;  in- 
cluding the  Principal  Scientific  and  Tech- 
nical Terms,  and  Foreign  Moneys,  Weights, 
and  Measures.  By  Jabez  Jenkins.  Phila- 
delphia. J.  B.  Lippincott  &  Ca  i8mo. 
pp.  563.    62  cts. 

The  American  Conflict  A  History  of 
the  Great  Rebellion.  By  Horace  Greeley. 
Volume  One.  Hartford.  O.  D.  Case  &  Cow 
8vo.    ppw  64&    1 5.0a 


THE 


ATLANTIC    MONTHLY. 

A  Magazine  of  Literature,  Art,  and  Politics, 


VOL.    XV.  — JUNE,    1865.  — NO.    XCII. 


A   LETTER   ABOUT   ENGLAND. 


DEAR  MR.  EDITOR, —The  name 
of  your  magazine  shall  not  deter 
me  from  sending  you  my  slight  reflec- 
tions. But  you  have  been  across,  and 
will  agree  with  me  that  it  is  the  great 
misfortune  of  this  earth  that  so  much 
salt-water  is  still  lying  around  between 
its  various  countries.  The  steam-con- 
denser is  supposed  to  diminish  its  bulk 
by  shortening  the  transit  from  one  point 
to  another  ;  but  a  delicate,  conscience 
must  aver  that  there  is  a  good  deal  left 
The  ocean  is  chiefly  remarkable  as  the 
element  out  of  which  the  dry  land  came. 
It 'is  only  when  the  land  and  sea  com- 
bine to  frame  the  mighty  coast-line  of 
a  continent,  and  to  fringe  it  with  weed 
which  the  tide  uncovers  twice  a  day, 
that  the  mind  is  saluted  with  health  and 
beauty.  The  fine  instinct  of  Mr.  Tho- 
reau  furnished  him  with  a  truth,  without 
the  trouble  of  a  single  game  at  pitch 
and  toss  with  the  mysterious  element ; 
for  be  says, — 

*'  The  middle  tea  contafais  no  crimioa  dnbe, 
lU  deeper  waives  cut  up  no  pearb  to  view. 
Along  the  ihore  my  hand  u  on  iu  pulae^ 

And  I  convene  with  many  a  ihipwrecked  crew.* 

• 

On  the  broad  Atlantic  there  is  no 
smell  of  the  sea.  That  comes  from  the 
brown  rocks  whence  iodine  is  exhaled 


to  brace  the  nerves  and  the  £uicy,  while 
summer  woods  chasten  all  the  air.  At 
best,  the  ocean  is  austere  and  unsympa- 
thetic ;  and  a  sensible,  that  is,  a  sensitive, 
stomach  understands  it  to  be  demoral- 
ized by  the  monstrous  krakens  which 
are  viciously  brooding  in  its  depths.  ( If 
the  pronoun  ^^  it,"  in  the  last  sentence, 
should  refer  to  stomach,  the  sense  will 
still  be  clear.)  In  fact,  this  water  has 
been  left  over  from  the  making  of  the 
earth :  like  the  Dodo  and  the  Moa,  it 
should  have  evaporated.  How  pleasant 
it  is  to  be  assured  by  Sir  Charles  Lyell 
that  the  land  is  still  rising  in  so  many 
quarters  of  the  globe  1  for  we  may  an* 
ticipate  that  millennial  epoch  when  there 
shall  be  ''  no  more  sea." 

However,  the  old  impression  which 
great  spaces  used  to  make  upon  the  im- 
agination gives  way  to  the  new  sensa- 
tion of  annihilating  spaces.  It  would 
be  more  correct  now  to  speak  of  difier- 
ences  than  of  distances.  The  difference 
between  one  country  and  another  is  all 
that  now  makes  the  distance  between 
them.  For  man  is  now  overcoming 
space  (aster  than  he  is  obliterating  na- 
tional peculiarities.  And  when  one  goes 
abroach  the  universal  humanity  in  whose 
interest  all  material  and  political  tri- 


Entered  according  to  Act  of  Congrew,  in  the  year  1865,  by  Ticknor  and  FiKLt>s,  io  the  Qetk't  Ottee 

of  the  District  Court  of  the  District  of  Mawwhmettfc 
VOL.  XV. — NO.  92.  4t 


642 


A  Letter  about  England, 


[June, 


umphs  are  gained  is  not  felt  by  him  so 
soon  as  the  specific  divergence  which 
makes  the  character  of  lands  and  people. 
Oaks  and  elms,  hawthorn  and  beeches, 
are  on  either  side  the  ocean ;  but  you 
measure  the  voyage  by  their  unlikeness 
to  each  other,  and  wonder  how  soon 
you  have  got  so  far.  The  strawberry 
ripens  with  a  different  flavor  and  tex- 
ture. The  sun  is  less  racy  in  all  the 
common  garden-stuff  whose  names  we 
know.  Pears  and  peaches  we  are  dis- 
appointed in  recognizing ;  they  seem 
as  if  ripened  by  the  sun's  proxy,  the 
moon ;  and  our  boys  would  hardly  pick 
up  the  apples  in  the  fields.  But  Eng- 
land undulates  with  grass  that  seems 
to  fix  the  fluent  color  of  the  greenest 
waves  on  either  hand.  And  our  eagle- 
eyed  blue  sky  droops  its  lid  over  the 
island,  as  the  moisture  gathers,  with  a 
more  equable  compassion  than  we  know 
for  all  shrubs  and  blades  and  grazing 
cattle. 

Both  the  pain  and  the  tonic  in  being 
absent  from  your  home  and  country  are 
administered  by  difference.  In  gulping 
that  three  thousand  miles  the  taste  is 
austere,  but  the  stimulus  is  wholesome. 
We  learn  to  appreciate,  but  also  to  cor- 
rect, the  fare  we  have  at  home. 

The  difference  is  twofold  between 
England  and  America.  England  dif- 
fers, first,  in  the  inveterate  way  in  which 
the  people  hold  on  to  all  that  they  have 
inherited ;  second,  in  the  gradual,  but 
equally  inveterate,  way  in  which  they 
labor  to  improve  their  inheritance.  The 
future  is  gained  by  the  same  temper  in 
which  the  past  is  held ;  so  that,  if  the 
past  is  secure,  the  future  is  also :  none 
the  less  because  the  past  seems  so  ir- 
revocably built,  but  rather  in  conse- 
quence of  that,  because  it  betrays  the 
method  of  the  builders. 

These  two  characteristics,  apparently 
irreconcilable,  are  really  organic,  and 
come  of  position,  climate,  diet,  and  slow- 
ly amalgamated  races  of  men.  Heme's 
oak  in  Windsor  Forest  and  the  mon- 
archy in  Windsor  Castle  grew  on  the 
same  terms.  Branch  after  branch  the 
oak  has  fallen,  till  on  the  last  day  of 
the  summer  of  1863  the  wind  brought 


the  shattered  remnant  to  the  ground. 
Whether  the  monarchy  decay  like  this 
or  not,  it  has  served  to  shelter  a  great 
people ;  and  the  English  people  is  still 
vital  with  its  slow  robustness,  and  is 
good  for  depositing  its  annual  rings 
these  thousand  years. 

Let  us  look  a  little  more  closely  at 
tliis  apparent  contradiction. 

The  superficial  view  of  England 
breeds  a  kind  of  hopelessness  in  the 
mind  of  the  observer.  He  says  to  him- 
self,— "All  these  stereotyped  habits  and 
opinions,  tHese  ways  of  thinking,  writ- 
ing, building,  living,  and  dying,  seem 
irrepealable ;  and  the  worst  fault  of  their 
comparative  excellence  is,  that  they  ap- 
pear determined  not  to  yield  another 
inch  to  improvement''  The  English- 
man says  that  America  is  forever  bully- 
ing with  her  resdessness  and  innovation. 
The  American  might  at  first  say  that 
England  bullied  by  never  budging, — 
bullied  the  future,  and  every  rational  or 
humane  suggestion,  by  planting  a  portly 
attitude  to  challenge  the  New  Jerusalem 
in  an  overbearing  chest  voice,  through 
which  the  timid  clarion  of  the  angels 
is  not  heard. 

If  an  observer  knows  anything  of  the 
history  of  England,  he  cannot  deny  that 
vast  changes  have  been  made  in  every 
department  of  life :  domestic  habits,  so- 
cial economics,  the  courts  of  law,  the 
Church,  the  liberty  of  the  press  and  of 
speech,  in  short,  all  the  roads,  whether 
material  or  mental,  by  which  mankind 
travels  to  its  ultimate  purpose,  have 
been  graded,  widened,  solidly  equipped 
and  built.  A  thousand  years  have  con- 
verted three  or  four  races  into  one  peo- 
ple,—and  all  that  time  and  weather  have 
made  upon  it  such  strong  imprints  that 
you  cannot  see  the  difference  between 
a  pyramid  and  a  cathedral  sooner  than 
you  can  the  distinctive  nationality  of 
England  But  for  that  very  reason 
you  despair  of  it,  just  as  you  do  of  a 
cathedral  which  cannot  be  adapted  to 
the  wants  of  a  new  religious  age.  At 
the  same  time  that  you  venerate  the 
history  of  England,  and  are  thankful 
for  the  great  expansion  which  she  gave 
to  human  rights,  you  almost  quarrel 


i86s.] 


A  Letter  about  England^ 


643 


with  it,  because  at  first  it  seems  like 
an  old  stratum  with  its  men  and  women 
imbedded ;  its  institutions,  once  so  soft- 
ly and  lightly  deposited,  now  become  a 
tough  day ;  its  structures,  once  so  cu- 
riously devised  for  living  tenants,  now 
crusts  and  shells ;  its  tracks  of  warm 
and  bleeding  feet  now  set  in  a  stiff  soil 
that  will  take  no  future  impression. 

All  this  is  due  to  the  first  glance  you 
get  at  the  hard,  realistic  England  of  to- 
day. You  have  noticed  a  machine  clutch 
its  raw  material  and  twist  and  turn  it 
through  its  relentless  bowels.  That  is 
the  way  the  habits  of  England  seize  you 
when  you  land,  and  begin  to  appropriate 
your  personality.  This  is  the  first  of- 
fence of  England  in  the  eyes  of  an 
American,  whose  favorite  phrase,  "  the 
largest  liberty,"  is  too  synonymous  with 
the  absence  of  any  settled  habits.  Pre- 
scribed ways  of  doing  everything  are 
the  scum  which  a  traveller  first  gathers 
in  England.  Perhaps  he  thinks  that 
he  has  caught  the  English  nationality 
in  his  skimmer ;  and  as  he  rather  con- 
temptuously examines  these  topmost 
and  handiest  traits,  he  grumbles  to 
himself  that  these  are  the  habits  of  a 
very  old  nation,  that  lives  on  an  island, 
and  keeps  up  a  fleet,  not  to  bridge,  but 
to  widen  narrow  seas.  Such  respect 
for  routine  and  observance  can  nowhere 
else  be  perceived.  An  American  is  so 
little  prepared  for  this  that  he  is  dis- 
posed to  quarrel  with  it  even  in  rail- 
way-stations, where  it  is  most  excellent 
But  it  penetrates  all  forms  and  institu- 
tions ;  the  Established  Church  itself  is 
a  specimen  of  complete  arranging  and 
engineering ;  the  worshippers  are  clas- 
sified, ticketed,  and  despatched  safely 
rolling  on  the  broad  gauge  of  the  Litur- 
gy, in  confidence  of  being  set  down  at 
last  where  the  conductors  have  contract- 
ed to  take  them.  How  accurately  every- 
body in  England  knows  his  own  place ! 
—  and  he  accepts  it,  however  humble, 
with  a  determined  feeling  that  it  is  in- 
evitable. The  audience  is  so  packed 
that  everybody  remains  quiet  The  de- 
meanor of  the  servants  is  as  settled  and 
universally  deferential  as  Westminster 
Abbey  b  Gothic    Mr.  Lindsay  or  Mr. 


Roebuck  might  forget  to  revile  Amer- 
ica, or  Lord  Palmerston,  England's 
right  hand,  forget  his  cunning,  as  soon 
as  a  servant  might  forget  his  place. 
A  thousand  years  have  settled  him  in 
it;  and  you  are  supposed  by  him  to 
have  had  the  benefit  of  as  many  years 
in  determining  your  own  position  and 
relation  to  him.  You  are  electrified 
when  a  waiter  first  touches  his  hat  to 
you  ;  it  is  as  if  he  had  discharged  some- 
thing into  you  by  the  gesture,  which  is 
likely  to  exhaust  him,  and  you  expect 
to  have  to  offer  him  a  chair.  But  his 
deference  is  an  integral  part  of  the  sta- 
bility of  England.  When  he  forgets  it, 
look  for  a  panic  in  the  Exchange,  the 
collapse  of  credit,  and  the  assassination 
of  the  Queen. 

This  mutual  deference  in  a  country 
that  is  so  strictly  apportioned  into 
castes  becomes  an  unconscious  toady- 
ism, which  is  saved  from  being  very 
repulsive  only  by  the  fr^k  and  child- 
like ways  of  the  people.  If  it  is  car- 
ried to6  far,  they  are  the  first  to  see  it 
The  "  Times  "  could  not  report  a  case 
of  murder  without  remarking,  as  it  de- 
scribed the  direction  of  the  fatal  shot, 
"  What  was  a  very  singular  fact,  a  part 
of  the  charge,  after  crossing  the  apart- 
ment, entered  a  picture  of  her  Majesty 
the  Queen  on  the  opposite  wall " ; — that 
is,  in  committing  the  murder,  the  charge 
of  powder  went  too  far ;  it  ought  to 
have  stuck  to  its  business,  instead  of 
violating  one  of  the  chief  proprieties 
of  a  limited  monarchy.  But  when  the 
Queen  went  down  to  Greenwich  sum- 
mer before  last  to  embark  for  Belgium, 
an  over-zealous  official  issued  an  order 
that  no  person  should  be  admitted  into 
the  yard  of  the  dock,  no  workman  should 
cross  the  yard  while  she  was  in  it,  and 
no  one  should  look  out  of  a  window  un- 
til she  had  gone.  This  was  his  British 
sense  of  the  behavior  due  to  a  Queen 
who  was  in  mourning  for  her  husband, 
and  might  dislike  to  be  observed.  But 
the  whole  press  derided  this  order,  and 
subjected  it  to  indignant  criticism  ;  the 
officer  was  styled  fiunky  and  tyrant,  and 
the  Queen  herself  was  obliged  to  re- 
buke and  disavow  it 


644 


A  Letter  about  EnglatuL 


[June, 


In  doing  everything  in  England,  there 
is  so  little  excitement,  because  it  is  felt 
to  be  irregular.  The  temper  of  the 
people  is  well  kept  by  the  smooth  and 
even  island  air ;  the  moist  southwest- 
em  winds  come  and  soothe  with  calm 
lips  the  cheek.  The  thermometer,  like 
everything  else,  knows  its  place ;  and 
when  once  it  succeeded  in  passing 
tlirough  twenty  degrees  in  the  course 
of  a  day,  the  oldest  inhabitant  of  Lon- 
don grew  anxious ;  it  was  feared  that 
stocks,  too,  would  fall.  The  thunder- 
storms understand  propriety,  and  sim- 
ply growl,  like  the  dissatisfied  English- 
man. Vivid  effects,  sharp  contrasts, 
violent  exertions,  cannot  be  sustained 
in  that  insular  atmosphere.  It  seems 
as  if  London,  like  a  lover  of  the  weed, 
were  pacified  by  its  own  smoke.  I  saw 
two  huge  wagons  turn  from  opposite 
quarters  into  a  narrow  lane.  The  driv- 
ers kept  their  horses  moving  till  the 
heads  of  the  leaders  touched ;  then 
they  sat  stiU  and  looked  at  each  other. 
Both  were  determined  that  it  was  a 
point  of  honor  to  stay  where  they  were. 
After  a  few  words  of  rather  substan- 
tial English  had  passed  between  them, 
both  subsided  into  a  dogged  equanim- 
ity. A  crowd  gathered  instantly,'  but 
with  as  litde  tumult  as  ants  make ;  it 
regarded  the  occurrence  as  a  milder 
form  of  pugilism,  and  watched  the  re- 
sult with  interest.  A  policeman  passed 
blandly  from  one  wagon  to  the  other, 
represented  the  necessities  of  the  pub- 
lic traffic,  hoped  they  would  settle  it 
shortly,  urged  the  matter  as  an  intimate 
friend  of  the  parties,  till  at  length  the 
man  who  was  conscious  that  he  turned 
into  the  lane  the  last  gathered  up  his 
reins  and  backed  out  of  it  It  was  a 
little  index  of  the  popular  disposition ; 
and  I  expected  that  as  soon  as  the 
country  became  convinced  that  it  had 
driven  rashly  into  our  civil  strait,  it 
would  deliberately  back  out  of  it  And 
this  it  is  now  slowly  engaged  in  doing. 

The  two  great  parties  of  the  Church 
and  Liberalism  are  blocking  each  other 
in  the  same  manner ;  but  in  this  case 
Liberalism  has  turned  into  the  great 
thoroughfare  of  the  world^s  movement, 


and  finds  the  Church,  like  a  disabled 
omnibus,  disputing  the  passage  by  sim- 
ply lying  across  it  Dr.  Temple  and 
one  hundred  liberal  Fellows  of  Oxford 
sent  up  to  Parliament  a  petition  which 
prayed  for  the  abolition  of  the  subscrip- 
tion test  At  Oxford  two  subscriptions 
are  required  as  a  qualification  for  aca- 
demic degrees ;  one  to  the  Thirty-Nine 
Articles,  and  one  to  the  third  article  of 
the  thirty-sixth  Canon.  Liberal  deigy- 
men  and  members  of  the  Church  of 
England  find  this  test  odious,  because 
it  constrains  the  conscience  to  accept 
ancient  formulas  of  belief  without  the 
benefit  of  private  interpretation.  The 
conservatives  desire  to  maintain  the 
test,  thinking  that  it  will  be  a  barrier 
to  the  tide  of  private  interpretation 
which  is  just  now  mounting  so  high* 
The  petitioners  perceive  that  no  test 
can  prevent  a  man  from  having  his 
own  thoughts ;  that  it  is  therefore  ob- 
solete ;  that  it  drives  out  of  the  Church 
the  best  men,  —  those,  namely,  who 
think  with  independent  vigor,  and 
whose  activity  would  put  a  new  soul 
into  the  old  Establishment  When  this 
petition  came  up  for  debate  in  the 
House  of  Commons,  the  conservative 
speakers  accused  the  petitioners  of 
wishing  to  set  up  a  new  school  of  theo- 
logical belief  and  criticism.  Mr.  Glad- 
stone made  a  speech,  full  of  grace  and 
an  even  vigor,  to  the  effect  that  he 
could  not  conceive  of  religion  discon- 
nected from  definite  statements  such 
as  those  which  the  Church  possessed  ; 
the  idea  was  to  his  mind  as  absurd  as 
to  conceive  of  manifestations  of  life 
without  a  body.  Mr.  Goschen,  the 
new  member  from  London,  made  his 
maiden  speech  on  this  occasion.  It 
was  very  earnest  and  liberal,  and  re- 
minded one  of  American  styles  of 
speaking,  being  less  even  and  conver- 
sational than  the  style  which  English- 
men admire.  His  opinion  was,  that  all 
tests  should  be  abohshed,  and  that  in- 
clusion was  safer  than  exclusion :  mean- 
ing that  the  Church  ought  to  keep  her- 
self so  organized  as  to  absorb  the  best 
vitality  of  every  generation,  instead  of 
turning  it  out  to  become  cold  and  hos^ 


i86s.] 


A  Letter  aiout  England. 


645 


tile.  The  pbrase  which  he  ased  is  the 
very  essence  of  a  republican  policy.  It 
represents  the  tendency  of  tiie  people 
of  England,  as  distinguished  irom  its 
ministers  and  the  traditions  of  its  gov- 
ernment That  phrase  will  one  day  be 
safely  driven  clear  through  the  highway 
where  the  omnibus  is  now  lying ;  but 
for  the  present,  the  abolition  of  tests 
and  church-rates,  the  recognition  of 
every  shade  of  dissent,  and  the  graver 
political  reformation  which  waits  behind 
all  these  are  held  in  check  by  the  vis 
inertia  of  an  Establishment  that  lies 
across  the  road. 

During  the  exciting  anti-church-rate 
contests  of  1840,  the  Church  party  in 
Rochdale,  which  had  been  defeated  in 
an  attempt  to  levy  a  church-rate  where 
for  several  years  none  had  been  col- 
lected, held  a  meeting  to  try  the  matter 
over  again.  It  was  adjourned  from 
the  church  to  the  graveyard.  The  vic- 
ar, as  chairman,  occupied  one  tomb- 
stone, and  John  Bright  stood  upon  an- 
other to  make  one  of  his  strong  de- 
fences of  the  rights  of  Voluntaryism. 
In  the  course  of  the  discussion,  the 
vicar's  warden  rendered  an  account  of 
the  dilapidations  of  the  building  which 
the  proposed  rate  was  to  repair,  and 
stated,  with  great  simplicity,  that  ^  the 
foundations  were  giving  way,"  —  a  sig- 
nificant remark,  which  the  meeting, 
though  held  in  a  grave  place,  received 
with  shouts  of  laughter.  Such  a  state- 
ment may  well  be  taken  as  symbolical 
of  the  condition  of  the  Establishment, 
when  liberal  criticism,  represented  by 
Colenso,  Stanley,  Jowett,  Baden  Powell, 
and  a  respectable  minority,  is  silently 
crumbling  the  underpinning,  while  the 
full  service  is  intoned  above  and  the 
pampered  ceremonial  swells  the  aisles. 

If  the  opponents  of  liberal  thinking 
ever  bring  an  action  against  a  promi- 
nent dissenter  from  their  views,  the 
Privy  Council  gets  rid  of  the  case  by 
deciding  it  upon  the  purely  technical 
position  of  the  Church,  —  as  in  the 
case  of  Dr.  Williams,  whose  offence 
was  the  publication  of  his  Essay  on 
Bonsen,  and  Mr.  Wilson,  whose  essay 
entitied  *' Stances  Historiques  de 


Geneve— The  National  Church."  The 
Judicial  Committee  of  the  Privy  Coun- 
cil decide  that  they  have  no  power  to 
define  what  is  true  and  what  is  ^sJse 
doctrine,  but  only  what  has  been  estab- 
lished to  be  the  law  of  the  Church  upon 
the  true  and  legal  construction  of  her 
Articles  and  Formularies. 

I.  The  Church  does  not  require  her 
clergy  to  believe  in  the  inspiration  of 
all  portions  of  the  Scriptures. 

II.  Nor  that  the  Atonement  operates 
by  subsHtution  of  Christ's  suffering  for 
our  sins. 

III.  Nor  that  the  phrase  "everlast- 
ing fire,"  in  the  Athanasian  Creed,  is 
to  be  received  as  a  final  and  hopeless 
statement 

As  a  specimen  of  the  popular  ele- 
ment which  is  at  work  among  the  un- 
educated classes  to  make  the  people 
itself  of  England  its  real  church,  it  is 
worth  while  to  observe  what  Mr.  Spur- 
geon  is  doing.  His  chapel  stands  on 
the  southern  side  of  the  Thames,  be- 
tween the  Victoria  and  Surrey  Thea- 
tres, where*the  British  subject  is  served 
with  the  domestic  and  nautical  drama. 
On  those  stages  the  language  struts 
and  aspirates,  and  the  effects  are  bor- 
rowed from  Vauxhall   and   Cremome 

■ 

for  plays  which  are  constructed  to  hold 
the  greatest  possible  amount  of  cock- 
ney! sm  and   grotesqueness,  with  the^ 
principal  object  of  showing  how  viUany- 
and  murder  are  uniformly  overcome  by- 
virtue,  whose  ketde  sings  upon  the- hob, 
above  a  pile  of  buttered  muffins  at  Ikst ; ; 
and  the  pit,  which  came  in  for  a  shilling, 
pays  the  extra  tribute  of  a  tear.    These- 
shop-keepers  of  the  Surrey  side  sit  on 
Sunday  beneath  Mr.  Spurgeon's  plat- 
form, whose  early  preaching  betrayed 
the  proximity  of  the  theatres,  but  was 
for  that  very  reason  admirably  season- 
ed to  attract  his  listeners.     If  he  ev- 
er did  slide  down  the  fail  of  his  pul- 
pit-stairs, as  reported,  in  order  to  dram- 
atize the  swift  descent  of  the  soul  into 
iniquity,  and  then  painfully  climb  up 
again  to  show  its  difficult  return,  the 
action  was  received,  doubtiess,  in  its, 
full  ethical  import,  and  shook  the  sub* 
urban  heart     His  blunt  and  ordinary 


646 


A  Letter  about  England. 


LF«nCf 


language,  sinning  frequently  against 
taste,  and  stooping  sometimes  to  be 
coarse,  was  the  very  vehicle  to  take  his 
hearers  up  at  the  pit-door,  theatrical  or 
theological,  and  send  them  in  whole- 
aomer  directions.  It  was  a  fortunate  — 
his  co-religionists  would  say  providen- 
tial —  adaptation  of  an  earnest  and  re- 
ligious man  to  the  field  of  his  labor. 
For,  as  time  passed,  the  phrases  and 
demeanor  of  his  preaching  improved,  — 
their  absurdities  have,  no  doubt,  been 
caricatured  by  the  London  press,  —  and 
the  temper  of  the  man  was  more  plainly 
observed  to  be  sincere,  fervent,  and  de- 
voted to  a  certain  set  of  religious  pre- 
conceptions. The  want  of  culture  and 
of  general  intelligence  was  not  so  lam- 
entable in  such  a  neighborhood.  He 
led,  by  many  lengths,  the  Victoria  and 
Surrey  stage.  If  he  had  more  deeply 
reflected  upon  the  subjects  which  be 
bandied  like  a  simple-hearted  boy,  he 
would  have  failed  to  keep  four  thousand 
men  and  women  warm  in  the  hollow 
of  his  hand  from  Sunday  to  Sunday, 
for  a  dozen  years,  and  to  organize  their 
whole  moral  and  religious  activity  in 
forms  that  are  admirably  adapted  to 
carry  on  the  work  of  popular  dissent 

His  audience  represents  the  district, 
and  is  an  advertisement  of  the  kind  of 
spiritual  instruction  which  it  needs  and 
gets.  Not  many  large  heads  sit  in  the 
pews ;  narrowness,  unreflecting  earnest- 
ness, and  healthy  desires  are  imprinted 
upon  the  faces  upturned  towards  his 
clear  and  level  delivery.  He  is  never 
exactly  vapid,  and  he  never  soars.  His 
theology  is  full  of  British  beer ;  but  the 
common-sense  of  his  points  and  illus- 
trations relative  to  morals  and  piety  is 
a  lucid  interval  by  which  the  hearers 
profit  They  follow  his  textual  allu- 
sions in  their  little  Bibles,  and  devoutly 
receive  the  crude  and  amusing  inter- 
pretations as  utterances  of  the  highest 
exegetical  skill  But  their  faces  shine 
when  the  discourse  moralizes ;  it  seems 
to  take  .them  by  the  button,  so  friendly 
it  is, — but  it  looks  them  closely  in  the 
eye,  without  heat  and  distant  zeal,  with 
great,  manly  expostulation,  rather,  and 
half- humorous  .argument,  that  some- 


times make  the  tears  stand  upon  the 
lids.  The  florid  countenances  become 
a  shade  paler  with  listening,  the  dark 
complexions  glow  with  a  brooding  re- 
ligiosity. It  is  plain  that  he  has  a  hun- 
gry people,  and  feeds  them  with  what 
suits  their  frames  the  best  His  dear 
voice,  well  fuelled  by  a  full,  though 
rather  flabby  firame,  rolls  into  all  the 
galleries  and  comers  of  the  vast  build- 
ing without  effort  \  his  gestures  are 
even  and  well  balanced  ;  and  you  are, 
in  fact,  surprised  Jo  see  how  good  a 
natural  orator  he  is.  You  went  to  hear 
him,  expecting  to  find  some  justifica- 
tion for  the  stories  which  impute  to  him 
a  low  and  egotistic  presence,  and  a  de- 
livery that  depends  upon  broadness  for 
its  effects.  But  he  appears  unpretend- 
ing, in  spite  of  the  satisfied  look  which 
he  casts  around  the  congregation  when 
he  first  steps  to  the  railing  of  the  plat- 
form. He  is  evidently  conscious  that 
he  owns  the  building  and  the  audience ; 
but,  content  with  that,  he  makes  no  at- 
tempt to  put  them  in  his  pocket;  on 
the  contrary,  he  almost  instandy  be- 
comes seriously  engaged  in  transfer- 
ring into  them  his  lesson  for  the  day. 
His  style  of  extemporaneous  speaking 
is  conversational,  —  the  better  English 
suspect  all  other  styles,  —  and  this  of 
itself  shows  what  improvement  has  tak- 
en place  in  the  Surrey  region.  If  at 
first  he  indulged  in  rant,  he  has  now 
subsided  into  an  even  vein ;  he  puts 
things  plumply,  and  tells  his  feelings 
gravely,  and  makes  his  points  without 
quackery.  So  it  is  plain  that  when  he 
gives  notice  of  a  contribution  for  his 
college,  in  which  young  men  are  trained 
for  the  ministry,  and  states  simply,  in 
justification,  that  one  hundred  and  fifty 
have  already  left  it,  and  are  now  en- 
gaged in  preaching  the  dissenting  word, 
he  is  to  be  regarded  as  one  of  the  de- 
cided influences  which  are  now  at  work 
to  bring  the  people  up  to  self-con- 
sciousness, self-respecty  and  political 
importance. 

It  is  very  characteristic  that  the  Na- 
tional Church  is  called  an  Elstablish- 
ment,  —  in  other  words,  something  that 
stays  where  it  was  put  some  time  ago. 


1865.] 


A  Letter  t^out  England. 


647 


The  thing  which  ought  to  move  first, 
and  move  continually  through  ail  the 
avenues  of  the  public  life,  to  keep  them 
clear  of  the  obstructions  of  ignorance 
and  superstition^  and  prevent  the  great 
travel  and  intercourse  of  thought  from 
stagnating,  is  the  thing  in  England 
which  is  most  unwilling  to  stir.  Al- 
ready a  fearful  accumulation  of  passen- 
gers and  vehicles,  whose  patience  is 
nearly  exhausted,  is  anxious  to  be  let 
through  in  time  to  keep  appointment 
with  the  world's  grave  business.  Young 
thoughts  are  hurrying  to  be  indorsed  ; 
mature  paper  dreads  to  be  protested ; 
the  hour  of  the  world's  liberal  exchange 
is  about  to  strike.  Depend  upon  it,  at 
the  critical  moment,  when  the  pressure 
in  the  rear  becomes  the  most  emphatic, 
the  people  in  the  omnibus  will  have  to 
g^t  out  and  assist  the  passengers  in 
drawing  it  to  one  side,  where  it  will 
remain  a  long  time  unmolested. 

But  the  first  thing  which  you  say 
concerning  the  men  and  institutions  of 
England  is,  that  they  are  established. 
In  America  some  things  are  finished 
before  they  are  done  ;  but  there  are  no 
tottering  trestle-bridges  on  the  routes 
of  English  enterprise  to  let  th^  travel- 
lers through.  When  a  business  firm 
becomes  fairly  built  up,  it  lasts  a  hun- 
dred years  or  more.  Sho]>-signs  are 
not  taken  down  except  by  the  weather ; 
new  fronts  grow  so  slowly  along  the 
ancient  streets  that  they  appear  to  be 
deposited  by  secretion,  like  corals  and 
shells.  I  took  a  book  to  a  printer,  and 
found  he  was  the  grandson  of  the  man 
who  published  *'  Junius  "  in  1769,  doing 
business  in  the  same  dingy  court  and 
office,  with  the  old  regularity  and  delib- 
eration. When  I  said,  that,  for  want 
of  time,  I  should  have  to  risk  formida- 
ble errata  and  print  at  the  rate  of  sixty- 
four  pages  a  day,  he  plainly  suspected 
me  of  derangement  and  of  a  desire  to 
impart  my  condition  to  his  machinery. 
On  repeating  it  with  calmness,  he  set 
it  down  for  Yankee  braggadocio,  and 
assured  me  that  not  an  author  in  Eng- 
land could  print  at  that  rate.  Then  he 
went  to  work.  They  detest  being  hur- 
ried, but  their  latent  momentum  is  very 


great.  Limited  suffrage  and  many  ad- 
ministrative abuses  will  feel  it  soon,  as 
similar  things  have  felt  it  before. 

But  you  are  deceived  at  first,  and  an- 
ticipate deterioration  rather  than  im- 
provement for  the  people  of  England. 
The  city  of  London,  with  its  two  and 
a  half  millions  of  inhabitants,  looks 
like  a  huge  stone  that  has  been  pried 
over  a  sweet  weU ;  nobody  need  expect 
to  draw  water  there  any  more ;  f^sh 
ones  must  be  dug,  we  say,  in  America, 
in  Russia,  to  reach  primitive  human 
nature  again,  and  set  it  free  to  make  the 
wilderness  blossom.    London  looks  as 
if  it  had  slowly  grown  from  the  soil  and 
the  climate,  like  a  lichen  that  clings 
closely  to  its  rocky  site.    The  heavy, 
many-storied   buildings   of   Portland 
stone  are  blackened  by  the  smoke  till 
they  appear  more  like  quarries  than 
habitations  ;  the  swarms  of  human  be- 
ings look  ephemeral  as  moths.     The 
finest  architecture  becomes  in  a  few 
y^ars    undistinguishable,  and  delicate 
ornamentation  is  as  much  superfluous 
as  among  the  weather-stained  cliffs  and 
boulders  of  the  coast    Monumental  in- 
scriptions are  smutted  and  half-obliter- 
ated, but  the  scurf  protects  the  monu- 
ment Under  the  huge  pile  of  St  Paul's 
the  ceaseless  traffic  of  human  passions 
passes  as  through  a  defile  of  the  hills. 
When  the  lights  spring  forth  towards 
evening,  and  sparkle  on  the  great  dulL 
masses,  it  seems  as  if  the  buildings  had 
been  there  forever,  and  forever  would  be, 
endowed  with  some  elemental  process 
which  puts  forth  the  lighting.  Newgate 
itself,    without   windows  towards  the 
street,  a  huge  angle  of  dead  walls,  with 
heavy  iron  fetters  suspended  over  the 
gateways,  and  statues  so  blackened  in 
their  niches  as  to  dispel  the  illusion  that 
they  ever  did  or  could  suggest  humanity, 
is  a  settled  gloom  in  the  midst  of  the 
city,  like  the  thought  of  a  discouraged 
and  defeated  man.    It  has  a  terrible 
suggestion  that  crime  itself  is  establish- 
ed in  London,  —  immutable  methods  of 
being  guilty  and  of  being  condemned, 
— all  old,  old,  and  irrepealable. 

From  Primrose  Hill,  beyond  Regent's 
Park,  and  towards  the  open  country, 


648 


A  Letter  about  England. 


EJunc, 


the  profile  of  the  ctty  can  be  seen  at 
one  view,  as  it  emerges  from  the  smoke, 
is  heavily  described  athwart  it,  and 
plunges  into  it  again,  like  a  great,  silent 
feature  of  the  earth  itself  lifted  in  an 
atmosphere  whose  density  seems  to  be 
a  part  of  the  antiquity.  Hidden  in  that 
smoke  the  streets  roll  night,  and  day, 
like  great  arteries,  to  feed,  replace,  re- 
pair, business,  pleasure,  and  misery, 
but  to  change  it  no  more  than  the  blood 
changes  the  tricks  of  an  old  brain  or 
the  settled  beating  of  a  stubborn  heart. 

These  are  some  of  the  physical  as- 
pects which  seduce  a  traveller  into  the 
impression  that  the  vigor  and  glory  of 
England  have  culminated,  and  would 
&11  apart  sooner  than  take  on  new  forms 
or  yield  to  the  moulding  power  of  popu- 
lar ideas. 

The  impoession  is  deepened  by  the 
feeling  of  hostility  to  American  institu- 
tions, and  by  the  special  dislike  of  the 
North,  which  the  past  four  years  have 
betrayed.  The  commercial  and  ruling 
classes  had  been  skilfully  prepared,  by 
applications  of  Southern  sentiment,  for 
the  declaration  of  neutrality,  which  was 
supposed  to  contain  the  triple  chance  of 
destro3nng  a  dangerous  republic,  of  se- 
curing unlimited  supplies  of  cotton  oy 
free-trade,  and  of  erecting  in  the  South 
an  oligarchic  form  of  government.  Un- 
der the  circumstances,  they- felt  that 
neutrality  was  a  kind  of  merit  in  them« 
and  a  magnanimity  which  the  declining 
North  ought  to  have  hailed  with  en- 
thusiasm, as  it  showed  that  England 
scorned  to  take  a  more  deadly  advan- 
tage of  our  perilous  position.  This  anti- 
Northern  feeling  is,  and  always  has 
been,  confined  to  the  Tory  classes,  in 
and  out  of  the  Government,  to  the  rich 
and  their  dependants,  to  the  confirmed 
High-Churchmen.  Even  an  American 
resident,  if  he  was  wealthy,  and  liked 
the  Church  of  England,  and  had  settled 
down  into  a  British  country-seat  with 
British  ways  of  living,  would  be  sure  to 
misrepresent  the  North,  to  be  pleased 
at  Its  defeats  and  annoyed  by  its  suc- 
cesses, partly  from  commercial  and  part- 
ly firom  pro-slavery  considerations.  The 
America  which  he  remembered,  and  re* 


gretted  that  he  could  not  still  be  proud 
of,  was  the  America  where  Pierce  and 
Buchanan  were  Presidents,  where  Jeffer- 
son Davis  and  John  B.  Floyd  were  Sec- 
retaries of  War.  He  had,  in  short,  be- 
come a  Tory ;  for  Toryism  is  regard  for 
usages  at  the  expense  of  men.  He  and 
the  English  Tory  desired  the  triumph  of 
Slavery,  because  it  was  the  best  thing 
for  the  negro,  and  the  quietest  thing  for 
trade  and  government  The  only  dif- 
ference between  them  is,  that  he  would 
own  slaves,  if  he  had  an  opportunity, 
while  the  Englishman  would  not,  partly 
because  his  own  servants  are  so  excel- 
lent But  both  of  them  would  subscribe 
to  the  Boston  **  Courier."  The  English 
Tory  hates  to  have  the  poor  classes  of 
London  use  the  railways  on  the  Lord's 
Day,  to  go  and  find  God's  beauty  in  the 
Crystal  Palace  and  the  daisy-haunted 
fields.  One  of  the  most  striking  spec- 
tacles in  London  is  found  on  Sunday, 
by  standing  on  some  bridge  that  spans 
the  Thames,  to  watch  the  little  river- 
steamers,  black  with  human  beings, 
that  shoot  like  big  water-bugs  from  the 
piers  every  five  minutes,  and  fussily 
elbow  their  way  down-stream  to  vari- 
ous places  of  resort  On  that  day  peo- 
ple cluster  like  bees  all  over  the  omni- 
buses, till  the  vehicle  looks  like  a  mere 
ball  of  humanity  stuck  together,  rolling 
down  to  some  excursion  -  train.  This 
is  a  bitter  sight  to  an  old-fashioned 

Churchman.*   The  American  Tory  will 

# 

*  Mr.  Holyoake,  in  an  article  tipon  the  condition 
of  the  lead-miners  of  Middlcsboroiigh,  tay\  while 
lUSing  the  need  of  excumioo^  and  moic  fomu  of 
recreati^  —  "  The  rough,  nncuUivated  woricraan 
is  driven  to  seek  in  beer  and  licentiousness  that 
recreation  which  a  wise  piety  ought  to  provide  for 
him  amid  die  fcfiDing  scenes  of  Nature.  If  ex- 
cursioos  were  pcnsible  and  encouraged,  the  wife  roust 
go  as  well  as  the  husband  ;  and  if  the  mother  went, 
the  children  would  go ;  and  if  the  children  went, 
it  would  be  impassible  to  take  them  in  rags  and  dirt 
The  pride  of  the  father  would  be  awakened.  His 
pipe  and  pot  would  often  be  laid  upon  the  shelf,  and 
the  proceeds  spent  in  Sunday  clothes  for  the  chil* 
dren.  The  steamboat  and  excufsaoD-tnin  are  as 
great  moraliiers  in  their  way  as  the  church  and  the 
preacher.  We  call  the  attention  of  the  British  Asso- 
ciation to  this  matter,  for  here  their  influence  would 
bring  about  an  impravemeat.  They  will  send  a  boatd 
of  geologists  to  examine  the  condition  of  the  earth 
of  Cleveland,  which  can  very  well  uke  care  of  itself. 
Let  them  send  a  board  of  their  eminent  physidaas 
10  look  after  the  conditioB  of  the  people.** 


1 86s.] 


A  Letter  about  England. 


649 


bate  any  day  that  rdeases  the  poor 
and  the  oppressed  into  God's  glorious 
liberty*  One  of  the  most  worthy  and 
ofifensive  men  you  can  meet  in  London 
is  the  American  Tory  of  this  descrip- 
tion :  worthy,  because  honest  and  dean 
and  free  from  vice ;  offensive,  because^ 
totally  destitute  of  republican  principle* 
If  stripped  of  his  wealth,  he  might  be- 
come a  rich  man's  invaluable  flunky, 
and  carry  the  decorous  prayer-book  to 
church,  bringing  up  the  rear  of  the  fam- 
ily with  formalism.  Toryism  has  a  pro- 
found respect  for  external  godliness, 
and  remembers  that  the  Southerner 
sympathizes  with  bishops,  who,  like 
Meaide  of  Virginia,  preach  from  the 
text,  <' Servants,  obey  your  masters," 
and,  like  Polk  of  Louisiana,  convert  old 
sermons  upon  the  divine  sanction  of 
Slavery  into  cartridge-paper.  We  must 
recollect,  too,  that  a  good  many  educat- 
ed Englishmen  dislike  republican  in- 
stitutions because  they  have  identified 
the  phrase  with  all  the  atrocious  things 
which  successive  pro-slavery  adminis- 
trations have  conceived  and  perpetrat- 
ed ;  for  the  Englishman  is  dull  at  un- 
derstanding foreign  politics,  and  reads 
the  **  Times,"  though  he  strongly  avers 
that  he  is  not  influenced  by  it  An 
administration  appears  to  an  English- 
'  man  to  be  the  country ;  he  has  not  yet 
heard  an  authoritative  interpretation  of 
republicanism,  for  a  Washington  cabi- 
net has  not  till  lately  spoken  the  mind 
of  the  common  people.  But  when  he 
understands  us  better  he  will  dread  us 
all  the  more,  because  the  people  in  all 
countries  speak  the  same  language  in 
expressing  the  same  wants ;  and  when 
universal  suffrage  puts  universal  jus- 
tice on  its  throne  in  America,  injustice 
will  everywhere  uneasily  await  the  bal- 
lot which  shall  place  it  in  the  minority. 
The  dislike  of  the  English  Tory  is  al- 
ready passing  into  this  second  stage, 
when  his  hope  of  a  dissolved  Union 
gives  place  to  his  dread  of  a  regenerat- 
ed country  that  hastens  to  propagate 
its  best  ideas. 

There  were  three  elements  in  this 
anti-Northern  feeling.  First,  a  sympathy 
with  the  aoumer  and  feebler  party.  Thia 


is  a  trait  which  puts  the  English  peo- 
ple by  the  side  of  the  Turk  in  the  Cri- 
mea, the  Circassian  in  the  Caucasus, 
the  Pole,  the  Dane, — which  inspired 
Milton's  famous  letter,  in  the  name  of 
Cromwell,  that  espoused  the  cause  of 
the  Waldenses.  In  feet,  wherever  the 
smaUer  and  weaker  party  has  no  rela- 
tions with  England,  the  country  hurries 
to  protect  it  But  where,  as  in  the 
case  of  the  Irish,  the  Sepoy,  the  New- 
Zealander,  the  Caffre,  and  the  Chinese, 
England's  interest  is  touched  by  the 
objections  of  people  to  her  own  harsh 
and  inveterate  rule,  she  has  no  mag- 
nanimity, and  forgets  the  sentiments  of 
her  nobler  minds.  The  same  Cromwell 
who  threatened  Europe  in  behalf  of  Uie 
Waldenses  contrived  the  massacre  of 
the  Irish  at  Drogheda.  So  when  sym- 
pathy with  the  distant  South  harmonized 
with  dread  of  the  Norths  she  was  will- 
ingly misled  by  Southern  agents  to  see 
a  war  of  conquest  and  aggressi(m. 

The  second  element  is  a  fear  of  the 
ultimate  consequences  of  a  Union  re- 
constructed without  Slavery ;  for  then 
Mr.  Bright  may  argue  in  favor  of  uni- 
versal suffrage,  uninterrupted  by  allu- 
sions to  the  arrogance  and  coarse- 
ness, the  boastful  and  aggressive  spir- 
it belonging  to  a  pro-slavery  America. 
"^  Why  do  you  desire  the  dissolution  of 
the  Union  ? "  asked  one  Englishman  of 
another.  **'  Oh,  I  have  no  reason,  ex* 
cept  that  the  Americans  are  so  bounce- 
able  I  want  to  see  them  humbled." 
But  we  were  the  weakest  when  Slavery 
made  us  so  loud-mouthed  and  vaporing ; 
we  shall  be  strongest  when  the  cause  of 
our  boasting  has  disappeared.  When 
a  country  is  fully  conscious  of  the  prin- 
ciples that  belong  to  it,  and  sees  them 
cleansed  with  her  children's  blood* 
through  eyes  that  stand  full  with  tears^ 
she  will  invite,  but  no  longer  threaten ; 
and  the  flag  which  she  once  waved  in 
the  face  of  all  mankind  to  exasperato 
will  rain  persuasion  as  often  as  it  is  un- 
furled. 

But  it  will  be  a  long  time  before 
the  Englishman  appreciates  the  altered 
condition  of  this  country  and  resigns 
his  prejttdioesy  in  consequence  of  an- 


650 


A  Letter  about  England. 


[June, 


other  element  hi  this  un-American  feel* 
ing,  namely,  insular  ignorance.  Among 
the  contraband  articles  which  are  with 
difficulty  smuggled  into  any  point  of 
the  English  coast  is  an  accurate  knowl- 
edge of  the  polity  and  condition  of  an- 
other country.  I  nditference  is  the  coast- 
guard which  protects,  without  moving, 
every  inlet  and  harbor.  The  English- 
man is  surprised,  if  all  the  world  is  not 
intimately  acquainted  with  the  British 
Constitution,  which  is  not  a  written 
document,  but  a  practical  result  that 
appears  in  all  the  administrative  ibrms 
of  the  country,  and  can  be  studied  only 
on  the  spot ;  but  he  will  not  take  the 
trouble  to  inquire  into  the  relation  which 
the  separate  States  bear  to  the  Federal 
government ;  and  he  seems  prevented 
by  some  congenital  deficiency  from  un- 
derstanding how  the  latter  is  the  direct 
result  of  the  independence  of  the  for- 
mer. The  question  he  asks  most  fre- 
quently is,  '*  Why  has  not  an  indepen- 
dent State  the  right  to  secede  ?  "  He  is 
infbcted  by  nature  with  Mr.  Calhoun's 
fallacy.  You  cannot  make  a  Tory  un- 
derstand that  powers  are  derived  from 
the  consent  of  the  governed,  and  that 
the  consent  is  itself  an  institution. 
«  What  becomes  of  State  rights  ?  "  he 
asks.  And  when  you  reply,  that  the 
concentred  function  of  each  State  is 
contained  within  a  diffused  popular  will 
whose  centre  is  at  Washington,  and  that 
thirty-four  concentrations  of  this  kind 
are  nothing  more  than  thirty-four  gener- 
al conveniences,  he  takes  you  slowly  by 
the  button,  looks  pityingly  in  your  face, 
and  says,  *'  That  is  a  Northern  crotchet, 
which  this  civil  war  has  come  to  cure," 
and  then  he  leaves  you.  It  is  in  vain 
that  you  shout  after  him,  "That  is  a 
Northern  principle,  which  this  war  has 
come  to  confirm  " :  he  was  out  of  hear- 
ing before  he  left  You  feel  that  you 
are  a  stranger  in  the  house  of  your  own 
mother.  You  walk  about  among  these 
slow,  good-natured  men,  with  plump 
boys'  fiices  and  men's  chests,  and  hear 
them  speak  your  language  without  your 
sense.  They  have  a  limited  one,  like 
their  monarchy.  How  admirably  it  keeps 
the  square  miles  of  their  own  island  t 


how  shockingly  it  tends  the  acres  of  Ire- 
land 1  how  haughtily  it  ignored  and 
trampled  upon  the  instincts  of  the  Hin- 
doo !  how  unwilling  it  is  to  see  a  dif- 
ference between  the  circumstances  of 
Australia  and  those  of  England  !  How 
it  blundered  into  a  neutrality  which  was 
a  recognition  of  infamy !  Th  is  is  the  dis- 
tance which  Toryism  spreads  between 
the  mother  county  and  our  own. 

But  this  must  not  be  accepted  as  a 
final  statement  of  the  prospects  of  Eng- 
land, or  of  its  relation  to  America. 
There  is,  in  the  first  place,  a  great  pop- 
ular sympathy  with  the  North,  and  it 
prophesies  the  future  condition  of  Eng- 
land. When  you  use  the  phrase,  ^peo- 
ple of  England,"  understand  that  the 
Toryism  which  governs  England  is  left 
out  Bigoted  Churchmen,  who  are  afraid 
that  the  island  will  drag  its  anchor  be- 
cause Bishop  Colenso  notices  some  er- 
rors in  the  Pentateuch, — shifty  politi- 
cians, like  Russell  and  Palmerston, — 
sour  ones,  like  Roebuck,  —  scandalous 
ones,  like  Lindsay,  — and  conservatives^ 
like  Cecil  and  Gladstone,  now  make  all 
the  political  blunders  which  they  call 
governing  England.  Their  constituents 
are  two  thirds  of  the  merchants,  nearly 
all  the  literary  men,  nearly  all  the  clergy- 
men, half  the  University  fellows  and  pro- 
fessors. But  the  people  of  England  have  ' 
not  yet  been  mentioned.  They  govern 
England  at  this  moment,  and  yet  John 
Bright  sits  almost  alone  for  them  in 
Parliament;  John  Stuart  Mill,  Profes- 
sors Cairnes,  Newman,  Goldwin  Smith, 
are  almost  their  only  powerful  writers. 
The  people  of  England  put  the  broad 
arrow  of  their  Queen  upon  the  Rebel 
rams.  They  stay  at  home,  and  by  tak- 
ing the  penny  papers  slowly  undermine 
the  "  Times."  They  have  defeated  ev- 
ery attempt  to  organize  a  party  for 
Southern  recognition,  by  simply  staying 
away  firom  the  public  meetings  which 
the  sympathizers  called.  Once  they  ut- 
tered their  opinion  by  the  lips  of  starv- 
ing operatives,  when  the  distress  in  the 
manufacturing  districts  was  deepest, 
and  capitalists  were  chary  of  their  aid. 
The  Southern  agent  was  busy  then,  in 
all  the  towns  and  villages  where  the 


i86s.] 


A  Letter  about  EMglatuL 


651 


misery  dwelt  **You  are  starving."  — 
"  Yes."  —  "  And  it  is  for  want  of  cotton," 
— "  SQiU  seems."  —  "  Well,  do  you  mean 
to  sit  here  ?  Come  out  in  great  force, 
as  in  the  old  Chartist  times ;  tell  the 
manufacturer  and  the  minister  to  break 
that  blockade  suid  let  bread  into  the 
mouths  of  your  little  ones."  And  the 
answer  was,  ^  We  prefer  that  they  should 
starve."  Again  and  again,  the  answer 
was,  ''  We  would  rather  starve."  And 
this  haggard  patience  was  saving  the 
manufacturer  himself  from  ruin,  who 
had  been  engaged  in  over-manufactur- 
ing, till  his  warehouses  groaned  with 
an  enormous  stock  which  the  cotton 
blockade  enabled  him  to  work  o£  Great 
fortunes  have  been  made  in  this  way, 
while  the  operative  slowly  went  to  rags, 
road-mending,  and  the  poor-rates.  In 
London,  hard  upon  midnight,  I  have 
often  been  attracted  by  the  sound  of 
street -music  to  a  little  group,  in  the 
centre  of  which  stood  half  a  dozen  pal- 
lid and  threadbare  men,  playing  gen- 
tle tunes  upon  the  faiths  instruments 
which  clung  to  their  sad  fortunes.  And 
on  a  square  of  canvas,  lighted  by  a 
lantern,  or  set  in  the  flaring  gas,  I  have 
read,  to  the  sound  of  these  paupers* 
music,  the  story  of  America :  '*  Lanca- 
shire Weavers  out  of  Work,"  "  Poor 
Operatives'  Band,  —  a  penny,  if  you 
please."  That  music  keeps  the  heart 
of  England  quiet  while  your  cannons 
roar.  It  is  the  pulse  of  the  people  of 
England,  responding  in  the  faint  dis- 
tance to  the  throb  of  victory. 

Another  sight  which  can  be  seen  by 
day  in  London  streets  belongs  also  to 
the  people  of  England.  When  there 
was  a  dearth  of  troops  during  the  Cri- 
mean War,  the  coast  forts  were  stripped 
of  their  garrisons,  and  there  was  a  call 
made  by  Government  for  volunteers  to 
fill  their  places.  Citizens  came  forward 
and  manned  the  forts.  This  was  the 
origin  of  the  volunteer  force  of  England, 
which  has  grown  to  be  very  formidable, 
—  since  jealousy  of  France,  dread  of  in- 
vasion, and  the  need  of  troops  for  India 
have  always  deterred  the  Government 
from  recalling  the  arms  which  it  first 
put  into  the  hands  of  the  people.    The 


force  now  comprises  infantry,  cavalry, 
light  and  heavy  artillery,  organized  like 
the  regular  army,  and  under  the  control 
of  the  Horse  Guards.  Rifle-corps  and 
target-practice  have  become  a  mania. 
The  Government  encourages  it  by  mag- 
nificent reviews  and  prizes  for  the  best 
shooting,  utterly  unconscious  that  Gov- 
ernment itself  may  one  day  be  the  target 
But  a  bloody  revolution  can  hardly  oc* 
cur  again  in  England.  It  will  only  be 
necessary,  at  some  critical  moment  for 
the  London  volunteers  to  march  as  fiir 
as  Charing-Cross  on  their  way  towards 
Parliament  and  the  Palace.  The  con- 
cession would  be  there  before  them. 

Mr.  Holyoake,  who  is  one  of  the  most 
vigorous  champions  of  free  thought  and 
popular  rights  in  England,  says, — **  Rev- 
olution is  no  longer  necessary  in  Eng- 
lish politics.-  Our  wise  and  noble  fore- 
fathers, of  those  old  times  of  which 
modem  radicals  in  many  towns  know 
too  little,  laid  broad  foundations  of  free- 
dom in  our  midst  It  only  needs  that 
we  build  upon  these,  and  the  English 
educated  classes,  who  always  move  in 
the  grooves  of  precedent,  will  acquiesce 
with  a  reasonable  readiness."* 

The  feeling  of  the  radical  class  of 
English  workmen  is  elsewhere  illustrat- 
ed by  Mr.  Holyoake  with  a  story  from 
the  Allendale  mining  district  *'Four 
miners  published  a  volume  of  poems. 
One  of  these  four  in  his  poem  talks  of 
tyranny  falling  at  a  moment's  notice. 
Tyranny  is  not  in  such  a  hurry.  A 
'voice  of  thunder'  is  to  proclaim  its 
doom.  Alas,  it  is  the  voice  of  steady 
intelligent  purpose,  much  more  difficult 
to  elicit,  and  not  that  of '  thunder,'  which 
is  to  accomplish  that  The  poet  of 
course  has  a  vision  about  the  *  equal 
share '  which  the  fall  of  tyranny  is  to 
end  in.  The  'equal  share'  system 
would  not  last  a  day,  as  everybody  who 
reflects  knows,  and  would  give  endless 
trouble  to  renew  it  every  morning."  f 

*  From  an  admirable  oration,  delivered  at  Roch- 
dale, Feb.  a,  1864,  upon  the  political  aerric«s  and 
career  of  the  laie  Ahlennan  Livsaey. 

t  From  a  very  lively  and  instructive  report  of  a 
▼ijut  of  the  British  Association,  in  1863,  to  Mr.  Beau- 
mont's lead  mines  at  AUenheads,  fifty  milea  from 
Newcaatle. 


652 


A  Letter  about  England, 


LFune, 


It  is  a  striking  characteristic  of  Eng- 
lish Toryism,  that  it  gives  way  just  in 
time.  Every  reform  has  hitherto  been 
granted  as  it  was  on  the  point  of  being 
extorted.  Official  carriages  roll  over  the 
very  spot  where  Charles  I.  dropped  his 
self-willed  head;  Lady  Macbeth  might 
wash  her  hands  as  soon  as  the  English 
people  their  memories  of  the  civil  blood- 
stain. Toryism  knows  one  thing  well : 
that  no  water-pipes  can  be  made  strong 
enough  to  withstand  the  sudden  stop- 
page of  a  long  column  of  water.  They 
will  burst  and  overflow.  No  matter  what 
material  may  be  in  motion,  if  the  motion 
be  suddenly  arrested,  heat,  in  a  direct 
ratio  to  the  motion,  is  developed.  A 
decided  popular  tendency  will  never  be 
peremptorily  stopped  in  England. 

It  is  therefore  a  grand  sight  to  an 
American,  when  tiie  well-appointed  com- 
panies of  London  riflemen  march  up 
Fleet  Street  and  the  Strand,  through 
Temple-Bar,  that  bars  nothing  any 
longer,  and  stands  there  a  decaying 
sjrmbol  of  Toryism  itself.  The  brass 
bands  may  play,  "Britannia  rules  the 
Waves,"  or  "God  save  the  Queen," 
but  to  the  American  ear  they  sound, 
"The  Waves  rule  Britannia,"  "God 
save  the  Common  People  ! "  Every 
shouldered  musket  shall  be  a  vote ; 
the  uniform  shall  represent  community 
of  interest  and  sentiment  The  rhythm 
of  the  living  column  is  the  march  of 
England's  steady  justice  into  coal- 
mines and  factories.  Church  and  State. 

For  this  reason  we  ought  to  culti- 
vate pacific  relations  with  the  Govern- 
ment of  England.  Beware  lest  the 
question  of  the  Alabama  break  loose 
to  prey  upon  the  true  commerce  of 
mankind !  A  war  would  put  back  the 
people  of  England  for  fifty  years.  When 
England  is  at  war,  the  people  are  apt 
to  rally  to  the  Government.  The  isl- 
and is  so  small,  that,  when  a  feeling 
once  gets  started,  it  sweeps  all  men 
away  into  an  inconsiderate  and  almost 
savage  support  of  the  public  honor. 
If  Toryism  cannot  secure  to  itself  the 
benefit  of  a  war  upon  some  point  that 


involves  an  English  prejudice  or  in- 
terest, it  cannot  prevent  the  rising 
strength  of  the  people  from  going  into 
opposition.  Dissenters  of  every  class 
are  emptying  the  pews  of  the  Estab;- 
lishment ;  liberal  thii^kers  now  hold 
University  fellowships  only  to  avoid 
surrendering  all  the  ground  to  a  reac- 
tionary party.  The  abolition  of  the 
stamp-tax  has  freed  the  daily  press, 
and  expensive  newspapers  no  longer 
represent  little  cliques,  but  belong  to 
the  people  of  England,  who  take  their 
pennyworth  of  honest  criticism  every 
morning ;  and  the  best  of  these  news- 
papers have  been  for  three  years  on 
the  side  of  Northern  republicanism. 
This  is  the  instinct  of  human  nature, 
which  knows  its  rights  and  hungers  to 
possess  them. 

We  are  maintaining  half  a  million 
of  men  in  the  field,  half  a  million  out- 
lets of  our  heart's  blood,  because  we 
believe  that  inclusion  is  better  than 
exclusion.  The  nation's  instinct  for 
that  truth  has  gone  into  camp.  It  is 
a  belief  that  the  life  of  the  Republic 
depends  upon  including  every  State, 
and  including  every  citizen,  and  includ- 
ing every  emigrant,  and  including  every 
slave,  in  the  right  to  live,  labor,  and  be 
happy,  and  excluding  none.  We  feel 
that  the  blood  we  lose  in  fighting  for 
that  plain  maxim  of  republican  econ- 
omy will  make  again  fast  enough  when 
the  maxim  has  prevailed.  The  weaver 
of  Lancashire,  who  plays  out  his  hun- 
ger in  London  streets,  and  our  seamen 
who  make  the  weaver  wait  while  they 
watch  three  thousand  miles  of  seaboard, 
are  both  listening  to  the  rote  of  the 
same  great  truth,  as  it  dashes  on  the 
shores  of  Time,  and  brings  bracing  air 
to  the  people  who  are  sick  with  wait- 
ing. If  we  are  gaining  battles  because 
we  love  the  rights  of  the  common  peo- 
ple, our  success  will  include  the  English 
weaver.  Dissenters  will  build  churches 
on  our  comer-stone  of  Liberty,  the  tax- 
ed will  borrow  our  ballot-boxes  to  con- 
tain their  votes,  and  none  shaD  be  ex- 
cluded but  the  betrayers  of  mankind. 


i86s.] 


A  Prose  Henriade. 


653 


A   PROSE   HENRIADE. 


PEOPLE  sometimes  talk  about  the 
quiet  of  the  country.  I  should 
like  to  know  where  they  find  it  I  nev« 
er  saw  any  in  this  part  of  the  world. 
The  country  seems  to  me  to  be  the  place 
of  all  places  where  everything  is  going 
on.  Especially  in  Spring  one  becomes 
almost  distracted.  What  is  Spring  in 
tlie  city  ?  Dead  bricks  under  your  feet ; 
dead  rocks  all  around  you.  There  are 
beautiful  things  in  the  shop-windows, 
but  they  never  do  anything.  It  is  just 
the  same  as  it  was  yesterday  and  as  it 
will  be  to-morrow.  I  suppose  a  faint 
sense  of  warmth  and  fragrance  does  set- 
tle down  into  the  city's  old  cold  heart, 
and  at  a  few  breathing- holes «— little 
irregular  patches,  lovely,  but  minute, 
called  "  Central  Park,"  or  "  Boston  Com- 
mon "—Nature  comes  up  to  blow.  And 
there  are  the  Spring  bonnets.  Still,  as 
a  general  thing,  I  should  not  think  it 
could  make  much  difference  whether  it 
were  June  or  January. 

But  Spring  in  the  country,  —  O  sea- 
son rightly  named  I — a  goddess-queen 
glides  through  the  heavens  and  the 
earth,  and  all  that  is  therein  springs  up 
to  meet  her  and  do  obeisance.  We, 
gross  and  heavy,  blind  and  deaf,  are 
slow  to  catch  the  flutter  of  her  robes, 
the  music  of  her  footfall,  the  odor  of 
her  breath,  the  shine  of  her  far-off  com- 
ing. We  call  it  cold  and  Winter  still. 
We  huddle  about  the  fires  and  wonder 
if  the  Spring  will  never  come ;  and  all 
the  while,  lo,  the  Spring  is  here !  Ten 
thousand  watching  eyes,  ten  thousand 
waiting  ears,  laid  along  the  ground,  have 
signalled  the  royal  approach.  Ten  thou- 
sand times  ten  thousand  voices  sound 
the  notes  of  preparation.  Everywhere 
there  is  hurrying  and  scurrying.  Every 
tiny,  sleeping  germ  of  animal  and  vege- 
table life  springs  to  its  feet,  wide  awake, 
and  girded  for  the  race.  Now  you  must 
be  wide  awake  too,  or  you  will  be  igno- 
miniously  left  behind  among  the  bag* 

gage. 

The  time  of  the  singing  of  birds  is 


come,  and  the  time  of  the  cackling  of 
homely,  honest  barn -yard  fowls,  who 
have  never  had  j  ustice  done  them.  Why 
do  we  extol  foreign  growths  and  neglect 
the  children  of  the  soil?  Where  is 
there  a  more  magnificent  bird  than  the 
Rooster  ?  What  a  lofty  air !  What  a 
spirited  pose  of  the  head !  Note  his 
elaborately  scalloped  comb,  his  stately 
steppings,  the  lithe,  quick,  graceful  mo- 
tions of  his  arching  neck.  Mark  his 
brilliant  plumage,  smooth  and  lustrous 
as  satin,  soft  as  floss  silk.  What  neck- 
lace of  a  duchess  ever  surpassed  in 
beauty  the  circles  of  feathers  which  he 
wears,  layer  shooting  over  layer,  up  and 
down,  hither  and  thither,  an  amber  wa« 
terfall,  swift  and  soundless  as  the  light, 
but  never  disturbing  the  matchless  order 
of  his  array  ?  What  plume  from  African 
deserts  can  rival  the  rich  hues,  the  grace* 
ful  curves,  and  the  palm-like  erectness 
of  his  tail  ?  All  his  colors  are  tropical 
in  depth  and  intensity.  With  every 
quick  motion  the  tints  change  as  in  a 
prism,  and  each  tint  is  more  splendid 
than  the  last ;  green  more  beautiful  than 
any  green,  except  that  of  a  duck's  neck ; 
brown  infiltrated  with  gold,  and  ranging 
through  the  whole  gamut  of  its  possi- 
bilities. I  am  not  sure  that  this  last  is 
correct  in  point  of  expression,  but  it  is 
correct  in  point  of  sense,  as  any  one 
who  ever  saw  a  red  rooster  will  bear 
witness. 

Hens  are  not  intrinsically  handsome, 
but  they  abundantly  prove  the  truth  of 
the  old  adage,  **  Handsome  is  that  hand- 
some does."  Lord  Kaimes  describes 
one  kind  of  beauty  as  that  founded  on 
the  relations  of  objects.  And  I  am  sure 
that  the  relation  of  a  hen  to  a  dozen  fair, 
white,  pure  eggs,  and  the  relation  of 
those  eggs  to  puddings  and  custardsy 
and  the  twenty -five  cents  which  they 
can  have  for  the  asking,  make  even  an 
ungainly  hen,  like  many  heroines  in 
novels,  ^not  beautiful,  but  very  inter- 
esting." "Twenty  thousand  dollars," 
said  a  connoisseur  in  such  matters^ 


654 


A  Prose  Hairiade. 


[June, 


"is  a  handsome  feature  in  any  lady's 
face."  And  the  "  cut-cut-cut-ca-D-A-H- 
cut "  of  a  hen,  whose  word  is  as  good 
as  her  bond  for  an  ^^g  a  day,  is  a 
handsome  feather  in  any  bird's  coat. 
Once,  however,  this  trumpet  of  victory 
deceived  me,  though  by  no  fault  of  the 
hen's.  I  heard  it  sounding  lustily,  and 
I  ransacked  the  barn  on  tiptoe  to  dis- 
cover the  new-made  nest  and  the  exul- 
tant mater-familias.  But  instead  of  a 
white  old  hen  with  yellow  legs,  who  had 
laid  her  master  many  eggs,  there,  on  a 
barrel,  stood  brave  Chanticleer,  cackling 
away  for  dear  life,  —  Hercules  holding 
the  distaff  among  his  Omphales  !  Now 
— for  there  are  many  things  to  be  learn- 
ed from  hens  —  mark  the  injustice  of 
the  tyrant  man.  From  time  immemo- 
rial, girls—at  least  country  g^rls— have 
been  taught  that 


f« 


A  whistling  girl  and  a  crowing  hen 

Always  come  to  some  bad  end  ** : 


but  not  a  word  is  said  about  a  cackling 
rooster  !  Worse  still,  a  crowing  hen  is 
so  rare  a  thing  that  its  very  existence 
is  problematical.  I  never  heard  of  one 
out  of  that  couplet  I  have  made  dili- 
gent inquiry,  but  I  have  not  been  able 
to  find  any  person  who  had  heard,  or 
who  had  ever  seen  or  heard' of  any  one 
who  had  heard,  a  crowing  hen.  But 
these  very  hands  have  fed,  these  very 
eyes  seen,  and  these  ears  heard  a  cack- 
ling rooster!  Where  is  manly  impar- 
tiality, not  to  say  chivalry?  Why  do 
men  overlook  the  crying  sins  of  their 
own  sex,  and  expend  all  their  energies 
in  attempting  to  eradicate  sins  which 
never  existed  in  the  other  ? 

I  have  lived  among  hens  lately,  and 
I  know  all  about  them.  They  are  just 
like  people.  Not  a  few  only,  but  the 
whole  human  race,  are  chicken-hearted. 

Hens  are  fond  of  little  mysteries. 
With  tons  of  hay  at  their  disposal,  they 
will  steal  a  nest  in  a  discarded  feeding- 
trough.  With  nobody  in  the  world  to 
harbor  an  evil  thought  against  them, 
they  will  hide  under  the  corn-stalks  as 
carefully  as  if  a  sheriff  were  on  their 
track.  They  will  not  go  to  their  nests 
while  you  are  about,  but  tarry  midway 


and  meditate  profoundly  on  fixed  ^te, 
free-will,  foreknowledge  absolute,  txQ 
you  are  tired  of  watching  and  waiting, 
and  withdraw.  No,  you  did  not  know 
it  all  before.  The  world  is  in  a  state 
of  Cimmerian  darkness  regarding  hens. 
There  were  never  any  chickens  hatched 
till  three  weeks  from  a  week  before  Fast 
Day.  How  should  you,  my  readers, 
know  anything  about  them  ?  Be  docile, 
and  I  will  enlighten  you. 

Hens  must  have  a  depression  where 
the  bump  of  locality  should  be,  for  they 
have  no  manner  of  tenderness  for  old 
haunts.  ^  Where  are  the  birds  in  last 
year's  nests  ?  "  queries  the  poet ;  but 
he  might  have  asked  quite  as  perti- 
nently, "Where  are  the  birds  in  last 
month's  nests  ?  "  Echo,  if  she  were  at 
all  familiar  with  the  subject,  would  re- 
ply, "  The  birds  are  all  right,  but  where 
are  the  nests  ?  "  Hens  very  sensibly 
decide  that  it  is  easier  to  build  a  new 
house  than  to  keep  the  old  one  in  or- 
der ;  and  having  laid  one  round  of 
eggs,  off  they  go  to  erect,  or  rather  to 
excavate,  another  dwelling.  You  have 
scarcely  learned  the  way  to  their  nook 
above  the  great  beam  when  it  is  aban- 
doned, and  they  betake  themselves  to 
a  hole  at  the  very  bottom  of  the  hay- 
stack. I  wish  I  could  tell  you  a  story 
about  a  Hebrew  prophet  crawling  under 
a  bam  after  hen's  eggs,  and  crawling 
out  again  from  the  musty  darkness  into 
sweet  light  with  his  clothes  full  of  cob- 
webs, his  eyes  full  of  dust,  his  hands 
full  of  eggs,  to  find  himself  winking  and 
blinking  in  the  midst  of  a  party  of  la- 
dies and  gentlemen  who  had  come  lion- 
hunting  from  a  farre  countrie.  I  can- 
not tell  you,  because  it  would  be  a 
breach  of  confidence ;  but  I  am  going 
to  edit  my  Sheikh's  Life  and  Letters, 
if  I  live  long  enough,  and  he  does  not 
live  too  long,  and  then  you  shall  have 
the  whole  story,  with  names,  dates,  and 
costumes. 

Another  very  singular  habit  hens 
have,  of  dusting  themselves.  They  do 
not  seem  to  care  for  bathing,  Dke  ca- 
nary-birds; but  in  warm  afternoons, 
•  when  they  have  eaten  their  fill,  they 
like  to  stroll  into  the  highway,  where 


1865.] 


A  Prose  Henriade. 


655 


the  dust  lies  ankle-deep  !n  heaps  and 
ridges,  and  settle  down  and  stir  and 
burrow  in  it  till  it  has  penetrated 
through  all  their  inmost  feathers,  and 
so  filled  them,  that,  when  they  arise 
and  shake  themselves,  they  stand  in  a 
cloud  of  dust.  I  do  not  like  this  habit 
in  the  hens ;  yet  I  observe  how  a  cor- 
respondence exists  in  all  the  Vertebia- 
ta ;  for  do  not  fine  ladies  similarly  dust 
themselves  ?  They  do  not,  indeed,  sit 
in  the  road  i  la  Turque,  They  box  up 
the  dust,  and  take  it  to  their  dressing- 
rooms,  and,  because  Nature  has  not 
provided  them  with  feathers,  ingenuity 
more  than  supplies  the  deficiency  with 
the  softest  of  white  down  brushes,  that 
harbor  and  convey  the  coveted  dust  I 
doubt  not  through  the  races  one  resem- 
bling purpose  runs  ;  and  many  a  state- 
ly matron  and  many  a  lovely  jnaiden 
might  truly  say  unto  the  hen,  *<Thou 
art  my  sister." 

Did  I  say  I  knew  all  about  hens  ? 
The  half  was  not  told  you,  for  I  am 
wise  about  chickens  too.  I  know  their 
tribe  from  **  egg  to  bird,"  as  the  coun- 
try people  say,  when  they  wish  to  ex- 
press the  most  radical,  sweeping  ac- 
quaintance with  any  subject,  —  a  phrase, 
by  the  way,  whose  felicity  is  hardly  to 
be  comprehended  till  experience  has 
unfolded  its  meaning. 

When  hens  have  laid  a  certain  num- 
ber of  eggs,  —  twelve  or  twenty, — they 
evince  a  strong  disposition,  1  might  al- 
most say  a  determination,  to  sit*  In 
every  such  case,  it  is  plain  that  they 
ought  #0  be  allowed  to  sit.  It  is  a  vip- 
lation  of  Nature  to  souse  them  in  cold 
water  in  order  to  make  them  change 
their  minds ;  and  I  believe,  with  Mar- 
cus Antoninus,  that  nothing  is  evil 
which  is  according  to  Nature.  But  peo- 
ple want  eggs,  and  they  do  not  care  for 
Nature ;  and  the  consequence  is,  that 
hens  are  obliged  to  undergo  ^heroic 
treatment "  of  various  kinds.  Some- 
times it  is  the  cold  bath  ;  sometimes  it 
is  the  hospital    One  I  tied  to  the  bot- 

*  I  say  rit  out  of  regard  to  the  proprieties  of  the 
occanon;  but  I  do  noc  expose  mywlf  to  ridicule 
by  pMog  about  among  the  oeighbon  and  talking  of 
a  sitiing  heo  I  Everywhere,  but  in  the  '*  Athntic,**- 
henajir/. 


tom  of  a  post  of  the  standards ;  but, 
eager  to  escape,  and  ignorant  of  the 
qualities  of  cord,  she  flew  up  over  the 
top  rail,  and,  the  next  time  I  entered 
the  bam,  presented  the  unpleasing 
spectacle  of  a  dignified  and  deliberate 
fowl  hanging  in  mid-air  by  one  leg. 
Greatly  alarmed,  I  hurried  her  down. 
Life  was  not  extinct,  except  in  that  leg. 
I  rubbed  it  tenderly  till  warmth  was 
restored,  and  then  it  grew  so  hot  that 
I  feared  inflammation  would  set  in,  and 
made  local  applications  to  reduce  the 
tendency,  wondering  in  my  own  mind 
whether,  in  case  worse  should  come  to 
worst,  she  could  get  on  at  all  with  a 
Palmer  leg.  The  next  morning  the 
question  became  unnecessary,  as  she 
walked  quite  well  with  her  own.  The 
remaining  hens  were  put  in  hospital  tiU 
they  signified  a  willingness  to  resume 
their  former  profitable  habits,  —  except 
one  who  was  arbitrarily  chosen  to  be 
foster-mother  of  the  future  brood.  Fif- 
teen eggs,  fair  and  firesh,  reserved  for 
the  purpose,  I  counted  out  and  put  into 
her  nest ;  and  there  she  sat  day  after 
day  and  all  day  long,  with  a  quietness, 
a  silent,  patient  persistence,  which  I 
admired,  but  could  not  in  the  least  im- 
itate ;  for  I  kept  continually  poking  un- 
der -her  and  prying  her  up  to  see  how 
matters  stood.  Many  hens  would  have 
resented  so  much  interference,  but  she 
knew  it  was  sympathy,  and  not  malice ; 
besides,  she  was  very  good-natured,  and 
so  was  I,  and  we  stood  on  the  best  pos- 
sible footing  towards  each  other.  A.  G. 
says,  ^A  hen's  time  is  not  much  to 
her '' ;  and  in  this  case  his  opinion  was 
certainly  correct 

.  One  morning  I  thought  I  heard  a 
laint  noise.  Routing  out  the  good  old 
creature,  that  I  might  take  observations, 
eggs  still,  and  no  chickens,  were  dis- 
cernible, but  the  tiniest,  little,  silvery, 
sunny-hearted  chirp  that  you  ever  heard, 
inside  the  eggs,  and  a  little,  tender  peck- 
ing from  every  imprisoned  chick,  stand- 
ing at  his  crystal  door,  and,  with  his 
faint,  fairy  knock,  knock,  knock,  craving 
admission  into  the  great  world.  Never 
can  I  forget  or  describe  the  sensations 
of  that  moment ;  and,  as  promise  rap- 


656 


A  Prose  HenriatU. 


