{"collection":"philosophy-ethics","full_text_available":true,"graph_url":"https://unchartedknowledge.5gfusion.net/v2/api/page/gutenberg_19995/graph","html_url":"https://unchartedknowledge.5gfusion.net/v2/page/gutenberg_19995","id":"gutenberg_19995","license":"Public Domain (US)","rights_basis":"gutenberg_metadata_copyright_false","source":"gutenberg","source_url":"https://www.gutenberg.org/ebooks/19995","summary":null,"tags":["American periodicals","Category: Art","Category: Essays, Letters & Speeches","Category: Journals","Category: Mathematics","Category: Philosophy & Ethics","Category: Politics","The Atlantic Monthly"],"text":"Produced by Joshua Hutchinson, Josephine Paolucci and the\nOnline Distributed Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net.\n(This file was produced from images generously made\navailable by Cornell University Digital Collections).\n\n\n\n\n\n\n\n\n\nTHE\n\nATLANTIC MONTHLY.\n\nA MAGAZINE OF LITERATURE, ART, AND POLITICS.\n\nVOL. V.--FEBRUARY, 1860.--NO. XXVIII.\n\n\n\n\nTranscriber's Note: Minor typos have been corrected. Footnotes have been\nmoved to the end of the article.\n\n\n\n\nCOUNTING AND MEASURING.\n\n\nThough, from the rapid action of the eye and the mind, grouping and\ncounting by groups appear to be a single operation, yet, as things can\nbe seen in succession only, however rapidly, the counting of things,\nwhether ideal or real, is necessarily one by one. This is the first step\nof the art. The second step is grouping. The use of grouping is to\neconomize speech in numeration, and writing in notation, by the exercise\nof the memory. The memorizing of groups is, therefore, a part of the\nprimary education of every individual. Until this art is attained, to a\ncertain extent, it is very convenient to use the fingers as\nrepresentatives of the individuals of which the groups are composed.\nThis practice led to the general adoption of a group derived from the\nfingers of the left hand. The adoption of this group was the first\ndistinct step toward mental arithmetic. Previous groupings were for\nparticular numerations; this for numeration in general; being, in fact,\nthe first numeric base,--the quinary. As men advanced in the use of\nnumbers, they adopted a group derived from the fingers of both hands;\nthus ten became the base of numeration.\n\nNotation, like numeration, began with ones, advanced to fives, then to\ntens, etc. Roman notation consisted of a series of signs signifying 1,\n5, 10, 50, 100, 500, 1000, etc.,--a series evidently the result of\ncounting by the five fingers and the two hands, the numbers signified\nbeing the products of continued multiplication by five and by two\nalternately. The Romans adhered to their mode, nor is it entirely out of\nuse at the present day, being revered for its antiquity, admired for its\nbeauty, and practised for its convenience.\n\nThe ancient Greek series corresponded to that of the Romans, though\nprimarily the signs for 50, 500 and 5000 had no place. Ultimately,\nhowever, those places were supplied by means of compound signs.\n\nThe Greeks abandoned their ancient mode in favor of the alphabetic,\nwhich, as it signified by a single letter each number of the\narithmetical series from one to nine separately, and also in union by\nmultiplication with the successive powers of the base of numeration, was\na decided improvement; yet, as it consisted of signs which by their\nnumber were difficult to remember, and by their resemblance easy to\nmistake, it was far from being perfect.\n\nDoubtless, strenuous efforts were made to remedy these defects, and,\napparently as the result of those efforts, the Arabic or Indian mode\nappeared; which, signifying the powers of the base by position, reduced\nthe number of signs to that of the arithmetical series, beginning with\nnought and ending with a number of the value of the base less one.\n\nThe peculiarity of the Arabic mode, therefore, in comparison with the\nGreek, the Roman, or the alphabetic, is place value; the value of a\ncombination by either of these being simply equal to the sum of its\nelements. By that, the value of the successive places, counting from\nright to left, being equal to the successive powers of the base,\nbeginning with the noughth power, each figure in the combination is\nmultiplied in value by the power of the base proper to its place, and\nthe value of the whole is equal to the sum of those products.\n\nThe Arabic mode is justly esteemed one of the happiest results of human\nintelligence; and though the most complex ever practised, its\nefficiency, as an arithmetical means, has obtained for it the reputation\nof great simplicity,--a reputation that extends even to the present\nbase, which, from its intimate and habitual association with the mode,\nis taken to be a part of the mode itself.\n\nWith regard to this impression it may be remarked, that the qualities\nproper to a mode bear no resemblance to those proper to a base. The\nqualities of the present mode are well known and well accepted. Those of\nthe present base are accepted with the mode, but those proper to a base\nremain to be determined. In attempting to ascertain these, it will be\nnecessary to consider the uses of numeration and of notation.\n\nThese may be arranged in three divisions,--scientific, mechanical, and\ncommercial. The first is limited, being confined to a few; the second is\ngeneral, being common to many; the third is universal, being necessary\nto all. Commercial use, therefore, will govern the present inquiry.\n\nCommerce, being the exchange of property, requires real quantity to be\ndetermined, and this in such proportions as are most readily obtained\nand most frequently required. This can be done only by the adoption of a\nunit of quantity that is both real and constant, and such multiples and\ndivisions of it as are consistent with the nature of things and the\nrequirements of use: real, because property, being real, can be measured\nby real measures only; constant, because the determination of quantity\nrequires a standard of comparison that is invariable; conveniently\nproportioned, because both time and labor are precious. These rules\nbeing acted on, the result will be a system of real, constant, and\nconvenient weights, measures, and coins. Consequently, the numeration\nand notation best suited to commerce will be those which agree best with\nsuch a system.\n\nFrom the earliest periods, special attention has been paid to units of\nquantity, and, in the ignorance of more constant quantities, the\ngovernors of men have offered their own persons as measures; hence the\nfathom, yard, pace, cubit, foot, span, hand, digit, pound, and pint. It\nis quite probable that the Egyptians first gave to such measures the\npermanent form of government standards, and that copies of them were\ncarried by commerce, and otherwise, to surrounding nations. In time,\nthese became vitiated, and should have been verified by their originals;\nbut for distant nations this was not convenient; moreover, the governors\nof those nations had a variety of reasons for preferring to verify them\nby their own persons. Thus they became doubly vitiated; yet, as they\nwere not duly enforced, the people pleased themselves, so that almost\nevery market-town and fair had its own weights and measures; and as, in\nthe regulation of coins, governments, like the people, pleased\nthemselves, so that almost every nation had a peculiar currency, the\ngeneral result was, that with the laws and the practices of the\ngovernors and the governed, neither of whom pursued a legitimate\ncourse, confusion reigned supreme. Indeed, a system of weights,\nmeasures, and coins, with a constant and real standard, and\ncorresponding multiples and divisions, though indulged in as a day-dream\nby a few, has never yet been presented to the world in a definite form;\nand as, in the absence of such a system, a corresponding system of\nnumeration and notation can be of no real use, the probability is, that\nneither the one nor the other has ever been fully idealized. On the\ncontrary, the present base is taken to be a fixed fact, of the order of\nthe laws of the Medes and Persians; so much so, that, when the great\nquestion is asked, one of the leading questions of the age,--How is this\nmass of confusion to be brought into harmony?--the reply is,--It is only\nnecessary to adopt one constant and real standard, with decimal\nmultiples and divisions, and a corresponding nomenclature, and the work\nis done: a reply that is still persisted in, though the proposition has\nbeen fairly tried, and clearly proved to be impracticable.\n\nEver since commerce began, merchants, and governments for them, have,\nfrom time to time, established multiples and divisions of given\nstandards; yet, for some reason, they have seldom chosen the number ten\nas a base. From the long-continued and intimate connection of decimal\nnumeration and notation with the quantities commerce requires, may not\nthe fact, that it has not been so used more frequently, be considered as\nsufficient evidence that this use is not proper to it? That it is not\nmay be shown thus:--A thing may be divided directly into equal parts\nonly by first dividing it into two, then dividing each of the parts into\ntwo, etc., producing 2, 4, 8, 16, etc., equal parts, but ten never. This\nresults from the fact, that doubling or folding is the only direct mode\nof dividing real quantities into equal parts, and that balancing is the\nnearest indirect mode,--two facts that go far to prove binary division\nto be proper to weights, measures, and coins. Moreover, use evidently\nrequires things to be divided by two more frequently than by any other\nnumber,--a fact apparently due to a natural agreement between men and\nthings. Thus it appears the binary division of things is not only most\nreadily obtained, but also most frequently required. Indeed, it is to\nsome extent necessary; and though it may be set aside in part, with\nproportionate inconvenience, it can never be set aside entirely, as has\nbeen proved by experience. That men have set it aside in part, to their\nown loss, is sufficiently evidenced. Witness the heterogeneous mass of\nirregularities already pointed out. Of these our own coins present a\nfamiliar example. For the reasons above stated, coins, to be practical,\nshould represent the powers of two; yet, on examination, it will be\nfound, that, of our twelve grades of coins, only one-half are obtained\nby binary division, and these not in a regular series. Do not these six\ngrades, irregular as they are, give to our coins their principal\nconvenience? Then why do we claim that our coins are decimal? Are not\ntheir gradations produced by the following multiplications: 1 x 5 x 2 x\n2-1/2 x 2 x 2 x 2-1/2 x 2 x 2 x 2, and 1 x 3 x 100? Are any of these\ndecimal? We might have decimal coins by dropping all but cents, dimes,\ndollars, and eagles; but the question is not, What we might have, but,\nWhat have we? Certainly we have not decimal coins. A purely decimal\nsystem of coins would be an intolerable nuisance, because it would\nrequire a greatly increased number of small coins. This may be\nillustrated by means of the ancient Greek notation, using the simple\nsigns only, with the exception of the second sign, to make it purely\ndecimal. To express $9.99 by such a notation, only three signs can be\nused; consequently nine repetitions of each are required, making a total\nof twenty-seven signs. To pay it in decimal coins, the same number of\npieces are required. Including the second Greek sign, twenty-three signs\nare required; including the compound signs also, only fifteen. By Roman\nnotation, without subtraction, fifteen; with subtraction, nine. By\nalphabetic notation, three signs without repetition. By the Arabic, one\nsign thrice repeated. By Federal coins, nine pieces, one of them being a\nrepetition. By dual coins, six pieces without a repetition, a fraction\nremaining.\n\nIn the gradation of real weights, measures, and coins, it is important\nto adopt those grades which are most convenient, which require the least\nexpense of capital, time, and labor, and which are least likely to be\nmistaken for each other. What, then, is the most convenient gradation?\nThe base two gives a series of seven weights that may be used: 1, 2, 4,\n8, 16, 32, 64 lbs. By these any weight from one to one hundred and\ntwenty-seven pounds may be weighed. This is, perhaps, the smallest\nnumber of weights or of coins with which those several quantities of\npounds or of dollars may be weighed or paid. With the same number of\nweights, representing the arithmetical series from one to seven, only\nfrom one to twenty-eight pounds may be weighed; and though a more\nextended series may be used, this will only add to their inconvenience;\nmoreover, from similarity of size, such weights will be readily\nmistaken. The base ten gives only two weights that may be used. The base\nthree gives a series of weights, 1, 3, 9, 27, etc., which has a great\npromise of convenience; but as only four may be used, the fifth being\ntoo heavy to handle, and as their use requires subtraction as well as\naddition, they have neither the convenience nor the capability of binary\nweights; moreover, the necessity for subtraction renders this series\npeculiarly unfit for coins.\n\nThe legitimate inference from the foregoing seems to be, that a\nperfectly practical system of weights, measures, and coins, one not\npractical only, but also agreeable and convenient, because requiring the\nsmallest possible number of pieces, and these not readily mistaken for\neach other, and because agreeing with the natural division of things,\nand therefore commercially proper, and avoiding much fractional\ncalculation, is that, and that only, the successive grades of which\nrepresent the successive powers of two.\n\nThat much fractional calculation may thus be avoided is evident from the\nfact that the system will be homogeneous. Thus, as binary gradation\nsupplies one coin for every binary division of the dollar, down to the\nsixty-fourth part, and farther, if necessary, any of those divisions may\nbe paid without a remainder. On the contrary, Federal gradation, though\nin part binary, gives one coin for each of the first two divisions only.\nOf the remaining four divisions, one requires two coins, and another\nthree, and not one of them can be paid in full. Thus it appears there\nare four divisions of the dollar that cannot be paid in Federal coins,\ndivisions that are constantly in use, and unavoidable, because resulting\nfrom the natural division of things, and from the popular division of\nthe pound, gallon, yard, inch, etc., that has grown out of it. Those\nfractious that cannot be paid, the proper result of a heterogeneous\nsystem, are a constant source of jealousy, and often produce disputes,\nand sometimes bitter wrangling, between buyer and seller. The injury to\npublic morals arising from this cause, like the destructive effect of\nthe constant dropping of water, though too slow in its progress to be\ndistinctly traced, is not the less certain. The economic value of binary\ngradation is, in the aggregate, immense; yet its moral value is not to\nbe overlooked, when a full estimate of its worth is required.\n\nAdmitting binary gradation to be proper to weights, measures, and coins,\nit follows that a corresponding base of numeration and notation must be\nprovided, as that best suited to commerce. For this purpose, the number\ntwo immediately presents itself; but binary numeration and notation\nbeing too prolix for arithmetical practice, it becomes necessary to\nselect for a base a power of two that will afford a more comprehensive\nnotation: a power of two, because no other number will agree with binary\ngradation. It is scarcely proper to say the third power has been\nselected, for there was no alternative,--the second power being too\nsmall, and the fourth too large. Happily, the third is admirably suited\nto the purpose, combining, as it does, the comprehensiveness of eight\nwith the simplicity of two.\n\nIt may be asked, how a number, hitherto almost entirely overlooked as a\nbase of numeration, is suddenly found to be so well suited to the\npurpose. The fact is, the present base being accepted as proper for\nnumeration, however erroneously, it is assumed to be proper for\ngradation also; and a very flattering assumption it is, promising a\nperfectly homogeneous system of weights, measures, coins, and numbers,\nthan which nothing can be more desirable; but, siren-like, it draws the\nmind away from a proper investigation of the subject, and the basic\nqualities of numbers, being unquestioned, remain unknown. When the\nnatural order is adopted, and the base of gradation is ascertained by\nits adaptation to things, and the base of numeration by its agreement\nwith that of gradation, then, the basic qualities of numbers being\nquestioned, two is found to be proper to the first use, and eight to the\nsecond.\n\nThe idea of changing the base of numeration will appear to most persons\nas absurd, and its realization as impossible; yet the probability is, it\nwill be done. The question is one of time rather than of fact, and there\nis plenty of time. The diffusion of education will ultimately cause it\nto be demanded. A change of notation is not an impossible thing. The\nGreeks changed theirs, first for the alphabetic, and afterwards, with\nthe rest of the civilized world, for the Arabic,--both greater changes\nthan that now proposed. A change of numeration is truly a more serious\nmatter, yet the difficulty may not be as great as our apprehensions\npaint it. Its inauguration must not be compared with that of French\ngradation, which, though theoretically perfect, is practically absurd.\n\nDecimal numeration grew out of the fact that each person has ten fingers\nand thumbs, without reference to science, art, or commerce. Ultimately\nscientific men discovered that it was not the best for certain purposes,\nconsequently that a change might be desirable; but as they were not\ndisposed to accommodate themselves to popular practices, which they\nerroneously viewed, not as necessary consequences, but simply as bad\nhabits, they suggested a base with reference not so much to commerce as\nto science. The suggestion was never acted on, however; indeed, it would\nhave been in vain, as Delambre remarks, for the French commission to\nhave made the attempt, not only for the reason he presents, but also\nbecause it does not agree with natural division, and is therefore not\nsuited to commerce; neither is it suited to the average capacity of\nmankind for numbers; for, though some may be able to use duodecimal\nnumeration and notation with ease, the great majority find themselves\nequal to decimal only, and some come short even of that, except in its\nsimplest use. Theoretically, twelve should be preferred to ten, because\nit agrees with circle measure at least, and ten agrees with nothing;\nbesides, it affords a more comprehensive notation, and is divisible by\n6, 4, 3, and 2 without a fraction, qualities that are theoretically\nvaluable.\n\nAt first sight, the universal use of decimal numeration seems to be an\nargument in its favor. It appears as though Nature had pointed directly\nto it, on account of some peculiar fitness. It is assumed, indeed, that\nthis is the case, and habit confirms the assumption; yet, when\nreflection has overcome habit, it will be seen that its adoption was due\nto accident alone,--that it took place before any attention was paid to\na general system, in short, without reflection,--and that its supposed\nperfection is a mere delusion; for, as a member of such a system, it\npresents disagreements on every hand; as has been said, it has no\nagreement with anything, unless it be allowable to say that it agrees\nwith the Arabic mode of notation. This kind of agreement it has, in\ncommon with every other base. It is this that gives it character. On\nthis account alone it is believed by many to be the perfection of\nharmony. They get the base of numeration and the mode of notation so\nmingled together, that they cannot separate them sufficiently to obtain\na distinct idea of either; and some are not conscious that they are\ndistinct, but see in the Arabic mode nothing save decimal notation, and\nattribute to it all those high qualities that belong to the mode only.\nThe Arabic mode is an invention of the highest merit, not surpassed by\nany other; but the admiration that belongs to it is thus bestowed upon a\nquite commonplace idea, a misapplication, which, in this as in many\nother cases, arises from the fact, that it is much easier to admire than\nto investigate. This result of carelessness, if isolated, might be\nexcused; but all errors are productive, and it should be remembered that\nthis one has produced that extraordinary perversion of truth to be found\nin the reply to the question, How is all this confusion to be brought\ninto harmony? It has produced it not only in words, but in deed. Was it\nnot this reply that led the French commission to extend the use of the\npresent base from numeration to gradation also, under the delusive hope\nof producing a perfectly homogeneous system, that would be practical\nalso? Was it not under its influence, that, adhering to the base to\nwhich the world had been so long accustomed, instead of attempting to\nregulate ideal division by real, which might have led to the adoption of\nthe true base and a practical system, they committed the one great error\nof endeavoring to reverse true order, by forcing real division into\nconformity with a preconceived ideal? This attempt was made at a time\nsupposed by many to be peculiarly suited to the purpose, a time of\nchanges. It was a time of changes, truly; but these were the result of\nhigh excitement, not of quiet thought, such as the subject requires,--a\ntime for rushing forward, not for retracing misguided steps.\nAccordingly, a system was produced which from its magnitude and\nimportance was truly imposing, and which, to the present day, is highly\napplauded by all those who, under the influence of the error alluded to,\nconceive decimal numeration to be a sacred truth: applauded, not because\nof its adaptation to commerce, but simply because of its beautiful\nproportions, its elegant symmetry, to say nothing of the array of\nlearning and power engaged in its production and inauguration: imposing,\ntruly, and alike on its authors and admirers; for the qualities they so\nmuch admire are not peculiar to the decimal base, but to the use of one\nand the same base for numeration, notation, and gradation. But if the\nbase ten agrees with nothing, over, on, or under the earth, can it be\nthe best for scientific use? can it be at all suited to commercial\npurposes? If true order is the object to be attained, and that for the\nsake of its utility, then agreement between real and ideal division is\nthe one thing needful, the one essential change without which all other\nchanges are vain, the only change that will yield the greatest good to\nthe greatest number,--a change, which, as volition is with the ideal,\nand inertia with the real, can be attained only by adaptation of the\nideal to the real.\n\nA full investigation of the existing heterogeneous or fragmentary system\nwill lead to the discovery that it contains two elements which are at\nvariance with natural division and with each other, and that the\nunsuccessful issue of every attempt at regulation hitherto made has been\nthe proper result of the mistake of supposing agreement between those\nelements to be a possible thing.\n\nThe first element of discord to be considered is the division of things\nby personal proportion, as by fathom, yard, cubit, foot, etc. It is\nobvious at a glance, that these do not agree with binary division, nor\nwith decimal, nor yet with each other. It is this element that has\nsuggested the duodecimal base, to which some adhere so tenaciously,\napparently because they have not ascertained the essential quality of a\nbase.\n\nThe second is the numeration of things by personal parts, as fingers,\nhands, etc.,--suggesting a base of numeration that has no agreement\nwith the binary, nor with personal proportion, neither can it have with\nany proper general system. Are there any things in Nature that exist by\ntens, that associate by tens, that separate into tenths? Are there any\nthings that are sold by tens, or by tenths? Even the fingers number\neight, and, had there been any reflection used in the adoption of a base\nof numeration, the thumbs would not have been included. The ease with\nwhich the simplest arithmetical series may be continued led our fathers\nquietly to the adoption, first, of the quinary, and second, of the\ndecimal group; and we have continued its use so quietly, that its\npropriety has rarely been questioned; indeed, most persons are both\nsurprised and offended, when they hear it declared to be a purely\nartificial base, proper only to abstract numbers.\n\nThe binary base, on the contrary, is natural, real, simple,\nand accords with the tendency of the mind to simplify, to\nindividualize. In business, who ever thinks of a half as\ntwo-fourths, or three-sixths, much less as two-and-a-half-fifths,\nor three-and-a-half-sevenths? For division by two produces a half\nat one operation; but with any other divisor, the reduction is too\ngreat, and must be followed by multiplication. Think of calling\na half five-tenths, a quarter twenty-five-hundredths, an eighth\none-hundred-and-twenty-five-thousandths! Arithmetic is seldom used as a\nplaything. It generally comes into use when the mind is too much\noccupied for sporting. Consequently, the smallest divisor that will\nserve the purpose is always preferred. A calculation is an appendage to\na mercantile transaction, not a part of the transaction itself; it is,\nindeed, a hindrance, and in large business is performed by a distinct\nperson. But even with him, simplicity, because necessary to speed, is\nsecond in merit only to correctness.\n\nThe binary base is not only simple, it is real. Accordingly, it has\nlarge agreement with the popular divisions of weights, etc. Grocers'\nweights, up to the four-pound piece, and all their measures, are binary;\nso are the divisions of the yard, the inch, etc.\n\nIt is not only simple and real, it is natural. On every hand, things may\nbe found that are duplex in form, that associate in pairs, that separate\ninto halves, that may be divided into two equal parts. Things are\ncontinually sold in pairs, in halves, and in quantities produced by\nhalving.\n\nThe binary base, therefore, is here proposed, as the only proper base\nfor gradation; and the octonal, as the true commercial base, for\nnumeration and notation: two bases which in combination form a\nbinoctonal system that is at once simple, comprehensive, and efficient.\n\n\n\n\nMY LAST LOVE.\n\n\nI had counted many more in my girlhood, in the first flush of\nblossoming,--and a few, good men and true, whom I never meet even now\nwithout an added color; for, at one time or another, I thought I loved\neach of them.\n\n\"Why didn't I marry them, then?\"\n\nFor the same reason that many another woman does not. We are afraid to\ntrust our own likings. Too many of them are but sunrise vapors, very\nrosy to begin with, but by mid-day as dingy as any old dead cloud with\nthe rain all shed out of it. I never see any of those old swains of\nmine, without feeling profoundly thankful that I don't belong to him. I\nshouldn't want to look over my husband's head in any sense. So they all\ngot wives and children, and I lived an old maid,--although I was\nscarcely conscious of the state; for, if my own eyes or other people's\ntestimony were to be trusted, I didn't look old, and I'm quite sure I\ndidn't feel so. But I came to myself on my thirty-second birthday, an\nold maid most truly, without benefit of clergy. And thereby hangs this\ntale; for on that birthday I first made acquaintance with my last love.\n\nSomething like a month before, there had come to Huntsville two\ngentlemen in search of game and quiet quarters for the summer. They soon\nfound that a hotel in a country village affords little seclusion; but\nthe woods were full of game, the mountain-brooks swarmed with trout too\nfine to be given up, and they decided to take a house of their own.\nAfter some search, they fixed on an old house, (I've forgotten whose\n\"folly\" it was called,) full a mile and a half from town, standing upon\na mossy hill that bounded my fields, square and stiff and\nweather-beaten, and without any protection except a ragged pine-tree\nthat thrust its huge limbs beneath the empty windows, as though it were\nrunning away with a stolen house under its arm. The place was musty,\nrat-eaten, and tenanted by a couple of ghosts, who thought a fever, once\nquite fatal within the walls, no suitable discharge from the property,\nand made themselves perfectly free of the quarters in properly weird\nseasons. But money and labor cleared out all the cobwebs, (for ghosts\nare but spiritual cobwebs, you know,) and the old house soon wore a\ncharming air of rustic comfort.\n\nI used to look over sometimes, for it was full in view from my\nchamber-windows, and see the sportsmen going off by sunrise with their\nguns or fishing-rods, or lying, after their late dinner, stretched upon\nthe grass in front of the house, smoking and reading. Sometimes a\nfragment of a song would be dropped down from the lazy wings of the\nsouth wind, sometimes a long laugh filled all the summer air and\nfrightened the pinewood into echoes, and, altogether, the new neighbors\nseemed to live an enviable life. They were very civil people, too; for,\nthough their nearest path out lay across my fields, and close by the\ndoorway, and they often stopped to buy fruit or cream or butter, we were\nnever annoyed by an impertinent question or look. Once only I overheard\na remark not altogether civil, and that was on the evening before my\nbirthday. One of them, the elder, said, as he went away from my house\nwith a basket of cherries, that he should like to get speech with that\npolyglot old maid, who read, and wrote, and made her own butter-pats.\nThe other answered, that the butter was excellent at any rate, and\nperhaps she had a classical cow; and they went down the lane laughingly\ndisputing about the matter, not knowing that I was behind the\ncurrant-bushes.\n\n\"Polyglot old maid!\" I thought, very indignantly, as I went into the\nhouse. \"I've a mind not to sell them another cake of my butter. But I\nwonder if people call me an old maid. I wonder if I am one.\"\n\nI thought of it all the evening, and dreamt of it all night, waking the\nnext morning with a new realization of the subject. That first sense of\na lost youth! How sharp and strong it comes! That suddenly opened north\ndoor of middle life, through which the winter winds rush in, sweeping\nout of the southern windows all the splendors of the earlier time; it is\nlike a sea-turn in late summer. It has seemed to be June all along, and\nwe thought it was June, until the wind went round to the east, and the\nfirst red leaf admonished us. By-and-by we close, as well as we may,\nthat open door, and look out again from the windows upon blooms,\nbeautiful in their way, to which some birds yet sing; but, alas! the\nwind is still from the east, and blows as though, far away, it had lain\namong icebergs.\n\nSo I mused all the morning, watering the sentiment with a bit of a\nshower out of my cloud; and when the shadows turned themselves, I went\nout to see how old age would look to me in the fields and woods. It was\na delicious afternoon, more like a warm dream of hay-making, odorous,\nmisty, sleepily musical, than a waking reality, on which the sun shone.\nTremulous blue clouds lay down all around upon the mountains, and lazy\nwhite ones lost themselves in the waters; and through the dozing air,\nthe faint chirp of robin or cricket, and ding of bells in the woods, and\nmellow cut of scythe, melted into one song, as though the heart-beat of\nthe luscious midsummer-time had set itself to tune.\n\nI walked on to loiter through the woods. No dust-brush for brain or\nheart like the boughs of trees! There dwells a truth, and pure, strong\nhealth within them, an ever-returning youth, promising us a glorious\nleafage in some strange spring-time, and a symmetry and sweetness that\npossess us until our thoughts grow skyward like them, and wave and sing\nin some sunnier strata of soul-air. In the woods I was a girl again, and\nforgot the flow of the hours in their pleasant companionship. I must\nhave grown tired and sat down by a thicket of pines to rest, though I\nhave forgotten, and perhaps I had fallen asleep; for suddenly I became\nconscious of a sharp report, and a sharper pain in my shoulder, and,\ntearing off my cape, I found the blood was flowing from a wound just\nbelow the joint. I remember little more, for a sudden faintness came\nover me; but I have an indistinct remembrance of people coming up, of\nvoices, of being carried home, and of the consternation there, and long\ndelay in obtaining the surgeon. The pain of an operation brought me\nfully to my senses; and when that was over, I was left alone to sleep,\nor to think over my situation at leisure. I'm afraid I had but little of\na Christian spirit then. All my plans of labor and pleasure spoiled by\nthis one piece of carelessness! to call it by the mildest term. All\nthose nice little fancies that should have grown into real\nflesh-and-blood articles for my publisher, hung up to dry and shrivel\nwithout shape or comeliness! The garden, the dairy, the new bit of\ncarriage-way through the beeches,--my pet scheme,--the new music, the\nsewing, all laid upon the shelf for an indefinite time, and I with no\nbetter employment than to watch the wall-paper, and to wonder if it\nwasn't almost dinner- or supper-time, or nearly daylight! To be sure, I\nknew and thought of all the improving reflections of a sick-room; but it\nwas much like a mild-spoken person making peace among twenty quarrelsome\nones. You can see him making mouths, but you don't hear a word he says.\n\nA sick mind breeds fever fast in a sick body, and by night I was in a\nhigh fever, and for a day or two knew but little of what went on about\nme. One of the first things I heard, when I grew easier, was, that my\nneighbor, the sportsman, was waiting below to hear how I was. It was the\nyounger one whose gun had wounded me; and he had shown great solicitude,\nthey said, coming several times each day to inquire for me. He brought\nsome birds to be cooked for me, too,--and came again to bring some\nlilies he had gone a mile to fetch, he told the girl. Every day he came\nto inquire, or to bring some delicacy, or a few flowers, or a new\nmagazine for me, until the report of his visit came to be an expected\nexcitement, and varied the dull days wonderfully. Sickness and seclusion\nare a new birth to our senses, oftentimes. Not only do we get a real\nglimpse of ourselves, undecked and unclothed, but the commonest habits\nof life, and the things that have helped to shape them day by day, put\non a sort of strangeness, and come to shake hands with us again, and\nmake us wonder that they should be just exactly what they are. We get at\nthe primitive meaning of them, as if we rubbed off the nap of life, and\nlooked to see how the threads were woven; and they come and go before us\nwith a sort of old newness that affects us much as if we should meet our\nown ghost some time, and wonder if we are really our own or some other\nperson's housekeeper.\n\nI went through all this, and came out with a stock of small facts\nbeside,--as, that the paper-hanger had patched the hangings in my\nchamber very badly in certain dark spots, (I had got several headaches,\nmaking it out,)--that the chimney was a little too much on one\nside,--that certain boards in the entry-floor creaked of their own\naccord in the night,--that Neighbor Brown had tucked a few new shingles\ninto the roof of his barn, so that it seemed to have broken out with\nthem,--and any number of other things equally important. At length I got\ndown-stairs, and was allowed to see a few friends. Of course there was\nan inundation of them; and each one expected to hear my story, and to\ntell a companion one, something like mine, only a little more so. It was\nastonishing, the immense number of people that had been hurt with guns.\nNo wonder I was sick for a day or two afterward. I was more prudent next\ntime, however, and, as the gossips had got all they wanted, I saw only\nmy particular friends. Among these my neighbor, the sportsman, insisted\non being reckoned, and after a little hesitation we were obliged to\nadmit him. I say we,--for, on hearing of my injury, my good cousin, Mary\nMead, had come to nurse and amuse me. She was one of those safe,\nserviceable, amiable people, made of just the stuff for a satellite, and\nshe proved invaluable to me. She was immensely taken with Mr. Ames, too,\n(I speak of the younger, for, after the first call of condolence, the\nelder sportsman never came,) and to her I left the task of entertaining\nhim, or rather of doing the honors of the house,--for the gentleman\ncontrived to entertain himself and us.\n\nNow don't imagine the man a hero, for he was no such thing. He was very\ngood-looking,--some might say handsome,--well-bred, well educated, with\nplenty of common information picked up in a promiscuous intercourse with\ntown and country people, rather fine tastes, and a great, strong,\nmagnanimous, physical nature, modest, but perfectly self-conscious. That\nwas his only charm for me. I despise a mere animal; but, other things\nbeing equal, I admire a man who is big and strong, and aware of his\nadvantages; and I think most women, and very refined ones, too, love\nphysical beauty and strength much more than they are willing to\nacknowledge. So I had the same admiration for Mr. Ames that I should\nhave had for any other finely proportioned thing, and enjoyed him very\nmuch, sitting quietly in my corner while he chatted with Mary, or told\nme stories of travel or hunting, or read aloud, which he soon fell into\nthe way of doing.\n\nWe did try, as much as hospitality permitted, to confine his visits to a\nfew ceremonious calls; but he persisted in coming almost every day, and\nwalked in past the girl with that quiet sort of authority which it is so\ndifficult to resist. In the same way he took possession of Mary and me.\nHe was sure it must be very dull for both of us; therefore he was going,\nif we would pardon the liberty, to offer his services as reader, while\nmy nurse went out for a ride or a walk. Couldn't I sit out under the\nshadow of the beech-trees, as well as in that hot room? He could lift\nthe chair and me perfectly well, and arrange all so that I should be\ncomfortable. He would like to superintend the cooking of some birds he\nbrought one day. He noticed that the girl didn't do them quite as nicely\nas he had learned to do them in the woods. And so in a thousand things\nhe quietly made us do as he chose, without seeming to outrage any rule\nof propriety. When I was able to sit in a carriage, he persuaded me to\ndrive with him; and I had to lean on his arm, when I first went round\nthe place to see how matters went on.\n\nOnce I protested against his making himself so necessary to us, and told\nhim that I didn't care to furnish the gossips so much food as we were\ndoing.\n\nWhen I turned him out of doors, he would certainly stay away, he said;\nbut he thought, that, as long as I was an invalid, I needed some one to\nthink and act for me and save me the trouble, and, as no one else seemed\ndisposed to take the office, he thought it was rather his duty and\nprivilege,--especially, he added, with a slight smile, as he was quite\nsure that it was not very disagreeable to us. As for the gossips, he\ndidn't think they would make much out of it, with such an excellent\nduenna as Cousin Mary,--and, indeed, he heard the other day that he was\npaying attention to her.\n\nI thought it all over by myself, when he had gone, and came to the\nconclusion that it was not necessary for me to resign so great a\npleasure as his society had become, merely for the fear of what a few\ncurious people might say. Even Mary, cautious as she was, protested\nagainst banishing him for such a reason; and, after a little talking\nover of the matter among ourselves, we decided to let Mr. Ames come as\noften as he chose, for the remaining month of his stay.\n\nThat month went rapidly enough, for I was well enough to ride and walk\nout, and half the time had Mr. Ames to accompany me. I got to value him\nvery much, as I knew him better, and as he grew acquainted with my\npeculiarities; and we were the best friends in the world, without a\nthought of being more. No one would have laughed at that more than we,\nthere was such an evident unsuitableness in the idea. At length the time\ncame for him to leave Huntsville; his house was closed, except one room\nwhere he still preferred to remain, and his friend was already gone. He\ncame to take tea with us for the last time, and made himself as\nagreeable as ever, although it evidently required some effort to do so.\nSoft-hearted Cousin Mary broke down and went off crying when he bade her\ngood-bye, after tea; but I was not of such stuff, and laughingly rallied\nhim on the impression he had made.\n\n\"Get your bonnet, and walk over to the stile with me, Miss Rachel,\" he\nsaid. \"It isn't sunset quite yet, and the afternoon is warm. Come! it's\nthe last walk we shall take together.\"\n\nI followed him out, and we went almost silently across the fields to the\nhill that overlooked the strip of meadow between our houses. There was\nthe stile over which I had looked to see him spring, many a time.\n\n\"Sit down a moment, until the sun is quite down,\" he said, making room\nfor me beside him on the topmost step. \"See how splendid that sky is! a\npavilion for the gods!\"\n\n\"I should think they were airing all their finery,\" I answered. \"It\nlooks more like a counter spread with bright goods than anything else I\ncan think of.\"\n\n\"That's a decidedly vulgar comparison, and you're not in a spiritual\nmood at all,\" he said. \"You've snubbed me two or three times to-night,\nwhen I've tried to be sentimental. What's amiss with you?\" and he bent\nhis eyes, full of a saucy sort of triumph, upon mine.\n\n\"I don't like parting with friends; it sets me all awry,\" I said, giving\nback his own self-assured look. I was sorry to have him go; but if he\nthought I was going to cry or blush, he was mistaken.\n\n\"You'll write to me, Miss Rachel?\" he asked.\n\n\"No, Mr. Ames,--not at all,\" I said.\n\n\"Not write? Why not?\" he asked, in astonishment.\n\n\"Because I don't believe in galvanizing dead friendships,\" I answered.\n\n\"Dead friendships, Miss Rachel? I hope ours has much life in it yet,\" he\nsaid.\n\n\"It's in the last agony, Sir. It will be comfortably dead and buried\nbefore long, with a neat little epitaph over it,--which is much the best\nway to dispose of them finally, I think.\"\n\n\"You're harder than I thought you were,\" he said. \"Is that the way you\nfeel towards all your friends?\"\n\n\"I love my friends as well as any one,\" I answered. \"But I never hold\nthem when they wish to be gone. My life-yarn spins against some other\nyarn, catches the fibres, and twists into the very heart\"----\n\n\"So far?\" he asked, turning his eyes down to mine.\n\n\"Yes,\" I said, coolly,--\"for the time being. You don't play at your\nfriendships, do you? If so, I pity you. As I was saying, they're like\none thread. By-and-by one spindle is moved, the strands spin away from\neach other, and become strange yarn. What's the use of sending little\nlocks of wool across to keep them acquainted? They're two yarns from\nhenceforth. Reach out for some other thread,--there's plenty near,--and\nspin into that. We're made all up of little locks from other people, Mr.\nAmes. Won't it be strange, in that great Hereafter, to hunt up our own\nfibres, and return other people's? It would take about forty-five\ndegrees of an eternity to do that.\"\n\n\"I shall never return mine,\" he said. \"I couldn't take myself to pieces\nin such a style. But won't you write at all?\"\n\n\"To what purpose? You'll be glad of one letter,--possibly of two. Then\nit will be, 'Confound it! here's a missive from that old maid! What a\nbore! Now I suppose I must air my wits in her behalf; but, if you ever\ncatch me again,'----_Exit_.\"\n\n\"And you?\" he asked, laughing.\n\n\"I shall be as weary as you, and find it as difficult to keep warmth in\nthe poor dying body. No, Mr. Ames. Let the poor thing die a natural\ndeath, and we'll wear a bit of crape a little while, and get a new\nfriend for the old.\"\n\n\"So you mean to forget me altogether?\"\n\n\"No, indeed! I shall recollect you as a very pleasant tale that is\ntold,--not a friend to hanker after. Isn't that good common sense?\"\n\n\"It's all head-work,--mere cold calculation,\" he said; \"while I\"----He\nstopped and colored.\n\n\"Your gods, there, are downright turn-coats,\" I said, coming down from\nthe stile. \"Their red mantles are nothing but pearl-colored now, and\npresently they'll be russet-gray. That whippoorwill always brings the\ndew with him, too; so I must go home. Good-night, and good-bye, Mr.\nAmes.\"\n\n\"I scarcely know how to part with you,\" he said, taking my hand. \"It's\nnot so easy a thing to do.\"\n\n\"People say, 'Good-bye,' or 'God bless you,' or some such civil phrase,\nusually,\" I said, with just the least curl of my lip,--for I knew I had\ngot the better of him.\n\nHe colored again, and then smiled a little sadly.\n\n\"Ah! I'm afraid I leave a bigger lock than I take,\" he exclaimed. \"Well,\nthen, good friend! good-bye, and God bless you, too! Don't be quite so\nhard as you promise to be.\"\n\nI missed him very much, indeed; but if any think I cried after him, or\nwrote verses, or soliloquized for his sake, they are much mistaken. I\nhad lost friends before, and made it a point to think just as little of\nthem as possible, until the sore spot grew strong enough to handle\nwithout wincing. Besides, my cousin stayed with me, and all my good\nfriends in the village had to come out for a call or a visit to see how\nthe land lay; so I had occupation enough. Once in a while I used to look\nover to the old house, and wish for one good breezy conversation with\nits master; and when the snow came and lay in one mass upon the old\nroof, clear down to the eaves, like a night-cap pulled down to the eyes\nof a low-browed old woman, I moved my bed against the window that looked\nthat way. These forsaken nests are gloomy things enough!\n\nI had no thought of hearing again of him or from him, and was surprised,\nwhen, in a month, a review came, and before long another, and afterwards\na box, by express, with a finely kept bouquet, and, in mid-winter, a\nlittle oil-painting,--a delicious bit of landscape for my _sanctum_, as\nhe said in the note that accompanied it. I heard from him in this way\nall winter, although I never sent word or message back again, and tried\nto think I was sorry that he did not forget me, as I had supposed he\nwould. Of course I never thought of acknowledging to myself that it was\npossible for me to love him. I was too good a sophist for that; and,\nindeed, I think that between a perfect friendship and a perfect love a\nfainter distinction exists than many people imagine. I have known\nlikings to be colored as rosily as love, and seen what called itself\nlove as cold as the chilliest liking.\n\nOne day, after spring had been some time come, I was returning from a\nwalk and saw that Mr. Ames's house was open. I could not see any person\nthere; but the door and windows were opened, and a faint smoke crept out\nof the chimney and up among the new spring foliage after the squirrels.\nI had walked some distance, and was tired, and the weather was not\nperfect; but I thought I would go round that way and see what was going\non. It was one of those charming child-days in early May, laughing and\ncrying all in one, the fine mist-drops shining down in the sun's rays,\nlike star-dust from some new world in process of rasping up for use. I\nliked such days. The showers were as good for me as for the trees. I\ngrew and budded under them, and they filled my soul's soil full of\nsinging brooks.\n\nWhen I reached the lawn before the door, Mr. Ames came out to see\nme,--so glad to meet that he held my hand and drew me in, asking two or\nthree times how I was and if I were glad to see him. He had called at\nthe house and seen Cousin Mary, on his way over, he said,--for he was\nhungering for a sight of us. He was not looking as well as when he left\nin the autumn,--thinner, paler, and with a more anxious expression when\nhe was not speaking; but when I began to talk with him, he brightened\nup, and seemed like his old self. He had two or three workmen already\ntearing down portions of the finishing, and after a few moments asked me\nto go round and see what improvements he was to make. We stopped at last\nat his chamber, a room that looked through the foliage towards my house.\n\n\"This is my lounging-place,\" he said, pointing to the sofa beneath the\nwindow. \"I shall sit here with my cigar and watch you this summer; so be\ncircumspect! But are you sure that you are glad to see me?\"\n\n\"To be sure. Do you take me for a heathen?\" I said. \"But what are you\nmaking such a change for? Couldn't the old house content you?\"\n\n\"It satisfies me well enough; but I expect visitors this summer who are\nquite fastidious, and this old worm-eaten wood-work wouldn't do for\nthem. What makes you look so dark? Don't you like the notion of my\nlady-visitors?\"\n\n\"I didn't know that they were to be ladies until you told me,\" I said;\n\"and it's none of my business whom you entertain, Mr. Ames.\"\n\n\"There wasn't much of a welcome for them in your face, at any rate,\" he\nanswered. \"And to tell the truth, I am not much pleased with the\narrangement myself. But they took a sudden fancy for coming, and no\namount of persuasion could induce them to change their minds. It's\nhardly a suitable place for ladies; but if they will come, they must\nmake the best of it.\"\n\n\"How came you ever to take a fancy to this place? and what makes you\nspend so much money on it?\" I asked.\n\n\"You don't like to see the money thrown away,\" he said, laughing. \"The\ntruth is, that I've got a skeleton, like many another man, and I've been\ntrying these two years to get away from it. The first time I stopped to\nrest under this tree, I felt light-hearted. I don't know why, except it\nwas some mysterious influence; but I loved the place, and I love it no\nless now, although my skeleton has found a lodging-place here too.\"\n\n\"Of course,\" I said, \"and very appropriately. The house was haunted\nbefore you came.\"\n\n\"It was haunted for me afterward,\" he said softly, more to himself than\nto me; \"sweet, shadowy visions I should be glad to call up now.\" And he\nturned away and swallowed a sigh.\n\nI pitied him all the way home, and sat up to pity him, looking through\nthe soft May starlight to see the lamp burning steadily at his window\nuntil after midnight. From that time I seemed to have a trouble,--though\nI could scarcely have named or owned it, it was so indefinite.\n\nHe came to see me a few days afterward, and sat quite dull and\nabstracted until I warmed him up with a little lively opposition. I\nvexed him first, and then, when I saw he was interested enough to talk,\nI let him have a chance; and I had never seen him so interesting. He\nshowed me a new phase of his character, and I listened, and answered him\nin as few words as possible, that I might lose nothing of the\nrevelation. When he got up to go away, I asked him where he had been to\nlearn and think so much since the last autumn. He began to be, I thought\nand hoped, what a sterner teaching might have made him before.\n\nHe seemed a little embarrassed; said no one else had discovered any\nchange in him, and he thought it must be only a reflected light. He had\nobserved that I had \"a remarkable faculty for drawing people out. What\nwas my witchcraft?\"\n\nI disclaimed all witchcraft, and told him it was only because I\nquarrelled with people. A little wholesome opposition had warmed him\ninto quite a flight of fancy.\n\n\"If I could only,\"----he began, hurriedly; but took out his watch, said\nit was time for him to go, and went off quite hastily. It was very weak\nin me, but I wished very much to know what he would have said.\n\nThe next time, he called a few moments to tell me that his\nlady-visitors, with a friend of theirs, had come, and had expressed a\nwish to make my acquaintance. He promised them that he would call and\nlet me know,--though he hoped I would not come, unless I felt inclined.\nHe was very absent-minded, and went off the moment I asked him where he\nhad left his good spirits. This made me a little cold to him when I\ncalled on the ladies, for I found them all sitting after tea out at the\ndoor. It was a miserably constrained affair, though we all tried to be\ncivil,--for I could see that both ladies were taking, or trying to take,\nmy measure, and it did not set me at ease in the least. But in the mean\ntime I had measured them; and as experience has confirmed that first\nimpression, I may as well sketch them here. I protest, in the first\nplace, against any imputation of prejudice or jealousy. I thought much\nmore charitably of them than others did.\n\nMrs. Winslow was one of those pleasant, well-bred ladies, who can look\nat you until you are obliged to look away, contradict you flatly, and\nsay the most grossly impertinent things in the mildest voice and\nchoicest words. A woman of the world, without nobility enough to\nappreciate a magnanimous thought or action, and with very narrow,\nshallow views of everything about her, she had still some agreeable\ntraits of character,--much shrewd knowledge of the world, as she saw it,\nsome taste for Art, and an excellent judgment in relation to all things\nappertaining to polite society. I had really some pleasant intercourse\nwith her, although I think she was one of the most insulting persons I\never met. I made a point of never letting her get any advantage of me,\nand so we got along very well. Whenever she had a chance, she was sure\nto say something that would mortify or hurt me; and I never failed to\nrepay both principal and interest with a voice and face as smooth as\nhers. And here let me say that there is no other way of dealing with\nsuch people. Self-denial, modesty, magnanimity, they do not and cannot\nunderstand. Never turn them the other cheek, but give a smart slap back\nagain. It will do them good.\n\nThe daughter was a very pretty, artificial, silly girl, who might have\nbeen very amiable in a different position, and was not ill-natured as it\nwas. I might have liked her very well, if she had not conceived such a\nwonderful liking for me, and hugged and kissed me as much as she did.\nShe cooed, too, and I dislike to hear a woman coo; it is a sure mark of\ninferiority.\n\nWe were quite intimate soon, and Miss Lucy fell into the habit of coming\nearly in the morning to ride with me, and after dinner to sit and sew,\nand after tea for a walk. She showed me all her heart, apparently,\nthough there was not much of it, and vowed that she scarcely knew how\nshe should exist without me. I let her play at liking me, just as I\nshould have indulged a playful kitten, and tried to say and do something\nthat might improve her for Mr. Ames's sake. I saw now what his skeleton\nwas. He was to marry the poor child, and shrunk from it as I should have\nshrunk from a shallow husband.\n\nHe used to come with her sometimes, and I must confess that he behaved\nadmirably. I never saw him in the least rude, or ill-natured, or\ncontemptuous towards her, even when she was silliest and tried his\npatience most severely; and I felt my respect for him increasing every\nday. As for Mrs. Winslow, she came sometimes to see me, and was very\nparticular to invite me there; but I saw that she watched both me and\nMr. Ames, and suspected that she had come to Huntsville for that\npurpose. She sought every opportunity, too, of making me seem awkward or\nignorant before him; and he perceived it, I know, and was mortified and\nannoyed by it, though he left the chastisement entirely to me. Once in a\nwhile Cousin Mary and I had a real old-fashioned visit from him all\nalone, either when it was very stormy, or when the ladies were visiting\nelsewhere. He always came serious and abstracted, and went away in good\nspirits, and he said that those few hours were the pleasantest he\npassed. Mrs. Winslow looked on them with an evil eye, I knew, and\nsuspected a great deal of which we were all innocent; for one day, when\nshe had been dining at my house with her daughter, and we were all out\nin the garden together, I overheard her saying,--\n\n\"She is just the person to captivate him, and you mustn't bring yourself\ninto competition with her, Lucy. She can out-shine you in conversation,\nand I know that she is playing a deep game.\"\n\n\"La, ma!\" the girl exclaimed. \"An old maid, without the least style! and\nshe makes butter too, and actually climbs up in a chair to scrub down\nher closets,--for Edward and I caught her at it one day.\"\n\n\"And did she seem confused?\" asked Mrs. Winslow.\n\n\"No, indeed! Now I should have died, if he had caught me in such a\nplight; but she shook down her dress as though it were a matter of\ncourse, and they were soon talking about some German stuff,--I don't\nknow what it was,--while I had to amuse myself with the drawings.\"\n\n\"That's the way!\" retorted the mother. \"You play dummy for them. I wish\nyou had a little more spirit, Lucy. You wouldn't play into the hands of\nthis designing\"----\n\n\"Nonsense, mamma! She's a real clever, good-natured old thing, and I\nlike her,\" exclaimed the daughter. \"You're so suspicious!\"\n\n\"You're so foolishly secure!\" answered mamma. \"A man is never certain\nuntil after the ceremony; and you don't know Edward Ames, Lucy.\"\n\n\"I know he's got plenty of money, mother, and I know he's real nice and\nhandsome,\" was the reply; and they walked out of hearing.\n\nI wouldn't have listened even to so much as that, if I could have\navoided it; and as soon as I could, I went into the parlor, and sat down\nto some work, trying to keep down that old trouble, which somehow\ngathered size like a rolling snowball. I might have known what it was,\nif I had not closed my eyes resolutely, and said to myself, \"The summer\nwill soon be gone, and there will be an end of it all then\"; and I\nwinced, as I said it, like one who sees a blow coming.\n\nThe summer went by imperceptibly; it was autumn, and still all things\nremained outwardly as they had been. We went back and forth continually,\nrode and walked out, sang and read together, and Lucy grew fonder and\nfonder of me. She could scarcely live out of my presence, and confided\nto me all her plans when she and Edward should be married,--how much she\nthought of him, and he of her, all about their courtship, how he\ndeclared himself and how she accepted him one soft moonlight night in\nfar Italy, how agitated and distressed he had been when she had a fever,\nand a thousand other details which swelled that great stone in my heart\nmore and more. But I shut my eyes, until one day when I saw them\ntogether. He was listening, intent, and very pale, to something she told\nhim, and, to my surprise, she was pale too, and weeping. Before she\ncould finish, she broke into a passionate rush of tears, and would have\nthrown herself at his feet; but he caught her, and she sunk down upon\nhis shoulder, and he stooped towards her as he might if he had loved\nher. Then I knew how I loved him.\n\nI had to bear up a little while, for they were in my house, and I must\nbid them good-night, and talk idly, so that they should not suspect the\nwound I had. But I must do something, or go mad; and so I went out to\nthe garden-wall, and struck my hand upon it until the blood ran. The\npain of that balanced the terrible pain within for a few moments, and I\nwent in to them calm and smiling. They were sitting on the sofa, he with\na perplexed, pale face, and she blushing and radiant. They started up\nwhen they saw my hand bandaged, and she was full of sympathy for my\nhurt. He said but little, though he looked fixedly at my face. I know I\nmust have looked strangely. When they were gone, I went into my chamber\nand shut the door, with some such feeling as I should have closed the\nentrance of a tomb behind me forever. I fought myself all that night. My\nheart was hungry and cried out for food, and I would promise it none at\nall. Is there anyone who thinks that youth has monopolized all the\npassion of life, all the rapture, all the wild despair? Let them breast\nthe deep, strong current of middle life.\n\nI never could quite recollect how that last month went away. I know that\nI kept myself incessantly occupied, and that I saw them almost daily,\nwithout departing from the tone of familiar friendship I had worn\nthroughout, although my heart was full of jealousy and a fast-growing\nhatred that would not be quelled. Not for a thousand happy loves would I\nhave let them see my humiliation. I was even afraid that already he\nmight suspect it, for his manner was changed. Sometimes he was distant,\nsometimes sad, and sometimes almost tenderer than a friend.