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Grill

LOTOS LEAVES

TUP Nl-W VOllK

ASTOU. IXNOX AND
TiU»KN fc'0lM»ATl0NS

ORIGINAL

STORIES, ESSAYS AND POEMS,

WHITM.AW REII), WILKIR COLLINS.^ARK TWAIN, JDIIS l[AvP)ul

NOAH URCHiKS, P. V. NASDY, I. llTTiityHLKV, JolrW F.LUERKIN,

KNUX, W, J. FLORKNCK, CIIAM)(i3 Fl:LT().\, J. KtN'RY HAl^AK,

WSSEI.L, J. B. HOI TON, W. S. ANnRKWS, (ULIiERT IHELIMI, <

I. FAKIIEF., M. n., C. MCK. I.KOSER, 11(>\. R, II. ROOSF

EDITED UV

WILLIAM FEARING GILU

SIXusttratcfi.

CHICAGO AND NEW YORK:
BEL FORD, CLARKE & CO.

THE NEW YOr?K
VMUC MI!' A..V !

131105B i

COPYRIGHTED:

W. F. GILL
1875;

DoNOHUK & Hennebekry Pkintkks amj Binders. Chicago

ALFRED TENNYSON.

THE POP.T OF OCR TISU'..

Ci)ts 33ook

•!.
.%. I'iH liJs SPECIAL rKRMISSION)

AFFECTIONATELY INSCRIUED

THE LOTOS CLUB

OF NEW YORK.

3f3lt of aaigljt.

■^ . ■f' J " %*;■■<

•.'»■' t

\ ' . -

PREFACE.

1 the soiexe/g.v people of the united states.

May it please vour Royal Multiplicity: —

E, the subscribers hereto, appreciating the
absorbing interest taken at the present
<•- period in the bccult and the non-under-
^O- standable, beg to call the attention of
pansophic inquirers to the singular MANl-
KESTATiONS ttliich will dcvclop themsclves
ill the pages following, emanating, as ihey
do, from a group of edacious and bibitory media, who materialize
daily at tJie refectory of the Lotos Club.

Your August Potentiality will not fail to observe that those
spiritual adumbrations are not evanescent or fugaceous, a latrocinous
cheat, repugnant to common-sense and an insult lo the most par-
vanimous of human intelligences, but tangible entities, altogether
stationary', and as visible to every eye as the rcadablest of printed

Tlfc embodied essences which will in due time appear, — psycholo-
gic offspring evoluted from the mysterious union of the brain and pen,
— being polygenous, will of necessity be variform and dissimilar;
but, however unlike in shape and feature they may be when com-
pared with each other, yet individually they will be found to exhibit
suflScient family resemblance to indicate their paternity.

X PREFACE.

In BooA's^ as in Babies, one can readily discover — excepting in the
cases of unequal collaboration, or of entirely pilfered matter, foreign
or domestic — some characteristic trait hereditary', some trick of
style or peculiarity of expression, through which to designate the
autlior of their being.

The cerebral progeny of the Lotos will, in like manner, display
upon their lineaments the shadowy sign-manual of their respective
producers.

With this brief but perspicuous prolegomenon, we send our mul-
tigenerous youngsters out into the world, to be judged by their
merits ; parental solicitude alone urging us to entreat for them a
liberal indulgence, if it be only for their juvenility.

It only remains to say that the pecuniary profits, if any, resulting
from the promulgation of these Leaves will be presented to the

American Dramatic Fund.

J. li.

j. E.

CONTENTS.

Some Southern Remfmiscences . . .

y,'lm Bnm^h.im

As Encounter wcth an Intervcewer

Miss Ts'eu

Anacreontic

EJ-.i-:,n/ Cray .
C/iir/.-.' 0.<yUr
John ELkrkin .

An Episode of the War

Sunrise and Sunset

Fairy Gold.

The Kawk's Nest

IV. S. A,..frc-.L-,
C. /■:. L. mimes

John DrOU:,-h.VH

Gilhcl Ilnrln,^^

The Pm-sicAL Requirements of Song

The Tbutheul Resolver

Trassi.ationh

Charh-s lu,ht P.n

1.:: M. D.
V . , .

Xll

CONTENTS.

A Fatal Fortune IViUku Collins 175

In Echo CaSon A^oah Brocks

203

A Fragmentary Hint on a Fault of the

English Language Champion Bissell 221

Liberty John Hay 227 v/

How WE hung John Brown Henry S. Olcott 231

The Weed that cheers J. Henry Hager .

The Asperities of Travel Thomas W. Knox

Edgar A. Poe and his Biographer, Rufus

W. Griswold William F. GUI .

Lethe C. McK, Leoser

. 251
. 261

277

307

The Miracle OF THE Fishes Robert R. Roosevelt . . . . 311

The Lotos- Eaters Alfred Tennyson

319

Players in a large Drama . .

Bertha Klein

Nine Tales of a Cat . . . .

John and Susie

/. H. Bromley 329

W, y. Florence 343

J. Brander Matthews . . . 359

Chandos Fulton 367

The Three Gr^t Symphonists

. . James Pech 381

LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS.

"With iialf-shu t kves ever to seem

Falling ASLEKP is a HALF-DREAH " AlfrtdFndtricks. A Bobbcll . Fronii»pi«

Thk Lotos John La Fargt. if. Marsh . , Tiiie iilu

Ijh:-Rollisg IN THE Souvii . . . C. It. MilUr. IV. y. Linton . . .

HVMN OK PufNCES Atfrtd Frvdiricts.jBhn AiuhmoHdSoii :

The Hkrmit J U. Dolph. John Andn^jnd Son ;

"K-K-E-S M-E-e" A.Ly.i!!. John Andrmaml Son (

AVACKKONTIC C. IL Slwy. John Andrn^andSon ;

"When Tllv ROSE Lirs I GAZE i-Pos" Arthur Luml.y. Jehn Aiidrr.'j.iiid Son li

Fafrv GoLl' Alfred Fndericks. A. Bobh.-ll . . . . i,

TiJE Hawk's Nest Cilbtrt Bur/ing. U. Linlou , . . .1

The Leviathan Cll'b Th.Wusl. John Andr,-ie and Smt n

IIlr Answer Arthur Lumley. John Andrea! and Son v

Echo CaSon . . .■ Gcerge While. John Andrew and Son 3

LlltERTY Alfred Fredericks. A. Bobkttt .... 2

The Weed that cheers . . . . C. H. Ckei^n. John Andrew and Son 2

xiv LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS.

Poe's School and Play-Ground From the Original. John Andrew and Son 282

"The Lotos blows by every
WINDING Creek R, E. Pigutt. JV. J, Linton . . .321

The Legend of the Todesblume. George White. John Andrro) and Son 342

St. Cecilia H, B. John Andrew and Son 381

19
25
33

HALF-TITLE ILLUSTRATIONS.

I. The Lotos Eater

II. Emblems of Royalty

III. Vigne'ite

IV. Vignette

V. Oriental Barge 59

VI. Lotos Flowers and Buds 69

VII. Greek Mask^— Tragedy and Comedy 73

VIII. Vignetfe 97

JX. Emblems (jf War 101

X. Vignette ." iii

XL Vignette 115

XII. Vignette 129

XIII. Lilies . 145

XIV. Antique Lyre i49

XV. Antique Egyptian Figure 157

XVI. Vigneite 169

XVII. Cupid's Darts 175

LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS. xv

XVIIL Vignette 203

XIX. Speech and Song (Headj 331

XX, The Cross of Liberty 217

XXI. Ikmoktelles 231

XXII. Symbolic Emblem (Lotos) 351

XXin. Vignette 261

XXIV. Raven and Bells 27;

XXV. Antique Head with Lotos Flowers 307

XXVL Vignette - ... 311

XXVIL The Sphinx ... 319

XXVIIL Masks of Tragedy and Comedy (Modern) 339

XXIX. Vignette -343

XXX. Vignette 3S9

XXXI. Vignette 367

Some Southern Reminiscences.

SOME SOUTHERN REMINISCENCES.

By WHITELAW REID.

^^^^^^ctIHE Publishers' despatch demands, rather sud-
denly, a contribution to the Lotos Leaves.
Thus energetically summoned, I can, on the
instant, think of nothing better than to go back
to my real lotos-eating days. They were
passed in that pleasant land where once, to
cotton-planters as well as poets, it seemed always
afternoon, but where now, alas ! it too often looks as if the
blackness of midnight had settled. I spent a year or two, after
the close of the war in the Southern States, mostly on Louis-
iana and Alabama cotton-plantations; and if I must "write
something and at once," I shall merely try to revive some recol-
lections of that experience.

It was one of those perfect days which Louisianians get in
February, instead of waiting, like poor Massachusetts Yankees,
till June for them, when I crossed from Natchez to take pos-
session of two of the three river plantations on which I dreamed
of making my fortune in a year. The road led directly down
the levee. On the right rolled the Mississippi, still far below
its banks, and giving no sign of the flood that a few months
later was to drown our hopes. To the left stretched westward
for a mile the unbroken expanse of cotton land, bounded by

4 LOTOS LEAVES.

the dark fringe of cypress and the swamp. Through a drove
of scrawny cattle and broken-down mules, pasturing on the rich
Bermuda grass along the levee, under the lazy care of the
one-armed " stock-minder," I made my way at last down a
grassy lane to the broad-porched, many-windowed cottage,
propped up four or five feet from the damp soil by pillars of
cypress, which the agent had called the " mansion." It looked
out pleasantly from the foliage of a grove of China and pecan
trees, and was flanked, on the one hand by a beautifully culti-
vated vegetable garden, several acres in extent, and on the
other by the " quarters," — a double row of cabins, each with
two rooms and a projecting roof, covering an earthen-floored
porch. A street, overgrown with grass and weeds, ran from the
" mansion " down between the rows of cabins, and stopped at
the plantation blacksmith and carpenter shop. Behind each
cabin was a little garden, jealously fenced off from all the rest
with the roughest of cypress pickets, and its gate guarded by
an enormous padlock. " Niggers never trust one another about
their gardens or hen-houses." explained the overseer, who was
making me acquainted with my new home.

To the westward the plantations sloped gently back from the
house to the cypress-swamp, which shut in the view. Not a
tree or fence broke the monotony of the surface, but half a
dozen wide open ditches led down to the swamp, and were
crossed, at no less than seven places, by long lines of embank-
ments, each, as one looked toward the swamp, seeming higher
than those beyond it. The lands were entirely safe from any
overflow from the Mississippi in front ; but crevasses, miles
above, almost every year poured floods back into the swamp ;
thence the enemy gradually crept up on the rear, and about

• «•• • • •

• z * • • • •

• •• • • • r

• • • • •
• •• • • %

SOME SOUTHERN REMINISCENCES. 5

June the fight with the water began. An effort would be made to
stop it at the first line of embankment ; this failing, the leading
ditches would be closed, and the next embankment, a hundred
and fifty yards farther up from the swamp, would be strength-
ened and guarded. Failing there, the negroes would retreat to
the next. The sluggish, muddy sheet of water would scarcely
seem to move ; but each day it would advance a few inches.
The year before, the negroes had only been able to arrest it
at the embankment nearest the river. Some months later I
soberly realized that I had done little better ; out of twelve
hundred acres of cotton land, my predecessors had only been
able to save three hundred, and I barely rescued two hundred
more. Then, as the waters receded, we planted in the ooze,
just in time to have the cotton beautifully fresh and tender for
the worms in August.

But as I rode out first, that perfect day, among the gang of a
hundred and fifty negroes, who, on these plantations, were for
the year to compromise between their respect and their new-
born spirit of independence by calling me Mistah instead of
Massa, there were no forebodings. Two " plough-gangs " and
two " hoe-gangs " were slowly measuring their length along the
two-mile front. Among each rode its own negro driver, some-
times lounging in his saddle with one leg lodged on the pommel,
sometimes shouting sharp, abrupt orders to the delinquents.
In each plough-gang were fifteen pairs of scrawny mules, with
corn-husk collars, gunny-bag back-bands, and bedcord plough •
lines. The Calhoun ploughs (the favorite implement through all
that region, then, and doubtless still, retaining the name given
it long before war was dreamed of) were rather lazily managed
by the picked hands of the plantation. Among them were

6 LOTOS LEAVES.

several women, who proved among the best laborers in the
gang. A quarter of a mile ahead a picturesque sight presented
itself. A great crowd of women and children, with a few aged
or weakly men among them, were scattered along the old
cotton-rows, chopping down weeds, gathering together the
trash that covered the land, and firing little heaps of it, while
through the clouds of smoke came an incessant chatter of the
girls, and an occasional snatch of a camp-meeting hymn from
the elders. " Gib me some backey, please," was the first saluta-
tion I received. They were dressed in a stout blue cottonade,
the skirts drawn up to the knees, and reefed in a loose bunch
about the waists ; brogans of incredible sizes covered their
feet, and there was Uttle waste of money on the useless decency
of stockings, but gay bandannas were wound in profuse splendor
around their heads.

The moment the sun disappeared every hoe was shouldered.
Some took up army-blouses or stout men's overcoats, and drew
them on ; others gathered fragments of bark to kindle their
evening fires, and balanced them nicely on their heads. In
a moment the whole noisy crowd was filing across the plan-
tation toward the quarters, joining the plough-gang, pleading
for rides on the mules, or flirting with the drivers, and looking
as much like a troop flocking to a circus or rustic fair as a
party of weary farm-laborers. At the house the drivers soon
/eported their grievances. " Dem women done been squabblin'
'mong dei'selves dis a'ternoon, so I 's hardly git any wuck at
all out of *em." '* Fanny and Milly done got sick to-day ; an' •
Sally 's heerd dat her husban' 's mustered out ob dc army,
an' she gone up to Natchez to fine him." " Dcm sucklcrs ain't
jus* wuf nuffin at all. 'Bout eight o'clock dey goes off to de

SOME SOUTHERN REMINISCENCES. 7

quarters to deir babies, an' I don* nebber see nuffin mo' ob 'em
till 'bout elebben. Den de same way in de a'ternoon, till I 's sick
ob de hull lot." " De Moody [Bermuda grass] mighty tough
*long heah, an* I could n't make dem women put in deir hoes to
suit me nohow." Presently men and women trooped up for the
tickets representing their day's work. The women were soon
busy preparing their supper of mess pork and early vegetables ;
while the plough-gang gathered about the overseer. " He 'd
done promise dem a drink o* whiskey, if dey 'd finish dat cut,
and dey 'd done it." The whiskey was soon forthcoming, well
watered, with a trifle of cayenne pepper to conceal the lack of
spirit, and a little tobacco soaked in it to preserve the color.
The most drank it down at a gulp from the glass into which,
for one after another, the overseer poured ** de 'lowance." A
few, as their turns came, passed up tin cups, and went off with
the treasure, chuckling about "de splennid toddy we's hab to-
night." Then came a little trade with the overseer at " the
store." Some wanted a pound or two of sugar ; others, a paper
of needles or a bar of soap ; many of the young men, " two bits'
wuf " of candy, or a brass ring. In an hour trade was over, and
the quarters were as silent as a churchyard. But, next morn-
ing, at four o'clock, I was aroused by the shrill " driber's horn."
Two hours later it was blown again, and, looking from my
window just as the first red rays of light came level across the
field, I saw the women filing out, with their hoes, and the plough-
men leisurely sauntering down to the stables, each with corn-
husk collars and bedcord plough-lines in his hands.

Somewhat different was my first sight of our third plantation.
It was fifteen miles farther down the river, from which it was
hidden by a mile of swampy forest. It had been freshly cleared

S LOTOS li:a\'ls.

a little before the war, had been neglected since, was overgrown
with briers, and covered with fallen logs. Remote, wild, gloomy,
it almost recalled that weird picture of the Red River plantation
on which Mrs. Stowc abandoned Uncle Tom to the mercies of
Legree. Nor was this impression lessened when I found that
the overseer had for twenty years followed his calling during
the existence of slavery. * But the most cordial feeling seemed
to subsist between him and the negroes. " Him alius good man,
befo' dis time come in," they said. " He alius did us niggers
jussice.'* Here he had them divided into three gangs, " the
hoes, log-rollers, and ploughs." Riding through the quarters, one
seemed to come out at once upon an immense Western clearing,
Everywhere still stood the deadened cypresses : it was through
a forest of their decaying bodies that the eye reached in the
distance the living forest and the swamp. Half-way back was a
scene of unusual animation. The overseer kept his three gangs
near each other, the hoes ahead, pushing hard behind them the
log-rollers, and, shouting constantly to the log-rollers to keep out«
of their way, the plough-men. The air was filled with a dense
smoke from the burning briers and logs. Moving about among
the fires, raking together the trash, chopping the briers, now
seizing a brand from a burning heap and dexterously using it to
fire half a dozen others, then hurrying forward to catch up with
the gang, singing, laughing, teasing the log-rollers to "cotch us
if you kin," were the short-skirted, black-faced damsels, twenty
or twenty-five in number, who composed the trash-gang. Be-
fore the little heaps were half burnt, the log-rollers were amon^
them. A stout black fellow, whiskey-bottle in hand, gave direc-
tions. At least half of this gang also were women, each armed,
like the men, with a formidable hand -spike. They were very

THE KIW }0U
PUBLIC LIBRARY

T„. --

• •

SOME SOUTHERN REMINISCENCES. 9

proud of their distinction, and wanted it understood that " dey
was n't none of you' triflin' hoe-han's ; dey was log-rollers, dey
was." Selecting the log hardest to be moved as the centre for a
heap, the driver shouted, ** Now, heah, hurry up dat log dere,
and put it on dis side, heah." A dozen hand-spikes were thrust
under it, and every woman's voice shouted in shrill chorus,
" Come up wid de log, come up wid de log." " Man agin man
dere," the driver would cry, " gal agin gal ; all togedder wid
you, if you spec any wate' out o* dis bottle." Sometimes be-
fore these heaps were fired the ploughs were upon them, every
ploughman urging his mules almost into a trot, and the driver
occasionally shouting, " Git out o' de way dere, you lazy log-
rollers, or we plough right ober ye." The land was a loose
loam, turning up like an ash-heap, and both negroes and mules
seemed to thrive on the hard work.

The overseer rarely left the field. With one leg lazily
thrown across the pommel of his saddle, he lounged in his
seat, occasionally addressing a mild suggestion to one of the
men, or saying to the driver that the other gangs were pressing
him pretty close. Then, riding over to the next, he would hint
that the trash-gang was getting ahead of them, or that the
ploughs would catch them soon if they were n't careful. All
treated him with the utmost respect. I am satisfied that no
Northern laborers of the same degree of intelligence ever
worked more faithfully, more cheerfully, or with better re-
sults.

Very novel, and sometimes very droll, seem to me now the
experiences of the year on these plantations. One of the first
was my effort to reform a "bad nigger." His old owner, so
the gossip ran, had once or twice wanted him killed ; last year

10 LOTOS LEAVES.

the overseer had snapped a pistol at him ; altogether, there
was no managing him. A genial old-time planter, my nearest
neighbor, warned me that the boy was desperate, and ought
to be driven off the place. In my Northern wisdom I laughed
at the warning. "Of course your system drove any negro
of spirit into revolt," I argued ; *' and so you had what you
call a dangerous nigger. Now he sees that he gets the re-
ward of his own labor, and so freedom makes a first-class
hand of him." But the old slaveholder shook his head. It
was not long till I saw he had reason. My model reformed
negro was caught stealing pork and selling it, getting drunk,
drawing a loaded musket on his brother-in-law, and the like.
" I 11 never give in to your new-fangled notions agin." growled
the overseer. '* A nigger 's a nigger, and I *ve only made a
fool of myself in trying to make anything else out of him."
And so a warrant was procured for his arrest. Hearing of
the warrant, the boy ran away. In about three weeks he
returned, very defiant, and boasting that no white man could
arrest him. He had been to the Bureau, and knew the law;
he was armed, and meant to go where he pleased. But he
was promptly taken, without resistance, before a justice of the
peace. Three negro witnesses established his guilt, and he
was committed to jail to await a trial by court, with every
prospect of being sent to the penitentiary for a year or two.
Among the witnesses against him was the brother-in-law he
had threatened to shoot. When Philos was being locked up
he called to this man and said, —

" Arthur, you know I 's alius hated you, and talked 'bout
you ; but you was right, when you tole me not to git into
no sich troubles as dis."

SOME SOUTHERN REMINISCENCES. II

" Philos," ejaculated Arthur, precipitating his words out in
shotted volleys, " I alius tole you so. You said, when you
come back, dat you 'd been to de Bureau, — knowd de law, —
dat no white man could 'rest you. I tole you den you did n't
know nuffin 'bout law, — dat no law 'lowed you to carry on
mean."

"Well, I t'ought I did know sumfin 'bout law den, but I
shore, now, I don't."

" Dat 's so, Philos ; but I tell ye, you 'm got in a mighty safe
place now, whar you 'm got nuffin in de wold to do but to study
law ! I reckon, Philos, by de time you git out ob heah, you '11
be a mighty larned nigger in de law ! Good by, Philos."

" The worst thing about these niggers," explained the justice,
" is, that they seem to have no conception of their responsibility.
That boy, Philos, can't see why a word from his employer is n't
enough now to release him, as it would have done while he was
a slave. He does n't comprehend the fact that he has com-
mitted an offence against the State, as well as against his em-
ployer."

Most of the negroes seemed very anxious to learn to read,,
but now and then one sturdily adhered to his old belief that
learning was only good for white men. " Wat 's de use ob»
niggers pretendin' to learnin' } " exclaimed one of my drivers..
*' Dere 's dat new boy Reub. Missah Powell sent me to weigh
out his 'lowance. He brag so much about readin' an' edication
dat I try him. I put on tree poun' po'k, an* I say, * Reub/ kin
you read t * He say, * Lor' bress you, did n't you know I 's edi-
cated nigger } ' I say, * Well, den, read dat figger, an' tell me
how much po'k you 'm got dar.' He scratch he head, an' look
at de figger all roun', an' den he say, ' Jus' seben poun', zacly»'

12 LOTOS LEAVES.

Den I say to clc po' fool, * Take you' seben poun' an' go 'long/
Much good his larnin' did him. He los' a poun' o' po'k by it,
for I was gwine to gib him fo' poun'."

Early after my arrival, I had one of the overseers take me
to the negro church. On secular days it was the blacksmith's
shop. Now it looked fresh, and almost attractive, half filled
with the people of the plantation. All seemed pleased to see us
enter, and I soon found that we were not to pass unnoticed.
The old preacher, who was none other than the plantation gar-
dener, was not one of those who fail to magnify their office.
He was delighted at his Sunday official superiority to his em-
ployer, and at the chance to level his broadsides at two white
men ; and he certainly showed us no mercy. ** White men might
t'ink dey could git *long, because dey was rich ; but dey 'd find
demselves mistaken when damnation and hell-fire was a'tcr dem.
No, my breddering an' sistering, blacjc an' white, we must all
be 'umble. 'Umbleness '11 tote us a great many places whar
tnoney won't do us no good. De Lo'd, who knows all our
gwines in an' comin's out, he '11 'ceive us all at de las', if we be-
have ou'selves hcah. Now, my breddering an' sistering, white
an' black, I stand heah for de Lo'd, to say to ebery one ob you
hcah, be 'umble an' behave you'selves on de yearth, an' you shall
hab a crown ob light. Ebery one ob you mus' tote his cross on
de yearth, eben as our bressed Master toted hisn."

This was about the average style of the sermon. Part of it
was delivered in a quiet, conversational tone ; at other times the
preacher's voice rose into a prolonged and not unmusical ca-
dence. He was really a good man, and whenever any meaning
lurked in his numberless repetitions of cant phrases, picked up
from the whites to whom he had listened, it was always a good

SOME SOUTHERN REMINISCENCES. 13

one. The small audience sat silent and perfectly undemon-
strative. The preacher once or twice remarked that there were
so few present that he did n*t feel much like exhorting ; it was
hardly worth while to go to much trouble for so few ; and final-
ly, with a repetition of this opinion, he told them " dey might
sing some if dey wanted to," and took his seat.

" D — n the old fellow,*' whispered the overseer ; " he don't
do no retail business. He wants to save souls by hullsale, or
else not at all ! "

The passion for whiskey seemed universal. I never saw man
woman, or child, reckless young scapegrace or sanctimonious
old preacher, among them, who would refuse it ; and the most
had no hesitancy in begging it whenever they could. Many of
them spent half their earnings buying whiskey. That sold on
any of the plantations I ever visited or heard of was always
watered down at least one fourth. Perhaps it was owing to
this fact, though it seemed rather an evidence of unexpected
powers of self-restraint, that so few were to be seen intoxi-
cated.

During the two or three years in which I spent most of my
time among them, seeing scores and sometimes hundreds in a
day, I do not now remember seeing more than one man abso-
lutely drunk. He had bought a quart of whiskey, one Saturday
night, at a low liquor-shop in Natchez. Next morning early
he attacked it, and in about an hour the whiskey and he were
used up together. Hearing an unusual noise in the quarters, I
walked down that way and found the plough-driver and the over-
seer both trying to quiet Horace. He was unable to stand
alone, but he contrived to do a vast deal of shouting. As I ap-
proached, the driver said, ** Horace, don't make so much noise ;

14 LOTOS LEAVES.

don't you see Mr. R. ? " He looked round, as if surprised at
learning it.

" Boss, is dat you } "

" Yes."

'* Boss, I 's drunk ; boss, I *s 'shamed o' myself ! but I 's
drunk ! I 'sarve good w'ipping. Boss, — boss, s-s-slap me in dc
face, boss."

I was not much disposed to administer the " slapping " ; but
Horace kept repeating, with a drunken man's persistency,
" Slap mc in de face, boss ; please, boss." Finally I did give
him a ringing cuff on the ear. Horace jerked off his cap, and
ducked down his head with great respect, saying, " T'ank you.
boss." Then, grinning his maudlin smile, he threw open his
arms as if to embrace me, and exclaimed, "Now kiss fpie,
boss I "

Next morning Horace was at work with the rest, and though
he bought many quarts of whiskey afterwards. I never saw him
drunk again.

But the revival of these old recollections of Southern experi-
ence has already outrun reasonable limits. Let me close with
some brief account of a visit — since made by many North-
erners — to the now well-known cemetery of Buonaventura.
near Savannah. It was in the spring of 1865. Aside from
the army officials, we were almost the first visitors from the
North since the war. " Docsticks " (Mortimer Thompson),
indeed, had preceded us, and to our amazement was found in
Savannah editing a daily newspaper ; and, true to the tradi-
tions of the craft, was breathing out threatenings and slaughter
against the common enemy of most newspapers in war times,

SOME SOUTHERN REMINISCENCES. 15

— the commanding general. The sandy roads leading into
Savannah were still crowded with the rickety wagons of refu-
gees, — the whites fleeing from starvation, the negroes hurry-
ing from the plantations they had never before been able to
leave of their own free will, to get their first taste of liberty
and city life. Out of this scene of squalor we suddenly turned
into what seemed a great and stately forest. The finest live-
oak trees I had seen in the South stretched away in long
avenues on either hand, intersected by cross avenues, and
arched with interlacing branches till the roof over our heads
looked, in living green, a groining after the pattern of Gothic
arches, in some magnificent old cathedral. One of the Tatnalls,
probably an ancestor of the Commodore of our navy, of Chinese
and Confederate note, long ago selected this site for his resi-
dence, builded his house, and laid out the grounds in these
noble avenues. The house was burned during some holiday
rejoicings. An idea that the place was unhealthy possessed
the owners, and, with a curious taste, the soil that was too dan-
gerous for men to live upon was straightway selected for dead
men to be buried in. We would hardly choose a malarious
bottom or a Northern tamarack-swamp for a burying-ground,
beautiful as either might be. But what matters it.? After
life's fitful fever, the few interred here sleep doubtless as
sweetly beneath the gigantic oaks in the solemn avenues as
if on breeziest upland of mountain heather.

Even into this secluded gloom had come the traces of our
civil wars. The only large monument in the cemetery bore
the simple inscription of " Clinch," and within it lay, I was
told, the father-in-law of *' Sumter Anderson," as in all our
history he is henceforth to be known. Some vandal had

l6 LOTOS LEAVES.

broken down the marble slab that closed the tomb, and had
exposed the coffins within.

This very barbarism, and the absence of the rows of care-
fully tended graves, and the headstones with affectionate
inscriptions that mark all other cemeteries, increased the im-
pressive gloom of the lonely place. The sun strove in vain
to penetrate the arches overhead. Here and again a stray
beam struggled through, only to light up with a ghostly silver
radiance the long, downward-pointing spear of the Tillandsia,
or Spanish moss. The coolness was marvellous ; the silence
profound, deepened indeed by the gentle ripplings of the little
stream, by which the farther side of the cemetery was bounded.
Everywhere the arches were hung with the deathly festoons of
the Spanish moss, slowly stealing sap and vigor — fit funeral
work — from these giant oaks, and fattening on their decay.
Drive where you would, the moss still fluttered in your face
and waved over your head, and, lit with the accidental ray
from above, pointed its warning silvery light toward the graves
beneath your feet ; while it clung, in the embrace of death, to
the sturdy oaks on which it had fastened, and preached and
practised destruction together. Noble and lusty oaks are
these ; glorious in spreading boughs and lofty arches and
fluttering foliage, but dying in the soft embrace of the parasite
that clings and droops, and makes yet more picturesque and
beautiful in decay, — dying, even as Georgia was dying in the
embrace of another parasite, having a phase not less pictu-
resque, and a poisonous progress not less subtly gentle.

Some day, when Georgia has fully recovered, this spot, too,
will feel the returning tide of her generous, healthy blood. The
rank undergrowth will be cleared away ; broad walks will be

SOME SOUTHERN REMINISCENCES. 1/

laid out among the tombs where now are only tangled and
serpent- infested paths ; shafts will rise up to the green arches
to commemorate the names of those, of whatever race, most
deserving in the State ; the heroes of past struggles will here
find fit resting-place, whichever side they fought for, if only
they did it on their consciences and like true men ; and the
Tillandsia, still waving its witchery of silver, will then seem
only like myriad drooping plumes of white, forever tremulously
pendent over graves at which the State is weeping.

The Hymn of Princes.

THE HYMN OF PRINCES.

By JOHN BROUGHAM.

"By the blessing of Heaven, twenty thousand of the enemy arc left upon the
field. Order a Te Deum ! " — Telegram from the King of Prussia to the Queen

ORD ! we have given, in thy name,
f The peaceful villages to flame.
Of all, the dwellers we 've bereft ;
No trace of hearth, no roof-tree left.
Beneath our war-steeds* iron tread
The germ of future life is dead ;
We have swept o'er it like a blight :
To thee the praise^ O God of Right !

VT^

Some hours ago, on yonder plain
There stood six hundred thousand men,
Made in thine image, strong, and rife
With hope and energy and life ;
And none but had some prized one dear,
Grief-stricken, wild with anxious fear :
A third of them we have made ghosts :
To thee the praise y O Lord of Hosts!

22 LOTOS LEAVES.

We havq let loose the demon chained

In bestial hearts, that, unrestrained.

Infernal revel it may hold,

And feast on villanies untold ;

With ravening drunkenness possessed,

And mercy banished from each breast.

All war's atrocities above :

To thee the praise^ O God ok Love !

Secure behind a wall of steel,

To watch the yielding columns reel,

While round them sulphurous clouds arise,

Foul incense wafting to the skies

From our Home-manufactured Hell ! —

Is royal pastime we like well.

As momently Death's ranks increase :

To thee the praise, O God of Peace !

Thy sacred temples we *ve not spared,
For they the broad destruction shared ;
The annals of time-honored lore,
Lost to the world, are now no more.
What reck we if the holy fane
Or learning s dome is mourned in vain ?
Our work those landmarks to efface :
To thee the praise, O Lord of Grace !

Thus shall it be, while humankind.
Madly perverse or wholly blind,

■\ ■

THE HYMN OF PRINCES. 2^

Will so complacently be led,

At our command, their blood to shed,

For lust cf conquest, or the sly,

Deceptive diplomatic lie :

To us the gain, to them the ruth ;

Tj iJtcc the praise, O God of Truth !

An Encounter with an Interviewer.

AN ENCOUNTER WITH AN IN-
TERVIEWER.

Bv MARK TWAIN.

THE nen'ous, dapper, "peart" young man took the
chair I offered him, and said he was connected with
the Daily Thunderstorm, and added, —

"Hoping it's no harm, I've come to interview
yoii."

" Come to what ? "
'iew you,"
I see. Yes, — yes. Um ! Yes, — yes."
I was not feeling bright that morning. Indeed, my powers
seemed a bit under a cloud. However, I went to the bookcase,
and when I had been looking six or seven minutes, I found I
was obliged to refer to the young man. I said, —
"How do you spell it?"
'■Spell what.'"
" Interview."

" () my goodness ! What do you want to spell it for .' "
" I don't want to spell it ; I want to sec* what it means."
" Welt, this is astonishing, I must say. /can tell you what it
means, if you — if you — "

" O, all right ! That will answer, and much obliged to you,
too."

28 LOTOS LEAVES.

" I n, in, t e r, ter, t'nter — "

"Then you spell it with an /?"

"Why, certainly!"

"O. that is what took me so long."

" Why, my dear sir, what did j^ou propose to spell it with ? "

" Well, I — I — I hardly know. I had the Unabridged, and
I was ciphering around in the back end, hoping I might tree
her among the pictures. But it 's a very old edition."

**Why, my friend, they wouldn't have a picture of it in
even the latest e — My dear sir, I beg your pardon, I mean no
harm in the world, but you do not look as — as — intelligent
as I had expected you would. No hirm, — I mean no harm
at all."

" O. don't mention it ! It has often been said, and by people
who would not flatter and who could have no inducement to
flatter, that I am quite remarkable in that way. Yes, — yes;
they always speak of it with rapture."

" I can easily imagine it. But about this interview. You
know it is the custom, now, to interview any man who has
become notorious."

" Indeed ! I ha 1 not heard of it before. It must be very
interesting. What do you do it with } "

"Ah, well, — well, — well, — this is disheartening. It ought
to be done with a club in some cases ; but customarily it con-
sists in the interviewer asking questions and the interviewed
answering them. It is all the rage now. Will you let me
ask you certain questions calculated to bring out the salient
points of your public and private history } "

" O, with pleasure, — with pleasure. I have a very bad mem-
ory, but I hope you will not mind that. That is to say, it is an

AN ENCOPNTER WITH AN INTERVIEWER. 29

irregular memory, — singularly irregular. Sometimes it goes in
a gallop, and then again it will be as much as a fortnight pass-
ing a given point. This is a great grief to me."

•* O, it is no matter, so you will try to do the best you
can."

*' I will. I will put my whole mind on it."

" Thanks. Are you ready to begin ? "

" Ready."

Q, How old are you ?

A, Nineteen, in June.

Q. Indeed ! I would have taken you to be thirty-five or six.
Where were you born ?

A, In Missouri.

Q, When did you begin to write ?

A. In 1836.

Q. Why, how could that be, if you are only nineteen now i

A. I don't know. It does seem curious, somehow.

Q. It does, indeed. Who do you consider the most remark-
able man you ever met ?

A. Aaron Burr.

Q. But you never could have met Aaron Burr, if you are only
nineteen years —

A, Now, if you know more about me than I do, what do
you ask me for ^

Q. Well, it was only a suggestion ; nothing more. How did
you happen to meet Burr ^

A, Well, I happened to be at his funeral one day, and he
asked me to make less noise, and —

Q. But, good heavens ! if you were at his funeral, he must

30 LOTOS LEAVES.

have been dead ; and if he was dead, how could he care whether
you made a noise or not ?

A. I don't know. He was always a particular kind of a man
that way.

Q, Still, I don't understand it at all. You say he spoke to
you and that he was dead.

A, I did n't say he was dead.

Q. But was n't he dead ?

A. Well, some said he was, some said he was n't.

Q, What did you think ?

A, O, it was none of my business ! It was n't any of my
funeral.

Q. Did you — However, we can never get this matter
straight. Let me ask about something else. What was the
date of your birth } '

A, Monday, October 31, 1693.

Q. What ! Impossible ! That would make you a hundred
and eighty years old. How do you account for that }

A, I don't account for it at all.

Q, But you said at first you were only nineteen, and now you
make yourself out to be one hundred and eighty. It is an awful
discrepancy.

A, Why, have yon noticed that } {Sliakvig hands) Many
a time it has seemed to me like a discrepancy, but somehow I
could n't make up my mind. How quick you notice a thing !

Q, Thank you for the compliment, as far as it goes. Had
you, or have you, any brothers or sisters }

A. Eh ! I — I — I think so, — yes, — but I don't remember.

(2. Well, that is the most extraordinary statement I ever
heard !

AN ENCOUNTER WITH AN INTERVIEWER. 3^

A. Why, what makes you think that?

Q. How could I think otherwise ? Why, look here ! who is
this a picture of on the wall ? Is n't that a brother of yours ?

A. Oh ! yes, yes, yes ! Now you remind me of it, that was a
brother of mine. That's William, — Bi/l we called him. Poor
old Bill!

Q, Why ? Is he dead, then ?

A. Ah, well, I suppose so. We never could tell. There was
a great mystery about it.

Q. That is sad, very sad. He disappeared, then ?

A. Well, yes, in a sort of general way. We buried him.

Q. Buried him ! Buried him without knowing whether he
was dead or not ?

A, O no! Not that. He was dead enough.

Q, Well, I confess that I can't understand this. If you
buried him and you knew he was dead —

A, No ! no ! we only thought he was.

(2. O, I see ! He came to life again }

A. I bet he didn't.

(2- Well, I never heard anything like this. Somebody was
dead. Somebody was buried. Now, where was the mystery .^

A. Ah, that 's just it ! That 's it exactly. You see we were
twins, — defunct and I, — and we got mixed in the bath-tub
when we were only two weeks old, and one of us was drowned.
But we did n't know which. Some think it was Bill, some think
it was me.

Q. Well, that is remarkable. What ^o you think }

A, Goodness knows ! I would give whole worlds to know.
This solemn, this awful mystery has cast a gloom over my whole
life. But I will tell you a secret now, which I never have

32 LOTOS LEAVES.

revealed to any creature before. One of us had a peculiar
mark, a large mole on the back of his left hand, — that was
mc. That child was the one that was drowned,

Q, Very well, then, I don't see that there is any mystery
about it, after all.

A, You don't ? Well, / do. Anyway I don't sec how they
could ever have been such a blundering lot as to go and bury
the wrong child. But, *sh ! — don't mention it where the family
can hear of it. Heaven knows they have heart-breaking troubles
enough without adding this.

Q. Well, I believe I have got material enough for the present,
and I am very much obliged to you for the pains you have
taken. But I was a good deal interested in that account of
Aaron Burr's funeral. Would you mind telling me what par-
ticular circumstance it was that made you think Burr was such
a remarkable man ?

A, O, it was a mere trifle ! Not one man in fifty would
have noticed it at all. When the sermon was over, and the pro-
cession all ready to start for the cemetery, and the body all
arranged nice in the hearse, he said he wanted to take a last
look at the scenery, and so he got up and rode ivith the driver.

Then the young man reverently withdrew. He was very
pleasant company, and I was sorry to see him go.

My Hermit.

MY HERMIT.

By J. B. BOUTON.
PART THE FIRST.

N the early summer it pleases me to take late after-
noon walks in the upper part of Central Park. Its
natural scenery is varied and romantic, and judicious
Art has heightened its picturesqueness. Best of all,
it is not invaded by pedestrian mobs, whose feeble
legs and unambitious souls restrict them to the con-
ventional haunts below the Ramble. There, in a region
sometimes all my own, not even a policeman pacing its
foot-ways, I can stride along, swinging my cane freely, and
whistling, chanting, or reciting favorite bits of poetry, no
more noticed or obstructed than I would be in the wilds of
Minnesota. I imagine myself in the real country, minus
its dusty roads and frequent incident of dogs shooting out
from wayside huts and snapping at my heels. It iS good
enough rural ity for me.

Last year (1872), about the close of June, I became
aware — unpleasantly aware, to be candid — that the north
end of the Park had another genius loci. I came across
him in curving by-paths and odd nooks that I had claimed
by right of sole tenantry. He particularly affected that
snuggest and shadiest of retreats, the Grotto Bridge I call

36 LOTOS LEAVES.

it, beneath which one may sit on a ribbed and knobby
bench, and be soothed by the drowsy monotone of the little
waterfall in the Loch above, and rejoice what time the hot
air is cooled by ribbon jets that spurt forever from the rough
face of the grotto upon him. From the top wall of this
concavity hang miniature stalactites two or three inches
long, formed by deposits from water slowly trickling through
limestone. These have been ten years in making ; and one
idly speculates about them that, in a hundred centuries
or less (or more), they will each be as thick as a man's
thigh, and fill up the grotto till it looks like a bunch of
organ-pipes. There is no place like it to sit and cool off,
smoking a cigar and surrendering to a delicious stupor.

This new man — this rash invader of my domain — was
not very remarkable in appearance. He was strongly built,
a perfect bull through neck and shoulders, and had a com-
monplace face, which would not have caught my attention
twice but for the furtive look that he cast at me when I
first saw him. It was an oblique, suspicious glance, quick as
lightning. Ever after, when I dropped upon him suddenly,
as I wheeled a corner or dived into a hollow, he shot that
searching eye at me. Then I began to study him. His
face was one of which you may find a thousand duplicates
at a mass meeting. Photographs show them pretty much
alike, and verbal descriptions cannot do better. Nature's ev-
ery-day pottery, — a low flat forehead, pug nose, high cheek-
bones, wide mouth, and thin lips. His cheeks were deeply
bronzed, as if by frontage of wind and weather ; but I noticed
once, when his hat was off, that his brow was white. He
wore the brim well down over his eves. His dress from

TH ^ !•' • V y ' s »

■■1 •■! 1

'■ *»■■ .

» %

MY HERMIT. 37

head to foot looked second-hand and seedy ; it did not fit
him anywhere. His eyes were clear, his face unbloated ; he
was evidently not a drunkard, though his miserable clothes
and dirty shirt looked like the last unpawned possession of
the sot. A grizzled beard, perhaps of a month's growth, gave
him the concluding touch of ugliness.

Occasionally I surprised him in the act of eating crackers
and cheese, bits of chicken, morsels of red herring, pickles, and
other trifles as inharmonious. These odds and ends he carried
loose in his coat-pockets, and when he saw that I observed
him he hastily put away the fragments with a slight cough.
I never caught him reading a book or a paper ; so, plainly,
he was not a poor scholar. Though when seated he was
looking intently at nothing, I did not imagine him to be a
thinker, grubbing at some deep social problem, or an inventor
distressing himself over some mechanical puzzle. If this able-
bodied man was poor, why was he lounging in the Park,
when he could get work down town on his own terms at
eight hours a day } If he was vicious and criminal, why
was he not among his pals in the back slums and alleys >
The more I saw of him, the more my curiosity became ex-
cited to know something of his history ; and one afternoon
it fell out that my desire for knowledge was gratified.

One hot day in the last week of June, I was out for
exercise. My appetite being languid, I walked a little faster
than my regulation gait to stir it up. Reaching the Grotto
Bridge, I was somewhat heated and tired, and at first ri^sjut
vexed to find the rustic sofa occupied. The incumbent was
My Mystery. From the debris about him it was apparent
he had been eating, of all things, soda-biscuit and pickles,

38 LOTOS LEAVES.

and the very moment I saw him he threw what looked like
an empty jam-pot behind the seat. Never did the poor fel-
low look so much confused, and I felt the impulse to pass on
and leave him to his eccentric meal. Hut I was flushed and
wearied, and needed coolness and rest. And then — that was
a time as good as any to drop into his acquaintance.

I sat down and heaved a deep sigh of weariness. The
man looked at me askew, and put out his hand to take up a
walking-stick, made of the branch of a tree. I saw that I
must act promptly.

*' Warmish," said I, mopping my face.

" Ye-yes." And he moved as if to rise and be off.

Something more decisive must be done. " Take a cigar,"
said I, offering him one. " Nice place this for a smoke."

This touched his heart, and opened his mouth, as I knew
it would. His eyes sparkled as he took the cigar and
made a bow of thanks. Then he said, huskily, " Bein' as
I 'm a hermit, sir, I can't afford cigars. I goes a pipe, and
don't allers have tcrbacker for that."

A hermit ! Well, I was astonished. From boyhood I had
read of hermits, and taken a deep interest in those mys-
terious beings. Twice I had made journeys of a number
of miles into the depths of forests to find hermits, reported
to inhabit certain huts ; but they were not at home, if,
indeed, they existed outside the diseased imagination of news-
paper paragraph ists. And here was a hermit at my door,
as I might say, — in Central Park, of all places! I would as
soon have thought to see a boa-constrictor gliding across the
Mall, or a whale spouting in the Ladies* Lake.

" Ah ! so you are a hermit," said f , carelessly, to disguise

MY HERMIT. 39

my emotions, and as if hermits were the commonest crea-
tures on earth. ** Excuse me, may I ask where 's your
cave ? " You see hermits were associated in my mind with
caves primarily.

" Cave } There ain't no cave in the Park, 'cept the one
everybody knows, a mile furder down. That air one's too
wet to live in. I tried it one night, and got the roomatiz.'*

** Oh ! " said I, offhand-like, " I see, you are a wood-
hermit. Plenty of trees and underbrush round here, where
a fellow could stow himself away. Now, you know, I have
always thought, if I should turn hermit, I 'd take to the
woods. It must be glorious to sleep in the open air, these
fine nights, beneath the grand old trees, canopied by the
starry — "

The man interrupted me. " It 's cheap," said he. " It
don't cost nothing. That 's what I likes it for."

"Exactly, — and healthy. Anybody could see that by your
looks. But how do you manage when it rains ? "

The man peered at mc out of the corners of his eyes, and
hesitated. I knocked the ash from my cigar, and looked
at him as innocently as I could. Then he said, in his shy
half-voice : " You don't 'pear to be a detective, and I don't:
b'l'eve you 'd blow on a poor feller like me ; so I don't
mind tellin' you how I works it."

Hermit as he was, the man could not repress the social
instincts of humanity. I saw he was bursting for confi-
dence and" sympathy.

" My friend," said I, seriously, " your secret is safe with
me. If there is anything I was brought up to respect, it
is the feelings of hermits."

40 LOTOS LEAVES.

This reassured him. He sidled closer to me. ** You
know," said he, ** the cops don't 'low nobody in the Park
after nine clock at night. I don't do no harm here, but
I has to be careful, or they 'd nab me." Then he cast his
eyes warily about, and pointed upward. " You see that cock-
loft ? "

I looked up and saw a large open space between a part
of the stonework and* the timbers of the bridge. I had often
noticed it before, and thought it a mighty fine place for
hiding.

" When the weather is good and the grass dry, then you
see I sleeps on the ground up in the woods on the hill yon-
der. But if it 's rainy I gets on the bridge overhead and
swings down easy nuf into that air cubby-hole. T ain't bad,
I tell ye, with straw and leaves up there, and all out of
•sight."

" And 't is very comfortable, I dare say ; but how do you
■dodge the police ? As you remark, they would turn you out
•or arrest you if they found you here after nine p. m. I know
Ihey are not as sharp or strict as the regular city police."

** That 's it You 've hit it. If they wos the blue-coats
they 'd snake me out in no time. But they 're another
breed, — them chaps in gray. They takes it easy. I jest
minds my bizness and they minds theirs ; but out of re-
speck for 'em, I keeps out o' sight arter I hears the fire-bells
strike nine. Gi' me the Park perlice for not botherin' a
feller — " And the man checked himself as if he were about
to say too much.

I saw, by this time, that the man beside me was a vulgar
person. Not a sage who had retired from life disgusted to

MY HERMIT. 41

chew on his misanthropy. Not a man once rich and used to
luxury, suddenly made poor and reckless. It seemed impos-
sible that such a tough specimen could have been mortally
wounded through the affections. Still, he was a bona fide
hermit, — no better one, perhaps, within a thousand miles.
And, in a certain sense, he was my hermit. I already began
to feel a proprietary interest in him.

" My dear sir," said I, " may I be so bold as to ask how
you live } Have you any occupation ? "

The hermit glanced suspiciously at me, coughed, and made
no reply. I saw his embarrassment, and was sorry the impo-
lite question had escaped me. So I said, jocosely : " Your
expenses can't be much. Rent, they say, is one fifth the
cost of living. Your rent costs you nothing. Five times
naught is naught, — how's that for a calculation.**"

He smiled and said, " That 's about it." I perceived that I
must try another tack.

" Pray, sir, tell me one thing. Don't you find the time
heavy, with nothing to do all these hours } It would kill

me."

" I don't ketch your idee. Time heavy ! How can it be
when I ain't at work, — only whistlin* and walkin' about and
sittin' down. That 's what I calls comfort."

This strange person and myself took widely different views
of life ; that was clear. So I only said : '* It is a matter
of taste. But I never could understand how a man could
endure life without something to do. I *m afraid I would
never make a good hermit."

He looked at me straight in the face, and slowly uttered
these words : " / am broken- hearted^ There was no emotion

42 LOTOS LEAVES.

visible in his face ; his voice did not tremble ; but he cov-
ered his eyes with his hands.

The remark moved me deeply, for it was totally unex-
pected, and seemed natural. I had read and heard of bro-
ken-hearted men, but it had never been my good fortune (or
otherwise) to know one personally. Therefore, I was not
conversant, except through the pages of novels, with the
external phenomena peculiar to the broken heart in males,
but had somehow associated them with cadaverous visac:es
and attenuated frames. Here was my hermit as fat as a
buck and red as a lobster. A broken heart had not occurred
to me as a part of his damaged general property. But he
said he had a broken heart, and it was only civil to believe
him.

"The woman! the inevitable woman," I murmured to my-
self; and I yearned to know what that dear disturber of the
Universal Peace had done to my poor hermit, to drive him
to lodgings al fresco^ and a mixed diet of soda-crackers, her-
rings, and pickles. "Tell me about it," said I, kindly.

Gratefully he looked up. Still no tears in his eyes, no
quiver on his lip. He was able to master his feelings, and
that pleased me, for I should have been ashamed to see him
blubbering like a school-boy.

The substance of his story I will give in a few words in-
stead of the many in which he told it.

The man's name was Winterbottom, — Thomas Winter-
bottom, — and he lived in the city, and was by trade a pic-
ture-frame maker. He once had a good business, a wife not
so good, and one child. All was going on happily in the
Winterbottom nest, when a gas-fitter named Juggins appeared

MY HERMIT. 43

on the scene in the familiar r61e of the Demon of the House-
hold, or the Destroyer of. Domestic Peace. After the usual
amount of preliminary skirmishing, Mrs. Winterbottom came
to open rupture with her husband, and in his absence left
the house one night, and transferred herself, her child, and
all her portable property to a new home, — a home rented,
furnished, and the running expenses thereof paid by Juggins,
the perfidious gas-fitter. Winterbottom tracked his recreant
partner to the Juggins lair, and would have taken her away
but for the untoward circumstances that she drove him out
of the room with a mop, and Juggins kicked him down stairs
and threatened to shoot him if he showed himself again on
the premises.

My face must have betrayed my disgust at the pusilla-
nimity of the man. for he said quickly, " Mind ye, Mister,
*t was n*t the mop I wos afraid on. I 'm used to that. But
Juggins is about seven foot high, and carries a six-shooter.
What could I do .^ — /, a quiet, peaceable feller, what wouldn't
hurt a mouse."

" Don't ask me," said I, a little impatiently. " I can't med-
dle in family quarrels."

"I thought ter take the law on him. But there ain't no
law."

"Not much," said I.

" I don't see but what he could shoot me, if he wanted ter,
and get off."

'*I'm sure he could," said I. And I volunteered this addi-
tional exposition of existing law (jury law) on the subject :
"Juggins or your wife could shoot you, or you could shoot
Juggins or your wife, or both of them, or, for that matter,

44 LOTOS LEAVES.

you could shoot me or any other raan. There 's no punish-
ment for it. But on some accounts, — slight, to be sure, — it
is inconvenient to take the law into your own hands, and I
would not be understood as advising you to do it. If you
really want my opinion — "

" I do, sir," said the hermit, respectfully.

Then I say, "Pick up courage. Let your wife slide. Go
to work."

My advice was not very palatable to Winterbottom, espe-
cially as I rose to leave, mindful of dinner, which was now
quite due, and I three or four miles away.

"My wife may slide, sir. She may slide as much as she
pleases, sir. I Ve done with her. But I can't work. I 'm
broken-hearted, and I must be a hermit, — allers a hermit.
This is where I *11 pass the rest of my days, if the perlice
don't drive me out, and I sha' n't live long noway."

I had to show the common feelings of humanity, though
my hermit was beginning to be a bore, and I said, "But
what will you do in winter.^ You cannot sleep in the Park.
If you do you will freeze, or, if not freeze, starve to death."

" Yes, I '11 sleep here," he answered, recklessly ; " on the
snow, on the ice, anywhere. Some day you '11 read a story
in the paper about a man frozen to death up in that hole
than That '11 be Tommy Winterbottom. I don't mind.
But there 's one favor I would ask, sir, if you please."

I had put my best foot forward for a quick walk home ;
but at this point I rested.

** I spoke about my child, sir. Her name is A-Ara-
Arabella. As you say, sir, and it 's very good of you, let
Mrs. W. slide. But I want to save my child from her and

MY HERMIT. 45

from that villain Juggins. She 's a bright, pooty gal, sir,
*bout twelve year old ; 't would do your heart good to see her.
And she wos allers very fond of her pa. [Here my hermit
pulled out a ragged and dirty handkerchief, and wiped his
eyes, in which, however, I had not observed any moisture.]
What I 'd like to do is this, sir. I 'd like to get a sight of
her, by watchin* round the house, and kinder smuggle her
off, sir. Her grandmother, sir, and lots of other relatives,
lives in Philadelfy. They 'd keep her, sir, and bring her up
honest. I 'm sure they would, and no fifty Misses W.s
could n't tear her away from *em. That beast of a Jug-
gins, — he 'd be glad to be rid of her. My poor Arabella !
I hears as how he beats her, and she has n't no shoes to
wear, and not a bonnet to her head. If I only had ten dol-
lars, that ud get a ticket for her on the railroad, and a pair
o' shoes, and p'r'aps a bonnet. Then I could steal her off
some night, sir, and send her to Philadelfy, and I know
she 'd be safe and happy. As for poor Tommy Winterbot-
tom. he can stay here and die, cos his heart it is broken.
Could n't you lend me ten dollars, sir ? Fancy how you 'd
feel if you wos fixed like me." The speaker wiped his eyes
(I forgot to note if they were dry this time) elaborately with
his musty handkerchief

His narrative touched me. I tried to fancy how I should
feel, as he requested me to, and I confessed to myself I
should feel bad. But that did not warrant my giving him
ten dollars. And, on a little reflection, I could not credit
his story ; and even were it true, I had no business to be
mixing myself up in a family quarrel and a kidnapping case
to boot. I decided not to give him the sum asked, or to

4C LOTOS LEAVES.

countenance his romantic scheme in the least. But still he
was my hermit, and he looked to me for patronage.

Rising hastily, and •determined to put an end to this din-
ner-killing interview, I handed him a small bill rolled up •
** That 's the best I can do. It is for yourself only. I can-
not interfere between you and Mrs. Winterbottom, but I pity
you. And now, good by."

" Thank you, sir, for your kindness to a poor hermit, — a
hermit broken-hearted, and can't work."

I hurried off to escape a longer outpouring of gratitude ;
but just before I passed from his line of vision I glanced back
over my shoulder. There he was, peeping at the end of the
folded bill to see its value, and I could have sworn his
mouth curved into a silent laugh. Had I been imposed on ?
Sweet Charity, forbid !

PART THE SECOND.

Central Park has a peculiar and matchless charm on the
Fourth of July ; for there, and there only, can the city es-
cape the flash and bang everywhere else prevalent that day.
Blessed be the Park commissioners for their anti-Chinese and
possibly unpatriotic, but decidedly sensible and humane, regu-
lation, forbidding fire-crackers in the territory under their
sway ! For that reason, if for no other, I betook myself to
the Park, July the Fourth, 1872. My hermit had not been
much in my mind since that odd adventure with him, other
persons and other events having quite jogged him aside. But
when I entered the Park I could not help heading towards

MY HERMIT. 47

the Grotto Bridge as an objective point, and wondering if I
should meet him there or thereabout.