[June, 


idly  culminated  in  performance^  —  as 
the  eggs  ceased  to  be  eggs,  and  ana* 
lyzed  themselves  into  shattered  shells 
and  chirping  chickens,  —  it  seemed  as 
if  I  had  been  transported  back  to  the 
beginning  of  creation.  Right  before 
my  eyes  1  saw,  in  my  hands  1  held,  the 
mystery  of  life.  These  eggs,  that  had 
been  laid  under  my  very  eyes  as  it 
were,  tliat  I  had  my  own  self  hunted 
and  found  and  confiscated  and  restored, 
—  these  eggs  that  I  had  broken  and 
eaten  a  thousand  times,  and  learned  of 
a  surety  to  be  nothing  but  eggs,  — were 
before  me  now ;  and,  lo,  they  were  eyes 
and  feathers  and  bill  and  claws !  Yes, 
little  puff-ball,  V  saw  you  when  you 
were  hard  and  cold  and  had  no  more 
life  than  a  Lima  bean.  I  might  have 
scrambled  you,  or  boiled  you,  or  made 
a  pasch-egg  of  you,  and  you  would 
not  have  known  that  anything  was  hap- 
pening. If  you  had  been  cooked  then, 
you  would  have  been  only  an  omelet; 
now  you  may  be  a  fricassee.  As  I  look- 
ed at  the  nest,  so  lately  full  only  of 
white  quiet,  now  swarming  with  downy 
life,  and  vocal  with  low,  soft  music, 


« 


I  felt  a  newer  life  in  every  s^e.** 


Oh,  no  one  can  tell,  till  he  has  chick- 
ens of  his  own,  what  delidous  emotions 
are  stirred  in  the  heart  by  their  downy, 
appealing  tenderness  1 

Swarming,  however,  as  the  nest  seem- 
ed, it  soon  transpired  that  only  seven 
chickens  had  transpired  Eight  eggs 
still  maintained  their  integrity.  I  re- 
marked to  the  hen,  that  she  would  bet- 
ter keep  on  awhile  longer,  and  I  would 
take  the  seven  into  the  house,  and 
•provide  for  them.  She  assented,  hav- 
ing, jusdy  enough,  all  confidence  in  my 
sagacity ;  and  I  put  them  into  a  warm 
old  worsted  hood,  and  brought  them 
into  the  house.  But  the  hood  was  not 
a  hen,  though  it  was  tucked  around 
them  almost  to  the  point  of  suffocation ; 
and  they  filled  the  house  with  dolorous 
cries,  —  "yopping"  it  is  called  in  the 
rural  districts.  Nothing  would  soothe 
them  but  to  be  cuddled  together  in 
somebody's  lap,  and  brooded  with  some- 
body's hand  Then  their  shrill,  piercing 


shrieks  would  die  away  into  a  content- 
ed chirp  of  heartfelt  satisfaction.  I 
took  a  world  of  comfort  in  those  chick- 
ens, —  it  is  so  pleasant  to  feel  that  you 
are  really  making  sentient  beings  hap- 
py. The  tiny  things  grew  so  familiar 
and  fond  in  a  few  hours  that  they  could 
hardly  tell  which  was  which,  —  1  or  the 
hen.  They  would  all  fall  asleep  in  a 
soft,  stirring  lump  for  five  seconds,  and 
then  rouse  up^  with  no  apparent  cause, 
but  as  suddenly  and  simultaneously  as 
if  the  drum  had  beat  a  reveille,  and  go 
foraging  about  in  the  most  enterprising 
manner.  One  would  snap  at  a  ring, 
under  the  impression  that  it  was  petri- 
fied dough,  I  suppose  ;  and  all  the  rest 
would  rush  up  determinedly  to  secure 
a  share  in  the  prize.  Next  they  would 
pounce  upon  a  button,  evidently  think- 
ing it ,  curd  ;  and  though  they  must 
have  concluded,  after  a  while,  that  it 
was  the  hardest  kind  of  coagulated  milk 
on  record,  they  were  not  restrained 
from  renewing  the  attack  in  squads  at 
irregular  intervals.  When  they  first 
broke  camp,  we  put  soaked  and  sweet- 
ened cracker  into  tlieir  bills  \  but  they 
developed  such  an  appetite,  that,  in 
view  of  the  high  price  of  sugar,  we  cut 
off  their  allowance,  and  economized  on 
Indian  meal  and  bread-water.  Every 
night  they  went  to  the  hen,  and  every 
morning  they  came  in  to  me ;  and  still 
Dame  Partlett  sat  with  stolid  patience^ 
and  still  eight  eggs  remained.  I  conr 
eluded,  at  length,  to  let  the  eggs  take 
their  chance  with  another  hen,  and  re- 
store the  first  to  freedom  and  hq^  chick- 
ens. But  just  as  I  was  about  to  com- 
mence operations,  some  one  announced, 
that,  if  eggs  are  inverted  during  the 
process  of  incubation,  the  chickens  from 
them  will  be  crazy.  Appalled  at  the 
thought  of  a  brood  of  chickens  laboring 
under  an  aberration  of  mind,  yet  fired 
with  the  love  of  scientific  investigation, 
I  inverted  one  by  way  of  experiment, 
and  placed  it  in  another  nest.  The 
next'  morning,  when  I  entered  the  bam, 
Biddy  stretched  out  her  neck,  and  de- 
clared that  there  was  no  use  in  waiting 
any  longer,  and  she  was  determined  to 
leave  the  place,  which  she  accordingly 


i865.] 


A  Prose  Henriade. 


657 


did,  discovering,  to  my  surprise,  two 
iitde  dead,  crushed,  flattened  chickens. 
Poor  things !  I  coaxed  them  on  a  shin- 
gle, and  took  them  into  the  house  to 
show  to  a  person  whose  name  has  been 
often  mentioned  in  these  pages,  and 
who^  in  all  experimental  matters,  con- 
siders my  testimony  good  for  nothing 
without  tiie  strongest  corroborative  evi- 
dence. Notice  now  the  unreasoning  ob- 
stinacy with  which  people  will  cling  to 
their  prejudices  in  the  fkce  of  the  most 
palpable  opposing  facts. 

'^ Where  did  these  come  from?"  I 
asked. 

^  Probably  the  hen  trod  on  them  and 
killed  them,"  he  said. 

''But  there  were  seven  whole  eggs 
remaining,  and  the  insane  one  was  in 
another  nest" 

^  Well,  he  supposed  some  other  hen 
might  have  laid  in  the  nest  after  the 
first  had  '  begun  to  sit  They  often 
did." 

'*  No,  for  I  had  counted  them  every 
day." 

Here,  then,  was  an  equation  to  be 
produced  between  fifteen  original  eggs 
on  one  side,  and  seven  whole  eggs, 
seven  live  chickens,  two  dead  chickens, 
and  another  ^^  on  the  other.  My  the- 
ory was,  that  two  of  the  eggs  contained 
twins. 

^  But  no,"  says  Halicamassus, — "  such 
a  thing  was  never  known  as  two  live 
chickens  from  one  egg." 

''But  these  were  dead  chickens,"  I 
affirmed. 

"  But  they  were  alive  when  they  peck- 
ed out  They  could  not  break  the  shell 
when  they  were  dead." 

"  But  the  two  dead  chickens  may  have 
been  in  the  same  shell  with  two  live 
ones,  and,  when  the  live  ones  broke  the 
shell,  the  dead  ones  dropped  out" 

"  Nonsense ! " 

"But  here  are  the  facts,  Mr.  Grad- 
grind,  —  seven  live  chickens,  two  dead 
chickens,  seven  whole  eggs,  And  anoth- 
er egg  to  be  accounted  for,  and  only 
fifteen  eggs  to  account  for  them." 

Yet,  as  if  a  thing  that  never  happen- 
ed on  our  £uin  is  a  thing,  that  never 
can  happen,  oblivious  of  the  iaxX  that 

VOL.  xv. — Na  92.  43 


"  a  pair  of  chickens  "  is  a  common  phrase 
enough,  —  simply  because  a  man  never 
saw  twin  chickens,  he  maintains  that 
there  cannot  be  any  such  thing  as  twin 
chickens.  Tliis,  too,  i|i  spite  of  one  egg 
I  brought  in  large  enough  to  hold  a 
brood  of  chickens.  In  fact,  it  does  not 
look  like  an  egg ;  it  looks  like  the  keel 
of  a  man-of-war. 

The  problem  remains  unsolved  But 
never,  while  I  remember  my  addition 
table,  can  you  make  me  believe  that 

seven  whole But  the  individual 

mentioned  above  is  so  sore  on  this 
point,  that,  the  moment  I  get  as  far  as 
that,  he  leaves  the  room,  and  my  equa- 
tion remains  unstated. 

There  is  a  great  deal  of  human  na- 
ture in  hens.  They  have  the  same 
qualities  that  people  have,  but  unmodi- 
fied. A  human  mother  loves  her  chil- 
dren, but  she  is  restrained  by  a  sense 
of  propriety  from  tearing  other  moth- 
ers' children  in  pieces.  A  hen  has  no 
such  checks  ;  her  motherhood  exists 
without  any  qualification.  Her  intense 
love  for  her  own  brood  is  softened  by 
no  social  requirements.  If  a  poor  lost 
waif  from  another  coop  strays  into  her 
realm,  no  pity,  no  sympathy  springing 
from  the  memory  of  her  own  ofispring, 
moves  her  to  kindness ;  but  she  goes 
at  it  with  a  demoniac  fiiry,  and  would 
peck  its  little  life  out,  if  fear  did  not 
lend  it  wings.  She  has  a  self-abnega- 
tion great  as  that  of  human  mothers. 
Her  voracity  and  timidity  disappear. 
She  goes  almost  without  food  herself, 
that  her  chicks  may  eat  She  scatters 
the  dough  about  with  her  own  bill,  that 
it  may  be  accessible  to  the  little  bills, 
or,  perhaps,  to  teach  them  how  to  work. 
The  wire-worms,  the  bugs,  the  flies,  all 
the  choice  little  tidbits  that  her  soul 
loves,  she  divides  for  her  chicks,  re- 
serving not  a  morsel  for  hersel£  All 
their  gambols  and  pranks  and  wild 
wa}*s  she  bears  with  untiring  patience. 
They  hop  up  by  twos  and  threes  on 
her  back.  They  peck  at  her  bilL  One 
saucy  Iitde  imp  actually  jumped  up  and 
caught  hold  of  the  little  red  lappet  above 
her  beak,  and,  hanging  to  it,  swung  back 
and  forth  half  a  dozen  times ;  and  she 


6s8 


A  Prose  Henriade. 


[June, 


was  evidently  only  amused,  and  reck- 
oned it  a  mark  of  precocity. 

Yet,  with  all  her  intense,  absorbing 
parental  love,  she  has  very  serious  de- 
ficiencies,— deficiencies  occasioned  by 
the  same  lack  of  modification  which  I 
have  before  mentioned.  Devoted  to  her 
little  ones,  she  will  scratch  vigorously 
and  untiringly  to  provide  them  food,  yet 
fiuls  to  remember  that  they  do  not  stand 
before  her  in  a  straight  line  out  of  harm's 
way,  but  are  hovering  around  her  on  all 
sides  in  a  dangerous  proximity.  Like 
the  poet,  she  looks  not  forward  nor  be- 
hind. If  they  are  beyond  reach,  very 
well ;  if  they  are  not,  all  the  same ; 
scratch,  scratch,  scratch  in  the  soil  goes 
her  great,  strong,  horny  claw,  and  up  flies 
a  cloud  of  dust,  and  away  goes  a  poor 
unfortunate,  whirling  involuntary  som- 
ersets through  the  air  without  the  least 
warning.  She  is  a  living  monument  of 
the  mischief  that  may  be  done  by  giv- 
ing undue  prominence  to  one  idea.  I 
only  wonder  that  so  few  broken  heads 
and  dislocated  joints  bear  witness  to 
the  falseness  of  such  philosophy.  I 
am  quite  sure,  that,  if  /  should  g^ve  the 
chickens  such  merciless  impulses,  they 
would  not  recover  from  the  effects  so 
speedily.  Unlike  human  mothers,  too, 
she  has  no  especial  tenderness  for  in- 
valids. She  makes  arrangements  only 
for  a  healthy  family.  If  a  pair  of  tiny 
wings  droop,  and  a  pair  of  tiny  legs  fal- 
ter, so  much  the  worse  for  the  poor  un- 
lucky owner  ;  but  not  one  journey  the 
less  does  Mother  Hen  take.  She  is 
the  very  soul  of  impartiality ;  but  there 
is  no  cosseting.  Sick  or  well,  chick 
must  run  with  the  others,  or  be  left  be- 
hind. Run  they  do,  with  a  remarkable 
uniformity.  I  marvel  to  see  the  perfect 
understanding  among  them  all.  Obedi- 
ence is  absolute  on  the  one  side,  and 
control  on  the  other,  and  without  a  sin- 
gle harsh  measure.  It  is  pure  Quaker 
discipline,  simple  moral  suasion.  The 
specks  understand  her  every  word,  and 
so  do  I  —  almost  When  she  is  step- 
ping about  in  a  general  way,  —  and  hens 
always  step,  —  she  has  simply  a  moth- 
erly sort  of  cluck,  that  is  but  a  general 
expression  of  affection  and  oversight 


But  the  moment  she  finds  a  worm  or  a 
crumb  or  a  splash  of  dough,  the  note 
changes  into  a  quick,  eager  **Herel 
here !  here  1 "  and  away  rushes  the 
brood  pell-mell  and  topsy-turvy.  If  a 
stray  cat  approaches,  or  danger  in  any 
form,  her  defiant,  menacing  ^  C-r-r-r-r !  *' 
shows  her  anger  and  alarm. 

See  how,  in  Bedford  jail,  John  Bun- 
yan  turned  to  good  account  the  lessons 
learned  in  barn-yards.  ** '  Yet  again/  said 
he,  *  observe  and  look.'  So  they  gave 
heed  and  perceived  that  the  hen  did  walk 
in  a  fourfold  method  towards  her  chick- 
ens. I.  She  had  a  common  call,  and 
that  she  hath  all  day  long ;  2.  She  had  a 
special  call^  and  that  she  had  but  some- 
times; 3.  %\it,\aA ^brooding note ;  and, 
4.  She  had  an  outcry,  '  Now,'  said  he, 
'compare  this  hen  to  your  king;  and 
these  chickens  to  his  obedient  ones. 
For,  answerable  to  her,  himself  has  his 
methods  which  he  walketh  in  towards 
his  people :  by  his  common  call  he  gives 
nothing ;  by  his  special  call  he  always 
has  something  to  give ;  he  has  also  a 
brooding  voice  for  them  that  are  under 
his  wing ;  and  he  has  an  outcry  to  give 
the  alarm  when  he  seeth  the  enemy 
come.  I  chose,  my  darlings,  to  lead  you 
into  the  room  where  such  things  are^ 
because  you  are  women,  and  they  are 
easy  for  you.' "    Kind  Mr.  Interpreter  I 

To  personal  fear,  as  I  have  intimated, 
the  hen-mother  is  a  stranger ;  but  her 
power  is  not  always  equal  to  her  pludc 
One  week  ago  this  very  day, — ah,  me ! 
this  very  hour,  —  the  cat  ran  by  the 
window  with  a  chicken  in  her  mouth. 
Cats  are  a  separate  feature  in  country 
establishments.  In  the  city  I  have 
understood  them  to  lead  a  nomadic, 
disturbed,  and  somewhat  shabby  life. 
In  the  country  they  attach  themselves  to 
special  localities  and  prey  upon  the  hu- 
man race.  We  have  three  steady  and 
several  occasional  cats  quartered  upon 
us.  One  was  retained  for  the  name  of 
the  thing, -« called  derivatively  Maltesa, 
and  Molly  '*  for  short"  One  was  adopt- 
ed for  charity,— a  hideous,  saffiron-hued, 
forlorn  little  wretch,  left  behind  by  a 
Milesian  family*  called,  from  its  color, 
Aurora,  contracted  into  Roiy  O'More. 


186$.] 


A  Prose  Hmriadt. 


659 


The  third  was  a  fierce  black-and-white 
unnamed  wild  creature,  of  whom  one 
never  got  more  than  a  glimpse  in  her 
savage  flight  Cats  are  tolerated  here 
from  a  tradition  that  they  catch  rats 
and  mice,  but  they  don't  We  catch  the 
mice  ourselves  and  put  them  in  a  barrel, 
and  put  a  cat  in  after  them  ;  and  then 
she  is  frightened  out  of  her  wits.  As  for 
rats,  they  will  gather  wherever  com  and 
potatoes  congregate,  cats  or  no  cats.  It 
is  said  in  the  country,  that,  if  you  wpte 
a  polite  letter  to  rats,  asking  them  to  go 
away,  they  will  go.  I  received  my  in- 
formation from  one  who  had  tried  the 
experiment,  or  known  it  to  be  tried,  with 
great  success.  Standing  ready  always 
to  write  a  letter  on  the  slightest  provo- 
cation, you  may  be  sure  I  did  not  neglect 
so  good  an  opportunity.  The  letter  ac- 
knowledged their  skill  and  sagacity,  ap- 
plauded their  valor  and  their  persever- 
ance, but  stated,  that,  in  the  present  scar- 
city of  labor,  the  resident  family  were 
not  able  to  provide  more  supplies  than 
were  necessary  for  their  own  immediate 
use  and  for  that  of  our  brave  soldiers, 
and  they  must  therefore  beg  the  Messrs. 
Rats  to  leave  their  country  for  their 
country's  good.  It  was  laid  on  the  po- 
tato-chest, and  I  have  never  seen  a  rat 
since ! 

While  I  have  been  penning  this  quad- 
mpedic  episode,  you  may  imagine  Mol- 
ly, formerly  Maltesa,  as  Kinglake  would 
say,  bearing  off  the  chicken  in  triumph 
to  her  domicile.  But  the  alarm  is  given, 
and  the  whole  plantation  turns  out  to 
rescue  the  victim  or  perish  in  the  at- 
tempt Molly  takes  refuge  in  a  sleigh, 
but  is  ignominiously  ejected.  She  rush- 
es per  saltum  under  die  corn-bam,  and 
defies  us  all  to  follow  her.  But  she  does 
not  know  that  in  a  contest  strategy  may 
be  an  overmatch  for  swiftness.  She  is 
^miliar  with  the  sheltering  power  of 
the  elevated  corn-bam,  but  she  never 
conjectures  to  what  base  uses  a  clothes- 
pole  may  come,  until  one  phinges  into 
her  sides.  As  she  is  not  a  St  M^dard 
Convulsionist,  she  does  not  like  it,  but 
strikes  a  bee-line  for  the  piazza,  and 
rushes  through  the  lattice-work  into  the 
darkness  underneath.  We  stoop  to  con- 


quer, and  she  hurls  Greek  fire  at  us 
from  her  wrathful  eyes,  but  cannot  stand 
against  a  reinforcement  of  poles  which 
vex  her  souL  With  teeth  still  fiistened 
upon  her  now  unconscious  victim,  she 
leaves  her  place  of  refuge,  which  indeed 
was  no  refuge  for  her, and  gallops  through 
the  yard  and  across  the  field;  but  an 
unseen  column  has  flanked  her,  and  she 
turns  back  only  to  fall  into  the  hands  of 
the  main  army,  —  too  late,  alas !  for  the 
tender  chick,  who  has  picked  his  last 
worm  and  will  never  chirp  again.  But 
his  death  is  speedily  avenged.  \Vithin 
the  space  of  three  days,  Molly,  formerly 
Maltesa,  is  taken  into  custody,  tried, 
convicted,  sentenced,  remanded  to  pris- 
on in  an  old  wagon -box,  and  trans- 
ported to  Botany  Bay,  gready  to  the 
delight  of  Rory  O'More,  formerly  Au- 
rora, who,  in  the  presence  of  her  over- 
grown contemporary,  was  never  suffered 
to  call  her  soul  her  own,  much  less  a 
bone  or  a  crust  Indeed,  Molly  never 
seemed  half  so  anxious  to  eat,  herself 
as  she  was  to  bind  Rory  to  total  absti- 
nence. When  a  plate  was  set  for  them, 
the  preliminary  ceremony  was  invaria- 
bly a  box  on  the  ear  for  poor  Rory,  or 
a  grab  on  the  neck,  froia  Molly's  spas- 
modic paw,  which  would  not  release  its 
hold  till  armed  intervention  set  in  and 
enforced  a  growling  neutrality.  In  short, 
like  the  hens,  these  cats  held  up  a  mirror 
to  human  nature.  They  showed  what 
men  and  women  would  be,  if  they  were 
— cats ;  which  they  would  be,  if  a  few 
modifying  qualities  were  left  out  They 
exhibit  selfishness  and  greed  in  their 
pure  forms,  and  we  see  and  ought  to 
shun  i\^  unlovely  shapes.  Evil  pro- 
pensities may  be  hidden  by  a  silver  veil, 
but  they  are  none  the  less  evil  and  bring 
fortfarevil  firuit  Let  cats  delight  to  snarl 
and  bite,  but  let  men  and  women  be 
generous  and  beneficent 

Little  chickens,  tender  and  winsome 
as  they  are,  early  discover  the  same  dis- 
position. When  one  of  them  comes 
into  possession  of  the  fore-quarter  of  a 
fly,  he  does  not  share  it  with  his  brother. 
He  does  not  even  quietly  swallow  it  him- 
self He  clutches  it  in  his  bill  and  flies 
around  in  circles  and  irregular  polygons. 


66o 


A  Prose  Henriadi. 


LJunc, 


like  one  distracted,  trying  to  find  a  cor- 
ner where  he  can  gonnandize  alone.  It 
IS  no  matter  that  not  a  single  chicken 
is  in  pursuit,  nor  that  there  is  enough 
and  to  spare  for  all  He  hears  a  voice 
we  cannot  hear,  telling  him  that  the 
Philistines  be  upon  him.  And  every 
chicken  snatches  his  morsel  and  radiates 
from  every  other  as  £ast  as  his  little  legs 
can  carry  him.  His  selfishness  overpow- 
ers his  sense,  —  which  is,  indeed,  not  a 
very  signal  victory,  for  his  selfishness  is 
very  strong  and  liis  sense  is  very  weak. 
It  is  n<|  wonder  that  Hopeful  was  well- 
nigh  moved  to  anger,  and  queried,  ^  Why 
art  thou  so  tart,  my  brother?^'  when 
Christian  said  to  him,  ''  Thou  talkest 
like  one  upon  whose  head  is  the  shell  to 
this  very  day.'*  To  be  compared  to  a 
chfcken  is  disparaging  enough  ;  but  to 
be  compared  to  a  chicken  so  very  young 
that  he  has  not  yet  quite  divested  him- 
self of  his  shell  must  be,  as  Pet  Maijo- 
rfe  would  say,  ''what  Nature  itself  can't 
endure."  A  little  chicken's  greedy  crop 
blinds  his  eyes  to  every  consideration 
except  that  of  the  insect  squirming  in 
his  bill  He  is  beautiful  and  round  and 
fbli  of  cunning  ways,  but  he  has  no  re- 
sources for  an  emergency.  He  will  lose 
his  reckoning  and  be  quite  out  at  sea, 
though  only  ten  steps  from  home.  He 
never  knows  enough  to  turn  a  comer. 
All  his  intelligence  is  like  light,  moving 
only  in  straight  lines.  He  is  impetuous 
and  timid,  and  has  not  the  smallest 
presence  of  mind  or  sagacity  to  discern 
between  friend  and  foe.  He  has  no 
confidence  in  any  earthly  power  that 
does  not  reside  in  an  old  hen.  Her 
duck  will  he  follow  to  the  last  ditch,  and 
to  nothing  else  will  he  give  heed.  I 
am  afraid  that  the  Interpreter  was  put- 
ting almost  too  fine  a  point  upon  it,  When 
he  had  Christiana  and  her  children  ''  in- 
to another  room,  where  was  a  hen  and 
chickens,  and  bid  them  observe  awhile. 
So  one  of  the  chickens  went  to  the 
trough  to  drink,  and  every  time  she 
drank  she  lift  up  her  head  and  her  eyes 
towards  heaven.  *  See,'  said  he,  *  what 
this  little  chick  doth,  and  learn  of  her 
to  acknowledge  whence  your  mercies 
come,  by  receiving  them  with  looking 


up.' "  Doubtless  the  chick  lift  her  eyes 
towards  heaven,  but  a  dose  acquaint>* 
ance  with  the  race  would  put  anything^ 
but  acknowledgment  in  the  act  A 
gratitude  that  thanks  Heaven  for  fiivors 
received  and  then  runs  into  a  hole  to 
prevent  any  other  person  from  sharing 
the  benefit  of  those  favors  is  a  very 
questionable  kind  of  gratitude,  and  cer- 
tainly should  be  confined  to  the  bipeds 
that  wear  feathers. 

Yjst,  if  you  take  away  selfishness  from 
a  chicken's  moral  make-up,  and  fatuity 
fix>m  his  intellectual,  you  have  a  ^ry 
charming  little  creature  left  For,  apart 
hov£i  their  excessive  greed,  chickens 
seem  to  be  affectionate.  They  have 
sweet  social  ways.  They  huddle  to- 
gether with  fond  caressing  chatter* 
and  chirp  soft  lullabies.  Their  toilet 
performances  are  full  of  interest  They 
trim  each  other's  bills  with  great  thor* 
oughness  and  dexterity,  much  better 
indeed  than  they  dress  didr  own  heads, 
—  for  their  bungling,  awkward  little 
claws  make  sad  work  of  it  It  is  as 
much  as  they  can  do  to  stand  on  two 
feet,  and  they  naturally  make  several 
revolutions  when  they  attempt  to  stand 
on  one.  Nothing  can  be  more  ludi- 
crous than  their  early  efforts  to  walk. 
They  do  not  really  walk.  They  sight 
their  object,  waver,  balance,  decide,  and 
then  tumble  forward,  stopping  all  in  a 
heap  as  soon  as  the  original  impetus 
is  lost,  generally  some  way  ahead  of  the 
place  to  which  tiiey  wished  to  go.  It  is 
delightful  to  watch  them  as  drowsiness 
films  their  round,  bright,  black  eyes, 
and  the  dear  old  mother  croons  them 
under  her  ample  wings,  and  they  nestle 
in  perfect  harmony.  How  they  manage 
to  bestow  themselves  with  such  limited 
accommodations,  or  how  they  manage 
to  breathe  in  a  room  so  dose,  it  is  diffi- 
cult to  imagine.  They  certainly  deal 
a  staggering  blow  to  our  preconceived 
notions  of  the  necessity  of  oxygen  and 
ventilation,  but  they  make  it  easy  to  see 
whence  the  Germans  derived  their  fiwh- 
ion  of  sleeping  under  feather-beds.  But 
breathe  and  bestow  themselves  they  da 
The  deep  mother-heart  and  the  broad 
mother-wings  take  them  all  in.    They 


i86s.] 


A  Prose  lienriade. 


66i 


penetrate  her  feathers,  and  open  for 
themselves  unseen  little  doors  into  the 
mysterious,  brooding,  beckoning  dark- 
ness. But  it  is  long  before  they  can  ar- 
range themselves  satis^torily»  They 
chirp,  and  stir,  and  snuggle,  trying  to  find 
the  warmest  and  softest  nook.  Now  an 
uneasy  head  is  tlinist  out,  and  now  a 
whole  tiny  body,  but  it  soon  reenters 
in  another  quarter,  and  at  length  the 
stir  and  chirr  grow  stilL  You  see  only 
a  collection  of  little  legs,  as  if  the  hen 
we|X  a  banyan-tree,  and  presendy  even 
they  disappear,  she  setdes  down  com- 
fortably, and  all  are  wrapped  in  a  slum- 
berous silence.  And  as  I  sit  by  the* 
hour,  watching  their  winning  ways,  and 
see  all  the  steps  of  this  sleepy  subsi- 
dence, I  can  but  remember  that  out- 
burst of  love  and  sorrow  from  the  lips 
of  Him  who,  though  He  came  to  earth 
from  a  dwelling-place  of  ineffable  glory, 
called  nothing  unclean  because  it  was 
common,  found  no  homely  detail  too 
trivial  or  too  homely  to  illustrate  the 
Father's  love,  but  fi^om  the  birds  of  the 
air,  the  fish  of  the  sea,  the  lilies  of  the 
field,  the  stones  in  the  street,  the  foxes 
in  their  holes,  the  patch  on  a  coat,  the 
oxen  in  the  furrow,  the  sheep  in  the  pit, 
the  camel  under  his  burden,  drew  les- 
sons of  divine  pity  and  patience,  of 
heavenly  duty  and  delight  Standing 
in  the  presence  of  the  great  congrega- 
tion, seeing,  as  never  man  saw,  the  hy- 
pocrisy and  the  iniquity  gathered  be- 
fore Him,  —  seeing  too,  alas !  the  ca- 
lamities and  the  woe  that  awaited  this 
doomed  people,  a  god-like  pity  over- 
bears His  righteous  indignation,  and 
cries  out  in  passionate  ap[)eal, "  O  Je- 
rusalem, Jerusalem,  thou  that  killest  the 
prophets,  and  stonest  them  which  are 
sent  unto  thee,  how  often  would  I  have 
gathered  thy  children  together,  even  as 
a  hen  gathereth  her  chickens  under  her 
wings,  and  ye  would  not !  '* 

The  agriculturist  says  that  women 
take  care  of  young  chickens  much  bet- 
ter than  men.  I  do  not  know  how  that 
may  be,  but  I  know  that  my  experi- 
ments with  chickens  have  been  attend- 
ed with  a  success  so  brilliant  that  un- 


fortunate poultry-fanciers  have  appealed 
to  me  for  assistance.  I  have  even  tak- 
en ailing  chickens  from  the  city  to 
board.  A  brood  of  nineteen  had  rap- 
idly dwindled  down  to  eleven  when  it 
was  brought  to  me,  one  even  then  dy- 
ing. His  littie  life  ebbed  away  in  a  few. 
hours  ;  but  of  the  remaining  ten,  nine, 
now  in  the  third  week  of  their  abode 
under  my  roofi  have  recovered  health, 
strength,  and  spirits,  and  bid  fair  to 
live  to  a  good  old  age,  if  not  premature- 
ly cut  off.  One  of  them,  more  feeble 
than  the  others,  needed  and  receiv- 
ed especial  attention.  Him  I  tended 
through  dreary  days  of  east  wind  and 
rain  in  a  box  on  the  mantel-piece,  nurs- 
ing him  through  a  severe  attack  of  asth- 
ma, feeding  and  amusing  him  through  his 
protracted  convalescence,  holding  hint  in 
my  hand  one  whole  Sunday  afternoon  to 
relieve  him  of  home-sickness  and  hen- 
sickness,  and  being  rewarded  at  last  by 
seeing  animation  and  activity  come  back 
to  his  poor  sickly  litde  body.  He  will 
never  be  a  robust  chicken.  Hq  seems 
to  have  a  permanent  distortion  of  the 
spine,  and  his  crop  is  one-sided;  and 
if  there  is  any  such  thing  as  blind  stag- 
gers, he  has  them.  Besides,  he  has  a 
strong  and  increasing  tendency  not  to 
grow.  This,  however,  I  reckon  a  beau- 
ty rather  than  a  blemish.  It  is  the  one 
fatal  defect  in  chickens  that  they  grow. 
With  them,  youth  and  beauty  are  truly 
inseparable  terms.  The  better  they  are, 
the  worse  they  look.  After  they  are 
three  weeks  old,  every  day  detracts  from 
their  comeliness.  They  lose  their  plump 
roundness,  their  fascinating,  soft  down, 
and  put  out  the  most  ridiculous  litde 
wings  and  tails  and  hard-looking  feath- 
ers, and  are  no  longer  dear,  tender 
chicles,  but  small  hens, — a  very  unin- 
teresting Young  America.  It  is  said, 
that,  if  you  give  chickens  rum,  they  will 
not  grow,  but  retain  always  their  juvenile 
size  and  appearance.  Under  our  pres- 
ent laws  it  is  somewhat  difficult,  I  sup- 
pose, to  obtain  rum,  and  I  fear  it  would 
be  still  more  difficult  to  administer  it 
I  have  conc*uded  instead  to  keep  some 
hen  sitting  through  the  summer,  and 
so  have  a  regular  succession  of  young 


662 


Harpocrates. 


[June, 


chickens.  The  growth  of  my  little  pa- 
tient was  not  arrested  at  a  sufficiently 
early  stage  to  secure  his  perpetual  good 
looks,  and,  as  I  intimated,  he  will  never, 
probably,  be  the  Windship  of  his  race ; 
but  he  has  found  his  appetite,  he  is  free 
from  acute  disease,  he  runs  about  with 
the  rest,  under-sized,  but  bright,  happy, 


and  enterprising,  and  is  therefore  a  well- 
spring  of  pleasure.  Indeed,  in  view  of 
the  fact  that  I  have  unquestionably  saved 
his  life,  we  talk  seriously  of  opening  a 
H6Ul  des  Invalides^  a  kind  of  Chick- 
en's Home,  that  the  benefits  which  he 
has  received  may  be  extended  to  all  his 
unfortunate  brethren  who  stand  in  need. 


HARPOCRATES 


•« 


The  icit  is  sUeooe.**— Hamlst. 


I. 


THE  message  of  the  god  I  seek 
In  voice,  in  vision,  or  in  dream, -^ 
Alike  on  frosty  Dorian  peak, 

Or  by  the  slow  Arcadian  stream: 
Where'er  the  oracle  is  heard, 

I  bow  the  head  and  bend  the  knee; 
In  dream,  in  vision,  or  in  word. 
The  sacred  secret  reaches  me. 


IL 

Athwart  the  dim  Trophonian  caves. 

Bat-like,  the  gloomy  whisper  flew; 
The  lisping  plash  of  Paphian  waves 

Bathed  every  pulse  in  fiery  dew : 
From  Phcebus,  on  his  cloven  hill, 

A  shaft  of  beauty  pierced  the  air, 
And  oaks  of  gray  Dodona  still 

Betrayed  the  Thunderer's  presence  there. 

III. 

The  warmth  of  love,  the  grace  of  art. 

The  joys  that  breath  and  blood  express. 
The  desperate  forays  of  the  heart 

Into  an  unknown  wilderness, — 
All  these  I  know:  but  sterner  needs 

Demand  the  knowledge  which  must  dower 
The  life  that  on  achievement  feeds, 

The  grand  activity  of  power. 

nr. 

What  each  reveals  the  shadow  throws 
Of  something  unrevealed  behind ; 

The  Secret!s  lips  forever  close 
To  mock  the  secret  undivined: 


1865.]  Harpocrates.  663 

Thence  late  I  come,  in  weary  dreams 

The  son  of  Isis  to  implore, 
Whose  temple-front  of  granite  gleams 

Across  the  Desert's  yellow  floor. 

V. 

Lo!  where  the  sand,  insatiate,  drinks 

The  steady  splendor  of  the  air, 
Crouched  on  her  heavy  paws,  the  Sphinx 

Looks  forth  with  old,  unwearied  stare  1 
Behind  her,  on  the  burning  wall. 

The  long  processions  flash  and  glow: 
*  The  pillared  shadows  of  the  hall 

Sleep  with  their,  lotus-crowns  below. 

VL 

A  square  of  dark  beyond,  the  door 

Breathes  out  the  deep  adytum's  gloom: 
I  cross  the  court's  deserted  floor. 

And  stand  within  the  awful  room. 
The  priests  repose  from  finished  rite; 

No  echo  rings  from  pavements  trod; 
And  sits  alone,  in  swarthy  light, 

The  naked  child,  the  temple's  god. 

vn. 

No  sceptre,  orb,  or  mystic  toy 

Proclaims  his  godship,  young  and  warm: 
He  sits  alone,  a  naked  boy, 

Clad  in  the  beauty  of  his  form. 
Dark,  solemn  stars,  of  radiance  mild, 

His  eyes  illume  the  golden  shade. 
And  sweetest  lips  that  never  smiled 

The  finger  hushes,  on  them  laid. 

vra. 

Oh,  never  yet  in  trance  or  dream 

That  falls  when  crowned  desire  has  died, 
So  breathed  the  air  of  power  supreme. 

So  breathed,  and  calmed,  and  satisfied! 
Did  then  those  mystic  lips  unclose, 

Or  that  diviner  silence  make 
A  seeming  voice?    The  flame  arose, 

The  deity  his  message  spake: 

IX. 

"  If  me  thou  knowest,  stretch  thy  hand 
,  And  my  possessions  thou  shalt  reach: 

I  grant  no  help,  I  break  no  band, 
I  sit  above  the  gods  that  teach. 


664  Harpocraies.  [iune. 

The  lateBt-born,  my  realm  includes 
The  old,  the  strong,  the  near,  the  fcir, — 

Serene  beyond  their  changeful  moods, 
And  fixed  as  Night's  unmoving  star. 


''A  child,  I  leave  the  dance  of  Earth 

To  be  my  homM  mother's  care: 
My  father  Ammon's  Bacchic  mirth. 

Delighting  gods,  I  may  not  share. 
I  turn  from  Beauty,  Love,  and  Power, 

In  singing  vale,  on  laughing  sea; 
From  Youth  and  Hope,  and  wait  the  hour 

When  weary  Knowledge  turns  to  me. 

XI. 

"  Beneath  my  hand  the  sacred  springs 

Of  Man's  mysterious  being  burst, 
And  Death  within  my  shadow  brings 

The  last  of  life,  to  greet  the  first 
There  is  no  god,  or  grand  or  fair, 

On  Orcan  or  Olympian  field, 
But  must  to  me  his  treasures  bear, 

His  one  peculiar  secret  yield. 

xn. 

''I  wear  no  garment,  drop  no  shade 

Before  the  eyes  that  all  things  see; 
My  worshippers,  howe'er  arrayed. 

Come  in  their  nakedness  to  me. 
The  forms  of  life  like  gilded  towers 

Miiy  soar,  in  air  arid  sunshine  drest, — 
The  home  of  Passions  and  of  Powers, — 

Yet  mine  the  crypts  whereon  they  rest 

xm. 

^Embracing  all,  sustaining  all, 

Consoling  witli  unuttered  lore. 
Who  finds  me  in  my  voiceless  hall 

Shall  need  the  oracles  no  more. 
I  am  the  knowledge  that  insures 

Peace,  after  Thought^s  bewildering  range ; 
I  am  the  patience  that  endures; 

I  am  the  truth  that  cannot  change  1 " 


i86s.] 


De^s  Caw. 


665 


DELY'S    COW. 


I  WENT  down  to  the  farm-yard  one 
day  last  month,  and  as  •!  opened 
the  gate  I  heard  Pat  Malony  say, 
"Biddy!  Biddy!"  I  thought  at  first 
he  was  calling  a  hen,  but  then  I  re- 
membered the  hens  were  all  shut  into 
the  poultry-house  that  day,  to  be  sort- 
ed, and  numbered,  and  condemned : 
so  I  looked  again,  thinking  perhaps 
Pat's  little  lame  sister  had  strayed  up 
from  the  village  and  gone  into  the  bam 
after  Sylvy's  kittens,  or  a  pigeon-egg, 
or  to  see  a  new  C2df ;  but,  to  my  sur- 
prise, I  saw  a  red  cow,  of  no  particu- 
lar beauty  or  breed,  coming  out  of  the 
stable-door,  looking  about  her  as  if  in 
search  of  somebody  or  something ;  and 
when  Pat  called  again,  "  Biddy !  Bid- 
dy !  Biddy  ! "  the  creature  walked  up 
to  him  across  the  yard,  stretched  out 
her  awkward  neck,  sniffed  a  little,  and 
cropped  from  his  hand  the  wisp  of 
rowen  hay  he  held,  as  composedly  as 
if  she  were  a  tame  kitten,  and  then  fol- 
lowed him  all  round  the  yard  for  more, 
which  I  am  sorry  to  say  she  did  not 
get  Pat  had  only  displayed  her  ac- 
complishments to  astonish  me,  and  then 
shut  her  in  her  stall  again.  I  afterward 
hunted  out  Biddy's  history,  and  here 
It  is. 

On  the  Derby  turnpike,  just  before 
you  enter  Hanerford,  everybody  that  ev- 
er travelled  that  road  will  remember  Jo- 
seph German's  bakery.  It  was  a  red 
brick  house,  with  dusty  windows  toward 
the  street,  and  just  inside  the  door  a 
little  shop,  where  Mr.  German  retailed 
the  scalloped  cookies,  fluted  ginger- 
bread, long  loaves  of  bread,  and  scantly 
filled  pies,  in  which  he  dealt,  and  which 
were  manufactured  in  the  long  shop, 
where  in  summer  you  caught  glimpses 
of  flour-barrels  all  a-row,  and  men  who 
might  have  come  out  of  those  barrels, 
80  strewed  with  flour  were  all  their 
clothes, — paper-cap  and  white  apron 
scarcely  to  be  distinguished  firom  the 
rest  of  the  dress,  as  fiir  as  color  and 
dustiness  went    Here,  too,  when  her 


fother  drove  out  the  cart  every  after- 
noon, sitting  in  front  of  the  counter 
with  her  sewing  or  her  knitting,  Dely 
German,  the  baker's  pretty  daughter, 
dealt  out  the  cakes  and  rattled  the  pen- 
nies in  her  apron-pocket  with  so  good 
a  grace,  that  not  a  young  farmer  came 
into  Hanerford  with  grain  or  potatoes  or 
live  stock,  who  did  not  cast  a  glance  in  at 
the  shop-door,  going  toward  town,  and 
go  m  on  his  return,  ostensibly  to  buy  a 
sheet  of  gingerbread  or  a  dozen  cook- 
ies for  his  refreshment  on  the  drive 
homeward.  It  was  a  curious  thing  to 
see  how  much  hungrier  they  were  on 
the  way  home  than  coming  into  town. 
Though  they  might  have  had  a  good 
dinner  in  Hanerford,  that  never  ap- 
peased their  appetites  entirely,  while  in 
the  morning  they  had  driven  their  slow 
teams  all  the  way  without  so  much  as 
thinking  of  cakes  and  cheese !  So  by 
the  time  Dely  was  seventeen,  her  black 
eyes  and  bright  cheeks  were  well  known 
for  miles  about,  and  many  a  youth,  go- 
ing home  to  the  clean  kitchen  where 
his  old  mother  sat  by  the  fire  knitting, 
or  his  spinster  sister  scolded  and  scrub- 
bed over  his  muddy  boot-tracks,  thought 
*  how  pretty  it  would  look  to  see  Dely 
German  sitting  on  the  other  side,  in  her 
neat  calico  frock  and  white  apron,  her 
black  hair  shining  smooth,  and  her  fresh, 
bright  face  looking  a  welcome. 

But  Dely  did  not  think  about  any  one 
of  them  in  a  reciprocal  manner ;  she 
liked  them  all  pretty  well,  but  she  loved 
nobody  except  her  father  and  mother, 
her  three  cats  and  all  their  kittens,  the 
big  dog,  the  old  horse,  and  a  wheezy 
robin  that  she  kept  in  a  cage,  because  her 
&vorite  cat  had  half  killed  it  one  day, 
and  it  never  could  fly  any  more.  For  sdl 
these  dumb  things  she  had  a  really  in- 
tense afiection:  as  for  her  father  and 
mother,  she  seemed  to  be  a  part  of 
them ;  it  never  occurred  to  her  that  they 
could  leave  her,  or  she  them ;  and  when 
old  Joe  German  died  one  summer  day, 
just  after  Dely  was  seventeen,  she  was 


666 


Deiys  Caw, 


Uun^ 


nearly  distracted.  However,  people  who 
must  work  for  their  living  have  to  get 
over  their  sorrows,  practically,  much 
sooner  than  those  who  can  a£ford  time 
to  indulge  them ;  and  as  Dely  knew  more 
about  the  business  and  the  shop  than 
anybody  but  the  foreman,  she  had  to 
resume  her  place  at  the  counter  before 
her  father  had  been  buried  a  week.  It 
was  a  great  source  of  embarrassment  to 
her  rural  admirers  to  see  Dely  in  her 
black  frock,  pale  and  sober,  when  they 
went  in;  they  did  not  know  what  to 
say ;  they  felt  as  if  their  hands  and  feet 
had  grown  very  big  all  at  once,  an^  as 
if  the  cents  in  their  pockets  never  could 
be  got  at,  at  which  they  turned  red  and 
hot  and  got  choked,  and  went  away, 
swearing  internally  at  their  own  blun- 
dering shyness,  and  deeper  smitten  than 
ever  with  Dely,  because  they  wanted  to 
comfort  her  so  very  much,  and  did  n't 
know  how  I 

One,  however,  had  the  sense  and  sim- 
plicity to  know  how,  and  that  was  George 
Adams,  a  fine  healthy  young  fellow  from 
Hartland  Hollow,  who  came  in  at  least 
once  a  week  with  a  load  of  produce  from 
the  £unii  on  which  he  was  head  man. 
The  first  time  he  went  after  his  rations 
of  gingerbread,  and  found  Dely  in  her 
mourning,  he  held  out  his  hand  and 
shook  hers  heartily.  Dely  looked  up 
into  his  honest  blue  eyes  and  saw  them 
full  of  pity. 

"  I  'm  real  sorry  for  you  I "  said 
Geoige.  '*  My  father  died  two  years 
ago." 

Dely  burst  into  tears,  and  George 
could  n't  help  stroking  her  bright  hair 
sofUy  and  saying,  "  Oh,  don't  1 "  So 
she  wiped  her  eyes,  and  sold  him  the 
cookies  he  wanted ;  but  from  that  day 
there  was  one  of  Dely's  customers  that 
she  liked  best,  one  team  of  white  horses 
she  always  looked  out  for,  and  one  voice 
that  hurried  the  color  into  her  £ice,  if 
it  was  ever  so  pale ;  and  the  upshot  of 
pity  and  produce  and  gingerbread  was 
that  George  Adams  and  Dely  German 
were  heartily  in  love  with  each  other, 
and  Dely  began  to  be  comforted  for 
her  Other's  loss  six  months  after  he 
died.    Not  that  she  knew  why,  or  that 


George  had  ever  said  anything  to  her 
more  than  was  kind  and  friendly,  but 
she  felt  a  sense  of  rest,  and  yet  a  sweet 
resdessness,  when  he  was  in  her  thoughts 
or  presence,  that  beguiled  her  grief  and 
made  her  unintentionally  happy :  it  was 
the  old,  old  story ;  the  one  eternal  nov- 
elty that  never  loses  its  vitality,  Its  in- 
terest, its  bewitching  power,  nor  ever 
will  till  Time  shall  be  no  more. 

But  the  year  had  not  elapsed,  devoted 
to  double  crape  and  triple  quillings,  be- 
fore Dely's  mother,  too,  began  to  be 
consoled.  She  was  a  pleasant,  placid, 
feeble-natured  woman,  who  liked  her 
husband  very  well,  and  fretted  at  him  in 
a  mild,  persistent  way  a  good  deal.  He 
swore  and  chewed  tobacco,  which  an- 
noyed her ;  he  also  kept  a  tight  grip  of 
his  money,  which  was  not  pleasant ;  but 
she  missed  him  very  much  when  he 
died,  and  cried  and  rocked,  and  said 
how  af&icted  she  was,  as  much  as  was 
necessary,  even  in  the  neighbors'  opin- 
ion. But  as  time  went  on,  she  found  the 
business  very  hard  to  msinage ;  even 
with  Dely  and  the  foreman  to  help  her, 
the  ledger  got  all  astray,  and  the  day- 
book followed  its  examine;  so  when 
old  Tom  Kenyon,  who  kept  the  tavern 
half  a  mile  farther  out,  took  to  coming 
Sunday  nights  to  see  the  **  Widder  Ger- 
man," and  finally  proposed  to  share  her 
troubles  and  carry  on  the  bakery  in  a 
matrimonial  partnership,  Mrs.  German 
said  she  ^  guessed  she  would,"  and  an- 
nounced to  Dely  on  Monday  morning 
that  she  was  going  to  have  a  step-fa- 
ther. Dely  was  astonished  and  indig- 
nant, but  to  no  purpose.  Mrs.  German 
cried  and  rocked,  and  rocked  and  cried 
again,  rather  more  saliently  than  when 
her  husband  died,  but  for  all  that  she 
did  not  retract ;  and  in  due  time  she  got 
into  the  stage  with  her  elderly  lover 
and  went  to  Meriden,  where  they  got 
married,  and  came  home  next  day  to 
carry  on  the  bakery. 

Joe  German  had  been  foolish  enough 
to  leave  all  his  property  to  his  wife,  and 
Dely  had  no  resource  but  to  stay  at  home 
and  endure  her  disagreeable  position  as 
well  as  she  could,  for  Tom  Kenyon  swore 
and  chewed,  and  smoked  beside ;  more- 


18650 


Deiys  Quo. 


667 


over,  he  drank, — not  to  real  drunken- 
ness, but  enough  to«  make  him  cross 
and  intractable ;  worse  than  all,  he  had 
a  son,  the  only  child  of  his  first  mar- 
riage, and  it  soon  became  unpleasantly 
evident  to  Dely  that  Steve  Kepyon  had 
a  mind  to  marry  her,  and  his  fother'had 
a  mind  he  should.  Now  it  is  all  very 
well  to  marry  a  person  one  likes,  but 
to  go  through  that  ceremony  with  one 
you  dislike  is  more  than  anybody  has 
a  right  to  require,  in  my  opinion,  as 
well  as  Dely's ;  so  when  her  mother 
urged  upon  her  the  various  advantages 
of  the  match,  Steve  Kenyoh  being  the 
present  master  and  prospective  owner 
of  his  fiither's  tavern,  a  great  resort  for 
horse-jockeys,  cattle-dealers,  and  fre- 
quenters of  State  and  County  fiurs,  De- 
ly still  objected  to  marry  him.  But  the 
more  she  objected,  the  more  her  mother 
talked,  her  step-father  swore,  and  the 
swaggering  lover  persisted  in  his  atten- 
tions at  all  times,  so  that  the  poor  girl 
had  scarce  a  half-hour  to  herself.  She 
grew  thin  and  pale  and  unhappy  enough ; 
and  one  day  George  Adams,  stepping  in 
unexpectedly,  found  her  with  her  apron 
to  her  eyes,  crying  most  bitterly.  It  took 
some  persuasion,  and  some  more  daring 
caresses  than  he  had  yet  ventured  on, 
to  get  Del/s  secret  trouble  to  light 
I  am  inclined  to  think  George  kissed 
her  at  least  once  before  she  would  tell 
him  what  she  was  crying  about;  but 
Dely  naturally  came  to  the  conclusion, 
that,  if  he  loved  her  enough  to  kiss  her, 
amd  she  loved  him  enough  to  like  it, 
she  might  as  well  share  her  troubles, 
and  the  consequence  was,  George  asked 
her  then  and  there  to  share  his.  Not 
that  either  of  them  thought  there  would 
be  troubles  under  that  copartnership, 
for  the  day  was  sufficient  to  them ;  and 
it  did  not  daunt  Dely  in  the  least  to 
know  that  George's  only  possessions 
were  a  heifer  cal(  a  suit  oif  clothes,  and 
twenty  dollars. 

About  a  month  after  this  eventful  day, 
Dely  went  into  Hanerford  on  an  errand, 
she  said ;  so  did  George  Adams.  They 
stepped  into  the  minister's  together  and 
were  married ;  so  Dely's  errand  was 
done,  and  she  rode  out  on  the  front  seat 


of  George's  empty  wagon,  stopping  at 
the  bakery  to  tell  her  mother  and  get  her 
trunk :  having  wisely  chosen  a  day  for 
her  errand  when  her  step-fiither  had  gone 
away  after  a  load  of  flour  down  to  Han- 
erford wharves.  Mrs.  Kenyon  went  at 
once  into  wild  hysterics,  and  called  Dely 
a  jade-hopper,  and  an  ungrateful  child ; 
but  not  understanding  the  opprobrium 
of  the  one  term,  and  not  deserving  the 
other,  the  poor  girl  only  cried  a  little,  and 
helped  George  with  her  trunk,  which 
held  all  she  could  call  her  own  in  the 
world,  —  her  clothes,  two  or  three  cheap 
trinkets,  and  a  few  books.  She  kissed 
the  cats  all  round,  hugged  the  dog,  was 
glad  her  robin  had  died,  and  then  said 
good-bye  to  her  mother,  who  refused  to 
kiss  her,  and  said  Geoige  Adams  was 
a  snake  in  the  grass.  This  was  too 
much  for  Dely;  she  wiped  her  eyes, 
and  clambered  over  the  wagon-wheel, 
and  took  her  place  beside  George  with 
a  smile  so  much  like  crying  that  he  be- 
gan to  whistle,  and  never  stopped  for 
two  miles.  By  that  time  they  were  in  a 
piece  of  thick  pine  woods,  when,  looking 
both  before  and  behind  to  be  certain  no 
one  was  coming,  he  put  his  arm  round 
his  wife  and  kissed  her,  which  seemed  to 
have  a  consoling  effect ;  and  by  the  time 
they  reached  his  mother's  little  house, 
Dely  was  as  bright  as  ever. 
*  A  little  bit  of  a  house  it  was  to  bring 
a  wife  to,  but  it  suited  Dely.  It  stood 
on  the  edge  of  a  pine  wood,  where  the 
fragrance  of  the  resinous  boughs  kept 
the  air  sweet  and  pure,  and  their  leaves 
thrilled  responsive  to  every  breeze.  The 
house  was  very  small  and  very  red,  it 
had  two  rooms  below  and  one  above, 
but  it  was  neater  than  many  a  five-story 
mansion,  and  fiur  more  cheerful;  and 
when  Dely  went  in  at  the  door,  she 
thought  there  could  be  no  prettier  sight 
than  the  exquisitely  neat  old  woman 
sitting  in  her  arm-chair  on  one  side  of 
the  fireplace,  and  her  beautiful  cat  on 
the  other,  purring  and  winking,  while 
the  tea-kettle  sang  and  sputtered  over 
the  bright  fire  of  pine-cones,  and  the 
tea-table  at  the  other  side  of  the  room 
was  spread  with  such  dean  linen  and 
such  shining  crockeiy  that  it  made  one 


668 


Dely's  Cow. 


Punc, 


hungry  even  to  look  at  the  brown  bread 
and  butter  and  pink  radishes  that  were 
Dely's  wedding-supper. 

It  is  very  odd  how  happy  people  can 
be,  when  they  are  as  poor  as  poverty, 
and  don*t  know  where  to  look  for  their 
living  but  to  the  work  of  their  own 
hands.  Genteel  poverty  is  horrible ;  it 
is  impossible  for  one  to  be  poor,  and  ele- 
gant, and  comfortable ;  but  downright, 
simple,  unblushing  poverty  may  be  the 
most  blessed  of  states ;  and  though  it 
was  somewhat  of  a  descent  in  the  so- 
cial scale  for  Dely  to  marry  a  farm-hand, 
foreman  though  he  might  be,  she  loved 
her  George  so  devoutly  and  healthily 
that  she  was  as  happy  as  a  woman  could 
be.  George's  mother,  the  sweetest  and 
tenderest  mother  to  him,  took  his  wife 
to  a  place  beside  his  in  her  heart,  and 
the  two  women  loved  each  other  the 
more  for  this  man's  sake ;  he  was  a 
bond  between  them,  not  a  division ; 
hard  work  left  them  no  thought  of  rank- 
ling jealousy  to  make  their  lives  bitter, 
and  Dely  was  happier  than  ever  she  had 
thought  she  should  be  away  from  her 
mother.  Nor  did  the  hard  work  hurt 
her ;  for  she  took  to  her  own  share  all 
of  it  that  was  out  of  doors  and  trouble- 
some to  the  infirmities  of  the  old  lady. 
She  tended  the  calf  in  its  little  log  hut, 
shook  down  the  coarse  hay  for  its  bed, 
made  its  gruel  till  it  grew  beyond  gruel, 
then  drove  it  daily  to  the  pasture  where 
it  fed,  gave  it  extra  rations  of  bread  and 
apple -parings  and  carrot -tops,  till  the 
creature  knew  her  voice  and  ran  to  her 
call  like  a  pet  kitten,  rubbing  its  soft, 
wet  nose  against  her  red  cheek,  and 
showing  in  a  dozen  blundering,  calfish 
ways  that  it  both  knew  and  loved  her. 

There  are  two  sorts  of  people  in  the 
world,  —  those  who  love  animals,  and 
those  who  do  not  I  have  seen  them 
both,  I  have  known  both ;  and  if  sick 
or  oppressed,  or  borne  down  with  dread- 
ful sympathies  for  a  groaning  nation  in 
mortal  struggle,  1  should  go  for  aid,  for 
pity,  or  the  relief  of  kindred  feeling,  to 
those  I  had  seen  touched  with  quick 
tenderness  for  the  lower  creation, — who 
remember  that  the  ''whole  creation 
travaileth  in  pain  together,"  and  who 


learn  God's  own  lesson  of  caring  for 
the  fallen  sparrow,  and  the  ox  that 
treadeth  out  the  com.  With  men  or 
women  who  despise  animals  and  treat 
them  as  mere  beasts  and  brutes  I  nev* 
er  want  to  trust  my  weary  heart  or  xclj 
aching  head ;  but  with  Dely  I  could 
have  trusted  both  safely,  and  the  calf 
and  the  cat  agreed  with  me. 

So,  in  this  happy,  homely  life,  the 
sweet  centre  of  her  own  bright  little 
world,  Dely  passed  the  first  year  of  her 
wedded  life,  and  then  the  war  came  I 
Dreadful  pivot  of  almost  all  our  late 
lives !  On  It  also  this  rude  idyl  turned. 
George  enlisted  for  the  war. 

It  was  not  in  Dely  or  his  mother  to 
stop  him.  Though  tears  fell  on  every 
round  of  his  blue  socks  and  sprinkled 
.  his  flannel  shirts  plentifuUy,  —  though 
the  old  woman's  wan  and  wrinkled  foce 
paled  and  saddened,  and  the  young 
one's  fair  throat  quivered  with  choking 
sobs  when  they  were  alone,  —  still, 
whenever  George  appeared,  he  was 
greeted  with  smiles  and  cheer,  strength* 
ened  and  steadied  from  this  home  ar- 
mory better  than  with  sabre  and  bayo- 
net, ''with  might  in  the  inner  man." 
George  was  a  brave  fellow,  no  doubts 
and  would  do  good  service  to  his  free 
country ;  but  it  is  a  question  with  me, 
whether,  when  the  Lord  calls  out  his 
"  noble  army  of  martyrs  "  before  the 
universe  of  men  and  angels,  that  army 
will  not  be  found  officered  and  led  by 
just  such  women  as  these,  who  fought 
silently  with  the  flesh  and  the  Devil 
by  their  own  hearth,  quickened  by  no 
stinging  excitement  of  battle,  no  thrill 
of  splendid  strength  and  fury  in  soul 
and  body,  no  tempting  delight  of  honor 
or  even  recognition  from  their  peers,  — 
upheld  only  by  the  dull,  recurrent  ne- 
cessities of  duty  and  love. 

At  any  rate,  George  went,  and  thej 
stayed.  The  town  made  them  an  al- 
lowance as  a  volunteer's  fiunily ;  they 
had  George's  bounty  to  begin  with; 
and  a  firiendly  boy  from  the  farm  near 
by  came  and  sawed  their  wood,  took 
care  of  the  garden,  and,  when  Dely 
could  not  go  to  pasture  with  the  heif- 
er, drove  her  to  and  fro  daily. 


I«6s.] 


Ddys  Cow. 


669 


After  George  had  been  gone  three 
months,  Dely  had  a  little  baby.  Tiny 
and  bright  as  it  was,  it  seemed  like  a 
small  star  fallen  down  from  some  upper 
sky  to  lighten  their  darkness.  Dely  was 
almost  too  happy;  and  the  old  grand* 
mother,  fiut  slipping  into  that  other 
worid  whence  baby  seemed  to  have 
but  newly  arrived,  stayed  her-  feeble 
steps  a  little  longer  to  wait  upon  her 
son's  child.  Yet,  for  all  the  baby,  Dely 
never  forgot  her  dumb  loves.  The  cat 
had  still  its  place  on  the  foot  of  her 
bed ;  and  her  first  walk  was  to  the  bam, 
where  the  heifer  lowed  welcome  to  her 
mistress,  and  rubbed  her  head  against 
the  hand  that  caressed  her  with  as 
much  feeling  as  a  cow  can  show,  how- 
ever much  she  may  have.  And  Bid- 
dy, the  heifer,  was  a  good  friend  to 
that  little  household,  all  through  that 
long  ensuing  winter.  It  went  to  De- 
ly's  heart  to  sell  her  first  calf  to  the 
butcher,  but  they  could  not  raise  it,  and 
when  it  was  taken  away  she  threw  her 
check  apron  over  her  head,  and  buried 
her  &ce  deep  in  the  pillow,  that  she 
might  not  hear  the  cries  of  appeal  and 
grief  her  fovorite  uttered.  After  this, 
Biddy  would  let  no  one  milk  her  but 
her  mistress  ;  and  many  an  inarticulate 
confidence  passed  between  the  two 
while  the  sharp  streams  of  milk  spun 
and  foamed  into  the  pail  below,  as  De* 
ly's  skilful  hands  coaxed  it  down. 

They  heard  from  George  often :  he  was 
well,  and  busy  with  drill  and  camp  life, — 
not  in  active  service  as  yet  Inciden- 
tally, too,  Dely  heard  of  her  mother. 
Old  Kenyon  was  dead  of  apoplexy,  and 
Steve  like  to  die  of  drink.  This  was  a 
bit  of  teamster's  gossip,  but  proved  to 
be  true.  Toward  the  end  of  the  winter, 
old  Mother  Adams  slept  quietly  in  the 
Lord.  No  pain  or  sickness  grasped  her, 
though  she  knew  she  vras  dying,  kissed 
and  blessed  Dely,  sent  a  mother's  mes- 
sage to  George,  and  took  the  baby  for 
the  bst  time  into  her  arms;  then  she 
laid  her  bead  on  the  pillow,  smiled, 
and  drew  a  long  breath,  —  no  more. 

Poor  Dely's  life  was  very  lonely  ; 
she  buried  her  dead  out  of  her  sight, 
wrote  a  loving,  sobbing  letter  to  George, 


and  began  to  try  to  live  alone.    Hard 
enough  it  was  !    March  revenged  it- 
self on  the  past  toleration  of  winter ; 
snow  fell  in  blinding  fury,  and  drifts 
hid  the  fences  and  fenced  the  doors 
all    through    Hartland    Hollow.     Day 
after  day  Dely  struggled  through  the 
path  to  the  bam  to  feed  Biddy  and 
milk  her ;  and  a  warm  mess  of  bread 
and  milk  often  .formed  her  only  meal 
in  that  bitter  weather.    It  is  not  credi- 
ble to  thbse  who  think  no  more  of  ani- 
mals than  of  chairs  and  stones  how 
much  society  and  solace  they  afibrd  to 
those  who  do  love  them.    Biddy  was 
really  Dely's  fiiend.    Many  a  long  day 
passed  when  no  human  face  but  the 
baby's  greeted  her  from  dawn  till  dusk. 
But  the  cow's  beautiful  purple  eyes  al- 
ways turned  to  welcome  her  as  she  en- 
tered its  shed'door;  her  wet  muzzle 
touched    Dely's  cheek  with  a  velvet 
caress ;  and  while  her  mistress  drew 
from  the  downy  bag  its  white  and  rich 
stores,   Biddy  would   turn  her   head 
round,  and  eye  her  with  such  mild 
looks,  and  breathe  such  firagrance  to- 
ward her,  that  Dely,   in  her  solitary 
and  fiiendless  state,  came  to  regard  her 
as  a  real  sentient  being,  capable  of  love 
and  sympathy,  and  had  an  affection  for 
her  that  would  seem  utter  nonsense  to 
hal(  perhaps  three  quarters,  of  the  peo- 
ple in  this  unsentimental  world.    Many 
a  time  did  the  lonely  little  woman  lay 
her  head  on  Biddy's  neck,  and  talk  to 
her  about  George  with  sobs  and  si- 
lences interspersed  ;  and  many  a  piece 
of  dry  bread  steeped  in  warm  water,  or 
golden  carrot,  or  mess  of  stewed  tur- 
nips and  bran  flavored  the  dry  hay  that 
was  the  staple  of  the  cow's  diet    The 
cat  was  old  now,  and  objected  to  the 
baby  so  strenuously  that  Dely  regard- 
ed her  as  partly  insane  from  age  ;  and 
though  she  was  kind  to  her  of  cousse, 
and  fed  her  fiiithfully,  still  a  cat  that 
could  growl  at  George's  baby  was  not 
regarded  with   the   same   complacent 
kindness  that  had  always  blessed  her 
before ;  and  whenever  the  baby  was 
asleep  at  milking-time,  Pussy  was  locked 
into  the  closet, — a  proceeding  she  re- 
sented.  Biddy,  on  the  contrary,  seemed 


670 


Deiys  Caw. 


[Jiuie^ 


to  admire  the  child, — she  certainly  did 
not  object  to  her,— and  necessarily  ob- 
tained thereby  a  far  higher  place  in  De- 
ly's  heart  than  the  cat 

As  I  have  already  said,  Dely  had  heard 
of  her  step-father's  death  some  time  be* 
fore ;  and  one  stormy  day,  the  last  week 
in  March,  a  team  coming  from  Haner- 
ford  with  grain  stopped  at  the  door  of 
the  little  red  house,  and  the  driver  hand- 
ed Dely  a  dirty  and  ill-written  letter  from 
her  mother.  Just  such  an  epistle  it  was 
as  might  have  been  exi)ected  from  Mrs. 
Kenyon, —  full  of  weak  sorrow,  and  en- 
treaties to  Dely  to  come  home  and  live ; 
she  was  old  and  tired,  the  bakery  was 
coming  to  trouble  for  want  of  a  good 
manager,  the  foreman  was  a  rogue,  and 
the  business  failing  &st,  and  she  wanted 
George  and  Dely  there :  evidendy,  she 
had  not  heard,  when  the  lett^  began, 
of  George's  departure  or  baby's  birth  ; 
but  the  latter  half  said,  **•  Cum,  an3rway. 
I  want  to  se  the  Baby.  I  me  an  old 
critur,  a  sinking  into  my  graiv,  and  when 
george  cums  back  from  the  wars  he 
must  liv  hear  the  rest  off  his  life." 

Dely's  tender  heart  was  greatly  stirred 
by  the  letter,  yet  she  was  undecided 
what  to  do.  Here  she  was  alone  and 
poor ;  there  would  be  her  mother, — and 
she  loved  her  mother,  though  she  could 
not  respect  her ;  there,  too,  was  plenty 
for  all ;  and  if  George  should  ever  come 
home,  the  bakery  business  was  just  the 
thing  for  him,  — he  had  energy  and 
courage  enough  to  redeem  a  sinking 
^f!air  like  that  But  then  what  should 
she  do  with  the  cow  ?  Puss  could  go 
home  with  her ;  but  Biddy  ? — there  was 
no  place  for  Biddy.  Pasture  was  scarce 
and  dear  about  Hanerford ;  Dely's  fa- 
ther had  given  up  keeping  a  cow  long  be- 
fore his  death  for  that  reason  ;  but  how 
could  Dely  leave  and  sell  her  faithful 
friend  and  companion  ?  Her  heart  sank 
at  the  thought ;  it  almost  turned  the  scale, 
for  one  pitiful  moment,  against  common- 
sense  and  filial  feeling.  But  baby  cough- 
ed,—  nothing  more  than  a  slight  cold,  yet 
Dely  thought,  as  she  had  often  thought 
before,  with  a  quick  thrill  of  terror,  What 
if  baby  were  ever  sick  ?  Seven  miles 
between  her  and  the  nearest  doctor ;  no- 


body to  send,  nobody  to  leave  baby  with, 
and  she  herself  utterly  inexperienced  in 
the  care  of  children.  The  matter  was  de* 
cided  at  once ;  and  before  the  driver  who 
brought  her  mother's  letter  had  come,  on 
his  next  journey,  for  the  answer  he  had 
offered  to  carry, Dely 's  letter  was  written, 
sealed,  and  put  on  the  shelf,  and  she  was 
busy  contriving  and  piecing  out  a  warm 
hood  and  cloak  for  baby  to  ride  in. 

But  every  time  she  went  to  the  bam 
to  milk  Biddy  or  feed  her,  the  tears 
sprang  to  her  eyes,  and  her  mind  mis- 
gave her.  Never  before  had  the  dainty 
bits  of  food  been  so  plentiful  for  her  pet, 
or  her  neck  so  tenderly  stroked.  Dely 
had  written  to  her  mother  that  she  would 
come  to  her  as  soon  as  her  afiairs  were 
setded,  and  she  had  spoken  to  Orrin 
Nye,  who  brought  the  letter,  to  find  a 
purchaser  for  her  cow.  Grand&ther 
HoUis,  who  bought  Biddy,  and  in  whose 
form-yard  I  made  her  acquaintance,  gave 
me  the  drover's  account  of  the  matter, 
which  will  be  better  in  his  words  than 
mine.  It  seems  he  brought  quite  a 
herd  of  milch  cows  down  to  Avondale, 
which  is  twenty  miles  from  Hanerford, 
and  hearing  that  Grandfather  wanted 
a  couple  of  cows,  he  came  to  ''trade 
with  him,"  as  he  expressed  it  He  had 
two  beautiful  Ayrshires  in  the  lot, — 
clean  heads,  shining  skins,  and  good 
milkers,  —  that  mightily  pleased  the 
old  gentleman's  foncy ;  for  he  had  long 
brooded  over  his  favorite  scheme  of  a 
pure-blooded  herd,  and  the  red  and  white 
clouded  Ayrshires  showed  beautifully 
on  his  green  hillside  pastures,  and  were 
good  stock  besides.  But  Aaron  Stow  in- 
sisted so  pertinaciously  that  he  should 
buy  this  red  cow,  that  the  Squire  shoved 
his  hat  back  and  put  both  his  hsuids  in 
his  pockets,  a  symptom  of  determination 
with  him«  and  began  to  question  him. 
They  fenced  awhile,  in  true  Yankee  lash- 
ion,  till  at  last  Grandfother  became  ex- 
asperated. 

**  Look  here,  Aaron  Stow  1 "  said  he, 
"what  in  thunder  do  yoif  pester  me 
so  about  that  cow  for  ?  She  's  a  good 
enough  beast,  1  see,  for  a  native ;  but 
those  Ayrshires  are  better  cows  and 
better  blood,  and  you  know  it    What 


1865.] 


Defy*s  Cow. 


671 


ar«  you  navigating  round  me  for,  so 
glib  ?  " 

"  Well,  now,  Squire,"  returned  Aaron, 
whittling  at  the  gate  with  sudden  vehe- 
mence, *'  (act  is,  I  've  set  my  mind  on 
your  buyin'  that  critter,  an'  you  jes'  set 
down  on  that  'ere  milkin'-stool  an'  I  'U 
tell  ye  the  rights  on 't,  though  I  feel  kind- 
er meechin'  myself  to  be  so  soft  about 
it  as  I  be." 

^  Leave  off  shaving  my  new  gate,  then, 
and  don't  think  I  'm  going  to  trust  a 
hundred  and  eighty-five  solid  flesh  to  a 
three-legged  stool.  I  'm  too  old  for  that 
I  '11  sit  on  the  step  here.  Now  go  ahead, 
man." 

So  Grandfather  sat  down  on  the  step, 
and  Aaron  turned  his  back  against  the 
gate  and  kicked  one  boot  on  the  other. 
He  was  not  used  to  narration. 

*^  Well,  you  know  we  had  a  dreadful 
spell  o'  weather  a  month  ago.  Squire. 
There  ha'n't  never  been  such  a  \Iarch 
in  my  day  as  this  last ;  an'  't  was  worse 
up  our  way  'n'  't  was  here,  an'  down 
to  Hartland  Holler  was  the  beat  of  all. 
Why,  it  snowed  an'  it  blowed  an'  it  friz 
till  all  Natur'  could  n't  stan'  it  no  more ! 
Well,  about  them  days  I  was  down  to 
Hartland  Centre  a-buyin'  some  fat  cattle 
for  Hanerford  market,  an'  \  met  Orrin 
Nye  drivin'  his  team  pretty  spry,  for  he 
see  it  was  comin'  on  to  snow ;  but  when 
he  catched  sight  o'  me,  he  stopped  the 
horses  an'  hollered  out  to  me,  so  I 
stepped  along  an'  asked  what  he  want- 
ed ;  an'  he  said  there  was  a  woman  down 
to  the  Holler  that  had  a  cow  to  sell,  an' 
he  knowed  I  was  apt  to  buy  cow-critters 
along  in  the  spring,  so  he  'd  spoke 
about  it,  for  she  was  kinder  in  a  hurry 
to  sell,  for  she  was  goin'  to  move.  So 
I  said  I  'd  see  to  't,  an'  he  driv  along. 
I  thought  likely  I  should  git  it  cheap, 
ef  she  was  in  a  hurry  to  sell,  an'  I  con- 
cluded I  'd  go  along  next  day ;  't  wa'n't 
more  'n'  seven  mile  from  the  Centre, 
down  by  a  piece  o'  piny  woods,  an' 
the  woman  was  Miss  Adams.  I  used  ter 
know  George  Adams  quite  a  spell  ago, 
an'  he  was  a  likely  feller.  Well,  it  come 
on  to  snow  jest  as  fine  an'  dry  as  sand, 
an'  the  wind  blew  like  needles,  an',  come 
next  day,  when  I  started  to  foot  it  down 


there,  I  did  n't  feel  as  though  I  could 
ha'  gone,  ef  I  had  n't  been  sure  of  a  good 
bargain ;  the  snow  had  n't  driv  much, 
but  the  weather  had  setded  down  dread- 
fill  cold ;  't  was  dead  still,  an'  the  air 
sorter  cut  ye  to  breathe  it;  but  I  'm 
naterally  hardy,  an'  I  kep'  along  till  I 
got  there.  I  did  n't  feel  so  all-fired  cold 
as  I  hev  sometimes,  but  when  I  stepped 
in  to  the  door,  an'  she  asked  me  to  hev 
a  cheer  by  the  fire,  fust  I  knew  I  did  n't 
know  nothin' ;  I  come  to  the  floor  like  a 
felled  ox.  I  expect  I  must  ha'  been  nigh 
on  to  dead  with  clear  cold,  for  she  was 
the  best  part  o'  ten  minutes  bringin'  on 
me  to.  She  rubbed  my  hands  an'  face 
with  camphire  an'  gin  me  some  hot  tea ; 
she  had  n't  got  no  sperits  in  the  house, 
but  she  did  everything  a  litde  woman 
could  do,  an'  I  was  warmed  through  an' 
through  afore  long,  an'  we  stepped  out 
into  the  shed  to  look  at  the  cow. 

