THE LIBRARY
OF
THE UNIVERSITY
OF CALIFORNIA
LOS ANGELES
SELECTIONS
FROM
AMERICAN AUTHORS
PRINTED IN THE ADVANCED
STYLE OF PITMAN'S SHORTHAND
NE\V YORK
ISAAC PITMAN & SONS, THE PHONOGRAPHIC DRPOI
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The Commercial TeM-Book Co.
OR
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CONTENTS
PAGE
THE BUCCANEER'S TREASURE (Washington Irving) ?
MY EDITING (Mark Twain) . . ' . . 10
A VENERABLE IMPOSTO-R (Bret Harte) . . 1H
THE AUTOCRAT OF THE BREAKFAST TABLE (Oliver
Wendell Holmes) ..... 23
THE WAY TO WEALTH (Benjamin Franklin) . 28
THE TELL-TALE HEART (Edgar Allan Poe) . 4:
GREATNESS IN COMMON LIFE (W. E, Channing) 5'
THE STORY OF A DRUM (Bret Harte) . . 64
THE PROCESSION OF LIFE (Nathaniel Hawthorne) 1'.
A MELTING STORY (Mark Twain) 9*-
THE PROFESSOR AT THE BREAKFAST TABLE (O. W.
Holmes') ...... li
Selections from American Authors.
THE BUCCANEER'S TREASURE.
BY WASHINGTON IRVING.
1 ' \\rolfert Webber had carried home a fresh stock of stores
..ad notions to ruminate upon. These accounts of pots of
money and Spanish treasures, buried here and there and
(.-verywhere about the rocks and bays of these wild shores,
de him almost dizzy. The doctor had often heard the
rumours of treasure being buried in various parts of the
island, and had long been anxious to get in the traces of it.
The circumstances unfolded to him awakened all his
cupidity ; he had not a doubt of money being buried
somewhere in the neighbourhood of the mysterious crosses,
and offered to join Wolfert in the search.
The great church clock struck ten as Wolfert and the
doctor passed by the churchyard, and the watchmen
bawled, in hoarse voice, a long and doleful " All's well ! "
A deep sleep had already fallen upon this primitive little
449529
SELECTIONS FROM AMERICAN AUTHORS.
burgh. Nothing disturbed this awful silence, excepting
now and then the bark of some profligate, night-walking
dog, or the serenade of some romantic cat.
They found the old fisherman waiting for them, smoking
his pipe in the stern of his skiff, which was moored just in
front of his little cabin. A pickaxe^and spade were lying
in the bottom of the boat, with a dark lantern, and a stone
bottle of good Dutch courage, in which honest Sam, no
doubt, put even more faith than the doctor in^his drugs. '
Thus, then, did these three worthies embark in their
cockleshell of a skiff upon this nocturnal expedition. The
tide was rising and running rapidly up the Sound. The
current bore them along almost without the aid of an oar.
They now landed, and lighting the lantern, gathered their
various implements and proceeded slowly through the
bushes. Every sound startled them, even that of their
own footsteps among the dried leaves ; and the hooting of
THE BUCCANEER S TREASURE.
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a screech-owl from the shattered chimney of a neighbouring
ruin made their blood run cold.
The lantern was now held by Wolfert Webber, while the
doctor produced a divining rod. It was a forked twig, one
end of which was grasped firmly hi each hand ; while the
centre forming the stem, pointed perpendicularly upwards.
The doctor moved this wand about, within a certain dis-
tance of the earth, from place to place, but for some time
without any effect : while Wolfert kept the light of the
lantern turned full upon it, and watched it with the most
breathless interest. At length the rod began slowly to
turn. The doctor grasped it with great earnestness, his
hands trembling with the agitation of his mind. The
wand continued to turn gradually, until at length the stem
had reversed its position, and pointed perpendicularly
downward, and remained pointing to one spot as fixedly
as the needle to the pole.
SELECTIONS FROM AMERICAN AUTHORS.
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" This is the spot ! " said the doctor, in an almost
inaudible tone.
Wolfert's heart was in his throat.
" Shall I dig ? " said the negro, grasping the spade.
" No ! " rephed the little doctor hastily. He now ordered
his companions to keep close by him, and to maintain the
most inflexible silence ; that certain precautions must be
taken, and ceremonies used, to prevent the evil spirits,
which kept about buried treasure, from doing them any
harm. While Wolfert held the lantern, the doctor, by the
aid of his spectacles, read off several forms of conjuration
in Latin and German. He then ordered Sam to seize the
pickaxe and proceed to work. The close-bound soil gave
obstinate signs of not having been disturbed for many a
year. After having picked his way through the surface,
Sam came to a bed of sand and gravel, which he threw
briskly to right and left with the spade.
THE BUCCANEER'S TREASURE.
The negro continued his labours and had already digged
a considerable hole. At last the spade of the old fisher-
man struck upon something that sounded hollow ; the sound
vibrated to Wolfert's heart. He struck his spade again —
" "Tis a chest," said Sam.
" Full of gold, I'll warrant it ! " cried Wolfert, clasping
his hands with rapture.
Scarcely had he uttered the words, when a sound from
above caught his ear. He cast up his eyes, and lo ! by
the expiring light of the nre, he beheld, just over the disk
of the rock, what appeared to be the grim visage of the
drowned buccaneer, grinning hideously down upon him.
Wolfert gave a loud cry, and let fall the lantern. His
panic communicated itself to his companions. The negro
leaped out of the hole ; the doctor dropped his book and
basket, and began to pray in German. All was horror and
SELECTIONS FROM AMERICAN AUTHORS.
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confusion. The fire was scattered about, the lantern ex-
tinguished. In their hurry they ran against and con-
founded one another. The doctor ran one way, the negro
another, and Wolfert made for the waterside. As he
plunged, struggling onward through bush and brake, he
heard the tread of someone in pursuit. He scrambled
frantically forward. The footsteps gained upon him. He
felt himself grasped by his cloak, when suddenly his
pursuer was attacked in turn.
One of the combatants was disposed of, but whether
friend or foe, Wolfert could not tell, or whether they might
or not both be foes. He heard the survivor approach, and
his terror revived. He saw, where the profile of the rocks
rose against the horizon, a human form advancing. He
could not be mistaken — it must be the buccaneer. Whither
should he fly ? — a precipice was on one side, a murderer on
the other. The enemy approached — he was close at hand.
Wolfert attempted to let himself down the face of the cliff.
THE BUCCANEER'S TREASURE.
His cloak caught in a thorn that grew on the edge. He was
jerked from off his feet, and held dangling in the air, half
choked by the string with which his careful wife had
fastened the garment round his neck. Wolfert thought
his last moment was arrived ; already had he committed
his soul to St. Nicholas, when the string broke, and he
tumbled down the bank, bumping from rock to rock, and
bush to bush, and leaving the red cloak fluttering, like a
bloody banner in the air.
It was a long while before Wolfert came to himself.
When he opened his eyes, the ruddy streaks of morning
were already shooting up the sky. He found himself lying in
the bottom of a boat, grievously battered. He attempted
to sit up, but he was too sore and stiff to move. A voice
requested him, in friendly accents, to lie still. He turned
his eyes towards the speaker — it was Dirk Waldron. He
had dogged the party at the earnest request of Dame
Webber and her daughter, who with the laudable curiosity
10 SELECTIONS FROM AMERICAN AUTHORS.
V -* ..L..~. .s
MY EDITING.
BY MARK TWAIN.
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of their sex had pried into the secret consultations of
Wolfert and the doctor. Dirk had been completely
distanced in following the light skiff of the fisherman,
and had just come in time to rescue the poor digger
from his pursuer.
Thus ended this perilous enterprise. The doctor and
black Sam severally found their way back, each having
some tale of peril to relate. As to poor Wolfert, instead
of returning in triumph, laden with bags of gold, he was
borne home on a shutter, followed by a rabble rout of
curious urchins.
The sensation of being at work once again was luxurious,
and I wrought all the week with unflagging pleasure. We
went to press, and I waited a day with some solicitude to
see whether my effort was going to attract any notice. As
I left the office, toward sundown, a group of men and boys
at the foot of the stairs dispersed with one impulse, and
MY EDITING. 11
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gave me passage-way, and I heard one or two of them say
" That's hini ! " I was naturally pleased by this incident.
The next morning I found a similar group at the foot of
the stairs, and scattered couples and individuals standing
here and there in the street, and over the way, watching
me with interest. The group separated and fell back as I
approached, and I heard a man say, " Look at his eye ! "
I pretended not to observe the notice I was attracting, but
secretly I was pleased with it, and was purposing to write
an account of it to my aunt. I went up the short flight
of stairs, and heard cheery voices and a ringing laugh as I
drew near the door, which I opened, and caught a glimpse
of two young, rural-looking men, whose faces blanched and
lengthened when they saw me, and then they both plunged
through the window, with a great crash. I was surprised.
In about half-an-hour an old gentleman, with a flowing
beard and a fine but rather austere face, entered, and sat
down at my invitation. He seemed to have something on
his mind. He took off his hat and set it on the floor, and
12
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got out of.it a red silk handkerchief and a copy of our
paper. He put the paper on his lap, and, while he polished
his spectacles with his handkerchief, he said :
" Are you the new editor ? "
I said I was.
" Have you ever edited an agricultural paper before ? "
" No,' I said ; " this is my first attempt."
Then this old person got up and tore his paper all into
small shreds, and stamped on them, and broke several
things with his cane, and said I did not know as much as
a cow ; and then went out, and banged the door after
him ; and, in short, acted in such a way that I fancied he
was displeased about something. But, not knowing what
the trouble was, I could not be any help to him.
But. these thoughts were quickly banished when the
regular editor walked in. (T though* to myself, " Now,
MY EDITING. 13
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if you had gone to Egypt, as I recommended you to, I
might have had a chance to get my hand in ; but you
wouldn't do it, and here you are. T sort of expected you.")
The editor was looking sad, and perplexed, and dejected.
He surveyed the wreck which that old rioter and those two
young farmers had made, and then said :
" This is a sad business — a very sad business. There is
the mucilage bottle broken, and six panes of glass, and a
spittoon, and two candlesticks. But that is not the worst.
The reputation of the paper is injured, and permanently,
I fear. True, there never was such a call for the paper
before, and it never sold such a large edition or soared to
such celebrity ; but does one want to be famous for lunacy,
and prosper upon the infirmities of his mind ? My friend,
as I am an honest man, the street out here is full of people,
and others are roosting on the fences, waiting to get a
14 SELECTIONS FROM AMERICAN AUTHORS.
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glimpse of you, because they think you are crazy. And
well they might, after reading your editorials. They are a
disgrace to journalism. Why, what put it into your head
that you could edit a paper of this nature ?
" You do not seem to know the first rudiments of agri-
culture. You speak of a furrow and a harrow as being the
same thing ; you talk of the moulting season for cows ;
and you recommend the domestication of the pole-cat on
account of its playfulness and its excellence as a ratter.
Your remark that clams will lie quiet if music be played
to them was superfluous — entirely superfluous. Nothing
disturbs clams. Clams atoays lie quiet. Clams care
nothing whatever about music. Ah, heavens and earth,
friend ! if you had made the acquiring of ignorance the
study of your life, you could not have graduated with
higher honour than you could to-day. I never saw any-
thing like it. Your observation that the horse-chestnut,
as an article of commerce, is steadily 'gaining in favour is
MY EDITING. 15
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simply calculated to destroy this journal. I want you to
throw up your situation and go. I want no more holiday
— I could not enjoy it ii I had it. Certainly not with you
in my chair. I would always stand in dread ot what you
might be going to recommend next. It makes me lose all
patience every time I think oi your discussing oyster-beds
under the head oi ' Landscape Gardening.' I want you to
go. Nothing on earth could persuade me to take another
holiday. Oh ! why didn't you tell me that you didn't
know anything about agriculture ? "
" Tell you, you cornstalk, you cabbage, you son oi a
cauliflower ! It is the first time I ever heard such an un-
feeling remark. I tell you I have been in the editorial
business going on fourteen years, and it is the first time
I ever heard of a man's having to know anything in order
to edit a newspaper. You turnip !