The Park, in its lower part, was full of people, come like
myself for a little surcease from work, and to avoid the pyro-
technic nuisance of a day in town. Women, children, and
old persons, besides quiet-loving folk of my sort, occupied the
seats, lined the bridges, sailed on the lakes, threw showers of
crumbs to the pampered swans, lounged, flirted, and chattered
in the bright sunshine and the very ecstasy of carelessness.
There was a delightful absence of whooping small boys. They
were all adding to the uproar in the city, faint echoes of
which I could imagine to reach me.

Stalking over that populous region rapidly, I soon struck
into the less traversed ways, and then kept a bright lookout
for my hermit. I visited each nook and by-path where I
had been accustomed to see him, and finally passed beneath
the Grotto Bridge, confidently expecting to find him there.
But no Winterbottom ! " What a fool ! " said I to myself.
'* He 's your debtor now, and of course invisible." Then I
laughed as the droll idea occurred to me that Winterbottom
had been watching me all this time from some neighboring
elevation, knowing me to be in search of him and chuckling
over my discomfiture. ** My hermit no longer," thought I ;
*' not even a proprietary interest." So musing, I strolled into
the open path, and, under the impression that he might be
on the watch for me somewhere about, I looked across the
Loch to the wooded hill. Sure enough there my good
eyesight detected the sturdy figure of my man at an open-
ing in the bushes. I made out his identity all the more
easily because he turned away at once and disappeared.

48 LOTOS LEAViiJ.

I started after him in my fastest walk, which soon be-
came a run. Crossing the little foot-bridge over the Loch,
1 bounded up the hillside, and soon reached a spot near
which I had seen him ; but he was nowhere in sight. At
that point two paths diverged, but I knew that they led
by winding ways to the same place ; so I paused not, but
trotted along, keeping a close lookout to right and left
among the trees and bushes. After going at a rapid pace
for about half a mile, I caught a glimpse of my hermit
darting into a clump of underbrush.

" Hallo, VVinterbottom ! " said I ; " I was looking for you."

The man made another forward jump, and then stopped.
I knew why he checked himself when I glanced beyond the
bushes and saw a gray-coated Park policeman, quietly patrol-
ling the walk on the other side. In another moment Win-
terbottom would have been in his arms.

" Out of that there/* cried the officer, who had heard
the noise in the bushes. " You must stick to the walk.
Fourth o' July or no Fourth." The policeman said this
good-naturedly, as one who must be indulgent to his fel-
low-citizens on the great holiday.

" Beg pardin, sir. All right," answered Winterbottom, and
he softly stepped out into the path where I stood. I never
saw a man so changed. He was pale with fright or des-
peration, — the latter I thought, as I marked his flashing
eyes. He had one hand in a coat-pocket, and I could not
resist the impression, as I saw the outline of his knuckles
through the cloth, that that hand grasped a knife or pistol.
His whole, aspect was of one at bay and determined to
sell his life or liberty dearly. His rough bearded face,

MY HERMIT. 49*

half-open mouth, showing two rows of glittering teeth, his
square shoulders and broad chest and great girth of loins,
made him a formidable animal. I could hardly conceive
th:it the meek and pusillanimous creature of his own story-
could be transformed into such a fierce-looking ruffian.

" Wot are yer chasin* me fer ? Wot dcr yer want ? " he
muttered, as his eyes blazed upon me, and still keeping his
hand in his pocket. It was the worst case of debtor vs.
creditor that I ever saw.

"I want nothing, my dear fellow," said I, "only to see you
and ask how you are getting on. Sit down here and take
a smoke. I want company." This I said as amiably as
possible, and I am sure I looked kindly at him, for I meant
not otherwise.

His set face relaxed and he took his hand out of his
pocket. But his glittering eyes were still fixed on my face.
I produced the calumet, but to my surprise he declined it.

** Why did you avoid me .'^ " said I, chidingly, as one might
be allowed to upbraid one's own hermit.

" Did n't know 't was you. Thought 't was a gray-coat
arter me, fer sleepin' in the Park."

I knew Winterbottom was lying to me, and my steady,,
reproving gaze spoke as much, for his eyes dropped.

I paused a moment, thinking what to say to this extraordi-
nary person, when he broke in with, —

*'Ycr say yer want company. Well, I don't want none.
Wot *s the use o' bein' a hermit if yer can't be alone by
yerself ? "

This was logic undeniably, and it puzzled me to answer
him; and before I could do so, Winterbottom growled out,.

50 LOTOS LEAVES.

'* Good mornin*, sir. I 'm off this 'ere way." And he pushed by
me and strode down the path over which I had chased him.

I could not find it in my heart to be cross with the poor
outcast. "Good by," said I, quietly; "and forever," I added to
myself, for I knew that after this my hermit and I would not
be on speaking terms.

Turning to resume my walk in a direction opposite to that
taken by Winterbottom, I saw for the first time the figure of
a woman, standing on a slight rise or crown of ground about
thirty yards from me. She was looking intently at me ; and
her face wore a startled expression. Then she strained her
eyes towards the fast-vanishing form of the hermit, who in a
second more was out of sight. As I neared this woman, I
saw two tidily dressed little boys playing together a short dis-
tance from her. " Mamma, mamma," one of them called.
**In a moment, dear," said she.

"May I speak a word with you, sir.**" she said timidly, in a
low voice.

"Certainly, madam," in a tone which encouraged her to
proceed ; at least, I meant that it should.

A fragile woman, with a thin, pale face, on which care and
anxiety were deeply stamped ; poorly but neatly dressed ;
looking like a seamstress fighting her solitary, hard battle, to
keep herself and children alive ; a poor, half-broken, suppli-
cating creature, touching the pity of every human heart ; — such
was my rapidly formed estimate.

Her voice trembled and her whole frame vibrated as she
made an effort to control herself " I beg your pardon, sir,'
said she; "do you know that man you were speaking with?
I know him, but I fear you do not."

MY HERMIT. SI

"Well, no, madam, I cannot exactly say that I know him.
He is a queer sort of a fellow, — something of a hermit, as
he calls himself. I stumbled across him the other day. If
you know him, please tell me who he is."

** Ah, sir,'* heaving a deep sigh ; " I do know him to my
cost. Alas ! I am his wife."

I cannot say I was taken aback by this revelation, for when
she first accosted me, I had guessed at the truth. But the
coincidence of meeting her so near the spot where I had just
parted from the hermit did surprise me.

I told her I was glad to meet her, that I feared that
man had attempted to deceive me, that now I should know
the truth, with other reassuring phrases. *'Take a seat, Mrs,
Winterbottom," said I, motioning to one that stood invitingly
by, for I saw that the poor woman, after the long holiday
walk she had made with her little children, must be tired.

"Winterbottom," she exclaimed; "that is not my name!"

" And you are his wife ? "

" I have my marriage certificate, and that man, that bad
man's name is Bagfield."

" Another' question, Mrs. Bagfield; have you a daughter
Arabella.?"

"Arabella! No! I have two little boys, — no more chil-
dren, — and there they are."

" One question more." (This was a test one.) " Do you
know a man named Juggins.?"

"J"ggi"s.? Juggins? I never heard of him before" The
candor of her sad face told me she was uttering no falsehood.
I had narrowly escaped being duped by a clever rascal.

"This is a very curious ca^e," said I. "Pray tell me why

52 LOTOS LEAVES.

your husband — if that is he — is playing hide-and-seek in
the Park. He sleeps here nights."

** Why, sir, he escaped from Sing Sing about a month ago, —
the paper said, — and he must be keeping out of sight of the
regular police up here."

** Whew ! And that 's my hermit, and his yarn to me was
a hermit's sell, I may say." And I could not repress a wild
laugh at the absurdity of the contrast forced upon my mind,
— a melodramatic anchorite changed into a vulgar jail-bird!

" Pardon me, Mrs. Bagfield," said I, respectfully, as the suf-
fering creature looked at me, astonished. " But that humbug,
that lying thief, — excuse me for my warmth, for he is your
husband — "

•* No excuse needed, sir. As you say, he is a liar and a
thief, and he is my husband, though no more but in name."
I had thought she would have burst out crying a minute be-
fore ; but now her eyes flashed indignation, and, if I mistook

not, revenge.

"That fellow," I continued, "tried to swindle me out of
money to help rob you of your. only daughter, — your Arabella,
a girl of twelve years who loved her pa, and would go to the
end of the world with him. I am laughing at myself, madam ;
but you I pity from the bottom of ray heart." Then I briefly
related to her the substance of my conversation with the
pseudo-hermit. She listened attentively, only interrupting me
with exclamations, — " The liar ! " '* The thief! " *' The traitor 1 "
and the like.

" He raust be arrested and sent back to prison," she said,
firmly. Now I had finished my narrative, I had waited to
-hear her opinion on that point, before offering my own.

MY HERMIT. 53

" I agree with you, madam," said I. '* It is hard enough
to obtain the conviction and punishment of desperadoes in
this city, and escape from prison must not be made easy
for them. Are you in fear of this man if he is allowed to
run loose ? "

•' I am afraid of him very much, sin He thinks I caused
his arrest, though God knows I did not. I would have
shielded him if I could ; but not if I had known, as I now
do, that he was spending his time and money on another
woman, and neglecting me. That I will never forgive him
for.'* And she stamped her foot fiercely on the ground. " He
was a decent man once, sir, but that was long ago. Then
he got into bad ways, — through that woman, I suppose. He
used to be away from me all night, and then he would come
home and abuse me and those little children. Sometimes
he showed me money, but none of it was for me; and I
should 'a starved, sir, and my children too, if some good
friends had not given me work. I wondered how he got his
money ; for he had quit his trade, and he was n't earning
anything honestly. One day I found out ; for a policeman came
to the house and arrested him. He had committed a bur-
glary, they said, and almost killed a man. Bad as he was, sir,
he was my husband, and it nigh broke my heart to think he'
should go to prison. But nothing I could do could save him.
The proofs were too strong, and he was found guilty, and was
sent up to Sing Sing for twenty years. I saw him the morn-
ing they took him away, and he called me bad names, and
said he would kill me when he got out, for I had betrayed
him. I forgave him those cruel words then, but not after-
wards, when I found out there was another woman at the

54 LOTOS LEAVES.

bottom of the whole trouble. Then I was glad he was locked
up for twenty years; and he must go back there, — he must
go back ! It was two years ago, sir, that he was sentenced.
I saw, by the papers, he had escaped last month, and there
was a reward offered for him. The detectives have been
watching round my lodgings, thinking he might come there.
But he knew too much; he is a very cunning man, sir"
(I nodded affirmatively), **and keeps away, though I believe, if
he dared, he would come down some night and kill me. I say,
sir, he must go back, and I will tell the police about him.
It *s my duty, sir."

There was one weak point in this case against Winter-
bottom alias Bagfield. The woman might be mistaken in
his identity, though she said she could swear to him posi-
tively. It was somewhat singular, too, that he should have
chosen for a hiding-place a resort as public as the Central
Park. I admitted to myself that under the circumstances it
was the place — that is, the north end of the grounds —
where he would be least likely to be disturbed by the regular
city police ; but I deemed it remarkable that the escaped con-
vict should have had the shrewdness to select it. He must
be a cunning fox, truly. I made up my mind what to do.

" Madam," said I, respectfully, *' I will see to this matter.
Do not make yourself uneasy ; for if that man is Bagfield,
he shall be sent back to Sing Sing in twenty-four hours, —
sure, — and locked up safe for the rest of his term, let us
hope. Leave the Park at once with your children, and go
home, and trust everything to me." I asked for her address,
and made a note of it, promising that she should hear of what
I had done in due time.

MY HERMIT. ' 55

She thanked me most fervently and took my advice with-
out delay. Not a moment should be lost, if Winterbottom,
or Bagfield, was to be caught. I had looked about me during
this strange interview with the woman who claimed to be his
wife, thinking that my hermit might be watching us in the
distance ; but there was no sign of him. Bidding her to keep
up courage and hope for the best, and enjoining her again
to return home immediately and await further news, I hur-
ried on ahead to a police station in the vicinity of the Park.
There I knew correct and full information relating to the case
could be obtained.

My mission was soon discharged. The Captain of Police
heard my story, and as soon as I came to the name of Bag-
field, he smiled as if in recognition of it. Then he showed
me a handbill which had been issued and distributed at all
the station-houses, offering a reward for the arrest of Thomas
Bagfield, alias " Tommy the Slouch," who had escaped from
Sing Sing. The fellow's person was sufficiently described.
It was a pen-portrait of my hermit, saving the stubby whis-
kers grown in his brief absence from prison. He had made
his escape through a drain, and gained the woods before the;
loss was discovered. An accomplice had there supplied himi
with a change of clothes. There was an active pursuit, but:
the hunted had a good hour's start, and by wonderful luck:
and craft had escaped capture, and slowly worked his way
to the city.

The worthy Captain knew much more of Bagfield's antece-
dents than I could impart to him. He was a very desperate
character, though, as the Captain said, "only an amatoorj'
— not one of those gifted beings, the professionals in crime.

5^ LOTOS LEAVES.

He had done a stroke or two in the confidence line, for which
I thought him well fitted ; but his crowning achievements were
burglaries. He was suspected of having broken into three
or four private houses, and of having stabbed (but not fatally)
a policeman in attempting to escape. In committing the par-
ticular burglary for which he was sentenced to Sing Sing,
he had struck down and severely injured the owner of the
house with a slung-shot. *' One of the worst and most
dangerous men I ever knew," added the Captain, with the
cautious qualification, ** for an amatoor."

"Is it not singular," I asked, "that he should come to
the city to hide.!*"

"They all do," he explained. "Sooner or later we catch
'em — that is, most of 'em — here. But it was a shrewd
dodge in the fellow to hide himself in the Park. To my
knowledge, the detectives have been watching his wife's house
.and his old hanging-out places ev^er since he got loose. It*s
been a point of honor to bag him, you sec, because he stabbed

Policeman Q . But they never thought of looking in the

Park for him ; and by playing his game fine I can see how
he might have hung round there a long time, till he
thought the hunt for him was given up and he could cut
away to some other city ; but he d have been sure to come
back here at last. If you'd been fool enough — I beg par-
don for saying it — to give him the money he asked for, he'd
pushed before this, perhaps." The oddity of Mr. Bagfield's
mixed diet — pickles, crackers, and so forth — the Captain
clearly explained on the theory that he had broken into some
restaurant near the Park and stolen those miscellaneous edi-
bles, or he might have taken the risk of foraging occasionally

MY HERMIT. 57

among the free lunches in the neighborhood, being very care-
ful to avoid the police. Finally, the Captain promised to
inquire into Mrs. Bagfield's circumstances, and jf she was as
respectable and deserving of confidence as I took her to be,
he would sec that the reward was sent to her, if paid to any-
body. No one else could claim it, — certainly not the police,
who would be only too glad to pay something themselves for
the pleasure of arresting and returning to Sing Sing the man
who was believed to have stabbed Officer Q .

Before the Captain had finished his remarks he had called
two of his men, and they had started forth in citizen's dress
in quest of the runaway.

I had transacted my part of this unpleasant but necessary
business, and did not care to wait and confront my hermit in
his deserved misfortune, if they caught him. So I with-
drew, having made arrangements with the Captain to learn
the sequel promptly.

Within half an hour from that time Bagfield was surprised
and seized in the Park, not far from the Grotto Bridge. He
was evidently all unsuspicious of his peril ; but when the
officers pounced upon him, these words burst from his lips
with a curse: "Serves me right for talking with that feller
t' other day." He was armed with an ugly looking knife, and
attempted to stab one of his captors, but they overpowered
him. That very night he was returned in safety to Sing
Sing.

The good Captain's inquiries proved that Mrs. Bagfield was
worthy of all confidence and kindness ; and the reward was
paid over to her by the practice of a little diplomacy cxcusa- .
ble under the circumstances. She was made to believe that

58 LOTOS LEAVES.

it was a testimony of sympathy from a friend who desired to
be unknown. Soon after I heard from the Captain that she
had moved away with her children to the West, there to
begin life anew under an assumed name, and rear her little
ones in ignorance of their degraded father. God help her !

Miss Tseu.

MISS T S ' E U :

A TEA-TASTER'S STORY.
By EDWARD GREEY.

(SUNC-TIE.)

WAS listlessly watching a party of maskers, who
were posturing for the amusement of some, to me un-
seen, ladies, in the court-yard beneath the windows of
the apartment in which I was nominally a prisoner,"
said the Tea-taster, "when I heard the pit-a-pat of a
small-footed lady in the corridor leading to my room.

" My curiosity being excited, I turned from the window
and peered down the passage, but, seeing the place quite de-
serted, thought no more of the circumstance, and, throwing
myself upon my matted couch, began to ponder over my posi-
tion. Any hindcrance to progress in travel is annoying, but
mine was particularly so. I had been despatched by my
house to our Chinese agents in Fokeen, with orders to buy up
every picul of the new crop of black teas harvested in tliat
district, and my chop, or passport, directed all officials to see
that I was not delayed or molested by turbulent spirits ; yet
His Excellency, Kee-Foo, Vice-Lieutenant-Governor of Min
Shaii-u, had taken the responsibility of placing mc under
friendly arrest, and had confined me in one of the rooms of
his Ya-mun, ostensibly on the pretence of protecting me from

62 LOTOS LEAVES.

the rioters. It is true that the Chinese are somewhat demon-
strative during the time of their New- Year festivities, but the
fact was, a rival house in Hong Kong had despatched an
agent with a heavy bribe to Mr. Kee-Foo, and the latter gen-
tleman knew full well that, ere I reached the Woo-e Hill, my
competitor would have purchased every picul of tea in the
district. In vain I wrote to the unmoved official "that my
orders were to proceed without delay ** ; but he merely pen-
cilled, " Impossible ; the people are in arms, and I am respon-
sible for your head." across my memorials, and I was forced
to submit. True, I could not complain of my accommoda-
tions, and, the ladies of the hou.se were evidently interested in
my fate, judging by the presents of fruit and flowers I
received morning and night ; but since the moment that I
was introduced to my prison I had only seen one person, the
servant who waited upon me, and he was a deaf-mute.

Opposite to the wing in which my room was situated was
a portion of the palace that was always kept closely screened.
From the tone of the voices which proceeded from this part
of the Ya-mun whenever the maskers did anything particu-
larly amusing, I concluded that the ladies* apartments were
situated there, and my surmise proved to be correct.

I was wishing that some one would take pity upon me
and pay me a visit, when I again heard the pattering noise
in the corridor. Cautiously rising, I crept to the open door,
when I beheld a sight which at once astonished and delighted
me, for there, laughing like a wayward child, just escaped
from its nurse, stood a lovely girl about sixteen years old.

She was of medium height, slender as a bamboo shoot,
with an exquisitely formed oval face, straight nose, rosebud

MISS TS'EU: A TEA-TASTER'S STORY. 63

mouth, and dark, full, liquid eyes, that pierced your very
soul in their innocent earnestness ; her charming features
being crowned with a profusion of long, raven hair worn en
quelle. Her lower dresses were of colored satin ; each gar-
ment shorter than the one beneath, the outer being pro-
fusely embroidered with golden chrysanthemums, and her
upper robes, of soft tinted crcpc, were covered by a long
jacket of pale blue brocade, so thickly embroidered as to
almost hide the beautiful fabric. The nails of her tiny, dim-
pled hands were each three inches in length, and cased in
jewelled sheaths, while her doll-like shoes shone from beneath
her robes like golden foot-notes on an illuminated manuscript.

Instead of screaming or fainting, this charming vision, with
imperturbable comic seriousness and grace, opened her coral
lips and inquired, in Chinese, —

" Are you the honorable Fankwei } "

As this meant, " Arc you the foreign white devil } " I felt
exceedingly amused, and could hardly retain my self-posses-
sion as I replied, —

'' Mei jifiy'*^ I am that humble, never-to-be-too-much-exe-
crated animal ! "

Advancing, at first somewhat timidly, yet gradually, as-
sured by my respectful manner, and growing more confident
as she neared me, she gazed innocently into my eyes and
faltered, —

" Tell me all about — yourself!"

This was said so naTvely that I was completely conquered,
and, although I knew it was totally contrary to Chinese eti-
quette, I placed my arm around her lithe form and drew her

* Beautiful lady.

64 LOTOS LEAVES.

towards me. Instead of repelling my advance, she nestled
closer and, looking archly into my face, said, —

"ThcMc was a rent in the mat which covers our window,
and, my mother being below amusing herself by looking at
the maskers, — I — I came here ! Now tell me about your-
self. Do you cat human flesh .^ — No!"

"Certainly not!" I quickly replied. ''We are not tigers,
as they represent us to you, nor do we treat our ladies as
your men do theirs. In my country, America, women rule
everything, and wc almost worship them when they are as
pretty as yourself!"

" Worship them ! " she queried ; " how is that possible ? "

** Yes, we are their slaves, and do their bidding ! Tell me
your name, mei jin ! "

Opening her bright eyes, and laughing at me with them,
she slyly answered : —

" Why should I tell you my name } When you go back
to Mee-lee-kee you forget it ! "

I protested "that as long as memory held," etc., etc., I
should never forget her. and that I was really and truly in
love with her! Not having a Chinese term by which to
describe what we call lovi\ I used the word worship, when
she solemnly shook her head, saying, —

" To the gods, to your parents, to the spirits of your ances-
tors, to your superiors, you burn incense and pay worship,
but not to young girls! O you seen jiti* I would like to go
to Mee-lee-kee ! "

The look and the proximity of her cherry lips completed
it, and I whispered, in English, — for ihcy never use the salute

* A sort of Chinese angel.

MISS TS'EU: A TEA-TASTER'S STORY. 65

in China, and consequently have no word to express the

action, —

" Kiss me, ching nen I " *

" Ke-e-es ? " she queried.

•* Yes, — kiss me ! " I cried, suiting the action to the
word.

She sprang from my arms like a frightened child and ran
from the apartment. Fearing that I had offended her, I was
about to follow and endeavor to explain her mistake, when
she stole softly into the room, and, standing before me^
gently clicked her lips, as though she had partaken of
something delicious.

•* Are you angry .^ " I asked.

•'For what did you do that.^" she gravely inquired. ** I
feared that after all you were a man-eater, but when I found
that — I was not injured — I thought you only did it to try
my courage ! "

" If you tell me your name, I will explain the mystery ! " I
replied.

" My worthless name is Ts'cu ! " she demurely said. " It
is an odious appellation ! "

As Ts'eu means, literally, " a star," I told her that she had
a charming name.

" If you like it so much, tell me about the rite of ke-c-cs
ini!'^ she shyly observed; adding. •' Ke-e-es-mc ! ke-e-es-
mc!"

** It is thus performed, little Ts'eu ! In my country, when
a man wishes to show how much he worships the lady of his
choice, he places his arm around her, — thus, — she looks up

* Innocent one.

66 LOTOS LEAVES.

at him, — just as you arc doing at me now, — you darling, —
then he pouts his lips, — as I do mine, — and you are doing
yours, — and he presses hers, — so — ! That is the American
rite of kissing ! **

Miss Ts'eu received the fervent tribute with evident de-
light, but immediately after sobered down, and, looking sor-
rowfully at me, pleaded : —

" O scthi jin, I do not quite understand ! I cannot learn
such a difficult rite in one lesson ! "

I again pressed her sweet lips, and this time the kiss was
returned ; however, the pause which succeeded the perform-
ance did not augur a repetition of the exercise, but after a few
moments she seemed to awaken from her revery and mur-
mured, —

" Tell me again what you call that ? "

"Kissing, — little Ts'eu!"

" We have no such ceremony in our Book of Rites ! We
have no name for such an act ! For thousands of periods
we poor Chinese women have been ignorant of this delight-
ful rite ! — O seen jin, teach me, that I may become perfect
in this!"

I repeated the charming task, but soon in magnetic tender-
ness of expression and delicate sweetness my pupil became
my teacher. We felt like children stealing honey. After
some moments Miss Ts'eu looked slyly up, and, quoting from
an ancient song, chanted, —

"That is what / call kk-e-esing!" she added; then, after

* "The delicate willow meets the breeze."

MISS TS'EU : A TEA TASTERS STORY.

glancing round, in order to ascertain if any one were watch-
ing, she gently raised her lips to mine and whispered, —
" Ke-e-es me some more, sien jin Meelee-kee ! "
The sound of her mamma's voice roused us from our dream
of happiness, and, after exchanging one long, delicious salute,
the fairy Ts'eu vanished from my sight, thus ending her first
lesson.

Anacreontic

.\NACREONTIC.

Bv CHARLES GAYLER.

ILL the cup! Fill it up!

I 'm sad to-night.
Let it sparkle clear and bright ;
In it let me drown my pain.
Fill It up! Again! Again!

I'm sad to-night. Heigho!

Fill the cup ! Fill it up !

I 'm gay to-night
Circle it with floweis of light,
Let me drink deep the witching draught,
My soul 't will to Elysium waft.

I 'm gay to-night. Hat h;

Fill the cup I Fill it up !

I love to-night.
Wine to Love adds double might
To her! to her of the laughing eyes!
My life, my joy, my paradise !

I love tonight Heigho I

72 LOTOS LEAVES.

Fill the cup ! Fill it up !

I weep to-night.
My tears shall flow by its ruby light.
O'er the daisied sod, above the breast
Of my loved one, where she lies at rest,

I weep to-night. Hcigho!

Fill the cup ! Fill it up 1

I die to-night!

Pledge me once more the goblet bright.

I come, bright spirit ! Ah, joy divine I

Ye conquer Death, O Love and Wine !

I die to-night. Ha ! ha I

The Theater,

«e®^ffi(111

THE THEATER.

By JOHN ELDERKIN.

"Thoroughly Respectable. — * Well, I think you will suit me. What is your
name ? '

" * Shakespeare, ma'am ; but no relation to the play-actor of that name.' " — Punch.

HIS is 1874, and yet the ancient antipathy to
the stage exists in the full vigor of ignorant and
vulgar prejudice, with a fair prospect of healthy
survival until the day of final judgment.

I once heard a brilliant writer, a critic of the
drama, assert in a dogmatic fashion, that the stage is a
sham from end to end, that all connected with it, from the
reigning star to the meanest agent of the manager, know it
to be a sham, and in their business act under the influence
of the consciousness that they are perpetrating a fraud.

With this as a motive, little, certainly, could be expected
of the drama, but the charge is based upon a shallow fallacy
which would condemn all art. The drama, in reality, pos-
sesses the noblest domain of art, the direct representation
of life. It conforms to all the definitions of art. It is the
result of contemplation and a study of causes, and is a pro-
duction in which knowledge and creative power are exercised.
It yields in definiteness, depth, subtlety, form, variety, and
beauty to no other of the arts, and in its appeal to universal

76 LOTOS LEAVES.

humanity It excels them all. The illusions of the stage have
a far greater degree of realism than the work of painter or
sculptor, or that of the poet interpreted from the printed
page. To produce them, all the arts co-operate, and, as near
as may be, we have the action and passion wrought out with
the heightening effects of personality, poetry, artistic adap-
tation and sequence, costume, scenery, and every available
accessory to give reality and power to the representation.

It is not the art of the drama which is the cause of antip-
athy and prejudice to the stage, and which has caused it to
suffer condemnation of the Church. Dramatic art was bom
in the service of religion, and so long as it was its exclusive
servant we search in vain for any anathematization of it. In
order that this may be clearly shown, a brief sketch of the
origin and connection of the drama with religion is necessary.

The mysteries of the ancients, according to the best author-
ities, were symbolical representations of religious history, and
Greek tragedy in the beginning "was purely a religious wor-
ship and solemn service for the holidays ; afterwards it came
from the temples to the theaters, admitted of a secular alloy,
and grew to some image of the world and human life." The
Hindoo drama was based on mythological narratives, and
acted only on solemn occasions. In China alone, of all na-
tions possessing a national drama, the ancient civilization
has been so overlapped and obliterated by the changes and
deposits of succeeding ages, that it is impossible to trace an
original connection of the drama with religious observance.
But the Roman drama and that of modern Europe was
entirely derived from that of Greece. " It happened," says
Addison, in the " Spectator/' " that Cato once dropped into a

THE THEATER. 77

Roman theater when the Floralia were to be represented ;
and as in that performance, which was a kind of religious
ceremony^ there were several indecent parts to be acted, the
people refused to see them while Cato was present. Martial
on this hint made the following epigram : —

" Why dost thou come, great censor of the age,
To see the loose diversions of the stage ?
With awful countenance and brow severe,
What, in the name of goodness, dost thou here ?
See the mixed crowd, how giddy, lewd, and vain, —
Didst thou come in but to go out again?**

The early Christian Fathers were nourished on Greek learn-
ing, and, witnessing the effect of the Greek drama upon the
multitude, the Apollinarii, a. d. 370, turned particular histo-
ries and portions of the Old and New Testament into come-
dies and tragedies. But previous to the Apollinarii, fearful
of the influence of Greek literature and philosophy and the
attractions of the Greek drama, the Christians had denounced
all heathen learning. Chrysostom, in his homilies, cries shame
that people should listen to a comedian with the same ears
that they hear an evangelical preacher. About a. d. 378,
Gregory Nazianzen, Patriarch and Archbishop of Constanti-
nople, one of the Fathers of the Church and master to the
celebrated Jerome, composed plays from the Old and New
Testaments, which he substituted for the plays of Sophocles
and Euripides at Constantinople, where the old Greek stage
had flourished until that time. " If the ancient Greek tragedy
was a religious spectacle, so the sacred dramas of Gregory
Nazianzen were formed on the same model, and the choruses
were turned into Christian hymns." It was in a tragedy of

78 LOTOS LEAVES.

this Patriarch that the Virgin Mary was first introduced upon
the stage.

Much of the rapidity with which Christianity supplanted
the old faiths of Paganism is due to the facility with which
it adapted itself to prevailing tastes and habits. Christian fes-
tivals were instituted to supersede the old Bacchanalian and
calendary shows and solemnities, and with very little change
in the mode of celebration. During the whole of the Middle
Ages the acting of mysteries or plays representing the mira-
cles of saints, circumstances from apocryphal story, and sub-
jects from the Old and New Testaments, formed an impor-
tant part of every religious festival. These were often of a
very questionable character, causing, even in those super-
stitious days, the criticism to be made that there were many
portions of the Scriptures unsuitable for representation in a
play or mystery. But the mode of celebrating Christian fes-
tivals during many centuries of the dark ages bore a nearer
resemblance to the Roman Saturnalia than to anything so
intellectual as a mystery ; and if mystery-plays at any time
declined, it was because they were above the level of priests
and people.

The institution of pilgrimages gave a great impetus to the
representation of mystery-plays in modern Europe. The pil-
grims were accustomed to travel in companies, and in the
various cities through which they passed took up their stand
in the public squares, where they sang and acted in character,
and afterward in public theaters, for the instruction and diver-
sion of the people.

In 1264 a company was instituted at Rome to represent the
sufferings of Christ during Passion Week. In 1298, according

THE THEATER. 79

to Hone, the Passion was played at Friuli, in Italy ; and the
same year the clergy of Civita Vecchia performed the play of
"Christ, his Passion, Resurrection, Ascension, Judgment, and
the Mission of the Holy Ghost," on the feast of Pentecost ;
and again in 1304, they acted the "Creation of Adam and
Eve," the annunciation of the Virgin Mary, the birth of Christ,
and other subjects of sacred history. These pious spectacles
were so much esteemed that they formed a part of every
great occasion, the reception of princes, coronations and
marriages, and extended to every part of Europe. In France
these plays were greatly in vogue, and gradually from Scrip-
tural subjects came to represent a great variety of scenes
drawn from contemporary life and profane history. This ulti-
mately excited the jealousy of the Church and the active hos-
tility of the clergy. From being the handmaid the theater
became the rival of the Church, and the enmity ensuing, like
a family quarrel, appears all the more embittered because of
the previous connection.

Here we have the key to the hostility and prejudice against
the stage in modern times. In a document amongst the
archives of the Parliament of Paris, it appears that on the
19th of December, 1541, complaint was made against certain
persons who, having undertaken to represent the mysteries of
Christ's Passion, and the Acts of the Apostles, " had employed
mean and illiterate fellows to act, who were not cunning in
these matters, and to lengthen out their time had interpolated
aprocryphal matters, and by introducing drolls and farces at
the beginning and end had made the performance last six
or seven months ; by means whereof nobody went to church,
charity grew cold, and immoral excesses were occasioned."

8o LOTOS LEAVES.

The secularization of the drama was very rapid from this
time, and the stage shared in the toleration which resulted
from the multiplication of the objects of general interest
to the common people, and the lessening rigor of opinion in
matters of religious belief But the distraction of public atten-
tion from the churches to the theaters, ** so that the preachers
finding nobody to hear them left off preaching," and diminished
revenues of the Church resulting from their desertion, were
sore grievances to the clergy. They complained that the plays
"occasioned junketings and extraordinary expenses among the
common people," and in France the theaters were made to
contribute a certain portion of their receipts to the poor, — a
custom which obtains to the present day.

The precursors of the regular drama in England were
mystery-plays, and the production of these plays is closely
related to the progress of the Reformation. The Scriptures
in English had been scrupulously withheld from the people,
and the author of the Chester Mysteries, produced in 1328,
was obliged to make three journeys to Rome before he could
obtain leave of the Pope to produce them in the English
tongue. The ecclesiastics were fearful that, once in posses-
sion of the Scriptures in their own tongue, the people would
exercise private judgment, and their authority be diminished ;
all of which fears were justified by the event. But the mystery-
plays were in the hands of the priests, who " craftily used them
to postpone the period of illumination, and to stigmatize by
implication the labors of Wyckliffe." In this way plays became
associated in the minds of the English Reformers with the
"baleful errors and vain shows" of Papacy, and this led to the
condemnation and persecution of the stage at a later day.

THE THEATER. 8l

After the Reformation, mystery-plays were composed to
promote and secure the new order of things ; but Hone says,
" There is no existing memorial of the representation of mys-
teries in England since the latter end of the sixteenth cen-
tury." The English puppet-show was also a vehicle for the
production of mystery-plays, but in the adventures of the
Punch of the puppet-show there is a complete departure from
the mystery. Punch is always a " sensual, dissolute, hardened
character, who beats his wife, disregards the advice of the
priest, knocks him down, and exhibits a thorough contempt for
moral reputation."

That the attitude of Punch in the puppet-show was in a
measure that of the early players of the English stage, seems
to be probable from the way in which they are characterized in
certian decrees for their regulation ; but an art which had
been for so many centuries the companion and servant of
religion had too healthy and strong a constitution to be smoth-
ered in the muck in which it might happen for the moment
to be cast. In a night it underwent a resurrection, and in its
risen glory far outshone its previous estate. Under the domin-
ion of the Elizabethan dramatists the stage became the rival
of the pulpit as an eloquent teacher of morals and the vehicle
of the most splendid literature given to the world since the
days of the ancient Greek. The theatre afforded to Shake-
speare and his contemporaries the field for the employment of
their genius.

But the stage still had its trials and disabilities. Its legal
recognition dates only from 1572, — eight years after the birth
of Shakespeare. In the royal license of that year players were
assumed to be servants, and were empowered to play wherever

82 LOTOS LEAVES.

it seemed good to them, if their masters sanctioned their absence ;
and an act of Parliament of the same year suppressed all wan-
dering players unconnected with noble houses, characterizing
them in terms of contumely, and providing condign punish-
ment for offenders. The stage thus suffered from the servitude
in which, by the barbarism of the age, players were held. It
also suffered from severe supervision, legal prohibition of the
introduction of subjects drawn from politics and religion, sus-
pensions for indefinite periods, and the persecution of ignorant
and bigoted officials. Even when sanctioned by the court,
befriended by the noble, and followed by the general public,
the players got themselves into trouble by their own impru-
dence and wantonness. Contemned and tolerated on every
hand, recklessness and defiance were begotten in them, which
led them to outrage law and custom.

In this condition it is not a matter of surprise that the stage
excited the animosity of the English clergy, and drew forth
those extraordinary diatribes which cannot now be read without
exciting mirth. By the year 1578, according to Mr. Arber, the
clergy habitually attacked the stage. The distraction of the
people from the churches was still the sore grievance. One
of them says, " Wyll not a fylthye play, wyth the blaste of a
trumpette, sooner call thythcr a thousande, than an houre's
tolling of a bell bring to the sermon a hundred." Another,
Stephen Gosson, who had himself aforetime written plays,
''perceiving such a Gordian*s knot of disorder in every play-
house as woulde never be loosed without extrcmetie," was
moved to ** bidde them the base at their owne gole, and to give
them a volley of heathen writers ; that our divines considering
the daunger of suche houses as are set up in London against

THE THEATER. 83

the Lord, might batter them thoroughly withe greater shotte."
There is a curious felicity in much of the logic launched by
the worthy divines at the players, which is well illustrated by
the famous syllogism of Master Coldocke, " The cause of plagues
is sinne, and the cause of sinne are playes ; therefore the cause
of plagues are playes." This logic appears to have been con-
clusive, as licenses for playing, in the reign of King James,
says Dr. Doran, were regulated by the greater or less preva-
lence of the plague.

The players were not unconscious of their power to punish
these adversaries, and that they used it freely we. have abun-
dant testimony. The language which Shakespeare puts into
the mouth of Hamlet shows how closely the stage resembled
the press of the present day. Zealous partisans used it as a
means of inflaming their followers, and public characters were
reviled and caricatured, causing great scandal and just indig-
nation. Citizens and justices were represented as " the most
egregious of fools, arrant of knaves, and deluded of hus-
bands." Jeremy Collier, commenting on the liberties taken by
players with persons of quality, asks, " Must all men be han-
dled alike i Must their roughness be needs play'd upon
title ? And has our stage a particular privilege ? Is their
charter enlarged, and arc they on the same foot of freedom
with the slaves in the Saturnalia .V That the clergy should
come in for a share of the satire and pleasantry of the stage,
considering the very aggressive position which they occupied
toward it, is not a matter to excite any surprise or sympathy.
The assertion of Jeremy Collier that its "aim is to destroy
religion" will not hold good of the English stage of any
period of its history. It is a hard thing to exact that the

84 LOTOS LEAVES.

priest shall always be treated with the dignity which attaches
to his office, regardless of the lack of it which may distin-
guish his character and manners. And this is the demand
which the clergy have always made of the stage. When hit,
they have cried out, ** Are the poets ordinaries ? Is the pul-
pit under discipline of the stage ? And are those fit to cor-
rect the Church, that are not fit to come into it ? " But there
is a ground of justification for the attitude of the clergy in
the offences against morality which have flourished so luxuri-
antly on the boards of the theater.

The stage, from its nature, living upon the breath of popu-
lar applause, must please or perish. It is the creature of its
patrons, dependent upon the fashion and taste of the period,
holding the mirror up to those traits and habits which are
regarded with pride or complacency, and reflecting social
vices as a foil to social virtues. When there is a confounding
of vice with virtue on the stage, it may safely be assumed that
they were previously confounded in the mind of the public
which patronizes it. But the pictures presented by the stage
react powerfully upon the public, by stamping and giving cur-
rency to types of character, manners, and modes of life which
otherwise would be less widely known and lack the definite-
ness to induce imitation. The morality of theatrical repre-
sentations is, therefore, a ^matter of vast importance, and
imposes upon the stage obligations which have been too fre-
quently treated with contempt, giving its enemies an apparent
justification for wholesale arraignment and vituperation. The
charge of licentiousness which both poets and players have
sustained since Plato excluded them from his model common-
wealth and Ovid was banished from Rome, to the days of

THE THEATER. 85

Dumas the younger, and opera bouffc, is susceptible of too
detailed a verification, and is too notorious to render any apol-
ogy possible.

With the multiplication of interests, increased complexity of
relations, and refinement of manners, which characterize mod-
ern society, the stage remains unemancipated from the presen-
tation of lust. The appeal to sexual passion may be more
veiled in expression, but in personal exposure and suggestive
action it would be impossible to surpass the scenes to be
witnessed on the modern stage, simply for the reason that
" matters have already reached a point beyond which they
cannot go."

In place of the gross and indelicate compositions which
our ancestors countenanced and admired, we have a lascivious
musical medley wrought out by voluptuous figiirantcSy and a
drama of adulterous intrigue, in which the moral inculcated
is the utter helplessness and therefore innocence of the fe-
male party to it. This drama has for its motive the con-
donation of adultery and unchastity, and by a skilful play
upon the passions, and the natural sympathy for a woman
in distress, succeeds in confusing the mental perceptions and
transforming in imagination a very weak, if not very wicked,
sinner to an injured saint.

In this insidious misrepresentation there is a sinister at-
tack upon public virtue far more to be feared than the
open assaults of the propagandists of passional freedom.
In taking advantage of the phase of sentiment which ren-
ders the production of these plays possible, the dramatists
have probably no notion of disturbing the present relations
of the sexes, but merely look upon it as a means of smug-

86 LOTOS LEAVES.

gling the potent element of licentious sexual passion into
the theater. There is no palliation of this in the assertion
that the drama is necessarily a mirror of the actual life of the
time, as in the " actual life of the time " there is always much
which must ever be remanded from the stage. The effort to
justify such representations by attributing them to humane im-
pulses, is a stretch of sentimentalism fatal to all distinctions of
right and wrong, a price at which all the humanity of the age
would be dearly bought. " The imitation of an ill thing may
be the worse for being exact," but certainly no good can result
to the stage or society from the teaching that the pariah is
entitled to the position and privileges of purity.

The fascination which attaches to these plays, as well as
to the more gross representations of the spectacular drama,
is at bottom nothing but that of licentiousness, which is
brought forward under cover of Jt plea for female emanci-
pation from the trammels of duty. It is one of the results
of the foolish agitation which has brought the distinctions of
sex prominently before the public mind, exaggerated the in-
fluence of desire, and thus given an impulse to unlicensed
passion. The effect is partly owing to the lack of popular
sympathy with high ideals of life, which has rendered audi-
ences insensible to heroic delineations, and driven the theatre
to the vulgar sensation which should be the exclusive prop-
erty of the newspaper. A reform can only be brought about
by an exhibition of the real evil, and a popular demand for
plays which have a higher aim than to pander to sexual
passion. " The stage is respectable only as it is respected " ;
and in order that it may be respected, it must be preserved
from motives that are as inadmissible in art as they are an-
tagonistic to morality.

THE THEATER. 8/

But the presentation of licentiousness is an abuse, and not
an essential feature of the drama. Dr. Channing says, " Po-
etry has been made the instrument of vice, the pander of the
passions ; but when genius thus stoops it parts with part of
its power." The appeal to the lower instincts may draw
crowds who delight only in sensuality, but the power ex-
erted by the art is far less in degree, as it is lower in
character, to that which is exerted when the impersonal and
heroic instincts are properly addressed. The field of the
drama is as wide as human experience and the sphere of
poetic fancy and imagination ; being limited only by those
restrictions which the usages of civilization have prescribed
in reference to decency. It is not poverty of material which
drives the stage to questionable sources, but the weakness
of the dramatic genius which is compelled to make up for
lack of power in treatment by the morbid fascination of for-
bidden fruit.

There is no degradation inherent in the stage as there is
none in poetry, of which the stage is the interpreter. For a
long time it held the same relation to poetry that the printing-
press does to modern literature. It was through the instrumen-
tality of the drama that the mass of people got their knowl-
edge of the works of genius, and of history as well. It is by
means of the stage that the mighty influence of Shakespeare
has been exerted upon all English-speaking men and women,
developing and modelling their intellectual structure. A great
dramatic poet, said Goethe, if he is at the same time produc-
tive and is actuated by a noble purpose, may succeed in mak-
ing the soul of his pieces become the soul of the people, and
this is what Shakespeare has accomplished. The drama is as

88 LOTOS LEAVES.

old as the first story-teller who tried to make his listeners
realize his narrative by appropriate rhetoric and mimetic ges-
tures. It is a moving spectacle of life and action, the product
of history, imagination, and art, by which a chapter of human
experience is realized to a sympathetic audience. But the
sympathetic audience is indispensable to the life of .the drama,
and it naturally seizes upon that which attracts. The stage
sinks to the level of its patrons.

'* The drama's laws the drama's patrons give,
And we that live to please must please to live."

In a purely mercantile community in which little is respected
but money, it is not to be premised that managers and drama-
tists will be over-nice about the matter which they serve up to
the public, especially if the worse the mixture the more greedily
it is devoured. The conductors of the theater are not artists
or moralists, but simply business men determined, if possible,
to present a fair balance-sheet, and therefore mainly intent
lupon first meeting the popular demand. They do not presume
^o rise above the popular taste, and in deference to a nice
sense of propriety shelve pieces which fill their houses and
pockets. It is hard to condemn them for not being wiser
than the audiences which assist, and no condemnation would
be just which did not include the latter. None the less does
the representation of immoral plays injure the proper standing
and just appreciation of the drama. In reaping the harvest
an odium is incurred which drives from the theater many who
would otherwise be appreciative and influential patrons, and a
stain is inflicted on all connected with it.

The stage is not the only institution which reflects the

THE THEATER. 89

infirmities of humankind. Government, politics, diplomacy, the
press, the pulpit, and society are all afflicted, and its common
origin forbids us to look to the stage for anomalous perfection.
The mission of the stage renders it more liable to pander to
the weaknesses of human nature, and to excite the censure
of moralists. There is a perpetual struggle in the world be-
tween duty and desire, work and play ; and it being the
object of the stage to minister to human desire and pleas-
ure, it is inevitable that in the conflict it should come in
for abundant criticism and condemnation. But pleasure is
essential to human well-being, and not even the religion
which taught asceticism as the highest form of virtue was
able to effect any important change in the conduct and
opinion of the world. An institution, therefore, which has
labored to lighten the miseries of existence by the cultiva-
tion of pleasure, and by diffusing an atmosphere of contem-
plation in which ideals of beauty and heroism are presented,
has rested securely on the favor of the average mass of man-
kind.

Among the Latin nations, where the functions of govern-
ment have had more of a paternal character than among the
Germans, the idea has obtained that the theatre, like acade-
mies and universities, could not rely upon the voluntary pat-
ronage of the people. In these countries the influence of
vulgar tastes has been deliberately counteracted. Recogniz-
ing the power of the stage to elevate the tone of public feeling
and as a school of manners, the government in France has
always, since the reign of Francis I., with the exception of a
brief period during the Reign of Terror, granted a subvention
to certain theat jrs of the capital, insuring the production of the

go LOTOS LEAVES.

masterpieces of dramatic literature and a high standau'' of
histrionic ability.

It is only by the resources and power of the stage chat
the masterpieces of dramatic literature can ever be adeqi*ately
interpreted. In regard to his " Iphigenia," Goethe said the
printed words were only a faint reflex of the fire which stirred
within him during the composition ; the actor must bring us
back to the first fire which animated the poet. Eloquence,
according to the same high authority, is the very life of the
stage. The power and meaning of poetry are only half dis-
cerned until interpreted by a master acquainted with the
resources of manner and expression. Instances will suggest
themselves to every one acquainted with the stage and the
triumphs of great actors. It still remains the heritage of the
stage to reproduce the nobler passions and heroic proportions
of humanity. In our day the novel, a form of dramatic com-
position in which elaborate description supplies in a measure
stage accessories, has for a time partially supplanted the art
of the theater. But this is only a temporary result of an
introspective and reading age, and the return of a more
healthy, objective habit of mind cannot but witness a revival
of a higher interest in the drama. It will be ascertained that
we have overestimated the value of reading, both for the
acquisition of knowledge and the appreciation of poetry. In
Order fully to realize the past, all the accessories of action
must be brought to bear on the senses and imagination.
" The drama," says Bacon, " is as history brought before
our eyes." No critic or commentator has the power which
the actor possesses in his voice and action. A great actor
takes on the individualitiei Vi^hich he personates, and stands

THE THEATER. 9^

to the world as if they actually live in him. In this way the
drama reproduces the most precious of human memories,
the persons and characters of the men and women of the
past.

"The real object of the drama," says Macaulay, "is the
exhibition of human character. To this fundamental law
every other regulation is subordinate." Herein is the difficult
art of the actor. Voice, expression, dress, and action are
important as they assist in justly representing character.
The finest qualities of mind and feeling conjoined with high
culture and careful training are manifestly necessary to an
actor fitly to represent the characters delineated in the mag-
nificent literature of the drama. An actor by true and deep
feeling has the power of bringing the impalpable before our
eyes. " We turn," says Percy Fitzgerald, " to the old portraits
of actors, and are amazed at the speaking intelligence, the
bustling vivacity, the lines and channels of thought and rest-
less ideas worn into their very cheeks ; the roving, brilliant
eyes, the lips about to move ; and from these character pic-
tures we see how, by sheer training and power of intellect,
they forced their features to signify what they represented."

The decline of the stage at the present time may be traced
in a measure to the neglect of this primary purpose of the
drama to represent character. The demand for dramatic en-
tertainment has outrun the means of our dramatic artists.
The number of actors capable of representing character is
ridiculously small as compared with the number of theaters.
In order to make up for the deficiency of genuine histrionic
talent, every available device of spectacle, furniture, dress,
slang, grotesque contortion, and commonplace incident of daily

92 LOTOS LEAVES.

life has been seized upon and paraded upon the boards, con-
stituting a ridiculous travesty of the drama. The failure of
these permanently to attract and interest might easily have
been foreseen and predicted. Every play of enduring interest
hinges upon character, for it is character which creates story ;
and the interest is due to the free and natural development
and manifestation of character in varying circumstances. This
is the only thing which has inexhaustible interest, and it is
upon this rock that the legitimate drama is founded, and upon
which all amorphous, parasitical growths will be ground to
pieces.

There is a gulf between nature and art which cannot be
bridged. Art is essentially imitative, and dramatic art is an
imitation of the characters and actions of individuals by indi-
viduals, and therefore calculated to provoke comparison of
persons. Between one who acts and speaks greatly in a great
place and occasion, and one who imitates his action and
speech on the mimic stage, there is a vast disparity, to over-
come which is the immense task of the actor. The very ex-
altation of the character and scenes represented provokes an
unfavorable parallel. However admirable the acting, the po-
etry, the stage accessories, the imagination of the auditor, and
however perfect the illusion, the afterthought that the whole is
an imitation, a counterfeit presentment, comes in to lower the
estimation of the assistants in the representation. This imi-
tative character, inherent in the nature of art, must always
affect the estimation and regard in which the members of the
dramatic profession are held as public characters, but it in no
wise detracts from their proper and reputable fame as indi-
vidual members of the community.

THE THEATER. 93

The unmerited disrepute in which actors have been held
has exercised an evil influence by habituating the public to
regard in them with an indulgent eye offences which have
been severely reprehended in others. The strolling life led
by actors in the early time, a feature of the actor's life which
has not yet quite disappeared, was unfavorable to domestic
virtue. In this way a low standard of social morality obtained
and was tolerated. In fact, the sentiment that the private
character of the heroes and heroines of the stage is a matter
of slight concern to the public, and of small weight in the
profession, is one of the most depressing influences which the
best representatives of dramatic art have to encounter.

The irregular manner in which the profession is recruited
has also affected the standard of morality which obtains in it.
Whilst excellence is as seldom attained in histrionic art as in
any of the fine arts, a minor degree of dramatic power is one
of the most common of human possessions ; hence the aspirants
to the stage compare in numbers better with the audiences than
with the companies of the theater, and the majority have no
conception of any training required properly to enter upon the
theatrical boards. This latter belief is fostered by the produc-
tion of spectacular pieces in which personal beauty and volup-
tuous display are the principal requirements of one portion of
the company. Under such circumstances, among numerous
aspirants of about equal merits, the most unblushing and un-
scrupulous are apt to claim public attention. A performance
of such persons must be strictly a personal exhibition, a thing
which is an offence to nature, and only to be regarded with
contempt on or off the stage. The intrusion of amateurs of
both sexes is a positive evil which at present there is no means

94 LOTOS LEAVES.

of correcting. There is no school of acting, and barely a tra-
dition of the requirements of histrionic art. Hence we have
a class without the ability and training of actors, who have
managed to obtain a connection with the theatre, to the in-
calculable detriment and disgrace of the drama and its genuine
followers.

But when all that can be urged against the theater has
been weighed, the sum of good which remains far overbalances
the causes of censure. The number of plays in which plot,
language, and action are decorous and elevating far outnum-
bers the others, and these have the firmest hold upon public
favor. The taste of the day may be low, but it is in the main
pure. The majority want to be amused, and offences against
decency lose a portion of their noxious effect from the super-
ficial manner in which they are regarded. It is the intention
which informs words and actions with immodesty, and that
which is perfectly pure and natural may be so construed
as to excite lewd attention and gratify a prurient taste. It
must ever be remembered that it is always in the power of
the public " to restrain the license of the theater, and make
it contribute its assistance to the advancement of morality
and the reformation of the age."

The actor has to contend with influences which endanger
self-control and evade discipline to a far greater extent than
the worker in other fields. His profession requires a surrender
of individuality, and absorption in the character to be repre-
sented. This self-abnegation and a constant vicissitude of emo-
tion have a tendency to unsettle the mind and induce vagaries
of thought and conduct. His associations are all personal, and
he is by nature peculiarly subject to the magnetic influences

THE. THEATER. 95

of sympathy and passion. We have the authority of Boswell
that actors excel in animation and relish of existence. Their
profession excites "liveliness and quickness of mind.'* There
is something in the artistic temperament at war with cautious
and prudent worldliness. These attractive attributes of the
actor prove too often as dangerous to the possessor as they
are fascinating to others. They are sought and pressed into
society where the free and volatile artist abandons himself to
uncontrolled delights, dissipates his energies, and loses that
balance without which it is as impossible for actors as others
to maintain just relations with the world. •

There has always existed a great affinity between authors
and actors. Cicero was the friend of Roscius, and modern
instances suggest themselves to every mind. The poet is
indebted to the stage for the best reading of his verses ; the
stage is indebted to the poet for the warp and woof of its pro-
ductions. The literary knowledge of a well-equipped actor is
necessarily extensive, and his perception of ideal and verbal
relationships quick and suggestive. It is in the intercourse
of these co-workers that we get the best view of the social
character of eminent actors. This is especially the case in
the history of the English stage ; for it is a curious fact in the
social history of theatrical characters, instanced by the late
Henry T. Tuckerman, that the English, notwithstanding their
prudery and exclusiveness, first recognized actors and actresses
of merit as companions. Goethe and Schiller in Germany
were foremost in acknowledging their just claims upon society.
Goethe interested himself actively to raise the esteem in
which actors were held, showing the world that he held them
worthy of social intercourse with himself, and securing their

96 LOTOS LEAVES.

admission to the highest circles. Schiller was present at
every rehearsal, and after a successful performance of one of
his plays it was his custom to celebrate the event with the
company of the theater. Of the French actor and poet Molifere,
Goethe said, "There is in him a grace and feeling for the
decorous and a tone of good society, which his innate beautiful
nature could only attain by daily intercourse with the most
eminent men of the age."

But it is among the authors and actors of England that we
have the most copious and pleasing records of mutual appreci-
ation and regard. Any account of these reciprocal good offices
would exhaust the space allotted to this " Lotos Leaf." It
is enough, in conclusion, to cite the indignant answer of the
Ettrick Shepherd to the question, '* What can ye expec* frae
a play-actor.^" "What can I expect, James .^" is the reply;
"why, look at Terry, Young, Matthews, Charles Kemble, and
your friend Vandenhoff; and then I say that you expect good
players to be good men as men go ; and likewise gentlemen."

We could point this reply with a far longer list of names,
but we are still obliged to confess the truth in Douglas
Jerrold's sorrowful sketch of the strolling player : " He is a
merry preacher of the noblest lessons of human thought. He
informs human clay with thoughts and throbbings which refine
it ; and for this he was for centuries 'a rogue and a vagabond,'
and is, even now, a long, long day's march from the vantage-
ground of respectability."

Poem.

POEM.

FROM THE GERMAN.
By C. MCK. LEOSER.

pr^HEN thy slender feet I gaze upon,
Strange it seems to me, O sweetest

maiden.
So much beauty may be borne upon

them !

When thy little hands I gaze upon,
Strange it seems to me, O sweetest maiden,
How they wound, and no scar torn upon them !