"Well,  Squire,  I  ha'n't  got  much 
natur'  into  me  noway,  an'  it  's  well  I 
ha'n't ;  but  that  cow  beat  all,  I  de- 
clare for  't !  She  put  her  head  round 
the  minute  Miss  Adams  come  in ;  an' 
if  ever  you  see  a  dumb  beast  pleased, 
that  'ere  cow  was  tickled  to  pieces. 
She  put  her  nose  down  to  the  woman's 
cheek,  an'  she  licked  her  hands,  an' 
she  moved  up  agin'  her  an'  rubbed 
her  ear  on  her,  —  she  all  but  talked ; 
an'  when  I  looked  round  an'  see  them 
black  eyes  o'  Miss  Adams's  with  wet  in 
'em,  I  'most  wished  I  had  a  pocket- 
handkercher  myself. 

« *  You  won't  sell  her  to  a  hard  mas- 
ter, will  you  ? '  says  she.  '  I  want  her  to 
go  where  she  '11  be  well  cared  for,  an' 
I  shall  know  where  she  is ;  for  if  ever 
things  comes  right  agin,  I  want  to  hev 
her  back.  She  's  been  half  my  livin' 
an'  all  my  company  for  quite  a  spell, 
an'  I  shall  miss  her  dreadfblly.' 

" « Well,'  says  I, « I  'U  take  her  down 
to  Squire  Hollis's  in  Avondale ;  he  's 
got  a  cow-bam  good  enough  for  a  Rep- 
resentative to  set  in,  an'  clean  water,  an' 
chains  to  halter  'em  up  with,  an'  a  dry 
yard  where  the  water  all  dreens  ofT  as 
slick  as  can  be,  an'  there  a'n't  such  a 
piece  o'  land  nowhere  round  for  root- 
crops;  an'  the  Squire  he  sets  such 


67a 


Deiys  Caw. 


[June, 


store  by  his  cows  an'  things,  I  Ve  heerd 
tell  he  turned  off  two  Irishmen  for  abus- 
in'  on  'em ;  an'  they  has  their  bags  wash- 
ed an'  their  tails  combed  every  day  in 
the  year,  —  an'  I  don't  know  but  what 
they  ties  'em  up  with  a  blew  ribbin.'  " 

"  Get  out ! "  growled  Grandfather. 

"  Can't,  jest  yet,  Squire,  not  t'U  I  've 
done.  Anyway,  I  figgered  it  off  to  her, 
an'  she  was  kinder  consoled  up  to  think 
on  't;  for  I  told  her  I  thought  likely 
you  'd  buy  her  cow*  an'  when  we  come 
to  do  the  tradin'  part,  why,  con-found  it ! 
she  wa'n't  no  more  fit  to  buy  an'  sell 
a  critter  than  my  three*year-old  Hepsy. 
I  said  a  piece  back  I  ha'n't  got  much 
natur',  an'  a  man  that  trades  dumb 
beasts  the  biggest  part  o'  the  time  hed 
n't  oughter  hev ;  but  I  swan  to  man ! 
natur'  was  too  much  for  me  this  time ; 
I  could  n't  no  more  ha'  bought  that  cow 
cheap  than  I  could  ha'  sold  my  old  gran'- 
ther  to  a  tin-peddler.  Somehow,  she 
was  so  innocent,  an'  she  felt  so  to  part 
with  the  critter,  an'  then  she  let  me 
know  't  George  was  in  the  army ;  an' 
thinks  I,  I  guess  I  'U  help  the  Gov'- 
ment  along  some ;  I  can't  fight,  'cause 
I  'm  subject  to  rheumatiz  in  my  back, 
but  I  can  look  out  for  them  that  can  ; 
so,  take  the  hull  on  't,  long  an'  broad, 
why,  I  up  an'  gin  her  seventy-five  dol- 
lars for  that  cow, — an'  I  'd  ha'  gin  twen- 
ty more  not  to  ha'  seen  Miss  Adams's 
^e  a-lookin'  arter  me  an'  her  when 
we  went  away  fi-om  the  door. 

*'  So  now.  Squire,  you  can  take  her  or 
leave  her." 

Aaron  Stow  knew  his  man.  Squire 
Mollis  pulled  out  his  pocket-book  and 
paid  seventy-five  dollars  on  the  spot  for 
a  native  cow  called  Biddy. 

"  Now  clear  out  with  your  Ayrshires  I  '* 
said  he,  irascibly.  *'  I  'm  a  fool,  but  I 
won't  buy  them,  too." 

^  Well,  Squire,  good  day,"  said  Aaron, 
with  a  grin. 

But  I  am  credibly  informed  that  the 
next  week  he  did  come  back  with  the 
two  Ayrshires,  and  sold  them  to  Grand- 
£tther,  remarking  to  the  fermer  that  he 
*'  should  ha'  been  a  darned  fool  to  take 
the  old  gentieman  at  his  word ;  for  he 
never  knowed  a  man  hanker  arter  harn- 


some  stock  but  what  he  bought  it^  fost 
or  last" 

Now  I  also  discovered  that  the  regi- 
ment George  enlisted  in  was  one  whose 
Colonel  I  knew  well:  so  I  wrote  and 
asked  about  Sergeant  Adams.  My  re- 
port was  highly  honorable  to  George, 
but  had  some  bad  news  in  it :  he  had 
been  severely  wounded  in  the  right  leg, 
and,  though  recovering,  would  be  dis^ 
abled  fix)m  further  service.  A  fortnight 
after  I  drove  into  Hanerford  with  Grand- 
father Mollis,  and  we  stopped  at  the 
old  bakery.  It  looked  exquisitely  neat 
in  the  shop,  as  well  as  prosperous  ex- 
ternally, and  Dely  stood  behind  the 
counter  with  a  lovely  child  in  her  arms. 
Grandfather  bought  about  half  a  bushel 
of  crackers  and  cookies,  while  I  played 
with  the  baby.  As  he  paid  for  them, 
he  said  in  his  kind  old  voice  that  no- 
body can  hear  without  pleasure,  — 

*'  I  believe  I  have  a  pet  of  yours  in 
my  bam  at  Avondale,  Mrs.  Adams." 

Dely's  eyes  lighted  up,  and  a  quick 
flush  of  feeling  glowed  on  her  pretty  £u:e. 

"  Oh,  Sir  !  you  did  buy  Biddy,  tiien  ? 
and  you  are  Squire  Mollis  ? " 

'^  Yes,  Ma'am,  and  Biddy  is  well,  and 
well  cared  for,  as  fat  and  sleek  as  a 
mole,  and  still  comes  to  her  name." 

"  Thank  you  kindly.  Sir ! "  said  De- 
ly, with  an  emphasis  that  gave  the  sim- 
ple phrase  most  earnest  meaning. 

"And  how  is  your  husband,  Mrs. 
Adams  ?  "  said  L 

A  deeper  glow  displaced  the  fading 
blush  Grandfather  had  called  out,  and 
her  beautiful  eyes  flashed  at  me. 

*'  Quite  well,  I  thank  you,  and  not  so 
very  lame.  And  he  's  coming  home 
next  week." 

She  took  the  baby  from  me,  as  she 
spoke,  and,  looking  in  its  bright  littie 
face,  said,  — 

"  Call  him,  Baby ! " 

"  Pa-pa  ! "  said  the  child. 

<*  If  ever  you  come  to  Avondale,  Mrs* 
Adams,  come  and  see  my  cows,"  said 
Grandfather,  as  he  gathered  up  the 
reins.  "  You  may  be  sure  I  won't  sell 
Biddy  to  anybody  but  you." 

Dely  smiled  from  the  steps  where 
she  stood;  and  we  drove  away. 


1865.] 


NiedU  and  Gardtn. 


673 


NEEDLE   AND    GARDEN. 

THE  STORY  OF  A  SEAMSTRESS  WHO  LAID  DOWN  HER  NEEDLE  AND  BECAME 

A  STRAWBERRY-GIRL. 


WRITTEN   BY    HERSELF. 


CHAPTER  VL 

I  CANNOT  tell  why  the  price  of  every- 
thing we  «at  or  drink  or  wear  has  so 
much  increased  during  the  last  year  or ' 
two.  I  have  heard  many  reasons  given, 
and  have  read  of  so  many  more,  all  dif- 
fering, as  to  lead  me  to  suspect  that  no 
one  really  knows.  Yet  there  is  a  gen- 
eral, broad  admission  that  it  must  in 
some  way  be  owing  to  the  war,  for  ev- 
ery one  knows  that  such  enhancement 
did  not  previously  exist  But  among 
the  strange,  the  unaccountable,  the  ut- 
terly heartless  &cts  of  this  eventful  cri- 
sis is  the  reduction  of  the  wages  of  the 
sewing-woman,  while  the  cost  of  every- 
thing necessary  to  keep  her  alive  is 
threefold  greater  than  before.  The  sal- 
aries of  clerks  have  been  raised,  the 
wages  of  the  working-man  increased,  in 
some  cases  doubled,  the  labor  of  men 
in  every  department  of  business  is  bet- 
ter paid,  yet  that  of  the  sewing-woman 
is  reduced  in  price. 

The  heartlessness  of  the  fiict  is  equal- 
led only  by  its  strangeness.  Every  arti- 
cle of  clothing  which  the  sewing-woman 
makes  commands  a  higher  price  than 
formerly,  yet  she  receives  much  less  for 
her  work  than  when  it  sold  for  a  lower 
one.  And  while  thus  meagrely  paid, 
there  has  been  a  demand  for  the  labor 
of  her  hands  so  urgent  that  the  like  was 
never  seen  among  us.  A  customer,  in 
the  person  of  the  Government,  came 
into  the  market  and  created  a  demand 
for  clothing,  that  swept  every  factory 
clear  of  its  accumulated  stock,  and  bound 
the  proprietors  in  contracts  for  mor«, 
which  required  them  to  run  night  and 
day.  All  this  unexampled  product  was 
to  be  made  up  into  tents,  accoutrements, 
and  army  -  clothing,  and  principally  by 
women.    One  would  suppose,  that,  with 

vou  XV.  —  NO.  92.  43 


so  unusual  a  call  for  female  labor,  there 
would  be  an  increase  of  female  wages. 
It  was  so  in  the  case  of  those  who  fab- 
ricated cannon,  muskets,  powder,  and 
all  other  articles  which  a  government 
consumes  in  time  of  war,  and  which  men 
produce :  they  demanded  higher  wages 
for  their  work,  and  obtained  them :  the 
increase  showing  itself  to  the  buyer  in 
the  enhanced  price  of  the  article. 

This  enhancement  became  conta- 
gious :  it  spread  to  everything,  — doub- 
ling and  trebling  the  price  of  whatever 
the  conununity  required,  except  the  sin- 
gle item  of  the  sewing-woman's  labor. 
Had  the  price  of  this  remained  even 
stationary,  it  would  have  excited  sur- 
prise ;  but  that  her  wages  should  be  cut 
down  at  a  time  when  everybody's  else 
went  up  excited  astonishment  among 
such  as  became  aware  of  it,  while  the 
reduction  coming  contemporaneously 
with  an  unprecedented  rise  in  the  price 
of  all  the  necessaries  of  life  overwhelm- 
ed this  deserving  class  with  indescrib- 
able misery.  Multitudes  of  them  gave 
up  the  commonest  articles  of  food, — 
coffee,  tea,  butter,  and  sugar,  —  and  oth- 
ers dispensed  even  with  many  of  the 
actual  necessaries.  How  could  they  eat 
butter  at  sixty  cents  a  pound,  when  earn- 
ing only  fifteen  cents  a  day  ? 

Finally  the  reduction  of  sewing-wom- 
en's wages  became  so  shamefully  great 
as  to  raise  a  wailing  cry  from  these 
poor  victims  of  cupidity,  which  attract- 
ed public  attention.  It  was  shown  that 
as  the  price  of  food  rose,  their  wages 
went  down.  In  1861  the  sewing-woman 
received  seventeen  and  a  half  cents  for 
making  a  shirt,  sugar  being  then  thirteen 
cents  a  pound ;  but  in  1864,  when  sugar 
was  up  to  thirty  cents,  the  price  for  mak- 
ing a  shirt  haul  been  ground  down  to 
eight  oenti !    It  was  nearly  die  same 


674 


Needle  and  Garden. 


U™ci, 


with  all  other  articles  of  her  work,  as 
the  following  list  of  cruel  reductions  in 
the  prices  paid  at  our  arsenal  and  by 
contractors  will  show. 

COMPARISON  OF  PRICES  FOR  1861  AND 

1864. 

ArsenaL  ArtenaL  Coniractort, 


. 

z86x. 

Z864. 

Z864 

Shirts,    . 

17* 

XS 

8 

.    »* 

xo 

7d   8 

Infantry  Pantaloons, 

4f^\ 

az 

17  ®  ao 

Cavalry  Pantaloons, 

60 

SO 

a8  (930 

Lined  Blouses, 

45 

40 

ao 

Unlined  Blouses, 

.   40 

35 

15  @ao 

Cavalry  Jackets^ 

x.xa^ 

z.oo 

7S®&> 

Overalls, 

25 

ao 

8 

Bed  Sacks, 

.   ao 

ao 

7 

Covering  CuUeens, 

4 

^ 

— 

Here  was  a  state  of  things  wholly 
without  parallel  in  our  previous  social 
history.  On  such  wages  women  could 
not  exist ;  they  were  the  strongest  and 
surest  temptation  to  the  abandonment 
of  a  virtuous  course  of  life.  Labor  was 
here  evidently  cheated  of  its  just  reward. 
The  Government  gave  out  the  work  by 
contract  at  the  prices  indicated  in  the 
first  two  columns,  and  the  contractors 
put  it  out  among  the  sewing-women  at 
the  inhuman  rates  set  down  in  the  third 
column.  In  this  wrong  the  Govern- 
ment participated ;  for  it  reduced  its 
prices  to  the  sewing -women,  while  it 
was  constantly  increasing  those  it  paid 
to  every  other  class  of  work-people. 
Even  the  freedmen  on  the  sea-islands 
or  in  the  contraband  camps  made  bet- 
ter wages,  —  while  the  liberated  negro 
washer -woman,  who  had  never  been 
paid  wages  during  a  life  of  sixty  years, 
was  suddenly  elevated  to  a  position 
about  the  camps  which  enabled  her  to 
earn  more,  every  day,  tban  thousands 
of  intelligent  and  exemplary  needle- 
women in  Philadelphia. 

An  extraordinary  feature  of  the  case 
was,  that,  while  there  was  probably  fovu* 
times  as  much  sewing  to  be  done,  there 
were  at  least  ten  times  as  many  women 
to  do  it  as  before.  The  condition  of 
things  showed  that  this  must  be  the 
fact,  because,  though  the  work  to  be 
given  out  was  enormous  in  amount^ 
yet  there  was  a  crowd  and  pressure  to 
obtain  it  which  was  even  greater.     I 


saw  this  myself  on  more  than  one  oc- 
casion. 

While  congratulating  ourselves  that 
our  women  have  not  yet  been  degraded 
to  working  at  coal-mining,  dressed  in 
men's  attire,  or  at  gathering  up  manure 
in  the  streets  of  a  great  city,  we  may  be 
sure,  that,  if,  in  this  emergency,  they 
were  saved  from  actual  starvation,  it  was 
not  through  any  generous,  spontaneous 
outpouring  of  that  sympathy  whose  foun* 
tain  is  in  the  bottom  of  men's  pockets. 
They  pined,  and  worked,  and  saved 
•  themselves. 

At  last  they  met  together  in  public, 
common  sufferers  under  a  common  ca- 
lamity, interchanged  their  experiences, 
and  mingled  their  tears.  If  the  person- 
al history  of  the  pupils  in  my  sewing- 
school  was  diversified,'  in  this  assem- 
bly the  domestic  experience  of  each  in- 
dividual was  in  mournful  harmony  with 
that  of  alL  The  great  majority  were 
wives  of  soldiers  who  had  gone  forth  to 
uphold  the  flag  of  our  country.  Hun- 
dreds of  them  were  clad  in  mourning, 

—  their  husbands  had  died  in  battle,  — 
their  remittances  of  pay  had  ceased, 

—  their  dependence  had  been  suddenly 
cut  off,  —  and  they  were  thus  thrown 
back  upon  the  needle,  which  they  had 
laid  down  on  getting  married.  Oh,  how 
many  hollow  cheeks  and  attenuated  fig- 
ures were  to  be  seen  in  that  sad  meet- 
ing of  working-women !  There  was  the 
dull  eye,  the  pinched -up  face,  which 
betokened  absolute  deprivation  of  ne- 
cessary food, — yet  withal,  the  careful 
adjustment  of  a  faded  shawl  or  dress, 
the  honest  pride,  even  in  the  depth  of 
misery,  to  be  at  least  decent,  after  the 
effort  to  preserve  the  old  gentility  had 
been  found  vain. 

It  was  the  extraordinary  number  of 
the  wives  and  daughters  of  the  killed 
and  wounded  in  battle,  who,  suddenly 
added  to  the  standing  army  of  sewing- 
womeq,  had  glutted  the  labor-market  of 
the  city,  and  whose  impatient  necessity 
for  employment  had  enabled  heartless 
contractors  to  cut  down  the  making  of 
a  shirt  to  eight  cents.  I  remember, 
when  the  first  rumor  of  the  first  battle 
reached  our  city,  how  the  news-resorts 


1865.] 


Needle  and  Garden. 


67s 


were  thronged  by  these  women  to  know 
whether  they  had  been  made  widows 
or  not, —  how  the  crowd  pressed  up  to 
and  surged  around  the  placards  con- 
taining the  lists  of  killed  and  wounded, 
—  how  those  away  off  from  these  cen- 
tres of  early  intelligence  waited  fever- 
ishly for  the  morning  paper  to  tell  them 
whether  they  were  to  be  miserable  or 
happy.  I  remember,  too,  how,  as  the 
bloody  contest  went  on,  this  impatient 
anxiety  died  out,  —  use  seemed  to  have 
made  their  qondition  a  sort  of  second 
nature,  —  they  kept  at  home,  hopeful, 
but  resigned.  Alas  !  how  many,  in  the 
end,  needed  all  the  resignation  that  God 
mercifully  extends  to  the  stricken  deer 
of  the  great  human  family  I 

They  came  together  on  the  occasion 
referred  to  to  compare  grievances,  and 
devise  whatever  poor  remedy  might  be 
found  to  be  in  the  power  of  a  body  of 
friendless  needle-women.  The  straits  to 
which  many  of  these  deserving  widows 
had  been  reduced  were  awful.  The  rich 
men  of  my  native  city  may  hang  their 
heads  in  shame  over  the  recital  of  suf- 
ferings at  their  very  door.  No  gener- 
ous movement  had  been  made  by  any 
of  them  in  mitigation. 

One  widow,  taking  out  shirts  at  the 
arsenal,  earned  two  dollars  and  forty 
cents  in  two  weeks,  but  was  denied  per- 
mission to  take  them  in  when  done, 
though  urgently  needing  her  pay,  being 
told  that  she  would  be  making  too  much 
money.  Another  made  vests  with  ten 
button-holes  and  three  pockets. for  fif- 
teen cents,  furnishing  her  own  cotton 
at  twenty  cents  a  spool.  A  third,  whose 
husband  was  then  in  the  army,  found 
the  price  of  infantry-pantaloons  reduced 
from  forty-two  to  twenty-seven  cents,  — 
reduced  by  the  Government  itself,— but 
she  made  eight  pair  a  week,  took  care 
of  five  children,  and  was  always  on  the 
verge  of  starvation.  She  declared,  that, 
if  it  were  not  for  her  children,  she  would 
gladly  lie  down  and  die !  A  fourth  work- 
ed for  contractors  on  overalls  at  five 
cents  a  pair  1  Having  the  aid  of  a  sew- 
ing-machine, she  made  six  pair  daily, 
but  was  the  object  of  insult  and  abuse 
from  her  employer. 


The  widow  of  a  brave  man  who  gave 
up  his  life  at  Fredericksburg  worked  for 
the  Government,  and  made  eight  pair  of 
pantaloons  a  week,  reteiving  two  dollars 
and  sixteen  cents  for  the  uninterrupted 
labor  of  six  days  of  eighteen  hours  each. 
Another  made  thirteen  pair  of  drawers 
for  a  dollar,  and  by  working  early  and 
late  could  sometimes  earn  two  dollars 
in  the  week.  The  wife  of  another  sol- 
dier, still  fighting  to  uphold  the  flag, 
worked  on  great-coats  for  the  contract- 
ors at  thirty  cents  each,  and  earned 
eighty  cents  a  week,  keeping  herself 
and  three  children  on  that !  A  wound- 
ed hero  came  home  to  die,  and  did  so, 
after  lingering  six  months  dependent  on 
his  wife.  With  six  children,  she  could 
earn  only  two  dollars  and  a  quarter  a 
week,  though  working  incessantly.  She 
did  contrive  to  feed  them,  but  they  went 
barefoot  all  winter. 

An  aged  woman  worked  on  tents, 
making  in  each  tent  forty-six  button- 
holes, sewing  on  forty-six  buttons,  then 
buttoning  them  together,  then  making 
twenty  eyelet-holes,  —  all  for  sixteen 
cents.  After  working  a  whole  day  with- 
out tasting  food,  she  took  in  her  work 
just  five  minutes  after  the  hour  for  re- 
ceiving and  paying  for  the  week's  labor. 
She  was  told  there  was  no  more  work 
for  her.  Then  she  asked  them  to  pay 
her  for  what  she  had  just  delivered,  but 
was  refused.  She  told  them  she  was 
without  a  cent,  and  that,  if  forced  to 
wait  till  another  pay-day,  she  must 
starve.  The  reply  was,  ^  Starve  and 
be  d — d !  That  is  none  of  my  business. 
We  have  our  rules,  and  shall  not  break 
them  for  any ." 

A  soldier's  wife  had  bought  coal  by 
the  bucketful  all  winter,  at  the  rate  of 
sixteen  dollars  a  ton,  and  worked  on 
flannel  shirts  at  a  dollar  and  thirty  cents 
a  dozen.  She  was  never  able  to  eat  a 
full  meal,  and  many  times  went  to  bed 
hungry.  A  tailor  gave  to  another  sew- 
ing-woman a  lot  of  pantaloons  to  make 
up.  The  cloth  being  rotten,  the  stitch-* 
es  of  one  pair  tore  out,  but  by  exercising 
great  care  she  succeeded  in  getting- the 
others  made  up.  When  she  took  them 
in,  he  accused  her  of  having  ruined  them, 


676 


Needle  and  Garden, 


[June, 


and  refused  to  pay  her  anything.  She 
threatened  suit,  whereupon  he  told  her 
to  ''sue  and  be  d — d/'  and  finally  offered 
a  shilling  a  pair,  which  her  necessities 
forced  her  to  accept  Another  needle- 
woman worked  on  hat -leathers  at  two 
and  a  half  cents  a  dozen.  She  found 
her  own  silk  and  cotton,  and  put  up- 
wards of  five  thousand  stitches  into  the 
dozen  leathers.  How  could  such  a  slave 
exist  ?.  Her  four  children  and  herself 
breakfasted  on  bread  and  molasses,  with 
malt  coffee  sweetened  with  molasses. 
They  dined  on  potatoes,  and  made  a 
quarter  peck  serve  for  three  meals  I 

So  much  for  the  mercy  of  the  Gov- 
ernment and  the  conduct  of  the  trade. 
Now  for  the  doings  of  those  who  claim- 
ed to  belong  to  the  religious  class.  One 
public  praving  man  paid  less  than  any 
other  contractor,  and  frequently  allow- 
ed his  hands  to  go  unpaid  for  two  or 
three  weeks  together.  Another  would 
give  only  a  dollar  for  making  thirteen 
shirts  and  drawers,  of  which  a  woman 
could  finish  but  three  in  a  day.  One 
of  those  in  his  employ,  becoming  weary 
of  such  low  pay,  applied  for  work  at  an- 
other tailor's.  There  she  found  the  in- 
spector cursing  an  aged  woman.  When 
solicited  for  work,  he  told  the  applicant 
to  **  clear  out  and  be  d— d ;  he  did  n*t 
want  to  see  anything  in  bonnet  or  hoops 
again  that  day.'* 

-  What  but  fallen  women  must  some 
of  the  subjects  of  such  atrocious  treat- 
ment become  ?  It  was  ascertained  from 
a  letter  sent  by  one  of  this  class,  that 
she  had  given  way  under  the  pressure 
of  starvation.    She  said,  — 

''I  was  once  an  innocent  girl,  the 
daughter  of  a  clergyman.  Left  an  or- 
phan at  an  early  age,  I  tried  hard  to 
make  a  living,  but,  unable  to  endure  the 
hard  labor  and  live  upon  the  poor  pay 
I  received,  I  fell  into  sin.  Tell  your 
public  that  thousands  like  me  have  been 
driven  by  want  to  crim  e.  Tell  them,  that, 
though  it  is  well  to  save  human  souls 
from  pollution,  it  is  better  that  they  shall 
be  kept  pure,  and  know  no  shame." 

Another  confessed  as  much  ;  but  how 
many  more  were  driven  to  the  same 
alternative,  who  remained  mute  under 


their  shame,  no  one  can  teU.  Yet  the 
men  who  thus  drove  virtuous  women  to 
despair  were  amassing  large  fortunes. 
Their  names  appeared  in  the  newspa- 
pers as  liberal  contributors  to  every  pub- 
lic charity  that  was  started, — to  sanita- 
ry fairs,  to  women's-aid  societies,  to  the 
sick  and  wounded  soldiers,  to  every- 
thing that  would  be  likely  to  bring  their 
names  into  print  They  figured  as  re- 
spectable and  spirited  citizens.  Of  all 
men  they  were  supremely  loyaL  Loy- 
al to  what  ?  Not  to  the  cause  of  poor 
famishing  women,  but  to  their  own  in- 
terest Some  of  them  were  church-mem- 
bers, famous  as  class-leaders  and  exhort- 
ers,  powerful  in  prayer,  especially  when 
made  in  public,  counterparts  of  the  Phar- 
isees of  old.  Their  wives  and  daughters 
wore  silk  dresses,  hundred-dollar  shawls, 
and  had  boxes  at  the  opera. 

What  would  have  been  said  of  this 
unheard-of  robbery  by  the  men  who  won 
victories  at  Gettysburg  and  Atlanta,  had 
they  known  that  it  was  committed  on 
the  wives  and  mothers  whom  they  had 
left  behind  ?  These  women  gave  up 
husbands  and  sons  to  fight  the  battles 
of  the  nation,  never  dreaming  that  those 
who  remained  at  home  to  make  for- 
tunes would  seek  to  do  so  by  starving 
them.  They  considered  the  first  sac- 
rifice great  enough ;  but  here  was  an- 
other. Who  but  they  can  describe  how 
terrible  it  was  ? 

On  this  subject  employers  have  gen- 
erally remained  silent,  offering  few  re- 
buttals* to  these  charges  of  cruelty,  ex- 
tortion, and  robbery.  The  sewing-wom- 
en and  their  friends  have  remonstrated, 
but  the  oppressors  have  rarely  conde- 
scended to  reply.  Even  those  of  the 
same  sex,  who  have  large  establish- 
ments and  employ  numbers  of  women, 
have  seldom  done  so.  This  silence  has 
been  significant  of  inability,  an  admis- 
sion of  the  facts  alleged. 

Philanthropy  has  not  been  idle,  how- 
ever, while  these  impositions  on  sewing- 
women  have  been  practised  Numer- 
ous plans  for  preventing  them,  and  for 
otherwise  improving  *  the  condition  of 
the  sex,  have  been  proposed,  some  of 
which  have  been  put  into  successful 


i865.] 


NeaUe  and  Garden. 


677 


Operation,  —  the  object  sought  for  be- 
ing to  diversify  employment  by  open- 
ing other  occupations  than  that  of  the 
needle.  It  is  a  settled  truism,  that  the 
measure  of  civilization  in  a  nation  is 
the  condition  of  its  women.  While 
heathen  and  savage,  they  are  drudges ; 
when  enlightened  by  education  and 
moulded  by  Christianity,  they  rise  to 
the  highest  plane  of  humanity.  When 
a  Neapolitan  woman  gave  birth  to  a  girl, 
it  was,  until  very  recently,  the  custom 
of  the  poorer  classes  to  display  a  black 
flag  from  an  upper  window  of  the  house, 
to  avoid  the  unpleasant  necessity  of  in- 
forming inquirers  of  the  sex  of  the  in- 
fant Even  at  the  birth  of  a  child  in 
the  higher  ranks,  the  midwife  and  phy- 
sician who  are  in  attendance  never  an- 
nounce to  the  anxious  mother  the  sex 
of  the  newly  bom,  if  a  girl,  until  press- 
ed to  disclose  it,  because  a  female  child 
is  never  welcome. 

It  is  much  the  fashion  of  the  times  to 
say  that  the  sphere  of  woman  is  exclu- 
sively within  the  domestic  circle.  It  is 
highly  probable  that  the  great  majority 
desire  no  wider  range  ;  but  even  in  the 
obscure  quietude  of  that  circle  they  are 
subject  to  a  thousand  chances.  We  see 
what  kind  of  husbands  many  women 
obtain,  —  and  that  even  the  most  de- 
serving are  at  times  overtaken  by  sick- 
ness or  poverty,  and  then  are  left  with 
no  certain  means  of  living.  Poets  and 
novelists  may  limit  their  destiny  to  that 
of  being  beautiful  and  charming,  but  the 
wise  and  considerate  have  long  since 
seen  that  some  comprehensive  improve- 
ment in  their  condition  is  needed.  Their 
resources  must  be  enlarged  and  made 
available.  It  will  increase  their  self- 
respect,  and  make  them  spurn  depend- 
ence on  the  charity  of  friends.  I  am  in- 
clined to  think  that  all  true  women  are 
working -women, — at  least  they  would 
be  such,  if  they  could  obtain  the  proper 
employment  American  girls  cannot  all 
become  house-servants,  and  few  of  them 
are  willing  to  be  such.  Their  aspirations 
are  evidendy  higher.  They  have  sought 
the  factory,  the  bindery,  the  printing-of- 
fice,— thus  graduating,  by  force  of  their 
own  inherent  aptitude  for  better  things, 


to  a  higher  and  more  intellectual  occupa- 
tion, leaving  the  Irish  and  Germans  in 
undisputed  possession  of  the  kitchen. 

A  volume  has  been  printed,  giving  a 
list  of  employments  suitable  for  wom- 
en, but  meagre  in  practical  suggestions 
how  to  secure  them.  It  was  thought 
that  the  war  would  bring  about  a  brisk 
demand  for  female  labor,  as  great  armies 
cannot  be  collected  without  causing  a 
corresponding  drain  from  many  occupa- 
tions into  which  women  would  thus  find 
admission.  But  the  melancholy  facts 
already  recited  show  how  fallacious  the 
idea  is,  that  war  can  be  in  any  way  a 
blessing  to  the  sex.  If  some  have  been 
employed  in  consequence,  multitudes 
who  had  been  previously  supported  by 
their  husbands  have  been  compelled  to 
beg  for  work.  The  war  has  everywhere 
brought  poverty  and  grief  to  the  hum- 
bler classes  of  American  women. 

It  is  true  that  in  the  West,  where  the 
foreign  population  is  large,  the  German 
women  go  into  the  fields,  and  plough, 
and  sow,  and  reap,  and  harvest,  with 
all  the  skill  and  activity  of  the  men. 
It  is  equally  true  of  other  sections  of 
our  country,  in  which  no  harvests  would 
be  gathered,  but  for  female  help.  But 
these  are  exceptional  cases ;  and  these 
women  can  live  without  working  on 
shirts  at  five  to  eight  cents  apiece. 

While  the  distress  was  greatest  in 
our  city,  some  one  advertised  for  two 
men,  to  be  employed  in  a  millinery 
establishment,  who  were  acquainted 
with  trimmings,  and  before  the  day  had 
passed,  sixty  applicants  had  presented 
themselves  for  the  situation:  the  men 
had  not  become  scarcer.  Another  shop, 
which  advertised  for  three  girls,  at  a 
dollar  and  a  half  a  week,  ^  intelligent, 
genteel  girls,"  as  the  advertisement 
read,  was  so  overrun  before  night  with 
applications  for  even  that  pitiful  com- 
pensation, that  the  proprietor  lost  his 
temper  under  the  annoyance,  and  drove 
many  away  with  insult  and  abuse.  If 
the  war  gives  employment  to  women 
in  the  fields,  it  affords  an  insufficient 
amount  of  it  in  the  cities. 

There  are  more  female  beggars  in  our 
streets,  with  infiuits  ih  their  arms,  than 


678 


Needle  and  Garden, 


[June, 


ever  before.  The  saloons  and  beer- 
shops,  stripped  of  their  male  bar-tend- 
ersy  have  adopted  female  substitutes, 
driven  by  necessity  to  take  up  with  an 
employment  that  always  demoralizes  a 
woman.  The  surgicsd  records  of  the 
army  show,  that,  among  the  wounded 
brought  into  the  hospitals,  many  women 
have  thus  been  discovered  as  soldiers. 
Others  have  been  detected  and  sent 
home.  Many  of  these  heroines  declar- 
ed that  they  entered  the  army  because 
they  could  find  no  other  employment 
The  incognito  they  had  preserved  was 
strongly  confirmatory  of  their  truthful- 
ness. These  are  some  of  the  minor 
effects  of  the  war  upon  our  sex.  Many 
have  been  sadly  demoralizing,  while 
probably  very  few  have  been  in  any 
way  beneficial. 

It  is  one  of  the  curiosities  of  the 
study  how  to  improve  the  condition  of 
women,  that  the  most  eccentric  plans 
have  originated  with  their  own  sex. 
The  deportation  of  girls  from  Eng- 
land to  Australia  and  other  colonies, 
where  the  majority  of  settlers  are  sin- 
gle men,  is  patronized  and  presided 
over  by  ladies.  It  has  been  so  exten- 
sive as  to  confer  the  utmost  benefit  on 
distant  settlements,  equalizing  the  dis- 
parity of  the  sexes,  promoting  a  high- 
er civilization  by  a  proper  infusion  of . 
female  society,  and  providing  homes  for 
thousands  of  virtuous,  but  friendless  and 
dependent  girls,  who  had  found  the  ut- 
most difficulty  in  obtaining  even  a  preca- 
rious living.  The  exodus  of  American 
girls  from  New  England  to  California, 
as  teachers  first  and  wives  afterwards, 
which  some  years  ago  took  place,  origi- 
nated with  an  American  lady,  who  per- 
sonally superintended  the  enterprise. 
All  through  the  West  there  are  fimilies 
whose  mothers  are  of  the  same  enter- 
prising class,  while  the  South  is  not 
without  its  representatives.  There  is 
a  tribe  of  writers  whose  study  it  is  to 
ridicule  and  sneer  at  these  humane  and 
truly  noble  efforts  to  make  dependent 
women  comfortable ;  but  happily  their 
sarcasm  has  been  unavailing. 

I  knew  a  young  girl  who  was  without 
a  single  relation  in  the  world,  so  far  as 


she  was  aware.  She  had  been  picked 
up  from  a  curb-stone  in  the  street,  at 
the  foot  of  a  lamp-post,  when  perhaps 
only  a  week  old,  —  her  mother  having 
abandoned  her  to  the  charity  of  the  first 
passer.  She  was  found  by  the  watch- 
man on  his  midnight  beat,  who,  having 
no  children,  adopted  her  as  his  own. 
One  may  feel  surprised  that  foundlings 
are  so  frequently  adopted  into  respecta- 
ble families,  especially  \rhen  infants  of 
only  a  few  weeks  old.  But  there  are 
solitary  couples  whose  hearts  instinct- 
ively yearn  for  the  possession  of  chil- 
dren. Providence  having  denied  them 
offspring,  they  fill  the  void  in  their  aflfec- 
tions  by  taking  to  their  bosoms  the  help- 
less, friendless,  and  abandoned  waifs 
of  others.  Foundlings  are  preferred, 
because  there  is  no  chance  of  their 
reclamation ;  the  mother  never  troub- 
les herself  to  demand  possession  of  her 
child ;  she  may  remember  it,  but  it  is 
only  to  rejoice  at  having  cast  it  off.  The 
new  parents  are  not  annoyed  by  outside 
interference.  The  foundling  grows  In 
their  affections  ;  they  love  it  as  they 
would  their  own  offspring ;  it  cannot  be 
torn  away  from  them. 

When  only  ten  years  of  age,  the  pro- 
tectors of  the  child  referred  to  both 
died,  and  she  was  turned  loose  to  shift 
for  herself.  For  three  years  she  un- 
derwent all  the  hardships  incident  to 
changing  one  bad  mistress  for  another, 
being  poorly  clothed,  half  fed,  her  edu- 
cation discontinued,  even  the  privilege 
of  the  Sunday  school  denied  her,  a  total 
stranger  to  kindness  or  sympathy. 

An  agent  of  a  children's-aid  society 
one  day  saw  her  washing  the  pave- 
ment in  front  of  her  mistress's  house, 
and  being  struck  by  her  shabby  dress 
and  evidently  uncared-for  condition,  ac- 
costed her  and  ascertained  the  princi- 
pal facts  of  her  little  history.  She  was 
of  just  the  class  whom  it  was  the  mis- 
sion of  the  society  to  save  from  the  des- 
titution and  danger  of  a  totally  friend* 
less  position,  by  sending  them  to  good 
homes  in  the  West  Thither  she  went, 
liberated  firom  an  uncompensated  bond- 
age to  the  scrubbing-brush  and  wash- 
tub,  and  was  ushered  into  a  new  and 


i86s.] 


Needle  and  Garden. 


679 


joyous  existence  by  the  agency  of  one 
of  the  noblest  charities  that  Christian 
benevolence  ever  put  it  into  the  hu- 
man heart  to  extend  to  orphan  children.' 
The  foundling  of  the  lamp-post,  thus 
having  an  opening  made  for  her,  im- 
proved it  and  prospered.  Out  of  the 
atmosphere  of  city  life,  she  grew  up  vir- 
tuous and  respected.  Her  true  origin 
had  been  charitably  concealed ;  she  was 
known  as  an  orphan;  it  would  have 
done  no  good  to  have  it  said  that  she 
was  a  foundling.  She  married  well,  and 
became  the  mother  of  a  family. 

Hundreds  of  street-tramping  orphan 
girls,  with  surroundings  more  unfriend- 
ly to  female  purity  than  those  of  this 
foundling,  have  been  taken  from  the 
lowest  haunts  of  a  shocking  city-life  by 
the  same  noble  charity,  and  introduced 
into  peaceful  country  homes,  where  they 
have  grown  up  to  be  respectable  mem- 
bers of  society.  In  this  emigration 
effort  women  have  been  conspicuous 
actors.  In  England  they  have  been 
equally  prominent  in  promoting  the  em- 
igration of  nearly  half  a  million  of  un- 
married females  to  the  various  colonies. 
They  publish  books,  and  pamphlets,  and 
magazines,  and  newspapers,  in  advoca- 
cy of  the  movement  Educated  and 
intellectual  ladies  leave  wealthy  homes 
and  accompany  their  emigrants  on  voy- 
ages of  thousands  of  miles,  to  see  that 
they  are  comfortably  cared  for. 

It  would  seem  that  in  the  ordering 
of  Divine  Providence  there  will  always 
be  a  multitude  of  women  who  do  not 
marry.  It  is  shown  by  the  census  of 
every  country  in  which  the  population 
is  numbered  periodically,  that  there  is 
an  excess  of  females.  In  England  there 
are  thirty  women  in  every  hundred  who 
never  marry,  and  there  are  three  mil- 
lions who  earn  their  own  living.  It  is 
there  contended  that  all  effort  is  im- 
proper which  is  directed  toward  making 
celibacy  easy  for  women,  and  that  mar- 
riage, their  only  true  vocation,  should 
be  promoted  at  any  cost,  even  at  that 
of  distributing  through  the  colonies 
England's  half  million  of  unmarried 
ones.  Some  declare  that  it  is  impossible 
to  make  the  labor  of  single  women  re- 


munerative, or  their  lives  free  and  hap- 
py. But  if  the  occupations  of  women 
were  raised  and  diversified  as  much  as 
they  might  be,  such  impossibility  would 
of  itself  be  impossible.  If  it  is  to  be 
granted  that  a  woman  possesses  only 
inferior  ppwers,  let  her  be  taught  to 
use  such  powers  as  she  has. 

I  doubt  not  that  He  who  created 
woman  has  some  mission,  some  pur- 
pose, for  those  who,  in  His  divine  order- 
ing, remain  single.  There  is  a  church 
which  has  taken  note  of  this  great  fact, 
and  devotes  its  single  women  to  clois- 
ters or  to  hospitals,  sometimes  to  useful 
objects,  sometimes  to  improper  ones,  — 
but  seeing  that  they  are  a  numerous 
class,  it  has  specifically  appropriated 
them.  I  presume  the  lesson  of  a  single 
life,  the  necessity  of  living  alone,  must 
be  a  difficult  one  to  learn.  The  heart, 
the  young  heart  always,  is  perpetually 
.seeking  for  something  to  love.  Amid 
the  duties  of  the  household,  around  the 
domestic  iireside,  this  loving  spirit  has 
room  for  growth,  expansion,  and  inten- 
sity. The  soft  tendrils  which  it  is  ever 
throwing  out  find  gentle  objects  to  which 
they  may  cling  with  indissoluble  attach- 
ment Solitude  is  fatal  to  the  household 
affections.  The  single  woman  lives  in 
a  comparative  solitude, — a  solitude  of 
the  heart 

Yet  it  cannot  be  denied  that  even 
such  hermitesses  find  compensations 
in  their  retirement  If  one  resolve  to 
remain  single,  —  and  it  must  require 
strength  of  mind  to  come  to  this  deter- 
mination,—  it  is  remarkable  how  Na- 
ture fits  such  a  woman  for  a  position 
for  which  she  could  not  have  been  cre- 
ated. She  takes  her  stand  with  a  pow- 
er of  endurance  not  exceeded  by  that 
of  the  other  sex,  and  becomes  more  in- 
dependent and  at  ease  than  they.  Let 
man's  condition  be  what  it  may,  whether 
rich  or  poor,  he  will  find  his  home  cheer- 
less and  uncomfortable  without  the  pres- 
ence of  a  woman.  His  desolateness  at 
an  hotel  or  boarding-house  is  prover- 
bial. He  is  unceasingly  conscious  that 
he  has  no  home.  But  the  single  woman 
can  create  one  for  herself. 

Go  into  the  cells  of  any  prison  for 


68o 


Going  to  Sleep. 


Qune^ 


women,  and  those  who  never  visited 
suqh  abodes  will  be  astonished  at  the 
neatness,  the  order,  the  embellishments, 
which  many  of  them  display.  The  home 
feeling  that  seems  to  be  natural  to  most 
of  us  develops  itself  here  with  affect- 
ing energy.  No  man  could  surround 
his  penitential  cell  with  graces  so  pro- 
fuse and  pleasing  as  do  some  of  these 
unfortunate  women. 

Thus,  go  where  a  woman  may,  a  na- 
tive instinct  teaches  and  qualifies  her 
to  make  a  home  for  hersel£     If  sin- 


gle, taste  and  housewifely  are  combined 
within  even  the  narrow  limits  of  one  or 
two  rooms.  Her  singleness  need  not 
•chill  the  heart,  —  for  there  are  other 
things  to  love  than  men.  The  power 
to  make  tender  friendships  was  bom 
with  her,  and  is  part  of  her  nature ;  nor 
does  it  leave  her  now.  She  has,  more- 
over, the  proud  satisfaction  of  knowing 
that  she  has  never  lived  to  tempt  others 
to  an  act  of  sin  and  shame.  But  are 
the  men  who  live  equally  solitary  lives 
as  guiltless  as  she  ? 


GOING    TO    SLEEP. 


THE  light  is  fading  down  the  sky, 
The  shadows  grow  and  multiply, 
I  hear  the  thrushes'  evening  song; 
But  I  have  borne  with  toil  and  wrong 

So  long,  so  long  I 
Dim  dreams  my  drowsy  senses  drown,—* 
So,  darling,  kiss  my  eyelids  down  I 

IL 

My  h'fe*s  brief  spring  went  wasted  by,  — 

My  summer  ended  fruitlessly; 

I  learned  to  hunger,  strive,  and  wait,— 
I  found  you,  love,  —  oh,  happy  fiaitel  — 

So  late,  so  late ! 

Now  all  my  fields  are  turning  brown,— 

So,  darling,  kiss  my  eyelids  downl 


m. 

Oh,  blessed  sleep !  oh,  perfect  rest ! 

Thus  pillowed  on  your  faithful  breast. 
Nor  life  nor  death  is  wholly  drear, 
O  tender  heart,  since  you  are  here. 

So  dear,  so  dear ! 

Sweet  love,  my  soul's  sufficient  crown ! 

Now,  darling,  kiss  my  eyelids  down ! 


i86s.] 


Doctor  Johns. 


681 


DOCTOR    JOHNS. 


XX. 


MISS  JOHNS  meets  the  new-comer 
with  as  large  a  share  of  kind- 
ness as  she  can  force  into  her  manner ; 
but  her  welcome  lacks,  somehow,  the 
sympathetic  glow  to  which  AdMe  has 
been  used ;  it  has  not  even  the  sponta- 
neity and  heartiness  which  had  belonged 
to  the  greeting  of  that  worldly  woman, 
Mrs.  Brindlock.  And  as  the  wondering 
little  stranger  passes  up  the  path,  and 
into  the  door  of  the  parsonage,  with  her 
hand  in  that  of  the  spinster,  she  cannot 
help  contrasting  the  one  cold  kiss  of 
the  tall  lady  in  black  with  the  shower 
of  warm  ones  which  her  old  godmother 
had  bestowed  at  parting.  Yet  in  the 
eye  of  the  Doctor  sister  Eliza  had 
hardly  ever  worn  a  more  beaming  look, 
and  he  was  duly  grateful  for  the  strong 
interest  which  she  evidently  showed 
in  the  child  of  his  poor  friend.  She 
had  equipped  herself  indeed  in  her 
best  silk  and  with  her  most  elaborate 
toilet,  and  had  exhausted  all  her  strat- 
egy, —  whether  in  respect  of  dress,  of 
decorations  for  the  chamber,  or  of  the 
profuse  supper  which  was  in  course  of 
preparation,  —  to  make  a  profound  and 
fiivorable  impression  upon  the  heart  of 
the  stranger. 

The  spinster  was  not  a  little  morti- 
fied at  her  evident  want  of  success, 
most  notably  in  respect  to  the  elaborate 
arrangements  of  the  chamber  of  the 
young  guest,  who  seemed  to  regard  the 
dainty  hangings  of  the  little  bed,  and 
the  scattered  ornaments,  as  matters  of 
course ;  but  making  her  way  to  the  win- 
dow which  commanded  a  view  of  both 
garden  and  orchard,  Ad^le  clapped  her 
hands  with  glee  at  sight  of  the  iflam- 
ing  hollyhocks  and  the  trees  laden  with 
golden  pippins.  It  was,  indeed,  a  pret- 
ty scene :  silvery  traces  of  the  brook 
sparkled  in  the  green  meadow  below 
the  orchard,  and  the  hills  beyond  were 
checkered  by  the  fields  of  buckwheat  in 
broad  patches  of  white  bloom,  and  these 


again  were  skirted  by  masses  of  luxuri- 
ant wood  that  crowned  all  the  heights. 
To  the  eye  of  Ad^le,  used  only  to  the 
bare  hill-sides  and  scanty  olive-orchards 
of  Marseilles,  the  view  was  marvellous- 
ly fair. 

"  TUns  /  there  are  chickens  and 
doves,"  said  she,  still  gazing  eagerly 
out ;  *'  oh,  I  am  sure  I  shall  love  this 
new  homel" 

And  thus  saying,  she  tripped  back 
firom  the  window  to  where  Miss  Eliza 
was  admiringly  intent  upon  the  unpack- 
ing and  arranging  of  the  little  ward- 
robe of  her  guest  AdMe,  in  the  flush 
of  her  joyful  expectations  fi'om  the  scene 
that  had  burst  upof  her  out  of  doors, 
now  prattled  more  freely  with  the  spin- 
ster,— tossing  out  the  folds  of  her  dress- 
es, as  they  successively  came  to  light, 
with  her  dainty  fingers,  and  giving  some 
quick,  girlish  judgment  upon  each. 

"This  godmother  gave  me,  dear, 
good  soul !  —  and  she  sewed  this  bow 
upon  it ;  is  n't  it  coquette  ?  And  there 
is  the  white  muslin, — oh,  how  crushed ! 
—  that  was  for  my  church  -  dress,  first 
communion,  you  know ;  but  papa  said, 
*  Better  wait,'  —  so  I  never  wore  it" 

Thus  woman  and  child  grew  into  easy 
acquaintance  over  the  great  trunk  of 
Ad^e:  the  latter  plunging  her  little 
hands  among  the  silken  folds  of  dress 
after  dress  with  the  careless  air  of  one 
whose  every  wish  had  been  petted ;  and 
the  spinster  forecasting  the  pride  she 
would  herself  take  in  accompanying  this 
little  sprite,  in  these  French  robes,  to 
the  house  of  her  good  friends,  the  Hap- 
goods,  or  in  exciting  the  wonderment 
of  those  most  excellent  people,  the 
Tourtelots. 

Meantime  Reuben,  with  a  resolute 
show  of  boyish  indifference,  has  been 
straying  off  with  Phil  Elderkin,  although 
he  has  caught  a  glimpse  of  the  carriage 
at  the  door.  Later  he  makes  his  way 
into  the  study,  where  the  Doctor,  afler 
giving  him  kindly  reproof  for  not  being 
at  home  to  welcome  them,  urges  upon 


682 


Doctor  Johns, 


[June, 


him  the  duty  of  kindness  to  the  young 
stranger  who  has  come  to  make  her 
home  with  them,  and  trusts  that  Provi- 
dence may  overrule  her  presence  there 
to  the  improvement  and  blessing  of 
both.  It  is,  in  fact,  a  little  lecture  which 
the  good,  but  prosy  Doctor  pronounces 
to  the  boy ;  from  which  he  slipping 
away,  so  soon  as  a  good  gap  occurs  in 
the  discourse,  strolls  with  a  jaunty  af- 
fectation of  carelessness  into  the  parlon 
His  Aunt  Eliza  is  there  now  seated  at 
the  table,  and  AdMe  standing  by  the 
hearth,  on  which  a  litde  fire  has  just 
been  kindled.  She  gives  a  quick,  eager 
look  at  him,  under  which  his  assumed 
carelessness  vanishes  in  an  instant 

*'This  is  Addle,  our  little  French 
guest,  Reuben." 

The  lad  throws  a  quick,  searching 
glance  upon  her,  but  is  abashed  by  the 
look  of  half-confidence  and  half-merri- 
ment that  he  sees  twinkling  in  her  eye. 
The  boy's  awkwardness  seems  to  infect 
her,  too,  for  a  moment 

^  I  should  think,  Reuben,  you  would 
welcome  AdMe  to  the  parsonage,"  said 
the  spinster. 

And  Reuben,  glancing  again  from  un- 
der his  brow,  sidles  along  the  table,  with 
izx  less  of  ease  than  he  had  worn  when 
he  came  whistling  through  the  hall,  — 
sidles  nearer  and  nearer,  till  she,  with 
a  coy  approach  that  seems  to  be  full  of 
doubt,  meets  him  with  a  little  furtive 
hand-shake.  Then  he,  retiring  a  step, 
leans  with  one  elbow  on  the  friendly 
table,  eying  her  curiously,  and  more 
boldly  when  he  discovers  that  her  look 
is  downcast,  and  that  she  seems  to  be 
warming  her  feet  at  the  blaze. 

Miss  Johns  has  watched  narrowly 
this  approach  of  her  two  firoUgh^  with 
an  interest  quite  uncommon  to  her ;  and 
•  now,  with  a  policy  that  would  have  hon- 
ored a  more  adroit  tactician,  she  slips 
quietly  from  the  room, 

Reuben  feels  freer  at  this,  knowing 
that  the  gray  eye  is  not  upon  the  watch  ; 
AdMe  too,  perhaps ;  at  any  rate,  she 
lifts  her  &ce  with  a  look  that  invites 
Reuben  to  speech. 

"  You  came  in  a  ship,  did  n't  you  ?  " 

**  Oh,  yes !  a  big,  big  ship ! " 


^  I  should  like  to  sail  in  a  ship,"  said 
Reuben  ;  "  did  you  like  it  ?  " 

"  Not  very  much,*'  said  Ad^e,  "  the 
deck  was  so  slippery,  and  the  waves 
were  so  high,  oh,  so  high  ! "  —  and  the 
little  maid  makes  an  explanatory  ges- 
ture with  her  two  hands,  the  like  of 
which  for  grace  and  expressiveness 
Reuben  had  certainly  never  seen  in  any 
girl  of  Ashfield.  His  eyes  twinkled  at 
it 

"  Were  you  afraid  ?  "  said  he. 

«  Oh,  not  much." 

"  Because  you  know,"  said  Reuben, 
consolingly,  **"  if  the  ship  had  sunk,  you 
could  have  come  on  shore  in  the  small 
boats."  He  saw  a  merry  laugh  of  won- 
derment threatening  in  her  &ce,  and 
continued  authoritatively,  **  Nat  Boody 
has  been  in  a  sloop,  and  he  says  they 
always  carry  small  boats  to  pick  up 
people  when  the  big  ships  go  down." 

Ad^le  laughed  outright  ^'But  how 
would  they  carry  the  bread,  and  the 
stove,  and  the  water,  and  the  anchor, 
and  all  the  things  ?  Besides,  the  great 
waves  would  knock  a  small  boat  in 
pieces." 

Reuben  felt  a  humiliating  sense  of 
being  no  match  for  the  little  stranger 
on  sea  topics,  so  he  changed  the  theme. 

"  Are  you  going  to  Miss  Onthank's  ?  " 

"  That  'j  a  funny  name,"  says  AdMe ; 
« that 's  the  school,  is  n't  it  ?  Yes,  I 
suppose  I  '11  go  there :  you  go,  don't 
you  ?  " 

"Yes,"  says  Reuben,  "but  I  don't 
think  I  '11  go  very  long." 

"Why  not?"  says  Adele. 

"  I  'm  getting  too  big  to  go  to  a  girls' 
school,"  said  Reuben. 

"  Oh  ! "  —  and  there  was  a  little  play- 
ful malice  in  the  girl's  observation  that 
piqued  the  boy. 

"Do  the  scholars  like  her?"  con- 
tinued Addle. 

"Pretty  well,"  said  Reuben;  "but 
she  hung  up  a  litUe  girl  about  as  big 
as  you,  once,  upon  a  nail  in  a  comer  of 
the  school-room." 

''QuelU  bite!''  exclaimed  AdMe. 

"That's  French,  is  n't  it?" 

"Yes,  and  it  means  she  's  a  bad 
woman  to  do  such  things." 


1865.] 


Doctor  Johns. 


683 


In  this  way  they  prattled  on,  and  grew 
into  a  certain  familiarity :  the  boy  en- 
tertaining an  immense  respect  for  her 
French,  and  for  her  knowledge  of  the 
sea  and  ships ;  but  stubbornly  deter- 
mined ta  maintain  the  superiority  which 
he  thought  justly  to  belong  to  his  supe- 
rior age  and  sex. 

That  evening,  after  the  little  people 
were  asleep,  the  spinster  and  the  Doc- 
tor conferred  together  in  regard  to 
Ad^le.  It  was  agreed  between  them 
that  she  should  enter  at  once  upon  her 
school  duties,  and  that  particular  in- 
quiry concerning  her  religious  beliefs, 
or  particular  instruction  on  that  score, 

—  further  than  what  belonged  to  the 
judicious  system  of  Miss  Onthank, — 
should  be  deferred  for  the  present  At 
the  same  time  the  Doctor  enjoined  upon 
his  sister  the  propriety  of  commencing 
upon  the  next  Saturday  evening  the 
usual  instructions  in  the  Shorter  Cate- 
chism, and  of  insisting  upon  punctual 
attendance  upon  the  family  devotions. 
The  good  Doctor  hoped  by  these  ap- 
pointed means  gradually  to  ripen  the  re- 
ligious sensibilities  of  the  little  stranger, 
so  that  she  might  be  prepared  for  that 
stem  denunciation  of  those  folh'es  of 
the  Romish  Church  amid  which  she  had 
been  educated,  and  that  it  would  be  his 
duty  at  no  distant  day  to  declare  to 
her. 

The  spinster  had  been  so  captivated 
by  a  certain  air  of  modish  elegance  in 
Ad^le  as  to  lead  her  almost  to  forget 
the  weightier  obligations  of  her  Chris- 
tian duty  toward  her.  She  conceived 
that  she  would  find  in  her  a  means  of 
recovering  some  influence  over  Reuben, 

—  never  doubting  that  the  boy  would 
be  attracted  by  her  frolicsome  humor, 
and  would  be  eager  for  her  companion- 
ship. It  was  possible,  moreover,  that 
there  might  be  some  appeal  to  the  boy's 
jealousies,  when  he  found  the  favors 
which  he  had  spumed  were  lavished 
upon  AdMe.  It  was  therefore  in  the 
best  of  temper  and  with  the  airiest  of 
hopes  ( though  not  altogether  spiritual 
ones)  that  Miss  Eliza  conducted  the 
discussion  with  the  Doctor.  In  two 
things  only  they  had  differed,  and  in 


this  each  had  gained  and  each  lost  a 
point  The  Doctor  utterly  refused  to 
conform  his  pronunciation  to  the  rigors 
which  Miss  Eliza  prescribed ;  for  him 
AdMe  should  be  always  and  only  Adaly. 
On  the  other  hand,  the  parson's  exac- 
tions in  regard  to  sundry  modifications 
of  the  little  girl's  dress  miscarried :  the 
spinster  insisted  upon  all  the  furbelows 
as  they  had  come  from  the  hands  of  the 
French  modiste ;  and  in  this  she  left 
the  field  with  flying  colors. 

The  next  day  Doctor  Johns  wrote  to 
his  friend  Maverick,  announcing  the  safe 
arrival  of  his  child  at  Ashfield,  and  spoke 
in  terms  which  were  warm  for  him,  of 
the  interest  which  both  his  sister  and 
himself  felt  in  her  welfare.  •*  He  was 
pained,"  he  said,  "  to  perceive  that  she 
spoke  almost  with  gayety  of  serious 
things,  and  feared  greatly  that  her  keen 
relish  for  the  beauties  and  delights  of 
this  sinful  world,  and  her  exuberant 
enjo3rment  of  mere  temporal  blessings, 
would  make  it  hard  to  wean  her  from 
them  and  to  centre  her  desires  upon 
the  etemal  world.  But,  my  friend,  all 
things  are  possible  with  God:  and  I 
shall  diligently  pray  that  she  may  re- 
turn to  you,  in  a  few  years,  sobered  in 
mind,  and  a  self-denying  missionary  of 
the  tme  faith." 


XXI. 

No  such  event  could  take  place  in 
Ashfield  as  the  arrival  of  this  young 
stranger  at  the  parsonage,  without  ex- 
citing a  world  of  talk  up  and  down  the 
street  There  were  stories  that  she 
came  of  a  vile  Popish  family,  and  there 
were  those  who  gravely  believed  that 
the  poor  little  creature  had  made  only 
a  hair-breadth  escape  from  the  thongs  of 
the  Inquisition.  There  were  few  even  of 
those  who  knew  that  she  was  the  daugh- 
ter of  a  wealthy  gentleman,  now  domi- 
ciled in  France,  and  an  old  friend  of 
the  Doctor's,  who  did  not  look  upon 
her  with  a  tender  interest,  as  one  mi- 
raculously snatched  by  the  hands  of  the 
good  Doctor  from  the  snares  of  perdi- 
tion.   The  gay  trappings  of  silks  and 


684 


Doctor  Johns, 


[June, 


ribbons  in  which  she  paced  up  the  aisle 
of  the  meeting-house  upon  her  first  Sun- 
day, under  the  patronizing  eye  of  the 
stem  spinster,  were  looked  upon  by  the 
more  elderly  worshippers  —  most  of  all 
by  the  mothers  of  young  daughters — 
as  the  badges  of  the  Woman  of  Baby- 
lon, and  as  fit  belongings  to  those  ac- 
customed to  dwell  in  the  tents  of  wicked- 
ness. Even  Dame  Tourtelot,  in  whose 
pew  the  face  of  Miss  Almira  waxes  yellow 
between  two  great  saffron  bows,  com- 
miserates the  poor  heathen  child  who 
has  been  decked  like  a  lamb  for  the 
sacrifice.  '*  I  wonder  Miss  Eliza  don't 
pull  off  them  ribbons  from  the  little 
minx,"  said  she,  as  she  marched  home 
in  the  ^  intermission/'  locked  command- 
ingly  to  the  arm  of  the  Deacon. 

"Waal,  I  s'pose  they  're  paid  for," 
returns  the  Deacon. 

"  What 's  that  to  do  with  it,  Tourte- 
lot ?  " 

"  Waal,  Huldy,  we  do  pootty  much  all 
we  can  for  Almiry  in  that  line :  this 
'ere  Maverick,  I  guess,  doos  the  same. 
What 's  the  odds,  arter  all  ?  " 

"Odds  enough,  Tourtelot,"  as  the 
poor  man  found  before  bedtime:  he 
had  no  flip. 

The  Elderkins,  however,  were  more 
considerate.  Very  early  after  her  ar- 
rival, Ad^le  had  found  her  way  to  their 
homestead,  under  the  guidance  of  Miss 
Eliza,  and  by  her  frank,  demonstrative 
manner  had  established  herself  at  once 
in  the  affections  of  the  whole  family. 
The  Squire,  indeed,  had  rallied  the  par- 
son not  a  little,  in  his  boisterous,  hearty 
feshion,  upon  his  introduction  of  such  a 
dangerous  young  Jesuit  into  so  ortho- 
dox a  parish. 

At  all  which,  so  seriously  uttered  as 
to  take  the  Doctor  ^rly  aback,  good 
Mrs.  Elderkin  shook  her  finger  wam- 
ingly  at  the  head  of  the  Squire,  and 
said,  "  Now,  for  shame,  Giles  I " 

Good  Mrs.  Elderkin  was,  indeed,  the 
pattern  woman  of  the  parish  in  all  char- 
itable deeds,— not  only  outside,  (where 
so  many  charitable  nattu'es  find  their  lim- 
its,) but  indoors.  With  gentle  speech 
and  gentle  manner,  she  gave,  may-be, 
her  occasional  closet -counsel  to  the 


Squire;  but  most  times  her  efforts  to 
win  him  to  a  more  serious  habit  of 
thought  are  covered  under  the  shape 
of  some  charming  plea  for  a  kindness 
to  herself  or  the  "  dear  girls,"  which  she 
knows  that  he  will  not  have  the  hardi- 
hood to  resist.  And  even  this  method 
she  does  not  push  too  far, — making  it 
a  cardinal  point  in  her  womanly  strategy 
that  his  home  shall  be  always  gratefiii 
to  the  Squire,  —  that  he  shall  never  be 
driven  from  it  by  any  thought  or  sus- 
picion of  her  exactions.  Thus,  if  Grace 
— who  is  her  oldest  daughter,  and  al- 
most woman  grown — has  some  evening 
appointment  at  Bible  class,  or  other  such 
gathering,  and,  the  boys  being  out,  ap- 
peals timidly  to  the  father,  good  Mrs. 
Elderkin  says, — 

"  I  am  afraid  your  papa  is  too  tired» 
Grace;  do  let  him  enjoy  himself." 

At  which  the  Squire,  shaking  off  his 
lethargy,  says, — 

"  Get  your  things,  child ! " 

And  as  he  goes  out  with  Grace,  he  is 
rewarded  by  one  of  those  tender  smiles 
upon  the  lip  of  the  mother  which  cap- 
tivated  him  twenty  years  before,  and 
which  still  make  his  fireside  the  most 
cherished  spot  in  the  town. 

No  wonder  that  the  little  half-orphan- 
ed creature,  Ad^le,  with  her  explosive 
warmth  of  heart,  is  kindly  received 
among  the  Elderkins.  Phil  was  some 
three  years  her  senior,  a  ruddy-fiiced, 
open-hearted  fellow,  who  had  been  well- 
nurtured,  like  his  two  elder  brothers,  but 
in  whom  a  certain  waywardness  just  now 
appearing  was  attributed  very  much,  by 
the  closely  observing  mother,  to  the  in* 
fluence  of  that  interesting,  but  mischiev- 
ous boy,  Reuben.  Phil  was  the  superior 
in  age,  indeed,  and  in  muscle,  (as  we 
may  find  proo()  but  in  nerve-power  the 
more  delicate-featured  boy  of  the  parson 
outranked  him. 

Rose  Elderkin  was  a  year  younger 
than  the  French  stranger,  and  a  marvel- 
lously &ir  type  of  New  England  girl- 
beauty:  light  brown  hair  in  unwieldy 
masses ;  skin  wonderfully  dear  and 
transparent,  and  that  flushed  at  a  re- 
buke, or  a  run  down  the  village  street, 
till  her  cheeks  blazed  with  scarlet;  a 


i865.] 


Doctor  Johns. 


685 


lip  delicately  thin,  but  blood-red,  and 
exquisitely  cut ;  a  great  hazel  eye,  that 
in  her  moments  of  glee,  or  any  occa- 
sional excitement,  fairly  danced  and 
sparkled  with  a  kind  of  insane  merri- 
ment, and  at  other  times  took  on  a  de- 
mure and  pensive  look,  which  to  future 
wooers  might  possibly  prove  the  more 
dangerous  of  the  two.  The  features 
named  make  up  a  captivating  girlish 
beauty,  but  one  which,  under  a  New 
England  atmosphere,  is  rarely  carried 
forward  into  womanhood.  The  lips 
grow  pinched  and  bloodless;  the  skin 
blanched  against  all  proof  of  blushes ; 
the  eyes  sunken,  and  the  blithe  sparkle 
that  was  so  full  of  infectious  joy  is  lost 
forever  in  that  exhausting  blaze  of  girl- 
hood. But  we  make  no  prophecy  in  re- 
gard to  the  future  of  our  little  friend 
Rose.  Ad^Ie  thinks  her  very  charming ; 
Reuben  is  disposed  to  rank  her — what- 
ever Phil  may  think  or  say — far  above 
Suke  Boody.  And  in  his  reading  of 
the  deUghtful  «  Children  of  the  Abbey," 
which  he  has  stolen,  ( by  favor  of  Phil, 
who  owns  the  book,)  he  has  thought  of 
Rose  when  Amanda  first  appeared ;  and 
when  the  divine  Amanda  is  in  tears,  he 
has  thought  of  Rose ;  and  when  Amanda 
smiles,  with  Mortimer  kneeling  at  her 
feet,  he  has  still  thought  of  Rose. 

These  four,  AdMe,  Phil,  Rose,  and 
Reuben  are  fellow -attendants  at  the 
school  of  the  excellent  Miss  Betsey 
Onthanlc  The  schoolhouse  itself  is  a 
modest  one,  and  stands  upon  a  cross- 
road leading  from  the  main  street  of 
the  village,  and  is  upon  the  side  of  the 
little  brook  which  courses  through  the 
valley  lying  to  the  westward.  A  half- 
dozen  or  more  of  sugar-maples  stand 
near  it,  and  throw  over  it  a  grateful 
shade  in  August  In  March  these  trees 
are  exposed  to  a  series  of  tappings  on 
the  part  of  the  more  mechanically  in- 
clined of  the  pupils,  —  Phil  Elderkin 
being  chiefest,— and  gimlets,  quills,  and 
dinner-pails  are  brought  into  requisi- 
tion wi^  prodigious  results.  In  the 
heats  of  summer,  and  when  the  brook 
is  low,  adventurous  ones,  of  whom  Rev- 
ben  is  chiefest,  undertake  to  dam  its 
current ;  and  it  being  traditional  in  the 


school  that  one  day  a  strange  fisherman 
once  took  out  two  trout,  half  as  long  as 
Miss  Onthank's  ruler,  fi'om  under  the 
bridge  by  which  the  high  road  crosses 
the  brook,  Reuben  plies  every  artifice, 
whether  of  bent  pins,  or  hooks  purchas- 
ed fh>m  the  Tew  partners,  (unknown  to 
Aunt  Eliza,  who  is  prejudiced  against 
fish-hooks  as  dangerous,)  to  catch  a 
third ;  and  finding  other  resources  vain, 
he  punches  two  or  three  holes  through 
the  bottom  of  his  little  dinner-pail,  to 
make  a  scoop-net  of  it,  and  manfully 
wades  under  the  bridge  to  explore  all  the 
hollows  of  that  unknown  region.  While 
in  this  precarious  position,  he  is  reporl- 
ed  by  some  timid  child  to  the  mistress, 
who  straightway  sallies  out,  ferule  in 
hand  and  cap -strings  flying,  and  or- 
ders him  to  land ;  which  Reuben,  taking 
warning  by  the  threatening  tone  of  the 
old  lady,  refuses,  unless  she  promises 
not  to  flog  him ;  and  the  kind-hearted 
mistress,  fearing  too  long  exposure  of 
the  lad  to  the  chilly  water,  gives  the 
promise.  But  with  the  tell-tale  paH 
dangling  at  his  belt,  he  does  not  escape 
so  easily  the  inquisitive  Aunt  Eliza. 

The  excellent  Miss  Onthank — for  by 
this  title  the  parson  always  compliments 
her— is  a  type  of  a  schoolmistress  which 
is  found  no  longer :  grave,  stately,  with 
two  great  moppets  of  hair  on  either  side 
her  brow,  (as  in  the  old  engravings  of 
Louis  Philippe's  good  queen  Amelia,) 
very  resolute,  very  learned  in  the  boun- 
daries of  all  Christian  and  heathen  coun- 
tries, patient  to  a  fault,  with  a  marvellous 
capacity  for  pointing  out  with  her  bod- 
kiif  every  letter  to  some  wee  thing  at  its 
first  stage  of  spelling,  and  yet  keeping 
an  eye  upon  all  the  school-room ;  read- 
ing a  chapter  from  the  Bible,  and  say- 
ing a  prayer  each  morning  upon  her 
bended  knees, — the  little  ones  all  kneel- 
ing in  concert, — with  an  air  that  would 
have  adorned  the  most  stately  prioress 
of  a  convent ;  using  her  red  ferule  be- 
times on  little,  mischievous,  smarting 
hands,  yet  not  over -severe,  and  kind 
beneath  all  her  gravity.  She  regards. 
AdMe  with  a  peculiar  tenderness,  and 
hopes  to  make  herself  the  humble  and 
unworthy  instrument  of  redeeming  her 


686 


Doctor  Johns. 


[June, 


from  the  wicked  estate  in  which  she  has 
been  reared.  And  Ad^le,  though  not 
comprehending  the  excess  of  her  zeal, 
and  opening  her  eyes  in  great  wonder- 
ment when  the  good  woman  talks  about 
her  "  providential  deliverance  from  the 
artful  snares  of  the  adversary/'  is  as 
free  in  her  talk  with  the  grave  mistress 
as  if  she  were  her  mother  confessor. 

Phil  and  Reuben,  being  the  oldest 
boys  of  the  school,  resent  the  indigni- 
ty of  being  still  subject  to  woman  rule 
by  a  concerted  series  of  rebellious  out- 
breaks. Some  six  or  eight  months  after 
the  arrival  of  AdMe  upon  the  scene,  this 
rebel  attitude  culminates  in  an  incident 
that  occasions  a  change  of  programme. 
The  rebels  on  their  way  to  school  espy 
a  few  clam-shells  before  some  huckster's 
door,  and,  putting  two  or  three  in  their 
pockets,  seize  the  opportunity  when  the 
good  lady's  eyes  are  closed  in  the  morn- 
ing prayer  to  send  two  or  three  scaling 
about  the  room,  which  fall  with  a  clatter 
among  the  startled  little  ones.  One, 
aimed  more  justly  by  Reuben,  strikes 
the  grave  mistress  flill  upon  the  fore- 
head, and  leaves  a  red  cut  from  which 
one  or  two  beads  of  blood  trickle  down. 

Ad^le,  who  has  not  learned  yet  that 
obstinate  closing  of  the  eyes  which  most 
of  the  scholars  have  been  taught,  and  to 
whom  the  sight  recalls  the  painted  heads 
of  martyrs  in  an  old  church  at  Mar- 
seilles, gives  a  little  hysteric  scream. 
But  the  mistress,  with  face  unchanged 
and  voice  uplifted  and  unmoved,  com- 
pletes her  religious  duty. 

The  whole  school  is  horrified,  on  ris- 
ing from  their  knees,  at  sight  of  the  old 
lady's  bleeding  head.  The  mistress 
wipes  her  forehead  calmly,  and,  picking 
up  the  shell  at  her  feet,  says,  "Who 
threw  this?" 

There  is  silence  in  the  room. 

"Adfcle,"  she  continues,  "  I  heard 
you  scream,  child;  do  you  know  who 
threw  this  ?  " 

Ad^le  gives  a  quick,  inquiring  glance 
at  Reuben,  whose  face  is  imperturbable, 
rallies  her  courage  for  a  struggle  against 
the  will  of  the  mistress,  and  then  bursts 
into  tears. 

Reuben  cannot  stand  this. 


"/  threw  it,  Marm,*'  sajrs  he^  with  a 
great  tremor  in  his  voice. 

The  mistress  beckons  him  to  her,  and, 
as  he  walks  thither,  motions  to  a  bench 
near  her,  and  says  gravely,  — 

"  Sit  by  me,  Reuben," 

There  he  keeps  till  school-hours  are 
over,  wondering  what  shape  the  pun* 
ishment  will  take.  At  last,  when  all  are 
gone,  the  mistress  leads  him  into  her 
private  closet,  and  says  solemnly,  — 

*'  Reuben,  this  is  a  crime  against  God. 
I  forgive  you ;  I  hope  He  may " ;  and 
she  bids  him  kneel  beside  her,  while  she 
prays  in  a  way  that  makes  the  tears  start 
to  the  eyes  of  the  boy. 

Then,  home,— she  walking  by  his  side, 
and  leading  him  straight  into  the  study 
of  the  grave  Doctor,  to  whom  she  unfolds 
the  story,  begging  him  not  to  punish  the 
lad,  believing  that  he  is  penitent  And 
the  meekness  and  kindliness  of  the  good 
woman  make  a  Christian  picture  for  the 
mind  of  Reuben,  in  sad  contrast  with 
the  prim  austerity  of  Aunt  Eliza, — a 
picture  that  he  never  loses, — that  keeps 
him  meekly  obedient  for  the  rest  of  the 
quarter;  after  which,  by  the  advice  of 
Miss  On  thank,  both  Phil  and  Reuben 
are  transferred  to  the  boys'  academy 
upon  tlie  Common. 


XXI  I. 

Meantime,  Ad^le  is  making  friends 
in  Ashfield  and  in  the  parsonage.  The 
irrepressible  buoyancy  of  her  character 
cannot  be  kept  under  even  by  the  sever- 
ity of  conduct  which  belongs  to  the  home 
of  the  Doctor.  If  she  yields  rigid  obe- 
dience to  all  the  laws  of  the  household, 
as  she  is  taught  to  do,  her  vivacity  spar- 
kles all  the  more  in  those  short  intervals 
of  time  when  the  laws  are  silent  There 
is  something  in  this  beaming  mirth  of 
hers  which  the  Doctor  loves,  though  he 
struggles  against  the  love.  He  shuts 
his  door  fest,  that  the  snatches  of  some 
profane  song  from  her  little  lips  (with 
him  all  French  songs  are  profane)  may 
not  come  in  to  disturb  him ;  but  as  her 
voice  rises  cheerily,  higher  and  higher, 
in  the  summer  dusk,  he  catches  him* 


i86s.] 