\n\nIt got to be October, and I felt that I could not bear such a state of\nthings any longer, and questioned within myself whether I had better not\nleave home for a while. If I had been alone, it would have been easy;\nbut my cousin Mary was still with me, and I could give no good reason\nfor such a step. Before I had settled upon anything, Lucy came to me in\ngreat distress, with a confession that Mr. Ames was somehow turned\nagainst her, and that she was almost heart-broken about it. If she lost\nhim, she must die; for she had so long looked upon him as her husband,\nand loved him so well, that life would be nothing without him. What\nshould she do? Would I advise her?\n\nI didn't know, until long afterward, that it was a consummate piece of\nacting, dictated by the mother, and that she was as heartless as it was\npossible for a young girl to be; and while she lay weeping at my feet, I\npitied her, and wondered if, perhaps, there might not be some spring of\ngenerous feeling in her heart, that a happy love would unlock. The next\nmorning I went out alone, for a ride, in a direction where I thought I\ncould not be disturbed. Up hill and down, over roads, pastures, and\nstreams, I tore until the fever within was allayed, and then I stopped\nto rest, and look upon the beauties of the bright October day. All\noverhead and around, the sky and patches of water were of that\nfar-looking blue which seems all ready to open upon new and wonderful\nworlds. Big, bright drops of a night-shower lay asleep in the curled-up\nleaves, as though the trees had stretched out a million hands to catch\nthem. And such hands! What comparison could match them? Clouds of\nbutterflies, such as sleep among the flowers of Paradise,--forgotten\ndreams of children, who sleep and smile,--fancies of fairy laureates,\nstrung shining together for some high festival,--anything most rich or\nunreal, might furnish a type for the foliage that was painted upon the\ngolden blue of that October day. I could almost have forgotten my\ntrouble in the charmed gaze.\n\n\"You turn up in strange places, Rachel!\" said a voice behind me.\n\nThis was what I had dreaded; but I swallowed love and fear in one great\ngulp, and shut my teeth with a resolution of iron. I would not be guilty\nof the meanness of standing in that child's way, if she were but a fool;\nso I answered him gayly.\n\n\"'The same to yourself,' as Neighbor Dawkins would say. Why didn't you\nall go to the lake, as you planned last night?\"\n\n\"For some good reasons. Were you bewitched, that you stood here so\nstill?\" He looked brightly into my face, as he came up.\n\n\"No,--but the trees are. Shouldn't you think that Oberon had held high\ncourt here over-night?\"\n\n\"And that they had left their wedding-dresses upon the boughs? Yes, they\nare gay enough! But where have you been these four weeks, that I haven't\ngot speech with you?\"\n\n\"A pretty question, when you've been at my house almost every day! Where\nare your senses, man?\"\n\n\"I know too well where they are,\" he said. \"But I've wanted a good talk\nwith you, face to face,--not with a veil of commonplace people between.\nYou're not yourself among them. I like you best when your spirits are a\nlittle ruffled, and your eye kindles, and your lip curls, as it does\nnow,--not when you say, \"No, Sir,\" or \"Yes, Ma'am,\" and smile as though\nit were only skin-deep.\"\n\nI started my horse.\n\n\"Let's be going, Jessie,\" I said. \"It's our duty to feel insulted. He\naccuses your mistress of being deceitful among her friends, and says he\nlikes her when she's cross.\"\n\nHe laughed lightly, and walked along by my side.\n\n\"How are your ladies? and when will Miss Lucy come to ride out with me?\"\nI asked, fearing a look into his eyes.\n\nThis brought him down. I knew it would.\n\nHe answered that she was well, and walked along with his head down,\nquite like another man. At length he looked up, very pale, and put his\nhand on my bridle.\n\n\"I want to put a case to you,\" he said. \"Suppose a man to have made some\nengagement before his mind was mature, and under a strong outside\npressure of which he was not aware. When he grows to a better knowledge\nof the world and himself, and finds that he has been half cheated, and\nthat to keep his word will entail lasting misery and ruin on himself,\nwithout really benefiting any one else, is he bound to keep it?\"\n\nI stopped an instant to press my heart back, and then I answered him.\n\n\"A promise is a promise, Mr. Ames. I have thought that a man of honor\nvalued his word more than happiness or life.\"\n\nHe flushed a moment, and then looked down again; and we walked on\nslowly, without a word, over the stubbly ground, and through brooklets\nand groves and thickets, towards home. If I could only reach there\nbefore he spoke again! How could I hold out to do my duty, if I were\ntempted any farther? At last he checked the horse, and, putting his hand\nheavily on mine, looked me full in the face, while his was pale and\nagitated.\n\n\"Rachel,\" he said, huskily, \"if a man came to you and said, 'I am bound\nto another; but my heart, my soul, my life are at your feet,' would you\nturn him away?\"\n\nI gasped one long breath of fresh air.\n\n\"Do I look like a woman who would take a man's love at second hand?\" I\nsaid, haughtily. \"Women like me _must_ respect the man they marry, Sir.\"\n\nHe dropped his hand, and turned away his head, with a deep-drawn breath.\nI saw him stoop and lift himself again, as though some weight were laid\nupon his shoulders. I saw the muscles round and ridgy upon his clenched\nhand. \"All this for a silly, shallow thing, who knows nothing of the\nheart she loses!\" some tempter whispered, and passionate words of love\nrushed up and beat hard against my shut teeth. \"Get thee behind me!\" I\nmuttered, and resolutely started my horse forward. \"Not for her,--but\nfor myself,--for self-respect! The best love in the world shall not buy\nthat!\"\n\nHe came along beside me, silent, and stepping heavily, and thus we went\nto the leafy lane that came out near my house. There I stopped; for I\nfelt that this must end now.\n\n\"Mr. Ames, you must leave this place, directly,\" I said, with as much\nsternness as I could assume. \"If you please, I will bid you good-bye,\nnow.\"\n\n\"Not see you again, Rachel?\" he exclaimed, sharply. \"No! not that!\nForgive me, if I have said too much; but don't send me away!\"\n\nHe took my hand in both his, and gazed as one might for a sentence of\nlife or death.\n\n\"Will you let a woman's strength shame you?\" I cried, desperately. \"I\nthought you were a man of honor, Mr. Ames. I trusted you entirely, but I\nwill never trust any one again.\"\n\nHe dropped my hand, and drew himself up.\n\n\"You are right, Rachel! you are right,\" he said, after a moment's\nthought. \"No one must trust me, and be disappointed. I have never\nforgotten that before; please God, I never will again. But must I say\nfarewell here?\"\n\n\"It is better,\" I said.\n\n\"Good-bye, then, dear friend!--dear friend!\" he whispered. \"If you ever\nlove any better than yourself, you will know how to forgive me.\"\n\nI felt his kiss on my hand, and felt, rather than saw, his last look,\nfor I dared not raise my eyes to his; and I knew that he had turned\nback, and that I had seen the last of him. For one instant I thought I\nwould follow and tell him that he did not suffer alone; but before my\nhorse was half turned, I was myself again.\n\n\"Fool!\" I said. \"If you let the dam down, can you push the waters back\nagain? Would that man let anything upon earth stand between him and a\nwoman that loved him? Let him go so. He'll forget you in six months.\"\n\nI had to endure a farewell call from Lucy and her mother. Mr. Ames had\nreceived a sudden summons home, and they were to accompany him a part of\nthe way. The elder scrutinized me very closely, but I think she got\nnothing to satisfy her; the younger kissed and shed tears enough for the\nparting of twin sisters. How I hated her! In a couple of days they were\ngone, Mr. Ames calling to see me when he knew me to be out, and leaving\na civil message only. The house was closed, the faded leaves fell all\nabout the doorway, and the grass withered upon the little lawn.\n\n\"That play is over, and the curtain dropped,\" I said to myself, as I\ntook one long look towards the old house, and closed the shutters that\nopened that way.\n\nYou who have suffered some great loss, and stagger for want of strength\nto walk alone, thank God for work. Nothing like that for bracing up a\nfeeble heart! I worked restlessly from morning till night, and often\nencroached on what should have been sleep. Hard work, real sinewy labor,\nwas all that would content me; and I found enough of it. To have been a\nproper heroine, I suppose I should have devoted myself to works of\ncharity, read sentimental poetry, and folded my hands very meekly and\nprettily; but I did no such thing. I ripped up carpets, and scoured\npaint, and swept down cobwebs, I made sweetmeats and winter clothing, I\ndug up and set out trees, and smoothed the turf in my garden, and\ntramped round my fields with the man behind me, to see if the fences\nneeded mending, or if the marshes were properly drained, or the fallow\nland wanted ploughing. It made me better. All the sickliness of my grief\npassed away, and only the deep-lying regret was left like a weight to\nwhich my heart soon became accustomed. We can manage trouble much better\nthan we often do, if we only choose to try resolutely.\n\nI had but one relapse. It was when I got news of their marriage. I\nremember the day with a peculiar distinctness; for it was the first\nsnow-storm of the season, and I had been out walking all the afternoon.\nIt was one of those soft, leaden-colored, expectant days, of late autumn\nor early winter, when one is sure of snow; and I went out on purpose to\nsee it fall among the woods; for it was just upon Christmas, and I\nlonged to see the black ground covered. By-and-by a few flakes sauntered\ndown, coquetting as to where they would alight; then a few more\nfollowed, thickening and thickening until the whole upper air was alive\nwith them, and the frozen ridges whitened along their backs, and every\nlittle stiff blade of grass or rush or dead bush held all it could\ncarry. It was pleasant to see the quiet wonder go on, until the\nlandscape was completely changed,--to walk home _scuffing_ the snow from\nthe frozen road on which my feet had ground as I came that way, and see\nthe fences full, and the hollows heaped up level, and the birches bent\ndown with their hair hidden, and the broad arms of the fir-trees loaded,\nlike sombre cotton-pickers going home heavily laden. Then to see the\nbrassy streak widen in the west, and the cold moon hang astonished upon\nthe dead tops of some distant pine-trees, was to enjoy a most beautiful\npicture, with only the cost of a little fatigue.\n\nWhen I got home, I found among my letters one from Mr. Ames. He could\nnot leave the country without pleading once more for my esteem, he\nwrote. He had not intended to marry until he could think more calmly of\nthe past; but Lucy's mother had married again very suddenly into a\nfamily where her daughter found it not pleasant to follow her. She was\npoor, without very near relatives now, and friends, on both sides, had\nurged the marriage. He had told her the state of his feelings, and\noffered, if she could overlook the want of love, to be everything else\nto her. She should never repent the step, and he prayed me, when I\nthought of him, to think as leniently as possible. Alas! now I must not\nthink at all.\n\nHow I fought that thought,--how I worked by day, and studied deep into\nthe night, filling every hour full to the brim with activity, seems now\na feverish dream to me. Such dead thoughts will not be buried out of\nsight, but lie cold and stiff, until the falling foliage of seasons of\nlabor and experience eddies round them, and moss and herbs venture to\ngrow over their decay, and birds come slowly and curiously to sing a\nlittle there. In time, the mound is beautiful with the richness of the\ngrowth, but the lord of the manor shudders as he walks that way. For\nhim, it is always haunted.\n\nThus with me. I knew that the sorrow was doing me good, that it had been\nneeded long, and I tried to profit by it, as the time came when I could\nthink calmly of it all. I thought I had ceased to love him; but the news\nof her death (for she died in two years) taught me better. I heard of\nhim from others,--that he had been most tender and indulgent to a\nselfish, heartless woman, who trifled with his best feelings, and almost\nbroke his heart before she went. I heard that he had one child, a poor\nlittle blind baby, for whom the mother had neither love nor care, and\nthat he still continued abroad. But from himself I never heard a word.\nNo doubt he had forgotten me, as I had always thought he would.\n\nMore than two years passed, and spring-time was upon us, when I heard\nthat he had returned to the country, and was to be married shortly to a\nwealthy, beautiful widow he had found abroad. At first we heard that he\nwas married, and then that he was making great preparations, but would\nnot marry until autumn. Even the bride's dress was described, and the\nfurniture of the house of which she was to be mistress. I had expected\nsome such thing, but it added one more drop of bitterness to the\nyearning I had for him. It was so hard to think him like any other man!\n\nHowever, now, as before, I covered up the wound with a smiling face, and\nwent about my business. I had been making extensive improvements on my\nfarm, and kept out all day often, over-seeing the laborers. One night, a\nsoft, starlight evening in late May, I came home very tired, and, being\nquite alone, sat down on the portico to watch the stars and think. I had\nnot been long there, when a man's step came up the avenue, and some\nperson, I could not tell who in the darkness, opened the gate, and came\nslowly up towards me. I rose, and bade him good-evening.\n\n\"Is it you, Rachel?\" he said, quite faintly. It was his voice. Thank\nHeaven for the darkness! The hand I gave him might tremble, but my face\nshould betray nothing. I invited him into the parlor, and rang for\nlights.\n\n\"He's come to see about selling the old house,\" I thought; there was a\nreport that he would sell it by auction. When the lights came, he looked\neagerly at me.\n\n\"Am I much changed?\" I said, with a half-bitter smile.\n\n\"Not so much as I,\" he answered, sighing and looking down;--he seemed to\nbe in deep thought for a moment.\n\nHe was much changed. His hair was turning gray; his face was thin, with\na subdued expression I had never expected to see him wear. He must have\nsuffered greatly; and, as I looked, my heart began to melt. That would\nnot do; and besides, what was the need of pity, when he had consoled\nhimself? I asked some ordinary question about his journey, and led him\ninto a conversation on foreign travel.\n\nThe evening passed away as it might with two strangers, and he rose to\ngo, with a grave face and manner as cold as mine,--for I had been very\ncold. I followed him to the door, and asked how long he stayed at\nHuntsville.\n\nOnly a part of the next day, he said; his child could not be left any\nlonger; but he wished very much to see me, and so had contrived to get a\nfew days.\n\n\"Indeed!\" I said. \"You honor me. Your Huntsville friends scarcely\nexpected to be remembered so long.\"\n\n\"They have not done me justice, then,\" he said, quietly. \"I seem to have\nthe warmest recollection of any. Good-night, Miss Mead. I shall not be\nlikely to see you again.\"\n\nHe gave me his hand, but it was very cold, and I let it slip as coldly\nfrom mine. He went down the gravel-walk slowly and heavily, and he\ncertainly sighed as he closed the gate. Could I give him up thus? \"Down\npride! You have held sway long enough! I must part more kindly, or die!\"\nI ran down the gravel-walk and overtook him in the avenue. He stopped as\nI came up, and turned to meet me.\n\n\"Forgive me,\" I said, breathlessly. \"I could not part with old friends\nso, after wishing so much for them.\"\n\nHe took both my hands in his. \"Have you wished for me, Rachel?\" he said,\ntenderly. \"I thought you would scarcely have treated a stranger with so\nlittle kindness.\"\n\n\"I was afraid to be warmer,\" I said.\n\n\"Afraid of what?\" he asked.\n\nMy mouth was unsealed. \"Are you to be married?\" I asked.\n\n\"I have no such expectation,\" he answered.\n\n\"And are not engaged to any one?\"\n\n\"To nothing but an old love, dear! Was that why you were afraid to show\nyourself to me?\"\n\n\"Yes!\" I answered, making no resistance to the arm that was put gently\nround me. He was mine now, I knew, as I felt the strong heart beating\nfast against my own.\n\n\"Rachel,\" he whispered, \"the only woman I ever did or ever can love,\nwill you send me away again?\"\n\n\n\n\nA SHETLAND SHAWL.\n\n\n    It was made of the purest and finest wool,\n    As fine as silk, and as soft and cool;\n    It was pearly white, of that cloud-like hue\n    Which has a shadowy tinge of blue;\n    And brought by the good ship, miles and miles,\n    From the distant shores of the Shetland Isles.\n\n    And in it were woven, here and there,\n    The golden threads of a maiden's hair,\n    As the wanton wind with tosses and twirls\n    Blew in and out of her floating curls,\n    While her busy fingers swiftly drew\n    The ivory needle through and through.\n\n    The warm sun flashed on the brilliant dyes\n    Of the purple and golden butterflies,\n    And the drowsy bees, with a changeless tune,\n    Hummed in the perfumed air of June,\n    As the gossamer fabric, fair to view,\n    Under the maiden's fingers grew.\n\n    The shadows of tender thought arise\n    In the tranquil depths of her dreamy eyes,\n    And her blushing cheek bears the first impress\n    Of the spirit's awakening consciousness,\n    Like the rose, when it bursts, in a single hour,\n    From the folded bud to the perfect flower.\n\n    Many a tremulous hope and care,\n    Many a loving wish and prayer,\n    With the blissful dreams of one who stood\n    At the golden gate of womanhood,\n    The little maiden's tireless hands\n    Wove in and out of the shining strands.\n\n    The buds that burst in an April sun\n    Had seen the wonderful shawl begun;\n    It was finished, and folded up with pride,\n    When the vintage purpled the mountain-side;\n    And smiles made light in the violet eyes,\n    At the thought of a lover's pleased surprise.\n\n    The spider hung from the budding thorn\n    His baseless web, when the shawl was worn;\n    And the cobwebs, silvered by the dew,\n    With the morning sunshine breaking through,\n    The maiden's toil might well recall,\n    In the vanished year, on the Shetland Shawl.\n\n    For the rose had died in the autumn showers,\n    That bloomed in the summer's golden hours;\n    And the shining tissue of hopes and dreams,\n    With misty glories and rainbow gleams\n    Woven within and out, was one\n    Like the slender thread by the spider spun.\n\n    As fresh and as pure as the sad young face,\n    The snowy shawl with its clinging grace\n    Seems a fitting veil for a form so fair:\n    But who would think what a tale of care,\n    Of love and grief and faith, might all\n    Be folded up in a Shetland Shawl?\n\n\n\n\nROBA DI ROMA.\n\n[Continued.]\n\n\nCHAPTER VI.\n\nGAMES IN ROME.\n\nWalking, during pleasant weather, almost anywhere in Rome, but\nespecially in passing through the enormous arches of the Temple of\nPeace, or along by the Colosseum, or some wayside _osteria_ outside the\ncity-walls, the ear of the traveller is often saluted by the loud,\nexplosive tones of two voices going off together, at little intervals,\nlike a brace of pistol-shots; and turning round to seek the cause of\nthese strange sounds, he will see two men, in a very excited state,\nshouting, as they fling out their hands at each other with violent\ngesticulation. Ten to one he will say to himself, if he be a stranger in\nRome, \"How quarrelsome and passionate these Italians are!\" If he be an\nEnglishman or an American, he will be sure to congratulate himself on\nthe superiority of his own countrymen, and wonder why these fellows\nstand there shaking their fists at each other, and screaming, instead of\nfighting it out like men,--and muttering, \"A cowardly pack, too!\" will\npass on, perfectly satisfied with his facts and his philosophy. But what\nhe has seen was really not a quarrel. It is simply the game of _Mora_,\nas old as the Pyramids, and formerly played among the host of Pharaoh\nand the armies of Caesar as now by the subjects of Pius IX. It is thus\nplayed.\n\nTwo persons place themselves opposite each other, holding their right\nhands closed before them. They then simultaneously and with a sudden\ngesture throw out their hands, some of the fingers being extended, and\nothers shut up on the palm,--each calling out in a loud voice, at the\nsame moment, the number he guesses the fingers extended by himself and\nhis adversary to make. If neither cry out aright, or if both cry out\naright, nothing is gained or lost; but if only one guess the true\nnumber, he wins a point. Thus, if one throw out four fingers and the\nother two, he who cries out six makes a point, unless the other cry out\nthe same number. The points are generally five, though sometimes they\nare doubled, and as they are made, they are marked by the left hand,\nwhich, during the whole game, is held stiffly in the air at about the\nshoulders' height, one finger being extended for every point. When the\n_partito_ is won, the winner cries out, \"_Fatto!_\" or \"_Guadagnato!_\" or\n\"_Vinto!_\" or else strikes his hands across each other in sign of\ntriumph. This last sign is also used when Double _Mora_ is played, to\nindicate that five points are made.\n\nSo universal is this game in Rome, that the very beggars play away their\nearnings at it. It was only yesterday, as I came out of the gallery of\nthe Capitol, that I saw two who had stopped screaming for \"_baiocchi per\namor di Dio_,\" to play pauls against each other at _Mora_. One, a\ncripple, supported himself against a column, and the other, with his\nragged cloak slung on his shoulder, stood opposite him. They staked a\npaul each time with the utmost _nonchalance_, and played with an\nearnestness and rapidity which showed that they were old hands at it,\nwhile the coachmen from their boxes cracked their whips, and jeered and\njoked them, and the shabby circle around them cheered them on. I stopped\nto see the result, and found that the cripple won two successive games.\nBut his cloaked antagonist bore his losses like a hero, and when all was\nover, he did his best with the strangers issuing from the Capitol to\nline his pockets for a new chance.\n\nNothing is more simple and apparently easy than _Mora_, yet to play it\nwell requires quickness of perception and readiness in the calculation\nof chances. As each player, of course, knows how many fingers he himself\nthrows out, the main point is to guess the number of fingers thrown by\nhis opponent, and to add the two instantaneously together. A player of\nskill will soon detect the favorite numbers of his antagonist, and it is\ncurious to see how remarkably clever some of them are in divining, from\nthe movement of the hand, the number to be thrown. The game is always\nplayed with great vivacity, the hands being flung out with vehemence,\nand the numbers shouted at the full pitch of the voice, so as to be\nheard at a considerable distance. It is from the sudden opening of the\nfingers, while the hands are in the air, that the old Roman phrase,\n_micare digitis_, \"to flash with the fingers,\" is derived.\n\nA bottle of wine is generally the stake; and round the _osterias_, of a\n_festa_-day, when the game is played after the blood has been heated and\nthe nerves strained by previous potations, the regular volleyed\nexplosions of \"_Tre! Cinque! Otto! Tutti!_\" are often interrupted by hot\ndiscussions. But these are generally settled peacefully by the\nbystanders, who act as umpires,--and the excitement goes off in talk.\nThe question arises almost invariably upon the number of fingers flashed\nout; for an unscrupulous player has great opportunities of cheating, by\nholding a finger half extended, so as to be able to close or open it\nafterwards according to circumstances; but sometimes the losing party\nwill dispute as to the number called out. The thumb is the father of all\nevil at _Mora_, it being often impossible to say whether it was intended\nto be closed or not, and an unskilful player is easily deceived in this\nmatter by a clever one. When \"_Tutti_\" is called, all the fingers, thumb\nand all, must be extended, and then it is an even chance that a\ndiscussion will take place as to whether the thumb was out. Sometimes,\nwhen the blood is hot, and one of the parties has been losing, violent\nquarrels will arise, which the umpires cannot decide, and, in very rare\ncases, knives are drawn and blood is spilled. Generally these disputes\nend in nothing, and, often as I have seen this game, I have never been a\nspectator of any quarrel, though discussions numberless I have heard.\nBut, beyond vague stories by foreigners, in which I put no confidence,\nthe vivacity of the Italians easily leading persons unacquainted with\ntheir characters to mistake a very peaceable talk for a violent quarrel,\nI know of only one case that ended tragically. There a savage quarrel,\nbegun at _Mora_, was with difficulty pacified by the bystanders, and one\nof the parties withdrew to an _osteria_ to drink with his companions.\nBut while he was there, the rage which had been smothered, but not\nextinguished, in the breast of his antagonist, blazed out anew. Rushing\nat the other, as he sat by the table of the _osteria_, he attacked him\nfiercely with his knife. The friends of both parties started at once to\ntheir feet, to interpose and tear them apart; but before they could\nreach them, one of the combatants dropped bleeding and dying on the\nfloor, and the other fled like a maniac from the room.\n\nThis readiness of the Italians to use the knife, for the settlement of\nevery dispute, is generally attributed by foreigners to the\npassionateness of their nature; but I am inclined to believe that it\nalso results from their entire distrust of the possibility of legal\nredress in the courts. Where courts are organized as they are in Naples,\nwho but a fool would trust to them? Open tribunals, where justice should\nbe impartially administered, would soon check private assassinations;\nand were there more honest and efficient police courts, there would be\nfar fewer knives drawn. The Englishman invokes the aid of the law,\nknowing that he can count upon prompt justice; take that belief from\nhim, he, too, like Harry Gow, would \"fight for his own hand.\" In the\nhalf-organized society of the less civilized parts of the United States,\nthe pistol and bowie-knife are as frequent arbiters of disputes as the\nstiletto is among the Italians. But it would be a gross error to argue\nfrom this, that the Americans are violent and passionate by nature; for,\namong the same people in the older States, where justice is cheaply and\nstrictly administered, the pistol and bowie-knife are almost unknown.\nDespotism and slavery nurse the passions of men; and wherever law is\nloose, or courts are venal, public justice assumes the shape of private\nvengeance. The farther south one goes in Italy, the more frequent is\nviolence and the more unrepressed are the passions. Compare Piedmont\nwith Naples, and the difference is immense. The dregs of vice and\nviolence settle to the south. Rome is worse than Tuscany, and Naples\nworse than Rome,--not so much because of the nature of the people, as of\nthe government and the laws.\n\nBut to return to _Mora_. As I was walking out beyond the Porta San\nGiovanni the other day, I heard the most ingenious and consolatory\nperiphrasis for a defeat that it was ever my good-fortune to hear; and,\nas it shows the peculiar humor of the Romans, it may here have a place.\nTwo of a party of _contadini_ had been playing at _Mora_, the stakes\nbeing, as usual, a bottle of wine, and each, in turn, had lost and won.\nA lively and jocose discussion now arose between the friends on the one\nside and the players on the other,--the former claiming that each of the\nlatter was to pay his bottle of wine for the game he lost, (to be drunk,\nof course, by all,) and the latter insisting, that, as one loss offset\nthe other, nothing was to be paid by either. As I passed, one of the\nplayers was speaking. \"_Il primo partito_,\" he said, \"_ho guadagnato io;\ne poi, nel secondo_,\"--here a pause,--\"_ho perso la vittoria_\": \"The\nfirst game, I won; the second, I----_lost the victory_.\" And with this\nhappy periphrasis, our friend admitted his defeat. I could not but think\nhow much better it would have been for the French, if this ingenious\nmode of adjusting with the English the Battle of Waterloo had ever\noccurred to them. To admit that they were defeated was of course\nimpossible; but to acknowledge that they \"lost the victory\" would by no\nmeans have been humiliating. This would have soothed their irritable\nnational vanity, prevented many heart-burnings, saved long and idle\narguments and terrible \"kicking against the pricks,\" and rendered a\nfriendly alliance possible.\n\nNo game has a better pedigree than _Mora_. It was played by the\nEgyptians more than two thousand years before the Christian era. In the\npaintings at Thebes and in the temples of Beni-Hassan, seated figures\nmay be seen playing it,--some keeping their reckoning with the left hand\nuplifted,--some striking off the game with both hands, to show that it\nwas won,--and, in a word, using the same gestures as the modern Romans.\nFrom Egypt it was introduced into Greece. The Romans brought it from\nGreece at an early period, and it has existed among them ever since,\nhaving suffered apparently no alteration. Its ancient Roman name was\n_Micatio_, and to play it was called _micare digitis_,--\"to flash the\nfingers,\"--the modern name _Mora_ being merely a corruption of the verb\n_micare_. Varro describes it precisely as it is now played; and Cicero,\nin the first book of his treatise \"De Divinatione,\" thus alludes to\nit:--\"_Quid enim est sors? Idem propemodum quod_ micare, _quod talos\njacere, quod tesseras; quibus in rebus temeritas et casus, non ratio et\nconsilium valent._\" So common was it, that it became the basis of an\nadmirable proverb, to denote the honesty of a person:--\"_Dignus est\nquicum in tenebris mices_\": \"So trustworthy, that one may play _Mora_\nwith him in the dark.\" At one period they carried their love of it so\nfar, that they used to settle by _micatio_ the sales of merchandise and\nmeat in the Forum, until Apronius, prefect of the city, prohibited the\npractice in the following terms, as appears by an old inscription, which\nis particularly interesting as containing an admirable pun: \"_Sub exagio\npotius pecora vendere quam digitis concludentibus tradere_\": \"Sell your\nsheep by the balance, and do not bargain or deceive\" (_tradere_ having\nboth these meanings) \"by opening and shutting your fingers at _Mora_.\"\n\nOne of the various kinds of the old Roman game of _Pila_ still survives\nunder the modern name of _Pallone_. It is played between two sides, each\nnumbering from five to eight persons. Each of the players is armed with\na _bracciale_, or gantlet of wood, covering the hand and extending\nnearly up to the elbow, with which a heavy ball is beaten backwards and\nforwards, high into the air, from one side to the other. The object of\nthe game is to keep the ball in constant flight, and whoever suffers it\nto fall dead within his bounds loses. It may, however, be struck in its\nrebound, though the best strokes are before it touches the ground. The\n_bracciali_ are hollow tubes of wood, thickly studded outside with\npointed bosses, projecting an inch and a half, and having inside, across\nthe end, a transverse bar, which is grasped by the hand, so as to render\nthem manageable to the wearer. The balls, which are of the size of a\nlarge cricket-ball, are made of leather, and are so heavy, that, when\nwell played, they are capable of breaking the arm, unless properly\nreceived on the _bracciale_. They are inflated with air, which is pumped\ninto them with a long syringe, through a small aperture closed by a\nvalve inside. The game is played on an oblong figure, marked out on the\nground, or designated by the wall around the sunken platform on which it\nis played; across the centre is drawn a transverse line, dividing\nequally the two sides. Whenever a ball either falls outside the lateral\nboundary or is not struck over the central line, it counts against the\nparty playing it. When it flies over the extreme limits, it is called a\n_volata_, and is reckoned the best stroke that can be made. At the end\nof the lists is a spring-board, on which the principal player stands.\nThe best batter is always selected for this post; the others are\ndistributed about. Near him stands the _pallonaio_, whose office is to\nkeep the balls well inflated with air, and he is busy nearly all the\ntime. Facing him, at a short distance, is the _mandarino_, who gives\nball. As soon as the ball leaves the _mandarino's_ hand, the chief\nbatter runs forward to meet it, and strikes it as far and high as he\ncan, with the _bracciale_. Four times in succession have I seen a good\nplayer strike a _volata_, with the loud applause of the spectators. When\nthis does not occur, the two sides bat the ball backwards and forwards,\nfrom one to the other, sometimes fifteen or twenty times before the\npoint is won; and as it falls here and there, now flying high in the air\nand caught at once on the _bracciale_ before touching the ground, now\nglancing back from the wall which generally forms one side of the lists,\nthe players rush eagerly to hit it, calling loudly to each other, and\noften displaying great agility, skill, and strength. The interest now\nbecomes very exciting; the bystanders shout when a good stroke is made,\nand groan and hiss at a miss, until, finally, the ball is struck over\nthe lists, or lost within them. The points of the game are fifty,--the\nfirst two strokes counting fifteen each, and the others ten each. When\none side makes the fifty before the other has made anything, it is\ncalled a _marcio_, and counts double. As each point is made, it is\nshouted by the caller, who stands in the middle and keeps the count, and\nproclaims the bets of the spectators.\n\nThis game is as national to the Italians as cricket to the English; it\nis not only, as it seems to me, much more interesting than the latter,\nbut requires vastly more strength, agility, and dexterity, to play it\nwell. The Italians give themselves to it with all the enthusiasm of\ntheir nature, and many a young fellow injures himself for life by the\nfierceness of his batting. After the excitement and stir of this game,\nwhich only the young and athletic can play well, cricket seems a very\ndull affair.\n\nThe game of _Pallone_ has always been a favorite one in Rome; and near\nthe summit of the Quattro Fontane, in the Barberini grounds, there is a\ncircus, which used to be specially devoted to public exhibitions during\nthe summer afternoons. At these representations, the most renowned\nplayers were engaged by an _impresario_. The audience was generally\nlarge, and the entrance-fee was one paul. Wonderful feats were sometimes\nperformed here; and on the wall are marked the heights of some\nremarkable _volate_. The players were clothed in a thin, tight dress,\nlike _saltimbanchi_. One side wore a blue, and the other a red ribbon,\non the arm. The contests, generally, were fiercely disputed,--the\nspectators betting heavily, and shouting, as good or bad strokes were\nmade. Sometimes a line was extended across the amphitheatre, from wall\nto wall, over which it was necessary to strike the ball, a point being\nlost in case it passed below. But this is a variation from the game as\nordinarily played, and can be ventured on only when the players are of\nthe first force. The games here, however, are now suspended; for the\nFrench, since their occupation, have not only seized the post-office, to\nconvert it into a club-room, and the _piano nobile_ of some of the\nrichest palaces, to serve as barracks for their soldiers, but have also\ndriven the Romans from their amphitheatre, where _Pallone_ was played,\nto make it into _ateliers de genie_. Still, one may see the game played\nby ordinary players, towards the twilight of any summer day, in the\nPiazza di Termini, or near the Tempio della Pace, or the Colosseo. The\nboys from the studios and shops also play in the streets a sort of\nmongrel game called _Pillotta_, beating a small ball back and forth,\nwith a round bat, shaped like a small _tamburello_ and covered with\nparchment. But the real game, played by skilful players, may be seen\nalmost every summer night outside the Porta a Pinti, in Florence; and I\nhave also seen it admirably played under the fortress-wall at Siena, the\nplayers being dressed entirely in white, with loose ruffled jackets,\nbreeches, long stockings, and shoes of undressed leather, and the\naudience sitting round on the stone benches, or leaning over the lofty\nwall, cheering on the game, while they ate the cherries or _zucca_-seeds\nwhich were hawked about among them by itinerant peddlers. Here, towards\ntwilight, one could lounge away an hour pleasantly under the shadow of\nthe fortress, looking now at the game and now at the rolling country\nbeyond, where olives and long battalions of vines marched knee-deep\nthrough the golden grain, until the purple splendors of sunset had\nceased to transfigure the distant hills, and the crickets chirped louder\nunder the deepening gray of the sky.\n\nIn the walls of the amphitheatre at Florence is a bust in colored marble\nof one of the most famous players of his day, whose battered face seems\nstill to preside over the game, getting now and then a smart blow from\nthe _Pallone_ itself, which, in its inflation, is no respecter of\npersons. The honorable inscription beneath the bust, celebrating the\npowers of this champion, who rejoiced in the surname of Earthquake, is\nas follows:--\n\n_\"Josephus Barnius, Petiolensis, vir in jactando repercutiendoque folle\nsingularis, qui ob robur ingens maximamque artis peritiam, et collusores\nubique devictos, Terraemotus formidabili cognomento dictus est.\"_\n\nAnother favorite game of ball among the Romans is _Bocce_ or _Boccette_.\nIt is played between two sides, consisting of any number of persons,\neach of whom has two large wooden balls of about the size of an average\nAmerican nine-pin ball. Beside these, there is a little ball called the\n_lecco_. This is rolled first by one of the winning party to any\ndistance he pleases, and the object is to roll or pitch the _boccette_\nor large balls so as to place them beside the _lecco_. Every ball of one\nside nearer to the _lecco_ than any ball of the other counts one point\nin the game,--the number of points depending on the agreement of the\nparties. The game is played on the ground, and not upon any smooth or\nprepared plane; and as the _lecco_ often runs into hollows, or poises\nitself on some uneven declivity, it is sometimes a matter of no small\ndifficulty to play the other balls near to it. The great skill of the\ngame consists, however, in displacing the balls of the adverse party so\nas to make the balls of the playing party count, and a clever player\nwill often change the whole aspect of affairs by one well-directed\nthrow. The balls are thrown alternately,--first by a player on one side,\nand then by a player on the other. As the game advances, the interest\nincreases, and there is a constant variety. However good a throw is\nmade, it may be ruined by the next. Sometimes the ball is pitched with\ngreat accuracy, so as to strike a close-counting ball far into the\ndistance, while the new ball takes its place. Sometimes the _lecco_\nitself is suddenly transplanted into a new position, which entirely\nreverses all the previous counting. It is the last ball which decides\nthe game, and, of course, it is eagerly watched. In the Piazza di\nTermini numerous parties may be seen every bright day in summer or\nspring playing this game under the locust-trees, surrounded by idlers,\nwho stand by to approve or condemn, and to give their advice. The French\nsoldiers, once free from drill or guard or from practising trumpet-calls\non the old Agger of Servius Tullius near by, are sure to be rolling\nballs in this fascinating game. Having heated their blood sufficiently\nat it, they adjourn to a little _osteria_ in the Piazza to refresh\nthemselves with a glass of _asciutto_ wine, after which they sit on a\nbench outside the door, or stretch themselves under the trees, and take\na _siesta_, with their handkerchiefs over their eyes, while other\nparties take their turn at the _bocce_. Meanwhile, from the Agger beyond\nare heard the distressing trumpets struggling with false notes and\nwheezing and shrieking in ludicrous discord, while now and then the\nsolemn bell of Santa Maria Maggiore tolls from the neighboring hill.\n\nAnother favorite game in Rome and Tuscany is _Ruzzola_, so called from\nthe circular disk of wood with which it is played. Round this the player\nwinds tightly a cord, which, by a sudden cast and backward jerk of the\nhand, he uncoils so as to send the disk whirling along the road. Outside\nthe walls, and along all the principal avenues leading to the city,\nparties are constantly to be met playing at this game; and oftentimes\nbefore the players are visible, the disk is seen bounding round some\ncurve, to the great danger of one's legs. He whose disk whirls the\nfarthest wins a point. It is an excellent walking game, and it requires\nsome knack to play the disk evenly along the road. Often the swiftest\ndisks, when not well-directed, bound over the hedges, knock themselves\ndown against the walls, or bury themselves in the tangled ditches; and\nwhen well played, if they chance to hit a stone in the road, they will\nleap like mad into the air, at the risk of serious injury to any\nunfortunate passer. In the country, instead of wooden disks, the\n_contadini_ often use _cacio di pecora_, a kind of hard goat's cheese,\nwhose rind will resist the roughest play. What, then, must be the\ndigestive powers of those who eat it, may be imagined. Like the peptic\ncountryman, they probably do not know they have a stomach, not having\never felt it; and certainly they can say with Tony Lumpkin, \"It never\nhurts me, and I sleep like a hound after it.\"\n\nIn common with the French, the Romans have a passion for the game of\nDominos. Every _caffe_ is supplied with a number of boxes, and, in the\nevening especially, it is played by young and old, with a seriousness\nwhich strikes us Saxons with surprise. We generally have a contempt for\nthis game, and look upon it as childish. But I know not why. It is by no\nmeans easy to play well, and requires a careful memory and quick powers\nof combination and calculation. No _caffe_ in Rome or Marseilles would\nbe complete without its little black and white counters; and as it\ninterests at once the most mercurial and fidgety of people and the\nlaziest and languidest, it must have some hidden charm as yet unrevealed\nto the Anglo-Saxon.\n\nBeside Dominos, Chess (_Scacchi_) is often played in public in the\n_caffes_; and there is one _caffe_ named _Dei Scacchi_, because it is\nfrequented by the best chess-players in Rome. Here matches are often\nmade, and admirable games are played.\n\nAmong the Roman boys the game of _Campana_ is also common. A\nparallelogram is drawn upon the ground and subdivided into four squares,\nwhich are numbered. At the top and bottom are two small semicircles, or\n_bells_, thus:--\n\n[Illustration]\n\nEach of the players, having deposited his stake in the semicircle (_b_)\nat the farthest end, takes his station at a short distance, and\nendeavors to pitch some object, either a disk or a bit of _terracotta_,\nor more generally a _baiocco_, into one of the compartments. If he lodge\nit in the nearest bell, (_a_,) he pays a new stake into the pool; if\ninto the farthest bell, (_b_,) he takes the whole pool; if into either\nof the other compartments, he takes one, two, three, or four of the\nstakes, according to the number of the compartment. If he lodge on a\nline, he is _abbrucciato_, as it is termed, and his play goes for\nnothing. Among the boys, the pool is frequently filled with\nbuttons,--among the men, with _baiocchi_; but buttons or _baiocchi_ are\nall the same to the players,--they are the representatives of luck or\nskill.\n\nBut the game of games in Rome is the Lottery. This is under the\ndirection of the government, which, with a truly ecclesiastic regard for\nits subjects, has organized it into a means of raising revenue. The\nfinancial objection to this method of taxation is, that its hardest\npressure is upon the poorest classes; but the moral and political\nobjections are still stronger. The habit of gambling engendered by it\nruins the temper, depraves the morals, and keeps up a constant state of\nexcitement at variance with any settled and serious occupation. The\ntemptations to laziness which it offers are too great for any people\nluxurious or idle by temperament; and the demon of Luck is set upon the\naltar which should be dedicated to Industry. If one happy chance can\nbring a fortune, who will spend laborious days to gain a competence? The\ncommon classes in Rome are those who are most corrupted by the lottery;\nand when they can neither earn nor borrow _baiocchi_ to play, they\nstrive to obtain them by beggary, cheating, and sometimes theft. The\nfallacious hope that their ticket will some day bring a prize leads them\nfrom step to step, until, having emptied their purses, they are tempted\nto raise the necessary funds by any unjustifiable means. When you pay\nthem their wages or throw them a _buona-mano_, they instantly run to the\nlottery-office to play it. Loss after loss does not discourage them. It\nis always, \"The next time they are to win,--there was a slight mistake\nin their calculation before.\" Some good reason or other is always at\nhand. If by chance one of them do happen to win a large sum, it is ten\nto one that it will cost him his life,--that he will fall into a fit, or\ndrop in an apoplexy, on hearing the news. There is a most melancholy\ninstance of this in the very next house,--of a Jew made suddenly and\nunexpectedly rich, who instantly became insane in consequence, and is\nnow the most wretched and melancholy spectacle that man can ever\nbecome,--starving in the midst of abundance, and moving like a beast\nabout his house. But of all ill luck that can happen to the\nlottery-gambler, the worst is to win a small prize. It is all over with\nhim from that time forward; into the great pit of the lottery everything\nthat he can lay his hands on is sure to go.\n\nThere has been some difference of opinion as to whether the lottery was\nof later Italian invention, or dated back to the Roman Empire,--some\neven contending that it was in existence in Egypt long before that\nperiod; and several ingenious discussions may be found on this subject\nin the journals and annals of the French _savans_. A strong claim has\nbeen put forward for the ancient Romans, on the ground that Nero, Titus,\nand Heliogabalus were in the habit of writing on bits of wood and shells\nthe names of various articles which they intended to distribute, and\nthen casting them to the crowd to be scrambled for.[A] On some of these\nshells and billets were inscribed the names of slaves, precious vases,\ncostly dresses, articles of silver and gold, valuable beasts, etc.,\nwhich became the property of the fortunate persons who secured the\nbillets and shells. On others were written absurd and useless articles,\nwhich turned the laugh against the unfortunate finder. Some, for\ninstance, had inscribed upon them ten pieces of gold, and some ten\ncabbages. Some were for one hundred bears, and some for one egg. Some\nfor five camels, and some for ten flies. In one sense, these were\nlotteries, and the Emperors deserve all due credit for their invention.\nBut the lottery, according to its modern signification, is of Italian\norigin, and had its birth in Upper Italy as early as the fourteenth or\nfifteenth century. Here it was principally practised by the Venetians\nand Genoese, under the name of _Borsa di Ventura_,--the prizes\nconsisting originally, not of money, but of merchandise of every\nkind,--precious stones, pictures, gold and silver work, and similar\narticles. The great difference between them and the ancient lotteries of\nHeliogabalus and Nero was, that tickets were bought and prizes drawn.\nThe lottery soon came to be played, however, for money, and was\nconsidered so admirable an invention, that it was early imported into\nFrance, where Francis I., in 1539, granted letters-patent for the\nestablishment of one. In the seventeenth century, this \"_infezione_,\" as\nan old Italian writer calls it, was introduced into Holland and England,\nand at a still later date into Germany. Those who invented it still\nretain it; but those who adopted it have rejected it. After nearly three\ncenturies' existence in France, it was abolished on the 31st of\nDecember, 1835. The last drawing was at Paris on the 27th of the same\nmonth, when the number of players was so great that it became necessary\nto close the offices before the appointed time, and one Englishman is\nsaid to have gained a _quaterno_ of the sum of one million two hundred\nthousand francs. When abolished in France, the government was drawing\nfrom it a net revenue of twenty million francs.\n\nIn Italy the lottery was proscribed by Innocent XII., Benedict XIII.,\nand Clement XII. But it was soon revived. It was not without vehement\nopposers then as now, as may be seen by a little work published at Pisa\nin the early part of the last century, entitled, \"L'Inganno non\nconosciuto, oppure non voluto conoscere, nell'Estrazione del Lotto.\"\nMuratori, in 1696, calls it, in his \"Annals of Italy,\" \"_Inventione\ndell' amara malizia per succiare il sangue dei malaccorti giuocatori_.\"\nIn a late number of the \"Civilta Cattolica,\" published at Rome by the\nJesuits, (the motto of which is \"_Beatus Populus cujus Dominus Deus\nest_,\") there is, on the other hand, an elaborate and most Jesuitical\narticle, in which the lottery is defended with amusing skill. What\nChristendom in general has agreed to consider immoral and pernicious in\nits effects on a people seems, on the contrary, to the writer of this\narticle, to be highly moral and commendable.\n\nThe numbers which can be played are from one to ninety. Of these only\nfive are now drawn. Originally the numbers drawn were eight,\n(_otto_,)--and it is said that the Italian name of this game, _lotto_,\nwas derived from this circumstance. The player may stake upon one, two,\nthree, four, or five numbers,--but no ticket can be taken for more than\nfive; and he may stake upon his ticket any sum, from one _baiocco_ up to\nfive _scudi_,--but the latter sum only in case he play upon several\nchances on the same ticket. If he play one number, he may either play it\n_al posto assegnato_, according to its place in the drawing, as first,\nsecond, third, etc.,--or he may play it _senza posto_, without place, in\nwhich case he wins, if the number come anywhere among the five drawn. In\nthe latter case, however, the prize is much less in proportion to the\nsum staked. Thus, for one _baiocco_ staked _al posto assegnato_, a\n_scudo_ may be won; but to gain a _scudo_ on a number _senza posto_,\nseven _baiocchi_ must be played. A sum staked upon two numbers is called\nan _ambo_,--on three, a _terno_,--on four, a _quaterno_,--and on five, a\n_cinquino_; and of course the prizes increase in rapid proportion to the\nnumbers played,--the sum gained multiplying very largely on each\nadditional number. For instance, if two _baiocchi_ be staked on an\n_ambo_, the prize is one _scudo_; but if the same sum be staked on a\n_terno_, the prize is a hundred _scudi_. When an _ambo_ is played for,\nthe same two numbers may be played as single numbers, either _al posto_\nor _senza posto_, and in such case one of the numbers alone may win. So,\nalso, a _terno_ may be played so as to include an _ambo_, and a\n_quaterno_ so as to include a _terno_ and _ambo_, and a _cinquino_ so as\nto include all. But whenever more than one chance is played for, the\nprice is proportionally increased. For a simple _terno_ the limit of\nprice is thirty-five pauls. The ordinary rule is to play for every\nchance within the numbers taken; but the common people rarely attempt\nmore than a _terno_. If four numbers are played with all their chances,\nthey are reckoned as four _terni_, and paid for accordingly. If five\nnumbers are taken, the price is for five _terni_.\n\nWhere two numbers are played, there is always an augment to the nominal\nprize of twenty per cent.; where three numbers are played, the augment\nis of eighty per cent.; and from every prize is deducted ten per cent.,\nto be devoted to the hospitals and the poor. The rule creating the\naugments was decreed by Innocent XIII. Such is the rage for the lottery\nin Rome, as well as in all the Italian States, and so great is the\nnumber of tickets bought within the year, that this tax on the prizes\nbrings in a very considerable revenue for eleemosynary purposes.\n\nThe lottery is a branch of the department of finance, and is under the\ndirection of a Monsignore. The tickets originally issue from one grand\ncentral office in the Palazzo Madama; but there is scarcely a street in\nRome without some subsidiary and distributing office, which is easily\nrecognized, not only by its great sign of \"_Prenditoria di Lotti_\" over\nthe door, but by scores of boards set round the windows and doorway, on\nwhich are displayed, in large figures, hundreds of combinations of\nnumbers for sale. The tickets sold here are merely purchased on\nspeculation for resale, and though it is rare that all are sold, yet, as\na small advance of price is asked on each ticket beyond what was given\nat the original office, there is enough profit to support these shops.\nThe large show of placards would to a stranger indicate a very\nconsiderable investment; yet, in point of fact, as the tickets rarely\ncost more than a few _baioicchi_, the amount risked is small. No ticket\nis available for a prize, unless it bear the stamp and signature of the\ncentral office, as well as of the distributing shop, if bought in the\nlatter.\n\nEvery Saturday, at noon, the lottery is drawn in Rome, in the Piazza\nMadama. Half an hour before the appointed time, the Piazza begins to be\nthronged with ticket-holders, who eagerly watch a large balcony of the\nsombre old Palazzo Madama, (built by the infamous Catharine de' Medici,)\nwhere the drawing is to take place. This is covered by an awning and\ncolored draperies. In front, and fastened to the balustrade, is a glass\nbarrel, standing on thin brass legs and turned by a handle. Five or six\npersons are in the balcony, making arrangements for the drawing. These\nare the officials,--one of them being the government officer, and the\nothers persons taken at random, to supervise the proceedings. The chief\nofficial first takes from the table beside him a slip of paper on which\na number is inscribed. He names it aloud, passes it to the next, who\nverifies it and passes it on, until it has been subjected to the\nexamination of all. The last person then proclaims the number in a loud\nvoice to the populace below, folds it up, and drops it into the glass\nbarrel. This operation is repeated until every number from one to ninety\nis passed, verified by all, proclaimed, folded, and dropped into the\nbarrel. The last number is rather sung than called, and with more\nceremony than all the rest. The crowd shout back from below. The bell\nstrikes noon. A blast of trumpets sounds from the balcony, and a boy\ndressed in white robes advances from within, ascends the steps, and\nstands high up before the people, facing the Piazza. The barrel is then\nwhirled rapidly round and round, so as to mix in inextricable confusion\nall the tickets. This over, the boy lifts high his right hand, makes the\nsign of the cross on his breast, then, waving his open hand in the air,\nto show that nothing is concealed, plunges it into the barrel, and draws\nout a number. This he hands to the official, who names it, and passes it\nalong the line of his companions. There is dead silence below, all\nlistening eagerly. Then, in a loud voice, the number is sung out by the\nlast official, \"_Primo estratto, numero 14_,\" or whatever the number may\nbe. Then sound the trumpets again, and there is a rustle and buzz among\nthe crowd. All the five numbers are drawn with like ceremony, and all is\nover. Within a surprisingly short space of time, these numbers are\nexhibited in the long frames which are to be seen over the door of every\n_Prenditoria di Lotti_ in Rome, and there they remain until the next\ndrawing takes place. The boy who does the drawing belongs to a college\nof orphans, an admirable institution, at which children who have lost\nboth parents and are left helpless are lodged, cared for, and educated,\nand the members of which are employed to perform this office in\nrotation, receiving therefor a few _scudi_.\n\nIt will be seen from the manner in which the drawing of the lottery is\nconducted, that no precaution is spared by the government to assure the\npublic of the perfect good faith and fairness observed in it. This is,\nin fact, absolutely necessary in order to establish that confidence\nwithout which its very object would be frustrated. But the Italians are\na very suspicious and jealous people, and I fear that there is less\nfaith in the uprightness of the government than in their own\nwatchfulness and the difficulty of deception. There can be little doubt\nthat no deceit is practised by the government, so far as the drawing is\nconcerned,--for it would be nearly impossible to employ it. Still there\nare not wanting stories of fortunate coincidences which are singular and\ninteresting; one case, which I have every reason to believe authentic,\nwas related to me by a most trustworthy person, as being within his own\nknowledge. A few years ago, the Monsignore who was at the head of the\nlottery had occasion to diminish his household, and accordingly\ndismissed an old servant who had been long in his palace. Often the old\nman returned and asked for relief, and as often was charitably received.\nBut his visits at last became importunate, and the Monsignore\nremonstrated. The answer of the servant was, \"I have given my best years\nto the service of your Eminence,--I am too old to labor,--what shall I\ndo?\" The case was a hard one. His Eminence paused and reflected;--at\nlast he said, \"Why not buy a ticket in the lottery?\" \"Ah!\" was the\nanswer, \"I have not even money to supply my daily needs. What you now\ngive me is all I have. If I risk it, I may lose it,--and that lost, what\ncan I do?\" Still the Monsignore said, \"Buy a ticket in the lottery.\"\n\"Since your Eminence commands me, I will,\" said the old man; \"but what\nnumbers?\" \"Play on number so and so for the first drawing,\" was the\nanswer, \"_e Dio ti benedica_!\" The servant did as he was ordered, and,\nto his surprise and joy, the first number drawn was his. He was a rich\nman for life,--and his Eminence lost a troublesome dependant.\n\nA capital story is told by the author of the article in the \"Civilta\nCattolica,\" which is to the point here, and which, even were it not told\non such respectable authority, bears its truth on the face of it. As\nvery frequently happens, a poor _bottegaio_, or shopkeeper, being\nhard-driven by his creditors, went to his priest, an _uomo apostolico_,\nand prayed him earnestly to give him three numbers to play in the\nlottery.\n\n\"But how under heaven,\" says the innocent priest, \"has it ever got into\nyour head that I can know the five numbers which are to issue in the\nlottery?\"\n\n\"_Eh! Padre mio!_ what will it cost you?\" was the answer. \"Just look at\nme and my wretched family; if we do not pay our rent on Saturday, out we\ngo into the street. There is nothing left but the lottery, and you can\ngive us the three numbers that will set all right.\"\n\n\"Oh, there you are again! I am ready to do all I can to assist you, but\nthis matter of the lottery is impossible; and I must say, that your\nfolly, in supposing I can give you the three lucky numbers, does little\ncredit to your brains.\"\n\n\"Oh, no! no! do not say so, _Padre mio_! Give me a _terno_. It will be\nlike rain in May, or cheese on my maccaroni. On my word of honor, I'll\nkeep it secret. _Via!_ You, so good and charitable, cannot refuse me the\nthree numbers. Pray, content me this once.\"\n\n\"_Caro mio!_ I will give you a rule for always being content:--Avoid\nSin, think often on Death, and behave so as to deserve Paradise,--and\nso\"----\n\n\"_Basta! basta! Padre mio!_ That's enough. Thanks! thanks! God will\nreward you.