When thy rose-leaf lips I gaze upon.
Strange it seems to me, O sweetest maiden.
How my kisses find such scorn upon them !

When thy quiet eyes I gaze upon.

Strange it seems to me, O sweetest maiden.

Love's light seemeth still at morn upon them !

13!l"-v!!

lOO LOTOS LEAVES.

There my heart is. Do not tread upon

My heart again ; such love, O sweetest maiden,

No other souls have ever worn upon them !

Let my longing love-song die upon

Thy heart; for truer song, O sweetest maiden,

No man's lips have ever borne upon them !

TK!- ■^'•> •:<"'

PUBLIC L. •: i;-;Y

An Episode of the War

AN EPISODE OF THE WAR.

By W. S. ANDREWS.

THINK there is but one other person who knows
all the facts, — certainly they will never find their way
into history unless this account gets into print ; had
they been known at the time, I have no doubt there
would have been a " Congressional Committee " on it,
and a " report." I could n*t have helped being a witness ; I
shall tell nothing now, that I might not have told then upon
oath.

There are many who will know the story to be true, when
they read it here. Some who were actors in it may learn
now, for the first time, how it happened that we were so
badly beaten.

Perhaps it never occurred to you that the lives of many
men, perhaps the fate of a nation, may depend upon such
a trifle as the jealousy or dislike of one general for an-
other (instance Fitz John Porter and Pope at the second
Bull Run), an attack of dyspepsia, a headache, or a glass
of whiskey. You remember we were beaten at the first
Bull Run by Johnston, who came up by a forced march
just in time to turn the tide of victory.

Beauregard was already beaten ; another hour, and his
army would have been in full retreat, and the victory ours.

104 LOTOS LEAVES.

But our wagon-train did not move as soon it was ordered
and expected to do, and our army was delayed several hours
in consequence. It is said that the delay was caused by a
quartermaster who took "a drop too much," and went to sleep
when he should have been at work. It was a mere trifle,
— only an hour or two lost, just one glass too many, — a
mere trifle. Yet how many weary months of warfare did
it bring us ; how many thousands of lives were sacrificed
to regain what it lost us, trifle as it was !

Every soldier knows that the slightest accident may bring
defeat upon the ablest general, or victory to the poorest.

But what I *m going to tell you about was n't an accident ;
if the result was not foreseen, it might have been : but you
shall judge for yourself

The jealousy which always exists, in some degree, between
the army and navy, wherever they are called upon to co-
operate, is a most fruitful source of trouble, and oftentimes
of disaster.

It would not have happened but for that. But I must
not get ahead of my story.

I was the officer in charge of the signal-station at Gen-
eral Gillmore's headquarters on Morris Island, where we
had taken the Rebel forts Wagner and Gregg, and were
waiting for the navy to complete the work.

The monitors had lain for months waiting the order to
advance on Charleston, but were detained by one fear and
another. (They never did advance until Sherman, having
taken the city from the rear, the fleet quietly steamed into
the harbor.) Had there been a Farragut, a Rowan, a John
Rodgers, or a Boggs in command, it might have been a

AN EPISODE OF THE WAR. 105

different story. But Admiral Dahlgren was a timid officer,
— not that he did not intend to pass the forts, and take the
city ; he planned and issued orders for an attack a dozen
times, and as often postponed it. Before we took the forts
on Morris Island, they were the excuse. Then it was Fort
Sumter, even after that was dismantled. The chief fear,
however, was of torpedoes among the harbor obstructions,
and probably not without reason.

However, the army, impatient to get into Charleston, and
having done all that it could on the land, expected the
navy to advance immediately on the fall of the Morris Island
forts, as had been promised ; and after about six months of
disappointments and delays, General Gillmore determined to
attempt the capture of Sumter by assault.

That fort had been reduced to a heap of ruins by continued
bombardment, but the lower tier of casements, buried under
the ddbris^ was intact, and a garrison was maintained there.

It was generally understood that there was not a very
friendly feeling between the General and the Admiral, although
they were as polite to each other in their official and social
intercourse as two Chinese mandarins. Most of their official
communication, being conducted by signals, passed through
my hands, and I write only from my own knowledge.

One day, early in September, 1863, at about noon, the
General directed me to signal to the Admiral the information
that he would assault Sumter, by boats, that night. Much
to my surprise, there was returned, in a few moments, an
answer to the effect that the Admiral had himself planned to
assault Sumter that night, by boats from the fleet, and ask-
ing " if the General had not heard of his intention to do so.*'

I06 LOTOS LEAVES.

The General replied that he was "very much surprised, —
had no idea that a boat assault was intended by the navy."

Then followed a series of messages to and fro. Each was
sorry that he had done anything to interfere with the other ;
each thought it "very strange that both had hit upon doing
the same thing on the same day"; each would gladly with-
draw in favor of the other; "but, the orders having been
issued, the men being ready," etc., etc. Then it was pro-
posed that both parties should unite under the command of
one officer, and, "being an expedition by water, the Admiral
thought that the General would at once see the propriety of
giving a naval officer the command." The General "would
be delighted, certainly ; the army forces would be under com-
mand of Brigadier-General Thomas Stevenson, who would act
under the orders of any naval officer of equal rank that the
Admiral might designate." (At that time there was no such
officer in the fleet, except the Admiral himself) The Admiral
was delighted ; " his force would be under the command of

Captain , Acting Commodore." " The General was sorry,

but an acting commodore was not a commodore, and could
not therefore rank with a brigadier-general, and of course
General Stevenson could not take orders from an inferior
officer," etc. After some further correspondence on this sub-
ject, the Admiral admitted that he could not send the ranking
officer, but "he had failed, upon research and reflection, to
find any precedent for putting a naval officer under the com-
mand of an army officer, and so the expedition must go inde-
pendent as to command, but would co-opprate." The General
" regretted this, but," etc., etc. ; and it was so arranged.
Then it was agjreed that whichever party succeeded in cap-

AN EPISODE OF THE WAR. 107

turing the fort should burn from the parapet a red light,
seeing which the others would desist.

Other matters remained to be arranged ; it was getting
late, and for some time past there had been great difficulty
in transmitting the signals, owing to the absence of the regu-
lar signal officer of the flag-ship from his post. I therefore
suggested to the General, that I had better go to the flag-
ship, and arrange details verbally. He assented, and having
received full instructions, I put off" through the surf, in the
General's boat.

I found no difficulty in reaching a perfect understanding
with the Admiral, a most urbane gentleman, as to the plan
of assault. It was agreed that the naval party should leave
the flag-ship at 9 p. m., and the army party, having a less
distance to pull, about fifteen minutes later. The last words
the Admiral said to me, as I left his cabin, were : " Tell Gen-
eral Gillmore that my boats will start at nine, or later should
he desire it. If he wishes delay you can signal me to that
effect."

It was then after seven o'clock, and I had a good half-
hour's pull, bringing me to headquarters at about twenty
minutes of eight.

As soon as the General heard my report, he said : " Tele-
graph to General Stevenson to start as soon as possible."
I said, " Why, sir, under that order he will get off" by eight,
and the Admiral said his boats would not go until nine."
For reply I received a very significant look, and a repetition
of the order, which I at once transmitted to General Steven-
son.

That the intention was to outwit the navy by capturing

I08 LOTOS LEAVES.

the fort in advance of them, was plain ; and whatever my
opinion of the plan, I had no reason then to doubt its suc-
cess. But alas for human expectations !

General Stevenson got away soon after eight. He had
perhaps fourteen hundred yards to pull, which would take at
least twenty minutes. I was therefore not a little surprised,
about ten minutes after he started, to hear a brisk fusilade
from the fort. Instantly every other Rebel fort in the harbor
opened on Sumter, regardless of their own men, and for a
few moments it was the centre of a terrible fire, when sud-
denly a red light was shown from the parapet, and all was
still.

It was evident that the assault had been made, and the
red light signified its success.

Very soon General Stevenson came back, and reported that
he was about midway from the fort when the red light ap-
peared, and supposing the naval party to be in possession, he
returned.

I was a little surprised that the navy boats, which were
not to have left the flag-ship until nine, should have reached
the fort a little after eight. I afterward learned that the
moment I left the Admiral he gave orders that his boats
should start as soon as it was dark.

General Gillmore and Admiral Dahlgren had designed to
outwit each other, each being anxious to take to himself the
entire credit of the exploit.

We made a night of it on shore. Our chagrin at being
outdone by the navy was forgotten in our joy at having
captured the fort, and the sutlers did an unusually large
business.

AN EPISODE OF THE WAR. 109

Next morning we learned the truth. The " Rebs " had read
our signals. Had we used the "cipher" that would have
been impossible, but the signal officer on the flag-ship had
never been instructed in its use, owing to the neglect of the
senior signal officer, Captain Town, who hated the navy, be-
cause he had once been treated with discourtesy on board
the new ''Ironsides." So we used the common code, easily
read by the Rebels. But we did n't know that, until this
affair taught us. We kept the secret to ourselves, though.
I tell it in the, interest of truth, and because no harm can
come of it, now. /

Many noble fellows lost their lives by it. The Rebels
were fully prepared to meet the assault.

It was our boys who were surprised. More than one
hundred were captured or killed. Among the former were
Porter and Franklin, two young heroes, afterward killed at
Fort Fisher.

None of us were proud of the exploit; but the recital of
the facts now cannot be out of place, and is a simple act
of justice.

Note. I find no mention of this assault in the Rebellion records or in any of
the ofiicial reports of General Gillmore or Admiral Dahlgren. It is, however,
mentioned in Bony ton's " History of the Navy during the Rebellion." My official
** Record- Book" containing the correspondence by signals was borrowed by Gen-
eral Gillmore at the time, and never returned.

Sunrise and Sunset,

SUNRISE.

Bv C. E. L. HOLMES.

Ij-HE curtains of night's murky tent are torn ;
Day's heralds, stealing through the welcome

rent.
Are streaming up the startled orient.
And painting heaven upon the brow of mora
Aurora hath the poppied Samson shorn;
And back, amid the caverns of the hills,
His phantom-crew of drowsy sentinels
Are fleeing from Diana's hounds and horn.
Full-orbed along the coronated peaks.
The amorous day-god for young Hebe seeks, —
Fresh pride sits on dame Nature's rotund cheeks ;
The while her bosom quickening with new birth.
Fulfils once more the promise made at first,
When lusty Day espoused the fair young Earth.

SUNSET.

By C. E. L. holmes.

ROM orient to Occident once more
The sun has whiried his blazing chariot's rims,
And now his coursers bathe their wearied limbs
In that aerial jasper sea, which pours
Its baptism of golden spray sheer o'er
The crimsoned bastions of that high sea-wall,
Upon the foreheads of the hills to fall.
Day passes outward through the jewelled doors,
And star-eyed Twilight — timorous dusky maid —
Steals in with backward glance and dainty tread ;
E'en of her own sweet shadowy self afraid,
Now half revealed, — noiv wholly lost to sight, —
She dances coyly through the fading light,
To rest in the enamored arms of Night.

Fairy Gold.

FA I RY GOLD:

.-IN IRfSH SKETCH.

[NED ENTIRELY BY TOO HUGH

SHOWING HOW TIM DOFF V

GOOD LUCK.

Bv JOHN BROUGHAM.

" If you coort a dainty maiden,

You may gel notliiug for your gains,
But if you catch a Le|>rachauii,
Goold, il will reward your pains."

B.0 the romantic and visionary, ever yearning
for something beyond the dull tangible reali-
ties of every-day life, there is exceeding fas-
■ cination in the brain -re veilings of Faery. The
comironents of Irish character render it pe-
culiarly adapted to receive and cherish such
while the thousand-and-onc anecdotes of feiry
agency, vouchsafed for in every case as bcins " Gospel
Truth," and related to the wondering youngsters by some
old crone, stamp the traditions upon their minds until they
have become a portion of their very faith.

The Irish fairies are sufficiently numerous, and all as well
classified, their positions assigned, and their duties defined, by
jT//*'/'-naturalists, as though they were actually among the things
that be. The first in order, as well as in usefulness, are tkf
fairies par excellence, or, as they are usually denominated, " the

Il8 LOTOS LEAVES.

good people." Their occupations are of the most multifarious
description; and here let me call attention to the extraordinary
similarity to be found between the imaginings of those simple,
unlettered peasants, and the sublimest theories of philosophy.
Grave, book-learned men have demonstrated the principle of
atomic vitality pervading the universe. The Irish bog-cutter
renders the theory into practice, and gives the imagination
locality ; myriads of fairies, he is taught to believe, are inces-
santly engaged carrying on the business of universal nature.
Troops of them are filching the perfume from the morning air,
to feed t^rewith the opening blossoms ; thousands of tiny
atomies the while gently forcing the bud into existence ; the
warm sunbeams are scattered over the chilly earth, borne on
fairy pinions ; fairy-laden, too, the gentle rain is carried, drop
by drop, plunging into the petals of a thirsty flower ; the little
messenger leaves his welcome load, then flies back to aid his
brethren. Thus the whole course of nature's being is supposed
-to be conducted by this invisible agency ; apart from the phi-
Josophy of the matter, one must acknowledge that those bright
creations contain within them the very soul of poetry.

There are various other individuals of the fairy genus, — the
Banshee, the Puckaun. the Fetch, or visionary reappearance of
one dearly loved immediately after death, the most touchingly
beautiful conception of all. My present intention is to illus-
trate the position in Fairydom, occupation, and general charac-
teristics of the Lcprachaun. He is a fellow of no small impor-
tance, as, in addition to his regular trade, that of fairy shoemaker,
he is the custodian of all hidden treasure, knows the whereabouts
of every concealed hoard, and is, consequently, as much sought
after as the gold itself The tradition goes that if you catch

FAIRY GOLD: AN IRISH SKETCH. II9

a Leprachaun, — a feat not easily accomplished, as he must be
taken when wide awake, — then countless gold may be secured
for his ransom ; but if you touch a sleeping Leprachaun, the
penalty is to have your cattle bewitched, and your eldest child
an omadhaun (Anglice, idiot). There is something chivalrous
in that same respect for a sleeping antagonist.

However, a Leprachaun once in your power, you may keep
him close prisoner until he reveals the place where treasure
is concealed ; but you must have your wits about you, or the
cunning little rascal will be sure to cheat you. One thing is
in your favor, he is bound to answer truly to every question.

Now, having introduced my subject, let me tell you what
Tim Duff got by finding a Leprachaun.

When I first saw Tim, his appearance was certainly much
more picturesque than elegant. His toimiure could not be
called metropolitan. He was supporting with his shoulder the
side of a little sheebcen-house, called, with the usual conflict-
ing combination, " The Duck and Griddle " ; his hands were
listlessly "put away," one in his untenanted breeches-pocket,
and the other in the breast of what, from its situation only,
we must conclude to be his vest ; his coat, a huge frieze, —
in the dog-days, remember, — fell negligently off from his
brawny shoulders, discovering his "Irish" — I don't think I
should be justified in appending " linen '* ; corduroy " smalls,"
patched at the knees with material so different from the origi-
nal stuff that it must have required considerable ingenuity to
procure it ; his thick woollen stockings were minus the entire
feet, the deficiency being made up with straw, causing com-
fort in the wear, and a sort of sliding scale in the article of
fit, as a straw or two more or less made all the difference.

I20 LOTOS LEAVES.

One of his stockings had slipped down from under the piece
of twine which gartered it, but, with stoical indifference, he
let it take its course, justly imagining that if he pulled it up
it would, most likely, fall down again ; so there it lay, fes-
too»^ed in easy carelessness around a huge, muscular, and
curiously hairy calf. Leisurely and with epicurean gusto he
smoked a dhndicai, or short pipe, black with service, and
in dangerous proximity to his nose, which seemed to have
turned itself up to get out of the way ; singing between puffs,
for his own immediate gratification, a self-laudatory song, the
burden of which went to prove, beyond all manner of doubt,
that he was a most extraordinary individual. Here it is : —

THE SLASHIN' BLADE.

TOM'S DITTY.

Ora ! thin — n — na (a sort of bagpipe drotu to begin with),

Yu nice young maid-ens, where-e'er you be,

Come gather round an' attind to me;

A sportin* offur I 'm goin* to make,

It 's the heart an' hand iv a rovin' rake.

An' that 's meself that 's come to the fore ;

Me age is twinty, an' a little more.

I won't owe much whin all me debts is paid,

An' I am accountid a slashin' blade.

Ora 1 thin — n — na.

The highest biddrr shall have the prize,

The sweetest lips or the brightest eyes;

I'll go dirt chape to the twinties, round,

But for each year afthur I '11 have twinty pound.

I 'm strong an' hearty, I 'm sound win' an' limb.

I can fight an' wrassle, too, — dance, drink, an' swim ;

Make love, make hay, an' use both scythe an' sj)ade,

An* the girls all say that I'm a slashin' blade.

FAIRY GOLD: AN IRISH SKETCH. 121

Oral thin — n — na.

Bid, my hearties, iv I *m to your taste,

I *11 rise the market iv yez donU make haste ;

There's a young heart-breaker wid a rovin' eye,

That I 'd sell my sowl to, iv she *d only buy.

*Tis Molly Rooncy is the girl 1 mane,

If she comes near me, why I 'm bothered clane !

O murther ! there, I *ve done, you 've spiPd my thrade.

Do what you will wid your slashin' blade !

The easy nonchalance of the ragamuffin, and the delicious
indifference with which he seemed to regard all sublunary
matters, attracted my attention, and urged me to make some
inquiries about him.

" Barty," said I to " mine host," with whom I happened
to be on terms of peculiar intimacy, for he knew the lurking-
places of the " best trout in the stream," and could point out
the lodging of a " big fish " with singular accuracy ; added to
which, he had a *' small thrifle " of whiskey, that, between you
and mc, had never troubled the gauger s stick, and it was n*t
a bit the worse for that ; besides, an uncommonly pretty —
But never mind, that don't belong to this story. "Barty," said
I, ** who is that devil-may-care-looking genius outside ? "

" I know who you mane widout lookin', sir," replied Barty,
winking significantly; "that's a karacthurr

"A karacthurT'

" Divil a doubt ov it. Why, shurc an* that 's neither more
nor less than Tim Duff himself," said Barty, with the air of
a man who had just given a piece of astounding intelligence.
Finding that I did not receive the announcement of the fact
with the slightest appearance of awe, he continued, in a bless-
your-ignorance sort of a tone, "A-thin, don't you know Tim
Duff.?"

122 LOTOS LEAVES.

"I certainly have not that honor."

"Not Tim?"

" Not Tim ! "

" Duff, that was ruinated horse and foot with too much good
luck, by a blaggard Leprachaun ! The saints keep us, I did n't
mane any offince ! "

The anticipation of hearing a fairy adventure aroused me,
and, humbly confessing my ignorance both of Mr. Duff and
his experience, I solicited an explanation.

" I '11 tell you what I '11 do," said Barty, with what I
thought was rather an interested mixing up of circumstances.
" I '11 dhraw a half a pint of pottcen, to begin wid, and Tim
shall tell you all about it himself"

Well, in due time the potteen came, and with it came the
renowned Duff, when he gave me the following account of his
lucky ruination.

" You must know, sir, that about a matther ov five years
ago, come next Michaelmas, there wasn't a tidier boy nor
meself to be found in the country. I had an elegant farm,
wid lashins an* leavins of everything ; a hungry man niver
entered my doors an' left it wid the same complaint. My
rint was niver axed for twice, an' be the same token, I could
bate any spalpeen of me age at hurlin*, kickin' foot-ball,
drinkin* whiskey, thrashin' the flure wid a purty collieen in a
jig, or thrashin' the sauce out ov an impident vagabone in a
faction fight ; an' to crown all, I was miles deep in love wid
the bluest eyed, sweetest tongued, tinderest hearted girl in the
place. The heavens be her bed, she 's in glory now. Lost,
lost to me ; an' me own doin' ! O Mary ! "

There was a slight pause in Tim's narrative. One big tear

FAIRY GOLD: AN IRISH SKETCH. 123

Stood for an instant in each eye, and I began to tremble for
his philosophy, when he suddenly seized the pewter measure,
and as the tears, resolving themselves into two large drops,
fell into it, took a terrible long pull at the fiery liquid, ex-
claiming, with an approving smack, as he set the vessel
down, —

"Well, any way, there's comfort in that."

Resuming his story, he proceeded : —

" The fact of it was, sir, the divil a one ov me knew how
happy I was at all at all, until it was every bit gone ; an* so
you may aisily suppose that what was left did n*t do me
much good. You see, I wasn't continted wid havin' enough,
but I was always wantin' somethin* more ; at last, I had a
stroke ov luck that made me fortune, an*, more betoken,
broke me complately at the same time. Envy, sir, and cove-
tousness, them was my destruction ! I could n*t see a betther
farm than mine, but I longed for it. I never met a man
betther off than myself, but I hated him for it ; everlastingly
turnin' an' twistin*, an' huntin' about in me own mind to
thry an' think ov some way to make money in a hurry,
thinkin', like a poor fool as I was, that if I had plenty of
riches I should never know a care. It is foolish thinkiti
so, sir, IS n t it .'*

" Very," I replied, with as sententious a shrug as I could
produce ; the mental conclusion to which I arrived being
uninteresting to any one but myself.

" Well, sir,** continued he, " to make a long story short, one
summer night as I was frettin' myself to fiddle-strings about
what was always uppermost in my mind, I fell asleep in a
hurry, and was just as suddenly woke up again by the sound

124 LOTOS LEAVES.

of a little tap ! tap ! tap ! an' a weeshy voice, a thrifle louder
nor a cricket, singin* away as merry as a taykittle. Hollo!
what the puck is that, thinks I. I gave a sideway squint
out ov bed, and what do you suppose I saw ? What but a
Leprachaun atop ov the table, sittin' on a crust of bread and
leatherin* away upon a lapstone about the size of a barley-
corn. O, murther ! what a bump my heart guv, right up agin
the roof ov me mouth, when I saw him ! There, right forninst
me, was what I had so often longed for, or at least the means
of gettin' it. His back was towards me, but I was afeard
to breathe, lest the sound should start him off, for Leprachauns
is mighty sharp at hearin*. Well, sir, as I was puzzlin' myself
wid thinkin' how the divil I could manage to invaigle him, I
sees him get up from his work, walk quietly across the table,
and try to climb up the outside of a jug that had a spoonful
of whiskey at the bottom. Bedad, it was as much as I could
do to keep from burstin* out, to see the antics of him. He
could n't manage it at all. At last, what does the cunning
little blaggard do, but he rowls a pitaty over to the side of
the jug, and gets atop ov it.

"You may have some idea of the weight of the ruffian,
when I tell you that, though it was an uncommon soft pitaty,
he did n't even make a dint in the skin.

" He was elegantly fixed then ; he could just lean over the
top ov the jug, and dive his hat down to the bottom ; an'
then he began to bail it out, and drink like a hungry herrin'.
Why, sir, he must have brought up each time as much as
would Stan' in the eye ov a sorrowful flay.

" Well, whether it was that the whiskey was above fairy-
proof, or that the pitaty .slipped from under him, I don't know.

s^^m

\ —
1

I •

- Y

f •

FAIRY GOLD: AN IRISH SKETCH. 125

but in he tumbled, body an' breeches, down to the bottom of
the jug. The minute I saw that, out of bed I jumped and
clapped my hand atop of the jug. 'Ha! ha! you little rag-
amuffin ; I have you,' says I.

" ' Let me go,' says he ; * I 'm smothering ! '

'* ' Smother away,' says I ; 'the divil a toe you stir until
you tell me where to find the threasure.*

" * Is it a threasure you want ? ' says he.

"*It just is, Misther Leprachaun,' says I.

" * You shall have one,' says he. ' But only let me out ; I '11
be dhrowned here entirely.'

"'Will you promise me that you won't do the shabby
thing ? ' says I.

"'Yes/ says he. 'But make haste, for I'm getting "as
drunk as a lord."'

"Wid that, sir, knowin* he couldn't go back ov his word,
I put in my finger, the bowld Leprachaun made a horse ov
it, an' I fished him out. Poor fellow, he was very drunk, to
be sure !

"'Here's a pickle,' says he, 'for a dacint Leprachaun to
be in.'

" * Sarves you right,' says I. ' What business had you to
be stalein' a man's whiskey ? '

" * Thrue for you, Tim,* says he. * Sperrits will be me ruin ;
av I don't take the pledge, I 'm a gone fairy.'

"'But come,* says I. 'About this threasure.'

" ' Don't hurry,' says he ; ' misfortunes come time enough.*

"'What do you mane by misfortune.^* says I.

" ' You '11 find out soon enough, if you must have this
money,* says he.

126 LOTOS LEAVES.

" * Divil may care/ says I.

•' * Well, then, Tim Duff/ says he, * you have n't far to go.
Twelve feet from the kitchen door, dig twelve feet down, and
find that which will make you rich, — and poor!'

"'Thank you, — long life to you.*

" I looked round an' he was gone ; went out like a candle
puff. The broad daylight flashed across my eyes, an I was
sitting up in bed starin' at nothin*. 'Twelve feet down/ says
I. * Now or never/ So up I gets, takes a pickaxe and shovel,
an' without sayin' a word to anybody, dug away for the bare
life. After about an hour's work, seein' no signs of the threas-
ure, I begun to think that it was dreaming I was all the time,
when the pick struck something that guv a clink. Hurroo !
thinks I, my fortune's made. With fresh will I shovelled
away, and at last, by dint of tremendous exertion, rather than
call any one to help me, I succeeded in gettin' a big earthen
pot up to the surface, rolled it into the house, and, throwing
myself into a chair, pantin' for breath, and the tears rowlin*
down my cheeks, I looked at it for as good as an hour.

" I knew it contained money, but I could n't bring my
mind to smash it open. Just like a cat, the hungrier she is
the longer she plays with the mouse. At last I started up,
got my shovel, and gave the pot a savage crack. Bash ! it
flew into a thousand pieces, and out splashed a beautiful
yellow shower of guineas. I *11 never forget the shiver of
delight the sound of thim guineas sent into my heart. The
Leprachaun had redeemed his word, — I was a rich man ; but
the remainder of his promise had yet to be fulfilled, and it
was. The first calamity that befell me began upon the in-
stant. In liftin* the tremendous weight, I twisted somethin*

FAIRY GOLD: AN IRISH SKETCH. 127

inside of me back, that has nearly driven me crazy ever
since, and all the physic in the world can't put it straight
again. Then I removed to a larger farm, where, not knowing
the land as well as that I was used to all my life, crop after
crop failed. But the crowning curse remains to be told. In
the pride of my heart, and in the selfishness of increased
means, I slighted her for whom I would have died before. I
deserted — killed my Mary. No, no; it wasn't me that
killed her ; it was the gold, — the accursed gold ! Well, sir,
after her death an unquenchable thirst came on me, — drink!
drink ! I cared for nothing else, lived for nothing else. I
need n't tell you how that swallows up everything. Worse
luck followed bad, until at last the chair my mother nursed
me in, that her mother nursed her in, was taken from my
door by a grasping landlord. And I stood before a cold
hearth, and an empty cupboard, a broken-hearted man !

" The world has been a desert to me ever since, but I have
learnt to look on rain and sun with the same face."

The Hawks Nest

THE HAWK'S NEST.

A RIDE I.\ A STRANGE PATH.
Hv GILBERT BURLIXG.

EFORE these hurrying days of railroads, travellers
through Virginia made their journeyings in the
- slow old conveyance of the stage-coach, and had
■ time, as they passed, to dwell upon the natural
beauties of the way. From Kentucky, and the
Stales comprising the then Southwest, the near-
est route to the Capitol at Washington was over the old Vir-
ginia Turnpike, which runs along the Kanawha River from
Charleston, across it at Gauley, over Gauley Mountain, and be-
side New River for a long distance. Henry Clay and his con-
temporary lawgivers used to take this road on their annual way-
to their seats in Congress ; and therefore it happened, in their
time, thatthe magnificent scenery of the region was well known
to them, and through their reports celebrated to the nature-
loving of that generation. To-day the tide of travel flows else-
where, and the only visitors to these scenes are the few whose
business brings them by the old coach line from Lewisburg to
Charleston, or Charleston to Lewisburg, — perchance stray tour-
ists who remember to have heard of the " Hawk's Nest " from
their fathers.

At a point just off the road, and some seven miles from the

132 LOTOS LEAVES.

great Falls of Kanawha, this great rock stands. It rises more
than a thousand feet straight up from the river-bed to an equal
height with the mountain, of which it is an enormous, grim but-
tress, frowning over the immense extent of country it surveys.
Even with the unimaginative dwellers thereabouts, so remark-
able a feature in the landscape cannot wholly fail of romantic
incidents, or legends born of superstition. Many of their stories
have already found their way into print, but I am not aware
that the veritable incident of its discovery by "curly-haired
McClung " — a startling incident to him — has ever been pub-
lished.

The exact date of McClung's adventure seems to have been
forgotten, but I have it on the authority of an ** oldest inhab-
itant" that it happened on a certain summers day some eighty
odd years ago. The old man was following his favorite occupa-
tion of hunting with his dogs, when he unexpectedly came upon
a bear, treed at very close quarters. Being so placed that he
-could not " draw a bead " on a vital part of the beast, for the
leaves and branches in the way, and fearing that Bruin might
jump down and make off if he approached too nearly, McClung
-was moving cautiously backward, step by step, in order to find
an opening through which to take sure aim, when he chanced
to glance behind him, and find himself close to the edge of an
unsuspected and frightful precipice, over which another step
would carry him, to fall whirling through the blue air, hundreds
of feet down to the dashing stream below. Terribly startled, he
forgot the bear on the instant, and rushed away from the dan-
ger in a state of trepidation no other peril in life could have
caused him. It is even said that he took to his bed for two
entire days, before he could recover himself; and that for weeks

- ' > - .

iy u

*' ' ' . J h t

« i*^ . >%

i.<

THE HAWK^S NEST. 133

after he could not muster courage to look again over the precipice
from which he came so very near making the dread " last leap."

After McClung's discovery the rock became well known to
the hunters of the Gauley, who named it the Hawk's Nest,
either from its commanding position and inaccessibility from
below, or because of the numerous hawk's-nests yearly built in
the convenient caverns which enter its sides a little way below
the edge.

Happening, at one time recently, to be making a limited tour
of observation in that part of the country, I had an opportunity
to make a sketch of this famous rock from the opposite side of
the river. It is a new point of view, from which the rock itself
appears the most prominent feature of the scene.

I had been riding for several days through Fayette County,
back of Cotton Mountain, and was on my way to meet an im-
portant engagement at the Kanawha Falls, when I found the
road leading me very near the desired spot. The natives told
me that by keeping the road to Miller's Ferry until I came in
sight of the building there, I would find a mule-path to the left,
towards down the river, which would lead me where I could get
the best view of my subject, and afterwards to the Falls by a
short route.

The mule-path proved to be a very recent one, easily found,
and I struck into it with a simple, confident feeling of satisfac-
tion only to be excused by want of experience of the country I
was in. My steed was a quiet, well-conditioned animal, which
I had hired from a farmer at the Falls a few days previously ;
and her knowledge that her head was turned towards home was
instantly apparent in her altered gait, — leading me to believe
she knew the road we had entered upon.

134 LOTOS LKAVES.

By the time we (the mare and I) arrived at the best view of
the rock, the path had become so bad as to be only just prac-
ticable ; and with a mind made up to return by the good road
over Cotton Mountain, — on the theory of " the longest way
round is the shortest way back," — I dismounted, tied my, or
rather Farmer Mugglcston's, gray marc to a tree, and sought
the most effective point from which to make the sketch. At
length I determined upon a scat on a convenient stump, from
whence the Hawk's Nest seemed to overhang the sturdier but
less graceful cliffs about it. Along its edge, where the light
clouds of river mist seemed hanging, were a few trees, ragged
and small as seen from below ; and under it great black seams,
or scars, divided the ledges of yellow sandstone with openings
like caves, at whose yawning mouths lay bands of reddish earths,
or pebbly conglomerate, to which cedars clung here and there,
grasping the very face of the precipice, and in the effort dis-
torting themselves into various clutching forms, holding on for
life. Lower down column-like rocks rested on tremendous
masses of whitish limestone, which became smoother and less
seamed as it approached the base at the river-bank, where trees,
towering nearly two hundred feet, looked only well-grown bushes
by contrast with the height above, in front of which, like guar-
dian spirits of the gorge, a pair of large hawks kept watch and
ward in airy circlings, on unmoving wings.

Soon, too much interested in this magnificent study to watch
the western skies, I found a thunder squall upon me unawares,
— unnoticed until it began to throw its broad black shadows
over the scene, and to open thunder-charged columbiads among
the resounding echoes of the New River hills. Then the rain
put a temporary stop to my work, and so delayed me that by the

THE HAWK'S NEST. 135

time my drawing was roughly completed it was half past four
o'clock. In consequence of this delay it was hardly possible to
get to the Falls before dark by the Cotton Mountain road. The
mare could easily travel three miles an hour through the path.
There were still three hours of daylight, even if the clouds the
squall had left behind did not disperse ; and so, by keeping on, I
could reasonably hope to reach my destination in about two
hours and a half, if, as I had been told, the distance was only
seven miles from where I struck in. If it proved nine miles, it
would still be accomplished in time. Besides, I had been reas-
sured, while sketching, by the passing down the path of a ridden
mule and a led one. For these reasons I decided to keep on, in
spite of the bad road and threatening weather. To prepare for
rough riding with my various sketching impedimenta necessi-
tated some further loss of time, but it was not long before I was
mounted and on the way, which shortly became very villanous,
for the old mare went constantly stumbling over sharp stones,
sliding down clayey hills, or walking cautiously in the narrow
path as it led along the steep side of a precipitous bank, or sur-
mounted an outlying bowlder of the great piled-up rocks to the
left, above. More than once again. I thought of turning back,
but was always encouraged to go on by seeing the fresh tracks
of the mules before me. I must also confess to a certain fool-
ish, pleasurable excitement, at the spice of danger in such rough
riding. The old steed, too, was on her mettle, and showed signs
of excitement by the way in which she pricked up her ears and
snorted with satisfaction at every bit of good road. And then,
who could be blind to the new beauty of these woods, so differ-
ent from the beauty of the Northern forests, to me much better
known ?

136 LOTOS LEAVES.

Great magnolia poplars, with towering stems, gre^r up from
the right-hand side far below, and only put out their luxuriously
clothed branches when they could come to a view of the sky on
like terms with the growth higher up on the hillside. Through
their crowded trunks the river could be seen dashing and foam-
ing with a rush and a roar which continually deceived me with
ideas that the Falls themselves were very near at hand. There
was but little underbrush, except in places where huge square,
green-capped bowlders lay nearly concealed by groups of the
great Southern laurels, which thrust up their long glossy leaves,
as if in conspiracy with the mosses covering their tops, and
drooping about them so as to hide their hard gray sides. These
rhododendrons were all in blossom, and seemed further inten-
tioned by displaying their rosy beauty to most advantage, —
lavishing their flowers in contrast to the darkest shadows, or
against the neutral blackness of the backgrounds of hemlock-
trees which stood in clumps through the wood. An hour and a
half of such riding brought me to a small opening in the forest,
and sharp upon a " branch," or mountain brook, rushing like a
river, with the accumulated waters of a dozen streamlets, swollen
by the recent rains.

The ford across looked too dangerous for a stranger to at-
tempt, and I should have been obliged to retrace my steps, even
then, had not the ringing strokes of an axe told of possible assist-
ance from a short distance above. Leaving the mare " hitched "
to a laurel-bush, I sought the wood-chopper, and after much
tribulation in scrambling through the under-brush contrived to
get sight of him, and of some other workmen who were erecting
a shanty on the farther side. The stream brawled so noisily
that it was quite impossible for the men to hear what I said or

I ~.

THE HAWK'S NEST. 137

shouted, and it was not until I found a fallen tree on which to
cross that they comprehended who I was, or what I wanted.
On learning that I was a stranger, one of them kindly volun-
teered to bring my horse over. When he had ridden through
the ford, which he did with enviable address and caution, he
commended my prudence in not attempting the crossing at
such a time, for he said that one of the mules which had just
preceded me to the shanty had been carried off his feet by the
rush, and was very nearly swept out into the river. He in-
formed me that the work going on was for the new railroad,
and that the mule-path had only been cut for the use of the
engineers and surveyors of the corps of construction.

It was now so near night that I left my chance friend with
hurried thanks, and rode on so quickly that I forgot to ask him
how far I had yet to go, or what sort of riding I might expect.
It was grandly picturesque, but even more up and down
hill than before. Lofty pines rose in vain attempts to thrust
themselves higher than the perpendicular rocks behind them,
while creepers and parasitical vines clustered so thick about
the tree-trunks, that the hidden roots of them seemed to start
from the far depths below. At length we ascended the moun-
tain-side somewhat higher than usual, and came quite unexpect-
edly upon the most dangerous piece of path I ever saw.

An enormous wall of shaly rock reared itself perpendicu-
larly high up on the left side ; before us ran the path, — not
a foot wide was it, — the mere edge of a shifting bank of frag-
ments, loose, sliding, and crumbling, built of the fallen scales of
the shale. Having come so unwarned upon this perilous spot,
concealed as it was by the curve at its approach, the mare had
already advanced too far upon the narrow part of it to retreat ;

138 LOTOS LEAVES.

for in an attempt to turn around, she would be certain to push
herself off the ledge.

On the right hand was a declivity of unstable fragments slip-
ping to the water's edge ; on the other side, the rock — straight up.

There was no alternative.

We must go on.

I saw that a man could pass to the firm ground on the other
side of the cliff safely enough, if his head did not get whirling,
and his nerves were steady. There might be room fora horse's
feet ; possibly, only possibly, for the projections of the body —
the shoulders, the belly, and the thighs — to pass the rock. I
dismounted, slung the satchel and sketching-traps over my own
shoulders, took off the near stirrup, and fastened the projecting
flap of the old saddle down with its leather, that it might not
touch the rock, drew the bridle over the old gray's head, and led
her along the little ledge with the momentary expectation of
seeing her sliding, rolling, bounding, crashing down into the
river, three hundred feet below. She was sure-footed, that old
mare ; she balanced herself like a gymnast ; the ledge did not
give way as she trod it, but, as she lifted each hoof, the path
crumbled from the place where it had rested, and the fragments
rustled down the bank, detaching other fragments in their
course, until the whole mass appeared sliding away, with a
sound like stormy wind among the trees.

We had crossed safely, but the path was gone

Ordinary risks seemed as nothing now, and we pushed on
rapidly as the woods became more open. When we had passed
the mountain, I again thought I heard the distant roar of the
Falls, and my spirits rose a bit in spite of the rain, which was
coming down briskly.

THE HAWK'S NEST. 139

For the last hundred yards the path had been actually smooth,
and wide enough to trot on, when it suddenly went down hill.

At the moment of reaching the bottom, where alder-bushes
grew dense on the banks on either side, a most villanous-looking
man started out into the path ahead of me.

He was clad in an old overcoat of Rebel gray, and looked a
typical bush-whacker as he stood regarding my approach with
evil glances. It occurred to me instantly that he might not be
alone, — might be accompanied by other desperate fellows, and
mean mischief It was an unpleasant shock ; but the impulse
of the moment being to " open the ball " if necessary, I pushed
my horse up to him, and asked, —

" How far is it to the Falls ? "

** Dunno, rightly, how fur."

" Is it two miles ? "

'* Heap more 'n that. Reckon it 's three. They '11 tell yer
down ter the shanty."

There are more of them then, thought I ; and in my nervous-
ness I took my revolver out of its already convenient place in
my belt, and put it in the side-pocket of my overcoat, as I rode
rapidly on : for the road was again good for a piece. Soon I
came upon the shanty the man had spoken of There were a
crowd of laborers gathered about it, — a railroad gang, as I saw
at a glance. They were not dangerous, but they were unpleas-
ant and lawless ; so, although they shouted to me to stop, I only
dashed along faster, until the path grew as bad as usual.

It was now after seven o'clock ; only half an hour more of
daylight, and at least three miles more of this work. I began
to feci as if I were lost, and must spend the night in the woods ;
which is a very disagreeable thing to do in the rain and alone.

*?»

t40 LOTOS LEAVES.

Now, the road led down close by the river, across a bank of sand ;
and then in full view of a rough-built house of new boards, with
cheerful lights shining through the windows. As I rode up to
it, a negro man came to the door. I could get over the bad part
of the path, he thought, before it became too dark, if I hurried
on, — from there it was only a mile to the Falls, and a good
road. From this house the trail was plain for a few hundred
yards, when it led out on a flat rock, and was lost in the river,
now very high with the freshet. I turned back and cast over
the ground, thinking it possible that the true path was up on the
hillside, but, failing to find it there, concluded to return to the
house of the cheerful lights, and to ask a shelter for the night.
The negro again came forward in answer to my summons, and,
upon hearing my request for a lodging, referred me to the Cap-
tain, who presently appeared at the door from an inner room, to
give me a polite but firm refusal. Bright hopes were dashed
in an instant ; but, being in extremis, I urged my forlorn con-
dition, and presented my card, with an explanation of the cir-
cumstances which led me to seek the hospitality of strangers in
such a persistent manner. On learning that I was not a " rail-
road-man,'* the Captain relented, told the negro, Tom, to look
out for my traps, and ushered me into his sitting-room, comfort-
able with a warm fire and the incense from several pipes of
fragrant Virginia weed. The smokers were the associates of
the Captain in his surveying corps, and he soon put me at ease
by the perfect courtesy of his informal introduction to them,
and to a superabundant supper, made ready by Tom in a few
minutes.

To my surprise and delight, he seated me at a table furnished
in the most highly civilized style.

THE HAVVK^S NEST. 14I

A damask tablecloth adorned with a service of polished silver,
and gold-edged china of a delicate pattern, all laden with choice
edibles, of which eggs, nicely fried bacon, creamy wheat-biscuits,
and delicious coftee formed the staple articles of what would
be a goodly feast at any time, but doubly and thrice welcome to
one who, only a few minutes before, had expected to go supper-
less to bed in the rocky forest under a coverlet of drizzle.

How I appreciated all this, those good fellows can never
know ! One, not in like straits, can but dimly imagine the sense
of real comfort I felt, as I sat in that luxurious chair, with the
white-jacketed Tom ready to hand more biscuits, or refill my
coffee-cup ; the rain the while pouring down in a great deluge
on the sounding roof.

And when bedtime came, instead of letting me take my blan-
ket in a corner, as I proposed, Monseigneur must needs share
his bed with me, — a stranger. Truly my ** Hues had fallen in
pleasant places," and, giving way to the benign fates, I consented
to lay me down to sleep between the fair sheets, where Morpheus
straightway embraced me, and sent me visions, now and again,
of overhanging rocks, narrow paths, gray mares, and blear-eyed
fellows in lonely lurking-places. The night passed thus, very
restlessly, as night often does to one whose nerves have been
on the strain of novel sights and thoughts. When the morning
came, the rain still fell, and it was late when I took leave, I hope
not forever, of the excellent gentlemen into whose pleasant so-
ciety the mule-path had led me.

I found the trail very difficult to make out, even in broad day,
at the place where I had been at fault the night before. It was
confused by numerous blind tracks leading to it, and was only
plain when it merged into the unmistakable railroad embank-

142 LOTOS LEAVES.

ment, which had been pushed from the other end. The road
along this was easily passable, until I came to a piece of fresh
work, where I was obliged to dismount in order to pass along a
steep hillside where there had been a great sand-blast which
had filled the way with sharp cUbris not yet levelled off. Trust-
ing in luck to cross it, — luck had so favored me in my ride
hitherto, — I attempted to lead the mare over the cruel place.
It was not enough that she had stood supperless in the pelting
rain all night, that she had carried me all the day before on one
feed of oats ; but I must put her at this new trial. It was
shameful, and I was near getting my deservings ; for, in stepping
to the farther side of a cut, I slipped and fell, my leg catching in
a hole under and between the stones. For an instant I was
held motionless, while my horse stood on an insecure piece of
rock above me, gathering and balancing herself to step down
where I lay, helplessly dreading the descent of her iron-shod
feet, of which at least one crushed and mangled limb would be
the inevitable result. By a desperate effort I succeeded in
dragging myself out of the hole at the very instant the terrible
hoofs came down.

Poor old mare ! Her forelegs slipped from under her into
the same trap where I came to temporary grief ; and she came
down heavily on the jagged points of the fresh-broken stones,
struggled for a moment, groaning sadly, and then, by a great
effort, managed to regain her footing and get on safe ground,
where she stood, trembling on her gashed limbs, and gazing at
her torn flank, as it heaved with pain and fear. She had, how-
ever, sustained no disabling injury, and I ventured to remount
her, and proceed at a slow pace to the Falls, and thence to
Farmer Muggleston*s stable-yard.

THE HAWK'S NEST. 143

To this farmer's praise be it said, that he did not make the
injury to his property, severe but not dangerous, the excuse for
extorting a large sum in damages ; but, believing them the result
of a pure accident, accepted so small a compensation as a five-
dollar bill with a good grace that many of his Northern superiors
in education might do well to emulate in like case. Then he
bid me " God speed," and I went my way on foot with rather an
exalted opinion of the native " West-Virginian," a determina-
tion to ride no more unknown mule-paths, and in my portfolio
the sketch of the Hawk's Nest, from which was drawn the little
illustration which gives the title to this paper.

To A Flower.

TO A FLOWER.

AV THE STYLE OF HERRICK.
By C. FLORIO.

O to my love ; and tell her from my heart

How much I love!
I Go to my love ; and tell her should we part
i No salve could heal the smart

I then should know.
What shall I do
My love to prove ?

Go to my love ; and tell her she *s more fair

Than lilies are.
Go to my love ; and tell her all the air
Around breathes perfume rare

When she doth move ;
And gales of love
Her tenders arc.

Go to my love ; and tell her here I lie

And weep and sigh.

T48 LOTOS LEAVES.

Go to my love ; and tell her that I die
If she pass coldly by

And give no chance
Or pitying glance
From her bright eye.

Go to my love ; and tell her this, O flower !

And watch her face.
Go to my love ; and tell her that her power
Enthralls me so this hour

That, lest I die,
She must reply
With loving grace !

The Physical Requirements of Song.

THE PHYSICAL REQUIREMENTS

OF SONG.

By CHARLES INSLEE PARDEE, M. D.

'T is frequently said of eminent singers, that " their vocal
organs are of exquisite construction."

The remark is so often repeated, that we are led to
regard it as the expression of a general belief, that
vocalists are endowed with unusual physical attributes,
neither inherited nor to be acquired by the masses of man-
kind.

It cannot in truth be said that this impression is entirely
without foundation ; but if by the expression it is intended to
convey the idea that the basis of vocalism is a larynx of pecu-
liar anatomical form or of rare functional power, it may mis-
lead us.

Setting aside the singular mental and emotional bias which
seems to be essential to the musical artist, and taking into
consideration the physical requirements of song only, we have
two factors which enter into its production, namely, the vocal
organs — i. e. the mouth, larynx, and trachea — and the ear.

The action of the vocal organs is easily explained. The
wasted product of respiration, the breath, is forced through a
chink in the larynx, and sound is created, while form and
expression are given by the mouth. That words are formed

152 LOTOS LEAVES.

by the mouth, without the aid of the larynx, is a fact easily
proven, as every one knows that he can distinctly express
himself in a whisper.

The larynx is essentially a double-reed instrument, the
vocal cords being analogous to the reed of a musical instru-
ment. The vocal cords are thrown into vibration by the
breath, and sound is produced, the pitch being determined by
the rapidity or slowness of movement. This, in turn, is regu-
lated by the tension of the cords ; sounds of the highest pitch
requiring extreme tension, sounds of the lowest pitch extreme
relaxation of those organs. The different positions of the
cords are caused entirely by muscular action. While the parts
are at rest, air passes in and out, in the act of respiration,
causing no sound, as then their relations are not favorable to
its production.

Thus the larynx is the organ of sound ; but the larynx
and mouth are the organs of articulate speech.

These organs are susceptible of the highest cultivation, and
their functional perfection can only be attained by training.
It is gymnastic exercise of the muscles, acting on the parts,
which is required, — systematic practice of their functional
qualities, subject to the will. That is all.^ Within the regis-
ter of his natural voice, any one can attain mechanical pre-
cision of vocal expression. Even the register may be increased
by the simple expedient of exercise.

What, then, is so essential to the physical requirements of
song, that the few who possess it are regarded as phenom-
ena.^ It is an ear of exquisite function, such as rarely exists.
The ear is as important as is the operator to the transmis-
sion of a telegram. It is tRe conductor, — the critic. Wit-

THE PHYSICAL REQUIREMENTS OF SONG. 15.?

ness the person whose deafness is of such high degree that
he cannot hear the sound of his own voice, and listen to his
harsh, unmodulated tones. Witness the deaf-mute, — mute only
because he is deaf, — with vocal organs that are probably ana-
tomically perfect, but with no guide in that process of imitation,
which in the general way constitutes man*s training, from the
imperfect articulation of the words ** papa " and ** mamma," in
babyhood, to the highest form of vocal expression.

Of our special senses, the ear is the organ of tune. Its
function is to receive the succession of sounds, musical notes,
the various peculiarities of articulate speech, and to measure
the periods of silence. It is the register of the properties
of waves of sound, — the intensity, quality, and pitch, — con-
veying to the brain an impression of the relative intensity
of the sound created by the firing of a cannon and of a
pistol ; of the quality of the sound of a violoncello or of a
violin, — the pitch of the soprano and bass voices. If per-
fect in its functional property, it registers the whole ; but if
not, either through irregular development, or because its nor-
mal condition has been changed by disease, it may do so but
partially, and the unfortunate possessor of such an ear, par-
ticularly unfortunate if he desires to sing correctly, ascertains
that he is unable accurately to determine the pitch of certain
sounds, and that his most careful attempts to reproduce them
result in discords. Moreover, he may observe that he cannot
appreciate the quality of sound.

Physiologically considered, the human ear is not a homo-
geneous organ, but the different parts are for the appreciation
of the different properties of sound ; and the absence of one
part, for instance, that which registers the quality, or the

154 LOTOS LEAVES.

pitch, would cause the disappearance of its peculiar function.
In view of this fact, it would be interesting to collate the
several opinions of notably just and impartial critics in re-
gard to various vocalists, to know if the tenor of criticism is
in a singular groove ; if it has the appearance of being of
a certain formula or of particular bias. The singer who is
smarting under the infliction of partial and unjust criticism
of a performance, that he has perfected through years of
careful training, under the guidance of an exquisite ear, may
find courage in the reflection that, in all probability, his critic,
honest though he be, has imperfect aural perceptions, and is
laboring under the disadvantage of performing work requiring
the indispensable direction of an ear of faultless physiological
attributes, — an ear that he does not possess ; that the author
of the criticism is not prompted by any improper motive, nor
is he captious, but is functionally incapable of receiving cor-
rect impressions.

A human ear of perfect functional attributes is something
rare. That competent authority. Von Troltsch, says : " I shall
make too small rather than too large an estimate, when I
assert that not more than one out of three persons, of from
twenty to forty years of age, still possess good and normal
hearing." Good and normal hearing, in the sense of this
paragraph, means good enough for ordinary purposes. It
does not refer to that exquisite sensibility to all the proper-
ties of sound which is indispensable to the accomplished
singer. The author, however, touches the point. If his esti-
mate is approximately correct, few of our race may aspire to
the distinction of attaining pre-eminence in song.

My friend, have you a wish to become proficient in song ?

THE PHYSICAL REQUIREMENTS OF SONG. 155

Do not concern yourself too much about your voice. In the
practice of your life, you have imitated articulate speech with.
entire success, and now reproduce it in a creditable manner.
Your vocal organs show their susceptibility to training and
discipline, and doubtless, within the register of your voice^
may be trained to song, provided you have the all-important
guide. Have you that guide? Can you recognize the dis-
tinctive properties of sound ? Do you appreciate the intensity^
the quality, the pitch ? Have you in perfection the three
thousand nerve fibres of the cochlear portion of the ear, each
one of which vibrates synchronous to the sound of its own
appropriate pitch ?

If so, you can succeed ; otherwise, it would be as reason-
able to expect of a blind man the reproduction of color.

The Truthful Resolver.

THE TRUTHFUL RESOLVER.

A LEGEND OF THE LEVIATHAN CLUB.

fR. JOHN UPANDOWNJOHN had the mis-
fortune to be a strictly honest man, in which
particular he stood lamentably alone. He was
constructed peculiarly, — he was born into an
atmosphere of integrity, and his training had
added to his natural bent to a degree that
made him as incapable of an untruth, or the semblance
thereof, as the great George Washington himself. Having
this tendency, it was well for him that he was born with a
fortune, for his rigid adherence to his principles unfitted
him for almost every occupation. He did tiy journalism,
but was dismissed ignominiously for saying of a candidate
of the party with which the paper acted, that he was a thief
and a trickster. Then he es.sayed law, but he saw enough
of law before he had been in an office two weeks, while
medicine lasted him scarcely a week. So he determined to
do nothing, but live on his income and be an honest man.

He adopted certain rules by which he lived, and he could
no more depart from them than he could rise from the earth
and take a place among the stars. He ale exactly so much.

l6o LOTOS LEAVES.

at certain fixed hours and of certain kinds of food. He
drank so many times a day of certain liquors which he
fancied were good for him, measuring the quantity with the
accuracy and precision of an apothecary ; and so far did he
carry rule into his life, that he put on and off his clothing
on certain days in certain months, without reference to
weather. I saw him shivering one bright but very cold
morning in June, and demanded the reason.

"I laid off my woollens this morning," said he.

" Why lay off your woollens in winter weather ? " I asked.

"The 1st of June is my day therefor," said he. "The
weather ou^/U to be warm to-day. I cannot break my rule."

He never neglected to pay a debt, and never told a lie.
not even a white one. He was cut out of an aunt's will, by
responding to her anxious inquiry as to how she looked in a
certain dress which she had set her heart on, with the sim-
ple word, " Hideous." And the same devotion to truth barred
him no matter what path he took.

He was frightfully unpopular, though, notwithstanding, he
held a good position among his , fellows. His childlike sim-
plicity and sterling integrity made him valuable, and beside
every one knew that his devotion to truth was honest, and
had nothing of bumptiousness or malice in it.

Mr. Upandownjohn was a member of the Leviathan Club.
I write the word was sadly, for he is a Leviathan no more.
The cause and manner of his leaving that delightful asso-
ciation of good men is the animus of this paper.

The members of the Leviathan were pleased with the ap-
pearance of Mr. Upandownjohn, and made much of him.
Had they known him better they probably would have loved

THE TRUTHFUL RESOLVEK. l6l

him less, for his peculiar virtue was never popular in that
Club.

He excited attention, first, by his habit of correcting loose-
talking members when their statements were too highly fla-
vored with romance ; as, for instance, when one gentleman
asserted that his father owned Flora Temple when she was
a colt, using her as a common hack, and selling her finally
for fifty dollars, Mr. Upandownjohn quietly put him down.

" I knew your father," he said, ** and a worthy, truthful man
he was. He died just three years before Flora Temple was
foaled. The mare he used as a hack and sold for fifty dol-
lars must have been some other famous animal. Flora Tem-
ple will some day be the death of me. Every racing season
some man narrates the circumstance of his father having
once owned Flora Temple and worked her as a hack, and,
what is more exasperating, he always sold her for just fifty
dollars. Would that I could find one man whose father sold
her for sixty dollars or sixty-two dollars and fifty cents ! You,
my dear sir, are the sixty-eighth man this season whose father
once owned Flora Temple. She was the most extensively
owned mare I ever knew anything about."

On another occasion a gentleman detailed with great mi-
nuteness, how in doing the regular thing at Niagara by going
under the sheet, the wind parted the torrent and he stepped
out upon the shelf outside, when, to his horror, the opening
closed, leaving him outside the falling sheet on a narrow ledge
of rock. With great presence of mind he darted through the
falling sheet and rejoined the frightened party who supposed
him lost forever.