Doctor  Johns, 


687 


self  lending  a  profane  ear ;  the  blithe- 
ness,  the  sweetness,  the  mellowness  of 
her  tones  win  upon  his  dreary  solitude ; 
there  is  something  softer  in  them  than 
in  the  measured  vocables  of  sister  Eli- 
za ;  it  brings  a  souvenir  of  the  girlish 
Rachel,  and  his  memory  floats  back 
upon  the  strains  of  the  new  singer,  to 
the  days  when  that  dear  voice  filled  his 
heart ;  and  he  thinks  —  thanking  Adaly 
for  the  thought — she  is  singing  with 
the  angels  now! 

But  the  spinster,  who  has  no  ear  for 
music,  in  the  midst  of  such  a  carol,  will 
cry  out  in  sharp  tones  from  her  cham- 
ber, '*  Ad^le,  Ad^le,  not  so  loud,  child ! 
you  will  disturb  the  Doctor ! " 

Even  then  Ad^le  has  her  resource  in 
the  garden  and  the  orchard,  where  she 
never  tires  of  wandering  up  and  down, 
—  and  never  wandering  there  but  some 
fragment  of  a  song  breaks  from  her  lips. 

From  time  to  time  the  Doctor  sum- 
mons her  to  his  study  to  have  serious 
talk  with  her.  She  has,  indeed,  shared 
the  Saturday- night  instruction  in  the 
Catechism,  in  company  with  Reuben, 
and  being  quick  at  words,  no  matter 
how  long  they  may  be,  she  has  learn- 
ed it  all ;  and  Reuben  and  she  dash 
through  ^^  what  is  required  "  and  ''  what 
is  forbidden  "  and  ^  the  reasons  annex- 
ed "  like  a  pair  of  prancing  horses,  kept 
diligently  in  hand  by  that  excellent  whip. 
Miss  Johns.  But  the  study  has  not 
wrought  that  gravity  in  the  mind  of  the 
child  which  the  good  parson  had  hoped 
for ;  the  seed,  he  fears,  has  fallen  upon 
stony  places.  He  therefore,  as  we  have 
said,  summons  her  from  time  to  time  to 
his  study. 

And  Ad^le  comes,  always  at  the  first 
summons,  with  a  tripping  step,  and,  with 
a  little  coquettish  adjustment  of  her 
dress  and  hair,  flings  herself  into  the 
big  chair  before  him, — 

"Now,  New  Papa,  here  I  am!" 

"  Ah,  Adaly !  I  wish,  child,  that  you 
could  be  more  serious  than  you  are." 

^  Serious !  ha !  ha !  "—(she  sees  a  look 
of  pain  on  the  face  of  the  Doctor,)  "but 
I  will  be,  —  I  am  "  ;  and  with  great  effort 
she  throws  a  most  unnatural  expression 
of  repose  into  her  face. 


"You  are  a  good  girl,  Adaly;  but 
this  is  not  the  seriousness  I  want  to 
find  in  you.  I  want  you  to  feel,  my 
child,  that  you  are  walking  on  the  brink 
of  a  precipice,  —  that  your  heart  is  des- 
perately wicked." 

"  Oh,  no.  New  Papa !  you  don*t  think 
I  'm  desperately  wicked  ?  "  —  and  she 
says  it  witli  a  charming  eagerness  of 
manner. 

**  Yes,  desperately  wicked,  Adaly,  — 
leaning  to  the  things  of  this  world,  and 
not  ^tening  your  affections  on  things 
above,  on  the  realities  beyond  the 
grave." 

"But  all  that  is  so  far  away,  New 
Papa ! " 

"  Not  so  far  as  you  think,  child ;  they 
may  come  to-day." 

Ad^le  is  sobered  in  earnest  now,  and 
tosses  her  little  feet  back  and  forth,  in 
an  agony  of  apprehension. 

The  Doctor  continues,  — 

"  To-day^  if  ye  will  hear  his  voice^ 
harden  not  your  hearts  ^^  j  and  the  sen- 
timent and  utterance  are  so  like  to  the 
usual  ones  of  the  pulpit,  that  AdMe 
takes  courage  again. 

The  little  girl  has  a  profound  respect 
for  the  Doctor  ;  his  calmness,  his  equa- 
nimity, his  persistent  zeal  in  his  work, 
would  alone  provoke  it  But  she  sees, 
furthermore,  —  what  she  does  not  see 
always  in  "Aunt  Eliza," — a  dignity  of 
character  that  is  proof  against  all  irri- 
tating humors ;  then,  too,  he  has  ap- 
peared to  Ad^le  a  very  pattern  of  jus- 
tice. She  had  taken  exceptions,  indeed, 
when,  on  one  or  two  rare  occasions,  he 
had  reached  down  the  birch  rod  which 
lay  upon  the  same  hooks  with  the  sword 
of  Major  Johns,  in  the  study,  and  had 
called  in  Reuben  for  extraonlinary  dis- 
cipline ;  but  the  boy's  manifest  acqui- 
escence in  the  affair  when  his  cool  mo- 
ments came  next  morning,  and  the  mel- 
ancholy air  of  kindness  with  which  the 
Doctor  went  in  to  kiss  him  a  good- 
night, after  such  regimen,  kept  alive 
her  faith  in  the  unvarying  justice  of  the 
parson.  Therefore  she  tried  hard  to 
torture  her  poor  little  heart  into  a  feel- 
ing of  its  own  blackness,  (for  that  it  was 
very  black  she  had  the  good  man's  aver- 


688 


Doctor  Johns, 


[June, 


ment,)  she  listened  gravely  to  all  he  had 
to  urge,  and  when  he  had  fairly  over- 
burdened her  with  the  enumeration  of 
her  wicked,  worldly  appetites,  she  could 
only  say,  with  a  burst  of  emotion,  — 

"  Well,  but.  New  Papa,  the  good  God 
will  forgive  me.'* 

**  -Yes,  Adaly,  yes,  —  I  trust  so,  if  for- 
giveness be  sought  in  fear  and  trem- 
bling. But  remember,  *  When  God  cre- 
ated man,  he  entered  into  a  covenant 
of  life  with  him  upon  condition  of  per- 
fect obedience.* " 

This  brings  back  to  poor  AdMe  the 
drudgery  of  the  Saturday's  Catechism, 
associated  with  the  sharp  correctives 
of  Aunt  Eliza  ;  and  she  can  only  offer 
a  pleading  kiss  to  the  Doctor,  and  ask 
plaintively,  — 

"  May  I  go  now  ?  " 

"One  moment,  Adaly,"  —  and  he 
makes  her  kneel  beside  him,  while  he 
prays,  fervently,  passionately,  drawing 
her  frail  litde  figure  to  himself,  even  as 
he  prays,  as  if  he  would  carry  her  with 
him  in  his  arms  into  the  celestial  pres- 
ence. 

The  boy  Reuben,  too,  has  had  his 
seasons  of  this  closet  struggle  ;  but 
they  are  rarer  now ;  the  lad  has  shrewdly 
learned  to  adjust  himself  to  all  the  re- 
quirements of  such  occasions.  He  has 
put  on  a  leaden  acquiescence  in  the 
Doctor's  theories,  whether  with  regard 
to  sanctification  or  redemption,  that  is 
most  disheartening  to  the  parson.  Does 
any  question  of  the  Doctor's,  by  any 
catch-word,  suggest  an  answer  from 
the  ^*-  Shorter  Catechism  "  as  applicable, 
Reuben  is  ready  with  it  on  the  instant 

Does  the  Doctor  ask,  — 

^*  Do  you  know,  my  son,  the  sinfulness 
of  the  estate  in  which  you  are  living  ?  " 

"Sinfulness  of  the  estate  whereun- 
to  man  fell  ? "  says  Reuben,  briskly. 
"  Know  it  like  a  book :  — '  Consists  in 
the  guilt  oi  Adam^s  first  sin  the  want 
of  original  righteousness  and  the  cor- 
ruption of  his  whole  nature  which  is 
commonly  caUed  original  sin  together 
with  all  actual  transgressions  which  pro- 
ceed from  it'  There 's  a  wasp  on  your 
shoulder,  father,  —  there  's  two  of  'em: 
I  'U  kill  em." 


No  wonder  the  good  Doctor  is  dis- 
heartened, and  trusts  more  and  more,  in 
respect  to  his  hoy,  to  the  silent  influen- 
ces of  the  Spirit 

Ad&le  has  no  open  quarrels  with 
Miss  Johns ;  she  is  obedient ;  she,  too^ 
has  fallen  under  the  influence  of  that 
magnetic  voice,  and  accepts  the  orders 
and  the  commendations  conveyed  by 
it  as  if  they  were  utterances  of  Fate. 
Yet,  with  her  childish  instincts,  she  has 
formed  a  very  fair  estimate  of  the  char- 
acter of  Miss  Eliza ;  it  is  doubtful  even 
if  she  has  not  fathomed  it  in  certain  di- 
rections more  correctly  and  profoundly 
than  the  grave  Doctor.  She  sees  clear- 
ly that  the  spinster's  unvarying  solici- 
tude in  regard  to  the  dress  and  appear- 
ance of  "dear  Ad^le  "  is  due  more  to 
that  hard  pride  of  character  which  she 
nurses  every  day  of  her  life  than  to  any 
tenderness  for  the  little  stranger.  For 
at  the  hands  of  her  old  godmother  and 
of  her  father  AdMe  has  known  what 
real  tenderness  was.  It  is  a  lesson 
children  never  unlearn. 

"  Ad61e,  my  dear,  you  look  charming* 
ly  to-day,  with  that  pink  bow  in  your 
hair.  Do  you  know,  I  think  pink  is  be- 
coming to  you,  my  child  ?  " 

And  Ad^le  listens  with  a  composed 
smile,  not  unwilling  to  be  admired. 
What  girl  of —  any  age  is  ?  But  the  ad- 
miration of  Miss  Johns  does  not  touch 
her  ;  it  never  calls  a  tear  to  her  eye. 

In  the  bright  belt-buckle,  in  the  big 
leg-of-mutton  sleeves,  in  the  glittering 
brooch  containing  coils  of  the  Johns' 
hair,  in  the  jaunty  walk  and  authorita- 
tive air  of  the  spinster,  the  quick,  keen 
eye  of  Ad^le  sees  something  more  than 
the  meek  Christian  teacher  and  friend. 
It  is  a  sin  in  her  to  see  it,  perhaps ;  but 
she  cannot  help  it 

Miss  Johns  has  not  succeeded  in  ex- 
citing the  jealousy  of  Reuben, — at  least, 
not  in  the  manner  she  had  hoped.  Her 
influence  over  him  is  clearly  on  the 
wane.  He  sees,  indeed,  her  exaggerat- 
ed devotion  to  the  litde  stranger,— which 
serves  in  her  presence,  at  least,  to  call 
out  all  his  indifference.  Yet  even  this, 
Ad^le,  with  her  girlish  instinct,  seems 
to  understand,  too^  and  bears  the  boy 


i86s.] 


Doctor  Johns. 


689 


no  grudge  in  consequence  of  it  Nay, 
when  he  has  received  some  special  ad- 
ministration of  the  parson's  discipline, 
she  allows  her  sympathy  to  find  play  in 
a  tender  word  or  two  that  touch  Reuben 
more  than  he  dares  to  show. 

And  when  they  meet  down  the  or* 
chard,  away  from  the  lynx  eye  of  Aunt 
Eliza,  there  are  rare  apples  fzx  out  up- 
on overhanging  limbs  that  he  can  pluck, 
by  dint  of  venturous  climbing,  for  her ; 
and  as  he  sees  through  the  boughs  her 
delicate  figure  tripping  through  the 
grass,  and  lingers  to  watch  it;  there 
comes  a  thought  that  she  must  be  the 
Amanda  of  the  story,  and  not  Rose,  — 
and  he,  perched  in  the  apple- tree,  a 
glowing  Mortimer. 


XXIII. 

In  the  year  183-,  Mr.  Maverick  writes 
to  his  friend  Johns  that  the  disturbed 
condition  of  public  a£&irs  in  France  wiU 
compel  him  to  postpone  his  intended 
visit  to  America,  and  may  possibly  de- 
tain him  for  a  long  time  to  come.  He 
further  says,  —  "  In  order  to  prevent  all 
possible  hazards  which  may  grow  out 
of  our  revolutionary  fervor  on  this  side 
of  the  water,  I  have  invested  in  United 
States  securities,  for  the  benefit  of  my 
dear  little  Ad^le,  a  sum  of  money  which 
will  yield  some  seven  hundred  dollars 
a  year.  Of  this  I  propose  to  make  you 
trustee,  and  desire  that  you  should  draw 
so  much  of  the  yearly  interest  as  you 
may  determine  to  be  for  her  best  good, 
denying  her  no  reasonable  requests,  and 
making  your  household  reckoning  clear 
of  all  possible  deficit  on  her  account. 

''I  am  charmed  with  the  improved 
tone  of  her  letters,  and  am  delighted 
to  see  by  them  that  even  under  your 
grave  regimen  she  has  not  lost  her  old 
buoyancy  of  spirits.  My  dear  Johns,  I 
owe  you  a  debt  in  this  matter  which  I 
shall  never  be  able  to  repay.  Kiss  the 
little  witch  for  me  ;  teU  her  that '  Papa ' 
always  thinks  of  her,  as  he  sits  solitary 
upon  the  green  bench  under  the  arbor. 
God  bless  the  dear  one,  and  keep  all 
trouble  from  her  \ " 


She,  gaining  in  height  now  month  by 
month,  wins  more  and  more  upon  the 
grave  Doctor,  —  wins  upon  Rose,  who 
loves  her  as  she  loves  her  sisters, — wins 
upon  Phil,  whose  liking  for  her  is  be- 
coming demonstrative  to  a  degree  that 
prompts  a  little  jealousy  in  the  warm- 
blooded Reuben,  and  that  drives  out  all 
thought  of  the  pink  cheeks  and  fat  arms 
of  Suke  Boody.  Miss  Johns  still  re- 
gards her  with  admiring  eyes,  and  shows 
all  her  old  assiduity  in  looking  after  her 
comforts  and  silken  trappings.  Day 
after  day,  in  summer  weather.  Rose  and 
she  idle  together  along  the  embowered 
paths  of  the  village  ;  the  Tew  partners 
greet  the  pair  with  smiles ;  good  Mis- 
tress Elderkin  has  always  a  cordial  wel- 
come ;  the  stout  Squire  stoops  to  kiss 
the  little  Jesuit,  who  blushes  at  the  ten- 
der affront  through  all  the  brownness 
of  her  cheek,  like  a  rose.  Day  after 
day  the  rumble  of  the  mill  breaks  on 
the  country  quietude ;  and  as  autumn 
comes  in,  burning  with  all  its  forest 
fires,  the  farmer's  flails  beat  time  to- 
gether, as  they  did  ten  years  before. 

At  the  academy,  Phil  and  Reuben 
plot  mischief,  and  they  cement  their 
fiiendship  with  not  a  few  boyish  quar- 
rels. 

Thus,  Reuben,  in  the  way  of  the  boy- 
ish pomologists  of  those  days,  has  bur- 
ied at  midsummer  in  the  orchard  a  doz- 
en or  more  of  the  finest  windfalls  from 
the  early  apple-trees,  that  they  may  mel- 
low, away  from  the  air,  into  good  eating 
condition,  and  he  has  marked  the  spot 
in  his  boyish  way  with  a  little  pyramid 
of  stones.  Strolling  down  the  orchard 
a  few  days  later,  he  sees  Phil  coming 
away  from  that  locality,  with  his  pockets 
bulging  out  ominously,  and  munching 
a  great  apple  with  extraordinary  relish. 
Perhaps  there  is  a  thought  that  he  may 
design  a  gift  out  of  the  stolen  stores  for 
Ad6Ie ;  at  any  rate,  Reuben  flies  at  him. 

'^  I  say,  Phil,  that  's  doosed  mean 
now,  to  be  stealing  my  apples  ! " 

^  Who  's  stole  your  apples  ? "  says 
Phil,  with  a  great  roar  of  voice. 

'*  You  have,"  says  Reuben ;  and  hav- 
ing"  now  come  near  enough  to  find  his 
pyramid  of  stones  all  laid  low,  he  says 


VOL.  XV. — NO.  92. 


44 


690 


Doctor  Johns, 


[June, 


more  angrily,  —  "  You  're  a  thief !  and 
you  Ve  got  'cm  in  your  pocket ! " 

"  Thief  1 "  says  Phil,  looking  threat- 
eningly, and  throwing  away  his  apple 
half-eaten,  "  if  you  call  me  a  thief,  I  say 
you  're  a you  know  what" 

"  Well,  blast  you,"  says  Reuben,  boil- 
ing with  rage,  "  say  it !  Call  me  a  liar, 
if  you  dare  ! " 

"1  do  dare,"  says  Phil,  *Mf  you  accuse 
me  of  stealing  your  apples ;  and  I  say 
you  're  a  liar,  and  be  darned  to  you ! " 

At  this,  Reuben,  though  he  is  the 
shorter  by  two  or  three  inches,  and  no 
match  for  his  foe  at  fisticuffs,  plants  a 
blow  straight  in  Philip's  face.  (He  said 
aflerward,  when  all  was  settled,  that  he 
was  ten  times  more  mortified  to  think 
that  he  had  done  such  a  thing  in  his 
father's  orchard.) 

But  Phil  closed  upon  him,  and  knead- 
ing him  with  his  knuckles  in  the  back, 
and  with  a  trip,  threw  him  heavily,  fall- 
ing prone  upon  him.  Reuben,  in  a  fren- 
zy, and  with  a  torrent  of  m^uch  worse 
language  than  he  was  in  the  habit  of 
using,  was  struggling  to  turn  him,  when 
a  sharp,  loud  voice,  which  they  both 
knew  only  too  well,  came  down  the 
wind,  —  **  Boys  !  boys  ! "  and  presently 
the  Doctor  comes  up  panting.' 

"  What  does  this  mean  ?  Philip,  I'  m 
ashamed  of  you  ! "  he  continues ;  and 
Philip  rises. 

Reuben,  rising,  too,  the  instant  after, 
and  with  his  fiiry  unchecked,  dashes  at 
Phil  again  ^  when  the  Doctor  seizes  him 
by  the  collar  and  drags  him  aside. 

"  He  struck  me,"  says  Phil. 

^*'  And  he  stole  my  apples  and  called 
me  a  liar,"  says  Reuben,  with  the  tears 
starting,  though  he  tries  desperately  to 
keep  them  back,  seeing  that  Phil  shows 
no  such  evidence  of  emotion. 

"Tut!  tut!"  says  the  Doctor,— "you 
are  both  too  angry  for  a  straight  story. 
Come  with  me." 

And  taking  each  by  the  hand,  he  led 
them  through  the  garden  and  house, 
directly  into  his  study.  There  he  opens 
a  closet-door,  with  the  sharp  order, 
"Step  in  here,  Reuben,  until  I  hear 
Philip's  story."  This  Phil  tells  straight- 
forwardly,— how  he  was  passing  through 


the  orchard  with  a  pocketful  of  apples, 
which  a  neighbor's  boy  had  given,  and 
how  Reuben  came  upon  him  with  swift 
accusation,  and  then  the  fight  "But 
he  hurt  me  more  than  I  hurt  him,"  says 
Phil,  wiping  his  nose,  which  showed  a 
little  ooze  of  blood." 

"  Good ! "  says  the  Doctor,  — "  I  think 
you  tell  the  truth." 

"  Thank  you,"  says  Phil,  —  "  I  know 
I  do,  Doctor." 

Next  Reuben  is  called  out 

"  Do  you  know  he  took  the  apples  ?  " 
asks  the  Doctor. 

**  Don't  know,"  says  Reuben, — "but 
he  was  by  the  place,  and  the  stones 
thrown  down." 

^And  is  that  sufficient  cause,  Reu- 
ben, for  accusing  your  friend?" 

At  which,  Reut>en,  shifting  his  po- 
sition uneasily  fi-om  one  foot  to  the 
other,  says, — 

"  I  believe  he  did,  though." 

"  Stop,  Sir  I "  says  the  Doctor  in  a 
voice  that  makes  Reuben  sidle  away. 

"  Here,"  says  Phil,  commiserating  him 
in  a  grand  way,  and  beginning  to  dis- 
charge his  pockets  on  the  Doctor's  table, 
"he  may  have  them,  if  he  wants  them." 

Reuben  stares  at  them  a  moment  in 
astonishment,  then  breaks  out  with  a 
great  tremor  in  his  voice,  but  roundly 
enough,  — 

"  By  George  I  they  're  not  the  same 
apples  at  aU.  I  'm  sorry  I  told  you  that, 
Pha." 

"  Don't  say  *  By  George '  before  me, 
or  anywhere  else,"  says  the  Doctor, 
sharply.  ^  It  's  but  a  sneaking  oath, 
Sir ;  yet "  (more  gently)  "  I  'm  glad  of 
your  honesty,  Reuben." 

At  the  instigation  of  the  parson  they 
*shake  hands  ;  after  which  he  leads  them 
both  into  his  closet,  beckoning  them  to 
kneel  on  either  side  of  him,  as  he 
commends  them  in  his  stately  way  to 
Heaven,  trusting  that  they  may  live  in 
good-fellowship  henceforth,  and  keep 
His  counsel,  who  was  the  great  Peace- 
maker, always  in  their  hearts. 

Next  morning,  when  Reuben  goes  to 
reconnoitre  the  place  of  his  buried  treas- 
ure, he  finds  all  safe,  and  taking  the 
better  half  of  the  fruit,  he  marches  away 


i86s.] 


Doctor  Johns, 


691 


with  a  proud  step  to  the  Elderkin  house. 
The  basket  is  for  PhiL  But  Phil  is  hot 
at  home ;  so  he  leaves  the  gift,  and  a 
message,  with  a  short  story  of  it  all,  with 
the  tender  Rose,  whose  eyes  dance  with 
girlish  admiration  at  this  stammered  tale 
of  his,  and  her  fingers  tremble  when 
they  touch  the  boy*s  in  the  transfer  of 
his  little  burden. 

Reuben  walks  away  prouder  yet;  is 
not  this  sweet -faced  girl,  after  all, 
Amanda  ? 

There  come  quarrels,  however,  with 
the  academy  teacher  not  so  easily 
smoothed  over.  The  Doctor  and  the 
master  hold  long  consultations.  Reu- 
ben, it  is  to  be  feared,  has  bad  asso- 
ciates. The  boy  makes  interest,  through 
Nat  Boody,  with  the  stage-driver ;  and 
one  day  the  old  ladies  are  horrified  at 
seeing  the  parson's  son  mounted  on  the 
box  of  the  coach  beside  the  driver,  and 
putting  his  boyish  fingers  to  the  test  of 
four-in-hand.  Of  course  he  is  a  truant 
that  day  from  school,  and  toiling  back 
footsore  and  weary,  after  tea,  he  can 
give  but  a  lame  account  of  himself.  He 
brings,  another  time,  a  horrid  fighting 
cur,  (as  Miss  Eliza  terms  it  in  her  dis- 
gust,) for  which  he  has  bartered  away 
the  new  muffler  that  the  spinster  has 
kpit  He  thinks  it  a  splendid  bargain. 
Miss  Johns  and  the  Doctor  do  not 

He  is  reported  by  credible  witness- 
es as  loitering  about  the  tavern  in  the 
summer  nights,  long  after  prayers  are 
over  at  the  parsonage,  and  the  lights  are 
out :  thus  it  is  discovered,  to  the  great 
horror  of  the  household,  that  by  conni- 
vance with  Phil  he  makes  his  way  over 
the  roof  of  the  kitchen  from  his  cham- 
ber-window to  join  in  these  night  for- 
ays. After  long  consideration,  in  which 
Grandfather  Handby  is  brought  into 
consultation,  it  is  decided  to  place  the 
boy  for  a  while  under  the  charge  of  the 
latter  for  discipline,  and  with  the  hope 
that  removal  from  his  town  associates 
may  work  good.  But  within  a  fortnight 
after  the  change  is  made.  Grandfather 
Handby  drives  across  the  country  in  his 
wagon,  with  Reuben  seated  beside  him 
\rith  a  comic  gravity  on  his  &ce ;  and 
the  old  gentleman,  pleading  the  infirmi- 


ties of  age,  and  giving  the  boy  a  fiire- 
well  tap  on  the  cheek,  (for  he  loves  him, 
though  he  has  whipped  him  almost  dai- 
ly,) restores  him  to  the  paternal  roo£ 

At  this  crisis,  Squire  Elderkin  — 
who,  to  tell  truth,  has  a  little  fear  of  the 
wayward  propensities  of  the  parson's 
son  in  misleading  Phil  —  recommends 
trial  of  the  discipline  of  a  certain  Par- 
son Brummem,  who  fills  the  parish-pul- 
pit upon  Bolton  HilL  This  dignitary 
was  a  tall,  lank,  leathem-feced  man,  of 
incorruptible  zeal  and  stately  gravity, 
who  held  under  his  stern  dominion  a 
little  fiock  of  two  hundred  souls,  and 
who,  eking  out  a  narrow  parochial 
stipend  by  the  week-day  oflSce  of  teach- 
ing, had  gained  large  repute  for  his  sub- 
jugation of  refractory  boys. 

A  feeble  little  invalid  wife  cringed 
beside  him  along  the  journey  of  life ; 
and  it  would  be  pitiful  to  think  that  she 
had  not  long  ago  entered,  in  way  of  re- 
muneration, upon  paths  of  pleasantness 
beyond  the  grave. 

Parson  Brummem  received  Brother 
Johns,  when  he  drove  with  Reuben  to 
the  parsonage-door,  on  that  wild  waste 
of  Bolton  Hill,  with  all  the  unction 
of  manner  that  belonged  to  him ;  but 
it  was  so  grave  an  unction  as  to  chill 
poor  Reuben  to  the  marrow  of  his 
bones.  A  week's  experience  only  dis- 
persed the  chill  when  the  tingle  of  the 
parson's  big  rod  wrought  a  glow  in  him 
that  was  almost  madness.  Yet  Reuben 
chafed  not  so  much  at  the  whippings  — 
to  which  he  was  well  used  —  as  at  the 
dreariness  of  the  new  home,  the  mel- 
ancholy waste  of  common  over  which 
March  winds  blew  all  the  year,  the* 
pinched  fices  that  met  him  without  oth- 
er recognition  than,  "One  o'  Parson 
Brummem's  b'ys."  Nor  indoors  was 
the  aspect  more  inviting :  a  big  red  ta- 
ble, around  which  sat  six  fellow-martyrs 
with  their  slates  and  geographies ;  a  tall 
desk,  at  which  Brummem  indited  his. 
sermons ;  and  from  time  to  time  a  lit- 
tle side-door  opening  timidly,  through^ 
which  came  a  weary  woman's  voice, 
<*  Ezekiel,  dear,  one  minute  !  "  at  which 
the  g^eat  man  strides  thither,  and  lends, 
his  great  ear  to  the  family  council 


692 


Doctor  Johns. 


[June, 


Ab,  the  long,  weary  mornings,  when 
the  sun,  pouring  through  the  curtainless 
south  windows  a  great  blaze  upon  the 
oaken  floor,  lights  up  for  Reuben  only 
the  cobwebbed  comers,  the  faded  round- 
abouts of  fellow-martyrs,  the  dismal 
figures  of  Daboll,  the  shining  tail-coat 
of  Master  Brummem,  as  he  stalks  up 
and  down  from  hour  to  hour,  collecting 
in  this  way  his  scattered  thoughts  for 
some  new  argumentative  thrust  of  the 
quill  into  the  sixthly  or  the  seventh- 
ly of  his  next  week's  sermon !  And 
the  long  and  weary  afternoons,  when 
the  sun  ¥rith  a  mocking  bounty  pours 
through  the  dusty  and  curtainless  win- 
dows to  the  west,  lighting  only  again 
the  gray  and  speckled  roundabouts  of 
the  fagging  boys,  the  maps  of  Malte- 
Brun,  and  the  shinitfg  forehead  of  the 
Brummem  1 

There  is  a  dismal,  graceless,  bald  aA* 
about  town  and  house  and  master, 
which  is  utterly  revolting  to  the  lad, 
whose  childish  feet  had  pattered  beside 
the  tender  Rachel  along  the  embow- 
ered paths  of  Ashfield.  The  lack  of 
congeniality  affi'onts  his  whole  nature. 
In  the  keenness  of  his  martyrdom,  (none 
the  less  real  because  fancied,)  the  leath- 
ern-faced, gaunt  Brummem  takes  the 
shape  of  some  Giant  Despair  with 
bloody  maw  and  mace, — and  he,  the 
child  of  some  Christiana,  for  whose 
guiding  hand  he  gropes  vainly:  she 
has  gone  before  to  the  Celestial  City ! 

The  rod  of  the  master  does  not  cure 
the  chronic  state  of  moody  rebellion 
into  which  Reuben  lapses,  with  these 
fuicies  on  him.  It  drives  him  at  last 
to  an  act  of  desperation.  The  lesson 
in  Daboll  that  day  was  a  hard  one ;  but 
it  was  not  the  lesson,  or  his  short-com- 
ings in  it, — it  was  not  the  hand  of  the 
master,  which  had  been  heavy  on  him,  — 
but  it  was  a  vague,  dismal  sense  of  the 
dreariness  of  his  surroundings,  of  the 
starched  looks  that  met  him,  of  the 
weary  monotony,  of  the  lack  of  sympa* 
thy,  which  goaded  him  to  the  final  overt 
act  ofjrebellion, — which  made  him  dash 
his  'leathern-bound  arithmetic  full  into 
the  &ce  of  the  master,  and  then  sit 
down,  burying  his  face  in  his  hands. 


The  stem  doctrines  of  Parson  Bram- 
mem  had  taught  him,  at  least,  a  rigid 
self-command.  He  did  not  strike  the 
lad.  But  recovering  from  his  amaze- 
ment, he  says,  "  Very  weU,  very  well, 
Master  Reuben,  we  will  sleep  upon 
this  " ;  and  then,  tapping  at  -the  inner 
door,  '<  Keziah,  make  ready  the  little 
chamber  over  the  hall  for  Master  Johns : 
he  must  be  by  himself  to-night :  give 
him  a  glass  of  water  and  a  slice  of  dry 
bread:  nothing  else.  Sir,"  (turning  to 
Reuben  now,)  ''until  you  come  to  me 
to-morrow  at  nine,  in  this  place,  and 
ask  my  pardon  " ;  and  he  motions  him 
to  the  door. 

Reuben  staggers  out,  —  staggers  up 
the  stairs  into  the  dismal  chamber.  It 
looks  out  only  upon  a  bald  waste  of 
common.  Shortly  after,  a  slatternly  maid 
brings  his  prison  fare,  and,  with  a  little 
kindly  discretion,  has  added  secretly  a 
roll  of  gingerbread.  Reuben  thanks 
her,  and  says,  '*  You  're  a  good  worn* 
an,  Keziah ;  and  I  say,  won't  you  fetch 
me  my  cap^  there  's  a  good  un ;  it  's 
cold  here."  The  maid,  with  great  show 
of  caution,  copiplies ;  a  few  minutes  after, 
the  parson  comes,  and,  looking  in  wam- 
ingly,  closes  and  locks  the  door  outside. 

A  weary  evening  follows,  in  which 
thoughts  of  AdMe,  of  nights  at  the  £1- 
derkins',  of  Phil,  of  Rose,  flash  upon 
him,  and  spend  their  richness,  leaving 
him  tnore  madly  disconsolate.  Then 
come  thoughts  of  the  morning  humilia- 
tion, of  the  boys  pointing  their  fingers 
at  him  after  school 

"No,  they  shaVt,  by  George!" 

And  with  this  decision  he  dropped 
asleep ;  with  this  decision  ripened  in  him, 
he  woke  at  three  in  the  morning, — wait- 
ed for  the  hall  clock  to  strike,  that  he 
might  be  sure  of  his  hour, — tied  together 
the  two  sheets  of  Mistress  Brummem's 
bed,  opened  the  window  gently,  dropped 
out  his  improvised  cable,  slid  upon  it 
safely  to  the  ground,  and  before  day 
had  broken  or  any  of  the  townsfolk 
were  astir,  had  crossed  all  the  more 
open  portion  of  the  village,  and  by 
sunrise  had  plunged  into  the  wooded 
swamp-land  which  lay  three  miles  west-« 
ward  toward  the  river. 


i86s.] 


The  Great  Lakes, 


693 


THE  GREAT   LAKES: 


THEIR  OUTLETS  AND  DEFENCES. 


FOUR  years  ago  there  appeared  in 
this  magazine  two  articles  upon 
the  Great  Lakes  and  their  Harbors.* 
In  these  papers  the  commercial  impor- 
tance of  the  Lakes  was  set  forth,  and 
It  was  shown  that  their  commerce  was 
at  that  time  nearly  equal  in  amount  to 
the  whole  foreign  trade  of  the  country. 
Within  those  four  years  the  relative 
value  of  these  two  branches  of  com- 
merce has  greatly  changed.  The  for- 
eign trade,  under  the  efforts  of  open 
foes  and  secret  enemies,  has  fallen  off 
very  largely.  A  committee  of  the  New 
York  Board  of  Trade,  in  an  appeal  to 
the  Secretary  of  the  Navy  for  protec- 
tion against  British  pirates,  made  the 
statement,  that  the  imports  into  that 
port  during  the  first  quarter  of  i860,  in 
American  vessels,  were  %  62,598,326,  — 
in  foreign  vessels,  $30,918,051  ;  and 
that  in  1863,  during  the  same  period, 
the  imports  in  American  vessels  were 
%  23403,830,  —  in  foreign  vessels,  $  65,- 
889,853 ;  —  in  other  words,  that  in  three 
years  of  war,  our  navigation  on  the 
ocean  had  declined  more  than  one  half, 
and  that  of  foreign  nations  had  increas- 
ed in  nearly  the  same  proportion. 

The  two  great  branches  of  internal 
trade  before  the"  war  consisted  of  the 
trade  of  the  Lakes  and  the  canals  lead- 
ing from  them  to  the  seaboard,  and  the 
trade  of  the  Mississippi  and  its  tribu- 
taries. The  latter  branch  being  inter- 
rupted or  destroyed  by  the  Rebellion, 
it  follows  that  at  the  present  time  the 
principal  commerce  left  to  the  Atlantic 
cities  is  that  of  the  Great  Lakes  and  the 
States  about  them,  usually  known  as 
the  Northwest 

This  commerce  amounts  at  present 
to  at  least  twelve  hundred  millions  of 
dollars  annually,  and  increases  so  rap- 
idly that  all  estimates  of  its  prospective 
value  have  hitherto  fidlen  far  short  of 

*  Sec  N<M.  for  February  and  March,  z86z,  —  VoL 
VII.  pp.  a96>  313. 


the  truth.  It  employs  about  two  thou- 
sand vessels  and  twenty  thousand  sail- 
ors, besides  four  great  lines  of  railroad. 
It  sends  to  the  seaboard  one  hundred 
million  bushels  of  grain,  two  million 
hogs,  and  half  a  million  of  cattle,  com- 
posing the  principal  part  of  the  food 
of  the  Atlantic  States,  (it  being  well 
known  that  the  wheat  crop  of  New  York 
would  hardly  feed  her  people  for  one 
third  of  the  year,  and  that  that  of  New 
England  is  sufficient  for  only  about 
three  weeks'  consumption,)  and  afford- 
ing a  large  surplus  for  exportation. 

In  a  memorial  of  the  Hon.  S.  B.  Rug- 
gles  of  New  York  to  President  Lin- 
coln, on  the  enlargement  of  the  New 
York  canals,  he  says,  —  "The  cereal 
wealth  yearly  floated  on  these  waters 
now  exceeds  one  hundred  million  bush- 
els. It  is  difficult  to  present  a  distinct 
idea  of  a  quantity  so  enormous.  Suf- 
fice it  to  say,  that  the  portion  of  it  ^^ 
(about  two  thirds)  moving  to  market  on 
the  Erie  and  Oswego  Canals  requires  a 
line  of  boats  more  than  forty  miles  long 
to  carry  it"  On  the  Lakes  it  requires  a 
fleet  of  five  thousand  vessels  carrying 
twenty  thousand  bushels  each.  If  load- 
ed in  railroad-cars  of  the  usual  capaci- 
ty, it  would  take  two  hundred  and  fifty 
thousand  of  them,  or  a  train  more  than 
one  thousand  miles  in  length.  The  four 
great  lines  firom  the  Lakes  to  the  sea- 
board would  each  have  to  run  four  htm- 
dred  cars  a  day  for  half  the  year  to  car- 
ry this  grain  to  market  Speaking  of 
the  grain  -  trade,  Mr.  Ruggles  says,  — 
"  Its  existence  is  a  new  fact  in  the  his- 
tory of  man.^  In  quantity,  it  already 
much  exceeds  the  whole  export  of  ce- 
reals from  the  Russian  Empire,  the 
great  compeer  of  the  United  States, 
whose  total  export  of  cereals  was  in 
1857  but  forty -nine  million  bushels, 
being  less  than  half  the  amount  carried 
in  1 861  upon  the  American  Lakes.  It 
was  the  constant  aim  of  ancient  Rome, 


694 


The  Great  Lakes, 


[June, 


even  in  the  zenith  of  its  power,  to  pro- 
vision the  capital  and  the  adjacent  prov- 
inces from  the  outlying  portions  of  the 
empire.  The  yearly  crop  contributed 
by  Egypt  was  fifteen  million  bushels. 
Under  the  prudent  administration  of 
the  Emperor  Severus,  a  large  store  of 
corn  was  accumulated  and  kept  on  hand, 
sufficient  to  guard  the  empire  from  £un- 
ine  for  seven  years.  The,  total  amount 
thus  provided  was  but  one  hundred  and 
ninety  million  bushels.  The  product  of 
i860  in  the  five  Lake  States  of  Ohio, 
Michigan,  Indiana,  Illinois,  and  Wis- 
consin, was  three  hundred  and  fifty-four 
million  bushels." 

Another  branch  of  the  Lake  trade, 
which  is  yet  in  its  infancy,  but  which 
promises  to  reach  vast  proportions  in  a 
few  years,  is  the  iron  and  copper  trade  of 
Lake  Superior.  In  1864  about  two  hun- 
dred and  forty-eight  thousand  tons  of 
iron  ore  and  seventeen  thousand  tons  of 
copper  ore  and  metal  were  shipped  from 
that  lake, — enough  to  load  thirteen  hun- 
dred and  twenty-five  vessels  of  two  hun- 
dred tons  burden.  This  trade  has  whol- 
ly grown  up  within  the  last  ten  years. 

Let  the  Erie  and  Oswego  Canals  be 
again  enlarged,  as  advocated  so  ably 
by  Mr.  Ruggles,  let  the  railroad  lines 
be  equipped  with  double  tracks,  and 
this  trade  of  the  Lake  country  will  still 
follow  them  up  and  outstrip  their  efforts. 
The  man  is  now  living  in  Chicago,  hard- 
ly past  middle  age,  who,  less  than  thir- 
ty years  ago,  shipped  the  first  invoice 
of  gtain  from  that  city  which  now  ships 
fifty  millions ;  and  should  he  live  to  the 
common  age  of  mankind,  he  will  prob- 
ably see  the  shipment  of  a  hundred 
millions  from  that  port  alone. 

The  population  of  Illinois  has  doub- 
led in  each  of  the  last  two  decades,  and 
there  is  no  reason  why  it  should  not 
continue  to  do  so  in  the  next.  That 
would  give  it  in  1870  about  three  and  a 
half  millions  of  people,  most  of  them 
dinners  and  proiducers,  and  farmers 
who,  by  help  of  their  fertile  soil,  the 
ease  of  its  cultivation,  and  the  general 
use  of  agricultural  machinery,  are  able 
to  produce  a  very  large  amount  of  grain 
or  meat  to  the  working  hand. 


These  fleets  of  sail-vessels  and  steam- 
ers, and  these  railroad-trains  which  go 
Eastward  thus  loaded  with  grain  and 
provisions,  return  West  with  fireight 
more  various,  though  as  valuable.  The 
teas,  silks,  and  spices  of  India,  the  cof- 
fee of  Brazil,  the  sugar  and  cigars  of 
Cuba,  the  wines  and  rich  fabrics  of 
France,  the  varied  manufactures  of 
England,  and  the  products  of  the  New 
England  workshops  and  factories,  all 
find  a  market  in  the  Northwest. 

What,  then,  is  the  proper  and  suffi- 
cient outlet  of  this  commerce?  The 
Canadians,  although  their  share  of  it  is 
only  one  quarter  as  large  as  our  own, 
have  shown  us  the  way.  They  have  con- 
structed canals  connecting  Lakes  Erie 
and  Ontario,  and  others  around  the  rap- 
ids of  the  3t  Lawrence.  Let  us  do  the 
same  on  the  American  side,  so  that  ves- 
sels may  load  in  Chicago  or  Milwaukee, 
and  deliver  their  cargoes  in  New  York, 
Boston,  or  Liverpool,  without  breaking 
bulk.  To  Europe  this  is  the  shorter 
route,  as  the  figures  will  show:  — 

Distance  from  Chicago  to  New  York 

by  lakes,  canal,  and  river  XtSoo  milea. 

Distance  from  New  York  to  Liveipool    s,98o    " 


4.4«o 


u 


Distance  from  Chicago  to  Montreal  bjr 

Welland  Canal       ....        1,348  miles. 
Distance  from  Montreal  to  Liverpool    3.740    " 


4.0M 


II 


The  St  Lawrence  River  is  the  natu- 
ral outlet  of  the  Lakes,  and,  if  rendered 
accessible  to  us  by  canals,  must  be  the 
cheapest  outlet  It  is  well  known  that 
a  few  years  ago  corn  was  worth  on  the 
prairies  of  Illinois  only  ten  cents  per 
bushel,  when  the  same  article  was  sell- 
ing in  New  York  at  seventy  cents,  six 
sevenths  of  the  price  being  consumed  in 
transportation.  The  consequence  was, 
that  many  farmers  found  it  more  for 
their  interest  to  use  their  surplus  com 
for  fuel  than  to  sell  it  for  ten  cents. 
The  great  disturbance  in  values  caused 
by  the  war,  and  the  vast  demand  for 
grain  and  forage  for  the  army,  have  re- 
duced this  disproportion  in  prices  very 
much  for  the  time,  but  it  may  be  looked 
for  again  on  the  return  of  peace. 

Now  it  would  seem  that  one  of  the 


i86s.] 


The  Great  Lakes. 


695 


most  important  questions  to  be  settled 
in  this  country  is  how  to  cheapen  food 
If^  by  the  construction  of  these  canals  to 
give  access  to  the  St  Lawrence,  grain 
can  be  laid  down  in  New  York  ten  cents 
a  bushel  cheaper  than  it  now  is  done, 
the  saving  on  the  present  shipments  of 
breadstuff  from  the  Lakes  would  be  ten 
millions  of  dollars  annually.  It  is  prob- 
able, however,  that  the  saving  in  freight 
would  be  much  greater  than  this,  if  the 
canals  were  built  of  sufficient  capacity 
to  admit  the  largest  class  of  Lake  ves- 
sels. This  direct  trade  between  the  Up- 
per Lakes  and  Europe  was  commenced 
a  few  years  before  the  breaking  out  of 
the  Rebellion,  and  was  beginning  to  as- 
sume important  proportions,  when  the 
war  put  a  stop  to  it,  as  it  has  to  so 
much  of  our  foreign  commerce. 

While  the  present  article  was  in  prep- 
aration, the  bill  for  the  construction  of 
these  canals  passed  the  House  of  Rep- 
resentatives, as  also  one  for  the  deepen- 
ing of  the  Illinois  and  Michigan  Canal, 
concerning  which  the  report  of  the  Hon. 
Isaac  N.  Arnold  of  Illinois,  chairman 
of  the  committee  of  the  House  on  the 
defence  of  lakes  and  rivers,  thus  re- 
marks :  — '^  The  realization  of  the  grand 
idea  of  a  ship-canal  from  Lake  Michi- 
gan to  the  Mississippi,  for  military  and 
commercial  purposes,  is  the  great  work 
of  the  age.  In  effect,  commercially,  it 
turns  the  Mississippi  into  Lake  Michi- 
gan, and  makes  an  outlet  for  the  Great 
Lakes  at  New  Orleans,  and  of  the  Mis- 
sissippi at  New  York.  It  brings  to- 
gether the  two  great  systems  of  water 
communication  of  our  country,  —  the 
Great  Lakes  and  the  St  Lawrence,  and 
the  canals  connecting  the  Lakes  with 
the  ocean  on  the  east,  and  the  Missis- 
sippi and  Missouri,  with  all  their  tribu- 
taries, on  the  west  and  south.  This 
communication,  so  vast,  can  be  effected 
at  small  escpense,  and  with  no  long  de- 
lay. It  is  but  carrying  out  the  plan  of 
Nature.  A  great  river,  rivalling  the  St 
Lawrence  in  volume,  at  no  distant  day 
was  discharged  from  Lake  Michigan,  by 
the  Illinois,  into  the  Mississippi.  Its 
banks,  its  currents,  its  islands,  and  de- 
posits can  still  be  easily  traced,  and  it 


only  needs  a  deepening  of  the  present 
channel  for  a  few  miles,  to  reopen  a 
magnificent  river  from  Lake  Michigan 
to  the  Mississippi." 

It  is  a  very  important  point,  in  consid- 
ering this  question  of  the  enlargement 
of  existing  canals  and  the  construction 
of  new  ones,  that  they  have,  under  the 
new  conditions  of  naval  warfare,  come 
to  be  an  important  element  in  the  har- 
bor defences  of  the  Lakes.  We  have 
the  testimony  of  Captain  Ericsson  him- 
self, whose  Monitor  vessels  have  already 
done  so  much  for  the  country,  as  to  this 
availability.  He  writes,  —  "  An  impreg- 
nable war-vessel,  twenty-five  feet  wide 
and  two  hundred  feet  long,  with  a  shot- 
proof  turret,  carrying  a  gun  of  fifteen 
inch  calibre,  with  a  ball  of  four  hun- 
dred and  fifty  pounds,  and  capable  of 
destroying  any  hostile  vessel  that  can 
be  put  on  the  Lakes,  will  draw,  without 
ammunition,  coal,  or  stores,  but  six  feet 
and  six  inches  water,  and  consequent- 
ly will  need  only  a  canal  wide  and  deep 
enough  to  float  a  vessel  of  those  dimen- 
sions, with  locks  of  sufficient  size  to 
pass  it" 

Great  Britain  has  already  secured  to 
herself  the  means  of  access  to  the  Lakes 
by  her  system  of  Canadian  canals,  and 
the  Military  Committee  of  the  House 
express  the  opinion,  that,  in  case  of  a 
war  with  that  power,  "  a  small  fleet  of 
light-draught,  heavily  armed,  iron-clad 
gunboats,  could,  in  one  short  month, 
in  despite  of  any  opposition  that  could 
be  made  by  extemporized  batteries,  pass 
up  the  St  Lawrence,  and  shell  every 
city  and  village  from  Ogdensburg  to 
Chicago.  At  one  blow  it  could  sweep 
our  commerce  from  that  entire  chain 
of  lakes.  Such  a  fleet  would  have  H 
in  its  power  to  inflict  a  loss  to  be  reck- 
oned only  by  hundreds  of  millions,  so 
vast  is  the  wealth  thus  exposed  to  the 
depredations  of  a  maritime  enemy." 
We  were  saved  from  such  a  blow,  a  few 
months  ago,  only  by  the  failure  of  the 
Rebel  agents  in  Canada  to  procure,  ei- 
ther by  purchase  or  piracy,  a  swift  arm- 
ed steamer. 

Ever  since  the  War  of  18 12,  England 
has  been  preparing,  in  the  event  of  an- 


696 


The  Great  Lakes, 


[June, 


other  war,  to  strike  at  this,  our  vital 
point  la  1 8 14  the  Duke  of  Welling- 
ton declared  "  that  a  naval  superiority 
on  the  Lakes  is  a  sine  qua  nan  of  suc- 
cess in  war  on  the  frontier  of  Canada." 
Years  before,  William  Hall,  Governor 
of  the  Northwestern  Territory,  made 
the  same  declaration  to  our  Govern- 
ment, and  the  capture  of  Detroit  by  the 
British  in  181 2  was  due  to  their  failure 
to  respond  to  his  appeal  for  a  naval 
force.  In  181 7  the  Lakes  were  put  on 
a  peace  establishment  of  one  gun  on 
each  side,  which  was  a  good  bargain 
for  England,  she  having  at  that  time 
larger  interests  on  the  Lakes  than  the 
United  States.  Now  ours  exceed  hers 
in  the  ratio  of  four  to  one. 

What  said  the  London  "  Times  "  in 
January,  1862,  in  reference  to  the  Trent 
excitement?  ''As  soon  as  the  St  Law- 
rence opens  again  there  will  be  all  end 
of  our  difficulty.  We  can  then  pour  into 
the  Lakes  such  a  fleet  of  gunboats,  and 
other  craft,  as  will  give  us  the  complete 
and  immediate  command  of  those  wa- 
ters. Directly  the  navigation  is  clear, 
we  can  send  up  vessel  after  vessel  with- 
out any  restriction,  except  such  as  are 
imposed  by  the  size  of  the  canals.  The 
Americans  would  have  no  such  resource. 
They  would  have  no  access  to  the  Lakes 
from  the  sea,  and  it  is  impossible  that 
they  could  construct  vessels  of  any  con- 
siderable power  in  the  interval  that 
would  elapse  before  the  ice  broke  up. 
With  the  opening  of  spring  the  Lakes 
would  be  ours." 

This  is  just  what  the  English  did  in 
the  War  of  1 8 1 2.  They  secured  the  com- 
mand of  the  Lakes  at  the  beginning  of 
the  war,  and  kept  it  and  that  of  all  the 
adjacent  country,  till  Perry  built  a  fleet 
on  Lake  Erie,  with  which  he  wrested 
their  supremacy  from  them  by  hard  fight- 
ing. Let  us  not  be  caught  in  that  way 
a  second  time. 

There  is  a  party  in  the  country  op- 
posed to  the  enlargement  of  these  ca- 
nals. It  is  represented  in  Congress  by 
able  men.  Their  principal  arguments 
are  the  following:  First,  that  there  is 
no  military  necessity  for  the  enlarge- 
ment ;  that  materials  for  building  gun« 


boats  can  be  accumulated  at  various 
points  on  the  Lakes,  to  be  used  in  the 
event  of  war.  Secondly,  that  by  send- 
ing a  strong  force  to  destroy  the  Cana- 
dian canals,  the  enemy's  gunboats  can 
be  prevented  from  entering  the  Lakes. 
A  third  argument  is,  that  it  is  useless 
to  attempt  to  contend  with  England,  the 
greatest  naval  power  in  the  world ;  that 
we  shall  never  have  vessels  enough  to 
afford  a  fleet  on  the  coast  and  one  on 
the  Lakes ;  that  England  would  never 
allow  us  to  equal  her  in  that  respect, 
and  that  it  would  be  changing  the  entire 
policy  of  the  nation  to  attempt  it  A 
fourth  ailment  which  we  have  seen 
gravely  stated  against  the  canal  enlaige- 
ments  is,  that  the  mouth  of  the  St  Law- 
rence is  the  place  to  defend  the  Lakes, 
and  that,  if  that  hole  were  stopped,  the 
rats  could  not  enter. 

In  reply  to  the  first  of  these  argu- 
ments, the  above  quotation  fh>ra  the 
London  *'  Times  "  shows  that  the  British 
Government  well  know  the  importance 
of  striking  the  first  blow,  and  that  long 
before  our  gunboats  could  be  launched 
that  blow  would  have  been  delivered. 

As  to  the  second,  we  may  be  sure  that 
the  Canadian  canals  would  be  defended 
with  all  the  power  and  skiU  of  England ; 
and  we  know,  by  the  experience  oi  the 
last  four  years,  the  diflerence  between 
offensive  and  defensive  warfare,  both 
sides  being  equally  matched  in  fighting 
qualities. 

The  third  argument  is  the  same  used 
by  Jefferson  and  his  party  before  the 
Warofi8i2.  He  thought  that  to  build 
war  vessels  was  only  to  build  them  for 
the  British,  as  they  would  be  sure  to 
take  them.  As  to  changing  the  policy 
of  the  nation,  by  increasing  our  navy,  let 
us  hope  that  it  is  already  changed,  and 
forever.  Its  policy  has  heretofore  been 
a  Southern  policy,  a  slave-holders'  pol- 
icy; it  has  discouraged  the  navy,  and 
kept  it  down  to  the  smallest  possible 
dimensions,  because  a  navy  is  essential- 
ly a  Northern  institution.  You  cannot 
man  a  navy  with  slaves  or  mean  whites ; 
it  must  have  a  commercial  marine  be- 
hind it,  and  that  the  South  never  had. 
Our  navy  ought  never  again  to  be  infe* 


i86s.] 

rior  in  fighting  strength  to  that  of  Eng- 
land In  that  way  we  shall  always  avoid 
war. 

As  to  the  plan  of  defending  the  Lakes 
at  the  mouth  of  the  St  Lawrence,  we 
would  ask  this  question :  If  the  blockade 
of  Wilmington  was  a  task  beyond  the 
power  of  our  navy,  how  would  it  be  able 
to  blockade  an  estuary  from  fifty  to  a 
hundred  miles  in  width? 

With  these  enlarged  canals,  by  which 
gunboats  and  monitors  could  be  moved 
from  the  Atlantic  and  the  Mississippi  to 
the  Lakes,  and  vice  versuy  and  by  the 
system  of  shore  defences  recommend- 
ed some  years  ago  by  General  Totten, 
namely,  strong  fortifications  at  Macki- 
naw, perfectly  commanding  those  straits, 
and  serving  as  a  refuge  to  war  steamers, 
works  at  the  lower  end  of  Lake  Huron, 
at  Detroit,  and  at  the  entrance  of  Niag- 
ara River,  these  waters  will  be  protected 
fix)m  all  foreign  enemies.  X^e  Ontario 
will  also  need  a  system  of  works  to  pro- 
tect our  important  canals  and  railroads, 
which  in  many  places  approach  so  near 
the  shore  as  to  be  in  danger  from  an 
enterprising  enemy.  It  is  recommend- 
ed by  the  Military  Committee,  that  a  na- 
val depot  should  be  established  at  Erie, 
as  the  most  safe  and  suitable  harbor  on 
the  lake  of  that  name. 

If,  as  is  probable,  a  naval  station  and 
depot  should  be  thought  necessary  on 
the  Upper  Lakes,  the  city  of  Milwaukee 
has  strong  claims  to  be  chosen  for  its 
site.  There  is  the  best  and  safest  har- 
bor on  Lake  Michigan,  so  situated  as 
to  be  easily  defended,  in  the  midst  of  a 
heavily  timbered  country,  accessible  to 
the  iron  and  copper  of  Lake  Superior 
and  the  coal  of  Illinois.  Milwaukee  pr- 
joys  one  of  the  cheapest  markets  i^r 


The  Great  Lakes. 


697 


food,  together  with  a  very  healthy  cli- 
mate. Finally,  she  is  connected  by  rail 
with  the  great  Western  centres  of  pop- 
ulation, so  that  all  the  necessary  troops 
for  her  defence  could  be  gathered  about 
her  at  twenty-four  hours'  notice. 

It  may  be  well  here  to  remark,  that 
as  yet  the  Northwest  has  had  litUe  as- 
sistance from  the  General  Government 
Large  sums  of  money  have  annually 
been  laid  out  in  the  defences  of  the 
seaboard,  both  North  and  South,  while 
this  immense  Lake  region  has  had  the 
annual  appropriation  of  one  eighteen 
pounder !  Every  small  river  and  petty 
inlet  on  the  Southern  coast,  whence  a 
bale  of  cotton  or  a  barrel  of  turpentine 
could  be  shipped,  has  had  its  fort ;  while 
the  important  post  of  Mackinaw,  the 
Gibraltar  of  the  Lakes,  is  garrisoned  by 
an  invalid  sergeant,  who  sits  solitary  on 
its  ruinous  walls. 

The  result  at  which  we  arrive  is,  that 
these  canal  enlai^ements  would  at  once 
be  valuable,  both  as  commercial  and 
military  works.  They  have  a  national 
importance,  in  that  they  will  assist  in 
feeding  and  defending  the  nation.  The 
States  interested  in  them  have  a  pop- 
ulation of  ten  millions,  they  have  sev- 
enty-one representatives  in  Congress, 
and  they  have  furnished  fully  one  half 
the  fighting-men  who  have  gone  to  de- 
fend our  flag  and  protect  our  nationality 
in  the  field.  How  that  work  has  been 
done,  let  the  victorious  campaigns  of 
Grant  and  Sherman  attest  Those  great 
leaders  are  Western  men,  and  their  in- 
vincible columns,  who,  from  Belmont  to 
Savannah,  have,  like  Cromwell's  Iron- 
sides, '*  never  met  an  enemy  whom  they 
have  not  broken  in  pieces,"  are  men  of 
Western  birth  or  training. 


698  To  Carolina  Coronado.  Uune, 


TO    CAROLINA    CORONADO. 


LILY  anchored  by  the  Spanish  main, 
Swaying  and  shining  in  the  surge  of  youth, 
Yet  holding  in  thy  breast  the  gold  of  truth,  — 


A 


Such  didst  thou  seem  above  the  waves  of  pain. 
And  through  the  stormy  turbulence  of  war, 
Until  we  heard  thy  patriot  voice  afar! 

Now,  Sister,  with  the  burning  heart  of  Spain, 
We  speak  to  thee  from  this  New  England  strand. 
And  grasp  and  hold  thee  with  a  firm  right  hand ! 

For  thou  hast  touched  our  people  with  thy  word, — 
Only  a  gentle  woman's  word,  but  one 
Widi  the  great  work  our  Nation  has  begun. 

By  Liberty  thy  earnest  soul  was  stirred, 
And  waked  and  urged  Estremadura's  men 
To  pour  the  heroic  wine  of  life  again. 

As  in  the  dawn  of  Summer  flits  a  bird 
From  his  low  nest  and  springs  into  the  air, 
Hurrying  a  double  concert  and  a  prayer, — 

• 

So  Liberty,  with  thy  sweet  voice  allied. 
Walks  in  thy  footsteps,  with  her  laurel  strows 
Thy  footway,  with  thy  trustful  spirit  glows. 

Esteem  her  friendship  with  unwavering  pride  I 

Teach  thou  thy  children  what  the  years  have  brought. 

Wisdom  and  love  superior  to  thy  thought  I 

Once  thou  hast  said,  ''AH  men  may  win  her  side. 

But  women  never!"    Sister,  do  not  fear, 

Recall  thy  words,  since  Love  has  made  truth  dear. 

For  Love  is  master,  and  we  know  no  other, 
Save  self-compelling  service  to  the  right, 
Which  is  but  Love  in  the  seraphic  sight 

Teach  this  thy  sons  and  to  each  man  thy  brother, — 
A  secret  learned  in  silent  joys  of  home, 
A  secret  whence  the  lights  of  being  come. 

So  guided  by  this  lamp,  O  wife  and  mother. 
Turn  thine  eyes  hither  to  the  Western  shore. 
Where  red  streams  run  and  iron  thunders  roar  1 


1865.] '  To  Carolina  Coronado.  699 

We  watch  the  star  of  Freedom  slowly  rise 
And  glimmer  through  the  changes  of  the  time. 
While  errors  beat  their  low  retreating  chime. 

We  ask  for  nought,  we  need  not  to  be  wise, 
We  find  both  men  and  women  at  their  post. 
Equal  and  different  in  one  mighty  host 

Divided  suffering,  unity  of  cries,  — 
Divided  labor,  unity  of  life,  — 
Divided  struggle,  one  reward  for  strife. 

As  autumn  winds  sweep  over  tossing  seas 

And  reach  the  happy  shore,  and  fling  the  flowers 

And  lower  each  gorgeous  head  by  their  rude  powers, — 

So  sweep  the  winds  of  war  through  quiet  leas 
And  bend  our  budding  treasures  in  the  dust, 
Yet  Freedom's  cause  shall  neither  mar  nor  rust. 

The  seed  shall  spring  where  none  can  thirst  or  freeze, 
Shall  bear  a  floweret  &irer  than  tlie  old, 
As  lilies  shine  before  all  blossoms  told : 

A  liberty  for  woman  in  her  home. 

Bound  by  the  only  chains  which  give  her  peace, — 

Immortal  chains  which  death  may  not  release : 

A  liberty  where  Justice  wide  may  roam, 
And  Reverence  sit  the  chief  at  every  feast. 
With  Love  as  master,  and  Contempt  as  least: 

'    A  liberty  where  the  oppressed  may  come, 
The  black  and  white,  the  woman  and  the  man, 
And  recognize  themselves  in  Heaven's  wide  plan 

Then  while  the  morning  odors  of  the  sea 
Blow  from  the  westward  and  caress  thy  brow. 
Remember  where  thy  loving  sisters  bow : 

Perchance  beneath  the  hand  of  Victory, 
Which  leaves  a  tear  and  then  a  silentness. 
While  crowds  move  by  forgetful  of  one  less ; 

Or  where  a  burst  of  gracious  ecstasy 
Rising  shall  fill  the  eastward  flitting  air. 
And  with  thy  spirit  mount  the  hills  of  prayer. 


700 


Regnard. 


LFuiic.- 


REGN  ARD. 


SINCE,  in  modem  literature,  there 
are  so  few  really  good  |p{jbmedies 
that  we  may  count  them  allAipon  our 
fingers,  a  man  who  has  written  two  must 
be  worth  knowing.  We  ask  permission 
to  introduce  Jean  Frangois  Regnard  to 
those  who  do  not  know  him. 

He  comes  recommended  by  the  great 
critjc  Boileau,  who  liked  him,  quarrel- 
led with  him,  and  made  up  again.  For- 
ty years  later,  Voltaire  wrote  tliat  the 
man  who  did  not  enjoy  Regnard  was 
not  capable  of  appreciating  Moli^re. 
Then  came  M.  de  La  Harpe,  the  author- 
ity in  such  matters  for  two  generations : 
he  devotes  a  chapter  to  Regnard,  and 
calls  him  the  worthy  successor  of  Mo- 
li^re.  And  B^ranger,  in  his  charming 
autobiography^  an  epilogue  worthy  of 
the  noble  part  he  had  played  upon  the 
stage  of  the  world,  speaks  of  the  unflag- 
ging gayety  and  abundant  wit  of  Re- 
gnard's  diadogue,  and  of  his  lively  and 
graceful  style.  "In  my  opinion,"  he 
adds,  "  Regnard  would  be  the  first  of 
modern  comedians,  if  Moli^re  had  not 
been  given  to  us." 

In  spite  of  the  idle  complainings  into 
which  authors  are  betrayed  by  the  pleas- 
ure human  nature  takes  in  talking  about 
self  to  attentive  listeners,  all  who  are 
£uniliar  with  the  history  of  the  breth- 
ren of  the  quill  know,  that,  as  a  class, 
they  have  had  a  large  share  of  the  good 
things  of  the  earth, — cheerful  occu- 
pation, respected  position,  comfortable 
subsistence,  and  long  life.  France,  in 
particular,  has  been  the  Pays  de  Co- 
cagne  of  book-makers  for  the  last  two 
hundred  years.  Neither  praise,  pay, 
nor  rank  has  been  wanting  to  those 
who  deserved  them.  But  in  the  long 
line  of  litterateurs  who  have  flourished 
since  Cardinal  Richelieu  founded  the 
Academy,  few  were  so  fortunate  as  Re- 
gnard. He  entered  upon  his  career 
with  wealth,  health,  and  a  jovial  tem- 
perament: three  supreme  blessings  he 
kept  through  life. 
He  was  bom  In  Paris  in  1655,  three 


years  before  Moli^  brought  his  com- 
pany from  the  provinces  to  the  HAtel 
de  Bourbon,  and  opened  the  new  thea- 
tre  with  the  "  Pr^cieuses   Ridicules." 
Regnard's  &ther,  a  citizen  of  Paris  and 
a  shopkeeper,  died  when  his  son  was  a 
lad,  leaving  him  one  hundred  and  twen* 
ty  thousand  livres, — a  fortune  for  a  man 
of  the  middle  class  at  that  period.  Like 
most  independent  young  fellows,  Re- 
gnard made  use  of  his  money  to  traveL 
He  went  to  Italy,  and  spent  a  year  in 
the  famous  cities  of  the  Peninsula, — but 
returned  home  with  thirty  thousand  ad- 
ditional livres  in  his  pocket,  won  at  play. 
He  soon  went  back  to  the  land  of  pleas- 
ure and  of  luck.    At  Bologna  he  fell  in 
love  with  a  lady  from  the  South  of 
France,  whom  he  calls  Elvire.    The  la* 
dy  was  married,  the  husband  was  with 
her ;  they  were  travellers  like  himsel£ 
Regnard  joined  the  party,  and  sailed 
with  them  from  Civita  Vecchia  in  an 
English  ship  bound  for  Toulon.    The 
vessel  was  captured,  off  Nice,  by  a  Bar- 
bary  corsair,  and  brought  into  Algiers ; 
the  crew  and  passengers  were  sold  to 
the  highest  bidder.    One  Achmet  Ta- 
lem  paid  fifteen  hundred  livres  for  Re- 
gnard, and  one  thousand  for  the  lady. 
This  low  price  might  lead  us  to  imagine 
that  the  Moorish  taste  in  beauty  differed 
firom  that  of  Regnard ;  but  the  Algerine 
market  may  have  been  overstocked  with 
women  on  the  day  of  sale.     Achmet 
took  his  new  chattels  to  Constantino- 
ple.    Perceiving  Regnard's  talent  for' 
ragoHts  and  sauces,  he  made  a  cook 
of  him.    What  became  of  Elvire  histo- 
ry has  omitted,  perhaps  discreetly,  to 
relate.     After  two  years  of  toil  and 
ill-treatment,  Regnard  received  money 
from  home  to  buy  his  freedom.     He 
paid  twelve  thousand  livres  for  himself 
and  the  iaXr  Provengale.    Achmet  more 
than  quadmpled  his  investment,  and  no 
doubt  thought  slavery  a  divine  institn- 
tion. 

In  Paris  once  more,  Regnard  hung 
his  chains  in  his  library  and  was  pre- 


i86s.] 


Regnard. 


701 


paring  to  lead  a  comfortable  life  with 
Elvire,  when  the  superfluous  husband, 
whose  death  had  been  reported,  most 
unseasonably  reappeared.  He  had  been 
ransomed  by  the  Mathurins,  a  religious 
order,  who  believed  it  to  be  the  duty  of 
Christians  to  deliver  their  fellow-men 
from  bondage,  ~  Abolitionists  of  the  sev- 
enteenth century,  who,  strange  as  some 
of  us  may  think  it,  were  honored  by  their 
countrymen  and  the  Christian  world. 
Regnard  yielded  gracefully  the  right  he 
had  acquired  by  purchase  to  the  prior 
claim  of  the  husband,  and  made  prepa- 
rations for  another  journey.    With  two 
compatriots,  De  Fercourt  and  De  Cor- 
beron,  he  traversed  the  Low  Countries 
and  Denmark  and  crossed  over  to  Stock- 
holm.   The  King  of  Sweden  received 
die  travellers  graciously  and  proposed 
a  visit  to  Lapland.    Furnished  with  the 
royal  letters  of  recommendation,  they 
sailed  up  the  Gulf  of  Bothnia  to  Torneo, 
and  thence  pushed  north  by  land  until 
they  came  to  Lake  Tomoetrask.    Eigh- 
teen miles  from  the  lower  end  of  the 
lake  they  ascended  a  high  mountain 
which  they  named  Metavara, ''  from  the 
Latin  word  meta  and  the    Finlandic 
word  vara^  which  means  rock :  that  is 
to  say,  the  rock  of  limits."    "  We  were 
four  hours  in  climbing  to  the  top  by 
paths  which  no  mortal  had  as  yet  known. 
When  we  reached  it,  we  perceived  the 
whole  extent  of  Lapland,  and  the  Icy 
Ocean  as  far  as  the  North  Cape,  on  the 
side  it  turns  to  the  west    This  may, 
indeed,  be  called  arriving  at  the  end  of 
the  world  and  jostling  the  axle  of  the 
pole  (si  frotUr  d  Pessuu  du  pdUy^ 
Here  they  set  up  a  tablet  of  stone  they 
had  brought  with  their  luggage,— m^ff»- 
ffunt  itemel^  Regnard  says.    'Mt  shall 
make  known   to  posterity  that  three 
Frenchmen  did  not   cease   to   travel 
northward  until  the  earth  failed  them ; 
that,  in  spite  of  the  difficulties  they 
encountered,  which  would  have  turned 
back  most  others,  they  reached  the  end 
of  the  world  and  planted  their  column  ; 
the  ground  was  wanting,  but  not  the 
courage  to  press  on."    These  sound- 
ing verses  were  cut  upon  the  eternal 
monument :  — 


"  Gallift  DOS  genutk :  vkHt  not  Africa :  Gangem 
Hausimus^  Europomque  oculis  lustra vunus  omnem : 
Casibus  et  variis  acd  terrlque  marique, 
Hie  tvideai  sfetiiiMis,  nobis  ubi  deftiit  orbia* 

De  Fercourt,  De  Corberon,  Regnard. 
Anno  z68x,  die  aa  Augusti.'* 

^  The  inscription  will  never  be  read, 
except  by  the  bears,"  Regnard  adds. 
A  mekmcholy  thought  to  the  French 
milid  !  If  nobody  saw  it  or  talked 
about  it,  half  the  pleasure  of  the  exploit 
was  gone.  The  Frenchmen  had  fore- 
seen this  difficulty,  and  had  taken  their 
precautions.  Four  days'  journey  to  the 
southward  stood  an  ancient  church, 
near  which  the  Lapps  held  their  annual 
fair.  In  this  church,  in  a  conspicuous 
position,  they  had  already  deposited 
the  same  verses,  carved  upon  a  board. 
In  17 1 8,  thirty-six  years  sifrer,  another 
French  traveller,  La  Motraye,  read  the 
lines  upon  the  stone  tablet,  —  too  late 
to  gratify  Regnard. 

^Travellers'  stories,"— "-<4  beau  men- 
tir  qui  vient  de  loin^'^ — these  proverbs 
date  from  the  seventeenth  century.  It 
was  not  expected  of  such  adventurous 
gentiemen  that  they  should  tell  the  sim^ 
pie  truth,  any  more  than  we  expect  ve- 
racity from  sportsmen.  We  listen  with- 
out surprise  and  disbelieve  without  a 
smile.  Some  exaggeration,  too,  was 
pardonable  to  help  out  the  verse ;  but 
'^  nobis  ubi  defuit  orbis  "  goes  beyond  a 
reasonable  license.  The  mountain  Me- 
tavara is  in  Lat  68^  30';  the  North 
Cape  in  71®  10'.  There  were  still  one 
hundred  and  fifty  miles  of  solid  orbis 
before  Regnard  and  his  friends ;  and 
they  had  need  of  optics  sharp  to  see 
the  Cape  from  the  spot  they  stood  up- 
on. 

The  27th  of  September  found  the 
three  Arctic  explorers  back  again  in 
Stockholm.  Thence  they  took  boat 
for  Dantzic,  travelled  in  Poland,  Hun- 
gary, and  Austria,  and  left  Vienna  for 
Paris  a  few  months  before  the  famous 
siege,  when  Sobieski,  the  ''man  sent 
from  God  whose  name  was  John,"  rout- 
ed the  Turks  and  delivered  Christen- 
dom forever  fix>m  the  fear  of  the  Otto- 
man arms. 

•  Before  this  time  Regnard  must  have 
heard  that  Duquesne  had  avenged  his 


702 


R^gnard. 


[June, 


African  sufTerings.  In  the  autumn  of 
1 68 1  the  Huguenot  Admiral  shelled  Al- 
giers from  bomb-ketches,  then  used  for 
the  first  time.  The  Dey  was  forced  to 
surrender.  His  lively  conquerors  treat- 
ed him  with  the  honors  of  wit  as  well 
as  of  war.  They  made  a  mot  for  him, 
of  the  kind  they  get  up  so  cleverly  in 
Paris.  When  the  Turk  is  told  how 
much  it  had  cost  the  great  monarch  of 
France  to  fit  out  the  fleet  which  had 
just  reduced  a  part  of  his  city  to  ashes, 
he  exclaims,  amazed  at  the  useless  ex- 
travagance,—  "For  half  the  money  I 
would  have  burned  the  whole  town." 

Cervantes  was  a  slave  in  Algiers  a 
hundred  years  before  Regnard,  and  no 
doubt  used  his  experience  in  the  story 
of  the  Captive  in  "  Don  Quixote."  Re- 
gnard also  worked  his  African  materials 
up  into  a  tale,  —  "La  Provengale," — 
and  varnished  them  with  the  sentimen- 
tality fashionable  in  his  day.  Zelmis 
(himself)  is  a  conquering  hero ;  women 
adore  him.  He  is  full  of  courage,  re- 
sources, and  devotion  to  one  only,  —  £1- 
vire, — who  is  beautiful  as  a  dream,  and 
dignified  as  the  wife  of  a  Roman  Senator. 
The  King  of  Algiers  is  on  the  quay  when 
the  captives  are  brought  ashore.  He 
falls  in  love  with  Elvire  on  the  spot,  and 
adds  her  to  his  collection.  But  his  pas- 
sion is  respectful  and  pure.  Aided  by 
Zelmis,  she  escapes  from  the  haremi 
They  are  retaken  and  brought  back; 
but  instead  of'  the  whipping  usually 
bestowed  upon  returned  runaways,  the 
generous  king,  despairing  of  winning 
Elvire's  afiections,  gives  her  her  liberty. 
In  the  mean  time  Zelmis  has  had  his 
troubles.  His  master  has  four  wives, 
beautifid  as  houris.  All  four  cast  eyes 
of  flame  upon  the  well-favored  infidel. 
Faithful  to  Elvire,  Zelmis  of  course  de- 
fends himself  as  heroically  as  Joseph. 
The  ladies  revenge  the  slight  in  the 
same  way  as  the  wife  of  Potiphar.  The 
attractive  Frenchman  is  condemned  to 
impalement,  when  his  consul  interferes 
with  a  ransom,  and  he  is  released  just 
in  time  to  embark  for  France  with  El- 
vire. 

