{"collection":"philosophy-ethics","full_text_available":true,"graph_url":"https://unchartedknowledge.5gfusion.net/v2/api/page/gutenberg_21273/graph","html_url":"https://unchartedknowledge.5gfusion.net/v2/page/gutenberg_21273","id":"gutenberg_21273","license":"Public Domain (US)","rights_basis":"gutenberg_metadata_copyright_false","source":"gutenberg","source_url":"https://www.gutenberg.org/ebooks/21273","summary":null,"tags":["American periodicals","Category: Art","Category: Essays, Letters & Speeches","Category: Journals","Category: Philosophy & Ethics","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\n\nTHE\n\nATLANTIC MONTHLY.\n\nA MAGAZINE OF LITERATURE, ART, AND POLITICS.\n\nVOL. II.--DECEMBER, 1858.--NO. XIV.\n\n\n\n\nTHE IDEAL TENDENCY.\n\n\nWe are all interested in Art; yet few of us have taken pains to justify\nthe delight we feel in it. No philosophy can win us away from\nShakspeare, Plato, Angelo, Beethoven, Goethe, Phidias,--from the masters\nof sculpture, painting, music, and metaphor. Their truth is larger than\nany other,--too large to be stated directly and lodged in systems,\ntheories, definitions, or formulas. They suggest and assure to us what\ncannot be spoken. They communicate life, because they do not endeavor to\nmeasure life. Philosophy will present the definite; Art refers always to\nthe vast,--to that which cannot be comprehended, but only enjoyed and\nadored. Art is the largest expression. It is not, like Science, a basket\nin which meat and drink may be carried, but a hand which points toward\nthe sky. Our eyes follow its direction, and our souls follow our eyes.\nMan needs only to be shown an open space. He will rise into it with\ninstant expansion. We are made partakers of that illimitable energy.\nOnly poetry can give account of poetry, only Art can justify Art; and we\ncannot hope to speak finally of this elastic Truth, to draw a circle\naround that which is vital, because it has in it something of\ninfinity,--but we may hope to remove a doubt growing out of the very\nlargeness which exalts and refreshes us. Art is not practical. It offers\nno precept, but lies abroad like Nature, not to be grasped and\nexhausted. Neither is it anxious about its own reception, as though any\nman could long escape the benefit which it brings. Every principle of\nscience, every deduction of philosophy, is a tool. Our very religion, as\nwe dare to name it, is a key which opens the heavens to admit myself and\nfamily. Art offers only life; but perhaps that will appear worth taking\nwithout looking beyond. Can we look beyond? Life is an end in itself,\nand so better than any tool.\n\nWhat is that which underlies all arts as their essence, the thing to be\nexpressed and celebrated? What is poetry, the creation from which the\nartist is named? We shall answer boldly: it is no shaping of forms, but\na making of man. Nature is a _plenum_, is finished, and the Divine\naccount with her is closed; but man is only yet a chick in the egg. With\nhim it is still the first day of creation, and he has not received the\nbenediction of a completed work. And yet the completion is involved and\npromised in our daily experience. Man is a perpetual seeker. He sees\nalways just before him his own power, which he must hasten to overtake.\nHe weighs himself often in thought; yet it is not his present, but a\npresumptive value, of which he is taking account. We are continually\nentering into our future, and it is so near us, we are already in every\nhour so full of it, that we draw without fraud on the credit of\nto-morrow. The student who has bought his first law-book is already a\ngreat counsellor. With the Commentaries he carries home consideration\nand the judicial habit. Some wisdom he imbibes through his pores and\nthose of the sheepskin cover. Now he is grave and prudent, a man of the\nworld and of authority; but if he had chosen differently, and brought\nhome the first book of Theology, his day would have been tinted with\nother colors. For every choice carries a future involved in itself, and\nwe begin to taste that when we take our course toward it. The habit of\nleaning forward and living in advance of himself has made its mark upon\nevery man. We look not at the history or performance of the stranger,\nbut at his pretensions. These are written in his dress, his air and\nattitude, his tone and occupation. The past is already nothing, the\npresent is sliding away; to know any man, we must keep our eyes out in\nadvance on the road he is following. For man is an involuntary, if not a\nwilling traveller. Time does not roll from under his feet, but he is\ncarried along with the current, and can never again be where or what he\nwas. Nothing in his experience can ever be quite repeated. If you see\nthe same trees and hills, they do not appear the same from year to year.\nYesterday they were new and strange; you and they were young together.\nTo-day they are familiar and disregarded. Soon they will be old friends,\nprattling to gray hairs of the brown locks and bounding breath of youth.\n\nThe pioneer of our growth is Imagination. Desire and Hope go on before\ninto the wilderness of the unknown; they open paths; they make a\nclearing; they build and settle firmly before we ourselves in will and\npower arrive at this opening, but they never await our coming. They are\nthe \"Fore-runners,\" off again deeper into the vast possibility of being.\nThe boy walks in a dream of to-morrow. Two bushels of hickory-nuts in\nhis bag are no nuts to him, but silver shillings; yet neither are the\nshillings shillings, but shining skates, into which they will presently\nbe transmuted. Already he is on the great pond by the roaring fire, or\nringing away into distant starry darkness with a sparkling brand.\nAlready, before his first skates are bought, before he has seen the coin\nthat buys them, he is dashing and wheeling with his fellows, a leader of\nthe flying train.\n\nThat early fore-reaching is a picture of our entire activity. \"Care is\ntaken,\" said Goethe, \"that the trees do not grow into the sky\"; but man\nis that tree which must outgrow the sky and lift its top into finer air\nand sunshine. The essential seed is Growth; not shell and bark, nor\nkernel, but a germ which pierces the soil and lifts the stone. Spirit is\nsuch a germ, and perpetual reinforcement is its quality; so that the\ngreat Being is known to us as a becoming Creator, adding himself to\nhimself, and life to life, in perpetual emanation.\n\nThe boy's thought never stops short of some personal prowess. It is\nability that charms him. To be a man, as he understands manliness, is to\nhave the whole planet for a gymnasium and play-ground. He would like to\nhave been on the other side of Hydaspes when Alexander came to that\nstream. But he soon discovers that wit is the sword of sharpness,--that\nhe is the ruler who can reach the deepest desire of man and satisfy\nthat. If there is power in him, he becomes a careful student, examines\neverything, examines his own enthusiasm, examines his last examination,\ntries every estimate again and again. He distrusts his tools, and then\ndistrusts his own distrust, lifting himself by the very boot-straps in\nhis metaphysics, to get at some foundation which will not move. He will\nknow what he is about and what is great. He puts Caesar, Milton, and\nWhitfield into his crucible; but that which went in Caesar comes out a\npart of himself. The bold yet modest young chemist is egotistical. He\ncannot be anybody else but John Smith. Why should he? Who knows yet what\nit is to be John Smith? Napoleon and Washington are only playing his own\ngame for him, since he so easily understands and accepts their play. A\nboy reads history as girls cut flowers from old embroidery to sew them\non a new foundation. They are interested in the new, and in the old only\nfor what they can make of it. So he sucks the blood of kings and\ncaptains to help him fight his own battles. He reads of Bunker's Hill\nand the Declaration of Independence with constant reference to the part\nhe shall take in the politics of the world. His motto is, _Sic semper\ntyrannis_! Benjamin Franklin, and after him John Smith,--perhaps a\nbetter man than he. We live on that _perhaps_. Every great man departed\nhas played out his last card, has taken all his chances. We are glad to\nsee his power limited and scaled up. Shakspeare, we say, did not know\neverything; and here am I alone with the universe, nothing but a little\nsleepiness between me and all that Shakspeare and Plato knew or did not\nknow. If I should be jostled out of my drowsiness, who can tell what may\nbe given me to see, to say, or to do? Let us make ready and get upon\nsome high ground from which we may overlook the work of the world; for\nthe secret of all mastery is dormant, yet breathing and stirring in you\nand me.\n\nOut of such material as we can gather we make a world in which we walk\ncontinually up and down. In it we find friends and enemies, we love and\nare loved, we travel and build. In it we are kings; we ordain and\narrange everything, and never come away worsted from any encounter. For\nthis sphere arises in answer to the practical question, What can I be\nand do? It is an embodiment of the force that is in me. Every dreamer,\ntherefore, goes on to see himself among men and things which he can\nunderstand and master, with which he can deal securely. The stable-boy\nhas hid an old volume among the straw, and he walks with Portia and\nDesdemona while he grooms the horses. Already in his smock-frock he is a\ncompanion for princes and queens. But the rich man's son, well born, as\nwe say, in the great house yonder, has one only ambition in life,--to\nturn stable-boy, to own a fast team and a trotting-wagon, to vie with\ngamesters upon the road. That is an activity to which he is equal, in\nwhich his value will appear. Both boys, and all boys, are looking\nupward, only from widely different levels and to different heights.\n\nThe young blasphemer does not love blasphemy, but to have his head and\nbe let alone by Old Aunty, who combs his hair as if he were a girl. So\nalways there is some ideal aim in the mixed motive. Out of six gay young\nmen who drive and drink together, only one cares for the meat and the\nbottle. With the rest this feasting gallantly on the best, regardless of\nexpense, is part of a system. It is in good style, is convivial. For\nthese green-horns of society to live together, to be _convivae_, is not\nto think and labor together, as wise men use, but to laugh and be\ndrunken in company.\n\nInto the lowest courses there enters something to keep the filth from\noverwhelming self-respect. The advocates of slavery have not, as it\nappears, lost all pretence of honor and honesty. Thieves are sustained\nby a sense of the injustice of society. They do but right an old wrong,\ntaking bravely what was accumulated by cautious cunning. They cultivate\nmany virtues, and, like the best of us, make much of these, identify\nthemselves with these. If a man is harsh and tyrannical, he regrets that\nhe has too much force of character. And it is not safe to accuse a\nharlot of stealing and lying. She has her ideal also, and strives to\nkeep the ulcer of sin within bounds,--to save a sweet side from\ncorruption.\n\nIs this stooping very low to look for the Ideal Tendency? The greater\ngain, if we find it prevailing in these depths. We may doubt whether\nthieves and harlots are subject to the same law which irresistibly lifts\nus, for we know that our own sin is not quite like other sin. But I must\nnot offer all the cheerful hope I feel for the worst offenders, because\ntoo much faith passes for levity or impiety; and men thank God only for\ndeliverance from great dangers, not for preservation from all danger.\nFor gratitude we must not escape too easily and clean, but with some\nsmell of fire upon us.\n\nYet in our own experience this planning what we shall do and become is\nconstant, and always we escape from the present into larger air. The boy\nwill not be content with that skill in skating which occupies his mind\nto-day. That belongs to the day and place, but next year he goes to the\nacademy and fresh exploits engage him. He works gallantly in this new\nfield and harness, because his thought has gone forward again, and he\nsees through these studies the man of thought. Already as a student he\nis a philosopher, a poet, a servant of the Muse. Bacon and Milton look\nkindly on him in invitation, he is walking to their company and in their\ncompany. The young hero-worshipper cannot remain satisfied with mere\nphysical or warlike prowess. He soon sees the superiority of mental and\nmoral mastery, of creation of good counsel. He will reverence the\nvaliant reformer who brings justice in his train, the saint in whom\ngoodness is enamored of goodness, the gentleman whose heart-beat is\ncourtesy, the prophet in whom a religion is born, all who have been\ninspired with liberal, not dragged by sordid aims.\n\nHow beautiful to him is the society of poets! He reads with idolatry the\nletters and anecdotes of Coleridge and Wordsworth, Goethe and Schiller,\nBeethoven and Raphael. Look at the private thought of these men in\nfamiliar intercourse: no plotting for lucre, but a conspiracy to reach\nthe best in life. The saints are even more ardent in aspiration, for\ntheir tender hearts were pressed and saddened by fear. They are now set\non fire by a sense of great redemption. They are prisoners pardoned.\n\nFor scholars the world is peopled only with saints, philosophers, and\npoets, and the studious boy seeks his own amid their large activity. So\nmuch of it meets his want, yet the whole does not meet all his want. He\nmust combine and balance and embrace conflicting qualities. Every day\nhis view enlarges. What was noble last year will now by no means content\nhis conscience. Duty and beauty have risen.\n\nThe Ideal Tendency characterizes man, affords the only definition of\nhim; and it is a perpetual, irresistible expansion. No matter on what it\nfastens, it will not stay, but spreads and soars like light in the\nmorning sky.\n\nTo-day we are charmed with our partners, and think we can never tire of\nAlfred and Emily. To-morrow we discover without shame, after all our\nprotestations and engagements, that their future seems incommensurate\nwith our own. To our surprise, they also feel their paths diverging from\nours. We part with a show of regret, but real joy to be free.\n\nBoth parties have gained from their intercourse a certainty of power and\npromise of greater power. Silly people fill the world with lamentation\nover human inconstancy; but if we follow love, we cannot cling to the\nbeloved. We must love onward, and only when our friends go before us can\nwe be true both to friendship and to them.\n\nHow eager and tremulous his excitement when at last the youth encounters\nall beauty in a maiden! Now he is on his trial. Can he move her? for he\nmust be to her nothing or all. How stately and far-removed she seems in\nher crystal sphere! All her relations are fair and poetic. Her book is\nnot like another book. Her soft and fragrant attire, can it be woven of\nribbons and silk? She, too, has dreamed of the coming man, heroic,\nlyrical, impassioned; the beat of his blood a paean and triumphal march;\na man able to cut paths for her and lead her to all that is worthiest in\nlife. Her day is an expectation; her demand looks out of proud eyes.\nCan he move this stately creature, pure and high above him as the clear\nmoon yonder, never turning from her course,--this Diana, who will love\nupward and stoop to no Endymion? Now it will appear whether he can pass\nwith another for all he is to himself. This will be the victory for\nwhich he was born, or blackest defeat. If she could love him! If he\nshould, after all, be to her only such another as her cousin Thomas, who\ncomes and goes with all his pretensions as unregarded as Rover the\nhouse-dog! Between these _ifs_ he vacillates, swung like a ship on\nstormy waters, touching heaven and hell.\n\nMeanwhile the maiden dares hardly look toward this generous new-comer,\nwhose destiny lies broad open in his courage and desire. Others she\ncould conciliate and gently allure, but she will not play with the lion.\nShe will throw no web around his strength to tear her heart away, if it\ndoes not hold him. For the first time she guards her fancy. She will not\nthink of the career that awaits him, of the help there is in him for\nmen, and the honor that will follow him from them,--of the high studies,\ntasks, and companionship to which he is hastening. What avails this\navoidance, this turning-away of the head? A fancy that must be kept is\nalready lost. She read his quality in the first glance of deep-meaning\neyes. When at last he speaks, she sees suddenly how beyond all recovery\nhe had carried away her soul in that glance. They marry each the\nexpectation of the other. It was a promise in either that shone so fair.\nHappy lovers, if only as wife and husband they can go on to fulfil the\npromise! For love cannot be repeated; every day it must have fresh food\nin a new object; and unless character is renewed, love must leave it\nbehind and wander on.\n\nIf the wife is still aspiring,--if she lays growing demands on her\nhero,--if her thought enlarges and she stands true to it, separate from\nhim in integrity as he saw her first, following not his, but her own\nnative estimate,--she will always be his mistress. She will still have\nthat charm of remoteness which belongs only to those who do not lean and\nborrow, to natures centred for themselves in the deep. There is\nsomething incalculable in such independence. It is full of surprise for\nthe most intimate. In one breast the true wife prepares for her husband\na course of loves. Every day she offers a new heart to be won. Every day\nthe woman he could reach is gone, and there again before him is the\ninaccessible maiden who will not accept to-day the behavior of\nyesterday. This withdrawal and advancement from height to height is true\nvirginity, which never lies down with love but keeps him always on foot\nand girded for fresh pursuit. Noble lovers rely on no pledges, point to\nno past engagements, but prefer to renew their relation from hour to\nhour. The heroic woman will command, and not solicit love. Let him go,\nwhen I cease to be all to him, when I can no longer fill the horizon of\nhis imagination and satisfy his heart. But if there is less ascension in\na woman, she is no mate for an advancing man. He must leave her; he\nwalks by her side alone. So we pass many dear companions, outgrowing\nalike our loves and our fears.\n\nOnce or twice in youth we meet a man of sounding reputation or real\nwisdom, whose secret is hid above our discovery. His manners are\nformidable while we do not understand them. In his presence our tongues\nare tied, our limbs are paralyzed. Thought dies out before him, the will\nis unseated and vacillates, we are cowed like Antony beside Caesar. In\nsolitude we are ashamed of this cowardice and resolve to put it away;\nbut when the great man returns, our knees knock and we are as weak as\nbefore. It is suicide to fly from such mortification. A brave boy faces\nit as well as he can. By-and-by the dazzle abates, he sees some flaw,\nsome coarseness or softness, in this shining piece of metal; he begins\nto fathom the motives and measure the orbit of this tyrannous\nbenefactor. They are the true friends who daunt and overpower us, to\nwhom for a little we yield more than their due.\n\nThis rule is universal, that no man can admire downward. All enthusiasm\nrises and lifts the subject of it. That which seems to you so base an\nactivity is lifted above low natures. What matter, then, where the\nstandard floats at this moment, since it cannot remain fixed?\n\nPerfection retreats, as the horizon withdraws before a traveller, and\nlures us on and on. It even travels faster than our best endeavors can\nfollow, and so beckons to us from farther and farther away. We may give\nourselves to the ideal, or we may turn aside to appetite and sleep; but\nin every moment of returning sanity we are again on our feet and again\nupon an endless ascending road.\n\nWhen a man has tasted power, when he sees the supply there is so near in\nNature for all need, he hungers for reinforcement. That desire is\nprayer. It opens its own doors and takes supplies from God's hand. No\nwise man can grudge the necessary use of the mind to serve the body with\nshelter and food, for we go merrily to Nature, and with our milk we\ndrink order, justice, beauty, and benignity. We cannot take the husks on\nwhich our bodies are fed, without expressing these juices also, which\ncirculate as sap and blood through the sphere. We cannot touch any\nobject but some spark of vital electricity is shot through us. Every\ncreature is a battery, charged not with mere vegetable or animal, but\nwith moral life. Our metaphysical being is fed from something hidden in\nrocks and woods, in streams and skies, in fire, water, earth, and air.\nWhile we dig roots, and gather nuts, and hunt and roast our meat, our\nblood is quickened not in the heart alone. Deeper currents are swelled.\nThe springs of our humanity are opened in Nature; for that which streams\nthrough the landscape, and comes in at the eye and ear, is plainly the\nsame fluid which enters as consciousness, and is the life by which we\nlive. While we enjoy this spiritual refreshment and keep ourselves open\nto it, we may dig without degradation; but if our minds fasten on the\nthing to be done, on commodity and safety, on getting and having, those\navenues seem to close by which the soul was fed. Then we forget our\nincalculable chances and certainties; we go mad, and make the mind a\nmuck-rake. If a man will direct his faculties to any limited and not to\nillimitable ends, he cripples his faculties. No matter whether he is\ndeluded by a fortune or a reputation or position, if he does not give\nhimself wholly to grow and be a man, regardless of minor advantages, he\nhas lost his way in the world. \"Be true,\" said Schiller, \"to the dream\nof thy youth.\" That dream was generous, not sordid. We must be\nsurrendered to the perfection which claims us, and suffer no narrow aim\nto postpone that insatiable demand.\n\nBut the potency of life will bring back every wanderer, as he well\nknows. Every sinner keeps his trunk packed, ready to return to the good.\nThe poor traders really mean to buy love with their gold. Feeling the\nhold of a chain which binds us even when we do not cling to it, we grow\nprodigal of time and power. The essence of life, as we enjoy it, is a\nsense of the inextinguishable ascending tendency in life; and this gives\ncourage when there is yet no reverence or devotion.\n\nIn development of character is involved great change of circumstances.\nWe cannot grow or work in a corner. It is not for greed alone or mainly\nthat men make war and build cities and found governments, but to try\nwhat they can do and become, to justify themselves to themselves and to\ntheir fellows. We desire to please and help,--but still more, at first,\nto be sure that we can please and help. If he hears any man speak\neffectually in public, the ambitious boy will never rest till he can\nalso speak, or do some other deed as difficult and as well worth doing.\nFor the trial of faculty we must go out into the world of institutions,\nrange ourselves beside the workers, take up their tools and strike\nstroke for stroke with them. Every new situation and employment dazzles\ntill we find out the trick of it. The boy longs to escape from a farm to\ncollege, from college to the city and practical life. Then he looks up\nfrom his desk, or from the pit in the theatre, to the gay world of\nfashion,--harder to conquer than even the world of thought. At last he\nmakes his way upward into the sacred circle, and finds there a little\noriginal power and a great deal of routine. These fine parts are like\nthose of players, learned by heart. The men who invented them, with whom\nthey were spontaneous, seem to have died out and left their manners with\ntheir wardrobes to narrow-breasted children, whom neither clothes nor\ncourtesies will fit. So in every department we find the snail freezing\nin an oyster-shell. The judges do not know the meaning of justice. The\npreacher thinks religion is a spasm of desire and fear. A young man soon\nloses all respect for titles, wigs, and gowns, and looks for a muscular\nmaster-mind. Somebody wrote the laws, and set the example of noble\nbehavior, and founded every religion. Only a man capable of originating\ncan understand, sustain, or use any institution. The Church, the State,\nthe Social System come tumbling ruinous over the heads of bunglers, who\ncannot uphold, because they never could have built them, and the rubbish\nobstructs every path in life. An honest, vigorous thinker will clear\naway these ruins and begin anew at the earth. When the boy has broken\nloose from home, and fairly entered the world that allured him, he finds\nit not fit to live in without revolutions. He is as much cramped in it\nas he was in the ways of the old homestead. Feeding the pigs and picking\nup chips did not seem work for a man, but he finds that almost all the\nactivity of the race amounts to nothing more; no more thought or purpose\ngoes into it. Men find Church and State and Custom ready-made, and they\nfall into the procession, ask no searching questions, but take things\nfor granted without reason; and their imitation is as easy as picking up\nchips. It is no doing, but merely sliding down hill. The way of the\nworld will not suit a valiant boy. To make elbow-room and get\nbreathing-space, he becomes a reformer; and when now he can find no new\nworlds to conquer, he will make a world, laying in truth and justice\nevery stone. The same seeker, who was so fired by the sight of his eyes,\nlooking out from a mill-yard or a shoe-shop on the many-colored activity\nof his kind, who ran such a round of arts and sciences, pursuing the\nvery secret of his being in each new enterprise, is now discontented\nwith all that has been done. He begins again to look forward,--he\nbecomes a prophet, instead of the historian he was. He easily sees that\na true manhood would disuse our ways of teaching and worshipping, would\nunbuild and rebuild every town and house, would tear away the jails and\nabolish pauperism as well as slavery. He sees the power of government\nlying unused and unsuspected in spelling-books and Bibles. Now he has\nfound a work, not for one finger, but for fighting Hercules and singing\nApollo, worthy of Minerva and of Jove. He will try what man can do for\nman.\n\nThe history of every brave girl is parallel with that of her play-fellow\nand yoke-fellow. She sighs for sympathy, for a gallant company of youths\nand maidens worthy of all desire. Her music, drawing, and Italian are\nonly doors which she hopes to open upon such a company. She longs for\nsociety to make the hours lyrical, for tasks to make them epic and\nheroic. The attitudes and actions of imaginative young persons are\nexalted every moment by the invisible presence of lovers, poets,\ninspired and inspiring companions. Such as they are we also shall be;\nwhen we walk among them and with them, we shall wash our hands of all\ninjustice, meanness, and pretension. Women are as tired as men of our\nsilly civilization, its compliments, restraints, and compromises. They\nfeel the burden of routine as heavily, and keep their elasticity under\nit as long as we. What they cannot hope to do, a great-hearted man,\nsome lover of theirs, shall do for them; and they will sustain him with\nappreciation, anticipating the tardy justice of mankind. Every generous\ngirl shares with her sex that new development of feminine consciousness,\nwhich the vulgar have named, in derision, a movement for woman's rights.\nShe will seek to be more truly woman, to assert her special power and\nprivilege, to approach from her own side the common ideal, offering a\npure soprano to match the manly bass.\n\nWe all look for a future, not only better than our won past, but better\nthan any past. Humanity is our inheritance, but not historical humanity.\nMan seems to be broken and scattered all abroad. The great lives are\nonly eminent examples of a single virtue, and by admiration of every\nhero we have been crippled on some one side. If he is free, he is also\ncoarse; if delicate, he is overlaid by the gross world; saints are timid\nand feverish, afraid of being spattered in the first puddle; heroes are\nprofane. We must melt up all the old metal to make a new man and carry\nforward the common consciousness. Every failure was part of the final\nsuccess. We go over a causeway in which every timber is some soldier\nfallen in this enterprise. Who doubts the result doubts God. We say,\nregretfully \"If I could only continue at my best!\" and we ach with the\nlittle ebb, between wave and wave, of an advancing tide. But this tide\nis Omnipotence. It rises surely, if it were only an inch in a thousand\nyears. The changes in society are like the geologic upheaval and sinking\nof continents; yet man is morally as far removed from the savage as he\nis physically superior to the saurian. We do not see the corn grow or\nthe world revolve; yet if motion be given as the primal essence, we must\nlook for inconceivable results. Wisdom will take care of wisdom, and\nextend. Consider the growth of intellect in the history of your own\nparish for twenty years. See how old views have died out of New England\nand new ones come in. Every man is fortified in his opinions, yet no man\ncan hold his opinions. The closer they are hugged, the faster in any\ncommunity they change. The ideas of such men as Swedenborg, Goethe,\nEmerson, float in the air like spores, and wherever they light they\nthrive. The crabbedest dogmatist cannot escape; for, if he open his eyes\nto seek his meet, some sunshine will creep in. We have combustibles\nstored in the stupidest of us, and a spark of truth kindles our\nslumbering suspicion. Since the great reality is organized in man, and\nwaits to be revealed in him, it is of no avail to shut out the same\nreality from our ears. Thinkers have held to be dangerous, and excluded\nfrom the desks of public instruction; but the boys were already occupied\nwith the same thoughts. They would hear nothing new at the lecture, and\nthey are more encouraged by the terror of the elders than by any word\nthe wise man could speak. In pursuit of truth, the difficulty is to ask\na question; for in the ability to ask is involved ability to reach an\nanswer. The serious student is occupied with problems which the doctors\nhave never been able to entertain, and he knows that their discourse is\nnot addressed to him. If you have not wit to understand what I seek, you\nmay croak with the frogs: you are left out of my game.\n\nAnd the old people, unhappily, suspect that this boy, whose theory they\ndo not comprehend, is master of their theory. They are puzzled and\npanic-stricken; they strike in the dark. In all controversy, the strong\nman's position is unassailed. His adversary does not see where he is,\nbut attacks a man of straw, some figment of his own, to the amusement of\nintelligent spectators. Always our combatant is talking quite wide of\nthe whole question. So the wise man can never have an opponent; for\nwhoever is able to face and find him has already gone over to his side.\nBy material defences, we shut our light for a little, by going where\nonly our own views are repeated, and so boxing ourselves from all\ndanger of conviction; but if a strong thinker could gain the mere brute\nadvantage of having an audience confined in their seats to hear him out,\nhe would carry them all inevitably to his conclusion. They know it and\nrun away. But the press has made our whole world of civilization one\ngreat lecture-room, from which no reading man can escape, and the only\ndefence against progress is stolid preoccupation with trade or trifles.\nYet this persistency is holding the breath, and can no more be continued\nin the mind than that in the body. Blundering and falsehood become\nintolerable to the blunderers; they must return to thought, and that is\nproper in a single direction, is approached by ten thousand avenues\ntoward the One. It is religious, not ignorance or dogma. We cannot think\nwithout exploration of the divine order and recognition of its divinity,\nwithout finding ourselves carried away by it to service and adoration.\nAll good is assured to us in Truth, and Truth follows us hard, drives us\ninto many a corner, and will have us at last. So Love surprises all, and\nevery virtue has a pass-key to every heart. Out of conflicting\nexperience, amid barbarism and dogmatism, from feathers that float and\nstones that fall, we deduce the great law of moral gravitation, which\nbinds spirit to spirit, and all souls to the best. Recognition of that\nlaw is worship. We rejoice in it without a taint of selfishness. We\nadore it with entire satisfaction. Worship is neither belief nor hope,\nbut this certainty of repose upon Perfection. We explore over our heads\nand under our feet a harmony that is only enriched by dissolving\ndiscords. The drag of time, the cramp of organization, are only false\nfifths. It is blasphemy to deny the dominant. We cannot escape our good;\nwe shall be purified. When our destiny is thus assured to us, we become\nimpatient of sleep and sin, and redouble exertion. We devote ourselves\nto this certainty, and our allegiance is religion. There is nothing in\nman omitted from the uplift of Ideality. That is a central and total\nexpansion of him, is an inmost entering into his inmost, is more himself\nthan he is himself. All reverence is directed toward this Creator\nrevealed in flesh, though not compassed. We adore him in others, while\nyet we despise him in ourselves. Every other motion of man has an\nexternal centre, is some hunger or passion, acts on us from its seat in\nNature or the body, and we can face it, deny and repudiate it with the\nbody; but this is the man flowing down from his source.\n\nWe must not be tempted to call things by too fine names, lest we should\ndisguise them. All that is great is plain and familiar. The Ideal\nTendency is simple love of life, felt first as desire and then as\nsatisfaction. The men who represent it are not seekers, but finders, who\ngo on to find more and more; for in the poet desire has fulfilled\nitself. Enjoyment makes the artist. He has gone on before us, reaching\ninto the abyss of possibility; but he has reached more mightily. He\nbegins to know what is promised in the universal attraction, in this\neager turning of all faces toward our future. There is a centre from\nwhich no eye can be diverted, for it is the beam of sight. Look which\nway you will, that centre is everywhere. The universe is flooded with a\nray from it, and the light of common day on every object is a refraction\nor reflection of that brightness.\n\nShallow men think of Ideality as another appetite, to be fed with pretty\nbaubles, as the body is satisfied with meat and sleep; but the\nrepresentative of that august impulse feels in it his immortality, and\nby all his lovely allegories, mythologies, fables, pictures, statues,\nmanners, songs, and symphonies, he seeks to communicate his own feeling,\nthat by specific gravity man must rise. It is no wonder, then, that we\nlove Art while it offers us reinforcement of being, and despise the\npretenders, for whom it is pastime, not prophecy.\n\nFor, in spite of all discouragement from the materialists, men\nstultified by trade or tradition, we have trusted the high desire and\nfollowed it thus far. We felt the sacredness of life even in ourselves,\nand there was always reverence in our admiration. We could not be made\nto doubt the divinity of that which walked with us in the wood or looked\non us in the morning. The grasses and pebbles, the waters and rocks,\nclouds and showers, snow and wind, were too brother-like to be denied.\nThey sang the same song which fills the breast, and our love for them\nwas pure. The men and women we sought, were they not worthy of honor?\nThe artist comes to bid us trust the Ideal Tendency, and not dishonor\nhim who moves therein. He is no trifler, then, to be thrust aside by the\ndoctors with their sciences, or the economists with production and use.\nHe offers manhood to man and womanhood to woman.\n\nWe have named Ideality a love of life. Nay, what is it but life\nitself,--and that loving but true living? What word can have any value\nfor us, unless it is a record of inevitable expansions in character. The\nuniverse is pledged to every heart, and the artist represents its\npromise. He sings, because he sees the manchild advancing, by blind\npaths it may be, but under sure guidance, propelled by inextinguishable\ndesires toward the largest experience. He is no longer afraid of old\nbugbears. He feels for one, that nothing in the universe, call it by\nwhat ugly name you will, can crush or limit the lift of that leaven\nwhich works in the breast. Out of all eyes there looks on him the same\nexpectation, and what for others is a great _perhaps_ for him has become\nunavoidable certainty.\n\n\n\n\nTHE HOUR BEFORE DAWN.\n\n     \"The mind of man is first led to adore the forces of Nature,\n     and certain objects of the material world; at a later period,\n     it yields to religious impulses of a higher and purely\n     spiritual character.\"\n\nHUMBOLDT\n\n\nCHAPTER I.\n\nAlpheus and Eleusa, Thessalian Greeks, travelled in their old age, to\nescape poverty and misfortune, which had surely taken joint lease with\nthemselves of a certain hut among the hills, and managed both household\nand flock.\n\nThe Halcyon builds its nest upon a floating weed; so to the drifting\nfortunes of these wanderers clung a friendless child, innocent and\nbeautiful Evadne.\n\nSome secret voice, the country-people say, lured the shepherd from his\nhome, to embark on the AEgean Sea, and lead the little one away, together\nwith his aged wife, to look for a new home in exile. Mariners bound for\nTroas received them into their vessel, and the voyage began.\n\nThe Greeks lamented when they beheld the shores of Asia. Heavy clouds\nand the coming night concealed the landmarks which should have guided\ntheir approach, and, buffeted by the uncertain winds, they waited for\nthe morning. By the light of dawn, they saw before them an unknown\nharbor, and the dwellings of men; and here the mariners determined to be\nrid of their passengers, who vexed them by their fears; while to these\nthree any port seemed desirable, and they readily consented to put off\ntowards the shore. At the hour when the winds rise, at early dawn, they\ngladly parted from the seamen and the tossing ship, and took the way\nbefore them to the little town.\n\nNo fisherman, shadowless, trod the sands; no pious hand lighted the fire\nof sacrifice in the vanishing twilight; even the herds failed to cry\nout for the coming day. Strange fears began to chill the hearts of the\nThessalians. They walked upon a trackless way, and when they entered the\ndwellings they found them untenanted. Over the doorways hung vines\ndropping their grapes, and birds flew out at the open windows. They\nclimbed a hill behind the town, and saw how the sea surrounded them. The\nland on which they stood was no promontory, but an island, separated by\na foaming interval of water from the shore, which they now saw, not\ndistant, but inaccessible.\n\nThen these miserable ones clung to each other on the summit of the rock,\ngazing, until they were fully persuaded of their misfortune. The winds\nwaved and fluttered their garments, the waters uttered a voice breaking\non the rocky shore, and rose mute upon the farther coast. The rain now\nbegan to fall from a morning cloud, and the travellers, for the first\ntime, found shelter under a foreign roof.\n\nAll day they watched the sails approaching the headlands, or veering\nwidely away and beating towards unseen harbors, as when a bird driven by\nfear abandons its nest, but drawn by love returns and hovers around it.\nFour days and nights had passed before the troubled waves ceased to\nhinder the craft of the fisherman. The Greeks saw with joy that their\nsignals were answered, and a boat approached, so that they could hear a\nman's voice crying to them,--\n\n\"What are you who dwell on the island of the profane, and gather fruits\nsacred to Apollo?\"\n\n\"If I may be said to dwell here,\" replied the old man, \"it is contrary\nto my own will. I am a Greek of Thessaly. Apollo himself should not have\nforbidden me to gather the wild grapes of this island, since I and this\nchild and Eleusa, my wife, have not during many days found other food.\"\n\n\"It is indeed true,\" exclaimed the boatman, \"that madness presently\nfalls upon those who eat of these grapes, since you speak impious words\nagainst the god. Behold, yonder is woody Tenedos, where his altar\nstands; it is now many years, since, filled with wrath against the\ndwellers here, he seized this rock, and hurled it into the sea; the very\nhills melted in the waves. I myself, a child then, beheld the waters\nviolently urged upon the land. Moved without winds, they rose, climbing\nupon the very roofs of the houses. When the sea became calm, a gulf lay\nbetween this and the coast, and what had been a promontory was left\nforever an island. Nor has any man dared to dwell upon it, nor to gather\nits accursed fruits. Many men have I known who saw gods walking upon\nthis shore, visible sometimes on the high cliffs inaccessible to human\nfeet. Therefore, if you, being a stranger, have ignorantly trespassed on\nthis garden, which the divinities reserve, perhaps for their own\npleasure, strive to escape their resentment and offer sacrifices on the\naltar of Tenedos.\"\n\n\"Give me a passage in your boat to the land yonder, and I will depart\nout of your coasts,\" replied the Greek.\n\nThe fisherman, hitherto so friendly, remained silent, and words were\nwanting to him wherewith to instruct the stranger. When he again spoke,\nhe said,--\n\n\"Why, old man, not having the vigor or the carelessness of youth, have\nyou quitted your home, leading this woman into strange lands, and this\nchild, whose eyes are tearful for the playmates she has left? I call a\nlittle maid daughter, who is like unto her, and she remains guarded at\nhome by her mother, until we shall give her in marriage to one of her\nown nation and language.\"\n\n\"Waste no more words,\" answered the old man, \"I will narrate my story as\nwe row towards your harbor.\"\n\n\"It were better for you,\" said the boatman, \"that they who brought you\nhither should take you into their ship again. Enter our town, if you\nwill, but be not amazed at what shall befall you. It is a custom with us\nto make slaves of those who approach us unsolicited, in order to\nprotect ourselves against the pirates and their spies, who have formerly\nlodged themselves among us in the guise of wayfaring men, and so robbed\nus of our possessions. Therefore it is our law, that those who land on\nour coast shall, during a year, serve us in bondage.\"\n\nAnger flamed in the eye of the stranger.\n\n\"You do well,\" he cried, \"to ask of me why I left the land which bore\nme. Never did I there learn to suspect vile and inhospitable customs. If\nyou have pity for the aged and the unfortunate, and would not gladly see\nthem cast into slavery, bring hither some means of life to this rock,\nwhich cowards have abandoned for me. Meanwhile, I will watch for some\nfriendly sail, which, approaching, may bear me to any harbor, where\nworse reception can hardly await me.--Know that I fear not the anger of\nyour gods; many years have I lived, and I have never yet beheld a god.\nMy father has told me, that, in all his wanderings, among lonely hills,\nat the hour of dawn, or by night, or, again, in populous places, he has\nnever seen one whom he believed to be a god. Moreover, in Athens itself\nare those who doubt their existence. Leave me to gather the grapes of\nApollo!\"\n\nSo saying, he turned away from the shore, not deigning to ask more from\nthe stranger.\n\nWhen the golden crescent moon, no sooner visible than ready to vanish in\nthe rosy western sky, was smiling on the exiles with the old familiar\nlook she wore above the groves of Thessaly, the sad-hearted ones were\nroused again by the voice of their unknown friend.\n\n\"Come down to the shore,\" he cried; \"I have returned to you with gifts;\nmy heart yearns to the child; she is gentle, and her eyes are like those\nof the stag when the hunters surround him. Take my flasks of oil and\nwine, and these cakes of barley and wheat. I bring you nets, and cords\nalso, which we fishermen know how to use. May the gods, whom you\ndespise, protect you!\"\n\nLate into the night the Greeks remained upon the border of the sea,\nwondering at their strange fate. To the idle the day is never\nsufficiently long,--the night also is wasted in words.\n\n\nCHAPTER II.\n\nThe days which the exiles passed in solitude were not unhappy. The child\nEvadne pruned the large-leaved vines, and gave the rugged cheeks of\ncertain melons to the sun. The continual hope of departure rendered all\nprivations supportable.\n\nWas it hope, or was it fear, that stirred their bosoms when at last a\nsail appeared not distant? They hoped that its white wings might turn\nseaward!\n\n\"Mother,\" cried the shepherd, \"no seaman willingly approaches this\nshore, for the white waves warn him how the rocks He beneath the water.\nEven walls and roofs of houses are seen, or guessed at, ingulfed\nformerly by the sea; and the tale of that disaster, as told us by the\nfisherman, is doubtless known to mariners, who, fearing Apollo, dare not\nland upon this island. While, on the other hand, we have heard how\npirates, and even poor wayfaring folk, are so ill-received in the bay,\nthat from them, though they be not far off, we yet look for no\nassistance. Let us, then, be content, and cease to seek after our fate,\nwhich doubtless is never at rest from seeking after us. And let us not\nbe in haste to enter again into a ship, (so fearful and unnatural a\nthing for those born to walk upon the land,) nor yet to beg our way\nalong painful and unknown roads, in search of men of a new religion and\na different language from that of Greeks. Neither, dear wife, if we must\nsuffer it, let us dread slavery too much. Life is long enough for those\nwho die young, and too long for the aged. One year let us patiently\ngive, more especially if it be unavoidable to give it. Vex me with no\nmore lamentations; some unforeseen accident may relieve us from our\nmisfortunes.\"\n\nEleusa, the good old wife, ever obedient to the husband of her youth,\ntalked no more of departure, nor yet complained of their miserable\nlodgings in the ruined huts, on which her housewifely care grieved to\nexpend itself in vain.\n\nEvadne would not be restrained from wandering. She penetrated alone the\nwildest thickets; the nests of timid birds were known to her; and she\ntraced the bee to his hidden city. Deep in the woods she discovered a\nwide chasm, in which the water of the sea palpitated with the beating of\nthe great heart of Ocean from which it flowed. Trees were still erect,\nclasped by the salt waves, but quite dead; and all around their base\nwere hung fringes of marine growth, touched with prismatic tints when\nseen through the glittering water, but brown and hideous when gathered,\nas the trophy remaining in the hand which has dared to seize old Proteus\nby the locks. All around this avenue, into which the sea sometimes\nrushed like an invading host of armed men, the laurels and the delicate\ntrees that love to bend over the sources of the forest-streams hung\nhalf-uprooted and perilously a-tiptoe over the brink of shattered rocks,\nand withered here and there by the touch of the salt foam, towards which\nthey seemed nevertheless fain to droop, asking tidings of the watery\nworld beyond.\n\nThe skeleton-arms of the destroyed ones were feeble to guard the passage\nof the ravine. Evadne broke a way over fallen trees and stepping-stones\nimbedded in sea-sand, and gained the opposite bank. The solitude in\nwhich she found herself appeared deeper, more awful, than before the\nchasm lay between the greater island and the less. She listened\nmotionless to the soft, but continual murmur of the wood, the music of\nleaves and waves and unseen wings, by which all seeming silence of\nNature is made as rich to the ear as her fabrics to the eye, so that, in\ncomparison, the garments of a king are mean, though richly dyed,\nembroidered on every border, and hung with jewels.\n\nWhile the little wood-ranger stood and waited, as it were, for what the\ngrove might utter, her eye fell upon the traces of a pathway, concealed,\nand elsewhere again disclosed, overgrown by sturdy plants, but yet\nthreading the shady labyrinth. She followed the often reappearing line\nupon the hillside, and as she climbed higher, with her rose the\nmountains and the sea. The shore, the sands, the rocky walls, showed\nevery hue of sunbeams fixed in stone. The leafy sides of Tenedos had\ncaught up the clear, green-tinted blue of the sea, and wore it in a\nnoonday dream under the slumberous light that rested on earth and sea\nand sky. Above the horizon, far away, the very clouds were motionless;\nand where the sunbeams marked a tranquil sail, it seemed, with wave and\ncloud, to express only Eternal Repose. But the eager child pressed\nonward, for the crown of the hill seemed almost reached, and she longed\nfor a wider, wider view of the beautiful AEgean.\n\nSuddenly she arrived where a sculptured stone lay in the pathway. Some\npatient and skilful hand had wrought there the emblem of a rose, and\namong the chiselled petals stood drops of rain, collected as in a cup.\nOn the border a pure white bird had just alighted, and Evadne watched\nhow it bent and rose and seemed to caress the flower of stone, while it\ndrank of the dew around and within it. Her eyes filled with tears as she\nmused on the vanished hand of Art, whose work Nature now reclaimed for\nthis humble, but grateful use. The dove took wing, and the child\nproceeding came to a level turf where a temple of white marble stood.\nEight slender columns upheld a marble canopy, beneath which stood the\nimage of a god. One raised hand seemed to implore silence, while the\nother showed clasping fingers, but they closed upon nothing. Around the\nstatue's base lay scattered stones. Evadne gathered them, and reunited\nthey formed the lyre of Apollo. She replaced, for an instant, in the\ncold and constant grasp a fragment of the ruined harp. Then the aspect\nof the god became regretful, sad, as of one who desires a voice from\nthe lips of the dead. Hastily she flung the charm away, and gentle grace\nreturned to the listening boy, from whom, sleeping, some nymph might\nhave stolen his lyre, whose complaining chords now vibrated to his ear\nand called their master to the pursuit. Evadne reposed on the steps of\nthe temple, and fixedly gazed upon the god. Her fancy endowed the firm\nhand with an unbent bow; then the figure seemed to pause in the chase,\nand listen for the baying of the hounds. Then she imaged a shepherd's\nstaff, and the shepherd-god waited tenderly for the voice of a lost\nlamb.\n\n\"So stood Apollo in Thessaly,\" she softly said, \"when he carried the\nshepherd's staff. Oh that I were the lost Thessalian lamb for whom he\nwaits, that he might descend and I die for joy on his breast!\"\n\nThen, half afraid that the lips might break their marble stillness in\nreply, she asked the protection of the deity, whom she was fain to\nadore, but whom her adopted parents dared to despise.\n\nSole worshipper at a deserted shrine, she had no offering to place\nthere, but of flowers. She wove a crown and laid it at his feet, and,\nwhile she bent by the pedestal, to hang a garland there, oh, terror! a\nvoice cried, \"Evadne! Evadne!\" A tide of fear rushed to her heart. The\ngod stood motionless yet. Who could have uttered her name? A falling\nbranch, a swift zephyr, may have seemed for an instant articulate, and\nyet it was surely a human voice which had called her. Her reverie was\nbroken now, like a cataract brought to its downfall. A moment since, all\nwas peace and joyfulness; now she remembered, with alarm, how long she\nhad left her foster-parents alone, and the way by which she had come was\nunknown, as if she had never traced it. She crossed the floor of the\ntemple, and, as she turned to whisper, \"Farewell! beautiful god!\" the\nform gently inclined itself, and the uplifted hand stirred lightly.\nEvadne darted forward and looked no more behind. She bounded over chasms\nin the pathway, and broke the tender branches before her with impatient\nhands, so that her descent from the temple was one mad flight.\n\n\nCHAPTER III.\n\nWhen Evadne returned to Alpheus and to her foster-mother, she was silent\nconcerning her discovery, and it seemed the more sweet to her for being\nsecret. Her thoughts made pilgrimages to the temple hidden by the\nlaurels once set to adorn it, and the deserted God of Youth and Immortal\nBeauty drew from her an untaught and voiceless worship. How tedious now\nappeared the labors of their half-savage life!--for the ensnaring of\nfish and the gathering of fruits for the little household gave the child\nno leisure to climb the hill a second time, to seek the lost temple, now\nall her own. Two weary days had passed, and on the morning of the third\nEvadne performed all her labors, such as they were, of field or of the\nhouse.\n\nEleusa was absorbed in the art, new to her, of repairing a broken net,\nwhen the child abruptly fled away into the forest, crying out, \"I go to\nseek wild grapes.\" She would not hear the voices calling her back. She\ngained rapidly the path, already familiar, and wherein every bough and\nevery leaf seemed expectant of her coming footsteps.\n\nHamadryads veiled themselves, each in her conscious tree, eluding human\napproach. She steals more gently along, that she may haply surprise a\nvision. The little grassy plain appears beyond the wavering\noak-branches. It is reached at last, and there,--surely it is no\ndelusion,--there rests a sleeping youth! Another step, and she bent\naside the boughs. He stands erect, listening.\n\n\"It is the god!\" she cries; and, falling back, would have been\nprecipitated from the rock, had not the youth rapidly bounded forward\nand grasped her hand.\n\n\"Little one, beautiful child,\" he cried, \"do not fear me! I have indeed\nplayed the god formerly, to scare from my hunting-ground the poor fools\nwho dread the anger of Apollo. Tell me, who are you, thus wandering in\nthe awful garden of the gods? Who brought you hither, and what name has\nbeen given you?\"\n\nTrembling still, and not knowing how to relate it, Evadne stammered\nforth some words of her history. Her senses were bewildered by the\nbeauty of the hunter-boy, who now appeared how different from the marble\ngod! Bold, and as if ever victorious, with an undaunted brow, like\nBacchus seen through the tears of sad Ariadne awakened. Strong and swift\nwere his limbs, as those of a panther. His cheek was ruddy, and his\nhalf-naked form was brown, as those appear who dwell not under a roof,\nbut in the uncertain shade of the forest. His locks were black and\nwildly disordered, and his eyes were most like to a dark stream lighted\nwith golden flashes; but the laughing beauty of his lip no emblem could\nconvey.\n\nSoon, seated on the turf, the story of each child was related.\n\n\"I am nobly born,\" said the boy, \"but I love the life of a hunter. My\nfather has left me alone, and when I am a man, I, too, shall follow him\nto Rome. But liberty is sweeter than honor or power. I escape often from\nmy tutor, who suspects not where I hide myself, and range all the\nforests. Embarking by night, in former years, I often visited this\nisland. I know where to gather fruits and seek vineyards among the\nruined huts of the village beneath us. By night I descend and gather\nthem, for my free wanderings by day caused the fishermen to relate that\na god walked upon the shore. When some, more curious or bold, turned\ntheir prows hitherward, to observe what form moved upon the hill, I\nrolled great rocks down, with a thundering noise, into the sea, and have\nterrified all men from the spot.\"\n\n\"We now call the vineyards and gardens ours,\" said Evadne, \"but it\nappears they truly belong to you. Descend to the shore and we will share\nwith you, not only the ripest clusters of the vines, but wine and loaves\nwhich the fisherman brings us.\"\n\n\"Bring me hither the wine, and I will gladly drink of it, nor waste one\ndrop in oblation; but I must not descend to the shore, and you must be\nsilent concerning me, for my tutor offers large rewards to any one who\nwill disclose where I hide myself. The slaves on the coast here are\nready to betray me. I have watched them sailing near the island, lured\nby the promise of a handful of gold, but not daring to land upon it,\nlest they should behold, against his will, a divine being.\"\n\n\"Then I will climb up hither and bring you the fruits,\" said Evadne.\n\n\"Nay, my bird,\" answered the boy, \"lay them only on the altar, below,\nand when it is safe to descend, call me.\"\n\n\"If I call softly, you cannot hear me; and I cannot call loudly enough\nto reach you upon this hill.\"\n\n\"The secrets of the island are not known to you,\" her companion said,\nand arose quickly; \"follow me,--I will teach you. You know not why\nApollo is listening? It is for the good of the worshippers, who care not\nto mount the hill to adore him. Above the town stands an altar; voices\nuttered there are brought up hither by an echo. There the pious repaired\nonce, and laid their gifts, and songs and the music of flutes sounded in\nhonor of the deity, who was held too sacred to be approached. Hold me\nnot too sacred, little one!--you shall approach without fear; but give\nme your voice at this altar, when your foster-father sleeps.\"\n\n\"But what shall I call you?\" cried the laughing Evadne.\n\n\"Call _Hylas_. Echo has often repeated, the name, they say, in the\ncountry of Mysia, and these groves shall learn it of you! Now follow me\nover the floor of the temple,--but lightly! lightly! See how the god\nwould warn us away! He nods on his pedestal; even the loud thunder may\nsome day cause his fall; already he is half shaken down from his shrine\nby earthquakes.\"\n\nThen, firmly, bold Hylas held trembling Evadne, who glanced for an\ninstant down the leafy passage of echoes.\n\n\nCHAPTER IV.\n\nWhen the day was over, Alpheus called to him his foster-child.\n\n\"You have willingly followed us into our exile,\" he said, \"nor have you\never inquired whither we lead you. Listen to me; I shall confide to you\na secret, so that, if evil befall us, you may go on and fulfil your\njourney.\n\n\"In Asia stands a city, called Thyatira, and there dwell men of a new\nreligion, called Christians. Of this faith I know as yet but little.\nBut, dear Evadne, your father is yet living, and has sent, praying me to\nconduct you to him, that you may be taught among Christians. I have\nlabored to fulfil his wish, for in our youth we were dear to each other.\nThe moon saw us nightly upon the hills, guarding our flocks, and by day\nwe practised the labors and the sports of Greeks.\"\n\n\"What is the religion of my father?\" asked the child.\n\n\"I cannot tell it to you; I know only that the Christians worship one\ngod.\"\n\n\"Apollo, then, is my choice.\"\n\n\"Not so, child. The god of Christians is not known to us; but he shall\noverthrow the idols of the whole world. The bow of Diana, the lyre of\nApollo, are already broken.\"\n\nThe child started. Was the temple known to Alpheus, too? Had he seen\nthere the fragments of a shattered harp?\n\nThe old man continued his discourse, but Evadne's thoughts had flown\naway towards the lost temple.\n\n\"There alone will I worship,\" she murmured to herself. She dreamed of\nadoring the deity of stone, but Hylas haunted all her thoughts. Yes,\nEvadne! one god is sufficient for you!\n\nUnder cover of the darkness, the friendly boatman drew near, and the\nislanders heard the unaccustomed sound of the boat drawn up the beach by\nthe youth, whose superstitious fears began to vanish as he observed that\nno calamity fell upon these dwellers on the sacred spot.\n\n\"I come,\" he said, \"with gifts truly, but also with good tidings. Have\npatience yet awhile. Your retreat is still unknown, and, after a few\ndays, I may find you the means of escape.\"\n\nEvadne alone was silent, and her tears flowed secretly.\n\nThe sun was already set, on the following day, before she stole away to\nmeet the hunter-boy. In his hand, as he advanced joyously to greet her,\nhe bore a white dove, which his arrow had pierced.\n\n\"I struck it,\" he said, while he pointed to its broken wing and bleeding\nbreast, \"when it alighted on the edge of a stone fallen from the\ntemple.\"\n\nEvadne concealed her ready tears and uttered no reproach against her\nhero; but she pressed the dead bird to her bosom.\n\n\"Tell me, Hylas,\" she asked, \"do you worship this god before us, or that\nof the Christians?\"\n\nThe boy laughed gayly.\n\n\"I worship this strong right arm,\" he said, \"and my own bold will, which\nhas conquered and shall conquer again! The stories of the gods are but\nfables. To us who are brave nothing can be forbidden; it is the weak who\nare unfortunate, and no god is able either to assist or to destroy us.\nAs to the Christians, they are a despised people, a race of madmen, who,\npretending to love poverty and martyrdom, are followed by the rude and\nignorant. As for us, we are gods, both to them and to ourselves.\"\n\nEvadne knew that she herself must be counted among the rude and\nignorant; she dared not raise her eyes to the young noble, who watched\nher quivering lip, and but dimly guessed how he had wounded her.