" I take my leave, sir ! Since I have been treated as
you' have treated me, I am perfectly willing to go. But I
16 SELECTIONS FROM AMERICAN AUTHORS.
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A VENERABLE IMPOSTOR.
BY BRET HARTE.
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have done my duty. I have fulfilled my contract, as far
as I was permitted to do it. I said I could make your
paper of interest to all classes, and I have. I said I could
run your circulation up to twenty thousand copies, and if
I had had two more weeks I would have done it. And I
would have given you the best class of readers that ever
an agricultural paper had — not a farmer in it, nor a solitary
individual who could tell a water-melon from a peach-vine
to save his life. You are the loser by this rupture, not I,
Pie-plant. Adios." I then left.
As I glance across my table, I am somewhat distracted
by the spectacle of a venerable head, whose crown occa-
sionally appears beyond, at about its level. The appari-
tion of a very small hand, whose fingers are bunchy, and
have the appearance of being slightly webbed, which is
frequently lifted above the table in a vain and impotent
attempt to reach the inkstand, always affects me as a
A VENERABLE IMPOSTOR.
17
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novelty at each recurrence of the phenomenon. Yet both
the venerable head and the bunchy fingers belong to an
individual with whom I am familiar, and to whom, for
certain reasons hereafter described, I choose to apply the
epithet written above this article.
His advent in the family was attended with peculiar
circumstances. He was received with some concern, the
number of retainers having been increased by one in honour
of his arrival. He appeared to be weary — his pretence was
that he had come from a long journey, — so that for days,
weeks, and even months, he did not leave his bed, except
when he was carried. But it was remarkable that his
appetite was invariably regular and healthy, and that his
meals, which he required should be brought to him, were
seldom rejected. During this time he had little conversa-
tion with the family, his knowledge of our vernacular being
limited, but occasionally spoke to himself in his own lan-
guage — a foreign tongue. The difficulties attending this
2— (105)
18 SELECTIONS FROM AMERICAN AUTHORS.
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eccentricity were obviated by the young woman who had
from the first taken him under her protection, — being,
like the rest of her sex, peculiarly open to impositions, —
and who at once disorganised her own tongue to suit his.
This was effected by the contraction of the syllables of
some words, the addition of syllables to others, and an
ingenious disregard for tenses and the governing powers of
the verb. The same singular law which impels people in
conversation with foreigners to imitate their broken Eng-
lish governed the family in their communications with him.
He received these evidences of his power with an indiffer-
ence not wholly free from scorn ! The expression of his
eye would occasionally denote that his higher nature re-
volted from them. I have no doubt myself that his wants
were frequently misinterpreted ; that the stretching forth
of his hands towards the moon and stars might have been
the performance of some religious rite peculiar to his own
country, which was in ours misconstrued into a desire for
physical nourishment. His repetition of the word " goo-
goo," — which was subject to a variety of opposite
A VENERABLE IMPOSTOR. 19
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interpretations, — when taken in conjunction with his size, in
my mind seemed to indicate his aboriginal or Aztec origin.
I incline to this belief, as it sustains the impression I have
already hinted at, that his extreme youth is a simulation
and deceit ; that he is really older and has lived before
at some remote period, and that his conduct fully justifies
his title as " A Venerable Impostor." A variety of cir-
cumstances corroborate this impression : his tottering
walk, which is a senile as well as a juvenile condition ; his
venerable head, thatched with such imperceptible hair
that, at a distance, it looks like a mild aureola ; and his
imperfect dental exhibition. But besides these physical
peculiarities may be observed certain moral symptoms,
which go to disprove his assumed youth. He is in the
habit of falling into reveries, caused, I have no doubt, by
some circumstance which suggests a comparison with his
experience in his remoter boyhood, or by some serious
retrospection of the past years. He has been detected
lying awake at times when he should have been asleep,
20
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engaged in curiously comparing the bed-clothes, walls, and
furniture with some recollection of his youth. At such
moments he has been heard to sing softly to himself frag-
ments of some unintelligible composition, which probably
still linger in his memory, as the echoes of a music he has
long outgrown. He has the habit of receiving strangers
with the familiarity of one who had met them before, and
to whom their antecedents and peculiarities were matters
of old acquaintance ; and so unerring is his judgment of
their previous character, that when he withholds his con-
fidence I am apt to withhold mine. It is somewhat re-
markable that while the maturity of his years and the
respect due to them is denied by man, his superiority and
venerable age is never questioned by the brute creation.
The dog treats him with a respect and consideration
accorded to none others, and the cat permits a familiarity
which I should shudder to attempt. It may be considered
an evidence of some Pantheistic quality in his previous
education that he seems to recognise a fellowship even in
A VENERABLE IMPOSTOR. 21
inarticulate objects ; he has been known to verbally ad-
dress plants, flowers, and fruit, and to extend his confidence
to such inanimate objects as chairs and tables. There can
be little doubt that, in the remote period of his youth,
these objects were endowed with not only sentient natures,
but moral capabilities, and he is still in the habit of beat-
ing them when they collide with him, and of pardoning
them with a kiss.
As he has grown older — rather, let me say, as we have
approximated to his years — he has, in spite of the apparent
paradox, lost much of his senile gravity. It must be
confessed that some of his actions of late appear to our
imperfect comprehension inconsistent with his extreme
age. A habit of marching up and down with a string tied
to a soda-water bottle ; a disposition to ride anything that
could, by any exercise of the liveliest fancy, be made to
assume equine proportions ; a propensity to blacken his
venerable white hair with ink and coal-dust ; and an
omnivorous appetite, which did not stop at chalk, clay,
22 SELECTIONS FROM AMERICAN AUTHORS.
or cinders ; were peculiarities not calculated to excite
respect.
In fact, he would seem to have become demoralised,
and when, after a prolonged absence the other day, he was
finally discovered standing upon the front steps addressing
a group of delighted children out of his limited vocabulary,
the circumstance could only be accounted for as the
garrulity of age.
But I lay aside my pen amidst an ominous silence and
the disappearance of the venerable head from my plane
of vision. As I step to the other side of the table, I find
that sleep has overtaken him in an overt act of hoary
wickedness. The very pages I have devoted to an exposi-
tion of his deceit he has quietly abstracted, and I find
them covered with cabalistic figures and wild-looking
hieroglyphs, traced with his forefinger dipped in ink, which
doubtless in his own language conveys a scathing commen-
tary on my composition. But he sleeps peacefully, and
THE AUTOCRAT OF THE BREAKFAST TABLE. 23
THE AUTOCRAT OF THE BREAKFAST
TABLE.
BY OLIVER WENDELL HOLMES.
there is something in his face which tells me that he has
already wandered away to that dim region of his youth
where I cannot follow him. And as there comes a strange
stirring at my heart when I contemplate the immeasurable
gulf which lies between us, and how slight and feeble as
yet is his grasp on this world and its strange realities, I
find, too late, that I also am. a willing victim of the
" Venerable Impostor."
I wonder if anybody ever finds fault with anything I say
at this table when it is repeated ? I hope they do, I am
sure. I should be very certain that I said nothing of much
significance, if they did not.
Did you never, in walking in the fields, come across a
large flat stone, which had lain, nobody knows how long,
just where you found it, with the grass forming a little
hedge, as it were, all round it, close to its edges, — and have
24
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VV-:^ ^
you not, in obedience to a kind of feeling that told you it
had been lying there long enough, insinuated your stick
or your foot or your fingers under its edge and turned it
over as a housewife turns a cake, when she says to herself,
" It's done brown enough by this time ? " What an odd
revelation, and what an unforeseen and unpleasant surprise
to a small community, the very existence of which you
had not suspected, until the sudden dismay and scattering
among its members produced by your turning the old
stone over ! Blades of grass flattened down, colourless,
matted together, as if they had been bleached and ironed ;
hideous crawling creatures, motionless, slug-like creatures,
young larvae, perhaps more horrible in their pulpy stillness
than even in the infernal wriggle of maturity ! But no
sooner is the stone turned and the wholesome light of day
let upon this compressed and blinded community of creep-
ing things, than all of them which enjoy the luxury of legs —
and some of them have a good many — rush round wildly.
THE AUTOCRAT OK THE BREAKFAST TABLE.
25
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butting each other and everything in their way, and end
in a general stampede for underground retreats from the
region poisoned by sunshine. Next year you will find the
grass growing tall and green where the stone lay ; the
ground-bird builds her nest where the beetle had his hole ;
the dandelion and the buttercup are growing there, and
the broad fans of insect angels open and shut over their
golden disks, as the rhythmic waves of blissful conscious-
ness pulsate through their glorified being.
The young fellow whom they call John saw fit to say,
in his very familiar way, — at which I do not choose to
take offence, but which I sometimes think it necessary to
repress, — that I was coming it rather strong on the
butterflies.
No, I replied ; there is meaning in each of those images,
— the butterfly as well as the others. The stone is ancient
error. The grass is human nature borne down and
bleached of all its colour by it. The shapes which are
seen beneath are the crafty beings that thrive in darkness,
and the weaker organisms kept helpless by it. He who
26
SELECTIONS FROM AMERICAN AUTHORS.
turns the stone over is whosoever puts the staff of truth
to the old lying incubus, no matter whether he do it with
a serious face or a laughing one. The next year stands for
the coming time. Then shall the nature which had lain
blanched and broken rise in its full stature and native hues
in the sunshine. Then shall God's minstrels build their
nests in the hearts of a new-born humanity. Then shall
beauty — Divinity taking outlines and colour — light upon
the souls of men as the butterfly, image of the beatified
spirit rising from the dust, soars from the shell that held
a poor grub, which would never have found wings, had
not the stone been lifted.
You never need think you can turn over any old false-
hood without a terrible squirming and scattering of the
horrid little population that dwells under it.
Every real thought on every real subject knocks the
wind out of somebody or other. As soon as his breath
comes back, he very probably begins to expend it in hard
THE AUTOCRAT OF THE BREAKFAST TABLE. 27
words. These are the best evidence a man can have that
he has said something it was time to say. Dr. Johnson
was disappointed in the effect of one of his pamphlets.
" I think I have not been attacked enough for it," he said ;
— " attack is the reaction ; I never think I have hit hard
unless it rebounds."
If a fellow attacked my opinions in print, would I reply ?
Not I. Do you think I don't understand what my friend
the Professor long ago called the hydrostatic paradox of
controversy ?
Don't know what that means ? Well, I will tell you.
You know that, if you had a bent tube, one arm of which
was the size of a pipe-stem, and the other big enough
to hold the ocean, water would stand at the same height
in one as in the other. Controversy equalizes fools and
wise men in the same way — and the fools know it.
THE WAY TO WEALTH.
BY BENJAMIN FRANKLIN.
v
Courteous reader, I have heard that nothing gives an
author so great pleasure as to find his works respectfully
quoted by others. Judge, then, how much I must have
been gratified by an incident I am going to relate to you.
I stopped my horse lately where a great number of people
were collected at an auction of merchants' goods. The
hour of the sale not being come, they were conversing on
the badness of the times ; and one of the company called
to a plain, clean, old man, with white locks, " Pray,
Father Abraham, what think you of the times ? Will not
these heavy taxes quite ruin the country ? How shall we
ever be able to pay them ? What would you advise us
to ? " Father Abraham stood up and replied, " If you
would have my advice, I will give it you in short ; for
' A word to the wise is enough,' as Poor Richard says."
They joined in desiring him to speak his mind, and
gathering round him, he proceeded as follows.
" Friends," said he, " the taxes are indeed very heavy,
and, if those laid on by the government were the only
28
THE WAY TO WEALTH. 29
ones we had to pay, we might more easily discharge them ;
but we have many others, and much more grievous to some
of us. We are taxed twice as much by our idleness, three
times as much by our pride, and four times as much by
our folly ; and from these taxes the commissioners cannot
ease or deliver us, by allowing an abatement. However,
let us hearken to good advice, and something may be done
for us ; ' God helps them that help themselves/ as Poor
Richard says.
" I. It would be thought a hard government that should
tax its people one-tenth part of their time, to be employed
in its service ; but idleness taxes many of us much more ;
sloth, by bringing on diseases, absolutely shortens life.