\"\n\nAnd, making a profound reverence, off the _bottegaio_ rushes to his\nhouse. There he takes down the \"Libro del Sogni,\" calls into\nconsultation his wife and children, and, after a long and earnest\ndiscussion and study, the three numbers corresponding to the terms Sin,\nDeath, and Paradise are settled upon, and away goes our friend to play\nthem in the lottery. Will you believe it? the three numbers are\ndrawn,--and the joy of the poor _bottegaio_ and his family may well be\nimagined. But what you will not imagine is the persecution of the poor\n_uomo apostolico_ which followed. The secret was all over town the next\nday, and he was beset by scores of applicants for numbers. Vainly he\nprotested and declared that he knew nothing, and that the man's drawing\nthe right numbers was all chance. Every word he spoke turned into\nnumbers, and off ran his hearers to play them. He was like the girl in\nthe fairy story, who dropped pearls every time she spoke. The worst of\nthe imbroglio was, that in an hour the good priest had uttered words\nequivalent to all the ninety numbers in the lottery, and the players\nwere all at loggerheads with each other. Nor did this persecution cease\nfor weeks, nor until those who had played the numbers corresponding to\nhis words found themselves, as the Italians say, with only flies in\ntheir hands.\n\nThe stupidity of many of the common people in regard to these numbers is\nwonderful. When the number drawn is next to the number they have, they\nconsole themselves with thinking that they were within one of it,--as if\nin such cases a miss were not as bad as a mile. But when the number\ndrawn is a multiple of the one they play, it is a sympathetic number,\nand is next door to winning; and if the number come reversed,--as if,\nhaving played 12, it come out 21,--he laughs with delight. \"Eh, don't\nyou see, you stupid fellow,\" said the _speziale_ of a village one day to\na dunce of a _contadino_, of whose infallible _terno_ not a single\nnumber had been drawn,--\"Don't you see, in substance all your three\nnumbers have been drawn? and it's shameful in you to be discontented.\nHere you have played 8--44--26, and instead of these have been drawn\n7--11--62. Well! just observe! Your 8 is just within one point of being\n7; your 44 is in substance 11, for 4 times 11 are 44 exactly; and your\n26 is nothing more or less than precisely 62 reversed;--what would you\nask more?\" And by his own mode of reasoning, the poor _contadino_ sees\nas clearly as possible that he has really won,--only the difficulty is\nthat he cannot touch the prize without correcting the little variations.\n_Ma, pazienza!_ he came so near this time, that he will be sure to win\nthe next,--and away he goes to hunt out more sympathetic numbers, and to\nrejoice with his friends on coming so near winning.\n\nDreams of numbers are, of course, very frequent,--and are justly much\nprized. Yet one must know how to use them, and be brave and bold, or the\nopportunity is lost. I myself once dreamt of having gained a _terno_ in\nthe lottery, but was fool enough not to play it,--and in consequence\nlost a prize, the very numbers coming up in the next drawing. The next\ntime I have such a dream, of course I shall play; but perhaps I shall be\ntoo late, and only lose. And this recalls to my mind a story, which may\nserve as a warning to the timid and an encouragement to the bold. An\nEnglishman, who had lived on bad terms with a very quarrelsome and\nannoying wife, (according to his own account, of course,) had finally\nthe luck, I mean the misfortune, to lose her. He had lived long enough\nin Italy, however, to say \"_Pazienza_\" and buried his sorrows and his\nwife in the same grave. But, after the lapse of some time, his wife\nappeared to him in a dream, and confessed her sins towards him during\nher life, and prayed his forgiveness, and added, that in token of\nreconciliation he must accept three numbers to play in the lottery,\nwhich would certainly win a great prize. But the husband was obstinate,\nand absolutely refused to follow the advice of a friend to whom he\nrecounted the odd dream, and who urged him to play the numbers. \"Bah!\"\nhe answered to this good counsel; \"I know her too well;--she never meant\nwell to me during her life, and I don't believe she's changed now that\nshe's dead. She only means to play me a trick, and make me lose. But I'm\ntoo old a bird to be taken with her chaff.\" \"Better play them,\" said his\nfriend, and they separated. In the course of a week they met again. \"By\nthe way,\" said the friend, \"did you see that your three numbers came up\nin the lottery this morning?\" \"The Devil they did! What a consummate\nfool I was not to play them!\" \"You didn't play them?\" \"No!\" \"Well, I\ndid, and won a good round sum with them, too.\" So the obstinate husband,\nmad at his ill luck, cursed himself for a fool, and had his curses for\nhis pains. That very night, however, his wife again appeared to him,\nand, though she reproached him a little for his want of faith in her,\n(no woman could be expected to forego such an opportunity, even though\nshe were dead,) yet she forgave him, and added,--\"Think no more about it\nnow, for here are three more numbers, just as good.\" The husband, who\nhad eaten the bitter food of experience, was determined at all events\nnot to let his fortune slip again through his fingers, and played the\nhighest possible _terno_ in the lottery, and waited anxiously for the\nnext drawing. He could scarcely eat his breakfast for nervousness, that\nmorning,--but at last mid-day sounded, and the drawing took place, but\nno one of his numbers came up. \"Too late! taken in!\" he cried. \"Confound\nher! she knew me better than I knew myself. She gave me a prize the\nfirst time, because she knew I wouldn't play it; and, having so whet my\npassions, she then gave me a blank the second time, because she knew I\nwould play it. I might have known better.\"\n\nFrom the moment one lottery is drawn, the mind of the people is intent\non selecting numbers for the next. Nor is this an easy matter,--all\nsorts of superstitions existing as to figures and numbers. Some are\nlucky, some unlucky, in themselves,--some lucky only in certain\ncombinations, and some sympathetic with others. The chances, therefore,\nmust be carefully calculated, no number or combination being ever played\nwithout profound consideration, and under advice of skilful friends.\nAlmost every event in life has a numerical signification; and such is\nthe reverence paid to dreams, that a large book exists of several\nhundred pages, called \"Libro dei Sogni,\" containing, besides various\ncabala and mystical figures and lists of numbers which are\n\"sympathetic,\" with directions for their use, a dictionary of thousands\nof objects with the numbers supposed to be represented by each, as well\nas rules for interpreting into numbers all dreams in which these objects\nappear,--and this book is the constant _vade-mecum_ of a true\nlottery-player. As Boniface lived, ate, and slept on his ale, so do the\nRomans on their numbers. The very children \"lisp in numbers, for the\nnumbers come,\" and the fathers run immediately to play them. Accidents,\nexecutions, deaths, apoplexies, marriages, assassinations, births,\nanomalies of all kinds, become auguries and enigmas of numbers. A\nlottery-gambler will count the stabs on a dead body, the drops of blood\nfrom a decollated head, the passengers in an overturned coach, the\nwrinkles in the forehead of a new-born child, the gasps of a person\nstruck by apoplexy, the day of the month and the hour and the minute of\nhis death, the _scudi_ lost by a friend, the forks stolen by a thief,\nanything and everything, to play them in the lottery. If a strange dream\nis dreamed,--as of one being in a desert on a camel, which turns into a\nrat, and runs down into the Maelstroem to hide,--the \"Libro dei Sogni\" is\nat once consulted, the numbers for desert, rat, camel, and Maelstroem are\nfound and combined, and the hopeful player waits in eager expectation of\na prize. Of course, dream after dream of particular numbers and\ncombinations occurs,--for the mind bent to this subject plays freaks in\nthe night, and repeats contortedly the thoughts of the day,--and these\ndreams are considered of special value. Sometimes, when a startling\nincident takes place with a special numerical signification, the run\nupon the numbers indicated becomes so great, that the government, which\nis always careful to guard against any losses on its own part, refuses\nto allow more than a certain amount to be played on them, cancels the\nrest, and returns the price of the tickets.\n\nSometimes, in passing through the streets, one may see a crowd collected\nabout a man mounted upon a chair or stool. Fixed to a stand at his side\nor on the back of his chair is a glass bottle, in which are two or three\nhollow manikins of glass, so arranged as to rise and sink by pressure of\nthe confined air. The neck of the bottle is cased in a tin box which\nsurmounts it and has a movable cover. This personage is a charlatan,\nwith an apparatus for divining lucky numbers for the lottery. The \"soft\nbastard Latin\" runs off his tongue in an uninterrupted stream of talk,\nwhile he offers on a waiter to the bystanders a number of little folded\npapers containing a _pianeta_, or augury, on which are printed a\nfortune and a _terno_. \"Who will buy a _pianeta_,\" he cries, \"with the\nnumbers sure to bring him a prize? He shall have his fortune told him\nwho buys. Who does not need counsel must surely be wise. Here's Master\nTommetto, who never tells lies. And here is his brother, still smaller\nin size. And Madama Medea Plutonia to advise. They'll write you a\nfortune and bring you a prize for a single _baiocco_. No creature so\nwise as not to need counsel. A fool I despise, who keeps his _baiocco_\nand loses his prize. Who knows what a fortune he'll get till he tries?\nTime's going, Signori,--who buys? who buys?\" And so on by the yard.\nMeantime the crowd about him gape, stare, wonder, and finally put their\nhands to their pockets, out with their _baiocchi_, and buy their papers.\nEach then makes a mark on his paper to verify it, and returns it to the\ncharlatan. After several are thus collected, he opens the cover of the\ntin box, deposits them therein with a certain ceremony, and commences an\nexhortatory discourse to the manikins in the bottle,--two of whom,\nMaestro Tommetto and his brother, are made to resemble little black\nimps, while Madama Medea Plutonia is dressed _alla Francese_. \"_Fa una\nreverenza, Maestro Tommetto!_\" \"Make a bow, Master Tommetto!\" he now\nbegins. The puppet bows. \"_Ancora!_\" \"Again!\" Again he bows. \"_Lesto,\nSignore, un piccolo giretto!_\" \"Quick, Sir, a little turn!\" And round\nwhirls the puppet. \"Now, up, up, to make a registry on the ticket! and\ndo it conscientiously, Master Tommetto!\" And up the imp goes, and\ndisappears through the neck of the bottle. Then comes a burst of\nadmiration at his cleverness from the charlatan. Then, turning to the\nbrother imp, he goes through the same _role_ with him. \"And now, Madama\nMedea, make a reverence, and follow your husband! Quick, quick, a little\n_giretto_!\" And up she goes. A moment after, down they all come again at\nhis call; he lifts the cover of the box; cries, \"_Quanto sei caro,\nTommetto!_\" and triumphantly exhibits the papers, each with a little\nfreshly written inscription, and distributes them to the purchasers. Now\nand then he takes from his pocket a little bottle containing a mixture\nof the color of wine, and a paper filled with some sort of powder, and,\nexclaiming, \"_Ah! tu hai fame e sete. Bisogna che ti dia da bere e\nmangiare_,\" pours them into the tin cup.\n\nIt is astonishing to see how many of these little tickets a clever\ncharlatan will sell in an hour, and principally on account of the\nlottery-numbers they contain. The fortunes are all the stereotype thing,\nand almost invariably warn you to be careful lest you should be\n\"_tradito_,\" or promise you that you shall not be \"_tradito_\"; for the\nidea of betrayal is the corner-stone of every Italian's mind.\n\nIn not only permitting, but promoting the lottery, Italy is certainly\nfar behind England, France, and America. This system no longer exists\nwith us, except in the disguised shape of gift-enterprises, art-unions,\nand that unpleasant institution of mendicant robbery called the raffle,\nand employed specially by those \"who have seen better days.\" But a fair\nparallel to this rage of the Italians for the lottery is to be found in\nthe love of betting, which is a national characteristic of the English.\nI do not refer to the bets upon horseflesh at Ascot, Epsom, and\nGoodwood, by which fortunes change owners in an hour and so many men are\nruined, but rather to the general habit of betting upon any and every\nsubject to settle a question, no matter how trivial, for which the\nEnglishman is everywhere renowned on the Continent. Betting is with most\nother nations a form of speech, but with Englishmen it is a serious\nfact, and no one will be long in their company without finding an\nopinion backed up by a bet. It would not be very difficult to parallel\nthose cases where the Italians disregard the solemnity of death, in\ntheir eagerness for omens of lottery-numbers, with equally reprehensible\nand apparently heartless cases of betting in England. Let any one who\ndoubts this examine the betting-books at White's and Brookes's. In them\nhe will find a most startling catalogue of bets,--some so bad as to\njustify the good parson in Walpole's story, who declared that they were\nsuch an impious set in this respect at White's, that, \"if the last trump\nwere to sound, they would bet puppet-show against judgment.\" Let one\ninstance suffice. A man, happening to drop down at the door of White's,\nwas lifted up and carried in. He was insensible, and the question was,\nwhether he were dead or not. Bets were at once given and taken on both\nsides, and, it being proposed to bleed him, those who had taken odds\nthat he was dead protested, on the ground that the use of the lancet\nwould affect the fairness of the bet.[B] In the matter of play, things\nhave now much changed since the time when Mr. Thynne left the club at\nWhite's in disgust, because he had won only twelve hundred guineas in\ntwo months. There is also a description of one of Fox's mornings, about\nthe year 1783, which Horace Walpole has left us, and the truth of which\nLord Holland admits, which it would be well for those to read who\nmeasure out hard justice to the Italians for their love of the lottery.\nLet us be fair. Italy is in these respects behind England in morals and\npractice by nearly a century; but it is as idle to argue\nhard-heartedness in an Italian who counts the drops of blood at a\nbeheading as to suppose that the English have no feeling because in the\nbet we have mentioned there was a protest against the use of the lancet,\nor to deny kindliness to a surgeon who lectures on structure and disease\nwhile he removes a cancer.\n\nVehement protests against the lottery and all gaming are as often\nuttered in Italy as elsewhere; and among them may be cited this eloquent\npassage from one of the most powerful of her modern writers. Guerrazzi,\nin the thirteenth chapter of \"L'Assedio di Firenze,\" speaking on this\nsubject, says, \"You would in vain seek anything more fatal to men than\nplay. It brings ignorance, poverty, despair, and at last crime....\nGambling (the wicked gambling of the lottery) forms a precious jewel in\nthe crown of princes.\"\n\nIn a recent work, by the same author, called \"L'Asino,\" occurs the\nfollowing indignant and satirical passage, which, for the sake of the\nstory, if for no other reason, deserves a place here:--\n\n\"In our search for the history of human perfection, shall I speak of\nNaples or Rome? Alas! At the contemplation of such misery, in vain you\nconstrain your lips to smile; they pout, and the uncalled tears stream\nover your face. Pity, in these most unhappy countries, blinded with\nweeping and hoarse with vain supplication, when she has no more voice to\ncry out to heaven, flies thither, and, kneeling before the throne of\nGod, with outstretched hand, and proffering no word, begs that He will\nlook at her.\n\n\"Behold, O Lord, and judge whether our sins were remitted, or whether\nthe sins of others exceed ours.\n\n\"Is not Tuscany the garden of Italy? So say the Tuscans; and the\nFlorentines add, that Florence is the Athens of Tuscany. Truly, both\nseem beautiful. Let us search in Tuscany. At Barberino di Mugello, in\nthe midst of an olive-grove is a cemetery, where the vines, which have\ntaken root in the outer walls and climbed over their summit, fall into\nthe inclosed space, as if they wished to garland Death with vine-leaves\nand make it smile; over the gate, strange guardians of the tombs, two\nfig-trees give their shadow and fruit to recompense the piety of the\npassers-by, giving a fig in exchange for a _De Profundis_; while the\nivy, stretching its wanton arms over the black cross, endeavors to\nclothe the austere sign of the Redemption with the jocund leaves of\nBacchus, and recalls to your mind the mad Phryne who vainly tempted\nXenocrates. A beautiful cemetery, by my faith! a cemetery to arouse in\nthe body an intense desire to die, if only for the pleasure of being\nburied there. Now observe. Look into my magic-lantern. What figures do\nyou see? A priest with a pick; after him a peasant with a spade; and\nbehind them a woman with a hatchet: the priest holds a corpse by the\nhair; the peasant, with one blow, strikes off its head; then, all things\nbeing carefully rearranged, priest, peasant, and woman, after thrusting\nthe head into a sack, return as they came. Attention now, for I change\nthe picture. What figures are these that now appear? A kitchen; a fire\nthat has not its superior, even in the Inferno; and a caldron, where the\nhissing and boiling water sends up its bubbles. Look about and what do\nyou see? Enter the priest, the peasant, and the housewife, and in a\nmoment empty a sack into the caldron. Lo! a head rolls out, dives into\nthe water, and floats to the surface, now showing its nape and now its\nface. The Lord help us! It is an abominable spectacle; this poor head,\nwith its ashy, open lips, seems to say, Give me again my Christian\nburial! That is enough. Only take note that in Tuscany, in the beautiful\nmiddle of the nineteenth century, a sepulchre was violated, and a\nsacrilege committed, to obtain from the boiled head of a corpse good\nnumbers to play in the lottery! And, by way of corollary, add this to\nyour note, that in Rome, _Caput Mundi_, and in Tuscany, Garden of Italy,\nit is prohibited, under the severest penalties, to play at _Faro_,\n_Zecchinetto_, _Banco-Fallito_, _Rossa e Nera_, and other similar games\nat cards, where each party may lose the whole or half the stakes, while\nthe government encourage the play of the Lottery, by which, out of one\nhundred and twenty chances of winning, eighty are reserved for the bank,\nand forty or so allowed to the player. Finally, take note that in Rome,\n_Caput Mundi_, and in Tuscany, Garden of Italy, _Faro_, _Zecchinetto_,\n_Rossa e Nera_ were prohibited, as acknowledged pests of social\nexistence and open death to honest customs,--as a set-off for which\ndeprivation, the game of the Lottery is still kept on foot.\"\n\nThe following extraordinary story, improbable as it seems, is founded\nupon fact, and was clearly proved, on judicial investigation, a few\nyears since. It is well known in Tuscany, and forms the subject of a\nsatirical narrative (\"Il Sortilegio\") by Giusti, a modern Tuscan poet,\nof true fire and genius, who has lashed the vices of his country in\nverses remarkable for point, idiom, and power. According to him, the\nmethod of divination resorted to in this case was as follows:--The\nsorcerer who invented it ordered his dupes to procure, either at dawn or\ntwilight, ninety dry beans, called _ceci_, and upon each of these to\nwrite one of the ninety numbers drawn in the lottery, with an ink made\nof pitch and lard, which would not be affected by water. They were then\nto sharpen a knife, taking care that he who did so should touch no one\nduring the operation; and after a day of fasting, they were to dig up at\nnight a body recently dead, and, having cut off the head and removed the\nbrain, they were to count the beans thrice, and to shake them thrice,\nand then, on their knees, to put them one by one into the skull. This\nwas then to be placed in a caldron of water and set on the fire to boil.\nAs soon as the water boiled violently, the head would be rolled about so\nthat some of the beans would be ejected, and the first three which were\nthus thrown to the surface would be a sure _terno_ for the lottery. The\nwretched dupes added yet another feature of superstition to insure the\nsuccess of this horrible device. They selected the head of their curate,\nwho had recently died,--on the ground that, as he had studied algebra,\nhe was a great cabalist, and any numbers from his head would be sure to\ndraw a prize.\n\nSome one, I have no doubt, will here be anxious to know the numbers that\nbubbled up to the surface; but I am very sorry to say that I cannot\ngratify their laudable curiosity, for the interference of the police\nprevented the completion of the sorcery. So the curious must be content\nto consult some other cabalist,--\n\n                 \"sull'arti segrete\n    Di menar la Fortuna per il naso,\n    Pescando il certo nel gran mar del Caso.\"\n\nDespite a wide-spread feeling among the higher classes against the\nlottery, it still continues to exist, for it has fastened itself into\nthe habits and prejudices of many; and an institution which takes such\nhold of the passions of the people, and has lived so long, dies hard.\nNor are there ever wanting specious excuses for the continuance of this,\nas of other reprobated systems,--of which the strongest is, that its\nabolition would not only deprive of their present means of subsistence\nnumbers of persons employed in its administration, but would cut off\ncertain charities dependent upon it, amounting to no less than forty\nthousand _scudi_ annually. Among these may be mentioned the dowry of\nforty _scudi_ which is given out of the profits received by the\ngovernment at the drawing of every lottery to some five or six of the\npoor girls of Rome. The list of those who would profit by this charity\nis open to all, and contains thousands of names. The first number drawn\nin the lottery decides the fortunate persons; and, on the subsequent\nday, each receives a draft for forty _scudi_ on the government, payable\non the presentation of the certificate of marriage. On the accession of\nthe present Pope, an attempt was made to abolish the system; but these\nconsiderations, among others, had weight enough to prevent any changes.\n\nThough the play is generally small, yet sometimes large fortunes are\ngained. The family of the Marchese del Cinque, for instance, derive\ntheir title and fortune from the luck of an ancestor who played and won\nthe highest prize, a _Cinquino_. With the money thus acquired he\npurchased his marquisate, and took the title _del Cinque_, \"of the\nFive,\" in reference to the lucky five numbers. The Villa Quaranta Cinque\nin Rome derives its name from a similar circumstance. A lucky Monsignore\nplayed the single number of forty-five, _al posto_, and with his\nwinnings built the villa, to which the Romans, always addicted to\nnicknames, gave the name of _Quaranta Cinque_. This love of nicknames,\nor _soprannomi_, as they are called, is, by the way, an odd peculiarity\nof the Italians, and it often occurs that persons are known only\nthereby. Examples of these, among the celebrated names of Italy, are so\nfrequent as to form a rule in favor of the surname rather than of the\nreal name, and in many cases the former has utterly obliterated the\nlatter. Thus, Squint Eye, (_Guercino_,) Dirty Tom, (_Masaccio_,) The\nLittle Dyer, (_Tintoretto_,) Great George, (_Giorgione_,) The\nGarland-Maker, (_Ghirlandaio_,) Luke of the Madder, (_Luca della\nRobbia_,) The Little Spaniard, (_Spagnoletto_,) and The Tailor's Son,\n(_Del Sarto_,) would scarcely be known under their real names of\nBarbieri, Tommaso, Guido, Robusti, Barbarelli, Corradi, Ribera, and\nVannuchi. The list might be very much enlarged, but let it suffice to\nadd the following well-known names, all of which are nicknames derived\nfrom their places of birth: Perugino, Veronese, Aretino, Pisano, Giulio\nRomano, Correggio, Parmegiano.\n\nThe other day a curious instance of this occurred to me in taking the\ntestimony of a Roman coachman. On being called upon to give the names of\nsome of his companions, with whom he had been in daily and intimate\nintercourse for more than two years, he could give only their\n_soprannomi_; their real names he did not know, and had never heard. A\nlittle, gay, odd genius, whom I took into my service during a\n_villeggiatura_ at Siena, would not answer to his real name, Lorenzo,\nbut remonstrated on being so called, and said he was only _Pipetta_,\n(The Little Pipe,) a nickname given to him when a child, from his\nprecocity in smoking, and of which he was as tenacious as if it were a\ntitle of honor. \"You prefer, then, to be called Pipetta?\" I asked.\n\"_Felicissimo! si_,\" was his answer. Not a foreigner comes to Rome that\nhis name does not \"suffer a sea-change into something rich and\nstrange.\" Our break-jaw Saxon names are discarded, and a new christening\ntakes place. One friend I had who was called _Il Malinconico_,--another,\n_La Barbarossa_,--another, _Il bel Signore_; but generally they are\ncalled after the number of the house or the name of the street in which\nthey live,--_La Signora bella Bionda di Palazzo Albani_,--_Il Signore\nQuattordici Capo le Case_,--_Monsieur_ and _Madama Terzo Piano, Corso_.\n\nBut to return from this digression.--At every country festival may be\nseen a peculiar form of the lottery called _Tombola_; and in the notices\nof these _festas_, which are always placarded over the walls of Rome for\nweeks before they take place, the eye will always be attracted first by\nthe imposing word _Tombola_, printed in the largest and blackest of\nletters. This is, in fact, the characteristic feature of the _festa_,\nand attracts large numbers of _contadini_. As in the ordinary lottery,\nonly ninety numbers are played. Every ticket contains blank spaces for\nfifteen numbers, which are inserted by the purchaser, and registered\nduly at the office or booth where the ticket is bought. The price of\ntickets in any single _Tombola_ is uniform; but in different _Tombolas_\nit varies, of course, according to the amount of the prizes. These are\ngenerally five, namely,--the _Ambo_, _Terno_, _Quaterno_, _Cinquino_,\nand _Tombola_, though sometimes a second _Tombola_ or _Tomboletta_ is\nadded. The drawing takes place in precisely the same manner as in the\nordinary lottery, but with more ceremony. A large staging, with a\npavilion, is erected, where the officers who are to superintend the\ndrawing stand. In the centre is a glass vase, in which the numbers are\nplaced after having been separately verified and proclaimed, and a boy\ngayly dressed draws them. All the ninety numbers are drawn; and as each\nissues, it is called out, and exhibited on a large card. Near by stands\na large framework, elevated so as to be visible to all, with ninety\ndivisions corresponding to the ninety numbers, and on this, also, every\nnumber is shown as soon as it is drawn. The first person who has upon\nhis ticket two drawn numbers gains an _Ambo_, which is the smallest\nprize. Whoever first has three numbers drawn gains a _Terno_; and so on\nwith the _Quaterno_ and _Cinquino_. The _Tombola_, which is the great\nprize, is won by whoever first has his whole fifteen numbers drawn. As\nsoon as any one finds two of the drawn numbers on his ticket, he cries,\n\"_Ambo_,\" at the top of his lungs. A flag is then raised on the\npavilion, the band plays, and the game is suspended, while the claimant\nat once makes his way to the judges on the platform to present his\nticket for examination. No sooner does the cry of \"_Ambo_,\" \"_Terno_,\"\n\"_Quaterno_,\" take place, than there is a great rustle all around.\nEverybody looks out for the fortunate person, who is immediately to be\nseen running through the parting crowd, which opens before him, cheering\nhim as he goes, if his appearance be poor and needy, and greeting him\nwith sarcasms, if he be apparently well to do in the world. Sometimes\nthere are two or three claimants for the same prize, in which case it is\ndivided among them. The _Ambo_ is soon taken, and there is little room\nfor a mistake; but when it comes to the _Quaterno_ or _Cinquino_,\nmistakes are very common, and the claimant is almost always saluted with\nchaff and jests. After his ticket has been examined, if he have won, a\nplacard is exhibited with _Ambo_, _Terno_, _Quaterno_ on it, as the case\nmay be. But if he have committed an error, down goes the flag, and, amid\na burst of laughter, jeering, whistling, screaming, and catcalls, the\ndisappointed claimant sneaks back and hides himself in the excited\ncrowd. At a really good _Tombola_, where the prizes are high, there is\nno end of fun and gayety among the people. They stand with their tickets\nin their hands, congratulating each other ironically, as they fail to\nfind the numbers on them, paying all sorts of absurd compliments to each\nother and the drawer, offering to sell out their chances at enormous\nprices when they are behindhand, and letting off all sorts of squibs\nand jests, not so excellent in themselves as provocative of laughter. If\nthe wit be little, the fun is great,--and, in the excitement of\nexpectation, a great deal of real Italian humor is often ventilated.\nSometimes, at the country fairs, the fun is rather slow, particularly\nwhere the prizes are small; but on exciting occasions, there is a\nconstant small fire of jests, which is very amusing.\n\nThese _Tombole_ are sometimes got up with great pomp. That, for\ninstance, which sometimes takes place in the Villa Borghese is one of\nthe most striking spectacles which can be seen in Rome. At one end of\nthe great open-air amphitheatre is erected a large pavilion, flanked on\neither side with covered _logge_ or _palchi_, festooned with yellow and\nwhite,--the Papal colors,--adorned with flags, and closed round with\nrich old arrases all pictured over with Scripture stories. Beneath the\ncentral pavilion is a band. Midway down the amphitheatre, on either\nside, are two more _logge_, similarly draped, where two more bands are\nstationed,--and still another at the opposite end, for the same purpose.\nThe _logge_ which flank the pavilion are sold by ticket, and filled with\nthe richer classes. Three great stagings show the numbers as they are\ndrawn. The pit of the amphitheatre is densely packed with a motley\ncrowd. Under the ilexes and noble stone-pines that show their dark-green\nfoliage against the sky, the helmets and swords of cavalry glitter as\nthey move to and fro. All around on the green slopes are the\npeople,--soldiers, _contadini_, priests, mingled together,--and\nthousands of gay dresses and ribbons and parasols enliven the mass. The\nfour bands play successively as the multitude gathers. They have already\narrived in tens of thousands, but the game has not yet begun, and\nthousands are still flocking to see it. All the gay equipages are on the\noutskirts, and through the trees and up the avenues stream the crowds on\nfoot. As we stand in the centre of the amphitheatre and look up, we get\na faint idea of the old Roman gatherings when Rome emptied itself to\njoin in the games at the Colosseum. Row upon row they stand, a mass of\ngay and swarming life. The sunlight flashes over them, and blazes on the\nrich colors. The tall pines and dark ilexes shadow them here and there;\nover them is the soft blue dome of the Italian sky. They are gathered\nround the _villetta_,--they throng the roof and balconies,--they crowd\nthe stone steps,--they pack the green oval of the amphitheatre's pit.\nThe ring of cymbals, the clarion of trumpets, and the clash of brazen\nmusic vibrate in the air. All the world is abroad to see, from the\ninfant in arms to the oldest inhabitant. _Monsignori_ in purple\nstockings and tricornered hats, _contadini_ in gay reds and crimsons,\ncardinals in scarlet. Princes, shopkeepers, beggars, foreigners, all\nmingle together; while the screams of the vendors of cigars,\npumpkin-seeds, cakes, and lemonade are everywhere heard over the\nsuppressed roar of the crowd. As you walk along the outskirts of the\nmass, you may see Monte Gennaro's dark peak looking over the Campagna,\nand all the Sabine hills trembling in a purple haze,--or, strolling down\nthrough the green avenues, you may watch the silver columns of fountains\nas they crumble in foam and plash in their mossy basins,--or gather\nmasses of the sweet Parma violet and other beautiful wild-flowers.\n\nThe only other games among the modern Romans, which deserve particular\nnotice from their peculiarity, are those of Cards. In an Italian pack\nthere are only forty cards,--the eight, nine, and ten of the French and\nEnglish cards having no existence. The suits also have different signs\nand names, and, instead of hearts, spades, clubs, and diamonds, they are\ncalled _coppe_, _spade_, _bastoni_, and _denari_,--all being of the same\ncolor, and differing entirely in form from our cards. The _coppe_ are\ncups or vases; the _spade_ are swords; the _bastoni_ are veritable clubs\nor bludgeons; and the _denari_ are coins. The games are still more\ndifferent from ours than the cards, and they are legion in number. There\nare _Briscola_, _Tresette_, _Calabresella_, _Banco-Fallito_, _Rossa e\nNera_, _Scaraccoccia_, _Scopa_, _Spizzica_, _Faraone_, _Zecchinetto_,\n_Mercante in Fiera_, _La Bazzica_, _Ruba-Monte_, _Uomo-Nero_, _La\nPaura_, and I know not how many others,--but they are recorded and\nexplained in no book, and are only to be picked up orally. Wherever you\ngo, on _festa_-day, you will find persons playing cards. At the common\n_osterias_, before the doors or on the soiled tables within, on the\nruins of the Caesars' palaces and in the Temple of Peace, on the stone\ntables in the _vigna_, on the walls along the public roads, on the\nuncarved blocks of marble in front of the sculptors' studios, in the\nantechambers or gateways of palaces,--everywhere, cards are played.\nEvery _contadino_ has a pack in his pocket, with the flavor of the soil\nupon it. The playing is ordinarily for very low sums, often for nothing\nat all. But there are some games which are purely games of luck, and\ndangerous. Some of these, as _Rossa e Nera_, _Banco-Fallito_, and\n_Zecchinetto_, though prohibited by the government, are none the less\nfavorite games in Rome, particularly among those who play for money.\n_Zecchinetto_ may be played by any number of persons, after the\nfollowing manner:--The dealer, who plays against the whole table, deals\nto each player one card. The next card is then turned up as a trump.\nEach player then makes his bet on the card dealt to him, and places his\nmoney on it. The dealer then deals to the table the other cards in\norder, and any of the players may bet on them as they are thrown down.\nIf a card of the number of that bet on issue before a card corresponding\nto the number of the trump, the dealer wins the stake on that card; but\nwhenever a card corresponding to the trump issues, the player wins on\nevery card on which he has bet. When the banker or dealer loses at once,\nthe bank \"_fa toppa_,\" and the deal passes, but not otherwise. Nothing\ncan be more simple than this game, and it is just as dangerous as it is\nsimple, and as exciting as it is dangerous. A late Roman _principessa_\nis said to have been passionately fond of it, and to have lost\nenormously by it. The story runs, that, while passing the evening at a\nfriend's house, after losing ten thousand _scudi_ at one sitting, she\nstaked her horses and carriage, which were at the door waiting to take\nher home, and lost them also. She then wrote a note to the prince, her\nhusband, saying that she had lost her carriage and horses at\n_Zecchinetto_, and wished others to be sent for her. To which he\nanswered, that she might return on foot,--which she was obliged to do.\n\nThis will serve at least as a specimen of the games of chance played by\nthe Romans at cards. Of the more innocent games, _Briscola_, _Tresette_,\nand _Scaraccoccia_ are the favorites among the common people. And the\nfirst of these may not be uninteresting, as being, perhaps, the most\npopular of all. It is played by either two or four persons. The _Fante_\n(or Knave) counts as two; the _Carallo_ (equal to our Queen) as three;\nthe _Re_ (King) as four; the Three-spot as ten; and the Ace as eleven.\nThree cards are dealt to each person, and after the deal the next card\nis turned as trump, or _Briscola_. Each plays, and, after one card all\nround is played, its place is supplied by a new deal of one card to\neach. Every card of the trump-suit takes any card of the other suits.\nEach player takes as many counting-cards as he can, and, at the end of\nthe game, he who counts the most wins,--the account being made according\nto the value of the cards, as stated above.\n\n[To be continued.]\n\nFOOTNOTES:\n\n[A] See Dessault, _Traite de la Passion du Jeu_.\n\n[B] Even while I am writing these notes, I find almost the same incident\nrecorded as a \"modern instance,\" in a recent work by Lieutenant-Colonel\nAddison, entitled _Traits and Stories of Anglo-Indian Life_; but,\ndespite the authority of Colonel Addison, I cannot but suspect that he\nhas simply changed the _venue_, and that his story is but a\n_rifacimento_ of the actual case alluded to above.\n\n\n\n\nTHE AMBER GODS.\n\n[Concluded.]\n\n\nPapa made Mr. Dudley stay and dine, and of course we were almost bored\nto death, when in came Rose again, stealing behind Lu's chair and\nshowering her in the twilight with a rain of May-flowers.\n\n\"Now you'll have to gather them again,\" he said.\n\n\"Oh, how exquisite! how delicious! how I thank you!\" she exclaimed,\nwithout disturbing one, however.\n\n\"You won't touch them again? Then I must,\" he added.\n\n\"No! no! Mr. Rose!\" I cried. \"I'll pick them up and take toll.\"\n\n\"Don't touch them!\" said Lu, \"they're so sweet!\"\n\n\"Yes,\" he murmured lower, \"they're like you. I always said so, you\nremember.\"\n\n\"Oh, yes! and every May-day but the last you have brought them to me.\"\n\n\"Have you the trailing-arbutus there?\" asked Mr. Dudley.\n\n\"No,\" returned Rose.\n\n\"I thought I detected strawberries,\" submitted the other,--\"a pleasant\nodor which recalls childhood to memory.\"\n\nFor some noses all sweet scents are lumped in one big strawberry;\nclovers, or hyacinths, or every laden air indifferently, they still\nsniff strawberries. Commonplace things!\n\n\"It's a sign of high birth to track strawberry-beds where no fruit is,\nMr. Dudley,\" said I.\n\n\"Very true, Miss Willoughby. I was born pretty high up in the Green\nMountains.\"\n\n\"And so keep your memory green?\"\n\n\"Strawberries in June,\" said Rose, good-naturedly. \"But fruit out of\nseason is trouble out of reason, the Dream-Book says. It's May now, and\nthese are its blossoms.\"\n\n\"Everybody makes such a fuss about ground-laurel!\" said I. \"I don't see\nwhy, I'm sure. They're never perfect. The leaf is hideous,--a stupid\nduenna! You get great green leaves, and the flowers all white; you get\ndeep, rosy flowers, and the leaves are all brown and bitten. They're\nneither one thing nor another. They're just like heliotropes,--no bloom\nat all, only scent. I've torn up myriads, to the ten stamens in their\nfeathered case, to find where that smell comes from,--that is perfectly\ndelicious,--and I never could. They are a cheat.\"\n\n\"Have you finished your tirade?\" asked Rose, indifferently.\n\n\"I don't believe you mean so,\" murmured Lu. \"They have a color of their\nown, almost human, infantine; and when you mass them, the tone is more\nsoft and mellow than a flute. Everybody loves May-flowers.\"\n\n\"Just about. I despise flutes. I like bassoons.\"\n\n\"They are prophets of apple-blossoms.\"\n\n\"Which brings them at once into the culinary.\"\n\n\"They are not very showy,\" said Mr. Dudley; \"but when we remember the\nFathers\"----\n\n\"There's nothing like them,\" said Rose, gently, as he knelt by Lu,\nslowly putting them into order; \"nothing but pure, clear things; they're\nthe fruit of snowflakes, the firstlings of the year. When one thinks how\nsweetly they come from their warm coverts and look into this cold,\nbreezy sky so unshrinkingly, and from what a soil they gather such a\nwealth of simple beauty, one feels ashamed.\"\n\n\"Climax worthy of the useless things!\" said I.\n\n\"The moment in which first we are thoroughly ashamed, Miss Willoughby,\nis the sovereign one of our life. Useless things? They are worth king\nand bishop. Every year, weariness and depression melt away when atop of\nthe seasons' crucible boil these little bubbles. Isn't everybody better\nfor lavishing love? And no one merely likes these; whoever cares at all\nloves entirely. We always take and give resemblances or sympathies from\nany close connection, and so these are in their way a type of their\nlovers. What virtue is in them to distil the shadow of the great pines,\nthat wave layer after layer with a grave rhythm over them,\ninto this delicate tint, I wonder. They have so decided an\nindividuality,--different there from hot-house belles;--fashion strips\nus of our characteristics\"----\n\n\"You needn't turn to me for illustration of exotics,\" said I.\n\nHe threw me a cluster, half-hidden in its green towers, and went on,\nlaying one by one and bringing out little effects.\n\n\"The sweetest modesty clings to them, which Alphonse Karr denies to the\nviolet, so that they are almost out of place in a drawing-room; one\nought to give them there the shelter of their large, kind leaves.\"\n\n\"Hemlock's the only wear,\" said Louise.\n\n\"Or last year's scarlet blackberry triads. Vines together,\" he\nsuggested.\n\n\"But sometimes they forget their nun-like habit,\" she added, \"put on a\nfrolicsome mood, and clamber out and flush all the deep ruts of the\ncarriage-road in Follymill woods, you remember.\"\n\n\"Penance next year,\" said I.\n\n\"No, no; you are not to bring your old world into my new,\" objected\nRose. \"Perhaps they ran out so to greet the winter-worn mariners of\nPlymouth, and have been pursued by the love of their descendants ever\nsince, they getting charier. Just remember how they grow. Why, you'd\nnever suspect a flower there, till, happening to turn up a leaf, you're\nin the midst of harvest. You may tramp acres in vain, and within a\nstone's throw they've been awaiting you. There's something very\ncharming, too, about them in this,--that when the buds are set, and at\nlast a single blossom starts the trail, you plucking at one end of the\nvine, your heart's delight may touch the other a hundred miles away.\nSpring's telegraph. So they bind our coast with this network of flower\nand root.\"\n\n\"By no means,\" I asserted. \"They grow in spots.\"\n\n\"Pshaw! I won't believe it. They're everywhere just the same, only\nunderground preparing their little witnesses, whom they send out where\nmost needed. You don't suppose they find much joy in the fellowship of\nbrown pine pins and sad, gray mosses, do you? Some folks say they don't\ngrow away from the shore; but I've found them, I'm sorry to say, up in\nNew Hampshire.\"\n\n\"Why sorry?\" asked Lu.\n\n\"Oh, I like it best that they need our sea. They're eminently choice for\nthis hour, too, when you scarcely gather their tint,--that tint, as if\nmoonlight should wish to become a flower,--but their fragrance is an\natmosphere all about you. How genuinely spicy it is! It's the very\nquintessence of those regions all whose sweetness exudes in\nsun-saturated balsams,--the very breath of pine woods and salt sea\nwinds. How could it live away from the sea?\"\n\n\"Why, Sir,\" said Mr. Dudley, \"you speak as if it were a creature!\"\n\n\"A hard, woody stem, a green, robust leaf, a delicate, odorous flower,\nMr. Dudley, what is it all but an expression of New England character?\"\n\n\"Doxology!\" said I.\n\n\"Now, Miss Louise, as you have made me atone for my freedom, the task\nbeing done, let me present them in form.\"\n\n\"I'm sure she needn't praise them,\" said I.\n\nShe didn't.\n\n\"I declared people make a great fuss over them,\" I continued. \"And you\nprove it. You put me in mind of a sound, to be heard where one gets\nthem,--a strange sound, like low, distant thunder, and it's nothing but\nthe drum of a little partridge! a great song out of nothing.--Bless me!\nwhat's that?\"\n\n\"Oh, the fireworks!\" said Lu. And we all thronged to the windows.\n\n\"It's very good of your uncle to have them,\" said Rose. \"What a crowd\nfrom the town! Think of the pyrotechnics among comets and aerolites some\nfellows may have! It's quite right, too, to make our festivals with\nlight; it's the highest and last of all things; we never can carry our\nimaginations beyond light\"----\n\n\"Our imaginations ought to carry us,\" said Lu.\n\n\"Come,\" I said, \"you can play what pranks you please with the little\nMay; but light is my province, my absorption; let it alone.\"\n\nIt grew quite dark, interrupted now and then by the glare of rockets;\nbut at last a stream of central fire went out in a slow rain of\ncountless violets, reflected with pale blue flashes in the river below,\nand then the gloom was unbroken. I saw them, in that long, dim gleam,\nstanding together at a window. Louise, her figure almost swaying as if\nto some inaudible music, but her face turned to him with such a steady\nquiet. Ah, me! what a tremulous joy, what passion, and what search, lit\nthose eyes! But you know that passion means suffering, and, tracing it\nin the original through its roots, you come to pathos, and still\nfarther, to lamentation, I've heard. But he was not looking down at her,\nonly out and away, paler than ever in the blue light, sad and resolved.\nI ordered candles.\n\n\"Sing to me, Louise,\" said Rose, at length. \"It is two years since I\nheard you.\"\n\n\"Sing 'What's a' the steer, kimmer,'\" I said. But instead, she gave the\nlittle ballad, 'And bring my love again, for he lies among the moors.'\n\nRose went and leaned over the pianoforte while she sang, bending and\ncommanding her eyes. He seemed to wish to put himself where he was\nbefore he ever left her, to awaken everything lovely in her, to bring\nher before him as utterly developed as she might be,--not only to afford\nher, but to force upon her every chance to master him. He seemed to wish\nto love, I thought.\n\n\"Thank you,\" he said, as she ceased. \"Did you choose it purposely,\nLouise?\"\n\nLu sang very nicely, and, though I dare say she would rather not then,\nwhen Mr. Dudley asked for the \"Vale of Avoca\" and the \"Margin of\nZuerich's Fair Waters,\" she gave them just as kindly. Altogether, quite a\ndamp programme. Then papa came in, bright and blithe, whirled me round\nin a _pas de deux_, and we all very gay and hilarious slipped into the\nsecond of May.\n\nDear me! how time goes! I must hurry.--After that, _I_ didn't see so\nmuch of Rose; but he met Lu everywhere, came in when I was out, and, if\nI returned, he went, perfectly regardless of my existence, it seemed.\nThey rode, too, all round the country; and she sat to him, though he\nnever filled out the sketch. For weeks he was devoted; but I fancied,\nwhen I saw them, that there lingered in his manner the same thing as on\nthe first evening while she sang to him. Lu was so gay and sweet and\nhappy that I hardly knew her; she was always very gentle, but such a\ndecided body,--that's the Willoughby, her mother. Yet during these weeks\nRose had not spoken, not formally; delicate and friendly kindness was\nall Lu could have found, had she sought. One night, I remember, he came\nin and wanted us to go out and row with him on the river. Lu wouldn't go\nwithout me.\n\n\"Will you come?\" said he, coolly, as if I were merely necessary as a\nthwart or thole-pin might have been, turning and letting his eyes fall\non me an instant, then snatching them off with a sparkle and flush, and\nsuch a lordly carelessness of manner otherwise.\n\n\"Certainly not,\" I replied.\n\nSo they remained, and Lu began to open a bundle of Border Ballads, which\nhe had brought her. The very first one was \"Whistle an' I'll come to\nyou, my lad.\" I laughed. She glanced up quickly, then held it in her\nhands a moment, repeated the name, and asked if he liked it.\n\n\"Oh, yes,\" he said. \"There couldn't be a Scotch song without that rhythm\nbetter than melody, which, after all, is Beethoven's secret.\"\n\n\"Perhaps,\" said Louise. \"But I shall not sing this.\"\n\n\"Oh, do!\" he said, turning with surprise. \"You don't know what an\naerial, whistling little thing it is!\"\n\n\"No.\"\n\n\"Why, Louise! There is nobody could sing it but you.\"\n\n\"Of good discourse, an excellent musician, and her hair shall be of what\ncolor it please God,\" quoted I, and in came Mr. Dudley, as he usually\ndid when not wanted; though I've no reason to find fault with him,\nnotwithstanding his blank treatment of me. He never took any notice,\nbecause he was in love with Lu. Rose never took any notice of me,\neither. But with a difference!\n\nLu was singularly condescending to Mr. Dudley that evening; and Rose,\nsitting aside, looked so very much disturbed--whether pleasantly or\notherwise didn't occur to me--that I couldn't help enjoying his\ndiscomfiture, and watching him through it.\n\nNow, though I told you I wasn't nervous, I never should know I had this\nluxurious calm, if there were nothing to measure it by; and once in a\ngreat while a perfect whirlpool seizes me,--my blood is all in\nturmoil,--I bubble with silent laughter, or cry with all my heart. I had\nbeen in such a strange state a good while, and now, as I surveyed Rose,\nit gradually grew fiercer, till I actually sprang to my feet, and\nexclaimed, \"There! it is insupportable! I've been in the magnetic storm\nlong enough! it is time something took it from me!\" and ran out-doors.\n\nRose sauntered after, by-and-by, as if unwillingly drawn by a loadstone,\nand found the heavens wrapped in a rosy flame of Northern Lights. He\nlooked as though he belonged to them, so pale and elf-like was his face\nthen, like one bewitched.\n\n\"Papa's fireworks fade before mine,\" I said. \"Now we can live in the\nwoods, as Lu has been wishing; for a dry southerly wind follows this,\nwith a blue smoke filming all the distant fields. Won't it be\ndelicious?\"\n\n\"Or rain,\" he replied; \"I think it will rain to-morrow,--warm, full\nrains\"; and he seemed as if such a chance would dissolve him entirely.\n\nAs for me, those shifting, silent sheets of splendor abstracted all that\nwas alien, and left me in my normal state.\n\n\"There they come!\" I said, as Lu and Mr. Dudley, and some others who had\nentered in my absence,--gnats dancing in the beam,--stepped down toward\nus. \"How charming for us all to sit out here!\"\n\n\"How annoying, you mean,\" he replied, simply for contradiction.\n\n\"It hasn't been warm enough before,\" I added.\n\n\"And Louise may take cold now,\" he said, as if wishing to exhibit his\ncare for her. \"Whom is she speaking with? Blarsaye? And who comes\nafter?\"\n\n\"Parti. A delightful person,--been abroad, too. You and he can have a\ncrack about Louvres and Vaticans now, and leave Lu and Mr. Dudley to\nme.\"\n\nRose suddenly inspected me and then Parti, as if he preferred the crack\nto be with cudgels; but in a second the little blaze vanished, and he\nonly stripped a weigelia branch of every blossom.\n\nI wonder what made Lu behave so that night; she scarcely spoke to Rose,\nappeared entirely unconcerned while he hovered round her like an\nofficious sprite, was all grace to the others and sweetness to Mr.\nDudley. And Rose, oblivious of snubs, paraded his devotion, seemed\ndetermined to show his love for Lu,--as if any one cared a straw,--and\ntook the pains to be positively rude to me. He was possessed of an odd\nrestlessness; a little defiance bristled his movements, an air of\ncontrariness; and whenever he became quiet, he seemed again like one\nenchanted and folded up in a dream, to break whose spell he was about to\nabandon efforts. He told me life had destroyed my enchantment; I wonder\nwhat will destroy his. Lu refused to sit in the garden-chair he\noffered,--just suffered the wreath of pink bells he gave her to hang in\nher hand, and by-and-by fall,--and when the north grew ruddier and swept\nthe zenith with lances of light, and when it faded, and a dim cloud\nhazed all the stars, preserved the same equanimity, kept on the _evil_\ntenor of her way, and bade every one an impartial farewell at\nseparating. She is preciously well-bred.\n\nWe hadn't remained in the garden all that time, though,--but, strolling\nthrough the gate and over the field, had reached a small grove that\nfringes the gully worn by Wild Fall and crossed by the railway. As we\nemerged from that, talking gayly, and our voices almost drowned by the\ndash of the little waterfall and the echo from the opposite rock, I\nsprang across the curving track, thinking them behind, and at the same\ninstant a thunderous roar burst all about, a torrent of hot air whizzed\nand eddied over me, I fell dizzied and stunned, and the night\nexpress-train shot by like a burning arrow. Of course I was dreadfully\nhurt by my fall and fright,--I feel the shock now,--but they all stood\non the little mound, from which I had sprung, like so many\npetrifactions: Rose, just as he had caught Louise back on firmer ground,\nwhen she was about to follow me, his arm wound swiftly round her waist,\nyet his head thrust forward eagerly, his pale face and glowing eyes\nbent, not on her, but me. Still he never stirred, and poor Mr. Dudley\nfirst came to my assistance. We all drew breath at our escape, and, a\nlittle slowly, on my account, turned homeward.\n\n\"You are not bruised, Miss Willoughby?\" asked Blarsaye, wakened.\n\n\"Dear Yone!\" Lu said, leaving Mr. Dudley's arm, \"you're so very pale!\nIt's not pain, is it?\"\n\n\"I am not conscious of any. Why should I be injured, any more than you?\"\n\n\"Do you know,\" said Rose, _sotto voce_, turning and bending merely his\nhead to me, \"I thought I heard you scream, and that you were dead.\"\n\n\"And what then?\"\n\n\"Nothing, but that you were lying dead and torn, and I should see you,\"\nhe said,--and said as if he liked to say it, experiencing a kind of\nsavage delight at his ability to say it.\n\n\"A pity to have disappointed you!\" I answered.\n\n\"I saw it coming before you leaped,\" he added, as a malignant finality,\nand drawing nearer. \"You were both on the brink. I called, but probably\nneither you nor Lu heard me. So I snatched her back.\"\n\nNow I had been next him then.\n\n\"Jove's balance,\" I said, taking Parti's arm.\n\nHe turned instantly to Lu, and kept by her during the remainder of the\nwalk, Mr. Dudley being at the other side. I was puzzled a little by Lu,\nas I have been a good many times since; I thought she liked Rose so\nmuch. Papa met us in the field, and there the affair must be detailed to\nhim, and then he would have us celebrate our safety in Champagne.\n\n\"Good-bye, Louise,\" said Rose, beside her at the gate, and offering his\nhand, somewhat later. \"I'm going away to-morrow, if it's fine.\"\n\n\"Going?\" with involuntary surprise.\n\n\"To camp out in Maine.\"\n\n\"Oh! I hope you will enjoy it.\"\n\n\"Would you stay long, Louise?\"\n\n\"If the sketching-grounds are good.\"\n\n\"When I come back, you'll sing my songs? Shake hands.\"\n\nShe just laid a cold touch on his.\n\n\"Louise, are you offended with me?\"\n\nShe looked up with so much simplicity. \"Offended, Rose, with you?\"\n\n\"Not offended, but frozen,\" I could have said. Lu is like that little\nsensitive-plant, shrinking into herself with stiff unconsciousness at a\ncertain touch. But I don't think he noticed the sad tone in her voice,\nas she said good-night; I didn't, till, the others being gone, I saw her\nturn after his disappearing figure, with a look that would have been\ndespairing, but for its supplication.\n\nThe only thing Lu ever said to me about this was,--\n\n\"Don't you think Rose a little altered, Yone, since he came home?\"\n\n\"Altered?\"\n\n\"I have noticed it ever since you showed him your beads, that day.\"\n\n\"Oh! it's the amber,\" I said. \"They are amulets, and have bound him in a\nthrall. You must wear them, and dissolve the charm. He's in a dream.\"\n\n\"What is it to be in a dream?\" she asked.\n\n\"To lose thought of past or future.\"\n\nShe repeated my words,--\"Yes, he's in a dream,\" she said, musingly.\n\n\nII.\n\nRose didn't come near us for a fortnight; but he had not camped at all,\nas he said. It was the first stone thrown into Lu's life, and I never\nsaw any one keep the ripples under so; but her suspicions were aroused.\nFinally he came in again, all as before, and I thought things might have\nbeen different, if in that fortnight Mr. Dudley had not been so\nassiduous; and now, to the latter's happiness, there were several ragged\nchildren and infirm old women in whom, Lu having taken them in charge,\nhe chose to be especially interested. Lu always was housekeeper, both\nbecause it had fallen to her while mamma and I were away, and because\nshe had an administrative faculty equal to General Jackson's; and Rose,\nwho had frequently gone about with her, inspecting jellies and cordials\nand adding up her accounts, now unexpectedly found Mr. Dudley so near\nhis former place that he disdained to resume it himself;--not entirely,\nbecause the man of course couldn't be as familiar as an old playmate;\nbut just enough to put Rose aside. He never would compete with any one;\nand Lu did not know how to repulse the other.\n\nIf the amulets had ravished Rose from himself, they did it at a\ndistance, for I had not worn them since that day.--You needn't look.\nThales imagined amber had a spirit; and Pliny says it is a counter-charm\nfor sorceries. There are a great many mysterious things in the world.\nAren't there any hidden relations between us and certain substances?\nWill you tell me something impossible?--But he came and went about\nLouise, and she sung his songs, and all was going finely again, when we\ngave our midsummer party.\n\nEverybody was there, of course, and we had enrapturing music. Louise\nwore--no matter--something of twilight purple, and begged for the amber,\nsince it was too much for my toilette,--a double India muslin, whose\nsnowy sheen scintillated with festoons of gorgeous green beetles' wings\nflaming like fiery emeralds.--A family dress, my dear, and worn by my\naunt before me,--only that individual must have been frightened out of\nher wits by it. A cruel, savage dress, very like, but ineffably\ngorgeous.--So I wore her aquamarina, though the other would have been\nbetter; and when I sailed in, with all the airy folds in a hoar-frost\nmistiness fluttering round me and the glitter of Lu's jewels,--\n\n\"Why!\" said Rose, \"you look like the moon in a halo.\"\n\nBut Lu disliked a hostess out-dressing her guests.\n\nIt was dull enough till quite late, and then I stepped out with Mr.\nParti, and walked up and down a garden-path. Others were outside as\nwell, and the last time I passed a little arbor I caught a yellow gleam\nof amber. Lu, of course. Who was with her? A gentleman, bending low to\ncatch her words, holding her hand in an irresistible pressure. Not Rose,\nfor he was flitting in beyond. Mr. Dudley. And I saw then that Lu's\nkindness was too great to allow her to repel him angrily; her gentle\nconscience let her wound no one. Had Rose seen the pantomime? Without\ndoubt. He had been seeking her, and he found her, he thought, in Mr.\nDudley's arms. After a while we went in, and, finding all smooth\nenough, I slipped through the balcony-window and hung over the\nbalustrade, glad to be alone a moment. The wind, blowing in, carried the\ngay sounds away from me, even the music came richly muffled through the\nheavy curtains, and I wished to breathe balm and calm. The moon, round\nand full, was just rising, making the gloom below more sweet. A full\nmoon is poison to some; they shut it out at every crevice, and do not\nsuffer a ray to cross them; it has a chemical or magnetic effect; it\nsickens them. But I am never more free and royal than when the subtile\ncelerity of its magic combinations, whatever they are, is at work. Never\nhad I known the mere joy of being so intimately as to-night. The river\nslept soft and mystic below the woods, the sky was full of light, the\nair ripe with summer. Out of the yellow honeysuckles that climbed\naround, clouds of delicious fragrance stole and swathed me; long wafts\nof faint harmony gently thrilled me. Dewy and dark and uncertain was all\nbeyond. I, possessed with a joyousness so deep through its contented\nlanguor as to counterfeit serenity, forgot all my wealth of nature, my\npomp of beauty, abandoned myself to the hour.