\n\n\"Leave caressing the dead bird,\" he said, at last, \"and I will tell you\ntales of Rome and its glories.\"\n\nAnd he charmed back again her innocent smiles, with noble traditions of\nkings, of gods, and of heroes, till the round moon stood above Gargarus,\ncold, in a rose-tinted heaven.\n\nBut again at sunrise the child sought the spot to bring a basket, heavy\nwith gifts, for Hylas. He came at the call of Evadne, fresh, glowing,\nbeautiful as a child rocked on the breast of Aurora, and upheld by her\ncool, fanning wings. His cheek wore the kiss of the Sun, and his closely\ncurling locks were wet by the scattered fountain, cold in the shaded\ngrove. He broke the early silence of the air with song and story, and\nnamed for the admiring child the towns, the headlands, and the hills,\nover which the eye delighted to wander.\n\n\"Now is the hour,\" he said, \"when mariners far away behold for a little\nwhile the dome of this temple. They believe that the gods have rendered\nit invisible except at the rising day; but, in truth, the oaks, the\nlaurels, and the unpruned ivy conceal it from view, at all times, except\nwhen the rays from the east strike upward. I have delighted to teach the\npeople fables concerning this island and the lost temple; for as long as\nthey fear to tread upon this spot, I have a retreat for myself, where I\nrange unmolested.\n\n\"See yonder, so white among the dark cypress-trees, my father's villa!\nIt has gardens and shady groves, but I love best the wild branching oaks\nwhich give their shade to Evadne! Far away in the purple distance stands\nthe Mount of Ida. There dwelt Paris, content with the love of Oenone,\nuntil he knew himself to be the son of a king, for whom Argive Helen\nalone was found worthy; for his eyes had rested once upon immortal\ncharms, of which the green eternal pines of Ida are still whispering the\nstory. See how the people of this village of Athos flock together! Some\nfestival occupies them. I see them going forth from the gates in\nhurrying crowds; and now a band of men approaches. Some one is about to\nenter their town, to whom they wish to do honor, and doubtless they bear\ngreen branches to strew in the way. I know not what festival they\ncelebrate, for the altars are all deserted.\"\n\n\"I see a boat put off from the shore,\" said Evadne, \"and it seems to\nturn its prow hitherward.\"\n\nBut it soon was concealed by the woody hill-top, although its course was\nseen to be directed towards the ruined huts upon the shore. Not long\nafter, the children heard the name of \"Evadne,\" brought faintly by the\nechoes, like the words of unseen ghosts who strive to awaken some\nbeloved sleeper unconscious of their presence.\n\nEvadne feared to return, and dared not stay. For the first time, the\nvoice of her foster-father failed to bring her obedient footsteps; for\nher fluttering heart suspected something strange and unwelcome awaiting\nher. She wept at parting from Hylas, and the boy detained her. He also\nseemed troubled.\n\n\"Dear little one,\" he said, \"betray me not! These men of Athos have seen\nme, and have authority to bring me bound before some ruler who has\nentered their town. They come to look for me now. I fly to my\nhiding-place, and you will deny that you saw any one in this forest.\"\n\nHe was gone down the face of the cliff, with winged feet, light of tread\nas Jove's messenger. More slowly, Evadne retraced the downward path, and\nlingered on the banks of the ravine, where the bitter waters were\nsobbing among the rocks. She lay down upon the ground, and dreamed,\nwhile yet waking, of her home in Thessaly, of her unknown father in the\nChristian city of Thyatira, and of Hylas, ever Hylas, and the pain of\nparting. How long she hid herself she guessed not, until the sun at the\nzenith sent down his brightest beam to discover the lost Thessalian\nlamb. Then, subdued and despairing, she travelled on to meet the\nreproaches that could not fail to await her.\n\n\nCHAPTER V.\n\nAt midnight the sleepless girl stole from her couch, and laid on the\naltar beyond the village heavy clusters of grapes and the richest fruits\nfrom her store of dainties. \"Hylas!\" she softly cried, and the\nsleepless echo repeated the name; but though she watched long, no form\nemerged from the forest. Timidly she flitted back to her dwelling, and\nwaited for an eastern gleam. At last the veil of night was lifted a\nlittle, a wind ruffled the waves, and the swaying oaks repeated to the\nhills the message of coming splendors from the Orient. Evadne gladly saw\nthat the stars were fewer and paler in the sky, and she walked forth\nagain, brushing cold dews from the vines and the branches. A foreboding\nfear led her first to look at the altar where she had left her offering.\nIt was untouched. Then she entered the still benighted wood, and passed\nthe cold gray waters. Arrived at the temple, she felt a hateful\nstillness in the place.\n\n\"Hylas!\" she loudly called, \"come to me! For _you_ there is no danger;\nbut for me, they will take me away at sunrise. The Christians will come\nto-day and carry me hence. Oh, Hylas! where do you hide yourself?\"\n\nBut only a strong and angry wind disturbed the laurels around the\ntemple, and all was still. Then the song of the birds began all around\nher, and a silver gleam shot across the eastern horizon. Suddenly\nrosy-tinged signals stood among the sad-colored torn clouds above her\nhead. The hour for her departure was approaching. She gazed intently\ndown among the pines, where Hylas had disappeared, and painfully and\nslowly began to descend. The wild-eyed hares glanced at her and shrank\ninto concealment again. The birds uttered cries of alarm, and the\nmotionless lizards lay close to her feet. Her heart beat anxiously when\nshe heard the sudden stroke of a bird's wing, scared from its nest, and\nshe paused often to listen, but no human voice was heard.\n\nShe penetrated slowly thus to that shore of the island which she had\nnever yet visited. She reached a border of white sand, and studied its\nsurface. She found a record there,--traces of footsteps, and the long\ntrail of a boat, drawn from a thicket of laurels to the shore, and down\nto the water's edge. She stood many minutes contemplating these signs.\nShe imaged to herself the retreat by night, by the late rising light of\nthe waning moon. She seemed to see the youth, his manly arm urging the\nboat from its hiding-place. In this spot his foot pressed the sand.\nThere he walked before and drew the little craft behind him. He launched\nit here, and, had not the winds urged the water up the shore, his last\nfootstep might have remained for Evadne to gaze at.\n\nHe is surely gone! To return for the smiles of Evadne? She knows not if\nhe will return; but she glances upward at the sky, and feels that she\nsoon will have quitted the island, this happy island, forever!\n\nUpward through the wood again she toils to take a last look at the\ntemple. The spot seemed already to have forgotten her. And yet here lies\na withered crown she wove once for Hylas; and here she finds at last the\ndart she lost for him, when she drew his bow in play. Now she sees on\nthe shore at Athos an assembly of the people, and the men push off their\nboats. The village is already alive, and awake. The rising of the sun is\nlooked for, and the clouds are like a golden fleece. Slowly above the\ntree-tops the swans are waving their great pinions, to seek the stream\nof Cayster. All creatures recognize the day, and only one weeps to see\nthe light.\n\nEvadne knew that on yonder shore waited the dreaded messengers who would\ngather the homeless into the Christian fold. She stayed to utter one\nfarewell to the cold, the cruel marble, with its unvaried smile.\n\n\"Be my god!\" she cried, aloud. \"In whatever strange land, to whatever\nunknown religion I may be led, the god of this forgotten temple shall\nhave the worship of my heart!\"\n\nShe crossed the marble pavement. She clasped with her white cold arms\nthe knees of Apollo--Hold! the form totters!--it is too late!--it must\nfall! She rises to flee away, but the very floor is receding from her\ntread. And slowly, with a majesty even in destruction, the god bows\nhimself, and drops from his pedestal.\n\nThe crashing fall is over. The foundations of the shrine, parted long\nago by earthquakes, and undermined by torrents, have slipped from their\nplace. Stones slide gradually to the brink of the rock, and some have\nfallen near the sculptured rose; and yet some portions of the graceful\ntemple stand, and will support the dome yet, until some boisterous storm\nshakes roughly the remaining columns.\n\nBut the god is dethroned, shivered, ruined. Evadne should arise and go.\nThe daylight overflows the sky, and she is quite, quite still, where the\nhand of Apollo has laid her. Her forehead was but touched by fingers\nthat once held the lyre; and a crimson stream flows through the locks\nupon her brow. A smile like that which the god wore is fixed and\nchangeless now upon her lip. Why does she smile? Because, in the dawn of\nlife, of grief, of love, she found peace.\n\nThe sun was up, and there was no more silence or repose along the coast.\nVigor and toil gave signs of their awakening. Sails were unfurled upon\nthe wavering masts, and showed white gleams, as the sunlight struck each\nas it broadened out and swayed above its bright reflection below. Oars\nwere dipped in the smooth sea, and an eager crowd stood waiting to visit\nthe exiles on the once dreaded island. Evadne was already missed. Again\nand again voices called upon her, the echoes repeated the sound, and the\ngroves had but one voice,--\"Evadne!\" She stirred not at the sound, but\nher smile grew sweeter, and her brow paler, and cold as the marble hand\nthat pressed it.\n\nOh, Alpheus! oh, Eleusa! chide not! you will be weeping soon! She has,\nindeed, angered you of late. She left her foster-parents alone, and\nthreaded the forest. She hid herself when you called, and, when the\nfisher's boat was waiting to convey her with you to the shore, where\nfriends were ready to receive her and lead her to her father, then she\nwas wandering!\n\nEleusa is querulous. No wonder! for the child is sadly changed. They\nwill see her soon; a Christian prophet comes to break the heathen spell\nof the island. The men of yonder village consent to abjure the worship\nof Apollo. They come with the teacher of a new religion to consecrate\nthe spot anew. The busy crowd, as on a day of festival, embark to claim\nagain the once deserted spot.\n\nAlpheus and Eleusa wait sadly for their approach, for trouble possesses\ntheir hearts. They pine for their once gentle, submissive child. But the\nteacher comes, and hails them in words of a new benediction. _The Great\nName_ is uttered also in their hearing. Calmness returns to them, in the\npresence of the holy man. It is not Paul, mighty to reprove, and learned\nas bold,--it is that \"one whom Jesus loved.\" He has rested on his bosom,\nand looked on him pierced on the cross. The look from his dying eyes and\nthe tones of his tender love are ever present in the soul of this\nbeloved disciple. The awful revelations of Patmos had not yet illumined\nhis eyes. His locks were white as the first blossoms of the spring, but\nhis heart was not withered by time, and men believed of him that he\nshould never see death. Those who beheld him loved him, and listened\nbecause they loved. What he desired was accomplished as if a king had\ncommanded it, and what he taught was gathered in among the treasures of\nthe heart.\n\nThe first care of the Apostle was to seek the lost child, and the youths\nof his company went on, and scaled the hill. Meanwhile, not far from the\naltar, on which an unregarded offering lay, the people gathered round\ntheir master, while to Alpheus and Eleusa he related the immortal story\nof Judea.\n\nBefore mid-day the villagers had returned to their dwellings. With John,\ntheir friend and consoler, two mourners departed from the island, where\nfabled Apollo no longer possessed a shrine. His altar was torn away; a\nnewly-made grave was marked by a cross roughly built of its broken\nstones.\n\n\"I will return here,\" said the fisherman of Athos, \"when you are far\naway in some Christian city of Asia. I will return and carve here the\nname of 'Evadne.'\"\n\n\n\n\nTHE SKATER.\n\n\n    The skater lightly laughs and glides,\n      Unknowing that beneath the ice\n      Whereon he carves his fair device\n    A stiffened corpse in silence slides.\n\n    It glareth upward at his play;\n      Its cold, blue, rigid fingers steal\n      Beneath the trendings of his heel;\n    It floats along and floats away.\n\n    He has not seen its horror pass;\n      His heart is blithe; the village hears\n      His distant laughter; he careers\n    In festive waltz athwart the glass.--\n\n    We are the skaters, we who skim\n      The surface of Life's solemn flood,\n      And drive, with gladness in our blood,\n    A daring dance from brim to brim.\n\n    Our feet are swift, our faces burn,\n      Our hopes aspire like soaring birds;\n      The world takes courage from our words,\n    And sees the golden time return.\n\n    But ever near us, silent, cold,\n      Float those who bounded from the bank\n      With eager hearts, like us, and sank\n    Because their feet were overbold.\n\n    They sank through breathing-holes of vice,\n      Through treacherous sheens of unbelief;\n      They know not their despair and grief:\n    Their hearts and minds are turned to ice.\n\n\n\n\nTHOMAS JEFFERSON.[1]\n\n[Concluded.]\n\n\nMr. Jefferson returned from France in the autumn of 1789, and the\nfollowing spring took office as Secretary of State. He was unwilling to\nabandon his post abroad, but the solicitations of Washington controlled\nhim. He plainly was the most suitable person for the place. Franklin,\nthe father of American diplomacy, was rapidly approaching the close of\nhis long and busy life, and John Adams, the only other statesman whose\ndiplomatic experience could be compared with that of Thomas Jefferson,\nwas Vice President.\n\nIt would be a tedious task to enter into a detail of the disputes which\narose in Washington's Cabinet, nor is it necessary to do so. Most candid\npersons, who have examined the subject, are convinced that the\ndifferences were unavoidable, that they were produced by exigencies in\naffairs upon which men naturally would disagree, by conflicting social\nelements, and by the dissimilar characters, purposes, and political\ndoctrines of Jefferson and Hamilton. Jefferson's course was in\naccordance with the general principles of government which from his\nyouth he had entertained.\n\nAs to the accusation, so often made, that he opposed an administration\nof which he was a member and which by the plainest party-rules he was\nbound to support, it is completely answered by the statement, that his\nconduct was understood by Washington, that he repeatedly offered to\nresign, and that when he retired it was in opposition to the President's\nwish. It is not worth while for us to apply a higher standard of party\nloyalty to Washington's ministers than he himself applied.\n\nOne great difficulty encountered by the politicians of that day seems to\nhave been purely fanciful. Strictly speaking, the government did not\nhave a policy. It went into operation with the impression that it would\nbe persistently resisted, that its success was doubtful, and that any\nconsiderable popular disaffection would be fatal to it. These fears\nproved to be unfounded. The day Washington took the oath, the government\nwas as stable as it now is. Disturbing elements undoubtedly existed, but\nthey were controlled by great and overruling necessities, recognized by\nall men. Thus the final purpose of the administration was accomplished\nat the outset. The labor which it was expected would task the patriotism\nand exercise the skill of the most generous and experienced was\nperformed without an effort,--as it were, by a mere pulsation of the\npopular heart. The question was not, How shall the government be\npreserved? but, How shall it be administered? This is evident now, but\nwas not seen then. The statesmen of the time believed that the Union was\nconstantly in danger, and that their best efforts were needed to protect\nit. In this spirit they approached every question which presented\nitself. Thinking that every measure directly affected the safety of the\nrepublic, a difference of opinion could not be a mere disagreement upon\na matter of policy. In proportion to the intensity of each man's\npatriotism was his conviction that in his way alone could the government\nbe preserved, and he naturally thought that his opponents must be either\nculpably neglecting or deliberately plotting against the interests of\nthe country. Real difficulties were increased by imaginary ones.\nOpposition became treason. Parties called themselves Republicans and\nFederalists;--they called each other monarchists and anarchists. This\ndelusion has always characterized our politics; noisy politicians of\nthe present day stigmatize their adversaries as disunionists; but during\nthe first twenty years it was universal, and explains the fierce\nparty-spirit which possessed the statesmen of that period, and likewise\naccounts for many of their errors.\n\nAmong these errors must be placed the belief which Jefferson had, that\nthere was a party of monarchists in the country. Sir. Randall makes a\nlong argument in support of this opinion, and closes with an intimation\nthat those who refuse to believe now cannot be reached by reason. He may\nrank us with these perverse skeptics; for, in our opinion, his argument\nnot only fails to establish his propositions, but is strong against\nthem. Let it be understood;--the assertion is not, that there were some\nwho would have preferred a monarchy to a republic, but that, after the\ngovernment was established, Ames, Sedgwick, Hamilton, and other Federal\nleaders, were plotting to overturn it and create a monarchy. Upon this\nwe have no hesitation in taking issue. The real state of the case, and\nthe circumstances which deceived Mr. Jefferson, may be briefly set\nforth.\n\nJefferson left France shortly after the taking of the Bastile. He saw\nthe most auspicious period of the Revolution. During the session of the\nEstates General, the evils which afflicted France were admitted by all,\nbut the remedies proposed were, as yet, purely speculative. The roseate\ntheories of poets and enthusiasts had filled every mind with vague\nexpectations of some great good in the future. Nothing had occurred to\ndisturb these pleasing anticipations. There was no sign of the fearful\ndisasters then impending. The delirium of possession had not seized upon\nthe nation,--her statesmen had not learned how much easier it is to plan\nthan to achieve,--nor had the voice of Burke carried terror throughout\nEurope. Even now, it is impossible to read the first acts of that drama\nwithout being moved to sympathetic enthusiasm. What emotions must it not\nhave excited while the awful catastrophe was yet concealed! Tried by any\nreceived test, France, for centuries, had been the chief state in\nEurope,--inferior to none in the arts of war, superior to any in the\narts of peace. Fashion and letters had given her an empire more\npermanent than that which the enterprise of Columbus and the fortune of\nCharles gave to Spain, more extended than that which Trafalgar and\nWaterloo have since given to England. Though her armies were resisted,\nher wit and grace were irresistible; every European prince was her\nsubject, every European court a theatre for the display of her address.\nThe peculiar spirit of her genius is not more distinctly to be seen in\nthe verse of Boileau than in that of Pope,--in the sounding periods of\nBossuet than in Addison's easy phrase. The spectacle of a nation so\ndistinguished, which had carried tyranny to a perfection and invested it\nwith a splendor never before seen, becoming the coryphaeus of freedom,\nmight easily have fascinated a mind less impressible by nature, and less\ndisposed by education for favorable impressions, than that of Jefferson.\nHe shared the feeling of the hour. His advice was asked, and\nrespectfully listened to. This experience, while, as he says, it\nstrengthened his preconceived convictions, must have prevented him from\ncarefully observing, certainly from being affected by, the influences\nwhich had been at work in his own country. He came home more assured in\nrepublicanism, and expecting to find that America had kept pace with\nhim.\n\nBut many things had occurred in America to excite doubts of the\nefficiency of republican institutions. The government of the\nConfederation was of little value. During the war, common interests and\ndangers had bound the Colonies together; with peace came commercial\nrivalries, boundary disputes, relations with other countries, the\nburdens of a large debt,--and the scanty powers with which Congress had\nbeen clothed were inadequate to the public exigencies. The Congress was\na mere convention, in which each State had but one vote. To the most\nimportant enactments the consent of nine States was necessary. The\nconcurrence of the several legislatures was required to levy a tax,\nraise an army, or ratify a treaty. The executive power was lodged in a\ncommittee, which was useless either for deliberation or action. The\ngovernment fell into contempt; it could not protect itself from insult;\nand the doors of Congress were once besieged by a mob of mutinous\nsoldiery. The States sometimes openly resisted the central government,\nand to the most necessary laws, those for the maintenance of the\nnational credit, they gave but a partial obedience. They quarrelled with\neach other. New York sent troops into the field to enforce her claims\nupon her New England neighbors. The inhabitants of the Territories\nrebelled. Kentucky, Vermont, and Tennessee, under another name, declared\nthemselves independent, and demanded admission into the Union. In New\nHampshire and Pennsylvania, insurrections took place. In Massachusetts,\na rebellion was set on foot, which, for a time, interrupted the sessions\nof the courts. An Indian war, attended by the usual barbarities, raged\nalong the northern frontier. Foreign states declined to negotiate with a\ngovernment which could not enforce its decrees within its own borders.\nEngland haughtily refused to withdraw her troops from our soil; Spain\nclosed the Mississippi to the commerce and encroached upon the territory\nof the Confederation. Every consideration of safety and advantage\ndemanded a government with strength enough to secure quiet at home and\nrespect abroad. It is not to be denied that many thoughtful and\nexperienced men were discouraged by the failure of the Confederation,\nand thought that nothing but a monarchy could accomplish the desired\npurpose.\n\nThere were also certain social elements tending in the same direction,\nand these were strongest in the city of New York, where Jefferson first\nobserved them. That city had been the centre of the largest and most\npowerful Tory community in the Colonies. The gentry were nearly all\nTories, and, during the long occupation of the town, the tradespeople,\nthriving upon British patronage, had become attached to the British\ncause. There, and, indeed, in all the cities, there were aristocratic\ncircles. Jefferson was of course introduced into them. In these circles\nwere the persons who gave dinners, and at whose tables he heard the\nopinions expressed which astonished and alarmed him.\n\nWhat is described as polite society has never been much felt in American\npolitics; it was not more influential then. Besides, in many cases,\nthese opinions were more likely to have been the expression of\naffectation than of settled conviction. Nothing is more common than a\ncertain insincerity which leads men to profess and seemingly believe\nsentiments which they do not and cannot act upon. The stout squire who\nprides himself upon his obstinacy, and whose pretty daughter manages him\nas easily as she manages her poodle, is a favorite character in English\ncomedy. Every one knows some truculent gentleman who loudly proclaims\nthat one half of mankind are knaves and the other half would be if they\ndared, but who would go mad with despair if he really believed the\natrocious principles he loves to announce. Jefferson was not so\nconstituted as to make the proper allowance for this kind of\ninsincerity. Though undemonstrative, he was thoroughly in earnest. In\nfact, he was something of a precisian in politics. He spoke of kings and\nnobles as if they were personal foes, and disliked Scott's novels\nbecause they give too pleasing a representation of the institution of\nchivalry. He probably looked upon a man who spoke covetously of titles\nmuch as a Salem elder a century before would have looked upon a\nhard-swearing Virginia planter. In the purse-proud citizens, who, after\ndinner, used to talk grandly about the British Constitution, he saw a\nset of malignant conspirators, when in fact not one in ten had ever\nthought seriously upon the subject, or had enough force of character to\nattempt to carry out his opinions, whatever they might have been.\n\nThe political discontents were hardly more formidable. We have admitted\nthat some influential persons were in favor of a monarchy; but no one\ntook a decided step in that direction. In all the published\ncorrespondence there is not a particle of evidence of such a movement.\nEven Hamilton, in his boldest advances towards a centralization of\npower, did not propose a monarchy. Those who were most doubtful about\nthe success of a republic recognized the necessity of making the\nexperiment, and were the most active in establishing the present one.\nThe sparsity of the population, the extent of the country, and its\npoverty, made a royal establishment impossible. The people were\ndissatisfied with the Confederation, not with republicanism. The breath\nof ridicule would have upset the throne. The King, the Dukes of\nMassachusetts and Virginia, the Marquises of Connecticut and Mohawk,\nEarl Susquehanna and Lord Livingston, would have been laughed at by\nevery ragamuffin. The sentiment which makes the appendages of royalty,\nits titles and honors, respectable, is the result of long education, and\nhas never existed in America. Washington was the only person mentioned\nin connection with the crown; but had he attempted to reach it, he would\nhave lost his power over the people. He was strong because he had\nconvinced his country that he held personal objects subservient to\npublic ones,--that, with him, \"the path of duty was the way to glory.\"\nHe had none of the magnetism which lulls the senses and leads captive\nthe hearts of men. Had he clothed himself in the vulgar robes of\nroyalty,--had he taken advantage of the confidence reposed in him for a\npurpose of self-aggrandizement, and that of so petty and commonplace a\nkind,--he would have sunk to a level with the melodramatic heroes of\nhistory, and that colossal reputation, which rose, a fair exhalation\nfrom the hearts of grateful millions, and covered all the land, would\nhave vanished like a mist.\n\nWhatever individuals may have wished for, the charge of monarchical\ndesigns cannot be brought against the Federalists as a party. New\nEngland was the mother of the Revolution, and became the stronghold of\nFederalism. In South Carolina and New York, a majority of the\ninhabitants were Tories; the former State voted for Mr. Jefferson every\ntime he was a candidate, the latter gave him his election in 1800. It\nrequires a liberal expenditure of credulity to believe that the children\nof the Puritans desired a monarchy more than the descendants of the\nCavaliers and the adherents of De Lancy and Ogden. Upon this subject\nJefferson does not seem to have understood that disposition which can be\ndissatified with a measure, and yet firm and honest in supporting it.\nPublic men constantly yield or modify their opinions under the pressure\nof political necessity. He himself gives an instance of this, when, in\nstating that he was not entirely content with the Constitution, he\nremarks that not a member of the Federal Convention approved it in all\nits parts. Why may we not suppose that Hamilton and Ames sacrificed\ntheir opinions, as well as Mr. Jefferson and the framers of the\nConstitution?\n\nThe evidence with which Mr. Randall fortifies his position is\ninconclusive. It consists of the opinions of leading Republicans, and\nextracts from the letters of leading Federalists. The former are liable\nto the objection of having been prompted by political prejudices; the\nlatter will not bear the construction which he places upon them. They\nare nothing more than expressions of doubt as to the stability of the\ngovernment, and of regret that one of a different kind was not\nadopted,--most of which were made after the Federalists were defeated.\nWe should not place too literal a construction upon the repinings of\ndisappointed placemen. Mr. Randall, we believe, has been in political\nlife, and ought to be accustomed to the disposition which exists among\npublic men to think that the country will be ruined, if it is deprived\nof their services. After every election, our ears are vexed by the\ngloomy vaticinations of defeated candidates. This amiable weakness is\ntoo common to excite uneasiness.\n\nAn argument of the same kind, and quite as effective as Mr. Randall's,\nmight be made against Jefferson. His letters contain predictions of\ndisaster in case of the success of his opponents, and the Federalists\nspoke as harshly of him as he of them. They charged him with being a\ndisciple of Robespierre, said that he was in favor of anarchy, and would\nerect a guillotine in every market-place. He called them monarchists,\nand said they sighed after King, Lords, and Commons. Neither charge will\nbe believed. The heads of the Federalists were safe after the election\nof Mr. Jefferson, and the republic would have been safe if Hamilton and\nAdams had continued in power.\n\nBoth parties formed exaggerated opinions. That Jefferson did so, no one\ncan doubt who observes the weight he gave to trifles,--his annoyance at\nthe etiquette of the capital,--at the levees and liveries,--at the\nPresident's speech,--the hysterical dread into which he was thrown by\nthe mere mention of the Society of the Cincinnati, and the \"chill\" which\nMr. Randall says came over him \"when he heard Hamilton praise Caesar.\"\nThis spirit led him to the act which every one must think is a stain\nupon his character: we refer to the compilation of his \"Ana.\" As is well\nknown, that book was written mainly for the purpose of proving that the\nFederalists were in favor of a monarchy. It consists chiefly of reports\nof the conversations of distinguished characters. Some of these\nconversations--and it is noticeable that they are the most innocent\nones--took place in his presence. The worst expressions are mere reports\nby third parties. One story rests upon no better foundation than that\nTalleyrand told it to Volney, who told it to Jefferson. At one place we\nare informed, that, at a St. Andrew's Club dinner, the toast to the\nPresident (Mr. Adams) was coldly received, but at that to George the\nThird \"Hamilton started to his feet and insisted on a bumper and three\ncheers.\" This choice bit of scandal is given on the authority of \"Mr.\nSmith, a Hamburg merchant,\" \"who received it from Mr. Schwarthouse, _to\nwhom it was told by one of the dinner-party_.\" At a dinner given by some\nmembers of the bar to the federal judges, this toast was offered: \"Our\n_King_ in old England,\"--Rufus King being the American minister in that\ncountry. Whereupon Mr. Jefferson solemnly asks us \"to observe the\n_double entendre_ on the word King.\" Du Ponceau told this to Tenche\nCoxe, who told it to Jefferson. Such stuff is repeated in connection\nwith descriptions of how General and Mrs. Washington sat on a raised\nsofa at a ball, and all the dancers bowed to them,--and how Mrs. Knox\nmounted the steps unbidden, and, finding the sofa too small for three,\nhad to go down. We are told that at one time John Adams cried, \"Damn\n'em! you see that an elective government will not do,\"--and that at\nanother he complimented a little boy who was a Democrat, saying, \"Well,\na boy of fifteen who is not a Democrat is good for nothing,--and he is\nno better who is a Democrat at twenty.\" Of this bit of treason Jefferson\nsays, \"Ewen told Hurt, and Hurt told me.\" These are not mere scraps,\npublished by an indiscreet editor. They were revised by Mr. Jefferson in\n1818, when he was seventy-five years old, after, as he says, the\npassions of the time were passed away,--with the intention that they\nshould be published. It is humiliating to record this act. No\njustification for it is possible. It is idle to say that these\nrevelations were made to warn the country of its danger. As evidence\nthey are not entitled to a thought. More flimsy gossip never floated\nover a tea-table. Besides, for such a purpose they should have been\npublished when the contest was in progress, when the danger was\nimminent, not after the men whom he arraigned were defeated and most of\nthem in their graves. Equally unsatisfactory is the excuse, that they\nillustrate history. This may be true, but it does not acquit Mr.\nJefferson. Pepys tells us more than Hume about the court of Charles II.,\nand Boswell's Life of Johnson is the best biography in the\nlanguage,--but he must be a shabby fellow who would be either a Boswell\nor a Pepys. Mr. Randall's excuse, that the act was done in\nself-vindication, is the worst of all. Jefferson was the victor and\nneeded no defence, surely not so mean and cowardly a defence. That a\ngrave statesman should stoop to betray the confidence of familiar\nintercourse,--that a skeptical inquirer, who systematically rejected\neverything which did not stand the most rigid tests, should rely on the\nridiculous gossip of political circles,--that a deliberate and\nthoughtful man should jump to a conclusion as quickly as a child, and\nassert it with the intolerance of a Turk, certainly is a strange\nanomaly. We can account for it only by supposing that upon the subject\nof a monarchy he was a little beside himself. It is certain, that,\nthrough some weakness, he was made to forget gentlemanly propriety, and\nthe plainest rules for the sifting of testimony;--let us believe that\nthe general opinions which he formed, and which his biographer\nperpetuates, resulted from the same unfortunate weakness.\n\nWe have dwelt upon this subject, both on account of the prominence which\nMr. Randall has given it, and because, as admirers of Mr. Jefferson, we\nwished to make a full and distinct statement of the most common and\nreasonable complaint against him. The biographer has done his hero a\ngreat injury by reviving this absurd business, and has cast suspicion\nupon the accuracy of his book. It is time that our historians approached\ntheir subjects with more liberal tempers. They should cease to be\nadvocates. Whatever the American people may think about the policy of\nthe Federalists, they will not impute to them unpatriotic designs. That\nparty comprised a majority of the Revolutionary leaders. It is not\nstrange that many of them fell into error. They were wealthy and had the\npride of wealth. They had been educated with certain ideas about rank,\nwhich a military life had strengthened. The liberal theories which the\nwar had engendered were not understood, and, during the French\nRevolution, they became associated with acts of atrocity which Mr.\nJefferson himself condemned. Abler men than the Federalists failed to\ndiscriminate between the crime and the principles which the criminals\nprofessed. Students of affairs are now in a better position than Mr.\nJefferson was, to ascertain the truth, and they will not find it\nnecessary to adopt his prejudices against a body of men who have adorned\nour history by eloquence, learning, and valor.\n\nJefferson's position in Washington's government must have been extremely\ndisagreeable. There was hardly a subject upon which he and Hamilton\nagreed. Washington had established the practice of disposing of the\nbusiness before the Cabinet by vote. Each member was at liberty to\nexplain his views, and, owing to the wide differences in opinion, the\nCabinet Council became a debating society. This gave Hamilton an\nadvantage. Jefferson never argued, and, if he had attempted it, he would\nhave been no match for his adversary. He contented himself with a plain\nstatement of his views and the reasons which influenced him, made in the\nabstract manner which was habitual with him. Hamilton, on the other\nhand, was an adroit lawyer, and a painstaking dialectician, who\ncarefully fortified every position. He made long speeches to the\nCabinet, with as much earnestness as one would use in court. Though\nJefferson had great influence with the President, he was generally\noutvoted. Knox, of course, was against him. Randolph, the\nAttorney-General, upon whose support he had a right to depend, was an\ningenious, but unsteady, sophist. He had so just an understanding, that\nhis appreciation of his opponent's argument was usually stronger than\nhis confidence in his own. He commonly agreed with Jefferson, and voted\nwith Hamilton. The Secretary of State was not allowed to control his\nown department. Hamilton continually interfered with him, and had\nbusiness interviews with the ministers of foreign countries. The dispute\nsoon spread beyond the Cabinet, and was taken up by the press. Jefferson\nagain and again asked leave to resign; Washington besought him to\nremain, and endeavored to close the breach between the rival\nSecretaries. For a time, Jefferson yielded to these solicitations; but\nfinally, on the 31st of December, 1793, he left office, and was soon\nfollowed by Hamilton.\n\nAfter reaching Monticello, Mr. Jefferson announced, that he had\ncompletely withdrawn from affairs, and that he did not even read the\njournals, preferring to contemplate \"the tranquil growth of lucern and\npotatoes.\" These bucolic pleasures soon palled. Cultivating lucern and\npotatoes is, without doubt, a dignified and useful employment, but it is\nnot likely to content a man who has played a great part, and is\nconscious that he is still able to do so. We soon find him a candidate\nfor the Presidency, and, strange as it may seem, in 1797, he was\npersuaded to leave his \"buckwheat-dressings\" and take the seat of\nVice-President.\n\nThose who are interested in party tactics will find it instructive to\nread Mr. Randall's account of the opposition to Adams's administration.\nHis correspondence shows that Adams was the victim of those in whom he\nconfided. He made the mistake of retaining the Cabinet which Washington\nhad during the last year or two of his term, and a weaker one has never\nbeen seen. His ministers plotted against him,--his party friends opposed\nand thwarted him. The President had sufficient talent for a score of\nCabinets, but he likewise had many foibles, and his position seemed to\nfetter his talents and give full play to his foibles. The opposition\nadroitly took advantage of the dissensions of their adversaries. In\nCongress, the Federalists were compelled to carry every measure by main\nforce, and every inch of ground was contested. The temporizing Madison,\nformerly leader of the Republicans in the House of Representatives, had\nbeen succeeded by Albert Gallatin, a man of more enterprising spirit and\nfirmer grasp of thought. He was assisted by John Randolph, who then\nfirst displayed the resources of his versatile and daring intellect. Mr.\nJefferson, also, as the avowed candidate for the succession, may be\nsupposed to have contributed his unrivalled knowledge of the springs of\nhuman action. Earnest as the opposition were, they did not abuse the\nlicense which is permitted in political contests. But the Federalists\npursued Mr. Jefferson with a vindictiveness which has no parallel, in\nthis country. They boasted of being gentlemen, and prided themselves\nupon their standing and culture, yet they descended to the vilest tricks\nand meanest scandal. They called Jefferson a Jacobin,--abused him\nbecause he liked French cookery and French wines, and wore a red\nwaistcoat. To its shame, the pulpit was foremost in this disgraceful\nwarfare. Clergymen did not hesitate to mention him by name in their\nsermons. Cobbett said, that Jefferson had cheated his British creditors.\nA Maryland preacher improved this story, by saying that he had cheated a\nwidow and her daughters, of whose estate he was executor. He was\ncompared to Rehoboam. It was said, that he had a negro mistress, and\ncompelled his daughters to submit to her presence,--that he would not\npermit his children to read the Bible,--and that, on one occasion, when\nhis attention was called to the dilapidated condition of a church, he\nremarked, \"It is good enough for him who was born in a manger.\"\nAccording to his custom, he made no reply to these slanders, and, except\nfrom a few mild remarks in his letters, one cannot discover that he\nheard of them.\n\nMr. Adams did not show his successor the customary courtesy of attending\nhis inauguration, leaving Washington the same morning. The new\nPresident, entirely unattended and plainly dressed, rode down the avenue\non horseback. He tied his horse to the paling which surrounded the\nCapitol grounds, and, without ceremony, entered the Senate Chamber. The\ncontrast between this somewhat ostentatious simplicity and the parade at\nthe inaugurations of Washington and Adams showed how great a change had\ntaken place in the government.\n\nThe Presidency is the culmination of Mr. Jefferson's political career,\nand we gladly turn to a contemplation of his character in other aspects.\n\nThe collections of Jefferson's writings and correspondence, which have\nbeen published, throw no light upon his domestic relations. We have\ncomplained of the prolixity of Mr. Randall's book, but we do not wish to\nbe understood as complaining of the number of family letters it\ncontains. They form its most pleasing and novel feature. They show us\nthat the placid philosopher had a nature which was ardent, tender, and\nconstant. His wife died after but ten years of married life. She was the\nmother of six children, of whom two, Martha and Maria, reached maturity.\nThough still young, Mr. Jefferson never married again, finding\nsufficient opportunity for the indulgence of his domestic tastes in the\nsociety of his daughters. Martha, whom he nicknamed Patsey, was plain,\nresembling her father in features, and having some of his mental\ncharacteristics. Maria, the youngest, inherited the charms of her\nmother, and is described as one of the most beautiful women of her time.\nHer natural courtesy procured for her, while yet a child, from her\nFrench attendants, the _sobriquet_ of Polie, a name which clung to her\nthrough life.\n\nCharged with the care of these children, Jefferson made their education\none of his regular occupations, as systematically performed as his\npublic duties. He planned their studies, and descended to the minutest\ndirections as to dress and deportment. While they were young, he himself\nselected every article of clothing for them, and even after they were\nmarried, continued their constant and confidential adviser. When they\nwere absent, he insisted that they should inform him how they occupied\nthemselves, what books they read, what tunes they played, dwelling on\nthese details with the fond particularity of a lover. Association with\nhis daughters seemed to awaken his noblest and most refined impulses,\nand to reveal the choicest fruit of his reading and experience. His\nletters to them are models of their kind. They contain not only those\ngeneral precepts which an affectionate parent and wise man would\nnaturally desire to impress upon the mind of a child, but they also show\na perception of the most subtile feminine traits and a sympathy with the\nmost delicate feminine tastes, seldom seen in our sex, and which\nexhibits the breadth and symmetry of Jefferson's organization. One of\nthe most characteristic of these letters is in the possession of the\nQueen of England, to whom it was sent by his family, in answer to a\nrequest for an autograph.\n\nHis daughters were in France with him, and were placed at school in a\nconvent near Paris. Martha was captivated by the ceremonials of the\nRomish Church, and wrote to her father asking that she might be\npermitted to take the veil. It is easy to imagine the surprise with\nwhich the worldly diplomatist read the epistle. He did not reply to it,\nbut soon made a visit to the Abbaye. He smiled kindly at the young\nenthusiast, who came anxiously to meet him, told the girls that he had\ncome for them, and, without referring to Martha's letter, took them back\nto Paris. The account-book shows that after this incident the young\nladies did not diminish their attention to the harpsichord, guitar, and\ndancing-master.\n\nMaria, who was married to John W. Eppes, died in 1804, leaving two\nchildren. Martha, wife of Thomas M. Randolph, survived her father. She\nwas the mother of ten children. The Randolphs lived on Mr. Jefferson's\nestate of Monticello, and after he retired from public life he found his\ngreatest pleasure in the society of the numerous family which surrounded\nhim,--a pleasure which increased with his years. Mr. Randall publishes\na few letters from some of Jefferson's grand-daughters, describing their\nhappy child-life at Monticello. Besides being noticeable for grace of\nexpression, these letters breathe a spirit of affection for Mr.\nJefferson which only the warmest affection on his part could have\nelicited. The writers fondly relate every particular which illustrates\nthe habits and manners of the retired statesman; telling with what\nkindness be reproved, with what heartiness he commended them; how the\nchildren loved to follow him in his walks, to sit with him by the fire\nduring the winter twilight, or at the window in summer, listening to his\nquaint stories; how he directed their sports, acted as judge when they\nran races in the garden, and gathered fruit for them, pulling down the\nbranches on which the ripest cherries hung. All speak of the pleasure it\ngave him to anticipate their wishes by some unexpected gift. One says\nthat her Bible and Shakspeare came from him,--that he gave her her first\nwriting-desk, her first watch, her first Leghorn hat and silk dress.\nAnother tells how he saw her tear her dress, and in a few days brought a\nnew and more beautiful one to mend it, as he said,--that she had refused\nto buy a guitar which she admired, because it was too expensive, and\nthat when she came to breakfast the next morning the guitar was waiting\nfor her. One of these ladies seems to give only a natural expression to\nthe feelings which all his grand-children had for him, when she prettily\ncalls him their good genius with magic wand, brightening their young\nlives by his kindness and his gifts.\n\nIndeed, the account which these volumes give of Monticello life is very\ninteresting. The house was a long brick building, in the Grecian style,\ncommon at that time. It was surmounted by a dome; in front was a\nportico; and there were piazzas at the end of each wing. It was situated\nupon the summit of a hill six hundred feet high, one of a range of such.\nTo the east lay an undulating plain, unbroken save by a solitary peak;\nand upon the western side a deep valley swept up to the base of the Blue\nRidge, which was twenty miles distant. The grounds were tastefully\ndecorated, and, by a peculiar arrangement which the site permitted, all\nthe domestic offices and barns were sunk from view. The interior of the\nmansion was spacious, and even elegant; it was decorated with natural\ncuriosities,--Indian and Mexican antiquities, articles of _virtu_, and a\nlarge number of portraits and busts of historical characters. The\nlibrary--which was sold to the government in 1815--contained between\nnine and ten thousand volumes. He had another house upon an estate\ncalled Poplar Forest, ninety miles from Monticello.\n\nMr. Jefferson was too old to attempt any new scientific or literary\nenterprise, but as soon as he reached home he began to renew his former\nacquaintances. His meteorological observations were continued, he\nstudied botany, and was an industrious reader of three or four\nlanguages. When nearly eighty, we find him writing elaborate\ndisquisitions on grammar, astronomy, the Epicurean philosophy, and\ndiscussing style with Edward Everett. The coldness between him and John\nAdams passed away, and they used to write one another long letters, in\nwhich they criticized Plato and the Greek dramatists, speculated upon\nthe end for which the sensations of grief were intended, and asked each\nother whether they would consent to live their lives over again.\nJefferson, with his usual cheerfulness, promptly answered, Yes.\n\nHe dispensed a liberal hospitality, and in a style which showed the\ninfluence of his foreign residence. Though temperate, he understood the\nmysteries of the French _cuisine_, and liked the wines of Medoc. These\ntastes gave occasion to Patrick Henry's sarcasm upon gentlemen \"_who\nabjured their native victuals_.\" Mr. Randall tells an amusing anecdote\nof a brandy-drinking Virginian, who wondered how a man of so much taste\ncould drink cold, sour French wine, and insisted that some night he\nwould be carried off by it.\n\nNo American has ever exerted so great and universal an attraction. Men\nof all parties made pilgrimages to Monticello. Foreigners of distinction\nwere unwilling to leave the country without seeing Mr. Jefferson; men of\nfashion, artists, _litterateurs_, _savants_, soldiers, clergymen,\nflocked to his house. Mrs. Randolph stated, that she had provided beds\nfor fifty persons at a time. The intrusion was often disagreeable\nenough. Groups of uninvited strangers sometimes planted themselves in\nthe passages of his house to see him go to dinner, or gathered around\nhim when he sat on the portico. A female once broke a window-pane with\nher parasol to got a better view of him. But no press of company was\npermitted to interfere with his occupations. The early morning was\ndevoted to correspondence; the day to his library, to his workshop, or\nto business; after dinner he gave himself up to society.\n\nMaking every allowance for the exaggerations of his admirers, it cannot\nbe doubted that Jefferson was a master of conversation. It had\ncontributed too much to his success not to have been made the subject of\nthought. It is true, he had neither wit nor eloquence; but this was a\nkind of negative advantage; for he was free from that striving after\neffect so common among professed wits, neither did he indulge in those\nmonologues into which eloquence betrayed Coleridge and seduces Macaulay.\nHe had great tact, information, and worldly knowledge. He never\ndisputed, and had the address not to attempt to control the current of\nconversation for the purpose of turning it in a particular direction,\nbut was always ready to follow the humor of the hour. His language, if\nseldom striking, never failed to harmonize with his theme, while, of\ncourse, the effect of everything he said was heightened by his age and\nreputation.\n\nUnfortunately, his latter days were clouded by pecuniary distress.\nAlthough prudent and methodical, partly from unavoidable circumstances,\nand partly from the expense of his enormous establishment, his large\nestate became involved. The failure of a friend for whom he had indorsed\ncompleted his ruin and made it necessary to sell his property. This,\nhowever, was not done until after his death, when every debt was paid,\neven to a subscription for a Presbyterian church.\n\nAs is well known, the chief labor of his age was the establishment of\nthe University of Virginia. He was the creator of that institution, and\ndisplayed in behalf of it a zeal and energy truly wonderful. When unable\nto ride over to the University, which was eight miles from Monticello,\nhe used to sit upon his terrace and watch the workmen through a\ntelescope. He designed the buildings, planned the organization and\ncourse of instruction, and selected the faculty. He seemed to regard\nthis enterprise as crowning and completing a career which had been\ndevoted to the cause of liberty, by providing for the increase and\ndiffusion of knowledge.\n\nIn February, 1826, the return of a disease by which he had at intervals\nbeen visited convinced Jefferson that he should soon die. With customary\ndeliberation and system, he prepared for his decease, arranging his\naffairs and giving the final directions as to the University. To his\nfamily he did not mention the subject, nor could they detect any change\nin his manner, except an increased tenderness in each night's farewell,\nand the lingering gaze with which he followed their motions. His mental\nvigor continued. His will, quite a long document, was written by\nhimself; and on the 24th of June he wrote a reply to an invitation to\nthe celebration at Washington of the ensuing Fourth of July. It is\ndifficult to discover in what respect this production is inferior to his\nearlier performances of the same kind. It has all of the author's ease\nand precision of style, and more than his ordinary distinctness and\nearnestness of thought. This was his last letter. He rapidly declined,\nbut preserved possession of his faculties. He remarked, as if surprised\nat it, upon his disposition to recur to the scenes of the Revolution,\nand seemed to wish that his life might be prolonged until the Fourth of\nJuly. This wish was not denied to him; he expired at noon of that day,\nprecisely fifty years after the Declaration of Independence. A few hours\nafterwards the great heart of John Adams ceased to beat.\n\nSo much has been said about Mr. Jefferson's religious opinions, and our\nbiographer gives them such prominence, that we shall be pardoned for\nalluding to them, although they are not among the topics which a critic\ngenerally should touch. Mr. Randall says that Jefferson was \"a public\nprofessor of his belief in the Christian religion.\" We do not think that\nthis unqualified statement is supported by Jefferson's explanation of\nhis views upon Christianity, which Mr. Randall subsequently gives.\nReligion, in the sense which is commonly given to it, as a system of\nfaith and worship, he did not connect with Christ at all. He was a\nbeliever in the existence of God, in a future life, and in man's\naccountability for his actions here: in so far as this, he may be said\nto have had a system of worship, but not of Christian worship. He\nregarded Christ simply as a man, with no other than mortal power,--and\nto worship him in any way would, in his opinion, have been idolatry. His\ntheology recognized the Deity alone. The extracts from his public\npapers, upon which Mr. Randall relies, contain nothing but those general\nexpressions which a Mohammedan or a follower of Confucius might have\nused. He said he was a Christian \"in the only sense in which Christ\nwished any one to be\"; but received Christ's teachings merely as a\nsystem, and not a perfect system, of morals. He rejected the narratives\nwhich attest the Divine character or the Divine mission of the Saviour,\nthinking them the fictions of ignorance and superstition.\n\nHe was, however, far from being a scoffer. He attended the Episcopal\nservice regularly, and was liberal in his donations to religious\nenterprises. Nor do we think that this conformity arose from weakness or\nhypocrisy, but rather from a profound respect for opinions so generally\nentertained, and a lively admiration for the character and life of\nChrist.\n\nIf a Christian is one who sincerely believes and implicitly obeys the\nteachings of Jesus so far as they affect our relations with our\nfellow-men, then Mr. Jefferson was a Christian in a sense in which few\ncan be called so. Though the light did not unseal his vision, it filled\nhis heart. Among the statesmen of the world there is no one who has more\nrigidly demanded that the laws of God shall be applied to the affairs of\nMan. His political system is a beautiful growth from the principles of\nlove, humility, and charity, which the New Testament inculcates.\n\nWhen reflecting upon Mr. Jefferson's mental organization, one is\nimpressed by the variety and perfectness of his intellectual faculties.\nHe united the powers of observation with those of reflection in a degree\nhardly surpassed by Bacon. Yet he has done nothing which entitles him to\na place among the first of men. It may be said, that, devoted to the\ninferior pursuit of politics, he had no opportunity to exercise himself\nin art or philosophy, where alone the highest genius finds a field. But\nwe think his failure--if one can fail who does not make an attempt--was\nnot for want of opportunity. He did not possess any imagination. He was\nso deficient in that respect as to be singular. The imagination seems to\nassist the mental vision as the telescope does that of the eye; he saw\nwith his unaided powers only.\n\nHe says, \"Nature intended him for the tranquil pursuits of science,\" and\nit is impossible to assign any reason why he should not have attained\ngreat eminence among scientific men. The sole difficulty might have\nbeen, that, from very variety of power, he would not give himself up to\nany single study with the devotion which Nature demands from those who\nseek her favors.\n\nWithin his range his perception of truth was as rapid and unfailing as\nan instinct. Without difficulty he separated the specious from the\nsolid, gave great weight to evidence, but was skeptical and cautious\nabout receiving it. Though a collector of details, he was never\nincumbered by them. No one was less likely to make the common mistake of\nthinking that a particular instance established a general proposition.\nHe sought for rules of universal application, and was industrious in the\naccumulation of facts, because he knew how many are needed to prove the\nsimplest truth. The accuracy of his mental operations, united with great\ncourage, made him careless of authority. He clung to a principle because\nhe thought it true, not because others thought it so. There is no\nindication that he valued an opinion the more because great men of\nformer ages had favored it. His self-reliance was shown in his\nunwillingness to employ servants. Even when very feeble, he refused to\npermit any one to assist him. He had extraordinary power of\ncondensation, and, always seeing the gist of a matter, he often exposed\nan argument of hours by a single sentence. Some of his brief papers,\nlike the one on Banking, contain the substance of debates, which have\nsince been made, filling volumes. He was peculiar in his manner of\nstating his conclusions, seldom revealing the processes by which he\narrived at them. He sets forth strange and disputed doctrines as if they\nwere truisms. Those who have studied \"The Prince\" for the purpose of\nunderstanding its construction will not think us fanciful when we find a\nresemblance between Jefferson's mode of argumentation and that of\nMachiavelli. There is the same manner of approaching a subject, the same\nneglect of opposing arguments, and the same disposition to rely on the\nforce of general maxims. Machiavelli exceeded him in power of\nratiocination from a given proposition, but does not seem to have been\nable to determine whether a given proposition was right or wrong.\n\nIn force of mind Jefferson has often been surpassed: Hamilton was his\nsuperior. As an executive officer, where action was required, he could\nnot have been distinguished. It is true, he was a successful President,\nbut neither the time nor the place demanded the highest executive\ntalents. When Governor of Virginia, during the Revolution, he was more\nseverely tried, and, although some excuse may be made for him, he must\nbe said to have failed.\n\nUpon matters which are affected by feeling and sentiment, the judgment\nof woman is said to surpass that of our sex,--her more sensitive\ninstincts carrying her to heights which our blind strength fails to\nreach. If this be true, Jefferson in some respects resembled woman. We\nhave already alluded to the delicacy of his organization; it was\nstrangely delicate, indeed, for one who had so many solid qualities.\nLike woman, he was constant rather than passionate; he had her\nrefinement, disliking rude company and coarse pleasures,--her love of\nluxury, and fondness for things whose beauty consists in part in their\ndelicacy and fragility. His political opponents often refused to speak\nwith him, but their wives found his society delightful. Like woman, his\nfeelings sometimes seemed to precede his judgment. Such an organization\nis not often a safe one for business; but in Mr. Jefferson, with his\nhomely perceptions, it accomplished great results.\n\nThe attributes which gave him his great and peculiar influence seem to\nus to have been qualities of character, not of the mind. Chief among\nthese must be placed that which, for want of a better term, we will call\nsympathy. This sympathy colored his whole nature, mental and moral. It\ngave him his many-sidedness. There was no limit to his intellectual\ntastes. Most persons cherish prejudices, and think certain pursuits\ndegrading or useless. Thus, business-men sneer at artists, and artists\nsneer at business-men. Jefferson had nothing of this. He understood and\nappreciated the value of every employment. No knowledge was too trivial\nfor him; with the same affectionate interest, he observed the courses\nof the winds and the growth of a flower.\n\nSympathy in some sort supplied the place of imagination, making him\nunderstand subjects of which the imagination alone usually informs us.