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The Atlantic monthly. / Volume 13, Note on Digital Production 0013 000
The Atlantic monthly. / Volume 13, Note on Digital Production A-B

The Atlantic monthly. / Volume 13, Issue 75 [an electronic edition] Creation of machine-readable edition. Cornell University Library 786 page images in volume Cornell University Library Ithaca, NY 1999 ABK2934-0013 /moa/atla/atla0013/

Restricted to authorized users at Cornell University and the University of Michigan. These materials may not be redistributed.

The Atlantic monthly. / Volume 13, Issue 75 Galaxy, Atlantic Atlantic Monthly Co. Boston January 1864 0013 075
The Atlantic monthly. / Volume 13, Issue 75, miscellaneous front pages i-iv

Z7Z. THE ATLANTI~ MONTHLY. A MAGAZINE OF LITERATURE, ART, AND POLITICS. VOLUME XIII. BOSTON: TICKNOR AND FIELDS, 135, WASHINGTON STREET. LONDON: TRUBNER AND COMPANY. 3! DCCC LXIV. .1 -~ frh; Entered, according to Act of Congress, in the year 1864, by TICIcNOE AND FIELDS, in the Clerks Office of the District Court of the District of Massachusetts. 1IUNT1~D BY SAML CIns~I RIVERsIDE, CAMBRIDGE: STEREOTYPED BY II. 0. HOUGHTON AND COMPANY. I CON TENTS. Ambassadors in Bonds Caroline Chesel~ro 281 Annesley Hall and lMewstead Abbey Mrs. B. 6!. Waterston 239 Beginning of the End, The C. C. Hozewell 112 Bryant G. S. Ilillard 233 California as a Vineland 600 Convulsionists of St. Mddard, The Robert Dale Owen 209, 339 Cruise on Lake Ladoga, A Bagard Taylor 521 Fast- Day at Foxden, A 676 }ightmg Facts for Fogies C. C. Hazewell 393 First Visit to Washington, The J. T. Trowbridge 448 Fouquet the Magnificent F. ~Sheldon 467 Genius .LBrownleeBr n 137 Period Prof Louis Agassiz 224 Glaciers, Ext~rnal Appearance of Prof. Louis Agassiz 56 Glen Roy, in Scotland, The Parallel Roads of.. Prof. Louis Agassiz 723 Gold-Fields of Nova Scotia, The Arthur Gilman 576 Guides, A Talk about . Maria S. 6ummins 649 Half-Life, A, and Half a Life Miss E. 11. Appleton 157 House and Home Papers Harriet Beecher Stowe. .40, 201, 353, 458, 621, 754 Irving, Washington Donald G. Mitchell 694 Life on the Sea Islands Miss Forten 587, 666 Minister Plenipotentiary, The 0. TV Holmes 106 Mormons, Among the Fitz-Ilmegh Ludlow 479 My Book Gail Hamilton 90 New-England Revolution of the Seventeenth Century, The..J. C. Paifrey 553 Northern Invasions E. E. ............... 245 Old Bachelor, Some Account of the Early Life of an. .Mrs. A. 31. Diaz 560 Our Progressive Independence 0. W. Holmes 497 Our Soldiers Mrs. Furness 364 Peninsnlar Campaign, The Lt.- Col. B. L. Alexander 379 Pictor Ignotus oil Hamilton 433 Presidential Election, The C. C. Hazewell 631 Queen of California, The F. F. Hale 265 Ray Harriet E. Prescott 19 Re a ion of Art to Nature, On the J. Eliot Cabot 183, 313 Rim, The Harriet E. Prescott 605, 701 Robson George Augustus Sale 715 Schoolmasters Story, The Mrs. A. M. Dinz 416 Stephen Yarrow Author of Life in the Iron Mills ~ 66 Thackeray, William Makepeace Ba~ard Ta3dor 371 Types Welliam Wonter 615 Victory, How to Use .E. E. Hale 763 Yo-Semite, Seven Weeks in the Great Fiez-Hugh Ludlow 739 Wet-Weather Work Donald G. Mitchell 304, 539 Whittier D. A. Wasson .331 Winthrop, Governor John, in ~6id England.. G. F. Ellis 1 POETRY. Black Preacher, The J. B. Lowell 485 Brother of Mercy, The John G. Whittier .~.. Dantes Paradiso, Three Cantos of H. TV. LOa~/e11OW -, 47 iv Contents. Gold Hair Robert Browning 59f3 Kalif of Baldacca, The H. W. Longfellow 664 Last Charge The 0. W. Holmes 244 Memorlie Positum R. G. S J. R. Lowell 88 My Brother and I J. T. Trowbridge 156 Neva The Bayard Taylor 713 On Picket Duty Mrs. W. T. Johnson 495 Our Classmate 0. W. Holmes 329 Planting of the Apple-Tree, The W. C. Bryant 17 Preseuce Alice Cary 223 Prospice Robert Browning 694 Reapers Dream, The T. B. Read 550 Re~nllsted Lucy Larcom 629 Shakspeare 0. W. Holmes 762 Snow Elizabeth A. C. Alcers 200 Snow-Man, The C. J. Sprague 574 Song Alice Cary 363 To a Young Girl Dying T. W~ Parsons 604 Under the Cliff Robert Browning 737 Wreck of Rivermouth, The John G. Whittier 412 REVIEWS AND LITERARY NOTICES. Adamss Church Pastorals................... Agassizs Methods of Study in Natural Histo .. 131 Algers Critical History of the Doctrine of a Riture Life 253 Iloyntons History of West Point 258 Brownings Sordello, Strafford, Christmas-Eve and Easter-Day 639 Craiks History of English Literature 518 Drapers History of the Intellectual Development of Enrope 642 Dream Children 256 Foederalist, The, Dawsons Edition 519 Gilletts Life and Times of Huss 638 Hallams Remains 256 Hannah Thurston 132 Merivales History of the Romans under the Empire 768 Mills Principles of Political Economy 250 My Days and Nights on the Battle-Field 516 My Farm of Edgewood 130 Peculiar 126 Possihilities of Creation 778 Rays Mental Hygiene 388 Renan, De lOrigine du Langage 647 Smiless Industrial Biography 636 Spencers Illustrations of Progress 775 Thackerays Roundabout Papers 261 Ticknors Life of Prescott 128 Tuckermans Poems 777 Tyndall on Heat 512 Weisss Life and Correspondence of Theodore Parker 123 RECRET AMERICAN PUBLICATIONS 136, 261, 302, 520, 779

G. E. Ellis Ellis, G. E. Governor John Winthrop in Old England 1-17

S THE ATLANTIC MONTHLYr A MAGAZINE OF LITERATURE, ART, AND POLITICS. VOL. XJJI.JANUARY, 1864.NO. LXXV. GOVERNOR JOHN WINTHROP IN OLD ENGLAND. Oun magazine was introduced to the world bearing on the cover of its first number a vignette of the portraiture of the ever honored and revered John Win- throp, first Governor of the Colony of Massachusetts Bay. The effigies express- ed a countenance, features, and a tone of character in beautiful harmony with all that we know of the man, all that he was and did. Gravity and loftiness of soul, tempered by a mild and tender deli- cacy, depth of experience, resolution of purpose, native dignity, acquired wisdom, and an harmonious equipoise of the robust virtues and the winning graces have set their unmistakable tokens on those line- aments. That vignette, after renewing from month to month before our readers, for nearly four years, as gracious and fra- grant a memory as can engage the love of a New-England heart, gave place, in the month of June, 1861, to the only emblem, no longer personal, which might claim to supplant it. The national flag, during a struggle which has seen its dignity insulted only to rouse and nerve the spirit which shall vindicate its glory, has displaced that bearded and ruffed portraiture. The visitor to the Massachusetts State- House may see, banging in its Senate- Chamber, tolerably well preserved on its canvas, what is believed, on trustworthy evidence, to be Vandycks own painting of Winthrop. Another portrait of him not so agreeable to the eye, nor so faithful, we are sure, to the original, yet reputed to date from the lifetime of its subjecthangs in the Hall of the Amer- ican Antiquarian Society at Worcester. Those of our readers who have hot by- ingly pored and paused over Mr. Sav- ages elaborately illustrated edition of Governor Winthrops Journal do not know what a profitable pleasure invites them, whenever they shall have grace to avail themselves of it. But who that knows John Winthrop through such ma- terials of memory and such fruits of high and noble service as up to this time have been accessible and extant here has not longed for, and will not most heartily wel- come, a new contribution, coming by sur- prise, unlooked for, unhoped for even, but yielding, from the very fountain-head, the means of a most intimate converse with him in that period of his life till VOL. XIII. 1 Entered according to Act of Congrees, in the year 1863, by Tsc~zo~ AND FIELDS, in the Clerks Office of the District court of the District of Massachusetts. 2 Governor Joirn Winthrop in Old England. [January, now wholly unrecorded for us? We had known his character as displayed here. We have now a most authentic and com- plete development of the process by which that character was mpulded and built abroad. The President of the Massachu- setts Historical Society has been privi- leged to do a service which, with most rare felicity, embraces his indebtedness to his own good name, to his official place, and to the city and State which have in- vested him with so many of their highest honors. The Honorable Robert C. Winthrop, a descendant in the seventh generation from our honored First Governor, seiz- ing upon a brief vacation-interval in the course of his high pt~blic service, made a visit to England in the summer of 1847. He was naturally drawn towards his ancestral home at Groton, in Suffolk. The borough itself, with its own due share of historic interest, from men of- mark and their deeds, is composed of one of those clusters of villages which are sure in an English landscape to have some charm in their picturesque combinations. The visitor had the privilege of worship- ping on a Sunday in the same parish church where his ancestors, holding the right of presentation, had joined in the same form of service, to whose font they had brought their children in baptism, and at whose altar-rails they had stood for the solemnization of matrimony, and knelt in the office of communion. The second entry made in the parish reg- ister, still retained in the vestry, records the death of the head of the family in 1562. Outside the church, and close against its walls, is the tomb of the Win- throp family, which, by a happy coinci- dence, had just been repaired, as if ready to receive a visitor from a land where tombs are not supposed to have the jus- tification of age for being dilapidated. Tbe father, the grandfather, and perhaps the great-grandfather of our John Win- throp were committed to that repository. The family name and arms, with a Latin inscription in memory of the parents of the Governor, are legible stilL Beati sunt pacf/ici is the benediction which either the choice of those who rest be- neath it, or the congenial tribute of some survivor, has selected to close the epi- taph. Only traces of the cellar of the mansion-house and of its garden-plot are now visible to mark the home where the Chief Magistrates of Massachusetts and Connecticut, father and son, had lived together and had matured the conclu- sions on which they exiled themselves. A monstrous and idle tradition, heard by the visitor, as be surveyed the outlines of his ancestral home, prompted him to that labor of love which he has so felici- tously performed, and with such provi- dential helps, in a biography. The ab- surdity of the tradition, equally defiant as it is of the consistencies of character and the facts of chronology, is a warning to those who rely on these floating con- foundings of fact and fiction, which, as some one has said, are almost as mis- leading as history. Two hundred years and more had seen that manor - house deserted of its former occupants. The neighboring residents had kept their name in remembrance, more, probably, through the help of the tomb than of the dwell- ing. Speculation and romance would deal with them as an extinct or an exiled family. The story had become current on the spot, that the Winthrops were regi- cides, and had fled to America, having, however, buried some precious hoard of money about their premises before their flight. Our author suggests the altogeth- er likely idea that a suspicion might have attached to him as having come over to search for that treasure. Little may he have imagined what thoughts may have distracted the reverence of some of his humble fellow - worshippers in Groton Church who whispered the nature of his errand one to another. Our honored Governor and his son of Connecticut had been near a score of years on this soil before Charles I. was beheaded. Mr. Savage informs us that he was once ask- ed by a descendant of the father whether he had received before his death tidings of the execution of his old master. The 1864.] Governor John JVintltrop in Old England. 3 annotator is able to quote a letter from Roger Williams, to his honored kind friend, Mr. John Winthrop at Nameag, [sew London,] lettered on the hack, Mr. Williams of ye high news about the king. This letter, conveying recent tidings, was dated at Narragansctt, June 26, 1649, two months after the elder Winthrop had died in Boston. It was but natural that even the ab- 9urdity of the tradition lingering around the traces of the Groton manor should have served, with other far more con- straining inducements, to excite in the visitor a purpose to employ his first pe- riod of relief from official service in ren- dering an act of public as well as of pri- vate obligation to the memory of his pro- genitors, especially as there existed no adequate and extended biography, but only scattered and fragmentary memori- als of them in our copious literary stores. happily for him, and surely to the high- est gratification of those who were to be his readers, materials most abundant, and of the most authentic and self-revealing sort, in j ournals and letters, were attain- able, to give to the work essentially the character of an autobiography, and that, too, of the most attractive cast. A sec- ond visit of the author to England in 185960, and the most opportune recep- tion of a large collection of original pa- pers, preserved in another line of the Governors descendants, put his fortunate biographer in possession of the means for completing a work surpassed by no simi- lar volume known to us in the gracious attracti6ns and in the substantial interest of its, contents. The book may safely re- ly for its due reception upon the noble character, complete and harmonious in all the virtues, and upon the eminent public services, of its subject It has other strong recommendations, affording, in style, method, and spirit, a model for books of the same class, and embracing all those paramount qualities of thorough- ness, research, accuracy, good taste, inci- dental illustration, and, above all, an ap- preciative spirit, which stamp the worth of such labors. We must leave almost unnoticed the authors elaborate chapter on the pedi- gree and the early history of the Winthrop family. He is content to begin this side of those who came over with the Con- queror, and to accept for ancestry men and women untitled, of the sterling Eng- lish stock, delvers of the soil, and spinners of the fabrics of which it affords the raw material. lie finds almost his own full name introducing a record on the Rolls of Court in the County of York for the year 1200. Adam Winthrop, grandfa- ther of our Governor, himself the father, as he was also the son of other Adams, was born in Lavenham, Sufiblk, October 9, 1498, six years after the discovery of this country by Columbus, and in the same year in which occurred the voyage of Vespucins, who gave his name to the continent. This second Adam Winthrop, at .the age of seventeen, went to London, binding himself as an apprentice for ten years under the well-esteemed and prof.. itable guild of the clothiers, or cloth- workers. At the expiration of his ap- prenticeship, in 1526, he was sworn a citizen of London, and, after filling the subordinate dignities of his craft, rose to the mastership of his company in 1551. The Lordship of the Manor of Groton, at the dissolution of the monasteries, was granted to Adam Winthrop in 1544. Re- taining his mercantile relations in the great city, and probably residing there at intervals, he seated himself in landed dignity at his manor, and there he died in 1562. His memorialist now holds in his possession the original bronze plate which was put npon his tomb three hun- dred years ado, and which was probably removed to give place to the new inscrip- tion connected with the repairs already referred to. This ancient sepulchral brass bears in quaint old English characters the following inscription: Here lyeth Mr. Adam Wynthrop, Lorde & Patron of Groton, whiche departed owt of this Worlde the IXth day of November, in the yere of owre Lorde God MCCCCC- LXII. His widow, who had been his second wife, married William Mildmay; 4 Governor Jokn Winthrop in Old England. [January, and his daughter Alice married Mr. Mild- mays son Thomas, who, being afterwards knighted, secured to the cloth-workers daughter the title of Lady Mildmay. In the cabinet of the American Antiqua- rian Society at Worcester, the visitor, on the asking, may be gratified with the sight and touch of a curious old relic which will bring him almost into contact with a most agreeable family - circle of the olden time. It is a serviceable posset- pot, with a silver tip and lid, both of which are gilded, the cover, still play- ing faithfully on its hinge, being chased with the device of Adam and Eve in the garden partaking of the forbidden fruit. An accompanying record reads as fol- lows: At y Feast of St. Michael, Ano. 1607, my Sister, y0 Lady Mildmay, did give me a Stone Pot, tipped & cover- ed w. a Silver Lydd. Jfrw many cOm- forting concoctions and compounds, alter- nating with herb-drinks and medicated potions, may have been quaffed or swal- lowed with wry face from that precious old cup, who can now tell? Probably it ministered its more inviting contents to the elders of the successive generations in the family, while it was known by the younger members in their turn in connection with certain penalties for over- eating and chills got from hard play. While havintr the relic in hand, the oth- er day, the prompting was irresistible to bring it close to the appropriate organ, to ascertain, if possibie, what had been the predominant character of its contents. But, faithfiil as the grave, it would re- veal no secrets; having parted with all transient and artificial odors, it has re- sumed, as is most fitting, the smell of its parent earth. The writer of that record accompanying the Stone-Pot with its Silver Lydd was Adam Winthrop, father of our Gov- ernor, and son of the last-mentioned Lord of Groton. This third Adam Winthrop the sixth child of his fathers second wife, and the eleventh of his thirteen children was born in London, in the street which is called Gracious, (Grace- Church,) August 10, 1548. Losing his father at the age of fourtebn, he was ear- ly bred as a lawyer in London, but soon engaged in agricultural interests at Gro- ton, to the lordship of which he acceded by a lic~nse of alienation from an elder brother. There are sundry authentic relics and tokens of this good man which reveal to us those traits of his character, and those ways and influences of his do- mestic life, under the high -toned, yet most genial training of which his son was educated to the great enterprise Providence intended for him. There are even poetical pieces extant which prove that Adam sought intercourse with the Muses by making advances on his own part, though we must confess that he. does not appear to have bcen fhirlv met half-way by that capricious and fastidi- ous sisterhood. Many of hi~ almanacs and diaries, with entries dating from 1595, and from which the author makes liberal and interesting transcripts in an Appendix, have been happily preserved, and have a ~rateful use to us. ~ey help us to reconstruct an old home, a. pleasant one, in or near which three gen- erations of a good stock lived together after the highest pattern of an orderly, exemplary, prospered, and pious house- hold. We infer from many significant trifles, that, while the old English comfort- loving, generous, an(l hospitable style pre- vailed there, the severer spirit of Puri- tanism had not attained ascendancy. In- tercourse with the metropolis, though em- barrassed with conditions requiring some buffeting and hardship, was compensated by the zest of adventure, and it was fre- quem~t enough to quicken the minds and to add to the bodily comforts and refine- ments of the family. Adam Winthrop must have been a fine speciaxen of the old English gentleman, with all of native polish which courtly experiences might or might not have given him, and with a simple, high-toned, upright, and neigh- borly spirit, which made him an apt and a faithful administrator of a great variety of trusts. His 01(1 Bible, now in tIme pos- session of Mr. Geor~ e Livermore of Cam- bridge, represented the divine presence Governor John Winthrop in Old England. and law in his household, for all its mem- bers, parents and children, masters and sc~vants. He entertained hospitably his full share of the godly preachers, who were the wandering luminaries, and, in some respects, the angelic visitants of those tlays. lie was evidently a very patient listener to sermons, though we bave not the 1)roOf in any surviving note- books of his that one of his excellent son Joins ibruishes us, that he took pains to transcribe the heads, the savory passages, and the textual attestations of the elabo- rate, but utterly juiceless sermons of the time. The entries in his almanacs afford a curious variety, in which interesting events of public importance alternate with homely details touching the affairs of his neighborhood and the incidents in the domestic life of his relatives and ac- quaintance. One matter, as we shall soon see, on which a fact in the life of Governor Winthrop depends, finds an unexpected (liscIosure from Adams pen. Here are a few excerpts from these en- tries: 1597. The VI of July I re- ceived a privie scale to lend the Q. matie [Elizabeth] LXX. for a yere. 1602. Sept. the 27 day in ye mornying the Bell did goc for mother [a conventional epi- thet] Tiffeyn, but she reconered. This decides a matter which has sometinies been (1i51)uted, that, while with us, in our old times, the passing bell indicat- ed the progress of a funeral train, ancient- ly in England it signified that a soul was believed to be passing from a body sup- posed to be in e treinis. And a doleful sound it must have been to those of whom it made a fblse report, as of mother Tif- feyn. ~ecem. y XXI day my broth- er Alibaster came to my house & toulde me y he made certayne inglishe verses in his sleepe, ~vh. he recited unto me, & I lent him XLS. 1603 April ye 28 day was the funeralles kept at West- minster for our late Qucene Elizabethe. 