Mr. Upandownjohn took pencil and paper, and worked all

l62 LOTOS LEAVES.

night and the next day, without sleeping or eating. The
next night he exhibited to the hero of this marvellous adven-
ture the weight of the water in that sheet, and demonstrated
to him the fact that, had he got under it, he would have been
mashed, though he had been constructed of cast-steel

"Are you sure it was 'Niagara?" he asked anxiously.
" Was n't it some other fall ? "

One day a member died, and the Club did the usual thing
by him. A committee of three was appointed to draft reso-
lutions expressing the bereavement of the members, and, as
ill-luck would have it, Upandownjohn was put upon the com-
mittee.

They met, and, as is always the case, two of the members
really had not time to attend to it. One had an engagement
at the theater ; the other was to take his sister — or some
one else's — to the opera.

'* Upandownjohn," said the first, "you have nothing to do,
.and are handy with the pen. There is no earthly necessity
for keeping us here. You just write out the usual resolu-
tions, and send 'em down to The Screamer^ The Spouter, and
The Soarer in time for to-morrow morning."

^* How shall I treat the deceased } " asked the obliging
Upandownjohn.

" O, in the usual way ! Speak of his qualities as a man, the
feelings of the Club at his untimely taking-off, the sources of
consolation that we have, his qualities as an actor ; hurl in some-
thing to alleviate the pangs of his family ; speak of his general
standing ; and put in a strong dose of general comfort, you
understand, to those who mourn, and so on. It '11 be all right.
You '11 attend to it now, won't you } "

THE TRUTHFUL RESOLVER. 163

" It is a disagreeable duty," replied Upandownjohn ; " but
I will do it."

And they left him to his work.

Now Mr. Upandownjohn had had no experience in work of
this kind, and consequently he was n't exactly clear as to the
form. So he sent for the scrap-book in which such utterances
of the Club had been posted from its beginning. He was
shocked. There were a great many sets of resolutions on de-
ceased members (the liquors were bad at the Leviathan), and
they were all precisely alike! They ran as follows: —

Whereas^ It has pleased Almighty God, the ruler of the Universe,
to remove from our midst our esteemed brother and friend, John
James So-and-so ; and

Whereas, It is fit that we, his afflicted sur\^ivors of the Leviathan
Club, should publicly express their sore grief at this great bereave-
ment ; therefore be it

Resolved, That in the death of John James So-and-so, this Club has
lost a worthy member, society an ornament, his family an affectionate
father and husband, the State a pillar and defender, and the world at
large one it could illy spare.

Resolved, That while we mourn with sorrow that seems to have no
alleviation under the great affliction that has fallen upon us, we can-
not but bow in humility to this inscrutable decree. ^

Resolved, That we tender our heartfelt sympathy to the family and
relatives of the deceased.

Resolved, That the Club-house be draped in mourning for thirty
days in memory of the deceased.

As l^e finished, Mr. Upandownjohn brought his fist down
upon the table till the glasses jingled.

" What stuff this is ! " he said, indignantly. " I knew So-and-

l64 LOTOS LEAVES.

so. He was a dishonest and untruthful man, — a tyrant in his
family, a trader in politics, a disagreeable man in society, and
a curse to humanity generally. And they mourn him, do they ?
And I suppose they want me to mourn Ranter, who is to be
embalmed to-night. Ha ! ha ! I will astonish these people. I
will write one set of honest resolutions. I knew Ranter, who
has just gone hence, and justice shall be done him sure. I will
be as mild as I can be, and do him justice, but I will be honest
with his memory."

So Mr. Upandownjohn called for fresh pens and ink and
paper, and wrote ; and having made fair copies of what he wrote,
took them himself to the offices of The Screamer, The Spouter,
and The Soarer, and went home and slept as only he can sleep
who rejoices over a duty done and well done.

The next morning the members of the Leviathan were aston-
ished at reading in the journals the following: —

Whereas, By a long course of the most outrageous dissipation, of
late nights, of late suppers of the grossest food, of perpetual bever-
ages of the most villanous kind, — those that give the stomach no
show whatever, — by unchecked and unregulated indulgence in the
worst possible sensuality ; in brief, by a long-continued series of the
vilest outrages upon the physical, mental, and moral man, our late
member, Arthur Simpson Ranter, has been taken to that bourne from
which we earnestly hope he may never return ; and

Whereas, When a member of the Leviathan Club expires, it is cus-
tomary to commemorate him, to give him a send-off, as it were, there-
fore be it

Rcsohcii, That when we remember the villanous habit he had of
revoking at whist, and also his adroit way of sliding out of paying the
score, whenever he lost the rubber, our grief at his departure is
severely mitigated, if not entirely subdued.

THE TRUTHFUL RESOLVER. 165

Resolved^ That the promptness of our late associate in accepting
invitations to slake his thirst, and his intolerable tardiness in recipro-
cating, did more honor to his head than to his heart.

Resolveii^ That his habitual untruthfulness, his utter disregard of
his word, and his blustering and overbearing manner, were the best
points in him, as they served as a warning to the younger members of
the Club. For this his demise is to be lamented.

Resolved^ That his habit of getting boozy before eleven a. m., and
staying in that condition so long as there was a good-natured man
in the Club, gives us his survivors good reason to pause and ask no
more that conundrum, " Why was death introduced into the world } "

Resolved^ That when we remember the success with which our late
brother borrowed money, and his utter forgelfulness of such transac-
tions, our hearts are softened toward Adam and Eve (through whose
sin death was made a part of the economy of nature), and we pub-
licly thank that lady and gentleman for their investigating turn of
mind, and hurl back indignantly the charge that they did not do the
best thing possible for posterity.

Resolve f^ That in the death of our late brother, who was as vile as
an actor as he was bad as a man, the long-suffering theater-going pub-
lic have a boon the sweetness of which cannot be overstated, and
upon which we extend them hearty congratulations.

Resolved^ That w-e congratulate Mrs. Ranter upon the fact that her
private fortune was settled upon herself, and so skilfully tied up that
her late husband, our deceased brother, could not get at a cent of it.
And we do this, remembering how often we have mourned that it was
so, for the reason that, could he have touched it, he would have drank
himself into an untimely tomb several years sooner than he did.
Death with us buries all animosity and does away with all acrimony.

Rcsolvedy That the Club-house be illuminated the night of the
funeral, and be draped in white for thirty days in honor of this happy
event.

l66 LOTOS LEAVES.

Resolved^ That this truthful tribute to the memory of our deceased
brother be published in The Screamer^ The Spouter, and The Soarer,

To say there was an uproar in the Club the next morn-
ing, as these resolutions were read, would be to convey a
very faint idea of the case. In the midst of it, when it was
at its height, entered Upandownjohn, cleanly shaved, and as
serene as a June morning.

" Did you write and publish this miserable mess, — this
ghastly concoction of infernalism } " demanded a score of in-
dignant men.

" Did I write those resolutions, you mean. I did. I was
appointed a committee to embalm the memory of the late
Ranter in the daily papers. I did it. Do you find anything
objectionable in them } "

" Why, you assert that he was a sponge ! " exclaimed one.

" Unhappily it is the truth. I have myself paid for gallons
of liquor for him."

" You say he was a bad actor } "

"The worst I ever suffered under."

" What will his wife think of what you have said of him } "

"She will recognize the portrait, and with us thank Heaven
for her release.*^

" You give it as the sense of the Club that he was — "

" Everything that was bad, mean, and disreputable. Very
good. It is true, every word of it. He owes me this day
thirty-seven dollars sixty-three cents and a third, which he
has owed (it was borrowed) since July 9, 1871, at twenty-
seven minutes past ten o'clock in the evening. And every
man of you is also his creditor. If there is a mean thing
that he has not done, it has escaped my notice."

T H f iN i / * ," ;• y f

PI'U' :-^ r •• '

*-'•'■ I •■ I

THE TRUTHFUL RESOLVER. 167

By this time Mr. Upandownjohn saw that his fellow-mem-
bers were angry, and for once he lost his balance and became
angry too.

Brandishing his umbrella (it was not raining, but as it was
the time of month when it shoufd have rained he carried it ,
he exclaimed : —

" Gentlemen, you have had one set of resolutions written
which contained nothing but the truth ; not the whole truth,
for my time was limited, and it was impossible to get in all
that I could have said, and besides, I desired to be as leni-
ent and mild as possible. Having written nothing but truth,
you are offended. It is well. I will have nothing whatever
to do with a club where the truth cannot be told. Truth,
if not the immediate jewel of the soul, is very close to it.
Gentlemen, adieu. You have seen the last of John Upandown-
john. Should I stay. I might be called upon to resolve over
some of your inanimate remains, and as I cannot tell a lie,
it would be unpleasant."

And that afternoon the directory received his resignation,
and he was seen there no more.

There is no particular moral to this. There are very few
men in the world of whom it would be pleasant, as the world
now goes, to tell the exact truth. Therefore may all who
read these lines live, as does he who writes them, so that
when Azrael waves his dark pinions over them, they may lie
down and die, feeling certain that the committee on reso-
lutions, though they be as truthful as Upandownjohn. will say
nothing that will call a spirit-blush to their cheeks in the
hereafter.

Translations.

TRANSLATIONS.

By C. FLOKIO.
" n/E LORELE yr — (Heine.)

KNOW not what it presageth
That I am so heavy of heart ,

A tale of old times comes o'er nie.
And will not be forced to depart.

The air is cool, and the twilight
Shadows the calm-flowing Rhine ;
While red, in the fading sunlight,
The tops of the mountains shine.

A maiden, wondrous and lovely,

Sitteth in beauty there ;
Her jewels glitter and sparkle ;

She combs her golden hair.

With golden comb she combs it,

And sings — 'neath the darkening sky

'\ song, with a magic, resistless.
All-powerful melody.

1/2

LOTOS LEAVES.

A boatman who glides beneath her
Is seized with wild affright ;

He sees not the rocky ledges,
He sees but her on the height.

The waves surround, ingulf him.
He sinks with the setting sun !

And this, with her wondrous singing,
This hath the Loreley done.

''KENNST DU DAS LANDJ' — (Goethe.)

NO WEST thou the Land where the pale lem-
^ ons grow.
Where golden oranges mid dark leaves glow,
Where, ceaseless breathing from blue heaven,

a breeze
Kisses the myrtle, and tall laurel-trees.^
Knowest thou it well?
Ah ! there would I fly with thee, O my Beloved ! ,

Knowest thou the House ? Its roof high pillars raise ;
Its spacious halls with matchless splendors blaze ;
Pale statues stand and eye thee sleeplessly.
Ah, thou poor child ! what have they done to thee ?

Knowest thou it well }
Ah! there would I fly with thee, O my Protector!

TRANSLATIONS. 1/3

Knowest thou the Mountain, up whose cloudy way
The mule seeks footing, led by fogs astray ?
In craggy caverns dwells the Dragon's brood ;
Rocks crashing fall, and o'er them roars the flood.

Knowest thou it well ?
Ah ! thither leads our way. O Father, let us go !

V .X

BACCHANAL,

ET graybeards preach of temperate bliss.
And the pains endured by a toper ;
We '11 drink, boys, drink ! and the red
wine's kiss
Shall kill grief, — the interloper.

Drink to the eyes of hef you love !

Drink to her lips of coral !
Drink to her kisses, — her stolen glove !

Drink ! Let the old be moral !

Time to repent when passion 's cold,
And the bloom of life 's bereft us ;

When the hair is white, and the heart is old.
And no enjoyment *s left us.

Time to repent in years to come !
Our young day knows no morrow : ^-

174 LOTOS LEAVES.

Drink ! Bid those preaching fools be dumb,
What do \vc know of sorrow ?

Give us another goblet here !

Hurrah, for jolly Bacchus !
Drink on ! 't is now no time to fear

The pains that yet may rack us.

Drink ! let us spend a jovial night ;

'T is time, when pains oppress us,
To dream of nights that have been bright.

And murmur a meek, " God bless us I "

Time enough then ; but, till it *s here,
Let's drink the night into morning;

Drown — in your brimming cups — old Care,
And with him the dotard's warning!

•'

A Fatal Fortune.

. I

A FATAL FORTUN E.

Bv WILKIE COLLINS.

j?NE fine morning, more than three months since,
you were riding with your brother. Miss Anstell,
ill Hyde Park. It was a hot day ; and you had
allowed your horses to fall into a walking pace.
As you passed the railing on the right-hand side,
near the eastern extremity of the lake in the
Park, neither you nor your brother noticed a solitary woman
loitering on the footpath to look at the riders as they went by.

The solitary woman was my old nurse, Nancy Connell.
And these were the words she heard exchanged between you
and your brother, as you slowly passed her : —

Your brother said, " Is it really true that Mary Brading
and her husband have gone to America ? "

You laughed (as if the question amused you) and answered,
" Quite true !"

"How long will they be away?" your brother asked next
" As long as they live," you replied, with another laugh.
By this time you had passed beyond Nancy Connell's hear-
ing. She owns to having followed your horses a few steps,
to hear what was said next. She looked particularly at your
brother. He took your reply seriously : he seemed to be quite
astonished by it.

178 LOTOS LEAVES.

"Leave England, and settle in America!" he exclaimed.
« Why should they do that ? "

"Who can tell why?" you answered. "Mary Brading's
husband is mad, — and Mary Brading herself is not much
better."

You touched your horse with the whip, and, in a moment
more, you and your brother were out of my old nurse's hearing.
She wrote and told me, what I here tell you, by a recent
mail. I have been thinking of those last words of yours in
my leisure hours, more seriously than you would suppose.
The end of it is that I take up my pen, on behalf of my hus-
band and myself, to tell you the story of our marriage, and the
reason for our emigration to the United States of America.

It matters little or nothing, to him or to me, whether our
friends in England think us both mad or not. Their opin-
ions, hostile or favorable, are of no sort of importance to us.
But you are an exception to the rule. In bygone days at
school we were fast and firm friends ; and — what weighs
with me even more than this — you were heartily loved and
admired by my dear mother. She spoke of you tenderly on
her death-bed. Events have separated us of late years. But
I cannot forget the old times ; and I cannot feel indifferent
to your opinion of me and of my husband, — though an ocean
does separate us, and though we are never likely to look on
one another again. It is very foolish of me, I dare say, to
take seriously to heart what you said in one of your thought-
less moments. I can only plead in excuse, that I have gone
through a great deal of suffering, and that I was always (as
you may remember) a person of sensitive temperament, easily
excited and easily depressed.

A FATAL FORTUNE. 179

Enough of this ! Do me the last favor I shall ever ask of
you. Read what follows, and judge for yourself whether my
husband and I are quite as mad as you were disposed to
think us, when Nancy Connell heard you talking to your
brother in Hyde Park.

II.

It is now more than a year since I went to Eastbourne, on
the coast of Sussex, with my father and my brother James.

My brother had then, as we hoped, recovered from the ef-
fects of a fall in the hunting-field. He complained, however,
at times of pain in his head ; and the doctors advised us to
try the sea air. We removed to Eastbourne, without a sus-
picion of the serious nature of the injury that he had re-
ceived. For a few days, all went well. We liked the place ;
the air agreed with us ; and we determined to prolong our
residence for some weeks to come.

On our sixth day at the seaside, — a memorable day to
me, for reasons which you have still to learn, — my brother
complained again of the old pain in his head. He and I
went out together to try what exercise would do towards
relieving him. We walked through the town to the fort at
one end of it, and then followed a footpath running by the
side of the sea, over a dreary waste of shingle, bounded at
its inland extremity by the road to Hastings and by the
marshy country beyond.

We had left the fort at some little distance behind us. I
was walking in front ; and James was following me. He was
talking as quietly as usual, when he suddenly stopped in the
middle of a sentence. I turned round in surprise, and dis-

l8o LOTOS LEAVES.

covered my brother prostrate on the path, in convulsions
te rible to see.

It was the first epileptic fit I had ever witnessed. My
presence of mind entirely deserted me. I could only wring
my hands in horror, and scream for help. No one appeared,
either from the direction of the fort or of the high road.
I was too far off, I suppose, to make myself heard. Look-
ing ahead of me, along the path, I discerned, to my infinite
relief, the figure of a man running towards me. As he came
nearer, I saw that he was unmistakably a gentleman, — young,
and eager to be of service to me.

"Pray compose yourself!" he said, after a look at my
brother. ** It is very dreadful to see ; but it is not danger-
ous. We must wait until the convulsions are over, and
then I can help you."

He seemed to know so much about it, that I thought he
might be a medical man. I put the question to him plainly.

He colored, and looked a little confused.

" I am not a doctor," he said. " I happen to have seen
persons aflfllicted with epilepsy ; and I have heard medical
men say that it is useless to interfere until the fit has worn
itself out. See ! " he added, " your brother is quieter already.
He will soon feel a sense of relief which will more than com-
pensate him for what he has suffered. I will help him to
get to the fort ; and, once there, we can send for a carriage
to take him home."

In five minutes more, we were on our way to the fort ; the
stranger supporting my brother as attentively and tenderly as
if he had been an old friend. When the carriage arrived, he
insisted on accompanying us to our own door, on the chance

A FA7 \L FORTUNE. l8l

that his servicer might still be of some use. He left us,
asking permission tO call and inquire after James's hedth the
next day. A more gen e and unassuming person I never
met with. He not only excited my warmest gratitude ; he
really interested me at mj first meeting with him.

I lay some stress on the impression which this young man
produced upon me, — why, you will soon find out.

The next day the stranger paid his promised visit of inquiry.
His card, which he sent up stairs, informed us that his name
was Roland Cameron. My father — who is not easily pleased
— took a liking to him at once. His visit was prolonged, at
our request. In the course of conversation, he said just enough
about himself to satisfy us that we were receiving a person
who was at least of equal rank with ourselves. Born in Eng-
land, of a Scotch family, he had lost both his parents. Not
long since, he had inherited a fortune from one of his uncles.
It struck us as a little strange that he spoke of this fortune
with a marked change to melancholy in his voice and his
manner. The subject was, for some inconceivable reason,
evidently distasteful to him. Rich as he was, he acknowledged
that he led a simple and solitary life. He had little taste
for society, and no sympathies in common with the average
young men of his own age. But he had his own harmless
pleasures and occupations ; and past sorrow and suffering
had taught him not to expect too much from life. All this
was said modestly, with a winning charm of look and voice
which indescribably attracted me. His personal appearance
aided the favorable impression which his manner and his con-
versation produced. He was of the middle height, lightly and
firmly built ; his complexion pale ; his hands and feet small

l82 LOTOS LEAVES.

and finely shaped ; his brown hair curling naturally ; his eyes
large and dark, with an occasional indecision in their expres-
sion which was far from being an objection to them, to my
taste. It seemed to harmonize with an occasional indecision
in his talk ; proceeding, as I was inclined to think, from some
passing confusion in his thoughts which it always cost him a
little effort to discipline and overcome. Does it surprise you
to find how closely I observed a man who was only a chance
acquaintance, at my first interview with him ? Or do your
suspicions enlighten you, and do you say to yourself. She has
fallen in love with Mr. Roland Cameron at first sight? I
may plead in my own defence, that I was not quite romantic
enough to go that length. But I own I waited for his next
visit, with an impatience which was new to me in my experi-
ence of my sober self And worse still, when the day came,
I changed my dress three times, before my newly developed
vanity was satisfied with the picture which the looking-glass
presented to me of myself!

In a fortnight more, my father and my brother began to
look on the daily companionship of our new friend as one of
the settled institutions of their lives. In a fortnight more,
Mr. Roland Cameron and I — though we neither of us ven-
tured to acknowledge it — were as devotedly in love with
each other as two young people could well be. Ah, what a
delightful time it was ! and how cruelly soon our happiness
came to an end !

During the brief interval which I have just described, I
observed certain peculiarities in Roland Cameron's conduct
which perplexed and troubled me, when my mind vas busy
with him in my lonely moments.

A FATAL FORTUNE. 183

For instance, he was subject to the strangest lapses into
silence when he and I were talking together. They seized
him suddenly, in the most capricious manner; sometimes
when he was speaking, sometimes when / was speaking. At
these times, his eyes assumed a weary, absent look, and his
mind seemed to wander away, — far from the conversation
and far from me. He was perfectly unaware of his own
infirmity: he fell into it unconsciously, and came out of it
unconsciously. If I noticed that he had not been attending
to me, or if I asked why he had been silent, he was com-
pletely at a loss to comprehend what I meant. What he was
thinking of in these pauses of silence, it was impossible to
guess. His face, at other times singularly mobile and expres-
sive, became almost a perfect blank. Had he suffered some
terrible shock, at some past period of his life } and had his
'mind never quite recovered it } I longed to ask him the
question, and yet I shrank from doing it, — I was so sadly
afriid of distressing him ; or, to put it in plainer words, I was
so truly and so tenderly fond of him.

Then, again, though he was ordinarily the most gentle and
most lovable of men, there were occasions when he would
surprise me by violent outbreaks of temper, excited by the
merest trifles. A dog barking suddenly at his heels, or a
boy throwing stones in the road, or an importunate shop-
keeper trying to make him purchase something that he did
not want, would throw him into a frenzy of rage which was,
without exaggeration, really alarming to see. He always
apologized for these outbreaks, in terms which showed that
he was smcerely ashamed of his own violence. But he could
never succeed in controlling himself The lapses into pas-

l84 LOTOS LEAVES.

sion, like the lapses into silence, took him into their own
possession, and did with him, for the time being, just what
they pleased.

One more example of Roland's peculiarities, and I have
done. The strangeness of his conduct, in this case, was
noticed by my father and my brother as well as by me.

When Roland was with us in the evening, whether he
came to dinner or to tea, he invariably left us exactly at
nine o'clock. Try as we might to persuade him to stay
longer, he always politely but positively refused. Even / had
no influence over him in this matter. When I pressed him
to remain, — though it cost him an effort, — he still persisted
in retiring exactly as the clock struck nine. He gave no
reason for this strange proceeding ; he only said that it was
a habit of his, and begged us to indulge him, without asking
for any further explanation. My father and my brother (being
men) succeeded in controlling their curiosity. For my part
(being a woman), every day that passed only made me more
and more eager to penetrate the mystery. I privately re-
solved to choose my time, when Roland was in a particularly
accessible humor, and then to appeal to him for the explana-
tion which he had hitherto refused, as a special favor granted
to myself

In two days more I found my opportunity.

Some friends of ours, who had joined us at Eastbourne,
proposed a picnic party to the famous neighboring cliff called
Beachy Head. We accepted the invitation. The day was
lovely, and the gypsy dinner was, as usual, infinitely prefer-
able (for once in a way) to a formal dinner in-doors. To-
wards the evening our little assembly separated into parties

A FATAL FORTUNE. 185

of two and three, to explore the neighborhood. Roland and
I found ourselves together as a matter of course. We were
happy, and we were alone. Was it the right or the wrong
time to ask the fatal question ? I am not able to decide, —
I only know that I asked it.

III.

"Mr. Cameron,".! said, "will you make allowances for a
weak woman ? And will you tell me something that I am
dying to know ? "

He walked straight into the trap, — with that entire ab-
sence of ready wit, or small suspicion (I leave yoii to choose
the right phrase), which is so much like men, and so little
like women.

" Of course I will ! " he answered.

*' Then tell me,'* I asked, " why do you always insist on
leaving us at nine o'clock ? "

He started, and looked at me, so sadly, so reproachfully,
that I would have given everything I possessed to recall the
rash words that had just passed my lips.

" If I consent to tell you," he replied, after a momentary
struggle with himself, "will you let me put a question to
you first ? and will you promise to answer it ? "

I gave him my promise, and waited eagerly for what was
coming next.

"Miss Brading," he said, "tell me honestly, do you think
I am mad ? "

It was impossible to laugh at him : he spoke those strange
words seriously, sternly I might almost say.

"No such thought ever entered my mind," I answered.

l86 LOTOS LEAVES.

He looked at me very earnestly.

" You say that, on your word of honor ? "

" On my word of honor."

I answered with perfect sincerity ; and I evidently satisfied
him that I had spoken the truth. He took my hand, and
lifted it gratefully to his lips.

"Thank you," he said simply. *'You encourage me to tell
you a very sad story."

"Your own story .^" I asked.

" My own story. Let me begin by telling you why I per-
sist in leaving your house, always at the same early hour.
Whenever I go out, I am bound by a promise to the person
with whom I am living here, to return at a quarter past nine
o'clock."

" The person with whom you are living } " I repeated.
" You are living at a boarding-house, are you not ? "

"I am living, Miss Brading, under the care of a doctor
who keeps an asylum for the insane. He has taken a house
for some of his wealthier patients at the seaside ; and he
allows me my liberty in the daytime, on the condition that
I faithfully perform my promise at night. It is a quarter of
an hour s walk from your house to the doctor's ; and it is a
rule that the patients retire at half past nine o'clock."

Here was the mystery, which had so sorely perplexed me,
revealed at !ast ! The disclosure literally struck me speech-
less. Unconsciously and instinctively I drew back from him
a few steps. He fixed his sad eyes on me with a touching
look of entreaty.

"Don't shrink away from me!" he said. " You don't think
I am mad ? "

A FATAL FORTUNE. 187

I was too confused and distressed to know what to say ;
and, at the same time, I was too fond of him not to an-
swer that appeal. I took his hand and pressed it in silence.
He turned his head aside for a moment. I thought I saw
a tear on his cheek ; I felt his hand close tremblingly on
mine. He mastered himself with surprising resolution: he
spoke with perfect composure when he looked at me again.

" Do you care to hear my story," he asked, " after what
I have just told you.^"

" I am eager to hear it," I answered. " You do not know
how I feel for you ! I am too distressed to be able to ex-
press myself in words."

"You are the kindest and dearest of women!" he said,
with the utmost fervor and at the same time with the ut-
most respect.

We sat down together in a grassy hollow of the cliff, with
our faces towards the grand gray sea. The daylight was be-
ginning to fade, as I heard the story which made me Roland
Cameron's wife.

IV.

"My mother died when I was an infant in arms," he be-
gan. "My father, from my earliest to my latest recollec-
tions, was always hard towards me. I have been told that
I was an odd child, with strange ways of my own. My
father detested anything that was strongly marked, anything
out of the ordinary way, in the characters and habits of the
persons about him. He himself lived (as the phrase is) by
line and rule ; and he determined to make his son follow
his example. I was subjected to severe discipline at school.

I88 LOTOS LEAVES.

and I was carefully watched afterwards at college. Looking
back on my early life, I can see no traces of happiness, I
can find no tokens of sympathy. Sad submission to a hard
destiny, weary wayfaring over unfriendly roads, — such is the
story of my life, from ten years old to twenty.

" I passed one autumn vacation at the Lakes ; and there
I met by accident with a young French lady. The result of
that meeting decided my whole after-life.

" She filled the humble position of nursery-governess in the
house of a wealthy Englishman. ' I had frequent opportuni-
ties of seeing her. Her life had been a hard one, like mine.
We took an innocent pleasure in each other's society. Her
little experience of life was strangely like mine : there was a
perfect sympathy of thought and feeling between us. We
loved, or thought we loved. I was not twenty-one, and she
was not eighteen, when I asked her to be my wife.

" I can understand my folly now, and can laugh at it or
lament over it, as the humor moves me. And yet, I can't
help pitying myself, when I look back at myself at that time,
— I was so young, so hungry for a little sympathy, so weary
of my empty, friendless life! Well, everything is comparative
in this world. I was soon to regret, bitterly to regret, that
friendless life, wretched as it was.

** The poor girl's employer found out our attachment, through
his wife. He at once communicated with my father.

*'My father had but one word to say, — he insisted on my
going abroad, and leaving it to him to release me from my
absurd engagement, in my absence. I answered him that I
should be of age in a few months, and that I was determined

to marry the girl. He gave me three days to reconsider my

A FATAL FORTUNE. ' 189

resolution. I held to my resolution. In a week afterwards,
I was declared insane by two medical men ; and I was placed
by my father in a lunatic asylum.

" Was it an act of insanity for the son of a gentleman,
with great expectations before him, to propose marriage to
a nursery-governess ? I declare, as God is my witness, I
know of no other act of mine which could justify my father,
and justify the doctors, in placing me under restraint.

" I was three years in the asylum. It was officially reported
that the air did not agree with me. I was removed, for two
years more, to another asylum, in a remote part of England.
For the five best years of my life I have been herded with
madmen, — and my reason has survived it. The impression
I produce on you, on your father, on your brother, on all our
friends at this picnic, is that I am as reasonable as the rest
of my fellow-creatures. Am I rushing to a hasty conclusion,
when I assert myself to be now, and always to have been, a
sane man ?

" At the end of my five years of arbitrary imprisonment in
a free country, happily for me, — I am ashamed to say it, but
I must speak the truth, — happily for me, my merciless father
died. His trustees, to whom I was now consigned, felt some
pity for me. They could not take the responsibility of grant-
ing me my freedom. But they placed me under the care of
a surgeon, who received me into his private residence, and
who allowed me free exercise in the open air.

** A year's trial in this new mode of life satisfied the surgeon,
and satisfied every one else who took the smallest interest in
me, that I was perfectly fit to enjoy my liberty. I was freed
from all restraint, and was permitted to reside with a near

igo LOTOS LEAVES.

relative of mine, in that very Lake country which had been
the scene of my fatal meeting with the French girl, six years
since.

"In this retirement I lived happily, satisfied with the ordi-
nary pleasures and pursuits of a country gentleman. Time
had long since cured me of my boyish infatuation for the
nursery-governess. I could revisit with perfect composure
the paths along which we had walked, the lake on which we
had sailed together. Hearing by chance that she was mar-
ried in her own country, I could wish her all possible happi-
ness, with the sober kindness of a disinterested friend. What
a strange thread of irony runs through the texture of the
simplest human life ! The early love for which I had sacri-
ficed and suffered so much was now revealed to me, in its
true colors, as a boy's passing fancy, — nothing more!

" Three years of peaceful freedom passed ; freedom which,
on the uncontradicted testimony of respectable witnesses, I
never abused. Well, that long and happy interval, like. all
intervals, came to its end ; and then the great misfortune
of my life fell upon me. One of my uncles died and left me
inheritor of his whole fortune. I alone, to the exclusion of
all the other heirs, now received, not only the large income
derived from his estates, but seventy thousand pounds in
ready money as well.

"The vile calumny which had asserted me to be mad was
now revived by the wretches interested in stepping between
me and my inheritance. A year ago, I was sent back again
to the asylum in which I had been last imprisoned. The pre-
tence for confining me was found in an act of violence (as it
was called) which I had committed in a momentary outbreak

A FATAL FORTUxNE. 191

of anger, and which it was acknowledged had led to no
serious results. Having got me into the asylum, the con-
spirators proceeded to complete their work. A Commission
in Lunacy was issued against me. It was held by one com-
missioner, without a jury, and without the presence of a law-
yer to assert my interests. By one man's decision, I was
declared to be of unsound mind. The custody of my person,
and the management of my estates, was confided to men
chosen from among the conspirators who had declared me to
be mad. I am here through the favor of the proprietor of
the asylum, who has given me my holiday at the seaside,
and who humanely trusts me with my liberty, as you see.
At barely thirty years old, I am refused the free use of my
money and the free management of my affairs. At barely
thirty years old, I am officially declared to be a lunatic for
life."

He paused ; his head sank on his breast ; his story was
told.

I have repeated his words as nearly as I can remember
them ; but I can give no idea of the modest and touching
resignation with which he spoke. To say that I pitied him.
with my whole heart, is to say nothing. I loved him with
my whole heart, — and I may acknowledge it now!

" O, Mr. Cameron," I said, as soon as I could trust myself
to speak, " can nothing be done to help you ? Is there no
hope ? "

•'There is always hope," he answered, without raising his
head. " I have to thank j^ou, Miss Brading, for teaching me
that."

192 LOTOS LEAVES.

" To thank me ? " I repeated. *' How have I taught you to
hope ? "

"You have brightened my dreary life. When I am with
you, all my bitter remembrances leave me. I am a happy
man again ; and a happy man can always hope. I dream
now of finding, what I have never yet had, a dear and de-
voted friend, who will rouse the energy that has sunk in me
under the martyrdom that I have endured. Why do I sub-
mit to the loss of my rights and my liberty, without an effort
to recover them ? I was alone in the world, until I met with
you. I had no kind hand to raise me, no kfnd voice to
encourage me. Shall I ever find the hand ? Shall I ever
hear the voice .^ When I am with you, the hope that you
have taught me answers. Yes. When I am by myself, the
the old despair comes back, and says, No."

He lifted his head for the first time. If I had not under-
stood what his words meant, his look would have enlightened
me. The tears came into my eyes ; my heart heaved and
fluttered wildly ; my hands mechanically tore up and scat-
tered the grass around me. The silence became unendura-
ble. I spoke, hardly knowing what I was saying ; tearing
faster and faster the poor harmless grass, as if my whole
business in life was to pull up the greatest quantity in the
shortest possible space of time !

** We have only known each other a little while," I said.
" And a woman is but a weak ally in such a terrible posi-
tion as yours. But useless as I may be, count on me now
and always as your friend — "

He moved close to me before I could say more, and took
my hand. He murmured in my ear.

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BLl^~'

A FATAL FORTUNE. I93

" May I count on you, one day, as the nearest and dearest
friend of all ? Will you forgive me, Mary, if I own that I
love you ? You have taught me to love, as you have taught
me to hope. It is in your power to' lighten my hard lot.
You can recompense me for all that I have suffered ; you
can rouse me to struggle for my freedom and my rights.
Be the good angel of my life. Forgive me, love me, rescue
me, — be my wife ! "

I don't know how it happened. I found myself in his
arms, and I answered him in a kiss. Taking all the circum-
stances into consideration, I daresay I was guilty, in accept-
ing him, of the rashest act that ever a woman committed.
Very well. I did n't care then : I don't care now. I was
then, and I am now, the happiest woman living!

VI.

It was necessary that either he or I should tell my father
of what had passed between us. On reflection, I thought it
best that I should make the disclosure. The day after the
picnic, I repeated to my father Roland's melancholy narrative,
as a necessary preface to the announcement that I had prom-
ised to be Roland's wife.

My father saw the obvious objections to the marriage. He
warned me of the imprudence which I contemplated commit-
ting, in the strongest terms. Our prospect of happiness, if
we married, in our present position, would depend entirely on
our capacity to legally supersede the proceedings of the
Lunacy Commission. Success ir this arduous undertaking was,
to say the least of it, uncertain. The commonest prudence

*»

194 LOTOS LEAVES.

pointed to the propriety of delaying our marriage until the
doubtful experiment had been put to the proof.

This reasoning was unanswerable. It was, nevertheless,
completely thrown away upon me. When did a woman in
love ever listen to reason ? I believe there is no instance of
it on record. My father's wise words of caution had no
chance against Roland's fervent entreaties. The days of his
residence at Eastbourne were drawing to a close. If I let
him return to the asylum an unmarried man, months, years
perhaps, might pass before our union could take place. Could
I expect him, could I expect any man, to endure that cruel
separation, that unrelieved suspense ? His mind had been
sorely tried already ; his miqd might give way under it.
These were the arguments that carried weight with them, in
my judgment ! I was of age, and free to act as I pleased.
You are welcome, if you like, to consider me the most fool-
ish and the most obstinate of women. In sixteen days from
the date of the picnic, Roland and I were privately married
at Eastbourne.

My father — more grieved than angry, poor man ! — de-
clined to be present at the ceremony, in justice to himself.
My brother gave me away at the altar.

Roland and I spent the afternoon of the wedding-day and
the earlier part of the evening together. At nine o'clock,
he returned to the doctors house, exactly as usual; having
previously explained to me that he was in the power of the
Court of Chancery, and that until we succeeded in setting
aside the proceedings of the Lunacy Commission, there was a
serious necessity for keeping the marriage strictly secret.
My husband and I kissed, and said good by till to-morrow.

A FATAL FORTUNE. 195

as the clock struck the hour. I little thought, while I looked
after him from the street dooi, that months on months were
to pass before I saw Roland again.

A hurried note from my husband reached me the next
morning. Our marriage had been discovered (we never could
tell by whom), and we had been betrayed to the doctor. Ro-
land was then on his way back to the asylum. He had been
warned that force would be used if he resisted. Knowing
that resistance would be interpreted, in his case, as a new
outbreak of madness, he had wisely submitted. *' I have made
the sacrifice," the letter concluded, *' it is now for you to
help me. Attack the Commission in Lunacy, and be quick
about it."

We lost no time in preparing for the attack. On the day
when I received the news of our misfortune, we left Eastbourne
for London, and at once took measures to obtain the best legal
advice.

My dear father — though I was far from deserving his kind-
ness — entered into the matter heart and soul. In due course
of time, we presented a petition to the Lord Chancellor, pray-
ing that the decision of the lunacy commission might be set
aside.

We supported our petition by citing the evidence of Roland's
friends and neighbors, during his three years* residence in
the Lake country as a free man. These worthy people had •
one and all agreed that he was, as to their judgment and
experience, perfectly quiet, harmless, and sane. Many of them
had gone out shooting with him. Others had often accompa-
nied him in sailing excursions on the lake. Do people trust
a madman with a gun, and with the management of a boat?

196 LOTOS LEAVES.

As to the *'act of violence," which the heirs at law and the
next of kin had made the means of imprisoning Roland in
the madhouse, it amounted to this. He had lost his temper,
and had knocked a man down who had offended him. Very
wrong, no doubt ; but if that is a proof of madness, what
thousands of lunatics are still at large ! Another instance
produced to prove his insanity was still more absurd. It was
solemnly declared that he put an image of the Virgin Mary
in his boat when he went out on his sailing excursions ! I
have seen the image, — it was a very beautiful work of art.
Was Roland mad to admire it, and take it with him } His
religious convictions leaned towards Catholicism. If he be-
trayed insanity in adorning his boat with an image of the
Virgin Mary, what is the mental condition of most of the
ladies in Christendom, who wear the Cross as an ornament
round their necks ? We advanced these arguments in our
petition, after quoting the evidence of the witnesses. And,
more than this, we even went the length of admitting, as an
act of respect to the Court, that my poor husband might be
eccentric in some of his opinions and habits. But we put it
to the authorities whether better results might not be expected
from placing him under the care of a wife who loved him,
and whom he loved, than from shutting him up in an asylum,
among incurable madmen as his companions for life.

Such was our petition, so far as I am able to describe it.

The decision rested with the Lords Justices. They decided
against us.

Turning a deaf ear to our witnesses and our arguments,
these merciless lawyers declared that the doctor's individual
assertion of my husband's insanity was enough for them.

A FATAL FORTUNE. I97

They considered Roland's comfort to be sufficiently provided
for in the asylum, with an allowance of seven hundred pounds
a year ; and to the asylum they consigned him for the rest
of his days.

So far as I was concerned, the result of this infamous judg-
ment was to deprive me of the position of Roland's wife ; no
lunatic being capable of contracting marriage by law. So far
as my husband was concerned, the result may be best stated
in the language of a popular newspaper which published an
article on the case. "It is possible," (said the article, — I
wish I could personally thank the man who wrote it !) " for
the Court of Chancery to take a man who has a large for-
tune, and is in the prime of life, but is a little touched in the
head, and make a monk of him, and then report to itself
that the comfort and happiness of the lunatic have been effect-
ually provided for at the expenditure of seven hundred pounds
a year."

Roland was determined, however, that they should not make
a monk of him ; and, you may rely upon it, so was I !

But one alternative was left to us. The authority of the
Court of Chancery (within its jurisdiction) is the most des-
potic authority on the face of the earth. Our one hope was
in taking to flight. The price of our liberty, as citizens of
England, was exile from our native country, and the entire
abandonment of Roland's fortune. We accepted those hard
conditions. Hospitable America offered us a refuge, beyond
the reach of mad-doctors and Lords Justices. To hospitable
America our hearts turned as to our second country. The
serious question was. — how were we to get there }

We had attempted to correspond, and had failed. Our let-

198 LOTOS LEAVES.

ters had been discovered and seized by the proprietor of the
asylum. Fortunately, we had taken the precaution of writing
in a "cipher" of Roland's invention, which he had taught
me before our marriage. Though our letters were illegible,
our purpose was suspected, as a matter of course ; and a watch
was kept on my husband, night and day.

Foiled in our first effort at making arrangements secretly
for our flight, we continued our correspondence (still in cipher),
by means of advertisements in the newspapers. This second
attempt was discovered in its turn. Roland was refused per-
mission to subscribe to the newspapers, and was forbidden
to enter the reading-room at the asylum.

These tyrannical prohibitions came too late. Our plans
had already been communicated : we understood each other,
and we had now only to bide our time. We had arranged
that my brother, and a friend of his on whose discretion we
could thoroughly rely, should take it in turns to watch every
evening, for a given time, at an appointed meeting-place,
three miles distant from the asylum. The spot had been
carefully chosen. It was on the bank of a lonely stream, and
close to the outskirts of a thick wood. A water-proof knap-
sack, containing a change of clothes, a false beard and a wig,
and some biscuits and preserved meat, was hidden in a hollow
tree. My brother and his friend always took their fishing-
rods with them, and presented themselves as engaged in the
innocent occupation of angling, to any chance strangers who
might pass within sight of them. On one occasion the pro-
prietor of the asylum himself rode by them, on the opposite
bank of the stream, and asked politely if they had had good
sport !

A FATAL FORTUNE. I99

For a fortnight, these stanch allies of ours relieved each
other regularly on their watch, and no signs of the fugitive
appeared. On the fifteenth evening, just as the twilight was
changing into night, and just as my brother (whose turn it
was) had decided on leaving the place, Roland suddenly joined
him on the bank of the stream.

Without wasting a moment in words, the two at once en-
tered the wood, and took the knapsack from its place of shel-
ter in the hollow tree. In ten minutes more, my husband was
dressed in a suit of workman's clothes, and was further dis-
guised in the wig and beard. The two then set forth down
the course of the stream, keeping in the shadow of the wood
until the night had fallen and the darkness hid them. The
night was cloudy : there was no moon. After walking two
miles, or a little more, they altered their course, and made
boldly for the high road to Manchestei ; entering on it at a
point some thirty miles distant from the city.

On their way from the wood, Roland described the manner
in which he had effected his escape.

The story was simple enough. He had assumed to be
suffering from nervous illness, and had requested to have his
meals in his own room. For the first fortnight, the two men
appointed to wait upon him in succession, week by week,
were both more than his match in strength. The third man
employed, at the beginning of the third week, was, physically,
a less formidable person than his predecessors. Seeing this,
Roland decided, when evening came, on committing another
"act of violence." In plain words, he sprang upon the keeper,
waiting on him in his room, and gagged and bound the man.
This done, he laid the unlucky keeper (face to the wall) on

200 LOTOS LEAVES.

his own bed, covered with his own cloak, so that any one
entering ,the room might suppose that he was lying down
to rest. He had previously taken the precaution to remove
the sheets from the bed ; and he had now only to tie them
together to escape by the window of his room, situated on
the upper floor of the house. The sun was setting, and the
inmates of the asylum were at tea. After narrowly missing
discovery by one of the laborers employed in the grounds, he
had climbed the garden enclosure, and had dropped on the
other side, a free man !

Arrived on the high road to Manchester, my husband and
my brother parted.

Roland, who was an excellent walker, set forth on his way
to Manchester on foot. He had food in his knapsack, and he
proposed to walk some twelve or fifteen miles on the road to
the city, before he stopped at any town or village to rest.
My brother, who was physically incapable of accompanying
him, returned to the place in which I was then residing, to
tell me the good news.

By the first train the next morning, I travelled to Manches-
ter, and took a lodging in a suburb of the city well known
to my husband. A prim smoky little square was in the imme-
diate neighborhood ; and we had arranged that whichever of us
first arrived in Manchester should walk round that square, be-
tween twelve and one in the afternoon, and between six and
seven in the evening. In the evening I kept my appointment.
A dusty, footsore man, in shabby clothes, with a hideous beard,
and a knapsack on his back, met me at my first walk round.
He smiled as I looked at him. Ah ! I knew that smile
through all disguises ! In spite of the Court of Chancery

A FATAL FORTUNE. 201

and the Lords Justices, I was in my husband's arms once
more.

We lived quietly in our retreat for a month.

During that time (as I heard by letters from my brother)
nothing that money and cunning could do towards discover-
ing Roland, was left untried by the proprietor of the asylum
and by the persons acting with him. But where is the cun-
ning which can trace a man, who, escaping at night in dis-
guise, has not trusted himself to a railway or a carriage, and
who takes refuge in a great city in which he has no friends ?
At the end of one month in Manchester, we travelled north-
ward ; crossed the channel to Ireland, and passed a pleasant
fortnight in Dublin. Leaving this again, we made our way to
Cork and Queenstown, and embarked from that latter place,
taking steerage passage in a steamship bound for America.

My story is told. I am writing these lines from a farm in
the West of the United States. Our neighbors may be homely
enough, but the roughest of them is kinder to us than a
mad-doctor or a Lord Justice. Roland is happy in those agri-
cultural pursuits which have always been favorite pursuits
with him ; and I am happy with Roland. Our sole resources
consist of my humble little fortune, inherited from my dear
mother. After deducting our travelling expenses, the sum
total amounts to between seven and eight hundred pounds ;
and this, as we find, is amply sufficient to start us in the new
life that we have chosen. We expect my father and my
brother to pay us a visit next summer ; and I think it just
possible that they may find our family circle increased by the
presence of a new member in long clothes. Are there no
compensations here, for exile from England and the loss of a

202 LOTOS LEAVES.

fortune? We think there are. But then, my dear Miss An-
stell, •* Mary Brading's husband is mad ; and Mary Brading
herself is not much better."

If you feel inclined to alter this opinion, and if you re-
member our old days at school as tenderly as I remember
them, write and tell me so. Your letter will be forwarded,
if you send it to the enclosed address at New York.

In the mean time, the moral of our story seems to be
worthy of serious consideration. A certain Englishman legally
inherits a large fortune. At the time of his inheritance, he
has been living as a free man for three years, without once
abusing his freedom, and with the express sanction of the
medical superintendent who has had experience and charge
of him. His next of kin and heirs at law (who are left out
of the fortune) look with covetous eyes at the money, and de-
termine to get the management and the ultimate possession
of it. Assisted by a doctor, whose honesty and capacity
must be taken on trust, these interested persons, in this nine-
teenth century of progress, can lawfully imprison their relative
for life, in a country which calls itself free, and which declares
that its justice is equally administered to all alike.

Note. — The reader is informed that this story is founded, in all essen-
tial particulars, on a case which actually occurred in England, eight years

since.

W. C.

In Echo CaNon.

IN ECHO CANON.

By NOAH BROOKS.

E had been several days in Echo Caflon.
This picturesque defile in the Wahsatch
range of mountains is not so extensive that
one need long tarry there if in haste.
Nowadays the passenger-trains of the Pa-
cific Railroad are whisked through it so
rapidly, that the wondering tourist hardly gets a sight of the
striking panorama on either side of him. But in the early
times of California emigration, of .which I shall write, Echo
Caflon was a favorite place for the rest and refreshment
needed by men and beasts weary with a long tramp through
dust and heat and over stony trails and alkaline deserts, all
the way from " the States." The caflon was filled with ver-
dure ; along the banks of a small stream that wound through
it were graceful birches, alders, and box-elders, with many a
silvery cottonwood and sturdy young sycamore. The under-
growth was a tangle of sumach-bushes, wild vines, and flower-
ing shrubs. Here and there were sunny patches of rich grass ;
and in the rocky edges of the winding defile grew salmon-
berries, gooseberries, and wild currants in great profusion.

The walls of the caflon are precipitous; the beetling cliffs
rise three or four hundred feet on either side in fantastic

206 LOTOS LEAVES.

shapes, resembling castles, turrets, spires, and airy domes.
The prevailing tint of these mimic architectural wonders is a
mellow yellow. The walls and flying buttresses are flecked
with red and orange. The crumbling mass, broad in its
efi'ect of light and color, is clouded with all hues of buft' drab,
pale umber, and safiVon. I have seen the rich heart of a
Cheshire cheese present the same tones and melting shades.
This figure is not a lofty one, but it will occur to the un-
romantic observer. Shut in by these glorious cliffs, abun-
dant in water, fuel, and pasturage, — three things most desired
by the overland emigrant, — Echo Canon detained our Httle
party many days. We rested luxuriously in the midst of the
cool herbage. Wagons were mended, clothes once more
patched up, cattle were allowed to wander at their own
•sweet will, wild berries from the vines about us refreshed
palates weary of the unvarying fare of bread and "side
meat," and, above all, we were secure from Indian alarms.

In my day I have been in many charming places enriched
by the hand of Nature or Art, have enjoyed lotos-eating in
great content, and have sat at costly feasts ; but above all
the pleasures that have ministered to the senses in all my
years, I still give chief place to those two or three days
of camp-life in Echo Cafton. The wild world of disappoint-
ment was months behind us ; the wilder world of struggle
was weeks before us ; and we four brawny youths, jaded and
footsore, bearing upon us the marks of long marches in alkali
dust, midnight adventures in the Indian country, and perilous
climbings in the Rocky Mountains, flung ourselves down in
the lush grass, and, eying the blue vault that bent over
thicket, stream, and cliff", murmured, "This is heaven!"

IN ECHO CAI^JON. 20/

To the California emigrant in those far-off days the world
was comprised in the threSd along which desultory travel
passed to and fro across the continent. Four months were
usually consumed by an emigrant train passing from the Mis-
souri to the Sacramento. With the last newspaper was dropped,
not unwillingly, the last link that bound the gold-seeker to the
life that he had known. Henceforth, without impatience, he
stretched his hands and eyes towards the golden west. Tid-
ings of that far-away land came to him in fragments, rumors,
and vague whispers. But mainly was he occupied with the
gossip and slow-travelling reports that slid backward and for-
ward on his line of march. Outside this narrow channel of
communication the world might go to wreck ; he would not
know it. He would not greatly worry about the concerns of
empires, kingdoms, and republics, so long as tidings of them
were as completely beyond his reach as if he were travelling
in the moon. He left civilization and the Missouri River be-
hind him ; the Sacramento and something else were before ;
all between was his present world, in which the things which
concern the majority of mankind had no possible represen-
tation.

Little by little, after we were fairly launched upon the con-
tinental waste, we knew our companions ; not those who sat
at our camp-fires and slept under our tent, but the mighty
multitude before us and behind us. Motley they were, and
divers their names. Each party had its individuality. There
were the Boston Chaps, the Jennesses, the Swearing Brothers,
Big Jake and his Boy, the Kewanee Fellers, the Man with
the Go-cart, the Brown Boys, the Wises, Old Missourah,
Toothpicks, and innumerable other little communities, nightly

2o8

LOTOS LEAVES.

westward,

r neighbor

s line that

i-\

and week
eristics, and
nicable. A
ugh pioneers

pitching their moving camps a day's march fa^
but each more truly individual than your ne:
is to you. These all stretched along the si
marked the trail across the continent.

Passing and repassing each other, day aft
after week, they learned the antecedents, c
adventures of each, so far as these were c
helpful, neighborly set of fellows were . thoscfi
of a new civilization. They made common /teause of each
other's difficulties when they met at dangjijrOT^ fords, steep
trails, and other trying passages by thei't&y. Common
perils brought wayfaring groups into comflfidn sympathy for
the time ; then, the emergency passed, each went toiling, re-
joicing, sorrowing, cursing, or singing on itsjivay. We knew
the dispositions and fortunes of those who wire ahead of us,
as well as those who followed hard after ui> The men by
whom we camped at Independence Rock wfcre before us at
Church Buttes ; we passed them at Greene' River, but they
crossed the Sierra Nevada before \ye left niney Lake. This
weaving of human shuttles to and fro carded the thread of
news, — a kind of intelligence that had no.great world gossip
in it. There were neighborhood reportS'.bf quarrels, fallings-
out by the way. exploits in hunting, condition of camping-
places ahead, depth of streams to be fprded, and the prices
of whiskey, flour, and bacon with those who had such rations
to sell All these items of daily news were colored by the
hopes and fears, passions and prejudices, of the reporters. I
suppose our straggling and long-drawrt public was not, after
all, much unlike any other. . .'

One sunny Sunday morning in Echo Cafton we were sur-

' I

N-

■ . I .

. i, . ' • ■

I •

' r

IN ECHO CANON. 200

prised by a visitor from a camp beyond us. Before we were
astir, he rode noisily up to our tent and bawled, "Hillo!
house ! " in mild derision of the effeminacy that deterred us
from sleeping in the open air or under wagons, as was the
' manner of most journeyers. We scrambled to the tent-flap

with a rude " Hillo ! hoss!" which rejoinder so tickled our
morning caller that he grinned as he said, " I allow you Ve
got a shovel i "

" Yes, we have. Want it } " *

" Ef you '11 lend it to our crowd (we 're the Sandy Hill
.| Boys), we'll have it back by sundo.wn. We want to bury a

man.

*' Bury a man ! Who 's dead up your way } "

*' Well, he ain't adzactly dead yit. It 's Old Missourah.
He 's bin a-stealin'. We *re goin' for to hold a court onto him
at noon, and hang him on the divide at four o'clock, sharp.
Whar 's yer shovel } Come down and see fair play } ""

Shocking as was this information, it was not novel, though
borrowing a shovel to dig a grave for a man not yet on trial
for his life had in it an element of grotesque newness to us.

The^ rude announcement of our visitor, who was not alto-
gether a stranger, dispelled the calm repose of Sunday in Echo
Caflon. The serene, pastoral stillness was gone, and. though
the ringing echoes of departing feet died away as Blue Pete
rode down the Cafion, we felt that with him had gone the
brief idyl of our days of rest. The tender sky looked down
on mimic tower and spire just as before*; there were the
golden light on the leaves and the sober twinkle on the
stream, but human crime and violence were just ready to
stain the sylvan purity of the little paradise.

2IO LOTOS LEAVES.

Breakfast over, we walked down the trail to the mouth of
the cafion where the Sandy Hill Boys were camped. The
caflon widens out into the valley of the Weber River. On
the right the ground is broken by a ridge or divide that
pushes into the undulating valley from the main chain here
cleft by Echo Cafion. Dotted over the grassy meadows bor-
dering the river were four or five camps, each distinguished
by its cluster of wagons, ox-yokes, and camp furniture, with
here and there a weather-stained canvas tent. Thin smoke
curled up from the smouldering camp-fires. Slatternly women
and tow-headed children hovered about two of the wagons ;
and some little attempt at old-time decency was solemnly
making by a few of the men who seemed to realize the im-
pressive importance of the approaching " trial."

We knew Old Missourah, the culprit in this little tragedy.
He was not more than sixty years of age, perhaps ; but his
face was dry and wrinkled, and his thin long hair was as
white as snow. He was a solitary traveller, journeying to
find his sons, who had gone to California with the first rush
for gold. He had a little two-wheeled canvas-covered cart,
drawn by a very small mule, or burro, so small that when
the diminutive equipage came in sight anywhere along the
road, the rough emigrants were ready with their jokes. Old
Missourah was usually advised to put his *'hoss" in his pocket
lest he should lose him ; or he was asked the price of rats ;
or some reference was made to the length of his legs and the
size of his go-cart. All along the trail, Old Missourah and
his poor little team were as well known as Big Jake, who
killed four men while running a-muck at City Rocks, or Bush
the Fiddler, with his one song of " Lather and Shave."

IN ECHO CANON. 2U

No more fun now for Old Missourah. His tall, gaunt
form lashed to a wagon-wheel, his head bowed upon his
breast, he was the image of helpless and guilty despair. A
useless keeper stood over him, offering him a ration of bread
and coffee ; but the old man, his thoughts apparently far
away, painfully waved his pinioned hands in refusal.

It was a short story. Old Missourah was charged with
stealing seventy-eight dollars and fifty cents, in gold and
silver coin, from Shanghai, a simple fellow, one of the Ver-
million County Boys. These were a small party of men
whom we now met for the first time, though we knew them
well. Shanghai was cook for the mess, and kept his money
in a buckskin purse in the *' grub-box" of his company's wag-
on. This box was, as usual with emigrant-wagons, carried
in the rear end of the vehicle, easily accessible from without.
It had a close, but unlocked lid ; and the men, trudging along
behind, could take a bite of luncheon as they marched. Down
among the humble table furniture, bits of food, small stores,
and miscellaneous dunnage, poor Shanghai had kept his little
store of worldly wealth.

