{"collection":"scripture-revelation","full_text_available":true,"graph_url":"https://unchartedknowledge.5gfusion.net/v2/api/page/gutenberg_13631/graph","html_url":"https://unchartedknowledge.5gfusion.net/v2/page/gutenberg_13631","id":"gutenberg_13631","license":"Public Domain (US)","rights_basis":"gutenberg_metadata_copyright_false","source":"gutenberg","source_url":"https://www.gutenberg.org/ebooks/13631","summary":null,"tags":["American periodicals","Category: American Literature","Category: Essays, Letters & Speeches","Category: History - American","Category: Journals","Category: Poetry","Category: Religion/Spirituality","The Atlantic Monthly"],"text":"THE\n\nATLANTIC MONTHLY.\n\nA MAGAZINE OF LITERATURE, ART, AND POLITICS.\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\nVOL. XII.--SEPTEMBER, 1863.--NO. LXXI.\n\n\nEntered according to Act of Congress, in the year 1863, by TICKNOR AND\nFIELDS, in the Clerk's Office of the District Court of the District of\nMassachusetts.\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\nTHE PURITAN MINISTER.\n\n\nIt is nine o'clock upon a summer Sunday morning, in the year sixteen\nhundred and something. The sun looks down brightly on a little forest\nsettlement, around whose expanding fields the great American wilderness\nrecedes each day, withdrawing its bears and wolves and Indians into an\never remoter distance,--not yet so far but that a stout wooden gate at\neach end of the village street indicates that there is something outside\nwhich must stay outside, if possible. It would look very busy and\nthriving in this little place, to-day, but for the Sabbath stillness\nwhich broods over everything with almost an excess of calm. Even the\nsmoke ascends more faintly than usual from the chimneys of these\nabundant log-huts and scanty framed houses, and since three o'clock\nyesterday afternoon not a stroke of this world's work has been done.\nLast night a preparatory lecture was held, and now comes the\nconsummation of the whole week's life, in the solemn act of worship. In\nwhich settlement of the Massachusetts Colony is the great observance to\npass before our eyes? If it be Cambridge village, the warning drum is\nbeating its peaceful summons to the congregation. If it be Salem\nvillage, a bell is sounding its more ecclesiastic peal, and a red flag\nis simultaneously hung forth from the meeting-house, like the\nauction-flag of later periods, but offering in this case goods without\nmoney and beyond price. But if it be Haverhill village, then Abraham\nTyler has been blowing his horn assiduously for half an hour, a service\nfor which Abraham, each year, receives a half-pound of pork from every\nfamily in town.\n\nBe it drum, bell, or horn, which gives the summons, we will draw near to\nthis important building, the centre of the village, the one public\nedifice,--meeting-house, town-house, school-house, watch-house, all in\none. So important is it, that no one can legally dwell more than a\nhalf-mile from it. And yet the people ride to meeting, short though the\ndistance be, for at yonder oaken block a wife dismounts from behind her\nhusband;--and has it not, moreover, been found needful to impose a fine\nof forty shillings on fast trotting to and fro? All sins are not modern\nones, young gentlemen.\n\nWe approach nearer still, and come among the civic institutions. This is\nthe pillory, yonder the stocks, and there is a large wooden cage, a\nterror to evil-doers, but let us hope empty now. Round the meeting-house\nis a high wooden paling, to which the law permits citizens to tie their\nhorses, provided it be not done too near the passage-way. For at that\nopening stands a sentry, clothed in a suit of armor which is painted\nblack, and cost the town twenty-four shillings by the bill. He bears\nalso a heavy matchlock musket; his rest, or iron fork, is stuck in the\nground, ready to support the weapon; and he is girded with his\nbandoleer, or broad leather belt, which sustains a sword and a dozen tin\ncartridge-boxes.\n\nThe meeting-house is the second to which the town has treated itself,\nthe first having been \"a timber fort, both strong and comely, with flat\nroof and battlements,\"--a cannon on top, and the cannonade of the gospel\ndown below. But this one cost the town sixty-three pounds, hard-earned\npounds, and carefully expended. It is built of brick, smeared outside\nwith clay, and finished with clay-boards, larger than our clapboards,\noutside of all. It is about twenty-five feet square, with a chimney half\nthe width of the building, and projecting four feet above the thatched\nroof. The steeple is in the centre, and the bell-rope, if they have one,\nhangs in the middle of the broad aisle. There are six windows, two on\neach of the two sides, and two more at the end, part being covered with\noiled paper only, part glazed in numerous small panes. And between the\nwindows, on the outside, hang the heads of all the wolves that have been\nkilled in the township within the year. But the Quakers think that the\nwolves have cheated the parish and got inside, in sheep's clothing.\n\nThe people are assembling. The Governor has passed by, with his four\nvergers bearing halberds before him. The French Popish ambassadors, who\nhave just arrived from Canada, are told the customs of the place, and\nleft to stay quietly in the Governor's house, with sweetmeats, wines,\nand the liberty of a private walk in the garden. The sexton has just\ncalled for the minister, as is his duty twice every Sunday, and,\nremoving his cocked hat, he walks before his superior officer. The\nminister enters and passes up the aisle, dressed in Geneva cloak, black\nskull-cap, and black gloves open at thumb and finger, for the better\nhandling of his manuscript. He looks round upon his congregation, a few\nhundred, recently _seated_ anew for the year, arranged according to rank\nand age. There are the old men in the pews beneath the pulpit. There are\nthe young men in the gallery, or near the door, with ruffs, showy belts,\ngold and silver buttons, \"points\" at the knees, and great boots. There\nare the young women, with \"silk or tiffany hoods or scarfs,\"\n\"embroidered or needle-worked caps,\" \"immoderate great sleeves,\" \"cut\nworks,\"--a mystery,--\"slash apparel,\"--another mystery,--\"immoderate\ngreat vayles, long wings,\" etc.,--mystery on mystery, but all recorded\nin the statutes, which forbid these splendors to persons of mean estate.\nThere are the wives of the magistrates in prominent seats, and the\ngrammar-school master's wife next them; and in each pew, close to the\nmother's elbow, is the little wooden cage for the youngest child, still\ntoo young to sit alone. All boys are held too young to sit alone also;\nfor, though the emigrants left in Holland the aged deaconess who there\npresided, birch in hand, to control the rising generation in Sunday\nmeetings, yet the urchins are now herded on the pulpit- and\ngallery-stairs, with four constables to guard them from the allurements\nof sin. And there sits Sin itself embodied in the shrinking form of some\nhumiliated man or woman, placed on a high stool in the principal aisle,\nbearing the name of some dark crime written on paper and pinned to the\ngarments, or perhaps a Scarlet Letter on the breast.\n\nOh, the silence of this place of worship, after the solemn service sets\nin! \"People do not sneeze or cough here in public assemblies,\" says one\nwriter, triumphantly, \"so much as in England.\" The warning caution, \"Be\nshort,\" which the minister has inscribed above his study-door, claims no\nauthority over his pulpit. He may pray his hour, unpausing, and no one\nthinks it long; for, indeed, at prayer-meetings four persons will\nsometimes pray an hour each,--one with confession, one with private\npetitions, a third with petitions for church and kingdom, and a fourth\nwith thanksgiving,--neither part of the quartette being for an instant\nconfused with the other. Then he may preach his hour, and, turning his\nhour-glass, may say,--but that he will not anticipate the levity to be\nborn in a later century with Mather Byles,--\"Now, my hearers, we will\ntake another glass.\"\n\nIn short, this is the pomp and circumstance of glorious preaching. Woe\nto any one who shall disturb its proprieties! It is written in the\nstatute, \"If any one interrupt or oppose a preacher in season of\nworship, they shall be reproved by the magistrate, and on repetition\nshall pay \u00a35, or stand two hours on a block four feet high, with this\ninscription in capitals, 'A Wanton Gospeller.'\" Nor this alone, but the\nlaw stands by the minister's doctrine even out of the meeting-house. It\nis but a few days since Nathaniel Hadlock was sentenced to be severely\nwhipped for declaring that he could receive no profit from Mr. H----'s\npreaching,--since Thomas Maule was mauled to the extent of ten stripes\nfor declaring that Mr. H---- preached lies, and that his instruction was\nthe doctrine of devils,--since even the wife of Nicholas Phelps was\nsentenced to pay five pounds or be whipped, for asserting that this same\nMr. H---- sent abroad his wolves and bloodhounds among the sheep and\nlambs. Truly, it is a perilous thing to attend public worship in such\nreverential days. However, it is equally dangerous to stay at home;\nthere are tithing-men to look after the absentees, and any one\nunnecessarily absent must pay five shillings. He may be put in the\nstocks or in the wooden cage, if delinquent for a month together.\n\nBut we must give our attention to the sermon. It is what the\ncongregation will pronounce \"a large, nervous, and golden discourse,\" a\nScriptural discourse,--like the skeleton of the sea-serpent, all\nbackbone and a great deal of that. It may be some very special and\nfamous effort. Perhaps Increase Mather is preaching on \"The Morning\nStar,\" or on \"Snow,\" or on \"The Voice of God in Stormy Winds\"; or it may\nbe his sermon entitled \"Burnings Bewailed,\" to improve the lesson of\nsome great conflagration, which he attributes partly to Sabbath-breaking\nand partly to the new fashion of monstrous periwigs. Or it may be Cotton\nMather, his son, rolling forth his resounding discourse during a\nthunder-storm, entitled \"Brantologia Sacra,\"--consisting of seven\nseparate divisions or thunderbolts, and filled with sharp lightning from\nScripture and the Rabbinical lore, and Cartesian natural philosophy.\nJust as he has proclaimed, \"In the thunder there is the voice of the\nglorious God,\" a messenger comes hastening in, as in the Book of Job, to\ntell him that his own house has just been struck, and though no person\nis hurt, yet the house hath been much torn and filled with the\nlightnings. With what joy and power he instantly wields above his\naudience this providential surplus of excitement, reminding one\nirresistibly of some scientific lecturer who has nearly blown himself up\nby his own experiments, and proceeds beaming with fresh confidence, the\nfull power of his compound being incontestably shown. Rising with the\nemergency, he tells them grandly, that, as he once had in his house a\nmagnet which the thunder changed instantly from north to south, so it\nwere well if the next bolt could change their stubborn souls from Satan\nto God. But afterward he is compelled to own that Satan also is\nsometimes permitted to have a hand in the thunder, which is the reason\nwhy it breaks oftener on churches than on any other buildings; and again\nhe admits, pensively, at last, that churches and ministers' houses have\nundoubtedly the larger share.\n\nThe sermon is over. The more demoralized among the little boys, whose\nsleepy eyes have been more than once admonished by the hare's-foot wand\nof the constables,--the sharp paw is used for the boys, the soft fur is\nkept for the smooth foreheads of drowsy maidens,--look up thoroughly\nawakened now. Bright eyes glance from beneath silk or tiffany hoods, for\na little interlude is coming. Many things may happen in this pause after\nthe sermon. Questions may be asked of the elders now, which the elders\nmay answer,--if they can. Some lay brother may \"exercise\" on a text of\nScripture,--rather severe exercise, it sometimes turns out. Candidates\nfor the church may be proposed. A baptism may take place. If it be the\nproper month, the laws against profaning the Sabbath may be read. The\nlast town-regulations may be read; or, far more exciting, a new marriage\nmay be published. Or a darker scene may follow, and some offending\nmagistrate may be required to stand upon a bench, in his worst garments,\nwith a foul linen cap drawn close to his eyes, and acknowledge his sins\nbefore the pious people, who reverenced him so lately.\n\nThese things done, a deacon says impressively, \"Brethren, now there is\ntime for contribution; wherefore, as God hath prospered you, so freely\noffer.\" Then the people in the galleries come down and march two\nabreast, \"up one ile and down the other,\" passing before the desk, where\nin a long \"pue\" sit the elders and deacons. One of these holds a\nmoneybox, into which the worshippers put their offerings, usually\nvarying from one to five shillings, according to their ability and\ngood-will. Some give paper pledges instead; and others give other\nvaluables, such as \"a fair gilt cup, with a cover,\" for the\ncommunion-service. Then comes a psalm, read, line after line, by some\none appointed, out of the \"Bay Psalm-Book,\" and sung by the people.\nThese psalms are sung regularly through, four every Sunday, and some ten\ntunes compose the whole vocal range of the congregation. Then come the\nwords, \"Blessed are they who hear the word of the Lord and keep it,\" and\nthen the benediction.\n\nAnd then the reverend divine descends from his desk and walks down the\naisle, bowing gravely right and left to his people, not one of whom\nstirs till the minister has gone out; and then the assembly disperses,\neach to his own home, unless it be some who have come from a distance,\nand stay to eat their cold pork and peas in the meeting-house.\n\nRoll aside the panorama of the three-hours' Sunday service of two\ncenturies ago, lest that which was not called wearisome in the passing\nprove wearisome in the delineation now. It needed all this accumulation\nof small details to show how widely the externals of New-England\nchurch-going have changed since those early days. But what must have\nbeen the daily life of that Puritan minister for whom this exhausting\nservice was but one portion of the task of life! Truly, they were \"pious\nand painful preachers\" then, as I have read upon a stone in the old\nWatertown graveyard;--\"princely preachers\" Cotton Mather calls them. He\nrelates that Mr. Cotton, in addition to preaching on Sunday and holding\nhis ordinary lecture every Thursday, preached thrice a week besides, on\nWednesday and Thursday early in the morning, and on Saturday afternoon.\nHe also held a daily lecture in his house, which was at last abandoned\nas being too much thronged, and frequent occasional days occurred, when\nhe would spend six hours \"in the word and in prayer.\" On his voyage to\nthis country, he being accompanied by two other ministers, they commonly\nhad three sermons a day,--one after every meal. He was \"an universal\nscholar and a walking library,\"--he studied twelve hours a day, and\nsaid he liked to sweeten his mouth with a piece of Calvin before he went\nto sleep.\n\nA fearful rate of labor; a strange, grave, quaint, ascetic, rigorous\nlife. It seems a mystery how the Reverend Joshua Moody could have\nsurvived to write four thousand sermons, but it is no mystery why the\nReverend John Mitchell was called \"a truly aged young man\" at\nthirty,--especially when we consider that he was successor at Cambridge\nto \"the holy, heavenly, sweet-affecting, and soul-ravishing Mr.\nShepard,\" in continuance of whose labors he kept a monthly lecture,\n\"wherein he largely handled man's misery by sin and made a most\nentertaining exposition of the Book of Genesis.\"\n\nFor the minister's week-days were more arduous than his Sundays, and to\nhave for each parish both pastor and teacher still left a formidable\nduty for each. He must visit families during several afternoons in every\nweek, sending previous notice, so that children and domestics might be\nready for catechizing. He was \"much visited for counsel\" in his own\nhome, and must set apart one day in the week for cases of conscience,\nranging from the most fine-drawn self-tormentings up to the most\nunnatural secret crimes. He must often go to lectures in neighboring\ntowns, a kind of religious dissipation which increased so fast that the\nLegislature at last interfered to restrict it. He must have five or six\nseparate seasons for private prayer daily, devoting each day in the week\nto special meditations and intercessions,--as Monday to his family,\nTuesday to enemies, Wednesday to the churches, Thursday to other\nsocieties, Friday to persons afflicted, and Saturday to his own soul. He\nmust have private fasts, spending whole days locked in his study and\nwhole nights prostrate on the floor. Cotton Mather \"thought himself\nstarved,\" unless he fasted once a month at farthest, while he often did\nit twice in a week. Then there were public fasts quite frequently,\n\"because of sins, blastings, mildews, drought, grasshoppers,\ncaterpillars, small pox,\" \"loss of cattle by cold and frowns of\nProvidence.\" Perhaps a mouse and a snake had a battle in the\nneighborhood, and the minister must expound it as \"symbolizing the\nconflict betwixt Satan and God's poor people,\" the latter being the\nmouse triumphant. Then if there were a military expedition, the minister\nmight think it needful to accompany it. If there were even a muster, he\nmust open and close it with prayer, or, in his absence, the captain must\nofficiate instead.\n\nOne would naturally add to this record of labors the attendance on\nweddings and funerals. It is strange how few years are required to make\na usage seem ancestral, or to reunite a traditional broken one. Who now\nremembers that our progenitors for more than a century disused religious\nservices on both these solemn occasions? Magistrates alone could perform\nthe marriage ceremony; though it was thought to be carrying the monopoly\nquite too far, when Governor Bellingham, in 1641, officiated at his own.\nPrayer was absolutely forbidden at funerals, as was done also by Calvin\nat Geneva, by John Knox in Scotland, by the English Puritans in the\nWestminster Assembly, and by the French Huguenots. The bell might ring,\nthe friends might walk, two and two, to the grave; but there must be no\nprayer uttered. The secret was, that the traditions of the English and\nRomish Churches must be avoided at all sacrifices. \"Doctor,\" said King\nJames to a Puritan divine, \"do you go barefoot because the Papists wear\nshoes and stockings?\" Even the origin of the frequent New-England habit\nof eating salt fish on Saturday is supposed to have been the fact that\nRoman Catholics eat it on Friday.\n\nBut if there were no prayers said on these occasions, there were\nsermons. Mr. John Calf, of Newbury, described one specimen of funeral\nsermon in immortal verse:--\n\n  \"On Sabbath day he went his way,\n      As he was used to do,\n  God's house unto, that they might know\n      What he had for to show;\n\n  God's holy will he must fulfil,\n      For it was his desire\n  For to declare a sermon rare\n      Concerning Madam Fryer.\"\n\nThe practice of wedding discourses was handed down into the last\ncentury, and sometimes beguiled the persons concerned into rather\nstartling levities. For instance, when Parson Smith's daughter Mary was\nto marry young Mr. Cranch,--(what graceful productions of pen and pencil\nhave come to this generation from the posterity of that union!)--the\nfather permitted the saintly maiden to decide on her own text for the\nsermon, and she meekly selected, \"Mary hath chosen the better part,\nwhich shall not be taken away from her,\" and the discourse was duly\npronounced. But when her wild young sister Abby was bent on marrying a\ncertain Squire Adams, called John, whom her father disliked and would\nnot even invite to dinner, she boldly suggested for _her_ text, \"John\ncame, neither eating bread nor drinking wine, and ye say he hath a\ndevil.\" But no sermon stands recorded under this prefix, though Abby\nlived to be the wife of one President of the United States and mother of\nanother.\n\nThe Puritan minister had public duties also upon him. \"New England being\na country,\" said Cotton Mather, \"whose interests are remarkably\nenwrapped in theological circumstances, ministers ought to interest\nthemselves in politics.\" Indeed, for many years they virtually\ncontrolled the franchise, inasmuch as only male church-members could\nvote or hold office, at least in the Massachusetts Colony. Those\nmalecontents who petitioned to enlarge the suffrage were fined and\nimprisoned in 1646, and even in 1664 the only amendment was by\npermitting non-church-members to vote on a formal certificate to their\northodoxy from the minister. The government they aimed at was not\ndemocracy, but theocracy: \"God never did ordain democracy as a fit\ngovernment,\" said Cotton. Accordingly, when Cotton and Ward framed their\nfirst code, Ward's portion was rejected by the colony as heathen,--that\nis, based on Greek and Roman models, not Mosaic,--and Cotton's was\nafterwards rebuked in England as \"fanatical and absurd.\" But the\ngovernment finally established was an ecclesiastical despotism, tempered\nby theological controversy.\n\nIn Connecticut it was first the custom, and then the order, lasting as\nlate as 1708, that \"the ministers of the gospel should preach a sermon,\non the day appointed by law for the choice of civil rulers, proper for\nthe direction of the town in the work before them.\" They wrote\nstate-papers, went on embassies, and took the lead at town-meetings. At\nthe exciting gubernatorial election in 1637, Rev. John Wilson, minister\nof the First Church in Boston, not satisfied with \"taking the stump\" for\nhis candidate, took to a full-grown tree and harangued the people from\namong the boughs. Perhaps the tree may have been the Great Elm which\nstill ornaments the Common; but one sees no chips of that other old\nblock among its branches now.\n\nOne would expect that the effect of this predominant clerical influence\nwould have been to make the aim of the Puritan codes lofty, their\nconsistency unflinching, their range narrow, and their penalties\nsevere,--and it certainly was so. Looking at their educational\nprovisions, they seem all noble; looking at their schedule of sins and\nretributions, one wonders how any rational being could endure them for a\nday. Communities, like individuals, furnish virtues piecemeal. Roger\nWilliams, with all his wise toleration, bequeathed to Rhode Island no\nsuch system of schools as his persecutors framed for Massachusetts. But\nthe children who were watched and trained thus carefully might be put to\ndeath, if they \"cursed their orderly parents\" after the age of\nsixteen;--not that the penalty ever was inflicted, but it was on the\nstatute-book. Sabbath-breaking was placed on a level with\nmurder,--though Calvin himself allowed the old men to play at bowls and\nthe young men to practise military training, after afternoon service,\nat Geneva. Down to 1769 not even a funeral could take place on Sunday in\nMassachusetts, without license from a magistrate. Then the stocks and\nthe wooden cage were in frequent use, though \"barbarous and cruel\"\npunishments were forbidden in 1641. Scolds and railers were set on a\nducking-stool and dipped over head and ears three times, in running\nwater, if possible. Mrs. Oliver, a troublesome theologian, was silenced\nwith a cleft stick applied to her tongue. Thomas Scott, in 1649, was\nsentenced for some offence to learn \"the chatachise,\" or be fined ten\nshillings, and, after due consideration, paid the fine. Sometimes\noffenders, with a refinement of cruelty, were obliged to \"go and talk to\nthe elders.\" And if any youth made matrimonial overtures to a young\nfemale without the consent of her parents, or, in their absence, of the\nCounty Court, he was first fined and then imprisoned. A new etymology\nfor the word \"courting.\"\n\nAn exhibition of this mingled influence was in the relation of the\nministers to the Indian wars. Roger Williams, even when banished and\npowerless, could keep the peace with the natives. But when the brave\nMiantonimo was to be dealt with for suspected treason, and the civil\nauthorities decided, that, though it was unsafe to set him at liberty,\nthey yet had no ground to put him to death, the matter being finally\nreferred to five \"elders,\" Uncas was straightway authorized to slay him\nin cold blood. The Pequots were first defeated and then exterminated,\nand their heroic King Philip, a patriot according to his own standard,\nwas hunted like a wild beast, his body quartered and set on poles, his\nhead exposed as a trophy for twenty years on a gibbet in Plymouth, and\none of his hands sent to Boston: then the ministers returned thanks, and\none said that they had _prayed_ the bullet into Philip's heart. Nay, it\nseems that in 1677, on a Sunday in Marblehead, \"the women, as they came\nout of the meeting-house, fell upon two Indians, that had been brought\nin as captives, and in a tumultuous way very barbarously murdered them,\"\nin revenge for the death of some fishermen: a moral application which\ncertainly gives a singular impression of the style of gospel prevailing\ninside the meeting-house that day. But it is good to know, on the other\nside, that, when the Commissioners of the United Colonies had declared\nan Indian war, and the Massachusetts Colony had become afterwards\nconvinced that the war was unrighteous, the troops were recalled, though\nalready far towards the field, and no pride or policy prevented the\norder from being rescinded.\n\nThese were some of the labors of the clergy. But no human being lives\nwithout relaxation, and they may have had theirs. True, \"ministers have\nlittle to joy in in this world,\" wrote old Norton; and one would think\nso, to read the dismal diaries, printed or manuscript, of those days. \"I\ncan compare with any man living for fears,\" said Hooker. \"I have sinned\nmyself into darkness,\" said Bailey. \"Many times have I been ready to lay\ndown my ministry, thinking God had forsaken me.\" \"I was almost in the\nsuburbs of hell all day.\" Yet who can say that this habit of agonizing\nintrospection wholly shut out the trivial enjoyments of daily life? Who\ndrank, for instance, that twelve gallons of sack and that six gallons of\nwhite wine which the General Court thought it convenient that the\nAuditor should send, \"as a small testimony of the Court's respect, to\nthe reverend assembly of Elders at Cambridge,\" in 1644? Did the famous\nCambridge Platform rest, like the earth in the Hebrew cosmology, upon\nthe waters,--strong waters? Was it only the Derry Presbyterians who\nwould never give up a p'int of doctrine, nor a pint of rum? It is\nstartling to remember that in 1685 it was voted, on occasion of a public\nfuneral, that \"some person be appointed to look after the burning of the\nwine and the heating of the cider,\" and to hear that on this occasion\nthere were thirty-two gallons of wine and still more of cider, with one\nhundred and four pounds of that ensnaring accessory, sugar. Francis\nHigginson, in writing back to the mother country that one sup of New\nEngland's air was better than a whole draught of Old England's ale, gave\nconvincing proof that he had tasted both beverages. But, after all, the\nvery relaxations of the Puritan minister were more spiritual than\nspirituous, and to send forth a good Nineteenthly from his own lips was\nmore relishing than to have the best Double X go in.\n\nIn spite of the dignity of this influential class, they were called only\nElders for a long time. Titles were carefully adjusted in those days.\nThe commonalty bore the appellations of Goodman and Goodwife, and one of\nRoger William's offences was his wishing to limit these terms to those\nwho gave some signs of deserving them. The name \"Mr.\" was allowed to\nthose who had taken the degree of Master of Arts at College, and also to\nprofessional men, eminent merchants, military officers, and mates of\nvessels, and their wives and daughters monopolized the epithet \"Mrs.\"\nMr. Josiah Plastow, when he had stolen four baskets of corn from the\nIndians, was degraded into plain Josiah. \"Mr.\" seems to have meant\nsimply \"My Sir,\" and the clergy were often called \"Sir\" merely, a title\ngiven also to college graduates, on Commencement programmes, down to the\ntime of the Revolution. And so strong was the Puritan dislike to the\nidolatry of saints' names, that the Christian Apostles were sometimes\ndesignated as Sir Paul, Sir Peter, and Sir James.\n\nIn coming to the private affairs of the Puritan divines, it is\nhumiliating to find that anxieties about salary are of no modern origin.\nThe highest compensation I can find recorded is that of John Higginson\nin 1671, who had \u00a3160 voted him \"in country produce,\" which he was glad,\nhowever, to exchange for \u00a3120 in solid cash. Solid cash included\nbeaver-skins, black and white wampum, beads, and musket-balls, value one\nfarthing. Mr. Woodbridge in Newbury at this same time had \u00a360, and Mr.\nEpes preached in Salem for twenty shillings a Sunday, half in money and\nhalf in provisions. Holy Mr. Cotton used to say that nothing was cheap\nin New England but milk and ministers. Down to 1700, Increase Mather\nsays, most salaries were less than \u00a3100, which he thinks \"might account\nfor the scanty harvests enjoyed by our farmers.\" He and his son Cotton\nboth tell the story of a town where \"two very eminent ministers were\nonly allowed \u00a330 per annum\" and \"the God who will not be mocked made\nthem lose \u00a3300 worth of cattle that year.\" The latter also complains\nthat the people were very willing to consider the ministers the stars,\nrather than the mere lamps, of the churches, provided they, like the\nstars, would shine without earthly contributions.\n\nHe also calls the terms of payment, in one of his long words,\n\"Synecdotical Pay,\"--in allusion to that rhetorical figure by which a\npart is used for the whole. And apparently various causes might produce\nthis Synecdoche. For I have seen an anonymous \"Plea for Ministers of the\nGospel,\" in 1706, which complains that \"young ministers have often\noccasion in their preaching to speak things offensive to some of the\nwealthiest people in town, on which occasion they may withhold a\nconsiderable part of their maintenance.\" It is a comfort to think how\nentirely this source of discomfort, at least, is now eradicated from the\npath of the clergy; and it is painful to think that there ever was a\nperiod when wealthy parishioners did not enjoy the delineation of their\nown sins.\n\nHowever, the ministerial households contrived to subsist, in spite of\nrhetorical tropes and malecontent millionnaires. The Puritan divine\ncould commonly afford not only to keep house, but to keep horse\nlikewise, and to enjoy the pet professional felicity of printing his own\nsermons. As to the last privilege there could have been no great\ntrouble, for booksellers were growing rich in New England as early as\n1677,--not that it is always an inevitable inference that authors\nare,--and Cotton Mather published three hundred and eighty-two\ndifferent works for his own share. Books were abundant enough at that\nday, though somewhat grim and dingy, and two complete Puritan libraries\nare preserved in the rich collection of the American Antiquarian Society\nat Worcester,--without whose treasures, let me add, this modest\nmonograph never could have been written. As for the minister's horse,\nthe moral sentiment of the community protected him faithfully; for a man\nwas fined in Newbury for \"killing our elder's mare, and a special good\nbeast she was.\" The minister's house was built by the town; in Salem it\nwas \"13 feet stud, 23 by 42, four chimnies and no gable-ends,\"--so that\nthe House with Seven Gables belonged to somebody else;--and the\nSelectmen ordered all men to appear with teams on a certain day and put\nthe minister's grounds in order.\n\nInside the parsonage-house, however, there was sometimes trouble. Rev.\nEzekiel Rogers wrote in 1657 to his brother in England,--\"Much ado I\nhave with my own family; hard to get a servant who enjoys catechising or\nfamily duties. I had a rare blessing of servants in England, and those I\nbrought over were a blessing; but the young brood doth much afflict me.\"\nProbably the minister's wife had the worst of this; but she seems to\nhave been generally, like the modern minister's wife, a saint, and could\nbear it. Cotton Mather, indeed, quotes triumphantly the Jewish phrase\nfor a model female,--\"one who deserved to marry a priest\"; and one of\nthe most singular passages in the history of the human heart is the old\ngentleman's own narrative, in his manuscript diary, of a passionate\nlove-adventure, in his later years, with a fascinating young girl, an\n\"ingenious child,\" as he calls her, whom his parish thought by no means\na model female, but from whom it took three days of solitary fasting and\nprayer to wean him at last.\n\nHe was not the only Puritan minister who bestowed his heart somewhat\nstrangely. Rev. John Mitchell, who succeeded the soul-ravishing Shepard\nat Cambridge, as aforesaid, married his predecessor's widow \"on the\ngeneral recommendation of her,\" and the college students were greatly\ndelighted, as one might imagine. Rev. Michael Wigglesworth, in 1691,\nwooed the Widow Avery in a written discourse, which I have seen in\nmanuscript, arranged under twelve different heads,--one of which treats\nof the prospect of his valuable life being preserved longer by her care.\nShe having children of her own, he offers mysteriously to put some of\nhis own children \"out of the way,\" if necessary,--a hint which becomes\nformidable when one remembers that he was the author of that once famous\ntheological poem, \"The Day of Doom,\" in which he relentingly assigned to\ninfants, because they had sinned only in Adam, \"the easiest room in\nhell.\" But he wedded the lady, and they were apparently as happy as if\nhe had not been a theologian; and I have seen the quaint little\nheart-shaped locket he gave her, bearing an anchor and a winged heart\nand \"Thine forever.\"\n\nLet us glance now at some of the larger crosses of the Puritan minister.\nFirst came a \"young brood\" of heretics to torment him. Gorton's\nfollowers were exasperating enough; they had to be confined in irons\nseparately, one in each town, on pain of death, if they preached their\ndoctrines,--and of course they preached them. But their offences and\npenalties were light, compared with those of the Quakers. When the\nQuakers assembled by themselves, their private doors might be broken\nopen,--a thing which Lord Chatham said the king of England could not do\nto any one,--they might be arrested without warrant, tried without jury,\nfor the first offence be fined, for the second lose one ear, for the\nthird lose the other ear, and for the fourth be bored with red-hot iron\nthrough the tongue,--though this last penalty remained a dead letter.\nThey could be stripped to the waist, tied to a cart, and whipped through\ntown after town,--three women were whipped through eleven towns, eighty\nmiles,--but afterwards the number was limited to three. Their testimony\nwas invalid, their families attainted, and those who harbored them were\nfined forty shillings an hour. They might be turned out shelterless\namong wolves and bears and frosts: they could be branded H for Heretic,\nand R for Rogue; they could be sold as slaves; and their graves must not\nbe fenced to keep off wild beasts, lest their poor afflicted bodies\nshould find rest there.\n\nYet in this same age female Quakers had gone as missionaries to Malta\nand to Turkey and returned unharmed. No doubt the monks and the Sultan\nmust have looked on the plain dress much as some clerical gentlemen have\nsince regarded the Bloomer costume,--and the Inquisition imprisoned the\nmissionaries, though the Sultan did not. But meanwhile the Quaker women\nin New England might be walking to execution with their male\ncompanions,--like Mary Dyer in Boston,--under an armed guard of two\nhundred, led on by a minister seventy years old, and the fiercer for\nevery year. When they asked Mary Dyer, \"Are you not ashamed to walk thus\nhand in hand between two young men?\" she answered, \"No, this is to me an\nhour of the greatest joy I could enjoy in this world. No tongue could\nutter and no heart understand the sweet influence of the Spirit which\nnow I feel.\" Then they placed her on the scaffold, and covered her face\nwith a handkerchief which the Reverend Mr. Wilson lent the hangman; and\nwhen they heard that she was reprieved, she would not come down, saying\nthat she would suffer with her brethren. And suffer death she did, at\nlast, and the Reverend Mr. Wilson made a pious ballad on her execution.\n\nIt is no wonder, if some persons declare that about this time the wheat\nof Massachusetts began to be generally blasted, and the peas to grow\nwormy. It is no wonder, that, when the witchcraft excitement came on,\nthe Quakers called it a retribution for these things. But let us be\njust, even to the unjust. Toleration was a new-born virtue in those\ndays, and one which no Puritan ever for a moment recognized as such, or\nasked to have exercised toward himself. In England they did not wish to\nbe tolerated for a day as sectaries, they claimed to have authority as\nthe one true church. They held with Pym, that \"it is the duty of\nlegislators to establish the true religion and to punish false,\"--a\ndoctrine equally fatal, whether applied to enforce the right theology or\nthe wrong. They objected to the Church of England, not that it\npersecuted, but that its persecution was wrongly aimed. It is,\ntherefore, equally absurd to praise them for a toleration they never\nprofessed, or to accuse them of any inconsistency when they practised\nintolerance. They have been so loosely praised, that they are as loosely\nblamed. What was great in them was their heroism of soul, not their\nlargeness. They sought the American wilderness not to indulge the whims\nof others, but their own. They said to the Quakers, \"We seek not your\ndeath, but your absence.\" All their persecution, after all, was an\nalternative sentence; all they asked of the Quakers was to keep out of\ntheir settlements and let them alone. Moreover, their worst penalties\nwere borrowed from the English laws, and only four offenders were put to\ndeath from the beginning;--of course, four too many.\n\nAgain, it is to be remembered that the Quaker peculiarities were not\ntheological only, but political and social also. Everything that the\nPuritan system of government asserted the Quakers denied; they rendered\nno allegiance, owned no laws, paid no taxes, bore no arms. With the best\npossible intentions, they subverted all established order. Then their\nmodes of action were very often intemperate and violent. One can hardly\napprove the condemnation pronounced by Cotton Mather upon a certain\nRarey among the Friends in those days, who could control a mad bull that\nwould rend any other man. But it was oftener the Quakers who needed the\nRareys. Running naked through the public streets,--coming into meeting\ndressed in sackcloth, with ashes on their heads and nothing on their\nfeet,--or sitting there with their hats on, groaning and rocking to and\nfro, in spite of elders, deacons, and tithing-men: these were the\nvagaries of the zealots, though always repudiated by the main body. The\nPuritans found themselves reproached with permitting these things, and\nso took refuge in outrageous persecutions, which doubled them. Indeed,\nthe Quakers themselves began to persecute, on no greater provocation, in\nPhiladelphia, thirty years afterwards,--playing over again upon George\nKeith and his followers the same deluded policy of fines and\nimprisonment from which they had just escaped;--as minorities have\npersecuted sub-minorities ever since intolerance began.\n\nIndeed, so far as mere language went, the minority always watched the\nmajority. Grave divines did not like to be pelted with such epithets as\nthese: \"Thou fiery fighter and green-headed trumpeter! thou hedgehog and\ngrinning dog! thou mole! thou tinker! thou lizard! thou bell of no metal\nbut the tone of a kettle! thou wheelbarrow! thou whirlpool! thou\nwhirligig! thou firebrand! thou moon-calf! thou ragged tatterdemalion!\nthou gormandizing priest! thou bane of reason and beast of the earth!\nthou best to be spared of all mankind!\"--all of which are genuine\nepithets from the Quaker books of that period, and termed by Cotton\nMather, who collected them, \"quills of the porcupine.\" They surpass even\nDr. Chauncy's catalogue of the unsavory epithets used by Whitefield and\nTennent a century later; and it was not likely that they would be\ntolerated by a race whose reverence for men in authority was so\ncomprehensive that they actually fined some one for remarking that Major\nPhillips's old mare was as lean as an Indian's dog.\n\nThere is a quaint anecdote preserved, showing the continuance of the\nQuaker feud in full vigor as lately as 1705. A youth among the Friends\nwished to espouse a fair Puritan maiden; but the Quakers disapproved his\nmarrying out of their society, and the Congregationalists his marrying\ninto theirs; so in despair he thus addressed her:--\"Ruth, let us break\nfrom this unreasonable bondage. I will give up my religion, and thou\nshalt give up thine; and we will marry and go into the Church of\nEngland, and go to the Devil together.\" And they fulfilled the\nresolution, the Puritan historian says, _so far_ as going into the\nChurch, and marrying, and staying there for life. But probably the\nministers thought it to be another case of synecdoche.\n\nWith the same careful discrimination we must try to study the\nastonishing part played by the ministers in the witchcraft delusions. It\nmust be remembered that the belief in this visitation was no new or\npeculiar thing in New England. The Church, the Scriptures, the medi\u00e6val\nlaws, had all made it a capital crime. There had been laws against it in\nEngland for a hundred years. Bishop Jewel had complained to Queen\nElizabeth of the alarming increase of witches and sorcerers. Sir Thomas\nBrowne had pronounced it flat atheism to doubt them. High legal and\njudicial authorities, as Dalton, Keeble, Sir Matthew Hale, had described\nthis crime as definitely and seriously as any other. In Scotland four\nthousand had suffered death for it in ten years; Cologne, Nuremberg,\nGeneva, Paris, were executing hundreds every year; even in 1749 a girl\nwas burnt alive in W\u00fcrtzburg; and is it strange, if, during all that\nwild excitement, Massachusetts put to death twenty? The only wonder is\nin the independence of the Rhode Island people, who declared that \"there\nwere no witches on the earth, nor devils,--except\" (as they profanely\nadded) \"the New-England ministers, and such as they.\"\n\nJohn Higginson sums it up best:--\"They proceeded in their integrity with\na zeal of God against sin, according to their best light and law and\nevidence.\" \"_But there is a question_,\" he wisely adds, \"whether some of\nthe laws, customs, and privileges used by judges and juries in England,\nwhich were followed as patterns here, were not insufficient.\" Cotton\nMather also declared that he observed in judges and juries a\nconscientious endeavor to do the thing which was right, and gives a long\nlist of the legal authorities whom they consulted; observing, finally,\nthat the fact of fifty confessions was, after all, the one irresistible\nvindication of their strong measures.\n\nIt must have been so. Common sense and humanity might have refuted every\nother evidence than that of the victims themselves. But what were the\nauthorities to do, when, in addition to all legal and Scriptural\nprecedents, the prisoners insisted on entering a plea of guilty? When\nGoody E---- testified that she and two others rode from Andover to a\nwitch-meeting on a broomstick, and the stick broke and she fell and was\nstill lame from it,--when her daughter testified that she rode on the\nsame stick, and confirmed all the details of the casualty,--when the\ngrand-daughter confirmed them also, and added, that she rode on another\nstick, and they all signed Satan's book together,--when W. B----, aged\nforty, testified that Satan assembled a hundred fine blades near Salem\nMeeting-House, and the trumpet sounded, and bread and wine were carried\nround, and Satan was like a black sheep, and wished them to destroy the\nminister's house, (by thunder probably,) and set up his kingdom, and\n\"then all would be well,\"--when one woman summoned her three children\nand some neighbors and a sister and a domestic, who all testified that\nshe was a witch and so were they all,--what could be done for such\nprisoners by judge or jury, in an age which held witchcraft a certainty?\nIt was only the rapid rate of increase which finally stopped the\nconvictions.\n\nOne thing is certain, that this strange delusion, a semi-comedy to\nus,--though part of the phenomena may find their solution in laws not\nyet unfolded,--was the sternest of tragedies to those who lived in it.\nConceive, for an instant, of believing in the visible presence and\nlabors of the arch-fiend in a peaceful community. Yet from the bottom of\ntheir souls these strong men held to it, and they waged a hand-to-hand\nfight with Satan all their days. Very inconveniently the opponent\nsometimes dealt his blows, withal. Surely it could not be a pleasant\nthing to a sound divine, just launched upon his seventeen-headed\ndiscourse, to have a girl with wild eyes and her hair about her ears\nstart up and exclaim, \"Parson, your text is too long,\"--or worse yet,\n\"Parson, your sermon is too long,\"--or most embarrassing of all,\n\"There's a great yellow bird sitting on the parson's hat in the pulpit.\"\nBut these formidable interruptions veritably happened, and received the\nstern discipline in such cases made and provided.\n\nBut beside Quakers and witches, the ministers had other female\ntormentors to deal with. There was the perpetual anxiety of the\nunregenerated toilet. \"Immodest apparel, laying out of hair, borders,\nnaked necks and arms, or, as it were, pinioned with superfluous\nribbons,\"--these were the things which tried men's souls in those days,\nand the statute-books and private journals are full of such plaintive\ninventories of the implements of sin. Things known as \"slash apparel\"\nseem to have been an infinite source of anxiety; there must be only one\nslash on each sleeve and one in the back. Men also must be prohibited\nfrom shoulderbands of undue width, double ruffs and cuffs, and\n\"immoderate great breeches.\" Part of the solicitude was for modesty,\npart for gravity, part for economy: none must dress above their\ncondition. In 1652, three men and a woman were fined ten shillings each\nand costs for wearing silver-lace, another for broad bone-lace, another\nfor tiffany, and another for a silk hood. Alice Flynt was accused of a\nsilk hood, but, proving herself worth more than two hundred pounds,\nescaped unpunished. Jonas Fairbanks, about the same time, was charged\nwith \"great boots,\" and the evidence went hard against him; but he was\nfortunately acquitted, and the credit of the family saved.\n\nThe question of veils seems to have rocked the Massachusetts Colony to\nits foundations, and was fully discussed at Thursday Lecture, March 7th,\n1634. Holy Mr. Cotton was utterly and unalterably opposed to veils,\nregarding them as a token of submission to husbands in an unscriptural\ndegree. It is pleasant to think that there could be an unscriptural\nextent of such submission, in those times. But Governor Endicott and\nRev. Mr. Williams resisted stoutly, quoting Paul, as usual in such\ncases; so Paul, veils, and vanity carried the day. But afterward Mr.\nCotton came to Salem to preach for Mr. Skelton, and did not miss his\nchance to put in his solemn protest against veils; he said they were a\ncustom not to be tolerated; and so the ladies all came to meeting\nwithout their veils in the afternoon. Probably the most astounding\nvisible result from a single sermon within the memory of man.\n\nBeginning with the veils, the eye of authority was next turned on what\nwas under them. In 1675 it was decided, that, as the Indians had done\nmuch harm of late, and the Deity was evidently displeased with\nsomething, the General Court should publish a list of the evils of the\ntime. And among the twelve items of contrition stood this: \"Long hair\nlike women's hair is worn by some men, either their own or others' hair\nmade into periwigs;--and by some women wearing borders of hair, and\ntheir cutting, curling, and immodest laying out of their hair,\" (does\nthis hint at puff-combs?) \"which practice doth increase, especially\namong the younger sort.\" Not much was effected, however,--\"divers of the\nelders' wives,\" as Winthrop lets out, \"being in some measure partners in\nthis disorder.\" The use of wigs also, at first denounced by the clergy,\nwas at last countenanced by them: in portraits later than 1700 they\nusually replace the black skull-cap of earlier pictures, and in 1752 the\ntables had so far turned that a church-member in Newbury refused\ncommunion because \"the pastor wears a wigg.\" Yet Increase Mather thought\nthey played no small part in producing the Boston Fire. \"Monstrous\nPeriwigs, such as some of our church-members indulge in, which make them\nresemble the Locusts that came out of y'e Bottomless Pit. Rev. ix. 7,\n8,--and as an eminent Divine calls them, _Horrid Bushes of Vanity_; such\nstrange apparel as is contrary to the light of Nature and to express\nScripture. 1 Cor. xi. 14, 15. Such pride is enough to provoke the Lord\nto kindle fires in all the towns in the country.\"\n\nAnother vexation was the occasional arrival of false prophets in a\ncommunity where every man was expected to have a current supply of\nreligious experiences always ready for circulation. There was a certain\nhypocritical Dick Swayn, for instance, a seafaring man, who gave much\ntrouble; and E.F.,--for they mostly appear by initials,--who, coming to\nNew Haven one Saturday evening, and being dressed in black, was taken\nfor a minister, and asked to preach: he was apparently a little insane,\nand at first talked \"demurely,\" but at last \"railed like Rabshakeh,\"\nCotton Mather says. There was also M.J., a Welsh tanner, who finally\nstole his employer's leather breeches and set up for a preacher,--less\ninnocently apparelled than George Fox. But the worst of all was one\nbearing the since sainted name of Samuel May. This vessel of wrath\nappeared in 1699, indorsed as a man of a sweet gospel spirit,--though,\nindeed, one of his indorsers had himself been \"a scandalous fire-ship\namong the churches.\" Mather declares that every one went a-Maying after\nthis man, whom he maintains to have been a barber previously, and who\nknew no Latin, Greek, Hebrew, nor even English,--for (as he indignantly\nasserts) \"there were eighteen horrid false spells, and not one point, in\none very short note I received from him.\" This doubtful personage copied\nhis sermons from a volume by his namesake, Dr. Samuel Bolton,--\"Sam the\nDoctor and Sam the Dunce,\" Mather calls them. Finally, \"this eminent\nworthy stranger,\" Sam, who was no dunce, after all, quarrelled with his\nparish for their slow payments, and \"flew out like a Dragon, spitting\nthis among other fire at them:--'I see, no longer pipe, no longer\ndance,'--so that they came to fear he was a cheat, and wish they had\nnever seen him.\" Then \"the guilty fellow, having bubbled the silly\nneighbors of an incredible number of pounds, on a sudden was gone,\" and\nCotton Mather sent a letter after him, which he declares to have been\nthe worst penalty the man suffered.\n\nIt is safer to say little of the theological scheme of the Puritan\nministers, lest the present writer be pronounced a Wanton Gospeller, and\nhave no tithingman to take his part. But however it may be with the\nregular standards of theology of that period, every one could find a\nsufficient variety to suit him among its heresies. Eighty-two \"pestilent\nheresies\" were counted as having already sprung up in 1637; others say\none hundred and six; others, two hundred and ten. The Puritans kept\nRhode Island for what housekeepers call an \"odd drawer,\" into which to\ncrowd all these eccentricities. It was said, that, if any man happened\nto lose his religious opinion, he might be sure to find it again at some\nvillage in Rhode Island. Thither went Roger Williams and his Baptists;\nthither went Quakers and Ranters; thither went Ann Hutchinson, that\nextraordinary woman, who divided the whole politics of the country by\nher Antinomian doctrines, denouncing the formalisms around her, and\nconverting the strongest men, like Cotton and Vane, to her opinions.\nThither went also Samuel Gorton, a man of no ordinary power, who\nproclaimed a mystical union with God in love, thought that heaven and\nhell were in the mind alone, but esteemed little the clergy and the\nordinances. The colony was protected also by the thoughtful and\nchivalrous Vane, who held that water baptism had had its day, and that\nthe Jewish Sabbath should give place to the modern Sunday. All these,\nand such as these, were called generally \"Seekers\" by the Puritans,--who\nclaimed for themselves that they had found that which they sought. It is\nthe old distinction; but for which is the ship built, to be afloat or to\nbe at anchor?\n\nSuch were those pious worthies, the men whose names are identified with\nthe leadership of the New-England colonies,--Cotton, Hooker, Norton,\nShepard, the Higginsons, the Mathers. To these might be added many an\nobscurer name, preserved in the quaint epitaphs of the\n\"Magnalia\":--Blackman, \"in spite of his name, a Nazarene whiter than\nsnow\";--Partridge, \"a hunted partridge,\" yet \"both a dove and an\neagle\";--Ezekiel Rogers, \"a tree of knowledge, whose apples the very\nchildren might pluck\";--Nathaniel Rogers, \"a very lively preacher and a\nvery preaching liver, he loved his church as if it had been his family\nand he taught his family as if it had been his church\";--Warham, the\nfirst who preached with notes, and who suffered agonies of doubt\nrespecting the Lord's Supper;--Stone, \"both a loadstone and a flint\nstone,\" and who set the self-sacrificing example of preaching only one\nhour.\n\nThese men had mingled traits of good and evil, like all mankind,--nobler\nthan their descendants in some attributes, less noble in others. The\nmost strait-laced Massachusetts Calvinist of these days would have been\ndisciplined by them for insufferable laxity, and yet their modern\nsuccessor would count it utter shame, perhaps, to own a slave in his\nfamily or to drink rum-punch at an ordination,--which Puritan divines\nmight do without rebuke. Not one of them has left on record a statement\nso broad and noble as that of Roger Williams:--\"To be content with food\nand raiment,--to mind, not our own, but every man the things of\nanother,--yea, and to suffer wrong, and to part with what we judge to be\nright, yea, our own lives, and, as poor women martyrs have said, as many\nas there be hairs upon our heads, for the name of God and for the Son of\nGod's sake,--this is humanity, this is Christianity; the rest is but\nformality and picture-courteous idolatry, and Jewish and Popish\nblasphemy against the Christian religion.\" And yet the mind of Roger\nWilliams was impulsive, erratic, and unstable, compared with theirs; and\nin what respect has the work they left behind them proved, after the\ntesting of two centuries, less solid or durable than his?\n\nThese men were stern even to cruelty against all that they held\nevil,--Satan and his supposed emissaries, witches, Quakers, Indians,\nnegligent parishioners, disobedient offspring, men with periwigs, and\nwomen in slash apparel. Yet the tenderest private gentleness often lay\nbehind this gloomy rigor of the conscience. Some of them would never\nchastise a son or daughter, in spite of Solomon; others would write in\nGreek characters in their old almanacs quaint little English verses on\nthe death of some beloved child. That identical \"Priest Wilson\" who made\nthe ballad at Mary Dyer's execution attended a military muster one day.\n\"Sir,\" said some one, \"I'll tell you a great thing: here's a mighty body\nof people, and there's not seven of them all but loves Mr. Wilson.\"\n\"Sir,\" it was replied, \"I'll tell you as good a thing: here's a mighty\nbody of people, and there's not one of them all but Mr. Wilson loves\nhim.\" Mr. Cotton was a terror to evil-doers, yet, when a company of men\ncame along from a tavern and said, \"Let us put a trick upon Old Cotton,\"\nand one came and cried in his ear, \"Cotton, thou art an old fool,\"--\"I\nknow it, I know it,\" retorted cheerily the venerable man, and pungently\nadded, \"The Lord make both me and thee wiser!\" Mr. Hooker was once\nreproving a boy in the street, who boldly replied, \"I see you are in a\npassion; I will not answer you,\" and so ran away. It contradicts all\none's notions of Puritan propriety, and yet it seems that the good man,\nfinding afterwards that the boy was not really guilty, sent for him to\napologize, and owned himself to have been wrong.\n\nWhat need to speak of the strength and courage, the disinterestedness\nand zeal, with which they bore up the fortunes of the colony on their\nshoulders, and put that iron into the New-England blood which has since\nsupplied the tonic for a continent? It was said of Mr. Hooker, that he\nwas \"a person who, while doing his Master's work, would put a king in\nhis pocket\"; and it was so with them all: they would pocket anything but\na bribe to themselves or an insult to God or their profession. They\nflinched from no reproof that was needed: \"Sharp rebukes make sound\nChristians\" was a proverb among them. They sometimes lost their tempers,\nand sometimes their parishes, but never their independence. I find a\nhundred anecdotes of conscientious cruelty laid up against them, but not\none of cowardice or of compromise. They may have bored the tongues of\nothers with a bar of iron, but they never fettered their own tongues\nwith a bar of gold,--as some African tribes think it a saintly thing to\ndo, and not African tribes alone.\n\nThere was such an absolute righteousness among them, that to this day\nevery man of New-England descent lives partly on the fund of virtuous\nhabit they accumulated. And, on the other hand, every man of the many\nwho still stand ready to indorse everything signed by a D.D.--without\neven adding the commercial E.E., for Errors Excepted--is in part the\nvictim of the over-influence they obtained. Yet there was a kind of\ndemocracy in that vast influence also: the Puritans were far more\nthorough Congregationalists than their successors; they recognized no\nseparate clerical class, and the \"elder\" was only the highest officer of\nhis own church. Each religious society could choose and ordain its own\nminister, or dispense with all ordaining services at will, without the\nslightest aid or hindrance from council or consociation. So the stern\ntheology of the pulpit only reflected the stern theology of the pews;\nthe minister was but the representative man. If the ministers were\nrecognized as spiritual guides, it was because they were such to the\nmen of their time, whatever they might be to ours. Demonax of old, when\nasked about the priests' money, said, that, if they were really the\nleaders of the people, they could not have too much payment,--or too\nlittle, if they were not. I believe that on these conditions the Puritan\nministers well earned their hundred and sixty pounds a year, with a\ndiscount of forty pounds, if paid in wampum-beads, beaver-skins, and\nmusket-balls. What they took in musket-balls they paid back in the\nheavier ammunition of moral truth. Here is a specimen of their\ngrape-shot:--\"My fathers and brethren,\" said John Higginson, \"this is\nnever to be forgotten, that our New England is originally a plantation\nof religion, and not a plantation of trade. Let merchants and such as\nare making cent. per cent. remember this. Let others who have come over\nsince at sundry times remember this, that worldly gain was not the end\nand design of the people of New England, but religion. And if any man\namong us make religion as twelve and the world as thirteen, let such a\nman know he hath neither the spirit of a true New-England man, nor yet\nof a sincere Christian.\"\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\nTHOREAU'S FLUTE.\n\n\n  We, sighing, said, \"Our Pan is dead;\n    His pipe hands mute beside the river;--\n    Around it wistful sunbeams quiver,\n  But Music's airy voice is fled.\n  Spring mourns as for untimely frost;\n    The bluebird chants a requiem;\n    The willow-blossom waits for him;--\n  The Genius of the wood is lost.\"\n\n  Then from the flute, untouched by hands,\n    There came a low, harmonious breath:\n    \"For such as he there is no death;--\n  His life the eternal life commands;\n  Above man's aims his nature rose:\n    The wisdom of a just content\n    Made one small spot a continent,\n  And tuned to poetry Life's prose.\n\n  \"Haunting the hills, the stream, the wild,\n    Swallow and aster, lake and pine,\n    To him grew human or divine,--\n  Fit mates for this large-hearted child.\n  Such homage Nature ne'er forgets,\n    And yearly on the coverlid\n    'Neath which her darling lieth hid\n  Will write his name in violets.\n\n  \"To him no vain regrets belong,\n    Whose soul, that finer instrument,\n    Gave to the world no poor lament,\n  But wood-notes ever sweet and strong.\n  O lonely friend! he still will be\n    A potent presence, though unseen,--\n    Steadfast, sagacious, and serene:\n  Seek not for him,--he is with thee.\"\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\nMR. MARTIN'S DISAPPOINTMENTS.\n\n\nThe circumstances of a first meeting so color long years of\nacquaintanceship, that, should these circumstances be comic in their\nnature, the intercourse which follows partakes much of the grotesque.\nThus, perhaps, it is, that the misfortunes of Edward Martin, apart from\nthe whimsical demeanor of the man himself, provoke in my memory a smile\nrather than a sigh.\n\nSome years ago, journeying on foot through Northern Connecticut, it\nbecame necessary for me to stop overnight at the quiet inn of Deacon\nS----.\n\nSharon I had visited, fair as Berkshire, but less an old story; I had\nlingered about the twin lakes of Salisbury; I had carried away many\nsweet memories of Warramaug and its mountain; and I now found myself in\nthe neighborhood of Gramley Bridge, eager for fresh water, clean towels,\nand the plenty of a country tea-table,--not averse to strawberry\nshort-cake, or the snowy delights of cottage-cheese.\n\nIt was rapidly growing dark, when, as I hurried on toward my cheerful\nwelcome, a bend in the road brought me in sight of a figure that filled\nme with curiosity and amazement.\n\n  \"Was it a man?\n  A devil infernal?\n  An angel supernal?\"\n\nWas it were-wolf spectral, or bear aboriginal? It lived and moved, and,\nas I cautiously neared the spot, I seemed to recognize a human being in\nthe singular form,--stooping, squatting, and groping before me.\n\nThe man, for such it proved, was performing most wondrous gymnastics\nupon the ground,--smelling here, smelling there, too agile to be tipsy,\ntoo silent to be mad. I had no desire to be alone in a lonely road at\nnightfall with a maniac, and I was not sorry when my nearer approach\nresolved these strange phenomena into a well-dressed pedestrian on\nall-fours in the middle of a dusty highway.\n\nHe rose as I approached, and I smiled to see that the spectacles astride\nhis handsome nose were minus one lens. He seemed half blind and wholly\nbewildered. I looked at once for the lost glass, and there it lay\nshining at me from the very spot where he had been so industriously\npeering. He laughed grimly as I handed it to him, fitted his treasure\ninto its wonted rim, took out his watch, and with a low chuckle said,--\n\n\"Twenty-five minutes is a long time to search for a bit of such small\ncircumference. Thank you. Do you go to the Deacon's?\"\n\n\"Yes.\"\n\n\"So do I.\"\n\nWe walked on together in silence, till we reached our journey's end,--I\ntoo tired, he too reserved, too preoccupied, or too shy, to speak again;\nbut when, at last, we were seated with our cigars on the Deacon's\ndoor-step, he turned suddenly to me and asked,--\n\n\"Are you fond of the country?