{"collection":"scripture-revelation","full_text_available":true,"graph_url":"https://unchartedknowledge.5gfusion.net/v2/api/page/gutenberg_15860/graph","html_url":"https://unchartedknowledge.5gfusion.net/v2/page/gutenberg_15860","id":"gutenberg_15860","license":"Public Domain (US)","rights_basis":"gutenberg_metadata_copyright_false","source":"gutenberg","source_url":"https://www.gutenberg.org/ebooks/15860","summary":null,"tags":["American periodicals","Category: Essays, Letters & Speeches","Category: Religion/Spirituality","Category: Travel Writing","The Atlantic Monthly"],"text":"Produced by Cornell University, Joshua Hutchinson, Josephine Paolucci,\nand the Online Distributed Proofreading Team.\n\n\n\n\n\n[Transcriber's note: Footnotes moved to end of text.]\n\n\n\n\nTHE ATLANTIC MONTHLY.\n\nA MAGAZINE OF LITERATURE, ART, AND POLITICS.\n\nVOL. XIII.--MAY, 1864.--NO. LXXIX.\n\nEntered according to Act of Congress, in the year 1864, by TICKNOR AND\nFIELDS, in the Clerk's Office of the District Court of the District of\nMassachusetts.\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\nA CRUISE ON LAKE LADOGA.\n\n\n\"Dear Q.,--The steamboat Valamo is advertised to leave on Tuesday, the\n26th, (July 8th, New Style,) for Serdopol, at the very head of Lake\nLadoga, stopping on the way at Schluesselburg, Konewitz Island, Kexholm,\nand the island and monastery of Valaam. The anniversary of Saints\nSergius and Herrmann, miracle-workers, will be celebrated at the\nlast-named place on Thursday, and the festival of the Apostles Peter and\nPaul on Friday. If the weather is fine, the boat will take passengers to\nthe Holy Island. The fare is nine rubles for the trip. You can be back\nagain in St. Petersburg by six o'clock on Saturday evening. Provisions\ncan be had on board, but (probably) not beds; so, if you are luxurious\nin this particular, take along your own sheets, pillow-cases, and\nblankets. I intend going, and depend upon your company. Make up your\nmind by ten o'clock, when I will call for your decision.\n\n\"Yours,\n\n\"P.\"\n\nI laid down the note, looked at my watch, and found that I had an hour\nfor deliberation before P.'s arrival. \"Lake Ladoga?\" said I to myself;\n\"it is the largest lake in Europe,--I learned that at school. It is full\nof fish; it is stormy; and the Neva is its outlet. What else?\" I took\ndown a geographical dictionary, and obtained the following additional\nparticulars: The name _Lad'oga_ (not _Lado'ga,_ as it is pronounced in\nAmerica) is Finnish, and means \"new.\" The lake lies between 60 deg. and 61 deg.\n45' north latitude, is 175 versts--about 117 miles--in length, from\nnorth to south, and 100 versts in breadth; receives the great river\nVolkhoff on the south, the Svir, which pours into it the waters of Lake\nOnega, on the east, and the overflow of nearly half the lakes of\nFinland, on the west; and is, in some parts, fourteen hundred feet deep.\n\nVainly, however, did I ransack my memory for the narrative of any\ntraveller who had beheld and described this lake. The red hand-book,\nbeloved of tourists, did not even deign to notice its existence. The\nmore I meditated on the subject, the more I became convinced that here\nwas an untrodden corner of the world, lying within easy reach of a great\ncapital, yet unknown to the eyes of conventional sight-seers. The name\nof Valaam suggested that of Barlaam, in Thessaly, likewise a Greek\nmonastery; and though I had never heard of Sergius and Herrmann, the\nfact of their choosing such a spot was the beginning of a curious\ninterest in their history. The very act of poring over a map excites the\nimagination: I fell into conjectures about the scenery, vegetation, and\ninhabitants, and thus, by the time P. arrived, was conscious of a\nviolent desire to make the cruise with him. To our care was confided an\nAmerican youth, whom I shall call R.,--we three being, as we afterwards\ndiscovered, the first of our countrymen to visit the northern portion of\nthe lake.\n\nThe next morning, although it was cloudy and raw, R. and I rose betimes,\nand were jolted on a _droshky_ through the long streets to the Valamo's\nlanding-place. We found a handsome English-built steamer, with tonnage\nand power enough for the heaviest squalls, and an after-cabin so\ncomfortable that all our anticipations of the primitive modes of travel\nwere banished at once. As men not ashamed of our health, we had decided\nto omit the sheets and pillow-cases, and let the tooth-brush answer as\nan evidence of our high civilization; but the broad divans and velvet\ncushions of the cabin brought us back to luxury in spite of ourselves.\nThe captain, smoothly shaven and robust, as befitted his\nstation,--English in all but his eyes, which were thoroughly\nRussian,--gave us a cordial welcome in passable French. P. drove up\npresently, and the crowd on the floating pier rapidly increased, as the\nmoment of departure approached. Our fellow-pilgrims were mostly peasants\nand deck--passengers: two or three officers, and a score of the\nbourgeois, were divided, according to their means, between the first and\nsecond cabins. There were symptoms of crowding, and we hastened to put\nin preemption-claims for the bench on the port--side, distributing our\ntravelling sacks and pouches along it, as a guard against squatters. The\nmagic promise of _na chai_ (something to buy tea with) further inspired\nthe waiters with a peculiar regard for our interest, so that, leaving\nour important possessions in their care, we went on deck to witness the\ndeparture.\n\nBy this time the Finnish sailors were hauling in the slack hawsers, and\nthe bearded stevedores on the floating quay tugged at the gangway. Many\nof our presumed passengers had only come to say good-bye, which they\nwere now waving and shouting from the shore. The rain fell dismally, and\na black, hopeless sky settled down upon the Neva. But the Northern\nsummer, we knew, is as fickle as the Southern April, and we trusted that\nSergius and Herrmann, the saints of Valaam, would smooth for us the\nrugged waters of Ladoga. At last the barking little bell ceased to snarl\nat the tardy pilgrims. The swift current swung our bow into the stream,\nand, as we moved away, the crowd on deck uncovered their heads, not to\nthe bowing friends on the quay, but to the spire of a church which rose\nto view behind the houses fronting the Neva. Devoutly crossing\nthemselves with the joined three fingers, symbolical of the Trinity,\nthey doubtless murmured a prayer for the propitious completion of the\npilgrimage, to which, I am sure, we could have readily echoed the amen.\n\nThe Valamo was particularly distinguished, on this occasion, by a flag\nat the fore, carrying the white Greek cross on a red field. This\nproclaimed her mission as she passed along, and the bells of many a\nlittle church pealed God-speed to her and her passengers. The latter, in\nspite of the rain, thronged the deck, and continually repeated their\ndevotions to the shrines on either bank. On the right, the starry domes\nof the Smolnoi, rising from the lap of a linden--grove, flashed upon us;\nthen, beyond the long front of the college of _demoiselles nobles_ and\nthe military storehouses, we hailed the silver hemispheres which canopy\nthe tomb and shrine of St. Alexander of the Neva. On the left, huge\nbrick factories pushed back the gleaming groves of birch, which flowed\naround and between them, to dip their hanging boughs in the river; but\nhere and there peeped out the bright green cupolas of some little\nchurch, none of which, I was glad to see, slipped out of the panorama\nwithout its share of reverence.\n\nFor some miles we sailed between a double row of contiguous villages,--a\nlong suburb of the capital, which stretched on and on, until the slight\nundulations of the shore showed that we had left behind us the dead\nlevel of the Ingrian marshes. It is surprising what an interest one\ntakes in the slightest mole-hill, after living for a short time on a\nplain. You are charmed with an elevation which enables you to look over\nyour neighbor's hedge. I once heard a clergyman, in his sermon, assert\nthat \"the world was perfectly smooth before the fall of Adam, and the\npresent inequalities in its surface were the evidences of human sin.\" I\nwas a boy at the time, and I thought to myself, \"How fortunate it is\nthat we are sinners!\" Peter the Great, however, had no choice left him.\nThe piles he drove in these marshes were the surest foundation of his\nempire.\n\nThe Neva, in its sudden and continual windings, in its clear, cold,\nsweet water, and its fringing groves of birch, maple, and alder,\ncompensates, in a great measure, for the flatness of its shores. It has\nnot the slow magnificence of the Hudson or the rush of the Rhine, but\ncarries with it a sense of power, of steady, straightforward force, like\nthat of the ancient warriors who disdained all clothing except their\nswords. Its naked river-god is not even crowned with reeds, but the full\nflow of his urn rolls forth undiminished by summer and unchecked beneath\nits wintry lid. Outlets of large lakes frequently exhibit this\ncharacteristic, and the impression they make upon the mind does not\ndepend on the scenery through which they flow. Nevertheless, we\ndiscovered many points the beauty of which was not blotted out by rain\nand cloud, and would have shone freshly and winningly under the touch of\nthe sun. On the north bank there is a palace of Potemkin, (or\nPotchomkin, as his name is pronounced in Russian,) charmingly placed at\na bend, whence it looks both up and down the river. The gay color of the\nbuilding, as of most of the _datchas_, or country-villas, in Russia,\nmakes a curious impression upon the stranger. Until he has learned to\naccept it as a portion of the landscape, the effect is that of a scenic\ndesign on the part of the builder. These dwellings, these villages and\nchurches, he thinks, are scarcely intended to be permanent: they were\nerected as part of some great dramatic spectacle, which has been, or is\nto be, enacted under the open sky. Contrasted with the sober,\nmatter-of-fact aspect of dwellings in other countries, they have the\neffect of temporary decorations. But when one has entered within these\nwalls of green and blue and red arabesques, inspected their thickness,\nviewed the ponderous porcelain stores, tasted, perhaps, the bountiful\ncheer of the owner, he realizes their palpable comforts, and begins to\nsuspect that all the external adornment is merely an attempt to restore\nto Nature that coloring of which she is stripped by the cold sky of the\nNorth.\n\nA little farther on, there is a summer villa of the Empress\nCatharine,--a small, modest building, crowning a slope of green turf.\nBeyond this, the banks are draped with foliage, and the thinly clad\nbirches, with their silver stems, shiver above the rush of the waters.\nWe, also, began to shiver under the steadily falling rain, and retreated\nto the cabin on the steward's first hint of dinner. A _table d'hote_ of\nfour courses was promised us, including the preliminary _zakouski_ and\nthe supplementary coffee,--all for sixty _copeks_, which is about\nforty-five cents. The _zakouski_ is an arrangement peculiar to Northern\ncountries, and readily adopted by foreigners. In Sweden it is called the\n_smoergas_, or \"butter-goose\" but the American term (if we had the\ncustom) would be \"the whetter.\" On a side-table there are various plates\nof anchovies, cheese, chopped onions, raw salt herring, and bread, all\nin diminutive slices, while glasses of corresponding size surround a\nbottle of _kuemmel_, or cordial of caraway-seed. This, at least, was the\n_zakouski_ on board the Valamo, and to which our valiant captain\naddressed himself, after first bowing and crossing himself towards the\nByzantine Christ and Virgin in either corner of the cabin. We, of\ncourse, followed his example, finding our appetites, if not improved,\ncertainly not at all injured thereby. The dinner which followed far\nsurpassed our expectations. The national _shchee_, or cabbage-soup, is\nbetter than the sound of its name; the fish, fresh from the cold Neva,\nis sure to be well cooked where it forms an important article of diet;\nand the partridges were accompanied by those plump little Russian\ncucumbers, which are so tender and flavorous that they deserve to be\ncalled fruit rather than vegetables.\n\nWhen we went on deck to light our Riga cigars, the boat was approaching\nSchluesselburg, at the outlet of the lake. Here the Neva, just born,\nsweeps in two broad arms around the island which bears the\nKey-Fortress,--the key by which Peter opened this river-door to the Gulf\nof Finland. The pretty town of the same name is on the south bank, and\nin the centre of its front yawn the granite gates of the canal which,\nfor a hundred versts, skirts the southern shore of the lake, forming,\nwith the Volkhoff River and another canal beyond, a summer communication\nwith the vast regions watered by the Volga and its affluents. The Ladoga\nCanal, by which the heavy barges laden with hemp from Mid-Russia, and\nwool from the Ural, and wood from the Valdai Hills, avoid the sudden\nstorms of the lake, was also the work of Peter the Great. I should have\ngone on shore to inspect the locks, but for the discouraging persistence\nof the rain. Huddled against the smoke-stack, we could do nothing but\nlook on the draggled soldiers and _mujiks_ splashing through the mud,\nthe low yellow fortress, which has long outlived its importance, and the\ndark-gray waste of lake which loomed in front, suggestive of rough water\nand kindred abominations.\n\nThere it was, at last,--Lake Ladoga,--and now our prow turns to unknown\nregions. We steamed past the fort, past a fleet of brigs, schooners, and\nbrigantines, with huge, rounded stems and sterns, laden with wood from\nthe Wolkonskoi forests, and boldly entered the gray void of fog and\nrain. The surface of the lake was but slightly agitated, as the wind\ngradually fell and a thick mist settled on the water. Hour after hour\npassed away, as we rushed onward through the blank, and we naturally\nturned to our fellow-passengers in search of some interest or diversion\nto beguile the time. The heavy-bearded, peasants and their\nweather-beaten wives were scattered around the deck in various\nattitudes, some of the former asleep on their backs, with open mouths,\nbeside the smoke-stack. There were many picturesque figures among them,\nand, if I possessed the quick pencil of Kaulbach, I might have filled a\ndozen leaver of my sketch-book. The _bourgeoisie_ were huddled on the\nquarter-deck benches, silent, and fearful of sea-sickness. But a very\nbright, intelligent young officer turned up, who had crossed the Ural,\nand was able to entertain us with an account of the splendid\nsword-blades of Zlataoust. He was now on his way to the copper mines of\nPitkaranda, on the northeastern shore of the lake.\n\nAbout nine o'clock in the evening, although still before sunset, the fog\nbegan to darken, and I was apprehensive that we should have some\ndifficulty in finding the island of Konewitz, which was to be our\nstopping-place for the night. The captain ordered the engine to be\nslowed, and brought forward a brass half-pounder, about a foot long,\nwhich was charged and fired. In less than a minute after the report, the\nsound of a deep, solemn bell boomed in the mist, dead ahead. Instantly\nevery head was uncovered, and the rustle of whispered prayers fluttered\nover the deck, as the pilgrims bowed and crossed themselves. Nothing was\nto be seen; but, stroke after stroke, the hollow sounds, muffled and\nblurred in the opaque atmosphere, were pealed out by the guiding bell.\nPresently a chime of smaller bells joined in a rapid accompaniment,\ngrowing louder and clearer as we advanced. The effect was startling.\nAfter voyaging for hours over the blank water, this sudden and solemn\nwelcome, sounded from some invisible tower, assumed a mystic and\nmarvellous character. Was it not rather the bells of a city ages ago\nsubmerged, and now sending its ghostly summons up to the pilgrims\npassing over its crystal grave?\n\nFinally a tall mast, its height immensely magnified by the fog, could be\ndistinguished; then the dark hulk of a steamer, a white gleam of sand\nthrough the fog, indistinct outlines of trees, a fisherman's hut, and a\nlanding-place. The bells still rang out from some high station near at\nhand, but unseen. We landed as soon as the steamer had made fast, and\nfollowed the direction of the sound. A few paces from the beach stood a\nlittle chapel, open, and with a lamp burning before its brown Virgin and\nChild. Here our passengers stopped, and made a brief prayer before going\non. Two or three beggars, whose tattered dresses of tow suggested the\nidea of their having clothed themselves with the sails of shipwrecked\nvessels, bowed before us so profoundly and reverently that we at first\nfeared they had mistaken us for the shrines. Following an avenue of\ntrees, up a gentle eminence, the tall white towers and green domes of a\nstately church gradually detached themselves from the mist, and we found\nourselves at the portal of the monastery. A group of monks, in the usual\nblack robes, and high, cylindrical caps of crape, the covering of which\noverlapped and fell upon their shoulders, were waiting, apparently to\nreceive visitors. Recognizing us as foreigners, they greeted us with\ngreat cordiality, and invited us to take up our quarters for the night\nin the house appropriated to guests. We desired, however, to see the\nchurch before the combined fog and twilight should make it too dark; so\na benevolent old monk led the way, hand in hand with P., across the\ncourt-yard.\n\nThe churches of the Greek faith present a general resemblance in their\ninternal decorations. There is a glitter of gold, silver, and flaring\ncolors in the poorest. Statues are not permitted, but the pictures of\ndark Saviours and Saints are generally covered with a drapery of silver,\nwith openings for the head and hands. Konewitz, however, boasts of a\nspecial sanctity, in possessing the body of Saint Arsenius, the founder\nof the monastery. His remains are inclosed in a large coffin of silver,\nelaborately chased. It was surrounded, as we entered, by a crowd of\nkneeling pilgrims; the tapers burned beside it, and at the various\naltars; the air was thick with incense, and the great bell still boomed\nfrom the misty tower. Behind us came a throng of our own\ndeck-passengers, who seemed to recognize the proper shrines by a sort of\ndevotional instinct, and were soon wholly absorbed in their prayers and\nprostrations. It is very evident to me that the Russian race requires\nthe formulas of the Eastern Church; a fondness for symbolic ceremonies\nand observances is far more natural to its character than to the nations\nof Latin or Saxon blood. In Southern Europe the peasant will exchange\nmerry salutations while dipping his fingers in the holy water, or turn\nin the midst of his devotions to inspect a stranger; but the Russian, at\nsuch times, appears lost to the world. With his serious eyes fixed on\nthe shrine or picture, or, maybe, the spire of a distant church, his\nface suddenly becomes rapt and solemn, and no lurking interest in\nneighboring things interferes with its expression.\n\nOne of the monks, who spoke a little French, took us into his cell. He\nwas a tall, frail man of thirty-five, with a wasted face, and brown hair\nflowing over his shoulders, like most of his brethren of the same age.\nIn those sharp, earnest features, one could see that the battle was not\nyet over. The tendency to corpulence does not appear until after the\nrebellious passions have been either subdued, or pacified by compromise.\nThe cell was small, but neat and cheerful, on the ground-floor, with a\nwindow opening on the court, and a hard, narrow pallet against the wall.\nThere was also a little table, with books, sacred pictures, and a bunch\nof lilacs in water. The walls were whitewashed, and the floor cleanly\nswept. The chamber was austere, certainly, but in no wise repulsive.\n\nIt was now growing late, and only the faint edges of the twilight\nglimmered overhead, through the fog. It was not night, but a sort of\neclipsed day, not much darker than our winter days under an overcast\nsky. We returned to the tower, where an old monk took us in charge.\nBeside the monastery is a special building for guests, a room in which\nwas offered to us. It was so clean and pleasant, and the three broad\nsofa-couches with leather cushions looked so inviting, that we decided\nto sleep there, in preference to the crowded cabin. Our supply of\nshawls, moreover, enabled us to enjoy the luxury of undressing. Before\nsaying good-night, the old monk placed his hand upon R.'s head. \"We have\nmatins at three o'clock,\" said he; \"when you hear the bell, get up, and\ncome to the church: it will bring blessing to you.\" We were soon buried\nin a slumber which lacked darkness to make it profound. At two o'clock,\nthe sky was so bright that I thought it six, and fell asleep again,\ndetermined to make three hours before I stopped. But presently the big\nbell began to swing: stroke after stroke, it first aroused, but was fast\nlulling me, when the chimes struck in and sang all manner of incoherent\nand undevout lines. The brain at last grew weary of this, when, close to\nour door, a little, petulant, impatient bell commenced barking for dear\nlife. R. muttered and twisted in his sleep, and brushed away the sound\nseveral times from his upper ear, while I covered mine,--but to no\npurpose. The sharp, fretful jangle went through shawls and cushions, and\nthe fear of hearing it more distinctly prevented me from rising for\nmatins. Our youth, also, missed his promised blessing, and so we slept\nuntil the sun was near five hours high,--that is, seven o'clock.\n\nThe captain promised to leave for Kexholm at eight, which left us only\nan hour for a visit to the _Konkamen_, or Horse-Rock, distant a mile, in\nthe woods. P. engaged as guide a long-haired acolyte, who informed us\nthat he had formerly been a lithographer in St. Petersburg. We did not\nascertain the cause of his retirement from the world: his features were\ntoo commonplace to suggest a romance. Through the mist, which still hung\nheavy on the lake, we plunged into the fir-wood, and hurried on over its\nuneven carpet of moss and dwarf whortleberries. Small gray boulders then\nbegan to crop out, and gradually became so thick that the trees thrust\nthem aside as they grew. All at once the wood opened on a rye-field\nbelonging to the monks, and a short turn to the right brought us to a\nhuge rock, of irregular shape, about forty feet in diameter by twenty in\nheight. The crest overhung the base on all sides except one, up which a\nwooden staircase led to a small square chapel perched upon the summit.\n\nThe legends attached to this rock are various, but the most authentic\nseems to be, that in the ages when the Carelians were still heathen,\nthey were accustomed to place their cattle upon this island in summer,\nas a protection against the wolves, first sacrificing a horse upon the\nrock. Whether their deity was the Perun of the ancient Russians or the\nJumala of the Finns is not stated; the inhabitants at the present day\nsay, of course, the Devil. The name of the rock may also be translated\n\"Petrified Horse,\" and some have endeavored to make out a resemblance to\nthat animal, in its form. Our acolyte, for instance, insisted thereupon,\nand argued very logically--\"Why, if you omit the head and legs, you\nmust see that it is exactly like a horse.\" The peasants say that the\nDevil had his residence in the stone, and point to a hole which he made,\non being forced by the exorcisms of Saint Arsenius to take his\ndeparture. A reference to the legend is also indicated in the name of\nthe island, Konewitz,--which our friend, the officer, gave to me in\nFrench as _Chevalise_, or, in literal English, _The Horsefied_.\n\nThe stones and bushes were dripping from the visitation of the mist, and\nthe mosquitoes were busy with my face and hands while I made a rapid\ndrawing of the place. The quick chimes of the monastery, through which\nwe fancied we could hear the warning boat-bell, suddenly pierced through\nthe forest, recalling us. The Valamo had her steam up, when we arrived,\nand was only waiting for her rival, the Letuchie (Flyer), to get out of\nour way. As we moved from the shore, a puff of wind blew away the fog,\nand the stately white monastery, crowned with its bunch of green domes,\nstood for a moment clear and bright in the morning sun. Our pilgrims\nbent, bareheaded, in devotional farewell; the golden crosses sparkled an\nanswer, and, the fog rushed down again like a falling curtain.\n\nWe steered nearly due north, making for Kexholm, formerly a frontier\nSwedish town, at the mouth of the River Wuoxen. For four hours it was a\ntantalizing struggle between mist and sunshine,--a fair blue sky\noverhead, and a dense cloud sticking to the surface of the lake. The\nwestern shore, though near at hand, was not visible; but our captain,\nwith his usual skill, came within a quarter of a mile of the channel\nleading to the landing-place. The fog seemed to consolidate into the\noutline of trees; hard land was gradually formed, as we approached; and\nas the two river-shores finally inclosed us, the air cleared, and long,\nwooded hills arose in the distance. Before us lay a single wharf, with\nthree wooden buildings leaning against a hill of sand.\n\n\"But where is Kexholm?\"\n\n\"A verst inland,\" says the captain; \"and I will give you just half an\nhour to see it.\"\n\nThere were a score of peasants, with clumsy two-wheeled carts and shaggy\nponies at the landing. Into one of these we clambered, gave the word of\ncommand, and were whirled off at a gallop. There may have been some\nelasticity in the horse, but there certainly was none in the cart. It\nwas a perfect conductor, and the shock with which it passed over stones\nand leaped ruts was instantly communicated to the _os sacrum_, passing\nthence along the vertebrae, to discharge itself in the teeth. Our driver\nwas a sunburnt Finn, who was bent upon performing his share of the\ncontract, in order that he might afterwards with a better face demand a\nruble. On receiving just the half, however, he put it into his pocket,\nwithout a word of remonstrance.\n\n\"_Suomi?_\" I asked, calling up a Finnish word with an effort.\n\n\"_Suomi-lainen_\" he answered, proudly enough, though the exact meaning\nis, \"I am a Swamplander.\"\n\nKexholm, which was founded in 1295, has attained since then a population\nof several hundreds. Grass grows between the cobble-stones of its broad\nstreets, but the houses are altogether so bright, so clean, so\nsubstantially comfortable, and the geraniums and roses peeping out\nbetween snowy curtains in almost every window suggested such cozy\ninteriors, that I found myself quite attracted towards the plain little\ntown. \"Here,\" said I to P., \"is a nook which is really out of the world.\nNo need of a monastery, where you have such perfect seclusion, and the\nindispensable solace of natural society to make it endurable.\" Pleasant\nfaces occasionally looked out, curiously, at the impetuous strangers:\nhad they known our nationality, I fancy the whole population would have\nrun together. Reaching the last house, nestled among twinkling\nbirch-trees on a bend of the river beyond, we turned about, and made for\nthe fortress,--another conquest of the Great Peter. Its low ramparts\nhad a shabby, neglected look; an old drawbridge spanned the moat, and\nthere was no sentinel to challenge us as we galloped across. In and out\nagain, and down the long, quiet street, and over the jolting level to\nthe top of the sandhill,--we had seen Kexholm in half an hour.\n\nAt the mouth of the river still lay the fog, waiting for us, now and\nthen stretching a ghostly arm over the woods and then withdrawing it,\nlike a spirit of the lake, longing and yet timid to embrace the land.\nWith the Wuoxen come down the waters of the Saima, that great, irregular\nlake, which, with its innumerable arms, extends for a hundred and fifty\nmiles into the heart of Finland, clasping the forests and mountains of\nSavolax, where the altar-stones of Jumala still stand in the shade of\nsacred oaks, and the song of the Kalewala is sung by the descendants of\nWainamoeinen. I registered a vow to visit those Finnish solitudes, as we\nshot out upon the muffled lake, heading for the holy isles of Valaam.\nThis was the great point of interest in our cruise, the shrine of our\npilgrim-passengers. We had heard so little of these islands before\nleaving St. Petersburg, and so much since, that our curiosity was keenly\nexcited; and thus, though too well seasoned by experience to worry\nunnecessarily, the continuance of the fog began to disgust us. We shall\ncreep along as yesterday, said we, and have nothing of Valaam but the\nsound of its bells. The air was intensely raw; the sun had disappeared,\nand the bearded peasants again slept, with open mouths, on the deck.\n\nSaints Sergius and Herrmann, however, were not indifferent either to\nthem or to us. About the middle of the afternoon we suddenly and\nunexpectedly sailed out of the fog, passing, in the distance of a ship's\nlength, in to a clear atmosphere, with a far, sharp horizon! The\nnuisance of the lake lay behind us, a steep, opaque, white wall. Before\nus, rising in bold cliffs from the water and dark with pines, were the\nislands of Valaam. Off went hats and caps, and the crowd on deck bent\nreverently towards the consecrated shores. As we drew near, the granite\nfronts of the separate isles detached themselves from the plane in which\nthey were blended, and thrust boldly out between the dividing inlets of\nblue water; the lighter green of birches and maples mingled with the\nsombre woods of coniferae; but the picture, with all its varied features,\nwas silent and lonely. No sail shone over the lake, no boat was hauled\nup between the tumbled masses of rock, no fisher's hut sat in the\nsheltered coves,--only, at the highest point of the cliff, a huge wooden\ncross gleamed white against the trees.\n\nAs we drew around to the northern shore, point came out behind point,\nall equally bold with rock, dark with pines, and destitute of any sign\nof habitation. We were looking forward, over the nearest headland, when,\nall at once, a sharp glitter, through the tops of the pines, struck our\neyes. A few more turns of the paddles, and a bulging dome of gold\nflashed splendidly in the sun! Our voyage, thus far, had been one of\nsurprises, and this was not the least. Crowning a slender, pointed roof,\nits connection with the latter was not immediately visible: it seemed to\nspring into the air and hang there, like a marvellous meteor shot from\nthe sun. Presently, however, the whole building appeared,--an hexagonal\nchurch, of pale-red brick, the architecture of which was an admirable\nreproduction of the older Byzantine forms. It stood upon a rocky islet,\non either side of which a narrow channel communicated with a deep cove,\ncleft between walls of rock.\n\nTurning in towards the first of these channels, we presently saw the\ninlet of darkest-blue water, pushing its way into the heart of the\nisland. Crowning its eastern bank, and about half a mile distant, stood\nan immense mass of buildings, from the centre of which tall white towers\nand green cupolas shot up against the sky. This was the monastery of\nValaam. Here, in the midst of this lonely lake, on the borders of the\nArctic Zone, in the solitude of unhewn forests, was one of those\npalaces which Religion is so fond of rearing, to show her humility. In\nthe warm afternoon sunshine, and the singular luxuriance of vegetation\nwhich clothed the terraces of rock on either hand, we forgot the high\nlatitude, and, but for the pines in the rear, could have fancied\nourselves approaching some cove of Athos or Euboea. The steamer ran so\nnear the rocky walls that the trailing branches of the birch almost\nswept her deck; every ledge traversing their gray, even masonry, was\ncrowded with wild red pinks, geranium, saxifrage, and golden-flowered\npurslane; and the air, wonderfully pure and sweet in itself, was\nflavored with delicate woodland odors. On the other side, under the\nmonastery, was an orchard of large apple-trees in full bloom, on a shelf\nnear the water; above them grew huge oaks and maples, heavy with their\nwealth of foliage; and over the tops of these the level coping of the\nprecipice, with a balustrade, upon which hundreds of pilgrims, who had\narrived before us, were leaning and looking down.\n\nBeyond this point, the inlet widened into a basin where the steamer had\nroom to turn around. Here we found some forty or fifty boats moored to\nthe bank, while the passengers they had brought (principally from the\neastern shore of the lake, and the district lying between it and Onega)\nwere scattered over the heights. The captain pointed out to us a\nstately, two-story brick edifice, some three hundred feet long, flanking\nthe monastery, as the house for guests. Another of less dimensions, on\nthe hill in front of the landing-place, appeared to be appropriated\nespecially to the use of the peasants. A rich succession of musical\nchimes pealed down to us from the belfry, as if in welcome, and our\ndeck-load of pilgrims crossed themselves in reverent congratulation as\nthey stepped upon the sacred soil.\n\nWe had determined to go on with our boat to Serdopol, at the head of the\nlake, returning the next morning in season for the solemnities of the\nanniversary. Postponing, therefore, a visit to the church and monastery,\nwe climbed to the summit of the bluff, and beheld the inlet in all its\nlength and depth, from the open, sunny expanse of the lake to the dark\nstrait below us, where the overhanging trees of the opposite cliffs\nalmost touched above the water. The honeyed bitter of lilac and apple\nblossoms in the garden below steeped the air; and as I inhaled the\nscent, and beheld the rich green crowns of the oaks which grew at the\nbase of the rocks, I appreciated the wisdom of Sergius and Herrmann that\nled them to pick out this bit of privileged summer, which seems to have\nwandered into the North from a region ten degrees nearer the sun. It is\nnot strange if the people attribute miraculous powers to them; naturally\nmistaking the cause of their settlement on Valaam for its effect.\n\nThe deck was comparatively deserted, as we once more entered the lake.\nThere were two or three new passengers, however, one of whom inspired me\nwith a mild interest. He was a St. Petersburger, who, according to his\nown account, had devoted himself to Art, and, probably for that reason,\nfelt constrained to speak in the language of sentiment. \"I enjoy above\nall things,\" said he to me, \"communion with Nature. My soul is uplifted,\nwhen I find myself removed from the haunts of men. I live an ideal life,\nand the world grows more beautiful to me every year.\" Now there was\nnothing objectionable in this, except his saying it. Those are only\nshallow emotions which one imparts to every stranger at the slightest\nprovocation. Your true lover of Nature is as careful of betraying his\npassion as the young man who carries a first love in his heart. But my\ncompanion evidently delighted in talking of his feelings on this point.\nHis voice was soft and silvery, his eyes gentle, and his air\nlanguishing; so that, in spite of a heavy beard, the impression he made\nwas remarkably smooth and unmasculine. I involuntarily turned to one of\nthe young Finnish sailors, with his handsome, tanned face, quick,\ndecided movements, and clean, elastic limbs, and felt, instinctively,\nthat what we most value in every man, above even culture or genius, is\nthe stamp of sex,--the asserting, self-reliant, conquering air which\nmarks the male animal. Wide-awake men (and women, too) who know what\nthis element is, and means, will agree with me, and prefer the sharp\ntwang of true fibre to the most exquisite softness and sweetness that\nwere ever produced by sham refinement.\n\nAfter some fifteen or twenty miles from the island, we approached the\nrocky archipelago in which the lake terminates at its northern end,--a\ngradual transition from water to land. Masses of gray granite, wooded\nwherever the hardy Northern firs could strike root, rose on all sides,\ndivided by deep and narrow channels. \"This is the _scheer_,\" said our\ncaptain, using a word which recalled to my mind, at once, the Swedish\n_skaer_, and the English _skerry_, used alike to denote a coast-group of\nrocky islets. The rock encroached more and more as we advanced; and\nfinally, as if sure of its victory over the lake, gave place, here and\nthere, to levels of turf, gardens, and cottages. Then followed a calm,\nland-locked basin, surrounded with harvest-fields, and the spire of\nSerdopol arose before us.\n\nOf this town I may report that it is called, in Finnish, _Sordovala_,\nand was founded about the year 1640. Its history has no doubt been very\nimportant to its inhabitants, but I do not presume that it would be\ninteresting to the world, and therefore spare myself a great deal of\nlaborious research. Small as it is, and so secluded that Ladoga seems a\nworld's highway in comparison with its quiet harbor, it nevertheless\nholds three races and three languages in its modest bounds. The\ngovernment and Its tongue are Russian; the people are mostly Finnish,\nwith a very thin upper-crust of Swedish tradition, whence the latter\nlanguage is cultivated as a sign of aristocracy.\n\nWe landed on a broad wooden pier, and entered the town through a crowd\nwhich was composed of all these elements. There was to be a fair on the\nmorrow, and from the northern shore of the lake, as well as the wild\ninland region towards the Saima, the people had collected for trade,\ngossip, and festivity. Children in ragged garments of hemp, bleached\nupon their bodies, impudently begged for pocket-money; women in scarlet\nkerchiefs curiously scrutinized us; peasants carried bundles of freshly\nmown grass to the horses which were exposed for sale; ladies with\nHungarian hats crushed their crinolines into queer old cabriolets;\ngentlemen with business-faces and an aspect of wealth smoked paper\ncigars; and numbers of hucksters offered baskets of biscuit and cakes,\nof a disagreeable yellow color and great apparent toughness. It was a\nrepetition, with slight variations, of a village-fair anywhere else, or\nan election-day in America.\n\nPassing through the roughly paved and somewhat dirty streets, past shops\nfull of primitive hardware, groceries which emitted powerful whiffs of\nsalt fish or new leather, bakeries with crisp padlocks of bread in the\nwindows, drinking-houses plentifully supplied with _qvass_ and _vodki_,\nand, finally, the one watch-maker, and the vender of paper, pens, and\nFinnish almanacs, we reached a broad suburban street, whose substantial\nhouses, with their courts and gardens, hinted at the aristocracy of\nSerdopol. The inn, with its Swedish sign, was large and comfortable, and\na peep into the open windows disclosed as pleasant quarters as a\ntraveller could wish. A little farther the town ceased, and we found\nourselves upon a rough, sloping common, at the top of which stood the\nchurch with its neighboring belfry. It was unmistakably Lutheran in\nappearance,--very plain and massive and sober in color, with a steep\nroof for shedding snow. The only attempt at ornament was a fanciful\nshingle-mosaic, but in pattern only, not in color. Across the common ran\na double row of small booths, which had just been erected for the coming\nfair; and sturdy young fellows from the country, with their rough carts\nand shaggy ponies, were gathering along the highway, to skirmish a\nlittle in advance of their bargains.\n\nThe road enticed us onward, into the country. On our left, a long slope\ndescended to an upper arm of the harbor, the head of which we saw to be\nnear at hand. The opposite shore was fairly laid out in grain-fields,\nthrough which cropped out, here and there, long walls of granite, rising\nhigher and higher towards the west, until they culminated in the round,\nhard forehead of a lofty hill. There was no other point within easy\nreach which promised much of a view; so, rounding the head of the bay,\nwe addressed ourselves to climbing the rocks, somewhat to the surprise\nof the herd-boys, as they drove their cows into the town to be milked.\n\nOnce off the cultivated land, we found the hill a very garden of wild\nblooms. Every step and shelf of the rocks was cushioned with tricolored\nviolets, white anemones, and a succulent, moss-like plant with a golden\nflower. Higher up there were sheets of fire-red pinks, and on the summit\nan unbroken carpet of the dwarf whortleberry, with its waxen bells.\nLight exhalations seemed to rise from the damp hollows, and drift\ntowards us; but they resolved themselves into swarms of mosquitoes, and\nwould have made the hill-top untenable, had they not been dispersed by a\nsudden breeze. We sat down upon a rock and contemplated the widespread\npanorama. It was nine o'clock, and the sun, near his setting, cast long\ngleams of pale light through the clouds, softening the green of the\nfields and forests where they fell, and turning the moist evening haze\ninto lustrous pearl. Inlets of the lake here and there crept in between\nthe rocky hills; broad stretches of gently undulating grain-land were\ndotted with the houses, barns, and clustered stables of the Finnish\nfarmers; in the distance arose the smokes of two villages; and beyond\nall, as we looked inland, ran the sombre ridges of the fir-clad hills.\nBelow us, on the right, the yellow houses of the town shone in the\nsubdued light,--the only bright spot in the landscape, which elsewhere\nseemed to be overlaid with a tint of dark, transparent gray. It was\nwonderfully silent. Not a bird twittered; no bleat of sheep or low of\ncattle was heard from the grassy fields; no shout of children, or\nevening hail from the returning boats of the fishers. Over all the land\nbrooded an atmosphere of sleep, of serene, perpetual peace. To sit and\nlook upon it was in itself a refreshment like that of healthy slumber.\nThe restless devil which lurks in the human brain was quieted for the\ntime, and we dreamed--knowing all the while the vanity of the dream--of\na pastoral life in some such spot, among as ignorant and simple-hearted\na people, ourselves as untroubled by the agitations of the world.\n\nWe had scarce inhaled--or, rather, _insuded_, to coin a paradoxical word\nfor a sensation which seems to enter at every pore--the profound quiet\nand its suggestive fancies for the space of half an hour, when the wind\nfell at the going down of the sun, and the humming mist of mosquitoes\narose again. Returning to the town, we halted at the top of the common\nto watch the farmers of the neighborhood at their horse-dealing. Very\nhard, keen, weather-browned faces had they, eyes tight-set for the main\nchance, mouths worn thin by biting farthings, and hands whose hard\nfingers crooked with holding fast what they had earned. Faces almost of\nthe Yankee type, many of them, but relieved by the twinkling of a\nhumorous faculty or the wild gleam of imagination. The shaggy little\nhorses, of a dun or dull tan-color, seemed to understand that their best\nperformance was required, and rushed up and down the road with an\namazing exhibition of mettle. I could understand nothing of the Finnish\ntongue except its music; but it was easy to perceive that the remarks of\nthe crowd were shrewd, intelligent, and racy. One young fellow, less\nobservant, accosted us in the hope that we might be purchasers. The\nboys, suspecting that we were as green as we were evidently foreign,\nheld out their hands for alms, with a very unsuccessful air of\ndistress, but readily succumbed to the Russian interjection \"_proch\"_\n(be off!) the repetition of which, they understood, was a reproach.\n\nThat night we slept on the velvet couches of the cabin, having the\nspacious apartment to ourselves. The bright young officer had left for\nthe copper mines, the pilgrims were at Valaam, and our stout, benignant\ncaptain looked upon us as his only faithful passengers. The stewards,\nindeed, carried their kindness beyond reasonable anticipations. They\nbrought us real pillows and other conveniences, bolted the doors against\nnightly intruders, and in the morning conducted us into the pantry, to\nwash our faces in the basin sacred to dishes. After I had completed my\nablutions, I turned dumbly, with dripping face and extended hands, for a\ntowel. My steward understood the silent appeal, and, taking a napkin\nfrom a plate of bread, presented it with alacrity. I made use of it, I\nconfess, but hastened out of the pantry, lest I should happen to see it\nrestored to its former place. _How not to observe_ is a faculty as\nnecessary to the traveller as its reverse. I was reminded of this truth\nat dinner, when I saw the same steward take a napkin (probably my\ntowel!) from under his arm, to wipe both his face and a plate which he\ncarried. To speak mildly, these people on Lake Ladoga are not sensitive\nin regard to the contact of individualities. But the main point is to\navoid seeing what you don't like.\n\nWe got off at an early hour, and hastened back to Valaam over glassy\nwater and under a superb sky. This time the lake was not so deserted,\nfor the white wings of pilgrim-boats drew in towards the dark island,\nmaking for the golden sparkle of the chapel-dome, which shone afar like\na light-house of the daytime. As we rounded to in the land-locked inlet,\nwe saw that the crowds on the hills had doubled since yesterday, and,\nalthough the chimes were pealing for some religious service, it seemed\nprudent first to make sure of our quarters for the night. Accordingly we\nset out for the imposing house of guests beside the monastery, arriving\nin company with the visitors we had brought with us from Serdopol. The\nentrance-hall led into a long, stone-paved corridor, in which a monk,\nbewildered by many applications, appeared to be seeking relief by\npromises of speedy hospitality. We put in our plea, and also received a\npromise. On either side of the corridor were numbered rooms, already\noccupied, the fortunate guests passing in and out with a provoking air\nof comfort and unconcern. We ascended to the second story, which was\nsimilarly arranged, and caught hold of another benevolent monk, willing,\nbut evidently powerless to help us. Dinner was just about to be served;\nthe brother in authority was not there; we must be good enough to wait a\nlittle while;--would we not visit the shrines, in the mean time?\n\nThe advice was sensible, as well as friendly, and we followed it.\nEntering the great quadrangle of the monastery, we found it divided,\ngridiron-fashion, into long, narrow court-yards by inner lines of\nbuildings. The central court, however, was broad and spacious, the\nchurch occupying a rise of ground on the eastern side. Hundreds of men\nand women--Carelian peasants--thronged around the entrance, crossing\nthemselves in unison with the congregation. The church, we found, was\npacked, and the most zealous wedging among the blue _caftans_ and\nshining flaxen heads brought us no farther than the inner door.\nThence we looked over a tufted level of heads that seemed to\ntouch,--intermingled tints of gold, tawny, _silver_-blond, and the\nvarious shades of brown, touched with dim glosses through the\nincense-smoke, and occasionally bending in concert with an undulating\nmovement, like grain before the wind. Over these heads rose the vaulted\nnave, dazzling with gold and colors, and blocked up, beyond the\nintersection of the transept, by the _ikonostast_, or screen before the\nHoly of Holies, gorgeous with pictures of saints overlaid with silver.\nIn front of the screen the tapers burned, the incense rose thick and\nstrong, and the chant of the monks gave a peculiar solemnity to their\nold Sclavonic litany. The only portion of it which I could understand\nwas the recurring response, as in the English Church, of, \"Lord, have\nmercy upon us!\"\n\nExtricating ourselves with some difficulty, we entered a chapel-crypt,\nwhich contains the bodies of Sergius and Herrmann. They lie together, in\na huge coffin of silver, covered with cloth-of-gold. Tapers of immense\nsize burned at the head and foot, and the pilgrims knelt around, bending\ntheir foreheads to the pavement at the close of their prayers. Among\nothers, a man had brought his insane daughter, and it was touching to\nsee the tender care with which he led her to the coffin and directed her\ndevotions. So much of habit still remained, that it seemed, for the time\nbeing, to restore her reason. The quietness and regularity with which\nshe went through the forms of prayer brought a light of hope to the\nfather's face. The other peasants looked on with an expression of pity\nand sympathy. The girl, we learned, had but recently lost her reason,\nand without any apparent cause. She was betrothed to a young man who was\nsincerely attached to her, and the pilgrimage was undertaken in the hope\nthat a miracle might be wrought in her favor. The presence of the\nshrine, indeed, struck its accustomed awe through her wandering senses,\nbut the effect was only momentary.\n\nI approached the coffin, and deposited a piece of money on the\noffering-plate, for the purpose of getting a glimpse of the pictured\nfaces of the saints, in their silver setting. Their features were hard\nand regular, flatly painted, as if by some forerunner of Cimabue, but\nsufficiently modern to make the likeness doubtful. I have not been able\nto obtain the exact date of their settlement on the island, but I\nbelieve it is referred to the early part of the fifteenth century. The\ncommon people believe that the island was first visited by Andrew, the\nApostle of Christ, who, according to the Russian patriarch Nestor, made\nhis way to Kiev and Novgorod. The latter place is known to have been an\nimportant commercial city as early as the fourth century, and had a\nregular intercourse with Asia. The name of Valaam does not come from\nBalaam, as one might suppose, but seems to be derived from the Finnish\n_varamo_, which signifies \"herring-ground.\" The more I attempted to\nunravel the history of the island, the more it became involved in\nobscurity, and this fact, I must confess, only heightened my interest in\nit. I found myself ready to accept the tradition of Andrew's visit, and\nI accepted without a doubt the grave of King Magnus of Sweden.\n\nOn issuing from the crypt, we encountered a young monk who had evidently\nbeen sent in search of us. The mass was over, and the court-yard was\nnearly emptied of its crowd. In the farther court, however, we found the\npeople more dense than ever, pressing forward towards a small door. The\nmonk made way for us with some difficulty,--for, though the poor fellows\ndid their best to fall back, the pressure from the outside was\ntremendous. Having at last run the gantlet, we found ourselves in the\nrefectory of the monastery, inhaling a thick steam of fish and cabbage.\nThree long tables were filled with monks and pilgrims, while the\nattendants brought in the fish on large wooden trenchers. The plates\nwere of common white ware, but the spoons were of wood. Officers in gay\nuniforms were scattered among the dark anchorites, who occupied one end\nof the table, while the _bourgeoisie_, with here and there a\nblue-caftaned peasant wedged among them, filled the other end. They were\neating with great zeal, while an old priest, standing, read from a\nSclavonic Bible. All eyes were turned upon us as we entered, and there\nwas not a vacant chair in which we could hide our intrusion. It was\nrather embarrassing, especially as the young monk insisted that we\nshould remain, and the curious eyes of the eaters as constantly asked,\n\"Who are these, and what do they want?\" We preferred returning through\nthe hungry crowd, and made our way to the guests' house.\n\nHere a similar process was going on. The corridors were thronged with\npeasants of all ages and both sexes, and the good fathers, more than\never distracted, were incapable of helping us. Seeing a great crowd\npiled up against a rear basement-door, we descended the stairs, and\ngroped our way through manifold steams and noises to a huge succession\nof kitchens, where caldrons of cabbage were bubbling, and shoals of fish\nwent in raw and came out cooked. In another room some hundreds of\npeasants were eating with all the energy of a primitive appetite. Soup\nleaked out of the bowls as if they had been sieves; fishes gave a whisk\nof the tail and vanished; great round boulders of bread went off, layer\nafter layer, and still the empty plates were held up for more. It was\n_grand_ eating,--pure appetite, craving only food in a general sense: no\npicking out of tidbits, no spying here and there for a favorite dish,\nbut, like a huge fire, devouring everything that came in its way. The\nstomach was here a patient, unquestioning serf, not a master full of\nwhims, requiring to be petted and conciliated. So, I thought, people\nmust have eaten in the Golden Age: so Adam and Eve must have dined,\nbefore the Fall made them epicurean and dyspeptic.\n\nWe--degenerate through culture--found the steams of the strong, coarse\ndishes rather unpleasant, and retreated by a back-way, which brought us\nto a spiral staircase. We ascended for a long time, and finally emerged\ninto the garret of the building, hot, close, and strawy as a barn-loft.\nIt was divided into rooms, in which, on the floors covered deep with\nstraw, the happy pilgrims who had finished their dinner were lying on\ntheir bellies, lazily talking themselves to sleep. The grassy slope in\nfront of the house, and all the neighboring heights, were soon covered\nin like manner. Men, women, and children threw themselves down, drawing\noff their heavy boots, and dipping their legs, knee-deep, into the sun\nand air. An atmosphere of utter peace and satisfaction settled over\nthem.\n\nBeing the only foreign and heterodox persons present, we began to feel\nourselves deserted, when the favor of Sergius and Herrmann was again\nmanifested. P. was suddenly greeted by an acquaintance, an officer\nconnected with the Imperial Court, who had come to Valaam for a week of\ndevotion. He immediately interested himself in our behalf, procured us a\nroom with a lovely prospect, transferred his bouquet of lilacs and\npeonies to our table, and produced his bottle of lemon-syrup to flavor\nour tea. The rules of the monastery are very strict, and no visitor is\nexempt from their observance. Not a fish can be caught, not a bird or\nbeast shot, no wine or liquor of any kind, nor tobacco in any form, used\non the island. Rigid as the organization seems, it bears equally on\nevery member of the brotherhood: the equality upon which such\nassociations were originally based is here preserved. The monks are only\nin an ecclesiastical sense subordinate to the abbot. Otherwise, the\nfraternity seems to be about as complete as in the early days of\nChristianity.\n\nThe Valamo, and her rival, the Letuchie, had advertised a trip to the\nHoly Island, the easternmost of the Valaam group, some six miles from\nthe monastery, and the weather was so fair that both boats were crowded,\nmany of the monks accompanying us. Our new-found friend was also of the\nparty, and I made the acquaintance of a Finnish student from the Lyceum\nat Kuopio, who gave me descriptions of the Saima Lake and the wilds of\nSavolax. Running eastward along the headlands, we passed Chernoi Noss,\n(Black-Nose,) the name of which again recalled a term common in the\nOrkneys and Shetlands,--_noss_, there, signifying a headland. The Holy\nIsland rose before us,--a circular pile of rock, crowned with wood, like\na huge, unfinished tower of Cyclopean masonry, built up out of the deep\nwater. Far beyond it, over the rim of the lake, glimmered the blue\neastern shore. As we drew near, we found that the tumbled fragments of\nrock had been arranged, with great labor, to form a capacious foot-path\naround the base of the island. The steamers drew up against this narrow\nquay, upon which we landed, under a granite wall which rose\nperpendicularly to the height of seventy or eighty feet. The firs on the\nsummit grew out to the very edge and stretched their dark arms over us.\nEvery cranny of the rock was filled with tufts of white and pink\nflowers, and the moisture, trickling from above, betrayed itself in long\nlines of moss and fern.\n\nI followed the pilgrims around to the sunny side of the island, and\nfound a wooden staircase at a point where the wall was somewhat broken\naway. Reaching the top of the first ascent, the sweet breath of a spring\nwoodland breathed around me. I looked under the broken roofage of the\nboughs upon a blossoming jungle of shrubs and plants which seemed to\nhave been called into life by a more potent sun. The lily of the valley,\nin thick beds, poured out the delicious sweetness of its little cups;\nspikes of a pale-green orchis emitted a rich cinnamon odor; anemones,\ngeraniums, sigillarias, and a feathery flower, white, freckled with\npurple, grew in profusion. The top of the island, five or six acres in\nextent, was a slanting plane, looking to the south, whence it received\nthe direct rays of the sun. It was an enchanting picture of woodland\nbloom, lighted with sprinkled sunshine, in the cold blue setting of the\nlake, which was visible on all sides, between the boles of the trees. I\nhailed it as an idyl of the North,--a poetic secret, which the Earth,\neven where she is most cruelly material and cold, still tenderly hides\nand cherishes.\n\nA peasant, whose scarlet shirt flashed through the bushes like a sudden\nfire, seeing me looking at the flowers, gathered a handful of lilies,\nwhich he offered to me, saying, \"_Prekrasnie_\" (Beautiful). Without\nwaiting for thanks, he climbed a second flight of steps and suddenly\ndisappeared from view. I followed, and found myself in front of a narrow\naperture in a rude wall, which had been built up under an overhanging\nmass of rocks. A lamp was twinkling within, and presently several\npersons crawled out, crossing themselves and muttering prayers.\n\n\"What is this?\" asked a person who had just arrived.\n\n\"The cave of Alexander Svirski,\" was the answer.\n\nAlexander of the Svir--a river flowing from the Onega Lake into\nLadoga--was a hermit who lived for twenty years on the Holy Island,\ninhabiting the hole before us through the long, dark, terrible winters,\nin a solitude broken only when the monks of Valaam came over the ice to\nreplenish his stock of provisions. Verily, the hermits of the Thebaid\nwere Sybarites, compared to this man! There are still two or three\nhermits who have charge of outlying chapels on the islands, and live\nwholly secluded from their brethren. They wear dresses covered with\ncrosses and other symbols, and are considered as dead to the world. The\nceremony which consecrates them for this service is that for the burial\nof the dead.\n\nI managed, with some difficulty, to creep into Alexander Svirski's den.\nI saw nothing, however, but the old, smoky, and sacred picture before\nwhich the lamp burned. The rocky roof was so low that I could not stand\nupright, and all the walls I could find were the bodies of pilgrims who\nhad squeezed in before me. A confused whisper surrounded me in the\ndarkness, and the air was intolerably close. I therefore made my escape\nand mounted to the chapel, on the highest part of the island. A little\nbelow it, an open pavilion, with seats, has been built over the sacred\nspring from which the hermit drank, and thither the pilgrims thronged.\nThe water was served in a large wooden bowl, and each one made the sign\nof the cross before drinking. By waiting for my turn I ascertained that\nthe spring was icy-cold, and very pure and sweet.\n\nI found myself lured to the highest cliff, whence I could look out,\nthrough the trees, on the far, smooth disk of the lake. Smooth and fair\nas the AEgean it lay before me, and the trees were silent as olives at\nnoonday on the shores of Cos. But how different in color, in sentiment!\nHere, perfect sunshine can never dust the water with the purple bloom of\nthe South, can never mellow its hard, cold tint of greenish-blue. The\ndistant hills, whether dark or light, are equally cold, and are seen too\nnakedly through the crystal air to admit of any illusion. Bracing as is\nthis atmosphere, the gods could never breathe it. It would revenge on\nthe ivory limbs of Apollo his treatment of Marsyas. No foam-born\nAphrodite could rise warm from yonder wave; not even the cold, sleek\nNereids could breast its keen edge. We could only imagine it disturbed,\ntemporarily, by the bath-plunge of hardy Vikings, whom we can see, red\nand tingling from head to heel, as they emerge.