On Saturday night, when they camped with the rest,
Shanghai's gold was secure. He had gone to it for
money enough to buy a hand of tobacco from a neighbor.
In the morning, when he took out his breakfast things, it
was gone. Andy Snow, one of the Vermillion County Boys,
had seen Old Missourah. the night before, go to the grub-
box, take something therefrom, and hide it in his shirt.
Thinking it was a cake of bread, good-natured Andy looked
another way and pretended not to see anything. The old
man was known to be miserably poor. But when the money

212 LOTOS LEAVES.

was missed, and simple Shanghai, bereft and woebegone,
made great lamentation through the camps, Andy remem-
bered* and told what he had witnessed. Then Blue Pete,
one of the Sandy Hill Boys, reinforced the evidence. He
swore, with a great many large oaths, that he saw Old Mis-
sourah coming away from Shanghai's grub-box, hiding some-
thing in his bosom ; he said he was cock-sure it was a bag,
a yellow buckskin bag.

Blue Pete was a pretty good fellow ; he had a low fore-
head, and a great shock of blue-black hair, and a blue welt
or scar across his cheek. But, for all that, he had a good,
honest face ; we always liked him. His evidence was con-
clusive. But for the sake of precedent and appearances, the
accused should have fair trial.

No trace of the missing purse was found. The principal
prosecutor, when questioned as to this part of the case,
said that he " *lowed that Old Missourah had got shut of
that thar pouch just as quick as he found thar was a-goin*
to be a row."

My heart went out to the friendless old man. But then,
everybody was sure he was guilty, circumstances were all
against him ; and if this sort of thing was to go on, whose
property was safe ? Men could usually take care ol their
Hves ; with property it was more difficult. Hangings for
murder were very few ; those for theft, particularly horse-theft,
were numerous. I do not know if the fact that murders
were more common than robberies has any connection with
this statement. But it was the fact. And, in truth, the pre-
vailing sentiment of the time was that Lynch-law was espe-
cially designed to protect personal property.

IN KCHO CANON. 213

Usually a Lynch-court on the road was a very informal
affair. There was no time to spare for needless ceremony ;
a viva voce vote on the question *' Guilty or not Guilty " was
all that was required to settle the case. I do not recollect
that the oral traditions of those days mention an instance
of an accused person being acquitted. The fatal tree was
selected before the prisoner was brought to the bar. But
in this case there was leisure enough for the necessaries,
if not for the luxuries, of a formal ceremonial. Here were
more than twenty men willing to " lay over " for the Sun-
day, and give Old Missourah a full trial. Indeed, the emi-
grants entered into the performances with a calm satisfaction
which came of a consciousness that they were doing *' the
square thing " by Old Missourah, and providing themselves
with a dignified diversion for the day. The trial and execu-
tion were an impromptu drama, which most of the performers
enjoyed very much.

Twelve men were duly chosen as the jury by drawing
twelve previously designated cards from a well-thumbed pack.
No man who drew anything higher than a ten-spot was com-
petent to serve ; and the drawing was continued until the
panel was complete. This formality over, the jury proceeded
to appoint a prosecuting attorney and a counsel for the defend-
ant. There was ilo judge; the jury thenceforward, in a some-
what disputative way, taking sole direction of the proceedings.

The public prosecutor was Bill Ballard, a stalwart Arkan-
sian, whose grammar was confused, but whose heart was
thought to be in the right place. He had proposed blow-
ing off the top of Old Missourah's head early in the d^
bate. The counsel for the accused was Royal Younkins, a

214 LOTOS LEAVES.

gentleman from Pike County, and of great physical beauty.
Blond, full-bearded, blue-eyed, and standing six feet in his
moccasons, Younkins was likened by the historical painter in
our party to young Edward of York, as he is pictured by
the chroniclers of the Wars of the Roses. A Saxon prince
in comeliness and bearing, Royal was well named. I regret
to add here that he was subsequently hung in Siskiyou
County, California, for several murders. He confessed five of
these before the hangman's noose was put over his beautiful
blond head.

There is not much to say about the trial. The jury sat
together on a rocky ledge that cropped out of the turf in
the midst of the camp. The prisoner, with an odd perver-
sion of judicial etiquette, was put in charge of Bill Ballard,
the prosecutor, who contended that this ** was the far thing
by the Vermillion County Boys," as he would take .care "that
Old Missourah did n't break for tall timber." Ballard's re-
volver was special constable.

The witnesses were examined ; they were Shanghai, Snow,
and Blue Pete. Shanghai testified as to the fact of his
money being in the grub-box on Saturday evening ; Snow
told how he saw Old Missourah taking something therefrom ;
and Blue Pete finished the chain of evidence by swearing
that he saw the accused take from the box something that
looked like a buckskin bag and hide it in his shirt-front. It
was a clear case ; and angry murmurs went around as the
shameful story was related once more, with some impercepti-
ble additions. Jake Wise, who, by virtue of having his wife
and mother with him, had the right to be spokesman for the
jury, said sternly to the old man, " Guilty or not Guilty ? "

IN ECHO CANON.. 215

Old Missourah, for the first time lifting up his white head,
tremblingly pleaded: " O, pity, kind gentlemen! I haven't
got Shanghai's money ; 'deed, I have n't. I 've two boys in
Yuby County, Californy. They '11 be master sorry to hear
of this ; 'deed, they will. I ain't right peart myself to-day.
My head 's kind of unstiddy-like ; I 'low you '11 put in a
good word for me. I was born in Arkansaw, I was."

This somewhat inconsequent appeal of the poor old man
was looked upon with profound disfavor by Royal Younkins,
to whom it was addressed. The court, that is to say, the
jury, ruled that the prosecuting attorney had **the first say."

Ballard, putting his special constable in his belt, blushed
with confusion and made his brief plea : ** I say, boys, this
yere old man 's been and stole this yere money. Shanghai 's
told yer so ; Andy Snow's told yer so; and Blue Pete, he
seen him take it. So what 's the use o' jawin' any more i^
As fur me, I want to git shut o' this bizness and git up and
git." The prosecuting attorney sat down with great relief,
and one impatient juror remarked, *' You bet yer."

Here the foreman of the jury, who was filling his pipe,
pointed the toe of his big boot at Royal Younkins, and said,
" Unyoke yer jaw, Younk, and waltz in."

Thus admonished, our Edward of York, in rude but forci-
ble language, begun his plea. It was chiefly personal at first.
For his part, he "had nothin' agin the old man." He had
** lost nary scad sence he had struck the plains." This amused
the jury; but it had no other effect. Presently, however,
with a natural fondness for rhetorical display, he assumed
the accused to be innocent. With considerable skill, he pic-
tured ** the boys " waiting on the banks of the Yuba for the

2l6 LOTOS LEAVES.

old man. He alluded to the prisoners great age, his white
hair, and the unlikelihood that such an aged man could be a
thief. He roughly analyzed the evidence, which he showed
to be purely circumstantial. He was proceeding to work on
the sympathies of his audience, when one of the jury, begin-
ning to weaken, bawled, *' O, dry up, dry up ! You Ve played
that."

Royal's face flushed in a moment, and, whipping out his
revolver, he said angrily, " You dry up, or I '11 — "

He did not finish his sentence, for he saw the impropriety
of his remark ; and the jury had scattered in all directions
when they saw his pistol come to light. He turned away
with a cunning smile, remarking to me as he passed, "I'm
dog-oned if I hev n't a mind to believe the old man 's inno-
cent, after all." Young Edward of York had almost convinced
himself for the moment.

The jury retired to an alder thicket with a small black
bottle of whiskey. They returned when it was empty, with a
verdict of, " Guilty of stealing in the first degree."

Jake Wise announced the finding of the court, and added
that the prisoner should be hanged forthwith. Some of us
who had conscientious objections to this summary trial and
execution made every possible effort for the old man's release.
It was offered to pay Shanghai twice the amount of money
he had lost, if Old Missourah might be let go in peace.
Poor Shanghai showed signs of relenting at the prospect of
recovcrinc: something ; but the crowd was determined on a
stern vindication of justice. They firmly believed Old Mis-
sourah guilty ; they would accept no atonement or reparation
short of his life.

IN ECHO CANON. 21/

The rude procession was formed ; it was a pitiful and sick-
ening spectacle. The miserable condemned man was set on
his little steed, his feet tied under the animars belly, his
hands pinioned behind him, and his face turned to the tail
of the beast, — an additional mark of contumely usually be-
stowed in such cases.

Bill Ballard walked by the side of the old man to steady
him as the group struggled up the ridge where grew a tall syca-
more—the fatal tree. At the mouth of the caflon, the rocky
walls break off abruptly, and, on the right, the sloping divide
leans up against a mass of richly colored rock resembling
some grand old cathedral. This towered far above our heads,
and, westward, the eye glanced over the lovely valley of the
windmg Weber now spread out like a map below us.

There was little said. The men were determined and very
bitterly in earnest. The old man would not say whether he
was guilty or not. He seemed sunk in utter abstraction. Once
only he lifted his head. As the little procession mounted the
brow of the hill. Old Missourah straightened himself up and
looked off over the panorama below. The sunny vale, belted
with trees and laced with glittering streams, wound afar
into the distant hills ; and around the western horizon there
were purple peaks fretted with silvery snow. It was the poor
wretch's last gaze at a beautiful world. His pale blue eyes
gazed far over the horizon, westward, where his boys were
digging on the banks of the Yuba. His white hair blew
about his face as the rude west-wind met him on the sum-
mit of the hill, and he stood under the gallows-tree. Even this
mute sycamore seemed to pity him. It bent*down its long
branches as if in voiceless compassion for his infinite woe ; and

2l8 LOTOS LEAVES.

the clustered leaves stirred in the breeze with a low and sooth-
ing death-song.

But there was no softness in the scene for the stern men who
stood about. The simple preparations were made. I turned
away, and saw only the group of jury, counsel, and witnesses
pulling at the long rope that ran from the neck of the con-
demned man over a stout limb above. This joint action at the
rope was a formal assumption of joint responsibility for the
hanging. No one man could be called to account. Blue Pete
led the file of executioners, and, as he pulled with the rest, he
chanted in a strange, sad monotone, '* Mail, Columby, Hail,
Columby, Hail, Columby I " This rude song was all the cere-
monial. Old Missourah was hanged by the nock until he was
dead.

That night, at sundown, our shovel was returned to us. Old
Missourah was buried. His little cart was left by the trail ; its
poor contents were divided among the Vermillion County Boys,
each of whom thereafter threw his share into the river ; the
small mule was confiscated to the benefit of Shanghai. This
ill-fated animal was afterwards stolen by the Mormons near
Box L^lder ; and so all trace of Old Missourah disappeared
from the emigrant road across the continent.

We reached Salt Lake City a few days after this occurrence,
and in that strange capital of the wilderness 'refitted while we
rested and wrote letters home. Passing once more westward, on
the fifth day out of the Mormon hive, we crossed the Malad, a
deep and narrow stream on the edge of the Valley. Camping
for the night on the farther bank, we met a fever-and-ague-rid-
den Missourian,^ who, with his wife and numberless small chil-
dren, was bound to Oregon. A sad-faced, dejected pair were

IN ECHO CANON. 219

husband and wife ; but their white-headed babies, lively as
crickets, swarmed in and out ' of their wagon as if they were
contented with their travelling home and had never known any
other. Perhaps they had not. The canvas cover of their four-
wheeled mansion bore, in rude black letters, this lament : —

"O Missouri, O Missouri, I much regret to see
You so much altered for the worse
From what you used to be.
Time was when all the people were
All happy and content.
But now they are so very poor,
Scarce one has got a cent."

The self-satisfied author of these lines informed us that we
should see a sorrowful sight in the caflon through which the
road wound after leaving the Malad. He had been down to see.
The Vermillion County Boys had hanged a man there last Fri-
day night.

" What ! another man ? They hanged one in Echo, about
two weeks ago ! '*

" Yaas, so they did. He was the wrong man, though. I 'low
they hung the right one this time."

" But who was he ? "

" Don't know. The Sandy Hill Boys found the stole money
on him ; and they waited till the Vermillions came up, and
they strung him up to oncet."

*' And is he still hanging ? "

*• Sure pop. Seen him myself They would n't plant him,
cause he was an uncommon hard case."

No questioning could bring out of the languid Missourian any
further information ; so, in the dusk of the evening, to satisfy

220 LOTOS LEAVDS.

ourselves who "the right one "might be, two of us mounted
and rode into the gorge.

A tall, dead tree, writhing its leafless branches against the
twilight sky, bore this evil fruit. The form of the convicted
thief twirled solemnly in the wind that sighed down the cafion.
It was Blue Pete, the man who had sung " Hail, Columby,"
at Old Missourah's execution. Next day, wc buried him with
the shovel he borrowed of us in Echo Cafton.

A Fragmentary Hint.

.J f

A FRAGMENTARY HINT ON A FAULT
OF THE ENGLISH LANGUAGE.

lU' CHAMPION BISSELL.

O write a page of Saxon like this, is an easy thing,
but it is not so easy to make it bear your thoughts
to the man who reads it. This page is a sore trial,
for when I try to talk only in Saxon, I try thereby
to talk in another tongue than my real mother-
tongue, if indeed we Western-World sons of Eng-
lishmen can be said to have a mother-tongue. Once we had
the good roots of a great tongue, but, just at a time when
men in England began to think and to call for a way to
make their thoughts known, a body of men, called wise,
reached out to a dead tongue for help, instead of reaching
down into the deep rich ground among the roots of their
own mother-tongue. Then was built up the now English
speech, made up of a few short, strong words, and a great
many longer words, lifted out of the dead speech of the
race whom the Goths overthrew. Thus it comes that our
speech is large but not rich ; liKe a great farm with a shal-
low soil, on which you may work hard and reap small crops,
though to the eye alone it is fair and wide-spreading, and
makes its owner seem like a rich man, when he is not.
See how short and stunted are the words with which I

224 LOTOS LEAVES.

hedge myself in when I try to write all Saxon, and only
Saxon. These Goths were children indeed, with deep enough
thoughts, but scant breath to utter them. But what a pity
that the men who made our tongue did not think it worth
while to plough their own ground, but must needs go and
borrow from the burying-places of dead people.

Our speech now is like Frankenstein's man, built up of
bones and dead things, and gifted with a kind of weird life,
by which it walks over us and crushes us, while we cannot
hope to make it bend to us. Had we grown our speech
from its own rcJots, as a gardener grows a shrub, it would
have been a sweet and kindly thing, fit for use always, and
would keep on growing forever, and in whatever shape we
might wish to bend it. Now instead of this, we have Frank-
enstein's made-up man.

How hard it is with such a tongue to make other people
see things as we do ! When I talk to my neighbor with my
best words, I do not always bring his soul alongside of my
own, so that our sonls' eyes look out on the field of thought
from the same window. It is apt to be quite the other way,
so that we look crosswise, and he says ** Yes " to what I say,
or I say " Yes " to what he says, out of sheer good-will only.

Can we help this.? I fear not. We are wedded to our
tongue, and have lived together so long, we would find it
hard to change each other. So we must do the best we
can with what we have.

The above effort to express ideas rising above one's wants
for daily food wholly in words underived from Latin and
Greek, shows clearly the poverty of our r^(7/-language, and the

A FRAGMENTARY HINT. 225

immense dependence under which we have brought ourselves
to the Latin element introduced into the English language. ,

While we borrowed so much Latin, it was a fatal mistake
that we did not borrow the case-declination of that noble
language. By this omission alone, we robbed our tongue for-
ever of the possibility of growth from within. Accessions to
it must always be mere accretions from without. We can
build on, and build on, but whatever we build on the pres-
ent structure is inorganic and lifeless, and has the further
fault that it hides and covers up something else.

Thus, wc ruined the prospects and ix)ssibilities of the
growth of our language from its own root, and we nailed
on dead twigs from another full-grown tree, instead of graft-
ing on the live scions, which perhaps might have been found,
by careful search, somewhere among the hoary and storm-
beaten branches of the old Latin tree.

I envy with inexpressible longing those who spoke Greek,
and those who spoke Latin, and those who now speak Ger-
man. The French language is good enough to write con-
tracts in ; and Italian and Spanish are good enough to ex-
press the day-dreams of indolent races ; but no language
other than a self-growing and a case-declination language
can ever serve as a fit and full channel for the highest hu-
man thoughts.

One instance. Take the German word " Wahlverwandt-
schaft." It is a long word, yet Goethe made it the title of
a novel designed for the public. Anj^ German can see the
growth of the word ; how " Wahl " naturally grows on " Ver-
wandtschaft," and how " schaft " grows on "verwandt," and
how "verwandt" grows out of "Gewand," and "Gewand"

226 LOTOS LEAVES.

out of "winden."* The whole word is a blaze of light to him.
and if it were twice as long, it would be twice as luminous.
The nearest we can get to the word in anything like elegant
English is ** Elective Affinities," and, so titled, the translated
work stands in our libraries. And yet it requires a very
well-educated person to comprehend the phrase *' Elective
Affinities," and it is a chance if any two readers affix the
same meaning to it. These two words are simply two
dead Latin words nailed on to the trunk of the Endish
language, and have to be studied from without, just as fos-
sils have to be picked up, or picked off, and studied from
without.

Conscious of no remedy for this sad condition of the lan-
guage of a great people, I commend it to the attention of
the members of our literary and progressive club.

* '* Winden " means to wind or twist : in early times the Germans wound their
garments about their bcniies, in default of pins and buttons ; the imperfect tense
of " winden " is " wand " ; hence comes " Gewand," a drapery, or a garment,
something wound about. As a family would naturally l)e clothed in garments of
the same stuff, the family relation was indicated by the word " verwandt " Our
verb has now protluced us a very rich noun, which, when united with two other
nouns, as we see it, becomes a word of great depth and beauty ; obvious to the
comprehension of the uneducated German, and full of suggestive meaning to the
scholar.

In going outside of the Latin or Greek languages to find a synonymc for
" Wahlverwandtschaft," I have not been able to light upon anything better than
the very ugly word " Friendship-choosing.'* This would certainly carry a clearer
idea to the mind of a teamster than the phrase " elective aftlnities." but it is awk-
ward and barren of meaning. If we could use the word " sympathy " or its adjec-
tive, we would do better, but that lands us in Greek, which is contrary to the
problem. In this case, as in thousands of others, the educated mind retreats into
the cloisters and catacombs of the dead languages, to find means for the contem-
plation of an active and living idea. What a commentary uj)on the incredible mis-
fortune that befell our language at its critical period !

C. U.

Liberty.

LIBERTY.

Bv JOHN HAV.

^' HAT man is there so bold that he should say,
"Thus and thus only would I have the sea"?
For whether lying calm and beautiful.
Clasping the earth in love, and throwing back
The smile of heaven from waves of amethyst ;

Or whether, freshened by the busy winds.

It bears the trade and navies of the world

To ends of use or stern activity ;

Or whether, lashed by tempests, it gives way

To elemental fury, howls and roars

At all its rocky barriers, in wild lust

Of ruin drinks the blood of living things,

And strews its wrecks o'er leagues of desolate shore ; —

Always it is the sea, and all bow down

Before its vast and varied majesty.

So all in vain will timorous men essay
To set the metes and bounds of Liberty.
For Freedom is its own eternal law.
It makes its own conditions, and in storm
Or calm alike fulfils the unerring Will.
Let us not then despise it when it hcs

230 LOTOS LEAVES.

Still as a sleeping lion, while a swami

Of gnat-like evils hover round its head ;

Nor doubt it when in mad, disjointed times

It shakes the torch of terror, and its cry

Shrills o'er the quaking earth, and in the flame

Of riot and war we see its awful form

Rise by the scaffold, where the crimson axe

Rings down its grooves the knell of shuddering kings.

For always in thine eyes, O Liberty !

Shines that high light whereby the world is saved ;

And though thou slay us, we will trust in thee !

mML* ^«

Tl-F }iir : -

« I r «

;-' >■

A- . .

How We hung John Brown.

HOW WE HUNG JOHN BROWN.

By henry S. OLCOTT.

T will be conceded that the first act in the bloody
drama of the American Conflict had its climax on the
2d of December, 1859, when John Brown of Ossawato-
mie was hung at Charlestown, Virginia. Thirty years
of agitation of the question of African slavery culmi-
nated in that direful event, which was at once the prelude to
one of the most terrible wars of modern times, and the har-
binger of a new era of equal rights and true republican
government. Looking back now over the intervening fourteen
years, it seems incredible that so much should have happened
in so short a time. The rapid rush of events, the upheaval
of our whole national system, the changed relations between
the two sections of country, and especially between the black
and white races, make the tragical end of John Brown ap-
pear as something that occurred at least a generation ago ;
and the true story of his hanging, by an eye-witness, will
perhaps be read with as much interest as any other thing I
could contribute to the present volume. It is time the story
was told ; for with negro ex-slaves sitting on the bench, in
the gubernatorial chair, in legislatures, in Congress, serving
as State treasurers, as cadets, as surgeons, as consuls, and as
foreign ambassadors, it reads like fiction that the life of an

234 LOTOS LEAVES.

editor should have been put in peril so recently, within the
limits of this country, in the peaceful performance of his
duty. And I am sure that if these lines should be read by
any of the men whom I met at the exciting time of which I
write, he will confess to mortification that such should have
been the fact.

In 1859 I was one of the two agricultural editors of the
New York Tribune, having as little to do with politics as any
man in the city, and perhaps as unlikely as any to see
or care to see the execution, the preparations for which agi-
tated the whole American people. Although connected with
rtie leading Abolitionist journal, I was scarcely an Abolitionist,
but rather what might be called a congenital Whig. That
is to say, I came of a Whig ancestry, and, caring far less
for politics than scientific agriculture, I was content to let
others fight their full of the slavery question, while I attended
to the specialty whose development was my chief care.

But events at last happened which aroused all my interest
in the topic of the hour. The people of Virginia, led away
by a blind fanaticism, and by blind fanatics like Wise, de-
clared war upon the N^ezv York Tribune as the representative
of the principles John Brown held most dear. One after an-
other, three gentlemen were driven out of Charlestown and
Harpers Ferry on suspicion that they were the correspond-
ents who supplied that journal with its vivid accounts of the
local occurrences ; and when, in spite of all this, the letters
still continued to appear, they gave out that they would
hang the mysterious unknown to the nearest tree, on sight.
Then the liberty of the press was for the first time practically
destroyed \n this country, and mob rule asserted itself. Our

HOW WE HUNG JOHN BROWN. 235

correspondent, who had sent his letters, under the guise of
money-packages, by express, at last found things so hot that
he was forced to leave the neighborhood of Charlestown, and
from Baltimore send such reports as he could gather upon
the arrival of the train.

The fatal 2d of December was now fast approaching, and
it seemed as if the paper would be forced to let the day pass
without having a correspondent on the ground, to tell John
Brown's friends how he met his doom. Distressed to see the
perplexity of my dear friend Horace Greeley, I went to the
managing editor, and volunteered to undertake the job if he
would allow me to do it in my own way. With some re-
monstrance about the risks I would run, he at last consented,
and gave me carte blanche to go and come and do as I
chose.

Things were decidedly lively at Charlestown just then. Wise
had poured cavalry and infantry into the place until it was a
very camp ; sentries were posted in the streets, to stop every
one at will ; a provost-guard boarded every train, a sum of
money was privately offered for the Tribune man, the medical
students had hung up the preserved skeleton of John Brown's:
son in a museum, and the people were on the qui vive for shad-
owy legions of rescuers, expected from over the mountains. I
had n*t the remotest wish to figure in the Book of Martyrs, nor
the slightest disposition to have my tanned hide tacked to the
door of the jail, and so it was with me a problem of the most
serious nature how to get to the place, how to move about
while there, and how to get away with a whole skin. After
considering many expedients, I finally concluded to go to
Petersburg, and make that my base of operations. So, taking

236 LOTOS LEAVES.

passage by steamer, I found myself, late one night, safely landed
in the house of a dear old friend in that ancient city. He
was a fire-eater of fire-eaters, an uncompromising, rank, out-
and-out Secessionist, in whose mind Divine right and State
rights were convertible terms, and who, as I soon found, hated
John Brown with the perfect hatred that the Devil is said to
bear to holy water. Tired and sleepy as I was, he would not
let me go to bed until he had cursed the hoary old Abolitionist
from crown to sole, heaping a separate and distinct malediction
upon each particular hair of his head and each drop of blood
in his veins. He talked so fast and swore so hard as to leave
him little time before daylight to ascertain my own sentiments,
although, for the matter of that, I was quite ready to express
my honest conviction that John Brown's raid was an inexcus-
able invasion of a sovereign State. I was Whig enough then
to be quite willing to have Virginia hang him if she chose,
and those at the North who thought otherwise were in a de-
cided minority. See how we trimmed and shuffled and paltered
with the South, until the first cannon-ball smashed against
the walls of Sumter, and so smashed through our dough-
Jaceism upon the patriot adamant beneath !

At this night session with my fire-eating friend, I learned
that some recruits for the company of Petersburg Grays, then
doing duty at Charlestown, were to go forward the next day,
and, expressing my desire to assist at the hanging of the great
agitator, I received permission to join the party. Behold,
then, the agricultural editor of the Tribune transformed into
a Virginia militia-man, his editorial plowshare, so to speak,
turned into a sword, and his pruning-hook into a spear.
And just here, for fear of being misunderstood, let mc say

HOW WE HUNG JOHN BROWN. 237

that in joining the Virginia soldiers I meant to do my duty,
to fight if there should be occasion to fight, and not turn my
back upon my new comrades. I can't say that I thought
there would be any opportunity for us to display our valor,
for, in common with all New York, I discredited the absurd
idea that any organized body of Pennsylvanians would attempt
John Brown's rescue. Nevertheless. I took service in good
foith, and all the chances with it. This matter being satisfac-
torily settled, my friend at last showed me to my room, and
I slept the sleep of the weary.

At the appointed time our party of recruits met at the
railway station, and I was put in charge of the chief surgeon
on General Taliaferro's Staff as a true-blue Northerner. I
found him to be a brother Mason, and our trip was made
most agreeable by the close friendship that sprang up be-
tween us. As we reached the last station before coming to
Charlestown, our train was boarded by the provost-guard, and
every passenger subjected to a rigid examination. My friends
of the Grays vouching for me, I was enabled to pass muster,
and the place of our destination finally came in sight.

Looking out of the car-window, I saw something that was
the reverse of assuring to one in my situation, — a crowd of
a thousand or more unsavory, lounging Virginians, every man
of them with his two hands stuffed in his pockets, and his
two eyes fixed upon the train, as if it were some nondescript
monster about to vomit an enemy. Next to the track stood
a provost's party, wearing uniform caps and other insignia
of brief authority. The captain ordered us to form a line
outside the cars, and front face. The doctor and I, being
the only ones of the passengers dressed in citizen's clothes.

238 LOTOS LEAVES.

naturally attracted a greater share of the public attention
than was at all gratifying, to myself at least, — being natu-
rally of a modest and retiring disposition. However, there I
was, and there were the fifteen hundred, and, as I could n't
get away, I put as good a face on it as possible, and returned
stare for stare. It was n't long before my equanimity was
cruelly disturbed, for who should come poking through the
throng but my old Washington acquaintance. Colonel Blank,
the great sheep-breeder, — an impulsive, good-natured, amiable
fire-eater, one of your sort who clap you on the back, and
shou^ out your name, and wonder what the deuce you are
doing there. The mild face of my bucolic friend seemed for
the moment to threaten like that of Nemesis, the cold sweat
started on my forehead, and in about a second I counted
my chances of being pointed out as Mr. Wurzel of the New
York Tribune, and thereupon gently stretched at the end of
an inch rope, from the swaying bough of a neighboring tree,
that caught my eye at the moment! My fate came nearer
and yet more near, and my brain went faster and faster, until,
just as the old fellow got within easy eyeshot of me, I
formed and executed a rtise, I was suddenly attacked with
strabismus of the most pronounced type, my mouth got a
shift to leeward, and a general expression of vacancy settled
over my usually vivacious countenance. The transformation
probably was not as artistic or wonderful as any one of those
with which Garrick amused his friends in the hack, but it
served a good purpose, for the terrible man passed on down
the line, and I heaved a sigh of relief Then we right-faced
and forward-marched, and filed this way and that, and
finally came to our quarters. It was a one-story little build-

HOW WE HUNG JOHN BROWN. 239

ing, used as a law office, comprising one small, cramped room,
where perhaps a half-dozen fellows might manage to bunk on
the floor, by each man swallowing his neighbor's feet ; but
as to giving our party of twenty or thirty the least chance
to do more than stand up and sleep, like Dickens's fat boy, it
was out of the question. The dear old doctor, however,
being of the General Staff (and by this time my sworn brother
and companion-in-arms), concluded to forage about for better
quarters and take me with him ; so we went to Taliaferro's
headquarters, at the principal hotel. I let him enter alone,
as I had no disposition to intrude upon the general's privacy,
nor seek an introduction, and I stopped outside until my ally
should come with our billet. There was a porch to the hotel,
and men sitting there talking ; and as my eye ran over the
group, I experienced a second shock, even worse than the
first ; for there, in his bodily presence, long gray hair and all,
sat Edmund Ruffin, with whom I had only a short time be-
fore passed some weeks on the lordly plantation of one of the
most violent of the South Carolina senators. It is needless
to say who and what Mr. Ruffin was, — the old man who
offered to hang John Hrown with his own hands, who after-
wards fired the first cannon-shot at the walls of Fort Sumter,
and who was by all odds the bitterest hater we Northern
men had in Dixie.

I thought my time had come then, sure enough, for I knew
that this man had had as much as, if not more than, Wise
himself, to do with exciting the fears and passions of the
people of their native State. He was another of your impul-
sive sort, strong in his likes as in his hates, and, friendly as he
was to me beyond doubt, on account of our mutual interest in

240 LOTOS LEAVES.

Agriculture, he would n't have listened a moment now to any-
thing I might have said by way of explanation, but have in-
sured my destruction by announcing my professional affiliation.
I got out of this scrape easily enough by simply turning my
back and walking leisurely off; although the image of that
stern, implacable face followed mc all the while I was in that
village.

Our billet was far better than I could have anticipated,
no less, in fact, than in the house of one of the principal func-
tionaries of the court, and with the whole Stafl' of the com-
manding general. While my comrades of the Grays fared
wretchedly, the doctor and I had a comfortable room to our-
selves, a wide French bedstead to sleep in, bountiful meals
to eat, and, luxury of luxuries ! a full-blooded blackie to pol-
ish our shoes.

I found the fellows of the Staff a jolly, good-natured lot,
fond of smoking, honest whiskey-drinkers, courteous towards
the ladies of the household, and very cordially disposed to-
wards the New York gentleman who had come down there
to help hang John Brown. I scarcely think it would have
made much difference in our relations if they had known the
terrible secret that I was going to write a plain unvarnished
account of the execution, for I made no bones about ex-
pressing my surprise, and something stronger, at the farcically
great preparations they had made to hang one poor wounded
old man.

You may believe that all the old stock of merry tales,
stowed away in odd corners of my head, were brought out of
the lavender of memory, and refurbished and passed around ;
and that I sang my comic songs (always with one eye on the

HOW WE HUNG JOHN BROWN. 241

company and the other on the door) and smoked pipes and
drank whiskey with the best of them ; and was generally
voted a capital sort of fellow, and — learned a good bit
about John Brown, you may be sure. Yes, I got all the
wonderful sayings and doings, the comings-in and goings-
out of this terrible Ossawatomie Brown, who, as Mr. Gid-
dings expressed it, *' with a force of fifteen men, had taken
Virginia with his right hand, and Maryland with his left, and
shaken them, till every corner of the Union resounded with
their shriekings!" And all this time, the mysterious Tribune
man vexed the peace of the whole South ; and the Charles-
town papers indignantly repudiated the idea that any such
person was in the place ; and Colonel Taylor, the puffy
militia-man, notified Frank Leslie's artist that he was sus-
pected and must clear out ; and General Taliaferro proclaimed
that all strangers should report themselves to the provost for
examination ; and the papers of the Gulf States were calling
upon the Virginians to clean out the reptile ! The fact is,
that my predecessor had so faithfully chronicled the events
at Charlestown, had so set the sensible people of the whole
country to laughing at the cowardly behavior of the villagers,
and had so pertinaciously stuck to his post, concealed his
identity, and rubbed vitriol into the wounds his keen lance
inflicted, that the community were wellnigh distracted. I
recollect how, the night before the execution, I opened up
this matter to my generous host, and with charming ndivett*
asked him to tell me candidly how this Tribune man con-
tinued to elude the vigilance of the people! He drew his
chair up to mine, and, leaning over, whispered confidentially,
** I 11 tell you how it is. You see our local papers publish

242 LOTOS LEAVES.

accounts of what is transpiring here, and somebody connected
with the Tribune gets hold of these papers in New York City,
and then writes a letter at the Tribune office and dates it
from Charlestown. Of course I need n't tell you that, in
their present state of excitement, our people would be more
than likely to hang such a person to the nearest tree. You
know some hot-headed fellows have even offered a reward for
him." I laughed with all my heart, slapped my host on the
knee, and protested that that was a Yankee trick I had n't
thought of.

But I must not forget my wretched trunk, for, as Mrs.
Gamp says, " It giv me sich a turn ! " On the morning after my
arrival, something was said about the lot of trunks and things
they had down at the provost-marshal's office, and it flashed
across my mind that, in the excitement of my encounter with
that bloodthirsty old sheep-breeder at the railway station, I
had quite forgotten my luggage, and that it had undoubtedly
gone to the provost's with other unclaimed or suspicious prop-
erty. It was marked with my initials, and the words " New
York " ; and in the temper in which the Charlestown people
then found themselves, this was enough to place its owner in
no little personal jeopardy. It occurred to me that perhaps
at that moment they were searching, or even, to use a Southern
expression, " gunning," after the person in question. I did n't
know what to do ; it was a real dilemma. I got away by
myself and cudgelled my brains for an hour to no purpose.
To be able to get it away myself without imminent danger
of discovery and the defeat of my mission, was a sheer im-
possibility, and it was equally dangerous to leave it unclaimed ;
for as it came up with the Grays' reinforcements, its owner

HOW WE HUNG JOHN BROWN. 243

would be certainly hunted up. I considered it a matter of
life and death, and so I determined to try what my Masonry
would do. I picked out a fine, brave young fellow of the
Staff, a perfect gentleman, and, under the seal of Masonic
confidence, told him who I was, and directed him to go to
the Court House, and claim and bring away the trunk. He
did it, and I was safe.

But for the terrible strain on my nerves that my situa-
tion involved, and the melancholy business that was going
on about us, I should recall the days I passed under the
hospitable roof of our host, in the companionship of so rare a
lot of good fellows, as among the pleasantest of my life. I
was particularly charmed with Mr. Colyer, a white-haired law-
yer, whose name has since figured prominently as that of a
Rebel Congressman and an officer of the Rebel army, and
the dear old doctor, my bedfellow, whom I have never set
eyes on since, much to my regret ; and when all was over,
and the brave-souled Brown's spinal cord was broken, and we
were all ready to turn homeward, and my fellow-guests re-
fused to let me subscribe towards a service of silver for our
hostess, merely because I was a Northern man, — albeit, as
they were so kind as to say, a deuced good fellow, — I felt
really hurt, and sorry enough to part with them. What made
me feel worse than all was to go through the town, arm in
arm with some of my new friends, cheek by jowl and all that
sort of thing, and think how shameful, how pitiful and cow-
ardly it was that, in this *'land of the free and home of
the brave." I was walking those streets with the specter of
Death stalking lock-step behind me, never leaving me day or
night, because I dared to write an honest letter to a great

244 LOTOS LEAVES.

newspaper, and tell how a brave, if perhaps fanatical, man
behaved and talked.

The morning of that memorable 2d of December dawned
at last, and the first gray streak saw us stirring. Wise had
seized the Winchester and Potomac Railroad on the 29th
November for military purposes, and issued his proclamation
to the people of the State. He cautioned them to remain
"at home and on guard or patrol duty on the 2d of Decem-
ber, and to abstain from going to Charlestown. Orders," said
he, "arc issued to prevent women and children, and strangers
are hereby cautioned that there will \ye danger to them in
approaching that place, or near it, on that day. If deemed
necessary, martial law will be proclaimed and enforced."
These are his very words, and I submit if they don't show
how badly scared the great State of Virginia was ! The field
of execution — a plot of about forty acres, half in sod and
half corn-stubble — was directly opposite our house, and the
gallows stood on a rising ground not one hundred yards away
from the porch. A military force of between two and three
thousand troops — artillery, cavalry, and infantry — had been
concentrated at the place ; the whole country for fifteen miles
around was guarded by mounted and foot soldiers ; all inter-
course between town and country was stopped. A field-piece
loaded with grape and canister had been planted directly in
front of and aimed at the scaffold, so as to blow poor Brown's
body into smithereens in the event of attempted rescue ; other
cannon commanded the approaches to the modern Aceldema;
and all Virginia held breath, until the noontide should come
and go. The most stringent precautions had even been taken
to prevent the townspeople from approaching the outermost

HOW WE HUNG JOHN BROWN. 245

line of patrolling sentries, for the authorities were determined
to choke their prize malefactor, without giving him a chance
to make any seditious speeches.

The December sun had risen clear and bright, but soon
passed into a bank of haze, and I was afraid we should have
a stormy day of it. By nine o'clock, however, as beautiful an
azure sky hung over us as man ever saw, and, winter as it
was, the sun became so hot, that doors and windows were
flung wide open. The ground had been staked the day be-
fore, and fluttering white pennons all around the lot marked
the posts of the sentries, who came on the scene at the hour
above named. Then a strong force of volunteer cavalry, wear-
ing red flannel shirts and black caps and trousers, rode up
and were posted, fifty paces apart, around the entire field ;
and then the guns and caissons of the artillery rumbled up ;
then more cavalry and infantry came ; and then a solemn
hush settled over the awful scene, and no sound was heard
but the twittering of some birds, the sigh of the south-wind
among the tree-branches, and the occasional impatient stamp of
a horse's hoof on the greensward. All eyes were turned to the
jail, a scant half-mile away down the road ; but nothing could be
seen but the glint of bayonets, and gilt buttons and straps, in the
bright sunshine, until, of a sudden, the mass opened right and
left, and a wagon, drawn by two white horses, came into view.
In it, seated on a long box of fresh-cut deal, was an old man,
of erect figure, clad in a black suit, with a black slouch hat on
his head, and blood-red worsted slippers on his feet. The
melancholy cortege formed and advanced towards us. There
was the one helpless old man, suffering from five saber and
bayonet wounds, going to his death under escort of: —

246 LOTOS LEAVES.

MAJOR LORING's '* BATTALION OF DEFENSIBLES."

CAPTAIN \V1LLIAMS*S " MONTPELIER GUARD

f»

CAPTAJN SCOTT S "PETERSBURG GRAYS.
CAPTAIN miller's " VIRGINIA VOLUNTEERS."
CAPTAIN RADY'S " YOUNG GUARD."

Now, is n't that pitiful ? Is n't it enough to make a stone
image blush, to think of all this great army, with its flying
flags, and its brass guns, and its videttes and patrols all the
way up to the foot of the Blue Ridge Mountains, haling one
wounded Kansas farmer to execution ? I could n't help think-
ing of all this, as the head of the column filed into the field,
between the loaded howitzers, and I looked upon the majestic
face of the Man of Destiny. For an instant our eyes met.
Whether he read anything in mine of the thoughts that
crowded my mind I cannot say, but an expression of intense
inquiry came into his, and he gave me a glance I shall never
forget. As his wagon turned in from the dusty road, and the
whole array of military was presented to his view, the old man
straightened himself up on his coffin, and proudly surveyed
the scene. He looked to me more like Caesar passing in his
triumphal chariot through the streets of Rome, than like Jack
Sheppard going to Tyburn Hill. He bore the searching gaze
of the soldiery with a kingliness of manner, as if he were
receiving homage that was his due, and did not cower under
it, as if he were a malefactor about to be punished for some
crime he had committed. He fully appreciated the effect of
all this display of military upon public opinion, for you will
recollect he said one day in prison, *' I am not sure but the

HOW WE HUNG JOHN BROWN. 247

object I have in view will be belter served by my dying
than by my living ; I must think of that."

The cortege passed through the triple squares of troops,
and over the hillock ; and wound around the scaffold to the
easterly side, and halted. The body-guard — our company
of Grays — opened ranks, and John Brown descended, with
self-possession and dignity, and mounted the gallows-steps.
He looked about at earth and sky and people, and remarked
to Captain Avis, his jailer, upon the beauty of the scene. It
was beautiful indeed. The sun shone with great splendor,
and the gleaming guns and sparkling uniforms were strongly
relieved against the somber tints of sod and woods. Away
off to the east and south, the splendid mass of the Blue Ridge
loomed against the sky, and shut in the horizon. Over the
woods towards the northeast, long, thin stripes of clouds had
gradually accumulated, foreboding the storm that came in
due time that evening ; while, looking towards the south,
there lay an undulating, fertile country, stretching away to
the distant mountains. Brown's eye lingered wistfully upon
the few civilians who had been permitted to gaze from a dis-
tance upon the tragedy, as if, so it seemed to me, he longed
for a glimpse of one friendly face ; then, with another glance
at the sky and the far-away Blue Ridge, he turned to the
sheriff, and signified that he was ready. His slouch hat was
removed, his elbows and ankles pinioned, and a white hood
was drawn over his head. The world was gone from his

sight forever, and he and Kternity were face to face

One would have thought that, after all their indecent haste
to get him tried, convicted, sentenced, and hung, they would
have despatched the poor old man as quickly after that as

248 LOTOS LEAVES.

possible ; but not a bit of it. There was still the shadow of
a possibility that some Cadmus-sown soldiers might spring
out of the dull sod of that field, and stampede the prize, so
there must be movements of troops hither and thither, march-
ings and countermarchings ; and I stood there, watch in hand,
for eight minutes, that seemed centuries, before Colonel Scott,
losing patience, gave the signal. Then Sheriff Campbell cut
the rope, the trap fell, with a wailing screech of its hinges,
and John Brown's body hung twirling in the air. You could
have heard the sigh of satisfaction that passed over the whole
armed host, so dead was the stillness that brooded over it.
There was but one spasmodic clutch of the tied hands, and
a few jerks and quivers of the limbs, and then all was still.
.... After the thing had dangled in mid-air for twenty
Yninutes, the Charlestown surgeons went up and lifted the
arms and dropped them like lead, and placed their ears to
the dead thing's chest, and felt the wrists for a pulse. Then
the military surgeons had their turn of it ; and then, after a
consultation, they stepped back, and left the body to dangle
and swing by its neck eighteen minutes more ; while it turned
to this side or that, swinging, pendulum-like, from the force
of the rising wind. At last the lion was declared dead, and
the body, limp and horrid, with an inch-deep groove cut
into its neck by the Kentucky hemp halter, sent as a special
donation for the occasion, was lowered down, and slumped
into a heap. It was then put into a black-walnut coffin, lifted
into the wagon again, the body-guard closed in about it, the
cavalry took the right of the column, and the mournful pro-
cession moved off. Then, if you could have heard some of
the brutal remarks that I did, you would have blushed for

HOW WE HUNG JOHN BROWN. 249

your kind. Some said that his head ought to be cut off and
preserved in the Winchester Medical College, along with the
dissected body of his son ; some, that instead of a fall of
eighteen inches, they ought to have had the body fall ten
feet, so as to snap his head off; and others, that after he was
hung, they ought to stuff a dose of arsenic into the corpse's
mouth, so as to effectually prevent his Abolition friends from
resuscitating him. But then, on the other hand, there were
some gentlemen, and among others, a captain on Taliaferro's
Staff, who expressed their admiration for Brown's splendid
pluck. The latter person sat next me at table that night, and
when I asked him what he thought of the affair, he turned
a sparkling eye upon me and said, "By God, sir, he's the
bravest man that ever lived ! "

The Weed that Cheers.

THE WEED THAT CHEERS.

IJY J. HENRY HAGER.

"Nif'OTiA, dearer to the Muse
Than all the grapes' bewildering juice,
We worship, unforbid of thee ;
And. ab her incense floats and curls
In airy spires and wayward whirls,
Or yoise> on its tremulous stalk
A flower of frailest revery.
So winds and loiters, idly free,
The current of ungiiidcd talk.
Now laughter-rippled, and now caught
In smooth, dark pools of deeper thought.
Meanwhile thou mellowest everv word.
A sweetly unobtrusive third ;
For thou hast maj^ie Iveyond wine
Tu unlock natures each to each ;
The unspoken thou|^ht thou canst divine ;
Thou fillest the pauses of the si>ecch
With whispers that to dream-land reach,
And frozen fancy-sprinps unchain
In Arctic outskirts of the brain ;
Sun of all inmost c<infidences !
To thy rays doth the heart unclose
Its formal calyx of pretences*
That close again>t rude day's offences.
And «)pen its shv midnight rose."

-AS it ever occurred t<^ the reader that "the long
result of Time*' has failed to displace Tobacco as
a narcotic in the popular esteem ? That in spite
of the *' Countcrblaste" of the "Defender of the Faith"; the

254 LOTOS LKAVKS.

rage of Amurath IV., of Turkey ; the edicts of the Emperor
Jehan-Ghir ; the excommunications of Popes Urban VIII. and
Innocent XI., and the repressive measures of other poten-
tates, who have assailed the liberties of mankind in forbidding:
the use of Tobacco, — that much-reviled herb has invaded
every civilized and many barbarous countries, and stands to-
day victor over all adversaries !

Surely when its opponents remember how bitterly its intro-
duction into Europe was fought, step by step, — how in Tur-
key smoking was punished by thrusting the pipe through the
nose ; how in Russia the unlucky wight caught using snuft'
was kept perpetually in mind of the heinousness of his crime
by the summary amputation of the offending member; how in
the Swiss Canton of Berne the use of tobacco in any form
was ranked in the table of misdemeanors next to adultery,
and that even so late as the middle of the last century, an
especial court for trying delinquents was held ; how, that
armed with scourges, halters, and knives, and with gibbets
painted on their banners, the Anti-tobaccoites of those days
denounced death to all found inhaling the fumes of the plant
through a tube, or detected with a pellet of it under their
tongues, — it must be confessed that during the nearly four
hundred years that have elapsed since the two sailors sent
by Columbus to explore the island of Cuba first discovered
the (to them) novel method of self-fumigation, the use of the
Indian herb has extended with a rapidity and inhered among
the customs of civilization with a tenacity that all must
acknowledge to be remarkable.

In truth, the despised plant is in greater favor at the close
of this good year of our Lord eighteen hundred and seventy-

THE WEED THAT CHEERS. 255

lour than it has ever been. In Great Britain, the increasing
consumption has compelled the manufacturers to have partial
recourse to the inferior varieties of Tobacco grown in China
and Japan, since the better qualities raised here are so much
in demand on this side the Atlantic as to largely prohibit
their exportation. And this, while every year witnesses the
extension of the tobacco-producing area in these United States
into sections where, until recently, its culture was unknown.

In view of these undeniable facts, we put it to the ingenu-
ous Anti-tobaccoite to say whether the crusade against the
weed has been a success }

If candid, he must admit its utter and universal failure.

The sincere contemners of Tobacco, from King James down-
ward, have not lacked eloquence, learning, scientific attain-
ments, nor a specious show of sound logic and pure morality.

Had their arguments not been based on a fallacy, could
they have failed }

Against all the preachments of the last four hundred years,
the irresistible logic of facts and the universal practice of
mankind may very properly be left to make answer.

To the attacks based on the various physical and moral
grounds that have been assumed, we are content to respond,
on the part of those who believe in the use of the weed in
moderation, that the movement against it has not taken any
deep root in popular sympathy, nor been indorsed by the
common-sense of the masses. It is quite true that many are
found who avoid the use of Tobacco in any form from per-
sonal and physical reasons, but they are satisfied with being
"a law unto themselves," and rarely seek to make converts to
their peculiar practices, or join the ranks of the aggressive

2S6 LOTOS LEAVES.

opponents of the weed. In fact, the latter have rarely suc-
ceeded in doing more than exciting the general and deserved
derision of mankind.

When we call to mind the reform movements against the
different abuses of the day, and the earnestness and intclli-
gence with which many of them arc carried forward, this
absence of hearty sympathy on the part of the people, and
the want of practicality that inevitably characterizes the
schemes of the Anti-tobaccoitcs, furnish food for thou|:;ht, and
lead irresistibly to certiin conclusions.

We find that the reasoning powers of the masses teach
them that of the charges made by the opponents of the
weed, those not absolutely false could be brought with equal
force against the use of certain other so-called luxuries. When
gentlemen who assume to speak in the name of Science,
assure us of the deadly qualities of the pipe, we may very
appropriately ask, how it happens that mankind, after smok-
ing over three hundred years, manage to attain to so tolerable
a degree of health ?

And in this connection, an interesting subject of inquiry
for our scientific friends would be, the hygienic condition of
the native Cubans when Columbus surprised them engaged in
the deleterious practice of smoking ? Or. still more feasible,
the general health of Europe before and after the introduction
of Tobacco.

Unless the savans can approach the inquiry satisfactorily
from this standpoint, and demonstrate beyond cavil how some
particular nation has steadily receded in the scale of moral
and physical well-being in consequence of the use of the
weed, their theories, based on one-sided experiments and scien-

THE WEED THAT CHEERS. 257

tific half-truths, will continue to be as powerless to convince
in the future as they have been in the past.

Any hypothesis based on the experience of individuals, or
observations of exceptional cases, arc, for the purposes intended,
simply worthless. It must be shown, not that Tobacco has
proved injurious under certain conditions of the human organ-
ism, but that the human organism, during a series of years,
and in the case of entire communities, has sensibly and de-
cidedly deteriorated !

This proved beyond a doubt, the savans might justly
claim the victory ; that they may be led to enter upon the
inquiry, we challenge them to the demonstration.

The difficulty is, that the Anti-tobaccoites, considering the
actual facts established by them, go too far.

Universal condemnation never convinces, especially when
contradicted by every-day experience.

Besides, our Tobacco reformers are the most inconsistent
of men. While protesting against the abused plant, they
quietly allow the object of their anathemas to pay a large
proportion of their taxes and thus contribute to their in-
come.

Perhaps it has never occurred to the Rev. Trask and his
confrb'cs that Tobacco, imported and domestic, pays nearly
forty millions of dollars annually towards the support of "the
best government on which the sun ever shone " ; while, across
the water, the British Constitution is preserved intact by a
yearly contribution of over thirty-five millions on the part of
the (involuntarily) patriotic chewers and smokers of that be-
nighted and expensive isle.

258 LOTOS LEAVES.

Yet how much of these eighty millions would our Anti-
tobacco friends be willing to assume, in case it were possible
to make the use of the weed in both countries a criminal
oftence, and thus to drop it from the list of sources of national
income ?

" We pause for a reply ! *'

But is it consistent for these earnest gentlemen to live
without protest under the protection of institutions that may
be said to be in part reared on the ashes of a much-reviled
herb ?

If the use of Tobacco is morally wrong, — and we never met
an Anti-tobaccoite who claimed less, — it is certainly wrong to
participate, however indirectly, in the profits accruing from
traffic in the "accursed thing!"

Can the honest Anti-tobaccoite, either in England or
America, truthfully assert that he is not sinning against his
conscience in this respect ?

Nor, indeed, is his co-believer on the Continent in much
better case.

In Austria, France, Italy, Spain, — nay, even in Turkey, —
the weed is deemed so precious a commodity that its sale is
regulated and the profits largely shared by the government ;
while in Russia, Germany, Holland, and Belgium an import
duty is imposed on all packages of Tobacco entering those
countries, so that the resident Anti-tobaccoite is equally,
though indirectly, interested in the gains arising from the
commerce in the article he so greatly detests.

The alternative thus presented to the opponent of the weed
is either a change of country or of creed.

• T ■ ' »

■ . - N ^ . - ., ^

1 . - f

(

THE WEED THAT CHEERS. 259

And may we not sooner or later look for the latter con-
summation ?

Will there remain any so beclouded as to their mental vision
— we speak with all reverence — when the millennial sun
dawns upon a regenerated world ?

Cannot we reasonably look forward to that promised season
of fruition, as to a period when the voice of the Anti-tobaccoite
shall no longer be heard in the land ?

Surely in the full blaze of Truth, those reformers who sec
partially and draw exceedingly lame and impotent conclusions
from premises very much awry, cannot remain unconvinced !

Our belief in *' the eternal fitness of things " forbids any
different conclusion.

Let us, then, in the mystic brotherhood of the Lotos, continue
to keep the pipe undimmed. Let its steadfast light illume the
shadows, and kindle anew the fires on the altar of friendship.

In our especial realm where " it is ever afternoon," we may
smoke the calumet even with the repentant Anti-tobaccoite,
whose hoped-for conversion might possibly be succeeded by
his elevation in the social and moral scale until he became
*' one of us ! "

Meantime we commend to him the following quaint lines
by a writer of the last century as suited to his present stage
of development, and as proof that, despite his prejudices, the
soundest morality may be fairly derived even from a pipeful
of Tobacco : —

Come, lovely tube, by F'riendship blest,
Beloved and honored by the wise :

Come filled with honest * Weekly's best,'
And kindled from the lofty skies.

26o LOTOS LEAVES.

** While round mc clouds of incense roll.
With guiltless joys you charm the sense,
And nobler pleasure to the soul,
In hints of moral truth dispense.

"Soon as you feel th' enlivening ray,
To dust you hasten to return ;
And teach mc that my earliest day
Began to give me to the urn.

*'But though thy grosser substance sink
To dust, thy purer part aspires;
This when I sec I joy to think
That earth but half of me requires.

«i

Like thee, myself am born to die,
Made half to rise and half to fall ;

O could I, while my moments fly.
The bliss you give me, give to all ! "

The asperities of Travel

. I . «!•■>

THE ASPERITIES OF TRAVEL.

Uy COLONKL THOMAS \V. KNOX.

;T has been said, many times, that travel wears off the
rough edges of an individual and gives him a polish that
he cannot obtain in any other way. He acquires a
knowledge of men and their manners and customs more
thoroughly than when remaining in one place, and he
learns to regard with a tolerant eye the social, moral,
political, and religious beliefs at variance with his own. He
accepts the correctness of the maxim that all men are brothers,
and that their thoughts, impulses, and passions are not altogether
unlike in the main, though differing in detail. He finds that
enmity and friendship, love and hatred, honesty and depravity,
hope and fear, joy and sorrow, are the same among all nations
and tribes of the human race, from the liquator to the Poles and
from the Poles back again to the Equator, [lorn under the flag
of the United States, and cherishing an undying affection for a
republican form of government, he learns to respect a monarchy
for whatever good qualities it possesses ; and, born and reared
within the limits of a despotism, and taught to regard it as of
divine origin, he learns by travel and observation to look upon
the republic as not unblessed with advantages of its own.
Broader views of humanity and a respect for the opinions of
others are generally the result of travel, provided, always, the

.2^>4 LOTOS LEAVES.

traveller is capable of mental enlargement, and enters upon his
journeys with a willingness to be instructed. Some men there
are who might visit all the ground ever trodden by Livingstone,
Kane. Ledyard, and Marco Polo, and return to their homes more
narrow and bigoted, if possible, than ever before. But such
as these are exceptions that only prove the correctness of
the rule.

Most men are taught through adversity, rather than through
good fortune, and do not sympathize with suffering until they
themselves have suffered. And the traveller who has a hard
time of it is quite as likely to be benefited by his wanderings
as the man whose path is strewn with roses and whose jour-
neys are a succession of unvarying delights. The skilful
artist makes the light in his picture effective by reason of its
contrast with the shadows. Light and darkness are relative,
and, strictly speaking, there cannot be the one without the
other. Velvet feels softer than otherwise when contrasted
with haircloth or India matting ; and an individual who has
been clad in a suit of tar and feathers, and treated to a ride
upon a fence-rail, finds a blanket covering and a seat in an
ox-cart a luxurious contrast to the clothing and locomotion
of indignity. Serene happiness follows the withdrawal of the
pain of an aching tooth ; and plain soda-water, ordinarily unat-
tractive, is welcome as the nectar which Jupiter sips when
brought to one's bedside the morning after a late supper on
champagne and broiled quail. Pleasure and discomfort, joy
and sorrow, happiness and misery, are things of contrast, and
none of us can ever know one of these feelings to its fullest
extent without some acquaintance with its opposite. If all
travel were in palace-cars and luxurious steamers, and every

THE ASPERITIES OP' TRAVEL. 263

traveller halted only in hotels which contain all the comforts
of this or any other age, one would be little better oft^ than
if he remained at home. But happily we must make acquaint-
ance with many kinds of vehicles and caravansaries, and sub-
mit to a thousand discomforts and vexations, if we would emu-
late the example of Rosin the Bow, who narrates, in his
autobiographical poem, that he had travelled this wide world
all over. Like Queen Dido, we are schooled through our mis-
fortunes ; wc remember them, and generally to our subse-
quent good. Those that can be avoided wc learn to shun,
and those which arc inevitable wc undergo with moral philos-
ophy and greater mental serenity. Contrasts arc of constant
occurrence, and we look back over a course of travel as we
would recall the thousand combinations and changes of a re-
volving kaleidoscope.