\"\n\n\"Why, yes! What else is there?\" I answered, laughing.\n\n\"Ah, you are an artist!\"\n\n\"I hope to be one.\"\n\n\"Its a bad business,\" said he, testily,--\"a very bad business. If I were\nyou, I would give it up.\"\n\n\"Have you ever tried it?\"\n\n\"Tried it?\" he ejaculated, kicking the gravel-walk,--\"yes, and\neverything else, I believe. If I thought it would do you any good, I\nwould give you the benefit of my experience; but you'd only laugh, and\nmake a good story of it to your wife.\"\n\n\"Alas! I have no such incumbrance.\"\n\n\"The worse for you, if you have genius and the modesty of genius. A true\nartist, who seeks to interpret Nature in its purest and most exquisite\nrelations, who penetrates the deepest temples of the woods and the\nsilent sanctuaries of the mountains, must be a true, pure, and good man.\nHe must be a happy man,--happy in a sweet and natural way. A man whose\nlife is passed in a daily delight that gently stirs without feverish\nexcitement will be tender and most lovely to women. He _ought_ to\nmarry.\"\n\n\"Did you ever write poetry?\" I asked.\n\n\"I began to compose when I was six years old. I wrote a poem on the sea,\ncommencing,--\n\n  'O thou earthly sea,\n  Every person thinks of thee,--\n  The sailor, and the busy bee,\n  And the Chinese drinking tea!'\n\nI thought it very fine. I have written many things since then, and they\nseemed good to me at the time. I would not venture to say how they\nstruck others.\"\n\nHe smiled pleasantly.\n\n\"Do not be frightened by the shadow of a possible wife from unfolding\nyour history,\" said I. \"Chance has thrown us together; befriend me with\nyour experience.\"\n\n\"Take warning, then, if need be.\n\n\"In college I was thought 'a very able fellow,' one 'who held the pen of\na ready writer'; and I graduated as vain of my supposed talents as a\nyoung miss of her first conquest.\n\n\"My earliest literary essay was in a new magazine, which, as it was just\nrising into notice, would be, I imagined, greatly assisted by my\ncondescension. It was a charity, indeed, to give my support to this\nfledgling, and I sent to it a long article, entitled, 'The Cultivated,\nas Moving and Educational Powers.' My manuscripts were returned, with\nthis quiet bit of advice:--'Before \"X.Y.Z.\" institutes any other\nreforms, we would advise him to reperuse his English Grammar.' Far from\nhaving a salutary effect, this rebuff only rankled in my soul. I\ndetermined to revenge myself on the paltry malignant who dared to\ndespise my efforts. I therefore wrote a slashing criticism for one of\nthe evening papers, demolishing (as I thought) the delinquent\nperiodical, and denouncing its whole corps of writers as frivolous and\nalmost illiterate. My satire was returned, being too personal for\npublication.\n\n\"Just at this time I chanced to fall in love with Miss Ellen Wilson, now\nMrs. Martin. Fancying my passion unrequited, I poured forth my feelings\nin ten melancholy stanzas, beginning,--\n\n  'Oh! what avails it, if the spring be bright?'\n\nThese verses were very morbid and dreary, but they were published in the\n'Tri-Weekly Tribune,' and 'Hope revived again.'\n\n\"The drama I next deemed worthy of my attention, and wrote a play, the\nplot of which I thought quite new and original. A large fortune is left\nto my hero, who forthwith becomes enamored of a fair damsel; but,\nfearful lest the beloved object should worship his money more than his\nmerits, he disguises himself in a wig and blue spectacles, becomes tutor\nto her brother, and wins her affections while playing pedagogue. On her\nacknowledging her attachment, he flings his disguises into the sea, and,\nin the wildness of his joy at being adored for his profundity in Latin,\nGreek, Hebrew, French, Spanish, German, Mathematics, Natural Science,\nand Civil Engineering, folds his loved one in his arms, and springs into\nthe surf, where both are drowned.\n\n\"This, you see, was quite new.\"\n\n\"Quite,\" I replied, laughing.\n\n\"I published it at my own expense, and I must say I have yet to receive\nthe first remittance for this truly original work.\n\n\"During the next season, I met with Hans Andersen's inimitable\n'M\u00e4rchen,' and, immediately setting myself to work, I wrote 'Uncle Job's\nLegacies,' a series of children's tales, full, as I fondly fancied, of\npoetry, pleasantry, and information. I sent them to 'The Juvenile\nWeekly,' then published in the city. They were accepted with a profusion\nof thanks; and in a few days I called, by request, at the office,\nexpecting large compensation for services so eagerly received.\n\n\"I went up a dirty staircase, into a mean, slovenly back-office, where a\nsmall, uncleanly man sat tipped back in his chair, picking his teeth. He\nseemed the personification of _nonchalance_, impudence, and conceit. As\nI entered, he looked up with a lazy insolence, which, had I been a\nwoman, would have brought a hot flush of indignation to my face, and, on\nmy mentioning my name, he rose and extended a very dirty hand.\n\n\"'Glad to see you, Sir,--hope you'll continue your contributions,--Uncle\nJob,--good idea, Sir,--love the little ones? So do we, Sir,--work very\nhard for them,--don't pay at all,--poor business,--pure charity,--that's\nall.'\n\n\"'But you don't mean to say,' I exclaimed, 'that your contributors are\nexpected to work from charity?'\n\n\"'Glad to pay them, if we could, but we can't afford it,--more\ncontributions than we can use,--best authors in the country write for\nus,--pure love for the little ones, I assure you.'\n\n\"'Will you give me my manuscripts?' I said. 'I do not vouchsafe to\nbestow my time and thoughts for nothing. If you do not pay, I can offer\nthem to others who do.'\n\n\"'You won't find a child's paper in the United States that pays,' he\ngrowled. 'We don't care for contributions. Me and my partner writes most\nof the articles ourselves.'\n\n\"'Will you give me my manuscripts?' I said again, anxious to put an end\nto the interview, and disgusted with the fellow's falsehood.\n\n\"'Hallo! Mortimer, do you know where them are?'\n\n\"'Sorry I can't oblige you,' said a fat man, dirtier and greasier than\nthe first, emerging from an inner den; 'they're gone to press.'\n\n\"'If you tell me any more lies,' cried I, becoming furious, 'I shall\ntake measures that you will not at all relish. If you will not _give_ me\nmy manuscripts, I shall _take_ them'; and, suiting the action to the\nword, I snatched them from a shelf, where they lay conspicuous, and\ncarried them off without further parley.\n\n\"This cured me for a while of all literary ambition. But the unquiet\nspirit within me would not rest, and during the following summer I wrote\na sentimental tale, full of aspirations, large adjectives, and soft\nepithets. It was accepted by a well-known monthly, then supposed to be\nin the height of its prosperity. This was a grain of comfort, and I\nlooked forward confidently to a long future of remuneration and renown,\nwhen a letter of regret arrived from the fair editress, returning my\nstory, and explaining, that, being unable to meet her engagements, the\nmagazine had been sold to pay her debts.\n\n\"This was bad; but my story was my own, and I accordingly despatched it\nto 'The Salmagundian,' a periodical of the highest reputation. There it\nwas published, praised, and further contributions requested. Several\nweeks passed away. I indited a poem, entitled, 'Past and Future, or,\nGolden and Leaden Hours.' This also appeared in print, and my thirst for\nfame was beginning to be satisfied, when a polite note reached me from\n'The Salmagundian' office, begging for another tale, and offering to pay\nme in _back numbers of the magazine_. I wrote no more.\"\n\n\"Art beguiled you then, perhaps?\"\n\n\"Alas, yes, the siren! I had taken lessons from a very clever colorist,\nand was thoroughly imbued with his enthusiasm. 'I, too, am a painter,' I\ntook for my motto; and, hiring a small studio in ---- Street, I bought a\nlarge canvas, on which I sketched out a picture which cost me much\nmoney, more time, and many anxious thoughts.\n\n\"It represented the interior of a church, at the dim end of which a\nmarriage was being solemnized. In the foreground, a group of ten people,\nin anomalous costumes, was gathered round a youth supposed to be a\nrejected and despairing lover, who had fallen on the ground in a swoon.\nIt was very affecting, I thought.--it would be very effective. Were\n_she_ to see it, she would be stung with remorse,--she would behold the\nprobable effects of her present indifference,--she would relent.\n\n\"No one knew of my painting. I would keep it a profound secret, till it\nwas a complete and glorious success. So I worked on in my quiet studio,\ndraping before a cheval-glass for my women, attitudinizing and agonizing\nfor my men, until the last touches were on, the varnish dry, and it was\nall ready for the Spring Exhibition. Then came doubts and speculations.\nWould it be accepted? Was it good, after all? Would Ellen like it? How\nwould it seem among so many others? Should I take her to look at it?\nShould I tell her it was mine? Who would buy it?\n\n\"I had hired my studio under an assumed name, and under an assumed name\nsent my picture to the Academy. Now, when I went to see it, I found it,\nby some strange chance, hung next to a beautiful portrait by Huntington.\nThe juxtaposition gave me a new idea. I saw at once what a villanous\ndaub mine was, and went away oppressed with shame and a new-found\nmodesty. Some time after this I strolled again into the Exhibition, in\nthe hope of finding Miss Wilson; as I entered the vestibule, I met her\ncoming out.\n\n\"'Oh, Mr. Martin!' she exclaimed, 'I am just going away, but I _must_\nturn back, and show you the _funniest_ picture! So theatrical! So\ndistorted!'\n\n\"'Does it hang next to a lady in a purple shawl, by Huntington?'\n\n\"'Yes. Of course I might have known you would appreciate it, you are\nsuch a good critic of pictures. Isn't it the very worst specimen of art\nyou ever saw?'\n\n\"Can you imagine my feelings?\"\n\n\"I think I can.\"\n\n\"This was not all, however. That afternoon I went to my now forsaken\nstudio, previous to taking my departure from it forever. I was carefully\npacking my materials, when I heard a knock at the door. I opened it, and\nan elderly, shrewd-looking man walked into the room.\n\n\"'Are you T. Markham Worthington?' he asked.\n\n\"'I am a friend of his.'\n\n\"'Authorized to sell his picture in the Academy, Number ----?'\n\n\"'Yes.'\n\n\"'How much does he ask for it?'\n\n\"'How much are you willing to give?'\n\n\"'Not more than twenty-five dollars,'\n\n\"'That will do. Where shall it be sent?'\n\n\"He paid the money, wrote the address, and, bowing, left the studio.\nTwenty-five dollars just paid for the frame. Who had bought my picture?\nI looked at the card:--\n\n    'PARKER J. SPERRY,\n    '_Yankee Pie Depot_,\n    '126 ---- Street.'\"\n\n\"Did you ever paint again?\"\n\n\"Once only. I made a portrait of my sister-in-law, and sent it to her in\na gorgeous frame. I happened to go into her sitting-room, one morning,\nwhen she was out, and found my picture hanging with its face to the\nwall. I turned it round. Directly across the mouth was pasted a white\nlabel, on which I saw neatly printed in India-ink,--'Queen of the\nDeplorables.' I took it home with me, and hung it in my library as a\nlesson to me for all future time.\n\n\"So,\" said Martin, throwing away the of his third cigar, \"you have heard\nmy experience. May you profit by it! I am now in the pork-packing\nbusiness, and make a handsome income for my wife and two children.\nTo-morrow I go to New York, to bring them into these wilds for change of\nair. And now, good night.\"\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\nROBERT AND CLARA SCHUMANN.\n\nFLORESTAN'S STORY.\n\n\nI.\n\nIn every person's memory there are niches fixed, and in those niches are\nsacred persons. These are such as never obtruded themselves upon you,\nstaining the pane through which their light shone with their own images,\nbut who became perfectly transparent to the word they uttered, the song\nthey sang, or the work they did. Such a sacred person to me is the\ngifted woman who first interpreted for me Schumann's Albums. Many years\nago it was, as she told me, that she one day stood unperceived in the\nhalf-open door of her master, near the lesson-hour, and heard him softly\nrendering a theme which stole far into places of her heart, which had\nbeen awaiting its spell unconsciously. Presently he felt that there was\na listener, and, hastily brushing away a tear, he placed the music in a\nfar corner of the room, away from his _r\u00e9pertoire_. She confessed, that,\nafterward, when he was not present, she had looked on that which he\nevidently desired to conceal; she saw written, in pencil, upon it,\n\"Sternenkranz.\" Thenceforth shops and catalogues were ransacked, but no\n\"Sternenkranz\" was found,--the word was evidently her master's own\nfancy; so she summoned all her heroism, one day, when Herr Otto\ncomplained of her indifference to the pieces he set before her, and\ninformed him that she should perish at his feet, unless he would give\nher \"Sternenkranz.\" Of course her guilt was manifest, and Herr Otto, in\na spasm of anger at \"prying women,\" as he called them, brought out the\ntreasure, and with it others of a very rare album of Schumann's, to\nwhich he had given no names, leaving them to whisper their own names to\neach soul that could receive them: Star-Wreath it might be to one, Bower\nof Lilies to another. It was the same as with that white stone which the\nSeer of Patmos saw,--within it \"a name written which no man knoweth,\nsaving he that receiveth it.\"\n\nThis piece was to the lady a touch of consecration. Thenceforth she was\nknown among us as \"the Schumannite woman.\" I verily believe that to-day,\nnext to the divine Clara herself, she is the best interpreter of Robert\nSchumann's works living; and if the love she has obtained for him is not\nas universal, it is just as fervent. Many silent and holy hours have I\nsat communing, through her, with him whom the Germans love to call their\nTone-Poet; and the music remained to clothe with the full vesture of\nromance the meagre paragraphs of the journals which hinted his love, his\nsorrow, and at length his insanity and death. More, however, I longed to\nknow of him,--of the wedlock of these Brownings of music; and more I\ncame to know, in the way which, with this preface, I now proceed to\nrelate.\n\nA bitter December evening found me tumbling through snow and ice to\naccommodate a certain lyceum in one of our Northwestern cities. Cold\nwinds from over the Lakes made me wish that the Modern Athens had kept\nits lecture-system at home; for it has always seemed to me, that,\nwherever this has gone, her eastern storms have gone with it. Such ugly\nthoughts were shamed, however, by the beaming welcome which shone from\nthe face of the kindest of landladies, and at length completely thawed\nout of me by the glowing fire to which she introduced me, and which\nanimated the coziest of rooms. Why has not some poet celebrated the\nexperience of thawing? How deliciously each fibre of the thawee responds\nto the informing ray, evolving its own sweet sensation of release until\nall unite in a soft choral reverie! Carried thus, in a few moments, from\nthe Arctic to the Tropic, I thought, as dear Heine says, my \"sweet\nnothing-at-all thoughts,\" until a subtile breath of music won me back to\nlife.\n\nHeavens! what is that? A strain, strong and tender, pressed its way into\nthe room, soothed my temples, then broke over me in a shower of pearls.\nConfused, I started up; and it was some moments before I understood that\nthe music proceeded from the room adjoining mine in the hotel. Not\naltogether unfamiliar was the theme; the priestess of whom I have spoken\nhad once brought it from the Holy of Holies, when she was appointed to\nstand; and now, remembering, I broke out with the word, \"Florestan!\"\n\nAs I uttered it, the music ceased with the dreary fall of an octave.\nWhether the musician had heard the exclamation, or whether such a\nterrible termination was in the music, I knew not: the latter was quite\nprobable, for, alas! such fearful Icarus-falls are not rare in poor\nSchumann's music. However, I did not consider long, but, rising quickly,\npassed into the hall, and knocked gently at the door of the next room.\n\n\"Enter,\" replied a voice, eagerly, but softly.\n\nEnter I did, and stood before a man of about forty winters. His face was\nso swart that I could see only the German in the blue eye, and at once\nimagined that a stream of Plutonic fire had streamed into his veins from\nsome more Oriental race. I stammered out an apology for my intrusion,\nbut told him how irresistible were such subtile threads as Schumann's\n\"Carnival\" had projected through the walls which separated our rooms.\n\n\"Florestan,\" I said, \"was too much for me.\"\n\nThen his eye lighted up as might that of some Arctic voyager, which,\nhaving for bleak months rested only on the glittering scales of the\nice-dragon coiled about him, is suddenly filled with the warm spread of\nthe Polar Sea. Taking my hand, he said,--\n\n\"In me, wanderer that I am,--in me, with the _Heimweh_ in my heart never\nto be stilled but in that home where Schumann has already gone,--you see\nFlorestan.\"\n\n\"Louis Boehner!\"\n\nFilled with wonder, and scarcely knowing what I did, I took a little\npiece of paper which he unwrapped from many folds and placed in my hand.\nOn it these words were written:--\n\n\n     \"_Peace and joy attend thee, Louis Boehner! and mayst thou never\n     want for such a friend as thou hast been to_\n\n     ROBERT SCHUMANN.\"\n\nI could say no word; never have I felt a profounder emotion than when,\nat this moment, I drew so near one whose brow Art had crowned with a\nliving halo.\n\nStudents of German music and composers will need no word to bring before\nthem the fulness of this incident. But to others I may briefly mention\nsome facts connected with Schumann's \"Carnival, or _Sc\u00e8nes Mignonnes_,\non Four Notes.\" Not by any means representing the pure depths of\nSchumann's soul, this strange medley is yet pregnant with historic\nassociations. The composer wrote it in his young days, stringing\ntwenty-two little pieces on four letters composing the name of Asch, a\ntown of Saxony, \"whither,\" according to Sobolewski, \"Schumann's thoughts\nfrequently strayed, because at that time there was an object there\ninteresting to his sensitive soul.\" In the letters A, S, C, H, it must\nbe remembered that the H in German stands for our B natural, and S or\n_es_ for E flat. The Leipsic \"Neue Zeitschrift f\u00fcr Musik\" was begun and\nfor ten years edited by Schumann,--in what spirit we may gather from his\nown words:--\"The musical state of Germany, at that time, was not very\nencouraging. On the stage Rossini yet reigned, and on the piano Herz and\nH\u00fcnten excluded all others. And yet how few years had passed since\nBeethoven, Weber, and Schubert lived among us! True, Mendelssohn's star\nwas ascending, and there were wonderful whispers of a certain Pole,\nChopin; but it was later that these gained their lasting influence. One\nday the idea took possession of our young and hot heads,--Let us not\nidly look on; take hold, and reform it; take hold, and the Poetry of Art\nshall be again enthroned!\" Then gathered together a Protestant-league of\nmusic, whose Luther and Melancthon in one was Schumann. The Devil at\nwhich they threw their inkstands and semi-breves was the _Philistines_,\nwhich is the general term amongst German students, artists, poets, etc.,\nfor prosaic, narrow, hard, ungenial, commonplace respectabilities.\n\"Young Germany\" was making itself felt in all co\u00f6rdinate directions:\nforming new schools of plastic Art in Munich and Dresden,--a sharp and\nspirited Bohemian literature at Frankfort, under the lead of Heine and\nBoerne; and now, music being the last to yield in Germany, because most\nrevered, as it is with religion in other countries, a new vitality\nbrought together in K\u00fchne's cellar in Leipsic the revolutionists, \"who\ntalked of Callot, Hoffmann, and Jean Paul, of Beethoven and Franz\nSchubert, and of the three foreign Romanticists beyond the Rhine, the\nfriends of the new phenomenon in French poetry, Victor Hugo.\" This was\nthe _Davidsbund_, or League of David (the last of the \"Sc\u00e8nes Mignonnes\"\nis named \"Marche des _Davidsb\u00fcndler_ contre les Philistines\"). An\nagreeable writer in the \"Weimarer Somitagsblatt\" has given us a fine\nsketch of this company, which we will quote.\n\n\"The head of the table was occupied by a lively, flexible man of middle\nage, intellectual in conversation, and overflowing with sharp and witty\nremarks. He was the instructor of more than one of the young musicians\naround him, who all listened to his observations with profound\nattention. He was very fond of monopolizing the conversation and\nsuffering himself to be admired. For he called many a young, highly\npromising musician his pupil, and had, besides, the certain\nconsciousness of having moulded his daughter Clara, at that time a girl\nof fourteen, into a prodigy, whose first appearance delighted the whole\nworld, and whose subsequent artist-activity became the pride of her\nnative city, Leipsic. By his side sat a quiet, thoughtful young man of\ntwenty-three, with melancholy eyes. But lately a student in Heidelberg,\nhe had now devoted himself entirely to music, had removed to Leipsic and\nwas now a pupil of the 'old schoolmaster,' as the father of Clara Wieck\nliked to be called. Young Robert Schumann had good reason to be\nmelancholy. After long struggles, he had only been able to devote\nhimself entirely to music comparatively late in life, and had been\nobliged to pass a part of his precious youth in studies which were as\nuncongenial as possible to his artist-spirit. He had finally decided for\nthe career of a _virtuoso_, and was pursuing the study of the piano with\nan almost morbid zeal, when the disabling of one of his fingers, a\nconsequence of his over-exertions, obliged him to give up this career\nforever. He did not yet suspect that this accident would prove fortunate\nfor him in the end, by directing him to his true vocation, composition.\nPerhaps, too, it was the first germ of love, in the garb of admiration\nfor the wondrous talent of Clara, which made young Robert so quiet and\ndreamy. His companions were all the more lively. There sat the eccentric\nLouis Boehner,[A] who long ago had served as the model for E.T.A.\nHoffmann's fantastic pictures. Here J.P. Lyser, a painter by profession,\nbut a poet as well, and a musician besides. Here Carl Bauck, the\nindefatigable, yet unsuccessful composer of songs,--now, in his capacity\nof critic, the paper bugbear of the Dresden artists. He had just\nreturned from Italy, and believed himself in possession of the true\nsecret of the art of singing, the monopoly of which every singing-master\nis wont to claim for himself. C.F. Becker, too, the eminent organist and\nindustrious collector, belonged to this circle, as well as many more\nyoung and old artists of more or less merit and talent.\"[B]\n\n[Footnote A: The \"Florestan\" of the \"Sc\u00e8nes Mignonnes\"; \"Chiara\" is\nClara herself; \"Eusebius\" was Robert Schumann.]\n\n[Footnote B: See Dwight's _Journal of Music_, Vol. VIII. No. 3.]\n\nFlorestan then stood before me; and with him, although invisible, stood\nthat sacred circle, which had unconsciously borne within it the germs of\nso many future sorrows and glories.\n\n\"With him,\" said Louis Boehner, \"I began life, when we were boys\ntogether at Heidelberg; with him I stood when the dawn of a better day,\nwhich since has blessed hill and vale, was glowing for his eye alone;\nthis breast held his sorrows and his hopes, when he was struggling to\nreach his Clara; these hands saved him when in his madness he cast\nhimself into the Rhine; these eyes dropped their hot tears on his\neyelids when they were closed in death.\"\n\nOvercome by his emotion, he sat down and sobbed aloud.\n\nAt that moment, hearing my name called loudly in the hall, I went out,\nand was informed that my audience was waiting at the Lyceum, and had\nbeen waiting nearly fifteen minutes!\n\n\nII.\n\nNext morning, bright and early, I was in the artist-pilgrim's room,\nlistening to that which it thrilled him to tell and me to hear. And\nfirst he told me the story of Schumann's love.\n\nThe \"old schoolmaster,\" Wieck, trained his daughter more ambitiously\nthan judiciously; and, indeed, none but one of the elect would ever have\nsurvived the tasks imposed on her childhood. Indeed, she had no\nchildhood: at the piano she was kept through all the bright days, roving\nonly from scale to scale, when she should have been roving from flower\nto flower. At length her genius asserted itself, and she entered into\nher destiny; thenceforth flowers bloomed for her out of exercise-books,\nand she could touch the notes which were sun-bursts, and those which\nwere mosses beneath them. From this training she came before the best\naudience in Germany, and stood a sad-eyed, beautiful child of fourteen\nsummers, and by acclamation was crowned the Queen of the Piano. Franz\nLiszt remembered his enthusiasm of that period, and many years afterward\nwrote in his extravagant way,--\"When we heard Clara Wieck in Vienna,\nfifteen years ago, she drew her hearers after her into her poetic world,\nto which she floated upward in a magical car drawn by electric sparks\nand lifted by delicately prismatic, but nervously throbbing winglets.\"\nAt her performance of Beethoven's F Minor Sonata, Grillparzer was\ninspired to write the following verses:--\n\n  \"A weird magician, weary of the world,\n  In sullen humor locked his charms all up\n  Within a diamond casket, firmly clasped,\n  And threw the key into the sea, and died.\n  The manikins here tried with all their might;\n  In vain! no tool can pick the flinty lock;\n  His magic arts still slumber, like their master.\n  A shepherd's child, along the sea-shore playing,\n  Watches the waves, in hurrying, idle chase.\n  Dreaming and thoughtless, as young maidens are,\n  She dippeth her white fingers in the flood,\n  And grasps, and lifts, and holds it! 'Tis the key.\n  Up springs she, up, her heart still beating higher.\n  The casket glances, as with eyes, before her.\n  The key fits well, up flies the lid. The spirits\n  All mount aloft, then bow themselves submissive\n  To this their gracious, innocent, sweet mistress,\n  Who with white fingers guides them in her play.\"\n\nThe first, perhaps, to recognize the surpassing ability of that child\nwas the young editor of the \"Zeitschrift.\" Robert Schumann. On her first\nappearance, he wrote,--\"Others make poetry,--she is a poem.\" And soon\nafterward,--\"She early lifted the veil of Isis. The child looks calmly\nup,--the man would, perhaps, be dazzled by the brilliancy.\"\n\nFrom this moment there was an elasticity and purpose about the young\ncomposer, the secret of which no one knew, not even himself. Like one\ncaught in the whorls of some happy dream, who will not pause to ask,\n\"Whither?\" he poured out before this child the half-revealed hopes\nstriving within him; an equal spell was woven about her ingenuous and\nearnest heart, and their souls were joined in that purple morning; in\ndue time they were to be rather _clenched_, through pain. It was under\nthis baptismal touch of Love that Schumann wrote his first\nsonata,--\"Florestan and Eusebius.\" It gained him at once a fame with all\nfrom whom fame was graceful.\n\nIn the light of this period of his life must be interpreted those\nwonderful little \"pieces\" which mystify whilst they fascinate; without\nit their meaning is as strange as their names. Often did he say,--\"I can\nwrite only where my life is in unison with my works.\" \"Listen now to\nthese,\" said Florestan, as he opened an album and struck the piano;\n\"these are the voices of a new life.\" The \"Alternatives,\" with song, \"My\npeace is o'er\"; \"Evening Thoughts\"; \"Impromptus,\" (whose first theme was\nwritten by Clara): these; seemed like the emotion of some newly winged\naspirant released from its chrysalis, resting on its first flower. But\nfaster than planets through the abysses Love moves on. Florestan ceased,\nand there was a long silence; and then he told the unspeakable portion\nof his story by performing these two: \"Sternenkranz,\" \"Warum.\" Who has\never scaled the rapture of the former, or fathomed the pathos of the\nlatter? Every summit implies its precipice; and the star-wreath that\ncrowned Love was snatched at by the Fate which soon burdened two hearts\nwith the terrible questioning, _Wherefore?_\n\nThus: before these two were fully conscious of the love they bore each\nother, the shrewd eye of old Wieck had caught a glimpse of what was\ncoming to pass. He had educated this girl to be an artist to bring _him_\nfame; alas, it must be confessed that he thought also of certain\nprospective thalers. Willing as he was that all Leipsic should admire\nhis daughter, he did not like the enthusiasm of the \"Zeitschrift.\" He\nthen began to warn Clara against \"this Faust in modern garb, who, when\nhe had gained one finger, would soon have the whole hand, and finally\nthe poor soul into the bargain!\" Stupid old schoolmaster, thou shouldst\nhave known that it is Mephistopheles, and not Faust, that women hate!\n\nThe old man, finding that his warnings were of no avail, forbade all\nacquaintance, forbade Robert's visits to his house. Then, inaugurating\nat once Clara's career as a _virtuoso_, he took her to Vienna.\n\nNo wonder, that, when she appeared there, it was to be as the priestess\nof Beethoven. It takes something besides an academy to train artists up\nto Beethoven. Robert was forbidden to write to her; but the\n\"Schw\u00e4rmibriefe of Eusebius to Chiara,\" utterly unintelligible to the\ngeneral reader of the \"Zeitschrift,\" who, doubtless, fancied that its\neditor had gone mad, were quite clear to a certain little lady in\nVienna, who consequently pined less than her father had anticipated.\n\n\"Amid all our musical soul-feasts,\" he writes, \"there always peeps out\nan angel-face, which more than resembles a certain Clara. Why art thou\nnot with us? (_Warum!_) And how thou wilt have thought of us last\nnight, from the 'Meeresstille' to the flaming close of the A major\nsymphony! I also thought of thee then, Chiara, pure one, bright one,\nwhose hands are stretched towards Italy, whither thy longing draws thee,\nbut thy dreamy eye still turned to us.\"\n\nAt length a sun-burst. In 1840 appeared the first number of Schumann's\n\"Myrthen,\" whose dedication, _Seiner geliebten Braut_, breaks forth in\nthe passionate and beautiful song,--\"Thou my soul, O thou my heart!\"\n\nBut this word _Braut_ means Bride in the German sense of \"affianced\";\nand although the joy of this relation passed over Schumann like the\nbreath of a Tropic, bringing forth, amongst other gorgeous fruits, his\nglorious First Symphony, which some one has well called the Symphony of\nBliss, yet, ere this bliss was more than an elusive vision, the two\npassed through fierce wildernesses, and drank together of bitter Marahs.\n\"But of all this,\" said Florestan, \"you will know, if you have the right\nto know, from these,\"--his \"Voice from afar,\" and his \"Night-Pieces.\"\n\nNeither of us dared break the silence claimed by these exquisite pieces\nwhen they ceased; we shook hands and parted without a word.\n\n\nIII.\n\nBut another mystery about the loved and lost master, which I longed to\nhave revealed, would not let me leave the city. In the afternoon I\nsought Boehner, and asked him to walk with me. As soon as we had alluded\nto the one subject that bound us together, I requested him to tell me,\nwhat had not yet been given to the world, the details of Schumann's\ninsanity and death.\n\nThen, as one who takes up a heavy burden to bear it, he proceeded:--\n\n\"The heart of Robert Schumann was a lyre so delicate, and with strings\nso sensitive, that the effect of his pains and his joys, both always in\nextremes, was as if you gave an \u00c6olian harp to be swept now by a cold\nnorth-wind and now by a hot sirocco. His spirit wore on to the confines\nof his flesh, and was not warmly covered thereby, but only veiled. Under\nhis grief he seemed stronger; but when his joy came, when Clara was his\nown, and went through Europe with him, giving expression to the voices\nwithin, which, to him, had been unutterable,--then we saw that the\nemotions which would have been safe, had they been suffered to well up\ngently from the first, could come forth now only as a fierce and perhaps\ndevastating torrent.\n\n\"Schumann saddened his intimate friends by times of insanity, five or\nsix years before the world at large knew anything of it. At such times\nhe imagined himself again cruelly separated from the patient and tender\nbeing who never left his side; and he would write pieces full of\ndistractions, in the midst of each of which, however, some touchingly\nbeautiful theme would float up, like a fair island through seething\nseas. Then there were longer intervals, of seven and eight months, in\nwhich he was perfectly sane; at which times he would write with a\nwearing persistence which none could restrain: he would put our advice\naside gently, saying,--'A long life is before me; but it must be lived\nin a few years.' And, indeed, the works which have reached farthest into\nhearts that loved him most deeply date from these times. I remember,\nthat, when he sat down to compose his last symphony, he said,--'It is\nalmost accomplished; but the invisible mansion needs another chamber.'\n\n\"Once when I was at Frankfort, Clara Schumann sent me this word:\n'Hasten.' I left all my affairs, and came to watch for many months\nbeside this beloved one. It was not a wild delirium which had taken\npossession of him; the only fit of that kind was that in which he tried\nto drown himself in the Rhine,--at the time when the papers got hold of\nthe terrible secret. His insanity was manifested in his conviction that\nhe was occupied by the souls of Beethoven and Schubert. Much in the\nmanner of your American mediums, he would be seized by a controlling\npower,--would snatch a pencil, and dash out upon paper the wildest\ndiscords. These we would play for him, at his request, from morning till\nnight,--during much of which time he would seem to be in a happy trance.\nOf this music no chord or melody was true; they were jangling memories\nof his earlier works.\n\n\"One day he called his wife and myself, and took our hands in his\nown:--'Beethoven says that my earthly music is over; it cannot be\nunderstood here; he writes for angels, and I shall write for them.'\nThen, turning to me, he said,--'Louis, my friend, farewell! This is my\nlast prayer for you,'--handing me the paper which I have shown you; 'and\nnow leave us, to come again and kiss me when I am cold.'\n\n\"Then I left him alone with his Clara.\n\n\"A month from that time, Schumann was no more.\"\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\nOut under the glowing sunset, I clasped hands parting with Louis\nBoehner, and said, as my voice would let me.--\"Take this paper, and when\nyou would have a friend, such as you have been to Robert Schumann, come\nand help me to be that friend.\"\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\nTHE FREEDMEN AT PORT ROYAL.\n\n\nTwo questions are concerned in the social problem of our time. One is,\nWill the people of African descent work for a living? and the other is,\nWill they fight for their freedom? An affirmative answer to these must\nbe put beyond any fair dispute before they will receive permanent\nsecurity in law or opinion. Whatever may be the theses of philosophers\nor the instincts of the justest men, the general sense of mankind is not\nlikely to accord the rights of complete citizenship to a race of\npaupers, or to hesitate in imposing compulsory labor on those who have\nnot industry sufficient to support themselves. Nor, in the present\ndevelopment of human nature, is the conscience of great communities\nlikely to be so pervasive and controlling as to restrain them from\ndisregarding the rights of those whom it is perfectly safe to injure,\nbecause they have not the pluck to defend themselves. Sentiment may be\nlavished upon them in poetry and tears, but it will all be wasted. Like\nall unprivileged classes before them, they will have their full\nrecognition as citizens and men when they have vindicated their title to\nbe an estate of the realm, and not before. Let us, then, take the world\nas we find it, and try this people accordingly. But it is not pertinent\nto any practical inquiry of our time to predict what triumphs in art,\nliterature, or government they are to accomplish, or what romance is to\nglow upon their history. No Iliad may be written of them and their woes.\nNo Plutarch may gather the lives of their heroes. No Vandyck may delight\nto warm his canvas with their forms. How many or how few astronomers\nlike Banneker, chieftains like Toussaint, orators like Douglass they may\nhave, it is not worth while to conjecture. It is better to dismiss these\nfanciful discussions. To vindicate their title to a fair chance in the\nworld as a free people, it is sufficient, and alone sufficient, that it\nappear to reasonable minds that they are in good and evil very much like\nthe rest of mankind, and that they are endowed in about the same degree\nwith the conservative and progressive elements of character common to\nordinary humanity.\n\nIt is given to the people of this country and time, could they realise\nit, to make a new chapter of human experience. The past may suggest, but\nit can do little either in directing or deterring. There is nothing in\nthe gloomy vaticinations of Tocqueville, wise and benevolent as he is,\nwhich should be permitted to darken our future. The medi\u00e6val antagonisms\nof races, when Christianity threw but a partial light over mankind, and\nbefore commerce had unfolded the harmony of interests among people of\ndiverse origin or condition, determine no laws which will fetter the\nricher and more various development of modern life. Nor do the results\nof emancipation in the West Indies, more or less satisfactory as they\nmay be, afford any measure of the progress which opens before our\nenfranchised masses. The insular and contracted life of the colonies,\ncramped also as they were by debt and absenteeism, has no parallel in\nthe grand currents of thought and activity ever sweeping through the\ncontinent on which our problem is to be solved.\n\nIn the light of these views, the attempt shall be made to report\ntruthfully upon the freedmen at Port Royal. A word, however, as to the\nname. Civilization, in its career, may often be traced in the\nnomenclatures of successive periods. These people were first called\ncontrabands at Fortress Monroe; but at Port Royal, where they were next\nintroduced to us in any considerable number, they were generally\nreferred to as freedmen. These terms are milestones in our progress; and\nthey are yet to be lost in the better and more comprehensive designation\nof citizens, or, when discrimination is convenient, citizens of African\ndescent.\n\nThe enterprise for the protection and development of the freedmen at\nPort Royal has won its way to the regard of mankind. The best minds of\nEurope, as well as the best friends of the United States, like Cairnes\nand Gasparin, have testified much interest in its progress. An English\nperiodical of considerable merit noticed at some length \"Mr. Pierce's\nTen Thousand Clients.\" In Parliament, Earl Russell noted it in its\nincipient stage, as a reason why England should not intervene in\nAmerican affairs. The \"Revue des Deux Mondes,\" in a recent number,\ncharacterizes the colony as \"that small pacific army, far more important\nin the history of civilization than all the military expeditions\ndespatched from time to time since the commencement of the civil war.\"\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\nNo little historical interest covers the region to which this account\nbelongs. Explorations of the coast now known as that of the Carolinas,\nGeorgia, and Florida, involving the rival pretensions of Spain and\nFrance, were made in the first half of the sixteenth century. They were\nconducted by Ponce de Leon, Vasquez, Verrazani, and Soto, in search of\nthe fountain of perpetual youth, or to extend empire by right of\ndiscovery. But no permanent settlement by way of colony or garrison was\nattempted until 1562.\n\nIn that year,--the same in which he drew his sword for his faith, and\nten years before the Massacre of St. Bartholomew, in which he fell the\nmost illustrious victim,--Admiral Coligny, the great Protestant chief,\nanxious to found beyond the seas a refuge for persecuted Huguenots,\nfitted out the expedition of Jean Ribault, which, after a voyage of over\nthree months across the ocean and northward along the coast, cast anchor\non May 27th in the harbor of Port Royal, and gave it the name which it\nretains to this day. That year was also to be ever memorable for another\nand far different enterprise, which was destined to be written in dark\nand perpetual lines on human history. Then it was that John Hawkins\nsailed for Africa in quest of the first cargo of negroes ever brought to\nthe New World. The expedition of Ribault was the first visit of\nEuropeans to Port Royal or to any part of South Carolina, and the\ngarrison left by him was the first settlement under their auspices ever\nmade on this continent north of Mexico. There is not space or need to\ndetail here the mutiny and suffering of this military colony, their\nabandonment of the post, the terrible voyage homeward, or the\nperseverance of Coligny in his original purpose. Nor is it within the\ncompass of this narrative to recount the fortunes of the second\ngarrison, which was founded on the St. John's, the visit of John Hawkins\nin 1565 with timely relief, the return of Ribault from France and his\nsad fate, the ferocity of Melendez against all heretic Frenchmen, and\nthe avenging chivalry of Dominic de Gourges. The student is baffled in\nattempts to fix localities for the deeds and explorations of this\nperiod, even with the help of the several accounts and the drawings of\nLe Moyne; and, besides, these later vicissitudes did not involve any\npermanent occupation as far north as Port Royal, that region having been\nabandoned by the French, and being then visited by the Spanish only for\ntrade or adventure.\n\nSome merchants of Barbados, in 1663, sent William Hilton and other\ncommissioners to Florida, then including Port Royal, to explore the\ncountry with reference to an emigration thither. Hilton's Narration,\npublished in London the year after, mentions St. Ellens as one of the\npoints visited, meaning St. Helena, but probably including the Sea\nIslands under that name. The natives were found to speak many Spanish\nwords, and to be familiar enough with the report of guns not to be\nalarmed by it. The commissioners, whose explorations were evidently\nprompted by motives of gain, close a somewhat glowing description of the\ncountry by saying, \"And we could wish that all they that want a happy\nsettlement of our English nation were well transported thither.\"\n\nHitherto England had borne no part in exploring this region. But,\nrelieved of her civil wars by the Restoration, she began to seek\ncolonial empire on the southern coast of North America. In 1663, Charles\nII. granted a charter to Clarendon, Monk, Shaftsbury,--each famous in\nthe conflicts of those times,--and to their associates, as proprietors\nof Carolina. The genius of John Locke, more fitted for philosophy than\naffairs, devised a constitution for the colony,--an idle work, as it\nproved. In 1670, the first emigrants, under Governor William Sayle,\narrived at Port Royal, with the purpose to remain there; but, disturbed\nprobably with apprehensions of Spanish incursions from Florida, they\nremoved to the banks of the Ashley, and, after another change of site,\nfounded Charleston.\n\nIn 1682, a colony from Scotland under Lord Cardross was founded at Port\nRoyal, but was driven away four years later by the Spanish. No permanent\nsettlement of the Beaufort district appears to have succeeded until\n1700. This district is divided into four parishes, St. Peter's, St.\nLuke's, St. Helena, and Prince William, being fifty-eight miles long and\nthirty-two broad, and containing 1,224,960 acres. St. Helena parish\nincludes the islands of St. Helena, Ladies, Port Royal, Paris, and a few\nsmaller islands, which, together with Hilton Head, make the district\noccupied by our forces. The largest and most populous of these islands\nis St. Helena, being fifteen miles long and six or seven broad,\ncontaining fifty plantations and three thousand negroes, and perhaps\nmore since the evacuation of Edisto. Port Royal is two-thirds or\nthree-quarters the size of St. Helena, Ladies half as large, and Hilton\nHead one-third as large. Paris, or Parry, has five plantations, and\nCoosaw, Morgan, Cat, Cane, and Barnwell have each one or two. Beaufort\nis the largest town in the district of that name, and the only one at\nPort Royal in our possession. Its population, black and white, in time\nof peace may have been between two and three thousand. The first lots\nwere granted in 1717. Its Episcopal church was built in 1720. Its\nlibrary was instituted in 1802, had increased in 1825 to six or eight\nhundred volumes, and when our military occupation began contained about\nthirty-five hundred.\n\nThe origin of the name Port Royal, given to a harbor at first and since\nto an island, has already been noted. The name of St. Helena, applied to\na sound, a parish, and an island, originated probably with the\nSpaniards, and was given by them in tribute to Saint Helena, the mother\nof Constantine the Great, whose day in the calendar is August 18th.\nBroad River is the equivalent of La Grande, which was given by Ribault.\nHilton Head may have been derived from Captain Hilton, who came from\nBarbados. Coosaw is the name of a tribe of Indians. Beaufort is likely\nto have been so called for Henry, Duke of Beauford, one of the lord\nproprietors, while Carolina was a province of Great Britain.\n\nThe Beaufort District is not invested with any considerable\nRevolutionary romance. In 1779, the British forces holding Savannah sent\ntwo hundred troops with a howitzer and two field-pieces to Beaufort.\nFour companies of militia from Charleston with two field-pieces,\nreinforced by a few volunteers from Beaufort, repulsed and drove them\noff. The British made marauding incursions from Charleston in 1782, and\nare said to have levied a military contribution on St. Helena and Port\nRoyal Islands.\n\nThere are the remains of Indian mounds and ancient forts on the islands.\nOne of these last, it is said, can be traced on Paris Island, and is\nclaimed by some antiquaries to be the Charles Fort built by Ribault.\nThere are the well-preserved walls of one upon the plantation of John J.\nSmith on Port Royal Island, a few miles south of Beaufort, now called\nCamp Saxton, and recently occupied by Colonel Higginson's regiment. It\nis built of cemented oyster-shells. Common remark refers to it as a\nSpanish fort, but it is likely to be of English construction. The site\nof Charles Fort is claimed for Beaufort, Lemon Island, Paris Island, and\nother points.\n\nThe Sea Islands are formed by the intersection of the creeks and arms of\nthe sea. They have a uniform level, are without any stones, and present\na rather monotonous and uninteresting scenery, spite of the raptures of\nFrench explorers. The creeks run up into the islands at numerous points,\naffording facilities for transportation by flats and boats to the\nbuildings which are usually near them. The soil is of a light, sandy\nmould, and yields in the best seasons a very moderate crop, say fifteen\nbushels of corn and one hundred or one hundred and thirty pounds of\nginned cotton to the acre,--quite different from the plantations in\nMississippi and Texas, where an acre produces five or six hundred\npounds. The soil is not rich enough for the cultivated grasses, and one\nfinds but little turf. The coarse saline grasses, gathered in stacks,\nfurnish the chief material for manure. The long-fibred cotton peculiar\nto the region is the result of the climate, which is affected by the\naction of the salt water upon the atmosphere by means of the creeks\nwhich permeate the land in all directions. The seed of this cotton,\nplanted on the upland, will produce in a few years the cotton of coarser\ntexture; and the seed of the latter, planted on the islands, will in a\nlike period produce the finer staple. The Treasury Department secured\neleven hundred thousand pounds from the islands occupied by our forces,\nincluding Edisto, being the crop, mostly unginned, and gathered in\nstorehouses, when our military occupation began.\n\nThe characteristic trees are the live-oak, its wood almost as heavy as\nlignum-vit\u00e6, the trunk not high, but sometimes five or six feet in\ndiameter, and extending its crooked branches far over the land, with the\nlong, pendulous, funereal moss adhering to them,--and the palmetto,\nshooting up its long, spongy stem thirty or forty feet, unrelieved by\nvines or branches, with a disproportionately small cap of leaves at the\nsummit, the most ungainly of trees, albeit it gives a name and\ncoat-of-arms to the State. Besides these, are the pine, the red and\nwhite oak, the cedar, the bay, the gum, the maple, and the ash. The soil\nis luxuriant with an undergrowth of impenetrable vines. These\ninterlacing the trees, supported also by shrubs, of which the cassena is\nthe most distinguished variety, and faced with ditches, make the\nprevailing fences of the plantations. The hedges are adorned in March\nand April with the yellow jessamine, (_jelseminum_,)--the cross-vine\n(_bignonia_,) with its mass of rich red blossoms,--the Cherokee rose,\n(_loevigata_,) spreading out in long waving wreaths of white,--and, two\nmonths later, the palmetto royal, (_yucca gloriosa_,) which protects the\nfence with its prickly leaves, and delights the eyes with its\npyramid-like clusters of white flowers. Some of these trees and shrubs\nserve a utilitarian end in art and medicine. The live-oak is famous in\nshipbuilding. The palmetto, or cabbage-palmetto, as it is called,\nresists destruction by worms, and is used for facing wharves. It was\nemployed to protect Fort Moultrie in 1776, when bombarded by the British\nfleet; and the cannon-balls were buried in its spongy substance. The\nmoss (_tillandsia usneoides_) served to calk the rude vessel of the\nfirst French colonists, longing for home. It may be used for bedding\nafter its life has been killed by boiling water, and for the subsistence\nof cattle when destitute of other food. The cassena is a powerful\ndiuretic.\n\nThe game and fish, which are both abundant and of desirable kinds, and\nto the pursuit of which the planters were much addicted, are described\nin Eliot's book. Russell's \"Diary\" may also be consulted in relation to\nfishing for devil and drum.\n\nThe best dwellings in Beaufort are capacious, with a piazza on the first\nand second stories, through each of which runs a large hall to admit a\nfree circulation of air. Only one, however, appeared to have been built\nunder the supervision of a professional architect. Those on the\nplantations, designed for the planters or overseers, were, with a few\nexceptions, of a very mean character, and a thriving mechanic in New\nEngland would turn his back on them as unfit to live in. Their yards are\nwithout turf, having as their best feature a neighboring grove of\norange-trees. One or two dwellings only appear to be ancient. Indeed,\nthey are not well enough built to last long. The estates upon Edisto\nIsland are of a more patrician character, and are occasionally\nsurrounded by spacious flower-gardens and ornamental trees fancifully\ntrimmed.\n\nThe names of the planters indicated mainly an English origin, although\nsome may be traced to Huguenot families who sought a refuge here from\nthe religious persecutions of France.\n\nThe deserted houses were generally found strewn with religious\nperiodicals, mainly Baptist magazines. This characteristic of Southern\nlife has been elsewhere observed in the progress of our army.\nOccasionally some book denouncing slavery as criminal and ruinous was\nfound among those left behind. One of these was Hewatt's history of\nSouth Carolina, published in 1779, and reprinted in Carroll's\ncollection. Another was Gregoire's vindication of the negro race and\ntribute to its distinguished examples, translated by Warden in 1810.\nThese people seem, indeed, to have had light enough to see the infinite\nwrong of the system, and it is difficult to believe them entirely\nsincere in their passionate defence of it. Their very violence, when the\nmoral basis of slavery is assailed, seems to be that of a man who\ndistrusts the rightfulness of his daily conduct, has resolved to persist\nin it, and therefore hates most of all the prophet who comes to confront\nhim for his misdeeds, and, if need be, to publish them to mankind.\n\nWell-authenticated instances of cruelty to slaves were brought to notice\nwithout being sought for. The whipping-tree is now often pointed out,\nstill showing the place where it was worn by the rope which bound the\nsufferer to it. On the plantation where my own quarters were was a woman\nwho had been so beaten when approaching the trials of maternity as to\ncrush out the life of the unborn child. But this planter had one\ndaughter who looked with horror on the scenes of which she was the\nunwilling witness. She declared to her parents and sisters that it was\nhell to live in such a place. She was accustomed to advise the negroes\nhow best to avoid being whipped. When the war began, she assured them\nthat the story of the masters that the Yankees were going to send them\nto Cuba was all a lie. Surely a kind Providence will care for this noble\ngirl! This war will, indeed, emancipate others than blacks from bonds\nwhich marriage and kindred have involved. But it is unpleasant to dwell\non these painful scenes of the past, constant and authentic as they are;\nand they hardly concern the practical question which now presses for a\nsolution. Nor in referring to them is there any need of injustice or\nexaggeration. Human nature has not the physical endurance or moral\npersistence to keep up a perpetual and universal cruelty; and there are\nfortunate slaves who never received a blow from their masters. Besides,\nthere was less labor exacted and less discipline imposed on the loosely\nmanaged plantations of the Sea Islands than in other districts where\nslave-labor was better and more profitably organized and directed.\n\nThe capture of Hilton Head and Bay Point by the navy, November 7th,\n1861, was followed by the immediate military occupation of the Sea\nIslands. In the latter part of December, the Secretary of the Treasury,\nMr. Chase, whose foresight as a statesman and humane disposition\nnaturally turned his thoughts to the subject, deputed a special agent to\nvisit this district for the purpose of reporting upon the condition of\nthe negroes who had been abandoned by the white population, and of\nsuggesting some plan for the organization of their labor and the\npromotion of their general well-being. The agent, leaving New York\nJanuary 13th, 1862, reached that city again on his way to Washington on\nthe 13th of February, having in the mean time visited a large number of\nthe plantations, and talked familiarly with the negroes in their cabins.\nThe results of his observations, in relation to the condition of the\npeople, their capacities and wishes, the culture of their crops, and the\nbest mode of administration, on the whole favorable, were embodied in a\nreport. The plan proposed by him recommended the appointment of\nsuperintendents to act as guides of the negroes and as local\nmagistrates, with an adequate corps of teachers. It was accepted by the\nSecretary with a full indorsement, and its execution intrusted to the\nsame agent. The agent presented the subject to several members of\nCongress, with whom he had a personal acquaintance, but, though they\nlistened respectfully, they seemed either to dread the magnitude of the\nsocial question, or to feel that it was not one with which they as\nlegislators were called upon immediately to deal. The Secretary himself,\nand Mr. Olmsted, then connected with the Sanitary Commission, alone\nseemed to grasp it, and to see the necessity of immediate action. It is\ndoubtful if any member of the Cabinet, except Mr. Chase, took then any\ninterest in the enterprise, though it has since been fostered by the\nSecretary of War. At the suggestion of the Secretary, the President\nappointed an interview with the agent. Mr. Lincoln, who was then chafing\nunder a prospective bereavement, listened for a few moments, and then\nsaid, somewhat impatiently, that he did not think he ought to be\ntroubled with such details,--that there seemed to be an itching to get\nnegroes into our lines; to which the agent replied, that these negroes\nwere within them by the invitation of no one, being domiciled there\nbefore we commenced occupation. The President then wrote and handed to\nthe agent the following card:--\n\n\"I shall be obliged if the Sec. of the Treasury will in his discretion\ngive Mr. Pierce such instructions in regard to Port Royal contrabands as\nmay seem judicious.\n\n\"A. LINCOLN.\n\n\"Feb. 15, 1862.\"\n\nThe President, so history must write it, approached the great question\nslowly and reluctantly; and in February, 1862, he little dreamed of the\nproclamations he was to issue in the September and January following.\nPerhaps that slowness and reluctance were well, for thereby it was given\nto this people to work out their own salvation, rather than to be saved\nby any chief or prophet.\n\nNotwithstanding the plan of superintendents was accepted, there were no\nfunds wherewith to pay them. At this stage the \"Educational Commission,\"\norganized in Boston on the 7th of February, and the \"Freedmen's Relief\nAssociation,\" organized in New York on the 20th of the same month,\ngallantly volunteered to pay both superintendents and teachers, and did\nso until July 1st, when the Government, having derived a fund from the\nsale of confiscated cotton left in the territory by the Rebels,\nundertook the payment of the superintendents, the two societies,\ntogether with another organized in Philadelphia on the 3d of March, and\ncalled the \"Port Royal Relief Committee,\" providing for the support of\nthe teachers.\n\nWhen these voluntary associations sprang into being to save an\nenterprise which otherwise must have failed, no authoritative assurance\nhad been given as to the legal condition of the negroes. The Secretary,\nin a letter to the agent, had said, that, after being received into our\nservice, they could not, without great injustice, be restored to their\nmasters, and should therefore be fitted to become self-supporting\ncitizens. The President was reported to have said freely, in private,\nthat negroes who were within our lines, and had been employed by the\nGovernment, should be protected in their freedom. No official assurance\nof this had, however, been given; and its absence disturbed the\nsocieties in their formation. At one meeting of the Boston society\naction was temporarily arrested by the expression of an opinion by a\ngentleman present, that there was no evidence showing that these people,\nwhen educated, would not be the victims of some unhappy compromise. A\npublic meeting in Providence, for their relief, is said to have broken\nup without action, because of a speech from a furloughed officer of a\nregiment stationed at Port Royal, who considered such a result the\nprobable one. But the societies, on reflection, wisely determined to do\nwhat they could to prepare them to become self-supporting citizens, in\nthe belief, that, when they had become such, no Government could ever be\nfound base enough to turn its back upon them. These associations, it\nshould be stated, have been managed by persons of much consideration in\ntheir respective communities, of unostentatious philanthropy, but of\nenergetic and practical benevolence, hardly one of whom has ever filled\nor been a candidate for a political office.\n\nThere was a pleasant interview at this time which may fitly be\nmentioned. The venerable Josiah Quincy, just entered on his ninety-first\nyear, hearing of the enterprise, desired to see one who had charge of\nit. I went to his chamber, where he had been confined to his bed for\nmany weeks with a fractured limb. He talked like a patriot who read the\nhour and its duty. He felt troubled lest adequate power had not been\ngiven to protect the enterprise,--said that but for his disability he\nshould be glad to write something about it, but that he was living \"the\npostscript of his life\"; and as we parted, he gave his hearty\nbenediction to the work and to myself. Restored in a measure to\nactivity, he is still spared to the generation which fondly cherishes\nhis old age; and recently, at the organization of the Union Club, he\nread to his fellow-citizens, gathering close about him and hanging on\nhis speech, words of counsel and encouragement.\n\nOn the morning of the 3d of March, 1862, the first delegation of\nsuperintendents and teachers, fifty-three in all, of whom twelve were\nwomen, left the harbor of New York, on board the United States\nsteam-transport Atlantic, arriving at Beaufort on the 9th. It was a\nvoyage never to be forgotten. The enterprise was new and strange, and it\nwas not easy to predict its future. Success or defeat might be in store\nfor us; and we could only trust in God that our strength would be equal\nto our responsibilities. As the colonists approached the shores of South\nCarolina, they were addressed by the agent in charge, who told them the\nlittle he had learned of their duties, enjoined patience and humanity,\nimpressed on them the greatness of their work, the results of which were\nto cheer or dishearten good men, to settle, perhaps, one way or the\nother, the social problem of the age,--assuring them that never did a\nvessel bear a colony on a nobler mission, not even the Mayflower, when\nshe conveyed the Pilgrims to Plymouth, that it would be a poorly written\nhistory which should omit their individual names, and that, if faithful\nto their trust, there would come to them the highest of all recognitions\never accorded to angels or to men, in this life or the next,--\"Inasmuch\nas ye have done it unto the least of these, ye have done it unto Me.\"\n\nThis first delegation of superintendents and teachers were distributed\nduring the first fortnight after their arrival at Beaufort, and at its\nclose they had all reached their appointed posts. They took their\nquarters in the deserted houses of the planters. These had all left on\nthe arrival of our army, only four white men, citizens of South\nCarolina, remaining, and none of those being slaveholders, except one,\nwho had only two or three slaves. Our operations were, therefore, not\ninterfered with by landed proprietors who were loyal or pretended to be\nso. The negroes had, in the mean time, been without persons to guide and\ncare for them, and had been exposed to the careless and conflicting talk\nof soldiers who chanced to meet them. They were also brought in\nconnection with some _employ\u00e9s_ of the Government, engaged in the\ncollection of cotton found upon the plantations, none of whom were doing\nanything for their education, and most of whom were in favor of leasing\nthe plantations and the negroes upon them as _adscripti gleboe_ looking\nforward to their restoration to their masters at the close of the war.\nThey were uncertain as to the intentions of the Yankees, and were\nwondering at the confusion, as they called it. They were beginning to\nplant corn in their patches, but were disinclined to plant cotton,\nregarding it as a badge of servitude. No schools had been opened, except\none at Beaufort, which had been kept a few weeks by two freedmen, one\nbearing the name of John Milton, under the auspices of the Rev. Dr.