\n\nA strain of melancholy dance-music pierced the air and fell. I half\nturned my head, and my eyes met Rose. He had been there before me,\nperhaps. His face, white and shining in the light, shining with a\nstrange sweet smile of relief, of satisfaction, of delight, his lips\nquivering with unspoken words, his eyes dusky with depth after depth of\npassion. How long did my eyes swim on his? I cannot tell. He never\nstirred; still leaned there against the pillar, still looked down on me\nlike a marble god. The sudden tears dazzled my gaze, fell down my hot\ncheek, and still I knelt fascinated by that smile. In that moment I felt\nthat he was more beautiful than the night, than the music, than I. Then\nI knew that all this time, all summer, all past summers, all my life\nlong, I had loved him.\n\nSome one was waiting to make his adieux; I heard my father seeking me; I\nparted the curtains, and went in. One after one those tedious people\nleft, the lights grew dim, and still he stayed without. I ran to the\nwindow, and, lifting the curtain, bent forward, crying,--\n\n\"Mr. Rose! do you spend the night on the balcony?\"\n\nThen he moved, stepped down, murmured something to my father, bowed\nloftily to Louise, passed me without a sign, and went out. In a moment,\nLu's voice, a quick, sharp exclamation, touched him; he turned, came\nback. She, wondering at him, had stood toying with the amber, and at\nlast crushing the miracle of the whole, a bell-wort wrought most\ndelicately with all the dusty pollen grained upon its anthers, crushing\nit between her fingers, breaking the thread, and scattering the beads\nupon the carpet. He stooped with her to gather them again, he took from\nher hand and restored to her afterward the shattered fragments of the\nbell-wort, he helped her disentangle the aromatic string from her\nfalling braids,--for I kept apart,--he breathed the penetrating incense\nof each separate amulet, and I saw that from that hour, when every atom\nof his sensation was tense and vibrating, she would be associated with\nthe loathed amber in his undefined consciousness, would be surrounded\nwith an atmosphere of its perfume, that Lu was truly sealed from him in\nit, sealed into herself. Then again, saying no word, he went out.\n\nLouise stood like one lost,--took aimlessly a few steps,--retraced\nthem,--approached a table,--touched something,--left it.\n\n\"I am so sorry about your beads!\" she said, apologetically, when she\nlooked up and saw me astonished, putting the broken pieces into my hand.\n\n\"Goodness! Is that what you are fluttering about so for?\"\n\n\"They can't be mended,\" she continued, \"but I will thread them again.\"\n\n\"I don't care about them, I'm sick of amber,\" I answered, consolingly.\n\"You may have them, if you will.\"\n\n\"No. I must pay too great a price for them,\" she replied.\n\n\"Nonsense! when they break again, I'll pay you back,\" I said, without in\nthe least knowing what she meant. \"I didn't know you were too proud for\na 'thank you!'\"\n\nShe came up and put both her arms round my neck, laid her cheek beside\nmine a minute, kissed me, and went up-stairs. Lu always rather\nworshipped me.\n\nDressing my hair that night, Carmine, my maid, begged for the remnants\nof the bell-wort to \"make a scent-bag with, Miss.\"\n\nNext day, no Rose; it rained. But at night he came and took possession\nof the room, with a strange, airy gayety never seen in him before. It\nwas so chilly, that I had heaped the wood-boughs, used in the\nyesterday's decorations, on the hearth, and lighted a fragrant crackling\nflame that danced up wildly at my touch,--for I have the faculty of\nfire. I sat at one side, Lu at the other, papa was holding a skein of\nsilk for her to wind, the amber beads were twinkling in the\nfirelight,--and when she slipped them slowly on the thread, bead after\nbead, warmed through and through by the real blaze, they crowded the\nroom afresh with their pungent spiciness. Papa had called Rose to take\nhis place at the other end of the silk, and had gone out; and when Lu\nfinished, she fastened the ends, cut the thread, Rose likening her to\nAtropos, and put them back into her basket. Still playing with the\nscissors, following down the lines of her hand, a little snap was heard.\n\n\"Oh!\" said Louise, \"I have broken my ring!\"\n\n\"Can't it be repaired?\" I asked.\n\n\"No,\" she returned briefly, but pleasantly, and threw the pieces into\nthe fire.\n\n\"The hand must not be ringless,\" said Rose; and slipping off the ring of\nhers that he wore, he dropped it upon the amber, then got up and threw\nan armful of fresh boughs upon the blaze.\n\nSo that was all done. Then Rose was gayer than before. He is one of\nthose people to whom you must allow moods,--when their sun shines,\ndance, and when their vapors rise, sit in the shadow. Every variation of\nthe atmosphere affects him, though by no means uniformly; and so\nsensitive is he, that, when connected with you by any intimate\n_rapport_, even if but momentary, he almost divines your thoughts. He is\nfull of perpetual surprises. I am sure he was a nightingale before he\nwas Rose. An iridescence like sea-foam sparkled in him that evening, he\nlaughed as lightly as the little tinkling mass-bells at every moment,\nand seemed to diffuse a rosy glow wherever he went in the room. Yet\ngayety was not his peculiar specialty, and at length he sat before the\nfire, and, taking Lu's scissors, commenced cutting bits of paper in\nprofiles. Somehow they all looked strangely like and unlike Mr. Dudley.\nI pointed one out to Lu, and, if he had needed confirmation, her\nchanging color gave it. He only glanced at her askance, and then broke\ninto the merriest description of his life in Rome, of which he declared\nhe had not spoken to us yet, talking fast and laughing as gleefully as a\nchild, and illustrating people and localities with scissors and paper as\nhe went on, a couple of careless snips putting a whole scene before us.\n\nThe floor was well-strewn with such chips,--fountains, statues, baths,\nand all the persons of his little drama,--when papa came in. He held an\nopen letter, and, sitting down, read it over again. Rose fell into\nsilence, clipping the scissors daintily in and out the white sheet\nthrough twinkling intricacies. As the design dropped out, I caught\nit,--a long wreath of honeysuckle-blossoms. Lu was humming a little\ntune. Rose joined, and hummed the last bars, then bade us good-night.\n\n\"Yone,\" said papa, \"your Aunt Willoughby is very ill,--will not recover.\nShe is my elder brother's widow; you are her heir. You must go and stay\nwith her.\"\n\nNow it was very likely that just at this time I was going away to nurse\nAunt Willoughby! Moreover, illness is my very antipodes,--its nearness\nis invasion,--we are utterly antipathetic,--it disgusts and repels me.\nWhat sympathy can there be between my florid health, my rank, redundant\nlife, and any wasting disease of death? What more hostile than focal\nconcentration and obscure decomposition? You see, we cannot breathe the\nsame atmosphere. I banish the thought of such a thing from my feeling,\nfrom my memory. So I said,--\n\n\"It's impossible. I'm not going an inch to Aunt Willoughby's. Why, papa,\nit's more than a hundred miles, and in this weather!\"\n\n\"Oh, the wind has changed.\"\n\n\"Then it will be too warm for such a journey.\"\n\n\"A new idea, Yone! Too warm for the mountains?\"\n\n\"Yes, papa. I'm not going a step.\"\n\n\"Why, Yone, you astonish me! Your sick aunt!\"\n\n\"That's the very thing. If she were well, I might,--perhaps. Sick! What\ncan I do for her? I never go into a sick-room. I hate it. I don't know\nhow to do a thing there. Don't say another word, papa. I can't go.\"\n\n\"It is out of the question to let it pass so, my dear. Here you are\nnursing all the invalids in town, yet\"----\n\n\"Indeed, I'm not, papa. I don't know and don't care whether they're dead\nor alive.\"\n\n\"Well, then, it's Lu.\"\n\n\"Oh, yes, she's hospital-agent for half the country.\"\n\n\"Then it is time that you also got a little experience.\"\n\n\"Don't, papa! I don't want it. I never saw anybody die, and I never mean\nto.\"\n\n\"Can't I do as well, uncle?\" asked Lu.\n\n\"You, darling? Yes; but it isn't your duty.\"\n\n\"I thought, perhaps,\" she said, \"you would rather Yone went.\"\n\n\"So I would.\"\n\n\"Dear papa, don't vex me! Ask anything else!\"\n\n\"It is so unpleasant to Yone,\" Lu murmured, \"that maybe I had better go.\nAnd if you've no objection, Sir, I'll take the early train to-morrow.\"\n\nWasn't she an angel?\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\nLu was away a month. Rose came in, expressing his surprise. I said,\n\"Othello's occupation's gone?\"\n\n\"And left him room for pleasure now,\" he retorted.\n\n\"Which means seclusion from the world, in the society of lakes and\nchromes.\"\n\n\"Miss Willoughby,\" said he, turning and looking directly past me, \"may I\npaint you?\"\n\n\"Me? Oh, you can't.\"\n\n\"No; but may I try?\"\n\n\"I cannot go to you.\"\n\n\"I will come to you.\"\n\n\"Do you suppose it will be like?\"\n\n\"Not at all, of course. It is to be, then?\"\n\n\"Oh, I've no more right than any other piece of Nature to refuse an\nartist a study in color.\"\n\nHe faced about, half pouting, as if he would go out, then returned and\nfixed the time.\n\nSo he painted. He generally put me into a broad beam that slanted from\nthe top of the veiled window, and day after day he worked. Ah, what\nglorious days they were! how gay! how full of life! I almost feared to\nlet him image me on canvas, do you know? I had a fancy it would lay my\nsoul so bare to his inspection. What secrets might be searched, what\ndepths fathomed, at such times, if men knew! I feared lest he should see\nme as I am, in those great masses of warm light lying before him, as I\nfeared he saw when he said amber harmonized with me,--all being things\nnot polarized, not organized, without centre, so to speak. But it\nescaped him, and he wrought on. Did he succeed? Bless you! he might as\nwell have painted the sun; and who could do that? No; but shades and\ncombinations that he had hardly touched or known, before, he had to\nlavish now; he learned more than some years might have taught him; he,\nwho worshipped beauty, saw how thoroughly I possessed it; he has told\nme that through me he learned the sacredness of color. \"Since he loves\nbeauty so, why does he not love me?\" I asked myself; and perhaps the\nfeverish hope and suspense only lit up that beauty and fed it with fresh\nfires. Ah, the July days! Did you ever wander over barren, parched\nstubble-fields, and suddenly front a knot of red Turk's-cap lilies,\nflaring as if they had drawn all the heat and brilliance from the land\ninto their tissues? Such were they. And if I were to grow old and gray,\nthey would light down all my life, and I could be willing to lead a\ndull, grave age, looking back and remembering them, warming myself\nforever in their constant youth. If I had nothing to hope, they would\nbecome my whole existence. Think, then, what it will be to have all days\nlike those!\n\nHe never satisfied himself, as he might have done, had he known me\nbetter,--and he never _shall_ know me!--and used to look at me for the\nsecret of his failure, till I laughed; then the look grew wistful, grew\nenamored. By-and-by we left the pictures. We went into the woods, warm,\ndry woods; we stayed there from morning till night. In the burning\nnoons, we hung suspended between two heavens, in our boat on glassy\nforest-pools, where now and then a shoal of white lilies rose and\ncrowded out the under-sky. Sunsets burst like bubbles over us. When the\nhidden thrushes were breaking one's heart with music, and the sweet fern\nsent up a tropical fragrance beneath our crushing steps, we came home to\nrooms full of guests and my father's genial warmth. What a month it was!\n\nOne day papa went up into New Hampshire; Aunt Willoughby was dead; and\none day Lu came home.\n\nShe was very pale and thin. Her eyes were hollow and purple.\n\n\"There is some mistake, Lu,\" I said. \"It is you who are dead, instead of\nAunt Willoughby.\"\n\n\"Do I look so wretchedly?\" she asked, glancing at the mirror.\n\n\"Dreadfully! Is it all watching and grief?\"\n\n\"Watching and grief,\" said Lu.\n\nHow melancholy her smile was! She would have crazed me in a little\nwhile, if I had minded her.\n\n\"Did you care so much for fretful, crabbed Aunt Willoughby?\"\n\n\"She was very kind to me,\" Lu replied.\n\nThere was an odd air with her that day. She didn't go at once and get\noff her travelling-dress, but trifled about in a kind of expectancy, a\nlittle fever going and coming in her cheeks, and turning at any noise.\n\nWill you believe it?--though I know Lu had refused him,--who met her at\nthe half-way junction, saw about her luggage, and drove home with her,\nbut Mr. Dudley, and was with us, a half-hour afterward, when Rose came\nin? Lu didn't turn at his step, but the little fever in her face\nprevented his seeing her as I had done. He shook hands with her and\nasked after her health, and shook hands with Mr. Dudley, (who hadn't\nbeen near us during her absence,) and seemed to wish she should feel\nthat he recognized without pain a connection between herself and that\npersonage. But when he came back to me, I was perplexed again at that\nbewitched look in his face,--as if Lu's presence made him feel that he\nwas in a dream, I the enchantress of that dream. It did not last long,\nthough. And soon she saw Mr. Dudley out, and went up-stairs.\n\nWhen Lu came down to tea, she had my beads in her hand again.\n\n\"I went into your room and got them, dear Yone,\" she said, \"because I\nhave found something to replace the broken bell-wort\"; and she showed us\na little amber bee, black and golden. \"Not so lovely as the bell-wort,\"\nshe resumed, \"and I must pierce it for the thread; but it will fill the\nnumber. Was I not fortunate to find it?\"\n\nBut when at a flame she heated a long, slender needle to pierce it, the\nlittle winged wonder shivered between her fingers, and under the hot\nsteel filled the room with the honeyed smell of its dusted substance.\n\n\"Never mind,\" said I again. \"It's a shame, though,--it was so much\nprettier than the bell-wort! We might have known it was too brittle.\nIt's just as well, Lu.\"\n\nThe room smelt like a chancel at vespers. Rose sauntered to the window,\nand so down the garden, and then home.\n\n\"Yes. It cannot be helped,\" she said, with a smile. \"But I really\ncounted upon seeing it on the string. I'm not lucky at amber. You know\nlittle Asian said it would bring bane to the bearer.\"\n\n\"Dear! dear! I had quite forgotten!\" I exclaimed. \"Oh, Lu, keep it, or\ngive it away, or something! I don't want it any longer.\"\n\n\"You're very vehement,\" she said, laughing now. \"I am not afraid of your\ngods. Shall I wear them?\"\n\nSo the rest of the summer Lu twined them round her throat,--amulets of\nsorcery, orbs of separation; but one night she brought them back to me.\nThat was last night. There they lie.\n\nThe next day, in the high golden noon, Rose came. I was on the lounge in\nthe alcove parlor, my hair half streaming out of Lu's net; but he didn't\nmind. The light was toned and mellow, the air soft and cool. He came and\nsat on the opposite side, so that he faced the wall table with its dish\nof white, stiflingly sweet lilies, while I looked down the drawing-room.\nHe had brought a book, and by-and-by opened at the part commencing, \"Do\nnot die, Phene.\" He read it through,--all that perfect, perfect scene.\nFrom the moment when he said,\n\n                        \"I overlean\n    This length of hair and lustrous front,--they turn\n    Like an entire flower upward,\"--\n\nhis voice low, sustained, clear,--till he reached the line,\n\n    \"Look at the woman here with the new soul,\"--\n\ntill he turned the leaf and murmured,\n\n    \"Shall to produce form out of unshaped stuff\n    Be art,--and, further, to evoke a soul\n    From form be nothing? This new soul is mine!\"--\n\ntill then, he never glanced up. Now, with a proud grace, he raised his\nhead,--not to look at me, but across me, at the lilies, to satiate\nhimself with their odorous snowiness. When he again pronounced words,\nhis voice was husky and vibrant; but what music dwelt in it and seemed\nto prolong rather than break the silver silence, as he echoed,\n\n    \"Some unsuspected isle in the far seas\"!\n\nHow many read to descend to a prosaic life! how few to meet one as rich\nand full beside them! The tone grew ever lower; he looked up slowly,\nfastening his glance on mine.\n\n    \"And you are ever by me while I gaze,--\n    Are in my arms, as now,--as now,--as now!\"\n\nhe said. He swayed forward with those wild questioning eyes,--his breath\nblew over my cheek; I was drawn,--I bent; the full passion of his soul\nbroke to being, wrapped me with a blinding light, a glowing kiss on\nlingering lips, a clasp strong and tender as heaven. All my hair fell\ndown like a shining cloud and veiled us, the great rolling folds in wave\nafter wave of crisp splendor. I drew back from that long, silent kiss, I\ngathered up each gold thread of the straying tresses, blushing, defiant.\nHe also, he drew back. But I knew all then. I had no need to wait\nlonger; I had achieved. Rose loved me. Rose had loved me from that first\nday.--You scarcely hear what I say, I talk so low and fast? Well, no\nmatter, dear, you wouldn't care.--For a moment that gaze continued, then\nthe lids fell, the face grew utterly white. He rose, flung the book,\ncrushed and torn, upon the floor, went out, speaking no word to me, nor\ngreeting Louise in the next room. Could he have seen her? No. I, only,\nhad that. For, as I drew from his arm, a meteoric crimson, shooting\nacross the pale face bent over work there, flashed upon me, and then a\nfew great tears, like sudden thunder-drops, falling slowly and wetting\nthe heavy fingers. The long mirror opposite her reflected the interior\nof the alcove parlor. No,--he could not have seen, he must have felt\nher.\n\nI wonder whether I should have cared, if I had never met him any\nmore,--happy in this new consciousness. But in the afternoon he\nreturned, bright and eager.\n\n\"Are you so very busy, dear Yone,\" he said, without noticing Lu, \"that\nyou cannot drive with me to-day?\"\n\nBusy! In five minutes I whirled down the avenue beside him. I had not\nbeen Yone to him before. How quiet we were! he driving on, bent forward,\nseeing out and away; I leaning back, my eyes closed, and, whenever a\nremembrance of that instant at noon thrilled me, a stinging blush\nstaining my cheek. I, who had believed myself incapable of love, till\nthat night on the balcony, felt its floods welling from my spirit,--who\nhad believed myself so completely cold, was warm to my heart's core.\nAgain that breath fanned me, those lips touched mine, lightly, quickly.\n\n\"Yone, my Yone!\" he said. \"Is it true? No dream within dream? Do you\nlove me?\"\n\nWistful, longing, tender eyes.\n\n\"Do I love you? I would die for you!\"\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\nAh, me! If the July days were such, how perfect were the August and\nSeptember nights! their young moon's lingering twilight, their full\nbroad bays of silver, their interlunar season! The winds were warm about\nus, the whole earth seemed the wealthier for our love. We almost lived\nupon the river, he and I alone,--floating seaward, swimming slowly up\nwith late tides, reaching home drenched with dew, parting in passionate\nsilence. Once he said to me,--\n\n\"Is it because it is so much larger, more strange and beautiful, than\nany other love could be, that I feel guilty, Yone,--feel as if I sinned\nin loving you so, my great white flower?\"\n\nI ought to tell you how splendid papa was, never seemed to consider that\nRose had only his art, said I had enough from Aunt Willoughby for both,\nwe should live up there among the mountains, and set off at once to make\narrangements. Lu has a wonderful tact, too,--seeing at once where her\npath lay. She is always so well oriented! How full of peace and bliss\nthese two months have been! Last night Lu came in here. She brought back\nmy amber gods, saying she had not intended to keep them, and yet\nloitering.\n\n\"Yone,\" she said at last, \"I want you to tell me if you love him.\"\n\nNow, as if that were any affair of hers! I looked what I thought.\n\n\"Don't be angry,\" she pleaded. \"You and I have been sisters, have we\nnot? and always shall be. I love you very much, dear,--more than you may\nbelieve; I only want to know if you will make him happy.\"\n\n\"That's according,\" said I, with a yawn.\n\nShe still stood before me. Her eyes said, \"I have a right,--I have a\nright to know.\"\n\n\"You want me to say how much I love Vaughan Rose?\" I asked, finally.\n\"Well, listen, Lu,--so much, that, when he forgets me,--and he will, Lu,\none day,--I shall die.\"\n\n\"Prevent his forgetting you, Yone!\" she returned. \"Make your soul white\nand clear, like his.\"\n\n\"No! no!\" I answered. \"He loves me as I am. I will never change.\"\n\nThen somehow tears began to come. I didn't want to cry; I had to crowd\nthem back behind my fingers and shut lids.\n\n\"Oh, Lu!\" I said, \"I cannot think what it would be to live, and he not a\npart of me! not for either of us to be in the world without the other!\"\n\nThen Lu's tears fell with mine, as she drew her fingers over my hair.\nShe said she was happy, too; and to-day has been down and gathered every\none, so that, when you see her, her white array will be wreathed with\npurple hearts-ease. But I didn't tell Lu quite the truth, you must\nknow. I don't think I should die, except to my former self, if Rose\nceased to love me. I should change. Oh, I should hate him! Hate is as\nintense as love.\n\nBless me! What time can it be? There are papa and Rose walking in the\ngarden. I turned out my maid to find chance for all this talk; I must\nring for her. There, there's my hair! silken coil after coil, full of\nbroken lights, rippling below the knees, fine and fragrant. Who could\nhave such hair but I? I am the last of the Willoughbys, a decayed race,\nand from such strong decay what blossom less gorgeous should spring?\n\nOctober now. All the world swings at the top of its beauty; and those\nhills where we shall live, what robes of color fold them! Tawny filemot\ngilding the valleys, each seam and rut a scroll or arabesque, and all\nthe year pouring out her heart's blood to flush the maples, the great\nimpurpled granites warm with the sunshine they have drunk all summer! So\nI am to be married to-day, at noon. I like it best so; it is my hour.\nThere is my veil, that regal Venice point. Fling it round you. No, you\nwould look like a ghost in one,--Lu like a corpse. Dear me! That's the\nsecond time I've rung for Carmine. I dare say the hussy is trying on my\ngown. You think it strange I don't delay? Why, child, why tempt\nProvidence? Once mine, always mine. He might wake up. No, no, I couldn't\nhave meant that! It is not possible that I have merely led him into a\nregion of richer dyes, lapped him in this vision of color, kindled his\nheart to such a flame, that it may light him towards further effort. Can\nyou believe that he will slip from me and return to one in better\nharmony with him? Is any one? Will he ever find himself with that love\nlost, this love exhausted, only his art left him? Never! _I_ am his\ncrown. See me! how singularly, gloriously beautiful! For him only! all\nfor him! I love him! I cannot, I will not lose him! I defy all! My\nheart's proud pulse assures me! I defy Fate! Hush! One,--two,--twelve\no'clock. Carmine!\n\n\nIII.\n\n_Astra castra, numen lumen._\n\nThe click of her needles and the soft singing of the night-lamp are the\nonly sounds breaking the stillness, the awful stillness, of this room.\nHow the wind blows without! it must be whirling white gusty drifts\nthrough the split hills. If I were as free! Whistling round the gray\ngable, tearing the bleak boughs, crying faint, hoarse moans down the\nchimneys! A wild, sad gale! There is a lull, a long breathless lull,\nbefore it soughs up again. Oh, it is like a pain! Pain! Why do I think\nthe word? Must I suffer any more? Am I crazed with opiates? or am I\ndying? They are in that drawer,--laudanum, morphine, hyoscyamus, and all\nthe drowsy sirups,--little drops, but soaring like a fog, and wrapping\nthe whole world in a dull ache, with no salient sting to catch a groan\non. They are so small, they might be lost in this long, dark room; why\nnot the pain too, the point of pain, I? A long, dark room; I at one end,\nshe at the other; the curtains drawn away from me that I may breathe.\nAh, I have been stifled so long! They look down on me, all those old\ndead and gone faces, those portraits on the wall,--look all from their\nframes at me, the last term of the race, the vanishing summit of their\ndesign. A fierce weapon thrust into the world for evil has that race\nbeen,--from the great gray Willoughby, threatening with his iron eyes\nthere, to me, the sharp apex of its suffering. A fierce, glittering\nblade! Why I alone singled for this curse? Rank blossom, rank decay,\nthey answer, but falsely. I lie here, through no fault of mine, blasted\nby disease, the dread with no relief. A hundred ancestors look from my\nwalls, and see in me the centre of their lives, of all their little\nsplendor, of their sins and follies; what slept in them wakes in me. Oh,\nlet me sleep too!\n\nHow long could I live and lose nothing? I saw my face in the hand-glass\nthis morning,--more lovely than health fashioned it;--transparent skin,\nbounding blood, with its fire burning behind the eye, on cheek, on\nlip,--a beauty that every pang has aggravated, heightened, sharpened, to\na superb intensity, flushing, rapid, unearthly,--a brilliancy to be\ndreamed of. Like a great autumn-leaf I fall, for I am dying,--dying!\nYes, death finds me more beautiful than life made me; but have I lost\nnothing? Great Heaven, I have lost all!\n\nA fancy comes to me, that to-day was my birthday. I have forgotten to\nmark time; but if it was, I am thirty-two years old. I remember\nbirthdays of a child,--loving, cordial days. No one remembers to-day.\nWhy should they? But I ache for a little love. Thirty-two,--that is\nyoung to die! I am too fair, too rich, for death!--not his fit spoil! Is\nthere no one to save me? no help? can I not escape? Ah, what a vain\neagerness! what an idle hope! Fall back again, heart! Escape? I do not\ndesire to. Come, come, kind rest! I am tired.\n\nThat cap-string has loosened now, and all this golden cataract of hair\nhas rushed out over the piled pillows. It oppresses and terrifies me. If\nI could speak, it seems to me that I would ask Louise to come and bind\nit up. Won't she turn and see?\n\nHave I been asleep? What is this in my hands? The amber gods? Oh, yes! I\nasked to see them again; I like their smell, I think. It is ten years I\nhave had them. They enchant; but the charm will not last; nothing will.\nI rubbed a little yellow smoke out of them,--a cloud that hung between\nhim and the world, so that he saw only me,--at least----What am I\ndreaming of? All manner of illusions haunt me. Who said anything about\nten years? I have been married ten years. Happy, then, ten years? Oh,\nno! One day he woke.--How close the room is! I want some air. Why don't\nthey do something----\n\nOnce, in the pride of a fool, I fear having made some confidence, some\nrecital of my joy to ears that never had any. Did I say I would not lose\nhim? Did I say I could live just on the memory of that summer? I lash\nmyself that I must remember it! that I ever loved him! When he stirred,\nwhen the mist left him, when he found a mere passion had blinded him,\nwhen he spread his easel, when he abandoned love,--was I wretched? I,\ntoo, abandoned love!--more,--I hated! All who hate are wretched. But he\nwas bound to me! Yes, he might move restlessly,--it only clanked his\nchains. Did he wound me? I was cruel. He never spoke. He became\nartist,--ceased to be man,--was more indifferent than the cloud. He\ncould paint me then,--and, revealed and bare, all our histories written\nin me, he hung me up beside my ancestors. There I hang. Come from thy\nframe, thou substance, and let this troubled phantom go! Come! for he\ngave my life to thee. In thee he shut and sealed it all, and left me as\nthe empty husk. Did she come then? No! I sent for her. I meant to teach\nhim that he was yet a man,--to open before him a gulf of anguish; but\n_I_ slipped down it. Then I dogged them; they never spoke alone; I\nintercepted the eye's language; I withered their wintry smiles to\nfrowns; I stifled their sighs; I checked their breath, their motion.\nIdle words passed our lips; we three lived in a real world of silence,\nagonized mutes. She went. Summer by summer my father brought her to us.\nAlways memory was kindled afresh, always sorrow kept smouldering. Once\nshe came; I lay here; she has not left me since. He,--he also comes; he\nhas soothed pain with that loveless eye, carried me in untender arms,\nwatched calmly beside my delirious nights. He who loved beauty has\nlearned disgust. Why should I care? I, from the slave of bald form,\nenlarged him to the master of gorgeous color; his blaze is my ashes. He\nstudies me. I owe him nothing.\n\nIs it near morning? Have I dozed again? Night is long. The great\nhall-clock is striking,--throb after throb on the darkness. I remember,\nwhen I was a child, watching its lengthened pendulum swing as if time\nwere its own, and it measured the thread slowly, loath to\npart,--remember streaking its great ebony case with a little finger,\nmisting it with a warm breath. Throb after throb,--is it going to peal\nforever? Stop, solemn clangor! hearts, stop! Midnight.\n\nThe nurses have gone down; she sits there alone. Her bent side-face is\nfull of pity. Now and then her head turns; the great brown eyes lift\nheavily, and lie on me,--heavily, as if the sight of me pained her. Ah,\nin me perishes her youth! death enters her world! Besides, she loves me.\nI do not want her love,--I would fling it off; but I am faint,--I am\nimpotent,--I am so cold! Not that she lives, and I die,--not that she\nhas peace, and I tumult,--not for her voice's music,--not for her eye's\nlustre,--not for any charm of her womanly presence,--neither for her\nclear, fair soul,--nor that, when the storm and winter pass, and I am\nstiff and frozen, she smiles in the sun, and leads new life,--not for\nall this I hate her; but because my going gives her what I\nlost,--because, I stepped aside, the light falls on her,--because from\nmy despair springs her happiness. Poor fool! let her be happy, if she\ncan! Her mother was a Willoughby! And what is a flower that blows on a\ngrave?\n\nWhy do I remember so distinctly one night alone of all my life,--one\nnight, when we dance in the low room of a seaside cottage,--dance to\nLu's singing? He leads me to her, when the dance is through, brushing\nwith his head the festooned nets that swing from the rafters,--and in at\nthe open casement is blown a butterfly, a dead butterfly, from off the\nsea. She holds it compassionately till I pin it on my dress,--the wings,\ntwin magnificences, freckled and barred and dusty with gold, fluttering\nat my breath. Some one speaks with me; she strays to the window, he\nfollows, and they are silent. He looks far away over the gray loneliness\nstretching beyond. At length he murmurs: \"A brief madness makes my long\nmisery. Louise, if the earth were dazzled aside from her constant\npole-star to worship some bewildering comet, would she be more forlorn\nthan I?\"\n\n\"Dear Rose! your art remains,\" I hear her say.\n\nHe bends lower, that his breath may scorch her brow. \"Was I wrong? Am I\nright?\" he whispers, hurriedly. \"You loved me once; you love me now,\nLouise, if I were free?\"\n\n\"But you are not free.\"\n\nShe does not recoil, yet her very atmosphere repels him, while looking\nup with those woful eyes blanching her cheek by their gathering\ndarkness. \"And, Rose,\"----she sighs, then ceases abruptly, while a\nquiver of sudden scorn writhes spurningly down eyelid and nostril and\npains the whole face.\n\nHe erects himself, then reaches his hand for the rose in her belt,\nglances at me,--the dead thing in my bosom rising and falling with my\nturbulent heart,--holds the rose to his lips, leaves her. How keen are\nmy ears! how flushed my cheek! how eager and fierce my eyes! He\napproaches; I snatch the rose and tear its petals in an angry shower,\nand then a dim east-wind pours in and scatters my dream like flakes of\nfoam. All dreams go; youth and hope desert me; the dark claims me. O\nroom, surrender me! O sickness and sorrow, loose your weary hold!\n\nIt maddens me to know that the sun will shine again, the tender grass\ngrow green, the veery sing, the crocus come. She will walk in the light\nand re-gather youth, and I moulder, a forgotten heap. Oh, why not all\nthings crash to ruin with me?\n\nPain, pain, pain! Where is my father? Why is he away, when they know I\ndie? He used to hold me once; he ought to hear me when I call. He would\nrest me, and stroke the grief aside,--he is so strong. Where is he?\n\nThese amulets stumbling round again? Amber, amber gods, you did mischief\nin your day! If I clutched you hard, as Lu did once, all your spells\nwould be broken.--It is colder than it was. I think I will go to sleep.\n\nWhat was that? How loud and resonant! It stuns me. It is too sonorous.\nDoes sound flash? Ah! the hour. Another? How long the silver toll swims\non the silent air! It is one o'clock,--a passing bell, a knell. If I\nwere at home by the river, the tide would be turning down, down, and out\nto the broad, broad sea. Is it worth while to have lived?\n\nHave I spoken? She looks at me, rises, and touches that bell-rope that\nalways brings him. How softly he opens the door! Waiting, perhaps. Well.\nTen years have not altered him much. The face is brighter,\nfiner,--shines with the eternal youth of genius. They pause a moment; I\nsuppose they are coming to me; but their eyes are on each other.\n\nWhy must the long, silent look with which he met her the day I got my\namber strike back on me now so vindictively? I remember three looks:\nthat, and this, and one other,--one fervid noon, a look that drank my\nsoul, that culminated my existence. Oh, I remember! I lost it a little\nwhile ago. I have it now. You are coming? Can't you hear me? See! these\ncostly _liqueurs_, these precious perfumes beside me here, if I can\nreach them, I will drench the coverlet in them; it shall be white and\nsweet as a little child's. I wish they were the great rich lilies of\nthat day; it is too late for the baby May-flowers. You do not like\namber? There the thread breaks again! the little cruel gods go tumbling\ndown the floor! Come, lay my head on your breast! kiss my life off my\nlips! I am your Yone! I forgot a little while,--but I love you, Rose!\nRose!\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\nWhy! I thought arms held me. How clear the space is! The wind from\nout-doors, rising again, must have rushed in. There is the quarter\nstriking. How free I am! No one here? No swarm of souls about me? Oh,\nthose two faces looked from a great mist, a moment since; I scarcely see\nthem now. Drop, mask! I will not pick you up! Out, out into the gale!\nback to my elements!\n\nSo I passed out of the room, down the staircase. The servants below did\nnot see me, but the hounds crouched and whined. I paused before the\ngreat ebony clock; again the fountain broke, and it chimed the\nhalf-hour; it was half-past one; another quarter, and the next time its\nponderous silver hammers woke the house it would be two. Half-past one?\nWhy, then, did not the hands move? Why cling fixed on a point five\nminutes before the first quarter struck? To and fro, soundless and\npurposeless, swung the long pendulum. And, ah! what was this thing I had\nbecome? I had done with time. Not for me the hands moved on their\nrecurrent circle any more.\n\nI must have died at ten minutes past one.\n\n\n\n\nTHE POET'S FRIENDS.\n\n\n    The Robin sings in the elm;\n      The cattle stand beneath,\n    Sedate and grave, with great brown eyes,\n      And fragrant meadow-breath.\n\n    They listen to the flattered bird,\n      The wise-looking, stupid things!\n    And they never understand a word\n      Of all the Robin sings.\n\n\n\n\nTHE MEMORIAL OF A. B., OR MATILDA MUFFIN.\n\n\nTHE MEMORIAL OF A. B.\n\n_Humbly Showeth_:--\n\nLadies and gentlemen,--enlightened public,--kind audience,--dear\nreaders,--or whatever else you may be styled,--whose eyes, from remote\nregions of east, west, or next door, solace themselves between the brown\ncovers of this magazine, making of themselves flowers to its lunar\nbrilliancy,--I wish to state, with all humility and self-disgust, that I\nam what is popularly called a literary woman.\n\nIn the present state of society, I should feel less shame in declaring\nmyself the elect lady of Dunderhed Van Nudel, Esquire, that wealthy\nDutch gentleman, aged seventy, whom we all know. It is true, that, as I\nam young and gay and intelligent, while he is old and stupid and very\nlow Dutch indeed, such an announcement would be equivalent to saying\nthat I was bought by Mr. Van Nudel for half a million of dollars; but\nthen that is customary, and you would all congratulate me.\n\nAlso, I should stand a better chance of finding favor in your eyes, if I\ndeclared myself to be an indigent tailoress; for no woman should use her\nhead who can use her hands,--a maxim older than Confucius.\n\nOr even if I were a school-ma'am! (blessed be the man who has brought\nthem into fashion and the long path!) In that case, you might say, \"Poor\nthing! isn't she interesting? quite like _the_ school-mistress!\"--And I\nam not averse to pity, since it is love's poor cousin, nor to belonging\nto a class mentioned in Boston literary society. I really am not!\n\nBut the plain truth is, I earn my living by writing. Sewing does not\npay. I have no \"faculty\" at school-keeping; for I invariably spoil all\nthe good children, and pet all the pretty ones,--a process not\nconducive, as I am told, to the development of manners or morals;--so I\nwrite: just as Mr. Jones makes shoes, Mr. Peters harangues the jury, Mr.\nSmith sells calico, or Mr. Robinson rolls pills.\n\nFor, strange as it may seem, when it is so easy to read, it is hard work\nto write,--_bona fide_, undeniable hard work. Suppose my head cracks and\nrings and reels with a great ache that stupefies me? In comes Biddy with\na letter.\n\n     \"The editor of the 'Monthly Signpost' would be much obliged to\n     Miss Matilda Muffin for a tale of four pages, to make up the\n     June number, before the end of next week.\n\n                    \"Very respectfully, etc., etc.\"\n\nMiss Muffin's head looks her in the face, (metaphorically,) and says,\n\"You can't!\"--but her last year's bonnet creaks and rustles from the\nbandbox, finally lifts the lid and peeps out. Gracious! the ghost in\nHamlet was not more of an \"airy nothing\" than that ragged, faded,\ndilapidated old structure of crape and blonde. The bonnet retires to the\nsound of slow music; the head slinks back and holds its tongue; Miss\nMuffin sits down at her table; scratch, scratch, scratch, goes the old\npen, and the ideas catch up with it, it is so shaky; and the words go\ntumbling over it, till the _t_s go out without any hats on, and the\neyes--no, the _i_s (_is_ that the way to pluralize them?)--get no dots\nat all; and every now and then the head says, softly, \"Oh, dear!\" Miss\nMuffin goes to something called by novel-writers \"repose,\" toward one\no'clock that night, and the next night, and the next; she obliges the\n\"Monthly Signpost\" with a comic story at a low price, and buys herself a\ndecent little bonnet for Sundays, replenishing her wardrobe generally by\nthe same process; and the head considers it work, I assure you.\n\nBut this is not the special grievance to which I direct this Memorial. I\nlike to work; it suits me much better to obtain my money by steady,\nhonest effort than it would to depend on anybody else for one round\ncent. If I had a thousand dollars unexpectedly left me by some unknown\nbenefactor, I don't think it would be worth five cents on the dollar,\ncompared with what I earn; there is a healthy, trustworthy pleasure in\nthat, never yet attained by gifted or inherited specie. Neither is it\nthe publicity of the occupation that I here object to. I knew that,\nbefore I began to write; and many an hour have I cried over the thought\nof being known, and talked about, and commented on,--having my dear\nname, that my mother called me by, printed on the cover of a magazine,\nseeing it in newspapers, hearing it in whispers, when Miss Brown says to\nMiss Black under her breath,--\"That girl in the straw bonnet is Matilda\nMuffin, who writes for the 'Snapdragon' and the 'Signpost.'\"\n\nI knew all this, as I say. I dreaded and hated it. I hate it now. But I\nhad to work, and this was the only way open to me; so I tried to be\nbrave, and to do what I ought, and let the rest go. I cannot say I am\nvery brave yet, or that I don't feel all this; but I do not memorialize\nagainst it, because it is necessary to be borne, and I must bear it.\nWhen I go to the dentist's to have a tooth out, I sit down, and hold the\nchair tight, and open my mouth as wide as it will open, but I always\nsay, \"Oh! don't, doctor! I can't! I can't possibly!\" till the iron\nwhat-d'you-call-it enters my soul and stops my tongue.\n\nYes, when I began to write, I knew I should some day see my name in\nprint. I knew people would wonder who and what I was, and how I\nlooked;--I had done it myself. I knew that I should be delivered over to\nbe the prey of tongues and the spoil of eyes. I was aware, I think, I am\naware now, of every possible \"disagreeable\" that can befall the state. I\nam accustomed to hear people say, if I venture a modest opinion about a\ndinner, \"Dear me! as if a literary woman knew anything about\ncooking!\"--I endure that meekly, sustained by the inner consciousness\nthat I _can_ cook much better than any artist in that line I ever yet\nencountered. Likewise I am used to hear people say, \"I suppose you don't\nwaste your valuable time in sewing?\" when a look at my left forefinger\nwould insure me a fraternal grip from any member of the Seamstress's\nFriends Society anywhere. I do not either scold or cry when accidentally\nsome visitor discovers me fitting my dress or making my bonnet, and\nlooks at me with a \"fearful joy,\" as if I were on a tight-rope. I even\nsmile when people lay my ugly shawl or _passe_ bonnet, that I bought\nbecause they were cheap, and wear for the same reason, at the door of\nthe \"eccentricities of genius.\" And I am case-hardened to the\ninstantaneous scattering and dodging of young men that ensue the moment\nI enter a little party, because \"gentlemen are so afraid of literary\nwomen.\" I don't think gentlemen are; I know two or three who never\nconceal a revolver in the breast of their coat when they talk to me, and\nwho sometimes even offer to go home with me from a tea-party all alone,\nand after dark too. It is true, one or two of these are \"literary\"\nthemselves; the others I knew before I was dyed blue; which may account\nfor it. Also I am impervious to anonymous letters, exhorting me to all\nkinds of mental and moral improvement, or indulging in idle\nimpertinences about my private affairs, the result of a knowledge about\nme and the aforesaid affairs drawn solely from my \"Pieces in Prose and\nVerse.\"\n\nThen as to the matter of the romantic stories that are afloat concerning\nme, I am rather amused than otherwise by them. I have a sentimental\nname, by the religious and customary ordinance of baptism, legally my\nown; and at first, being rather loath to enter the great alliterative\nranks of female writers by my lawful title of Matilda Muffin, I signed\nmy writings \"A. B.\"\n\nTwo reprobatory poems addressed to those initials came to me through\nthe medium of the \"Snapdragon,\" immediately after my having printed in\nthat spicy paper a pensive little poem called \"The Rooster's Cry\": one,\nin Spenserian measure, rebuking me for alluding lightly to serious\nsubjects,--a thing I never do, I am sure, and I can't imagine what \"J.\nH. P.\" meant; and another, in hexameter, calling upon me to \"arouse,\"\nand \"smile,\" and \"struggle on,\" and, in short, to stop crying and behave\nmyself,--only it was said in figures. I'm much obliged to \"Quintius\" for\nthe advice; but I should like to explain, that I am subject to the\ntoothache, and when it is bad I cannot possibly write comic poetry. I\nmust be miserable, but it's only toothache, thank you!\n\nThen I have heard several times, in the strictest confidence, the whole\nhistory of \"A. B., who writes for the 'Snapdragon.'\" Somebody told me\nshe was a lady living on the North River, very wealthy, very haughty,\nand very unhappy in her domestic relations. Another said she was a young\nwidow in Alabama, whose mother was extremely tyrannical, and opposed her\nsecond marriage. A third person declared to me that A. B. was a\nphysician in the navy,--a highly educated man, but reduced in\ncircumstances. I think that was a great compliment,--to be actually\ntaken for a man! I felt it to be \"the proudest moment of my life,\" as\nship-captains say, when they return thanks for the silver teapot richly\nchased with nautical emblems, presented by the passengers saved from the\nwreck, as a token of gratitude for the hencoops thrown overboard by the\nmanly commander. However, I called myself a woman in the very next\ncontribution, for fear of the united wrath of the stronger sex, should I\never be discovered to have so imposed upon the public; although I know\nseveral old women who remain undiscovered to this day, simply because\nthey avail themselves of a masculine signature.\n\nThere were other romances, too tedious to mention, depicting me\nsometimes as a lovely blonde, writing graceful tales beneath a bower of\nroses in the warm light of June; sometimes as a respectable old maid,\nrather sharp, fierce, and snuffy; sometimes as a tall, delicate,\naristocratic, poetic looking creature, with liquid dark eyes and heavy\ntresses of raven hair; sometimes as a languishing, heart-broken woman in\nthe prime of life, with auburn curls and a slow consumption.\n\nPerhaps it may be as well to silence all conjecture at once, by stating\nthat I am a woman of----no, I won't say how old, because everybody will\ndate me from this time forward, and I shall not always be willing to\ntell how old I am! I am not very young now, it is true; I am more than\nsixteen and less than forty; so when our clergyman requested all between\nthose ages to remain after service for the purpose of forming a week-day\nBible-class, I sat still, and so did everybody else except Mrs. Van\nDoren, whose great-grandchild was christened in the morning;--our church\nis a new one.\n\nHowever, this is digressing. I am not very tall, nor very short; I am\nrather odd-looking, but decidedly plain. I have brown hair and eyes, a\npale light complexion, a commonplace figure, pretty good taste in dress,\nand a quick sense of the ludicrous, that makes me laugh a great deal,\nand have a good time generally.\n\nI live at home, in the town of Blank, in a quiet by-street. My parents\nare both living, and we keep one Irish girl. I go to church on Sundays,\nand follow my trade week-days.\n\nI write everything I do write in my own room, which is not so pleasant\nas a bower of roses in some respects, but is preferable in regard to\nearwigs and caterpillars, which are troublesome in bowers. I have a\nsmall pine table to write on, as much elderly furniture as supplies me\nplaces for sleep and my books, a small stove in winter, (which is\nanother advantage over bowers,) and my \"flowing draperies\" are blue\nchintz, which I bought at a bargain; some quaint old engravings of\nBartolozzi's in black and gilt frames; a few books, among which are\nprominently set forth a volume of \"The Doctor,\"--Nicolo de' Lapi, in\ndelightful bindings of white parchment,--Thomas a Kempis,--a Bible, of\nEnglish type and paper,--and Emerson's Poems, bound in Russia leather.\nNot that I have no other books,--grammars, and novels, and cook-books,\nin gorgeous array,--but these are within reach from my pillow, when I\nwant to read myself asleep; and a plaster cast of Minerva's owl mounts\nguard above them, curious fowl that it is.\n\nThe neighbors think I am a pretty nice girl, and my papa secretly exults\nover me as a genius, but he don't say much about it. And there, dear\npublic, you have Matilda Muffin as she is, which I hope will quash the\nromances, amusing though they be.\n\nBut when, after much editorial correspondence, and persevering whispers\nof kind friends who had been told the facts in confidence, A. B. became\nonly the pretext of a mystery, and I signed myself by my full name, the\nquestion naturally arose,--\"Who _is_ Matilda Muffin?\"\n\nNow, for the first time in my life, do I experience the benefits of a\nsentimental name, which has rather troubled me before, as belonging to a\nquite unsentimental and commonplace person, and thereby raising\nexpectations, through hearsay, which actual vision dispelled with\npainful suddenness. But now I find its advantage, for nobody believes it\nis my own, but confidently expects that Ann Tubbs or Susan Bucket will\nappear from a long suppression, like a Jack-in-a-box, and startle the\npublic as she throws back the cover.\n\nIndeed, I am told that not long since a circle of literary\nexperimentalists, discussing a recent number of a certain magazine, and\ndisplaying great knowledge of _noms-de-plume_, ran aground all at once\nupon \"Who is Matilda Muffin?\"--even as, in the innocent faith of\nchildhood, I pondered ten minutes upon \"Who was the father of Zebedee's\nchildren?\" and at last \"gave up.\" But these professional gentlemen,\nnowise daunted by the practical difficulties of the subject, held on,\ntill at last one, wiser in his generation than the rest, confidently\nannounced that he knew Matilda Muffin's real name, but was not at\nliberty to disclose it. Should this little confidence ever reach the\neyes of those friends, I wish to indorse that statement in every\nparticular; that gentleman does know my name; and know all men, by these\npresents, I give him full leave to disclose it,--or rather, to save him\nthe trouble, I disclose it myself. My name, my own, that would have been\nprinted in the marriage-list of the \"Snapdragon\" before now, if it had\nnot appeared in the list of contributors, and which will appear in its\nlist of deaths some day to come,--my name, that is called to breakfast,\nmarked on my pocket-handkerchiefs, written in my books, and done in\nyellow paint on my trunk, _is_--Matilda Muffin. \"Only that, and nothing\nmore!\" And \"A. B.,\" which I adopted once as a species of veil to the\naforesaid alliterative title, did not mean, as was supposed, \"A Beauty,\"\nor \"Any Body,\" or \"Another Barrett,\" or \"Anti Bedott,\" or \"After\nBreakfast,\" but only \"A. B.,\" the first two letters of the alphabet.\nPeace to their ashes!--let them rest!\n\nBut, dear me! I forgot the Memorial! As I have said, all these\nenumerated troubles do not much move me, nor yet the world-old cry of\nall literary women's being, in virtue of their calling, unfeminine. I\ndon't think anybody who knows me can say that about me; in fact, I am\ngenerally regarded by my male cousins as a \"little goose,\" and a\n\"foolish child,\" and \"a perfectly absurd little thing,\"--epithets that\nforbid the supposition of their object being strong-minded or having\nWomen's Rights;--and as for people who don't know me, I care very little\nwhat they think. If I want them to like me, I can generally make\nthem,--having a knack that way.\n\nBut there is one thing against which I do solemnly protest and uplift\nmy voice, as a piece of ridiculous injustice and supererogation,--and\nthat is, that every new poem or fresh story I write and print should be\nsupposed and declared to be part and parcel of my autobiography. Good\ngracious! Goethe himself, \"many-sided\" as the old stone Colossus might\nhave been, would have retreated in dismay from such a host of characters\nas I have appeared in, according to the announcement of admiring\nfriends.\n\nMy dear creatures, do just look at the common sense of the thing! Can I\nhave been, by any dexterity known to man, of mind or body, such a\nvarious creature, such a polycorporate animal, as you make me to be?\nBecause I write the anguish and suffering of an elderly widow with a\ndrunken husband, am I therefore meek and of middle age, the slave of a\nrum-jug? I have heard of myself successively as figuring in the\ncharacter of a strong-minded, self-denying Yankee girl,--a\nbroken-hearted Georgia beauty,--a fairy princess,--a consumptive\nschool-mistress,--a young woman dying of the perfidy of her lover,--a\nmysterious widow; and I daily expect to hear that a caterpillar which\nfigured as hero in one of my tales was an allegory of myself, and that a\ncat mentioned in \"The New Tobias\" is a travesty of my heart-experience.\n\nNow this is rather more than \"human natur\" can stand. It is true that in\nmy day and generation I have suffered as everybody does, more or less.\nIt is likewise true that I have suffered from the same causes that other\npeople do. I am happy to state that in the allotments of this life\nauthoresses are not looked upon as \"literary,\" but simply as women, and\nhave the same general dispensations with the just and the unjust;\ntherefore, in attempting to excite other people's sympathies, I have\ncertainly touched and told many stories that were not strange to my own\nconsciousness; I do not know very well how I could do otherwise. And in\ntrying to draw the common joys and sorrows of life, I certainly have\navailed myself of experience as well as observation; but I should seem\nto myself singularly wanting in many traits which I believe I possess,\nwere I to obtrude the details of my own personal and private affairs\nupon the public. And I offer to those who have so interpreted me a\ndeclaration which I trust may relieve them from all responsibility of\nthis kind in future; I hereby declare, asseverate, affirm, and whatever\nelse means to swear, that I never have offered and never intend to offer\nany history whatever of my personal experience, social, literary, or\nemotional, to the readers of any magazine, newspaper, novel, or\ncorrespondence whatever. Nor is there any one human being who has ever\nheard or ever will hear the whole of that experience,--no, not even\nDunderhed Van Nudel, Esquire, should he buy me to-morrow!\n\nAlso, I wish to relieve the minds of many friendly readers, who, hearing\nand believing these reports, bestow upon me a vast amount of sympathy\nthat is worthy of a better fate. My dear friends, as I said before, it\nis principally toothache; poetry is next best to clove-oil, and less\ninjurious to the enamel. I beg of you not to suppose that every poet who\nhowls audibly in the anguish of his soul is really afflicted in the said\nsoul; but one must have respect for the dignity of High Art. Answer me\nnow with frankness, what should you think of a poem that ran in this\nstyle?--\n\n    \"The sunset's gorgeous wonder\n      Flashes and fades away;\n    But my back-tooth aches like thunder,\n      And I cannot now be gay!\"\n\nNow just see how affecting it is, when you \"change the venue,\" as\nlawyers say:--\n\n    \"The sunset's gorgeous wonder\n      Flashes and fades away;\n    But I hear the muttering thunder,\n      And my sad heart dies like the day.\"\n\nI leave it to any candid mind, what would be the result to literature,\nif such a course were pursued?\n\nBesides, look at the facts in the case. You read the most tearful\nstrains of the most melancholy poet you know; if you took them\n_verbatim_, you would expect him to be found by the printer's-boy, sent\nfor copy, \"by starlight on the north side of a tombstone,\" as Dr.\nBellamy said, enjoying a northeaster without any umbrella, and soaking\nthe ground with tears, unwittingly antiseptic, in fact, as Mr. Mantalini\nexpressed himself, \"a damp, moist, unpleasant body.\" But where, I ask,\ndoes that imp find the aforesaid poet, when he goes to get the seventh\nstanza of the \"Lonely Heart\"? Why, in the gentlemen's parlor of a\nfirst-class hotel, his feet tilted up in the window, his apparel\nperfectly dry and shiny with various ornamental articles appended, his\neyes half open over a daily paper, his parted lips clinging to a cigar,\nhis whole aspect well-to-do and comfortable. And aren't you glad of it?\nI am; there is so much real misery in the world, that don't know how to\nwrite for the papers, and has to have its toothache all by itself, when\na simple application of bread and milk or bread and meat would cure it,\nthat I am glad to have the apparent sum of human misery diminished, even\nat the expense of being a traitor in the camp.\n\nAnd still further, for your sakes, dear tender-hearted friends, who may\nsuppose that I am wearing this mask of joy for the sake of deluding you\ninto a grim and respectful sympathy,--you, who will pity me whether or\nno,--I confess that I have some material sorrows for which I will gladly\naccept your tears. My best bonnet is very unbecoming. I even heard it\nsaid the other day, striking horror to my soul, that it looked literary!\nAnd I'm afraid it does! Moreover, my only silk dress that is presentable\nbegins to show awful symptoms of decline and fall; and though you may\nsuppose literature to be a lucrative business, between ourselves it is\nnot so at all, (very likely the \"Atlantic\" gentlemen will omit that\nsentence, for fear of a libel-suit from the trade,--but it's all the\nsame a fact, unless you write for the \"Dodger,\")--and, I'm likely to\nmend and patch and court-plaster the holes in that old black silk,\nanother year at least: but this is my solitary real anguish at present.\n\nI do assure all and sundry my reporters, my sympathizers, and my\nreaders, that all that I have stated in this present Memorial is\nunvarnished fact, whatever they may say, read, or feel to the\ncontrary,--and that, although I am a literary woman, and labor under all\nthe liabilities and disabilities contingent thereto, I am yet sound in\nmind and body, (except for the toothache,) and a very amusing person to\nknow, with no quarrel against life in general or anybody in particular.\nIndeed, I find one advantage in the very credulous and inquisitive\ngossip against which I memorialize; for I think I may expect fact to be\nbelieved, when fiction is swallowed whole; and I feel sure of seeing,\ndirectly on the publication of this document, a notice in the\n\"Snapdragon,\" the \"Badger,\" or the \"Coon,\" (whichever paper gets that\nnumber of the magazine first,) running in this wise:--\n\n     \"MATILDA MUFFIN.--We welcome in the last number of the\n     'Atlantic Monthly' a brief and spirited autobiography of this\n     lady, whose birth, parentage, and home have so long been wrapt\n     in mystery. The hand of genius has rent asunder the veil of\n     reserve, and we welcome the fair writer to her proper position\n     in the Blank City Directory, and post-office list of boxes.\"\n\nAfter which, I shall resign myself tranquilly to my fate as a unit, and\nglide down the stream of life under whatever skies shine or scowl above,\nalways and forever nobody but\n\n              MATILDA MUFFIN.\n    BLANK, _67 Smith Street_.\n\n\n\n\nSOME ACCOUNT OF A VISIONARY.\n\n\n\"Dear old Visionary!\" It was the epithet usually applied to Everett Gray\nby his friends and neighbors. It expresses very well the estimation in\nwhich he was held by nineteen-twentieths of his world. People couldn't\nhelp feeling affection for him, considerably leavened by a half-pitying,\nhalf-wondering appreciation of his character. He was so good, so kind,\nso gifted, too. Pity he was so dreamy and romantic, _et cetera, et\ncetera_.\n\nNow, from his youth up, nay, from very childhood, Everett had borne the\ncharacter thus implied. A verdict was early pronounced on him by an\neminent phrenologist who happened to be visiting the family. \"A\nbeautiful mind, a comprehensive intellect, but marvellously\nunpractical,--singularly unfitted to cope with the difficulties of\nevery-day life.\" And Everett's mother, hanging on the words of the man\nof science, breathless and tearful, murmured to herself, while stroking\nher unconscious little son's bright curls,--\"I always feared he was too\ngood for this wicked world.\"\n\nThe child began to justify the professor's _dictum_ with his very first\nentry into active life. He entertained ideas for improving the social\ncondition of rabbits, some time before he could conveniently raise\nhimself to a level with the hutch in which three of them, jointly\nbelonging to himself and his brother, abode. His theory was consummate;\nin practice, however, it proved imperfect,--and great wrath on the part\nof Richard Gray, and much confusion and disappointment to Everett, were\nthe result.\n\nRichard, two years younger than Everett by the calendar, was at least\nthree older than he in size, appearance, habits, and self-assertion. He\nwas what is understood by \"a regular boy\": a fine, manly little fellow,\npractical, unsensitive, hard-headed, and overflowing with life and\nvigor. He had little patience with his brother's quiet ways; and his\nunsuccessful attempts at working out theories met with no sympathy at\nhis hands.