' Sloth like rust, consumes faster than labour wears ; while
the used key is always bright,' as Poor Richard says. ' But
dost thou love life, then do not squander time, for that is
the stuff life is made of, ' as Poor Richard says. How much
more than is necessary do we spend in sleep, forgetting
30 SELECTIONS FROM AMERICAN AUTHORS.
that ' The sleeping fox catches no poultry, ' and that ' There
will be sleeping enough in the grave/ as Poor Richard says.
" ' If time be of all things the most precious, wasting
time must be,' as Poor Richard says, ' the greatest prodi-
gality ; ' since, as he elsewhere tells us, ' Lost time is never
found again ; and what we call time enough, always proves
little enough.' Let us then up and be doing, and doing to
the purpose ; so by diligence shall we do more with less
perplexity. ' Sloth makes all things difficult, but industry
all easy ; ' and ' He that riseth late must trot all day, and
shall scarce overtake his business at night ; ' while ' Lazi-
ness travels so slowly, that Poverty soon overtakes him.
Drive thy business, let not that drive thee ; ' and ' Early
to bed, and early to rise, makes a man healthy, wealthy,
and wise,' as Poor Richard says.
THE WAY TO WEALTH. 31
i ' S\ Q V
./ ---- <5 \. V V|
" So what signifies wishing and hoping for better times ?
We may make these times better if we bestir ourselves.
' Industry need not wish, and he that lives upon hopes will
die fasting. There are no gains without pains ; then help,
hands, for I have no lands ; ' or, if I have, they are smartly
taxed. ' He that hath a trade hath an estate ; and he
that hath a calling hath an office of profit and honour,' as
Poor Richard says ; but then the trade must be worked
at and the calling followed, or neither the estate nor the
office will enable us to pay our taxes. If we are industrious
we shall never starve ; for ' At the working-man's house
hunger looks in, but dare not enter.' Nor will the bailiff
or the constable enter, for ' Industry pays debts, while
despair increaseth them.' What though you have found
no treasure, nor has any rich relation left you a legacy,
' Diligence is the mother of good luck, and God gives all
things to industry. Then plough deep while sluggards
sleep, and you shall have corn to sell and to keep. ' Work
32 SELECTIONS FROM AMERICAN AUTHORS.
while it is called to-day, for you know not how much you
may be hindered to-morrow. ' One to-day is worth two
to-morrows,' as Poor Richard says ; and further, ' Never
leave that till to-morrow which you can do to-day.' If
you were a servant, would you not be ashamed that a good
master should catch you idle ? Are you then your own
master ? Be ashamed to catch yourself idle, when there
is so much to be done for yourself, your family, your
country, and your king. Handle your tools without mit-
tens ; remember that ' The cat in gloves catches no mice,'
as Poor Richard says. It is true there is much to be done,
and perhaps you are weak-handed ; but stick to it steadily
and you will see great effects ; for ' Constant dropping wears
away stones ; ' and ' By diligence and patience the mouse
ate in two the cable ; ' and ' Little strokes fell great oaks.'
" Methinks I hear some of you say, ' Must a man afford
himself no leisure ? ' I will tell thee, my friend, what Poor
Richard says : ' Employ thy time well, if thou meanest
THE WAY TO WEALTH. 33
.....N...^- Y, j \_
to gain leisure ; and, since thou art not sure of a minute,
throw not away an hour. ' Leisure is time for doing some-
thing useful ; this leisure the diligent man will obtain, but
the lazy man never ; for ' A life of leisure and a life of
laziness are two things. Many, without labour, would live
by their wits only, but they break for want of stock ; '
whereas industry gives comfort, and plenty and respect.
' Fly pleasures, and they will follow you. The diligent
spinner has a large shift ; and now I have a sheep and a
cow, everybody bids me good morrow.'
" II. But with our industry we must likewise be steady,
settled, and careful, and oversee our own affairs, with our
own eyes, and not trust too much to others ; for, as Poor
Richard says, " ' I never saw an oft-removed tree,
Nor yet an oft-removed family,
That throve so well as those that settled be. '
3— (105)
34
SELECTIONS FROM AMERICAN AUTHORS.
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And again, ' Three removes are as bad as a fire ; ' and
again, ' Keep thy shop, and thy shop will keep thee ; ' and
again, ' If you would have your business done, go ; if not,
send.' And again,
" ' He that by the plough would thrive,
Himself must either hold or drive.'
And again, ' the eye of a master will do more work than
both his hands ; ' and again, ' Want of care does us more
damage than want of knowledge ; ' and again, ' Not to
oversee workmen is to leave them your purse open.'
Trusting too much to others' care is the ruin of many ;
for ' In the affairs of this world men are saved, not by
faith, but by the want of it ; ' but a man's own care is
profitable ; for, ' If you would have a faithful servant,
and one that you like, serve yourself. A little neglect may
breed great mischief ; for want of a nail the shoe was lost ;
for want of a shoe the horse was lost ; and for want of a
horse the rider was lost, being overtaken and slain by the
THE WAY TO WEALTH. 35
enemy ; all for want of a little care about a horse-shoe
nail.'
" III. So much for industry, my friends, and attention
to one's own business ; but to these we must add frugality,
if we would make our industry more certainly successful.
A man may, if he knows not how to save as he gets, keep
his nose all his life to the grindstone and die not worth a
groat at last. ' A fat kitchen makes a lean will ; ' and
" ' Many estates are spent in the getting,
Since women for tea forsook spinning and knitting,
And men for punch forsook hewing and splitting.'
' If you would be wealthy, think of saving as well as of
getting. The Indies have not made Spain rich, because
her outgoes are greater than her incomes.
" Away then with your expensive follies, and you will
not then have so much cause to complain of hard times,
36 SELECTIONS FROM AMERICAN AUTHORS.
heavy taxes, and chargeable families ; for
' Women and wine, game and deceit,
Make the wealth small and the want great.'
And further, ' What maintains one vice would bring up two
children.' You may think, perhaps, that a little tea, or a
little punch now and then, diet a little more costly, clothes
a little finer, and a little entertainment now and then, can
be no great matter ; but remember, ' Many a little makes
a mickle.' Beware of little expenses ; ' A small leak will
sink a great ship,' as Poor Richard says ; and again, ' Who
dainties love, shall beggars prove ; ' and moreover, ' Fools
make feasts, and wise men eat them.'
" Here you are all got together at this sale of fineries
and knick-knacks. You call them goods ; but, if you do
not take care, they will prove evils to some of you. You
expect they will be sold cheap, and perhaps they may for
less than they cost ; but if you have no occasion for them,
THE WAY TO WEALTH. 37
U
,. \ .'..
3: '>...'.. < -..".. ^r..
'V V ~..,..; TV V?
Y
they must be dear to you. Remember what Poor Richard
says : ' Buy what thou hast no need of, and ere long thou
shalt sell thy necessaries.' And again, ' At a great penny-
worth pause a while. ' He means, that perhaps the cheapness
is apparent only and not real ; or the bargain, by straiten-
ing thee in thy business, may do thee more harm than good.
For in another place he says, ' Many have been ruined by
buying good pennyworths.' Again, ' it is foolish to lay out
money in a purchase of repentance ; ' and yet this folly is
practised every day at auctions, for want of minding the
A Imanac. Many a one, for the sake of finery on the back,
have gone with a hungry belly and half-starved their
families. ' Silks and satins, scarlet and velvets, put out
the kitchen fire,' as Poor Richard says.
" These are not the necessaries of life ; they can scarcely
be called the conveniences ; and yet, only because they
look pretty, how many want to have them ! By these, and
449529
38 SELECTIONS FROM AMERICAN AUTHORS.
N \/ . L < w;
") fe; ^>
other extravagances, the genteel are reduced to poverty,
and forced to borrow of those whom they formerly despised,
but who, through industry and frugality, have maintained
their standing ; in which case it appears plainly, that ' A
ploughman on his legs is higher than a gentleman on his
knees,' as Poor Richard says. Perhaps they have had a
small estate left them, which they knew not the getting of ;
they think, ' It is day and will never be night ; ' that a
little to be spent out of so much is not worth minding ;
but ' Always taking out of the meal-tub and never putting
in, soon comes to the bottom/ as Poor Richard says ; and
then, ' When the well is dry, they know the worth of
water.' But this they might have known before, if they
had taken his advice. ' If you would know the value of
money, go and try to borrow some ; for he that goes a
borrowing goes a sorrowing,' as Poor Richard says ; and
indeed so does he that lends to such people, when he goes
to get it in again. Poor Dick further advises, and says,
THE WAY TO WEALTH. 39
* V- * '..*-:. *> «H»;
" ' Fond pride of dress is sure a very curse ;
Ere fancy you consult, consult your purse.'
And again, ' Pride is as loud a beggar as Want, and a great
deal more saucy. ' When you have bought one fine thing,
you must buy ten more, that your appearance may be all
of a piece ; but Poor Dick says, ' It is easier to suppress
the first desire, than to satisfy all that follow it.' And it
is as truly folly for the poor to ape the rich, as for the frog
to swell in order to equal the ox.
" ' Vessels large may venture more,
But little boats should keep near shore.'
It is, however, a folly soon punished ; for as Poor Richard
says, ' Pride that dines on vanity, sups on contempt.
Pride breakfasted with Plenty, dined with Poverty, and
supped with Infamy.' And, after all, of what use is this
pride of appearance, for which so much is risked, so much
is suffered ? It cannot promote health nor ease pain ; it
40
SELECTIONS FROM AMERICAN AUTHORS.
makes no increase of merit in the person ; it creates envy ;
it hastens misfortune.
" But what madness must it be to run in debt for these
superfluities ? We are offered, by the terms of this sale,
six months' credit ; and that, perhaps, has induced some
of us to attend it, because we cannot spare the ready money,
and hope now to be fine without it. But, ah ! think what
you do when you run in debt ; you give to another power
over your liberty. If you cannot pay at the time, you
will be ashamed to see your creditor ; you will be in fear
when you speak to him ; you will make poor, pitiful,
sneaking excuses, and, by degrees, come to lose your
veracity, and sink into base, downright lying ; for ' The
second vice is lying, the first is running in debt," as Poor
Richard says ; and again, to the same purpose, ' Lying
rides upon Debt's back ; ' whereas a free-born Englishman
ought not to be ashamed nor afraid to see or speak to any
man living. But poverty often deprives a man of all spirit
THE WAY TO WEALTH.
41
•>
and virtue. ' It is hard for an empty bag to stand upright.'
" What would you think of that prince, or of that
government, who should issue an edict forbidding you to
dress like a gentleman or gentlewoman, on pain of imprison-
ment or servitude ? Would you not say that you were
free, have a right to dress as you please, and that such an
edict would be a breach of your privileges, and such a
government tyrannical ? And yet you are about to put
yourself under such tyranny, when you run in debt for such
dress ! Your creditor has authority, at his pleasure, to
deprive you of your liberty, by confining you in jail till
you shall be able to pay him. When you have got your
bargain, you may, perhaps, think little of payment ; but,
as Poor Richard says, ' creditors have better memories
than debtors ; creditors are a superstitious sect, great
observers of set days and times.' The day comes round
before you are aware, and the demand is made before you
are prepared to satisfy it ; or, if you bear your debt in
42 SELECTIONS FROM AMERICAN AUTHORS.
I .
mind, the term, which at first seemed so long, will, as it
lessens, appear extremely short. Time will seem to have
added wings to his heels as well as his shoulders. ' Those
have a short Lent who owe money to be paid at Easter.'
At present, perhaps, you may think yourselves in thriving
circumstances, and that you can bear a little extravagance,
without injury ; but
" ' For age and want save while you may ;
No morning sun lasts the whole day."
Gain may be temporary and uncertain, but ever while you
live, expense is constant and certain ; and ' It is easier to
build two chimneys than to keep one in fuel,' as Poor
Richard says ; so ' Rather go to bed supperless, than rise
in debt.'
" ' Get what you can, and what you get hold ;
'Tis the stone that will turn all your lead into gold. '
THE WAY TO WEALTH. 43
"IV. C I, ^, o..r.
And, when you have got the Philosopher's Stone, sure you
will no longer complain of bad times or the difficulty of
paying taxes.