\nPeck. This is not the place to detail the obstacles we met with, one\nafter another overcome,--the calumnies and even personal violence to\nwhich we were subjected. These things occurred at an early period of our\nstruggle, when the nation was groping its way to light, and are not\nlikely to occur again. Let unworthy men sleep in the oblivion they\ndeserve, and let others of better natures, who were then blind, but now\nsee, not be taunted with their inconsiderate acts. The nickname of\nGibeonites, applied to the colonists, may, however, be fitly remembered.\nIt may now justly claim rank with the honored titles of Puritan and\nMethodist. The higher officers of the army were uniformly respectful and\ndisposed to co\u00f6peration. One of these may properly be mentioned. Our\nmost important operations were in the district under the command of\nBrigadier-General Isaac I. Stevens, an officer whose convictions were\nnot supposed to be favorable to the enterprise, and who, during the\npolitical contest of 1860, had been the chairman of the National\nBreckinridge Committee. But such was his honor as a gentleman, and his\nsense of the duty of subordination to the wishes of the Government,\nthat his personal courtesies and official aid were never wanting. He\nreceived his mortal wound at Chantilly, Virginia, on the first of\nSeptember following, and a braver and abler officer has not fallen in\nthe service.\n\nNotwithstanding our work was commenced six weeks too late, and other\nhindrances occurred, detailed in the second report of the agent, some\neight thousand acres of esculents,--a fair supply of food,--and some\nfour thousand five hundred acres of cotton (after a deduction for\nover-estimates) were planted. This was done upon one hundred and\neighty-nine plantations, on which were nine thousand and fifty people,\nof whom four thousand four hundred and twenty-nine were field-hands,\nmade up of men, women, and children, and equivalent, in the usual\nclassification and estimate of the productive capacity of laborers, to\nthree thousand eight hundred and five and one-half full hands. The\ncotton-crop produced will not exceed sixty-five thousand pounds of\nginned cotton. Work enough was done to have produced five hundred\nthousand pounds in ordinary times; but the immaturity of the pod,\nresulting from the lateness of the planting, exposed it to the ravages\nof the frost and the worm. Troops being ordered North, after the\ndisasters of the Peninsular campaign, Edisto was evacuated in the middle\nof July, and thus one thousand acres of esculents, and nearly seven\nhundred acres of cotton, the cultivation of which had been finished,\nwere abandoned. In the autumn, Major-General Mitchell required forty\ntons of corn-fodder and seventy-eight thousand pounds of corn in the\near, for army-forage. These are but some of the adverse influences to\nwhich the agricultural operations were subjected.\n\nIt is fitting here that I should bear my testimony to the\nsuperintendents and teachers commissioned by the associations. There was\nas high a purpose and devotion among them as in any colony that ever\nwent forth to bear the evangel of civilization. Among them were some of\nthe choicest young men of New England, fresh from Harvard, Yale, and\nBrown, from the divinity-schools of Andover and Cambridge,--men of\npractical talent and experience. There were some of whom the world was\nscarce worthy, and to whom, whether they are among the living or the\ndead, I delight to pay the tribute of my respect and admiration.\n\nFour of the original delegation have died. William S. Clark died at\nBoston, April 25th, 1863, a consumptive when he entered on the work,\nwhich he was obliged to leave six months before his death. He was a\nfaithful and conscientious teacher. Though so many months had passed\nsince he left these labors, their fascination was such that he dwelt\nfondly upon them in his last days.\n\nThe colony was first broken by the death of Francis E. Barnard, at St.\nHelena Island, October 18th, 1862. He was devoted, enthusiastic,--and\nthough not fitted, as it at first appeared, for the practical duties of\na superintendent, yet even in this respect disappointing me entirely. He\nwas an evangelist, also, and he preached with more unction than any\nother the gospel of freedom,--always, however, enforcing the duties of\nindustry and self-restraint. He was never sad, but always buoyant and\ntrustful. He and a comrade were the first to be separated from the\ncompany, while at Hilton Head, and before the rest went to\nBeaufort,--being assigned to Edisto, which had been occupied less than a\nmonth, and was a remote and exposed point; but he went fearlessly and\nwithout question. The evacuation of Edisto in July, the heat, and the\nlabor involved in bringing away and settling his people at the village\non St. Helena Island, a summer resort of the former residents, where\nwere some fifty vacant houses, were too much for him. His excessive\nexertions brought on malarious fever. This produced an unnatural\nexcitement, and at mid-day, under a hot sun, he rode about to attend to\nhis people. He died,--men, women, and children, for whom he had toiled,\nfilling the house with their sobs during his departing hours. His\nfuneral was thronged by them, his coffin strewn with flowers which they\nand his comrades had plucked, and then his remains were borne to his\nnative town, where burial-rites were again performed in the old church\nof Dorchester. Read his published journal, and find how a noble youth\ncan live fourscore years in a little more than one score. One high\nprivilege was accorded to him. He lived to hear of the immortal edict of\nthe twenty-second of September, by which the freedom of his people was\nto be secured for all time to come.\n\nSamuel D. Phillips was a young man of much religions feeling, though he\nnever advertised himself as having it, and a devout communicant of the\nEpiscopal Church. He was a gentleman born and bred, inheriting the\nquality as well as adding to it by self-discipline. He had good\nbusiness-capacity, never complained of inconveniences, was humane, yet\nnot misled by sentiment, and he gave more of his time, otherwise\nunoccupied, to teaching than almost any other superintendent. I was\nrecently asking the most advanced pupils of a school on St. Helena who\nfirst taught them their letters, and the frequent answer was, \"Mr.\nPhillips.\" He was at home in the autumn for a vacation, was at the\nfuneral of Barnard in Dorchester, and though at the time in imperfect\nhealth, he hastened back to his charge, feeling that the death of\nBarnard, whose district was the same as his own, rendered his immediate\nreturn necessary to the comfort of his people. He went,--but his health\nnever came back to him. His quarters were in the same house where\nBarnard had died, and in a few days, on the 5th of December, he followed\nhim. He was tended in his sickness by the negroes, and one day, having\nasked that his pillow might be turned, he uttered the words, \"Thank\nGod,\" and died. There was the same grief as at Barnard's death, the same\nfuneral-rites at the St. Helena Church, and his remains were borne North\nto bereaved relatives.\n\nDaniel Bowe was an alumnus of Yale College, and a student of the Andover\nTheological Seminary, not yet graduated when he turned from his\nprofessional studies at the summons of Christian duty. He labored\nfaithfully as a superintendent, looking after the physical, moral, and\neducational interests of his people. He had a difficult post, was\noverburdened with labor, and perhaps had not the faculty of taking as\ngood care of himself as was even consistent with his duties. He came\nhome in the summer, commended the enterprise and his people to the\ncitizens and students of Andover, and returned. He afterwards fell ill,\nand, again coming North, died October 30th, a few days after reaching\nNew York. The young woman who was betrothed to him, but whom he did not\nlive to wed, has since his death sought this field of labor; and on my\nrecent visit I found her upon the plantation where he had resided,\nteaching the children whom he had first taught, and whose parents he had\nguided to freedom. Truly, the age of Christian romance has not passed\naway!\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\nOn the first of July, 1862, the administration of affairs at Port Royal\nhaving been transferred from the Treasury to the War Department, the\ncharge of the freedmen passed into the hands of Brigadier-General Rufus\nSaxton, a native of Massachusetts, who in childhood had breathed the\nfree air of the valley of the Connecticut, a man of sincere and humane\nnature; and under his wise and benevolent care they still remain. The\nSea Islands, and also Fernandina and St. Augustine in Florida, are\nwithin our lines in the Department of the South, and some sixteen or\neighteen thousand negroes are supposed to be under his jurisdiction.\n\nThe negroes of the Sea Islands, when found by us, had become an abject\nrace, more docile and submissive than those of any other locality. The\nnative African was of a fierce and mettlesome temper, sullen and\nuntamable. The master was obliged to abate something of the usual rigor\nin dealing with the imported slaves. A tax-commissioner, now at Port\nRoyal, and formerly a resident of South Carolina, told me that a native\nAfrican belonging to his father, though a faithful man, would\nperpetually insist on doing his work in his own way, and being asked the\nthreatening question, \"A'n't you going to mind?\" would answer, with\nspirit, \"No, a'n't gwine to!\" and the master desisted! Severe discipline\ndrove the natives to the wilderness, or involved a mutilation of person\nwhich destroyed their value for proprietary purposes. In 1816, eight\nhundred of these refugees were living free in the swamps and everglades\nof Florida. There the ancestors of some of them had lived ever since the\nearly part of the eighteenth century, rearing families, carrying on\nfarms, and raising cattle. They had two hundred and fifty men fit to\nbear arms, led by chiefs brave and skilful. The story of the Exiles of\nFlorida is one of painful interest. The testimony of officers of the\narmy who served against them is, that they were more dangerous enemies\nthan the Indians, fighting the most skilfully and standing the longest.\nThe tax-commissioner before referred to, who was a resident of\nCharleston during the trial and execution of the confederates of Denmark\nVesey, relates that one of the native Africans, when called to answer to\nthe charge against him, haughtily responded,--\"_I was a prince in my\ncountry, and have as much right to be free as you!_\" The Carolinians\nwere so awe-struck by his defiance that they transported him. Another,\nat the execution, turned indignantly to a comrade about to speak, and\nsaid, \"_Die silent, as I do!_\" and the man hushed. The early newspapers\nof Georgia recount the disturbances on the plantations occasioned by\nthese native Africans, and even by their children, being not until the\nthird generation reduced to obedient slaves.\n\nNowhere has the deterioration of the negroes from their native manhood\nbeen carried so far as on these Sea Islands,--a deterioration due to\ntheir isolation from the excitements of more populous districts, the\nconstant surveillance of the overseers, and their intermarriage with\neach other, involving a physical degeneracy with which inexorable Nature\npunishes disobedience to her laws. The population with its natural\nincrease was sufficient for the cultivation of the soil under existing\nmodes, and therefore no fresh blood was admitted, such as is found\npouring from the Border States into the sugar and cotton regions of the\nSouthwest. This unmanning and depravation of the native character had\nbeen carried so far, that the special agent, on his first exploration,\nin January, 1862, was obliged to confess the existence of a general\ndisinclination to military service on the part of the negroes; though it\nis true that even then instances of courage and adventure appeared,\nwhich indicated that the more manly feeling was only latent, to be\ndeveloped under the inspiration of events. And so, let us rejoice, it\nhas been. You may think yourself wise, as you note the docility of a\nsubject race; but in vain will you attempt to study it until the burden\nis lifted. The slave is unknown to all, even to himself, while the\nbondage lasts. Nature is ever a kind mother. She soothes us with her\ndeceits, not in surgery alone, when the sufferer, else writhing in pain,\nis transported with the sweet delirium, but she withholds from the\nspirit the sight of her divinity until her opportunity has come. Not\neven Tocqueville or Olmsted, much less the master, can measure the\ncapacities and possibilities of the slave, until the slave himself is\ntransmuted to a man.\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\nMy recent visit to Port Royal extended from March 25th to May 10th. It\nwas pleasant to meet the first colonists, who still toiled at their\nposts, and specially grateful to receive the welcome of the freedmen,\nand to note the progress they had made. There were interesting scenes to\nfill the days. I saw an aged negro, C\u00e6sar by name, not less than one\nhundred years old, who had left children in Africa, when stolen away.\nThe vicissitudes of such a life were striking,--a free savage in the\nwilds of his native land, a prisoner on a slave-ship, then for long\nyears a toiling slave, now again a freeman under the benign edict of the\nPresident,--his life covering an historic century. A faithful and\nindustrious negro, Old Simon, as we called him, hearing of my arrival,\nrode over to see me, and brought me a present of two or three quarts of\npea-nuts and some seventeen eggs. I had an interview with Don Carlos,\nwhom I had seen in May, 1862, at Edisto, the faithful attendant upon\nBarnard, and who had been both with him and Phillips during their last\nhours,--now not less than seventy years of age, and early in life a\nslave in the Alston family, where he had known Theodosia Burr, the\ndaughter of Aaron Burr, and wife of Governor Alston. He talked\nintelligently upon her personal history and her mysterious fate. He had\nknown John Pierpont, when a teacher in the family of Colonel Alston, and\naccompanying the sons on their way North to college after the completion\nof their preparatory studies. Pierpont was a classmate of John C.\nCalhoum at Yale College, and, upon graduating, went South as a private\ntutor.\n\nAunt Phillis was not likely to be overlooked,--an old woman, with much\npower of expression, living on the plantation where my quarters had\nformerly been. The attack on Charleston was going on, and she said, \"If\nyou're as long beating Secesh everywhere as you have been in taking the\ntown, guess it'll take you some time!\" Indeed, the negroes had somewhat\nless confidence in our power than at first, on account of our not having\nfollowed up the capture of Bay Point and Hilton Head. The same quaint\nold creature, speaking of the disregard of the masters for the feelings\nof the slaves, said, with much emphasis, \"They thought God was dead!\"\n\nI visited Barnwell Island, the only plantation upon which is that of\nTrescot, formerly Secretary of Legation at London, a visit to whom\nRussell describes in his \"Diary.\" But the mansion is not now as when\nRussell saw it. Its large library is deposited in the Smithsonian\nInstitution at Washington. Its spacious rooms in the first and second\nstories, together with the attics, are all filled with the families of\nnegro refugees. From this point, looking across the water, we could see\na cavalry-picket of the Rebels. The superintendent who had charge of the\nplantation, and accompanied me, was Charles Follen, an inherited name,\nlinked with the struggles for freedom in both hemispheres.\n\nThe negro graveyards occasionally attracted me from the road. They are\nusually in an open field, under a clump of some dozen or twenty trees,\nperhaps live-oaks, and not fenced. There may be fifty or a hundred\ngraves, marked only by sticks eighteen inches or two feet high and about\nas large as the wrist. Mr. Olmsted saw some stones in a negro graveyard\nat Savannah, erected by the slaves, and bearing rather illiterate\ninscriptions; but I never succeeded in finding any but wooden memorials,\nnot even at Beaufort. Only in one case could I find an inscription, and\nthat was in a burial-place on Ladies Island. There was a board at the\nhead of the grave, shaped something like an ordinary gravestone, about\nthree feet high and six inches wide. The inscription was as follows:--\n\n  OLd Jiw\n  de PArt his\n  Life on the\n  2 of WAY\n  Re st frow\n  LAuer\n\nOn the foot-board were these words:--\n\n  We ll\n  d OW N.\n\nThe rude artist was Kit, the son of the old man. He can read, and also\nwrite a little, and, like his deceased father, is a negro preacher. He\nsaid that he used to carry his father in his arms in his old age,--that\nthe old man had no pain, and, as the son expressed it, \"sunk in years.\"\nI inquired of Kit concerning several of the graves; and I found, by his\nintelligent answers, that their tenants were disposed in families and\nwere known. These lowly burial-places, for which art has done nothing,\nare not without a fascination, and in some hours of life they take a\nfaster hold on the sentiments than more imposing cemeteries, adorned\nwith shafts of marble and granite, and rich in illustrious dead.\n\nThere were some superstitions among the people, perhaps of African\norigin, which the teachers had detected, such as a belief in hags as\nevil spirits, and in a kind of witchcraft which only certain persons can\ncure. They have a superstition, that, when you take up and remove a\nsleeping child, you must call its spirit, else it will cry, on awaking,\nuntil you have taken it back to the same place and invoked its spirit.\nThey believe that turning an alligator on his back will bring rain; and\nthey will not talk about one when in a boat, lest a storm should thereby\nbe brought on.\n\nBut the features in the present condition of the freedmen bearing\ndirectly on the solution of the social problem deserve most\nconsideration.\n\nAnd, first, as to _education_. There are more than thirty schools in the\nterritory, conducted by as many as forty or forty-five teachers, who are\ncommissioned by the three associations in Boston, New York, and\nPhiladelphia, and by the American Missionary Association. They have an\naverage attendance of two thousand pupils, and are more or less\nfrequented by an additional thousand. The ages of the scholars range in\nthe main from eight to twelve years. They did not know even their\nletters prior to a year ago last March, except those who were being\ntaught in the single school at Beaufort already referred to, which had\nbeen going on for a few weeks. Very many did not have the opportunity\nfor instruction till weeks and even months after. During the spring and\nsummer of 1862 there were not more than a dozen schools, and these were\nmuch interrupted by the heat, and by the necessity of assigning at times\nsome of the teachers to act as superintendents. Teachers came for a\nbrief time, and upon its expiration, or for other cause, returned home,\nleaving the schools to be broken up. It was not until October or\nNovember that the educational arrangements were put into much shape; and\nthey are still but imperfectly organized. In some localities there is as\nyet no teacher, and this because the associations have not had the funds\nwherewith to provide one.\n\nI visited ten of the schools, and conversed with the teachers of others.\nThere were, it may be noted, some mixed bloods in the schools of the\ntown of Beaufort,--ten in a school of ninety, thirteen in another of\nsixty-four, and twenty in another of seventy. In the schools on the\nplantations there were never more than half a dozen in one school, in\nsome cases but two or three, and in others none.\n\nThe advanced classes were reading simple stories and didactic passages\nin the ordinary school-books, as Hillard's Second Primary Reader,\nWillson's Second Reader, and others of similar grade. Those who had\nenjoyed a briefer period of instruction were reading short sentences or\nlearning the alphabet. In several of this schools a class was engaged on\nan elementary lesson in arithmetic, geography, or writing. The eagerness\nfor knowledge and the facility of acquisition displayed in the beginning\nhad not abated.\n\nOn the 25th of March I visited a school at the Central Baptist Church on\nSt. Helena Island, built in 1855, shaded by lofty live-oak trees, with\nthe long, pendulous moss everywhere hanging from their wide-spreading\nbranches, and surrounded by the gravestones of the former proprietors,\nwhich bear the ever-recurring names of Fripp and Chaplin. This school\nwas opened in September last, but many of the pupils had received some\ninstruction before. One hundred and thirty-one children were present on\nmy first visit, and one hundred and forty-five on my second, which was a\nfew days later. Like most of the schools on the plantations, it opened\nat noon and closed at three o'clock, leaving the forenoon for the\nchildren to work in the field or perform other service in which they\ncould be useful. One class, of twelve pupils, read page 70th in\nWillson's Reader, on \"Going Away.\" They had not read the passage before,\nand they went through it with little spelling or hesitation. They had\nrecited the first thirty pages of Towle's Speller, and the\nmultiplication-table as high as fives, and were commencing the sixes. A\nfew of the scholars, the youngest, or those who had come latest to the\nschool, were learning the alphabet. At the close of the school, they\nrecited in concert the Psalm, \"The Lord is my shepherd,\" requiring\nprompting at the beginning of some of the verses. They sang with much\nspirit hymns which had been taught them by the teachers, as,--\n\n  \"My country, 'tis of thee,\n  Sweet land of liberty\";\n\nalso,--\n\n  \"Sound the loud timbrel\";\n\nalso, Whittier's new song, written expressly for this school, the\nclosing stanzas of which are,--\n\n  \"The very oaks are greener clad,\n    The waters brighter smile;\n  Oh, never shone a day so glad\n    On sweet St. Helen's Isle!\n\n  \"For none in all the world before\n    Were ever glad as we,--\n  We're free on Carolina's shore,\n    We're all at home and free!\"\n\nNever has that pure Muse, which has sung only of truth and right, as the\nhighest beauty and noblest art, been consecrated to a better service\nthan to write the songs of praise for these little children, chattels no\nlonger, whom the Saviour, were he now to walk on earth, would bless as\nhis own.\n\nThe prevalent song, however, heard in every school, in church, and by\nthe way-side, is that of \"John Brown,\" which very much amuses our white\nsoldiers, particularly when the singers roll out,--\n\n  \"We'll hang Jeff Davis on a sour apple tree!\"\n\nThe children also sang their own songs, as,--\n\n  \"In de morning' when I rise,\n    Tell my Jesus. Huddy oh?[A]\n  In de mornin' when I rise,\n    Tell my Jesus, Huddy oh?\n\n  \"I wash my hands in de mornin' glory,\n    Tell my Jesus, Huddy oh?\n  I wash my hands in de mornin' glory,\n    Tell my Jesus, Huddy oh?\n\n  \"Pray, Tony, pray, boy, you got de order,\n    Tell my Jesus, Huddy oh?\n  Pray, Tony, pray, boy, you got de order,\n    Tell my Jesus, Huddy oh?\n\n  \"Pray, Rosy, pray, gal,\" etc.\n\n[Footnote A: How d' y' do?]\n\nAlso,--\n\n  \"I would not let you go, my Lord,\n    I would not let you go,\n  I would not let you go, my Lord,\n    I would not let you go.\n\n  \"Dere's room enough, dere's room enough,\n    Dere's room enough in de heab'nly groun',\n  Dere's room enough, dere's room enough,\n      I can't stay behin'.\n\n  \"I can't stay behin', my Lord,\n    I can't stay behin',\n  I can't stay behin', my Lord,\n    I can't stay behin'.\n\n  \"De angels march all roun' de trone,\n  De angels march all roun' de trone,\n  De angels march all roun' de trone,\n      I can't stay behin'.\n\n  \"I can't stay behin', my Lord.\n    I can't stay behin',\n  I can't stay behin', my Lord,\n    I can't stay behin'.\n\n  \"Dere's room enough,\" etc.\n\nOther songs of the negroes are common, as, \"The Wrestling Jacob,\" \"Down\nin the lonesome valley,\" \"Roll, Jordan, roll,\" \"Heab'n shall-a be my\nhome.\" Russell's \"Diary\" gives an account of these songs, as he heard\nthem in his evening row over Broad River, on his way to Trescot's\nestate.\n\nOne of the teachers of this school is an accomplished woman from\nPhiladelphia. Another is from Newport, Rhode Island, where she had\nprepared herself for this work by benevolent labors in teaching poor\nchildren. The third is a young woman of African descent, of olive\ncomplexion, finely cultured, and attuned to all beautiful sympathies, of\ngentle address, and, what was specially noticeable, not possessed with\nan overwrought consciousness of her race. She had read the best books,\nand naturally and gracefully enriched her conversation with them. She\nhad enjoyed the friendship of Whittier; had been a pupil in the\nGrammar-School of Salem, then in the State Normal School in that city,\nthen a teacher in one of the schools for white children, where she had\nreceived only the kindest treatment both from the pupils and their\nparents,--and let this be spoken to the honor of that ancient town. She\nhad refused a residence in Europe, where a better social life and less\nunpleasant discrimination awaited her, for she would not dissever\nherself from the fortunes of her people; and now, not with a superficial\nsentiment, but with a profound purpose, she devotes herself to their\nelevation.\n\nAt Coffin Point, on St. Helena Island, I visited a school kept by a\nyoung woman from the town of Milton, Massachusetts, \"the child of\nparents passed into the skies,\" whose lives have both been written for\nthe edification of the Christian world. She teaches two schools, at\ndifferent hours in the afternoon, and with different scholars in each.\nOne class had read through Hillard's Second Primary Reader, and were on\na review, reading Lessons 19, 20, and 21, while I was present. Being\nquestioned as to the subjects of the lessons, they answered\nintelligently. They recited the twos of the multiplication-table,\nexplained numeral letters and figures on the blackboard, and wrote\nletters and figures on slates. Another teacher in the adjoining\ndistrict, a graduate of Harvard, and the son of a well-known Unitarian\nclergyman of Providence, Rhode Island, has two schools, in one of which\na class of three pupils was about finishing Ellsworth's First\nProgressive Reader, and another, of seven pupils, had just finished\nHillard's Second Primary Header. Another teacher, from Cambridge,\nMassachusetts, on the same island, numbers one hundred pupils in his two\nschools. He exercises a class in elocution, requiring the same sentence\nto be repeated with different tones and inflections, and one could not\nbut remark the excellent imitations.\n\nIn a school at St. Helena village, where were collected the Edisto\nrefugees, ninety-two pupils were present as I went in. Two ladies were\nengaged in teaching, assisted by Ned Loyd White, a colored man, who had\npicked up clandestinely a knowledge of reading while still a slave. One\nclass of boys and another of girls read in the seventh chapter of St.\nJohn, having begun this Gospel and gone thus far. They stumbled a little\non words like \"unrighteousness\" and \"circumcision\"; otherwise they got\nalong very well. When the Edisto refugees were brought here, in July,\n1862, Ned, who is about forty or forty-five years old, and Uncle Cyrus,\na man of seventy, who also could read, gathered one hundred and fifty\nchildren into two schools, and taught them as best they could for five\nmonths until teachers were provided by the societies. Ned has since\nreceived a donation from one of the societies, and is now regularly\nemployed on a salary. A woman comes to one of the teachers of this\nschool for instruction in the evening, after she has put her children to\nbed. She had become interested in learning by hearing her younger sister\nread when she came home from school; and when she asked to be taught,\nshe had learned from this sister the alphabet and some words of one\nsyllable. Only a small proportion of the adults are, however, learning.\n\nOn the 8th of April, I visited a school on Ladies Island, kept in a\nsmall church on the Eustis estate, and taught by a young woman from\nKingston, Massachusetts. She had manifested much persistence in going to\nthis field, went with the first delegation, and still keeps the school\nwhich she opened in March, 1862. She taught the pupils their letters.\nSixty-six were present on the day of my visit. A class of ten pupils\nread the story which commences on page 86th of Hillard's Second Primary\nReader. One girl, Elsie, a full black, and rather ungainly withal, read\nso rapidly that she had to be checked,--the only case of such fast\nreading that I found. She assisted the teacher by taking the beginners\nto a corner of the room and exercising them upon an alphabet card,\nrequiring them to give the names of letters taken out of their regular\norder, and with the letters making words, which they were expected to\nrepeat after her. One class recited in Eaton's First Lessons in\nArithmetic; and two or three scholars with a rod pointed out the states,\nlakes, and large rivers on the map of the United States, and also the\ndifferent continents on the map of the world, as they were called. I saw\nthe teacher of this school at her residence, late in the afternoon,\ngiving familiar instruction to some ten boys and girls, all but two\nbeing under twelve years, who read the twenty-first chapter of the Book\nof Revelation, and the story of Lazarus in the eleventh chapter of St.\nJohn. Elsie was one of these. Seeing me taking notes, she looked archly\nat the teacher, and whispered,--\"he's putting me in the book\"; and as\nElsie guessed, so I do. The teacher was instructing her pupils in some\ndates and facts which have had much to do with our history. The\nquestions and answers, in which all the pupils joined, were these:--\n\n\"Where were slaves first brought to this country?\"\n\n\"Virginia.\"\n\n\"When?\"\n\n\"1620.\"\n\n\"Who brought them?\"\n\n\"Dutchmen.\"\n\n\"Who came the same year to Plymouth, Massachusetts?\"\n\n\"Pilgrims.\"\n\n\"Did they bring slaves?\"\n\n\"No.\"\n\nA teacher in Beaufort put these questions, to which answers were given\nin a loud tone by the whole school:--\n\n\"What country do you live in?\"\n\n\"United States.\"\n\n\"What State?\"\n\n\"South Carolina.\"\n\n\"What island?\"\n\n\"Port Royal.\"\n\n\"What town?\"\n\n\"Beaufort.\"\n\n\"Who is your Governor?\"\n\n\"General Saxton.\"\n\n\"Who is your President?\"\n\n\"Abraham Lincoln.\"\n\n\"What has he done for you?\"\n\n\"He's freed us.\"\n\nThere were four schools in the town of Beaufort, all of which I visited,\neach having an average attendance of from sixty to ninety pupils, and\neach provided with two teachers. In some of them writing was taught. But\nit is unnecessary to describe them, as they were very much like the\nothers. There is, besides, at Beaufort an industrial school, which meets\ntwo afternoons in a week, and is conducted by a lady from New York, with\nsome dozen ladies to assist her. There were present, the afternoon I\nvisited it, one hundred and thirteen girls from six to twenty years of\nage, all plying the needle, some with pieces of patchwork, and others\nwith aprons, pillow-cases, or handkerchiefs.\n\nThough I have never been on the school-committee, I accepted invitations\nto address the schools on these visits, and particularly plied the\npupils with questions, so as to catch the tone of their minds; and I\nhave rarely heard children answer with more readiness and spirit. We had\na dialogue substantially as follows:--\n\n\"Children, what are you going to do when you grow up?\"\n\n\"Going to work, Sir.\"\n\n\"On what?\"\n\n\"Cotton and corn, Sir.\"\n\n\"What are you going to do with the corn?\"\n\n\"Eat it.\"\n\n\"What are you going to do with the cotton?\"\n\n\"Sell it.\"\n\n\"What are you going to do with the money you get for it?\"\n\nOne boy answered in advance of the rest,--\n\n\"Put it in my pocket, Sir.\"\n\n\"That won't do. What's better than that?\"\n\n\"Buy clothes, Sir.\"\n\n\"What else will you buy?\"\n\n\"Shoes, Sir.\"\n\n\"What else are you going to do with your money?\"\n\nThere was some hesitation at this point. Then the question was put,--\n\n\"What are you going to do Sundays?\"\n\n\"Going to meeting.\"\n\n\"What are you going to do there?\"\n\n\"Going to sing.\"\n\n\"What else?\"\n\n\"Hear the parson.\"\n\n\"Who's going to pay him?\"\n\nOne boy said,--\"Government pays him\"; but the rest answered,--\n\n\"We's pays him.\"\n\n\"Well, when you grow up, you'll probably get married, as other people\ndo, and you'll have your little children; now, what will you do with\nthem?\"\n\nThere was a titter at this question; but the general response came,--\n\n\"Send 'em to school, Sir.\"\n\n\"Well, who'll pay the teacher?\"\n\n\"We's pays him.\"\n\nOne who listens to such answers can hardly think that there is any\nnatural incapacity in these children to acquire with maturity of years\nthe ideas and habits of good citizens.\n\nThe children are cheerful, and, in most of the schools, well-behaved,\nexcept that it is not easy to keep them from whispering and talking.\nThey are joyous, and you can see the boys after school playing the\nsoldier, with corn-stalks for guns. The memory is very susceptible in\nthem,--too much so, perhaps, as it is ahead of the reasoning faculty.\n\nThe labor of the season has interrupted attendance on the schools, the\nparents being desirous of having the children aid them in planting and\ncultivating their crops, and it not being thought best to allow the\nteaching to interfere in any way with industrious habits.\n\nA few freedmen, who had picked up an imperfect knowledge of reading,\nhave assisted our teachers, though a want of proper training materially\ndetracts from their usefulness in this respect. Ned and Uncle Cyrus have\nalready been mentioned. The latter, a man of earnest piety, has died\nsince my visit. Anthony kept four schools on Hilton Head Island last\nsummer and autumn, being paid at first by the superintendents, and\nafterwards by the negroes themselves; but in November he enlisted in the\nnegro regiment. Hettie was another of these. She assisted Barnard at\nEdisto last spring, continued to teach after the Edisto people were\nbrought to St. Helena village, and one day brought some of her pupils to\nthe school at the Baptist Church, saying to the teachers there that she\ncould carry them no farther. They could read their letters and words of\none syllable. Hettie had belonged to a planter on Wadmelaw Island, a\nkind old gentleman, a native of Rhode Island, and about the only citizen\nof Charleston who, when Samuel Hoar went on his mission to South\nCarolina, stood up boldly for his official and personal protection.\nHettie had been taught to read by his daughter; and let this be\nremembered to the honor of the young woman.\n\nSuch are the general features of the schools as they met my eye. The\nmost advanced classes, and these are but little ahead of the rest, can\nread simple stories and the plainer passages of Scripture; and they\ncould even pursue self-instruction, if the schools were to be suspended.\nThe knowledge they have thus gained can never be extirpated. They could\nread with much profit a newspaper specially prepared for them and\nadapted to their condition. They are learning that the world is not\nbounded north by Charleston, south by Savannah, west by Columbia, and\neast by the sea, with dim visions of New York on this planet or some\nother,--about their conception of geography when we found them. They are\nacquiring the knowledge of figures with which to do the business of\nlife. They are singing the songs of freemen. Visit their schools;\nremember that a little more than a twelve-month ago they knew not a\nletter, and that for generations it has been a crime to teach their\nrace; then contemplate what is now transpiring, and you have a scene\nwhich prophets and sages would have delighted to witness. It will be\ndifficult to find equal progress in an equal period since the morning\nrays of Christian truth first lighted the hill-sides of Judea. I have\nnever looked on St. Peter's, or beheld the glories of art which Michel\nAngelo has wrought or traced; but to my mind the spectacle of those poor\nsouls struggling in darkness and bewilderment to catch the gleams of the\nupper and better light transcends in moral grandeur anything that has\never come from mortal hands.\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\nNext as to _industry_. The laborers, during their first year under the\nnew system, have acquired the idea of ownership, and of the security of\nwages, and have come to see that labor and slavery are not the same\nthing. The notion that they were to raise no more cotton has passed\naway, since work upon it is found to be remunerative, and connected with\nthe proprietorship of land. House-servants, who were at first\nparticularly set against it, now generally prefer it. The laborers have\ncollected the pieces of the gins which they destroyed on the flight of\ntheir masters, the ginning being obnoxious work, repaired them, and\nginned the cotton on the promise of wages. Except upon plantations in\nthe vicinity of camps, where other labor is more immediately\nremunerative, and an unhealthy excitement prevails, there is a general\ndisposition to cultivate it. The culture of the cotton is voluntary, the\nonly penalty for not engaging in it being the imposition of a rent for\nthe tenement and land adjacent thereto occupied by the negro, not\nexceeding two dollars per month. Both the Government and private\nindividuals, who have become owners of one-fourth of the land by the\nrecent tax-sales, pay twenty-five cents for a standard day's-work, which\nmay, by beginning early, be performed by a healthy and active hand by\nnoon; and the same was the case with the tasks under the slave-system on\nvery many of the plantations. As I was riding through one of Mr.\nPhilbrick's fields one morning, I counted fifty persons at work who\nbelonged to one plantation. This gentleman, who went out with the first\ndelegation, and at the same time gave largely to the benevolent\ncontributions for the enterprise, was the leading purchaser at the\ntax-sales, and combining a fine humanity with honest sagacity and close\ncalculation, no man is so well fitted to try the experiment. He bought\nthirteen plantations, and on these has had planted and cultivated eight\nhundred and sixteen acres of cotton where four hundred and ninety-nine\nand one twelve-hundredth acres were cultivated last year,--a larger\nincrease, however, than will generally be found in other districts, due\nmainly to prompter payments. The general superintendent of Port Royal\nWand said to me,--\"We have to restrain rather than to encourage the\nnegroes to take land for cotton.\" The general superintendent of Hilton\nHead Island said, that on that island the negroes had, besides adequate\ncorn, taken two, three, and in a few cases four acres of cotton to a\nhand, and there was a general disposition to cultivate it, except near\nthe camps. A superintendent on St. Helena Island said, that, if he were\ngoing to carry on any work, he should not want bettor laborers. He had\ncharge of the refugees from Edisto, who had been brought to St. Helena\nvillage, and who had cleared and fenced patches for gardens, felling the\ntrees for that purpose.\n\nThe laborers do less work, perhaps, than a Yankee would think they might\ndo; but they do about as much as he himself would do, after a residence\nof a few years in the same climate, and when he had ceased to work under\nthe influence of Northern habits. Northern men have sometimes been\nunjust to the South, when comparing the results of labor in the\ndifferent sections. God never intended that a man should toil under a\ntropical sun with the same energy and constancy as in our bracing\nlatitude. There has been less complaint this year than last of \"a pain\nin the small of the back,\" or of \"a fever in the head,\"--in other words,\nless _shamming_. The work has been greatly deranged by the draft, some\nfeatures of which have not been very skilfully arranged, and by the\nfitfulness with which the laborers have been treated by the military\nauthorities. The work both upon the cotton and the corn is done only by\nthe women, children, and disabled men. It has been suggested that\nfield-work does not become women in the new condition; and so it may\nseem to some persons of just sympathies who have not yet learned that no\nhonest work is dishonorable in man or woman. But this matter may be left\nto regulate itself. Field-work, as an occupation, may not be consistent\nwith the finest feminine culture or the most complete womanliness; but\nit in no way conflicts with virtue, self-respect, and social\ndevelopment. Women work in the field in Switzerland, the freest country\nof Europe; and we may look with pride on the triumphs of this\ngeneration, when the American negroes become the peers of the Swiss\npeasantry. Better a woman with the hoe than without it, when she is not\nyet fitted for the needle or the book.\n\nThe negroes were also showing their capacity to organize labor and apply\ncapital to it. Harry, to whom I referred in my second report, as \"my\nfaithful guide and attendant, who had done for me more service than any\nwhite man could render,\" with funds of his own, and some borrowed money,\nbought at the recent tax-sales a small farm of three hundred and\nthirteen acres for three hundred and five dollars. He was to plant\nsixteen and a half acres of cotton, twelve and a half of corn, and one\nand a half of potatoes. I rode through his farm on the 10th of April, my\nlast day in the territory, and one-third of his crop was then in.\nBesides some servant's duty to an officer, for which he is well paid, he\ndoes the work of a full hand on his place. He hires one woman and two\nmen, one of the latter being old and only a three-quarters hand. He has\ntwo daughters, sixteen and seventeen years of age, one of whom is\nlikewise only a three-quarters hand. His wife works also, of whom he\nsaid, \"She's the best hand I got\"; and if Celia is only as smart with\nher hoe as I know her to be with her tongue, Harry's estimate must be\nright. He has a horse twenty-five years old and blind in both eyes, whom\nhe guides with a rope,--carrying on farming, I thought, somewhat under\ndifficulties. Harry lives in the house of the former overseer, and\ndelights, though not boastingly, in his position as a landed proprietor.\nHe has promised to write me, or rather dictate a letter, giving an\naccount of the progress of his crop. He has had much charge of\nGovernment property, and when Captain Hooper, of General Saxton's staff,\nwas coming North last autumn, Harry proposed to accompany him; but at\nlast, of his own accord, gave up the project, saying, \"It'll not do for\nall two to leave together.\"\n\nAnother case of capacity for organization should be noted. The\nGovernment is building twenty-one houses for the Edisto people, eighteen\nfeet by fourteen, with two rooms, each provided with a swinging\nboard-window, and the roof projecting a little as a protection from\nrain. The journey-carpenters are seventeen colored men, who have fifty\ncents per day without rations, working ten hours. They are under the\ndirection of Frank Barnwell, a freedman, who receives twenty dollars a\nmonth. Rarely have I talked with a more intelligent contractor. It was\nmy great regret that I had not time to visit the village of improved\nhouses near the Hilton Head camp, which General Mitchell had\nextemporized, and to which he gave so much of the noble enthusiasm of\nhis last days.\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\nNext as to the _development of manhood_. This has been shown, in the\nfirst place, in the prevalent disposition to acquire land. It did not\nappear upon our first introduction to these people, and they did not\nseem to understand us when we used to tell them that we wanted them to\nown land. But it is now an active desire. At the recent tax-sales, six\nout of forty-seven plantations sold were bought by them, comprising two\nthousand five hundred and ninety-five acres, sold for twenty-one hundred\nand forty-five dollars. In other cases the negroes had authorized the\nsuperintendent to bid for them, but the land was reserved by the United\nStates. One of the purchases was that made by Harry, noted above. The\nother five were made by the negroes on the plantations combining the\nfunds they had saved from the sale of their pigs, chickens, and eggs,\nand from the payments made to them for work,--they then dividing off the\ntract peaceably among themselves. On one of these, where Kit, before\nmentioned, is the leading spirit, there are twenty-three field-hands,\nwho are equivalent to eighteen full hands. They have planted and are\ncultivating sixty-three acres of cotton, fifty of corn, six of potatoes,\nwith as many more to be planted, four and a half of cow-peas, three of\npea-nuts, and one and a half of rice. These facts are most significant.\nThe instinct for land--to have one spot on earth where a man may stand,\nand whence no human being can of right drive him--is one of the most\nconservative elements of our nature; and a people who have it in any\nfair degree will never be nomads or vagabonds.\n\nThis developing manhood is further seen in their growing consciousness\nof rights, and their readiness to defend themselves, even when assailed\nby white men. The former slaves of a planter, now at Beaufort, who was a\nresident of New York when the war broke out, have generally left the\nplantation, suspicious of his presence, saying that they will not be his\nbondmen, and fearing that in some way he may hold them, if they remain\non it. A remarkable case of the assertion of rights occurred one day\nduring my visit. Two white soldiers, with a corporal, went on Sunday to\nCoosaw Island, where one of the soldiers, having a gun, shot a chicken\nbelonging to a negro. The negroes rushed out and wrested the gun from\nthe corporal, to whom the soldier had handed it, thinking that the\nnegroes would not take it from an officer. They then carried it to the\nsuperintendent, who took it to head-quarters, where an order was given\nfor the arrest of the trespasser. Other instances might be added, but\nthese are sufficient.\n\nAnother evidence of developing manhood appears in their desire for the\ncomforts and conveniences of household life. The Philadelphia society,\nfor the purpose of maintaining reasonable prices, has a store on St.\nHelena Island, which is under the charge of Friend Hunn, of the good\nfellowship of William Penn. He was once fined in Delaware three thousand\ndollars for harboring and assisting fugitive slaves; but he now harbors\nand assists them at a much cheaper rate. Though belonging to a society\nwhich is the advocate of peace, his tone is quite as warlike as that of\nthe world's people. In this store alone--and there are others on the\nisland, carried on by private enterprise--two thousand dollars' worth of\ngoods are sold monthly. To be sure, a rather large proportion of these\nconsists of molasses and sugar, \"sweetening,\" as the negroes call it,\nbeing in great demand, and four barrels of molasses having been sold the\nday of my visit. But there is also a great demand for plates, knives,\nforks, tin ware, and better clothing, including even hoop-skirts.\nNegro-cloth, as it is called, osnaburgs, russet-colored shoes,--in\nshort, the distinctive apparel formerly dealt out to them, as a uniform\nallowance,--are very generally rejected. But there is no article of\nhousehold-furniture or wearing apparel, used by persons of moderate\nmeans among us, which they will not purchase, when they are allowed the\nopportunity of labor and earning wages. What a market the South would\nopen under the new system! It would set all the mills and workshops\nastir. Four millions of people would become purchasers of all the\nvarious articles of manufacture and commerce, in place of the few\ncoarse, simple necessaries, laid in for them in gross by the planters.\nHere is the solution of the vexed industrial question. The indisposition\nto labor is overcome in a healthy nature by instincts and motives of\nsuperior force, such as the love of life, the desire to be well clothed\nand fed, the sense of security derived from provision for the future,\nthe feeling of self-respect, the love of family and children, and the\nconvictions of duty. These all exist in the negro, in a state of greater\nor less development. To give one or two examples. One man brought\nCaptain Hooper seventy dollars in silver, to keep for him, which he had\nobtained from selling pigs and chickens,--thus providing for the future.\nSoldiers of Colonel Higginson's regiment, having confidence in the same\nofficer, intrusted him, when they were paid off, with seven hundred\ndollars, to be transmitted by him to their wives, and this besides what\nthey had sent home in other ways,--showing the family-feeling to be\nactive and strong in them. They have also the social and religious\ninspirations to labor. Thus, early in our occupation of Hilton Head,\nthey took up, of their own accord, a collection to pay for the candles\nfor their evening meetings, feeling that it was not right for the\nGovernment longer to provide them. The result was a contribution of two\ndollars and forty-eight cents. They had just fled from their masters,\nand had received only a small pittance of wages, and this little sum was\nnot unlike the two mites which the widow cast into the treasury. Another\ncollection was taken, last June, in the church on St. Helena Island,\nupon the suggestion of the pastor that they should share in the expenses\nof worship. Fifty-two dollars was the result,--not a bad collection for\nsome of our Northern churches. I have seen these people where they are\nsaid to be lowest, and sad indeed are some features of their lot, yet\nwith all earnestness and confidence I enter my protest against the\nwicked satire of Carlyle.\n\nIs there not here some solution of the question of prejudice or caste\nwhich has troubled so many good minds? When these people can no longer\nbe used as slaves, men will try to see how they can make the most out of\nthem as freemen. Your Irishman, who now works as a day-laborer, honestly\nthinks that he hates the negro; but when the war is over, he will have\nno objection to going South and selling him groceries and\nhousehold-implements at fifty per cent. advance on New-York prices, or\nto hiring him to raise cotton for twenty-five or fifty cents a day. Our\nprejudices, under any reasonable adjustment of the social system,\nreadily accommodate themselves to our interests, even without much aid\nfrom the moral sentiments.\n\nLet those who would study well this social question, or who in public\ntrusts are charged with its solution, be most careful here. Every motive\nin the minds of these people, whether of instinct, desire, or duty, must\nbe addressed. All the elements of human nature must be appealed to,\nphysical, moral, intellectual, social, and religious. Imperfect indeed\nis any system which, like that at New Orleans, offers wages, but does\nnot welcome the teacher. It is of little moment whether three dollars or\nthirty per month be paid the laborer, so long as there is no school to\nbind both parent and child to civil society with new hopes and duties.\n\nThere are some vices charged upon these people, or a portion of them,\nand truth requires that nothing be withheld. There is said to be a good\ndeal of petty pilfering among them, although they are faithful to\ntrusts. This is the natural growth of the old system, and is quite\nlikely to accompany the transition-state. Besides, the present\ndisturbed and unorganized condition of things is not favorable to the\nrigid virtues. But inferences from this must not be pressed too far.\nWhen I was a private soldier in Virginia, as one of a three-months'\nregiment, we used to bide from each other our little comforts and\ndelicacies, even our dishes and clothing, or they were sure to\ndisappear. But we should have ridiculed an adventurous thinker upon the\ncharacteristics of races and classes, who should have leaped therefrom\nto the conclusion that all white men or all soldiers are thieves. And\nwhat inferences might not one draw, discreditable to all traders and\nmanufacturers, from the universal adulteration of articles of food!\nThese people, it is said, are disposed to falsehood in order to get\nrations and small benefits,--a natural vice which comes with slavery,\nand too often attends on poverty without slavery. Those of most\ndemonstrative piety are rarely better than the rest, not, indeed,\nhypocritical, but satisfying their consciences by self-depreciation and\nindulgence in emotion,--psychological manifestations which one may find\nin more advanced communities. They show no special gratitude to us for\nliberating them from bonds. Nor do they ordinarily display much\nexhilaration over their new condition,--being quite unlike the Italian\nrevolutionist who used to put on his toga, walk in the forum, and\npersonate Brutus and Cassius. Their appreciation of their better lot is\nchiefly seen in their dread of a return of their masters, in their\nexcitement when an attack is feared, in their anxious questionings while\nthe assault on Charleston was going on, and in their desire to get their\nfriends and relatives away from the Rebels,--an appreciation of freedom,\nif not ostentatious, at least sensible.\n\nBut away with such frivolous modes of dealing with the rights of races\nto self-development! Because Englishmen may be classified as hard and\nconceited, Frenchmen as capricious, Austrians as dull, and the people of\none other nation are sometimes thought to be vainglorious, shall these\ntherefore be slaves? And where is that model race which shall sway them\nall? A people may have grave defects, but it may not therefore be\nrightfully disabled.\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\nDuring my recent visit, I had an opportunity, on three different\noccasions, to note carefully Colonel T.W. Higginson's colored regiment,\nknown as the First Regiment of South-Carolina Volunteers. Major-General\nHunter's first regiment was mainly made up of conscripts, drafted May\n12th, 1862, and disbanded August 11th, three months afterwards, there\nbeing no funds wherewith to pay them, and the discharged men going home\nto find the cotton and corn they had planted overgrown with weeds. On\nthe 10th of October, General Saxton, being provided with competent\nauthority to raise five thousand colored troops, began to recruit a\nregiment. His authority from the War Department bore date August 25th,\nand the order conferring it states the object to be \"to guard the\nplantations, and protect the inhabitants from captivity and murder.\"\nThis was the first clear authority ever given by the Government to raise\na negro regiment in this war. There were, indeed, some ambiguous words\nin the instructions of Secretary Cameron to General Sherman, when the\noriginal expedition went to Port Royal, authorizing him to organize the\nnegroes into companies and squads for such services as they might be\nfitted for, but this not to mean a general arming for military service.\nSecretary Stanton, though furnishing muskets and red trousers to General\nHunter's regiment, did not think the authority sufficient to justify the\npayment of the regiment. The first regiment, as raised by General\nSaxton, numbered four hundred and ninety-nine men when Colonel Higginson\ntook command of it on the 1st of December; and on the 19th of January,\n1863, it had increased to eight hundred and forty-nine. It has made\nthree expeditions to Florida and Georgia,--one before Colonel Higginson\nassumed the command, described in Mrs. Stowe's letter to the women of\nEngland, and two under Colonel Higginson, one of which was made in\nJanuary up the St. Mary's, and the other in March to Jacksonville, which\nit occupied for a few days until an evacuation was ordered from\nhead-quarters. The men are volunteers, having been led to enlist by duty\nto their race, to their kindred still in bonds, and to us, their allies.\nTheir drill is good, and their time excellent. They have borne\nthemselves well in their expeditions, quite equalling the white\nregiments in skirmishing. In _morale_ they seemed very much like white\nmen, and with about the same proportion of good and indifferent\nsoldiers. Some I saw of the finest metal, like Robert Sutton, whom\nHigginson describes in his report as \"the real conductor of the whole\nexpedition at the St. Mary's,\" and Sergeant Hodges, a master-carpenter,\ncapable of directing the labors of numerous journeymen. Another said,\naddressing a meeting at Beaufort, that he had been restless, nights,\nthinking of the war and of his people,--that, when he heard of the\nregiment being formed, he felt that his time to act had come, and that\nit was his duty to enlist,--that he did not fight for his rations and\npay, but for wife, children, and people.\n\nThese men, as already intimated, are very much like other men, easily\ndepressed, and as easily reanimated by words of encouragement. Many have\nbeen reluctant to engage in military service,--their imagination\ninvesting it with the terrors of instant and certain death. But this\nreluctance has passed away with participation in active service, with\nthe adventure and inspiration of a soldier's life, and the latent\nmanhood has recovered its rightful sway. Said a superintendent who was\nof the first delegation to Tort Royal in March, 1862,--a truthful man,\nand not given to rose-colored views,--\"I did not have faith in arming\nnegroes, when I visited the North last autumn, but I have now. They will\nbe not mere machines, but real tigers, when aroused; and I should not\nwish to face them.\" One amusing incident may be mentioned. A man\ndeserted from the regiment, was discovered hidden in a chimney in the\ndistrict where he had lived, was taken back to camp, went to Florida in\nHigginson's first expedition, bore his part well in the skirmishes,\nbecame excited with the service, was made a sergeant, and, receiving a\nfurlough on his return, went to the plantation where he had hid, and\nsaid he would not take five thousand dollars for his place.\n\nBut more significant, as showing the success of the experiment, is the\nchange of feeling among the white soldiers towards the negro regiment, a\nchange due in part to the just policy of General Saxton, in part to the\nPresident's Proclamation of January 1st, which has done much to clear\nthe atmosphere everywhere within the army-lines, but more than all to\nthe soldierly conduct of the negroes themselves during their\nexpeditions. I had one excellent opportunity to note this change. On the\n6th of April, Colonel Higginson's regiment was assigned to picket-duty\non Port Royal Island,--the first active duty it had performed on the Sea\nIslands,--and was to relieve the Pennsylvania Fifty-Fifth. When, after a\nmarch of ten miles, it reached the advanced picket-station, there were\nabout two hundred soldiers of the Pennsylvania Fifty-Fifth awaiting\norders to proceed to Beaufort. I said, in a careless tone, to one of the\nPennsylvania soldiers, who was looking at Higginson's regiment as it\nstood in line,--\n\n\"Isn't this rather new, to be relieved by a negro regiment?\"\n\n\"All right,\" said he. \"They've as much right to fight for themselves as\nI have to fight for them.\"\n\nA squad of half a dozen men stood by, making no dissent, and accepting\nhim as their spokesman. Moving in another direction, I said to a\nsoldier,--\n\n\"What do you think of that regiment?\"\n\nThe answer was,--\n\n\"All right. I'd rather they'd shoot the Rebels than have the Rebels\nshoot me\"; and none of the by-standers dissented.\n\nAs one of the negro companies marched off the field to picket a station\nat the Ferry, they passed within a few feet of some twenty of the\nPennsylvania soldiers, just formed into line preparatory to marching to\nBeaufort. The countenances of the latter, which I watched, exhibited no\nexpression of disgust, dislike, or disapprobation, only of curiosity.\nOther white soldiers gave to the weary negroes the hominy left from the\nmorning meal. The Major of the Fifty-Fifth, highest in command of the\nrelieved regiment, explained very courteously to Colonel Higginson the\nstations and duties of the pickets, and proffered any further aid\ndesired. This was, it is true, an official duty, but there are more ways\nthan one in which to perform even an official duty. I rode back to\nBeaufort, part of the way, in company with a captain of the First\nMassachusetts Cavalry, who was the officer of the day. He said \"he\nwasn't much of a negro-man, but he had no objection to their doing our\nfighting.\" He pronounced the word as spelled with two _g_s; but I prefer\nto retain the good English. Colonel Montgomery, who had a partly filled\nregiment, most of whom were conscripts, said that on his return from\nJacksonville he sent a squad of his men ashore in charge of some\nprisoners he had taken. Some white soldiers seeing them approach from\nthe wharf, one said,--\n\n\"What are those coming?\"\n\n\"Negro soldiers,\" (word pronounced as in the former case,) was the\nanswer.\n\n\"Damn 'em!\" was the ejaculation.\n\nBut as they approached nearer, \"What have they got with 'em?\" was\ninquired.\n\n\"Why, some Secesh prisoners.\"\n\n\"Bully for the negroes!\" (the same pronunciation as before,) was then\nthe response from all.\n\nSo quick was the transition, when it was found that the negroes had\ndemonstrated their usefulness! It is, perhaps, humiliating to remember\nthat such an unreasonable and unpatriotic prejudice has at any time\nexisted; but it is never worth while to suppress the truth of history.\nThis prejudice has been effectually broken in the Free States; and one\nof the pageants of this epoch was the triumphal march through Boston, on\nthe 28th of May, on its way to embark for Port Royal, of the\nFifty-Fourth Regiment of Massachusetts Volunteers, the first regiment of\nnegro soldiers which the Free States have sent to the war. On the day\nprevious, May 27th, a far different scene transpired on the banks of the\nMississippi. Two black regiments, enlisted some months before in\nLouisiana under the order of Major-General Butler, both with line and\none with field officers of their own lineage, made charge after charge\non the batteries of Port Hudson, and were mown down like summer's grass,\nthe survivors, many with mutilated limbs, closing up the thinned ranks\nand pressing on again, careless of life, and mindful only of honor and\nduty, with a sublimity of courage unsurpassed in the annals of war, and\nleaving there to all mankind an immortal record for themselves and their\nrace.\n\nI cannot here forbear a momentary tribute to Wentworth Higginson.\nDevoting himself heroically to his great work, absorbed in its duties,\nand bearing his oppressive responsibility as the leader of a regiment in\nwhich to a great extent are now involved the fortunes of a race, he adds\nanother honorable name to the true chivalry of our time.\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\nHomeward-bound, I stopped for two days at Fortress Monroe, and was again\namong the familiar scenes of my soldier-life. It was there that\nMajor-General Butler, first of all the generals in the army of the\nRepublic, and anticipating even Republican statesmen, had clearly\npointed to the cause of the war. At Craney Island I met two accomplished\nwomen of the Society of Friends, who, on a most cheerless spot, and with\nevery inconvenience, were teaching the children of the freedmen. Two\ngood men, one at the fort and the other at Norfolk, were distributing\nthe laborers on farms in the vicinity, and providing them with\nimplements and seeds which the benevolent societies had furnished.\nVisiting Hampton, I recognized, in the shanties built upon the charred\nruins, the familiar faces of those who, in the early days of the war,\nhad been for a brief period under my charge. Their hearty greetings to\none whom they remembered as the first to point them to freedom and cheer\nthem with its prospect could hardly be received without emotion. But\nthere is no time to linger over these scenes.