\n\n\"Come!\" cried P., \"the steamer is about to leave!\"\n\nWe all wandered down the steps, I with my lilies in my hand. Even the\nrough peasants seemed reluctant to leave the spot, and not wholly for\nthe sake of Alexander Svirski. We were all safely embarked and carried\nback to Valaam, leaving the island to its solitude. Alexis (as I shall\ncall our Russian friend) put us in charge of a native artist who knew\nevery hidden beauty of Valaam, and suggested an exploration of the\ninlet, while he went back to his devotions. We borrowed a boat from the\nmonks, and impressed a hardy fisherman into our service. I supposed we\nhad already seen the extent of the inlet, but on reaching its head a\nnarrow side-channel disclosed itself, passing away under a quaint bridge\nand opening upon an inner lake of astonishing beauty. The rocks were\ndisposed in every variety of grouping,--sometimes rising in even\nterraces, step above step, sometimes thrusting out a sheer wall from the\nsummit, or lying slant-wise in masses split off by the wedges of the\nice. The fairy birches, in their thin foliage, stood on the edge of the\nwater like Dryads undressing for a bath, while the shaggy male firs\nelbowed each other on the heights for a look at them. Other channels\nopened in the distance, with glimpses of other and as beautiful harbors\nin the heart of the islands. \"You may sail for seventy-five versts,\"\nsaid the painter, \"without seeing them all.\"\n\nThe fearlessness of all wild creatures showed that the rules of the good\nmonks had been carefully obeyed. The wild ducks swam around our boat, or\nbrooded, in conscious security, on their nests along the shore. Three\ngreat herons, fishing in a shallow, rose slowly into the air and flew\nacross the water, breaking the silence with their hoarse trumpet-note.\nFarther in the woods there are herds of wild reindeer, which are said to\nhave become gradually tame. This familiarity of the animals took away\nfrom the islands all that was repellent in their solitude. It half\nrestored the broken link between man and the subject-forms of life.\n\nThe sunset-light was on the trees when we started, but here in the North\nit is no fleeting glow. It lingers for hours even, fading so\nimperceptibly that you scarcely know when it has ceased. Thus, when we\nreturned after a long pull, craving the Lenten fare of the monastery,\nthe same soft gold tinted its clustering domes. We were not called upon\nto visit the refectory, but a table was prepared in our room. The first\ndish had the appearance of a salad, with the accompaniment of black\nbread. On carefully tasting, I discovered the ingredients to be raw salt\nfish chopped fine, cucumbers, and--beer. The taste of the first spoonful\nwas peculiar, of the second tolerable, of the third decidedly palatable.\nBeyond this I did not go, for we had fresh fish, boiled in enough water\nto make a soup. Then the same, fried in its own fat, and, as salt and\npepper were allowed, we did not scorn our supper. P. and R. afterwards\nwalked over to the Skit, a small church and branch of the monastery,\nmore than a mile distant; while I tried, but all in vain, to reproduce\nthe Holy Island in verses. The impression was too recent.\n\nThe next day was the festival of Peter and Paul, and Alexis had advised\nus to make an excursion to a place called Jelesniki. In the morning,\nhowever, we learned that the monastery and its grounds were to be\nconsecrated in solemn procession. The chimes pealed out quick and\njoyously, and soon a burst of banners and a cloud of incense issued from\nthe great gate. All the pilgrims--nearly two thousand in\nnumber--thronged around the double line of chanting monks, and it was\nfound necessary to inclose the latter in a hollow square, formed by a\nlinked chain of hands. As the morning sun shone on the bare-headed\nmultitude, the beauty of their unshorn hair struck me like a new\nrevelation. Some of the heads, of lustrous, flossy gold, actually shone\nby their own light. It was marvellous that skin so hard and coarse in\ntexture should produce such beautiful hair. The beards of the men, also,\nwere strikingly soft and rich. They never shave, and thus avoid\nbristles, the down of adolescence thickening into a natural beard.\n\nAs the procession approached, Alexis, who was walking behind the monks,\ninside the protecting guard, beckoned to us to join him. The peasants\nrespectfully made way, two hands unlinked to admit us, and we became,\nunexpectedly, participants in the ceremonies. From the south side the\nprocession moved around to the east, where a litany was again chanted.\nThe fine voices of the monks lost but little of their volume in the open\nair; there was no wind, and the tapers burned and the incense diffused\nitself, as in the church. A sacred picture, which two monks carried on a\nsort of litter, was regarded with particular reverence by the pilgrims,\nnumbers of whom crept under the line of guards to snatch a moment's\ndevotion before it. At every pause in the proceedings there was a rush\nfrom all sides, and the poor fellows who formed the lines held each\nother's hands with all their strength. Yet, flushed, sweating, and\nexhausted as they were, the responsibility of their position made them\nperfectly proud and happy. They were the guardians of cross and shrine,\nof the holy books, the monks, and the abbot himself.\n\nFrom the east side we proceeded to the north, where the dead monks sleep\nin their cemetery, high over the watery gorge. In one corner of this\ninclosure, under a group of giant maples, is the grave of King Magnus of\nSweden, who is said to have perished by shipwreck on the island. Here,\nin the deep shade, a solemn mass for the dead was chanted. Nothing could\nhave added to the impressiveness of the scene. The tapers burning under\nthe thick-leaved boughs, the light smoke curling up in the shade, the\ngrave voices of the monks, the bending heads of the beautiful-haired\ncrowd, and the dashes of white, pink, scarlet, blue, and gold in their\ndresses, made a picture the solemnity of which was only heightened by\nits pomp of color. I can do no more than give the features; the reader\nmust recombine them in his own mind.\n\nThe painter accompanied us to the place called Jelesniki, which, after a\nwalk of four miles through the forests, we found to be a deserted\nvillage, with a chapel on a rocky headland. There was a fine bridge\nacross the dividing strait, and the place may have been as picturesque\nas it was represented. On that side of the islands, however, there was a\ndense fog, and we could get no view beyond a hundred yards. We had hoped\nto see reindeer in the woods, and an eagle's nest, and various other\ncuriosities; but where there was no fog there were mosquitoes, and the\nsearch became discouraging.\n\nOn returning to the monastery, a register was brought to us, in which,\non looking back for several years, we could find but one foreign\nvisitor,--a Frenchman. We judged, therefore, that the abbot would\npossibly expect us to call upon him, and, indeed, the hospitality we had\nreceived exacted it. We found him receiving visitors in a plain, but\ncomfortable room, in a distant part of the building. He was a man of\nfifty-five, frank and self-possessed in his manners, and of an evident\nforce and individuality of character. His reception of the visitors,\namong whom was a lady, was at once courteous and kindly. A younger monk\nbrought us glasses of tea. Incidentally learning that I had visited the\nHoly Places in Syria, the abbot sent for some pictures of the monastery\nand its chosen saints, which he asked me to keep as a souvenir of\nValaam. He also presented each of us with a cake of unleavened bread,\nstamped with the cross, and with a triangular piece cut out of the top,\nto indicate the Trinity. On parting, he gave his hand, which the\northodox visitors devoutly kissed. Before the steamer sailed, we\nreceived fresh evidence of his kindness, in the present of three large\nloaves of consecrated bread, and a bunch of lilacs from the garden of\nthe monastery.\n\nThrough some misunderstanding, we failed to dine in the refectory, as\nthe monks desired, and their hospitable regret on this account was the\nonly shade on our enjoyment of the visit. Alexis remained, in order to\ncomplete his devotions by partaking the Communion on the following\nSabbath; but as the anniversary solemnities closed at noon, the crowd of\npilgrims prepared to return home. The Valamo, too, sounded her warning\nbell, so we left the monastery as friends where we had arrived as\nstrangers, and went on board. Boat after boat, gunwale-deep with the gay\nCarelians, rowed down the inlet, and in the space of half an hour but a\nfew stragglers were left of all the multitude. Some of the monks came\ndown to say another good-bye, and the under-abbot, blessing R., made the\nsign of the cross upon his brow and breast.\n\nWhen we reached the golden dome of St. Nicholas, at the outlet of the\nharbor, the boats had set their sails, and the lake was no longer\nlonely. Scores of white wings gleamed in the sun, as they scattered away\nin radii from the central and sacred point, some north, some east, and\nsome veering south around Holy Island. Sergius and Herrmann gave them\nsmooth seas, and light, favorable airs; for the least roughness would\nhave carried them, overladen as they were, to the bottom. Once more the\nbells of Valaam chimed farewell, and we turned the point to the\nwestward, steering back to Kexholm.\n\nLate that night we reached our old moorage at Konewitz, and on Saturday,\nat the appointed hour, landed in St. Petersburg. We carried the white\ncross at the fore as we descended the Neva, and the bells of the\nchurches along the banks welcomed our return. And now, as I recall those\nfive days among the islands of the Northern Lake, I see that it is good\nto go on a pilgrimage, even if one is not a pilgrim.\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\nWET-WEATHER WORK.\n\nBY A FARMER.\n\nVI.\n\n\nI begin my day with a canny Scot, who was born in Edinburgh in 1726,\nnear which city his father conducted a large market-garden. As a youth,\naged nineteen, John Abercrombie (for it is of him I make companion this\nwet morning) saw the Battle of Preston Pans, at which the Highlanders\npushed the King's-men in defeat to the very foot of his father's\ngarden-wall. Whether he shouldered a matchlock for the Castle-people and\nSir John Hope, or merely looked over from the kale-beds at the\nvictorious fighters for Prince Charley, I cannot learn; it is certain\nonly that before Culloden, and the final discomfiture of the Pretender,\nhe avowed himself a good King's-man, and in many an after-year, over his\npipe and his ale, told the story of the battle which surged wrathfully\naround his father's kale-garden by Preston Pans.\n\nBut he did not stay long in Scotland; he became gardener for Sir James\nDouglas, into whose family (below-stairs) he eventually married;\nafterwards he had experience in the royal gardens at Kew, and in\nLeicester Fields. Finally he became proprietor of a patch of ground in\nthe neighborhood of London; and his success here, added to his success\nin other service, gave him such reputation that he was one day waited\nupon (about the year 1770) by Mr. Davis, a London bookseller, who\ninvited him to dine at an inn in Hackney; and at the dinner he was\nintroduced to a certain Oliver Goldsmith, an awkward man, who had\npublished four years before a book called \"The Vicar of Wakefield.\" Mr.\nDavis thought John Abercrombie was competent to write a good practical\nwork on gardening, and the Hackney dinner was intended to warm the way\ntoward such a book. Dinners are sometimes given with such ends even now.\nThe shrewd Mr. Davis was a little doubtful of Abercrombie's style, but\nnot at all doubtful of the style of the author of \"The Traveller.\" Dr.\nGoldsmith was not a man averse to a good meal, where he was to meet a\nstraightforward, out-spoken Scotch gardener; and Mr. Davis, at a mellow\nstage of the dinner, brought forward his little plan, which was that\nAbercrombie should prepare a treatise upon gardening, to be revised and\nput in shape by the author of \"The Deserted Village.\" The dinner at\nHackney was, I dare say, a good one; the scheme looked promising to a\nman whose vegetable-carts streamed every morning into London, and to the\nDoctor, mindful of his farm-retirement at the six-mile stone on the\nEdgeware Road; so it was all arranged between them.\n\nBut, like many a publisher's scheme, it miscarried. The Doctor perhaps\nsaw a better bargain in the Lives of Bolingbroke and Parnell;[A] or\nperhaps his appointment as Professor of History to the Royal Society put\nhim too much upon his dignity. At any rate, the world has to regret a\ngardening-book in which the shrewd practical knowledge of Abercrombie\nwould have been refined by the grace and the always alluring limpidity\nof the style of Goldsmith.\n\nI know that the cultivators pretend to spurn graces of manner, and\naffect only a clumsy burden of language, under which, I am sorry to say,\nthe best agriculturists have most commonly labored; but if the\ntransparent simplicity of Goldsmith had once been thoroughly infused\nwith the practical knowledge of Abercrombie, what a book on gardening we\nshould have had! What a lush verdure of vegetables would have tempted\nus! What a wealth of perfume would have exuded from the flowers!\n\nBut the scheme proved abortive. Goldsmith said, \"I think our friend\nAbercrombie can write better about plants than I can.\" And so doubtless\nhe could, so far as knowledge of their habits went. Eight years after,\nAbercrombie prepared a book called \"Every Man his own Gardener\"; but so\ndoubtful was he of his own reputation, that he paid twenty pounds to Mr.\nThomas Mawe, the fashionable gardener of the Duke of Leeds, to allow him\nto place his name upon the title-page. I am sorry to record such a\nscurvy bit of hypocrisy in so competent a man. The book sold, however,\nand sold so well, that, a few years after, the elegant Mr. Mawe begged a\nvisit from the nurseryman of Tottenham Court, whom he had never seen; so\nAbercrombie goes down to the seat of the Duke of Leeds, and finds his\ngardener so bedizened with powder, and wearing such a grand air, that he\nmistakes him for his Lordship; but it is a mistake, we may readily\nbelieve, which the elegant Mr. Mawe forgives, and the two gardeners\nbecome capital friends.\n\nAbercrombie afterward published many works under his own name;[B] among\nthese was \"The Gardener's Pocket Journal,\" which maintained an\nunflagging popularity as a standard book for a period of half a century.\nThis hardy Scotchman lived to be eighty; and when he could work no\nlonger, he was constantly afoot among the botanical gardens about\nLondon. At the last it was a fall \"down-stairs in the dark\" that was the\ncause of death; and fifteen days after, as his quaint biographers tell\nus, \"he expired, just as the clock upon St. Paul's struck\ntwelve,--between April and May\": as if the ripe old gardener could not\ntell which of these twin garden-months he loved the best; and so, with a\nfoot planted in each, he made the leap into the realm of eternal spring.\n\nA noticeable fact in regard to this out-of-door old gentleman is, that\nhe never took \"doctors'-stuff\" in his life, until the time of that fatal\nfall in the dark. He was, however, an inveterate tea-drinker; and there\nwas another aromatic herb (I write this with my pipe in my mouth) of\nwhich he was, up to the very last, a most ardent consumer.\n\nIn the year 1766 was published for the first time a posthumous\nwork by John Locke, the great philosopher and the good Christian,\nentitled, \"Observations upon the Growth and Culture of Vines and\nOlives,\"--written, very likely, after his return from France, down in\nhis pleasant Essex home, at the seat of Sir Francis Masham. I should\nlove to give the reader a sample of the way in which the author of \"An\nEssay concerning Human Understanding\" wrote regarding horticultural\nmatters. But, after some persistent search and inquiry, I have not been\nable to see or even to hear of a copy of the book.[C] No one can doubt\nbut there is wisdom in it. \"I believe you think me,\" he writes in a\nprivate letter to a friend, \"too proud to undertake anything wherein I\nshould acquit myself but unworthily.\" This is a sort of pride--not very\ncommon in our day--which does _not_ go before a fall.\n\nI name a poet next,--not because a great poet, for he was not, nor yet\nbecause he wrote \"The English Garden,\"[D] for there is sweeter\ngarden-perfume in many another poem of the day that does not pique our\ncuriosity by its title. But the Reverend William Mason, if not among the\nforemost of poets, was a man of most kindly and liberal sympathies. He\nwas a devoted Whig, at a time when Whiggism meant friendship for the\nAmerican Colonists; and the open expression of this friendship cost him\nhis place as a Royal Chaplain. I will remember this longer than I\nremember his \"English Garden,\"--longer than I remember his best couplet\nof verse:--\n\n    \"While through the west, where sinks the crimson day,\n    Meek twilight slowly sails, and waves her banners gray.\"\n\nIt was alleged, indeed, by those who loved to say ill-natured things,\n(Horace Walpole among them,) that in the later years of his life he\nforgot his first love of Liberalism and became politically conservative.\nBut it must be remembered that the good poet lived into the time when\nthe glut and gore of the French Revolution made people hold their\nbreath, and when every man who lifted a humane plaint against the\nincessant creak and crash of the guillotine was reckoned by all mad\nreformers a conservative. I think, if I had lived in that day, I should\nhave been a conservative, too,--however much the pretty and bloody\nDesmoulins might have made faces at me in the newspapers.\n\nI can find nothing in Mason's didactic poem to quote. There are tasteful\nsuggestions scattered through it,--better every way than his poetry. The\ngrounds of his vicarage at Aston must have offered charming\nloitering-places. I will leave him idling there,--perhaps conning over\nsome letter of his friend the poet Gray; perhaps lounging in the very\nalcove where he had inscribed this verse of the \"Elegy,\"--\n\n    \"Here scattered oft, the loveliest of the year,\n      By hands unseen, are showers of violets found;\n    The redbreast loves to build and warble here,\n      And little footsteps lightly print the ground.\"\n\nIf, indeed, he had known how to strew such gems through his \"English\nGarden,\" we should have had a poem that would have out-shone \"The\nSeasons.\"\n\nAnd this mention reminds me, that, although I have slipped past his\nperiod, I have said no word as yet of the Roxburgh poet; but he shall be\nneglected no longer. (The big book, my boy, upon the third shelf, with a\nworn back, labelled THOMSON.)\n\nThis poet is not upon the gardeners' or the agricultural lists. One can\nfind no farm-method in him,--indeed, little method of any sort; there is\nno description of a garden carrying half the details that belong to\nTasso's garden of Armida, or Rousseau's in the letter of St. Preux.[E]\nAnd yet, as we read, how the country, with its woods, its valleys, its\nhillsides, its swains, its toiling cattle, comes swooping to our vision!\nThe leaves rustle, the birds warble, the rivers roar a song. The sun\nbeats on the plain; the winds carry waves into the grain; the clouds\nplant shadows on the mountains. The minuteness and the accuracy of his\nobservation are something wonderful; if farmers should not study him,\nour young poets may. _He_ never puts a song in the throat of a jay or a\nwood-dove; _he_ never makes a mother-bird break out in bravuras; _he_\nnever puts a sickle into green grain, or a trout in a slimy brook; _he_\ncould picture no orchis growing on a hillside, or columbine nodding in a\nmeadow. If the leaves shimmer, you may be sure the sun is shining; if a\nprimrose lightens on the view, you may be sure there is some covert\nwhich the primroses love; and never by any license does a white flower\ncome blushing into his poem.\n\nI will not quote, where so much depends upon the atmosphere which the\npoet himself creates, as he waves his enchanter's wand. Over all the\ntype his sweet power compels a rural heaven to lie reflected; I go from\nbudding spring to blazing summer at the turning of a page; on all the\nmeadows below me (though it is March) I see ripe autumn brooding with\ngolden wings; and winter howls and screams in gusts, and tosses tempests\nof snow into my eyes--out of the book my boy has just now brought me.\n\nOne verse, at least, I will cite,--so full it is of all pastoral\nfeeling, so brimming over with the poet's passion for the country: it is\nfrom \"The Castle of Indolence\":--\n\n    \"I care not, Fortune, what you me deny:\n    You cannot rob me of free Nature's grace;\n    You cannot shut the windows of the sky,\n    Through which Aurora shows her brightening face;\n    You cannot bar my constant feet to trace\n    The woods and lawns, by living stream at eve:\n    Let health my nerves and finer fibres brace,\n    And I their toys to the great children leave;\n    Of fancy, reason, virtue, nought can me bereave.\"\n\nAnother Scotchman, Lord Kames, (Henry Home by name,) who was Senior Lord\nof Sessions in Scotland about the year 1760, was best known in his own\nday for his discussion of \"The Principles of Equity\"; he is known to the\nliterary world as the author of an elegant treatise upon the \"Elements\nof Criticism\"; I beg leave to introduce him to my readers to-day as a\nsturdy, practical farmer. The book, indeed, which serves for his card of\nintroduction, is called \"The Gentleman Farmer\";[F] but we must not judge\nit by our experience of the class who wear that title nowadays. Lord\nKames recommends no waste of money, no extravagant architecture, no mere\nprettinesses. He talks of the plough in a way that assures us he has\nheld it some day with his own hands. People are taught, he says, more by\nthe eye than the ear; _show_ them good culture, and they will follow it.\n\nAs for what were called the principles of agriculture, he found them\ninvolved in obscurity; he went to the book of Nature for instruction,\nand commenced, like Descartes, with doubting everything. He condemns the\nRoman husbandry as fettered by superstitions, and gives a piquant sneer\nat the absurd rhetoric and verbosity of Varro.[G] Nor is he any more\ntolerant of Scotch superstitions. He declares against wasteful and\ncareless farming in a way that reminds us of our good friend Judge ----,\nat the last county-show.\n\nHe urges good ploughing as a primal necessity, and insists upon the use\nof the roller for rendering the surface of wheatlands compact, and so\nretaining the moisture; nor does he attempt to reconcile this\ndeclaration with the Tull theory of constant trituration. A great many\nexcellent Scotch farmers still hold to the views of his Lordship, and\nbelieve in \"keeping the sap\" in fresh-tilled land by heavy rolling; and\nso far as regards a wheat or rye crop upon _light_ lands, I think the\nweight of opinion, as well as of the rollers, is with them.\n\nLord Kames, writing before the time of draining-tile, dislikes open\nditches, by reason of their interference with tillage, and does not\ntrust the durability of brush or stone underdrains. He relies upon\nridging, and the proper disposition of open furrows, in the old Greek\nway. Turnips he commends without stint, and the Tull system of their\nculture. Of clover he thinks as highly as the great English farmer, but\ndoes not believe in his notion of economizing seed: \"Idealists,\" he\nsays, \"talk of four pounds to the acre; but when sown for cutting green,\nI would advise twenty-four pounds.\" This amount will seem a little\nstartling, I fancy, even to farmers of our day.\n\nHe advises strongly the use of oxen in place of horses for all\nfarm-labor; they cost less, keep for less, and sell for more; and he\nenters into arithmetical calculations to establish his propositions. He\ninstances Mr. Burke, who ploughs with four oxen at Beaconsfield. How\ndrolly it sounds to hear the author of \"Letters on a Regicide Peace\"\ncited as an authority in practical farming! He still further urges his\nox-working scheme, on grounds of public economy: it will cheapen food,\nforbid importation of oats, and reduce wages. Again, he recommends\nsoiling,[H] by all the arguments which are used, and vainly used, with\nus. He shows the worthlessness of manure dropped upon a parched field,\ncompared with the same duly cared for in court or stable; he proposes\nmovable sheds for feeding, and enters into a computation of the weight\nof green clover which will be consumed in a day by horses, cows, or\noxen: \"a horse, ten Dutch stone daily; an ox or cow, eight stone; ten\nhorses, ten oxen, and six cows, two hundred and twenty-eight stone per\nday,\"--involving constant cartage: still he is convinced of the profit\nof the method.\n\nHis views on feeding ordinary store cattle, or accustoming them to\nchange of food, are eminently practical. After speaking of the\ndesirableness of providing a good stock of vegetables, he\ncontinues,--\"And yet, after all, how many indolent farmers remain, who\nfor want of spring food are forced to turn their cattle out to grass\nbefore it is ready for pasture! which not only starves the cattle, but\nlays the grass-roots open to be parched by sun and wind.\"\n\nDoes not this sound as if I had clipped it from the \"Country Gentleman\"\nof last week? And yet it was written ninety-seven years ago, by one of\nthe most accomplished Scotch judges, and in his eightieth year,--another\nVarro, packing his luggage for his last voyage.\n\nOne great value of Lord Kames's talk lies in the particularity of his\ndirections: he does not despise mention of those minutiae a neglect of\nwhich makes so many books of agricultural instruction utterly useless.\nThus, in so small a matter as the sowing of clover-seed, he tells how\nthe thumb and finger should be held, for its proper distribution; in\nstacking, he directs how to bind the thatch; he tells how mown grass\nshould be raked, and how many hours spread;[I] and his directions for\nthe making of clover-hay could not be improved upon this very summer.\n\"Stir it not the day it is cut. Turn it in the swath the forenoon of the\nnext day; and in the afternoon put it up in small cocks. The third day\nput two cocks into one, enlarging every day the cocks till they are\nready for the tramp rick [temporary field-stack].\"\n\nA small portion of his book is given up to the discussion of the theory\nof agriculture; but he fairly warns his readers that he is wandering in\nthe dark. If all theorists were as honest! He deplores the ignorance of\nTull in asserting that plants feed on earth; air and water alone, in his\nopinion, furnish the supply of plant-food. All plants feed alike, and on\nthe same material. Degeneracy appearing only in those which are not\nnative: white clover never deteriorates in England, nor bull-dogs.\n\nBut I will not linger on his theories. He is represented to have been a\nkind and humane man; but this did not forbid a hearty relish (appearing\noften in his book) for any scheme which promised to cheapen labor. \"The\npeople on landed estates,\" he says, \"are trusted by Providence to the\nowner's care, and the proprietor is accountable for the management of\nthem to the Great God, who is the Creator of both.\" It does not seem to\nhave occurred to the old gentleman that some day people might decline to\nbe \"managed.\"\n\nHe gave the best proof of his practical tact, in the conduct of his\nestate of Blair-Drummond,--uniting there all the graces of the best\nlandscape-gardening with profitable returns.\n\nI take leave of him with a single excerpt from his admirable chapter of\nGardening in the \"Elements of Criticism\":--\"Other fine arts may be\nperverted to excite irregular, and even vicious emotions; but gardening,\nwhich inspires the purest and most refined pleasures, cannot fail to\npromote every good affection. The gayety and harmony of mind it\nproduceth inclineth the spectator to communicate his satisfaction to\nothers, and to make them happy as he is himself, and tends naturally to\nestablish in him a habit of humanity and benevolence.\"\n\nIt is humiliating to reflect, that a thievish orator at one of our\nAgricultural Fairs might appropriate page after page out of the\n\"Gentleman Farmer\" of Lord Kames, written in the middle of the last\ncentury, and the county-paper, and the aged directors, in clean\nshirt-collars and dress-coats, would be full of praises \"of the\nenlightened views of our esteemed fellow-citizen.\" And yet at the very\ntime when the critical Scotch judge was meditating his book, there was\nerected a land light-house, called Dunston Column, upon Lincoln Heath,\nto guide night travellers over a great waste of land that lay a\nhalf-day's ride south of Lincoln. And when Lady Robert Manners, who had\na seat at Bloxholme, wished to visit Lincoln, a groom or two were sent\nout the morning before to explore a good path, and families were not\nunfrequently lost for days[J] together in crossing the heath. And this\nsame heath, made up of a light fawn-colored sand, lying on \"dry, thirsty\nstone,\" was, twenty years since at least, blooming all over with rank,\ndark lines of turnips; trim, low hedges skirted the level highways; neat\nfarm-cottages were flanked with great saddle-backed ricks; thousands\nupon thousands of long-woolled sheep cropped the luxuriant pasturage,\nand the Dunston column was down.\n\nAbout the time of Lord Kames's establishment at Blair-Drummond, or\nperhaps a little earlier, a certain Master Claridge published \"The\nCountry Calendar; or, The Shepherd of Banbury's Rules to know of the\nChange of the Weather.\" It professed to be based upon forty years'\nexperience, and is said to have met with great favor. I name it only\nbecause it embodies these old couplets, which still lead a vagabond life\nup and down the pages of country-almanacs:--\n\n    \"If the grass grows in Janiveer,\n    It grows the worst for't all the year.\"\n\n    \"The Welshman had rather see his dam on the bier.\n    Than to see a fair Februeer.\"\n\n    \"When April blows his horn,\n    It's good both for hay and corn.\"\n\n    \"A cold May and a windy\n    Makes a full barn and a findy.\"\n\n    \"A swarm of bees in May\n    Is worth a load of hay;\n    But a swarm in July\n    Is not worth a fly.\"\n\nWill any couplets of Tennyson reap as large a fame?\n\nAbout the same period, John Mills, a Fellow of the Royal Society,\npublished a work of a totally different character,--being very methodic,\nvery full, very clear. It was distributed through five volumes. He\nenforces the teachings of Evelyn and Duhamel, and is commendatory of the\nviews of Tull. The Rotherham plough is figured in his work, as well as\nthirteen of the natural grasses. He speaks of potatoes and turnips as\nestablished crops, and enlarges upon their importance. He clings to the\nVirgilian theory of small farms, and to the better theory of thorough\ntillage.\n\nIn 1759 was issued the seventh edition of Miller's \"Gardener's\nDictionary,\"[K] in which was for the first time adopted (in English) the\nclassical system of Linnaeus. If I have not before alluded to Philip\nMiller, it is not because he is undeserving. He was a correspondent of\nthe chiefs in science over the Continent of Europe, and united to his\nknowledge a rare practical skill. He was superintendent of the famous\nChelsea Gardens of the Apothecaries Company, He lies buried in the\nChelsea Church-yard, where the Fellows of the Linnaean and Horticultural\nSocieties of London have erected a monument to his memory. Has the\nreader ever sailed up the Thames, beyond Westminster? And does he\nremember a little spot of garden-ground, walled in by dingy houses, that\nlies upon the right bank of the river near to Chelsea Hospital? If he\ncan recall two gaunt, flat-topped cedars which sentinel the walk leading\nto the river-gate, he will have the spot in his mind, where, nearly two\nhundred years ago, and a full century before the Kew parterres were laid\ndown, the Chelsea Garden of the Apothecaries Company was established. It\nwas in the open country then; and even Philip Miller, in 1722, walked to\nhis work between hedge-rows, where sparrows chirped in spring, and in\nwinter the fieldfare chattered: but the town has swallowed it; the\ncity-smoke has starved it; even the marble image of Sir Hans Sloane in\nits centre is but the mummy of a statue. Yet in the Physic Garden there\nare trees struggling still which Philip Miller planted; and I can\nreadily believe, that, when the old man, at seventy-eight, (through some\nquarrel with the Apothecaries,) took his last walk to the river-bank, he\ndid it with a sinking at the heart which kept by him till he died.\n\nI come now to speak of Thomas Whately, to whom I have already alluded,\nand of whom, from the scantiness of all record of his life, it is\npossible to say only very little. He lived at Nonsuch Park, in Surrey,\nnot many miles from London, on the road to Epsom. He was engaged in\npublic affairs, being at one time secretary to the Earl of Suffolk, and\nalso a member of Parliament. But I enroll him in my wet-day service\nsimply as the author of the most appreciative and most tasteful treatise\nupon landscape-gardening which has ever been written,--not excepting\neither Price or Repton. It is entitled, \"Observations on Modern\nGardening,\" and was first published in 1770. It was the same year\ntranslated into French by Latapie, and was to the Continental gardeners\nthe first revelation of the graces which belonged to English cultivated\nlandscape. In the course of the book he gives vivid descriptions of\nBlenheim, Hagley, Leasowes, Claremont, and several other well-known\nBritish places. He treats separately of Parks, Water, Farms, Gardens,\nRidings, etc., illustrating each with delicate and tender transcripts of\nnatural scenes. Now he takes us to the cliffs of Matlock, and again to\nthe farm-flats of Woburn. His criticisms upon the places reviewed are\npiquant, full of rare apprehension of the most delicate natural\nbeauties, and based on principles which every man of taste must accept\nat sight. As you read him, he does not seem so much a theorizer or\nexpounder as he does the simple interpreter of graces which had escaped\nyour notice. His suggestions come upon you with such a momentum of\ntruthfulness, that you cannot stay to challenge them.\n\nThere is no argumentation, and no occasion for it. On such a bluff he\ntells us wood should be planted, and we wonder that a hundred people had\nnot said the same thing before; on such a river-meadow the grassy level\nshould lie open to the sun, and we wonder who could ever have doubted\nit. Nor is it in matters of taste alone, I think, that the best things\nwe hear seem always to have a smack of oldness in them,--as if we\n_remembered_ their virtue. \"Capital!\" we say; \"but hasn't it been said\nbefore?\" or, \"Precisely! I wonder I didn't do or say the same thing\nmyself.\" Whenever you hear such criticisms upon any performance, you may\nbe sure that it has been directed by a sound instinct. It is not a sort\nof criticism any one is apt to make upon flashy rhetoric, or upon flash\ngardening.\n\nWhately alludes to the analogy between landscape-painting and\nlandscape-gardening: the true artists in either pursuit aim at the\nproduction of rich pictorial effects, but their means are different.\nDoes the painter seek to give steepness to a declivity?--then he may add\nto his shading a figure or two toiling up. The gardener, indeed, cannot\nplant a man there; but a copse upon the summit will add to the apparent\nheight, and he may indicate the difficulty of ascent by a hand-rail\nrunning along the path. The painter will extend his distance by the\n_diminuendo_ of his mountains, or of trees stretching toward the\nhorizon: the gardener has, indeed, no handling of successive mountains,\nbut he may increase apparent distance by leafy avenues leading toward\nthe limit of vision; he may even exaggerate the effect still further by\nso graduating the size of his trees as to make a counterfeit\nperspective.\n\nWhen I read such a book as this of Whately's,--so informed and leavened\nas it is by an elegant taste,--I am most painfully impressed by the\nshortcomings of very much which is called good landscape-gardening with\nus. As if serpentine walks, and glimpses of elaborated turf-ground, and\ndots of exotic evergreens in little circlets of spaded earth, compassed\nat all those broad effects which a good designer should keep in mind! We\nare gorged with _petit-maitre-_ism, and pretty littlenesses of all\nkinds. We have the daintiest of walks, and the rarest of shrubs, and the\nbest of drainage; but of those grand, bold effects which at once seize\nupon the imagination, and inspire it with new worship of Nature, we have\ngreat lack. In private grounds we cannot of course command the\nopportunity which the long tenure under British privilege gives; but the\nconservators of public parks have scope and verge; let them look to it,\nthat their resources be not wasted in the niceties of mere gardening, or\nin elaborate architectural devices. Banks of blossoming shrubs and\ntangled wild vines and labyrinthine walks will count for nothing in\npark-effect, when, fifty years hence, the scheme shall have ripened, and\nhoary pines pile along the ridges, and gaunt single trees spot here and\nthere the glades, to invite the noontide wayfarer. A true artist should\nkeep these ultimate effects always in his eye,--effects that may be\ngreatly impaired, if not utterly sacrificed, by an injudicious\nmultiplication of small and meretricious beauties, which in no way\nconspire to the grand and final poise of the scene.\n\nBut I must not dwell upon so enticing a topic, or my wet day will run\nover into sunshine. One word more, however, I have to say of the\npersonality of the author who has suggested it. The reader of Sparks's\nWorks and Life of Franklin may remember, that, in the fourth volume,\nunder the head of \"Hutchinson's Letters,\" the Doctor details\ndifficulties which he fell into in connection with \"certain papers\" he\nobtained indirectly from one of His Majesty's officials, and\ncommunicated to Thomas Gushing, Speaker of the House of Representatives\nof Massachusetts Bay. The difficulty involved others besides the Doctor,\nand a duel came of it between a certain William Whately and Mr. Temple.\nThis William Whately was the brother of Thomas Whately,--the author in\nquestion,--and secretary to Lord Grenville,[L] in which capacity he died\nin 1772.[M] The \"papers\" alluded to were letters from Governor\nHutchinson and others, expressing sympathy with the British Ministry in\ntheir efforts to enforce a grievous Colonial taxation. It was currently\nsupposed that Mr. Secretary Whately was the recipient of these letters;\nand upon their being made public after his death, Mr. Whately, his\nbrother and executor, conceived that Mr. Temple was the instrument of\ntheir transfer. Hence the duel. Dr. Franklin, however, by public letter,\ndeclared that this allegation was ill-founded, but would never reveal\nthe name of the party to whom he was indebted. The Doctor lost his place\nof Postmaster-General for the Colonies, and was egregiously insulted by\nWedderburn in open Council; but he could console himself with the\nfriendship of such men as Lawyer Dunning, (one of the suspected authors\nof \"Junius,\") and with the eulogium of Lord Chatham.\n\nThere are three more names belonging to this period which I shall bring\nunder review, to finish up my day. These are Horace Walpole, (Lord\nOrford,) Edmund Burke, and Oliver Goldsmith. Walpole was the proprietor\nof Strawberry Hill, and wrote upon gardening: Burke was the owner of a\nnoble farm at Beaconsfield, which he managed with rare sagacity:\nGoldsmith could never claim land enough to dig a grave upon, until the\nday he was buried; but he wrote the story of \"The Vicar of Wakefield,\"\nand the sweet poem of \"The Deserted Village.\"\n\nI take a huge pleasure in dipping from time to time, into the books of\nHorace Walpole, and an almost equal pleasure in cherishing a hearty\ncontempt for the man. With a certain native cleverness, and the tact of\na showman, he paraded his resources, whether of garden, or villa, or\nmemory, or ingenuity, so as to carry a reputation for ability that he\nnever has deserved. His money, and the distinction of his father, gave\nhim an association with cultivated people,--artists, politicians,\npoets,--which the metal of his own mind would never have found by reason\nof its own gravitating power. He courted notoriety in a way that would\nhave made him, if a poorer man, the toadying Boswell of some other\nJohnson giant, and, if very poor, the welcome buffoon of some gossiping\njournal, who would never weary of contortions, and who would brutify\nhimself at the death, to kindle an admiring smile.\n\nHe writes pleasantly about painters, and condescendingly of gardeners\nand gardening. Of the special beauties of Strawberry Hill he is himself\nhistoriographer; elaborate copper plates, elegant paper, and a\nparticularity that is ludicrous, set forth the charms of a villa which\nnever supplied a single incentive to correct taste, or a single scene\nthat has the embalmment of genius. He tells us grandly how this room was\nhung with crimson, and that other with gold; how \"the tearoom was\nadorned with green paper and prints, ...on the hearth, a large green\nvase of German ware, with a spread eagle, and lizards for\nhandles,\"--which vase (if the observation be not counted disloyal by\nsensitive gentlemen) must have been a very absurd bit of pottery. \"On a\nshelf and brackets are two _potpourris_ of Hankin china; two pierced\nblue and white basons of old Delft; and two sceaus [_sic_] of coloured\nSeve; a blue and white vase and cover; and two old Fayence bottles.\"\n\nWhen a man writes about his own furniture in this style for large type\nand quarto, we pity him more than if he had kept to such fantastic\nnightmares as the \"Castle of Otranto.\" The Earl of Orford speaks in high\nterms of the literary abilities of the Earl of Bath: have any of my\nreaders ever chanced to see any literary work of the Earl of Bath? If\nnot, I will supply the omission, in the shape of a ballad, \"to the tune\nof a former song by George Bubb Doddington.\" It is entitled, \"Strawberry\nHill.\"\n\n    \"Some cry up Gunnersbury,\n       For Sion some declare;\n    And some say that with Chiswick House\n       No villa can compare.\n    But ask the beaux of Middlesex,\n       Who know the country well,\n    If Strawb'ry Hill, if Strawb'ry Hill\n       Don't bear away the bell?\n\n    \"Since Denham sung of Cooper's,\n       There's scarce a hill around\n    But what in song or ditty\n       Is turned to fairy ground.\n    Ah, peace be with their memories!\n       I wish them wondrous well;\n    But Strawb'ry Hill, but Strawb'ry Hill\n       Must bear away the bell.\"\n\nIt is no way surprising that a noble poet capable of writing such a\nballad should have admired the villa of Horace Walpole: it is no way\nsurprising that a proprietor capable of admiring such a ballad should\nhave printed his own glorification of Strawberry Hill.\n\nI am not insensible to the easy grace and the piquancy of his letters;\nno man could ever pour more delightful twaddle into the ear of a great\nfriend; no man could more delight in doing it, if only the friend were\nreally great. I am aware that he was highly cultivated,--that he had\nobserved widely at home and abroad,--that he was a welcome guest in\ndistinguished circles; but he never made or had a real friend; and the\nnews of the old man's death made no severer shock than if one of his\nFayence pipkins had broken.\n\nBut what most irks me is the absurd dilettanteism and presumption of the\nman. He writes a tale as if he were giving dignity to romance; he\napplauds an artist as Dives might have thrown crumbs to Lazarus; vain to\nthe last degree of all that he wrote or said, he was yet too fine a\ngentleman to be called author; if there had been a way of printing\nbooks, without recourse to the vulgar _media_ of type and paper,--a way\nof which titled gentlemen could command the monopoly,--I think he would\nhave written more. As I turn over the velvety pages of his works, and\nlook at his catalogues, his _bon-mots_, his drawings, his affectations\nof magnificence, I seem to see the fastidious old man shuffling with\ngouty step up and down, from drawing-room to library,--stopping here and\nthere to admire some newly arrived bit of pottery,--pulling out his\ngolden snuff-box, and whisking a delicate pinch into his old\nnostrils,--then dusting his affluent shirt--frill with the tips of his\ndainty fingers, with an air of gratitude to Providence for having\ncreated so fine a gentleman as Horace Walpole, and of gratitude to\nHorace Walpole for having created so fine a place as Strawberry Hill.\n\nI turn from this ancient specimen of titled elegance to a consideration\nof Mr. Burke, with much the same relief with which I would go out from a\nperfumed drawing-room into the breezy air of a June morning. Lord Kames\nhas told us that Mr. Burke preferred oxen to horses for field-labor; and\nwe have Burke's letters to his bailiff, showing a nice attention to the\neconomies of farming, and a complete mastery of its working details. But\nmore than anywhere else does his agricultural sagacity declare itself in\nhis \"Thoughts and Details on Scarcity.\"[N]\n\nWill the reader pardon me the transcript of a passage or two? \"It is a\nperilous thing to try experiments on the farmer. The farmer's capital\n(except in a few persons, and in a very few places) is far more feeble\nthan is commonly imagined. The trade is a very poor trade; it is subject\nto great risks and losses. The capital, such as it is, is turned but\nonce in the year; in some branches it requires three years before the\nmoney is paid; I believe never less than three in the turnip and\ngrass-land course ...It is very rare that the most prosperous farmer,\ncounting the value of his quick and dead stock, the interest of the\nmoney he turns, together with his own wages as a bailiff or overseer,\never does make twelve or fifteen _per centum_ by the year on his\ncapital. In most parts of England which have fallen within my\nobservation, I have rarely known a farmer who to his own trade has not\nadded some other employment traffic, that, after a course of the most\nremitting parsimony and labor, and persevering in his business for a\nlong course of years, died worth more than paid his debts, leaving his\nposterity to continue in nearly the same equal conflict between industry\nand want in which the last predecessor, and a long line of predecessors\nbefore him, lived and died.\"\n\nIn confirmation of this last statement, I may mention that Samuel\nIreland, writing in 1792, (\"Picturesque Views on the River Thames,\")\nspeaks of a farmer named Wapshote, near Chertsey, whose ancestors had\nresided on the place ever since the time of Alfred the Great; and amid\nall the chances and changes of centuries, not one of the descendants had\neither bettered or marred his fortunes. The truthfulness of the story is\nconfirmed in a number of the \"Monthly Review\" for the same year.\n\nMr. Burke commends the excellent and most useful works of his \"friend\nArthur Young,\" (of whom I shall have somewhat to say another time,) but\nregrets that he should intimate the largeness of a farmer's profits. He\ndiscusses the drill-culture, (for wheat,) which, he says, is well,\nprovided \"the soil is not excessively heavy, or encumbered with large,\nloose stones, and provided the most vigilant superintendence, the most\nprompt activity, _which has no such day as to-morrow in its\ncalendar_,[O] combine to speed the plough; in this case I admit,\" he\nsays, \"its superiority over the old and general methods.\" And again he\nsays,--\"It requires ten times more of labor, of vigilance, of attention,\nof skill, and, let me add, of good fortune also, to carry on the\nbusiness of a farmer with success, than what belongs to any other\ntrade.\"\n\nMay not \"A Farmer\" take a little pride in such testimony as this?\n\nOne of his biographers tells us, that, in his later years, the neighbors\nsaw him on one occasion, at his home of Beaconsfield, leaning upon the\nshoulder of a favorite old horse, (which had the privilege of the lawn,)\nand sobbing. Whereupon the gossiping villagers reported the great man\ncrazed. Ay, crazed,--broken by the memory of his only and lost son\nRichard, with whom this aged saddle-horse had been a special\nfavorite,--crazed, no doubt, at thought of the strong young hand whose\ntouch the old beast waited for in vain,--crazed and broken,--an oak,\nruined and blasted by storms. The great mind in this man was married to\na great heart.\n\nIt is almost with a feeling of awe that I enter upon my wet-day studies\nthe name of Oliver Goldsmith: I love so much his tender story of the\ngood Vicar; I love so much his poems. The world is accustomed to regard\nthat little novel, which Dr. Johnson bargained away for sixty guineas,\nas a rural tale: it is so quiet; it is so simple; its atmosphere is\naltogether so redolent of the country. And yet all, save some few\ncritical readers, will be surprised to learn that there is not a picture\nof natural scenery in the book of any length; and wherever an allusion\nof the kind appears, it does not bear the impress of a mind familiar\nwith the country, and practically at home there. The Doctor used to go\nout upon the Edgeware road,--not for his love of trees, but to escape\nnoise and duns. Yet we overlook literalness, charmed as we are by the\ndevelopment of his characters and by the sweet burden of his story. The\nstatement may seem extraordinary, but I could transcribe every rural,\nout-of-door scene in the \"Vicar of Wakefield\" upon a single half-page of\nfoolscap. Of the first home of the Vicar we have only this account:--\"We\nhad an elegant house, situated in a fine country and a good\nneighborhood.\" Of his second home there is this more full\ndescription:--\"Our little habitation was situated at the foot of a\nsloping hill, sheltered with a beautiful underwood behind, and a\nprattling river before: on one side a meadow, on the other a green. My\nfarm consisted of about twenty acres of excellent land, having given a\nhundred pounds for my predecessor's good-will. Nothing could exceed the\nneatness of my little inclosures: the elms and hedge-rows appearing with\ninexpressible beauty. My house consisted of but one story, and was\ncovered with thatch, which gave it an air of great snugness.\" It is\nquite certain that an author familiar with the country, and with a\nmemory stocked with a multitude of kindred scenes, would have given a\nmore determinate outline to this picture. But whether he would have\ngiven to his definite outline the fascination that belongs to the\nvagueness of Goldsmith, is wholly another question.\n\nAgain, in the sixth chapter, Mr. Burchell is called upon to assist the\nVicar and his family in \"saving an after-growth of hay.\" \"Our labors,\"\nhe says, \"went on lightly; we turned the swath to the wind.\" It is plain\nthat Goldsmith never saved much hay; turning a swath to the wind may be\na good way of making it, but it is a slow way of gathering it. In the\neighth chapter of this charming story, the Doctor says,--\"Our family\ndined in the field, and we sat, or rather reclined, round a temperate\nrepast, _our cloth spread upon the hay_. To heighten our satisfaction,\nthe blackbirds answered each other from opposite hedges, the familiar\nredbreast came and pecked the crumbs from our hands, and every sound\nseemed but the echo of tranquillity.\" This is very fascinating; but it\nis the veriest romanticism of country-life. Such sensible girls as\nOlivia and Sophia would, I am quite sure, never have spread the\ndinner-cloth upon hay, which would most surely have set all the gravy\naflow, if the platters had not been fairly overturned; and as for the\nredbreasts, (with that rollicking boy Moses in my mind,) I think they\nmust have been terribly tame birds.\n\nBut this is only a farmer's criticism,--a Crispin feeling the bunions on\nsome Phidian statue. And do I think the less of Goldsmith, because he\nwantoned with the literalism of the country, and laid on his prismatic\ncolors of romance where only white light lay? Not one whit. It only\nshows how Genius may discard utter faithfulness to detail, if only its\nsong is charged with a general simplicity and truthfulness that fill our\nears and our hearts.\n\nAs for Goldsmith's verse, who does not love it? It is wicked to consume\nthe pages of a magazine with extracts from a poem that is our daily\nfood, else I would string them all down this column and the next, and\nevery one should have a breezy reminder of the country in it. Not all\nthe arts of all the modernists,--not \"Maud,\" with its garden-song,--not\nthe caged birds of Killingworth, singing up and down the\nvillage-street,--not the heather-bells out of which the springy step of\nJean Ingelow crushes perfume,--shall make me forget the old, sweet, even\nflow of the \"Deserted Village.\"\n\nDown with it, my boy, from the third shelf! G-O-L-D-S-M-I-T-H--a worker\nin gold--is on the back.\n\nAnd I sit reading it to myself, as a fog comes weltering in from the\nsea, covering all the landscape, save some half-dozen of the\ncity-spires, which peer above the drift-like beacons.\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\nTHE REAPER'S DREAM.\n\n\n    The road was lone; the grass was dank\n    With night-dews on the briery bank\n    Whereon a weary reaper sank.\n    His garb was old,--his visage tanned;\n    The rusty sickle in his hand\n    Could find no work in all the land.\n\n    He saw the evening's chilly star\n    Above his native vale afar;\n    A moment on the horizon's bar\n    It hung,--then sank as with a sigh:\n    And there the crescent moon went by,\n    An empty sickle down the sky.\n\n    To soothe his pain, Sleep's tender palm\n    Laid on his brow its touch of balm,--\n    His brain received the slumberous calm;\n    And soon, that angel without name,\n    Her robe a dream, her face the same,\n    The giver of sweet visions, came.\n\n    She touched his eyes: no longer sealed,\n    They saw a troop of reapers wield\n    Their swift blades in a ripened field:\n    At each thrust of their snowy sleeves,\n    A thrill ran through the future sheaves,\n    Bustling like rain on forest-leaves.\n\n    They were not brawny men who bowed\n    With harvest-voices rough and loud,\n    But spirits moving as a cloud:\n    Like little lightnings in their hold,\n    The silver sickles manifold\n    Slid musically through the gold.\n\n    Oh, bid the morning-stars combine\n    To match the chorus clear and fine\n    That rippled lightly down the line,--\n    A cadence of celestial rhyme,\n    The language of that cloudless clime,\n    To which their shining hands kept time!\n\n    Behind them lay the gleaming rows,\n    Like those long clouds the sunset shows\n    On amber meadows of repose:\n    But like a wind the binders bright\n    Soon followed in their mirthful might,\n    And swept them into sheaves of light.\n\n    Doubling the splendor of the plain,\n    There rolled the great celestial wain\n    To gather in the fallen grain:\n    Its frame was built of golden bars,\n    Its glowing wheels were lit with stars,\n    The royal Harvest's car of cars.\n\n    The snowy yoke that drew the load\n    On gleaming hoofs of silver trode,\n    And music was its only goad:\n    To no command of word or beck\n    It moved, and felt no other check\n    Than one white arm laid on the neck,--\n\n    The neck whose light was overwound\n    With bells of lilies, ringing round\n    Their odors till the air was drowned:\n    The starry foreheads meekly borne,\n    With garlands looped from horn to horn,\n    Shone like the many-colored morn.\n\n    The field was cleared. Home went the bands,\n    Like children linking happy hands\n    While singing through their father's lands;\n    Or, arms about each other thrown,\n    With amber tresses backward blown,\n    They moved as they were Music's own.\n\n    The vision brightening more and more,\n    He saw the garner's glowing door,\n    And sheaves, like sunshine, strew the floor,--\n    The floor was jasper,--golden flails,\n    Swift sailing as a whirlwind sails,\n    Throbbed mellow music down the vales.\n\n    He saw the mansion,--all repose,--\n    Great corridors and porticos\n    Propped with the columns' shining rows;\n    And these--for beauty was the rule--\n    The polished pavements, hard and cool,\n    Redoubled, like a crystal pool.\n\n    And there the odorous feast was spread:\n    The fruity fragrance widely shed\n    Seemed to the floating music wed.\n    Seven angels, like the Pleiad Seven,\n    Their lips to silver clarions given,\n    Blew welcome round the walls of heaven.\n\n    In skyey garments, silky thin,\n    The glad retainers floated in,--\n    A thousand forms, and yet no din:\n    And from the visage of the Lord,\n    Like splendor from the Orient poured,\n    A smile illumined all the board.\n\n    Far flew the music's circling sound,\n    Then floated back with soft rebound,\n    To join, not mar, the converse round,--\n    Sweet notes that melting still increased,\n    Such as ne'er cheered the bridal feast\n    Of king in the enchanted East.\n\n    Did any great door ope or close,\n    It seemed the birth-time of repose,--\n    The faint sound died where it arose;\n    And they who passed from door to door,\n    Their soft feet on the polished floor\n    Met their soft shadows,--nothing more.\n\n    Then once again the groups were drawn\n    Through corridors, or down the lawn,\n    Which bloomed in beauty like a dawn:\n    Where countless fountains leap alway,\n    Veiling their silver heights in spray,\n    The choral people held their way.\n\n    There, 'mid the brightest, brightly shone\n    Dear forms he loved in years agone,--\n    The earliest loved,--the earliest flown:\n    He heard a mother's sainted tongue,\n    A sister's voice who vanished young,\n    While one still dearer sweetly sung!\n\n    No further might the scene unfold,\n    The gazer's voice could not withhold,\n    The very rapture made him bold:\n    He cried aloud, with clasped hands,\n    \"O happy fields! O happy bands,\n    Who reap the never-failing lands!\n\n    \"O master of these broad estates,\n    Behold, before your very gates\n    A worn and wanting laborer waits!\n    Let me but toil amid your grain,\n    Or be a gleaner on the plain,\n    So I may leave these fields of pain!\n\n    \"A gleaner, I will follow far,\n    With never look or word to mar,\n    Behind the Harvest's yellow car:\n    All day my hand shall constant be,\n    And every happy eve shall see\n    The precious burden borne to Thee!\"\n\n    At morn some reapers neared the place,\n    Strong men, whose feet recoiled apace,--\n    Then gathering round the upturned face,\n    They saw the lines of pain and care,\n    Yet read in the expression there\n    The look as of an answered prayer.\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\nTHE NEW-ENGLAND REVOLUTION OF THE SEVENTEENTH CENTURY.\n\n\nIn the first week of March, 1689, Sir Edmund Andros returned to Boston\nfrom an expedition against the Indians of Maine. He had now governed New\nEngland more than two years for King James II., imitating, in his narrow\nsphere, the insolent despotism of his master.\n\nThe people had no share in the government, which was conducted by Andros\nwith the aid of Counsellors appointed by the King. Some of these were\nthe Governor's creatures,--English adventurers, who came to make their\nfortunes. Their associates of a different character were so treated that\nthey absented themselves from the Council-Board, and at length not even\nformal meetings were held. Heavy taxes were arbitrarily imposed on the\ninhabitants. Excessive fees were demanded for the transaction of\nbusiness in the courts and public offices. Town-meetings were forbidden,\nexcept one to be held in each year for the choice of assessing-officers.\nThe ancient titles to land in the Colony were declared to be worthless,\nand proprietors were required to secure themselves by taking out new\npatents from the Governor, for which high prices were extorted.