\n\nAfter the affair of the rabbits, his experiments, however certain of\nsuccess he deemed them, were always made on or with regard to his own\nbelongings. The little plot of garden-ground which he held in absolute\npossession was continually being dug up and refashioned, in his eager\nefforts to convert it successively into a vineyard, a Portuguese\n_quinta_, (to effect which he diligently planted orange-pips and manured\nthe earth with the peel,) or, favorite scheme of all, a\nwheat-field,--dimensions, eighteen feet by twelve,--the harvest of which\nwas to provide all the poor children of the village with bread, in those\nhard seasons when their pinched faces and shrill, complaining cries\nappealed so mightily to little Everett's heart.\n\nNevertheless, and in spite of all his care and watching, it is to be\nfeared that very few of the big loaves which found their way from the\nhall to the village, that winter, were composed of the produce of his\ncorn-field. More experienced farmers than this youthful agriculturist\nmight not have been surprised at the failure of his crop. He was.\nIndeed, it was a valiant characteristic of him, throughout his life,\nthat he never grew accustomed to failure, however serenely he took it,\nwhen it came. He grieved and perplexed himself about it, silently, but\nnot hopelessly. New ideas dawned on his mind, fresh designs of relief\nwere soon entertained, and essayed to be put in practice. These were\nmany, and of various degrees of feasibility,--ranging from the\nrigorously pursued plan of setting aside a portion of his daily bread\nand butter in a bag, and of his milk in a can, and bestowing the little\nstore on the nearest eligible object, up to the often pondered one of\nobtaining possession of the large barn in the cow-field, furnishing the\nsame, and establishing therein all the numerous houseless wanderers who\nused to come and ask for aid at the hands of Everett's worthy and\nmagisterial father.\n\nThat father's judicial functions caused his eldest son considerable\ntrouble and bewilderment of mind. He asked searching questions\nsometimes, when, of an evening, perched on Mr. Gray's knee, and looking\nwith his wondering, steadfast eyes into the face of that erewhile stern\nand impassible magistrate. The large justice-room, where the prisoners\nwere examined, had an awful fascination to him; and so had the little\n\"strong-room,\" in which sometimes they were locked up before being\nconveyed away to the county jail. Often, he wandered restlessly near it,\nlooking at the door with strange, mournful eyes; and if by chance the\nculprit passed out before him, under the guardianship of the terrible,\nred-faced constable,--Everett's earliest and latest conception of the\nDevil,--how wistfully he would gaze at him, and what a world of thought\nand puzzled speculation would float through his childish mind!\n\nOnce, he had a somewhat serious adventure connected with that dreadful\nstrong-room.\n\nThere had been a man brought up before Mr. Gray, charged with\npoultry-stealing; and he had been remanded for further examination.\nMeanwhile, he was placed in the strong-room, under lock-and-key,--Roger\nManby, as usual, standing sentinel in the passage. Now Roger's red face\nbetokened a lively appreciation of the sublunary and substantial\nattractions of beef and beer; and it seems probable that the servants'\ndinner, going on below-stairs, was too great a temptation for even that\ninflexible constable to resist. Howbeit, when the prisoner should have\nbeen produced before the waiting bench, he was nowhere to be found. He\nhad vanished, as by magic, from the strong-room, without bolt being\nwrenched, or lock forced, or bar broken. The door was unfastened, and\nthe prisoner gone. Great was the consternation, profound the\nmystification of all parties. Roger was severely reprimanded, and\nofficers were sent off in various directions to recapture the offender.\n\nMr. Gray seldom alluded to his public affairs when among his children;\nbut that evening he broke through the rule. At dessert, with little\nEverett, as usual, beside him, he mentioned the mysterious incident of\nthe morning to some friends who were dining with him, adding his own\nconjectures as to the cause of the strange disappearance.\n\n\"It is certain he was _let out_. He could not have released himself.\nCircumstances are suspicious against Manby, too; and he will probably\nlose his office. Like Caesar's wife, a constable should be beyond\nsuspicion, and he must be dismissed, if\"----\n\n\"Oh, papa!\"--and Everett's orange fell to the floor, and Everett's face\nwas lifted to his father's, all-aglow with eager, painful feeling.\n\n\"You don't like old Roger,\" said Mr. Gray, patting his cheek. \"Well, it\nis likely you won't be troubled by him any more.\"\n\n\"Oh, papa! oh, papa! Roger is an ugly, cross man. But he didn't,--he\ndidn't\"----\n\n\"Didn't what, my boy?\"\n\n\"Let the man out. He was in the kitchen all the time. I heard him\nlaughing.\"\n\n\"_You_ heard him? How?\"\n\n\"I--I--oh, papa!\"\n\nThe curly head sunk on the inquisitor's shoulder.\n\n\"Go on, Everett. What do you mean? Tell me the whole truth. You are not\nafraid to do that?\"\n\n\"No, papa.\"\n\nHe looked up, with steady eyes, but cheeks on which the color flickered\nmost agitatedly.\n\n\"I only wanted to look at the man; and the men had left a ladder against\nthe wall by the little grated window; and I climbed up, and looked in.\nAnd, oh! he had such a miserable face, papa! And I couldn't help\nspeaking to him.\"\n\n\"Well, go on.\"\n\nThe tone was not so peremptory as the words; and the child, too ignorant\nto be really frightened at what he had done, went on with his\nconfession, quite heedless of the numerous eyes fixed upon him with\nvarious expressions of tenderness, amusement, and dismay. And very soon\nall came out. Everett had deliberately and intentionally done the deed.\nHe had been unable to withstand the misery and entreaties of the man,\nand he had slipped down the ladder, run round to the unguarded strong\ndoor, and with much toil forced back the great bolt, unfastened the\nchain, and set the prisoner free.\n\n\"And do you know, Everett, what it is you have done?--how wrong you have\nbeen?\"\n\n\"I was afraid it was a little wrong,\"--he hesitated; \"but,\"--and his\ncourage seemed to rise again at the recollection,--\"it would have been\nso dreadful for the poor man to go to prison! He said he should be quite\nruined,--quite ruined, papa; and his wife and the little children would\nstarve. You are not _very_ angry, are you? Oh, papa!\"\n\nFor Everett could hardly believe the stern gaze with which the\nmagistrate forced himself to regard his little son; and sternly uttered\nwere the few words that followed, by which he endeavored to make clear\nto the childish comprehension the gravity of the fault he had committed.\nEverett was utterly subdued. The tone of displeasure smote on his heart\nand crushed it for the time. Only once he brightened up, as with a\nsudden hope of complete justification, when Mr. Gray adverted to the\ncrime of the man, which had made it right and necessary that he should\nbe punished.\n\n\"But, papa,\" eagerly broke in the boy, \"he hadn't stolen the things. He\ntold me so. He wasn't a thief.\"\n\n\"One case was proved beyond doubt.\"\n\n\"Indeed, indeed, papa, you must be mistaken,\" cried Everett, with\ntearful vehemence; \"he couldn't have done it; I know he couldn't. He\nsaid, _upon his word_, he hadn't.\"\n\nIt was impossible to persuade him that such an asseveration could be\nfalse. And when the little offender had left the room, various remarks\nand interjections were indulged in,--all breathing the same spirit.\n\n\"What a jolly little muff Everett is!\" was his brother Dick's\ncontingent.\n\n\"Innocent little fellow!\" said one.\n\n\"Happy little visionary!\" sighed another.\n\nAnd Everett grew in years and stature, and still unconsciously\nmaintained the same character. It is true that he was a quiet, sensitive\nboy, with an almost feminine affectionateness and tenderness of\nheart,--and that keen, exquisite appreciation both of the joyful and the\npainful, which is a feminine characteristic, too. Yet he was far enough\nfrom being effeminate. He was thoughtful, naturally, yet he could be\nactive and take pleasure in action. He was always ready to work, and\nfeared neither hardship nor fatigue. When the great flood came and\ncaused such terror and distress in the village, no one, not even Dick,\nhome from Sandhurst for the midsummer holidays, was more energetic or\nworked harder or more effectually than Everett. And the boys (his\nbrother's chums at Hazlewood) never forgot the day when Everett found\nthem ill-treating a little dog; how he rescued it from them,\nsingle-handed, and knocked down young Brooke, who attacked him both with\ninsults and blows. Dick, not ill-pleased, was looking on. He never\ncalled his brother a \"sop\" from that day, but praised him and patronized\nhim considerably for a good while after, and began, as he said, \"to have\nhopes of him.\"\n\nBut the two brothers never had much in common, and were, indeed, little\nthrown together. Everett was educated at home; he was not strong, and\nwas naturally his mother's darling, and she persuaded his father and\nherself that a public school would be harmful to him. So he studied the\nclassics with the clergyman of the parish, and the lighter details of\nlearning with his sister. Between that sister and himself there was a\nstrong attachment, though she, too, was of widely differing temperament\nand disposition. Agnes was two years older than he,--and overflowing\nwith saucy life, energy, and activity. She liked to run wild about the\nwoods near their house, or to gallop over the country on her pony,--to\ngo scrambling in the hedges for blackberries, or among the copses for\nnuts. The still contentment that Everett found in reading,--his\nthoughtful enjoyment of landscape, or sunset, or flower,--all this might\nhave been incomprehensible to her, only that she loved her dreamy\nbrother so well. Love lends faith, and faith makes many things clear;\nand Agnes learned to understand, and would wait patiently beside him on\nsuch occasions, only tapping her feet, or swinging her bonnet by its\nstrings, as a relief for the superabundant vitality thus held in check.\nAnd she was Everett's _confidante_ in all his schemes, wishes, and\nanticipations. To her he would unfold the various plans he was\ncontinually cogitating. Agnes would listen, sympathizingly sometimes,\nbut reverently always. _She_ never called or thought him a Visionary. If\nhis plans for the regeneration of the world were Utopian and\nimpracticable, it was the world that was in fault, not he. To her he was\nthe dearest of brothers, who would one day be acknowledged the greatest\nof men.\n\nAnd thus Everett grew to early manhood, till the time arrived when he\nwas to leave home for Cambridge. It was his first advent in the world.\nHitherto, his world had been one of books and thought. He imagined\ncollege to be a place wherein a studious life, such as he loved, would\nbe most natural, most easy to be pursued. He should find a\nbrother-enthusiast in every student; he should meet with sympathy and\nhelp in all his dearest aspirations, on every side. Perhaps it is\nneedless to say that this young Visionary was disappointed, and that his\ncollegiate career was, in fact, the beginning of that crusade, active\nand passive, which it appeared to be his destiny to wage against what is\ngenerally termed Real Life.\n\nHe was considerably laughed at, of course, by the majority of those\nabout him. Some few choice spirits tried to get up a lofty contempt of\nhis quiet ways and simple earnestness,--but they failed,--it not being\nin human nature, even the most scampish, to entertain scorn for that\nwhich is innately true and noble. So, finally, the worst that befell him\nwas ridicule,--which, even when he was aware of it, hurt him little.\nOften, indeed, he would receive their jests and artful civilities with\nimplicit good faith; acknowledging apparent attentions with a gentle,\nkindly courtesy, indescribably mystifying to those excellent young men\nwho expended so much needless pains on the easy work of \"selling Old\nGray.\"\n\nHowever, from out the very ranks of the enemy, before he left college at\nthe end of his first term, he had one intimate. It would, perhaps, be\ndifficult to understand how two-thirds of the friendships in the world\nhave their birth and maintain their existence. The connection between\nEverett and Charles Barclay appeared to be of this enigmatical order.\nOne would have said the two could possess no single taste or sentiment\nin common. Charles was a handsome, athletic fellow, warm-hearted,\nimpassioned, generous, and thoughtless to cruelty. He had splendid\ngifts, but no application,--plenty of power, but no perseverance.\nSupposed to be one of the most brilliant men of his years, he had just\nbeen \"plucked,\" to the dismay of his college and the immense wrath of\nhis friends. Everybody knew that Barclay was an orphan, left with a very\nslender patrimony, who had gained a scholarship at the grammar-school.\nHe was of no family,--he was poor, and had his own way to make in life.\nIt was doubly necessary to _him_ that he should succeed in his\ncollegiate career. It was probably while under the temporary shadow of\nthe disgrace and disappointment of defeat, that the young man suddenly\nturned to Everett Gray, fastened upon him with an affection most\nenthusiastic, a devotion that everybody found unaccountable. He had\nenergy enough for what he willed to do. He willed to have Everett's\nfriendship, and he would not be denied. The incongruous pair became\nfriends. Whereupon, the rollicking comrades, who had gladly welcomed\nBarclay into their set, for his fun and his wit and his convivial\nqualities, turned sharp round, and marvelled at young Gray, who came of\na high family, for choosing as his intimate a fellow of no birth, no\nposition. Not but that it was just like the Old Visionary to do it; he'd\nno idea of life,--not he; and so forth.\n\nDuring the next term, the friendship grew and strengthened. Everett's\ninfluence was working for good, and Barclay was in earnest addressing\nhimself to study. He accompanied Everett to his home at the long\nvacation. And it ought to have surprised nobody who was acquainted with\nthe _rationale_ of such affairs, that the principal event of that golden\nholiday-summer was the falling in love with each other of Everett's\nsister and Everett's friend. Agnes was the only daughter and special\npride of a rich and well-born man. Barclay was of plebeian birth, with\nnothing in the world to depend on but his own talents, which he had\nabused, and the before-named patrimony, which was already nearly\nexhausted. It will at once be seen that there could hardly be a more\nfelicitous conjunction of circumstances to make everybody miserable by\none easy, natural step; and the step was duly taken. Of course, the\nyoung people fell in love immediately,--Everett, the Dreamer, looking on\nwith a sort of reverent interest that was almost awe; for the very\nthought of love thrilled him with a sense of new and strange\nlife,--unknown, unguessed of, as heaven itself, but as certain, and\nhardly less beautiful. So he watched the gradual progress of these two,\nwho were passing through that which was so untrodden a mystery to him.\nIf he ever thought about their love in a more definite way, it was--oh,\nthe Visionary!--to congratulate himself and everybody concerned. He saw\nnothing but what was most happy and desirable in it all. He knew no one\nso worthy of Agnes as Barclay, whom, in spite of all his faults, he\nbelieved to be one of the noblest and greatest of men; and he felt sure\nthat all that was wanting to complete and solidify his character was\njust this love for a good, high-souled woman, which would arouse him to\nenergy and action, sustain and encourage him through all difficulties,\nand make life at once more precious and more sacred.\n\nUnfortunately, other members of the family, who were rational beings,\nand looked on life in a practical and sensible manner, were very\ndifferently affected by the discovery of this attachment. In brief,\nthere ensued upon the _eclaircissement_ much storm on one side, much\ngrief on the other, and keen pain to all,--to none more than to Everett.\nOur Visionary's heart swelled hotly with alternate indignation and\ntenderness, as he knew his friend was forbidden the house, heard his\nfather's wrathful comments upon him, and saw his bright sister Agnes\nbroken down by all the heaviness of a first despair. You may imagine his\npassionate denunciation of the spirit of worldliness, which would, for\nits own mean ends, separate those whom the divine sacrament of Love had\njoined together. No less easily may be pictured the angry, yet\nhalf-compassionate reception of his vehemence, the contemptuous wave of\nthe hand with which the stern old banker deprecated discussion with one\nso ignorant of the world, so utterly incapable of forming a judgment on\nsuch a question, as his son. His mother sat by, during these scenes,\ntrembling and grieved. It was not in her meek nature to take part\n_against_ either husband or son. She strove to soothe, to soften each in\nturn,--with but little effect, it may be added. For all he was so gentle\nand so loving, Everett was not to be persuaded or influenced in this\nmatter. He took up his friend's cause and withstood all antagonism,\nresisted all entreaties to turn him from his fealty thereto.\n\nAy, and he bore up against what was harder yet to encounter than all\nthese. Charles Barclay's was one of those natures which, being\nmiserable, are apt to become desperate. To such men, affliction seems to\nbe torture, but no discipline. But our humanity perceives from a level,\nand therefore a short-sighted point of view. We may well be thankful\nthat the Great Ruler sees above and around and on all sides the\ncreatures to be governed, the events to be disposed.\n\nCharles Barclay went to London. One or two brief and most miserable\nletters Everett received from him,--then _all_ a blank silence.\nEverett's repeated appeals were unanswered, unnoticed. It might have\nbeen as if Death had come between and separated these lovers and\nfriends, except that by indirect means they learned that he was alive\nand still in London. At length came more definite tidings, and the\nbrother and sister knew that this Charles Barclay, whom they loved so\nwell, had plunged into a reckless life, as into a whirlpool of\ndestruction,--that he was among those associates, of high rank socially,\nof nearly the lowest morally, whom he had formerly known at college.\nHere was triumph for the prudent father,--desolation to the loving\nwoman,--and to Everett, what? Pain, keen pain, and bitter anxiety,--but\nno quailing of the heart. He had too much faith in his friend for that.\n\nHe went after him to London,--he penetrated to him, and would not be\ndenied. He braved his assumed anger and forced violence; he had the\ncourage of twenty lions, this Visionary, in battling with the devils\nthat had entered into the spirit of his friend. The struggle was fierce\nand lengthened. Love conquered at last, as it always does, could we so\nbelieve. And during the time of utter depression into which the\nmercurial nature then relapsed, Everett cheered and sustained him,--till\nthe young man's soul seemed melted within him, and the surrender to the\ngood influence was as absolute as the resistance had been passionate.\n\n\"What have I done, what am I,\" he would oftentimes say, \"that I should\nbe saved and sustained and _loved_ by you, Everett?\" For, truly, he\nlooked on him as no less than an angel, whom God had sent to succor him.\nIt was one of those problems the mystery of which is most sacred and\nmost sweet. In proportion as the erring man needed it, Everett's love\ngrew and deepened and widened, and his influence strengthened with it\nalmost unconsciously to himself. He was too humble to recognize all that\nhe was to his friend.\n\nMeanwhile, imagine the turmoil at home, in respect of Everett's absence,\nand the errand which detained him. No disguise was sought. The son wrote\nto his mother frankly, stating where he was, and under what\ncircumstances. He received a missive from his father of furious\nremonstrance; he replied by one so firm, yet so loving withal, that old\nMr. Gray could not choose but change his tone to one of angry\ncompassion. \"The boy believes he's doing right. Heaven send him a little\nsense!\" was all he could say.\n\nBut there came a yet more overwhelming evidence of Everett's utter\ndestitution of that commodity. A mercantile appointment was offered to\nCharles Barclay in one of the colonies, and Everett advanced the large\nsum necessary to enable his friend to accept it. To do this, he\nsacrificed the whole of what he possessed independently of his father,\nnamely, a legacy left to him by his uncle, over which he had full\ncontrol. It must be years before he could be repaid, of course,--it\nmight be never! But, rash as was the act, he could not be hindered from\ndoing it. His father raged and stormed, and again subsided into gloomy\nresignation. Henceforth he would wonder at nothing, for his son was mad,\nunfit to take part in the world. \"A mere visionary, and no man,\" the\nhapless parent said, whenever he alluded to him.\n\nWhen Everett returned, Charles Barclay was on his way to Canada,\nvigorously intent on the new life before him. Agnes drew strength and\ncomfort from the steadfast look of her brother's eyes, as he whispered\nto her, \"Don't fear. Trust God, and be patient.\" The blight fell away\nfrom her, after that. If she was never a light-hearted girl again, she\nbecame something even sweeter and nobler. They never talked together\nabout him, for the father had forbidden it; and, indeed, they needed\nnot. Openly, and before them all, Everett would say when he heard from\nhis friend. And so the months passed on.\n\nThen came the era in our Visionary's life,--an era, indeed, to such as\nhe!--the first love. First love,--and last,--to him it was nothing less\nthan fateful. It was his nature to be steadfast and thorough. He could\nno more have _transferred_ the love that rose straightly and purely from\nthe very innermost fire of his soul than he could have changed the soul\nitself. Not many natures are thus created with the inevitable necessity\nto be constant. Few among women, fewer yet among men, love as Everett\nGray loved Rosa Beauchamp.\n\nWhen they became aware of this love, at his home, there ensued much\nmarvelling. Mr. Gray cordially congratulated himself, with wonder and\npleasure, to think that actually his mad boy should have chosen so\nreasonably. Captain Gray, home on leave, observed that Old Everett\nwasn't such a flat as he seemed, by Jove! to select the daughter of an\nancient house, and a wealthy house, like the Beauchamps of Hollingsley.\nThe alliance was in every way honorable and advantageous. The family was\none of the most influential in the county; and a lady's being at the\nhead of it--for Sir Ralph Beauchamp had died many years before, when his\neldest son was but a child, and Lady Beauchamp had been sole regent over\nthe property ever since--made it all the pleasanter. Everett, if he\nchose, might be virtual master of Beauchamp; for the young baronet was\nbut a weak, good-natured boy, whom any one might lead. Everett had\ndisplayed first-rate generalship. \"These simple-seeming fellows are\noften deeper than most people,\" argued the soldier, wise in his\nknowledge of the world; \"you may trust them to take care of themselves,\nwhen it comes to the point. Everett's a shrewd fellow.\"\n\nThe father rubbed his hands, and was delighted to take this view of the\ncase. He should make something of his son and heir in time. Often as he\nhad regretted that Richard was not the elder, on whom it would rest to\nkeep up the distinction and honor of the family, he began to see an\nadmirable fitness in things as they were. Everett was, after all, better\nsuited for the career that lay before him, in which he trusted he would\nnot need that knowledge of mankind and judgment on worldly matters that\nwere indispensable to those who had to carve their own way in life. \"It\nis better as it is,\" thought the father, unconscious that he was echoing\nsuch an unsubstantial philosophy as a poet's.\n\nAnd so the first days of Everett's love were as cloudless and divinely\nradiant as a summer dawn. But events were gathering, like storm-clouds,\nabout the house of Gray. Disaster, most unforeseen, was impending over\nthis family. For Mr. Gray, though, as we have said, a practical and\nmatter-of-fact man, and having neither sympathy nor patience with\n\"visionary schemes or ideas,\" had yet, as practical men will do,\nindulged in divers speculations during his life, in one of which he had\nat last been induced to embark to the utmost extent. Of course, it\nseemed safe and reasonable enough, even to the banker's shrewd eyes;\nbut, nevertheless, it proved as delusive and destructive as any that\never led a less worldly man astray. The fair-seeming bubble burst, and\nthe rich man of one day found himself on the morrow virtually reduced to\nbeggary. All he had had it in his power to risk was gone, and\nliabilities remained to the extent of twice as much. The crash came, the\nbank stopped payment, and the unhappy man was stricken to the dust. He\nnever lifted up his head again. The shrewd man of the world utterly\nsuccumbed beneath this blow of fate; it killed him. Old Mr. Gray died of\nthat supposed disease, a broken heart,--leaving a legacy of ruin, or\nthe alternative of disgrace, to his heir.\n\nThe reins of government thus fell into Everett's hands. \"The poor Grays!\nit's all over with them!\" said the pitying world. And, indeed, the way\nin which the young man proceeded to arrange his father's affairs savored\nno less of the Visionary than had every action of his life theretofore.\nCaptain Gray, who hastened home from his gay quarters in Dublin, on the\ndisastrous news reaching him, found his brother already deeply engaged\nwith lawyers, bills, and deeds.\n\n\"You know, Richard, there is but one thing to be done,\" he said, in his\nusual simple, earnest way; \"we must cut off the entail, and sell the\nproperty to pay my father's debts. It is a hard thing to do,--to part\nwith the old place; but it would be worse, bitterer pain and crueler\nshame, to hold it, with the money that, whatever the worldly code of\nmorality may say, is not _ours_. There must be no widows and orphans\nreduced to poverty through us. Thank God, there will be enough produced\nby the sale of the estate to clear off every liability,--to the last\nshilling. You feel with me in this matter?\" he went on, confidently\nappealing to his brother; yet with a certain inflection of anxiety in\nhis voice. It would have wounded Everett cruelly, had he been\nmisunderstood or rebuffed in this. \"You have your commission, and Uncle\nEverett's legacy, and the reversion of my mother's fortune, which will\nnot be touched. This act of justice, therefore, can injure no one.\"\n\n\"Except yourself,--yourself, old fellow,\" said Richard, moved, in spite\nof his light nature. He grasped his brother's hand. \"It's a noble thing\nto do; but have you considered how it will affect your future? You, with\nneither fortune nor profession,--how do you propose to live? And your\nmarriage,--the Beauchamps will never consent to Rosa becoming the wife\nof a--a\"----\n\n\"Not a beggar, Richard,\" Everett said, smiling, \"if that was the word\nyou hesitated about; no, I shall be no beggar. I have plans for my own\nfuture;--you shall know of them. Our marriage will, of course, be\ndelayed. I must work, to win a home and position for my wife.\" He\npaused,--looked up bravely,--\"It is no harder fate than falls to most\nmen. And for Rosa,--true love, true woman as she is, she helps me, she\nencourages me in all I do and purpose.\"\n\nCaptain Gray shrugged his shoulders. \"Two mad young people!\" he thought\nto himself. \"They never think of consequences, and it's of no use\nwarning them, I suppose.\"\n\nNo. It would have been useless to \"warn\" or advise Everett against doing\nthis thing, which he held to be simply his duty. And it was the\ncharacteristic of our Visionary, that, when he saw a Duty so placed\nbefore him, he knew no other course than straightly to pursue it,\nlooking neither to the right hand nor to the left, unprevented by\nobstacles, and fearless of consequences.\n\nSo in this case. His brother advised a temporizing course,--to mortgage\nthe estate, for instance, and pay a moiety of the debts. It was surely\nall that could be expected from a man who had not actually incurred\nthem. And then he might still be the nominal owner of Hazlewood,--he\nmight still marry Rosa.\n\n\"While, if you do as you propose,\" argued the Captain, \"(and you know,\nof course, old fellow, I fully appreciate your noble and honorable\nfeeling in the matter,) you ruin your own hopes; and I can't see that a\nfellow is called upon to do _that_, as a point of filial duty. What are\nyou to do? that's the thing. It isn't as though you had anything to fall\nback upon, by Jove! It's a case of beggaring yourself\"----\n\n\"Instead of beggaring other people,\" Everett said. \"No, Richard,--I\ncannot see either the justice or the wisdom of what you propose. I will\nnot cast the burden on other shoulders. As my father's representative, I\nmust abide the penalty of his mistake,--and I only. I cannot rest while\nour name is as the catchword of ruin and misery to thousands around us,\nless able to bear both, perhaps, than I, who am young and strong,--able\nto work both with head and hands.\"\n\n\"But think of Rosa!\" said his brother. \"How do you get over _that_?\nIsn't her happiness worth some consideration?\"\n\n\"It has been my thought, night and day, ever since,\" Everett said, in a\nlow voice. \"It has come between me and what I felt to be the Right, more\nthan once. You don't know what that thought has been, or you would not\nchallenge it against me now.\"\n\n\"Well, well,--I only want you to look on all sides of what you are about\nto do, and to count the cost beforehand.\"\n\nEverett smiled quietly. As if \"the cost\" were not already counted, felt,\nand suffered in that deep heart of his! But he said nothing.\n\n\"In the next place, what do you propose to do?\" pursued his brother.\n\"Will you enter a profession? Can't say you're much adapted for a\nlawyer; and perhaps you're too tender-hearted for a doctor, either. But\nI remember, as a boy, you always said you should like to be a clergyman.\nAnd, by Jove! when one comes to think of it, you've a good deal of the\ncut of the village priest about you. What do you say to that?\"\n\n\"Nothing. I have other plans.\" And Everett proceeded briefly to tell him\nthese. He had heard from Charles Barclay, now high in the confidence of\none of the leading mercantile firms of Montreal; and through him, he had\nobtained the offer of an appointment in the same house.\n\nRichard Gray listened to all this, with ill-concealed amusement\ntwitching the corners of his mouth. He thought the idea of his brother's\nturning man-of-business one of the \"richest\" he had ever heard.\n\n\"With your hard head and shrewd notions, I should say you were likely to\nmake a sensation in the mercantile world,\" he observed. \"It's a hopeful\nscheme, altogether. Oh, hang it!\" proceeding from sarcasm to\nremonstrance, \"that'll never do, Everett! You'll be getting into some\nprecious scrape or other. You're not the fellow for a merchant's office,\ntrust me. Now something in the way of a government appointment is much\nmore like it. A pleasant, poetical sort of sinecure,--there are lots of\nthem to be had. You just trundle down for an hour or two every day,\nwrite letters, or poems, or whatever you like, with the official\nstationery, and receive your salary quarterly. You _can't_ do any\nmischief in a place like that. Now that's the sort of thing for you,--if\none could get hold of some of those fellows in power. Why!\" brightening\nwith the sudden dash of an idea, \"there are the Beauchamps themselves!\nThey've a legion of influential relatives. Couldn't they get you into a\nsnug berth? Oh, the Devil!\"--for Everett's look was not to be\nmistaken,--\"if you bring your high-flown ideas of dignity and\nindependence into this plain, practical question of subsistence, it's\nall up with you. Do you mean to tell me that you seriously think of this\nCanada scheme?\"\n\nEverett assented.\n\n\"Have you informed Lady Beauchamp of your intention of becoming a\nmerchant's clerk? I should like to see her face when you tell her; she's\nsuch a shrewd old soul; and when a woman _does_ take to the sharp and\nworldly style of thing, it's the very deuse! Expect no indulgence in\nthat quarter.\"\n\n\"I don't ask it. Rosa, of course, cannot become my wife till I am able\nto give her a worthy home. Her mother will not wish to cancel our\nengagement in the mean time.\"\n\n\"The deuse she won't! Trust her!\" the consolatory brother rejoined.\n\"Why, it will be her first natural step. The idea of her daughter\nbetrothed to a merchant's clerk is preposterous on the face of it. You\nyourself must see _that_.\"\n\n\"No, I don't,\" Everett said, smiling.\n\n\"Oh, I suppose you intend to make a large fortune in a twelvemonth, and\nthen return and marry?\"\n\n\"No,--but in ten years,--less than that, God helping me,--if I live, I\nwill return and marry Rosa.\"\n\n\"You don't say so? And poor little Rosa is to wait patiently for you all\nthat time! By Jove! a modest expectation of yours! It's a likely notion\nthat Miss Beauchamp will remain unmarried for ten years, because you\nchoose to go to Canada.\"\n\n\"She will never marry, if she does not marry me,\" Everett said, with\nsimple gravity. \"It is not alone the outward sacrament of marriage that\nsanctifies a union. The diviner and more vital consecration that binds\nus together, it is too late, now, to seek to undo.\"\n\n\"Oh, hang it! It's of no use talking poetry to _me_. I don't understand\nthat sort of thing,\" Captain Gray frankly said. \"I'll tell you\nwhat,--it'll never do to take those transcendental ideas with you into\nthe world. All very well to poetize and maunder about in quiet\nHazlewood; but, by Jove! you'll find it won't do in practical life. Take\nmy word for it, if you go to Canada, long before the ten years are out,\nRosa Beauchamp will be wooed and won over again. 'Tisn't in nature that\nit should be otherwise. In books, very likely, those sort of things\nhappen often enough,--but not in real life, my dear fellow, I assure\nyou. When you return, it will be to find her a thriving matron, doing\nthe honors of one of the neighboring mansions. Make up your mind to\n_that_. Foresee your future, before you decide.\"\n\nEverett smiled, sadly, but trustfully. His brother's arguments neither\npersuaded nor disturbed him. He stood very quiet and thoughtful.\nVisionary-like, he saw pictures of the future, indeed,--but very\ndifferent from the one just drawn. He was not afraid.\n\nAnd Captain Gray left him unconvinced and unmoved. It was not probable\nthe two brothers would see this matter in the same light. They stood on\ndifferent levels. They must be content to differ.\n\nThe next conference on the subject was between Everett and Lady\nBeauchamp; and the mother of Rosa was, it must be admitted, a rather\nformidable person to encounter in such wise. She was a busy, clever,\nworldly woman,--kind-hearted, too, and with both a strong will and\nstrong affections. She was one of those people in whom even an astute\nobserver might often be deceived, by failing to give her credit for\ncertain good qualities which are commonly coexistent with\nworldliness,--especially in a woman. There was a spice of something\nbetter latent amid her shrewdness and hard-headed sagacity; the echo of\nmore generous aspirations lingered through all the noise of this earth's\nBabel in her heart. And so, when she heard of Everett's resolve to pay\nhis father's debts by parting with the property, her better and higher\nnature warmed to the young man; and though she protested against his\nQuixotism, and frowned, and talked of prudence, and so forth, her busy\nbrain was, in fact, all the while setting itself to work for his\nbenefit. She was, in a way, fond of the young man. No woman is quite\ninsensible to that chivalrous deference which a Visionary like Everett\nalways manifests to womanhood, collective and individual. And though she\ncertainly held him to be rash, foolish, unfit to deal with the world,\n\"poetical,\" (a capital crime in her eyes,) and dreamy, she yet liked\nhim, and was glad to discover a plan whereby the objections to his\nmarriage with her daughter, under the present adverse circumstances,\nmight be smoothed away.\n\nShe was sitting at her big desk, strewn with accounts, in the\nsober-looking library where she always spent her mornings, and she rose\nto receive her prospective son-in-law, with an aspect serious and\nbusiness-like, yet not stern.\n\n\"Well, my dear Everett, what is all this that I hear about you? A very,\nvery sad affair, of course; but you must come and tell me how you intend\nto act. Yes, yes,--I've heard something about it; but I don't quite\nunderstand the state of the case. I want to have a talk with you.\"\n\nAnd she leaned her comely face upon her plump, white hand, while gravely\nlistening to Everett's brief statement of what he had already done, and\nwhat were his plans for the future.\n\n\"You will sell Hazlewood, pay your father's debts, and begin life on\nyour own account, by going to Canada and becoming a merchant's clerk!\"\nShe then recapitulated his plans in a sharp, pitiless tone. \"Very well!\nand we have only to bid you good-bye and wish you success. Is it so? For\nit appears to me that my daughter is left entirely out of your\ncalculations, and very properly so. You cannot, as a merchant's clerk on\na hundred a year, marry Rosa Beauchamp, I presume.\"\n\n\"No,\" Everett said, steadily, and holding her, as it were, with his\nearnest eyes, \"I cannot have Rosa for my wife till I am able to give her\na home worthy of her; but you will not refuse to sanction our engagement\nduring the years in which I shall work for that home?\"\n\nLady Beauchamp tapped the table with her fingers in an ominous manner.\n\n\"Long engagements are most unsatisfactory, silly, not to say dangerous\nthings. They never end well. No man ought to wish so to bind a young\ngirl, unless he has a reasonable chance of soon being in a position to\nmarry her. Now I ask you, have _you_ such a chance? If you go to Canada,\nit may be years before you return. Just look at the thing in a\ncommon-sense light, and tell me, can you expect my daughter to wait an\nindefinite time, while you go to seek and make your fortune?\"\n\nShe looked at him with an air of bland candor, while thus appealing to\nhis \"common sense.\" Everett's aspect remained unchanged, however, in its\ncalm steadfastness.\n\n\"I would not bind her,\" he said, \"unless she herself felt it would be a\ncomfort and a help, in some sort, during the weary years of separation,\nso to be bound. And that she does feel it, you know, Lady Beauchamp.\"\n\n\"My dear Sir, you are not talking reasonably,\" she rejoined,\nimpatiently. \"A young girl like Rosa, in love for the first time, of\ncourse wishes to be bound, as you say, to the object of her first love.\nBut it would be doing her a cruel injustice to take her at her word.\nSurely you feel that? It is very true, she might not forget you for six\nmonths, or more, perhaps. But, in the course of time, as she enters on\nlife and sees more of the world and of people, it is simply impossible\nthat she should remain constant to a dreamy attachment to some one\nthousands of miles away. She would inevitably wish to form other ties;\nand then the engagement that she desires to-day would be the blight and\nburden of her life. No. I say it is a cruel injustice to let young\npeople decide for themselves on such a point. Half the misery in the\nworld springs from these mistakes. Think over the matter coolly, and you\nwill see it as I do.\"\n\n\"It is you who do Rosa injustice,\" Everett answered, and paused. \"Were\nit to be as you wish,\" he added, \"and we to separate utterly, with no\noutwardly acknowledged tie to link us, no letters to pass between us, no\nword or sign from one to the other during all the coming years,--suppose\nit so,--you would shadow our lives with much unnecessary misery; but you\nare mistaken, if you think you would really part us. You do not\nunderstand.\"\n\n\"Nonsense! You talk like a young man in love. You _must_ be reasonable.\"\n\nLady Beauchamp, by this time, had worked herself into the usual warmth\nwith which she argued all questions, great and small, and forgot that\nher original intention in speaking to Everett had only been to set\nbefore him the disadvantages of his plans, in order that her own might\ncome to the rescue with still greater brilliancy and effect.\n\n\"You _must_ be reasonable,\" she repeated. \"You don't suppose I have not\nmy child's happiness at heart in all I plan and purpose? Trust me, I\nhave had more experience of life than either of you, and it is for me to\ninterpose between you and the dangers you would blindly rush upon. Some\nday you will both thank me for having done so, hard and cruel as you may\nthink me now.\"\n\n\"No, I do not think you either hard or cruel. You are _mistaken_,\nsimply. I believe you desire our happiness. I do not reproach or blame\nyou, Lady Beauchamp,\" Everett said, sadly.\n\n\"Come, come,\" she cried, touched by his look and manner to an immediate\nunfolding of her scheme, \"let us look at things again. Perhaps we shall\nnot find them so hopeless as they look. If I am prudent, Everett, I am\nnot mercenary. I only want to see Rosa happy. I don't care whether it is\non hundreds a year, or thousands. And the fact is, I have not condemned\nyour plans without having a more satisfactory one to offer to your\nchoice. Listen to me.\"\n\nAnd she proceeded, with a cleared brow, and the complacency of one who\nfeels she is performing the part of a good genius, setting everything to\nrights, and making everybody comfortable, to unfold the plan _she_ had\ndevised, by which Everett's future was to be secured, and his marriage\nwith Rosa looked to as something better than a misty uncertainty at the\nend of a vista of years.\n\nEverett must go into the Church. That was, in fact, the profession most\nsuited to him, and which most naturally offered itself for his\nacceptance. His education, his tastes, his habits, all suited him for\nsuch a career. By a happy coincidence, too, it was one in which Lady\nBeauchamp could most importantly assist him through her connections. Her\neldest son, the young baronet, had preferment in his own gift, which was\nto say, in hers; and not only this, but her sister's husband, the uncle\nof Rosa, was a bishop, and one over whom she, Lady Beauchamp, had some\ninfluence. Once in orders, Everett's prosperity was assured. The present\nincumbent of Hollingsley was aged; by the time Everett was eligible, he\nmight, in all probability, be inducted into that living, and Rosa might\nthen become his wife. Five hundred a year, beside Miss Beauchamp's\ndowry, with such shining prospects of preferment to look forward to, was\nnot an unwise commencement; for Rosa was no mere fine lady, the proud\nmother said,--she was sensible and prudent; she would adapt herself to\ncircumstances. And though, of course, it was not such an establishment\nas she well might expect for her daughter, still, since the young people\nloved one another, and thought they could be happy under these reduced\ncircumstances, she would not be too exacting. And Lady Beauchamp at last\npaused, and looked in Everett's face for some manifestation of his joy.\n\nWell,--of his gratitude there could be no question. The tears stood in\nhis earnest eyes, as he took Lady Beauchamp's hand and thanked\nher,--thanked her again and again.\n\n\"There, there, you foolish boy! I don't want thanks,\" cried she,\ncoloring with pleasure though, as she spoke. \"My only wish is to see you\ntwo children happy. I _am_ fond of you, Everett; I shall like to see you\nmy son,\" she said. \"I have tried to smooth the way for you, as far as I\ncan, over the many difficulties that obstruct it; and I fancy I have\nsucceeded. What do you say to my plan? When can you be ordained?\"\n\nEverett sighed, as he released her hand, and looked at her face, now\nflushed with generous, kindly warmth. Well he knew the bitter change\nthat would come over that face,--the passion of disappointment and\ndispleasure which would follow his answer to that question.\n\nHe could never enter the Church. Sorrowfully, but firmly, he said\nit,--with that calm, steady voice and look, of which all who knew him\nknew the significance. He could not take orders.\n\nLady Beauchamp, at first utterly overwhelmed and dumfounded, stood\nstaring at him in blank silence. Then she icily uttered a few words. His\nreasons,--might she ask?\n\nThey were many, Everett said. Even if no other hindrance existed, in his\nown mind and opinions, his reverence for so sacred an office would not\npermit him to embrace it as a mere matter of worldly advantage to\nhimself.\n\n\"Grant me patience, young man! Do you mean to tell me you would decline\nthis career because it promises to put an end to your difficulties? Are\nyou _quite_ a fool?\" the lady burst out, astonishment and anger quite\nstartling her from all control.\n\n\"Bear with what may at first seem to you only folly,\" Everett answered\nher, gently. \"I don't think your calmer judgment can call it so. Would\nyou have me take upon myself obligations that I feel to be most solemn\nand most vital, feeling myself unfitted, nay, unable, rightly to fulfil\nthem? Would you have me commit the treachery to God and man of swearing\nthat I felt called to that special service, when my heart protested\nagainst my profession?\"\n\n\"Romantic nonsense! A mere matter of modest scruples! You underrate\nyourself, Everett. You are the very man for a clergyman, trust me.\"\n\nBut Everett went on to explain, that it was no question of\nunder-estimation of himself.\n\n\"You do not know, perhaps,\" he proceeded, while Lady Beauchamp, sorely\ntried, tapped her fingers on the table, and her foot upon the\nfloor,--\"you do not know, that, when I was a boy, and until two or three\nyears ago, my desire and ambition were to be a minister of the Church of\nEngland.\"\n\n\"Well, Sir,--what has made you so much better, or so much worse, since\nthen, as to alter your opinion of the calling?\"\n\n\"The reasons which made me abandon the idea three years since, and which\nrender it impossible for me to consider it now, have nothing to do with\nmy mental and moral worthiness or unworthiness. The fact is simply, I\ncannot become a minister of a Church with many of whose doctrines I\ncannot agree, and to which, indeed, I can no longer say I belong. In\nyour sense of the word, I am far from being a Churchman.\"\n\n\"Do you mean to say you have become a Dissenter?\" cried Lady Beauchamp;\nand, as if arrived at the climax of endurance, she stood transfixed,\nregarding the young man with a species of sublime horror.\n\n\"Again, not in your sense of the term,\" Everett said, smiling; \"for I\nhave joined no sect, attached myself to no recognized body of\nbelievers.\"\n\n\"You belong to nothing, then? You believe in nothing, I suppose?\" she\nsaid, with the instinctive logic of her class. \"Oh, Everett!\" real\ndistress for the moment overpowering her indignation, \"it is those\nvisionary notions of yours that have brought you to this. It was to be\nexpected. You poets and dreamers go on refining your ideas, forsooth,\ntill even the religion of the ordinary world isn't good enough for you.\"\n\nEverett waited patiently till this first gust had passed by. Then, with\nthat steady, calm lucidity which, strange to say, was characteristic of\nthis Visionary's mind and intellect, he explained, so far as he could,\nhis views and his reasons. It could not be expected that his listener\nshould comprehend or enter into what he said. At first, indeed, she\nappeared to derive some small consolation from the fact that at least\nEverett had not \"turned Dissenter.\" She hated Methodists, she\ndeclared,--intending thus to include with sweeping liberality all\ndenominations in the ban of her disapproval. She would have deemed it an\nunpardonable crime, had the young man deserted the Church of his fathers\nin order to join the Congregation, some ranting conventicle. But if her\nrespectability was shocked at the idea of his becoming a Methodist, her\nbetter feelings were outraged when she found, as she said, that he\n\"belonged to nothing.\" She viewed with dislike and distrust all forms of\nreligion that differed from her own; but she could not believe in the\npossibility of a religion that had no external form at all. She was\ndismayed and perplexed, poor lady! and even paused midway in her\nwrathful remonstrance to the misguided young man, to lament anew over\nhis fatal errors. She could not understand, she said, truly enough,\nwhat in the world he meant. His notions were perfectly extraordinary and\nincomprehensible. She was deeply, deeply shocked, and grieved for him,\nand for every one connected with him.\n\nIn fact, the very earnestness and sincerity in their own opinions of a\ncertain calibre of minds make them incapable of understanding such a\nstate of things. That a man should believe differently from all they\nhave been taught to believe appears to them as simply preposterous as\nthat he should breathe differently. And so it is that only the highest\norder of belief can afford to be tolerant; and, as extremes meet, it\nrequires a very perfect Faith to be able to sympathize and bear\npatiently with Doubt.\n\nThere was no chance of Lady Beauchamp's \"comprehending\" Everett in this\nmatter. There was something almost pathetic in her mingled anger,\nperplexity, and disappointment. She could only look on him as a\nheadstrong young man, suicidally bent on his own ruin,--turning\nobstinately from every offered aid, and putting the last climax of\nwretchedness to his isolated and fallen position by \"turning from the\nfaith of his fathers,\" as she rather imaginatively described his\nsecession from Orthodoxy.\n\nAnd, as may be concluded, the mother of Rosa was inexorable, as regarded\nthe engagement between the young people. It must at once be cancelled.\nShe could not for one moment suffer the idea of her daughter's remaining\nbetrothed to the mere adventurer she considered Everett Gray had now\nbecome. If, poor as he was, he had thought fit to embrace a profession\nworthy of a gentleman, the case would have been different. But if his\nromantic notions led him to pursue such an out-of-the-way course as he\nhad laid out for himself, he must excuse her, if she forbade her child\nfrom sharing it. Under present circumstances, his alliance could but be\ndeclined by the Beauchamp family, she said, with her stateliest air. And\nthe next minute, as Everett held her hand, and said good-bye, she melted\nagain from that frigid dignity, and, looking into the frank, manly, yet\ngentle face of the young man, cried,--\n\n\"Are you _quite_ decided, Everett? Will you take time to consider? Will\nyou talk to Rosa about it, first?\"\n\n\"No, dear Lady Beauchamp. I know already what she would say. I have\nquite decided. Thank you for all your purposed kindness. Believe that I\nam not ungrateful, even if I seem so.\"\n\n\"Oh, Everett,--Everett Gray! I am very sorry for you, and for your\nmother, and for all connected with you. It is a most unhappy business.\nIt gives me great pain thus to part with you,\" said Lady Beauchamp, with\nreal feeling.\n\nAnd so the interview ended, and so ended the engagement.\n\nNothing else could have been expected, every one said who heard the\nstate of the case, and knew what Lady Beauchamp had wished and Everett\nhad declined. There were no words to describe how foolishly and weakly\nhe had acted. \"Everybody\" quite gave him up now. With his romantic,\ntranscendental notions, what _would_ become of him, when he had his own\nway to make in the world?\n\nBut Everett had consolation and help through it all; for Rosa, the woman\nhe loved, his mother, and his sister believed in him, and gloried in\nwhat other people called his want of common sense. Ay, though the\nhorrible wrench of parting was suffered by Rosa every minute of every\nday, and the shadow of that dreadful, unnatural separation began to\nblacken her life even before it actually fell upon her,--through it all,\nshe never wavered. When he first told her that he must go, that it was\nthe one thing he held it wise and right to do, she shrunk back\naffrighted, trembling at the coming blankness of a life without him. But\nafter a while, seeing the misery that came into _his_ face reflected\nfrom hers, she rose bravely above the terrible woe, and then, with her\narms round him and her eyes looking steadfastly into his, she said, \"I\nlove you better than the life you are to me. So I can bear that you\nshould go.\"\n\nAnd he said, \"There can be no real severance between those who love as\nwe do. God, in His mercy and tenderness, will help us to feel that\ntruth, every hour and every day.\"\n\nFor they believed thus,--these two young Visionaries,--and lived upon\nthat belief, perhaps, when the time of parting came. And it may be that\nthe thought of each was very constantly, very intimately present to the\nother, during the many years that followed. It may be that this species\nof mental atmosphere, so surrounding and commingling with all other\nthings more visibly and palpably about them, _did_ cause these dreamers\nto be happier in their love than many externally united ones, whose lot\nappears to us most fair and smooth and blissful. Time and distance,\nleagues of ocean and years of suspense, are not the most terrible things\nthat can come between two people who love one another.\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\nAnd so Everett Gray, his mother, and his sister, went to Canada. A year\nafter, Agnes was married to Charles Barclay, then a thriving merchant in\nMontreal. When the people at home heard of this, they very wisely\nacknowledged \"how much good there had been in that young man, in spite\nof his rashness and folly in early days. No fear about such a man's\ngetting on in life, when once he gave his mind to it,\" and so forth.\n\nMeanwhile, our Visionary----But what need is there to trace him, step by\nstep, in the new life he doubtless found fully as arduous as he had\nanticipated? That it was a very struggling, difficult, and uncongenial\nlife to him can be well understood. These reminiscences of Everett Gray\nrelate to a long past time. We can look on his life now as almost\ncomplete and finished, and regard his past as those in the valley look\nup to the hill that has nothing between it and heaven.\n\nMany years he remained in Canada, working hard. Tidings occasionally\nreached England of his progress. Rosa, perhaps, heard such at rare\nintervals,--though somewhat distorted, it may be, from their original\ntenor, before they reached her. But it appeared certain that he was\n\"getting on.\" In defiance and utter contradiction of all the sapient\npredictions there anent, it seemed that this dreamy, poetizing Everett\nGray was absolutely successful in his new vocation of man-of-business.\n\nThe news that he had become a partner in the firm he had entered as a\nclerk was communicated in a letter from himself to Lady Beauchamp. In it\nhe, for the first time since his departure, spoke of Rosa; but he spoke\nof her as if they had parted but yesterday; and, in asking her mother's\nsanction to their betrothal _now_, urged, as from them both, their claim\nto have that boon granted at last.\n\nLady Beauchamp hastily questioned her daughter.\n\n\"You must have been corresponding with the young man all this time?\" she\nsaid.\n\nBut Rosa's denial was not to be mistaken.\n\n\"He has heard of you, then, through some one,\" the practical lady went\non; \"or, for anything he knows, you may be married, or going to be\nmarried, instead of waiting for him, as he seems to take it for granted\nyou have been all this time.\"\n\n\"He was right, mother,\" Rosa only said.\n\n\"Right, you foolish girl? You haven't half the spirit I had at your age.\nI would have scorned that it should have been said of _me_ that I\n'waited' for any man.\"\n\n\"But if you loved him?\"\n\n\"Well, if he loved _you_, he should have taken more care than to leave\nyou on such a Quixotic search for independence as his.\"\n\n\"He thought it right to go, and he trusted me; we had faith in one\nanother,\" Rosa said; and she wound her arms round her mother, and looked\ninto her face with eyes lustrous with happy tears. For, from that lady's\ntone and manner, despite her harsh words, she knew that the opposition\nwas withdrawn, and that Everett's petition was granted.\n\nThey were married. It is years ago, now, since their wedding-bells rung\nout from the church-tower of Hazlewood, blending with the sweet\nspring-air and sunshine of a joyous May-day. The first few years of\ntheir married life were spent in Canada. Then they returned to England,\nand Everett Gray put the climax to the astonishment of all who knew him\nby purchasing back a great part of Hazlewood with the fruits of his\ncommercial labors in the other country.\n\nAt Hazlewood they settled, therefore. And there, when he grew to be an\nold man, Everett Gray lived, at last, the peaceful, happy life most\nnatural and most dear to him. No one would venture to call the\nsuccessful merchant a Visionary; and even his brother owns that \"the old\nfellow has got more brains, after all, by Jove! than he ever gave him\ncredit for.\" Yet, as the same critic, and others of his calibre, often\nsay of him, \"He has some remarkably queer notions. There's no making him\nout,--he is so different from other people.\"\n\nWhich he is. There is no denying this fact, which is equally evident in\nhis daily life, his education of his children, his conduct to his\nservants and dependants, his employment of time, his favorite aims in\nlife, and in everything he does or says, in brief. And of course there\nare plenty who cavil at his peculiar views, and who cannot at all\nunderstand his unconventional ways, and his apparent want of all worldly\nwisdom in the general conduct of his affairs. And yet, somehow, these\naffairs prosper. Although he declined a valuable appointment for his\nson, and preferred that he should make his own way in the profession he\nhad chosen, bound by no obligation, and unfettered by the trammels of\nany party,--although he did this, to the astonishment of all who did\n_not_ know him, yet is it not a fact that the young barrister's career\nhas been, and is, as brilliant and successful as though he had had a\ndozen influential personages to advance him? And though he permitted his\ndaughter to marry, not the rich squire's son, nor the baronet, who each\nsought her hand, but a man comparatively poor and unknown, who loved\nher, and whom she loved, did it not turn out to be one of those\nmarriages that we can recognize to have been \"made in heaven,\" and even\nthe worldly-wise see to be happy and prosperous?\n\nBut our Everett is growing old. His hair is silver-white, and his tall\nfigure has learned to droop somewhat as he walks. Under the great\nbeech-trees at Hazlewood you may have seen him sitting summer evenings,\nor sauntering in spring and autumn days, sometimes with his\ngrandchildren playing about him, but always with _one_ figure near him,\nbent and bowed yet more than his own, with a still sweet and lovely face\nlooking placidly forth from between its bands of soft, white hair.\n\nHow they have loved, and do love one another, even to this their old\nage! All the best and truest light of that which we call Romance shines\nsteadily about them yet. No sight so dear to Everett's eyes as that\nquiet figure,--no sound so welcome to his ears as her voice. She is all\nto him that she ever was,--the sweetest, dearest, best portion of that\nwhich we call his life.\n\nYes, I speak advisedly, and say he _is_, they _are_. It is strange that\nthis Visionary, who was wont to be reproached with the unpracticality of\nall he did or purposed, the unreality of whose life was a byword, should\nyet impress himself and his existence so vividly on those about him that\neven now we cannot speak of him as one that is _no more_. He seems still\nto be of us, though we do not see him, and his place is empty in the\nworld.\n\nHis wife went first. She died in her sleep, while he was watching her,\nholding her hand fast in his. He laid the last kisses on her eyes, her\nmouth, and those cold hands.\n\nAfter that, he seemed _to wait_. They who saw him sitting _alone_ under\nthe beech-trees, day by day, found something very strangely moving in\nthe patient serenity of his look. He never seemed sad or lonely through\nall that time,--only patiently hopeful, placidly expectant. So the\nautumn twilights often came to him as he stood, his face towards the\nwest, looking out from their old favorite spot.\n\nOne evening, when his daughter and her husband came out to him, he did\nnot linger, as was usual with him, but turned and went forward to meet\nthem, with a bright smile, brighter than the sunset glow behind him, on\nhis face. He leaned rather heavily on their supporting arms, as they\nwent in. At the door, the little ones came running about him, as they\nloved to do. Perhaps the very lustre of his face awed them, or the sight\nof their mother's tears; for a sort of hush came over them, even to the\nyoungest, as he kissed and blessed them all.