\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\nSuch are some of the leading features in the condition of the freedmen,\nparticularly at Port Royal. The enterprise for their aid, begun in\ndoubt, is no longer a bare hope or possibility. It is a fruition and a\nconsummation. The negroes will work for a living. They will fight for\ntheir freedom. They are adapted to civil society. As a people, they are\nnot exempt from the frailties of our common humanity, nor from the vices\nwhich hereditary bondage always superadds to these. As it is said to\ntake three generations to subdue a freeman completely to a slave, so it\nmay not be possible in a single generation to restore the pristine\nmanhood. One who expects to find in emancipated slaves perfect men and\nwomen, or to realize in them some fair dream of an ideal race, will meet\ndisappointment; but there is nothing in their nature or condition to\ndaunt the Christian patriot; rather, there is everything to cheer and\nfortify his faith. They have shown capacity for knowledge, for free\nindustry, for subordination to law and discipline, for soldierly\nfortitude, for social and family relations, for religious culture and\naspirations; and these qualities, when stirred and sustained by the\nincitements and rewards of a just society, and combining with the\ncurrents of our continental civilization, will, under the guidance of a\nbenevolent Providence which forgets neither them nor us, make them a\nconstantly progressive race, and secure them ever after from the\ncalamity of another enslavement, and ourselves from the worse calamity\nof being again their oppressors.\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\nNO AND YES.\n\n\n  I watched her at her spinning;\n  And this was my beginning\n  Of wooing and of winning.\n\n  But when a maid opposes,\n  And throws away your roses,\n  You say the case forecloses.\n\n  Yet sorry wit one uses,\n  Who loves and thinks he loses\n  Because a maid refuses.\n\n  For by her once denying\n  She only means complying\n  Upon a second trying.\n\n  When first I said, in pleading,\n  \"Behold, my love lies bleeding!\"\n  She heard me half unheeding.\n\n  When afterward I told her,\n  And blamed her growing colder,--\n  She dropped upon my shoulder.\n\n  Had I a doubt? That quelled it:\n  Her very look dispelled it,\n  I caught her hand, and held it.\n\n  Along the lane I led her,\n  And while her cheeks grew redder,\n  I sued outright to wed her.\n\n  Good end from bad beginning!\n  My wooing came to winning,--\n  And still I watch her spinning.\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\nTHE MATHER SAFE.\n\n\nThe service I was able to render an official personage connected with\n----College in New England procured me access to the library belonging\nto that institution. In common with many of my fellow-citizens, I had\npreviously enjoyed the pleasure of responding to circulars petitioning\nfor money to buy books for interment in this choice literary catacomb;\nnay, I was even allowed the satisfaction of an annual stare at them\nthrough an iron grating, and of reading a placard to the effect that\nnobody was allowed to enter an alcove or take down a volume. As it\noccurred to me that the generous donors could not object to add one more\nto the select half-dozen or so, who, by having the privilege of the\nshelves, could really use the library, I demanded this favor of the\ngentleman who desired to recompense me for what I had done for him. The\nLibrarian, who valued books as things capable of being locked up in\ncells like criminals, there to figure numerically to the confusion of\nrival institutions, was manifestly disturbed when I presented my\ncredentials. The authority, however, was not to be questioned;--I was to\nbe admitted to the library at any hour of the day; and I took care to\ndrop a civil expression to imply my estimation of the privilege and my\npurpose of enjoying it.\n\nWanting the leisure to attempt that ponderous undertaking known as \"a\ncourse of reading,\" it became my habit to browse about the building upon\nSaturday afternoons, and finally to establish myself, with whatever\nauthors I had selected, in a certain retired alcove devoted to the\nmetaphysicians. This comfortable nook opens just behind Crawford's bust\nof the late President T----, and is nearly opposite the famous Mather\nSafe. As it is possible that I am addressing some who are not graduates\nof ---- College, nor familiar with its library, it may be well to say a\nword of the history of the spacious and ancient coffer to which\nallusion is made.\n\nThe Mather Safe--which, by the way, is not of iron, but of oak heavily\nbound with that metal--is said to have been among the possessions of the\nauthor of the \"Magnalia.\" Its last private proprietor was a collateral\ndescendant of the Mathers, an eccentric character, popularly known as\nMiser Farrel. As Farrel was a bachelor, and had the reputation of being\nenormously rich, the College authorities of his day were accustomed to\ntreat him with distinguished consideration, and went so far, I believe,\nas to vote him some minor degree. What effect these academic\nblandishments may have had upon their object cannot at present be\ndetermined. For when the day came for the long-expected will to be\nopened, it was found that the old gentleman had bequeathed to the\nCollege only his Mather Safe, with certain papers carefully let into the\nwood-work in one corner of the same,--which papers were not to be\nremoved or opened for a hundred years.\n\nIt may be conceived that this bulky benefaction was not accepted with\nthe best grace, particularly as the testator made no provision for\nconsiderable expense necessarily incurred in moving and setting it up in\nthe library. Yet, not satisfied with this culpable negligence, Mr.\nFarrel had affixed still other conditions to the acceptance of his gift.\nHe had caused two massive locks to be put upon the Mather Safe, of which\nhe enjoined that the respective keys should be forever held by the\nPresident and Treasurer of the College, to the end that neither could\nhave access to its contents except in the presence of the other.\nMoreover, he required that the Safe should be used only as a receptacle\nfor packages which the depositors desired to keep from the world for at\nleast fifty years. Of course no right-minded corporation would have\nendured this posthumous fussiness, were it not for the mysterious papers\nleft in the Safe,--these being considered instruments whereby immense\npossessions would finally come to the College. But, as their worthy\nfriend, however niggardly in other respects, had taken care to save\nnothing in lawyers, there were really no means of disregarding his\nwishes, except by relinquishing all claims under the will. And so, many\nyears ago, the Mather Safe came to be opened to the public on the\nconditions already declared. At first, it was matter of surprise that so\nmany persons appeared to claim the privilege of Farrel's singular\nlegacy. Carefully enveloped packages had been consigned to various\nperiods of oblivion by all conditions of men and women. These were\nnumbered and registered in a volume kept for the purpose; they were\nseverally addressed, perhaps to a specified descendant of some living\nperson, perhaps to the future occupant of some professor's chair or\nmetropolitan pulpit.\n\nIt was near the Mather Safe, as I have already said, that my favorite\nalcove opened. In the short winter afternoon, when the twilight\nthickened without the building, and the type began to blur within, I\nwould lay aside my book and muse over wild rumors of secrets borne by\nthis messenger between the generations. Journals and letters, it was\nsaid, were there concealed, which should change the current gossip of\nhistory, and explode many bubble-reputations that had glittered on the\nworld. There were hints of deadly sins, committed by men high in Church\nand State, which their perpetrators lacked the courage to confess before\ntheir fellows, but which, in the bitterness of remorse, they had\nrecorded in the Mather Safe, to blacken their fame to future\ntimes,--thus taking a ghastly satisfaction from the knowledge that they\nshould not always appear as whited sepulchres before men. There was\nvague talk, also, of funds which had been deposited to found some\nprofessorship in the College, to furnish some instruction which the age\nwas not advanced enough to accept. Then, too, there were intimations of\nendowments to establish scholarships for women, who,--so it was\nargued,--after the increasing enlightenment of a few score of years,\nwould be admitted to every privilege of culture offered to men. In\nshort, there was matter enough to send a curdling tingle through the\nblood, as this tough old ark, buffeting slowly through the years,\nentered its familiar night. If there was deficiency in the testimony\nwhich consigned any special wonder to its keeping, there was, doubtless,\nsufficient truth in common reports to justify the imagination in\ninterpreting misty hieroglyphics of its own device.\n\nDuring the latter part of a certain August--my family being established\nat the seaside--I determined to devote a long day to the College\nLibrary. The fact was, that a trifling domestic incident--no other than\nthe smoking of a kitchen-chimney--had turned my attention to the\nconditions of atmospheric changes. Certain phenomena I had observed\nseemed inconsistent with the law assumed in popular text-books. Indeed,\nas it appeared to me, modifications of a received theory--which might be\ndetermined by a diligent comparison of existing authorities--would\nsuggest a household economy of great practical importance. Certain\nfacts, which must have been noted by all the great voyagers of the\nworld, might give me data from which to establish the suspected\nconclusion. I accordingly repaired to the library at a very early hour,\nand labored through the day in collecting and committing to writing what\nhad been observed by many eminent navigators upon the point in question.\nFour o'clock in the afternoon found me too tired to apply any process of\nanalysis to the observations obtained. I therefore retired to my\naccustomed seat, took down almost the first book which came to hand, and\nresigned myself to the impressions of a favorite author. I had passed\nabout an hour in a delicious state of dreamy tranquillity, sometimes\nreading, sometimes pausing to color the faded page with the brilliant\nhues of more modern thought, when my attention was attracted by a\nfamiliar voice proceeding from the neighborhood of the Mather Safe.\n\n\"The President and Treasurer were to have been here at five o'clock.\"\n\n\"I have heard nothing of it,\" said the Librarian. \"I am sure that the\nPresident is out of town for the day.\"\n\n\"Strange! strange!\" exclaimed the Reverend Mr. Clifton, in a very\nexcited tone. \"I wish to make a deposit of great importance in the\nMather Safe. I had the assurance that the Safe should be opened at five\nthis afternoon. Here, read the solemn promise upon which I have come\nfrom Foxden!\"\n\nThe Librarian glanced at an open letter which Clifton held out to him,\nand said, in a quiet manner,--\n\n\"The President promises to meet you in the College Library on the\nafternoon of Thursday, the twenty-fourth instant; to-day is Wednesday,\nthe twenty-third.\"\n\n\"Is it possible?\" muttered the clergyman, with a look of startled\ndespair. \"Pardon my disturbance. I have been hardly myself for these\nlast weeks. Yet I can wait.\"\n\nI spoke to Mr. Clifton as he was about to leave the library. He blenched\nat hearing my voice, and strove to conceal the package beneath his arm.\n\n\"How do my good friends in Foxden?\" said I, inviting him into my alcove.\n\"Is it true that Dr. Dastick has presented his cabinet of curiosities to\nthe town?\"\n\n\"What are you reading?\" said the clergyman, in a tone of curt authority\nvery foreign to the mild persuasiveness of his usual professional\naccents.\n\nI exhibited the title of the book: it was the \"Meditations of\nDescartes.\"\n\n\"And do you follow those who vainly seek for truth through the inner\nworld of man, not conforming themselves to the necessities of the\noutward world and the teachings of Revelation?\"\n\nI defended the usefulness of some acquaintance with the original and\npowerful thinker, whose apologies are certainly profuse enough to\nsatisfy the most orthodox.\n\n\"Yes; I suppose you read Spinoza, Hegel, Fichte, the Atheism of\nD'Holbach, Utilitarianism Systematized by Auguste Comte! Did you ever go\nfishing in a dory when the wind was off shore?\"\n\nThere was an alarm in the eye and manner of Mr. Clifton, a tremulous\nrestlessness in his speech, which warned me to avoid discussion, and\nendeavor to soothe his agitation. It was only to the last interrogatory,\ntherefore, that I made some light reply.\n\n\"The sea sparkles gayly,\" pursued the clergyman, in the manner of an\nextemporaneous preacher who strives to catch in a net of decorations\nsome illustration which presents itself,--\"the boat tosses on from wave\nto wave, for dories will sail before the wind. Soon we are miles from\nshore, and throw the anchor. What auspicious expansion of soul and body!\nHow we slide up and down the backs of great billows, and cast our lines\nwith ever-varying success! But the night comes, and with it the\nnecessity of rowing back against wind and tide. Ah, then how long the\nlonely ocean-leagues! How distant the time when we may hope to stand\nconfused and giddy upon solid earth! Some never see the land again, but\nare swept out into the storm and darkness, and are lost,--_lost_!\"\n\n\"I presume I understand the significance of your similitude,\" I replied,\na little annoyed at this inopportune indulgence of the pastoral\nprivilege. \"You would imply the dangerous tendency of a certain sort of\nphilosophical speculation; and so far we doubtless agree. Yet I ought to\nsay, that, in cases where personal investigation is possible, I would\ntake neither popular clamor nor learned dogmatism as conclusive evidence\nagainst any writer's honesty and usefulness. With the vulgar, genius has\nalways seemed a sort of madness; and should a man rise preeminent above\nthe teachers of his generation, his wisdom would appear to them as\nfoolishness.\"\n\nA change came over the face of Clifton as I said these words. It was as\nif a mask had fallen. Perchance he had wished to appear to me in that\ncharacter of instructor which he desired some competent person to assume\nto him. Now, the relaxed muscles and averted eye only asked the sympathy\nof an equal. He spoke with forced, and almost grating, utterance.\n\n\"Then you have used experience well enough to know that some minds may\nbear into the world a light, a knowledge too fine for general\nperception, too pure for even exceptional recognition.\"\n\n\"I fully believe it possible,\" I said. \"Yonder old Safe, if rumor says\ntrue, holds many mystic signals which the past and present could address\nonly to the future,--signs meaningless, no doubt, to you or me, but\nwhich the freemasonry of higher intelligence shall render plain in the\ntime hereafter.\"\n\n\"And what if I had come,\" exclaimed Clifton, eagerly,--\"what if I had\ncome to add to those deposits which are not for this time, but which may\nbe for other times? What blame to me, if I am here to do this? Should we\ncommon men, who find a life full of active duties presented to our\nacceptance,--should such as we, I say, receive this world as a pageant\nbefore which we must sit down and evolve a doctrine? The conceit of\nexternal education is at present too strong to acknowledge a divine\nelement radiating from the depths of the soul, and finding in the mind\nonly an awkward and imperfect instrument. Any extravagance is now\ntolerated, but an extravagance of spirituality; and we find altogether\nwanting the perception, that, rising from the gross symbols of language,\ncan know the subtile and precious emotion which in a more advanced state\nof being those symbols might suggest.\"\n\nAs it was evident that Mr. Clifton was laboring under great nervous\nexcitability, I judged it prudent not to question the sequence of what\nhe said, or even demand that it be made intelligible by further\nexplanation. Indeed, I was sufficiently occupied in striving to identify\nthis incomprehensible person with my familiar acquaintance, the pastor\nof the First Church in Foxden. It occurred to me that something had\nonce been said of Clifton's connection with that topsy-turvy sodality\npopularly known as \"The Transcendentalists.\" But this was many years\nago; and the world always supposed that he had outgrown his early\nerrors, and found, in the liberal theology of New England, a more\ngenuine inspiration. In meeting him in his pastoral relation, I had only\nremarked that he was one of those men who find it very difficult to\nresist the social influences into which they may be thrown. This was\nprobably the case even where that influence tended to degrade him from\nthe plane he would have occupied, if left to himself. His spiritual life\nseemed to lack that vigor and buoyancy so infinitely important to\ncontemplative men. He appeared to be ever yearning for something which\nshould add robustness to his convictions. After a pause of some moments,\nClifton again addressed me.\n\n\"Recollections of moments, months of excitement, of intense power, have\nreturned! They may not fade again unspoken. You shall know my\nlong-cherished secret. Younger in years, you may scarcely advise; but,\nat least, you may give sympathy that shall confirm my decision. I have\nengaged rooms at the neighboring hotel. Come and pass the evening--nay,\nthe night--with me; for much must be read and thought and spoken before\nthe black veil of personality can be lifted between us.\"\n\nIt has already been observed that my family were at the seaside. This\ncircumstance left me sole disposer of my time and localities. How, then,\nresist the inclination to see out the adventure upon which I had\nstumbled? Let me credit myself also with a worthier motive: I saw that\nmy companion was in no state to be left to himself,--and, really, there\nwas no mutual friend to whom I could consign him. Accordingly I offered\nmy arm in a manner to imply acquiescence in his proposal.\n\nWe soon reached the hotel, and ascended to a room in the remote corner\nof a spacious wing. Clifton at once turned the key, placed his package\nupon the table, and proceeded to employ a stray bit of carpet in\nstopping a ventilator which communicated with the entry. Having\nsatisfied himself that this passage was rendered impervious to sound, he\ndrew two chairs up to the table, motioned me into one, and planted\nhimself in the other with the air of a man, in popular phrase, about to\nmake a night of it.\n\n\"Did you ever hear of Herbert Vannelle?\" he asked, abruptly.\n\nIt can hardly be necessary to say that a substitute is here placed for\nthe name really mentioned.\n\nI replied in the negative, and asked where the gentleman lived.\n\n\"He lives nowhere on earth; he is dead,--just dead.\"\n\n\"A friend of yours?\"\n\n\"A master once; now a presence eluding, haunting, torturing. He left me\nthis manuscript; it is a 'Philosophy of the Absolute.'\" (Here Clifton\ndrew from a curiously contrived case of parchment a cluster of pages.)\n\"It has now twenty-two hours to appear in the present century. You shall\ndevote the night to reading it, and tell me that I have acted well.\"\n\nA sultry August evening, a smoky boarding-house lamp, much skirmishing\nof mosquitoes, and--a manuscript system of philosophy! The prospect was\nnot inviting. The reading of other people's manuscripts is surely the\ncrucial test of a devoted benevolence. There are few ways in which I am\nso little ready to oblige my fellow-men. I had, indeed, at times, been\ninduced to inspect sundry romances in blotted embryo; but, as yet,\nnobody had called upon me with a system of philosophy. _Printed_\nphilosophy is none too easy reading. But to sit there, under the\nguardianship of Clifton, and spell out the dim dogmatism of some\nnebulous fanatic,--of course it was not to be thought of for a moment.\nWith a _suave_ periphrasis of speech I questioned the expediency of the\nproposition.\n\n\"I shall ring for candles that will burn during the night,\" said Mr.\nClifton, heedless of my expostulation. \"Also some refreshment. You take\ntea, I suppose? You shall read the first ten pages of Vannelle's\nwriting. It is possible you may exercise self-control enough to abandon\nit unfinished. But you will not sleep tonight.\"\n\nThere was a confidence in the minister's tone which gave rather\nunpleasant emphasis to this final prophecy. Still, I believed myself\ncapable of the ten pages without establishing a hopelessly wakeful\ncondition,--indeed, it was something to be guarantied against the\nopposite infirmity. The tea, accompanied by a few thin shavings of\ntoast, presently arrived. The means of procuring light were also\nfurnished us. Clifton's hand lay heavily upon the manuscript until the\nattendant had disappeared for the last time, and the door was locked\nbehind him. He then opened the papers before me, and signified that the\ntime had come. I braced myself as for a serious undertaking.\n\nThus I accepted the task. How give words to the singular emotions which\nsoon possessed me? As if some charm, some spell of magnetism, had been\ngiven to the paper, my whole consciousness was riveted upon it. I know\nnot how to represent this bold, this startling attempt to establish a\npositive basis for metaphysical philosophy, an exact science of all\nthings human and divine. Here was a man, perchance of more courage and\nconscience, perchance of more devilish recklessness, than any of his\ncontemporaries. But how deal with what came to me from that wondrous\nwriting in the ambiguities of common language? All thought--even\nsupposing it embodied in a perfect form of speech--is subject to the\nlimitations of the recipient mind. My own glimpses of the writer's\nmeaning were necessarily most indistinct. I cannot attempt to transfer\nthem. I was controlled by a force not my own. The shadow of a mysterious\npower was over me. The mists of sentimental pantheism were left far\nbelow the clear-cut summits whither the reader was invited to ascend.\nThere was an interpretation of Revelation far more removed from the\napparent letter than that of Swedenborg. Here was reaffirmed (though for\na widely different purpose) what the Romish Church has ever\ndeclared,--that the Scriptures, recording spiritual truth, cannot be\ncomprehensible to the natural understanding,--that, while the Sacred\nWritings contain a natural letter, it can be translated into spiritual\nverity only by a few exceptional men. If this scheme of philosophy was\nan idealism, it nevertheless manifested itself through the plainest\nrealities. The solution of the problem seemed to come not from one\npoint, but from all points. Certainly there was a tendency towards the\nsupersensible; but this direction was taken through stern grappling with\nthe actual. At one time I struggled against the august spirit that was\nborne in upon me; at another, I was utterly subdued by the lofty\nenthusiasm of the writer,--something within me capable of absolute\ncognition seemed responding to his appeals. But the pith and vitality of\nthis marvel could be recognized only by long experience. And here the\nstudent was required to stake his soul upon a perilous cast. For, if not\npursued and fathomed to full satisfaction, this view of things would be\ndisturbing, paralyzing. With any half-acceptance a man might scarcely\nlive. It must fashion the mind as an artist fashions the passive metals\ninto a musical instrument, and then every event in time might touch it\nto exquisite harmony. But the more ravishing the beauty which seemed\noffered through perfect realization of this knowledge, the more\nblighting would be its effects, if entertained in the spirit of a\nselfish dilettanteism. For in certain passages were breathed faint\nsuggestions, that moral codes held sacred by the people could not bind\nthe initiated,--nay, that what seemed most evil might be so explained as\nto become wholly legitimate to the elect.\n\nIt was far into the night. I had gone over about a third of the\nmanuscript. Sharp questions assailed my ears. Was I bound to jeopard\nall the common good of life for the chance of--just failing to know\nexistence from a higher plane? Could I ascend so far above the frailties\nof average men as to receive in purity and innocence the license which\nacceptance of this strange scheme would surely give? Dim-sighted as I\nwas, it was necessary to rise and dispel this splendid phantasm. I\nshuddered in sudden alarm at the danger which threatened me. By a\nspasmodic movement, in which I failed to recognize any presence of my\nwill, the manuscript was closed and handed to Clifton. Welcome existence\nunder coarsest and harshest terms, rather than tamper with such fearful\npossibilities!\n\nFor hours the minister had gazed into my face, partaking the excitement\nto which he had subjected me. He had lighted and trimmed the candles, as\nwas necessary, but had never broken silence. And now there came from him\nthe deep sigh of relief from an absorbing interest; he sighed as a\nlittle child when the fairytale is ended and the tense strain of\nattention may be relaxed.\n\n\"What was this man?\" I demanded, hurriedly.\n\n\"What he was is to be discovered through these writings, if it may be\nfound out at all. What he was is not for me nor for you to know. It is\npossible that he may meet with competent judges hereafter, even among\nmen. Look at this address.\"\n\nClifton handed me a little memorandum relating to the ultimate\ndisposition of the manuscript. It was to remain for eighty years in the\nMather Safe, and was then to be consigned to the occupant of the Chair\nof Moral Philosophy in the College.\n\n\"Say rather to the last minority-candidate for the professorship!\" I\nexclaimed. \"I doubt if the actual winner of that comfortable possession\nwill feel disposed to abandon the market-worth of conventional\nacquirements, and set forth as a humble student of unpopular truth.\"\n\nThe minister seemed struck with the suggestion, and made the alteration\nI had indicated.\n\nThe darkest hour of the night had come. Every sound of human activity\nhad long ago ceased. It was the quiet time when one may most easily\nprobe an intense experience. I felt that more was to be\nknown,--something which the minister longed to tell,--something to which\nwhat he had caused me to read was to serve as a prelude. I suspected how\npowerless must have been this sensitive man in the presence of the Idea\nwhich he had carried. Doubtless, in one of his peculiar tendencies, it\nmight prevent all harmonious action,--it might ever goad the intellect,\nand crush the heart. As the confession trembled upon the lips of\nClifton, I signified my profound sympathy. It is an awful moment, when a\nmature man tries to put off the solitariness of his life.\n\nWhat was then communicated I can repeat only in the first person. The\npathetic earnestness of the speaker imprinted on my memory the very\nphrases that he used; there can be few verbal changes as they now flow\nfrom the pen.\n\n\nII.\n\nNARRATIVE OF THE REVEREND CHARLES CLIFTON.\n\nI am indebted for education to a bachelor uncle, who, after our great\nbereavement, received at his house an infant sister and myself. I was at\nthat time about twelve years old. My relative enjoyed a handsome\nannuity, which he spent with the utmost liberality. As I was rather a\nthoughtful, though not very studious boy, it was determined that I\nshould go to college. I entered with some difficulty soon after my\nseventeenth birthday,--an age somewhat later than the average at that\ntime.\n\nTwo years before me in college was the class of 18--. Upon the roll of\nits fifty-two members stood the name of Herbert Vannelle. Rich, an\norphan, inclined to thought and study beyond the limited academic range\nof those days, endowed with personal fascinations of a very rare and\npeculiar kind,--there seemed only one possible shadow to darken his\ncareer. In his family there had been said to exist a tendency to\neccentric independence of action, which vulgarly, perhaps justly, passed\nfor insanity. His father, who died soon after Herbert entered college,\nhad given much uneasiness to the wealthy and respectable city-circle\nwith which he was socially connected. Upon the death of his wife he had\nretired to the Vannelle homestead in the northwestern part of\nConnecticut, and there lived in studious seclusion. There he insisted\nupon bringing up his only son, deprived of such recreations and\ncompanionships as are suitable to youth. He had, indeed, superintended\nhis studies with patience and thoroughness, and had not failed to\naccomplish him in the grace of physical power, at that time little\nrecognized as a part of education.\n\nSo much was known of Vannelle when he appeared at college among the\nyoung men of the Junior Class. And little more was known of him when he\nleft America on the day his class graduated. His connections with the\nother students had been very slight. He had never cared to acquire that\nfluency in retailing the thoughts of others upon which college-rank\ndepends. An access to the library was all that he seemed to value in his\nconnection with the institution. And here he busied himself, not with\nthe openings to the solid and rational sciences, but with the\nbewildering sophistries of the school-philosophies, and their aimless\nwrangling over verbal conceits.\n\nAt that time I happened to be taking a young man's first enchanting\nrounds upon the tread-mill of metaphysics. At the library I often\nencountered Vannelle in search of some volume of which I had just\npossessed myself. This led to an acquaintance. I was soon fascinated by\na power which streamed from his large, expressive eyes, and persuaded by\na voice modulated in a pathos and sweetness that I have heard in no\nother person. His influence upon me at this time was not unlike that\nwhich the mesmerists had just begun to exercise. Yet, while he showed an\ninterest in directing my inquiries along the paths to which they\nnaturally tended, he never communicated the results of his own studies,\nor offered me the slightest assistance in generalizing my random\nobservations. What he thought himself, or by what writers he was\ninfluenced, it was not easy to fathom. He was deeply acquainted with the\nwritings of the New-England Transcendentalists, then at their greatest\nnotoriety, yet never for an instant seemed giddy upon the hazy heights\nwhere those earnest spirits soared.\n\nVannelle spent two years in Germany, and returned to America about the\ntime that my college-course was finished. The little I knew of him\nduring his absence was from the scattered notices of\nnewspaper-correspondents, who intimated that Herbert possessed the\nprivilege of friendly intercourse with men most distinguished for\nknowledge in the Old World. Just before Class-Day, I received a letter\ndated from X----, in Connecticut, inviting me, in terms which seemed\nalmost a command, to spend the summer at the Vannelle homestead. Herbert\nhad returned, and thus abruptly summoned me. Intending to postpone until\nthe autumn the study of a profession, I promised to come to him for a\nfew weeks,--a visit which might be extended, were it mutually agreeable.\n\nThere was, at that time, a day of weary staging after leaving the cars,\nbefore arriving in the village of X----; there were also six rough miles\nof carriage-conveyance before the traveller could attain the old house\nby the damp river-marsh whereto I was destined. When I arrived there,\nVannelle stood at the door to greet me.\n\n\"We have six months' concern together,\" he said, as if delivering\nhimself of some studied speech,--\"we have six months' concern together;\nthen we may stand at the parting of the ways,--we may cleave to one\nanother, or separate forever.\"\n\nA low, dark house. The south-side planted out from the sun by pines and\ncedars. The parlors covered with well-worn Turkey carpets, chafed into\ndusty ridges. The wretched window-glass breaking and distorting the\npine-trees without. Little oval mirrors distorting the human countenance\nwithin. In the living-room (so called by those able to live in it)\nloomed a rusty air-tight stove of cathedral proportion,--a ghastly altar\nwhich the bitterest enemy of the family might feel fully justified in\nprotecting. A square, cellarless room, about twenty feet from the house,\nhad been the study of the elder Vannelle. Tables covered with a confused\nmass of writing-materials. A jumble of retorts and other chemical\napparatus about the floor. Cabinets of the ugliest pattern reached to\nthe ceiling;--at first I supposed them to be made of painted wood;\nafterwards I discovered they were of iron, and filled with rare books\nand manuscripts.\n\n\"My father built this study,\" said Vannelle, as we passed into it. \"He\nwished to get rid of those periodical clearings-up from which there is\nno escape in a New-England household. Mrs. Brett, the wife of our\nfarmer, could never resist the feminine itch to put things to rights.\nShe was always contriving to arrange papers and books in symmetrical\npiles where nothing could be found. My father could never turn his back\nbut she was sure to annihilate important scraps of writing that were\nlying about the floor, and, under pretence of sweeping, invoke a simoom\nof dust that hours were insufficient to allay. But when he built this\nroom, and kept the key of it, there was no more trouble.\"\n\nI shudder as I hurry through these descriptions, for a confession which\nI hardly dare to put into words must accompany them. All these\nsurroundings, seen by me for the first time, had a fearful familiarity.\nIn some occult state of spiritual existence I seemed to have known them\nall. I have learned that the soul may enter into communion with other\nminds otherwise than through the senses,--nay, more, it may thus take an\ninexplicable cognizance of material things. Of this I have had such\nproof as it would be infatuation to doubt. I was compelled to test this\nstartling suspicion for the first time.\n\n\"You need not take me up-stairs, Herbert,\" I said, as we returned to the\nhouse. \"The picture of your father, which hangs in the large chamber\nprojecting over the porch, was doubtless a good likeness of the mask he\nwore at city club-houses and family-dinners,--but the man as you knew\nhim _here_, how little does it resemble! As for the Chinese cabinet\nwhich stands between the windows, it has associations, no doubt, but it\nis sadly out of repair. Those pink tiles about the fireplace may be\ninteresting to antiquaries; but I rather prefer the blue variety, as\ncorresponding to the mental state in which their infinitely pretentious\nsubjects and execrable drawing always put me.\"\n\nThe lightness of speech was painfully forced. Vannelle turned to me and\nsaid, slowly,--\n\n\"Have you been here before?\"\n\n\"No.\"\n\n\"Has any one described to you this house or its contents?\"\n\n\"No.\"\n\n\"Then thought has been conveyed from mind to mind in unconditioned\npurity. It is as I had supposed. We are brothers forever.\"\n\nThe next day, after an early breakfast, Vannelle summoned me to the\nstudy. I glanced distrustfully at the confusion of the room, which\nseemed in strange contrast with the exquisitely neat and even\nfashionable attire of its proprietor. A smile of proud pity touched the\nlips of Vannelle, as he seemed to divine my thought. Then, as if I had\nread them in letters of light, these words seemed to answer me:--\n\n\"Shall we, the stewards and guardians of the highest interests of\nmankind, fret our souls at trifles,--we, who are to be instruments in\nmarshalling the race from slavery and folly to wisdom and freedom?\nBehold, in one bound, the hovels and palaces of earth shall be alike,\nand, floating free in spiritual space, we will win such dominion as the\nhighest graduates in saintship dimly perceived, but were never able to\ndeclare!\"\n\nThese thoughts, energizing the brain of my companion, seemed thrown into\nmy consciousness with far more distinctness than if they had been\nuttered. It was with awe that this mystic correspondence between mind\nand mind was made plain to me. One man out of this myriad-bodied\nhumanity had sought me out, and in his presence I was never more to be\nalone. The gigantic shadow of self passed from me; I was as clay in the\npotter's hands!\n\nAt length Herbert spoke.\n\n\"Our work in this world is determined for us; mine is allotted to\nme,--not by my own choice. I return to this house never to leave it till\nI go to join my father, with his great work more nearly completed than\nwhen it came to my hands. At that table he died, with some glimpses of\nthe promised land whither he tended,--where he prayed that I might\nenter.\"\n\nThere escaped from me a feeble remonstrance,--no utterance of the heart,\nbut rather a dry rattling of such conventional proprieties as lingered\nin the memory.\n\n\"And you intend to leave this wholesome world,--you, whose career might\nbe such as few have it in their power to choose? You know, you must\nknow, the wonderful gifts which you possess; you cannot alone be\nignorant of the fascination you might exercise over man and woman.\"\n\n\"I know all these temptations, and others that you cannot surmise,\"\nexclaimed Vannelle, \"and I will conquer them,--if not through spiritual\ngrace, then by some bodily penance of lasting effect. I discern in you\ncertain qualities of mind that may serve to regulate the equipoise of\nmine. I have the means to provide for us both during the high\nspeculations in which we shall engage. Let us be comrades in this\nundertaking. I seek to bridge the great gulf that separates the natural\nfrom the spiritual. My father firmly believed in the possibility of\nobtaining an absolute ground for the philosophy which should include all\nthings human and divine. He passed onward before the inestimable gift he\nseemed to have won could be set forth in the symbols of the world. To\nsee is not difficult, but only to contrive a popular adaptation through\nwhich others may discern the thought. I seek the means to express the\ntruth which he saw, and of which I can catch some glimpses through such\ncolored mythologies as represent the higher religions of the world. Man\nhas found out the knowledge by which a universe was evoked from chaos:\nshall he not perfect that knowledge in the Law which includes the divine\nelement by which the universe is informed? How can we love with our\nwhole heart what we do not know with our whole mind? Clifton, I declare\nto you that knowledge of the Law by which the Creator is and acts is\npossible to man!\"\n\nI shall seem to you weak and unstable in no common degree to have been\nmoved by utterance like this. Remember that I can reproduce only the\nwords, not the wild power of that persuasive voice, not the aspiring\ncourage that struck me from his eye. Almost against my will there was\nproduced in me a plasticity of mind that seemed to demand the impress of\nsome foreign mould. The tree of knowledge was set in the midst of the\ngarden, and again were audible the seductive serpent-tones: \"Your eyes\nshall be opened, and ye shall be as gods, knowing good and evil.\"\n\nI found Vannelle so far my superior in the knowledge of all earthly\nlores, that I at length came to think it possible he might be the\nappointed instrument of communicating the singular intelligence that he\nsought. He proposed to review the different systems built by human\nthought before applying himself to the problem of finding a system of\nphilosophy which should include them all. His idea was, that from the\nextreme negation of the so-called transcendental position--when that\nposition had been legitimately attained by a thoroughly conscientious\nthinker--some new light must break upon the mind. His was no shrinking\nfrom the conflict with real things to indulge in vague yearnings after\nthe inaccessible, but a definite effort so to place the soul and\ndiscipline the understanding that wisdom could be realized without\nprocess or media. Unlike most inquirers of that time, he had no love for\nthe abstract and the controversial, but entertained them freely as\nfinally discovering some path to the concrete and the unquestioned. He\ndeclared that only to superficial persons was skepticism the terminus of\nspeculative deism. Let me also say this for my friend,--that his\ndirecting stimulus to action was neither ambition nor curiosity, but\nwhat, had it been directed to any recognized end, the world would have\ncalled a religious principle. He was never guilty of the shallow\nwickedness of seeking self-culture as an end; he sought the highest\nself-culture only as a state of more passionate yearning for\nregeneration.\n\nWhat need to tell how I was fascinated, mesmerized, into a humble\ncompanionship? how I became inspired with his own mighty belief in the\nfeasibility of the object he strove to attain? We read together certain\nmanuscripts of the elder Vannelle, in which, wrapt in a gorgeous\nsymbolism, seemed dimly to approach a great truth, which, at times,\ncould be faintly perceived, but never mastered. There were hints,\napparently of the deepest significance, which, when the mind endeavored\nto grasp them, vanished like a vision.\n\nDay after day, almost night after night, for five months, I passed with\nVannelle in the room I have described. And during that vivid period I\nknew an intellectual intoxication which seemed the pure ecstasy of\nspirit wholly delivered from the burden of the flesh. Vannelle talked\nlike one inspired upon the higher problems of metaphysical research,\nshowing, or appearing to show, in what sense the speculations of the\nphilosophers were true, and in what sense absolutely false. We seemed to\nhave cut ourselves adrift from the human race, and to look down upon it\nfrom a position whence its basest moral corruptions and most detestable\noppressions marked the rhythm in a majestic poem. The infinite vagaries\nof crime, the unspeakable ecstasies of blessedness, were equally\nwholesome as equally full of Law. At times it seemed impossible that any\nwords could so mould themselves as to give distinctness to the thought\nwhich flashed through our minds. At times a representation corresponding\nto what Vannelle so eloquently uttered seemed embodied in every phase of\nopinion man had known. But, alas, there were also periods of doubt and\ndespair analogous to those which succeed physical intoxication. The\ngrosser systems of antiquity were not only considered, but actually\npersonated in our experience. Here it was necessary for us to penetrate\ninto some of the darkest recesses of the human soul, and to test how\nnearly allied is that which exalts man to that which degrades him, how\nthe noblest virtues plunge headlong into the maddest passions. Yet we\nlearned to welcome these convulsions of Chaos and Old Night, as blindly\nbearing us onward towards our destined goal.\n\n--But enough of this. I would only faintly express how terribly real was\nthe delusion (the world would so call it, and who am I to gainsay it?)\nwhich has overhung my earthly life.\n\nLet me tell in briefest words how the spell was broken,--partially\nbroken. During those months of passionate exaltation, letters from\nfriends once dear to me had been thrown aside half-read, and wholly\nvalueless. On the eleventh of November I started,--as a black seal was\nto be broken. My uncle had suddenly died. The last instalment of his\nannuity had been paid, and my little sister, an orphan and penniless,\nwas thrown upon me for education and support. Shame to me that I then\nhesitated! Yet it was some hours before I could persuade myself to put\nthe letter into Vannelle's hand, and say that I must abandon him\nforever. Let me forget the bitter temptation. Of course my friend begged\nto provide for my sister from his own ample means, and even offered her\nan asylum at his house. I still retained sufficient sanity to perceive\nthe wrong of bringing a young child to that dismal place to wither\nremoved from all human companionship and sympathy. A spirit not in a\ncondition to be sustained and elevated by the society of Herbert would\nbe confused, and finally petrified. Had this refined probing and\nquestioning deadened all sense of duty? Was this the end of my Absolute\nPhilosophy, that the intellect should usurp the place of the conscience\nand the moral law? Shame to me that I could have paused to ask such\nquestions! yet any claim but one tittle less urgent I should have\nbantered aside. I seemed to realize the torture described in the dream\nof Dante,--two souls struggling together in one frail body. I had been\napplauding good and condemning evil when it cost me nothing but the\nsentiment; but when the fiery test came, my purpose cracked and\nshrivelled before it. Yes, I conquered; but the scars that purchased the\nvictory have ached through my life.\n\nThere was but one calling wherein it seemed possible for me to earn my\nbread; for how could I descend to chaffer in the market, to trim and\nhuckster through the world,--_I_, who had thought to condition the\nSpirit of the Universe? But there were metaphors faintly shadowing\ndivine things, symbols adapted to the limitations of the popular mind,\nand with these I might do an honest work for the souls of men. _Honest?_\nYes,--unless Augustine was a hypocrite, when he declared that he spoke\nof the Unseen as unity in three persons, less to say something than not\nto remain altogether silent. To a certain order of minds among the\nclergy this is the daily cross,--the necessity of maintaining a fixed\nposition, and ever looking down from it to teach, instead of ever\nyearning upward to be taught.\n\nIt is enough to say, that, supporting myself and my sister by\nschool-teaching, I achieved such courses of reading as are supposed to\nqualify for enrolment among the liberal clergy of New England. Until the\ntime when my sister left me by marriage I was settled at N----, on the\nConnecticut. Soon after this event, died old Dr. P---- of Foxden, and I\nreceived a call to his vacant parish. I knew that the sort of society to\nbe found in that place would minister to my most urgent need. I craved\nsome intellectual clanship which should never seek to rise to an equal\nspiritual companionship. For there was only one man to whom I might\nspeak freely, and from him my path ever diverged. How far apart the\nyears had led us! Sometimes there came a whisper that I had been\nsnatched from the hand of Satan, killer of souls; sometimes my only\nopportunities of salvation seemed left in that sad, damp homestead. I\ncould never return to him; I could never be wholly free from him. Ever\nwas I controlled by a shadowy force which reached me from his abundant\npower. No occupation was so absorbing as to protect me from the invading\npresence of Herbert Vannelle.\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\nThe first Sunday of the present month brought the twentieth anniversary\nof the day that I parted from Vannelle. In the morning I had preached a\nwritten sermon on those solemn words of the Apostle, \"Whatsoever is not\nof faith is sin.\" For the first time I shrank from the consciousness\nthat the words uttered were true to me in a very different sense from\nthat in which the congregation received them. I found it difficult to\npoise in tremulous balance between Truth and its available\nrepresentation to common men. It is my custom to preach extemporaneously\nin the afternoon. Upon rising, after the introductory services, I could\nperceive that my pulse and breathing were accelerated. A certain\nnumbness of the brain seemed pierced with convulsive, fugitive shocks.\nAn inexplicable influence, a command for cerebral sympathy, seemed\nbeating at my forehead. I turned the sacred pages before me, but could\nfind nothing upon which to base my remarks. But to my lips would come\nincessantly a passage from Sir Thomas Browne. At last I gave it voice:--\n\n\"There are, as in philosophy, so in divinity, sturdy doubts and\nboisterous objections wherewith the unhappiness of our knowledge too\nnearly acquainteth us. More of these no man hath known than myself;\nwhich I confess I conquered, not in martial attitude, but on my knees.\"\n\nAn extraordinary impetus seemed imparted to my mental powers. Men have\nsaid that I spoke with a fluency and eloquence unknown to them before.\nIndeed, I was conscious of a capacity to receive and convey such\nportions of divine wisdom as corresponded to their needs. To speak in\nfigure, my heavenly race was as if the Lord of Evil pursued my soul.\n\nThoroughly exhausted by the effort, I returned to my study and threw\nmyself upon a sofa. More fully than ever before, I entered that state\nwhere one far distant may make himself perceived and known. The occult\npower of foreknowing events, the delicate perception of forbidden\nthings, worked their abnormal invigoration in the brain. I became\nconscious that a carriage miles off was rolling nearer and nearer; I\nknew that it would stop at my door. I waited, waited long into the\nnight. One by one went out the scattered village-lights. Another\nconsciousness of twenty years seemed compressed into those brilliant,\nbitter hours. My lamp flickered. I rose with effort and supplied oil; it\nwould now burn till morning. The carriage came nearer. I knew that\nVannelle was in it. At last the heavy rumble ceased at the door.\n\nA figure stood before me. The old fascination in the eyes; a soul\nburning with lofty enthusiasm looked through and kindled them. But the\nface,--it was ghastly, livid as the face of a leper: it was\nspectral,--blanched and dried with the white flames of his exalted\nvigils. Ah, black eyes, well may you shine in terrible triumph! The old\nidolatry this man demanded of me would not be repelled. I gazed upon my\nvisitor as upon a phantom from another sphere, and knew no reckoning of\ntime. His magnetism was upon me; I could only crouch into myself--and\nwait. At length the silence was broken.\n\n\"Charles Clifton, teacher of the people, listen that you may be taught!\nFor the last time I have come down into your world of passion and sense.\nThe impulses with which you vainly strive and wrestle are behind me.\nAlone, alone, I have risen from the abysmal depths of personality. I\nhave struggled fiercely. I have also conquered.\"\n\nThe livid face showed no change. It suddenly came to me, that, by some\nvoluntary disfigurement of his exquisite beauty of feature, this man had\ncut away the lusts for pleasure, fame, and influence. What woman would\nkiss that ghastly cheek? What sycophant could fawn and smirk in that\nchilly presence? The injunctions concerning the offending eye and hand\nVannelle had interpreted literally.\n\n\"I hold,\" he continued, \"the noble prize of intellectual satisfaction\nseized by effort. Multiply the self-satisfactions of earth by infinity,\nand you may guess a little of the sublime contentment which wraps me\nround! Does the best stage-trick of your liberal clergy help them to\nanything but a plasticity of mind to be moulded into artistic forms of\nskepticism? How can you feel the delight of a definite, positive\naffirmation which accounts for and includes all creeds and lives of men?\nHow can you come out from your partial dogmas to enter Truth and find it\nalone dogmatic and compulsive? Clifton, I pity you. I would rescue you\nfrom this haze of thought and feeling,--I, who have even now discarded\nIntelligence and enthroned Wisdom.\"\n\n\"I hope to be pardoned,\" I said,--\"the current of this life sets so in\nfavor of Utility and the Practical; men long to be fed with\nsentiment,--why try to give them ideas?\"\n\n\"Fulfil, then, forever your little round of decencies and proprieties,\"\nexclaimed Vannelle; \"I judge you not. Perchance your weakness is the\npardonable weakness of one who has done his best. You may be guiltless\nin failing to attain the strength, the glory, of a true conviction.\"\n\n\"Is it too late?\" I asked, faintly.\n\n\"It is the question I must put to you,\" replied Herbert. \"I bring you in\nthis manuscript the result of my life,--the result of two lives. Here is\nwritten, as clearly as can be written in gross symbols of human\nlanguage, that which may suggest the Absolute, the Alpha and Omega, the\nSystem, not humanly built upon hypothesis, but divinely founded upon\nLaw.\"\n\nI knew that a package had been placed upon the table at my side.\n\n\"If you can so far command the fragmentary life you lead as to give this\nmanuscript the sober, searching thought which it invites, the truth may\nbe brought to you. But if these twenty years have only filled you with\nthe pride of inventing arguments and detecting analogies, if they have\nonly given you the petty skill of a petty scholar, why then dally on\nwith a tinsel variety of superficial attainments, and give others the\nblessed privilege you are not strong enough to accept.\"\n\n\"Take it from me,\" I said. \"It has haunted me too long. What you may\nhave found, it is for your honor to promulgate.\"\n\n\"The finding is enough for one life,\" replied Vannelle. \"The spiritual\nmanhood is indeed complete, but the shell which enclosed it totters\ntowards earth. My responsibility in this matter is at an end: yours will\nnow begin.\"\n\nA tremor ran through my frame as he spoke these words. A mystery rigid\nas Fate seemed to shackle me. Without seeing him go, I knew that\nVannelle had left the room. Again was I conscious of the carriage-rumble\ngrowing fainter, fainter, fainter in the distance. A dream of passionate\nexcitement, a phantasmagoria of old wishes, old hopes, of the life I\nmight have led, flew before me. For a moment the energy of Vannelle\nseemed to have transfused itself through every fibre. An unquenchable\nthirst that I had never summoned struck into my brain. I seized the\nmanuscript, and devoured page after page. Then I felt the approaches of\na supreme despotism that might annihilate all I had been, all I hoped to\nbe,--that might compel me to denounce all that I had taught, to hear all\nthat was respectable and healthy in the world jeer at me as an impostor,\nan enthusiast, a madman. It was not that I was simply invited to come\nabove the ordinary doctrines of the day, and stand supported and\nencouraged by a few advanced minds; but I was called to place myself\nwhere the most earnest souls--unless a second birth could be granted\nthem--would scoff with the ignorance and intolerance of the mass.\n\nAt last the gray light of morning shone upon me.\n\nOne of my deacons, whistling sturdily, passed along the street. A\nphysical emanation from his healthy vitality partially counteracted the\ninfluence of the night. Gathering up every muscle of my feeble will, I\nclosed the manuscript forever. Hereditary imperfections of body and mind\nconfine me to a sphere of reputable usefulness. If I have sinned in the\npast, I have also suffered. If, as I sometimes suspect, I have thrust\nfrom me the grandest opportunity ever offered to man, the loss through\nall eternity will be mine.\n\nIn eight days I heard of the death of Herbert Vannelle.\n\n\nIII.\n\nAs the last words of his strange narration fell from Clifton's lips, he\nbowed his head and was greatly agitated. The vast theologic conception\nover which he had so long brooded, instead of lifting him on high, had\ncrushed him to the earth. His moral consciousness had demanded a\nsatisfaction which he lacked integrity of purpose to pursue and\nchallenge. A fixed conviction of the dreariest pessimism would have been\nbetter for this man than the lofty uncertainty which had tortured his\ndays; for in the belief that one may neither struggle nor aspire there\nis a certain practical drift. But how shall he do any good who bears\nabout him a quick conscience, a skeptical understanding, sensitive\nreligious affections, and a feeble will? Charles Clifton had neither the\nleisure, nor possibly the application, to follow the creeping advances\nof systematic knowledge. He had listened to a fatal persuasion, and at\nthe same time had sought to satisfy contradictory principles of the\nhuman mind. The kindest thing I could do for him was soon perceived.\n\n\"Reverend Sir,\" I said, \"you must permit me to advise you. It is now six\no'clock. In an hour the early train leaves for Foxden. You must take it\nand return home. Any further vacuum in your daily employment will\nproduce a crushing pressure from without that might endanger reason\nitself. I solemnly promise to deposit this manuscript in the Mather\nSafe,--nay, I will not leave town until the President and Treasurer have\nmet me this afternoon according to your agreement. I pledge you my honor\nthat the parchment shall be consigned to its resting-place with every\nnecessary formality.\"\n\nMy companion gazed long upon vacancy before returning any answer. He\nstrove to dispel the cloud-pageantry which had sailed above him in\nshapeless beauty. He walked up and down the chamber, paused, threw open\nthe window, and looked upon the street below. I felt that every petty\ndetail of man's daily craft struck outlines of painful vividness upon\nthe morbid sensibility of his condition. Finally he spoke to this\neffect: --\n\n\"A grief has been lessened in giving it words. My deepest and most\nsolitary moments have been revealed to human sympathy, and the relief is\ngreat. It may be that I have been created to some wholesome end,--that\nsome truth may shine before the world through what seems the failure of\nmy life. I will return at once to the sphere of the senses: it is, as\nyou say, all that is left me. Let who will inquire into the significance\nand purpose of the Universe; it is for me to work in the bondage of the\nflesh, to be the humble tool of the age in which my lot is cast.\"\n\nYet it was not easy to induce the clergyman to commit to my care the\nconclusion of the enterprise which had brought him to town. His peculiar\nnervous temperament foretold a thousand accidents that might befall the\nprecious legacy of his friend. It was only by addressing his reason in\nrepeated arguments, and by solemnly asseverating my entire fidelity,\nthat I induced him to yield.\n\nIt was a gracious gift to be once more alone.\n\nI seemed awakened from a dream of pining exultation, of dark foreboding.\nWithout acknowledging it to myself, I had been strangely wrought upon by\nwhat I had read and heard. As Clifton emerged from the magical influence\nof Vannelle, was it not concentrated upon me? The impulse to return to\nthe perusal of the manuscript was almost irresistible. Yet it was\nevident, that, failing to receive as my very life what was there\nwritten, I should become hopelessly entangled in discrepancies and\ncontradictions. A glance at the imminent peril sent me shuddering to my\nonly safety.\n\nIt has been mentioned that I had interested myself in some inquiries\ntending to modify the received understanding of a certain natural law.\nDuring my morning in the College Library I had collected the records of\nmany facts, which, laboriously compared, might confirm the hypothesis I\nhad conceived. I now braced myself to the task of tracing an order in\nthese random observations. I was soon stimulated by perceiving that my\nstatistics seemed to confirm the justice of the reasoning which at\nfirst roused my suspicion. More and more plainly did man's experience\nrespond to the results I had dared to predict. Trivial circumstances,\nnoted in remote times and disconnected places, pointed in one direction,\nand there beat the regular pulse of Nature.\n\nIt is perhaps a little humiliating to mention, what I afterwards\ndiscovered, that the doctrine which I endeavored to reach had been\nalready conceived and passed upon by a not very eminent scientist in one\nof the Western States. But at that time absorption in the search for\nattainable truth was necessary to my welfare; and, with very brief\nintervals for rest and refreshment, I continued my pursuit until the\nafternoon-hour for visiting the library.\n\nThe President and Treasurer entered the building at five o'clock.\n\nFor some minutes I had stood before the massive doors of the Mather\nSafe, wondering if any of its mysterious contents could be more singular\nthan the consignment about to be made to its keeping.\n\n\"Is Mr. Clifton of Foxden in the library?\" inquired the President.\n\n\"I am here to represent him,\" I replied. \"He made a strange mistake in\nthe day of appointment, and was compelled to leave town this morning.\nThe package which he wished to deposit in the Mather Safe I hold in my\nhand.\"\n\n\"_Lex Universalis Natur\u00e6_; THE PHILOSOPHY OF THE ABSOLUTE,\" exclaimed\nthe Treasurer, reading the inscription upon the outer parchment. \"Poh,\npoh! I thought that sort of philosophy had long ago been handed over to\nthe limbo of fallacies.\"\n\n\"By those who have neither feeling nor imagination enough to care for\nanything not transmutable into dollars, perhaps it has,\" I rejoined,\nsomewhat tartly.\n\n\"Come, come!\" said the President, in his good-natured, rolling tones;\n\"since the days of the great Jonathan, our New-England metaphysicians\nhave generally been broken-down poets, and should be treated with the\ngreatest tenderness. Some flighty minds will prefer dangerous trips to\ndream-land to the rigid demonstrations of figures; but the mass of our\ngraduates accept the teaching of their Alma Mater, that only the\nmathematician has the right to investigate, and that of all philosophers\nonly natural philosophers are competent instructors.\"\n\n\"Yet, Sir,\" I said, \"you will remember that the time was when your\nnatural philosophers were persecuted as wizards by Church and State.\nEven the mathematician is defined by an old lexicographer to be '_Magus\nd\u00e6monum invocator_'; and I cannot forget that all that is of honor and\nrespect to-day is but the actual of a once despised ideal.\"\n\nI really marvelled at my own audacity in presuming to question the words\nof this distinguished and excellent gentleman. Indeed, it was\nparticularly surprising, because (if I knew myself) I precisely agreed\nwith him. But there is a certain waywardness in my composition, which\nloves to puncture an inflated conventionality, even when I myself am\nmost conventional.\n\nIn the mean time the Treasurer, taking the President's key with his own,\nhad opened the Safe. I looked in and beheld coffers of lead and oak,\nnooks and pigeon-holes covered and sealed with the College seal, little\ncells of glass which appeared to hold documents of the utmost\nimportance, and, in short, whatever might best defy the injuries of\ntime. The weighty book which registered the contents of the Safe was\nopened before me. I was told to write the number assigned to the\nmanuscript, to describe its present condition, and to indicate its\ndestination. This I carefully did, and was about to confide my charge to\nits long oblivion.\n\n\"Stay!\" said the President. \"You have forgotten the mottoes! Here is\nonly one; and it is our rule that every deposit in the Mather Safe be\ndistinguished by three, in as many languages.\n\n  '_Alteri S\u00e6culo_.'\n\nThe selection is good, though it has already been adopted by a\nMassachusetts statesman. It is now for you to supply two others.\"\n\nSingular as it may appear, this sudden call to perform a trifling office\nwhich I had not anticipated, filled me with a conflict of emotions. In\nchoosing another's words, I seemed to indorse or repudiate the strange\nmatter with which they were to be associated. I thought of Vannelle's\nwondrous language, of Clifton's exhilaration, and of the vivid buoyancy\nwith which my spirit had striven to rise. I even groped for some phrase\nwhich might hint what delicate a\u00ebrial impressions had tended to condense\nthe soul on the supreme point of spiritual ecstasy. But memory was a\nblank when I demanded words for this seeming-glorious fact in the\nexperience of humanity. Success was made impossible by the very\nintensity of the effort to summon an appropriate message to be dropped\nover the abyss of Time. I was confident that there were many apt things\nwhich might be said, if I could come at them, as it were, sideways. In\norder that I might take them at this advantage, I snatched a letter from\nmy pocket, and began to read. My eye was soon caught by the impression\nof a seal that I had once given my wife. It was a good [woman's] motto,\nI jestingly told her; and now it was returned to me at my sorest need.\nSix little words of the good Pascal,--\n\n  \"_Le plus s\u00fbr est de croire_.\"\n\nSomething compelled me to write them, and a new freedom was with me when\nI had done so.\n\n\"Make haste, make haste, for the prayer-bell is ringing!\" cried the\nPresident \"See, here is a copy of Plato's 'Ph\u00e6drus,'--a work which our\nvapory brethren are fond of quoting, generally at second-hand; perhaps\nyou may pick out a sentence that will prophesy with sufficient\nambiguity.