\nThus, he was fond of Art. He had no eye for color, but appreciated the\nbeauties of form, and was a critic of sculpture and architecture. He\nvalued everything for that which belonged to it; but tradition\nsanctified nothing, association gave no additional value. He committed\nwhat Burke thought a great crime, that of thinking a queen nothing but a\nwoman. He went to Stratford-on-Avon, and tells us that it cost him a\nshilling to see Shakspeare's tomb, but says nothing else. He might have\nadmired the scenery of the place, and he certainly was an admirer of\nShakspeare; but Stratford had no additional beauty in his eyes because\nShakspeare was born and buried there. After his death, in a secret\ndrawer of his secretary, mementoes, such as locks of hair, of his wife\nand dead children, even of the infant who lived but a few hours after\nbirth, were found, and accompanying each were some fond words. The\npackages were neatly arranged, and their envelopes showed that they had\noften been opened. It needed personal knowledge and regard to awaken in\nhim an interest in objects for their associations.\n\nThe characteristic of which we speak showed itself in the intensity and\nquality of his patriotism. There never was a truer American. He\nsympathized with all our national desires and prejudices, our enterprise\nand confidence, our love of dominion and boundless pride. Buffon\nasserted that the animals of America were smaller than those of Europe.\nJefferson flew to the rescue of the animals, and certainly seems to have\nthe best of the argument. Buffon said, that the Indian was cold in love,\ncruel in war, and mean in intellect. Had Jefferson been a descendant of\nPocahontas, he could not have been more zealous in behalf of the Indian.\nHe contradicted Buffon upon every point, and cited Logan's speech as\ndeserving comparison with the most celebrated passages of Grecian and\nRoman eloquence. Nowhere did he see skies so beautiful, a climate so\ndelightful, men so brave, or women so fair, as in America. He was not\ncontent that his country should be rich and powerful; his ardent\npatriotism carried him forward to a time when the great Republic should\ngive law to the world for every department of thought and action.\n\nBut this sympathetic spirit is most clearly to be seen in that broad\nhumanity which was the source of his philosophy. He sympathized with\nman,--his sufferings, joys, fears, hopes, and aspirations. The law of\nhis nature made him a democrat. Men of his own rank, when introduced to\nhim, found his manner cold and reserved; but the young and the ignorant\nwere attracted from the first. Education and interest did not affect\nhim. Born a British subject, he became the founder of a democracy. He\nwas a slaveholder and an abolitionist. The fact, that the African is\ndegraded and helpless, to his, as to every generous mind, was a reason\nwhy he should be protected, not an excuse for oppressing him.\n\nThough fitness for the highest effort be denied to Jefferson, yet in the\npursuit to which he devoted himself, considered with reference to\nelevation and wisdom of policy and actual achievement, he may be\ncompared with any man of modern times. It is the boast of the most\naccomplished English historian, that English legislation has been\ncontrolled by the rule, \"Never to lay down any proposition of wider\nextent than the particular case for which it is necessary to provide.\"\nTherefore politics in England have not reached the dignity of a science;\nand her public men have been tacticians, rather than statesmen. Burke\nmay be mentioned as an exception. No one will claim for Jefferson\nBurke's amplitude of thought and wealth of imagination, but he surpassed\nhim in justness of understanding and practical efficiency. Burke was\nnever connected with the government, except during the short-lived\nRockingham, administration. Among Frenchmen, the mind instinctively\nrecurs to the wise and virtuous Turgot. But it was the misfortune of\nTurgot to come into power at the beginning of the reign of Louis XVI. It\nbecame his task to reform a government which was beyond reform, and to\npreserve a dynasty which could not be preserved. His illustrious career\nis little more than a brilliant promise. Jefferson undoubtedly owed much\nto fortune. He was placed in a country removed from foreign\ninterference, with boundless resources, and where the great principles\nof free government had for generations been established,--among a people\nsprung from many races, but who spoke the same language, were governed\nby similar laws, and whose minds' rebellion had prepared for the\nreception of new truths and the abandonment of ancient errors. To be\ncalled upon to give symmetry and completeness to a political system\nwhich seemed to be Providentially designed for the nation over which it\nwas to extend, to be able to connect himself with the future progress of\nan agile and ambitious people, was certainly a rare and happy fortune,\nand must be considered, when we claim superiority for him over those who\nwere placed in the midst of apathy and decay. His influence upon us may\nbe seen in the material, but still more distinctly in the social and\nmoral action of the country. With those laws which here restrain\nturbulent forces and stimulate beneficent ones,--with the bright visions\nof peace and freedom which the unhappy of every European race see in\ntheir Western skies, tempting them hither,--with the kind spirit which\nhere loosens the bonds of social prejudice, and to ambition sings an\ninspiring strain,--with these, which are our pride and boast, he is\nassociated indissolubly and forever. With the things which have brought\nour country into disrepute--we leave it for others to recall the dismal\ncatalogue--his name cannot be connected.\n\nNot the least valuable result of his life is the triumphant refutation\nwhich it gives to the assertion, so often made by blatant sophisters,\nthat none but low arts avail in republics. He has been called a\ndemagogue. This charge is the charge of misconception or ignorance. It\nis true, he believed that his doctrines would prevail; he was sensitive\nto the opinions of others, nor was he \"out of love with noble fame\"; but\nhis successes were fairly, manfully won. He had none of the common\nqualifications for popularity. No glare of military glory surrounded\nhim; he had not the admired gift of eloquence; he was opposed by wealth\nand fashion, by the Church and the press, by most of the famous men of\nhis day,--by Jay, Marshall, the Pinckneys, Knox, King, and Adams; he had\nto encounter the vehement genius of Hamilton and the _prestige_ of\nWashington; he was not in a position for direct action upon the people;\nhe never went beyond the line of his duty, and, from 1776 to his\ninaugural address, he did not publish a word which was calculated to\nexcite lively, popular interest;--yet, in spite of all and against all,\nhe won. So complete was the victory, that, at his second election,\nMassachusetts stood beside Virginia, supporting him. He won because he\nwas true to a principle. Thousands of men, whose untutored minds could\nnot comprehend a proposition of his elaborate philosophy, remembered\nthat in his youth he had proclaimed the equality of men, knew that in\nmaturity he remained true to that declaration, and, believing that this\ngreat assurance of their liberties was in danger, they gathered around\nhim, preferring the scholar to orators and soldiers. They had confidence\nin him because he had confidence in them. There is no danger in that\ndemagogism the art of which consists in love for man. Fortunate, indeed,\nwill it be for the Republic, if, among the aspirants who are now\npressing into the strife, and making their voices heard in the great\nexchanges of public opinion, there are some who will imitate the civic\nvirtues and practise the benign philosophy of Thomas Jefferson!\n\nWe take leave of this book with reluctance. It is verbose and dull, but\nit has led us along the path of American renown; it recites a story\nwhich, however awkwardly told, can never fall coldly on an American ear.\nIt has, besides, given us an opportunity, of which we have gladly\navailed ourselves, to make some poor amends for the wrongs which\nJefferson suffered at the hands of New England, to bear our testimony to\nhis genius and services, and to express our reverent admiration for a\nlife which, though it bears traces of human frailty, was bravely devoted\nto grand and beneficent aims.\n\nFOOTNOTES:\n\n[Footnote 1: _The Life of Thomas Jefferson._ By HENRY S. RANDALL, LL.D.\nIn three volumes. New York: Derby & Jackson. 1858.]\n\n\n\n\nA BUNDLE OF IRISH PENNANTS.\n\n\n\"Did you ever see the 'Three Chimneys,' Captain Cope?\" I asked.\n\n\"I can show you where they are on the chart, if that'll do. I've been\nright over where they're laid down, but I never saw the Chimneys myself,\nand I never knew anybody that had seen them.\"\n\n\"But they are down on the chart,\" broke in a pertinacious matter-of-fact\nbody beside us.\n\n\"What of that?\" replied the captain; \"there's many a shoal and lone rock\ndown on the charts that nobody ever could find again. I've had my ship\nright over the Chimneys, near enough to see the smoke, if they had been\nthere.\"\n\nSo opened the series of desultory conversations here set down. It is\ntalk on board ship, or specimen \"yarns,\" such as really are to be picked\nup from nautical men. The article usually served up for\nmagazine-consumption is, of course, utterly unlike anything here given,\nand is as entirely undiscoverable anywhere on salt water as the three\nlegendary rocks above alluded to. The place was the deck of the \"Elijah\nPogram,\" one of Carr & Co.'s celebrated Liverpool liners, and the time,\nthe dog-watches of a gusty April night; the latitude and longitude,\nanywhere west of Greenwich and north of the line that is not\ninconsistent with blue water.\n\nThe name \"Irish Pennant\" is given, on the _lucus-a-non_ principle, (just\nas a dead calm is \"an Irish hurricane, straight up and down,\") to any\ndangling end of rope or stray bit of \"shakings,\" and its appropriateness\nto the following sketches will doubtless be perceived by the reader, on\nreaching the end.\n\nThe question was asked, not so much from a laudable desire of obtaining\ninformation as to set the captain talking. It was a mistake on my part.\nSailors do not like point-blank questions. They remind them\nunpleasantly, I suppose, of the Courts of Admiralty, or they betray\ngreenness or curiosity on the asker's part, and thus effectually bar all\nimproving conversation.\n\nThere is one exception. If the inquirer be a lady, young and fair, the\nchivalry of the sea is bound to tell the truth, the whole truth, and\noften a good deal more than the truth.\n\nAnd at the last reply a pair of bewitching dark eyes were turned upon\nthat weather-beaten mariner; that is to say, in plain English, a young\nand rather pretty lady-passenger looked up at Captain Cope, and said,--\n\n\"Do tell us some of your sea-stories, Captain Cope,--do, please!\"\n\n\"Why, Ma'am,\" replied he, \"I've no stories. There's Smith of the\n'Wittenagemot' can tell them by the hour; but I never could.\"\n\n\"Weren't you ever wrecked, Captain Cope?\"\n\n\"No,--I can't say I ever was, exactly. I was mate of the 'Moscow' when\nshe knocked her bottom out in Bootle Bay; but she wasn't lost, for I\nwent master of her after that.\"\n\n\"Were you frightened, Captain Cope?\"\n\n\"Well, no,--I can't say I was; though I must say I never expected to see\nmorning again. I never saw any one more scared than was old Captain\nTucker that night. We dragged over the outer bar and into Bootle Bay,\nand there we lay, the ship full of water, and everything gone above the\nmonkey-rail. The only place we could find to stand was just by the cabin\ngangway. The 'Moscow' was built with an old-fashioned cabin on deck, and\nright there we hung, all hands of us. The old man he read the service to\nus,--and that wouldn't do, he was so scared; so he got the black cook,\nwho was a Methodist, and made him pray; and every two minutes or so, a\nsea would come aboard and all in among us,--like to wash us clean out of\nthe ship.\n\n\"After midnight the life-boat got alongside, and all hands were for\nscrambling aboard; but I'd got set in my notion the ship would live the\ngale out, and I wouldn't go aboard. Well, the old man was too scared to\nmake long stories, and he tumbled aboard the life-boat in a hurry. The\nlast words he said to me, as he went over the side, were,--'Good-bye,\nMr. Cope! I never shall see you again!' However, he got up to the city,\nto Mrs. McKinney's, and there he found a lot of the captains, and he was\ntelling them all how he'd lost his ship, and what a fool poor Cope was\nto stick aboard of her, and all that. When the morning came, the gale\nhad broke, and the old man began to think he'd been in too much of a\nfright, and he'd better get the tug and go down to look after the ship.\n\n\"I was so knocked up, for want of sleep, and the gale and all, that,\nwhen they got down to us, my head was about gone. I don't remember\nanything, myself; but they told me, that, when they got aboard, I was\npoking about decks as if I was looking for something.\n\n\"'How are you, Mr. Cope?' sung out old Tucker. 'I never expected to see\n_you_ again in _this_ world.'\n\n\"'I can't find my razor-strop,' says I; I've lost my razor-strop.'\n\n\"'Never mind your strop,' says he. 'What you want is to go aboard the\ntug and be taken care of. We'll find your strop.'\n\n\"Well, they could hardly get me away, I was so set that I must have that\nstrop; but after I got up to town, and had a bath and some breakfast,\nand a couple of hours' sleep or so, I was all right again. That was the\nend of old Tucker's going to sea; and when the 'Moscow' was docked and\nrefitted, I got her, and kept her until the firm built me the 'Pogram,'\nhere.\"\n\n\"Mr. Brown, isn't it about time we were getting in that mizzen\nto'gall'nt-s'l? It's coming on to blow to-night.\"\n\n\"Steward,\" (as that functionary passed us,) \"put a handful of cigars in\nmy monkey-jacket pocket, and have a cup of coffee ready for me about\ntwelve.\"\n\n\"Then you mean to be up, to-night?\" said the father of pretty Mrs.\nBates,--the only one of us to whom Captain Cope fairly opened his heart.\n\n\"Why, yes, Mr. Roberts--I think I shall. It looks rather dirty to the\neast'ard, and the barometer has fallen since morning. I've two as good\nmates as sail; but if anything is going to happen, I'd rather have it\nhappen when I'm on deck,--that's all.\"\n\n\"Wasn't Stewart, of the 'Mexican,' below, when she struck?\"\n\n\"Yes, he was,--and got blamed for it, too. I don't blame him, myself; he\nwas on deck the next minute; and if he had been there before, it would\nhave made no difference with that ship; but if _I_ lose a vessel, I\ndon't want to be talked about as he was. I went mate with him two\nvoyages, and he'd put on his night-gown and turn in comfortably every\nnight, and leave his mates to call him; but I never could do that. I\ndon't find fault with any man that can; only it's not my way.\"\n\n\"But don't you feel sleepy, Captain Cope?\" asked Mrs. Bates.\n\n\"Not when I'm on deck, Ma'am; though, when I first went mate, I could\nsleep anyhow and anywhere. I sailed out of Boston to South America, in a\ntopsail-schooner, with an old fellow by the name of Eaton,--just the\nstrangest old scamp you ever dreamed of. I suppose by rights he ought to\nhave been in the hospital; he certainly was the nearest to crazy and not\nbe it. He used to keep a long pole by him on deck,--a pole with a sharp\nspike in one end,--and any man who'd get near enough to him to let him\nhave a chance would feel that spike. I've known him to keep the cook up\ntill midnight frying doughnuts; then he'd call all hands aft and range\n'em on the quarter-deck, and go round with his hat off and a plate of\ndoughnuts in his hand, saying, as polite as you please, 'Here, my man,\nwon't you take a doughnut?--they won't hurt you; nice and light; had\nthem fried a purpose for you.' And then he'd get a bottle of wine or\nCuracoa cordial, and go round with a glass to each man, and make him\ntake a drink. You'd see the poor fellows all of a shake, not knowing how\nto take it,--afraid to refuse, and afraid still more, if they didn't,\nthat the old man would play 'em some confounded trick. In the midst of\nit all, he'd seem as if he'd woke up out of a dream, and he'd sing out,\nin a way that made them fellows scatter, 'What the ---- are all you men\ndoing here at this time of night? Go forrard, every man jack of you! Go\nforrard, I tell you!' and it was 'Devil take the hindmost!'\n\n\"Well,--the old man was always on the look-out to catch the watch\nsleeping. He never seemed to sleep much himself;--I've heard _that's_ a\nsign of craziness;--and the more he tried, the more sure we were to try\nit every chance we had. So sure as the old man caught you at it, he'd\ngive you a bucketful of water, slap over you, and then follow it up with\nthe bucket at your head. Fletcher, the second mate, and I, got so we\ncould tell the moment he put foot on the companion-way, and, no matter\nhow sound we were, we'd be on our feet before he could get on deck. But\nFletcher got tired of his vagaries, and left us at Pernambuco, to ship\naboard a homeward-bound whaler, and in his place we got a fellow named\nTubbs, a regular duff-head,--couldn't keep his eyes open in the daytime,\nhardly.\n\n\"Well,--we were about two days out of Pernambuco, and Tubbs had the\nmiddle watch, of a clear starlight night, with a steady breeze, and\neverything going quietly, and nothing in sight. So, in about ten minutes\nafter the watch got on deck, every mother's son of them was hard and\nfast. The wind was a-beam, and the old schooner could steer herself; so,\neven the man at the helm was sitting down on a hencoop, with one arm\nround the tiller, and snoring like a porpoise. I heard the old man rouse\nout of his bunk and creep on deck, and, guessing fun was coming, I\nturned out and slipped up after him. The first thing I saw was old Eaton\nat work at the tiller. He got it unshipped and braced up with a pair of\noars and a hencoop, without waking the man at the helm,--how, I couldn't\ntell,--but he was just like a cat; and then he blew the binnacle-light\nout; and then he started forrard, with his trumpet in his hand. He\ncaught sight of me, standing halfway up the companion-way, and shook his\nfist at me to keep quiet and not to spoil sport. He slipped forward and\nout on to the bowsprit, clear out to the end of the flying-jib-boom, and\nstowed himself where he couldn't be well seen to leeward of the sail.\nThen he sung out with all his might through the trumpet, '_Schooner\nahoy, there! Port your hellum!--port_ H-A-A-A-RD! I say,--you're right\naboard of us!'--And then he'd drop the trumpet, and sing out as if in\nthe other craft to his own crew, and then again to us. Of course, every\nman was on his feet in a second, thinking we were all but afoul of\nanother vessel. The man who was steering was trying, with all his might,\nto put his helm a-port,--and when he found what was to pay there, to\nship the tiller. This wasn't so easy; for the old man had passed the\nslack of the main-sheet through the head of the rudder, and belayed it\non one of the boom-cleats, out of reach,--and, what with just waking up,\nand half a dozen contradictory orders sung out at once, besides\nexpecting to strike every minute, he had almost lost what little wits he\nhad.\n\n\"As for Tubbs, he was like a hen with her head cut off,--one minute at\nthe lee rail, and the next in the weather-rigging, then forrard to look\nout for the strange craft, and then aft to see why the schooner didn't\nanswer her helm. Meanwhile, he was singing out to the watch to brace\nround the fore-topsail and help her, to let fly the jib-sheets, and to\nhaul aft the main-boom; the watch below came tumbling up, and everybody\nwas expecting to feel the bunt of our striking the next minute. I\nlaughed as though I should split; for nobody could see me where I stood,\nin the shadow of the companion-way, and everybody was looking out ahead,\nfor the other vessel. First I knew, the old man had got in board again,\nand was standing there aft, as if he'd just come on deck. 'What's all\nthis noise here?' says he.--'What are you doing on deck, Mr. Cope? Go\nbelow, Sir!--Go below, the larboard watch, and let's have no more of\nthis! Who's seen any vessel? Vessel, your eye, Mr. Tubbs! I tell you,\nyou've been dreaming.' Then, as he got his head about to the level of\nthe top of the companion-way, and out of the reach of any spare\nbelaying-pin that might come that way, says he,--'I've just come in from\nthe end of the flyin'-jib-boom, and there was no vessel in sight, except\none topsail-schooner, _with the watch all asleep_,--so it can't be her\nthat hailed you.'\n\n\"That cured all sleeping on the watch for _that_ voyage, I tell you. And\nas for Tubbs, you had only to say, 'Port your helm,' and he was off.\"\n\nJust then Mr. Brown came aft to ask if it wasn't time to have in the\nfore-topgallant-sail,--and a little splash of rain falling broke up our\nparty and drove most of us below. I knew that reefing topsails would\ncome in the course of an hour or so, if the wind held on to blow as it\ndid; so, as I waited to see that same, I lighted a cheroot, and as soon\nas the fore-topgallant-sail was clewed up I made my way forward, for a\nchat with Mr. Brown, the English second mate.\n\nMr. Brown was a character. He was a thorough English sailor;--could do,\nas he owned to me in a shamefaced way, that was comical enough,\n\"heverything as could be done with a rope aboard a ship.\" He had been\nseveral India voyages, where the nice work of seamanship is to be\nlearned, which does not get into the mere \"ferry-boat\" trips of the\nLiverpool packet-service. He had been in an opium clipper, the\ncelebrated ---- of Boston,--and left her, as he told her agent, \"because\nhe liked a ship as 'ad a lee-rail to her; and the ----'s lee-rail,\" he\nsaid, \"was commonly out of sight, pretty much all the way from the\nSand'eads to the Bocca Tigris.\" He was rich in what he called \"'ats,\"\nhaving one for every hour of the day, and, for aught I know, every day\nin the year. It was Fred ----'s and my daily amusement to watch him, and\nwe never seemed to catch him coming on deck twice in the same head-gear.\nHe took quite a fancy to me, because I did not bother him when busy, and\nbecause I liked to listen to his talk. So, handing him a cigar, as a\nprefatory to conversation, I asked him our whereabouts. \"Four hundred\nmiles to the heast'ard of Georges we were this noon, and we've made\nnothink to speak of since, Sir. This last tack has lost us all we made\nbefore. I hought to know where we are. I've drifted 'ere without even a\n'en-coop hunder me. I was third mate aboard the barque 'Jenny,' of\nBelfast, when she was run down by the steamer 'United States.' The\nbarque sunk in less than seven minutes after the steamer struck us, and\nI come up out of her suction-like. I found myself swimming there, on\ntop, and not so much as a capstan-bar to make me a life-buoy. I knew the\nsteamer was hove to, for I could hear her blow hoff steam; and once, as\nI came up on a wave, I got a sight of her boats. They were ready enough\nto pick us up, and we was ready enough to be picked up, such as were\nleft; but how to do it was another matter, with a sea like this\nrunning, and a cloud over the moon every other minute. I soon see that\nswimming wouldn't 'old out much longer, and I must try something helse.\nNow, Sir, what I'm a-telling you may be some use to you some day, if you\nhave to stay a couple of hours in the water. If you can swim about as\nwell as most men can, you can tell 'ow long a man's strength would last\nhim 'ereaways to-night. Besides, I was spending my breath, when I rose\non a sea, in 'ollering,--and you can't swim and 'oller. So I tried a\ntrick I learned, when a boy, on the Cornish coast, where I was born,\nSir;--it's one worth knowing. I doubled back my feet hunder me till my\n'eels come to the small of my back, and I could float as long as I\nwanted to, and, when I rose on a wave, 'oller. They 'eard me, it seems,\nand pulled round for me, but it was an hour before they found me, and my\nstrength was nigh to gone. I couldn't 'oller no more, and was about\ngiving up. But they picked up the cook, and he told 'em he knowed it was\nMr. Brown's voice, and begged 'em to keep on. The last I remember was,\nas the steamer burned a blue light for her boats, when they caught a\nsight of me in the trough of the sea. I saw them too, and gave a last\nscreech, and then I don't remember hanythink, Sir, till Cookie was\n'elping 'aul (Mr. Brown always dropped his aspirates as he grew excited)\nme into the boat. Now, just you remember what I've been a-telling you\nabout floating.\"--\"_Forrard there! Stand by to clew up and furl the main\nto'gall'n-s'l! Couple of you come aft here and brail up the spanker!\nLively, men, lively!_\"--And Mr. Brown was no longer my Scheherazade.\n\nWhen I got back to the shelter of the wheel-house, I found the captain\nand old Roberts still comfortably braced up in opposite corners and\nyarning away. There was nothing to be done but to watch the ship and the\nwind, which promised in due time to be a gale, but as yet was not even a\nreefing breeze. They had got upon a standing topic between the\ntwo,--vessels out of their course. The second night out, we had made a\nlight which the captain insisted was a ship's light, but old Roberts\ndeclared was one of the lights on the coast of Maine,--Mount Desert, or\nsomewhere thereabouts. He was an old shipping-merchant, had been many a\ntime across the water in his own vessels, and thought he knew as much as\nmost men. So, whenever other subjects gave out, this, of vessels drifted\nby unsuspected currents out of their course, was unfailing. They were at\nit now.\n\n\"When I was last in Liverpool,\" said the captain, \"there was a brig from\nMachias got in there, and her captain came up to Mrs. McKinney's. He\ntold us that it was thick weather when he got upon the Irish coast, and\nhe was rather doubtful about his reckoning; so he ordered a sharp\nlook-out for Cape Clear. According to his notion, he ought to be up with\nit about noon, and, as the sun rose and the fog lifted a little, he was\nhoping to sight the land. Once or twice he fancied he had a glimpse of\nit, but wasn't sure,--when the mate came aft and reported that they\ncould hear a bell ringing. 'Sure enough,' he said, 'there was the toll\nof a bell coming through the mist.'\n\n\"'That's some ship's bell,' said he to the mate; 'only it's wonderful\nheavy for a ship, and it can't be a church-bell on shore, can it?'\n\n\"And while they were arguing about it, a cutter shot out of the fog and\nhailed if they wanted a pilot.\n\n\"'Pilot!' says the Down-Easter,--'pilot!--where for? No, thank ye, not\nyet,--I can find my way up George's without a pilot. What bell's that?'\n\n\"'Rather think you can, Captain; but you'll want a pilot here;--that's\nthe bell on the floating light off Liverpool.'\n\n\"'What!' says the captain,--have I come all the way up Channel without\nknowing it? I've been on the look-out for Cape Clear ever since\ndaybreak, and here, by ginger, I've overrun my reckoning _three hundred\nmiles_.'\"\n\n\"Well,\" said old Roberts, \"one of my captains, Brandegee, you know, who\nhad the 'China,' got caught, one November, just as he was coming on the\ncoast, in a gale from the eastward. He knew he was somewhere near\nProvincetown, but how near he couldn't say. It was snowing, and blowing,\nand ice-making all over the decks and rigging, and an awful night\ngenerally. He did not dare to run before it, because it was blowing at a\nrate to take him halfway in Worcester County in the next twenty-four\nhours. He couldn't stand to the south'ard, because that would put the\nback of Cape Cod under his lee. He was afraid to stand to the north'ard,\nnot knowing precisely where the coast of Maine might be. So he hove the\nship to, under as little sail as he could, and let her drift. I've heard\nhim say, he heard the breakers a hundred times that night,\" ('I'll bet\nhe did,' ejaculated the captain.) \"and it seemed like three nights in\none before morning came. When it did come, wind and sea appeared to have\ngone down. The lookouts were half dead with cold and sleep and all; but\nthey made out to hail land on the weather bow.\n\n\"'Good George!' said old Brandegee, 'how did land get on the _weather_\nbow? We must have got inside of Cape Cod, and that must be Sharkpainter\nHill.'\n\n\"'Land on the lee quarter,' hailed the watch, again: and in a minute\nmore, 'Land on the lee beam,--land on the lee bow.'\n\n\"Brandegee sung out to heave the lead and let go both anchors, and he\nsaid that, but for the gale having gone down so, he should have expected\nto strike the next minute. Just as the anchors came home and the ship\nheaded to the wind, the second mate came aft, rubbing his eyes and\nlooking very queer.\n\n\"'Captain Brandegee,' says he, 'if I was in Boston Harbor, I should say\nthat there was Nix's Mate.'\n\n\"'Well, Mr. Jones,' says the old man, dropping out the words very\nslowly, 'if--that's--Nix's Mate,--Rainsford Island--ought--to--be--here\naway, and--as--I'm--a--living--man, THERE IT IS!'\n\n\"Half-frozen as they were, there was a cheer rung out from that crew\nthat waked half the North-End out of their morning nap.\n\n\"'Just my plaguy luck!' said the old fellow to me, as he told it. 'If\nI'd held on to my anchors another half-hour, I might have come\nhandsomely alongside of Long Wharf and been up to the custom-house\nbefore breakfast.'\n\n\"He had drifted broadside square into Boston Harbor, past Nahant, the\nGraves, Cohasset Rocks, and everything.\"\n\n\"I've heard of that,\" said the captain,--\"and as it's my opinion it\ncouldn't be done twice, I don't mean to try it.\"\n\n    \"I hear the noise about thy keel,\n      I hear the bell struck in the night,\n      I see the cabin-window bright,\n    I see the sailor at the wheel,\"--\n\nrepeated Fred ----, in my ear. \"Come below out of this wet and rain,\"\nadded he.\n\nWe passed the door of the mate's state-room as we went below, and,\nseeing it ajar, and Mr. Pitman, the mate, sitting there, we looked in.\n\n\"Come in, gentlemen,\" said he; \"my watch on deck is in half an hour, and\nI'm not sleepy to-night.\"\n\nF---- took up a carved whale's tooth, and asked if Mr. Pitman had ever\nbeen in the whaling business.\n\n\"Two voyages,--one before the mast, one boat-steerer;--both in the\nPacific. But whaling didn't suit me. I've a Missus now, and a couple of\nas fine boys as ever you saw; and I rather be where I can come home\noftener than once in three years.\"\n\n\"How did you like whaling?\" said I.\n\n\"Well, I don't believe there's any man but what feels different\nalongside of a whale from what he does on the ship's deck. Some of those\nNantucket and New Bedford men, who've been brought up to it, as you may\nsay, take it naturally, and think of nothing but the whale. I've heard\nof one of them boat-steerers who got ketched in a whale's mouth and\ndidn't come out of it quite as whole as he went in. When they asked him\nwhat he thought when the whale nabbed him, he said he 'thought she'd\nturn out about forty barrels.'\n\n\"There's a good many things about the whale, gentlemen, that everybody\ndon't know. Why does one whale sink when he's killed, and another don't?\nWhere do the whales go to, now and then?--I sailed with one captain who\nused to say, that, books or no books, can't live under water or not, _he\nknew_ that whales do live under water months at a time. I can't say,\nmyself; but this I can say,--they go ashore. You may look hard at that,\nbut I've seen it. We were off the coast of South America, in company\nwith five other ships; and all our captains were ashore one afternoon.\nWe had to pull some two miles or so to go off to them, and, starting\noff, all hands were for racing. I was pulling stroke in the captain's\nboat, and the old man gives us the word to pull easy, and let 'em head\non us. It was hard work to hold in, with every one of the boats giving\nway, strong, the captains singing out bets, and cheering their\nmen,--singing out, 'Break your backs and bend your oars!' 'There she\nblows!' and all that. But the old man kept muttering to us to take it\neasy and let them head on us. We were soon the last boat, and then, as\nif he'd given up the race, he gave the word to 'easy.'\n\n\"'Good-night, Capt. T----! we'll send your ship in to tow you off,' was\nthe last words they said to us.\n\n\"'There'll be something else to tow off,' says he. 'It's the race, who\nshall see Palmer's Island first, that I'm bound to win.'\n\n\"He gave the boat a sheer in for the beach, to a little bight that made\nup in the land,--across the mouth of which we had to pull, in going off.\n\n\"'D'ye see that rock on the beach, boys,' says he, 'in range of that\nlone tree, on the point? Did any of you ever see that rock before? I\nwish this bloody coast had a few more such rocks! That's a cow whale,\nand this bight is her nursery, and she is up on the beach for her calf's\nconvenience. Now, then,'--as we opened the bight and got a fair sight of\nit,--'give way, strong as you please,--and we'll head her off, before\nshe knows it.'\n\n\"We got her and got the calf, and when, next morning, the other ships\nsaw us cutting in, they didn't say much about that race; and 'Old T.'s\nNursery' was a byword on the coast as long as we staid there.\n\n\"There goes eight bells, and I rather think Mr. Brown will want me on\ndeck.\" We followed, for there was the prospect of seeing topsails\nreefed,--the most glorious event of a landsman's sea-experiences. We had\nbegun the day with a dead calm, but toward night the wind had come out\nof the eastward. Each plunge the ship gave was sharper, each shock\nheavier. The topmasts were working, the lee-shrouds and backstays\nstraining out into endless curves. A deeper plunge than usual, a pause\nfor a second, as if everything in the world suddenly stood still, and a\ngreat white giant seems to spring upon our weather-bow and to leap on\nboard. We hear the crash and feel the shock, and presently the water\ncomes pouring aft,--and Captain Cope calls out to reef\ntopsails,--double-reef fore and mizzen,--one reef in the main. The mates\nare in the weather-rigging before the word is out of the captain's lips,\nto take the earings of their respective topsails; and then follows the\nrush of men up the shrouds and out along the yards. The sails are\nslatting and flapping, and one can hardly see the row of broad backs\nagainst the dusky sky as they bend over the canvas. There are hoarse\nmurmurs, and calls to \"light up the sail to windward\"; and presently\nfrom the fore-topsail-yard comes the cry, ringing and clear,--\"Haul away\nto leeward!\"--repeated next moment from the main and echoed from the\nmizzen. Sheltered by the weather-bulwarks, and with one arm round a\nmizzen-backstay, there is a capital place to watch all this and feel the\nglorious thrill of the sea,--to look down the sloping deck into the\nblack billows, with here and there a white patch of foam, and while the\norgan-harp overhead is sounding its magnificent symphony. It is but\nwood and iron and hemp and canvas that is doing all this, with some\nthirty poor, broken-down, dissipated wretches, who, being fit for\nnothing else, of course _are_ fit for the fo'castle of a Liverpool\nLiner. Yet it is, for all that, something which haunts the memory\nlong,--which comes back years after in inland vales and quiet\nfarm-houses like brown-moss agates set in emerald meadows, in book-lined\nstudios, and in close city streets. For it is part of the might and\nmystery of the sea, the secret influence that sets the blood on fire and\nthe heart throbbing,--of any in whose veins runs some of the true\nsalt-water sympathy. Men are born landsmen, and are born on land, but\nbelong to the Ocean's family. Sooner or later, whatever their calling,\nthey recognize the tie. They may struggle against it, and scotch it, but\ncannot kill it. They may not be seamen,--they may wear black coats and\nrespectable white ties, and have large balances in the bank, but they\nare the Sea's men,--brothers by blood-relationship, if not by trade, of\nUlysses and Vasco, of Columbus and Cabot, of Frobisher and Drake.\n\nOther stories of the sea are floating through my memory as I\nwrite,--tales told with elbows leaning on cabin-tables, while the\nswinging-lamp oscillated drearily overhead, and sent uncertain shadows\ninto the state-room doors. There is the story which Vivian Grey told us\nof the beautiful clipper \"Nighthawk,\"--her who sailed with the \"Bonita\"\nand \"Driving-Scud\" and \"Mazeppa,\" in the great Sea-Derby, whose course\nlay round the world. How, one Christmas-day, off the pitch of Cape Horn,\nhe, standing on her deck, saw her dive bodily into a sea, and all of her\nto the mainmast was lost in ocean,--her stately spars seemingly rising\nout of blue water unsupported by any ship beneath;--it seemed an age to\nhim, he said, before there was any forecastle to be seen rising from the\nbrine. Also, how, caught off that same wild cape, they had to make sail\nin a reef-topsail-breeze to claw off its terrible rocks, seen but too\nplainly under their Ice. How, as he said, \"about four in the afternoon\nit seemed to blow worse than ever, and you could see the staunch boat\nwas pressed down under her canvas, and every spar was groaning and\nquivering, while the ship went bodily to leeward.\" And next, \"how she\nseemed to come to herself, as it were, with a long staggering roll, and\nto spring to windward as if relieved of a dead weight; for the gale had\nbroken, and the foam-belt along the cliffs grew dimmer and dimmer, and\nthe land fainter and fainter. And then,\" he said, \"to hear the\nfo'castle-talk, you would have said that never was such a ship, such\nspars, such a captain, such seamanship, and such luck, since Father\nJason cleared the 'Argo' from the Piraeus, for Colchis and a market.\"\n\nOr I might tell you how Dr. ----, the ship-surgeon, was in that Collard\nsteamer which ran down the fishing-boat in the fog off Cape Race,--and\nhow, looking from his state-room window, he saw a mighty cliff so near\nthat he could almost lay his hand upon it. How Fanshaw was on board the\n\"Sea-King\" when she was burned, off Point Linus,--and how he hung in the\nchains till he was taken off, and his hair was repeatedly set on fire by\nthe women--emigrant-passengers--jumping over his head into the sea.\n\nBut not so near a-shaking hands with Death did any of them tell, as Ned\nKennedy,--who, poor fellow, lies buried in some lone _canon_ of the\nSierra Madre. Let us hear him give it in his wild, reckless way. Ned was\nsitting opposite us, his thick, black hair curling from under his plaid\ntravelling-cap,--his thick eyebrows working, and his hands occupied in\narranging little fragments of pilot-biscuit on the table. He broke in\nupon the last man who was talking, with a--\n\n\"Tell you what, boys,--I've a better idea of what all that means. I\nsuppose you both know what the Mediterranean lines of steamers are, and\nwhat capital seamanship, and travelling comfort, and all that, you find\nthere. The engineers, however, are Scotch, English, or American, always;\nbecause why? A French officer once told me the reason. 'You see, _mon\nami_,' he said, 'this row of handles which are used to turn these\ndifferent stops and cocks. Now, my countrymen will take them down and\nuse them properly, each one, just as well as your countrymen; but they\nwill put them back again in their places never.' So it is, and the\nengineers are all as I say.\n\n\"I left Naples for Genoa in the 'Ercolano,' of the Naples line. There\nwere not many passengers on board,--no women,--and what there were were\nall priests or soldiers. Nobody went by the Neapolitan line except\nItalians, at that time,--the French company having larger, handsomer,\nand decidedly cleaner vessels. Of course, as a heretic and a civilian, I\nhad nobody to talk to; so, finding that the engineer had a Saxon tongue\nin his head, I dove down into his den and made acquaintance. Being shut\nup there with Italians so much, he thawed out to me at once, and we were\nsworn brothers by the time we reached Civita Vecchia.\n\n\"The 'Ercolano' was as crazy an old tub as every floated: judging from\nthe extensive colonies which tenanted her berths, she must have been\nlaunched about the same time as Fulton's 'Clermont,' or the old 'Ben\nFranklin,' Captain Bunker, once so well known off the end of Newport\nwharf. You know how those boats are managed,--stopping all day in port\nand running at night. We brought up at Leghorn in that way, and Marston,\nthe engineer, proposed to me to have a run ashore. I had no _vise_ for\nTuscany then, and the Austrian police are very strict; but Marston\nproposed to pass me off for one of the steamer's officers. So he fished\nout an old uniform coat of his and made me put it on; and, sure enough,\nthe bright buttons and shoulder-straps carried me through,--only I was\ndreadfully embarrassed.\" (Ned never was disturbed at anything.--if an\nelephant had walked into the cabin, he would have offered him a seat and\ncigar.) \"by the sentries all presenting arms to my coat, which sat upon\nme as a shirt is supposed to on a bean-pole. I overheard one man\nattribute my attenuated frame to the effects of sea-sickness. We went\ninto various shops, and finally into one where all sorts of sea-notions\nwere kept, and Marston said, 'Here's what I've been in search of this\nmonth past. I began to think I should have to send to London for it. The\n'Ercolano' is a perfect sieve, and may go down any night with all\naboard; and here's a swimming-jacket to wear under your coat,--just the\nthing.' He fitted and bought one, and was turning to go, when a fancy\npopped into my head: 'Marston,' said I, 'is this coat of yours so very\nbaggy on me?' 'H-e-em,' said he. 'I've known more waxy fits; a trifle of\npadding wouldn't hurt your looks.' 'I know it,' said I; 'every soldier\nwe passed seemed to me to smoke me for an impostor, knowing the coat\nwasn't made for me. Here, let's put one of these things underneath.' I\nput it on, buttoned the coat over it, inflated it, and the effect was a\nmarvel;--it made a portly gentleman of me at once. I couldn't bear to\ntake it off. 'Just the thing for diligence-travelling in the South of\nFrance,' said I; 'keep your neighbor's elbows from your ribs.' I never\nthought that I must buy a coat to match it. I was so tickled at my own\nfancy that buy it I would, in spite of Marston's remonstrance. Then we\nwent off and dined, and got very jolly together,--at least, I did,--so\nthat, when we pulled off to the steamer, I thought nothing about my coat\nor the jacket under it.\n\n\"There was a dirty-looking sky overhead, and a nasty cobbling sea\ngetting up under foot as we ran out of Leghorn Harbor, and a little\nFrench screw which we left at her anchor was fizzing off steam from her\nwaste-pipe,--evidently meaning to stay where she was. But our captain,\nhaving been paid in advance for all the dinners of the voyage, preferred\nbeing at sea before the cloth was laid. That made sure of at least\ntwenty out of every twenty-five passengers as non-comedents, and\nlightened the cook's labors wonderfully. So we were soon jumping and\nbobbing about and throwing water in a lively way enough; and our black\ngowns and blue coats were lying about decks in every direction, with\nwhat had been _padres_ and soldiers an hour before inside. I lit a cigar\nand picked out the driest place I could find, and hugged myself on my\nluck,--another man's coat getting wet on my back, while the air-tight\njacket was keeping me dry as a bone.\n\n\"As night fell, it grew worse and worse; and the little Sicilian captain\ncame on deck, looking rather wild. He called his pilots and mates into\nconsultation, and from where I lay I could hear the words, 'Spezzia,'\nand 'Porto Venere,' several times; so I suppose they were debating\nwhether or no to keep her head to the gale, or to edge away a point or\ntwo, and run for that bay. But with a head sea and a Mediterranean gale\nhowling down from the gorges of the Ligurian Alps, that thing wasn't so\neasy. The boat would plunge into a sea and bury to her paddle-boxes,\nthen pitch upward as if she were going to jump bodily out of water, and\nslap down into it again, while her guards would spring and quiver like\ncard-board. The engine began to complain, as they will when a boat is\nlaboring heavily. You could hear it take, as it were, long breaths, and\nthen stop for a second altogether. I slipped below into the engine-room,\nand found Marston looking very sober. 'Kennedy,' said he, 'the\n'Ercolano' will be somebody's coffin before to-morrow morning, I'm\nafraid. I'm carrying more steam than is prudent or safe, and the\n_padrone_ has just sent orders to put on more. We are not making a mile\nan hour, he says; and our only chance is to get under the lee of the\nland. Look at those eccentrics and that connecting-rod! I expect to see\nsomething go any minute; and then--there's no use saying what will come\nnext.' He sat down on his bench and covered his face with his hands.\n\n\"It seems, the 'Spezzia' question was decided about that time on deck,\nand the 'Ercolano's' bow suffered to fall off in the direction of that\nbay. The effect was that the next sea caught us full on the weather-bow\nwith a shock that pitched everything movable out of its place. There was\na twist and a grind from the machinery, a snap and a crash, and then\npart after part gave way, as the strain fell upon it in turn. Marston,\nwith an engineer's instinct, shut off the steam; but the mischief was\ndone. We felt the 'Ercolano' give a wild sheer, and then a long,\nsickening roll, as if she were going down bodily,--and we sprang for the\ncompanion-ladder. Everything on deck was at sixes and sevens when we\nreached it '_Sangue di San Gennaro! siamo perduli!_' howled the captain;\nand even the poor sea-sick passengers seemed to wake up a little. It was\na bad look-out. We got pretty much of every wave that was going, so\nthere was hardly any standing forward; and, having no steam on, the wind\nand the sea had their own way with us. The gallant little _padrone_\nseemed to keep up his pluck, and made out to show a little sail, so as\nto bring her by the wind; but that, in a long, sharp steamer, didn't\nmend matters much. To make things completely cheerful and comfortable,\nword was passed up that we were leaking badly. I confess I didn't see\nmuch hope for us; and having lugged up my valise from below, where there\nwas already a foot of water over the cabin-floor, I picked out the\nlittle valuables I could stow about me and kicked the rest into a\ncorner. Still we had our boats, and, as the gale seemed to be breaking a\nlittle, there was hope for us. At last they managed to get them into the\nwater, and keep them riding clear under our lee. The priests were\nbundled in like so many wet bales of black cloth, and then the soldiers,\nand Marston and I tried to follow; but a 'No room for heretics here,'\nenforced by a bit of brown steel in a soldier's hands, kept us back. The\nchance wasn't worth fighting for, after all. I didn't believe the\nsteamer would sink, any way. I was aboard the 'San Francisco' when she\ndrifted for nine days. However, there wasn't much time left for us to\nspeculate on that,--for a rush of firemen and crew and the like into\nthe boats was the next thing, and then the fasts were cast off or cut,\nand the wind and sea did the rest. They shot away into the darkness. A\ncouple of firemen, two of the priests, and a soldier were left on board.\nThe firemen went to getting drunk,--the priests were too sick to move or\ncare for anything,--the soldier sat quietly down on the cabin-skylight;\nMarston and I climbed on to the port paddle-box to look out for a sail.\n\n\"The clouds had broken with the dying of the gale, and the moon shone\nout, lighting up the foaming sea far and wide, and showing our\nwater-logged or sinking craft. Every wave that swept over us found its\nway below, and we settled deeper and deeper. Still, if we could only\nhold on till morning, those seas are alive with small craft, and we\nstood a good chance of being picked off. I was saying as much to Marston\nwhen the 'Ercolano' gave a lurch and then dove bows first into the sea.\nA great wave seemed to curl over us, and then to thrust us by the\nshoulders down into the depths, and all was darkness and water. I went\ndown, down, and still I was dragged lower still, though the pressure\nfrom above ceased, and I was struggling to rise. I struck out with hands\nand feet;--I was held fast. I felt behind me and found a hand grasping\nmy coat-tails. Marston had seized me, and with the other hand was\nclinging to the iron rail on the top of the paddle-box,--clinging with\nthe death-grip of a drowning man, if you know what that is. I tried to\nunclasp the fingers,--to drive him from his hold on the rail. Of course\nI couldn't; it was Death's hand, not his, that was holding there, and my\nown strength was going, when a thought flashed into my mind. I tore open\nmy coat, and it slipped from me like a grape-skin from the grape, and I\nwent up like an arrow.\n\n\"Never shall I forget the blessed light of heaven, and the sweet air in\nmy lungs once more. Bad off as I was, it was better than being anchored\nto a sinking wreck by a dead man's grasp. I heard a voice near me that\nnight repeating the Latin prayers of the Romish Church for the departing\nsoul, but I couldn't see the speaker. The moon had gone under a cloud\nagain, but there was light enough for me to catch a glimpse of some\nfloating wreck on the crest of a wave above me; and then it came down\nright on top of me,--a lot of rigging and a spar or two,--our topmast\nand yard, which had gone over the side just before we foundered. I\nclimbed on to it, and found my prospects hugely improving,--especially\nas clinging to the other end was the soldier left on board. As soon as I\ncould persuade him I was no spook or mermaid, he was almost as pleased\nas I was, especially when he found I was the '_eretico_.' He was a\nSwiss, it seemed, of King Ferdinand's regiments, going home on furlough,\nand a Protestant, which was why he was left on board.\n\n\"Between us both we managed to get the spars into some sort of a\nraft-shape, so that they would float us more comfortably; and there we\nwatched for the morning. When that came, the sea had smoothed itself,\nand the wind died away considerably,--as it does in the Mediterranean at\nshort notice. We looked every way for the white lateen-sails of the\ncoasting and fishing craft, but in vain. It grew hotter and hotter as\nthe sun got higher, and hope and strength began to give out. I lay down\non the raft and slept,--how long I don't know, for my first\nconsciousness was my friend's cry of \"A ship!\" I looked up, and there,\nsure enough, in the northeast, was a large ship, running before the\nwind, right in our direction. I suspect poor Fritzeli must have been\nasleep also, that he hadn't seen her before,--for she was barely a\ncouple of miles off. She was apparently from Genoa or Spezzia; but the\nmain thing was, that she was travelling our road, and that with a will.\nI tore off my shirt-sleeve at the shoulder, and waved it, while Fritzeli\nheld up his red sash. But it was an anxious time. On she came,--a big\nfrigate. We could see a commodore's pendant flying at the main, and\nalmost hear the steady rush of water under her black bows. Did they see\nus, or not? There was no telling; a man-of-war walks the sea's roads\nwithout taking hats off to everybody that comes along. A quiet report\ngoes up to the officer of the deck, a long look with a glass, and the\nwhole affair would be settled without troubling us to come into council.\nOn she came, till we could see the guns in her bow ports, and almost\ncount the meshes in her hammock netting. The shadow of her lofty sails\nwas already fallen upon us before she gave a sign of recognition. Then\nher bow gave a wide sheer, and her whole broadside came into view, as\nshe glided by the spars where we were crouching. An officer appeared at\nher quarter and waved his gold-banded cap to us, as the frigate rounded\nto, to the leeward of us,--and the glorious stripes and stars blew out\nclear against the hot sky. A light dingey was in the water before the\nmain yard had been well swung aback, and a midshipman was urging the\nmen, who needed no urging, to give way strong. I didn't know how weak I\nhad got, till they were lifting me aboard the boat. An hour after, when\nI had had something to eat and was a little restored and had told my\nstory, the officer of the deck was relieved and came below to see me.\n\n\"'I fancy, Sir, we've just passed something of your steamer,' he\nsaid,--'a yawlboat, bottom up, with a name on the stern which we\ncouldn't well make out: _Erco_ something, it looked like. Hadn't been\nlong in the water, I should say.'\n\n\"And that was the last of the steamer. Fritzeli and I were the sole\nsurvivors.\"\n\n\n\n\nTHE JOLLY MARINER:\n\nA BALLAD.\n\n    It was a jolly mariner\n      As ever hove a log;\n    He wore his trousers wide and free,\n      And always ate his prog,\n    And blessed his eyes, in sailor-wise,\n      And never shirked his grog.\n\n    Up spoke this jolly mariner,\n      Whilst walking up and down:--\n    \"The briny sea has pickled me,\n      And done me very brown;\n    But here I goes, in these here clo'es,\n      A-cruising in the town!\"\n\n    The first of all the curious things\n      That chanced his eye to meet,\n    As this undaunted mariner\n      Went sailing up the street,\n    Was, tripping with a little cane,\n      A dandy all complete!\n\n    He stopped,--that jolly mariner,--\n      And eyed the stranger well;--\n    \"What that may be,\" he said, says he,\n      \"Is more than I can tell;\n    But ne'er before, on sea or shore,\n      Was such a heavy swell!\"\n\n    He met a lady in her hoops,\n      And thus she heard him hail:--\n    \"Now blow me tight!--but there's a sight\n      To manage in a gale!\n    I never saw so small a craft\n      With such a spread o' sail!\n\n    \"Observe the craft before and aft,--\n      She'd make a pretty prize!\"\n    And then, in that improper way,\n      He spoke about his eyes,\n    That mariners are wont to use,\n      In anger or surprise.\n\n    He saw a plumber on a roof,\n      Who made a mighty din:--\n    \"Shipmate, ahoy!\" the rover cried,\n      \"It makes a sailor grin\n    To see you copper-bottoming\n      Your upper-decks with tin!\"\n\n    He met a yellow-bearded man,\n      And asked about the way;\n    But not a word could he make out\n      Of what the chap would say,\n    Unless he meant to call him names\n      By screaming, \"Nix furstay!\"\n\n    Up spoke this jolly mariner,\n      And to the man said he,\n    \"I haven't sailed these thirty years\n      Upon the stormy sea,\n    To bear the shame of such a name\n      As I have heard from thee!\n\n    \"So take thou that!\"--and laid him flat.\n      But soon the man arose,\n    And beat the jolly mariner\n      Across his jolly nose,\n    Till he was fain, from very pain,\n      To yield him to the blows.\n\n    'Twas then this jolly mariner,\n      A wretched jolly tar,\n    Wished he was in a jolly-boat\n      Upon the sea afar,\n    Or riding fast, before the blast,\n      Upon a single spar!\n\n    'Twas then this jolly mariner\n      Returned unto his ship,\n    And told unto the wondering crew\n      The story of his trip,\n    With many oaths and curses, too,\n      Upon his wicked lip!--\n\n    As hoping--so this mariner\n      In fearful words harangued--\n    His timbers might be shivered, and\n      His le'ward scuppers danged,\n    (A double curse, and vastly worse\n      Than being shot or hanged!)\n\n    If ever he--and here again\n      A dreadful oath he swore--\n    If ever he, except at sea,\n      Spoke any stranger more,\n    Or like a son of--something--went\n      A-cruising on the shore!\n\n\n\n\nSUGGESTIONS.\n\n    \"Waste words, addle questions.\"\n\n    BISHOP ANDREWS.\n\n\nAFFAIRS.\n\nWhen affairs are at their worst, a bold project may retrieve them by\ngiving an assurance, else wanting, that hope, spirit, and energy still\nexist.\n\n\nAFFINITIES.\n\nPlace an inferior character in contact with the finest circumstances,\nand, from wanting affinities with them, he will still remain, from no\nfault of his own, insensible to their attractions. Take him up the mount\nof vision, and show him the finest scene in Nature, and, instead of\ntaking in the whole circle of its beauty, he will, quite as likely, have\nhis attention engrossed by something mean and insignificant under his\nnose. I was reminded of this, on taking a little boy, three years old,\nto the top of the New York Reservoir. Placing him on one of the\nparapets, I endeavored to call his attention to the more salient and\ndistant features of the extended prospect; but the little fellow's mind\nwas too immature to be at all appreciative of them. His interest was\nconfined to what he saw going on in a dirty inclosure on the opposite\nside of the street, where two or three goats were moving about. After\nwatching them with curious interest for some time, \"See, see!\" said he,\n\"dem is pigs down dare!\" Was there need for quarrelling with my fine\nlittle man for seeing pigs where there were only goats, or goats where\nthere was much worthier to be seen?\n\n\nAFTER THE BATTLE.\n\nA brave deed performed, a noble object accomplished, gives a fillip to\nthe spirits, an exhilaration to the feelings, like that imparted by\nChampagne, only more permanent. It is, indeed, admirably well said by\none wise to discern the truth of things, and able to give to his thought\na vigorous expression, that \"a man feels relieved and gay when he has\nput his heart into his work and done his best; but what he has said or\ndone otherwise shall give him no peace.\"\n\n\nAPPLAUSE.\n\nNoble acts deserve a generous appreciation. Indeed, it is a species of\ninjustice not to warmly applaud whatever is wisely said or ably done.\nFine things are shown that they may be admired. When the peacock struts\nabout, it is to show what a fine tail he has.\n\n\nARTISTS.\n\nThe artist's business is with the beautiful. The repugnant is outside of\nhis province. Let him study only the beautiful, and he will always be\npleased; let him treat only of the beautiful, with a true feeling for\nit, and he will always give pleasure.\n\nThe artist must love both his art and the subjects of his art. Nothing\nthat is not lovable is worth portraying. In the portrait of Rosa\nBonheur, she is appropriately represented with one arm thrown\naffectionately around the neck of a bull. She must have loved this order\nof animals, to have painted them so well.\n\n\nAUTHORS.\n\nInstead of the jealousies that obtain among them, there is no class that\nought to stand so close together, united in a feeling of common\nbrotherhood, to strengthen, to support, and to encourage, by mutual\nsympathy and interchange of genial criticism, as authors. A sensitive\nrace, neglect pierces like sharp steel into the very marrow of their\nbeing. And still they stand apart! Alive to praise, and needing its\ninspiration, their relations are those of icebergs,--cold, stiff, lofty,\nand freezing. What infatuation is this! They should seek each other out,\nextend the hand of fellowship, and bridge the distance between them by\nelaborate courtesies and kindly recognitions.\n\n\nAN AUTHOR'S FIRST BOOK.\n\nNo man is a competent judge of what he himself does. An author, on the\neve of his first publication, and while his book is going through the\npress, is in a predicament like that of a man mounted on a fence, with\nan ugly bull in the field that he is obliged to cross. The apprehended\nsilence of the journals concerning his merits--for no notice is the\nworst notice--constitutes one of the \"horns of his dilemma\"; while their\npossibly invidious comments upon his want of them constitute another and\nequally formidable \"horn.\" Between these, and the uncertainty as to\nwhether he will not in a little time be cut by one-half of his\nacquaintances and only indulgently tolerated by the other half, his\nexperience is apt to be very peculiar, and certainly not altogether\nagreeable. Never, therefore, envy an author his feelings on such an\noccasion, on the score of their superior enjoyment, but rather let him\nbe visited with your softest pity and tenderest commiseration.\n\n\nBOOKS.\n\nA book is only a very partial expression of its author. The writer is\ngreater than his work; and there is in him the substance, not of one, or\na few, but of many books, were they only written out.\n\n\nCAUSE AND EFFECT.\n\nSmall circumstances illustrate great principles. To-day my dinner cost\nme sixpence less than usual. This is an incident not quite so important\nas some others recorded in history, but the causes of it originated more\nthan two thousand years ago. It will also serve to explain the\nprinciple, that causes are primary and secondary, remote and\nimmediate,--and that historians, when they speak of certain effects as\nproduced by certain causes. Socrates one day had a conversation with\nAristippus, in which he threw out certain remarks on the subject of\ntemperance. Being overheard by Xenophon, they were subsequently\ncommitted to writing and published by him. These, falling in my way last\nevening, made such an impression on my mind, that I was induced to-day\nto forego my customary piece of pudding after dinner, to the loss of the\neating-house proprietor, whose receipts were thus diminished, first, by\na few observations of an ancient Greek, secondly, by a report given of\nthem by a bystander, and, thirdly, by the accidental perusal of them,\nafter twenty centuries, by one of his customers.\n\n\nCHEERFULNESS.