"IV. This doctrine, my friends, is reason and wisdom ;
but, after all, do not depend too much upon your own
industry, and frugality, and prudence, though excellent
things : for they may all be blasted, without the blessing
of Heaven ; and, therefore, ask that blessing humbly, and
be not uncharitable to those that at present seem to want
it, but comfort and help them. Remember, Job suffered
and was afterwards prosperous.
" And now, to conclude, ' Experience keeps a dear
school, but fools will learn in no other,' as Poor Richard
says, and scarce in that ; for, it is true, ' We may give
advice, but we cinnot give conduct.' However, remember
this, ' They that will not be counselled, cannot be helped ;
and further, that, ' If you will not hear Reason, she will
surely rap your knuckles/ as Poor Richard says."
SELECTIONS FROM AMERICAN AUTHORS.
Thus the old gentleman ended his harangue. The people
heard it and approved the doctrine ; and immediately
practised the contrary, just as if it had been a common
sermon ; for the auction opened and they began to buy
extravagantly. I found the good man had thoroughly
studied my almanacks, and digested all I had dropped on
these topics during the course of twenty-five years. The
frequent mention he made of me must have tired anyone
else ; but my vanity was wonderfully delighted with it,
though I was conscious that not a tenth part of the wisdom
was my own, which he had ascribed to me, but rather the
gleanings that I had made of the sense of all ages and
nations. However, I resolved to be the better for the echo
of it ; and, though I had at first determined to buy stuff
for a new coat, I went away resolved to wear my old one a
little longer. Reader, if thou wilt do the same, thy profit
will be as great as mine. I am, as ever, thine to serve
thee, — RICHARD SAUNDERS.
THE TELL-TALE HEART.
BY EDGAR ALLAN POE.
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True ! nervous, very, very, dreadfully nervous I have
been and am ; but why will you say that I am mad ?
The disease had sharpened my senses, not destroyed, not
dulled them. Above all, was the sense of hearing acute.
I heard all things in the Heaven and in the earth. I heard
many things in hell. How, then, am I mad ? Hearken !
and observe how healthily, how calmly I can tell you the
whole story.
It is impossible to say how first the idea entered my
brain, but, once conceived, it haunted me day and night.
Object there was none. Passion there was none. I loved
the old man. He had never wronged me. He had never
given me insult. For his gold I had no desire. I think it
was his eye ! Yes, it was this ! One of his eyes resembled
that of a vulture — a pale, blue eye with a film over it.
Whenever it fell upon me my blood ran cold, and so by
45
46 SELECTIONS FROM AMERICAN AUTHORS.
degrees, very gradually, I made up my mind to take the
life of the old man, and thus rid myself of the eye for ever.
Now, this is the point. You fancy me mad. Madmen
know nothing. But you should have seen me. You
should have seen how wisely I proceeded — with what cau-
tion— with what foresight — with what dissimulation, I
went to work ! I was never kinder to the old man than
during the whole week before I killed him. And every
night, about midnight, I turned the latch of his door, and
opened it — oh, so gently ! And then, when I had made an
opening sufficient for my head, I put in a dark lantern all
closed, — closed so that no light shone out ; and then I
thrust in my head. Oh, you would have laughed to see
how cunningly I thrust it in ! I moved it slowly, very,
very slowly, so that I might not disturb the old man's
sleep. It took me an hour to place my whole head within
the opening so far that I could see him as he lay upon his
bed. Ha ! would a madman have been so wise as this ?
THE TELL-TALE HEART. 47
, V I PS / ^o .C?, I 0..^..%
And then when my head was well in the room, I undid the
lantern cautiously — oh, so cautiously — cautiously (for the
hinges creaked) ! I undid it just so much that a single
thin ray fell upon the vulture eye. And this I did for
seven long nights, every night just at midnight ; but I
found the eye always closed, and so it was impossible to do
the work, for it was not the old man who vexed me, but
his evil eye. And every morning, when the day broke, I
went boldly into the chamber and spoke courageously to
him, calling him by name in a hearty tone, and inquiring
how he had passed the night. So you see he would have
been a very profound old man, indeed, to suspect that every
night, just at twelve, I looked in upon him while he slept.
Upon the eighth night I was more than usually cautious
in opening the door. A watch's minute-hand moves more
quickly than did mine. Never before that night had I felt
the extent of my own powers, of my sagacity. I could
scarcely contain my feelings of triumph. To think that
48 SELECTIONS FROM AMERICAN AUTHORS.
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there I was opening the door little by little, and he not
even to dream of my secret deeds or thoughts. I fairly
chuckled at the idea ; and perhaps he heard me, for he
moved on the bed suddenly as if startled. Now you may
think that I drew back — but no. His room was as black
as pitch with the thick darkness (for the shutters were close
fastened through fear of robbers), and so I knew that he
could not see the opening of the door, and I kept pushing
it on steadily, steadily.
I had my head in, and was about to open the lantern,
when my thumb slipped upon the tin fastening, and the
old man sprang up in the bed, crying out, " Who's there ? "
I kept quite still and said nothing. For a whole hour I
did not move a muscle, and in the meantime I did not hear
him lie down. He was still sitting up in bed, listening ;
just as I have done night after night, hearkening to the
dead watches in the wall.
THE TELL-TALE HEART. 49
Presently I heard a slight groan, and I knew it was the
groan of mortal terror. It was not a groan of pain or of
grief — oh no ! It was the low, stifled sound that arises
from the bottom of the soul when overcharged with awe.
I knew the sound well. Many a night, just at midnight,
when all the world slept, it has welled up from my own
bosom, deepening, with its dreadful echo, the terrors that
distracted me. I say I knew it well. I knew what the
old man felt, and pitied him, although I chuckled at heart.
I knew that he had been lying awake ever since the first
slight noise when he had turned in the bed.
His fears had been ever since growing upon him. He
had been trying to fancy them causeless, but could not.
He had been saying to himself, " It is nothing but the
wind in the chimney, it is only a mouse crossing the
floor ; " or, " It is merely a cricket which has made a single
chirp." Yes, he had been trying to comfort himself with
these suppositions ; but he had found all in vain. All in
vain, because Death, in approaching him, had stalked with
4— <i°5)
50 SELECTIONS FROM AMERICAN AUTHORS.
•-:• r A- ---. -a.- ^ V-*
his black shadow before him, and enveloped the victim.
And it was the mournful influence of the unperceived
shadow that caused him to feel, although he neither saw
nor heard, to feel the presence of my head within the room.
When I had waited a long time, very patiently, without
hearing him lie down, I resolved to open a little — a very,
very little — crevice in the lantern. So I opened it — you
cannot imagine how stealthily, stealthily — until at length
a single dim ray, like the thread of the spider, shot out
from the crevice and fell upon the vulture eye.
It was open, wide, wide open, and I grew furious as I
gazed upon it. I saw with perfect distinctness — all a dull
blue, with a hideous veil over it that chilled the very mar-
row in my bones ; but I could see nothing else of the old
man's face or person, for I had directed the ray as if by
instinct precisely upon the damned spot.
THE TELL-TALE HEART. 51
And now have I not told you that what makes you mis-
take for madness is but over-acuteness of the senses ?
Now, I say, there came to my ears a low, dull, quick sound,
such as a watch makes when enveloped in cotton. I knew
that sound well, too. It was the beating of the old man's
heart. It increased my fury, as the beating of a drum
stimulates the soldier into courage.
But even yet I refrained, and kept still. I scarcely
breathed. I held the lantern motionless. I tried how
steadily I could maintain the ray upon the eye. Meantime
the hellish tattoo of the heart increased. It grew quicker
and quicker, and louder and louder every instant. The old
man's terror must have been extreme \ It grew louder, I
say, louder every moment I — do you mark me well ? I
have told you that I am nervous ; so I am. And now, at
the dread hour of the night, amid the dreadful silence of
that old house, so strange a noise as this excited me to
uncontrollable terror. Yet, for some minutes longer I
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refrained and stood still. But the beating grew louder,
louder. I thought the heart must burst. And now a new
anxiety seized me — the sound would be heard by a neigh-
bour ! The old man's hour had come ! With a loud yell
I threw open the lantern and leaped into the room. He
shrieked once — once only. In an instant I dragged him to
the floor, and pulled the heavy bed over him. I then
smiled gaily, to find the deed so far done. But for many
minutes the heart beat on with a muffled sound. This,
however, did not vex me ; it would not be heard through
the wall. At length it ceased. The old man was dead.
I removed the bed and examined the corpse. Yes, he was
stone, stone dead. I placed my hand upon the heart and
held it there many minutes. There was no pulsation. He
was stone dead. His eye would trouble me no more.
If still you think me mad, you will think me so no longer
when I describe the wise precautions I took for the con-
cealment of the body. The night waned, and I worked
hastily, but in silence.
THE TELL-TALE HEART. 53
°^x XX x-\v )
I tf<ok ii[) tlirce planks from the flooring of the chamber,
and deposited all between the scantlings. I then replaced
the boards so cleverly, so cunningly, that no human eye
not even /m— could have detected anything wrong. There
was nothing to wash out — no stain of any kind — no blood-
spot whatever. I had been too wary for that.
When I had made an end of these labours it was four
o'clock — still dark as midnight. As the bell sounded the
hour, there came a knocking at the street door. I went
down to open it with a light heart — for what had I now
to fear ? There entered three men, who introduced them-
selves, with perfect suavity, as officers of the police. A
shriek had been heart! by a neighbour during the night ;
suspicion of foul play had been aroused ; information had
been lodged at the police-court, and they (the officers) had
been deputed to search the premises.
54
SELECTIONS FROM AMERICAN AUTHORS.
I smiled, — for zt7/a/ had I to fear ? I bade the gentlemen
welcome. The shriek, I said, was my own in a dream.
The old man, I mentioned, was absent in the country. I
took my visitors all over the house. I bade them search
— search well. I led them, at length, to his chamber, I
showed them his treasures, secure, undisturbed. In the
enthusiasm of my confidence, I brought chairs into the
room, and desired them here to rest from their fatigues,
while I myself, in the wild audacity of my perfect triumph,
placed my own seat upon the very spot beneath which
reposed the corpse of the victim.
The officials were satisfied. My manner had convinced
them. I was singularly at ease. They sat, and while I
answered cheerily, they chatted of familiar things. But
ere long, I felt myself getting pale and wished them gone
My head ached, and I fancied a ringing in my ears ; but
still they sat, and still chatted. The ringing became more
THE TELL-TALE HEART. 55
,_ 0 ' o • i
v ~\' - \- v H ^ ' / * \*s*
••• • - ^ -Gr» ' — '
distinct ; — it continued and became more distinct. I
talked more freely to get rid of the feeling ; but it con-
tinued and gained definiteness — until, at length, I found
that the noise was not within my ears.
No doubt I now grew very pale ; — but I talked more
fluently, and with a heightened voice. Yet the sound in-
creased— and what could I do ? It wets a loiv, dull, quick
sound — much such a sound as a watch makes when enveloped
in cotton. I gasped for breath — and yet the officials heard
it not. I talked more quickly — more vehemently ; but
the noise steadily increased. I arose and argued about
trifles, in a high key, and with violent gesticulations ; but
the noise steadily increased. Why would they not be-
gone ? I paced the floor to and fro with heavy strides,
as if excited to fury by the observations of the men — but
the noise steadily increased. O God ! What could I do ?
I foamed — I raved — I swore ! I swung the chair upon
which I had been sitting, and grated it upon the boards ;
56 SELECTIONS FROM AMERICAN AUTHORS.
GREATNESS IN COMMON LIFE.
BY W. E. CHANNING.
but the noise arose over all and continually increased. It
grew louder — louder — louder ! And still the men chatted
pleasantly, and smiled. Was it possible they heard not ?
Almighty God ! — no, no ! They heard — they suspected
— they knew ! — they were making a mockery of my horror !
—this I thought, and this I think. But anything was
better than this agony ! Anything was more tolerable
than this derision. I could bear those hypocritical smiles
no longer ! I felt that I must scream or die ! — And now
— again ! — hark ! louder ! louder ! louder ! louder '
" Villains ! " I shrieked, " dissemble no more ! I admit
the deed ! — tear up the planks ! — here, here ! — it is the
beating of his hideous heart ! "
My strong interest in the mass of the people is founded,
not on their usefulness to the community, so much as on
what they are in themselves. Their condition is indeed
obscure ; but their importance is not on this account a
GREATNESS IN COMMON LIFE.