\nComplaint of these usurpations was severely punished by fine and\nimprisonment. An order that \"no man should remove out of the country\nwithout the Governor's leave\" cut off whatever small chance existed of\nobtaining redress in England. The religious feelings of the people were\noutraged. The Governor directed the opening of the Old South Church in\nBoston for worship according to the English ritual. If the demand had\nbeen for the use of the building for a mass, or for a carriage-house for\nJuggernaut, it would scarcely have given greater displeasure.\n\nLate in the autumn of 1688, the Governor had led a thousand New-England\nsoldiers into Maine against the Indians. His operations there were\nunfortunate. The weather was cold and stormy. The fatigue of long\nmarches through an unsettled country was excessive. Sickness spread\namong the companies. Shelter and hospital-stores had been insufficiently\nprovided. The Indians fled to the woods, and there laughed at the\ninvader.\n\nThe costliness, discomforts, and miserable ill-success of this\nexpedition, while they occasioned clamor in the camp, sharpened the\ndiscontents existing at the capital. Suspicions prevailed of treachery\non the Governor's part, for he was well known to be without the excuse\nof incompetence. Plausible stories were told of his being in friendly\nrelations with the murderous Indians. An apprehension that he was\ninstructed by his Popish master to turn New England over to the French,\nin the contingency of a popular outbreak in England, was confirmed by\nreports of French men-of-war hovering along the coast for the\nconsummation of that object. When, in mid-winter, Andros was informed of\nthe fears entertained at Court of a movement of the Prince of Orange, he\nissued a proclamation, commanding His Majesty's subjects in New England,\nand especially all officers, civil and military, to be on the alert,\nshould any foreign fleet approach, to resist such landing or invasion as\nmight be attempted. Not causelessly, even if unjustly, the Governor's\nobject was understood to be to hold New England for King James, if\npossible, should the parent-country reassert its rights.\n\nOf course, no friendly welcome met him, when, on the heels of his\nproclamation, he returned to Boston from the Eastern Country. He was\nhimself so out of humor as to be hasty and imprudent, and one of his\nfirst acts quickened the popular resentment. The gloomy and jealous\nstate of men's minds had gained some degree of credit for a story that\nhe had furnished the hostile natives with ammunition for the destruction\nof the force under his command. An Indian declared, in the hearing of\nsome inhabitants of Sudbury, that he knew this to be true. Two of the\ntownsmen took the babbler to Boston, ostensibly to be punished for his\nlicense of speech. The Governor treated the informers with great\nharshness, put them under heavy bonds, and sent one of them to jail. The\ncomment of the time was not unnatural nor uncandid:--\"Although no man\ndoes accuse Sir Edmund merely upon Indian testimony, yet let it be duly\nweighed whether it might not create suspicion and an astonishment in the\npeople of New England, in that he did not punish the Indians who thus\ncharged him, but the English who complained of them for it.\"\n\nThe nine-days' wonder of this transaction was not over, when tidings of\nfar more serious import claimed the public ear. On the fourth day of\nApril, a young man named John Winslow arrived at Boston from the Island\nof Nevis, bringing a copy of the Declarations issued by the Prince of\nOrange on his landing in England. Winslow's story is best told in the\nwords of an affidavit made by him some months after.\n\n\"Being at Nevis,\" he says, \"there came in a ship from some part of\nEngland with the Prince of Orange's Declarations, and brought news also\nof his happy proceedings in England, with his entrance there, which was\nvery welcome news to me, and I knew it would be so to the rest of the\npeople in New England; and I, being bound thither, and very willing to\nconvey such good news with me, gave four shillings sixpence for the said\nDeclarations, on purpose to let the people in New England understand\nwhat a speedy deliverance they might expect from arbitrary power. We\narrived at Boston harbor the fourth day of April following; and as soon\nas I came home to my house, Sir Edmund Andros, understanding I brought\nthe Prince's Declarations with me, sent the Sheriff to me. So I went\nalong with him to the Governor's house, and, as soon as I came in, he\nasked me why I did not come and tell him the news. I told him I thought\nit not my duty, neither was it customary for any passenger to go to the\nGovernor, when the master of the ship had been with him before, and told\nhim the news. He asked me where the Declarations I brought with me were.\nI told him I could not tell, being afraid to let him have them, because\nhe would not let the people know any news. He told me I was a\nsaucy-fellow, and bid the Sheriff carry me away to the Justices of the\nPeace; and as we were going, I told the Sheriff I would choose my\nJustice. He told me, No, I must go before Dr. Bullivant, one picked on\npurpose (as I judged) for the business. Well, I told him, I did not care\nwho I went before, for I knew my cause was good. So soon as I came in,\ntwo more of the Justices dropped in, Charles Lidgett and Francis\nFoxcroft, such as the former, fit for the purpose. So they asked me for\nmy papers. I told them I would not let them have them, by reason they\nkept all the news from the people. So when they saw they could not get\nwhat I bought with my money, they sent me to prison for bringing\ntraitorous and treasonable libels and papers of news, notwithstanding I\noffered them security to the value of two thousand pounds.\"\n\nThe intelligence which reached Winslow at Nevis, and was brought thence\nby him to Boston, could scarcely have embraced transactions in England\nof a later date than the first month after the landing of the Prince of\nOrange. Within that time, the result of the expedition was extremely\ndoubtful. There had been no extensive rising against the King, and every\nday of delay was in his favor. He had a powerful army and fleet, and it\nhad been repeatedly shown how insecure were any calculations upon\npopular discontent in England, when an occasion arose for putting\nEnglish loyalty to the last proof. Should the clergy, after all, be true\nto their assertions of the obligation of unqualified obedience,--should\nthe army be faithful,--should the King, by artifice or by victory,\nattract to his side the wavering mass of his subjects, and expel the\nDutch invader,--there would be an awful reckoning for all who had taken\npart against the Court. The proceedings after the insurrection under\nMonmouth had not entirely shown how cruel James could be. His position\nthen had been far less critical than now. Then he enjoyed some degree of\npopular esteem, and the preparations against him were not on a\nformidable scale. Now he was thoroughly frightened. In proportion to his\npresent alarm would be his fury, if he should come off victorious. The\nlast chance was pending. If now resisted in vain, he would be\nhenceforward irresistible. Englishmen who should now oppose their king\nmust be sure to conquer him, or they lost all security for property,\nliberty, and life. Was it any way prudent for the feeble, colony of\nMassachusetts, divided by parties, and with its administration in the\nhands of a tool of the tyrant, to attempt to throw itself into the\ncontest at this doubtful stage?\n\nIt is unavoidable to suppose that these considerations were anxiously\nweighed by the patriots of Massachusetts after the reception of the\nintelligence from England. It is natural to believe, that, during the\nfortnight which followed, there were earnest arguments between the more\nand the less sanguine portions of the people. It seems probable that the\nleaders, who had most to fear from rashness, if it should be followed by\ndefeat, pleaded for forbearance, or at least for delay. If any of them\ntook a different part, they took it warily, and so as not to be publicly\ncommitted. But the people's blood was up. Though any day now might bring\ntidings which would assure them whether a movement of theirs would be\nsafe or disastrous, their impatience could not be controlled. If the\nleaders would not lead, some of the followers must take their places.\nMassachusetts must at all events have her share in the struggle,--and\nher share, if King James should conquer, in the ruin.\n\nIt may be presumed that Andros saw threatening signs, as, when next\nheard of, he was within the walls of the work on Fort Hill. Two weeks\nhad passed after Winslow came with his news, when suddenly, at an early\nhour of the day, without any note of preparation, Boston was all astir.\nAt the South end of the town a rumor spread that armed men were\ncollecting at the North end. At the North it was told that there was a\nbustle and a rising at the South; and a party having found Captain\nGeorge, of the Rose frigate, on shore, laid hands on him, and put him\nunder a guard. \"About nine of the clock the drums beat through the town,\nand an ensign was set up upon the beacon.\" Presently Captain Hill\nmarched his company up King [State] Street, escorting Bradstreet,\nDanforth, Richards, Cooke, Addington, and others of the old Magistrates,\nwho proceeded together to the Council-Chamber. Meantime, Secretary\nRandolph, Counsellor Bullivant, Sheriff Sherlock, and \"many more\" of the\nGovernor's party, were apprehended and put in gaol. The gaoler was added\nto their company, and his function was intrusted to \"Scates, the\nbricklayer.\"\n\nAbout noon, the gentlemen who had been conferring together in the\nCouncil-Chamber appeared in the eastern gallery of the Town-House in\nKing Street, and there read to the assembled people what was entitled a\n\"Declaration of the Gentlemen, Merchants, and Inhabitants of Boston, and\nthe Country Adjacent.\" The document contains a brief narrative of the\noppressions that had been suffered by the Colony, under the recent\nmaladministration. Towards the end it refers in a few words to \"the\nnoble undertaking of the Prince of Orange, to preserve the three\nkingdoms from the horrible brinks of Popery and Slavery, and to bring to\na condign punishment those worst of men by whom English liberties have\nbeen destroyed.\" One point was delicate; for among the recent\nCounsellors of the Governor had been considerable men, who, it was\nhoped, would hereafter act with the people. It is thus disposed\nof:--\"All the Council were not engaged in these ill actions, but those\nof them which were true lovers of their country were seldom admitted to,\nand seldomer consulted at, the debates which produced these unrighteous\nthings. Care was taken to keep them under disadvantages, and the\nGovernor, with five or six more, did what they would.\" The Declaration\nconcludes as follows:--\n\n\"We do therefore seize upon the persons of those few ill men which have\nbeen (next to our sins) the grand authors of our miseries; resolving to\nsecure them, for what justice, orders from his Highness, with the\nEnglish Parliament, shall direct, lest, ere we are aware, we find (what\nwe may fear, being on all sides in danger) ourselves to be by them given\naway to a foreign power before such orders can reach unto us; for which\norders we now humbly wait. In the mean time, firmly believing that we\nhave endeavored nothing but what mere duty to God and our country calls\nfor at our hands, we commit our enterprise unto the blessing of Him who\nhears the cry of the oppressed, and advise all our neighbors, for whom\nwe have thus ventured ourselves, to join with us in prayers and all just\nactions for the defence of the land.\"\n\nAndros sent the son of the Chief Justice with a message to the\nministers, and to two or three other considerable citizens, inviting\nthem to the Fort for a conference, which they declined. Meanwhile the\nsignal on Beacon Hill had done its office, and by two o'clock in the\nafternoon, in addition to twenty companies in Boston under arms, several\nhundred soldiers were seen on the Charlestown side, ready to cross over.\nFifteen principal gentlemen, some of them lately Counsellors, and others\nAssistants under the old Charter, signed a summons to Andros. \"We judge\nit necessary,\" they wrote, \"you forthwith surrender and deliver up the\ngovernment and fortification, to be preserved and disposed according to\norder and direction from the Crown of England, which suddenly is\nexpected may arrive, promising all security from violence to yourself or\nany of your gentlemen or soldiers in person or estate. Otherwise we are\nassured they will endeavor the taking of the fortification by storm, if\nany opposition be made.\"\n\n\"The frigate, upon the news, put out all her flags and pendants, and\nopened all her ports, and with all speed made ready for fight, under the\ncommand of the lieutenant, he swearing that he would die before she\nshould be taken.\" He sent a boat to bring off Andros and his attendants;\nbut it had scarcely touched the beach when the crew were encountered and\noverpowered by the party from the Town-House, which, under the command\nof Mr. John Nelson, was bearing the summons to the Governor. The boat\nwas kept, with the sailors manning it, who were disarmed. Andros and his\nfriends withdrew again within the Port, from which they had come down to\ngo on board the frigate. Nelson disposed his party on two sides of the\nFort, and getting possession of some cannon in an outwork, pointed them\nagainst the walls. The soldiers within were daunted. The Governor asked\na suspension of the attack till he should send West and another person\nto confer with the Provisional Council at the Town-House. The reply,\nwhatever it was, decided him how to proceed, and he and his party \"came\nforth from the Fort, and went disarmed to the Town-House, and from\nthence, some to the close gaol, and the Governor, under a guard, to Mr.\nUsher's house.\"\n\nSo ended the first day of the insurrection. The Castle and the frigate\nwere still defiant in the harbor. The nineteenth of April is a\nred-letter day in Massachusetts. On the nineteenth of April, 1861,\nMassachusetts fought her way through Baltimore to the rescue of the\nimperilled capital of the United States. On the nineteenth of April,\n1775, she began at Lexington the war of American Independence. On the\nnineteenth of April, 1689, King James's Governor was brought to yield\nthe Castle of Boston by a threat, that, \"if he would not give it\npresently, under his hand and seal, he would be exposed to the rage of\nthe people.\" A party of Colonial militia then \"went down, and it was\nsurrendered to them with cursings, and they brought the men away, and\nmade Captain Fairweather commander in it. Now, by the time the men came\nback from the Castle, all the guns, both in ships and batteries, were\nbrought to bear against the frigate, which were enough to have shattered\nher in pieces at once, resolving to have her.\"\n\nCaptain George, who had long nursed a private quarrel with the\narch-disturber of Massachusetts, and chief adviser of the Governor,\n\"cast all the blame now upon that devil, Randolph; for, had it not been\nfor him, he had never troubled this good people;--earnestly soliciting\nthat he might not be constrained to surrender the ship, for by so doing\nboth himself and all his men would lose their wages, which otherwise\nwould be recovered in England; giving leave to go on board, and strike\nthe top-masts, and bring the sails on shore.\" The arrangement was made,\nand the necessity for firing on a ship of the royal navy was escaped.\nThe sails were brought on shore, and there put away, and the vessel\nswung to her anchors off Long Wharf, a harmless and a ridiculous hulk.\n\"The country-people came armed into the town, in the afternoon, in such\nrage and heat that it made all tremble to think what would follow; for\nnothing would satisfy them, but that the Governor should be bound in\nchains or cords, and put in a more secure place, and that they would see\ndone before they went away; and to satisfy them, he was guarded by them\nto the Fort.\"\n\nThe Fort had been given in charge to Nelson, and Colonel Lidgett shared\nthe Governor's captivity. West, Graham, Palmer, and others of his set,\nwere placed in Fairweather's custody at the Castle. Randolph was taken\ncare of at the common gaol, by the new keeper, \"Scates, the\nbricklayer.\" Andros came near effecting his escape. Disguised in woman's\nclothes, he had safely passed two sentries, but was stopped by a third,\nwho observed his shoes, which he had neglected to change. Dudley, the\nChief Justice, was absent on the circuit at Long Island. Returning\nhomeward, he heard the great news at Newport. He crossed into the\nNarragansett Country, where he hoped to keep secret at Major Smith's\nhouse; but a party got upon his track, and took him to his home at\nRoxbury. \"To secure him against violence,\" as the order expresses it, a\nguard was placed about his house. Dudley's host, Smith, was lodged in\ngaol at Bristol.\n\nTo secure Dudley against popular violence might well be an occasion of\nanxious care to those who had formerly been his associates in public\ntrusts. Among the oppressors, he it was whom the people found hardest to\nforgive. If Andros, Randolph, West, and others, were tyrants and\nextortioners, at all events they were strangers; they had not been\npreying on their own kinsmen. But this man was son of a brave old\nemigrant Governor; he had been bred by the bounty of Harvard College; he\nhad been welcomed at the earliest hour to the offices of the\nCommonwealth, and promoted in them with a promptness out of proportion\nto the claims of his years. Confided in, enriched, caressed, from youth\nto middle life by his native Colony beyond any other man of his time, he\nhad been pampered into a power which, as soon as the opportunity was\npresented, he used for the grievous humiliation and distress of his\ngenerous friends. That he had not brought them to utter ruin seemed to\nhave been owing to no want of resolute purpose on his part to advance\nhimself as the congenial instrument of a despot.\n\nA revolution had been consummated, and the government of the King of\nEngland over Massachusetts was dissolved. The day after Andros was led\nto prison, the persons who had been put forward in the movement\nassembled again to deliberate on the state of affairs. The result was,\nthat several of them, with twenty-two others whom they now associated,\nformed themselves into a provisional government, which took the name of\na \"Council for the Safety of the People and Conservation of the Peace.\"\nThey elected Simon Bradstreet, the last Charter Governor, now\neighty-seven years of age, to be their President, and Wait Winthrop,\ngrandson of the first Governor, to command the Militia. Among the orders\npassed on the first day of this new administration was one addressed to\nColonel Tyng, Major Savage, and Captains Davis and Willard, serving in\nthe Eastern Country, to send certain officers to Boston, and dismiss a\nportion of their force. There was probably a threefold purpose in this\norder: to get possession of the persons of some distrusted officers; to\ngratify a prevailing opinion that the exposures of the campaign had been\nneedless as well as cruel; and to obtain a reinforcement of skilled\ntroops at the centre of affairs.\n\nThe Council felt the weakness of their position. They held their place\nneither by deputation from the sovereign, nor by election of the people.\nThey hesitated to set up the Colonial Charter again, for it had been\nformally condemned in the King's courts, and there was a large party\nabout them who bore it no good-will; nor was it to be expected that\ntheir President, the timid Bradstreet, whatever were his own wishes,\ncould be brought to consent to so bold a measure. Naturally and not\nimproperly desirous to escape from such a responsibility, they decided\nto summon a Convention of delegates from the towns.\n\nOn the appointed day, sixty-six delegates came together. They brought\nfrom their homes, or speedily reached, the conclusion that of right the\nold Charter was still in force; and they addressed a communication to\nthat effect to the Magistrates who had been chosen just before the\nCharter government was superseded, desiring them to resume their\nfunctions, and to constitute, with the delegates just now sent from the\ntowns, the General Court of the Colony, according to ancient law and\npractice. Their request was denied. Either the wisdom or the timidity of\nthe Magistrates held them back from so bold a venture. The delegates\nthen desired the Council to continue to act as a Committee of Public\nSafety till another Convention might assemble, of delegates bringing\nexpress instructions from their towns.\n\nFifty-four towns were represented in the new Convention. All but\nfourteen of them had instructed their delegates to insist on the\nresumption of the Charter. In the Council, the majority was opposed to\nthat scheme. After a debate of two days, the popular policy prevailed,\nand the Governor and Magistrates chosen at the last election under the\nCharter consented to assume the trusts then committed to them, and, in\nconcert with the delegates recently elected, to form a General Court,\nand administer the Colony for the present according to the ancient\nforms. They desired that the other gentlemen lately associated with them\nin the Council should continue to hold that relation. But this the\ndelegates would not allow; and accordingly those gentlemen, among whom\nwere Wait Winthrop, the newly appointed commander-in-chief, and\nStoughton, whom the people could not yet forgive for his recent\nsubserviency, relinquished their part in the conduct of affairs. They\ndid so with prudence and magnanimity, engaging to exert themselves to\nallay the dissatisfaction of their friends, and only avowing their\nexpectation that the state-prisoners would be well treated, and that\nthere should be no encouragement to popular manifestations of hostility\nto England.\n\nScarcely had this arrangement been made, when it became known, that, if\ndangers still existed, at least the chief danger was over. On the\ntwenty-sixth of May a ship arrived from England with an order to the\nauthorities on the spot to proclaim King William and Queen Mary. Never,\nsince the Mayflower groped her way into Plymouth harbor, had a message\nfrom the parent-country been received in New England with such joy.\nNever had such a pageant as, three days after, expressed the prevailing\nhappiness been seen in Massachusetts. From far and near the people\nflocked into Boston; the Government, attended by the principal gentlemen\nof the capital and the towns around, passed in procession on horseback\nthrough the thoroughfares; the regiment of the town, and companies and\ntroops of horse and foot from the country, lent their pomp and noise to\nthe show; there was a great dinner at the Town-House for the better\nsort; wine was served out in the streets; and the evening was made noisy\nwith acclamations till the bell rang at nine o'clock, and families met\nto thank God at the domestic altar for causing the great sorrow to pass\naway, and giving a Protestant King and Queen to England.\n\nThe revolution in Massachusetts determined the proceedings in the other\nColonies of New England. On learning what had been done in Boston, the\npeople of Plymouth seized the person of their townsman, Nathaniel Clark,\none of Andros's Counsellors and tools, and, recalling Governor Hinckley,\nset up again the ancient government. When the news reached Rhode Island,\na summons was issued to \"the several towns,\" inviting them to send their\n\"principal persons\" to Newport \"before the day of usual election by\nCharter, ... there to consult of some suitable way in this present\njuncture.\" Accordingly, at a meeting held on the day appointed by the\nancient Charter for annual elections, it was determined \"to reassume the\ngovernment according to the Charter,\" and \"that the former Governor,\nDeputy-Governor, and Assistants that were in place ... before the coming\nover of Sir Edmund Andros, the late Governor, should be established in\ntheir respective places for the year ensuing, or further order from\nEngland.\" Walter Clarke was the Governor who had been superseded by\nAndros. But he had no mind for the hazardous honor which was now thrust\nupon him, and Rhode Island remained without a Governor.\n\nOn the arrival in Connecticut of the news of the deposition of Andros,\nthe plan of resuming the Charter of that Colony, and reestablishing the\ngovernment under it, was immediately canvassed in all the settlements.\nAgreeably to some general understanding, a number of principal men, most\nof them elected as Deputies by their respective towns, assembled, on the\neighth of May, at Hartford, to consult together on the expediency of\ntaking that step. They determined to submit, the next day, to the\ndecision of the assembled freemen three questions, namely: 1. \"Whether\nthey would that those in place and power when Sir Edmund Andros took the\ngovernment should resume their place and power as they were then; or, 2.\nWhether they would continue the present government; or, 3. Whether they\nwould choose a Committee of Safety.\"\n\nThe adoption of any one of these proposals disposed of the others. The\nfirst of them was first submitted to a vote, and prevailed. A General\nCourt after the ancient pattern was constituted accordingly. The persons\njust deputed from the towns made the Lower House. Governor Treat and\nLieutenant-Governor Bishop resumed their functions, with ten Magistrates\nelected with them two years before, besides others now chosen to fill\nthe places of Magistrates who had died meanwhile.\n\nThe first measure of the Court was, to order \"that all the laws of this\nColony formerly made according to Charter, and courts constituted in\nthis Colony for administration of justice, as they were before the late\ninterruption, should be of full force and virtue for the future, and\ntill the Court should see cause to make further and other alteration and\nprovision according to Charter.\" The second vote was, to confirm \"all\nthe present military officers.\" Justices of the Peace were appointed for\nthe towns. The armament of the fort at Saybrook was provided for. The\nGovernor was charged to convene the General Court, \"in case any occasion\nshould come on in reference to the Charter or Government.\" It was soon\nconvened accordingly, in consequence of the arrival of intelligence of\nthe accession of William and Mary to the throne; a day of Thanksgiving\nwas appointed; and the King and Queen were proclaimed with all\nsolemnity.\n\nAgain Englishmen were free and self-governed in all the settlements of\nNew England.\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\nSOME ACCOUNT OF THE EARLY LIFE OF AN OLD BACHELOR.\n\n\nAllusion was made in \"The Schoolmaster's Story,\" told in these pages\nlast month, to two old bachelors. I am one of them. Early this morning,\nwhile taking my walk, I saw, growing about a rock, some little blue\nflowers, such as I used to pick when a child. I had broken off a few,\nand was stooping for more, when some one near said, \"Good morning,\nCaptain Joseph!\"\n\nIt was Mrs. Maylie, the minister's wife, going home from watching. After\na little talk, she told me, in her pleasant way, that I had two things\nto do, of which, by the doing, I should make but one: I was to write a\nstory, and to show good reason for keeping myself all to myself.\n\n\"Mrs. Maylie,\" said I, \"do I look like a person who has had a story? I\nam a lonely old man,--a hard old man. A story should have warmth. Don't\nyou see I'm an icicle?\"\n\n\"Not quite,\" said she. \"I know of two warm spots. I see you every day\nwatching the children go past; and then, what have you there? Icicles\nnever cling to flowers!\"\n\nAfter she had gone, I began thinking what a beautiful story mine might\nhave been, if things had been different,--if I had been different. And\nat last it occurred to me that a relation of some parts of it might be\nuseful reading for young men; also, that it might cause our whole class\nto be more kindly looked upon.\n\nSuppose it is not a pleasant story. Life is not all brightness. See how\nthe shadows chase each other across our path! To-day our friend weeps\nwith us; to-morrow we weep with our friend. The hearse is a carriage\nwhich stops at every door.\n\nNo picture is without its shading. We have before us the happy\nexperiences of my two friends. By those smiling groups let there stand\none dark, solitary figure, pointing out the moral of the whole.\n\nThere is one thing, however, in the story of my neighbor Browne,\npleasant as it is, which reminds me of a habit of my own. I mean, his\nliking to watch pretty faces. I do, when they belong to children.\n\nThis practice of mine, which I find has been noticed by my valued\nfriend, Mrs. Maylie, is partly owing to the memories of my own\nchildhood.\n\nWhen the past was so suddenly recalled, on that stormy day,--as\nmentioned by my friend Allen,--I felt as I have often felt upon the sea,\nwhen, after hours of dull sailing, through mist and darkness, I have\nlooked back upon the lights of the town we were leaving.\n\nMy life began in brightness. And now, amid that brightness, appear\nfresh, happy little faces, which haunt me more and more, as I become\nisolated from the humanity about me, until at times it is those only\nwhich are real, while living forms seem but shadows.\n\nI see whole rows of these young faces in an old school-house, far from\nhere, close by the sea,--can see the little girls running in, when the\nschoolma'am knocked, and settling down in their forms, panting for\nbreath.\n\nOne of these the boys called my girl. I liked her, because she had curls\nand two rows of cunning teeth, and because she never laughed when the\nboys called me \"Spunky Joe.\" For I was wilful, and of a hasty temper.\nHer name was Margaret. My father took me a long voyage with him, and\nwhile I was gone she moved down East. I never saw her afterwards. If\nliving, it must have been a score of years since she bought her first\nglasses.\n\nNo doubt I should have been of a pleasanter disposition, had I not been\nthe only boy and the youngest child. I was made too much of. Aunt Chloe,\nwho was aunt to the neighborhood, and did its washing, said I was\n\"humored to death.\"\n\nWe had a great family of girls, but Mary was the one I loved best. She\nwas a saint. Her face made you think of \"Peace on earth, and good-will\nto men.\" Aunt Chloe used to say that \"Mary Bond was pretty to look at,\nand facultied; pity she hadn't the 'one thing needful.'\" For Mary was\nnot a professor.\n\nI went pretty steadily to school until about sixteen. At that time I had\na misunderstanding with father. I got the idea that he looked upon me as\nan incumbrance, and declared I would go to sea.\n\nMother and the girls were full of trouble, but I wasn't used to being\ncrossed, and to sea I went. I knew afterwards that father had set his\nheart upon my getting learning.\n\nHe said going to sea was a dog's life. But I liked it, and followed it\nup. I think it was in my twentieth year that I shipped on board the\nEliza Ann, Captain. Saunders, bound from Boston to Calcutta. This was my\nfirst long voyage as a sailor. Among the crew was one they called Jamie,\nas smart as a steel-trap, and handsome as a picture. He was not our\ncountryman. I think he was part Scotch. The passengers were always\nnoticing him. One day, when he stood leaning against the foremast, with\nhis black hair blowing out in the wind, a young man with a portfolio got\nme to keep him there, still, for a while: he was an artist, and wanted\nto make a drawing of him. The sailors all liked him because he was so\nclever, and so lively, and knew so many songs, and could hop about the\nrigging, light as a bird. Only a few knew him. They said he had no home\nbut the sea.\n\nHe afterwards told me this himself, one dark night, when we were leaning\ntogether over the rail, as if listening to the splash of the water. He\nbegan his sea-life by running away. He said but little, and that in a\nmournful way that made me pity him, and wonder he could be so lively. I\ndidn't know then that sometimes people have to laugh to keep from\ncrying. \"I was all she had,\" said he; \"and I left her. I never thought\nhow much she cared for me until I got among all strangers; then I wanted\nmy mother.\" At another time he told me about his return home and finding\nno mother. And I told him of my own home and my great flock of sisters.\n\nAfter this he rather clung to me. And thus it happened, from my liking\nJamie's handsome face, and from Jamie's telling me his trouble, that we\nbecame fast friends.\n\nWhen the ship arrived in Boston, I took him home with me. Father had\nleft off going to sea; but some of the girls were married, and mother\ncalled her family small. I knew she would take the homeless boy into her\ngreat motherly heart, along with the rest of us.\n\nWe couldn't have arrived at a better time. Thanksgiving was just at\nhand, work was plenty, and Jamie soon in the thickest of it. 'Twas so\ngood to him, being in a home, though none of his. The girls were glad\nenough of his help and his company; for he was full of his fun, and\nnever at a loss for a word. We never had so much light talk in the house\nbefore. Mother was rather serious, and father did his laughing at the\nstores.\n\nWhen Thanksgiving-Day came, however, and the married ones began to flock\nin with their families, he spoke of going,--of not belonging. But we\npersuaded him, and the girls did all they could to take up his mind,\nknowing what his feelings must be.\n\nThe Thanksgiving dinner was a beautiful sight to see. I mean, of course,\nthe people round it. Father talked away, and could eat. But mother sat\nin her frilled cap, looking mildly about, with the tears in her eyes,\nmaking believe eat, helping everybody, giving the children two pieces of\npie, and letting them talk at table. This last, when we were little, was\nforbidden. Mother never scolded. She had a placid, saintly face,\nsomething like Mary's. But if we ever giggled at table, she used to say,\n\"Sho! girls! Don't laugh over your victuals.\"\n\nAt sunset we missed Jamie. I found him in the hay-mow, crying as if his\nheart would break. \"Oh, Joseph,\" said he, \"she was just as pleasant as\nyour mother!\" It was sunset when he first ran away, and sunset when he\nreturned to find his mother dead. He told me that \"God brought him home\nat that hour to make him _feel_.\"\n\nOur ship was a long while repairing. Then freights were dull, and so it\nlingered along, week after week. Jamie often spoke of going, but nobody\nwould let him. Father said he had always wanted another boy. Mother told\nhim I should be lonesome without him. The girls said as much as they\nthought it would do for girls to say, and he stayed on. I knew he wanted\nto badly enough, for I saw he liked Mary. I thought, too, that she liked\nhim, because she said so little about his staying. To be sure, they were\nin nothing alike; but then, as Aunt Chloe said, \"Opposites are more\nharmonious.\"\n\nMy sister Cynthia was going to be published soon, and all the rest were\nhelping her \"make her fix.\" Coverlets were being got into the loom, and\nthe great wheel and little wheel going all day Jamie liked to help them\n\"quill.\" But the best of all, both for him and me, were the quiltings;\nfor these brought all the young folks together.\n\nOur nearest neighbor was a large, stout-looking man, by the name of\nWilbur. He was called Mr. Nathaniel, to distinguish him from his\nbrother. His house was next ours, with a hill between. He was a good,\njolly soul, had no children of his own, and was always begging mother\nfor a few of her girls. Nothing suited him better than a good time. If\nthere was anything going on at our house, he was always on the spot.\n\nOne December evening, our kitchen was full of young people. The best\nbed-quilt had been quilted, and Jamie and I had been helping \"roll\nover,\" all the afternoon. In the evening, as soon as the young men came,\nwe hung over the molasses, and set Mr. Nathaniel stirring it. We all sat\naround, naming apples. All at once he called out, \"Which of you chaps\nhas got pluck enough to ride over to Swampsey Village to-morrow, after a\nyoung woman he never saw?\"\n\nThey all looked up, especially the girls who had beaux present. Then\ncame questions,--\"Who is she?\" \"Give her name\"; \"Good-looking?\" and many\nothers.\n\n\"Be thinking it over awhile,\" said he, and kept on stirring. But when he\nwas pulling the candy, he explained, dropping a few words at every pull.\n\n\"The girl,\" said he, \"is a nice girl, and I'll be bound she's handsome.\nI used to have dealings with her father, while he kept store in Boston.\nWe've never let the acquaintance die out. When he wrote me that he was\ngoing to take his wife a journey South, and inquired if I knew of a\nsafe, quiet family where he could leave his daughter, wifey and I\nconcluded to take her ourselves. We couldn't think of a quieter family,\nor one where daughters were more needed. I promised to meet her at\nSwampsey Village; but if any of you young men want the chance, you can\nhave it.\"\n\nThere was one fellow in the company who hardly ever spoke. He was looked\nupon as a sort of crooked stick. As he sat in the corner, paring his\napple, he said in a drawling voice, without looking up,--\n\n\"Better send Joe.\"\n\n\"Oh, he won't go, I'll bet anything,\" said two or three at once.\n\n\"What'll you bet?\" said I.\n\n\"Bet a kiss from the prettiest girl in the room!\"\n\n\"Done!\" said I, and jumped up as if to pick out the girl. But they all\ncried out, \"Wait till you've done it.\"\n\nThey thought I wouldn't go, because I'd never been particular to any\ngirl.\n\nAfter we went to bed that night, Jamie offered to go in my stead. But I\nhad made up my mind, and was not so easily turned.\n\nEarly next morning, Mr. Nathaniel drove up to the door in his\nyellow-bottomed chaise. The wheeling was better than the sleighing,\nexcept in the woods.\n\n\"Here,\" he said, \"I've ballasted your craft, and made out your papers.\nYou go in ballast, but'll have good freight back. When you get to\nSwampsey-Village meeting-house, turn off to the left, and it's the\nsecond house. The roof behind slants almost to the ground.\"\n\nThe \"ballast\" was heated stones. The \"papers\" consisted of a letter,\naddressed to \"Miss Margaret Holden, at the house of Mr. Oliver Barrows.\"\n\nThe road to Swampsey Village, after running a few miles along by the\nsea, branched off to the southwest, over a range of high, wooded hills,\ncalled \"The Mountains.\" 'Twas a long ride, and I couldn't help\n_guessing_ what manner of girl would in a few hours be sitting by my\nside. Would she be sober, or sociable? pretty, or homely? I hoped she\nwouldn't be citified, all pride and politeness. And of all things, I\nhoped she would not be bashful. Two dummies, one in each corner, riding\nalong in the cold!\n\n\"Any way,\" I thought at last, \"it's no affair of mine. I'm only sent of\nan errand. It's all the same as going for a sheep or a bag of corn.\" And\nwith this idea, I whipped up. But the sight of the slanting roof made\nme slacken the reins; and when I found myself really hitching my horse,\nI was sorry I came.\n\nBefore I reached the door, it opened, and there stood a white-haired old\nman, leaning upon two canes. He wanted to see who had come. I told my\nerrand. He asked me into the kitchen. As I entered, I looked slyly\nabout, to see what I could see. But there was only a short old woman.\nShe was running candles. She looked straight in my face. The old man\nstooped down and shouted in her ear,--\n\n\"He's come arter Peggy! where is she?\"\n\n\"Denno,\" said she, toddling along to the window, and looking up and down\nthe road. \"Denno. Mile off, mebbe. Master critter to be on the go!\"\n\n\"There she is!\" cried Mr. Barrows, from a back-window,--\"in the parster,\nslidin' down-hill on her jumper. Guess you'll have to go look her, young\nman; the old woman's poorly, an' so be I.\"\n\nBut the old woman told me to sit up to the fire and warm my feet; said\nshe would hang out a cloth, and Peggy would be in directly. I would have\ngone very willingly; for, after expecting to be introduced to Miss\nMargaret Holden, being sent out after Peggy was just nothing.\n\n'Twas but a little while before we heard the jumper rattling along, and\nthen a stamping in the porch. Then we heard her hand upon the latch.\n\n\"She's a little young thing,\" said the old man, almost in a whisper;\n\"but she's knowin'.--Peggy,\" he continued, as she entered, \"you'm sent\nfor.\"\n\nThat was the first time I ever saw Margaret. She had on some little\nchild's hood, and an old josey-coat, which covered her all over. The\nhood was red, and ruffled about the border, which made her face look\nlike a little girl's.\n\n\"To go to Mr. Wilbur's?\" she asked, looking towards me.\n\nI rose to explain, and handed the letter.\n\nShe threw off her things, opened it, and began reading. When I saw the\nsmile spreading over her face, I knew Mr. Nathaniel had been writing\nsome of his nonsense.\n\n\"Perhaps,\" said I, as she was folding it up, \"you don't know Mr.\nNathaniel. He says anything. I don't know what he's been writing, but\"--\n\n\"Oh, nothing bad,\" said she, laughing. \"He only says you are a nice\nyoung man.\"\n\n\"Ah!\" I replied. \"Well, he does sometimes speak the truth.\"\n\nThen we both laughed, and, for new acquaintances, seemed on pretty good\nterms.\n\nThere was something about her face which made me think of the little\nMargaret who had moved away. She had the same pretty laugh, the same\ninnocent-looking mouth,--only the child Margaret was not so\nfair-complexioned. Her figure, and the way of carrying her head,\nreminded me of the West-India girls, as I had seen them riding out in\ntheir _volantes_. I decided that I was pleased with her. When she was\nready to go, with her blue silk pelisse and the plumes in her hat, I was\nglad I came, and thought, \"How much better is a girl than a sheep!\"\n\nThe old man made us stay to dinner; but then he hurried us off, that we\nmight be over The Mountains before dark.\n\nThe air was chilly when we started, and a few snow-flakes were flying.\nBut we had everything to make us comfortable. The old horse always\nstepped quick, going home; the wind was in our favor; our chaise had a\nboot which came up, and a top which tipped down. We should soon be home.\nThere is nothing very bad, after all, in being sent for a girl you never\nsaw!\n\nAnd we were not two dummies. She was willing to do her part in talking,\nand I could always hold my own, if no more.\n\nShe seemed, in conversation, not at all like a \"little young thing,\"--so\nthat I kept turning round to see if the look of the child Margaret was\nstill in her face. Oh, how that face played the mischief with me! And\nin more ways than one.\n\nWe were speaking of large families; I had told her about ours. All at\nonce she exclaimed at a big rock ahead, which overhung the road.\n\nThe moment I placed my eye on it, I turned the horse's head.\n\n\"Wrong road,\" said I.\n\nThe horse had turned off, when I wasn't minding, and was taking us to\nCutler's Mills. We tried several ways to set ourselves right by a short\ncut, but were finally obliged to go all the way back to where we turned\noff. In a summer day this would only have been lengthening out a\npleasant ride. But the days were at the shortest. Snow-flakes fell\nthicker, and, what was worse, the wind changed, and blew them straight\ninto our faces. By the time we reached the foot of The Mountains it was\nnearly dark, and snowing furiously. I never knew a storm come on faster.\n'Twas a regular, old-fashioned, driving snow-storm, with the wind to the\neastward.\n\nMargaret seemed noways down-hearted. But I feared she would suffer. I\nshook the snow from the blanket and wrapped her in it. I drew it over\nher head, pinned it under her chin, and tucked it all about her.\n\n'Twas hard pulling for the old horse, but he did well. I felt uneasy,\nthinking about the blind roads, which led nowhere but to wood-lots.\n'Twas quite likely that the horse would turn into one of these, and if\nhe did, we should be taken into the very middle of the woods.\n\nIt seemed to me we were hours creeping on in the dark, right in the\nteeth of the storm. 'Twas an awful night; terribly cold; seemed as if it\nwas window-glass beating against our faces.\n\nBy the time I judged we had reached the top of The Mountains, the wind\nblew a hurricane. Powerful gusts came tearing through the trees,\nwhirling the snow upon us in great smothering heaps. The chaise was\nfull. My hands grew numb, and I began slapping them upon my knees.\nMargaret threw off the blanket with a jerk, and seized the reins.\n\n\"Stupid!\" said she, \"to be sitting here wrapped up, letting you freeze!\"\n\nBut the horse felt a woman's hand upon the reins, and stopped short.\n\nI urged him on a few yards, but we were in a cleared place, and the snow\nhad drifted. 'Twas no use. He was tired out.\n\n\"Take him out!\" cried Margaret; \"we can ride horseback.\"\n\nI sprang out, knowing that no time should be lost. Margaret had not\ncomplained. But I was chilled through. My feet were like blocks of wood.\nI knew she must be half frozen. It seemed as if I never should do\nanything with the tackling. My fingers were numb, and I could hardly\nstand up, the wind blew so.\n\nWith the help of my jack-knife I cleared the horse. I rode him round to\nthe chaise, and took Margaret up in front of me, then let him take his\nown course.\n\nI asked Margaret if she was cold. She said, \"Yes,\" in a whisper.\nThrowing open the blanket had let in the snow upon her, and the sharp\nwind. The horse floundered about in the drifts. Every minute I expected\nto be thrown off. Time never seemed so long before.\n\nAll at once it occurred to me that Margaret was very quiet. I asked\nagain if she was cold. She said, \"No; only sleepy.\" I knew in a minute\nwhat that meant. That was a terrible moment. Freezing as I was, the\nsweat started out at every pore. The pretty, delicate thing would die!\nAnd I, great strong man, couldn't save her!\n\nBut I wouldn't despair. I made her talk. Kept asking her questions: If\nthe wind had not gone down? If she heard the surf upon the beach? If she\nsaw a light?\n\n\"Yes,\" said she at last,--\"I see a light.\"\n\nAt first I was frightened, thinking her mind wandered. But directly I\nsaw that towards the right, and a little in advance of us, was a misty\nspot of light.\n\nWhen we were near enough to see where it came from, it seemed as if all\nmy strength left me at once,--the relief was so sudden.\n\n'Twas a squaw's hut. I knew then just where we were. I climbed up the\nbank, with Margaret in my arms, and pounded with all my might upon the\nside of the hut, calling out, \"For God's sake, open the door!\" A latch\nrattled close to my ears, and a door flew open. 'Twas Old Suke. I had,\nmany a time, when a boy, called out to her, \"Black clouds arising!\"--for\nwe always would torment the colored folks, when they came down with\ntheir brooms.\n\nI pushed past her into the hut,--into the midst of rushes, brooms, and\nbaskets,--into a shelter. I never knew before what the word meant.\n\nThe fireplace was full of blazing pine-knots, which made the room as\nlight as day. Old Suke showed herself a Christian. She told me where to\nfind a shed for my horse; and while I was gone, she took the wet things\noff Margaret, and rubbed her hands and feet with snow. She took red\npeppers from a string over the fireplace, boiled them in milk, and made\nus drink it. I thought of \"heaping coals of fire.\" She dipped up hulled\ncorn from a pot on the hearth, and made us eat. I felt like singing the\nsong of Mungo Park.\n\nMargaret kept pretty still. I knew the reason. The warm blood was\nrushing back to her fingers and toes, and they ached like the toothache.\nMine did. 'Twas a long while before Old Suke would let us come nearer\nthe fire. Her old mother was squatting upon the hearth. She looked to be\na hundred and fifty. Her face was like a baked apple,--for she was part\nIndian, not very black. She had a check-handkerchief tied round her\nhead, and an old pea-jacket over her shoulders, with the sleeves\nhanging. She hardly noticed us, but sat smoking her pipe, looking at the\ncoals. 'Twas curious to see Margaret's face by hers in the firelight.\n\nA little after midnight the storm abated, and by four o'clock the stars\nwere out. I asked Margaret if she would be afraid to stay there, while I\nwent home to tell the folks what had become of us.\n\n\"Oh, no,\" she said. \"'Twas just what she'd been thinking about. She\nwould be making baskets.\"--Some girls would never have dared stay in\nsuch a place.\n\nI promised to be back as soon as possible, and left her there by the old\nwoman.\n\n'Twas just about daylight when I came in sight of father's. Mr.\nNathaniel was walking about the yard, looking up the road at every turn.\nHe hurried towards me.\n\n\"All safe!\" I called out.\n\n\"Thank God!\" he cried. \"It has been a dreadful night.\"\n\nJamie was in the house. They two had been sitting up. They wouldn't hear\nof my going back, but put me into bed, almost by main strength. Then\nthey started with fresh horses. They took a pillion for Margaret, and a\nshovel to dig through the drifts when they couldn't go round.\n\nMother gave me warm drinks, and piled on the bed-clothes. But I couldn't\nsleep for worrying about Margaret. I was afraid the exposure would be\nthe death of her.\n\nAbout noon Mary came running up to tell me they had just gone past. The\nwindow was near my bed. I pulled aside the curtain, and looked out. They\nwere just going over the hill,--Jamie, with Margaret on the pillion, and\nMr. Nathaniel along-side.\n\nI often think what a mysterious Providence it was that made me the means\nof bringing together the two persons who, as it turned, controlled my\nwhole life. In fact, it seems as if it were only then that my real life\nbegan.\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\nNobody could have been more pleased with a bright, beautiful, grown-up\ndaughter than was Mr. Nathaniel. He was always bragging about her. And\nwell he might,--for never was a better-dispositioned girl, or a\nlivelier. She entered right into our country-life, was merry with the\nyoung folks and wise with the old ones. Aunt Chloe said she was good\ncompany for anybody.\n\nShe was a real godsend to our neighborhood, especially at the\nmerry-makings; for she could make fun for a roomful, and tell us what\nthey played at the Boston parties.\n\nOf course, that long ride with her in the snow-storm had given me an\nadvantage over the other young men. It seemed to be taken for granted by\nthem, that, as I brought her to town, I should be the one privileged to\nwait upon her about. 'Twas a privilege I was glad enough to claim, and\nshe never objected. Many would have been glad to be in my place, but\nthey never tried to cut me out. Margaret was sociable enough with\nthem,--sometimes I thought too much so. But then I knew 'twas only her\npleasant way. When we two were walking home together, she dropped her\nfun, and seemed like another person. I felt pleased that she kept the\nbest part of herself for me.\n\nI was pleased, too, to see that she took to Mary, and Mary to her. The\nwomen were hurried with their sewing, and Margaret used to be often at\nour house helping. Cynthia was glad enough of her help, because she knew\nthe fashions, and told how weddings were carried on in Boston. Thus it\nhappened that she and Mary were brought much together; and before winter\nwas over they were like two sisters.\n\nAnd before winter was over, what was I? Certainly not the same Joseph\nwho went to Swampsey Village. My eagerness to be on the sea, my pride,\nmy temper, were gone; and all I cared for was to see the face and hear\nthe voice of Margaret Holden.\n\nAt first, I would not believe this thing of myself; said it was folly to\nbe so led about by a woman. But the very next moment, her sitting down\nby my side would set me trembling, I didn't know myself; it seemed as if\nI were wrong side up, and all my good feelings had come to the top.\n\nOur names were always called together, but I felt noways sure. I\ncouldn't think that a girl every way so desirable as Margaret should\ntake up with a fellow so undesirable as myself. I felt that she was too\ngood for me. I thought then that this was peculiar to our case. But I\nhave since observed, that, as a general thing, all women are too good\nfor all men. I am very sure I have seen something of the kind in print.\n\nThen there was another feeling which worked itself in by degrees,--one\nwhich would come back as often as I drove it away. And once admitted, it\ngained strength. 'Twas not a pleasant feeling, and it had to do with\nJamie.\n\nI had all along felt sure that he was attached to Mary. I had therefore\nnever thought anything of his being on pretty good terms with Margaret.\nThey were both of a lively turn, and thrown much together. But by\ndegrees the idea got possession of me that there was a secret\nunderstanding between them about something. They had long talks and\nwalks together. And, in fact, I observed many little things, trifling in\nthemselves, but much to me after my thoughts were once turned that way.\n\nSometimes I think, that, if I had never gone to sea, or had never met\nJamie, or had not brought him home, my life might have been very\ndifferent. But then, if we once begin upon the \"ifs,\" we might as well\ngo back to the beginning, and say, \"If we had never been born.\"\n\nJealousy. And my proud, flashy temper. That was it.\n\nJamie was like a brother to me. He was a noble fellow, with a pleasant\nword and smile for everybody. Not a family in the place but was glad to\nsee him enter their doors. It looks strange now that I could have\ndistrusted him so. Still, I must say, there seemed some cause.\n\nBut it's not pleasant dwelling on this. The daily events which stirred\nme up so then seem too trifling to mention. I don't like to call up all\nthose dead feelings, now I'm an old man, and ashamed of them.\n\nJamie and Margaret became a mystery to me. And I was by no means one to\npuzzle it out, as I would a sum in the rule-of-three. 'Twas not all\nhead-work. However, I said nothing. I was mean enough to watch, and too\nproud to question.\n\nAt last I began to ask myself what I really knew about Jamie. He was\nonly a poor sailor-boy, whom I had picked up and befriended. And, once\nput upon thought, what did I know of Margaret? What did anybody in the\nplace? Even Mr. Nathaniel only knew her father. Her simple, childish\nways might be all put on. For she could act. I had seen her, one\nevening, for our entertainment, imitate the actresses upon the stage.\nFirst, she was a little girl, in a white frock, with a string of coral\nabout her neck, and curls hanging over her pretty shoulders. She said a\nlittle hymn, and her voice sounded just like a child's. Afterwards, she\nwas a proud princess, in laces and jewels, a long train, and a bright\ncrown. Dressed in this way, with her head thrown back, her bosom\nheaving, and reciting something she had heard on the stage, we hardly\nknew our Margaret.\n\nIt was at our house, one stormy evening. Mother would never allow it\nagain. She said it was countenancing the theatre. Besides, I thought\nshe'd rather not have me look at Margaret when under the excitement of\nacting, for the next day she cautioned me against earthly idols. But\nMargaret was my idol.\n\nIt was because she was so bewitching to me that I thought it could not\nbe but that Jamie must be bewitched as well. And it was because he was\nso taking in his manner that I felt certain she must be taken with him.\nThus I puzzled on from day to day, drifting about among my doubts and\nfears, like a ship in a fog.\n\nI knew that Margaret thought my conduct strange. Sometimes I seemed\nscarcely to live away from her; then I would change about, and not go\nnear her for days. To Jamie, too, I was often unfriendly, for it\nmaddened me to think he might be playing a double game. Mary seemed just\nas she always did. But then she was simple-minded, and would never\nsuspect anything or anybody. It was astonishing, the state of excitement\nI finally worked myself into. That was my make. Once started upon a\nroad, I would run its whole length.\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\nFebruary and March passed, and still we were not sent for to join our\nship. Jamie was getting uneasy, living, as he said, so long upon\nstrangers. Besides, I knew my manner troubled him.\n\nOne evening, as we were sitting around our kitchen-fire, Margaret with\nthe rest, Mr. Nathaniel came in, all of a breeze, scolding away about\nhis fishermen. His schooner was all ready for The Banks, and two of his\nmen had run off, with all their fitting-out.\n\n\"Come, you two lazy chaps,\" said he, \"you will just do to fill their\nplaces.\"\n\n\"Agreed!\" said Jamie. \"I'll go, if Joseph will.\"\n\n\"I'll go,\" said I. For I thought in a minute that he would rather not\nleave me behind, and I knew he needed the chance.\n\nThe women all began to exclaim against it,--all but Margaret. She turned\npale, and kept silence. That was Friday. The vessel would sail Monday.\nMother was greatly troubled, but said, if I would go, she must make me\ncomfortable; and all night I could hear her opening and shutting the\nbureau-drawers. Margaret stopped with Mary: I think they sewed till near\nmorning.\n\nThe next evening the singers met in the vestry, to practise the tunes\nfor the Sabbath. We all sat in the singing-seats. I played the small\nbass-viol. Jamie sang counter, and the girls treble. Margaret had a\nsweet voice,--not very powerful. She sat in the seats because the other\ngirls did.\n\nI went home with her that night. She seemed so sad, so tender in her\nmanner, that I came near speaking,--came near telling her how much she\nwas to me, and owning my feeling about Jamie. But I didn't quite.\nSomething kept me from it. If there is such a thing as fate, 'twas that.\n\nGoing home, however, I made a resolution that the next night I would\ncertainly know, from her own lips, whether it was me she liked, or\nJamie.\n\nI walked slowly home, and directly up-stairs to bed. I lay awake a long\ntime, heard father and mother go to their chamber, then Mary and Sophy\nto theirs. At last I wondered what had become of Jamie.\n\nI pushed aside the window-curtain and looked out. 'Twas bright\nmoonlight. I saw Jamie coming over the hill from Mr. Nathaniel's. He\ncame in softly. I pretended sleep. He was still so long that I looked up\nto see what he could be doing. He was leaning his elbow on the desk,\nlooking straight at the floor, thinking.\n\nAll that night I lay awake, staring at the moonlight on the curtains. I\nwas again on the old track, for I could not possibly imagine what he\nshould have to say to Margaret at that hour.\n\nTowards morning I fell asleep, and never woke till the people were\ngetting ready for meeting. I hurried, for the instruments met before the\nrest to practise.\n\nNearly all the young folks sat in the seats. Jamie stood at the head of\nthe back row, on the men's side. His voice was worth all the rest.\nMargaret came in late. She looked like a beauty that day. Her place was\nat the head of the first row of girls. I, with my bass-viol, was behind\nall.\n\nThe minister read the hymn beginning with this verse,--\n\n    \"We are a garden walled around,\n    Chosen and made peculiar ground;\n    A little spot inclosed by grace,\n    Out of the world's wide wilderness.\"\n\nWhile he was reading it, I saw her write a little note, and hand it\nacross the alley to Jamie. He smiled, and wrote another back. After\nmeeting, they had a talk. These things sound small enough now. But now I\nam neither young, nor in love, nor jealous.\n\nThat night was our last at home. After supper, I strolled off towards\nthe meeting-house. 'Twas about sundown. I walked awhile in the\ngraveyard, and then followed the path into the wood at the back of it.\n\nI see that I have been telling my story in a way to favor myself,--that\neven now I am unwilling wholly to expose my folly. I could not, if I\ntried, tell how that night in the wood I was beset at once by jealousy,\npride, love, and anger, and so well-nigh driven mad.\n\nI passed from the wood to the open field, and reached the shore. The\nvessel lay at the wharf. I climbed the rigging, and watched the moon\nrising over the water. It must have been near midnight when I reached\nhome.