\n\nSullen and good, morbid and wise, are impossible conditions. The best\ntest, both of a man's wisdom and goodness, is his cheerfulness. When one\nis not cheerful, he is almost invariably stupid. A sad face seldom gets\ninto much credit with the world, and rarely deserves to. \"Sorrow,\" says\nold Montaigne, \"is a base passion.\"\n\n\"The quarrel between Gray and me,\" said Horace Walpole, \"arose from his\nbeing too serious a companion.\" In my opinion, this was a good ground\nfor cutting the connection. What right has any one to be \"too serious a\ncompanion?\"\n\n\nCOWARDS.\n\nIn desperate straits the fears of the timid aggravate the dangers that\nimperil the brave. For cowards the road of desertion to the enemy should\nbe left open; they will carry over to them nothing but their fears. The\npoltroon, like the scabbard, is an incumbrance when once the sword is\ndrawn.\n\n\nCRITICISM.\n\nNo work deserves to be criticized which has not much in it that deserves\nto be applauded. The legitimate aim of criticism is to direct attention\nto what is excellent The bad will dig its own grave, and the imperfect\nmay be safely left to that final neglect from which no amount of present\nundeserved popularity can rescue it.\n\nEver so critical of things: never but good-naturedly so of persons.\n\n\nCULTURE.\n\nPartial culture runs to the ornate; extreme culture to simplicity.\n\n\nDEATH.\n\nWithout death in the world, existence in it would soon become, through\nover-population, the most frightful of curses. To death we owe our life;\nthe passing of one generation clears the way for another; and thus, in\nthe economy of Providence, the very extinction of being is a provision\nfor extending the boon of existence. Even wars and disease are _a good\nmisunderstood_. Without them, child-murder would be as common in\nChristendom as it is in over-populated China.\n\n\nDEBTORS AND CREDITORS.\n\nTo interest a number of people in your welfare, get in debt to them. If\nthey will not then promote your interest, it is because they are not\nalive to their own. It is to the advantage of creditors to aid their\ndebtors. Caesar owed more than a million of dollars before he obtained\nhis first public employment, and at a later period his liabilities\nexceeded his assets by ten millions. His creditors constituted an\nimportant constituency, and doubtless aided to secure his elections.\n\n\nDIFFICULTIES.\n\nGreat difficulties, when not succumbed to, bring out great virtues.\n\n\nDISGUST.\n\nA fit of disgust is a great stimulator of thought. Pleasure represses\nit.\n\n\nEARNESTNESS.\n\nM. de Buffon says that \"genius is only great patience.\" Would it not be\ntruer to say that genius is great earnestness? Patience is only one\nfaculty; earnestness is the devotion of all the faculties: it is the\ncause of patience; it gives endurance, overcomes pain, strengthens\nweakness, braves dangers, sustains hope, makes light of difficulties,\nand lessens the sense of weariness in overcoming them. Yes, War yields\nits victories, and Beauty her favors, to him who fights or wooes with\nthe most passionate ardor,--in other words, with the greatest\nearnestness. Even the simulation of earnestness accomplishes much,--such\na charm has it for us. This explains the success of libertines, the\ncoarseness of whose natures is usually only disguised by a certain\nconventional polish of manners: \"their hearts seem in earnest, because\ntheir passions are.\"\n\n\nEDUCATION OF THE SEXES.\n\nGirls are early taught deceit, and they never forget the lesson. Boys\nare more outspoken. This is because boys are instructed that to be frank\nand open is to be manly and generous, while their sisters are\nperpetually admonished that \"this is not pretty,\" or \"that is not\nbecoming,\" until they have learned to control their natural impulses,\nand to regulate their conduct by precepts and example. The result of all\nthis is, that, while men retain much of their natural dispositions,\nwomen have largely made-up characters.\n\n\nEMERSON'S ESSAYS.\n\nI have not yet been able to decide whether it is better to read certain\nof Emerson's essays as poetry or philosophy. Perhaps, though, it would\nbe no more than just to consider them as an almost complete and perfect\nunion of the two. Certainly, no modern writer has more of vivid\nindividuality, both of thought and expression,--and few writers, of any\nage, will better bear reperusal, or surpass him in the grand merit of\nsuggestiveness. There is much in his books that I cannot clearly\nunderstand, and passages sometimes occur that once seemed to me\ndestitute of meaning; but I have since learned, from a greater\nfamiliarity with what he has written, to respect even his obscurities,\nand to have faith that there is at all times behind his words both a man\nand a meaning.\n\n\nENGLISHMEN.\n\nThere is in the character of perhaps a majority of Englishmen a singular\ncommingling of the haughty and the subservient,--the result, doubtless,\nof the mixed nature, partly aristocratic and partly democratic, of the\ngovernment, and of the peculiar structure of English society, in which\nevery man indemnifies himself for the subserviency he is required to\nexhibit to the classes above, by exacting a similar subserviency from\nthose below him. Thackeray, who is to be considered a competent judge of\nthe character of his countrymen, puts the remark into the mouth of one\nof his characters, that, \"if you wish to make an Englishman respect you,\nyou must treat him with insolence.\" The language is somewhat too strong,\nand it would not be altogether safe to act upon the suggestion; but the\nwitticism embodies a modicum of truth, for all that.\n\n\nEXAMPLE.\n\nExample has more followers than reason.\n\n\nEXCITEMENT COUNTERVAILS PAIN.\n\nWe wince under little pains, but Nature in us, through the excitement\nattendant upon them, seems to brace us to endure with fortitude greater\nagonies. A curious circumstance, that will serve as an illustration of\nthis, is told by an eminent surgeon of a person upon whom it became\nnecessary to perform a painful surgical operation. The surgeon, after\nadjusting him in a position favorable to his purpose, turned for a\nmoment to write a prescription; then, taking up the knife, he was about\nmaking an \"imminent deadly breach\" in the body of his subject, when he\nobserved an expression of distress upon his countenance. Wishing to\nreassure him, \"What disturbs you?\" he inquired. \"Oh,\" said the sufferer,\n\"you have left the pen in the inkstand!\" and this being removed, he\nsubmitted to the operation with extraordinary composure.\n\n\nFACT AND FANCY.\n\n\"See, nurse I see!\" exclaimed a delighted papa, as something like a\nsmile irradiated the face of his infant child,--\"an angel is whispering\nto it!\" \"No, Sir,\" replied the more matter-of-fact nurse,--\"it is only\nwind from its stomach.\"\n\n\nFINE HOUSES.\n\nTo build a huge house, and furnish it lavishly,--what is this but to\nplay baby-house on a large scale?\n\n\nFINE LADIES.\n\nIf you would know how many of the \"airs\" of a fine lady are \"put on,\"\ncontrast her with a woman who has never had the advantages of a genteel\ntraining. What appear as the curvettings and prancings of a high-mettled\nnature turn out, from the light thus afforded, to be only the tricks of\na skilful grooming.\n\n\nFUTURE LIFE\n\nAltogether too much thought is given to the next world. One world at a\ntime ought to be sufficient for us. If we do our duty manfully in this,\nmuch consideration of our relations to that next world may be safely\npostponed until we are in it.\n\n\nGREAT MEN.\n\nOh, the responsibility of great men! Could some of these the originators\nof new beliefs, of new methods in Art, of new systems of state and\necclesiastical polity, of novel modes of practice in medicine, and the\nlike.--\"revisit the pale glimpses of the moon,\" and look upon the\nstreams of blood and misery that have flowed from fountains they have\nunsealed, they would skulk back to their graves faster and more\naffrighted than when they first descended into them.\n\n\nHABITS.\n\nHabit to a great extent, is the forcing of Nature to your way, instead\nof leaving her to her own. Struck by this consideration, \"He is a fool,\nthen, who has any habits,\" said W. Softly, my dear Sir,--the position is\nan extreme one. Bad habits are very bad, and good habits, blindly\nfollowed, are not altogether good, for they make machines of us.\nOccasional excesses may be wholesome; and Nature accommodates herself to\nirregularities, as a ship to the action of waves. Good habits are in the\nnature of allies: we may strengthen ourselves by an alliance with them,\nbut they should not outnumber the forces they act with. Habits are the\nHessians of our moral warfare: the good or the ill they do depends on\nthe side they fight on.\n\n\nHEROISM.\n\nThe race of heroes, though not prolific, is never extinct. Nature,\nliberal in this, as in all things else, has sown the constituent\nqualities of heroism broadcast. Elements of the heroic in character\nexist in almost every individual; it is only the felicitous combination\nof them all in one that is rare.\n\n\nIDEAS.\n\nIdeas, in regard to their degrees of merit, may be divided, like the\nanimal kingdom, into classes or families. First in rank are those ideas\nthat have in them the germs of a great moral unfolding,--as the ideas of\na religious teacher, like Socrates or Confucius. Next in merit are those\nideas that lay open the secrets of Nature, or add to the combinations of\nArt,--as the ideas of inventors and discoverers. Next in the order of\nexcellence are all new and valuable ideas on diseases and their\ntreatment, on the redress of social abuses, on government and laws and\ntheir administration, and all similar ideas on all other subjects\nconnected with material welfare or intellectual and moral advancement.\nLast and least, ideas that are only the repetition of other ideas,\npreviously known, though not so well expressed.\n\n\nINSTITUTIONS.\n\nWhen an institution, not designed to be stationary, ceases to be\nprogressive, it is usually because its officers have lost their\nambition to make it so. In such a contingency, they had better be called\nupon to resign, and thus to open the way for a more executive and\nenergetic management.\n\n\nLAWYERS.\n\nThe lawyer's relation to society is like that of the scarecrow to the\ncornfield; concede that he effects nothing of positive good, and he\nstill exerts a wholesome influence from the terror his presence\ninspires.\n\n\nLEADERSHIP.\n\nHe who aspires to be leader must keep in advance of his column. His\nfears must not play traitor to his occasions. The instant he falls into\nline with his followers, a bolder spirit may throw himself at the head\nof the movement initiated, and from that moment his leadership is gone.\n\n\nLET THE RIGHT PREVAIL.\n\nIt is better that ten times ten thousand men should suffer in their\ninterests than that a right principle should not be vindicated. Granting\nthat all these will be injured by the suppression of the false, an\ninfinitely greater number will as certainly be prejudiced by throwing\noff the allegiance due to truth. Throughout the future, all have an\ninterest in the establishment of sound principles, while only a few in\nthe present can have even a partial interest in the perpetuation of\nerror.\n\n\nLIGHTS AND SHADOWS.\n\nIt is pleasanter and more amiable to applaud than to condemn, and they\nwho look wisely to their happiness will endeavor, as they go through\nlife, to see as much to admire, and as few things that are repugnant, as\npossible. Nothing that is not distinctively excellent is worthy of\nparticular study or comment.\n\n\nLOVERS' DIFFERENCES.\n\nTheir love for each other is only partial who differ much and widely.\nWhen a loving heart speaks to a heart that loves in return, an\nunderstanding is easily arrived at.\n\n\nWHAT LOVE PROVES.\n\nThe existence of so much love in the world establishes that there is in\nit much of the excellence that justifies so exalted a passion. Almost\nevery man has been a lover at some period in his life, and, out of so\nmany lovers, it is unreasonable to suppose that all of them have been\nmistaken in their estimates.\n\n\nMAGNANIMITY.\n\nJustice to the defeated exalts the victor from a subject of admiration\nto an object of love. To the fame of superior courage or address he\nthereby adds the glory of a greater magnanimity. Praise, too, of a\nvanquished opponent makes our victory over him appear the more signal.\n\n\nMANHOOD.\n\nThe question is not, the number of facts a man knows, but how much of a\nfact he is himself.\n\n\nMEAN MEN.\n\nIf a man is thoroughly mean by nature, let him give full swing to his\nmeanness. Such a fellow brings discredit upon generosity by putting on\nits semblance. If he attempts to disguise the smallness of his soul, he\nonly adds to his contemptible trait of meanness the still more\ndespicable vice of hypocrisy. Mean by the sacred institution of Nature,\nand without a generous trait to mar the excellence of his native\nmeanness, so long as he continues unqualifiedly mean, he exists a\nperfect type of a particular character, and presents to us a fine\nillustration of the vast capabilities of Nature.\n\n\nMETHODS OF THE ENTERPRISING.\n\nGreat personal activity at times, and closely sedentary and severely\nthoughtful habits at other times, are the forces by which able men\naccomplish notable enterprises. Sitting with thoughtful brows by their\nevening firesides, they originate and mature their plans; after which,\nwith energies braced to their work, they move to the easy conquest of\ndifficulties accounted formidable, because they have deliberated upon\nand mastered the _best methods_ for overcoming them.\n\n\nMILITARY SCHOOLS.\n\nThe existence of military schools is a proof that the other schools have\nnot done their duty.\n\n\nNATURE AND ART.\n\nThe art of being interesting is largely the art of being _real_,--of\nbeing without art.\n\n\nNEWSPAPERS.\n\nThe world is not fairly represented by its newspapers. Life is something\nbetter than they make it out to be. They are mainly the records of the\ncrimes that curse and the casualties that afflict it, the contests of\nlitigants and the strifes of politicians; but of the sweet amenities of\nhome and social life they are and must be silent. Not without a reason\nhas the poet fled from the \"poet's corner.\"\n\n\nNON-COMMUNICANTS.\n\nCertain minds are formed to take in truths, but not to utter them. They\nhoard their knowledge, as misers their gold. Their communicativeness is\nsmall. Their appreciation of principles is greater than their sympathy\nfor persons.\n\n\nOPINIONS.\n\nThe best merit of an opinion is, that it is sound; its next best merit,\nthat it is briefly expressed.\n\n\nPOETS AND POETRY.\n\nThe \"twelve rules for a poet\" are eleven too many. The poet needs but\none rule for his guidance as a poet,--namely, never to write poetry.[2]\n\n\nPOPULAR ASPIRANTS.\n\nThe fate of a popular aspirant is often like that of a prize ox. When in\nhis best condition, he is put up for exhibition, decorated with flowers\nand ribbons, and afterwards led out to be slaughtered.\n\n\nPRAISE.\n\nNo one, probably, was ever injured by having his good qualities made the\nsubject of judicious praise. The virtues, like plants, reward the\nattention bestowed upon them by growing more and more thrifty. A lad who\nis told often that he is a good boy will in time grow ashamed to exhibit\nthe qualities of a bad one.\n\n\nPRIDE.\n\nPride is like the beautiful acacia, that carries its head proudly above\nits neighbor plants,--forgetting that it, too, like them, has its root\nin the dirt.\n\n\nPROVERBS.\n\nInvention and the Graces preside at the birth of a good proverb. Aside\nfrom the ideas expressed in them, they are deserving of the attention of\nliterary men and all students of expression, from the infinite variety\nof turns of style they exhibit. \"If you don't want to be tossed by a\nbull, toss the bull.\" Here, for instance, the thought is not only\nspirited, but it is so rendered as to give to the idea both the force of\nnovelty and the agreeableness of wit. The words are as hard and compact,\nand the thought flies as swift, as a bullet.\n\n\nPUBLIC MEN.\n\nA public man may reasonably esteem it a piece of good fortune to be\nvigorously attacked in the newspapers. In the first place, it lifts him\nprominently into notice. Then, a plausible defence will divide public\nopinion, while a triumphant vindication will more fully establish him in\nthe popular regard. Even if unable to offer either, the notoriety so\nacquired will in time soften into a counterfeit of celebrity so like the\noriginal that it will easily pass for it. Besides, the world is\ncharitable, and will forget old sins in consideration of later virtues.\n\n\nMANNERS OF REFORMERS.\n\nReformers, from being deeply impressed with the evils they seek to\nredress, and actively engaged in a warfare against them, are apt to\ncontract a certain habit of denunciation, extending to persons and\nthings at large, and by which their character for amiability is\ninjuriously affected. This is particularly noticeable in that portion of\nthe press devoted to Progress.\n\n\nREQUESTS.\n\nIt is well to dress in your best when you go to press a request. It is\nnot so easy to resist the solicitations of a well-dressed importunate.\n\n\nRICH AND POOR.\n\nGrace resides with the cultivated, but strength is the property of the\npeople. Art with these has not emasculated Nature.\n\n\nRICH TO EXCESS.\n\nIntellectually, as many suffer from too much physical health as too\nlittle. A fat body makes a lean mind.\n\n\nRULE OR RUIN.\n\nA thoroughly vigorous man will not actively belong to any associated\nbody, except to rule in it. Not to control in its affairs is to have his\nindividuality cut down to the standard of those that do. He must stamp\nhimself upon the institution, or its enfeebling influence will be\nstamped upon him.\n\n\nSANS PEUR.\n\nNo man is competent greatly to serve the cause of truth till he has made\naudacity a part of his mental constitution.\n\nThere are some dangers that are to be courted,--courted and braved as a\ncoy mistress is to be wooed, with all the more vigor as the day makes\nagainst us. When Fortune frowns upon her worthy wooer, it is still\npermitted him to think how pleasant it will be ere long to bask in her\nsmiles.\n\n\nSLIGHTS.\n\nIn seasons when the energies flag and our ambition fails us, a rebuff is\na blessing, by rousing us from inaction, and stirring us to more\nvigorous efforts to make good our pretensions.\n\n\nSOCIAL REGENERATION.\n\nPrivate worth is the only true basis of public prosperity. Still,\nministers and moralists do but tinker at the regeneration of the world\nin merely recommending individual improvement. The most prolific cause\nof depravity is the social system that forms the character to what it\nis. The virtues, like plants, to flourish, must have a soil and air\nadapted to them. A plant at the seaside yields soda; the same plant\ngrown inland produces potash. What society most needs, for its permanent\nadvancement, is uniformity of inheritance.\n\n\nSPEAKERS.\n\nA speaker should put his character into what he says. So many speakers,\nlike so many faces, have no individuality in them.\n\n\nSPEAKING AND TALKING.\n\nThere is often a striking contrast between a man's style of writing and\nof talking,--for which I offer this explanation: He ponders what he\nwrites; he talks without system. As an author, therefore, he is\nsententious; as a conversationist, loose and verbose;--or the reverse of\nthis may be true.\n\n\nSPEECH.\n\nLanguage was given to us that we might say pleasant things to each\nother.\n\n\nPREVAILING STYLES.\n\nIn literary performances, as in Gothic architecture, the taste of the\nage is largely in favor of the pointed styles. Our churches and our\nbooks must bristle all over with points, or they are not so much thought\nof.\n\n\nSUNDAY.\n\nThe poor man's rich day.\n\n\nTHINGS WORTH KNOWING.\n\nOnly the good is worth knowing, and only the beautiful worth studying.\n\n\nTOBACCO.\n\nTobacco in excess fouls the breath, discolors the teeth, soils the\ncomplexion, deranges the nerves, reduces vitality, impairs the\nsensibility to beauty and to pleasure, abets intemperance, promotes\nidleness, and degrades the man.\n\n\nTRADE-LIFE.\n\nFormerly, when great fortunes were made only in war, war was a business;\nbut now, when great fortunes are made only by business, business is war.\n\n\nTRUTH-SEEKERS.\n\nHamlet, in the ghost scene, is a fine example of the _questioning\nspirit_ pursuing its inquiries regardless of consequences. The\napparition which affrights and confounds his companions only spurs his\nnot less timid, perhaps, but more speculative nature into following and\nplying it with questions. Only thus should Truth be followed, with an\ninterest great enough to overmaster all fears as to whither she may lead\nand what she may disclose.\n\n\nUGLY MEN.\n\nWhen a man is hideously ugly his only safety is in glorying in it. Let\nhim boldly claim it as a distinction.\n\n\nTHE WALK.\n\nThe walk discloses the character. A placid and composed walk bespeaks\nthe philosopher. He walks as if the present was sufficient for him. A\nmeasured step is the expression of a disciplined intellect, not easily\nstirred to excesses. A hurried pace denotes an eager spirit, with a\ntendency to precipitate measures. The confident and the happy swing\nalong, and need a wide sidewalk; while an irregular gait reveals a\ncomposite of character,--one thing to-day, another to-morrow, and\nnothing much at any time.\n\n\nWINE.\n\n_In vino_ there is not only _veritas_, but sensibility. It makes the\nface of him who drinks it to excess blush for his habits.\n\n\nWISDOM.\n\nWisdom comes to us as guest, but her visits are liable to sudden\nterminations. In our efforts to retain the wisdom we have acquired, an\nembarrassment arises like that of the little boy who was scolded for\nhaving a dirty nose. \"Blow your nose, Sir.\" \"Papa, I do blow my nose,\nbut it won't stay blowed.\"\n\n\nWOMEN AS JUDGES OF CHARACTER.\n\nIt is more honorable to have the regards of a few noble women than to be\npopular among a much greater number of men. Having in themselves the\nqualities that command our love, they are, for that reason, the better\nable to appreciate the traits that deserve to inspire it. The heart must\nbe judged by the heart, and men are too intellectual in the processes by\nwhich they form their regards.\n\n\nAVERAGE WORTH.\n\nA wife should accept her husband, and a friend his friend, upon a\ngeneral estimate. Particulars in character and conduct should be\noverlooked.\n\nFOOTNOTES:\n\n[Footnote 2: I speak, of course, only of the discreet poet. Great poets\nare never discreet. Their genius overrides their discretion.]\n\n\n\n\nBULLS AND BEARS.\n\n\nCHAPTER I\n\nTHE ARTISTS' EXHIBITION, AND WHAT CAME OF IT.\n\nThere was an exhibition of pictures in an upper room on Washington\nStreet. The artists had collected their unsold productions, and proposed\nto offer them at auction. There were sketches of White Mountain scenery,\nviews of Nahant and other beaches, woodland prospects, farm-houses with\nwell-sweeps, reedy marshes and ponds, together with the usual variety of\nideal heads and figures,--a very pretty collection. The artists had gone\nforth like bees, and gathered whatever was sweetest in every field\nthrough a wide circuit, and now the lover of the beautiful might have\nhis choice of the results without the fatigue of travel. Defects enough\nthere were to critical eyes,--false drawing, cold color, and\nunsuccessful distances; still there was much to admire, and the spirit\nand intention were interesting, even where the inexperience of the\npainter was only too apparent.\n\nA group of visitors entered the room: a lady in the prime of beauty,\nrichly but modestly dressed, casting quick glances on all sides, yet\nwith an air of quiet self-possession; a gentleman, her brother\napparently, near forty years of age, dignified and prepossessing; a\nsecond lady, in widow's weeds; and a young gentleman with successful\nmoustaches, lemon-colored gloves, and one of those bagging coats which\njust miss the grace of flowing outline without the compensation of\nsetting off a good figure. The lady first mentioned seemed born to take\nthe lead; it was no assumption in her; _incedo regina_ was the\nexpression of her gracefully poised head and her stately carriage. \"A\npretty bit,\" she said, carelessly pointing with her parasol to a picture\nof a rude country bridge and dam.\n\n\"Yes,\" said her elder brother, \"spirited and lifelike. Who is the\npainter, Marcia?\"\n\nThe beauty consulted her catalogue.\n\n\"Greenleaf, George Greenleaf.\"\n\n\"A new name. Look at that distant spire,\" he continued, \"faintly showing\namong the trees in the background. The water is surprisingly true. A\ncharming picture. I think I'll buy it.\"\n\n\"How quickly you decide,\" said the lady, with an air of languor. \"The\npicture is pretty enough, but you haven't seen the rest of the\ncollection yet. Gamboge paints lovely landscapes, they say. I wouldn't\nbe enthusiastic about a picture by an artist one doesn't know anything\nabout.\"\n\nA gentleman standing behind a screen near by moved away with a changed\nexpression and a deepening flush. Another person, an artist evidently,\nnow accosted the party, addressing them as Mr. and Miss Sandford. After\nthe usual civilities, he called their attention to the picture before\nthem.\n\n\"We were just admiring it,\" said Mr. Sandford.\n\n\"Do you like it, Mr. Easelmann?\" asked the lady.\n\n\"Yes, exceedingly.\"\n\n\"Ah! the generosity of a brother artist,\" replied Miss Sandford.\n\n\"No; you do the picture injustice,--and me too, for that matter; for,\"\nhe added, with a laugh, \"I am not generally supposed to ruin my friends\nby indiscriminate flattery. This young painter has wonderfully improved.\nHe went up into the country last season, found a picturesque little\nvillage, and has made a portfolio of very striking sketches.\"\n\nMiss Sandford began to appear interested.\n\n\"Quite pwomising,\" said the Adonis in the baggy coat, silent until now.\n\n\"Yes, he has blossomed all at once. He talks of going abroad.\"\n\n\"Bettah stay at home,\" said the young gentleman, languidly. \"I've been\nthwough all the gallewies. It's always the same stowy,--always the same\nold humbugs to be admired,--always a doosid boah.\"\n\n\"One relief you must have had in the galleries,\" retorted Easelmann;\n\"your all-round shirt-collar wouldn't choke you quite so much when your\nhead was cocked back.\"\n\nAdonis-in-bag adjusted his polished all-rounder with a delicately gloved\nfinger, and declared that the painter was \"a jol-ly fel-low.\"\n\nThe gentleman who had blushed a moment before, when the picture was\ncriticized, was still within earshot; he now turned an angry glance upon\nthe last speaker, and was about to cross the room, when Mr. Easelmann\nstopped him.\n\n\"With your permission, Miss Sandford,\" said the painter, nodding\nmeaningly towards the person retreating.\n\n\"Certainly,\" replied the lady.\n\n\"Mr. Greenleaf,\" said Easelmann, \"I wish you to know some friends of\nmine.\"\n\nThe gentleman so addressed turned and approached the party, and was\npresented to \"Miss Sandford, Mr. Sandford, Mrs. Sandford, and Mr.\nCharles Sandford.\" Miss Sandford greeted him with her most fascinating\nsmile; her brother shook his hand warmly; the other lady, a widowed\nsister-in-law, silently curtsied; while the younger brother inclined his\nhead slightly, his collar not allowing any sudden movement. In a moment\nmore the party were walking about the room, looking at the pictures.\n\nWhen at length the Sandfords were about to leave the room, the elder\ngentleman said to Mr. Greenleaf,--\n\n\"We should be happy to see you with our friend, Mr. Easelmann, at our\nhouse. Come without ceremony.\"\n\nMiss Sandford's eyes also said, \"Come!\" at least, so Greenleaf thought.\n\nMr. Charles Sandford, meanwhile, who was cultivating the sublime art of\nindifference, the distinguishing feature and the ideal of his tribe,\nonly tapped his boot with his slender ratan, and then smoothed his silky\nmoustaches.\n\nGreenleaf briefly expressed his thanks for the invitation, and, when the\nfamily had gone, turned to his friend with an inquiring look.\n\n\"Famous, my boy!\" said Easelmann. \"Sandford knows something about\npictures, though rather stingy in patronage; and he is evidently\nimpressed. The beauty, Marcia, is not a judge, but she is a valuable\nfriend,--now that you are recognized. The widow is a most charming\nperson. Charles, a puppy, as every young man of fashion thinks he must\nbe for a year or two, but harmless and good-natured. The friendship of\nthe family will be of service to you.\"\n\n\"But Marcia, as you call her, was depreciating my picture not a minute\nbefore you called me.\"\n\n\"Precisely, my dear fellow; but she didn't know who had painted it, and,\nmoreover, she hadn't seen you.\"\n\nGreenleaf blushed again.\n\n\"Don't color up that way; save your vermilion for your canvas. You _are_\ngood-looking; and the beauty desires the homage of every handsome man,\nespecially if he is likely to be a lion.\"\n\n\"A lion! a painter of landscapes a lion! Besides, I am no gallant. I\nnever learned the art of carrying a lady's fan.\"\n\n\"I hope not; and for that very reason you are the proper subject for\nher. Your simplicity and frankness are all the more charming to a woman\nwho needs new sensations. Probably she is tired of her _blase_ and wary\nadmirers just now. She will capture you, and I shall see a new and\nobsequious slave.\"\n\nGreenleaf attempted to speak, but could not get in a word.\n\n\"I felicitate you,\" continued Easelmann. \"You will have a valuable\nexperience, at any rate. To-morrow or next day we will call upon them.\nGood morning!\"\n\nGreenleaf returned his friend's farewell; then walking to a window, he\ntook out a miniature. It was the picture of a young and beautiful girl.\nThe calm eyes looked out upon him trustfully; the smile upon the mouth\nhad never seemed so lovely. He thought of the proud, dazzling coquette,\nand then looked upon the image of the tender, earnest, truthful face\nbefore him. As he looked, he smiled at his friend's prophecy.\n\n\"This is my talisman,\" he said; and he raised the picture to his lips.\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\nAn evening or two later, as Easelmann was putting his brushes into\nwater, Greenleaf came into his studio. The cloud-compelling meerschaums\nwere produced, and they sat in high-backed chairs, watching the thin\nwreaths of smoke as they curled upwards to the skylight. The sale of\npictures had taken place, and the prices, though not high enough to make\nthe fortunes of the artists, were yet reasonably remunerative; the\npictures were esteemed almost as highly, Easelmann thought, as the\ndecorative sketches in an omnibus.\n\n\"And did Sandford buy your picture, Greenleaf?\"\n\n\"Yes, I believe so. In fact, I saw it in his drawing-room, yesterday.\"\n\n\"Certainly; how could I have forgotten it? I must have been thinking of\nthe animated picture there. What is paint, when one sees such a glowing,\nglancing, fascinating, arch, lovely, tantalizing\"--\n\n\"Don't! Don't pelt me with your parts of speech!\"\n\n\"I was trying to select the right adjective.\"\n\n\"Well, you need not shower down a basketful, merely to pick out one.\"\n\n\"But confess, now, you are merely the least captivated?\"\n\n\"Not the least.\"\n\n\"No little palpitations at the sound of her name? No short breath nor\nupturned eyes? No vague longings nor 'billowy unrest'?\"\n\n\"None.\"\n\n\"You slept well last night?\"\n\n\"Perfectly.\"\n\n\"No dreams of a sea-green palace, with an Undine in wavy hair, and a big\nbrother with fan-coral plumes, who afterwards turned into a sea-dog?\"\n\n\"No,--I cut the late suppers you tempt me with, and preserve my\ndigestion.\"\n\n\"A great mistake! One good dream in a nightmare will give you more\npoetical ideas than you can paint in a month: I mean a reasonable\nnightmare, that you can ride,--not one that rides you. The imagination\nthen seems to scintillate nothing but beautiful images.\"\n\n\"I don't care to become a red-hot iron for the sake of seeing the sparks\nI might radiate.\"\n\n\"Prosaic again! Now sin and sorrow have their advantages; the law of\ncompensation, you see. Poets, according to Shelley, learn in suffering\nwhat they teach in song. And if novelists were always scrupulous, what\ndo you think they would write? Only milk-and-water proprieties,\ntamely-virtuous platitudes. Do you think Dickens never saw a taproom or\na thief's den?--or that Thackeray is unacquainted with the \"Cave of\nHarmony\"? No,--all the piquancy of life comes from the slight _soupcon_\nof wickedness wherewithal we season it.\"\n\n\"I like amazingly to have you wander off in this way; you are always\nentertaining, whether your ethics are sound or not.\"\n\n\"Don't trouble yourself about ethics. You and I are artists; we want\neffects, contrasts; we must have our enthusiasms, our raptures, and our\ndespair.\"\n\n\"You ride a theory well.\"\n\n\"Now, my dear Greenleaf, listen. Kindly I say it, but you are a trifle\ntoo innocent, too placid,--in short, too youthful. To paint, you must be\nintense; to be intense, you must feel; and--you see I come back on the\nsweep of the circle--to feel, one must have incentives, objects.\"\n\n\"So, you will roast your own liver to make a _pate_.\"\n\n\"Better so than to have the Promethean vulture peck it out for you.\"\n\n\"Well, if I am as you say, what am I to do? I am docile, to-day.\"\n\n\"Fall in love.\"\n\n\"I have tried the experiment.\"\n\n\"It must have been with some insipid girl, not out of her teens, odorous\nof bread and butter, innocent of wiles, and ignorant of her\ncapabilities and your own.\"\n\n\"Perhaps, but still I have been in love,--and am.\"\n\n\"Bless me! that was a sigh! The sleeping waters then did show a dimple.\nWhy, man, _you_ talk about love, with that smooth, shepherd's face of\nyours, that contented air, that smoothly sonorous voice! Corydon and\nPhyllis! You should be like a grand piano after Satter has thundered out\nall its chords, tremulous with harmonies verging so near to discord that\npain would be mixed with pleasure in the divinest proportions.\"\n\nGreenleaf clapped his hands. \"Bravo, Easelmann! you have mistaken your\nvocation; you should turn musical critic.\"\n\n\"The arts are all akin,\" he replied, calmly refilling his pipe.\n\n\"I think I can put together the various parts of your lecture for you,\"\nsaid Greenleaf. \"You think I see Nature in her gentler moods, and\nreproduce only her placid features. You think I have feeling, though\nlatent,--undeveloped. My nerves need a banging, just enough not to\nwholly unstring them. For that pleasant experience, I am to fall in\nlove. The woman who has the nature to magnetize, overpower, transport me\nis Miss Marcia Sandford. I am, therefore, to make myself as\nuncomfortable as possible, in pursuit of a pleasure I know beforehand I\ncan never obtain. Then, from the rather prosaic level of Scumble, I\nshall rise to the grand, gloomy, and melodramatic style of Salvator\nRosa. _Voila tout!_\n\n\"An admirable summary. You have listened well. But tell me now,--what do\n_you_ think? Or do you wander like a little brook, without any will of\nyour own, between such banks as Fate may hem you in withal?\"\n\n\"I will be frank with you. Until last season, I never had a serious,\ndefinite purpose in life. I fell in love then with the most charming of\ncountry-girls.\"\n\n\"I know,\" interrupted Easelmann, in a denser cloud than usual,--\"a\nvillage Lucy,--'a violet 'neath a mossy stone, fair as a star when only\none,'--you know the rest of it. She was fair because there _was_ only\none.\"\n\n\"Silence, Mephistopheles! it is my turn; let me finish my story. I never\ntold her my love\"----\n\n\"'But let concealment'\"----\n\n\"Attend to your pipe; it is going out. I did _look_, however. The\nlanguage of the eyes needs no translation. I often walked, sketched,\ntalked with the girl, and I felt that there was the completest sympathy\nbetween us. I knew her feelings towards me, as well, I am persuaded, as\nshe knew mine. I gave her no pledge, no keepsake; I only managed, by an\nartifice, to get her daguerreotype at a travelling saloon.\"\n\nEaselmann laughed. \"Let me see it, most modest of lovers!\"\n\n\"You sha'n't. Your evil eye shall not fall upon it After I came to\nBoston, I took a room and began working up my sketches\"----\n\n\"Where I found you brushing away for dear life.\"\n\n\"I meant to earn enough to go abroad, if it were only for one look at\nthe great pictures of which I have so often dreamed. Then I meant to\ncome back\"----\n\n\"To find your Lucy married to a schoolmaster, and with five sickly\nchildren.\"\n\n\"No,--she is but seventeen; she will not marry till I see her.\"\n\n\"I admire your confidence, Greenleaf; it is an amiable weakness.\"\n\n\"After I had been here a month or two, I was filled with an unutterable\nsense of uneasiness. Something was wrong, I felt assured. I daily kissed\nthe sweet lips\"----\n\n\"Of a twenty-five-cent daguerreotype.\"\n\nGreenleaf did not notice the interruption. \"I thought the eyes looked\ntroubled; they even seemed to reproach me; yet the soul that beamed in\nthem was as tender as ever.\"\n\n\"_Diablerie!_ I believe you are a spiritualist.\"\n\n\"At last I could bear it no longer. I shut up my room and took the cars\nfor Innisfield.\"\n\n\"I remember; that was when you gave out that you had gone to see your\naunt.\"\n\n\"I found Alice seriously ill. I won't detain you further than to say\nthat I did not leave her until she was completely restored, until my\nlong cherished feelings had found utterance, and we were bound by ties\nthat nothing but death will divide.\"\n\n\"Really, you are growing sentimental. The waters verily are moved.\"\n\n\"That is because an angel has troubled them. You will mock, I know; but\nit is nevertheless true, as I am told, that, for the week before I left\nBoston, she was in a half-delirious state, and constantly called my\nname.\"\n\n\"And you heard her and came. Sharp senses, and a good, dutiful boy!\"\n\n\"My presentiment was strange, wasn't it?\"\n\n\"Oh, don't try to coax me into believing all that! It's very pretty, and\nwould make a nice little romance for a magazine; but you and I have\npassed the age of measles and chicken-pox. Now, to follow your example,\nlet me make a summary. You are in love, you say, which, for the sake of\nargument, I will grant. You are engaged. But you are ambitious. You want\nto go to Italy, and you hope to surpass Claude, as Turner has done--over\nthe left. Then you will return and marry the constant Alice, and live in\neconomical splendor, on a capital--let me see--of eighty-seven dollars\nand odd cents, being the proceeds of a certain auction-sale. Promising,\nisn't it?\"\n\nGreenleaf was silent,--his pipe out.\n\n\"Don't be gloomy,\" continued Easelmann, in a more sympathetic tone. \"Let\nus take a stroll round the Common. I never walk through the Mall at\nsunset without getting a new hint of effect.\"\n\n\"I agree to the walk,\" said Greenleaf.\n\n\"Let us take Charbon along with us.\"\n\n\"He doesn't talk.\"\n\n\"That's what I like him for; he thinks the more.\"\n\n\"How is one to know it?\"\n\n\"Just look at him! talk your best,--parade your poetry, your criticism,\nyour epigrams, your puns, if you have any, and then look at him! By\nJove! I don't want a better talker. I know it's _in_ him, and I don't\ncare whether he opens his mouth or not.\"\n\n\nCHAPTER II.\n\nSHOWING HOW MUCH IT SOMETIMES COSTS TO BE THOUGHT CHARITABLE.\n\nMr. Sandford was a bachelor, and resided in a pleasant street at the\nWest End,--his sister being housekeeper. His house was simply\nfurnished,--yet the good taste apparent in the arrangement of the\nfurniture gave the rooms an air of neatness, if not of elegance. There\nwere not so many pictures as might be expected in the dwelling of a\nlover of Art, and in many cases the frames were more noticeable than the\ncanvas; for upon most of them were plates informing the visitor that\nthey were presented to Henry Sandford for his disinterested services as\ntreasurer, director, or chairman of the Society for the Relief of Infirm\nWood-sawyers, or some other equally benevolent association. The silver\npitcher and salver, always visible upon a table, were a testimonial from\nthe managers of a fair for the aid of Indigent Widows. A massive silver\ninkstand bore witness to the gratitude of the Society of Merchants'\nClerks. And numerous Votes of Thanks, handsomely engrossed on parchment,\nwith eminent names appended, and preserved in gilt frames, filled all\nthe available space upon the walls. It was evident that this was the\nresidence of a Benefactor of Mankind.\n\nIt was just after breakfast, and Mr. Sandford was preparing to go out.\nHis full and handsome face was serene as usual, and a general air of\nneatness pervaded his dress. He was, in fact, unexceptionable in\nappearance, wearing the look that gets credit in State Street, gives\nrespectability to a public platform, and seems to bring a blessing into\nthe abodes of poverty. Nothing but broad and liberal views, generous\nsentiments, and a noble self-forgetfulness would seem to belong to a\nman with such a presence. But his sister Marcia, this morning, seemed\nfar from being pleased with his plans; her tones were querulous, and\neven severe.\n\n\"Now, Henry,\" she exclaimed, \"you are not going to sell that picture.\nWe've had enough changes. Every auction a new purchase, which you\nimmediately fling away.\"\n\n\"You are a very warm-hearted young woman,\" replied the brother, \"and you\ndoubtless imagine that I am able with my limited resources to buy a\npicture from every new painter, besides answering the numberless calls\nmade upon me from every quarter.\"\n\n\"Why did you bid for the picture, then?\"\n\n\"I wished to encourage the artist.\"\n\n\"But why do you sell it, then?\"\n\n\"Monroe wants it, and will give a small advance on its cost.\"\n\n\"But Monroe was at the sale; why didn't he bid for it then?\"\n\n\"A very natural question, Sister Marcia; but it shows that you are not a\nmanager. However, I'll explain. Monroe was struck with the picture, and\nwould have given a foolish price for it. So I said to him,--'Monroe,\ndon't be rash. If two connoisseurs like you and me bid against each\nother for this landscape, other buyers will think there is something in\nit, and the price will be run up to a figure neither of us can afford to\npay. Let me buy it and keep it a month or so, and then we'll agree on\nthe terms. I sha'n't be hard with you.' And I won't be. He shall have it\nfor a hundred, although I paid eighty-seven and odd.\"\n\n\"So you speculate, where you pretend to patronize Art?\"\n\n\"Don't use harsh words, Sister Marcia. Half the difficulties in the\nworld come from a hasty application of terms.\"\n\n\"But I want the picture; and I didn't ask you to buy it merely to oblige\nMr. Greenleaf.\"\n\n\"True, sister, but he will paint others, and better ones, perhaps. I\nwill buy another in its place.\"\n\n\"And sell it when you get a good offer, I suppose.\"\n\n\"Sister Marcia, you evince a thoughtless disposition to trifle with--I\nhope not to wound--my feelings. How do you suppose I am able to maintain\nmy position in society, to support Charles in his elegant idleness, to\nsupply all your wants, and to help carry on the many benevolent\nenterprises in which I have become engaged, on the small amount of\nproperty left us, and with the slender salary of fifteen hundred dollars\nfrom the Insurance Office? If I had not some self-denial, some\nmanagement, you would find quite a different state of things.\"\n\n\"But I remember that you drew your last year's salary in a lump. You\nmust have had money from some source for current expenses meanwhile.\"\n\n\"Some few business transactions last year were fortunate. But I am poor,\nquite poor; and nothing but a sense of duty impels me to give so much of\nmy time and means to aid the unfortunate and the destitute, and for the\npromotion of education and the arts that beautify and adorn life.\"\n\nHis wits were probably \"wool-gathering\"; for the phrases which had been\nso often conned for public occasions slipped off his tongue quite\nunawares. His countenance changed at once when Marcia mischievously\napplauded by clapping her hands and crying, \"Hear!\" He paused a moment,\nseeming doubtful whether to make an angry reply; but his face\nbrightened, and he exclaimed,--\n\n\"You are a wicked tease, but I can't be offended with you.\"\n\n\"Bye-bye, Henry,\" she replied. \"Some committee is probably waiting for\nyou.\" Then, as he was about closing the door, she added,--\"I was going\nto say, Henry, if your charities are not more expensive than your\npatronage of Art, you might afford me that _moire antique_ and the set\nof pearls I asked you for.\"\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\nWe will follow Mr. Sandford to the Insurance Office. It was only nine\no'clock, and the business of the day did not begin until ten. But the\nmorning hour was rarely unoccupied. As he sat in his arm-chair, reading\nthe morning papers, Mr. Monroe entered. He was a clerk in the commission\nhouse of Lindsay and Company, in Milk Street,--a man of culture and\nrefined taste, as well as attentive to business affairs. With an active,\nsanguine temperament, he had the good-humor and frankness that usually\nbelong to less ardent natures. Simple-hearted and straightforward, he\nwas yet as trustful and affectionate as a child. He was unmarried and\nlived with his mother, her only child.\n\n\"Ah, Monroe,\" said Sandford, with cordiality, \"you don't want the\npicture yet? Let it remain as long as you can, and I'll consider the\nfavor when we settle.\"\n\n\"No,--I'm in no hurry about the picture. I have a matter of business I\nwish to consult you about. My mother had a small property,--about ten\nthousand dollars. Up to this time I haven't made it very profitable, and\nI thought\"--\n\nJust then a visitor entered. The President of the Society for the\nReformation of Criminals came with a call for a public meeting.\n\n\"You know, my dear Sir,\" said the President, \"that we don't expect you\nto pay; we consider the calls made upon your purse; but we want your\nname and influence.\"\n\nMr. Sandford signed the call, and made various inquiries concerning the\ncondition and prospects of the society. The President left with a smile\nand a profusion of thanks. Before Mr. Sandford was fairly seated another\nperson came in. It was the Secretary of the Society for the Care of\nJuvenile Offenders.\n\n\"We want to have a hearing before the city government,\" said he, \"and we\nhave secured the aid of Mr. Greene Satchel to present the case. Won't\nyou give us your name to the petition, as one of the officers? No\nexpense to you; some wealthy friends will take care of that. We don't\ndesire to tax a man who lives on a salary, and especially one who\ndevotes so much of his time and money to charity.\"\n\n\"Thank you for your consideration,\" said Mr. Sandford, signing his name\nin a fair round hand.\n\nOnce more the friends were left alone, and Monroe proceeded,--\n\n\"I was going on to say that perhaps you might know some chance for a\nsafe investment.\"\n\nMr. Sandford appeared thoughtful for a moment.\n\n\"Yes,--I think I may find a good opportunity; seven per cent., possibly\neight.\"\n\n\"Excellent!\" said Monroe.\n\nThere was another interruption. A tall, stately person entered the\noffice, wearing a suit of rather antique fashion, apparently verging on\nsixty years, yet with a clear, smooth skin, and a bright, steady eye. It\nwas the Honorable Charles Wyndham, the representative of an ancient\nfamily, and beyond question one of the most eminent men in the city. Mr.\nSandford might have been secretly elated at the honor of this visit, but\nhe rose with a tranquil face and calmly bade Mr. Wyndham good morning.\n\n\"My young friend,\" began the great man, \"I am happy to see you looking\nso well this morning. I have not come to put any new burdens on your\npatient shoulders; we all know your services and your sacrifices. This\ntime we have a little recompense,--if, indeed, acts of beneficence are\nnot their own reward. The Board are to have a social meeting at my house\nto-night, to make arrangements for the anniversary; and we think a\nfrugal collation will not be amiss for those who have worked for the\nSociety so freely and faithfully.\"\n\nMr. Sandford softly rubbed his white hands and bowed with a deprecatory\nsmile.\n\n\"I know your modesty,\" said Mr. Wyndham, \"and will spare you further\ncompliment. Your accounts are ready, I presume? I intend to propose to\nthe Board, that, as we have a surplus, you shall receive a substantial\nsum for your disinterested services.\"\n\nThey were standing near together, leaning on a tall mahogany desk, and\nthe look of benevolent interest on one side, and of graceful humility on\nthe other, was touching to see. Mr. Sandford laid his hand softly on his\ndistinguished friend's shoulder, and begged him not to insist upon\npayment for services he had been only too happy to render.\n\n\"We won't talk about that now; and I must not detain you longer from\nbusiness. _Good_ morning!\" And with the stateliest of bows, and a most\ngracious smile, the Honorable Mr. Wyndham retreated through the glass\ndoor.\n\nWhen Mr. Sandford had bowed the visitor out, he returned to Monroe with\nan expression of weariness on his handsome face. \"So many affairs to\nthink of! so many people to see! Really, it is becoming vexatious. I\nbelieve I shall turn hunks, and get a reputation for downright\nstinginess.\"\n\n\"But your visitors are pleasant people,\" said Monroe,--\"and the last,\ncertainly, was a man whom most men think it an honor to know.\"\n\n\"You mean Wyndham. Oh, yes, Wyndham _is_ a good fellow; a little prosy\nsometimes, but means well. We endure the Dons, you know, if they _are_\nslow.\"\n\nMonroe thought his friend hardly respectful to the head of the Wyndham\nfamily, but set it down as an awkward attempt at being facetious.\n\n\"Well, about that money of yours?\" said Sandford.\n\n\"I left it, as a loan on call, at Danforth's. But how do you propose to\ninvest it?\"\n\n\"I haven't fully made up my mind. Perhaps it is best you should not\nknow. I will guaranty you eight per cent., and agree to return the\nprincipal on thirty days' notice. So you can try, meanwhile, and see if\nyou can do better.\"\n\nMonroe agreed to the proposal, and drew a check on the broker for the\namount, for which Sandford signed a note, payable thirty days after\npresentation. The friends now separated, and Monroe went to his\nwarehouse.\n\nStockholders began to come to look over the morning papers, and chat\nabout the news, the stocks, and the degeneracy of the times. What a club\nis to an idle man of fashion,--what a sewing-society is to a\nscandal-loving woman,--what a billiard-room is to a man about\ntown,--what the Athenaeum is to the sober and steadfast\nbibliolater,--that is the Insurance Office to the retired merchant, bald\nand spectacled, who wanders like a ghost among the scenes of his former\nactivity. The comfortable chairs, and in winter the social fires in open\ngrates,--the slow-going and respectable newspapers, the pleasant view of\nState Street, and, above all, the authoritative disposition of public\naffairs upon the soundest mercantile principles of profit and loss,--all\nthese constitute an attraction which no well-brought-up Bostonian, who\nhas money to buy shares, cares to resist, at least until the increasing\nsize of his buckskin shoes renders locomotion difficult.\n\nTo all these solid men Mr. Sandford gave a hearty good-morning, and a\nfrank, cheerful smile. They took up the journals and looked over the\ntelegraphic dispatches, thinking, as they were wont, that the old Vortex\nwas lucky, above all Companies, in its honest, affable, and intelligent\nSecretary.\n\nMr. Sandford retired to his private room and looked hastily at his\nmorning letters; but his mind did not seem to be occupied with the\nbusiness before him. He rang the bell for the office-boy. \"Tom,\" said\nhe, \"go and ask Mr. Fletcher to step down here a minute.\" He mused after\nthe boy left, tapping his fingers on the table to the time of a familiar\nair. \"If I can keep Fletcher from dabbling in stocks, I shall make a\ngood thing of this. I shall keep a close watch on him. To manage men,\nthere is nothing like knowing how to go to work at them. ALL the fools\nare jack-a-dandies, and one has only to find where the strings hang to\nmake them dance as he will. I have Fletcher fast. I heard a fellow\ntalking about taming a man, Rarey-fashion, by holding out a pole to him\nwith a bunch of flowers. Pooh! The best thing is a bit of paper with a\ncourt seal at the corner, stuck on the end of a constable's staff.\"\n\nMr. Fletcher entered presently,--the office where he was employed being\nonly a few doors off. He was a slender young man, with strikingly\nregular features and delicate complexion; his mobile mouth was covered\nby a fringy moustache, and his small keen eyes were restless to a\npainful degree. The sudden summons appeared to have flustered him; for\nhis eyes danced more than usual, giving him the startled and perplexed\nlook of a hunted animal at bay. He was speedily reassured by Sandford's\nbland voice and encouraging smile.\n\n\"A new opening, Fletcher,--a 'pocket,' as the Californians call it. Is\nthere any chance to operate? Just look about. I have the funds ready.\nSomething safe, and fat, too.\"\n\n\"Plenty of chances to those who look for them,\" replied Fletcher. \"The\nmen who are hard up are the best customers; they will stand a good slice\noff; and if a man is sharp, he can deal as safely with them as with the\nA 1s, who turn up their noses at seven per cent.\"\n\n\"You understand, I see.\"\n\n\"I think I ought. Papyrus, only yesterday, was asking if anything could\nbe done for him,--about fifteen hundred; offers Sandbag's note with only\nthirty days to run. The note was of no use to _him_, because the banks\nrequire two names, and his own isn't worth a straw. But Sandbag is\ngood.\"\n\n\"We'll take it. About a hundred off?\"\n\nFletcher nodded.\n\n\"I've plenty more to invest, Fletcher. Let me know if you see any paper\nworth buying.\"\n\nFletcher nodded again, but looked expectant, much like a dog (not\nwishing to degrade him by the comparison) waiting with longing eyes\nwhile his master eats his morning mutton-chop.\n\n\"Fletcher,\" said Sandford, \"I'll make this an object to you. I don't\nmind giving you five dollars, as soon as we have Papyrus's indorsement\non the note. And, speaking of the indorsement, let him sign his name,\nand then bring me the note. I wish to put on the name of the person to\nwhose order it is to be payable.\"\n\n\"Then it is on the account\"--\n\n\"Of whom it may concern,\" broke in Sandford. \"Don't stand with your\nmouth open. That is my affair.\"\n\n\"But if you pay me only five dollars\"--\n\n\"That is so much clear gain to you. Do you suppose that we--my backer\nand I--shall run the risk for nothing? Good morning! Attend to your own\naffairs at Danforth's properly. Don't burn your fingers with any new\nexperiments. There's a crash coming and stocks will fall. Good morning!\"\n\nThe Secretary looked relieved when Fletcher closed the door, and\nspeedily dispatched the necessary letters and orders for the Company.\nThen leaving the affairs of the Vortex in the hands of his clerk, he\nstrolled out for his usual lunch. Wherever he walked, he was met with\nsmiles and greetings of respect. He turned into an alley, entered an\neating-house, and took his place at a table; he ordered and ate his\nlunch, and then left, with a nod towards the counter. The landlord, who\nbegan on credit, expected no pay from the man who procured him money\naccommodations. No waiter had ever seen a sixpence from his purse. How\nshould a man be expected to pay, who spent his substance and his time so\nfreely in charity?\n\n\nCHAPTER III.\n\nCONTAINING SOME CONFESSIONS NOT INTENDED FOR THE PUBLIC EAR.\n\nMiss Marcia Sandford, after breakfast, was sitting in her chamber with\nher widowed sister-in-law, who had come to spend a few months with her\nlate husband's family. The widow no longer wore the roses of youth, but\nwas yet on friendly terms with Time; indeed, so quietly had their annual\nsettlements passed off, that it would have puzzled any one not in their\nconfidence to tell how the account stood. The simplicity of her dress,\nthe chastened look, and the sobriety of phrase, of which her recent\naffliction was the cause, might have hinted at thirty-five; but when her\nclear, placid eye was turned upon you, and you saw the delicate flush\ndeepening or vanishing upon a smooth cheek, and noted the changeful\nexpression that hovered like a spiritual presence around her mouth, it\nwould have been treason to think of a day beyond twenty. She had known\nbut little of Marcia, and that little had shown her only as a lover of\ndress and of admiration, besides being capricious to a degree unusual\neven in a spoiled favorite.\n\nA musical _soiree_ was under consideration. Marcia was a proficient upon\nthe harp and piano, and, as she had heard that Mr. Greenleaf, the\nhandsome painter, as she called him, was a fine singer, she determined\nto practise some operatic duets with him, that should move all her\nmusical friends to envy.\n\n\"You seem to have taken a strong liking to this Mr. Greenleaf, Marcia.\"\n\n\"Yes, Lydia,\" replied the beauty, \"I do like him, exceedingly,--what I\nhave seen of him. He will do--for a month or so. People are frequently\nquite charming at first, like fresh bouquets,--but dull and tame enough\nwhen the dew is off.\"\n\n\"But you can't have a new admirer, as you have fresh flowers, every\nday.\"\n\n\"That's true, and pity 'tis, 'tis true.\"\n\n\"What a female Bluebeard you are!\"\n\n\"Wouldn't you, now, like to meet some new, delightful person every day?\nConsider how prosaic a man is, after you know all about him.\"\n\n\"I always find something new in a man really worth knowing.\"\n\n\"Do you? I wish I could. I always look them through as I used to my\ntoys. I never cared for my 'crying babies,' after I found out what made\nthem squeak.\"\n\n\"I am afraid the comparison will hold out farther than you intended. You\nwere never satisfied with your toys until you had not only explored\ntheir machinery, but smashed them into the bargain.\"\n\n\"But men stand it better than toys. If they get smashed, as you say,\nthey heal wonderfully. I sometimes think, that, like lobsters, they can\nrepair their injuries by new growths,--fresh claws, and fins, and\nfeelers.\"\n\n\"Complimentary, truly! but I notice that you don't speak of vital\norgans.\"\n\n\"Hearts, you mean, I suppose. That is an obsolete idea,--a relic of\nsuperstition.\"\n\n\"But how many of these broken idols have you thrown aside, Marcia? Have\nyou kept account?\"\n\n\"Dear me! no! Why should I?\"\n\n\"It would be interesting, I think, to a student of social statistics, to\nknow how many engagements there are to one marriage, how many offers to\none engagement, how many flirtations to one offer, and how many tender\nadvances to one flirtation.\"\n\n\"Oh, Lydia! Love and Arithmetic! they never went together. I leave all\ncalculations to my wise and busy brother. I like to wander like a\nhummingbird, that keeps no account of the flowercups it has sipped out\nof.\"\n\n\"Let us reckon. I can help you, perhaps. I have heard you talk of half a\ndozen. There is Colonel Langford,--one.\"\n\n\"Handsome, proud, and shallow. Let him go!\"\n\n\"There is Lieutenant Allen,--two.\"\n\n\"Fierce, impatient, and exacting. He can go also. I had as lief be loved\nby a lion.\"\n\n\"Next is Mr. Lanman,--three.\"\n\n\"Wily, plausible, passionate, and treacherous. He is only a cat in a new\nsphere of existence.\"\n\n\"Then there is Denims,--I am not sure about the order,--four.\"\n\n\"Rich, vain, and stupid;--there never was such a dolt.\"\n\n\"But you kept him for a longer time than usual.\"\n\n\"Yes, rather; but he was too dull to understand my ironical compliments,\nor to resent my studied neglect.\"\n\n\"Jaunegant makes five.\"\n\n\"Oh, the precious crony of my brother Charles! The best specimen of the\ndandy race. The man who gives so much love to himself and his clothes,\nthat he has none to spare for any one else. But, Lydia, this is tedious;\nwe shall never get through at this rate. Besides,\" with a\nmock-sentimental air, \"you have not been here long enough to know the\nmelancholy history,--to count the wrecks that are strewn along the\ncoast, where the Siren resorts. Let me take up the list. Corning, who\nreally loved me, (six,) and went to sea to cure the heart-ache. I heard\nof him in State Street a month ago,--with a blue shirt and leather belt,\nand chewing a piece of tobacco as large as his thumb. He seemed happy as\na king.\"\n\n\"I saw a kind of tobacco advertised as '_The Solace_';--the name was\ngiven by some disappointed swain, I suppose.\"\n\n\"Probably,\" said Marcia, smiling. \"Then there was Outrack, (seven,) who\nwas so furious at the refusal, that he immediately married the gay Miss\nFlutter Budget, forty-five, short, stout, and fifty thousand\ndollars,--he twenty-six, tall, slender, and some distant expectations. I\nheard him, at a party, call her 'Dear'!\"\n\n\"I don't think you get on any faster than I did. We shall have to finish\nthe tour of the portrait-gallery another day.\"\n\n\"You are not tired? I wanted to tell you of several more. Yet I don't\nknow why I should. I declare to you seriously, that I never before\nmentioned the names of these persons in this way, nor referred to them\nas rejected lovers.\"\n\n\"I have no doubt of it. It has seemed like a fresh, spontaneous\nconfession.