\"\n\nBut it was not Plato or his \"Ph\u00e6drus\" that then claimed my thoughts.\nThere loomed a Rock graven with more august instruction than the sage of\nthe Academy was privileged to communicate,--a Rock against which the\nheaving surface of human opinion had chafed and broken in vain. Tossed\nto and fro upon the tide of life, who has not sometimes listened to the\nwrangling voices which shouted, \"Mystical Interpretation,\" \"Absolute\nFiction,\" \"Huge Conglomerate of Myths\"? Whose eye has never been caught\nby the sparkling tinsel of modern philosophies, with their Seers,\nHeroes, Missions, Developments, Insights, Principles of Nature,\nClairvoyance, and Magnetic Currents? Happy those who are able to return\nto that one channel through which magnetic currents have indeed\ndescended from an unseen sphere, and touched the noblest hearts! For\nthere _is_ a certain mediation between the necessities and aspirations\nof man,--an assured deliverance from the gross and sordid surroundings\nof his earthly life. There came before me one simple period from a\nfamiliar Book. Most direct and confident is the solemn statement. I\nwrote it as the final motto.\n\n\n     \"NOW THE SERPENT WAS MORE SUBTILE THAN ANY BEAST OF THE FIELD WHICH\n     THE LORD GOD HAD MADE.\"\n\nTHE TERTIARY AGE, AND ITS CHARACTERISTIC ANIMALS.\n\n\nIn entering upon the Tertiaries, we reach that geological age which,\nnext to his own, has the deepest interest for man. The more striking\nscenes of animal life, hitherto confined chiefly to the ocean, are now\non land; the extensive sheets of fresh water are filled with fishes of a\ncomparatively modern character,--with Whitefish, Pickerel, Perch, Eels,\netc.,--while the larger quadrupeds are introduced upon the continents so\ngradually prepared to receive them. The connection of events throughout\nthe Tertiaries, considered as leading up to the coming of man, may be\ntraced not only in the physical condition of the earth, and in the\npresence of the large terrestrial Mammalia, but also in the appearance\nof those groups of animals and plants which we naturally associate with\nthe domestic and social existence of man. Cattle and Horses are first\nfound in the middle Tertiaries; the grains, the Rosace\u00e6, with their\nvariety of fruits, the tropical fruit-trees, Oranges, Bananas, etc., the\nshade- and cluster-trees, so important to the comfort and shelter of\nman, are added to the vegetable world during these epochs. The fossil\nvegetation of the Tertiaries is, indeed, most interesting from this\npoint of view, showing the gradual maturing and completion of those\nconditions most intimately associated with human life. The earth had\nalready its seasons, its spring and summer, its autumn and winter, its\nseed-time and harvest, though neither sower nor reaper was there; the\nforests then, as now, dropped their thick carpet of leaves upon the\nground in the autumn, and in many localities they remain where they\noriginally fell, with a layer of soil between the successive layers of\nleaves,--a leafy chronology, as it were, by which we read the passage of\nthe years which divided these deposits from each other. Where the leaves\nhave fallen singly on a clayey soil favorable for receiving such\nimpressions, they have daguerreotyped themselves with the most wonderful\naccuracy, and the Oaks, Poplars, Willows, Maples, Walnuts, Gum- and\nCinnamon-trees, etc., of the Tertiaries are as well known to us as are\nthose of our own time.\n\nIt was an eventful day, not only for science, but for the world, when a\nSiberian fisherman chanced to observe a singular mound lying near the\nmouth of the River Lena, where it empties into the Arctic Ocean. During\nthe warmer summer-weather, he noticed, that, as the snow gradually\nmelted, this mound assumed a more distinct and prominent outline, and at\nlength, on one side of it, where the heat of the sun was greatest, a\ndark body became exposed, which, when completely uncovered, proved to be\nthat of an immense elephant, in so perfect a state of preservation that\nthe dogs and wolves were attracted to it as by the smell of fresh meat,\nand came to feed upon it at night. The man knew little of the value of\nhis discovery, but the story went abroad, and an Englishman travelling\nin Russia, being curious to verify it, visited the spot, and actually\nfound the remains where they had been reported to lie, on the frozen\nshore of the Arctic Sea,--strange burial-place enough for an animal\nnever known to exist out of tropical climates. Little beside the\nskeleton was left, though parts of the skin remained covered with hair,\nshowing how perfect must have been the condition of the body when first\nexposed. The tusks had been sold by the fisherman; but Mr. Adams\nsucceeded in recovering them; and collecting all the bones except those\nof one foot, which had been carried off by the wolves, he had them\nremoved to St. Petersburg, where the skeleton now stands in the Imperial\nMuseum. The inhabitants of Siberia seem to be familiar with this animal,\nwhich they designate by the name of _Mammoth_, while naturalists call\nit _Elephas primigenius_. The circumstance that they abound in the\nfrozen drift of the great northern plain of Asia, and are occasionally\nexposed in consequence of the wearing of the large rivers traversing\nSiberia, has led to the superstition among the Tongouses, that the\nMammoths live under ground, and die whenever, on coming to the surface,\nthe sunlight falls upon them.\n\n[Illustration]\n\nHad this been the only creature of the kind found so far from the\ncountries to which elephants are now exclusively confined, it might have\nbeen believed that some strange accident had brought it to the spot\nwhere it was buried. But it was not long before similar remains were\nfound in various parts of Europe,--in Russia, in Germany, in Spain, and\nin Italy. The latter were readily accounted for by the theory that they\nmust be the remains of the Carthaginian elephants brought over by the\narmies of Hannibal, while it was suggested that the others might have\nbeen swept from India by some great flood, and stranded where they were\nfound. It was Cuvier, entitled by his intimate acquaintance with the\nanatomy of living animals to an authoritative opinion in such matters,\nwho first dared to assert that these remains belonged to no elephant of\nour period. He rested this belief upon structural evidence, and insisted\nthat an Indian elephant, brought upon the waves of a flood to Siberia,\nwould be an Indian elephant still, while all these remains differed in\nstructure from any species existing at present. This statement aroused\nresearch in every direction, and the number of fossil Mammalia found\nwithin the next few years, and proved by comparison to be different from\nany living species, soon demonstrated the truth of his conclusion.\n\n[Illustration]\n\nShortly after the discovery of fossil elephants had opened this new path\nof investigation, some curious bones were found by some workmen in the\nquarries of Montmartre, near Paris, and brought to Cuvier for\nexamination. Although few in number, and affording but very scanty\n_data_ for such a decision, he at once pronounced them to be the remains\nof some extinct animal preceding the present geological age. Here, then,\nat his very door, as it were, was a settlement of that old creation in\nwhich he could pursue the inquiry, already become so important in its\nbearings. It was not long before other bones of the same kind were\nfound, though nothing as yet approaching an entire skeleton. However,\nwith such means as he had, Cuvier began a comparison with all the living\nMammalia,--with the human skeleton first, with Monkeys, with the larger\nCarnivora and Ruminants, then with all the smaller Mammalia, then with\nthe Pachyderms; and here, for the first time, he began to find some\nresemblance. He satisfied himself that the animal must have belonged to\nthe family of Pachyderms; and he then proceeded to analyze and compare\nall the living species, till he had collected ample evidence to show\nthat the bones in question did not correspond with any species, and\ncould not even be referred to any genus, now in existence. At length\nthere was discovered at Montmartre an upper jaw of the same\nanimal,--next a lower jaw, matching the upper one, and presently a whole\nhead with a few backbones was brought to light. These were enough, with\nCuvier's vast knowledge of animal structure, to give him a key to the\nwhole skeleton. At about the same time, in the same locality, were found\nother bones and teeth also, differing from those first discovered, and\nyet equally unlike those of any living animal. The first evidently\nbelonged to some stout and heavy animal, the others were more slender\nand of lighter build. From these fragments, ample evidence to him of his\nresults, he drew the outlines of two animals: one which he called the\nPal\u00e6otherium, (old animal,) a figure of which is given in the above\nwood-cut, and the other Anoplotherium, (animal without fangs). He\npresented these figures with an explanatory memoir at the Academy, and\nannounced them as belonging to some creation preceding the present,\nsince no such animals had ever existed in our own geological period.\nSuch a statement was a revelation to the scientific world: some looked\nupon it with suspicion and distrust; others, who knew more of\ncomparative anatomy, hailed it as introducing a new era in science; but\nit was not till complete specimens were actually found of animals\ncorresponding perfectly to those figured and described by Cuvier, and\nproving beyond a doubt their actual existence in ancient times, that all\nunited in wonder and admiration at the result obtained by him with such\nscanty means.\n\nIt would seem that the family of Pachyderms was largely represented\namong the early Mammalia; for, since Cuvier named these species, a\nnumber of closely allied forms have been found in deposits belonging to\nthe same epoch. Of course, the complete specimens are rare; but the\nfragments of such skeletons occur in abundance, showing that these\nold-world Pachyderms, resembling the Tapirs more than any other living\nrepresentatives of the family, were very numerous in the lower\nTertiaries.\n\nThere is, however, one animal now in existence, forming one of those\nsingular links before alluded to between the present and the past, of\nwhich I will say a few words here, though its relation is rather with a\nlater group of Tertiary Pachyderms than with those described by Cuvier.\nOn the coast of Florida there is an animal of very massive, clumsy\nbuild, long considered to be a Cetacean, but now recognized, by some\nnaturalists at least, as belonging to the order of Pachyderms. In form\nit resembles the Cetaceans, though it has a fan-shaped tail, instead of\nthe broad flapper of the Whales. It inhabits fresh waters or shoal\nwaters, and is not so exclusively aquatic as the oceanic Cetaceans. Its\nmost striking feature is the form of the lower jaw, which is bent\ndownward, with the front teeth hanging from it. This animal is called\nthe Manatee, or Sea-Cow. There are three species known to\nnaturalists,--one in Tampa Bay, one in the Amazon, and one in Africa. In\nthe Tertiary deposits of Germany there has been found an animal allied\nin some of its features to those described by Cuvier, but it has the\ncrown of its teeth folded like the Tapir, while the lower jaw is turned\ndown with a long tusk growing from it. This animal has been called the\nDinotherium. A part of the head, showing the heavy jaws and the\nformidable tusk, is represented in the subjoined wood-cut.\n\n[Illustration]\n\nIts hanging lower jaw, with the protruding tusk, corresponds perfectly\nto the formation of the lower jaw and teeth in the Manatee. Some\nresemblance of the Dinotherium to the Mastodon suggested a comparison\nwith that animal as the next step in the investigation, when it was\nfound that at the edge of the lower jaw of the latter there was a pit\nwith a small projecting tooth, also corresponding exactly in its\nposition to the tusk in the Dinotherium. The Elephant was now examined;\nand in him also a rudimentary tooth appeared in the lower jaw, not cut\nthrough, but placed in the same relation to the jaw and the other teeth\nas that of the Mastodon. It would seem, then, that the Manatee makes one\nin this series of Dinotherium, Mastodon, and Elephant, and represents\nthe aquatic Pachyderms, occupying the same relation to the terrestrial\nPachyderms as the Seals bear to the terrestrial Carnivora, and, like\nthem, lowest in structure among their kind.\n\nThe announcement of Cuvier's results stimulated research, and from this\ntime forward Tertiary Mammalia became the subject of extensive and most\nimportant investigations among naturalists. The attention of collectors\nonce drawn to these remains, they were found in such numbers that the\nwonder was how they had been so long hidden from the observation of men.\nThey remind us chiefly of tropical animals; indeed, Tigers, Hyenas,\nRhinoceroses, Hippopotamuses, Mastodons, and Elephants had their home in\ncountries which now belong to the Cold Temperate Zone, showing that the\nclimate in these latitudes was much milder then than it is at present.\nBones of many of these animals were found in caverns in Germany, France,\nItaly, and England. Perhaps the story of Kirkdale Cave, where the first\nimportant discovery of this kind was made on English soil, may not be so\nwell known to American readers as to forbid its repetition here.\n\nIt was in the summer of 1821 that some workmen, employed in quarrying\nstone upon the slope of a limestone hill at Kirkdale, in Yorkshire, came\naccidentally upon the mouth of a cavern. Overgrown with grass and\nbushes, the mouth of this cave in the hill-side had been effectually\nclosed against all intruders, and it was not strange that its existence\nhad never been suspected. The hole was small, but large enough to admit\na man on his hands and knees; and the workmen, creeping in through the\nopening, found that it led into a cavern, broad in some parts, but low\nthroughout. There were only a few spots where a man could stand upright;\nbut it was quite extensive, with branches opening out from it, some of\nwhich have not yet been explored. The whole floor was strewn, from one\nend to the other, with hundreds of bones, like a huge dog-kennel. The\nworkmen wondered a little at their discovery, but, remembering that\nthere had been a murrain among the cattle in this region some years\nbefore, they came to the conclusion that these must be the bones of\ncattle that had died in great numbers at that time; and, having so\nsettled the matter to their own satisfaction, they took little heed to\nthe bones, but threw many of them out on the road with the common\nlimestone. Fortunately, a gentleman, living in the neighborhood, whose\nattention had been attracted to them, preserved them from destruction;\nand a few months after the discovery of the cave, Dr. Buckland, the\ngreat English geologist, visited Kirkdale, to examine its strange\ncontents, which proved indeed stranger than any one had imagined; for\nmany of these remains belonged to animals never before found in England.\nThe bones of Hyenas, Tigers, Elephants, Rhinoceroses, and Hippopotamuses\nwere mingled with those of Deer, Bears, Wolves, Foxes, and many smaller\ncreatures. The bones were gnawed, and many were broken, evidently not by\nnatural decay, but seemed to have been snapped violently apart. After\nthe most complete investigation of the circumstances, Dr. Buckland\nconvinced himself, and proved to the satisfaction of all scientific men,\nthat the cave had been a den of Hyenas[A] at a time when they, as well\nas Tigers, Elephants, Rhinoceroses, etc., existed in England in as great\nnumbers as they now do in the wildest parts of tropical Asia or Africa.\nThe narrow entrance to the cave still retained the marks of grease and\nhair, such as one may see on the bars of a cage in a menagerie against\nwhich the imprisoned animals have been in the habit of rubbing\nthemselves constantly, and there were marks of the same kind on the\nfloor and walls.\n\n[Footnote A: Among the other facts showing that Kirkdale Cave had been\nthe den of these animals, and not tenanted as their home by any of the\nother creatures whose remains occurred there, were the excrements of the\nHyenas found in considerable quantity by Dr. Buckland, and identified as\nsuch by the keeper of a menagerie. Any one who may wish to read the\nwhole history of Dr. Buckland's investigations of this matter, showing\nthe patience and sagacity with which he collected and arranged the\nevidence, will find a full account of Kirkdale Cave and other caverns\ncontaining fossil bones in his \"Reliqui\u00e6 Diluvian\u00e6.\"]\n\nIt was evident that the Hyenas were the lords of this ancient cavern,\nand the other animals their unwilling guests; for the remains of the\nlatter were those which had been most gnawed, broken, and mangled; and\nthe head of an enormous Hyena, with gigantic fangs found complete, bore\nample evidence to their great size and power. Some of the animals, such\nas the Elephants, Rhinoceroses, etc., could not have been brought into\nthe cave without being first killed and torn to pieces, for it is not\nlarge enough to admit them. But their gnawed and broken bones attest,\nnevertheless, that they were devoured like the rest; and probably the\nHyenas then had the same propensity which characterizes those of our own\ntime, to tear in pieces the body of any dead animal, and carry it to\ntheir den to feed upon it apart.\n\n[Illustration]\n\nWhile Kirkdale Cave was evidently the haunt of Hyenas chiefly, other\ncaverns in Germany and France were tenanted in a similar manner by a\ngigantic species of Bear. Their remains, mingled with those of the\nanimals on which they fed, have been found in great numbers in the\nCavern of Gailenreuth, in Franconia. The subjoined wood-cut shows the\nhead of this formidable beast, which must have exceeded in size any Bear\nnow living. Indeed, although there were many smaller kinds, and the\nother types of the Animal Kingdom in the Tertiaries seem to approach\nvery nearly both in size and general character their modern\nrepresentatives, yet, on the whole, the earlier Mammalia were giants in\ncomparison with those now living. The Mastodon and Mammoth, as compared\nwith the modern Elephant, the Megatherium, as compared with the Sloths\nof present times, the Hyenas and Bears of the European caverns, and the\nfossil Elk of Ireland, by the side of which even the Moose of our\nNorthern woods is belittled, are remarkable instances in proof of this.\nOne cannot but be struck with the fact that this first representation of\nMammalia, the very impersonation of brute force in power, size, and\nferocity, immediately preceded the introduction of man, with whose\ncreation intelligence and moral strength became the dominant influences\non earth.\n\n[Illustration]\n\nAmong these huge Tertiary Mammalia, one of those most common on the\nNorth-American continent seems to have been the Mastodon. The\nmagnificent specimens preserved in this country are too well known to\nrequire description. The remains of the Rhinoceros occur also in the\nrecent Tertiary deposits of North America, though as yet no perfect\nskeletons have been found. The Edentata, now confined to South America\nand the western coast of Africa, were also numerous in the Southern\nStates during that time; their remains have been found as far north as\nthe Salt Lick in Kentucky. But we must not judge of the Tertiary\nEdentata by any now known to us. The Sloths, the Armadillos, the\nAnt-Eaters, the Pangolins, are all animals of rather small size; but\nformerly they were represented by the gigantic Megatherium, the\nMegalonyx, and the Mylodon, some of which were larger than the Elephant,\nand others about the same size of the Rhinoceros or Hippopotamus. The\nsubjoined wood-cut represents a Mylodon in the act of lifting himself\nagainst the trunk of a tree.\n\n[Illustration]\n\nThey were clumsy brutes, and though their limbs were evidently built\nwith reference to powerful movements, perhaps climbing, or at least\nrising on their hind quarters, the act of climbing with them cannot have\nhad anything of the nimbleness or activity generally associated with it.\nOn the contrary, they probably were barely able to support their huge\nbodies on their hind limbs, which are exceedingly massive, and on the\nstiff, heavy tail, while they dragged down with their front limbs the\nbranches of the trees, and fed upon them at leisure. The Zo\u00f6logical\nMuseum at Cambridge is indebted to the generosity of Mr. Joshua Bates\nfor a very fine set of casts taken from the Megatherium in the British\nMuseum. They are now mounted, and may be seen in one of the\nexhibition-rooms of the building. Large Reptiles, but very unlike those\nof the Cretaceous and Jurassic epochs, belonging chiefly to the types of\nTurtles, Crocodiles, Pythons, and Salamanders, existed during the\nTertiary epochs. The wood-cut below represents a gigantic Salamander of\nthe Tertiary deposits. It is a curious fact, illustrative of the\nignorance of all anatomical science in those days, that, when the\nremains of this reptile (Audrias, as it is now called) were first\ndiscovered toward the close of the seventeenth century, they were\ndescribed by old Professor Scheuchzer as the bones of an infant\ndestroyed by the Deluge, and were actually preserved, not for their\nscientific value, but as precious relics of the Flood, and described in\na separate pamphlet, entitled, \"Homo Diluvii Testis.\" Among the Tertiary\nReptiles the Turtles seem to have been a very prominent type, by their\nsize as well as by their extensive distribution. Their remains have been\nfound both in the far West and in the East. The fossil Turtles of\nNebraska are well known to American naturalists; but the Oriental one\nexceeds them in size, and is, indeed, the most gigantic representative\nof the order known thus far. A man could stand under the arch of the\nshield of the old Himalayan Turtle preserved in the British Museum.\n\n[Illustration]\n\n[Illustration]\n\nIt would carry me too far, were I to attempt to give anything more than\nthe most cursory sketch of the animals of the Tertiary age; and, indeed,\nthey are so well known, and have been so fully represented in\ntext-books, that I fear some of my readers may think even now that I\nhave dwelt too long upon them. Monkeys were unquestionably introduced\nupon earth before the close of the Tertiaries; some bones have been\nfound in Southern France, and also on Mount Pentelicus in Greece, in the\nlater Tertiary deposits; but these remains have not yet been collected\nin sufficient number to establish much more than the fact of their\npresence in the animal creation at that time. I do not offer any opinion\nrespecting the fossil human bones so much discussed recently, because\nthe evidence is at present too scanty to admit of any decisive judgment\nconcerning them. It becomes, however, daily more probable that facts\nwill force us sooner or later to admit that the creation of man lies far\nbeyond any period yet assigned to it, and that a succession of human\nraces, as of animals, have followed one another upon the earth. It may\nbe the inestimable privilege of our young naturalists to solve this\ngreat problem, but the older men of our generation must be content to\nrenounce this hope; we may have some prophetic vision of its fulfilment,\nwe may look from afar into the land of promise, but we shall not enter\nin and possess it.\n\n[Illustration]\n\n[Illustration]\n\n[Illustration]\n\nThe other great types of the Animal Kingdom are very fully represented\nin the Tertiaries, and in their general appearance they approach much\nmore closely those of the present creation than of any previous epochs.\nProfessor Heer has collected and described the Tertiary Insects in great\nnumber and variety; and the Butterflies, Bugs, Flies, Grasshoppers,\nDragon-Flies, Beetles, etc., described in his volumes, would hardly be\ndistinguished from our own, except by a practised entomologist. Among\nCrustacea, the Shrimp-like forms of the earlier geological epochs have\nbecome much less conspicuous, while Crabs and Lobsters are now the\nprominent representatives of the class. Among Mollusks, the Chambered\nShells, hitherto so numerous, have become, as they now are, very few in\ncomparison with the naked Cephalopods. The Nautili, however, resemble\nthose now living in the Pacific Ocean; and some fragments of the\nPaper-Nautilus have been found, showing that this delicate shell was\nalready in existence. There is one very peculiar type of this class,\nbelonging to the Tertiaries, which should not be passed by unnoticed. It\npartakes of the character both of the Cretaceous Belemnites and of the\nliving Cuttle-Fish, and is known as the Spirulirostra. Another very\ncharacteristic group among the Tertiary Shells is that of the\nNummulites, formerly placed by naturalists in immediate proximity with\nthe Ammonites, on account of their internal partitions. This is now\nadmitted to have been an error; their position is not yet fully\ndetermined, but they certainly stand very low in the scale, and have no\naffinity whatever with the Cephalopods. The subjoined wood-cut\nrepresents one of these Shells, so numerous in the Tertiaries that large\nmasses of rock consist of their remains. The Univalve Shells or\nGasteropods of the Tertiaries embraced all the families now living,\nincluding land and fresh-water Shells as well as the marine\nrepresentatives of the type. Some of the latter, as, for instance, the\nCerithium, are accumulated in vast numbers. The limestone quarries out\nof which Paris is chiefly built consist wholly of these Shells. The\nfresh-water basins were filled with Helices, one of which is represented\nin the following wood-cut, with Planorbis, Limn\u00e6us and other Shells\nresembling those now so common in all our lakes and rivers, and\ndiffering from the living ones only by slight specific characters. The\nBivalves also have the same resemblance to the present ones, including\nfresh-water Mussels as well as the marine Clams and Oysters. Among\nRadiates, the higher Echini (Sea-Urchins) have become numerous, while\nthe other Echinoderms of all families abound. Corals include, for the\nfirst time, the more highly organized Madrepores.\n\n[Illustration]\n\nIn the Tertiaries we see the dawn of the present condition of things,\nnot only in the character of the animals and plants, but in the height\nof the mountains and in the distribution of land and sea.\n\nLet us give a glance at the continents whose growth we have been\nfollowing, and see what these more recent geological epochs have done\nfor their completion. In Europe they have filled the basin in Central\nFrance, and converted all that region into dry land: they have filled\nalso the channel between France and Spain; they have united Central\nRussia with the rest of Europe by the completion of Poland, and have\ngreatly enlarged Austria and Turkey; they have completed the\npromontories of Italy and Greece, and have converted the inland sea at\nthe foot of the Jura into the plain of Switzerland. But this fruitful\nperiod in the progress of the world, when the character of organic life\nwas higher and the physical features of the earth more varied than ever\nbefore, was not without its storms and convulsions. The Pyrenees, the\nApennines, the Alps, and with them the whole range of the Caucasus and\nHimalayas, were raised either immediately after the Cretaceous epoch, or\nin the course of the Tertiaries. Indeed, with this most significant\npassage in her history, Europe acquired all her essential characters.\nThere remained, it is true, much to be done in what is called by\ngeologists \"modern times.\" The work of the artist is not yet finished\nwhen his statue is blocked out and the grand outline of his conception\nstands complete; and there still remained, after the earth was rescued\nfrom the water, after her framework of mountains was erected, after her\nsoil was clothed with field and forest, processes by which her valleys\nwere to be made more fruitful, her gulfs to be filled with the rich\ndetritus poured into them by the rivers, her whole surface to be\nrendered more habitable for the higher races who were to possess it.\n\nWe left America at the close of the Carboniferous epoch. A glance at the\ngeological map will show the reader that during the Permian, Triassic,\nand Jurassic epochs little was added to the United States, though here\nand there deposits belonging to each of them crop out. In the Cretaceous\nepoch, however, large tracts of land were accumulated, chiefly in the\nSouth and West; and during the Tertiaries the continent was very nearly\ncompleted, leaving only a narrow gulf running up to the neighborhood of\nSt. Louis to be filled by modern detritus, and the peninsula of Florida\nto be built by the industrious Coral-Workers of our own period. The age\nof the Alleghany chain is not yet positively determined, but it was\nprobably raised at the close of the Carboniferous epoch. Up to that\ntime, only the Laurentian Hills, the northern side of that mountainous\ntriangle which now makes the skeleton, as it were, of the United States,\nexisted. The upheaval of the Alleghanies added its eastern side, raising\nthe central part of the continent so as to form a long slope from the\nbase of the Alleghanies to the Pacific Ocean; but it was not until the\nTertiary Age that the upheaval of the great chain at the West completed\nthe triangle, and transformed that wide westerly slope into the\nMississippi Valley, bounded on one side by the Alleghanies, and on the\nother by the Rocky Mountains.\n\nIt is my belief, founded upon the tropical character of the Fauna, that\na much milder climate then prevailed over the whole northern hemisphere\nthan is now known to it. Some naturalists have supposed that the\npresence of the tropical Mammalia in the Northern Temperate Zone might\nbe otherwise accounted for,--that they might have been endowed with\nwarmer covering, with thicker hair or fur. But I think the simpler and\nmore natural reason for their existence throughout the North is to be\nfound in the difference of climate; and I am the more inclined to this\nopinion because the Tertiary animals generally, the Fishes, Shells,\netc., in the same regions, are more closely allied in character to those\nnow living in the Tropics than to those of the Temperate Zones. The\nTertiary age may be called the geological summer; we shall see,\nhereafter, how abruptly it was brought to a close.\n\nOne word more as to the relation of the Tertiary Mammalia to the\ncreation which preceded them. I can only repeat here the argument used\nbefore: the huge quadrupeds characteristic of these epochs make their\nappearance suddenly, and the deposits containing them follow as\nimmediately upon those of the Cretaceous epoch, in which no trace of\nthem occurs, as do those of the Cretaceous upon those of the Jurassic\nepoch. I would remind the reader that in the central basin of France, in\nwhich Cuvier found his first Pal\u00e6otherium, and which afterwards proved\nto have been thickly settled by the early Mammalia, the deposits of the\nJurassic, Cretaceous, and Tertiary epochs follow each other in\nimmediate, direct, uninterrupted succession; that the same is true of\nother localities, in Germany, in Southern Europe, in England, where the\nmost complete collections have been made from all these deposits; and\nthere has never been brought to light a single fact leading us to\nsuppose that any intermediate forms have ever existed through which more\nrecent types have been developed out of older ones. For thirty years\nGeology has been gradually establishing, by evidence the fulness and\naccuracy of which are truly amazing, the regularity in the sequence of\nthe geological formations, and distinguishing, with ever-increasing\nprecision, the specific differences of the animals and plants contained\nin these accumulations of past ages. These results bear living testimony\nto the wonderful progress of the kindred sciences of Geology and\nPal\u00e6ontology in the last half-century; and the development-theory has\nbut an insecure foundation so long as it attempts to strengthen itself\nby belittling the geological record, the assumed imperfection of which,\nin default of positive facts, has now become the favorite argument of\nits upholders.\n\nTHE NEW SANGREAL.\n\n\n  \"Show me the Sangreal, Lord! Show me Thy blood!\n  Thy body and Thy blood! Give me the Quest!\n  Lord, I am faint and tired; my soul is sick\n  Of all the falseness, all the little aims,\n  The weary vanities, the gasping joys,\n  The slow procession of this satiate world!\n  Dear Lord, I burn for Thee! Give me Thy Quest!\n  Down through the old reverberating time,\n  I see Thy knights in wonderful array\n  Go out to victory, like the solemn stars\n  Fighting in courses, with their conquering swords,\n  Their sad, fixed lips of purity and strength,\n  Their living glory, their majestic death.\n  Give me Thy Quest! Show me the Sangreal, Lord!\"\n\n  He lay upon a mountain's rocky crest,\n  So high, that all the glittering, misty world,\n  All summer's splendid tempests, lay below,\n  And sudden lightnings quivered at his feet;\n  So still, not any sound of silentness\n  Expressed the silence, nor the pallid sun\n  Burned on his eyelids; all alone and still,\n  Save for the prayer that struggled from his lips,\n  Broken with eager stress. Then he arose.\n  But always, down the hoary mountain-side,\n  Through whispering forests, by soft-rippled streams,\n  In clattering streets, or the great city's roar,\n  Still from his never sated soul went up,\n  \"Give me Thy Quest! Show me the Sangreal, Lord!\"\n\n  Through all the land there poured a trumpet's clang,\n  And when its silvery anger smote the air,\n  Men sprang to arms from every true man's home,\n  And followed to the field. He followed, too,--\n  All the mad blood of manhood in his veins,\n  All the fierce instincts of a warring race\n  Kindled like flame in every tingling limb,\n  And raging in his soul on fire with war.\n  He heard a thousand voices call him on:\n  Lips hot with anguish, shrieking their despair\n  From swamps and forests and the still bayous\n  That hide the wanderer, nor bewray his lair:\n  From fields and marshes where the tropic sun\n  Scorches a million laborers scourged to work;\n  From homes that are not homes; from mother-hearts\n  Torn from the infants lingering at their breasts;\n  From parted lovers, and from shuddering wives;\n  From men grown mad with whips and tyranny;\n  From all a country groaning in its chains.\n  Nor sleep, nor dream beguiled him any more;\n  He leaped to manhood in one torrid hour,\n  And armed, and sped to battle. Now no more\n  He cried or prayed,--\"Show me the Sangreal, Lord!\"\n\n  So in the front of deadly strife he stood;\n  The glorious thunder of the roaring guns,\n  The restless hurricane of screaming shells,\n  The quick, sharp singing of the rifle-balls,\n  The sudden clash of sabres, and the beat\n  Of rapid horse-hoofs galloping at charge,\n  Made a great chorus to his valorous soul,\n  The dreadful music of a grappling world,\n  That hurried him to fight. He turned the tide,\n  But fell upon its turning. Over him\n  Fluttered the starry flag, and fluttered on,\n  While he lay helpless on the trampled sward,\n  His hot life running scarlet from its source,\n  And all his soul in sudden quiet spent,\n  As still as on the silent mountain-top;\n  So still that from his quick-remembering heart\n  Burst that old cry,--\"Show me the Sangreal, Lord!\"\n\n  Then a bright mist descended over him,\n  And in its central glory stood a shape,\n  Wounded, yet smiling. With His bleeding hands\n  Stretched toward that bleeding side, His eyes divine\n  Like a new dawn, thus softly spake the Lord:--\n  \"The blood poured out for brothers is my blood;\n  The flesh for brothers broken is my flesh;\n  No more in golden chalices I dwell,\n  No longer in a vision, angel-borne:\n  Here is the Sangreal, here the Holy Quest.\n  Thy prayer is heard, thy soul is satisfied:\n  Come, my belov\u00e8d! I am come for thee.\n  As first I broke the bread and poured the wine,\n  So have I broken thee and poured thy life,\n  So do I bless thee and give thanks for thee,\n  So do I bear thee in my wounded hands.\"\n  Smiling, He stooped, and kissed the tortured brow,\n  And over all its anguish stole a smile;\n  The blood-sealed lips unclosed; the dying breath\n  Sighed, like the rain-sound in a summer wind,\n  Sobbing, but sweet,--\"I see the Sangreal, Lord!\"\n\nTHOMAS DE QUINCEY.\n\n\nIn the notice of so memorable a man, even the briefest prelusive\nflourish seems uncalled for; and so indeed it would be, if by such means\nit were meant simply to justify the undertaking. In regard to any of the\ngreat powers in literature there exists already a prevailing interest,\nwhich cannot be presumed to slumber for one moment in any thinking\nmind.[A] By way of notification, there is no need of prelude. Yet there\nare occasions, as, for example, the entrances of kings, which absolutely\ndemand the inaugural flourish of arms,--which, like the rosy flood of\ndawn, require to be ushered in by a train of twilight glories. And there\nare lives which proceed as by the movements of music,--which, must\ntherefore be heralded by overtures: majestic steppings, heard in the\nbackground, compel us, through mere sympathy with their pomp of\nprocession, to sound the note of preparation.\n\n[Footnote A: \"_In any thinking mind_.\" Yet it must be confessed that\nthere _does_ exist a woful ignorance or negligence concerning De Quincey\nin quarters from which better things might be expected. Misappreciation\nit cannot be called, where no trouble has been taken to estimate claims\nthat needed only to be weighed to be truly valued. Up to this time,\nthere has never been published in England a single essay on the life or\nthe genius of De Quincey that indicated even a good acquaintance, on the\npart of the writer, with that author's works; and in such a case, of\ncourse, not much could be looked for in the way of just interpretation.\nGilfillan did him gross injustice: indeed, from what he condescended to\nsay of the man, it would be difficult to conjecture that a greater than\nGilfillan was there. And, will the reader believe it? in Professor\nCraik's \"English Literature\"--a work of great excellence--the name of De\nQuincey is not mentioned! \"Sam Johnson,\" says Craik, \"was the last king\nthat sat upon the throne of English prose literature.\" Let it be that\nSam was a proper king; yet it is just as true that De Quincey was\nlegitimately his successor. First, in the matter of time: Sam died in\n1784, and De Quincey was born in 1785, just in time to continue the\nregal line. What was it, again, that entitled Johnson to kingly honors?\nWas it learning? De Quincey was as erudite. Was it his style? There is\nno writer in the language who in that matter may look down on De\nQuincey.\n\nIf there ever was a writer \"damned with faint praise,\" it was De\nQuincey. Some stupid writer for the London \"Athen\u00e6um,\" for instance,\ndared to compliment the poor \"opium-chewer\" after the following\nstyle:--\"He possessed taste, but _he lacked creative energy_; and his\nsubtle and highly refined intellect was ingenious and acute rather than\npowerful.\" This reminds me of a criticism once passed upon Shakspeare by\na mere pedagogue, to the effect that the great poet had considerable\ngenius, but very little taste!]\n\nElse I should plunge _in medias res_ upon a sketch of De Quincey's life;\nwere it not a rudeness amounting to downright profanity to omit the\nimportant ceremony of prelibation, and that at a banquet to which,\nimplicitly, gods are invited. The reader will assuredly unite with me in\nall such courtesies,--\n\n  \"Neu desint epulis ros\u00e6\";\n\nparticularly as the shade we deal with can be evoked only by peculiar\nincantations,--only the heralding of certain precise claims will this\nmonarch listen to as the just _inferi\u00e6_, the fitting sacrifice or\nhecatomb of our homage.\n\nThe key-note of preparation, the claim which pre\u00ebminently should be set\nforth in advance, is this: that De Quincey was the prince of\nhierophants, or of pontifical hierarchs, as regards all those profound\nmysteries which from the beginning have swayed the human heart,\nsometimes through the light of angelic smiles lifting it upwards to an\naltitude just beneath the heavens, and sometimes shattering it, with the\nshock of quaking anguish, down to earth. As it was the function of the\nhierophant, in the Grecian mysteries, to show the sacred symbols as\nconcrete incarnations of faith, so was it De Quincey's to reveal in open\nlight the everlasting symbols, universally intelligible when once\ndisclosed, which are folded in the involutions of dreams and of those\nmeditations which most resemble dreams; and as to the manner of these\nrevelations, no Roman _pontifex maximus_, were it even C\u00e6sar himself,\ncould have rivalled their magisterial pomp.\n\nThe peculiarities of his life all point in the direction here indicated.\nIt was his remarkable experience which furnished him the key to certain\nsecret recesses of human nature hitherto sealed up in darkness. Along\nthat border-line by which the glimmerings of consciousness are, as by\nthe thinnest, yet the most impervious veil, separated from the regions\nof the unexplored and the undefinable, De Quincey walked familiarly and\nwith privileged eye and ear. Many a nebulous mass of hieroglyphically\ninscribed meanings did he--this Champollion, defying all human enigmas,\nthis Herschel, or Lord Rosse, forever peering into the obscure chasms\nand yawning abysses of human astronomy--resolve into orderly\nconstellations, that, once and for all, through his telescopic\ninterpretation and enlargement, were rendered distinct and commensurable\namongst men. The conditions of his power in this respect are\npsychologically inseparable from the remarkable conditions of his life,\ntwo of which are especially to be noticed. First, a ruling disposition\ntowards meditation, constituting him, in the highest sense of the word,\na poet. Secondly, the peculiar qualities which this singular mental\nconstitution derived from his use of opium,--qualities which, although\nthey did not increase, or even give direction to his meditative power,\nat least magnified it, both optically, as to its visual capacity, and\ncreatively, as to its constructive faculty. These two conditions, each\nconcurrent with the other in its ruling influence, impart to his life a\ndegree of psychological interest which belongs to no other on record.\nNor is this all. The reader knows how often a secondary interest will\nattach to the mightiest of conquerors or to the wisest of sovereigns,\nwho is not merely in himself, and through his own deeds, magnificent,\nbut whose glory is many times repeated and piled up by numerous\nreverberations of itself from a contemporary race of Titans. Thus,\ndoubtless, Charles V., although himself King of Spain, Germany, the\nNetherlands, and a portion of Italy, gloried in the sublime empery of\nthe Turkish Solyman, as by some subtile connection of fate sympathetic\nwith his own. A secondary interest of this nature belongs to the life of\nDe Quincey,--a life which inclosed, as an island, a whole period of\nEnglish literature, one, too, which in activity and originality is\nunsurpassed by any other, including the names of Scott and Dickens, of\nWordsworth, Coleridge, Lamb, and Southey, of Moore, Byron, Shelley, and\nKeats. His connection with very many of these was not simply that of\nco\u00ebxistence, but also of familiar intercourse.\n\nBetween De Quincey's life and his writings it is impossible that there\nshould be any distraction of interest, so intimately are the two\ninterwoven: in this case more so than in that of any known author.\nParticularly is this true of his more impassioned writings, which are a\nfaithful rescript of his all-impassioned life. Hierophant we have called\nhim,--the prince of hierophants,--having reference to the matter of his\nrevelations; but in his _manner_, in his style of composition, he is\nsomething more than this: here he stands the _monarch_ amongst\nrhapsodists. In these writings are displayed the main peculiarities of\nhis life and genius.\n\nBut, besides these, there is a large section of his works, the aim of\nwhich is purely intellectual, where feeling is not at all involved; and\nsurely there is not, in either ancient or modern literature, a section\nwhich, in the same amount of space, exhibits the same degree of intense\nactivity on the part of the analytic understanding, applied to the\nillustration of truth or to the solution of vexed problems. This latter\nclass is the more remarkable from its polar antithesis to the former;\njust as, in his life, it is a most remarkable characteristic of the man,\nthat, rising above all other men through the rhapsodies of dreams, he\nshould yet be able truly to say of himself that he had devoted a greater\nnumber of hours to intellectual pursuits than any other man whom he had\nseen, heard of, or read of. A wider range is thus exhibited, not of\nthought merely, but also of the possible modes of expressing thought,\nthan is elsewhere to be found, even in writers the most skilled in\nrhetorical subtilty. The distance between these two opposites De Quincey\ndoes not traverse by violent leaps; he does not by some feat of\nlegerdemain evanish from the fields of impassioned eloquence, where he\nis an unrivalled master, to appear forthwith in those of intellectual\ngymnastics, where, at least, he is not surpassed. He is familiar with\nevery one of the intervening stages between the rhapsody and the\ndemonstration,--between the loftiest reach of aspirant passion, from\nwhich, with reptile instinct, the understanding slinks downwards to the\nearth, and that fierce antagonism of naked thoughts, where the crested\nserpent \"mounts and burns.\" His alchemy is infinite, combining light\nwith warmth in all degrees,--in pathos, in humor,[A] in genial\nillumination. Let the reader, if he can, imagine Rousseau to have\nwritten \"Dinner, Real and Reputed,\" or the paper on \"The Essenes,\" in\nboth of which great erudition is necessary, but in which erudition is as\nnothing when compared to the faculty of recombining into novel forms\nwhat previously had been so grouped as to be misunderstood, or had\nlacked just the one element necessary for introducing order. To have\nwritten these would have entitled Rousseau to a separate sceptre. Or,\nmoving into a realm of art totally distinct from this, suppose him to\nhave been the author of \"Murder considered as one of the Fine Arts\":\nthat would mount a new plume in Rousseau's hat. But I happen just now to\nbe reminded of another little paper, numbering about six pages,\nentitled, \"On the Knocking at the Gate, in Macbeth\": give him _that_,\ntoo. Why, the little French king is beginning to assume an imperial\nconsequence! We beg the reader's pardon for indulging in comparisons of\nthis nature, which are always disagreeable; but we have this excuse,\nthat the two writers are often mentioned as on the same level, and with\nno appreciation of that unlimited range of power which belongs to De\nQuincey, but not at all to Rousseau. All but one of the trophies which\nwe have hypothetically transferred to the Frenchman adorn a single\nvolume out of twenty-two, in the Boston edition. Nor is this one\nimperial column adorned by these alone: there are, besides,--alas for\nRousseau!--two other _spolia opima_ by which the French master is, in\nhis own field, proved not the first, nor even the second,--_proximus,\nsed non secundus_,--so wide is the distance between De Quincey and _any_\nother antagonist. These two are the essays respectively entitled, \"Joan\nof Arc,\" and \"The English Mail-Coach.\"\n\n[Footnote A: Of De Quincey's humor, a friend once remarked to me, that\nit always reminded him of an elephant attempting to dance. Now, without\nany doubt, an elephant could dance after an elephantine fashion; but\nsurely you would never catch him going through the movements of a jig or\na Virginia \"breakdown.\" He never lets you forget that he is an elephant.\nSo with De Quincey. Levity is an element farthest removed from _his_\nhumor; in fact, whenever he allows himself to indulge in humor at all,\nyou may be sure that murder is going on somewhere in the vicinity, a\ntragedy of pretty frequent occurrence in De Quincey's works.\n\nThere was sufficient humor in De Quincey to have endowed a dozen\nAristophaneses. There was something, too, in its order, by which it\nresembled the gigantesque features of the old Greek master. I will\nillustrate my meaning by a single instance from each. In Aristophanes's\n\"Clouds,\" Strepsiades is being initiated into the Socratic\n_Phrontisterium_, and in the course of the ceremony Socrates directs his\npupil's attention to the moon for certain mysterious purposes. But the\nmoon only reminds Strepsy of numerous imperturbable duns that storm\nabout his ears with lunar exactness, (literally so, since the Greeks\npaid, or refused to pay, regularly on the last day of the month,)--and\nhere it is that the opportunity is offered for a monstrous stroke of\nhumor; for, at this crisis, Strepsy is made to exclaim, \"Some magic is\nit, O Socrates, about the moon? Well! since you are up to that sort of\nthing, what do you say, now, to a spell by which I could snap the old\nmonster out of her course for a generation or so?\" Now for the parallel\ncase from De Quincey. It is from his paper on \"California,\" a\npolitico-economical treatise. The author's object is to illustrate the\nfact that scarcity of gold is not due to its non-existence, but to the\ndifficulty of obtaining it. \"Emeralds and sapphires,\" says he, \"are\nlying at this moment in a place which I could indicate, and no policeman\nis on duty in the whole neighborhood to hinder me or the reader from\npocketing as many as we please. We are also at perfect liberty to pocket\nthe anchors of Her Majesty's ship the Victoria, (one hundred and twenty\nguns,) and to sell them for old iron. Pocket them by all means, and I\nengage that the magistrate sitting at the Thames police-office will have\ntoo much respect for your powers to think of detaining you. If he does,\nyour course is to pocket the police-office, and all which it inherits.\nThe man that pockets an anchor may be a dangerous customer, but not a\ncustomer to be sneezed at.\" This strikes us as very similar to\nStrepsiades's bagging the moon.]\n\nIt is impossible to be exhaustive upon such a subject as that which I\nhave undertaken. I shall select, therefore, two prominent centres, about\nwhich the thoughts which I wish to present naturally revolve: De\nQuincey's childhood, and his opium-experiences.\n\nThomas de Quincey--hierophant, rhapsodist, philosopher--was born at\nGreenhay, then a suburb of Manchester, in Lancashire County, England, on\nthe 15th of August, 1785. According to his own account, the family of\nthe De Quinceys was of Norwegian origin; and after its transfer to\nFrance, in connection with William the Norman, it received its\nterritorial appellation from the village of Quincy, in Normandy. Thence,\nat the time of the Norman Invasion, it was transplanted to England,\nwhere, as afterwards in Scotland, it rose to the highest position, not\nmerely in connection with a lordly title and princely estates, but\nchiefly on account of valuable services rendered to the State, and\nconferring preeminence in baronial privilege and consideration.\n\nSo sensitive was De Quincey, even at the early age of fifteen, on the\npoint of his descent, lest from his name he might be supposed of French\nextraction, that, even into the ears of George III. (that king having,\nin an accidental interview with him at Frogmore, suggested the\npossibility of his family having come to England at the time of the\nHuguenot exodus from France) he ventured to breathe the most earnest\nprotest against any supposition of that nature, and boldly insisted upon\nhis purely Norman blood,--blood that in the baronial wars had helped to\nestablish the earliest basis of English constitutional liberty, and that\nhad flowed from knightly veins in the wars of the Crusades. Robert De\nQuincey came into England with William the Conqueror, uniting with whose\nfortunes, he fared after the Conquest as a feudal baron, founding the\nline of Winchester; and that he was a baron of the first water is\nevident from the statement of Gerard Leigh,--that his armorial device\nwas inscribed (and how inscribed, if not memorially and as a mark of\neminent distinction?) on the stained glass in the old church of St.\nPaul's.\n\nAnd here it is proper that the reader's attention should be momentarily\ndiverted to the American branch of this family, at the head of which\nstands the Hon. Josiah Quincy, (the aristocratic _De_ being omitted,)--a\nbranch which fled from England in the early part of the seventeenth\ncentury, to avoid a strife which had then become too intense and fiery\nto admit of reconciliation, and which, indeed, a few years after their\nwithdrawal, culminated in civil war. As illustrating the inevitableness\nof any great moral issue, no matter how vast the distance which at a\ncritical moment we may put between it and ourselves,--as indicating how\nsurely the Nemesis, seemingly avoided, but really only postponed, will\ncontinue to track our flying footsteps, even across the barren wastes of\nocean, that ought, if anything could, to interpose an effectual barrier\nbetween us and all pursuers, and, having caught up with us in our\nfancied retreat, will precipitate upon our devoted heads its\naccumulated violence,--as demonstrating thus the melancholy persistence\nwith which that ugly Sphinx who impersonates Justice in our human\naffairs doggedly insists on having her questions answered, and, coming\nby a circuitous route upon those who by good luck have escaped her\ndirect path, through an incarnation of unusual terror compels her dread\nalternative,--it is interesting to note how this same family, separated\nby over seven generations from one political revolution, the momentous\ncrisis of which was by them successfully evaded, are now, after an\ninterval of unsound and hollow peace, compelled to witness the precise\nreiteration of that storm, in the very land to which they fled for\nrefuge,--a reiteration that repeats, only on a different stage, and\nunder an aggravation of horror as to minute details, not merely two\nantagonistic races corresponding on either side to those which met in\nbattle on Marston Moor, but also interests far outweighing any that\ncould possibly attach to a conflict between royalty and democracy.\n\nBut the Earls of Winchester, in England, whatever may have been their\nprosperity during the nine or ten generations after the Conquest, came\nsuddenly to an abrupt termination, abutting at length on some guilty\ntraitor in the line, who, like a special Adam for the family, involved\nin his own ruin that prosperity which would else have continued to his\nsuccessors. The dissevered fragments of the old feudal estate, however,\nremained in possession of separate members of the family, as De Quincey\ntells us, until the generation next preceding his own, when the last\nvestige slipped out of the hands of the one sole squire who, together\nwith the name, held also some relic of its ancient belongings. But above\nthe diluvial wreck of the Winchester estates there has arisen an estate\nfar more royal and magnificent, and beneath a far-reaching bow of\npromise, sealed in magical security against a similar disaster. For just\nhere, where every hold is lost upon the original heritage, is the family\nfreshly grounded upon a second heritage,--one sublime in its order above\nthat of all earthly possessions, one that is forever\nimperishable,--namely, the large domain which the gigantic intellect of\nThomas De Quincey has absolved from aboriginal darkness and brought\nunder distinct illumination for all time to come. These are the vast\nacres over which human pride must henceforth soar,--acres that have\nbeen, through the mighty realizations of human genius, built out into\nthe mysterious ocean-depths of chaotic Nature, and that have in some\nmeasure bridged over infinite chasms in thought, and by just so far have\nextended the fluctuating boundaries of human empire. And for De Quincey\nhimself, in view of that monumental structure which rises above the\nshattered wrecks of his poor, frail body, as above the mummied dust of\nEgyptian kings remain eternally the pyramids which they wrought in their\nlifetime, we find it impossible to cherish a single regret, that,\npossibly, by the treasonable slip of a predecessor, he may have been\nrobbed of an earldom,--or even that, during a life which by some years\noverlapped the average allotment to humanity, and through which were\ndaily accumulating the most splendid results in the very highest\ndepartments of philosophy and art, these accumulations nevertheless went\non without any notable recognition from a court the most liberal in all\nEurope; no badge of outward knighthood coming to him through all these\nyears, as formerly to Sir Thomas Browne for his subtile meditations, and\nto Sir William Hamilton for his philosophic speculations. The absence of\nsuch merely _nominal_ titles excites in us no deep regret; there is in\nthem little that is monumental, and the pretty tinsel, with which they\ngild monuments already based on substantial worth, is easily, and\nwithout a sigh, exchanged for that everlasting sunshine reflected from\nthe loving remembrances of human hearts.\n\nBut at the same time that we so willingly dispense with these nominal\nconditions in the case of De Quincey,--though, assuredly, there was\nnever a man upon earth whom these conditions, considered as a\u00ebrial\nhieroglyphs of the most regal pomp and magnificence, would more\nconsistently fit,--we cannot thus easily set aside those other outward\nconditions of affluence and respectability, which, by their presence or\nabsence, so materially shape and mould the life, and particularly in its\nearliest tendencies and impulses,--in that season of immature\npreparation when the channels of habit are in the process of formation,\nand while yet a marvellous uncertainty hangs and broods over the\nbeginnings of life, as over the infant rivulet yet dandled and tended by\nits mountain-nurses. For, although there are certain elements which\nrigidly and by a foreseen certainty determine its course, as, for\ninstance, an extraordinary vantage-height of source, securing for it the\nforce and swiftness of a torrent,--yet how shifting are the\nmountain-winds, chilling into frosty silence or quickening with Favonian\nwarmth, and how shifting the flying clouds, which, whether marshalled in\nmimic tournament above it, or in the shock of a real conflict, forever\nsway its tender fountains! Thus, even in inexperienced childhood, do the\nscales of the individual destiny begin, favorably or unfavorably, to\ndetermine their future preponderations, by reason of influences merely\nmaterial, and before, indeed, any sovereignty save a corporeal one (in\nconjunction with heavenly powers) is at all recognized in life. For, in\nthis period, with which above all others we associate influences the\nmost divine, \"with trailing clouds of glory,\" those influences which are\npurely material are the most efficiently operative. Against the former,\nadult man, in whom reason is developed, _may_ battle, though ignobly,\nand, for himself, ruinously; and against the latter oftentimes he _must_\nstruggle, to escape ignominious shipwreck. But the child, helpless alike\nfor both these conflicts, is, through the very ignorance which shields\nhim from all conscious guilt, bound over in the most impotent (though,\nbecause impotent and unconscious, the least humiliating) slavery to\nmaterial circumstance,--a slavery which he cannot escape, and which,\nduring the period of its absolutism, absorbs his very blood, bone, and\nnerve. To poverty, which the strong man resists, the child succumbs; on\nthe other hand, that affluence of comfort, from which philosophy often\nweans the adult, wraps childhood about with a sheltering care; and\nfortunate indeed it is, if the mastery of Nature over us during our\nfirst years is thus a gentle dealing with us, fertilizing our powers\nwith the rich juices of an earthly prosperity. And in this respect De\nQuincey _was_ eminently fortunate. The powers of heaven and of earth\nand--if we side with Milton and _other_ pagan mythologists in\nattributing the gift of wealth to some Plutonian dynasty--the dark\npowers _under_ the earth seem to have conjointly arrayed themselves in\nhis behalf. Whatever storms were in the book of Fate written against his\nname they postponed till a far-off future, in the mean time granting him\nthe happiest of all childhoods. Really of gentle blood, and thus gaining\nwhatever substantial benefits in constitutional temperament and\nsusceptibilities _could_ be thence derived, although lacking, as Pope\nalso had lacked, the factitious circumstance and airy heralding of this\ndistinction, he was, in addition to this, surrounded by elements of\naristocratic refinement and luxury, and thus hedged in not merely\nagainst the assault, in any form, of pinching poverty, (as would be any\none in tolerably comfortable circumstances,) but even against the most\ntrivial hint of possible want,--against all necessity of limitation or\nretrenchment in any normal line of expenditure.\n\nHe was the son of a merchant, who, at the early age of thirty-nine,\ndied, leaving to his family--a wife and six children--an estate yielding\nannually an income of sixteen hundred pounds. And as at his father's\ndeath De Quincey was seven years old, we may reasonably infer, that,\nduring this previous period, while his father was still living, and\nadding to this fixed a fluctuating income from his yearly gains, (which\nto a wholesale merchant of his standing were considerable,) the\nfamily-fortunes were even more auspicious, amounting to the yearly\nrealization of between two and three thousand pounds, and that at a time\nwhen Napoleon had not as yet meddled with the financial affairs of\nEurope, nor by his intimidations caused even pounds and shillings to\nshrink into less worth and significance than they formerly had,--in view\nof which fact, if we are to charge Alexander the Great (as in a famous\nanecdote he was charged) with the crime of highway-robbery, as the\n\"snapper-up of unconsidered trifles\" in the way of crowns and a few\ndozen sceptres, what a heinous charge must be brought against this\nCorsican as universal pickpocket! This pecuniary depreciation De Quincey\nhimself realized some years later, when, determining to quit school, he\nthought himself compelled[A] to cut off all communication with his\nguardians, and gave himself up to a Bohemian life among the Welsh\nmountains, wandering from one rustic valley to another with the most\nscanty means of support,--for just then the Allies were in full rig\nagainst France, and the shrinkage of guineas in our young wanderer's\npocket became palpably evident in view of the increased price of his\ndinner.\n\n[Footnote A: But afterwards he discovered his mistake, and that it was\nonly by the lack on his part of that frankness which the kindness of his\nguardians deserved that he had brought so much misery upon himself in\nafter-life. His younger brother, Richard,--the Pink of the\n\"Autobiographic Sketches,\"--made the same mistake, a mistake which in\nhis case was never rectified, but led to a life of perilous wanderings\nand adventures.]\n\nThe time _did_ come at length when the full epos of a remarkable\nprosperity was closed up and sealed for De Quincey. But that was in the\nunseen future. To the child it was not permitted to look beyond the hazy\nlines that bounded his oasis of flowers into the fruitless waste abroad.\nPoverty, want, at least so great as to compel the daily exercise of his\nmind for mercenary ends, was stealthily advancing from the rear; but the\nsound of its stern steppings was wholly muffled by intervening years of\nluxurious opulence and ease.\n\nI dwell thus at length upon the aristocratic elegance of De Quincey's\nearliest surroundings, (which, coming at a later period, I should notice\nmerely as an accident,) because, although not a _potential_ element,\ncapable of producing or of adding one single iota to the essential\ncharacter of genius, it is yet a negative condition--a _sine qua\nnon_--to the displays of genius in certain directions and under certain\naspects. By misfortune it is true that power may be intensified. So may\nit by the baptism of malice. But, given a certain degree of power, there\nstill remains a question as to its _kind_. So deep is the sky: but of\nwhat _hue_, of what aspect? Wine is strong, and so is the crude alcohol\nbut what the _mellowness_? And the blood in our veins, it is an infinite\nforce: but of what temper? Is it warm, or is it cold? Does it minister\nto Moloch, or to Apollo? Will it shape the Madonna face, or the Medusa?