\n\nThe vessel sailed early in the morning. I did not see Margaret,--never\nbid her good-bye. After we were under way, and were out of the windings\nof the channel, Jamie came and leaned with me against the rail. And\nthere in silence we stood until the homes of those we loved so well had\nfaded from our sight.\n\nPoor Jamie! I knew afterwards how troubled he was at the way I treated\nhim that summer. He wanted to be friendly, but I stood off. He wanted to\nspeak of the folks at home, but I would never join him. At last he left\noff trying.\n\nIf he had not met with an accident, maybe I should never have spoken\nanother kind word to him. It happened towards the end of the voyage. The\nschooner had wet her salt, and all hands were thinking of home. I was\ndown in the cabin. I was marking a piece of meat to boil,--for then each\nfisherman carried his own provisions. All at once I heard something fall\nupon the deck. Then a great trampling. I hurried up, and saw them\nlifting up Jamie. He had fallen from the rigging. It was old and rotten.\nThey carried him down, and laid him in his berth. He wouldn't have\nknown, if they had dropped him into the sea.\n\nWhen I saw him stretched out there, every unkind feeling left me. My old\nlove for him came back. All I could think of was what he said in our\nfirst talk,--\"Then I wanted my mother.\" None of us could say whether he\nwould live or die. We feared for his head, because he took no notice,\nbut seemed inclined to sleep. I wanted to do everything for him myself.\nI had borne him ill-will, but now my strong feelings all set towards\nhim.\n\nIt was in the middle of the night that he first came to himself. 'Twas a\nblowy night, and most of the crew were on deck. A couple of men were\nsleeping in their berths.\n\nThe cabin of a fishing-schooner is a dark, stifled place, with\neverything crowded into it. The berths were like a double row of shelves\nalong the sides. In one of these, with his face not far from the beams\noverhead, was stretched my poor, ill-treated Jamie. I was so afraid he\nwould die! I had no pride then.\n\nOn this night I stood holding by the side of his berth, to steady\nmyself. I turned away a moment to snuff the candle, and when I stepped\nback he looked up in my face and smiled. I couldn't help throwing my\narms around his neck and kissing him. I never kissed a man before,--nor\nsince.\n\n\"Joseph has come back,\" said he, with a smile.\n\nI thought he was wandering, and made no answer. After that he frequently\nroused from his stupor and seemed inclined to talk.\n\nOne stormy night, when all hands were upon deck, he seemed like himself,\nonly very sad, and began of his own accord to talk of what was always in\nmy mind. He spoke low, being weak.\n\n\"Joseph,\" said he, \"there is one question I want to ask you.\"\n\n\"Hush!\" said I,--\"you mustn't talk, you must be quiet.\" For I dreaded\nhis coming to the point.\n\n\"I can't be quiet,\" said he, \"and I must talk. You've something against\nme. What is it?\"\n\nI made no answer.\n\n\"But I know,\" he continued. \"I have known all along. You've heard\nsomething about my old life. You think Mary is too good for me. And she\nis. But she is willing to take me just as I am. I'm not what I was. She\nhas changed me. She will keep me from harm.\"\n\n\"Jamie,\" said I, \"I don't know what you mean. I've heard nothing. I'm\nwilling you should have Mary,--want you to.\"\n\nHe looked perplexed.\n\n\"Then what is it?\" he asked.\n\nI turned my head away, hardly knowing how to begin. At last I said,--\n\n\"I wasn't sure, Jamie, that you wanted Mary. You know there was some one\nelse you were often with.\"\n\nHe lay for some time without speaking. At last he said, slowly,--\"I\nsee,--I see,--I see,\"--three times. Then, turning his eyes away from me,\nhe kept on,--\"What should you think, Joseph, if I were to tell you that\nI had seen Margaret before she came to your place?\"\n\n\"Seen Margaret?\" I repeated.\n\n\"Yes,\" he replied; \"and I will tell you where. You see, when I found\nmother was dead, and nobody cared whether I went up or down in the\nworld, that I turned downwards. I got with a bad set,--learned to drink\nand gamble. One night, in the streets of Boston, I got into a quarrel\nwith a young man, a stranger. We were both drunk. I don't remember doing\nit, but they told me afterwards that I stabbed him. This sobered us\nboth. He was laid on a bed in an upper room in the Lamb Tavern. I was\nawfully frightened, thinking he would die. That was about two months\nbefore I shipped aboard the Eliza Ann.\n\n\"After his wound was dressed, he begged me to go for his sister, and\ngave me the street and number. His name was Arthur Holden. His sister\nwas your Margaret. Our acquaintance began at his bedside. We took turns\nin the care of him.\n\n\"They were a family well off in the world, with nothing to trouble them\nbut his wickedness. He would not be respectable, would go with bad\ncompany.\n\n\"After he was well enough to be taken home, I never saw Margaret until\nthat morning after the snow-storm. I was very eager to go for her, for I\nfelt sure, from what Mr. Nathaniel had said during the night, that she\nwas the same.\n\n\"Riding along, she told me all about Arthur's course, and the grief he\nhad caused them ever since. It had made her mother ill. He was roaming\nabout the country, always in trouble, and it was on his account that she\nstayed behind, when her father and mother went South. She said he must\nhave some one to befriend him in case of need.\n\n\"And here,\" continued he, \"was where I took a wrong step. I begged\nMargaret not to speak of our former acquaintance. I could not bear to\nhave you all know. I was afraid Mary would despise me, she was so pure.\n\n\"Margaret was willing to keep silence about it, for she would rather not\nhave the people know of her brother. He would have been the talk of the\nneighborhood. Everybody would have been pitying her. She used to like to\nspeak of him to me, because I was the only one who knew the\ncircumstances.\n\n\"But don't think,\" he continued, earnestly, \"that I would have married\nMary and never told her. We had a long, beautiful talk the last evening.\nI had never before spoken quite freely of my feelings, though she must\nhave seen what they were. But that night I told everything,--my past\nlife, and all. And she forgave all, because she loved me.\n\n\"I meant to tell you as soon as we were off; but you turned the cold\nshoulder,--you would not talk about home.\"\n\nHere he stopped. I hoped he would say no more, for every word he spoke\nmade me feel ashamed. But he went on.\n\n\"The day before we agreed to go this voyage, Margaret told me that\nArthur was concealed somewhere in the neighborhood. She didn't know what\nhe had done, but only that he was running away from an officer. I found\nhim out, and went every night to carry him something to eat.\"\n\n\"Why didn't she tell me?\" I exclaimed. \"I would have done the same.\"\n\n\"She would, perhaps,\" said he, \"only that for some time you had acted so\nstrangely. She never said a word, but I knew it troubled her. If I had\nonly known of your feeling so, I would have told everything. But I\nthought you must see how much I cared for Mary. Everybody else was sure\nwho Margaret loved, if you were not.\n\n\"Oh, Joseph,\" he continued, clasping my hand, \"how beautiful it will be,\nwhen we get home, now that everything is cleared up! But I haven't quite\nfinished. Sunday, if you remember, Margaret came in late to meeting.\nWhile the hymn was being read, she wrote me on a slip of paper that\nArthur was gone. I wrote her back, 'Good news.' Afterwards she told me\nthat he came in the night to her bedroom-window to bid her\ngood-bye,--that he had promised her he certainly would do better.\nMargaret was in better spirits that day than I had seen her for a long\nwhile. I thought there had been an explanation between you two. Never\nfear, Joseph, but that she loves you.\"\n\nJamie seemed tired after talking so much, and soon after fell asleep. I\ncrept into the berth underneath him. I felt like creeping somewhere.\nSleep was long coming, and no sooner was I unconscious of things about\nme than I began to dream bad dreams. I thought I was stumbling along in\nthe dark, 'Twas over graves. I fell over a heap of earth, and heard the\nstones drop down into one newly made. As I was trying to walk away,\nMargaret came to meet me. \"You didn't bid me good-bye,\" said she,\nsmiling; \"but it's not too late now.\" Then she held out her hand. I took\nit, but the touch waked me. 'Twas just like a dead hand.\n\nI kept sleeping and waking; and every time I slept, the same dream came\nto me,--exactly the same. At last I rushed upon deck, sent a man below,\nand took his place. He was glad to go, and I was glad to be where the\nwind was blowing and everything in commotion.\n\nThe next day I told Jamie my dream. He said it was a lucky one, and he\nhoped it meant two weddings. So I thought no more of it. I was never\nsuperstitious: my mother had taught me better.\n\nWe had just started for home, but this gale blew us off our course. Soon\nafter, however, the wind shifted to the eastward, and so kept, for the\nbiggest part of the time, until we sighted Boston Lights. Jamie was\nnearly well. Still he could not walk much. He was quite lame. The\nskipper thought some of the small bones of the foot were put out. But\nJamie didn't seem to care anything about his feet. He was just as gay as\na lark, singing all day.\n\nAs soon as we caught sight of The Mountains, we ran up our flag. It was\nabout noon, and the skipper calculated on dropping anchor in the channel\nby sundown, at the farthest. And so we should, but the wind hauled, and\nwe couldn't lay our course. Tacking is slow work, especially all in\nsight of home. About ten o'clock in the evening we made Wimple's Creek.\nThen we had the tide in our favor, and so drifted into the channel. Our\nbounty wasn't quite out, or we should have gone straight in to the\nwharf, over everything.\n\nWhen things were made snug, we pulled ashore in the boat. It being in\nthe night, we went just as we were, in fishermen's rig. 'Twas a wet,\ndrizzly, chilly night, so dark we could hardly make out the landing. We\ncoaxed Jamie to stop under a shed while I went for a horse. I was the\nonly one of the crew who lived beyond the meeting-house. But I had so\nmuch to think of, was so happy, thinking I was home again, and that\neverything would be right, that I never minded being alone. Passing by\nthe graveyard made me remember my dream. \"Joseph,\" said I to myself,\n\"you don't dare walk through there!\" 'Twas only a post-and-rail fence,\nand I sprang over, to show myself I dared do it. I felt noways agitated\nuntil I found, that, on account of its being so dark, I was stumbling\njust as I had dreamed. I kept on, however; for, by going that way, I\ncould reach home by a short cut. When I got behind the meeting-house I\nnearly fell down over a heap of earth. My fall started a few stones, and\nI could hear them drop. Then my courage left me. I shook with fear. I\nhardly had strength to reach the road. That was the first time it\noccurred to me that I might not find all as I left them.\n\nAs I came to dwelling--houses, however, I grew calm again, and even\nsmiled at my foolishness,--or tried to.\n\nMr. Nathaniel's house came before ours. I saw there was a light in the\nkitchen, and stepped softly through the back-yard, thinking some one\nmight be sick. The windows were small and high. The curtains were made\nof house-paper. One of them was not quite let down. I looked in\nunderneath it, and saw two old women sitting by the fire. Something to\neat was set out on a table, and the teapot was on the hearth. One stick\nhad broken in two. The smoking brands stood up in the corners. There was\njust a flicker of flame in the candlestick. It went out while I was\nlooking. I saw that the old women were dozing. I opened the outside-door\nsoftly, and stood in the porch. There was a latch-string to the inner\none. As soon as I pulled it the door opened. In my agitation I forgot\nthere was a step up, and so stumbled forward into the room. They both\nstarted to their feet, holding on by the pommels of the chairs. They\nwere frightened.\n\n\"What are you here for?\" I gasped out.\n\n\"Watching with the dead!\" whispered one of them.\n\n\"Who?\"\n\nThey looked at each other; they knew me then.\n\nI remember their eyes turning towards the front-room door, of placing my\nhand on the latch, of standing by a table between the front-windows, of\na coffin resting on the white cloth, of people crowding about me,--but\nnothing more that night. Nothing distinctly for weeks and months. Some\nconfused idea I have of being led about at a funeral, of being told I\nmust sit with the mourners, of the bearers taking off their hats, of\nbeing held back from the grave. But a black cloud rests over all. I\ncannot pierce it. I have no wish to. I can't even tell whether I really\ntook her cold hand in mine, and bid her good-bye, or whether that was\none of the terrible dreams which came to me every night. I know that at\nlast I refused to go to bed, but walked all night in the fields and\nwoods.\n\nI believe that insane people always know the feelings and the plans of\nthose about them. I knew they were thinking of taking me to an asylum. I\nknew, too, that I was the means of Jamie's being sick, and that they\ntried to keep it from me. I read in their faces,--\"Jamie got a fever\nthat wet night at the shore; but don't tell Joseph.\"\n\nAs I look back upon that long gloom, a shadowy remembrance comes to me\nof standing in the door-way of a darkened chamber. A minister in white\nbands stood at the foot of the bed, performing the marriage-ceremony. I\nremember Jamie's paleness, and the heavenly look in Mary's face, as she\nstood at the bedside, holding his right hand in hers. Mother passed her\nhand over my head, and whispered to me that Mary wanted to take care of\nhim.\n\nOne of my fancies was, that a dark bird, like a vulture, constantly\npursued me. All day I was trying to escape him, and all the while I\nslept he was at my pillow.\n\nAs I came to myself I found this to be a form given by my excited\nimagination to a dark thought which would give me no rest. It was the\nidea that my conduct had been the means of Margaret's death. I never\ndared question. They said it was fever,--that others died of the same.\nIf I could but have spoken to her,--could but have seen, once more, the\nsame old look and smile! This was an ever-present thought.\n\nBut I did afterwards. I told her everything. She knows my folly and my\ngrief.\n\nIt was in the night-time. I was walking through the woods, on the road\nto Swampsey Village. Margaret walked beside me for a long way. Just\nbefore she left me, she said,--\n\n\"Do you hear the surf on the beach?\"\n\nI said, \"Yes, I hear the surf.\"\n\n\"And what is it saying?\"\n\nI listened a moment, then answered,--\n\n\"It says, 'Woe! woe! woe!'\"\n\nShe said, \"Listen again.\"\n\nWhile I was listening, she disappeared. But a moment afterwards I heard\na voice speaking in the midst of the surfs roaring. It was just as plain\nand distinct as the minister's from the pulpit. It said, \"Endure!\nendure! endure.\"\n\nI might think that all this, even my seeing Margaret, was only a\ncreation of my disordered mind, were it not for something happening\nafterwards which proved itself.\n\nOne evening, about twilight, I walked through the graveyard, and stood\nleaning against her tombstone. I soon knew that she was coming, for I\nheard the ringing sound in the air which always came before her. A\nmoment after, she stood beside me. She placed her hand on my heart, and\nsaid, \"Joseph, all is right here,\"--then upon my forehead, and said,\n\"But here all is wrong.\"\n\nThen she told me there was a ship ready to sail from Boston, and that I\nmust go in her,--said it troubled her that I wasted my life so. She gave\nme the name of the ship and of the captain, and told me when to go.\n\nI did exactly as she said. And it all came true. When the captain saw\nme, he started back and exclaimed,--\"What sent you here?\"\n\nI said, \"An angel.\"\n\n\"And an angel told me you were coming,\" he replied.\n\nActive work saved me. For years I never dared rest. I shrank back from a\nleisure hour as from a dark chasm.\n\nThe greater part of my life has been passed upon the sea. As I\napproached middle age, people would joke me upon my single life. They\ncould never know what a painful chord they struck, and I could never\ntell them. Beautiful girls were pointed out to me. I could not see them.\nMargaret's face always came between.\n\nThis bantering a single man is very common. I often wonder that people\ndare do it. How does the world know what early disappointment he may be\nmourning over? Is it anything to laugh about, that he has nobody to love\nhim,--nobody he may call his own,--no home? Seated in your pleasant\nfamily-circle, the bright faces about him fade away, and he sees only a\nvision of what might have been. Yet nobody supposes we have feeling. No\nmother, dressing up her little boy for a walk, thinks of _our_ noticing\nhow cunning he looks, with the feather in his hat. No mother, weeping\nover the coffin of her child, dreams that _we_ have pity and sorrow in\nour hearts for her.\n\nThus the world shuts us out from all sympathy with its joys or\nafflictions. But the world doesn't know everything,--least of all what\nis passing in the heart of an old bachelor.\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\nJamie and Mary are old folks now. He never went to sea after his\nmarriage. Father set him up in a store. I should make it my home with\nthem, but they live at the old place, and I am always better away from\nthere.\n\nMrs. Maylie was right about my noticing children. I like to sit on the\nstone wall and talk with them. No face comes between theirs and\nmine,--unless it's the little girl's who moved away. Farmer Hill's is a\npleasant family. His grandchildren call me Captain Joseph. I humor them\nalmost as much as he does. When huckleberries come, they wonder why I\nwon't let them take that little rough-looking basket that hangs over the\nlooking-glass. 'Tis the one Margaret made that night in the hut on The\nMountains.\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\nTHE SNOW-MAN.\n\n\n    The fields are white with the glittering snow,\n    Save down by the brook, where the alders grow,\n    And hang their branches, black and bare,\n    O'er the stream that wanders darkly there;\n    Or where the dry stalks of the summer past\n    Stand shivering now in the winter blast;\n    Or where the naked woodlands lie,\n    Bearded and brown against the sky:\n    But over the pasture, and meadow, and hill,\n    The snow is lying, all white and still.\n\n    But a loud and merry shout I hear,\n    Ringing and joyous, fresh and clear,\n    Where a troop of rosy boys at play\n    Awaken the echoes far away.\n    They have moulded the snow with hand and spade,\n    And a strange, misshapen image made:\n    A Caliban in fiendish guise,\n    With mouth agape and staring eyes,\n    And monstrous limbs, that might uphold\n    The weight that Atlas bore, of old;\n    Like shapes that our troubled dreams distress,\n    Ghost-like and grim in their ugliness;\n    A huge and hideous human form,\n    Born of the howling wind and storm:\n    And yet those boyish sculptors glow\n    With the pride of a Phidias or Angelo.\n\n    Come hither and listen to me, my son,\n    And a lesson of life I'll read thereon.\n    You have made a man of the snow-bank there;\n    He stands up yet in the frosty air:\n    Go out from your home, so bright and warm,\n    And throw yourself on his frozen form;\n    Wind him around with your soft caress;\n    Tenderly up to his bosom press;\n    Ask him for sympathy, love, and cheer;\n    Plead for yourself with prayer and tear;\n    Tell him you hope and dream and grieve;\n    Beg him to comfort and relieve:\n    The form that you press will be icy cold;\n    A frozen heart to your breast you hold,\n    That turns into stone the tears you weep;\n    And the chill of his touch through your soul will creep.\n    So over the field of life are spread\n    Men who have hearts as cold and dead,--\n    Who nothing of sympathy know, nor love,--\n    To whom your prayers would as fruitless prove\n    As those that you now might go and say\n    To the grim snow-man that you made to-day.\n\n    But soon the soft and gentle spring\n    The balmy southern breeze will bring;\n    The snow, that shrouds the landscape o'er,\n    Will melt away, and be seen no more;\n    The gladsome brook shall rippling run,\n    'Neath the alders greening in the sun;\n    The grass shall spring, and the birds shall come,\n    In the verdant woodlands to find a home;\n    And the softened heart of your man of snow\n    Shall bid the blue violets blossom below.\n    Oh, let us hope that time may bring\n    To earth some sweet and gentle spring,\n    When human hearts shall thaw, and when\n    The ice shall melt away from men;\n    And where the hearts now frozen stand,\n    Love then shall blossom o'er all the land!\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\nTHE GOLD-FIELDS OF NOVA SCOTIA.\n\n\nIt will probably be thought a startling statement, by the good people of\nour staid Northern metropolis,--certainly by those of them whose\nattention has not been called to the recent developments on this\nsubject,--that within thirty-six hours' travel from their own doors, by\nconveyance as safe and even luxurious as any in the world, there exist\nveins of auriferous quartz, practically inexhaustible in extent, teeming\nthroughout with virgin gold of a standard of almost absolute purity, and\nyielding a return to the labors of the scientific miner, rivalling, if\nnot fairly surpassing, in their comparative results, the richest\ndeposits of California, Colorado, and Australia.\n\nBut then, if one has a startling fact to tell, why is it not best to\ntell it out, all at once, and in a startling manner? If the house-maid\nof our modest _menage_ should on a sudden discover that Aladdin's lamp\nhad come home from the auction-room among some chance purchases of her\nmistress, and that the slave or genie thereof was actually standing in\nthe middle of our own kitchen-floor at the moment, and grumbling audibly\nat lack of employment in fetching home diamonds and such like delicacies\nby the bale for the whole household, could we reasonably expect the girl\nto announce the fact, in the parlor above, in the same tone in which she\nordinarily states that the butcher has called for his orders? Aesop, in\nhis very first fable, (as arranged by good Archdeacon Croxall,) has\ninculcated but a mean opinion of the cock who forbore to crow lustily\nwhen he turned up a jewel of surpassing richness, in the course of his\nordinary scratching, and under his own very beak; why, then, should we\nrender ourselves liable to the same depreciatory moral? Something, at\nleast, must be pardoned to the _certaminis gaudia_ of this new-found\ncontest with the secrets of Nature,--and though the fact we have stated\nbe a startling one, the statements and authorities which go to support\nit will, perhaps, in the end, surprise us still more. We shall give\nthem, at any rate, in such a form as \"to challenge investigation and to\ndefy scrutiny.\" How far they will bear out our sensational opening\nparagraph, then, the readers of the \"Atlantic\" cannot choose but judge.\n\nBut let us hasten, in the very outset, to warn the individual\ngold-hunter that he, at least, will get no crumb of comfort from these\npages. That the precious metal is there,--to use Dr. Johnson's\nexpression, \"the potentiality of growing rich beyond the dreams of\navarice,\"--no one, we think, after reading what we have now to offer,\nwill be inclined to deny. But it is to be sought successfully, as we\nshall show, only by the expenditure of capital, and under the direction\nof science and the most experienced skill. The solitary adventurer may\ntickle the stern ribs of Acadia with his paltry hoe and pick in\nvain,--she will laugh for him and such as he with no sign of a golden\nharvest. Failure and vexation, disappointment, loss, and ruin, will be\nagain, as they have already been, his only reward. With this full\ndisclaimer, therefore, at the commencement of our remarks, we trust that\nwe shall, at least, have no sin of enticement laid at our door. If any\none chooses to go there and try it on his own individual responsibility,\nand in the face of this energetic protest and solemn warning, it must\nsurely be no further affair of ours.\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\nThe authorities, official, statistical, and scientific, from which our\nknowledge of the Gold-Fields of Nova Scotia is mainly derived, are as\nfollows:--\n\n1. Report of a Personal Inspection of the Gold-Fields of Nova Scotia, in\nthe Consecutive Order in which they were visited. Made by Lord Mulgrave\nto His Grace the Duke of Newcastle, and dated at Government House,\nHalifax, N.S., 21st June, 1862.\n\n2. Report of the Chief Gold-Commissioner for the Province of Nova Scotia\nfor the Year 1862. Made to the Honorable the Provincial Secretary, and\ndated at Halifax, January 23, 1863.\n\n3. Report of the Provincial Geologist, Mr. Campbell. Made to the\nHonorable Joseph Howe, Provincial Secretary, at Halifax, N.S., 25th\nFebruary, 1863. Accompanied by a Section across the Gold-bearing Rocks\nof the Atlantic Coast of Nova Scotia.\n\n4. Report on the Gold-Districts of the Province of Nova Scotia. Made to\nthe President and Directors of the Oldham Gold-Mining Company, December\n28, 1863, by George I. Chace, Professor of Chemistry in Brown\nUniversity, Providence, R.I. _Manuscript_.\n\n5. Introductory Remarks on the Gold-Region of Nova Scotia. Prefixed to a\nReport made to the President and Directors of the Atlantic Mining\nCompany, December 31, 1863. By Benjamin Silliman, Jr., Professor of\nGeneral and Applied Chemistry in Yale College, New Haven, Ct.\n_Manuscript_.\n\n6. Report on the Montague Gold-Field, near Halifax, N.S., by the Same,\nand on the Gold-Fields of the Waverley District, by the Same.\n_Manuscript_.\n\n7. Quarterly Report of the Chief Gold-Commissioner of the Province of\nNova Scotia. Made to the Provincial Secretary at Halifax, October 1,\n1863.\n\n8. The Royal Gazette, issued by the Chief Gold-Commissioner, Halifax,\nJanuary 20, 1863. Published by Authority.\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\nIn confirmation of these documents, we shall only need to add the\n\"testimony of the rocks\" themselves, as shown in more than sixty\nspecimens of the gold-bearing quartz of these remarkable mines. Some of\nthese were brought to Boston by Professors Chace and Silliman, on their\nreturn a few weeks since from exploring the rich leads of the\nProvinces,--but by far the larger number were forwarded by some of the\nresident superintendents of the mines, by the Cunard steamer Africa,\narriving in Boston, Sunday, January 10, 1864, to the care of Captain\nField, then residing at the Tremont House. We may add that the eight\nfinest of these specimens are now lying on the table before us, their\nmottled sides thickly crusted with arsenical pyrites and streaked\nthrough and through with veins and splashes of twenty-two-carat gold.\nIncredulity, when raised to its highest pitch, might perhaps discredit\nall written testimony, whether official or scientific; but we have as\nyet seen no case so confirmed that the sight of these extraordinary\nfragments did not _compel_ belief.\n\nIn drawing our narrative from the authorities above cited, we shall\nprefer to follow as closely as possible the precise statements of the\ndocuments themselves,--interspersed only with such remarks of our own as\nmay be necessary best to preserve an intelligible connection between the\ndifferent portions. The agreement between all the authorities is so\nsubstantial, and in fact entire, that we shall experience none of the\nusual difficulties in the reconciling of contradictions or the balancing\nof conflicting theories or statements.\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\nThe gold-fields of Nova Scotia consist of some ten or twelve districts\nof quite limited area in themselves, but lying scattered along almost\nthe whole southeastern coast of the Province. The whole of this coast,\nfrom Cape Sable on the west to Cape Canso on the east, a distance of\nabout two hundred and fifty miles, is bordered by a fringe of hard,\nslaty rocks,--slate and sandstone in irregular alternations,--sometimes\nargillaceous, and occasionally granitic. These rocks, originally\ndeposited on the grandest scale of Nature, are always, when stratified,\nfound standing at a high angle,--sometimes almost vertical,--and with a\ncourse, in the main, very nearly due east and west. They seldom rise to\nany great elevation,--the promontory of Aspatogon, about five hundred\nfeet high, being the highest land on the Atlantic coast of the Province.\nThe general aspect of the shore is low, rocky, and desolate, strewn\noften with huge boulders of granite or quartzite,--and where not bleak\nand rocky, it is covered with thick forests of spruce and white birch.\n\nThe picture is not enticing,--but this is, nevertheless, the true _arida\nnutrix_ of the splendid masses before us. The zone of metamorphic rocks\nwhich lines this inhospitable coast varies in width from six or eight\nmiles at its eastern extremity to forty or fifty at its widest\npoints,--presenting in its northern boundary only a rude parallelism\nwith its southern margin,--and comprising, over about six thousand\nsquare miles of surface, the general outline of what may, geologically\nspeaking, be called the Gold-Region of Nova Scotia.\n\nIt will be most interesting hereafter to mark the gradual changes\nalready beginning to take place in this rich, but limited district. It\nis destined throughout, we may be sure, to very thorough and systematic\nexploration. For, although it is true that gold is not to be found in\nall parts of it, still it is not unreasonable to search for the precious\nmetal throughout this whole region, wherever the occurrence of true\nquartz-veins--the almost sole _matrix_ of the gold--is shown by boulders\non the surface. Back from the coast-line, a large part of the district\nnamed is now little better than an unexplored wilderness; and the fact\nthat the remarkable discoveries which have been made are in a majority\nof cases almost on the sea-shore, and where the country is open and the\nsearch easy, by no means diminishes the probabilities that continued\nexploration in the less frequented parts of the district will be\nrewarded with new discoveries as important as any which have yet been\nmade.\n\nThe earliest discovery of gold in the Province, yet made known to the\npublic, occurred during the summer of 1860, at a spot about twelve miles\nnorth from the head of Tangier Harbor, on the northeast branch of the\nTangier River,--shown on McKinley's excellent map of Nova Scotia as\nabout fifty-eight miles east from Halifax. Subsequent discoveries at\nWine Harbor, Sherbrooke, Ovens, Oldham, Waverley, Hammond's Plains, and\nat Lake Loon,--a small lake only five miles distant from Halifax,--have\nfully determined the auriferous character of particular and defined\nlocalities throughout the district already described, and abundantly\njustify the early opinion of Lord Mulgrave, that \"there is now little or\nno doubt that this Colony will soon rank as one of the gold-producing\ncountries of the world.\"\n\nAs a specimen of one of the most interesting mineral veins of this\nregion, it may answer to select the Montague lode at Lake Loon for a\nspecific description. The course of this vein is E. 10 deg. N., that being\nthe _strike_ of the rocks by the compass in that particular district. It\nhas been traced by surface-digging a long distance,--not less, probably,\nthan half a mile. At one point on this line there is a _shift_ or\n_fault_ in the rocks which has heaved the most productive portion of the\nvein about thirty-five feet to the north; but for the rest of the\ndistance, so far as yet open, the whole lead remains true and\nundisturbed.\n\nIts dip, with the rocks around it, is almost vertical,--say from 85 deg. to\n80 deg. south. The vein is contained between walls of slate on both sides,\nand is a double or composite vein, being formed, 1st, of the main\n_leader_; 2d, of a smaller vein on the other side, with a thin slate\npartition-wall between the two; and, 3d, of a strongly mineralized slate\n_foot-wall_, which is in itself really a most valuable portion of the\nore-channel.\n\nThe quartz which composes these interposed sheets, thus\nseparated, yet combined, is crystallized throughout, and highly\nmineralized,--belonging, in fact, to the first class of quartz lodes\nrecognized in all the general descriptions of the veins of this region.\nThe associated minerals are, here, _cuprite_ or yellow copper, green\n_malachite_ or carbonate of copper, _mispickel_ or arsenical pyrites,\n_zinc blende, sesquioxyde of iron_, rich in gold, and also frequent\n\"sights\" or visible masses of gold itself. The gold is also often\nvisible to the naked eye in all the associated minerals, and\nparticularly in the mispickel and blende.\n\nThe main quartz vein of this interesting lead varies from three to ten\ninches in thickness at different points on the surface-level, but is\nreported as increasing to twenty inches thick at the bottom of the\nshaft, already carried down to a depth of forty feet. This very\nconsiderable variation in thickness will be found to be owing to the\nfolds or plications of the vein, to which we shall hereafter make more\nparticular allusion.\n\nThe minerals associated with the quartz in this vein, especially the\ncuprite and mispickel, are found most abundantly upon the foot-wall\nside, or underside of the quartz itself. The smaller accompanying vein\nbefore alluded to appears to be but a repetition of the larger one in\nall its essential characteristics, and is believed by the scientific\nexaminers to be fully as well charged with gold. That this is likely to\ncome up to a very remarkable standard of productiveness, perhaps more so\nthan any known vein in the world, is to be inferred from the official\nstatement in the \"Royal Gazette\" of Wednesday, January 20, 1864,\npublished by authority, at the Chief Gold-Commissioner's office in\nHalifax, in which the average yield of the Montague vein for the month\nof October, 1863, is given as 3 oz. 3 dwt. 4 gr., for November as 3 oz.\n10 dwt. 13 gr., and for December as 5 oz. 9 dwt. 8 gr., to the ton of\nquartz crushed during those months respectively. Nor is the quartz of\nthis vein the only trustworthy source of yield. The underlying slate is\nfilled with bunches of mispickel, not distributed in a sheet, or in any\nparticular order, so far as yet observed, but developed throughout the\nslate, and varying in size from that of small nuts to many pounds in\nweight, masses of over fifty pounds having been frequently taken out.\nThis peculiar mineral has always proved highly auriferous in this\nlocality, and a careful search will rarely fail to detect \"sights\" of\nthe precious metal imbedded in its folds, or lying hidden between its\ncrystalline plates.\n\nNor is the surrounding mass of slate in which this vein is inclosed\nwithout abundant evidences of a highly auriferous character. Scales of\ngold are everywhere to be seen between its laminae, and, when removed and\nsubjected to the processes of \"dressing,\" there can be little doubt of\nits also yielding a very handsome return. In fact, the entire mass of\nmaterial which is known to be auriferous is not less than twelve to\nfifteen inches at the surface, and will doubtless be found, as all\nexperience and analogy in the district have hitherto shown to be the\ncase, to increase very considerably with the increased depth to which\nthe shafts will soon be carried. No difficulties whatever are\napprehended here in going to a very considerable depth, as the slate is\nnot hard, and easily permits the miner in his progress to bear in upon\nit without drilling upon the closer and more tenacious quartz.\n\nThe open cut, made by the original owners of the Montague property, and\nby which the veins have been in some degree exposed, absurd and culpable\nas it is as a mode of mining, has yet served a good purpose in showing\nin a very distinct manner the structure of these veins,--a structure\nwhich is found to be on the whole very general in the Province. The\nquartz is not found, as might naturally be supposed from its position\namong sedimentary rocks, lying in anything like a plain, even sheet of\nequal thickness. On the contrary, it is seen to be marked by _folds_ or\nplications, occurring at tolerably regular intervals, and crossing the\nvein at an angle of 40 deg. or 45 deg. to the west. Similar folds may be\nproduced in a sheet which is hung on a line and then drawn at one of the\nlower corners. The cross-section of the vein is thus made to resemble\nsomewhat the appearance of a chain of long links, the rolls or swells\nalternating with plain spaces through its whole extent. Perhaps a better\ncomparison is that of ripples or gentle waves, as seen following each\nother on the ebbtide in a still time, on the beach.\n\nThe distribution of the gold in the mass of the quartz appears to be\nhighly influenced by this peculiar wavy or folded structure. All the\nminers are agreed in the statement that the gold abounds most at the\nswells, or highest points of the waves of rock, and that the scarcely\nless valuable mispickel appears to follow the same law. The spaces\nbetween are not found to be so rich as these points of undulation; and\nthis structure must explain the signal contrast in thickness and\nproductiveness which is everywhere seen in sinking a shaft in this\ndistrict. As the cutting passes through one of these original swells,\nthe thickness of the vein at once increases, and again diminishes with\nequal certainty as the work proceeds,--below this point destined again\nto go through with similar alternations in its mass.\n\n\"There can be no fear, however,\" says Mr. Silliman, (Report, p. 10,)\n\"that there will be any failure in depth\" (_i.e._, at an increased depth\nof excavation) \"on these veins, either in gold product or in strength.\nThe formation of the country is on too grand a scale, geologically, to\nadmit of a doubt on this point, so vital to mining success.\" Mr.\nCampbell, whose masterly survey and analysis of the whole gold-region\nforms, with the colored section accompanying it, the basis for a general\nand thorough understanding of the whole subject, adds (Report, p. 5)\nthat \"the yield per ton of such quartz when crushed cannot fail to prove\nhighly satisfactory.\" And Mr. Chace, in the Preface to his Report on the\nOldham District, (p. 6,) remarks, that, \"if, as there are reasons for\nbelieving, the gold-bearing quartz of Nova Scotia is of sedimentary\norigin, in that case I see no reason why depth should cause any decline\nin the richness of the ore. As yet, none of the shafts have been carried\ndown sufficiently far to test this question practically,\"--he must, we\nthink, mean to its fullest extent, since he adds immediately after,\nthat, \"as far as they have gone, the ore is very generally believed to\nhave improved with increase of depth.\"\n\nSuch, then, is a brief and imperfect description of the general\ncharacter of one of the representative veins or \"leads\" of the\ngold-fields of Nova Scotia. Of the extent and number of similar deposits\nit is scarcely possible at present to give any definite idea. The line\nalong which Mr. Campbell's section is made out extends from the\nsea-shore at the south-east entrance of Halifax Harbor to the Renfrew\nGold-Field, a distance a little over thirty miles to the northeast,\nintersecting in that distance no less than six great anticlinal folds.\nThe points at which the east and west anticlinal lines are intersected\nby north and south lines of upheaval form the localities in which the\nquartzite group of gold-bearing rocks are brought to the surface, and it\nis here that their outcroppings form the surface of the country. The\nofficial \"Gazette\" for January, 1864, enumerates nine of these districts\nas already under a course of active exploration, namely, Stormont, Wine\nHarbor, Sherbrooke, Tangier, Montague, Waverley, Oldham, Renfrew, and\nOvens. When we add, in the words of Mr. Silliman's second conclusion to\nhis Report on the Atlantic Gold-Field at Tangier, \"that the gold-bearing\nveins already explored on this estate alone are in number not less than\nthirty, and that there is every reason to expect more discoveries of\nimportance, as the results of future explorations, already foreshadowed\nby facts which have been stated,\" enough, we think, will have been\ndeduced, on the highest kind of scientific testimony, to bear out our\nopening statement, that there exist in Nova Scotia veins of auriferous\nquartz practically inexhaustible, by any known methods of mining, at\nleast for the next two hundred years.\n\nOne very remarkable characteristic of all the gold hitherto produced in\nNova Scotia is its exceeding purity, it being on the average twenty-two\ncarats fine, as shown by repeated assay. In this respect it possesses an\nadvantage of about twenty-five per cent. of superior fineness, and\nconsequently of value, over most of the yield of California, much of\nwhich latter reaches a standard of only sixteen or seventeen carats'\nfineness, and is therefore inferior by five or six carats in twenty-four\nto the standard of the gold of Nova Scotia. The gold from all the\ndistricts named is sold commonly in Halifax in bars or ingots, at about\n$20 the ounce. Professor Silliman states the value of some of this gold,\nassayed under his direction at the Sheffield Laboratory in New Haven,\nConnecticut, at $19.97 per ounce, while the standard of another lot,\nfrom the Atlantic Mine in the Tangier District, is fixed by him as high\nas $20.25 per ounce. The Official Report of the Provincial\nGold-Commissioner for the year 1862 assumes the sum of $19.50,\nNova-Scotia currency, as the basis upon which his calculations of\ngold-value of the yield of all the mines is made up. A quantity of gold\nfrom the \"Boston and Nova-Scotia\" mines in the Waverley District, just\ncoined into eagles at the United-States Mint, and the results of which\nprocess are officially returned to the President of that Company,\nrequired a considerable amount of alloy to the ore as received from the\nmines, in order to bring it down to the standard fineness of the\nUnited-States gold-currency. All the Nova-Scotia gold is uncommonly\nbright and beautiful to the eye, and it has often been remarked by\njewellers and other experts to whom it has been shown, that it more\nnearly resembles the appearance of the gold of the old Venetian\nducats--coined mostly, it is supposed, from the sands of Guinea--than\nany other bullion for many years brought into the gold-market.\n\nIn regard to the most important point of the whole subject, namely, the\naverage yield per ton of quartz crushed at the various mills, we are\nfortunately enabled to give the official returns of the Deputy\nGold-Commissioners for the several districts, as made to the Chief\nCommissioner at Halifax. A few words of explanation as to the definite\nand statistical character of these returns may be of value here, in\norder to prevent or to correct much misconception and want of knowledge\nwith regard to their absolute reliability.\n\nIn the first place, then, every miner, or the agent or chief\nsuperintendent of each mine, is required by law to make a quarterly\nreturn of the amount of days' labor expended at his mine, the number of\ntons of quartz raised and crushed, and the quantity of gold obtained\nfrom the whole,--neglecting to do which, he forfeits his entire claim,\nand the Gold-Commissioner is then empowered to grant it to another\npurchaser.\n\nThese returns are therefore made with the utmost regularity and with the\ngreatest care. But as the royalty of three per cent. to the Government\nis exacted on the amount of this return, whatever it may be, it is\nobvious that there exists no motive on the part of the miner to\nexaggerate the amount in making his statement. We may be as sure that\nhis exhibit of the gold admitted to have been extracted by him does not,\nat any rate, _exceed_ the amount obtained, as that the invoices of\nimportations entered at the Custom-House in Boston do not overstate the\nvalue of the goods to which they refer. The practice is generally\nsuspected, at least, to tend in quite the opposite direction.\n\nAs the next step for ascertaining the yield of the mines, there comes in\na form of scrutiny which it would be still more difficult to evade. All\nowners of quartz-mills are also required to render official returns\nunder oath, and in a form minutely prescribed by the Provincial law, of\nall quartz crushed by them during the month, stating particularly from\nwhat mine it was raised, for whose account it has been crushed, and what\nwas the exact quantity in ounces, pennyweights, and grains. And this is\ndesigned also as a check on the miner, as the two statements, if\ncorrect, will be found, of course, to balance each other.\n\nThe Chief Gold-Commissioner resides in Halifax, and has his deputy in\neach gold-district, whose duty it is, as a sworn officer of the\nGovernment, to see that the provisions of the law are carried out; and\nthe returns, as collected, are duly made by him each month, accompanied\nby a general report on the industrial condition of the district\nrepresented. It is from these returns, thus collected, that the\nGold-Commissioner-in-Chief prepares a quarterly exhibit, which he issues\non a broad sheet in a so-called \"Royal Gazette.\" The last of these\ndocuments issued was published by authority at Halifax, Wednesday,\nJanuary 20th, 1864, and a copy thereof, ornamented at the head with the\nfamiliar lion and unicorn, is now lying with several of its predecessors\non the table before us. If skeptics desire any better authority than\nthis for the average yield of these mines, they must seek it elsewhere\nfor themselves. By the majority of persons capable of judging of the\nvalue and weight of testimony, we presume it will be regarded as amply\nsufficient.\n\nAfter this explanation of the official character of these returns, a\ntranscript of the figures given in the last exhibit as the average yield\nof gold per ton of quartz crushed will be all we think necessary in\nanswer to the inquiry we have proposed. We give them just as they stand\nin the returns for December, 1863, only premising that the relative\nyield of the several mines is found to vary very considerably from month\nto month, being at one time higher, and at other times again somewhat\nlower, and this from natural causes which have already been explained,\nwhile the total amounts, when taken together, exhibit a steady increase\nin the general yield of the whole. The figures stand as follows:--\n\nDECEMBER, 1863.\n\n_District._                    _Yield of Gold_\n                              _per Ton of Quartz._\n\nStormont (Isaac's Harbor)      2 oz. 10 dwt. 0 gr.\nWine Harbor                          10 \"    6 \"\nSherbrooke                     1 \"    7 \"    0 \"\nTangier                              14 \"   12 \"\nMontague                       5 \"    9 \"    8 \"\nWaverley                              9 \"   11 \"\nOldham                               15 \"   12 \"\nRenfrew                        1 \"    2 \"    0 \"\nOvens[P]                             18 \"    9 \"\n\nThe difference in yield between the districts is here very considerable,\nas it happens,--yet in the month of October the average yield at Oldham\nwas 1 oz. 16 dwt, 20 gr., and at Renfrew 2 oz.; while for November it\nwas at Stormont 3 oz. 2 dwt. 12 gr., at Tangier 1 oz. 10 dwt, at\nWaverley I oz. 3 dwt. 12 gr., and at Oldham 1 oz. 8 dwt. The _maximum_\nyield per ton was 50 oz. at Wine Harbor, 12 oz. at Sherbrooke, 11 oz. 12\ndwt. at Oldham, and 5 oz. 15 dwt. at Stormont, for the same period.\n\n\"The average yield,\" says Professor Chace, \"per ton of quartz, of the\ngold-fields of Nova Scotia will, it is believed, compare favorably with\nthat of either Australia or California, while some of the maximum yields\n_indicate ores of unsurpassed richness_.\"\n\nIn regard to the best and most effectual methods of dressing and\namalgamating these rich ores, it seems to be conceded that the modes\nhitherto in use in Nova Scotia have been very defective. Much larger\nreturns of gold are to be expected from the introduction of the new\nprocesses, which scientific research is every day bringing to a greater\ndegree of efficiency in Colorado and California. The promoters of the\nNova-Scotia mining-enterprises, thanks to the skill and pains of their\nscientific advisers, are fully awake to the importance of this vital\npoint. Pyrites--the mineral mixture so universally found with the gold\nof this region--is well known to escape, or rather to resist, the\nattraction of the mercury used in the amalgamating process, and it has\nhitherto been allowed to pass away with the \"tailings\", or refuse from\nthe mills. When we state that it has been repeatedly shown to be from\nten to twelve per cent. of the components of the ore, and that by test\nof the United-States Assay-Office its average yield is one hundred and\ntwenty-eight dollars to the ton,--and by the careful experiments of\nProfessor Silliman, at the Sheffield Laboratory in New Haven, it has\nyielded even as high as two hundred and seventy-six dollars and\nforty-nine cents to the ton,--the oversight and bad economy of its\nwaste will be sufficiently apparent. It may safely be estimated,\ntherefore, that the process of Dr. Keith, or some other equally simple\nand efficacious method of extracting this hitherto wasted portion of the\nprecious metal from the accompanying sulphurets, will produce an amount\nquite equal, at least, to the previous minimum yield. The effect of such\nan increase in the returns will readily be appreciated by others besides\nthe merely scientific reader.\n\nIn regard to the capacity of the various mines for the regular supply of\nquartz to the mills, it may be stated that ten tons daily is the average\namount fixed upon, by the different experts, as a reasonable quantity to\nbe expected from either of the well-conducted properties. Works of\nexploration and of \"construction\", such as will hereafter be pointed\nout, must, it is true, always precede those of extraction; but a very\nmoderate quartz-mill will easily \"dress\" ten tons of quartz daily, or\nthree thousand tons per annum, requiring the constant labor of thirty\nmen, as shown by the large experience already gained throughout the\nProvince. And this, says Professor Silliman, \"is not a very formidable\nforce for a profitable mine,\"--particularly when we consider that the\nprice of miners' labor in Nova Scotia rarely rises above the moderate\nsum of ninety cents per day.\n\nIf the quartz cost, to turn its product into gold bars, as high as\ntwenty dollars a ton, there would be, says the same eminent authority,\n\"a deduction of one-fourth [as expense] from the gross gold-product. The\ngold is about nine-hundred-and-sixty thousandths fine, and is worth, as\nalready shown, over twenty dollars per ounce. But the cost of the quartz\ncannot be so much by one-half as that named above; and there is the\nadditional value of gold from the pyrites and mispickel, as well as\nprobably fifteen per cent, saving on the total amount of gold produced\nby improved methods of working.\"\n\nThe reason why so little _alluvial_ gold is to be found throughout this\ndistrict may be very simply and concisely stated. It will be observed,\nthat the length of the gold-field lies mainly from east to west, while\nits width from north to south is over a much less distance, and\ntherefore lies almost at right angles to the scouring and grinding\naction of the glacial period. No long Sacramento Valley, stretching away\nto the south and west of the quartzite upheavals, has here retained and\npreserved the spoils of those long ages of attrition and denudation. The\nalluvial gold has mostly been carried, by the action alluded to, into\nthe sands and beneath the waves of the Atlantic Ocean; and it is only at\nthe bottom of the numerous little lakes which dot the surface of the\ncountry, that the precious metal, in this, its most obvious and\nattractive form, has ever been found in any remunerative quantity in\nNova Scotia.\n\nThis statement brings us naturally to the consideration of another of\nour opening positions, namely, that the gold of Nova Scotia is to be\nsuccessfully sought only under the application of the most scientific\nand systematic methods of deep quartz-mining. That no pains nor expense\nhas been spared by the present promoters of these important enterprises,\nin the very commencement of their mining-works, will perhaps be\nsufficiently evident from the fact that no step has been taken without\nthe full advice and concurrence of the eminent mining authorities\nalready cited. A summary of the methods now employed for developing the\nrich yield of these deposits may not be out of place in this connection.\n\nThe ill-considered system of allotting small individual claims, at first\nadopted by the Colonial Government, was founded, probably, on a want of\nexact knowledge of the peculiar nature of the gold-district, and the\nconsequent expectation that the experiences of California and Australia,\nin panning and washing, were to be repeated here. This totally\ninapplicable system in a manner compelled the early single adventurers\nto abandon their claims, as soon as the surface-water began to\naccumulate in their little open pits or shallow levels, beyond the\ncontrol of a single bucket, or other such primitive contrivance for\nbailing. Even the more active and industrious digger soon found his own\ndifficulties to accumulate just in proportion to his own superior\nmeasure of activity; since, as soon as he carried his own excavation a\nfoot or two deeper than his neighbor's, he found that it only gave him\nthe privilege of draining for the whole of the less enterprising\ndiggers, whose pits had not been sunk to the same level as his own. Thus\nthe adventurers who should ordinarily have been the most successful were\nsoon drowned out by the accumulated waters from the adjacent, and\nsometimes abandoned, claims. Nearly all of these early efforts at\nindividual mining are now discontinued, and the claims, thus shown to be\nworthless in single hands, have been consolidated in the large\ncompanies, who alone possess the means to work them with unity and\nsuccess.\n\nThe present methods of working the lodes, as now practised in Nova\nScotia, proceed on a very different plan. Shafts are sunk at intervals\nof about three hundred feet on the course of the lodes which it is\nproposed to work,--as these are distinctly traced on the surface of the\nground. When these shafts have been carried down to the depth of sixty\nfeet,--or, in miners' language, ten fathoms,--horizontal _drifts_ or\n_levels_ are pushed out from them, below the ground, and in either\ndirection, still keeping on the course of the lode. Whilst these\nsubterranean levels are being thus extended, the shafts are again to be\ncontinued downwards, until the depth of twenty fathoms, or one hundred\nand twenty feet, has been attained. A second and lower set of levels are\nthen pushed out beneath and parallel to the first named. At the depth of\nthirty fathoms, a third and still lower set of levels will extend\nbeneath and parallel to the second. This work of sinking vertical\nshafts, and excavating horizontal levels to connect them, belongs to\nwhat is denominated the \"construction of the mine\", and it is only after\nthis has been completed that the work of mining proper can be said to\nbegin.\n\nThe removal of the ore, as conducted from the levels by which access to\nit has thus been gained, may be carried on either by \"direct\" or by\n\"inverted grades,\"--that is, either by breaking it up from underneath,\nor down from overhead, in each of the levels which have now been\ndescribed,--or, as it is more commonly called in mining language, by\n\"understoping\" or by \"overstoping.\" When the breadth of the lode is\nequal to that of the level, it is perhaps not very material which plan\nbe adopted. But when, as at Oldham, Montague, or Tangier, the lodes are\nonly of moderate-width, and much barren rock, however soft and yielding,\nhas, of necessity, to be removed along with the ore, so as to give a\nfree passage for the miner through the whole extent of the drifts, we\nshall easily understand that the working by inverted grades, or\n\"overstoping,\" is the only proper or feasible method. In this case, the\nblasts being all made from the roof, or \"back,\" as it is called, of the\ndrift, the barren or \"dead\" rock containing no gold is left on the floor\nof the drift, and there is then only the labor and expense of bringing\nthe valuable quartz itself, a much less amount in bulk, to the surface\nof the ground. The accumulating mass of the dead rock underfoot, will\nthen be constantly raising the floor of the drift, and as constantly\nbringing the miners within convenient working-distance of the receding\nroof. In the case of \"understoping,\" however, in which the blasts are\nmade from the floor of the drift, it will be perceived that all the rock\nwhich is moved, of whatever kind, must equally be brought to the\nsurface, which entails a much greater labor and expense in the hoisting;\nand gravity, moreover, instead of cooperating with, counteracts, it will\neasily be understood, the effective force of the powder.\n\nSuch is a necessarily brief and condensed account of the novel and\ninteresting branch of industry which has thus been opened almost at our\nvery doors. The enterprise is as yet merely in its infancy, and will\ndoubtless for some time be regarded with incredulity and even distrust.\nBut if there be any weight to be attached to the clearest, most explicit\nscientific and practical testimony, we must henceforth learn to look\nupon Nova Scotia with an increased interest, and, perhaps a somewhat\nheightened respect. The spies that came out of Canaan were not, at any\nrate, more completely unanimous in their reports of the richness of the\nland than the eminent persons who have been sent to examine the\nauriferous lodes of our Acadian neighbors. If gold does not really exist\nthere, and in very remunerative quantities, it will be hard for us\nhenceforth to believe in the calculations of even a spring-tide, a\ncomet, or an eclipse.\n\n\"Up to the present time,\" (June, 1862,) says Lord Mulgrave, \"there has\nbeen no great influx of persons from abroad; and the gradual development\nof the richness of the gold-fields is chiefly due to the inhabitants of\nthe country. Some few have arrived from the United States, and from the\nneighboring Provinces; but they are chiefly persons destitute of\ncapital, and without any practical knowledge of mining-operations. This,\nI fear, is likely to produce some discouragement, as many of them will\nundoubtedly prove unsuccessful; and, returning to their homes, will\nspread unfavorable reports of the gold-fields, while their failure\nshould more properly be ascribed to their own want of capital and\nskill.\"\n\nIn contrast with this sensible prediction, and to show the very\ndifferent results of associated capital and labor noticed in the outset\nof our remarks, we give the following on the authority of the\n\"Commercial Bulletin\" of February 13, 1864:--\n\n\"At a meeting of the Directors of the St. Croix Mining Company, held on\nthe 14th ult., a dividend of _sixty per cent._, payable in gold, was\ndeclared, and, in addition to this, a sum sufficient to work the claim\nduring the winter was reserved for that purpose.\"\n\nThe latest information from this highly interesting region is contained\nin the Annual Report of the Chief Gold-Commissioner for the year 1863,\nissued at Halifax on the 26th of January, 1864. The present incumbent of\nthis responsible office is Mr. P.S. Hamilton, of Halifax,--the former\nCommissioner, Mr. Creelman, having gone out of service in consequence of\nthe change of Ministry which occurred in the early part of last year.