\vliit the less. The multitude of men cannot, from the
nature of the case, be distinguished ; for the very idea of
distinction is — that a man stands out from the multitude.
They make little noise and draw little notice in their nar-
row spheres of action ; but still they have their full pro-
portion of personal worth and even of greatness. Indeed,
every man in every condition is great. It is only our own
diseased sight which makes him little. A man is great as
a man, be he where or what he may. The grandeur of his
nature turns to insignificance all outward distinctions.
His powers of intellect, of conscience, of love, of knowing
God, of perceiving the beautiful, of acting on his own mind,
on outward nature, and on his fellow-creatures, — these are
glorious prerogatives. Through the vulgar error of under-
valuing what is common, we are apt indeed to pass these
by as of little worth. But, as in the outward creation, so
in the soul, the common is the most precious. Science and
art may invent splendid modes of illuminating the apart-
ments of the opulent ; but these are all poor and worthless
58 SELECTIONS FROM AMERICAN AUTHORS.
compared with the common light which the sun sends into
all our windows, which he pours freely, impartially over
hill and valley, which kindles daily the eastern and western
sky ; and so the common lights of reason, and conscience,
and love, are of more worth and dignity than the fare
endowments which give celebrity to a few. Let us not
disparage that nature which is common to all men ; for no
thought can measure its grandeur. It is the image of God,
the image even of His infinity, for no limits can be set to
its unfolding. He who possesses the divine powers of the
soul is a great being, be his place what it may. You may
clothe him with rags, may immure him in a dungeon, may
chain him to slavish tasks. But he is still great. You
may shut him out of your houses ; but God opens to him
heavenly mansions. He makes no show indeed in the
streets of a splendid city ; but a clear thought, a pure
affection, a resolute act of a virtuous will, have a dignity
quite of another kind, and far higher than accumulations
GREATNESS IN COMMON LIFE. 59
of brick and granite and plaster and stucco, however cun-
ningly put together, or though stretching far beyond our
sight.
Nor is this all. If we pass over this grandeur of our
common nature, and turn our thoughts to that compara-
tive greatness, which draws chief attention, and which
consists in the decided superiority of the individual to the
general standard of power and character, we shall find
this as free and frequent a growth among the obscure and
unnoticed as in more conspicuous walks of life. The truly
great are to be found everywhere, nor is it easy to say in
what condition they spring up most plentifully. Real
greatness has nothing to do with a man's sphere. It does
not lie in the magnitude of his outward agency, in the
extent of the effects which he produces. The greatest men
may do comparatively little abroad. Perhaps the greatest
in our city at this moment are buried in obscurity. Gran-
deur of character lies wholly in force of soul, that is, in the
force of thought, moral principle, and love, and this may
60 SELECTIONS FROM AMERICAN AUTHORS.
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be found in the humblest condition of life. A man brought
up to an obscure trade, and hemmed in by the wants of a
growing family, may, in his narrow sphere, perceive more
clearly, discriminate more keenly, weigh evidence more
wisely, seize on the right means more decisively, and have
more presence of mind in difficulty, than another who has
accumulated vast stores of knowledge by laborious study ;
and he has more of intellectual greatness. Many a man
who has gone but a few miles from home, understands
human nature better, detects motives, and weighs char-
acter more sagaciously, than another who has travelled
over the known world, and made a name b}' his reports of
different countries. It is force of thought which measures
intellectual, and so it is force of principle which measures
moral greatness, that highest of human endowments, that
brightest manifestation of the Divinity. The greatest man
is he who chooses the right with invincible resolution, who
resists the sorest temptations from within and without,
GREATNESS IN COMMON LIFE.
61
who bears the heaviest burden cheerfully, who is calmest
in storms, and most fearless under menace and frowns,
whose reliance on truth, on virtue, on God, is most unfalter-
ing ; and is this a greatness which is apt to make a show,
or which is likely to abound in conspicuous station 1 The
solemn conflicts of reason with passion ; the victories of
moral and religious principle over urgent and almost irre-
sistible solicitations to self-indulgence ; the hardest sacri-
fices of duty, those of deep-seated affection and of the
heart's fondest hopes ; the consolations, hopes, joy and
peace of disappointed, persecuted, scorned, deserted vir-
tue ; — these are of course unseen ; so that the true great-
ness of human life is almost wholly out of sight. Perhaps
in our presence the most heroic deed on earth is done in
some silent spirit, the loftiest purpose cherished, the most
generous sacrifice made, and we do not suspect it. I be-
lieve this greatness to be most common among the multi-
tude, whose names are never heard. Among common
people will be found more of hardship borne manfully,
more of unvarnished truth, more of religious trust, more
62 SELECTIONS FROM AMERICAN AUTHORS.
.V..., .' ^-S>, A... e- ~f', '-,
of that generosity which gives what the giver needs himself,
and more of a wise estimate of life and death, than among
the more prosperous.
And evren in regard to influence over other beings which
is thought the peculiar prerogative of distinguished station,
I believe that the difference between the conspicuous and
the obscure does not amount to much. Influence is to be
measured, not by the extent of surface it covers, but by its
kind. A man may spread his mind, his feelings, and
opinions, through a great extent ; but, if his mind be a
low one, he manifests no greatness. A wretched artist
may fill a city with daubs, and by a false showy style
achieve a reputation ; but the man of genius, who leaves
behind him one grand picture in which immortal beauty
is embodied, and which is silently to spread a true taste
in his art, exerts an incomparably higher influence. Now
the noblest influence on earth is that exerted on character ;
and he who puts forth this does a great work, no matter
GREATNESS IN COMMON LIFE.
63
how narrow or obscure his sphere. The father and mother
of an unnoticed family, who, in their seclusion, awaken
the mind of one child to the idea and love of perfect good-
ness, who awaken in him a strength of will to repel all
temptation, and who send him out prepared to profit by
the conflicts of life, surpass in influence a Napoleon break-
ing the world to his sway. And not only is their work
higher in kind ; who knows but that they are doing a
greater work even as to extent of surface than the con-
queror ? Who knows but that the being whom they
inspire with holy and disinterested principles may com-
municate himself to others ; and that, by a spreading
agency of which they were the silent origin, improvements
may spread through a nation, through the world ? Tn
these remarks you will see why I feel and express a deep
interest in the obscure in the mass of men. The distinc-
tions of society vanish before the light of these truths. I
attach myself to the multitude, not because they are voters
and have political power ; but because they are men, and
have within their reach the most glorious prizes of humanity.
THE STORY OF A DRUM,
" About four years ago," began the Doctor, " I attended
a course of lectures in a certain city. One of the professors
invited me to his house on Christmas night. I was very
glad to go, as I was anxious to see one of his sons, who,
though only twelve years old, was said to be very clever.
There was a pleasant party that night. All the children
of the neighbourhood were there, and among them the
Professor's clever son, Rupert, as they called him, — a thin
little chap, tall for his age, fair and delicate. His health
was feeble, his father said ; he seldom ran about and
played with other boys, preferring to stay at home and
brood over his books, and compose what he called his
verses.
" Well, we had a Christmas-tree, and we had been laugh-
ing and talking, calling off the names of the children who
had presents on the tree, and everybody was very happy
64
THE STORY OF A DRUM. 65
and joyous, when one of the children suddenly said, ' Here's
something for Rupert ; and what do you think it is ? '
" We all guessed : — ' A desk ; ' ' A copy of Milton ; '
' A gold pen ; ' 'A rhyming dictionary. ' ' No ? what then ? '
' ' A drum ! '
" Sure enough there it was. A good-sized, bright, new,
brass-bound drum, with a slip of paper on it, with the
inscription, ' FOR RUPERT.'
" Of course we all laughed, and thought it a good joke.
' You see you're to make a noise in the world, Rupert ! '
said one. ' Here's parchment for the poet,' said another.
' Rupert's last work in sheepskin covers,' said a third.
' Give us a classical tune, Rupert,' said a fourth ; and so
on. But Rupert seemed too mortified to speak ; he
changed colour, bit his lips, and finally burst into a pas-
sionate fit of crying, and left the room. Then those who
had joked him felt ashamed, and everybody began to ask
5— (105)
66 SELECTIONS FROM AMERICAN AUTHORS.
who had put the drum there. But no one knew. Rupert
did not come downstairs again that night, and the party
soon after broke up.
" I had almost forgotten those things, for the war of the
Rebellion broke out the next spring, and I was appointed
surgeon in one of the new regiments, and was on my way
to the seat of war. But I had to pass through the city
where the Professor lived, and there I met him. My first
question was about Rupert. The Professor shook his head
sadly. ' He's not so well,' he said ; ' he has been declining
since last Christmas, when you saw him. A very strange
case, but go and see him yourself ; it may distract his
mind and do him good.'
" I went accordingly to the Professor's house, and found
Rupert lying on a sofa, propped up with pillows. Around
him were scattered his books, and, what seemed in singular
contrast, that drum was hanging on a nail, just above his
head. His face was thin and wasted ; there was a red
THE STORY OF A DRUM. 67
spot on either cheek, and his eyes were very bright and
widely opened. He was glad to see me, and when I told
him where I was going, he asked a thousand questions
about the war. I thought I had thoroughly diverted his
mind from its sick and languid fancies, when he suddenly
grasped my hand and drew me towards him.
' Doctor,' said he, in a low whisper, ' you won't laugh
at me if I tell you something ? '
' No, certainly not,' I said.
' You remember that drum ? ' he said, pointing to the
glittering toy that hung against the wall. ' You know,
too, how it came to me. A few weeks after Christmas, I
was lying half asleep here, and the drum was hanging on
the wall, when suddenly I heard it beaten ; at first, low
and slowly, then faster and louder, until its rolling filled
the house. In the middle of the night, I heard it again.
I did not dare to tell anybody about it, but I have heard
it every night ever since. Sometimes it is played softly,
68 SELECTIONS FROM AMERICAN AUTHORS.
sometimes loudl}', but always quickening to a long roll,
so loud and alarming that I have looked to see people
coming into my room to ask what was the matter. But
I think, Doctor, that no one hears it but myself.'
" I thought so, too, but I asked him if he had heard it
at any other times.
" ' Once or twice in the daytime,' he replied, ' when I
have been reading or writing ; then very loudly, as though
it were angry, and tried in that way to attract my attention
from my books.
" I looked into his face, and placed my hand upon his
pulse. His eyes were very bright, and his pulse a little
flurried and quick. I then tried to explain to him that
he was very weak, and that his senses were very acute, as
most weak people's are ; and how that when he read, or
grew interested and excited, or when he was tired at night,
the throbbing of a big artery made the beating sound he
THE STORY OF A DRUM.
69
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\\C-A.\^L. He listened to me with a sad smile of unbelief,
but thanked me, and in a little while I went away.
" I left the city that very day, and in the excitement of
battlefields and hospitals, I forgot all about little Rupert.
" Not long after we had a terrible battle, in which a
portion of our army was surprised and driven back with
great slaughter. Entering the barn that served for a
temporary hospital, I went at once to work.
" I turned to a tall, stout Vermonter, who was badly
wounded in both thighs, but he held up his hands and
begged me to help others first who needed it more than he.
I did not at first heed his request, for this kind of unsel-
fishness was very common in the army ; but he went on —
' For God's sake, Doctor, leave me here ; there is a
drummer-boy of our regiment — a mere child — dying, if he
isn't dead now. Go and see him first. He lies over there.
He saved more than one life. He was at his post in the
70 SELECTIONS FROM AMERICAN AUTHORS.
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panic this morning, and saved the honour of the regiment '
I was so much impressed by the man's manner that I
passed over to where the drummer lay with his drum
beside him. I gave one glance at his face — and — yes, it
was Rupert.
" Well ! well ! it needed not the chalked cross which my
brother surgeons had left upon the rough board whereon
he lay to show how urgent was the relief he sought ; it
needed not the prophetic words of the Vermonter, nor the
damp that mingled with the brown curls that clung to his
pale forehead, to show how hopeless it was now. I called
him by name. He opened his eyes — larger, I thought, in
the new vision that was beginning to dawn upon him —
and recognized me. He whispered, ' I'm glad you are
come, but I don't think you can do me any good.'