Some years ago, it was my fortune to make a ride of
nearly two hundred miles on the back of a powerful horse
in less than four days. He was a trotter ; not a fancy ani-
mal, but a good sound roadster, whose trot would have roused
the digestion of a dyspeptic of forty years standing. His
back rose and fell like the walking-beam of a North River
steamboat, and his legs seemed to have been made for at
least four horses of diflerent sizes and attached to a body
which was intended for a fifth beast. When I finished my
ride, I felt as if I had been put through a patent clothes-
wringer, and every joint in my body had started loose from
active wear, or had become so swollen as to be immovable.
My ride on this wonderful piece of horseflesh ended at a
railway station. Half an hour after I alighted, a freight-
train arrived, and I secured a place in a bo.x-car. Seated on

266 LOTOS LEAVES.

a pine box, and leaning against the rough side of the car,
I continued my journey. No Pullman palace or English
first-class was ever half as luxurious as that vehicle; the
box on which I sat was like a Turkish ottoman, and the
board where my back rested, occasionally touching a protrud-
ing nail or screw-head, was like the most elegant sofa from
a Parisian shop. I reclined, and speedily fell asleep, lulled
by the gentle motion of the car along the rails. The track
was unballasted, and the rails were laid with none of the
fish-joints and other improvements which add so much to the
comfort of railway travel. Months afterward I travelled the
same route in an ordinary passenger-car, and found the rough
jolting almost unendurable. But I had been resting in the
mean time, and had not preceded the excursion with a rough
ride on horseback.

Travel, like poverty or politics, makes one acquainted with
strange bedfellows, both literally and metaphorically. A traveller
may sleep with a prince or a beggar according to circumstances,
though he is much more likely to share his dormitory with
the latter than with the former. Beggars arc much more
aiumerous than princes, and, moreover, the princes have a
practice of exclusiveness that is not generally observed among
mendicants. Your prince is shy of strangers, and has a re-
gard for his aristocratic position, but the beggar does not
emboss himself with any such pretensions. He fastens to you,
and oftentimes the surroundings are such that he cannot be
shaken off with ease. If he be a genuine, low-down beggar,
he may be sent away with a small contribution, and that is
the end of him so far as you are concerned ; but if he be-
longs to the upper or swindling class of beggary, the case may

THE ASPERITIES OF TRAVEL. 267

be different. The swindler will adhere to you as long as there
is a prospect of obtaining a dollar or a fraction of one ; and
sometimes, when he considers the financial prospect hopeless,
he remains at your side for the sake of your society.

I have in mind several of these personages whose abilities
would have gained them comfort, if not affluence, in any
honest enterprise. The most artistic of the lot was a French
adventurer who entered a car with me when I left Strasburg
on a journey down the Rhine.

Before we reached Kehl, he had told me his history, or a
goodly portion of it, and offered to assist at the opening of
my baggage, and its examination at the custom-house. We
changed cars twice before reaching Baden-Baden, and each
time he remained with me; he went to my hotel, supped at
the table with me, ordered a bottle of wine, which I after-
wards found on my account, and would have forced himself
into my room had I not negatived any such arrangement:
He disappeared after supper, but when I went to the Conver-
sation-Haus, I found him at one of the tables ; he informed
me that he was always lucky at rougc-ct-noir, and offered to
bet my money for me ; but in consequence of various prejudices
which I entertained about the man and the game, his kind-
ness went unappreciated and unaccepted. By this time I was
amused with the fellow and loaned him five francs by way of
encouragement. An hour before I left the place I confided
to him my intention of remaining a week or two, and found
that he intended staying about the same length of time. He
lost sight of me at my departure, but made up for it by catch-
ing me a couple of days later at Frankfort. He adhered to
me as closely as possible, and took the train with me to

268 LOTOS LEAVES.

Mayence. We agreed to go to a certain hotel, and while he
was looking for his baggage I slipped away to another, and
made a wager to myself that he would find me within an
hour. The wagering half of me was victorious, as he was with
me in just forty-nine minutes by my watch, and as smiling as
a prize-fighter, coming up at the end of his third round.

I tried to deceive him about my departure from Mayence,
but he was too sharp for me, and when the boat was well
under way he appeared on deck, as if shot up from below like
the harlequin in a pantomime. Here he had me fairly cor-
nered, and most energetically did he endeavor to inveigle me.
He had sent his baggage to Cologne by rail in order to be
rid of the encumbrance, and, quel bitise^ he had forgotten to
take his money from his trunk, and there he was penniless,
or, rather, sous-less. He wanted five francs to pay his fare
to Coblenz, and I cheerfully accommodated him ; then he
wanted more, but just then I was out of money, and depressed
him with the information that I must call on my banker.

I stopped at Coblenz and he continued to Cologne, where
he proposed to secure rooms for me, and meet me at the land-
ing next day. I thought I was rid of him ; but next day
there he was, delighted to see me. and sorry to say that his
baggage had not arrived, and that he should be forced, much
as he regretted it, to depend upon the kindness of his dear
American friend. Could I lend him a hundred francs, which
he would repay me in Paris, whither both were travelling ; and
if I would do so, he would be my friend forever, and would
remain with me as collateral until we arrived in the city of
luxury. I saw that he would no longer amuse me as a social
study, except at heavy expense ; he had cost me only three

THE ASPERITIE.S OF TRAVEL. 269

dollars up to that point, and I naturally considered that that
sort of thing had gone on long enough. Henceforth he would
be a burden, and if I desired the pleasure of his company I
must pay for it. So I told him, in the best translation I
could make of American slang, that the game was played.
'^ye ne le vols pas" I said; '' vous itcs un bite morty I
could not think just then of the exact expression in French
for "fraud," but am satisfied that he understood me. Under
the shadow of the Cathedral of Cologne, whence the centuries
look lovingly down, I gave him a valuable lesson in Gallic
phrases culled from the American tongue, — a lesson which
probably proved of value, as he took down some of the phrases
in his note-book.

I never saw him again. He went away sorrowing, for he
had not great possessions, and thought, when he made my
acquaintance, that he had found somebody who would be his
comfort and support.

The strange bedfellows which a traveller meets are not all
of the human sort. He associates at times with most of the
animals that figure in zoological works, and especially with
those that have been domesticated. He may sleep in a stable,
and be thankful that he is admitted there ; the society of
horses, mules, and cows may not be entirely congenial to him,
but he endures it with quiet philosophy, albeit he departs
with a strong smell of stable about his garments, and some-
times with a few footprints of his quadrupedal companions on
various portions of his body. The. cow and the horse have
many excellent qualities, but they cannot be commended as
bosom friends, while the mule, especially the one that kicks,
is to be shunned when shunning is possible. The mule has

270 LOTOS LEAVES.

no paternal instinct, and consequently can never develop af-
fection, like the cow or horse. The dog will do to sleep with,
especially if he is your dog and is not overborne with
fleas. But unfortunately, the flea has for the dog an affinity
that shapes his ends, rough indeed for his human associates,
and wretched is the man whose couch is with a flea-haunted
canine. In many parts of the world fleas abound and make
the traveller miserable. My first intimate knowledge of them
was on the Amoor River, where the cabin of a small steamer
seemed to be full of them. They bit me from head to foot,
and at the end of my first night in their society my body
looked as if it had been tattooed with red ink and croton oil.
I was worse off" the next night, and set my genius at work
to devise a means to be rid of them. I obtained some bad
brandy from the steward of the boat, and before retiring the
next night I rubbed myself with the liquid, and then wrapped
snugly in a sheet. That fixed them. They must have
belonged to a temperance society, as they did n't disturb me
afterwards so long as I took my daily bath of brandy. The
captain of the boat expressed a desire to know how to drive
away the fleas, but said he could not. I told him it was his
duty to utilize them, and suggested that he might set up a
treadmill for them, and by using them to run his machinery
he could dispense with engines and steam. He did not
again refer to the subject.

It has never been my fortune to find snakes in my boots,
though persons of strictly temperate habits have been known
to do so in India and Java. On two occasions I have found
snakes — or, strictly speaking, a snake — in my bed. Once
while camped out on our Western Plains, I waked in the

THE ASPERITIES OF TRAVEL. 271

morning, and made my usual attempt to turn over in my
blankets for another nap. There was something lying close
against me ; it felt like a coil of rope, but developed the
unropy characteristic of life. I thought of snakes, and that
thought was followed by an emphatic and unusual fondness
for early rising. It was not quite sunrise, and all my com-
panions were asleep ; there were no camp duties to bring me
out at that time, but nevertheless I was determined to get
up. I rose from my blankets with less grace than Venus
rose from the sea, but with far greater rapidity. I made a
remark in rising that waked a friend lying near me, and
caused him to be equally unceremonious in abandoning his
couch. One after another the rest of our party were waked,
and in less than two minutes about twenty half-dressed and
dishevelled beings were gathered around my blankets, and
gazing upon them with all the eagerness of a group of sci-
entists, examining a newly discovered trilobite.

There was something moving under the blankets, and it
was speedily decided that the something was a snake. A club
was held in readiness, and as the reptile showed his head at

the edge of the blanket he received a tap that would have
broken the skull of a buffalo. He was unceremoniously killed
and stretched on the grass where all could see and admire
him. He was a cheerful creature, about five feet long, and
belonged to the race known on the Plains as the "bull-
snake," a sort of first-cousin to the rattlesnake. We hanged
him on a tree and left him as a warning to his friends who
might come that way. For several days I thought almost
constantly of snakes, and for an equal number of nights I
dreamed of them. But, after a while, I became convinced that

272 LOTOS LEAVES.

snakes and lightning do not generally strike twice in the same
place, and gradually ceased to keep this incident uppermost
in my mind.

The other snake which I found in my blankets was an in-
significant affair, quite iftiworthy a prominent place in this
narrative. I will dismiss him as summarily as on the occa-
sion when I discovered him. Rats and mice have found com-
fort and food at my side in several instances, but I cannot
say that I particularly desired their friendship. It is not at
all pleasant to wake in the night, as has been my luck, and
find rats and mice using you for a parade-ground or race-track,
without so much as asking your permission, and I hereby
enter a protest against the practice. I have in mind an
occasion when I waked in the morning and found a mouse
seated on my nose and contemplating the scenery around
him. He was not a large mouse, else he would have found
the nose too small for a resting-place, and I was glad on his
account that he was not thus incommoded. But he was so
near my eyes, that he appeared as large as an elephant, and
I did not know his genus and species until my movements
sent him scampering away.

The characteristics of hotels form a pleasing subject of
contemplation, and to a thoughtful traveller they are an un-
failing source of instruction. From the great hotels of Paris
and New York, the eye looks down an imaginary avenue of
hostelries. diminishing in more senses than one, as they recede
and are lost in the distance. The Grand Hotel of Paris stands
at the end of the avenue nearest the spectator, and beyond it
are the — Well, you may name a dozen or two of the first-
class hotels that arc your favorites outside of the French

THE ASPERITIES OF TRAVEL. 273

capital. Then you come to less commodious, though not
always less pretentious establishments, and so you go into
the distance until you find a hostelry of the most primitive
character. You may be reminded by this imaginary avenue
of the road somewhere out West, that began most magnifi-
cently with fine pavements, broad sidewalks, and rows of
shade trees, and gradually diminished, until it terminated in
a squirrel-track, and ran up a scrub-oak. The hotel avenue
may terminate in the same way, as many travellers can tell
you. I have had the pleasure of sleeping in a hollow tree,
and thought my accommodations were far preferable to stay-
ing out of doors. Whfen the Calaveras Grove of trees in
California was first made a public resort, an enterprising
American fitted up a hollow Sequoia as a hotel, and hundreds
of persons were entertained there. A neighboring log was
used as a stable, so that the landlord could boast of accom-
modations for man and beast.

I could tell many stories of funny experiences in hotels, but
the limits of this article forbid, and I can give only a few of
them. Years ago, on my first trip to the West, I arrived one
evening at a rural hotel, and was shown to a room. When
about to retire, I found there was but a single sheet on the
bed, and, supposing a mistake had been made, I descended to
the bar-room, and found a son of the landlord. Explaining
the situation, I was told that no bed in the house was fur-
nished with more than I had found on mine, and the youth
muttered something about my being ** mighty particular." I
insisted upon a more complete dressing for my couch, and
the son went for the father. Through the open door from the
bar-room to the kitchen I heard the statement that ** a stuck-

274 LOTOS LEAVES.

up cuss from New York wants an extra sheet on his bed."
The landlord intimated that I could go to a locality where
even one sheet would be a superfluity, and for a while my
wants were treated with the greatest contempt. Only by
making a row did I obtain what I desired.

I have lodged in a hotel which consisted of a fence drawn
around the space covered by the branches of a large elm-
tree, and divided by imaginary lines into parlor, kitchen, and
bedroom. The patrons slept on the ground in the bed-
room, and each patron supplied his own blankets. To make
our toilets in the morning, we went into the kitchen ; i. e.
we stepped behind the tree. In a hotel in Tennessee I once
found a printed placard over the wash-stand as follows :
*' Gentlemen wishing towels in their rooms will please leave
fifty cents at the office for security." The emphasis on the
first word would seem to imply that there were gentlemen
who have no use for towels. In another establishment I
found the injunction, " Guests who do not wish their boots
stolen will not put them outside the door." A man suffering
from ill-fitting boots of which he wished to be rid was thus
kindly informed how he could dispose of them. Whether the
landlord kept a servant whose special duty it was to steal
boots ejected from the rooms, I did not venture to inquire.

I will close with a story told by a traveller in Texas. " I
was on foot," said he, " and came to a river where the only
bridge was a log stretched across the stream. Like the Irish-
man's blanket, it was too short at both en^s, and was secured
by a stout grapevine. At either end of the log there was
an aching void of five or six feet ; it took me two hours to
bring brushwood to make a raft to ferry myself from the

THE ASPERITIES OF TRAVEL. 275

bank to the log; and when I got upoa it, the confounded
thing rolled and twisted so, that I had hard work to keep my
footing. I managed to get to the other end, and there I was
obliged to jump. I fell short and into the river, but caught
hold of the grapevine and pulled out. When I mounted the
bank and stopped to let the water drip from my clothes, I
found a sign-board announcing in bold, savage letters, " Five
Dollars Fine for passing this Bridge faster than a
Walk ! "

Edgar A. Poe and his Biographer.

EDGAR A. POE AND HIS BIOGRAPHER,
RUFUS W. GRISWOLD.

liv WILLIAM F. GILL.

ROM the fact that "Lotos Leaves" contained
no other paper of a simitar character to the
article which I have prepared with what care
a somewhat brief notice would permit, I have
thought it best to consult the exigency pre-
sented by this fact in offering my contribution
to this volume. A banquet, too largely com-
posed of toothsome confections, however excellent their quality,
would prove palling to the appetite. The gem must have its
setting, which, if claiming naught of beauty or rarity, still holds
a useful, necessary place. The brightest limnings in the painter's
choicest landscape are not the less effective in that they stand
out relieved by the contrast of a most somber background.

So in this " leaf," which may serve the humble purpose in
lending, by its harder tone and deeper shadow, a useful con-
trast to the brilliant color of the brighter and more gladsome
petals with which it is surrounded.

"Dr. Griswold's biography of my Eddie is one atrocious
lie," writes Mrs. Ciemm, the mother-in-law of Edgar Allan
Poe, in a letter to an intimate friend ; and after careful re-
searches, extending over the space of three years, I have come.

28o LOTOS LKAVKS.

from the cumulation of corroborative documentary evidence,
to give an unequivocal indorsement to Mrs. Clemm's state-
ment. Intense admiration of Foe's writings and of his genius,
mingled with deep sympathy for the exceptional misfortunes
of his career, first prompted me to the arduous task of investi-
gating the story of his life, and verifying or disproving the
statements of the Griswold biography of Poe, which, for nearly
twenty-five years, has been permitted to preface the author-
ized editions of his works ; also forming the basis of several
of the biographies that have been written to preface the Eng-
lish editions of the poet's works. As a matter of fact, Poe's
poems are fivefold more popular in England than in America,
and his prose writings, which have never secured the recog-
nition of extended popular currency in America, are even
more admired in England than are his poems. I cannot
refrain from feeling and expressing the conviction that Gris-
wold's mendacious biography, preluding the American edi-
tions of Poe, and, as it were, forming a chilling wet-blanket,
most repelling to the warmest admirer of the poet, is in a
degree responsible for the comparatively limited circulation
enjoyed by his works in America. I measure the effect of
the Griswold biography upon the intelligent reader precisely
as does an English reviewer the biography of Poe by James
Hannay, based upon Griswold, to wit, — should any man of
taste and sense, not acquainted with Poe, be so unfortunate
as to look at Mr. Griswold's preface before reading the po-
etry, it is extremely probable he will throw the book into the
fire, in indignation at the self-conceit and aflected smartness
by which the preface is characterized.

As a matter of fact, the demand for the complete edition of

EDGAR A. POE AND HIS lUOGRAPHER. 281

Poe's works containing the Griswold memoir is so limited, that
within a few months, calling for this edition at two of the largest
book-houses in Boston, I was unable to obtain a copy, and was
informed that the calls for it were so few that they, the dealers,
were not encouraged to keep this edition of Poe in stock.

Yet no one will deny that among the collections of poems
by various authors published. Poe is among the most popular
and the most admired of the authors represented.

My purpose in this paper being to ofi'er an impartial state-
ment, or a series of statements, duly authenticated by docu-
ments, controverting the statements of Dr. Griswold, rather
than to attempt any eulogium of the poet, I shall devote my
allotted space, so far as it will allow, principally to meeting
the misstatements of the reverend vilifier. Some of Dr.
Grisvvold's statements are properly attributable to malicious
and vengeful mendacity, others to gross and inexcusable care-
lessness. Imprimis, the biographer states that Edgar A. Poe
was born in Baltimore, January, 181 1. Mr. Poe was not born
in 181 1, in Baltimore; this is on the authority of the records
(still in existence) of the University of X'iri^inia, at Charlottes-
ville.

In 1816, writes the biographer, he accompanied Mr. and
Mrs. Allan to Great Britain, and afterwards passed four or
five years in a school kept at Stoke Newington, near Lon-
don, by the Rev. Dr. Bransby. " Encompassed by the massj
walls of this venerable academy'* (writes the poet in "William
Wilson"), "I passed, yet not in tedium or disgust, the years
of the third lustrum of my life."

Had he not been born until 181 1, as Dr. Griswold states.
he would not have attained his third lustrum during his

282 LOTOS LEAVES.

sojourn at this place. Of this school and its play-ground
Poe writes in the same sketch: "The extensive enclosure was
irregular in form, having many capacious recesses. Of these,
three (»r four of the largest constituted the play-ground. It

was level and covered with hard gravel But the house !

how quaint an old building was this! to me how veritably a
palace of enchantment ! There was really no end to its wind-
ings, to its incomprehensible subdivisions. It was difficult at
any given time to say with certainty upon which of its two
stories one happened to be. From each room to every other
there were sure to be found three or four steps either in ascent
or descent.

**Then the lateral branches were innumerable, inconceiv-
able, and so returning in upon themselves, that our most ex-
act ideas in regard to the whole mansion were not very far
different from those with which we pondered upon infinity.
During the five years of my residence here, I was never able
to ascertain with precision in what remote locality lay the
little sleeping-apartment assigned to myself and some eighteen
or twenty other scholars."

"In 1822" (continues Dr. Griswold) "he entered the Univer-
sity at Charlottesville, Virginia, where he led a very dissipated
life ; the manners which then prevailed there were extremely
dissolute, and he was known as the wildest and most reck-
less student of his class ; but his unusual opportunities, and
the remarkable ease with which he mastered the most difficult
studies, kept him all the while in the first rank for scholar-
ship, and he would have graduated with the highest honors,
had not his gambling, intemperance, and other vices induced
his expulsion from the University."

; T ' r ^ ;■ /'

EDGAR A. POE AND HIS BIOGRAPHER. 283

This is all false from beginning to end, and is absurd, like-
wise, on the biographer's own showing. If Foe was born in
1811, he would at this time (1822) have been eleven years of
a^c, — rather a precocious age, is it not, for one to whom is
ascribed the r6Ie of a rake and a gambler.^ As a matter of
fact, Poe did not enter the University until 1826, being then
just seventeen years of age. He was never, according to reli-
able evidence, intoxicated while there, nor was he expelled.

Following the death of his foster-father, there came to Poe a
period of great, although probably not of his greatest, suffer-
ing. He had not at that time secured attention as a writer,
and his condition and location up to the time of his appear-
ance as a competitor for the Baltimore prizes are veiled from
his biographers. It is not improbable, however, that he made
his headquarters at the time with his aunt, Mrs. Clemm, who
afterwards became his mother-in-law. Dr. Griswold, not
having a fact at hand to mortise into this gap, comes to the
rescue of his impotent researches, and as usual placidly in-
vvfits another bit of defamatory fiction. *' His contributions,"
says Dr. Griswold, "attracted little attention, and, his hopes
of gaining a living in this way being disappointed, he enlisted
in the army as a private soldier. How long he remained in
the army I have not been able to ascertain. He was recog-
nized by officers who had known him at West Point, and
efforts were made privately, but with prospects, to obtain for
him a commission, when it was discovered by his friends that
he had deserted." The facts are, on the written testimony
of Mrs. Clcmm, that at this time his friends were seeking for
him a commission, and it is folly to believe, when the prospects
were favorable for his securing a higher position, that he would

284 LOTOS LEAVES.

have enlisted as a private, and thus deliberately and unneces-
sarily have incurred the penalty and disgrace of desertion.
That Mrs. Clemm, at least, was in full knowledge of his where-
abouts at this time, is evident from her statement made in this
regard, that Poe never slept one night away from home until
after he was married. It is futile to say that such an auda-
cious rumor should never have obtained admission into a
memoir of Poe, and that it never would have done so had
proper inquiries been made. Griswold never cared to make
inquiries, and if he had, he was in his normal condition too
unclean a man ever to have made proper inquiries.

Dr. Griswold's next fabrication is in regard to the details
of Poe's appearance as a competitor for the prizes offered by
the proprietor of the "Saturday Visitor" at Baltimore. The
prizes were one for the best tale and one for the best poem.
Dr. Griswold states that, attracted by the beauty of Poe's
penmanship, the committee, without opening any of the other
manuscripts, voted unanimously that the prizes should be
paid to " the first of geniuses who had written legibly." On
the contrary, there appeared in the Visitor, after the awards
were made, complimentary comments over the committee's
own signatures. They .said, among other things, that all the
tales offered by Poe were far better than the best offered
by athens, adding "that they thought it a duty to call public
attention to them in these columns in that marked man-
ner, since they possessed a singular force and beauty, and
were eminently distinguished by a rare vigorous and poetical
imagination, a rich style, a fertile invention, and varied and
curious learning." It is not a matter of great importance, but
Dr. Griswold's famous pen-photograph of Poe's personal ap-

EDGAR A. POE AND HIS BIOGRAPHER. 285

pearance when summoned by Mr. Kennedy to receive his prize-
money, is also untrue. I have not the copy of the letter at
hand, and therefore cannot recall the precise words of Mr.
Kennedy ; but I have in my possession a copy of an origi-
nal letter which most positively states that Foe's appearance,
although somewhat shabby, was not by any means absolutely
poverty-stricken, and that the details of the absence of shirt
and stockings, mentioned by Dr. Griswold. are false. This
statement is interesting as, in a way, confirmatory of my
impression that Foe was not so far reduced as he has been
represented at this time. And when it is remembered that
there is evidence that he had influential friends at that very
time working to secure a commission for him, is it probable that
they would have permitted him to go about in such a shock-
ing condition as has been represented ? The theory that he
was at this time living with friends, is palpably more probable.

That his success in securing the prizes decided him upon
enlisting in a literary career, there can be no doubt ; hence it
is a matter of no surprise that we hear no more of the army
project at this time.

From other dates which have come to me from private
sources, I learn that he met Virginia Clemm when she was
but six years of age, that he undertook her tuition at ten. and
married her when she was but fourteen. From this, it is,
again, not only evident, but undoubted, that he was at least a
frequent visitor at the Clemms* at the period of his career
about which so little is known to the world. An amusing
instance of Griswold's i^ettiness and want of common-sense
judgment, even in his endeavor to demean the position and
character of his subject as much as possible, is found in the

286 LOTOS LEAVES.

following paragraph in the biography. Speaking of the poet's
connection with the Literaiy Messenger^ he writes: "In the
next number of the Messenger, Mr. White announced that
Poe was its editor, or, in other words, that he had made
arrangements with a gentleman of approved literary taste
and attainments, to whose especial management the editorial
department would be confided, and it was declared that this
gentleman would * devote his exclusive attention to his work.' "
Having put this down in black and white, following his state-
ment that Mr. White was a man of much purity of character,
the redoubtable biographer evidently feels that he has set Poe
up a peg too high, and immediately planes him down to an en-
durable level in the next sentence : " Poe continued, however,
to reside in Baltimore, and it is probable that he was engaged
only as a general contributor and writer of critical notices of
books" Apropos of these book reviews. Dr. Griswold dismisses
them as follows : " He continued in Baltimore till September.
In this period he wrote several long reviews, which for the
most part were abstracts of works rather than critical discus-
sions." As a matter of fact, the Mcssaiger was in its seventh
month, with about four hundred subscribers, when Poe assumed
the editorship. Poe remained with this journal until the end
of its second year, by which time its circulation had been
increased fourfold. A contemporary of Poe writes that ** the
success of the Messenger has been justly attributable to Poe's
exertions on its behalf, but especially to the skill, honesty, and
audacity of the criticism under the editorial head. The review
of *' Norman Leslie " may be said to have introduced a new
era in our critical literature." But Griswold could see nothing
in Poe's book reviews of which he cared to speak, for reasons
which will be apparent later.

EDGAR A. POE AND HIS BIOGRAPHER. 287

Dr. Grisvvold's next mendacious allusion to Poe is in connec-
tion with his account of his secession from the Gcntlanans
Magazine,

After mentioning a personal correspondence between Bur-
ton and Poe, in which the views of the latter, whatever they
may have been, arc carefully suppressed. Dr. Griswold ro-
mances as follows : "He [Burton] was absent nearly a fort-
night, and on returning he found that his printers had not
received a line of copy, but that Poe had prepared the
prospectus of a new monthly, and obtained transcripts of his
subscription and account books, to be used in a scheme for
supplanting him. He encountered his associate late in the
evening at one of his accustomed haunts, and said, *Mr.
Poe, I am astonished. Give me my manuscripts, so that I
can attend to the duties which you have so shamefully neg-
lected, and when you are sober we will settle.' Poe inter-
rupted him with, * Who are you that presume to address me
in this manner .' Burton, I am the editor of the Pennsylvania
Magazine, and you are — hiccup — a fool ! ' Of course, this
ended his relations with the Gentleman s'' That this alleged
conversation, so plausibly narrated as to pass current nent,
con., were it not for the existence of more reliable documentary
evidence, is an audacious invention, has been made apparent
to me from the written testimony of gentlemen connected
with the Gentleman s Magazine at this time.

Dr. Griswold devotes considerable space to his next mis-
statement, which relates to Mr. Poe*s reading of an original
poem before the Boston Lyceum. Our lecture managers and
lecture public were more exacting twenty-five years ago, on
some points, than at the present time. Now, it suffices for a

288 LOTOS LEAVES.

reputable celebrity to show himself upon the rostrum. Pro-
vided he does not occupy too much time (one hour or an
hour and fifteen minutes is about the fashionable limit), he
may be sure of copious applause, of fervent congratulations
from beaming managers, and a plethoric purse upon retiring.
Then^ O insatiable manager and exacting public ! the best
literary work expressly performed for the occasion was de-
manded, or woe betide the celebrities who failed to meet these
requirements !

Poe was probably fully conscious of this, and, not unlike
other geniuses in the history of the literary world, was driven
wellnigh frantic in contemplation of his task of the"written-
expressly-for-this-occasion poem." It ended as most of these
unequal contests between inspiration and necessity have ended
time and time again. The day arrived, and no new creations
had been evolved from the goaded and temporarily irrespon-
sive brain. He went to Boston to fill his engagement, nerved
to meet the ordeal by a spirit which brought him compensa-
tion for his anxiety, — a spirit which Mr. E. P. Whipple, the
distinguished essayist, at that time immediately associated
with Poe, most admirably describes as intellectual mischief.*
He could not do what he had been invited to do; well,
he would make them believe that he had filled the demand,
if he could, and then honestly own up, and let them laugh
at him and with him.

* Poe*s connection with the Text-Book of Conchology, of which Dr. Griswold
makes such a point, is undoubtedly attributable to this same spirit of intellectual
mischief. No other cause can reasonably be assigned for the publication of the
book under the circumstances. There was no money in such a venture, and the
action partakes so much of the color of Poe's purely mischievous pranks in other
fields, that I oaimot but assign it to the same species of impulse.

EDGAR A. POE AND HIS BIOGRAPHER. 289

Dr. Griswold makes a labored effort to show that Poe's failure
to meet his engagement to the letter was due to cares, anxie-
ties, and *' feebleness of will." The charge of feebleness of will,
applied to Poe in his strictly literary capacity, is perhaps one
of the most sapient bits of analysis of which the reverend
and profound doctor has delivered himself As regards Dr.
Griswold's mention of the assistance of Mrs. Osgood, desired by
Poe, it is so manifestly absurd, that the biographer's ingenuity
and invention fail to enlist any credence in this bit of fiction.

The literary world of Boston twenty-five years ago was
marked by characteristics that rendered it anything but
liberal and indulgent. Had Poe had the fortunate tact to
disarm his audience by *' owning ujo" at the outset, and
in advance, deftly knuckling, as he might have done, to its
boasted literary acumen and perceptiveness, all might have
been well. But he chose rather to indulge his mischievous
propensity, to his cost, as it afterwards proved. In his card
in the Broadzvay yonrnal, the poet, in acknowledging his con-
fession to a company of gentlemen at a supper which took
place after the reading, truly says, in closing. " We should
have waited a couple of days." He should indeed have
waited ; for among the company was a pitcher that could not
contain the water, and the premature leak being made pub-
lic, naturally aroused a storm of indignant criticism upon the
poet's assumption. His long poem had been applauded to
the echo, and the reading of "The Raven " afterwards, had sent
the audience home in the best of spirits. Poe was too frank and
impulsive to keep the joke to himself, and, finding that he had
not taken in all of the men with brains who received him,
he, without a word of s'iggestion, made a clean breast of it.

290 LOTOS LEAVES.

How did the truth get to the papers, is the question. We
were young indeed, then, it is true. But must not the full-
Hedged interviewer of the present day have been a grub at
some time ? and, if so, may not he then have lain snugly en-
sconced in the comfortable folds of Poe's black frock ?

It is difficult to meet with absolute documentary evidence
such a statement as Griswold makes in regard to the poet
borrowing money of a lady, and then, when asked to return
it as promised, threatening to exhibit a correspondence that
would make the woman infamous. Griswold manages, how-
ever, to admit that whatever his subject might have been
with men, he was '' differmf' with women; and the numer-
ous letters which I have seen in the poet's hand to the select
circle of his near lady friends, mark his relations with them
as characterized by uniform delicacy, deference, and chaste
feeling. That this glittering generality of Griswold's, in this
instance of the borrowing, is another glaring falsehood, every
known attribute of the poet tends to show.

As regards Mr. Poe*s letters alluding to his dangerous ill-
ness, concerning which Mr. Griswold states that Foe was not
dangerously ill at all at the time, I have the testimony of a
most estimable lady now living, at whose house Mr. Poe was
a frequent visitor, that Mr. Poe was almost at death's door at
the time from an attack of congestion of the brain, which was in
reality the final cause of his death. I have also the testimony
before me in Mr. Poc's own hand, spite of Griswold's statement
that there was no literary or personal abuse of him in the
journals of which Poe complained, that at this very time he
' (Poe) brought a suit for libel against one of his vilifiers and
obtained " exemplary damages.'*

EDGAR A. POE AND HIS BIOGRAPHER. 291

Speaking of the severiiig of Poe\s connection with Gralianis
Magazine, Dr. Griswolcl writes : *' The infirmities which in-
duced his separation from Mr. White and Mr. Burton at
length compelled Mr. Graham to find another editor"; and
also in the same connection, ** It is known that the personal
ill-will on both sides was such that for some four or five
years not a line by Poe was purchased for Grahams Magazine!'
The italics are Dr. Griswold's. He evidently believes with
Chrysos, the art patron in W. S. Gilbert's play of " Pygmalion
and Galatea," that when a person tells a lie, he "should tell
it well."

It is a patent fact, that, among the indignant refutations of
Griswold's mendacious memoir of Poe, which was published
both in newspaper and magazine form previous to its being
included with Poe's works, was a manly and spirited defence of
the poet written by Mr. Graham in the New York Tribune. Mr.
Graham, a few months later, wrote in his own magazine a more
extended review of Griswold's memoir, from which we append
the following significant extracts : '* I knew Mr. Poe well, —
far better than Mr. Griswold ; and. by the memory of old
times when he was an editor of Graham s, I pronounce this
exceedingly ill-timed and unappreciative estimate of our lost
friend nnfair and untrne. It is Mr. Poe as seen by the writer
while laboring under a fit of the nightmare ; but so dark a
picture has no resemblance to the living man. It must have
been made in a moment of spleen, written out and laid aside,
and handed to the printer, when his death was announced,
with a sort of a chuckle. He is not Mr. Poe's peer, and I
challenge him before the country even as a juror in the case."
Of the parallel drawn between Poe and Bulwer's Francis

292 LOTOS LEAVES.

Vivian in *' The Caxtons," in which Dr. Griswold paints in
lurid colors the alleged envy and vaulting ambition of the
poet, Mr. Graham writes : ** Now this is dastardly, and, what
is worse, it is false. It is very adroitly done, with phrases
very well turned, and with gleams of truth shining out from
a setting so dusky as to look devilish. Mr. Griswold does
not feel the worth of the man he has undervalued, he has no
sympathies in common with him, and has allowed old preju-
dices and old enmities to steal, insensibly perhaps, into the
coloring of his picture. They were for years totally uncon-
genial, if not enemies ; and during that period Mr. Poe, in a
scathing lecture upon ' Poets of America,' gave Griswold some
raps over the knuckles of force sufficient to be remembered.

** Nor do I consider Mr. Griswold competent, with all the
opportunities he may have cultivated or acquired, to act as his
judge, — to dissect that subtle and singularly fine intellect, to
probe the motives and weigh the actions of that proud heart.
His whole nature — that distinctive presence of the departed
which now stands impalpable, yet in strong outline before me,
as I knew him and felt him to be — eludes the rude grasp
of a mind so warped and uncongenial as Mr. Griswold's."

This statement of Mr. Graham's was in the form of an
open letter to Mr. N. P. Willis, and carefully avoided any
specific personal charges, demonstrating more exactly the
basis of Dr. Griswold's unscrupulous and malignant animus.
As Dr. Griswold never presumed to make any detailed pub-
lic reply to this or similar articles derogatory to the fair-
ness of his views, it is perhaps as well that the more specific
charges that might have been made, have been reserved for
the present time.

EDGAR A. POE AND HIS BIOGRAPHER. 293

Mr. Graham is now living, and when I last saw him he
was in excellent health. I was then, of course, intent upon
securing data in regard to the life of Foe, and in a conversa-
tion with Mr. Graham, some peculiarly significant facts touch-
ing Griswold's veracity in particular were elicited.

Mr. Graham states that Foe never quarrelled with him,
never was discharged from Grahains Magazine ; and that
during the ** four or five years" italicized by Dr. Griswold as
indicating the personal ill-will between Mr. Foe and Mr.
Graham, over fifty articles by Foe were accepted by Mr.
Graham.

The facts of Mr. Foe's secession from Gra/iavts were as
follows : —

Mr. Foe was, from illness or other causes, absent for a
short time from his post on the magazine. Mr. Graham had,
meanwhile, made a temporary arrangement with Dr. Griswold
to act as Foe's substitute until his return. Foe came back
unexpectedly, and, seeing Griswold in his chair, turned on his
heel without a word, and left the office, nor could he be
persuaded to enter it again, although, as stated, he sent
frequent contributions thereafter to the pages of the maga-
zine.

The following anecdote well illustrates the character of
Foe's biographer. Dr. Griswold's associate in his editorial
duties on Grahams was Mr. Charles J. Peterson, a gentle-
man long and favorably known in connection with prominent
American magazines. Jealous of his abilities, and unable to
visit his vindictiveness upon him in propria persona^ Dr.
Griswold conceived the noble design of stabbing him in the
back, writing under a non de plume in another journal, the New

294 LOTOS LEAVES.

VorJt Revird), In the columns of the Review there appeared
a most scurrilous attack upon Mr. Peterson, at the very time
in the daily interchange of friendly courtesies with his treach-
erous associate. Unluckily for Dr. Griswold, Mr. Graham saw
this article, and, immediately inferring, from its tone, that
Griswold was the undoubted author, went to him with the
article in his hand, saying, '* Dr. Griswold, I am very sorry to
say I have detected you in what I call a piece of rascality."
Griswold turn<id all colors upon seeing the article, but stoutly
denied the imputation, saying, " I '11 go before an alderman
and swear that I never wrote it." It was fortunate that he
was not compelled to add perjury to his meanness, for Mr.
Graham said no more about the matter at that time, waiting
his opportunity for authoritative confirmation of the truth of
his surmises. He soon found his conjectures confirmed to
the letter. Being well acquainted with the editor of the
Re7'iew, he took occasion to call upon him shortly afterwards
when in New York. Asking as a special favor to see the
manuscript of the article in question, it was handed to him.
The writing was in Griswold*s hand.

Returning to Philadelphia, he called Griswold to him, told
him the facts, paid him a month's salary in advance, and dis-
missed him from his post on the spot.

So it becomes evident that the memory of Poe's biographer,
confused upon the point of his discharge from Graham s^ has
saddled Poe with the humiliation and disgrace that alone be-
longed to him. The probing of the personal history of Rufus
W. Griswold is like stirring up a jar of sulphuretted hydro-
gen, — it exhales nothing but foul and loathsome odors. Most
of the associations of this man in private life are too vile to

EDGAR A. POE AND HIS BIOGRAPHER. 295

place before refined readers. One anecdote I may be permitted
to give, to illustrate his utter heartlessness and depravity.

At one time in his career he met and became well ac-
quainted with two ladies (sisters) from South Carolina, who
were reputed to be very wealthy. He paid them every atten-
tion, and finally became engaged to one of them, whom he
shortly afterwards married. On the very day of the wedding,
and almost immediately after the ceremony, he was informed
that the estimable lady whom he made his wife was a por-
tionless bride. There had been no attempt made by the lady
to create the impression that she was wealthy, nor did she
dream for a moment that a supposed fortune, and not herself,
had secured the villain's attachment. Dr. Griswold made
short work of sentiment and conscience. On the day after
the wedding, he coolly informed his bride at the breakfast-table
that they must part forever, giving for the pretext a rea-
son so foul, so monstrous, that its repetition in these pages
is impossible, from the shocking indecency of the atrocious
subterfuge. Spite of tears and protestations, he deserted
the bride of a day, never to return to her, nor com-
municate with her again. It is a matter of surprise that a.
man capable of such diabolical mendacity as Dr. Griswold has.
shown himself to be, should have found anything favorable to.
say in his memoir, nor would he have done so, probably, hadi
not the poet's pre-eminent genius made the few truths to be
found in the biography as familiar as household words to the
literary world.

The next important statement made by Dr. Griswold. and,
unquestionably, the most heinous falsehood to be found in
the whole tissue of fabrication which has been so extensively

296 LOTOS LEAVES.

copied as "the life of Edgar A. Poe," is the statement in re-
gard to Poe's alleged breaking of his engagement with Mrs.
Sarah Helen Whitman, of Providence, Rhode Island. I may
be permitted, in introducing what I have to offer on this sub-
ject, to present a letter elicited by Mr. Griswold's original
statement, written by Mr. William J. Pabodic an esteemed and
influential citizen of Providence : —

To THK EnnoRs of the New York Tribune: —

In an article on American Literature in the IVestminster Revieiv
for April, and in one on Edgar A. Poe in TaiVs Magazine for
the same month, we find a repetition of certain incorrect and
injurious statements in regard to the deceased author, which
should not longer b- suffered to pass unnoticed. These statements
have circulated through half a dozen foreign and domestic periodi-
cals, and are presented with an ingenious variety of detail. As a
specimen, we take a passage from Tait, who quotes as his author-
ity Dr. Griswold's memoir of the poet : —

''^ I^oe's life, in fact, during the three years that yet remained to him,
Avas simply a repetition of his previous existence, notwithstanding which
liis reputation still increased, and he made many friends. He was, indeed,
at one time, engaged to marry a lady who is termed *one of the most
brilliant women in New England.' He, however, suddenly changed his
determination ; and, after declaring his intention to break the match, he
crossed the same day into the city where the lady dwelt, and, on the even-
ing that should have been the evening before the bridal, * committed in
drunkenness such outrages at her house as made necessary a summons
oi the police.'*'

The subject is one which cannot well be approached without in-
vading the sanctities of private life ; and the improbabilltks of the
story may, to those acquainted with the parties, be deemed an all-
sufficient refutation. But, in view of the rapidly increasing circula-

EDGAR A. POE AND HIS BIOGRAPHER. 297

tion which this story has obtained, and the severity of comment
which it has elicited, the friends of the late Edgar A. Poe deem it
an imperative dut>' to free his memory from this unjust reproach,
and oppose to it their unqualified denial. Such a denial is due,
not only to the memory of the departed, but also to the lady
whose home is supposed to have been desecrated by these dis-
graceful outrages.

Mr. Poe was frequently my guest during his stay in Providence.
In his several visits to the city I was with him daily. I was ac-
quainted with the circumstances of his engagement, and with the
causes which led to its dissolution. I am authorized to say, not
only from my personal knowledge, but also from the statements of
all who were conversant with the affair, that there exists not a
shadow of foundation for the stories above alluded to.

Mr. Poe's friends have no desire to palliate his faults, nor to
conceal the fact of his intemperance, — a vice which, though never
habitual to him, seems, according to Dr. Griswold's published state-
ments, to have repeatedly assailed him at the most momentous
epochs of his life. With the single exception of this fault, which
he so fearfully expiated, his conduct, during the period of my ac-
quaintance with him, was invariably that of a man of honor and a
gentleman ; and I know that, in the hearts of all who knew him
best among us, he is remembered with feelings of melancholy inter-
est and generous sympathy.

We understand that Dr. Griswold has expressed his sincere re-
gret that these unfounded reports should have been sanctioned by
his authority ; and we doubt not, if he possesses that fairness of
character and uprightness of intention which we have ascribed to
him, that he will do what lies in his power to remove an unde-
served stigma from the memory of the departed.

WILLIAM J. PABODIE.
Providence, June 2, 1852.

298 LOTOS LEAVES.

In answer to this, we find Dr. Griswold in the r61e of a bully,
impudently attempting to put down Mr. Pabodie's dignified
statement, vi ct annis. He writes to Mr. Palx)dic a private
letter as follows : —

New York, June 8, 1852
Dear Sir, — I think you have done wrong in publishing your
communication in yesterday's Tribune without ascertaining how it
must be met. I have never expressed any such regrets as you
write of, and I cannot permit any statement in my memoir of Poe
to be contradicted by a reputable person, unless it is sliown to be
wrong. The statement in question I can easily prove on the most
unquestionable authority to be true ; and unless you explain your
letter to the Tribune in another for publication there, you will compel
me to place before the public such documents as will be infinitely
painful to Mrs. Whitman and all others concerned. The person
to whom he disclosed his intention to break off the match was Mrs.

H 1. He was already engaged to another party. I am sorry

for the publication of your letter. Why you did not permit me to
see it before it appeared, and disclose in advance these conse-
quences, I cannot conceive. I would willingly drop the subject,
but for the controversies hitherto in regard to it, with which you
are acquainted. Before writing to the lYibune, I will await your
opportunity to acknowledge this note, and to give such explana-
tions of your letter as will render any public statement on my
part unnecessary.

In haste, yours respectfully,

R. W. GRISWOLD.
\V. J. Pahodie, Esq.

To this insolent anil impotent letter, which was tesselated
with scandalous and irrelevant stories respecting Mr. Poe's
relations with some of his most esteemed and valued friends,

EDGAR A. POE AND HIS BIOGRAPHER. 299

Mr. Pabodie replied by calmly reiterating his published state-
ment in the JVczu York Tribune, and by adducing further
proof of Griswold's audacious fabrications. The tone of this
letter is in striking contrast to that of Griswold's virulent and
threatening note. Its forbearing mildness indeed renders it
open to criticism on this ground.

June II, 1852.
Mr. Rltkus W. Griswold.

Dear Sir, — In reply to your note, I would say that I have
simply testified to what / know to be true^ namely, that no such
incident as that so extensively circulated in regard to certain al-
leged outrages at the house of Mrs. Whitman, and the calling of
the police, ever took place. The assertion that Mr. Poe came to
Providence the last time with the intention of breaking off the
engagement you will find equally unfounded when I have stated
to you the facts as I know them. In remarking that you had
expressed regret at the fact of their admission into your memoir,
I had reference to a passage in a letter written by Mrs. H.
to Mrs. W., which was read to me by the latter some time since.
I stated in all truthfulness the impression which that letter had
left upon my mind. I enclose an extract from the letter, that you
may judge for yourself : —

*' Having heard that Mr. Poe was engaged to a lady of Providence, I
said to him, on hearing that he was going to that city, * Mr. Poe, are
you going to Providence to be married?' *I am going to deliver a lec-
tu:j on Poetry,' he replied. Then, after a pause, and with a look of
jjreat reserve, he added, * That marriai^e may never take place.'"*

I know that from the commencement of Poe's acquaintance with

* In another letter Mrs. H. writes, referring to this conversation, indignant at
the use which Dr. Griswuld had made of these innocent words more than a year
after she had reported them, " These were Mr. Poe's words, and these were all."

300 LOTOS LEAVES.

Mrs. W., he repeatedly urged her to an immediate marriage. At the
time of his interview with Mrs. H., circumstances existed which
threatened to postpone the marriage indefinitely, if not altogether
to prevent it. It was, undoubtedly, with reference to these circum-
stances ihat his remark to Mrs. H. was made, certainly not to
breaking off the engagement, as his subsequent conduct will prove.
He left New York for Providence on the afternoon of his inter-
view with Mrs. H., not with any view to the proposed union, but
at the solicitation of the Providence Lyceum ; and on the even-
ing of his arrival delivered his lecture on American Poetry, before
an audience of some two thousand persons. During his stay he
again succeeded in renewing his engagement, and in obtaining Mrs.
W.'s consent to an immediate marriage.

He stopped at the Earl House, where he became acquainted with
a set of somewhat dissolute young men, who often invited him to
drink with them. We all know that he sometimes yielded to such
temptations, and on the third or fourth evening after his lecture,
he came up to Mrs. Whitman's in a state of partial intoxication.
I was myself present nearly the whole evening, and do most sol-
emnly affirm that there was no noise, no disturbance, no " outrage,''
neither was there any "call for the police." Mr. Poe said but lit-
tle. This was undoubtedly the evening referred to in your memoir,
for it was the only evening in which he was intoxicated during his
last visit to this city ; but it was not " the evening that should have
been before the bridal,'* for they were not then published, and
the law in our State required that they should be published at
least three times, on as many different occasions, before they could
be legally married.

The next morning, Mr. Poe manifested and expressed the most
profound contrition and regret, and was profuse in his promises of
amendment. He was still urgently anxious that the marriage
should take place before he left the city.

EDGAR A. POE AND HIS BIOGRAPHER.

301

That very morning he wrote a note to Dr. Crocker, requesting*
him to publish the intended marriage at the earliest opportunity,
and intrusted this note to me, with the request that I should deliver
it in person. You will perceive, therefore, that I did not write
unadvisedly in the statement published in the Tribune.

For yourself, Mr. Griswold, I entertain none other than the kind-
est feelings. I was not surprised that you should have believed
those rumors in regard to Poe and his engagement ; and although,
from a regard for the feelings of the lady, I do not think that a
belief in their truth could possibly justify their publication, yet I
was not disposed to impute to you any wrong motive in presenting
them to the public. I supposed rather that, in the hurry of publi-
cation and in the multiplicity of your avocations, you had not given
each statement that precise consideration which less haste and more
leisure would have permitted. I was thus easily led to believe,
from Mrs. H.'s letter, that upon being assured of their incor-
rectness, and upon learning how exceedingly painful they were to
the feelings of the surviving party, you sincerely regretted their
publication. I would fain hope so still.

In my article in the Tribune^ I endeavored to palliate their pub-
lication on your part, and to say everything in your extenuation
that was consistent with the demands of truth and justice to the
parties concerned. I would add, in regard to Poe's intoxication
on the evening above alluded to, that to all appearances it was as
purely accidental and unpremeditated as any similar act of his life.
By what species of logic any one should infer that in this particu-
lar instance it was the result of a malicious purpose and deliberate
design, I have never been able to conceive. The facts of the case
and his subsequent conduct prove beyond a doubt that he had no
such design.

With great respect.

Your obedient ser\'ant.
Rev. Rufus W. Griswold. WILLIAM J. PABODIE.

302 LOTOS LEAVES.

It will be seen by this correspondence that the attempt of
Dr. Griswold to browbeat Mr. Pabodie was courteously but
firmly and unanswerably met. Dr. Griswold never paid the
slightest attention to this letter, contenting himself with leaving
on record the outrageous scandal that has since obtained an
almost unprecedented circulation in the numerous memoirs of
Poe, based upon Dr. Griswold's malicious invention, that have
been published. The introduction of the story of the banns
would seem to come under the head of what lawyers call " an
accessory after the fact.*' Dr. Griswold had probably heard
that the banns were written, if not published, and took advan-
tage of this information to adroitly garnish his story with them.
To set this question at rest forever, I have obtained permis-
sion to quote the following passages of a letter received from
Mrs. Whitman in August, 1873: —

**No such scene as that described by Dr. Griswold ever trans-
pired in my presence. No one, certainly no woman, who had the
slightest acquaintance with Edgar Poe, could have credited the
stor}^ for an instant. He wa§ essentially and instinetively a gentle-
man, utterly incapable, even in moments of excitement and delirium,
of such an outrage as Dr. Griswold has ascribed to him. No au-
thentic anecdote of coarse indulgence in vulgar orgies or bestial
riot has ever been recorded of him. During the last years of his
unhappy life, whenever he yielded to the temptation that was draw-
ing' him into its fathomless abyss, as with the resistless swirl of the
maelstrom, he always lost himself in sublime rhapsodies on the
evolution of the universe, speaking as from some imaginary plat-
form to vast audiences of rapt and attentive listeners. During one
of his visits to this city, in the autumn of 1848, I once saw him,

EDGAR A. POE AND HIS BIOGRAPHER. 303

after one of those nights of wild excitement, before reason had
fully recovered its throne. Yet even ihcn^ in those frenzied mo-
ments when the doors of the mind's * Haunted Palace ' were left
all unguarded, his words were the words of a princely intellect,
overwrought, and of a heart only too sensitive and too finely
strung. I repeat that no one acquainted with Edgar Poe could
have given Dr. Griswold's scandalous anecdote a moment's cre-
dence.

" Yours, etc.,

"S. II. WHITMAN"

In regard to Mr. Griswold's professed friendship for Poe,
which he endeavors to demonstrate in copies of a correspond-
ence which I cannot refrain from thinking was extensively
"doctored" by the doctor, to suit his purpose, I am able to
present an extract from an autograph letter of Dr. Griswold
written to Mrs. Whitman in 1849.

The object of this was evidently to cool Mrs. Whitman's
friendship for Mrs. Clemm, thus preventing their further inti-
macy. This was desirable to Dr. Griswold for evident rea-
sons.

New York, December 17, 1849.

My dear Mrs. Whitmax, — I have been two or three weeks in
Philadelphia attending to the remains which a recent fire left of my
library and furniture, and so did not receive your interesting letter
in regard to our departed acquaintance until to-day ; I wrote, as you
suppose, the notice of Poe in the Tribune^ but ver}' hastily.

I was not his friend, nor was he mine, as I remember to
have told you. I undertook to edit his writings, to oblige Mrs.
Clemm, and they will soon be published in two thick volumes, of
which a copy shall be sent to you. I saw very little of Poe in his
last years I cannot refrain from begging you to be very

304 LOTOS LEAVES.

careful what you say or write to Mrs. Clemin, who is not your
friend, nor anybody's friend, and who has no element of goodness
or kindness in her nature, but whose whole heart and understand-
ing are full of malice and wickedness. / confide in you these sen-
tences for your own sake only, for Mrs. C. appears to be a very
7vann friend to me. Pray destroy this note, and, at least, act cau-
tiously, till I may justify it in a conversation with you.

I am, yours very sincerely,

RUFUS W. GRLSWOLD.

This brief note affords a tolerably good specimen of the
utter duplicity of the man. In his printed memoir of Poe^
he quotes a correspondence indicating professed friendship ;
in private, he squarely owns that no friendship ever existed
between Poe and himself.

He writes that Mrs. Clemm is a friend to no one, and stig-
matizes her character, and in the same breath speaks of her
warm friendship for him.

Had Griswold lived in Othello's time, no one could have
disputed with him the position of '* mine ancient," honest lago.

From a correspondence from Mrs. Clemm, who, there can
be no reasonable doubt, is correctly described by Willis as
" one of those angels upon earth that women in adversity can
be," we find the most positive testimony that Dr. Griswold s
association with collecting the works of Poe, and of writing a
memoir of the author, was purely voluntary and speculative.

It presents simply the fact of a designing and unscrupulous
man, prompted by hatred and greed of gain, taking advantage
of a helpless woman, unaccustomed to business, to defraud
her of her rights, and gratify his malice and his avarice at
her expense.

EDGAR A. POE AND HIS BIOGRAPHER. 305

A miserable pittance having been given to Mrs. Clemm in
exchange for Poe's private papers. Dr. Griswold draws up a
paper for Mrs. Clemm to sign, announcing his appointment
as Poe's literary executor, not omitting of course a touching
allusion to himself. This is duly signed by Mrs. Clemm, and
printed over her signature in the published editions of Poe's
works. But if the wording of this curious paper be carefully
observed, it will be noted that nothing whatever is said in it
of any request by Poe that Dr. Griswold should write a
memoir of his life. This duty was properly assigned to Mr.
Willis, — of all men, familiar with the subject, the most com-
, petent to fulfil such a task, — and his tender and manly tribute
to the stricken genius was all that could have been wished, all
that the world called for.

Mrs. Clemm had no idea, at the time she signed the paper
which she scarcely understood, that Dr. Griswold had any
intention of supplementing Mr. Willis's obituary with any
memoir by his own penf It was a piece of gratuitous malice,
— the act of a fiend exulting over a dead and helpless victim.

The tone of Poe*s critique of Griswold, in his review ol
the " Poets and Poetry of America," which unquestionably
inspired the reverend doctor's malignant hatred, scathing as
it is, will impress the reader with its outspoken manliness and
integrity of purpose. What a contrast to the biography that,
while undermining the very foundations of Poe's moral and
social character, yet hypocritically professes to be dictated
by friendship, and written in a generous spirit ! I fear that
Dr. Griswold's precious specimen of his generosity will go
on record in the history of literature as an everlasting mon-
ument of his despicable meanness !

3o6 LOTOS LEAVES.