\nMr. Hamilton's Report is singularly clear and concise, and exhibits\nthroughout a highly flattering prospect in all the Districts now being\nworked, except that of Ovens,--the reasons for this exception being,\nhowever, fully explained by the Commissioner. \"Taking the average yield\nat what it appears by these [official] tables,\" says Mr. Hamilton,\n\"_these mines show, a higher average productiveness than those of almost\nany other gold-producing country, if, indeed, they are not, in this\nrespect, the very first now being worked in the world_. I may here\nmention one fact affording increased hopes for the future, which\nalthough unquestionably a fact, the exact measure of its importance\ncannot well be shown, as yet, by any statistical returns. Excavations\nhave not yet, it is true, been carried to any great depth. Few\nmining-shafts upon any of the gold-fields exceed one hundred feet in\ndepth; but, as a general rule,--indeed, in nearly every instance,--the\nquartz seams actually worked have been found to increase in richness as\nthey descend.\" \"The yield of gold to each man engaged during the year is\nvery much higher than has yet been attained in quartz-mining in any\nother country.\"\n\nWine Harbor, almost at the eastern extremity of the peninsula, has, it\nappears from this official statement, \"the distinction of having\nproduced a larger amount of gold during 1863 than any other district in\nthe Province. During each one of five out of the last six months of the\nyear, it showed the highest maximum yield of gold per ton of quartz;[Q]\nand on the whole year's operations it ranks next to Sherbrooke in the\naverage amount produced per man engaged in mining.\" In the table giving\nthe entire returns of gold for the year, the whole yield of the\nWine-Harbor mines is set down as 3,718 oz. 2 dwt. 19 gr.,--equal, at the\npresent price of gold in New York and Boston, to about $125,000 for the\ntwelve months,--certainly a very hopeful return for a first year's\noperations. It is evident that the Commissioner regards this district\nand the neighboring one of Sherbrooke, as specially entitled to his\nconsideration, for he continues,--\"Here, as at Sherbrooke, gold-mining\nhas become a settled business; and the prospects of the district are of\na highly satisfactory character.\" But he adds, (p. 7,)--\"From every one\nof the gold-districts, without exception, the accounts received from the\nmost reliable sources represent the mining-prospects to be good, and the\nmen engaged in mining to be in good spirits,--content with their present\nsuccess and future prospects.\" To those who consider the accounts of\nNova-Scotia gold as mere myths we commend the attentive study of these\nGovernment returns. \"Miners' stories\" are one thing,--but a certified\nroyalty from a staff of British officials, in ounces, pennyweights, and\ngrains, on the first day of each month, is, in our modest opinion, quite\nanother. They \"have a way of putting things,\" as Sydney Smith expressed\nit, which is apt to be rather convincing.\n\nIt would not be surprising, if so marked an addition to the resources of\na small, and not an eminently wealthy Province, had been productive, in\nsome degree, of excitement, idleness, and disorder. But we have reason\nto believe that hitherto this has not been found to be the case. Lord\nMulgrave bears willing testimony to \"the exemplary conduct of the\nminers,\" and Mr. Creelman, the late Chief-Commissioner, is still more\nexplicit. \"It affords me the highest satisfaction,\" he concludes, \"to be\nable to bear testimony to the orderly conduct and good behavior of those\nwho have hitherto undertaken to develop the resources of our\ngold-fields. I have visited every gold-district in the Province twice,\nand, with one or two exceptions, oftener, during the past season; I have\nseen the miners at work in the shafts and trenches; I have noticed them\nin going to and returning from their work, at morning, noon, and night;\nI have witnessed their sports after the labors of the day were over; and\nI have never heard an uncivil word nor observed an unseemly action\namongst them. And although the 'Act relating to the Gold-Fields'\nauthorized the appointment of a bailiff in every gold-district, it has\nnot been deemed necessary to make more than three such appointments,\nand, with one single exception, no service from any of these officers\nhas been required.... It may be said, in general, that the respect for\nlaw and order, the honest condition, and the moral sentiment which\npervade our gold-district, are not surpassed in many of the rural\nvillages of the country.\"\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\nLIFE ON THE SEA ISLANDS.\n\n    [To THE EDITOR OF THE \"ATLANTIC MONTHLY.\"--The following graceful\n    and picturesque description of the new condition of things on the\n    Sea Islands of South Carolina, originally written for private\n    perusal, seems to me worthy of a place in the \"Atlantic.\" Its\n    young author--herself akin to the long-suffering race whose Exodus\n    she so pleasantly describes--is still engaged in her labor of love\n    on St. Helena Island.--J.G.W.]\n\n\nPART I.\n\nIt was on the afternoon of a warm, murky day late in October that our\nsteamer, the United States, touched the landing at Hilton Head. A motley\nassemblage had collected on the wharf,--officers, soldiers, and\n\"contrabands\" of every size and hue: black was, however, the prevailing\ncolor. The first view of Hilton Head is desolate enough,--a long, low,\nsandy point, stretching out into the sea, with no visible dwellings upon\nit, except the rows of small white-roofed houses which have lately been\nbuilt for the freed people.\n\nAfter signing a paper wherein we declared ourselves loyal to the\nGovernment, and wherein, also, were set forth fearful penalties, should\nwe ever be found guilty of treason, we were allowed to land, and\nimmediately took General Saxton's boat, the Flora, for Beaufort. The\nGeneral was on board, and we were presented to him. He is handsome,\ncourteous, and affable, and looks--as he is--the gentleman and the\nsoldier.\n\nFrom Hilton Head to Beaufort the same long, low line of sandy coast,\nbordered by trees; formidable gunboats in the distance, and the gray\nruins of an old fort, said to have been built by the Huguenots more than\ntwo hundred years ago. Arrived at Beaufort, we found that we had not yet\nreached our journey's end. While waiting for the boat which was to take\nus to our island of St. Helena, we had a little time to observe the\nancient town. The houses in the main street, which fronts the \"Bay,\" are\nlarge and handsome, built of wood, in the usual Southern style, with\nspacious piazzas, and surrounded by fine trees. We noticed in one yard a\nmagnolia, as high as some of our largest shade-maples, with rich, dark,\nshining foliage. A large building which was once the Public Library is\nnow a shelter for freed people from Fernandina. Did the Rebels know it,\nthey would doubtless upturn their aristocratic noses, and exclaim in\ndisgust, \"To what base uses,\" etc. We confess that it was highly\nsatisfactory to us to see how the tables are turned, now that \"the\nwhirligig of time has brought about its revenges.\" We saw the\nmarket-place, in which slaves were sometimes sold; but we were told that\nthe buying and selling at auction were usually done in Charleston. The\narsenal, a large stone structure, was guarded by cannon and sentinels.\nThe houses in the smaller streets had, mostly, a dismantled, desolate\nlook. We saw no one in the streets but soldiers and freed people. There\nwere indications that already Northern improvements had reached this\nSouthern town. Among them was a wharf, a convenience that one wonders\nhow the Southerners could so long have existed without. The more we know\nof their mode of life, the more are we inclined to marvel at its utter\nshiftlessness.\n\nLittle colored children of every hue were playing about the streets,\nlooking as merry and happy as children ought to look,--now that the evil\nshadow of Slavery no longer hangs over them. Some of the officers we met\ndid not impress us favorably. They talked flippantly, and sneeringly of\nthe negroes, whom they found we had come down to teach, using an epithet\nmore offensive than gentlemanly. They assured us that there was great\ndanger of Rebel attacks, that the yellow fever prevailed to an alarming\nextent, and that, indeed, the manufacture of coffins was the only\nbusiness that was at all flourishing at present. Although by no means\ndaunted by these alarming stories, we were glad when the announcement of\nour boat relieved us from their edifying conversation.\n\nWe rowed across to Ladies Island, which adjoins St. Helena, through the\nsplendors of a grand Southern sunset. The gorgeous clouds of crimson and\ngold were reflected as in a mirror in the smooth, clear waters below. As\nwe glided along, the rich tones of the negro boatmen broke upon the\nevening stillness,--sweet, strange, and solemn:--\n\n    \"Jesus make de blind to see,\n    Jesus make de cripple walk,\n    Jesus make de deaf to hear.\n      Walk in, kind Jesus!\n        No man can hender me.\"\n\nIt was nearly dark when we reached the island, and then we had a\nthree-miles' drive through the lonely roads to the house of the\nsuperintendent. We thought how easy it would be for a band of\nguerrillas, had they chanced that way, to seize and hang us; but we were\nin that excited, jubilant state of mind which makes fear impossible, and\nsang \"John Brown\" with a will, as we drove through the pines and\npalmettos. Oh, it was good to sing that song in the very heart of\nRebeldom! Harry, our driver, amused us much. He was surprised to find\nthat we had not heard of him before. \"Why, I thought eberybody at de\nNort had heard o' me!\" he said, very innocently. We learned afterward\nthat Mrs. F., who made the tour of the islands last summer, had publicly\nmentioned Harry. Some one had told him of it, and he of course imagined\nthat he had become quite famous. Notwithstanding this little touch of\nvanity, Harry is one of the best and smartest men on the island.\n\nGates occurred, it seemed to us, at every few yards' distance, made in\nthe oddest fashion,--opening in the middle, like folding-doors, for the\naccommodation of horsemen. The little boy who accompanied us as\ngate-opener answered to the name of Cupid. Arrived at the headquarters\nof the general superintendent, Mr. S., we were kindly received by him\nand the ladies, and shown into a large parlor, where a cheerful\nwood-fire glowed in the grate. It had a home-like look; but still there\nwas a sense of unreality about everything, and I felt that nothing less\nthan a vigorous \"shaking-up,\" such as Grandfather Smallweed daily\nexperienced, would arouse me thoroughly to the fact that I was in South\nCarolina.\n\nThe next morning L. and I were awakened by the cheerful voices of men\nand women, children and chickens, in the yard below. We ran to the\nwindow, and looked out. Women in bright-colored handkerchiefs, some\ncarrying pails on their heads, were crossing the yard, busy with their\nmorning work; children were playing and tumbling around them. On every\nface there was a look of serenity and cheerfulness. My heart gave a\ngreat throb of happiness as I looked at them, and thought, \"They are\nfree! so long down-trodden, so long crushed to the earth, but now in\ntheir old homes, forever free!\" And I thanked God that I had lived to\nsee this day.\n\nAfter breakfast Miss T. drove us to Oaklands, our future home. The road\nleading to the house was nearly choked with weeds. The house itself was\nin a dilapidated condition, and the yard and garden had a sadly\nneglected look. But there were roses in bloom; we plucked handfuls of\nfeathery, fragrant acacia-blossoms; ivy crept along the ground and under\nthe house. The freed people on the place seemed glad to see us. After\ntalking with them, and giving some directions for cleaning the house, we\ndrove to the school, in which I was to teach. It is kept in the Baptist\nChurch,--a brick building, beautifully situated in a grove of live-oaks.\nThese trees are the first objects that attract one's attention here: not\nthat they are finer than our Northern oaks, but because of the singular\ngray moss with which every branch is heavily draped. This hanging moss\ngrows on nearly all the trees, but on none so luxuriantly as on the\nlive-oak. The pendants are often four or five feet long, very graceful\nand beautiful, but giving the trees a solemn, almost funereal look. The\nschool was opened in September. Many of the children had, however,\nreceived instruction during the summer. It was evident that they had\nmade very rapid improvement, and we noticed with pleasure how bright and\neager to learn many of them seemed. They sang in rich, sweet tones, and\nwith a peculiar swaying motion of the body, which made their singing the\nmore effective. They sang \"Marching Along,\" with great spirit, and then\none of their own hymns, the air of which is beautiful and touching:--\n\n    \"My sister, you want to git religion,\n      Go down in de Lonesome Valley,\n    My brudder, you want to git religion,\n      Go down in de Lonesome Valley.\n\n    CHORUS.\n\n    \"Go down in de Lonesome Valley,\n    Go down in de Lonesome Valley, my Lord,\n    Go down in de Lonesome Valley,\n        To meet my Jesus dere!\n\n    \"Oh, feed on milk and honey,\n    Oh, feed on milk and honey, my Lord,\n    Oh, feed on milk and honey,\n        Meet my Jesus dere!\n    Oh, John he brought a letter,\n    Oh, John he brought a letter, my Lord,\n    Oh, Mary and Marta read 'em,\n        Meet my Jesus dere!\n\n    CHORUS.\n\n    \"Go down in de Lonesome Valley,\" etc.\n\nThey repeat their hymns several times, and while singing keep perfect\ntime with their hands and feet.\n\nOn our way homeward we noticed that a few of the trees were beginning to\nturn, but we looked in vain for the glowing autumnal hues of our\nNorthern forests. Some brilliant scarlet berries--the cassena--were\ngrowing along the roadside, and on every hand we saw the live-oak with\nits moss-drapery. The palmettos disappointed me; stiff and ungraceful,\nthey have a bristling, defiant look, suggestive of Rebels starting up\nand defying everybody. The land is low and level,--not the slightest\napproach to a hill, not a rock, nor even a stone to be seen. It would\nhave a desolate look, were it not for the trees, and the hanging moss\nand numberless vines which festoon them. These vines overrun the hedges,\nform graceful arches between the trees, encircle their trunks, and\nsometimes climb to the topmost branches. In February they begin to\nbloom, and then throughout the spring and summer we have a succession of\nbeautiful flowers. First comes the yellow jessamine, with its perfect,\ngold-colored, and deliciously fragrant blossoms. It lights up the\nhedges, and completely canopies some of the trees. Of all the\nwild-flowers this seems to me the most beautiful and fragrant. Then we\nhave the snow-white, but scentless Cherokee rose, with its lovely,\nshining leaves. Later in the season come the brilliant trumpet-flower,\nthe passion-flower, and innumerable others.\n\nThe Sunday after our arrival we attended service at the Baptist Church.\nThe people came in slowly; for they have no way of knowing the hour,\nexcept by the sun. By eleven they had all assembled, and the church was\nwell filled. They were neatly dressed in their Sunday-attire, the women,\nmostly wearing clean, dark frocks, with white aprons and bright-colored\nhead-handkerchiefs. Some had attained to the dignity of straw hats with\ngay feathers, but these were not nearly as becoming nor as picturesque\nas the handkerchiefs. The day was warm, and the windows were thrown open\nas if it were summer, although it was the second day of November. It was\nvery pleasant to listen to the beautiful hymns, and look from the crowd\nof dark, earnest faces within, upon the grove of noble oaks without. The\npeople sang, \"Roll, Jordan, roll,\" the grandest of all their hymns.\nThere is a great, rolling wave of sound through it all.\n\n    \"Mr. Fuller settin' on de Tree ob Life,\n    Fur to hear de ven Jordan roll.\n    Oh, roll, Jordan! roll, Jordan! roll, Jordan roll!\n\n    CHORUS.\n\n    \"Oh, roll, Jordan, roll! oh, roll, Jordan, roll!\n    My soul arise in heab'n, Lord,\n    Fur to hear de ven Jordan roll!\n\n    \"Little chil'en, learn to fear de Lord,\n    And let your days be long.\n    Oh, roll, Jordan! roll, Jordan! roll, Jordan,\n    roll!\n\n    CHORUS.\n\n    \"Oh, march, de angel, march! oh, march, de\n    angel, march!\n    My soul arise in heab'n, Lord,\n    Fur to hear de ven Jordan roll!\"\n\nThe \"Mr. Fuller\" referred to was their former minister, to whom they\nseem to have been much attached. He is a Southerner, but loyal, and is\nnow, I believe, living in Baltimore. After the sermon the minister\ncalled upon one of the elders, a gray-headed old man, to pray. His\nmanner was very fervent and impressive, but his language was so broken\nthat to our unaccustomed ears it was quite unintelligible. After the\nservices the people gathered in groups outside, talking among\nthemselves, and exchanging kindly greetings with the superintendents and\nteachers. In their bright handkerchiefs and white aprons they made a\nstriking picture under the gray-mossed trees. We drove afterward a mile\nfarther, to the Episcopal Church, in which the aristocracy of the island\nused to worship. It is a small white building, situated in a fine grove\nof live-oaks, at the junction of several roads. On one of the tombstones\nin the yard is the touching inscription in memory of two\nchildren,--\"Blessed little lambs, and _art thou_ gathered into the fold\nof the only true shepherd? Sweet _lillies_ of the valley, and _art thou_\nremoved to a more congenial soil?\" The floor of the church is of stone,\nthe pews of polished oak. It has an organ, which is not so entirely out\nof tune as are the pianos on the island. One of the ladies played, while\nthe gentlemen sang,--old-fashioned New-England church-music, which it\nwas pleasant to hear, but it did not thrill us as the singing of the\npeople had done.\n\nDuring the week we moved to Oaklands, our future home. The house was of\none story, with a low-roofed piazza running the whole length. The\ninterior had been thoroughly scrubbed and whitewashed; the exterior was\nguiltless of whitewash or paint. There were five rooms, all quite small,\nand several dark little entries, in one of which we found shelves lined\nwith old medicine-bottles. These were a part of the possessions of the\nformer owner, a Rebel physician, Dr. Sams by name. Some of them were\nstill filled with his nostrums. Our furniture consisted of a bedstead,\ntwo bureaus, three small pine tables, and two chairs, one of which had a\nbroken back. These were lent to us by the people. The masters, in their\nhasty flight from the islands, left nearly all their furniture; but much\nof it was destroyed or taken by the soldiers who came first, and what\nthey left was removed by the people to their own houses. Certainly, they\nhave the best right to it. We had made up our minds to dispense with all\nluxuries and even many conveniences; but it was rather distressing to\nhave no fire, and nothing to eat. Mr. H. had already appropriated a room\nfor the store which he was going to open for the benefit of the freed\npeople, and was superintending the removal of his goods. So L. and I\nwere left to our own resources. But Cupid the elder came to the\nrescue,--Cupid, who, we were told, was to be our right-hand man, and who\nvery graciously informed us that he would take care of us; which he at\nonce proceeded to do by bringing in some wood, and busying himself in\nmaking a fire in the open fireplace. While he is thus engaged, I will\ntry to describe him. A small, wiry figure, stockingless, shoeless, out\nat the knees and elbows, and wearing the remnant of an old straw hat,\nwhich looked as if it might have done good service in scaring the crows\nfrom a cornfield. The face nearly black, very ugly, but with the\nshrewdest expression I ever saw, and the brightest, most humorous\ntwinkle in the eyes. One glance at Cupid's face showed that he was not a\nperson to be imposed upon, and that he was abundantly able to take care\nof himself, as well as of us. The chimney obstinately refused to draw,\nin spite of the original and very uncomplimentary epithets which Cupid\nheaped upon it,--while we stood by, listening to him in amusement,\nalthough nearly suffocated by the smoke. At last, perseverance\nconquered, and the fire began to burn cheerily. Then Amaretta, our\ncook,--a neat-looking black woman, adorned with the gayest of\nhead-handkerchiefs,--made her appearance with some eggs and hominy,\nafter partaking of which we proceeded to arrange our scanty furniture,\nwhich was soon done. In a few days we began to look civilized, having\nmade a table-cover of some red and yellow handkerchiefs which we found\namong the store-goods,--a carpet of red and black woollen plaid,\noriginally intended for frocks and shirts,--a cushion, stuffed with\ncorn-husks and covered with calico, for a lounge, which Ben, the\ncarpenter, had made for us of pine boards,--and lastly some corn-husk\nbeds, which were an unspeakable luxury, after having endured agonies for\nseveral nights, sleeping on the slats of a bedstead. It is true, the\nsaid slats were covered with blankets, but these might as well have been\nsheets of paper for all the good they did us. What a resting-place it\nwas! Compared to it, the gridiron of St. Lawrence--fire excepted--was as\na bed of roses.\n\nThe first day at school was rather trying. Most of my children were very\nsmall, and consequently restless. Some were too young to learn the\nalphabet. These little ones were brought to school because the older\nchildren--in whose care their parents leave them while at work--could\nnot come without them. We were therefore willing to have them come,\nalthough they seemed to have discovered the secret of perpetual motion,\nand tried one's patience sadly. But after some days of positive, though\nnot severe treatment, order was brought out of chaos, and I found but\nlittle difficulty in managing and quieting the tiniest and most restless\nspirits. I never before saw children so eager to learn, although I had\nhad several years' experience in New-England schools. Coming to school\nis a constant delight and recreation to them. They come here as other\nchildren go to play. The older ones, during the summer, work in the\nfields from early morning until eleven or twelve o'clock, and then come\ninto school, after their hard toil in the hot sun, as bright and as\nanxious to learn as ever.\n\nOf course there are some stupid ones, but these are the minority. The\nmajority learn with wonderful rapidity. Many of the grown people are\ndesirous of learning to read. It is wonderful how a people who have been\nso long crushed to the earth, so imbruted as these have been,--and they\nare said to be among the most degraded negroes of the South,--can have\nso great a desire for knowledge, and such a capability for attaining it.\nOne cannot believe that the haughty Anglo-Saxon race, after centuries of\nsuch an experience as these people have had, would be very much superior\nto them. And one's indignation increases against those who, North as\nwell as South, taunt the colored race with inferiority while they\nthemselves use every means in their power to crush and degrade them,\ndenying them every right and privilege, closing against them every\navenue of elevation and improvement. Were they, under such\ncircumstances, intellectual and refined, they would certainly be vastly\nsuperior to any other race that ever existed.\n\nAfter the lessons, we used to talk freely to the children, often giving\nthem slight sketches of some of the great and good men. Before teaching\nthem the \"John Brown\" song, which they learned to sing with great\nspirit, Miss T. told them the story of the brave old man who had died\nfor them. I told them about Toussaint, thinking it well they should know\nwhat one of their own color had done for his race. They listened\nattentively, and seemed to understand. We found it rather hard to keep\ntheir attention in school. It is not strange, as they have been so\nentirely unused to intellectual concentration. It is necessary to\ninterest them every moment, in order to keep their thoughts from\nwandering. Teaching here is consequently far more fatiguing than at the\nNorth. In the church, we had of course but one room in which to hear all\nthe children; and to make one's self heard, when there were often as\nmany as a hundred and forty reciting at once, it was necessary to tax\nthe lungs very severely.\n\nMy walk to school, of about a mile, was part of the way through a road\nlined with trees,--on one side stately pines, on the other noble\nlive-oaks, hung with moss and canopied with vines. The ground was\ncarpeted with brown, fragrant pine-leaves; and as I passed through in\nthe morning, the woods were enlivened by the delicious songs of\nmocking-birds, which abound here, making one realize the truthful\nfelicity of the description in \"Evangeline,\"--\n\n            \"The mocking-bird, wildest of singers,\n  Shook from his little throat such floods of delirious music\n  That the whole air and the woods and the waves seemed silent to listen.\"\n\nThe hedges were all aglow with the brilliant scarlet berries of the\ncassena, and on some of the oaks we observed the mistletoe, laden with\nits pure white, pearl-like berries. Out of the woods the roads are\ngenerally bad, and we found it hard work plodding through the deep sand.\n\nMr. H.'s store was usually crowded, and Cupid was his most valuable\nassistant. Gay handkerchiefs for turbans, pots and kettles, and\nmolasses, were principally in demand, especially the last. It was\nnecessary to keep the molasses-barrel in the yard, where Cupid presided\nover it, and harangued and scolded the eager, noisy crowd, collected\naround, to his heart's content; while up the road leading to the house\ncame constantly processions of men, women, and children, carrying on\ntheir heads cans, jugs, pitchers, and even bottles,--anything, indeed,\nthat was capable of containing molasses. It is wonderful with what ease\nthey carry all sorts of things on their heads,--heavy bundles of wood,\nhoes and rakes, everything, heavy or light, that can be carried in the\nhands; and I have seen a woman, with a bucketful of water on her head,\nstoop down and take up another in her hand, without spilling a drop from\neither.\n\nWe noticed that the people had much better taste in selecting materials\nfor dresses than we had supposed. They do not generally like gaudy\ncolors, but prefer neat, quiet patterns. They are, however, very fond of\nall kinds of jewelry. I once asked the children in school what their\nears were for. \"To put ring in,\" promptly replied one of the little\ngirls.\n\nThese people are exceedingly polite in their manner towards each other,\neach new arrival bowing, scraping his feet, and shaking hands with the\nothers, while there are constant greetings, such as, \"Huddy? How's yer\nlady?\" (\"How d' ye do? How's your wife?\") The hand-shaking is performed\nwith the greatest possible solemnity. There is never the faintest shadow\nof a smile on anybody's face during this performance. The children, too,\nare taught to be very polite to their elders, and it is the rarest thing\nto hear a disrespectful word from a child to his parent, or to any grown\nperson. They have really what the New-Englanders call \"beautiful\nmanners.\"\n\nWe made daily visits to the \"quarters,\" which were a few rods from the\nhouse. The negro-houses, on this as on most of the other plantations,\nwere miserable little huts, with nothing comfortable or home-like about\nthem, consisting generally of but two very small rooms,--the only way of\nlighting them, no matter what the state of the weather, being to leave\nthe doors and windows open. The windows, of course, have no glass in\nthem. In such a place, a father and mother with a large family of\nchildren are often obliged to live. It is almost impossible to teach\nthem habits of neatness and order, when they are so crowded. We look\nforward anxiously to the day when better houses shall increase their\ncomfort and pride of appearance.\n\nOaklands is a very small plantation. There were not more than eight or\nnine families living on it. Some of the people interested us much.\nCelia, one of the best, is a cripple. Her master, she told us, was too\nmean to give his slaves clothes enough to protect them, and her feet and\nlegs were so badly frozen that they required amputation. She has a\nlovely face,--well-featured and singularly gentle. In every household\nwhere there was illness or trouble, Celia's kind, sympathizing face was\nthe first to be seen, and her services were always the most acceptable.\n\nHarry, the foreman on the plantation, a man of a good deal of natural\nintelligence, was most desirous of learning to read. He came in at night\nto be taught, and learned very rapidly. I never saw any one more\ndetermined to learn. \"We enjoyed hearing him talk about the\n\"gun-shoot,\"--so the people call the capture of Bay Point and Hilton\nHead. They never weary of telling you \"how Massa run when he hear de\nfust gun.\"\n\n\"Why didn't you go with him, Harry?\" I asked.\n\n\"Oh, Miss, 't wasn't 'cause Massa didn't try to 'suade me. He tell we\ndat de Yankees would shoot we, or would sell we to Cuba, an' do all de\nwust tings to we, when dey come. 'Bery well, Sar,' says I. 'If I go wid\nyou, I be good as dead. If I stay here, I can't be no wust; so if I got\nto dead, I might's well dead here as anywhere. So I'll stay here an'\nwait for de \"dam Yankees.\"' Lor', Miss, I knowed he wasn't tellin' de\ntruth all de time.\"\n\n\"But why didn't you believe him, Harry?\"\n\n\"Dunno, Miss; somehow we hear de Yankees was our friends, an' dat we'd\nbe free when dey come, an' 'pears like we believe _dat_.\"\n\nI found this to be true of nearly all the people I talked with, and I\nthought it strange they should have had so much faith in the\nNortherners. Truly, for years past, they had had but little cause to\nthink them very friendly. Cupid told us that his master was so daring as\nto come back, after he had fled from the island, at the risk of being\ntaken prisoner by our soldiers; and that he ordered the people to get\nall the furniture together and take it to a plantation on the opposite\nside of the creek, and to stay on that side themselves. \"So,\" said\nCupid, \"dey could jus' sweep us all up in a heap, an' put us in de boat.\nAn' he telled me to take Patience--dat's my wife--an' de chil'en down to\na certain pint, an' den I could come back, if I choose. Jus' as if I was\ngwine to be sich a goat!\" added he, with a look and gesture of ineffable\ncontempt. He and the rest of the people, instead of obeying their\nmaster, left the place and hid themselves in the woods; and when he came\nto look for them, not one of all his \"faithful servants\" was to be\nfound. A few, principally house-servants, had previously been carried\naway.\n\nIn the evenings, the children frequently came in to sing and shout for\nus. These \"shouts\" are very strange,--in truth, almost indescribable. It\nis necessary to hear and see in order to have any clear idea of them.\nThe children form a ring, and move around in a kind of shuffling dance,\nsinging all the time. Four or five stand apart, and sing very\nenergetically, clapping their hands, stamping their feet, and rocking\ntheir bodies to and fro. These are the musicians, to whose performance\nthe shouters keep perfect time. The grown people on this plantation did\nnot shout, but they do on some of the other plantations. It is very\ncomical to see little children, not more than three or four years old,\nentering into the performance with all their might. But the shouting of\nthe grown people is rather solemn and impressive than otherwise. We\ncannot determine whether it has a religious character or not. Some of\nthe people tell us that it has, others that it has not. But as the\nshouts of the grown people are always in connection with their\nreligious meetings, it is probable that they are the barbarous\nexpression of religion, handed down to them from their African\nancestors, and destined to pass away under the influence of Christian\nteachings. The people on this island have no songs. They sing only\nhymns, and most of these are sad. Prince, a large black boy from a\nneighboring plantation, was the principal shouter among the children. It\nseemed impossible for him to keep still for a moment. His performances\nwere most amusing specimens of Ethiopian gymnastics. Amaretta the\nyounger, a cunning, kittenish little creature of only six years old, had\na remarkably sweet voice. Her favorite hymn, which we used to hear her\nsinging to herself as she walked through the yard, is one of the oddest\nwe have heard:--\n\n    \"What makes old Satan follow me so?\n    Satan got nuttin' 't all fur to do wid me.\n\n    CHORUS.\n\n    \"Tiddy Rosa, hold your light!\n    Brudder Tony, hold your light!\n    All de member, hold bright light\n    On Canaan's shore!\"\n\nThis is one of the most spirited shouting-tunes. \"Tiddy\" is their word\nfor sister.\n\nA very queer-looking old man came into the store one day. He was dressed\nin a complete suit of brilliant Brussels carpeting. Probably it had been\ntaken from his master's house after the \"gun-shoot\"; but he looked so\nvery dignified that we did not like to question him about it. The people\ncalled him Doctor Crofts,--which was, I believe, his master's name, his\nown being Scipio. He was very jubilant over the new state of things, and\nsaid to Mr. H.,--\"Don't hab me feelins hurt now. Used to hab me feelins\nhurt all de time. But don't hab 'em hurt now no more.\" Poor old soul! We\nrejoiced with him that he and his brethren no longer have their\n\"feelins\" hurt, as in the old time.\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\nOn the Sunday before Thanksgiving, General Saxton's noble Proclamation\nwas read at church. We could not listen to it without emotion. The\npeople listened with the deepest attention, and seemed to understand and\nappreciate it. Whittier has said of it and its writer,--\"It is the most\nbeautiful and touching official document I ever read. God bless him!\n'The bravest are the tenderest.'\"\n\nGeneral Saxton is truly worthy of the gratitude and admiration with\nwhich the people regard him. His unfailing kindness and consideration\nfor them--so different from the treatment they have sometimes received\nat the hands of other officers--have caused them to have unbounded\nconfidence in General \"_Saxby_,\" as they call him.\n\nAfter the service, there were six couples married. Some of the dresses\nwere unique. One was particularly fine,--doubtless a cast-off dress of\nthe bride's former mistress. The silk and lace, ribbons, feathers and\nflowers, were in a rather faded and decayed condition. But, comical as\nthe costumes were, we were not disposed to laugh at them. We were too\nglad to see the poor creatures trying to lead right and virtuous lives.\nThe legal ceremony, which was formerly scarcely known among them, is now\neverywhere consecrated. The constant and earnest advice of the minister\nand teachers has not been given in vain; nearly every Sunday there are\nseveral couples married in church. Some of them are people who have\ngrown old together.\n\nThanksgiving-Day was observed as a general holiday. According to General\nSaxton's orders, an ox had been killed on each plantation, that the\npeople might that day have fresh meat, which was a great luxury\nto them, and, indeed, to all of us. In the morning, a large\nnumber--superintendents, teachers, and freed people--assembled in the\nBaptist Church. It was a sight not soon to be forgotten,--that crowd of\neager, happy black faces, from which the shadow of Slavery had forever\npassed. \"Forever free! forever free!\" those magical words of the\nProclamation were constantly singing themselves in my soul. After an\nappropriate prayer and sermon by Mr. P., and singing by the people,\nGeneral Saxton made a short, but spirited speech, urging the young men\nto enlist in the regiment then forming under Colonel Higginson. Mrs.\nGage told the people how the slaves in Santa Cruz had secured their\nliberty. It was something entirely new and strange to them to hear a\nwoman speak in public; but they listened with great attention, and\nseemed much interested. Before dispersing, they sang \"Marching Along,\"\nwhich is an especial favorite with them. It was a very happy\nThanksgiving-Day for all of us. The weather was delightful; oranges and\nfigs were hanging on the trees; roses, oleanders, and japonicas were\nblooming out-of-doors; the sun was warm and bright; and over all shone\ngloriously the blessed light of Freedom,--Freedom forevermore!\n\nOne night, L. and I were roused from our slumbers by what seemed to us\nloud and most distressing shrieks, proceeding from the direction of the\nnegro-houses. Having heard of one or two attempts which the Rebels had\nrecently made to land on the island, our first thought was, naturally,\nthat they had forced a landing, and were trying to carry off some of the\npeople. Every moment we expected to hear them at our doors; and knowing\nthat they had sworn vengeance against all the superintendents and\nteachers, we prepared ourselves for the worst. After a little\nreflection, we persuaded ourselves that it could not be the Rebels; for\nthe people had always assured us, that, in case of a Rebel attack, they\nwould come to us at once,--evidently thinking that we should be able to\nprotect them. But what could the shrieks mean? They ceased; then, a few\nmoments afterwards, began again, louder, more fearful than before; then\nagain they ceased, and all was silent. I am ashamed to confess that we\nhad not the courage to go out and inquire into the cause of the alarm.\nMr. H.'s room was in another part of the house, too far for him to give\nus any aid. We hailed the dawn of day gladly enough, and eagerly sought\nCupid,--who was sure to know everything,--to obtain from him a solution\nof the mystery. \"Why, you wasn't scared at _dat?_\" he exclaimed, in\ngreat amusement; \"'twasn't nuttin' but de black sogers dat comed up to\nsee der folks on t' oder side ob de creek. Dar wasn't no boat fur 'em on\ndis side, so dey jus' blowed de whistle dey hab, so de folks might bring\none ober fur 'em. Dat was all 't was.\" And Cupid laughed so heartily\nthat we felt not a little ashamed of our fears. Nevertheless, we both\nmaintained that _we_ had never seen a whistle from which could be\nproduced sounds so startling, so distressing, so perfectly like the\nshrieks of a human being.\n\nAnother night, while staying at a house some miles distant from ours, I\nwas awakened by hearing, as I thought, some one trying to open the door\nfrom without. The door was locked; I lay perfectly still, and listened\nintently. A few moments elapsed, and the sound was repeated; whereupon I\nrose, and woke Miss W., who slept in the adjoining room. We lighted a\ncandle, took our revolvers, and seated ourselves on the bed, keeping our\nweapons, so formidable in practised male hands, steadily pointed towards\nthe door, and uttering dire threats against the intruders,--presumed to\nbe Rebels, of course. Having maintained this tragical position for some\ntime, and hearing no further noise; we began to grow sleepy, and\nextinguished our candle, returned to bed, and slept soundly till\nmorning. But that mystery remained unexplained. I was sure that the door\nhad been tried,--there could be no mistaking it. There was not the least\nprobability that any of the people had entered the house, burglars are\nunknown on these islands, and there is nobody to be feared but the\nRebels.\n\nThe last and greatest alarm we had was after we had removed from\nOaklands to another plantation. I woke about two o'clock in the morning,\nhearing the tramp of many feet in the yard below,--the steady tramp of\nsoldiers' feet. \"The Rebels! they have come at last! all is over with us\nnow!\" I thought at once, with a desperate kind of resignation. And I lay\nstill, waiting and listening. Soon I heard footsteps on the piazza;\nthen the hall-door was opened, and steps were heard distinctly in the\nhall beneath; finally, I heard some one coming up the stairs. Then I\ngrasped my revolver, rose, and woke the other ladies.\n\n\"There are soldiers in the yard! Somebody has opened the hall-door, and\nis coming up-stairs!\"\n\nPoor L., but half awakened, stared at me in speechless terror. The same\nthought filled our minds. But Mrs. B., after listening for a moment,\nexclaimed,--\n\n\"Why, that is my husband! I know his footsteps. He is coming up-stairs\nto call me.\"\n\nAnd so it proved. Her husband, who was a lieutenant in Colonel\nMontgomery's regiment, had come up from camp with some of his men to\nlook after deserters. The door had been unfastened by a servant who on\nthat night happened to sleep in the house. I shall never forget the\ndelightful sensation of relief that came over me when the whole matter\nwas explained. It was almost overpowering; for, although I had made up\nmy mind to bear the worst, and bear it bravely, the thought of falling\ninto the hands of the Rebels was horrible in the extreme. A year of\nintense mental suffering seemed to have been compressed into those few\nmoments.\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\nGOLD HAIR.\n\nA LEGEND OF PORNIC.\n\n\n    Oh, the beautiful girl, too white,\n        Who lived at Pornic, down by the sea,\n    Just where the sea and the Loire unite!\n        And a boasted name in Brittany\n    She bore, which I will not write.\n\n    Too white, for the flower of life is red;\n        Her flesh was the soft, seraphic screen\n    Of a soul that is meant (her parents said)\n        To just see earth, and hardly be seen,\n    And blossom in heaven instead.\n\n    Yet earth saw one thing, one how fair!\n        One grace that grew to its full on earth:\n    Smiles might be sparse on her cheek so spare,\n        And her waist want half a girdle's girth,\n    But she had her great gold hair:\n\n    Hair, such a wonder of flix and floss,\n        Freshness and fragrance,--floods of it, too!\n    Gold did I say? Nay, gold's mere dross.\n        Here Life smiled, \"Think what I meant to do!\"\n    And Love sighed, \"Fancy my loss!\"\n\n    So, when she died, it was scarce more strange\n        Than that, when some delicate evening dies,\n    And you follow its spent sun's pallid range,\n        There's a shoot of color startles the skies\n    With sudden, violent change,--\n\n    That, while the breath was nearly to seek,\n        As they put the little cross to her lips,\n    She changed; a spot came out on her cheek,\n        A spark from her eye in mid-eclipse,\n    And she broke forth, \"I must speak!\"\n\n    \"Not my hair!\" made the girl her moan;--\n        \"All the rest is gone, or to go;\n    But the last, last grace, my all, my own,\n        Let it stay in the grave, that the ghosts may know!\n    Leave my poor gold hair alone!\"\n\n    The passion thus vented, dead lay she.\n        Her parents sobbed their worst on that;\n    All friends joined in, nor observed degree:\n        For, indeed, the hair was to wonder at,\n    As it spread,--not flowing free,\n\n    But curled around her brow, like a crown,\n        And coiled beside her cheeks, like a cap,\n    And calmed about her neck,--ay, down\n        To her breast, pressed flat, without a gap\n    I' the gold, it reached her gown.\n\n    All kissed that face, like a silver wedge\n        'Mid the yellow wealth, nor disturbed its hair;\n    E'en the priest allowed death's privilege,\n        As he planted the crucifix with care\n    On her breast, 'twixt edge and edge.\n\n    And thus was she buried, inviolate\n        Of body and soul, in the very space\n    By the altar,--keeping saintly state\n        In Pornic church, for her pride of race,\n    Pure life, and piteous fate.\n\n    And in after-time would your fresh tear fall,\n        Though your mouth might twitch with a dubious smile,\n    As they told you of gold both robe and pall,\n        How she prayed them leave it alone awhile,\n    So it never was touched at all.\n\n    Years flew; this legend grew at last\n        The life of the lady; all she had done,\n    All been, in the memories fading fast\n        Of lover and friend, was summed in one\n    Sentence survivors passed:\n\n    To wit, she was meant for heaven, not earth;\n        Had turned an' angel before the time:\n    Yet, since she was mortal, in such dearth\n        Of frailty, all you could count a crime\n    Was--she knew her gold hair's worth.\n\n           *       *       *       *       *\n\n    At little pleasant Pornic church,\n        It chanced, the pavement wanted repair,\n    Was taken to pieces: left in the lurch,\n        A certain sacred space lay bare,\n    And the boys began research.\n\n    'T was the space where our sires would lay a saint,\n        A benefactor,--a bishop, suppose;\n    A baron with armor-adornments quaint;\n        A dame with chased ring and jewelled rose,\n    Things sanctity saves from taint:\n\n    So we come to find them in after-days,\n        When the corpse is presumed to have done with gauds,\n    Of use to the living, in many ways;\n        For the boys get pelf, and the town applauds,\n    And the church deserves the praise.\n\n    They grubbed with a will: and at length--_O cor\n        Humanum, pectora coeca_, and the rest!--\n    They found--no gauds they were prying for,\n        No ring, no rose, but--who would have guessed?--\n    A double Louis-d'or!\n\n    Here was a case for the priest: he heard,\n        Marked, inwardly digested, laid\n    Finger on nose, smiled, \"A little bird\n        Chirps in my ear!\"--then, \"Bring a spade,\n    Dig deeper!\" he gave the word.\n\n    And lo! when they came to the coffin-lid,\n        Or the rotten planks which composed it once,\n    Why, there lay the girl's skull wedged amid\n        A mint of money, it served for the nonce\n    To hold in its hair-heaps hid:\n\n    Louis-d'ors, some six times five;\n        And duly double, every piece.\n    Now do you see? With the priest to shrive,--\n        With parents preventing her soul's release\n    By kisses that keep alive,--\n\n    With heaven's gold gates about to ope,--\n        With friends' praise, gold-like, lingering still,--\n    What instinct had bidden the girl's hand grope\n        For gold, the true sort?--\"Gold in heaven, I hope;\n    But I keep earth's, if God will!\"\n\n    Enough! The priest took the grave's grim yield;\n        The parents, they eyed that price of sin\n    As if _thirty pieces_ lay revealed\n        On the place _to bury strangers in_,\n    The hideous Potter's Field.\n\n    But the priest bethought him: \"'Milk that's spilt'\n       --You know the adage! Watch and pray!\n    Saints tumble to earth with so slight a tilt!\n        It would build a new altar; that we may!\"\n    And the altar therewith was built.\n\n           *       *       *       *       *\n\n    Why I deliver this horrible verse?\n        As the text of a sermon, which now I preach:\n    Evil or good may be better or worse\n        In the human heart, but the mixture of each\n    Is a marvel and a curse.\n\n    The candid incline to surmise of late\n        That the Christian faith may be false, I find;\n    For our Essays-and-Reviews' debate\n        Begins to tell on the public mind,\n    And Colenso's words have weight:\n\n    I still to suppose it true, for my part,\n        See reasons and reasons; this, to begin:\n    'T is the faith that launched point-blank her dart\n        At the head of a lie,--taught Original Sin,\n    The Corruption of Man's Heart.\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\nCALIFORNIA AS A VINELAND.\n\n\nIt has been reserved for California, from the plenitude of her\ncapacities, to give to us a truly great boon in her light and\ndelicate-wines.\n\nOur Pacific sister, from whose generous hand has flowed an uninterrupted\nstream of golden gifts, has announced the fact that henceforth we are to\nbe a wine-growing people. From the sparkling juices of her luscious\ngrapes, rich with the breath of an unrivalled climate, is to come in\nfuture the drink of our people. By means of her capacity in this respect\nwe are to convert the vast tracts of her yet untilled soil into blooming\nvineyards, which will give employment to thousands of men and women,--we\nare to make wine as common an article of consumption in America as upon\nthe Rhine, and to break one more of the links which bind us unwilling\nslaves to foreign lands.\n\nIt is a little singular, that, in a country so particularly adapted to\nthe culture of the grape, no species is indigenous to the soil. The\nearliest record of the grape in California is about 1770, at which time\nthe Spanish Jesuits brought to Los Angeles what are supposed to have\nbeen cuttings from the Malaga. There is a difference of opinion as to\nwhat stock they originally came from; but one thing is certain,--from\nthat stock has sprung what is now known all over the State as the\n\"Mission\" or \"Los Angeles\" grape, and from which is made all the wine at\npresent in the market. The berry is round, reddish-brown while ripening,\nturning nearly black when fully ripe. It is very juicy and sweet, and a\ndelicious table-grape.\n\nThree prominent reasons maybe given in support of the claims of\nCalifornia to be considered a wine-producing State. First, her soil\npossesses a large amount of magnesia and lime, or chalk. Specimens of\nit, taken from various localities, and carried to Europe, when\nchemically tested and submitted to the judgment of competent men, have\nbeen pronounced to be admirably adapted to the purposes of wine-culture.\nThen, the climate is all that could possibly be desired,--as during the\ngrowth and ripening of the grapes they are never exposed to storms of\nrain or hail, which often destroy the entire crop in many parts of\nEurope. As an evidence of the great superiority enjoyed by California in\nthis respect, it may be remarked, that, while the grape-crop here is a\ncertainty, \"the oldest inhabitant\" not remembering a year that has\nfailed of a good yield,--in Europe, on the contrary, in a period of 432\nyears, from 1420 to 1852, the statistics exhibit only 11 years which can\nbe pronounced eminently good, and but 28 very good,--192 being simply\nwhat may be called \"pretty good\" and \"middling,\" and 201, or nearly\none-half, having proved total failures, not paying the expenses. Again,\nthe enormous productiveness of the soil is an immense advantage. We make\non an average from five hundred and fifty to six hundred and fifty\ngallons of wine to the acre. The four most productive of the\nwine-growing districts of Europe are--\n\nItaly, giving to the acre   441 1-2 gallons\nAustria and her provinces,  265 5-6   \"\nFrance,                     176 2-7   \"\nNassau,                     237 1-2   \"\n\nOf these, it will be perceived, that Italy, the most prolific, falls\nfully one hundred and fifty gallons short of the average yield per acre\nin California.--In this connection the following account of a grape-vine\nin Santa Barbara may be interesting:--\n\n\"Four miles south of the town there is a vine which was planted more\nthan a quarter of a century since, and has a stalk now about ten inches\nthick. The branches are supported by a train or arbor, and extend out\nabout fifty feet on all sides. The annual crop of grapes upon this one\nvine is from six to ten thousand pounds, as much as the yield of half\nan acre of common vines. It is of the Los Angeles variety. There is a\nsimilar vine, but not so large, in the vineyard of Andres Pico, at San\nFernando.\"\n\nIt is well known that California has within her borders five million\nacres of land suitable for vine-culture. Suppose it to average no larger\nyield than that of Italy, yet, at 25 cents a gallon, it would give an\nincome of $551,875,000. That this may not seem an entirely chimerical\nestimate, it may be remarked that trustworthy statistics show that in\nFrance five millions of acres are planted in vines, producing seven\nhundred and fifty millions of gallons, while Hungary has three millions\nof acres, yielding three hundred and sixty millions of gallons. If it is\nasked, Supposing California capable of producing the amount claimed for\nher, what could be done with this enormous quantity of wine? the answer\nmay be found in the experience of France, where, notwithstanding the\nimmense native production, there is a large importation from foreign\ncountries, besides a very considerable consumption of purely artificial\nwines.\n\nSmall quantities of wine have been made in California for over half a\ncentury, by the Spanish residents, not, however, as a commercial\ncommodity, but for home-consumption, and there are wines now in the\ncellars of some of the wealthy Spanish families which money could not\npurchase. But it remained for American enterprise, aided by European\nexperience, to develop the wonderful capacity which had so long\nslumbered in the bosom of this most favored land.\n\nThe following statistics exhibit the total number of vines in 1862, and\nthe great increase in the last five or six years will show the opinion\nentertained as to the success of the business.\n\n\"The number of grape-vines set out in vineyards in the State, according\nto the Report of the County Assessors, as compiled in the\nSurveyor-General's Report for 1862, is 10,592,688, of which number Los\nAngeles has 2,570,000, and Sonoma 1,701,661.\n\n\"The rate of increase in the number and size of vineyards is large. All\nthe vines of the State did not number 1,000,000 seven years ago. Los\nAngeles, which had three times as many vines surviving from the time of\nthe Mexican domain as all the other counties together, had 592,000\nbearing vines and 134,000 young vines in 1856. The annual increase in\nthe State has been about 1,500,000 since then; and though less\nhereafter, it will still be large.\n\n\"The wine made in 1861 is reported, very incorrectly, by the County\nAssessors, as amounting to 343,000 gallons. The amount made in 1862 was\nabout 700,000 gallons. The total amount made in all other States of the\nUnion in 1859, according to the United States census, was 1,350,000\ngallons; and the same authority puts down California's wine-yield for\nthat year at 494,000 gallons, which is very nearly correct. In Los\nAngeles County most of the vineyards have 1,000 vines to the acre. In\nSonoma the number varies from 680 to 1,000. The average number may be\nestimated at 900; and the 10,000,000 vines of the State cover about\n11,500 acres. An acre of California vineyard in full bearing produces at\nleast 500 gallons annually, and at that rate the produce of the 11,500\nacres would be 5,750,000 gallons. Strike off, however, one-third for\ngrapes lost, wasted, and gathered for the table, and we have an annual\nproduce of 3,800,000 gallons. The reason why the present product is so\nfar below this amount is that most of the vines are still very young,\nand will not be in full bearing for several years yet.\"\n\nThe cost of planting a vineyard will of course vary with the situation,\nprice of labor, quality of soil, etc., but may be estimated at not far\nfrom fifty dollars an acre. This includes everything except the cost of\nthe land, and brings the vines up to the third year, when they are in\nfair bearing condition. There are thousands of acres of land scattered\nover the State, admirably adapted to vine-culture, which may be\npurchased at from one to two dollars per acre. No enterprise holds out\nmore encouragement for the investment of labor and capital than this,\nand the attention of some of the most intelligent capitalists of the\ncountry is being given to it. In this connection I cannot forbear\nreferring to the action of the Government in regard to our native wines.\nBy the National Excise Law of 1862 a tax of five cents a gallon was laid\nupon all wine made in the country. No tax has yet been laid upon\nagricultural productions generally, and only three per cent, upon\nmanufactures. Now wine certainly falls properly under the head of\nagricultural productions. Upon this ground it might justly claim\nexemption from taxation. The wine-growers of California allege that the\ntax is oppressive and impolitic: oppressive, because it is equal to\none-fourth of the original value of the wine, and because no other\narticle of production or manufacture is taxed in anything like this\nproportion; impolitic, because the business is now in its infancy,\nstruggling against enormous difficulties, among which may be mentioned\nthe high price of labor, rate of interest, and cost of packages, making\nit difficult to compete with the wines of Europe, which have already\nestablished themselves in the country, and which are produced where\ninterest is only three per cent. per annum, and the price of labor\none-quarter of what it is in California. In addition to this there is\nthe prejudice which exists against American wines, but which, happily,\nis passing away. The vintners ask only to be put upon the same footing\nas manufacturers, namely, an _ad valorem_ tax of three per cent.; and\nthey say that the Government will derive a greater revenue from such a\ntax than from the one now in force, as they cannot pay the present tax,\nand, unless it is abated, they will be obliged to abandon the business.\nEfforts are being made to induce Congress to modify it, and it is to be\nhoped they will be successful.\n\nIn 1861 California sent a commissioner to Europe, to procure the best\nvarieties of vines cultivated there, and also to report upon the\nEuropean culture generally. The gentleman selected for the mission was\nColonel Haraszthy, to whom I am indebted for many of my statistics, and\nwho has given us a very interesting book on the subject. He brought back\na hundred thousand vines, embracing about fourteen hundred varieties.\nThese were to have been planted and experimented upon under the auspices\nof the State. What the result has been I am unable to say; but we are\ninformed upon good authority that over two hundred foreign varieties are\nnow successfully cultivated. Such being the fact, it is a fair\npresumption that we are soon to make wines in sufficient variety to suit\nall tastes.\n\nLos Angeles is at present the largest wine-growing county in the State,\nand Sonoma the second. Many other portions of the State, however, are\nfast becoming planted with vineyards, and some of them are already\ngiving promise of furnishing superb wines. As usual in wine-growing\ncountries, in the southern part of the State the wines are richer in\nsaccharine properties, and heavier-bodied, than those of the more\nnorthern sections, but are deficient in flavor and bouquet. We shall get\na lighter and tarter wine from the Sonoma and other northern vineyards,\nwhich will please many tastes better than the southern wines. The two\nlargest vineyards in the State are owned by Colonel Haraszthy, of\nSonoma, and John Rains, of San Gabriel. The former has two hundred and\nninety thousand vines, and the latter one hundred and sixty-five\nthousand. It is probable that from one of these vineyards at least will\ncome a good Champagne wine.\n\nA large tract of land, to which has been given the name of \"Anaheim,\"\nhas been recently purchased by a German company. It is sold to actual\nsettlers in lots of twenty acres, affording room for twenty thousand\nvines. There are now planted nearly three hundred thousand, which are in\na very flourishing condition. The wines from this district will soon be\nin the market.\n\nThe wines now made in California are known under the following names:\n\"White\" or \"Hock\" Wine, \"Angelica,\" \"Port,\" \"Muscatel,\" \"Sparkling\nCalifornia,\" and \"Piquet.\" The character of the first-named wine is much\nlike that of the Rhine wines of Germany. It is not unlike the _Capri\nbianco_ of Naples, or the white wines of the South of France. It is\nricher and fuller-bodied than the German wines, without the tartness\nwhich is strongly developed in nearly all the Rhenish varieties. It is a\nfine wine, and meets the approval of many of our best connoisseurs.\nSpecimens of it have been sent to some of the wine-districts of Germany,\nand the most flattering expressions in its favor have come from the\nRhine. The \"Angelica\" and \"Muscatel\" are both _naturally_ sweet,\nintended as dessert-wines, and to suit the taste of those who do not\nlike a dry wine. They are both of a most excellent quality, and are very\npopular. The \"Port\" is a rich, deep-colored, high-flavored wine, not\nunlike the Burgundies of France, yet not so dry. The \"Sparkling\nCalifornia\" and \"Piquet\" are as yet but little known. The latter is made\nfrom the lees of the grape, is a sour, very light wine, and not suitable\nfor shipment. Messrs. Sainsivain Brothers have up to the present time\nbeen the principal house engaged in the manufacture of Champagne. So\nfar, they have not been particularly successful. This wine has a certain\nbitter taste, which is not agreeable; yet it is a much better wine than\nsome kinds of the foreign article sold in our markets. The makers are\nstill experimenting, and will, no doubt, improve. It is probable that\nmost of the good sparkling wine which we shall get from California will\nbe made in the northern part of the State; the grapes grown there seem\nto be better adapted to the purpose than those raised in Los Angeles.