\nWhy, the simple fact that the rich blue sky over-arches this earth of\nours, or that it is warm blood which flows in our veins, is sufficient\nto prove that no malignant Ahriman made the world. Just here the\nquestion is not, what increment or what momentum genius may receive from\noutward circumstances, but what coloring, what mood. Here it is that a\nMozart differs from a Mendelssohn. The important difference which\nobtains, in this respect, between great powers in literature, otherwise\nco\u00f6rdinate, will receive illustration from a comparison between De\nQuincey and Byron. For both these writers were capable, in a degree\nrarely equalled in any literature, of reproducing, or rather, we should\nsay, of reconstructing, the pomp of Nature and of human life. In this\ngeneral office they stand together: both wear, in our eyes, the regal\npurple; both have caused to rise between earth and heaven miracles of\ngrandeur, such as never Cheops wrought through his myriad slaves, or\nSolomon with his fabled ring. But in the final result, as in the whole\n_modus operandi_, of their architecture, they stand apart _toto coelo_.\nByron builds a structure that repeats certain elements in Nature or\nhumanity; but they are those elements only which are allied to gloom,\nfor he builds in suspicion and distrust, and upon the basis of a\ncynicism that has been nurtured in his very flesh and blood from birth;\nhe erects a Pisa-like tower which overhangs and threatens all human\nhopes and all that is beautiful in human love. Who else, save this\narchangelic intellect, shut out by a mighty shadow of eclipse from the\nbright hopes and warm affections of all sunny hearts, could have\noriginated such a Pandemonian monster as the poem on \"Darkness\"? The\nmost striking specimen of Byron's imaginative power, and nearly the most\nstriking that has ever been produced, is the apostrophe to the sea, in\n\"Childe Harold.\" But what is it in the sea which affects Lord Byron's\nsusceptibilities to grandeur? Its destructiveness alone. And _how_? Is\nit through any high moral purpose or meaning that seems to sway the\nmovements of destruction? No; it is only through the gloomy mystery of\nthe ruin itself,--ruin revealed upon a scale so vast and under\nconditions of terror the most appalling,--ruin wrought under the\nsemblance of an almighty passion for revenge directed against the human\nrace. Thus, as an expression of the attitude which the sea maintains\ntoward man, we have the following passage of \u00c6schylian grandeur, but\nalso of \u00c6schylian gloom:--\n\n                                \"Thou dost arise\n  And shake him from thee; the vile strength he wields\n  For earth's destruction thou dost all despise,\n  Spurning him from thy bosom to the skies,\n  And send'st him, shivering in thy _playful_ spray,\n  And howling, to his gods, where haply lies\n  His petty hope in some near port or bay,\n  And dashest him again to earth: there let him lay!\"\n\nWho but this dark spirit, forever wooing the powers of darkness, and of\ndarkness the most sullen, praying to Nemesis alone, could, with such\nlamentable lack of faith in the purity and soundness of human\naffections, have given utterance to a sentiment like this:--\n\n  \"O love! no habitant of earth thou art,--\n  An _unseen_ seraph we believe in thee\"?\n\nor the following:--\n\n  \"Who loves, raves,--'tis youth's frenzy,\" etc.?\n\nand again:--\n\n  \"Few--_none_--find what they love or could have loved,\n  Though accident, blind contact, and the strong\n  Necessity of loving having removed\n  Antipathies\"?\n\nThis, then, is the nearest approach to human love,--the removal of all\nantipathies! But even these\n\n                     \"recur erelong,\n  Envenomed with irrevocable wrong:\n  And circumstance--that unspiritual god\n  And miscreator--makes and helps along\n  Our coming evils with a crutch-like rod,\n  Whose touch turns hope to dust,--the dust which all have trod.\"\n\nDe Quincey, on the other hand, in whose heart there was laid no such\nhollow basis for infidelity toward the master-passions of humanity,\nrepeated the pomps of joy or of sorrow, as evolved out of universal\nhuman nature, and as, through sunshine and tempest, typified in the\noutside world,--but never for one instant did he seek alliance, on the\none side, with the shallow enthusiasm of the raving Bacchante, or, on\nthe other, with the overshadowing despotism of gloom; nor can there be\nfound on a single page of all his writings the slightest hint indicating\neven a latent sympathy with the power which builds only to crush, or\nwith the intellect that denies, and that against the dearest objects of\nhuman faith fulminates its denials and shocking recantations solely for\nthe purposes of scorn.\n\nWhence this marked difference? To account for it, we must needs trace\nback to the first haunts of childhood the steps of these two fugitives,\neach of whom has passed thence, the one into a desert _mirage_, teeming\nwith processions of the gloomiest falsities in life, and the other--also\ninto the desert, but where he is yet refreshed and solaced by an\nunshaken faith in the genial verities of life, though separated from\nthem by irrecoverable miles of trackless wastes, and where, however\napparently abandoned and desolate, he is yet ministered unto by angels,\nand no mimic fantasies are suffered to exercise upon his heart their\novermastering seductions to\n\n  \"Allure, or terrify, or undermine.\"\n\nWhether the days of childhood be our happiest days, is a question all by\nitself. But there can be no question as to the inevitable certainty with\nwhich the conditions of childhood, fortunate or unfortunate, determine\nthe main temper and disposition of our lives. For it is underneath the\nmultitude of fleeting proposals and conscious efforts, born of reason,\nand which, to one looking upon life from any superficial stand-point,\nseem to have all to do with its conduct, that there runs the\nundercurrent of disposition, which is born of Nature, which is cradled\nand nurtured with us in our infancy, which is itself a general choice,\nbranching out into our specific choices of certain directions and aims\namong all opposite directions and aims, and which, although we rarely\nrecognize its important functions, is in all cases the arbiter of our\ndestiny. And in the very word _disposition_ is indicated the finality of\nits arbitraments as contrasted with all _proposition_.\n\nNow, with respect to this disposition: Nature furnishes its basis; but\nit is the external structure of circumstance, built up or building about\nchildhood,--to shelter or imprison,--which, more than all else, gives it\nits determinate character; and though this outward structure may in\nafter-life be thoroughly obliterated, or replaced by its\nopposite,--porcelain by clay, or clay by porcelain,--yet will the\ntendencies originally developed remain and hold a sway almost\nuninterrupted over life. And, generally, the happy influences that\npreside over the child may be reduced under three heads: first, a genial\ntemperament,--one that naturally, and of its own motion, inclines toward\na centre of peace and rest rather than toward the opposite centre of\nstrife; secondly, profound domestic affections; and, thirdly, affluence,\nwhich, although of all three it is the most negative, the most material\ncondition, is yet practically the most important, because of the degree\nin which it is necessary to the full and unlimited prosperity of the\nother two. For how frequent are the cases in which the happiest of\ntemperaments are perverted by the necessities of toil, so burdensome to\ntender years, or in which corroding anxieties, weighing upon parents'\nhearts, check the free play of domestic love!--and in all cases where\nsuch limitations are present, even in the gentlest form, there must be a\ncramping up of the human organization and individuality somewhere; and\neverywhere, and under all circumstances, there must be sensibly felt the\nabsence of that leisure which crowns and glorifies the affections of\nhome, making them seem the most like summer sunshine, or rather like a\nsunshine which knows no season, which is an eternal presence in the\nsoul.\n\nAs regards all these three elements, De Quincey's childhood was\nprosperous; afterwards, vicissitudes came,--mighty changes capable of\naffecting all other transmutations, but thoroughly impotent to annul the\ninwrought grace of a pre-established beauty. On the other hand, Byron's\nchildhood was, in all these elements, unfortunate. The sting left in his\nmother's heart by the faithless desertion of her husband, after the\ndesolation of her fortunes, was forever inflicted upon him, and\nintensified by her fitful temper; and notwithstanding the change in his\noutward prospects which occurred afterwards, he was never able to lift\nhimself out of the Trophonian cave into which his infancy had been\nthrust, any more than Vulcan could have cured that crooked gait of his,\nwhich dated from some vague infantile remembrances of having been\nrudely kicked out of heaven over its brazen battlements, one summer's\nday,--for that it was a summer's day we are certain from a line of\n\"Paradise Lost,\" commemorating the tragic circumstance:--\n\n  \"From morn till noon he fell, from noon till dewy eve--\n  _A summer's day_.\"\n\nAnd this allusion to Vulcan reminds us that Byron, in addition to all\nhis other early mishaps, had also the identical clubfoot of the Lemnian\ngod. Among the guardians over Byron's childhood was a demon, that,\nreceiving an ample place in his victim's heart, stood demoniacally his\nground through life, transmuting love to hate, and what might have been\nbenefits to fatal snares. Over De Quincey's childhood, on the contrary,\na strong angel guarded to withstand and thwart all threatened ruin,\nteaching him the gentle whisperings of faith and love in the darkest\nhours of life: an angel that built happy palaces, the beautiful images\nof which, and their echoed festivals, far outlasted the splendor of\ntheir material substance.\n\n\"We,--the children of the house,--\" says De Quincey, in his\n\"Autobiographic Sketches,\" \"stood, in fact, upon the very happiest tier\nin the social scaffolding for all good influences. The prayer of\nAgur--'Give me neither poverty nor riches'--was realized for us. That\nblessing we had, being neither too high nor too low. High enough we were\nto see models of good manners, of self-respect, and of simple dignity;\nobscure enough to be left in the sweetest of solitudes. Amply furnished\nwith all the nobler benefits of wealth, with _extra_ means of health, of\nintellectual culture, and of elegant enjoyment, on the other hand we\nknew nothing of its social distinctions. Not depressed by the\nconsciousness of privations too sordid, nor tempted into restlessness by\nprivileges too aspiring, we had no motives for shame, we had none for\npride. Grateful, also, to this hour I am, that, amidst luxuries in all\nthings else, we were trained to a Spartan, simplicity of diet,--that we\nfared, in fact, very much less sumptuously than the servants. And if\n(after the manner of the Emperor Marcus Aurelius) I should return thanks\nto Providence for all the separate blessings of my early situation,\nthese four I would single out as worthy of special commemoration: that I\nlived in a rural solitude; that this solitude was in England; that my\ninfant feelings were moulded by the gentlest of sisters, and not by\nhorrid pugilistic brothers; finally, that I and they were dutiful and\nloving members of a pure, holy, and magnificent church.\"\n\nLet the reader suppose a different case from that here presented. Let\nhim suppose, for instance, that De Quincey, now arrived at the age of\nseven, and having now at least one \"pugilistic brother\" to torment his\npeace, could annul his own infancy, and in its place substitute that of\none of the factory-boys of Manchester, of the same age, (and many such\ncould be found,) among those with whom daily the military\npredispositions of this brother brought him into a disagreeable\nconflict. Instead of the pure air of outside Lancashire, let there be\nsubstituted the cotton-dust of the Lancashire mills. The contrast, even\nin thought, is painful. It is true that thus the irrepressible fires of\nhuman genius could not be quenched. Nay, through just these\ninstrumentalities, oftentimes, is genius fostered. We need not the\ninstance of Romulus and Remus, or of the Persian Cyrus, to prove that\nmen have sometimes been nourished by bears or by she-wolves.\nNevertheless, this is essentially a Roman nurture. The Greeks, on the\ncontrary, laid their infant heroes on beds of violets,--if we may\nbelieve the Pindaric odes,--set over them a divine watch, and fed them\nwith angels' food. And this Grecian nurture De Quincey had.\n\nAnd not the least important element of this nurture is that of perfect\n_leisure_. Through this it is that we pass from the outward to the\nsubjective relations of De Quincey's childhood; for only in connection\nwith these has the element just introduced any value, since leisure,\nwhich is the atmosphere, the breathing-place of genius, is also cap and\nbells for the fool. In relation to power, it is, like solitude, the open\nheaven through which the grandeurs of eternity flow into the penetralian\nrecesses of the human heart, after that once the faculties of thought,\nor the sensibilities, have been powerfully awakened. Sensibility _had_\nbeen thus awakened in De Quincey, through grief occasioned by the loss\nof a sister, his favorite and familiar playmate,--a grief so profound,\nthat he, somewhere, in speaking of it, anticipates the certainty of its\npresence in the hour of death; and thought, also, had been prematurely\nawakened, both under the influence of this overmastering pathos of\nsorrow, and because of his strong predisposition to meditation. Both the\npathos and the meditative tendencies were increased by the halcyon peace\nof his childhood. In a memorial of the poet Schiller, he speaks of that\nchildhood as the happiest, \"of which the happiness has survived and\nexpressed itself, not in distinct records, but in deep affection, in\nabiding love, and the hauntings of meditative power.\" His, at least, was\nthe felicity of this echoless peace.\n\nIn no memorial is it so absolutely requisite that a marked prominence\nshould be given to its first section as in De Quincey's. This is a\nstriking peculiarity in his life. If it were not so, I should have\nseriously transgressed in keeping the reader's attention so long upon a\npoint which, aside from such peculiarity, would yield no sufficient, at\nleast no proportionate value. But, in the treatment of any life, that\ncannot seem disproportionate which enters into it as an element only and\njust in that ratio of prominence with which it enters into the life\nitself, No stream can rise above the level of its source. No life, which\nlacks a prominent interest as to its beginnings, can ever, in its entire\ncourse, develop any distinguishing features of interest. This is true of\nany life; but it is true of De Quincey's above all others on record,\nthat, through all its successive arches, ascending and descending, it\nrepeats the original arch of childhood. Repeats,--but with what\nmarvellous transformations! For hardly is its earliest section passed,\nwhen, for all its future course, it is masked by a mighty trouble. No\nlonger does it flow along its natural path, and beneath the open sky,\nbut, like the sacred Alpheus, runs\n\n  \"Through caverns measureless to man,\n  Down to the sunless sea.\"\n\nYet, amid the \"briny tides\" of that sea, amid turmoil and perplexity and\nthe saddest of mysteries, it preserves its earliest gentleness, and its\ninward, noiseless peace, till once more it gushes up toward the sweet\nheaven through the Arethusan font of death. Easily, then, is it to be\nseen why De Quincey himself continually reverted, both in his conscious\nreminiscences and through the subconscious relapses of dreams, from a\nlife clouded and disguised in its maturer years, to the unmasked purity\nof its earliest heaven. And what from the vast desert, what from the\nfatal wreck of life, was he to look back upon, for even an imaginary\nsolace, if not upon the rich argosies that spread their happier sails\nabove a calmer sea? We are forcibly reminded of the dream which\nMilton[A] gives to his Christ in the desert, hungry and tired:--\n\n                      \"There he slept,\n  And dreamed, as appetite is wont to dream,\n  Of meats and drinks, Nature's refreshment sweet.\n  Him thought he by the brook of Cherith stood,\n  And saw the ravens with their horny beaks\n  Food to Elijah bringing even and morn,\n  Though ravenous, taught to abstain from what they brought:\n  He saw the prophet also, how he fled\n  Into the desert, and how there he slept\n  Under a juniper, then how, awaked,\n  He found his supper on the coals prepared,\n  And by the angel was bid rise and eat,\n  And eat the second time after repose,\n  The strength whereof sufficed him forty days;\n  Sometimes that with Elijah he partook,\n  Or as a guest with Daniel at his pulse.\"\n\n[Footnote A: _Paradise Regained_, Book II.]\n\nIf the splendors of divinity could be so disguised by the severe\nnecessities of the wilderness and of brutal hunger as to be thus\nsolicited and baffled even in dreams,--if, by the lowest of mortal\nappetites, they could be so humiliated and eclipsed as to revel in the\nshadowy visions of merely human plenty,--then by how much more must the\nhuman heart, eclipsed at noon, revert, under the mask of sorrow and of\ndreams, to the virgin beauties of the dawn! with how much more violent\nrevulsion must the weary, foot-sore traveller, lost in a waste of sands,\nbe carried back through the gate of ivory or of horn to the dewy,\nflower-strewn fields of some far happier place and time!\n\nThe transition from De Quincey's childhood to his opium-experiences is\nas natural, therefore, as from strophe to antistrophe in choral\nantiphonies. Henceforth, as the reader already understands, we are not\npermitted to look upon a simple, undisguised life, unless we draw aside\na veil as impenetrable as that which covers the face of Isis or the\npoppy-sceptred Demeter. Under this _papaverian_ mask it is likely to be\nbest known to the reader; for it is under the title of \"Opium-Eater\"\nthat he is most generally recognized. It was through his\nOpium-Confessions, popular both as to matter and style, that he first\nconciliated and charmed the reading public,--and to such a degree that\ngreat expectations were awakened as to anything which afterwards he\nmight write. This expectation heightens appreciation; and in this case\nit helped many a metaphysical dose down the voracious throat of the\npublic, without its being aware of the nauseating potion, or\nexperiencing any uncomfortable consequences. The flood of popularity\nproduced by the Opium-Confessions among that large intellectual class of\nreaders who, notwithstanding their mental capacity, yet insist upon the\ngraces of composition and upon a subject of immediate and moving\ninterest, was sufficient to float into a popular haven many a ship of\nheavier freightage, which might else have fallen short of port.\n\nThe general interest which is manifested in De Quincey _personally_ is\nalso very much due to the fact that he was an opium-eater, and an\nopium-eater willing to breathe into the public ear the peculiarities of\nhis situation and its hidden mysteries, or \"_suspiria de profundis_.\"\nThis interest is partly of that vulgar sort which connects itself with\nall mysterious or abnormal phenomena in Nature or in the human mind,\nwith a \"What is it?\" or a spiritual medium, and which is satisfied with\na palpable exhibition of the novelty; and partly it is of a\nphilosophical order, inquiring into the causes and modes of the abnormal\ndevelopment. It is rarely the case that human vision is especially or\ndeliberately directed to the sun or the moon, except at the marvellous\nseason of eclipse, when interest is awakened by the novelty of the\nappearance among the vulgar, and among philosophers by the unusual\nnature of the phenomenon, demanding explanation. Then it is that the\npeople inhabiting this globe are excited by something which calls off\ntheir attention from terrestrial trifles to that which connects them\nwith unknown worlds. If we had been born Hindoos, we should, at such\ntimes, exhibit our skittish tendencies, \"shying\" at the sun-eating\nmonster with nervous apprehension, and should doubtless do our best,\nthrough horrid yells and tintinnabulations, towards getting up a\ntremendous counter-irritation upon the earth that should tell mightily\non the nerves of this umbratilous tiger in the heavens. But since we are\nneither Hindoos nor Egyptians, nor skittish heathen of any sort, we take\ndefiant attitudes and look through smoked glasses. At any rate, it is\nonly at such times that we pay particular attentions, by way of\ncourtesy, to foreign worlds. And of all the creatures of God which come\nwithin the circle of human knowledge or notice, which is it that may be\nsaid to enjoy the most continuous round of attentions, and to live in\nexcitement the most nearly approaching to perpetual? It is the comet,\nwhich no sooner gets out of reach of _our_ flying compliments than she\nbecomes the pet of Jupiter's magnificent citizens, or calls forth\ndeprecating murmurs from our shy sister Venus, and Mercury, our milder\nbrother, who, from all such mischiefs, creeps as nearly as possible\nunder the paternal wings of the Sun. No one of these erratic visitors\ncan remember the time when she was not making a stir somewhere in the\nuniverse, or when a cloudy night, intercepting her from vision, would\nnot have been as surely execrated as are the colds which afflict _prima\ndonnas_.\n\nStrikingly similar to our interest in these heavenly bodies is that\nwhich we manifest in mortal men. Here, too, it is the darkened orb or\nthe eccentric comet that bespeaks especial notice. Judged by this\ninterest, considered in its vulgar aspects, De Quincey would suffer\ngross injustice. Externally, and at one period of his life, I am certain\nthat he had all the requisite qualifications for collecting a mob about\nhim, and that, had he appeared in the streets of London after one of his\nlong sojourns amongst the mountains, no unearthly wight of whatever\ndescription, no tattered lunatic or Botany-Bay convict, would have been\nable to vie with him in the picturesque _d\u00e9shabill\u00e9_ of the whole\n\"turnout.\" Picture to yourself the scene. This \"king of shreds and\npatches\"--for, to the outward sense, he seems that now--has been \"at\nlarge\" for days, perhaps for two or three weeks; he has been\nunkennelled, and, among the lawless mountains, has felt no restraint\nupon his own lawlessness, however Cyclopean. Doubtless he has met with\npanthers and wolves, each one of whom will to its dying day retain\nimpressive recollections of the wee monster, from which they fled as a\ntrifle too uncanny even for them. As to his subsistence during these\nrambles, it would be very difficult to say how he managed that affair,\nat these, or indeed at any other times; and it may be that the prophetic\nlimitation of a fast to forty days is now the urgent occasion of his\nreturn from vagabondism. One thing we may be sure of,--that he has made\nplentiful use of a certain magical drug hid away in his\nwaistcoat-pocket. Like Wordsworth's brook, he has been wandering\npurposely and at his own sweet will, or rather where his feet have taken\nhim; and he has laid him down to sleep wherever sleep may have chanced\nto find him.\n\nThe result we have here, in this uncouth specimen of humanity, in the\nmatted hair, the soiled garments, and the straggling gait; and what\ngives the finishing touch to this grotesque picture is his utter\nunconsciousness of the ludicrous features of his situation, as they\nappear to other eyes. Soon, it is true, he will go through an \u00c6son-like\nrejuvenation; for, in a certain cottage, there are hearts that anxiously\nawait his return, and hands ready to fulfil their oft-repeated duties in\nthe way of refitting him out for another tramp. But, before this\ntransformation is effected, let us suppose the case of his being set\ndown in the streets of London, somewhere in the vicinity of Cheapside.\nWhat an eddying of stragglers about this new-found focus of attraction!\nwhat amazement, and curiosity to find him out, if, indeed, he be\nfind-out-able, and not, as the unmistakable papaverian odor suggests,\nsome Stygian bird, hailing from the farther side of Lethe. But, Stygian\nor not, neither Hermes nor Pan (nor Panic, his namesake) could muster\nsuch a rabble at his heels, supposing _him_ to appear on Cheapside!\n\nIn his innermost sensibilities he would have shrunk from this vulgar\nnotice as from pollution itself. It would be monstrous to conceive of\nhim in such situations, except for the purpose of showing that he had\nvery much in his outward habit that would readily attract such a notice.\nIn the same light we are to regard some illustrations which J. Hill\nBurton has given in \"The Book-Hunter\" of similar features in his\ncharacter, and which I take the liberty of introducing here; for,\nalthough they have appeared in \"Blackwood,\" and more lately in a\nbook-form, they are still unpublished to many of my readers.\n\nThus, we have him pictured to us as he appeared at a dinner, \"whereto he\nwas seduced by the false pretence that he would there meet with one who\nentertained novel and anarchical views regarding the 'Golden Ass' of\nApuleius. The festivities of the afternoon are far on, when a commotion\nis heard in the hall, as if some dog or other stray animal had forced\nits way in. The instinct of a friendly guest tells him of the arrival;\nhe opens the door, and fetches in the little stranger. What can it be? A\nstreet-boy of some sort? His costume, in fact, is a boy's duffle\ngreat-coat, very threadbare, with a hole in it, and buttoned tight to\nthe chin, where it meets the fragments of a party-colored belcher\nhandkerchief; on his feet are list shoes, covered with snow, for it is a\nstormy winter night; and the trousers,--some one suggests that they are\ninner linen garments blackened with writing-ink, but that Papaverius\nnever would have been at the trouble so to disguise them.\" De Quincey,\nled on by the current of his own thoughts,--though he was always too\ncourteous to absorb the entire conversation,--talks on \"till it is far\ninto the night, and slight hints and suggestions are propagated about\nseparation and home-going. The topic starts new ideas on the progress of\ncivilization, the effect of habit on men in all ages, and the power of\nthe domestic affections. Descending from generals to the specials, he\ncould testify to the inconvenience of late hours: for was it not the\nother night, that, coming to what was, or what he believed to be, his\nown door, he knocked and knocked, but the old woman within either\ncouldn't or wouldn't hear him, so he scrambled over a wall, and, having\ntaken his repose in a furrow, was able to testify to the extreme\nunpleasantness of such a couch?\"\n\n\"Shall I try another sketch of him, when, travel-stained and foot-sore,\nhe glided in on us one night like a shadow, the child by the fire gazing\non him with round eyes of astonishment, and suggesting that he should\nget a penny and go home,--a proposal which he subjected to some\nphilosophical criticism very far wide of its practical tenor. How far he\nhad wandered since he had last refreshed himself, or even whether he had\neaten food that day, were matters on which there was no getting\narticulate utterance from him. How that wearied, worn little body was to\nbe refreshed was a difficult problem: soft food disagreed with him; the\nhard he could not eat. Suggestions pointed at length to the solution of\nthat vegetable unguent to which he had given a sort of lustre, and it\nmight be supposed that there were some fifty cases of acute toothache to\nbe treated in the house that night. How many drops? Drops! nonsense! If\nthe wineglasses of the establishment were not beyond the ordinary normal\nsize, there was no risk,--and so the weary is at rest for a time.\n\n\"At early morn, a triumphant cry of '_Eureka!_' calls me to his place of\nrest. With his unfailing instinct he has got at the books, and lugged a\nconsiderable heap of them around him. That one which specially claims\nhis attention--my best-bound quarto--is spread upon a piece of\nbedroom-furniture readily at hand, and of sufficient height to let him\npore over it as he lies recumbent on the floor, with only one article of\nattire to separate him from the condition in which Archimedes, according\nto the popular story, shouted the same triumphant cry. He had discovered\na very remarkable anachronism in the commonly received histories of a\nvery important period. As he expounded it, turning up his unearthly face\nfrom the book with an almost painful expression of grave eagerness, it\noccurred to me that I had seen something like the scene in Dutch\npaintings of the Temptation of St. Anthony.\"\n\nI cannot refrain from quoting from Mr. Burton one more example,\nillustrative of the fact that De Quincey, in money-matters, considered\nmerely the immediate and pressing exigencies of the present. \"He arrives\nvery late at a friend's door, and on gaining admission,--a process in\nwhich he often endured impediments,--he represents, with his usual\nsilver voice and measured rhetoric, the absolute necessity of his being\nthen and there invested with a sum of money in the current coin of the\nrealm,--the amount limited, from the nature of his necessities, which he\nvery freely states, to seven shillings and sixpence. Discovering, or\nfancying he discovers, that his eloquence is likely to prove\nunproductive, he is fortunately reminded, that, should there be any\ndifficulty in connection with security for the repayment of the loan, he\nis at that moment in possession of a document which he is prepared to\ndeposit with the lender,--a document calculated, he cannot doubt, to\nremove any feeling of anxiety which the moat prudent person could\nexperience in the circumstances. After a rummage in his pockets, which\ndevelops miscellaneous and varied, but as yet by no means valuable,\npossessions, he at last comes to the object of his search, a crumpled\nbit of paper, and spread it out,--a fifty-pound bank-note! All sums of\nmoney were measured by him through the common standard of immediate use;\nand, with more solemn pomp of diction than he applied to the bank-note,\nmight he inform you, that, with the gentleman opposite, to whom he had\nhitherto been entirely a stranger, but who happened to be the nearest to\nhim at the time when the exigency occurred to him, he had just succeeded\nin negotiating a loan of two-pence.\"\n\nThese pictures, though true to certain phases of De Quincey's outward\nlife, are yet far from personally representing him, even to the eye.\nThey satisfy curiosity, and that is about all. As to the real character\nof the man, they are negative and unessential; they represent, indeed,\nhis utter carelessness as to all that, like dress, may at pleasure be\nput on or off, but \"the human child incarnate\" is not thus brought\nbefore us. For, could we but once look upon his face in rest, then\nshould we forget these inferior attributes; just as, looking upon the\nMemnonian statues, one forgets the horrid nicknames of \"Shandy\" and\n\"Andy\" which they have received from casual travellers, observing merely\ntheir grotesque features. Features of this latter sort \"dislimn\" and\nyield, as the writing on palimpsests, to the regal majesty of the divine\ncountenance, which none can look upon and smile. Let me paint De\nQuincey's face as at this moment I seem to see it. It is wrinkled as\nwith an Homeric antiquity; arid it is, and sallow, as parchment. Through\na certain Bedouin-like conformation,--which, however, is idealized by\nthe lofty, massive forehead, and by the prevailing subtilty of the\ngeneral expression,--it seems fitted to desert solitudes; and in this\nrespect it is truly Memnonian. In another respect, also, is it\nMemnonian,--that, whenever should rest upon its features the morning\nsunlight, we should surely await its responsive requiem or its trembling\n_jubilate_. By a sort of instinctive palmistry (applied, not to the\nhands, but to the face) we interpret symbols of ineffable sorrow and of\nineffable peace. These, too, are Memnonian,--as is also that infinite\ndistance which seems to interpose between its subtile meanings and the\nvery possibility of interpretation. This air of remoteness, baffling the\nimpertinent crowd not less effectually than the dust which has gathered\nfor centuries about the heads of Sphinxes, is due partly to the deeply\nsunken eyes beneath the wrinkled, overarching forehead; partly it arises\nfrom that childlike simplicity and sweetness which lurk in gentle\nundulations of the features,--undulations as of happy wavelets set in\nmotion ages since, and that cannot cease forever; but chiefly it is born\nof a dream-like, brooding eternity of speculation, which we can trace\nneither to the eye alone, nor to the mouth, but rather to the effect\nwhich both together produce in the countenance.\n\nThis is the face which for more than half a century opium veiled to\nmortal eyes, and which refuses to reveal itself save through hints the\nmost fugitive and impalpable. Here are draperies and involutions of\nmystery from which mere curiosity stands aloof. This is the head which\nwe have loved, and which in our eyes wears a triple wreath of glory: the\nlaurel for his Apollo-like art, the lotos-leaf for his impassioned\ndreams, and roses for his most gentle and loving nature.\n\nHow much of that which glorified De Quincey was due to opium? Very\nlittle as to quality, but very much as to the degree and the peculiar\nmanner in which original qualities and dispositions are developed, for\nhere it is that the only field of influence open to abnormal agencies\nlies. Coleridge, as an opium-eater, is the only individual worthy of\nnotice in the same connection. Had _he_ also confessed, it is uncertain\nwhat new revelations might have been made. It is certain that opium\nexercised a very potent effect upon him; for it was generally after his\ndose that his remarkable intellectual displays occurred. These displays\nwere mostly confined to his conversations, which were usually\nlong-winded metaphysical epics, evolving a continued series of\nabstractions and analyses, and, for their movement, depending upon a\nsort of poetic construction. A pity it is that we must content ourselves\nwith empty descriptions of this nature. Here, doubtless, if anywhere,\nopium was an auxiliary to Coleridge. For a laudanum negus, whatever\nthere may be about it that is pernicious, will, to a mind that is\nmetaphysically predisposed, open up thoroughfares of thought which are\nraised above the level of the gross material, and which lead into the\nregion of the shadowy. Show us the man who habitually carries pills of\n_any_ sort in his waistcoat-pocket, be they opium or whatever else, and\nwe can assure you that that man is an _a\u00ebrobat_,--that somehow, in one\nsense or another, he walks in the air above other men's heads. Whatever\ndisturbs the healthful isolation of the nervous system is prosperous to\nmetaphysics, because it attracts the mental attention to the organism\nthrough which thought is carried on. Numerous are the instances of men\nwho would never have been heard of as thinkers or as reflective poets,\nif they had had sufficient muscular ballast to pull against their\nteeming brains. The consequence of the disproportion has been that the\nsuperfluous brain has exhaled, as a mere necessity.[A] If Tacitus had\nfared in any sort like his brother,--if there had been anything like an\nequitable division between them of muscle and brain, it is more than\nprobable that we should have lost the illustrious historian.\n\n[Footnote A: It has been adduced as an important proof of the soul's\nimmortality, that frequently, as physical power declines, the mind\nexhibits unusual activity. But the argument moves in the opposite\ndirection. For of what sort is this unusual activity? That which results\nfrom unbalanced nerves; and the indications are that not only are the\nphysical harmonies disturbed, but that the same disturbing cause has\nimpaired the delicate adjustments of thought itself. Sometimes there is\nmanifested, towards the near approach of death, an almost insane\nbrilliancy; as, for instance, in the case of a noted theologian, who\noccupied the last minutes of his ebbing life with a very subtile\nmathematical discourse concerning the exceeding, the excruciating\nsmallness of nothing divided into infinitesimal parts. And strange as it\nmay seem, I once heard this identical instance cited as a triumphant\nvindication of the most sublime article of either Pagan or Christian\nfaith. Nay, from the lips of a theological professor, the fragmentary\nglimmerings of a maniac's mind have been adduced for precisely the same\npurpose.]\n\nColeridge was indolent from temperament, a disposition which was\nincreased by opium. Hence De Quincey was of the opinion that it injured\nColeridge's poetic faculties; which probably was the case, since in\ngenuine poetry the mind is prominently realistic, its motions are all\noutward, and therefore excessive indolence must of necessity be fatal.\n\nDe Quincey's physical system, on the contrary, seemed preconformed to\nopium: it demanded it, and would be satisfied with nothing else. No\ntemptation so strong _could_ have been presented to Coleridge. De\nQuincey really craved the drug. His stomach was deranged, and was still\nsuffering from the sad results of his youthful wanderings in London. It\nseems almost as if fate had compelled the unfortunate course into which\nhe finally drifted. The craving first appeared in the shape of a horrid\ngnawing at the stomach; afterwards this indefinite yearning gave place\nto a specific one, which was unmistakable in its demands. Daily, like\nthe daughters of the horse-leech, it cried, \"Give, give!\" Toward the\nlast, this craving became, in De Quincey's solemn belief, an animal\nincarnate, and the opium-eater reasoned after the following fashion:--It\nis not I that eat, it is not I that am responsible either for the fact\nof eating or the amount; am I the keeper of this horrid monster's\nconscience? He even carried the conceit so far as to consider a portion\nof each meal as especially devoted to this insane stomachic reveller,\njust as a voracious Greek or Roman would have attributed no small part\nof his outrageous appetite to the gods, as eating by proxy through the\nmouths of mortals. This is almost as bad as the case reported of\nStonewall Jackson, who, it is said, religiously believed that whatever\nhe ate was, by some mysterious physiological economy, conveyed into his\nleft leg.\n\nNo less was De Quincey _psychologically_ preconformed to opium. The\nprodigious mental activity so early awakened in him counteracted the\nnarcotic despotism of the drug, and made it a sort of ally. The reader\nsees from this how much depends upon predispositions as to the effect of\nopium. De Quincey himself says that the man whose daily talk is of oxen\nwill pursue his bovine speculations into dreams. Opium originates\nnothing; but, given activity of a certain type and moving in a certain\ndirection, and there will be perhaps through opium a multiplication of\nenergies and velocities. What was De Quincey _without_ opium? is,\ntherefore, the question preliminary to any proper estimate as to what in\nhim was due to opium. This question has already been answered in the\nremarks made concerning his childhood. His meditative tendencies were\nespecially noticed as most characteristic. There was besides this a\nnatural leaning toward the mysterious,--the mysterious, I mean, as\ndepending, not upon the terrible or ghostly, or upon anything which\nexcites gloom or fear, but upon operations that are simply inscrutable\nas moving in darkness. Take, for example, the idea of a grand\ncombination of human energies mustered together in secret, and operating\nthrough invisible agencies for the downfall of Christianity,--an idea\nwhich was conveyed to De Quincey in his childhood through the Abb\u00e9\nBaruel's book exposing such a general conspiracy was existing throughout\nEurope: this was the sort of mystery which arrested and engrossed his\nthoughts. Similar elements invested all secret societies with an awful\ngrandeur in his conception. So, too, the complicated operations of great\ncities such as London, which he call the \"Nation of London,\" where even\nNature is mimicked, both in her strict regularity of results, and in the\nseeming unconsciousness of all her outward phases, hiding all meaning\nunder the enigmas that defy solution. In order to this effect it was\nabsolutely necessary that there should be not simply one mystery\nstanding alone by itself, and striking in its portentous significance;\nthere must have been more than this,--namely, a network of occult\ninfluences, a vast organization, wheeling in and out upon itself,\ngyrating in mystic cycles and epicycles, repeating over and again its\ndark omens, and displaying its insignia in a never-ending variety of\nshapes. To him intricacy the most perplexing was also the most inviting.\nIt was this which lent an overwhelming interest to certain problems of\nhistory that presented the most labyrinthian mazes to be disinvolved:\nfor the demon that was in him sought after hieroglyphics that by all\nothers had been pronounced undecipherable; and not unfrequently it was\nto his eye that for the first time there seemed to be an unknown element\nthat must be supplied. Such a problem was presented by the religious\nsect among the Hebrews entitled the _Essenes_. Admitting the character\nand functions of this sect to have been those generally ascribed to it\nno special importance. But the idea once having occurred to De Quincey\nthat the general assumption was the farthest removed from the\ntruth,--than there was an unknown _x_ in the problem, which could be\nsatisfied by no such meagre hypothesis,--that, to meet the urgent\ndemands of the case, there must be substituted for this Jewish sect an\norganization of no less importance than the Christian Church\nitself,--that this organization, thus suddenly brought to light, was\none, moreover, that, from the most imperative necessity, veiled itself\nfrom all eyes, uttering its sublime articles of faith, and even its very\nname, to itself only in secret recesses of silence:--from the moment\nthat all this was revealed to De Quincey, there was thenceforth no limit\nto his profound interest. Two separate essays he wrote on this\nsubject,[A] of which he seemed never to tire.\n\n[Footnote A: Yet, marvellous as it may seem, he wrote the second without\nbeing distinctly conscious of having written a previous one. It was no\nuncommon thing for him to forget his own writings. In one case it is\nknown that for a long time he persisted in disowning his production. His\nAmerican editor--a fact which is little known--selected, from among the\nmass of periodical writings in the various magazines for which De\nQuincey wrote, those which, having no other clue to guide him than,\ntheir peculiar style, he judged to have proceeded from De Quincey's pen.\nIn one instance,--as to the \"Traditions of the Rabbins,\"--after\nconsiderable examination, he still hesitated, and finally wrote to De\nQuincey, to set himself right. The latter disowned the essay: he had\nforgotten it. Mr. F., however, after another examination, concluded,\nthat, notwithstanding De Quincey's denial of the fact, he _must_ have\nwritten it; accordingly, at his own risk, he published it. Afterwards De\nQuincey owned up, and ever after that referred all disputed cases of\nthis nature to his Boston publishers.]\n\n\"Klosterheim\" is from beginning to end only the development, through\nregular stages, of an intricately involved mystery of this subtile\nnature. Oftentimes De Quincey deals with the horrid tragedy of murder;\nbut the mere fact of a murder, however shocking, was not sufficient to\narrest him. With the celebrated Williams murders, on the contrary, he\nwas entirely taken up, since these proceeded in accordance with designs\nnot traceable to the cursory glance, but which tasked the skill of a\ndecipherer to interpret and reduce to harmony. Here were murders that\nrevolved musically, that modulated themselves to master-principles, and\nthat at every stage of progress sought alliance with the hidden\nmysteries of universal human nature. I know of no writer but De Quincey\nwho invests mysteries of this tragic order with their appropriate\ndrapery, so that they shall, to our imaginations, unfold the full\nmeasure of their capacities for striking awe into our hearts.\n\nThis sort of mystery is always connected with dreams. They owe their\nvery existence to darkness, which withdraws them from the material\nlimitations of every-day life; they are shifted to an ideal\n_proscenium_; their _dramatis person\u00e6_, however familiar nominally, and\nhowever much derived from material suggestions, are yet in all their\nmotions obedient to an alien centre as opposite as is possible to the\nordinary centre about which the mere mechanism of life revolves. We\nshould therefore expect beforehand in De Quincey an overruling tendency\ntowards this remote architecture of dreams. The careful reader of his\n\"Autobiographic Sketches\" will remember, that, at the early age of\nseven, and before he knew of even the existence of opium, the least\nmaterial hint which bordered on the shadowy was sufficient to lift him\nup into a\u00ebrial structures, and to lead his infant footsteps amongst the\nclouds. Such hints, after his little sister's death, were furnished by\ncertain expressions of the Litany, by pictures in the stained windows of\nthe church, and by the tumult of the organ. Nor were the dreams thus\nintroduced mere fantasies, irregular and inconsistent. Throughout, they\nwere self-sustained and majestic.\n\nThe natural effects of opium were concurrent with pre\u00ebxisting tendencies\nof De Quincey's mind. If, instead of having his restless intellect, he\nhad been indolent,--if, instead of loving the mysterious, because it\ninvited a Titanic energy to reduce its anarchy to order, he had loved it\nas simply dark or obscure,--if his natural subtilty of reflection had\nbeen less, or if he had been endowed with inferior powers in the sublime\narchitecture of impassioned expression,--then might he as well have\nsmoked a meerschaum, taken snuff or grog or any other stimulant, as to\nhave gone out of his way for the more refined pleasures of opium.\n\nThe reader will indulge us in a single philosophical distinction, at\nthis point, by which we mean to classify the effects of opium under two\nheads: first, the _external_, and, secondly, the _internal_. Properly\nspeaking, all the _positive_ effects of opium must be internal; for all\nits movements are inward in their direction, being refluent upon the\nfocal centres of life. Thus, one of the most noticeable phenomena\nconnected with opium-eating is the burden of life resting back upon the\nheart, which deliberately pulsates the moments of existence, as if the\nmost momentous issues depended upon each separate throb. But this very\nreflux of sensibility will produce great effects at the surface, which\nare purely negative. This latter class of effects Homer has indicated\nwith considerable accuracy, in the ninth Odyssey, (82-105,) where he\nnotices specifically an air of carelessness regarding external\nthings,--carelessness as to the mutual interchange of conversation by\nquestion and answer, and as to the ordinary pursuits of life as\ndisturbing an inward peace. The same characteristics are more fully\ndeveloped in Tennyson's \"Lotos-Eaters\":--\n\n  \"Branches they bore of that enchanted stem,\n  Laden with flower and fruit, whereof they gave\n  To each; but whoso did receive of them,\n  And taste, to him the gushing of the wave,\n  Far, far away, did seem to mourn and rave\n  On alien shores; and if his fellows spake,\n  His voice was thin, as voices from the grave;\n  And deaf-asleep he seemed, yet all awake,\n  And music in his ears his beating heart did make.\"\n\nBy causing the life to flow inward upon a more ideal centre, opium\ndeepens the consciousness, and compels it to give testimony to processes\nand connections that in ordinary moments escape unrecorded. It is as if\nnew materials were found for a history of the individual\nlife,--materials which, like freshly discovered records, sound the\ndeepest meanings of the present and measure the abysses of the past.\nThus it is that the fugitive imagery of sense is interpreted as a scroll\nwhich hides infinite truths under the most fleeting of symbols,--symbols\nwhich are not sufficiently enduring to call them words, or even\nsyllables of words, since the most trivial hint or whisper of them has\nhardly reached us ere they have perished. Thus it is that even the still\nmore intangible record of memory, where are preserved only images and\nechoes of that which undeniably has perished, is revivified and\nenlarged.\n\nThere is, then, in the opium-eater a most marked, a polar antithesis\nbetween his every-day life and the central manifestations of his genius.\nIn the latter, there is beautiful order, as in a symphony of\nBeethoven's; but in the former, looked upon from without, all seems\nconfusion. There is the same antithesis in every meditative mind; but\nhere opium has heightened each part of the contrast. The more we admire\nthe _en_centric harmonies of inwrapt power, the more do we find to draw\nforth laughter in the eccentricities of outward habit. The very same\nagencies which undisguised and unveiled the deep, divine heaven, masked\nthe earth with desert sands; and De Quincey's outward life was thus\nmasked and rendered abnormal, that the blue heaven in which he revelled\nmight be infinitely exalted.\n\nThus is it possible for the seemingly ludicrous to harmonize with\ntranscendent sublimity. We smile at De Quincey's giving in \"copy\" on the\ngenerous margins of a splendid \"Somnium Scipionis\"; but the precious\nwords, that might perhaps have found some more fit vehicle to the\ncomposer's eye, could have found no deeper place in our hearts. We look\nat the hatless sleeper among the mountains: his face seems utterly blank\nand meaningless, and to all intents and purposes he seems as good as\ndead; but let us ascend with him in his dreams, and we shall soon forget\nthat under God's heavens there exists mortality or the commonplace uses\nof mortality.\n\nAs we ascend from grotesque features to such as are more intellectual,\nthat peculiarity of his character which most strikes us is his\ninimitable courtesy. Mr. F.,--to whom I am indebted for the most novel\nand interesting portions of this memorial,--from his own personal\ninterviews with the man, among many other things, retains this chiefly\nin remembrance,--that De Quincey was the perfectest gentleman he had\never seen.\n\nI take the liberty here of particularizing somewhat in regard to one\nvisit which this friend of De Quincey's paid him, particularly as it\nintroduces us to the man towards the last of his life (1851). Mr. F.,\ncurious as it may seem, found but one person in Edinburgh who could\ninform him definitely as to De Quincey's whereabouts. In return to a\nnote, giving De Quincey information of his arrival, etc., the latter\nreplies in a letter which is very characteristic, and which may well be\nhighly prized, so rarely was it that any friend was able to obtain from\nhim such a memento. The style, perhaps, is as familiar as it was ever\nhis habit to indulge in; and it shows how impossible it was for him,\neven on the most temporary summons, to dispense with his usual\nregularity of expression or with any logical nicety of method. The\nletter runs thus:--\n\n\n     _Thursday evening, August 26, 1851_.\n\n     \"My dear Sir,--The acccompanying billet from my daughter, short at\n     any rate under the pressure of instant engagements, has been cut\n     shorter by a sudden and very distressing headache; I, therefore,\n     who (from a peculiar nervousness connected with the act of writing)\n     so rarely attempt to discharge my own debts in the letter-writing\n     department of life, find myself unaccountably, I might say\n     mysteriously, engaged in the knight-errantry of undertaking for\n     other people's. Wretched bankrupt that I am, with an absolute\n     refusal on the part of the Commissioner to grant me a certificate\n     of the lowest class, suddenly, and by a necessity not to be evaded,\n     I am affecting the large bounties of supererogation. I appear to be\n     vaporing in a spirit of vainglory; and yet it is under the mere\n     coercion of '_salva necessitas_' that I am surprised into this\n     unparalleled instance of activity. Do you walk? That is, do you\n     like walking for four hours '_on end_'--(which is our archaic\n     expression for _continuously_)? If I knew _that_, I would arrange\n     accordingly for meeting you. The case as to distance is this. The\n     Dalkeith railway, from the Waverley station, brings you to Esk\n     Bank. That is its nearest approach,--its _perihelion_, in relation\n     to ourselves; and it is precisely two and three-quarters miles\n     distant from _Mavis Bush_,--the name of our cottage. Close to us,\n     and the most noticeable object for guiding your inquiries, is _Mr.\n     Annandale's Paper-Mills_.\n\n     \"Now, then, accordingly as you direct my motions, I will--rain\n     being supposed absent--join you at your hotel in Edinburgh any time\n     after 11 A.M. and walk out the whole distance, (seven miles from\n     the Scott monument,) or else I will meet you at Esk Bank; or, if\n     you prefer coming out in a carriage, I will await your coming here\n     in that state of motionless repose which best befits a philosopher.\n     Excuse my levity; and believe that with sincere pleasure we shall\n     receive your obliging visit.\n\n     \"Ever your faithful servant,\n\n     \"THOMAS DE QUINCEY.\"\n\nIn order to appreciate the physical powers of him who proposed a walk of\nthe distance indicated in the letter, we must remember that he was then\njust sixty-six years _plus_ ten days old. He was now living with his\ndaughters, in the utmost simplicity. On his arrival, Mr. F. found De\nQuincey awaiting him at the door of his cottage,--a short man, with\nsmall head, and eyes that were absolutely indescribable as human\nfeatures, with a certain boyish awkwardness of manner, but with the most\nurban-like courtesy and affability. From noon till dark, the time is\nspent in conversation, continued, various, and eloquent. What a presence\nis there in this humble, unpretending cottage! And as the stream of\nOlympian sweetness moves on, now in laughing ripples, and again in a\nsolemn majestic flood, what a past do we bring before ourselves! what a\npresent! For this is he that talked with Coleridge, that was the friend\nof Wilson,--and--what furnishes a more sublime suggestion--this is he\nthat knows by heart the mountain-fells and the mysterious recesses of\nhidden valleys for miles around; and we think, if he could convey us\nfrom the haunts of this Lasswade of his old age to those which glorified\nthe Grasmere of his youth, what new chords he might touch,--of human\nlove, for there it was that the sweetness of his wedded life had been\nburied and embalmed in a thousand outward memorials of happy hours long\ngone by,--and of human sadness, for there it was that he had experienced\nthe reversal of every outward fortune, and the alienations of\nfriendships which he most highly valued. But the remembrances of\nGrasmere and of youth seem now to have been removed as into some other\nlife: the man of a past generation walks alone, and amid other scenes.\nAnd yonder is the study in which he spends hours that are most\nholy,--hours consecrated to what specific employments is known to none,\nsince across its threshold no feet save his have passed for years. Now\nand then some grand intellectual effort proceeds forth from its sacred\nprecincts; but that only happens when pecuniary necessities compel the\nexertion. How is it that the time not thus occupied is spent?--in what\nremembrances, in what hidden thoughts, what passing dreams?\n\nAs it grows dark, De Quincey's guest, having spent most precious moments\nwhich he feels ought never to cease, signifies the necessity of his\ntaking his departure. To take leave of this strange man, however, is not\nso easy a matter as one might rashly suppose. There is a genius of\nprocrastination about him. Was he ever known to make his appearance at\nany dinner in season, or indeed at any entertainment? Yes, he did\n_once_, at the recital of a Greek tragedy on the Edinburgh stage; but\nthat happened through a trick played on him by an acquaintance, who, to\nsecure some remote chance of his seeing the performance, told him that\nthe doors opened at half-past six, whereas, in fact, they opened at\nseven. How preposterous, then, to suppose that he would let an\nopportunity pass for procrastinating other people, and putting all\nmanner of snares about their feet! It is dangerous with such a man to\nhint of late hours; for just that lateness is to him the very jewel of\nthe thing. In mentioning the circumstance, you only suggest to him the\ninfinite pleasure connected with the circumstance. Perhaps he will\ndeliberately set to work to prove that candle-light is the one\nabsolutely indispensable condition to genial intercourse,--which would\ndoubtless suggest a great contrast, in that respect, between the ancient\nand modern economy,--and where, then, _is_ there to be an end? All\nattempts to extricate yourself by unravelling the net which is being\nwoven about you are hopelessly vain; you cannot keep pace with _him_.\nThe thought of delay enchants him, and he dallies with it, as a child\nwith a pet delicacy. Thus, he is at the house of a friend; it storms,\nand a reasonable excuse is furnished for his favorite experiment. The\nconsequence is, that, once started in this direction, the delay is\ncontinued for a year. Late hours were particularly potent to \"draw out\"\nDe Quincey; and, understanding this, Professor Wilson used to protract\nhis dinners almost into the morning, a tribute which De Quincey\ndoubtless appreciated.\n\nSo that it is better to be on the sly about saying \"Good bye\" to this\nhost of yours. When, however, it was absolutely necessary to be gone, De\nQuincey forthwith insisted on accompanying his guest. What, then, was to\nbe done? Ominously the sky looked down upon them, momently threatening a\nstorm. No resource was there but to give the man his way, and accept his\noffer of companionship for a short distance, painfully conscious though\nyou are of the fact that every step taken forwards must, during this\nsame August night, be retraced by the weary-looking old man at your\nside, who now lacks barely four years of life's average allotment. Thus\nyou move on: and the heavens move on their hurricanes by nearer\napproaches, warnings of which propagate themselves all around you in\nevery sound of the wind and every rustle of the forest-leaves.\nMeanwhile, there is no rest to the silvery vocal utterances of your\ncompanion: every object by the way furnishes a ready topic for\nconversation. Just now you are passing an antiquated old mansion, and\nyour guide stops to tell you that in this house may have been committed\nmost strange and horrible murders, that, in spite of the tempestuous\nmutterings heard on every side, ought now and here to be specially and\nsolemnly memorialized by human relation. A woman passes by, a perfect\nstranger, but De Quincey steps entirely out of the road to one side,\ntakes off his hat, and in the most reverent attitude awaits her\npassage,--and you, poor astonished mortal that you are, lest you should\nyourself seem scandalously uncourteous, are compelled to do likewise. In\nthis incident we see what infinite majesty invested the very semblance\nof humanity in De Quincey's thoughts: and something of the same\nremarkable courtesy was manifested by Rufus Choate, who uniformly\naddressed the lowest of women in the witness-box as if they were every\none of them worthy of the most queenly consideration.\n\nOnward you proceed,--one,--two,--three miles, and you can endure no\nlonger the thought that your friend shall go on farther, increasing thus\nat every step the burden of his journey back. You have, reached the Esk\nbank and the bridge which spans the stream; the storm so long threatened\nbegins now to let loose its rage against all unsheltered mortals. Here\nDe Quincey consents to bid you good-bye,--to you his last good-bye; and\nas here you leave him, so is he forever enshrined in your thoughts,\ntogether with the primal mysteries of night and of storm, of human\ntragedies and of the most pathetic human tenderness.\n\nBut this paper, already sufficiently prolonged, should draw to a close.\nIt is a source of great mortification to me that I cannot find some very\ndisagreeable thing to say of De Quincey, merely as a matter of poetic\njustice; for assuredly he was in the habit of saying all the malicious\nthings _he_ could about his friends. If there was anything in a man's\nface or shape particularly uncouth, you might trust De Quincey for\nnoticing _that_. Even Wordsworth he could not let off without a Parthian\nshot at his awkward legs and round shoulders; Dr. Parr he rated soundly\non his mean proportions; and one of the most unfortunate things which\never happened to the Russian Emperor Alexander was to have been seen in\nLondon by De Quincey, who, even amid the festivities of national and\ninternational congratulation on the fall of Napoleon, could not forget\nthat this imperial ally was a very commonplace-looking fellow, after\nall. But, in regard to physical superiority, De Quincey lived in a glass\nhouse too fragile to admit of his throwing many stones at his neighbors.\nThe very fact that he valued personal appearance at so low an estimate\ntakes away the sting from his remarks on the deformities of other\npeople: he could not have meant any detraction, but simply wished to\npresent a perfect picture to the eye, preserving the ugly features with\nthe faultless, just as we all insist on doing in regard to those we\nlove. De Quincey and myself, therefore, are likely to part good friends.\nSurely, if there was anything which vexed the tender heart of this man,\nit was \"the little love and the infinite hate\" which went to make up the\nsum of life. If morbid in any direction, it was not in that of spite,\nbut of love; and as an instance of almost unnatural intensity of\naffection, witness his insane grief over little Kate Wordsworth's\ngrave,--a grief which satisfied itself only by reasonless prostrations,\nfor whole nights, over the dark mould which covered her from his sight.\n\nIt only remains for us to look in upon De Quincey's last hours. We are\nenabled to take almost the position of those who were permitted really\nto watch at his bedside, through a slight unpublished sketch, from the\nhand of his daughter, in a letter to an American friend. I tremble\nalmost to use materials that personally are so sacred; but sympathy, and\nthe tender interest which is awakened in our hearts by such a life, are\nalso sacred, and in privilege stand nearest to grief.\n\nDuring the few last, days of his life De Quincey wandered much, mixing\nup \"real and imaginary, or apparently imaginary things.\" He complained,\none night, that his feet were hot and tired. His daughter arranged the\nblankets around them, saying, \"Is that better, papa?\" when he answered,\n\"Yes, my love, I think it is; you know, my dear girl, these are the feet\nthat Christ washed.\"\n\nEverything seemed to connect itself in his mind with little children. He\naroused one day, and said suddenly,--\"You must know, my dear, the\nEdinburgh cabmen are the most brutal set of fellows under the sun. I\nmust tell you that I and the little children were all invited to supper\nwith Jesus Christ. So, as you see, it was a great honor. I thought I\nmust buy new dresses for the little ones; and--would you believe it\npossible?