Dr. Griswold was, take him all in all, about as well fitted
to be Poe's biographer, as Mr. Preston Brooks would have
been to have written an impartial life of Charles Sumner.
And, indeed, whenever it becomes possible for a Rufus W.
Griswold to write a true transcript of the life of an Edgar A.
Poe, then will perpetual motion have become possible, the
world will find it easy and comfortable to arrest its revolu-
tions at pleasure, and balloon voyages to the planets will be-
come as popular and as practicable, as is a trip to Saratoga
at the present day.

.'"•

Lethe.

LETHE.

By C. McK. LEOSER.

ar^^f^T'ERBORNE with carking grief and weary weight
M\ of sin.

a^/,\ Yeametii the patient Christian for the time
^Jtj] When, to the ringing seraph-song sublime,
~ Falleth the load, and proud he entereth in,
Escaped the world's annoy and Satan's gin ;
And, fain to leave the worn and tasteless joys,
And all the bitter glare and hollow noise,
Seeth his everlasting life begin.
So toward thee. Lotos, home to sweet souls given.
The outworn toiler in the muck of trade.
Or where the opinion of the public 's made.
Turns at the hour to which his thought has striven ;

Then, the dull burden from his shoulders laid,
Forgets his care in thee, thou gentler earthly Heaven.

The Miracle of the Fishes.

THE MIRACLE OF THE FISHES.

By ROBERT R. ROOSEVELT.

N these modern days the public affects a taste for
sporting. Whether in imitation of the recreations ,
of the aristocratic and leisure-loving nations of the
Old World, or impelled by an increase of sedentary
occupations among ourselves, Americans are given
more and more to spending their holidays in the chase of
beast, bird, or fish. In the spring, as soon as the frost lets
go its grip of the waters, the young New-Yorker's fancy
lightly turns to thoughts of visiting the trout-ponds of Long

•

Island, — the Mattowacs of the jovial J. Cypress, Jr., of glori-
ous memory ; the sportsman's Paradise of the more senten-
tious and didactic Frank Forester, — where trout are ** frighted
from their natural propriety " by many strange devices in the
way of fishing-tackle. During the summer the effectual fires
of that hottest of resorts, Saratoga, pale before the attrac-
tions of the Adirondacks, and our deluded men about town
exchange the miseries of stifling nights and villanous aperients
for the tortures of merciless black gnats and tunefully tri-
umphant mosquitoes. And in the fall the knights of the
quill and yard-stick drag their unaccustomed limbs over
" stony limits " and through meadowy morc*sses in an imagi-
nary devotion to sportsmanship, and a praiseworthy, if un-

314 LOTOS LEAVES.

rewarded, pursuit of quail. Diana is worshipped even more
assiduously than Venus, whose longest trains and biggest
chignons are not as alluring as a lively trout-brook, a lovely
snipe-bog, or a stand on the bass rocks by the " sounding
sea." All this is healthful, and promises well for the "millions
yet to be" on this continent, of whom it will be said, —

"They can jump, and ihcy can run,
Catch the wild goat by the hair, and hurl their lances in the sun."

Metaphorically, of course, as the only goats worth catch-
ing — reference clearly not being intended by the poet to the
docile creatures that roam about the shanties of Goat Town,
and alternate their diet between old hats and bits of paper —
are those of the Rocky Mountains, who are not given to letting
themselves be caught in their inaccessible fastnesses even by
the most agile hunter of the liveliest poetical imagination ;
while the discovery of gunpowder has converted the roman-
tic lance into the prosaic, but game-compelling, breech-loading
rifle or shot-gun.

Fortunate as is this change, and promising, as it does, an
immense increase of muscular Christianity, it has its defects,
and of course it inflicts much suffering by compelling the ex-
perienced sportsman to listen to the puerilities of the begin-
ner, — the skilful angler to have his soul harrowed up by
being asked about the virtues of a fi>hing poh\ or graciously
informed of the special attractions of some favorite tail fly,
till he feels his ** torture should bo roared in dismal hell," — or
the accomplished shot to be assured by some bungler that a
muzzle-loader ** shoots stronger than a breech-loader"; but,
trying as these are, they are not the only points to be con-
demned. The system itself is wrong. At present there are

THE MIRACLE OF THE FISHES. 3IS

but two classes in the community who consider game at all ;
one of these regards it simply as something to be eaten, the
other looks upon it solely as something to be killed. The
first may be dismissed with scarce a word, as utterly beneath
the contempt of well-regulated minds : for it has been the
proper thing to condemn indulgences of the stomach from
the days of the dishes of peacock's tongues to the times of
pdtes de foie gras ; and the latter class alone is worthy of our
tender care and wise advice. These individuals, these sports-
men, as they call themselves, vainly consider they have at-
tained their ends when they have had a good day's sport,
when they have filled their bags or their creels, when they have
drunk deep draughts of the breath of the morning and feasted
their eyes on the pictures drawn by Nature's golden pencil,
when they have cast the fly delicately and accurately, when
they have tossed the bass-bait into the combing crest of the
outermost breaker, or when they have shot straight and *' held
true." Poor fools, they have put their happiness into a con-
densed pill, and swallowed it up at a gulp ; they have had
but a moment's pleasure in what should have been " linked
sweetness long drawn out." In their " dull, untutored minds"
they never dreamed of what a '* thing of beauty and a joy
forever" a fish could be made, and only used him in the last
stage of his existence, and, by opposing, ended him. They
thought only of the trout that were in the brook or the bass
that were in the sea, wished that there were more, but never
speculated how they came there. At this point science and
morality alike come in and say, *'What thou sowest, that shalt
thou also reap ; if thou wouldst have fish, fish must thou
even plant, precisely as thou plantest corn ; if thou wantest

3l6 LOTOS LEAVES.

whiskey and beans, if thou desirest soup, how canst thou
expect a crop when thou art always harvesting and never
planting ?

It may not seem romantic to grow game for pursuit, as a
market-man raises beef for the table ; and the fisherman might
imagine he was being degraded into a fishman ; but the
sporting pleasures of modern times must be tempered by the
influences of scientific discoveries, or our utilitarian age, with
its proud nets and its improved weapons, will sweep them out
of existence. It is true that a ''glorious nibble" may reward
the sublimated angler, living in the highest heaven of his
art, for a day of patience, but the rest of mankind would like
a rise or a bite now and then, just for variety.

The delights of a day on Long Island are not to be de-
nied, but they are different from what they once were. In
former days, when the genial and brilliant J. Cypress, Jr., vis-
ited Raccoon Beach — now misnamed Fire Island — to kill
ducks, and his friend, Ned Loftus, cast a fly so *'far and deli-
cately and suspendedly " that it took wings and flew away, ducks
and snipe were so abundant that you did not have to whistle,
and they came to you, my lad, and you could cast your lines
into any brook with a full and abiding faith that trout were
there to see. Now, the Madeira is good, —yea, verily, we
know whereof we speak, — and the sherry came over before
any other emigrant, and the champagne flows in a never-
ending stream ; but the preserv^es are bare of fish, and the
gentle angler has to trust to a French cook to fill his stom-
ach, that should be cloyed with trout.

Nor is this the fault of the fish ; the finny tribe are not
to blame ; they are willing to do their part. A trout lays

. THE MIRACLE OF THE FISHES. 3W

ten thousand eggs ; imagine such a reckless amount of ma-
ternity ! Ten thousand eggs, ten thousand fry, ten thousand
fingerlings, ten thousand ** speckled beauties," in their well-
rounded proportions ; ten thousand atoms of fishing happiness.
Nurse the httle ones, teach them to play at hide-and-seek
when their natural enemies are about, protect them from evil
associates, warn them against wicked ways, and keep their
fins from the paths that lead down to death, and they will
crowd the waters, stock all the preserves, and, lifting up tTieir
voices, beg to be caught. An Englishman was once invited
to visit a friend, who allured him to the country under the
pretence of having a fine carp pond, whereas he had only
brought fifty fish, thinking that enough for a week's sport,
and turned them loose a few days previously. Conceive the
host's horror when his sporting friend caught forty-seven the
first morning, before breakfast. In American preserves, eti-
quette requires the fisherman to return to the water the trout
that he catches, that he may catch them over again, or leave
them to the next guest. But if the sportsman insists that there
is ^10 great enjoyment in raising fish, and that he would rather
hoe corn and dig potatoes for amusement, not to speak of
profit, he should console himself with the recollection of the
benefit he confers on society, of the addition he makes to
the supply of fish food, that monument of the brain, that
restorative of the machine-shop of ideas, that fertilizer of in-
telligence, which the students of man's body affirm it to be.
He should contemplate the advance to be effected in the
human race when the intellect is developed by unlimited
condiment. Though the fisherman be a member of the Lotos,
and may think, from his surroundings, that a development of

3l8 LOTOS LEAVKS.

brain is not necessary, he should still have pity and consid-
eration for the benighted world outside the gifted few, and
help the common mind inta a higher sphere of development.
Therefore, whether the fisherman be a philanthropist, a sports-
man, or even a member of the Lotos, he should allow no
blind ideas of present recreation to keep him from a duty he
owes mankind, and should not presume to wield the rod till
he has worked the breeding- trough.

Suppose there are ten thousand sportsmen, and each should
supervise the incubation of but one pair of fish, raising ten
thousand young, and every pair of those young should subse-
quently raise their ten thousand, it would require a syndicate
or statistician to compute the result. The lakes and rivers
and the ocean itself would become crammed with fish, till the
traveller could make the voyage to Kurope dry-shod on their
hacks ; ships would get fish-bound, and have to be cut out :
mankind would have to go without washing, and drink whiskey,
to allow the fish sufficient water ; and such a millennium of
sportsmanship would have arrived as was never dreamed of
in the wildest reaches of sporting philosophy. Then there
would be no empty creels, no blank days, none of those
perverse hours when trout will not rise, and none of those
painfully insinuating questions, when the sportsman at last
returns with a goodly mess, as to where he bought them
and how much he paid for them. The jeers of the unbeliev-
ing would then . be in vain, and the hearts of the best of
the human species would be made happy by the miraculous
reproductiveness of fishes.

Ihe Lotos-Eaters.

PUB! 1" lHHAKT;

THE LOTOS-EATERS.*

Bv ALFRED TENNYSON.

i^OURAGE !" he said, and pointed toward the land,
" This mounting wave will roll us shoreward soon."
In the afternoon they came unto a land.
In which it seemed always afternoon.
All round the coast the languid air did swoon.

Breathing like one that hath a weary dream.

Full-faced above the valley stood the moon ;

And hke a downward smoke, the slender stream

Along the clitf to fall and pause and fall did seem.

A land of streams ! some, like a downward smoke,

Slow-dropping veils of thinnest lawn, did go ;

And some thro' wavering lights and shadows broke,

Rolling a slumbrous sheet of foam helow.

They saw the gleaming river seaward flow

From the inner land: far off, three mountain-tops,

Three silent pinnacles of aged snow.

Stood sunset-flush'd : and, dcw'd with showery drops,

Up-clomb the shadowy pine above the woven copse

* This poem \s the only article in the vulumc nn[ wriltcn by a meml)rr nr the
].oto8 Club. It is inserted fur the reason that it suggested the name of tliu Cluli.
and in acknowledgment oC Mr. Tcunysiiii's nccc|itancc of the dedication. — Eds.

322 LOTOS LEAVES.

The charmed sunset linger'd low adown

In the red West : thro* mountain clefts the dale

Was seen far inland, and the yellow down

Border'd with palm, and many a winding vale

And meadow, set with slender galingale ;

A land where all things always seem'd the same!

And round about the keel with faces pale,

Dark faces pale against that rosy flame,

The mild-eyed melancholy Lotos-eaters came.

Branches they bore of that enchanted stem,

Laden with flower and fruit, whereof they gave

To each, but whoso did receive of them,

And taste, to him the gushing of the w^ave

Far, far away did seem to mourn and rave

On alien shores ; and if his fellow spake,

His voice was thin, as voices from the grave ;

And deep-asleep he seem'd, yet all awake.

And music in his cars his beating heart did make.

They sat them down upon the yellow sand.
Between the sun and moon upon the shore ;
And sweet it was to dream of Fatherland,
Of child, and wife, and slave ; but evermore
Most weary seem'd the sea, weary the oar,
Weary the wandering fields of barren foam.
Then some one said, ** We will return no more " ;
And all at once they sang, " Our island home
Is far beyond the wave ; we will no longer roam."

THE LOTOS-EATERS. 3^3

CHORIC SONG.

There is sweet music here that softer falls

Than petals from blown roses on the grass,

Or night-dews on still waters between walls

Of shadowy granite, in a gleaming pass ;

Music that gentlier on the spirit lies,

Than tir'd eyelids upon tir'd eyes ;

Music that brings sweet sleep down from the blissful skie&

Here are cool mosses deep,

And thro* the moss the ivies creep,

And in the stream the long-leaved flowers weep,

And from the craggy ledge the poppy hangs in sleep.

Why are we weigh'd upon with heaviness,

And utterly consumed with sharp distress,

While all things else have rest from weariness ?

All things have rest : why should we toil alone ?

We only toil, who are the first of things.

And make perpetual moan,

Still from one sorrow to another thrown :

Nor ever fold our wings,

And cease from wanderings.

Nor steep our brows in slumber's holy balm ;

Nor hearken what the inner spirit sings,

"There is no joy but calm!"

Why should we only toil, the roof and crown of things ?

324 LOTOS LEAVES.

Lo ! in the middle of the wood,

The folded leaf is woo'd from out the bud

With winds upon the branch, and there

Grows green and broad, and takes no care,

Sun-steep'd at noon, and in the moon

Nightly dcw-fcd ; and turning yellow

Falls, and floats adown the air.

Lo ! sweeten'd with the summer light.

The full-juiced apple, waxing over-mellow.

Drops in a silent autumn night.

All its allotted length of days.

The flowxr ripens in its place,

Ripens and fades, and falls, and hath no toil,

Fast-rooted in the fruitful soil.

Hateful is the dark-blue sky.
Vaulted o'er the dark-blue sea.
Death is the end of life ; ah, why
Should life all labor be ?
Let us alone. Time drivcth onward fast.
And in a little w^hilc our lips arc dumb.
Let us alone. What is it that will last ?
All things are taken from us, and become
Portions and parcels of the dreadful Past.
Let us alone. What pleasure can we have
To war with evil ? Is there any peace

THE LOTOS-EATERS. 325

In ever climbing up the climbing wave ?

All things have rest, and ripen toward the grave

In silence ; ripen, fall and cease :

Give us long rest or death, dark death, or dreamful ease.

How sweet it were, hearing the downward stream,

With half-shut eyes ever to seem

Falling asleep in a half-dream !

To dream and dream, like yonder amber light.

Which will not leave the myrrh-bush on the height ;

To hear each other's whisper d speech ;

Eating the Lotos day by day,

To watch the crisping ripples on the beach.

And tender curving lines of creamy spray ;

To lend our hearts and spirits wholly

To the influence of mild-minded melancholy ;

To muse and brood and live again in memory,

With those old faces of our infancy

Heap'd over with a mound of grass.

Two handfuls of white dust, shut in an urn of brass T.

Dear is the memory of our wedded lives.

And dear the last embraces of our wives

And their warm tears ; but all hath suffei^'d change ;

For surely now our household hearths are cold :

Our sons inherit us : our looks are strange :

326 LOTOS LEAVES.

And wc should come like ghosts to trouble joy.

Or else the island princes over-bold

Have eat our substance, and the minstrel sings

Before them of the ten years' war in Troy,

And our great deeds, as half-forgotten things.

Is there confusion in the little isle?

Let what is broken so remain.

The Gods are hard to reconcile :

T is hard to settle order once again.

There zs confusion worse than death,

Trouble on trouble, pain on pain.

Long labor unto aged breath,

Sore task to hearts worn out by many wars

And eyes grown dim with gazing on the pilot-stars.

But, propt on beds of amaranth and moly.

How sweet (while warm airs lull us, blowing lowly)

With half-dropt eyelids still,

Beneath a heaven dark and holy.

To watch the long bright river drawing slowly

His waters from the purple hill, —

To hear the dewy echoes calling

From cave to cave thro' the thick-twined vine, —

To watch the emerald-color'd ' water falling

Thro' many a wov'n acanthus- wreath divine!

Only to hear and see the far-off sparkling brine,

Only to hear were sweet, stretch'd out beneath the pine.

THE LOTOS EATERS. 327

The Lotos blooms below the barren peak :

The Lotos blows by every winding creek :

All day the wind breathes low with mellower tone :

Thro' every hollow cave and alley lone

Round and round the spicy downs the yellow Lotos-dust is

blown.
We have had enough of action, and of motion we,
Roll'd to starboard, roll'd to larboard, when the surge was

seething free,
Where the wallowing monster spouted his foam-fountains in

the sea..
Let us swear an oath, and keep it with an equal mind,
In the hollow Lotos-land to live and lie reclined
On the hills like Gods together, careless of mankind.
For they lie beside their nectar, and the bolts are hurl'd
Far below them in the valleys, and the clouds are lightly

curl'd
Round their golden houses, girdled with the gleaming world :
Where they smile in secret, looking over wasted lands.
Blight and famine, plague and earthquake, roaring deeps and

fiery sands.
Clanging fights, and flaming towns, and sinking ships, and

praying hands.
But they smile, they find a music centred in a doleful song
Steaming up, a lamentation and an ancient tale of wrong.
Like a tale of little meaning tho' the words are strong ;
Chanted from an ill-used race of men that cleave the soil,
Sow the seed, and reap the har\'est with enduring toil.

328 LOTOS LEAVES.

Storing yearly little dues of wheat, and wine and oil ;

Till they perish and they suffer — some, 't is whisper d —

down in hell
Suffer endless anguish, others in Elysian valleys dwell,
Resting weary limbs at last on beds of asphodel.
Surely, surely, slumber is more sweet than toil, the shore
Than labor in the deep mid-ocean, wind and wave and car ;
O rest ye, brother mariners, we will not wander more.

Players in a large Drama.

PLAYERS IN A LARGE DRAMA.

By I. H. BROMLEY.

S^ OUBTLESS there arc people in the world
who coddle themselves with the idea that
they are utterly and absolutely sincere ;
that though in a general sense it may be
true that "all the world 's a stage and all the men and
women merely players," there is at least no ringing up of
curtains or strutting before the footlights in their own pro-
foundly earnest lives. Is it cynicism to dispute them in their
fond delusion ; to say that no such thing is possible ; that
with all their efforts to be simple, direct, natural, they are
forever artificial, — artful in manner, address, features, step,
and even in the very attitude of worship and the diction of
prayer ? Art wedded Nature on that bridal morn in Para-
dise when our Mother saw she was unclad, and plucked her
wardrobe from the fig-tree ; and there has been neither di-
vorce nor separation since. Then began costumes, and from
the fig-leaf flowed the infinite pageantry of soft and silken
stuffs, of lace and muslin, satins and embroideries, with which
brides, wives, and mothers have come rustling down to us
from Paradise, bringing with them, with all their art and
artifice, the garden's fragrance and the garden's light and
life and joy.

332 LOTOS LEAVES.

Since the exodus from Eden, Nature has been kept in
flower-pots and set in windows, framed behind foot-lights,
with curtain at the front and wings at the sides, pieced out
with stove-pipe hat and fringed with claw-hammer coat, sur-
mounted and crowned with the chignon, built upon with the
pannier, and draped with the polonaise. Art and artifice and
artfulness and all things artificial came in with the curse,
and will go out only with the millennium. This, is the trail of
the serpent over us all, that we arc always acting, that we can
never be utterly sincere. Is it a hard statement ? Do you
believe that, in your serious, solemn work in the world, there
is no little bell to ring up your curtain, no audience to act
before, no mimicries nor tricks nor deceptions, nor strutting
back and forth, nor rolling up of eyes, nor phrasing of sen-
tences, nor any of the thousand things that make a play a
play ? Have you ever sat before a camera and listened to the
stereotyped address of the photographer, " Sit easy now, and
look natural".^ Do you think you did it .^ There arc easy-
sitting, natural-looking Matilda Janes and Charles Augus-
tuses enough hanging on walls and shut up in albums to
girdle this round globe with such a belt of ghastly caricature
as would haunt the day with fearful visions, and distort our
dreams with nightmares ; and every mother's Matilda Jane
and Charles Augustus of them all, though they sat cramped
and gasping before the portrait-painting sun, thought it was
nature, and that they were altogether sincere ; and even when
they rose from their constrained ease and unnatural natural-
ness, and stretched themselves with weariness, never dreamed
they had been fooling themselves while they tried to fool the
sun. Let us be frank about it, for we are all together in it ;

PLAYERS IN A LARGE DRAMA. 333

who is there that has not some time sat with folded hands
and vacant stare before the dreadful camera?

Some one not long ago defined a " bore " to be " a person
who persists in talking. about Atmself when you want to be
talking about j^oursM" The readiness with which the news-
papers — most of which, I may be permitted to say, know a
good thing when they see it — snapped up the definition, and
the general acceptance of it as a crisp, bright truth, were
proof enough that to the average man it cfme as a sort of
revelation. Men who had encountered bores, and been an-
noyed by them, did not know that the difference between
themselves and the bore was only in opportunity, — did riot
know, indeed, that they were bored by egotism only in the
degree in which it hindered them from being egotistical them-
selves. But this touchstone of some quaint philosopher re-
vealed themselves to themselves in such manner as to raise
a smile at their own absurdity. We do not know how ab-
solutely selfish we are till some such thing uncovers us and
shows us as we are, — acting small deceptions to ourselves
with no audience but the looking-glass.' We are hide-bound
— pachydermatous — with egotism. Largely as we may talk
of patriotism and its sacrifices, of religion and its tender
offices, of humanity and universal brotherhood, we are all so
self-centered that we never, for country, church, or fellow-man,
rise above ourselves entirely ; our wings forever touch the
ground, and the highest attainment of our very best endeavor
is in reaching a line of conduct whose motives are freest
from what is sordid, mean, and base.

There are several thousand men who, in their daily walk
down Broadway, for at least half a block before they reach

334 LOTOS LEAVES.

the full-length mirrors which stand for a sign on the side-
walk before a picture-dealer's shop, are oppressed with anxiety
lest some conceited coxcomb shall get between them and tlie
glass. Not one of them believes he is conceited or vain,
and not one of them but thinks the man in front who obstructs
the glass is a disgusting puppy who has not the sense or the
modesty to keep his vanity and foppishness from public sight.
It's a long procession that goes daily down Broadway, but to
these reflections concerning the brutal stupidity and vanity
of the person in front, each one succeeds as naturally and
regularly as to his order in the line and his place before
the glass. What a world of mincing and smirking and
strutting the Hroadw-ay mirrors witness every day, and how
many thousand times a day is the question, ** How do I
look ? " put to them by men who w'ould actually be surprised
should thev catch themselves at it ! Of all forms of selfish-

ness, the one reckoned most contemptible, fit to be treated

•

only with derision and jeers, is the vanity of personal beauty
or good looks.. It is that sort of self-engrossment that has
hardly body enough to be called a vice, a harmless hollowness
that can only be despised or pitied. No one likes to confess
to this weakness. And yet everybody knows that the softest
and easiest approach to everybody else can always be reached
by judicious and not overdone allusions to personal attractions.

The truth is, that we not only never open our hearts to
each other, but we do not open them to ourselves. Shall I
say, then, that in our moments of serenest joy or or our
crises of supremest need, when, helpless and hopeless, we lift
(Mir weak hands upwards, we do never consciously strip our-
selves bare of all concealments ? Shall I say that before God

PLAYERS IN A LARGE DRAMA. 335

we arc in some sense playing parts, and that if he reads us,
it is through his own omniscience, and not because in our
most secret devotions we open the book and turn its pages
before him ? Abel's altar of sacrifice, Abraham's memorial of
the covenant, Moses receiving the law behind the curtain
of cloud in the wondrous drama of Sinai, the ark of the cov-
enant, the hangings of the tabernacle, the paraphernalia of tlie
temple, the priestly garments with their tinkling bells, the cere-
monial observances and the grand ritual of worship, the teach-
ings of allegory and parable, the stoled and surpliced priests,
the chant of solemn organ, the summons of church bells, the
pulpit vestments, the groined arches and dimly lighted aisles,,
the well-dressed worshippers, the attitude of devotion, the rhyth-
mic flow of praise, and the choice rhetoric of JSrayer, attest
through all the ages the symbolism by which alone we may
approach the Uncreated. In our worship we are but actors.
As individuals we act to ourselves and others ; as nations
and aggregate humanity we play our parts. History is but an
acted play, and human progress an unwritten drama. It is
but a difference in degree between the strutting royalty of the
boards and the kingly carriage of the real ruler. Each to his
audience. Congresses and parliaments are but the " people *^
of the stage, sometimes unravelling and sometimes tangling
the plot, burdened always with a sense of importance, as though
they were making the play, when in fact they are only swept
along by it. The great events of history have always been
dramatic, always set on in tableaux, and all the great charac-
ters of the world, robber-kings, regicides, crusaders, command-
ers, heroes, saints, and martyrs, have posed themselves in
dreary and pitiful self-consciousness for the pen of the his-
torian or pencil of the artist.

336 LOTOS LEAVES.

No one of the thousands who were present can ever forget
the dramatic features of the great Chicago Convention of i86a
A vast auditorium was crowded almost to suffocation ; upon
the great stage in front sat delegates from all the Northern
States, while in the center the representatives of the press
were plying busy pencils. A party that had never been in
ix)wer, and had no strength in any Southern State, was in
convention to nominate a President. The scene, the occa-
sion, the surroundings, the vast multitudes of men, and the
distinguished actors engaged, were all combined in one in-
tensely dramatic effect. Some of the mast earnest and
thoughtful statesmen in the country were there, called by what
they deemed a momentous crisis to act together for the coun-
try and for humanity. There was an indescribable something
in the air which presaged disturbance. It was a close, oppres-
sive atmosphere, like that which goes before the wild simoom.
The feeling was general that the country was on the eve of
some great sweeping change, but how grand were the possi-
bilities, how woful the sacrifices, and how complete the re-
generation that lay in the near future, the wisest had not dared
to dream. The curtain was ringing up on the first act of a
tremendous drama, and these were the players ; earnest and
serious, yet players. Preliminaries were settled and organiza-
tion effected, and the Convention came to its work. The
audience adjusted itself, the army of reporters sat with pen-
cils poised, the telegraph-operators handled their keys ner-
vously, — the roll-call of the States began. Maine, New
Hampshire, Vermont, were called, and as if they were
nothing more than the dead numerals of a process, the chair-
man of each delegation announced the scattered votes. The

PLAYERS IN A LARGE DRAxMA. 337

Secretary called "Massachusetts." Over at the right of the
chair a man not much known then outside his State, short
in stature, with a full round face that had in it the rare
combination of womanly tenderness with heroic firmness,
stood up in his seat and said, " Mr. President." The Pres-
ident said, " The gentleman from Massachusetts ! " There was
an instant's pause. Hardly had the hush fallen when, in a
voice that itself was music, John A. Andrew said, " Mr. Pres-
ident, the Commonwealth of Massachusetts casts twenty-one
votes for William H. Seward, four votes for Abraham Lincoln."
No more than that. Only the announcement of a vote. But
there was more in it than figures. In all that multitude there
was no one so obtuse as not to know that here came on the
stage a royal knight among the heralds. " The Common-
wealth of Massachusetts " was his announcement, and with
that there came not merely the sapless factors in a process
of mathematics, but a grand and stately Commonwealth,
crowned with the memories of all her lofty sacrifices and
glorious achievements, proud of her line and lineage, of her
storied places and her battle-fields, her statesmen, heroes,
scholars, martyrs, and, above all, of her front rank in devotion
to freedom and human rights, swept into the line with a kingly
consciousness of right of precedence. Dramatic, but wonder-
fully well acted, on no small stage and in no small way.

Then Rhode Island and Connecticut were called, and gave
their answers as merest matter of statistics. The Secretary
called " New York." At the head of the New York delegation
a tall man, thin and spare, rose slowly to his full height and
then stepped upon his chair. Then, in a metallic ringing voice,
with distinct articulation, as though about beginning an ora-

33^ LOTOS LEAVKS.

tion, Mr. William M. Evarts said, ** Mr. President," and the
President replied, "The gentleman from New York." There
was just the suggestion of noise, a low whispering buzz in the
great wigwam that hindered the silence from being complete.
Hut here was an actor who did not underestimate effect. " Mr.
President," said he, ** I wait till the Convention is in order."
It was hardly necessary for the President to use his gavel or
to say, "The Convention will be in order." The hush that
followed his last word was absolute. Every head leaned for-
ward, every eye was bent upon the gentleman from New York.
Then, when he knew he had them all, bristling forward, eager,
intent, — although his annoupcement had been discounted, and
they knew precisely what was coming, — he said, '* Mr. Pres-
ident^ the State of New York casts seventy votes for William
Henry Seward." And the Convention broke into the wild and
vociferous cheering which the practised orator and actor had
planned for with such careful arrangement of details. The
<lramatic effect which, by skilful pauses, deliberate utterance,
and the magnetism of voice and eye, conveyed to the Con-
vention a sense of the personal affection and tender regard,
combined with loyal devotion and unbounded admiration, with
which Mr. Seward was regarded by the citizens of the great
State of New York, was carefully studied and wonderfully
well done. These were but touches of by-play, however, in
the larger drama.

There were two ballots. — Seward leading, Lincoln following
and gaining. There was a feeling, as the third call began,
that this was not only to end the balloting, but to name the
President. The excitement was intense. Nimble pencils foU
Jowed down the list of States, catching up the changes that.

PLAYERS IN A LARGE DRAMA. 339

according to their significance, were received with a ripple of
sensation or a burst of cheers. Before the last State was
called the event had been discounted ; and though there Avere
then four votes lacking to a choice, the result was deemed to
have been reached. Instant on the response of the last State,
Ohio, by her chairman, transferred four votes from Mr. Chase
to Mr. Lincoln. The full-voiced Secretary turned his face
upward to the skylight in the roof above him, and called out
the vote to men who, without stopping to record it, ran to the
sides of the wigwam and shouted the news to the surging mul-
titudes outside. Within the building grave and serious men
embraced and kissed each other, old men danced and young
ones cheered and shouted and flung aloft their hats, the rafters
rang with multitudinous roar ; and as the wave of sound rolled
through the doors and windows, the streets took up and echoed
it and rolled it back, cheer answering cheer in one great
jubilee of joy. With the first burst of it a gunner standing
by his loaded piece with lighted match reached forth his
hand; there was a little flash, — a puff of cloud, — and into
the midst of that wild tumult of applause there leaped from
the brazen belly of the gun a roar that crowned and drowned
all. The curtain fell on the first act, of a new historic period.
The roar of artillery that was to be the music of the drama
in its stately progress, with a sublime fitness which there was
no prophet to recognize, had greeted the occasion and saluted
its hero. That moment a great, grand man, whom the world
then scarcely knew, stepped out with modest self-distrust upon
a career such as the world had never seen, laid his hand
with solemn sense of responsibility upon the great task be-
fore him, and never ceased to bear its burdens grandly, whilo

340 LOTOS LEAVES.

he wore its honors meekly, till from under the assassin's hand,
his labor done and his fame complete, God called and crowned
him.

Magnificent acting there was in all this, and magnificent
beyond description or power of expression was the acting
which came after it. How, at the drawing of the crimson
curtain of the war, the world beheld a million men in arms,
and saw their camp-fires stretched across a continent, — how
the stage was crowded with heroes great and petty, — how
the guns were shotted, and the blood was real, and the mad-
ness and the fury of the charge were hot and earnest, — how
utterly genuine were the agony of parting and the anguish
of bereavement, — and how real and remorseless the Death that
brooded over loved ones, — we may all freshly and tearfully
remember. Grand and tremendous tragedy, and for the most
part grandly acted ! Possibly we are not yet far enough away
from the smoke and the roar of the conflict and the glamour
of the fields to adjust this political revolution fairly to the
motives out of which it proceeded and upon which it was car-
ried along. We are apt to idealize epochs and peoples as
we invariably do individuals. It seems very plain that men
were only puppets in the play. While men were spinning
threads to patch a sail, God took their puny policies for the
strands of his eternal purpose, and twisted them together in
a cable that should hold a ship at anchor, while it offered
rescue to a race. Let us not deceive ourselves as to man's
work or man's purpose in the war. It was not nearly so
large, so pure, or so noble as we try to think. Into it en-
tered all manner of motives, — ambition, hatred, envy, jeal-
ousy, love of strife, and the passion for notoriety, as well as-

PLAYERS IN A LARGE DRAxMA. 341

high and holy love of country, solemn sense of duty, sympa-
thy with the oppressed, love of humanity, and the knightly
sentiment of chivalry. Out of the fiery furnace into which
all these diverging purposes were turned, there came, through
the chemistries of God's grace, pure gold. Here let us walk
with unshod feet and reverent head, as one who treads on
holy ground and witnesses the mystery of miracle.

It is no detraction from the dignity and importance of
man's work in the world to judge of it as done altogether
and always with foot-lights at the front. To our eyes, level
with the stage, the acting all seems very grand ; the sweep
of royal robes and the glitter of coronets and crowns, the
retinues that wait on kings, the assemblies where laws are
made and the courts where they are administered, the officers
of justice, marching armies, noise of tumult, din of strife, shift-
ing and mingling tableaux of nations, states, and peoples, are
all as real to us as emotion or pulsation. Go up a hundred
feet or more, and from some tower window look down upon
it all. How much less it seems ! Go still higher, till your
men become insects and your horses creeping things, and alU
the glitter and spangle of trappings and dress are the merest
flash of phosphorescent foam ; and higher still, till you lose-
all perception or discrimination of writhing, gliding, twisting,,
individual men, and see below you only Man. Ah ! from even
here, a short rifle-range above the world, what petty things
men are. and how petty their pursuits ! But look ! how large
the world itself; how broad and beautiful, as from this height
we gather in the view! Men are little, but the world is
large, and Humanity is great. Let us be frank with and to
ourselves, acquaint ourselves with our own limitations, not

342 LOTOS LEAVES.

overestimate our capacities or our importance. Our parts are
assigned, — we have them to act. That our mission in the
world is no more nor less than this, should not deter us from
the loftiest ideals and a supreme endeavor. For you who stand
at the wings waiting to go on, there need be no discouragement
in this discovery. Make up your mind that you take with
you in this great venture all the infirmities that came down
from Eden, with all the possibilities of being great and true
that stretch out from Calvary. You are no Atlas bearing
up the world. Your responsibility ends with your own act-
ing, and docs not reach to God's disposing. Because you
may not attain perfection, is no excuse for not struggling in a
great and hearty way toward it. Truth is as absolute as per-
fection. Go toward it, not as a child toward a bawble, hoping
to grasp and hold it fast, but follow it reverently as the
chosen people followed the fiery pillar to the shores of Jordan
and the Land of Promise. Strip yourself first of the deceit
that you are not acting, and then act well your part. They
are the gfeatest actors who enter into the character they play,
:and utterly forget themselves. And they who act grand char-
acters themselves become grand. Make your ideal grand,
lofty, pure ; saturate yourself with its spirit, walk in your
conception of it, act it, be it. The world's applause is not all
that 's worth living for, but it is not to be despised. Accept
it modestly, deserve it faithfully, but never bow the knee to
rfeach it, or be distracted by it from your purpose and your
work. You all things invite ; for your fresh face and spring-
ing step and all your youthful possibilities, a hearty welcome
and sincere applause await. The curtain rises, the play is
called : go on, and God go with you !

Bertha Klein.

BERTHA KLEIN.

A STORY OF THE LAHN.

you know.

Bv W. J. FLORENCE.

kOCTOR, will you hear my story?
Thank you.

I was a student at the University of
Bonn, and during my vacations often
went fishing up the Lahn. The Lahn,

i a charming river that empties into the Rhine
opposite Capellen and the beautiful castle of Slolzenfels.
During these excursions I made my headquarters at the
" Drei Kronen," a delightful little German inn, situate on
the right bank of the river, a few miles above Lahnstein, and
kept by one Caspar Lauber. From Caspar I learned where
were to be found the best fishing-spots, and after our day's
sport we would sit under the vines and tell stories of the
past. lie related anecddtes of the Austrian campaign, — he
had been a soldier ; I would speak of my American home,
far away on the Ohio : and as we watched the smoke curling
from our meerschaums of canaster, we would intermingle the
legends with staves of " Die Wacht am Rhein " and " Tramp !
tramp ! the boys arc marching." I had been two summers
thus passing my holidays between Nassau and Lahnstein,

34^ LOTOS LEAVES.

doing duty with rod and reel, when one day, while at my
favorite pastime, I became aware I had a companion ; for
above me on the bank stood a pretty girl intently watching
my endeavors to hook a Barbillion that had evaded my
attempts to land him.

•* O, so near ! 't is too bad ! " said she with a pretty
Nassaun accent. *' If the Hcrr try his luck over there, above
the ferry-boat, he will have fine sport." And then, as if she
felt ashamed at having spoken to a stranger, she dropped
her eyes, while a blush at once overspread her face.

** Thank you, pretty one," said I. *' I supposed I had known
all the favorite fishing-spots on the river ; but if the Fraulein
will conduct me, I will go and try above the ferry-boat."

" Philip Becker always fishes there when he visits Fachbach,
and never without bringing in a well-filled pannier " ; this in
a half-timid, half-sad voice.

" Well, show the way, Fraulein." She led the way to the
place indicated, when I ventured to ask her name.

** Bertha Klein," she said.

"And do you live near, Fraulein.^"

" Yes, over there near the Lahncck. Father works at the
Eisensmeltz. I am returning from there now. I bring him
his dinner at this hour.'

" Every day at this hour you cross the ferry with papa's
dinner, do you ? "

" Yes, Herr."

*• And who is Philip Becker, of whom you spoke a moment
smce ?

" Philip, he lives at Nassau with Keppler the chemist." And
at pronouncing Philip's name I thought I saw a dark shadow

BERTHA KLEIN. 347

pass over Bertha's pretty face. "Philip is coming to Fach-
bach next week, so papa tells me." And Bertha's pretty face
again grew darkly sad.

She was of the blond type of German girl, blue-veined, with
large bright eyes, fringed with silken lashes, long and regular,
while her golden hair hung down in twin braids at her back.

"Good day, sir."

" Good day, Bertha." And she tripped quickly up the
bank and disappeared.

The evening found me at the Drei Kronen, with a well-
filled basket of carp and barbel.

" There, landlord," said I, *' you may thank the pretty Bertha
Klein for my luck to-day. She it was who told me where to
throw my line."

" Oh ! oh ! Have you seen Bertha ? She is one of the
prettiest girls in the Duchy, and good as she is beautiful." And
then Caspar gave me a history of her family. Her father
was foreman at the Eisensmeltz, or furnace. Bertha was an
only child. Philip Becker, a chemist's clerk at Nassau, was a
suitor for her hand ; and although Philip was an ill-favored,
heavy lout, Bertha's mother thought him every way worthy
of her child. " I do not think the girl likes him," said the
landlord, " nor should daughter of mine wed him." And we
drank a glass of Ashmanshauser to the health of the pretty
Bertha Klein.

Day after day Bertha would stop a moment to speak a few
words to me as she journeyed to and from the furnace. Our
acquaintance ripened into friendship, friendship into — Well,-
you will see, doctor. One day, while climbing the hillside
together, picking wild flowers, stopping ever and anon to

348 LOTOS LEAVES.

listen to the rushing of the river at our feet or the loud
roaring of the iron furnace across the stream, Bertha, sud-
denly stooping, cried, ** O Albert, see here ! Look I oh, look !
Here is the Todesbltnncr *

** The Todesblume ! Where, Bertha ? "

" Here at my feet ; and, see, the mountain-side is full of
them. Do you know the legend of this flower ? "

" No, darling, tell it me."

We seated ourselves on a large mass of stone, portions of
the fallen ruin of the old castle Lahneck, that towered for a
hundred feet above our heads ; and while Bertha's clear blue
eyes sparkled with a strange mixture of mystery and ear-
nestness, and betimes referring to the bunch of small white
flowers in her hand, she related to me the Legend of the
Todesblume.

"This old castle up there behind us was once the stronghold
of the famous old freebooter, Baron Rittenhall, who, although
considered a wicked, reckless, wild man by the world in gen-
eral, yet loved his young and beautiful wife with the greatest
possible affection. And, indeed, 't was said the immense treas-
ures he had levied from vessels passing up and down the Lahn
were spent in jewels, trinkets, and precious stones to deco-
rate the person of his lovely wife, the Lady Rittenhall.

" One day a pilgrim passing the castle begged for alms. The
pious Baroness gave him succor, while he in return gave
her a single sprig of green. 'This,* said the holy man, *if
planted in early spring, will bear a small white flower, which is
of rare virtue, for on St. Anne's day the possessor of this little
flower may summon from the dead the spirit of his departed
love.'

* Death-flower.

BERTHA KLEIN. 349

" * The spirit of one's departed love ' ? echoed the Baroness.

*'*Yes, daughter,' rejoined the friar, * at midnight on St.
Anne's day, whoever will dissolve this flower in a goblet of
Emser red wine, while repeating these words, —

** From earth, from sea, *

From brook, from fen,
From haunt of beast,
From homes of men,
Form of one I loved most dear,
By Todesblume, appear! appear!"

shall bring to earth the loved departed one. Remember,
daughter/ continued the pilgrim, ' 't will require a brave heart
to summon frpm the grave.' And, blessing her, he took his
leave.

" On the following day the Lady Rittcnhall, with her own
white hands, planted the sprig in a pretty, bright spot, near
where we are now sitting," said Bertha ; and her pretty voice
grew sweetly tremulous as though it had tears in it.

" Day after day would the beautiful Lady of Lahneck watch
the little flowers budding from the stems, until they seemed
to grow under the sunlight of her eyes, so that when the
Baron returned from an incursion among the neighboring
mountains, he found the hillside whitened with them.

" * This is thy work, dear one,' said the Baron, as, descend-
ing from his saddle at the drawbridge, he pointed proudly to
the carpet of white flowers at his feet.

" * I knew 't would please thee,' smilingly replied she ; and,
leading to the dining-hall, while the Baron and his retainers
washed ' their draughts of Rhenish down,' she related the
story, as told her by the pilgrim.

3SO LOTOS LEAVES.

"*By my falchion/ said the Baron, ''tis a well-told tale;
and here I pledge me, should fate or fortune take thee from
me, bride of mine, I swear by my sword to summon thee to
earth again. In token of the promise, I drink this goblet to
the table round.'

•*That night, while the Baron held high revel with his brother
troopers in the dining-hall, the Lady Rittenhall sat trembling
in her chamber ; a strange dread seemed to possess her, a
belief that she should be doomed by fate to test the powers
of the Todesblume. A cold hand seemed to clasp her heart,
and scarcely had her maids been summoned to her apartment,
before the good lady was a corpse.

"The Baron, once so wild and reckless, now became sad and
morose. He was inconsolable. Now clasping in his arms the
form of his once beautiful wife, now pacing the long corridors
of the castle that echoed gloomily his stifled sighs, he was in-
deed broken in heart and spirit.

" Scarce had they laid the body in the grave before the Baron ,
again remembered his pledge to test the death-flower. St.
Anne's day was now fast approaching, and his oath must be
fulfilled." Here Bertha stopped, and, looking quietly about
her, asked me if I did not hear a footstep.

*' No, darling," said I ; " go on with your story ; there is no
one near us."

'* I am sure, Albert, I heard a footfall in the bushes behind
us," continued she ; and her voice again grew tremulous and
tearful.

*' You are mistaken, Bertha," said I, reassuring her. "Let
me hear your stor\' out."

** Well, the Baron shut himself up in the very chamber where

BERTHA KLEIN. 351

his lady had breathed her last, and on the morning of St.
Anne's day was found lying dead, while on the table stood a
goblet of Emser red wine, in which floated the broken petals
of the Todesblume ; and they do say," whispered Bertha, "that
a small white dove was seen flying from the upper window
of the castle at midnight of St. Anne's day."

** Very well told, Bertha,'* said I. And my boyish heart was
filled with a wild desire to test the maiden's love. " I would
do as much for you, my Bertha, should you be taken from
me. I would call you back to earth if it were possible, and
here I swear it," said I, rising to my feet.

" O Albert, do not, I implore you ! " cried Bertha, wildly
throwing her arms about my neck.

" Very pretty ! very pretty ! ' growled a rough voice behind
us, — ** very pretty ; I am sorry to disturb your love-song,
Fraulein." And a heavy, thick-set young man, with stooping
shoulders, and straight long hair, put back behind his ears,
came out of the bushes at our back. His eyes, heavy and
leaden-colored, seemed half closed, while he hissed his words
between two rows of singularly white and even teeth.

"Pardon, Herr American. Bertha's mother sent me in
quest of her. 'T is near sunset, and the gossips at Fachbach
might say evil things of the Fraulein if they knew — "

"Philip Becker, stop! I know what you would say," cried
she. " Do not insult me. Tell my mother I will come."

"She bade me fetch you," hissed Philip Becker, while his
eyes slowly closed their lids as if they were too heavy to
keep open, — " to fetch you, Fraulein ! — fetch you."

*' Hark you, friend," said I. " You have delivered your mes-
sage. Your presence is no longer needed. I will accompany
Miss Bertha home."

352 LOTOS LEAVES.

" I spoke not to you,' said Philip, fairly yellow with rage.

"But I spoke to you, sir! You see, you frighten the girl.
Take your dark shadow hence, or I will hurl you into the
river at my feet."

With a wild yell the chemist's clerk sprang at my throat,
and would have strangled me, but with a sudden jerk I struck
him full in the face with my head, and, throwing him off his
feet at the same moment, I sent him spinning down the hill-
side; nor did he stop till he reached the river, from whence
I saw him crawl, dripping wet.

" Very pretty, Fraulein ! Very pretty, Herr American ! '*
shouted Philip, as he shook his clinched fist at me, and
disappeared at the foot of the hill. Bertha, who had screamed
and hid her face, now became alarmed for my safety. " He will
do you some fearful harm, I know he will ; he is vindictive and
relentless. O Albert ! it is all my fault,*' sobbed the pale girl ;
and, picking up her flowers, we journeyed toward the village.
** I did not know he had arrived from Nassau," said she,
" though mother told me he was coming soon. I hate him,
and I shall tell him so, though I am sure he knows it already/'

We had reached the garden of the Drei Kronen, when
Bertha said, "Come no farther with me. Leave me here, Al-
bert. I must go on alone, now ; *t is best." And giving me the
sprig of the Todesblume, she tripped away towards her home.

Placing the flowers in my letter-book, I strolled into the
tavern, where I found the landlord endeavoring to dry the
dripping Philip Becker with a flask of Ashmanshauser. The
moment Philip saw me enter, he dropped his glass, and with
a curse on his heavy lip darted out of the door.

" He has told me all about it." said the landlord, roaring

BERTHA KLEIN. 353

with laughter ; ** and it served him right. Egad, I wish I
had been there to see it." So we took our pipes, and after
I had related the story of my struggle with Philip on the
hillside, took my candle from the stand and went to bed, of
course to dream of Bertha Klein.

Day after day during the long summer would we meet at
the foot of the Lahneck, there to renew our vows of eternal
constancy. Philip Becker had gone back to Nassau, vowing
vengeance on the entire American nation, and myself in par-
ticular. Bertha and I would often laugh at the remembrance
of poor Philip's appearance dripping on the river-bank, and
with a prayer for his continued absence, we would again pick
Todesblumes at the old trysting-place.

Thus matters went till near the month of September, when
I was summoned home to America. My mother was dying
with a sorrowing heart, and, torn between love and duty, I
broke the news to Bertha.

" And must you go ? " cried Bertha. " O darling, I shall
die ! "

" I shall return in the spring, my beloved, if God will spare
me. The time will pass quickly ; you will hear from me by
every mail, I promise you ; and here, where I first listened
to your words of love. I again pledge my faith." So, kissing
Bertha, I tore myself away.

** I will never see you again, my own, my only love," were
the last words that caught my ear ; and, looking back, I saw
poor Bertha, with her face buried in her hands, at the foot of
the tower, where she first told the story of the death-flower.

With all speed I returned to Bonn, where I found letters
awaiting me. I must at once return to the States. So, bid-

354 LOTOS LEAVES.

ding my fellow-students adieu, I took my departure for Liver-
pool, and, securing passage by a Cunarder, in ten days
reached New York ; four more days brought me to my moth-
ers bedside. She had been very ill, but now gave promise
of a slow recovery. Days, weeks, months, passed away, and
I was constantly in receipt of letters from Bertha. The same
old trusting love, the same pure, innocent sentiments, filled
her pages, while an occasional small white flower would
recall our meetings on the hillside at the Lahneck. " Here,"
Bertha would write, " is the Todesblume, to remind you of
the little girl who awaits your return on the banks of the
flowing Lahn."

It had been arranged that I should return to Germany in
the spring ; and as my mother's health was fast returning,
I looked forward to the date of my departure with great joy,
when suddenly Bertha ceased to write to me. Several weeks
elapsed, the holidays passed, and still no letter from my
heart's idol. Can Bertha's mother have insisted upon her
marrying Philip Becker ? Perhaps she is ill. Can she have
forgotten me ? These and a thousand other surmises filled
my brain, and I was in despair, when one day the postman
brought me a letter with a German post-mark, but the address
was not in Bertha's handwriting. I hastily tore it open ; it
was from Caspar Lauber. landlord of the Drei Kronen.

Great God ! Bertha had been murdered ! found dead with
three cruel stabs in her neck and breast ; and there at the
very spot where I had left her on the hillside was the deed
committed. Suspicion had fallen on Philip Becker, who had
fled the country, while a reward was offered for his apprehen-
sion. I could read no further, but with a groan fell fainting

BERTHA KLEIN. 355

to the floor. A long and serious illness followed, and for
months I lay just flickering between life and death. In my
moments of delirium I would often call for Bertha Klein,
and with a maddened scream vow vengeance on the chemist's
clerk. My dreams were of the river Lahn and its vine-cov-
ered hills. Then my fancy would picture Bertha struggling
with Philip, and while he plunged the knife into her pure
heart, I was held by a stalwart demon, who spat upon me
and mocked my frantic efforts to free her from the murder-
ers grasp. Then the old castle of the Lahneck would fill
my disordered vision, and at its foot, among the vines, I saw
two youthful forms, — the one a tall, dark-haired youth, the
other a blue-eyed German girl. In her hand she held a small
white flower, and as she looked through tears of joy into the
young man*s face, the figure of a low-browed, wild, misshapen
man arose behind them. Noiselessly he crept to the maiden's
side, and with a hissing, devilish laugh, dashed headlong down
the mountain-side into the river below, leaving the loving pair
transfixed with fear and wonder.

When the bright spring days came, I grew somewhat bet--
ter, but the physicians said my recovery would be a slow one^

My attendants would tell me of my ravings, of my constantry
calling Bertha ; and, to humor my caprices, had brought, at
my request, a small box containing Bertha's letters and the
various love-tokens she had given me. In my porte-monnaie
I found the little flower, — Bertha's gift, when she related the
story of the Todesblume. It was pressed between two small
cards, and indeed seemed almost as fresh as when the Frau-
lein gave it me. " This flower," said I, " will bring her back
to me for a moment at least; and when I am grown strong
and well, I'll try the spell."

3S6 LOTOS LEAVES.

The last day of June found me sufficiently recovered to
journey to Saratoga, at the recommendation of my physician.
I reached New York City, when I determined to go no far-
ther until I tested the power, of the death-flower.

To this end I put an advertisement in the paper : " A
gentleman desirous of making some experiments in chemistry
would like an unfurnished apartment in the upper portion of
the city. The advertiser would prefer such apartment in a
house not occupied as a residence. Apply," etc., etc., etc.

The third day after my advertisement appeared, an elderly
German gentleman waited on me at my lodgings. He had
just the apartment I desired, over a druggist's shop ; in fact,
the upper floor of a three-story house, unoccupied save by the
old gentleman, who kept the drug-store beneath, and situated
in a quiet up-town street, near one of the avenues.

I at once engaged the rooms, and on the following day
made an inspection of the premises. I found the upper story
to consist of two rooms of equal size. One room was entirely
•empty, and the other contained a long table, three wooden-
bottomed chairs, while a large glass mirror over the mantel
completed the furniture of the apartment.

" I have occupied this house but a few weeks," said the old
German ; " and as I am alone here, I shall be glad to have
your company ; so, if the Herr will take the apartments, he
shall have them at his own price." And the old druggist
bowed to the very ground in Teutonic politeness.

"What door is this.^" said I, pointing to a small trap in
the wall, about two feet wide, and just large enough to admit
a man, stooping. This door had been concealed by the back
of one of the chairs, and I thought the old gentleman seemed
startled at my discovering it.

BERTHA KLEIN. 357

" I do not know for what purpose that door could have been
constructed," said the old man ; " but you see it leads to the
other room." And, passing through, we found ourselves in the
empty apartment.

After a word or two of necessary agreement, I hired the
apartments for one month from date, and on the following
Friday, St. Anne's day, I determined to try the potency of
my magic flower.

At midnight, on the 26th of July, 1869, I sat alone in
that chamber. Upon the table stood a silver goblet filled
with Emser red wine. At the head of the table I had
placed a chair, while I occupied another at the foot. The
clock of St. Michael's Church commenced to strike the hour of
midnight ; at the first stroke I extinguished the light, and,
dropping the flower into the goblet, slowly spoke the words, —

" From earth, from sea,
From brook, from fen,
From haunt of beast,
From homes of men,
Form of her I love most dear,
By Todesblume, appear ! appear ! "

As the echoes of the last stroke of twelve died upon my
ear, a thin cloud of vapor rose from the goblet ; at first it was
of a violet hue, when suddenly it changed into bright crimson
color, and, growing gradually dense and heavy, soon filled the
room, while through the misty veil I saw globes of golden
pearl dancing before my astonished vision, strange soft music
played in sweetest strains about my ears, and, growing giddy
at the sound, I felt I was falling from the chair. With a
determination to resist the power that was pressing on my

3S8 LOTOS LEAVES.

brain I held fast to the table, and cried again, " Appear !
appear ! "

The mist was now fast disappearing, and while the room
grew bright, as though lighted by a thousand candles, I saw-
seated in the chair at the head of the table, dressed in the
cerements of the grave, the ghost of Bertha Klein ; her goldeii
hair no longer braided down her back, but hanging loosely
about her face ; her eyes pure and blue as of old, but sad and
weeping. A clot of blood upon her neck marked the spot
where the murderer's knife had entered. Frozen with horror
at the sight, I sat motionless for an instant ; but her pitiful
face and sorrowful look seemed to ask for words of com-
passion.

" Speak to me. Bertha ; let me hear your voice," cried I.

Quick as a flash she rose, and with a cry of horror that
chilled me to the heart's core, she screamed, " Look behind
you quick, Albert ! quick ! "

I turned just in time to save my life ; for the old druggist
had stealthily entered through ihe trap-door in the wall, and
was about to plunge a large dirk-knife in my back, when I
caught his arm ; in the struggle that ensued, I tore the wig
from his head, and, making one desperate blow, I sent the
knife intended for me into the heart of Philip Becker,

Now, doctor, I thank you for your attention. I have but
one more favor to ask. Won't you speak to the chief physi-
cian } Appeal to my friends to have me released from this
asylum, for I assure you I am no more a lunatic than you
are.*

Nine Tales of a Cat

Ill

NINE TALES OF A CAT.

A LEGEND OF MURRA Y HILL.

RESPECTFULLY DEDICATED TO THE PRESIDENT OF THE A. S. P. C. A.

By J. BRANDER MATTHEWS.

OUNG De Jones was one of those nice young

men,
Supposed to belong to the uppcrest ten ;
His manners were soft and aristocratic ;
He waltzed in a way that the girls called ecstatic,
While he flavored his talk with a wit that was Attic.
They said that his form was patrician in mould ;
He had wealth untold,
He had stores, of gold ;
He had ancestors too, in the days of old ;
Yet his enemies called him a Fifth-Avenoodle,
'Cause he parted his hair in front, like a poodle.

Returning one night from the joys of the dance,

To the house where he dwelt with his two maiden aunts,

He entered his chamber and cast off his clothes,

Then he sprang into bed, softly seeking repose.

He dreams, while he sleeps, of the blond Miss TressylliaU:

The fair dam-sell with whom he had danced the cotillon.