1603. On Munday ye seconde of Mayc, one Keitley, a blackesmythe, d wellinge in Lynton in Cambridgeshire, had a ~ man to his fbther whom he kepte. A gentleman of y same Towne sent a horse to shoe, the father held up the horses legge whilest his soonne did shoe him. The horse struggled & stroke the father on ye belly with his foote & overthrewe him. The soonne laughed thereat & woulde not helpe his father uppe, for the which some that were pres- ent reproved him greatlye. The soonne went forwarde in shoinge of ye horse, & when he had donne he went uppon his backe, mynding to goe home with him. The horse presently did throughe him of his hacke against a poste & dave his bed in sonder. Mistress Mannocke did knowe y man, for his mother was her nurse. Grare judiciwn Dci in irri- sorem patris sui. These little scraps of Latin, sometimes running in to a distich, are frequent signs of a certain classical proclivity of the writer. Any one who should infer, from the good mans arbi- trary mode of spelling many words, that he was an illiterate person, would he grievously mistaken, in his ignorance of the universal characteristic and liconse of that age in that matter. The Queen herself was by no means so good a spell- er, by our standard, as was Adam Win- throp. The extraordinary way in which letters were then left out of words where they were needed, and most lavishly mul- tij)lied where no possible use could he made of them, is a phenomenon never accounted for. Adam Winthrop was for several years auditor of the accounts of Trinity and St. Johns Colleges, Cambridge, and re- cor(ls his visits to the University in the discharge of his duties. We have speci- mens of a pleasant correspondence be- tween him and his sister, Lady Mildmay, also with his wife, marked by a sweet and gentle tone, the utterance of a kindly spirit, fragrant records of hearts once so warm with love. It must have been with supreme de- light that Adam entered in his diary, that on January 12, 1587, [January 22, 1588, N.S.,] was born his only son, John, one of five children by his second wife. John came into the world between the years that marked, respectively, the exe 1864.1 5 6 Governor John Winthrop in Old England. [January, eution of Mary, Queen of Scots, and the visit of the Spanish Armada. We can well conceive under what gracious and godly influences he received his early nurture. His mother died only one year before he, at the .age of forty-two, em- barked for America, his father having not long preceded her. Evidence abun- dant was in our possession that John Winthrop had received what even now would be called a good education, and what in his own time was a compara- tively rare one. It had generally been taken for granted, however, that he had never been a member of either of the Universities. his present biographer tells us that long before undertaking his present grateful task he had never been reconciled to admit the inference which had been drawn from silence on this point. He remembered, by refer- ences in his own reading, that by some oversight there had been an dmission of names in the Cambridge University Register from June, 1589, to June, 1602, and that no admissions were recorded earlier than 1625. John Winthrop might, therefore, have at least gone to college, if he had not gone through college. his biographer had also no- ticed in the Governors Cbristian Ex- perience, drawii up and signed by him in New England on his forty-ninth birth- day, 16367, an allusion to his having been at Cambridge when about 14 yrs of age, and having had a lingering fe- ver there. An entry in the records of his father must have been a most grate- ful discovery to the Governors descend- ant in the seventh generation. 1602. The 2d of December I rode to Cambridge. The VhJIth day John my soonne was ad- mitted into Trinitie College. But the old mystery vanishes only to give place to another, which has a spice of romance in it. John Winthrop did not graduate at Cambridge. lie was a lawful husband when seventeen years of age, and a hap- py father at eighteen In a time - stained and most precious document from his pen and from his heart, relating his religious experience, to be re ferred to more particularly by-and-by, he charges himself in his youth with grievous sin. What we know of his whole life and character would of itself forbid us to ac- cept literally his severe self-judgment, much more to draw from his language the inference which like language would war- rant, if used in our times. Those who have even but a superficial acquaintance with religious diaries, especially with such as date from or near that age, need not be told that their writers, when sincerely devout by the Puritan standard, aimed to search and judge their own hearts and lives with all that penetrating, self- revealing, unsparing scrutiny and sever- ity which they believed were turned upon them by the all - seeing eye of infinite purity. They wished to anticipate the Great Tribunal, and to avert the sur- prise of any new disclosure there by ad- mitting to themselves while still in the flesh the worst that it could pronounce against them. Men and women who before the daily companions and .wit- nesses of their lives would stand out stoutly, and honestly too, in self- defence against all iniputations, and might even boast themselves as St. Paul did of a surplusage of merits of some sort, when registering the barometer and the thermometer of their religious experi- ence were the most unrelenting self-ac- cusers. It is safe to say, as a general thinr that those who in that introspec- tion, in the measurement of their heats and chills of piety, grieved most deeply and found the most ingenious causes for self-infliction were either the most calcu- lating hypocrites or the most truly godly. To which of the two classes any one par- ticular individual might belong could not always be infallibly concluded from what he wrote. That comfort-loving and greed- indulging, yet picturesque, old sinner, Samuel Pepys, Esq., did not profess to keep a religious diary. But many such diaries have been kept by men who might have covered alternate pages with matter similar to his own, or with worse. We must interpret the religious diaries of that age by aids independent of those Governor ,Jokn Jl7Yntkrop i~n Old England. which their contents furnish us. John Winthrop, writing of his youth when he hhd grown to the full exalted stature of Christian manhood, and though sweetly mellowed in the graces of his character by genial ripening from within his soul, was still a Puritan of the severest stand- ard theologically, and, by principle, char- ges himself with heinous sin. We feel assured that he was not only guiltless of any folly or error that would deserve such a designation, but that he even over- stated the degree of his addiction to the liahter human faults. Only after such a preliminary assertion of incredulity as to any literal truth in them, could we consent to copy his own words, as fol- lows: In my youth I was very lewd- ly disposed, inclining unto & attempt- ing (so far as my heart enabled me) all kinds of wickedness, except swear- ing & scorning religion, wh. I had no temptation unto in regard of my edu- cation. About ten years of age I had some notions of God: for, in some fright- lag or danger, I have prayed unto God, & found manifest answer: y8 remem- brance whereof, many years after, made me think that God did love me: but it made me no whit the better. After I was twelve years 01(1, I began to have some more savor of religion: & I thought I had more understanding in divinity than many of my years, etc. Yes, he evidently had. And though the kind of divinity which had trained his soul was of a grim sort, his own purity and gentleness of spirit softened it while accepting it. He adds, Yet I was still very wild & dissolute: & as years came on, my lusts grew stronger, but yet under some restraint of my natural rea- son, whereby I had that command of myself that I could turn into any form. I would, as occasion required, write let- ters, & c. of mere vanity; & if occasion was, I could write savoury & godly coun- sel. Seeing, however, that he was made a Justice of the Peace when eighteen years of age, the inference is a fair one his own self-accusation to the contrary notwithstanding that he was known in his own neighborhood as a youth of ex- traordinary excellence of character. It would appear from tile entries in his fathers diaries that he was a member of college some eighteen months. Why he left before completing his course is to find its explanation for us either in the ex- treme sickness before referred to as visit- ed upon him there, or in the agreeable change in his condition, as the awk- ward and sheepish phrase is, which imme- diately followed. The latter alternative leaves scope and offers temptations for such inventiveness of fancy about details and incidents, whys and wherefores, as the absence of all but the following stingy revelations may justify. The good Adam, after recording, in November, 1604, and in the ensuing March, two mysterious rides with his son, has left this, under date of March 28th, 1605 : My soonn~ was sollemly contracted to Mary Foorth, by Mr. Culverwell minister of Greate Stambridge in Essex cum consensu pa- renturn. Another ride into Essex, this time by the son alone, is entered under April 9th, and then on the 16th his mar- riage, ~Etatis sua~ 17 [annis] 3 mensibus et 4 diebus completis. This reads pleas- antly : The Vilith of May my soonne & his wife came to Groton from Lon- don, & y IXth I made a marriage feaste, when S~. Thomas Mildmay & his lady my sister were present. The same day my sister Veysyc came to me, & de- parted on ye 24th of Maye. My dawter Fones came the yJJJth & departed home ye XXIIId of Maye. An expeditious closing up, with honey-moon and mar- riage-feast, of an evident love-passage, whose longer or shorter antecedents are not revealed. The biographer leaves his readers their choice of assigning the ab- rupt close of the college course of John Winthrop either to his grievous sickness, or to his love for Mary Forth, daughter and sole heir of John Forth, Esq., of Great Stambridge. We incline rather to the latter alternative as the stronger one, inasmuch as love for Mary may not only have been the direct cause of his loathing Cambridge, but may even have 1864.1 7 0 8 Governor Jo/rn Winthrop in Old England. [January, been the cause of his sickness, which in that case becomes so secondary a cause as hardly to be a cause at all. One thing is certain: our honored Puritan ances- tors had no scruples against short engage- ments, early marriages, or rematings as often as circumstances favored. The young bridegroom himself, in the record of his experience, which we quote again for another purpose, reserves the confession of any haste on his own part to enter the married state, ~nd would seem delicately to insinuate parental in- fluence in the case. About eighteen years of age, heing a man in stature & understanding, as my parents conceived me, I mar+ied into a family under Mr. Culverwell his ministry in Essex, & , living there sometimes, I first found ye ministry of the word come home to my heart with power (for in all hefore I found only light): & after that, I found ye like in ~e ministry of many others: so as there began to he some change: wh. I perceived in myself, & others took notice of. Six children were horn to John Win- Fhrop an(l his first wife, three sons and three daughters. John, the eldest of these, afterwards Governor of Connecti- cut, was born February 22, 1606. Mary, the only one of the (laughters surviving infancy, also came to this country, and married a son of Governor Thomas Dud- ley. In less than eleven years after her marriage, Mary Forth died, the husband being not yet t~venty-ei ght years old, an(l the eldest child but nine. The earliest record of his religious ex- perience appears to have been made un- der (late of 1 606. Read with the allow- ances and abatements to which reference has already been ma(lc, all that this ad- mirable man has left for us of this self revelation little dreaming that it would have such readers is prolbundl inter- esting an~l instructive, when estimated from a right point of view an(l with any degree of congeniality of spirit. 1 hose who are familiar with his published New England Journal have already recogniz- ed in him a man of a simple and hum- ble spirit, of a grave, but not a gloomy temperament, kindly in his private esti- mate and generous in his public treat- ment of others, most unselfish, and rigid- ly upright. The noble native elements of his character, and the peculiar tone and style of the piety under which his religious experience was developed, mu- tually reacted upon each other, the result heing that his natural virtues were re- fined and spiritualized, while the morbid and superstitious tendencies of his creed were to a degree neutralized. i-Ic seems to refer the crisis in his religious expe- rience to a date immediately followino upon his first marriage. But, as we shall see, a repeated trial in the furnace of sharp afiliction deepened and enriched that experience. He tells us that dur- ing those happy years of his first mar- riage he had proposed to himself a change from the legal profession to the ministry. By a second marriaoe De- cember 6, 1615, to Thomasine Clopton, of a good family in the neighborhood, he had the promise of renewed joy in a con- dition which his warm-hearted sociability and his intense fondness for (lomestic re- lations made essential to his happiness, if not to his virtue. But one single year and one added day saw her and her infant child committed to the tomb, and made him again (lesolate. His bi- ographer, not without lnisoivinos indeed but with a deliberation and healthfulness of judgment which most of his readers will approve as allowed to overrule them, has spread before us at length, from the most sacred privacy of the stricken mourner, heart - exercises and scenes in the death-chamber, such as en- gage with most painful, but still entran- cing sympathy, the very soul of the read- ci. We know not where, in all our lit- erature, to find matter like this, so be- dewed and steeped in tenderness, so swift in its alternations between lacerat- ing details and soothing suggestions. The author has put into print all that remains of the record of John Winthrops Experience, in passages written con- temporaneously with its incidents, a 1864.] Governor Jo/zn Wintbrop in Old England. 9 document distinct from the record of his Christian Experience, written here. The account of Thomasines death-bed exercires, as deciphered from the perish- ing manuscript, must, we think, stand by itself; either for criticism, or for the defi- ance of criticism. What we have had of similar scenes only in fragments, and as seen through veils, is here in the ful- ness of all that can harrow or comfort the human heart, spread before us clear of any withholding. It was the same year in which Shakspeare died, in a house built by Sir hugh Clopton, a member of the same family-connection with Tliomasine. Hour by hour, al- most minute by minute, the stages of her transition are reported with infinite mi- nuteness. 11cr own prayers, and those of a stea(ly succession of religious friends, are noted; the melting intonations of her own utterances of anxiety or peace the parting counsels or warnings ad- dressed to her dependants; the last breathings of affection to those dearest the occasional aberrations and cloudings of intellirence coming in the progress of her disease, which were assigned to temptations from Satan: all these are given to us. [icr feaver increased very violently upon hir, ~vh. the Devill made advantage of to moleste hir comforte, but she declaringe unto us with what teinp tations the (levill did assault hir, bent hirselfo against them, prayinge with great vehemence for Gods helpe, & that he would not take away his lovinge kindnesse from hir, def~inge Satan, & spitting at him, so as we might see by hir setting of hir teethe, & fixinge her eyes. slakinge hir head & whole bodyc, that she had a very greatt conlliete with the adversaryc. The mourner follows this scene to its close. having transfig- ured all its dreariest passages with the kindling glow of his own undismayed faith, lie lets his grateful spirit crown it with a sweet peace, and then he pays a most ten(ler tribute to the gentle loveli- ness, fidelity, and Christian excellence of her with whom he had shared so true, though so brief; a joy. This renewed affliction is turned by the still young sufferer to uses which should assure and intensify his piety ac- cording to the best Puritan tyj)e of it. He continues his heart-record. lie sub- jects his mode of life, his feelings, habits and aims, the material of his daily food, and the degree of his love for various goods, as they are to be measured by a true scale, to the most rigid tests. He spares himself in nothing. The Bible does him as direct a service in rebuke and guidance as if every sentence in it had been written for hiinself It is in- teresting to note that his quotations from it are from a version that preceded our own. His rules of self- discipline and spiritual culture, while wholly free from unwholesome asceticism, nevertheless re quired the curbing of all desires, and the utter subjection of every natural l)roi~pt- ing to a crucial test, before ita innocent or edifying character could pass unchal- lenged. Vain would he the attempt in our gen- eration to make Puritanism lovely or at- tractive. Its charms were for its original and sincere disciples, and do not survive them. There is no fashion of (Iress or furniture which may not be revived, and, if patronize(l as fashion, be at least toler- ated. But for Puritanism there is no res- toration. Its rehabilitated relics do not produce their best influence in any at tempt to attract our admiration, which they cannot do, but in engaging our hearts tolerant respect and confidence towards those who actually developed its principles at first-hand, its original disci- ples, who brought it into discredit after- wards by the very fidelity of their loyal- ty to it. Puritanism is an engaging and not offensive object to us, when regarded as the characteristic of only one single generation of men and women aninl chil- dren. It could not pass from that one generation into another without losing much of what grace it had, and acquiring most odious and mischievous elements. Entailed Puritanism being an actual im- possibility, all attempts to realize it, all assumptions of success in it, have the 10 Governor JoU Jl7ntlzrop in Old England. [January, worst features of sham and hypocrisy. The diligent students of the history and the social life of our own colonial days know very well what an unspeakable difference there was, in all that makes and manifests characters and dispositions, between the first corners here and the first native - horn generation, and how painfully that difference tells to the dis- credit of the latter. The tap-roots of Puritanism struck very deep, and drew the sap of life vigorously. They dried very soon; they are now cut; and what- ever owed its life exclusively to them has withered and must perish. A philosophy of Nature and existence now wholly dis- credited underlay the fundamental views and principles of Puritanism. The early records of our General Court are thickly strown with appointments of Fast-Days that the people might discover the espe- cial occasion of Gods anger toward them, manifested in the blight of some expect- ed harvest, or in a scourge upon the cat- tle in the field. Some among us who claim to hold unreduced or softened the old ancestral faith have heen twice in late ye~trs convened in our State-House, by especial call, to legislate upon the potato-disease and the pleuro-pneumonia among our herds. Their joint wisdom resulted in money-appropriations to dis- cover causes and cures. The debates held on these two occasions would have grievously shocked our ancestors. But are there any among us who could in full sincerity, with logic and faith, have stood for the old devout theory of such visita- tions? But if it would be equally vain and unjust to attempt to make Puritanism lovely to ourselves, a quality which its noblest disciples did not presume to make its foremost attraction, there is all the more rpason why we should do it justice in its original and awfully real present- ment in its single generation of veritable discipleship. What became drivelling and cant, presumption and bigotry, pretence and hypocrisy, as soon as a fair trial had tested it, was in the hearts, the speech, the convictions, and the habits of a con- siderable number of persons in one gen- eration, the most thoroughly honest and earnest product of all the influences which had trained them. We read the heart- revelations of John Winthrop with the profoundest confidence, and even with a constraining sympathy. We venture to say that when this hook shall be consult- ed, through all time to come, for the vari- ous uses of historical, religious, or litera- ry illustration, not even the most trifling pen will ever turn a single sentence from its pages to purposes of levity or ridicule. Here we have Puritanism at first-hand: the ori~inal, unimitated, and transient resultant of influences which had been working to produce it, an~ which would continue their working so as to insure modifications of it. Winthrop notes it for a special Providence that his wife dis- covered a loathsome spider in the chil- drens porridge before they had partaken of it. His religious philosophy stopped there. He did not put to himself the sort of questions which open in a train to our minds from any one ohserved fact, else he would have found himself asking af- ter the special Providence which allowed the spider to fall into the porridge. His friend and successor in high-magi stracy in New Ei~land, Governor John Ende- cott, wrote him a letter years afterward which is so characteristic of the faith of both of them that we will make free use of it. The letter is dated Salem, July 28th, 1 640, and probably refers to the disaster hy which the ship Mary Rose was blown in pieces with her own pow- der, being 21 barrels, in Charlestown harbor, the day preceding. * DEAREST Sin,Hearing of ye re- markable stroake of Gods hand uppon ye shippe & shippes companie of Bristoll, as also of some Atheisticall passages & * The letter is given in the valuable collec- tion of Winthrop Papers, drawn frem the same rich repository which has furnishe~I many of the precious materials in the volume before us. The collection appears as the Sixth Vol- ume of the IVth Series of Collections of the Massachusetts Historical Society. 1864.1 Governor Jbhn JYintlirop in Old England. ii hellish profanations of ye Sabbaths & de- ridings of ye people & wayes of God, I thought good to desire a word or two of you of ye trueth of what you have heard. Such an extraordinary judgement would be searched into, what Gods meaninge is in it, both in respect of those whom it concernes more especiallie in Euglaud, as also in regard of ourselves. God will be honred in all dealings. We have heard of severall ungodlie carriadges in that ship, as, first, in their way over- bound they wld. constantlie jeere at ye holy brethren of New England, & some of y marineers would in a scoffe ask when they should come to ye holie Land? 2. After they lay in the harbor Mr. Nor- rice sent to ye shippe one of our brethren uppon busines, & bee heard them say, This is one of ye holie brethren, mocking- lie & disdainefullie. 3. That when some have been with them aboard to buy ne- cessaries, ye shippe men would usuallie say to some of them that they could not want any thinge, they were full of y Spiritt. 4. That ye last Lords Day, or ye Lords Day before, there were many drinkings aboard with singings & musick in tymes of publique exercise. 