\"\n\n\"There is some magic about you, Sister Lydia. You invite confidence; or\nrather, you seem to be like one of those chemical agents that penetrate\neverything; there's no resisting you. Don't protest. I know what you\nwould say. It isn't your curiosity. You are no Paulina Pry; if you were,\nprecious little you would get from me.\"\n\n\"But, Marcia, let me return a moment to what you were saying. Did the\nreason never occur to you, why you so soon become tired of your\nadmirers? You see through them, you say. Is it not possible that a lady\nwho has the reputation of caprice,--a flirt, as the world is apt to call\nher,--though ever so brilliant, witty, and accomplished, may not attract\nthe kind of men that can bear scrutiny, but only the butterfly race, fit\nfor a brief acquaintance? Believe me, Marcia, there is a reason for\neverything, and, with all your beauty and fascination, you must yourself\nhave the element of constancy, to win the admiration of the best and\nworthiest men.\"\n\n\"So, you are going to preach?\" said Marcia, rather crestfallen.\n\n\"No, I don't preach. But what I see, I ought to tell you; I should not\nbe a good sister otherwise.\"\n\n\"I'll think about it. But now for the musical party. I mean to send for\nMr. Greenleaf, to practise some songs and duets. He is not a butterfly,\nI am sure.\"\n\n\"But, Marcia, is it well, is it right, for you to try to fascinate this\nnew friend of yours, unless you feel something more than a transient\ninterest in him?\"\n\n\"How can I tell what interest I shall feel in him, until I know him\nbetter?\"\n\n\"But you know his circumstances and his prospects. You are not the woman\nto marry a poor painter. You have too many wants; or rather, you have\nbecome accustomed to luxuries that now seem to be necessaries.\"\n\n\"True, I haven't the romance for love in a cottage. But a painter is not\nnecessarily a bad match; if he doesn't become rich, he may be\ndistinguished. And besides, no one knows what will happen from the\nbeginning of an acquaintance. We will enjoy the sunshine of to-day; and\nif to-morrow brings a darker sky, we must console ourselves as we can.\"\n\n\"What an Epicurean! Well, Marcia, you are not a child; you must act for\nyourself.\"\n\nMarcia made no reply, but sat down to her desk to write a note; and her\nsister-in-law soon after went to her own room.\n\nDuring all this conversation, Mrs. Sandford was struck by the tone which\nthe beautiful coquette assumed. Her words were aptly chosen, her\nsentences smoothly constructed; she never hesitated; and there was an\never-present air of consciousness, that left no conviction of sincerity.\nWhether she uttered sentiments of affection, or sharp criticism upon\ncharacter, there was the same level flow of language, the same nicely\nmodulated intonation. There was no flash of enthusiasm, none of those\noutbursts in which the hearer feels sure that the heart has spoken. Mrs.\nSandford was thoroughly puzzled. Marcia had never been otherwise than\nkind; in fact; she seemed to be studiously careful of the feelings of\nothers, except when her position as reigning belle made it necessary to\ncut a dangler. This methodical speech and unruffled grace of manner\nmight be only the result of discipline. Truth and honesty _might_ exist\nas well under this artificial exterior as in a more impulsive nature.\nBut the world generally thinks that whoever habitually wears a smiling\nmask has some secret end to serve thereby. \"I like this painter,\nGreenleaf,\" she soliloquized, \"and I mean to look out for him. I am\npersuaded that Marcia would never marry him; and I think he is too\nsensitive, too manly, to be a fit subject for her experiments.\"\n\n\nCHAPTER IV.\n\nCONCERNING CONSTANCY AND THE AFFINITIES.\n\n\"A Musical _soiree_? Famous, my boy!\" said Easelmann, as he sat, smoking\nas usual, in his fourth-story _atelier_ with Greenleaf, watching the sun\ngo down. \"Making progress, I see. You have nothing to do; the affair\nwill take care of itself.\"\n\n\"What affair?\"\n\n\"Don't be stupid (_puff_). Your affair with Miss Sandford (_puff_).\nThere's a wonderful charm in music (_puff_). Two such young people might\nfall in love, to be sure, without singing together (_puff_). But music\nis the true _aqua regia_; it dissolves all into its own essence. A piano\nand a tenor voice will do more than a siege of months, though aided by a\nbattery of bouquets.\"\n\n\"How you run on! I have called twice,--once with you, and the second\ntime by the lady's invitation. Besides, I told you--indiscreetly, I am\nafraid--that I am really engaged to be married.\"\n\n\"Oh, yes, I have not forgotten the touching story (_puff_); but we get\nover all things, even such passions as yours. We are plants, that thrive\nvery well for a while in the pots we sprouted in, but after a time we\nmust have a change of soil.\"\n\n\"I don't think we outgrow affection, honor, truth.\"\n\n\"That is all very pretty; but our ideas of honor and truth are apt to\nchange.\"\n\n\"I don't believe you are half so bad a fellow, Easelmann, as you would\nhave me think. You utter abominable sentiments, but you behave as well\nas other people--nearly.\"\n\n\"Thank you. But listen a moment. (_Laying down his pipe._) Do you have\nthe same tastes you had at eighteen? I don't refer to the bumpkins with\nwhom you played when a boy, and who, now that you have outgrown them,\nlook enviously askance at you. I don't care to dwell on your literary\ntastes,--how you have outgrown Moore and Festus-Bailey, and are fast\ngetting through Byron. I won't pose you, by showing how your ideas in\nArt have changed,--what new views you have of life, society;--but think\nof your ideas of womanly, or rather, girlish beauty at different ages.\nBy Jove, I should like to see your innamoratas arranged in\nchronological order!\"\n\n\"It would be a curious and instructive spectacle.\"\n\n\"You may well say that! Let me sketch a few of them.\"\n\n\"I think I could do it better.\"\n\n\"No, every man thinks his own experience peculiar; but life has a\nwonderful sameness, after all. Besides, you would flatter the portraits.\nNot to begin too early, and without being particular about names, there\nwas, first, Amanda, aged fourteen; face circular, cheeks cranberry, eyes\nhazel, hair brown and wavy, awkward when spoken to, and agreeable only\nin an osculatory way. Now, being twenty-five, she is married, has two\nchildren, is growing stout, and always refers to her lord and master as\n'He,' never by any accident pronouncing his name. Second, Julia;\nsixteen, flaxen-haired, lithe, not ungraceful, self-possessed, and\nperhaps a little pert. She is unmarried; but, having fed her mind with\nno more solid aliment than country gossip, no sensible man could talk to\nher five minutes. Third, Laura; eighteen, black hair, with sharp\noutlines on the temples, eyes heavily shaded and coquettishly managed,\njewelry more abundant than elegant, repeats poetry by the page, keeps a\nscrap-book, and writes endless letters to her female friends. She is\nstill romantic, but has learned something from experience,--is not so\nimpressible as when you knew her. I won't stop to sketch the pale\npoetess, nor the dancing hoyden, nor the sweet blue-eyed creature that\nlisped, nor the mature and dangerously-charming widow that caused some\nperturbations in your regular orbit.\n\n\"Now, my dear fellow,\" Easelmann continued, \"you fancied that your whole\nexistence depended upon the hazel or the blue or the black eyes, in\nturn; but at this time you could see their glances turned in rapture\nupon your enemy, if you have one, without a pang.\"\n\n\"One would think you had just been reading Cowley's charming poem,\n'Henrietta first possest.' But what is the moral to your entertaining\nlittle romance? That love must always be transient?\"\n\n\"Not necessarily, but generally. We are travelling at different rates of\nprogress and on different planes. Happy are the lovers who advance with\nequal step, cultivating similar tastes, with agreeing theories of life\nand its enjoyments!\"\n\n\"Wise philosopher, how comes it, that, with so just an appreciation of\nthe true basis of a permanent attachment, you remain single? I see a\ngray hair or two, not only on your head, but in that favorite moustache\nof yours.\"\n\n\"Gray? Oh, yes! gray as a badger, but immortally young. As for marriage,\nI'm rather past that. I had my chance; I lost it, and shall not throw\nagain.\"\n\nEaselmann did not seem inclined to open this sealed book of his personal\nhistory, and the friends were silent. Greenleaf at length broke the\npause.\n\n\"I acknowledge the justice of your ideas in their general application,\nbut in my own case they do not apply at all. I was not in my teens when\nI went to Innisfield, but in the maturity of such faculties as I have.\nAlice satisfies my ideal of a lovely, loving woman. She has\ncapabilities, taste, a thirst for improvement, and will advance in\neverything to which I am led.\"\n\n\"I won't disturb your dreams, nor play the Mephistopheles, as you\nsometimes call me. I am rather serious to-day. But here you are where\nevery faculty is stimulated, where you unconsciously draw in new ideas\nwith your daily breath. Alice remains in a country town, without\nsociety, with few books, with no opportunity for culture in Art or in\nthe minor graces of society. You are not ready to marry; your ambition\nforbids it, and your means will not allow it. And before the time comes\nwhen you are ready to establish yourself, think what a difference there\nmay be between you! The thought is cruel, but worth your consideration\nnone the less.--But let us change the subject. What are you doing? Any\nnew orders?\"\n\n\"Two new orders. One for a large picture from Mr. Sandford. The price\nis not what it should be, but it will give me a living, and I am\nthankful for any employment. I loathe idleness. I die, if I haven't\nsomething to do.\"\n\n\"Mere uneasiness, my youthful friend! Be tranquil, and you will find\nthat laziness has its comforts. However, to-morrow let me see your\npictures. You lack a firmness and certainty of touch that nothing but\npractice will give. But your forms are faithfully drawn, your eye for\ncolor is sharp and true, and, what is more than all, you have the poetry\nwhich informs, harmonizes, and crowns all.\"\n\n\"I am grateful for your friendly criticism,\" said Greenleaf, with a\nsudden flush. \"You know that people call you blunt, and that most of the\nartists think you almost malicious in your severity; but you are the\nonly man who ever talks sincerely to me.\"\n\nEaselmann noticed the emotion, and spoke abruptly,--\n\n\"Depend upon it, if I see anything faulty, you will know it; if you\nthink _that_ friendly, I am your friend. But look over there, where the\nsunset clouds are reflected in the Back Bay. Now, if I should put those\ntints of gold and salmon and crimson and purple, with those delicate\nshades of apple-green, into a picture, the mob would say, 'What an\nabsurd fellow this painter is! Where did he find all that Joseph's coat\nof colors?' The mob is a drove of asses, Greenleaf.\"\n\n\"Come, let us take our evening stroll.\"\n\n\"Have you seen Charbon, to-day?\"\n\n\"No. But I should like to.\"\n\n\"We'll call for him.\"\n\n\"Yes, I rather like his brilliant silence.\"\n\n\"Next week, let us go to Nahant. I want you to try your hand on a coast\nview. But what, what are you about? At that trumpery daguerreotype\nagain? Let me see the beauty,--that's a good boy!\"\n\n\"No!\"\n\n\"Then put it up. If you won't show it, don't aggravate a fellow in that\nway.\"\n\n[To be continued.]\n\n\n\n\nSPIRITS IN PRISON.[3]\n\n\n    I.\n\n    O ye, who, prisoned in these festive rooms,\n      Lean at the windows for a breath of air,\n    Staring upon the darkness that o'erglooms\n      The heavens, and waiting for the stars to bare\n    Their glittering glories, veiled all night in cloud,\n      I know ye scorn the gas-lights and the feast!\n    I saw you leave the music and the crowd,\n      And turn unto the windows opening east;\n    I heard you sigh,--\"When will the dawn's dull ashes\n      Kindle their fires behind yon fir-fringed height?\n    When will the prophet clouds with golden flashes\n      Unroll their mystic scrolls of crimson light?\"\n    Fain would I come and sit beside you here,\n      And silent press your hands, and with you lean\n    Into the midnight, mingling hope and fear,\n      Or pining for the days that might have been!\n\n\n    II.\n\n    Are we not brothers? In the throng that fills\n      These strange enchanted rooms we met. One look\n    Told that we knew each other. Sudden thrills,\n      As of two lovers reading the same book,\n    Ran through our hurried grasp. But when we turned,\n      The scene around was smitten with a change:\n    The lamps with lurid fire-light flared and burned;\n      And through the wreaths and flowers,--oh, mockery strange!--\n    The prison-walls with ghastly horror frowned;\n      Scarce hidden by vine-leaves and clusters thick,\n    A grim cold iron grating closed around.\n      Then from our silken couches leaping quick,\n    We hurried past the dancers and the lights,\n      Nor heeded the entrancing music then,\n    Nor the fair women scattering delights\n      In flower-like flush of dress,--nor paused till when,\n    Leaning against our prison-bars, we gazed\n      Into the dark, and wondered where we were.\n    Speak to me, brothers, for ye stand amazed!\n      I come, your secret burthen here to share!\n\n\n    III.\n\n    I know not this mysterious land around.\n      Black giant trees loom up in form obscure.\n    Odors of gardens and of woods profound\n      Blow in from out the darkness, fresh and pure.\n    Faint sounds of friendly voices come and go,\n      That seem to lure us forth into the air;\n    But whence they come perchance no ear may know,\n      And where they go perchance no foot may dare.\n\n\n    IV.\n\n    A realm of shadowy forms out yonder lies.\n      Beauty and Power, fair dreams pursued by Fate,\n    Wheel in unceasing vortex; and the skies\n      Flash with strange lights that bear no name nor date.\n    Sweet winds are breathing that just fan the hair,\n      And fitful gusts that howl against the bars,\n    And harp-like songs, and groans of wild despair,\n      And angry clouds that chase the trembling stars.\n    And on the iron grating the hot cheek\n      We press, and forth into the night we call,\n    And thrust our arms, that, manacled and weak,\n      Clutch but the empty air, and powerless fall.\n\n\n    V.\n\n    And yet, O brothers! we, who cannot share\n      This life of lies, this stifling day in night,--\n    Know we not well, that, if we did but dare\n      Break from our cell, and trust our manhood's might,\n    When once our feet should venture on these wilds,\n      The night would prove a sweet, still solitude,--\n    Not dark for eyes that, earnest as a child's,\n      Strove in the chaos but for truth and good?\n    And oh, sweet liberty, though wizard gleams\n      And elfin shapes should frighten or allure,\n    To find the pathway of our hopes and dreams,--\n      By toil to sweeten what we should endure,--\n    To journey on, though but a little way,\n      Towards the morning and the fir-clad heights,--\n    To follow the sweet voices, till the day\n      Bloomed in its flush of colors and of lights,--\n    To look back on the valley and the prison,\n      The windows smouldering still with midnight fires,\n    And know the joy and triumph to have risen\n      Out of that falsehood into new desires!\n    O friends! it may be hard our chains to burst,\n      To scale the ramparts, pass the sentinels;\n    Dark is the night; but we are not the first\n      Who break from the enchanter's evil spells.\n    Though they pursue us with their scoffs and darts,\n      Though they allure us with their siren song,\n    Trust we alone the light within our hearts!\n      Forth to the air! Freedom will dawn ere long!\n\nFOOTNOTES:\n\n[Footnote 3: 1 Peter, iii. 19.]\n\n\n\n\nPUNCH.\n\n\nNot inebriating, but exhilarating punch; not punch of which the more a\nman imbibes the worse he is, but punch of which the deeper the quaffings\nthe better the effects; not a compound of acids and sweets, hot water\nand fire-water, to steal away the brains,--but a finer mixture of\nsubtler elements, conducive to mental and moral health; not, in a word,\npunch, the drink, but \"Punch,\" the wise wag, the genial philosopher,\nwith his brevity of stature, goodly-conditioned paunch, next-to-nothing\nlegs, protuberant back, bill-hook nose, and twinkling eyes,--to speak\nrespectfully, Mr. Punch, attended by the solemnly-sagacious,\nubiquitously-versatile \"Toby,\" together with the invisible company of\nskirmishers of the quill and pencil, producing in his name those\never-welcome sheets, flying forth the world over, with hebdomadal\npunctuality. Of the ingredients and salutary influence of this Punch--an\ninstitution and power of the age, no more to be overlooked among the\nforces of the nineteenth century than is the steam-engine or the\nmagnetic telegraph--we propose to speak;--not, however, because of the\ncomicality of the theme; for the fun that surrounds, permeates, and\nsaturates it would hardly move us to discourse of it here, if it had not\nhigher claims to attention. To take Punch only for a clown is to\n_mis_take him egregiously. Joker as he is, he himself is no joke. The\nfool's-cap he wears does not prove him to be a fool; and even when he\ntouches the tip of his nasal organ with his fore-finger and winks so\nirresistibly, meaning lurks in his facetious features, to assure you he\ndoes not jest without a purpose, or play the buffoon only to coin\nsixpences. The fact, then, we propose to illustrate is this:--that Punch\nis a teacher and philanthropist, a lover of truth, a despiser of cant,\nan advocate of right, a hater of shams,--a hale, hearty old gentleman,\nwhose notions are not dyspeptic croakings, but healthful opinions of\ngood digestion, and who, though he wear motley and indulge in drolleries\nwithout measure, is full of sense and sensibility.\n\nThe birth-place and parentage of Punch are involved in some doubt,--a\nfate he shares with several of the world's other heroes, ancient and\nmodern. Accounts differ; and as he has not chosen to settle the question\nautobiographically, we follow substantially the narrative[4]--that ought\nto be true; for, mythical or historical, it appropriately localizes and\nfitly circumstances the nativity of the humorist of the age.\n\nIn 1841, Mark Lemon, a writer of considerable ability, was the landlord\nof the Shakspeare Head, Wych Street, London. A tavern with such a\npublican and such a name was, of course, frequented by a circle of wits,\nwith whom, in the year just mentioned, originated \"Punch.\" Lemon (how\ncould there be punch without a lemon?) has been the editor from the\noutset. From which of the knot of good fellows the bright idea of the\nunique journal first emanated does not appear. The paternity has been\nascribed to Douglas Jerrold. Its name might have been suggested by the\nplace of its birth. If so, it at once lost all associations with the\nladle and the bowl, and received a wider and better interpretation. The\nhero of the famous puppet-show was chosen for the typical presiding\ngenius and sponsor of the novel enterprise. And there is no neater piece\nof allegorical writing in our language than the introductory article of\nthe first number, wherein is exquisitely shadowed forth \"the moral\" of\nthe work, \"Punch,\"--suggestive of that \"graver puppetry,\" the \"visual\nand oral cheats,\" \"by which mankind are cajoled.\" Punch, the exemplar of\nboldness and philosophic self-control, is the quaint embodiment of the\nintention to pursue a higher object than the amusement of thoughtless\ncrowds,--an intention which has been adhered to with remarkable\nfidelity. The first number appeared July 17th, and the serial has lived\nover a decade and a half, and grown to the bulk of thirty-four or\nthirty-five volumes. It was not, however, built in a day. It knew a\nrickety infancy and hours of peril, and owes its rescue from neglect and\nstarvation, its subsequent and constantly increasing prosperity, to the\nenterprising publishers,--Bradbury and Evans,--who nursed and\nresuscitated it at the critical moment. Well-known contributors to the\nletter-press have been Jerrold, Albert Smith, a Beckett, Hood, and\nThackeray; whilst Henning, Leech, Meadows, Browne, Forrester, Gilbert,\nand Doyle have acted as designers. Of these men of letters and art,\nLemon and Leech, it is said, alone remain; some of the others broke off\ntheir connection with the work at different periods, and some have\npassed away from earth. Their places have been supplied by the Mayhews,\nTom Taylor, Angus Reach, and Shirley Brooks, and the historical painter,\nTenniel. These changes have mostly been made behind the scenes; the\nimpersonality of the paper--to speak after the Hibernian style--being\npersonified by Mr. Punch himself,--ostensibly, by a well-preserved and\nwell-managed conceit, its sole conductor through all its vicissitudes\nand during the whole of its brilliant career. Whatever becomes of\ncorrespondents, Punch never resigns and never dies. The baton never\nfalls from his grasp. He sits in his arm-chair, the unshaken Master of\nthe Revels,--though thrones totter, kings abdicate, and revolutions\nconvulse empires. Troubles may disturb his household; but thereby the\npublic does not suffer. He still lives,--immortal in his funny and\nfascinating idiosyncrasies.\n\nThe ingredients of Punch, the instrumentalities by which he has won fame\nand victories, are almost too multifarious for enumeration. All the\nmerry imps which beset Leigh Hunt, when about to compile selections from\nthe comic poets, belong to Punch's retinue. Doubles of Similes,\nBuffooneries of Burlesques, Stalkings of Mock Heroics, Stings in the\nTails of Epigrams, Glances of Innuendoes, Dry Looks of Irony,\nCorpulencies of Exaggerations, Ticklings of Mad Fancies, Claps on the\nBacks of Horse Plays, Flounderings of Absurdities, Irresistibilities of\nIterations, Significances of Jargons, Wailings of Pretended Woes,\nRoarings of Laughter, and Hubbubs of Animal Spirits, all appear, singly\nor in companies, to flash, ripple, dance, shoot, effervesce, and\nsparkle, in prose and verse, vignettes, sketches, or elaborate pictures,\non the ever-shifting and always entertaining pages of the London\nCharivari. Of one prominent form of the exhibition of this inexhaustible\narsenal, namely, _the illustrations_, special notice is to be taken.\nThese, notwithstanding their oddity, extravagance, and burlesqueness, by\nreason of their grace, finish, and good taste, frequently get into the\nproximity of the fine arts. This elevation of sportive drawing is mainly\nto be put to the credit of manly John Leech,--\"the very Dickens of the\npencil.\" He and his associates have proved that the humorous side of\nthings may be limned with mirth-provoking truth, and that vices and\nfollies may be depicted with a vigorous and accurate crayon, without\ncoarseness or vulgarity, or pandering to depraved sentiments. Herein is\nmost commendable success. Punch's gallery--with but few, if any\nexceptions--may be opened to the purest eyes. In it there is much of\nHogarthian genius, without anything that needs a veil. In alluding to\nthe agencies of Punch, it would be doing him great injustice to leave\nthe impression that they are all of a mirthful character. Often is he\ntearfully, if at the same time smilingly, pathetic. Seriousness,\ncertainly, is not his forte, and he is not given to homilies and moral\nessays. Usually he gilds homoeopathic pills of wisdom with a thick\ncoating of humor. Yet, now and then, his vein is an earnest vein, and he\nspeaks from the abundance of a tender and deeply-moved heart. This is\nespecially true of some of his poetical effusions, which rank high among\nthe best fugitive pieces of the times. That Hood's \"Song of the Shirt\"\nwas an original contribution to his columns is almost enough of itself\nto show that Punch, like some other famous comedians, can start the\nsilent tear, as well as awaken peals of laughter. And this is but one of\nmany instances in point that might be cited. In his productions you\noften meet golden sentences of soberest counsel, beautiful tributes to\nreal worth, stirring appeals for the oppressed, and touching eulogies of\nthe loved and lost.\n\nThus much of the history and machinery of Punch. His salutary influence\nis to be spoken of next. But before venturing upon what may seem\nindiscriminate praise, let it be confessed that our hero is not without\nhis weaknesses. Nothing human is perfect, and Punch is very human. The\ngood Homer sometimes nods; so doth the good Punch. He does not always\nperform equally well,--keep up to his highest level. If he never\nentirely disappoints his audience, he fails sometimes to shoot the\nbrightest arrows of his quiver and hit his mark so as to make the\nscintillating splinters fly. Now and then he has been slightly dull,\nforgotten himself and his manners, gone too far, got into the wrong box,\nmissed seizing the auricular appendage of the right pig, run things into\nthe ground,--blundered as common and uncommon people will. Under these\ngeneral charges we must, painful as it is to speak of the errors of a\nfavorite, enter a few specifications.\n\nThe writer of the prospectus, before referred to, seems to have had a\npremonitory fear--growing out of his bad treatment of Judy--that Punch\nin his new vocation might fail of uniform gentlemanliness towards the\nladies; and time has shown that there were some little grounds for the\napprehension. The droll hunchback's virulent dislike of mothers-in-law\nseems the nursed-up wrath of an unhappy personal experience. Vastly\namusing as were the \"Caudle Lectures,\" it is a question whether\nexcessive indulgence in the luxury of satire upon a prolific theme did\nnot infuse into them over-bitter exaggeration, not favorable to the\nculture of domestic felicity. Did these celebrated curtain-homilies\nstand alone, their sharp and unrivalled humor might save Punch from the\ncensure of being once in a while the least bit of a Bluebeard. But, for\nthe most gallant gentleman, on the whole, in the United Kingdom, he is\nnot so invariable in fairness towards the fair as could be wished. The\nfollies and frivolities of absurd fashions are his proper game; and he\ndoes brave service in hunting them down. Still, his warfare against\ncrinoline, small bonnets, and other feminine fancies in dress, has been\ntiresomely inveterate. Even Mr. Punch had better, as a general rule,\nleave the management of the female toilette to those whom it most nearly\nconcerns. But in his case, the scolding or pouting should not be\ninexorable; for in one way he atones amply for all his impertinence. He\npaints his young ladies pretty and graceful, being, with all his sly\nsatire, evidently fond of the sex, the juvenile portion at least.\nSurely, a Compliment so uniform and tasteful must more than outweigh his\nteasing and banter with the amiable subjects of both.\n\nOf Punch as a local politician we are hardly fair judges, and it may be\na mistaken suspicion that he has occasionally given up to party what was\nmeant for mankind. With respect to \"foreign affairs,\" we shall be safer\nin saying, that, with all his cosmopolitanism, he is a shade or two\nJohn-Bullish. Thanking him for his fraternal cordiality towards\n\"Jonathan,\" we must doubt if it will do to trust implicitly his reports\nand impressions of men and things across the Channel. That he is more\nthan half right, however, when lingering remains of insular prejudice\ntinge his solicitude to save his native land from entangling alliances,\nand keep its free government from striking hands with despotism, we\nincline to believe; and we honor him that his loyalty is not mere\nadulation, but duly seasoned with the democratic principle that would\nhave the stability of the throne the people's love,--the people being of\ninfinitely greater importance than the propping-up or the propagation of\nroyal houses. In one sad direction Punch's patriotism and humanity, it\nseems to us, were wrathful exaggerations, open to graver objection than\nyielding unconsciously to a natural bias. In his zeal against terrible\noutrages, he forgot that two wrongs never make a right. We refer to his\ncourse on the Indian Revolt. From the way he raised his voice for war,\nalmost exterminating, and with no quarter, one would think the British\nrule in the East had been the rule of Christian love,--that Sepoys and\nother subjects had known the reigning power only as patriarchal\nkindness,--and so, without excuse, a highly civilized, justly and\ntenderly treated people, suddenly, and without provocation, became\nrebellious devils, and rebellious only because they were devils. In the\nhour of horror-struck indignation, was not Punch too blood-thirsty,\nvindictive, unjust, and oblivious to the truth of history, that the\ninsurgents are poor superstitious heathens, whom a selfish policy may\nhave kept superstitious and heathenish? True, he was the witness of\nbroken hearts and desolate hearth-stones at home, and daily heard of\nhellish atrocities inflicted on the women and children abroad,--enough\nto crush out for the moment every thought but the thought of vengeance.\nYet, even at such a crisis, he should have remembered, that England, in\nstrict accordance with the stern, unrelenting logic of events, having\nsown to the wind, might therefore have reaped the whirlwind. It is among\nthe mysteries of Providence, that retributive justice, when visiting\nnations, often involves innocent victims,--but it is retributive justice\nstill; and tracing up rightly the chain of causes and effects, it may\nbe that the tragedies of Delhi and Lucknow are attributable, to say the\nleast, as much to the avarice of the dominant as to the depravity of the\nsubjugated race. The bare possibility that this might be the truth a\nphilosopher like Punch ought not to have overlooked, in the suddenness\nand fire of his anger.\n\nFinally, Punch is no ascetic, but quite the reverse. He cannot be\nexpected, any more than his namesake, the beverage, to go down with the\napostles of temperance. He is a convivialist,--moderately so,--and no\nteetotaler. He evidently prefers roast-beef and brown-stout to\nbran-bread and cold water, and has gone so far as to sing the praises of\npale-ale. He thinks the laboring classes should have their pot of beer,\nif the nobility and gentry are to eat good dinners and take airings in\nHyde Park, on Sundays. He is a Merry Englishman, as to the\nstomach,--and, like a Merry Englishman, enjoys good living. There is no\ndenying this fact; but here is the whole front of his offending.\nRemember that he was born at the Shakspeare's Head, and has had a\npublican for his right-hand man.\n\nThese are defects, it may be; and yet not by its defects are we to judge\nof a work of Art. Of that generous and just canon Punch should have the\nfull benefit. Try him by that, and he has abounding virtues to flood and\nconceal with lustrous and far-raying light his exceptional errors. To\nbrief notices of some of these--regretting the want of room to enlarge\nupon them as it would be pleasant to do--we gladly turn.\n\nPunch is to be loved and cherished as the maker of mirth for the\nmillion. Saying this, we do not propose to go into an argument to\nexcuse, justify, or recommend hilarity for its own sake or its medicinal\neffects on overtasked bodies and souls. Desperate attempts have been\nmade to prove the innocence of fun, and the allowableness of wit and\nhumor. Assuming or conceding that the jocose elements or capacities of\nhuman nature need apology and defence, very nice distinctions have been\ndrawn, and very ingenious sophistry employed, to prove that the best of\npeople may, within certain limits, crack jokes, or laugh at jokes\ncracked for them. These efforts to accommodate stern dogmas to that\npleasant stubborn fact in man's constitution, his irresistible craving\nfor play, and irresistible impulse to laugh at whatever is really\nlaughable, are about as necessary as would be an essay maintaining the\nharmlessness of sunshine. The _fact_ has priority over the dogmas, and\nis altogether too strong to need the patronizing special-pleading they\nsuggest. Instead of going into the metaphysics of the question about the\nlawfulness and blamelessness of humor shown or humor relished, suppose\nwe cut the knot by a delightful illustration of the compatibility of\nhumor with the highest type of character.\n\nNo one will deny the sincerity, earnestness, devotedness, sublime\nconsecration to duty, of the heroine of the hospitals of Scutari. No one\nwill dispute the practical piety of the gentle, but fearless, the\ntenderhearted, but truly strong-minded woman, who made the lazar-house\nher home for months together,--ministered to its sick, miserable, and\nignorant inmates,--put, by the unostentatious exercise of indomitable\nfaith and unswerving self-sacrifice, the love and humanity of the Gospel\nin direct and strongest contrast with the barbarisms of war. No one will\ndeny or dispute this now. That heroic English maiden, whose shadow, as\nit fell on his pillow, the rude soldier kissed with almost idolatrous\ngratitude, has won, without thought of seeking it, and without the loss\nof a particle of humility and womanly delicacy, the loving admiration of\nall Christendom. Well, she\n\n      \"whose presence honors queenly guests,\n    Who wears the noblest jewel of her time,\n    And leaves her race a nobler, in her name,\"\n\nshall be the sufficient argument here,--especially as none have paid\nfiner, more delicate, or truer tributes to her virtue than Punch. In a\nrecent sketch of her career, accompanying her portrait in the gallery\nof noted women, this sentence is given from a descriptive letter:--\"Her\ngeneral demeanor is quiet and rather reserved; still, I am much\nmistaken, if she is not gifted with a very lively sense of the\nridiculous.\" Here is a delightful, and, we doubt not, true intimation.\nSince the springs of pathos lie very near the springs of humor, in the\nrichest souls, the fair Florence must, in moments of weariness, have\nglanced with merry eyes over the pages of Punch, or handed, with smiling\narchness, his inimitable numbers to her wan and wounded patients, kindly\nto cheat them into momentary forgetfulness of their agonies. If this\nwere so, who shall say that the use or enjoyment of wit is not as right\nas it is natural? None, unless it be the narrowest of bigots,--like\nthose who objected to this heroic lady's mission of mercy to the East,\nbecause she did not echo their sectarian shibboleths, and would not ask\nwhether a good nurse were Protestant or Romanist.\n\nWe may repeat, therefore, as a prime excellence of Punch, that he is the\nmaker of mirth for the million. He is mainly engaged in furnishing\ntitillating amusement,--and he furnishes an article, not only\nmarketable, but necessary. All work makes Jack a dull boy,--and not\ninfrequently an unhappy, if not bad boy,--whether Jack be in the pulpit,\nthe counting-room, the senate-house, or digging potatoes; and what is\ntrue of Jack is equally true of Gill, his sister, sweetheart, or wife.\nThat Punch every week puts a girdle of smiles round the earth,\ninterrupts the serious business of thousands by his merry visits, and\nwith his ludicrous presence delights the drawing-room, cheers the study,\nand causes side-shakings in the kitchen,--entitles him to be called a\nmissionary of good. Grant this,--then allow, on the average, five\nminutes of merriment to each reader of each issue of Punch,--then\nmultiply these 5 minutes by--say 50,000, and this again by 52 weeks, and\nthis, finally, by 17 years, and thus cipher out, if you have a tolerably\ncapacious imagination, the amount of happiness which has flowed and\nspread, like a river of gladness, through the world, from that\ninexhaustible, bubbling, and sparkling fountain, at 85, Fleet Street,\nLondon.\n\nPunch is the advocate of true manliness. Velvet robes and gilded\ncoronets go for nothing with him, if not worn by muscular integrity; and\nfustian is cloth-of-gold, in his eyes, when it covers a stout heart in\nthe right place. He has no mercy on snobbism, flunkeyism, or dandyism.\nHe whips smartly the ignoble-noble fops of the\nhousehold-troops,--parading them on toy-horses, and making them, with\nsuicidal irony, deplore the hardships of comrades in the Crimea. He\nsneers at the loungers, and the delicate, dissipated _roues_ of the\nclub-house,--though their names were once worn by renowned ancestors,\nand are in the peerage. Fast young men are to him befooled prodigals,\nwasting the wealth of life in profitless living. He is not, however, an\nanchorite, or hard upon youth. On the contrary, he is an indulgent old\nfellow, and too sagacious to expect the wisdom of age from those\nsporting their freedom-suits. Still, he has no patience with the foppery\nwhose whole existence advertises fine clothes, patronizes taverns,\nsaunters along fashionable promenades, and ogles opera-dancers. In this\nconnection, his hits at \"the rising generation\" will be called to mind.\nPunch has found out that in England there are no boys now,--only male\nbabies and precocious men;--no growing up,--only a leap from the cradle,\nrobe, and trousers to the habiliments and manners of a false manhood.\nPunch has found out and frequently illustrates this fact, and furnishes\na series of pictures of Liliputians aping the questionable doings of\ntheir elders. It is observable, however, that he confines these\nportraits of precocity chiefly to one sex. Whether this be owing to his\ninnate delicacy and habitual gallantry, or to the English custom of\nkeeping little girls--and what we should call large girls also--at home\nlonger, and under more restraint, than in our republic, we cannot say.\nWere he on this side of the Atlantic, he might possibly find occasion to\nbe less partial in the use of his reproving fun. Young misses seem to be\ngrowing scarce, and young ladies becoming alarmingly numerous. The early\ndate at which the cry comes for long skirts, parties, balls, and late\nhours, for lace, jewelry, and gold watches, threatens to rob our homes\nof one of their sweetest charms,--the bright presence of joyous, gentle,\nand modest lasses, willing to be happy children for as many years as\ntheir mothers were, on their way to maidenhood and womanhood.\n\nPunch is a reformer,--and of the right type, too; not destructive,\ndeclamatory, vituperative; not a monomaniac, snarly, and\nill-natured,--as if zeal in riding a favorite hobby excused\nexclusiveness of soul and any amount of bad temper. He would not\ndemolish the social system and build on its ruins a new one; being\nclearly of the opinion that the growths of ages and the doings of six\nthousands of years are to be respected,--that progress means improvement\nupon the present, rather than overthrow of the entire past. Calm,\nhopeful, cheerful, and patient, he is at the same time bold and\nuncompromising, and a bit radical into the bargain. In his own delicious\nway, he has been no mean advocate of liberal principles and measures. He\nhas argued for the repeal of the corn and the modification of the game\nlaws, the softening of the cruelties of the criminal code, and the fair\nadministration of law for all orders and conditions of men and women. He\nhas had no respect for ermine, lawn, or epaulets, in his assaults upon\nthe monopolies and sinecures of Church and State, circumlocution\noffices, nepotism, patronage, purchase, and routine, in army or navy. He\nwants the established religion to be religious, not a cover for\naristocratic preferments and dog-in-the-manger laziness,--and government\nadministered for the whole people, and not merely dealing out\ntreasury-pap and fat offices for the pensioned few. Punch is loyal,\nsings lustily, \"God Save the Queen,\" and stands by the Constitution. He\nis a true-born Englishman, and patriotic to the backbone; but none are\ntoo high in place or name for his merciless ridicule and daring wit, if\nthey countenance oppressive abuses. It is a tall feather in his\nfool's-cap, that his fantastic person is a dread to evil-doers on\nthrones, in cabinets, and red-tape offices. Crowned tyrants, bold\nusurpers, and proud statesmen are sensitive, like other mortals, to\nridicule, and know very well how much easier it is to cannonade\nrebellious insurgents than to put down the general laugh, and that the\npoint of a joke cannot be turned by the point of the bayonet. \"Punch\"\nwas seized in Paris on account of the caricature of the \"Sphinx,\" but\nafter twenty-four hours' consideration the order of confiscation was\nrescinded, and the irreverent publication now lies upon the tables of\nthe reading-rooms. So, iron power is not beyond the reach of the shafts\nof wit; once make it ridiculous, and it may continue to lie dreaded, but\nwill cease to be respected.\n\nLimits permitting, it would be pleasant to refer at length to various\nother marked graces of Punch,--such, for example, as his care for true\nArt, by exposing to merited contempt the abortions of statuary,\npainting, and architecture that come under his accurate eye,--his\nconcern for good letters, exhibited in fantastic parodies of\naffectations, mannerisms, absurdities of plot, and vices of style in\nmodern poets and novelists,--his \"_nil nisi bonum_,\" and, where there is\nno \"_bonum_,\" his silent \"_nil_,\" of the dead, whom when living he\npursued with unrelenting raillery,--his cool, eclectic judgments,\nfreedom from extremes, and other manifestations of clear-headedness and\nrefined sentiment, glimmering and shooting through his rollicking\ndrollery, quick wit, and quiet humor. But we must pass them by, to\nemphasize a quality that out-tops and outshines them all,--his humanity.\n\nThis is Mr. Punch's specialty, generating his purest fun and\nconsecrating his versatile talents to highest ends. Wherever he catches\nmeanness, avarice, selfishness, force, preying upon the humble and the\nweak, he is sure to give them hard knocks with his baton, or\nhome-thrusts with his pen and pencil. His practical kindness is\ncharmingly comprehensive, too. He speaks for the dumb beast, pleads for\nthe maltreated brutes of Smithfield Market, craves compassion for\nskeleton omnibus-horses, with the same ready sympathy that he fights for\ncheated fellow-mortals. In the court of public opinion, he is volunteer\ncounsel for all in any way defrauded or kept in bondage by pitiless\npride, barbarous policy, thoughtless luxury, or wooden-headed prejudice.\nHis sound ethics do not admit that the lower law of man's enactment can,\nunder any circumstances, override or abrogate the higher laws of God.\nConsequently, he judges with unbiased, instinctive rectitude, when he\nshows up in black and white the Model Republic's criminal anomaly, by\nmaking the African Slave a companion-piece to the Greek Slave, among\n\"Jonathan's\" contributions to the great Crystal Palace Exhibition. In\nthis same vein of a wide-ranging application of the Golden Rule, he is\never on the alert to brand inhuman deeds and institutions, wherever\nfound. You cannot very often hit him with the \"_tu quoque_\" retort,\ninsinuate that he lives in a house of glass, or charge him with visiting\nhis condemnation upon distant iniquities whilst winking at iniquities of\nequal magnitude directly under his nose.\n\nPunch is no Mrs. Jellyby, brimful of zeal for Borrio boolas in far-off\nAfricas, and utterly stolid to disorders and distresses under his own\nroof. Proud of the glory, he feels and confesses the shame of England;\nand the grinding injustice of her caste-system, aristocracy, and\nhierarchy does not escape the lash of his rebuke. He is the friend of\nthe threadbare curate, performing the larger half of clerical duty and\ngetting but a tittle of the tithes,--of the weary seamstress, wetting\nwith midnight tears the costly stuff which must be ready to adorn\nheartless rank and fashion at to-morrow's pageant,--of the pale\ngoverness, grudgingly paid her pittance of salary without a kind word to\nsweeten the bitterness of a lonely lot. He is the friend even of the\nworkhouse juveniles, and, as their champion, castigates with cutting\nsarcasm and stinging scorn the reverend and honorable guardians, who,\njust as, full of hope, they had reached the door of the theatre,\nprohibited a band of these wretched orphans from availing of a\nkind-hearted manager's invitation to an afternoon performance of \"Jack\nand the Bean-Stalk.\" Truly, Punch is more than half right, as, in his\nindignation, he declares, \"It will go luckily with some four-faced\nChristians, if, with the fullest belief in their own right of entry of\nparadise, they are not '_stopped at the very doors_'\"; and the parson,\nin the case, gets but his deserts, when at his lugubrious sham-piety are\nhurled stanzas like these:--\n\n    \"Their little faces beamed with joy\n     Two miles upon their way,\n    As they supposed, each girl and boy,\n     About to see the play.\n    Their little cheeks with tears were wet,\n     As _back again_ they went,\n    Balked by a sanctimonious set,\n     Led by a Reverend Gent.\n\n    \"And if such Reverend Gents as he\n     Could get the upperhand,\n    Ah, what a hateful tyranny\n     Would override the land!\n    That we may never see that time,\n     Down with the canting crew\n    That would _out of their pantomime_\n    Poor little children _do_!\"\n\nPunch is the friend of all who are friendless, and, with a generous\nspirit of protection, gives credit to whom credit is due, whatever\nconventionality, precedent, monopoly, or routine may say to the\ncontrary. During the Crimean War, he took care of the fame of the\nrank-and-file of the army. The dispatches to Downing Street, reporting\nthe gallantry of titled officers, were more than matched by Punch's\nimitative dispatches from the seat of war, setting forth the exploits of\nSergeant O'Brien, Corporal Stout, or Private Gubbins. He saw to it that\nthose who had the hardest of the fight, the smallest pay, and the\ncoarsest rations, should not be forgotten in the gazetting of the\nheroes. Indeed, our comic friend's fellowship of soul with the humblest\nmembers of the human family is a notable trait; it is so ready, and yet\nwithal so judicious. It is no part of his philosophy, as already\nintimated, violently and rashly to disturb the existing order of things,\nand set one class in rebellion against other classes. He simply insists\nupon the recognition of the law of mutual dependence all round. This is\nobservable in his dealing with the vexed question of domestic service.\nThe prime trouble of housekeeping comes in frequently for a share of his\nattention; and underneath ironical counsels, you may trace, quietly\ninsinuating itself into graphic sketches, the genial intent fairly to\nadjust the relations between life above and life below stairs.\nAccordingly, Punch sees no reason why Angelina may have a lover in the\nparlor, whilst Bridget's engagement forbids her to entertain a fond\n\"follower\" in the kitchen; and he perversely refuses to see how it can\nbe right for Miss Julia to listen to the soft nonsense of Captain\nAugustus Fitzroy in the drawing-room, and entirely wrong for Molly, the\nnursery-maid, to blush at the blunt admiration of the policeman, talking\nto her down the area. Punch is independent and original in this respect.\nHis strange creed seems to be, that human nature _is_ human\nnature,--whether, in its feminine department, you robe it in silk or\ncalico, and, in its male department, button a red coat over the breast\nof an officer of the Guards, or put the coarse jerkin on the broad back\nof the industrious toilsman. And according to this whimsical belief, he\nwrites and talks jocosely, but with covert common sense. His warm and\ncatholic humanity runs up and down the whole social scale with a\nclear-sighted equity. His philanthropy is what the word literally\nsignifies,--the love of man as man, and because he is a man. Without\nbeing an impracticable fanatic, advocating impossible theories, or\ntheories that can grow into realities only with the gradual progress of\nthe race,--without indulging in fanciful visions of unapproached\nUtopias,--without imagining that all, wherever born and however\nnurtured, can reach the same level of wealth and station,--he holds, not\nmerely that\n\n    \"Honor and shame from no condition rise,\"\n\nbut also, be the condition high or low, the worthy occupant of it, by\nreason of the common humanity he shares with all above and all beneath\nand all around him, has a brother's birthright to brotherly treatment,\nto even-handed justice and open-handed charity.\n\nWe have taken it for granted that Punch is a household necessity and\nfamiliar friend of our readers; and, resisting as far as possible the\nbesetting temptation to refer in detail to the many pictorial and\nletter-press illustrations of his merits, have spoken of him as \"a\nrepresentative man,\"--the universally acknowledged example of the\nlegitimate and beneficent uses of the sportive faculties; thus\nindirectly claiming for these faculties more than toleration.\n\nThe variety in human nature must somehow be brought into unity, and its\ndiversified, strongly contrasted elements shown to be parts of a\nsymmetrical and harmonious whole. The philosophy, the religion, which\noverlooks or condemns any of these elements, is never satisfactory, and\nfails to win sincere belief, because of its felt incompleteness. All men\nhave an instinctive faith that in God's plan no incontestable facts are\nexceptional or needless facts. Science assumes this in regard to the\nphenomena of the natural world; and, in its progressive searches,\nexpects to discover continual proof that all manifestations, however\nopposite and contradictory, are parts of one beneficent scheme.\nAccordingly, Science starts on its investigations with the conviction\nthat the storm is as salutary as the sunshine,--that there is utility in\nwhat seems mere luxury,--and that Nature's loveliness and grandeur,\nNature's oddity and grotesqueness, have a substantial value, as well as\nNature's wheat-harvests. Now the same principle is to be recognized in\ndealing with things spiritual. It may not be affirmed that anything\nappertaining to universal consciousness--spontaneous, irresistible, as\nbreathing--is of itself base, and therefore to be put away; since so to\ndo is to question the Creative Wisdom. The work of the Infinite Spirit\nmust be consistent; and you might as truly charge the bright stars with\nmalignity as denounce as vile one faculty or capacity of the mind.\nConsequently, there is a use for all forms of wit and humor.\n\nPunch represents a genuine phase of human nature,--none the less genuine\nbecause human nature has other and far different phases. That there is a\ntime to mourn does not prove there is no time to dance. Punch has his\npart, and his times to play it, in the melodrama, the mixed comedy and\ntragedy, of existence. What we have to do is to see that he interferes\nwith no other actor's _role_, comes upon the stage in fitting scenes,\nkeeps to the text and the impersonations which right principle and pure\ntaste assign him. His grimaces are not for the church. He may not sing\nhis catches when penitent souls are listening to the \"Miserere,\" drop\nhis torpedo-puns when life's mystery and solemnity are pressed heavily\nupon the soul,--be irreverent, profane, or vulgar. He must know and keep\nhis place. But he should have his place, and have it confessed; and that\nplace is not quite at the end of the procession of the benefactors of\nthe race. Punch, as we speak of him now, is but a generic name for\nProtean wit and humor, well and wisely employed. As such, let Punch have\nhis mission; there is ample room for him and his merry doings, without\ninterfering with soberer agencies. _Let_ him go about tickling mankind;\nit does mankind good to be tickled occasionally. Let him broaden\nelongated visages; there are many faces that would be improved by\nhorizontal enlargement, by having the corners of the mouth curved\nupward. Let him write and draw \"as funny as he can\"; there are dull\ntalking and melancholy pictures in abundance to counterbalance his\npleasantry. Let him amuse the children, relax with jocosity the\nsternness of adults, and wreathe into smiles the wrinkles of old age.\nLet him, in a word, be a Merry Andrew,--the patron and promoter of\nfrolicsomeness. To be only this is nothing to his discredit; and to\nesteem him for being only this is not to pay respect to a worthless\nmountebank.\n\nBut Punch is and can be something more than a caterer of sport. Kings,\nin the olden time, had their jesters, who, under cover of blunt\nwitticisms, were permitted, to utter home-truths, which it would have\ncost grave counsellors and dependent courtiers their heads to even\nwhisper. Punch should enjoy a similar immunity in this age,--and society\ntolerate his free and smiling speech, when it would thrust out sager\nmonitors. If it be true that\n\n    \"Fools rush in where angels fear to tread,\"\n\nsomething like the converse of this saying is also true. Not fools\nexactly, but wisdom disguised in the motley of wit, often gains entrance\nto ears deaf to angelic voices. There are follies that are to be laughed\nout of their silliness and sinfulness. There are tyrants, big and\nlittle, to be dethroned by ridicule. There are offences, proof against\nappeals to conscience, that wince and vanish before keen satire. Even as\na well-aimed joke brings back good-humor to an angry mob, or makes mad\nand pugnacious bullies cower and slink away from derision harder to\nstand than hard knocks,--even so will a quizzical Punch be efficient as\na philanthropist, when sedate exhortations or stern warnings would fail\nto move stony insensibility.\n\nAs an element in effective literature, a force in the cause of reform,\nthe qualities Punch personifies have been and are of no slight service.\nAnd herein those qualities have an indefeasible title to regard. Let\nthere be no vinegar-faced, wholesale denunciation of them, because\nsometimes their pranks are wild and overleap the fences of propriety.\nRather let appreciation of their worthiness accompany all reproving\nchecks upon their extravagances. Let nimble fun, explosive jokes,\nfestoon-faced humor, the whole tribe of gibes and quirks, every light,\nkeen, and flashing weapon in the armory of which Punch is the keeper, be\nemployed to make the world laugh, and put the world's laughter on the\nside of all right as against all wrong. If this be not done, the\nseriousness of life will darken into gloom, its work become slavish\ntasks, and the conflict waged be a terrible conflict between grim\nvirtues and fiendish vices. If you could shroud the bright skies with\nblack tempest-clouds, burn to ashes the rainbow-hued flowers, strike\ndumb the sweet melodies of the grove, and turn to stagnant pools the\nsilver streams,--if you could do this, thinking thereby to make earth\nmore of a paradise, you would be scarcely less insane than if you were\nto denounce and banish all\n\n    \"Quips, and cranks, and wanton wiles,\n    Nods, and becks, and wreathed smiles,\n    Sport, that wrinkled care derides,\n    And laughter, holding both his sides.\"\n\nFOOTNOTES:\n\n[Footnote 4: See _Parton's Humorous Poetry_.]\n\n\n\n\nTHE SUBJECTIVE OF IT.\n\n\nToward the close of a dreamy, tranquil July day, a day made impressive\nbeyond the possible comprehension of a dweller in civilization by its\nsun having risen for us over the unbroken wilderness of the Adirondack,\na mountain-land in each of whose deep valleys lies a blue lake, we, a\nparty of hunters and recreation-seekers, six beside our guides, lay on\nthe fir-bough-cushioned floor of our dark camp, passing away the little\nremnant of what had been a day of rest to our guides and of delicious\nidleness to ourselves. The camp was built on the bold shore of a lake\nwhich yet wants a name worthy its beauty, but which we always, for want\nof such a one, call by that which its white discoverer left\nit,--Tupper's Lake,--whose waters, the untremulous mirror of the forests\nand mountains around and the sky above, gleamed to us only in blue\nfragments through the interstices of the leafy veil that intervened. The\nforest is unbroken to the water's edge, and even out over the water\nitself it stretches its firs and cedars, gray and moss-draped, with here\nand there a moisture-loving white-birch, so that from the very shore one\nsees only suggestive bits of distance and sky; and from where we were\nlying, sky, hills, and the water below were all blue alike, and\nundistinguishable alike, glimpses of a world of sunlight, which the\ngrateful shadow we lay in made delicious to the thought. We were\nsheltered right woodsman-like;--our little house of fresh-peeled bark of\nspruces, twelve feet by nine, open only to the east, on which side lay\nthe lake, shielded us from wind and rain, and the huge trees shut around\nus so closely that no eye could pierce a pistol-shot into their glades.\nThere were blue-jays all about us, making the woods ring with their\nquerulous cries, and a single fish-hawk screamed from the blue overhead,\nas he sailed round and round, watching the chances of a supper in the\nlake. Between us and the water's edge, and a little to one side of the\npath we had bushed out to the shore, was the tent of the guides, and\nthere they lay asleep, except one who was rubbing up his \"man's\" rifle,\nwhich had been forgotten the night before when we came in from the hunt,\nand so had gathered rust.\n\nThree of our party were sleeping, and the others talked quietly and low,\ndesultorily, as if the drowsiness had half conquered us too. The\nconversation had rambled round from a discussion on the respective\nmerits of the Sharp's and the Kentucky rifles (consequent on a trial of\nskill and rifles which we had had after dinner) to Spiritualism,--led to\nthis last topic by my relation of some singular experiences I had met in\nthe way of presentiments and what seemed almost like second-sight,\nduring a three-months' sojourn in the woods several summers before.\nThere is something wonderfully exciting to the imagination in the\nwilderness, after the first impression of monotony and lonesomeness has\npassed away and there comes the necessity to animate this so vacant\nworld with something. And so the pines lift themselves grimly against\nthe twilight sky, and the moanings of the woods become full of meaning\nand mystery. Living, therefore, summer after summer, as I had done, in\nthe wilderness, until there is no place in the world which seems so much\nlike a home to me as a bark camp in the Adirondack, I had come to be\nwhat most people would call morbid, but what I felt to be only sensitive\nto the things around, which we never see, but to which we all at times\npay the deference of a tremor of inexplicable fear, a quicker and less\ndeeply drawn breath, an involuntary turning of the head to see something\nwhich we know we shall not see, yet are glad to find that we do\nnot,--all which things we laugh at as childish when they have passed,\nyet tremble at as readily when they come again. J., who was both poet\nand philosopher, singularly clear and cold in his analyses, and at the\nsame time of so great imaginative power that he could set his creations\nat work and then look on and reason out the law of their working as\nthough they were not his, had wonders to tell which always passed mine\nby a degree; his experiences were more various and marvellous than mine,\nyet he had a reason for everything, to which I was compelled to defer\nwithout being convinced. \"Yes,\" said he, finally knocking out the ashes\nfrom his meerschaum, as we rose, at the Doctor's suggestion, to take a\nrow out on the lake while the sun was setting,--\"Yes, I believe in\n_your_ kind of a 'spiritual world,'--but that it is purely subjective.\"\n\nI was silenced in a moment;--this single sentence, spoken like the\nexpression of the experience of a lifetime, produced an effect which all\nhis logic could not. He had rubbed some talismanic opal, pronouncing the\nspirit-compelling sentence engraved thereon, and a new world of doubts\nand mysteries, marvels and revelations burst on me. One phase of\nexistence, which had been hitherto a reality to me, melted away into the\nthinness of an uncompleted dream; but as it melted away, there appeared\nbehind it a whole universe, of which I had never before dreamed. I had\npuzzled my brains over the metaphysics of subjectivity and objectivity\nand found only words; now I grasped and comprehended the round of the\nthing. I looked through the full range of human cognitions, and found,\nfrom beginning to end, a proclamation of the presence of that\narch-magician, Imagination. I had said to myself,--\"The universe is\nsubjective to Deity, objective to me; but if I am his image, what is\nthat part of me which corresponds to the Creator in Him?\" Here I found\nmyself, at last, the creator of a universe of unsubstantialities, all of\nthe stuff that dreams are made of, and all alike unconsciously evoked,\nwhether they were the dreams of sleep or the hauntings of waking hours.\nI grew bewildered as the thought loomed up in its eternal significance,\nand a thousand facts and phenomena, which had been standing in the\ndarkness around my little circle of vision, burst into light and\nrecognition, as though they had been waiting beyond the outer verge for\nthe magic words. J. had spoken them.\n\nSilent, almost for the moment unconscious of external things, in the\nintense exaltation of thought and feeling, I walked down to the shore.\nTaking the lightest and fleetest of our boats, we pushed off on the\nperfectly tranquil water. There was no flaw in the mirror which gave us\na duplicated world. Line for line, tint for tint, the noble mountain\nthat lifts itself at the east, robed in primeval forest to its very\nsummit, and now suffused with rosy light from the sun, already hidden\nfrom us by a low ridge in the west, was reproduced in the void below us.