Although  Regnard  often  alludes  with 
pride  to  his  travels,  the  sketch  he  has 


left  of  them  is  meagre  and  uninterest- 
ing, and  written  in  a  harsh  and  awk« 
ward  style.  Lapland  was  a  Urra  tmcog" 
niiay  —  Poland,  Hungary,  and  Bohemia 
not  much  better  known ;  yet  this  clever 
young  Parisian  has  little  to  relate  be- 
yond a  few  names,  which  he  generally 
misspells  or  misplaces.  No  descrii>- 
tions  of  town  or  country  or  scenery ;  no 
traits  of  manners,  character,  or  customs, 
except  a  dull  page  on  the  sorcery  and 
the  funeral  ceremonies  of  the  Lapps. 
The  only  eminent  man  he  notices  is 
Evelius,  the  astronomer  of  Dantric,  — 
one  of  the  foreign  savans  of  distinction 
on  whom  Louis  XIV.  bestowed  pen- 
sions in  his  grand  manner,  omitting  to 
pay  them  after  the  second  year.  Re- 
gnard seems  to  have  written  to  let 
his  countrymen  know  where  he  had 
b^en,  —  not  to  tell  them  what  he  had 
seen.  Had  he  made  ever  so  good  a 
book  out  of  his  really  remarkable  jour- 
ney, little  notice  would  have  been  taken 
of  it  Voyages  and  travels  were  looked 
upon  as  a  dull  branch  of  fiction,  —  not 
nearly  so  amusing  or  improving  as  cock- 
ney excursions  from  one  town  of  Fiance 
to  another  in  the  neighborhood,  de- 
scribed after  the  manner  of  Bachau- 
mont  and  Chapelle ;  not  sentimental 
journeys,  by  any  means  ;  eatings  drink- 
ing, and  sleeping  are  the  points  of  in* 
terest : — 

**  Boa  vin.  bon  site,  bon  lit, 
Belle  hfttesae,  boa  appMt." 

Even  Regnard,  who  had  seen  so  much 
of  the  world,  tried  his  hand  at  this  kind 
of  travel-writing  and  failed  lamentably. 
At  thirty,  Regnard  closed  a  chapter 
in  his  life,  and  turned  over  a  new  leaf. 
He  gave  up  wandering  and  gambling, 
the  ruling  passions  of  his  youth,  and 
settled  himself  comfortably  for  the  rest 
of  his  days.  For  occupation  and  official 
position,  he  bought  an  assistant-treas- 
urership  in  the  Bureau  des  Finances. 
His  house  in  the  Rue  Richelieu  became 
fiimous  for  good  company  and  good 
things,  intellectual  as  well  as  materiaL 
In  the  country  his  Terre  di  GriUon  was 
planted  with  so  much  taste  that  the 
lively  persons  who  liked  to  visit  there 
called  it  a  Stjour  enchantd.    In  laying 


i86s.] 


Regnard. 


703 


out  his  grounds,  his  intimate^  Dufres- 
ny,  was  doubtless  of  use  to  him.  This* 
spendthrift  poet,  reputed  great-grand- 
son of  Henri  Quatre  and  the  MU  jar^ 
dtniire^  had  great  skill  in  landscape 
gardening,  admitted  even  by  those  who 
found  his  verses  tedious.  He  it  was, 
probably,  who  introduced  Regnard  to 
the  stage.  For  several  years  they  sup- 
plied the  Theatre  Italien  with  amusing 
trifles,— -working  together  in  one  of  those 
literary  partnerships  so  common  among 
French  playwrights*  The  "Joueur" 
broke  up  this  business  connection.  Du- 
fresny  accused  Regnard  of  having  stol- 
en the  plot  from  him,  and  brought  out  a 
**  Joueur  '^  of  his  own.  Regnard  insist- 
ed that  Dufresny  was  the  pirate.  The 
public  decided  in  favor  of  Regnard. 
Dufresny's  play  was  hopelessly  damn- 
ed, and  no  appeal  ever  taken  from  the 
first  sentence.  The  verdict  of  the  bel- 
esprits  was  recorded  in  an  epigram, 
which  ended  thus:  — 

"Mais  quiconque  aujourd'hui  voit  I'lin  et  raatre 
ouvnige 
Dat  que  Regnard  a  TaTantage 
D'aroir  k\h  le  *boii  larron.'"* 

Dufresny  had  more  wit  than  dramatic 
talent  He  will  live  in  the  memories  of 
married  men  for  his  famous  speech,  — 

"  Comment,  Monsieur  I     Vous  nV  teiez  pas  oblig^." 

It  was  in  1696,  twelve  years  after  his 
return  to  Paris,  that  Regnard  sent  the 
« Joueur,"  a  comedy  in  five  acts,  and 
in  verse,  to  the  Theatre  Franqais.  It 
was  received  with  enthusiastic  applause. 
Nothing  equal  to  it  had  appeared  in 
twenty-four  years  since  the  death  of  the 
great  master;  nor  did  the  eighteenth 
century  produce  any  comedy  which  can 
be  compared  with  it  for  action,  wit,  and 
literary  finish, — not  excepting  the  "  Tur- 
caret "  of  Le  Sage,  and  Beaumarchats's 
*'  Barber  of  Seville,"  which  are  both  bet- 
ter known  to-day. 

Regnard  sat  to  himself  for  the  por- 
trait of  Val^re.  The  wild  and  fiiscinat- 
ing  excitement  of  play,  the  gambler's 
exultation  when  he  is  successful,  his  fu- 
rious curses  on  his  bad  luck  when  he 

*  The  proverbial  French  expression  for  the  thief 
who  rebuked  his  reviling  comrade  al  the  cniciiUioii. 


loses,  his  superstitious  veneration  for 
his  winnings,  are  drawn  from  the  life. 
When  Fortune  smiles,  Val^re  neglects 
Ang^lique,  his  rich  fianciej  when  he  is 
penniless,  his  love  revives,  and  he  is  at 
her  feet  until  his  valet  devises  some  new 
plan  of  raising  money.  He  swears,  if 
she  will  forgive  him,  never  again  to  touch 
dice  or  cards,  and  five  minutes  after- 
ward pledges  for  a  thousand  crowns  a 
miniature  set  in  diamonds  she  has  just 
given  him  to  bind  their  reconciliation, 
and  hurries  back  to  the  gaming-table. 
He  wins,  but  thinks  his  gains  too  sacred 
to  pay  away,  even  to  redeem  the  por- 
trait of  Ang^lique. 

"  Rien  ne  porte  malheur  oomme  de  payer  aes  dettes," 

is  his  answer  to  the  prudent  Hector,  — 
a  maxim  current  among  many  who  nev- 
er play.  At  last  comes  a  reverse  of  for- 
tune so  sweeping  that  he  cannot  con- 
ceal it.  Ang^lique  might  have  forgiven 
him  his  broken  promises,  but  the  pawn- 
broker enters  with  her  picture  and  de- 
mands the  thousand  crowns.  This  is 
too  much.  She  rejects  him  and  gives  her 
hand  to  his  rival.  His  indignant  father 
casts  him  off  forever.  But  no  feeling 
of  regret  or  of  repentance  arises  in  the 
mind  of  the  gambler.  He  turns  coolly 
upon  his  heel,  and  calls  to  his  valet,  — 

**  Va  I  va  I  consolons^ous,  Hector,— et  quelque  jour 
Le  Jeu  m*acquittera  des  pertes  de  I'amour.** 

Richard  is  the  name  of  this  prince  of 
rascally  and  quick-witted  valets  ;  but  he 
calls  himself  Hector,  after  the  knave  of 
spades,  because  he  serves  a  gambler. 
He  has  good  sense  as  well  as  ingenuity ; 
for  he  gives  his  master  the  best  advice, 
while  he  strains  his  invention  and  his 
impudence  to  help  him  on  to  destruc- 
tion. N^rine,  maid  to  Angdlique,  de- 
clares open  war  against  Val^re,  and  vows 
that  her  mistress  shall  not  throw  her- 
self away  upon  a  silly  dandy,  an  insipid 
puppet,  with  nothing  to  recommend  him 
but  his  fine  clothes  and  his  swagger. 

"True  enough,"  laughs  Hector,  "but 

"Celt  le  goAt  d'i  present ;  les  cris  soot  soperflus, 
Mon  enlant** 

''And  Valire  is  a  spendthrift,  an  in- 
veterate gambler,  who  will  bring  her  to 
misery  and  want" 


704 


Regnard. 


Uunc, 


"What  of  that? 


"Tant  que  tu  voudiaa,  parle,  prtche,  tempftte, 
Ta  maltresie  eic  coiff6e, . . . 
Elle  eft  dans  dm  filets." 

**And  such  an  outrageous  roui  that 
he  cannot  live  in  his  father's  house." 

"  We  do  not  deny  it,"  Hector  answers. 
"  It  is  no  fault  of  ours. 

"  Val^re  a  d^sert6  la  maison  paternelle, 
Mais  ce  o'est  point  i  lui  qu'il  faut  faire  querelle ; 
Et  d  Monsieur  son  pAre  avait  voulu  sortir, 
Nous  7  serions  encore ; . . . 
Ces  pires,  bien  souvent,  sont  obstxn^  en  diable." 

•  Nevertheless,  the  obdurate  parent,  in 
the  hope  of  reforming  his  son,  and  of 
providing  for  him  by  the  excellent  match 
with  Angdique,  hunts  up  the  prodigal 
and  lectures  him  after  the  manner  of  &- 
thers.  Hector  joins  in,  and  expresses 
strongly  his  disapprobatipn  of  games  of 
chance  ;  "  Us  jeux  innocentSy  oik  P esprit 
se  cUpioie^  are  the  only  safe  pastime. 

*'  But  will  oiu*  father  pay  our  debts 
this  time  ?  " 

"  Not  a  crown.'* 

^  Will  he  lend  us  the  money  at  one 
per  cent  a  month  ?  Once  out  of  this 
pecuniary  strait,  we  can  marry  Angd- 
lique,  and  be  rich  and  virtuous.  Be- 
sides, we  have  assets  as  well  as  debts : 
here  is  our  schedule.'' 

The  elder  softens  a  little  and  takes 
the  paper.  At  the  head  of  the  list  of 
debts  he  finds  Hector's  bill  for  wages* 
and  services  rendered,  leading  off  a 
long  file  of  Aarons  and  Levys ;  and  the 
assets  consist  of  a  debt  of  honor  owing 
by  an  officer  killed  at  the  Battle  of  Fleu- 
rus,  and  the  good-will  of  a  match  at 
tric-trac  with  a  poor  player  who  had 
already  lost  games  enough  to  make  his 
defeat  certain. 

The  action  of  the  comedy  does  not 
lag  or  limp  fix>m  the  opening  scene  to 
Val^re's  last  words.  The  versification  is 
easy  and  natural ;  the  dialogue  abounds 
in  wit  and  comic  humor ;  it  is  short  and 
quick,  with  none  of  those  tedious  dec- 
lamations which  weary  and  unsettle  the 
attention  of  an  audience.  Take  it  all 
in  all,  we  may  say,  that,  if  Moli^re  had 
chosen  the  same  subject,  he  could  hard- 
ly have  handled  it  better. 

Not  that  Regnard  can  pretend  to  rank 


with  Molite  in  genius,  or  even  near 
him.     The  <" Gambler"  is  admirably 
done ;  but  it  is  the  only  comedy  in  whidi 
Regnard  attempted  character.  He  drew 
from  his  experience.    Moli^re  was  so 
skilfiil  a  moral  anatomist  that  he  reqoiF- 
ed  only  a  whim  or  a  weakness  to  odd- 
struct  a  consistent  character.  This  won- 
derful man  found  the  French  comic  stage 
occupied  by  a  few  stock  personages,  im- 
ported from  Spain  and  Italy.    The  el- 
ders were  Others  or  uncles,  rich,  miser- 
ly, and  perverse,  instinctively  disposed 
to  keep  a  tight  rein  on  the  young  peo- 
ple, of  whose  personal  expenses  and 
matrimonial  projects  they  invariably  dis- 
approved. The  persecuted  juniors  were 
all  alike,  colorless  shadows,  mere  lay 
figures  to  hang  a  plot  on:  Uandn^ 
amant  de  CiUmlne;  Cilimhu  amumU 
de  Liandre :  helpless  creatures,  who 
would  have  been  quite  at  the  mercy  of 
the  old  dragons  of  the  story,  were  it 
not  for  the  powerful  assistance  of  the 
rascally  valets,  and  their  females  the  ras- 
cally soubrettes.    These  clever  sinners 
abounded  in  cunning  contrivances,  dis- 
guises, and  tricks,  which  resulted  in  the 
signal  discomfiture  of  the  parents  and 
guardians.     In  the  last  act,  they  are 
forced  to  consent  to  all  the  marriages, 
and  are  cheated  out  of  most  of  their 
property ;  they  are  even  lucky  to  escape 
with  their  lives.    There  was  no  mercy 
for  Age  in  those  plays. 

"  Pluck  the  lined  crutch  from  the  old  limping  sire : 
With  it  beat  out  hu  brains.** 

The  theatre  was  the  temple  of  j'outh, 
of  love,  and  of  feasting.  Away  with 
the  dull  old  people !  Providence  cre- 
ated them  only  to  pay  the  bills. 

"  Puyet  d^  sombre  vieilleiae,  — 
Car  en  amour  les  ▼ieiUards  ne  aont  boos 
Qu*ii  payer  les  violoos." 

Did  gendemen  of  a  certain  age  go  to 
the  theatre  in  the  seventeenth  century  ? 
expend  their  money  to  see  themselves 
abused  and  ridiculed  ?  Did  they  laugh 
at  these  indignities  and  enjoy  them? 
We  might  wonder,  if  we  did  not  know 
that  Frenchmen  never  grow  old,  so  long 
as  they  have  an  eye  left  for  ogling  or  a 
leg  to  caper  with. 


i865.] 


Rignatd. 


705 


Moli^  took  these  old  inhabitants  of 
the  stage  into  his  service,  and  injected 
-  new  life  into  their  veins.  He  gave  them 
the  foibles,  the  follies,  and  the  vices  he 
saw  about  him,  and  made  them  speak 
in  a  new  language  of  unrivalled  wit, 
humor,  and  mirth.  But  his  genius  was 
shackled  by  the  artificial  conventions  of 
the  theatre,  which  did  not  allow  him 
time  or  space  to  fully  develop  a  charac- 
ter. A  grand  comic  creadon  like  Fal- 
staff  was  impossible.  He  introduces  a 
single  propensity  of  mankind,  exhibits 
it  in  all  its  relations  to  society,  shows 
it  to  us  on  every  side ;  but  it  remains 
only  a  trait  of  character,  although  we 
see  it  in  half  a  dozen  different  lights. 
'Tartuffe  is  the  one  exception ;  in  him, 
hypocrisy  hides  covetousness  and  lust ; 
and  Tartuffe  is  Mdli^re's  masterpiece. 
But  in  roost  of  his  comedies  he  displays 
rather  a  knowledge  of  the  world  than 
a  knowledge  of  human  nature.  In  his 
walk  he  has  no  equal  at  home  or  abroad ; 
but  his  walk  is  not  the  highest  We 
feel  that  something  is  wanting,  and  yet 
we  can  hardly  extol  him  too  highly.  He 
brought  comedy  into  close  relation  with 
every-day  life ;  he  is  the  &ther  of  the 
modem  French  stage,  which  has  grad- 
ually cast  off  the  old  conventional  per- 
sonages. The'  French  dramatists  of  to- 
day are  not  men  of  genius  like  Moli^re, 
but,  in  their  airy,  sparkling  plays,  they 
represent  the  freaks,  follies,  and  fancies 
of  society  so  exquisitely  that  nothing 
remains  to  be  desired.  They  furnish 
the  model  and  the  materials  for  the  the- 
atre of  all  other  nations. 

When  Regnard  came  before  the  pub- 
lic, the  stage  remained  as  Moli^re  had 
left  it  The  only  new  personage  was  the 
Marquis,  first  introduced  in  the  ^  M^re 
Coquette,'*  by  Quinault,  the  sweet  and 
smooth  writer  of  operas,  —  of  whom  it 
was  said,  that  he  had  boned  {tUsoss^) 
the  French  language.  The  Marquis  is 
the  ancestor  of  our  Fop, — 

**  \x)fynt  in  monls  and  in  manners  vain. 
In  conversation  frivolous,  indreits  extreme,** — 

who  in  turn  has  become  antiquated  and 
tiresome.  Regnard's  only  original  char- 
acter is  the  Gambler ;  in  his  other  com- 
vou  XV.  —  NO.  92.  45 


edjes  he  made  use  of  the  old,  familiar 
masks,  and  won  success  by  his  keen 
sense  of  the  ridiculous,  his  wit,  and  his 
unceasing  jollity  and  fun«  His  Crispins 
and  Scapins  are  perfect  What  impu- 
dent, worthless,  amusing  rogues !  To 
keep  inside  of  the  law  is  their  only  rule 
of  right  "  Honesty  is  a  fool,  and  Trust, 
his  sworn  brother,  a  very  simple  gentle- 
man." They  came  of  an  ancient  race, 
these  Crispins  and  Scapins,  that  had 
flourished  in  Italy  and  in  Spain  since 
Plautus  and  Terence  brought  them  over 
from  Greece.  They  found  their  way  to 
France,  and  even  reached  England  in 
their  migration,  following  in  the  train 
of  Charles  II.  when  he  returned  from 
exile,  and  during  a  short  life  on  that 
side  of  the  Channel  added  drunken- 
ness and  brutality  to  their  gayer  vices. 
The  character  was  true  to  Nature  in 
Athens  or  in  Rome,  where  men  of  tal- 
ent might  often  be  bound  to  devote  their 
brains  to  the  service  of  those  who  own- 
ed their  bodies,  and  by  their  condition 
as  slaves  were  released  from  all  obliga- 
tions of  honor  or  of  honesty.  In  the 
seventeenth  century  it  might  pass  in 
France ;  for  the  line  between  gentle  and 
simple  was  so  sharply  drawn  that  ladies 
of  rank  saw  no  greater  impropriety  in 
disrobing  before  their  footmen  than  be- 
fore their  dogs.  But  the- progress  of 
^berty .  or  of  igaliU  blotted  out  the  va- 
lets of  comedy.  Even  in  Regnard's  time 
the  inconsistencies  of  the  character  were 
noticed.  Jasmin,  in  the  ^^S^r^nade," 
utters  revolutionary  doctrine  :  —  "  How 
can  an  honorable  valet  devote  himself 
to  the  interests  of  a  penniless  master  ? 
We  grow  tricky  in  waiting  upon  such 
fellows.  They  scold  us ;  sometimes 
they  beat  us.  We  have  more  wit  than 
they.  We  support  them ;  we  are  obliged 
to  invent,  for  their  benefit,  all  sorts  of 
knavery,  in  which  they  are  always  ready 
to  take  a  share ;  and,  withal,  they  are 
the  masters,  and  we  the  servants.  It  is 
not  just  Hereafter  I  mean  to  scheme 
for  myself  and  become  a  master  in  my 
turn." 

Scapin  has  joined  his  brother  pagans 
beyond  the  Styx;  but  Lisette  blooms 
in  evergreen  youth.  This  young  French 


7o6 


Regnard. 


[June, 


person's  theory  of  woman's  rights  is 
different  from  the  one  which  obtains  in 
New  England ;  nor  does  she  trouble 
herself  at  all  to  seek  for  woman's  mis- 
sion. She  found  it  years  ago.  It  is" to 
deceive  a  man.  She  is  satisfied  with 
her  condition,  and  with  the  old  mental 
and  moral  attributes  of  her  sex.  When 
Crispin  disguises  himself  in  her  clothes, 
he  exclaims,  — 

**  L'addresse  et  Taitifice  ont  pass4  dbtns  mon  coeur ; 
Qu'on  a  sous  cet  habit  et  d*esprit  et  de  rase  — 
Rlen  n'est  u  trompenr  qu'animal  porte-jupe.** 

This  animal  is  as  clever  and  as  cun- 
ning in  I'aris  to-day  as  when  Crispin 
felt  the  inspiration  of  the  petticoats. 

In  1708,  afler  another  period  of  twelve 
years,  **Lc  L^gataire  Universel"  was 
played  at  the  same  theatre.  In  this 
piece  the  author  relied  entirely  upon 
the  vis  comica  of  his  plot  and  dialogue. 
G^ronte,  a  rich,  miserly  old  bachelor, 
with  as  many  ailments  as  years, — 

'  Vieuz  et  cass^  fi6vretuc,  6pilcptique, 
Pualytique,  Clique,  asthmatique,  hydropique,''  — 

has  for  a  nephew  Ergaste,  with  well- 
grounded  hopes  of  inheriting,  and  that 
shortly.  These  are  suddenly  dashed 
by  the  announcement  that  his  uncle 
has  resolved  to  marry  IsabeUe,  a  girl 
to  whom  Ergaste  himself  is  attached. 
The  nephew  keeps  his  own  secret,  and 
judiciously  commends  the  choice  of  his 
uncle.  G^ronte  is  delighted  with  him  ; 
even  asks  his  advice  about  a  present 
for  the  damsel,  —  something  pretty,  but 
cheap. 

**  Je  ▼oudiais  invcnter  quelque  petit  eadcmi. 
Qui  coulftt  peu,  mais  qui  parAt  nouveau." 

Meeting  with  no  opposition,  the  old 
gentleman  gradually  loses  his  relish  for 
matrimony ;  and  Madame  Argante,  the 
mother,  promises  Ergaste  to  give  Isa- 
beUe to  him,  instead  of  to  his  uncle, 
provided  G^ronte  will  declare  his  neph- 
ew heir  to  his  estate.  Unluckily,  there 
are  two  other  collaterals,  country  cous- 
ins, whom  Gcronte  has  never  seen, 
but  whom  he  wishes  to  remember. 
Crispin,  valet  to  Ergaste,  assisted  by 
Lisette,  the  old  man's  housekeeper  and 
nurse,  personifies  first  the  male  and 
then  the  female  relative  from  the  rural 


districts  so  well  that  Gcronte  orders 
them  out  of  his  house  in  disgust,  swears 
that  he  will  not  leave  them  a  sous,  and 
sends  for  a  notary  to  draw  his  will  in 
fiivor  of  Ergaste.  But  the  excitement 
of  the  last  interview  with  Crispin,  as  a 
widow,  is  too  much  for  his  strength. 
He  becomes  unconscious,  and  appar- 
ently breathes  his  last  just  as  the  nota- 
ry knocks  at  the  door.  In  this  moment 
of  agonizing  disappointment,  the  indom- 
itable Crispin  comes  to  the  rescue.  He 
puts  on  the  dressing-gown  and  cap  of 
Gcronte,  redines  in  his  easy-chair,  coun- 
terfeits his  voice,  and  dictates  a  will  to 
the  notary.  Firstly,  he  bequeaths  to 
Lisette  two  thousand  crowns,  on  con- 
dition that  she  marry  Crispin  ;  second-* 
ly,  he  leaves  to  Crispin  an  annuity  of 
fifteen  hundred  crdwns,  to  reward  his 
devotion  to  his  master ;  the  rest  of  the 
estate,  real  and  personal,  to  go  to  Er- 
gaste. The  residuary  legatee  remon- 
strates warmly  with  the  testator  against 
his  foolish  generosity  to  Crispin  and 
Lisette  ;  but  the  sham  Gcronte  insists, 
and  Ergaste  is  obliged  to  submit  The 
notary  withdraws  to  make  the  neces- 
sary copies  of  the  will,  and  the  plotters 
are  chuckling  over  the  success  of  their 
plans,  when,  to  their  dismay,  Gcronte 
enters,  alive.  He  tells  them  that  he 
feels  his  strength  departing,  and  bids 
them  send  at  once  for  tlie  notary  to 
settle  his  worldly  a&irs.  The  notary, 
who  is  ignorant  of  any  deceit,  assures 
him  that  he  has  made  his  will  already, 
and  shows  him  the  document  The  con- 
spirators seize  the  chance  of  escape,  con- 
firm the  notary's  story,  and  relate  all  the 
circumstances  of  the  conference.  Gd- 
ronte  protests  that  he  recollects  nothing 
of  it ;  he  feels  certain  he  could  not  have 
given  more  than  twenty  crowns  to  Li- 
sette ;  as  to  Crispin,  he  had  never  heard 
of  him.  The  answer  is  always,  *'  Cest 
votre  UthargU.^^  While  perplexed  and 
hesitating,  the  old  man  discovers  that  a 
large  sum  in  notes  has  been  abstracted 
from  his  hoard.  Ergaste  had  secured 
them  as  an  alleviation  in  case  of  the 
worst,  and  had  placed  them  in  the  hands 
of  IsabeUe.  She  promises  to  return 
them,  if  Gcronte  will  make  Efgaste  his 


186$.] 


Regnard. 


707 


heir  and  her  husband.  In  his  anxiety 
for  his  money,  G^ronte  consents  to  ev- 
erything, and  allows  the  will  to  stand. 

Nothing,  La  Harpe  tells  us,  ever  made 
a  French  audience  laugh  so  heartily  as 
the  scene  of  the  wilL  Falbaire,  one  of 
the  poetes  nigligis  of  the  eighteenth 
century,  says,  in  a  note  to  his  drama, 
**  The  Monks  of  Japan,"  that  tlie  Jesuits 
furnished  Regnard  with  the  idea  of  this 
scene.  In  1626,  the  reverend  Others, 
by  precisely  the  same  stratagem  em- 
ployed by  Crispin,  obtained  possession 
of  the  estate  of  a  M.  d'Ancier  of  B^- 
Sanson,  who  died  suddenly  and  intes- 
tate. It  is  proper  to  add  that  M.  Fal- 
.baire*s  drama  was  written  against  the 
Jesuits. 

There  arc  two  other  plays,  out  of 
some  twenty  that  Regnard  published, 
which  will  repay  a  reader :  "  Les  Mc- 
ndchmes,"  imitated  from  Plautus,  like 
Shakspeare's  Dromios,  and  *^Ddmo- 
crite,*'*  which  reminds  one  a  little  of 
Molifere's  "Amphitryon."  Both  are 
distinguished  for  that  perpetual  ga3rety, 
the  most  pleasing  of  all  qualities,  which 
is  the  characteristic  of  their  author.  It 
seems  impossible  for  him  to  be  dull ; 
he  never  nods  ;  his  bow,  such  as  it  is, 
is  always  strung.  It  is  remarkable  that 
his  comic  scenes,  although  crammed 
with  fun,  never  run  down  into  farce ; 
nor  does  he  find  it  necessary  to  eke  out 
his  wit  with  buffoonery.  He  had  an 
instinctive  taste  which  preserved  him 
from  coarseness  \  although  he  wrote  a 
century  and  a  half  ago,  there  is  less 
of  the  low  and  indelicate  than  in  the 
plays  we  see  posted  at  the  doors  of  our 
theatres.    The  French  of  the  time  of 

*  DAmocrite,  in  an  attack  upon  a  heavy  dmer-out, 
■ay*,— 

"  U  creuae  «m  tombeaa  sans  cesie  arec  les  dents,**— 

and  thus  anticipates  Sir  Astley  Cooper  by  many 
years.  It  is  lucky  that  these  fellows,  who  took  a 
mean  advantage  of  seniority  to  get  off  our  good 
things  before  us,  have  perished,  or  they  mij^ht  give 
us  trouble.  At  least  two  Frenchmen  could  claim 
"the  glorious  Epicurean  paradox**  of  one  of  the 
■even  wise  men  of  Boston,  "Give  us  the  luxuries 
of  life,  and  we  will  dispense  with  its  necessaries,**  — 
M.  de  Voltaire,  and  M.  de  Coulanges  a  generation 
eariier.  These  "flashing  moments  **  of  the  wise  in 
Boston,  as  in  other  great  places,  are  often,  like  heat- 
ligfatntng,  reflectioos  of  a  pnvioiis  flash. 


Louis  XIV.  must  have  been  a  much 
more  refined  people  than  the  contem- 
porary English.  At  least,  Thalia  in 
Paris  was  a  vestal,  compared  with  her 
tawdry,  indecent,  and  drunken  London 
sister.  One  is  ashamed  to  be  seen 
reading  the  unblushing  profligacy  of 
Wycherley,  Gibber,  Vanbrugh,  and  Con- 
greve. 

We  must  admit  that  Regnard's  man- 
tle of  decorum  is  not  without  a  rent 
In  the  *^  L^gataire,"  as  in  the  "  Malade 
Imaginaire,"  may  be  found  a  good  deal 
of  pleasantry  on  the  first  of  the  three 
principal  remedies  of  the  physicians  of 
the  period,  as  mentioned  by  Moli^re  in 
his  burlesque  Latin  :  — 

**  Qysteriura  donare, 
Postea  purgare, 
Ensuita  seignare.** 

It  seems  to  have  been  a  good  joke  in 
France  then ;  it  is  so  now, — wonderfully 
fresh  and  new, — defying  time  and  end- 
less repetition.  American  eyes  do  not 
see  much  fun  in  it ;  they  rather  turn  away 
in  disgust  But  on  the  risible  organs 
of  the  French  purgative  medicines  op- 
erate violendy ;  and  the  favorite  weapon 
of  their  medical  service,  primitive  in 
shape  and  exaggerated  in  dimensions, 
is  a  property  indispensable  to  every  the- 
atre. Regnard  used  it  as  a  part  of  the 
stage  machinery,  —  worked  it  in  as  a 
stock  pleasantly,  the  effect  of  which 
was  certain.  Were  he  writing  now,  he 
would  do  the  same  thing.  But  in  the 
"Joueur"  nobody  is  ill ;  it  may  be  read 
by  that  typical  creature,  the  "  most  vir- 
tuous female,"  publicly  and  without  a 
blush. 

Gentlemen  and  ladies  whose  morals 
are  not  fully  fledged  are  generally  ad- 
vised to  beware  of  attempting  to  skim 
over  the  fiction  of  modem  France. 
They  may  take  up  Regnard  without 
risking  a  fall ;  for  there  is  little  danger 
of  being  led  astray  by  the  picaresque 
knaveries  of  Scapin  and  Lisette.  In 
1700  love  for  another  man's  wife  had 
not  come  to  be  considered  one  of  the 
fine  arts.  Nowadays  the  victims  of 
this  kind  of  misplaced  affection  are.the 
heroes  of  French  novels  and  plays.  The 
husband^  odious  and  tire8ome.<ar.<]^SaAi 


7o8. 


Regnard* 


LJunt, 


has  succeeded  to  the  miserly  father  or 
tyrannical  guardian.  He  is  the  giant  of 
French  romance,  who  keeps  the  lovely 
and  uneasy  lady  locked  up  in  Castle  Mat- 
rimony. He  cannot  help  himself,  poor 
fellow  1  —  he  is  compelled  to  fill  that 
unenviable  position,  whenever  Madame 
chooses.  Sentimental  young  Arthurs 
and  Ernests  stand  in  the  place  of  £r- 
gaste  and  Cl^ante,  and  are  always  ready 
to  make  war  upon  the  unlucky  giant 
They  overcome  him  as  of  old,  scale  the 
avails,  and  carry  off  the  capricious  fair 
one.  We  have  hardly  changed  for  the 
better.  Ergaste  and  Cldante  were  not 
sentimental,  but  they  were  marrying 
men  and  broke  no  commandments. 

Regnard's  life  of  fifty  years  covers 
the  whole  of  the  literary  age  of  Louis 
XIV.  Before  1660  the  French  had  no 
literature  worth  preserving,  except  Ra* 
belais,  Montaigne,  a  few  odes  of  Mai- 
herbe,  a  page  or  two  of  Marot,  and  the 
tragedies  of  ComeiUe.  Pascal  publish- 
ed the  "  Provincial  Letters  "  in  the  year 
of  Regnard's  birth.  La  Fontaine  had 
written  a  few  indifferent  verses;  Mo- 
li^re  was  almost  unknown.  In  1686, 
when  Regnard  became  an  author,  the 
Voitures,  Balzacs,  and  Benserades,  the 
men  of  fantastic  conceits,  the  vanguard 
of  the  grand  army  of  French  wits,  had 
marched  away  to  Pluto  and  to  Lethe. 
One  or  two  stragglers,  like  Manage  and 
Chapelle,  lingered  to  wonder  at  the 
complete  change  of  taste.  The  age  had 
ripened  fast.  Not  many  years  before, 
Barbin  the  bookseller  ordered  his  hacks 
to  faire  du  St  kvremond,  St  Evre- 
mond  was  still  living  in  England,  dirty 
and  witty;  and  Barbin  still  kept  his 
shop,  but  gave  no  more  orders  for  wares 
of  that  description.  Many  of  the  great- 
est names  of  the  era  were  already  carved 
on  tombs :  La  Rochefoucauld,  Pascal, 
ComeiUe,  Moli&re.  Bossuet  was  a  man 
of  sixty ;  La  Fontaine  a  few  years  older ; 
Boileau  and  Racine  close  upon  fifty. 
When  Regnard  died,  in  17 10,  the  eigh- 
teenth century  had  begun.  Fontenelle, 
Le  Sage,  Bayle,  men  of  nearly  the  same 
age  as  himself,  belong  to  it 

In  1686  King  Louis  had  reached  the 
full  meridian  of  his  Gloire^  Grtmdeur^ 


^clai.  No  monarch  in  Europe  was  so 
powerful  He  had  conquered  Flanders, 
driven  the  Dutch  under  water,  seized 
Franche-Comt^,  annexed  Lorraine,  rav- 
aged the  Palatinate,  bombarded  Algiers 
and  Genoa,  and  by  a  skilful  disregard 
of  treaties  and  of  his  royal  word  kept 
his  neighbors  at  swords'  points  until  he 
was  ready  to  destroy  them.  The  Em- 
peror was  afraid  of  him,  Philip  of  Spain 
his  most  humble  servant,  Charles  II. 
in  his  pay.  He  had  bullied  the  Pope, 
and  brought  the  Doge  of  Genoa  to  Paris 
to  ask  pardon  for  selling  powder  to  the 
Algerines  and  ships  to  Spain.  He  was 
Louis  U  Grandf  U  rai  vrainunt  roi^ 
U  demi-dieu  qui  nous  gouveme^  DeO' 
datus,  Sol  nee  pluribus  impar.  Re- 
gnard witnessed  the  cloudy  setting  of 
this  splendid  luminary.  After  the  secret 
marriage  with  Mme.  de  Maintenon,  xa 
1686,  Fortune  deserted  the  King.  He 
was  everywhere  defeated,  or  his  victo- 
ries were  Cadmean,  as  disastrous  a& 
defeats.  The  fleet  that  was  to  replace 
James  1 1,  on  his  throne  was  destroyed  at 
La  Hogue  by  RusselL  The  Camisards 
defied  for  years  the  army  sent  against 
them.  Rooke  took  Gibraltar.  Peter- 
borough defeated  the  Bourbon  forces 
in  Spain.  Blenheim,  Oudenaide,  Ra- 
millies,  Malplaquet,  brought  ruin  upon 
France  before  Regnard  was  withdrawn 
from  the  scene. 

Meanwhile  the  Eighteenth  Century, 
with  its  godlessness  and  its  debauch- 
ery, was  born.  Hypocrisy  watched  over 
its  in£uicy.  When  Louis  reformed, 
and  took  a  pious  elderly  second  wife,  it 
was  the  fiaishion  to  be  religious;  and 
whoever  wished  to  stand  well  at  court 
followed  the  fashion.  "You  who  live 
in  France  have  wonderful  advantages 
for  saving  your  souls,"  wrote  St  £vre- 
mond  from  London.  "Vice  is  quite  out 
of  date  with  you.  It  is  in  bad  taste  to 
sin, —  as  offensive  to  good  manners  as  to 
morality.  And  those  of  you  who  might 
be  forgetful  of  their  hereafter  are  led 
to  salvation  by  a  becoming  deference  to 
the  habits  and  observances  of  well-bred 
people."  The  monarch  himself  was  ut- 
terly ignorant  in  matters  of  religion; 
the  Duchess  of  Orleans  wrote  to  her 


1865.] 


RegnartL 


709 


German  friends,  that  he  had  never  even 
read  tiie  Bible.  He  was  shocked  to 
hear  that  Christ  had  demeaned  himself 
to  speak  the  language  of  the  poor  and 
the  humble.  "  //  avait  lafndu  char^OH" 
niery'*  Cardinal  Fleury  said, — the  blind, 
unreasoning  &ith  of  the  African  in  his 
fetich.  He  considered  it  due  to  \i\^gloiri 
to  assist  Divine  Providence  in  its  gov- 
ernment of  the  souls  of  men.  Was  he 
not  the  greatest  prince  of  the  earth,  the 
eldest  son  of  the  Church,  standing  near- 
er to  the  throne  of  grace  than  any  in- 
significant pope?  Of  course  he  was 
responsible  for  the  orthodoxy  of  his 
subjects,  a  demi-dUu  qui  nous  gouveme. 
He  came  to  think  religion  a  part  of  his 
royal  prerogative,  and  misbelief  treason 
against  his  royal  person.  He  was  quite 
capable  of  going  a  step  beyond  Cardi- 
nal Wolsey,  and  of  writing,  "  Ego  et  De- 
us  meus"  He  said  to  a  prelate  whose 
management  of  some  ecclesiastical  busi- 
ness particularly  gratified  him,  —  "7*- 
ignore  si  Dieu  vous  tiendra  campU  de 
la  conduite  que  vans  aves  ienue;  mais 
quant  d  moi,  je  vous  assure  que  je  ne 
toubiierai Jamais*^  The  spiritual  pow- 
ers are  never  backward  in  taking  advan- 
tage of  fevorable  circumstances :  Hu- 
guenots, Jansenists,  and  Quietists  were 
sternly  put  down,  and  the  girdle  of  su- 
perstition tightened  until  it  began  to 
crack.  The  skeptics  were  quiet,  —  ask- 
ed but  few  questions, —  pretended  to  be 
satisfied  with  the  time-honored  answers 
Mother  Church  keeps  for  her  uneasy 
children,  —  and  seemed  to  be  busy  with 
the  *•  Querelle  des  Anciens  et  des  Mo- 
demes,"  and  the  **  Dispute  sur  les  C^- 
r^monies  Chinoises."  It  was  not  yet 
the  time  for  them  to  announce  pompous- 
ly their  radical  theories  as  new  and  true. 
A  thin  varnish  of  decorum  and  ortho- 
doxy overspread  everything ;  but  one 
may  see  the  shadow  of  the  coming  R^- 
thence  in  Regnard's  works.  He  and  gen- 
tlemen like  him  went  to  mass  in  the 
morning,  and  to  pleasure  for  the  rest  of 
the  day  and  night 

*'  lb  tont  chr«ticnt  &k  iBMM, 
lis  lont  paYens  4  ropAn.** 

Regnard  was  almost  as  much  of  a  pa- 


gan as  his  favorite  Horace,  —  called  for 
wines,  roses,  and  perfumes,  and  sang 
his  Lydia  and  his  Lalage  almost  in  the 
same  words.  His  creed  and  his  phi- 
losophy were  pagan.  He  adored  three 
goddesses,  —  la  Comidie^  la  Musique^ 
la  bonne  Chh-e;  his  solution  of  the  prob- 
lem of  life  was  enjoyment 

"  Faire  tout  ce  qu'on  veut,  vivre  exempt  de  chagrin, 
Ne  se  rien  refuser,  —  VoU4  tout  mon  tystftme, 
Et  de  mes  Jours  aiim  j'attraperai  la  fin.** 

Wisdom  was  given  to  man  to  temper 
pleasure,  —  to  avoid  excess,  which  de- 
stroys pleasure.  Regnard  had  agreea- 
ble recoUections  of  the  past ;  the  pres- 
ent satisfied  him ;  he  was  as  careless  of 
the  unknown  future  as  De  Retz,  whose 
ipouvantable  tranquillity  appalling  ease 
of  mind  on  that  point,  so  shocked  poor 
Mme.  de  S^vign^.  All  other  specula- 
tions he  put  quietly  aside  with  a  doubt 
or  a  cui  bono.  It  was  a  witty  and  re- 
fined selfishness,  and  nothing  beyond. 
Spiritual  light,  faith,  none ;  hope  that 
to-morrow  might  pass  as  smoothly  as 
to-day ;  love,  only  that  particular  affec- 
tion which  man  feels  for  his  female 
fellow  •  creature.  Such  a  heathenish 
frame  of  mind  will  find  little  favor  in 
this  era  of  yearnings,  seekings,  teach- 
ings. It  was,  indeed,  a  lamentable  con- 
dition of  moral  darkness ;  but  the  error, 
though  grievous,  has  its  attractive  side. 

*'  On  court  apr^s  la  v^riti : 
Ah  I  croyei  moi,  I'erreur  a  son  m^te.** 

It  is  a  relief  in  these  dyspeptic  times 
to  turn  back  to  Regnard,  the  big,  rosy, 
and  jolly  pagan,  enjoying  to  the  utmost 
the  four  blessings  invoked  upon  the 
head  of  Argan  by  the  chorus  of  Doc- 
tors :  — 

**  SalvMi  honor  et  aisentun, 
Atque  bonum  appetitum.** 

Comfortable,  contented  with  himself  and 
with  the  world,  he  was  free  firom  the 
sadness,  the  misgivings,  and  the  ener> 
vating  doubts  which  overrun  so  many 
morbid  minds,  —  symptoms  of  mond 
weakness,  and  of  the  want  of  healthy 
occupation.  Hence  lady  poets,  more 
than  all  others,  love  to  indulge  in  these 
feeble  repinings,  and  take  the  privilege 
of  their  sex  to  shed  tears  on  paper. 


7IO 


Reguard. 


[June, 


In  his  bachelor  establishment,  Rue  de 
Richelieu,  there  was,  he  tells  us, — 

**  Gtande  chAre,  vin  d^Ucieux, 
Belle  roaiaon,  UbertA  toute  entiire^ 
Bala,  concerts,  enfin  tout  ce  qui  peut  satUfaire 
Le  goftt,  lest  oreitlec,  les  yeux.'* 

The  SocUU  ckoisie  was  numerous  ;  for 
a  good  cook  never  fails  to  make  friends 
for  his  master,  and  Regnard's  cook 
dealt  with  fat  capons,  plover,  and  or- 
tolans. His  lettuce,  mushrooms,  and 
artichokes  were  grown  under  his  own 
-^yes.  The  choice  vintages  of  France, 
in  casks,  lay  in  his  cellar.  He  gave 
wine  to  nourish  wit,  not  to  furnish 
an  opportunity  for  ostentatious  gabble 
about  age  and  price.  How  he  revels 
in  the  description  of  good  cheer !  There 
rises  from  his  pages  i\\^fumet  of  game 
and  the  bouquet  dun  vin  exquis, 

*'  Et  des  perdrix  I    Morblen  1  d'un  fumet  admirable 
Sentex  plutik.    Quel  baume  1    Mon  Dieu  I" 

Why  are  American  authors  so  com- 
monly wan  and  gaunt,  with  none  of 
the  external  marks  of  healthy  gayety  ? 
Is  it  the  climate,  or  the  lack  of  out-door 
exercise,  or  hot-air  furnaces,  or  rascally 
cooks  ?  They  look  as  if,  like  Bums's 
man,  they  "  were  made  to  n\ourn."  If 
they  conceive  a  joke,  their  sad,  sharp 
voices  and  angular  gesticulations  make 
it  miscarry.  Now  and  then  they  rebel 
against  their  constitutions,  poor  fellows, 
and  try  to  imitate  the  jovial  ancestors 
they  have  read  of;  babble  shrilly  of  if^- 
tes  cctnaque  DeUm,  petits  soupers^  and 
what  not.  It  is  mostly  idle  talk.  They 
know  too  well  that  digestion  does  not 
wait  upon  appetite  in  the  evening,  —  and 
that  they  will  feel  better  for  the  next 
week,  if  they  restrict  their  debauch  to 
dandelion  coffee  and  Graham  bread. 
Moreover,  the  age  of  conviviality  is 
gone,  as  much  as  the  age  of  chivalry. 
Petits  soupers  are  impossible  in  this 
part  of  the  world.  Let  us  manfully 
confess  one  reason :  they  cost  too  much. 
And  we  hav^  not  the  wit,  nor  the  wick- 
ed women,  nor  the  same  jolly  paganism. 
Juno  Lucina  reigns  here  in  the  stead  of 
Venus ;  and  Bacchus  is  two  dollars  a 
bottle. 

But  these  and  other  good  things  Re- 
gnard  had  in  abundance,  and  so  lived 


smoothly  and  happily  on,  defying  time, 
—  for  he  held,  with  Mme.  de  Thianges, 
"  On  ne  viellU  point  d  table,'*  until  one 
day  he  overiieated  himself  in  shootings 
drank  abundantly  of  cold  water,  and  fell 
dead,  —  Euthanasia.  He  died  a  bach- 
elor, and,  if  we  may  judge  from  many 
of  his  verses,  seems,  like  Thackeray,  to 
have  wondered  why  Frenchmen  ever 
married.  But  he  had  a  keen  eye  fcMT 
*<  the  fair  defect  of  Nature."  Strabon's 
description  of  young  Criseis  before  her 
glass  could  have  been  written  only  by 
an  amateur :  — 

"  Je  la  voyais  tantAt  decant  une  toilette 
D'une  motcke  asMotttiu  irriter  u*  attraiU^ 

Neither  Moli^re,  Regnard,  nor  Le 
Sage  was  a  member  of  the  Academy. 

Beranger  thinks  it  remarkable  that 
the  improvisations  folles  et  charmantes 
of  Regnard  should  now  be  neglected  in 
France.  We  do  not  recollect  tQ  have 
met  with  him  even  in  the  ''  Causeries  " 
of  Ste.  Beuve,  who  has  ransacked  the 
French  Temple  of  Fame  from  garret  to 
cellar  lox  feuilleton  materials;  yet  the 
^  L^gataire "  kept  a  foothold  on  the 
stage  for  a  hundred  and  twenty  years. 
But  the  Temple  of  Fame  is  overcrowd- 
ed. Every  day  some  worthy  fellow  is 
turned  out  to  make  room  for  a  new-co|n- 
er.  Our  libraries  are  not  large  enough 
to  hold  the  mob  of  authors  who  press 
in.  What  with  newspapers,  magazines, 
and  the  last  new  novel,  few  persons  have 
time  to  read  more  than  the  tides  on  the 
backs  of  their  books.  They  are  familiar 
with  the  great  names,  take  their  excel- 
lence on  trust,  and  allow  them  to  stand 
neglected  and  dusty  on  their  shelves. 
But  with  another  generation  the  great 
names  will  become  mere  shadows  of  a 
name ;  and  so  on  to  oblivion.  Father 
Time  has  a  good  taste  in  literature,  it 
is  true.  He  mows  down  with  his  crit- 
ical scythe  the  tares  which  spring  up 
in  such  daily  abundance  ;  but,  unfortu- 
nately, he  cannot  stop  there :  after  a 
lapse  of  years,  he  sweeps  away  also 
the  fruit  of  the  good  seed  to  make  room 
for  the  productions  of  his  younger  chil- 
dren. 


ft 


For  he  *a  their  poieat  and  he  it  their  (lave 


1865] 


yohn  Brown's  Raid. 


711 


The  .doom  is  universal ;  it  cannot  be 
avoided.  There  must  be  an  end  to  all 
temporal  things,  and  why  not  to  books  ? 
The  same  endless  night  awaits  a  Plato 
and  a  penny-a-liner.  Our  Eternities 
of  Fame,  like  all  else  appertaining  to 
humanity,  will  some  day  pass  away. 
Even  Milton  and  Shakspeare,  our  great 
staple  international  poets,  who  have 
bee6  brought  out  whenever  the  Ameri- 
can ambassador  to  England  dined  in 
public,  are  travelling  the  same  down- 
ward path.     How  many  of  us,  man  or 


woman,  on  the  sunny  side  of  thirty, 
have  gone  through  the  **Paradise  Lost  '*? 
And  Shakspeare,  in  spite  of  new  edi- 
tions and  of  new  commentators,  is  not 
half  as  much  read  as  fifty  years  since. 
Perhaps  the  time  will  come  when  Eng- 
lish speaking  people  will  not  know  to 
whom  they  owe  so  many  of  the  prov- 
erbs, metaphors,  and  eloquent  words 
which  enrich  their  daily  talk.  ^ 

Will  none  escape  this  inexorable  fete  ? 
Homer  and  Robinson  Crusoe  seem  to 
us  to  have  the  most  tenacity  of  life.  ^ 


\J        JOHN    BROWN'S    RAID: 

HOW  I  GOT  INTO  IT,  AND  HOW  I  GOT  OUT  OF  IT. 


IT  was  a  wet  Monday  in  October,  on 
my  return  from  a  journey,  with  a 
large  party  of  firiends  and  acquaintances, 
as  far  north  as  Chicago  and  as  fer  south 
as  St  Louis  and  the  Iron  Mountain. 
We  were  gradually  nearing  home,  and 
the  fun  and  jollity  grew  apace  as  we  got 
closer  to  the  end  of  our  holiday  and  to 
the  beginning  of  our  every-day  work. 
Our  day's  ride  was  intended  to  be  from 
Cumberland  (on  the  Baltimore  and  Ohio 
Railroad)  to  Baltimore.  The  murky  * 
drizzle  made  our  comfortable  car  all  the 
more  cozy,  and  the  picturesque  glories 
of  that  part  of  Western  Virginia,  through 
which  we  bad  come  very  leisurely  and 
enjoyably,  were  heightened  by.  the  con- 
trast of  the  dull  doud  that  hung  over 
the  valley  of  the  Potomac  At  Mar- 
tinsburg  the  train  was  stopped  for  an 
unusually  long  time;  and  in  spite  of 
close  questioning,  we  were  obliged  to 
satisfy  our  curiosity  with  a  confused 
story  of  an  outbreak  and  a  strike  among 
the  workmen  at  the  armory,  with  a  con- 
sequent detention  of  trains,  at  Harper's 
Ferry.  The  train'  pushed  on  slowly, 
and  at  last  came  to  a  dead  halt  at  a 
station  called  The  Old  Furnace.  There 
a  squad  of  half  a  dozen  lazy  Virginia 
fanners — we  should  call  them  a  picket 


just  now,  in  our  day  of  military  expe- 
riences— told  us  half  a  dozen  stories 
about  the  troubles  ahead,  and  finally  the 
people  in  charge  of  our  train  determin- 
ed to  send  it  back  to  wait  for  further 
news  from  below.  A  young  engineer 
who  was  employed  on  the  railroad  was 
directed  to  go  along  the  track  to  exam- 
ine it,  and  see  what,  if  any,  damage  had 
been  done.  As  I  had  brushed  up  an 
acquaintance  with  him,  I  volunteered 
to  accompany  him,  and  then  was  join- 
ed by  a  young  Englishman,  a  Guards- 
man on  his  travels,  one  of  the  .Welsh 
Wynns,  just  returning  horn  a  shooting- 
tour  over  the  Prairies.  We  started  off 
in  the  rain  and  mud,  and  kept  together 
till  we  came  to  a  bridle-path  crossing 
the  railroad  and  climbing  up  the  hills. 
Here  we  met  a  country  doctor,  who 
offered  to  guide  us  to  Bolivar,  whence 
we  could  come  down  to  the  Ferry,  and 
as  the  trains  would  be  detained  there 
for  several  hours,  there  would  be  time 
enough  to  see  all  the  armory  workshops 
and  wonders.  So  off  we  started  up  the 
muddy  hillside,  leaving  our  engineer  to 
his  task  on  the  railroad ;  for  what  pe* 
destrian  would  not  prefer  the  worst  dirt 
road  to  the  best  railroad  for  an  hour's 
walking  ?    Our  Englishman  was  ailing 


712 


yohn  Browris  Raid. 


[June, 


and  really  unwell,  and  half-way  up  the 
rough  hill  left  us  to  return  to  the  easy 
comfort  of  the  train. 

My  guide  —  Dr.  Marmion  was  the 
name  he  gave  in  exchange  for  mine  — 
said  that  the  row  at  the  Ferry  was  noth- 
ing but  a  riotous  demonstration  by  the 
workmen.  He  came  from  quite  a  dis- 
tance, and,  hearing  these  vague  reports, 
had  turned  off  to  visit  his  patients  in  this 
quarter,  so  that  he  might  learn  the  real 
^cts ;  and  as  it  was  then  only  a  little 
past  nine,  he  had  time  to  do  his  morn- 
ing's work  in  Bolivar.  So  there^  we 
parted,  he  agreeing  to  join  me  again  at 
the  Ferry ;  and  he  did  so  later  in  the 
day. 

Turning  to  the  left  on  the  main  pike, 
I  found  little  knots  of  lounging  villa- 
gers gathered  in  the  rain  and  mud, 
spitting,  swearing,  and  discussing  the 
news  from  the  Ferry.  Few  of  them 
had  been  there,  and  none  of  them 
agreed  in  their' account  of  the  troub- 
les ;  so  I  plodded  on  over  the  hill  and 
down  the  sharp  slope  that  led  to  the 
Ferry.  Just  as  I  began  the  descent,  a 
person  rode  up  on  horseback,  gun  in 
hand,  and  as  we  came  in  sight  of  the 
armory,  he  told  me  the  true  story, — 
that  a  band  of  men  were  gathered  to- 
gether to  set  the  slaves  free,  and  that, 
after  starting  the  outbreak  on  the  night 
before,  they  had  taken  reftige  down  be- 
low. He  pointed  with  his  gun,  and 
we  were  standing  side  by  side,  when  a 
sudden  flash  and  a  sharp  report  and  a 
bullet  stopped  his  story  and  his  life. 

The  few  people  above  us  looked 
down  from  behind  the  shelter  of  houses 
and  fences ; — from  below  not  a  soul  was 
visible  in  the  streets  and  alleys  of  Har- 
per's Ferry,  and  only  a  few  persons 
could  be  seen  moving  about  the  build* 
xngs  in  the  armory  xnclosure.  In  a 
minute,  some  of  the  townspeople,  hold- 
ing out  a  white  handkerchief,  came  down 
to  the  fallen  man,  and,  quite  undisturb- 
ed, carried  him  up  the  hill  and  to  the 
nearest  house,  —  all  with  hardly  a  ques- 
tion or  a  word  of  explanation.  Shock- 
ed by  what  was  then  rare  enough  to  be 
appadling,  —  sudden  and  violent  death 
by  fire-arms  in  the  hands  of  concealed 


men,  —  I  started  off  again,  meaning  to 
go  do\Tn  to  the  Ferry,  with  some  vague 
notion  of  being  a  peace-maker,  and  at 
least  of  satisfying  my  curiosity  as  to 
the  meaning  of  all  these  mysteries :  for 
while!  saw  that  that  fatal  rifle-shot 
meant  destruction,  I  had  no  conception 
of  a  plot 

Just  as  I  reached  the  point  where  I 
had  joined  the  poor  man  who  had  fidl- 
en,  —  it  was  a  Mr.  Turner,  formerly  a 
captain  in  the  army,  and  a  person  de- 
servedly held  in  high  esteem  by  all  his 
friends  and  neighbors, — a  knot  of  two 
or  three  armed  men  stopped  me,  and 
after  a  short  parley  directed  me  to  some 
one  in  authority,  who  would  hear  my 
story.  The  guard  who  escorted  me 
to  the  greats  man  was  garrulous  and 
kind  enough  to  tell  me  more  in  detail 
the  story,  now  familiar  to  all  of  us,  of 
the  capture  of  Mr.  Lewis  Washington 
and  other  persons  of  note  in  the.  Sun- 
day night  raid  of  a  body  of  unlmown 
men.  The  dread  of  something  yet  to 
come,  with  which  the  people  were  mani* 
festly  possessed,  was  such  as  only  those 
can  know  who  have  lived  in  a  Slave 
State ;  and  while  there  was  plenty  of 
talk  of  the  steadiness  of  the  slaves  near 
the  Ferry,  it  was  plain  that  that  was 
the  magazine  that  was  momentarily  in 
danger  of  going  off  and  carrying  them 
all  along  with  it 

The  officers  of  the  neighboring  mili- 
tia had  gathered  together  in  the  main 
tavern  of  the  pkice,  without  waiting  for 
their  men,  but  not  unmindful  of  the 
impressive  effect  of  full  uniform,  and 
half  a  dozen  kinds  of  military  toggery 
were  displayed  on  the  half-dozen  per- 
sons convened  in  a  sort  of  drum-head 
court -martial  I  was  not  the  only 
prisoner,  and  had  an  opportunity  to 
hear  the  redtals  of  my  fellows  in  luck. 
First  and  foremost  of  all  was  a  huge, 
swaggering,  black-bearded,  gold-chain 
and  scarlet- velvet -waistcoated,  pirati- 
cal-looking fellow,  who  announced  him- 
self as  a  Border  Ruffian,  of  Viiginia 
stock,  and  now  visiting  his  relations 
near  the  Ferry ;  but  he  said  that  he 
had  fought  with  the  Southern  Rights 
party  in  the  Kansas  war,  and  that  when 


i86s.] 


John  Bfowtis  Raid. 


713 


he  heard  of  the  **  raid,"  as  he  &mil- 
iarly  called  the  then  unfamiliar  feat  of 
the  Sunday  night  just  past,  he  knew 
who  was  at  the  top  and  bottom  of  it, 
and  he  described  in  a  truthful  sort  of 
way  the  man  whose  name  and  features 
were  alike  unknown  to  all  his  listeners, 
—  "Ossawatomie  Brown,"  "Old  John 
Brown."  Garnishing  the  story  of  their 
earlier  contests  with  plentiful  oaths,  he 
gave  us  a  lively  picture  of  their  person- 
al hand-to-hand  fights  in  the  West,  and 
said  that  he  had  come  to  help  fight  his 
old  friend  and  enemy,  and  to  fight  him 
fair,  just  as  they  did  in  ''  M'souri."  He 
wanted  ten  or  a  dozen  men  to  arm  them- 
selves to  the  teeth,  and  he  'd  lead  'em 
straight  on.  His  indignation  at  his  ar- 
rest and  at  the  evident  incredulity  of  his 
hearers  and  judges  was  not  a  whit  less 
hearty  and  genuine  than  his  curses  on 
their  cowardice  in  postponing  any  at- 
tack or  risk  of  fighting  until  the  arrival 
of  militia,  or  soldiers,  or  help  of  some 
land,  in  strength  to  overpower  the  little 
band  in  the  armory,  to  make  resistance 
useless,  and  an  attack,  if  that  was  neces- 
sary, safe  enough  to  secure  some  valiant 
man  to  lead  it  on. 

My  story  was  soon  told.  I  was  a 
traveller ;  my  train  had  been  stopped ; 
I  had  started  off  on  foot,  meaning  to 
walk  over  the  hill  to  the  Ferry,  and  ex- 
pecting there  to  meet  the  train  to  go  ot^ 
to  Baltimore.  The  interruptions  were 
plentiful,  and  the  talk  blatant  I  show- 
ed a  ticket,  a  memorandum-book  giving 
the  dates  and  distances  of  my  recent 
journey,  and  a  novel  (I  think  it  was  one 
of  Balzac's)  in  French,  and  on  it  was 
written  in  pencil  my  name  and  address. 
That  was  the  key-note  of  plenty  of  sus- 
picion. How  could  they  believe  any 
man  from  a  Northern  city  innocent  of 
a  knowledge  of  the  plot  now  bursting 
about  their  ears  ?  Would  not  my  travel- 
ling-companions from  the  same  latitude 
be  ready  to  help  free  the  slaves?  and 
if  I  was  set  at  liberty,  would  it  not  be 
only  too  easy  to  communicate  between 
the  little  host  already  beleaguered  in 
the  armory  engine-house  and  the  mjrth- 
ical  great  host  that  was  gathered  in  the 
North  and  ready  to  pour  itself  over  the 


South  ?  Of  course  all  this,  the  staple  of 
their  every-day  discussions,  was  strange 
enough  to  my  ears ;  and  1  listened  in  a 
sort  of  silent  wonderment  that  men 
could  talk  such  balderdash.  Any  se- 
rious project  of  a  great  Northern  move- 
ment on  behalf  of  Southern  slaves  was 
then  as  far  from  credible  and  as  strange 
to  my  ears  as  it  was  possible  to  be.  It 
seemed  hardly  worth  while  to  answer 
their  suggestions ;  I  therefore  spoke  of 
neighbors  of  theirs  who  were  friends 
of  mine,  and  of  other  prominent  per- 
sons in  this  and  other  parts  of  Virginia 
who' were  acquaintances,  and  for  a  lit- 
tle time  I  hoped  to  be  allowed  to  go 
free ;  but  after  more  loud  talk  and  a 
squabble  that  marked  by  its  growing 
violence  the  growing  drunkenness  of  the 
whole  party,  court  and  guard  and  spec- 
tators all,  I  was  ordered  along  with  the 
other  prisoners  to  be  held  in  custody 
for  the  present  We  were  marched  of^ 
first  to  one  house  and  tiien  to  another, 
looking  for  a  convenient  prison,  and 
finally  found  one  in  a  shop.  Here  —  it 
was  a  country  store  —  we  sat  and  smok- 
ed and  drank  and  chatted  with  our  guard 
and  with  their  friends  jnside  and  out 
Now  and  then  a  volley  was  fired  in  the 
streets  of  the  village  below  us,  and  we 
would  all  go  to  a  line  fence  where  we 
could  see  its  effects:  generally  it  was 
only  riotous  noise,  but  occasionally  it 
was  directed  against  the  engine-house 
or  on  some  one  moving  through  the  ar- 
mory-yard. 

As  the  militia  in  and  out  of  uniform, 
and  the  men  from  far  and  near,  armed 
in  all  sorts  of  ways,  began  to  come  in- 
to the  village  in  squads,  their  strengtl} 
seemed  to  give  them  increased  confi- 
dence, and  especially  in  the  perfecdy 
safe  place  where  I  sat  with  half  a  dozen 
others  under  a  heavy  guard.  Now  and 
then  an  ugly-looking  fowling-piece  or 
an  awkwardly  handled  pistol  was  threat- 
eningly pointed  at  us,  with  a  half-laugh- 
ing and  half-drunken  threat  of  keeping 
us  safe.  Toward  afternoon  we  were 
ordered  for  the  night  to  Charlestown, 
and  to  the  jail  there  that  has  grown  so 
famous  by  its  hospitality  to  our  success- 
ors.   The  journey  across  was  particu- 


7H 


John  Brown's  Raid. 


[June, 


larly  enlivening.  My  special  guard  was 
a  gentlemanly  young  lawyer,  one  of  the 
Kennedys  of  that  ilk ;  and  to  his  clever- 
ness I  think  I  owed  my  safe  arrival  at 
the  end  of  our  journey.  Every  turn  in 
the  road  brought  us  face  to  face  with  an 
angry  crowd,  gathering  from  far  and 
near,  armed  and  ready  to  do  instant 
justice  on  a  helpless  victim.  Kennedy, 
however,  gracefully  waived  them  back 
to  the  wagons  behind  us,  where  other 
prisoners,  in  less  skilful  hands,  were 
pretty  badly  used.  The  houses  on  the 
road  were  utterly  deserted ;  on  the  first 
news  of  an  outbreak  by  the  slaves,  the 
women  and  children  were  hurried  off 
to  the  larger  town&,  —  the  men  coming 
slowly  back  in  squads  and  arming  as 
best  they  could,  and  the  negroes  keep- 
ing themselves  hid  out  of  sight  on  all 
sides. 

The  eight  miles*  distance  to  Charles- 
town  was  lengthened  out  by  the  rain 
and  mud,  and  the  various  hindrances  of 
the  way,  so  that  the  day  was  closing 
as  we  came  into  the  main  street  of  the 
straggling  litde  town.  The  first  odd 
sight  was  a  procession  of  black  and 
white  children  playing  soldiers,  led  by 
a  chubby  black'  boy,  full  of  a  sense  of 
authority,  and  evidendy  readily  accept- 
ed by  his  white  and  black  comrades  in 
childlike  faith.  The  next  was  a  fine, 
handsome  house,  where  a  large  number 
of  ladies  from  the  country  round  had 
been  gathered  together,  and  as  we  were 
greeted  in  going  by,  my  guide  stopped, 
and  introducing  me,  I  explained  my  po- 
sition. They  were  all  ready  with  their 
sympathy,  and  all  overpowering  with 
their  gratitude,  when  I  pooh-poohed 
their  fear  of  a  great  Northern  invasion, 
and  said  that  the  people  of  the  North 
were  just  as  innocent  of  any  partici- 
pation in  this  business  as  they  them- 
selves were.  Our  line  of  march  resumed 
brought  us  to  the  prison,  and  I  was  not 
sorry  to  have  the  shock  of  an  enforced 
visit  somewhat  lessened  by  a  general 
invitation  from  mine  host  of  an  adjoining 
tavern  to  liquor  up.  Of  course  I  was  no- 
ways chary  of  invitations  to  the  crowd, 
and  the  bar-room  being  full,  I  made  the 
bar  my  rostrum,  and  indulged  in  a  piece 


of  autobiography  that  was  intended  to 
gain  the  general  consent  to  return  to  my 
fellow-travellers,  who  were  reported  stiU 
at  Martinsburg.  If  I  cannot  boast  of 
great  success  at  the  bar,  I  am  as  litde 
proud  of  my  eloquence  on  the  bar.  One 
of  the  Kennedys,  brother  to  my  guard, 
did  suggest  taking  me  to  his  house,  half 
a  mile  off;  but  to  that  Colonel  Daven- 
port, a  busding  great  man  of  the  village, 
answered,  that,  as  there  was  sure  to  be 
some  hanging  at  night,  it  would  be  safer 
to  be  in  the  prison,  where  I  really  could 
be  guarded,  as  well  from  the  mob  as 
from  any  escape  on  my  own  part,  and  it 
was  better  to  stay  contentedly  where  I 
was.  Doctor  Marmion,  my  acquaintance 
of  the  morning,  rode  over  to  find  me  and 
to  explain  his  part  in  my  visit  to  the 
Ferry,  hoping  that  such  a  confirmation 
of  my  story  would  secure  my  immediate 
release.  But  by  that  time  I  was  in  the 
custody  of  the  sheriff,  by  some  military 
legal  process ;  and  while  that  officer  was 
kind  and  civil,  he  refused  to  do  any- 
thing, except  promise  me  an  early  hear- 
ing before  the  court-mardal,  which  was 
to  reassemble  the  next  day.  Finally,  I 
was  husded  through  a  gaping,  pot-valiant 
crowd,  into  the  prison,  where  the  mob 
had  violendy  taken  possession ;  and  it 
was  a  good  while  before  I  could  be  got 
up  stairs  and  safely  locked  into  my  celL 
The  bolts  were  shot  pretty  sharply,  but 
the  sense  of  relief  from  the  threats  and 
impertinence  of  the  bullying  fellows  out- 
side quite  outweighed  my  sensation  of 
novelty  on  finding  myself  in  such  strange 
quarters.  My  supper  was  sent  up,  my 
friendly  guard  gave  me  cigars,  and  a 
buxom  daughter  of  the  jailer  lent  me 
a  candle.  I  lay  down  on  a  rough  cot 
and  was  soon  asleep ;  my  last  recollec- 
tion was  of  my  sturdy  guard,  armed  and 
wakeful,  in  front  of  my  cell ;  and  I  woke 
after  several  hours  of  sound,  refreshing 
slumber,  startled  by  the  noise  of  his  an- 
gry answers  to  some  still  more  angry 
and  very  drunken  men.  They  had,  so 
I  learned  parUy  then  and  partly  after- 
wards, broken  into  the  jail,  and  hurried 
from  the  cell  next  to  mine  a  poor  black 
prisoner,  who  was  forthwith  hanged ; 
and,  whetted  by  their  sport,  they  had 


1865.] 


yokn  Browtis  Raid. 


715 


returned  to  find  a  fresh  victim.  For- 
tunately, in  the  turmoil  of  their  first 
attack,  the  only  other  prisoner  easily 
got  hold  of  was  a  white  boy,  who  es- 
caped, while  I  owed  my  safety  to  Ken- 
nedy's earnest  protestations,  and  to  his 
ready  use  of  a  still  more  convincing 
argument,  a  loaded  pistol  and  a  quick 
hand. 

Early  morning  was  very  welcome, 
for  it  brought  the  court-martial  up  to 
Charlestown,  and  I  was  soon  ready  for 
a  hearing.  Fortunately,  after  a  good 
deail  of  angry  discussion  and  some 
threats  of  a  short  shrift,  a  message  came 
up  from  the  Ferry  from  Governor  Wise ; 
and  as  I  boldly  claimed  acquaintance 
with  him,  they  granted  me  leave  to  send 
down  a  note  to  him,  asking  for  his  con- 
firmation of  my  statements.  While  this 
was  doing,  I  was  paroled  and  served  my 
Kansas  colleague  by  advice  to  hold  his 
tongue ;  he  did  so,  and  was  soon  re- 
leased ;  and  my  messenger  returned  with 
such  advices,  in  the  shape  of  a  pretty 
sharp  reprimand  to  the  busy  court-mar- 
tial for  their  interference  with  the  lib- 
erty of  the  citizen,*as  speedily  got  me  my 
freedom.  I  used  it  to  buy  such  articles 
of  clothing  as  could  be  had  in  Charles- 
town,  and  my  prison  clothes  were  gladly 
thrown  aside.  Some  of  my  fellow-trav- 
ellers reached  the  place  in  time  to  find 
me  snugly  ensconced  in  the  tavern,  wait- 
ing for  an  ancient  carriage ;  with  them 
we  drove  back  to  the  Ferry  in  solemn 
state.  The  same  deserted  houses  and 
the  same  skulking  out  of  sight  by  the 
inhabitants  showed  the  fear  that  out- 
lasted even  the  arrival  of  heavy  militia 
reinforcements.  We  stopped  at  Mr. 
Lewis  Washington's  and,  without  let 
or  hindrance,  walked  through  the  pretty 
grounds  and  the  bright  rooms  and  the 
neat  negro  huts,  all  alike  lifeless,  and 
yet  showing  at  every  turn  the  sudden- 
ness and  the  recentness  of  the  fright 
that  had  carried  everybody  off.  Our 
ride  through  Bolivar  was  cheered  by  a 
vigorous  greeting  from  my  captor  of  the 
day  before,  —  the  village  shoemaker,  a 
brawny  fellow,  —  who  declared  that  he 
knew  I  was  all  right,  that  he  had  taken 
care  of  me,  that  he  would  not  have  me 


hanged  or  shot,  and  ''would  n't  I  give 
him  sum't  to  have  a  drink  all  round,  and 
if  I  ever  came  again,  please  to  stop  and 
see  him "  ;^and  so  I  did,  when  I  came 
back  with  my  regiment  in  war-times; 
but  then  no  shoemaker  was  to  be  found. 
I  paid  my  respects  to  Governor  Wise, 
and  thanked  him  for  my  release ;  was 
intr6duced  to  Colonel  Lee,  (now  the 
Rebel  general,)  and  to  the  officers  of 
the  littie  squad  of  marines  who  had  car- 
ried the  stronghold  of  the  ^  invaders,"  as 
the  Governor  persistentiy  called  them. 
In  company  with  ''  Porte  Crayon,"  Mr. 
Strothers,  a  native  of  that  part  of  Vir- 
ginia, and  well  known  by  his  sketches  of 
Southern  life  in  **  Harper's  Magazine," 
I  went  to  the  engine-house,  and  there 
saw  the  marks  of  the  desperate  defence 
and  of  the  desperate  bravery  of  John 
Bro^n  and  his  men.    I  saw,  too,  John 
Brown  himself.     Wounded,  bleeding, 
haggard,  and  defeated,  and  expecting 
death  with  more  or  less  of  agony  as  it 
was  more  or  less  near,  John  Brown  was 
the  finest  specimen  of  a  man  that  I  ever 
saw.    His  great,  gaunt  form,  his  noble 
head  and  fiice,  his  iron-gray  hair  and 
patriarchal  beard,  with  tiie  patient  en- 
durance of  his  own  suffering,  and  his 
painful  anxiety  for  the  fate  of  his  sons 
and  the  welfare  of  his  men,  his  reticence 
when  jeered  at,  his  readiness  to  turn 
away  wrath  with  a  kind  answer,  his 
whole  appearance  and  manner,  what  he 
looked,  what  he  said,— all  impressed  me 
with  the  deepest  sense  of  reverence.  If 
his  being  likened  to  anything  in  history 
could  have  made  the  scene  more  sol- 
emn, I  should  say  that  he  was  likest  to 
the  pictured  or  the  ideal  representation 
of  a  Roundhead  Puritan  dying  for  his 
fiuth,  and  silentiy  glorying  in  the  sacri- 
fice not  only  of  life,  but  of  all  that  made 
life  dearest  to  him.    His  wounded  men 
showed  in  their  patient  endurance  the 
influence  of  his  example ;  while  the  vul- 
gar herd  of  lookers-on,  fiur  representa- 
tives of  the  cowardly  militia -men  who 
had  waited  for  the  little  force  of  regulars 
to  achieve  the  capture  of  the  engine- 
house  and  its  garrison,  were  ready  to 
prove  their  fiurther  cowardice  by  mal- 
treating the  prisoners.    The  marines. 


7i6 


yohn  Browfis  Raid, 


[June, 


who  alone  had  sacrificed  life  in  the  at- 
tack, were  sturdily  bent  on  guarding 
them  from  any  harsh  handling.  I  turn- 
ed away  sadly  from  the  old^ian's  side, 
sought  and  got  the  information  he  want- 
ed concerning  *'  his  people,''  as  he  call- 
ed them,  and  was  rewarded  with  his 
thanks  in  a  few  simple  words,  and  in  a 
voice  that  was  as  gentle  as  a  wom'an's. 
The  Governor,  as  soon  as  he  was  told 
of  the  condition  of  the  prisoners,  had 
them  cared  for,  and,  in  all  his  bitter- 
ness at  their  doings,  never  spoke  of 
them  in  terms  other  than  honorable  to 
himself  and  to  them.  He  persistently 
praised  John  Brown  for  his  bravery  and 
his  endurance  ;  and  he  was  just  as  firm 
in  declaring  him  the  victim  of  shrewd 
and  designing  men,  whose  schemes  he 
would  yet  fathom. 

The  day  was  a  busy  one ;  for*littIe 
squads  of  regulars  were  sent  out  on 
the  Maryland  Heights  to  search  for  the 
stores  accumulated  there ;  and  each  for- 
aging party  was  followed  by  a  tail  of 
stragglers  from  all  the  volunteers  on  the 
ground,  who  valiantly  kept  on  to  the 
Maryland  side  of  the  bridge  that  cross- 
ed the  Potomac,  and  then,  their  courage 
oozing  out  of  their  fingers  and  toes  both, 
stopped  there  and  waited  for  the  return 
of  the  regulars.  On  the  instant  of  their 
arrival,  each  time  fetching  a  great  hay- 
wagon  full  of  captured  goods,  tents, 
picks,  spades,  pikes,  the  tag-rag  and 
bobtail  party  at  once  set  to  work  to  help 
themselves  to  the  nearest  articles,  and 
were  soon  seen  making  off  homeward 
with  their  contraband  of  war  on  their 
backs.  The  plunder,  however,  was  not 
confined  to  the  captured  property.  A 
strong  force  of  militia  soon  invaded  the 
armory,  and  every  man  helped  himself 
to  a  rifle  and  a  brace  of  pistols,  and  then, 
tiring  of  the  load,  began  to  chaffer  and 
bargain  for  their  sale.  Governor  Wise 
was  called  on  to  interfere  and  preserve 
the  Government  property ;  he  came  in- 
to the  little  inclosure  of  the  works,  and 
began  an  ek>quent  address,  but  seeing 
its  uselessne&s,  broke  off  and  put  his 
Richmond  Grays  on  guard;  and  then 
the  distribution  of  public  property  was 
made  through  the  regular  channels,  — 


that  is,  the  men  inside  brought  gnns 
and  pistols  to  the  men  on  guard,  and 
they  passed  them  out  to  their  friends 
beyond,  so  that  the  trade  went  on  al- 
most as  fi%e  as  ever. 