\nThere is no doubt, too, that the foreign grape will be used for this\nbranch of the business, rather than the Los Angeles variety. All that is\nrequired to obtain many other varieties of wine, including brands\nsimilar to Sherry and Claret, is time to find a proper grape, and to\nselect a suitable soil for its culture. Considering the short time which\nhas elapsed since the business was commenced, wonders have been\naccomplished. It has taken Ohio thirty years to furnish us two varieties\nof wine, while in less than one-third that time California has produced\nsix varieties, four of which are of a very superior quality, and have\nalready taken a prominent position in the estimation of the best tastes\nin the country.\n\nIn 1854, Messrs. Koehler and Froehling commenced business in Los Angeles,\nand shortly after opened a house in San Francisco. They were assisted by\nCharles Stern, who had enjoyed a long and valuable experience in the\nwine-business upon the Rhine. The vintage was very small and inferior in\nquality, as they had had no experience in making wine from such a grape\nas California produced. Numberless difficulties were met with, and it\nwas only the indomitable energy of the gentlemen engaged in the\nenterprise, sustained by a firm faith in its ultimate success, which\nbrought them triumphantly out of the slough of despond that seemed at\ntimes almost to overwhelm them. They have to-day the satisfaction of\nbeing the pioneers in what is soon to be one of the most important\nbranches of industry in California. They own one of the finest vineyards\nin the State, from which some magnificent wine has been produced. They\nhave contracts with owners of other vineyards; and after making the wine\nin their own, the men and machinery are moved into these, the grapes\npressed, and the juice at once conveyed to their cellars, they paying\nthe producers of the grapes a stipulated price per ton on the vines. The\nvintage commences about the first of October, and generally continues\ninto November. The labor employed in gathering the grapes and in the\nwork of the press is mostly performed by Indians. It is a novel and\ninteresting sight to see them filing up to the press, each one bearing\non his head about fifty pounds of the delicious fruit, which is soon to\nbe reduced to an unseemly mass, and yield up its purple life-blood for\nthe benefit of man. Some of the best wine made in the State is from the\n\"Asuza\" and \"Sunny Slope\" vineyards, both of which lie directly at the\nfoot of the Sierra Nevada Mountains. From a small beginning Messrs.\nKoehler and Froehling have steadily progressed, till at this time their\nposition is a very enviable one. Their cellars, occupying the basement\nof Montgomery Block, excite the admiration of all who visit them, and\ntheir wines are more favorably known than those of any other vintners.\nAgencies have been established in New York and other cities, under the\nsupervision of Mr. Stern, and the favor with which they have been\nreceived has settled the fact that the wines of California are a\nsuccess. It only remains for the vintners to keep their wines pure, and\nalways up to the highest standard, and to take such measures as shall\ninsure their delivery in a like condition to the consumers, to build up\na business which shall eclipse that of any of the great houses of\nEurope. Thus will the State and nation be benefited, by keeping at home\nthe money which we annually pay for wine to foreign countries, and the\npeople will be led away from the use of strong, fiery drinks, to accept\ninstead the light wines of their native land.\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\nTO A YOUNG GIRL DYING:\n\nWITH A GIFT OF FRESH PALM-LEAVES.\n\n\n    This is Palm-Sunday: mindful of the day,\n    I bring palm-branches, found upon my way:\n    But these will wither; thine shall never die,--\n    The sacred palms thou bearest to the sky!\n    Dear little saint, though but a child in years,\n    Older in wisdom than my gray compeers!\n    _We_ doubt and tremble,--_we_ with 'bated breath\n    Talk of this mystery of life and death:\n    Thou, strong in faith, art gifted to conceive\n    Beyond thy years, and teach us to believe!\n\n    Then take my palms, triumphal, to thy home,\n    Gentle white palmer, never more to roam!\n    Only, sweet sister, give me, ere thou go'st,\n    Thy benediction,--for my love thou know'st!\n    We, too, are pilgrims, travelling towards the shrine:\n    Pray that our pilgrimage may end like thine!\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\nTHE RIM.\n\nPART I.\n\n\nThere are women at whom, after the first meeting, you forget to glance a\nsecond time, they seem to be such indifferent creations, such imperfect\nsketches of an idea to be fulfilled farther on in a clearer type, but\nwho, met once more and yet again, suddenly take you captive in bonds.\nYou find the sallow cheek to be but polished ivory, the heavy eye loaded\nwith fire, the irregular features chords of a harmony whose whole is\nperfect; you find that this is the type itself; while in every gesture,\nevery word, every look, the soul is shed abroad, and the fascination is\nwhat neither Campaspe, nor Jocasta, nor even Aspasia herself held in\nfee. For you, she has blossomed into the one beauty of the world; you\nhear her, and the Sirens sing in vain; she touches you, and makes you\nthe slave beneath her feet.\n\nSuch a one was Eloise Changarnier.\n\nThere was iron of the old Huguenot blood in her veins; late American\nadmixture had shot a racy sparkle through it; convent-care from her\ntenth to her sixteenth year had softened and toned the whole into a\nwarm, generous life; and underneath all there slumbered that one atom of\nintegral individuality that was nothing at all but a spark: as yet, its\nfire had never flashed; if it ever should do so, one might be safe in\nprophesying a strange wayward blaze.\n\nIn one of her earliest summers her widowed mother had died and\nbequeathed her sole legacy, a penniless orphan, to the care of the\nsurvivor in an imperishable friendship, Disbrowe Erne. A childless,\nthriftless, melancholy man, Mr. Erne had adopted her into his inmost\nheart, but out of respect to his friend had suffered her to retain her\nfather's name, and had thoughtlessly delayed rendering the adoption\nlegal. One day it was found too late to remedy this delay; for Mr. Erne\ndied, just a year after Eloise's return from the distant Northern\nconvent whither at ten years old she had been despatched, when, wild and\nwitching as a wood-brier, there had been found nothing else to do with\nher. There her adopted father had visited her twice a year in all her\nexile, as she deemed it, sometimes taking up his residence for several\nmonths in the neighborhood of the nunnery; and a long vacation of many\nweeks she had every winter spent at home with him on the rich and\nbeautiful plantation poetically known as The Rim, because, seen from\nseveral of the adjacent places, it occupied the whole southern horizon.\nThe last vacation, however, she had passed with her adopted father\ntravelling in France, whither some affairs called him; but, of all the\nsplendid monuments and records of civilization that she saw, almost the\nonly thing that had impressed itself distinctly upon her memory, through\nthe chicanery of chances, was that once in a cathedral-choir she had\nseen the handsome, blonde-hued, Vandyck face of a gentleman with\ndreaming eyes looking at her from a gallery-niche with the most singular\nearnestness. So at sixteen she found that the nuns had exhausted their\nslender lore, and had nothing more to teach her; and after her brief\ntravels, she returned home for a finality, and there had dallied a\ntwelvemonth, lapped in the Elysium of freedom and youth. Every want\nanticipated, every whim gratified, servants prostrate before her, father\nadoring her,--the year sped on wings of silent joy, and left her a shade\nmore imperious than it met her. Launched into society, wealthy and\nwinning, Eloise counted, too, her lovers; but she spurned them so gayly\nthat her hard heart became a proverb through all the region round,\nwherever the rejected travelled. It is true that Mr. Erne had often\nexpressed his film of dissatisfaction with the conventual results, and\nhad planned an attack on matters of more solid learning; but, tricksy as\na sprite, Eloise had escaped his designs, broken through his\nregulations, implored, just out of shackles, a year's gambol in liberty,\nand had made herself too charming to be resisted in her plea; and if,\nfeeling his health fail, he had at first insisted,--in the fear that\nthere might be left but brief opportunity for him to make her pleasure,\nhe yielded. Nevertheless, with the best outlay in the world,\nplantation-life is not all a gala, and there were, it must be confessed,\ncertain ennuisome moments in which Eloise made inroads on her father's\nlibrary, chiefly in wild out-of-the-way veins, all which, however,\nromantic, unsystematic, and undigested, did nothing towards rendering\nher one whit more independent of the world in time of future trial.\n\nOne afternoon, just reentering the house from some gay farewell of\nfriends, she found her father sitting in the hall, and she stood\ntiptoing in the door-way while smiling at him, with a fragrant vine half\ntwisted in her dark drooping hair, the heat making her cheek yet paler,\nand the great blue-green eyes shining at him from under the black\nstraight brows, like aquamarine jewels. Mr. Erne leaned forward in the\nchair, with hands clasped upon his knees, and eyes upbent.\n\n\"Eloise! Eloise!\" he cried in a piercing voice, then grew white, and\nfell back in the cushions.\n\nThe girl flew to him, took the head upon her shoulder, caressed the\ndeathly face, warmed the mouth with her own.\n\n\"Child!\" he murmured, \"I thought it was your mother!\"\n\nAnd by midnight, alone, and in the dark, he died, and went to find that\nmother.\n\nAs for Eloise, she was like some one made dumb by a thunderbolt. Her\ngarden had become a desert. Ice had fallen in her summer. Death was too\nlarge a fact for her to comprehend. She had seen the Medusa's head in\nits terror, but not in its loveliness, and been stricken to stone. At\nlength in the heart of that stone the inner fountains broke,--broke in\nrains of tempestuous tears, such gusts and gushes of grief as threatened\nto wash away life itself; and when Eloise issued from this stormy deep,\nthe warmth and the wealth of being obscured, the effervescence and\nbubble of the child destroyed, feeling like a flower sodden with\nshowers, if she had been capable of finding herself at all, she would\nhave found herself a woman.\n\nAmong Mr. Erne's disorderly papers, full of incipient schemes, sketches,\nand schedules of gold-mining, steam-companies, and railways to the\nnebulae in Orion, was discovered after his death a scrap witnessed by two\nsignatures. The owner of one of these signatures was already dead, and\nthere were no means to prove its genuineness. The other was that of a\nyoung man who had just enough of that remote taint in his descent which\nincapacitates one, in certain regions, from bearing witness. It was\nsupposed that Mr. Erne had some day hurriedly executed this paper in the\nabsence of his lawyer, as being, possibly, better than no paper at all,\nand he had certainly intended to have the whole matter arranged\nlegitimately; but these are among the things which, with a superstitious\nloitering, some men linger long before doing, lest they prove to be,\nthemselves, a death-warrant.\n\nBy this paper, in so many words, Disbrowe Erne left to Eloise\nChangarnier all the property of which he died possessed. An old friend\nof her father's in the neighborhood assured her that the only relatives\nwere both distant, distinguished, and wealthy, unlikely to present any\nclaims, and that she would be justified in fulfilling her father's\ndesire. And so, without other forms, Eloise administered the affairs of\nThe Rim,--waiting until the autumn to consult the usual lawyer, who was\nat present in England.\n\nThere had reigned over the domestic department of The Rim, for many\nyears, a person who was the widow of a maternal cousin of Mr. Erne's,\nand who, when left destitute by the death of this young cousin, had\nfound shelter, support, and generous courtesy beneath the roof of her\nlate husband's kinsman. It was on the accession of this person, who was\nnot a saint, that Eloise had become so ungovernable as to require the\nconstraint of a nunnery. Mrs. Arles was a dark and quiet little lady,\nwith some of the elements of beauty which her name suggested, and with a\nperfectly Andalusian foot and ankle. These being her sole wealth, it\nwas, perhaps, from economy of her charms that she hid the ankle in such\nflowing sables, that she bound the black locks straightly under a little\nwidow's-cap, seldom parted the fine lips above the treasured pearls\nbeneath, disdained to distort the classic features, and graved no\nwrinkles on the smooth, rich skin with any lavish smiling. She went\nabout the house, a self-contained, silent, unpleasant little vial of\nwrath, and there was ever between her and Eloise a tacit feud, waiting,\nperhaps, only for occasion to fling down the gage in order to become\nopen war. Mrs. Arles expected, therefore, that, so soon Eloise should\ntake the reins in hand herself, she would be lightly, but decisively\nshaken off,--for the old friend had mentioned to Mrs. Arles that Mr.\nErne's will left Eloise heir, as she had always supposed it would. She\nwas, accordingly, silently amazed, when Eloise, softened by suffering,\nhoped she would always find it convenient to make a home with herself,\nand informed her that a certain section of the farm had been measured\noff and allotted to her, with its laborers, as the source of a yearly\nincome. This delicacy, that endeavored to prevent her feeling the\nperpetual recurrence of benefits conferred, touched the speechless Mrs.\nArles almost to the point of positive friendliness.\n\nThe plantation was one of those high and healthy spots that are ever\nvisited by land- and sea-breezes, and there Eloise determined to stay\nthat spring and summer; for this ground that her father had so often\ntrod, this air that had given and received his last breath, were dear to\nher, and just now parting with them, for ever so short a time, would be\nbut a renewal of her loss. As she became able to turn her energy to the\nbusiness requiring attention, she discovered at last her sad ignorance.\nDancing, drawing, music, and languages were of small avail in managing\nthe interior concerns and the vexatious finance of a great estate. The\nneighbors complained that her spoiled and neglected servants infected\ntheirs, and that her laxity of discipline was more ruinous in its\neffects than the rigor of Blue Bluffs. But she just held out to them her\nhelpless little hands in so piteous and charming a way that they could\nnot cherish an instant's enmity. If she tried to remedy the evil\ncomplained of, she fell into some fresh error; take what advice she\nwould, it invariably twisted itself round and worked the other way. The\nplantation, always slackly managed, saw itself now on the high road to\ndestruction. Let her do the very best in her power, she found it\nimpossible to plan her season's campaign, to carry it out, to audit her\naccounts, to study agricultural directions, to preserve the peace, to\nkeep her fences in order, to attend to the sick, to rule her household\nand her spirit, to dispose of her harvest, and to bring either end of\nthe thread out of the tangled skein of her affairs.\n\nPerhaps there could have been really no better thing for Eloise than the\ndiversion from her sorrow which all this perplexity necessarily in some\ndegree occasioned.\n\nAs for Mrs. Arles, so soon as Eloise had begun to move about again, she\nhad taken herself off on a long-promised visit to the West, and was but\njust returning with the October weather.\n\nEloise, worn and thin, and looking nearly forty, as she had remarked to\nherself that morning in the brief moment she could snatch for her\ntoilet, welcomed the cool and quiet little Mrs. Arles, who might _be_\nforty, but looked any age between twenty and thirty, with affectionate\nwarmth, and made all the world bestir themselves for her comfort. It is\nonly justice to the owner of the little Andalusian foot to say that in\nher specific domain things immediately changed for the better. But that\nwas merely within-doors, and because she tightened the reins and used\nthe whip in a manner which Eloise could not have done, if the whole\nequipage tumbled to pieces about her ears.\n\nMrs. Arles had been at home a week or so; the evening was chilly with\nrain, and a little fire flickered on the hearth. Mrs. Arles sat on one\nside of the hearth, with her tatting in hand; Eloise bent above the\npapers scattered over a small table.\n\n\"See what it is to go away!\" said Eloise, cheerily. \"It's like light in\na painting, as the Sisters used to say,--brings out all the shadows.\"\n\n\"Nobody knew how indispensable I was,\" said the other lady, with the\nfragment of expression in the phantom of a smile.\n\n\"How pleasant it is to be missed! I _did_ miss you so,--it seemed as if\none of the four sides of the walls were gone. Now we stand--what is that\nword of Aristotle's?--four-square again. Now our universe is on wheels.\nJust tell me how you tamed Hazel so. She has conducted like a little\nwild gorilla all summer,--and here, in the twinkling of an eye, she goes\nabout soberly, like a baptized Christian. How?\"\n\n\"By a process of induction.\"\n\n\"You don't mean\"--\n\n\"Oh, no. Nothing of the kind. I didn't touch her. I sent her into my\nroom, and told her to take down that little riding-switch hanging over\nthe mantel\"--\n\n\"What,--the ebony and gold?\"\n\n\"Yes. And to whip all the flies out of the air with it. It makes a\nmonstrous whizzing. There's no such thing as actual experience for these\nimps of the vivid nerves. And when she came down I looked at her, and\nasked her how she liked the singing. Her conduct now leads me to believe\nthat she has no desire to hear the tune again.\"\n\nThe hearer winced a trifle before lightly replying,--\n\n\"Well, _I_ might have sent her forever, and all the result would have\nbeen the switch singing about my own shoulders, probably.\"\n\n\"That is because she knows you would never use it. As for me,--Hazel has\na good memory.\"\n\nEloise gave a half-imperceptible shiver and frown; but, clearing her\nbrow, said,--\n\n\"If Hazel had my accounts here, they would tame her. I will put all my\nmalcontents through a course of mathematics. You do so well everywhere\nelse, Mrs. Arles, that I've half the mind to ask you to advise me here.\nLittle Arlesian, come over into Macedonia!\"\n\n\"What is the matter?\"\n\n\"Oh, it's only an inversion of the old problem, If the ton of coal cost\nten dollars, what will the cord of wood come to? Now, if one bale\"--\n\n\"But coal doesn't cost ten dollars,\" replied Mrs. Arles, with admirable\nsimplicity.\n\n\"Now, if one bale of Sea-Island\"--\n\n\"Oh, my dear, I know nothing at all about it. Pray, don't ask me.\"\n\n\"Well,\" said Eloise, after a moment's wondering pause, in which she had\ntaken time to reflect that Mrs. Arles's corner of the estate was carried\non faultlessly, \"it is too bad to vex you with my matters, when you have\nas much as you can do in the house, yourself,\"--and relapsed into what\nshe called her Pythagorean errors.\n\n\"Did you know,\" said Mrs. Arles, after a half-hour's silence, \"that\nMarlboro' has returned?\"\n\n\"Marlboro'?\" repeated Eloise, hesitatingly.\n\n\"Marlboro' of Blue Bluffs.\"\n\n\"Oh, yes. And five's eleven. No,\" said Eloise, absently and with half a\nsigh. \"I've never seen him, you know,--he's been in Kamtschatka and the\nMoon so long. How did you know?\"\n\n\"Hazel told me. Hazel wants to marry his Vane.\"\n\n\"His what?\"\n\n\"Not his weathercock. Vane, his butler.\"\n\n\"That is why she behaved so. Dancing quicksilver. Then, perhaps, he'll\nbuy her. What a relief it would be!\"\n\n\"Marlboro' is a master!\" said Mrs. Arles, emphatically.\n\nThere was a good deal in the ensuing pause. For Eloise, in her single\nyear, had not half learned the neighborhood's gossip.\n\n\"A cruel man. Then it's not to be thought of. We shall have to buy Vane.\nThough how it's to be done\"--\n\n\"I didn't say he was a cruel man. He wouldn't think of interfering with\nan ordinance of his overseers. I esteem his thoroughness. He has ideas.\nBut I might have said that he is a remarkable man.\"\n\n\"There'll be some pulling of caps soon, Hazel said to-day, in her\ngibberish. I couldn't think what she meant.\"\n\n\"Blue Bluffs is a place to be mistress of. He's a woman-hater, though,\nMr. Marlboro',--believes in no woman capable of resisting him when he\nflings the handkerchief, should he choose, but believes in none worth\nchoosing.\"\n\n\"We shall have to invite him here, Mrs. Arles,\" said Eloise,\nmischievously, \"and show him that there are two of us.\"\n\n\"That would never do!\"\n\n\"Oh, I didn't mean so. Of course, I didn't mean so. How could I see any\none else sitting in\"--And there were tears in her eyes and on her\ntrembling tones.\n\n\"My dear,\" said Mrs. Arles, \"I am afraid, _apropos_ of nothing at all,\nthat you have isolated yourself from all society for too long a time\nalready.\"\n\nJust here Hazel entered and replenished the hearth, stopping half-way,\nwith her armful of brush, to coquet an instant in the mirror, and adjust\nthe scarlet love-knot in her curls.\n\n\"There's a carriage coming up the avenue, Miss,\" said she, demurely.\n\"One of the boys\"--\n\n\"What one?\" asked Mrs. Arles.\n\n\"Vane,\" answered Hazel,--carmine staining her pretty olive cheek. \"He\nran before it.\"\n\n\"Who can it be, at this hour?\" said Eloise, half rising, with the pen in\nher hand, and looking at Mrs. Arles, who did not stir.\n\nAs she spoke, there was a bustle in the hall, a slamming door, a voice\nof command, the door opened, and a stranger stood among them, surveying\nthe long antique room with its diamonded windows flickering in every\npane, and the quaint hearth, whose leaping, crackling, fragrant blaze\nlighted the sombre little person sitting beside it, and sparkled on the\nhalf-bending form of that strange dark-haired girl, with her aquamarine\neyes bent full on his. He was wrapped, from head to foot, in a great\nsweeping brigand's cloak, and a black, wide-brimmed hat, that had for an\ninstant slouched its shadow down his face, hung now in his gloved hand.\nDropping cloak and hat upon a chair with an invisible motion, he\nadvanced, an air of surprise lifting the heavy eyebrows so that they\nstrongly accented the contrast in hue between the lower half of his\nface, tanned with wind and sun, and the wide, low brow, smooth as marble\nitself, and above which swept one great wave of dark-brown hair.\nAltogether, it was an odd, fiery impression that he made,--whether from\nthat golden-brown tint of skin that always seems full of slumbering\nlight, or from the teeth that flashed so beneath the _triste_ moustache\nwhenever the haughty lips parted and unbent their curve, or whether it\nwere a habit the eyes seemed to have of accompanying all his thoughts\nwith a play of flame.\n\n\"Really,\" said he,--and it may have been a subtile inner musical trait\nof his tone that took everybody's will captive,--\"I was not\naware\"--making a long step into the room, with a certain lordly bearing,\nyet almost at a loss to whom he should address himself. \"I am Earl St.\nGeorge Erne. May I inquire\"--\n\n\"My name is Eloise Changarnier,\" said its owner, drawing herself up, it\nbeing incumbent on her to receive him.\n\nHe bowed, and advanced.\n\n\"Mrs. Arles, then, I presume,--my cousin Disbrowe Erne's cousin. I\nexpected to find you here.\"\n\nMrs. Arles, after a hurried acknowledgment, slipped over to Eloise.\n\n\"I have heard your father speak of him,\" she murmured. \"They had\nbusiness-relations. He is Mr. Erne's legal heir, in default of\nsufficient testament, I believe. He must have come to claim the\nproperty.\"\n\n\"He!\" said Eloise, with sublime scorn. \"The property is mine! My father\nleft such commands!\"\n\n\"But he can have no other reason for being here. Strange the lawyer\ndidn't write! He is certainly at home again.\"\n\n\"I have not had time to open the mail to-day; it lies in the hall.\nHazel! the mail-bag.\"\n\nAnd directly afterward its contents were before her.\n\nShe hurriedly shifted and reshifted the letters of factors and agents,\nand broke the seal of one, while Earl St. George Erne deliberately\nwarmed his long white hands at the blaze, and, supposing Eloise\nChangarnier to be a guest of the lonely Mrs. Arles, wondered with some\nangry amusement at her singular deportment.\n\nMrs. Arles was right. The letter in Eloise's hand, which had been\nintended to reach her earlier, was from their old lawyer, but lately\nreturned from England. In it he informed her that the scrap of paper on\nthe authority of which she had assumed control of the property was\nworthless,--and that not only was Earl St. George Erne the heir of his\ncousin, but that some three years previously he had lent that cousin a\nsum of money sufficient to cover much more than the whole value of The\nRim, taking in payment only promissory notes, whose indorser was since\ninsolvent. This sum--as Mr. Erne the elder had been already unfortunate\nin several rash speculations--had been applied towards lifting a heavy\nmortgage, and instituting improvements that would enable the farm soon\nto repay the debt in yearly instalments. Added to this was the fact that\nEarl St. George Erne, who had passed many years away from home upon\nCongressional duties, had lately met with a severe reverse himself, and\nhad now nothing in the world except this lucky inheritance from his\ncousin, and into this he had been inducted by all legal forms. This had\ntranspired during the lawyer's absence, (that person wrote,) as\notherwise some provision might have been made for Miss Changarnier,--and\nnot being able to meet with Mr. St. George Erne, he had learned the\nfacts from others. Meantime she would see, that, even if her father left\nto her all he died possessed of, he died possessed of nothing.\n\nThe idea that anybody should dare to controvert her father's will flared\nfor a moment behind Eloise's facial mask, and illumined every feature.\nThen her eye fell upon the mass of papers with the inextricable\nconfusion of their figures. An exquisitely ludicrous sense of\nretributive justice seized her, heightened, perhaps, by some surprise\nand nervous excitement; she fairly laughed,--a little, low bubble of a\nlaugh,--swept her letters into her apron, and, with the end of it\nhanging over her arm, stepped towards Mr. St. George, and offered him\nher hand. He thought she was a crazy girl. But there was the hand; he\ntook it, and, looking at her a moment, forgot to drop it,--an error\nwhich she rectified.\n\n\"It seems, then, that you are the owner of The Rim,\" said she. \"I had\nbeen dreaming myself to be that very unfortunate person,--a nightmare\nfrom which you wake me. The steward will show you over it to-morrow. You\nwill find your exchequer in the escritoire-drawer in the cabinet across\nthe hall. You will find the papers and accounts on that table, and I\nwish you joy of them!\"\n\nSo saying, after her succinct statement, she vanished.\n\nMrs. Arles lingered a moment to wind up her tatting. St. George, who\nhad at first stood like a golden bronze cast immovably in an irate\nsurprise, then shook his shoulders, and stepped towards the table and\ncarelessly parted the papers.\n\n\"Remarkable manuscript,\" said he, as if just then he could find nothing\nelse to say. \"Plainer than type. A purely American hand. Is it that of\nthe young lady?\"\n\n\"Miss Changarnier? Yes.\"\n\n\"She was apparent heiress?\"\n\n\"Yes.\"\n\n\"What does she expect to become of her?\"\n\n\"How can I tell?\"\n\n\"You can conjecture.\"\n\n\"She has not yet begun to consider, herself, you see.\"\n\n\"She has other property?\"\n\n\"None.\"\n\n\"Ah! A fine thing, usurping!\"\n\nMrs. Arles did not reply.\n\nAnd then, in a half-angry justification, he exclaimed,--\n\n\"I didn't know there was such a person in the world! I could not come\nimmediately on Erne's death. I was ill, and I was busy, and I let things\nwait for me. Why did no one write?\"\n\n\"No one knew there was such a person as _you_. At least, no one supposed\nit signified.\"\n\n\"Signified! The Rim was my father's as much as it was Disbrowe Erne's\nfather's. Disbrowe Erne's father entrapped mine, and got the other half.\nIt was the old story of Esau's pottage, with thrice the villany. My\nfather made me promise him on his death-bed, that, come fair means, The\nRim should be mine again. I was twenty, Erne was fifty. Fair means came.\nNevertheless, if I had known how things stood, I might have broken the\npromise,--who knows?--if at that moment I had happened to possess\nanything else in the world but my wardrobe, and sundry debts, and this!\"\n\nHe opened, as he spoke, a purse that had seen service, and from his\nlordly height and supreme indifference, scattered its contents on the\nprojecting top of the fireplace. They were two old pieces of ringing\nSpanish silver, a tiny golden coin of Hindostan, a dime, and a pine-tree\nshilling.\n\n\"Marlboro' won my last dollar,\" said he.\n\n\"Marlboro'?\" said Mrs. Arles.\n\n\"What do you know of Marlboro'?\"\n\n\"He lives over here at Blue Bluffs.\"\n\n\"The Devil he does!\"\n\nMr. St. George Erne glanced at the dark little woman sitting before him.\nNo smile softened her face, no ray had lighted it; she only\nintelligently observed, and monosyllabically answered him. She was a\nstudy,--might also be convenient; the place would be ennuisome; somebody\nmust sit at the head of his table. He threw his purse into the fire.\n\n\"Mrs. Arles,\" he said, \"it is decidedly necessary, that, to conduct my\nhouse, there should be in it a female relative,--an article I do not\npossess. Will you take the part, and remain with me on the same terms as\nwith my Cousin Erne?\"\n\nMrs. Arles had intended to propose such an arrangement herself, and,\nafter a brief pause for apparent consideration, replied affirmatively,\nnot thinking it worth while to tell him that the section of the farm,\nwith its laborers, set apart for her benefit, was a device of Eloise's,\nand not one of anterior date.\n\n\"Thank you,\" said Mr. St. George Erne; \"that being settled, will you\nhave the kindness to order rooms prepared for me and my traps?\"\n\nWhich Mrs. Arles disappeared to do.\n\nIt was early the next morning that Eloise knocked at Mrs. Arles's door.\n\n\"Good bye!\" said she, looking in. \"And good bye to The Rim! I don't\nsuppose his Arch-Imperial Highness, Mr. Earl St. George Erne, will want\nto see my face immediately. I've only taken my clothes, as they'd be of\nno use to him, and\"--\n\n\"Where are you going?\" inquired Mrs. Arles from among her pillows, as\nquietly as if such an exodus were an every-day affair.\n\n\"To the Murrays',--till I can find something to do.\"\n\n\"What can you find to do?\"\n\n\"I haven't the least idea,\" said Eloise, coming in and sitting down.\n\"I've thought all night. I can't do anything. I can't teach; I can't\nsew; I can't play. I _can_ starve; can't I, Mrs. Arles?\"\n\n\"You don't know that!\"\n\n\"Well, I can be a nursery-governess, or I can sing in a chorus; I should\nmake a very decent _figurante_, or I could go round with baskets.\nPerhaps I can get writing. There's one comfort: I sha'n't have anything\nmore to do with Arabic numerals till the latest day I live, and needn't\nknow whether two and two make four or five. I may remember, though, that\ntwo from two leave nothing!\"\n\n\"Yes,--we are all equal to subtraction.\"\n\n\"So, good bye, Mrs. Arles,\" said Eloise, rising. \"We've had pleasant\ntimes together, first and last. I dare say, I've tried you to death.\nYou'll forgive me, and only remember the peaceful part. If I succeed,\nI'll write you. And if I don't, you needn't bother. I'm well and strong,\nand seventeen.\"\n\nMrs. Arles elaborated a faint smile, kissed Eloise's cheek, told her she\nwould help her look about for something, rang for Hazel to close the\ndoor the careless girl left ajar as she went springing down-stairs, and\narranged herself anew in the laced pillows that singularly became with\ntheir setting the creamy hue of her tranquil face.\n\nBut Eloise was keeping up her spirits by an artificial process that she\nmeant should last at least as far as the Murrays'. Passing, on her way,\nthe door of her father's cozy cabinet, the attraction overcame her, she\nturned the handle, only for a moment, and looked in. The place was too\nfull of memories: yonder he had stood, and she remembered what he said;\nthere he had sat and stroked her hair; here he had every night kissed\nher two eyes for pleasant dreams. The door banged behind her, and she\nwas sitting on the floor sobbing with all her soul.\n\nWhen the tornado had passed, Eloise rose, smoothed her dress, opened the\nwindow that the morning air might cool her burning eyes, then at length\nwent to find a servant who would take her trunk to the Murrays', and\npassed down the hall.\n\nAs she reached the door of the long, antique room where last night's\nscene had passed, it opened, and Mr. St. George Erne came out.\n\n\"Good morning, Miss Changarnier,\" said he. \"May I speak with you a\nmoment?\"\n\n\"Very briefly,\" said Eloise, loftily, for she was in an entirely\ndifferent mood from that in which she had left him the night before.\n\nThe corner of a smile curled Mr. St. George Erne's mouth and the brown\nmoustache above it. Eloise saw it, and was an inch taller. Then St.\nGeorge did not smile again, but was quite as regnantly cool and distant\nas the Khan of Tartary could be.\n\n\"I glanced at the papers to which you referred me last evening,\" said\nhe. \"As you intimated, I perceive the snarl is hopeless. Were it for\nnothing else,\" he added, casting down the orbs that had just now too\ntremulous a light in them, \"I should ask you to remain and assist me in\nunravelling affairs, for a few days. I intend, so soon as the way shall\nbe clear, to set off half of the estate to you\"--\n\n\"Sir, I do not accept gifts from strangers. I will be under no\nobligations. I hope to earn my own livelihood. The estate is yours; I\nwill not receive a penny of it!\"\n\n\"Pardon me, if I say that this is a rash and ill-considered statement.\nThere is no reason why you should be unwilling, in the first place, to\nsee justice done, and, after that, to respect your Adopted father's\nwish.\"\n\n\"My father could have wished nothing dishonest. He is best pleased with\nme as I am.\"\n\n\"Will it make any difference, if I assure you that the half of the\nestate under my plan of management will yield larger receipts than the\nwhole of it did under your proprietorship?\"\n\n\"Not the least,\" said Eloise, with a scornful and incredulous smile.\n\n\"You make me very uncomfortable. Let me beg you to take the matter into\nconsideration. After a few days of coolness, you will perhaps think\notherwise.\"\n\n\"After a thousand years I should think the same. I do not want your\nmoney, Sir. I thank you. And so, good bye.\"\n\n\"Where are you going?\"\n\n\"Out into the world.\"\n\n\"What are you going to do?\"\n\n\"That is certainly no affair of yours.\"\n\n\"How much money have you in that little purse?\"\n\nShe poured its contents down where he had emptied his own purse on the\nprevious evening, adding to those still remaining there some four or\nfive small gold-pieces.\n\n\"Of course they are yours, Sir. I have no right to them!\"\n\nHe brushed them indignantly all down together in a heap upon the hearth.\n\n\"You sha'n't have them, then!\" said he, and ground them with his heel\ninto the ashes.\n\n\"I can sell my mother's jewels!\" said she, defiantly.\n\n\"I can confiscate them for the balance of the half-year's income of the\nestate!\"\n\nEloise turned pale with pride and anger and fear and mastery.\n\n\"We are talking very idly,\" said St. George, then, softening his\nfalcon's glance. \"Pray excuse such savage jesting. I should like to\nshare my grandfather's estate with you, the adopted child of his elder\ngrandson. It looks fairly enough, I think.\"\n\n\"Talking very idly. I have assured you that I never will touch it. And\nif you want more, here I _swear_ it!\"\n\n\"Hush! hush!\"\n\n\"It's done!\" said Eloise, exultantly, and almost restored to good-humor\nby the little triumph.\n\n\"And you won't reconsider? you won't break it? you will not let me beg\nyou\"--\n\n\"Never! If that is all you had to say, I shall bid you good-morning.\"\n\nMr. St. George was silent for a moment or two.\n\n\"I am greatly grieved,\" said he then. \"I have done an evil thing\nunconsciously enough, and one for which there is no remedy, it seems.\nUntil you mentioned your name last night, I was innocent of your\nexistence. I had, indeed, originally heard of my cousin's educating some\nchild, but our intercourse was so fragmentary that it made no impression\nupon me. I had entirely forgotten that there was such a person in the\nworld, ungallant as it sounds. Afterwards,--last night, this morning,--I\nwas so selfish as to imagine that we could each of us be very happy upon\nthe half of such a property, until, at least, my affairs should right\nthemselves. I was wrong. Whatever legal steps have been taken shall be\nrecalled, and I leave you in full possession to-day and forever. 'The\nKing sall ha' his ain again.'\"\n\n\"Folderol!\" said Eloise, turning her shoulder.\n\n\"I beg your pardon?\"\n\n\"You may go where you please, and let all The Rim do the same,--go to\ndust and ashes, if it will! As for me, my hands are washed of it; if it\nisn't mine, I will not have it. Now let the thing rest! Besides, Sir,\"\nsaid Eloise, with a more gracious air, and forgetting her wicked temper,\n\"you don't know the relief I feel! how free I am! no more figures! such\na sad weight off me that I could fly! You would be silly to be such a\nDon Quixote as you threaten; it would do nobody any good, and would\nprove the ruin of all these poor creatures for whom you are now\nresponsible. Don't you see?\" said Eloise, taking a step nearer, and\npositively smiling upon him. \"It isn't now just as you like,--you have a\nduty in the case. And as for me, good morning!\"\n\nAnd Eloise actually offered him her hand.\n\n\"One moment. Let me think.\"\n\nAnd after her white flag of truce, there came a short cessation of\nhostilities.\n\n\"Very well,\" said Mr. St. George Erne at last, looking up, and shaking\nhis strong shoulders like a Newfoundland dog coming out of the water.\n\"Let it be. I have, then, one other idea,--in fact, one other condition.\nIf I yield one thing, it is only right that you should yield another. It\nis this. I am entirely unaccustomed to doing my own writing. My script\nis illegible, even to myself. My amanuenses, my copyists, in Washington,\nhave cost me a mint of money. I find there are none of the servants, of\ncourse, who write their names. I cannot afford, either, at present, to\nbuy a clerk from Charleston. And on the whole, if it would be agreeable\nto you, I should be very glad if you would accept a salary,--such salary\nas I find convenient,--and remain as my accountant. You will, perhaps,\nreceive this proposal with the more ease, as Mrs. Arles agrees to occupy\nthe same position as formerly in the house.\"\n\nThose horrible accounts! And a master! Who said Marlboro' was a master?\nWhat thing was Earl St. George Erne?--Yet too untaught to teach, too\nfinely bred to sew, too delicate to labor, perhaps not good enough to\nstarve,--\n\nA quarter of an hour elapsed in dead silence.\n\nEloise threw back her head, and grew just a trifle more queenly, as she\nanswered,--\n\n\"I thank you. I will stay, Mr. Erne.\"\n\nThe last word had tripped on her tongue; it had been almost impossible\nfor her to give to another person her father's name, which she had never\nbeen allowed to wear herself.\n\nHe noticed her hesitation, and said,--\n\n\"You can call me St. George. Everybody does,--Mrs. Arles, the servants\nwill. We have always been the St. Georges and the Disbrowes, for\ngenerations. Besides, if you had really been my cousin's child, you\nwould naturally have called me so.\"\n\n\"If I had really been your cousin's child, Sir,\" said Eloise, with a\nflash, \"I should not have been obliged to call you at all!\"\n\nThis finished the business. Mr. St. George, who felt, that, in reality,\nhe had only got his right again, who would gladly have given her back\nhers, who had only, in completest innocence and ignorance, made it\nimpossible for her, in pride and honor, to accept it, who, moreover,\nvery naturally considered his treatment of this handsome, disagreeable\ngirl rather generous, and who had sacrificed much of his usually\ndictatorial manner in the conversation, felt also now that there was\nnothing more to do till she chose her ice should melt; and so he\nstraightway let a frosty mood build itself up on his part into the very\ncounterpart of hers. The resolution which he had just made, boyishly to\nabstract himself in secret, and leave her to fate and necessity and\nduty, faded. She deserved to lose. A haughty, ungovernable hussy! He\nwould keep it in spite of her! How, under the sun, had his Cousin\nDisbrowe got along with her? Nevertheless, the salary which Mr. St.\nGeorge had privately allotted to his accountant covered exactly one-half\nof his yearly income, whatever that contingent fund might prove to be;\nand, meantime, he did not intend to pay her a copper of it until they\nshould become so much better friends that it would be impossible for\nher, with all her waywardness, to refuse it.\n\nA bell sounded. Hazel came, and murmured something to Eloise. And\nthereupon, in this sweet and cordial frame of mind, they entered the\nbreakfast-room, where Mrs. Arles awaited them behind a hissing urn,--and\na cheery meal they had of it!\n\nMr. St. George passed a week in finding firm footing upon all the\ncircumference of his property; by that time, clear and far-sighted as an\neagle, he had seized on every speck of error throughout its wide\nmismanagement, and had initiated Eloise into a new way of performing old\nduties, as coolly as if no indignant word or thought had ever passed\nbetween them. And meanwhile, in place of their ancient warfare, but with\nno later friendship, Eloise and Mrs. Arles had tacitly instituted an\noffensive and defensive alliance against the common enemy. This the\ncommon enemy soon perceived, laughed at it a little grimly at first,\nthen accepted it, as a kind of martyrdom expiatory of all previous sins,\nthat a man must have against his grain two hostile women in the house,\nneither of whom had anything but the shadow of a claim upon him. Still,\nEarl St. George had his own plans; and by degrees it dimly dawned on his\nflattered intelligence that one of these women used her hostility merely\nas a feint towards the other.\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\nTYPES.\n\n\nMr. Samuel Weller, of facetious memory, has told us of the girl who,\nhaving learned the alphabet, concluded that it was not worth going\nthrough so much to get so little. This, to say the least of it, was\ndisrespectful to Cadmus, and should be condemned accordingly. Authors\nhave feelings, which even scholastic young maidens cannot be permitted\nto lacerate. I therefore warn the reader of this article against any\ninclination toward sympathy with the critical mood of that obnoxious\nfemale. My theme is not as lively as \"Punch\" used to be; but, on the\nother hand, it is not as dull as a religious novel. Patient\ninvestigation may find it really agreeable: good-nature will not find it\na bore.\n\nI propose, then, a half-hour's gossip concerning Types, Type-Setting,\nand the machinery connected with Printing, at the present time. It\nwould, perhaps, be interesting to review in detail the printing-devices\nof the past; but that would be to extend unwarrantably the limits of\nthis article. Enough that any sketch of the invention, manufacture, and\nuse of types would illustrate the triumph of the labor-saving instinct\nin man, and thus confirm the scientific lesson of to-day,--that\nmachinery must entirely supersede the necessarily slow processes of\nlabor by hand. That it will at no distant day supersede those processes\nin the art of printing is, as you will presently see, a fixed fact.\n\nMachinery now does nearly every sort of labor,--economizing health,\nstrength, time, and money, in all that it does. We tread upon\nbeautifully figured carpets that are woven by machinery from single\nthreads. We wear clothes that are made by machinery at the rate of two\nthousand stitches a minute. We hear in every direction the whistle of\nthe locomotive, which saves us almost incalculable time, in the safe and\nconvenient transportation of our persons and our property. We read in\nour newspapers messages that are brought instantaneously, from points\nfar as well as near, by a simple electric current, governed by\nmachinery, which prints its thought in plain Roman characters, at a rate\nof speed defying the emulation of the most expert penman. These, among\nmany illustrations of scientific progress, occur in our daily\nexperience. Manufacture, agriculture, and commerce would yield us others\nquite as impressive. In all this we see that man is finding out and\napplying the economy of Nature, and thus that the world is advancing, by\nwell-directed effort, toward a more natural, and therefore a happier\ncivilization.\n\nThe labor-saving processes of mechanism as applied to Printing are in\nthe highest degree advantageous and admirable. Once types were cast in\nmoulds, such as boys use for casting bullets. Now they are turned out,\nwith inconceivable rapidity, from a casting-machine worked by steam.\nInk and paper, too, are made by machinery; and when the types are set,\nwe invoke the aid of the Steam-Press, and so print off at least fifty\nimpressions to each one produced under the old process of press-work by\nhand. Machinery, moreover, folds the printed sheets,--trims the rough\nedges of books,--directs the newspaper,--and does, in short, the bulk of\nthe drudgery that used to be done by operatives, at great expense of\ntime and trouble, and with anything but commensurate profit.\n\nThese are facts of familiar knowledge. They indicate remarkable\nscientific progress. But the great fact--by no means so well\nknown--remains to be stated. It is only of late that machinery has been\nsuccessfully employed in the most laborious and expensive process\nconnected with the art of printing,--that, namely, of Composition. In\nthis process, however, iron fingers have proved so much better than\nfingers of flesh, that it is perfectly safe to predict the speedy\ndiscontinuance, by all sensible printers, of composition by hand.\n\nComposition--as probably the reader knows--is the method of arranging\ntypes in the proper form for use. This, ever since the invention of\nmovable types,--made by Laurentius Coster, in 1430,--has been done by\nhand. A movement toward economy in this respect was, indeed, made some\nsixty years ago, by Charles, the third Earl Stanhope, inventor of the\nStanhope Press, and of the process of stereotyping which is still in\nuse. His plan was to make the type-shank thicker than usual, and cast\ntwo or more letters upon its face instead of one. This, his Lordship\nrightly considered, would save labor, if only available combinations\ncould be determined; since, using such types, it would frequently happen\nthat the compositor would need to make but one movement for two or three\nor even four letters. The desired economy, however, was not secured.\nSubsequent attempts at combinations were made in England, but all proved\nabortive. In the office of the London \"Times,\" castings of entire\nwords--devised, I think, by Sterling--were used, to a limited extent. It\nremained, however, for a New-York mechanic to make the idea of\ncombination-type a practical success. Mr. John H. Tobitt, being a\nstenographer as well as a compositor, was enabled to make a systematic\nselection of the syllables most frequently occurring in our language;\nand thus it happens that his combinations have stood a practical test.\nHis improved cases, with combination-type, were shown at the London\nExhibition, in 1851, when a medal was awarded to the inventor. These\ncases have now been in use upwards of ten years, and have demonstrated a\ngain of twenty per cent over the ordinary method of composition. It\nshould be mentioned that Mr. Tobitt's invention was entirely original\nwith himself. When he made it, he had never heard of Earl Stanhope, nor\nof any previous attempt at this improvement.\n\nIt is evident, when we reflect upon the intricate construction of\nlanguage, that this method of saving labor, though it may be made still\nmore useful than at present, must always be restricted within a limited\ncircle of operations. Nor would any number of combination-letters\nobviate the necessity of composition by hand. The printer would still be\nobliged to stand at the case, picking up type after type, turning each\none around and over, and so arranging the words in his \"stick.\" Every\none knows this process,--a painfully slow one in view of results,\nalthough individual compositors are sometimes wonderfully expert. But it\nis only when a great many men labor actively during more hours than\nought to be spent in toil, that any considerable work is accomplished by\nthis method. The composing-room of a large daily paper, for instance,\npresents, day and night, a spectacle of the almost ceaseless industry of\njaded operatives. The need of relief in this respect was long ago\nrecognized. The attempt at combination-letters was not less a precursor\nof reform than an acknowledgment of its necessity. It remained for\nAmerican inventive genius, in this generation, to conceive and perfect\nthe greatest labor-saving device that has ever been applied to the art\nof printing,--the last need of the operative,--the Type-Setting Machine.\n\nIt was inevitable that this should come. The only wonder is that it did\nnot come before. Perhaps, indeed, the idea was often conceived in the\nminds of skilful, though dreamy and timorous inventors, but not\ndeveloped, for fear of opposition. And opposition enough it has\nencountered,--alike from inertia, suspicion, and conservative\nhostility,--since first it assumed a practical position among American\nideas, some ten years ago. But I do not care to dwell upon the shadows.\nTurn we to the sunshine. There are two strong points in favor of the\ninvention, which, since they cover the whole ground of argument, deserve\nat least to be stated. I assert, then, without the fear of contradiction\nbefore my eyes, that the Type-Setting Machine, besides being a universal\nbenefactor, is, in a double sense, a blessing to the mechanic. It spares\nhis physical health, and it stimulates his mental and moral activity.\nThe first truth appears by sanitary statistics, which prove that the\nhealth of such artisans as the type-founder and such craftsmen as the\nprinter has been materially improved by the introduction of mechanical\naids to their toil. The second is self-evident,--seeing that there is a\nmoral instructor ever at work in the mazes of ingenious and\nhighly-wrought machinery. Those philosophers are not far wrong, if at\nall, who assert that the rectitude of the human race has gained\nstrength, as by a tonic, from the contemplation of the severe, arrowy\nrailroad,--iron emblem of punctuality, directness, and despatch.\n\nIn the interest, therefore, of education no less than health, it becomes\nimperative that machinery should be substituted for hand-labor in\ncomposition. At present, our printing-offices are by no means the\nsources whence to draw inspirations of order, fitness, and wholesome\ntoil. On the contrary, they are frequently badly lighted and worse\nventilated rooms, wherein workmen elbow each other at the closely set\ncases, and grow dyspeptic under the combined pressure of foul air and\nirritating and long-protracted labor. All this should be changed. With\nthe composing-machine would come an atmosphere of order and cleanliness\nand activity, making work rapid and agreeable, and lessening the period\nof its duration. I know that working-men are suspicious of scientific\ndevices. But surely the compositor need not fear that the iron-handed\nautomaton will snatch the bread out of his mouth. To diminish the cost\nof any article produced--which is the almost immediate result of\nsubstituting machinery for hand-labor--is to expand the market for that\narticle. The Sewing-Machine has not injured the sempstress. The\nPower-Press has not injured the pressman. The Type-Setting Machine will\nnot injure the compositor. Skilled labor, which must always be combined\nwith the inventor's appliances for aiding it, so far from dreading harm\nin such association, may safely anticipate, in the far-reaching economy\nof science, ampler reward and better health, an increase of prosperity,\nand a longer and happier life in which to enjoy it.\n\nLet me now briefly sketch the history of type-setting machinery. This\nmust necessarily be done somewhat in the manner of Mr. Gradgrind. I am\nsorry thus to tax the reader's patience; but facts, which enjoy quite a\nreputation for stubbornness, cannot easily be wrought into fancies.\nColor the map as you will, it is but a prosy picture after all.\n\nCharles Babbage, of London, the inventor of the Calculating-Engine,\nfirst essayed the application of machinery to composition. His\ncalculator was so contrived that it would record in type the results of\nits own computations. This was over forty years ago. At about the same\ntime Professor Treadwell of Cambridge, Massachusetts, who was bred a\npractical mechanic, turned his attention to this improvement, and\nascertained by experiment the feasibility of the type-setting machine.\nBut mechanical enterprise was then comparatively inactive in America,\nand nothing of immediate practical importance resulted from the\nProfessor's experiments. Nor did greater success attend the efforts of\nDr. William Church, of Vermont, a contemporary inventor, who constructed\nan apparatus for setting types, but failed to provide for their\ndistribution. Subsequently, for a long time, the idea slumbered.\n\nAt length, about the year 1840, Mr. Timothy Alden, a printer, and a\nnative of Massachusetts, conceived a plan for setting and distributing\ntype, which has since been put into successful operation. Mr. Alden's\nworkshop was, I believe, situated at the corner of Canal and Centre\nStreets, in New York city. There he labored in privacy, year after year,\nencountering all manner of difficulty and discouragement, till his great\nwork was substantially completed. His invention was patented in 1857,\nbut the studious and persevering inventor did not live to reap the\nfruits of the seed he had sown. Worn out with care and toil and\nlong-suffering patience, he died in 1859, a martyr to scientific\nprogress. His patent passed into the hands of his cousin, Mr. Henry W.\nAlden, who has since organized a company for the manufacture and sale of\nthe Alden Machine.\n\nIn appearance, this machine resembles a circular table, having in its\ncentre a wheel, placed horizontally, from the outer edge of which lines\nof type radiate, like spokes from an axle, to the distance of about one\nfoot. Three-quarters of the circle is filled up by these lines. In front\nis a key-board, containing one hundred and fifty-four keys, by which the\noperator governs the action of the machine. The central wheel controls\nsome forty \"conveyors,\" half of which compose the types into language,\nwhile the other half distribute them, guided by certain nicks cut upon\ntheir sides, to their proper places, when no longer needed. Both\noperations may go on at the same time. The types, as they are composed,\nare fed out in a continuous line, at the left of the key-board. The\noperator then divides this line into proper lengths, and \"justifies\" it\nby hand. \"Justifying,\" it should be stated, consists in placing spaces\nbetween the words, and making the lines of equal length. This machine is\na very ingenious invention, and marks the first great step towards\nsuccessful improvement in the method of Type-Setting.\n\nAnother machine, originated by Mr. William H. Mitchell, of Brooklyn, New\nYork, was patented in 1853. In appearance it suggests a harp placed\nhorizontally. In front is a key-board, in shape and arrangement not\nunlike that of a piano. Each key indicates a certain letter. The types\nemployed are arranged in columns, nearly perpendicular. The touching of\na key throws out a type upon one of a series of endless belts, graduated\nin length, from six inches up to three feet, which move horizontally\ntowards the farther side of the machine, depositing the types in due\norder upon a single belt. This latter carries them, in uninterrupted\nsuccession, to a brass receiver, on which they stand ranged in one long\nline. This line is then cut into lengths and justified by hand. Mr.\nMitchell's Distributing-Apparatus--which is entirely distinct from the\nComposing-Machine--is, substantially, a circular wheel armed with\nfeelers, which latter distribute according to the nicks cut in the\ntypes.\n\nThese machines require very considerable external aid in the labor they\naccomplish, while, like the Alden Machine, they neither justify nor lead\nthe matter that is set. They have, however, stood a practical\ntest,--having been in use several years. It may interest the reader to\nknow that the matter for the \"Continental Monthly\" is set up and\ndistributed by them, in the office of Mr. John F. Trow, of New York.\nThey are also known, and to some extent employed, in printing-houses in\nLondon, and are found to be economical.\n\nBut, as remarked by Macbeth, \"the greatest is behind.\" I touch now upon\nthe most comprehensive and effectual invention for labor-saving in this\nrespect,--namely, the Felt Machine. This ingenious creation, which is,\nin all particulars, original, and quite distinct from those already\nmentioned, performs, with accuracy and speed, all the work of composing,\njustifying, leading, and distributing types. It was invented by Mr.\nCharles W. Felt, of Salem, Massachusetts, a man of superior genius,\nwhose energy in overcoming obstacles and working out the practical\nsuccess of his idea is scarcely less remarkable than the idea itself. I\nshall dwell briefly upon his career, since it teaches the old, but never\ntiresome lesson of patient perseverance. He began the business of life\nin his native town, though not in mechanical pursuits. His mind,\nhowever, tended naturally toward mechanical science, and he improved\nevery opportunity of increasing his knowledge in that department of\nstudy. The processes of Printing especially attracted his attention, and\nthe idea of applying machinery to the work of composition haunted him\nfrom an early period of youth. He read, doubtless, of the various\nexperiments that had been made in this direction, and observed, as far\nas possible, the results achieved by contemporary inventors. But it does\nnot appear, that, in the original conception of his wonderful machine,\nhe was indebted to any source for even a single suggestion. I have seen\nhis first wooden model,--made at the age of eighteen,--crude and clumsy\nindeed, compared with the machine in its present shape, but containing\nthe main features and principles. This was the first step. He began with\nthe earnings of his boyhood. Then a few friends, fired by his spirit and\ncourage, contributed money, and enabled him to prosecute his enterprise\nduring several years. In this way it became the one purpose of his life.