5. That ye last fast ye master or captaine of the shippe, with most of ye companie, would not goe to ye meetinge, but read y booke of common prayer so often over that some of ye company said bee had worne that threed - bare, with many such passages. Now if these or y like be true, as I am persuaded some of them are, I think ye trueth heereof would be made knowen, by some faithfull hand in Bristoll or else where, for it is a very remarkable & unusuall stroake, etc., etc. Governor Winthrop, who was a man of much milder spirit than Endecott, faith- fully records this jud,ment under its date in his Journal, with additional particu- lars. The explosion took place about dinner time, no man knows how, & blew up all, viz, the captain, & nine or ten of his men, & some four or five strangers. There was a special providence that there were no more, for many principal mcn were going aboard at that time, & some were in a boat near the ship, & others were diverted by a sudden shower of rain, & others by other occasions. The good Governor makes this startling record the occasion for mentioning other examples of like kind. Yet the especial providen- tial significance which both he and Ende- cott could assign to such a calamity would need a readjustment in its interpretation, if compelled to take in two other condi- tions under which the mysterious ways of that Providence are manifested, name- ly: first, that many ships on board which there have been no such profane doings have met with similar disaster and sec- ond, that many ships on board which there has been more heinous sinning have escaped the judgment. But, as we have said, Puritanism was temporarily consistent with the philoso.. phy of life and Nature for one age. It held no divided sway over John Win- throp, but filled his heart, his mind, and his spirit. If, by its influence over any one human being, regarded as an unqual- ified, unmodified style of piety, demand- ing entire allegian~, and not yielding to any mitigation through the tempering qualities of an individual, if, of itself and by itself, Puritanism could be made lovely to us, John Winthrop might well be charged with that exacting represent- ative office. We repeat, that we have no abatement to make of our exalted re- gard for him through force of a single sentence from his pen. Most profoundly are we impressed by the intensity and thoroughness of conviction, the fulness and frankness of avowal, and the deli- cate and fervent earnestness of self-con- secration, which make these ancient ora- cles of a human heart fragrant with the odor of true piety. He uses no hack- neyed terms, no second-hand or imitated phrases. flis language, as well as his thoughts, his met hod, and ideal standard, are purely his own. Indeed, we might set up and sustain for him a claim of ab- solute individuality, if not even of origi- nality, in the standard of godliness an(I righteousness which he fashioned for him- 12 Governor Jo/in Winthrop in Old England. [January self, and then with such zeal and heroism sought to attain. Entering a third time the married state, John Wiiithrop, in April, 1618, took to wife Margaret, daughter of Sir John Tyndal. The clouds, which had gathered so deeply in repeated bereave- ment and gloom over his earlier years of domestic life, yielded now, and left alike the sky and the horizon of his prospects, to give place soon to the anxieties of grave enterj)rises, which animated while they burdened his spirit. This excellent and brave-hearted lady, as she opens her soul, and almost reveals what must have been a sweet andwinning countenance, to the reader of her own letters in these pages, will henceforward he one of the enshrined saints of the Ne~v-England calendar. Lit- tle did she (Iream at her marriage what a destiny was before her. There was in store for her husband nearly thirty years of the truest heart-love and the closest sympathy in religious trust and consecra- tion with her. We may anticipate our narrative at this point, to say that her situation did not allow her to accompany him on his own removal to this side of the ~cean, but she followed him a year and a half afterwards, arriving ia November, 1631, with huis eldest son and others of his children, having lost on the voyage an infant whom he had probably never seen. her death, in a prevailing sick- ness, June 14, 1647, drew from her hus- band this tribute to her: In this sick- ness the Governours wife, daughter of Sir John Tindal, Knight, left this world for a better, being about fifty-six years of age: a woman of singular virtue, prudence, modesty, & piety, & spe- cially beloved & honored of all the country. Though in the December of the same year we find the Governor again married, now to the Widow Mar- tha Coytemore, we refer the incident to wilderness - straits and the exactions of necessity or expediency in domestic life. But we must return to Margaret, the bride. It seenis that there was some ob- jection offered to Winthrops suit by the ladys relatives. In one of the two charm- ing letters which are preserved as writ- ten during his courtship to her, he re- fers to some unequall conflicte which she had to bear. These two letters, with one addressed to the lady by Father Adam, are unique as specimens of Puri- tan love-making. Soloino~~s Song is here put to the best use for which it is adapt- ed, its only safe use. The family-letters, which now increase in number, and vastly in their cheer- fulness and radiance of spirit, and the birth of more children, present to us the most captivating glimpses of the Eng- lish life of our first Chief Magistrate. From a will which he made in Groton in 1620, of course superseded after his change of country, it appears that he had then five sons and one daughter. The Lordship of Groton had been as- signed to him by his father. This was the year of the hegira of the Plymouth Pilgrims, but we have as yet no intima- tion that Winthrop was looking in this direction. For more than a decade of years the family-history now passes on, for the most part placidly, interspersed with those iii cidents and anxieties which give alike the charm and the import to the routine of existence to any closely knit fellowships shar.ing it together. Enough of the fra- grant old material, in fast decaying pa- pers, has come to light an(l been transcrib cml for security against all future risks, to preserve to us a fair restoration of the lights and shades of that domestic expe- rience. Time has dealt kindly in sparing a variety of specimens, so as to give to that restoration a kaleidoscopic character. Winthrops frequent visits to London, on his professional errands, gave occasion to constant correspondence between him and his wife, and so we have epistles burdened with the intensities and refine- ments of the purest aflhction. An occa- sional reference to church affairs by the Patron of Groton, with extracts foni the record of his religious experience, con- tinue for us the evidemice that Winthrop was growing and deepening in the roots 1864.1 Covernor John Wtntlsrop sn Old England. 13 of his noble style of life. His piety evi- dently ripened and mellowed into the richest fruitage which any form of theo- logical or devotional faith can produce. A severe and weilnigh fatal illness in London, which he concealed from his wife at Groton till its crisis was past, was made by him the occasion, as of many other good resolutions, so also of a re- nouncement of the use of tobacco, in which, by his own account, he, like many men as ~vell as women at that time, had gone to excess. His good wife, though positively enjoined by him not to ven- ture upon the winters journey, in the let- ter which communicated to her the first tidings of his illness, immediately went to him in the great city, attended only by a female servant. In a previous malady from which he had suffered severely in one of his hands while at home, his son John, in London, had consulted in his be- half one of the helpful female practition- ers of the time, and the correspondence relating to her advice, her ointments, and their ~fficacy, gives us some curiously il- lustrative matter in the history of the healing art. The good woman was sure that she could at once cure her patient, if he could be beneath her hands. She would receive no compensation. A mystery has attached to a certain office which Winthrop held in Lon- don, and to which, in one of his previous- ly published letters, he referred as having lost it. It now appears that that office was an Attorneyship of the Court of Wards and Liveries, an honorable and responsible trust. Its duties, with other professional engagements, separated him so much from his home at one period, that he meditated the removal of his fam- ily from Groton. His wifes letters on the subject are delightful revelations of confidences. It is still only by inference that we can assign the loss of his bifice, to the business of which we have many references, to any especial cause. It may have bean surrendered by him because he longed for more home-life, or because the growing spirit of discontent and ap- prehension as to the state of public af fairs, which he shared with so many of his friends, made him obnoxious to the controlling heads in civil life. We have also some admirable speci- mens of his correspondence with his son John, who, after his preliminary educa- tion at the school at Bury St. Edmunds, became, in 1622, in his seventeenth year, a member of Trinity College, Dublin, near his uncle and aunt Do~vning, par- ents of the famous Sir George Downing. These are beautiful and xvise and gener- ous expressions of a fathers love and ad- vice and dealings with a son, exposed to temptation at a critical age, and giving promise of the abilities and virtues which he afterwards exhibited so nobly as Gov- ernor of Connecticut. In one of the let- ters, to which the father asks replies in Latin, he writes, I will not limit your allowance less than to ye uttermost of mine own estate. So as, if 20 be too little (as I always accounted it.), you shall have 30 & when that shall not suffice, you shall have more. Only hold a sober & frugal course (yet with- out baseness), & I will shorten myself to enlarge you. In another letter there is this fit commemoration of his father, Adam, dying at the age of seventy-five I am sure, before this, you have knowl- edge of that wh., at the time when you wrote, you were ignorant of: viz., the departure of your grandfather (for I wrote over twice since). He bath finished his course: & is gathered to his people in peace, as the ripe corn into the barn. He thought long for y day of his dissolution, & welcomed it most gladly. Thus is he gone before; & we must go after, in our time. This ad- vantage he bath of us, he shall not see y evil wb. we may meet with ere we go hence. Happy those who stand in good terms with God & their own con- science: they shall not fear evil tid- ings: & in all changes they shall be y same. There are likewise letters to the stu- dent at Dublin from his brother Forth, who succeeded him at the school at St. Edmunds. It is curious to note in these 14 Governor John Ws~nthrop sn Old England. [January, epistles 6f the school-boy the indifferent success of his manifestly sincere effort to use the technical language of Puritanism and to express its aims and ardors. The youth evidently feels freer when writing of the fortunes of some of his school-mates. This same Forth Winthrop became in course a student at Cambridge, and we have letters to his father, carried by the veritable Hobson immortalized by Mil- ton. The younger John went, on graduat- ing, to London, to fit himself for the law. His name is found on the books as ad- mitted to the Inner Temple in 1624. He appears early to have cherished some matrimonial purposes which did not work felicitously. Not liking his profession, he turned his thoughts toward the sea. He obtained a secretaryship in the naval ser- vice, and joined the expedition under the Duke of Buckingham, designed to relieve the French Protestants at Rochelle, in 1627. He afterwards made an Oriental tour, of the stages of which we have some account in his letters, in 16289, from Leghorn, Constantinople, etc. He w~ thwarted in a purpose to visit Jerusalem, and returned to England, by Holland. Notwithstanding the industrious fidelity of his father as a letter-writer, the son received no tidings from home during his whole absence of nearly fifteen months. What a contrast with our times! Before undertaking this Oriental tour, the younger John had had proposals made to him, which seem to have engaged his own inclinations, to connect himself with Endecotts New-England enterprise. He wrote to consult the wishes of his father on the subject; but that father, who in less than two years was to find himself pled~ed to a more comprehensive scheme, involving a life-long exile in that far-off wilderness, dissuaded his son from the premature undertaking. It does not api- pear that the father had as yet presented to his mind the possibility of any such step. Yet, from the readiness which marked his own earnest and complete sympathy in the enterprise when first we find him concerncd in it, we must in- fer that he had much previous acquaint- ance and sympathy with the early New- England adventurers from the moment that a religious spirit became prominent in their fellowship. He was a man who undertook no great work without the most careful deliberation, and a slow maturing of his, decision. During the absence of John at the East, many interesting and serious inci- dents occurred in the personal experience and in the domestic relations of his father, which doubtless helped the preparation of his spirit for the critical event of his life, lie had that severe and threaten- ing illness in London already referred to. We have many letters covering the period, filled with matter over which, as so full of what is common to the human heart in all time, we linger with consent- ing sympathy. A wayward and uncon- verted son, Henry by name, caused his father an anxiety which we see strug- gling painfully with parental affection and a high-toned Christian aim for all the members of his family. The sons course indicated rather profitlessness and recklessness than vice, lIe connected himself with an enterprise at Barbadoes. He drew heavily on his fathers resources for money, and returned him some to- bacco, which the father very~ frankly writes to him was very ill-conditioned, foul, & full of stalks, & evil-colored. He came over in the same expedition, though not in the same ship, with his father, and was accidentally drowned at Salem, July 2,1630. In the first letter which the good Governor wrote to his wife after his landing here, dated Charles- town, July 16, 1630, are these senten- ces We have met with many sad & discomfortable things, as thou shalt hear after; & y0 Lords hand hath been heavy upon myself in some very near to me. My son henry! my son Henry! ah, poor child! While the father was writing from London to this son, then supposed to be at Barbadoes, he had other matters of anxiety. His endeared brother-in-law, Fones, died, April 15, 1629, and four days after- 1864.1 Governor Jo/sn Winthrop ~u Old England. 15 wards, Winthrop was called to part, at Groton, with his venerated mother, who died under the roof where she bad lived so happily and graciously with his own family in his successive sorrows and de- lights. The loss or resignation of his office, with the giving up of his law - cham- ber in London, and his evident premo- nitions of the sore troubles in aflisirs of Church and State which were soon to convulse his native land, doubtless guided him to a decision, some of the stages and incidents of which have left no record for us. Enough, however, of the process may still be traced among papers which have recently come to light, to open to us its inner workings, and to explain its development. A ride with his brother Downing into Lincolushire, July 28, 1629, finds an entry in Winthrops Experiences, that it may mark his gratitude to the Providence which pre- served his lifb, when, as he writes, my horse fell under me in a bogge in the fennes, so as I was alimost to y waiste in water. Beyond all doubt this ride was taken by the sympathizing travellers on a prearranged visit to Isaac Johnson, another of the New-England worthies, at Sempriugham, on business connected with the Massachusetts enter- prise. But the first recovered and ex- tant document which proves that Win- throp was committing himself to the great work is a letter of his son Johns, dated London, August 21, 1629, in reply to one from his father, which, it is evident from the tenor of the answer, had di- rectly proposed the embarking of the interest of the whole family in the en- terprise. A certain mysterious paper of Conclusions, referred to by the son, had been inclosed in the fathers letter, which appears to be irrecoverable. There has been much discussion, with rival and contested claims and pleas, as to the au- thorship of that most valuable and crit- ical document containing the proposi- tions for the enterprise, with reasons and grounds, objections and answers. Our author urges, with force of arguments and the evidence of authentic papers, en- tirely to our satisfaction, that John Win- throp was essentially and substantially the digester and exponent of those preg- nant considerations. The correspond- ence which follows proves how consci- entiously the enterprise was weighed, and the reasons and objections debated. Godly ministers were consulted for their advice and co6peration. No opposition or withholding of any shade or degree would seem to have been made by any member of Winthrops family; his gen- tle, meek-hearted, but most heroic and high-souled wife, being, from first to last, his most cordial sympathizer and ally. We next find him entering into the de- cisive Agreement, at Cambridge, with eleven other of the foremost adventurers to New England, which pledged them to inhabit and continue there. It was only after most protracted, and, we may be sure, most devout deliberation, that the great decision was made, which in- volved the transfer of the patent, the setting up of a self-governing common- wealth on the foreign soil, and the com- mittal of those who were to be its mem- bers to a life-long and exacting under- taking, from which there were to be no lookings-back. A day was appointed for the company to meet, on which two committees were chosen, to weigh and present with full force, respectively, the reasons for a removal, and the reasons against it. The show of hands, when these committees reported, fixed the pur- pose of the company on what they did not hesitate to believe was the leading of Providence. From that moment we find Winthrop busy with cares and efforts of the most exacting character, drawing upon all his great energies, and engaging the fond- est devotion of his manly an(l Christian heart. He gave himnselg without stint or regret, with an unselfish and supreme consecration, to the work, cherishing its great aim as the matter of his most ear- nest piety, and attending to its pettiest details with a scrupulous fidelity which proved that conscience found its prov 16 Governor John Winthrop in Old England. [January, ince there. We seem almost to be made spectators of the bustle and fervor of the old original Passover scenes of the lie- brew exodus. It is refreshing to pause for a moment over a touch of our com- mon humanity, which we meet by the way. Winthrop in London feeds with letters the wife from whom he was so often partcd. In one of them he tells her that he has purchased for her the stuff for a gowne to be scnt by the carrier, and he adds, Lett me knowe what trim- inge I shall send for thy gowne. But Margaret, who could trust her honored husband in everything else, was a wom- an still, and must reserve, not only the ri~hts of her sex, but the privilege of her own good taste for the fitnesses of things. So she guardedly replies,in a postscript, of course, When I see the cloth, I will send word what triminge will serve. In a modest parenthesis of another letter to her, dated October 29, 1629, he speaks of himselg as if all by the way, as beinge chosen by ye Com- pany to be their Governor. The cir- cumstances of his election and trust, so honorable and dignified, are happily told with sufficient particularity on our own Court Records. Governor Cradock, his honored predecessor, not intending im- mediate emigration, put the proposition, and announced the result which gave him such a successor. Attending frequently upon meetin~s of the Company, and supervising its own business as well as his private affairs, all having in view what must then have been in the scale of the time a gigantic un(lertakincr full of ye em- xations and barrassments, Winthrop seizes upon a few days of crowded heart - stru ~glings to make his last visit at the dear home- stead, and then to take of it his eternal farewell. How lovingly and admiringly do we follow him on his way from Lon- don, taking his last view of those many sweet scenes which were thenceforward to embower in his memory all the joys of more than fbrty years! He did not then know for what a rugged landscape, and for what uncouth habitations, he was to exchange those fair scenes and the ivy- clad and -festooned churches and cottages of his dear England. His wife, for rea- sons of prudence, was to remain for a while with some of his children, beside his eldest son, and was to follow him when he had made fit preparation for her. His last letters to her (and each of many was written as the last, because of frequent delays) after the embarkation of the company, are gems and jewels of a heart which was itself the pure shrine of a most fond and faithful love. His leave-taking at Groton was at the end of February, 1630; his embarkation was on March 22. The ships were weather - bound successively at Cowes and at Yarmouth, whence were written those melting epistles. A letter which he wrote to Sir William Spring, one of the Parliamentary members from Suf, folk, a dear religious friend of his, over- flows with an ardor and intenseness of affection which passes into the tone and language of feminine endearment, and fashions passages from the Song of Sol- omon into prayers. One sentence of that letter keeps sharp its lacerating point for the reader of to-day. But I must leave you all: our farewells usually are pleasant passages; mine must be sor- roxvful; this addition of forever is a sad close. And it was to be forevcr. Win- throp was never to see his native land again. Many of his associates made one or more homeward voyages. A few of them returned to resume their English citizenship in those troublous times which invited an(l exercised energies like those which had essayed to tame a wilderness. But the great and good leader of this blessed exodus never found the occa- sion, we know not that he ever felt the prompting, to recross the ocean. The purpose of his life and soul was a unit in its substance and consecration, and it had found its object. For nineteen years, most of them as Governor, and always as the leading spirit and the recognized Moses of the enterprise, he was spared to see the planting and the building- up which subdued the wilder- 1864.1 The Plantinq of the Apple- Tree. 17 ness and reared a commonwealth. lie had most noble and congenial associates in the chief magistrates of the other New- England colonies. Bradford and XVins- low of Plymouth, Eaton of New Haven, his own son and Ilaynes and Hopkins of Connecticut, and XVilliams of Prov- idence Plantations, were all of them men of signal virtue. They have all ot- tamed a good report, and richly and em- inently do they deserve it. They were, indeed, a providential galaxy of pure- hearted, unspotted, heroic men. There is a mild and sweet beauty in the star of XVinthrop, the lustre of which asks no jealous or rival estimation. THE PLANTING OF THE APPLE-TREE. COME, let us plant the apple-tree! Cleave the tough greensward with the spade; Wide let its hollow bed he made; There gently lay the roots, and there Sift the dark mould with kindly care, And press it oer them tenderly, As, round the sleeping infants feet, We softly fold the cradle-sheet: So plant we the apple-tree. What plant we in the apple-tree? Buds, which the breath of summer days Shall lengthen into leafy sprays; Boughs, where the thrush with crimson breast Shall haunt and sing and hide her nest. We plant upon the sunny lea A shadow for the iioontide hour, A shelter from the summer shower, When we plant the apple-tree. What plant we in the apple-tree? Sweets for a hundred flowery springs, To load the May-winds restless wings, When, from the orchard-row, he pours Its fragrance through our open doors; A world of blossoms for the bee Flowers for the sick girls silent room; For the glad infant sprigs of bloom. We plant with the apple-tree. What plant we in the apple-tree? Fruits that shall swell in sunny June, And redden in the August noon, And drop, as gentle airs come by That fan the blue Septeniber sky; While children, wild with noisy glee, Shall scent their fragrance as they pass, 2 VOL. XIII.