--when I went out with the children, these wretches laughed at\ntheir new dresses.\"\n\n\"Of my brothers he often spoke, both those that are dead and those that\nare alive, as if they were his own brothers. One night he said, when I\nentered the room,--\n\n\"'Is that you, Horace?'\n\n\"'No, papa.'\n\n\"'Oh, I see! I thought you were Horace; for he was talking to me just\nnow, and I suppose has just left the room.'\"\n\nSpeaking of his father, one day, suddenly and without introduction, he\nexclaimed,--\"There is one thing I deeply regret, that I did not know my\ndear father better; for I am sure a better, kinder, or juster man could\nnever have existed.\"\n\nWhen death seemed approaching, the physician recommended that a telegram\nshould be sent to the eldest daughter,[A] who resided in Ireland, but he\nforbade any mention of this fact to the patient. De Quincey seemed to\nhave a prophetic feeling that she was on her way to him, saying, \"Has M.\ngot to that town yet, that we stopped at when we went to Ireland? How\nmany hours will it be before she can be here? Let me see,--there are\neight hours before I can see her, and three added to that!\" His daughter\ncame sooner than the family expected; but the time tallied very nearly\nwith the computation he had made. On the morning his daughter arrived\noccurred the first intimation his family had seen that the hand of death\nwas laid upon him. He had passed a quiet, but rather sleepless night,\nappearing \"much the same, yet more than ordinarily loving.\" After\ngreeting his child, he said, \"And how does mamma's little girl like her\nleaving her?\" \"Oh, they were very glad for me to come to grandpapa, and\nthey sent you this kiss,--which they did of their own accord.\" He seemed\nmuch pleased. It was evident that M. presented herself to him as the\nmother of children, the constant theme of his wanderings. Once when his\ndaughter quitted the room, he said, \"They are all leaving me but my\n_dear_ little children.\" \"I heard him call, one day, distinctly,\n'Florence! Florence! Florence!'--again, 'My dear, dear mother!'--and to\nthe last he called us 'my love,' and it sounded like no other sound\never uttered. I never heard such pathos as there was in it, and in every\ntone of his voice. It gave me an idea of a love that passeth all\nunderstanding.\"\n\n[Footnote A: De Quincey, at his death, had two sons and three daughters.\nThe, eldest of the daughters became the wife of Robert Craig of Ireland.\nIt was this one, and the youngest, who were present during his last\nhours. The second daughter, Florence, was with her husband (a colonel of\nthe British army) in India. The two sons were both absent: one in India,\na captain in the army; the other, a physician, in Brazil.]\n\nDuring the next night he was thought dying, \"but he lingered on and on\ntill half past nine the next morning. He told me something about\n'to-morrow morning,' and something about sunshine; but the thought that\nhe was talking about what he would never see drove the exact idea out of\nmy head, though I am sure it was morning in another world he was talking\nof.\"\n\n\"There was an extraordinary appearance of youth about him, both for some\ntime before and after death. He looked more like a boy of fourteen, and\nvery beautiful. We did not like to let in the morning light, and the\ncandle was burning at nine o'clock, when the post brought the following\nletter, which my sister and myself glanced over by the candle-light,\njust as we were listening to his decreasing breath. At the moment it did\nnot strike me with the astonishment, at such an extraordinary\ncoincidence, that when we came to read it afterwards it did.\n\n\n     \"'_Brighton, Dec. 7th, 1859_.\n\n     \"'My Dear De Quincey,--Before I quit this world, I most ardently\n     desire to see your handwriting. In early life, that is, more than\n     sixty years ago, we were school-fellows together and mutually\n     attached; nay, I remember a boyish paper (\"The Observer\") in which\n     we were engaged. Yours has been a brilliant literary career, mine\n     far from brilliant, but I hope not unuseful as a theological\n     student. It seems a pity we should not once more recognize one\n     another before quitting the stage. I have often read your works,\n     and never without remembering the promise of your talents at\n     Winkfield. My life has been almost a domestic tragedy. I have four\n     children in lunatic-asylums. Thank God, it is now drawing to a\n     close; but it would cheer the evening of my days to receive a line\n     from you, for I am, with much sincerity,\n\n     \"'Your old and attached friend,\n\n     \"'E.H.G.'\n\n\"I do not remember the name of G., but the name of Edward constantly\nrecurred in his wanderings.\n\n\"Half an hour after the reading of that letter we heard those last\npathetic sighs, so terrible from their very softness, and saw the poor,\nworn-out garment laid aside.\" Just before he died, he looked around the\nroom, and said very tenderly to the nurse, the physician, and his\ndaughters, who were present, \"Thank you,--thank you all!\" Sensible thus\nto the very last of kindness, he breathed out his life in simple thanks,\nswayed even in death by the spirit of profound courtesy that had ruled\nhis life.\n\nMRS. LEWIS.\n\nA STORY IN THREE PARTS.\n\n\nPART I.\n\n\nI.\n\n\"Here's something Gus Lewis would like to send by you, mother,\" said my\nhasty boy John, plunging into the room at nine in the evening, and\nstumbling over two trunks, three valises, and bandboxes countless.\n\nThe floor was strewn with bundles, and the mantel-piece adorned with\nletters, directed to Springfield, Hartford, New Haven, and New York.\n\n\"Oh! ah! yes. Any packages, if not too large,\" said I, wistfully eying\nthe box, (a foot square,) full of fresh maple-sugar, with its card of\ndirection to \"_Mrs. Lulu L., by the politeness of Mrs. Prince_.\"\nBoy-like.\n\n\"First of all, my John, go you to bed, where Charley has been this\nhalf-hour, and say good-bye, for we shall be off before you are up.\"\n\n\"See, then, father, if you are!\" retorted the wide-awake youth, going\nout of the room in ground and lofty tumbling, and up-stairs in\nsomersets.\n\n\"I don't see,\" said I, pettishly, \"how I _am_ to get this bundle into my\ntrunk, nor where in the world this great box of sugar is to go. See! not\na direction! but I suppose she is in New York somewhere.\"\n\n\"We shall see her at all events, which is something. I should like to\nknow what she is like,--not to look after her boy for two mortal years,\"\nsaid the Dominie.\n\n\"I hope not like Gus. He'd make an ugly woman, with his black hair and\nheavy eyebrows, and his big, black eyes always staring. He don't look\nlike an American child.\"\n\n\"If we could only say what an American type is. At present, it is a\nlittle of everything.\"\n\n\"I mean a New-Englander,--an original American.\"\n\n\"Well, he don't.--What do you say to these trunks? Shall we try again to\ncompress the gigantic genie into the copper vessel? I thought it was a\ndangerous move, that last one of yours, taking out Tirzah White's\nquilted coat. And what's to be done with these three packages?\"\n\n\"Well! we can't sit here!\" said I, briskly; \"half-past nine already, and\nonly one trunk packed! Never mind. You can put these three bundles in\nwith your clothes.\"\n\n\"Bursting the lock, now.\"\n\n\"How easy 'tis to pack other people's things! But what, then, have you\nin there,--I mean, besides your shirts, etc.?\"\n\n\"_Imprimis_. Eight volumes of Scott's Commentaries, brought by Deacon\nBoardman. I am to exchange them. They are imperfect. _Item_. A dozen of\n'Sinbad the Sailor,' sent by mistake to the Association, instead of\nDoddridge. These books won't press nor give, more than sound doctrine;\nand I must have room for my gown, without which I am nothing.\"\n\nThe clock struck ten, and we were still struggling with unabated ardor\nto compress Lorana Briggs's shawl, and the flat packages from Burt's,\ninto the largest carpet-bag, that there might be room for the seventeen\nletters on top of the minister's luggage, inside the sanctuary of his\nsilk gown.\n\n\"We can carry a good deal in your coat-pocket, my dear,\" said I,\ncheerfully; for really we seemed to be coming to daylight, a little.\n\n\"Full.\"\n\nThe knocker sounded.\n\n\"My galoches at last! Deacon, I can't ask you to come in, we are so\nuntidy; but I couldn't pack as I meant to, this afternoon.\"\n\nHow we dreaded his coming in,--half deacon, half shoemaker, and\ntwo-thirds missionary, with his \"Panoplist\" sticking out of his\ncoat-pocket, and his ears evermore pricked up for the latest news from\nBombay! and how angry I had been for three weeks because I couldn't get\nthose indispensable galoches!\n\nIt seemed as if he never would go from the half-open door. He reckoned\nthe York folks would stare to see so many patches; he expected ministers\ndown to York warn't quite so carfle and troubled about many things, as\nthey be to Weston; but he added, with a grim joyfulness,--\n\n\"We took up a good collection, though, last Sabbath! eight dollars and\nfifteen cents, clear!\"\n\n\"Yes, Deacon,\" responded the minister, with as much heartiness as he\ncould muster, between the pushings, puffings, and pressings at the\ncarpet-bag; \"a cup of cold water shall in no wise lose its reward, we're\ntold.--These carpet-bags stretch well!\"\n\n\"Them poor, dear heathen!\" groaned the Deacon.\n\n\"Oh, dreadful!\" chimed I; \"give me that biggest shawl, will you?--no,\nthe other,--Ursula Drury's! Shall we ever finish packing?\"\n\n\"S'pose ye'll see th' A.B.C.F.M.!--Lucina Rand's put in 'the avails of a\nhen,'--and Semela Briggs sold the silver thimble her aunt gin her. 'T\nall helps the good work. I told the Widow Rand she'd ough' to do\nsomethin' for the heathen, so she's gone to raisin' mustard. She said\nshe hadn't more 'n a grain o' that to spare, she was so poor; but I told\nher 't would be blest, I guessed. Widow Rand's rather worldly-minded,\nI'm afraid.\"\n\nA minute more and we should have had Hindostan, Harriet Newell, and\nJuggernaut. Happily, somebody came for the Deacon, and we were left to\nour packing again.\n\n\nII.\n\nThis was the second week in May, in the year 1830. We were a promising\ncountry, but had not yet performed. Neither railroads, telegraphs, nor\ncheap postage had been established. Enthusiastic inventors yet sucked\ntheir fingers in garrets, waiting for the good time coming; and\nphilanthropic statesmen aired their vocabularies in vain, in\nCongressional halls, built in defiance of acoustics. Their words rose,\ntheir fine sentiments curled up and down the pillars of the temple of\neloquence, and fell flat to the floor. Meanwhile human nature travelled\nby stage-coaches; and postage for over a hundred miles rose to eighteen\ncents. Not a lover's sigh for a cent less; and it took a fortune for\npersons of sensibility to exchange sentiments.\n\nThe consequence to country-people of this last-mentioned fact was, that\neverybody who went anywhere took everybody's letters, and, as there were\nno expresses, added, of course, everybody's packages and messages. And\nthe consequence of this was, that everybody made everybody's purchases,\nwhether gowns, books, bonnets, or what not. It mattered little who did\nerrands, so only they were done. Generally, the one store-keeper bought\nour bonnets when he went to Boston for his yearly stock of goods, and\nour one bonnet lasted in those days a year, being retrimmed for winter\nweather. I remember, too, when our one store-keeper, mingling in the\n\u00e6sthetic conversation at one of our parties, where Art was on the\n_tapis_, made a comical mistake, but one natural enough, too,--stating\nthat he could buy, and had bought, Vandykes for ten dollars. We were not\nthinking of exactly the same kind of Vandyke that he was.\n\nMany a time have I carried in my trunk more letters than the mail-bag\ndid to Boston, and conscientiously finished all the parish's business\nbefore touching my own.\n\nA certain amount of self-complacency and satisfaction is felt, and\nlaudably earned, by being intrusted with commissions; and I flatter\nmyself few persons ever set off for New York with such an array of them\nas I did on this occasion.\n\nLooking over my list, I must confess to a flush of real enjoyment at\nfinding _carte blanche_ for a scarf. \"Now, that is something like!\" said\nI. \"I can see now how pleasantly an artist feels, or would feel, at an\norder for a picture,--'your own subject,--your own terms.' Miss Patty\nJones knows what is what, and shall be my patroness.\"\n\nAnd did I not vindicate triumphantly Miss Patty's confidence? I knew\nbetter than to buy her a gray and brown thing, merely because she, too,\nwas gray and brown. I wreathed her with lilies and hyacinths and French\ngreen leaves, and she blossomed under it like a rose. If she were not\nthe garland, she wore it, and so borrowed bloom and gay freshness. She\nextolled my taste to all Weston.\n\nThen Mrs. Eben Loring had concluded on the whole that I should buy her a\nhat, in Maiden Lane, at the very tip-top milliner's. The thought of my\nreturn was somewhat embittered by the prospective necessity of carrying\ntwo very large bandboxes in my lap, in case of rain. Rain might not\nunreasonably be expected in the course of a three days' journey. Think\nof all the bandboxes that in such a case would be put in at the\ncoach-window by the driver, to be held in the hapless laps of the nine\npassengers! Almost I was persuaded to leave my own black satin bonnet,\nand perambulate the streets of New York in my travelling-calash, which\nlooked exactly like, and was nearly of the size of, a \"bellows-top\nshay.\"\n\nI was thinking of this last sacrifice, when my husband said, in a\ndreamy, bewildered way,--\n\n\"Here are five boxes, mother, two bundles, and the rest of these books.\nI give up!\"\n\n\"Give up? Not I! Now, where a man's energies are exhausted, a woman's\njust begin to show themselves. First and foremost, lock this trunk, and\nlet me put the key in my pocket. That's one thing done, and can't be\nundone.\"\n\nHe stepped back from the trunk.\n\n\"What's this? all your clothes on the floor!\"\n\n\"Well, yes, my dear, most of 'em. You see, I couldn't leave Zipporah\nHaven's shawl out, which she sends to her grandmother; and I must put in\nthese bundles of the Burts's, and Mary Skinner's box of linen thread. If\nmy own things are lost, why, they must be replaced, you know, my dear;\nthat is all.\"\n\n\"And we must keep a good lookout, ourselves, that our bandboxes and\nbundles don't fall off behind,\" replied the Dominie, faintly.\n\n\"Yes; and you can put the small trunk under my feet, and the big basket\nunder your own, and you will keep an eye on my red shawl,--and pray\ndon't lose the umbrella, nor your great-coat, nor your cane. I will, on\nmy part, see to these three small bundles, and my parasol. Doubtless we\nshall go on smoothly as need be, only I am afraid you won't be able to\nthink up many sermons on the highway. There! I forgot the jar of\ncurrant-jelly to go to Ruth Hoyt's aunt! However, we must manage\nsomehow. You are sure our names are down at the stage-office?\"\n\nBut, like Charles XII., \"after Pultowa's dreadful day,\" when the\ntale-teller listened for his sympathy,\n\n  \"The king had been an hour asleep.\"\n\nI am ashamed to say that I must have lost myself after that, though I\nthought I was only thinking of the Day of Judgment. But I must have\ndreamed it, or how should I have thought it the last trumpet, when it\nwas only the stage-driver's warning knock?\n\nIt was delightful to hear the knock, and the simultaneous clang of pots\nand pans which assured us, that, though night had been no night to us,\nthe dark morning would usher in our breakfast with coffee by the\nfaithful Polly. The driver coming in again before we had finished, we\nseduced him without scruple into taking a cup of boiling comfort, while\nwe guiltily collected the waifs and strays of our multifarious luggage.\nMany a time I have waited, myself, in the coach, while similar orgies\nwere going on among the unready, so I know just how vexed and impatient\nthe passengers were. But what use to go on without the driver? At last\nwe squeezed into the full stage.\n\n\nIII.\n\nNo sooner in than out, however. I was determined not to die before my\ntime, as I was sure to do on the back-seat of an overloaded stage, with\nnine passengers, besides numerous, because gratuitously earned,\nchildren. \"For who,\" as it was sometimes pertinently asked, \"would\ncharge anything for a poor little innocent child?\" The younger, the more\ninnocent, of course, and the more numerous.\n\n\"If you'll set up here 'long o' me, Miss Prince, there's a plenty o'\nroom,--and for you, too, Parson,\" said the good-natured driver.\n\nExtricating ourselves from the Black Hole, we delightedly clambered to\nthe heights above, regardless of risk, and catching at wheel and step\nlike Alpine hunters. How comfortable the seat was, with the fresh, early\nmorning air blowing freely in our faces! How small the horses looked in\nthe dim light of three o'clock! How oddly the wheel-horses looked, all\nbacks and no legs!--and how mysteriously many were the reins that were\ntied round and round the iron lantern-rod!\n\n\"Just let me put the mail-bag under your feet, Miss Prince. Here we are,\nnow, all right, and nothin' to do but go along!\"\n\n\"Now, then!\"\n\n\"Come up! come! come!\"\n\nBut in vain were caresses; in vain were chirrups, duckings, and kisses,\nwafted to the nigh leader. Like the rebellious South of to-day, he had\ntaken his attitude, and stood now on four legs, now on two, pawing only\nthe dark air, and regardless of the general welfare behind him.\n\n\"Now what will you do, driver?\" said cowardly I, who, always mortally\nafraid of horse-flesh, felt on this occasion a strange confidence:\npartly in the staid, heavy mass of determination beside me, who looked\nso calm and good-natured; and partly in the queer, elfin look of the\nbeast, who seemed so far off as to have no necessary connection with our\nsafety or ultimate progress. It seemed quite possible for us to get on\nwith the other three pulling, while our demoniacal friend ornamented the\noccasion by plunges, rearings, and kickings.\n\nStill gathering the reins lightly in his large hand, the stable and sure\nintelligence beside me calmly chirruped, and then as calmly switched his\nlong whip at the distant rebel brute. How the switching and snapping\ngalled his proud neck! How his black back curved, and his small head\ntossed! Still, he would not pull an ounce, but just pawed like a fairy\nhorse, or as if he were born to tread on clouds alone, or to herald in\nthe morning.\n\n\"He'll start by-'m-by,--he's a devil of a spirit in him, when he doos\nstart,\" remarked our Phoebus, composedly, giving, through the darkness,\nthe unerring switch every half minute.\n\nWhat acted on the capricious thing at last,--whether the Inevitability\nbehind him, or the folly exhausting itself, nobody knows; but the\n\"beautiful disdain\" left his black back and tossing mane in a moment,\nand he buckled down to his work with an energy worthy of the cause, and\nwith a good-will that was an example to the other three.\n\n\"There! you see he can do well enough, 'f he's jest a mind to! nothin'\nwantin' but the will! There's a pair on 'em,\" said the driver, \"but I\nwon't never drive 'em together. Staples drove the pair last summer. He\nsays they'd run till they dropped down dead. I guess they would. He's a\nputty critter enough, and well made, but dreadful ugly. Now, I like that\n'ere wheeler!\"--he pointed his whip towards the horse below my foot.\n\"She's kind,--that mare is; and she's fast enough, and handsome. Broad\nback,--short legs,--goes like a duck!\"\n\nIn such pleasant chat (and why not? for wasn't the driver a cousin of my\nown?--a man of means,--owning his team,--and with more knowledge of his\ndistrict than most members of Congress have? Indeed, I believe he's in\nCongress this minute!) we pulled up hill and tore down dale. Nobody\nknows a hill by experience but New-Hampshire travellers. The Green\nMountains are full of comparatively gentle slopes, and verdure crowns\ntheir highest and tallest tops; but the hills of New Hampshire are\nAlpine in their steepness and barrenness, and the roads of old time made\nby the Puritans took the Devil by the horns. There was no circuitous,\nsoothing, easy passage. The road ran straight over mountains and pitched\ndeep down ravines, the surveyors having evidently kept only in view the\nshortest air-line between places.\n\nSometimes we chained the wheels, but not often. Oftenest we ran down a\nsteep place, and the impetus carried us up the opposite hill. At the\nfoot of a long hill, of a two-mile stretch, the driver generally\nstopped, to indicate the propriety of the male passengers, at least,\nascending the hill on foot. And often the whole stage-load gladly\navailed itself of the permission. It was handy for the owners of\nbandboxes, to pick them up from the rocky road, as they tumbled off now\nand then; and the four beasts, like those in Revelation, said \"Amen\" to\nthe kindly impulse of humanity that lightened their load, and left them\nto scramble comfortably from one side to the other of the still\nascending path. When they did get to the top of some of those Walpole\nhills, would they could have taken in the living glory and beauty of the\nfar-reaching and most magnificent landscape!\n\n\nIV.\n\nWe had the mails to change at the post-offices, and a seemingly\ninexhaustible store, intrusted to the care and courtesy of the driver,\nand surrounding him like a rampart,--of newspapers, bundles, cans,\npillow-cases full of dried apples, and often letters.\n\nAt the red house near the mill below Surrey, a sweet-looking girl ran\nout, as we passed, holding her hand forward for a letter, which our\ndriver pretended to drop half a dozen times, on purpose to tantalize\nher. It was pretty to see her blushing, sparkling face, as the blood\ndanced to her brow with hope, and back with the baffled expectancy to\nher heart.\n\n\"Neouw, Sil, be still! give to me, yeouw!\"\n\nIf it hadn't been Yankee, it was soft and melodious enough for an\nItalian peasant. As picturesque, too, was her short, blue woollen\npetticoat, and white short-gown, that \"half hid and half revealed\" the\nunconstrained grace of healthy mountain-nature; and more modest the\nhappy look with which she received the letter at last, and flew with it\nlike a bird back to the red nest.\n\n\"A love-letter, I suppose,\" said I, answering the twinkle of the\ndriver's good-natured eye.\n\n\"Wal, I expect 's likely. They've been sparking now over a year. And\nit's a pity, too, such a real clever girl as that is! She a'n't so\ndreadful bright, but she's real clever, and ough' to hev a better chance\n'n Jim Ruggles.\"\n\n\"A bad match for her?\"\n\n\"Wal, Jim's a good feller enough, but he drinks. I don't mean to say\nnothin' agin moderate drinkin'. I drink myself moderately. But Jim's a\nreal sponge. He'd drink all day hard and never show it, without it is\nbein' cross, maybe, and paler 'n common. Now I say,--and I a'n't no\n'reformed inebriate,' nor Father Matthew sort,--but I do say, and will\nhold to it, such a man at twenty-one makes a poor beginnin'. If he\nlives, he'll be a poor shote, and no mistake. I'm sorry for the gal.\"\n\n\"Somebody ought to tell her. Why not you?\"\n\n\"Wal, what's the good on 't? She wouldn't hear a word. When a woman's\nonce sot her mind, don't do no good to talk. For that matter, talkin'\nnever did do much, I'm thinkin',--exceptin' preachin'. We're bound to\nhear that, Parson,\" he added, laughing, and with a nod which might seem\nrespectful.\n\nIn three hours we had driven thirteen miles. Pretty good progress this\nof a warm day, and with a full complement of passengers. We had watched\nthe sun rise over Walpole hills, and the specks in the distance where\nthe early farmers were ploughing and sowing. The breaking day, the\nbursting spring, and all the outward melodies with which the welcoming\nday rings as we toil on, are so many incentives to appetite, and we are\nall sharp for the ready breakfast, at six o'clock.\n\nThen, as I am talking of the past, and not of the present, there was\ntime enough: time enough for the comfortable discussion of breakfast,\nfor the changing of raiment among the babies, for chatting in the\nbar-room, for the interchange of news among the men, and even for\nglasses of milk-punch. Tell it not in modern Gath that even the Dominie\nspiced his half-mug of flip with an anecdote, and that every man and\nwoman took cider as well as coffee.\n\nHow can I describe the events and vicissitudes that befell us during\nthis journey of three days and a half to New York? Modern travellers,\nwho are, or are not, as it happens, run off the track, smashed up, or\notherwise suddenly and summarily disposed of, have little notion of our\nsuccessive and amusing accidents, and of how they diversified and\noccupied the mind, so as entirely to preclude the _ennui_ which comes\nfrom railroad-travelling, with its ninety-nine chances of safety to one\nof accident.\n\nThat we were tipped out and over repeatedly,--that one of the leaders\nhad fits, (which amiable weakness was understood and allowed for by our\ndriver, who was in hopes the critter wouldn't have 'em that day,)--that\nthe coach wholly collapsed once, letting all the patient passengers into\na promiscuous heap of unbroken bones,--this, and such as this, will be\neasily believed by any New-England traveller who remembers thirty years\nback. But how we fell so softly that the brains were never damaged,--why\nfalling into ditches at night wasn't an unhealthy process,--and, above\nall, how the driver's stock of leathern straps, strings, and nails\nshould always prove exhaustless, and be always so wonderfully adapted to\nevery emergency,--that was a wonder, and is a wonder still to me. No\namount of mechanical skill, though the Yankee has made machines that\nalmost think, and altogether do, for him, has superseded or exhausted\nhis natural tact, expediency, and invention. With string and nail in his\npocket, I would defy the horses of Phoebus to get away from a Yankee, or\nhis chariot to get out of gear; and if Phaeton had only been a\nVermonter, the deserts of Ethiopia might to this day have been covered\nwith roses instead of sand. Our driver, though he didn't know his own\npowers, knew all about Phoebus, and had read Virgil and Ovid by the\nlight of a pine-knot in his father's kitchen. This rude culture is the\ncommonest fact among our mountaineers.\n\nWe \"stopped over\" one day in Hartford, to see the deaf-mutes. Their\nbright, concentrated, eager looks haunted me long after. I should like\nto know who would stop anywhere now to see anything! One might as well\nbe put into a gun and fired off to New York as go there now by\nsteam-cars. Line a gun with red plush, and it is not unlike a \"resonant\nsteam-eagle.\" And you would see as much in one as in the other.\n\nBut travelling in 1830 enlarged your mind. A journey then was one as\n_was_ a journey. You saw people, you made their acquaintance, you\nentered their hearts and took lodgings,--sometimes for life.\n\nThen the country! You saw that, too,--not the poorest part of it,\nscooting round wherever it is most level, till you pronounce the whole\nway flat, and are glad to shut your eyes and listen to the engine,\nrather than have them ache with seeing everything you would never wish\nto look at!\n\nAll these days were full of great, beautiful pictures. From the time we\nleave the Granite State, with it a wild, fierce grandeur, its long,\ndreary reaches of unfertile pastures, and its wealth of stone wall,--so\nabundant that travellers wonder where the stones came from to build it,\nseeing no lack in the road or field,--from the time we enter on trim,\nwell-kept Massachusetts, the panorama shifts with ever new interest and\nbeauty. We leave the pretentious brick houses, or the glaring white\nones, which mark the uncultivated taste of the American Switzerland, and\nenter for the first time regions impressed with the necessary element of\nfine landscape, maturity. With and under the old oaks and birches rest\nthe sad-colored houses that have held life and experience,--birth,\ndeath, and old historic adventure.\n\nLooking over the broad meadows that skirt the Connecticut by Hadley and\nNorthampton, one seems to see under the distant oaks spectral shapes of\nIndian struggle, or wandering regicides, hiding their noble heads in\ncaves, or bursting out like white spirits to lead and avenge. The air is\npeopled with traditions far back from the present, but with which the\ngrave, imposing, characteristic landscape seems still to sympathize.\n\nIn two days we emerged from the brown chrysalis of a New-Hampshire\nspring into the exultant richness of the winged butterfly,--into white,\nfragrant fields of blossoming fruit, and the odor of tree-lilacs.\n\nIn my enchantment at the bounteous panorama that spread out before me in\never varying abundance, I forgot to cultivate any interest in my\nfellow-passengers, and, except in listening to some communicative old\nwomen, might really, as far as society was concerned, as well have been\ntravelling in the style of to-day. Beyond the casual acquaintances I\nmade when rain compelled me to indoor chat, I saw nobody who interested\nme until we reached Springfield. There, at the top of the first short\nhill outside the town, after looking back on the white houses standing\nin the river-mist like so many ghosts in white muslin, I saw somebody\nwhom my prophetic soul announced as a companion, looking wholly unlike a\nghost, and very unlike a mist. He raised his hand, just as we were about\npassing him, as if signalling an omnibus, and our driver suddenly reined\nin his team.\n\nA full, hearty voice, not a bit nasal, but fresh from the broad chest,\nshowed us a traveller by the road-side, waiting to be taken up.\n\nHe sprang with two bounds to the top of the coach, and made room for\nhimself just above us among the countless boxes.\n\n\"Don't let me disturb you, Madam All right. Just room for my bag. Go on,\ndriver.\"\n\n\"Fine day,\" said we.\n\n\"A warm morning. I have been walking for the last fifteen miles,--but\nthe sun is too hot for me.\"\n\nHe took off his travelling-hat of weather-beaten Panama, and dried his\nbroad brow with his handkerchief. Then he looked at us with clear blue\neyes, and tossed back his curling brown hair. He had a gray\ntravelling-dress, such as everybody wears now, but which was then a\nnovelty; and something in his curt, clear accents, and his crimson lips,\nand the fresh life in his limbs and action, betrayed that he was not an\nAmerican. So much the better.\n\n\nV.\n\nI said he looked sharply at us two. He seemed to have a habit of\ninvestigating, at least to a certain extent; and he took us in at once,\nevidently. A country-parson and his wife. If I say his pretty wife, I\nwill promise faithfully that it shall be the last time I will refer to\nmyself or my prettiness, the whole way, further than may be absolutely\nnecessary; and it isn't every woman who will do as much. For with this\nman and his belongings I came to have much to do in the course of the\nnext five years. Little thought I, as I heard him chatting soberly with\nmy husband, and nodding from time to time gravely at me, as If to take\nme into the conversation,--little thought I of the shadow he would one\nday cast over both of our lives!\n\nHe showed us his travelling-apparatus for making a cup of tea in ten\nminutes, toasting bread, and boiling eggs. It was like a doll's\ncooking-stove six inches square, a curious invention, new then, and a\nwonderful convenience.\n\n\"With my tea and this,\" said he, \"I can go over the United States. Good\nbread and sweet butter I can always get at your farm-houses, and I often\nwalk fifty miles together.\"\n\nWe looked and spoke our New-English astonishment. In our part of the\nworld nobody walked anywhere. Everybody, however poor, had a wagon, if\nnot a chaise; and he must be miserable indeed who did not own at least\none horse. Nobody in his sober senses demeaned himself to walking.\nPerhaps it was the climate. Perhaps our fathers instituted the custom,\nto be as unlike the British as possible,--as they did of making their\nhouses like lanterns, to show they had no window-tax to pay.\n\nThis man's hearty voice and healthy frame, charged, as it seemed, with\nfresh air, jollity, and strength, made us think better of walking. We\nlooked at his six feet of height, his broad chest, and his firmly knit\nlimbs, and fancied how Antaeus gained supernatural vigor from natural\ncontact: he trod the earth with a loving and free step, as a child\napproaches and caresses his mother. So, too, his voice, and the topics\nhe chose in talking, gave us the feeling of out-door existence always\nconnected with him: of singing-birds, and the breeze of mountain-tops,\nof great walnut- and chesnut-trees, and children gathering nuts beneath;\nnever of the solemn hush of pines, or twilight, or anything \"sough\"-ing\nor whispering: no, all about him sounded like the free, dashing, rushing\nwater. So were his bright blue eyes, merry lips, and wind-crimsoned\ncheeks, interpreters of his nature. They linked him firmly to the\noutward. The man's soul was made up of joyfulness, strength, and a sort\nof purposeless activity,--energy for its own sake. While his energies\nharmonized with the right, or were exercised in the pursuit of\nknowledge, one felt that he would have much power for good. But suppose\nhis activities to take a wrong direction, all his powers would help him\nto be and enjoy the wrong. In either case, his nature would have the\nsame harmonious energy, and the moral part of him would not disturb the\nbalance of his character. He had no special liking for evil, I am sure;\nyet, according to all the theories, his intense love of Nature ought to\nhave elevated and refined him far more than it had done.\n\nBefore we had been an hour together, I had also observed that he was\ngood-natured, impulsive, and, in a sort, kindly,--that he loved himself\nand his own enjoyment too well ever knowingly to annoy or distress\nanother. There is a little difference between this and kindness. No\nmatter how I found him out. He who runs may read, if he looks sharply\nenough; and in travelling, people betray and assert character\ncontinually. I was also as sure as I was years afterwards, that he would\nwalk rough-shod over heart-violets and -daisies, nor once notice them\nbleeding under his heel. It was in the grain of the man's nature. He had\nlived at least thirty-five years, and was too old to be made over into\nanything else by any experience.\n\nHis bag was half full of tulip-bulbs which he had bought and begged, he\nsaid. He had a passion at present for cultivating tulips, and was quite\nsure, that, if he had lived in the seventeenth instead of the nineteenth\ncentury, he would have ruined himself twenty times over for a favorite\nbulb, even without being a Dutchman.\n\nHis dominant idea, to which for the first hour he sacrificed without\nscruple every other, was flowers. I had a mischievous pleasure in\nprofessing a similar passion, on purpose to confound him with a\ndescription of a Weston flower-garden. If he talked of jessamine and\nDaphne odora, I talked of phlox and bachelor's-buttons. If he raved of\nazaleas and gladioluses, I told him of our China-asters, sunflowers,\nand hollyhocks.\n\n\"Ah, now I see you are laughing at me!\" said he, good-humoredly, after I\nhad said, that, after all, I could not get up an admiration for\nday-lilies or tulips; \"promise me that I may show you my tulips, and I\nwill promise you that you shall like botany hereafter.\"\n\nWe agreed at last to bury the hatchet at the foot of a rose-bush, which\nI said I would allow, excused the existence of other flowers. The bulbs\nhe gave me on the top of the stage-coach that day made a revolution in\nthe taste of Weston; and some climbing plants, from his house\nafterwards, took root in our rude homes, and have displaced the old\nglaring colors with soft beauty and grace. Before I left Weston, which\nhappened in time, we had prairie-roses, honeysuckles, and woodbine\nclambering over half the houses in the place, and bouncing-Bets were\nextinguished forever.\n\nI forgot that we had never heard this man's name, though it did not\nmatter at all. He was a cultivated gentleman, and we had no occasion for\nintroduction. We met freely on that platform, and it was pleasant to us\nto talk on so many subjects outside of personal interest. He had\ntravelled, and gave us results, in a sketchy, off-hand way, of much that\nhe had observed that was extremely entertaining in foreign manners.\n\nSuddenly his loud, cheery voice rang out,--\n\n\"Halloo, old boy, get up here!\"\n\nHe did get up, a languid, pale man, with sharp features, and a frame so\nattenuated that I involuntarily placed a soft bag for him to lean\nagainst, and removed a cane and umbrella that seemed likely to hurt his\nbones.\n\nIt was about half an hour before I saw that the new man was not at all\nan invalid, but of the natural gaunt frame and pallid complexion of my\ncountrymen. My eyes had become so full of the fresh, rosy life of the\nEnglishman's face, that the new man's face was bleached and unhealthy to\nme. I happened to glance back from him to the Dominie, and saw, that,\nallowing for green spectacles, they were both of a color. We were so\narranged on the top of the coach, that with reasonable twisting of necks\nwe were able to maintain an animated conversation, and soon found our\naccount in the new element.\n\n\"Well, Remington!\"\n\n\"Well, Lewis!\"\n\n\"Where from now?\"\n\n\"From Niagara, and home by the White Hills.\"\n\n\"And what of the last, or of both?\"\n\n\"Miss Rugg has fallen into the one, and Miss Somebody has been to the\ntop of the other. Had to be brought down, though. Women shouldn't climb\nmountains.\"\n\n\"There has been some talk of a road, or practicable path at least, to\nthe top of Mount Washington.\"\n\n\"Never'll be done. Impossible on the face of the thing.\"\n\n\"Nothing is impossible to Yankees, Remington.\"\n\n\"This is. And now, Lewis, whence come you, and whither go?\"\n\n\"From Weston, and to New York.\"\n\nHere was a _denouement!_ We looked at him with new interest, and saw at\nonce, such was the force of imagination, the very eyes and eyebrows of\nGus Lewis. However, it proved afterwards to be only imagination. When we\ntold him we came from Weston only two days and a half before, the\nconversation assumed the native style of New England, and for the next\nquarter of an hour we talked of each other and each other's affairs.'\nMr. Lewis was delighted to see us, had stayed only an hour in Weston,\nand there heard of our trip from Auguste,--profanely called Gus,--took\nthe box of maple-sugar in charge at once, laughed at the boy-like\ndirection without even a surname, and ended with recommending us to go\nat once to Miss Post's, on Broadway, where himself and his wife were at\npresent boarding. All the particulars of life, character, and relative\ninterests were discussed between ourselves and Mr. Lewis with the\nrelish and zest of compatriots. I had forgotten how close a tie was that\nof Yankee birth, and how like an unknown tongue our talk was to the\nEnglishman, till we stopped and turned to him to say something, and\nfound him fast asleep. Then I was glad that he hadn't heard my satirical\ndescription of \"donation-parties\" at Weston, nor the account I gave of\nour two boys, our salary of five hundred dollars, and the various\ncomical shifts we had to make to live comfortably on that sum and\nsupport aged parents and graceless relations. Little touches told Mr.\nLewis the whole story. I knew very well that Mr. Remington would be\nentirely abroad about such a social existence as ours in Weston, travel\nhe ever so long or widely.\n\nMr. Lewis had black eyes and hair, and bent like an habitual student. He\nhad a scar on his right eyebrow, which he had got by a fall, and by\nwhich he had saved the life of Mr. Remington, who was a connection of\nhis wife's. This he told us, afterwards, and I amused myself with\ndrawing parallels between his face and his mind. One side was gentle,\nsweet-humored, sentimental, with a touch of melancholy. The other,\ndisfigured with the scar, seemed to have been turned harsh, suspicious,\nproud, reserved, and unrelenting. These were many qualities, all to\ndepend on a scar, to be sure; but they generally herd together, and he\nmight be one man or another, as life presented its dark or sunny side to\nhim. To me, he was very interesting, from the first; and my husband was\ndelighted with him. The Dominie starved in Weston for congenial\nintellectual nutriment. Nobody but myself could tell what a drain it was\non him always to impart, always to simplify, to descend, to walk on the\nground with wings folded flat to his back, and the angel in him\nhabitually kept out of view. The most he could do was to insinuate now\nand then a thought above the farming interest, and in a direction aside\nfrom Bombay. More than that exposed him to suspicion, and hindered his\nusefulness in Co\u00f6s County.\n\nSomehow, we got talking of Mr. Remington, which we might well do, seeing\nhim there before us, sleeping like a baby.\n\n\"That he could always do, like Napoleon,\" said Mr. Lewis, \"and so can\naccomplish much without fatigue.\"\n\n\"Is he married?\" said I.\n\n\"Yes. His wife is in delicate health.\"\n\nI was surprised to hear that he was married.\n\n\"He hasn't a married look, has he?\"\n\n\"You are talking about me,\" said Remington, waking up. \"I felt it\nmesmerically. And, to give you a good opportunity, I will walk a mile or\ntwo. Give me a good character, Lewis. Hold up, driver!\"\n\nSpringing down, he went on, laughing, before us, now and then calling\nback to ask if we were nearly through?\n\n\"He has not the 'subdued domestic smile upon his features mild', that\nmarks the man who has a wife at home,\" said I.\n\n\"No. He is a man, however, born under a lucky star, and his cup filled\nwith good-fortune to the brim. His self-lordship has been to him no\nheritage of woe, thus far.\"\n\n\"A certain happiness, but necessarily of a poor quality, comes from\nbeing able to gratify our wishes. If he has no more, it is poor enough.\"\n\n\"Do you mean that pleasure must be an outgrowth of pain to be properly\nappreciated?\" said Mr. Lewis.\n\n\"Somewhat,--mostly,\" said the minister; \"since the insensibility that\nprotects one from pain prevents also delicate picture. I think, indeed,\na rational being must suffer in order to enjoy, after infancy.\"\n\n\"His eyes don't look as if they had been in training of any sort,\" said\nI, without knowing what my words implied, till I saw the harsh\nexpression on Mr. Lewis's face.'\n\n\"I mean that they have a sort of undisciplined expression, as if he had\nnever been tamed by suffering or sorrow of any sort,\" said I.\n\n\"That sadness is the true human look,\" said the minister, \"the look that\nredeems us from the mere animal expression of enjoyment. It is the\nstamp God puts on those He loves. He chastens them; after that, they are\nno more servants, but sons of the house.\"\n\nI saw by Mr. Lewis's eyes that he understood and felt this. Also, that\nfrom his nature he bought his enjoyments every step of the way of life.\nHow differently his cousin laid hold on the cornucopia of enjoyment, and\ncovered himself with bountiful beauty, drinking in at every sense\npleasure! The former, as could be seen too, held his title to happiness\nby the most uncertain tenure; the nervous quiver betraying, and the\nsensitive blood witnessing, how keenly he felt and how dearly he paid\nfor every passing pleasure. I remember, as I saw his purple, thrilling\nface, that I hoped his home-life was happy, feeling that to such a man\nit must be everything. Yet I was sure, from what he did not say, with\neye or lips, that he had not learned religious trust. Still, he did not\nlisten to the mere minister, but to the friend; and there sprang up\nbetween the two the corresponding interest and respect belonging to\nnatures kindred in depth and sensibility, though of widely differing\nexperience. In after-years, he who had already attained was able\nfrequently to hold out a helping hand to his younger brother; but now,\nonly a smile and a look told much. This acquaintance of the soul is very\nfascinating. In the two or three steps we take together, with cognizance\nand measure of each other, what a long path opens before us of alternate\nshade and sunshine, and how imagination borders every step of the way\nwith richest heart-blossoms! In friendship, all is glowing and\nenriching. As it has not the depth of love, it neither anticipates nor\nrequires sacrifice. We do not think of doing or suffering for a friend;\nbut the friend ministers to our weakness, and exalts our strength. He\nsympathizes gently with our self-love, he magnifies every excellence. He\nis perpetually charmed, alike with the novelty and the similarity of our\nexperience, and unwearied in comparing thoughts and balancing opinions.\nAll, and more, that he gives us, he receives; and so an incipient\nfriendship is one of the most intoxicating delights of life. What long\nleaps in acquaintance we took during our first hour, and while Mr.\nRemington still walked up-hill before us!\n\n\"You will probably have an opportunity to see and judge for yourselves\nof Mr. Remington, as we are together a great deal, and he is a cousin of\nMrs. Lewis's. This will be better than for me to attempt a description,\nI think, and, on the whole, more satisfactory. He annoys me, and offends\nme frequently; and then I am not just to him, of course. But he is a\nfine fellow, honorable and agreeable; and with a love of natural science\nthat leads him, for the time, like a dog. Just now, he is wild with\nfloriculture. Last year, it was geology. You will see.\"\n\nAnd then, as if he feared to trust himself with his cousin's character,\nor that it was a distasteful subject for some reason, he turned to the\nminister, and began talking about Cherry Mountain and the scenery in\nCo\u00f6s.\n\nMr. Remington called out, at the top of the hill,--\n\n\"Now it is my turn! Let me ride, and I will give your character!\"\n\n\"Oh! we don't need it, I assure you,\" said I; \"we understand him\nentirely.\"\n\n\"Not a bit of it!\" said he, shaking his brown curls; \"I am the\ntransparent one.\"\n\nHe stepped up on the wheel-hub to get his bag, and to say he should\nstrike off for Middleton on foot. He would see us very soon in New York,\nand claim our promise to visit him.\n\nBeing relieved from the fascination of personal beauty and presence,\nwith only the impression of character remaining, I was a little ashamed\nto find how much I had liked, without being at all able to esteem him.\nIt was with a very different feeling that I looked at Mr. Lewis, whose\nugly, positively ugly face was being perpetually transfigured with\nemotion and variety. Without grace of feature or figure, he impressed\none as a living soul; and this inward light gave a translucent beauty\nto the frail, chance-shapen vase, which all Mr. Remington's personal\nadvantages of form and color failed to impress us with. Only dark eyes\nof un-sounded depth, and a voice whose rich cadences had an answering\nrhythm in the inward man, showed what his attractions might be, or were,\nto a woman. We became curious to see Mrs. Lewis, of whom we gained no\nidea from his casual references to her.\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\nLYRICS OF THE STREET.\n\n\n  VI.\n\n  PLAY.\n\n  From yon den of double-dealing,\n      With its Devil's host,\n  Come I, maddened out of healing:\n             All is lost!\n\n  So the false wine cannot blind me,\n      Nor the braggart toast;\n  But I know that Hell doth bind me:\n             All is lost!\n\n  Where the lavish gain attracts us,\n      And the easy cost,\n  While the damning dicer backs us,\n             All is lost!\n\n  Blest the rustic in his furrows,\n      Toil- and sweat-embossed;\n  Blest are honest souls in sorrows.\n             All is lost!\n\n  Wifely love, the closer clinging\n      When men need thee most,\n  Shall I come, dishonor bringing?\n             All is lost!\n\n  Babe in silken cradle lying,\n      To low music tossed,\n  Will they wake thee for my dying?\n             All is lost!\n\n  Yonder where the river grimly\n      Whitens, like a ghost,\n  Must I plunge and perish dimly;\n             All is lost!\n\nINTERESTING MANUSCRIPTS OF EDMUND BURKE.\n\n\nMacaulay opens his most remarkable article on Milton by saying, \"The\ndexterous Capuchins never choose to preach on the life and miracles of a\nsaint, till they have awakened the devotional feelings of their auditors\nby exhibiting some relic of him,--a thread of his garment, a lock of his\nhair, or a drop of his blood.\" If we were in the mood, we might take\nadvantage of interesting manuscripts of Edmund Burke, which are now\nbefore us, to say something of this remarkable character. But we shall\nconfine ourselves for the present to a passing glance at the manuscripts\nwhich have strayed across the Atlantic.[A]\n\n[Footnote A: These manuscripts are now in the possession of the Hon.\nCharles Sumner, who is also the fortunate owner of the _Album Amicorum_\ncontaining the autograph of John Milton.--ED.]\n\nThe authentic manuscripts of Burke have passed through several hands. On\nhis death, they were intrusted to the eminent civilian, Dr. French\nLawrence, of Doctors' Commons, and to Dr. King, afterwards Bishop of\nRochester. To these two gentlemen we are indebted for the first eight\nvolumes of the London octavo edition of Burke's Works. The career of Dr.\nLawrence was cut short by death in 1809. His associate had the exclusive\ncharge of the papers till 1812, when the venerable widow of Burke died\nat Beaconsfield, and by her last will gave to Earl Fitzwilliam, the\nBishop of Rochester, and the Right Honorable William Elliott the entire\ndirection of the printing and publishing of such parts of the works of\nher late husband as were not published before her decease,--bequeathing\nto them all the printed and manuscript papers for this purpose. Eight\nmore volumes were published by the Bishop, who died in 1828, a few\nmonths after the publication of the fifteenth and sixteenth volumes. Mr.\nElliott had already died in 1818. The papers now came into the sole\npossession of Earl Fitzwilliam, the distinguished nobleman associated\nwith the latter portion of Burke's life, from whom they descended to his\nson, the late Earl Fitzwilliam, who, in conjunction with Sir Richard\nBourke, published, in 1844, the four volumes of correspondence, with a\nfew notes of unpublished speeches.\n\nWe have personal reason to know that there are yet other unpublished\nmanuscripts of Burke in the hands of Lord Fitzwilliam, some of which it\nwas our fortune many years ago to inspect. Mr. Macknight, it appears,\napplied to the present Earl for permission to publish some of those\nwhich are preserved in the archives of Wentworth House, but, \"out of\nobedience to the expressed wish of his father, who published all he\nthought necessary, he declined to sanction any further publication of\nthese documents.\"[A]\n\n[Footnote A: Macknight's _Life of Burke_, Vol. III. p. 737.]\n\nThere are also letters of Burke which from time to time have seen the\nlight, as they were communicated by their possessors. Among these none\nequals in interest that addressed to Pitt with regard to his pension,\nwhich has been printed recently by Lord Stanhope, in his small, but rich\nand rare collection, entitled \"Miscellanies.\" This important letter came\nto light among the papers of Pitt, and has been described by Macaulay as\n\"interesting and very characteristic.\"\n\nThe manuscripts now before us are none of these. They have a history of\ntheir own.\n\nThey constitute a thin volume in folio, neatly bound, having a\nbook-mark, and arms with the name of _Fillingham_. Here are four\nfamiliar autograph-letters from Burke to his amanuensis, Swift, all of\nthem written from Margate, on the sea-shore, and bearing Burke's frank\nas a member of Parliament. According to habit with us, the frank of a\nmember of Congress is written in the right-hand upper corner of the\nsuperscription, while the old English frank is in the left-hand lower\ncorner. But English law, while the privilege of franking existed,\nrequired also that the name of the place where the letter was pasted,\nand the day on which it was posted, written at length, should appear in\nthe superscription. Take, for instance, the following frank of Burke in\nthis collection:--\n\n  \"Margate July seventeenth, 1791\n  \"Mr Swift,\n  \"Mr Burke's Chambers\n  \"4 Stone Buildings\n  \"Lincoln's Inn\n  \"London.\n\n  \"Edm. Burke.\"\n\nThese letters have been recently published by Mr. Macknight, who says of\nthem that \"they show how kind and familiar Burke was to the humblest\ndependants with whom he was thrown into any human relationship\"; they\nalso \"show the statesman, when at the height of literary fame, as busy\nand anxious in sending his sheets through the press, and making\ncorrections and alterations, as any young author with his first proofs\";\nand he adds, \"These letters seem to me quite as important, as\nillustrations of Burke's private character, as those which he wrote to\nthe Nagles in former years.\" It seems that the amanuensis to whom they\nwere addressed had at his death other similar letters in his possession;\nbut his wife, ignorant of their value, deliberately committed them to\nthe names, and the four now before us are all that were saved. Mr.\nMacknight adds, in a note,--\"These letters I owe to the kindness of John\nFillingham, Esq., of Hoxton, who allowed me to inspect and copy the\noriginals.\"[A]\n\n[Footnote A: _Life of Burke_, Vol. III. p. 410.]\n\nOf one of these letters there is an accurate _fac-simile_, which will be\nfound in the third volume of Mr. Macknight's elaborate biography of\nBurke.\n\nBut the main paper in the collection is none other than the manuscript\nof the \"Observations on the Conduct of the Minority,\" being the\n_identical copy_ from which the surreptitious publication was made which\ndisturbed the last hours of Burke. The body of it is in the handwriting\nof the amanuensis to whom the familiar letters were addressed; but it\nshows the revision of Burke, and on several pages most minute and\nelaborate corrections and additions, with changes of sections. Of one of\nthese pages there is an accurate _fac-simile_ in the third volume of Mr.\nMacknight, who says that \"the manuscript was given by Swift's sister,\nafter his death, to the gentleman who kindly permitted him to inspect\nit.\" [A]\n\n[Footnote A: _Lifo of Burke_, Vol. III. p. 700.]\n\nThese manuscripts--both the letters and the Observations--all concern\nthe closing period of Burke's life, after the unhappy feud between\nhimself and Fox, to which they directly relate. In order to appreciate\ntheir value, we must glance at the scene by which the memorable\nfriendship of these men was closed.\n\nFew political events in English history are read with more interest than\nthe separation of Burke and Fox. They had been friends and allies; but\nthe French Revolution, which separated so many persons in France,\nreached across the Channel to separate them. They differed so radically\nwith regard to this portentous, undeveloped movement, that their\nrelations, both political and personal, were rudely severed. Burke, in\nthe House of Commons, openly announced this result. He was most\nearnestly inveighing against France, when he said, \"It may be indiscreet\nin me at my time of life to provoke enemies, and give occasion to\nfriends to desert me.\" Fox whispered, \"There is no loss of friends.\"\nBurke for a moment paused, and then exclaimed, \"Yes, there is a loss of\nfriends; I know the price of my conduct. I have done my duty at the\nexpense of my friend. Our friendship is at an end.\" As he finished,\nBurke walked across the floor of the House, and squeezed himself between\nPitt and Dundas on the Treasury Bench. Fox rose to reply, while tears\nstreamed down his face. In the course of his remarks he intimated that\nBurke had heaped upon him the most ignominious terms. Burke at once said\nthat he did not recollect having used any; when Fox replied, \"My right\nhonorable friend does not recollect the epithets. They are out of his\nmind. Then they are completely and forever out of mine. I cannot cherish\na recollection so painful; and from this moment they are obliterated and\nforgotten.\"\n\nBut the difference was too intense. A few days later it broke forth\nagain. \"I complain,\" said Burke, \"of being obliged to stand upon my\ndefence by the right honorable gentleman, who, when a young man, was\nbrought to me and evinced the most promising talents, which I used my\nbest endeavors to cultivate; and this man, who has arrived at the\nmaturity of being the most brilliant and powerful debater that ever\nexisted, has described me as having deserted and abandoned every one of\nmy principles!\" Fox replied, but alluded to Burke no longer as \"friend\",\nbut as \"the right honorable gentleman\", and said, in a taunting style,\nthat \"all he had to do was to repent, and his friends would be ready to\nreceive him back and love him as they had previously done\". Burke was\nindignant. He said,--\"I have gone through my youth without encountering\nany party disgrace, and though in my age I have been so unfortunate as\nto meet it, I do not solicit the right honorable gentleman's friendship,\nnor that of any other man, either on one side of the House or the\nother.\" [A] This most important and historic friendship was at an end.\n\n[Footnote A:_Parliamentary History_ Vol. XXIX. p. 426.]\n\nThe larger part of the Whigs at that time sided with Fox. But Burke\nturned away from Parliament and politicians in one of the most masterly\nproductions of his pen, entitled, \"An Appeal from the New to the Old\nWhigs.\" One of the autograph-letters in the collection before us,\naddressed to the amanuensis, Swift, relates to the last corrections of\nthis tract, and contains the title, arranged for the printer. It is the\nletter of which a _fac-simile_ is given by Mr. Macknight.\n\nMeanwhile, the difference between the two statesmen became more fixed\nand intense. The Whig Club declared, \"that their confidence in Mr. Fox\nwas confirmed, strengthened, and increased by the calumnies against\nhim.\" Burke and some forty-five noblemen and gentlemen withdrew from the\nclub. It was then that Burke, in justification of himself and his\nfriends, took the pen, and drew up what his biographer Prior calls the\n\"famous\" paper, entitled, \"Observations on the Conduct of the Minority,\nparticularly in the Last Session of Parliament, addressed to the Duke of\nPortland and Lord Fitzwilliam, 1793,\" which will be found in the third\nvolume of Bonn's edition of his Works.\n\nThis paper presents, in fifty-four articles, duly numbered, objections\nto the course and policy of Fox. It was, in brief, an arraignment of\nthat distinguished gentleman. But it was not intended for publication,\nat least at that time. It was transmitted to the Duke of Portland, with\na letter, asking that it might not even be read at once, but that the\nDuke would keep it locked in the drawer of his library-table, and when a\nday of compulsory reflection came, then be pleased to turn to it.\nCommunicated thus in confidence, it might have remained indefinitely, if\nnot always, unknown to the public, locked in the ducal drawer, if the\namanuensis whom Burke employed in copying it had not betrayed him. This\nwas none other than Swift, to whom the familiar letters were addressed.\nUnknown to his employer, he had appropriated to himself a copy in his\nown handwriting, with corrections and additions by Burke, which seems to\nhave come between the original rough draught and the final copy\ntransmitted to the Duke of Portland. Some time afterwards, while Burke\nwas in his last illness, feeble and failing fast, this faithless\nscrivener communicated this copy to an equally faithless publisher, by\nwhom it was advertised as \"Fifty-Four Articles of Impeachment against\nthe Eight Honorable C.J. Fox.\" When this was seen by Mrs. Burke, she\nfelt it her duty to keep all newspapers and letters from her husband,\nthat he might know nothing of the treachery, at least until it was\nrelieved so far as it could be. Dr. Lawrence and Dr. King, assisted by\nthe affidavit of Mr. Rivington, succeeded in obtaining an injunction\nagainst the publisher on the very day when the tract appeared. But two\nthousand copies had already stolen abroad.\n\nIt was not until Mrs. Burke, on opening a letter from Dr. Lawrence to\nher husband, learned that the injunction had been obtained, that, at two\no'clock in the afternoon of the 15th of February, 1797, she delivered to\nhim his newspapers and correspondence for the past week. He was less\ndisturbed than had been expected. \"This affair does vex me,\" he said;\n\"but I am not in a state of health at present to be deeply vexed at\nanything. Had I intended it for the public, I should have been more\nexact and full. Many temperaments and explanations there would have\nbeen, if ever I had had a notion that it should meet the public eye.\" He\nwas justly indignant at the knavish publisher, whose conduct surpassed\nthat of the Dublin pirates, or Edmund Curll. But he was at a loss to\nknow how the publisher obtained a copy. He did not suppose that the Duke\nof Portland had given up his, and he remembered only \"the rough and\nincorrect papers\" constituting the first draught, which, it seems, Dr.\nLawrence, about a year before, had paid the false Swift a guinea to\ndeliver back. He had forgotten the intermediate copy made by Swift and\ncorrected by himself.\n\nThis illicit publication, especially under such a title, was calculated\nto attract attention. Its author was dying, so that it seemed to be his\nlast words. Pitt read it with delight, and declared it to be a model in\nthat style of composition. But his latest biographer says of it, that\n\"it may, perhaps, be regretted that Burke ever wrote the 'Observations\non the Conduct of the Minority.' It is certainly the least pleasing of\nall his compositions.\"[A] In style, it is direct, terse, and compact,\nbeyond any other composition of Burke's. Perhaps, as it was not intended\nfor the public, he was less tempted to rhetorical indulgence. But the\nmanuscript now before us exhibits the minute care with which it was\nexecuted. Here also may be traced varieties of expression, constituting\nthe different forms which a thought assumed, not unlike the various\ndrawings of Raffaelle for the same wonderful picture.\n\n[Footnote A: Macknight, Vol. III. p. 532.]\n\nBut we must stop. It is only as a literary curiosity that we are now\ndealing with this relic.\n\nHARVARD'S HEROES.\n\n\nThe stranger who enters the nave of St. Paul's Cathedral in London\ncannot fail to notice the superb pulpit which stands at the angle of the\nchoir. It is composed of rare and costly marbles and other precious\nstones. But, beautiful and fitting as it is, its greatest value lies in\nthe circumstance which placed it there. It is a memorial, the tribute of\naffection. It was erected by his surviving comrades in arms to a noble\nofficer of the Indian army. Yet this, from its position a [Greek: kt\u00eama\nes aei], is only one among numberless like monuments which the traveller\nin England meets at every turn. In public squares, in parish churches,\nin stately cathedrals,--wherever the eye of the wayfarer can be\narrested, whereever the pride of country is most deeply stirred,\nwherever the sentiment of loyalty is consecrated by religion,--the\nEnglishman loves to guard from oblivion the names of his honored dead.\nThere is in this both a cause and a consequence of that intense local\npride and affection by which the men of Great Britain are bound to the\nscenes of their early lives.\n\n\"It will never do for us to be beaten,\" said the Duke at Waterloo;\n\"think what they will say of us at home!\"--and this simple sentence went\nstraight to the heart of every man who heard. What they will say at home\nis the prevailing thought in each young soldier's heart as he goes into\nhis first fight. And \"home\" does not mean for him so much broad England\nas it does the little hamlet where he was born, the school where he was\ntrained, the county in which his forefathers were honored in times gone\nby. He thinks of his name, henceforward linked with a glorious victory!