\nIn time the number of his liberal patrons increased to nearly one\nhundred, and a considerable fund was placed at his disposal. Thus,\ngenius, energy, and patience, aided by capital, carried the work bravely\nforward. It is a pleasure to record that a worthy design was thus\ngenerously nurtured. Mr. Felt's fund was subsequently increased by\nadditional loans, from several of the same patrons. One of these\ngentlemen--Dr. G. Henry Lodge, of Swamscott, Massachusetts--contributed\nwith such generous liberality that he may justly be said to share with\nthe inventor the honor of having introduced this noble improvement in\nthe art of printing. I take off my hat to Maecenas. Dr. Lodge was led to\nappreciate the need of such an improvement by personal experience in\npublishing a large work, copies of which were gratuitously distributed\namong various libraries in the Republic. Acquainted with the toil of a\nprinter's life, impelled by earnest love of real progress, and guided by\na sound, practical judgment, he was peculiarly well fitted for the\ndifficult province of directing the labors of an enthusiastic inventor.\nHis duty has been well performed. The success of Mr. Felt's undertaking\nis due scarcely less to the pecuniary aid of all his patrons than to the\ncounsel and encouragement of this wise, liberal, and steadfast friend.\nThus aided, he has triumphed over all obstacles. Proceeding in a most\nunostentatious manner, he has submitted his device to the inspection of\npractical printers, and men of science, in various cities of the United\nStates and Great Britain, and has everywhere won approval. His first\npatent was issued in 1854,--proceedings to obtain it having been\ncommenced in the preceding year. Meanwhile he has organized a wealthy\nand influential company, for the purpose of manufacturing the machines\nand bringing them into general use. One of them has been built at\nProvidence, Rhode Island, but the manufactory will be in Salem,\nMassachusetts, where the company has been formed.\n\nThe merits of Mr. Felt's machine are manifold. It is comparatively\nsimple in construction, it is strongly made and durable, it cannot\neasily get out of order, and it does its work thoroughly. All that is\nrequired of the operator is to read the copy and touch the keys. The\nprocesses proceed, then, as of their own accord. But the supreme\nexcellence of the machine is that _it justifies the matter which it\nsets_. The possibility of doing this by machinery has always been\ndoubted, if not entirely disbelieved, from an erroneous idea that the\nprocess must be directed by immediate intelligence. Mr. Felt's invention\ndemonstrates that this operation is clearly within the scope of\nmachinery; that there is no need of a machine with brains, for setting\nor justifying type; that such a machine need not be able to think, read,\nor spell; but that, guided in its processes by an intelligent mind, a\nmachine can perform operations which, as in this case, are purely\nmechanical, much more rapidly and cheaply than they can be performed by\nhand.\n\nI cannot pretend to convey a technically accurate idea of this\nelaborate, though compact piece of machinery; but such a sketch as I can\ngive--from memory of a pleasant hour spent in looking at it--shall here\nbe given as briefly as possible.\n\nThe machine stands in a substantial iron framework, five feet by four,\nwithin which the mechanism is nicely disposed, so that there may be\nample room for the four operations of setting, justifying, leading, and\ndistributing. In front is a key-board of forty keys, which correspond to\ntwo hundred and fifty-six characters, arranged in eight cases. A single\ncase consists of thirty-two flat brass tubes, standing perpendicularly,\nside by side, each one being filled with a certain denomination of type.\nSeven of the keys determine from which case the desired letter shall be\ntaken. Thus, the small letter _a_ is set by touching the _a_ key; the\ncapital A by touching the \"capital key\" in connection with the _a_ key;\nthe capital B by touching the \"capital key\" in connection with the _b_\nkey; and so on with every letter. There are also keys called the \"small\ncapital,\" the \"Italic,\" and the \"Italic capital\"; so that the machine\ncontains all the characters known to the compositor. The operation of\nthese \"capital\" and \"small-capital keys\" is similar to that of an\norgan-stop in modifying the effect of other keys.\n\nWhen the machine is in motion,--and I should here mention that it is\nworked by steam,--a curious piece of mechanism, called \"the\nstick,\"--which is about as large as a man's hand, and quite as\nadroit,--plays to and fro beneath the cases, and acts obediently to the\noperator's touch. The spectacle of this little metallic intelligence is\namusing. It is armed with pincers, which it uses much as the elephant\ndoes his trunk, though with infinite celerity. Every time a key is\ntouched, these pincers seize a type from one of the tubes, turn\ndownward, and, as it were, put it into the mouth of the stick. And so\nvoracious is the appetite of this little creature, that in a few seconds\nits stomach is full,--in other words, the line is set. A tiny bell gives\nwarning of this fact, and the operator finishes the word or syllabic. He\nthen touches the justifying-key, and the spacer seizes the line and\ndraws it into another part of the machine, to be justified, while the\nempty stick resumes its feeding. No time is lost; for, while the stick\nis setting a second line; the \"spacer\" is justifying the first; so that,\nin a few moments after starting, the processes are going forward\nsimultaneously. That of justifying is, perhaps, the most ingenious. It\nis accomplished in this wise. The stick never sets a full line, but\nleaves room for spaces, and with the last letter of each word inserts a\npiece of steel, to separate the words. When the line has been drawn into\nthe spacer, the pieces of steel, which are furnished with nicked heads\nfor the purpose, are withdrawn, and ordinary spaces are substituted. All\nthis requires no attention whatever from the operator. The matter, thus\nset and justified, is now leaded by the machine, and deposited upon a\ngalley ready for the press.\n\nIn this machine, distribution is the reverse of composition, and is\neffected by simply reversing the motion of the shaft. By duplicating\ncertain parts of the machine, both operations are performed at the same\ntime. The process of distributing, and also that of resetting the same\nmatter, may be made automatic by means of the Register. This device,\nalthough an original invention with Mr. Felt, is an application of the\nprinciple of the Jacquard loom. It consists of a narrow strip of card or\npaper, in which holes are punched as the types are taken, forming a\nsubstitute for the troublesome nicking of the type, which has heretofore\nbeen thought indispensable to automatic distribution. By this means the\ntype can be changed in resetting, if desired, so that different editions\nof the same work can be printed in different sizes of type.\n\nThe machine is adapted to the use of combination-types as well as single\nletters. For this purpose Mr. Felt has developed a new system, based\nupon an elaborate analysis of the language. In a number of examples of\nprinted matter, embracing a wide range of literature, the frequency of\nthe single and combined letters has been ascertained by careful and\naccurate computation, and reduced to a percentage. It may interest the\nreader to know that _e_ is the letter of most frequent occurrence,\nconstituting one-eighth of the language. _The_, as a word or syllable,\nis found to be six per cent.; _and_, four per cent.; _in_, three per\ncent., etc.\n\nI have not pretended, in this description of Mr. Felt's machine, to\nexplain every technicality, or to raise and answer possible objections.\nThe great point is, that the labor of setting, justifying, leading, and\ndistributing types by machinery is actually done, by means of his\ninvention. Thus the aspiration of inventive genius, in this department\nof art, is nobly fulfilled. Thus the links in the chain of progress are\ncomplete, from Laurentius Coster, walking in the woods of Holland, in\n1430, and winning, from an accidental shower-bath, the art of making\nmovable types, down to the wide-awake Massachusetts Yankee, whose genius\nwill make printing as cheap as writing, and therefore a thousand times\nmore available for all purposes of civilization,--besides lightening the\nburdens of toil, and blessing the jaded worker with a bright prospect of\nhealth, competence, and ease.\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\n\nHOUSE AND HOME PAPERS.\n\nBY CHRISTOPHER CROWFIELD.\n\n\nV.\n\nRAKING UP THE FIRE.\n\n\nWe have a custom at our house which we call _raking up the fire_. That\nis to say, the last half-hour before bed-time, we draw in, shoulder to\nshoulder, around the last brands and embers of our hearth, which we\nprick up and brighten, and dispose for a few farewell flickers and\nglimmers. This is a grand time for discussion. Then we talk over\nparties, if the young people have been out of an evening,--a book, if we\nhave been reading one; we discuss and analyze characters,--give our\nviews on all subjects, aesthetic, theological, and scientific, in a way\nmost wonderful to hear; and, in fact, we sometimes get so engaged in our\ndiscussions that every spark of the fire burns out, and we begin to feel\nourselves shivering around the shoulders, before we can remember that it\nis bed-time.\n\nSo, after the reading of my last article, we had a \"raking-up talk,\"--to\nwit, Jennie, Marianne, and I, with Bob Stephens;--my wife, still busy\nat her work-basket, sat at the table a little behind us. Jennie, of\ncourse, opened the ball in her usual incisive manner.\n\n\"But now, papa, after all you say in your piece there, I cannot help\nfeeling, that, if I had the taste and the money too, it would be better\nthan the taste alone with no money. I like the nice arrangements and the\nbooks and the drawings; but I think all these would appear better still\nwith really elegant furniture.\"\n\n\"Who doubts that?\" said I. \"Give me a large tub of gold coin to dip\ninto, and the furnishing and beautifying of a house is a simple affair.\nThe same taste that could make beauty out of cents and dimes could make\nit more abundantly out of dollars and eagles. But I have been speaking\nfor those who have not, and cannot get, riches, and who wish to have\nagreeable houses; and I begin in the outset by saying that beauty is a\nthing to be respected, reverenced, and devoutly cared for,--and then I\nsay that BEAUTY IS CHEAP, nay, to put it so that the shrewdest Yankee\nwill understand it, BEAUTY IS THE CHEAPEST THING YOU CAN HAVE, because\nin many ways it is a substitute for expense. A few vases of flowers in a\nroom, a few blooming, well-kept plants, a few prints framed in fanciful\nframes of cheap domestic fabric, a statuette, a bracket, an engraving, a\npencil-sketch, above all, a few choice books,--all these arranged by a\nwoman who has the gift in her finger-ends often produce such an illusion\non the mind's eye that one goes away without once having noticed that\nthe cushion of the arm-chair was worn out, and that some veneering had\nfallen off the centre-table.\n\n\"I have a friend, a school-mistress, who lives in a poor little cottage\nenough, which, let alone of the Graces, might seem mean and sordid, but\na few flower-seeds and a little weeding in the spring make it, all\nsummer, an object which everybody stops to look at. Her aesthetic soul\nwas at first greatly tried with the water-barrel which stood under the\neaves-spout,--a most necessary evil, since only thus could her scanty\nsupply of soft water for domestic purposes be secured. One of the\nGraces, however, suggested to her a happy thought. She planted a row of\nmorning-glories round the bottom of her barrel, and drove a row of tacks\naround the top, and strung her water-butt with twine, like a great\nharpsichord. A few weeks covered the twine with blossoming plants, which\nevery morning were a mass of many-colored airy blooms, waving in\ngraceful sprays, and looking at themselves in the water. The\nwater-barrel, in fact, became a celebrated stroke of ornamental\ngardening, which the neighbors came to look at.\"\n\n\"Well, but,\" said Jennie, \"everybody hasn't mamma's faculty with\nflowers. Flowers will grow for some people, and for some they won't.\nNobody can see what mamma does so very much, but her plants always look\nfresh and thriving and healthy,--her things blossom just when she wants\nthem, and do anything else she wishes them to; and there are other\npeople that fume and fuss and try, and their things won't do anything at\nall. There's Aunt Easygo has plant after plant brought from the\ngreenhouse, and hanging-baskets, and all sorts of things; but her plants\ngrow yellow and drop their leaves, and her hanging-baskets get dusty and\npoverty-stricken, while mamma's go on flourishing as heart could\ndesire.\"\n\n\"I can tell you what your mother puts into her plants,\" said I,--\"just\nwhat she has put into her children, and all her other home-things,--her\n_heart_. She _loves_ them; she lives in them; she has in herself a\nplant-life and a plant-sympathy. She feels for them as if she herself\nwere a plant; she anticipates their wants,--always remembers them\nwithout an effort, and so the care flows to them daily and hourly. She\nhardly knows when she does the things that make them grow,--but she\ngives them a minute a hundred times a day. She moves this nearer the\nglass,--draws that back,--detects some thief of a worm on one,--digs at\nthe root of another, to see why it droops,--washes these leaves, and\nsprinkles those,--waters, and refrains from watering, all with the\nhabitual care of love. Your mother herself doesn't know why her plants\ngrow; it takes a philosopher and a writer for the 'Atlantic' to tell her\nwhat the cause is.\"\n\nHere I saw my wife laughing over her work-basket as she answered,--\n\n\"Girls, one of these days, _I_ will write an article for the 'Atlantic,'\nthat your papa need not have _all_ the say to himself: however, I\nbelieve he has hit the nail on the head this time.\"\n\n\"Of course he has,\" said Marianne. \"But, mamma, I am afraid to begin to\ndepend much on plants for the beauty of my rooms, for fear I should not\nhave your gift,--and of all forlorn and hopeless things in a room,\nill-kept plants are the most so.\"\n\n\"I would not recommend,\" said I, \"a young housekeeper, just beginning,\nto rest much for her home-ornament on plant-keeping, unless she has an\nexperience of her own love and talent in this line, which makes her sure\nof success; for plants will not thrive, if they are forgotten or\noverlooked, and only tended in occasional intervals; and, as Marianne\nsays, neglected plants are the most forlorn of all things.\"\n\n\"But, papa,\" said Marianne, anxiously, \"there, in those patent parlors\nof John's that you wrote of, flowers acted a great part.\"\n\n\"The charm of those parlors of John's may be chemically analyzed,\" I\nsaid. \"In the first place, there is sunshine, a thing that always\naffects the human nerves of happiness. Why else is it that people are\nalways so glad to see the sun after a long storm? why are bright days\nmatters of such congratulation? Sunshine fills a house with a thousand\nbeautiful and fanciful effects of light and shade,--with soft, luminous,\nreflected radiances, that give picturesque effects to the pictures,\nbooks, statuettes of an interior. John, happily, had no money to buy\nbrocatelle curtains,--and besides this, he loved sunshine too much to\nbuy them, if he could. He had been enough with artists to know that\nheavy damask curtains darken precisely that part of the window where the\nlight proper for pictures and statuary should come in, namely, the upper\npart. The fashionable system of curtains lights only the legs of the\nchairs and the carpets, and leaves all the upper portion of the room in\nshadow. John's windows have shades which can at pleasure be drawn down\nfrom the top or up from the bottom, so that the best light to be had may\nalways be arranged for his little interior.\"\n\n\"Well, papa,\" said Marianne, \"in your chemical analysis of John's rooms,\nwhat is the next thing to the sunshine?\"\n\n\"The next,\" said I, \"is harmony of color. The wall-paper, the furniture,\nthe carpets, are of tints that harmonize with one another. This is a\ngrace in rooms always, and one often neglected. The French have an\nexpressive phrase with reference to articles which are out of\naccord,--they say that they swear at each other. I have been in rooms\nwhere I seemed to hear the wall-paper swearing at the carpet, and the\ncarpet swearing back at the wall-paper, and each article of furniture\nswearing at the rest. These appointments may all of them be of the most\nexpensive kind, but with such disharmony no arrangement can ever produce\nanything but a vulgar and disagreeable effect. On the other hand, I have\nbeen in rooms where all the material was cheap, and the furniture poor,\nbut where, from some instinctive knowledge of the reciprocal effect of\nColors, everything was harmonious, and produced a sense of elegance.\n\n\"I recollect once travelling on a Western canal through a long stretch\nof wilderness, and stopping to spend the night at an obscure settlement\nof a dozen houses. We were directed to lodgings in a common frame-house\nat a little distance, where, it seemed, the only hotel was kept. When we\nentered the parlor, we were struck with utter amazement at its\nprettiness, which affected us before we began to ask ourselves how it\ncame to be pretty. It was, in fact, only one of the miracles of\nharmonious color working with very simple materials. Some woman had been\nbusy there, who had both eyes and fingers. The sofa, the common wooden\nrocking-chairs, and some ottomans, probably made of old soap-boxes, were\nall covered with American nankeen of a soft yellowish-brown, with a\nbordering of blue print. The window-shades, the table-cover, and the\npiano-cloth, all repeated the same colors, in the same cheap material. A\nsimple straw matting was laid over the floor, and, with a few books, a\nvase of flowers, and one or two prints, the room had a home-like, and\neven elegant air, that struck us all the more forcibly from its contrast\nwith the usual tawdry, slovenly style of such parlors.\n\n\"The means used for getting up this effect were the most inexpensive\npossible,--simply the following-out, in cheap material, a law of\nuniformity and harmony, which always will produce beauty. In the same\nmanner, I have seen a room furnished, whose effect was really gorgeous\nin color, where the only materials used were Turkey-red cotton and a\nsimple ingrain carpet of corresponding color.\n\n\"Now, you girls have been busy lately in schemes for buying a velvet\ncarpet for the new parlor that is to be, and the only points that have\nseemed to weigh in the council were that it was velvet, that it was\ncheaper than velvets usually are, and that it was a genteel pattern.\"\n\n\"Now, papa,\" said Jennie, \"what ears you have! We thought you were\nreading all the time!\"\n\n\"I see what you are going to say,\" said Marianne. \"You think that we\nhave not once mentioned the consideration which should determine the\ncarpet,--whether it will harmonize with our other things. But, you see,\npapa, we don't really know what our other things are to be.\" \"Yes,\" said\nJennie, \"and Aunt Easygo said it was an unusually good chance to get a\nvelvet carpet.\"\n\n\"Yet, good as the chance is, it costs just twice as much as an ingrain.\"\n\n\"Yes, papa, it does.\"\n\n\"And you are not sure that the effect of it, after you get it down, will\nbe as good as a well-chosen ingrain one.\"\n\n\"That's true,\" said Marianne, reflectively.\n\n\"But, then, papa,\" said Jennie, \"Aunt Easygo said she never heard of\nsuch a bargain; only think, two dollars a yard for a _velvet!_\"\n\n\"And why is it two dollars a yard? Is the man a personal friend, that he\nwishes to make you a present of a dollar on the yard? or is there some\nreason why it is undesirable?\" said I.\n\n\"Well, you know, papa, he said those large patterns were not so\nsalable.\"\n\n\"To tell the truth,\" said Marianne, \"I never did like the pattern\nexactly; as to uniformity of tint, it might match with anything, for\nthere's every color of the rainbow in it.\"\n\n\"You see, papa, it's a gorgeous flower-pattern,\" said Jennie.\n\n\"Well, Marianne, how many yards of this wonderfully cheap carpet do you\nwant?\"\n\n\"We want sixty yards for both rooms,\" said Jennie, always primed with\nstatistics.\n\n\"That will be a hundred and twenty dollars,\" I said.\n\n\"Yes,\" said Jennie; \"and we went over the figures together, and thought\nwe could make it out by economizing in other things. Aunt Easygo said\nthat the carpet was half the battle,--that it gave the air to everything\nelse.\"\n\n\"Well, Marianne, if you want a man's advice in the case, mine is at your\nservice.\"\n\n\"That is just what I want, papa.\"\n\n\"Well, then, my dear, choose your wall-papers and borderings, and, when\nthey are up, choose an ingrain carpet to harmonize with them, and adapt\nyour furniture to the same idea. The sixty dollars that you save on your\ncarpet spend on engravings, chromo-lithographs, or photographs of some\nreally _good_ works of Art, to adorn your walls.\"\n\n\"Papa, I'll do it,\" said Marianne.\n\n\"My little dear,\" said I, \"your papa may seem to be a sleepy old\nbook-worm, yet he has his eyes open. Do you think I don't know why my\ngirls have the credit of being the best-dressed girls on the street?\"\n\n\"Oh, papa!\" cried out both girls in a breath.\n\n\"Fact, that!\" said Bob, with energy, pulling at his moustache.\n\"Everybody talks about your dress, and wonders how you make it out.\"\n\n\"Well,\" said I, \"I presume you do not go into a shop and buy a yard of\nribbon because it is selling at half-price, and put it on without\nconsidering complexion, eyes, hair, and shade of the dress, do you?\"\n\n\"Of course we don't!\" chimed in the duo, with energy.\n\n\"Of course you don't. Haven't I seen you mincing down-stairs, with all\nyour colors harmonized, even to your gloves and gaiters? Now, a room\nmust be dressed as carefully as a lady.\"\n\n\"Well, I'm convinced,\" said Jennie, \"that papa knows how to make rooms\nprettier than Aunt Easygo; but then she said this was _cheap_, because\nit would outlast two common carpets.\"\n\n\"But, as you pay double price,\" said I, \"I don't see that. Besides, I\nwould rather, in the course of twenty years, have two nice, fresh\ningrain carpets, of just the color and pattern that suited my rooms,\nthan labor along with one ill-chosen velvet that harmonized with\nnothing.\"\n\n\"I give it up,\" said Jennie; \"I give it up.\"\n\n\"Now, understand me,\" said I; \"I am not traducing velvet or Brussels or\nAxminster. I admit that more beautiful effects can be found in those\ngoods than in the humbler fabrics of the carpet-rooms. Nothing would\ndelight me more than to put an unlimited credit to Marianne's account,\nand let her work out the problems of harmonious color in velvet and\ndamask. All I have to say is, that certain unities of color, certain\ngeneral arrangements, will secure very nearly as good general effects in\neither material. A library with a neat, mossy green carpet on the floor,\nharmonizing with wall-paper and furniture, looks generally as well,\nwhether the mossy green is made in Brussels or in ingrain. In the\ncarpet-stores, these two materials stand side by side in the very same\npattern, and one is often as good for the purpose as the other. A lady\nof my acquaintance, some years since, employed an artist to decorate her\nparlors. The walls being frescoed and tinted to suit his ideal, he\nimmediately issued his decree that her splendid velvet carpets must be\nsent to auction, and others bought of certain colors, harmonizing with\nthe walls. Unable to find exactly the color and pattern he wanted, he at\nlast had the carpets woven in a neighboring factory, where, as yet, they\nhad only the art of weaving ingrains. Thus was the material sacrificed\nat once to the harmony.\"\n\nI remarked, in passing, that this was before Bigelow's mechanical genius\nhad unlocked for America the higher secrets of carpet-weaving, and made\nit possible to have one's desires accomplished in Brussels or velvet. In\nthose days, English carpet-weavers did not send to America for their\nlooms, as they now do.\n\n\"But now to return to my analysis of John's rooms.\n\n\"Another thing which goes a great way towards giving them their\nagreeable air is the books in them. Some people are fond of treating\nbooks as others do children. One room in the house is selected, and\nevery book driven into it and kept there. Yet nothing makes a room so\nhome-like, so companionable, and gives it such an air of refinement, as\nthe presence of books. They change the aspect of a parlor from that of a\nmere reception-room, where visitors perch for a transient call, and give\nit the air of a room where one feels like taking off one's things to\nstay. It gives the appearance of permanence and repose and quiet\nfellowship; and next to pictures on the walls, the many-colored bindings\nand gildings of books are the most agreeable adornment of a room.\"\n\n\"Then, Marianne,\" said Bob, \"we have something to start with, at all\nevents. There are my English Classics and English Poets, and my uniform\neditions of Scott and Thackeray and Macaulay and Prescott and Irving and\nLongfellow and Lowell and Hawthorne and Holmes and a host more. We\nreally have something pretty there.\"\n\n\"You are a lucky girl,\" I said, \"to have so much secured. A girl brought\nup in a house full of books, always able to turn to this or that author\nand look for any passage or poem when she thinks of it, doesn't know\nwhat a blank a house without books might be.\"\n\n\"Well,\" said Marianne, \"mamma and I were counting over my treasures the\nother day. Do you know, I have one really fine old engraving, that Bob\nsays is quite a genuine thing; and then there is that pencil-sketch that\npoor Schoene made for me the month before he died,--it is truly\nartistic.\"\n\n\"And I have a couple of capital things of Landseer's,\" said Bob.\n\n\"There's no danger that your rooms will not be pretty,\" said I, \"now you\nare fairly on the right track.\"\n\n\"But, papa,\" said Marianne, \"I am troubled about one thing. My love of\nbeauty runs into everything. I want pretty things for my table,--and\nyet, as you say, servants are so careless, one cannot use such things\nfreely without great waste.\"\n\n\"For my part,\" said my wife, \"I believe in best china, to be kept\ncarefully on an upper-shelf, and taken down for high-days and holidays;\nit may be a superstition, but I believe in it. It must never be taken\nout except when the mistress herself can see that it is safely cared\nfor. My mother always washed her china herself; and it was a very pretty\nsocial ceremony, after tea was over, while she sat among us washing her\npretty cups, and wiping them on a fine damask towel.\"\n\n\"With all my heart,\" said I; \"have your best china, and venerate it,--it\nis one of the loveliest of domestic superstitions; only do not make it a\nbar to hospitality, and shrink from having a friend to tea with you,\nunless you feel equal to getting up to the high shelf where you keep it,\ngetting it down, washing, and putting it up again.\n\n\"But in serving a table, I say, as I said of a house, beauty is a\nnecessity, and beauty is cheap. Because you cannot afford beauty in one\nform, it does not follow that you cannot have it in another. Because one\ncannot afford to keep up a perennial supply of delicate china and\ncrystal, subject to the accidents of raw, untrained servants, it does\nnot follow that the every-day table need present a sordid assortment of\narticles chosen simply for cheapness, while the whole capacity of the\npurse is given to the set forever locked away for state-occasions.\n\n\"A table-service, all of simple white, of graceful forms, even though\nnot of china, if arranged with care, with snowy, well-kept table-linen,\nclear glasses, and bright American plate in place of solid silver, may\nbe made to look inviting; add a glass of flowers every day, and your\ntable may look pretty;--and it is far more important that it should look\npretty for the family every day than for company once in two weeks.\"\n\n\"I tell my girls,\" said my wife, \"as the result of my experience, you\nmay have your pretty china and your lovely fanciful articles for the\ntable only so long as you can take all the care of them yourselves. As\nsoon as you get tired of doing this, and put them into the hands of the\ntrustiest servants, some good, well-meaning creature is sure to break\nher heart and your own and your very pet, darling china pitcher all in\none and the same minute; and then her frantic despair leaves you not\neven the relief of scolding.\"\n\n\"I have become perfectly sure,\" said I, \"that there are spiteful little\nbrownies, intent on seducing good women to sin, who mount guard over the\nspecial idols of the china-closet. If you hear a crash, and a loud Irish\nwail from the inner depths, you never think of its being a yellow\npie-plate, or that dreadful one-handled tureen that you have been\nwishing were broken these five years; no, indeed,--it is sure to be the\nlovely painted china bowl, wreathed with morning-glories and sweet-peas,\nor the engraved glass goblet, with quaint old-English initials. China\nsacrificed must be a great means of saintship to women. Pope, I think,\nputs it as the crowning grace of his perfect woman, that she is\n\n    'Mistress of herself, though china fall.'\"\n\n\"I ought to be a saint by this time, then,\" said mamma; \"for in the\ncourse of my days I have lost so many idols by breakage, and peculiar\naccidents that seemed by a special fatality to befall my prettiest and\nmost irreplaceable things, that in fact it has come to be a\nsuperstitious feeling now with which I regard anything particularly\npretty of a breakable nature.\"\n\n\"Well,\" said Marianne, \"unless one has a great deal of money, it seems\nto me that the investment in these pretty fragilities is rather a poor\none.\"\n\n\"Yet,\" said I, \"the principle of beauty is never so captivating as when\nit presides over the hour of daily meals. I would have the room where\nthey are served one of the pleasantest and sunniest in the house. I\nwould have its coloring cheerful, and there should be companionable\npictures and engravings on the walls. Of all things, I dislike a room\nthat seems to be kept like a restaurant, merely to eat in. I like to see\nin a dining-room something that betokens a pleasant sitting-room at\nother hours. I like there some books, a comfortable sofa or lounge, and\nall that should make it cozy and inviting. The custom in some families,\nof adopting for the daily meals one of the two parlors which a\ncity-house furnishes, has often seemed to me a particularly happy one.\nYou take your meals, then, in an agreeable place, surrounded by the\nlittle agreeable arrangements of your daily sitting-room; and after the\nmeal, if the lady of the house does the honors of her own pretty china\nherself, the office may be a pleasant and social one.\n\n\"But in regard to your table-service I have my advice at hand. Invest in\npretty table-linen, in delicate napkins, have your vase of flowers, and\nbe guided by the eye of taste in the choice and arrangement of even the\nevery-day table-articles, and have no ugly things when you can have\npretty ones by taking a little thought. If you are sore tempted with\nlovely china and crystal, too fragile to last, too expensive to be\nrenewed, turn away to a print-shop and comfort yourself by hanging\naround the walls of your dining-room beauty that will not break or fade,\nthat will meet your eye from year to year, though plates, tumblers, and\ntea-sets successively vanish. There is my advice for you, Marianne.\"\n\nAt the same time, let me say, in parenthesis, that my wife, whose\nweakness is china, informed me that night, when we were by ourselves,\nthat she was ordering secretly a tea-set as a bridal gift for Marianne,\nevery cup of which was to be exquisitely painted with the wild-flowers\nof America, from designs of her own,--a thing, by-the-by, that can now\nbe very nicely executed in our country. \"It will last her all her life,\"\nshe said, \"and always be such a pleasure to look at,--and a pretty\ntea-table is such a pretty sight!\" So spoke Mrs. Crowfield, \"unweaned\nfrom china by a thousand falls.\" She spoke even with tears in her eyes.\nVerily, these women are harps of a thousand strings!\n\nBut to return to my subject.\n\n\"Finally and lastly,\" I said, \"in my analysis and explication of the\nagreeableness of those same parlors, comes the crowning grace,--their\n_homeliness_. By homeliness I mean not ugliness, as the word is apt to\nbe used, but the air that is given to a room by being _really_ at home\nin it. Not the most skilful arrangement can impart this charm.\n\n\"It is said that a king of France once remarked,--'My son, you must seem\nto love your people.'\n\n\"'Father, how shall I _seem_ to love them?'\n\n\"'My son, you _must_ love them.'\n\n\"So to make rooms _seem_ home-like you must be at home in them. Human\nlight and warmth are so wanting in some rooms, it is so evident that\nthey are never used, that you can never be at ease there. In vain the\nhouse-maid is taught to wheel the sofa and turn chair towards chair; in\nvain it is attempted to imitate a negligent arrangement of the\ncentre-table.\n\n\"Books that have really been read and laid down, chairs that have really\nbeen moved here and there in the animation of social contact, have a\nsort of human vitality in them; and a room in which people really live\nand enjoy is as different from a shut-up apartment as a live woman from\na wax image.\n\n\"Even rooms furnished without taste often become charming from this one\ngrace, that they seem to let you into the home-life and home-current.\nYou seem to understand in a moment that you are taken into the family,\nand are moving in its inner circles, and not revolving at a distance in\nsome outer court of the gentiles.\n\n\"How many people do we call on from year to year and know no more of\ntheir feelings, habits, tastes, family ideas and ways, than if they\nlived in Kamtschatka! And why? Because the room which they call a\nfront-parlor is made expressly so that you never shall know. They sit in\na back-room,--work, talk, read, perhaps. After the servant has let you\nin and opened a crack of the shutters, and while you sit waiting for\nthem to change their dress and come in, you speculate as to what they\nmay be doing. From some distant region, the laugh of a child, the song\nof a canary-bird, reaches you, and then a door claps hastily to. Do they\nlove plants? Do they write letters, sew, embroider, crochet? Do they\never romp and frolic? What books do they read? Do they sketch or paint?\nOf all these possibilities the mute and muffled room says nothing. A\nsofa and six chairs, two ottomans fresh from the upholsterer's, a\nBrussels carpet, a centre-table with four gilt Books of Beauty on it, a\nmantel-clock from Paris, and two bronze vases,--all these tell you only\nin frigid tones, 'This is the best room,'--only that, and nothing\nmore,--and soon _she_ trips in in her best clothes, and apologizes for\nkeeping you waiting, asks how your mother is, and you remark that it is\na pleasant day,--and thus the acquaintance progresses from year to year.\nOne hour in the little back-room, where the plants and canary-bird and\nchildren are, might have made you fast friends for life; but as it is,\nyou care no more for them than for the gilt clock on the mantel.\n\n\"And now, girls,\" said I, pulling a paper out of my pocket, \"you must\nknow that your father is getting to be famous by means of these 'House\nand Home Papers.' Here is a letter I have just received:--\n\n    \"'MOST EXCELLENT MR. CROWFIELD,--Your thoughts have lighted into\n    our family-circle, and echoed from our fireside. We all feel the\n    force of them, and are delighted with the felicity of your\n    treatment of the topic you have chosen. You have taken hold of a\n    subject that lies deep in our hearts, in a genial, temperate, and\n    convincing spirit. All must acknowledge the power of your\n    sentiments upon their imaginations;--if they could only trust to\n    them in actual life! There is the rub.\n\n    \"'Omitting further upon these points, there is a special feature\n    of your articles upon which we wish to address you. You seem as\n    yet (we do not know, of course, what you may hereafter do) to\n    speak only of homes whose conduct depends upon the help of\n    servants. Now your principles apply, as some of us well conceive,\n    to nearly all classes of society; yet most people, to take an\n    impressive hint, must have their portraits drawn out more exactly.\n    We therefore hope that you will give a reasonable share of your\n    attention to us who do not employ servants, so that you may ease\n    us of some of _our_ burdens, which, in spite of common sense, we\n    dare not throw off. For instance, we have company,--a friend from\n    afar, (perhaps wealthy,) or a minister, or some other man of note.\n    What do we do? Sit down and receive our visitor with all good-will\n    and the freedom of a home? No; we (the lady of the house) flutter\n    about to clear up things, apologizing about this, that, and the\n    other condition of unpreparedness, and, having settled the visitor\n    in the parlor, set about marshalling the elements of a grand\n    dinner or supper, such as no person but a gourmand wants to sit\n    down to, when at home and comfortable; and in getting up this\n    meal, clearing away, and washing the dishes, we use up a good half\n    of the time which our guest spends with us. We have spread\n    ourselves, and shown him what we could do; but what a paltry,\n    heart-sickening achievement! Now, good Mr. Crowfield, thou friend\n    of the robbed and despairing, wilt thou not descend into our\n    purgatorial circle, and tell the world what thou hast seen there\n    of doleful remembrance? Tell us how we, who must do and desire to\n    do our own work, can show forth in our homes a homely, yet genial\n    hospitality, and entertain our guests without making a fuss and\n    hurly-burly, and seeming to be anxious for their sake about many\n    things, and spending too much time getting meals, as if eating\n    were the chief social pleasure. _Won't_ you do this, Mr.\n    Crowfield?\n\n    \"'Yours beseechingly,\n\n    \"'R.H.A.'\"\n\n\"That's a good letter,\" said Jennie.\n\n\"To be sure it is,\" said I.\n\n\"And shall you answer it, papa?\"\n\n\"In the very next 'Atlantic,' you may be sure I shall. The class that do\ntheir own work are the strongest, the most numerous, and, taking one\nthing with another, quite as well cultivated a class as any other. They\nare the anomaly of our country,--the distinctive feature of the new\nsociety that we are building up here; and if we are to accomplish our\nnational destiny, that class must increase rather than diminish. I shall\ncertainly do my best to answer the very sensible and pregnant questions\nof that letter.\"\n\nHere Marianne shivered and drew up a shawl, and Jennie gaped; my wife\nfolded up the garment in which she had set the last stitch, and the\nclock struck twelve.\n\nBob gave a low whistle. \"Who knew it was so late?\"\n\n\"We have talked the fire fairly out,\" said Jennie.\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\nREENLISTED.\n\n\n  Oh, did you see him in the street, dressed up in army-blue,\n  When drums and trumpets into town their storm of music threw,--\n  A louder tune than all the winds could muster in the air,\n  The Rebel winds, that tried so hard our flag in strips to tear?\n\n  You didn't mind him? Oh, you looked beyond him, then, perhaps,\n  To see the mounted officers rigged out with trooper-caps,\n  And shiny clothes, and sashes red, and epaulets and all;--\n  It wasn't for such things as these he heard his country call.\n\n  She asked for men; and up he spoke, my handsome, hearty Sam,--\n  \"I'll die for the dear old Union, if she'll take me as I am.\"\n  And if a better man than he there's mother that can show,\n  From Maine to Minnesota, then let the nation know.\n\n  You would not pick him from the rest by eagles or by stars,\n  By straps upon his coat-sleeve, or gold or silver bars,\n  Nor a corporal's strip of worsted, but there's something in his face,\n  And something in his even step, a-marching in his place,\n\n  That couldn't be improved by all the badges in the land:\n  A patriot, and a good, strong man; are generals much more grand?\n  We rest our pride on that big heart wrapped up in army-blue,\n  The girl he loves, Mehitabel, and I, who love him too.\n\n  He's never shirked a battle yet, though frightful risks he's run,\n  Since treason flooded Baltimore, the spring of 'sixty-one;\n  Through blood and storm he's held out firm, nor fretted once, my Sam,\n  At swamps of Chickahominy, or fields of Antietam:\n\n  Though many a time, he's told us, when he saw them lying dead,\n  The boys that came from Newburyport, and Lynn, and Marblehead,\n  Stretched out upon the trampled turf, and wept on by the sky,\n  It seemed to him the Commonwealth had drained her life-blood dry.\n\n  \"But then,\" he said, \"the more's the need the country has of me:\n  To live and fight the war all through, what glory it would be!\n  The Rebel balls don't hit me, and, mother, if they should,\n  You'll know I've fallen in my place, where I have always stood.\"\n\n  He's taken out his furlough, and short enough it seemed:\n  I often tell Mehitabel he'll think he only dreamed\n  Of walking with her nights so bright you couldn't see a star,\n  And hearing the swift tide come in across the harbor-bar.\n\n  The stars that shine above the stripes, they light him southward now;\n  The tide of war has swept him back; he's made a solemn vow\n  To build himself no home-nest till his country's work is done:\n  God bless the vow, and speed the work, my patriot, my son!\n\n  And yet it is a pretty place where his new house might be;\n  An orchard-road that leads your eye straight out upon the sea:--\n  The boy not work his father's farm? it seems almost a shame;\n  But any selfish plan for him he'd never let me name.\n\n  He's reenlisted for the war, for victory or for death;\n  A soldier's grave, perhaps,--the thought has half-way stopped my breath,\n  And driven a cloud across the sun;--my boy, it will not be!\n  The war will soon be over; home again you'll come to me!\n\n  He's reenlisted; and I smiled to see him going, too:\n  There's nothing that becomes him half so well as army-blue.\n  Only a private in the ranks; but sure I am, indeed,\n  If all the privates were like him, they 'd scarcely captains need!\n\n  And I and Massachusetts share the honor of his birth,--\n  The grand old State! to me the best in all the peopled earth!\n  I cannot hold a musket, but I have a son who can;\n  And I'm proud for Freedom's sake to be the mother of a man!\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\nTHE PRESIDENTIAL ELECTION.\n\n\nFor the first time since the American Presidency was created, the\nAmerican people have entered upon a Presidential election in time of\ngreat war. Even the election of 1812 forms no exception to this\nassertion, as the second contest with England did not begin until the\nsummer of that year, when the conditions of the political contest were\nalready understood, and it was known that Mr. Madison would be\nreelected, in spite of the opposition of the Federalists, and\nnotwithstanding the disaffection of those Democrats who took De Witt\nClinton for their leader. Mr. Madison, indeed, is supposed to have\nturned \"war man,\" against his own convictions, in order to conciliate\nthe \"Young Democracy\" of 1812, who had resolved upon having a fight with\nEngland,--and in that way to have secured for supporters men who would\nhave prevented his reelection, had he defied them. The trouble that we\nhad with France at the close of the last century undoubtedly had some\neffect in deciding the fourth Presidential contest adversely to the\nFederalists; but though it was illustrated by some excellent naval\nfighting, it can hardly be spoken of as a war: certainly, it was not a\ngreat war. The Mexican War had been brought to a triumphant close before\nthe election of 1848 was opened. Of the nineteen Presidential elections\nwhich the country has known, sixteen were held in times of profound\npeace,--as Indian wars went for nothing; and the other three were not\naffected as to their decision by the contests we had had with France or\nMexico, or by that with England, which was in its first stage when Mr.\nMadison was reelected. Every Presidential election, from that of 1788 to\nthat of 1860, found us a united people, with every State taking some\npart in the canvas. Even South Carolina in 1860 was not clearly counted\nout of the fight until after Mr. Lincoln's success had been announced,\nand rebellion had been resolved upon.\n\nBut all is now changed. The twentieth Presidential election finds us not\nonly at war, but engaged in a civil war of such magnitude that even the\nmost martial nations of Europe are surprised at the numbers who take\npart in it, and at its cost. The election is to be carried, and perhaps\ndecided, amid the din of arms, with a million of voters in the land and\nsea forces of the two parties. This is so new to us, that it would seem\nmore like a dream than a reality, but that losses of life and high\nprices render the matter most painfully real. How to act under such\ncircumstances might well puzzle us, were it not that the path of duty is\npointed out by the spirit of patriotism. The election will have much\neffect on the operations of war, and those operations in their turn will\nhave no light effect on the election. Our political action should be\nsuch as to strengthen the arm of Government; and the military action of\nGovernment should be such as to strengthen those who shall be engaged in\naffording it political support. Failure in the field would not lead to\ndefeat at the polls, but it might so lessen the loyal majority that the\npublic sentiment of the country would be but feebly represented by the\ncountry's political action. What happened in 1862 might happen again in\n1864, and with much more disastrous effect on the fortunes of the\nRepublic. In 1862 there was much discontent, because of the belief that\nGovernment had not done all it could have done to bring about the\noverthrow of the Rebels. Irritated by the reverses which had befallen\nour arms in Virginia, and knowing that nothing had been withheld that\nwas necessary to the effective waging of the war, thousands of men\nrefrained from voting, half-inclined as they were to see if the\nDemocrats could not do that which others had failed to do. We are not\ndiscussing the justice of the opinion which then prevailed, but simply\nstate a fact; and the consequence of the discontent that existed was\nthat the Democrats came very near obtaining control of the popular\nbranch of Congress. They made heavy gains in New York, Pennsylvania,\nOhio, and other States; but that this result was not the effect of\nhostility to the national cause was made clearly apparent a year later,\nwhen the supporters of that cause won a series of brilliant political\nvictories in the very States which had either pronounced for the\nDemocrats in '62, or had given but small Republican majorities. The\nloyal majority in Ohio in 1863 was something that approached to the\nfabulous, because then the violent members of the Opposition, encouraged\nby what had taken place a year earlier, had the audacity to place Mr.\nVallandigham in nomination for the office of Governor. Had that\nindividual been elevated to the post for which he was nominated, Ohio\nmust have been arrayed in open opposition to the Federal Government,\nalmost as decisively so as South Carolina or Virginia. Had he been\ndefeated by a small majority, his party would have taken arms against\nthe State Government, and Ohio, compelled to fight for the maintenance\nof social order at home, would have done nothing for the national cause.\nBut the majority against Mr. Vallandigham was upward of one hundred\nthousand; and to attempt resistance to a Government so potently\nsupported as that of which Mr. Brough was the head was something that\nsurpassed even the audacity of the men who had had the bad courage to\nselect Mr. Vallandigham for their leader, in the hope of being able to\nmake him the head of the State. That which was done in Ohio, not seven\nmonths since, should be done in the nation not seven months hence, if we\nwould have peace preserved at home, and all our available means directed\nto the work of destroying the armies of the Southern Confederacy, and to\nthe seizure of its ports and principal towns. The national popular\nmajority should be so great in support of the war as to prevent any\nfaction from thinking of resistance to the people's will as a\npossibility. The moral effect of a mighty political victory in November\nwould be almost incalculable, both at home and in Europe; and in the\nConfederacy it would put an end to all such hopes of ultimate success as\nmay rest upon the belief that we are a divided people.\n\nThe Democratic party should not be restored to power, happen what may in\nthe course of the present campaign. This we say, not because we believe\nthe Democratic masses wanting in loyalty or patriotism, but because we\nare of opinion that there should be no change either in the position of\nparties or in the _personnel_ of the Government. There ought to be no\ndoubt as to the soundness of the views that are held by most Democrats.\nThey love their country, and they desire to see the Rebels subdued. They\nhave the same interest, considered as citizens, in the triumph of the\nFederal cause that we all have. They have contributed their share of men\nto the fleets and armies of the Republic, and to the rolls on which are\ninscribed the names of the gallant dead. Many of our best generals\nformerly belonged to the Democratic organization, and they may still\nhold Democratic opinions on common politics. Why, then, object to the\nDemocratic party being replaced in power? Because that would be a\nrestoration, and it is a truism that a restoration is of all things the\nworst thing that can befall a country in times of civil commotion. If it\ncould be settled beyond controversy that the Democratic party, should it\nbe restored, would be governed by those of its members who have done\ntheir duty to their country in every way, no objection could be made to\nits coming again into possession of the National Government. But we know\nthat nothing of the kind would take place. The most violent members of\nthe Democratic party would govern that party, and dictate its policy and\ncourse of action, were it to triumph in the pending political contest.\nWe wish for no better proof of this than is afforded by the conduct of\nDemocratic conventions for some time past. The last convention of the\nNew-Hampshire Democracy gave utterance to sentiments not essentially\ndiffering from those which were proclaimed by the supporters of Mr.\nVallandigham in Ohio. Unwarned by the fate of the Ohio Democrats, the\nrepresentatives of the New-Hampshire Democracy assumed a position that\nvirtually pledged their State to make war on the Federal Government,\nshould they succeed in electing Mr. Harrington, their candidate for\nGovernor. The issue was distinctly made, and the people of New\nHampshire, by a much larger majority than has usually marked the result\nof their State elections since the Civil War began, reelected Mr.\nGillmore, who owed his first term of office to the Legislature's action:\nso great was the change wrought in one year. This shows that some of the\nDemocratic voters are not prepared to follow their leaders to\ndestruction. So was it in Connecticut. The Democratic convention in that\nState exhibited a very strong feeling of disloyalty, but the people\nrebuked its members by reelecting Governor Buckingham by a majority\ntwice as large as that which he received last year. Here we have proofs,\nthat, while the men who manage the Democratic party are prepared to go\nall lengths in opposition to the Federal Government, they cannot carry\nall their ordinary followers with them, when they unhesitatingly avow\ntheir principles and purpose. If they are so rabid, when engaged in\naction that is simply preliminary to local elections, what might not be\nexpected from them, should they find themselves intrusted with the\ncharge of the National Government? They would then behave in the most\nintolerant manner, and would introduce into this country a system of\nproscription quite as bad as anything of the kind that was known to the\nRomans as one of the most frightful consequences of their great civil\ncontests. This would lead to reaction, and every Presidential election\nmight be followed by deeds that would make our country a by-word, a\nhissing, and a reproach among the nations. There would be an end to all\nthose fine hopes that are entertained that we shall speedily recover\nfrom the effects of the war, let peace once be restored. Prosperity\nwould never return to the land, or would return only under the rule of\nsome military despot, whose ascendency would gladly be seen and\nsupported by a people weary of uncertainty and danger, and craving order\nabove all things,--as the French people submitted to the rule of\nNapoleon III., because they believed him to be the man best qualified to\nprotect themselves and their property against the designs of the\nSocialists. Our constitutional polity would give way to a cannonarchy,\nas every quietly disposed person would prefer the arbitrary government\nof one man to the organization of anarchy. If we should escape from both\ndespotism and anarchy, it would be at the price of national destruction.\nEvery great State would \"set up for itself,\" while smaller States that\nare neighbors would form themselves into confederacies. There would come\nto exist a dozen nations where but one now exists,--for we leave the\nSouthern Confederacy aside in this consideration. That Confederacy,\nhowever, would become the greatest power in North America. Not only\nwould it hold together, but it would at once acquire the Border States,\nwhere slavery would be more than restored, for there it would be made as\npowerful an interest as it was in South Carolina and Mississippi but\nfour years ago. War has welded the Southern Confederacy together, and in\nface of our breaking-up its rulers would have the strongest possible\ninducement to keep their Republic united, because they would then hope\nto conquer most of the Free States, and to confer upon them the\n\"blessings\" of the servile system of labor.\n\nIt is sometimes said, that, if the Democratic party should resume the\nrule of this nation, the Confederates, or Rebels, would signify their\nreadiness to return into the Union, on the simple condition that things\nshould be allowed to assume the forms they bore prior to Mr. Lincoln's\nelection. They rebelled against the men who came into power through the\npolitical decision that was made in 1860; and, the American people\nhaving reversed that decision by restoring the Democracy, the cause of\ntheir rebellion having been removed, rebellion itself would cease as of\ncourse. Were this view of the subject indisputably sound, it would ill\nbecome the American to surrender to the men who assume that the decision\nof an election, this way or that, affords sufficient reason for a resort\nto arms. We should hold our existence as a nation by the basest of\ntenures, were we to admit the monstrous doctrine that only one party is\ncompetent to govern the Republic, and that there is an appeal from the\ndecision of the ballot to that of the bayonet. There never existed a\ngreat people so craven as to make such an admission; and were we to set\nthe example of making it, we should justify all that has been said\nadversely to us by domestic traitors and foreign foes. We should prove\nthat we were unfit to enjoy that greatest of all public blessings,\nconstitutional freedom, by surrendering it at the demand of a faction,\nmerely that we might live in security, and enjoy the property we had\naccumulated. Ancient history mentions a people who were so fond of their\nease that they placed all power in the hands of their slaves, on\ncondition that the latter should not meddle with those pleasures to the\nunbroken pursuit of which they purposed devoting all their means and\ntime. The slaves soon became masters, and the masters slaves. We should\nfare as badly as the Volsinians, were we to place all power in the hands\nof slaveholders, who then would own some millions of white bondmen, far\ninferior in every manly quality to those dark-faced chattels from among\nwhom the Union has recruited some of its bravest and most unselfish\nchampions. But there is no ground, none whatever, for believing that the\nRebels would cease to be Rebels, if there should be a Democratic\nrestoration effected. Not even the election of Mr. Buchanan to a second\nPresidential term would lead them to abandon their purpose: and he was\ntheir most useful tool in 1860, and without his assistance they could\nnot have made one step in the road to rebellion, or ruin. Their purpose\nis to found a new nation, as they have never hesitated to avow, with a\nfrankness that is as commendable as the cause in which it is evinced is\nabominable. They would be glad to see a Democrat chosen our next\nPresident, because they would expect from him an acknowledgment of their\n\"independence\"; but they would no more lay down their arms at his\nentreaty than they would at the command of a President of Republican\nopinions. Their arms can be forced from their hands, but there exists no\nman who could, from any position, induce them to surrender, or come back\ninto the Union on any terms. They mean to abide the wager of battle, and\nare more likely to be moved from their purpose by the bold actions of\nGeneral Grant than by the blandest words of the smoothest-tongued\nDemocrat in America. To any mere persuader, no matter what his place or\nhis opinions, they would turn an ear as deaf as that of the\nadder,--refusing to listen to the voice of the charmer, charm he never\nso wisely.\n\nAs there should be no change made in the political character of the\nGovernment, so there should be none in the men who compose it. To place\npower in new hands, at a time like the present, would be as unwise as it\nwould be to raise a new army for the purpose of fighting the numerous,\nwell-trained, and zealous force which the Rebels have organized with the\nintention of making a desperate effort to reestablish their affairs.\nThere is no reason for supposing that a change would give us wiser or\nbetter men, and it is certain that they would be inexperienced men,\nshould they all be as many Solomons or Solons. As we are situated, it is\nmen of experience that we require to administer the Government; and out\nof the present Administration it is impossible to find men of the kind\nof experience that is needed at this crisis of the nation's career. The\nerrors into which we fell in the early days of the contest were the\neffect of want of experience; and it would be but to provide for their\nrepetition, were we to call a new Administration into existence. The\npeople understand this, and hence the very general expression of opinion\nin favor of the reelection of President Lincoln, whose training through\nfour most terrible years--years such as no other President ever\nknew--will have qualified him to carry on the Government during a second\nterm to the satisfaction of all unselfish men. Mr. Lincoln's honesty is\nbeyond question, and we need an honest man at the head of the nation now\nmore than ever. That the Rebels object to him is a recommendation in the\neyes of loyal men. The substitution of a new man would not dispose them\nto submission, and they would expect to profit from that inevitable\nchange of policy which would follow from a change of men. As to \"the\none-term principle,\" we never held it in much regard; and we are less\ndisposed to approve it now than we should have been, had peace been\nmaintained. Were the President elected for six or eight years, it might\nbe wise to amend the Constitution so as to prevent the reelection of any\nman; but while the present arrangement shall exist, it would not be wise\nto insist upon a complete change of Government every four years. To hold\nout the Presidency as a prize to be struggled for by new men at every\nnational election is to increase the troubles of the country. Among the\ncauses of the Civil War the ambition to be made President must be\nreckoned. Every politician has carried a term at the White House in his\nportfolio, as every French conscript carries a marshal's _baton_ in his\nknapsack; and the disappointments of so many aspirants swelled the\nnumber of the disaffected to the proportions of an army, counting all\nwho expected office as the consequence of this man's or that man's\nelevation to the Presidency. Were there no other reason for desiring the\nreelection of President Lincoln, the fact that it would be the first\nstep toward a return to the rule that obtained during the first\nhalf-century of our national existence under the existing Constitution\nshould suffice to make us all advocates of his nomination for a second\nterm. That the Baltimore Convention will meet next month, and that it\nwill place Mr. Lincoln once more before the American people as a\ncandidate for their suffrages, are facts now as fully established as\nanything well can be that depends upon the future; and that he will be\nreelected admits of no doubt. The popular voice designates him as the\nman of the time and the occasion, and the action of the Convention will\nbe nothing beyond a formal process, that shall give regular expression\nto a public sentiment which is too strong to be denied, and which will\nbe found of irresistible force.