W. C. Bryant Bryant, W. C. The Planting of the Apple-Tree 17-19

1864.1 The Plantinq of the Apple- Tree. 17 ness and reared a commonwealth. lie had most noble and congenial associates in the chief magistrates of the other New- England colonies. Bradford and XVins- low of Plymouth, Eaton of New Haven, his own son and Ilaynes and Hopkins of Connecticut, and XVilliams of Prov- idence Plantations, were all of them men of signal virtue. They have all ot- tamed a good report, and richly and em- inently do they deserve it. They were, indeed, a providential galaxy of pure- hearted, unspotted, heroic men. There is a mild and sweet beauty in the star of XVinthrop, the lustre of which asks no jealous or rival estimation. THE PLANTING OF THE APPLE-TREE. COME, let us plant the apple-tree! Cleave the tough greensward with the spade; Wide let its hollow bed he made; There gently lay the roots, and there Sift the dark mould with kindly care, And press it oer them tenderly, As, round the sleeping infants feet, We softly fold the cradle-sheet: So plant we the apple-tree. What plant we in the apple-tree? Buds, which the breath of summer days Shall lengthen into leafy sprays; Boughs, where the thrush with crimson breast Shall haunt and sing and hide her nest. We plant upon the sunny lea A shadow for the iioontide hour, A shelter from the summer shower, When we plant the apple-tree. What plant we in the apple-tree? Sweets for a hundred flowery springs, To load the May-winds restless wings, When, from the orchard-row, he pours Its fragrance through our open doors; A world of blossoms for the bee Flowers for the sick girls silent room; For the glad infant sprigs of bloom. We plant with the apple-tree. What plant we in the apple-tree? Fruits that shall swell in sunny June, And redden in the August noon, And drop, as gentle airs come by That fan the blue Septeniber sky; While children, wild with noisy glee, Shall scent their fragrance as they pass, 2 VOL. XIII. 18 The Planting of the Apple- Tree. [January, And search for them the tufted grass At the foot of the apple-tree. And when above this ap~le-tree The winter stars are quivering bright, And winds go howlii~g through the night, Girls, whose young eyes oerflow with mirth, Shall peel its fruit by cottage-hearth, And guests in prouder homes shall see, Heaped with the orange and the drape, As fair as they in tint and shape, The fruit of the apple-tree. The fruitage of this apple-tree Winds and our flag of stripe and star Shall bear to coasts that lie afar, Where men shall wonder at the view, And ask in what fair groves they grew; And they who roam beyond the sea Shall look, and think of childhoods day, And long hours passed in summer play In the shade of the apple-tree. Each year shall give this apple-tree A broader flush of roseate bloom, A deeper maze of verdurous gloom, And loosen, when the frost-clouds lower, The crisp brown leaves in thicker shower; The years shall come and pass, but we Shall hear no longer, where we lie, The summer s songs, the autumns sigh, In the boughs of the apple-tree. And time shall waste this apple-tree. Oh, when its aged branches throw Thin shadows on the sward below, Shall fraud and force and iron will Oppress the weak and helpless still? What shall the tasks of mercy be, Amid the toils, the strifes, the tears Of those who live when length of years Is wasting this apple-tree? Who planted this old apple-tree? The children of that distant day Thus to some aged man shall say And, gazing on its mossy stem, The gray-haired man shall answer them: A poet of the land was he, Born in the rude, but good old times; T is said he made some quaint old rhymes On planting the apple-tree. 1864.1 Ray. 19 RAY. So Bcltran was a Rebel. Vivia stood before the glass, brushing out black shadows from her long, fine hair. There lay the letter as little Jane had left it, as she had let it lie till all the doors had clanged between, as she had laid it down again. She paused, with the brush half lifted, to glance once more at the clear superscription, to turn it and touch with her finger-tips the firm seal. Then she went on lengthening out the tresses that curle(l hack again at the end like something instinct with life. How long it had been in coming gradual journeys up from those Southern shores, and slumber in some comrades care till a flag of truce could bear it across beneath the shelter of its white wing. Months had passed. And where was Beltian now? Living, Vivia had a proud assurance in her heart of that her heart that went swiftly gliding back into the past, and filling old scenes with fresh fire. Thinking thus, she bent for- ward with dark, steady gaze, as if she sought for its pictures iii the uncertain depths of the mirror, and there they rose as of old the crystal gave them hack to the seeker. It was no gracious wom- an heading there that she saw, but a scene where the very air infused with sunlight seemed to glow, the house with its wide veranda veiled in vines, and above it towerin~ the rosy cloud of an oleander-tree, behind it the far azure strip of the bay, before it the lopg low line of sandy beach where the waters of the Gulf forever swung their silver tides with a sullen roar, for the place was one of those islands that make the perpetual fortifications of the Texan coast. Vivia, a slender little maiden of eleven sum- mers, rocks in a boat a rod from shore, and by her side, his length along the warm wave, his arm along the boat, a boy floats in his linen clothes, an am- phibious child, so undersized as to seem but little more than a baby, and yet a year her senior. He swims round and round the skiff in circling frolics, follow- ed by the great dog who gambols with them, he dives under it and comes up far in advance, he treads water as lie returns, and, seizing the painter, draws it forward while she sits there like Thetis guiding her sea-horses. Then, as the sun flings down more fervid showers, together they beach the boat and scamper up the sand, where old Disney, who has been dredg- ing for oysters in the great bed below, crowns his basket with little Ray, and bears him off perched aloft on his bent hack. Vivia walks beside the old slave in her infantile dignity, and disregards the sundry attempts of Rays outstretch- ed arms, till of a sudden the beating play of hoofs runs along the ground, and Bel- tran, with his mornings game, races by on his fiery mustang, and, scarcely check- ing his speed as he passes, stoops from the saddle and lifts the little girl before him. Vivia would look back in triumph upon Ray in his ignoble conveyance, hut the affair has already been too much for him, he has flung himself on the instant from old I)isnevs basket, as if lie were careless whether he fell under the horses feet or not, hut knowing perfectly well that Beltran will catch him. And Bel- trail, suddenly pulling up with a fierce rein, does catch him, bestows him with Vivia, slightly to her dainty discomfort, and dashes on. Noon deepens; Vivia does not sleep, she seeks Ray, Ray who does not sleep either, but who is not to be beguiled. For, one day, the child in his troubled dreams had been found by Beltran with a white coil of fangs and venom for his pillow; and never since has Beltran t.aken his noontide siesta but Ray watches beside him till the thick brown lashes lift themselves once more. For, if Ray knows what worship is, he would show you Beltran enshrined in his heart, this brother a dozen years his elder, who had hailed his birth with stormy tears of

Harriet E. Prescott Prescott, Harriet E. Ray 19-40

1864.1 Ray. 19 RAY. So Bcltran was a Rebel. Vivia stood before the glass, brushing out black shadows from her long, fine hair. There lay the letter as little Jane had left it, as she had let it lie till all the doors had clanged between, as she had laid it down again. She paused, with the brush half lifted, to glance once more at the clear superscription, to turn it and touch with her finger-tips the firm seal. Then she went on lengthening out the tresses that curle(l hack again at the end like something instinct with life. How long it had been in coming gradual journeys up from those Southern shores, and slumber in some comrades care till a flag of truce could bear it across beneath the shelter of its white wing. Months had passed. And where was Beltian now? Living, Vivia had a proud assurance in her heart of that her heart that went swiftly gliding back into the past, and filling old scenes with fresh fire. Thinking thus, she bent for- ward with dark, steady gaze, as if she sought for its pictures iii the uncertain depths of the mirror, and there they rose as of old the crystal gave them hack to the seeker. It was no gracious wom- an heading there that she saw, but a scene where the very air infused with sunlight seemed to glow, the house with its wide veranda veiled in vines, and above it towerin~ the rosy cloud of an oleander-tree, behind it the far azure strip of the bay, before it the lopg low line of sandy beach where the waters of the Gulf forever swung their silver tides with a sullen roar, for the place was one of those islands that make the perpetual fortifications of the Texan coast. Vivia, a slender little maiden of eleven sum- mers, rocks in a boat a rod from shore, and by her side, his length along the warm wave, his arm along the boat, a boy floats in his linen clothes, an am- phibious child, so undersized as to seem but little more than a baby, and yet a year her senior. He swims round and round the skiff in circling frolics, follow- ed by the great dog who gambols with them, he dives under it and comes up far in advance, he treads water as lie returns, and, seizing the painter, draws it forward while she sits there like Thetis guiding her sea-horses. Then, as the sun flings down more fervid showers, together they beach the boat and scamper up the sand, where old Disney, who has been dredg- ing for oysters in the great bed below, crowns his basket with little Ray, and bears him off perched aloft on his bent hack. Vivia walks beside the old slave in her infantile dignity, and disregards the sundry attempts of Rays outstretch- ed arms, till of a sudden the beating play of hoofs runs along the ground, and Bel- tran, with his mornings game, races by on his fiery mustang, and, scarcely check- ing his speed as he passes, stoops from the saddle and lifts the little girl before him. Vivia would look back in triumph upon Ray in his ignoble conveyance, hut the affair has already been too much for him, he has flung himself on the instant from old I)isnevs basket, as if lie were careless whether he fell under the horses feet or not, hut knowing perfectly well that Beltran will catch him. And Bel- trail, suddenly pulling up with a fierce rein, does catch him, bestows him with Vivia, slightly to her dainty discomfort, and dashes on. Noon deepens; Vivia does not sleep, she seeks Ray, Ray who does not sleep either, but who is not to be beguiled. For, one day, the child in his troubled dreams had been found by Beltran with a white coil of fangs and venom for his pillow; and never since has Beltran t.aken his noontide siesta but Ray watches beside him till the thick brown lashes lift themselves once more. For, if Ray knows what worship is, he would show you Beltran enshrined in his heart, this brother a dozen years his elder, who had hailed his birth with stormy tears of 20 Ray. [January, joy, who had carried him for years when he was yet too weak to walk, who in his own full growth would seem to have ab- sorbed the youngers share, were it not that, tiny as Ray may be, his every nerve is steel, made steel, though, by the other, and so trained and suppled and put at his serviee. It was Beltran who had first flung him astride the saddle and sent him loping off to town alone, but who had se- cretly followed him from thieket to thick- et, and stood ready in the market-place at last to lift him down; it was Beltran who had given him his own rifle, had taught him to take the bird on the wing, had led him out at night to see the great silent alligator in his scale-armor sliding over the land from the coast and plunging in- to the fresh waters of the bay, who took him with him on the long journeys for gathering in the cattle of the vast stock- farm, let him sleep beside himself on the bare prairie-floor, like a man, with his horse tethered to his boot, told him the spot in the game on which to draw his bead, showed him what part to dress, and made him chef de cuisine in every camp they crossed; it was he who had taught him how to hold himself in any wild stam- pede, on the prairie how to conquer fire with fire, to find water as much his ele- ment as air; it is Beltran, in short, who has made him this little marvel which at twelve years old he finds himself to be, this brother who serves him so, and whom he adores, for whom he pass~on- ately expresses his devotion, this broth- er whom he loves as he loves the very life he lives. So Yivia, too, sits down at Bel- trans feet that day, and busies herself with those pink plumes of the spoonbills wings which he brought home to her, so that, when he wakes, he sees her stand- iug there like the spirit of his dream, her dark eyes shining out from under the floating shadowy hair, and the rosy wings trembling on her little white shoulders. And just then Beltran has no word for Ray, the customary smiling word always waited for, since his eyes are on the vis- ion at his feet, and straightway the child springs down, springs where he can in- tercept Beltrans view, seems to rise in his wrath a head above the girl, and, look- ing at Beltran all the while, slaps Vivia on the cheek. Instantly two hands have clasped about his wrists, two hands that hold him in a vice, and two eyes are gaz- ing down into his own and paralyzing him. Still the grasp, the gaze, continue as Vivia watches that look, a great blue glow from those eyes seems to cloud her own brain. The color rises on Rays cheeks, his angry eyes fall, his chest heaves, his lips tremble, off from the long black lashes spin sprays of tears, he can- not move, he is so closely held, but slow- ly he turns his head, meets the red lips of the forgiving girl with his, then casts himself with sobs on Beltrans breast. And all that evening, as the sudden heavy clouds drive down and quench sunset and starlight, while they sit about a great fire, Beltran keeps her at his side and Ray maintains his place, and within there is light and love, axid with- out the sand trembles to the shock of sound and the thunder of the surf, and the heaven is full of the wildly flying blast of the Norther. Still, as Vivia gazed into the silent mir- ror, the salient points of her life started up as if memory held a torch to them in their dark recesses, and another picture printed its frosty spiculce upon the gray surface of the glass before her. No ar- dent arch of Southern noontide now, no wealth of flower and leaf, no pomp of regnant summer, but winter has darken- ed down over sad Northern countries, and white Arctic splendor hedges a lake about with the beauty of incomparable radiance; the trees whose branches over- hang the verge are foamy fountains, froz- en as they fall; distantly beyond them the crisp upland fields stretch their snowy sparkle to touch the frigid-flashing sap- phire of the sky, and bluer than the sky itself their shadows fall about them; ev- ery thorn, every stem, is set, a spike of crusted lustre in its icy mail; the tingling air takes the breath in silvery wreaths; and whe~ ever the gay garment of a skat- er breaks the monotone with a gleam of 1864.1 l?ay. 21 crimson gr purple, the shining feet be- neath chisel their fantastic curves upon a floor that is nothing but one glare of crystal sheen. And here, hero of the scene, glides Beltran, master of the North- errs art as school-days made him, skates as of old some youiig Viking skated, all his keing hubbling in a lofty glee, with blue eyes answering this icy brilliance as they dazzle back from the tawny coun- tenance, with every muscle rippling grace and vigor to meet the proud volition, lithe- ly cutting the air, swifter than the swal- lows wing in its arrowy precision, care- less as the floating flake in effortless mo- tion, skimming along the lucid sheathing that answers his ringing heel with a tune of its own, and swaying in his almost a& rial medium, lightly, easily, as the swim- ming fish sways to the currents of the tide. Scorin~, whitely their tracery of intricate lines, the groups go by in whorls, in angles, in ~eping circles, and the ice shrinks beneath them; here a fairy couple slide along, waving and bowing and swinging together; far away some recluse in his pleasure sports alone with folded arms, careening in the outward roll like the mast of a phantom - craft everywhere inshore clusters of ruddy- checked boys race headlong with their hawkey-sticks, and with their wild cries, making benders where the ice surges in a long swell and constantly in Beltrans wake slips Vivia, a scarlet shadow, while a clumsy little black outline is ever de- signing itself at her heels as Ray strives in vain to perfect the mysteries of the left stroke. All about, the keen air breathes its exhilaration, and the glow seems to penetrate the pores till the very blood dances along filled with such intoxicating influence; all above, the afternoon heav- en deepens till it has no hidden richness, and between one and the pale gold of the coldly reddening horizon the white air seems hollow as the flaw in some great transparent jewel. Still they wind away in their gladness, when hurriedly Beltran reaches his hand for the heedless Vivias, and hurriedly she sees terrifying grooves spreading round them, a great web-work of cracks, the awful ice lifts itself, sinks, and out of a monstrous fissure chill death rises to meet them an(l ingulf them. In an instant, Ray, who might have escap- ed, has hurled himself upon them, and then, as they all struggle for on~ drown- ing breath in the flood, Vivia dimly di- vines through her horror an arm stretch- ed first towards Ray, snatched back again, and bearing her to safety. Ray has al- ready scrambled from the shallow breach where his brother alone found bottom; waiting hands assist Beltran; but as she lingers that moment shivering on the brink, blindly remembering the double movement of that arm beneath the ice, she silently asks, with a thrill, if he suf- fered Ray to save himself because he was a boy, and could, or because because she was Vivia! Southern noontide, winter twilight lost themselves again, as Vivia gazed, in the soft starry gleam of an April midnight. A quiet room, dimly lighted by a flame that dying eyes no longer see; two fig- ures kneeling, one at either side of the mother, the little apple - blossom of a mother brought up to die among her own people, one shaking with his storm of sobs, the other supporting the dear, weary head on his strong breast, and stifling his very heart-beat lest it stir the frail life too roughly. And the mother lifts the lids of her faint eyes, as when a parting va- por reveals rifts of serene heaven, gazes for a moment into the depths of her first- borns tenderness, gropes darkly for his fingers and for the hot little hand thrust eagerly forth to meet hers, closes one about the other, and folds them both up- on her own heart. Then Beltran bends and gathers from the lips the life that kindled his. With a despairing cry, Ray flings himself forward, and dead and liv- ing lie in Beltrans arms, while the strong convulsion of his heart rends up a hollow groan from its emptiness. Ahd Vivia draws aside the curtain, and the gentle wind hrings in the sweet earthy scent of fresh furrows lately wet with showers, and the ever-shifting procession of the silent stars unveil themselves of gauzy cloud, 22 Rci~y. [January and glance sadly down with their abid- ing eyes upon these fleeting shadows. After all, who can (leny that there is magic in a mirror, a weird atmosphere imprisoned between the metal and the glass, berrowing the occult powers of the gulf of space, and returning to us our own wraith and apparition at any hour ~f the day or night when we smite it with a ray of light, reaching with its searching power into the dark places where we have hidden ourselves, and seizing and pro- jecting them in open si~ht? Who douhts that this sheeny panel on so many walls, with wary art slurring off its elusive gleam, could, at th~ one compelling word, paint again the reflections of all on which it silently dreams in its reticent heart, the joy, the grief, the weeping face, the laughing lip, the lovers kiss, the ty- rants sneer, almost the crouched and bleeding soul on which that sneer de- scended, of which some wandering heam carried record? When we remember the violin, inwardly ridged with the vibra- tions of old tunes, old discords, who would wonder to find some charactery of light tracing its indelible script within the crystal substance? And here, if Vivia saw one other scene blaze out before her and vanish, why not believe, for fancys sake, that it was as real a picture as the image of the dark and beautiful girlher- self bending there with the carmine stain upon her cheek, the glowing, parted lips, the shining eyes, the shadowy hair? Late spring down on the Maryland farm: you know it by the intense blue through that quaint window draped with such a lushness of vines, such a glory of blossom. In at the open door, whose frame is arabesqued with hangiug sprays of sweetbrier, with the pendent nest, with fluttering moth - wings sunshine dusted, with crowds of burstifig buds, pours the mellow sun in one great stream, pours from the peach - orchards the fragrant breeze laden with bird-song. A girl, stand- ing aside, with clasped hands drooping before her, her gaze upon a shadow on the floor in the midst of that broad stream of light. Casting that shadow, under the lintel, a young man clad N travel. Since he left his Southern home, ruin has be- fallen it; he dares not ask one lapped in luxury to share such broken fortunes as his seem to-day, even though such stout shoulders, so valiant a heart, huffi~t them. If she loves, it is enough; they can wait; their treasure neither moth nor rust.can corrupt; their jewel is imperishable. If she loves lie is looking in her eyes, holding to her his hands. Slowly the girl meets his glance. A long look, on elong, silent look, infinitude in its assurance, its glow wrapping her, blue and smiling as heaven itself, reaching him like the even- ing ~ar seen through tears, a word, a touch, had profaned with a trait of earthliness so remote, so spiritual a be- trothal. He goes, and still the upward- smiling girl sees the sunshine, hears the bird-song, a boy dashes by the door and down the path to meet the last, close- lingering embrace of t;~ waiting arms at the gate, and then there is nothing but Vivia bending and gazing at herself in the glass with a flushed and fevered eagerness of rapture. The wild, sweet tunes that darkly deep Thrill through thy veins and shroud thy sleep, That swing thy blood with proud, glad sway, And beat thy lifes arterial play, Still wilt thou have this music sweep Along thy brain its pulsing leap, Keep love away! keep love away! The joy of peace that wide and high Like light floods thro ugh time soarin~ sky, The day divine, time night akin, heaven in tIme heart, ali, wilt thou win, The secret of (lie hoarded years, Life rounded as the shining spheres, Let love come in! let love come in! she sang, to case her heart of its swell- ing gladness. But here Vivia dared not concentrate her recollections, dareti not dully with such distant delight, t~visted and tossed her hair into its coils, and once more opened the letter. Ray had not lived for three years under converging influ- ences, years which are glowing wax be- neath the seal of fresh impressions, years when one puts off or takes on the ten- 1864.] Ray. 23 dencies of a lifetime, Ray had not liv- ed those three school-years without con- tracting habits, whims, determinations of his own: let her have Beltrans reasons to meet Rays cbjections. They were up at the little meadow- side cottage of Mrs. Vennard, Rays ma- ternal aunt, a quiet widow, who was glad to receive her dying sister in her house a year and a half ago, as she had often received her boys before, and who was still willing to eke out her narrow in- come with the board of one nephew and any summer guest; and as that summer guest, owing to an old family-friendship that overlooked differences of rank and wealth, Vivia had, for many a season, been established. here, when bodings of trouble began to darken her sunny fields, she had, in early spring, with- drawn again, leaving her maiden aunt to attend to the affairs of the homestead, or to find more luxurious residence in watering - places or cities, as she chose. For Vivia liked the placid life and free- dom of the cottage, and here ,too,she had oftenest met those dear friends to whom one winter her father, long since dead, had faken her, and half of all that was pleasant in her life had inwoven it- self with the simple surroundings of the place. Here, in that fatal spring when the first toesin alarmed the land, Ray, now scarcely any longer a boy, yet with a boys singleness of mind, though pos- sessing neither patience nor power for subtilties of difficult reason and truth, thinking of no lonely portion, but of the one great fact of country, had been fired with spontaneous fervor, and had ever since been like some restive steed champ- ing the bit and quivering to start. As for Vivia, she was a Maryland. woman. Too burningly indignant, the blood bub- bled in her heart for words sometimes, and she would be glad of Beltrans weap- ons with which to confront kay when he returned from Boston, whither, the day before, without a words explanation, he had betaken himself. So she turn- ed again to the open letter, and scanned its weightiest paragraphs. There is a stran ~ e reversal of right and wrong, when the American Peace Society declares itself for war. There is, then, a greater evil than war, even than civil ~var, with its red, fm;atricidal hands? Slavery. But, could that be destroy- ed, it would be the first great evil ever overcome by force of arms. They fight tangibly with an intangible foe; tangible issues rise between them; the black, in- tangible phantom hovers safe behind. But even should they visibly succeed, is there not left the very root of the matter to put forth fresh growth, that moral condition in which the thing lived at all? An evil that has its source in the heart must