\nThe shadow of the western ridge began to climb the opposite bluffs of\nthe lake shore. We pulled well out into the lake and lay on our oars. If\nanything was said, I do not remember it. I was as one who had just heard\nwords from the dead, and hears as prattle all the sounds of common life.\nMy eyes, my ears, were opened anew to Nature, and it seemed even as if\nsome new sense had been given me. I felt, as I never felt before, the\ncool gloom of the shadow creep up, ridge after ridge, towards the\nsolitary peak, irresistibly and triumphantly encroaching on the light,\nwhich fought back towards the summit, where it must yield at last. It\ndrew back over ravines and gorges, over the wildernesses of unbroken\nfirs which covered all the upper portion of the mountain, deepening its\nrose-tint and gaining in intensity what it lost in expanse,--diminished\nto a handbreadth, to a point, and, flickering an instant, went out,\nleaving in the whole range of vision no speck of sunlight to relieve the\nwilderness of shadowy gloom. I had come under a spell,--for, often as I\nhad seen the sun set in the mountains and over the lakes, I had never\nbefore felt as I now felt, that I was a part in the landscape, and that\nit was something more to me than rocks and trees. The sunlight had died\non it. J. took up the oars and our silently-moving boat broke the glassy\nsurface again. All around us no distinction was visible between the\nlandscape above and that below, no water-line could be found; and to the\nwest, where the sky was still glowing and golden, with faint bands of\ncrimson cirrus swept across the deep and tremulous blue, growing purple\nas the sun sank lower, we could distinguish nothing in the landscape.\nNeither sound nor motion of animate or inanimate thing disturbed the\nscene, save that of the oars, with the long lines of blue which ran off\nfrom the wake of the boat into the mystery closing behind us. A\nrifle-shot rang out from the landing and rolled in multitudinous echoes\naround the lake, dying away in faintest thunders and murmurings from the\nravines on the side of the mountain. It was the call to supper, and we\npulled back to the light of the fire, which was now glimmering through\nthe trees from the front of the camp.\n\nSupper over, the smokers lighted their pipes and a rambling conversation\nbegan on the sights and sounds of the day. For my own part, unable to\nquiet the uneasy questioning which possessed me, I wandered down to the\nshore and took a seat in the stern of one of the boats, which, hauled\npart of their length upon the sandy beach, reached out some distance\namong the lily-pads which covered the shallow water, and whose folded\nflowers dotted the surface, the white points alone visible. The uneasy\nquestion still stirred within me; and now, looking towards the\nnorthwest, where the sky yet glowed faintly with twilight, a long line\nof pines, gaunt and humanesque, as no tree but our northern white-pine\nis, was relieved in massy blackness against the golden gray, like a long\nprocession of giants. They were in groups of two and three, with now and\nthen an isolated one, stretching along the horizon, losing themselves in\nthe gloom of the mountains at the north. The weirdness of the scene\ncaught my excited imagination in an instant, and I became conscious of\ntwo mental phenomena. The first was an impression of motion in the\ntrees, which, whimsical as it was, I had not the slightest power to\ndispel. I trembled from head to foot under the consciousness of this\nsupernatural vitality. My rational faculties were as clear as ever they\nhad been, and I understood perfectly that the semblance of motion was\nowing to two characteristics of the white-pine, namely,--that it follows\nthe shores of the lakes in lines, rarely growing back at any distance\nfrom the water, except when it follows, in the same orderly\narrangement, the rocky ridges,--and that, from its height above all\nother forest-trees, it catches the full force of the prevalent winds,\nwhich here are from the west, and consequently leans slightly to the\neast, much as a person leans in walking. These traits of the tree\nexplained entirely the phenomenon; yet the knowledge of them had not the\nslightest effect to undeceive my imagination. I was awe-struck, as\nthough the phantoms of some antediluvian race had arisen from the\nvalleys of the Adirondack and were marching in silence to their old\nfanes on the mountain-tops. I cowered in the boat under an absolute\nchill of nervous apprehension.--The second phenomenon was, that I heard\n_mentally_ a voice which said distinctly these words,-\"The procession of\nthe Anakim!\"--and at the same time I became conscious of some\ndisembodied spiritual being standing near me, as we are sometimes aware\nof the presence of a friend without having seen him. Every one\naccustomed to solitary thought has probably recognized this kind of\nmental action, and speculated on the strange duality of Nature implied\nin it. The spiritualists call it \"impressional communication,\" and\nabandon themselves to its vagaries in the belief that it is really the\nspeech of angels; men of thought find in it a mystery of mental\norganization, and avail themselves of it under the direction of their\nreason. I at present speculated with the philosophers; but my\nimagination, siding with the spiritualists, assured me that some one\nspoke to me, and reason was silenced. I sat still as long as I could\nendure it, alone, and then crept back, trembling, to the camp,--feeling\nquiet only when surrounded by the rest of the party.\n\nMy attendant daemon did not leave me, I found; for now I heard the\nquestion asked, half-tauntingly,--\"Subjective or objective?\"\n\nI asked myself, in reply,--\"Am I mad or sane?\"\n\n\"Quite sane, but with your eyes opened to something new!\" was the\ninstantaneous reply.\n\nOn such expeditions, men get back to the primitive usages and conditions\nof humanity. We had arisen at daybreak; darkness brought the disposition\nto rest. We arranged ourselves side by side on the couch of balsam and\ncedar boughs which the guides had spread on the ground of the camp, our\nfeet to the fire, and all but myself soon slept. I lay a long time,\nexcited, looking out through the open front of the camp at the stars\nwhich shone in through the trees, and even they seemed partakers of my\nnew state of existence, and twinkled consciously and confidentially, as\nto one who shared the secret of their own existence and purposes. The\npine-trees overhead had an added tone in their meanings, and indeed\neverything, as I regarded it, seemed to manifest a new life, to become\nidentified with me: Nature and I had all things in common. I slept, at\nlength,--a strange kind of sleep; for when the guides awoke me, in the\nfull daylight, I was conscious of some one having talked with me through\nthe night.\n\nIn broad day, with my companions, and in motion, the influences of the\nprevious evening seemed to withdraw themselves to a remote\ndistance,--yet I was aware of their awaiting me when I should be\nunoccupied. The day was as brilliant, as tranquil as its predecessor,\nand the council decided that it should be devoted to a \"drive,\" for we\nhad eaten the last of our venison for breakfast. The party were assigned\ntheir places at those points of the lake where the deer would be most\nlikely to take the water, while my guide, Steve M----, and myself went\nup Bog River, to start him. The river, a dark, sluggish stream, about\nfifty feet wide, the channel by which the Mud Lakes and Little Tupper's\nLake, with its connected lakes and ponds, empty into Tupper's Lake, is a\nfavorite feeding-ground with the deer, whose breakfast is made on the\nleaves of the _Nuphar lutea_ which edge the stream. We surprised one,\nswimming around amongst the leaves, snatching here and there the\nchoicest of them, and when he turned to go out and rose in the water,\nas his feet touched bottom, I gave him a ball without fatal effect, and\nlanding, we put Carlo on the track, which was marked by occasional drops\nand clots of blood, and hearing him well off into the woods, and in that\nfurious and deep bay which indicates close pursuit, we went back to our\nboat and paddled upstream to a run-way Steve knew of, where the deer\nsometimes crossed the river. We pushed the boat into the overhanging\nalders which fringe the banks, leaning out into and over the water, and\nlistened to the far-off bay of the hound. It died away and was entirely\nlost for a few minutes, and then came into hearing from the nearer side\nof the ridge, which lay back from the river a hundred rods or so, and I\ncocked my rifle while Steve silently pushed the boat out of the bushes,\nready for a start, if the deer should \"water.\" The baying receded again,\nand this time in the direction of the lake. The blood we had found on\nthe trail was the bright, red, frothy blood which showed that the ball\nhad passed through the lungs, and, as we knew that the deer would not\nrun long before watering, we were sure that this would be his last turn\nand that he was making in earnest for the lake, where some of the boats\nwould certainly catch him.\n\nThe excitement of the hunt had brought me back to a natural state of\nfeeling, and now, as I lay in the stern of the boat, drifting slowly\ndown-stream, and looked up into the hazy blue sky, in the whole expanse\nof which appeared no fragment of cloud, and the softened sunshine\npenetrated both soul and body, while the brain, lulled into lethargy by\nthe unbroken silence and monotony of forest around, lost every trace of\nits midsummer madness,--I looked back to the state of the last evening\nas to a curious dream. I asked myself wherein it differed from a dream,\nand instantly my daemon replied, \"In no wise.\" The instant reply\nsurprised me, without startling me from my lethargy. I responded, as a\nmatter of course, \"But if no more than a dream, it amounts to nothing.\"\nIt answered me, \"But when a man dreams wide awake?\" I pondered an\ninstant, and it went on: \"And how do you know that dreams are nothing?\nThey are real while they last, and your waking life is no more; you wake\nto one and sleep to the other. Which is the real, and which the false?\nsince you assume that one is false.\" I only asked myself again the\neternal question, \"Objective or subjective?\" and the daemon made no\nfurther suggestion. At this instant we heard the report of a gun from\nthe lake. \"That's the Doctor's shot-gun,\" said Steve, and pulled\nenergetically down-stream; for we knew, that, if the Doctor had fired,\nthe deer had come in,--and if he had missed the first shot, he had a\nsecond barrel, which we should have heard from.\n\nAmong the most charming cascades in the world is certainly that which\nBog River makes where it falls into Tupper's Lake. Its amber water,\nblack in the deep channel above the fall, dividing into several small\nstreams, slips with a plunge of, it may be, six feet over the granite\nrocks, into a broad, deep pool, round which tall pines stand, and over\nwhich two or three delicate-leaved white-birches lean, from which basin\nthe waters plunge in the final foamy rush of thirty or forty feet over\nthe irregularly broken ledge which makes the bold shore of the lake.\nBetween the two points of rock which confine the stream is thrown a\nbridge, part of the military road from the Mohawk settlements to those\non the St. Lawrence, built during the war of 1812. On this bridge I\nwaited until Steve had carried the boat around, when we reembarked for\nthe camp.\n\nArriving at the landing, we found two of the guides dressing the\nDoctor's deer, and the others preparing for dinner. As night came on my\nexcitement returned, and I remained in the camp while the others went\nout on the lake,--not from fear of such an experience as I had the night\nbefore, for I enjoyed the wild emotions, as one enjoys the raging of the\nsea around the rocks he stands on, with a kind of tremulous\napprehension,--but to see what effect the camp would produce on the\nstate of feeling which I had begun to look at as something normal in my\nmental development. The rest of the party had gone out in two boats, and\nthree of the guides, taking another, went on an excursion of their own;\nthe two remaining, having cleared the supper-things away and lighted\ntheir pipes, were engaged in their tent, playing _old sledge_ by the\nlight of a single candle. There was a race out on the lake, and a\nfar-off merriment, with an occasional halloo, like a suggestion of a\nbusy world somewhere, but all so softened and toned down that it did not\njar on my tranquillity. There was a crackling fire of green logs as\nlarge as the guides could lift and lay on, and they simmered in the\nblaze, and lit up the surrounding tree-trunks and the overhanging\nfoliage, and faintly explored the recesses of the forest beyond. I lay\non the blankets, and near to me seemed to sit my daemon, ready to be\nquestioned.\n\nAt this instant there came a doubt of the theological position of my\nghostly _vis-a-vis_, and I abruptly thought the question, \"Who are you?\"\n\n\"Nobody,\" replied the daemon, oracularly.\n\nThis I knew in one sense to be true; and I replied, \"But you know what I\nmean. Don't trifle. Of what nature is your personality?\"\n\n\"Do you think,\" it replied, \"that personality is necessary to existence?\nWe are spirit.\"\n\n\"But wherein, save in the having or not having a body, do you differ\nfrom me?\"\n\n\"In all the consequences of that difference.\"\n\n\"Very well,--go on.\"\n\n\"Don't you see that without your circumstances you are only half a\nbeing?--that you are shaped by the action and reaction between your own\nmind and surrounding things, and that the body is the only medium of\nthis action and reaction? Do you not see that without this there would\nhave been no consciousness of self, and consequently neither\nindividuality nor personality? Remove those circumstances by removing\nthe body, and do you not remove personality?\"\n\n\"But,\" said I, \"you certainly have individuality, and wherein does that\ndiffer from personality?\"\n\n\"Possibly you commit two mistakes,\" replied the daemon. \"As to the\ndistinction, it is one with a difference. You are personal to yourself,\nindividual to others; and we, though individual to you, may be still\nimpersonal. If spirit takes form from having something to act on, the\nfact that we act on you is sufficient, so far as you are concerned, to\ncause an individuality.\"\n\nI hesitated, puzzled.\n\nIt went on: \"Don't you see that the inertia of spirit is motion, as that\nof matter is rest? Now compare this universal spirit to a river flowing\ntranquilly, and which in itself gives no evidence of motion, save when\nit meets with some inert point of resistance. This point of resistance\nhas the effect of action in itself, and you attribute to _it_ all the\neddies and ripples produced. You _must_ see that your own immobility is\nthe cause of the phenomena of life which give you your apparent\nexistence;--our individuality to you may be just as much the effect of\nyour personality; you find us only responsive to your own mental state.\"\n\nI was conscious of a sophistry somewhere, but could not, for the life of\nme, detect it. I thought of the Tempter; I almost feared to listen to\nanother word; but the daemon seemed so fair, so rational, and, above all,\nso confident of truth, that I could not entertain my fears.\n\n\"But,\" said I, finally, \"if my personality is owing to my physical\ncircumstances, to my body and its immobility, what is the body itself\nowing to?\"\n\n\"All physical or organic existence is owing to the antagonism between\ncertain particles of matter, fixed and resistant, and the all-pervading,\never-flowing spirit; the different inertiae conflict, and end by\ncombining in an organic being, since neither can be annihilated or\ntransmuted. Perhaps we can tell you, by-and-by, how this antagonism\ncommences; at present, you would scarcely be able to comprehend it\nclearly.\"\n\nThis I felt, for I was already getting confused with the questions that\noccurred to me as to the relations between spirit and matter.\n\nI asked once more, \"Have you never been personal, as I am?--have you\nnever had a body and a name?\"\n\n\"Perhaps,\" was the reply,--\"but it must have been long since; and the\ntrifling circumstances which you call life, with all their direct and\nrecognizable effects, pass away so soon, that it is impossible to recall\nanything of it. There seems a kind of consciousness when we have\nsomething to act against, as against your mind at the present moment;\nbut as to name, and all that kind of distinctiveness, what is the use of\nit where there is no possibility of confusion or mistake as to identity?\nWe have said that we are spirit; and when we say that spirit is one and\nmatter one, we have gone behind personal identity.\"\n\n\"But,\" asked I, \"am I to lose my individual existence,--to become\nfinally merged in a universal impersonality? What, then, is the object\nof life?\"\n\n\"You see the plants and animals all around you growing up and passing\naway,--each entering its little orbit, and sweeping through this sphere\nof cognizance back again to the same mystery it emerged from; you never\nask the question as to them, but for yourself you are anxious. If you\nhad not been, would creation have been any less creation?--if you cease,\nwill it not still be as great? Truly, though, your mistake is one of too\nlittle, not of too much. You assume that the animals become nothing;\nbut, truly, nothing dies. The very crystals into which all the so-called\nprimitive substances are formed, and which are the first forms of\norganization, have a spirit in them; for they obey something which\ninhabits and organizes them. If you could decompose the crystal, would\nyou annihilate the soul which organized it? The plant absorbs the\ncrystal, and it becomes a part of a higher organization, which could no\nmore exist without its soul; and if the plant is cut down and cast into\nthe oven, is the organic impulse food for the flames? You, the animal,\ndo but exist through the absorption of these vegetable substances, and\nwhy should you not obey the analogical law of absorption and\naggregation? You killed a deer to-day;--the flesh you will appropriate\nto supply the wants of your own material organization; but the life, the\nspirit which made that flesh a deer, in obedience to which that shell of\nexternal appearance is moulded,--you missed that. You can trace the body\nin its metamorphoses; but for this impalpable, active, and only real\npart of the being,--it were folly to suppose it more perishable, more\nevanescent, than the matter of which it was master. And why should not\nyou, as well as the deer, go back into the great Life from which you\ncame? As to a purpose in creation, why should there be any other than\nthat which existence always shows,--that of existing?\"\n\nI now began to notice that all the leading ideas which the daemon offered\nwere put in the form of questions, as if from a cautious\nnon-committalism, or as if it dared not in so many words say that they\nwere the absolute truth. I felt that there was another side to the\nmatter, and was confident that I should detect the sophistry of the\ndaemon; but then I did not feel able to carry the conversation farther,\nand was sensible of a readiness on the part of my interlocutor to cease.\nI wondered at this, and if it implied weariness on its part, when it was\nreplied,--\"We answer to your own mind; of course, when that ceases to\nact, there ceases to be reaction.\" I cried out in my own mind, in utter\nbewilderment,--\"Objective or subjective?\" and ceased my questionings.\n\nThe camp-fire glowed splendidly through the overhanging branches and\nfoliage, and I longed for a revel of light. I asked the guides to make a\n\"blaze,\" and, after a minute's delay and an ejaculation of \"_Game, to\nyour high, low, jack_,\" they emerged from the tent and in a few minutes\nhad cut down several small dead spruces and piled the tops on the fire,\nwhich flashed up through the pitchy, inflammable mass, and we had a\npyrotechnical display which startled the birds, that had gone to rest in\nthe assurance of night, into a confused activity and clamor. The heat\npenetrated the camp and gave me a drowsiness which my disturbed repose\nof the night before rendered extremely grateful, and when the rest of\nthe party returned from their row, I was asleep.\n\nIt was determined, the next morning, in council, to move; and one of the\nguides having informed us of a newly-opened carry, by which we could\ncross from Little Tupper's Lake, ten miles above us, directly to Forked\nLake, and thence following the usual route down the Raquette River and\nthrough Long Lake, we could reach Martin's on Saranac Lake without\nretracing our steps, except over the short distance from the Raquette\nthrough the Saranac Lakes,--after breakfast, we hurriedly packed up our\ntraps and were off as early as might be. It is hard boating up the Bog\nRiver, and hard work both for guides and tourists. All the boats and\nbaggage had to be carried three miles, on the backs of the guides, and,\nhelp them as much as we could, the day had drawn nearly to its close\nbefore we were fairly embarked on Little Tupper's, and we had then\nnearly ten miles to go before reaching Constable's Camp, where we were\nto stop for the night. I worked hard all day, but in a kind of dream, as\nif the dead weight I carried with weariness were only the phantom of\nsomething, and I were a fantasy carrying it;--the actual had become\nvisionary, and my imaginings nudged me and jostled me almost off the\npath of reason. But I had no time for a _seance_ with my daemon. The next\nday I devoted with the guides to bushing out the carry across to Forked\nLake, about three and a half miles, through perfectly pathless woods;\nfor we found Sam's statements as to the carry being chopped out entirely\nfalse; only a blazed line existed; so all the guides, except one, set to\nwork with myself bushing and chopping out, while the other guide and the\nrest of the party spent the day in hunting. At the close of the day we\nhad completed nearly two miles of the path, and returned to Constable's\nCamp to sleep. The next day we succeeded in getting the boats and\nbaggage through to Bottle Pond, two and a half miles, and the whole\nparty camped on the carry,--the guides anathematizing Sam, whose advice\nhad led us on this road. The next afternoon found us afloat on Forked\nLake, weary and glad to be in the sunlight on blue water again. Hard\nwork and the excitement of responsibility in engineering our road-making\noperations had kept my visitor from dream-land away, and as we paddled\nleisurely down the beautiful lake,--one of the few yet untouched by the\nlumbermen,--I felt a healthier tone of mind than I had known since we\nhad entered the woods. As we ran out of one of the deep bays which\nconstitute a large portion of the lake, into the principal sheet of\nwater, one of the most perfectly beautiful mountain-views I have ever\nseen burst upon us. We looked down the lake to its outlet, five miles,\nbetween banks covered with tall pines, and far away in the hazy\natmosphere a chain of blue peaks raised themselves sharp-edged against\nthe sky. One singularly-shaped summit, far to the south, attracted my\nattention, and I was about to ask its name, when Steve called out, with\nthe air of one who communicates something of more than ordinary\nsignificance,--\"Blue Mountain!\" The name, Steve's manner, and I know not\nwhat of mysterious cause, gave to the place a strange importance. I felt\na new and unaccountable attraction to the mountain. Some enchantment\nseemed to be casting its glamour over me from that distance even. There\nwas thenceforward no goal for my wanderings but the Blue Mountain. It is\na solitary peak, one of the southernmost of the Adirondacks, of a very\nquaint form, and lies in a circlet of lakes, three of which in a chain\nare named from the mountain. The way by which the mountain is reached is\nthrough these lakes, and their outlet, which empties into Raquette Lake.\nI had determined to remain in the woods some weeks, and now concluded to\nreturn, as soon as I had seen the rest of the party on their way home,\nand take up quarters on Raquette Lake for the rest of my stay.\n\nThat night we camped at the foot of Forked Lake, and not one of the\nparty will ever forget the thunder-storm that burst on us in our\nwoods-encampment among the tall pines, two of which, near us, were\nstruck by the lightning. I tried in vain, when we were quiet for the\nnight, to get some information on the subject of my attraction to the\nBlue Mountain. My daemon appeared remote and made no responses. It seemed\nas if, knowing my resolution to stay alone there, it had resolved to be\nsilent until I was without any cause for interruption of our colloquies.\nSave the consciousness of its remote attendance, I felt no recurrence of\nmy past experience, until, having seen my friends on the road to\ncivilization again, I left Martin's with Steve and Carlo for my quarters\non the Raquette. We hurried back up the river as fast as four strong\narms could propel our light boat, and resting, the second night, at\nWilbur's, on Raquette Lake, I the next morning selected a site for a\ncamp, where we built a neat little bark-house, proof against all\ndiscomforts of an elemental character, and that night I rested under my\nown roof, squatter though I was. The daemon seemed in no haste to renew\nour former intimate intercourse,--for what reason I could not divine;\nbut a few days after my settling, days spent in exploring and planning,\nit resumed suddenly its functions. It came to me out on the lake, where\nI had paddled to enjoy the starlight in the delicious evening, when the\nsky was filled with luminous vapor, through which the stars struggled\ndimly, and in which the landscape was almost as clearly visible as by\nmoonlight.\n\n\"Well!\" said I, familiarly, as I felt it take its place by my side, \"you\nhave come back.\"\n\n\"_Come back!_\" it replied; \"will you never get beyond your miserable\nideas of space, and learn that there is no separation but that of\nfeeling, no nearness but that of sympathy? If you had cared enough for\nus, we should have been with you constantly.\"\n\nI was anxious to get to the subject of present interest, and did not\nstop to discuss a point which, in one, and the highest sense, I\nadmitted.\n\n\"What,\" I asked, \"was that impulse which urged me to go to the Blue\nMountain? Shall I find there anything supernatural?\"\n\n\"_Anything supernatural?_ What is there above Nature, or outside of it?\"\n\n\"But nothing is without cause; and for an emotion so strong as I\nexperienced, on the sight of those mountains, there must have been one.\"\n\n\"Very likely! if you go after it, you will find it. You probably expect\nto find some beautiful enchantress keeping her court on the\nmountain-top, and a suite of fairies.\"\n\nI started, for, absurd as it may seem, that very idea, half-formed,\nundeveloped from very shame at my superstition, had rested in my mind.\n\n\"And,\" said I, at a loss what to say, \"are there no such things\npossible?\"\n\n\"All things are possible to the imagination.\"\n\n\"To create?\"\n\n\"Most certainly! Is not creation the act of bringing into existence? and\ndoes not your Hamlet exist as immortally as your Shakspeare? The only\ntrue existence, is it not that of the Idea? Have you not seen the pines\ntransfigured?\"\n\n\"And if I imagined a race of fairies inhabiting the Blue Mountain,\nshould I find them?\"\n\n\"If you _imagined_ them, yes! But the imagination is not voluntary; it\nworks to supply a necessity; its function is creation, and creation is\nneeded only to fill a vacuum. The wild Arab, feeling his own\ninsignificance, and comprehending the necessity for a Creating Power,\nfinds between himself and that Power, which to him, as to you the other\nday, assumes a personality, an immense distance, and fills the space\nwith a race half divine, half human. It was the necessity for the fairy\nwhich created the fairy. You do not feel the same distance between\nyourself and a Creator, and so you do not call into existence a creative\nrace of the same character; but has not your own imagination furnished\nyou with images to which you may give your reverence? It may be that you\ndiminish that distance by degrading the Great First Cause to an image of\nyour personality, and so are not so wise as the Arab, who at once admits\nit to be unattainable. Each man shapes that which he looks up to by his\ndesires or fears, and these in their turn are the results of his degree\nof development.\"\n\n\"But God, is not He the Supreme Creator?\"\n\n\"Is it not as we said, that you measure the Supreme by yourself? Can you\nnot comprehend a supreme law, an order which controls all things?\"\n\nIn my meditations this doubt had often presented itself to me, and I had\nas often put it resolutely aside; but now to hear it urged on me in this\nway from this mysterious presence troubled me, and I shrank from further\ndiscussion of the topic. I earnestly desired a fuller knowledge of the\nnature of my colloquist.\n\n\"Tell me,\" said I, \"do you not take cognizance of my personality?--do\nyou read my past and my future?\"\n\n\"Your past and future are contained in your present. Who can analyze\nwhat you are can see the things which made you such; for effect contains\nits cause;--to see the future, it needs only to know the laws which\ngovern all things. It is a simple problem: you being given, with the\ninevitable tendencies to which you are subject, the result is your\nfuture; the flight of one of your rifle-balls cannot be calculated with\ngreater certainty.\"\n\n\"But how shall we know those laws?\" said I.\n\n\"You contain them all, for you are the result of them; and they are\nalways the same,--not one code for your beginning, and another for your\ncontinuance. Man is the complete embodiment of all the laws thus far\ndeveloped, and you have only to know yourself to know the history of\ncreation.\"\n\nThis I could not gainsay, and my mind, wearied, declined to ask further.\nI returned to camp and went to sleep.\n\nSeveral days passed without any remarkable progress in my knowledge of\nthis strange being, though I found myself growing more and more\nsensitive to the presence of it each day; and at the same time the\nincomprehensible sympathy with Nature, for I know not what else to call\nit, seemed growing stronger and more startling in the effects it\nproduced on the landscape. The influence was no longer confined to\ntwilight, but made noon-day mystical; and I began to hear strange sounds\nand words spoken by disembodied voices,--not like that of my daemon, but\nunaccompanied by any feeling of personal presence connected therewith.\nIt seemed as if the vibrations shaped themselves into words, some of\nthem of singular significance. I heard my name called, and the strangest\nlaughs on the lake at night. My daemon seemed averse to answering any\nquestions on the topic of these illusions. The only reply was,--\"You\nwould be wiser, not knowing too much.\"\n\nEre many days of this solitary life had passed, I found my whole\nexistence taken up by my fantasies. I determined to make my excursion to\nthe Blue Mountain, and, sending Steve down to the post-office, a\nthree-days' journey, I took the boat, with Carlo and my rifle, and\npushed off. The outlet of the Blue Mountain Lakes is like all the\nAdirondack streams, dark and shut in by forest, which scarcely permits\nlanding anywhere. Now and then a log fallen into the water compels the\nvoyager to get out and lift his boat over; then a shallow rapid must be\ndragged over; and when the stream is clear of obstruction, it is too\nnarrow for any mode of propulsion but poling or paddling.\n\nI had worked several weary hours, and the sun had passed the meridian,\nwhen I emerged from the forest into a wild, swampy flat,--\"wild meadow,\"\nthe guides call it,--through which the stream wound, and around which\nwas a growth of tall larches backed by pines. Where the brook seemed to\nreenter the wood on the opposite side, stood two immense pines, like\nsentinels, and such they became to me; and they looked grim and\nthreatening, with their huge arms reaching over the gateway. I drew my\nboat up on the boggy shore at the foot of a solitary tamarack, into\nwhich I climbed as high as I could to look over the wood beyond.\n\nNever shall I forget what I saw from that swaying look-out. Before me\nwas the mountain, perhaps five miles away, covered with dense forest to\nwithin a few hundred feet of the summit, which showed bare rock with\nfirs clinging in the clefts and on the tables, and which was crowned by\na walled city, the parapet of whose walls cut with a sharp, straight\nline against the sky, and beyond showed spire and turret and the tops of\ntall trees. The walls must have been at least a hundred and fifty feet\nhigh, and I could see here and there between the group of firs traces of\na road coming down the mountain-side. And I heard one of those mocking\nvoices say, \"The city of silence!\"--nothing more. I felt strongly\ntempted to start on a flight through the air towards the city, and why I\ndid not launch forth on the impulse I know not. My blood rushed through\nmy veins with maddest energy, and my brain seemed to have been replaced\nby some ethereal substance, and to be capable of floating me off as if\nit were a balloon. Yet I clung and looked, my whole soul in my eyes, and\nhad no thought of losing the spectacle for an instant, even were it to\nreach the city itself. The glorious glamour of that place and moment,\nwho can comprehend it? The wind swung my tree-top to and fro, and I\nclimbed up until the tree bent with my weight like a twig under a\nbird's.\n\nPresently I heard bells and strains of music, as though all the military\nbands in the city were coming together on the walls; and the sounds rose\nand fell with the wind,--one moment entirely lost, another full and\ntriumphant. Then I heard the sound of hunting-horns and the baying of a\npack of hounds, deep-mouthed, as if a hunting-party were coming down the\nmountain-side. Nearer and nearer they came, and I heard merry laughing\nand shouting as they swept through the valley. I feared for a moment\nthat they would find me there, and drive me, intruding, from the\nenchanted land.\n\nBut I must fathom the mystery, let what would come. I descended the\ntree, and when I had reached the boat again I found the whole thing\nchanged. I understood that my city was only granite and fir-trees, and\nmy music only the wind in the tree-tops. The reaction was sickening; the\nsunshine seemed dull and cold after the lost glory of that enchantment.\nThe Blue Mountain was reached, its destiny fulfilled for me, and I\nreturned to my camp, sick at heart, as one who has had a dear illusion\ndispelled.\n\nThe next day my mind was unusually calm and clear. I asked my daemon what\nwas the meaning of the enchantment of yesterday.\n\n\"It was a freak of your imagination,\" it replied.\n\n\"But what is this imagination, then, which, being a faculty of my own,\nyet masters my reason?\"\n\n\"Not at all a faculty, but your very highest self, your own life in\ncreative activity. Your reason _is_ a faculty, and is subordinate to the\npurposes of your imagination. If, instead of regarding imagination as a\npendant to your mental organization, you take it for what it is, a\nfunction, and the noblest one your mind knows, you will see at once why\nit is that it works unconsciously, just as you live unconsciously and\ninvoluntarily. Men set their reason and feeling to subdue what they\nconsider a treacherous element in themselves; they succeed only in\ndwarfing their natures, and imagination is inert while reason controls;\nbut when reason rests in sleep, and you cease to live to the external\nworld, imagination resumes its normal power. You dream;--it is only the\nrevival of that which you smother when you are awake. You consider the\nsights and sounds of yesterday follies; you reason;--imagination\ndemonstrates its power by overturning your reason and deceiving your\nvery senses.\"\n\n\"You speak of its creations; I understand this in a certain sense; but\nif these were such, should not they have permanence? and can anything\ncreated perish?\"\n\n\"Nonsense! what will these trees be tomorrow? and the rocks you sit on,\nare they not changing to vegetation under you? The only creation is that\nof ideas; things are thin shadows. If man is not creative, he is still\nundeveloped.\"\n\n\"But is not such an assumption trenching on the supremacy of God?\" I\nasked.\n\n\"What do you understand by 'God?'\"\n\n\"An infinitely wise and loving Controller of events, of course,\" I\nreplied.\n\n\"Did you ever find any one whose ideas on the subject agreed with\nyours?\"\n\n\"Not entirely.\"\n\n\"Then your God is not the same as the God of other men; from the\nFee-Jeean to the Christian there is a wide range. Of course there is a\nfirst great principle of life; but this personality you all worship, is\nit not a creation?\"\n\nI now felt this to be the great point of the demon's urging; it recurred\ntoo often not to be designed. Led on by the sophistry of my tempter, I\nhad floated unconsciously to this issue, practically admitting all; but\nwhen this suggestion stood completely unclothed before me, my soul rose\nin horror at the abyss before it. For an instant all was chaos, and the\nvery order of Nature seemed disorder. Life and light vanished from the\nface of the earth; my night made all things dead and dark. A universe\nwithout a God! Creation seemed to me for that moment but a galvanized\ncorse. What my emotions were no human being who has not felt them can\nconceive. My first impulse was to suicide; with the next I cried from\nthe depths of my despair, \"God deliver me from the body of this death!\"\nIt was but a moment,--and there came, in the place of the cold\nquestioning voice of my daemon, one of ineffable music, repeating words\nfamiliar to me from childhood, words linked to everything loved and\nlovely in my past:--\"Ye believe in God, believe also in me.\" The hot\ntears for another moment blotted out the world from sight. I said once\nmore to the questioner, \"Now who _are_ you?\"\n\n\"Your own doubts,\" was the reply; and it seemed as if only I spoke to\nmyself.\n\nSince that day I have never reasoned with my doubts, never doubted my\nimagination.\n\n\n\n\nALL'S WELL.\n\n\n    Sweet-voiced Hope, thy fine discourse\n      Foretold not half life's good to me;\n    Thy painter, Fancy, hath not force\n      To show how sweet it is to be!\n        Thy witching dream\n        And pictured scheme\n    To match the fact still want the power;\n      Thy promise brave\n      From birth to grave\n    Life's boon may beggar in an hour.\n\n    Ask and receive,--'tis sweetly said;\n      Yet what to plead for know I not;\n    For Wish is worsted, Hope o'ersped,\n      And aye to thanks returns my thought.\n        If I would pray,\n        I've nought to say\n    But this, that God may be God still;\n        For Him to live\n        Is still to give,\n    And sweeter than my wish his will.\n\n    O wealth of life beyond all bound!\n      Eternity each moment given!\n    What plummet may the Present sound?\n      Who promises a _future_ heaven?\n        Or glad, or grieved,\n        Oppressed, relieved,\n    In blackest night, or brightest day,\n        Still pours the flood\n        Of golden good,\n    And more than heartfull fills me aye.\n\n    My wealth is common; I possess\n      No petty province, but the whole;\n    What's mine alone is mine far less\n      Than treasure shared by every soul.\n        Talk not of store,\n        Millions or more,--\n    Of values which the purse may hold,--\n        But this divine!\n        I own the mine\n    Whose grains outweigh a planet's gold.\n\n    I have a stake in every star,\n      In every beam that fills the day;\n    All hearts of men my coffers are,\n      My ores arterial tides convey;\n        The fields, the skies,\n        And sweet replies\n    Of thought to thought are my gold-dust,--\n        The oaks, the brooks,\n        And speaking looks\n    Of lovers' faith and friendship's trust.\n\n    Life's youngest tides joy-brimming flow\n      For him who lives above all years,\n    Who all-immortal makes the Now,\n      And is not ta'en in Time's arrears:\n        His life's a hymn\n        The seraphim\n    Might hark to hear or help to sing,\n        And to his soul\n      The boundless whole\n    Its bounty all doth daily bring.\n\n    \"All mine is thine,\" the sky-soul saith;\n      \"The wealth I am, must thou become:\n    Richer and richer, breath by breath,--\n      Immortal gain, immortal room!\"\n        And since all his\n        Mine also is,\n    Life's gift outruns my fancies far,\n        And drowns the dream\n        In larger stream,\n    As morning drinks the morning-star.\n\n\n\n\nTHE BIRDS OF THE PASTURE AND FOREST.\n\n\nHe who has always lived in the city or its suburbs, who has seldom\nvisited the interior except for purposes of trade, and whose walks have\nnot often extended beyond those roads which are bordered on each side by\nshops and dwelling-houses, may never have heard the birds that form the\nsubject of this sketch. These are the birds of the pasture and\nforest,--those shy, melodious warblers, who sing only in the ancient\nhaunts of the Dryads, and of those nymphs who waited upon Diana in her\nhunting-excursions, but who are now recognized only by the beautiful\nplants which, with unseen hands, they rear in the former abodes of the\ncelestial huntress. These birds have not probably multiplied, like the\nfamiliar birds, with the increase of human population and the extension\nof agriculture. They were perhaps as numerous in the days of King Philip\nas they are now. Though they do not shun mankind, they keep aloof from\ncultivated grounds, living chiefly in the deep wood or on the edge of\nthe forest, and in the bushy pasture.\n\nThere is a peculiar wildness in the songs of this class of birds, that\nawakens a delightful mood of mind, similar to that which is excited by\nreading the figurative lyrics of a romantic age. This feeling is,\nundoubtedly, to a certain extent, the effect of association. Having\nalways heard their notes in rude, wild, and wooded places, they never\nfail to bring this kind of scenery vividly before the imagination, and\ntheir voices affect us like the sounds of mountain-streams. There is a\nlittle Sparrow which I often hear about the shores of unfrequented\nponds, and in their untrodden islets, and never in any other situations.\nThe sound of his voice, therefore, always enhances the sensation of rude\nsolitude with which I contemplate this wild and desolate scenery. We\noften see him perched upon a dead tree that stands in the water, a few\nrods from the shore, apparently watching our angling operations from his\nleafless perch, where he sings so sweetly, that the very desolation of\nthe scene borrows a charm from his voice that renders every object\ndelightful. This bird I believe to be the _Fringilla palustris_ of\nWilson.\n\nIt is certain that the notes of the solitary birds, compared with those\nof the Robin and Linnet, excite a different class of sensations. I can\nimagine that there is a similar difference in the flavors of a cherry\nand a cranberry. If the former is sweeter, the latter has a spicy zest\nthat is peculiar to what we call natural fruit. The effect is the same,\nhowever, whether it be attributable to some intrinsic quality, or to\nassociation, which is indeed the source of some of the most delightful\nemotions of the human soul.\n\nNature has made all her scenes, and the sights and sounds that\naccompany them, more lovely, by causing them to be respectively\nsuggestive of a certain class of sensations. The birds of the pasture\nand forest are not frequent enough in cultivated places to be associated\nwith the garden or village inclosure. Nature has confined particular\nbirds and animals to certain localities, and thereby adds a poetic and a\npicturesque attraction to their features. There are also certain flowers\nthat cannot be cultivated in the garden, as if they were designed for\nthe exclusive adornment of those secluded arbors which the spade and the\nplough have never profaned. Here flowers grow which are too holy for\nculture, and birds sing whose voices were never heard in the cage of the\nvoluptuary, and whose tones inspire us with a sense of freedom known\nonly to those who often retire from the world, to live in religious\ncommunion with Nature.\n\nWhen the flowers of early summer are gone, and the graceful neottia is\nseen in the meadows, extending its spiral clusters among the nodding\ngrasses,--when the purple orchis is glowing in the wet grounds, and the\nroadsides are gleaming with the yellow blossoms of the hypericum, the\nmerry voice of the Bobolink has ceased, and many other familiar birds\nhave become almost silent. At this time, if we stroll away from the farm\nand the orchard into more retired and wooded haunts, we may hear, at all\ntimes of the day and at frequent intervals, the pensive and melodious\nnotes of the Wood-Sparrow, who sings as if he were delighted at being\nleft almost alone to warble and complain to the benevolent deities of\nthe grove. He who in his youth has made frequent visits to these\npleasant and solitary places, and wished that he could live and love\nforever among the wild-roses, the blushing azaleas, the red\nsummer-lilies, and the thousands of beautiful and sweet-scented flowers\nthat spring up among the various spicy and fruit-bearing shrubs which\nunite to form a genuine huckleberry-pasture,--he only knows the\nunspeakable delights which are awakened by the sweet, simple notes of\nthis little warbler.\n\nThe Wood-Sparrow (_Fringilla pusilla_) is somewhat less than a Canary,\nwith a chestnut-colored crown; above of a grayish brown hue, and dusky\nwhite beneath. Though he does not seem to be a shy bird, I have never\nseen him in cultivated grounds, and the inmates of solitary cottages\nalone are privileged to hear his notes from their windows. He loves the\nhills which are half covered with young pines, viburnums, cornels, and\nhuckleberry-bushes, and feeds upon the seeds of grasses and wild\nlettuce, with occasional repasts of insects and berries.\n\nHis notes are sweet and plaintive, seldom consisting of more than one\nstrain. He commences slowly, as if repeating the syllable, _de de de de\nde de d' d' d' d' d' d' d' r' r' r'_,--increasing in rapidity, and at\nthe same time rising as it were by semi-tones, or chromatically, to\nabout a major fourth on the scale. In midsummer, when this bird is most\nmusical, he occasionally lengthens his song by alternately ascending and\ndescending, interposing a few chirping notes between the ascending and\ndescending series. The song loses a part of its simplicity, and, as it\nseems to me, is not improved by this variation.\n\nWhile listening to the notes of the Wood-Sparrow, we are continually\nsaluted by the agreeable, though less musical song of the Chewink, or\nGround-Robin,--a bird that frequents similar places. This is a very\nbeautiful bird, elegantly spotted with white, red, and black,--the\nfemale being of a bright bay color where the male is red. Every rambler\nknows him, not only by his plumage and his peculiar note, but also by\nhis singular habit of lurking about among the bushes, appearing and\ndisappearing like a squirrel, and watching all our movements. Though he\ndoes not avoid our company, it is with difficulty that a marksman can\nobtain a good aim at him, so rapidly does he change his position among\nthe leaves and branches. In this habit he resembles the Wren. While we\nare watching his motions, he pauses in his song, and utters that\npeculiar note of complaint from which he has derived his name,\n_Chewink_, though the sound he utters is more like _chewee_, accenting\nthe second syllable.\n\nThe Chewink (_Fringilla erythrophthalma_) is a very constant singer\nduring four months of the year, from the middle of April. He is very\nuntiring in his lays, seldom resting for any considerable time from\nmorning till night, being never weary in rain or in sunshine, or at\nnoon-day in the hottest weather of the season. His song consists of two\nlong notes, the first about a third above the second, and the last part\nis made up of several rapidly uttered notes about one tone below the\nfirst note.\n\nThere is an expression of great cheerfulness in these notes; but music,\nlike poetry, must be somewhat plaintive in its character, to take strong\nhold of the feelings. I have never known a person to be affected by\nthese notes as by those of the Wood-Sparrow. While engaged in singing,\nthe Chewink is usually perched on the lower branch of a tree, near the\nedge of a wood, or on the top of a tall bush. He is a true forest-bird,\nand builds his nest in the thickets that conceal the boundaries of the\nwood.\n\nThe notes of the Chewink and his general appearance and habits are well\ncalculated to render him conspicuous, and they cause him to be always\nnoticed and remembered. Our birds are like our men of genius. As in the\nliterary world there is a description of talent that must be discovered\nand pointed out by an observing few, before the great mass can\nunderstand it or even know its existence,--so the sweetest songsters of\nthe wood are unknown to the mass of the community, while many very\nordinary performers, whose talents are conspicuous, are universally\nknown and admired.\n\nAs we advance into the wood, if it be near mid-day, or before the\ndecline of the sun, the notes of two small birds will be sure to attract\nour attention. These notes are very similar, and as slender and piercing\nas the chirp of a grasshopper, being distinguished from the latter only\nby a different and more pleasing modulation. The birds to which I refer\nare the Red Start (_Muscicapa ruticilla_) and the Speckled Creeper\n(_Sylvia varia_). The first is the more rarely seen of the two, being a\nbird of the deep forest, and shunning observation by hiding himself in\nthe most obscure parts of the wood. In general appearance, and in the\ncolor of his plumage, he bears a resemblance to the Ground-Robin, though\nnot more than half his size. He lives entirely on insects, catching them\nwhile they are flying in the air.\n\nHis song is similar to that of the Summer Yellow-Bird, so common in our\ngardens among the fruit-trees, but it is more shrill and feeble. The\nCreeper's song does not differ from it more than the songs of different\nindividuals of the same species may differ. This bird may be seen\ncreeping like a Woodpecker around the branches of trees, feeding upon\nthe grubs and insects that are lodged upon the bark. He often leaves the\nforest, and may be seen busily searching the trees in the orchard and\ngarden. The restless activity of the birds of this species affords a\nproof of the countless myriads of insects that must be destroyed by them\nin the course of one season,--insects which, if not kept in check by\nthese and other small birds, would multiply to such an extreme as to\nrender the earth uninhabitable by man.\n\nWhile listening with close attention to the slender notes of either of\nthe last-named birds, often hardly audible amidst the din of\ngrasshoppers, the rustling of leaves, and the sighing of winds among the\ntall oaken boughs, suddenly the wood resounds with a loud, shrill song,\nlike the sharpest notes of the Canary. The bird that startles one with\nthis vociferous note is the Oven-Bird, (_Turdus aurocapillus_), or\nGolden-Crowned Thrush. It is the smallest of the Thrushes, is confined\nexclusively to the wood, and when singing is particularly partial to\nnoon-day. There is no melody in his song. He begins rather low,\nincreasing in loudness as he proceeds, until the last notes are so loud\nas to seem almost in our immediate presence. He might be supposed to\nutter His words, _I see_, _I see_, _I see_, etc.,--emphasizing the first\nword, and repeating the words six or eight times, louder and louder with\neach repetition. No other bird equals this little Thrush in the emphasis\nwith which he delivers his brief communication. His notes are associated\nwith summer noon-days in the deep woods, and, when bursting upon the ear\nin the silence of noon, they disperse all melancholy thoughts, and\ninspire one with a vivid consciousness of life.\n\nThe most remarkable thing connected with the history of this bird is his\noven-shaped nest. It is commonly placed on the ground, under a knoll of\nmoss or a tuft of grass and bushes, and is formed almost entirely of\nlong grass neatly woven. It is covered with a roof of the same\nmaterials, and a round opening is made at the side, for the bird's\nentrance. The nest is so ingeniously covered with grass and disguised\nwith the appearance of the general surface around it, that it is very\nseldom discovered. The Cow-Bunting, however, is able to find it, and\noften selects it as a depository for its own eggs.\n\nThose who are addicted to rambling in pursuit of natural curiosities may\nhave observed that pine-woods are remarkable for certain collections of\nmosses which have cushioned a projecting rock or the decayed stump of a\ntree. When weary with heat and exercise, it is delightful to sit down\nupon one of these green velveted couches and take note of the objects\nimmediately around us. We are then prepared to hear the least sound that\ninvades our retreat. Some of the sweetest notes ever uttered in the wood\nare distinctly heard only at such times; for when we are passing over\nthe rustling leaves, the noise made by our progress interferes with the\nperfect recognition of all delicate sounds. It was when thus reclining,\nafter half a day's search for flowers, under the grateful shade of a\npine-tree, now watching the white clouds that sent a brighter day-beam\ninto these dark recesses, as they passed luminously overhead, and then\nnoting the peculiar mapping of the grounds underneath the wood,\ndiversified with mosses in swelling knolls, little islets of fern, and\nparterres of ginsengs and Solomon's-seals,--in one of these cloisters of\nthe forest, I was first greeted by the pensive note of the Green\nWarbler, as he seemed to titter in supplicatory tones, very slowly\nmodulated, \"Hear me, Saint Theresa!\" This strain, as I have observed\nmany times since, is, at certain hours, repeated constantly for ten\nminutes at a time, and it is one of those melodious sounds that seem to\nbelong exclusively to solitude.\n\nThe Green Warbler (_Sylvia virens_) is a small bird, and though his\nnotes may be familiar to all who have been accustomed to strolling in\nthe woods, the species is not numerous in Massachusetts, the greater\nnumber retiring farther north in the breeding-season. Nuttall remarks in\nreference to this bird, \"His simple, rather drawling, and somewhat\nplaintive song, uttered at short intervals, resembled the syllables '_te\nde teritsca_, sometimes _te derisca_, pronounced pretty loud and slow,\nand the tones proceeded from high to low. In the intervals, he was\nperpetually busied in catching small cynips, and other kinds of\nflies,--keeping up a smart snapping of his bill, almost similar to the\nnoise made by knocking pebbles together.\" There is a plaintive\nexpression in this musical supplication, that is apparent to all who\nhear it, no less than if the bird were truly offering prayers to some\ntutelary deity. It is difficult, in many cases, to determine why a\ncertain combination of sounds should affect one with an emotion of\nsadness, while another, under the same circumstances, produces a feeling\nof joy. This is a part of the philosophy of music which has not been\nexplained.\n\nWhile treating of the Sylvias, I must not omit to notice one of the most\nimportant of the tribe, and one with which almost everybody is\nacquainted,--the Maryland Yellow-Throat (_Sylvia trichas_). This species\nis quite common and familiar. He is most frequently seen in a\nwillow-grove that borders a stream, or in the shrubbery of moist and low\ngrounds. The angler is greeted by his notes on the rushy borders of a\npond, and the botanist listens to them when hunting for those\nrose-plants that hide themselves under dripping rocks in some wooded\nravine. The song of the Yellow-Throat resembles that of the Warbling\nVireo, delivered with somewhat more precision, as if he were saying, _I\nsee you_, _I see you_, _I see you_. His notes are simply lively and\nagreeable; there is nothing plaintive about them. The bird, however, is\nvery attractive in his appearance, being of a bright olive-color above,\nwith a yellow throat and breast, and a black band extending from the\nnostrils over the eye. This black band and the yellow throat are the\nmarks by which he is most easily identified. The Yellow-Throat remains\ntuneful till near the last week in August.\n\nBut if we leave the wood while those above described are the only\nsinging-birds we have heard, we have either returned too soon, or we did\nnot penetrate deeply enough into the forest. The Wood-Sparrow prepared\nour ears for a concert more delightful than the Red Start or the\nYellow-Throat are capable of presenting, and we have spent our time\nalmost in vain, if we have not heard the song of the Wood-Thrush\n(_Turdus melodus_). His notes are not startling or conspicuous; some\ndull ears might not hear them, though poured forth only a few rods\ndistant, if their attention were not directed to them. Yet they are\nloud, liquid, and sonorous, and they fail to attract attention only on\naccount of the long pauses between the different strains. We must link\nall these strains together to enjoy the full pleasure which the song of\nthis bird is capable of affording, though any single strain alone is\nsufficient to entitle the bird to considerable reputation as a songster.\n\nThe song of the Wood-Thrush consists of about eight or ten different\nstrains, each of considerable length. After each strain the bird makes a\npause of about three or four seconds. I think the effect of this sylvan\nmusic is somewhat diminished by the length of the pauses or rests. It\nmay be said, however, that during each pause our susceptibility is\nincreased, and we are thus prepared to be more deeply affected by the\nnext notes. Whether the one or the other opinion be correct, it is\ncertain that any one who stops to listen to this bird will become\nspellbound, and deaf to almost every other sound in the grove, as if his\nears were enchained to the song of the Siren.\n\nThe Wood-Thrush sings at almost all hours of the day, though seldom\nafter sunset. He delights in a dusky retreat, and is evidently inspired\nby solitude, singing no less in gloomy weather than in sunshine. Late in\nAugust, when other birds have mostly become silent, he is sometimes the\nonly songster in the wood. There is a liquid sound in his tones that\nslightly resembles that of a glassichord; though in some parts of the\ncountry he has received the name of Fife-Bird, from the clearness of his\nintonations. By many persons this species is called the Hermit-Thrush.\n\nThe Veery (_Turdus Wilsonii_) has many habits like those of the\nWood-Thrush, and some similarity of song. He is about the size of a\nBlue-Bird, and resembles the Red Thrush, except that the brown of his\nback is slightly tinged with olive. He arrives early in May, and is\nfirst heard to sing during some part of the second week of that month,\nwhen the sons of the Bobolink commences. He is not one of our familiar\nbirds; and unless we live in close proximity to a wood that is haunted\nby a stream, we shall never hear his voice from our doors or windows. He\nsings neither in the orchard, nor the garden, nor in the suburbs of the\ncity. He shuns the exhibitions of art, and reserves his wild notes for\nthose who frequent the inner sanctuary of the groves. All who have once\nbecome familiar with his song await his arrival with impatience, and\ntake note of his silence in midsummer with regret. Until this little\nbird has arrived, I always feel as an audience do at a concert, before\nthe chief singer has made her appearance, while the other performers are\nvainly endeavoring to soothe them by their inferior attempts.\n\nThis bird is more retiring than any other important singing-bird, except\nthe Wood-Thrush,--being heard only in solitary groves, and usually in\nthe vicinity of a pond or stream. Here, especially after sunset, he\npours forth his brilliant and melancholy strains with a peculiar\ncadence, and fills the whole forest with sound. It seems as if the\nechoes were delimited with his notes, and took pleasure in passing them\nround with multiplied reverberations. I am confident this bird refrains\nfrom singing when others are the most vocal, from the pleasure he feels\nin listening either to his own notes, or to the melodious responses\nwhich others of his own kindred repeat in different parts of the wood.\nHence he chooses the dusk of evening for his vocal hour, when the little\nchirping birds are mostly silent, that their voices may not interrupt\nhis chant. At this hour, during a period of nine or ten weeks, he charms\nthe evening with his strains, and often prolongs them in still weather\ntill after dusk, and whispers them sweetly into the ear of night.\n\nNo bird of his size has more strength of voice; but his song, though\nloud, is modulated with such a sweet and flowing cadence, that it comes\nto the ear with all the mellowness of the softest warbling. It would be\ndifficult to describe his song. It seems at first to be wanting in\nvariety. I was long of this opinion, though I was puzzled to account for\nits pleasing and extraordinary effect on the mind of the listener. The\nsong of the Veery consists of five distinct strains or bars. They might,\nperhaps, be represented on the musical staff, by commencing the first\nnote on D above the staff and sliding down with a trill to C, one fifth\nbelow. The second, third, fourth, and fifth bars are repetitions of the\nfirst, except that each commences and ends a few tones lower than the\npreceding.