" I could not tell him a lie. I could not say anything
I only pressed his hand in mine, as he went on.
THE STORY OF A DRUM. 71
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' But you will see father, and ask him to forgive me.
Nobody is to blame but myself. It was a long time before
I understood why the drum came to me on Christmas night,
and why it kept calling to me every night, and what it
said. I know it now. The work is done, and I am con-
tent. Tell father it is better as it is. I should have lived
only to worry and perplex him, and something in me tells
me this is right.'
" He lay still for a moment, and then, grasping my hand,
said,
" ' Hark ! '
" I listened, but heard nothing but the suppressed
moans of the wounded men around me. ' The drum,' he
said, faintly ; ' don't you hear it ? The drum is calling
me.'
" He reached out his arm to where it lay, as though he
would embrace it.
" ' Listen,' he went on, ' it's the reveille. There are the
ranks drawn up in review. Don't you see the sunlight
72 SELECTIONS FROM AMERICAN AUTHORS.
THE PROCESSION OF LIFE.
BY NATHANIEL HAWTHOKNE.
flash down the long line of bayonets ? Their faces are
shining — they present arms — there comes the General ;
but his face I cannot look at, for the glory round his head.
He sees me ; he smiles, it is — And with a name upon
his lips that he learned long ago, he stretched himself
wearily upon the planks, and lay quite still."
Life figures itself to me as a festal or funereal procession.
All of us have our places, and are to move onward under
the direction of the Chief Marshal. The grand difficulty
results from the invariably mistaken principles on which
the deputy marshals seek to arrange this immense con-
course of people, so much more numerous than those that
train their interminable length through streets and high-
ways in times of political excitement. Their scheme is
ancient, far beyond the memory of man, or even the record
of history, and has hitherto been very little modified by the
innate sense of something wrong, and the dim perception
THE PROCESSION OF LIFE. 73
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of better metliods, that have disquieted all the ages
through which the procession has taken its march. Its
members are classified by the merest external circum-
stances, and thus are more certain to be thrown out of their
true positions than if no principle of arrangement were
attempted. In one part of the procession we see men of
landed estate or moneyed capital gravely keeping each
other company, for the preposterous reason that they
chance to have a similar standing in the tax-gatherer's
book. Trades and professions march together with
scarcely a more real bond of union. In this manner, it
cannot be denied, people are disentangled from the mass
and separated into various classes according to certain
apparent relations ; all have some artificial badge which
the world, and themselves among the first, learn to con-
sider as a genuine characteristic. Fixing our attention on
such outside shows of similarity or difference, we lose sight
of those realities by which nature, fortune, fate, or Provi-
dence has constituted for every man a brotherhood,
74 SELECTIONS FROM AMERICAN AUTHORS.
wherein it is one great office of human wisdom to classify
him. When the mind has once accustomed itself to a
proper arrangement of the Procession of Life, or a true
classification of society, even though merely speculative,
there is thenceforth a satisfaction which pretty well suffices
for itself without the aid of any actual reformation in the
order of march.
For instance, assuming to myself the power of marsha'ling
the aforesaid procession, I direct a trumpeter to send forth
a blast loud enough to be heard from hence to China ;
and a herald, with world-pervading voice, to make pro-
clamation for a certain class of mortals to take their places.
What shall be their principle of union ? After all, an
external one, in comparison with many that might be
fcund, yet far more real than those which the world has
selected for a similar purpose. Let all who are afflicted
with like physical diseases form themselves into ranks.
Our first attempt at classification is not very successful.
THE PROCESSION OF LIFE.
It may gratify the pride of aristocracy to reflect that
disease, more than any other circumstance of human life,
pays due observance to the distinctions which rank and
wealth, and poverty and lowliness, have established among
mankind. Some maladies are rich and precious, and only
to be acquired by the right of inheritance or purchased
with gold. Of this kind is the gout, which serves as a
bond of brotherhood to the purple-visaged gentry who
obey the herald's voice, and painfully hobble from all
civilized regions of the globe to take their post in the grand
procession. In mercy to their toes, let us hope that the
nvuvh may not be long. The dyspeptics, too, are people
of good standing in the world. For them the earliest sal-
mon is caught in our eastern rivers, and the shy woodcock
stains the dry leaves with his blood in his remotest haunts,
and the turtle comes from the far Pacific Islands to be
gobbled up in soup. They can afford to flavour all their
dishes with indolence, which, in spite of the general
opinion, is a sauce more exquisitely piquant than appetite
won by c-xcrcisc. Apoplexy is another highly respectable
76 SELECTIONS FROM AMERICAN AUTHORS.
^ -k" V )
disease. We will rank together all who have the symptom
of dizziness in the brain, and as fast as any drop by the
way supply their places with new members of the board
of aldermen.
On the other hand, here come whole tribes of people,
whose physical lives are but a deteriorated variety of life,
and themselves a meaner species of mankind ; so sad an
effect has been wrought by the tainted breath of cities,
scanty and unwholesome food, destructive modes of labour,
and the lack of those moral supports that might partially
have counteracted such bad influences. Behold here a
train of house painters, all afflicted with a peculiar sort of
colic. Next in place we will marshal those workmen in
cutlery, who have breathed a fatal disorder into their lungs
with the impalpable dust of steel. Tailors and shoe-
makers, being sedentary men, will chiefly congregate into
one part of the procession, and march under similar ban-
ners of disease ; but among them we may observe here and
THE PROCESSION OF LIFE.
77
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there a sickly student, who has left his health between the
leaves of classic volumes ; and clerks, likewise, who have
caught their deaths on high official stools ; and men of
genius too, who have written sheet after sheet with pens
dipped in their heart's blood. These are a wretched, quak-
ing, short-breathed set. But what is this cloud of pale-
cheeked, slender girls, who disturb the ear with the multi-
plicity of their short, dry coughs ? They are seamstresses,
who have plied the daily and nightly needle in the service
of master tailors and close-fisted contractors, until now it
is almost time for each to hem the borders of her own
sliroud. Consumption points their place in the procession.
With their sad sisterhood are intermingled many youthful
maidens who have sickened in aristocratic mansions, and
for whose aid science has unavailingly searched its volumes,
and whom breathless love has watched. In our ranks the
rich maiden and the poor seamstress may walk arm in arm
We might find innumerable other instances, where the
bond of mutual disease^ — not to speak of nation-sweeping
78 SELECTIONS FROM AMERICAN AUTHORS.
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pestilence — embraces high and low, and makes the king
brother of the clown. But it is not hard to own that
disease is the natural aristocrat. Let him kee.p his state,
and have his established orders of rank, and wear his royal
mantle of the colour of a fever flush ; and let the noble and
wealthy boast their own physical infirmities, and display
their symptoms as the badges of high station. All things
considered, these are as proper subjects of human pride as
any relations of human rank that men can fix upon.
Sound again, thou deep-breathed trumpeter ! and herald
with thy voice of might, shout forth another summons that
'shall reach the old baronial castles of Europe, and the
rudest cabin of our western wilderness ! What class is
next to take its place in the procession of mortal life ? Let
it be those whom the gifts of intellect have united in a
noble brotherhood.
Ay, this is a reality, before which the conventional dis-
tinctions of society melt away like a vapour when we would
THE PROCESSION OF LIFE.
79
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grasp it with the hand. Were Byron now alive, and Burns,
the iirst would come from his ancestral abbey, flinging
aside, although unwillingly, the inherited honours of a
thousand years, to take the arm of the mighty peasant
who grew immortal while he stooped behind his plough.
These are gone ; but the hall, the farmer's fireside, the hut,
perhaps the palace, the counting room, the workship, the
village, the city, life's high places and low ones, may all
produce their poets, whom a common temperament per-
vades like an electric sympathy. Peer or ploughman, we
will muster them pair by pair and shoulder to shoulder. . . .
Yet the longer I reflect the less am I satisfied with the
idea of forming a separate class of mankind on the basis of
high intellectual power. At best it is but a higher develop-
ment of innate gifts common to all. Perhaps, moreover,
he whose genius appears deepest and truest excels his
80 SELECTIONS FROM AMERICAN AUTHORS.
V _- . X
fellows in nothing save the knack of expression ; he throws
out occasionally a lucky hint at truths of which every soul
is profoundly, though unutterably conscious. Therefore,
though we suffer the brotherhood of intellect to march on-
ward together, it may be doubted whether their peculiar
relation will not begin to vanish as soon as the procession
shall have passed beyond the circle of this present world.
But we do not classify for eternity.
And next, let the trumpet pour forth a funereal wail, and
the herald's voice give breath in one vast cry to all the
groans and grievous utterances that are audible throughout
the earth. We appeal now to the sacred bond of sorrow,
and summon the great multitude who labour under similar
afflictions to take their places in the march.
How many a heart that would have been insensible to
any other call has responded to the doleful accents of that
voice ! It has gone far and wide, and high and low, and
left scarcely a mortal roof unvisited. Indeed, the principle
is only too universal for our purpose, and unless we limit
THE PROCESSION OF LIFE.
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it will quite break up our classification of mankind, and
convert the whole procession into a funeral train. We will,
therefore, be at some pains to discriminate. Here comes
a lonely rich man ; he has built a noble fabric for his
dwelling-house, with a front of stately architecture and
marble floors and doors of precious woods ; the whole
structure is as beautiful as a dream and as substantial as
the native rock. But the visionary shapes of a long pos-
terity, for whose home this mansion was intended have
faded into nothingness since the death of the founder's only
son. The rich man gives a glance at his sable garb in one
of the splendid mirrors of his drawing-room, and descending
a flight of lofty steps, instinctively offers his arm to yonder
poverty-stricken widow in the rusty black bonnet, and with
a check apron over her patched gown. The sailor boy, who
was her sole earthly stay, was washed overboard in a late
tempest. This couple from the palace and th'e almshouse
are but the types of thousands more who represent the
6— (105)
82 SELECTIONS FROM AMERICAN AUTHORS.
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dark tragedy of life, and seldom quarrel for the upper
parts. Grief is such a leveller, with its own dignity and its
own humility, that the noble and the peasant, the beggar
and the monarch, will waive their pretensions to external
rank without the omciousness of interference on our part.
If pride — the influence of the world's false distinctions —
remain in the heart, then sorrow lacks the earnestness
which makes it holy and reverend. It loses its reality and
becomes a miserable shadow. On this ground we have an
opportunity to assign over multitudes who would willingly
claim places here to other parts of the procession. If the
mourner have anything dearer than his grief he must seek
his true position elsewhere. There are so many unsub-
stantial sorrows which the necessity of our mortal state
begets on idleness, that an observer, casting aside senti-
ment, is sometimes led to question whether there be any
real woe, except absolute physical suffering and the loss of
closest friends. A crowd who exhibit what they deem to
THE PROCESSION OF LIFE. 83
be broken hearts — and among them many lovelorn maids
and bachelors, and men of disappointed ambition in arts
or politics, and the poor who were once rich, or who have
sought to be rich in vain — the great majority of these may
ask admittance into some other fraternity. There is no
room here. Perhaps we may institute a separate class
where such unfortunates will naturally fall into the pro-
cession. Meantime let them stand aside and patiently
await their time.
If our trumpeter can borrow a note from the doomsday
trumpet blast, let him, sound it now. The dread alarum
should make the earth quake to its centre, for the herald is
about to address mankind with a summons to which even
the purest mortal may be sensible of some faint responding
echo in his breast. In many bosoms it will awaken a still
small voice more terrible than its own reverberating uproar.
The hideous appeal has swept round the globe. Come
all ye guilty ones, and rank yourselves in accordance with
84
SELECTIONS FROM AMERICAN AUTHORS.
the brotherhood of crime. This, indeed, is an awful sum-
mons. I almost tremble to look at the strange partner-
ships that begin to be formed, reluctantly, but by the
invincible necessity of like to like in this part of the pro-
cession. A forger from the state prison seizes the arm of
a distinguished financier. How indignantly does the latter
plead his fair reputation upon 'Change and insist that his
operations, by their magnificence of scope, were removed
into quite another sphere of morality than those of his
pitiful companion ! But let him cut the connection, if he
can. Here comes a murderer with his clanking chains,
and pairs himself — horrible to tell — with as pure and up-
right a man, in all observable respects, as ever partook of
the consecrated bread and wine. He is one of those, per-
chance the most hopeless of all sinners, who practise such
an exemplary system of outward duties, that even a deadly
crime may be hidden from their own sight and remem-
brance, under this unreal frostwork. Yet he now finds
his place. . . .