Whose father, 't was said, was worth more than a million.

362 LOTOS LEAVES.

In the midst of his dreams,

It suddenly seems
That he hears a shrill sound that no mortal could utter ;
Right through hipi it went, — like a hot knife through butter.
So he jumped to the window, threw open the shutter ;
On the fence in the yard he beheld a huge Cat I
Which was singing a song in the key of Z flat.
He shouted out ** Scat ! " but the beast would not scatter.
Then he swore ; he said, Darn her ! and Dang her ! and Drat her !
And affirmed with an oath, could he only get at her,

He would beat her and bat her.
And reduce her indeed to inanimate matter !
He, in short, was as mad as a hare or a hatter.
But the Cat kept on yelling, to pause still refusing.

Right or wrong,

She continued her song,
In a way that, perhaps, she considered a-mew-sing.

De Jones thought for a second ;

He rapidly reckon'fed
All the ways that existed of trying to still her,
And at length he resolved upon murder! he'd kill her!
In the East, every city is ruled by a Mayor ;
In the West they are ruled by the Colt, an contmire.
So De Jones takes his pistol from out of his bureau,
With a fierceness suggesting the banks of the Douro,
With an ardor recalling the hot sun of Cadiz,
He takes aim, and he fires, and the Cat goes to Hades!

And De Jones goes to bed.

And to sleep, it is said,
With the hope in his heart that the Cat is now dead.

NINE TALES OF A CAT. 3^3

On the evening succeeding

This murderous proceeding,
In his room he was sitting, some poetry reading.

When he suddenly heard,

As he after averred,
A most horrible noise : what could have occurred ?
It was dreadful, and dire, and supremely absurd !
It was ghostly and ghastly and ghoulish !
He threw open the shutter, and he felt rather foolish.
Yet he stood firm and fast, though the night air was coolish.

One firmness, infirmity.

Or whate'er you may term it, he
Possessed in abundance ; his temper was mulish.
And besides he felt sure that a sound like that

Could be naught but a Cat !
It might be a Tom or it might be a Tabby ;
It sounded indeed like a muscular babby!
Then he heard it again, — in the key of Z flat ;
'T was the beast he had killed, — he was certain of that !

The ghost of the Cat

Had returned ! that was pat !
So he snatched up his pistol, and said, " The joke played is ! '*
He took aim, and he fired, and the Cat went to Hades.

On the evening after

He was shaking with laughter ;
In the midst of his fun there arose a shrill sound ;

It came up from the ground.
It was not a shriek, it was not a moan.
It was not a growl, it was not a groan,

364 LOTOS LEAVES.

But its hollow tone

Chilled De Jones to the bone ;

T was the ghost of that Cat !

He was certain of that !
He began to be frightened, in spite of his boasts :
If a Cat have nine lives, can a Cat have nine ghosts ?
He threw down the book he was reading ("Lord Bantam"),

For he feared that the phantom

Was going to haunt him,
To fret him and fright him; — it never shall daunt him!
So he snatched up his pistol, — *t would frighten the ladies,—
He took aim, and he fired, and the Cat went to Hades.

He lies tossing and turning throughout the long night ;
Not a wink can he sleep, on account of his fright.

At the earliest light
He arises and walks to his office, — poor wight!
He's a real-estate broker, but — strange metamorphosis —
Although customers come, he can scarce let em offices ;

At his window, I 'm told.

He had caught a bad cold.
And his partners affirmed, they ne'er heard such a cough as his,
Young De Jones often wished, when he thought of the Cat,
To be deaf as a post, or as blind as a bat :
He would hear not and see not the terrible ghost.
Which returned night by night to his favorite post.
That evening again on the fence there sat

The ghastly old Cat,

With her horrible song in the key of Z flat !
Now no saint could endure an infliction like that,

NINE TALES OF A CAT. 3^5

So he snatched up his pistol, — his soul more afraid is, —
He took aim, and he fired, and the Cat went to Hades.

When the beast had been killed some six times or seven,
The cold he had sent De Jones straight to heaven.

With two lives left,

Of but seven bereft.
She may dance where his corpse 'neath the turf gently laid is.
The old Cat may rejoice without fear of hot Hades,
She may warble her song in the key of Z flat.

She may scoff, she may laugh

At his epitaph,
"l^ere litu souitg pe loners tol)o mtm killed bg a (iTat!''

P. S.— MORAL.

When this tale was begun, with its horrible fun,

I had morals in plenty.

Some fifteen or twenty.
This tale now is done, and I cannot find one!
Just to keep you from thought and from wearisome dizziness,
I suggest as a moral, " Mind your own business ! "

II-

John and Susie.

• III
•I

JOHN AND SUSIE. .

A STORY OF THE STAGE.

Bv CHANDOS FULTON.

Y friend Colton was one of those quiet, retiring,
unostentatious men, whose many noble qualities
of head and heart are not discovered except in
the intimacy of friendship. Wordsworth must
have had such a man in his thoughts when
he wrote : —

He is as r.

eiircd ;

IS noontide dew,

Or fount!

iir> in :

t shady grove;

And you m

lUst lov

e him, ere lo yo.

He will seem worthy of your love."
Not that, like the snail, my friend Colton kept within his
shell, and had to be sought (though in his slow, methodic
manner there was some analogy between him and that tes-
taccan) ; for he was not, by any means, a man to be
"drawn out," as the phrase is, by any species of social in-
quisition, and had to be known to be appreciated. His
almost childish simplicity and candor of manner, and cor-
rect, straightforward conduct, left a favorable impression on
all with whom he had business intercour.se ; but few gave

370 LOTOS LEAVES.

him credit for the high-mindedness, the delicacy of sentu
mcnt, warmth of heart, and cultured refinement which con-
stituted the sterling worth of the man. He cultivated few
friendships ; not that he did not value the love of his fel-
low-beings, or was slow to discover good in others, or was
distrustful of humanity, or was reserved and retiring from
any motives of pride, but because his affection was too sin-
cere and cogent to be diffusive.

Such men as John Colton are common, although, keeping
within the intimacies of friendship, they are little known ;
and it is seldom that such beautiful, though passive charac-
ters are employed by the dramatist or novelist in the elab-
oration of their wonder-exciting plots. In the whirlpool of
society they are sometimes caught, but speedily dashed out,
and float quickly back into the calmer w^aters of domestic
quiet. Such men are the true disciples of Him who died
to save us ; without any ostentation they are continually
doing good, and showing by their own happiness that it is
easy to make life enjoyable.

Colton did not marry till late in life, because, for many
years, his early widowed mother, and his two sisters, both
younger than himself, were dependent on him for support ;
for his father had always lived up to every cent that he
made, and, dying shortly after his son had gone into busi-
ness, had left his family entirely destitute. Besides, he did
not believe that a man ought to marry until he could see
his way to comfortably provide for a wife ; and it was not
until he had seen his sisters married and settled, and pur-
chased a home for himself, and installed his mother there-
in, that he was in this position ; and then he was a staid

JOHN AND SUSIE. 37^

middle-aged man, with plenty of ideas (or ideals ?) on the
subject of marriage, but no definite purpose.

A great war now agitated the country, and his thoughts
were of Mars rather than of Venus.

A man of his nature naturally shrinks from the semi-barbaric
life of the soldier; but he would have enhsted and "gone
to the war," had not his friends convinced him he would
be of more service at home, — in many ways, such a care-
ful, thoughtful, reliable man would be useful in such a time
of trust, judgment, and energy. He raised and subscribed
funds to recruit regiments ; he prepared banquets for sol-
diers passing through the city en route to the seat of war ;
he got up " war-meetings " to inspire the people and en-
courage the men in the field. In the great Sanitary Fair
he was a leading spirit ; indeed, if it had not been for his
exertions, the great Christian enterprise would never have
been initiated in his city. He was chairman of. various
committees, and devoted his whole time to the work. He
was in the building from morning until night, superintending
and assisting the arrangements. He was thus brought into
acquaintanceship with many ladies and gentlemen whom he
otherwise would probably never have met, for all' gathered
together and united in the Samaritan s work ; but, unmind-
ful of them, he attended to his business in his usual quiet:
way, accomplishing a great deal and saying nothing about it..

It was at this time and in this way that he oict:
Miss Susie Jones, a petite, pretty, elfish brunette, whose
sharp black eyes flashed mischievously as she said some-
thing sarcastic and smart. And Susie, who was very viva-
cious and affable, was always saying something sarcastic and

372 LOTOS LEAVES.

smart, now bringing the laugh on herself as well as her
neighbor, and some might have thought, indeed some openly
declared, that she was malicious and cruel-hearted, and de-
lighted to tantalize and provoke people by her remarks :
these did her great injustice ; they misjudged her entirely.
She was kind-hearted and sympathetic, and in every respect
a lovable character ; but she had been endowed with the
talent of sarcasm and repartee, which she frequently indulged,
often inconsiderately, it must be admitted, but from an inno-
cent, fun-loving spirit, and not from any cruel feeling. To
many this characteristic was a sort of spice or seasoning of
the dainty little dish, and rendered her society charming. It
gave her individuality. If it had not been for this gift of
epigram and repartee, which many dreaded, she would fre-
quently, in the goodness of her heart, have been imposed on.
Once Susie said something that was quite cutting to Col-
ton, which hurt his feelings very much, although no one
would have thought so, for he was not a man to show his
trouble any more than his many good qualities, except when
occasion developed them. Susie soon perceived the effect of
.her words, and in her regret at having so thoughtlessly ut-
tered them, she suffered greater heart-pangs than those she
liad inflicted, although John was extremely sensitive. She felt
very sorry, yet could not well make an apology, as there was
no excuse for one ; but she resolved to make all repara-
tion in her power in the future by kindness and deference
to him, as she recognized in him a superior man. When
she wanted some one to aid her in tying the evergreen
festoon over the table, she asked John's assistance, instead
of calling rich youn<; Mr. Thomas, whom all the girls were

JOHN AND SUSIE. 373

after, but who had sooner come to her than to any one
else ; and so she favored or honored him on every occa-
sion, much to the concealed merriment of many who thought
she was doing this merely to trouble him. The difference
in their ages, his being over double hers, prevented any
matrimonial surmises.

A pleasant acquaintance sprang up between John and Susie,
which, as the fair drew to a close, ripened into friend-
ship, and they began to discover each other's many good
characteristics. John recognized the fact that there was none
of the sharpness in her heart that there was on her tongue ;
that she liked to plague him purely from innocent fun and
not maliciousness ; and she was equally quick to learn that
his plain appearance and quiet manner were accompanied
by the noblest characteristics of man.

If it had not been for that Sanitary Fair, I do not be-
lieve John ever would have married, — and, of course, he and
Susie were married.

They were married in the springtime, and their bridal tour
was extended throughout the summer to the fall, in travel-
ling over the New England and Western States. John had
long thought, and Susie coincided with him, that one should
see the beauties of his own land before viewing those of the
Old World ; and this is why they travelled over this country,
instead of joining in the fashionable hegira across the ocean.
Susie had previously, with her parents, travelled over a por-
tion of the tour ; but John had always?, from necessity, been
kept closely to business, and could not until now take the
time, or much less afford the trip.

374 LOTOS LEAVES.

II.

When they returned in the fall, Mrs. Colton had the house
ready for their occupancy, and immediately abdicated in
favor- of the younger Mrs. C, having promised to visit in
turn her two daughters.

John and Susie had gotten along together admirably, and he
did not believe anything ever could occur which would mar
their happiness ; such an idea never entered her head, for
from temperament she was always accu tomed to look on
the bright side of the picture.

It is true, John, quite sensitive now about his age, was
nettled somewhat when quizzed about his marrying a girl
young enough to be his daughter, and testily changed the
conversation ; but when the remark was made to Susie, she
would ask, —

" Now, would you like to know why I married John ? "

" Yes," of course all those questioned answered.

" Why, because I loved him ! Was n't that reason
enough ? "

" Ho ! ho ! " John would exclaim, if within hearing. " But
that is not the reason she gives me ! Why do you think
she tells me she married me ? "

*' For your money } " some one would venture to re-
mark.

" Pshaw ! "

" O, I was merely joking, of course ! What then } "

" Let her explain herself What was it, or rather why
was it, Susie, dear } "

" Why, because he asked me ! " Susie would laughingly

JOHN AND SUSIE. 375

reply ; and in time these unpleasant remarks no longer an-
noyed John.

He learned to bear the quizzing of Susie, and when in the
mood she was unmerciful.

John and Susie went much to the theatre, their cultivated
tastes enabling them to appreciate good performances ; and at
a certain establishment a higher order of entertainment was
given, and this they frequently attended.

One of the leading actors in the company, whom they both
admired, was about the same age as John, as Susie learned
from a reply in the " Answers to Correspondents " in a
weekly paper ; but he looked young enough almost to be
his son, on the stage ; and as he always wore the same
curly wig in public, few outside of the theatre knew it was
one ; and beside him, off the stage, John, with his clear, full,
ruddy cheeks, and slightly gray, though luxuriant hair, was
decidedly the youngest lopking, for the other, prematurely
broken by the arduous labors of his profession, showed his
years in his bearing and face as well as in his scant capil-
lary covering.

Susie could not refrain from quizzing John about the better
looks of the actor ; and as often as they went to the theatre,
she as frequently alluded to the subject, never supposing that
he took the matter to heart.

John, however, was annoyed, and evinced the fact, and his
mischievous, though devoted little wife did not spare him.

He availed himself of the excuse of a shower or any trivi-
ality not to take her to the theatre ; and she, surmising
the reason, provokingly declared he was jealous of the actor.

It soon became evident to his friends that there was some-

376 LOTOS LEAVES.

thing on John's mind that was worrying him, in his set, sor-
rowful features, intent though unattentive manner, and occa-
sional half-suppressed sigh.

rie managed, however, to assume his wonted smile and
cheery manner in the presence of his wife, and so she did
not notice the change in him which was perceptible to
others.

A few days of mental worry will wear a man more than
weeks of physical pain. In a few weeks John really did be-
gin to look aged.

" O, I might have known it was no match for me ! " he
exclaimed one day, evidently unconscious or obvious of my
presence at the adjoining desk.

I instantly decided to avail myself of the exclamation to
ask an explanation, at the risk of being considered imperti-
nent, in the hope that I might be able to cheer him up.

"Why, what is the matter?" I inquired.

" O, nothing ! " he answered hastily, recalled to himself.
He arose, took his hat, and was about leaving, when I de-
tained him, alluded to -the changes perceptible in him, and
advised him to confide in me, assuring him that a confession
of one's sorrows or crimes alike relieves the mind.

At first he insisted I was entirely mistaken, but after a
while confided to me his trouble.

I — I knew the actor off the stage, minus his youthful wig
and mustache : I shocked him by laughing outright in his
face ; I could not help it.

" I don't blame her ! " he observed with desperation. " Of
course he would be better preserved than / am ; he has had
nothing to do all his life but to play-act ! "

JOHN AND SUSIE. 377

" Nothing to do but to * play-act ' ! That is enough to
do ! His life has been more arduous than yours, my dear
friend ! "

But " outsiders " have the idea that " play-acting " is so easy
and simple that there is no work or wear in it ; that, in fact,
an actor's life is one long-drawn-out pleasure ; and it was in
vain that I endeavored to argue the point with John.

" Look at that man ! " he would exclaim ; and, supposing
that he was more familiar with the actor's career than I was,
though acquainted with him, I dropped the subject.

I went home to dine with him, and found that Susie had
added to her collection of photographs of celebrities one of
the venerable actor in a popular modern character, in which
he appeared in all the glory of his curly wig, luxuriant mus-
tache, etc., etc.

Of course, while showing this she did not miss the oppor-
tunity to give a sly thrust at John, and I spoke to her about
the actor's art of " making up," and how deceptive in such
cases appearances were, mentioning an actor whose mus-
tache in the daytime is decidedly sandy, but which is jet-
black on the stage. John being in another room, I asked if
she did not think she worried him in thus quizzing him
about his age, and she said no ; for, it must be remembered,
he carefully concealed his vexation of spirit from her.

** Don't blame her ! " he said afterwards, — " don't blame her !
O no, she does not think of me ; this comes from the heart,
and she is enamored of him ; if it was merely a thought, a
matter of the head, she would think of me as well!"

•* Nonsense, man ! "

He would not, however, listen to reason ; he was satisfied

378 LOTOS LEAVES.

his wife no longer loved him, — at least as she had; she was
enamored of the actor.

An idea occurred to me. I proposed to John, supposing
he was acquainted with the actor, to have him to dine with
him at his house.

" I don't know him ! " he replied angrily.

" I will introduce you ! "

" I don't want to know him ! "

" Be advised, my friend."

" You are mad to propose this ! " he responded indignantly.

We were walking d#wn town ; whom should I see coming
up but the actor ?

As he approached, I perceived that John did not recognize
him off the stage ; and I boldly introduced them, regardless
of the probable consequences.

John was completely taken aback, and looked at me twice
before accepting the actor's proffered hand, as if to assure
himself he had not misunderstood me.

After a few pleasant words (on my part), we separated and
passed on.

John burst out laughing as soon as out of hearing of the
receding actor. I then explained to him how completely, by
the aid of art, the theatrical artists coukl, and are often com-
pelled by the exigencies of their profession to, metamorphose
themselves, great actors making the matter a study.

'*0, what a joke on me!" he exclaimed.

" You can make it a joke on Susie," I ventured to sug-
gest.

•' How ? "

"By presenting him to her," T replied. "He is not all

JOHN AND SUSIE. 379

that fancy painted or the sun photographed, and you *11 have
the laugh on her ! "

He acquiesced, and a day was appointed for the dinner. I
carried the invitation to the actor, who was an educated,
well-bred gentleman, and prevailed on him to accept.

Susie was not altogether pleased at the idea of meeting
the actor, but appeared in her newest and finest dress at the
dinner.

I arrived early, in order to witness the introduction. If
her husband was taken aback by the difference in the ap-
pearance of the actor off and on the stage, she was dumb-
founded ; for it was several minutes before she could speak.

After a very pleasant dinner I told "the story," having pre-
viously obtained John's permission to do so ; and it was as
much enjoyed by Susie as by the actor, who recalled the
anecdote of Garrick, on which Robertson^s charming adapta-
tion is founded. Now the actor is a welcome visitor to the
Coltons, and has told them enough of his professional career
to convince even Mr. C. that "play-acting" is arduous and
vexatious.

t '■,•<

i-V

<«:

The Three Great Symphonists.

THREE GREAT SYMPHONISTS.

HAVDX, MOZAKT, AXD BEETHOVEN.
My JAMES TKCH.

. art has perhaps undergone more various changes,
or has coiuiniiecl, from its revival, in the Middle
Ages up to the present time, in such a constant
state of progression, as music. The later im-
profemenls in the instrumental kind, both with
respect to performance and composition, are alone sufficient
to demonstrate the fact. The strongest proof of the gradual
perfection of this branch is discoverable in the increasing
estimation in which the symphony is held ; and the cause
of this very general tendency towards instrumental music
is to be traced to the splendid productions of genius, that
are now sent almost daily into the musical world. In-
deed, knowledge and taste are even more universally diffused
by the reproduction of the greatest masterpieces in every
variety of shape ; and when we have had such men as Cle-
menti. Hummel, and Liszt, lending their superior talents to
the arrangement of symphonies for the piano-forte, by which
one of the highest forms in musical art is widely distributed
amongst every portion of the community, we compare them
to philosophers who, by microscopic observations, bring to

384 LOTOS LEAVES.

-common view natural beauties known previously but to the
few.

The symphony is, perhaps, as strong an instance as can be
<:ited of the rapidity and extent of the improvement of music
within the last one hundred and fifty years. In the beginning
of the eighteenth century, this species of composition was un-
known ; and now, towards the close of the nineteenth, to what
a pitch of excellence has it arrived ! This has all been eflfected
by the talents of a Haydn, Mozart, and Beethoven ; and sub-
sequently by Mendelssohn, Sphor, and Schumann.

To some it may be instructive, and it may not be uninter-
esting to others, if we attempt an analysis of the different
means by which Haydn, Mozart, and Beethoven, in their time,
produced such wonderful effects, compare their styles, and
endeavor to describe the particular beauties of each. We are
apt to consider and to believe that music is a language in
which the mind and character of the composer are as clearly
portrayed as is the genius of the poet in his works. The
one speaks as forcibly by means of notes as the other by
words, to those who love and understand them. A person
enthusiastically fond of the philosophic Mendelssohn was asked,
*• How can you admire a man so much with whom you never
had an hour's conversation?" The reply was. "I have con-
versed with him for months past through his * Elijah.'" May
we not, then, by studying the symphonies of Haydn, Mozart,
and Beethoven, discover the powers which wrought such won-
derful effects, and learn to revere the superiority of the minds
that produced them? If we draw a comparison between these
minds, we shall not find much difficulty in tracing, nor per-
haps in accounting for, the distinguishing features of the style
adopted by each.

THREE GREAT SYMPHONISTS. 3^5

The regularity of Haydn's middle and later life, his habits
of neatness and precision, the polished and cheerful tone of
his music, denote a mind regulated by certain fixed principles
of action, and warmed by a naturally fertile and elegant fancy.
As circumstances of early youth tend principally to the for-
mation of character, so the privation and restraint to which
he was subjected at this period probably prevented his imagi-
nation from bursting forth, and delayed its luxuriance ; but at
the same time they confirmed him in habits of industry,
strengthened his powers of independent reason and judgment,
and thus prepared him for an after period, when, aided by
concurring circumstances, he became the inventor of that
melodious conversation, that fine combination of various and
beautiful effects, — the symphony. Mozart, on the contrary,
nurtured in the sunshine of affluence, enjoying the warmest
encouragement, and surrounded by every possible stimulant
to genius from, his earliest years, was of a totally different
mould. His ardent mind modelled itself by the luxury to
which he was a constant witness, and by the life of ease and
pleasure which his circumstances allowed him to lead. His
music is accordingly distinguished by its richness and voluptu-
ousness. He was naturally indolent, — he wrote only "when
the fit was on him," — and it is probable that had he lived
before Haydn, we might never have possessed his splendid
symphonies composed after the model of the latter. By these
remarks we do not mean to detract from the merit of Mozart ;
his genius was of a kind not to be daunted by obstacles ;
but it is probable that from the peculiarly opposite situations
of the composers, perfectly opposite effects were produced.
There was, moreover, a melancholy in Mozart's temperament,

386 LOTOS LEAVES.

— prompted perhaps by an overwrought imagination, — and
he possessed a more ardent, though not such constant and
unbending, enthusiasm as Haydn in the cultivation of his art.
There cannot well be a greater contrast than between these
two masters and the highest follower of their steps, Beethoven,
both as regards character and style ; yet he was the scholar
of Haydn. Beethoven, however, appears to have imbibed
from his master little more than the technical means which
enabled him to follow his own path to fame, and which he
opened through obstacles that would have dismayed any but
so strong a character as his was. He neither possessed the
luxury of Mozart nor the elegance of Haydn, but from his
subjects, which are by far more simple though scarcely so
beautiful as theirs, he has worked out quite as striking and
more novel eficcts than either. His music is marked by
originality, strength of design, and romantic grandeur. His
great predecessors arrived nearer perfection in the polish of
their productions, but in conception we apprehend (in the
symphony) he has aspired to heights more sublime than either
of them. The source of this is his extreme originality, or
rather eccentricity, which at the same time excites astonish-
ment and lays him open to the severity of criticism. At that
time Haydn, we are told, censured this quality, and was of
opinion that if not curbed by a nice discrimination, and guided
by a just idea of effects, it would be likely to lead the way
to a wrong estimate of the beautiful. The defects of a great
artist in any line are always the soonest imitated and dis-
seminated, and thus it has been with the eccentricity of
Beethoven. They whom his original vein and his astonishing
force delight are little aware of the power required to pursue

THREE GREAT SYMPHONISTS. 3S7

his course. The mere effort exhausts the strength allotted to
common natures, and many who have tried his arms have
proved only their own "ineffectual fires." At the same time,
the disposition to extravagance seems to have grown by what
it fed on in the mighty master himself, for all propensities
are increased by indulgence, as some of his later works afford
evident proofs of the dangerous tendency of the habit of ex-
aggeration.

In the regular process of our essay, however, we shalj pro-
ceed to examine the foundation on which Haydn raised his
splendid superstructure, and for this purpose we must refer to
the early periods of the cultivation of instrumental music.
The overture, which is the earliest indication of anything hkc
the symphony, and almost of any species of instrumental mu-
sic, owes its origin to Lully. About the middle of the seven-
teenth century he composed it for the Bande des pctits Violofis
of Louis XIV. Before his time, in the few trios and quar-
tettes, which were composed simply for the violin and vio-
loncello, the other parts were generally subordinate to the first
violin. But Lully, in his compositions, allotted to each instru-
ment an almost equally prominent part to sustain ; he added
to the number by drums, etc. ; and lastly, by the introduction^
of discords, he varied the monotony of the former system of
composition, as well as by the genius and originality of his:
passages themselves. Until the appearance of Lully's over-
tures, such a prelude was never thought of, and, what is even
more singular, by their novelty and excellence, they continued
for a long time to hold their place and pre-eminence, and were
played before operas composed by Vinci, Leo, and Pergolesi^
nearly a century after the date of their original production.

388 LOTOS LEAVES.

Scarlatti was the next composer of overtures. Then followed
the Concerii grossi of Corclli and Vivaldi, and lastly the con-
certos and overtures of Handel, Bach, Jomelli, Porpora, and
Bononcini, with others of less note. In all these, however, the
fugue was the principal object, and one prominent part was
given to the violin or some single instrument. Of all the old
masters we should say the Padre Martini is one to whom
Haydn may be the best compared, if he can be justly likened
to any. But truly sublime and unequalled as they were in
certain branches of their art, at what a distance were they
left by Haydn in the composition of instrumental music! By
him were the peculiar properties and characteristics of every
instrument developed ; by him each was made to speak in
its own melodious language to the heart and the imagination.
It was given to him to reply to the query, " Que veux tu
sonatc ? " for he made the symphony descriptive. He it was
who first avowed that he formed a little story as a guide to the
\vorkings of his spirit. In truth, the design of Haydn's sympho-
nies is more clearly developed, and his ideas can be better
understood than either Mozart's or Beethoven's. This it is, per-
haps, that renders them more generally pleasing, assisted by the
lively tone of feeling that to a certain degree pervades
them throughout. Thus their characteristics are clearness of
design, purity and elegance of taste, yet not without depth
of conception, and they are always tempered by a nice and
judicious perception of effects, which never allowed him to
wander beyond the sight or transgress the bounds of sym-
pathy in his audience. The hearer is not, perhaps, so raised
as by Beethoven, or so deeply touched as by Mozart, but the
feelings never sink below a certain equable and just level ;

THREE GREAT SYMPHONISTS. 389

the attention is never strained to understand him, and the
ear is always interested, always satisfied. He is original, but
never eccentric ; and though never dazzling, refined and deli-
cate to the highest degree. The general analysis of one of
his symphonies will, perhaps, illustrate our ideas on the sub-
ject more clearly, and we select the Seventh, because it is
most generally known, and, as it appears to us, comprises all the
distinguishing traits of his style.

The short opening adagio is in D minor. In the Encyclo-
pedic dc Mtisiquc there is an article on the symphony by
Monmigny, who decides that the character of this movement
is of a religious cast, and he interprets it to be a prayer.
In this view, however, we cannot agree ; for if the composer
had commenced his work in such a frame of mind, it is
scarcely possible that in one single page he should have so
completely divested himself of the emotions which must have
been awakened, as to take up his allegro in a manner wholly
unmarked by elevated feeling. It is difficult but not impossi-
ble to trace the succession of ideas in the mind of another,
and as contrast, though not unconnected, is generally aimed at
in the adagio and allegro of a symphony, we should rather
imagine the opening of the present to have been constructed
upon a less exalted foundation. The subject is contained in
three measures, the last of which

s-i^[f

(

4. J -^:

'•v^^.k-f -I 9^- -■ ■

390

LOTOS LEAVES.

consists in responses between the higher and lower instru-
ments ; the whole of it has the character of expostulation,
which is beautifully expressed by the ascent of semitones,
commencing after it has modulated into F major. That this
expostulation succeeds in its object is evident, from the piano
repetition of the opening burst, and from its subsequent
transition from D minor to the softened key of E flat. This
is a beautiful idea. To the ordinary observer the movement
may seem to present nothing particularly worth notice in its
construction. What then does it contain that finds its way to
every heart } Simplicity, superior taste, and variety ; for it
will be seen that, although short and constantly repeated, the
subject is so exquisitely diversified as never to appear monot-
onous. This is another capital distinction of Haydn's style,
though he can scarcely be said to possess it to the same de-
gree as Mozart.

The allegro opens with a graceful and winning subject in

L Cv^^

±-^pr.==

-^-•'

-r

■F-

D major, developed by the stringed instruments, and followed

THREE GREAT SYMPHONISTS. 391

by a spirited //////. It is then reproduced in A major, and
with his usual care to prevent sameness, the accompaniments
are varied. But how manifold are the resources of art, and
yet what slender means does it require to produce the finest
effect !

The next subject which the composer selects is merely the
second and third measures of his first. This displays his
unity and clearness of design. Although this movement is of
a light and exhilarating character, the connection is still to be
kept up between it and the adagio, and the new subject par-
takes of its character just so much as to awaken the same
train of ideas, though less vividly. The response is made by
the basses, and this serves as another link in the chain, whilst
the variations of the passage by the wind instruments, the
beautiful conversation maintained between them, and the bril-
liant keys through which it modulates, continue the elevated
state of the mind, and keep both the intellect and the ear in
constant expectation and interest.

At length the commencement is resumed, and with what
ease and brilliancy are the two themes (from their intimate
connection) worked up together.^ During the first pages
the former becomes the groundwork for the same tutti which
opens the movement ; a few measures before its conclusion,
the latter is hoard from the wind instruments ; it then forms
a few measures of beautiful contrast, leads off to the con-
cluding /;////, and during this is incorporated with th^ first,
and closes the movement with proportionate vigor and effect.
It is perhaps in the andante thai Haydn's power lies ; for in
such movements there is more room for the display of his
delicacy and taste. His theme in the present instance is

392

LOTOS LEAVES.

soothing, but not mournful, and is made so prominent
throughout as to be the principal object in the picture.

f >

«*l

|1^:^:.:.J:« ^^^^-r^rtn^.

Indeed, although there arc in some places several subjects
moving at once, yet they all spring, as it were, from one root,
and are, like the same flower in its various stages of growth,
all different modifications of the same beautiful creation,
whilst it continues, like its prototype, in a constant state of
progression, acquiring at every fresh period of its existence
some addition in richness and beauty.

It is evidently the design of the composer to draw the
principal attractions of this movement from simplicity, del-
icacy of expression, and fine harmony. Aware, however, of the
effect and almost necessity of contrast, he has ingeniously
availed himself of this resource without departing from his
original plan. Thus he has reproduced his subject in a minor
key, in a trio between the flute, oboe, and fagotto, whi^h is
followed by a //////; not a mere union to produce change by

THREE GREAT SYMPHONISTS.

393

the contrast of tone, but the addition of instruments, each
having a part to perform that is necessary to the general design.
That good taste, however, may not be offended by an instant
return to the theme, after this burst, the composer wins his way
back to it by a passage ** fine by degrees and delicately less,"
thus displaying exquisite judgment and taste. Being fully
aware that his subject was of too nice a texture to bear im-
mediate or violent contrasts, he has made them steal gradually
upon the ear, and in the same manner the movement fades
away at the conclusion. The genuine master has adhered to
his plan and to the character of his air ; there is nothing
abrupt, nothing incongruous, — all is smoothness and purity.

Haydn was particularly happy in the composition of his
minuets and trios. As these movements are too short to be
susceptible of any powerful effects, that is to say, in connec-
tion with the body of the symphony, they should consist of
fanciful and brilliant traits of melody, pleasing for their naivete.
They may be compared to the divertisetneiis in an opera ; they
produce variety and captivate the ear, whilst they afford a
point of repose to the attention, and thus the hearer is pre-
pared to follow the composer with fresh energy through his
rondo. Hadyn's are models in this style.

One of the finest proofs of genius is the power of producing
great effects by simple means. The subject of the rondo is

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394 LOTOS LEAVES.

introduced on a pedale bass ; and is taken in trio by the
first and second violin and tenor. A forte of two notes
follows, sufficient to rouse the attention of the audience and
produce contrast ; but Haydn, aware of the quaintncss of his
subject, has treated it with a corresponding singularity. This
forte, which has but one note for the trumpets and drums,
has for answer three notes from the first violins ; and here we
must observe that, short as the subject is, consisting only
of thirteen notes, the characters of the two phrases into
which it is divided are distinguished through the whole move-
ment. But that which is susceptible of the most contrast,
and is of the gravest and deepest cast, is put under the care
of the corresponding part of the orchestra, whilst the other,
which is of an opposite expression, is consigned to the lighter
instruments. In fact, the orchestra may almost be compared
to opposing casuists, engaged in illustrating their several
opinions of the same question in diflferent ways, — the serious
and the gay. The entire movement is by this means rendered
a complete conversation. The tuttis arc rare, the burden of
the dialogue being alternately borne by prominent instru-
ments, always changing, always quaint, always interesting
and original. Towards the end the combat deepens, and in
the winding up the composer has infused into his treatment
of the subject all the force and fire of which it is capable.
He had previously invested it with enough only of these
qualities to prevent monotony, and has reserved this master-
stroke till he has presented it in every possible guise. The
manner is by turns quaint, lively, persuasive, decided ; and
at last, when we have followed these transitions with increas-
ing interest through all their diversity, the theme bursts upon

THREE GREAT SYMPHONISTS. 395

US full of vigor, energy, and brilliancy, at a time when we
think every protean change has been exhausted. Through
all this variety, however, the design is clearly and substantially
maintained. We enter into the composer's ideas as we do
into those of an enlightened person in conversation, without
effort and without weariness. His melodies dwell in the
memory ; the effects produced in treating them are impressed
on our minds ; and this, after all, is the true test of an author's
perfect success.

This general analysis will give some idea of the mode of
construction adopted by Haydn in all his symphonies. By a
similar examination of one of Mozart's and one of Beethoven's,
it is our object to ascertain how far we have been accurate
in our description of the principal differences in the three
styles, and to discover if any improvements have been made
by the two latter in the models left them by the illustrious
inventor of the symphony.

If the orchestra in the hands of Haydn be considered as
carrying on an eloquent and enlightened conversation, under
the direction of Mozart each instrument appears to speak in
the language of a beautifully descriptive poem. We have
already referred to the opposite circumstances in the life of
the two composers, which we conceive tended to the forma-
tion of two totally different styles ; and if they are recalled,
these exemplifications of their manner will, we think, be found
clear and expressive. We may then proceed to an analysis
of Mozart's Symphony in E Flat.

In the opening adagio the principal feature is contrast, and
the design appears to be to elevate the mind. It commences
with a full and powerful //////, succeeded by a descending

39^ LOTOS LEAVES.

scale, piano, for the first violin, and this is repeated three
times, modulating into F minor, when the violin has a syn-
copated trait of melody of tender expression. The running
passages are then resumed, the flute varying effect by a few
broken notes, and the drums, trumpets, and horns being heard
in an undertone. Having modulated to the subdominant, which
is sustained by the violins and wind instruments, the running
passages are taken up by the tenors and basses. But here
Mozart consults equally both the character of his instruments
and the variety which he is ever anxious to preserve, and
thus the scale is reproduced, ascaiding, and with the differ-
ence of a flat seventh, which on the second and third repe-
tition is augmented by that of a flat ninth, while the instru-
ments are increased and break off" as abruptly on the chord
of F with a seventh and flat ninth, leaving the violins and
fagotti to close the movement by a legato passage of semi-
tones of a wailing expression. In this movement emotions of
a totally opposite nature and yet equally strong are awakened.
We are elevated, we are awed, we are softened, and these
effects are wrought nearly by the same passages judiciously
varied and employed. What Mozart may be said to have
chiefly aimed at in his music* was to excite the different pas-
sions in their most extreme degrees, and this is the principal
distinction between him and Haydn. The latter always pre-
serves a certain medium, above and below which we are
seldom either elevated or depressed. But Mozart revelled with
more freedom in the realms of fancy, and consequently the

* It must l)c remembered that our remarks arc entirely confined to the instru-
mental music of these composers. The same reflections will not so strictly apply
to their com|)ositions for the voice.

THREE GREAT SYMPHONISTS. 397

feelings are more alive to his touches than the judgment.
To support this position, we only ask the reader to note and
recall the emotions which are aroused by hearing the adagia
to Haydn's Seventh Symphony and those which arise on lis-
tening to that we have just analyzed, and to compare his
sensations. The allegro, introduced by a melancholy passage,
is legato and cantabile, and a soothing effect is imparted to it
by the mellow and rich tone of the horns, which take up
the first strain of the subject in answer to the first violin,
the second being answered in a similar manner by the fagotti,
with the same effect.

Here there is a link in the chain of connection between
this movement and the adagio. The descending scales which
there form the principal feature are again introduced, com-
bined, however, by passages of a bold and decided character.
One of Mozart's greatest beauties is the power which he pos-
sesses of reproducing one idea in so many and yet such
equally beautiful forms, and the present is a striking example.
We have already shown that these simple passages, by a slight
change, were made to answer two purposes in the first part,.
softening and exalting the mind, and now again they serve
to exhilarate merely by the alteration of the time and man-
ner of their accompaniment, or rather connection. We now
arrive at some exquisitely expressive solos for the clarionet
and fagotto, which are succeeded by a strongly contrasted
tiitti, and then follows the first reprise. Here a new subject
is worked from the accompaniment to the clarionet solo,
and is held in play principally between the stringed instru-
ments. It commences in G minor, passes through the domi-
nant to A flat, where the violins take up the clarionet solo

398

LOTOS LEAVES.

considerably varied, and modulate to C minor. Then the
basses are heard, and a ////// succeeds, leading to the repeti-
tion of the commencement. It will be remembered that the
descending passages which formed the ////// were in the first
part introduced in the original key of E ; but in the present
instance, by an alteration of the harmonies, the same idea is
reproduced in A, and consequently a pleasing variety is the
result, as, although there is no material change or new subject
to the end of the movement, yet the former subjects acquire
fresh novelty and attraction from this surprise to the ear, as
they pass through different modulations and are heightened in
effect by the almost imperceptible graces which Mozart never
fails to append every time he retouches a trait of melody.
The andante which follows

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is in character exquisitely tender and perfectly describes to
our minds *' the luxury of grief" It is in A flat, and is com-
menced by the stringed instruments, flute, and fagotto. After

THREE GREAT SYMPHONISTS. 399

the subject has been simply developed, the horns and clari-
onet are added, and the second part is led by an exquisite
solo for the flute into F minor, the violin remaining prin-
cipal for some time. The first phrase is then resumed in a
conversation between the instruments, till we arrive at a deli-
cious solo for the clarionet, answered by the flute and fagotto.
But now comes the master-stroke. Whilst the subject is car-
rying on in dialogue between the stringed instruments, the
clarionets, flutes, and fagotti are recalling old associations by
the repetition of three descending scales^ and thus is the sim-
ple idea produced for \hc fourth time, in a totally different and
still more delightful shape. We recognize it again some way
further on, transferred to the second violin and tenor, whilst
the subject is taken by the wind-instruments. The . beautiful
conversation of the fagotto and clarionet, with the other
instruments, is one of the principal distinctions of this move-
ment, as is likewise its cantabile style. The parts literally
sing, so exquisitely are they blended together. There is about
the whole a languor, from its perfectly legato style, and yet a
richness and warmth that give rise to emotions the most
absolutely luxurious. A great love of contrast is, however (as
we have remarked), to be found in Mozart's music, and thus
the minuet which follows is exceedingly animating. The trio
consists of beautiful solos for the clarionet and violin, sup-
ported by the horns and stringed instruments.

The subject of the finale is lively and graceful, and is led
off" by the violins.

After the first /;////, which is of a kind to caise the spirits,
from languor, to which they would have sunk during the an-
dante, the modulation becomes somber, when, having returned

400

LOTOS LEAVES.

to the dominant, the air, so to speak, is " trifled with '* by
the clarionet, fagotto, and violins. Throughout the finale, in-

deed, all the instruments may be said to trifle. Nor is this
disposition of the parts without design ; but to trace this
design we must follow the flights of the gayest fancy, — we
must pursue a butterfly flitting from flower to flower, whilst
every new reflection of the sunbeams on its painted wings
brightens its tints and exalts their beauty. Thus we catch
perpetual glimpses of the subject, which, as it recurs, we hear
everywhere perpetually varying ; it keeps the mind in the
never-ceasing anticipation of new pleasure, and the expecta-
tion is never disappointed. Its characteristics are delicacy,
grace, and naivete ; and these traits are sustained through-
out.

It should appear then, from this general inquiry, that the
'.hief differences in the styles of Haydn and Mozart may be
comprised in a few words. The genius or imagination of
Moz.irt was richer and more varied, that of Haydn more reg-
ular and more concentrated. The former opened to his tal-
ents a wider field of action, and his forte lay certainly in
vocal music : whilst the number and beauty of the instrumental
compositions of the latter, taken as a whole, may be said to

THREE GREAT SYMPHONISTS. 4OI

surpass his productions for the voice.* Mozart has, to a cer-
tain degree, infused into his symphonies many of the proper-
ties which belong to vocal music. Hence the languor, the
tenderness and intensity of feeling, which characterize most
of them, and the correct and beautiful manner in which he
suits the genius of each particular wind-instrument ; these being
more analogous to the different species of tone to be found in
Y^oices, and being better adapted to the tenderness, volup-
tuousness, and warmth of his ideas. Nevertheless, Mozart is
sometimes so completely guided by his enthusiasm and his
fancy, that he appears to forget those rules to which others
bend, and sometimes his ideas appear to press upon him in
such rich and varied profusion as to take from the clearness
and unity of his design. This, although a splendid fault, is
one which Haydn would not have committed. His plan
was laid at first, and it guided him steadily to the last. Nor
was he ever drawn aside by the desire of producing an effect^
however striking, if it were not in perfect consonance with
his design.

Wc must now turn to the last great model of the school of
these composers. Beethoven may indeed be considered as
having followed them, and at the same time as having en-
larged so considerably the extent of the way they struck out,
as to have left only slight traces of their steps. After what
we have already said on the subject of the eccentricity of
Beclhovcn, it will, perhaps, be thought singular that we should

* We arc aware that manv uill be disposed to differ from us in tlii> o|)ini()iv.
but the te.>t ot" the merit of music i> the general estimation in which it is held
llavdn's instrumental compositions are more fre(iuently performed than hi> \t)c;il,
whilst some of Mozart's operas still stand proudly pre-eminent.

402 LOTOS LEAVES.

assert that the germs of this characteristic are to be found in
Mozart. They who have studied his works will, however, we
doubt not, agree with us. For a striking instance, wc refer
the reader to the passage immediately after the double bar
in the finale to his symphony in G minor. We have selected
Beethoven's First Symphony in C for our analysis, because,
being one of his earlier productions, it possesses only enough
of this quality to render it original, and because it is one of
the most esteemed, though by no means the best.

The first two chords of the adagio display the desire of
novelty, as, instead of beginning on the reputed key of C, a
flat seventh is inserted in its place, which resolves into the
chord of the subdominant. Then we have the dominant also
with a seventh, which, by raising the bass one tone, passes
into A minor, and again we have D with a seventh, which
resolves into the chord of the dominant, in which key the
plan of the movement may be said to begin. It consists only
of twelve measures, and leads by a running passage for the
stringed instruments to the allegro con brio. There is no sin-
gle word in the English language which describes the charac-
ter of this movement, and the finale to the same symphony,
so well as the Italian one of Brioso, especially the latter ; in
the present, perhaps, there is a little too much intensity, — not
however, the intensity of Mozart, for Beethoven is seldom or
ever tender, his melancholy is of a higher cast, —

" A solemn, strange, and mingled air,
'T was sad by fits, by starts 't was wild," —

and in his movements of a higher character the same wild-
ness is to be found in a less dcjiree.

THREE GREAT SYMPHONISTS.

403

There is nothing striking or even pleasing in the subject of
the present : —

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Indeed, in the allegros of Beethoven this is frequently the
case. It appears as if he wished to display his power of pro-
ducing great effects by slender means ; consequently they gain
upon us as they proceed, instead of at once riveting the fancy,
as happens when we listen to the beautiful morceaux on
which similar movements of Haydn and Mozart are built.
After the development of his theme, and the first //////, which
may be considered in all symphonies as the mere prelude to
what follows, a simple but beautiful trait of melody is made
the subject of conversation between the flute and oboe, subse-
quently the clarionet and fagotto are introduced, as it were,
by gradations, and lastly the violins. The accompaniment ta
this passage, which in the present instance is formed from the
last bar of the subject, is of a kind peculiar to this composer,,
and is introduced in the same manner in his overture to Pro-
inethcus. The modulation being carried into G minor, the
same solo somewhat varied is taken up by the basses, and
leads to a return of the subject in F sharp. We may here
remark that one of the leading characteristics of Beethoven's
style consists in the power and character which he gives to
his basses. In this respect he might almost be termed the
Handel of symphonists. If they be ever so simple, they are

404 LOTOS LEAVES.

distinguished by a solidity and originality that always invests
the whole composition with grandeur. At the second reprise
the subject passes through A, D, and G to C minor, and the
movement here takes a mysterious form ; a tremando is kept
up by the second violin and tenor, whilst the short strain be-
fore alluded to as peculiar to Beethoven is distributed in
alternate solos between the first violin, fagotto, flute, and oboe ;
after this, the dialogue becomes very singular. A passage,
evidently formed on the third and fourth measures of the sub-
ject, is led off by the stringed instruments, whilst the first
and second measures are kept in constant response by the
wind-instruments through several keys, till a rolling bass con-
cludes it in unison on E, and the flutes, clarionets, oboes,
and fagotti lead back to the opening by a sostenuto passage
also in unison. After a tutti which differs considerably from
the first, the solo before taken in G by the flute and oboe is
here transferred to the flute and clarionet in C, and it is ulti-
mately conducted again to C minor, while it is taken by the
basses, thus producing a fine contrast. In the concluding //////
Ave have another alteration. The first measures of the subject
arc taken by the basses, whilst the last is taken by other in-
:struments. This had never before this time been the case ;
but the composer was aware of the strength of this passage,
when referred to a situation to bring it out, and he judi-
ciously reserves it for the winding up, where it produces a
magnificent effect.

The characteristics of this allegro are unity of design, sim-
plicity in melody, and strong contrast. In the first there are
evident traces of the master IlaydUy as may be noticed from
the fact that, with one exception, every passage is formed on

THREE GREAT SYMPHONISTS.

40s

the original subject. In clearness, however, he falls very short
of his model ; he has not the same pertinacity in adhering to
his plan, that is to say, he is contented with keeping up a
chain of connection formed of the more prominent parts of his
idea, without attending to those finer links which assist so
materially, though almost imperceptibly, in awakening previous
associations. In the same manner he has not the same well-
constructed plan in the use of his instruments as Mozart, who
will make one or two very prominent, and assign to them a
certain passage which they alone shall work upon, and which
will form a landmark, as it were, in his ocean of melody,
whilst Beethoven will, for the sake of contrast, transfer an
idea from one instrument to another, so that, if we would re-
call it, it comes to the mind in twenty different forms. At
the same time, Beethoven produces greater and more striking
effects from simpler means than either of his predecessors ;
his combinations are more novel, and there is an innate
strength and vigor in his music which can hardly be found
elsewhere.

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iTdzl-.-? :

The andante is upon an extremely simple subject, of a
cheerful, though smooth character, and it is so contrived that
the instruments take it up one after another in the style of
the fugue, which has a rich and novel effect. It becomes
gradually more playful as it proceeds, and the first part con-
cludes with a staccato passage of triplets for the violins and
clarionet. In the second part we have a good contrast ; the
key is changed from F to C minor, and again the instru-

406 LOTOS LEAVES.

merits drop singly on a succession of minor thirds and fifths,
till, leading to a staccato accompaniment for the fagotto and
stringed instruments, the thirds and fifths are brought in spas-
modically and give a wild and complaining effect. Gradually
the subject is resumed in the major key, and is most beauti-
fully varied, in a manner approaching to a fugue, though it
does not conform to the laws of that species of writing. The
principal ideas guide the composer the whole way though.

The minuet and trio are, the one spirited, the other grace-
ful and fantastic, to a very high degree. Beethoven makes
more of this part of the symphony, we are inclined to think,
than either of his predecessors. He infuses into it a larger
portion of spirit and contrast, and renders it more important
to the body of the work. The trio is between the horn,
clarionet, and violin, and is a most exquisite bit of dialogue.

In the subject of the finale there is more to please the
fancy than we have yet met with. It catches at once by its
airiness and simplicity ; how beautifully is this effect height-
ened by the passage given to the violoncellos in the second
strain ! and again, what an animating contrast is found in
the passage for the basses, beginning at the twenty-fourth
measure ! In this movement there is nothing but what is
lively and easy, but there is not the same mastery of con-
struction that is to be found in the allegro. The composer
appears to write more for the pleasure than the instruction
of his hearers ; there it was agreeable reflection, here it is
pure recreation and enjoyment. This, we are aware, is the
general character of the finales to both Haydn and Mozart,
but scarcely to the same degree. Those of the former are
more refined and chastenc:!, \\-\o<s'z of the latter richer and

THREE GREAT SYMPHONISTS. 407

more luxurious ; and in both they are more elaborate than
Beethoven. They appear to us to possess a freedom from all
restraint, an exuberance of spirit that carries everything
along ; yet the hand of the master is to be observed in the
formation of the design and its preservation to the conclu-
sion ; and here, where he is not so constantly aiming at effect,
the style is more perspicuous.

We have now completed a sufficiently minute analysis of
three of the best works of these great masters, to enable us
to compare their different styles, and to determine whether
any decided improvements had been made in the symphony
as it was left to Mozart and Beethoven by its immortal in-
ventor. We have already shown on what slender foundations
Haydn raised this lasting fabric. The materials for its forma-
tion he drew from the fertile resources of his own mind. He
gave character and importance to every instrument,* assigning
to each a part adapted to its powers ; he classified them, and
taught them the language that is not only intelligible, but
delightful to the ear of the musician, and he established cer-
tain rules by which he formed a new species of descriptive
music, and gave to the mere " concord of sweet sounds " a
definite character which it never before possessed, except when
in conjunction with, or rather subordinate to, the human voice.
Besides the simple invention of the symphony, it cannot be
determined how far this very circumstance might tend to the
improvement of the overture, which was then, comparatively
speaking, at a low ebb, and which has since improved so
materially. Be this as it may. the invention itself was suffi-
cient to immortalize the composer, and as a proof of the sta-

* Beethoven's Ninth Symphony, and the Symphony-Cantata, by Mendelssohn.

408 LOTOS LEAVES.

bility of the principles on which it is founded, its form has
been but slightly altered, except in one or two cases ; it still
consists of the adagio ^ allegro y andante^ minuet to, or scherzo ,
trioy and finale^ and these are still distinguished by the same
characteristics that were first assigned to them.

It could not, however, be supposed, particularly when such
a composer as Mozart followed in the path of Haydn, that the
symphony would not, like everything else, continue in a state
of progression, even although its external form remained unal-
tered. The genius of Mozart was cast in "too superb a mould
to imitate in any closer manner than that of working on the
same principles and aiming at the same end as his prede-
cessor.* Consequently, the styles of Haydn and Mozart in
instrumental music differ nearly as widely as ia vocal. We
have already pointed out in what these differences consist ;
it remains to show in what particulars or in what degree the
latter added to the beauty of the symphony. The distin-
guishing trait in Mozart's style is warmth and richness of
imagination, inasmuch as he possessed this quality in a
greater degree than Haydn, so he was able to shadow out his
musical pictures with more glowing colors and to invest
them with a greater degree of interest. Thus, in his use of
the wind-instruments, he has shown a more vivid perception
of the beautiful than Haydn, and in this it is that his grand
improvement lies. He has made nicer distinctions between
their several qualities, has allotted to each a more decided
character ; he has, in fact, treated them more as the singers

* Mozart dedicated a set of his light quartettes to Haydn, saying, " This
dedication is only due to him, for it was from Haydn that I learned to compose
quartettes," and he might have added also symphonies.

THREE GREAT SYMPHONISTS. 409

of the orchestra, from their analogy to the human voice. In
other respects, what he has done for the symphony has been
to enrich it by a more vivid, and to elevate it by a loftier, vein
of fancy. At the same time the very ardor which has guided
him so rightly in one sense has misled him in another, by
sometimes carrying him beyond the limits of that pure and
delicate taste which Haydn never overstepped, and by causing
him to lose sight of the clearness and unity of design which
constituted one of the greatest perfections of his illustrious

predecessor.

When Beethoven entered upon his musical career, it is to
be supposed naturally that, from being the scholar of Haydn,
instrumental music would first absorb his attention. The
symphony, at once the newest and highest species of composi-
tion, opened a wide and splendid field to the exertions of the
aspiring composer ; but, if we consider the state of perfection
in which it was left by Haydn and Mozart, it is evident that
Beethoven would be constrained either to become a copyist
or to strike out a new path for himself, and how dangerous
would this attempt be to any one of the most powerful tal-
ents ? Such, however, did Beethoven possess. In his earliest
productions, which consisted of sonatas, trios, quartettes, and
quintettes for the piano-forte and other instruments, he was
accused of crude modulation, and an attempt rather to be sin-
gular than pleasing. It appears, then, that originality was his
earliest distinction, and this it is that has placed him by the
side of Haydn and Mozart in the symphony, without his being
the imitator of either. It cannot be denied that in his first
productions of this kind — for instance, in the one we have
analyzed — traces may be found in the general construction

4IO LOTOS LEAVES.

of the style of his masters, yet as a whole no style can be
more decidedly opposed to those of his two predecessors than
that of Beethoven.

The mind of this master was, as is generally known, of a
very peculiar formation, and, if we read his works aright, we
should say that he possessed a lofty, though not rich imagi-
nation, and that this, combined with great simplicity and
strength of conception, raised him nearer the sublime than
either of those who preceded him. At the same time he ap-
pears to have possessed an inexhaustible fund of originality,
from which he drew so constantly as to render it sometimes
a failing rather than an excellence. This is, we regret to say,
too much the case in the Ninth Symphony. We mention this
work more particularly, ^ because in it was introduced the first
innovation upon Haydn's original plan, before alluded to, in
the shape of a chorus, which formed a part of the fourth and
last movement, as also in the symphony opening with an alle-
grOy and having no minuet or trio. Beethoven is not generally
considered to have succeeded in the attempt to unite the two
opposite styles of vocal and instrumental music. Even in the
present day, its effect, when it is occasionally performed, is
.such as to leave upon the public mind a feeling of disappoint-
ment and fatigue. Its length alone will be a never-failing cause
of complaint to those who reject monopoly in sounds.

The fact is clear to the philosophic observer, that there
must be a natural tendency in the mind to vocal music, as
presenting definite ideas to the mind ; consequently, when in-
strumental is combined with vocal, the latter takes the lead, as
it were, in the train of association, the former falls from a
principal to a subordinate, and the combination thus belongs

THRKE GREAT S VM PHONISTS. 41I

to no class, and possesses no distinct character, or, if any, be-
comes a chorus. It appears, therefore, that the symphony-
retains its original form unchanged, and that Beethoven has
aided its advance towards perfection by strength and sublimity ;
whilst at the same time his own particular style is distin-
guished, besides these attributes, by originality, simplicity,
beauty of melody, and great power of description, which is
alone displayed in that really stupendous work, his Pastoral
Symphony. ^

The result of this investigation, to our conception, is that,
by a happy concurrence, three minds more perfectly formed for
the estabhshment of this magnificent invention could not have
succeeded each other than those of Haydn, Mozart, and Beet-
hoven. The first gave it form and substance, and ordained
the laws by which it should move, adorning it at the same
time with superior taste, perspicuity of design, and beautiful
melody ; the second added to the fine creation of his fancy
by richness, warmth, and variety ; and the last endowed it
with sublimity of description and power When will the artist
appear who shall combine all these attributes.' — for what
others can be adtkd ?

111

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