Night  soon  came,  and  it  was  made 
hideous  by  the  drunken  noise  and  tur- 
moil of  the  crowd  in  the  village  ;  mat- 
ters were  made  worse,  too,  by  the  Gov- 
ernor's order  to  impress  all  the  horses ; 
and  the  decent,  sober  men  tnidged  home 
rather  out  of  humor  with  their  patriotic 
sacrifice ;  while  the  tipsy  and  pot-valiant 
militia  fought  and  squabbled  with  each 
other,  and  only  ceased  that  sport  to 
pursue  and  hunt  down  some  fugitive 
negroes,  and  one  or  two  half-maddened 
drunken  fellows  who  in  their  frenzy 
proclaimed  themselves  John  Brown's 
men.  Tired  out  at  last,  the  Governor 
took  refuge  in  the  Wager  House ;  — for 
an  hour  or  two,  he  had  stood  on  the 
porch  haranguing  an  impatient  crowd 
as  ^  Sons  of  Virginia  1 "  Within  doors 
the  scene  was  stranger  stilL  Huddled 
together  in  the  worst  inn's  worst  room, 
the  Governor  and  his  staff  at  a  table  with 
tallow  candles  guttering  in  the  darkness, 
the  Richmond  Grays  lying  around  the 
floor  in  picturesque  and  (then)  novel 
pursuit  of  soft  planks,  a  motley  audience 
was  gathered  together  to  hear  the  pa- 
pers captured  at  John  Brown's  house  — 
the  Kennedy  firm  on  Maryland  Heights 

—  read  out  with  the  Governor's  running 
comments.  The  purpose  of  all  this  was 
plain  enough.  It  was  meant  to  serve 
as  proof  of  a  knowledge  and  instiga- 
tion of  the  raid  by  prominent  peisons 
and  party-leaders  in  the  North.  The 
most  innocent  notes  and  letters,  com- 
monplace newspaper- paragraphs  and 
printed  cuttings,  were  distorted  and 
twisted  by  the  reading  and  by  the  talk- 
ing into  clear  instructions  and  positive 
plots.  However,  the  main  impression 
was  of  the  picturesqueness  of  the  sol- 
diers resting  on  their  knapsacks,  and 
their  arms  stacked  in  the  dark  comers, 

—  of  the  Governor  and  his  satellites, 
some  of  them  in  brilliant  militia  array, 
seated  around  the  lighted  table, — and 
of  the  grotesque  eloquence  with  which 
either  the  Governor  or  some  of  his  prom- 


i865.] 


John  Btwmis  Raid. 


717 


inent  people  would  now  and  then  burst 
out  into  an  oratorical  tirade,  all  thrown 
away  on  his  sleepy  auditors,  and  lost  to 
the  world  for  want  of  some  clever  short- 
hand writer. 

In  the  morning  I  was  glad  to  hear 
that  my  belated  train  had  spent  the  last 
forty-eight  hours  at  Martinsburg,  and  I 
did  not  a  bit  regret  that  my  two  dajrs  had 
been  so  full  of  adventure  and  incident. 
Waiting  for  its  coming,  I  walked  once 
more  through  the  village,  with  one  of 
the  watchmen  of  the  armory,  who  had 
been  captured  by  John  Brown  and  spent 
the  night  with  him  in  the  engine-house, 
and  heard  in  all  its  freshness  the  story 
now  so  well  known.  Then  I  bade  Gov- 
ernor Wise  good-bye,  and  was  duly 
thanked  for  my  valiant  services  to  the 
noble  Mother  of  States,  and  rewarded  by 
being  offered  the  honorary  and  honora- 
ble title  of  A.  D.  C.  to  the  commander- 
in-chief  of  Virginia,  both  for  past  ser- 
vices and  for  the  future  tasks  to  be  met, 
of  beating  off  invading  hosts  from  the 
North,  —  all  in  the  Governor's  eye. 
Luckily  for  both  sides,  I  declined  the 
handsome  offer;  for  my  next  visit  to 
Virginia  was  as  an  A.  D.  C.  to  a  gen- 
eral commanding  troops,  not  of  the 
North,  but  of  the  United  States,  invad- 
ing, not  the  Virginia  of  John  Brown's 
time,  but  the  Virginia  of  a  wicked  South- 
em  Confederacy. 

Not  long  after,  I  received  a  letter 
of  thanks  from  Governor  Wise,  written 
at  Richmond  and  with  a  good  deal  of 
official  flattery.  His  son  Jennings,  an 
old  acquaintance  of  mine  in  pleasant 
days  in  Germany,  came  to  see  me,  too, 
with  civil  messages  from  his  Either. 
Poor  fellow !  he  paid  the  forfeit  of  his 
rebellious  treason  with  his  life  at  Roa- 
noke Island.  His  father  pays  the  heavier 
penalty  of  living  to  see  the  civil  war 
fomented  by  him  making  its  dreadful 
progress,  and  in  its  course  crushing  out 
all  his  ancient  popularity  and  power. 

In  spite  of  many  scenes  of  noble  he- 
roism and  devoted  bravery  in  legitimate 
warfare,  and  in  the  glorious  campaigns 
of  our  own  successful  armies,  I  have 
never  seen  any  life  in  death  so  grand 
as  that  of  John  Brown,  and  to  me  there 


is  more  than  an  idle  refrain  in  the  sol- 
emn chorus  of  our  advancing  hosts, — 

"  John  Brown**  body  Kes  raouldertng  in  the  gipund, 
As  we  go  marching  on  1  ** 

In  the  summer  of  1862, 1  was  brought 
again  to  Harper's  Ferry,  with  my  regi- 
ment, and  the  old  familiar  scenes  were 
carefully  revisited.  The  terrible  de-* 
struction  of  fine  public  buildings,  the 
wanton  waste  of  private  property,  the 
deserted  village  instead  of  the  thriving 
town,  the  utter  ruin  and  wretchedness 
of  the  country  all  about,  and  the  bleak 
waste  of  land  from  Harper's  Ferry  to 
Charlestown,  are  all  set  features  in  ev- 
ery picture  of  the  war  in  Virginia.  At 
my  old  head-quarters  in  Charlestown 
jail  there  was  less  change  than  I  had 
expected ;  its  sturdy  walls  had  withstood 
attack  and  defence  better  than  the  new- 
er and  more  showy  structures ;  the  few 
inhabitants  left  behind  after  the  ebb 
and  flow  of  so  many  army  waves.  Rebel 
and  Union  succeeding  each  other  at 
pretty  regular  intervals,  were  the  well- 
to-do  of  former  days,  looking  after  their 
household  gods,  sadly  battered  and  the 
worse  for  wear,  but  still  cherished  very 
dearly.  Of  my  old  acquaintances,  it 
was  a  melancholy  pleasure  to  learn  that 
Colonel  Baylor,  who  was  mainly  anxious 
to  have  me  hanged,  had  in  this  war  been 
reduced  to  the  ranks  for  cowardice,  and 
then  was  shot  in  the  act  of  desertion. 
Kennedy  was  still  living  at  home,  but 
his  brother  was  in  the  Rebel  service. 
The  lesser  people  were  all  scattered; 
the  better  class  of  workmen  had  gone 
to  Springfield  or  to  private  gun-shops  in 
the  North,— the  poorer  sort,  either  into 
the  Rebel  army  or  to  some  other  dim 
distance,  and  all  trace  of  them  was  lost 

The  thousands  who  have  come  and 
gone'  through  Harper's  Ferry  and  ^past 
Bolivar  Heights  will  recall  the  waste 
and  desolation  of  what  was  once  a  bloom- 
ing garden-spot,  full  of  thrift  and  indus-  , 
try  and  comfort  almost  unknown  else- 
where south  of  the  fatal  slave -line; 
thousands  who  are  yet  to  pass  that  way 
will  see  in  the  ruins  of  the  place  traces 
of  the  avenging  spirit  that  has  mark- 
ed forever  the  scene  of  John  Brown's 
Raid. 


7i8 


Sckufnawis  Quintette  m  E  Flat  Major. 


[June, 


SCHUMANN'S   QUINTETTE   IN    E   FLAT    MAJOR. 


IT  was  near  sundown  when  we  reach- 
ed the  sea-side  hotel.  By  the  time 
we  were  settled  in  our  apartment,  and 
I  had  my  invalid  undressed  and  in  bed, 
the  soft,  long  summer  twih'ght  was  near- 
ly over.  The  nrnid,  having  cleared  away 
the  litter  of  unpacking,  was  sitting  in  the 
anteroom,  near  enough  to  be  within  calL 
The  poor  suffering  body  that  held  so 
Kghtly  the  half-escaped  spirit  lay  on  the 
bed,  exhausted  with  the  journey,  but 
feeling  already  soothed  by  the  pleasant 
sea-breeze  which  sighed  gently  in  at  the 
open  window. 

Our  rooms  were  on  the  ground-floor 
of  a  one-story  cottage.  A  little  distance 
off  was  the  large  hotel,  to  which  the  cot- 
tage was  attached  by  a  long  arcade  or 
covered  gallery.  We  could  hear  frag- 
ments of  the  music  which  the  band  was 
playing  to  the  gay  idlers  who  were  wan- 
dering about  the  balconies  or  through 
the  hotel  grounds ;  while  laughs  and  lit- 
tle shrieks,  uttered  by  the  children  as 
their  pursuing  nurses  caught  them  up 
for  bed,  mingled  not  unpleasantly  with 
the  silvery  hum  arising  from  the  fash- 
ionable crowd  and  the  festal  clang  of 
the  instruments. 

Sleep  half  hovered  over,  half  winged 
oflf  from  the  pillow.  I  fanned  the  pea- 
cock plumes  slowly  to  and  fro  in  the 
delicious  air,  gazed  with  a  suppressed 
sigh  on  the  darkening  West,  and  re- 
peated with  a  rhythmical  beat  the  beau- 
tiful Hebrew  poem  in  Ecclesiasticus, 
which  I  had  so  often  recited  through 
many  long  years  by  the  side  of  that  sick- 
bed, to  soothe  the  ear  of  the  sufferer.  I 
had  just  reached  these  lines,  — 

"A  prewnt  remedy  of  all 
Is  the  speeding  coming  of  a  doud, 
And  a  dew  that  meeteth  it, 
By  the  heat  that  coneth. 
Shall  overpower  iL 

"At  Hn  woid  the  wind  is  ttill ; 
And  with  His  thought 
He  appcascth  the  deep : 
And  the  Lord  hath  planted  islands  therein,**— 

when  I  noticed  that  sleep  had  settled 


firmly  on  the  dark  eyelids,  and  the  pant- 
ing breath  came  throttig;h  the  poor  clay 
in  little  soughs  and  sighs,  as  if  body  and 
soul,  tired  with  comlKit,  had  each  sunk 
down  for  a  momentary  rest  on  the  weary 
battle-field  of  life. 

The  music  of  the  band  had  ceased ; 
the  gay  crowd  had  withdrawn  into  the 
hotel  to  prepare  for  the  entertainments 
of  the  evening,  and  there  was  a  lull  of 
human  sounds.  Then  arose  the  grand 
roar  of  the  ocean,  which  with  the  regu- 
lar break  of  the  billows  on  the  beach 
beneath  the  cliff  made  the  theme  where 
before  it  had  played  the  bass. 

I  crept  stealthily  out  of  the  bed-room, 
and,  after  exchanging  my  travelling- 
gown  for  a  cool  white  robe,  stretchMl 
my  tired  body  on  the  lounge  in  the  ante- 
room. 

There  I  lay  with  cold  finger-tips 
pressed  against  burning  eyelids,  and 
icy  palms  holding  with  a  firm  grasp 
throbbing  temples,  under  which  flowed 
the  hot,  seething  tide  of  mortal  anguish, 
anxiety,  and  aching  love.  Some  one 
touched  me  on  the  shoulder.  I  looked 
up.  It  was  Max  who  was  standing  be- 
side me. 

''There  is  a  great  musical  treat  for 
you,"  he  said  in  a  low  voice.    ^  The 

A Society  is  here,  and  also  part 

of  B ^'s  Opera  Troupe,  with  Madame 

C ^,andD ^,  the  great  tenor.  The 

troupe  and  society  united  are  to  give 
such  a  concert  as  rarely  fiiUs  to  the  lot 
of  mortals  to  hear.  I  never  saw  a  bet- 
ter programme.    Look  I " 

I  read  over  the  concert-bilL  First 
there  was  an  overture ;  then  several 
scenes  from  '*  Lucia  di  Lammermoor," 
— that  great  Shakspearian  drama,  whose 
dread  catastrophe  of  Death  and  Doom 
leaves  in  the  memory  of  the  hearer  a 
heavenly  sorrow  tmmixed  with  earthly 
taint  It  was  the  master-work  of  two 
poets,  Scott  and  Donizetti,  who  had 
conceived  it  at  the  best  period  of  their 
lives,  when  they  were  in  all  the  vigor 
of  manhood,  and  when  mind  and  foncy 


1865.] 


Schumantis  Quintette  in  E  Flat  Major. 


719 


had  become  ripened  by  experience.  It 
was  formed  in  one  of  those  supreme  in- 
stants, which  come  like  *' angels'  vis- 
its ''  to  artists,  when  they  were  enabled, 
through  a  power  more  like  inspiration 
than  art,  to  throw  aside  all  outward  influ- 
ences, and  fashion  as  deftly  as  Nature 
could  the  sad  life  of  the  Master  of  Ra- 
*  venswood  and  his  "sweet  spirit's  mate." 

The  Lucia  scenes  were  grouped  to- 
gether and  occupied  the  main  part  of 
the  programme.  They  were  those  that 
told  the  story  of  the  brief  passion,  from 
the  sweet  birth  of  love  up  to  the  solemn 
hour  when  both  lovers  passed  away  to 
that  resting-place  '*  where  nothing  cotdd 
touch  them  further." 

My  eyes  lingered  over  the  tides  of 
the  scenes,  while  my  memory  swiftly  re- 
called their  characteristics : — the  First 
Duet  between  Lucia  and  Edgardo,  a  pas- 
sionate burst  of  youthful  love,  as  deli- 
cious as  the  tender  dialogues  between 
Romeo  and  his  Juliet ;  —  the  Sextette, 
that  masterly  pyramidal  piece  of  vocal 
harmony,  in  which  the  voices  group 
around  those  of  the  two  lovers,  and  all 
mount  up  glowingly  like  a  flame  on 
a  sacrificial  altar;  —  the  heart-rending 
passage  where  Lucia's  spirit,  frantic 
through  woe,  rises  supreme  over  na- 
tive timidity  and  irresolution,  and,  with 
one  fierce  burst  of  love  and  grie^  which 
•tartles  alike  tyrant  and  friend,  soars 
aloft  in  the  terrible,  but  grand  realm  of 
madness ;  —  and  the  Finale,  where  the 
dying  Edgardo  sighs  out  that  delicious 
air  which  has  been  well  styled,  "  a  mel- 
ody of  Plato  sung  by  a  Christian  soul." 

The  programme  closed  fitly  with  Schu- 
mann's Quintette  in  E  flat.  Major. 

This  Quintette  is  one  of  remarkable 
power  and  beauty.  It  is  for  'rano,  viola, 
first  and  second  violin,  and  'cello.  It 
is  divided  into  four  movements :  AlU^ 
gro  brillante;  In  moda  (t  una  Mar* 
da;  Scherzos  and  Allegro  ma  nan 
troppo. 

As  I  handed  the  bill  back  to  Max,  he 
whispered  to  my  maid,  who  left  the  room 
an  instant,  and  returned  with  a  mande 
on  her  arm. 

'*Come,"  he  said,  in  a  decided  tone, 
''you  must  go,  and  quickly,  too^  for 


they  are  already  playing  the  overture. 
You  can  surely  trust  Ernestine  with  the 
watching,  as  you  will  be  such  a  short 
distance  off;  my  serving-man  shall  wait 
in  the  arcade,  and  come  for  you,  if  you 
are  needed." 

Then,  raising  me  with  kind  force 
from  the  lounge,  he  wrapped  the  man- 
tle around  me.  As  we  passed  out,  we 
stood  for  an  instant  at  the  bed-room- 
door,  looking  at  the  invalid.  The  breath 
still  came  in  short  pants,  but  the  truce 
was  being  kept:  sleep  had  come  in 
between  as  a  transient  mediator. 

I  noticed  in  the  dim  light  the  attenu- 
ated frame,  the  shrunken  features,  the 
pinched  nostrils,  the  very  shadowy  out- 
lining of  death.  With  choking  throat 
and  swelling  breast  I  looked  at  Max, 
my  eyes  saying  what  my  voice  could 
not, — 

"  I  cannot  go." 

Without  a  word  of  reply,  he  lifted  me 
out  of  the  apartment,  and  in  a  few  mo- 
ments we  were  sitting  in  a  dim  comer 
of  the  concert -room,  listening  to  the 
charming  First  Duet 

The  scenes  followed  one  another  rap- 
idly, and  displayed  even  more  power- 
fully than  I  had  ever  noticed  before  the 
one  pervading  theme.  Sense  and  im- 
agination became  possessed  with  it ;  at 
each  succeeding  passage  the  interest  in- 
creased continuously,  until  at  the  end 
the  passion  mounted  up  as  on  mighty 
wings  and  carried  my  sad  heart  aloft 
and  beyond  "the  ordinary  conditions 
of  humanity." 

The  prima  donna,  Madame  C ^ 

and  Signor  D ,  the  tenor,  had  a  sad 

story  of  scandal  floating  about  them ; 
it  was  on  every  one's  lips.     Madame 

C was  no  longer  in  her  first  youth, 

but  she  was  still  very  beautiful,  more 
attractive  than  she  had  been  in  her 
younger  days,  —  so  those  said  who  had 
seen  and  heard  her  years  before. 

Her  young  womanhood  had  been  de- 
voted to  patient,  honest  study,  which 
was  rewarded  with  success,  and  calm, 
passionless  prosperity.  She  had  mar- 
ried briUiantly,  and  left  the  stage,  but 
after  an  absence  of  many  years  had  re- 
turned to  it  to  aid  her  husband  in  some 


7ao 


Sckumatifis  QuiiUette  in  E  Flat  Major. 


[June, 


reverse  {^fortune.  Her  married  life  had 
been  tranquilly  happy,  for  she  had  loved 
with  all  the  sweet  serenity  of  a  cold,  un- 
exacting  nature. 

But  now  it  was  whispered  that  this 
beautiful,  pure  woman,  who  had  resist- 
ed— indeed,  like  another  Una,  had  nev- 
er felt — the  temptations  which  had  en- 
vironed her  on  the  stage,  and  in  the 
courtly  circle  to  which  she  had  been 
raised  by  her  husband^s  rank,  was  be- 
ing strangely  influenced  by  a  gifted, 
handsome  tenor  singer,  with  whom  she 
had  been  associated  since  her  return  to 
her  professional  life. 

This  person  was  about  her  husband's 
age,  a  year  or  two  her  senior,  and  un- 
married. The  in&tuation,  it  was  said, 
existed  on  both  sides,  and  the  two  lov- 
ers were  so  blinded  by  their  strange 
passion  as  to  seem  unconscious  of  any 
other  sight  or  presence.  The  husband, 
report  added,  behaved  with  remarkable 
prudence  and  good  breeding;  indeed, 
some  doubted  if  he  noticed  the  affair,  — 
for  he  treated  not  only  his  wife,  but  the 
reputed  lover,  with  familiar  and  kind 
friendliness. 

The  recollection  of  this  scandal  flitted 
over  my  memory  as  I  listened  to  the  First 

Duet    Madame  C was  a  blonde ; 

she  bad  rich,  deep  violet  eyes,  and  a 
lovely  skin :  her  hair,  too,  was  a  waving 
mass  of  the  poet's  and  painter's  golden 
hue.  She  was  about  middle  heighti  and 
had  a  full,  well-developed  person. 

**  When  I  saw  her  in  Paris  and  Vien- 
na, twenty  years  ago,"  whispered  Max, 
"  she  was  too  pale  and  slender,  and  the 
expression  of  those  brilliant  eyes  was 
as  oold  and  still  as  glacier  depths." 

Not  so  now,  I  thought,— for  they  £aiirly 
blazed  with  a  passionate  fire,  as  the  mu- 
sic welled  up  on  her  beautifiil  quivering 
lips;  indeed,  the  melody  appeared  to 
come  from  Aem,  as  much  as  from  her 
mouth,  and  I  seemed  to  be  listening 
with  my  looks  as  well  as  my  hearing. 
She  was  not  well,  evidently,— for  there 
was  a  bright  red,  feverish  spot  on  either 
cheek,  and  her  movements  were  feeble 
and  trembling ;  but  her  voice  was  full  of 
the  deepest  pathos*' 

*'  In  her  best  days  she  never  sang  so 


well,"  said  Max,  as  the  room  rang  with 
applause  at  the  termination  of  the  duo. 
''Time  may  have  taken  away  a  little 
fidness  from  her  lower  notes ;  but  the 
touching  tenderness  which  envelops 
them,  as  a  purple  mist  hanging  over 
a  forest  in  autumn,  fully  compensates 
for  the  loss  of  youthful  vigor." 

Her  voice  was,  indeed,  wonderful,  — 
not  simply  clear  and  flexible,  but  daz- 
zling and  glancing,  like  the  lightning 
that  plays  around  the  horizon  on  a  hot 
midsummer's  night ;  and  her  execution 
was  as  if  the  Cherub  All- Knowledge 
and  the  Seraph  All- Love  had  united 
their  divine  powers  in  one  human  form* 

In  the  Sextette,  which  followed,  the 
tenor  showed  to  great  advantage.  His 
voice,  though  no  longer  young,  was 
beautifully  managed ;  it  had  an  exqui- 
site timbrsy  and  on  this  night  there  was 
added  to  it  a  rare  expression  and  char- 
acter. 

When  he  asked  the  poor  trembling 
Lucia  if  the  signature  to  the  marriage 
contract  was  hers,  there  was  a  concen- 
trated rage  in  his  singing  that  was  fear- 
ful ;  and  Madame  C almost  cowered 

to  the  floor,  as  he  held  her  firmly  by 
the  wrist, — for  the  scenes  were  sung 
in  costume  and  with  action, — and  de- 
manded,— 


"Ameri^pondL    Son  tne  cifret 

Her  affirmative  was  like  the  silvery 
wail  of  a  fallen  angel.  Then  followed 
the  terrible  imprecation  passage.  Ha 
darted  out  the 

"MaledettosiarUtante!** 

with  such  startling  fury  that  the  notes 
and  words  seemed  to  be  forked,  sting- 
ing, serpent  tongues. 

The  Stretta  ensued,  and  the  music- 
tide  flowed  so  high  and  full  that  the 
fashionable  audience  forgot  all  artifi- 
cial conventionalities,  and  >ielded  them- 
selves freely  to  the  ennobling  emotions 
of  human  sympathy.  Above  the  whole 
sublime  assemblage  of  sounds  wailed 
out  that  fearful  note  of  the  fidlen  cher- 
ub; and  the  fainting  of  Lucia,  at  the 
close  of  the  Sextette,  I  felt  sure  was 
not  a  feigned  one. 

As  the  curtam  fell  over  the  temporaxy 


186$.] 


Schumanris  Quintette  in  E  Flat  Major. 


721 


stage,  several  gentlemen  hurried  out  to 

make  inquiries  about  Madame  C ^ 

for  there  seemed  to  be  an  opinion  simi- 
lar to  mine  pervading  the  room.  The 
curtain  rose,  and  it  was  announced  that 
she  was  too  ill  to  sing  again ;  but  the 
murmur  of  regret  was  silenced  almost 
immediately  by  the  appearance  of  the 

chorus  with  Signor  D »  the  tenor. 

They  began  the  Finale.   Signor  I) 

looked  haggard  and  wan,  but  very  stem, 
and  there  was  more  of  wrath  than  re- 
pentance in  his  singing.  Was  it  £uicy 
or  reality  ?    The  heart-rending 

"O  beir  alma  innamorata  f " 

seemed  to  be  accompanied  by  distant, 
half- veiled  sobs.  No  one  else  appeared 
to  notice  them,  and  I  half  doubted  their 
reality. 

The  Finale  ended ;  and  for  a  few  mo- 
ments the  gay  crowd  buzzed,  and  some 
stood  up  and  looked  about  at  their  neigh- 
bors. The  interval  was  short,  howev- 
er,— for  the  Quintette  performers  came 
upon  the  stage,  and  took  their  places. 

I  leaned  back  and  covered  my  face 
with  my  hand.  My  memory  was  still 
ringing  with  echoes  of  the  forlorn  cry 
of  wrecked  love,  mingled  with  the  im- 
aginary sobs  I  had  just  heard ;  therefore 
I  hardly  listened  to  the  majestic  open- 
ing of  full,  harmonious  chords,  which 
lead  grandly  into  a  sort  of  cantabile 
movement 

The  curious  modulations  which  fol- 
lowed aroused  me,  and  I  soon  busied 
myself  in  tracing  the  changes  from  ma- 
jor to  minor,  and  from  one  minor  key 
to  another,  as  sorrows  chase  each  other 
in  life.  Just  at  this  part  of  the  compo- 
sition occurs  the  passage  wliich  sounds 
like  a  weird,  ghostly  call  or  summons  ; 
when  I  heard  it,  my  fancy  began  work- 
ing, and,  like  Heine,  I  saw  spectres  in 
the  music  sounds. 

The  air  seemed  to  have  grown  sud- 
denly ''nipping  and  eager."  I  uncon- 
sciously drew  my  mantle  around  my 
shoulders,  as  a  shiver  ran  over  me,  such 
as  nurses  tell  us  in  childhood  is  caused 
by  some  one  walking  over  our  graves.  I 
fancied  I  saw  before  me  the  ghost  scene 
in  ^  Hamlet"     There  was  the  casde 

VOL.  XV.  —  NO.  92.  46 


platform,  —  the  gloomy  battlements, — 
the  sound  of  distant  wassail ;  and  dimly 
defined  by  the  vague  light  of  my  iancy, 
stood  the  sad  young  Danish  prince,  shiv* 
ering  in  the  ''  shrewd,  biting  "  night-air, 
tortured  w^ith  those  apprehensions  and 
sickening  doubts 

"  That  cloud  the  mind  and  fire  the  bnun,** 

but  talking  with  a  feigned  and  courtly 
indifference  to  his  dear  friend,  "  the  pro- 
found scholar  and  perfect  gentleman," 
Horatio ;  and  in  the  gloom  around  them 
seemed  to  be  arising  the  questionable 
shape  which  was 

"  So  horridly  to  shake  his  dispositioa.'* 

Strangely  the  music  displayed  its  fine 
forms,  mingling  most  curiously  with, 
while  it  created,  my  fiucied  pictures, 
— and  though  my  senses  followed  the 
changing  visions,  which  flitted  like  a 
phantasmagoria  before  my  eyes,  my 
mind  traced  clearly  the  music  train ; 
but  when  the  diminished  seventh  re- 
solved gracefully  into  the  melody  which 
is  taken  alternately  by  'cello  and  viola, 
— the  close  of  the  first  movement, — 
my  vision  faded  gradually  away. 

There  was  a  short  pause,  but  the  fine 
artists  who  were  executing  the  Quin- 
tette did  not  by  any  undignified  move- 
ment break  the  illusion  which  the  mu- 
sic had  created ;  although  a  violin-string 
needed  raising,  it  was  done  with  quiet 
and  skilful  dexterity,  and  they  proceed- 
ed to  the  second  movement 

Smoothly  and  moiunfiilly  the  Funeral 
March  opened.  The  solemn  melody 
which  glides  softly  through  it  is  totally 
unlike  the  restless  trampings  of  Fate 
heard  in  other  great  compositions  of  the 
kind;  yet  Fate  is  unmistakably  there, 
quiet,  but  relentless,  like 


"the  Pontic 
Whose  icy  current  and  compulsiire  course 
Nc*cr  feels  retiring  ebb,  but  keeps  due  on." 

The  Scherzo^  with  its  beautiful  octave 
run  for  the  piano  and  delicious  change 
of  harmony  in  the  next  measure,  —  the 
weird  melody  sketched  out  by  the  first 
violin,  and  then  yielded  up  to  the  piar 
no,  —  and  the  strange,  but  truly  in- 
spired, modulations  which  follow,  — 
lapped  my  spirit  in  a  sweet  bewilder- 


722 


Schumann  s  Quintette  in  E  Flat  Major, 


Qune^ 


ment  I  forgot  all  the  before  and  after 
of  that  "  sad  and  incapable  story  "  of 
human  life  and  love  which  my  £uicy 
had.  been  weaving  from  the  coarse,  vul- 
gar threads  of  common  rumor ;  and  even 
^e  pictures  vanished  which  had  been 
evoked  of  the  young  prince, 

'*  In  his  Uown  youth  blasted  with  ecstasy.* 

I  ceased  following  the  modulations,  in- 
teresting as  they  were  ;  for  often  music 
fills  the  thoughts  so  full  that  the  ear 
forgets  to  listen  to  the  sweet  harmo- 
nies. 

But  I  was  again  aroused  by  the  fine 
suspension  and  sequence  which  open 
the  last  movement  of  the  Quintette,  — 
the  Allegro  ma  non  troppo.  The  fiigued 
passage,  the  reiteration  of  the  opening 
theme,  and  the  sad  close  were  all  as 
tragic  as  the  last  scene  in  '*  Hamlet,"4he 

*'  quarry  that  cries  on,  Havoc  I  **  — 

but  it  was  also  as  graceful  and  touching 
as  the  words  of  the  dying  prince  to  his 
friend, — 

"  Horatio,  I  am  dead  : 
Thou  liv'st.    Report  me  and  my  cause  aright 
To  the  unsatisfied." 

A  thousand  rumors  flitted  about  the 
room  as  the  concert  broke  up.  Madame 

C was  so  ill,  they  feared  she  was 

dying ;  and,  strange  to  say,  the  tenor, 
on  leaving  the  platform  after  the  Lucia 
finale,  had  been  seized  with  violent 
cramps  and  vomitings,  which  could  not 
be  checked,  and  he  also  was  lying  in  a 
very  critical  state.  There  were  dark 
hints  and  many  improbable  imaginings. 

"  All  was  not  well,  they  deemed ; 
Some  knew  perchance, 
And  some  besides  were  too  discreetly  wise 
To  more  than  hint  their  knowledge  in  surmise.** 

About  an  hour  after  midnight  I  was 
lying  on  the  lounge  in  the  anteroom 
of  the  cottage.  The  faithful  maid  had 
taken  my  place  by  the  sick-bed, — for 
my  invalid  was  still  sleeping.  It  was  a 
long,  quiet  sleep ;  and  so  low  and  peace- 
ful had  grown  those  suffering,  panting 
breaths,  that  they  almost  startled  me 
into  a  hope  of  happier  days.  Could 
health,  long  absent,  be  returning  ?  A 
state  of  continuous  illness,  if  free  from 
acute  pain,  would  be  a  relief. 


These  half-formed  hopes  made  me 
restless,  and,  instead  of  taking  the  phys- 
ical repose  I  needed,  I  rose  from  the 
lounge,  and  walked  out  on  the  desert- 
ed lawn  in  front  of  the  cottage.  The 
moon  was  at  the  full,  and  shone  bright- 
er than  day's  twilight  The  night  was 
warm,  but  not  oppressive, — for  there 
was  a  gentle  air  blowing,  filled  with  the 
invigorating  briny  odor  of  the  ocean ; 
yet  I  felt  choked  and  stifled. 

*<Just  for  a  breath  firom  the  beach/' 
I  said  to  myself,  as  I  descended  the 
steps  leading  down  from  the  clifil 

On  reaching  the  sands,  instead  of 
being  alone,  as  I  had  hoped,  I  found 
two  persons  already  there.  I  drew  back 
quickly,  intending  to  return ;  but  they 
were  passing  too  swiftly  to  notice  me. 
As  they  went  by,  the  bright  full  moon 
gleamed  over  their  pale,  wan  faces,  and 

I  recognized  in  them  Madame  C 

and  the  tenor! 

They  were  talking  eamesdy,  in  low, 
rapid  Italian.  She  leaned  on  his  arm, 
—  indeed,  they  seemed  to  be  sustaining 
each  other,  for  both  appeared  feeble 
and  faint ;  but,  tottering  as  they  were, 
they  sped  rapidly  by,  and  so  near  to 

me  that  the  comer  of  Madame  C ^"s 

mantle  flapped  in  my  face,  and  left  a 
strange  subtile  perfume  behind  it 

But  what  struck  me  most  was  the 
expression  of  their  faces,  —  such  wild^ 
sad,  longing,  entreating  love  !  As  they 
disappeared  around  a  comer  of  the 
cliff  which  jutted  out,  a  dreadful  sus- 
picion seized  me.  Could  they  be  seek- 
ing self-destmcdon  ?  Were  they  going 
to  bury  their  unhallowed  love,  with  its 
shame  aifd  sorrow,  in  one  wildering 
embrace  beneath  those  surgidg  ocean- 
waves  ? 

As  one  in  a  dream,  I  moved  along 
the  beach,  hardly  knowing  whither  I 
went  Mechanically  I  ascended  the 
flight  of  steps  which  led  to  the  part  of 
the  cliff  directly  opposite  the  hotel  en- 
trance. As  I  walked  up  the  lawn,  I 
noticed  a  great  commotion  in  the  house. 
There  were  lights  flitting  about,  people 
running  up  and  down  stairs,  and  many 
persons  talking  confusedly  on  the  gal- 
lery and  in  the  halL 


1 86s.] 


Schumantis  Quintette  in  E  Flat  Major. 


72s 


"  What  is  the  matter  ?  "  I  asked  of  a 
waiter  who  was  passing  near  me,  look- 
ing frightened  and  bewildered 

He  stopped,  and  answered  with  all 
the  keen  eagerness  of  an  untrained  per- 
son, to  whom  the  communicating  of  a 
startling  story  to  an  uninformed  supe- 
rior is  a  perfect  godsend. 

"  Very  strange  doings,  Ma'am, — very 
strange  ! " 

"  Aha  I "  I  thought ;  "  they  have  dis- 
covered the  absence  or  flight  of  those 
unhappy  creatures." 

*'  Very  strange  doings  I  "  he  repeat- 
ed. "The  foreign  lady  who  sang  to- 
night and  the  gentleman  too,  is  both 
dead" 

*«  Dead !  "  I  exclaimed.  "  Why,  you 
are  mistaken.  I  saw  them  just  this  in- 
stant on  the  sands  below  the  clifll" 

The  man  looked  at  me  as  if  be 
thought  me  crazy. 

"  I  mean  the  singers,  Ma'am,  —  them 
as  sang  at  the  concert  to-night  They 
was  both  taken  nigh  about  the  same 
time,  was  handled  just  alike,  and  died 
here  a  little  while  ago,  a'most  at  once, 
as  you  might  say.  Folks  is  talking 
hard  about  the  husband  of  the  Ma- 
dame." 

Then  he  added,  in  a  lower  tone,  con- 
fidentially, '*They  do  say  he  poisoned 
'em ;  for,  you  see,  he  it  was  that  dress- 
ed the  lobster  salad  at  dinner,  and 
made  'em  both  eat  hearty  of  it,  though 
they  were  unwilling;  and  now  they 
have  him  over  in  the  office  there,  in 
custody." 

"  But,  my  good  man,"  I  said,  as  soon 
as  I  could  get  my  breath,  "  I  assure 
you  they  are  not  dead." 

"  Well,  Ma'am,  if  you  don't  believe 
my  words,  you  can  see  'em  with  your 
own  eyes,  if  you  choose  "  ;  and  he  led 
the  way  into  the  hall  of  the  hotel. 

I  followed  him.  We  entered  a  side 
room,  —  a  sort  of  reception  salan^  — 
where  the  two  poor  creatures  were,  in- 


deed, lying  extended  on  sofas.  Several 
startled  persons  were  gazing  at  them, 
but  the  larger  portion  of  the  crowd  were 
drawn  off  to  the  other  side  of  the  hotel, 
where  the  unhappy,  stunned  husband 
was  listening  to  the  fearful  charges  of 
murder,  —  murder  oi  his  wife  and  his 
friend  I 

I  stepped  up  to  the  dead  bodies, — 
one  after  the  other.  Their  dresses  had 
not  even  been  changed.  The  stage 
finery  looked  very  pitiful.  A  muslin 
mantle  had  been  thrown  over  Madame 

C 's  bare  shoulders  and  beautiful 

bosom ;  from  it  arose  the  same  curious 
perfume  I  had  noticed  on  the  beach. 
It  was  as  if  that  delicate,  rare  smell 
had  been  kept  in  a  box  of  some  kind 
of  odoriferous  resinous  wood 

I  touched  their  cold  brows,  their  icy 
fingers,  —  noticed  the  poor  features, 
drawn  by  acute  suffering, — and  strange 
as  it  was,  I  could  see  on  both  faces,  as  if 
behind  a  gauzy  film,  the  same  sad,  wild, 
longing  look  of  love  I  had  observed  on 
the  countenances  of  those  two  shadowy 
beings  I  had  met  on  the  sands. 

I  left  the  hotel,  and  walked  to  the 
cottage,  with  my  mind  in  a  sad,  bewil- 
dered state.  I  entered  the  open  door, 
and  went  to  the  sick-room.  There  stood 
Max  and  Ernestine,  and  she  was  weep- 
ing. 

''  It  is  all  over  !  "  he  said ;  '<and  I 
am  glad  she  was  not  here." 

I  advanced  hurriedly  forward,  pushed 
them  aside,  and  stood  by  the  bed  Yes, 
that  long,  quiet  sleep  had,  indeed,  been 
a  forerunner  of  life,  —  the  true  life !  All 
was  truly  over,  —  the  long  years  of  suf- 
fering, the  blessed  years  of  loving  care, 
the  combat  and  the  struggle ;  and  on 
the  batde-field  rested  the  dread  shad- 
ows of  Night  and  Death ! 

And  I  ?  I  sank  on  the  poor  body- 
shell  with  one  low,  long  wail,  and  hfa- 
ture  kindly  extended  over  me  her  bless- 
ed veil  of  forgetfulness. 


7H 


Richard  Cobden. 


(June, 


RICHARD    COBDEN. 


ON  the  third  day  of  April  last  a  most 
impressive  and  unusual  scene  was 
witnessed  in  the  English  House  of  Com- 
mons. For  some  time  before  the  hour 
for  sitting,  the  members  had  gathered 
about  the  halls  and  lobbies  in  whisper- 
ing groups.  One  of  its  leading  mem- 
bers had  passed  away,  and  there  was  a 
consultation  as  to  whether  the  House 
should  move  an  adjournment  It  is 
not  the  custom  of  the  House  of  Com- 
mons to  adjourn  in  case  of  the  death 
of  one  of  its  members,  unless  that  mem- 
ber is  an  officer  of  the  Government  or 
of  extraordinary  prominence.  The  last 
person  for  whom  it  had  adjourned  was 
Sir  G.  Cornwall  Lewis.  It  was  con- 
sidered in  the  present  case  that  there 
were  some  members  whose  hostility  to 
the  departed  would  not  stop  at  the 
grave,  and  that  the  harmony  which 
alone  would  make  an  adjournment  grace- 
ful as  a  tribute  would  be  unattainable  ; 
so  it  was  decided  that  the  motion  should 
not  be  made.  When  the  great,  deep- 
toned  Westminster  clock  struck  four, 
the  members  took  their  seats.  Then 
slowly  entered  the  ministers,  with  Lord 
Palmerston  at  their  head ;  and  for  some 
moments  sitting  there  with  their  hats 
on,  one  might  have  supposed  it  a  silent 
meeting  of  Friends.  At  this  moment 
aU  eyes  were  turned  to  the  door  9s  one 
entered  who  is  a  Friend  indeed  :  heav- 
ily, with  head  bowed  under  his  terri- 
ble sorrow,  John  Bright  walked  to  his 
place,  by  the  side  of  which  was  a  vacan- 
cy never  to  be  filled.  Lord  Palmerston, 
on  rising,  was  received  with  a  cheer 
which  rang  through  the  hall  like  a  wail- 
ing cry,  and  was  followed  by  a  deep 
hush.  As  the  white-haired  old  man, 
who  had  seen  the  leading  men  of  more 
than  two  generations  fall  at  his  side, 
began  to  speak  of  the  "great  loss" 
which  the  House  and  the  nation  had 
suffered,  his  voice  quivered,  and  recov- 
ered itself  only  when  it  sank  to  a  low 
tone  that  was  deeply  pathetic.  And 
when,  having  recounted  the  instances 


in  which  Richard  Cobden,  with  his 
"great  ambition  to  be  useful  to  his 
country,"  had  been  signally  useful,  each 
instance  followed  by  the  refusal  of  prof- 
fered honors  and  emoluments,  he  said, 
"Mr.  Cobden's  name  will  be  forever 
engraved  on  the  most  interesting  pages 
of  the  history  of  this  country,"  there 
was  a  spontaneous  burst  of  applause 
throughout  the  House.  When  Mr.  Dis- 
raeli arose  to  speak  concerning  the 
man  whom  for  so  many  years  he  had 
met  only  in  uncompromising  political 
combat,  it  was  at  once  felt  how  irresist- 
ible was  the  force  of  a  right  and  true 
man.  No  yielding,  equivocating,  South- 
by -North  politician  could  ever  have 
brought  a  lifelong  antagonist  to  stand 
by  his  grave  and  say, — **  I  believe,  that, 
when  the  verdict  of  posterity  is  record- 
ed on  his  life  and  conduct  it  will  be 
said  of  him,  that,  looking  to  all  he  said 
and  did,  he  was  without  doubt  the  great- 
est political  character  the  pure  middle 
class  of  this  country  has  yet  produced, 
—  an  ornament  to  the  House  of  Com- 
mons, and  an  honor  to  England."  Then 
arose,  as  if  trying  to  lift  a  great  burden, 
noble  John  Bright  Twice  he  tried  to 
speak  and  his  voice  failed ;  at  length, 
with  broken  utterance,  but  with  that 
eloquent  simplicity  which  characterizes 
him  beyond  all  speakers  whom  I  have 
heard,  —  "I  feel  that  I  cannot  address 
the  House  on  this  occasion.  Every 
expression  of  sympathy  which  I  have 
heard  has  been  most  grateful  to  my 
heart ;  but  the  time  which  has  elapsed, 
since  I  was  present  when  the  manliest 
and  gentlest  spirit  that  ever  actuated  or 
tenanted  the  human  form  took  its  flight, 
is  so  short,  that  I  dare  not  even  attempt 
to  give  utterance  to  the  feelings  by 
which  I  am  oppressed.  I  shall  leave  it 
to  some  calmer  moment,  when  I  may 
have  an  opportunity  of  speaking  to  some 
portion  of  my  countrymen  the  lesson 
which  I  think  will  be  learned  from  the 
life  and  character  of  my  friend.  I  have 
only  to  say,  that,  after  twenty  years  of 


i865.] 


Richard  Cobden. 


725 


most  intimate  and  most  brotherly  friend- 
ship with  him,  I  little  knew  how  much 
I  loved  him,  until  I  found  that  I  had 
lost  him."  As  he  spoke  the  concluding 
words,  which  plaintively  told  his  sense 
of  loneliness,  the  tears  that  can  become 
a  manly  man  came  thick  and  fast,  and 
all  who  were  in  the  House  wept  with 
htm.  There  have  been  cases  in  which 
the  House  of  Commons  has  adjourned 
in  honor  of  deceased  members;  but 
perhaps  never  before  has  it  showed  its 
emotions  in  generous  tears.  Did  I  say 
that  all  wept  ?  I  must  recall  it  There 
actually  were  two  or  three  who,  during 
the  entire  scene,  had  nothing  but  sneers 
to  give,  and  sat,  as  I  heard  a  member 
remark,  ^  a  group  fit  for  the  pencil  of 
Retzsch,  fresh  from  its  delineations  of 
Mephistopheles."  I  need  not  write  up- 
on the  page  which  mentions  Richard 
Cobden  their  names,  which,  to  reverse 
Palmerston's  praise,  are  engraved  only 
upon  the  least  creditable  pages  of  the 
history  of  their  own  or  o^  others'  coun* 
tries. 

When  John  Bright  sat  down,  some 
minds  were  borne  back  over  eight  years 
when  Cobden  was  addressing  a  large 
public  meeting  without  the  presence  of 
his  usual  companion.  Mr.  Bright  was 
then  in  the  far  South,  in  consequence 
of  ill -health  of  a  character  to  excite 
grave  apprehension  among  his  friends. 
During  his  address,  Mr.  Cobden,  having 
occasion  to  allude  to  his  absent  friend, 
was  so  overpowered  by  his  feelings  that 
he  could  not  proceed  for  several  min- 
utes ;  and  rarely  has  a  great  audience 
been  so  deeply  moved  as  was  that  by 
this  emotion  in  one  to  whose  heart, 
true  and  ruddy,  any  sentimentality  was 
onattributable. 

To  write  the  history  of  this  firiend- 
ship  between  Bright  and  Cobden,  to 
tell  how  the  sturdy  hearts  of  these 
strong  men  became  riveted  to  each 
other,  would  be  to  record  the  best  pa- 
ges of  recent  English  history.  For 
these  men  joined  hacds  at  the  altar  of 
a  noble  cause;  and  their  souls  have 
been  welded  in  the  fires  of  a  fierce  and 
unceasing  struggle  for  humanity. 

Richard  Cobden  was  bom  near  Mid- 


hurst,  Sussex,  at  his  father's  farm-house, 
Dunford,  June  3,  1804.  His  father  was 
one  of  the  class  who  regarded  the  repeal 
of  the  Com  Laws  as  identical  with  their 
ruin.  Young  Richard  was  at  an  early 
age  placed  in  a  London  warehouse, 
where  he  so  pressed  every  leisure  mo- 
ment of  his  time  into  the  acquisition  of 
information  that  his  employer  reproved 
him  with  a  warning  that  lads  so  fond 
of  reading  were  apt  to  spoil  their  pros- 
pects. (This  old  gentleman  afterwards 
became  unfortunate,  and  the  young  man 
he  had  thus  warned  contributed  fifty 
pounds  for  his  comfort  every  year  until 
his  death.)  There  has  been  some  at- 
tempt on  the  part  of  certain  persons, 
who  have  never  forgiven  Mr.  Cobden 
for  their  being  in  the  wrong  in  the  mat- 
ter of  the  Com  Laws,  to  sneer  at  him 
as  an  uncultivated  man.  This  was,  of 
course,  to  be  expected  by  one  who 
made  all  the  old  bones  in  the  scholas- 
tic coffins  at  Oxford  rattle  again  and 
again,  by  declaring  that  he  regarded 
''a  single  copy  of  the  '  Times '  newspa- 
per as  of  more  importance  than  all  the 
works  of  Thucydides,"  —  a  thing  which 
he  has  for  some  years  been  willing  to 
pledge  himself  not  to  repeat, — or  illus- 
trating the  nature  of  English  education 
by  representing  Englishmen's  complete 
knowledge  of  the  Ilissus,  which  he  had 
once  seen  dammed  up  by  washerwom- 
en, and  their  utter  ignorance  of  the  Mis- 
sissippi, flowing  its  two  thousand  miles 
through  a  magnificent  country  peopled 
by  their  own  race.  But  these  partisan 
sneers  could  not  affect  the  judgment 
of  any  who  knew  Mr.  Cobden,  or  those 
who  read  his  works  on  Russia  and  the 
United  States  and  his  pamphlets  on  sub- 
jects of  current  interest,  that  his  classi- 
cal and  historical  culture  was  equal  to  • 
that  of  the  majority  of  his  critics,  whilst 
his  acquaintance  with  general  philoso- 
phy and  political  economy  was  remark- 
able. 

Mr.  Cobden  left  the  ordinary  business . 
of  the  warehouse  in  which  he  was  en»- 
ployed  to  become  a  commercial  travel- 
ler, in  which  capacity  he  gained  much 
knowledge  of  Continental  peoples  and 
their  languages.    At  length  he  was  able : 


726 


Richard  Cobden. 


Qun^ 


to  establish  himself  in  the  calico  busi- 
ness at  Manchester,  in  the  firm  "  Richard 
Cobden  &  Co."  The  "  Cobden  prints  " 
became  celebrated,  the  business  flour- 
ished, and  Mr.  Cobden,  at  the  time  when 
he  began  his  political  career,  was  receiv* 
ing,  as  his  share  of  the  income,  about 
ibrty-five  thousand  dollars  per  annum. 
It  was  probably  about  the  year  1830, 
when  England  was  feeling  the  first 
ground-swells  of  the  great  Reform  agi- 
tation, that  Mr.  Cobden  felt  called  to  give 
himself  entirely  to  his  country's  service. 
He  resolved,  however,  to  study  for  some 
years  with  reference  to  public  questions. 
In  1834-5  he  made  a  tour  through  many 
countries,  including  Egypt,  Greece,  and 
Turkey,  Canada  and  the  United  States. 
On  his  return  he  wrote  several  pam- 
phlets, in  the  name  of  "A  Manches- 
ter Manufacturer,"  which  excited  at- 
tention, and  one  (''  England,  Ireland, 
and  America")  a  lively  controversy. 
About  this  time  appeared  his  first 
contribution  to  the  Eastern  question 
in  a  little  work  entitled  ^  Russia."  In 
all  these  his  fundamental  ideas  —  Re- 
trenchment, Non  -  Intervention,  Free 
Trade  —  were  set  forth  in  a  very  spir- 
ited and  eloquent  way.  It  is  now  very 
evident  that  Mr.  Cobden  was  the  prod- 
uct and  utterance  of  his  country  at  that 
time ;  and  though  he  was  held  to  be  an 
economical  visionary,  never  was  vision- 
ary in  conservative  England  blessed 
with  seeing  his  visions  so  soon  harden 
into  facts.  But  he  was  not  so  absort)ed 
in  national  politics,  and  in  his  propos- 
ed ''Smithian  Society,"  in  which  the 
"Wealth  of  Nations"  was  to  be  dis- 
cussed, as  to  forget  the  more  circum- 
scribed duties  of  a  citizen  of  Manches- 
ter. Manchester  was  not  yet  a  city 
with  municipal  representation,  when  he 
wrote  a  pamphlet  entitled  "  Incorporate 
your  Borough,"  which  did  as  much  as 
anything  else  to  raise  it  to  that  dignity ; 
and  Manchester  showed  its  gratitude 
by  electing  him  to  be  alderman  in  the 
first  town-council. 

It  Is  hard  for  us  at  this  date  to  real- 
ize ihe  condition  of  England  when  that 
horrible  Sirocco^  as  Robert  Browning 
•calledk,  the.tax  on  com,  was  blighting 


the  land.  The  suicidal  policy  which 
had  prevailed  since  tbet  Peace  of  181 5 
had  brought  the  country  to  the*  verge 
of  ruin ;  and  when,  in  1838,  those  re- 
formers of  Manchester  repaired  to  tiiat 
first  meeting  of  the  Anti  -  Com  -  Law 
League,  it  was  through  crowds  of  pale, 
haggard,  starving  men,  each  with  his 
starving  family  at  home,  muttering  trea- 
son, and  prepared  for  violence  at  any 
touch.  The  banner  of  Chartism  was 
already  lifted  It  was  then  that  these 
resolute  men,  witl>  Cobden  at  their 
head,  met  and  vowed  sacredly  that  their 
League  should  never  be  disbanded  un- 
til those  laws  had  been  repealed.  The 
devotion  with  which  Richard  Cobden 
fought  that  good  fight  may  be  illustrat- 
ed by  the  story  that  once  his  little 
daughter  said  to  her  mother  concerning 
her  Csither,  —  "  Mother,  who  is  that  gen- 
tleman that  comes  here  sometimes  ?  ^ 
With  a  similar  devotion  to  humanity 
did  this  tenderest  of  parents  inspire  his 
companions ;  and  it  is  not  in  the  nature 
of  things  that  such  labors  so  put  forth 
shall  fail  One  by  one  the  haughty 
aristocrats  yielded ;  and  when  at  last 
Cobden  had  conquered  the  conqueror 
of  Napoleon,  the  battle  was  won.  The 
"  Times  "  pooh-poohed  the  movement^ 
until  one  day  the  news  came  that  a  few 
gendemen  of  Manchester  had  subscrib- 
ed between  forty  and  fifty  thousand 
pounds  for  repeal,  when  it  suddenly 
discovered  that  *'the  Anti-Com-Law 
movement  was  a  great  fiict"  When, 
in  1 841,  the  new  Whig  Ministry,  with 
Sir  Robert  Peel  at  their  head,  came  in, 
elected  as  Protectionists,  gaunt  Famine 
took  its  stand  by  the  Royal  Mace,  like  a 
Banquo.  Sir  Robert  driving  along  Fleet 
Street  might  see  those  whom  this  new, 
unwelcome  commoner  represented  grim- 
ly gazing  by  hundreds  at  the  new  car- 
toon of  **  Punch,"  —  that  of  the  Premier 
turning  his  back  on  a  starving  man  with 
half-naked  wife  and  child,  and  buttoning 
up  his  coat  with  the  words,  **  I  'm  very 
sorry,  my  good  man,  but  I  can  do  noth- 
ing for  you,  —  nothing  I "  But  though 
Peel  was  the  Premier  apparent,  Cobden 
was  the  Premier  actual  And  means 
were  found  of  softening  Sir  Robert's 


1865.] 


Richard  Cobden. 


727 


heart, — these,  namely:  it  was  intimat- 
ed to  him  one  morning,  that,  if  a  divis- 
ion of'  the  House  should  go  against  the 
Ministry,  the  Queen  would  feel  com- 
pelled to  call  upon  Richard  Cobden, 
manufacturer,  to  make  a  cabinet  for 
her.  So  the  Ministry  yielded,  and  the 
League  reached  its  triumph  in  1846. 
It  is  due  to  the  memory  of  Peel  to  say 
that  he  joined  with  the  triumphant  na- 
tion to  yield  every  laurel  to  the  brow  to 
which  it  belonged,  and  uttered  the  mem- 
orable prediction  that  Cobden's  name 
would  be  forever  venerated  and  loved, 
whenever  '*  the  poor  man  ate  his  daily 
bread,  sweeter  because  no  longer  leav- 
ened with  a  bitter  sense  of  unwise  and 
unjust  taxation." 

In  the  year  1839  Mr.  Cobden  had 
heard  John  Bright  speak  with  great 
power  at  a  meeting  in  Rochdale.  A 
little  later,  when  Bright  had  just  lost 
his  wife  at  Leamington,  Cobden  visited 
him  there.  He  found  him  in  great  grie£ 
"  Think,"  said  Cobden,  *'  think  in  your 
sorrow,  of  the  thousands  of  men,  wom- 
en, and  children,  who  are  this  moment 
starving  under  the  infamous  laws  which 
it  is  your  task  and  mine  to  help  remove. 
Come  ¥rith  me,  and  we  will  never  rest 
until  we  have  abolished  the  Corn  Laws." 
Then  and  there  were  those  hands  clasp- 
ed in  a  sacred  cause  which  were  never 
to  be  unclasped  but  by  death. 

Mr.  Cobden  took  his  seat  in  Parlia- 
ment in  1 84 1,  representing  Stockport 
He  had  not  only  before  the  triumph  of 
1846  sacrificed  his  time  and  impaired 
his  health,  but  also  given  up  his  fortune 
to  the  cause,  and  was  a  poor  man.  By 
a  great  spontaneous  subscription  the 
nation  reimbursed  his  actual  losses,  and 
amongst  other  things  built  the  house  at 
Midhurst,  where  he  resided  on  the  spot 
that  his  father  had  occupied  Imme- 
diately after  the  repeal  Mr.  Cobden 
started  on  a  Continental  totu* ;  and  in 
every  city  he  was  met  with  a  triumphal 
reception,  so  deeply  had  his  great  work 
in  England  affected  the  interests  of  all 
Europe.  During  his  absence  he  was 
elected  to  represent  the  great  constitu- 
ency of  the  West  Riding  in  Yorkshire, 
which  he  accepted 


It  was  perhaps  in  those  fiirious  days 
which  preceded  the  Crimean  War  that 
the  noble  personal  qualities  with  which 
Mr.  Cobden  was  endowed  shone  out 
most  clearly.  When  all  England,  from 
the  thunder  of  the  **  Times  "  to  the  qui- 
et Muse  of  Tennyson,  was  enlisted  for 
war,  Cobden  took  his  stand,  and  refused 
to  bow  to  the  tempest  In  a  moment 
the  nation  seemed  to  forget  the  services 
of  years,  and  Cobden,  denounced  as  a 
^'  Peace-at-any-price  man,"  lost  the  ear 
of  the  country,  as  did  Bright  and  others 
in  those  days  of  political  anarchy.  To 
the  ability  and  independence  with  which 
Cobden  and  Bright  withstood  the  popu- 
lar current  then,  Mr.  Kinglake,  the  op- 
ponent of  both,  has  done  justice.  It 
was,  in  fact,  not  true  that  Cobden  was 
a  *'  Peace-at-any-price  man."  Though 
he  maintained  earnestly  the  principle 
of  non-intervention,  it  was  because  he 
thought  that  England  in  its  present 
hands  could  not  be  trusted  to  intervene 
always  in  the  right  interest ;  and  never 
was  there  a  more  pointed  confirmation 
of  his  suspicion  than  the  event  of  a  war 
which  gave  the  victory  won  by  the  blood 
of  the  people  over  to  the  French  Em- 
peror, that  he  might  with  it  bind  back 
every  nation  that  in  Southern  Europe 
was  near  to  its  redemption.  The  stron- 
gest chains  binding  Circassia,  Poland, 
Hungary,  and  Venetia,  were  forged  in 
the  fires  of  the  Crimean  War.  This 
popular  wave  reached  its  height  and 
broke,  as  such  waves  will,  and  the  peo- 
ple much  ashamed  returned  to  their 
true  leaders.  So  when,  immediately  af- 
ter the  end  of  the  Crimean  War,  the 
disgraceful  bombardment  of  Canton  oc- 
curred, Cobden  was  still  there  in  Parlia- 
ment ready  to  risk  all  again.  His  reso- 
lution condemning  the  action  of  Sir  John 
Bowring  (who,  by  the  way,  was  Cobden*s 
personal  friend)  was  passed  in  the  House 
by  a  vote  of  263  to  247.  Palmerston 
appealed  to  the  selfishness  of  the  coun- 
try on  the  subject  of  Chinese  trade,  and 
was  sustained  These  were  the  days 
when  Gladstone  and  Disraeli  lay  down 
together.  Cobden,  Bright,  Gibson,  Card- 
well,  Layard,  Fox,  Miall,  and  others,  all 
lost  their  seats.    To  this  interval  we  are 


728 


Richard  Cobden, 


[June, 


indebted  that  John  Bright  recovered 
strength  in  a  foreign  land,  and  that  we 
received  in  the  United  States  the  second 
visit  of  Cobden.  Whilst  they  were  ab- 
sent, the  reaction  set  in :  Bright  was 
elected  by  Birmingham,  Cobden  by 
Rochdale.  Nay,  so  strong  was  the  feel- 
ing in  Cobden^s  case,  that  Palmerston 
found  it  to  his  purpose  to  invite  him  into 
the  Cabinet ;  and  when,  returning  from 
America,  Cobden  sailed  up  the  Mersey, 
he  was  met  by  a  deputation  from  Liver- 
pool who  informed  him  of  his  appoint- 
ment among  the  new  Ministry.  He  at 
once  declined  the  appointment,  for  rea- 
sons which  have  not  hitherto  been  given 
to  the  public.  Since  his  death  a  person- 
al friend  of  his  has  written,  that,  on  this 
occasion,  **  he  told  Lx)rd  Palmerston,  in 
answer  to  remonstrances  against  his  de- 
cision to  decline  the  honor,  that  he  had 
always  regarded  his  Lordship  as  one  of 
the  most  dangerous  ministers  England 
could  possibly  have,  and  that  his  views 
had  not  undergone  the  slightest  change. 
He  felt  that  it  would  be  doing  violence 
to  his  own  sense  of  dutj',  and  injuring 
his  own  character  for  consistency  in  the 
eyes  of  his  countrymen,  to  profess  to 
act  with  a  minister  to  whom  he  had  all 
along  been  opposed  on  public  grounds." 

Mr.  Cobden*s  next  great  service  was 
in  bringing  about  the  treaty  of  free  com- 
merce with  France,  a  service  which  has 
endeared  him  to  the  French  beyond  all 
English  statesmen,  and  which  brought 
him  from  the  Queen  the  offer  of  a  Baro- 
netcy, which  he  declined,  as  he  also  did 
in  January  last  Mr.  Gladstone's  offef  of 
the  chairmanship  of  the  Board  of  Au- 
dit, at  a  salary  of  two  thousand  pounds. 
Well  might  Gladstone  say  of  him,  as  he 
did,—"  Rare  is  the  privilege  of  any  man 
who,  having  fourteen  years  ago  rendered 
to  his  country  one  signal  and  splendid 
service,  now  again,  within  the  same  brief 
span  of  life,  decorated  neither  by  rank 
nor  title,  bearing  no  mark  to  distinguish 
him  from  the  people  whom  he  loves,  has 
been  permitted  to  perform  a  great  and 
memorable  service  to  his  sovereign  and 
\  to  his  country." 

By  the  death  of  Mr.  Cobden  America 
has  lost  one  of  her  truest  friends,  one 


who  in  all  this  conflict,  which  has  been 
reflected  in  England  in  a  fierce  war&re 
of  parties,  has  been  in  the  thick'  of  the 
flght,  "the  white  plume  of  Navarre." 
Nothing  told  more  for  .the  American 
cause  in  Europe  than  the  celebrated 
speech  of  Cobden,  made  at  the  time 
when  the  busy  Southerners  were  try- 
ing to  show  that  the  war  was  not  for 
Slavery,  but  Free  Trade,  in  which  he 
declared  that  he  had  found  the  South- 
erners, and  Jefferson  Davis  himself, 
whom  he  had  visited,  utterly  indiffer- 
ent to  the  Free  Trade  movement.  He 
was  accustomed  to  speak  of  Ameri- 
can affairs  as  an  American.  I  well  re- 
member his  vehement  expressions  of 
feeling  concerning  the  McClellan  cam- 
paign in  Virginia,  —  in  connection  with 
which  he  told  me  that  he  was  at  one 
time  travelling  with  Jefferson  Davis  and 
McClellan  together,  and  that  Davis 
whispered  to  him,  that,  in  case  of  a  war, 
**  That  man  [  McQellan]  is  one  of  the 
first  we  should  put  into  service."  I 
thought  Mr.  Cobden  inclined  to  attrib- 
ute McClellan's  failures  to  something 
worse  than  incapacity.  •  But  this  is  only 
one  instance  of  the  way  in  which  be 
followed  our  war-steps,  and  was  inter- 
ested in  the  subordinate  questions  which 
are  usually  interesting  only  to  Ameri- 
cans. It  is  with  a  melancholy  pleasure 
that  we  now  know  that  his  last  public 
utterance  was  the  letter  on  American 
affairs  to  our  minister  at  Copenhagen, 
which  reached  England  in  the  Ameri- 
can papers  the  day  before  his  death,  — 
and  that  one  of  his  last  acts  was  to  send 
from  his  death-bed  a  contribution  to  a 
poor  and  paralyzed  American  sailor  who 
with  his  family  was  suffering  in  London, 
without  any  personal  appeal  having  been 
made  to  him.  These  were  the  last 
pulses  of  a  heart  that  beat  only  for  hu- 
manity. 

Mr.  Cobden  was  one  of  the  finest 
speakers  I  have  ever  heard.  There 
was  a  play  as  of  summer  lightning  about 
his  eloquence,  which,  whilst  it  did  not 
strike  and  crash  opponents,  was  piuify- 
ing  the  atmosphere  of  the  debate,  and 
lighting  up  every  detail  of  fact,  so  that 
error  could  not  flourish  in  his  presence, 


1865.]         Modem  Improvements  and  our  Natumal  DAt. 


729 


nor  even  well  hide  itselil  Thfere  wa3 
a  terseness  and  massiveness  in  his 
speech,  curiously  blended  with  subtilty 
and  fervor.  A  question  of  finance 
would  grow  pathetic  under  his  touch, 
and  he  could  create  a  soul  under  the 


ribs  of  statistics.  He  might  vie  with 
Lowell's  ideal  Jonathan  for  *' calculat- 
ing fanaticism  "  and  *^  cast-iron  enthu- 
siasm." But,  after  all,  what  more  need 
be  said  than  the  epitaph  proposed  for 
his  grave :  ^  He  gave  the  piopU  bread^^  f 


MODERN  IMPROVEMENTS  AND  OUR  NATIONAL  DEBT. 


AT  the  commencement  of  the  Rebel- 
lion it  was  the  general  opinion  of 
statesmen  and  financiers  in  other  coun- 
tries, and  the  opinion  of  many  among 
ourselves,  that  our  resources  were  in- 
adequate to  a  long  continuance  of  the 
war,  and  that  it  must  soon  terminate 
under  pecuniary  exhaustion,  if  from  no 
other  cause.  Our  experience  has  shown 
that  this  view  was  fallacious.  After 
having  sustained  for  several  years  the 
largest  army  known  to  modem  times, 
our  available  resources  seem  to  be  un- 
impaired. The  country  is,  indeed,  large- 
ly in  debt;  but  its  powers  of  produc- 
tion are  so  great  that  it  can  undoubted- 
ly meet  all  future  demands  as  easily  as 
it  has  met  those  of  the  past 

The  ability  or  inability  of  a  nation 
engaged  in  war  to  sustsun  heavy  pub- 
lic expenses  is  to  be  measured  not  so 
much  by  its  nominal  debt  as  by  the 
relation  which  the  sum  of  its  production 
bears  to  that  of  its  necessary  consump- 
tion, A  nation  heavily  in  debt  may 
continue  to  make  large  public  expendi- 
tures and  still  prosper  and  increase  in 
wealth,  if  its  powers  of  production  are 
correspondingly  large  also.  ^  It  is  a  hid 
of  the  most  encouraging  kind,  that  the 
power  of  production  exhibited  by  the 
United  States  hr  exceeds,  in  proportion 
to  their  population,  that  of  any  other 
nation  heretofore  involved  in  a  long  and 
costly  war.  The  case  which  most  near- 
ly approaches  ours,  in  this  regard,  is 
that  of  England,  during  her  war  with 
Napoleon,  fi-om  1803  to  181 5.  But 
since  the  termination  of  that  long  con- 


testt  the  progress  of  discovery,  improve- 
ments in  the  machinery  and  in  the  pro- 
cesses of  manufacture,  more  effective 
implements  of  agriculture,  the  general 
introduction  of  railways,*  and  other 
time-  and  labor-saving  agencies,  togeth- 
er with  the  constantly  increasing  influ- 
ence of  the  applied  sciences,  have  so 
augmented  the  productive  power  of  hu- 
manity, that  the  experience  of  the  most 
advanced  nations  fifty  years  ago  fui^ 
nishes  no  adequate  criterion  of  what 
the  United  States  can  do  now. 

It  is  not  easy  to  determine  the  pre- 
cise ratio  in  which  production  has  been 
increased  by  these  instrumentalities. 
It  is  unquestionably  very  large, — not 
less,  probably,  than  threefold.  That  is 
to  say,  a  given  population,  including  all 
ages  and  conditions,  can  produce  the 
articles  necessary  for  its  subsistence, 
such  as  food,  clothing,  and  shelter,  to 
an  extent  three  times  as  great,  with 
these  agencies,  as  it  could  produce  with- 
out them.  Hence  it  appears,  that,  if  the 
people  of  the  loyal  States  could  return 
to  the  standard  of  living  that  prevailed 

*  Some  estimate  of  the  influenoe  of  railways  aloae 
may  be  formed  by  reference  to  the  following  state- 
ment, which  occurs  in  an  address  of  Robert  Stephen- 
son before  th«  laiiitutioo  of  Civil  £agiiieen»  in 
1856:  — 

"  The  result,  then,  is,  that,  upon  the  existing  traf- 
lie  of  the  United  Kingdom  of  Great  Britain,  railways 
•re  affecting  a  direct  saving  to  the  people  of  not  lev 
than  forty  million  pounds  per  annum ;  and  that  sum 
exceeds  by  about  fifty  per  cent  the  entire  interest 
of  our  national  debt.  It  may  be  said,  therefore,  that 
the  lailway  sjrstem  neutraltaes  to  the  people  the  bad 
effects  of  the  debt  with  which  the  state  is  incumber- 
ed. It  places  us  in  as  good  position  as  if  the  debt 
did  not  exist** 


730 


Modem  Improvements  and  our  National  Debt.         [June, 


fifty  years  ago,  the  amount  of  their  pro- 
duction would  be  sufficient  to  subsist 
not  only  themselves,  but  twice  as  many 
more  in  addition.  To  accomplish  this, 
they  would  have,  indeed,  to  devote  them- 
selves more  to  the  production  of  articles 
of  prime  necessity  and  less  to  those  of 
mere  ornament  and  luxury.  That  they 
have  the  productive  energy  necessary 
to  such  a  result  there  can  be  no  doubt 

This  encouraging  view  of  our  condi- 
tion is  fully  sustained  by  official  state- 
ments, which  show  that  the  industrial 
products  of  the  country  increase  in  a 
greater  ratio  than  the  population.  In 
1850  the  aggregate  value  of  the  prod- 
ucts of  agriculture,  mining,  manufac- 
tures, and  the  mechanic  arts,  in  the 
United  States,  was  $2,345,000,000.  In 
i860  the  aggregate  was  $3,756,000,000. 
This  is  an  increase  in  ten  years  of  six- 
ty per  cent,  whereas  the  increase  of 
population  during  that  decade  was  only 
thirty-five  and  a  half  per  cent  Thus 
we  see  that  during  the  ten  years  ending 
with  i860  —  the  date  of  the  last  census 
—  the  products  of  the  industry  of  the 
country  increased  almost  twice  as  fost 
as  the  population  increased.  If  to  this 
we  add  the  remarkable  fact  that  the 
value  of  taxable  property  increased  dur- 
ing the  same  period  a  hundred  and 
twinty-six  per  cent,  we  have  striking 
proof  of  the  existence  of  a  vast  and  rap- 
idly increasing  productive  power, — a 
power  largely  due  to  the  influence  of 
those  improvements  which  have  been 
alluded  to. 

One  obvious  effect  of  war  is  to  trans- 
fer a  portion  of  labor  from  the  sphere 
of  eStcivwt  production  to  that  of  extraor- 
dinary consumption.  To  what  extent 
the  relations  of  production  and  con- 
sumption among  us  have  been  changed 
during  the  present  contest  it  is  impos- 
sible to  state.  That  consumption  has 
been  largely  increased  by  our  military 
operations  is  apparent  to  all.  It  is 
equally  apparent  that  production  also 
has  been  augmented,  though  not,  per- 
haps, to  the  same  extent  The  extraor- 
dinary demand  for  various  commodi- 
ties for  war  purposes  has  brought  all 
the  producing  agencies  of  the  country 


into  a  high  state  of  activity  and  effi- 
ciency, giving  to  the  loyal  States  a  lar- 
ger aggregate  production  than  they  had 
before  the  war.  Of  mining  and  numu- 
Pictures  this  is  unquestionably  true.  As 
regards  the  products  of  the  soil,  the  Com- 
missioner of  Agriculture,  in  his  Report 
for  1863,  says, — **  Although  the  year  just 
closed  has  been  a  year  of  war  on  the 
part  of  the  Republic,  over  a  wider  field 
and  on  a  grander  scale  than  any  record- 
ed in  history,  yet,  strange  as  it  may  ap- 
pear, the  great  interests  of  agriculture 
have  not  materially  suffered  in  the  loy- 
al States.  .  .  .  Notwithstanding  there 
have  been  over  a  million  of  men  employ- 
ed in  the  army  and  navy,  withdrawn 
chiefly  firom  the  producing  classes,  and 
liberally  fed,  clothed,  and  paid  by  the 
Government,  yet  the  yield  of  most  of 
the  great  staples  of  agriculture  for  1863 
exceeds  that  of  1862.  .  .  .  This  won* 
derfiil  £ict  of  history  —  a  young  re- 
public carrying  on  a  gigantic  war  on 
its  own  territory  and  coasts,*  and  at  the 
same  time  not  only  feeding  itself  and 
foreign  nations,  but  furnishing  vast 
quantities  of  raw  materials  for  com- 
merce and  manufactures  —  proves  that 
we  are  essentially  an  agricultural  peo- 
ple ;  that  three  years  of  war  have  not 
as  yet  seriously  disturt)ed,  but  rather 
increased,  industrial  pursuits ;  and  that 
the  withdrawal  of  agricultural  labor,  and 
the  loss  of  life  by  disease  and  battle, 
have  been  more  dian  compensated  by 
machinery  and  maturing  growth  at 
home,  and  by  the  increased  influx  of 
immigration  fi'om  abroad" 

In  illustration  of  the  character  of 
those  agencies  to  which  we  owe  the 
remarkable  and  gratifying  results  thus 
portrayed  by  the  Commissioner,  I  give 
the  following  official  statement  in  re- 
gard to  two  of  the  more  prominent 
modem  implements  of  agriculture.  Mr. 
Kennedy,  in  his  Census  Report  for 
i860,  informs  us  *<that  a  threshing- 
machine  in  Ohio,  worked  by  three  men, 
with  some  assistance  from  the  &rm 
hands,  did  the  work  of  seventy  flails, 
and  that  thirty  steam-threshers  only 
were  required  to  prepare  for  market 
the  wheat  crop  of  two  counties  in  Ohio, 


1865.]  Modem  ImprtyvemefUs  and  our  National  Debt         ^31 


which  would  have  required  the  labor 
of  forty  thousand  men."  As  it  took 
probably  less  than  two  hundred  men 
to  work  the  machines,  the  immense 
saving  in  human  labor  becomes  in- 
stantly apparent 

Again,  in  his  last  Patent-Office  Re- 
port, Mr.  Holloway  states  "that  from 
reliable  returns  in  his  possession  it  is 
shown  that  forty  thousand  reapers  were 
manufoctured  and  sold  in  1863,  and  that 
it  is  estimated  by  the  manufacturers  that 
over  ninety  thousand  will  be  required 
to  meet  the  demand  for  1864";  and 
these  machines,  he  says,  will  save  the 
labor  of  four  hundred  and  fifty  thou- 
sand men. 

If  the  aggregate  produce  of  the  loyal 
States,  notwithstanding  the  large  amount 
of  labor  that  has  been  withdrawn  from 
production  by  the  demands  of  the  war, 
is  actually  greater  than  ever  before,  and 
if,  as  we  have  already  shown,  the  sum 
of  that  produce  is  three  times  as  great 
as  the  people  of  those  States,  using 
proper  economy,  would  necessarily  con- 
sume, surely  no  one  should  feel  any 
anxiety  in  regard  to  the  ability  of  the 
United  States  to  meet  all  their  pecu- 
niary obligations. 

I  have  already  said  that  England,  in 
her  war  with  Napoleon,  furnishes  the 
best  criterion  in  history  for  judging  of 
our  own  financial  situation ;  and  though 
the  two  cases  are  fiu*  firom  running  par- 
allel to  each  other,  it  may  be  interest- 
ing to  compare  them  in  some  of  their 
aspects. 

At  the  restoration  of  peace  in  181$, 
the  national  debt  of  England  amounted 
in  Federal  currency  to  $4,305,000,000. 
It  is  impossible  as  yet  to  say  what  wijl 
be  the  ultimate  amount  of  our  national 
debt  It  amounts  now  to  rather  more 
than  one  half  of  the  debt  of  Great  Brit- 
ain, and,  at  its  present  ratio  of  increase, 
it  will'  take  nearly  four  years  more  to 
make  our  debt  equal  to  hers. 

Now,  for  the  purposes  of  this  state- 
ment, let  us  assume  that  it  will  take 
four  years  more  to  finish  the  war  and 
to  adjust  and  settle  all  its  contingent 
claims,  and  that  at  the  close  of  that  pe- 
riod, say  in  1869,  we  shall  be  at  peace, 


with  a  restored  Union,  and  with  a  na* 
tional  debt  as  large  as  that  of  England 
when  peace  returned  to  her  in  181 5, — 
how  will  the  ability  of  this  country  to 
sustain  and  pay  its  debt  compare  with 
the  ability  of  England  to  do  the  same 
at  the  time  above  referred  to  ? 

The  simple  fact  that  England  was 
able  to  assume  so  vast  a  debt,  and  to 
sustsun  the  burden  through  half  a  cen- 
tury, during  which  her  prosperity  has 
scarcely  known  abatement,  and  her 
wealth  has  been  constantly  and  largely 
increasing,  ought  to  satisfy  every  Amer- 
ican citixen  that  his  own  country  can 
at  least  dp  as  well.  But  we  can  do 
more  and  better ;  for  a  comparison  of 
the  two  countries  in  the  matter  of  abil- 
ity shows  that  the  preponderance  is 
greatly  in  our  favor. 