THE PROCESSION OF LIFE. 85
Many will be astonished at the fatal impulse that drags
them thitherward. Nothing is more remarkable than the
various deceptions by which guilt conceals itself from the
perpetrator's conscience, and oftenest, perhaps, by the
splendour of its garments. Statesmen, rulers, generals, and
all men who act over an extensive sphere, are most liable
to be deluded in this way ; they commit wrong, devasta-
tion, and murder, on so grand a scale, that it impresses
them as speculative rather than actual ; but in our pro-
cession we iind them linked in detestable conjunction with
the meanest criminals whose deeds have the vulgarity of
petty details. Here 'the effect of circumstances and acci-
dent is done away, and a man finds his rank according to
the spirit of his crime, in whatever shape it may have been
developed.
We have called the Evil ; now let us call the Good. The
trumpet's brazen throat should pour heavenly music over
the earth, and the herald's voice go forth with the sweetness
86 SELECTIONS FROM AMERICAN AUTHORS.
\o
of an angel's accent, as if to summon each upright man
to his reward. But how is this ? Does none answer
to the call ? Not one : for the just, the pure, the true,
and all who might most worthily obey it, shrink sadly back,
as most conscious of error and imperfection. Then let the
summons be to those whose pervading principle is Love.
This classification will embrace all the truly good, and none
in whose souls there exists not something that may expand
itself into a heaven, both of well-doing and felicity.
The first that presents himself is a man of wealth, who
has bequeathed the bulk of his property to a hospital ; his
ghost, methinks, would have a better right here than his
living body. But here they come, the genuine benefactors
of their race. Some have wandered about the earth with
pictures of bliss in their imagination, and with hearts that
shrank sensitively from the idea of pain and woe, yet have
THE PROCESSION OF MFH.
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studied all varieties of misery that human nature can
endure. The prison, the insane asylum, the squalid cham-
ber of the alms-house, the manufactory where the demon
of machinery annihilates the human soul, and the cotton
liekl where God's image becomes a beast of burden ; to
these and every other scene where man wrongs or neglects
his brother, the apostles of humanity have penetrated.
This missionary, black with India's burning sunshine, shall
give his arm to a pale-faced brother who has made himself
familiar with the infected alleys and loathsome haunts of
vice in one of our own cities. The generous founder of a
college shall be the partner of a maiden lady of narrow
substance, one of whose good deeds it has been to gather a
little school of orphan children. If the mighty merchant
whose benefactions are reckoned by thousands of dollars,
deem himself worthy, let him join the procession with her
whose love has proved itself by watchings at the sick bed
and all those lowly offices which bring her into actual con-
tact with disease and wretchedness. And with those
whose impulses have guided them to benevolent actions,
88 SELECTIONS FROM AMERICAN AUTHORS.
we will rank others to whom Providence has assigned a
different tendency and different powers. Men who have
spent their lives in generous and holy contemplation for
the human race ; those who, by a certain heavenliness of
spirit, have purified the atmosphere around them, and thus
supplied a medium in which good and high things may be
projected and performed — give to these a lofty place among
the benefactors of mankind, although no deed, such as the
world calls deeds, may be recorded of them. There are
some individuals of whom we cannot conceive it proper
that they should apply their hands to any earthly instru-
ment or work out any definite act ; and others, perhaps not
less high, to whom it is an essential attribute to labour ^in
body as well as spirit, for the welfare of their brethren.
Thus, if we find a spiritual sage whose unseen, inestimable
influence has exalted the moral standard of mankind, we
will choose for his companion some poor labourer who has
wrought for love in the potato field of a neighbour poorer
than himself.
THE PROCESSION OF LIFE.
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\Ve have summoned this various multitude — and, to the
credit of our nature, it is a large one — on the principle of
Love. It is singular, nevertheless, to remark the shyness
that exists among many members of the present class, all
of whom we might expect to recognise one another by the
freemasonry of mutual goodness, and to embrace like
brethren, giving God thanks for such various specimens of
human excellence. But it is far otherwise. Each sect
surrounds its own righteousness with a hedge of thorns.
It is difficult for the good Christian to acknowledge the
good Pagan ; almost impossible for the good Orthodox to
grasp the hand of the good Unitarian, leaving to their
Creator to settle the matters in dispute, and giving their
mutual efforts strongly and trustingly to whatever right
thing is too evident to be mistaken. Then again, though
the heart be large, yet the mind is often of such moderate
dimensions as to be exclusively filled up with one idea.
When a good man has long devoted himself to a particular
90 SELECTIONS FROM AMERICAN AUTHORS.
V ' <
kind of beneficence — to one species of reform — he is apt to
become narrowed into the limits of the path wherein he
treads, and to fancy that there is no other good to be done
on earth but that selfsame good to which he has put his
hand, and in the very mode that best suits his own con-
ceptions. All else is worthless. His scheme must be
wrought out by the united strength of the whole world's
stock of love, or the world is no longer worthy of a position
in the universe. Moreover, powerful Truth, being the rich
grape juice expressed from the vineyard of the ages, has
an intoxicating quality, when imbibed by any save a
powerful intellect, and often, as it were, impels the quaffer
to quarrel in his cups. For these reasons, strange to say,
it is harder to contrive a friendly arrangement of these
brethren of love and righteousness, in the procession of
life, than to unite even the wicked, who, indeed, are
chained together by their crimes. The fact is too
preposterous for tears, too lugubrious for laughter.
THE PROCESSION OF LIFE. 91
*
But, let good men push and elbow one another as they
may during their earthly march, all will be peace among
them when the honourable array of their procession shall
tread on heavenly ground. There they will doubtless find
that they have been working each for the other's cause,
and that every well-delivered stroke, which, with an honest
purpose, any mortal struck, even for a narrow object, was
indeed stricken for the universal cause of good. Their own
view may be bounded by country, creed, profession, the
diversities of individual character — -but above them all is
the breadth of Providence. How many, who have deemed
themselves antagonists, will smile hereafter, when they
look back upon the world's wide harvest field, and
perceive that, in unconscious brotherhood, they were
helping to bind the selfsame sheaf !
But, come ! The sun is hastening westward, while the
march of human life, that never paused before, is delayed
by our attempt to rearrange its order. It is desirable to
find some comprehensive principle, that shall render our
task easier by bringing thousands into the ranks where
92
SELECTIONS FROM AMERICAN AUTHORS.
t
hitherto we have brought one. Therefore let the trumpet,
if possible, split its brazen throat with a louder note than
ever, and the herald summon all mortals who, from what-
ever cause, have lost, or never found, their proper places
in the world.
Obedient to this call, a great multitude come together,
most of them with a listless gait, betokening weariness of
soul, yet with a gleam of satisfaction in their faces, at a
prospect of at length reaching those positions which,
hitherto, they have vainly sought. But here will be
another disappointment ; for we can attempt no more
than merely to associate, in one fraternity, all who are
afflicted with the same vague trouble. Some great mis-
take in life is the chief condition of admittance into this
class. Here are members of the learned professions, whom
Providence endowed with special gifts for the plough, the
forge, and the wheelbarrow, or for the routine of unintel-
lectual business. We will assign to them, as partners in
THE PROCESSION OF LIFE.
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the march, those lowly labourers and handicraftsmen, who
have pined, as with a dying thirst, after the unattainable
fountains of knowledge. The latter have lost less than
their companions ; yet more, because they deem it infinite.
Perchance the two species of unfortunates may comfort
one another. . . .
Shall we bid the trumpet sound again ? It is hardly
worth the while. There remain a few idle men of fortune,
and people of crooked intellect or temper, all of whom, may
find their like, or some tolerable approach to it, in the
plentiful diversity of our latter class. There too, as his
ultimate destiny, must we rank the dreamer, who, all his
life long, has cherished the idea that he was peculiarly apt
for something, but never could determine what it was ;
and there the most unfortunate of men, whose purpose
it has been to enjoy life's pleasures, but to avoid a manful
struggle with its toil and sorrow. The remainder, if any,
may connect themselves with whatever rank of the
94 SELECTIONS FROM AMERICAN AUTHORS.
procession they shall find best adapted to their tastes and
consciences. The worst possible fate would be to remain
behind, shivering in the solitude of time, while all the
world is on the move towards eternity. Our attempt to
classify society is now complete. The result may be any-
thing but perfect : yet better — to give it the very lowest
praise — than the antique rule of the herald's office, or the
modern one of the tax-gatherer, whereby the accidents and
superficial attributes, with which the real nature of indi-
viduals has least to do, are acted upon as the deepest
characteristics of mankind. Our task is done ! Now let
the grand procession move !
Yet pause a while ! We had forgotten the Chief Marshal.
Hark ! That world-wide swell of solemn music, with
the clang of a mighty bell breaking forth through its regu-
lated uproar, announces his approach. He comes ; a
severe, sedate, immovable, dark rider, waving his trun-
cheon of universal sway, as he passes along the lengthened
THE PROCESSION OF LIFE.
c
95
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line, on the pale horse of the Revelation. It is Death !
Who else could assume the guidance of a procession that
comprehends all humanity ? And, if some, among these
many millions, should deem themselves classed amiss, yet
let them take to their hearts the comfortable truth, that
Death levels us all into one great brotherhood, and that
another state of being will surely rectify the wrong of this.
Then breathe thy wail upon the earth's wailing wind, thou
band of melancholy music, made up of every sigh that
the human heart, unsatisfied, has uttered ! There is yet
triumph in thy tones. And now we move ! Beggars in
their rags, and Kings trailing the regal purple in the dust ;
the Warrior's gleaming helmet ; the Priest in his sable
robe ; the hoary grandsire, who has run life's circle and
come back to childhood ; the ruddy Schoolboy with his
golden curls, frisking along the march ; the Artisan's stuff
jacket ; the Noble's star-decorated coat ; — the whole pre-
senting a motley spectacle, yet with a dusky grandeur
brooding over it. Onward, onward, into that dimness
where the lights of Time, which have blazed along the
SELECTIONS FROM AMERICAN AUTHORS.
A MELTING STORY.
BY MARK TWAIN.
procession, are flickering in their sockets ! And whither !
We know not ; and Death, hitherto our leader, deserts us
by the wayside as the tramp of our innumerable footsteps
echoes beyond his sphere. He knows not, more than we,
our destined goal. But God, who made us, knows, and will
not leave us on our toilsome and doubtful march, either
to wander in infinite uncertainty, or perish by the way !
" Yes," remarked the old gentleman from the Eastern
States, folding his hands and steadying his gaze upon a
mark on the floor, " I did know a story — a little incident —
of our simple daily life in Vermont, which might perhaps
not be considered too old-fashioned to interest you whilst
we are waiting here for the stage."
" Pray proceed," we all cried in a chorus together ; and
the old gentleman again folded his hands and began :
"One winter evening, a country storekeeper in the
Green Mountain State was about closing up for the night,
A MELTING STORY.
and while standing in the snow outside, putting up the
window shutters, saw through the glass a lounging worth-
less fellow within grab a pound of fresh butter from the
shelf, and conceal it in his hat.
" The act was no sooner detected than the revenge was
hit upon, and a very few minutes found the Green Moun-
tain storekeeper at once indulging his appetite for fun to
the fullest extent, and paying off the thief with a facetious
sort of torture, for which he would have gained a premium
from the old Inquisition.
" ' I say, Seth.' said the storekeeper, coming in and clos-
ing the door after him, slapping his hands over his shoulders
and stamping the snow off his feet —
" Seth had his hand on the door, his hat on his head,
ind the roll of butter in his hat, anxious to make his exit
as soon as possible.
" ' - — I say, Seth, sit down. I reckon, now, on such a
cold night as this a little something warm would not hurt
a fellow.'
7— <ios)
SELECTIONS FROM AMERICAN AUTHORS.