\n\nWere we to attempt to perform these notes with an instrument adapted to\nthe purpose, we should probably fail, from the difficulty of imitating\nthe peculiar trilling of the notes, and the liquid ventriloquial sounds\nat the conclusion of each strain. The whole is warbled in such a manner\nas to produce upon the ear the effect of harmony. It seems as if we\nheard two or three concordant notes at the same moment. I have never\nnoticed this effect in the song of any other bird. I should judge that\nit might be produced by the rapid descent from the commencing note of\neach strain to the last note about a fourth or fifth below, the latter\nbeing heard simultaneously with the reverberation of the first note.\n\nAnother remarkable quality of the song is a union of brilliancy and\nplaintiveness. The first effect is produced by the commencing notes of\neach strain, which are sudden and on a high key; the second, by the\ngraceful chromatic slide to the termination, which is inimitable and\nexceedingly solemn. I have sometimes thought that a part of the\ndelightful influence of these notes might be attributable to the\ncloistered situations from which they were delivered. But I have\noccasionally heard them while the bird was singing from a tree in an\nopen field, when they were equally pleasing and impressive. I am not\npeculiar in my admiration of this little songster. I have observed that\npeople who are strangers to the woods, and to the notes of birds, are\nalways attracted by the song of the Veery.\n\nIn my early days, when I was at school, I boarded in a house near a\ngrove that was vocal with these Thrushes; and it was then I learned to\nlove their song more than any other sound in Nature, and above the\nfinest strains of artificial music. Since that time I have lived in\ntown, apart from their sylvan retreats, which I have visited only during\nmy hours of leisure; but I have seldom failed, each returning year, to\nmake frequent visits to the wood to listen to their notes, which cause\nfull half the pleasure I derive from a summer-evening walk. If in any\nyear I fail to hear the song of the Veery, I feel a painful sense of\nregret, as when I have missed an opportunity to see an absent friend,\nduring a periodical visit.\n\nThe Veery is not one of our latest singers. His notes are not often\nheard after the middle of July.\n\nWe should not be obliged to penetrate the wood to learn the habits of\nanother Thrush, not so remarkable for his musical powers as interesting\non account of his manners. I allude to the Cat-Bird, (_Turdus felivox_,)\nwell known from his disagreeable habit of mewing like a kitten. He is\nmost frequently seen on the edge of a wood, among the bushes that have\ncome up, as it were, to hide its baldness and to harmonize it with the\nplain. He is usually attached to low, moist, and retired situations,\nthough he is often very familiar in his habits. His nest of dry sticks\nis sometimes woven into a currant-bush in a garden that adjoins a wood,\nand his quaint voice may be heard there as in his own solitary haunts.\nThe Cat-Bird is not an inveterate singer, and never seems to make music\nhis employment, though at any hour of the day, from dawn until dusk in\nthe evening, he may be heard occasionally singing and complaining.\n\nThough I have been all my life familiar with the notes and manners of\nthe Cat-Bird, I have not yet been able to discover that he is a mocker.\nHe seems to me to have a definite song, unlike that of any other bird,\nexcept the Red Mavis,--not made up of parts of the songs of other birds,\nbut as unique and original as that of the Song-Sparrow or the Robin. In\nthe songs of all birds we may detect occasional strains that resemble\nparts of the song of some other species; but the Cat-Bird gives no more\nof these imitations than we might reasonably regard as accidental. The\nmodulation of his song is somewhat similar to that of the Red Thrush,\nand it is sometimes difficult to determine, at first, when the bird is\nout of sight, whether we are listening to the one or the other; but\nafter a few seconds, we detect one of those quaint turns that\ndistinguish the notes of the Cat-Bird. I never yet mistook the note of\nthe Cat-Bird for that of any species except the Red Thrush. The truth\nis, that the Thrushes, though delightful songsters, possess inferior\npowers of execution, and cannot equal the Finches in their capacity of\nlearning and performing the notes of other birds. Even the Mocking-Bird,\nas compared with many other species, is a very imperfect imitator of any\nnotes which are difficult of execution.\n\nThe mewing note of the Cat-Bird, from which his name is derived, has\nbeen the occasion of many misfortunes to his species, causing them to\nshare a portion of that contempt which almost every human being feels\ntowards the feline race, and that contempt has been followed by\npersecution. The Cat-Bird has always been proscribed by the New England\nfarmers, who from the first settlement of the country have entertained a\nprejudice against many of the most useful birds. The Robin and a few\ndiminutive Fly-Catchers are almost the only exceptions. But the Robin is\nnow in danger of proscription. Within a few years past, the\nhorticulturists, who are unwilling lo lose their cherries for the\ngeneral benefit of agriculture, have made an effort to obtain an edict\nof outlawry against him, accusing him of being entirely useless to the\nfarmer and the gardener. Their efforts have caused the friends of the\nRobin to examine his claims to protection, and the result of their\ninvestigations is demonstrative proof that the Robin is among the most\nuseful birds in existence. The Cat-Bird and other Thrushes are similar\nin their habits of feeding and in their services to agriculture.\n\nThe Red Mavis (_Turdus rufus_) has many habits similar to those of the\nCat-Bird, but he is not partial to low grounds. He is one of the most\nremarkable of the American birds, and is generally considered the finest\nsongster in the New England forest. Nuttall says, \"He is inferior only\nto the Mocking-Bird in musical talent\"; but I should question his\ninferiority. He is superior to the Mocking-Bird in variety, and is\nsurpassed by him only in the intonation of some of his notes. But no\nperson is ever tired of listening to the Red Mavis, who constantly\nvaries his song, while the Mocking-Bird tires us with his repetitions,\nwhich are often continued to a ludicrous extreme.\n\nIt is unfortunate that our ornithologists should, in any cases, have\nadopted the disagreeable names which our singularly unpoetical\ncountrymen have given to the birds. The little Hair-Bird, for example,\nis called the \"Chipping-Sparrow,\" as if he were in the habit of making\nchips, like the Carpenter-Bird; and the Red Thrush is called the\n\"Thrasher,\" which is a low corruption of Thrush, and would signify that\nthe bird had some peculiar habit of _threshing_ with his wings. The word\n\"chipping,\" when used for \"chirping,\" is incorrect English; and\n\"thrasher\" is incorrect in point of fact. No such names should find\nsanction in books. Let us repudiate the name of \"Thrasher\" for the Red\nThrush, as we would repudiate any other solecism.\n\nThe Red Mavis, or Thrush, is most musical in the early part of the\nseason, when he first arrives, or in the month of May; the Veery is most\nvocal in June, and the Wood-Thrush in July; the Cat-Bird begins early\nand sings late, and fills out with his quaint notes the remainder of the\nsinging season, after the others have become silent. When one is in a\nthoughtful mood, the songs of the Wood-Thrush and the Veery surpass all\nothers on their delightful influence; and when I am strolling in the\nsolitary pastures, it seems to me that nothing can exceed the simple\nmelody of the Wood-Sparrow. But without claiming for the Red Thrush any\nremarkable power of exciting poetic inspiration, his song in the open\nfield has a charm for all ears, and can be appreciated by the dullest of\nminds. Without singing badly, he pleases the millions. He sings\noccasionally at all hours of the day, and, when employed in singing,\ndevotes himself entirely to song, with evident enthusiasm.\n\nIt would be difficult, either by word or by note, to give one who has\nnever heard the song of the Red Thrush a correct idea of it. This bird\nis not a rapid singer. His performances seem to be a sort of\n_recitative_, often resembling spoken words, rather than musical notes,\nmany of which are short and guttural. He seldom whistles clearly, like\nthe Robin, but he produces a charming variety of tone and modulation.\nThoreau, in one of his quaint descriptions, gives an off-hand sketch of\nthe bird, which I will quote:--\"Near at hand, upon the topmost spray of\na birch, sings the Brown Thrasher, or Red Mavis, as some love to call\nhim,--all the morning glad of your society, that would find out another\nfarmer's field, if yours were not here. While you are planting the seed,\nhe cries,--'Drop it, drop it,--cover it up, cover it up,--pull it up,\npull it up, pull it up.'\"\n\nWe have now left the forest and are approaching the cultivated grounds,\nunder the shade of those fully expanded trees which have grown without\nrestraint in the open field. Here as well as in the wood we find the\nPewee, or Phoebe. (_Muscicapa nunciola_,) one of our most common and\ninteresting birds. He seems to court solitude, and his peculiar note\nharmonizes well with his obscure and shady retreats. He sits for the\nmost part in the shade, catching his feast of insects without any noise,\nmerely flitting from his perch, seizing his prey, and then resuming his\nstation. This movement is performed in the most graceful manner, and he\noften turns a somerset, or appears to do so, if the insect at first\nevades his pursuit,--and he seldom fails in capturing it. All this is\ndone in silence, for he is no singer. The only sounds he utters are an\noccasional clicking cherup, and now and then, with a plaintive cadence,\nhe seems to speak the word _pewee_. As the male and female bird cannot\nbe readily distinguished, I have not been able to determine whether this\nsound is uttered by both sexes, or by the male alone.\n\nSo plainly expressive of sadness is this peculiar note, that it is\ndifficult to believe that the little being that utters it can be free\nfrom sorrow. Certainly he can have no congeniality of feeling with the\nsprightly Bobolink. Perhaps, with the rest of his species, he represents\nonly the fragment of a superior race, which, according to the\nmetempsychosis, have fallen from their original importance, and this\nmelancholy note is but the partial utterance of sorrow that still\nlingers in their breasts after the occasion of it is forgotten.\n\nThough a shy and retiring bird, the Pewee is known to almost every\nperson, on account of its remarkable note. Like the swallow, he builds\nhis nest under a sheltering roof or rock, and it is often fixed upon a\nbeam or plank under a bridge that crosses a small stream. Near this\nplace he takes his station, on the branch of a tree or the top of a\nfence, and sits patiently waiting for every moth, chafer, or butterfly\nthat passes along. Fortunately, there are no prejudices existing in the\ncommunity against this bird that provoke men to destroy him. As he is\nknown to feed entirely on insects, he cannot be suspected of doing\nmischief on the farm or in the garden, and is considered worthy of\nprotection.\n\nI would remark in this place, that the Fly-Catchers and Swallows, and a\nfew other species that enjoy an immunity in our land, would, though\nmultiplied to infinity, perform only those offices which are assigned\nthem by Nature. It is a vain hope that leads one to believe, while he is\nengaged in exterminating a certain species of small birds, that their\nplaces can be supplied and their services performed by other species\nwhich are allowed to multiply to excess. The preservation of every\nspecies of indigenous birds is the only means that can prevent the\nover-multiplication of injurious insects.\n\nAs we return homeward, we soon find ourselves surrounded by the familiar\nbirds that shun the forest and assemble around the habitations of men.\nAmong them the Blue-Bird meets our sight, upon the roofs and fences as\nwell as in the field and orchard. At the risk of introducing him into a\ncompany to which he does not strictly belong, I will attempt in this\nplace to describe some of his habits. The Blue-Bird (_Sylvia sialis_)\narrives very early in spring, and is detained late in the autumn by his\nhabit of raising two or more broods of young in the season. He is said\nto bear a strong resemblance to the English Robin-Redbreast, being\nsimilar in form and size, each having a red breast and short\ntail-feathers, with only this manifest difference, that one is\nolive-colored above where the other is blue. But the Blue-Bird does not\nequal the Redbreast as a songster. His notes are few, not greatly\nvaried, though melodious and sweetly and plaintively modulated, and\nnever loud. On account of their want of variety, they do not enchain a\nlistener, but they constitute a delightful part in the woodland melodies\nof morn.\n\nThe importance of the inferior singers in making up a general chorus is\nnot always appreciated. In an artificial musical composition, as in an\noratorio or an anthem, though there is a leading part, which is commonly\nthe air, that gives character to the whole, yet this principal part\nwould often be a very indifferent piece of melody, if performed without\nits accompaniments. These accompaniments by themselves would seem still\nmore unimportant and trifling. Yet if the composition be the work of a\nmaster, however trifling and comparatively insignificant these brief\nstrains or snatches, they are intimately connected with the harmony of\nthe piece, and could not be omitted without a serious derangement of the\ngrand effect. The inferior singing-birds, on the same principle, are\nindispensable as aids in giving additional effect to the notes of the\nchief singers.\n\nThough the Robin is the principal musician in the general orison of\ndawn, his notes would become tiresome, if heard without accompaniments.\nNature has so arranged the harmony of this chorus, that one part shall\nassist another; and so exquisitely has she combined all the different\nvoices, that the silence of any one can never fail to be immediately\nperceived. The low, mellow warble of the Blue-Bird seems a sort of echo\nto the louder voice of the Robin; and the incessant trilling or running\naccompaniment of the Hair-Bird, the twittering of the Swallow, and the\nloud and melodious piping of the Oriole, frequent and short, are sounded\nlike the different parts of a regular band of instruments, and each\nperformer seems to time his part as if by design. Any discordant sound,\nthat may happen to be made in the midst of this performance, never fails\nto disturb the equanimity of the singers, and some minutes must elapse\nbefore they recommence their parts.\n\nIt would be difficult to draw a correct comparison between the different\nbirds and the various instruments in an orchestra. It would be more easy\nto signify them by notes on the gamut. But if the Robin were supposed to\nrepresent the German flute, the Blue-Bird might be considered as the\nflageolet, frequently, but not incessantly, interposing a few mellow\nstrains, the Swallow and the Hair-Bird the octave flute, and the Golden\nRobin the bugle, sounding occasionally a low but brief strain. The\nanalogy could not be carried farther without losing force and\ncorrectness.\n\nAll the notes of the Blue-Bird--his call-notes, his notes of alarm, his\nchirp, and his song--are equally plaintive, and closely resemble each\nother. I am not aware that this bird ever utters a harsh note. His\nvoice, which is one of the earliest to be heard in the spring, is\nassociated with the early flowers and with all pleasant vernal\ninfluences. When he first arrives, he perches upon the roof of a barn or\nupon some still leafless tree, and pours forth his few and frequent\nnotes with evident fervor, as if conscious of the delights that await\nhim. These mellow notes are all the sounds he titters for several weeks,\nseldom chirping, crying, or scolding like other birds. His song is\ndiscontinued in the latter part of summer; but his peculiar plaintive\ncall, consisting of a single note pensively modulated, continues all\nday, until the time of frost. This sound is one of the melodies of\nsummer's decline, and reminds us, like the notes of the green nocturnal\ngrasshopper, of the fall of the leaf, the ripened harvest, and all the\nmelancholy pleasures of autumn.\n\nThe Blue-Bird builds his nest in hollow trees and posts, and may be\nencouraged to breed and multiply around our habitations, by erecting\nboxes for his accommodation. In whatever vicinity we may reside, whether\nin the clearing or in the heart of the village, if we set up a little\nbird-house in May, it will certainly be occupied by a Blue-Bird, unless\npreoccupied by a bird of some other species. There is commonly so great\na demand for such accommodations among the feathered tribes, that it is\nnot unusual to see birds of several different species contending for the\npossession of one box.\n\nAfter the middle of August, as a new race of winged creatures awake into\nlife, the birds, who sing of the seed-time, the flowers, and of the\nearly summer harvests, give place to the inferior band of\ninsect-musicians. The reed and the pipe are laid aside, and myriads of\nlittle performers have taken up the harp and the lute, and make the air\nresound with the clash and din of their various instruments. An anthem\nof rejoicing swells up from myriads of unseen harpists, who heed not the\nfate that awaits them, but make themselves merry in every place that is\nvisited by sunshine or the south-wind. The golden-rod sways its\nbeautiful nodding plumes in the borders of the fields and by the rustic\nroadsides; the purple gerardia is bright in the wet meadows, and the\nscarlet lobelia in the channels of the sunken streamlets. But the birds\nheed them not; for these are not the wreaths that decorate the halls of\ntheir festivities. Since the rose and the lily have faded, they have\nceased to be tuneful; some, like the Bobolink, assemble in small\ncompanies, and with a melancholy chirp seem to mourn over some sad\naccident that has befallen them; others still congregate about their\nusual resorts, and seem almost like strangers in the land.\n\nNature provides inspiration for every sentiment that contributes to the\nhappiness of man, as she provides sustenance for his various physical\nwants. But all is not gladness that elevates the soul into bliss; we may\nbe made happy by sentiments that come not from rejoicing, even from\nobjects that waken tender recollections of sorrow. As if Nature designed\nthat the soul of man should find sympathy, in all its healthful moods,\nfrom the voices of her creatures, and from the sounds of inanimate\nobjects, she has provided that all seasons should pour into his ear some\npleasant intimations of heaven. In autumn, when the harvest-hymn of the\nday-time has ceased, at early nightfall, the green nocturnal\ngrasshoppers commence their autumnal dirge, and fill the mind with a\nkeen sense of the rapid passing of time. These sounds do not sadden the\nmind, but deepen the tone of our feelings, and prepare us for a renewal\nof cheerfulness, by inspiring us with the poetic sentiment of\nmelancholy. This sombre state of the mind soon passes away, effaced by\nthe exhilarating influence of the clear skies and invigorating breezes\nof autumn, and the inspiriting sounds of myriads of chirping insects\nthat awake with the morning and make all the meadows resound with the\nshout of their merry voices.\n\n\nSONG OF THE WOOD-SPARROW.\n\n[Illustration: de de de d d d d d r r r r r r r r r r r r r r r r r r r\nr r r r r r r r r r r r r re.]\n\nNOTE.--In the early part of the season the song ends with the first\ndouble bar; later in the season it is extended, in frequent instances,\nas in the notes that follow.\n\nSONG OF THE CHEWINK.\n\n[Illustration: twee ta t' we we we we twee tu t' we we we we]\n\nSONG OF THE GREEN WARBLER.\n\n[Illustration: Hear me St. The - re - sa. Hear me St. The - re - sa.]\n\nSONG OF THE WOOD-THRUSH.\n\n[Illustration: too too tillere ilere tillere tilere\n\ntoo issele issele tse se se se s s s s se\n\ntoo tillery tillery oo villilil villilil too too illery ilery\n\neh villia villia villia oo airvee ehu, etc.]\n\n\nNOTE.--I have not been able to detect any order in the succession of\nthese strains, though some order undoubtedly exists, and might be\ndiscovered by long-continued observation. The intervals in the above\nsketch cannot be given with exactness.\n\n\nSONG OF THE VEERY.\n\n[Illustration: e-e ve re a e-e verea e-e verea e-e verea vere lil lily]\n\nor,\n\n[Illustration: e villia villia villia villia ve rehu.]\n\nNOTE.--I am far from being satisfied with the above representation of\nthe song of the Veery, in which there are certain trilling and liquid\nsounds that hardly admit of notation.\n\nSONG OF THE RED MAVIS.\n\n[Illustration: drop it drop it cover it up cover it up]\n\npull it up pull it up tut tut tut see see see there you\nhave it hae it hae it\n\nsee tut tut work away work away drop it drop it cover it\nup cover it up.]\n\nNOTE.--The Red Mavis makes a short pause at the end of each bar. These\npauses are irregular in time, and cannot be correctly noted.\n\n\nNOTE OF THE PEWEE.\n\n[Illustration: pe - a - wee pe - a - wee.]\n\n\nSONG OF THE BLUE-BIRD.\n\n[Illustration]\n\n\n\n\nTHE MINISTER'S WOOING.\n\n\nCHAPTER I.\n\nMrs. Katy Scudder had invited Mrs. Brown, and Mrs. Jones, and Deacon\nTwitchel's wife to take tea with her on the afternoon of June second,\nA.D. 17--.\n\nWhen one has a story to tell, one is always puzzled which end of it to\nbegin at. You have a whole corps of people to introduce that _you_ know\nand your reader doesn't; and one thing so presupposes another, that,\nwhichever way you turn your patchwork, the figures still seem\nill-arranged. The small item that I have given will do as well as any\nother to begin with, as it certainly will lead you to ask, \"Pray, who\nwas Mrs. Katy Scudder?\"--and this will start me systematically on my\nstory.\n\nYou must understand that in the then small seaport-town of Newport, at\nthat time unconscious of its present fashion and fame, there lived\nnobody in those days who did not know \"the Widow Scudder.\"\n\nIn New England settlements a custom has obtained, which is wholesome and\ntouching, of ennobling the woman whom God has made desolate, by a sort\nof brevet rank which continually speaks for her as a claim on the\nrespect and consideration of the community. The Widow Jones, or Brown,\nor Smith, is one of the fixed institutions of every New England\nvillage,--and doubtless the designation acts as a continual plea for one\nwhom bereavement, like the lightning of heaven, has made sacred.\n\nThe Widow Scudder, however, was one of the sort of women who reign\nqueens in whatever society they move in; nobody was more quoted, more\ndeferred to, or enjoyed more unquestioned position than she. She was not\nrich,--a small farm, with a modest, \"gambrel-roofed,\" one-story cottage,\nwas her sole domain; but she was one of the much-admired class who, in\nthe speech of New England, are said to have \"faculty,\"--a gift which,\namong that shrewd people, commands more esteem than beauty, riches,\nlearning, or any otherworldly endowment. _Faculty_ is Yankee for _savoir\nfaire_, and the opposite virtue to shiftlessness. Faculty is the\ngreatest virtue, and shiftlessness the greatest vice, of Yankee man and\nwoman. To her who has faculty nothing shall be impossible. She shall\nscrub floors, wash, wring, bake, brew, and yet her hands shall be small\nand white; she shall have no perceptible income, yet always be\nhandsomely dressed; she shall have not a servant in her house,--with a\ndairy to manage, hired men to feed, a boarder or two to care for,\nunheard-of pickling and preserving to do,--and yet you commonly see her\nevery afternoon sitting at her shady parlor-window behind the lilacs,\ncool and easy, hemming muslin cap-strings, or reading the last new book.\nShe who hath faculty is never in a hurry, never behindhand. She can\nalways step over to distressed Mrs. Smith, whose jelly won't come,--and\nstop to show Mrs. Jones how she makes her pickles so green,--and be\nready to watch with poor old Mrs. Simpkins, who is down with the\nrheumatism.\n\nOf this genus was the Widow Scudder,--or, as the neighbors would have\nsaid of her, she that _was_ Katy Stephens. Katy was the only daughter of\na shipmaster, sailing from Newport harbor, who was wrecked off the coast\none cold December night and left small fortune to his widow and only\nchild. Katy grew up, however, a tall, straight, black-eyed girl, with\neyebrows drawn true as a bow, a foot arched like a Spanish woman's, and\na little hand which never saw the thing it could not do,--quick of\nspeech, ready of wit, and, as such girls have a right to be, somewhat\npositive withal. Katy could harness a chaise, or row a boat; she could\nsaddle and ride any horse in the neighborhood; she could cut any garment\nthat ever was seen or thought of; make cake, jelly, and wine, from her\nearliest years, in most precocious style;--all without seeming to\nderange a sort of trim, well-kept air of ladyhood that sat jauntily on\nher.\n\nOf course, being young and lively, she had her admirers, and some\nwell-to-do in worldly affairs laid their lands and houses at Katy's\nfeet; but, to the wonder of all, she would not even pick them up to look\nat them. People shook their heads, and wondered whom Katy Stephens\nexpected to get, and talked about going through the wood to pick up a\ncrooked stick,--till one day she astonished her world by marrying a man\nthat nobody ever thought of her taking.\n\nGeorge Scudder was a grave, thoughtful young man,--not given to talking,\nand silent in the society of women, with that kind of reverential\nbashfulness which sometimes shows a pure, unworldly nature. How Katy\ncame to fancy him everybody wondered,--for he never talked to her, never\nso much as picked up her glove when it fell, never asked her to ride or\nsail; in short, everybody said she must have wanted him from sheer\nwilfulness, because he of all the young men of the neighborhood never\ncourted her. But Katy, having very sharp eyes, saw some things that\nnobody else saw. For example, you must know she discovered by mere\naccident that George Scudder always was looking at her, wherever she\nmoved, though he looked away in a moment, if discovered,--and that an\naccidental touch of her hand or brush of her dress would send the blood\ninto his cheek like the spirit in the tube of a thermometer; and so, as\nwomen are curious, you know, Katy amused herself with investigating the\ncauses of these little phenomena, and, before she knew it, got her foot\ncaught in a cobweb that held her fast, and constrained her, whether she\nwould or no, to marry a poor man that nobody cared much for but herself.\n\nGeorge was, in truth, one of the sort who evidently have made some\nmistake in coming into this world at all, as their internal furniture is\nin no way suited to its general courses and currents. He was of the\norder of dumb poets,--most wretched when put to the grind of the hard\nand actual; for if he who would utter poetry stretches out his hand to a\ngainsaying world, he is worse off still who is possessed with the desire\nof living it. Especially is this the case, if he be born poor, and with\na dire necessity upon him of making immediate efforts in the hard and\nactual. George had a helpless invalid mother to support; so, though he\nloved reading and silent thought above all things, he put to instant use\nthe only convertible worldly talent he possessed, which was a mechanical\ngenius, and shipped at sixteen as a ship-carpenter. He studied\nnavigation in the forecastle, and found in its calm diagrams and\ntranquil eternal signs food for his thoughtful nature, and a refuge from\nthe brutality and coarseness of sea-life. He had a healthful, kindly\nanimal nature, and so his inwardness did not ferment and turn to Byronic\nsourness and bitterness; nor did he needlessly parade to everybody in\nhis vicinity the great gulf which lay between him and them. He was\ncalled a good fellow,--only a little lumpish,--and as he was brave and\nfaithful, he rose in time to be a shipmaster. But when came the business\nof making money, the aptitude for accumulating, George found himself\ndistanced by many a one with not half his general powers.\n\nWhat shall a man do with a sublime tier of moral faculties, when the\nmost profitable business out of his port is the slave-trade? So it was\nin Newport in those days. George's first voyage was on a slaver, and he\nwished himself dead many a time before it was over,--and ever after\nwould talk like a man beside himself, if the subject was named. He\ndeclared that the gold made in it was distilled from human blood, from\nmothers' tears, from the agonies and dying groans of gasping,\nsuffocating men and women, and that it would scar and blister the soul\nof him that touched it; in short, he talked as whole-souled unpractical\nfellows are apt to talk about what respectable people sometimes do.\nNobody had ever instructed him that a slave-ship, with a procession of\nexpectant sharks in its wake, is a missionary institution, by which\nclosely-packed heathens are brought over to enjoy the light of the\ngospel.\n\nSo, though George was acknowledged to be a good fellow, and honest as\nthe noon-mark on the kitchen floor, he let slip so many chances of\nmaking money as seriously to compromise his reputation among thriving\nfolks. He was wastefully generous,--insisted on treating every poor dog\nthat came in his way, in any foreign port, as a brother,--absolutely\nrefused to be party in cheating or deceiving the heathen on any shore,\nor in skin of any color,--and also took pains, as far as in him lay, to\nspoil any bargains which any of his subordinates founded on the\nignorance or weakness of his fellow-men. So he made voyage after voyage,\nand gained only his wages and the reputation among his employers of an\nincorruptibly honest fellow.\n\nTo be sure, it was said that he carried out books in his ship, and read\nand studied, and wrote observations on all the countries he saw, which\nParson Smith told Miss Dolly Persimmon would really do credit to a\nprinted book; but then they never _were_ printed, or, as Miss Dolly\nremarked of them, they never seemed to come to anything,--and coming to\nanything, as she understood it, meant standing in definite relations to\nbread and butter.\n\nGeorge never cared, however, for money. He made enough to keep his\nmother comfortable, and that was enough for him, till he fell in love\nwith Katy Stephens. He looked at her through those glasses which such\nmen carry in their souls, and she was a mortal woman no longer, but a\ntransfigured, glorified creature,--an object of awe and wonder. He was\nactually afraid of her; her glove, her shoe, her needle, thread, and\nthimble, her bonnet-string, everything, in short, she wore or touched,\nbecame invested with a mysterious charm. He wondered at the impudence of\nmen that could walk up and talk to her,--that could ask her to dance\nwith such an assured air. _Now_ he wished he were rich; he dreamed\nimpossible chances of his coming home a millionnaire to lay unknown\nwealth at Katy's feet; and when Miss Persimmon, the ambulatory\ndress-maker of the neighborhood, in making up a new black gown for his\nmother, recounted how Captain Blatherem had sent Katy Stephens \"'most\nthe splendidest India shawl that ever she did see,\" he was ready to tear\nhis hair at the thought of his poverty. But even in that hour of\ntemptation he did not repent that he had refused all part and lot in the\nship by which Captain Blatherem's money was made, for he knew every\ntimber of it to be seasoned by the groans and saturated with the sweat\nof human agony. True love is a natural sacrament; and if ever a young\nman thanks God for having saved what is noble and manly in his soul, it\nis when he thinks of offering it to the woman he loves. Nevertheless,\nthe India-shawl story cost him a night's rest; nor was it till Miss\nPersimmon had ascertained, by a private confabulation with Katy's\nmother, that she had indignantly rejected it, and that she treated the\nCaptain \"real ridiculous,\" that he began to take heart. \"He ought not,\"\nhe said, \"to stand in her way now, when he had nothing to offer. No, he\nwould leave Katy free to do better, if she could; he would try his luck,\nand if, when he came home from the next voyage, Katy was disengaged,\nwhy, then he would lay all at her feet.\"\n\nAnd so George was going to sea with a secret shrine in his soul, at\nwhich he was to burn unsuspected incense.\n\nBut, after all, the mortal maiden whom he adored suspected this private\narrangement, and contrived--as women will--to get her own key into the\nlock of his secret temple; because, as girls say, \"she was _determined_\nto know what was there.\" So, one night, she met him quite accidentally\non the sea-sands, struck up a little conversation, and begged him in\nsuch a pretty way to bring her a spotted shell from the South Sea like\nthe one on his mother's mantel-piece, and looked so simple and childlike\nin saying it, that our young man very imprudently committed himself by\nremarking, that, \"When people had rich friends to bring them all the\nworld from foreign parts, he never dreamed of her wanting so trivial a\nthing.\"\n\nOf course Katy \"didn't know what he meant,--she hadn't heard of any rich\nfriends.\" And then came something about Captain Blatherem; and Katy\ntossed her head, and said, \"If anybody wanted to insult her, they might\ntalk to her about Captain Blatherem,\"--and then followed this, that, and\nthe other till finally, as you might expect, out came all that never was\nto have been said; and Katy was almost frightened at the terrible\nearnestness of the spirit she had evoked. She tried to laugh, and ended\nby crying, and saying she hardly knew what; but when she came to herself\nin her own room at home, she found on her finger a ring of African gold\nthat George had put there, which she did not send back like Captain\nBlatherem's presents.\n\nKaty was like many intensely matter-of-fact and practical women, who\nhave not in themselves a bit of poetry or a particle of ideality, but\nwho yet worship these qualities in others with the homage which the\nIndians paid to the unknown tongue of the first whites. They are\nsecretly weary of a certain conscious dryness of nature in themselves,\nand this weariness predisposes them to idolize the man who brings them\nthis unknown gift. Naturalists say that every defect of organization has\nits compensation, and men of ideal natures find in the favor of women\nthe equivalent for their disabilities among men.\n\nDo you remember, at Niagara, a little cataract on the American side,\nwhich throws its silver sheeny veil over a cave called the Grot of\nRainbows? Whoever stands on a rock in that grotto sees himself in the\ncentre of a rainbow-circle, above, below, around. In like manner, merry,\nchatty, positive, busy, housewifely Katy saw herself standing in a\nrainbow-shrine in her lover's inner soul, and liked to see herself so. A\nwoman, by-the-by, must be very insensible, who is not moved to come upon\na higher plane of being, herself, by seeing how undoubtingly she is\ninsphered in the heart of a good and noble man. A good man's, faith in\nyou, fair lady, if you ever have it, will make you better and nobler\neven before you know it.\n\nKaty made an excellent wife; she took home her husband's old mother and\nnursed her with a dutifulness and energy worthy of all praise, and made\nher own keen outward faculties and deft handiness a compensation for the\ndefects in worldly estate. Nothing would make Katy's black eyes flash\nquicker than any reflections on her husband's want of luck in the\nmaterial line. \"She didn't know whose business it was, if _she_ was\nsatisfied. She hated these sharp, gimlet, gouging sort of men that would\nput a screw between body and soul for money. George had that in him that\nnobody understood. She would rather be his wife on bread and water than\nto take Captain Blatherem's house, carriages, and horse, and all,--and\nshe _might_ have had 'em fast enough, dear knows. She was sick of making\nmoney when she saw what sort of men could make it,\"--and so on. All\nwhich talk did her infinite credit, because _at bottom_ she _did_ care,\nand was naturally as proud and ambitious a little minx as ever breathed,\nand was thoroughly grieved at heart at George's want of worldly success;\nbut, like a nice little Robin Redbreast, she covered up the grave of her\nworldliness with the leaves of true love, and sung a \"Who cares for\nthat?\" above it.\n\nHer thrifty management of the money her husband brought her soon bought\na snug little farm, and put up the little brown gambrel-roofed cottage\nto which we directed your attention in the first of our story. Children\nwere born to them, and George found, in short intervals between voyages,\nhis home an earthly paradise. Ho was still sailing, with the fond\nillusion, in every voyage, of making enough to remain at home,--when the\nyellow fever smote him under the line, and the ship returned to Newport\nwithout its captain.\n\nGeorge was a Christian man;--he had been one of the first to attach\nhimself to the unpopular and unworldly ministry of the celebrated Dr.\nH., and to appreciate the sublime ideality and unselfishness of those\nteachings which then were awakening new sensations in the theological\nmind of New England. Katy, too, had become a professor with her husband\nin the same church, and his death, in the midst of life, deepened the\npower of her religious impressions. She became absorbed in religion,\nafter the fashion of New England, where devotion is doctrinal, not\nritual. As she grew older, her energy of character, her vigor and good\njudgment, caused her to be regarded as a mother in Israel; the minister\nboarded at her house, and it was she who was first to be consulted in\nall matters relating to the well-being of the church. No woman could\nmore manfully breast a long sermon, or bring a more determined faith to\nthe reception of a difficult doctrine. To say the truth, there lay at\nthe bottom of her doctrinal system this stable corner-stone,--\"Mr.\nScudder used to believe it,--_I_ will.\" And after all that is paid about\nindependent thought, isn't the fact, that a just and good soul has thus\nor thus believed, a more respectable argument than many that often are\nadduced? If it be not, more's the pity,--since two-thirds of the faith\nin the world is built on no better foundation.\n\nIn time, George's old mother was gathered to her son, and two sons and a\ndaughter followed their father to the invisible,--one only remaining of\nthe flock and she a person with whom you and I, good reader, have joint\nconcern in the further unfolding of our story.\n\n\nCHAPTER II.\n\nAs I before remarked, Mrs. Katy Scudder had invited company to tea.\nStrictly speaking, it is necessary to begin with the creation of the\nworld, in order to give a full account of anything. But, for popular\nuse, something less may serve one's turn, and therefore I shall let the\npast chapter suffice to introduce my story, and shall proceed to arrange\nmy scenery and act my little play on the supposition you know enough to\nunderstand things and persons.\n\nBeing asked to tea in our New England in the year 17-- meant something\nvery different from the same invitation in our more sophisticated days.\nIn those times, people held to the singular opinion, that the night was\nmade to sleep in; they inferred it from a general confidence they had in\nthe wisdom of Mother Nature, supposing that she did not put out her\nlights and draw her bed-curtains and hush all noise in her great\nworld-house without strongly intending that her children should go to\nsleep; and the consequence was, that very soon after sunset the whole\ncommunity very generally set their faces bedward, and the toll of the\nnine-o'clock evening-bell had an awful solemnity in it, sounding to the\nfull. Good society in New England in those days very generally took its\nbreakfast at six, its dinner at twelve, and its tea, at six. \"Company\ntea,\" however, among thrifty, industrious folk, was often taken an hour\nearlier, because each of the _invitees_ had children to put to bed, or\nother domestic cares at home, and, as in those simple times people were\ninvited because you wanted to see them, a tea-party assembled themselves\nat three and held session till sundown, when each matron rolled up her\nknitting-work and wended soberly home.\n\nThough Newport, even in those early times, was not without its families\nwhich affected state and splendor, rolled about in carriages with\narmorial emblazonments, and had servants in abundance to every turn\nwithin-doors, yet there, as elsewhere in New England, the majority of\nthe people lived with the wholesome, thrifty simplicity of the olden\ntime, when labor and intelligence went hand in hand, in perhaps a\ngreater harmony than the world has ever seen.\n\nOur scene opens in the great old-fashioned kitchen, which, on ordinary\noccasions, is the family dining and sitting-room of the Scudder family.\nI know fastidious moderns think that the working-room, wherein are\ncarried on the culinary operations of a large family, must necessarily\nbe an untidy and comfortless sitting-place; but it is only because they\nare ignorant of the marvellous workings which pertain to the organ of\n\"faculty,\" on which we have before insisted. The kitchen of a New\nEngland matron was her throne-room, her pride; it was the habit of her\nlife to produce the greatest possible results there with the slightest\npossible discomposure; and what any woman could do, Mrs. Katy Scudder\ncould do _par excellence_. Everything there seemed to be always done and\nnever doing. Washing and baking, those formidable disturbers of the\ncomposure of families, were all over with in those two or three\nmorning-hours when we are composing ourselves for a last nap,--and only\nthe fluttering of linen over the green yard, on Monday mornings,\nproclaimed that the dreaded solemnity of a wash had transpired. A\nbreakfast arose there as by magic; and in an incredibly short space\nafter, every knife, fork, spoon, and trencher, clean and shining, was\nlooking as innocent and unconscious in its place as if it never had been\nused and never expected to be.\n\nThe floor,--perhaps, Sir, you remember your grandmother's floor, of\nsnowy boards sanded with whitest sand; you remember the ancient\nfireplace stretching quite across one end,--a vast cavern, in each\ncorner of which a cozy seat might be found, distant enough to enjoy the\ncrackle of the great jolly wood-fire; across the room ran a dresser, on\nwhich was displayed great store of shining pewter dishes and plates,\nwhich always shone with the same mysterious brightness; and by the side\nof the fire, a commodious wooden \"settee,\" or settle, offered repose to\npeople too little accustomed to luxury to ask for a cushion. Oh, that\nkitchen of the olden times, the old, clean, roomy New England\nkitchen!--who that has breakfasted, dined, and supped in one has not\ncheery visions of its thrift, its warmth, its coolness? The noon-mark on\nits floor was a dial that told of some of the happiest days; thereby did\nwe right up the shortcomings of the solemn old clock that tick-tacked in\nthe corner, and whose ticks seemed mysterious prophecies of unknown good\nyet to arise out of the hours of life. How dreamy the winter twilight\ncame in there,--as yet the candles were not lighted,--when the crickets\nchirped around the dark stone hearth, and shifting tongues of flame\nflickered and cast dancing shadows and elfish lights on the walls, while\ngrandmother nodded over her knitting-work, and puss purred, and old\nRover lay dreamily opening now one eye and then the other on the family\ngroup! With all our ceiled houses, let us not forget our grandmothers'\nkitchens!\n\nBut we must pull up, however, and back to our subject-matter, which is\nin the kitchen of Mrs. Katy Scudder, who has just put into the oven, by\nthe fireplace, some wondrous tea-rusks, for whose composition she is\nrenowned. She has examined and pronounced perfect a loaf of cake, which\nhas been prepared for the occasion, and which, as usual, is done exactly\nright. The best room, too, has been opened and aired,--the white\nwindow-curtains saluted with a friendly little shake, as when one says,\n\"How d'ye do?\" to a friend;--for you must know, clean as our kitchen is,\nwe are genteel, and have something better for company. Our best room in\nhere has a polished little mahogany tea-table, and six mahogany chairs,\nwith claw talons grasping balls; the white sanded floor is crinkled in\ncurious little waves, like those on the sea-beach; and right across the\ncorner stands the \"buffet,\" as it is called, with its transparent glass\ndoors, wherein are displayed the solemn appurtenances of company\ntea-table. There you may see a set of real China teacups, which George\nbought in Canton, and had marked with his and his wife's joint\ninitials,--a small silver cream-pitcher, which has come down as an\nheirloom from unknown generations,--silver spoons and delicate China\ncake-plates, which have been all carefully reviewed and wiped on napkins\nof Mrs. Scudder's own weaving.\n\nHer cares now over, she stands drying her hands on a roller-towel in the\nkitchen, while her only daughter, the gentle Mary, stands in the doorway\nwith the afternoon sun streaming in spots of flickering golden light on\nher smooth pale-brown hair,--a _petite_ figure in a full stuff petticoat\nand white short gown, she stands reaching up one hand and cooing to\nsomething among the apple-blossoms,--and now a Java dove comes whirring\ndown and settles on her finger,--and we, that have seen pictures, think,\nas we look on her girlish face, with its lines of statuesque beauty, on\nthe tremulous, half-infantine expression of her lovely mouth, and the\ngeneral air of simplicity and purity, of some old pictures of the\ngirlhood of the Virgin. But Mrs. Scudder was thinking of no such Popish\nmatter, I can assure you,--not she! I don't think you could have done\nher a greater indignity than to mention her daughter in any such\nconnection. She had never seen a painting in her life, and therefore was\nnot to be reminded of them; and furthermore, the dove was evidently, for\nsome reason, no favorite,--for she said, in a quick, imperative tone,\n\"Come, come, child! don't fool with that bird,--it's high time we were\ndressed and ready,\"--and Mary, blushing, as it would seem, even to her\nhair, gave a little toss, and sent the bird, like a silver fluttering\ncloud, up among the rosy apple-blossoms. And now she and her mother have\ngone to their respective little bedrooms for the adjustment of their\ntoilettes, and while the door is shut and nobody hears us, we shall talk\nto you about Mary.\n\nNewport at the present day blooms like a flower-garden with young ladies\nof the best _ton_,--lovely girls, hopes of their families, possessed of\namiable tempers and immensely large trunks, and capable of sporting\nninety changes of raiment in thirty days and otherwise rapidly emptying\nthe purses of distressed fathers, and whom yet travellers and the world\nin general look upon as genuine specimens of the kind of girls formed by\nAmerican institutions.\n\nWe fancy such a one lying in a rustling silk _negligee_, and, amid a\ngentle generality of rings, ribbons, puffs, laces, beaux, and\ndinner-discussion, reading our humble sketch;--and what favor shall our\npoor heroine find in her eyes? For though her mother was a world of\nenergy and \"faculty,\" in herself considered, and had bestowed on this\none little lone chick all the vigor and all the care and all the\ntraining which would have sufficed for a family of sixteen, there were\nno results produced which could be made appreciable in the eyes of such\ncompany. She could not waltz or polk, or speak bad French or sing\nItalian songs; but, nevertheless, we must proceed to say what was her\neducation and what her accomplishments.\n\nWell, then, she could both read and write fluently in the mother-tongue.\nShe could spin both on the little and the great wheel, and there were\nnumberless towels, napkins, sheets, and pillow-cases in the household\nstore that could attest the skill of her pretty fingers. She had worked\nseveral samplers of such rare merit, that they hung framed in different\nrooms of the house, exhibiting every variety and style of possible\nletter in the best marking-stitch. She was skilful in all sewing and\nembroidery, in all shaping and cutting, with a quiet and deft handiness\nthat constantly surprised her energetic mother, who could not conceive\nthat so much could be done with so little noise. In fact, in all\nhousehold lore she was a veritable good fairy; her knowledge seemed\nunerring and intuitive; and whether she washed or ironed, or moulded\nbiscuit or conserved plums, her gentle beauty seemed to turn to poetry\nall the prose of life.\n\nThere was something in Mary, however, which divided her as by an\nappreciable line from ordinary girls of her age. From her father she had\ninherited a deep and thoughtful nature, predisposed to moral and\nreligious exaltation. Had she been born in Italy, under the dissolving\ninfluences of that sunny, dreamy clime, beneath the shadow of\ncathedrals, and where pictured saints and angels smiled in clouds of\npainting from every arch and altar, she might, like fair St. Catherine\nof Siena, have seen beatific visions in the sunset skies, and a silver\ndove descending upon her as she prayed; but, unfolding in the clear,\nkeen, cold New England clime, and nurtured in its abstract and positive\ntheologies, her religious faculties took other forms. Instead of lying\nentranced in mysterious raptures at the foot of altars, she read and\nponder treatises on the Will, and listened in rapt attention while her\nspiritual guide, the venerated Dr. H., unfolded to her the theories of\nthe great Edwards on the nature of true virtue. Womanlike, she felt the\nsubtile poetry of these sublime abstractions which dealt with such\ninfinite and unknown quantities,--which spoke of the universe, of its\ngreat Architect, of man, of angels, as matters of intimate and daily\ncontemplation; and her teacher, a grand-minded and simple-hearted man as\never lived, was often amazed at the tread with which this fair young\nchild walked through these high regions of abstract thought,--often\ncomprehending through an ethereal clearness of nature what he had\nlaboriously and heavily reasoned out; and sometimes, when she turned her\ngrave, childlike face upon him with some question or reply, the good man\nstarted as if an angel had looked suddenly out upon him from a cloud.\nUnconsciously to himself, he often seemed to follow her, as Dante\nfollowed the flight of Beatrice, through the ascending circles of the\ncelestial spheres.\n\nWhen her mother questioned him, anxiously, of her daughter's spiritual\nestate, he answered, that she was a child of a strange graciousness of\nnature, and of a singular genius; to which Katy responded, with a\nwoman's pride, that she was all her father over again. It is only now\nand then that a matter-of-fact woman is sublimated by a real love; but\nif she is, it is affecting to see how impossible it is for death to\nquench it; for in the child the mother feels that she has a mysterious\nand undying repossession of the father.\n\nBut, in truth, Mary was only a recast in feminine form of her father's\nnature. The elixir of the spirit that sparkled within, her was of that\nquality of which the souls of poets and artists are made; but the keen\nNew England air crystalizes emotions into ideas, and restricts many a\npoetic soul to the necessity of expressing itself only in practical\nliving.\n\nThe rigid theological discipline of New England is fitted to produce\nrather strength and purity than enjoyment. It was not fitted to make a\nsensitive and thoughtful nature happy, however it might ennoble and\nexalt.\n\nThe system of Dr. H. was one that could have had its origin in a soul at\nonce reverential and logical,--a soul, moreover, trained from its\nearliest years in the habits of thought engendered by monarchical\ninstitutions. For although he, like other ministers, took an active part\nas a patriot in the Revolution, still he was brought up under the shadow\nof a throne, and a man cannot ravel out the stitches in which early days\nhave knit him. His theology was, in fact, the turning to an invisible\nSovereign of that spirit of loyalty and unquestioning subjugation which\nis one of the noblest capabilities of our nature. And as a gallant\nsoldier renounces life and personal aims in the cause of his king and\ncountry, and holds himself ready to be drafted for a forlorn hope, to be\nshot down, or help make a bridge of his mangled body, over which the\nmore fortunate shall pass to victory and glory, so he regarded himself\nas devoted to the King Eternal, ready in His hands to be used to\nillustrate and build up an Eternal Commonwealth, either by being\nsacrificed as a lost spirit or glorified as a redeemed one, ready to\nthrow not merely his mortal life, but his immortality even, into the\nforlorn hope, to bridge with a never-dying soul the chasm over which\nwhite-robed victors should pass to a commonwealth of glory and splendor\nwhose vastness dwarf the misery of all the lost infinitesimal.\n\nIt is not in our line to imply the truth or the falsehood of those\nsystems of philosophic theology which seem for many years to have been\nthe principal outlet for the proclivities of the New England mind, but\nas psychological developments they have an intense interest. He who does\nnot see a grand side to these strivings of the soul cannot understand\none of the noblest capabilities of humanity.\n\nNo real artist or philosopher ever lived who has not at some hours risen\nto the height of utter self-abnegation for the glory of the invisible.\nThere have been painters who would have been crucified to demonstrate\nthe action of a muscle,--chemists who would gladly have melted\nthemselves and all humanity in their crucible, if so a new discovery\nmight arise out of its fumes. Even persons of mere artistic sensibility\nare at times raised by music, painting, or poetry to a momentary trance\nof self-oblivion, in which they would offer their whole being before the\nshrine of an invisible loveliness. These hard old New England divines\nwere the poets of metaphysical philosophy, who built systems in an\nartistic fervor, and felt self exhale from beneath them as they rose\ninto the higher regions of thought. But where theorists and philosophers\ntread with sublime assurance, woman often follows with bleeding\nfootsteps;--women are always turning from the abstract to the\nindividual, and feeling where the philosopher only thinks.\n\nIt was easy enough for Mary to believe in _self_-renunciation, for she\nwas one with a born vocation for martyrdom; and so, when the idea was\nput to her of suffering eternal pains for the glory of God and the good\nof being in general, she responded to it with a sort of sublime thrill,\nsuch as it is given to some natures to feel in view of uttermost\nsacrifice. But when she looked around on the warm, living faces of\nfriends, acquaintances, and neighbors, viewing them as possible\ncandidates for dooms so fearfully different, she sometimes felt the\nwalls of her faith closing round her as an iron shroud,--she wondered\nthat the sun could shine so brightly, that flowers could flaunt such\ndazzling colors, that sweet airs could breathe, and little children\nplay, and youth love and hope, and a thousand intoxicating influences\ncombine to cheat the victims from the thought that their next step might\nbe into an abyss of horrors without end. The blood of youth and hope was\nsaddened by this great sorrow, which lay ever on her heart,--and her\nlife, unknown to herself, was a sweet tune in the minor key; it was only\nin prayer, or deeds of love and charity, or in rapt contemplation of\nthat beautiful millennial day which her spiritual guide most delighted\nto speak of, that the tone of her feelings ever rose to the height of\njoy.\n\nAmong Mary's young associates was one who had been as a brother to her\nchildhood. He was her mother's cousin's son,--and so, by a sort of\nfamily immunity, had always a free access to her mother's house. He took\nto the sea, as the most bold and resolute young men will, and brought\nhome from foreign parts those new modes of speech, those other eyes for\nreceived opinions and established things, which so often shock\nestablished prejudices,--so that he was held as little better than an\ninfidel and a castaway by the stricter religious circles in his native\nplace. Mary's mother, now that Mary was grown up to woman's estate,\nlooked with a severe eye on her cousin. She warned her daughter against\ntoo free an association with him,--and so----We all know what comes to\npass when girls are constantly warned not to think of a man. The most\nconscientious and obedient little person in the world, Mary resolved to\nbe very careful. She never would think of James, except, of course, in\nher prayers; but as these were constant, it may easily be seen it was\nnot easy to forget him.\n\nAll that was so often told her of his carelessness, his trifling, his\ncontempt of orthodox opinions, and his startling and bold expressions,\nonly wrote his name deeper in her heart,--for was not his soul in peril?\nCould she look in his frank, joyous fate and listen to his thoughtless\nlaugh, and then think that a fall from mast-head, or one night's storm,\nmight----Ah, with what images her faith filled the blank! Could she\nbelieve all this and forget him?\n\nYou see, instead of getting our tea ready, as we promised at the\nbeginning of this chapter, we have filled it with descriptions and\nmeditations, and now we foresee that the next chapter will be equally\nfar from the point. But have patience with us; for we can write only as\nwe are driven, and never know exactly where we are going to land.\n\n\nCHAPTER III.\n\nA quiet, maiden-like place was Mary's little room. The window looked out\nunder the overarching boughs of a thick apple-orchard, now all in a\nblush with blossoms and pink-tipped buds, and the light came\ngolden-green, strained through flickering leaves,--and an ever-gentle\nrustle and whirr of branches and blossoms, a chitter of birds, and an\nindefinite whispering motion, as the long heads of orchard-grass nodded\nand bowed to each other under the trees, seemed to give the room the\nquiet hush of some little side-chapel in a cathedral, where green and\ngolden glass softens the sunlight, and only the sigh and rustle of\nkneeling worshippers break the stillness of the aisles. It was small\nenough for a nun's apartment, and dainty in its neatness as the waxen\ncell of a bee. The bed and low window were draped in spotless white,\nwith fringes of Mary's own knotting. A small table under the\nlooking-glass bore the library of a well-taught young woman of those\ntimes. \"The Spectator,\" \"Paradise Lost,\" Shakspeare, and \"Robinson\nCrusoe\" stood for the admitted secular literature, and beside them the\nBible and the works then published of Mr. Jonathan Edwards. Laid a\nlittle to one side, as if of doubtful reputation, was the only novel\nwhich the stricter people in those days allowed for the reading of their\ndaughters: that seven-volumed, trailing, tedious, delightful old bore,\n\"Sir Charles Grandison,\"--a book whose influence in those times was so\nuniversal, that it may be traced in the epistolary style even of the\ngravest divines. Our little heroine was mortal, with all her divinity,\nand had an imagination which sometimes wandered to the things of earth;\nand this glorious hero in lace and embroidery, who blended rank,\ngallantry, spirit, knowledge of the world, disinterestedness, constancy,\nand piety, sometimes walked before her, while she sat spinning at her\nwheel, till she sighed, she hardly knew why, that no such men walked the\nearth now. Yet it is to be confessed, this occasional raid of the\nromantic into Mary's balanced and well-ordered mind was soon\nenergetically put to rout, and the book, as we have said, remained on\nher table under protest,--protected by being her father's gift to her\nmother during their days of courtship. The small looking-glass was\ncuriously wreathed with corals and foreign shells, so disposed as to\nindicate an artistic eye and skilful hand; and some curious Chinese\npaintings of birds and flowers gave rather a piquant and foreign air to\nthe otherwise homely neatness of the apartment.