\n\nAnd then, when they had left the room, he laid his head upon his\ndaughter's breast, and uttered a few low words. He had been so happy, he\nsaid, and he thanked God for all,--even to this, the end. It had been so\ngood to live!--it was so happy to die! Then he paused awhile, and closed\nhis eyes.\n\n\"In the silence, I can hear your mother's voice,\" he murmured, and he\nclasped his hands. \"O thou most merciful Father, who givest this last,\ngreat blessing, of the new Home, where she waits for me!--and God's love\nis over all His worlds!\"\n\nHe looked up once again, with the same bright, assured smile. That smile\nnever faded from the dead face; it was the last look which they who\nloved him bore forever in their memory.\n\nAnd so passed our Visionary from that which we call Life.\n\n\n\n\nTHE TRUCE OF PISCATAQUA.\n\n1675.\n\n\n    Raze these long blocks of brick and stone,\n    These huge mill-monsters overgrown;\n    Blot out the humbler piles as well,\n    Where, moved like living shuttles, dwell\n    The weaving genii of the bell;\n    Tear from the wild Cocheco's track\n    The dams that hold its torrents back;\n    And let the loud-rejoicing fall\n    Plunge, roaring, down its rocky wall;\n    And let the Indian's paddle play\n    On the unbridged Piscataqua!\n    Wide over hill and valley spread\n    Once more the forest, dusk and dread,\n    With here and there a clearing cut\n    From the walled shadows round it shut;\n    Each with its farm-house builded rude,\n    By English yeoman squared and hewed,\n    And the grim, flankered blockhouse, bound\n    With bristling palisades around.\n\n    So, haply, shall before thine eyes\n    The dusty veil of centuries rise,\n    The old, strange scenery overlay\n    The tamer pictures of to-day,\n    While, like the actors in a play,\n    Pass in their ancient guise along\n    The figures of my border song:\n    What time beside Cocheco's flood\n    The white man and the red man stood,\n    With words of peace and brotherhood;\n    When passed the sacred calumet\n    From lip to lip with fire-draught wet,\n    And, puffed in scorn, the peace-pipe's smoke\n    Through the gray beard of Waldron broke,\n    And Squando's voice, in suppliant plea\n    For mercy, struck the haughty key\n    Of one who held in any fate\n    His native pride inviolate!\n\n           *       *       *       *       *\n\n    \"Let your ears be opened wide!\n    He who speaks has never lied.\n    Waldron of Piscataqua,\n    Hear what Squando has to say!\n\n    \"Squando shuts his eyes and sees,\n    Far off, Saco's hemlock-trees.\n    In his wigwam, still as stone,\n    Sits a woman all alone,\n\n    \"Wampum beads and birchen strands\n    Dropping from her careless hands,\n    Listening ever for the fleet\n    Patter of a dead child's feet!\n\n    \"When the moon a year ago\n    Told the flowers the time to blow,\n    In that lonely wigwam smiled\n    Menewee, our little child.\n\n    \"Ere that moon grew thin and old,\n    He was lying still and cold;\n    Sent before us, weak and small,\n    When the Master did not call!\n\n    \"On his little grave I lay;\n    Three times went and came the day;\n    Thrice above me blazed the noon,\n    Thrice upon me wept the moon.\n\n    \"In the third night-watch I heard,\n    Far and low, a spirit-bird;\n    Very mournful, very wild,\n    Sang the totem of my child.\n\n    \"'Menewee, poor Menewee,\n    Walks a path he cannot see:\n    Let the white man's wigwam light\n    With its blaze his steps aright.\n\n    \"'All-uncalled, he dares not show\n    Empty hands to Manito:\n    Better gifts he cannot bear\n    Than the scalps his slayers wear.'\n\n    \"All the while the totem sang,\n    Lightning blazed and thunder rang;\n    And a black cloud, reaching high,\n    Pulled the white moon from the sky.\n\n    \"I, the medicine-man, whose ear\n    All that spirits hear can hear,--\n    I, whose eyes are wide to see\n    All the things that are to be,--\n\n    \"Well I knew the dreadful signs\n    In the whispers of the pines,\n    In the river roaring loud,\n    In the mutter of the cloud.\n\n    \"At the breaking of the day,\n    From the grave I passed away;\n    Flowers bloomed round me, birds sang glad,\n    But my heart was hot and mad.\n\n    \"There is rust on Squando's knife\n    From the warm red springs of life;\n    On the funeral hemlock-trees\n    Many a scalp the totem sees.\n\n    \"Blood for blood! But evermore\n    Squando's heart is sad and sore;\n    And his poor squaw waits at home\n    For the feet that never come!\n\n    \"Waldron of Cocheco, hear!\n    Squando speaks, who laughs at fear:\n    Take the captives he has ta'en;\n    Let the land have peace again!\"\n\n    As the words died on his tongue,\n    Wide apart his warriors swung;\n    Parted, at the sign he gave,\n    Right and left, like Egypt's wave.\n\n    And, like Israel passing free\n    Through the prophet-charmed sea,\n    Captive mother, wife, and child\n    Through the dusky terror filed.\n\n    One alone, a little maid,\n    Middleway her steps delayed,\n    Glancing, with quick, troubled sight,\n    Round about from red to white.\n\n    Then his hand the Indian laid\n    On the little maiden's head,\n    Lightly from her forehead fair\n    Smoothing back her yellow hair.\n\n    \"Gift or favor ask I none;\n    What I have is all my own:\n    Never yet the birds have sung,\n    'Squando hath a beggar's tongue.'\n\n    \"Yet, for her who waits at home\n    For the dead who cannot come,\n    Let the little Gold-hair be\n    In the place of Menewee!\n\n    \"Mishanock, my little star!\n    Come to Saco's pines afar!\n    Where the sad one waits at home,\n    Wequashim, my moonlight, come!\"\n\n    \"What!\" quoth Waldron, \"leave a child\n    Christian-born to heathens wild?\n    As God lives, from Satan's hand\n    I will pluck her as a brand!\"\n\n    \"Hear me, white man!\" Squando cried,\n    \"Let the little one decide.\n    Wequashim, my moonlight, say,\n    Wilt thou go with me, or stay?\"\n\n    Slowly, sadly, half-afraid,\n    Half-regretfully, the maid\n    Owned the ties of blood and race,\n    Turned from Squando's pleading face.\n\n    Not a word the Indian spoke,\n    But his wampum chain he broke,\n    And the beaded wonder hung\n    On that neck so fair and young.\n\n    Silence-shod, as phantoms seem\n    In the marches of a dream,\n    Single-filed, the grim array\n    Through the pine-trees wound away.\n\n    Doubting, trembling, sore amazed,\n    Through her tears the young child gazed.\n    \"God preserve her!\" Waldron said;\n    \"Satan hath bewitched the maid!\"\n\n           *       *       *       *       *\n\n    Years went and came. At close of day\n    Singing came a child from play,\n    Tossing from her loose-locked head\n    Gold in sunshine, brown in shade.\n\n    Pride was in the mother's look,\n    But her head she gravely shook,\n    And with lips that fondly smiled\n    Feigned to chide her truant child.\n\n    Unabashed the maid began:\n    \"Up and down the brook I ran,\n    Where, beneath the bank so steep,\n    Lie the spotted trout asleep.\n\n    \"'Chip!' went squirrel on the wall,\n    After me I heard him call,\n    And the cat-bird on the tree\n    Tried his best to mimic me.\n\n    \"Where the hemlocks grew so dark,\n    That I stopped to look and hark,\n    On a log, with feather-hat,\n    By the path, an Indian sat.\n\n    \"Then I cried, and ran away;\n    But he called and bade me stay;\n    And his voice was good and mild\n    As my mother's to her child.\n\n    \"And he took my wampum chain,\n    Looked and looked it o'er again;\n    Gave me berries, and, beside,\n    On my neck a plaything tied.\"\n\n    Straight the mother stooped to see\n    What the Indian's gift might be.\n    On the braid of wampum hung,\n    Lo! a cross of silver swung.\n\n    Well she knew its graven sign,\n    Squando's bird and totem pine;\n    And, a mirage of the brain,\n    Flowed her childhood back again.\n\n    Flashed the roof the sunshine through,\n    Into space the walls outgrew,\n    On the Indian's wigwam mat\n    Blossom-crowned again she sat.\n\n    Cool she felt the west wind blow,\n    In her ear the pines sang low,\n    And, like links from out a chain,\n    Dropped the years of care and pain.\n\n    From the outward toil and din,\n    From the griefs that gnaw within,\n    To the freedom of the woods\n    Called the birds and winds and floods.\n\n    Well, O painful minister,\n    Watch thy flock, but blame not her,\n    If her ear grew sharp to hear\n    All their voices whispering near.\n\n    Blame her not, as to her soul\n    All the desert's glamour stole,\n    That a tear for childhood's loss\n    Dropped upon the Indian's cross.\n\n    When, that night, the Book was read,\n    And she bowed her widowed head,\n    And a prayer for each loved name\n    Rose like incense from a flame,\n\n    To the listening ear of Heaven,\n    Lo! another name was given:\n    \"Father! give the Indian rest!\n    Bless him! for his love has blest!\"\n\n\n\n\nTHE MAROONS OF JAMAICA.\n\n\nThe Maroons! it was a word of peril once; and terror spread along the\nskirts of the blue mountains of Jamaica, when some fresh foray of those\nunconquered guerrillas swept down upon the outlying plantations,\nstartled the Assembly from its order, General Williamson from his\nbilliards, and Lord Balcarres from his diplomatic ease,--endangering,\naccording to the official statement, \"public credit,\" \"civil rights,\"\nand \"the prosperity, if not the very existence of the country,\" until\nthey were \"persuaded to make peace\" at last. They were the Circassians\nof the New World; but they were black, instead of white; and as the\nCircassians refused to be transferred from the Sultan to the Czar, so\nthe Maroons refused to be transferred from Spanish dominion to English,\nand thus their revolt began. The difference is, that, while the white\nmountaineers numbered four hundred thousand, and only defied Nicholas,\nthe black mountaineers numbered less than two thousand, and defied\nCromwell; and while the Circassians, after thirty years of revolt, seem\nnow at last subdued, the Maroons, on the other hand, who rebelled in\n1655, were never conquered, but only made a compromise of allegiance,\nand exist as a separate race to-day.\n\nWhen Admirals Penn and Venables landed in Jamaica, in 1655, there was\nnot a remnant left of the sixty thousand natives whom the Spaniards had\nfound there a century and a half before. Their pitiful tale is told only\nby those caves, still known among the mountains, where thousands of\nhuman skeletons strew the ground. In their place dwelt two foreign\nraces,--an effeminate, ignorant, indolent white community of fifteen\nhundred, with a black slave population quite as large and infinitely\nmore hardy and energetic. The Spaniards were readily subdued by the\nEnglish,--the negroes remained unsubdued; the slaveholders were banished\nfrom the island,--the slaves only banished themselves to the mountains:\nthence the English could not dislodge them, nor the buccaneers, whom the\nEnglish employed. And when Jamaica subsided into a British colony, and\npeace was made with Spain, and the children of Cromwell's Puritan\nsoldiers were beginning to grow rich by importing slaves for Roman\nCatholic Spaniards, the Maroons still held their own wild empire in the\nmountains, and, being sturdy heathens every one, practised Obeah rites\nin approved pagan fashion.\n\nThe word Maroon is derived, according to one etymology, from the\nSpanish word _Marrano_, a wild-boar,--these fugitives being all\nboar-hunters,--according to another, from _Marony_, a river separating\nFrench and Dutch Guiana, where a colony of them dwelt and still dwells;\nand by another still, from _Cimarron_, a word meaning untamable, and\nused alike for apes and runaway slaves. But whether these\nrebel-marauders were regarded as monkeys or men, they made themselves\nequally formidable. As early as 1663, the Governor and Council of\nJamaica offered to each Maroon, who should surrender, his freedom and\ntwenty acres of land; but not one accepted the terms. During forty\nyears, forty-four acts of Assembly were passed in respect to them, and\nat least a quarter of a million pounds sterling were expended in the\nwarfare against them. In 1733, the force employed against them consisted\nof two regiments of regular troops and the whole militia of the island,\nand the Assembly said that \"the Maroons had within a few years greatly\nincreased, notwithstanding all the measures that had been concerted for\ntheir suppression,\" \"to the great terror of his Majesty's subjects,\" and\n\"to the manifest weakening and preventing the further increase of the\nstrength and inhabitants of the island.\"\n\nThe special affair in progress, at the time of these statements, was\ncalled Cudjoe's War. Cudjoe was a gentleman of extreme brevity and\nblackness, whose full-length portrait can hardly be said to adorn\nDallas's History; but he was as formidable a guerrilla as Marion. Under\nhis leadership, the various bodies of fugitives were consolidated into\none force and thoroughly organized. Cudjoe, like Schamyl, was religious\nas well as military head of his people; by Obeah influence he\nestablished a thorough freemasonry among both slaves and insurgents; no\nparty could be sent forth by the government but he knew it in time to\nlay an ambush, or descend with fire and sword on the region left\nunprotected. He was thus always supplied with arms and ammunition; and\nas his men were perfect marksmen, never wasted a shot and never risked a\nbattle, his forces naturally increased while those of his opponents were\ndecimated. His men were never captured, and never took a prisoner; it\nwas impossible to tell when they were defeated; in dealing with them, as\nPelissier said of the Arabs, \"peace was not purchased by victory\"; and\nthe only men who could obtain the slightest advantage against them were\nthe imported Mosquito Indians, or the \"Black Shot,\" a company of\ngovernment negroes. For nine full years this particular war continued\nunchecked, General Williamson ruling Jamaica by day and Cudjoe by night.\n\nThe rebels had every topographical advantage, for they held possession\nof the \"Cockpits.\" Those highlands are furrowed through and through, as\nby an earthquake, with a series of gaps or ravines, resembling the\nCalifornia canons, or those similar fissures in various parts of the\nAtlantic States, known to local fame either poetically as ice-glens, or\nsymbolically as purgatories. These chasms vary from two hundred yards to\na mile in length; the rocky walls are fifty or a hundred feet high, and\noften absolutely inaccessible, while the passes at each end admit but\none man at a time. They are thickly wooded, wherever trees can grow;\nwater flows within them; and they often communicate with one another,\nforming a series of traps for an invading force. Tired and thirsty with\nclimbing, the weary soldiers toil on, in single file, without seeing or\nhearing an enemy; up the steep and winding path they traverse one\n\"cockpit,\" then enter another. Suddenly a shot is fired from the dense\nand sloping forest on the right, then another and another, each dropping\nits man; the startled troops face hastily in that direction, when a more\nmurderous volley is poured from the other side; the heights above flash\nwith musketry, while the precipitous path by which they came seems to\nclose in fire behind them. By the time the troops have formed in some\nattempt at military order, the woods around them are empty, and their\nagile and noiseless foes have settled themselves into ambush again,\nfarther up the defile, ready for a second attack, if needed. But one is\nusually sufficient;--disordered, exhausted, bearing their wounded with\nthem, the soldiers retreat in panic, if permitted to escape at all, and\ncarry fresh dismay to the barracks, the plantations, and the Government\nHouse.\n\nIt is not strange, then, that high military authorities, at that period,\nshould have pronounced the subjugation of the Maroons a thing more\ndifficult than to obtain a victory over any army in Europe. Moreover,\nthese people were fighting for their liberty, with which aim no form of\nwarfare could be unjustifiable; and the description given by Lafayette\nof the American Revolution was true of this one,--\"the grandest of\ncauses, won by contests of sentinels and outposts.\" The utmost hope of a\nBritish officer, ordered against the Maroons, was to lay waste a\nprovision-ground or cut them off from water. But there was little\nsatisfaction in this; the wild pine-leaves and the grapevine-withes\nsupplied the rebels with water, and their plantation-grounds were the\nwild pine-apple and the plantain groves, and the forests, where the\nwild-boars harbored and the ringdoves were as easily shot as if they\nwere militia-men. Nothing but sheer weariness of fighting seems to have\nbrought about a truce at last, and then a treaty, between those high\ncontracting parties, Cudjoe and General Williamson.\n\nBut how to execute a treaty between these wild Children of the Mist and\nrespectable diplomatic Englishmen? To establish any official relations\nwithout the medium of a preliminary bullet required some ingenuity of\nmanoeuvring. Cudjoe was willing, but inconveniently cautious; he would\nnot come half-way to meet any one; nothing would content him but an\ninterview in his own chosen cockpit. So he selected one of the most\ndifficult passes, posting in the forests a series of outlying parties,\nto signal with their horns, one by one, the approach of the\nplenipotentiaries, and then to retire on the main body. Through this\nline of perilous signals, therefore, Colonel Guthrie and his handful of\nmen bravely advanced; horn after horn they heard sounded, but there was\nno other human noise in the woods, and they had advanced till they saw\nthe smoke of the Maroon huts before they caught a glimpse of a human\nform.\n\nA conversation was at last opened with the invisible rebels. On their\npromise of safety, Dr. Russell advanced alone to treat with them, then\nseveral Maroons appeared, and finally Cudjoe himself. The formidable\nchief was not highly military in appearance, being short, fat,\nhumpbacked, dressed in a tattered blue coat without skirts or sleeves,\nand an old felt hat without a rim. But if he had blazed with regimental\nscarlet, he could not have been treated with more distinguished\nconsideration; indeed, in that case, \"the exchange of hats\" with which\nDr. Russell finally volunteered, in Maroon fashion, to ratify\nnegotiations, would have been a less severe test of good fellowship.\nThis fine stroke of diplomacy had its effect, therefore; the rebel\ncaptains agreed to a formal interview with Colonel Guthrie and Captain\nSadler, and a treaty was at last executed with all due solemnity, under\na large cotton-tree at the entrance of Guthrie's Defile. This treaty\nrecognized the military rank of Captain Cudjoe, Captain Accompong, and\nthe rest; gave assurance that the Maroons should be \"forever hereafter\nin a perfect state of freedom and liberty\"; ceded to them fifteen\nhundred acres of land; and stipulated only that they should keep the\npeace, should harbor no fugitive from justice or from slavery, and\nshould allow two white commissioners to remain among them, simply to\nrepresent the British government.\n\nDuring the following year a separate treaty was made with another large\nbody of insurgents, called the Windward Maroons. This was not effected,\nhowever, until after an unsuccessful military attempt, in which the\nmountaineers gained a signal triumph. By artful devices,--a few fires\nleft burning, with old women to watch them,--a few provision-grounds\nexposed by clearing away the bushes,--they lured the troops far up among\nthe mountains, and then surprised them by an ambush. The militia all\nfled, and the regulars took refuge under a large cliff in a stream,\nwhere they remained four hours up to their waists in water, until\nfinally they forded the river, under full fire, with terrible loss.\nThree months after this, however, the Maroons consented to an amicable\ninterview, exchanging hostages first. The position of the white hostage,\nat least, was not the most agreeable; he complained that he was beset by\nthe women and children, with indignant cries of \"Buckra, Buckra,\" while\nthe little boys pointed their fingers at him as if stabbing him, and\nthat with evident relish. However, Captain Quao, like Captain Cudjoe,\nmade a treaty at last, and hats were interchanged instead of hostages.\n\nIndependence being thus won and acknowledged, there was a suspension of\nhostilities for some years. Among the wild mountains of Jamaica, the\nMaroons dwelt in a savage freedom. So healthful and beautiful was the\nsituation of their chief town, that the English government has erected\nbarracks there of late years, as being the most salubrious situation on\nthe island. They breathed an air ten degrees cooler than that inhaled by\nthe white population below, and they lived on a daintier diet, so that\nthe English epicures used to go up among them for good living. The\nmountaineers caught the strange land-crabs, plodding in companies of\nmillions their sidelong path from mountain to ocean, and from ocean to\nmountain again. They hunted the wild-boars, and prepared the flesh by\nsalting and smoking it in layers of aromatic leaves, the delicious\n\"jerked hog\" of Buccaneer annals. They reared cattle and poultry,\ncultivated corn and yams, plantains and cocoas, guavas and papaws and\nmameys and avocados and all luxurious West Indian fruits; the very weeds\nof their orchards had tropical luxuriance in their fragrance and in\ntheir names; and from the doors of their little thatched huts they\nlooked across these gardens of delight to the magnificent lowland\nforests, and over those again to the faint line of far-off beach, the\nfainter ocean-horizon, and the illimitable sky.\n\nThey had senses like those of our Indians, tracked each other by the\nsmell of the smoke of fires in the air, and called to each other by\nhorns, using a special note to designate each of their comrades, and\ndistinguishing it beyond the range of ordinary hearing. They spoke\nEnglish diluted with Spanish and African words, and practised Obeah\nrites quite undiluted with Christianity. Of course they associated\nlargely with the slaves, without any very precise regard to treaty\nstipulations; sometimes brought in fugitives, and sometimes concealed\nthem; left their towns and settled on the planters' lands, when they\npreferred them, but were quite orderly and luxuriously happy. During the\nformidable insurrection of the Koromantyn slaves, in 1760, they played a\ndubious part: when left to go on their own way, they did something\ntowards suppressing it,--but when placed under the guns of the troops\nand ordered to fire on those of their own color, they threw themselves\non the ground without discharging a shot. Nevertheless, they gradually\ncame up into rather reputable standing; they grew more and more\nindustrious and steady; and after they had joined very heartily in\nresisting D'Estaing's threatened invasion of the island in 1779, it\nbecame the fashion to speak of \"our faithful and affectionate Maroons.\"\n\nIn 1795, their position was as follows:--Their numbers had not\nmaterially increased, for many had strayed off and settled on the\noutskirts of plantations,--nor materially diminished, for many runaway\nslaves had joined them,--while there were also separate settlements of\nfugitives, who had maintained their freedom for twenty years. The white\nsuperintendents had lived with the Maroons in perfect harmony, without\nthe slightest official authority, but with a great deal of actual\ninfluence. But there was an \"irrepressible conflict\" behind all this\napparent peace, and the slightest occasion might at any moment revive\nall the Old terror. That occasion was close at hand.\n\nCaptain Cudjoe and Captain Accompong and the other founders of Maroon\nindependence had passed away, and \"Old Montagu\" reigned in their stead,\nin Trelawney Town. Old Montagu had all the pomp and circumstance of\nMaroon majesty; he wore a laced red coat, and a hat superb with\ngold-lace and plumes; none but captains could sit in his presence; he\nwas helped first at meals, and no woman could eat beside him; he\npresided at councils as magnificently as at table, though with less\nappetite;--and possessed, meanwhile, not an atom of the love or\nreverence of any human being. The real power lay entirely with Major\nJames, the white superintendent, who had been brought up among the\nMaroons by his father (and predecessor), and who was the idol of this\nwild race. In an evil hour, the government removed him, and put a\ncertain unpopular Captain Craskell in his place; and as there happened\nto be, about the same time, a great excitement concerning a hopeful pair\nof young Maroons who had been seized and publicly whipped, on a charge\nof hog-stealing, their kindred refused to allow the new superintendent\nto remain in the town. A few attempts at negotiation only brought them\nto a higher pitch of wrath, which ended in their despatching the\nfollowing remarkable diplomatic note to the Earl of Balcarres:--\"The\nMaroons wishes nothing else from the country but battle, and they\ndesires not to see Mr. Craskell up here at all. So they are waiting\nevery moment for the above on Monday. Mr. David Schaw will see you on\nSunday morning for an answer. They will wait till Monday, nine o'clock,\nand if they don't come up, they will come down themselves.\" Signed,\n\"Colonel Montagu and all the rest.\"\n\nIt turned out, at last, that only two or three of the Maroons were\nconcerned in this remarkable defiance; but meanwhile it had its effect.\nSeveral ambassadors were sent among the insurgents, and were so\nfavorably impressed by their reception as to make up a subscription of\nmoney for their hosts, on departing; only the \"gallant Colonel\nGallimore,\" a Jamaica Camillus, gave iron instead of gold, by throwing\nsome bullets into the contribution-box. And it was probably in\naccordance with his view of the subject, that, when the Maroons sent\nambassadors in return, they were at once imprisoned, most injudiciously\nand unjustly; and when Old Montagu himself and thirty-seven others,\nfollowing, were seized and imprisoned also, it is not strange that the\nMaroons, joined by many slaves, were soon in open insurrection.\n\nMartial law was instantly proclaimed throughout the island. The\nfighting-men among the insurgents were not, perhaps, more than five\nhundred; against whom the government could bring nearly fifteen hundred\nregular troops and several thousand militia-men. Lord Balcarres himself\ntook the command, and, eager to crush the affair, promptly marched a\nlarge force up to Trelawney Town, and was glad to march back again as\nexpeditiously as possible. In his very first attack, he was miserably\ndefeated, and had to fly for his life, amid a perfect panic of the\ntroops, in which some forty or fifty were killed,--including Colonel\nSandford, commanding the regulars, and the bullet-loving Colonel\nGallimore, in command of the militia,--while not a single Maroon was\neven wounded, so far as could be ascertained.\n\nAfter this a good deal of bush-fighting took place. The troops gradually\ngot possession of several Maroon villages, but not till every hut had\nbeen burnt by its owner. It was in the height of the rainy season, and,\nbetween fire and water, the discomfort of the soldiers was enormous.\nMeanwhile the Maroons hovered close around them in the woods, heard all\ntheir orders, picked off their sentinels, and, penetrating through their\nlines at night, burned houses and destroyed plantations, far below. The\nonly man who could cope with their peculiar tactics was Major James, the\nsuperintendent just removed by government,--and his services were not\nemployed, as he was not trusted. On one occasion, however, he led a\nvolunteer party farther into the mountains than any of the assailants\nhad yet penetrated, guided by tracks known to himself only, and by the\nsmell of the smoke of Maroon fires. After a very exhausting march,\nincluding a climb of a hundred and fifty feet up the face of a\nprecipice, he brought them just within the entrance of Guthrie's Defile.\n\"So far,\" said he, pointing to the entrance, \"you may pursue, but no\nfarther; no force can enter here; no white man except myself, or some\nsoldier of the Maroon establishment, has ever gone beyond this. With the\ngreatest difficulty I have penetrated four miles farther, and not ten\nMaroons have gone so far as that. There are two other ways of getting\ninto the defile, practicable for the Maroons, but not for any one of\nyou. In neither of them can I ascend or descend with my arms, which must\nbe handed to me, step by step, as practised by the Maroons themselves.\nOne of the ways lies to the eastward, and the other to the westward; and\nthey will take care to have both guarded, if they suspect that I am with\nyou; which, from the route you have come to-day, they will. They now see\nyou, and if you advance fifty paces more, they will convince you of it.\"\nAt this moment a Maroon horn sounded the notes indicating his name, and,\nas he made no answer, a voice was heard, inquiring if he were among\nthem. \"If he is,\" said the voice, \"let him go back, we do not wish to\nhurt him; but as for the rest of you, come on and try battle, if you\nchoose.\" But the gentlemen did not choose.\n\nIn September the House of Assembly met. Things were looking worse and\nworse. For five months a handful of negroes and mulattoes had defied the\nwhole force of the island; and they were defending their liberty by\nprecisely the same tactics through which their ancestors had won it.\nHalf a million pounds sterling had been spent within this time, besides\nthe enormous loss incurred by the withdrawal of so many able-bodied men\nfrom their regular employments. \"Cultivation was suspended,\" says an\neye-witness; \"the courts of law had long been shut up; and the island at\nlarge seemed more like a garrison under the power of law-martial, than a\ncountry of agriculture and commerce, of civil judicature, industry, and\nprosperity.\" Hundreds of the militia had died of fatigue, large numbers\nhad been shot down, the most daring of the British officers had fallen,\nwhile the insurgents had been invariably successful, and not one of them\nwas known to have been killed. Captain Craskell, the banished\nsuperintendent, gave it to the Assembly as his opinion, that the whole\nslave population of the island was in sympathy with the Maroons, and\nwould soon be beyond control. More alarming still, there were rumors of\nFrench emissaries behind the scenes; and though these were explained\naway, the vague terror remained. Indeed, the Lieutenant-Governor\nannounced in his message that he had satisfactory evidence that the\nFrench Convention was concerned in the revolt. A French prisoner named\nMurenson had testified that the French agent at Philadelphia (Fauchet)\nhad secretly sent a hundred and fifty emissaries to the island, and\nthreatened to land fifteen hundred negroes. And though Murenson took it\nall back at last, yet the Assembly was moved to make a new offer of\nthree hundred dollars for killing or taking a Trelawney Maroon, and a\nhundred and fifty dollars for killing or taking any fugitive slave who\nhad joined them. They also voted five hundred pounds as a gratuity to\nthe Accompong tribe of Maroons, who had thus far kept out of the\ninsurrection; and various prizes and gratuities were also offered by the\ndifferent parishes, with the same object of self-protection.\n\nThe commander-in-chief being among the killed, Colonel Walpole was\npromoted in his stead, and brevetted as General, by way of incentive. He\nfound a people in despair, a soldiery thoroughly intimidated, and a\ntreasury, not empty, but useless. But the new general had not served\nagainst the Maroons for nothing, and was not ashamed to go to school to\nhis opponents. First, he waited for the dry season; then he directed all\nhis efforts towards cutting off his opponents from water; and, most\neffectual move of all, he attacked each successive cockpit by dragging\nup a howitzer, with immense labor, and throwing in shells. Shells were a\nvisitation not dreamed of in Maroon philosophy, and their quaint\ncompliments to their new opponent remain on record. \"Damn dat little\nbuckra!\" they said; \"he cunning more dan dem toder. Dis here da new\nfashion for fight: him fire big ball arter you, and when big ball 'top,\nde damn sunting (something) fire arter you again.\" With which Parthian\narrows of rhetoric the mountaineers retreated.\n\nBut this did not last long. The Maroons soon learned to keep out of the\nway of the shells, and the island relapsed into terror again. It was\ndeliberately resolved at last, by a special council convoked for the\npurpose, \"to persuade the rebels to make peace.\" But as they had not as\nyet shown themselves very accessible to softer influences, it was\nthought best to combine as many arguments as possible, and a certain\nColonel Quarrell had hit upon a wholly new one. His plan simply was,\nsince men, however well disciplined, had proved powerless against\nMaroons, to try a Spanish fashion against them, and use dogs. The\nproposition was met, in some quarters, with the strongest hostility.\nEngland, it was said, had always denounced the Spaniards as brutal and\ndastardly for hunting down the natives of that very soil with\nhounds,--and should England now follow the humiliating example? On the\nother side, there were plenty who eagerly quoted all known instances of\nzooelogical warfare: all Oriental nations, for instance, used elephants\nin war, and no doubt would gladly use lions and tigers, also, but for\ntheir extreme carnivorousness, and their painful indifference to the\ndistinction between friend and foe;--why not, then, use these dogs,\ncomparatively innocent and gentle creatures? At any rate, \"something\nmust be done\"; the final argument always used, when a bad or desperate\nproject is to be made palatable. So it was voted at last to send to\nHavana for an invoice of Spanish dogs, with their accompanying\nchasseurs, and the efforts at persuading the Maroons were postponed till\nthe arrival of these additional persuasives. And when Colonel Quarrell\nfinally set sail as commissioner to obtain the new allies, all scruples\nof conscience vanished in the renewal of public courage and the chorus\nof popular gratitude; a thing so desirable must be right; thrice were\nthey armed who knew their Quarrell just.\n\nBut after the parting notes of gratitude died away in the distance, the\ncommissioner began to discover that he was to have a hard time of it. He\nsailed for Havana in a schooner manned with Spanish renegadoes, who\ninsisted on fighting everything that came in their way,--first a Spanish\nschooner, then a French one. He landed at Batabano, struck across the\nmountains towards Havana, stopped at Besucal to call on the wealthy\nMarquesa de San Felipe y San Jorge, grand patroness of dogs and\nchasseurs, and finally was welcomed to Havana by Don Luis de las Casas,\nwho overlooked, for this occasion only, an injunction of his court\nagainst admitting foreigners within his government,--\"the only\naccustomed exception being,\" as Don Luis courteously assured him, \"in\nfavor of foreign traders who came with new negroes.\" To be sure, the\ncommissioner had not brought any of these commodities, but then he had\ncome to obtain the means of capturing some, and so might pass for an\nirregular practitioner of the privileged profession.\n\nAccordingly, Don Guillermo Dawes Quarrell (so ran his passport) found no\ndifficulty in obtaining permission from the governor to buy as many dogs\nas he desired. When, however, he carelessly hinted at the necessity of\ntaking, also, a few men who should have care of the dogs,--this being,\nafter all, the essential part of his expedition,--Don Luis de las Casas\nput on instantly a double force of courtesy, and assured him of the\nentire impossibility of recruiting a single Spaniard for English\nservice. Finally, however, he gave permission and passports for six\nchasseurs. Under cover of this, the commissioner lost no time in\nenlisting forty; he got them safe to Batabano, but at the last moment,\nlearning the state of affairs, they refused to embark on such very\nirregular authority. When he had persuaded them, at length, the officer\nof the fort interposed objections. This was not to be borne, so Don\nGuillermo bribed him and silenced him; a dragoon was, however, sent to\nreport to the governor; Don Guillermo sent a messenger after him and\nbribed him, too; and thus, at length, after myriad rebuffs, and after\nbeing obliged to spend the last evening at a puppet-show, in which the\nprincipal figure was a burlesque on his own personal peculiarities, the\nweary Don Guillermo, with his crew of renegadoes, and his forty\nchasseurs and their one hundred and four muzzled dogs, set sail for\nJamaica.\n\nThese new allies were certainly something formidable, if we may trust\nthe pictures and descriptions in Dallas's History. The chasseur was a\ntall, meagre, swarthy Spaniard or mulatto, lightly clad in cotton shirt\nand drawers, with broad straw-hat and moccasins of raw hide; his belt\nsustaining his long, straight, flat sword or _machete_, like an iron bar\nsharpened at one end; and he wore by the same belt three cotton leashes\nfor his three dogs, sometimes held also by chains. The dogs were a\nfierce breed, crossed between hound and mastiff, never unmuzzled but for\nattack, and accompanied by smaller dogs called _finders_. It is no\nwonder, when these wild and powerful creatures were landed at Montego\nBay, that terror ran through the town, doors were everywhere closed and\nwindows crowded, not a negro dared to stir, and the muzzled dogs,\ninfuriated by confinement on shipboard, filled the silent streets with\ntheir noisy barking and the rattling of their chains.\n\nHow much would have come of all this in actual conflict does not appear.\nThe Maroons had already been persuaded to make peace upon certain\nconditions and guaranties,--a decision probably accelerated by the\nterrible rumors of the bloodhounds, though they never saw them. It was\nthe declared opinion of the Assembly, confirmed by that of General\nWalpole, that \"nothing could be clearer than that, if they had been off\nthe island, the rebels could not have been induced to surrender.\"\nNevertheless a treaty was at last made, without the direct intervention\nof the quadrupeds. Again commissioners went up among the mountains to\ntreat with negotiators at first invisible; again were hats and jackets\ninterchanged, not without coy reluctance on the part of the well-dressed\nEnglishmen; and a solemn agreement was effected. The most essential part\nof the bargain was a guaranty of continued independence, demanded by the\nsuspicious Maroons. General Walpole, however, promptly pledged himself\nthat no such unfair advantage should be taken of them as had occurred\nwith the hostages previously surrendered, who were placed in irons, nor\nshould any attempt be made to remove them from the island. It is painful\nto add, that this promise was outrageously violated by the Colonial\ngovernment, to the lasting grief of General Walpole, on the ground that\nthe Maroons had violated the treaty by a slight want of punctuality in\ncomplying with its terms, and by remissness in restoring the fugitive\nslaves who had taken refuge among them. As many of the tribe as\nsurrendered, therefore, were at once placed in confinement, and\nultimately shipped from Port Royal to Halifax, to the number of six\nhundred, on the 6th of June, 1796. For the credit of English honor, we\nrejoice to know that General Walpole not merely protested against this\nutter breach of faith, but indignantly declined the sword of honor which\nthe Assembly voted him in its gratitude, and retired from military\nservice forever.\n\nThe remaining career of this portion of the Maroons is easily told. They\nwere first dreaded by the inhabitants of Halifax; then welcomed, when\nseen; and promptly set to work on the citadel, then in process of\nreconstruction, where the \"Maroon Bastion\" still remains,--their only\nvisible memorial. Two commissioners had charge of them, one being the\nredoubtable Colonel Quarrell, and twenty-five thousand pounds were\nappropriated for their temporary support. Of course they did not\nprosper; pensioned colonists never do, for they are not compelled into\nhabits of industry. After their delicious life in the mountains of\nJamaica, it seemed rather monotonous to dwell upon that barren\nsoil,--for theirs was such that two previous colonies had deserted\nit,--and in a climate where winter lasts seven months in the year. They\nhad a schoolmaster, and he was also a preacher; but they did not seem to\nappreciate that luxury of civilization,--utterly refusing, on grounds of\nconscience, to forsake polygamy, and, on grounds of personal comfort, to\nlisten to the doctrinal discourses of their pastor, who was an ardent\nSandemanian. They smoked their pipes during service-time, and left Old\nMontagu, who still survived, to lend a vicarious attention to the\nsermon. One discourse he briefly reported as follows, very much to the\npoint:--\"Massa parson say no mus tief, no mus meddle wid somebody wife,\nno mus quarrel, mus set down softly.\" So they sat down very softly, and\nshowed an extreme unwillingness to get up again. But, not being\nnaturally an idle race, (at least, in Jamaica the objection lay rather\non the other side,) they soon grew tired of this inaction. Distrustful\nof those about them, suspicious of all attempts to scatter them among\nthe community at large, frozen by the climate, and constantly\npetitioning for removal to a milder one, they finally wearied out all\npatience. A long dispute ensued between the authorities of Nova Scotia\nand Jamaica, as to which was properly responsible for their support; and\nthus the heroic race, that for a century and a half had sustained\nthemselves in freedom in Jamaica, were reduced to the position of\ntroublesome and impracticable paupers, shuttlecocks between two selfish\nparishes. So passed their unfortunate lives, until, in 1800, their\nreduced population was transported to Sierra Leone, at a cost of six\nthousand pounds, since which they disappear from history.\n\nIt was judged best not to interfere with those bodies of Maroons which\nhad kept aloof from the late outbreak, as the Accompong settlement, and\nothers. They continued to preserve a qualified independence, and retain\nit even now. In 1835, two years after the abolition of slavery in\nJamaica, there were reported sixty families of Maroons as residing at\nAccompong Town, eighty families at Moore Town, one hundred and ten\nfamilies at Charles Town, and twenty families at Scott Hall, making two\nhundred and seventy families in all,--each station being, as of old,\nunder the charge of a superintendent. But there can be little doubt,\nthat, under the influences of freedom, they are rapidly intermingling\nwith the mass of colored population in Jamaica.\n\nThe story of the exiled Maroons attracted attention in high quarters, in\nits time; the wrongs done to them were denounced in Parliament by\nSheridan and mourned by Wilberforce; while the employment of bloodhounds\nagainst them was vindicated by Dundas, and the whole conduct of the\nColonial government defended, through thick and thin, by Bryan Edwards.\nThis thorough partisan even had the assurance to tell Mr. Wilberforce,\nin Parliament, that he knew the Maroons, from personal knowledge, to be\ncannibals, and that, if a missionary were sent among them in Nova\nScotia, they would immediately eat him; a charge so absurd that he did\nnot venture to repeat it in his History of the West Indies, though his\ninjustice to the Maroons is even there so glaring as to provoke the\nindignation of the more moderate Dallas. But, in spite of Mr. Edwards,\nthe public indignation ran quite high, in England, against the\nbloodhounds and their employers, so that the home ministry found it\nnecessary to send a severe reproof to the Colonial government. For a few\nyears the tales of the Maroons thus emerged from mere colonial annals,\nand found their way into Annual Registers and Parliamentary\nDebates,--but they have vanished from popular memory now. Their record\nstill retains its interest, however, as that of one of the heroic races\nof the world; and all the more, because it is with their kindred that\nthis nation has to deal, in solving the tremendous problem of\nincorporating their liberties with our own. We must remember the story\nof the Maroons, because we cannot afford to ignore a single historic\nfact which bears upon a question so momentous.\n\n\n\n\nTHE PROFESSOR'S STORY.\n\n\nCHAPTER III.\n\nMR. BERNARD TRIES HIS HAND.\n\nWhether the Student advertised for a school, or whether he fell in with\nthe advertisement of a school-committee, is not certain. At any rate, it\nwas not long before he found himself the head of a large district, or,\nas it was called by the inhabitants, \"deestric\" school, in the\nflourishing inland village of Pequawkett, or, as it is commonly spelt,\nPigwacket Centre. The natives of this place would be surprised, if they\nshould hear that any of the readers of a periodical published in Boston\nwere unacquainted with so remarkable a locality. As, however, some\ncopies of this periodical may be read at a distance from this\ndistinguished metropolis, it may be well to give a few particulars\nrespecting the place, taken from the Universal Gazetteer.\n\n     \"PIGWACKET, sometimes spelt Pequawkett. A post-village and\n     township in ---- Co., State of ----, situated in a fine\n     agricultural region, 2 thriving villages, Pigwacket Centre and\n     Smithville, 3 churches, several schoolhouses, and many handsome\n     private residences. Mink River runs through the town, navigable\n     for small boats after heavy rains. Muddy Pond at N. E. section,\n     well stocked with horned pouts, eels, and shiners. Products,\n     beef, pork, butter, cheese. Manufactures, shoe-pegs,\n     clothes-pins, and tin-ware. Pop. 1373.\"\n\nThe reader may think there is nothing very remarkable implied in this\ndescription. If, however, he had read the town-history, by the Rev.\nJabez Grubb, he would have learned, that, like the celebrated Little\nPedlington, it was distinguished by many _very_ remarkable advantages.\nThus:--\n\n     \"The situation of Pigwacket is eminently beautiful, looking\n     down the lovely valley of Mink River, a tributary of the\n     Musquash. The air is salubrious, and many of the inhabitants\n     have attained great age, several having passed the allotted\n     period of 'three-score years and ten' before succumbing to any\n     of the various 'ills that flesh is heir to.' Widow Comfort\n     Leevins died in 1836, AEt. LXXXVII. years. Venus, an African,\n     died in 1841, supposed to be C. years old. The people are\n     distinguished for intelligence, as has been frequently remarked\n     by eminent lyceum-lecturers, who have invariably spoken in the\n     highest terms of a Pigwacket audience. There is a public\n     library, containing nearly a hundred volumes, free to all\n     subscribers. The preached word is well attended, there is a\n     flourishing temperance society, and the schools are excellent.\n     It is a residence admirably adapted to refined families who\n     relish the beauties of Nature and the charms of society. The\n     Honorable John Smith, formerly a member of the State Senate,\n     was a native of this town.\"\n\nThat is the way they all talk. After all, it is probably pretty much\nlike other inland New England towns in point of \"salubrity,\"--that is,\ngives people their choice of dysentery or fever every autumn, with a\nseason-ticket for consumption, good all the year round. And so of the\nother pretences. \"Pigwacket audience,\" forsooth! Was there ever an\naudience anywhere, though there wasn't a pair of eyes in it brighter\nthan pickled oysters, that didn't think it was \"distinguished for\nintelligence\"?--\"The preached word\"! That means the Rev. Jabez Grubb's\nsermons. \"Temperance society\"! \"Excellent schools\"! Ah, that is just\nwhat we were talking about.\n\nThe truth was, that District No. 1, Pigwacket Centre, had had a good\ndeal of trouble of late with its schoolmasters. The committee had done\ntheir best, but there were a number of well-grown and pretty rough young\nfellows who had got the upperhand of the masters, and meant to keep it.\nTwo dynasties had fallen before the uprising of this fierce democracy.\nThis was a thing that used to be not very uncommon; but in so\n\"intelligent\" a community as that of Pigwacket Centre, in an era of\npublic libraries and lyceum-lectures, it was portentous and alarming.\n\nThe rebellion began under the ferule of Master Weeks, a slender youth\nfrom a country college, under-fed, thin-blooded, sloping-shouldered,\nknock-kneed, straight-haired, weak-bearded, pale-eyed, wide-pupilled,\nhalf-colored; a common type enough in in-door races, not rich enough to\npick and choose in their alliances. Nature kills off a good many of this\nsort in the first teething-time, a few in later childhood, a good many\nagain in early adolescence; but every now and then one runs the gauntlet\nof her various diseases, or rather forms of one disease, and grows up,\nas Master Weeks had done.\n\nIt was a very foolish thing for him to try to inflict personal\npunishment on such a lusty young fellow as Abner Briggs, Junior, one of\nthe \"hardest customers\" in the way of a rough-and-tumble fight that\nthere were anywhere round. No doubt he had been insolent, but it would\nhave been better to overlook it. It pains me to report the events which\ntook place when the master made his rash attempt to maintain his\nauthority. Abner Briggs, Junior, was a great, hulking fellow, who had\nbeen bred to butchering, but urged by his parents to attend school, in\norder to learn the elegant accomplishments of reading and writing, in\nwhich he was sadly deficient. He was in the habit of talking and\nlaughing pretty loud in school-hours, of throwing wads of paper reduced\nto a pulp by a natural and easy process, of occasional insolence and\ngeneral negligence. One of the soft, but unpleasant missiles just\nalluded to, flew by the master's head one morning, and flattened itself\nagainst the wall, where it adhered in the form of a convex mass in _alto\nrilievo_. The master looked round and saw the young butcher's arm in an\nattitude which pointed to it unequivocally as the source from which the\nprojectile had taken its flight.\n\nMaster Weeks turned pale. He must \"lick\" Abner Briggs, Junior, or\nabdicate. So he determined to lick Abner Briggs, Junior.\n\n\"Come here, Sir!\" he said; \"you have insulted me and outraged the\ndecency of the schoolroom often enough! Hold out your hand!\"\n\nThe young fellow grinned and held it out. The master struck at it with\nhis black ruler, with a will in the blow and a snapping of the eyes, as\nmuch as to say that he meant to make him smart this time. The young\nfellow pulled his hand back as the ruler came down, and the master hit\nhimself a vicious blow with it on the right knee. There are things no\nman can stand. The master caught the refractory youth by the collar and\nbegan shaking him, or rather shaking himself against him.\n\n\"Le' go o' that are coat, naow,\" said the fellow, \"or I'll make ye!\n'T 'll take tew on ye t' handle me, I tell ye, 'n' then ye caaent dew\nit!\"--and the young pupil returned the master's attention by catching\nhold of _his_ collar.\n\nWhen it comes to that, the _best man_, not exactly in the moral sense,\nbut rather in the material, and more especially the muscular point of\nview, is very apt to have the best of it, irrespectively of the merits\nof the case. So it happened now. The unfortunate schoolmaster found\nhimself taking the measure of the sanded floor, amid the general uproar\nof the school. From that moment his ferule was broken, and the\nschool-committee very soon had a vacancy to fill.\n\nMaster Pigeon, the successor of Master Weeks, was of better stature, but\nloosely put together, and slender-limbed. A dreadfully nervous kind of\nman he was, walked on tiptoe, started at sudden noises, was distressed\nwhen he heard a whisper, had a quick, suspicious look, and was always\nsaying, \"Hush!\" and putting his hands to his ears. The boys were not\nlong in finding out this nervous weakness, of course. In less than a\nweek a regular system of torments was inaugurated, full of the most\ndiabolical malice and ingenuity. The exercises of the conspirators\nvaried from day to day, but consisted mainly of foot-scraping, solos on\nthe slate-pencil, (making it _screech_ on the slate,) falling of heavy\nbooks, attacks of coughing, banging of desk-lids, boot-creaking, with\nsounds as of drawing a cork from time to time, followed by suppressed\nchuckles.\n\nMaster Pigeon grew worse and worse under these inflictions. The rascally\nboys always had an excuse for any one trick they were caught at.\n\"Couldn' help coughin', Sir.\" \"Slipped out o' m' han', Sir.\" \"Didn' go\nto, Sir.\" \"Didn' dew 't o' purpose, Sir.\" And so on,--always the best of\nreasons for the most outrageous of behavior. The master weighed himself\nat the grocer's on a platform-balance, some ten days after he began\nkeeping the school. At the end of a week he weighed himself again. He\nhad lost two pounds. At the end of another week he had lost five. He\nmade a little calculation, based on these data, from which he learned\nthat in a certain number of months, going on at this rate, he should\ncome to weigh precisely nothing at all; and as this was a sum in\nsubtraction he did not care to work out in practice, Master Pigeon took\nto himself wings and left the school-committee in possession of a letter\nof resignation and a vacant place to fill once more.\n\nThis was the school to which Mr. Bernard Langdon found himself appointed\nas master. He accepted the place conditionally, with the understanding\nthat he should leave it at the end of a month, if he were tired of it.\n\nThe advent of Master Langdon to Pigwacket Centre created a much more\nlively sensation than had attended that of either of his predecessors.\nLooks go a good ways all the world over, and though there were several\ngood-looking people in the place, and Major Bush was what the natives of\nthe town called a \"hahnsome mahn,\" that is, big, fat, and red, yet the\nsight of a really elegant young fellow, with the natural air which grows\nup with carefully-bred young persons, was a novelty. The Brahmin blood\nwhich came from his grandfather as well as from his mother, a direct\ndescendant of the old Flynt family, well known by the famous tutor,\nHenry Flynt, (see Cat. Harv. Anno 1693,) had been enlivened and enriched\nby that of the Wentworths, which had had a good deal of ripe old Madeira\nand other generous elements mingled with it, so that it ran to gout\nsometimes in the old folks, and to high spirit, warm complexion, and\ncurly hair in some of the younger ones. The soft curling hair Mr.\nBernard had inherited,--something, perhaps, of the high spirit; but that\nwe shall have a chance of finding out by-and-by. But the long sermons\nand the frugal board of his Brahmin ancestry, with his own habits of\nstudy, had told upon his color, which was subdued to something more of\ndelicacy than one would care to see in a young fellow with rough work\nbefore him. This, however, made him look more interesting, or, as the\nyoung ladies at Major Bush's said, \"interestin'.\"\n\nWhen Mr. Bernard showed himself at meeting, on the first Sunday after\nhis arrival, it may be supposed that a good many eyes were turned upon\nthe young schoolmaster. There was something heroic in his coming forward\nso readily to take a place which called for a strong hand, and a prompt,\nsteady will to guide it. In fact, his position was that of a military\nchieftain on the eve of a battle. Everybody knew everything in Pigwacket\nCentre; and it was an understood thing that the young rebels meant to\nput down the new master, if they could. It was natural that the two\nprettiest girls in the village, called in the local dialect, as nearly\nas our limited alphabet will represent it, Alminy Cutterr, and Arvilly\nBraowne, should feel and express an interest in the good-looking\nstranger, and that, when their flattering comments were repeated in the\nhearing of their indigenous admirers, among whom were some of the older\n\"boys\" of the school, it should not add to the amiable dispositions of\nthe turbulent youth.\n\nMonday came, and the new schoolmaster was in his chair at the upper end\nof the schoolhouse, on the raised platform. The rustics looked at his\nhandsome face, thoughtful, peaceful, pleasant, cheerful, but sharply cut\nround the lips and proudly lighted about the eyes. The ringleader of the\nmischief-makers, the young butcher who has before figured in this\nnarrative, looked at him stealthily, whenever he got a chance to study\nhim unobserved; for the truth was, he felt uncomfortable, whenever he\nfound the large, dark eyes fixed on his own little, sharp, deep-set,\ngray ones. But he found means to study him pretty well,--first his face,\nthen his neck and shoulders, the set of his arms, the narrowing at the\nloins, the make of his legs, and the way he moved. In short, he examined\nhim as he would have examined a steer, to see what he could do and how\nhe would cut up. If he could only have gone to him and felt of his\nmuscles, he would have been entirely satisfied. He was not a very wise\nyouth, but he did know well enough, that, though big arms and legs are\nvery good things, there is something besides size that goes to make a\nman; and he had heard stories of a fighting-man, called \"The Spider,\"\nfrom his attenuated proportions, who was yet a terrible hitter in the\nring, and had whipped many a big-limbed fellow in and out of the roped\narena.\n\nNothing could be smoother than the way in which everything went on for\nthe first day or two. The new master was so kind and courteous, he\nseemed to take everything in such a natural, easy way, that there was no\nchance to pick a quarrel with him. He in the mean time thought it best\nto watch the boys and young men for a day or two with as little show of\nauthority as possible. It was easy enough to see that he would have\noccasion for it before long.\n\nThe schoolhouse was a grim, old, red, one-story building, perched on a\nbare rock at the top of a hill,--partly because this was a conspicuous\nsite for the temple of learning, and partly because land is cheap where\nthere is no chance even for rye or buckwheat, and the very sheep find\nnothing to nibble. About the little porch were carved initials and\ndates, at various heights, from the stature of nine to that of eighteen.\nInside were old unpainted desks,--unpainted, but browned with the umber\nof human contact,--and hacked by innumerable jackknives. It was long\nsince the walls had been whitewashed, as might be conjectured by the\nvarious traces left upon them, wherever idle hands or sleepy heads could\nreach them. A curious appearance was noticeable on various higher parts\nof the wall, namely, a wart-like eruption, as one would be tempted to\ncall it, being in reality a crop of the soft missiles before mentioned,\nwhich, adhering in considerable numbers, and hardening after the usual\nfashion of _papier mache_, formed at last permanent ornaments of the\nedifice.\n\nThe young master's quick eye soon noticed that a particular part of the\nwall was most favored with these ornamental appendages. Their position\npointed sufficiently clearly to the part of the room they came from. In\nfact, there was a nest of young mutineers just there, which must be\nbroken up by a _coup d'etat_. This was easily effected by redistributing\nthe seats and arranging the scholars according to classes, so that a\nmischievous fellow, charged full of the rebellious imponderable, should\nfind himself between two non-conductors, in the shape of small boys of\nstudious habits. It was managed quietly enough, in such a plausible sort\nof way that its motive was not thought of. But its effects were soon\nfelt; and then began a system of correspondence by signs, and the\nthrowing of little scrawls done up in pellets, and announced by\npreliminary _a'h'ms!_ to call the attention of the distant youth\naddressed. Some of these were incendiary documents, devoting the\nschoolmaster to the lower divinities, as \"a ---- stuck-up dandy,\" as \"a\n---- purse-proud aristocrat,\" as \"a ---- sight too big for his, etc.,\"\nand holding him up in a variety of equally forcible phrases to the\nindignation of the youthful community of School District No. 1,\nPigwacket Centre.