be eradicated by slow medicinal cure of the blood. To fight against the stars in their courses, one must have brands of starry temper. No sudden shocks of battle will sweep Slavery from the sphere. Can one conquer the uni- verse by proclamation? Lyra will rise to-morrow, said some one, after Cmusar reformed the calendar. Doubtless, re- plied Cicero, there is an edict for it. But, believe me, there can be no broad, stupendous evil, unless it be a part of Gods plan; and in his own time, without other help from us than the performance of our duty, it will slough off its slime and rise into some fair superstructure. Our efforts dash like spray against the rock, the spray is broken, the rock re- mains. To annihilate evil with evil, that is an error in itself against which every man is justified in taking up his sword. So far, I have allowed the sin. Yet, sin or not, in this country the estate of the slave is unalterable. Segregately, the institution is their protection. For though there is no record of the contact of su- perior and inferior races on a basis of equality, where the inferior did not ab- sorb the superior, yet, if every slave were set free to-day, imbruted through gen- crations, it could not be on a basis of equality that we should meet, and they would be as inevitably sunk and lost as the detritus that a river washes into the sea. If the black stay here, it must be 24 [January, as a menial. In his own latitudes, where, after the third generation, the white man ceases to exist, he is the stronger; there the black man is king: let him betake himself to his realm. Abolition is im- practicable, colonization feasible; on ei- ther is gunpowder wasted: one cannot ex- plode a lie by the blast. But saying the worst of our incubus that can be said, could all its possible ac- cumulation of wrong and woe exceed that of four years of such a war as this? Think a moment of what this land was, what a great beacon and celestial city across the waves to the fugitives from tyranny; think of our powerful pride in eastern seas, in western ports, when each ships arma- ment carried with it the broadside of so many sovereign States, when each citizen felt his own hand nerved with a peoples strength, when no young man woke in the morning without the perpetual auro- ra of high hopes before him, when peace and plenty were all about us, and then think of misery at every hearth, of civili- zation thrust back a century, of the pres- tige of freedom lost among the nations, of the way paved for despots. And how needlessly! They taunted us, us the source of all their wealth, with the paupers de- serting the poor - house; we put it to proof; when, lo! with a hue and cry, the blood-hounds are upon us, the very dogs of war. So needless a war! For has it not been a fundamental principle that every people has a right to govern itself? We chose to exercise that right. Was it worth fhe while to refuse it? Exhausted, drained, dispeopled, they may chain a vassal province to their throne; but, woe be to them, upon that conquer- ing day, their glory has departed frotit them! The first Revolution was but the prologue to this: that was sealed in blood; in this might have been demon- strated the progress maae under eighty years of freedom, by a peaceful separa- tion. It is the Flight of the Tartar Tribe anew, and the whole barbarous Northern nation pours its hordes after, hangs on the flank, harasses, impedes, slaughters, but we reach the shadow of the Great Wall at last. If we had not the right to leave the league, how had we the right to enter? If we had not the right to leave, they also had not the right to withhold us. Yet, when we entered, re- signing much, receiving much, retaining more, we were each a unit, a power, a commonwealth, a nation, or, as we chose to term it, a State, as much a state as any of the great states of Europe, as Britain, as France, as Spain, and jeal- ously ever since have we individually re- garded any infringement on our integ- rity. That, and not the mere tangle of race that in time must unravel itself, is the question of the age. Long ago it was said that our people, holding it by transmission, never having stru,~gled for it, would some day cease rightly to value the one chief bulwark of liberty. Noth- ing is more true. They of the North will lose it, we of the South shall gain it; for, battling on a grander scale than our an- cestors, the South is to-day taking out the great habeas corpus of States! No matter whether all this was sophis- fry or truth. Beltran had said it, that was enough; so strongly did she feel his personality in what he wrote, that the soul was exultant, jubilant, defiant, with- in her. Other words there were in the letter, such words as are written to but one; the blood swept up to Yivias lips as she recalled them, and her heart sprang and bounded like one of those balls kept in perpetual play by the leaping, bub- bling column of a fountain. She was in one of those dangerous states of excite- ment after which the ancients awaited disaster. That last picture of the mir- ror dazzled her vision again; she saw the sunshine, smelt the perfume, heard the bird-song. How a year had changed the scene! The house was a barrack; now down in her Maryland peach- orchards the black muzzles of Federal cannon yawned, and under the flickering shadows and sunshine the grimy gunners, knee-deep in grass and dew, brushed away the startled clover-blooms, as they 1864.1 Ray. 2~i tQuched fire to the breach. Beltran was a Rebel. Vivia was a Rebel, too! She ran down-stairs into her little parlor over- flowing with flowers. As she walked to sand fro, the silent keys of her piano- forte met her eye. Excellent conductors. Half standing, half sitting, she awoke its voices, and, to a rolling, silvery thun- der of accompaniment, commenced sing- ing, The lads of Kilmarnock had swords and had spears And lang-bladed daggers to kill cavaliers, But they shrunk to the wall and the causey left free At one toss of the honnet of Bonny Dundee! So fill up my cup, come fill up my can, Saddle my horses and call up my men, Open your west-port and let me gae free, For it s up with the bonnets of Bonny Dundee! Some one in the distance, echoing the last line with an emphasis, cau~ht her ear in the pause. It was Ray. He had already returned, then. She snatched the letter and sped into the kitchen, where she was sure to find him. Mrs. Vennard rocked in her miniature sitting - room at one side, contentedly matching patchwork. Little Jane Yen- nard, her step - daughter, usually at work in the mills, but, since their close, making herself busy at home, whither she had brought a cookery-hook through which Ray declared he expected to eat his way, bustled about from room to room. Ray sat before the fire in the kitchen and toasted some savory mor- sel suspended on a string athwart the blaze. Where have yon been, Ray? said Vivia, approaching, with her glowin~ cheeks, her sparkling eyes. And what are you doing now? Trying camp-life again, replied Ray, looking up at her in a fixed admiration. I ye had a letter from Beltran. Oh! where is he? cried Ray. Beltran is in camp. And where? Perhaps on the Rio Grande, perhaps on the Potomac. Do you mean to say, cried Ray, springing up, while string and all fell in- to the coals, that Beltran, my broth- er Is a Rebel. Then I am a rebel, too, said Ray, chokingly, sitting down again, and me- chanically stooping to pick up the burn- ing string, a rebel to him! You wont be a rebel to him, if you 11 listen to reason, his reason. He s got no reason. It s only be- cause he was there. Now, Raymond Lamar! if you talk so, you shant read the letter! I dont want to read it. Have you left off loving Beltran, be- cause he differs from you? Left off loving Beltran! Vivia waited a moment, leaning on the back of his chair, and then Ray, bend- ing, covered his face with his hands, and the large tears oozed from between his brown fingers. Little Jane, whipping the frothy snow of her eggs, went on whipping all the harder for fear Ray should know she saw him. And Vivia, with one hand upon his head, took away the brown fingers, that her own cool, fragrant palm mic,ht press upon his burning lids. Such sud- den tears belong to such tropical natures. For there was no anger or sullenness in Rays grief; he was just and simply sor- ry. He must have forgotten me, said Ray, after a sober while. There was this note for you in mine, and a draft on New York, because he thought you might be in arrears. No, I m not. Aunty can have the draft,though; she may need it before I come back, said Ray, brokenly, gazing into the fire. Do you suppose Beltran wrote mine or yours first? Yours. Then you ye the last thing he ever set his hand to, perhaps! Dont talk so, child! said Vivia, with an angry shiver. Come back! Where are you going? I enlisted, yesterday, in the Kansas Cavalry. 26 Ray. [January, Great heavens, iRay! was there not another regiment in all the world than one to he sent down to Neiv Mexico to meet Beltran and the Texan Rangers? eried Vivia, wringing her hands. Ray was on his feet again, a swarm of expletives buzzing inarticulately at his lips. I never thought of that, said he, I whiter than ashes. What made you? oh, what made you? There was no other company. I lik- ed this captain, lie gave me to-days fhrlough. I m going to - night; little Jane s promised to fix my traps; she s Thaking me these cookies now, you see. Pshaw! Beltran s up on the Potomac, or else you could nt have gotten this letter, dont you know? You made my heart jump into my mouth! And resumin~ his seat, to find his string and jack in cinders, he turned round astride his chair and commenced notching his initials into its back, with cautious glances at his aunt. That s for little Jane to cry over af- ter I in gone, said he. Ray How do you think Bel- tran will like it? I cant help what Beltran likes. I shall be doing Gods work. Beltran says God (loes His own work. He only re(luires of us our duty. That is my duty. You feel, Ray, as if you were possess- ed by the holy ardor of another Sir Gala- had! I feel, Vivia, that I shall give what strength I have towards ridding the world of its foulest disease. With what a good grace that comes from you! With all the better grace. The old Berserker rage over agaiu! Quite as fine as running amuck. Ray, the race that does not rise for~ itself deserves its fate. Vivia, no race deserves such a fate as this one has found. I(hle! I have seen slavery; ~wn slaves: there is nothing monstrous in it. In Maryland. Anywhere. Wailing children, sundered families, women under the lash You know very well, Ray, that there is a law against the separation of fami- lies. I never heard of it. Audubon says there is. A little bird told him, interpolated Jane. But I ye seen them separated. I dont believe, urged Vivia,but for exceptional abuses, there s a system providing for a happier peasantry on the face of the earth. It cant be a good system that allows such abuses. There are even abuses of the sacra- ments. Pshaw, Vivia ! Well, Ray, I dont believe in this pseudo-chivalry of yours, any more than Beltran does. If Beltran said black was white, you d think that true! If Beltran said so, it would be true. It s no more likely that he should be right than that I should be. You could nt have spoken so about Beltran once! Well, black or white, slave or free, never think I shall sit by and see my country fhll to ruins. Your country? Do you suppose you love it any more than I do? You r~ a woman. Suppose I am a woman, you unkind boy Well, you only love half of it, the Southern half. I love my whole country! cried Vi- via, all aflame. I love these purple, rust - stained granites here, the great savannas there, the pine forests, the sea - like prairies, every rivei~ rolling down its rocky bed, every inch of its beautiful, glorious soil, all its proud, free people. I love my whole country! Only you hate some of its parasites. But Beltran would tell you that you have nt got any country. You may love your 1864.] Ra~y. 27 native State. As for country, it s noth- inc, but a what-you-may-call-it. Very true. It is in observing the terms of that what-you-may-call-it,that federation, that bond, in mutual con- cessions, in fraternal remembrances, that we gain a country. And what a coun- try! Yes, what a country, Vivia! And shall I consent to resign an atom of it while there s a drop of blood in my body, to lose a single grain of its dust? When Beltran brought nie here three years ago, I sailed day and night up a mighty river, from one zone into another, sailed for weeks between banks that were still my. own country. And if I had ever return- ed, we should have passed by the thun- dering ledges of New Eughud, Jersey surfs and shallows, the sand-bars of the Carolinas, the shores of Florida lying like a faint green cloud long and low upon the horizon, sailing a thousand miles again in our own waters. Enormous bor- ders and throughout their vast stretch happiness and promise! And shall I give such dominion to the first traitor that de- mands it? No! nor to the thousandth! There she lies, bleeding, torn, prostrate, a byword! Why, Vivia, this was my country, she that made me, reared me, gladdened me ! It is the new crusade. I understand none of your syllogisms. My country is in danger. here s my hand! And Ray ~stood erect, bristling and fiery, as some one reddening in the very light of battle. And answering him only with flashing eyes,Vivia sang, in her triumphant, thrill- ing tones, hark to a wanderin~ childs appeal, Maryland! my Maryland! My mother State, to thee I kneel, Maryland! my Maryland! For life and (leath, for woe and ~veal, Thy peerless chivalry reveal, And gird thy beauteous limbs with steel, Maryland! my Maryland! You re a wicked girl, Vivia, if you are as beautiful as Phryne! exclaimed R~y, while little Jane picked herself up from the table, across which she had been leaning with both arms and her dish- towel, and staring forgetfully at him. Vivia laughed. Well, you young fanatic, said she, we cant convert each other. We are both incontrovertible. Let us be friends. One needs more time than we have to quarrel in. Yes, said Ray. I am going this afternoon, and I shall drink of every riv- er west of the Mississippi bcfbre I come back. It s a wild life, a royal life; I am thirsty for its excitement and adven- ture. Jane, called Mrs. Vennard from within, did you find all the nests to- day? All but two, Maam, said little Jane, as she let a tempting odor escape from the tin oven. The black lien got over the fence last night; she s tiowia in the lot. And the cropple-crown laid away. You d better get them.. Yes, Maam. If you d just as lief. Oh, yes, Maam! We 11 go, too, said Ray. Oh, no, you need nt. We d like to, little Jane. Are the cookies done? By George! dont they look like manna? They 11 last all the way to Fort Riley. And be manna in the wilderness. Smoking hot. Have some, Vivia? Little Jane, I say, t would be jolly, if you d go along and cook for the regiment. Is that all you d want of me? It s a wonderful region for grass- hoppers out there, you know; you d im- provise us such charmi~ dishes of locusts and wild honey ! As or cookies, a snow- flake and a sunbeam, and there they are, said Ray, making inroads on the Fort- Riley stores; while little Jane set down a cup of beaten cream by his side. Janets are trumps! Vivia, dont you wish you were going to the war? Yes, said Vivia. There is something in it, is nt there? said Ray. You 11 sit at home, and bow your blood will boil! What keeps you 28 Ray. [January, women alive? Darning stockings, I sup- pose. There s only one thin~ I dread: t would be hard to read of other mens glory, and I lying flat on my back. Would you make me cookies then, little Jane? Little Jane only gave him one swift, shy look: there was more promise in it than in many a vow. In return, Ray tossed her the sparkle of his dancing glance an instant, and then his eager fancies caught him again. We read of them, said he, those splendid scenes. What can there be like acting them? Ah, what a throb there is in it! The rush, the roar, the onslaught, the clanging trumpet, the wreathing smoke, and the mad horses. Dauntless- ly defying danger. Ravishing fame from the teeth of the battery. See in what a great leap of the heart you spring with the forlorn hope up the escalade! Your soul kindles and flashes with your blade. You are nothing but a wrath. To die so, with all ones spirit at white-heat, awake, alert, aflame, must send one far up and along the heights of being. And if you live, there are other things to do; and how the women feel their fiery puls- es fly, their hot tears start, as you go by, thinking of all the tumult, the din, the daring, the danger, and you a part of it! Little Jane was trembling and tying on her bonnet. As for Vivia, she burst into tears. Oh, Ray! sobbed she, I wish I were a man! I dont! said he. Oh, it s rip- roarious! Come, let s follow our leader. We 11 bring you back the cropple-crown, auntie. And so they departed, while, breaking into fresh carols, ringing and dulcet, as they went, Vivias voice resounded till the woods pealed to the echo: lie waved his proud arm, and the trumpets were blown, The kettle-drums clashed, and the hors~men rode on, Till oer Kaveiston crags and on Clermiston lea Died away the wild war - notes of Bonny Dundee! Pursuing the white sun-bonnet down the pasture, Ray kept springing ahead with his elastic foot, threshing the juni- per - plats that little Jane had already searched, and scattering about them the pungent fragrance of. the sweet - fern thickets, the breath of summer itself; then returning for a sober pace or two, would take off his hat, thrust a hand through the masses of his hair that look- ed like carved ebony, and show Vivia that his shadow was exactly as long as her own. And Vivia saw that all this beating and longing and burning had loosened and shot into manhood a nature that under the snow of its eightieth winter would yet be that of a boy. Ray could never be any taller than he was to-day, but he had broad, sturdy shoulders and a close- knit, nervous frame, while in his honest, ugly face, that, arch or grave, kept its one contrast of black eyes and brilliant teeth, there was as much to love as in the superb beauty of Beltran. They had reached the meadows edge at length; Ray was growing more seri- ous, as the time hurried, when little Jane, with a smothered exclamation, prepared to cross the wall. For there they were, sleek and glossy, chattering gently to each other, pecking about, the wind blowing open their feathers till they be- came top-heavy, and looking for all the world, as Janet said, like pretty little old ladies dressed up to go out to tea. And near them, quite at home in the marshy domain, strutted and lunched a fine gal- lant of a turkey, who ruffled his redness, dropped all his plumes about him, and personated nothing less than some state- ly dowager sailing in flounces and bro- cades. Ray caught back their discoverer, launched a few stepping - stones across, and, speeding from foothold to foothold, very soon sent His Magnificence fluttering over the fence and forward before them, and returned with the two little runaway hens slung over his arm, where, after a trifle of protestation and a few subdued cackles of crestfallen acquiescence, hav- ing a great deal to tell the othe~r hens on reaching home once more, they very con- 1864.3 29 tentedly enjoyed the new aspect of the world upsidedown. And here s where she s made her nest, said little Jane, stepping aside from a tangle of blackberry-vines, herds-grass, and harebells, where lay a half- dozen pullet pearls. A pretty mother you d make, Miss, gadding and gossiping down in the meadow with that naughty black hen! Who do you suppose is going to bring up your family for you? Did you speak to the butterflies to hatch them un- der their yellow wings? I shall just tie you to an old shoe! And taking the winking, blinking cul- prits from Ray, she ran along home to make ready his package, for which there was not more than an hour left. Vivia turned to follow, for she also wanted to help; but Ray, lingering by the wall and pointing out some object, caused her to remain. It will be such a long time before I see it again, said he. They leaned upon the stone wall, interspersed, overgrown, and veiled with moss and maiden - hair and blossoming brambles. Before them lay the long meadow, sprinkled with sunbeams, green to its last ripe richness, discolored only where the tall grass made itself hoary in the breeze, or where some trail of dun brown ran up through all intermediate tints to break in a glory of gold at the foot of the screen of woods that far away gloomed like a frowning fortress of shade, hut, approaching, feathered off its tips in the glow, and let the mellow warmth of olive light gild to a lustrous depth all its darkly verdurous hollows. Near them the vireos were singing loud and sweet. Vivia, said Ray, after a pause, if 1 should never come back You will come back. But if I never did, should you greatly care? Beginning to despond! That is good! You wont go, then? If the way lay over the bottomless pit, I should go. And you cant get free,if you want to? No! Ray, I could easily raise money enough upon my farm to buy If you talk so, said Ray, whipping off the flowers, but looking up at her as he bent, and smiling, I shall inform against you, and have your farm confis- cated. What! I cant talk as I please in a free country? Oh, it s not free, then! They ye discovered at length that there s something better than freedom. They sent a woman to prison this spring fbr eating an orange in the street. They con- fiscated a girls wedding-gown the other day, and now they ye confiscated her bridegroom. Oh, it s a great cause that cant get along without my weddin:- gown! Noblesse oblige! . It takes more wedding - gowns thai-i yours, Vivia. Dips them in mourning. Pray God it wont take mine yet! cried she, with sudden fire. Vivia, said Ray, facing her, I ask- ed you a question. Why did nt you an- swer it? Should nt you care? You know, dear child, I should, we all should, terribly. But, Vivia, I mean, that you that I He paused, the ardor and ea~erness suspended on cheek and lip, for Vivia met his glance and understood i simple speech, since in some degree a dark eye lets you into the soul, where a blue one bluffs you off with its blaze, and un- der all its lucent splendor is as impene- trable as a tnrquoise. A girl of more vanity would have waited for plainer words. But Vivia only placed her warm hand on his, and said gently, Ray, I love Beltran. There was a moments quiet, while Ray looked away, supporting his chin upon one hand, and a black cloud sweeping tor- ridly down the stern face. One sharp struggle. A moments quiet. Into it a wild rose kept shakin~ sweetness. After it a vireo broke into tremulous melody, gushing higher, fuller, stronger, clearer. Ray turned, his eyes wet, his face beam- ing. Said he, 30 Ray. [January, I am more glad than if it were my- self! Then Vivia bent, and, flushed with no- ble shame, she kissed him on the lips. A word, a grasp, she was leaning alone over the old stone wall, the birds were piping and fluting about her, and Ray was gone. A month of rushing over land and lake, of resting at the very spots where he and Beltran had stayed together three years ago, of repeating the brief strolls they took, of reading again and again that last note, and Ray had crossed the great riv- er of the West, and reached the head- quarters of his regiment. There, indu- ~g their uniforms, and training their horses, all of which were yet to be shod, they brushed about the country, and s~ir- mished with guerrillas, until doing into camp for thorough drill preparatory to active service. Convoying Government-trains through a region where were assembled in their war-paint thousands of Indians from the wild tribes of the plains and hills was venturous work enough, but it was not that to which Ray aspired. lie must be one of those cherubim who on Gods bidding speed he could not serve with those who only stand and wait. His hot soul grew parched and faint with long- ing, and all the instincts of his battling blood began to war among themselves. At length one night there was hammer- ing and clinking at the red field-fires, and by daybreak they were off for a mad gallop over plain and mountain, down river-banks and across deserts into New Mexico. Fording the shallow Arkansas, trail- ing their way through prairie and tim- ber,reaching and skirting the scorching stretch, riding all day, consumed with thirst, from green-mantling pooi to pool, till the last lay sixty miles behind them, and men and horses made desperately for the stream, dashing in together to drink their fill, when they found it again foaming down the centre of its vast level plain, that receded twenty miles on either side without shrub or hillock, finally their path wound in among the hills, and a day dawned that Ray will never for- get. The stars were large and solemn, hovering golden out of the high, dark heaven, as the troop defiled into the ca?ion; they glinted with a steely lus- tre through the roof of fidlen trees that arched the gorge from side to side, then a wind of morning blew and they grew pallid and wan in a shining haze ,and, towering far up above them, vaguely terrific in shadow, the horsemen saw the heights they were to climb all grayly washed in the night-dew. So they swept up the mountain-side in their gay and breezy career, on from ascent to ascent, from abutment to abutment, crossing shrunken torrents, windino alon ~ sheer precipices, up into the milky clouds of heaven itself, till the rosy flare of dawn bathed all the air about them. There they halted, while, struggling after them, the first triumphant beam struck the boss- es of their harness to jittering jewel- l)oints, and, breaking through layer on layer of curdling vapor at their feet, suf- fused it to a wondrous fleece, where car- nation and violet and the fire that lurks in the opal, wreathing with gorgeous in- volution, seethed together, until, at last, the whole resplendent mist wound itself away in silver threads on the spindles of the wind. Then boot in the stirrup again, onward, over the mountains ridge, deso- late voek defying the sun, downward, plunging through hanging forests, clear- ing the chasm, bridging ravines, and still at noon the eagles, circling and screaming abov.e them, shook over them the dew from their plumes. Downward afresh in their wild ride, the rainbows of the cas- cades