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" Seth felt very uncertain. He had the butter, and was
exceedingly anxious to be off ; but the temptation of some-
thing warm sadly interfered with his resolution to go.
" This hesitation was settled by the owner of the butter
taking Seth by the shoulders and planting him, in a seat
close to the stove, where he was in such a manner cornered
in by the boxes and barrels that, while the grocer stood
before him, there was no possibility of getting out ; and
right in this very place, sure enough, the storekeeper sat
down.
" ' Seth, we'll have a little warm Santa Cruz,' said the
Green Mountain grocer ; so he opened the stove door, and
stuffed in as many sticks as the place would admit :
' without it you'd freeze going out such a night as this.'
" Seth already felt the butter settling down closer to his
hair, and he jumped up, declaring he must go.
A MELTING STORY. 99
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" ' Not till you have something warm, Seth. Come,
I've got a story to tell you.'
" And Seth was again rushed into his seat by his cunning
tormentor.
" ' Oh, it's so hot here.' said the petty thief, attempting
to rise.
" ' Sit down — don't be in such a hurry,' retorted the
grocer, pushing him back into his chair.
" ' But I've got the cows to fodder and the wood to
split — I must be going,' said the persecuted chap.
" ' But you mustn't tear yourself away, Seth, in this
manner. Sit down, let the cows take care of themselves,
and keep yourself easy. You appear to be a little fidgety,'
said the roguish grocer, with a wicked leer.
" The next thing was the production of two smoking
glasses of hot toddy, the very sight of which, in Seth's
100 SELECTIONS FROM AMERICAN AUTHORS.
present situation, would have made the hair stand erect
upon his head had it not been well oiled and kept down
by the butter.
" ' Seth, I will give you a toast, now, and you can butter
it yourself,' said the grocer, with an air of such consummate
simplicity, that poor Seth believed himself unsuspected.
" ' Seth, here's — here's a Christmas Goose, well roasted
— eh ? I tell you, it's the greatest in creation. And,
Seth, don't you never use hog's fat, or common cooking
butter, to baste it with. Come, take your butter — I
mean, Seth, take your toddy.'
" Poor Seth now began to smoke as well as melt, and his
mouth was hermetically sealed up, as though he had been
born dumb.
" Streak after streak of butter came pouring from under
his hat, and his handkerchief was already soaked with the
greasy overflow.
A MELTING STORY. 101
" Talking away as if nothing was the matter, the fun-
loving grocer kept stuffing wood into the stove, while poor
Seth sat upright, with his back against the counter, and
his knees touching the red-hot furnace before him.
" ' Cold night this,' said the grocer. ' Why, Seth, you
seem to perspire as if you were warm. Why don't you
take your hat off ? Here, let me put your hat away.'
" ' No ! ' exclaimed poor Seth at last. ' No ! I must
go!
' ' Let me out !
" ' I ain't well !
" ' Let me go ! '
" A greasy cataract was now pouring down the poor
m.m's face and neck, and soaking into his clothes, and
trickling down his body into his boots, so that he was
literally in a perfect bath of oil.
102 SELECTIONS FROM AMERICAN AUTHORS.
THE PROFESSOR AT THE BREAKFAST
TABLE.
BY OLIVER WENDELL HOLMES.
" ' Well, good night, Seth,' said the humorous Vermonter
— ' if you will go ! ' And adding, as he started out of the
door — ' I say, Seth, I reckon the fun I have had out of you
is worth ninepence, so I shan't charge you for that pound
of butter in your hat.' '
Nobody talks much that doesn't say unwise things,
things he didn't mean to say ; as no person plays much
without striking a false note sometimes. Talk to me, is
only spading up the ground for crops of thought. I cannot
answer for what will turn up. If I could, it would not be
talking, but " speaking my piece." Better, I think, the
hearty abandonment of one's self to the suggestions of the
moment, at the risk of an occasional slip of the tongue,
perceived the instant it escapes, but just one syllable too
late, than the royal reputation of never saying a foolish
thing.
TDK PROFESSOR AT THE BREAKFAST TABLE. 103
The boarders were pleased to say that they were glad
to get me back. One of them ventured a compliment,
namely — that I talked as if I believed what I said. This
was apparently considered something unusual, by its being
mentioned.
One who means to talk with entire sincerity, I said,
always feels himself in danger of two things, namely — an
affectation of bluntness, like that of which Cornwall
accuses Kent in " Lear," and actual rudeness. What a
man wants to do, in talking with a stranger, is to get and
to give as much of the best and most real life that belongs
to the two talkers as the time will let him. Life is short,
and conversation apt to run to mere words. Mr. Hue, I
think it is, who tells us some very good stories about the
way in which two Chinese gentlemen contrive to keep up
a long talk without saying a word which has any meaning
in it. Something like this is occasionally heard on this side
of the Great Wall. The best Chinese talkers I know are
104 SELECTIONS FROM AMERICAN AUTHORS.
some pretty women whom I meet from time to time.
Pleasant, airy, complimentary, the little flakes of flattery
glimmering in their talk ; their accents flowing on in a
soft ripple, — never a wave, and never a calm ; words
nicely fitted but never a coloured phrase or a high-flavoured
epithet ; they turn air into syllables so gracefully that we
iind meaning for the music they make as we find faces in
the coals and fairy palaces in the clouds. There is some-
thing very odd, though, about this mechanical talk.
You have sometimes been in a train on the railroad
when the engine was detached a long way from the station
you were approaching ? Well, you have noticed how
quietly and rapidly, the cars kept on, just as if the loco-
motive were drawing them. ? Indeed, you would not have
suspected that you were travelling on the strength of a
dead fact if you had not seen the engine running away from
you on a side-track. Upon my conscience, I believe some
of these pretty women detach their minds entirely, some-
times, from their talk, — and, what is more, that we never
know the difference. Their lips let off the fluty syllables
THE PROFESSOR AT THE BREAKFAST TABLE. 105
just as their fingers would sprinkle the music drops from
their pianos ; unconscious habit turns the phrase of
thought into words just as it does that of music into notes.
Well, they govern the world, for all that, — these sweet-
lipped women, — because beauty is the index of a larger
fact than wisdom.
— The Bombazine wanted an explanation.
Madam, said I, wisdom is the abstract of the past, but
beauty is the promise of the future.
— All this, however, is not what I was going to say.
Here am I, suppose, seated, we will say, at a dinner- table,
alongside of an intelligent Englishman. We look in each
other's faces — we exchange a dozen words. One thing is
settled : we mean not to offend each other — to be per-
fectly courteous — more than courteous ; for we are the
entertainer and the entertained, and cherish particularly
amiable feelings to each other. The claret is good : and if
106 SELECTIONS FROM AMERICAN AUTHORS.
A '.
y a T b ...u..^ v <
our blood reddens a little with its warm crimson, we are
none the less kind for it.
1 don't think people that talk over their victuals are
like to say anything very great, especially if they get their
heads muddled with strong drink before they begin
jabbering.
The Bombazine uttered this with a sugary sourness, as
if the words had been steeped in a solution of acetate of
lead. The boys of my time used to call a hit like this a
" side-winder."
— I must finish this woman.
Madam, I said, the Great Teacher seems to have been
fond of talking as he sat at meat. Because this was a good
while ago, in a far-off place, you forget what the true fact
of it was, — that those were real dinners, where people were
THE PROFESSOR AT THE BREAKFAST TABLE. 107
hungry and thirsty, and where you met a very miscellane-
ous company. Probably there was a great deal of loose
talk among the guests : at any rate, there was always wine,
we may believe.
Whatever may be the hygienic advantages or disadvan-
tages of wine, — and I, for one, except for certain particular
ends, believe in water, and, I blush to say it, in black tea,
— there is no doubt about its being the grand specific
against dull dinners. A score of people come together in
all moods of mind and body. The problem is, in the space
of one hour, more or less, to bring them all into the same
condition of slightly exalted life. Food alone is enough
for one person, perhaps, — talk, alone, for another ; but
the grand equalizer and fraternizer, which works up the
radiators to their maximum radiation, and the absorbents
to their maximum receptivity, is now just where it was
«rhen
" The conscious water saw its Lord and blushed,"
108 SKIECT10NS FROM AMERICAN AUTHORS.
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— when six great vessels containing water, the whole
amounting to more than a hogshead-full, were changed
into the best of wine. I once wrote a song about wine, in
which I spoke so warmly of it, that I was afraid some would
think it was written inter pocula ; whereas it was composed
in the bosom of my family, under the most tranquillizing
domestic influences.
— The Divinity-Student turned towards me, looking
mischievous. Can you tell me, he said, who wrote a song
for a temperance celebration once, of which the following
is a verse ?
Alas for the loved one, too gentle and fair
The joys of the banquet to chasten and share ;
Her eye lost its light that his goblet might shine,
And the rose of her cheek was dissolved in his wine !
I did, I answered. What are you going to do about it ?
I will tell you another line I wrote long ago : —
Don't be " consistent," — but be simply true.
THE PROFESSOR AT THE BREAKFAST TABLE. 109
(; - <
The longer I live, the more I am satisfied of two things :
first, that the truest lives are those that are cut rose-
diamond-fashion, with many facets answering to the man}'
planed aspects of the world about them : secondly, that
society is always trying in some way or other to grind us
down to a single flat surface. It is hard work to resist
this grinding-down action. Now give me a chance. Better
eternal and universal abstinence than the brutalities of
those days that made wives and mothers and daughters
and sisters blush for those whom they should have hon-
oured, as they came reeling home from their debauches !
Yet better even excess than lying and hypocrisy ; and if
wine is upon all our tables, let us praise it for its colour
and fragrance and social tendency, so far as it deserves,
and not hug a bottle in the closet, and pretend not to
know the use of a wine-glass at a public dinner ! I think
you will find that people who honestly mean to be true
really contradict themselves much more rarely than those
who try to be " consistent." But a great many things we
say can be made to appear contradictory, simply because
110 SELECTIONS FROM AMERICAN AUTHORS.
*-.^.:-~:. v* :: i % s?. i
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> eJ
XXX
they are partial views of a truth, and may often look unlike
at first, as a front view of a face and its profile often do.
— Language is a solemn thing. It grows out of life —
out of its agonies and ecstasies, its wants and its weariness.
Every language is a temple, in which the soul of those who
speak it is enshrined. Because Time softens its outlines
and rounds the sharp angles of its cornices, shall a fellow
take a pickaxe to help time ? Let me tell you what comes
of meddling with things that can take care of themselves.
A friend of mine had a watch given him, when he was a boy,
a " bull's eye," with a loose silver case that came off like
an oyster-shell from its contents ; you know them — the cases
that you hang on your thumb, while the core, or the real
watch, lies in your hand, as naked as a peeled apple. Well,
he began with taking off the case and so on ; from one liberty
to another, until he got it fairly open, and there were the
works, as good as if they were alive — crown-wheel, balance-
wheel, and all the rest, all right except one thing ; there
THE PROFESSOR AT TIIK BREAKFAST TABLfi. Ill
was a confounded little hair had got entangled round the
balance-wheel. So my young Solomon got a pair of
tweezers, and caught hold of the hair very nicely, and
pulled it right out, without touching any of the wheels —
when — buzz ! and the watch had done up twenty-four
hours in double magnetic-telegraph time ! The English
language was wound up to run some thousands of years,
I trust ; but if everybody is to be pulling at everything
he thinks is a. hair, our grand-children will have to make
the discovery that it is a hair-s^n'wg, and the old Anglo-
Norman soul's-timekeeper will run down, as so many other
dialects have done before it. I can't stand this meddling
any better than you, sir. But we have a great deal to be
proud of in the lifelong labours of that old lexicographer,
and we mustn't be ungrateful. Besides, don't let us
deceive ourselves, the war of the dictionaries is only a
disguised rivalry of cities, colleges, and especially of pub-
lishers. After all, it is likely that the language will shape
112
SELECTIONS FROM AMERICAN AUTHORS.
itself by larger forces than phonography and dictionary-
making. You may spade up the ocean as much as you
like, and harrow it afterwards, if you can — but the moon
will still lead the tides, and the winds will form their
surface.
Printed by Sir Isaac Pitman & Sons, Ltd., Bath, England.
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