\n\nPresently the draughtsman of the school set a caricature in circulation,\nlabelled, to prevent mistakes, with the schoolmaster's name. An immense\nbell-crowned hat, and a long, pointed, swallow-tailed coat showed that\nthe artist had in his mind the conventional dandy, as shown in prints of\nthirty or forty years ago, rather than any actual human aspect of the\ntime. But it was passed round among the boys and made its laugh, helping\nof course to undermine the master's authority, as \"Punch\" or the\n\"Charivari\" takes the dignity out of an obnoxious minister. One morning,\non going to the schoolroom, Master Langdon found an enlarged copy of\nthis sketch, with its label, pinned on the door. He took it down, smiled\na little, put it into his pocket, and entered the schoolroom. An\ninsidious silence prevailed, which looked as if some plot were brewing.\nThe boys were ripe for mischief, but afraid. They had really no fault to\nfind with the master, except that he was dressed like a gentleman, which\na certain class of fellows always consider a personal insult to\nthemselves. But the older ones were evidently plotting, and more than\nonce the warning _a'h'm!_ was heard, and a dirty little scrap of paper\nrolled into a wad shot from one seat to another. One of these happened\nto strike the stove-funnel, and lodged on the master's desk. He was cool\nenough not to seem to notice it. He secured it, however, and found an\nopportunity to look at it, without being observed by the boys. It\nrequired no _immediate_ notice.\n\nHe who should have enjoyed the privilege of looking upon Mr. Bernard\nLangdon the next morning, when his toilet was about half finished, would\nhave had a very pleasant gratuitous exhibition. First he buckled the\nstrap of his trousers pretty tightly. Then he took up a pair of heavy\ndumb-bells, and swung them for a few minutes; then two great \"Indian\nclubs,\" with which he enacted all sorts of impossible-looking feats. His\nlimbs were not very large, nor his shoulders remarkably broad; but if\nyou knew as much of the muscles as all persons who look at statues and\npictures with a critical eye ought to have learned,--if you knew the\n_trapezius_, lying diamond-shaped over the back and shoulders like a\nmonk's cowl,--or the _deltoid_, which caps the shoulders like an\nepaulette,--or the _triceps_, which furnishes the _calf_ of the upper\narm,--or the hard-knotted _biceps_,--any of the great sculptural\nlandmarks, in fact,--you would have said there was a pretty show of\nthem, beneath the white satiny skin of Mr. Bernard Langdon. And if you\nhad seen him, when he had laid down the Indian clubs, catch hold of a\nleather strap that hung from the beam of the old-fashioned ceiling, and\nlift and lower himself over and over again by his left hand alone, you\nmight have thought it a very simple and easy thing to do, until you\ntried to do it yourself.--Mr. Bernard looked at himself with the eye of\nan expert. \"Pretty well!\" he said;--\"not so much fallen off as I\nexpected.\" Then he set up his bolster in a very knowing sort of way, and\ndelivered two or three blows straight as rulers and swift as winks.\n\"That will do,\" he said. Then, as if determined to make a certainty of\nhis condition, he took a dynamometer from one of the drawers in his old\nveneered bureau. First he squeezed it with his two hands. Then he placed\nit on the floor and lifted, steadily, strongly. The springs creaked and\ncracked; the index swept with a great stride far up into the high\nfigures of the scale; it was a good lift. He was satisfied. He sat down\non the edge of his bed and looked at his cleanly-shaped arms. \"If I\nstrike one of those boobies, I am afraid I shall spoil him,\" he said.\nYet this young man, when weighed with his class at the college, could\nbarely turn one hundred and forty-two pounds in the scale,--not a heavy\nweight, surely; but some of the middle weights, as the present English\nchampion, for instance, seem to be of a far finer quality of muscle than\nthe bulkier fellows.\n\nThe master took his breakfast with a good appetite that morning, but was\nperhaps rather more quiet than usual. After breakfast he went up-stairs\nand put on a light loose frock, instead of his usual dress-coat, which\nwas a close-fitting and rather stylish one. On his way to school he met\nAlminy Cutterr, who happened to be walking in the other direction. \"Good\nmorning, Miss Cutterr,\" he said; for she and another young lady had been\nintroduced to him, on a former occasion, in the usual phrase of polite\nsociety in presenting ladies to gentlemen,--\"Mr. Langdon, let me make y'\nacquainted with Miss Cutterr;--let me make y' acquainted with Miss\nBraowne.\" So he said, \"Good morning\"; to which she replied, \"Good\nmornin', Mr. Langdon. Haow's your haaelth?\" The answer to this question\nought naturally to have been the end of the talk; but Alminy Cutterr\nlingered and looked as if she had something more on her mind.\n\nA young fellow does not require a great experience to read a simple\ncountry-girl's face as if it were a signboard. Alminy was a good soul,\nwith red cheeks and bright eyes, kind-hearted as she could be, and it\nwas out of the question for her to hide her thoughts or feelings like a\nfine lady. Her bright eyes were moist and her red cheeks paler than\ntheir wont, as she said, with her lips quivering,--\"Oh, Mr. Langdon,\nthem boys'll be the death of ye, if ye don't take caaer!\"\n\n\"Why, what's the matter, my dear?\" said Mr. Bernard.--Don't think there\nwas anything very odd in that \"my dear,\" at the second interview with a\nvillage belle;--some of those woman-tamers call a girl \"My dear,\" after\nfive minutes' acquaintance, and it sounds all right _as they say it_.\nBut you had better not try it at a venture.\n\nIt sounded all right to Alminy, as Mr. Bernard said it.--\"I'll tell ye\nwhat's the mahtterr,\" she said, in a frightened voice. \"Ahbner's go'n'\nto car' his dog, 'n' he'll set him on ye 'z sure 'z y' 'r' alive. 'T's\nthe same cretur that haaef eat up Eben Squires's little Jo, a year\ncome nex' Faaestday.\"\n\nNow this last statement was undoubtedly overcolored; as little Jo\nSquires was running about the village,--with an ugly scar on his arm, it\nis true, where the beast had caught him with his teeth, on the occasion\nof the child's taking liberties with him, as he had been accustomed to\ndo with a good-tempered Newfoundland dog, who seemed to like being\npulled and hauled round by children. After this the creature was\ncommonly muzzled, and, as he was fed on raw meat chiefly, was always\nready for a fight,--which he was occasionally indulged in, when anything\nstout enough to match him could be found in any of the neighboring\nvillages.\n\nTiger, or, more briefly, Tige, the property of Abner Briggs, Junior,\nbelonged to a species not distinctly named in scientific books, but well\nknown to our country-folks under the name \"Yallah dog.\" They do not use\nthis expression as they would say _black_ dog or _white_ dog, but with\nalmost as definite a meaning as when they speak of a terrier or a\nspaniel. A \"yallah dog\" is a large canine brute, of a dingy old-flannel\ncolor, of no particular breed except his own, who hangs round a tavern\nor a butcher's shop, or trots alongside of a team, looking as if he were\ndisgusted with the world, and the world with him. Our inland population,\nwhile they tolerate him, speak of him with contempt. Old ----, of\nMeredith Bridge, used to twit the sun for not shining on cloudy days,\nswearing, that, if he hung up his \"yallah dog,\" he would make a better\nshow of daylight. A country fellow, abusing a horse of his neighbor's,\nvowed, that, \"if he had such a hoss, he'd swap him for a 'yallah\ndog,'--and then shoot the dog.\"\n\nTige was an ill-conditioned brute by nature, and art had not improved\nhim by cropping his ears and tail and investing him with a spiked\ncollar. He bore on his person, also, various not ornamental scars, marks\nof old battles; for Tige had fight in him, as was said before, and as\nmight be guessed by a certain bluntness about the muzzle, with a\nprojection of the lower jaw, which looked as if there might be a\nbull-dog stripe among the numerous bar-sinisters of his lineage.\n\nIt was hardly fair, however, to leave Alminy Cutterr waiting while this\npiece of natural history was telling.--As she spoke of little Jo, who\nhad been \"haaef eat up\" by Tige, she could not contain her sympathies,\nand began to cry.\n\n\"Why, my dear little soul,\" said Mr. Bernard, \"what are you worried\nabout? I used to play with a _bear_ when I was a boy; and the bear used\nto hug me, and I used to kiss him,----so!\"\n\nIt was too bad of Mr. Bernard, only the second time he had seen Alminy;\nbut her kind feelings had touched him, and that seemed the most natural\nway of expressing his gratitude. Alminy looked round to see if anybody\nwas near; she saw nobody, so of course it would do no good to \"holler.\"\nShe saw nobody; but a stout young fellow, leading a yellow dog, muzzled,\nsaw _her_ through a crack in a picked fence, not a great way off the\nroad. Many a year he had been \"hangin' 'raoun'\" Alminy, and never did he\nsee any encouraging look, or hear any \"Behave, naow!\" or \"Come, naow,\na'n't ye 'shamed?\" or other forbidding phrase of acquiescence, such as\nvillage belles understand as well as ever did the nymph who fled to the\nwillows in the eclogue we all remember.\n\nNo wonder he was furious, when he saw the schoolmaster, who had never\nseen the girl until within a week, touching with his lips those rosy\ncheeks which he had never dared to approach. But that was all; it was a\nsudden impulse; and the master turned away from the young girl,\nlaughing, and telling her not to fret herself about him,--he would take\ncare of himself.\n\nSo Master Langdon walked on toward his schoolhouse, not displeased,\nperhaps, with his little adventure, nor immensely elated by it; for he\nwas one of the natural class of the sex-subduers, and had had many a\nsmile without asking, which had been denied to the feeble youth who try\nto win favor by pleading their passion in rhyme, and even to the more\nformidable approaches of young officers in volunteer companies,\nconsidered by many to be quite irresistible to the fair who have once\nbeheld them from their windows in the epaulettes and plumes and sashes\nof the \"Pigwacket Invincibles,\" or the \"Hackmatack Rangers.\"\n\nMaster Langdon took his seat and began the exercises of his school. The\nsmaller boys recited their lessons well enough, but some of the larger\nones were negligent and surly. He noticed one or two of them looking\ntoward the door, as if expecting somebody or something in that\ndirection. At half past nine o'clock, Abner Briggs, Junior, who had not\nyet shown himself, made his appearance. He was followed by his \"yallah\ndog,\" without his muzzle, who squatted down very grimly near the door,\nand gave a wolfish look round the room, as if he were considering which\nwas the plumpest boy to begin with. The young butcher, meanwhile, went\nto his seat, looking somewhat flushed, except round the lips, which were\nhardly as red as common, and set pretty sharply.\n\n\"Put out that dog, Abner Briggs!\"--The master spoke as the captain\nspeaks to the helmsman, when there are rocks foaming at the lips, right\nunder his lee.\n\nAbner Briggs answered as the helmsman answers, when he knows he has a\nmutinous crew round him that mean to run the ship on the reef, and is\none of the mutineers himself. \"Put him aout y'rself, 'f ye a'n't afeard\non him!\"\n\nThe master stepped into the aisle. The great cur showed his teeth,--and\nthe devilish instincts of his old wolf-ancestry looked out of his eyes,\nand flashed from his sharp tusks, and yawned in his wide mouth and deep\nred gullet.\n\nThe movements of animals are so much quicker than those of human beings\ncommonly are, that they avoid blows as easily as one of us steps out of\nthe way of an ox-cart. It must be a very stupid dog that lets himself be\nrun over by a fast driver in his gig; he can jump out of the wheel's way\nafter the tire has already touched him. So, while one is lifting a stick\nto strike or drawing back his foot to kick, the beast makes his spring,\nand the blow or the kick comes too late.\n\nIt was not so this time. The master was a fencer, and something of a\nboxer; he had played at single-stick, and was used to watching an\nadversary's eye and coming down on him without any of those premonitory\nsymptoms by which unpractised persons show long beforehand what mischief\nthey meditate.\n\n\"Out with you!\" he said, fiercely,--and explained what he meant by a\nsudden flash of his foot that clashed the yellow dog's white teeth\ntogether like the springing of a bear-trap. The cur knew he had found\nhis master at the first word and glance, as low animals on four legs, or\na smaller number, always do; and the blow took him so by surprise, that\nit curled him up in an instant, and he went bundling out of the open\nschoolhouse-door with a most pitiable yelp, and his stump of a tail shut\ndown as close as his owner ever shut the short, stubbed blade of his\njacknife.\n\nIt was time for the other cur to find who his master was.\n\n\"Follow your dog, Abner Briggs!\" said Master Langdon.\n\nThe stout butcher-youth looked round, but the rebels were all cowed and\nsat still.\n\n\"I'll go when I'm ready,\" he said,--\"'n' I guess I won't go afore I'm\nready.\"\n\n\"You're ready now,\" said Master Langdon, turning up his cuffs so that\nthe little boys noticed the yellow gleam of a pair of gold\nsleeve-buttons, once worn by Colonel Percy Wentworth, famous in the Old\nFrench War.\n\nAbner Briggs, Junior, did not apparently think he was ready, at any\nrate; for he rose up in his place, and stood with clenched fists,\ndefiant, as the master strode towards him. The master knew the fellow\nwas really frightened, for all his looks, and that he must have no time\nto rally. So he caught him suddenly by the collar, and, with one great\npull, had him out over his desk and on the open floor. He gave him a\nsharp fling backwards and stood looking at him.\n\nThe rough-and-tumble fighters all _clinch_, as everybody knows; and\nAbner Briggs, Junior, was one of that kind. He remembered how he had\nfloored Master Weeks, and he had just \"spunk\" enough left in him to try\nto repeat his former successful experiment on the new master. He sprang\nat him, open-handed, to clutch him. So the master had to strike,--once,\nbut very hard, and just in the place to tell. No doubt, the authority\nthat doth hedge a schoolmaster added to the effect of the blow; but the\nblow was itself a neat one, and did not require to be repeated.\n\n\"Now go home,\" said the master, \"and don't let me see you or your dog\nhere again.\" And he turned his cuffs down again over the gold\nsleeve-buttons.\n\nThis finished the great Pigwacket Centre School rebellion. What could be\ndone with a master who was so pleasant as long as the boys behaved\ndecently, and such a terrible fellow when he got \"riled,\" as they called\nit? In a week's time, everything was reduced to order, and the\nschool-committee were delighted. The master, however, had received a\nproposition so much more agreeable and advantageous, that he informed\nthe committee he should leave at the end of his month, having in his eye\na sensible and energetic young college-graduate who would be willing and\nfully competent to take his place.\n\nSo, at the expiration of the appointed time, Bernard Langdon, late\nmaster of the School District No. 1, Pigwacket Centre, took his\ndeparture from that place for another locality, whither we shall follow\nhim, carrying with him the regrets of the committee, of most of the\nscholars, and of several young ladies; also two locks of hair, sent\nunbeknown to payrents, one dark and one warmish auburn, inscribed with\nthe respective initials of Alminy Cutterr and Arvilly Braowne.\n\n\nCHAPTER IV.\n\nTHE MOTH FLIES INTO THE CANDLE.\n\nThe invitation which Mr. Bernard Langdon had accepted came from the\nBoard of Trustees of the \"Apollinean Female Institute,\" a school for the\neducation of young ladies, situated in the flourishing town of Rockland.\nThis was an establishment on a considerable scale, in which a hundred\nscholars or thereabouts were taught the ordinary English branches,\nseveral of the modern languages, something of Latin, if desired, with a\nlittle natural philosophy, metaphysics, and rhetoric, to finish off with\nin the last year, and music at any time when they would pay for it. At\nthe close of their career in the Institute, they were submitted to a\ngrand public examination, and received diplomas tied in blue ribbons,\nwhich proclaimed them with a great flourish of capitals to be graduates\nof the Apollinean Female Institute.\n\nRockland was a town of no inconsiderable pretensions. It was ennobled by\nlying at the foot of a mountain,--called by the working-folks of the\nplace \"_the_ maounting,\"--which sufficiently showed that it was the\nprincipal high land of the district in which it was situated. It lay to\nthe south of this, and basked in the sunshine as Italy stretches herself\nbefore the Alps. To pass from the town of Tamarack on the north of the\nmountain to Rockland on the south was like crossing from Coire to\nChiavenna.\n\nThere is nothing gives glory and grandeur and romance and mystery to a\nplace like the impending presence of a high mountain. Our beautiful\nNorthampton with its fair meadows and noble stream is lovely enough, but\nowes its surpassing attraction to those twin summits which brood over\nit like living presences, looking down into its streets as if they were\nits tutelary divinities, dressing and undressing their green shrines,\nrobing themselves in jubilant sunshine or in sorrowing clouds, and doing\npenance in the snowy shroud of winter, as if they had living hearts\nunder their rocky ribs and changed their mood like the children of the\nsoil at their feet, who grow up under their almost parental smiles and\nfrowns. Happy is the child whose first dreams of heaven are blended with\nthe evening glories of Mount Holyoke, when the sun is firing its\ntreetops, and gilding the white walls that mark its one human dwelling!\nIf the other and the wilder of the twain has a scowl of terror in its\noverhanging brows, yet is it a pleasing fear to look upon its savage\nsolitudes through the barred nursery-windows in the heart of the sweet,\ncompanionable village.--And how the mountains love their children! The\nsea is of a facile virtue, and will run to kiss the first comer in any\nport he visits; but the chaste mountains sit apart, and show their faces\nonly in the midst of their own families.\n\nThe Mountain that kept watch to the north of Rockland lay waste and\nalmost inviolate through much of its domain. The catamount still glared\nfrom the branches of its old hemlocks on the lesser beasts that strayed\nbeneath him. It was not long since a wolf had wandered down, famished in\nthe winter's dearth, and left a few bones and some tufts of wool of what\nhad been a lamb in the morning. Nay, there were broad-footed tracks in\nthe snow only two years previously, which could not be mistaken;--the\nblack bear alone could have set that plantigrade seal, and little\nchildren must come home early from school and play, for he is an\nindiscriminate feeder when he is hungry, and a little child would not\ncome amiss when other game was wanting.\n\nBut these occasional visitors may have been mere wanderers, which,\nstraying along in the woods by day, and perhaps stalking through the\nstreets of still villages by night, had worked their way along down from\nthe ragged mountain-spurs of higher latitudes. The one feature of The\nMountain that shed the brownest horror on its woods was the existence of\nthe terrible region known as Rattlesnake Ledge, and still tenanted by\nthose damnable reptiles, which distil a fiercer venom under our cold\nnorthern sky than the cobra himself in the land of tropical spices and\npoisons.\n\nFrom the earliest settlement of the place, this fact had been, next to\nthe Indians, the reigning nightmare of the inhabitants. It was easy\nenough, after a time, to drive away the savages; for \"a screeching\nIndian Divell,\" as our fathers called him, could not crawl into the\ncrack of a rock to escape from his pursuers. But the venomous population\nof Rattlesnake Ledge had a Gibraltar for their fortress that might have\ndefied the siege-train dragged to the walls of Sebastopol. In its deep\nembrasures and its impregnable casemates they reared their families,\nthey met in love or wrath, they twined together in family knots, they\nhissed defiance in hostile clans, they fed, slept, hybernated, and in\ndue time died in peace. Many a foray had the town's-people made, and\nmany a stuffed skin was shown as a trophy,--nay, there were families\nwhere the children's first toy was made from the warning appendage that\nonce vibrated to the wrath of one of these \"cruel serpents.\" Sometimes\none of them, coaxed out by a warm sun, would writhe himself down the\nhillside into the roads, up the walks that led to houses,--worse than\nthis, into the long grass, where the bare-footed mowers would soon pass\nwith their swinging scythes,--more rarely into houses,--and on one\nmemorable occasion, early in the last century, into the meeting-house,\nwhere he took a position on the pulpit-stairs,--as is narrated in the\n\"Account of Some Remarkable Providences,\" etc., where it is suggested\nthat a strong tendency of the Rev. Didymus Bean, the Minister at that\ntime, towards the Arminian Heresy may have had something to do with it,\nand that the Serpent supposed to have been killed on the Pulpit-Stairs\nwas a false show of the Daemon's Contrivance, he having come in to listen\nto a Discourse which was a sweet Savour in his Nostrils, and, of course,\nnot being capable of being killed Himself. Others said, however, that,\nthough there was good Reason to think it was a Daemon, yet he did come\nwith Intent to bite the Heel of that faithful Servant,--etc.\n\nOne Gilson is said to have died of the bite of a rattlesnake in this\ntown early in the present century. After this there was a great\nsnake-hunt, in which very many of these venomous beasts were\nkilled,--one in particular, said to have been as big round as a stout\nman's arm, and to have had no less than _forty_ joints to his\nrattle,--indicating, according to some, that he had lived forty years,\nbut, if we might put any faith in the Indian tradition, that he had\nkilled forty human beings,--an idle fancy, clearly. This hunt, however,\nhad no permanent effect in keeping down the serpent population.\nViviparous creatures are a kind of specie-paying lot, but oviparous ones\nonly give their notes, as it were, for a future brood,--an egg being, so\nto speak, a promise to pay a young one by-and-by, if nothing happen. Now\nthe domestic habits of the rattlesnake are not studied very closely, for\nobvious reasons; but it is, no doubt, to all intents and purposes\noviparous. Consequently it has large families, and is not easy to kill\nout.\n\nIn the year 184-, a melancholy proof was afforded to the inhabitants of\nRockland, that the brood which infested The Mountain was not extirpated.\nA very interesting young married woman, detained at home at the time by\nthe state of her health, was bitten in the entry of her own house by a\nrattlesnake which had found its way down from The Mountain. Owing to the\nalmost instant employment of powerful remedies, the bite did not prove\nimmediately fatal; but she died within a few months of the time when she\nwas bitten.\n\nAll this seemed to throw a lurid kind of shadow over The Mountain. Yet,\nas many years passed without any accident, people grew comparatively\ncareless, and it might rather be said to add a fearful kind of interest\nto the romantic hillside, that the banded reptiles, which had been the\nterror of the red men for nobody knows how many thousand years, were\nthere still, with the same poison-bags and spring-teeth at the white\nmen's service, if they meddled with them.\n\nThe other natural features of Rockland were such as many of our pleasant\ncountry-towns can boast of. A brook came tumbling down the mountain-side\nand skirted the most thickly settled portion of the village. In the\nparts of its course where it ran through the woods, the water looked\nalmost as brown as coffee flowing from its urn,--to say like _smoky\nquartz_ would perhaps give a better idea,--but in the open plain it\nsparkled over the pebbles white as a queen's diamonds. There were\nhuckleberry-pastures on the lower flanks of The Mountain, with plenty of\nthe sweet-scented bayberry mingled with the other bushes. In other\nfields grew great store of high-bush blackberries. Along the road-side\nwere barberry-bushes, hung all over with bright red coral pendants in\nautumn and far into the winter. Then there were swamps set thick with\ndingy-leaved alders, where the three-leaved arum and the skunk's-cabbage\ngrew broad and succulent,--shelving down into black boggy pools here and\nthere, at the edge of which the green frog, stupidest of his tribe, sat\nwaiting to be victimized by boy or snapping-turtle long after the shy\nand agile leopard-frog had taken the six-foot spring that plumped him\ninto the middle of the pool. And on the neighboring banks the\nmaiden-hair spread its flat disk of embroidered fronds on the wire-like\nstem that glistened brown and polished as the darkest tortoise-shell,\nand pale violets, cheated by the cold skies of their hues and perfume,\nsunned themselves like white-cheeked invalids. Over these rose the old\nforest-trees,--the maple, scarred with the wounds that had drained away\nits sweet life-blood,--the beech, its smooth gray bark mottled so as to\nlook like the body of one of those great snakes of old that used to\nfrighten armies,--always the mark of lovers' knives, as in the days of\nMusidora and her swain,--the yellow birch, rough as the breast of\nSilenus in old marbles,--the wild cherry, its little bitter fruit lying\nunheeded at its foot,--and, soaring over all, the huge, coarse-barked,\nsplintery-limbed, dark-mantled hemlock, in the depths of whose aerial\nsolitudes the crow brooded on her nest unscared, and the gray squirrel\nlived unharmed till his incisors grew to look like ram's-horns.\n\nRockland would have been but half a town without its pond; Quinnepeg\nPond was the name of it, but the young ladies of the Apollinean\nInstitute were very anxious that it should be called Crystalline Lake.\nIt was here that the young folks used to sail in summer and skate in\nwinter; here, too, those queer, old, rum-scented, good-for-nothing,\nlazy, story-telling, half-vagabonds, that sawed a little wood or dug a\nfew potatoes now and then under the pretence of working for their\nliving, used to go and fish through the ice for pickerel every winter.\nAnd here those three young people were drowned, a few summers ago, by\nthe upsetting of a sail-boat in a sudden flaw of wind. There is not one\nof these smiling ponds that has not devoured more youths and maidens\nthan any of those monsters the ancients used to tell such lies about.\nBut it was a pretty pond, and never looked more innocent--so the native\n\"bard\" of Rockland said in his elegy--than on the morning when they\nfound Sarah Jane and Ellen Maria floating among the lily-pads.\n\nThe Apollinean Institute, or Institoot, as it was more commonly called,\nwas, in the language of its Prospectus, a \"first-class Educational\nEstablishment.\" It employed a considerable corps of instructors to rough\nout and finish the hundred young lady scholars it sheltered beneath its\nroof. First, Mr. and Mrs. Peckham, the Principal and the Matron of the\nschool. Silas Peckham was a thorough Yankee, born on a windy part of the\ncoast, and reared chiefly on salt-fish. Everybody knows the type of\nYankee produced by this climate and diet: thin, as if he had been split\nand dried; with an ashen kind of complexion, like the tint of the food\nhe is made of; and about as sharp, tough, juiceless, and biting to deal\nwith as the other is to the taste. Silas Peckham kept a young ladies'\nschool exactly as he would have kept a hundred head of cattle,--for the\nsimple, unadorned purpose of making just as much money in just as few\nyears as could be safely done. Of course the great problem was, to feed\nthese hundred hungry misses at the cheapest practicable rate, precisely\nas it would be with the cattle. So that Mr. Peckham gave very little\npersonal attention to the department of instruction, but was always busy\nwith contracts for flour and potatoes, beef and pork, and other\nnutritive staples, the amount of which required for such an\nestablishment was enough to frighten a quartermaster. Mrs. Peckham was\nfrom the West, raised on Indian corn and pork, which give a fuller\noutline and a more humid temperament, but may perhaps be thought to\nrender people a little coarse-fibred. Her speciality was to look after\nthe feathering, cackling, roosting, rising, and general behavior of\nthese hundred chicks. An honest, ignorant woman, she could not have\npassed an examination in the youngest class. So this distinguished\ninstitution was under the charge of a commissary and a housekeeper, and\nits real business was feeding girls to grain, roots, and meats, under\ncover, and making money by it.\n\nConnected with this, however, was the incidental fact, which the public\ntook for the principal one, namely, the business of instruction. Mr.\nPeckham knew well enough that it was just as well to have good\ninstructors as bad ones, so far as cost was concerned, and a great deal\nbetter for the reputation of his feeding-establishment. So he tried to\nget the best he could without paying too much, and, having got them, to\nscrew all the work out of them that could possibly be extracted.\n\nThere was a master for the English branches, with a young lady\nassistant. There was another young lady who taught French, of the\n_ahvahng_ and _pahndahng_ style, which does not exactly smack of the\n_asphalte_ of the Boulevard _trottoirs_. There was also a German teacher\nof music, who sometimes helped in French of the _ahfaung_ and\n_bauntaung_ style,--so that, between the two, the young ladies could\nhardly have been mistaken for Parisians, by a Committee of the French\nAcademy. The German teacher also taught a Latin class after his\nfashion,--_benna_, a ben, _gahboot_, a head, and so forth.\n\nThe master for the English branches had lately left the school for\nprivate reasons, which need not be here mentioned,--but he had gone, at\nany rate, and it was his place which had been offered to Mr. Bernard\nLangdon. The offer came just in season,--as, for various causes, he was\nwilling to leave the place where he had begun his new experience.\n\nIt was on a fine morning, that Mr. Bernard, ushered in by Mr. Peckham,\nmade his appearance in the great schoolroom of the Apollinean Institute.\nA general rustle ran all round the seats when the handsome young man was\nintroduced. The principal carried him to the desk of the young lady\nEnglish assistant, Miss Darley by name, and introduced him to her.\n\nThere was not a great deal of study done that day. The young lady\nassistant had to point out to the new master the whole routine in which\nthe classes were engaged when their late teacher left, and which had\ngone on as well as it could since. Then Master Langdon had a great many\nquestions to ask, some relating to his new duties, and some, perhaps,\nimplying a degree of curiosity not very unnatural under the\ncircumstances. The truth is, the general effect of the schoolroom, with\nits scores of young girls, all their eyes naturally centring on him with\nfixed or furtive glances, was enough to bewilder and confuse a young man\nlike Master Langdon, though he was not destitute of self-possession, as\nwe have already seen.\n\nYou cannot get together a hundred girls, taking them as they come, from\nthe comfortable and affluent classes, probably anywhere, certainly not\nin New England, without seeing a good deal of beauty. In fact, we very\ncommonly mean by _beauty_ the way young girls look when there is nothing\nto hinder their looking as Nature meant them to. And the great\nschoolroom of the Apollinean Institute did really make so pretty a show\non the morning when Master Langdon entered it, that he might be pardoned\nfor asking Miss Darley more questions about his scholars than about\ntheir lessons.\n\nThere were girls of all ages: little creatures, some pallid and\ndelicate-looking, the offspring of invalid parents,--much given to\nbooks, not much to mischief, commonly spoken of as particularly good\nchildren, and contrasted with another sort, girls of more vigorous\norganization, who were disposed to laughing and play, and required a\nstrong hand to manage them;--then young growing misses of every shade of\nSaxon complexion, and here and there one of more Southern hue: blondes,\nsome of them so translucent-looking, that it seemed as if you could see\nthe souls in their bodies, like bubbles in glass, if souls were objects\nof sight; brunettes, some with rose-red colors, and some with that\nswarthy hue which often carries with it a heavily-shaded lip, and which\nwith pure outlines and outspoken reliefs gives us some of our handsomest\nwomen,--the women whom ornaments of pure gold adorn more than any other\n_parures_; and again, but only here and there, one with dark hair and\ngray or blue eyes, a Celtic type, perhaps, but found in our native stock\noccasionally; rarest of all, a light-haired girl with dark eyes, hazel,\nbrown, or of the color of that mountain-brook spoken of in this chapter,\nwhere it ran through shadowy woodlands. With these were to be seen at\nintervals some of maturer years, full-blown flowers among the opening\nbuds, with that conscious look upon their faces which so many women wear\nduring the period when they never meet a single man without having his\nmonosyllable ready for him,--tied as they are, poor things! on the rock\nof expectation, each of them an Andromeda waiting for her Perseus.\n\n\"Who is that girl in ringlets,--the fourth in the third row on the\nright?\" said Master Langdon.\n\n\"Charlotte Ann Wood,\" said Miss Darley;--\"writes very pretty poems.\"\n\n\"Oh!--And the pink one, three seats from her? Looks bright; anything in\nher?\"\n\n\"Emma Dean,--day-scholar,--Squire Dean's daughter,--nice girl,--second\nmedal last year.\"\n\nThe master asked these two questions in a careless kind of way, and did\nnot seem to pay any too much attention to the answers.\n\n\"And who and what is that,\" he said,--\"sitting a little apart\nthere,--that strange, wild-looking girl?\"\n\nThis time he put the real question he wanted answered;--the other two\nwere asked at random, as masks for the third.\n\nThe lady-teacher's face changed;--one would have said she was frightened\nor troubled. She looked at the girl doubtfully, as if she might hear the\nmaster's question and its answer. But the girl did not look up;--she was\nwinding a gold chain about her wrist, and then uncoiling it, as if in a\nkind of reverie.\n\nMiss Darley drew close to the master and placed her hand so as to hide\nher lips. \"Don't look at her as if we were talking about her,\" she\nwhispered softly;--\"that is Elsie Venner.\"\n\n\n\n\nMEXICO.\n\n\nA certain immortal fool, who had, like most admitted fools, great\nwisdom, once said, that the number of truces between the Christians and\nSaracens in Palestine made an old man of him; for he had known three of\nthem, so that he must be at least one hundred and fifty years old. The\nsaying occurs in a romance, to be sure, but one which is not half so\nromantic as the best-accredited decade of Titus Livius, and is quite as\nauthentic as most of what Sir Archibald Alison says, when he writes on\nthe United States.\n\nWhat Palestine and the Crusades were to the witty son of Witless, Mexico\nand her politics are to moderns, not even excepting the predestined\ndevourers of the Aztec land, who ought to know something of the country\nthey purpose bringing within the full light of civilization through the\naid of slaughter and slavery. There are some myriads of \"Americans of\nthe North\" yet living, and who entertain not the remotest idea of dying,\nwho remember Mexico as a Spanish dependency quite as submissive to\nViceroy Iturrigaray as Cuba is now to Captain-General Serrano; and who\nhave seen her both an Empire and a Republic, and the theatre of more\nrevolutions than England has known since the days of the Octarchy. The\nmere thought of the changes that have occurred there bewilders the mind;\nand the inhabitants of orderly countries, whether that order be the\nconsequence of despotism or of constitutionalism, wonder that society\nshould continue to exist in a country where government appears to be\nunknown.\n\nLess than fifty years cover the time between the appearance of Hidalgo\nand that of Miramon; and between the dates of the leaderships of the two\nmen, Mexico has had an army of generals, of whom little is now known\nbeyond their names. Hidalgo, Morelos, Mina, Bravo, Iturbide, Guerrero,\nBustamente, Victoria, Pedraza, Gomez Farias, Paredes, and Herrera,--such\nare the names that were once familiar to our countrymen in connection\nwith Mexican affairs. We have now a new race of Mexican\nchiefs,--Alvarez, Comonfort, Zuloaga, Uraga, Juarez, Vidaurri, Haro y\nTamariz, Degollado, and Miramon. Some of these last-named chiefs might,\nperhaps, be classed with those first named, from years and services; but\nwhatever of political importance they have belongs to the present time;\nand the most important man of them all, Miramon, is said to be very\nyoung, and was not born until many years after the last vestiges of the\nvice-regal rule had been removed. Santa Ana, but for his shifting round\nso often,--now an absolute ruler, and then an absolute runaway, yet ever\ncontriving to get the better of his antagonists, whether they happen to\nbe clever Mexicans or dull Americans,--might be called the isthmus that\nconnects the first generation of leaders with that which now misleads\nhis country. Santa Ana's public life synchronizes with the independence\nof Mexico of foreign rule, and his career can hardly be pronounced at an\nend. It would be of the nature of a newspaper coincidence, were he to\nknow his \"last of earth\" at the very time when, by all indications,\nMexico stands in greater danger of losing her national life than she has\nknown since the day when Barradas was sent to play the part of Cortes,\nbut proved himself not quite equal to that of Narvaez. Santa Ana owed\nmuch of his power to his victory over the Spaniards in 1830, though\npestilence did half the work to his hand; and perhaps no better evidence\nof the hatred of the Mexicans for Spanish rule can be adduced, than the\nhold which he has maintained over their minds, in consequence of the\npart he took in overthrowing that rule, and in rendering its return\nimpossible.\n\nProvoked by the anarchy which has so long existed in Mexico, American\nwriters, and writers of other countries, have sometimes contrasted the\ncondition of that nation with the order that prevailed there during the\nSpanish ascendency, and it is not uncommon to hear Americans say that\nthe worst thing that ever happened to the Mexicans was the overthrow of\nthat ascendency. They forget that the causes of Mexican anarchy were of\nSpanish creation, and that it must have exhibited itself, all the same,\nif Mexico had not achieved her independence. The shock caused by the\nseizure of the Spanish throne by Napoleon I. led to that war against the\nSpaniards in Mexico which prematurely broke out in 1810, and which was\nof the nature of a _Jacquerie_, but which would have been completely\nsuccessful, had Hidalgo been equal to his position. It had been intended\nthat the blow should be struck against the _Gachupines_,--European\nSpaniards, or persons of pure Spanish blood,--who were partisans of\nSpain, whether Spain were ruled by Bourbons or Bonapartes; and it was to\nhave been delivered by the Creoles, who remained faithful to the House\nof Bourbon. Circumstances caused the Indian races to commence the war,\nand this was fatal to the original project, as it led to the union of\nboth Spaniards and Creoles against the followers of Hidalgo. The army\nwith which Calleja overthrew the forces of Hidalgo was an army of\nCreoles. It was composed of the very men who would have been foremost in\nputting down the Spaniards, if the Indians had remained quiet. From that\ntime dates the disorder of Mexico, which has ever since continued,\nthough at intervals the country has known short periods of comparative\nrepose.\n\nIn 1811 Morelos was the most conspicuous of the insurgent chiefs, and\nthe next year he was successful in several engagements; and it was not\nuntil the end of 1815 that he fell into the hands of his enemies, by\nwhom he was shot, sharing the fate of Hidalgo. During the four years\nthat he led the people, efforts were made to settle the controversy on\nan equitable basis that would have left the King of Spain master of\nMexico; but the pride of the Spaniards would not allow them to listen to\njustice. They acted in Mexico as their ancestors had acted in the\nNetherlands. It is the chief characteristic of the Spaniard, that, in\ndealing with foreigners, he always assumes a Roman-like superiority,\nwithout possessing the Roman's sense and shrewdness. The treatment of\nthe Capuans by the Romans, as told by Livy in his narrative of the\nHannibalian War, might be read as a history of the manner in which the\nSpaniards ever treat \"rebels\"; and never did they behave more cruelly\nthan they behaved toward the Mexicans in the last days of the viceroys.\nThis fact is to be borne in mind, when we think of the sanguinary\ncharacter of Mexican contests; for that character originated in the\naction of the Spaniards during their struggles with the Patriots. The\nlatter were not faultless, but they often exhibited a generosity and a\nself-denial that promised much for the future of their country, which\npromise would have been realized but for the ferocious tone of the\nwarfare of the old governing race. The Spaniards were ultimately beaten,\nbut they left behind them an evil that marred the victory of the\nPatriots, and which has done much to prevent it from proving useful to\nthose who obtained it at great cost to themselves and their country.\n\nThe defeat and death of Morelos proved fatal, for the time, to regular\nopposition on the part of the Patriots, and it was not until the arrival\nof Mina in Mexico that they renewed the war in force. This was in April,\n1817; and Mina was defeated and put to death in seven months after he\nlanded. At the beginning of 1818, the viceroy Apodaca announced to the\nhome government, \"that he would be answerable for the safety of Mexico\nwithout a single additional soldier being sent out to reinforce the\narmies that were in the field.\" Had he been a wise man, the event might\nhave justified this boast; but as he was neither wise nor honest, and as\nhe sought to restore the old state of things in all its impurity, his\nconfidence was fatal to the Spanish cause. The Spanish Constitution of\n1812 had been proclaimed in Mexico in the autumn of that year, and its\nexistence kept the Liberal cause alive. So long as the Patriots had any\npower in the field, Apodaca, though an enemy of the Constitution, dared\nnot seek its destruction; but after the overthrow of Mina, when he\nbelieved the Patriot party was \"crushed out,\" he plotted against the\nConstitution, and resolved to restore the system that had existed down\nto 1812. Not a vestige of Liberalism was to remain. He selected for his\nchief tool the once famous Agustin de Iturbide, who turned out an edged\ntool, so sharp, indeed, that he not only cut the viceroy's fingers, but\nsevered forever the connection between Mexico and Spain. Iturbide had\neminently distinguished himself in the royal army, and to him it was\nowing that Morelos had been defeated. He was brave, ambitious, and able,\nand he possessed a handsome person and elegant manners. He was appointed\nto head an army in Western Mexico, on condition that he should\n\"pronounce\" in favor of the restoration of absolute royal authority. He\naccepted the command; but on the 24th of February, 1821, he astonished\nhis employer by proclaiming, not the plan upon which they had agreed,\nbut what is known as the _Plan of Iguala_, from the town where the\nproclamation was made. This plan provided that Mexico should be\nindependent of Spain, and for the erection of the country into a\nconstitutional monarchy, the throne of which should be filled by\nFerdinand VII., or by one of his brothers,--or by some person chosen\nfrom among reigning families, should the Spanish Bourbons decline the\ninvitation. The monarch was to be called _Emperor_, a title made\nfashionable and cheap by Bonaparte's example. Perfect equality was\nestablished, and all distinction of castes was abolished. Saving that\nthe Catholic religion was declared the national religion, the\ntwenty-four articles of this Plan were of a liberal character, and leave\nan impression on the mind highly favorable to their author. Viewing it\nin the light of thirty-nine years, and seeing that republicanism has not\nsucceeded in Mexico, even a democrat may regret that the Plan of Iguala\ndid not become the constitution of that country.\n\nThe simple abolition of Spanish rule would have satisfied the mass of\nthe inhabitants, who cared little for political institutions, but who\nknew the evils they suffered from the tyranny of a class that did not\nnumber above one-eightieth part of the population. For the time, the\nPlan was successful: the clergy, the military, the people, and the old\npartisans of independence all supported it; and O'Donoju, who had\narrived as successor to Apodaca, recognized Mexican independence. The\nvictors entered the capital September 27, 1821, and established a\nprovisional Junta, which created a regency, with Iturbide for President.\nOn the 24th of February, 1822, a Congress assembled, which contained\nthree parties, the representatives of those which existed in the\ncountry:--1. The Bourbonists, who desired that the Plan of Iguala should\nbe adhered to in all its details; 2. The Iturbideans, who wished for a\nmonarchy, with their chief as Emperor; and, 3. The Republicans, who were\nhostile to monarchical institutions as well as to Spanish rule. It is\npossible that the first party might have triumphed, had Spain been under\nthe dominion of sagacious men; for the clergy must have preferred it,\nnot only because it was that polity under which they were sure to have\nmost consideration, but because the whole power of Rome might have been\nbrought to bear in its behalf, and that the clergy never would have\nseriously thought of resisting;--and the influence of the clergy was\ngreat over the mass of the people. But the Spanish government would not\nratify the treaty made by O'Donoju, or abandon its claim on Mexico. This\nleft but two factions in the Congress, and their quarrel had a sudden\ntermination, for the moment, in the elevation of Iturbide to the\nimperial throne, May 18th, 1822. This was the work of a handful of the\nlowest rabble of the capital, the select few of a vagabondage compared\nwith whom the inhabitants of the Five Points may be counted grave\nconstitutional politicians. The legislature went through the farce of\napproval, and the people acquiesced,--as they would have done, had he\nbeen proclaimed Cham. Had Iturbide understood his trade, he might have\nreigned long, perhaps have established a dynasty; but he did what nearly\nevery Mexican chief since his time has done, and what, to be just,\nnearly every revolutionary government has sought to do: he endeavored to\nestablish a tyranny. He dissolved the Congress, substituting a Junta for\nit, composed of his own adherents. The consequence was revolt in various\nparts of the empire. Santa Ana, then Governor of Vera Cruz, \"pronounced\"\nagainst the Emperor; and Echavari, who was sent to punish him, played\nthe same part toward Iturbide that Iturbide had played toward Apodaca:\nhe joined the enemies of the imperial government. As Iturbide had\ntriumphed over the viceroy by the aid of men of all parties but that of\nthe old Spaniards, so was he overthrown by a coalition of an equally\nvarious character. He gave up the crown, after having worn it not quite\nten months, and was allowed to depart, with the promise of an annual\npension of twenty-five thousand dollars. Seeking to recover the crown in\n1824, he was seized and shot,--a fate of which he could not complain, as\nhe was a man of bloody hand, and, as a royalist leader, had caused\nprisoners to be butchered by the hundred.\n\nThe Republicans were now triumphant, but their conduct showed that they\nwere not much better qualified to rule than were the Imperialists. They\nmade a Federal Constitution,--that which is commonly known as the\nConstitution of 1824,--which was principally modelled on that of the\nUnited States. This imitation would have been ridiculous, if it had not\nbeen mischievous. Between the circumstances of America and those of\nMexico there was no resemblance whatever, and hence the polity which is\ngood for the one could be good for nothing to the other. One fact alone\nought to have convinced the Mexican Constitutionalists of the absurdity\nof their doings. Their Constitution recognized the Catholic religion as\nthe religion of the state, and absolutely forbade the profession of any\nother form of faith! In what part of our Constitution they found\nauthority for such a provision as this, no man can say. It has been\nmentioned, reproachfully, that our Constitution does not even recognize\nGod; yet on a Constitution modelled upon ours Mexican statesmen could\ngraft an Established Church, with a monopoly of religion! Just where\nimitation would have been more creditable to them than originality, they\nbecame original. It has been said, in their defence, that the Church was\nso powerful that they could not choose but admit its claim. This would\nbe a good defence, had they sought to make a Constitution in accordance\nwith views admitting the validity of an Ecclesiastical Establishment.\nThe charge against them is not, that they sanctioned an Establishment,\nbut that they sought to couple with it a liberal republican\nConstitution, and thus to reconcile contradictions,--an end not to be\nattained anywhere, and least of all in a country like Mexico.\n\nThe factions that arose in Mexico after the establishment of the\nRepublic were the Federalists and the Centralists, being substantially\nthe same as those which yet exist there. The Federalists have been the\ntrue liberals throughout the disturbances and troubles of a generation,\nand, though not faultless, are better entitled to the name of patriots\nthan are the men by whom they have been opposed. They have been the foes\nof the priesthood, and have often sought to lessen its power and destroy\nits influence. If they could have had their will any time during the\nlast thirty-five years, the priests would have been reduced to a\ncondition of apostolic simplicity, and the Church's vast property been\nput to uses such as the Apostles would have approved. Guadalupe Victoria\nwould probably have been as little averse to the confiscation of\necclesiastical property as was Thomas Cromwell himself. The fear that a\nfirm and stable federal government would interfere with the privileges\nof the Church, and would not cease such interference until the change\nhad been made perfect, which implied the Church's political destruction,\nis one of the chief reasons why no such government has ever had an\nexistence in Mexico. The Church has favored every party and faction that\nhas been opposed to order and liberty. Royalism, centralism, despotism,\nand even foreign conquest has it preferred to any state of things in\nwhich there should be found that due union of liberty and law without\nwhich no country can expect to have constitutional freedom. Had it ever\nbeen possible to establish a strong central government in Mexico, it is\nvery probable the Church would have been one of its firmest pillars. The\ncharacter and organization of that institution, its desire to maintain\npossession of its property, and its aversion to liberty of every kind,\nwould all have united to make such a government worthy of the Church's\nsupport, provided it had supported the Church in its turn. The\necclesiastical influence is everywhere observable in the history of\nMexico, from the beginning of the struggle for independence. The clergy\nwere supporters of independence, not because they wished for liberty to\nthe country, but that they might monopolize the vast power of their\norder. They hated the Spaniards as bitterly as they were hated by any\nother portion of the inhabitants of Mexico. But they never meant that\nrepublicanism should obtain the ascendency in the country. A powerful\nmonarchy, an empire, was what they aimed at; and the government which\nIturbide established was one that would have received their aid, could\nit have brought any power to the political firm the clergy desired to\nsee in existence. It may be assumed that the clergy would have preferred\na Spanish prince as emperor, for they were too sagacious not to know\nthat the best part of royalty is that which is under ground. Kings must\nbe born to their trade to succeed in it; and a brand-new emperor, like\nIturbide, unless highly favored by circumstances, or singularly endowed\nwith intellectual qualifications, could be of little service to the\nclerical party. He fell, as we have seen; but the clerical party\nremained, and, having continued to flourish, is at this time, it is\nprobable, stronger than it was in 1822. It is owing to this party that\nthe idea has never been altogether abandoned that Mexico should resume\nmonarchical institutions; and every attempt that has been made to favor\nwhat in this country is known as consolidation has either been initiated\nby it or has received its assistance. That we do not misrepresent the\nso-called clerical party, in attributing to it a desire to see a king in\nMexico, is clear from the candid admission of one of its members, who\nhas written at length, and with much ability, in defence of its opinions\nand actions. \"Had it been given to that party which is taxed with being\nabsolutist,\" he says, \"to see such a government in Mexico as the\ngovernment of Brazil, (not to take examples out of the American\ncontinent,) their earnest desires would have been accomplished. It is\ntherefore wrongfully that that party is the object of the curses\nlavished upon it.\" This is plain speaking, indeed,--the Brazilian\ngovernment being one of the strongest monarchies in the world, and\nderiving its strength from the fact that it seeks the good of its\nsubjects. The blindest republican who ever dreamed it was in the power\nof institutions to \"cause or cure\" the ills of humanity must admit,\nthat, if Bourbon rule in Mexico could have produced results similar to\nthose which have proceeded from Braganza rule in Brazil, it would have\nbeen the best fortune that the former country could have known, had Don\nCarlos or Don Francisco de Paula been allowed to wear the imperial crown\nwhich was set up in 1822. With less ability than Iturbide, either of\nthose princes would have made a better monarch than that adventurer. It\nis not so much intellect as influence that makes a sovereign useful, the\nman being of far less consequence than the institution. Even the case of\nNapoleon I. affords no exception to this rule; for his dynasty and his\nempire fell with him, because they lacked the stability which comes from\nprescription alone. Had Marlborough and Eugene penetrated to Paris, as\ndid Wellington and Bluecher a century later, they never would have\nthought of subverting the Bourbon line; but the Bonaparte line was cut\noff as of course when its chief was defeated. The first king may have\nbeen a fortunate soldier only, but it requires several generations of\nroyalty to give power to a reigning house, as in old times it required\nseveral descents to give to a man the flavor of genuine nobility. If it\nbe objected to this, that it is an admission of the power which is\nclaimed for flunkeyism, we can only meet the charge by saying that there\nis much of the flunkey in man, and that whoso shall endeavor to\nconstruct a government without recognizing a truth which is universal,\nthough not great, will find that his structure can better be compared to\nthe Syrian flower than to the Syrian cedar. The age of Model Republics\nhas passed away even from dreams.\n\nWe have called the party in Mexico which represents a certain fixed\nprinciple the clerical party; but we have done so more for the sake of\nconvenience, and from deference to ordinary usage, than because the\nwords accurately describe the Mexican reactionists. Conservative party\nwould, perhaps, be the better name; and the word _conservative_ would\nnot be any more out of place in such a connection, or more perverted\nfrom its just meaning, than it is in England and the United States. The\nclergy form, as it were, the core of this party, and give to it a shape\nand consistency it could not have without their alliance. Yet, if we\ncan believe the Mexican already quoted, and who is apparently well\nacquainted with the subject on which he has sought to enlighten the\nEnglish mind, the party that is opposed to the Liberals is quite as much\nin favor of freedom as are the latter, and is utterly hostile to either\nreligious or political despotism. After objecting to the course of those\nMexicans who found a political pattern in the United States, and showing\nthe evils that have followed from their awkward imitation, he says,--\"No\nwonder, then, that some men, actuated by the love of their country,\nconvinced of the danger to Mexican nationality from such a state of\nthings, seeing clearly through all these American intrigues, and\ndetermined to oppose them by all the means in their power, should have\nformed long ago, and as soon as the first symptoms of anarchy and the\ncause of them became apparent, the centre of a party, which, having\nnecessarily to combat the so-called 'Liberal party,' or, in other words,\nthe American army, is accused of being a retrograde, absolutist,\nclerical party, bent on nothing but the reestablishment of the\nInquisition and the 'worst of the worst times.' Nothing, however, is\nless true. That party contains in its bosom the most enlightened and the\nmost respectable part of the community, men who have not as yet to learn\nthe advantages and benefits of civil and religious liberty, and who\nwould be happy indeed to see liberty established in their country; but\nliberty under the law, rational and wise liberty, liberty compatible\nwith order and tranquillity, liberty, in a word, for good purposes,--not\nthat savage, licentious, and tyrannical liberty, the object of which is\nanarchy, so well answering the private ends of its partisans, and, above\nall, the iniquitous views of an ambitious neighbor.... For the present,\nno doubt, their object is limited to obtain the triumph over their\nenemies, who are the enemies of Mexico, and to put down anarchy, as the\nfirst and most pressing want of the country, no matter under what form\nof government or by what means. In pursuance of such an object, the\nclergy naturally side with them; and hence, for those who are ignorant\nof the bottom of things in Mexican affairs, the denomination given to\nthis party of 'Clerical party' supported by military despotism; whereas\nthe 'Anarchical party' is favored with the name of 'Liberal\nConstitutional party.' It is, however, easy to see that those two\nparties would be more exactly designated, the one as the _Mexican\nParty_, the other as the _American Party_.\"\n\nIf this delineation of the Conservative party be a fair one,--as\nprobably it is, after making allowance for partisan coloring,--it is\neasy to see, that, while the clergy are with it, they are not of it; and\nalso, that it would be involved in a quarrel with the priesthood in a\nweek after it should have succeeded in its contest with the Liberals.\nWhere, then, would be the restoration of order, of which this Mexican\nwriter has so much to say? The clergy of Mexico are too powerful to\nbecome the tools of any political organization. They use politicians and\nparties,--are not used by them. The Conservative party, therefore, is\nnot the coming party, either for the clergy or for Mexico. It answers\nthe clergy's purpose of making it a shield against the Liberals, whose\npalms itch to be at the property of the Church; but it never could\nbecome their sword; and it is a sword, and a sharp and pointed one,\nfirmly held, that the clergy desire, and must have, if their end is to\nbe achieved. The defensive is not and cannot be their policy. They must\nrule or perish. Hence the victory of the Conservatives would be the\nsignal for the opening of a new warfare, and the clergy would seek to\nfound their power solidly on the bodies of the men whom they had used to\ndestroy the Liberals. They have pursued one course for thirty-eight\nyears, and will not be moved from it by any appeals that shall be made\nto them in the name of order and of law, appeals to which they have been\nutterly insensible when made by Liberals. Indeed, they will not be able\nto see any difference between the two parties, but will hate the\nConservatives with most bitterness, because standing more immediately in\ntheir way. A combat would be inevitable, with the chance that the\nAmerican Eagle would descend upon the combatants and swoop them away.