\n\nHere in this little retreat Mary spent those few hours which her\nexacting conscience would allow her to spare from her busy-fingered\nhousehold-life; here she read and wrote and thought and prayed;--and\nhere she stands now, arraying herself for the tea company that\nafternoon. Dress, which in our day is becoming in some cases the whole\nof woman, was in those times a remarkably simple affair. True, every\nperson of a certain degree of respectability had state and festival\nrobes; and a certain camphor-wood brass-bound trunk, which was always\nkept solemnly locked in Mrs. Katy Scudder's apartment, if it could have\nspoken, might have given off quite a catalogue of brocade satin and\nlaces. The wedding-suit there slumbered in all the unsullied whiteness\nof its stiff ground broidered with heavy knots of flowers; and there\nwere scarfs of wrought India muslin and embroidered crape, each of which\nhad its history,--for each had been brought into the door with beating\nheart on some return voyage of one who, alas, should return no more! The\nold trunk stood with its histories, its imprisoned remembrances,--and a\nthousand tender thoughts seemed to be shaping out of every rustling fold\nof silk and embroidery, on the few yearly occasions when all were\nbrought out to be aired, their history related, and then solemnly locked\nup again. Nevertheless, the possession of these things gave to the women\nof an establishment a certain innate dignity, like a good conscience; so\nthat in that larger portion of existence commonly denominated among them\n\"every day,\" they were content with plain stuff and homespun. Mary's\ntoilette, therefore, was sooner made than those of Newport belles of the\npresent day; it simply consisted in changing her ordinary \"short gown\nand petticoat\" for another of somewhat nicer materials,--a skirt of\nIndia chintz and a striped jacconet short-gown. Her hair was of the kind\nwhich always lies like satin; but, nevertheless, girls never think their\ntoilette complete unless the smoothest hair has been shaken down and\nrearranged. A few moments, however, served to braid its shining folds\nand dispose them in their simple knot on the back of the head; and\nhaving given a final stroke to each side with her little dimpled hands,\nshe sat down a moment at the window, thoughtfully watching where the\nafternoon sun was creeping through the slats of the fence in long lines\nof gold among the tall, tremulous orchard-grass, and unconsciously she\nbegan warbling, in a low, gurgling voice, the words of a familiar hymn,\nwhose grave earnestness accorded well with the general tone of her life\nand education:--\n\n    \"Life is the time to serve the Lord,\n    The time to insure the great reward.\"\n\nThere was a swish and rustle in the orchard-grass, and a tramp of\nelastic steps; then the branches were brushed aside, and a young man\nsuddenly emerged from the trees a little behind Mary. He was apparently\nabout twenty-five, dressed in the holiday rig of a sailor on shore,\nwhich well set off his fine athletic figure, and accorded with a sort of\neasy, dashing, and confident air which sat not unhandsomely on him. For\nthe rest, a high forehead shaded by rings of the blackest hair, a keen,\ndark eye, a firm and determined mouth, gave the impression of one who\nhad engaged to do battle with life, not only with a will, but with\nshrewdness and ability.\n\nHe introduced the colloquy by stepping deliberately behind Mary, putting\nhis arms round her neck, and kissing her.\n\n\"Why, James!\" said Mary, starting up, and blushing. \"Come, now!\"\n\n\"I have come, haven't I?\" said the young man, leaning his elbow on the\nwindow-seat and looking at her with an air of comic determined\nfrankness, which yet had in it such wholesome honesty that it was\nscarcely possible to be angry. \"The fact is, Mary,\" he added, with a\nsudden earnest darkening of the face, \"I won't stand this nonsense any\nlonger. Aunt Katy has been holding me at arm's length ever since I got\nhome; and what have I done? Haven't I been to every prayer-meeting and\nlecture and sermon, since I got into port, just as regular as a\npsalm-book? and not a bit of a word could I get with you, and no chance\neven so much as to give you my arm. Aunt Kate always comes between us\nand says, 'Here, Mary, you take my arm.' What does she think I go to\nmeeting for, and almost break my jaws keeping down the gapes? I never\neven go to sleep, and yet I'm treated in this way! It's too bad! What's\nthe row? What's anybody been saying about me? I always have waited on\nyou ever since you were that high. Didn't I always draw you to school on\nmy sled? didn't we always use to do our sums together? didn't I always\nwait on you to singing-school? and I've been made free to run in and out\nas if I were your brother;--and now she is as glum and stiff, and always\nstays in the room every minute of the time that I am there, as if she\nwas afraid I should be in some mischief. It's too bad!\"\n\n\"Oh, James, I am sorry that you only go to meeting for the sake of\nseeing me; you feel no real interest in religious things; and besides,\nmother thinks now I'm grown so old, that----Why, you know things are\ndifferent now,--at least, we mustn't, you know, always do as we did when\nwe were children. But I wish you did feel more interested in good\nthings.\"\n\n\"I _am_ interested in one or two good things, Mary,--principally in you,\nwho are the beat I know of. Besides,\" he said quickly, and scanning her\nface attentively to see the effect of his words, \"don't you think there\nis more merit in my sitting out all these meetings, when they bore me so\nconfoundedly, than there is in your and Aunt Katy's doing it, who really\nseem to find something to like in them? I believe you have a sixth\nsense, quite unknown to me; for it's all a maze,--I can't find top, nor\nbottom, nor side, nor up, nor down to it,--it's you can and you can't,\nyou shall and you sha'n't, you will and you won't,\"----\n\n\"James!\"\n\n\"You needn't look at me so. I'm not going to say the rest of it. But,\nseriously, it's all anywhere and nowhere to me; it don't touch me, it\ndon't help me, and I think it rather makes me worse; and then they tell\nme it's because I'm a natural man, and the natural man understandeth not\nthe things of the Spirit. Well, I _am_ a natural man,--how's a fellow to\nhelp it?\"\n\n\"Well, James, why need you talk everywhere as you do? You joke, and\njest, and trifle, till it seems to everybody that you don't believe in\nanything. I'm afraid mother thinks you are an infidel, but I _know_ that\ncan't be; yet we hear of all sorts of things that you say.\"\n\n\"I suppose you mean my telling Deacon Twitchel that I had seen as good\nChristians among the Mahometans as any in Newport. _Didn't_ I make him\nopen his eyes? It's true, too!\"\n\n\"In every nation, he that feareth God and worketh righteousness is\naccepted of Him,\" said Mary; \"and if there are better Christians than us\namong the Mahometans, I am sure I'm glad of it. But, after all, the\ngreat question is, 'Are we Christians ourselves?' Oh, James, if you only\nwere a real, true, noble Christian!\"\n\n\"Well, Mary, you have got into that harbor, through all the sandbars and\nrocks and crooked channels; and now do you think it right to leave a\nfellow beating about outside, and not go out to help him in? This way of\ndrawing up, among you good people, and leaving us sinners to ourselves,\nisn't generous. You might care a little for the soul of an old friend,\nanyhow!\"\n\n\"And don't I care, James? How many days and nights have been one prayer\nfor you! If I could take my hopes of heaven out of my own heart and give\nthem to you, I would. Dr. H. preached last Sunday on the text, 'I could\nwish myself accursed from Christ for my brethren, my kinsmen'; and he\nwent on to show how we must be willing to give up even our own\nsalvation, if necessary, for the good of others. People said it was hard\ndoctrine, but I could feel my way through it very well. Yes, I would\ngive my soul for yours; I wish I could.\"\n\nThere was a solemnity and pathos in Mary's manner which checked the\nconversation. James was the more touched because he felt it all so real,\nfrom one whose words were always yea and nay, so true, so inflexibly\nsimple. Her eyes filled with tears, her face kindled with a sad\nearnestness, and James thought, as he looked, of a picture he had once\nseen in a European cathedral, where the youthful Mother of Sorrows is\nrepresented,\n\n    \"Radiant and grave, as pitying man's decline;\n    All youth, but with an aspect beyond time;\n    Mournful, but mournful of another's crime;\n    She looked as if she sat by Ellen's door,\n    And grieved for those who should return no more.\"\n\nJames had thought he loved Mary; he had admired her remarkable beauty,\nhe had been proud of a certain right in her before that of other young\nmen, her associates; he had thought of her as the keeper of his home; he\nhad wished to appropriate her wholly to himself;--but in all this there\nhad been, after all, only the thought of what she was to be to him; and\nthis, for this poor measure of what he called love, she was ready to\noffer, an infinite sacrifice.\n\nAs a subtile flash of lightning will show in a moment a whole landscape,\ntower, town, winding stream, and distant sea, so that one subtile ray of\nfeeling seemed in a moment to reveal to James the whole of his past\nlife; and it seemed to him so poor, so meagre, so shallow, by the side\nof that childlike woman, to whom the noblest of feelings were\nunconscious matters of course, that a sort of awe awoke in him; like the\nApostles of old, he \"feared as he entered into the cloud\"; it seemed as\nif the deepest string of some eternal sorrow had vibrated between them.\n\nAfter a moment's pause, he spoke in a low and altered voice:--\n\n\"Mary, I am a sinner. No psalm or sermon ever taught it to me, but I see\nit now. Your mother is quite right, Mary; you are too good for me; I am\nno mate for you. Oh, what would you think of me, if you knew me wholly?\nI have lived a mean, miserable, shallow, unworthy life. You are worthy,\nyou are a saint, and walk in white! Oh, what upon earth could ever make\nyou care so much for me?\"\n\n\"Well, then, James, you will be good? Won't you talk with Dr. H.?\"\n\n\"Hang Dr. H.!\" said James. \"Now, Mary, I beg your pardon, but I can't\nmake head or tail of a word Dr. H. says. I don't get hold of it, or know\nwhat he would be at. You girls and women don't know your power. Why,\nMary, you are a living gospel. You have always had a strange power over\nus boys. You never talked religion much, but I have seen high fellows\ncome away from being with you as still and quite as one feels when one\ngoes into a church. I can't understand all the hang of predestination,\nand moral ability, and natural ability, and God's efficiency, and man's\nagency, which Dr. H. is so engaged about; but I can understand _you_,\n_you_ can do me good!\"\n\n\"Oh, James, can I?\"\n\n\"Mary, I'm going to confess my sins. I saw, that, somehow or other, the\nwind was against me in Aunt Katy's quarter, and you know we fellows who\ntake up the world in both fists don't like to be beat. If there's\nopposition, it sets us on. Now I confess I never did care much about\nreligion, but I thought, without being really a hypocrite, I'd just let\nyou try to save my soul for the sake of getting you; for there's nothing\nsurer to hook a woman than trying to save a fellow's soul. It's a\ndead-shot, generally, that. Now our ship sails to-night, and I thought\nI'd just come across this path in the orchard to speak to you. You know\nI used always to bring you peaches and juneatings across this way, and\nonce I brought you a ribbon.\"\n\n\"Yes, I've got it yet, James.\"\n\n\"Well, now, Mary, all this seems mean to me, mean, to try and trick and\nsnare you, who are so much too good for me. I felt very proud this\nmorning that I was to go out first mate this time, and that I should\ncommand a ship next voyage. I meant to have asked you for a promise, but\nI don't. Only, Mary, just give me your little Bible, and I'll promise to\nread it all through soberly, and see what it all comes to. And pray for\nme; and if, while I'm gone, a good man comes who loves you, and is\nworthy of you, why, take him, Mary,--that's my advice.\"\n\n\"James, I am not thinking of any such things; I don't ever mean to be\nmarried. And I'm glad you don't ask me for any promise,--because it\nwould be wrong to give it; mother don't even like me to be much with\nyou. But I'm sure all I have said to you to-day is right; I shall tell\nher exactly all I have said.\"\n\n\"If Aunt Katy knew what things we fellows are pitched into, who take the\nworld headforemost, she wouldn't be so selfish. Mary, you girls and\nwomen don't know the world you live in; you ought to be pure and good:\nyou are not as we are. You don't know what men, what women--no, they're\nnot women!--what creatures, beset us in every foreign port, and\nboarding-houses that are gates of hell; and then, if a fellow comes back\nfrom all this and don't walk exactly straight, you just draw up the hems\nof your garments and stand close to the wall, for fear he should touch\nyou when he passes. I don't mean you, Mary, for you are different from\nmost; but if you would do what you could, you might save us. But it's no\nuse talking, Mary. Give me the Bible; and please be kind to my\ndove,--for I had a hard time getting him across the water, and I don't\nwant him to die.\"\n\nIf Mary had spoken all that welled up in her little heart at that\nmoment, she might have said too much; but duty had its habitual seal\nupon her lips. She took the little Bible from her table and gave it with\na trembling hand, and James turned to go. In a moment he turned back,\nand stood irresolute.\n\n\"Mary,\" he said, \"we are cousins; I may never come back; you might kiss\nme this once.\"\n\nThe kiss was given and received in silence, and James disappeared among\nthe thick trees.\n\n\"Come, child,\" said Aunt Katy, looking in, \"there is Deacon Twitchel's\nchaise in sight,--are you ready?\"\n\n\"Yes, mother.\"\n\n[To be continued.]\n\n\n\n\nTHE AUTOCRAT GIVES A BREAKFAST TO THE PUBLIC.\n\n\nBefore my friend the Professor takes his place at our old table, where,\nProvidence permitting, he means to wish you all a happy New Year on or\nabout the First of January next, I wish you to do me the favor of being\nmy guests at the table which you see spread before you.\n\nThis table is a very long one. Legs in every Atlantic and inland\ncity,--legs in California and Oregon,--legs on the shores of 'Quoddy and\nof Lake Pontchartrain,--legs everywhere, like a millipede or a\nbanian-tree.\n\nThe schoolmistress that was,--and is,--(there are her little scholars at\nthe side-table.)--shall pour out coffee or tea for you as you like.\n\nSit down and make yourselves comfortable.--A teaspoon, my dear, for\nMinnesota.--Sacramento's cup is out.\n\nBridget has become a thought, and serves us a great deal faster than the\nsticky lightning of the submarine _par vagum_, as the Professor calls\nit.--Pepper for Kansas, Bridget.--A sandwich for Cincinnati.--Rolls and\nsardines for Washington.--A bit of the Cape Ann turkey for\nBoston.--South Carolina prefers dark meat.--Fifty thousand glasses of\n_eau sucree_ at once, and the rest simultaneously.--Now give us the nude\nmahogany, that we may talk over it.--Bridget becomes as a mighty wind\nand peels off the immeasurable table-cloth as a northwester strips off\nthe leafy damask from the autumn woods.\n\n[At this point of the entertainment the Reporter of the \"Oceanic\nMiscellany\" was introduced, and to his fluent and indefatigable pen we\nowe the further account of the proceedings.--_Editors of the \"Oceanic\nMiscellany.\"_]\n\n--The liberal and untiring editors of the \"Oceanic Miscellany\"\ncommissioned their special reporter to be present at the Great Breakfast\ngiven by the personage known as the Autocrat of the Breakfast-Table,\nfurnishing him with one of the _caput-mortuum_ tickets usually\ndistributed on such occasions.\n\nThe tables groaned with the delicacies of the season, provided by the\ndistinguished caterers whose names are familiar in our mouths as\nhousehold words. After the usual contest for places,--a proceeding more\nhonored in the breach than the observance,--the band discoursed sweet\nmusic. The creature comforts were then discussed, consisting of the\nvarious luxuries that flesh is heir to, together with fish and fowl, too\nnumerous to mention. After the material banquet had cloyed the hungry\nedge of appetite, began the feast of reason and the flow of soul. As,\ntake him for all in all, the bright particular star of the evening was\nthe distinguished individual who played the part of mine host, we shall\nmake no apology for confining our report to the\n\n\nSPEECH OF THE AUTOCRAT.\n\nI think on the whole we have had a good time together, since we became\nacquainted. So many pleasant looks and words as have passed between us\nmust mean something. For one person who speaks well or ill of us we may\nsafely take it for granted that there are ten or a hundred, or an\nindefinite number, who feel in the same way, but are shy of talking.\n\nNow the first effect of being kindly received is unquestionably a\npleasing internal commotion, out of which arises a not less pleasing\nsecondary sensation, which the unthinking vulgar call conceit, but which\nis in reality an increased consciousness of life, and a most important\npart of the mechanism by which a man is advertised of his ability to\nserve his fellows, and stirred up to use it.\n\nIn the present instance, the immediate effects of the warm general\nwelcome received were the following demonstrations:--\n\n1. The purchase of a glossy bell-crowned hat, which is worn a little\ninclined to one side, at the angle of self-reliance,--this being a very\nslight dip, as compared to the outrageous slant of country dandies and\nthe insolent obliquity indulged in by a few unpleasantly conspicuous\ncity-youth, who prove that \"it takes three generations to make a\ngentleman.\"\n\n2. A movement towards the acquisition of a pair of pantaloons with a\nstripe running down the leg; also of a slender canary-colored cane, to\nbe carried as formerly in the time when Mr. Van Buren was\nPresident.--[_A mild veto from the schoolmistress was interposed._]\n\n3. A manifest increase of that _monstraridigitativeness_,--if you will\npermit the term,--which is so remarkable in literary men, that, if\npublic opinion allowed it, some of them would like to wear a smart\nuniform, with an author's button, so that they might be known and hailed\neverywhere.\n\n4. An undeniable aggravation of the natural tendency to caress and\ncosset such products of the writer's literary industry as have met with\nspecial favor. This is shown by a willingness to repeat any given\nstanza, a line of which is referred to, and a readiness to listen to\neven exaggerated eulogy with a twinkling stillness of feature and\ninclination of the titillated ear to the operator, such as the Mexican\nPeccary is said to show when its dorsal surface is gently and\ncontinuously irritated with the pointed extremity of a reed or of a\nmagnolia-branch. What other people think well of, we certainly have a\nright to like, ourselves.\n\nAll this self-exaltation, which some folks make so much scandal of, is\nthe most natural thing in the world when one gets an over-dose of fair\nwords. The more I reflect upon it, the more I am convinced that it is\nwell for a man to think too highly of himself while he is in the working\nstate. Sydney Smith could discover no relation between Modesty and\nMerit, excepting that they both began with an M. Considered simply as a\nmachine out of which work is to be got, the wheels of intellect run best\nwhen they are kept well oiled by the public and the publisher.\n\nTherefore, my friends, if any of you have uttered words of kindness, of\nflattery, of extreme over-praise, even, let me thank you for it.\nCriticism with praise in it is azotized food; it makes muscle; to expect\na man to write without it is like giving nothing but hay to a roadster\nand expecting to get ten miles an hour out of him. A young fellow cannot\nbe asked to go on making love forever, if he does not get a smile now\nand then to keep hope alive. The truth is, Bridget would have whisked\noff the table-cloth and given notice of quitting, and the whole\nestablishment would have gone to pieces at the end of No. 1, if you had\nnot looked so very good-natured about it that it was impossible to give\nup such amiable acquaintance.\n\nThe above acknowledgments and personal revelations are preliminary to\nthe following more general statement, which will show how they must be\nqualified.\n\nEvery man of sense has two ways of looking at himself. The first is an\neveryday working view, in which he makes the most of his gifts and\naccomplishments. It is the superficial stratum in which praise and blame\nfind their sphere of action,--the region of comparisons,--the habitat\nwhere envy and jealousy are to be looked for, if they have not been\nweeded out and flung into the compost-heap of dead vices, with which, if\nwe understand moral husbandry, we fertilize our living virtues. It is\nquite foolish to abuse this thin upper layer of our mental soil. The\ngrasses do not strike their roots deep in towards the centre, like the\noaks, but they are the more useful and necessary vegetable of the two.\nThe cheap, but perpetual activities of life grow out of this upper\nstratum of our being. How silly to try to be wiser than Providence!\nDon't tell me about the vain illusions of self-love. There is nothing so\nreal in this world as Illusion. All other things may desert a man, but\nthis fair angel never leaves him. She holds a star a billion miles over\na baby's head, and laughs to see him clawing and batting himself as he\ntries to reach it. She glides before the hoary sinner down the path\nwhich leads to the inexorable gate, jingling the keys of heaven at her\ngirdle.\n\nUnderneath this surface-soil lies another stratum of thought, where the\ntap-roots of the larger mental growths penetrate and find their\nnourishment. Out of this comes heroism in all its shapes; here the\nenterprises that overshadow half the planet, when full grown, lie,\ntender, in their cotyledons. Here there is neither praise nor blame,\nnothing but a passionless self-estimate, quite as willing to undervalue\nas to rate too highly. The less clay and straw the task-master has given\nhis servant, the smaller the tale of bricks he will be required to\nfurnish. Many a man not remarkable for conceit has shuddered as some\neffort or accident has revealed to him a depth of power of which he\nnever thought himself the possessor and broken his peace with the fatal\nwords, \"Sleep no more!\"\n\nThis deeper self-appreciation is a slow and gradual process. At first, a\nchild thinks he can do everything. I remember when I thought I could\nlift a house, if I would only try hard enough. So I began with the hind\nwheel of a heavy old family-coach, built like that in which my Lady\nBountiful carried little King Pippin, if you happen to remember the\nillustrations of that story. I lifted with all my might, and the planet\npulled down with all its might. The planet beat. After that, my ideas of\nthe difference between my will and my muscular force were more\naccurately defined. Then came the illusion, that I could, of course,\n\"lick,\" \"serve out,\" or \"polish off,\" various small boys who had been or\nmight be obnoxious to me. The event of the different \"set-tos\" to\nwhich, this hypothesis led not uniformly confirming it, another\nlimitation of my possibilities was the consequence. In this way I groped\nalong into a knowledge of my physical relations to the organic and\ninorganic universe.\n\nA man must be very stupid indeed, if, by the time he is fully ripened,\nhe does not know tolerably well what his physical powers are. His\nweight, his height, his general development, his constitutional force,\nhis good or ill looks, he has had time to find out; and he is a fool, if\nhe does not carry a reasonable consciousness of these conditions with\nhim always. It is a little harder with the mind; but some qualities are\ngenerally estimated fairly enough by their owners. Thus, a man may be\ntrusted when he says he has a good or a bad memory. Not so of his\nopinion of his own judgment or imagination. It is only by a very slow\nprocess that he finds out how much or how little of those qualities he\npossesses. But it is one of the blessed privileges of growing older,\nthat we come to have a much clearer sense of what we can do and what we\ncannot, and settle down to our work quietly, knowing what our tools are\nand what we have to do with them.\n\nTherefore, my friends, if I should at any time put on any airs on the\nstrength of your good-natured treatment, please to remember that these\nare only the growth of that thin upper stratum of character I was\ntelling you of. I conceive that the fact of a man's coming out in a book\nor two, even supposing them to have a success such as I should never\nthink of, is to the sum total of that man's life and character as the\nbed of tulips and hyacinths you may see in spring, at the feet of the\n\"Great Elm,\" on our Boston Common, is to the solemn old tree itself. The\nserene, strong life, reaching deep underground and high overhead, robed\nitself in April and disrobed itself in October when the Common was a\ncow-pasture, and observes the same seasons now that the old tree is\nbelted with an iron girdle and finds its feet covered with flowers.\nAlas! my friends, the fence and the tulips are painfully suggestive.\nAuthorship is an iron girdle, and the blossoms of flattery that are\nscattered at its feet are useful to it only as their culture keeps the\nsoil open to the sun and rain. No man can please the reading public ever\nso little without being too highly commended for it in the heat of the\nmoment; and so, if he thinks of starting again for the prize of public\napprobation, he finds himself heavily handicapped, and perhaps weighted\ndown, simply because he has made good running for some former stakes.\n\nI don't like the position of my friend the Professor. I consider him\nfully as good a man as myself.--I have, you know, often referred to him\nand quoted him, and sometimes got so mixed up with him, that, like the\nSchildbuergers at their town-meeting, I was puzzled to disentangle my own\nlegs from his, when I wanted to stand up by myself, they were got into\nsuch a snarl together.--But I don't like the position of my friend the\nProfessor.\n\nThe first thing, of course, when he opens his mouth, will be to compare\nhim with his predecessor. Now, if he has the least tact in the world, he\nwill begin dull, so as to leave a wide margin for improvement. You may\nbe perfectly certain that he can talk and write just as well as I can;\nbut you don't think, surely, that he is going to begin where I left off.\nNot unless we are to have a wedding in the first number;--and you are\nnot sure whether or not there is to be any wedding at all while the\nProfessor holds my seat at the table.\n\nBut I will tell you one thing,--if you sit a year or so at a long table,\nyou will see what life is. Christenings, weddings, funerals,--these are\nthe three legs it stands on; and you have a chance to see them all in a\ntwelvemonth, if the table is really a long one. I don't doubt the\nProfessor will have something to tell besides his opinions and fancies;\nand if you like a book of thoughts with occasional incidents, as well as\na book of incidents with occasional thoughts, why, I see no reason why\nyou should not accept this talk of the Professor's as kindly as if it\nhad a fancy name and called itself a novel.\n\nLife may be divided into two periods,--the hours of taking food, and the\nintervals between them,--or, technically, into the _alimentary_ and the\n_non-alimentary_ portions of existence. Now our social being is so\nintensified during the first of these periods, that whoso should write\nthe history of a man's breakfasts or dinners or suppers would give a\nperfect picture of his most important social qualities, conditions, and\nactions, and might omit the non-alimentary portion of his life\naltogether from consideration. Thus I trust that the breakfasts of which\nyou have had some records have given you a pretty clear idea, not only\nof myself, but of those more interesting friends and fellow-boarders of\nmine to whom I have introduced you, and with some of whom, in company\nwith certain new acquaintances, my friend the Professor will keep you in\nrelation during the following year. So you see that over the new\ntable-cloth which is going to be spread there may very possibly be a new\ndrama of life enacted; but all that, if it should be so, is incidental\nand by the way;--for what the Professor wishes particularly to do, and\nmeans to do, is to talk about life and men and things and books and\nthoughts; but if there should be anything better than talk occurring\nbefore his eyes, either at the small world of the breakfast-table or in\nthe greater world without, he holds himself at liberty to relate it or\ndiscourse upon it.\n\nI suppose the Professor will receive a good many letters, as I did,\ncontaining suggestions, counsel, and articles in prose and verse for\npublication. He desires me to state that he is very happy to hear from\nknown and unknown friends, provided they will not mistake him for an\neditor, and will not be offended if their communications are not made\nthe subject of individual notice. There may be times when, having\nnothing to say, he will be very glad to print somebody's note or copy of\nverses; I don't think it very likely; for life, is short, and the world\nis brimful, and rammed down hard, with strange things worth seeing and\ntelling, and Mr. Worcester's great Quarto Dictionary is soon coming out,\ncrammed with all manner of words to talk with,--so that the Professor\nwill probably find little room, except for an answer to a question now\nand then, or the acknowledgment of some hint he may have thought worth\ntaking.\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\n--The speaker shut himself off like a gas-burner at this point, and the\ncompany soon dispersed. I sauntered down to the landlady's, and obtained\nfrom her the following production from the papers left by the gentleman,\nwhose pen, ranging from grave to gay, from lively to severe, has held\nthe mirror up to Nature, and given the form and pressure of his thoughts\nand feelings for the benefit of the numerous and constantly-increasing\nmultitudes of readers of the \"Oceanic Miscellany,\" a journal which has\ndone and is doing so much for the gratification and improvement of the\nmasses.\n\n\n_A Poem from the Autocrat's Lose Papers._\n\n[I find the following note written in pencil on the MSS.--_Reporter Oc.\nMisc._]\n\nThis is a true story. Avis, Avise, or Avice, (they pronounce it\n_Arris_,) is a real breathing person. Her home is not more than an hour\nand a half's space from the palaces of the great ladies who might like\nto look at her. They may see her and the little black girl she gave\nherself to, body and soul, when nobody else could bear the sight of her\ninfirmity,--leaving home at noon, or even after breakfast, and coming\nback in season to undress for the evening's party.\n\n\nAVIS.\n\n    I may not rightly call thy name,--\n      Alas! thy forehead never knew\n    The kiss that happier children claim,\n      Nor glistened with baptismal dew.\n\n    Daughter of want and wrong and woe,\n      I saw thee with thy sister-band,\n    Snatched from the whirlpool's narrowing flow\n      By Mercy's strong yet trembling hand.\n\n    --\"Avis!\"--With Saxon eye and cheek,\n      At once a woman and a child,\n    The saint uncrowned I came to seek\n      Drew near to greet us,--spoke and smiled.\n\n    God gave that sweet sad smile she wore\n      All wrong to shame, all souls to win,--\n    A heavenly sunbeam sent before\n      Her footsteps through a world of sin.\n\n    --\"And who is Avis?\"--Hear the tale\n      The calm-voiced matrons gravely tell,--\n    The story known through all the vale\n      Where Avis and her sisters dwell.\n\n    With the lost children running wild,\n      Strayed from the hand of human care,\n    They find one little refuse child\n      Left helpless in its poisoned lair.\n\n    The primal mark is on her face,--\n      The chattel-stamp,--the pariah-stain\n    That follows still her hunted race,--\n      The curse without the crime of Cain.\n\n    How shall our smooth-turned phrase relate\n      The little suffering outcast's ail?\n    Not Lazarus at the rich man's gate\n      So turned the rose-wreathed revellers pale.\n\n    Ah, veil the living death from sight\n      That wounds our beauty-loving eye!\n    The children turn in selfish fright,\n      The white-lipped nurses hurry by.\n\n    Take her, dread Angel! Break in love\n      This bruised reed and make it thine!--\n    No voice descended from above,\n      But Avis answered, \"She is mine.\"\n\n    The task that dainty menials spurn\n      The fair young girl has made her own;\n    Her heart shall teach, her hand shall learn\n      The toils, the duties yet unknown.\n\n    So Love and Death in lingering strife\n      Stand face to face from day to day,\n    Still battling for the spoil of Life\n      While the slow seasons creep away.\n\n    Love conquers Death; the prize is won;\n      See to her joyous bosom pressed\n    The dusky daughter of the sun,--\n      The bronze against the marble breast!\n\n    Her task is done; no voice divine\n      Has crowned her deed with saintly fame;\n    No eye can see the aureole shine\n      That rings her brow with heavenly flame.\n\n    Yet what has holy page more sweet,\n      Or what had woman's love more fair\n    When Mary clasped her Saviour's feet\n      With flowing eyes and streaming hair?\n\n    Meek child of sorrow, walk unknown.\n      The Angel of that earthly throng,\n    And let thine image live alone\n      To hallow this unstudied song!\n\n\n\n\nLITERARY NOTICES.\n\n\n_Sir Walter Raleigh and his Time, with other Papers._ By CHARLES\nKINGSLEY, Author of \"Hypatia,\" \"Two Years Ago,\" etc. Boston: Ticknor &\nFields. 12mo.\n\nThis collection of Mr. Kingsley's miscellaneous writings is marked by\nthe same qualities of mind and temper which have given celebrity and\ninfluence to his novels. An earnest man, with strong convictions\nspringing from a fervid philanthropy, fertile in thought, confident in\nstatement, resolute in spirit, with many valuable ideas and not a few\ncurious crotchets, and master of a style singularly bold, vivid,\npassionate, and fluent, he always stimulates the mind, if he does not\nalways satisfy it. The defects of his intellect, especially in the\ntreatment of historical questions, proceed from the warmth of his\ntemperament. His impulses irritate his reason. Intellectually impatient\nwith all facts and arguments which obstruct the full sweep of his\ntheory, he has an offensive habit of escaping from objections he will\nnot pause to answer, by the calling of names and the introduction of\nProvidence. He is most petulantly disdainful of others when he has\nnothing but paradoxes with which to oppose their truisms. He has a trick\nof adopting the manner and expressions of Carlyle, in speaking of\nincidents and characters to which they are ludicrously inapplicable, and\nbecomes flurried and flippant on occasions where Carlyle would put into\nthe same words his whole scowling and scornful strength. He frequently\nmistakes sympathy with suffering for insight into its causes, and an\neloquent statement of what he thinks desirable for an interpretation of\nwhat really is. He has bright glimpses of truth, but they are due rather\nto the freedom of his thinking than to its depth; and in the hurry and\nimpatient pressure of his impulses, he does not discriminate between his\nideas and his whims. He seems to be in a state of insurrection against\nthe limitations of his creed, his profession, and his own mind, and the\nimpression conveyed by his best passages is of splendid incompleteness.\nIt would be ungracious to notice these defects in a writer who possesses\nso many excellences, were it not that he forces them upon the attention,\nand in their expression is unjust to other thinkers. His intellectual\nconceit finds its vent in intellectual sauciness, and is all the worse\nfrom appearing to have its source in conceit of conscience and\nbenevolence.\n\nIn spite of these faults, however, Mr. Kingsley's reputation is not\ngreater than he deserves. He is one of the most sincere; truthful, and\ncourageous of writers, has no reserves or concealments, and pours out\nhis feelings and opinions exactly as they lie in his own heart and\nbrain. We at least feel assured that he has no imperfections which he\ndoes not express, and that there is no disagreement between the book and\nthe man. He is commonly on the right side in the social and political\nmovements of the day, if he does not always give the right reasons for\nhis position. His love, both of Nature and human nature, is intense and\ndeep, and this gives a cordiality, freshness, and frankness to his\nwritings which more than compensate for their defects.\n\nThe present volume of his miscellanies contains not only his essays and\nreviews, but his four lectures on \"Alexandria and her Schools,\" and his\n\"Loose Thoughts for Loose Thinkers.\" Of the essays, those on \"North\nDevon\" and \"My Winter Garden\" are the best specimens of his descriptive\npower, and those on \"Raleigh\" and \"England from Wolsey to Elizabeth,\" of\nhis talents and accomplishments as a thinker on historical subjects. The\nliterary papers on \"Tennyson,\" \"Burns,\" \"The Poetry of Sacred and\nLiterary Art,\" and \"Hours with the Mystics,\" are full of striking and\nsuggestive, if somewhat perverse, thought. The volume, as a whole, is\nread with mingled feelings of vexation and pleasure; but whether\nprovoked or delighted, we are always interested both in the author and\nhis themes.\n\n\n_A Journey due North: Being Notes of a Residence in Russia._ By GEORGE\nAUGUSTUS SALA. Boston: Ticknor & Fields. 16mo.\n\nAlthough the matter of this brilliant volume is of intrinsic interest,\nits charm is due more to the mode of description than even to the things\ndescribed. It gives us Russia from a Bohemian point of view. The\ncharacteristics of Mr. Sala are keen observation, vivid description,\nlively wit, indomitable assurance, and incapacity of being surprised. To\nhis resolute belief in himself, in what he sees with his own eyes and\nconceives with his own brain, the book owes much of its raciness, its\nconfident, decisive, \"knowing\" tone, its independence of the judgments\nof others, and its freedom from all the deceptions which proceed from\nsuch emotions as wonder and admiration. The volume is read with a\npleasure similar to that we experience in listening to the animated talk\nof an acquaintance fresh from novel scenes of foreign travel, who\nreproduces his whole experience in recalling his adventures, and gives\nus not merely incidents and pictures, but his own feelings of delight\nand self-elation.\n\nThe three introductory chapters, describing the journey to St.\nPetersburg, are perhaps the most brilliant portions of the book. The\ndelineations of his fellow-passengers, in the voyage from Stettin to\nCronstadt, especially the portraits of the swearing Captain Smith and\nthe accomplished Hussian noble, are admirable equally for their humor\nand their sagacity. The account of the landing at Cronstadt, the scenes\nat the Custom-House, the author's first walk in St. Petersburg, and his\nfirst drive in a droschky, are masterpieces of familiar narration, and\nfairly convert the readers of his hook into companions of his journey.\nThe description of the manners and customs of the Russian people, the\nshrewd occasional comments on the policy of the government, and the\nthorough analysis of the rascality of the Russian police, are admirable\nin substance, if somewhat flippant in expression. In power of holding\nthe amused attention of the reader, equally by the pertinence of the\nmatter and the impertinence of the tone, the volume is unexcelled by any\nother book on the subject of Russia.\n\n\n_The New Priest in Conception Bay_. Boston: Phillips, Sampson & Co.\n1858. 2 vols. 12mo.\n\nThe southeastern portion of the island of Newfoundland, as may be seen\nby a glance at the map, may be well described by that expressive epithet\nof \"nook-shotten,\" which in Shakspeare is applied to the mother-island\nof which it is a dependent. The land is indented by bays and estuaries,\nso that it bears the same relation to the water that the parted fingers\nof an outstretched hand do to the spaces of air that are between them.\nOne of these inlets bears the name of Conception Bay; and it is around\nthe shores of this bay that the scene of this novel is laid. Everything\nin it suffers a sea-change; everything is set to the music of the winds\nand the waves. We find ourselves among a people with whom the sea is\nall, and the land only an appendage to the sea,--a place to dry fish,\nand mend nets, and haul up boats, and caulk ships. But though the view\neverywhere, morally and physically, is bounded by the sea, and though\none of the finest of the characters is a fisherman, yet the moving\nsprings of the story are found in elements only accidentally connected\nwith the sea, and by no means new to novel-writers or playwrights. The\nplot of the novel is taken from, or founded upon, the peculiar relations\nexisting between the Roman Catholic priesthood and the female sex; and,\nwith only a change in costume and scenery, the events might have taken\nplace in Maryland, Louisiana, or France.\n\nThe novel is one of a peculiar class. To borrow a convenient phraseology\nrecently introduced into the language, its interest is more subjective\nthan objective,--or, in other words, is derived more from marked and\ncareful delineations of individual character than from the march of\nevents or brilliant procession of incidents. With a single\nexception,--the abduction of the fisherman's daughter,--the occurrences\nnarrated are such as might happen any day in any small community living\nnear the sea. Novels constructed on this plan are less likely to be\npopular than those in which the interest is derived from a\nskilfully-contrived plot and a rapid and stirring succession of moving\nevents. To what extent the work before us may be popular we wilt not\nundertake even to guess; for we have had too frequent experience of the\ncapriciousness of public taste to hazard any prediction as to the\nreception a particular book may meet with, especially if it rely\nexclusively upon its own merits, and be not helped by the previous\nreputation of the writer. But we certainly can and will say that to\nreaders of a certain cast it will present strong attractions, and that\nno candid critic can read it without pronouncing it to be a remarkable\nwork and the production of an original mind. The author we should judge\nto be a man who had lived a good deal in solitude, or at least removed\nfrom his intellectual peers,--who had been through much spiritual\nstruggle in the course of his life,--who had been more accustomed to\nthink than to write, at least for the press,--and whose own observation\nhad revealed to him some of the darker aspects of the Roman Catholic\nfaith and practice.\n\nThere is very little skill in the construction of the plot. Most of the\nevents stand to each other in the relation of accidental and not of\nnecessary succession, and might be transposed without doing any harm.\nMany pages are written simply as illustrations of character; and a fair\nproportion of the novel might be called with strict propriety a series\nof sketches connected by a slight thread of narrative. But it would be\nunreasonable to deal sharply with an author for this defect; for the\nfaculty of making a well-constructed story, in which every event shall\ncome in naturally, and yet each bring us one step nearer to the\njourney's end, is now one of the lost arts of earth. But this is not\nall. A considerable portion of it must be pronounced decidedly slow. We\nuse the word not in its slang application, but in the sense in which\nGoldsmith used it in the first line of \"The Traveller,\" or rather, as\nJohnson told him he used it, when he said to him,--\"You do not mean\ntardiness of locomotion; you mean that sluggishness of mind which comes\nupon a man in solitude.\" But the slowness of which novel-readers will\ncomplain is not mere commonplace, least of all is it dulness. It is the\nleisurely movement of a contemplative mind full of rich thought and\nstored with varied learning. Such a writer _could not_ have any sympathy\nwith the mercurial, vivacious, light-of-foot story-tellers of the French\nschool. The author of \"The New Priest in Conception Bay,\" we surmise,\nhas not been in the habit of packing up his thoughts for the market, by\neither writing for the press, or conversing with clever and\nnimble-witted men and women, and thus does not always distinguish\nbetween cargo and dunnage. The current of the story often flows with a\nvery languid movement. It happens, rather unluckily, that this is\nparticularly true of the first seventy pages of the first volume. We\nfear that many professional novel-readers may break down in the course\nof these pages; and we confess ourselves to have been a little\ndiscouraged. But after the ninth chapter, and the touching account which\nSkipper George gives of the death of his boys,--a story which the most\nindifferent cannot peruse without emotion,--the reader may be safely\nleft in the author's hands. They will go on together to the end, after\nthis, on good terms. And the prospect brightens, and the horses are\nwhipped up, as we advance. The second volume is much more interesting,\nin the common sense of the word,--more stirring, more rapid, more\nanimated, than the first.\n\nIt is but putting our criticism into another form to say that the novel\nis too long, and, as a mere story, might with advantage be compressed\ninto at least two-thirds of its present bulk. There are, especially, two\ndepartments or points to which this remark is applicable. In the first\nplace, the conversations are too numerous, too protracted, and run too\nmuch into trivialities and details. In the second place, the\ndescriptions of scenery are too frequently introduced, and pushed to a\nwearisome enumeration of particulars and minute delineation of details.\nIn this peculiarity the author is kept in countenance by most\nrespectable literary associates. This sort of Pre-Raphaelite style of\nscenery-painting in words is a characteristic of most recent American\nnovel, especially such as are written by women. Every rock, every clump\nof trees, every strip of sea-shore, every sloping hillside, sits for its\nportrait, and is reproduced with a tender conscientiousness of touch\nwholly disproportioned to the importance of the subject. When human\nhearts and human passions are animating or darkening the scene, we do\nnot want to be detained by a botanist's description of plants or a\ngeologist's sketch of rocks. The broad, free sweeps of Scott's brush in\n\"The Pirate\" are more effective than the delicate needle-point lines of\nthe writer before us.\n\nWe think, too, that too much use is made of those strange and uncouth\ndialects which have to be represented to the eye by bad spelling. We\nhave the familiar Yankee type in Mr. Bangs, and a new form of\nphraseology in the speech of the Newfoundland fishermen. A little of\nthis is well enough, but it should not be pushed to an extreme. The\nauthor's style, in general, is vigorous and expressive; it is the garb\nof an original mind, and often takes striking forms; but in grace and\nsimplicity there is room for improvement, and we doubt not that\nimprovement will come with practice.\n\nThere are many passages which we should like to quote as specimens of\nthe imaginative power, forcible description, and apt illustration which\nare shown in this work. Whether the author has ever written verse or\nnot, he is a poet in the best sense of that much-abused word. To him\nNature in all its forms is animated; it sympathizes with all his moods,\nand takes on the hues of his thought. There are very few of these\nparagraphs that are easily separable; they are fixed in the page, and\ncannot be understood apart from it. Besides, many of these beauties are\nminute,--a gleaming word here and there,--but making the track of the\nstory glow like the phosphorescent waters of the tropics.\n\nWe give a few paragraphs at random:--\n\n     \"Does the sea hold the secret?\n\n     \"Along the wharves, along the little beaches, around the\n     circuit of the little coves, along the smooth or broken face of\n     rock, the sea, which cannot rest, is busy. These little waves\n     and this long swell, that now are here at work, have been ere\n     now at home in the great inland sea of Europe, breathed on by\n     soft, warm winds from fruit-groves, vineyards, and wide fields\n     of flowers,--have sparkled in the many-colored lights, and felt\n     the trivial oars and dallying fingers of the loiterers, on the\n     long canals of Venice,--have quenched the ashes of the\n     Dutchman's pipe, thrown overboard from his dull, laboring\n     _treckschuyt_,--have wrought their patient tasks in the dim\n     caverns of the Indian Archipelago,--have yielded to the little\n     builders under water means and implements to rear their\n     towering altar, dwelling, monument.\n\n     \"These little waves have crossed the ocean, tumbling like\n     porpoises at play, and, taking on a savage nature in the Great\n     Wilderness, have thundered in close ranks and countless numbers\n     against man's floating fortress,--have stormed the breach and\n     climbed up over the walls in the ship's riven side,--have\n     followed, howling and hungry as mad wolves, the crowded\n     raft,--have leaped upon it, snatching off, one by one, the\n     weary, worn-out men and women,--have taken up and borne aloft,\n     as if on hands and shoulders, the one chance human body that is\n     brought in to land, and the long spur, from which man's dancing\n     cordage wastes by degrees, find yields its place to long, green\n     streamers, much like those that clung to this tall, taper tree\n     when it stood in the Northern forest.\n\n     \"These waves have rolled their breasts about amid the wrecks\n     and weeds of the hot stream that comes up many thousands of\n     miles out of the Gulf of Mexico, as the great Mississippi goes\n     down into it, and by-and-by these waves will move, all numb and\n     chilled, among the mighty icebergs and ice-fields that must be\n     brought down from the poles.\"\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\n     \"She asked, 'Have you given up being a priest, Mr. Urston?'\n\n     \"'Yes!' he answered, in a single word, looking before him, as\n     it were along his coming life, like a quoit-caster, to see how\n     far the uttered word would strike; then, turning to her, and in\n     a lower voice, added, 'I've left that, once and forever.'\"\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\n     \"He stood still with his grief; and, as Mr. Wellon pressed his\n     honest, hard hand, he lifted to his pastor one of those\n     childlike looks that only come out on the face of the true man,\n     that has grown, as oaks grow, ring around ring, adding each\n     after-age to the childhood that has never been lost, but has\n     been kept innermost. This fisherman seemed like one of those\n     that plied their trade, and were the Lord's disciples, at the\n     Sea of Galilee, eighteen hundred years ago. The very flesh and\n     blood inclosing such a nature keep a long youth through life.\n     Witness the genius, (who is only the more thorough man,) poet,\n     painter, sculptor, finder-out, or whatever; how fresh and fair\n     such an one looks out from under his old age! Let him be\n     Christian, too, and he shall look as if--shedding this\n     outward--the inward being would walk forth a glorified one.\"\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\n     \"As he mentioned his fruitless visits, a startling, most\n     repulsive leer just showed itself in Ladford's face; but it\n     disappeared as suddenly and wholly as a monster that has come\n     up, horrid and hideous, to the surface of the sea, and then has\n     sunk again, bodily, into the dark deep, and is gone, as if it\n     had never come, except for the fear and loathing that it leaves\n     behind. This face, after that look, had nothing repulsive in\n     it, but was only the more subdued and sad.\"\n\nThe author's mind so teems with images, that he does not always\ndiscriminate between the good and the bad. Occasionally we find some\nthat are manifestly faulty and overstrained.\n\n     \"It is one on which the tenderness of the deep heart of the\n     Common Mother breaks itself; over which _the broad, dark,\n     silent wings of a dread mystery are stretched_.\"\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\n     \"Her voice had in it that tender _touch_ which _lays itself,\n     warm and loving_, on the heart.\"\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\n     \"And then her voice began _to drop down_, as it were, _from\n     step to step_,--and _the steps seemed cold and damp, as it went\n     down them lingeringly_:--'or for\n     trial,--disappointment,--whatever comes!'--and at the last, _it\n     seemed to have gone down into a sepulchral vault_.\"\n\nWe do not admire any one of the above,--least of all the last, in which\nthe human voice is embodied as a sexton going down the steps of a tomb.\nWhy, too, as a matter of verbal criticism, should the author use such\nwords as \"tragedist,\" \"exhibitress,\" and \"cheaty?\"\n\nIn the delineation of character the author shows uncommon power and is\nentitled to high praise. His portraits are animated, life-like, and\nindividual. Father Terence is drawn with a firm and skilful touch. The\ntask which the author prescribed to himself--to present an ecclesiastic\nwithout learning, without intellectual power, without enthusiasm, and\nwith the easy habits of a careless and enjoyable temperament, and yet\nwho should be respectable, and even venerable, by reason of the\nsoundness of his instincts and his thorough right-heartedness--was not\nan easy one; but in the execution he has been entirely successful. We\ncannot but surmise that he has met sometime and somewhere a living man\nwith some of the characteristic traits of Father Terence. Father\nIgnatius, the conventional type of the dark, wily, and dangerous\necclesiastical intriguer, is an easier subject, but not so well done. He\nis a little too melodramatic; and we apply with peculiar force to him a\ncriticism to which all the characters are more or less obnoxious, that\nhe is too constantly and uniformly manifesting the peculiar traits by\nwhich the author distinguishes him from others. Father Debree and Mrs.\nBarre are drawn with powerful and discriminating touch, and we recognize\nthe skill of the writer in the fact that we had read a considerable\nportion of the novel before we had any suspicion of the former relations\nbetween them. We may here say that we think that the women who may read\nthis work will want to know, a little more fully and distinctly than the\nauthor has seen fit to tell, what were the causes and influences which\nled to the severing of those relations. We cannot state our meaning more\nclearly, without doing what we think should never be done in the review\nof a new novel, and that is, telling the story, and thus removing half\nthe impulse to read it. Skipper George and his household, and the\nsmuggler Ladford, are very well drawn,--not distinctly original, and yet\nwith distinctive individual traits, which sharp observation must, to\nsome extent, have furnished the author with.\n\nBut to our commendation of the characters we must make one exception: we\nhumbly and respectfully submit that Mr. Bangs is a portentous bore, and\nwe heartily wish that he had been drowned before he ever set his foot\nupon the shores of Newfoundland. It is possible, however, that in this\ncase we are not impartial judges; for we confess, that, for our own\nprivate reading, we are heartily weary of the Yankee,--we mean as a\nliterary creation,--of the eternal repetition of the character of which\nSam Slick is the prototype,--which is for the most part a caricature,\nand no more to be found upon the solid earth than a griffin or a\ncentaur. And in our judgment the theological discussions between this\nworthy and Father Terence are not in good taste. The author surely would\nnot have us suppose that the wretched, skimble-skamble stuff which the\nlatter is made to talk is any fair representative of the arguments by\nwhich the Church of Rome maintains its dogmas and vindicates its claims.\nA considerable amount of literary skill and a quick perception of the\nludicrous are shown in the ridiculous aspect which the good Father's\nstatements and reasonings are made to assume in passing through Mr.\nBangs's mind; but we doubt whether such exhibitions are profitable to\nthe cause of good religion, and whether the advantage thereby secured to\nProtestantism is not purchased at the price of some danger to\nChristianity. It is not well to teach men the art of making mysteries\nridiculous.\n\nBut we take leave of our author and his book with high respect for his\npowers,--we do not know but that we may say his genius,--and with no\nsmall admiration for this particular expression of them. The very\nminuteness of our criticism involves a compliment. It has been truly\nsaid, that many men never write a book at all, but that very few write\nonly one. We think that the author of \"The New Priest in Conception Bay\"\nmust and will write more. A mind so fruitful and inventive, a spiritual\nnature so high and earnest, and an observation so keen and correct,\ncannot fail to accumulate materials for future use. We predict that his\nnext novel will be better than this,--that it will have all its\nsubstantial and essential merits, and will show more constructive skill\nand a more practised hand in literary artisanship. His gold will be more\nneatly wrought, and not less pure and abundant.\n\n\n_Summer Time in the Country._ By Rev. ROBERT ARIS WILLMOTT. London and\nNew York: George Routledge. Square 12mo. Illustrated.\n\nWe first made the acquaintance of this work in a shilling volume, a\n\"railway-library edition,\" and were charmed with its genial tone, its\nnice appreciation of rural scenery, its agreeable and unpedantic\nlearning. It is a diary for the summer months, with notes upon the\nchanging aspects of Nature, reminiscences from the poets, and\nappropriate comments. We are glad now to welcome the book in this form,\nwherein satin paper, careful typography, delicate engravings, and\nhandsome binding have been employed to give it an appropriate dress.\n\n\n_Annual Obituary Notices of Eminent Persons who died in the United\nStates during the Year 1857._ By NATHAN CROSBY. Boston: Phillips,\nSampson, & Co. 8vo. pp. 430.\n\nThe object of this work is best stated in the words of the author, as\nbeing \"the result of a long and earnest desire to give a more permanent\nand accessible memorial to those who have originated and developed our\ninstitutions,--those whose names should be remembered by the generations\nto come, as the statesmen, the soldiers, the men of science and skill,\nthe sagacious merchants, the eminent clergymen and\nphilanthropists,--those who have brought our country to the prosperity\nand distinction it now enjoys.\"\n\nEulogies, funeral sermons, and obituaries soon pass out of remembrance,\nand an annual compilation like this cannot fail to be of service. The\nwork appears to have been done with impartiality and care.\n\n\n_The Poetical Works of Edgar Allan Poe, with an Original Memoir._\nIllustrated by F. R. PICKERSGILL, JOHN TENNIEL, BIRKET FOSTER, FELIX\nDARLEY, and others. New York: J. S. Redfield. 8vo. pp. 250.\n\nThe poems of Poe have taken their place in literature; it is too late to\nattempt anything like a contemporaneous criticism, too early to\nanticipate the judgement of posterity. But whatever were the faults of\nthis gifted and erratic genius, much that he has written has become a\npart of the thought and memory of the present generation of readers, and\nwill doubtless go to our children with equal claims.\n\nIn this volume it would seem that the arts connected with book-making\nhave culminated; paper, typography, drawing, and engraving are all\nadmirable. There are no fewer than fifty-three wood-engravings, of\nvarious degrees of excellence, but all exquisitely finished. The lovers\nof fine editions of poetry will find this a gift-book which the most\nfastidious taste will approve. If we could add that this mechanical\nexcellence was from American hands, it would be much more grateful to\nour national pride.\n\n\n_Black's Atlas of North America._ Boston: Little, Brown, & Co.\n\nNothing could well be more convenient than this series of twenty maps.\nThey are carefully executed, of a size not too large for easy handling,\nand bound in a thin, light volume. They are preceded by some\nintroductory statistical matter which is very useful for purposes of\nready reference, and accompanied by an index so arranged that one can\nfind the name he seeks on any map with great facility. We have seen no\nmaps of North America which seemed to us, on the whole, at once so cheap\nand good.\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\nAmong the announcements of illustrated works in press, we notice \"The\nStratford Gallery, comprising Forty-five Ideal Portraits described by\nMrs. J. W. Palmer. Illustrated with Fine Engravings on Steel, from\nDesigns by Eminent Hands.\"\n\nIn one vol. 8vo. Antique morocco. New York: D. Appleton & Co.\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\nThe many admirers of the \"AUTOCRAT\" will learn with pleasure that a fine\nedition of his charming volume is in preparation, with tinted paper,\nillustrated by Hoppin, and bound in elegant style. Probably no\nholiday-book will be in such demand this season.","title":"The Atlantic Monthly, Volume 2, No. 14, December 1858: A Magazine of Literature, Art, and Politics","tradition":"philosophy-ethics","translated_text":null,"word_count":85298}