flying beside thens, their afternoon shadows streaming up behind them, (lark- ness beginning to gather in the deeps be- low them, the mighty mountain - masses around rearing themselves impenetrably in boding blackness and mystery against the yellow gleam, the purple breath of evening wrapping theni, the dew again, again the stars, and they camped at the 1864.1 Ray. 31 foot of a spur of hills with a waterfall for sentry on their left. Through all the dash of the day, Ray had been in sparkling spirits, a very ec- stasy of excitement, brimmed with an ex- uberance of valiant glee that played it- self away in boyish freaks of daring and reckless acts of horsemanship. Now a lof- tier mood had followed, and, still wrought to some extreme tension, full of blind anticipation and awful assurance, he sat hetween the camp-fires, his hands clasp- ed over his knees, and watched the even- ing star where it hung in a cleft of the rocks and seemed like the advent of some great spirit of annunciation. The tired horses had been staked out to graze, a temporary abatis erected, scouting-parties sent off in opposite directions, and at last the frosty air grew mild and mellow over the savory stcam of broiling steaks and coffee smoking on beds of coals. Thcre was a moments lull in the hum of the little encampment, in all the jest and song and jingling stir of this scornfully intrepid company; perhaps for an instant the sense of the wilderness overawed them; perhaps it was only the custom- ary precursor of increasing murmur; before leaving his place, Ray suddenly stooped and laid his ear on the earth. There it was! Far off, far off, the phan- tasmal stroke of hoofs, rapid, many, un- swerving. It had come, all that he had awaited, fate, or something else. Low and clear in the distance one bugle blew blast of warning. When he rose, the great yellow planet, wheeling slowly down the giant cleft in the rock, had vanished from sight. Every man was on his feet, the place in alarum. Behind and beside them loom- ed the precipice and the waterfall ; there was surrender, there was conquest; there was no retreat. The fires were extinguished, the breastworks strength- ened, weapons adjusted, and all the ire- ful preparations for hasty battle made. Then they expected their foe. Slowly over the crown of the mountain above them an aurora crept and brandished its spears. As they waited there those few breath- less moments, Ray examined his rifle coolly enough, and listened to the chirp of a solitary cricket that sung its thin strain so unbrokenly on the edge of strife as to represent something sublime in its J)etty indifference, lie was stationed on the extreme left; near him the~ tumult of the torrent drowned much discordant noise, its fairy scarf forever forming and falling and floating on the evening air~ lie thought of Vivia sitting far away and lookin~ out upon the quiet starlight night; then bethought of swampy midnight lairs, with maddened men in fevered covert there, of little children crying for their mothers, of girls betrayed to hell, of flesh and blood at price, of blistering, crisping fa~ot and stake to-day, of all the anguish and despair down there be- fore him. And with the vivid sting of it such a wrath raged along his veins, such a holy fire, that it seemed there were no arms tremendous enough for his handling, through his shut teeth darted imprecato- ry prayers for the power of some almighty vengeance, his soul leaped up in impa- tient fury, his limbs tingled for the death- grapple, when suddenly sound surged ev- erywhere about them and they were in the midst of conflict. Silver trumpet- peals and clash and clang of iron, crying voices, whistling, singing, screaming shot, thunderous drum - rolls, sharp sheet of flame and instant abyss of blackness, horses heads vaulting into sight, spurts of warm blood upon the brow, the bullet rushing like a blast beside the ear, all the terrible tempest of attack, trampled un- der the flashing hoof climbing, clinching, slashing, back-f beneath cracking revolvers, hand to hand in the night, both bands welded in one like hot and fusing metal, a spectral struggle of shuddering horror only half guessed by lurid gleams and under the light cloud flying across the stars. Clearly and remotely over the plain the hidden east sent up a glow into the sky; its reflection lay on Ray; he fought like one possessed of a demon, scattering destruction broadcast, so fierce- ly his anger wrapped him, white and for- Ray. [January, midable. Fresh onset after repulse, and, like the very crest of the toppling wave, one shadowy horseman in all the dark rout, spurrin~ forward, the fight reeling after him, the silver lone star fitfully flash- ing on his visor, the boy singled for his rifle ; inciting such fearless rivalry, his fall were the fall of a hundred. Some- thing hindered; the marksman delayed an instant; he would not waste a shot; and watching him, the dim outline, the sweeping sabre, the proud prowess, a strange yearning pity seized Ray, and he had half the mind to spare. In the midst of the shock and uproar there came to him a pulse of the brains double ac- tion; he seemed long a go to have loved, to have admired, to have gloried in this splendid valor. But with the hint, and the humanity of it, back poured the ar- dor of his sacred devotion, all the impul- sions of his passionate purpose: here was Gods work! And then, with one swift bound of magnificent daring and defi- nce, the horseman confronted him, the fore-feet of his steed planted firmly half up the abatis, and his steel making light- nings round about him. There was a blinding flare of light full upon Rays fiery form; in the sudden succeeding darkness horseman and rider towered rigid like a monolith of black marble. A great voice cricd his name, a sabre went hurtling in one shining crescent across the white arc of the wateall. Too late! There was another flare of light, but this time on the riders face, a sound like the rolling of the heavens to- gether in a scroll, and Ray, in one hor- rid, dizzy blaze, saw the broad gleam of the ivory brow, of the azure fire in the eyes, heard the heavy, dowufalling crash, and, leaping over the abatis, deep into the midst of the slippery, raging death below, seized and drew something away, and fell upon it prostrate. There, under the tossing torrent, dragging himself up to the seal of their agony and their reproach, Ray looked into those dead eyes, which, lifted beyond the everlast- ing stars, felt not that he had crossed their vision. Far away from outrage and disaster, many a weary stretch of travel, the mead- ow-side cottage basked in the afternoon sunlight of late Indian-summer. All the bare sprays of its shadowing limes quiv- ered in the warmth of their purple life against a divine depth of heaven, and the woody distances swathed themselves in soft blue smoke before the sighing south - wind. Round the girl who sat on the low door- stone, with idle hands crosscd before her, puffs of ravishing resinous fragrance float- ed and fainted. Two butterflies, that spread their broad yellow wings like de- tached flakes of living sunshine stolen out of the sweet November weather, flut- tered between the glossy darkness of her hair and a little posthumous rose, that, blowing beside the door, with time only half to unfold its white petals, surveyed the world in a quaint and sad surprise. Vivia looked on all the tender loveli- ness of the dying year with a listless eye: waiting, weary waiting, makes the soul torpid to all but its pain. It was long since there had be~n any letter from Ray. In all this oppression of summer and of autumn there had come no report of Beltran. 11cr heart had lost its proud assurance, worn beneath the long strain of such suspense. Could she but have one word from him, half the term of her own life would be dust in the balance. A thousand fragmentary purposes were ever flitting through her thought. If she might know that he was simply living, if she could be sure he wanted her, she would snake means to break through that dividing line, to find him, to battle by his side, to die at his feet! Her Bel- tran! so grave, so good, so heroic! and the thought of him in all his pride and beauty and power, in all his lofty gentle- ness and tender passion, in his strength tempered with genial complaisance and gracious courtesy, sent the old glad life, for a second, spinning from heart to lip. The glassy lake began to ruffle itself below her, feeling the pulses of its inter- fluent springs, or sending through unseen sluices word of nightfall and evening 1864.] Ray. 83 winds to all its clustering companions that darkened their transparent depths in forest - shadows. As she saw it, and thought how soon now it would ice itself anew, the remembrance rushed over her, like a warm breath, of the winters night after their escape from its freezing pooi, when Beltran sat with them roasting chestnuts and spicing ale before the fire that so gayly crackled up the kitchen- chimney, a night of cheer. And how had it all faded! whither had they all separated? where were those brothers now? Heaven knew. It had been a hard season, these months at the cottage. The price of labor had been high enough to exceed their means, and so the land had yielded ill, the grass was uncut on many a meadow; Rays draft had not been honored; Vivia had of course received no dividend from her Tennessee State - bonds, and her peach- orchards were only a place of forage. Still Vivia stayed at the cottage, not so much by fervent entreaty, or because she had no other place to go to, as because there were strange, strong ties binding her there for a while. Should all else fail, with the ripened wealth of her voice at command, her future was of course se- cure from want. But there was a drear- ier want at Vivias door, which neither that nor any other wealth would ever meet. Little Jane came up the field with a basket of the last barberries lightly pois- ed upon her head. A narrow wrinkle was beginning to divide the freckled fair- ness of her forehead. She kept it down with many an endeavor. Trying to croon to herself as she passed, and stopping on- ly to hang one of the scarlet girandoles in Vivias braids, she went in. The sun- shine, loath to leave her pleasant little fig- ure, followed after her, and played about her shadow on the floor. Vivia still sat there and questioned the wide atmosphere, that, brooding palpitant between her and the lake, still withheld the desolating secret that horizon must have whispered to horizon throughout the aching distance. VOL. XIII. 3 Oh that the bells in all these silent spires Would clash their clangor on the sleeping air, Ring their wild music out with throbbing choirs, Ring peace in everywhere! she sang, and trembled as she sang. But there the burden broke, and risi1~g, her eyes shaded by her hand, Vivia gazed down the lonely road where a stage-coach rolled along in a cloud of dust. What prescience, what instinct, it was that made her throw the shawl over her head, ~he shawl that Beltran liked to have her wear, and hasten down the field and away to lose herself in the wood, she alone could have told. The slow minutes crept by, the coach had passed at length with loud wheel and resounding lash, its last dust was blowing after it, and it had left upon the door- stone a boy in army-blue, with his lug- gage beside him. A ghastly visage, a shrunken form, a crippled limb, were what he brought home from the war. With his one foot upon the threshold, he paused, and turned the face, gray under all its trace of weather, and furrowed, though so young, to meet the welcoming wind. He gazed upon the high sky out of which the sunshine waned, on the long champaign blending its gold and russet in one, on the melancholy forest over which the twilight was stealing; he lifted his cap with a gesture as if he bade it all farewell, then he grasped his crutch and entered. Without a word, Mrs. Vennard drop- ped the needles she was sorting upon the mat about her. Little Jane sprang for- ward, but checked herself in a strange awe. Let me go to bed, auntie, said he, with a dry sob; and I never want to get up again! Midnight was winding the world with- out in a white glimmer of misty moon- light, when the sharp beam of a taper smote Rays sleepless eyes, and he saw Vivia at last standing before him. Over her wrapper clung the old shawl whose 34 ]?ay. [January, snowy web was sown with broidery of linna~a - hells, green vine and rosy blos- som. Round her shoulders fell her shad- owy hair. Through her slender fingers the redness of the flame played, and on her cheek a hectic coming and going like the broad beat and flush of an artery left it whiter than the spectral moonlight on the pane. She took away her hand, and let the illumination fall full upon his face, a face haggard as a dead man s. ~Ray, she said, where is Beltran? Only silence replied to her. He laj and stared up at her in a fixed and glassy glare. Breathless silence. Then Ray groaned, and turned his face to the wall. Vivia blew out the light. The weeks crept away with the setting- in of the frosts. Little Janes heart was heavy for all the misery she saw about her, but she had no time to make moan. Rays amputated ankle was giving fresh trouble, and after that was well over, he still kept his room, refusing food or fire, and staring with hot, wakeful eyes at the cold ceiling. Vivia lingered, subdued and pale, beside the hearth, doing any quiet piece of work that came to hand; no one had seen her shed tears,she had shown no strenuous sorrow; on the night of Rays return she had slept her first unbroken sleep for months; her nerves, stretched so intensely and so long, lay loosely now in their passionate reaction; some ele- ment more interior than they saved her from prostration. She stayed there, sad and still, no longer any sparkle or flush about her, but with a mildness so unlike the Vivia of June that it had in it some- thing infinitely touching. She would have been glad to assist little Jane in her crowded duties, yet succeeded only in being a hindrance; and learning a lit- tle of broths and diet-drinks every day, she contented herself with sitting silent and dreamy, and transforming old linen garments into bandages. Mrs. Vennard, meanwhile, waited on her nephew and bewailed herself. But for little Jane, she had no time to bewail herself. She had all these peo.. ple, in fact, on her hands, and that with very limited means to meet their necessi- ties. It was true they need not experi- ence actual want, but there was her store to be managed so that it should be at once wholesome and varied, and the first thing to do was to take an account of stock. The autumns work had al- ready been well done. She had carried berries enough to market to let her pre- serve her quinces and damsons in sirups clear as sunshine, and make her tiny allowance of currant and blackberry wines, where were innocently simulated the flavors of rare vintages. Crook-neck- ed squashes decked the tall chimney- piece amid bunches of herbs and pearly strings of onions. She and Vivia had gathered the ripened apples themselves, and now goodly garlands of them hung from the attic - rafters, above the dried beans whose blossoms had so sweetened June, and above last years corn - bins. That corn the first passing neighbor should take to mill and exchange a por- tion of for cracked wheat; and as the flour-barrel still held out, they would be tolerably well off for cereals, little Jane thought. They had kept only one cow, and Tommy Low would attend to her for the sake of his suppers, suppers at which Vivia must forego her water-cress- es now; but Janet had a bed of mush- rooms growing down-cellar, that, broiled and buttered, were, she fancied, quite equal to venison - steaks. The hens, of course, must be sacrificed, all but a doz- en of them; for, as there was no fi-esh meat for them in winter, they would nt lay, and would be only a dead weight, she said to herself, as, with her apron thrown over her neck, she stood watching them, finger on lip. However, that would give them poultry all through the holidays. Then there were the pigs to be killed on halves by a neighbor, as almost everything else out-doors had now to he done; and when that was accomplished, she found no time to call her soul her own while making her sausage and bacon and souse and brawn. Part of the pork would produce 1864.] Bay. 3.5 salt fish, without which what farm-house would stand? and with old hucklebones, her potatoes and parsnips, those ruby beets and golden carrots, there was many a Julien soup to be had. Joness -root, bruised and boiled, made a chocolate as good as Spanish. Instead of ginger, there were the wild caraway - seeds growing round the house. If she could only con- trive some sugar and some vanilla-beans, she would be well satisfied to open her campaign. But as there had been for weeks only one single copper cent and two postage - stamps in the house, that seemed an impossibility. Hereupon an idea seized little Jane, and for several days she was busy in a mysterious rum- mage. Garrets and closets surrendered their hoards to her; files of old newspapers, old ledgers, old letter-backs, began to ac- cumulate in h~aps,everything but books, for Jane had a religious respect for their recondite lore; she cut the margins off the magazines, and she grew miserly of the very shreds ravelling under Vivias fingers. At length, one morning, after she had watched the windows unwearied- ly as a cat watches a mouse-hole, she hur- riedly exclaimed, There he is! Who? asked Mrs. Vennard as hur- riedly, with a dim idea that people in their State received visits from the sheriff. Our treasurer I said little Jane. And, indeed, the red cart crowned with yellow brooms and dazzling tin, the delight of housewives in lone places, was winding along the road; and in a few moments little Jane accosted its driver, standing victorious in the midst of her bags and bundles and baskets. How much were white rags? Twelve cents. Laconic, through the urgencies of to- bacco. What? Twelve cents. And colored? Wal, they were considerble. And paper ~ Six cents. T used to be half a cent. Six cents now. But the reason? breathlessly. Reckoned t was the war s much as anything. One good thing out of Nazareth! Lit- tle Jane saw herself on the road to rich- es, and immediately had thoughts of sell- ing the whole household - equipment for rags. She displayed her commodities. Did he pay in money? Did nt like to; but then he did. Fine day, to-day. NVal, t was. And when the reluctant tinman went on his way again, she returned to spread the fabulous result before her mother. There were sugars and spices and what- not. And thoughwoe worth the day she found that the sum yielded only half what once it would, still, by drinking her own tea in its acritude, they would do admirably; for tea even little Jane re- quired as her tonic, and without it felt like nothing but a mollusk. All this was very well, so far as it went; but the thrifty housekeeper soon found that it went no way at all. Those for whom she made her efforts wanted none of their results. She would have given all she had in the world to help these suffering beings; but her little cook- ing and concocting were all that she could do, and those they disregarded utterly. When in the dull forenoon she would have enlivened Vivia with her precious elderberry-wine, that a connoisseur must taste twice before telling from purplest Port, and Vivia only wet her lips at it, or when she carried Ray a roasted apple, its burnished sides bursting with juice and clotted with cream, and the boy glanced at it and never saw it, little Jane felt ready to cry; and she set to bethinking herself seriously if there were nothing else to be done. One day, it was the day before ~hrist- mas, Jane took up to Rays room one of her trifles, a whip, whose suave and frothy nothingness was piled over the sweet plum-pulp at bottom. Ray lay on the outside of the bed, with his thick poncho over him; he looked at her and at her tray, played with the teaspoon a mo 36 l?ay. [January, ment, then rolled upon his side and shut his eyes. Little Jane took a half-dozen steps about the room, reached the door, hesitated, and came back. Ray, said she, under her breath and with tears in her voice, I wish you would nt do so. You dont know how it makes me feeL I cant do anything for you but bring whips and custards; and you wont touch those. Ray turned and looked up at her. Do you care, Janet? said he; and, rising on one arm, he lifted the glass, and finished its delicate sweetmeat with a gust. But as he threw himself back, little Jane took heart of grace once more. Ray, dear, said she, I dont think it s right for you to stay here alone in the cold. Wont you come down where it s warm? It s so much more cheer- ful by the fire. I dont want to be cheerful, said Ray. Janet looked at the door, then summon- ed her forces, and, holding the high bed- 1)ost with both hands, said, Ray, if God sent you any trouble, lie never meant for you to take it so. You are repulsing Him every day. You are straightening yourself against Him. You are like a log on His hands. Cant you bend beneath it? Dear Ray, you need comfort, but you never will find it till you take up your life and your duties again, and come down among us. What duties have I? said Ray, hoarsely, looking along his footless limb. The sooner my life ends, oh, the bet- ter! I want no comfort! But little Jane had gone. Christmas day dawned clear and keen; the sky was full of its bluest sparkle, and, wheresoever it mounted and stretched over snowy fields, seemed to hold nothing but gladness. Yivia had wrapped her- self in her cloak, and walked two miles to an early church-service, so if by any accord of worship she might put her heart in tune with the universe. She had been at home a half-hour already, and sat in her old nook with some idle work be- tween her fingers. A broad blaze roll- ed its rosy volumes up the chimney, and threw its reflections on the shining shelves and int.o the great tin-kitchen, that, plant- ed firmly, held up to the heat the very bird that had moved so majestically over the spring meadow, and which Mrs. Yen- nard was at present basting with such as- siduity, that, if ever the knife should pene- trate the crisp depth of envelope, it would certainly find the inclosure unscathed by fire. Little Jane was stirring enormous raisins into some wonderful batter of a pudding, for she remembered the time when somebody used to pick out all his plums and leave the rest, and she meant, that, so far as her skill and her resources would go, there should be no abatement of Christmas cheer to-day. And if, after all, everybody disdained the bounteous affair, why it could go to Tommy Lows mother, who would not by any means disdain it. Every now and then she turn- ed an anxious ear for any movement in the cold distance, but there was only silence. Suddenly Vivia started. A door had swung to, a strange sharp sound echoed on the staircase, the kitchen-door opened and closed, and Ray set his back against it. lIe did not attempt to move, but stood there darkly surveying them. Vivia look- ed at him a second, then rose quickly, crossed the room, and kissed him. Imme- diately Mrs. Vennard made a commo- tion, while the other led him forward and placed him in her chair. Little Jane pushed aside the pudding hastily, and proceeded to mull some of her mock Sherry, that his heart might be warmed within him; and the cat came rubbing against his crutch, as if she would make friends with it and take it into the fami ly. Mrs. Vennard resumed her basting; Vivia began talking to him about her work and about her walk, murmuring pleasantly in her clear, low tone,Janet now and then putting in a word. Ray sat there, sipping his spicy draught, and looking out with an unacquainted air at the stir to which his coming had lent some gladness. But his face was yet overcast 1864.1 Ra~y. 37 with the shadows of the grave. In vain Mrs. Vennard fussed and fidgeted, in vain little Jane uttered any of her brisk, hut sorry jesting, in vain Vivias gentle voice ; it all touched Rays heart no other way than as the rain slips along a tombstone. Vivia folded her work and disappeared; she was going to light a fire in her parlor, where there had been none vet, and where by-and-by in the evening shadows she might play to Ray, and charm him, perhaps, to rest. Mrs. Vennard divined her purpose, and hur- ried after her to join in the task. Ray fonnd himself alone in his corner; he shivered. In spite of all the weeks of solitude, a sudden chill seized him; he gathered up his crutches, and stalked on them to the table where little Jane was yet finding something to do. She brought him a chair, and for a minute or two he watched her; then he was only staring vacantly at his hands, as they lay before him on the table. If Janet was a busy soul, she was just as certainly a busybody. She had the loving and innocent habit of making her- self a member of every ones equation. Just now she ached inwardly, when look- ing at Ray, and it was impossible for her not to try and help him. Ray, dear, said she, leaving her work and standing before him, I think yon ought to smile now. Vivia has for- given you. Take it as an earnest that God forgives you, too. I have nt sinned against God, said Ray. I dont know who I sinned against. I killed my brother. And his face fell forward on his hands and wet them with jets of scalding tears. Full of awe and misery, little Jane drop- ped upon her knees beside him, and, clasping his hands in hers, said to her- self some silent prayer. After that placid-ending Christmas, after that first prayer, those first tears, after Vivias music at nightfall, Ray was another creature. He no longer shut himself up in his room, but was down and about with little Jane at peep of day. Indeed, he had now a horror of being alone, following Janet from morn till eve, like a shadow, and stooping forward, when the dark began to gather, with great, silent tears rolling over his face, unless she came and took the crick- et at his foot, slipping her warm hand into his, and helping him to himself with the unspoken sympathy. But it was a hor- ror which nothing wholly lulled to sleep at last but Vivias singing. Every night, for an hour or more, Vivia wrought the musics spell about him, while he lay back in his chair, and little Jane retreated across the hearth, not daring to intrude on such a season. They were seldom purely sad things that she played: some- times the melody murmured its canta- bile like