\n\nIf anarchy were a reason for the formation of a league in Mexico,\ncomposed of all the conservative men of the country, it ought to have\nbeen formed long ago. Anarchy was organized there with the Republic, and\nwas made much more permanent than Carnot made victory. Unequivocal\nevidences of its existence became visible before the Constitution was in\na condition to be violated; and when that instrument was accepted, it\nappeared to have been set up in order that politicians and parties might\nhave something definite to disregard. The first President was Guadalupe\nVictoria, an honest Republican, whose name has become somewhat dimmed by\ntime. With him was associated Nicolas Bravo, as Vice-President. It was\nwhile Victoria was President that the masonic parties appeared, known as\nthe Scotch masons and the York masons, or _Escoceses_ and _Yorkinos_,\nwhich were nothing but clubs of the Centralists and the Federalists. The\nPresident was of the _Yorkinos_ or Federalists, and the Vice-President\nwas of the other lodge. Bravo and his party were for such changes as\nshould substitute a constitutional monarchy, with a Spanish prince at\nits head, for the Constitution of 1824. Bravo \"pronounced\" openly\nagainst Victoria,--a proceeding of which the reader can form some idea\nby supposing Mr. Breckinridge heading a rabble force to expel Mr.\nBuchanan from Washington, for the purpose of calling in some member of\nthe English royal family to sit on an American throne. Through the aid\nof Guerrero, a man of ability and integrity, and very popular, the\nLiberals triumphed in the field; but Congress elected his competitor,\nPedraza, President, though the people were mostly for Guerrero. This was\na most unfortunate circumstance, and to its occurrence much of the evil\nthat Mexico has known for thirty years may be directly traced. Instead\nof submitting to the strictly legal choice of President, made by the\nmembers of Congress, the Federalists set the open example of revolting\nagainst the action of men who had performed their duties according to\nthe requirements of the Constitution. Guerrero was violently made\nPresident. That the other party contemplated the destruction of the\nConstitution is very probable; but the worst that they, its enemies,\ncould have done against it would have been a trifle in comparison with\nthe demoralizing consequences of the violation of that instrument by its\nfriends. Yet the Presidency of Guerrero will ever have honorable mention\nin history, for one most excellent reason: Slavery was abolished by him\non the anniversary of Mexican independence, 1829, he deeming it proper\nto signalize that anniversary \"by an act of national justice and\nbeneficence.\" Will the time ever come when the Fourth of July shall have\nthe same double claim to the reverence of mankind?\n\nGuerrero perished by the sword, as he had risen by it. The\nVice-President, Bustamente, revolted, and was aided by Santa Ana. His\npopularity was too great to allow him to be spared, and when he was\ncaptured, Guerrero was shot, in 1831. Of the many infamous acts of which\nSanta Ana has been guilty, the murder of Guerrero is the worst. Possibly\nit would have ruined him, but for his services against the Spaniards, at\nabout the same time. He was now the chief man in Mexico, and became\nPresident in 1833. The next year he dissolved Congress, and established\na military government. The Constitution of 1824 was formally abolished\nin 1835, and a Central Constitution was proclaimed the next year, by\nwhich the States were converted into Departments. Santa Ana kept as much\naloof from these proceedings as he could, and sought to add to his\npopularity by attacking Texas, where he reaped a plentiful crop of\ncypress.\n\nThe triumph of the Centralists was the turning-point in the fortunes of\nMexico, as it furnished a plausible pretext for American interference in\nher affairs, the end of which is rapidly approaching. The Texan revolt\nhad no other justification than that which it derived from the overthrow\nof the Federal Constitution; but that was ample, and, had it not been\nfor the introduction of slavery into Texas, the judgment of the\ncivilized world would have been entirely in favor of the Texans. In\n1844, when our Presidential election was made to turn upon the question\nof the annexation of Texas to the United States, the grand argument of\nthe annexationists was drawn from the circumstance that the Mexicans had\nabrogated the Federal Constitution, thereby releasing the Texans from\ntheir obligations to Mexico. This was an argument to which Americans,\nand especially democrats, those sworn foes of consolidation, were prone\nto lend a favorable ear; and it is certain that it had much weight in\npromoting the election of Mr. Polk. Had the Texan revolt been one of\nambition merely, and not justifiable on political grounds apart from the\nSlavery question, the decision might have been different, if, indeed,\nthe question had ever been introduced into the politics of this country.\nThe sagacious men who managed the affairs of the Democratic party knew\ntheir business too well to attempt the extension of slave-holding\nterritory in the gross and palpable form that is common in these\nshameless days. But Texas, as an injured party that had valiantly\nsustained its constitutional rights, was a very different thing from a\nprovince that had revolted against Mexico because forbidden by Mexican\nauthority to allow the existence of slavery within its borders. There\nwas much deception in the business, but there was sufficient truth and\njustice in the argument used to deceive honest men who do not trouble\nthemselves to look beyond the surface of things. For more than twenty\nyears our political controversies have all been colored by the triumph\nof the Mexican Centralists in 1835-6; and but for that triumph, it is\naltogether likely that our territory would not have been increased, and\nthat the Slavery question, instead of absorbing the American mind, would\nhave held but a subordinate place in our party debates. It may, perhaps,\nbe deemed worthy of especial mention, that the action of the Centralists\nof Mexico, destined to affect us so sensibly, was initiated at the same\ntime that the modern phase of the Slavery question was opened in the\nUnited States. The same year that saw the Federal Constitution of Mexico\nabolished saw our government laboring to destroy freedom of the press\nand the sanctity of the mails, by throwing its influence in favor of the\nbill to prevent the circulation of \"incendiary publications,\" that is,\npublications drawn from the writings of Washington and Jefferson; and\nthe same year that witnessed the final effort of Santa Ana to \"subdue\"\nTexas to Centralization beheld General Cushing declaring that slavery\nshould not be introduced into the North, thus \"agitating\" the country,\nand winning for himself that Abolition support without which his\npolitical career must have been cut short in the morning of its\nexistence. Such are the coincidences of history!\n\nFrom the time of the victory of the Centralists until the commencement\nof the war with the United States, Mexico was the scene of perpetual\ndisturbances. Mexia, a rash, but honest man, made an attempt to free his\ncountry in 1838, but failed, being defeated and executed by Santa Ana,\nwho came from the retirement to which his Texan failure had consigned\nhim, as champion of the government. After some years of apparent\nanarchy, Santa Ana became Dictator, and in 1843 a new Constitution, more\ncentralizing in its nature than its immediate predecessor, was framed\nunder his direction. At the beginning of 1845 he fell, and became an\nexile. His successor was General Herrera, who was desirous to avoid war\nwith the United States, on which account he was violently opposed by\nParedes, with success, the latter usurping the Presidency. Aided by our\ngovernment, Santa Ana returned to Mexico, and infused new vigor into his\ncountrymen. On his return, he avowed himself a Federalist, and\nrecommended a recurrence to the Constitution of 1824, which was\nproclaimed. Paredes had fallen before a \"revolution,\" and was allowed to\nproceed to Europe. He was a monarchist, and at that time the friends of\nmonarchy in Mexico had some hopes of success. It is believed that the\ngovernments of England and France were desirous of establishing a\nMexican monarchy, and their intervention in the affairs of Mexico was\nfeared by our government. Two things, however, prevented their action,\nif ever they seriously contemplated armed intervention. The first was\nthe rapid success of our armies, coupled as it was with the exhibition\nof a military spirit and capacity for which European nations had not\nbeen prepared by anything in our previous history; and the second was\nthe potato-rot, which brought Great Britain to the verge of famine, and\nbroke up the Tory party. The ill feeling, too, that was created between\nthe English and French governments by the Montpensier marriage, and the\ndiscontent of the French people, which led to the Revolution of 1848,\nwere not without their effect on affairs. Had our government resolved to\nseize all Mexico, it could have done so without encountering European\nresistance in 1848, when there was not a stable Continental government\nof the first class west of the Niemen, and when England was too much\noccupied with home matters, and with the revolutions that were happening\nall around her, to pay any regard to the course of events in the\nOccident. But the Polk administration was not equal to the work that was\nbefore it; and though members of the Democratic party did think of\nacting, and men of property in Mexico were anxious for annexation,\nnothing was done. The American forces left Mexico, and the old routine\nof weakness and disorder was there resumed. Perhaps it would be better\nto say it was continued; for the war had witnessed no intermission of\nthe senseless proceedings of the Mexican politicians. Their contests\nwere waged as bitterly as they had been while the country enjoyed\nexternal peace.\n\nSeveral persons held the Presidential chair after the resignation of\nHerrera. Organic changes were made. The clergy exhibited the same\nselfishness that had characterized their action for five-and-twenty\nyears. An Extraordinary Constituent Congress confirmed the readoption of\nthe Constitution of 1824, making such slight changes as were deemed\nnecessary. Santa Ana again became President. Some of the States formed\nassociations for defence, acting independently of the general\ngovernment. After the loss of the capital, Santa Ana resigned the\nPresidency, and Pena y Pena succeeded him, followed by Anaya; but the\nfirst soon returned to office. Peace was made, and Santa Ana again went\ninto exile. Herrera was chosen President, and for more than two years\ndevoted himself to the work of reformation, with considerable success,\nthough outbreaks and rebellions occurred in many quarters. President\nArista also showed himself to be a firm and patriotic chief. But in 1852\na reaction took place, under favor of which Santa Ana returned home and\nbecame President for the fifth time, and Arista was banished. The\ngovernment of Santa Ana was absolute in its character, and much\nresembled that which Napoleon III. has established in France,--with this\ndifference, that it wanted that strength which is the chief merit of the\nFrench imperial system. It encountered opposition of the usual form,\nfrom time to time, until it was broken down, in August, 1855, when the\nPresident left both office and the country, and has since resided\nabroad. The new revolution favored Federalism. Alvarez was chosen\nPresident, but he was too liberal for the Church party, being so\nunreasonable as to require that the property of the Church should be\ntaxed. Plots and conspiracies were formed against him, and it being\ndiscovered that the climate of the capital did not agree with him, he\nresigned, and was succeeded by General Comonfort. Half a dozen leaders\n\"pronounced\" against Comonfort, one of them announcing his purpose to\nestablish an Empire. Government made head against these attacks, and\nseized property belonging to the Church. Some eminent Church officers\nwere banished, for the part they had taken in exciting insurrections. At\nthe close of 1857, Comonfort made himself Dictator; but the very men who\nurged him to the step became his enemies, and he was deprived of power.\nZuloaga, who was one of his advisers and subsequent enemies, succeeded\nhim, being chosen President by a Council of Notables. Comonfort's\nmeasures for the confiscation of Church property were repealed. The\nConstitution of 1857 placed the Presidential power in the hands of the\nChief Justice, on the resignation of the President, whence the\nprominence of Juarez lately, he being Chief Justice when Comonfort\nresigned. Assembling troops, he encountered Zuloaga, but was defeated.\nThe Juarez \"government\" then left the country, but shortly after\nreturned. Insurrections broke out in different places, and confusion\nreigned on all sides. General Robles deposed Zuloaga, and made an honest\neffort to unite the Liberals and Conservatives; but the Junta which he\nassembled elected Miramon President, a new man, who had distinguished\nhimself as a leader of the Conservative forces. Miramon reinstated\nZuloaga, but accepted the Presidency on the latter's abdication, and has\nsince been the principal personage in Mexico, and, though he has\nexperienced occasional reverses, has far more power than Juarez. At the\nclose of the year 1859, the greater part of Mexico was either disposed\nto submit to the Miramon government, or cared little for either Miramon\nor Juarez.\n\nIt is impossible to believe that the Juarez government is possessed of\nmuch strength; and the gentleman who lately represented the United\nStates in Mexico (Mr. Forsyth) is of opinion that it is powerless.\nNevertheless, our government acknowledges that of Juarez, and has made\nitself a party to the contests in Mexico. In his last Annual Message,\nPresident Buchanan devotes much space to Mexican affairs, drawing a\ndeplorable picture thereof, and recommending armed intervention by the\nUnited States in behalf of the Liberal party. \"I recommend to Congress,\"\nsays the President, \"to pass a law authorizing the President, under such\nconditions as they may deem expedient, to employ a sufficient military\nforce to enter Mexico for the purpose of obtaining indemnity for the\npast and security for the future.\" This force, should Congress respond\nfavorably to the Presidential recommendation, is to act in concert with\nthe Juarez government, and to \"restore\" it to power. In return for such\naid, that government is to indemnify the Americans, and to provide that\nno more Americans shall be wronged by Mexican governments. Does the\nPresident believe this theory of Mexican settlement will be accepted by\nthe world? If yes, then is he a man of marvellous faith, considering the\nuncommonly excellent opportunities he has had to learn what the\npolitical settlements of Mexico really mean. If no, then he has a\nmeaning beneath his words, and that meaning is the conquest of Mexico.\nWe do not charge duplicity upon President Buchanan, but it is vexatious\nand humiliating to be compelled to choose between such charge and the\nbelief of a degree of simplicity in him that would be astonishing in a\nyearling politician, and which is astounding in a man who has held high\noffice for well-nigh forty years. Let us suppose that Congress should\nkindly listen to President Buchanan's recommendation,--that a strong\nfleet and a great army should be sent to the aid of the Juarez\ngovernment, and should establish it in the capital of Mexico, and then\nleave the country and the coasts of \"our sister Republic,\"--what would\nfollow? Why, exactly what we have seen follow the Peace of 1848. The\nJuarez government could not be stronger or more honest than was that of\nHerrera, or more anxious to effect the rehabilitation of Mexico; yet\nHerrera's government had to encounter rebellions, and outrages were\ncommon during its existence, and afterward, when men of similar views\nheld sway, or what passes for sway in \"our sister Republic.\" So would it\nbe again, should we effect a \"restoration\" of the Liberals. In a week\nafter our last regiment should have returned home, there would be\nrebellions for our allies to suppress. If they should succeed in\nmaintaining their power, it would be as the consequence of a violation\nof their agreement with us; and where, then, would be the \"indemnity\"\nfor which we are to fight? If they should be overthrown, as probably\nwould be their fate, where would be the \"security\" for which we are to\npay so highly in blood and gold? It is useless to quote the treaty which\nthe Juarez government has just made with our government, as evidence of\nits liberality and good faith. That treaty is of no more value than\nwould be one between the United States and the ex-king of Delhi. Nothing\nis more notorious than the liberality of parties that are not in power.\nThere is no stipulation to which they will not assent, and violate, if\ntheir interest should be supposed to lie in the direction of perjury.\nHave we, in the hour of our success, been invariably true to the\npromises made in the hour of our necessities? A study of the treaty we\nmade with France in 1778, by the light of after years, would be useful\nto men who think that a treaty made is an accomplished fact. The people\nof the United States have to choose between the conquest of Mexico and\nnon-intervention in Mexican affairs. There may be something to be said\nin favor of conquest, though the President's arguments in that\ndirection--for such they are, disguised though they be--remind us\nstrongly of those which were put forth in justification of the partition\nof Poland; but the policy of intervention does not bear criticism for\none moment. Either it is conquest veiled, or it is a blunder, the chance\nto commit which is to be purchased at an enormous price; and blunders\nare to be had for nothing, and without the expenditure of life and\nmoney.\n\nWe had purposed speaking of the condition of Mexico, the character of\nher population, and the probable effect of her absorption by the United\nStates; but the length to which our article has been drawn in the\nstatement of preliminary facts--a statement made necessary by the\ngeneral disregard of Mexican matters by most Americans--warns us to\nforbear. We may return to the subject, should the action of Congress on\nthe President's recommendation lead to the placing of the Mexican\nquestion on the list of those questions that must be decided by the\nevent of the national election of the current year.\n\n\n\n\nREVIEWS AND LITERARY NOTICES.\n\n\n_The Florence Stories._ By JACOB ABBOTT. _Florence and John._ New York:\nSheldon & Co. 16mo. pp. 252.\n\n_Ernest Bracebridge, or Schoolboy Days._ By W. H. G. KINGSTON. Boston:\nTicknor & Fields. 16mo. pp. 344.\n\nHow should a book for children be written?\n\nThree rules will suffice. It should be written clearly and simply; for\nyoung minds will spend little time in difficult investigation. It should\nhave a good moral. It should be interesting; or it will generally be\nleft unread, and thus any other excellence that it may possess will be\nuseless. Some writers seem to have a fourth rule,--that it should be\ninstructive; but, really, it is no great matter, if a child should have\nsome books without wisdom. Moreover, this maxim is eminently perilous in\nits practical application, and, indeed, is seldom followed but at the\nexpense of the other three.\n\nTo these three rules all writers of children's books profess to conform;\nyet a good book for children is a rarity; for, simple as the rules are,\nthey are very little understood. While all admit that the style should\nbe simple and familiar, some appear to think that anything simple to\nthem will be equally simple to their child-readers, and write as nearly\nas possible in the style of \"The Rambler.\" Such a book is \"The Percy\nFamily,\" whose author is guilty of an additional impropriety in putting\nhis ponderous sentences into the mouth of a child not ten years old.\nAnother and more numerous class, evidently piquing themselves not a\nlittle upon avoiding this error, fall into another by fancying it\nnecessary to _write down_ to their young readers. They explain\neverything with a tiresome minuteness of detail, although any observer\nof children ought to know that a child's mind does not want everything\nexplained. They think that simplicity demands this lengthy discussion of\nevery trivial matter. There is such a thing as a conceited simplicity,\nand there is a technical simplicity, that in its barrenness and\ninsipidity is worthy only of a simpleton. In Jacob Abbott's \"Juveniles\"\nespecially, by means of this minuteness, a very scanty stock of ideas is\nmade to go a great way. Does simplicity require such trash as this?\n\n     \"The place was known by the name of the Octagon. The reason why\n     it was called by this name was, that the principal sitting-room\n     in the house was built in the form of an octagon, that is,\n     instead of having four sides, as a room usually has, this room\n     had eight sides. An octagon is a figure of eight sides.\n\n     \"A figure of four sides is called a square. A figure of five\n     sides is called a pentagon, of six sides a hexagon, of eight\n     sides an octagon. There might be a figure of seven sides, but\n     it would not be very easily made, and it would not be very\n     pretty when it was made, and so it is seldom used or spoken of.\n     But octagons and hexagons are very common, for they are easily\n     made, and they are very regular and symmetrical in form.\"\n\nThe object of all this is, doubtless, to impart valuable information.\nBut while such slipshod writing is singularly uninteresting, it may also\nbe censured as inaccurate. Mr. Abbott seems to think all polygons\nnecessarily regular. Any child can make a heptagon at once,\nnotwithstanding Mr. Abbott calls it so difficult. A _regular_ heptagon,\nindeed, is another matter. Then what does he mean by saying octagons and\nhexagons are very regular? A regular octagon is regular, though an\noctagon in general is no more regular than any other figure. But Mr.\nAbbott continues:--\n\n     \"If you wish to see exactly what the form of an octagon is, you\n     can make one in this way. First cut out a piece of paper in the\n     form of a square. This square will, of course, have four sides\n     and four corners. Now, if you cut off the four corners, you\n     will have four new sides, for at every place where you cut off\n     a corner you will have a new side. These four new sides,\n     together with the parts of the old sides that are left, will\n     make eight sides, and so you will have an octagon.\n\n     \"If you wish your octagon to be regular, you must be careful\n     how much you cut off at each corner. If you cut off too little,\n     the new sides which you make will not be so long as what\n     remains of the old ones. If you cut off too much, they will be\n     longer. You had better cut off a little at first from each\n     corner, all around, and then compare the new sides with what\n     is left of the old ones. You can then cut off a little more,\n     and so on, until you make your octagon nearly regular.\n\n     \"There are other much more exact modes of making octagons than\n     this, but I cannot stop to describe them here.\"\n\nMust we have no more pennyworths of sense to such a monstrous quantity\nof verbiage than Mr. Abbott gives us here? We would defy any man to\nparody that. He could teach the penny-a-liners a trick of the trade\nworth knowing. The great Chrononhotonthologos, crying,\n\n    \"Go call a coach, and let a coach be called,\n    And let the man that calleth be the caller,\n    And when he calleth, let him nothing call\n    But 'Coach! coach! coach! Oh, for a coach, ye gods!'\"\n\nis comparatively a very Spartan for brevity. This may be a cheap way of\nwriting books; but the books are a dear bargain to the buyer.\n\nA book is not necessarily ill adapted to a child because its ideas and\nexpressions are over his head. Some books, that were not written for\nchildren and would shock all Mr. Abbott's most dearly cherished ideas,\nare still excellent reading for them. Walter Scott's poems and novels\nwill please an intelligent child. Cooper's Leatherstocking tales will\nnot be read by the lad of fourteen more eagerly than by his little\nsister who cannot understand half of them. A child fond of reading can\nhave no more delightful book than the \"Faerie Queene,\" unless it be the\n\"Arabian Nights,\" which was not written as a \"juvenile.\" There are pages\nby the score in \"Robinson Crusoe\" that a child cannot understand,--and\nit is all the better reading for him on that account. A child has a\ncomfort in unintelligible words that few men can understand. Homer's\n\"Iliad\" is good reading, though only a small part may be comprehended.\n(We are not, however, so much in favor of mystery as to recommend the\noriginal Greek.) Do our children of the year 1860 ever read a book\ncalled \"The Pilgrim's Progress\"? Hawthorne's \"Wonder-Book\" is good for\nchildren, though better for adults.\n\nThen look at our second rule. What, after all, constitutes a \"good\nmoral\"? We say that no book has a good moral which teaches a child that\ngoodness and effeminacy, laziness and virtue, are convertible terms; no\nbook is good that is \"goody,\" no book is moral that moralizes. The\nintention may be good, but the teaching is not. Have as much as you will\nof poetical justice, but beware of making your books mere vehicles for\nconveying maxims of propriety. You cannot so deceive a child. You may\ntalk _at_ him, while pretending to tell him a story, but he will soon be\nshy of you. He has learned by bitter experience too much of the\nfalseness of this world, and has been too often beguiled by sugared\npills, to be slow in detecting the sugared pills of your\nliterature,--especially, O Jacob Abbott! when the pills have so little,\nso very little, sugar.\n\nOur notion of a good moral is a strong, breezy, open-air moral, one that\nteaches courage, and therefore truth. These are the most important\nthings for a child to know, and a book which teaches these alone is\nmoral enough. And these can be taught without offending the mind of the\nyoung reader, however keenly suspicious. But if you wish to teach\ngentleness and kindness as well, let them be shown in your story by some\nnoisy boy who can climb trees, or some active, merry, hoydenish girl who\ncan run like Atalanta; and don't imply a falsehood by attributing them\nalways to the quiet children.\n\nMr. Abbott's books have spoiled our children's books, and have done\ntheir best to spoil our children, too. There is no fresh, manly life in\nhis stories; anything of the kind is sourly frowned down. Rollo, while\nstrolling along, picturesquely, perhaps, but stupidly, sees A Noisy Boy,\nand is warned by his insufferable father to keep out of that boy's way.\nThat Noisy Boy infallibly turns out vicious. Is that sound doctrine?\nWill that teach a child to admire courage and activity? If he is ever\nable to appreciate the swing and vigor of Macaulay's Lays, it will not\nbe because you trained him on such lyrics as\n\n    \"In the winter, when 'tis mild,\n    We may run, but not be wild;\n    But in summer, we must walk,\n    And improve our time by talk\" (!)\n\nbut because that Noisy Boy found him out,--and, quarrelling with him,\n(your boy, marvellous to relate! having provoked the quarrel by some\nmean trick, in spite of his seraphic training,) gave him a black\neye,--and afterwards, turning out to be the best-hearted Noisy Boy in\nthe world, taught him to climb trees and hunt for birds' nests,--and\nstopped him when he was going to kill the little birds, (for your\npattern boy--poor child! how could he help it?--was as cruel as he was\ntimid,)--and imparted to him the sublime mysteries of base-ball and tag\nand hockey,--and taught him to swim and row, and to fight bigger boys\nand leave smaller boys in peace, instructions which he was at first\ninclined to reverse,--and put him in the way to be an honest, fearless\nman, when he was in danger of becoming a white-faced and white-livered\nspooney. And that Noisy Boy himself, perversely declining to verify Mr.\nAbbott's decorous prophecies, has not turned out badly, after all, but\nhas Reverend before his name and reverence in his heart, and has his\ntheology sound because his lungs are so. No doubt, Tom Jones often turns\nout badly, but Master Blifil always does,--a fact which Mr. Abbott would\ndo well to note and perpend.\n\nWhat! Because Rollo is virtuous, shall there be no more mud-cakes and\nale? Marry, but there shall! Don't keep a boy out of his share of free\nmovement and free air, and don't keep a girl out. Poor little child! she\nwill be dieted soon enough on \"stewed prunes.\" Children need air and\nwater,--milk and water won't do. They are longing for our common mother\nearth, in the dear, familiar form of dirt; and it is no matter how much\ndirt they get on them, if they only have water enough to wash it off.\nThe more they are allowed to eat literal dirt now, the less metaphorical\ndirt will they eat a few years hence. The great Free-Soil principle is\ngood for their hearts, if not for their clothes; and which is it more\nimportant to have clean? Just make up your mind to let the clothes go;\nand if you can't afford to have your children soil and tear their laced\npantalets and plumed hats and open-work stockings, why, take off all\nthose devices of the enemy, and substitute stout cloth and stout boots.\nWhat have they to do with open-work stockings?\n\n    \"Doff them for shame,\n    And hang a calf-skin on those recreant limbs.\"\n\nBelieve now, instead of learning by sad experience, that tin trumpets\nand torn clothes do not necessarily signify depravity, and that quiet\nchildren are not always free from deceit, cruelty, and meanness. The\nquiet, ideal child, of whom Mr. Abbott thinks so highly, generally\nproves, in real life, neither more nor less than a prig. He is more\nlikely to die than live; and if he lives, you may wish he had died.\n\nThese models not only check a child's spirit, but tend to make him\ndishonest. Ask a child now what he thinks, and, ten to one, he mentally\nrefers to some eminent exemplar of all the virtues for instructions,\nand, instead of telling you what he does think, quotes listlessly what\nhe ought to think. So that his mincing affectation is not merely\nungraceful, but is a sign of an inward taint, which may prove fatal to\nthe whole character. It is very easy to make a child disingenuous; if he\nbe at all timid, the work is already half done to one's hand. Of course,\nall children are not bad who are brought up on such books,--one\ncircumstance or another may counteract their hurtful tendency,--but the\ntendency is no less evident, nor is it a vindication of any system to\nprove that some are good in its despite.\n\nAgain, the popularity of these tame, spiritless books is no conclusive\nevidence of their merit. The poor children are given nothing else to\nread, and, of course, they take what they can get as better than\nnothing. An eager child, fond of reading, will read the shipping\nintelligence in a newspaper, if there be nothing else at hand. Does that\nshow that he is properly supplied with reading matter? They will read\nthese books; but they would read better books with more pleasure and\nmore profit.\n\nFor our third rule, let our children's stories have no lack of incident\nand adventure. That will redeem any number of faults. Thus, Marryatt's\nstories, and Mayne Reid's, although in many respects open to censure and\nridicule, are very popular, and deserve to be. The books first put into\na child's hands are right enough, for they are vivid. Whether the letter\nA be associated in our infant minds with the impressive moral of \"In\nAdam's fall We sinned all,\" or gave us a foretaste of the Apollo in \"A\nwas an Archer, and shot at a Frog,\"--in either case, the story is a\nplainly told incident, (carefully observing the unities,) which the\nchild's fancy can embellish for itself, and the whole has an additional\ncharm from the gorgeous coloring of an accompanying picture. The\nvividness is good, and is the only thing that is good. Why, then, should\nthis one merit be omitted, as our children grow a little older? A\nlifeless moral will not school a child into propriety. If a twig be\nunreasonably bent, it is very likely to struggle in quite a different\ndirection, especially if in so doing it struggle towards the light.\nThere is much truth in a blundering version of the old Scriptural maxim,\n\"Chain up a child, and away he will go.\" If you want to do any good by\nyour books, make them interesting.\n\nAnd with reference to all three rules, remember that they are to be\ninterpreted by the light of common sense, and you will hardly need the\nfollowing remarks:--\n\nIt is alike uncomfortable and useless to a child to be perpetually\nwaylaid by a moral. A child reading \"The Pilgrim's Progress\" will omit\nthe occasional explanations of the allegory or resolutely ignore their\nmeaning. If you want to keep a poor child on such dry food, don't\nmistake your own reason for doing so. It may be eminently proper, but it\nis very uncomfortable to him. If you want children to enjoy themselves,\nlet them run about freely, and don't put them into a ring, in\npicturesque attitudes, and then throw bouquets of flowers at them. But,\nif you will do so, confess it is not for their gratification, but for\nyour own.\n\nIf you choose to try the dangerous experiment of writing \"instructive\"\nstories, beware of defeating your own object. You write a story rather\nthan a treatise, because information is often more effective when\nindirectly conveyed. Clearly, then, if you convey your information too\ndirectly, you lose all this advantage.\n\nPerfection is as intolerable in these as in any other stories. We all\nwant, especially children, some amiable weaknesses to sympathize with.\nThus, in \"Ernest Bracebridge,\" an English story of school-life, the hero\nis a dreadfully unpleasant boy who is always successful and always\nright, and we are soon heartily weary of him. Besides, he is a horrible\nboy for mastery of all the arts and sciences, and delivers brief and\nepigrammatic discourses, being about twelve years old. However, the book\nis full of adventure and out-door games, and so far is good.\n\nAfter all, a child does not need many books. If, however, we are to have\nthem, we may as well have good ones. There is no reason why dulness\nshould be diverted from its legitimate channels into the writing of\nchildren's books. Let us disabuse ourselves of the idea that these are\nthe easiest books to write. Let us remember that the alphabet is harder\nto teach than the Greek Drama, and no longer think that the proper man\nto write children's books is the man who is able to write nothing else.\n\n\n_The Simplicity of Christ's Teachings, set forth in Sermons._ By CHARLES\nT. BROOKS, Pastor of the Unitarian Church, Newport, R. I. Boston:\nCrosby, Nichols, & Co. 1859. 16mo. pp. 342.\n\nThe name of the author of this volume has long been known as that of an\naccomplished man of letters. Successive volumes of poetic versions,\nchiefly from the German, had, by their various merit, gained for him a\nhigh rank among our translators, when four years ago, in 1856, by a\ntranslation of \"Faust,\" he set himself at the head of living authors in\nthis department of literature. It is little to say of his work, that it\nis the best of the numerous English renderings of Goethe's tragedy. It\nis not extravagant to assert that a better translation is scarcely\npossible. It is a work which combines extraordinary fidelity to the form\nof the original with true appreciation of its spirit. It is at once\nliteral and free, and displays in its execution the qualities both of\nexact scholarship and of poetic feeling and capacity.\n\nThis work, and the others of a similar kind which preceded it, were the\nresult of the intervals of leisure occurring in the course of their\nauthor's professional life as a clergyman. While the wider world has\nknown him only through these volumes, a smaller circle has long known\nand loved him as the faithful and able preacher and pastor,--as one to\nwhom the most beautiful description ever written of the character of a\ngood parson might be truly applied; for\n\n    \"A good man he was of religioun,\n    That was a poure Persone of a toun:\n    But riche he was of holy thought and werk;\n    He was also a lerned man, a clerk,\n    That Cristes gospel trewely wolde preche,\n    His parishens devoutly wolde he teche.\n\n           *       *       *       *       *\n\n    And Cristes lore and his apostles' twelve\n    He taught, but first he folwed it himselve.\"\n\nAnd it is in this character that he now comes before us in the volume\nwhich is well entitled \"The Simplicity of Christ's Teachings.\"\n\nIt is a misfortune that the qualities which distinguish most published\nsermons are not such as to recommend them on the score of literary\nmerit. The volumes of religious discourses which are worthy to hold a\nplace in literature, when judged by the usual critical standard, are\nvery few. A very large proportion of those which are continually\nappearing from the press deserve no remembrance, and fortunately have no\npermanence. They are addressed to a special class of readers,--a class\ngenerally neither of highly cultivated taste, nor of acute critical\nperception. Their writers are rarely men of sufficient talent to win for\nthemselves recognition out of their own narrow set. What in the slang of\nthe day are called \"sensation\" sermons are no exception to the common\nrule. Their momentary effect, depending upon exaggeration and\nextravagance, is no indication of worth. We should no more think of\ncriticizing them in a literary journal, than of criticizing the novels\nof Mr. Cobb or Mr. Reynolds. Some of the causes of the poverty of\nthought and of the negligence of style of average sermons are obvious.\nThe very interest and importance of the subjects with which the preacher\nhas to deal oftentimes serve to deaden rather than to excite the mind of\none who takes them up in the formal round of duty. The pretensions of\nthe clergy of many sects, pretensions as readily acknowledged as made,\nsave them from the necessity of intellectual exertion. The frequent\nrecurrence of the necessity of writing, whether they have anything to\nsay or not, leads them into substituting words for thoughts, platitudes\nfor truths. The natural weariness of long-continued solitary\nprofessional labor brings mental lassitude and feebleness. The absence\nof the fear of close and watchful criticism prevents them from bestowing\nsuitable pains upon their composition. These and other causes combine to\nmake the mass of the writing which is delivered from the pulpit poorer\nthan any other which passes current in the world,--perhaps, indeed, not\npoorer in an absolute sense, but poorer when compared with the nature of\nthe subjects that it treats. It is by no means, however, to be inferred,\nthat, because a sermon is totally without merit as a work of literature,\nit is incapable of producing some good in those who listen to it. On the\ncontrary, such is the frame of mind of many who regularly attend church,\nthat they are not unlikely to derive good from a performance which, if\nweak, may yet be sincere, and which deals with the highest truths, even\nif it deal with them in an imperfect and unsatisfactory manner. And,\nindeed, as George Herbert says, good may be got from the worst\npreaching; for,\n\n                        \"if all want sense,\n    God takes the text, and preacheth patience.\"\n\nUnquestionably, however, there is too much preaching in these days; too\nmany sermons are written, and the spirit of Christianity is less\neffective than if the words concerning it were less numerous.\n\nIt is a rare satisfaction, therefore, to find such a volume of sermons\nas that of Mr. Brooks, which, though not possessing the highest merit in\npoint of style, are the discourses of a thoughtful and cultivated man,\nwith a peculiar spiritual refinement, and with a devout intellect, made\nclear by its combination with purity of heart and simplicity of faith.\nThe religious questions which are chiefly stirring the minds of men are\ntaken up in them and discussed with what may be called an earnest\nmoderation, with elevation of feeling and insight of spirit.\n\n\n_Goethe's Correspondence with a Child._ Boston: Ticknor & Fields. 1859.\n\nThe immediate cause of the republication of these letters is the recent\ndeath of Bettina, the child with whom Goethe corresponded. Though this\nfact, and the beauty of the volume, may quicken the sale of the work,\nand draw out fresh encomiums on its excellence, it has long since passed\nthe critical crisis and taken its place as one of the most remarkable\nseries of letters which the public have ever been invited to peruse.\nSomething of the marvellous vanishes from them, however, when we find\nthat the title, \"Correspondence with a Child,\" is a misnomer; Bettina\nhaving been, in truth, twenty-two years of age when she first visited\nGoethe. Yet while this important circumstance abates much of the wonder\nwith which we once read her thoughts and confessions, they really become\nall the more valuable as studies in human nature when we learn that they\nare the exhalations of a heart in full flower, and one upon which the\ndews of morning should not linger. The poet had reached the age of sixty\nwhen this tide of tender sentiment, original ideas, and enthusiastic\nadmiration began to flow in upon him. Their first interview, as Bettina\ndescribes it, with singular freedom, in one of the letters to Goethe's\nmother, will be found a useful key, though perhaps not a complete one,\nby which to interpret the glowing passion which gushed from her pen.\nThat the poet was pleased with the homage of this sweet, graceful, and\naffectionate girl, and drew her on to the revealing of her whole nature,\nis readily perceived. But when we inquire, To what end? we should\nremember, that, like Parrhasius, Goethe was before all things an artist;\nand furthermore, the correspondence of time will show that from this\ncrowning knowledge the \"Elective Affinities\" sprang. It may be that her\nadmiration was for his genius alone; if so, she chose love's language\nfor its wealth of expression. Were it so received, it could not but be\nregarded as a peerless offering, for she was certainly a kindred spirit.\nThere are many rare thoughts and profound confessions in these letters,\nwhich would have commanded the praise of Goethe, had they been written\nby a rival; and coming, as they did, from a devotee who declared that\nshe drew her inspiration from him alone, they must have filled his soul\nwith incense, of which that burned by the priest in the temple of the\ngods is only an emblem. To be brief and compendious on this book, it\nappears to be a heart unveiled. German critics throw some doubts on the\nliteral veracity of the book; but it belongs at any rate to the better\nclass of the _ben trovati_, and among its leaves, the dreamer, the\nlover, and the poet will find that ambrosial fruit on which fancy loves\nto feed, but whose blossoms are so generally blasted by the common air\nthat only the few favored ones have had their longings for it appeased.\nIn imagination, at least, Bettina partook of this banquet, and had the\ngenius to wreak on words the emotions which swept through her heart.\n\n\n_Sir Rohan's Ghost._ A Romance. Boston: J. E. Tilton & Company. 1860.\npp. 352.\n\nIt is very plain that we have got a new poet,--a tremendous\nresponsibility both for him who will have to learn how to carry the\nbrimming vase of Art from the Pierian spring without squandering a drop,\nand for us critics who are to reconcile ourselves to what is new in him,\nand to hold him strictly to that apprenticeship to the old which is the\ncondition of mastery at last.\n\nCriticism in America has reached something like the state of the old\nContinental currency. There is no honest relation between the promises\nwe make and the specie basis of meaning they profess to represent. \"The\nmost extraordinary book of the age\" is published every week; \"genius\"\nsprings up like mullein, wherever the soil is thin enough; the yearly\ncatch of \"weird imagination,\" \"thrilling pathos,\" \"splendid\ndescription,\" and \"sublime imagery\" does not fall short of an ordinary\nmackerel-crop; and \"profound originality\" is so plenty that one not in\nthe secret would be apt to take it for commonplace. Now Tithonus, whom,\nas the oldest inhabitant, we have engaged to oversee the criticism of\nthe \"Atlantic,\" has a prodigiously long memory,--almost as long as one\nof Dickens's descriptive passages,--he remembers perfectly well all the\npromising young fellows from Orpheus down, and has made a notch on the\nstalk of a devil's-apron for every one who ever came to anything that\nwas of more consequence to the world than to himself. His tally has not\nyet mounted to a baker's dozen. Accordingly, when a young enthusiast\nrushes to tell Tithonus that a surprising genius has turned up, that\nvenerable and cautious being either puts his hand behind his ear and\nabsconds into an extemporary deafness, or says dryly, \"American kind, I\nsuppose?\" This coolness of our wary senior is infectious, and we confess\nourselves so far disenchanted by it, that, when we go into a library,\nthe lettering on the backs of nine-tenths of the volumes contrives to\nshape itself into a laconic _Hic jacet_.\n\nIt is of prime necessity to bring back the currency of criticism to the\nold hard-money basis. We have been gradually losing all sense of the\ntrue relation between words and things,--the surest symptom of\nintellectual decline. And this looseness of criticism reacts in the most\ndamaging way upon literature by continually debasing the standard, and\nby confounding all distinction between fame and notoriety. Ought it to\nbe gratifying to the author of \"Popular Sovereignty, a Poem in Twelve\nCantos,\" to be called the most remarkable man of the age, when he knows\nthat he shares that preeminence with Mr. Tupper, nay, with half the\nnames in the Directory? Indiscriminate eulogy is the subtlest form of\ndepreciation, for it makes all praise suspicious.\n\nWe look upon artistic genius as the rarest and most wayward apparition\namong mankind. It cannot be predicated upon any of Mr. Buckle's\naverages. Given the census, you may, perhaps, say so many murders, so\nmany suicides, so many misdirected letters (and men of letters), but not\nso many geniuses. In this one thing old Mother Nature will be whimsical\nand womanish. This is a gift that John Bull, or Johnny Crapaud, or\nBrother Jonathan does not find in his stocking every Christmas. Crude\nimagination is common enough,--every hypochondriac has a more than\nShakspearian allowance of it; fancy is cheap, or nobody would dream;\neloquence sits ten deep on every platform. But genius in Art is that\nsupreme organizing and idealizing faculty which, by combining,\narranging, modulating, by suppressing the abnormal and perpetuating the\nessential, apes creation,--which from the shapeless terror or tipsy\nfancy of the benighted ploughman can conjure the sisters of Fores heath\nand the court of Titania,--which can make language thunder or coo at\nwill,--which, in short, is the ruler of those qualities any one of which\nin excess is sure to overmaster the ordinary mind, and which can\ncrystallize helpless vagary into the clearly outlined and imperishable\nforms of Art.\n\nIt is not, therefore, from any grudging incapacity to appreciate new\nauthors, but from a strong feeling that we are to guard the graves of\nthe dead from encroachment, and their fames from vulgarization, that the\n\"Atlantic\" has been and will be sparing in its use of the word _genius_.\nOne may safely predicate power, nicety of thought and language, a clear\neye for scenery and character, and grace of poetic conception of a book,\nwithout being willing to say that it gives proof of genius. For genius\nis the _shaping_ faculty, the power of using material in the best way,\nand may not work itself clear of the besetting temptation of personal\ngifts and of circumstances in a first or even second work. It is\nsomething capable of education and accomplishment, and the patience with\nwhich it submits itself to this needful schooling and self-abnegation is\none of the surest tests of its actual possession. Could even\nShakspeare's poems and earlier plays come before us for judgment, we\ncould only say of them, as of Keats's \"Endymion,\" that they showed\naffluence, but made no sure prophecy of that artistic self-possession\nwithout which plenty is but confusion and incumbrance.\n\nSo much by way of preface, lest we might seem cold to the very\nremarkable merits of \"Sir Rohan's Ghost,\" if we treated it as a book\nworth finding fault with, instead of condemning it to the indifferent\nlimbo of general eulogy. It is our deliberate judgment that no first\nvolume by any author has ever been published in America showing more\nundoubtful symptoms of genuine poetic power than this. There are\npassages in it where imagination and language combine in the most\nartistic completeness, and the first quatrain of the song which Sir\nRohan fancies he hears,--\n\n    ----\"In a summer twilight,\n      While yet the dew was hoar,\n    I went plucking purple pansies\n      Till my love should come to shore,\"--\n\nseems to us absolutely perfect in its simplicity and suggestiveness. It\nhas that wayward and seemingly accidental just-right-ness that is so\ndelightful in old ballads. The hesitating cadence of the third line is\nimpregnated with the very mood of the singer, and lingers like the\naction it pictures. All those passages in the book, too, where the\nsymptoms of Sir Rohan's possession by his diseased memory are handled,\nwhere we see all outward nature but as wax to the plastic will of\nimagination, are to the utmost well-conceived and carried out. It was\npart of the necessity of the case that the book should be conjectural\nand metaphysical, for it is plain that the author is young and has\nlittle experience of the actual. Accordingly, with a true instinct, she\n(for the newspapers ascribe the authorship of the book to Miss Prescott)\ncalls her story a Romance, thus absolving it from any cumbersome\nallegiance to fact, and lays the scene of it in England, where she can\nhave old castles, old traditions, old families, old servants, and all\nthe other olds so essential to the young writer, ready to her hand.\n\nWe like the book better for being in the main _subjective_ (to use the\nconvenient word Mr. Ruskin is so angry with); for a young writer can\nonly follow the German plan of conjuring things up \"from the depths of\nhis inward consciousness.\" The moment our author quits this sure ground,\nher touch becomes uncertain and her colors inharmonious.\nCharacter-painting is unessential to a romance, belonging as it does\nproperly to the novel of actual life, in which the romantic element is\nequally out of place. Fielding, accordingly, the greatest artist in\ncharacter since Shakspeare, hardly admits sentiment, and never romance,\ninto his master-pieces. Hawthorne, again, another great master, feeling\ninstinctively the poverty and want of sharp contrast in the externals of\nour New England life, always shades off the edges of the actual, till,\nat some indefinable line, they meet and mingle with the supersensual and\nimaginative.\n\nThe author of \"Sir Rohan\" attempts character in Redruth the butler, and\nin the villain and heroine of her story. We are inclined to think the\nvillain the best hit of the three, because he is downright scoundrel\nwithout a redeeming point, as the Nemesis of the story required him to\nbe, and because he is so far a purely ideal character. But there is no\nsuch thing possible as an ideal butler, at least in the sense our author\nassumes in the cellar-scene. The better poet, the worse butler; and so\nwe are made impatient by his more than Redi-isms about wine, full of\nfancy as they are in themselves, because they are an impertinence. For\nthe same reason, we forgive the heroine her rhapsodies about the figures\nof the Arthur-romances, but cannot pardon her descents into real life\nand her incursions on what should be the sanctuary of the\nbreakfast-table. The author attributes to her a dash of gypsy blood; and\nif her style of humorous conversation be a fair type of that of the race\nin general, we no longer wonder that they are homeless exiles from human\nsociety. When will men learn the true nature of a pun,--that it is a\nplay upon ideas, and not upon sounds,--and that a perfect one is as rare\nas a perfect poem?\n\nIn the prose \"Edda,\" the dwarfs tell a monstrous fib, when they pretend\nthat Kvasir, the inventor of poetry, has been suffocated by his own\nwisdom. Nevertheless, the little fellows showed thereby that they were\nnot short of intelligence; for it is almost always in their own overflow\nthat young poets are drowned. This superabundance seems to us the chief\ndefect in \"Sir Rohan's Ghost.\" The superabundance is all very fine, of\nthe costliest kind; but was Clarence any the better for being done to\ndeath in Malmsey instead of water?\n\nThis fault we look on as a fault of promise. There is always a chance\nthat luxuriance may be pruned, but none short of a miracle that a\nbroomstick may be made to blossom. There is, however, one absolute, and\nnot relative fault in the book, which we find it harder to forgive,\nsince it is one of instinct rather than of Art. The author seems to us\nprone to confound the _terrible_, (the only true subject of Art) with\nthe _horrible_. The one rouses moral terror or aversion, the other only\nphysical disgust. This is one of the worst effects of the modern French\nschool upon literature, the inevitable result of its degrading the\nsensuous into the sensual.\n\nWe have found all the fault we could with this volume, because we\nsincerely think that the author of it is destined for great things, and\nthat she owes it to the rare gift she has been endowed with to do\nnothing inconsiderately, and by honest self-culture to raise natural\nqualities to conscious and beneficent powers.\n\n\n\n\nRECENT AMERICAN PUBLICATIONS\n\nRECEIVED BY THE EDITORS OF THE ATLANTIC MONTHLY.\n\n\nEssays of Elia. By Charles Lamb. A New Edition. Boston. William Veazie.\n8vo. pp. 466. $1.25.\n\nArchaia; or, Studies of the Cosmogony and Natural History of the Hebrew\nScriptures. By J. W. Dawson, LL. D., F. G. S., Principal of McGill\nCollege, Author of \"Acadian Geology,\" etc. Montreal. B. Dawson & Son.\n12mo. pp. 406.\n\nManual of Public Libraries, Institutions, and Societies in the United\nStates and British Provinces of North America. By William J. Rhees,\nChief Clerk of the Smithsonian Institution. Philadelphia. J. B.\nLippincott & Co. 8vo. pp. xxviii., 687. $3.00.\n\nThe Oakland Stories. By George R. Taylor, of Virginia. Volume I. Kenny.\nNew York. Sheldon & Co. 16mo. pp. 176. 50 cts.\n\nThe Florence Stories. By Jacob Abbott. Florence and John. New York.\nSheldon & Co. 16mo. pp. 252. 60 cents.\n\nPoems read at the Opening of the Fraternity Lectures, 1858-9. By F. B.\nSanborn and Rufus Leighton, Jr. Boston. Printed for the Fraternity.\n16mo. pp. 59. 25 cts.\n\nThe Law of the Territories. Philadelphia. Printed by C. Sherman and Son.\n16mo. pp. 127. 50 cts.\n\nThe Wife's Trials and Triumphs. By the Author of \"Grace Hamilton's\nSchool-Days,\" etc. New York. Sheldon & Co. 16mo. pp. 347. $1.00.\n\nThe Old Battle-Ground. By J. T. 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Harper & Brothers.\n12mo. pp. xii., 406; xii., 388. $2.00.\n\nPoems. By Henry Timrod. Boston. Ticknor & Fields. 16mo. pp. iv., 130. 50\ncts.\n\nNew Miscellanies. By Charles Kingsley. Boston. Ticknor & Fields. 12mo.\npp. vi., 375. $1.00.\n\nThe Two Christmas Celebrations, A. D. 1 and 1855. A Christmas Story for\n1856. By Theodore Parker, Minister of the 28th Congregational Society of\nBoston. Boston. Rufus Leighton, Jr. Small 8vo. pp. 46. 50 cts.\n\nFrank Wildman's Adventures on Land and Water. By Frederick Gerstaecker.\nTranslated and revised by Lascelles Wraxall. With Eight Illustrations,\nprinted in Oil Colors. Boston. Crosby, Nichols, & Co. 16mo. pp. viii.,\n312. $1.00.\n\nThe Boy Tar; or, A Voyage in the Dark. By Captain Mayne Reid. With\nTwelve Illustrations, by Charles Keene. Boston. Ticknor & Fields. 16mo.\npp. iv., 356. 75 cts.\n\nThe Crusades and the Crusaders. By John G. Edgar, Author of \"Boyhood of\nGreat Men,\" etc. With Eight Illustrations, by Julian Portch. Boston.\nTicknor & Fields. 16mo. pp. x., 380. 75 cts.\n\nThe White Hills: their Legends, Landscape, and Poetry. By Thomas Starr\nKing. With Sixty Illustrations, engraved by Andrew, from Drawings by\nWheelock. Boston. Crosby, Nichols, & Co. 8vo. pp. xviii., 403. $5.00.\n\nA Look at Home; or, Life in the Poor-House of New England. By S. H.\nElliot, Author of \"Rolling Ridge.\" New York. H. Dexter & Co. 12mo. pp.\n490. $1.00.\n\nHow Could He Help It? or, The Heart Triumphant. By A. S. Roe, Author of\n\"I've been Thinking,\" etc. New York. Derby & Jackson. 12mo. pp. 443.\n$1.25.\n\nEvenings at the Microscope; or, Researches among the Minuter Organs and\nForms of Animal Life. By Philip Henry Gosse, F. R. S. With\nIllustrations. New York. Appleton & Co. 12mo. pp. xii., 480. $1.50.\n\nHester, the Bride of the Islands. A Poem. By Silvester B. Beckett.\nPortland. Bailey & Noyes. 12mo. pp. 336. $1.00.\n\nGreat Facts: A Popular History and Description of the most Remarkable\nInventions during the Present Century. By Frederick C. Bakewell, Author\nof \"Philosophical Conversations,\" etc. Illustrated with Numerous\nEngravings. New York, Appleton & Co. 12mo. pp. xii., 307. $1.00.\n\nPrince Charlie, the Young Chevalier. By Merideth Johnes, Author of \"The\nBoy's Book of Modern Travel,\" etc. With Eight Illustrations, by N. S.\nMorgan. New York. Appleton & Co. 16mo. pp. 331. 75 cts.\n\nEdith Vaughan's Victory; or, How to Conquer. By Helen Wall Pierson,\nAuthor of \"Sophie Krantz.\" New York. Appleton & Co. 16mo. pp. 289. 63\ncts.\n\nA History of the Cemetery of Mount Auburn. By Jacob Bigelow, President\nof the Corporation. Boston. Munroe & Co. 16mo. pp. xvi., 263. $1.00.\n\nHere and There; or, Heaven and Earth Contrasted. New York. Appleton &\nCo. 18mo. pp. 41. 25 cts.\n\nA Report of the Celebration at Norwich, Ct., on the 200th Anniversary of\nthe Settlement of the Town, Sept. 7th and 8th, 1859. With an Appendix,\ncontaining Historical Documents of Local Interest. Norwich. John W.\nStedman. 8vo. pp. 304. $1.50.\n\nRe-Statements of Christian Doctrine, in Twenty-Five Sermons. By Henry W.\nBellows, Minister of All-Souls' Church, New York. New York. Appleton &\nCo. 12mo. pp. viii., 434. $1.25.\n\nThe Great Harmonia: being a Progressive Revelation of the Eternal\nPrinciples which inspire Mind and govern Matter. By Andrew Jackson\nDavis. Vol. V. In Three Parts. New York. A. J. Davis & Co. 12mo. pp.\n438. $1.00.\n\nHistory of the Republic of the United States of America, as traced in\nthe Writings of Alexander Hamilton and his Contemporaries. By John C.\nHamilton. Vol. V. New York. Appleton & Co. 8vo. pp. xii., 603. $2.50.\n\nLife of Lafayette. Written for Children. By E. Cecil. With Six\nIllustrations. Boston. Crosby, Nichols, & Co. 16mo. pp. vi., 218. 75\ncts.\n\nSelf-Help; with Illustrations of Character and Conduct. By Samuel\nSmiles, Author of \"The Life of George Stephenson.\" Boston. Ticknor &\nFields. 16mo. pp. xiv., 408. 75 cts.\n\nBible Stories in Bible Language. New York. Appleton & Co. Square 16mo.\npp. 197. $1.25.\n\nMartha's Hooks and Eyes. New York. Appleton & Co. 18mo. pp. 129. 37 cts.\n\nChristian Believing and Living. Sermons. By F. D. Huntington, D.D.,\nPreacher to the University, and Plummer Professor of Christian Morals in\nHarvard College. Boston. Crosby, Nichols, & Co. 12mo. pp. viii., 528.\n$1.25.\n\nErnest Bracebridge; or, Schoolboy Days. By W. H. G. Kingston. Boston.\nTicknor & Fields. 16mo. pp. iv., 344. 75 cts.\n\nBaby Nightcaps. By the Author of \"Nightcaps.\" New York. Appleton & Co.\n18mo. pp. 140. 50 cts.\n\nThe New Nightcaps told to Charley. New York. Appleton & Co. 18mo. pp.\n207. 50 cts.\n\nRainbow's Journey. By Jacob Abbott. New York. Harper & Brothers. 16mo.\npp. 201. 50 cts.\n\nHarry's Summer in Ashcroft. With Illustrations. New York. Harper &\nBrothers. 18mo. pp. 204. 50 cts.\n\nSeven Years. By Julia Kavanagh, Author of \"Adele,\" \"Nathalie,\" etc.\nBoston. Ticknor & Fields. 8vo. pp. 180. 30 cts.\n\nThe Sea-Lions; or, The Lost Sealers. By J. Fenimore Cooper. Illustrated\nfrom Drawings by F. O. C. Darley. New York. W. A. Townsend & Co. 12mo.\npp. 490. $1.50.\n\nThe Professor at the Breakfast-Table; with the Story of Iris. By Oliver\nWendell Holmes. Boston. Ticknor & Fields. 12mo. pp. 410. $1.00.\n\nMisrepresentation. A Novel. By Anna H. Drury, Author of \"Friends and\nFortune,\" etc. New York. Harper & Brothers. 8vo. paper. pp. 210. 50 cts.\n\nHistory of Peter the Great, Emperor of Russia. By Jacob Abbott. With\nEngravings. New York. Harper & Brothers. 16mo. pp. 368. 60 cts.","title":"The Atlantic Monthly, Volume 05, No. 28, February, 1860: A Magazine of Literature, Art, and Politics","tradition":"philosophy-ethics","translated_text":null,"word_count":85111}