\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\nREVIEWS AND LITERARY NOTICES.\n\n\n_Industrial Biography: Iron-Workers and Tool-Makers._ By SAMUEL SMILES,\nAuthor of \"Self-Help,\" \"Brief Biographies,\" and \"Life of George\nStephenson.\" Boston: Ticknor & Fields.\n\nThe history of iron is the history of civilization. The rough, shapeless\nore that lies hidden in the earth folds in its unlovely bosom such fate\nand fortune as the haughtier sheen of silver, gleam of gold, and sparkle\nof diamond may illustrate, but are wholly impotent to create. Rising\nfrom his undisturbed repose of ages, the giant, unwieldy, swart, and\nhuge of limb, bends slowly his brawny neck to the yoke of man, and at\nhis bidding becomes a nimble servitor to do his will. Subtile as\nthought, rejoicing in power, no touch is too delicate for his\nperception, no service too mighty for his strength. Tales of faerie,\nfeats of magic, pale before the simple story of his every-day labor, or\nfind in his deeds the facts which they but faintly shadowed forth. And\nwaiting upon his transformation, a tribe becomes a nation, a race of\nsavages rises up philosophers, artists, gentlemen.\n\nCommerce, science, warfare have their progress and their vicissitudes;\nbut underneath them all, unnoted, it may be, or treated to a superficial\nand perhaps supercilious glance, yet mainspring and regulator of all,\nruns an iron thread, true thread of Fate, coiling around the limbs of\nman, and impeding all progress, till he shall have untwisted its Gordian\nknot, but bidding him forward from strength to strength with each\nsuccessive release. No romance of court or camp surpasses the romance of\nthe forge. A blacksmith at his anvil seems to us a respectable, but not\nan eminently heroic person; yet, walking backward along the past by the\nlight which he strikes from the glowing metal beneath his hand, we shall\nfancy ourselves to be walking in the true heroic age. Kings and warriors\nhave brandished their swords right royally, and such splendor has\nflashed from Excalibur and Morglay that our dazzled eyes have scarcely\ndiscerned the brawny smith who not only stood in the twilight of the\nbackground and fashioned with skilful hand the blade which radiates such\nlight, but passed through all the land, changing huts into houses,\nhouses into homes, and transforming into a garden by his skill the\nwilderness which had been rescued by the sword. Vigorous brains, clear\neyes, sturdy arms have wrought out, not without blood, victories more\npotent, more permanent, more heroic, than those of the battle-field.\n\nSuch books as this under consideration give us only materials for the\ngreat epic of iron, but with such materials we can make our own rhythm\nand harmony. From the feeble beginning of the savage, rejoicing in the\nfortunate possession of two old nails, and deriving a sufficient income\nfrom letting them out to his neighbors for the purpose of boring holes,\ndown to the true Thor's hammer, so tractable to the master's hand that\nit can chip without breaking the end of an egg in a glass on the anvil,\ncrack a nut without touching the kernel, or strike a blow of ten tons\neighty times in a minute, we have a steady onward movement. Prejudice\nbuilds its solid breakwaters; ignorance, inability, clumsiness, and\nawkwardness raise such obstacles as they can; but the delay of a century\nis but a moment. Slowly and surely the waters rise till they sweep away\nall obstacles, overtop all barriers, and plunge forward again with ever\naccelerating force. The record of iron is at once a record of our glory\nand of our humiliation,--a record of marvellous, inborn, God-given\ngenius, reaching forth in manifold directions to compass most beneficent\nends, but baffled, thwarted, fiercely and persistently resisted by\nobstinacy, blindness, and stupidity, and gaining its ends, if it gain\nthem at all, only by address the most sagacious, courage the most\ninvincible, and perseverance the most untiring. Every great advance in\nmechanical skill has been met by the determined hostility of men who\nfancied their craft to be in danger. An invention which enabled a hand\nof iron to do the work of fifty hands of flesh and blood was considered\nguilty of taking the bread from the thrice fifty mouths that depended on\nthose hands' labor, and was not unfrequently visited with the punishment\ndue to such guilt. No demonstrated fruitlessness of similar fears in\nthe past served to allay fears for the future; no inefficiency of brute\nforce permanently to stay the enterprise of the mind prevented brute\nforce from making its futile and sometimes fatal attempts. It is no\nmatter that increased facility of production has been attended by an\nincreased demand for the product; it is no matter that ingenuity has\nnever been held permanently back from its carefully conned plans; there\nhave not been wanting men, numerous, ignorant, and ignoble enough to\ncollect in mobs, raze workshops, destroy machinery, chase away\ninventors, and fancy, that, so employed, they have been engaged in the\nwork of self-protection.\n\nIt is such indirect lessons as may be learned from these and other\nstatements that give this book its chief value. The interesting\nhistorical and mechanical information contained in its pages makes it\nindeed well worthy of perusal; yet for that alone we should not take\nespecial pains to set it before the people. But its incidental teachings\nought to be taken to heart by every man, and especially every mechanic,\nwho has any ambition or conscience beyond the exigencies of bread and\nbutter. Lack of ambition is not an American fault, but it is too often\nan ambition that regards irrelevant and factitious honors rather than\nthose to which it may legitimately and laudably aspire. A mechanic\nshould find in the excellence of his mechanism a greater reward and\nsatisfaction than in the wearing of a badge of office which any\nfifth-rate lawyer or broken-down man-of-business with influential\n\"friends\" may obtain, and whose petty duties they may discharge quite as\nwell as the first-rate mechanic. The mechanic who is master of his\ncalling need yield to none. We would not have him like the ironmongers\ndenounced by the old religious writer as \"heathenish in their manners,\npuffed up with pride, and inflated with worldly prosperity\"; but we\nwould have him mindful of his true dignity. In the importance of the\nresults which he achieves, in the magnitude of the honors he may win, in\nthe genius he may employ and the skill he may attain, no profession or\noccupation presents a more inviting field than his; but it will yield\nfruits only to the good husbandman. Science and art give up their\ntreasures only to him who is capable of enthusiasm and devotion. He\nalone who magnifies his office makes it honorable. Whether he work in\nmarble, canvas, or iron, the man who is content simply to follow his\noccupation, and is not possessed by it, may be an artificer, but will\nnot be an artist, nor ever wear the laurel on his brow. He should be so\nenamored of his calling as to court it for its own charms. Invention is\na capricious mistress, and does not always bestow her favors on the most\nworthy. Men not a few have died in poverty, and left a golden harvest to\ntheir successors; yet the race is often enough to the swift, and the\nbattle to the strong, to justify men in striving after strength and\nswiftness, as well for the guerdon which they bring as for the jubilant\nconsciousness which they impart. And this, at least, is sure: though\nmerit may, by some rare mischance, be overlooked, demerit has no\nopportunity whatever to gain distinction. Sleight of hand cannot long\npass muster for skill of hand. Unswerving integrity, unimpeachable\nsincerity, is the lesson constantly taught by the lives of these\nrenowned mechanics. \"The great secret,\" says one, \"is to have the\ncourage to be honest,--a spirit to purchase the best material, and the\nmeans and disposition to do justice to it in the manufacture.\" Another,\nremonstrated with for his high charges, which were declared to be six\ntimes more than the price his employers had before been paying for the\nsame articles, could safely say, \"That may be, but mine are more than\nsix times better.\" A master of his profession is master of his\nemployers. Maudslay's works, we are told, came to be regarded as a\nfirst-class school for mechanical engineers, the Oxford and Cambridge of\nmechanics; nor can Oxford and Cambridge men be any prouder of their\nconnection with their colleges than distinguished engineers of their\nconnection with this famous school of Maudslay. With such an _esprit de\ncorps_ what excellence have we not a right to expect?\n\nWe cannot forbear pointing out the Aids to Humility collected in this\nbook from various quarters, and presented to the consideration of the\nnineteenth century. Our boasted age of invention turns out, after\nall, to have been only gathering up what antiquity has let\nfall,--rediscovering and putting to practical account what the past\ndiscovered, but could not, or, with miscalled dignity, would not, turn\nto the uses of common life. Steam-carriages, hydraulic engines,\ndiving-bells, which we have regarded with so much complacency as our\npeculiar property, worked their wonders in the teeming brain of an old\nmonk who lived six hundred years ago. Printing, stereotypes,\nlithography, gunpowder, Colt's revolvers and Armstrong guns, Congreve\nrockets, coal-gas and chloroform, daguerreotypes, reaping-machines, and\nthe electric telegraph are nothing new under the sun. Hundreds of years\nago the idea was born, but the world was too young to know its character\nor prize its service, and so the poor little bantling was left to shiver\nitself to death while the world stumbled on as aforetime. How many eras\nof birth there may have been we do not know, but it was reserved for our\nlater age to receive the young stranger with open arms, and nourish his\ninfant limbs to manly strength. Richly are we rewarded in the precision\nand power with which he performs our tasks, in the comfort with which he\nenriches, the beauty with which he adorns, and the knowledge with which\nhe ennobles our daily life.\n\n\n_The Life and Times of John Huss; or, The Bohemian Reformation of the\nFifteenth Century_. By E.H. GILLETT. 2 vols. Second Edition. Boston:\nGould & Lincoln.\n\nThe style of Mr. Gillett is clear, manly, and discriminating. If, in\nrespect of show, sparkle, nervous energy, verbal felicity, and\npicturesqueness, it is not equal to that of our chief American\nhistorians, yet it is not deficient in ease, grace, or vigor. He is\nalmost always careful, always unambitious, always in good taste. To\ncomplain that the style is not equal to Mr. Motley's, simply on the\nground that the book is large and the subject historical, is grossly\nunfair. Mr. Gillett has not been eager for a place as a writer; his\nstory has more merit in the thing told than in the telling. Even with\nhis want of German he has been thorough in the investigation of\nauthorities; and if he writes without enthusiasm, his judgment carries\nthe greater weight. As a scholar and an historian, as a man of candor\nand resources, his name is an ornament to the Presbyterian ministry, of\nwhich he is a member.\n\nAnd yet the life of Huss is not adapted to produce popular effect, to\nshow to striking advantage the charm of elaborate style, or to lift the\nhero himself into that upper light where his commonest deeds are\ndazzling and fascinating. He had not the acumen, the weight, the\nlearning, the logical irresistibleness of Calvin; nor had he the great\nhuman sympathies, the touch of earthiness, yet not grossness, which made\nLuther so dear to his countrymen, and which have imprinted a cordial\ngeniality on the whole Lutheran Church. John Huss, though a man of\nlearning, the Rector of a great and powerful University, though a true\nfriend, though a man of wide sympathies, though an eloquent preacher,\nand a most formidable enemy to the corruptions of the Romish Church, was\nyet a colorless character in comparison with some men who have become\nthe objects of hero-worship. There are few of those grand bursts which\nwill always justify Luther's reputation, nothing of that rich poetical\nvein of Luther's, finding its twofold course in music and in poetry:\nHuss was comparatively dry, and unenriched by those overflowings of a\ndeep inner nature. He is, therefore, rather the exponent of an age than\na brilliant mark,--rather a type than a great, restless, creative power.\nHis life was almost too saintly to be interesting in the popular sense;\nand although he does emerge above his age, yet it is not as the advocate\nof an idea, as Luther was, nor of a great system, as Calvin was, nor as\na man fearless of kings and queens, as Knox was; his life, rather, was a\ncontinued protest against sin in the high places of the Church. Though\nin him there appear glimpses of a clearer doctrine than that of his age,\nyet they do not come to a full expression; it is the pride of pontiffs,\nthe debaucheries of priests, the grasp after place and power and wealth\nby those who claim to follow the meek and holy One, which provoke his\nfiercest invective.\n\nMr. Gillett has, therefore, done a good service in subordinating the\nstory of John Huss to the history of his age. His work is strictly\nentitled, \"The Bohemian Reformation of the Fifteenth Century.\" That\nperiod has heretofore been almost a blank in our ecclesiastical records.\nThe blank is now filled. It was a period of great beginnings. Germany\nwas silent then; but Wycliffe in England, and Huss, with his\npredecessors, Waldhauser, Milicz, and Peter of Dresden, in Bohemia,\nwere even then causing the Papal power, rent as it was with its internal\ndissensions, to tremble as before approaching death.\n\nThe story of that impotent rage which sought to purchase life and safety\nfor the Romish Church by the murder of Huss and of Jerome of Prague is\ninstructive, if it is not pleasing. The truth was too true to be spoken.\nNever has the Church of Rome, in its inquisitorial madness, been so\nblinded with fury and passion as then. Weakened by internal feuds, with\ntwo Popes struggling and hurling anathemas at each other, and with a\npriesthood at its lowest point, not of ignorance, but of carnality, it\nseemed in peril of utter extinction. Its own boldest and ablest men were\namong its most outspoken accusers; and no words stronger or more cutting\nwere spoken by Huss than by Gerson and Clemangis. But Huss committed the\ncommon mistake of reformers. He put himself outside of the body to be\nreformed. He allowed his spirit to fret against the evils of his times\nso madly that he would fain have put himself outside of the\ncircumstances of his age. This wiser men than he, men no loss ardent,\nbut more calculating, never would do. In the city of Constance itself,\nduring the sittings of the great Council which condemned Huss to death,\nsermons were preached more bitterly reproachful of the pride of the\nPontiffs and the corruption of the Church than the words of any of the\nmen who put themselves beyond its pale, and addressed it as \"your\nChurch,\" instead of speaking of it as \"ours.\" And while the dignitaries\nof that corrupt body dared not lay a finger upon their more pure,\nprophetic, and sharply accusing brethren, they made men like Huss and\nJerome of Prague the doubly burdened and tortured victims of their rage.\n\nMuch of the interest of these volumes is owing to the prominence given\nto Wycliffe, and his contemporaneous work in England. It is strange,\nindeed, that in those early days, before Europe was crossed with its\nnet-works, not of railways, but of post-roads even, the land which\ninclosed the fountains that fed the Elbe, eight hundred miles above\nHamburg, was closely bound to that distant island, four hundred miles\nbeyond Hamburg, on the western side of the German Ocean. But a royal\nmarriage in England had united that kingdom to Bohemia, and Wycliffe's\nname was a household word in the lecture-rooms of Prague, and Wycliffe's\nbooks were well worn in its libraries. The great work of preparation,\nthe preliminary stirring-up of men's minds, by both of these great\nreformers, is hardly realized by us. But words had been spoken which\ncould not die in a hundred years, and the public temper had been thrown\ninto a glow which could not cool in a century. The \"Morning Star of the\nReformation\" found its twin lighting up the dark ravines of Bohemia, and\nwhen they twain arose the day had begun to break. The Reformation did\nnot begin with Luther. The elements had been made plastic to his touch;\nall was ready for his skilful hand to mould them into the symmetry of\nthe Great Reformation. The armies of the Lord had enlisted man by man\nbefore he came; it was for his clarion blast to marshal them in\ncompanies and battalions, and lead them to the battle. We must again\nthank Mr. Gillett for his timely, serviceable book. It is never\nunprofitable to look back and see who have kept the sacred fire of\nChristianity burning when it seemed in danger of extinguishment. And in\nthat fifteenth century its flames certainly burned low. Whenever the\nChurch is on the side of aristocratic power, whenever it is a\nconservative and not a radical and progressive force in an evil age,\nwhen the forces of Satan are in power, the men are truly worthy of\nimmortality who go out to meet death in behalf of Christ and the\nreligion of meekness and purity and universal love. Such was John Huss.\nHe ought never to have suffered himself to be driven from the Church,\nand when he did so, he committed the unceasing mistake of reformers,\namong whom Wesley and Zinzendorf stand as the two marked exceptions; but\nfor rectitude, zeal, and a thorough consecration to the great interests\nof Christ, he merits an even more sumptuous memorial than this excellent\nbook.\n\n\n_Sordello, Strafford, Christmas-Eve and Easter-Day._ By ROBERT BROWNING.\nBoston: Ticknor & Fields.\n\nIn his dedication to the new edition of \"Sordello,\" Mr. Browning\nsays,--\"I lately gave time and pains to turn my work into what the many\nmight--instead of what the few must--like; but, after all, I imagined\nanother thing at first, and therefore leave as I find it.\"\n\nThis, on the whole, he has done; for, though a prose heading runs before\nevery page, with a knowing wink to the reader, the mystery is not\ncleared up. As the view dissolves with every turn of a leaf, the showman\nsays, confidentially,--\"Now you shall see how a poet's soul comes into\nplay,--how he succeeds a little, but fails more,--tries again, is no\nbetter satisfied,--\n\n    \"Because perceptions whole, like that he sought\n    To clothe, reject so pure a work of thought\n    As language: thought may take perception's place,\n    But hardly coexist in any case,\n    Being its mere presentment,--of the whole\n    By parts, the simultaneous and the sole\n    By the successive and the many. Lacks\n    The crowd perception?\"\n\nWe fear so; at any rate, the exhibition fails, because the showman\ncannot furnish brains to his commentary. The man who can read \"Sordello\"\nis little helped by these headings, and the man who cannot is soon\ndistracted by continual disappointment. We think he will end by reading\nonly the headings. And they doubtless are the best for him. Otherwise,\nunder the cerebral struggle to perceive how the prose interprets the\npoetry, he might become the idiot that Douglas Jerrold exclaimed that\n_he_ was at his first trial of \"Sordello.\"\n\nThere has been a careful overhauling of the punctuation, with benefit to\nthe text. Many lines have been altered, sometimes to the comfort of the\nreader; and about a hundred fresh lines have been interpolated here and\nthere, to the weakening, we think, of the dramatic vigor of nearly every\nplace that is thus handled. Many readers will, however, find this\ncompensated by an increased clearness of the sense. On page 131 (page\n152, first edition) there is an improved manipulation of the simile of\nthe dwarf palm; and four lines before the last one on page 147 (page\n171, first edition) lighten up the thought. So there are eight lines\nplaced to advantage after \"Sordello, wake!\" on page 152 (page 176). But,\non the whole, what Mr. Browning first imagined cannot be tampered with,\nand he must generously trust the elements of his own fine genius to do\njustice to his thought with all people who would not thank him to\nfurnish an interpreter.\n\nOne day we argued earnestly for Browning with a man who said it was\nfatal to the poetry that it needed an argument, and that he did not want\nto earn the quickening of his imagination by the sweat of his brow,--he\ncould gather the same thought and beauty in less break-neck places,--all\nthe profit was expended in mental gymnastics,--in short,\n\n    \"The man can't stoop\n    To sing us out, quoth he, a mere romance;\n    He'd fain do better than the best, enhance\n    The subjects' rarity, work problems out\n    Therewith: now, you're a bard, a bard past doubt,\n    And no philosopher; why introduce\n    Crotchets like these? fine, surely, but no use\n    In poetry,--which still must be, to strike,\n    Eased upon common sense; there's nothing like\n    Appealing to our nature!\"\n\nFind the rest of Mr. Average's argument on page 67.\n\nThese objections to the poetry of Mr. Browning, which the dense,\ninvolved, and metaphysical treatment of \"Sordello\" first suggested to\nthe public, are made to apply to all his subsequent writings. We concede\nthat \"Sordello\" over-refines, and that, after reading it, \"who _would_\nhas heard Sordello's story told,\" but who would not and could not has\nprobably not heard it. The very time of the poem, which is put several\ncenturies back amid the scenery of the Guelph and Ghibelline feuds, as\nif to make the struggle of a humane and poetic soul to grow, to become\nrecognized, to find a place and purpose, seem still more premature,\npuzzles the reader with remote allusions, with names that belong to\nobscure Italian narrative, with motives and events that require\nhistorical analysis. The poem is impatient with those very things which\nmake the environment of the bard Sordello, and treats them in curt\nlines. A character is jammed into a sentence, like a witch into a\nsnuff-box, the didactic parts grow metaphysical, and the life of\nSordello does not fuse the events of the poem into one long rhythm. He\nthinks and dreams apart, and Palma's ambition for him is an aside, and\nthe events swing their arms and strike fiery and cruel blows with\nSordello absent. Considering Mr. Browning's intent, there is a fine\npoetic success in this very fault of the poem, but it is not a plain\none, and is an after-thought of the critic. The numerous splendid pages\nin \"Sordello\" do nothing towards making one complete impression which\ncannot be evaded. Naddo, the genius-haunter, would complain, that, in\nstruggling out towards these aisles of beauty, he had seriously\ncompromised his clothing in the underbrush.\n\nBut the faults which characterize \"Sordello\" are not prevalent in the\nsubsequent writings which are loosely accused of them. They become\nafterwards exceptional, they vein here and there the surface, and Mr.\nAverage stumbles over them and proceeds no farther. Still, Mr.\nBrowning's verse is not easy reading. He is economical of words to the\npoint of harmony; but what a hypocrite he would be, if he used more! He\nbrings you meaning, if you bring him mind; and there is Tupper outside,\nif you don't care to trouble yourself. In saying this we are not\narrogant at all, for there is a large and widening sympathy with Mr.\nBrowning's thought. Perhaps a whole generation of readers will fretfully\nbreak itself upon his style, and pass away, before the mind hails with\nease his merits. But is Shakspeare's verse easy reading? Not to this\nday, in spite of his level of common sense, the artlessness of his\npassion, and the broad simplicity of a great imagination, that causeth\nits sun to shine on the evil and the good. It was easy reading to Ben\nJonson, to Milton, and to Chapman; it took \"Eliza and our James\"; it had\nmore theatrical success than the scholarly plays of Jonson: but two or\nthree centuries have exhausted neither his commentators nor the subtile\nparts that need a comment. A good deal of Shakspeare is read, but the\nrest is caviare to the multitude. We need not comfort ourselves on the\nfacility with which we take his name in vain. We venture to say that the\nwhole of Shakspeare's thought is inwardly tasted by as many people as\nenjoy the subtilty of Robert Browning. Shakspeare has broader places\nover which the waters lie, sweet and warm, to tempt disporting crowds,\nand places deep as human nature, upon whose brink the pleasure-seekers\npeer and shudder. But if Mr. Browning had a theatrical ability equal to\nhis dramatic, and were content to exhibit a greater number of the\nstock-figures of humanity, men would say that here again they had love\nthat maddened and grief that shattered, murdering ambition, humorous\nweakness, and imagination that remarries man and Nature.\n\nMr. Browning's literary and artistic allusions prevent a ready\nappreciation of his genius. \"Sordello\" needs a key. How many friends,\n\"elect chiefly for love,\" have spent time burrowing in encyclopaedias,\nmanuals of history, old biographies, dictionaries of painting, and the\nlike, for explanations of the remote knowledge which Mr. Browning uses\nas if it had been left at the door with the morning paper! On the very\nfirst page, who is \"Pentapolin, named o' the Naked Arm\"? If a man had\njust read Don Quixote, he might single out Pentapolin. Taurello and\nEcelin were not familiar,--nor the politics of Verona, Padua, Ferrara,\nsix hundred years ago. There was not a lively sympathy with Sordello\nhimself. Who were the \"Pisan pair\"? Lanzi's pages were turned up to\ndiscover. And Greek scholars recognized the \"Loxian.\" But any reader\nmight be pardoned for not at once divining that the double rillet of\nminstrelsy, on page 37, was the Troubadour and the Trouvere, nor for\nrefusing to read pages 155 and 156 without a tolerable outfit of\ninformation upon the historical points and personages there catalogued.\n\nThere are not a few pages that appear like a long stretch of prose\nsuddenly broken up and jammed in the current; some of the ends stick\nout, some have gone under, the sense has grown hummocky, and the\nreader's whole faculty turns to picking his way. Take, for instance,\npage 95, of which we have prepared a translation, but considerately\nwithhold it.\n\nBut turn now to the famous marble font, sculptured afresh in those\nperfect lines which begin at the middle of page 16, with the picture of\nthe Castle Goito and the maple-panelled room. Here the boy Sordello\ncomes every eve, to visit the marble standing in the midst, to watch the\nmute penance of the Caryatides, who flush with the dawn of his\nimagination. Read the description of his childhood, from page 25, and\nthe delights of his opening fancy:--\n\n    \"He e'er-festooning every interval,\n    As the adventurous spider, making light\n    Of distance, shoots her threads from depth to height,\n    From barbican to battlement; so flung\n    Fantasies forth and in their centre swung\n    Our architect,--the breezy morning fresh\n    Above, and merry,--all his waving mesh\n    Laughing with lucid dew-drops rainbow-edged.\"\n\nAll these pages are filled with poetry; the reflective element does not\ndominate severely. Bordello's youthful genius craves sympathy, and he\nfinds it by investing Nature with fanciful forms and attributes. He is\nApollo,--\"that shall be the name.\" How he ransacks the world for his\nyouth's outfit, as he climbs the ravine in the June weather, and emerges\ninto the forest, which tries \"old surprises on him,\" amid which he\nlingers, deep in the stratagems of his own fancy, till\n\n    \"aloft would hang\n    White summer-lightnings; as it sank and sprang\n    To measure, that whole palpitating breast\n    Of heaven, 't was Apollo, Nature prest\n    At eve to worship.\"\n\nThen comes a portrait of Palma, done with Titian's brush and manner. As\nwe turn the leaves where favorite passages lie brilliantly athwart the\nfaded politics of an old story, we are tempted to try spinning its\nthread again for the sake of holding up these lines, which are among the\nmost delicate and sumptuous that Mr. Browning ever wrote. But room is at\npresent dear as paper. Only turn, for instance, to pages 39-45, 72-74,\nthe picturesque scenes on pages 84, 85, the opening of Book IV.,\nSalinguerra's portrait, like an old picture of Florence, on page 127,\nand lines single and by the half-dozen everywhere.\n\nThe tragedy of \"Strafford\" is one of Mr. Browning's earliest\ncompositions. It was once placed upon the stage by Mr. Macready, but it\nis no more of an acting play than all the other pieces of Mr. Browning,\nand is too political to be good reading. The characters seem to be\nmerely reporting the condition of parties under Charles I.; this and the\nstruggle of the King with the Parliament are told, but are not\nrepresented, the passions of the piece belong too exclusively to the\ncaucus and the council-chamber, and even the way in which the King\nsacrifices Strafford does not dramatically appear. In the last act,\nthere is much tenderness in the contrast of Stratford's doom with the\nunconsciousness of his children, and pathos in his confidence to the\nlast moment that the King will protect him. The dialogue is generally\ntoo abrupt and exclamatory. Vane speaks well on page 222, and Hampden on\npage 231, and there are two good scenes between Charles and Strafford,\nwhere the King's irresolution appears against the Earl's devotedness.\nThe closing scene of Act IV. has the dramatic form, but it is interfused\nwith mere civil commotion instead of color, and the motive is a\ntransient one, important only to the historian. But we need not multiply\nwords over that one of all his compositions which Mr. Browning probably\nnow respects the least.\n\n\"Christmas-Eve and Easter-Day\" is a beautiful poem, filled with thought,\nhumor, and imagination. The mythical theory of Strauss was never so well\nanalyzed as in the tilting lines from page 353 to 361. And there is good\ntheology in this:--\n\n    \"Take all in a word: the truth in God's breast\n    Lies trace for trace upon ours impressed;\n    Though He is so bright and we so dim,\n    We are made in His image to witness Him;\n    And were no eye in us to tell,\n    Instructed by no inner sense,\n    The light of heaven from the dark of hell,\n    That light would want its evidence,\" etc.\n\nNaddo will doubtless tell us that this poem is not built broadly on the\nhuman heart; there is too much discussion about the difficulty of\nbecoming a Christian, and the subtile genius flits so quickly through\nthe lines that an ordinary butterfly-net does not catch it. That is well\nfor the genius. But we are of opinion that the human heart will always\nfind in this great poem the solemn and glorious things that belong to\nit, and more and more so as new and clearer thought is born into the\nworld to read it. It is no more difficult to read than \"Paradise Lost,\"\nwhile its scenery is less conventional, and the longings of a religious\nheart are taken by a bold imagination into serene and starry skies.\n\n\n_A History of the Intellectual Development of Europe._ By JOHN WILLIAM\nDRAPER, M.D., LL.D. New York: Harper & Brothers.\n\nWater and the science of Physiology are both good things. But water is\none thing to drink, and another to be drowned in. In like manner,\nthough Physiology is a large and noble science and a yet larger symbol,\nfurnishing analogies to the thinker quite as often as uses to the\nmedical doctor, nevertheless, Physiology in the form of a deluge,\noverflowing, swamping, drowning almost everything else, and leaving only\nBody, the sole ark, afloat,--this is a gift which we are able to receive\nwith a gratitude not by any means unspeakable. And such, very nearly, is\nthe contribution to modern thought which the author of the above work\nendeavors to make. He holds Physiology to be coextensive with Man, and\nwould prove the fact by including History in its laws.\n\nIn truth, however, it is a pretty thin sort of Physiology to which this\nextension is to be given,--resembling water in this respect also. Our\nphysiological philosopher seeks to prove (in 631 octavo pages) that\nthere are in history five perpetually recurring epochs, answering--the\nreader will please consider--to the Infancy, Childhood, Youth, Maturity,\nand Old Age of the individual body. So much, therefore, as one would\nknow concerning Physiology in its application to the individual body, in\nvirtue of being aware that men pass from infancy to age, thus much does\nDr. Draper propose to teach his readers concerning the said science in\nits application to History. Add now that his induction rests almost\nwholly on _two_ main instances, of which one is yet incomplete! Should\none, therefore, say that his logic is somewhat precipitate, and his\n\"science\" somewhat lacking in matter, he would appear not to prefer a\nwholly groundless charge.\n\nWere Dr. Draper simply giving a History of the Intellectual Development\nof Europe, he could, of course, relate only such facts as exist; and\nshould it appear that this history has but two cycles, one of them\nincomplete, he would be under no obligation to make more. But such is\nnot the case. His \"history\" is purely a piece of polemic. His aim is to\nestablish a formula for all history, past, present, and to come; and, in\nthis view, the paucity of instances on which his induction rests becomes\nworthy of comment.\n\nAnd this disproportion between induction and conclusion becomes still\nmore glaring, when it is observed that he expects his formula for all\nhistory to carry an inference much larger than itself. Dr. Draper is\ndevoted to a materialistic philosophy, and his moving purpose is to\npropagate this. He holds that Psychology must be an inference from\nPhysiology,--that the whole science of Man is included in a science of\nhis body. His two perpetual aims are, first, to absorb all physical\nscience in theoretical materialism,--second, to absorb all history in\nphysical science. And beside the ambition of his aims one must say that\nhis logic has an air of slenderness.\n\nThis work, then, may be described as a review of European history,\nwritten in obedience to two primary and two secondary assumptions, as\nfollows:--\n\n_Primary Assumptions_: First, that man is fully determined by his\n\"corporeal organization\"; second, that all corporeal organizations, with\ntheir whole variety and character, are due solely to \"external\nsituations.\"\n\n_Secondary Assumptions_: First, that physical science (under submission\nto materialistic interpretations) is the only satisfactory intellectual\nresult in history, being the only pure product of \"reason\"; second, that\n\"reason\" alone represents the adult stage of the human mind,--\"faith\"\nbeing simply immature mental action, and \"inquiry\" belonging to a stage\nof intellect still less mature,--in fact, to its mere childishness.\n\nThe position thus assigned to _inquiry_ is very significant of the\ntheoretic precipitancy which is one of Dr. Draper's prominent\ncharacteristics. His mind is afflicted with that disease which\nphysicians call \"premature digestion.\" Inquiry, which is the perpetual\ntap-root of science, he separates wholly from science, stigmatizes it as\nthe mere token of intellectual childhood; and this not in the haste of\nan epithet or heat of a paragraph, but as a fixed part of his scheme of\nhistory and of mind. The reason is found in his own intellectual habits.\nAnd the savage fury with which he plies his critical bludgeon upon Lord\nBacon is due, not so much to that great man's infirmities, nor even to\nhis possession of intellectual qualities which our author cannot\nappreciate and must therefore disparage, as to the profound consecration\nof Inquiry, which it was one grand aim of his life to make.\n\nHis assumptions made, Dr. Draper proceeds to \"break\" and train history\ninto their service, much after the old fashion of \"breaking\" colts.\nFirst, he mounts the history of Greece. And now what a dust! What are\ncentaurs to a _savant_ on his hobby? To see him among the mythic\nimaginations of the sweet old land! He goes butting and plunging through\nthem with the headiness of a he-goat, another monster added to those of\nwhich antique fancy had prattled.\n\nHe has collected many facts respecting ancient thought, (for his\nindustry is laudable,) but the evil is that he has no real use for his\nfacts when obtained. Think of finding in an elaborate \"History of the\nIntellectual Development of Europe\" no use for the \"Iliad\" and \"Odyssey\"\nbut that of bolstering up the proposition that there was in Greece an\nage of unreasoning credulity! It is like employing Jove to turn a spit\nor to set up tenpins. Everywhere, save in a single direction, and that\nof secondary importance with respect to antique thought, he practises\nthe same enormous waste of material. Socrates is a mere block in his\nway, which he treats with nothing finer than a crow-bar. Socrates had\nset a higher value on ethical philosophy, derived from the consciousness\nof man, than on physical science; consequently, Dr. Draper's choice must\nbe between treating him weakly and treating him brutally; he chooses the\nlatter, and plays his _role_ with vigor,--talks of his \"lecherous\ncountenance,\" and calls him \"infidel\" and \"hypocrite.\" Plato he treats\nwith more respect, but scarcely with more intelligence. He makes an\ninventory of Plato's opinions, as a shopman might of his goods; and does\nit with an air which says, \"He who buys these gets cheated,\" while\noccasionally be cannot help breaking out into an expression of\nimpatience. Indeed, not only Plato, but Athens itself, represents to Dr.\nDraper's mind the mere raw youth, the mere ambitious immaturity of\nGrecian intellect, amusing itself with \"faith\" because incapable of\n\"reason.\" He finds its higher and only rational stage at Alexandria, at\nSyracuse, or wherever results in physical science were attained. In\nAristotle, indeed, he is able to have some complacency, since the\nStagirite is in a degree \"physiological.\" But this pleasure is partial,\nfor Aristotle has the trick of eminent intelligences, and must needs\npresently spread his pinions and launch forth into the great skies of\nspeculation; whereupon, albeit he flies low, almost touching the earth\nwith the tips of his wings, our physiological philosopher begins to\n_pish_ and _pshaw_.\n\nIn his treatment of modern or post-Roman history, Dr. Draper goes over\nnew ground in much the same spirit. He seems, indeed, nearer to his\nfacts, deals more with actual life, is more lively, graphic, engaging,\nand has not that air of an intellectual shopman making an inventory.\nConsidered as a general review of the history of Europe, written chiefly\nin the interest of physical science, but also in marked opposition to\nRoman Catholicism, it might pass unchallenged and not without praise.\nBut considered as a final scientific interpretation of the last fifteen\ncenturies, its shortcomings are simply immeasurable. The history of\nEurope, from the fusion of the Christian Impulse with Roman imperialism\nto the time of Columbus, Copernicus, and Luther, is the history of a\ngrand religious idealism _established over men's heads in the form of an\ninstitution_, because too great to be held in solution by their\nthoughts. Of such a matter the writer in question could give no other\nthan a very inadequate account. Wanting that which is highest in the\nreason of man, namely, imaginative intellect, he has no natural fitness\nfor explaining such a fact; while his unconsciousness of any such\ndeficiency, his persuasion that an _imagination_ and a _delusion_ are\none and the same, and his extreme dogmatic momentum cause him to handle\nit with all the confidence of commanding power.\n\nConsidered, again, as a polemic to the point that history revolves\nforever through five recurring epochs, and that, as our civilization has\nbeen now four centuries in the \"age of reason,\" it must next (and\nprobably soon) pass into the fifth stage, that of decrepitude, and\nthence into infantile credulity and imbecility once more,--as a\ndemonstration that history is such a Sisyphus, his induction is weak\neven to flimsiness.\n\nBut on approaching times yet more modern, the dominating predilection of\nthe writer no longer misleads him; it guides him, on the contrary, to\nthe truth. For of the last four centuries the grand _affirmative_ fact\nis the rise of physical science. Or rather, perhaps, one should say that\nit _was_ the grand fact until some fifty years ago. Science is still\nmaking progress; indeed, leaving out of sight one or two great Newtonian\nsteps, we may say that it is advancing more rapidly than ever. But now\nat length its spiritual correlative begins to emerge, and a new epoch\nforms itself, as we fully believe, in the history of humanity.\n\nIn celebrating this birth and growth of science, in treating it as the\ncentral and commanding fact of modern times, and in suggesting the vast\nmodification of beliefs and habits of thought which this must effect,\nDr. Draper has a large theme, and he treats it _con amore_. In this\nrespect, his book has value, and is worth its cost to himself and his\nreaders. In some branches of science, moreover, as in Physiology, and in\nquestions of vital organization generally, he is to be named among the\nauthorities, and we gladly attend when he raises his voice.\n\nYet even in respect to this feature, his work cannot be praised without\nreserve. Though a man of scientific eminence, yet in the pure and open\nspirit of science it is impossible for him to write. He is a dogmatist,\na controversialist, a propagandist. No matter of what science he treats,\nhis exposition ever has an aim beyond itself. It is always a means to an\nend; and that end is always a dogma. For example, he has written a work\non Human Physiology; and in the present volume he avows that his \"main\nobject\" therein was to \"enforce the doctrine\" of the \"absolute dominion\nof physical agents over organic forms as the fundamental principle in\nall the sciences of organization.\" This \"main object\" is no less dear to\nhim in the work immediately under consideration. He still teaches that\nthe primitive cell, with which, it is supposed, all organisms begin, is\nin all the same, but, being placed in different situations, is developed\nhere into a man, and there into a mushroom. \"The offspring,\" he says,\nnot without oracular twang, \"is like its parent, not because it includes\nan immortal typical form, but because it is exposed in development to\nthe same conditions as was its parent.\" Behold a cheap explanation of\nthe mystery of life! If one inquire how the vast variety of parental\nconditions was obtained, Dr. Draper is ready with his answer:--\"A\nsuitableness of external situation called them forth,\" quoth he. An\nexplanation nebulous enough to be sage!\n\nBehold, therefore, a whole universe of life constructed by \"Situations\"!\n\"Situations\" are the new _Elohim_. They say to each other, \"Let us make\nman\"; and they do it! But they cannot say, \"Let us make man in our own\nimage\"; for they have no image. No matter: they succeed all the same in\ngiving one to man! Wonderful \"Situations\"! Who will set up an altar to\nalmighty \"Situations\"?\n\nWe have ourselves a somewhat Benjamite tongue for pronouncing the\npopular shibboleths, but, verily, we would sooner try the crookedest of\nthem all than endeavor to persuade ourselves that in a universe wherein\nno creative idea lives and acts \"external situations\" can \"call forth\"\nlife and all its forms. We can understand that a divine, creative idea\nmay develop itself under fixed conditions, as the reproductive element\nin opposite sexes may, under fixed conditions, prove its resources; but\nhow, in a universe devoid of any productive thought, \"external\nsituations\" can produce definite and animate forms, is, to our feeble\nminds, incomprehensible. Verily, therefore, we will have nothing to do\nwith these new gods. The materialistic _savans_ may cry _Pagani_ at us,\nif they will; but we shall surely continue to kneel at the old altars,\nunless something other than the said \"Situations\" can be offered us in\nexchange.\n\nWe complain of Dr. Draper that he does not write in the spirit of\nscience, but in the spirit of dogmatism. We complain of him, that, when\nhe ostensibly attempts a piece of pure scientific exposition, his\nthought always has a squint, a boomerang obliquity; it is afflicted with\n_strabismus_, and never looks where it seems to look. He approaches\nhistory only to subject it to the service of certain pet opinions\n_already formed_ before his inspection of history began. He seeks only\nto make it an instrument for the propagation of these. He is a\nphilosophical historian in the same sense that Bossuet was a\nphilosophical historian. Each of these seeks to subject history to a\ndogma. The dogma of Bossuet is Papal Catholicism; that of Dr. Draper is\nthe creative supremacy of \"Situations\" and \"the insignificance of man in\nthe universe.\"\n\nIt is quite proper for Dr. Draper to appear as a polemic in science, if\nhe will. It is not advocacy _per se_ of which we complain; it is\nadvocacy with a squint, advocacy round a corner. If he wishes to prove\nthe creative efficacy of \"Situations,\" let him do so; but let him not in\ndoing so seem to be offering an impartial exposition of Human\nPhysiology. If he wishes to prove that physical science is the only\nrational thing in the world, he may try; but let him not assume to be\nwriting a history of intellectual development. If he would convince us\nthat history has epochs corresponding to those of individual life, we\nwill listen; but we shall listen with impatience, if it appear after all\nthat he is merely seeking, under cover of this proposition, to further a\nlow materialistic dogma, and convince us of \"man's insignificance in the\nuniverse.\"\n\nWe are open to all reasonings. Any decent man, who has honorably gone\nthrough with his Pythagorean _lustrum_ of silence and thought, shall, by\nour voice, have his turn on the world's tribune; and if he be honest, he\nshall lose nothing by it. But we hate indirections. We hate the\npretension implied in assuming to be an authoritative expounder, when\none is only an advocate. And, still further, we shall always resist any\nman's attempt to make his facts go for a great deal more than they are\nworth. Let him call his ten _ten_, and it shall pass for ten; but if he\ninsist on calling it a thousand, we shall not acquiesce. The science of\nPhysiology is just out of its babyhood. Of the nervous system in\nparticular--of its physiology and pathology alike--our knowledge is\nextremely immature. We are just beginning, indeed, to know anything\n_scientifically_ on that subject. The attempt in behalf of that little\nto banish spiritual philosophy out of the world, and to silence forever\nthe voice of Human Consciousness, is a piece of pretension on behalf of\nwhich we decline to strain our hospitality.\n\nOur notice of this work would, however, be both incomplete and unjust,\ndid we forbear to say, that, in its avowed idea, the author has got hold\nof a genuine analogy. Not that we approve the details of his scheme; the\ndetails, we verily believe, are as nearly all wrong as an able and\nstudious man could make them. But the general idea of a correspondence\nbetween individual and social life, of an organic existence in\ncivilizations and a consequent subjection to the law of organisms, is a\nrich mine, and one that will sooner or later be worked to profit. And\nthe definite, emphatic announcement of it in Dr. Draper's work, however\nawkwardly done, suffices to make the work one of grave importance.\n\nEvery system of civilization is in some degree special. None is\nuniversal; none represents purely the spirit of humanity; none contains\nall the possibilities of society. Not being universal, none can be, in\nits form, perpetual. The universal asserts its supremacy; all that is\npartial must be temporary. The human spirit takes back, as it were, into\nits bosom each sally of civilization before pulsing anew. Thus, even on\ntheir ideal side, civilizations have their law of limitation; and to\nknow what this law of limitation definitely is constitutes now one of\nthe great _desiderata_ of the world. We believe, that, _ceteris\nparibus_, the duration of a civilization is proportioned to its depth\nand breadth,--that is, to the degree in which it represents the total\nresource and possibility of the human spirit.\n\nAgain, every system of civilization has a body, an institution, an\nestablished and outward interpretation of social relationship. In\nrespect to this it is mortal. In respect to this it has a law of growth\nand decay. In respect to this, moreover, it is subject to what we call\naccident, the chances of the world. In fine, the bodies of individuals\nand of civilizations, the fixed forms, that is, in which they are\ninstituted, serve the same uses and obey the same law.\n\nNow a work which should deal in a really great and profound way with\nthis _corpus_ of civilizations,--not spending itself in a mere tedious,\nendless demonstration that such _corpus_ exists, and has therefore its\nyouth and its age, but really explaining its physiology and\npathology,--such a work would be no less than a benefaction to the human\nrace. And in such a work one of the easiest and most obvious points\nwould be this,--that the spirit of civilizations has a certain power of\nchanging the form of its body by successive partial rejections and\nremouldings; and the degree in which they prove capable of this\ncontinuous _palingenesia_ is one important measure of their depth and\ndeterminant of their duration.\n\nFor writing such a work we do not think Dr. Draper perfectly qualified.\nFor this we find in him no tokens of an intelligence sufficiently\nsubtile, penetrating, and profound. He is, moreover, too heady and too\nwell cased in his materialistic strait-waistcoat. Nevertheless, his book\ncarries in it a certain large suggestion; it contains many excellent\nobservations; its tone is unexceptionable; the style is firm and clear,\nthough heavy and disfigured by such intolerable barbarisms as \"commence\nto\" walk, talk, or the like,--the use of the infinitive instead of the\nparticiple after _commence_. Dr. Draper is an able man, a scholar in\nscience, a well-informed, studious gentleman in other provinces; but he\ntries to be a legislator in thought, and fails.\n\n\n_De l'Origine du Langage_. Par ERNEST RENAN, Membre de l'Institut.\nQuatrieme Edition, augmentee. Paris.\n\nIt seems to be the law of French thought, that it shall never be\nexhaustive of any profound matter, and also that (Auguste Comte always\nexcepted) it shall never be exhausting to the reader. German thought may\nbe both; French is neither; English thought--but the English do not\nthink, they dogmatize. Magnificent dogmatism it may be, but dogmatism.\nExceptions of course, but these are equally exceptions to the\ncharacteristic spirit of the nation.\n\nM. Renan is thoroughly French. The power of coming after the great\nsynthetic products of the human spirit and distributing them by analysis\ninto special categories, eminent in his country, is pre-eminent in him.\nThe facility at slipping over hard points, and at coming to unity of\nrepresentation, partly by the solving force of an interior principle,\nand partly by ingenious accommodations, characteristic of French\nthought, characterizes his thinking in particular. That supremacy of the\ncritical spirit in the man which secures to it the loyalty of all the\nfaculties is alike peculiar to France among nations, and to this writer\namong Frenchmen. In Germany the imagination dominates, or at least\ncontends with, the critical spirit; the French Ariel not only gives\nmagic service to the critical Prospero, but seeks no emancipation,\ndesires nothing better. Hence an admirable clearness and shapeliness in\nthe criticism of France. Hence, also, in its best criticism a high\ndegree of imaginative subtilty and penetration, without prejudice either\nto the dominion of common sense in the thought or to clearness in the\nstatement.\n\nM. Renan's essay on \"The Origin of Language\" is typical of his quality.\nTreating of an abstruse, though enticing problem,--_almost_ profound,\nand that in comparison with the soundest and sincerest thinking of our\ntime,--it is yet so clear and broad, its details are so perfectly held\nin solution by the thought, the thought itself moves with such ease,\ngrace, and vigor, and in its style there is such crystal perspicuity and\nprecision, that one must he proof against good thinking and excellent\nwriting not to feel its charm.\n\nThe main propositions of the work--whose force and significance, of\ncourse, cannot be felt in this dry enumeration--are that language issues\nfrom the spontaneity of the human spirit,--\"spontaneity, which is both\ndivine and human\"; that its origin is simultaneous with the opening of\nconsciousness in the human race; that it preserves a constant parallel\nwith consciousness, that is, with the developed spirit of man, in its\nnature and growth; and that, by consequence, its first form is not one\nof analytic simplicity, but of a high synthesis and a rich complexity.\nThe whole mind, he says, acts from the first, only not with the power of\ndefining, distinguishing, separating, which characterizes the intellect\nof civilized man; his objects are groups; he grasps totalities; sees\nobjects _and_ their relationships as one fact; tends to connect his\nwhole consciousness with all he sees, making the stone a man or a god:\nand language, in virtue of its perpetual parallelism with consciousness,\nmust be equally synthetic and complex from the start.\n\nHe finds himself opposed, therefore, first, to those, \"like M. Bonald,\"\nwho attribute language to a purely extraneous, not an interior,\nrevelation; secondly, to the philosophers of the eighteenth century, who\nmade it a product of free and reflective reason; thirdly, to the German\nschool, who trace it back to a few hundred monosyllabic roots, each\nexpressing with analytic precision some definite material object, from\nwhich roots the whole subsequent must be derived by etymologic\nspinning-out, by agglutination, and by figurative heightening of\nmeaning.\n\nHis work, accordingly, should be read by all sincere students of the\nquestion of Language in connection with the statements of Professor\nMueller, as he represents another and a typical aspect of the case. He\ndenies the existence of a \"Turanian\" family of tongues, such as Mueller\nsought to constitute in Bunsen's \"Outlines\"; pronouncing with great\ndecision, and on grounds both philosophical and linguistic, against that\nnotion of monosyllabic origin which assumes the Chinese as truest of all\ntongues to the original form and genius of language, he is even more\ndecided that not the faintest trace can be found of the derivation of\nall existing languages from a single primitive tongue. From general\nprinciples, therefore, and equally from inspection of language, he\ninfers with confidence that each great family of languages has come\nforth independently from the genius of man.\n\nHis results in Philology correspond, thus, with those of Mr. Agassiz in\nNatural History. They suggest multiplicity of human origins. From this\nresult M. Renan does not recoil, and he takes care to state with great\nprecision and vigor the entire independence of the spiritual upon the\nphysical unity of man,--as Mr. Agassiz also did in that jewel which he\nset in the head of Nott and Gliddon's toad.\n\nBut here he pauses. His results bear him no farther. The philological\nand physiological classifications of mankind, he says, do not\ncorrespond; their lines cross; nothing can be concluded from one to the\nother. The question of unity or diversity of physical origins he leaves\nto the naturalist; upon that he has no right to raise his voice.\nSpiritual unity he asserts firmly; linguistic unity he firmly denies; on\nthe question of physical unity he remains modestly and candidly silent,\nnot finding in his peculiar studies data for a rational opinion.\n\nM. Renan is not a Newton in his science. He satisfies, and he\ndisappoints. The Newtonian depth, centrality, and poise,--well, one may\nstill be a superior scholar and writer without these. And such he is.\nHis tendency to central principles is decided, but with this there is a\nwavering, an unsteadiness, and you get only agility and good writing, it\nmay be, where you had begun to look for a final word. Sometimes, too, in\nhis desire of precision, he gives you precision indeed, but of a cheap\nkind, which is worse than any _thoughtful_ vagueness. Thus, he opens his\nsixth section by naming _l'onomatopee_, the imitation of natural sounds,\nas the law of primitive language. He knew better; for he has hardly\nnamed this \"law\" before he slips away from it; and his whole work was\npitched upon a much profounder key. Why must he seize upon this\nready-made word? Why could he not have taken upon himself to say\ndeliberately and truly, that the law of primitive language, and in the\nmeasure of its _life_ of all language, is the symbolization of mental\nimpression by sounds, just as man's spirit is symbolized in his body,\nand absolute spirit in the universe? But this is \"vague,\" and M. Renan\nwrites in Paris.\n\nAnd in Paris he has written an able and in many respects admirable\ntreatise,--_almost_ profound, as we have said, and creditable to him and\nto France. It must be reckoned, we think, a foundation-stone in the\nliterature of the problem of Language.\n\nIn five or six pages the theological peculiarities of M. Renan appear.\nThe reader, however, who is most rigidly indisposed to open question on\nsuch matters will find these six pages which do not please him a feeble\ncounterbalance to the two hundred and fifty which do.\n\nFOOTNOTES:\n\n[A] Published 1770-71.\n\n[B] Johnson enumerates fifteen.\n\n[C] Many of the bibliographers, even, have omitted mention of it.\n\n[D] Of which the first book was published in 1772. This author is to be\ndistinguished from George Mason, who in 1768 published \"An Essay on\nDesign in Gardening.\"\n\n[E] Lettre XI Liv. IV. _Nouvelle Heloise._\n\n[F] First published in 1766.\n\n[G] Citing, in confirmation, that passage commencing,--\"_Nunc dicam agri\nquibus rebus colantur_,\" etc.\n\n[H] Pp. 177-179, edition of 1802, Edinburgh.\n\n[I] Pp. 166, 167.\n\n[J] See Article of Philip Pussy, M.P., in _Transactions of the Royal\nSociety_, Vol. XIV.\n\n[K] First published in 1724.\n\n[L] I find him named, in Dodsley's \"Annual Register\" for 1771, \"Keeper\nof His Majesty's Private Roads.\"\n\n[M] Loudon makes an error in giving 1780 as the year of his death.\n\n[N] Presented to William Pitt, 1795.\n\n[O] At that day, horse-hoeing, at regular intervals, was understood to\nform part of what was counted drill-culture.\n\n[P] Returns incomplete.\n\n[Q] In the Quarterly Tables of Mr. Hamilton's office, as quoted by\nProfessor Chace, the maximum yield at Wine Harbor during the month of\nSeptember, 1863, reached the almost incredible figure of _sixty-six_\nounces to the ton.","title":"The Atlantic Monthly, Volume 13, No. 79, May, 1864: A Magazine of Literature, Art, and Politics","tradition":"scripture-revelation","translated_text":null,"word_count":83332}