At  the  respective  periods  of  compar- 
ison just  named,  to  wit,  181 5  and  1869^ 
the  population  of  the  United  Kingdom 
of  Great  Britain  was  less  than  one  half 
of  what  the  population  of  the  United 
States  will  be,  and  its  amount  of  foreign 
trade  was  less  than  one  third.  In  181 5 
the  ''fectory  system  "  was  in  its  in£uicy 
and  imperfectly  organized,  the  steam- 
engine  was  unperfected  and  in  compar- 
atively limited  use.  The  railway,  the 
steamboat,  the  telegraph,  the  reaper, 
the  thresher,  and  many  other  important 
improvements  and  discoveries  which 
tend  to  augment  the  productive  power 
of  nations,  have  all  come  since  that  day. 
So  frur  as  relates  to  the  question  of  abil- 
ity to  sustain  deavy  financial  burdens, 
England,  in  181 5,  can  hardly  be  com- 
pared for  a  moment  with  a  country  like 
our  own,  possessing  as  it  does,  in  abun- 
dance and  perfection,  the  potent  agen- 
cies of  productive  and  distributing  pow- 
er just  referred  to. 

It  is  true  that  England  is  now  en- 
joying, to  a  large  extent,  the  benefit  of 
these  important  agencies  ;  but  she  had 
to  supply  the  capital  to  create  them,  af- 
ter she  had  assumed  the  maximum  of 
her  enormous  debt,  —  whereas  those 
agencies  were  all  in  active  operation 
among  us  before  any  part  of  our  na- 
tional debt  was  incurred.  I  hardly  need 
suggest  that  it  makes  a  vast  difference 


732 


The  Chimney^Comer, 


[June, 


whether  a  nation  has  or  has  not  these 
material  advanta^s  at  the  time  when 
it  is  contracting  a  heavy  debt,  and  that 
our  position  in  this  respect,  so  &r  as 
the  question  of  ability  is  concerned^ 
is  a  position  of  immeasurable  superi- 
ority. 

In  regard  to  the  paying  of  our  debt 
after  the  return  of  peace,  we  possess 
some  decided  advantages,  to  which  I 
will  very  briefly  allude.  Of  these  the 
most  obvious  are,  a  greater  ratio  in  the 
increase  of  population,  and  more  ex- 
tensive natural  resources.  During  the 
decade  which  ended  in  1861,  the  popu- 
lation of  the  United  Kingdom  of  Great 
Britain  increased  from  27,495,297  to 
29,049,540,  or  less  than  six  per  cent 
In  the  ten  years  which  ended  in  i860, 
our  increase  of  population  was  from 
33,191,876  to  31,445,089,  or  thirfy-five 
and  a'  half  per  cent.  Thus  it  appears 
that  during  the  last  tea  years  for  which 
we  have  official  returns,  the  population 
of  the  United   States  increased  in  a 


ratio  sixfold  greater  than  that  of  tbe 
United  Kingdom.  This  disparity  in 
our  £&vor  will  undoubtedly  increase 
from  year  to  year. 

The  home  territory  of  Great  Britain 
is  quite  inadequate  to  suj^^xnt  even  her 
present  population.  This  circumstance 
places  that  country  in  a  position  of  00m* 
parative  dependence.  While  she  muU 
draw  from  other  countries  a  very  con- 
siderable proportion  of  her  breadstuffii 
and  other  provisions,  we  supply  not  only 
ourselves,  but  others  largely  also.  The 
money  which  England  pays  to  other  na- 
tions for  bread  alone  would  equal  in 
thirty  years  the  entire  amount  of  her 
national  debt 

We  need  but  a  resolute  and  united 
purpose  to  sustain  with  comparative 
ease  our  national  burdens,  whatever 
may  be  their  extent  Those  who  doubt 
this  under-estimate  not  only  the  magni- 
tude of  our  national  resources,  but  the 
powerfid  aid  which  modem  improve- 
ments lend  to  their  development 


THE    CHIMNEY-CORNER. 


VI. 


LITTLE  FOXES.  —  PART  V. 


INTOLERANCE. 

u  A  ND  what  are  you  going  to  preach 
't\  about  this  month,  Mr.  Crow- 
field  ?  " 

'M  am  going  to  give  a  sermon  on  In^ 
tolerance^  Mrs.  Crowfield.*' 

*'  Religious  intolerance  ?  " 

*^  No,— domestic  and  family  and  edu- 
cational intolerance,  — *  one  of  the  seven 
deadly  sins  on  which  I  am  preachings 
—  one  of  *the  foxes.*" 

People  are  apt  to  talk  as  if  all  the 
intolerance  in  life  were  got  up  and  ex- 
pended in  the  religious  world;  where- 
as religious  intolerance  is  only  a  small 


branch  of  the  radical,  strong,  all -per- 
vading intolerance  of  human  nature. 

Physicians  are  quite  as  intolerant  as 
theologians.  They  never  have  had  the 
power  of  burning  at  the  stake  for  med- 
ical opinions,  but  they  certainly  have 
shown  the  will.  Politicians  are  intoler- 
ant Philosophers  are  intolerant,  espe- 
cially those  who  pique  themselves  on 
liberal  opinions.  Painters  and  sculp- 
tors are  intolerant  And  housekeepers 
are  intolerant,  virulendy  denunciatory 
concerning  any  departures  from  their 
particular  domestic  creed. 

Mrs.  Alexander  Exact,  seated  at  her 
domestic  altar,  gives  homilies  on  the  de- 
generacy of  modem  housekeeping  equal 


1865.] 


The  CktMney-Comer. 


733 


to  the  lamentations  of  Dr.  Holdfast  as 
to  the  falling  off  from  the  good  old  £uth. 

^  Don't  tell  me  about  pillow-cases 
made  without  felling,"  says  Mrs.  Alex- 
ander ;  *Mt  's  slovenly  and  shiftless.  I 
would  n't  have  such  a  pillow-case  in  my 
house  any  more  than  I  'd  have  vermin." 

^  But,"  says  a  trembling  young  house- 
keeper, conscious  of  unfelled  pillow- 
cases at  home,  'Mon't  you  thinlc,  Mrs. 
Alexander,  that  some  of  these  old  tnuli- 
tions  might  be  dispensed  with  ?  It  real- 
ly is  not  necessary  to  do  all  the  work 
that  has  been  done  so  thoroughly  and 
exactly,  —  to  double-^stitch  every  wrist- 
band, fell  every  seam,  count  all  the 
threads  of  gathers,  and  take  a  stitch  to 
every  gather.  It  makes  beaudful  sew- 
ing, to  be  swe ;  but  when  a  woman  has 
a  £imily  of  litde  children  and  a  small 
income,  if  all  her  sewing  is  to  be  kept 
up  in  this  perfect  style,  she  wears  her 
life  out  in  stitching.  Had  she  not  better 
slight  a  little^  and  get  air  and  exercise  ?  " 

*' Don't  tell  me  about  air  and  exer- 
cise !  What  did  my  grandmother  do  ? 
Why,  she  did  all  her  own  work,  and 
made  grandfaither's  ruffled  shirts  be- 
sides, with  the  finest  stitching  and  gath- 
ers ;  and  she  found  exercise  enough,  I 
warrant  you.  Women  of  this  day  are 
miserable,  sickly,  degenerate  creattves." 

'*  But,  my  dear  Madam,  look  at  poor 
Mrs.  Evans,  over  the  way,  with  her  pale 
fajcit  and  her  eight  litde  ones." 

**  Miserable  manager,"  said  Mrs.  Al- 
exander. ''If  she  'd  get  up  at  five 
o'clock  the  year  round,  as  I  do,  she  'd 
find  time  enough  to  do  things  properly, 
and  be  the  better  for  it" 

^  But,  my  dear  Madam,  Mrs.  Evans 
is  a  very  delicately  organized,  nervous 
woman." 

^  Nervous  1  Don't  tell  me  !  Every 
woman  nowadays  is  nervous.  She  can't 
get  up  in  the  morning,  because  she  's 
nervous.  She  can't  do  her  sewing  de- 
cently, because  she 's  nervous.  Why,  I 
might  have  been  as  nervous  as  she  is« 
if  I  'd  have  petted  and  coddled  myself 
as  she  does.  But  I  get  up  early,  take  a 
walk  in  the  fresh  air  of  a  mile  or  so  be- 
fore breakfast,  and  come  home  feeling 
the  better  for  it    I  do  all  my  own  sew- 


ing,—  never  pub  out  a  stitch ;  and  I  flat- 
ter myself  my  things  are  made  as  they 
ought  to  be.  I  alwa)rs  make  my  boys' 
shirts  and  Mr.  Exact's,  and  they  are 
made  as  shirts  ought  to  be,  —  and  yet 
I  find  plenty  of  time  for  calling,  shop- 
ping, business,  and  company.  It  only 
requires  management  and  resolution." 

''  It  is  perfectly  wonderful,  to  be  sure, 
Mrs.  Exact,  to  see  all  that  you  do ;  but 
don't  you  get  very  dred  sometimes  ?" 

''  No,  not  often.  I  remember,  though, 
the  week  before  last  Christmas,  I  made 
and  baked  eighteen  pies  and  ten  loaves 
of  cake  in  one  day,  and  I  was  really 
quite  worn  out ;  but  I  did  n't  give  way 
to  it  I  told  Mr.  Exact  I  thought  it 
would  rest  me  to  take  a  drive  into  New 
York  and  attend  the  Sanitary  Fair,  and 
so  we  did.  I  suppose  Mrs.  Evans  would 
have  thought  she  must  go  to  bed  )uid 
coddle  herself  for  a  month." 

"'  But,  dear  Mrs.  Exact,  when  a  wom- 
an is  kept  awake  nights  by  oying  bar 
bies  " 

**  There  's  no  need  of  having  crying 
babies ;  my  babies  never  cried ;  it 's  just 
as  you  begin  with  children.  I  might 
have  had  to  be  up  and  down  every  hour 
of  the  night  with  mine,  just  as  Mrs. 
Evans  does ;  but  I  knew  better.  I  used 
to  take  'em  up  about  ten  o'clock,  and 
feed  and  make  'em  all  comfortable  ; 
and  that  was  the  last  of  'em,  till  I  was 
ready  to  get  up  in  the  morning.  I 
never  lost  a  night's  sleep  with  any  of 
mine." 

"  Not  when  they  were  teething  ?  " 

''  No.  I  knew  how  to  manage  that  I 
used  to  lance  their  gums  myself  and  I 
never  had  any  trouble :  it 's  all  in  man- 
agement I  weaned  'em  all  myself,  too : 
there  's  no  use  in  having  any  fuss  in 
weaning  children." 

''Mrs.  Exact,  you  are  a  wonderful 
manager;  but  it  would  be  impossible 
to  bring  up  all  babies  so." 

"  You  '11  never  make  me  believe  that : 
people  only  need  to  begin  right  I  'm 
sure  I  've  had  a  trial  of  eight" 

"  But  there  's  that  one  baby  of  Mrs. 
Evans's  makes  more  trouble  than  all 
your  eight  It  cries  every  night  so  that 
somebody  has  to  be  up  walking  with 


734 


The  Chimney-Comer. 


Uun^ 


it ;  it  wears  out  all  the  nurses,  and  keeps 
poor  Mrs.  Evans  sick  all  the  time." 

'*  Not  the  least  need  of  it ;  nothing 
but  shifdess  management  Suppose  I 
had  allowed  my  children  to  be  walked 
with ;  I  might  have  had  terrible  times, 
too ;  but  I  began  right  I  set  down  my 
foot  that  they  should  lie  still,  and  they 
did ;  and  if  they  cried,  I  never  lighted 
a  candle,  or  took  'em  up,  or  took  any 
kind  of  notice  of  it ;  and  so,  after  a  lit- 
tle, they  went  off  to  sleep.  Babies  very 
soon  find  out  where  they  can  take  ad- 
vantage, and  where  they  can't  It  's 
nothing  but  temper  makes  babies  cry ; 
and  if  I  could  n't  hush  'em  any  other 
way,  I  should  give  'em  a  few  good  smart 
slaps,  and  they  would  soon  learn  to  be- 
have themselves." 

''But,  dear  Mrs.  Exact,  you  were  a 
strohg,  healthy  woman,  and  had  strong, 
healthy  children." 

«  Well,  is  n't  that  baby  of  Mrs.  Ev- 
ans's healthy,  I  want  to  know  ?  I  'm  sure 
it  is  a  great  creature,  and  thrives  and 
grows  fat  as  fast  as  ever  I  saw  a  child. 
You  need  n't  tell  me  anything  is  the 
matter  with  that  child  but  temper,  and 
its  mother's  coddling  management" 

Now,  in  the  neighborhood  where  she 
lives,  Mrs.  Alexander  Exact  is  the  won- 
derful woman,  the  Lady  Bountiful,  the 
pattern  female.  Her  cake  never  rises 
on  one  side,  or  has  a  heavy  streak  in  it 
Her  ftirs  never  get  a  moth  in  them ;  her 
carpets  never  fade ;  her  sweetmeats  nev- 
er ferment ;  her  servants  never  neglect 
their  work ;  her  children  never  get  things 
out  of  order ;  her  babies  never  cry,  nev- 
er keep  one  awake  o'  nights ;  and  her 
husband  never  in  his  life  said,  ''My 
dear,  there  's  a  button  off  my  shirt" 
Flies  never  infest  her  kitchen,  cock- 
roaches and  red  ants  never  invade  her 
premises,  a  spider  never  had  time  to 
spin  a  web  on  one  of  her  walls.  Every- 
thing in  her  establishment  is  shining 
with  neatness,  crisp  and  bristling  with 
absolute  perfection,  —  and  it  is  she,  the 
ever-up-and-dressed,  unsleeping,  wide- 
awake, omnipresent,  never -tiring  Mrs. 
Exact,  that  does  it  alL 

Besides  keeping  her  household  wajrs 
thus  immaculate,  Mrs.  Exact  is  on  all 


sorts  of  charitable  committees,  does 
all  sorts  of  fancy-work  for  £urs ;  and 
whatever  she  does  is  done  perfectly. 
She  is  a  most  available,  most  helpful, 
most  benevolent  woman,  and  general 
society  has  reason  to  rejoice  in  her  ex- 
istence. 

But,  for  all  this,  Mrs.  Exact  is  as  in- 
tolerant as  Torquemada  or  a  locomo- 
tive-engine. She  has  her  own  track, 
straight  and  inevitable ;  her  judgments 
and  opinions  cut  through  society  in 
right  lines,  with  all  the  force  of  her  ex- 
ample and  all  the  steam  of  her  eneigy, 
turning  out  neither  for  the  old  nor  the 
young,  the  weak  nor  the  weary.  She 
cannot,  and  she  will  not,  conceive  the 
possibility  that  there  may  be  other  sorts 
of  natures  than  her  own,  and  that  other 
kinds  of  natures  must  have  other  ways 
of  living  and  doing. 

Good  and  useful  as  she  is,  she  is 
terrible  as  an  army  with  banners  to 
her  poor,  harassed,  delicate,  struggling 
neighbor  across  the  way,  who^  in  addi- 
tion to  an  aching,  confused  head,  an 
aching  back,  sleepless,  harassed  nights, 
and  weary,  sinking  days,  is  burdened 
everywhere  and  every  hour  with  the 
thought  that  Mrs.  Exact  thinks  all  her 
troubles  are  nothing  but  poor  manage- 
ment, and  that  she  might  do  just  like 
her,  if  she  would.  With  very  little  self- 
confidence  or  self-assertion,  she  is  with- 
ered and  paralyzed  by  this  discouraging 
thought  Is  it,  then,  her  fault  that  this 
never-sleeping  baby  cries  all  night,  and 
that  all  her  children  never  could  and 
never  would  be  brought  up  by  those  ex- 
act rules  which  she  hears  of  as  so  effi- 
cacious in  the  household  over  the  way  ? 
The  thought  of  Mrs.  Alexander  Exact 
stands  over  her  like  a  constable;  the 
remembrance  of  her  is  grievous;  the 
burden  of  her  opinion  is  heavier  than 
all  her  other  burdens. 

Now  the  fact  is,  that  Mrs.  Exact  comes 
of  a  long-lived,  strong-backed,  strong- 
stomached  race,  with  **  limbs  of  British 
oak  and  nerves  of  wire."  The  shadow 
of  a  sensation  of  nervous  pain  or  un- 
easiness never  has  been  known  in  her 
£simily  for  generations,  and  her  judg- 
ments of  poor  little  Mrs.  Evans  are 


i86s.] 


Tfu  Chimney-Comer. 


735 


about  as  intelligent  as  those  of  a  good 
stout  Shanghai  hen  on  a  humming- 
bird. Most  useful  and  comfortable, 
these  Shanghai  hens,  —  and  very  orna- 
mental, and  in  a  small  way  useful,  these 
humming-birds ;  but  let  them  not  reg- 
ulate each  other's  diet,  or  lay  down 
schemes  for  each  other's  housekeeping. 
Has  not  one  as  much  right  to  its  na- 
ture as  the  other  ? 

This  intolerance  of  other  people's 
natures  is  one  of  the  greatest  causes 
of  domestic  unhappiness.  The  perfect 
householders  are  they  who  make  their 
household  rule  so  flexible  that  all  sorts 
of  differing  natures  may  find  room  to 
grow  and  expand  and  express  them- 
selves without  infringing  upon  others. 

Some  women  are  endowed  with  a  tact 
for  understanding  human  nature  and 
guiding  it  They  give  a  sense  of  large- 
ness and  freedom ;  they  find  a  place 
for  every  one,  see  at  once  what  every 
one  is  good  for,  and  are  inspired  by 
Nature  with  the  happy  wisdom  of  not 
wishing  or  asking  of  any  human  being 
more  than  that  human  being  was  made 
to  give.  They  have  the  portion  in  due 
season  for  all :  a  bone  for  the  dog ;  cat* 
nip  for  the  cat ;  cuttle-fish  and  hemp- 
seed  for  the  bird ;  a  book  or  review  for 
their  bashful  literary  visitor ;  lively  gos- 
sip for  thoughtless  Miss  Seventeen ; 
knitting  for  Grandmamma ;  fishing-rods, 
boats,  and  gunpowder  for  Young  Rest- 
less, whose  beard  is  just  beginning  to 
grow ;  —  and  they  never  fall  into  pets, 
because  the  canary-bird  won't  relish  the 
dog's  bone,  or  the  dog  eat  canary-seed, 
or  young  Miss  Seventeen  read  old  Mr. 
Sixty's  review,  or  yoimg  Master  Rest- 
less take  delight  in  knitting-work,  or  old 
Grandmamma  feel  complacency  in  guns 
and  gunpowder. 

Again,  there  are  others  who  lay  the 
foundations  of  family  life .  so  narrow, 
straight,  and  strict,  that  there  is  room 
in  them  only  for  themselves  and  peo- 
ple exactly  like  themselves ;  and  hence 
comes  much  misery. 

A  man  and  woman  come  together  out 
of  different  families  and  races,  often 
united  by  only  one  or  two  sympathies^ 
with  many  differences.    Their  first  wis- 


dom would  be  to  find  out  each  other's 
nature,  and  accommodate  to  it  as  a 
fixed  fact ;  instead  of  which,  how  many 
spend  their  lives  in  a  blind  fight  with  an 
opposite  nature,  as  good  as  their  own 
in  its  way,  but  not  capable  of  meeting 
their  requirements ! 

A  woman  trained  in  an  exact,  thriv- 
ing, business  &mily,  where  her  father 
and  brothers  bore  everything  along  with 
true  worldly  skill  and  energy,  fidls  in 
love  with  a  literary  man,  who  knows 
nothing  of  affairs,  whose  life  is  in  his 
library  and  his  pen.  Shall  she  vex  and 
torment  herself  and  him  because  he  is 
not  a  business  man  ?  Shall  she  con- 
stantly hold  up  to  him  the  example  of 
her  father  and  brothers,  and  how  they 
would  manage  in  this  and  that  case? 
or  shall  she  say  cheerily  and  once  for 
all  to  herself,  —  *'  My  husband  has  no 
tzdent  for  business ;  that  is  not  his  forte ; 
but  then  he  has  talents  &r  more  inter- 
esting: I  cannot  have  everything;  let 
him  go  on  undisturbed,  and  do  what  he 
can  do  well,  and  let  me  try  to  make-up 
for  what  he  cannot  do ;  and  if  there  be 
disabilities  come  on  us  in  consequence 
of  what  we  neither  of  us  can  do,  let  us 
both  take  them  cheerfully  "  ? 

In  the  same  manner  a  man  takes  out 
of  the  bosom  of  an  adoring  finmily  one 
of  those  delicate,  petted  singing-birds 
that  seem  to  be  created  simply  to  adorn 
life  and  make  it  charming.  Is  it  fair, 
after  he  has  got  her,  to  compare  her 
housekeeping,  and  her  efficiency  and 
capability  in  the  material  part  of  life, 
with  those  of  his  mother  and  sisters, 
who  are  strong-limbed,  practical  wom- 
en, that  have  never  thought  about  any- 
thing but  housekeeping  from  their  cra- 
dle ?  Shall  he  all  the  while  vex  himself 
and  her  with  the  remembrance  of  how 
his  mother  used  to  get  up  at  fa^  o'clock 
and  arrange  all  the  business  of  the  day, 
—  how  she  kept  all  the  accounts,  — 
how  she  saw  to  everything  and  settied 
everything,  —  how  there  never  were 
break-downs  or  irregularities  in  her 
system  ? 

This  would  be  unfiiir.  If  a  man  want- 
ed such  a  housekeeper,  why  did  he  not 
get  one  ?    There  were  plenty  of  single 


736 


The  Ckimney-Comer. 


[Jiinc, 


women,  who  understood  washings  iron- 
ing, clear-starching,  cooking,  and  gen- 
eral housekeeping,  better  than  the  lit- 
tle canary-bird  which  he  fell  in  love 
with,  and  wanted  for  her  plumage  and 
her  song,  for  her  merry  tricks,  for  her 
bright  eyes  and  pretty  ways.  Now  he 
has  got  his  bird,  let  him  keep  it  as 
something  fine  and  precious,  to  be  cared 
for  and  watched  over,  and  treated  ac- 
cording to  the  laws  of  its  frail  and 
delicate  nature ;  and  so  treating  it,  he 
may  many  years  keep  the  charms  which 
first  won  his  heart.  He  may  find,  too, 
if  he  watches  and  is  careful,  that  a  hum- 
ming-bird can,  in  its  own  small^  dainty 
way,  build  a  nest  as  efficiendy  as  a  tur- 
key-gobbler, and  hatch  her  eggs  and 
bring  up  her  young  in  humming-bird 
fashion ;  but  to  do  it,  she  must  be  left 
unfrightened  and  undisturbed. 

But  the  evils  of  domestic  intolerance 
increase  with  the  birth  of  children.  As 
parents  come  together  out  of  different 
fiunilies  with  ill-assorted  peculiarities, 
so-children  are  bom  to  them  with  na- 
tures differing  from  their  own  and  from 
each  other. 

The  parents  seize  on  their  first  new 
child  as  a  piece  of  special  property 
which  they  are  forthwith  to  turn  to  their 
own  account  The  poor  little  waif,  just 
drifted  on  the  shores  of  Time,  has  per- 
haps folded  up  in  it  a  character  as  pos- 
itive as  that  of  either  parent ;  but,  for 
all  that,  its  future  course  is  marked  out 
for  it,  all  arranged  and  predetermined. 

John  has  a  perfect  mania  for  literary 
distinction.  His  own  education  was 
somewhat  imperfect,  but  he  is  deter- 
mined his  children  shall  be  prodigies. 
His  first-bom  turns  out  a  girl,  who  is 
to  write  like  Madame  de  Stael,  —  to 
be  an  able,  accomplished  woman.  He 
bores  her  with  literature  from  her  ear- 
liest years,  reads  extracts  from  Mil- 
ton to  her  when  she  is  only  eight  years 
old  and  is  secretly  longing  to  be  play- 
ing with  her  doll*S  wardrobe.  He  multi- 
plies governesses,  spares  no  expense, 
and  when,  after  all,  his  daughter  turns 
out  to  be  only  a  very  pretty,  sensible, 
domestic  girl,  fond  of  cross -stitching 
embroidery,  and  with  a  more  decided 


vocation  for  sponge-cake  and  pickles 
than  for  poetry  and  composition,  he  is 
disappointed  and  treats  her  coldly ;  and 
she  is  unhappy  and  feels  that  she  has 
vexed  her  parents,  because  she  can- 
not be  what  Nature  never  meant  her  to 
be.  If  John  had  taken  meekly  the  pres- 
ent that  Mother  Nature  gave  him,  and 
humbly  set  himself  to  inquire  what  it 
was  and  what  it  was  good  for,  he  might 
have  had  years  of  happiness  with  a 
modest,  amiable,  and  domestic  daugh- 
ter, to  whom  had  been  given  the  in- 
stinct to  study  household  good. 

But,  again,  a  bustling,  pickling,  pre* 
serving,  stocking  -  knitting,  universal- 
housekeeping  woman  has  a  daughter 
who  dreams  over  her  knitting -work 
and  hides  a  book  under  her  sampler,  — 
whose  thoughts  are  straying  in  Greece, 
Rome,  Germany,  —  who  .  is  reading, 
studying,  thinking,  writing,  without 
knowing  why;  and  the  mother  sets 
herself  to  fight  this  nature,  and  to  make 
the  dreamy  scholar  into  a  driving,  thor- 
ough-going, exact  woman- of- business. 
How  many  tears  are  shed,  how  much 
temper  wasted,  how  much  time  lost,  in 
such  encounters ! 

Each  of  these  natures,  under  judi- 
cious training,  might  be  made  to  com- 
plete itself  by  cultivation  of  that  which 
it  lacked.  The  bom  housekeeper  csui 
never  be  made  a  genius,  but  she  may 
add  to  her  household  virtues  some  rea- 
sonable share  of  literary  culture  and  ap- 
preciation, —  and  the  born  scholar  may 
learn  to  come  down  out  of  her  clouds, 
and  see  enough  of  this  earth  to  walk  its 
practical  ways  without  stumbling ;  but 
this  must  be  done  by  tolerance  of  their 
nature,  —  by  giving  it  play  and  room, 
—  first  recognizing  its  existence  and 
its  rights,  and  then  seeking  to  add  to 
it  the  properties  it  wants. 

A  driving  Yankee  housekeeper,  fruit- 
ful of  resources,  can  work  with  any 
tools  or  with  no  tools,  at  alL  If  she 
absolutely  cannot  get  a  tack-hammer 
with  a  claw  on  one  end,  she  can  take 
np  carpet-nails  with  an  iron  spoon,  and 
drive  them  down  with  a  flat-iron  ;  and 
she  has  sense  enough  not  to  scold, 
though  she  does  her  work  with  them  at 


i86s.] 


Tlu  OUnuuy'Comer. 


737 


considerable  disadvantage.  She  knows 
that  she  is  working  with  tools  made  to 
do  something  else,  and  never  thinks 
of  being  angry  at  their  unhandiness. 
She  might  have  equal  patience  with  a 
daughter  unhandy  in  physical  things, 
but  acute  and  skilful  in  mental  ones, 
if  she  once  had  the  idea  suggested  tp 
her. 

An  ambitious  man  has  a  son  whom 
he  destines  to  a  learned  profession.  He 
is  to  be  the  Daniel  Webster  of  the  fam- 
ily. The  boy  has  a  robust,  muscular 
fiame,  great  physical  vigor  and  en- 
terprise, a  brain  bright  and  active  in 
all  that  may  be  acquired  through  the 
bodily  senses,  but  which  is  dull  and 
confused  and  wandering  when  put  to 
abstract  book-knowledge.  He  knows 
every  ship  at  the  wharf,  her  build,  ton- 
nage, and  sailing  qualities ;  he  knows 
every  railroad-engine,  its  power,  speed, 
and  hours  of  coming  and  going;  he 
is  always  busy,  sawing,  hammering, 
planing,  digging,  driving,  making  bar- 
gains, with  his  head  full  of  plans,  all 
relating  to  something  outward  and  phys- 
ical In  all  these  matters  his  mind 
works  strongly,  his  ideas  are  clear,  his 
observation  acute,  his  conversation  sen- 
sible and  worth  listening  ta  But  as  to 
the  distinction  between  common  nouns 
and  proper  nouns,  between  the  subject 
and  the  predicate  of  a  sentence,  between 
the  relative  pronoun  and  the  demonstra- 
tive adjective  pronoun,  between  the  per- 
fect and  the  preter-perfect  tense,  he  is 
extremely  dull  and  hazy.  The  region 
of  abstract  ideas  is  to  him  a  region 
of  ghosts  and  shadows.  Yet  his  youth 
is  mainly  a  dreary  wilderness  of  un- 
comprehended,  incomprehensible  stud- 
ies, of  privations,  tasks,  punishments, 
with  a  sense  of  continual  failure,  dis- 
appointment, and  disgrace,  because  his 
lather  is  trying  to  make  a  scholar  and 
a  literary  man  out  of  a  boy  whom  Na- 
ture maide  to  till  the  soil  or  manage 
the  material  forces  of  the  world.  He 
might  be  a  farmer,  an  engineer,  a  pio- 
neer of  a  new  settlement,  a  sailor,  a  sol- 
dier, a  thriving  man  of  business ;  but 
he  grows  up  feeling  that  his  nature  is 
a  crime,  and  that  he  is  good  for  nothing, 

VOL.  XV. — NO.  92.  47 


because  he  is  not  good  for  what  he  had 
been  blindly  predestined  to  before  he 
was  bom. 

Another  boy  is  a  bom  mechanic ;  he 
understands  machinery  at  a  glance ;  he 
is  all  the  while  pondering  and  studying 
and  experimenting.  But  his  wheels 
and  his  axles  and  his  pulleys  are  all 
swept  away,  as  so  much  irrelevant  lum- 
ber ;  he  is  doomed  to  go  into  the  Latin 
School,  and  spend  three  or  four  years 
in  trying  to  learn  what  he  never  can 
learn  well, — disheartened  by  always  be- 
ing at  the  tail  of  his  class,  and  seeing 
many  a  boy  inferior  to  himself  in  gen- 
eral culture  who  is  rising  to  brilliant  dis- 
tinction simply  because  he  can  remem- 
ber those  hopeless,  bewildering  Greek 
quantides  and  accents  which  he  is  con- 
standy  forgetting,  —  as,  for  example, 
how  properispomena  become  paroxy- 
tones  when  the  ultimate  becomes  long, 
and  proparoxytones  become  paroxy- 
tones  when  the  ultimate  becomes  long, 
while  paroxy tones  with  a  short  penult 
remain  paroxy  tones.  Each  of  this  class 
of  rules,  however,  having  about  six- 
teen exceptions,  whidh  hold  good  ex- 
cept in  three  or  four  other  exception- 
al cases  under  them,  the  labyrinth  be- 
comes delightfully  wilder  and  wilder; 
and  the  crowning  beauty  of  the  whole 
is,  that,  when  the  bewildered  boy  has 
swallowed  the  whole,  —  tail,  scales,  fins, 
and  bones,  —  he  then  is  allowed  to  read 
the  classics  in  peace,  without  the  slight- 
est occasion  to  refer  to  them  again  dur- 
ing his  college  course. 

The  great  trouble  with  the  so-called 
classical  course  of  education  is,  that  it 
is  made  strictly  for  but  one  class  of 
minds,  which  it  drills  in  respects  for 
which  they  have  by  nature  an  aptitude, 
and  to  which  it  presents  scarcely  enough 
of  difficulty  to  make  it  a  mental  disci- 
pline, while  to  another  and  equally  val- 
uable class  of  minds  it  presents  difficul- 
ties so  great  as  actually  to  crush  and  dis- 
courage. There  are,  we  will  venture  to 
say,  in  every  ten  boys  in  Boston  four, 
and  those  not  the  dullest  or  poorest  in 
quality,  who  could  never  go  through  the 
discipline  of  the  Boston  Latin  School 
without  such  a  strain  on  the  brain  and 


738 


The  Chimney-Comer. 


[June, 


nervous  system  as  would  leave  them  no 
power  for  anything  else. 

A  bright,  intelligent  boy,  whose  tal- 
ents lay  in  the  line  of  natural  philoso- 
phy and  mechanics,  passed  with  brilliant 
success  through  the  Boston  English 
High  School.  He  won  the  first  med- 
als, and  felt  all  that  pride  and  enthusi- 
asm  which  belong  to  a  successfid  stu- 
dent He  entered  the  Latin  Classical 
SchooL  With  a  large  philosophic  and 
reasoning  brain,  he  had  a  very  poor 
verbal  and  textual  memory;  and  here 
he  began  to  see  himself  distanced  by 
boys  who  had  hitherto  looked  up  to 
him.  They  could  rattle  off  catalogues  of 
names  ;  they  could  do  so  all  the  better 
from  the  habit  of  not  thinking  of  what 
they  studied.  They  could  commit  the 
Latin  Grammar,  coarse  print  and  fine, 
and  run  through  the  interminable  mazes 
of  Greek  accents  and  Greek  inflections. 
This  boy  of  large  mind  and  brain,  al- 
ways behindhand,  always  incapable,  ut- 
terly discouraged,  no  amount  of  study 
could  place  on  an  equality  with  his  for- 
mer inferiors.  His  health  failed,  and 
he  dropped  from  school  Many  a  fine 
fellow  has  been  lost  to  himself,  and 
lost  to  an  educated  life,  by  just  such  a 
failure.  The  collegiate  system  is  like  a 
great  coal-screen :  every  piece  not  of  a 
certain  size  must  fall  through.  This 
may  do  well  enough  for  screening  coal ; 
but  what  if  it  were  used  indiscrimi- 
nately for  a  mixture  of  coal  and  dia- 
monds ? 

"  Poor  boy  1 "  said  Ole  Bull,  compas- 
sionately, when  one  sought  to  push  a 
schoolboy  from  the  steps  of  an  omni- 
bus, where  he  was  getting  a  surrepti- 
tious ride.  "  Poor  boy  I  let  him  stay. 
Who  knows  his  trials  ?  Perhaps  he 
studies  Latin." 

The  witty  Heinrich  Heine  says,  in 
bitter  remembrance  of  his  early  suffer- 
ings, —  •*  The  Romans  would  never 
have  conquered  the  world,  if  they  had 
had  to  learn  their  own  language.  They 
had  leisure,  because  they  were  bom 
with  the  knowledge  of  what  nouns  form 
their  accusatives  in  /m." 

Now  we  are  not  among  those  who 
decry  the  Greek  and  Latin  classics. 


We  think  it  a  glorious  privilege  to  read 
both  those  grand  old  tongues,  and  that 
an  intelligent,  cultivated  man  who  is 
shut  out  from  the  converse  of  the  sirfen- 
did  minds  of  those  olden  times  loses  a 
part  of  his  birthright ;  and  therefore  it  is 
that  we  mourn  that  but  one  dry,  hard, 
technical  path,  one  sharp,  straight,  nar- 
row way,  is  allowed  into  so  goodly  a 
land  of  knowledge.  We  think  there  is 
no  need  that  the  study  of  Greek  and 
Latin  should  be  made  such  a  horror. 
There  is  many  a  man  without  a  verbal 
memory,  who  could  neither  recite  in 
order  the  paradigms  of  the  Greek  verbs, 
nor  repeat  the  lists  of  nouns  that  form 
their  accusative  in  one  termination  or 
another,  who,  nevertheless,  by  the  ex** 
ercise  of  his  faculties  of  comparison 
and  reasoning,  could  learn  to  read  the 
Greek  and  Latin  classics  so  as  to  take 
their  sense  and  enjoy  their  spirit ;  and 
that  is  all  that  they  are  worth  caring 
for.  We  have  known  one  young  schol- 
ar, who  could  not  by  any  possibility 
repeat  the  lists  of  exceptions  to  the 
rules  in  the  Latin  Grammar,  who  yet 
delightedly  filled  his  private  note-book 
with  quotations  from  the  **  iEneid,'*  and 
was  making  extracts  of  literary  gems 
from  his  Greek  Reader,  at  the  same 
time  that  he  was  every  day  "screwed** 
by  his  tutor  upon  some  technical  point 
of  the  language. 

Is  there  not  many  a  master  of  £ng* 
lish,  many  a  writer  and  orator,  who 
could  not  repeat  from  memory  the  list 
of  nouns  ending  in^^  that  form  their  pin* 
ral  in  iesy  with  the  exceptions  under 
it  ?  How  many  of  us  could  do  this  ? 
Would  it  help  a  good  writer  and  fluent 
speaker  to  know  the  whole  of  Murray's 
Grammar  by  heart,  or  does  real  knowK 
edge  of  a  language  ever  come  in  this 
way? 

At  present  the  rich  stores  of  ancient 
literature  are  kept  like  the  savory  stew 
which  poor  Dominie  Sampson  heard 
simmering  in  the  witch's  ketde.  One 
may  have  much  appetite,  but  there  is 
but  one  way  of  getting  it  The  M^ 
Merrilies  of  our  educational  system, 
with  her  harsh  voice,  and  her  ^  Gape, 
sinner,  and  swallow,"  is  the  only  intio- 


i86s.] 


The  Chimney-Lomer. 


739 


duction,  —  and  so,  many  a  one  turns 
and  runs  frightened  from  the  feast 

This  intolerant  mode  of  teaching  the 
classical  languages  is  peculiar  to  them 
alone.  Multitudes  of  girls  and  boys 
are  learning  to  read  and  to  speak  Ger- 
man, French,  and  Italian,  and  to  feel 
all  the  delights  of  expatiatipg  in  the  lit- 
erature of  a  new  language,  purely  be- 
cause of  a  simpler,  more  natural,  less 
pedantic  mode  of  teaching  these  lan- 
guages. 

Intolerance  in  the  established  system 
of  education  works  misery  in  families, 
because  family  pride  decrees  that  ev- 
ery boy  of  good  status  in  society,  wiU 
he,  nill  he,  shall  go  through  college,  or 
he  almost  forfeits  his  position  as  a  gen- 
tleman. 

"  Not  go  to  Cambridge  I "  says  Scho- 
lasticus  to  his  first-born.  <*Why,  I 
went  there,  —  and  my  father,  and  his  &- 
ther,  and  his  father  before  him.  Look 
at  the  Cambridge  Catalogue  and  you 
will  see  the  names  of  our  family  ever 
since  the  College  was  founded  ! " 

"  But  I  can't  learn  Latin  and  Greek," 
says  young  Scholasticus.  ^  I  can't  re- 
member all  those  rules  and  exceptions. 
I  Ve  tried,  and  I  can't  If  you  could 
only  know  how  my  head  feels  when  I 
try !  And  I  won't  be  at  the  foot  of  the 
class  all  the  time,  if  I  have  to  get  my 
living  by  digging." 

Suppose,  now,  the  boy  is  pushed  on 
at  the  point  of  the  bayonet  to  a  kind 
of  knowledge  in  which  he  has  no  in- 
terest, communicated  in  a  way  that  re- 
quires faculties  which  Nature  has  not 
given  him,  —  what  occurs? 

He  goes  through  his  course,  either 
shamming,  shirking,  parrying,  all  the 
while  consciously  discredited  and  dis- 
honored, —  or  else  putting  forth  an  ef- 
fort that  is  a  draft  on  all  his  nervous 
energ)%  he  makes  merely  a  decent  schol- 
ar, and  loses  his  health  for  life. 

Now,  if  the  principle  of  toleration 
were  once  admitted  into  classical  edu- 
cation,—  if  it  were  admitted  that  the 
great  object  is  to  read  and  enjoy  a 
language,  and  the  stress  of  the  teach- 
ing were  placed  on  the  few  things  abso- 
lutely essentia]  to  this  result,  —  if  the 


tortoise  were  allowed  time  to  creep,  and 
the  bird  permitted  to  fly,  and  the  fish  to 
swim,  towards  the  enchanted  and  divine 
sources  of  Helicon,  —  all  might  in  their 
own  way  arrive  there,  and  rejoice  in  its 
flowers,  its  beauty,  and  its  coolness. 

"^  But,"  say  the  advocates  of  the  pres* 
ent  system,  'Mt  is  good  mental  disci* 
pline." 

I  doubt  it    It  is  mere  waste  of  time. 

When  a  boy  has  learned  that  in  the 
genitive  plural  of  the  first  declension 
of  Greek  nouns  the  final  syllable  is  cir- 
cumfiexed,  but  to  this  there  are  the  fol- 
lowing exceptions :  i.  That  feminine 
adjectives  and  participles  in  -of,  -ly,  -«» 
are  accented  like  the  genitive  mascu- 
line, but  other  feminine  adjectives  and 
participles  are  perispomena  in  the  gen- 
itive plural ;  2.  That  the  substantives 
ehresUs^  aphue^  etestai,  and  chlcunes  in 
the  genitive  plural  remain  parox3rtones, 
(Kuhner's  Elementary  Greek  Grant'- 
mar,  page  22,) —  I  say,  when  a  boy  has 
learned  this  and  twenty  other  things 
just  like  it,  his  mind  has  not  been  one 
whit  more  disciplined  than  if  he  had 
learned  the  list  of  the  old  thirteen 
States,  the  number  and  names  of  the 
newly  adopted  ones,  the  times  of  their 
adoption,  and  the  population,  commerce, 
mineral  and  agricultural  wealth  of  each. 
These,  too,  are  merely  exercises  of  mem- 
ory, but  they  are  exercises  in  what  is 
of  some  interest  and  some  use. 

The  particulars  above  cited  are  of 
so  little  use  in  understanding  the  Greek 
classics  that  I  will  venture  to  say  that 
there  are  intelligent  English  scholars, 
who  have  never  read  anything  but 
Bohn's  translations,  who  have  more 
genuine  knowledge  of  the  spirit  of  the 
Greek  mind,  and  the  peculiar  idioms 
of  the  language,  and  more  enthusiasm 
for  it,  than  many  a  poor  fellow  who  has 
stumbled  blindly  through  the  originals 
with  the  bayonet  of  the  tutor  at  his 
heels,  and  his  eyes  and  ears  full  of  the 
Scotch  snufT  of  the  Greek  Grammar. 

What  then  ?  Shall  we  not  learn  these 
ancient  tongues  }  By  all  means.  '*  So 
many  times  as  I  learn  a  language,  so 
many  times  I  become  a  man,"  said 
Charles  V. ;  and  he  said  rightiy.    Latin 


740 


TJte  Chimney-Comer. 


[June, 


aad  Greek  are  foully  belied  by  the  pre- 
judices created  by  this  technical,  pe- 
dantic mode  of  teaching  them,  which 
makes  one  ragged,  prickly  bundle  of 
all  the  dry  facts  of  the  language,  and 
insists  upon  it  that  the  boy  shall  not  see 
one  glimpse  of  its  beauty,,glory,  or  in- 
terest, till  he  has  swallowed  and  digest- 
ed the  whole  mass.  Many  die  in  this 
wilderness  with  their  shoes  worn  out 
before  reaching  the  Promised  Land  of 
Plato  and  the  Tragedians. 

^*But,''  say  our  college  authorities, 
'*  look  at  England.  An  English  school- 
boy learns  three  times  the  Latin  and 
Greek  that  our  boys  learn,  and  has  them 
well  drubbed  in.'' 

And  English  boys  have  three  times 
more  beef  and  pudding  in  their  constitu- 
tion than  American  boys  have,  and  three 
times  less  of  nerves.  The  difference 
of  nature  must  be  considered  here  ; 
and  the  constant  influence  flowing  from 
English  schools  and  universities  must 
be  tempered  by  considering  who  we 
are,  what  sort  of  boys  we  have  to  deal 
with,  what  treatment  they  can  bear,  and 
what  are  the  needs  of  our  growing 
American  society. 

The  demands  of  actual  life,  the  living, 
visible  facts  of  practical  science,  in  so 
large  and  new  a  country  as  ours,  re- 
quire that  the  ideas  of  the  ancients 
should  be  given  us  in  the  shortest  and 
most  economical  way  possible,  and  that 
scholastic  technicalities  should  be  re- 
served to  those  whom  Nature  made 
with  especial  reference  to  tlieir  preser- 
vation. 

On  no  subject  is  there  more  intoler- 
ant judgment,  and  more  suffering  from 
such  intolerance,  than  on  the  much  moot- 
ed one  of  the  education  of  children. 

Treatises  on  education  require  alto- 
gether too  much  of  parents,  and  impose 
burdens  of  responsibility  on  tender  spir- 
its which  crush  the  life  and  strength 
out  of  them.  Parents  have  been  talked 
to  as  if  each  child  came  to  them  a  soft, 
pulpy  mass,  which  they  were  to  pinch 
and  pidl  and  pat  and  stroke  into  shape 
quite  at  their  leisure, — and  a  good  pat- 
tern being  placed  before  them,  they  were 
to  proceed  immediately  to  set  up  and 


construct  a  good  human  being  in  con- 
formity therewith. 

It  is  strange  that  believers  in  the 
divine  inspiration  of  the  Bible  should 
have  entertained  this  idea,  overlooking 
the  constant  and  affecting  declaration 
of  the  great  Heavenly  Father  that  He 
has  nourished  and  brought  up  children 
and  they  have  rebelled  against  Him, 
together  with  His  constant  appeals,  — 
**  What  could  have  been  done  more  to 
my  vineyard  that  I  have  not  done  in  it  ? 
Wherefore,  when  I  looked  that  it  should 
bring  forth  grapes,  brought  it  forth  wild 
grapes  ? "  If  even  God,  wiser,  better, 
purer,  more  loving,  admits  Himself  baf- 
fled in  this  great  work,  is  it  expedient 
to  say  to  human  beings  that  the  forming 
power,  the  deciding  force,  of  a  child's 
character  is  in  their  hands? 

Many  a  poor  feeble  woman's  health 
has  been  strained  to  breaking,  and  her 
life  darkened,  by  the  laying  on  her 
shoulders  of  a  burden  of  jresponsibility 
that  never  ought  to  have  been  placed 
there ;  and  many  a  mother  has  been 
hindered  from  using  such  powers  as 
God  has  given  her,  because  some  pre- 
conceived mode  of  operation  has  been 
set  up  before  her  which  she  could  no 
more  make  effectual  than  David  could 
wear  the  armor  of  Saul 

A  gende,  loving,  fragile  creature 
marries  a  strong-willed,  energetic  man, 
and  by  the  laws  of  natural  descent 
has  a  boy  given  to  her  of  twice  her 
amount  of  will  and  energy.  She  is 
just  as  helpless,  in  the  mere  struggle  of 
will  and  authority  with  such  a  child,  as 
she  would  be  in  a  physical  wrestle  with 
a  six-foot  man. 

What  then  ?  Has  Nature  left  her 
helpless  for  her  dudes  ?  Not  if  she 
understands  her  nature,  and  acts  in  the 
line  of  it  She  has  no  power  of  com- 
mand, but  she  has  power  of  persuasion. 
She  can  neither  bend  nor  break  the 
boy's  iron  will,  but  she  can  melt  it. 
She  has  tact  to  avoid  the  conflict  in 
which  she  would  be  worsted.  She  can 
charm,  amuse,  please,  and  make  willing ; 
and  her  fine  and  subtile  influences, 
weaving  themselves  about  him  day  af- 
ter day,  become  more  and  more  power- 


i86s.] 


The  Chitnney-Comer. 


74 » 


fuL    Let  her  alone,  and  she  will  have 
her  boy  yet 

But  now  some  bustling  mother-in- 
law  or  other  privileged  expounder  says 
to  her,  — 

"  My  dear,  it  *s  your  solemn  duty  to 
break  that  boy*s  will.  I  broke  my  boy's 
will  short  off.  Keep  your  whip  in  sight, 
meet  him  at  every  turn,  fight  him  when- 
ever he  crosses  you,  never  let  him  get 
one  victory,  and  finally  his  will  will  be 
wholly  subdued/' 

Such  advice  is  mischievous,  because 
what  it  proposes  is  as  utter  an  impos- 
sibility to  the  woman's  nature  as  for  a 
cow  to  scratch  up  worms  for  her  cal^ 
or  a  hen  to  suckle  her  chickens. 

There  are  men  and  women  of  strong, 
resolute  will  who  are  gifted  with  the 
power  of  governing  the  wills  of  others. 
Such  persons  can  govern  in  this  way, — 
and  their  government,  being  in  the  line 
of  their  nature,  acting  strongly,  consis- 
tently, naturally,  makes  everything  move 
harmoniously.  Let  them  be  content 
with  their  own  success,  but  let  them 
not  set  up  as  general  education-doctors, 
or  apply  their  experience  to  all  possible 
cases. 

Again,  there  are  others,  and  among 
them  some  of  the  loveliest  and  purest 
natures,  who  have  no  power  of  com- 
mand. They  have  sufficient  tenacity  of 
will  as  respects  their  own  course,  but 
have  no  compulsory  power  over  the 
wills  of  others.  Many  such  women  have 
been  most  successftil  mothers,  when 
they  followed  the  line  of  their  own  na- 
tures, and  did  not  undertake  what  they 
never  could  do. 

Influence  is  a  slower  acting  force  than 
authority.  It  seems  weaker,  but  in  the 
long  run  it  often  effects  more.  It  al- 
ways does  better  than  mere  force  and 
authority  without  its  gentle  modifying 
power. 

If  a  mother  is  high  -  principled,  re- 
ligious, affectionate,  if  she  never  uses 
craft  or  deception,  if  she  governs  her 
temper  and  sets  a  good  example,  let 
her  hold  on  in  good  hope,  though  she 
cannot  produce  the  discipline  of  a  man- 
of-war  in  her  noisy  little  flock,  or  make 
all  move  as  smoothly  as  some  other 


women  to  whom  God  has  given  another 
and  different  talent ;  and  let  her  not  be 
discouraged,  if  she  seem  often  to  ac- 
complish but  little  in  that  great  work 
of  forming  human  character  wherein  the 
great  Creator  of  the  world  has  declared 
Himself  at  times  baf&ed. 

Family  tolerance  must  take  great  ac- 
count of  the  stages  and  periods  of  de- 
velopment and  growth  in  children. 

The  passage  of  a  human  being  from 
one  stage  of  development  to  another, 
like  the  sun's  passage  across  the  equa- 
tor, frequently  has  its  storms  and  tem- 
pests. The  change  to  manhood  and  wom- 
anhood often  involves  brain,  nerves, 
body,  and  soul  in  confusion ;  the  child 
sometimes  seems  lost  to  himself  and  his 
parents,  —  his  very  nature  changing. 
In  this  sensitive  state  come  restless 
desires,  unreasonable  longings,  unset- 
tled purposes  ;  and  the  fatal  habit  of 
indulgence  in  deadly  stimulants,  ruining 
all  the  life,  often  springs  from  the  crav- 
ings of  this  transition  period. 

Here  must  come  in  the  patience  of 
the  saints.  The  restlessness  must  be 
soothed,  the  family  hearth  must  be  tol- 
erant enough  to  keep  there  the  boy, 
whom  Satan  will  receive  and  cherish, 
if  his  mother  does  not.  The  male  ele- 
ment sometimes  pours  into  a  boy,  like 
the  tides  in  the  Bay  of  Fundy,  with  tu- 
mult and  tossing.  He  is  noisy,  vocif- 
erous, uproarious,  and  seems  bent  only 
on  disturbance ;  he  despises  conven- 
tionalities, he  hates  parlors,  he  longs 
for  the  woods,  the  sea,  the  converse  of 
rough  men,  and  kicks  at  constraint  of 
all  kinds.  Have  patience  now,  let  love 
have  its  perfect  work,  and  in  a  year  or 
two,  if  no  deadly  physical  habits  set  in, 
a  quiet,  well-mannered  gentleman  will 
be  evolved.  Meanwhile,  if  he  does  not 
wipe  his  shoes,  and  if  he  will  fling  his 
hat  upon  the  floor,  and  tear  his  clothes, 
and  bang  and  hammer  and  shout,  and 
cause  general  confusion  in  his  belong- 
ings, do  not  despair ;  if  you  only  get 
your  son,  the  hat  and  clothes  and  shoes 
and  noise  and  confusion  do  not  matter. 
Any  amount  of  toleration  that  keeps  a 
boy  contented  at  home  is  treasure  well 
expended  at  this  time  of  life. 


742 


The  Jaguar  Hunt. 


One  thing  not  enough  reflected  on  is, 
that  in  this  transition  period  between 
childhood  and  maturity  tlfie  heaviest 
draft  and  strain  of  school  education  oc- 
curs. The  boy  is  fitting  for  the  uni- 
versity, the  girl  going  through  the  stud- 
ies of  the  college  senior  year,  and  the 
brain-power,  which  is  working  almost  to 
the  breaking-point  to  perfect  the  physi- 
cal change,  has  the  additional  labor  of 
all  the  drill  and  discipline  of  school. 

The  girl  is  growing  into  a  tall  and 
shapely  woman,  and  the  poor  brain  is 
put  to  it  to  find  enough  phosphate  of 
lime,  carbon,  and  other  what  not,  to 
build  her  fair  edifice.  The  bills  flow 
in  upon  her  thick  and  ^t;  she  pays 
out  hand  over  hand:  if  she  had  only 
her  woman  to  build,  she  might  get  along, 
but  now  come  in  demands  for  algebra, 
geometry,  music,  language,  and  the  poor 
brain-bank  stops  payment;  some  part 
of  the  work  is  shabbily  done,  and  a 
crooked  spine  or  weakened  lungs  are 
the  result 

Boarding-schools,  both  for  boys  and 


girls,  are  for  the  most  part  composed 
of  young  people  in  this  most  delicate, 
critical  portion  of  their  physical,  men- 
tal, and  moral  development,  whose 
teachers  are  expected  to-  put  them 
through  one  straight,  severe  course  of 
drill,  without  the  slightest  allowance  for 
the  great  physical  facts  of  their  being. 
No  wonder  they  are  difficult  to  man- 
age, and  that  so  many  of  them  drop, 
physically,  mentally,  and  morally  halt 
and  maimed.  It  is  not  the  teacher's 
fault ;  he  but  fulfils  the  parentis  requi- 
sition, which  dooms  his  child  without 
appeal  to  a  certain  course,  simply  be- 
cause others  have  gone  through  it 

Finally,  as  my  sermon  is  too  long  al- 
ready, let  me  end  with  a  single  reflec- 
tion. Every  human  being  has  some 
handle  by  which  he  may  be  lifted,  some 
groove  in  which  he  was  meant  to  run ; 
and  the  great  work  of  life,  as  far  as  our 
relations  with  each  other  are  concerned, 
is  to  lift  each  one  by  his  own  proper  han- 
dle, and  run  each  one  in  his  own  proper 
groove. 


THE   JAGUAR    HUNT, 

THE  dark  jaguar  was  abroad  in  the  land ; 
His  strength  and  his  fierceness  what  foe  could  withstand? 
The  breath  of  his  anger  was  hot  on  the  air, 
And  the  white  lamb  of  Peace  he  had  dragged  to  his  lair. 

Then  up  rose  the  Farmer;  he  summoned  his  sons: 
•*  Now  saddle  your  horses,  now  look  to  your  guns  I " 
And  he  called  to  his  hound,  as  he  sprang  from  the  groimd 
To  the  back  of  his  black  pawing  steed  with  a  bound. 

Oh,  their  hearts,  at  the  word,  how  they  tingled  and  stirred ! 
They  followed,  all  belted  and  booted  and  spurred. 
**  Buckle  tight,  boys ! "  said  he,  "  for  who  gallops  with  me, 
Such  a  hunt  as  was  never  before  he  shall  see  I 


"This  traitor,  we  know  him!  for  when  he  was  younger. 
We  flattered  him,  patted  him,  fed  his  fierce  hunger: 
But  now  far  too  long  we  have  borne  with  the  wrong. 
For  each  morsel  we  tossed  makes  him  savage  and  strong.'' 


1 86s.]  2T4^  Jaguar  Hunt.  743 

Then  said  one,  "  He  must  die ! "    And  they  took  up  the  cry, 
*'  For  this  last  crime  of  his  he  must  die !  he  must  die  i '' 
But  the  slow  eldest-bom  sauntered  sad  and  ibrlorn, 
For  his  heart  was  at  home  on  that  fair  hunting-mom. 

"I  remember,"  he  said,  ''how  this  fine  cub  we  track 
Has  carried  me  many  a  time  on  his  back  1 " 
And  he  called  to  his  brothers,  <*  Fight  gently !  be  kind  1 " 
And  he  kept  the  dread  hound,  Retribution,  behind 

The  dark  jaguar  on  a  bough  in  the  brake 
Crouched,  silent  and  wily,  and  lithe  as  a  snake: 
They  spied  not  their  game,  but,  as  onward  they  came. 
Through  the  dense  leafisige  gleamed  two  red  eyeballs  of  flame. 

Black-spotted,  and  mottled,  and  whiskered,  and  grim, 
White-bellied,  and  yellow,  he  lay  on  the  limb. 
All  so  still  that  you  saw  but  just  one  tawny  paw 
Lightly  reach  through  the  leaves  and  as  softly  withdraw. 

Then  shrilled  his  fierce  cry,  as  the  riders  drew  nigh. 
And  he  shot  from  the  bough  like  a  bolt  from  the  sky: 
In  the  foremost  he  fastened  his  fangs  as  he  fell. 
While  all  the  black  jvmgle  reechoed  his  yelL 

« 

Oh,  then  there  was  carnage  by  field  and  by  flood ! 
The  green  sod  was  crimsoned,  the  rivers  ran  blood, 
The  cornfields  were  trampled,  and  all  in  their  track 
The  beautiful  valley  lay  blasted  and  black. 

Now  the  din  of  the  conflict  swells  deadly  and  loud, 
And  the  dust  of  the  tumult  rolls  up  like  a  cloud : 
Then  a£ar  down  the  slope  of  the  Southland  recedes 
The  Mild  rapid  clatter  of  galloping  steeds. 

With  wide  nostrils  smoking,  and  flanks  dripping  gore. 
The  black  stallion  bore  his  bold  rider  before, 
As  onward  they  thundered  through  forest  and  glen, 
A-hunting  the  dark  jaguar  to  his  den. 

In  April,  sweet  April,  the  chase  was  begun; 
It  was  April  again,  when  the  hunting  was  done: 
The  snows  of  four  winters  and  four  summers  green 
Lay  red-streaked  and  trodden  and  blighted  between. 

Then  the  monster  stretched  all  his  grim  length  on  the  ground; 

His  life-blood  was  wasting  from  many  a  wound; 

Ferocious  and  gory  and  snarling  he  lay, 

Amid  heaps  of  the  whitening  bones  of  his  prey. 

Then  up  spoke  the  slow  eldest  son,  and  he  said, 
'<  All  he  needs  now  is  just  to  be  fostered  and  fed ! 
Give  over  the  strife !    Brothers,  put  up  the  knife ! 
We  will  tame  him,  reclaim  him,  but  take  not  his  life ! " 


744 


Late  Scenes  in  Richtnond, 


[June, 


But  the  Farmer  flung  back  the  false  words  in  his  face : 
"  He  is  none  of  my  race,  who  gives  counsel  so  base ! 
Now  let  loose  the  hound ! "    And  the  hound  was  unbound, 
And  like  lightning  the  heart  of  the  traitor  he  found. 

"  So  rapine  and  treason  forever  shall  cease ! " 

And  they  wash  the  stained  fleece  of  the  pale  lamb  of  Peace ; 

When,  lo !  a  strong  angel  stands  wingM  and  white 

In  a  wonderful  raiment  of  ravishing  light ! 

Peace  is  raised  from  the  dead  I     In  the  radiance  shed 
By  the  halo  of  glory  that  shines  round  her  head, 
Fair  gardens  shall  bloom  where  the  black  jungle  grew, 
And  all  the  glad  valley  shall  blossom  anew! 


LATE    SCENES    IN    RICHMOND. 


IN  the  July  (1864)  number  of  this 
magazine  there  is  an  article  entitled 
"The  May  Campaign  in  Virginia," 
which  gives  an  outline  of  the  operations 
of  the  Army  of  the  Potomac  in  its 
march  from  its  encampment  on  the 
Rapidan,  through  the  tangled  thickets 
of  the  Wilderness,  to  the  bloody  fields 
of  Spottsylvania,  across  the  North  An- 
na, to  the  old  battle-ground  of  Cold 
Harbor.  The  closing  paragraph  of  that 
article  is  an  appropriate  introduction  to 
the  present     It  is  as  follows  :  — 

"  The  line  of  advance  taken  by  Gen- 
eral Grant  turned  the  Rebels  from 
Washington.  The  country  over  which 
the  two  armies  marched  is  a  desolation. 
There  is  no  subsistence  remaining.  The 
railroads  are  destroyed.  Lee  has  no 
longer  the  power  to  invade  the  North. 
On  the  other  hand,  General  Grant  can 
swing  upon  the  James,  and  isolate  the 
Rebel  army  from  direct  communication 
with  the  South.  That  accomplished, 
and,  sooner  or  later,  with  Hunter  in 
the  Shenandoah,  with  Union  cavalry 
sweeping  down  to  Wilmington,  Weldon, 
and  Danville,  and  up  to  the  Blue  Ridge, 
cutting  railroads,  burning  bridges,  de- 
stroying supplies  of  ammunition  and 
provisions,  the  question  with  Lee  must 
be,  not  one  of  earthworks  and  cannon 
and  powder  and  ball,  but  of  subsistence. 


Plainly,  the  day  is  approaching  when 
the  Army  of  the  Potomac,  unfortunate 
at  times  in  the  past,  derided,  ridiculed, 
but  now  triumphant  through  unparal- 
leled hardship,  endurance,  courage^ 
persistency,  will  plant  its  banners  on 
the  defences  of  Richmond,  crumble  the 
Rebel  army  beyond  the  possibility  of 
future  cohesion,  and,  in  conjunction  witfer 
the  forces  in  other  departments,  crush 
out  the  last  vestige  of  the  Rebellion." 

So  it  has  proved.  The  railroads  are 
destroyed,  the  bridges  burned,  the  sup* 
plies  of  ammunition  and  provision  ex- 
hausted ;  the  flag  of  the  Union  floats 
over  the  city  which  the  Rebels  have 
called  their  capital ;  the  troops  of  the 
Union  patrol  the  streets  of  Richmond, 
and  occupy  all  the  principal  towns  of 
Virginia ;  Lee's  army  has  melted  away, 
and  the  power  of  the  Rebellion  is 
broken. 

Before  entering  upon  a  narration  of 
the  campaign  of  a  week  which  gave  us 
Richmond  and  the  Rebel  army  at  the 
same  time,  it  will  widen  otur  scope  of 
vision  to  inquire 

HOW  RICHMOND  BECAME  THE  CAPI- 
TAL OF  THE  CONFEDERACY. 

On  the  17th  of  April,  1861,  Virginia 
in  Convention  passed  an  Ordinance  of 


1865.] 


Late  Scenes  in  Richmond. 


745 


Secession.  The  Convention,  when 
elected  on  the  4th  of  February  preced- 
ing, was  largely  Anti-Secession;  but 
the  events  which  had  taken  place,  —  the 
firing  on  Sumter,  its  surrender,  with  the 

machinations  of  the  leaders  of  Seces- 

• 

sion,  —  their  misrepresentations  of  the 
North,  of  what  Mr.  Lincoln  would  do,  — 
their  promises  that  there  would  be  no 
war,  that  the  Yankees  would  not  fight, 
—  their  buUyings  when  they  could  not 
cajole,  their  threaten! ngs  when  they 
could  not  intimidate,  —  their  rejoicings 
at  the  bloodless  victory  won  by  South 
Carolina,  single-handed,  over  a  starved 
garrison, — their  bonfires  and  illumi- 
nations, their  baskets  of  Champagne 
and  bottles  of  whiskey,  —  all  of  these 
forces  combined  were  suflatient  to  car- 
ry the  Ordinance  of  Secession  through 
the  Convention.  But  it  was  hampered 
by  a  proviso  submitting  it  to  the  people 
for  ratification  on  the  Fourth  Thursday 
of  May  following. 

John  Letcher  was  Governor  of  Vir- 
ginia. Weak  in  intellect^  grovelling  in 
his  tastes,  often  drunk,  rarely  sober,  at 
times  making  such  beastly  exhibition 
of  himself  that  the  Richmond  press 
pronounced  him  a  public  nuisance,  he 
was  a  fit  tool  of  the  Secession  conspir* 
ators.  Ready  to  do  what  he  could  to 
commit  the  State  to  overt  acts  against 
the  United  States  Government,  on  the 
evening  after  the  passage  of  the  Ordi- 
nance he  issued  orders  to  the  State 
militia  around  Winchester  to  seize  the 
Arsenal  at  Harper's  Ferry,  —  on  his  own 
sole  responsibility,  and  without  a  shaid- 
ow  of  authority  from  the  people  of  the 
State,  inauguating  civil  war,  a  proceed- 
ing which  he  followed  up  directly  after- 
wards by  proclaiming  Virginia  a  mem- 
ber of  the  Confederacy,  and  thus  carry- 
ing the  State  at  once  out  of  the  Union, 
without  awaiting  the  formality  of  a  pop- 
ular vote. 

Already  the  intentions  of  the  Con- 
federate Government  were  manifest 

"  I  prophesy  that  the  flag  which  now 
flaunts  the  breeze  here  will  float  over 
the  old  Capitol  in  Washington  before 
the  first  of  May,"  said  Mr.  L  P.  Walker, 
Secretary  of  War,  the  evening  after 


the  fall  of  Sumter,  to  a  crazy  crowd  in 
Montgomery,  then  the  Rebel  capital 

'*  From  the  mountain-tops  and  valleys 
to  the  shores  of  the  sea,  there  is  one 
wild  shout  of  fierce  resolve  to  capture 
Washington  City  :it  all  and  every  human 
hazard  That  filthy  cage  of  unclean 
birds  must  and  will  assuredly  be  puri- 
fied by  fire,"  shouted  John  Mitchell, 
through  the  "  Richmond  Examiner,"  on 
the  23d  of  April. 

**  Washington  City  will  soon  be  too 
hot  to  hold  Abraham  Lincoln  and  his 
Government,"  wrote  the  editor  of  the 
"  Raleigh  Standard  "  on  the  24th. 

"  We  are  in  lively  hope,  that,  before 
three  months  roll  by,  the  Government, 
Congress,  Departments  and  all,  wiU 
have  been  removed  to  the  present  Fed- 
eral capital,"  wrote  the  Montgomery 
correspondent  of  the  "  Charleston  Cou- 
rier "  on  the  28th  of  the  same  month. 

"  We  are  not  in  the  secrets  of  our  au- 
thorities enough  to  specify  the  day  oa 
which  Jeff  Davis  will  dine  at  the  White 
House,  and  Ben  McCuUough  take  his 
siesta  in  General  Sickles's  gilded  tent 
We  should  not  like  to  produce  any  dis- 
appointment by  naming  too  soon  or  too 
early  a  day ;  but  it  will  save  trouble,  if 
the  gentlemen  will  keep  themselves  in 
readiness  to  dislodge  at  a  moment's 
notice,"  said  the  "  Richmond  Whig  "  on 
the  22d  of  May. 

The  Rebel  Congress  had  already  ad- 
journed, and  was  on  its  way  to  Rich- 
mond. Not  only  Congress,  but  all  the 
Departments,  were  on  the  move,  intend- 
ing to  tarry  at  Richmond  but  a  day  or 
two,  till  General  Scott,  and  Abraham 
Lincoln,  and  the  Yankees,  who  were 
swarming  into  Washington,  were  driven 
out  Thus  Richmond  became,  though 
only  temporarily,  as  all  hands  in  the 
South  supposed,  the  capital  of  the  Con- 
federacy. 

A  week  later  Jeff  Davis  was  wel- 
comed to  Richmond  by  the  people, 
says  Pollard,  the  author  of  the  "South- 
em  Histor}'  of  the  War,"  an  implacable 
hater  of  the  North,  **  with  a  burst  of 
genuine  joy  and  enthusiasm  to  which 
none  of  the  military  pageants  of  the 
North  could  furnish  a  parallel"    Pres- 


746 


Late  Scenes  in  Richmond, 


[June, 


ident  Davis,  in  response  to  the  call  of 
the  populace,  made  a  speech,  in  which 
he  said,  — 

^  When  the  time  and  occasion  serve, 
we  shall  smite  the  smiter  with  manly 
arms,  as  did  our  fathers  before  us,  and 
as  becomes  their  sons.  To  the  enemy 
we  leave  the  base  acts  of  the  assassin 
and  incendiary  j'  to  them  we  leave  it  to 
insult  helpless  women :  to  us  belongs 
vengeance  upon  men.  We  will  make 
the  battle-fields  in  Virginia  another 
Buena  Vista,  drenched  with  more  pre- 
cious blood  than  flowed  there." 

But  Colonel  Robert  £.  Lee,  who  was 
in  command  of  the  Rebel  forces  in 
Virginia,  was  not  quite  ready  to  take 
Washington ;  and  so  the  Rebel  Con- 
gress commenced  its  sessions  in  the 
State  capital.  Mr.  Memminger  set  up 
his  printing-presses,  and  issued  his 
promises  to  pay  the  debts  of  the  Con- 
federacy two  years  after  the  treaty  of 
peace  with  the  United  States;  Mr. 
Mallory  began  to  consider  how  to  con- 
struct rams ;  while  Mr.  Toombs,  and 
his  successor,  Mr.  Benjamin,  wrote  let- 
ters of  instruction  from  the  State  De- 
partment to  Rebel  agents  in  Europe, 
and  looked  longingly  and  expectantly 
for  immediate  recognition  of  the  Confed- 
eracy as  an  independent  power  among 
the  nations. 

The  sleepy  city  awoke  to  a  new  life. 
Regiments  of  infantry  came  pouring  in, 
not  only  from  the  hills  and  valleys  of 
the  Old  Dominion,  but  from  every  nook 
and  corner  of  the  Confederate  States, 
—  the  Palmetto  Guards,  Marion  Rifles, 
Jeff- Davis  Grays, Whippy-Swamp  Gren- 
adiers, Chickasaw  Braves,  Tigers,  Dare- 
Devils,  and  Yankee  -  Butchers,  —  fired 
with  patriotism  and  whiskey,  proud  to 
be  in  Richmond,  to  march  through  its 
streets,  beneath  the  fiags  wrought  by 
the  fair  ladies  of  the  sunny  South,  for 
whom  each  man  had  sworn  to  kill  a 
Yankee  !  Lieutenants,  captains,  majors, 
colonels,  and  generals,  glittering  with 
golden  stars,  with  clanking  sabres,  and 
twinkling  spurs,  thronged  the  hotels  in 
all  the  pomp  of  modem  chivalry.  With 
the  marching  of  troops,  and  the  gather- 
ing of  men  from  every  precinct  of  the 


Confederacy  in  search  of  official  positkm 
in  the  bureaus  or  to  obtain  contracts  fxom 
Government,  —  with  the  rush  and  whiil 
of  business,  and  the  inflation  of  prices 
of  all  commodities,  —  with  the  stream 
of  gayety  and  fashion  attendant  upon 
the  Confederate  court,  where  Mrs.  Jef- 
ferson Davis  was  queen-regnant, — with 
its  gilded  drinking-saloons  and  gam- 
bling-hells, —  Richmond  became  a  Bab- 
ylon. 


«  ON  TO  RICHMOKD  I  " 

It  was  a  natural  cry,  that  slogan  of 
the  North  in  the  early  months  of  the 
war ;  for,  in  ordinary  warfare,  to  cap- 
ture an  enemy's  capital  is  equivalent  to 
conquering  a  peace.  It  was  thought 
that  the  taking  of  Richmond  would  be 
the  end  of  the  Rebellion.  Time  has  dis- 
abused us  of  this  idea.  To  have  taken 
Richmond  in  1861  would  only  have  been 
the  repacking  of  the  Department  trunks 
for  Montgomery  or  some  other  conve- 
nient Southern  city.  The  vitality  of 
the  Rebellion  existed  not  in  dties, 
towns,  or  capitals,  but  in  that  which 
could  die  only  by  annihilation, —  Hu- 
man Slavery.  That  was  and  is  the 
"  original  sin  "  of  the  Rebellion,  —  the 
total  depravity  and  innate  heinousness, 
to  use  theological  terminology,  without 
which  there  could  not  have  been  trea- 
son, secession,  and  rebellion. 

But  forgetting  all  this,  —  looking  con- 
standy  at  effect,  without  searching  for 
cause,  —  hearing  only  the  drum-beat  of 
the  armed  legions  of  the  South  muster- 
ing for  the  overthrow  of  the  nation,  — 
wilfully  shutting  our  ears  to  the  clanking 
of  the  chains  of  the  slave-cofile,  <—  deaf 
to  the  prayer,  "  How  long,  O  Lord  ?  " 
uttered  morning,  noon,  and  night  by  men 
and  women  who  were  turned  back  to 
bondage  from  our  lines,  —  forgetting  that 
Justice  and  Right  are  the  foundations 
of  the  throne  of  God,  —  the  army  of 
General  McDowell  marched  confidently 
out  to  Bull  Run  on  its  way  to  Rich- 
mond, and  returned  to  Washington  de- 
fesfted,  routed,  disorganized,  humiliatedL 
And  yet  we  now  see  that  to  the  South 


i86s.] 


Late  Scenes  in  Richmond. 


747 


the  victory  which  set  the  whole  Confed- 
eracy on  flame  was  a  defeat,  and  to  the 
North  that  which  seemed  an  overwhelm- 
ing disaster  was  a  triumph ;  for  so  God 
changes  the  warp  and  woof  of  human 
events.  The  Southern  leaders  became 
over-confident  They  could  have  taken 
Washington,  but  did  not  make  the  at- 
tempt to  do  so  till  the  golden  moment 
had  passed,  never  to  return.  "  We  have 
let  Washington  slip  through  our  fin- 
gers," was  the  bitter  lamentation  of  the 
'*  Richmond  Examiner,"  a  few  days  af- 
ter the  Battle  of  Bull  Run,  —  after  the 
second  uprising  of  the  people  to  save 
the  Union. 

When  God  takes  a  proud  and  way- 
ward nation  in  hand,  and  Instructs  it 
by  the  hard  lessons  of  adversity,  —  by 
plans  overthrown,  ambition  checked, 
pride  humiliated,  and  hopes  disappoint- 
ed,—  lessons  which  wring  tears  from 
the  eyes  of  widows  and  orphans,  and  by 
which  men  in  the  prime  of  life  are  bowed 
down  to  the  grave  with  grief  for  sons 
slain  in  battle,  —  He  does  it  for  a  great 
purpose.  But  the  nation  was  blind  to 
the  moral  of  the  terrible  lesson.  We 
are  slow  to  receive  and  accept  eternal 
truths.  And  so,  instead  of  aiming  at 
Slavery  as  the  life  of  the  Rebellion, 
McGellan  marched  up  the  Peninsula 
through  the  mud  to  capture  Richmond, 
and  conquer  a  peace  simply  by  taking' 
the  Refaiel  capital.  He  was  learned  in 
military  lore,  had  visited  Europe,  and 
made  war  after  the  European  pattern. 
But  in  a  war  of  ideas  and  principles, 
the  mere  taking  of  an  enemy's  capital 
cannot  end  the  contest  In  such  a 
strife  there  is  the  war  of  invisible  forces, 
— the  marshalling  of  Cherubim  and  Ser- 
aphim against  rebellious  hosts,  —  the 
old  contest  of  the  heavenly  fields  re- 
newed on  earth. 

The  nation  was  long  in  awaking  to 
the  consciousness  that  driving  Lee  out 
of  Richmond  would  not  end  the  Rebel- 
lion. It  was  more  than  this  :  it  was  a 
casting-out  of  prejudice,  a  discarding 
of  political  chicanery  and  a  time-serv- 
ing policy,  and  a  recognition  of  Justice, 
Right,  and  Freedom  as  the  true  ele- 
ments of  political  economy.  There  was 


an  increasing  desire  on  the  part  of  the 
people  to  root  out  Slavery  from  Ameri- 
can soiL 

It  will  be  for  the  future  historian  to 
trace  the  providential  dealings  of  God 
with  the  nation,  and  to  show  how  far  and 
in  what  degree  the  failure  of  Bumside 
at  Fredericksburg  anc^  of  Hooker  at 
ChanceUorsville  was  affected  by  the 
want  of  moral  perceptions  on  the  part 
of  the  army  and  of  the  people  at  that 
stage  of  the  war :  for  there  werfe  thou- 
sands of  officers  and  soldiers  at  that 
time  who  were  not  willing  to  fight  by 
the  side  of  a  negro.  We  have  not  ad- 
vanced far  enough  even  now  to  allow 
the  colored  man  fiill  privileges  of  citi- 
zenship. We  are  willing  that  he  should 
be  a  soldier,  carry  a  gim,  and  fire  a 
bullet  at  the  enemy ;  but  are  we  willing 
that  he  should  march  up  to  the  ballot- 
box,  and  fire  a  peaceful  ballot  against 
the  same  enemy  ?  Strange  incongruity ! 