a summer brook into which moonbeams bent, flowing along the low- land, breaking only in sprays of tune, and seeming to paint in its bosom the sleeping shadows of the fair field-flowers; and if ever the gentle strain lost its way, and found itself wandering among the massive chords, the profound melancholy, the blind groping of any Fifth Symphony or piercing Stabat Mater, she answered it, singing Elijahs hymn of rest; and as she sang, there grew in her voice a strength, a sweetness, that satisfied the very soul. When the nine-oclock bell rang in from the village through the winter nights crystal clearness, little Jane would lightly nudge her mother and steal away to bed; and in the rud- dy twilight of the palling fire the two talked softly, talked, but never of that dark thing lying most deeply in the heart of either. Perhaps, by- and-by, when the thrillin~, wound should be only a scar, if ever that time should come, the one would be able to speak, the other to hear. Week after week, now, Ray began t.o occupy himself about the house more and more, resuming in succession odd little jobs that during all this time had remain- ed unfinished as on the day lie went. He seemed desirous of taking up the days exactly as he had left them, of bridging over this gap and chasm, of ignoring the 38 l?ay. [January, fatal summer. Something so dreadful had fallen into his life that it could not assimilate itself with the tissues of daily existence. The work must be slow that would volatilize such a black body of horror till it leavened all th~ being into power and grace undreamed of before. But little Jane did not philosophize upon what shewas so glad to see; she hailed every sign of outside interest as a symp- tom of returning health, and gave him a thousand occasions. Yesterday there were baskets to braid, and to-day he must initiate her in the complications of a doz- en difficult sailors-knots that he knew, and to-morrow there would be woodchuck- traps to make and show her how to set. For Janets chief vexation had overtaken her in the absence of fresh eggs for break- fast, an absence that would be enduring, unless the small game of the forest could be lured into her snares and parcelled among the apathetic hens. Many were the recipes and the consultations on the subject, till at last Ray wrote out for her, in black-letter, a notice to be pin- ned up in the sight of every delinquent: Twelve eggs, or death! Whether it were the frozen rabbit-meat flung among them the day before, or whether it were the timely warning, there is no one to tell; but the next morning twelve eggs lay in the various hiding-places, which Mrs. Vennard declared to be as good eggs as ever were laid, and custards and cookies renewed their reign. Here, sud- denly, Ray remembered the purse in his haversack, containing all his uncounted pay. It was a weary while that he stayed alone in the cold, leaning over it as if he stared at the thirty pieces of silver, a faint sickness seized him, then hurriedly sweeping it up, with a red spot burning cruelly into either cheek, he brought it down, and emptied it in little Janes lap, though he would rather have seen it ground to impalpable dust. But, after a moments thought, the astonished recipi- ent kept it for a use of her own. Final- ly, one night, Ray proposed to instruct Janet in some particular branch of his general ignorance; and after those fire- light-recitations, little Jane forgot to move her seat away, and her band was kept in his through all the hour of Vivias slow enchantment. So the cold weather wore away, and spring stole into the scene like a surprise, finding Vivia as the winter found her, but Ray still undergoing volcanic chan- ges, now passionless lulls and now rages and spasms of grief: gradually out of them all he gathered his strength about him. It was once more a morning of early June, sunrise was blushing over the mead- ows, and the gossamers of hoar dew lay in spidery veils of woven light and melt- ed under the rosy beams. From her window one heard Vivia singing, and the strain stole down like the breath of the heavy honeysuckles that trellised her pane : No more for me the eager day Breaks its bright prison-bars; The sunshine Thou hast stripped away, But bared the eternal stars. Though in the cloud the wild bird sings, His song falls not for me, Alone while r6sy heaven rings, But, Lord, alone with Thee! One well could know, in listening to the liquid melody of those clear tones, that love and sorrow had transfused her life at last to woof and warp of inner- most joy that death itself could neither tarnish nor obscure. In a few moments she came down and joined Ray, where he stood upon the door-stone, with one arm resting over the shoulder of little Jane, and watched with him the antics of a youth who postured before them. It was some old acquaintance of Rays, returned from the war; and as if he would demonstrate how wonderfully martial ex- ercise supples joint and sinew, he was leaping in the air, turning his heel where his toe should be, hanging his foot on his arm and throwing it over his shoulder in a necklace, skipping and prancing on the grass like a veritable saltinbanco. Ray looked grimly on and inspected the evo- lutions; then there was long process of 1864.1 Ray. question and answer and asseveration, and, when the youth departed, little Jane had announced with authority that Ray should throw away his crutch and stand on two feet of his own again. What a gay fellow he is! said Ray, drawing a breath of relief. They re all alike, dancing on graves. To be an old T6m~raire decked out in signal-flags after thunderous work well done, and settling down, is one thing. But we, to-day, when one would think every wom- an in the land should wear the sack- cloth and ashes of mourning, we break into a splendor of apparel that defies the butterflies and boughs of the dying year. Two striking examples before you,~~ said little Jane, with a laugh, as she look- ed at her old print and at Vivias gray gown. I was nt thinking of you. I saw the ladies in the village yesterday,they were pied and parded. Children, said Mrs. Vennard from within, I ye taken up the coffee now. I shant wait a minute longer. Vivia, I 11 beat an egg into yours. But the children had wandered down to the lake-shore, oblivious of her cry, and were standing on the rock watch- ing their images glassed below and ever freshly shattered with rippling undula- tions. A wherry chained beside them Vivia rocked lightly with her foot. You and little Jane will set me down by-and-by? she asked. T will be so much pleasanter than the coach. And, Vivia dear, you will go, then? exclaimed little Jane, with tearful eyes. You will certainly go? Yes, said Yivia, looking out and far away, I shall go to do that Which no one can ever do for you, said Ray, with a shudder. Which some woman will praise Heav- en for. God bless you, Vivia! cried little Jane. He has already blessed me, said Vivia, softly. Janet nestled nearer to Rays side, as they stood. There was a tremor of glad- ness through all the dew of her glance. Ray looked down at her for a moment, and his hard brow softened, in his eyes hung a light like the reflection of a star in a breaking wave. He has blessed me, too, said he. Some day I shall be a man again. I have thrown away my crutch, Vivia, for all my life I am going to have this little shoulder to lean upon. And over his sombre face a smile crept and deepened, like the yellow ray, that, after along, dark day of driving rain, sud- denly gilds the tree-tops and brims the sky; and though, when it went, the gloom shut drearily down again, still it bore the promise of fair day to-morrow. 40 House and Home Papers. [January, HOUSE AND HOME PAPERS. BY CIJIUSTOPHER CROWFIELD. I. THE RAVAGES OF A CARPET. My dear, it s so cheap! These words were spoken by my wife, as she sat gracefully on a roll of Brussels carpet which was spread out in flowery lengths on the floor of Messrs. Ketchem & Co. It s so cheap 1 Milton says that the love of praise is the last infirmity of noble minds. I think he had not rightly considered the subject. I believe that last infirmity is the love of getting things cheap! Under- stand me, now. I dont mean the love of getting cheap things, by which one un- derstands showy, trashy, ill-made, spuri- ous articles, bearing certain apparent re- semblances to better things. All really sensible people are quite superior to that sort of cheapness. But those fortunate accidents which put within the power of a man things really good and valuable for half or a third of their value what mortal virtue and resolution can with- stand? My friend Brown has a genuine Murillo, the joy of his heart and the light of his eyes, but he never fails to tell you, as its crowning merit, how he bought it in South America for just nothing,how it hung smoky and deserted in the back of a counting-room, and was thrown in as a makeweight to bind a bargain, and, upon being cleaned, turned out a genuine Murillo; and then he takes out his cigar, and calls your attention to the points in it; he adjusts the curtain to let the sunlight fall just in the right spot; he takes you to this and the other point of view; and all this time you must con- fess, that, in your mind as well as his, the consideration that he got all this beauty for ten dollars adds lustre to the paint- ing. Brown has paintings there for which he paid his thousands, and, being well ad- vised, they are worth the thousands he paid; but this ewe-lamb that he got for nothing always gives him a secret exalta- tion in his own eyes. He seems to have credited to himself personally merit to the amount of what he should have paid for the picture. Then there is Mrs. Crcesus, at the party yesterday evening, expatiat- ing to my wife on the surprising cheap- ness of her point-lace set, Got for just nothing at all, my dear! and a circle of admiring listeners echoes the sound. Did you ever hear anything like it? I never heard of such a thing in my life; and away sails Mrs. Crcesus as if she had a collar composed of all the cardinal vir- tues. In fact, she is buoyed up with a secret sense of merit, so that her satin slippers scarcely touch the carpet. Even I myself am fond of showing a first edi- tion of Paradise Lost, for which I gave a shilling in a London book-stall, and stat- ing that I would not take a hundred dol- lars for it. Even I must confess there are points on which I am mortal. But all this while my wife sits on her roll of carpet, looking into my face for approbation, and Marianne and Jane are pouring into my ear a running-fire of~ How sweet! How lovely! Just like that one of Mrs. Tweedleums! And she gave two dollars and seven- ty - five cents a yard for hers, and this is My wife here put her hand to her mouth, and pronounced the incredible sum in a whisper, with a species of sa- cred awe, common, as I have observed, to females in such interesting crises. In fact, Mr. Ketchem, standing smiling and amiable by, remarked to me that really he hoped Mrs. Crowfield would not name generally what she gave for the article, for positively it was so far below the usual rate of prices that he might give offence

Harriet Beecher Stowe Stowe, Harriet Beecher House and Home Papers 40-47

40 House and Home Papers. [January, HOUSE AND HOME PAPERS. BY CIJIUSTOPHER CROWFIELD. I. THE RAVAGES OF A CARPET. My dear, it s so cheap! These words were spoken by my wife, as she sat gracefully on a roll of Brussels carpet which was spread out in flowery lengths on the floor of Messrs. Ketchem & Co. It s so cheap 1 Milton says that the love of praise is the last infirmity of noble minds. I think he had not rightly considered the subject. I believe that last infirmity is the love of getting things cheap! Under- stand me, now. I dont mean the love of getting cheap things, by which one un- derstands showy, trashy, ill-made, spuri- ous articles, bearing certain apparent re- semblances to better things. All really sensible people are quite superior to that sort of cheapness. But those fortunate accidents which put within the power of a man things really good and valuable for half or a third of their value what mortal virtue and resolution can with- stand? My friend Brown has a genuine Murillo, the joy of his heart and the light of his eyes, but he never fails to tell you, as its crowning merit, how he bought it in South America for just nothing,how it hung smoky and deserted in the back of a counting-room, and was thrown in as a makeweight to bind a bargain, and, upon being cleaned, turned out a genuine Murillo; and then he takes out his cigar, and calls your attention to the points in it; he adjusts the curtain to let the sunlight fall just in the right spot; he takes you to this and the other point of view; and all this time you must con- fess, that, in your mind as well as his, the consideration that he got all this beauty for ten dollars adds lustre to the paint- ing. Brown has paintings there for which he paid his thousands, and, being well ad- vised, they are worth the thousands he paid; but this ewe-lamb that he got for nothing always gives him a secret exalta- tion in his own eyes. He seems to have credited to himself personally merit to the amount of what he should have paid for the picture. Then there is Mrs. Crcesus, at the party yesterday evening, expatiat- ing to my wife on the surprising cheap- ness of her point-lace set, Got for just nothing at all, my dear! and a circle of admiring listeners echoes the sound. Did you ever hear anything like it? I never heard of such a thing in my life; and away sails Mrs. Crcesus as if she had a collar composed of all the cardinal vir- tues. In fact, she is buoyed up with a secret sense of merit, so that her satin slippers scarcely touch the carpet. Even I myself am fond of showing a first edi- tion of Paradise Lost, for which I gave a shilling in a London book-stall, and stat- ing that I would not take a hundred dol- lars for it. Even I must confess there are points on which I am mortal. But all this while my wife sits on her roll of carpet, looking into my face for approbation, and Marianne and Jane are pouring into my ear a running-fire of~ How sweet! How lovely! Just like that one of Mrs. Tweedleums! And she gave two dollars and seven- ty - five cents a yard for hers, and this is My wife here put her hand to her mouth, and pronounced the incredible sum in a whisper, with a species of sa- cred awe, common, as I have observed, to females in such interesting crises. In fact, Mr. Ketchem, standing smiling and amiable by, remarked to me that really he hoped Mrs. Crowfield would not name generally what she gave for the article, for positively it was so far below the usual rate of prices that he might give offence 1864.] House and Ilonie Papers. 41 to other customers but this was the very last of the pattern, and they were anx- ious to close off the old stock, and we had always traded with them, and he had a great respect for my wifes father, who had always traded with their firm, and so, when there were any little bargains to be thrown in any ones way, why, he nat- urally, of course And here Mr. Ketchem howed gracefully over the yard- stick to my wife, and I consented. Yes, I consented; but whenever I think of myself at that moment, I always am reminded, in a small way, of Adam taking the apple; and my wife, seated on that roll of carpet, has more than once suggested to my mind the classic image of Pandora opening her unlucky box. In fact, from the moment I had blandly as- sented to Mr. Ketchems remarks, and said to my wife, with a gentle air of dig- nity, Well, my dear, since it suits you, I think you had better take it, there came a load on my prophetic soul, which not all the fluttering and chattering of my de- lighted girls and the more placid compla- cency of my wife could entirely dissipate. I presaged, I know not what, of coming woe; and all I presaged came to pass. In order to know just what came to pass, I must give you a view of the house and home into which this carpet was in- troduced. My wife and I were somewhat advan- ced housekeepers, and our dwelling was first furnished by her father, in the old- fashioned jog-trot days, when furniture was made with a view to its lasting from generation to generation. Everything was strong and comfortable,heavy ma- hogany, guiltless of the modern device of veneering, and hewed out with a square solidity which had not an idea of change. It was, so to speak, a sort of granite foun- dation of the household structure. Then, we commenced housekeeping with the full idea that our house was a thing to be lived in, and that furniture was made to be used. That most sensihle of women, Mrs. Crowfield, agreed fully with me that in our house there was to be nothing too good for ourselves, no rooms shut up in holiday attire to be enjoyed by stran- gers for three or four days in the year, while we lived in boles and corners, no best parlor from which we were to be excluded,no best china which we were not to use, no silver plate to be kept in the safe in the bank, and brought home only in case of a grand festival, while our daily meals were served with dingy Britannia. Strike a broad, plain average, I said to my wife; have every- thing abundant, serviceable; and give all our friends exactly what we bave our- selves, no better and no worse ; and my wife smiled approval on my sentiment. Smile! she did more than smile. My wife resembles one of those convex mir- rors I have sometimes seen. Every idea I threw out, plain and simple, she re- flected back upon me in a thousand little glitters and twinkles of her own; she made my crude conceptions come back to me in such perfectly dazzliiig performances that I hardly recognized them. My mind warms up, when I think what a home that woman made of our house from the very first day she moved into it. The great, large, airy parlor, with its ample bow-window, when she had ar- ranged it, seemed a perfect trap to catch sunbeams. There was none of that dis- couraging trimness and newness that of- ten repel a mans bachelor-friends after the first call, and make them feel, Oh, well, one cannot go in at Crow- fields now, unless one is dressed; one might put them out. The first thing our parlor said to any one was, that we were not people to be put out, that we were wide-spread, easy - going, and jolly folk. Even if Tom Brown brought in Ponto and his shooting-bag, there was nothing in that parlor to strike terror into man and (log; for it was written on the face of things, that everybody there was to do just as he or she pleased. There were my books and my writing- table spread out with all its miscellaneous confusion of papers on one side of the fireplace, and there were my wifes great, ample sofa and work - table on the other; there I wrote my articles for the North Amer 42 House and Home Papers. [January, ican, and there she turned and ripped and altered her dresses, and there lay crochet and knitting and embroidery side by side with a weekly basket of family-mending, and in neighborly con- tiguity with the last book of the season, which my wife turned over as she took her after - dinner lounge on the sofa. And in the. bow-window were canaries always singing, and a great stand of plants always fresh and blooming, and ivy which grew and clambered and twin- ed about the pictures. Best of all, there was in our parlor that household altar, the blazing wood-fire, whose wholesome, hearty crackle is the truest household inspiration. I quite agree with one cele- brated American author who holds that an open fireplace is an altar of patriot- ism. Would our Revolutionary fathers have gone barefooted and bleeding over snows to defend air-tight stoves and cook- ing-ranges? I trow not. It was the memory of the great open kitchen-fire, with its back-log and fore-stick of cord- wood, its roaring, hilarious voice of in- vitation, its dancing tongues of flame, that called to them through the snows of that dreadful winter to keep up their cour- age, that made their hearts warm and bright with a thousand reflected memo- ries. Our nei~hbors said that it was de- lightful to sit by our fire, but then, for their part, they could not afford it, wood was so ruinously dear, and all that. Most of these people could not, for the simple reason that they felt compelled, in order to maintain the family-dignity, to keep up a parlor with great pomp and cir- cumstance of upholstery, where they sat only on dress - occasions, and of course the wood-fire was out of the question. When children began to make their ap- pearance in our establishment, my wife, like a well-conducted housekeeper, had the best of nursery - arrangements, a room all wari~ed, lighted, and ventilated, and abounding in every proper resource of amusement to the rising race; but it was astonishing to see how, notwithstanding this, the centripetal attraction drew every pair of little pattering feet to our parlor. My dear, why dQnt you take your blocks up-stairs? I want to be where oo are, said with a piteous under-lip, was generally a most convincing answer. Then the small people could not he disabused of the idea that certain chief treasures of their own would be safer under papas writing-table or mammas sofa than in the safest closet of their own domains. My writing-table was dock- yard for Arthurs new ship, and stable for little Toms pepper-and-salt-colored pony, and carriage - house for Charleys new wagon, while whole armies of pa- per dolls kept house in the recess behind mammas sofa. And then, in due time, came the tribe of pets who followed the little ones and rejoiced in the blaze of the firelight. The boys had a splendid Newfoundland, which, knowing our weakness, we warn- ed them with awful gravity was never to be a parlor-dog; but, somehow, what with little beggings and pleadings on the part of Arthur and Tom, and the piteous melancholy with which Rover would look through the window-panes, when shut out from the blazing warmth into the dark, cold veranda, it at last came to pass that Rover gained a regular corner at the hearth, a regular status in every family - convocation. And then came a little black- and-tan English terrier for the girls; and then a fleecy poodle, who established himself on the corner of my wifes sofa; and for each of these some little voices pleaded, and some little heart would be so near broken at any slight, that my wife and I resigned our- selves to live in menagerie, the more so as we were obliged to confess a lurking weakness towards these four-footed chil- dren ourselves. So we grew and flourished together, children, dogs, birds, flowers, and all; and although my wife often, in paroxysms of housewifeliness to which the best of women are subject, would declare that we never were fit to be seen, yet I com- forted her with the reflection that there were few people whose friends seemed to 1864.] House and Home Papers. 