\nwhispered around among the groups who linger in the church-yard after\nthe morning service. He trusts, that, if he fall nobly, there will be\nfor him the memorial window through whose blazoned panes the sunlight\nwill fall softly across the \"squire's pew,\" where as a boy he knelt and\nworshipped, or touch with a crimson and azure gleam the marble effigies\nof his knightly sires recumbent on their tombs. Or he thinks of a place\namong the lettered names high up on the old oaken wall of the\nschool-room at Winchester or Harrow or Westminster,--that future boys,\nplaying where he played, shall talk of him whom they never knew as \"one\nof ours.\" For he is well aware that he is making fame not for himself\nalone, but to be prized where he himself has been most loved and\nhappiest.\n\nWe, in this new land of ours, have but a very faint experience of the\nintense working of such influences upon a people in whom the local\nassociation and sentiment are ingrained. We are but just beginning where\nEnglishmen began eight centuries and more ago. Hence our glorifying of\nthe past has been a little indiscriminate, and withal has sought to\ncommemorate events more than individuals. But the last two years have\ntaken us through one of those great periods which, in their concentrated\nenergy, compress the work of years into days, and which mark the\nwater-sheds of history. The United States of 1865 will be as unlike the\nsame land in 1855 as the youth is unlike the child. Life is measured by\naction, not duration. The brilliant epoch of the first Persian invasion\nwas more to Greece than its slumbering centuries under Turkish rule, and\n\"fifty years of Europe\" more \"than a cycle of Cathay.\" We shall look\nback upon a past. We shall have a truly national existence. It will be\nbut natural, as it will be most wise, that we take heed of those\nelements which have ever been so potent in strengthening national\ncharacter. One of these has been briefly hinted at above. Yet it may be\nundesirable to perpetuate the memory of events in which the whole\ncountry cannot participate, which will not for the remainder of this\ncentury be thought of by one section without shame and confusion of\nface, and which will only tend to keep alive the sad old jealousies and\nhates. We shall be very loath to place our monumental columns upon the\nfields of Antietam and Gettysburg. We should not tolerate them upon the\nslopes of Manassas or the bluffs of Edwards' Ferry. When the war is\nended, and the best guardian of our internal commerce is the loyalty of\nthe returning citizens to their old allegiance, we shall do wisely to\nlevel the earthworks of Vicksburg and Port Hudson. In the city where\nmob-violence is crushed under the force of armed law, no one cares to\nkeep for a day the crumbling walls and the shattered barricade, though\nthey may have witnessed heroism as splendid as Arcola or Wagram, for\nthey witness also to a wickedness and a terror which all would gladly\nforget. The only memorial that a wise and high-souled nation _can_ erect\nafter this war will be the single monument which shall commemorate the\nhour of peace restored.\n\nBut while we are debarred from thus recording upon tablets more lasting\nthan brass the story of our mournful triumphs over erring brethren, we\nare doubly bound in gratitude to keep green the memory of the men who\nhave deserved well of their country in the hour of utmost need. We ought\nto do this also in that temper which shall look most singly to the noble\nend of forming heroic traditions for the youth of our future land. I\nknow no place where this can be more fitly carried out than in\nNew-England's foremost university. Coeval with the commonwealth itself,\nthe starry roll of its heroes links it with all the fortunes of our\nhistory. Men who sat in the Long Parliament, and who may have seen the\nBattles of Worcester and Dunbar, took their early degrees upon Harvard's\nfirst Commencement-stage. Her sons fought against King Philip, were\ncolonels and captains in the \"old French War,\" went forth in the days of\nWolfe and Amherst, and exchanged the lexicon for the musket in the eight\nyears' struggle which gave to the Thirteen Colonies their independence.\nAlumni still survive who did military duty in the second war with\nEngland. The men of Harvard were with Taylor at Buena Vista, and helped\nScott in his victorious march upon the Aztec capital. Of these the only\nrecord is in the annual necrology and the quaint Latin of the\n\"Triennial.\"\n\nFor the young heroes who dropped the oar and took up the sword, who laid\naside the gown for the sash and shoulder-strap, who, first in the\nbloodless triumphs of the regatta and in \"capital training\" for the\ngreat race of life where literary and professional fame are the prizes,\nwent forth to venture all for honor and country, the Alma Mater surely\nshould have a special commemoration. For her own sake, because of her\nhigh responsibility in the education of \"ingenuous youth,\" she can do no\nless. I will venture to say that not a Harvard man, among all the loyal\nthousands of her surviving Alumni, but feels his heart beat quicker as\nhe reads the story of her children amid their \"baptism of fire.\" There\nis a notable peculiarity about this the most purely New-England of our\ncolleges,--the continual recurrence of familiar patronymics. I take up\nthe last semi-annual catalogue, and there among the five hundred names I\ncan almost make out my own classmates of twenty years ago. Abbots,\nBigelows, Lawrences, Masons, Russells,--they come with every\nCommencement-season. Some families have had for every generation in a\nhundred and fifty years a representative in her halls. There is a patent\nof nobility in this, such peerage as a republic can rightly confer, the\ncoronet which marks the union of birth and worth. We cannot, we, the\nAlumni, suffer these our brothers to sleep unhonored. Those who shall\ncome after us, who shall fill our places in dear Old Harvard, shall\noccupy our ancient rooms in Hollis and Massachusetts and Stoughton and\nHolworthy, have a right not only to count the academic wreaths which\nhave been won in past days by their namesakes, but also to be taught the\ninspiring lesson of holy love of country, of highest courage and truth\nand soldierly virtue.\n\nAnd how shall this be done? Let these few remaining lines suggest at\nleast one plan. Harvard's chief want is a hall for her Alumni, one\nworthy, in architecture and convenience, of her children's fame, which\nHarvard Hall is not. That long, awkward room, very hot and cramped to\ndine in at midsummer, hotter and more cramped still for the Class-day\ndances, is just fit for one purpose,--the declamation-exercises of the\nSophomore year. Let us have a hall fit for Commencements, for Alumni and\nPhi-Beta orations, for our annual dinners, worthy of the \"Doctor's\"\npoems and the \"General's\" speeches, with a wainscot, not of vulgar\nplaster, but of noble oak, against which Copley's pictures and Story's\nbusts may properly be placed.\n\nThen let its windows be filled, as in the glorious halls and chapels of\nEngland, with memorial glass. Let one of these, if no more, be formed,\nof the costliest and most perfect workmanship our art can compass, to\nthe memory of the Heroes of Harvard. It shall be the gift of every class\nwhich counts among its members one of these. There, amid the gorgeous\nemblazonry, shall be read their names, their academic year, their\nbattles.\n\nOr, if this may not be, because our Alma Mater is still too poor or too\nhumble to offer to her returning children such banqueting-place,--if\nthere is no Wykcham or Waynflete or Wolsey to arch for us the\nhigh-embowed roof, let us place our memorial in the Library, along its\nshaded alcoves and above its broad portals. There the bright shadows\nshall sleep and pass with the sliding day, where the young scholars\nmused and studied. There the future student, as he walks, shall read as\nnoble a lesson as he can glean from any of the groaning shelves and\ndusty tomes. There shall be for Harvard her _Libro d'Oro_ wherein she\nhas written the names of her best-beloved.\n\nSome token let us have that they are unforgotten. It was no quarrel of\nvulgar ambition in which they fell. It was the sacred strife for which\nthe mother armed them when she sent them forth. For her they fought, for\nculture, generous learning, noble arts, for all that makes a land great\nand glorious, against the barbarism of anarchy and the baseness of a\nsystem founded upon wrong and oppression. We cannot, indeed, forget them\nwhile we live to come up to our annual gathering, and see the vacant\nplaces amid familiar ranks. There will then be question and reply,\nsaddening, but proud. \"He fell at Port Hudson, cheering on the forlorn\nhope.\" \"He lies beneath the forest-trees of Chancellorsville.\" \"He was\nslain upon the glacis of Fredericksburg.\" \"He died in the foul prisons\nof Richmond.\" We cannot forget them, and we would fain leave the\nmemorial of them to future generations. Their fame belongs to Harvard;\nfor what they learned there could not be other than noble, inspiring,\nmanly. Let Harvard make the plan, and give the call, and all of us, from\nour distant homes and according to our ability, will offer our gifts\nwith gladness. Let the graduates who have leisure and taste and means,\nand who are still dwelling under the pleasant shades of the Cambridge\nelms, come together and take up the matter while love and gratitude and\npride are fresh.\n\nWHO IS ROEBUCK?\n\n\nAn inquiring American mind, seeking the solution of this momentous\nquestion, would naturally turn to Appleton's \"New Cyclop\u00e6dia,\" Vol.\nXIV., page 131. The inquiring mind would be enlightened in a somewhat\nbewildering manner by the description there laid down of a little\nanimal, some of whose qualities are thus set forth in the first article\non the page indicated above:--\n\n\"ROEBUCK. A small European deer of the genus _Capreolus_.... The skull\nhas a very small, shallow suborbital pit, ... tear-bag indistinct, hoofs\nnarrow and triangular.... The color in summer is reddish brown, in\nwinter olive, with paler shades; inside of the ears fulvous, and a black\nspot at the angles of the mouth.... It is about four feet long.... The\nhorns are used for knife-handles.... They congregate in small families,\nbut not in herds.... From their strong scent they are easily hunted;\nthough they frequently escape by their speed, doublings, springing to\ncover, and other artifices.... The roebucks are represented in North\nAmerica by the Virginia deer.\"\n\nInquiring mind, not wishing for researches in the direction of Natural\nHistory, albeit the subject of parallelisms is a somewhat curious study\nand in special cases infinitely amusing, passes on to the next article\nin the Cyclop\u00e6dia.\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\nIt is sufficiently obvious that it requires neither fame nor greatness\nto excite public curiosity. A notorious criminal or an unusually\neccentric lunatic frequently gives rise to a larger share of\nnewspaper-comment and general discussion than the wisest and most\nvirtuous of mankind. It must be well remembered by those who have read\nTom Taylor's Life of Haydon that a dwarf was attracting thousands to the\nEgyptian Hall in Piccadilly, London, while the historical painter, stung\nto madness by the neglect of the frivolous crowd, committed the hideous\nand ghastly suicide which threw a tragic darkness over the close of his\nstrange and troubled existence. The desperate and dangerous frequently\nsucceed in placing themselves on a bad eminence, from which they are\nconspicuous enough; and if to be talked of and pointed at be the sole\nobject of their ambition, they can, of course, be congratulated on their\nsuccess. Virtue may sit in humble and obscure usefulness at a thousand\nquiet firesides, while the work of the incendiary may be seen to spread\nwidely, and the tumult of his mischief be heard from afar. And so any\npublic man or politician, whose taste is so morbidly depraved and whose\naim in life is so debased as to prefer notoriety to honest, useful\nservice, may revel in the questionable enjoyment of being the especial\ntheme of public debate and private conversation. Hence it happens that\nso many of our fellow-countrymen are at this moment asking the question\nwith which we head these pages,--\"Who is Roebuck?\"\n\nAn unhappy culprit, who combined with an innocent taste for green peas a\nthievish method of acquiring their usual savory accompaniment, is\nreported to have been addressed by an English judge in the following\nfelicitous terms:--\"Prisoner at the bar, Providence has endowed you with\nhealth and strength, _instead of which_ you go about the country\nstealing ducks.\" Providence has endowed John Arthur Roebuck, member of\nthe Parliament of Great Britain, with fair talents and some power of\nspeech, _instead of which_ (to use the accurate judicial ellipsis) he\ngoes about using violent and vulgar words of menace against those who\nhave never offended him, and scattering firebrands as if there were no\ngun-powder anywhere to ignite and explode. This would be a mean and\nmischievous occupation for the dullest man; but for one who has proved\nby his very failures that he is not devoid of intellect or energy, it\nis a monstrous perversion of mental gifts, even if they are small.\n\nA portion of the fiery heat of his nature may be traced, perhaps, to the\nfact that he was born at Madras; but as on the mother's side he is\ndescended from the poet Tickell, the friend of Addison, it would not be\naltogether unreasonable to have expected in him some few of the\namenities of the _liter\u00e6 humaniores_. He soon, however, exchanged the\ntorrid scenes of Oriental life for the snows of Canada, where he\nreceived his education; and when we remember what the bizarre oddities\nof his subsequent career have been, it might be interesting, if we had\nthe materials for the purpose, to inquire what that education was. The\nBritish Provinces, however, were not deemed a sufficiently ample theatre\nof action for the energy of the capacious soul that dwelt in that not\nover-capacious body; and so, at the age of twenty-three, he repaired to\nEngland and commenced his studies for the profession of the law.\n\nHe was called to the bar in 1832. He had, however, by no means paid an\nexclusive attention to the study of the law, or his success in his\nprofession might have been greater, and the world might have had a good\nlawyer instead of a bad politician. The period of his Inner-Temple\nstudent-life was a very stirring time in England. Old principles were\ndying out, and wrestling in death-struggle with newer and wider theories\nof human liberty and human progress. The young East-Indian Canadian\nrushed with natural impetuosity into the arena, and was one of the most\nreckless and noisy debating-club spouters of the day. In speaking of the\nReform Bill at a meeting at a tavern in London, he said, that, if the\nbill did not pass, he for one should like to \"wade the streets of the\ncapital knee-deep in blood.\" It was consoling to reflect, even at the\ntime, that the atrocious aspiration was mitigated by the reflection that\nit would not require a deluge of gore to reach the knees of such a\nZacch\u00e6us as Roebuck. \"Pretty wicious that for a child of six!\" said the\namiable Mr. Squeers on one occasion; and pretty sanguinary that, say we,\nfor a rising little demagogue of thirty.\n\nAs England was at that time in a seething ferment of excitement, men who\nwere unscrupulous in their language were at a premium in the political\nmarket, and the respectable constituency of the pleasant watering-place\nof Bath, in Somersetshire, elected the fierce little man as their\nrepresentative in the Imperial Parliament. This was a great start in\nlife for the new-fledged barrister, and, had he moderated his\noverweening vanity, and studied wisely, and with some self-abnegation\nand honest adherence to party, he might have risen to some useful\nposition, and been saved, at least, from the indignity of fetching and\ncarrying for the Emperor of Austria, and from the impertinence of\nintruding himself into the august presence of Mr. Kinglake's amiable and\nvirtuous friend, the Emperor of France. The English nation might then\npossibly have pointed to his portrait in their historical gallery as\nthat of an efficient public servant who had deserved well of his\ncountry, and he might have escaped a ludicrous immortality as the Dog\nTear-'em, in the recent admirable sketch in \"Punch.\"\n\nBut, in the words of a political song,--\n\n    \"There weren't no such luck\n    For John A. Roebuck,\n  And he thought he would teach the whole nation\n    That the Tories were fools,\n    And the Whigs only tools,\n  But Roebuck was England's salvation.\"\n\nAnd he, according to this programme, set himself to reform the\nConstitution and protect the Colonies.\n\n  \"Nullius addictus jurare in verba magistri,\"\n\nhe was an eclectic in politics,--acknowledged no leader, had himself no\nfollowers. A chief without a party, an apostle without disciples, a\ncritic without the merest ordinary penetration, a cynic whose bitterness\nwas not enlivened by wit or humor, a spouter whose arguments, when he\nhad any, were usually furnished from the mint, John Arthur Roebuck was\nfor many years that impersonation of terrific honesty, glaring purity,\nand indignant virtue, known in English politics as an INDEPENDENT member\nof Parliament. When party-spirit runs high, and many party-men are\ndisposed to be unscrupulous in the measures and artifices by which they\nwin or retain place and power, such a position, occupied with judgment\nand fortified by modesty and good sense, is a most powerful and a most\nbeneficent one; but it is useless when seized on by one whose obtrusive\negotism and more than feminine vanity disqualify him for any serious or\npermanent influence on his fellow-men. When a Pocket-Diogenes rolls his\nlittle tub into the House of Commons, and complains that everybody is\nstanding between him and the sun,--why, in an assembly of educated and\nsensible men the sham is soon discovered, the pseudo-cynic seen through,\nand his affected misanthropy deservedly gains for him universal derision\nand scorn. Some years after he entered Parliament, Mr. Disraeli, with\nwhom he had many encounters, in which he was invariably worsted, made\nthe House roar with laughter by taunting Roebuck with his \"Sadler's\nWells sarcasms and melodramatic malignities,\" and drew a most amusing\npicture of him as \"a solitary sentinel pacing round the deserted citadel\nof his own opinions.\"\n\n  \"He who surpasses or subdues mankind\n  Must look down on the hate of those below\";\n\nbut as Mr. Roebuck has done neither the one nor the other, his only\nchance of not being utterly forgotten, instead of being feared or hated,\nby his contemporaries, is to continue his work of mischief, and merely\nchange the object of his puny attacks as one becomes more prominent than\nanother, and as he can manage to maintain his own quasi-importance by\nattaching his name to great questions. He had no special dislike for\nthis country; so far from that, he admired and praised us, as by an\nextract from one of his books we will presently prove; but since he has\nbecome a self-appointed lackey, has donned imperial livery, and as a\nvolunteer does the dirty work of despots, he must have lost all sympathy\nwith and all regard for an independent, free, and brave people. We hope\nand believe that this country vastly prefers his censure to his praise,\nand, as far as it has leisure at the present crisis for any serious\nconsideration of his erratic pranks, would rather have his enmity than\nhis friendship. _Non tali auxilio!_\n\nBut we must recur to his inconsistent and rather uninteresting career,\nand so satisfy, and perhaps weary, the curiosity of any reader who is\nstill disposed to ask the momentous question, \"Who is Roebuck?\"\n\nIn 1835, he was appointed the agent--the _paid_ agent--of the House of\nAssembly of Lower Canada, during the dispute then raging between the\nExecutive Government and the House of Assembly. As Englishmen especially\nplume themselves on the fact that the members of their legislative\nbodies are unremunerated, it is somewhat difficult to understand how\nthis exception was made in John Arthur's favor. As a precedent it is to\nbe hoped that it has not been followed; for it is obvious that such an\narrangement, however advantageous or pleasant to individual members,\nmight throw grave suspicions on the purity of public men, and introduce\na wholesale venality into public life. If such a system is permitted,\nany foreign monarch or any foreign government may secure the services of\na British senator as his agent and representative. It is quite appalling\nto think that the chivalrous Earl of Derby or the conscientious Mr.\nGladstone should be shocked by the offer of a handsome annual salary\npaid quarterly, (not deducting the income-tax,) made by the King of\nDahomey for an eloquent defence of his humane and enlightened rule, or\nby an equally munificent donative from the famous and merry monarch of\nthe Cannibal Islands for the support of himself and his loyal subjects\nin their copious consumption of human flesh. We should be sorry wantonly\nto raise so dreadful a suspicion; but if British M.P.s are permitted,\naccording to the Roebuck precedent, to be PAID agents, why has not\nSouthern money found its way into senatorial pockets? Greedy Mr. Laird,\nand unscrupulous, money-loving Mr. Lindsay,[A] always resolutely\ngrubbing for the main chance, are perhaps sufficiently paid by indirect,\nthough heavy gains in shipbuilding. Needy Mr. Roebuck may be salaried by\nthe Emperor of Austria, though there is nothing to prove, except his own\nopen-mouthed and loud-tongued professions of purity, that he is not\n\"_paid_ agent\" of the Confederate Government. The indulgence of the evil\nfeelings of malice and uncharitableness may, however, sufficiently\nrecompense him; and to him, perhaps, his virtue may be its own reward.\nBut if paid agencies are not permitted, a very serious suspicion fastens\non that hard-mouthed, rising lordling, Robert Cecil, son of the Marquis\nof Salisbury, and one of the most active and energetic champions of the\nslave-mongers of the South. The young lord, it is well known, stepped\ndown from the lofty pedestal of a bad pedigree to marry the fair, but\nportionless daughter of an English judge; his father is proverbially\nmean and stingy, and the young lord himself proportionately poor; and in\nthe intervals of his strenuous advocacy of the claims of the Rebels to\nEuropean recognition he laudably ekes out his very narrow income by\nwriting articles for the London newspapers and reviews; and rumor says\nthat he communicates gossiping letters, full of piquant and satirical\nsketches of the proceedings of the House of Commons to two or three of\nthe provincial papers. He is under these circumstances peculiarly open\nto suspicion. If the proceeding in question is a usual one, why does he\nnot openly avow it? If it is unusual or improper, why does he not deny\nthe soft impeachment so much credited both in this country and in his\nown? It is really refreshing to contemplate, that Roebuck, after being\nthe paid agent of the Canadian House of Assembly, should have become\nsuch a _purist_ as to drag poor Mr. Isaac Butt before the notice of the\nCommons, and scream for the censure on him on a mere suspicion that he\nhad touched the yellow and handsome gold coins of one of the innumerable\nIndian princes and rajahs who come to England with complaints of\ngrievances, sometimes real, and sometimes fictitious, against the\nBritish Government.\n\n[Footnote A: Lindsay's fawning, plastic sycophancy is well known this\nside the water. After shrewdly filling his coffers with profits from\nNorthern business-transactions, he now turns about, kicks his old\nfriends, who always half suspected his knavish propensities, bows, cap\nin hand, to visionary cotton-bales, and hopes to turn some honest\npounds, shillings, and pence by advocating the slave-drivers' rebellion.\nA \"fool's gudgeon\" will surely reward his laborious endeavors for\nSouthern gold, that article growing beautifully less every day.]\n\nDuring the period of the \"paid agency\" Roebuck was tolerably industrious\nwith his pen; but in literature and journalism he proved his utter\nincapacity for joining in any combined action. Such was his dogged\nself-assertion and indomitable egotism that none of the ordinary\nchannels would answer his purpose; and so he issued a series of\npolitical papers, entitled \"Pamphlets for the People,\" to which the\ncurious may sometimes refer, but which have now lost all their\nsignificance and interest. His quarrels with editors and publishers were\nnotorious; and an altercation with Mr. Black, the well-known editor of\nthe \"Morning Chronicle,\" eventuated in a duel so bloodless as to be\nridiculous. David's pebble did not reach Goliath, and Goliath was\nequally merciful to David. In these pamphlets he violently assailed the\nwhole body of editors, sub-editors, reporters, etc., of most of the\npapers of any note. And the more accustomed he became to the House of\nCommons, the greater liberties did he take with the conventional\nfairness and courtesy of debate. His personality and scurrility were so\nindiscriminating and excessive that he was perhaps at this time the most\nunpopular member of the House.\n\nIn 1837 he lost his election for Bath, but was reelected in 1841. In a\nsubsequent contest at Bath he was successfully opposed by Lord Ashley,\nthe present Earl of Shaftesbury. On this occasion he exhibited even more\nthan his usual bad temper and bad taste. He declined to accept Lord\nAshley's proffered hand; and in the chagrin and vexation occasioned by\nunexpected defeat he uttered a rabid invective against the\nNon-Conformist ministers of the place, to whose influence he rightly\nattributed his rival's success. Lord Ashley was a well-known\nphilanthropist, and his consistent support and patronage of many\nreligious and charitable societies had naturally given him popularity\namong the Protestant clergy of all denominations,--a popularity\nheightened in the case of the Evangelical and Calvinistic ministers by\nhis Lordship's strict Sabbatarianism and his belief in cold dinners on\nSunday. On the other hand, Mr. Roebuck was openly accused of private\nprofessions of skepticism in matters of religion; and this report, so\ndangerous to the repute of any public man in England, (where theology\nand politics so frequently cross each other,) considerably damaged his\nchance of success. Lord Ashley, however, was in no way responsible for\nthe rumor; and the difference between the conduct of the two during the\ncontest was this, that Lord Ashley behaved like a gentleman and Mr.\nRoebuck did not.\n\nDuring his retirement into private life, after this defeat in 1847, he\nwrote his work entitled \"The History of the Whig Ministry of 1830,\"--a\nbook in the preparation of which he is said to have received\nconsiderable and valuable assistance from no less a person than Lord\nBrougham. Despite the aid that he received, it is amusing to find in his\npreface a characteristic vaunting of his entire difference with Lord\nBrougham about the character of King William IV. \"Lord Brougham,\" he\nwrites, \"is accustomed to describe William IV as frank, just, and\nstraightforward. We believe him to have been very weak and very false, a\nfinished dissembler, and always bitterly hostile to the Whig Ministry\nand their great measure of Reform.\" This is Roebuck all over. He would\ninfinitely rather argue that white was black than quietly coincide in\nany generally received opinion.\n\nWhile on the subject of his writings, we will mention the book in which\nhe vouchsafed to praise those whom he now so elaborately vilifies. In\n1849 he published an octavo volume of two hundred and forty-eight pages\non \"The Colonies of England.\" Speaking (page 84) of the vast and rapid\nprogress made by this country, he says:--\n\n\"We are led to inquire by what machinery, by what favoring\ncircumstances, such a result has been brought about. The people, be it\nremarked, are the same as ourselves,--the original Thirteen States were\nthe work of Englishmen. English heads, English hearts, English hands\nbrought those new communities into existence. No longer connected by\ngovernment with us, they nevertheless retained the characteristics of\nthe race from which they sprang, and proceeding in the great work to\nwhich they were destined, they strode across the continent, the fairest\nportion of which they could now call their own. In planting new\nsettlements they were aided by our own people,--the very elements _out\nof which we endeavor to frame colonies, and with which we do produce\nsickly, miserable communities that can only be said to exist, and to\nlinger on in a sort of half-life_, without the spirit of a young, or the\namenities and polish of an old community, and, above all, _without any\nspirit of independence_.\"\n\nAgain, speaking of colonization In this country as opposed to Canada and\nother English colonies, he writes (page 88):--\"Certain adventurous\npersons, the 'pioneers' of civilization, wishing to make new settlements\nbeyond the boundaries of Pennsylvania and Virginia, upon wild lands\nbelonging to the United States, made formal application to the\nGovernment of the United States at Washington, who, being bound to\nafford all possible facility, thereupon take steps to have the land\nsurveyed and laid out into counties, townships, parishes. The roads are\nalso indicated, and at once the law exists; and security, guarantied by\nthe authority of the United States, immediately follows, both for person\nand property; and all the machinery known to the Common Law, and needed\nfor the maintenance of this security, and the enforcement of the law's\ndecrees, is at once adopted. A municipal authority comes into existence;\na court-house, a jail, a school-room, arise in the wilderness; and\nalthough these buildings be humble, and the men who exercise authority\nin them may appear to be in some degree rude, yet is the law there in\nall its useful majesty. To it a reverent obedience is rendered; and the\nplain magistrate, who, in a hunter's frock, may, in the name of the\nUnited States, pronounce the law's decree, commands an obedience as\ncomplete and sincere as that which is paid to the Chief-Justice of the\nSupreme Court at Washington, or to the ermined judge who presides in the\ncourts of our Lady the Queen in Westminster Hall.\"\n\nThis in 1849; but what a very different tone has he thought fit to adopt\nnow! Was any agency then expected which has not been forthcoming? Or,\nhaving degenerated from being a supporter of liberal opinions in his\nyouth to being the fond and fatuous admirer of autocrats in his old age,\ndoes he think that it is absolutely necessary that the firm friend of\nAustrian despotism should be the malignant assailant of the Government\nand people of the United States? The man is consistent in nothing but\nhis spiteful vindictiveness and love of mischief. He is now the general\nobject of deserved ridicule and contempt for his flunkyistic attendance\nat the Tuileries. At the time of Louis Napoleon's visit to London,\nRoebuck raved and ranted about his \"perjured lips having kissed the\nQueen of England.\"\n\nHe has, on some occasions, put himself prominently forward, and in such\na way as to make himself an influential member of Parliament. He moved\nthe vote of confidence in the Whig Government in 1850, when the great\ndebate ensued in which the late Sir Robert Peel made his last speech,\nand they were kept in office by a poetical majority of nine. But the\nspeech with which Roebuck introduced the motion was entirely eclipsed by\nthe magnificent declamation of Sir Alexander Cockburn, the present\nLord-Chief-Justice of England. On another great occasion, in January,\n1855, he brought forward in the House of Commons a motion for inquiry\ninto the conduct of the Crimean War. Lord Aberdeen's Government was\ndefeated by an immense majority, and, of course, resigned. Mr. Roebuck\nwas chairman of the Committee of Inquiry; but the cabinet that came in\ndiscreetly declined to give him any official post in their ranks. They\nknew too well the terrible uncertainty and inconsistency of the man's\nconduct. They could place no reliance either on his temper or his\ndiscretion. In 1855 he was one of the numerous candidates for the\nchairmanship of the Metropolitan Board of Works, but failed to inspire\nthe electors with any confidence in his capacity for the post. In the\nfollowing year he became the chairman of the Administrative Reform\nAssociation, and although the league had at first been highly\nsuccessful, and aided much in awaking public attention to the\nmiscarriages and mismanagement in the Crimea, yet, under this fatal\npresidency, it became speedily and ingloriously defunct. This was his\nlast great failure, before abdicating all his early liberal principles.\nHe has of late years endeavored to solace himself for the now\nirretrievable blunders of his career by an exaggerated indulgence in his\nidiosyncratic waywardness, paradox, and eccentricity. He is proud of\nbeing considered the acquaintance of the Emperor of Austria, and rather\npleased than otherwise at being assailed on this account. He affects the\nsociety and friendship of conservative members of the House of Commons.\nHe has become tolerant of lords. He may be seen sitting next to Lord\nRobert Cecil, indulging in ill-natured jocosities, from which his\nLordship probably borrows when he indites ill-natured articles for the\nmisguided \"Saturday Review.\"[A] He hates the Manchester school of\npoliticians, because their liberality and their sympathy with the cause\nof freedom and civilization in this country remind Roebuck of his own\ndeflection from the right path.\n\n[Footnote A: This journal is now owned by Mr. Alexander James Beresford\nBeresford-Hope, (we dare not omit any portion of this august name,) who\nhas ample means to enlist the talents of reckless, \"smart\" young men in\nsearch of employment for any work he may require, no matter how\nunprincipled the job in hand.]\n\nHis private undertakings have not been more fortunate than his public\nacts. He was chairman of a bank, which was unsuccessful, to say the\nleast of it. He has been connected with other enterprises, which soon\ncourted and obtained failure.\n\nWhat he has recently said and done in reference to this country is too\nfresh in our memories to require that we should recite or recapitulate\nit here. His past career, as we have reviewed it, may account for the\nnow intolerable acerbity of temper and the ludicrous vanity which\ndisgrace him. Never was a Nemesis more just than that which has for the\npresent consigned him to a melancholy obscurity. The political\nextinguisher has certainly dropped upon his head, and this burning and\nshining light has gone out with an unpleasant odor into utter darkness.\n\nIn summing up his character, it is evident that excessive vanity is his\nbesetting sin. He is not too clever or too honest to act in union with\nother people, but he is too _vain_. He is by no means too good for the\nrest of the world; but he is too conceited and self-opinionated to\ncondescend to co\u00f6perate with them. As, at some of the minor theatres, a\nsingle actor may play an army, so, in the House of Commons, Roebuck is a\nhost in himself,--is his own party, and leads it. His occasional\npopularity in his own country is due to the fact, that, in his own\ncharacter, he, to a certain extent, represents and crystallizes a few of\nthe good and many of the bad qualities of Englishmen. He has their\ncourage and audacity, their independence and pride, their generally\ndefiant front to the rest of the world; but he is also vain, obstinate,\nbigoted, prejudiced, narrow in his views, and boastful in his language.\nHis vulgar swagger, for instance, about the navy sweeping the seas,\nwould have been condemned here, if it had been addressed by the most\nviolent of demagogues to the most ignorant of Irish mobs.\n\nWe have heard him speak in the House of Commons in his palmier days,\nbefore he was as decrepit in mind as he is in body. He had great\nfluency, some power of invective, and a vast stock of assurance. We\nlistened to him upon one occasion, when, without the slightest\nprovocation, he used the most undignified personalities to the late Sir\nRobert Peel,--to which Sir Robert, very wisely, never replied.\n\nWe cannot say that we feel any profound interest as to his future. He\nhas compared himself to a dog,--but, on behalf of that faithful and\nvalued companion of man, we protest against the similitude. He has the\nkind of pugnacity which prompts a cur or a puppy to attack a\nNewfoundland or a mastiff. He has not the fidelity and many other good\nqualities of the canine race. At any rate, he has become a mischievous\ndog,--and a dull dog,--and will soon be a \"sad dog.\"\n\nWe would venture to suggest, that he should at once be raised to the\npeerage, under the title of Baron Tear-'em. He might then aid the good\ncause of the slave-mongers of the South, and act in unison with that\njust, generous, moral, and virtuous nobleman, the Marquis of\nClanricarde.\n\nWe ought to apologize to our readers for so lengthy an account of so\nundeserving a person,--but, at any rate, they ought by this time to know\n\"Who is Roebuck?\"\n\nREVIEWS AND LITERARY NOTICES.\n\n\n_Six Months in the Federal States_. By EDWARD DICEY. In Two Volumes.\nLondon and Cambridge: Macmillan & Co.\n\nThis is a very _gentlemanly_ book. Whatever excellence of commendation\nbelongs to the adjective we have Italicized must be awarded to Mr.\nDicey. And it is ill-adapted to the manufactures of most British\ntourists who have preceded him. For, to make no mention of the vulgar\nbuffooneries of Bunn or Grattan, we hold that neither the exalted and\nirrepressible prosiness of Dr. Charles Mackay, nor the cleverish\nmagic-lantern pictures of that good-natured book-maker, Mr. Anthony\nTrollope, would be perfectly fitted with this polite addition. It is no\nmean praise to say that the word _gentlemanly_ naturally applies itself\nto a traveller's work. And it is necessary to allow that the majority of\nAmericans who have printed their impressions of a scamper over Europe\nhave fallen as hopelessly below it as a few have risen far above it.\nSome word of deeper meaning must characterize the sterling sentences of\n\"English Traits\"; some epithet of more rare and subtile significance is\nsuggested by those exquisitely painted scenes of foreign life with which\nHawthorne is even now adorning the pages of the \"Atlantic.\" But after\nthe manner in which such a well-informed, modest, humane man as we would\nemphatically credit as an American _gentleman_ might speak of six months\nin England, so has Mr. Dicey spoken of his six months in the Federal\nStates.\n\nAnd, at this present time, far better than all curious delineations or\n\"stereographic\" descriptions are the sober testimonies concerning us\nwhich Mr. Dicey offers to his countrymen. To such loyal Americans as\nthese volumes may reach they will give a heart not to be found in Dr.\nRussell's pictorial neutrality, in the dashing effects of popular Mr.\nTrollope, nor even--making all allowance for the sanative influence of\ncounter-irritation--in the weekly malignity of that _ex_-Moral Minstrel\nwhom the London \"Times\" has sent to the aid of our insurgent\nslave-masters. For, instead of gloating over objections and picking out\nwhat petty enigmas may not be readily soluble, Mr. Dicey has a manly,\nEnglish way of accepting the preponderant evidence concerning the crisis\nhe came to study. He seldom gets entangled in trivial events, but knows\nhow to use them as illustrations of great events. It is really\nrefreshing to meet with a British traveller who is so happily delivered\nfrom the haunting consciousness of a personal identity. The reader is\nnot called upon to bemoan the tribulations of temperance-taverns, the\nhardships of indiscriminate railroad-carriages, nor the rapacity of\nNew-York hackmen. There is scarcely an offence against good taste or\ngood feeling in Mr. Dicey's volumes; and whatever American homes may\nhave been opened to him would doubtless reopen far more readily than to\nmost publishing tourists from the mother-land.\n\nMr. Dicey clearly exhibits the bearing of the Rebellion upon the fate of\nthe servile population of the South, and confesses that his deep\nsympathy with the Federal cause came from the conviction that the\nsupremacy or overthrow of Slavery was intimately connected with the\nsuccess or failure of Secession. In acknowledging the necessity that was\nupon loyal Americans of defending the fundamental law of their society,\nhe is not disposed to adopt the lamentation of some of our foreign\nwell-wishers who are troubled by the fear of a military despotism in the\nFree States. He has the sagacity to perceive that the genius and\ndevelopment of the graduates of Northern school-houses are totally\nopposed to a military rule. Mr. Dicey cordially recognizes the\ndemocratic idea which sanctifies our convulsion, and displays a careful\nobservation in noting \"the self-restraint, the moderation, and the\npatience of the American people in the conduct of the people's war.\" He\nis not over-disturbed because this same people loved law and order more\nthan freedom itself, and with few murmurs committed high principles to\nthe championship of whatever petty men happened to represent them.\nIndeed, one of the best sayings he reports is that of an old Polish\nexile, who congratulates himself that there will be no saviours of\nsociety, no fathers of their country, to be provided for when the war\nis over.\n\nThroughout these two volumes British readers may discern something more\nthan the barren facts of our struggle: they may catch glimpses of its\nenergy and movement; they may see it as reflected from the most generous\nAmerican minds. For it seems to have been Mr. Dicey's good fortune in\nthis country to have gained admission to the society of men and women of\nhigh intelligence, in whom the religious sentiment was living and\npowerful; and he appears to estimate the full weight of testimony such\npersons offered in sending their loved ones to Virginia to fall beneath\nthe rifle of some Southern boor. It is this silent public opinion of the\nNorth which our foreign critics have generally failed to comprehend.\nThey have been so long accustomed to parody the rhetorical elation of\nour third-rate political speakers, and to represent this as a universal\nAmerican characteristic, that they signally failed to estimate the\ngenuine emotion with which it is never connected. When the cherished\nbarbarism of slaveholders arose and threatened our Western civilization,\nthose who most felt and have best wrought for their country were\ncautious in their speech. They knew that the principle underlying the\nstruggle must submit itself to the checks and counter-checks of\nconstitutional law. While the fire of liberty burned at the heart of\ncitizens of abiding loyalty, it seemed best, that, like the Psalmist,\nthey should hold their peace even from good words. Many thought it an\nact of necessary self-restraint to dwell only upon the Union as a symbol\nof that universal freedom which they felt the Union must finally\nrepresent. The dread of overleaping the restraints of law, which,\nperchance, has prolonged the conflict, has been most creditable to the\ngenuine democracy we have represented. We are proud to remember many\nintelligent soldiers who used no language of passionate denunciation\ntowards the guilty institution which called them to the field, yet who\nknew the end when they gave their lives to a cause utterly antagonistic\nto its despotic claims.\n\nBy the representations of Secessionists encountered in the Free States,\nas well as from disloyal newspapers which the \"Lincoln despotism\" never\nsought to suppress, Mr. Dicey was convinced that the sole purpose of the\nRebellion was to get possession of the vast regions which lie west of\nthe Mississippi, wherein to establish Slave States and Territories. \"The\nNorth,\" he declares, \"is fighting against, the South is fighting for,\nthe power of extending slavery across the American continent; and if\nthis was all that could be said, it is clear on which side must be the\nsympathies of any one who really and honestly believes that slavery is\nan evil and a sin.\" But it is not here that Mr. Dicey rests the case of\nthe North as appealing to the Christian sentiment of the world. He shows\nthat the inexorable logic of facts must work the overthrow of slavery\nwhere it now exists. The suppression of the slave-trade, the recognition\nof Hayti, abolition in the District of Columbia, and finally the\nProclamation of January have one tendency and can have but one result.\nWe state these views as one more confirmation of the fact, that, whether\nagreeable to us or not, the sympathies of liberal men in Europe are to\nbe had on the sole ground that ours is an anti-slavery war.\n\nMr. Dicey's predilections lead him to make a generous, although\ndiscriminating, estimate of those men who, in time past, have endeavored\nto serve their country by leaving the level commonplaces of respectable\ncitizenship. It is no slight praise to say that his chapter upon the\nNew-England Abolitionists is clear and just. Their points of\ndisagreement with the Republican party are stated with no common\naccuracy. Careful sentences give the precise position of Garrison and\nhis adherents: the intrinsic essence of the movement of these reformers\nis divested of the subordinate and trivial facts so often put forward to\nmisrepresent it. Although Mr. Dicey endeavors not to commit himself upon\nthe vital differences in the agitation of anti-slavery sentiments by the\nAbolitionists and by the Republican party, it is very evident that he\ninclines to the belief that the former, in their advocacy of disunion,\nacted not from a perverse and fanatical philosophy, but from the logical\ncompulsions of a critical understanding, stimulated by an intense\nconviction of the national sin.\n\nWe have dwelt thus upon Mr. Dicey's views of the war, and of the great\nmoral question with which it is connected, because these portions of his\nvolumes are most pertinent to us, as well as creditable to him. His\nsketches of public characters are good common-sense grasps at them,\nwhich generally get their externals, and occasionally something more.\nThe description of the President is forcible, though a little too\ngraphic for perfect courtesy. Caleb Cushing impresses the traveller as\none of the ablest of our public men, and Wendell Phillips as by far the\nmost eloquent speaker he ever heard. General Butler, however, is not to\nMr. Dicey's taste. Indeed, he is hardly behind the \"Saturday Review\" in\nthe terrible epithets he bestows upon the man who he acknowledges \"was\nassociated with the grandest triumph of the Federal arms, and by some\nmeans or other preserved New Orleans to the Union with but little cost\nof either men or money.\" It is rather late to renew discussion about the\nnotorious order relating to the women of the subjected city. But Mr.\nDicey chooses to express his belief in an infamous intention of General\nButler at the time of its issue,--though he declares that \"the strictest\ncare was taken lest the order should be abused,\" and that the \"Southern\nladies [?] were grossly insulting in their behavior to the Union\nsoldiers, using _language and gestures_ which, in a city occupied by\ntroops of any other nation, would have subjected them, _without orders_,\nto the coarsest retaliation.\" To which we have only to reply, that\nGeneral Butler may be a villain, but that he is certainly not a fool.\nNobody doubts that he has military or civil aspirations for the future,\nand, for such ends, if for nothing else, wishes the approbation of his\nloyal countrymen. Now Mr. Dicey testifies to \"the almost morbid\nsentiment of Americans in the Free States with regard to women\": he\ntells us that \"it renders them ridiculously susceptible to female\ninfluences\"; also, that this same \"sentiment\" among us \"protects women\nfrom the natural consequences of their own misconduct.\" These\ncharacteristics of his countrymen are just as familiar to General Butler\nas they are patent to Mr. Dicey; and we hold it to be simply incredible\nthat one who is at least a very shrewd politician used language which\n_he intended_ should convey a meaning that must necessarily consign his\nfuture career to privacy and infamy. It is perhaps not wonderful that\nmen who have deluged their country in blood, to propagate a system which\nconsigns unborn millions to enforced harlotry, should put an evil\ninterpretation upon the indignant stigma applied to _acts_ which, in\ncivilized States, come from one class of women, and are designed for one\npurpose. Neither is it very astonishing that such persons as have been\nemployed to pump the New-York sewers into the _cloaca maxima_ which sets\ntowards us from Printing-House Square should share the sensitive\nchastity of the slave-masters whose work they are put to do. But it is\npassing strange that a gentleman so fair and reasonable as Mr. Dicey,\none so appreciative of the moral tone which Northern society demands of\nits representatives, should join in an accusation whose absurdity is\nonly lost in its infinite offence.\n\nThere are small inaccuracies, as well as occasional instances of\ncarelessness or repetition, in these volumes, which, had circumstances\nallowed time for revision, might have been avoided. It would require the\n\"Pathfinder\" himself to discover \"Fremont Street\" in the city where we\nwrite; the \"Courier\" is _not_ \"the most largely circulated of any Boston\npaper\"; and our Ex-Mayor \"Whiteman\" requires no fanciful orthography to\nfree his name from the obloquy of an over-devotion to the interests of\ncolored citizens. These are local illustrations of mistakes which are\nexcusable in view of the commendable expedition with which the work was\nissued,--for, in the late crisis of our affairs, an Englishman who had\nany good words to give us fulfilled the proverb by giving twice in\ngiving quickly. But, whatever trifling details might be subjected to\ncriticism, the total impression of what Mr. Dicey has written bears\nhonorable testimony to the accuracy of his observation, as well as to\nhis powers of comparison and judgment.\n\nAs has been already remarked, we cannot be blind to the fact that our\nonly supporters in England are those men who recognize at the heart of\nour contest that genuine principle of Liberty which is not to be limited\nto caste or to race. And it is only by hastening to justify their\nconfidence that we can win to our cause the great people they address.\nIf we cannot gain the national sympathy of England, we must do without\nthe true sympathy of any nation. It was, indeed, remarked by De\nTocqueville, that, \"in the eyes of the English, the cause which is most\nuseful to England is always the cause of justice.\" But the rare insight\nof the philosopher assigns the phenomenon, not to a political\nMachiavelism, but to a \"laudable desire to connect the actions of one's\ncountry with something more stable than interest.\" The English have a\npeculiar gift of fixing their whole attention upon certain traits or\nsingle circumstances which they desire to see. We doubt not that a\nportion of their sympathy with the energy and endurance of those in arms\nagainst their country is estimable according to its light. But as the\ndignity of our mission in this struggle becomes more and more apparent,\nthe moral intelligence of England will be forced to unite itself with\nthe Government of the United States. Let that day come when it will,\nposterity will remember its obligations to those Englishmen who did so\nmuch to avert the hideous calamity of a war between the two liberal\npowers of the world. And to us of this present generation it is grateful\nto know that our brave and generous young men have not died wholly\nunrecognized in the land of their ancestors. Mill, Ellison,\nHughes,--what need to name the rest?--have stood up to report them and\ntheir cause aright to the unsatisfied: in which roll of the honorable\nand honored we are glad to write the name of Edward Dicey.\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\n_Hospital Transports_. A Memoir of the Embarkation of the Sick and\nWounded from the Peninsula of Virginia in the Summer of 1862. Compiled\nand published at the Request of the Sanitary Commission. Boston: Ticknor\nand Fields.\n\nIf pure benevolence was ever organized and utilized into beneficence,\nthe name of the institution is the Sanitary Commission. It is a standing\nanswer to Samson's riddle, \"Out of the strong came forth sweetness.\" Out\nof the very depths of the agony of this cruel and bloody war springs\nthis beautiful system, built of the noblest and divinest attributes of\nthe human soul. Amidst all the heroism of daring and enduring which this\nwar has developed, amidst all the magnanimity of which it has shown the\nrace capable, the daring, the endurance, and the greatness of soul which\nhave been discovered among the men and women who have given their lives\nto this work shine as brightly as any on the battle-field,--in some\nrespects even more brightly. They have not the bray of trumpets nor the\nclash of swords to rouse enthusiasm, nor will the land ever resound with\ntheir victories. Theirs is the dark and painful side, the menial and\nhidden side, but made light and lovely by the spirit that shines in and\nthrough it all. Glimpses of this agency are familiar to our people; but\nnot till the history of its inception, progress, and results is calmly\nand adequately written out and spread before the public will any idea be\nformed of the magnitude and importance of the work which it has done.\nNor even then. Never, till every soldier whose last moments it has\nsoothed, till every soldier whose flickering life it has gently steadied\ninto continuance, whose waning reason it has softly lulled into quiet,\nwhose chilled blood it has warmed into healthful play, whose failing\nframe it has nourished into strength, whose fainting heart it has\ncomforted with sympathy,--never, until every full soul has poured out\nits story of gratitude and thanksgiving, will the record be complete;\nbut long before that time, ever since the moment that its helping hand\nwas first held forth, comes the Blessed Voice, \"Inasmuch as ye have done\nit unto one of the least of these my brethren, ye have done it unto me.\"\n\nAn institution asking of Government only permission to live and\nopportunity to work, planting itself firmly and squarely on the\ngenerosity of the people, subsisting solely by their free-will\nofferings, it is a noble monument of the intelligence, the munificence,\nand the efficiency of a free people, and of the alacrity with which it\nresponds when the right chord is rightly touched. It is, however, not\nunnatural that doubts should exist as to the success of a plan so\nfar-reaching in its aims and hitherto so untried. Stories have been\ncirculated of a mercenary disposition of its stores and trickery among\nits officers. Where these stories have found considerable credence, they\nhave been tracked to their source and triumphantly refuted; but it would\nindeed be hardly less than miraculous, if an institution ramifying so\nwidely, with agents so numerous, and resources so extensive, should have\nno knaves among its servants, and no waste in its circulation. The\nwonder is, that more leakage has not been proved than has ever been\nsuspected. All that is necessary to remove floating doubts, to convince\nall heads of the wisdom which projected this Commission, and to warm all\nhearts up to its continued and sufficient support, is a knowledge of\nwhat it has done, is doing, and purposes to do. This information the\nCommission has, at different times, and by piecemeal, furnished:\nnecessarily by piecemeal, since, as this book justly remarks, the\nimmense mass of details which a circumstantial account of its operations\nin field and hospital must involve would prove nearly as laborious in\nthe reading as in the performance. In this little volume we have,\nphotographed, a single phase of its operations. It consists simply of\nextracts from letters and reports. There is no attempt at completeness\nor dramatic arrangement; yet the most elaborate grouping would probably\nfail to present one-half as accurately a picture of the work and its\nways as these unpretending fragments. It delights us to see the--we can\nhardly say cheerful, as that savors too much of the \"self-sacrifice\"\nwhich benevolence sometimes tarnishes by talking about--but, rather, the\ngay, lively, merry manner in which the most balky matters are taken hold\nof. Men and women seem to have gone into the service with good-will and\nhearty love and buoyant spirits. It refreshes and strengthens us like a\ntonic to read of their taking the wounded, festering, filthy, miserable\nmen, washing and dressing them, pouring in lemonade and beef-tea, and\nputting them abed and asleep. There is not a word about \"devotion\" or\n\"ministering angels,\" (we could wish there were not quite so much about\n\"ladies,\") but honest, refined, energetic, able women, with quick brains\nand quick hands, now bathing a poor crazy head with ice-water, to be\nrewarded with one grateful smile from the parting soul,--now standing in\nthe way of a procession of the slightly wounded, to pour a little brandy\ndown their throats, or put an orange into their hands, just to keep them\nup till they reach food and rest,--now running up the river in a\nsteam-tug, scrambling eggs in a wash-basin over a spirit-lamp as they\ngo,--now groping their way, at all hours of the night, through torrents\nof rain, into dreadful places crammed with sick and dying men, \"calling\nback to life those in despair from utter exhaustion, or again and again\ncatching for mother or wife the last faint whispers of the dying,\"--now\nleaving their compliments to serve a disappointed colonel instead of his\ndinner, which they had nipped in the bud by dragging away the stove with\nits four fascinating and not-to-be-withstood pot-holes;--and let the\nsutler's name be wreathed with laurel who not only permitted this, but\noffered his cart and mule to drag the stove to the boat, and would take\nno pay!\n\nThe blessings of thousands who were ready to perish, and of tens of\nthousands who love their country and their kind, rest upon those who\noriginated, and those who sustain, this noble work. Let the people's\nheart never faint and its hand never weary; but let it, of its\nabundance, give to this Commission full measure, pressed down, shaken\ntogether, and running over, that, wherever the red trail of war is seen,\nits divine footsteps may follow,--that, wherever the red hand of war is\nlifted to wound, its white hand may be lifted to heal,--that its work\nmay never cease until it is assumed by a great Christian Government, or\nuntil peace once more reigns throughout the land. And even then,\ngratitude for its service, and joy in its glory, shall never die out of\nthe hearts of the American people.\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\n_The History of the Supernatural, in all Ages and Nations, and in all\nChurches, Christian and Pagan, demonstrating a Universal Faith_. By\nWILLIAM HOWITT. Philadelphia: J.B. Lippincott & Co.\n\nThere has been a great change of late years in connection with the\nscience of Pneumatology and with the manner of treating it. There was a\nrevolution of opinion on this subject in the middle of the last century;\nthere is a counter-revolution to-day.\n\nThe superstitions and credulities of the Middle Ages eventuated, during\nthe course of the eighteenth century, in the Encyclop\u00e6dism of French\nphilosophy. The grounds upon which the Church based her doctrine of the\nsupernatural were fiercely attacked. The proofs brought forward to prove\nthe insufficiency of such grounds were assumed to prove more than lack\nof logic in the Church; they were taken as proofs, that, in the nature\nof things, there is no evidence for the supernatural, in any sense of\nthe term; in other words, that there is no knowledge within the reach of\nmortals, except that which relates to the physical,--to this earth, as\nthe only phase of existence,--to the vital body, as the all of the human\nbeing. Emotional and intellectual phenomena were but results of material\norganization, as heat is the result of combustion: they exhibited\nthemselves so long as vitality continued; they disappeared when death\nsupervened, as the warmth from a fire dies out with the cessation of\ncombustion. No hypothetical soul was needed to account for the thousand\nphenomena of thought or of sensation. Pneumatology was no science, but\nthe mere fancy of an excited imagination.\n\nNot to the literature and the social life of France alone was this\nmaterialistic influence confined. The mind of Germany, of England, and,\nmore or less, of the rest of Europe, and of America, was pervaded by it.\nThe tendency, all over the civilized world, was towards unbelief, not\nmerely in miracles, but in all things spiritual. Science, with her\nstrict tests and her severe inductions, lent her aid in the same\ndirection.\n\nIt does not seem to have occurred to the philosophers of the\nEncyclop\u00e6dian school that a doctrine is not necessarily false because an\ninsufficient argument is brought forward to prove it. It does not appear\nto have occurred to skeptical physicists that there may be laws of\nNature regulating ultramundane phenomena, as fixed, as invariable, as\nthose which decide the succession of geological phenomena and the\nproducts of chemical combinations.\n\nHere is a theory which is worth considering. May it not be that God\nadapts the proofs of that which it is important that man should know to\nthe intellectual progress of mankind? Is it certain that the same\nevidence which sufficed for the foundation of religious faith five\nhundred years ago will suffice equally well to-day? Truths are eternal;\nlaws of Nature vary not. But of the world's thoughts there is a\nchildhood, a youth, a manhood; and there may be various classes of\narguments suited to various stages of progress.\n\nAgain, assuming that the materialist takes a contracted view of the\neconomy of human life, ignoring every portion of it except its present\nphase, (that phase being but the preparation for another and a higher,)\nmay it not be, that, as the world advances, men may gradually be\npermitted, occasionally and to a limited extent, to become aware of\ninfluences exerted from a more advanced phase of existence over this?\nMay it not be that the links connecting the two phases of existence are\ngradually to become more numerous and apparent?\n\nSuch are the general views which William Howitt's work is intended to\nillustrate and enforce. He selects, as a title-page motto, an axiom from\nButler's \"Analogy,\"--\"There are two courses of Nature: the ordinary and\nthe extraordinary.\" By the supernatural he does not mean phenomena out\nof the course of Nature, but such comparatively rare phenomena as are\ngoverned by laws with which we are unacquainted, and as are, therefore,\nto us something extraordinary, something to be wondered at,--miracles.\n\nThe author travels over a vast extent of ground,--more, we think, than\ncan be properly explored in the compass of two duodecimo volumes. All\nages, all countries, all faiths, furnish their quota towards his\ncollection. It is curious, interesting, suggestive, rather than\nconclusive. It exhibits more industry than logic. It consists rather of\nabundant materials for others to use, than of materials worked up by the\ncollector. It gives evidence of learning, research, and a comprehensive\nstudy of the subject. It is a _thesaurus_ of pneumatological knowledge,\ncollected with German assiduity. It will set many to thinking, though it\nmay convince but few, except of the one truth, that the faith in the\nsupernatural has been a universal faith, pervading all nations,\npersisting through all ages.\n\nThe number of those who take an interest in the subject treated of in\nMr. Howitt's book, and who believe that great truths underlie popular\nsuperstitions, increases day by day; and the work will probably have a\nwide circulation.","title":"The Atlantic Monthly, Volume 12, No. 71, September, 1863: A Magazine of Literature, Art, and Politics","tradition":"scripture-revelation","translated_text":null,"word_count":86821}