The  colored  men  of  Richmond,  of' 
Charleston,  of  Savannah,  of  all  the 
South,  have  been  and  are  now  the 
true  Union  men  of  the  seceded  States. 
When  or  where  have  they  raised  their 
hands  against  the  Union  ?  They  have 
fought  for  the  flag  of  the  Union,  and 
have  earned  by  their  patriotism  and 
valor  a  name  and  a  place  in  history. 
Citizenship  is  theirs  by  natural  right ; 
besides,  they  have  earned  it  Make  the 
freedman  a  voter,  a  land-owner,  a  tax- 
payer, permit  him  to  sue  and  be  sued, 
give  him  in  every  respect  free  franchise, 
and  the  recompense  will  be  security, 
peace,  and  prosperity.  Anything  less 
than  absolute  right  will  sooner  or  later 
bring  trouble  in  its  train.  Now,  in  this 
day  of  settlement,  this  reconstruction 
of  the  nation,  this  renewal  of  life,  it  is 
the  privilege  of  America  to  become  the 
world's  great  teacher  and  benefactor. 

Afler  the  disaster  at  ChanceUorsville, 
there  came  a  season  of  sober  reflection, 
and  men  began  to  understand  that  this 
is  God's  war.  Then  there  came  a  com- 
mander who  believed  that  the  power 
of  the  Rebellion  lay  not  in  Richmond, 
but  in  the  Rebel  army,  and  that  the 
taking  of  Richmond  was  altogether  a 
secondaxy  consideration,  —  that  the  only 


748 


Late  Scenes  in  Richmond, 


[June, 


way  of  subduing  the  Rebellion  was  to 
fight  it  down.  He  was  ready  to  employ 
soldiers  of  every  hue.  This  brings  us 
to  consider 


HOW  RICHMOND  WAS  TAKEN. 

General  Grant,  fresh  from  his 
great  success  at  Vicksburg  and  Chat- 
tanooga, having  shown  that  he  had  mil- 
itary genius  of  a  high  order,  was  cre- 
ated Lieutenant -General,  and  appoint- 
ed to  the  command  of  all  the  armies  of 
the  Union  in  the  field.  It  was  the  be- 
ginning of  a  new  regime.  Up  to  that 
time  there  had  been  little  concert  of  ac- 
tion between  commanders.  The  armies 
lacked  a  head  The  President,  General 
Halleck,  Secretary  Stanton,  had  ideas 
of  their  own  upon  the  best  methods  and 
plans  for  conducting  the  war.  Depart- 
ment commanders  worked  at  cross  pur- 
poses. Each  officer  in  the  field  nat- 
urally looked  upon  his  sphere  of  action 
as  the  most  important  of  all,  and  each 
had  his  own  plan  of  operations  to  lay 
before  the  Secretary  of  War.  A  mil- 
lion men  were  tugging  manfully  at  the 
Car  of  Freedom,  which  was  at  a  stand- 
still, or  moved  only  by  inches,  because 
they  had  no  head.  But  when  the  Presi- 
dent appointed  General  Grant  to  the 
command,  he  gave  up  his  own  plans, 
while  General  Halleck  became  a  sub- 
ordinate. The  department  commanders 
found  all  their  plans  set  aside.  There  * 
was  not  merely  concert  of  action,  but 
unity  of  action,  under  the  controlling 
force  of  an  imperial  will. 

In  the  article  entitled  "The  May 
Campaign  in  Virginia,"  the  movements 
of  the  Army  of  the  Potomac,  from  the 
Rapidan  to  Cold  Harbor,  are  given.  It 
is  not  intended  in  the  present  article  to 
dwell  in  detail  upon  all  the  subsequent 
movements  of  that  army  and  its  allies, 
the  Armies  of  the  James  and  the  Shenan- 
doah. Volumes  are  needed  to  narrate 
the  operations  around  Petersburg, —  the 
battles  fought  x)n  the  i8th  and  19th  of 
June  east  of  that  city, — the  struggles  for 
the  Weldon  Railroad, —  the  movements 
between  the  James  and  the  Appomattox, 


and  north  of  the  James,— the  failure  ia 
the  springing  of  the  mine,— the  march 
of  the  Fifth  Corps  to  Stony  Creek,  — 
the  battles  between  the  Weldon  Road 
and  Hatcher's  Rtm,  —  the  many  con- 
tests, sharp,  fierce,  and  bloody,  between 
the  opposing  lines,  whenever  an  at- 
tempt was  made  by  either  army  to  erect 
new  works,  —  the  fights  on  Hatcher's 
Run,  —  the  attack  upon  Fort  Harrison^ 
north  of  the  James,  —  the  successive 
attempts  of  each  commander  to  break 
the  lines  of  the  other,  ending  with  the 
Fort  Stedman  afifair,  the  last  offen- 
sive effort  of  General  Lee.  The  new 
campaign  which  was  inaugurated  the 
next  day  after  the  attack  on  Fort  Sted- 
man compelled  the  Rebel  chief  to  stand 
wholly  on  the  defensive. 

The  appointment  of  General  Grant 
to  the  command  of  all  the  armies  was 
not  only  the  beginning  of  a  new  r/- 
gime^  but  the  adoption  of  a  new  idea, — 
that  Lee's  army  was  the  objective  point, 
rather  than  the  city  of  Richmond. 

**  The  power  of  the  Rebellion  lies  in . 
the  Rebel  army,"  said  General  Grant 
to  the  writer  one  evening  in  June  last 
We  had  been  conversing  upon  Fort 
Donelson  and  Pittsburg  Landing.  One 
by  one  his  staff  officers  dropped  off  to 
their  own  tents,  and  we  were  alone.  It 
was  a  quiet,  starlit  night.  The  Lieuten- 
ant-General  was  enjoying  his*firagTant 
Havana  cigar,  and  was  in  a  mood  for 
conversation,  not  upon  what  he  was 
going  to  do,  but  upon  what  had  been 
done.  He  is  always  wisely  reticent 
upon  the  present  and  future,  but  agree- 
ably communicative  upon  what  has 
passed  into  history. 

"  I  have  lost  a  good  many  men 
since  the  army  left  the  Rapidan,  but 
there  was  no  help  for  it  The  Rebel 
army  must  be  destroyed  before  we  can 
put  down  the  RebeUion,"  he  contin- 
ued.* 

There  was  a  disposition  at  that  time 
on  the  part  of  the  disloyal  press  of  the 
North  to  bring  General  Grant  into  bad 
odor.  He  was  called  "The  Butcher." 
Even  some  Republican  Congressmen 

*  I  write  from  memory,  not  pfeteodiag  to  give  dw 
exact  words  uttered  during  the  convenatioa. 


i865.] 


Late  Scenes  in  Richmond. 


749 


were  ready  to  demand  his  removal. 
Genera]  Grant  alluded  to  it  and  said, — 

'^God  knows  I  don't  want  to  see 
men  slaughtered  ;  but  we  have  appeal- 
ed to  arms,  and  we  have  got  to  fight  it 
out" 

He  had  already  given  public  utter- 
ance to  the  expression,  —  "1  intend  to 
fight  it  out  on  this  line,  if  it  takes  all 
summer." 

Referring  to  the  successive  flank 
movements  which  had  been  made,  from 
the  Rapidan  to  the  Wilderness,  to  Spott- 
sylvania,  to  the  North  Anna,  to  the 
Chickahominy,  to  Petersburg,  he  said, — 

"  My  object  has  been  to  get  between 
Lee  and  his  southern  communications." 

At  that  time  the  Weldon  Road  was  in 
the  hands  of  the  enemy,  and  Early  was 
on  a  march  down  the  Valley,  towards 
Washington.  This  movement  was  de- 
signed to  frighten  Grant  and  send  him 
back  by  steamboat  to  defend  the  cap- 
ital ;  but  the  Sixth  Corps  only  was  sent, 
while  the  troops  remaining  still  kept 
pressing  on  in  a  series  of  flank  move- 
ments, which  resulted  in  the  seizure  of 
the  Weldon  Road.  That  was  the  most 
damaging  blow  which  Lee  had  received. 
He  made  desperate  efforts  to  recover 
what  had  been  lost,  but  in  vain.  It  was 
the  beginning  of  the  end.  Then  the 
public  generally  could  see  the  meaning 
of  General  Grant's  strategy,  —  that  the 
Wilderness,  Spottsylvania,  and  all  the 
terrible  battles  which  had  been  fought, 
were  according  to  a  plan,  which,  if  car- 
ried out,  must  end  in  victory.  The  Rich- 
mond newspapers,  which  had  ridiculed 
the  campaign,  and  had  found  an  echo 
in  the  disloyal  press  of  the  North,  began 
to  discuss  the  question  of  supplies  ;  and 
to  keep  their  courage  up,  they  indulged 
in  boastful  declarations  that  the  South- 
side  Railroad  never  could  be  taken. 

The  march  of  Sherman  from  Atlanta 
to  Savannah  and  through  South  Caro- 
lina, destroying  railroads  and  supplies, 
—  the  taking  of  Wilmington,  —  Sheri- 
dan's movement  from  Winchester  up 
the  Valley  of  the  Shenandoah,  striking 
the  James  River  Canal  and  the  Central 
Raifroad,  and  then  the  transfer  of  his 
whole  force  from  the  White  House  to 


the  left  flank  of  the  Army  of  the  Poto- 
mac, —  were  parts  of  a  well  matured  de- 
sign to  weaken  Lee's  army. 

Everything  was  ready  for  the  fmal 
blow.  The  forces  of  General  Grant 
were  disposed  as  follows.  The  Army 
of  the  James,  composed  of  the  Twenty- 
Fourth  and  Twenty- Fifth  Corps,  and 
commanded  by  General  Ord,  was  north 
of  the  James  River,  its  right  flank  resting 
near  the  old  battle-field  of  Glendale,  and 
its  left  flank  on  the  Appomattox.  The 
Ninth  Army  Corps  —  the  right  wing  of 
the  Army  of  the  Potomac  —  was  next 
in  line,  then  the  Sixth,  and  then  the 
Second,  its  left  resting  on  Hatcher's 
Run.  The  Fifth  was  in  rear  of  the 
Second.  The  line  thus  held  was  near- 
ly forty  miles  in  length,  defended  on  the 
front  and  rear  by  strong  earthworks  and 
abatis. 

General  Grant's  entire  force  could  not 
have  been  much  less  than  a  hundred  and 
thirty  thousand,  including  Sheridan's 
cavalry,  the  force  at  City  Point,  and  the 
provisional  brigade  at  Fort  Powhatan. 
Lee's  whole  force  was  not  far  from  sev- 
enty thousand,  —  or  seventy-five  thou- 
sand, including  the  militia  of  Richmond 
and  Petersburg ;  but  he  was  upon  the  de- 
fensive, and  held  an  interior  and  shorter 
line. 

The  work  which  General  Grant  had 
in  hand  was  the  seizure  of  the  South* 
side  Railroad  by  an  extension  of  his 
left  flank.  He  had  attempted  it  once 
with  the  Fifth  Corps,  at  Dabney's  Mill, 
and  had  failed;  but  that  attempt  had 
been  of  value  :  he  had  gained  a  knowl- 
edge of  the  country.  His  engineers 
had  mapped  it,  the  roads,  the  streams, 
the  houses.  The  fight  at  Dabney's 
Mill  was  a  random  stroke,  —  a  *' feel- 
ing of  the  position,"  to  use  a  term  com- 
mon in  camp,  —  which  enabled  him  to 
detect  the  weak  point  of  Lee's  lines. 
To  comprehend  the  movement,  it  is 
necessary  to  understand  the  geographi- 
cal and  topographical  features  of  the 
country,  which  are  somewhat  peculiar. 
Hatcher's  Run  is  a  branch  of  the  Not- 
toway River,  which  has  its  rise  in  a 
swamp  about  four  miles  from  the  Appo- 
mattox and  twenty  southwest  of  Peters- 


750 


Late  Scenes  in  Richmond. 


[June, 


burg.  The  Southside  Railroad  runs 
southwest  from  Petersburg,  along  the 
ridge  of  land  between  the  Appomattox 
and  the  head-waters  of  the  Nottoway, 
protected  by  the  swamp  of  Hatcher's 
Run  and  by  the  swamp  of  Stony  Creek, 
another  tributary  of  the  Nottoway. 

The  point  aimed  at  by  General  Grant 
is  known  as  the  "  Five  Forks,"  a  place 
where  five  roads  meet,  on  the  table-land 
between  the  head-waters  of  Hatcher's 
Run  and  Stony  Creek.  It  was  the  most 
accessible  gateway  leading  to  the  rail- 
road. If  he  could  break  through  at  that 
point,  he  would  turn  Lee's  flank,  deprive 
him  of  the  protection  of  the  swamps, 
use  them  for  his  own  cover,  and  seize 
the  railroad.  To  take  the  Five  Forks 
was  to  take  all ;  for  the  long  and  terri- 
ble conflict  had  become  so  shorn  of  its 
outside  proportions,  so  reduced  to  sim- 
ple elements,  that,  if  Lee  lost  that  posi- 
tion, all  was  lost,  —  Petersburg,  Rich- 
mond, his  army,  and  the  Confederacy. 

Surprise  is  expressed  that  the  Rebel- 
lion went  down  so  suddenly,  in  a  night, 
at  one  blow,  toppling  over  like  a  child's 
house  of  cards,  imposing  to  look  upon, 
yet  of  very  little  substance ;  but  the  cal- 
culations of  General  Grant  were  to  give 
a  finishing  stroke. 

If,  by  massing  the  main  body  of  his 
troops  upon  the  extreme  left  of  his  line, 
he  succeeded  in  carrying  the  position  of 
the  Five  Forks,  it  would  compel  Lee  to 
evacuate  Richmond.  Lee's  line  of  re- 
treat must  necessarily  be  towards  Dan- 
ville ;  but  Grant,  at  the  Five  Forks, 
would  be  nearer  Danville  by  several 
miles  than  Lee ;  and  he  would  thus,  in- 
stead of  the  exterior  line,  have  the  in- 
terior, with  the  power  to  push  Lee  at 
every  step  farther  firom  his  direct  line 
of  retreat  That  Grant  saw  all  this,  and 
executed  his  plan,  is  evidence  of  great 
military  ability.  The  plan  involved  not 
merely  the  carrying  of  the  Five  Forks, 
but  great  activity  afterwards.  The  cap- 
ture of  Lee  was  a  forethought,  not  an 
afterthought 

**  Commissaries  will  prepare  twelve 
days'  rations,"  was  his  order,  which 
meant  a  long  march,  and  the  annihila- 
tion of  Lee's  army.    An  ordinary  com- 


mander might  have  been  satisfied  with 
merely^  breaking  down  the  door,  and 
seizing  the  railroad,  knowing  that  it 
would  be  the  beginning  of  dissolution 
to  the  Rebel  army;  but  Grant's  plan 
went  farther,  —  the  routing  of  the  bur- 
glar from  his  house,  and  dispatching  him 
on  the  spot  Perhaps  Lee  saw  what  the 
end  would  be,  and  did  the  best  he  could 
with  his  troops ;  but  inasmuch  as  he 
did  not  issue  the  order  for  the  transfer 
of  a  division  from  Richmond  to  the 
south  side  till  Saturday  night,  after  the 
Five  Forks  were  lost,  it  may  be  pre- 
sumed that  he  did  not  fully  compre- 
hend the  importance  of  holding  that 
gateway.  If  he  had  seen  that  Richmond 
mu^t  be  eventually  evacuated,  he  might 
have  saved  his  army  by  a  sudden  with- 
drawal from  both  Richmond  and  Pe- 
tersburg on  Friday  night,  pushing  down 
the  Southside  Road,  and  throwing  his 
whole  force  on  Sheridan  and  the  Fifth 
Corps,  which  would  have  enabled  him 
to  reach  Danville.  Not  doing  that,  he 
lost  all 

It  is  not  intended  in  this  article  to 
give  the  details  of  the  attack  at  the  Five 
Forks  and  along  the  line,  but  merely  to 
show  how  the  forces  were  wielded  in 
that  last  magnificent,  annihilating  blow. 

On  the  25th  of  March,  the  Twenty- 
Fourth  Corps  was  transferred  from  the 
north  side  of  the  James  to  Hatcher's 
Run,  taking  the  position  of  the  Second 
Corps. 

The  force  designed  for  the  attack  up- 
on the  Five  Forks  was  composed  of  the 
Fifth  Corps  and  Sheridan's  Cavalry, — 
the  whole  under  command  of  Sheridan. 
The  Second  Corps  was  massed  across 
Hatcher's  Run,  and  kept  in  position  to 
frustrate  any  attempt  which  might  be 
made  to  cut  Sheridan  off  from  the  sup- 
port of  the  main  army. 

Sheridan  found  a  large  force  in  firont 
of  him,  along  Chamberlain's  Creek,  three 
miles  west  of  Dinwiddie  Court-House. 
He  had  hard  fighting,  and  was  repulsed. 
There  was  want  of  cooperation  on  the 
part  of  Warren,  commanding  the  Fiftii 
Corps,  who  was  relieved  of  his  com- 
mand the  next  morning,  General  Grif- 
fin succeeding  him.  A  heavy  rain-storm 


1 86s.] 


Late  Scenes  in  Richmond. 


751 


came  oil  Wagons  went  hub-deep  in 
the  mud.  The  swamps  were  overflow- 
ed. The  army  came  to  a  stand-stilL 
The  soldiers  were  without  tents.  Thou- 
sands had  thrown  away  their  blankets. 
There  was  gloom  and  discouragement 
throughout  the  camp.  But  all  the  axes 
and  shovels  were  brought  into  requisi- 
tion, and  the  men  went  to  work  building 
corduroy  roads.  It  was  much  better  for 
the  tnorali  of  the  army  than  to  sit  by 
bivouac  -  fires  waiting  for  sunn}^  skies. 
The  week  passed  away.  The  Rich- 
mond papers  were  confident  and  boast- 
ful of  final  success. 

*•  We  are  very  hopeful  of  the  cam- 
paign which  is  opening,  and  trust  that 
we  are  to  reap  a  large  advantage  from 
the  operations  evidently  near  at  hand. 
.  .  .  We  have  only  to  resolve  that  we 
will  never  surrender,  and  it  will  be  im- 
possible that  we  shall  ever  be  taken,*' 
said  the  ^  Sentinel,"  in  its  issue  of  Sat- 
urday morning,  April  ist,  the  last  paper 
ever  issued  from  that  office.  The  editor 
was  not  aware  of  the  fact,  that  on  Fri- 
day evening,  while  he  was  penning  this 
paragraph,  Sheridan  was  bursting  open 
the  door  at  the  Five  Forks  and  had  the 
Rebellion  by  the  throat.  Lee  attempt- 
ed to  retrieve  the  disaster  on  Saturday 
by  depleting  his  left  and  centre  to  re- 
inforce his  right  Then  came  the  or- 
der from  Grant,  "Attack  vigorously  all 
along  the  line."  How  splendidly  it  was 
executed!  The  Ninth,  the  Sixth,  the 
Second,  the  Twenty- Fourth  Corps,  all 
went  tumbling  in  upon  the  enemy's 
works,  like  breakers  upon  the  beach, 
tearing  away  chevaux-de-frisey  rushing 
into  the  ditches,  sweeping  over  the  em- 
bankments, and'  dashing  through  the 
embrasures  of  the  forts.  In  an  hour 
the  C.  S.  A.,  —  the  Confederate  Slave 
Argosy,  —  the  Ship  of  State  launched 
but  four  years  ago,  which  went  proud- 
ly sailing,  with  the  death's-head  and 
cross-bones  at  her  truck,  on  a  cruise 
against  Civilization  and  Christianity, 
hailed  as  a  rightful  belligerent,  furnish- 
ed with  guns,  ammunition,  provisions, 
and  all  needful  supplies,  by  England  and 
France,  was  thrown  a  helpless  wreck 
upon  the  shores  of  Time ! 


It  would  be  interesting  to  follow  the 
troops  in  their  victorious  advance  upon 
Petersburg,  their  closing  in  upon  Lee, 
the  magnificent  tactics  of  the  pursuit, 
and  the  scenes  of  the  surrender;  but 
in  this  article  we  have  space  only  to 
glance  at 


SCENES  IN  RICHMOND. 

"My  line  is  broken  in  three  places, 
and  Richmond  must  be  evacuated,"  was 
Lee's  despatch  to  Davis,  received  by 
the  arch -traitor  at  eleven  and  a  half 
o'clock  in  St.  Paul's  Church.  He  read 
it  with  blanched  cheeks,  and  left  the 
church  in  haste. 

Davis  had  robbed  the  banks  of  Vir- 
ginia a  few  days  before,  seizing  the  bul- 
lion in  the  name  of  the  Confederacy; 
and  his  first  thought  was  how  to  secure 
the  treasure. 

He  hurried  to  the  executive  mansion, 
passed  up  the  winding  stairway  to  his 
business  apartment,  seated  himself  at 
a  small  table,  wrote  an  order  for  the  re- 
moval of  the  coin  to  Danville,  and  for 
the  evacuation  of  the  city. 

There  was  no  evening  service  in  the 
churches  on  that  Sunday.  Ministers 
and  congregations  were  otherwise  em- 
ployed. The  Reverend  Mr.  Hoge,  ablest 
of  the  Presbyterian  pastors,  fiercest  ad- 
vocate of  them  all  for  Slavery  as  a  di- 
vine missionary  institution,  bitterest  hat- 
er of  the  North,  packed  his  carpet-bag 
and  took  a  long  Sabbath-day's  journey 
towards  the  South.  The  Reverend  Mr. 
Duncan,  of  the  Methodist  Church,  did 
the  same  work  of  necessity.  Lumpkin, 
who  for  many  years  has  kept  a  slave- 
trader's  jail,  also  had  a  work  of  necessity 
on  hand,  —  fifty  men,  women,  and  chil- 
dren, who  must  be  saved  to  the  mission- 
ary institution  for  the  future  enlighten- 
ment of  Africa.  Although  it  was  the 
Lord's  day,  (perhaps  he  was  comforted 
by  the  thought,  that,  the  better  the  day, 
the  better  the  deed,)  the  coflle-gang  was 
made  up  in  the  jail-yard,  within  pistol- 
shot  of  Davis's  parlor -window,  with- 
in a  stone's  throw  of  the  Monumental 
Church,  and  a  sad  and  weeping  throng, 


752 


Late  Scenes  in  Richmond. 


[June, 


chained  two  and  two,  the  last  slave-cof- 
fle  that  shall  ever  tread  the  streets  of 
Richmond,  were  hurried  to  the  Danville 
Depot  Slavery  being  the  corner-stone 
of  the  Confederacy,  it  was  fitting  that 
this  gang,  keeping  step  to  the  music  of 
their  clanking  chains,  should  accompany 
Jeff  Davis's  secretaries,  Benjamin  and 
Trenholm,  and  the  Reverend  Messrs. 
Hoge  and  Duncan,  in  their  flight  The 
whole  Rebel  Government  was  on  the 
move,  and  all  Richmond  desired  to  be. 
No  thoughts  of  taking  Washington  now, 
or  of  the  flag  of  the  Confederacy  flaunt- 
ing in  the  breeze  over  the  old  Capitol ! 
Hundreds  of  officials  were  at  the  depot, 
to  get  away  from  the  doomed  city.  Pub- 
lic documents,  the  archives  of  the  Con- 
federacy, were  hastily  gathered  up,  tum- 
bled into  boxes  and  barrels,  and  taken 
to  the  trains,  or  carried  into  the  streets 
and  set  on  fire.  Coaches,  carriages,  wag- 
ons, carts,  wheelbarrows,  everything  in 
the  shape  of  a  vehicle  was  brought  into 
use.  There  was  a  jumble  of  boxes, 
chests,  trunks,  valises,  carpet-bags,  —  a 
crowd  of  excited  men  sweating  as  they 
never  sweat  before,  —  women  with  dis- 
hevelled hair,  unmindful  of  their  ward- 
robes, wringing  their  hands,  —  children 
crying  in  the  crowd,  —  sentinels  guard- 
ing each  entrance  to  the  train,  push- 
ing back  at  the  point  of  the  bayonet 
the  panic-stricken  multitude,  giving 
precedence  to  Davis  and  the  high  ofir- 
cials,  and  informing  Mr.  Lumpkin  that 
his  niggers .  could  not  be  taken.  Oh, 
what  a  loss  was  there !  It  would  have 
been  fifty  thousand  dollars  out  of  somer 
body's  pocket  in  l86i,  but  millions  now 
of  Confederate  promises  to  pay,  which 
the  hurrying  multitude  and  that  coffied 
gang  were  treading  under  foot, — liter- 
ally trampling  the  bonds  of  the  Con- 
federate States  of  America  in  the  mire, 
as  they  marched  to  the  station  ;  for  the 
streets  were  as  thickly  strown  with  four 
per  cents,  six  per  cents,  eight  per  cents, 
as  the  forest  with  last  year's  leaves. 

"  The  feith  of  the  Confederate  States 
is  pledged  to  provide  and  establish 
sufficient  revenues  for  the  /egular  pay- 
ment of  the  interest,  and  for  the  redemp- 
tion of  the  principal,"  read  the  bonds ; 


but  there  was  a  sudden  eclipse  of  futh, 
and  not  merely  an  eclipse,  but  a  col- 
lapse, a  shrivelling  up,  like  a  parched 
scroll,  of  the  entire  Confederacy,  wbicbt 
like  its  bonds,  notes,  and  certificates  of 
indebtedness,  was  old  rags ! 

In  the  Sabbath  evening  twilight,  the 
trains,  with  the  fugitive  Government^ 
its  stolen  bullion,  and  its  Doctors  of 
Divinity  on  board,  moved  out  from  the 
city. 

At  the  same  hour,  the  Governor  of 
Virginia,  William  Smith,  and  the  As- 
sembly, were  embarked  in  a  canal-boat, 
on  the  James  River  and  Kanawha  Ca- 
nal, moving  for  Lynchburg.  On  all  the 
roads  were  men,  women,  and  children, 
in  carriages  of  every  description,  with 
multitudes  on  horseback  and  on  foot, 
fleeing  from  the  Rebel  capitaL  Men 
who  could  not  get  away  were  secretly 
at  work,  during  those  night-hours,  bury- 
ing plate  and  money  in  gardens  ;  ladies 
secreted  their  jewels,  barred  and  bolt- 
ed their  doors,  and  passed  a  sleepless 
night,  fearful  of  the  morrow,  which  would 
bring  the  hated,  despised,  Vandal  horde 
of  Yankee  ruffians :  for  such  were  the 
epithets  which  they  had  persistently 
applied  to  the  soldiers  of  the  Union 
throughout  the  war. 

But  before  the  entrance  of  the  Union 
army  they  had  an  experience  from  their 
friends.  Following  the  example  of  the 
Government,  which  had  robbed  the 
banks,  the  soldiers  pillaged  the  city, 
breaking  open  stores,  and  helping  them- 
selves to  whatever  suited  their  con- 
venience and  taste,  of  clothing,  fancy 
goods,  eatables,  and  drinkables. 

But  the  Government  itself  was  not 
quite  through  with  its'  operations  in 
Richmond.  The  Secretary  of  War,  John 
C.  Breckinridge,  with  General  EweU,  re- 
mained till  daylight  on  Monday  morn- 
ing to  clear  up  things,— not  to  bum  pub- 
lic archives  in  order  to  destroy  evidence 
of  Confederate  villany,  but  to  commit 
more  crime,  so  deep,  damning,  that  the 
stanchest  firiends  of  the  Confederacy  re* 
coil  with  horror  from  the  act. 

To  prevent  the  United  States  fix>m 
obtaining  possession  of  a  few  thousand 
hogsheads  of  tobacco,  a  thousand  houses 


i865.] 


Late  Scenes  in  RichmontL 


753 


were  destroyed  by  fire,  the  heart  of  the 
city  was  eaten  out, — all  of  the  business 
portions,  all  the  banks  and  insurance- 
offices,  half  of  the  newspapers,  mills, 
depots,  bridges,  foundries,  workshops, 
dwellings,  churches,  thirty  squares  in 
all,  swept  clean  by  the  devouring  flames. 
It  was  the  work  of  the  Confederate 
Government  And  not  only  this,  but 
human  life  was  remorselessly  sacrificed. 

In  the  outskirts  of  the  city,  on  the 
MechanicsviUe  road,  was  the  alms- 
house, filled  with  the  lame,  the  blind,  the 
halt,  the  bedridden,  the  sick,  and  the 
poor.  Ten  rods  distant  was  a  maga- 
zine containing  fifteen  or  twenty  kegs 
of  powder,  of  little  value  to  a  victori- 
ous army  with  full  supplies  of  ammu- 
nition. They  could  have  been  rolled 
into  the  creek  near  at  hand;  but  the 
order  of  Jeff  Davis  was  to  blow  up  the 
magazines,  and  the  order  must  be  exe- 
cuted. 

<<  We  give  you  fifteen  minutes  to  get 
out  of  the  way,"  was  the  sole  notice 
to  that  crowd  of  helpless  creatures  ly- 
ing in  their  cots,  at  three  o'clock  in 
the  morning.  Men  and  women  begged 
for  mercy.  In  vain  their  cries.  The 
officer  in  charge  of  the  matter  was  in- 
exorable. Gotheless  and  shoeless,  the 
inmates  of  the. almshouse  ran  in  terror 
from  the  spot  to  seek  shelter  in  the  ra- 
vines. But  there  were  those  who  could 
not  run,  who,  while  the  train  was  lay- 
ing, rent  the  air  with  shrieks  of  ter- 
ror. The  train  was  fired  at  the  expira- 
tion of  the  allotted  time.  The  whole 
side  of  the  house  went  in  with  a  crash, 
as  if  it  were  no  more  than  pasteboard. 
Windows  flew  into  minutest  particles. 
Bricks,  stones,  timbers,  beams,  and 
boards  went  whirling  through  the  air. 
Trees  were  wrenched  off  as  though  a 
giant  had  twisted  them  into  withes.  The 
dty  rocked  as  if  upheaved  by  an  earth- 
quake. The  dozen  poor  wretches  re- 
maining in  the  almshouse  were  torn  to 
pieces.  Their  bodies  were  but  black- 
ened masses  of  flesh,  when  the  fugi- 
tives who  had  sought  shelter  in  the 
fields  returned  to  the  shattered  ruins^ 
•  How  stirring  the  events  of  that  morn- 
ing I  Lee  retreating.  Grant  pursuing ; 
VOL.  XV. — NO.  92.  4S 


Davis  a  fugitive;  the  Governor  and 
Legislature  of  Virginia  seeking  safety 
in  a  canal  -  boat ;  Doctors  of  Divinity 
fleeing  fi'om  the  wrath  to  come ;  the 
troops  of  the  Union  marching  up  the 
streets ;  the  old  flag  waving  over  the 
Capitol ;  Rebel  iron-clads  blowing  up ; 
Richmond  in  flames ;  the  fiery  billows 
rolling  on  from  house  to  house,  firom 
block  to  block,  from  square  to  square, 
unopposed  in  their  progress  by  the  pan- 
ic-stricken, stupefied,  bewildered  crowd ; 
and  the  Northern  Vandals  laying  aside 
their  arms,  manning  the  engines,  put- 
ting out  the  fire,  and  saving  the  city 
firom  total  destruction !  Through  the 
terrible  day,  all  through  the  succeeding 
night,  the  smoke  of  its  torment  went  up 
to  heaven.  Strange,  weird,  the  scenes 
of  that  Monday  night,  —  the  glimmering 
flames,  the  clouds  of  smoke  hanging 
like  a  funeral  pall  above  the  ruins,  the 
crowd  of  woe-begone,  houseless,  home- 
less creatures  wandering  through  the 
streets :  — 

**  Such  icstixig  found  the  soles  of  unbtest  feet  1 " 


VISIT  OF  PRESIDENT  LINCOLN. 

AmoncT  the  memorable  events  of  the 
week  was  the  visit  of  President  Lin- 
coln to  the  city  of  Richmond.  He  had 
been  tarrying  at  City  Point,  holding 
daily  consultations  with  General  Grant, 
visiting  the  army  and  the  iron-clads 
at  Aiken's  Landing, — thus  avoiding  the 
swarm  of  place-hunters  that  darkened 
the  doors  of  the  executive  mansion. 

On  Tuesday  noon  a  tug-boat  belong- 
ing to  the  navy  was  seen  steaming  up 
the  James,  regardless  of  torpedoes  and 
obstructions.  A  mile  below  the  city, 
where  the  water  becomes  shoal.  Presi- 
dent Lincoln,  accompanied  by  Admiral 
Porter,  Captain  Adams  of  the  navy, 
Captain  Penrose  of  the  army,  and  Lieu- 
tenant Clemmens  of  the  Signal  Corps, 
put  ofl*  from  the  tug  in  a  launch  manned 
by  twelve  sailors,  whose  long,  steady 
oar-strokes  quickly  carried  the  party 
to  the  landing-place, — a  square  above 
Libby  Prison. 

There  was  no  committee  of  reception, 


754 


Late  Scenes  in  Richmond. 


Uunc, 


no  guard  of  honor,  no  grand  display  of 
troops,  no  assembling  of  an  eager  mul- 
titude to  welcome  him. 

He  entered  the  city  unheralded ;  six 
sailors,  armed  with  carbines,  stepped 
upon  the  shore,  followed  by  the  Presi- 
dent, who  held  his  little  son  by  the 
hand,  and  Admiral  Porter ;  the  officers 
followed,  and  six  more  sailors  brought 
up  the  rear.  The  writer  of  tliis  article 
was  there  upon  the  spot,  and,  joining 
the  party,  became  an  observer  of  the 
memorable  event 

There  were  forty  or  fifty  freedmen, 
who  had  been  sole  possessors  of  them- 
selves for  twenty-four  hours,  at  work  on 
the  bank  of  the  canal,  securing  some 
floating  timber,  under  the  direction  of 
a  Lieutenant  Somehow  they  obtained 
the  information  that  the  man  who  was 
head  and  shoulders  taller  than  all  oth- 
ers around  him,  with  features  large  and 
irregular,  with  a  mild  eye  and  pleasant 
countenance,  was  President  Lincoln. 

^  God  bless  you,  Sah ! ''  said  one,  tak- 
ing off  his  cap  and  bowing  very  low. 

"  Hurrah  !  hurrah  !  President  Lin- 
kum  hab  come  !  *'  was  th^  shout  which 
rang  through  the  street 

The  Lieutenant  found  himself  with- 
out a  command.  What  cared  those 
fi-eedmen,  fresh  from  the  house  of  bond- 
age, for  floating  timber  or  military  com« 
mands  ?  Their  deliverer  had  come, — 
he  who,  next  to  the  Lord  Jesusj  was 
their  best  friend  !  It  was  not  an  hurrah 
that  they  gave,  but  a  wild,  jubilant  cry 
of  inexpressible  joy. 

They  gathered  round  the  President, 
ran  ahead,  hovered  upon  the  flanks  of 
the  little  company,  and  hung  like  a  dark 
cloud  upon  the  rear.  Men,  women,  and 
children  joined  the  constantly  increas- 
ing throng.  They  came  from  all  the 
by-streets,  running  in  breathless  haste, 
shouting  and  hallooing  and  dancing 
with  delight  The  men  threw  up  their 
hats,  the  women  waved  their  bonnets 
and  handkerchiefs,  clapped  their  hands, 
and  sang,  "  Glory  to  God  !  glory  I  glo- 
ry !  glory  ! " — rendering  all  the  praise 
to  God,  who  had  heard  their  wailinga 
in  the  past,  their  moanings  for  wives, 
husbands,  children,  and  friends   sold 


out  of  their  sight,  had  given  tfaem  fi-ee- 
dom,  and,  after  long  years  of  waitings 
had  permitted  them  dius  unexpectedly 
to  behold  the  face  of  their  gt^at  bene- 
factor. 

''  I  thank  you,  dear  Jesus,  that  I  be- 
hold President  Linkum  ! "  was  the  ex- 
clamation of  a  woman  who  stood  upon 
the  threshold  of  her  humble  home,  and 
with  streaming  eyes  and  clasped  hands 
gave  thanks  aloud  to  the  Saviour  of 
men. 

Another,  more  demonstrative  in  her 
joy,  was  jumping  and  striking  her 
hands  with  aU  her  might,  cr}'ing, — 
'< Bless  de  Lord!  Bless  de  Lord! 
Bless  de  Lord ! "  as  if  there  could  be 
no  end  of  her  thanksgiving. 

The  air  rang  with  a  tumultuous  cho- 
rus of  voices.  The  street  became  al- 
most impassable  on  account  of  the  in- 
creasing multitude.  Soldiers  were  sum- 
moned to  clear  the  way.  How  strange 
the  event  I  The  President  of  the  United 
States  —  he  who  had  been  hated,  de- 
spised, maligned  above  all  other  men 
living,  to  whom  the  vilest  epithets  had 
been  applied  by  the  people  of  Rich- 
mond—  was  walking  their  streets,  re- 
ceiving thanksgivings,  blessings,  and 
praises  from  thousands  who  hailed  him 
as  the  ally  of  the  Messiah  I  How  bit- 
ter the  reflections  of  that  moment  to 
some  who  beheld  him !  — memory  run- 
ning back,  perhaps,  to  that  day  in  May, 
1 86 1,  when  Jefferson  Davis,  their  Presi- 
dent, entered  the  city,  —  the  pageant  of 
that  hour,  his  speech,  his  promise  to 
smite  the  smiter,  to  drench  the  fields 
of  Virginia  with  richer  blood  than  that 
shed  at  Buena  Vista  1  How  that  part 
of  the  promise  had  been  kept! — how 
their  sons,  brotheis,  and  firiends  had 
fidlen!  —  how  all  else  predicted  had 
failed! — how  the  land  had  been  filled 
with  moiuming!  —  how  the  State  had 
become  a  desolation  1 — how  their  prop- 
erty, their  hoarded  wealth,  had  disap- 
peared! They  had  been  invited  to  a 
gorgeous  banquet ;  the  fruit  was  fair  to 
the  eyev  of  golden  hue  and  beautiful ; 
but  it  had  turned  to  ashes.  They  had 
been  promised  a  place  among  the  na- 
tions, a  position  of  commanding  influ- 


i86s.] 


Late  Scenes  in  Richmond. 


755 


ence  and  fame.  Cotton  was  the  king 
of  kings,  and  England,  France,  and  the 
whole  civilized  world  would  bow  in  hum- 
ble submission  to  his  Majesty.  That 
was  the  promise ;  but  now  their  king 
was  dethroned,  their  government  over- 
thrown, their  President  and  his  cabinet 
vagrants,  driven  from  house  and  home 
to  be  wanderers  upon  the  earth.  They 
had  been  promised  affluence,  Richmond 
was  to  be  the  metropolis  of  the  Confed- 
eracy, and  Virginia  the  all-powerful 
State  of  the  new  nation.  How  terri- 
ble the  cheat!  Their  thousand-dollar 
bonds  were  not  worth  a  penny.  A  mil- 
lion dollars  would  not  purchase  a  dinner. 
Their  money  was  valueless,  their  slaves 
were  freemen,  the  heart  of  their  city 
was  eaten  out  They  had  been  cheated 
In  everything.  Those  whom  they  had 
trusted  had  given  the  unkindest  cut  of 
all,  —  adding  arson  and  robbery  to  their 
other  crimes.  Thus  had  they  fallen 
from  highest  anticipation  of  bliss  to 
deepest  actual  woe.  The  language  of 
the  Arch -Rebel  of  the  universe,  in  * 
^  Paradise  Lost,''  was  most  appropriate 
to  them :  — 


u 


*  Is  this  the  region,  this  the  soil,  the  dime,* 
Said  then  the  lost  Archangel,  '  this  the  seat, 
That  we  must  dbange  for  heaven,  this  mournful 

For  that  celestial  light!  "* 


Abraham  Lincoln  was  walking  their 
streets ;  and,  worst  of  all,  that  plain, 
honest  -  hearted  man  was  recognizing 
the  "  niggers ''  as  human  beings  by  re- 
turning their  salutations  1  The  walk 
was  long,  and  the  President  halted  a 
moment  to  rest  ^  May  de  good  Lord 
bless  you.  President  Linkum  ! "  said 
an  old  negro,  removing  his  hat,  and 
bowing  with  tears  of  joy  rolling  down 
his  cheeks.  The  President  removed 
his  own  hat,  and  bowed  in  silence ;  but 
it  was  a  bow  which  upset  the  forms, 
laws,  customs,  and  ceremonies  of  cen- 
turies.   It  was  a  death-shock  to  chiv- 


alry, and  a  mortal  wound  to  caste.  Rec- 
ognize a  nigger  1  Faugh  I  A  woman 
in  an  adjoining  house  beheld  it,  and 
turned  from  the  scene  in  unspeakable 
disgust  There  were  men  in  the  crowd 
who  had  daggers  in  their  eyes;  but 
the  chosen  assassin  was  not  there,  the 
hour  for  the  damning  work  had  not 
come,  and  that  great-hearted  man  pass- 
ed on  to  the  executive  mansion  of  the 
late  Confederacy. 

Want  of  space  compels  us  to  pass 
over  other  scenes,  —  the  visit  of  the 
President  to  the  State- House,  —  the  ju- 
bilant shouts  of  the  crowd,  —  the  rush 
of  freedmen  into  the  Capitol  grounds, 
where,  till  the  appearance  of  their  de- 
liverer, they  had  never  been  permitted 
to  enter,  —  the  ride  of  the  President 
through  the  streets,  —  his  visit  to  Lib- 
by  Prison,  —  the  distribution  of  bread 
to  the  destitute,  —  the  groups  of  heart- 
broken men  amid  the  ruins,  who  be- 
held nought  but  ruins,  —  a  ruined  city, 
a  ruined  State,  a  ruined  Confederacy, 
a  ruined  people,  —  ruined  in  hopes  and 
expectations,  —  ruined  for  the  past,  the 
present,  and  the  future,  —  without  pow- 
er, influence,  or  means  of  beginning 
life  anew,  —  deceived,  subjugated,  hu- 
miliated, —  poverty-stricken  in  every- 
thing. All  that  they  had  possessed  was 
irretrievably  lost,  and  they  had  nothing 
to  show  for  it  All  their  heroism,  valor, 
courage,  hardship,  buffering,  expenditure 
of  treasure,  and  sacrifice  of  blood  had 
availed  them  nothing.  There  could  be 
no  comfort  in  their  mourning,  no  al- 
leviation to  their  sorrow. 

Forgetting  that  Justice  is  the  mighti- 
est power  of  the  universe,  that  Right- 
eousness is  eternal,  and  that  anything 
short  of  it  is  transitory,  they  planned 
a  gorgeous  edifice  with  Slavery  for  its 
comer-stone  ;  but  suddenly,  and  in  an 
hour,  their  superstructure  and  founda- 
tion crumbled.  They  grasped  at  do- 
minion, and  sank  in  perdition. 


756  Dawn !  [June, 


DOWN  I 

(April,  1865.) 

YARD-ARM  to  yard-arm  we  lie 
Alongside  the  Ship  of  Hell ; 
And  still,  through  the  sulphury  sky. 
The  terrible  clang  goes  high, — 
Broadside  and  battle-cry, 
And  the  pirates'  maddened  yell  I 

Our  Captain  's  cold  on  the  deck ; 
Our  brave  Lieutenant  's  a  wreck, — 

He  lies  in  the  hold  there,  hearing 
The  storm  of  fight  going  on  overhead. 
Tramp  and  thunder  to  wake  the  dead, 
The  great  guns  jumping  overhead. 

And  the  whole  ship's  company  cheering! 

Four  hours  the  Death-Fight  has  roared, 
(Gun-deck  and  berth-deck  blood-wet !) 

Her  mainmast  's  gone  by  the  board, 

Down  come  topsail  and  jib  1 

We  *re  smashing  her,  rib  by  rib, 

And  the  pirate  yells  grow  weak, — 
But  the  Black  Flag  flies  there  yet, 

The  Death's  Head  grinning  apeak ! 

Long  has  she  haunted  the  seas, 

Terror  of  sun  and  breeze  ; 

Her  deck  has  echoed  with  groans ; 

Her  hold  is  a  horrid  den, 
Piled  to  the  orlop  with  bones 

Of  starved  and  of  murdered  men  I 
They  swarm  'mid  her  shrouds  in  hosts, 
The  smoke  i»  murky  with  ghosts  1 

But  to-day  her  cruise  shall  be  short! 

She  's  bound  to  the  Port  she  cleared  fi^m, 

She  's  nearing  the  Light  she  steered  ft-om,- 

Ah,  the  Horror  sees  her  &te  I 
Heeling  heavy  to  port. 

She  strikes,  but  all  too  late ! 
Down  with  her  cursM  crew, 

Down  with  her  damnM  freight. 
To  the  bottom  of  the  Blue, 
Ten  thousand  fathom  deep ! 

With  God's  glad  sun  o'erhead, — 
That  is  the  way  to  weep. 

So  will  we  mourn  our  dead ! 


186$.]  Tlu  Place  of  Abraham  Lincoln  in  History. 


757 


THE  PLACE  OF  ABRAHAM  LINCOLN  IN  HISTORY. 


THE  funeral  procession  of  the  late 
President  of  the  United  States  has 
passed  through  the  land  from  Wash- 
ington to  his  final  resting-place  in  the 
heart  of  the  Prairies.  Along  the  line 
of  more  than  fifteen  hundred  miles  his 
remains  were  borne,  as  it  were,  through 
continued  lines  of  the  people ;  and  the 
number  of  mourners  and  the  sincerity 
and  unanimity  of  grief  were  such  as 
never  before  attended  the  obsequies  of 
a  human  being ;  so  that  the  terrible  .ca- 
tastrophe of  his  end  hardly  struck  more 
awe  than  the  majestic  sorrow  of  the 
people.  The  thought  of  the  individual 
was  effaced;  and  men*s  minds  were 
drawn  to  the  station  which  he  filled,  to 
his  public  career,  to  the  principles  he 
represented,  to  his  martyrdom.  There 
was  at  first  impadence  at  the  escape  of 
his  murderer,  mixed  with  contempt  for 
the  wretch  who  was  guilty  of  the  crime ; 
and  there  was  relief  in  the  considera- 
tion, that  one  whose  personal  insignifi- 
cance was  in  such  a  contrast  with  the 
greatness  of  his  crime  had  met  with  a 
sudden  and  ignoble  death.  No  one 
stopped  to  remark  on  the  personal 
qualities  of  Abraham  Lincoln,  except 
to  wonder  that  his  gentleness  of  nature 
had  not  saved  him  firom  the  designs  of 
assassins.  It  was  thought  then,  and 
the  event  is  still  so  recent  it  is  thought 
now,  that  the  analysis  and  graphic  por- 
traiture of  his  personal  character  and 
habits  should  be  deferred  to  less  excited 
times ;  as  yet  the  attempt  would  wear 
the  aspect  of  cruel  indifference  or  lev- 
ity, inconsistent  with  the  sanctity  of  the 
occasion.  Men  ask  one  another  only, 
Why  has  the  President  been  struck 
down,  and  why  do  the  people  mourn  ? 
We  think  we  pay  the  best  tribute  to 
his  memory  and  the  most  fitting  respect 
to  his  name,  if  we  ask  after  the  relation 
in  which  he  stands  to  the  history  of  his 
country  and  his  fellow-men. 

Before  the  end  of  1865,  it  will  have 
been  two  hundred  and  forty-six  years 
since  the  first  negro  slaves  were  landed 


in  Virginia  from  a  Dutch  trading-vessel, 
two  hundred  and  twenty-eight  since  a 
Massachusetts  vessel  returned  from  the 
Bahamas  with  negro  slaves  for  a  part 
of  its  cargo,  two  hundred  and  twenty 
years  since  men  of  Boston  introduced 
them  directly  fi'om  Guinea.  Slavery  in 
the  United  States  had  not  its  origin  in 
British  policy:  it  sprung  up  among 
Americans  themselves,  who  in  that  re- 
spect acquiesced  in  the  customs  and 
morals  of  the  age.  But  at  a  later  day 
the  importation  of  slaves  was  insisted 
upon  by  the  government  of  the  mother 
country,  under  the  influence  of  mercan- 
tile avarice,  with  the  further  purpose  of 
weakening  the  rising  Colonies,  and  im- 
peding the  establishment  among  them 
of  branches  of  industry  that  might  com- 
pete with  the  productions  of  England. 
Climate  and  the  logical  consequences 
of  the  principles  of  the  Puritans  checked 
the  increase  of  slaves  in  Massachusetts, 
from  which  it  gradually  disappeared 
without  the  necessity  of  any  special  act 
of  manumission  ;  in  Virginia,  the  coun- 
try within  the  reach  of  tide-water  was 
crowded  with  negroes,  and  the  marts 
were  supplied  by  continuous  importa- 
tions, which  the  Colony  was  not  suiSered 
to  prohibit  or  restrain. 

The  middle  of  the  eighteenth  century 
was  marked  by  a  rising  of  opinion  in 
favor  of  freedom.  The  statesmen  of 
Massachusetts  read  the  great  work  of 
Montesquieu  on  the  Spirit  of  Laws  ;  and 
in  bearing  their  first  very  remarkable 
testimony  against  slavery,  they  simply 
adopted  his  words,  repeated  without 
passion,  —  for  they  had  no  dread  of  the 
increase  of  slavery  within  their  own 
borders,  and  never  doubted  of  its  speedy 
and  natural  decay.  The  great  men  of 
Virginia,  on  the  contrary,  were  struck 
with  terror  as  they  contemplate  its  so- 
cial condition ;  they  drew  their  lessons, 
not  from  France,  not  from  abroad,  but 
firom  themselves  and  the  scenes  around 
them  ;  and  half  in  the  hope  of  rescuing 
that  ancient  Commonwealth  from  the 


758 


The  Place  of  Abraham  Lincoln  in  History.  [June, 


corrupting  element  of  slavery,  and  half 
in  the  agony  of  despair,  they  went  in 
advance  of  all  the  world  in  their  repro- 
bation of  the  slave-trade  and  of  slavery, 
and  of  the  dangerous  condition  of  the 
white  man  as  the  master  of  bondmen. 
In  the  years  preceding  the  war  of  the 
Revolution,  the  Ancient  Dominion  rock- 
ed with  the  strife  of  contending  parties : 
the  King  with  all  his  officers  and  ma- 
ny great  slaveholders  on  the  one  side, 
against  a  hardy  people  in  the  back  coun- 
try and  the  best  of  the  slaveholders  them- 
selves. On  the  side  of  liberty  many  were 
conspicuous,  —  among  them  Richard 
Henry  Lee,  George  Wythe,  Jefferson, 
who  from  his  youth  was  the  pride  of 
Virginia;  but  all  were  feeble  in  com- 
parison with  the  enthusiastic  fervor  and 
prophetic  instincts  of  George  Mason. 
They  reasoned,  that  slavery  was  incon- 
sistent with  Christianity,  was  in  conflict 
with  the  rights  of  man ;  that  it  was  a 
slow  poison,  daily  contaminating  the 
minds  and  morals  of  their  people  ;  that, 
by  reducing  a  part  of  their  own  species 
to  abject  inferiority,  they  lost  the  idea 
of  the  dignity  of  man,  which  the  hand 
of  Nature  had  implanted  within  them  for 
great  and  useful  purposes  ;  that,  by  the 
habit  from  infancy  of  trampling  on  the 
rights  of  human  nature,  every  liberal 
sentiment  was  extinguished  or  enfee- 
bled ;  that  every  gentleman  was  bom  a 
petty  tyrant,  and  by  the  practice  of  cru- 
elty and  despotism  became  callous  to 
the  finer  dictates  of  the  soul ;  that  in 
such  an  infernal  school  were  to  be  edu- 
cated the  future  legislators  and  rulers 
of  Virginia.  And  before  the  war  broke 
out,  the  House  of  fiurgesses  of  Virginia 
was  warned  of  the  choice  that  lay  before 
them :  either  the  Constitution  must  by 
degrees  work  itself  clear  by  its  own  in- 
nate strength  and  the  virtue  and  reso- 
lution of  the  community,  or  the  laws  of 
impartial  Providence  would  avenge  on 
their  posterity  the  injury  done  to  a  class 
of  unhappy  men  debased  by  their  in- 
justice. 

At  the  opening  of  the  war  of  the 
Revolution,  the  Narragansett  country 
of  Rhode  Island,  the  Southern  part  of 
Long  Island,  New  York  City  and  the 


counties  on  the  Hudson,  and  East  New 
Jersey  had  in  their  population  about  as 
large  a  proportion  of  slaves  as  Missou- 
ri four  years  ago.  In  all  the  Colonies 
collectively  the  black  men  were  to  the 
white  men  as  five  to  twenty-one.  The 
British  authorities  unanimously  held 
that  the  master  lost  his  claim  to  his 
slave  by  the  act  of  rebellion.  In  Vir- 
ginia a  system  of  emancipation  was 
inaugurated ;  and  the  emancip>ation  of 
slaves  by  success  in  arms  Jefferson  pro- 
nounced to  be  right  But  the  system 
of  emancipation  took  no  large  propor- 
tions: partly  because  the  invaders  in 
the  beginning  of  the  war  were  driven 
from  the  Chesapeake ;  partly  because  the 
laige  slaveholders  of  South  Carolina, 
on  the  subjugation  of  the  low  country 
in  that  State,  renewed  their  allegiance 
to  die  Crown ;  and  partly  because  Brit- 
ish officers  chose  to  ship  slaves  of  reb- 
els to  the  markets  of  the  West  Indies. 
Yet  the  continued  occupation  of  Rhode 
Island,  Long  Island,  and  New  York 
City,  and  the  exodus  of  slaves  with  oth- 
er refugees  at  the  time  of  peace,  fiicil- 
itated  the  movements  in  Rhode  Island 
and  New  York  for  the  abrogation  of 
slavery.  At  the  end  of  the  war  the 
proportion  of  free  people  to  slaves  was 
greatly  increased ;  and,  whatever  wilful 
blindness  may  assert,  the  free  black 
had  the  privileges  of  a  citizen. 

Here,  then,  was  an  opening  for  re- 
lieving the  body  politic  from  the  great 
anomaly  of  bondage  in  the  midst  of 
freedom.  But  though  divine  justice 
never  slumbers,  the  opportuni^  was 
but  partially  seized.  The  diminution 
of  the  number  of  laborers  at  the  South 
revived  the  importation  of  slaves.  The 
first  Congress  had  agreed  not  to  toler- 
ate that' traffic ;  the  Confederacy  left  its 
encouragement  or  prohibition  to  the 
pleasure  of  each  State  ;  'and  the  Con- 
stitution continued  that  liberty  for  twen- 
ty years.  At  the  same  time  slavery 
was  excluded  from  the  whole  of  the 
territory  of  the  United  States.  The 
vote  of  New  Jersey  only  was  wanting 
to  have  sustained  the  proposition  of 
Jefferson,  by  which  it  would  have  been 
excluded  not  only  from  all  the  territory 


i86s.]  The  Place  of  Abraham  Lincoln  in  History. 


759 


/ 


tiien  in  their  possession,  but  from  all 
that  they  might  gain. 

The  jealousy  of  the  Southern  States 
of  the  power  of  the  North  may  be  traced 
through  the  annals  of  Congress  from 
the  first,  which  assembled  in  1774. 
The  old  notions  of  the  independence 
and  sovereignty  of  each  separate  State, 
though  the  Constitution  was  framed  for 
the  express  purpose  of  modifying  them, 
dung'to  life  with  tenacity.  When  John 
Adams  was  elected  President,  before 
any  overt  act,  before  any  other  cause 
of  alarm  than  his  election,  the  Legisla- 
ture of  Virginia  took  steps  for  an  armed 
organization  of  the  State,  and  old  and 
long-cherished  sentiments  adverse  to 
Union  were  renewed  The  continuance 
of  the  Union  was  in  peril  It  was  then 
that  the  great  Virginia  statesman,  now 
perfectly  satisfied  with  the  amended 
Constitution,  came  to  the  rescue.  By 
the  simple  force  of  ideas,  embodying  in 
one  system  all  the  conquests  of  the  eigh- 
teenth century  in  behalf  of  human  rights, 
the  freedom  of  conscience,  speech,  and 
the  press,  he  ruled  the  willing  minds  of 
the  people.  The  South,  where  his  great 
strength  lay  with  the  poor  whites,  and 
where  he  was  known  as  the  champion 
of  human  freedom,  trusted  in  his  zeal 
for  individual  liberty  and  for  the  adjust- 
ed Uberty  of  the  Stales ;  the  North' 
heard  from  him  sincere  and  consistent 
denunciations  of  slavery,  such  as  had 
never  been  surpassed,  except  by  Geoi^e 
Mason.  The  thought  never  crossed 
the  mind  of  Jefferson  that  the.  General 
Government  had  not  proper  powers  of 
coercion.  On  taking  the  office  of  Pres- 
ident,  his  watchword  was,  "We  are  all 
Federalists,  we  are  all  Republicans"; 
and  the  two  principles  of  universal 
freedom  and  equality,  and  the  right  of 
each  State  to  regulate  its  own  internal 
domestic  af&irs,  became  not  so  much 
the  doctrine  of  a  party  as  the  accepted 
creed  of  the  nation.  In  his  administra-  ^ 
tion  of  afEUrs,  Jefierson  did  not  suffer' 
one  power  of  the  General  Government 
to  be  weakened.  No  one  man  did  so 
much  as  he  towards  consolidating  the 
Union. 

But  the  question  of  Slavery  was  not 


solved.  The  purchase  of  Louisiana  in- 
creased the  States  in  which  slaves  were 
tolerated ;  the  settiement  of  the  North- 
west strengthened  the  power  of  free- 
dom ;  but  as  yet  there  had  been  no  irac- 
^ture  in  public  opinion.  Missouri  ask- 
ed to  be  admitted  to  the  Union,  and  it 
was  found,  that,  without  any  party  or- 
gsuiization,  without  formal  preparation, 
a  majority  of  the  House  of  Representa- 
tives deshred  to  couple  its  admission 
with  the  condition  that  it  should  eman- 
cipate its  slaves.  That  slavery  was  evil 
was  still  the  undivided  opinion  of  the 
nation;  but  it  was  penceived  that  the 
friends  of  freedom  had  missed  the  prop- 
er moment  for  action,  —  that  Congress' 
had  tolerated  slavery  in  Missouri  as  a 
Territory,  and  were  thus  inconsistent 
in  claiining  to  suppress  slavery  in  the 
State ;  and  they  escaped  from  the  diffi- 
culty by  what  was  called  a  Compromise. 
It  was  agreed  that  for  the  future  slavery 
should  never  be  carried  to  the  north  of 
the  southern  boundary  of  Missouri ;  and 
this  was  interpreted  by  the  South  as  the 
devoting  of  all  the  territory  south  of  that 
line  to  the  owners  of  slaves. 

From  that  day  Slavery  became  the 
foundation  of  a  political  party,  under  the 
guise  of  a  zeal  for  the  rights  of  Sutes. 
It  began  to  be  perceptible  at  the  next 
Presidential  election ;  but  Calhoun,  who 
was  willing  to  be  considered  a  candidate 
for  the  Presidency,  was  still  as  decided- 
ly for  the  Union  as  John  Quincy  Adams 
or  Webster.  Walking  one  day  with 
Seaton  of  the  ''Intelligencer"  on  the 
banks  of  the  Potomac,  Seaton  dissuad- 
ed him  from  being  at  that  day  a  can- 
didate for  the  Presidency,  giving  as  a 
reason,  that,  in  case  of  success  and  re- 
election, he  would  go  out  of  the  public 
service  in  the  vigor  of  h'fe.  ^  I  will,  at 
the  end  of  my  second  term,  go  into  re- 
tirement and  write  my  memoirs,"  was 
Calhoun's  answer :  a  proof  that  at  that 
time  Disunion  had  not  crossed  his  mind. 

The  younger  Adams  had  been  un- 
doubtedly at  the  South  the  candidate 
of  the  Union  party.  The  incipient  op- 
position to  Union  threw  itself  with  the 
intensest  heat  into  the  opposition  to 
Adams ;  and  Jackson,  who  was  victori- 


76o 


The  Place  of  Abra/iam  Lincoln  in  History. 


[June, 


ous  through  his  own  popularity,  was 
elected  by  a  vast  majority.  Jackson 
was  honest,  patriotic,  and  brave:  he 
refused  his  confidence  to  the  oligarch* 
ical  party,  represented  by  Calhoun  and 
Macdufiie  ;  and  after  passionate  strug- 
gles, which  convulsed  the  country,  he 
defied  their  hostility,  and  told  them  to 
their  feces,  "The  Union  must  be  pre- 
served." 

The  bitterness  of  disappointed  ambi- 
tion led  to  the  formation  and  gradual 
enunciation  of  new  political  opinioas. 
In  the  strife  about  the  practical  effects 
of  Nullification,  the  question  was  raised 
by  the  Nullifiers,  whether  obedience  to 
^he  laws  of  a  State  was  a  good  plea  for 
resistance  to  the  laws  of  the  United 
States ;  and  so,  for  the  first  time  in  our 
history,  a  political  party  came  to  the 
principle,  that  primary  allegiance  was 
due  to  the  State,  a  secondary  one  only 
to  the  United  States ;  and  this  view  was 
taught  in  schools  and  colleges  and  pop* 
ular  meetings.  The  second  theory,  that 
grew  up  with  the  first,  was,  that  slavery 
was  a  divine  institution,  best  for  the 
black  man  and  best  for  the  white. 

At  the  election  which  followed  the 
retirement  of  Jackson,  the  Democratic 
party  stood  by  its  old  tradition  of  the 
evil  of  slavery,  and  the  hop^  that  by 
the  innate  vigor  of  the  respectwe  States 
it  would  gradually  be  thrown  off;  the 
opposite  party  likewise  held  to  the  same 
tradition,  in  the  belief  that  the  progress 
of  commerce  and  domestic  industry 
would  in  due  time  quietly  remove  what 
all  sound  political  economy  condemned. 
The  new  party,  the  party  of  State  Sover- 
eignty and  Slavery,  —  for  the  two  heads 
sprung  from  one  root,  —  had  not  power 
enough  to  prevent  the  election  of  one 
who  represented  the  policy  of  Jackson. 
But  they  were  full  of  passionate  ardor 
and  of  restless  activity ;  and  in  the 
next  Presidential  election  they  threw 
themselves  upon  the  Whig  party,  with 
which  they  joined  hands.  The  Whig 
party  was  at  that  day  strong  enough  to 
have  done  without  them ;  but  the  un- 
controllable wish  for  success,  which  had 
been  long  delayed,  led  to  the  cry  of 
"  Tippecanoe  and  Tyler  too,"  and  this 


meant  a  union  of  the  interests  of  the 
North  with  the  interest  of  Slavery.  Har- 
rison had  votes  enough  to  elect  him 
without  one  vote  from  the  Southern 
oligarchy ;  but  the  compact  was  made ; 
Harrison  was  elected  and  died,  and  the 
representative  of  the  oligarchy,  a  man 
at  heart  false  to  the  national  flag,  be- 
came President  for  nearly  four  years. 

His  administration  is  marked  by  the 
annexation  of  Teacas  to  the  Uxiited 
States:  a  measure  sure,  in  the  belief 
of  Calhoun,  to  confirm  the  empire  of 
Slavery,  —  sure,  as  others  believed,  to 
prevent  the  foundation  of  an  adven- 
turous government,  that,  if  left  to  in- 
dependence, would  have  reopened  the 
slave-trade  and  subdued  by  force  of 
arms  all  California  and  Mexico  to  the 
sway  of  Slavery.  The  fiiith  of  the  last 
proved  the  true  one.  Under  the  ad- 
ministration of  Polk,  California  was  an- 
nexed, not  to  independent,  slave-holding 
Texas,  but  to  the  Union.  This  consti- 
tutes the  turning-point  in  the  series  of 
events ;  the  first  emigrants  to  her  bor- 
ders formed  a  constitution  excluding 
slavery. 

At  the  next  election  a  change  took 
place,  profoundly  affecting  the  Demo- 
cratic party,  and,  as  a  consequence,  the 
country.  Hitherto  the  position  of  the 
'Northern  Democracy  had  been  that  of 
Jefferson,  that  slavery  was  altogether 
evil ;  and  Cass,  the  Democrats  candi- 
date, still  expressed  his  prayer  for  the 
final  doom  of  slavery.  Against  his 
election  a  third  party  was  formed ;  and 
Van  Buren,  a  former  Democratic  Presi- 
dent, who  had  been  sustained  by  the 
South  as  well  as  by  the  North,  Uking 
with  him  one  half  the  Democracy  of 
New  York,  consented  to  be  the  candi- 
date of  that  party.  We  judge  not  his 
act;  but  the  consequences  were  sad. 
To  the  South  his  appearance  as  a  can- 
didate on  that  basis  had  the  aspect  of 
,  treachery ;  at  the  North  the  Democratic 
party  lost  its  power  to  resist  the  arro- 
gance of  the  South :  fbr,  in  the  first 
place,  large  numbers  of  its  best  men 
had  left  its  ranks ;  and  next,  those  who 
remained  behind  were  eager  to  clear 
themselves  of  the  charge  of  sectional 


1865.]  The  Place  of  Abraham  Lincoln  in  History. 


761 


narrowness ;  and  those  who  had  gone 
out  and  come  back,  in  their  zeal  to  re- 
cover the  favor  of  the  South,  went  be- 
yond all  bounds  in  their  professions  of 
repentance.  The  old  compromise  of 
Jefferson  fell  into  disrepute ;  the  Demo* 
cratic  party  itself  was  thrown  into  con- 
fusion ;  the  power  of  any  one  of  its  dis- 
tinguished men  to  resbt  the  increasing 
arrogance  of  the  slaveholders  was  taken 
away ;  a  word  in  public  for  what  twenty 
years  before  had  been  the  creed  of  ev- 
ery one  was  followed  by  the  ban  of  the 
majority  of  the  party.  So  fell  one  bul- 
wark against  slavery. 

Still  another  bulwark  against  it  was 
destined  to  &11  away.  The  annexation 
of  California  brought  with  it  the  ques- 
tion of  the  admission  of  California  as  a 
State  of  freemen.  The  only  way  to 
have  avoided  convulsing  the  country 
was  to  have  confined  the  discussion  to 
the  one  question  of  the  admission  of 
California.  Unhappily, .  Clay,  truly  rep- 
resenting a  State  which  halted  in  its 
choice  between  freedom  and  slavery, 
proposed  a  combination  of  measures. 
Further,  the  representation  of  the  Free 
States  had  steadily  increased  from  the 
origin  of  the  Government ;  the  admis- 
sion of  California  threatened,  at  last,  to 
open  the  way  for  a  corresponding  dis- 
proportion in  the  Senate.  The  country, 
remembering  how  Webster,  on  a  great 
occasion,  had  greatly  resisted  the  heresy 
of  Nullification,  looked  to  him  now  to 
clear  away  the  mists  of  artful  misrepre- 
sentations of  the  Constitution,  and  show 
that  neither  in  that  Constitution  nor  in 
the  history  of  the  country  at  the  time 
of  its  formation  had  there  been  any 
justification  of  the  demand  for  such 
equality  of  representation.  But  this 
time  the  great  orator  failed;  the  pas- 
sionate desire  for  being  President  led 
him  to  make  a  speech  intended  to  con- 
ciliate the  support  of  the  South.  In  that 
he  £uled  miserably  at  the  moment;  a 
few  days  later,  Calhoun,  on  his  death- 
bed, avowed  himself  the  adviser  of  a 
secession  of  the  whole  body  of  the 
slaveholding  SUtes.  Still  blinded  by 
ambition,  Webster,  on  a  tour  through 
New  York,  as  a  candidate,  formally 


proposed  the  establishment  of  a  party 
representing  the  property  of  the  coun- 
try, crystallizing  round  the  slavehold- 
ers, and  including  the  commercial  and 
corporate  industrial  wealth  of  the  North. 
The  effect  on  his  own  advancement  was 
absolutely  nothing.  In  due  time,  as  a 
candidate,  he  fell  stone  dead ;  and  it  is 
to  his  credit  that  he  did  so.  The  South 
knew  that  he  was  a  Union  man,  and 
would  not  answer  their  purpose.  As 
he  heard  of  the  slight  given  by  those 
whom  he  had  courted,  his  large  head 
fell  on  his  breast,  his  voice  faltered, 
and  big  tears  trickled  down  his  cheeks. 
His  cheerfulness  never  returned;  he 
languished  and  died ;  but  the  evil  that 
lived  after  him  was,  that  the  great  party 
to  which  he  had  belonged  was  no  mpre 
able  to  stem  the  rising  fury  of  the  South, 
and  broke  td  pieces.  x 

Thus,  by  untoward  circumstances,  the 
truth  that  could  alone  confirm  the  Un- 
ion, and  which  heretofore  had  been  sub* 
stantially  supported  by  both  the  great 
traditional  parties  of  the  country,  no 
longer  had  a  clear  and  commanding  ex- 
ponent in  either  of  thenL  The  result 
of  the  next  election  showed  that  the 
old  Whig  party  had  lost  aU  power  over 
the  public  mind.  The  strife  went  on, 
and  hope  centred  in  the  supreme  judi- 
cial tribunal  of  the  land,  to  whose  mem- 
bers a  secure  tenure  of  office  had  been 
given,  that  they  might  be  above  all 
temptation  of  serving  the  time.  The 
politicians  of  the  North  were  becoming 
alarmed  by  the  issues  which  were  forced 
upon  them  by  those  of  the  South  with 
whom  they  still  wished  to  be  friends ; 
they  longed  to  shift  the  responsibility 
of  the  decision  upon  the  Supreme 
Court  The  Court  was  slow  to  be 
swerved.  The  case  of  Dred  Scott  was 
before  them ;  and  the  decision  of  the 
Court  was  embodied  in  an  opinion  which 
would  have  produced  no  excitement 
But  the  Court  was  entreated  to  give 
their  decision  another  form.  They  long 
resisted,  and  were  long  divided;  but 
perseverance  overcame  them ;  and  at 
last  a  most  reluctant  majority,  a  bare 
majority,  was  won  to  enter  the  arena 
of  politics,  and  attempt  the  suppression 


762 


The  Place  of  Abraham  Lincoln  in  History,  {June, 


of  differeooes  of  opinion :  for,  said  one 
of  the  judges,  ''the  peace  and  harmony 
of  die  country  require  the  settlement 
of  Constitutional  principles  of  the  high- 
est importance," — not  knowing  that  in- 
justice overturns  peace  and  harmony, 
and  that  a  depraved  judiciary  portends 
dvil  war. 

The  man  who  took  the  Presidential 
chair  in  1857  had  no  traditional  party 
against  him ;  he  owed  his  nomination 
to  confidence  in  his  moderation  and 
supposed  love  of  Union.  He  might 
have  united  the  whole  North  and  se- 
cured a  good  part  of  the  South.  Con- 
stitutionally timid,  on  taking  the  oath 
of  office,  he  betrayed  his  own  weakness, 
and  foreshadowed  the  forthcoming  de- 
cision of  the  Supreme  Court  Under 
the  wing  of  the  Executive,  Chief-Justice 
Taney  gave  his  &med  disquisition.  The 
delivery  of  that  opinion  was  an  act  of 
revolution.  The  truth  of  history  was 
scorned  ;  the  voice  of  passion  was  put 
forward  as  the  rule  of  law ;  doctrines 
were  hud  down  which,  if  they  are  just, 
give^  a  fiiU  sanction  to  the  rebellion 
which  ensued.  The  country  was  stung 
to  the  quick  by  the  reckless  conduct  of 
a  body  which  it  needed  to  trust,  and 
which  now  was  leading  the  way  to  the 
overthrow  of  the  Constitution  and  the 
dismemberment  of  the  Republic  At 
the  same  time,  the  President,  in  select- 
ing the  members  of  his  cabinet,  chose 
four  of  the  seven  from  among  those 
who  were  prepared  to  sacrifice  the 
country  to  the  interests  of  Slavery.  In 
time  of  peace  the  finances  were  wilfully 
ill -administered,  and  in  the  midst  of 
wealth  and  credit  the  country  was  saved 
from  bankruptcy  only  by  the  patriotism 
of  the  city  of  New  York,  against  the 
treacherous  intention  of  the  Secretary 
of  the  Treasury.  Cannon  and  muskets 
and  military  stores  were  sent  in  num- 
bers where  they  could  most  surely  fell 
into  the  hands  of  the  coming  rebellion  ; 
troops  of  the  United  States  were  placed 
under  disloyal  officers  and  put  out  of 
the  way ;  the  navy  was  scattered  abroad. 
And  then,  that  nothing  might  be  want- 
ing to  increase  the  agony  of  the  coun- 
try, an  attempt  to  force  the  institution 


of  Slavery  on  the  people  of  Kansas^  that 
refused  it,  received  tiie  encouragnement 
and  aid  of  the  President    The  conspir- 
ators resolved  at  the  next  Pre»dentiai 
election  to  compel  the  choice  of  a  caiMU* 
date  of  their  own,  or  of  one  against  whom 
they  could  unite  the  South ;  and  aO  the 
influence  of  the  Administration,  thToag:h 
its  patronage,  was  used  to  confine  the 
election  to  that  issue. 

Virginia  statesmen,  more  than  ninety 
years  ago,  had  foretold  that  each  State 
Constitution  must  work  itself  dear  of 
the  evil  of  slavery  by  its  own  Innate 
vigor,  or  await  the  doom  of  impartial 
Providence.  Judgment  slumbered  no 
longer,  —  though  wise  men  after  the 
flesh  were  not  chosen  as  its  messen- 
gers and  avengers. 

The  position  of  Abraham  Lincoln,  on 
the  day  of  his  inauguration,  was  appar- 
entiy  one  of  helpless  debility.    A  bark 
canoe  in  a  tempest  on  mid-ocean  seem- 
ed hardly  less  safe.    The  vital  tradition 
of  the  country  on  Slavery  no  longer  had 
its  adequate  expression  in  either  of  the 
two  great  political  parties,  and  the  Su- 
preme Court  had  uprooted  the  old  land- 
marks and  guides.    The  men  who  had 
chosen  him  President  did  not  constitute 
a  consolidated  party,  and  did  not  pro- 
fess to  represent  either  of  the  historic 
parties  which  had  been  engaged  in  the 
struggles  of  three  quarters  of  a  centu- 
ry.   They  were  a  heterogeneous  body 
of  men,  of  the  most  various  political  at- 
tachments in  former  years,  and  on  many 
questions  of  economy  of  the  most  dis- 
cordant opinions.      Scarcely  knowing 
each  other,  they  did  not  form  a  numer- 
ical majority  of  the  whole  country,  were 
in  a  minority  in  each  branch  of  Con- 
gress except  fiY>m  the  wilful  absence  of 
members,  and  they  could  not  be  sore 
of  their  own  continuance  as  an  organ- 
ized body.     They  did  not  know  their 
own  position,  and  were  startied  by  the 
consequences  of  their  success.  The  new 
President  himself  was,  according  to  his 
own  description,  a  man  of  defective  ed- 
ucation, a  lawyer  by  profession,  know- 
ing nothing  of  administration  beyond 
having  been  master  of  a  very  small  post- 
office,  knowing  nothing  of  war  but  as