43 consider them better worth seeing, judg- lug by the stream of visitors and loun- gers which was always setting towards our parlor. People seemed to find it good to be there; they said it was some- how home - like and pleasant, and that there was a kind of charm about it that made it easy to talk and easy to live; and as my girls and boys grew up, there seem- ed always to be some merry doing or oth- er going on there. Arty and Tom brought home their college friends, who straight- way took root there and seemed to fancy themselves a part of us. We had no re- ception-rooms apart, where the girls were to receive young gentlemen; all the court- ing and ifirting that were to be done had for their arena the ample variety of sur- face presented by our parlor, which, with sofas and screens and lounges and reces- ses and writing- and work-tables dispos- ed here and there, and the genuine lais- ser oiler of the whole menage, seemed, on the whole, to have offered ample ad- vantages enough; for, at the time I write of, two daughters were already establish- ed in marriage, and a third engaged, while my youngest was busy, as yet, in performing that little domestic ballet of the cat with the mouse, in the case of a most submissive youth of the neighbor- hood. All this time our parlor-furniture, though of that granitic formation I have indicat- ed, began to show marks of that decay to which things sublunary are liable. I can- not say that I dislike this look in a room. Take a fine, ample, hospitable apartment, where all things, freely and generously used, softly and indefinably grow old to- gether, there is a sort of mellow tone and keeping which pleases my eye. What if the seams of the great inviting arm- chair, where so many friends have sat and lounged, do grow white? What, in fact, if some easy couch has an undenia- ble hole worn in its friendly cover? I regard with tenderness even these mor- tal weaknesses of these servants and wit- nesses of our good times and social fel- lowship. No vulgar touch wore them; they may he called, rather, the marks and indentations which the glittering in and out of the tide of social happiness has worn in the rocks of our strand. I would no more disturb the gradual toning- down and aging of a well - used set of furniture by smart improvements than I would have a modern dauber paint in emendations in a fine old picture. So we men reason; hut women do not always think as we do. There is a viru- lent demon of housekeeping, not wholly cast out in the best of them, and which often breaks out in unguarded moments. In fact, Miss Marianne, being on the look- out for furniture wherewith to begin a new establishment, and Jane, who had accompanied her in her peregrinations, had more than once thrown out little dis- paraging remarks on the time-worn ap- pearance of our establishment, suggesting comparison with those of more modern- furnished rooms. It is positively scandalous, the way our furniture looks, I one day heard her de- claring to her mother; and this old rag of a carpet! My feelings were hurt, not the less so that I knew that the large cloth which covered the middle of the floor, and which the women call a hocking, had been bought and nailed down there, after a solemn family-counsel, as the best means of concealing the too evident darns which years of good cheer had made needful in our stanch old household friend, the three-ply carpet, made in those days when to he a three-ply was a pledge of contin- uance and service. Well, it was a joyous and bustling day, when, after one of those domestic whirl- winds which the women are fond of de- nominating house-cleaning, the new Brus- sels carpet was at length brought in and nailed down, and its beauty praised from mouth to mouth. Our old friends call- ed in and admired, and all seemed to be well, except that I had that light and del- icate presage of changes to come which indefinitely brooded over me. The first premonitory symptom was the look of apprehensive suspicion with which the female senate regarded the genial 44 House a~~d Home Papers. [January, sunbeams that had always glorified our bow-window. This house ought to have inside blinds, said Marianne, with all the con- fident decision of youth this carpet will be ruined, if the sun is allowed to come ia like that. And that dirty little canary must really be hung in the kitchen, said Jane; he always did make such a lit- ter, scattering his seed-chippings about and he never takes his bath without flirt- ing out some water. And, mamma, it appears to me it will never do to have the plants here. Plants are always ei- ther leaking through the pots upon the carpet, or scattering bits of blossoms and dead leaves, or some accident upsets or breaks a pot. It was no matter, you know, when we had the old carpet but this we really want to have kept nice. Mamma stood her ground for the plants, darlings of her heart for many a year, but temporized, and showed that disposition towards compromise which is most inviting to aggression. I confess I trembled; for, of all radicals on earth, none are to be compared to fe- males that have once in hand a course of domestic innovation and reform. The sacred fire, the divine furor, burns in their bosoms, they become perfect Pythonesses, and every chair they sit on assumes the magic properties of the tripod. Hence the dismay that lodges in the bosoms of us males at the fateful spring and au- tumn seasons, denominated house-clean- ing. Who can say whither the awful gods, the prophetic fates, may drive our fair household divinities; what sins of ours may be brought to light; what in- dulgences and compliances, which unin- spired woman has granted in her ordina- ry mortal hours, may be torn from us? He who has been allowed to keep a pair of pet slippers in a concealed corner, and by the fireside indulged with a chair which he might, ad libitum, fill with all sorts of pamphlets and miscellaneous lit- erature, suddenly finds himself reformed out of knowledge, his pamphlets tucked away into pigeon-holes and corners, and his slippers put in their place in the hall, with, perhaps, a brisk insinuation about the shocking dust and disorder that men will tolerate. The fact was, that the very first night after the advent of the new carpet I had a prophetic dream. Among our treasures of art was a little etching, by an English artist-friend, the subject of which was the gambols of the household fairies in a ba- ronial library after the household were in bed. The little people are represent- ed in every attitude of frolic enjoyment. Some escalade the great arm-chair, and look down from its top as from a domestic Mont Blanc; some climb about the bel- lows; some scale the shaft of the shovel while some, forming in magic ring, dance festively on the yet glowing hearth. Tiny troops promenade the writing-table. One perches himself quaintly on the top of the inkstand, and holds colloquy with another who sits cross-legged on a paper-weight, while a companion looks down on them from the top of the sand-box. It was an ingenious little device, and gave me the idea which I often expressed to my wife, that much of the peculiar feeling of securi- ty,composure, and enjoyment which seems to be the atmosphere of some rooms and houses came from the unsuspected pres- ence of these little people, the household fairies, so that the belief in their exist- ence became a solemn article of faith with me. Accordingly, that evening, after the installation of the carpet, when my wife and daughters had gone to bed, as I sat with my slippered feet before the last coals of the fire, I fell asleep in my chair, and, lo! my own parlor presented to my eye a scene of busy life. The little peo- ple in green were tripping to and fro, but in great confusion. Evidently some- thing was wrong among them; for they were fussing and chattering with each other, as if preparatory to a general move- ment. In the region of the bow-window I observed a tribe of them standing with tiny valises and carpet - bags in their hands, as though about to depart on a journey. On my writing-table another 1864.1 House and Home Papers. 45 set stood around my inkstand and pen- rack, who, pointing to those on the floor, seemed to debate some question among themselves; while others of them appear- ed to be collecting and packing away in tiny trunks certain fairy treasures, pre- paratory to a general departure. When I looked at the social hearth, at my wifes sofa and work-basket, I saw similar ap- pearances of dissatisfaction and confusion. It was evident that the household fairies were discussing the question of a general and simultaneous removal. I groaned in spirit, and, stretching out my hand, began a conciliatory address, when whisk went the whole scene from before my eyes, and I awaked to behold the form of my wife asking me if I were ill or had had the nightmare that I groaned so. I told her my dream, and we laughed at it together. We must give way to the girls a lit- tle, she said. It is natural, you know, that they should wish us to appear a lit- tle as other people do. The fact is, our parlor is somewhat dilapidated; think how many years we have lived in it with- out au article of new furniture. I hate new furniture, I remarked, in the bitterness of my soul. I hate any- thing new. My wife answered me discreetly, ac- cording to approved principles of diplo- macy. I was right. She sympathized with me. At the same time, it was not necessary, she remarked, that we should keep a hole in our sofa-cover and arm- chair; there would certainly be no harm in sending them to the upholsterers to be new-covered; she did nt much mind, for her part, moviub her plants to the south back-room, and the bird would do well enough in the kitchen: I had often complained of him for singing vociferous- ly when I was reading aloud. So our sofa went to the upholsterers; but the upholsterer was struck with such horror at its clumsy, antiquated, unfash- ionable appearance, that he felt bound to make representations to my wife and daughters: positively, it would be bet- ter for them to get a new one, of a tempt- ing pattern, which he showed them, than to try to do anything with that. With a stitch or so here and there it might do for a basement dining-room; but, for a parlor, he gave it as his disinterested opinion, he must say, if the case were his own, he should get, etc., etc. In short, we had a new sofa and new chairs, and the plants and the birds were ban- ished, and some dark green blinds were put up to exclude the sun from the par- lor, and the blessed luminary was allow- ed there only at rare intervals when my wife and daughters were out shopping, and I acted out my uncivilized male in- stincts by pulling up every shade and viv- ifying the apartment as in days of old. But this was not the worst of it. The new furniture and new carpet formed an opposition party in the room. I believe in my heart that for every little house- hold fairy that went out with the dear old things there came in a tribe of dis- contented brownies with the new ones. These little wretches were always twitch- ing at the gowns of my wife and daugh- ters, jogging their elbows, and suggesting odious comparisons between the smart new articles and what remained of the old ones. They disparaged my writing-table in the corner; they disparaged the old- fashioned lounge in the other corner, which had been the maternal throne for years; they disparaged the work-table, the work-basket, with constant sugges- tions of how such things as these would look in certain well-kept parlors where new-fashioned furniture of the same sort as ours existed. We dont have any parlor, said Jane, one day. Our parlor has always been a sort of log-cabin,library, study, nurs- ery, greenhouse, all combined. We nev- er have had things like other people. Yes, and this open fire makes such a dust; and this carpet is one that shows every speck of dust; it keeps one always on the watch. I wonder why papa never had a study to himself; I m sure I should think he would like it better than sitting here among us all. Now there s the great south-room off the dining-room; if he 46 House and Home Papers. [January, would only move his things there, and have his open fire, we could then close up the fireplace, and put lounges in the recesses, and mamma could have her things in the nursery, and then we should have a parlor fit to he seen. I overheard all this, though I pretend- ed not to, the little busy chits suppos- ing me entirely buried in the recesses of a ~erman book over which I was poring. There are certain crises in a mans life when the female element in his house- hold asserts itself in dominant forms that seem to threaten to overwhelm him. The fair creatures, who in most matters have depended on his judgment, evident- ly look upon him at these seasons as only a forlorn, incapable male creature, to be cajoled and flattered and persuaded out his native blindness and absurdity into the fairy-land of their wishes. Of course, mamma, said the busy voices, men cant understand such things. What can men know of house- keeping, and how things ought to look? Papa never goes into company; he dont know and dont care how the world is doing, and dont see that nobody now is living as we do. Aha, my little mistresses, are you there?I thought; andl mentally re- solved on opposing a great force of what our politicians call backbone to this pret- ty domestic conspiracy. When you get my writing-table out of this corner, my pretty dears, I d thank you to let me know it. Thus spake I in my blindness, fool that I was. Jupiter might as soon keep awake, when Juno came in best bib and tucker, and with the cestus of Venus, to get him to sleep. Poor Slender might as well hope to get the better of pretty Mistress Anne Page, as one of us clumsy-footed men might endeavor to escape from the tangled labyrinth of female wiles. In short, in less than a year it was all done, without any quarrel, any noise, any violence, done, I scarce knew when or how, but with the utmost deference to my wishes, the most amiable hopes that I would not put myself out, the most sin- cere protestations, that, if I liked it bet- ter as it was, my goddesses would give up and acquiesce. In fact, I seemed to do it of myself, constrained thereto by what the Emperor Napoleon has so happily called the logic of events, that old, well-known logic by which the man who has once said A must say B, and he who has said B must say the whole alpha- bet. In a year, we had a parlor with two lounges in decorous recesses, a fashion- able sofa, and six chairs and a looking- glass, and a grate always shut up, and a hole in the floor which kept the parlor warm, and great, heavy curtains that kept out all the light that was not al- ready excluded by the green shades. It was as proper and orderly a parlor as those of our most fashionable neighbors; and when our friends called, we took them stumbling into its darkened solitude, and opened a faint crack in one of the window- shades, and came down in our best clothes, and talked with them there. Our old friends rebelled at this, and asked what they had done to be treated so, and com- plained so bitterly that gradually we let them into the secret that there was a great south-room which I had taken for my study, where we all sat, where the old carpet was down, where the sun shone in at the great window, where my wifes plants flourished and the canary - bird sang, and my wife had her sofa in the corner, and the old brass andirons glis- tened and the wood-fire crackled, in short, a room to which all the household fairies had emigrated. When they once had found that out, it was difficult to get any of them to sit in our parlor. I had purposely christened the new room my study, that I might stand on my rights as master of ceremo- nies there, though I opened wide arms of welcome to any who chose to come. So, then, it would often come to pass, that, when we were sitting round the fire in my study of an evening, the girls would say, Come, what do we always stay here for? Why dont we ever sit in the par- br? And then there would be manifested 1864.] Three Cantos of Dantes Paradiso. 47 among guests and family-friends a gen- eral unwillingness to move. Oh, hang it, girls! would Arthur say; the parlor is well enough, all right; let it stay as it is, and let a fellow stay where he can do as he pleases and feels at home; and to this view of the matter would respond divers of the nice young bachelors who were Arthurs and Toms sworn friends. In fact, nobody wanted to stay in our parlor now. It was a cold, correct, accomplished fact; the household fairies had left it, and when the fairies leave a room, nobody ever feels at home in it. No pictures, curtains, no wealth of mirrors, no elegance of lounges, can in the least make up for their absence. They are a capricious little set; there are rooms where they will not stay, and rooms where they will; but no one can ever have a good time without them. THREE CANTOS OF DANTES PARADISO. CANTO XXIII. Ev~ as a bird, mid the beloved leaves, Quiet upon the nest of her sweet brood Throughout the night, that hideth all things from us, Who, that she may behold their longed-for looks And find the nourishment wherewith to feed them, In which, to her, grave labors grateful are, Anticipates the time on open spray And with an ardent longing waits the sun, Gazing intent, as soon as breaks the dawn: Even thus my Lady standing was, erect And vigilant, turned round towards the zone Underneath which the sun displays least haste; So that beholding her distraught and eager, Such I became as he is, who desiring For something yearns, and hoping is appeased. But brief the space from one When to the other From my awaiting, say I, to the seeing The welkin grow resplendent more and more. And Beatrice exclaimed: Behold the hosts Of the triumphant Christ, and all the fruit Harvested by the rolling of these spheres! It seemed to me her face was all on flame; And eyes she had so full of ecstasy That I must needs pass on without describing. As when in nights serene of the full moon Smiles Trivia among the nymphs eternal Who paint the heaven through all its hollow cope, Saw I, above the myriads of lamps, A sun that one and all of them enkindled, Een as our own does the supernal stars. And through the living light transparent shone The lucent substance so intensely clear Into my sight, that I could not sustain it. Dante is with Deatrice in the eighth circle, that of the fixed stars. She is gazing upwards watching for the descent of the Triumph of christ. Under the meridian, or at noon, the shadows being shorter move slower, and therefore the sun seems less in haste. By the beneficent influen- ces of the stars. The old belief that the stars were fed by the light of the sun. So Milton, Hither o~ to titrir fount in, other otoro Repair, and in their golden urea draw tight. Here the stars are souls, the sun is christ.

H. W. Longfellow Longfellow, H. W. Three Cantos of Dante's "Paradiso" 47-56

1864.] Three Cantos of Dantes Paradiso. 47 among guests and family-friends a gen- eral unwillingness to move. Oh, hang it, girls! would Arthur say; the parlor is well enough, all right; let it stay as it is, and let a fellow stay where he can do as he pleases and feels at home; and to this view of the matter would respond divers of the nice young bachelors who were Arthurs and Toms sworn friends. In fact, nobody wanted to stay in our parlor now. It was a cold, correct, accomplished fact; the household fairies had left it, and when the fairies leave a room, nobody ever feels at home in it. No pictures, curtains, no wealth of mirrors, no elegance of lounges, can in the least make up for their absence. They are a capricious little set; there are rooms where they will not stay, and rooms where they will; but no one can ever have a good time without them. THREE CANTOS OF DANTES PARADISO. CANTO XXIII. Ev~ as a bird, mid the beloved leaves, Quiet upon the nest of her sweet brood Throughout the night, that hideth all things from us, Who, that she may behold their longed-for looks And find the nourishment wherewith to feed them, In which, to her, grave labors grateful are, Anticipates the time on open spray And with an ardent longing waits the sun, Gazing intent, as soon as breaks the dawn: Even thus my Lady standing was, erect And vigilant, turned round towards the zone Underneath which the sun displays least haste; So that beholding her distraught and eager, Such I became as he is, who desiring For something yearns, and hoping is appeased. But brief the space from one When to the other From my awaiting, say I, to the seeing The welkin grow resplendent more and more. And Beatrice exclaimed: Behold the hosts Of the triumphant Christ, and all the fruit Harvested by the rolling of these spheres! It seemed to me her face was all on flame; And eyes she had so full of ecstasy That I must needs pass on without describing. As when in nights serene of the full moon Smiles Trivia among the nymphs eternal Who paint the heaven through all its hollow cope, Saw I, above the myriads of lamps, A sun that one and all of them enkindled, Een as our own does the supernal stars. And through the living light transparent shone The lucent substance so intensely clear Into my sight, that I could not sustain it. Dante is with Deatrice in the eighth circle, that of the fixed stars. She is gazing upwards watching for the descent of the Triumph of christ. Under the meridian, or at noon, the shadows being shorter move slower, and therefore the sun seems less in haste. By the beneficent influen- ces of the stars. The old belief that the stars were fed by the light of the sun. So Milton, Hither o~ to titrir fount in, other otoro Repair, and in their golden urea draw tight. Here the stars are souls, the sun is christ. 48 Three Cantos of Dantes Paradiso. [January, o Beatrice, my gentle guide and dear! She said to me: That which oermasters thee A virtue is which no one can resist. There are the wisdom and omnipotence That oped the thoroughfares twixt heaven and earth, For which there erst had been so long a yearning. As fire from out a cloud itself discharges, Dilating so it finds not room therein, And down, against its nature, falls to earth, So did my mind, among those aliments Becoming larger, issue from itself And what became of it cannot remember. Open thine eyes, and look at what I am: Thou hast beheld such things, that strong enough Ilast thou become to tolerate my smile. I was as one who still retains the feeling Of a forgotten dream, and who endeavors In vain to briug it back into his mind, When I this invitation heard, deserving Of so much gratitude, it never fades Out of the book that chronicles the past. If at this moment sounded all the tongues That Polyhynmia and her sisters made Most lubrical with their delicious milk, To aid me, to a thousandth of the truth It would not reach, singing the holy smile, And how the holy aspect it illumed. And therefore, representing Paradise, The sacred poem must perforce leap over, Even as a man who finds his way cut off. But whoso thinketh of the ponderous theme, And of the mortal shoulder that sustains it, Should blame it not, if under this it trembles. It is no passage for a little boat This which goes cleaving the audacious prow, Nor for a pilot who would spare himself. Why does my face so much enamor thee, That to the garden fair thou turnest not, Which under the rays of Christ is blossoming? There is the rose in which the Word Divine Became incarnate; there the lilies are By whose perfume the good way was selected. Thus Beatrice; and I, who to her counsels Was wholly ready, once again betook me Unto the battle of the feeble brows. As in a sunbeam, that unbroken passes Through fractured cloud, ere now a meadow of flowers Mine eyes with shadow covered have beheld, So I beheld the multitudinous splendors Refulgent from above with burning rays, Beholding not the source of the effulgence. Beatrice s~seaks. The Muse of harmony and singing. The rose is the Virgin Ma- ry, Rosa mundi, Rosa sny.s- tica; the lilies are the Apos- ties and other saints. The struggle between his eyes and the light. 1864.] Three Cantos of Dantes Paradiso. 49 O thou benignant power that so rmprintst them! Thou didst exalt thyself to give more scope There to the eyes, that were not strong enough. The name of that fair flower I eer invoke Morning and evening utterly enthralled My soul to gaze upon the greater fire. And when in both mine eyes depicted were The glory and greatness of the living star Which conquers there, as here below it conquered, Athwart the heavens descended a bright sheen Formed in a circle like a coronal, And cinctured it, and whirled itself about it. Whatever melody most sweetly soundeth On earth, and to itself most draws the soul, Would seem a cloud that, rent asunder, thunders, Compared unto the sounding of that lyre Wherewith was crowned the sapphire beautiful, Which gives the clearest heaven its sapphire hue. I am Angelic Love, that circle round The joy sublime which breathes from out the bosom That was the hostelry of our Desire And I shall circle, Lady of Heaven, while Thou followest thy Son, and makst diviner The sphere supreme, because thou enterest it. Thus did thQ circulated melody Seal itself up; and all the other lights Were making resonant the name of Mary. The regal mantle of the volumes all Of that world, which most fervid is and living With breath of God and with his works and ways, Extended over us its inner curve, So very distant, that its outward show, There where I was, not yet appeared to me. Therefore mine eyes did not possess the power Of following the incoronated flame, Which had ascended near to its own seed. And as a little child, that towards its mother Extends its arms, when it the milk has taken, Through impulse kindled into outward flame, Each of those gleams of white did upward stretch So with its summit, that the deep affection They had for Mary was revealed to me. Thereafter they remained there in my sight, Regina cadi singing with such sweetness, That neer from me has the delight departed. Oh, what exuberance is garnered up In those resplendent coffers, which had been For sowing here below good husbandmen! There they enjoy and live upon the treasure Which was acquired while weeping in the exile Of Babylon, wherein thg gold was left. VOL. XIII. 4 Christ reascends. that Dantes dazzled eyes, too feeble to bear the light of his presence, may behold the splendors around him. The greater fire is the Vir- gin Mary, greater than any of those remaining. She is the living star, surpassing in brightness all other souls in heaven, as she did here on earth: Stella Maria, ,Stella Matutisza. The Angel Gabriel, or Angelic Love. Sapphire is the color in which the old painters ar- rayed the Virgin. Christ. the desire of the nations. The regal mantle of all the volumes, or rolling orbs, of the world is the crystalline heaven, or Primum Mobile, which infolds all the others like a mantle. The Virgin ascends to her Son. Easter hymn to the Vir- gin. Caring not for gold in the Babylonian exile of this life, they laid up treasures in the other. 60 Three Cantos of Dantes Paradiso. [January, There triumpheth beneath the exalted Son Of God and Mary, in his victory, Both with the ancient council and the new, He who doth keep the keys of such a glory. CANTO XXIV. 0 COMPANY elect to the great supper Of the Lamb glorified, who feedeth you So that forever full is your desire, If by the grace of God this man foretastes Of whatsoever falleth from your table, Or ever death prescribes to him the time, Direct your mind to his immense desire, And him somewhat bedew; ye drinking are Forever from the fount whence comes his thought. Thus Beatrice; and those enraptured spirits Made themselves spheresaround their steadfast poles, Flaming intensely in the guise of c~rnets. And as the wheels in works of horologes Revolve so that the first to the bcholdcr Motionless seems, and the last one to fly, So in like manner did those carols, dancing In different measure, by their affluence Make me esteem them either swift or slow. From that one which I noted of most beauty Beheld I issue forth a fire so happy That none it left there of a greater splendor; And around Beatrice three several times It whirled itself with so divine a song, My fantasy repeats it not to me; Therefore the pea skips, and I write it not, Since our imagination for such folds, Much more our speech, is of a tint too glaring. 0 holy sister mine, who us hnplorest With such devotion, by thine ardent love Thou dost unbind me from that beautiful sphere! Thus, having stopped, the beatific fire Unto my Lady did direct its breath, Which spake in fashion as I here have said. And she: 0 light eterne of the great man To whom our Lord delivered up the keys He carried down of this miraculous joy, This one examine on points light and grave, As good beseemeth thee, about the Faith By means of which thou on the sea didst walk. If he loves well, and hopes well, and believes, Is hid not from thee; for thou hast thy sight Where everything beholds itself depicted. But since this kingdom has made citizens By means of the true Faith, to glorify it T is well he have the chance to speak thereof. St. Peter, keeper of the keys with the holy men of the Old and the New Testa- ment. Beatrice speaks. Hunger and thirst after things divine. The grace of God. The carol was a dance as well as a song. St. Peter thrice encircles Beatrice, as the Angel Ga- briel did the virgin Mary in the preceding canto. Too glaring for painting such delicate draperies of song. St. Peter speaks to Bea- trice. rixed upon God, in whom are all things reflected. Three Cantos of Dantes Paradiso. As baccalaureate arms himself; and speaks not Until the master doth propose the question, To argue it, and not to terminate it, So did I arm myself with every i~eason, While she was speaking, that I might be ready For such a questioner and such profession. Speak on, good Christian; manifest thyself; Say, what is Faith? Whereat I raised my brow Unto that light from which this was breat~ied forth. Then turned I round to Beatrice, and she Prompt signals made to me that I should pour The water forth from my internal fountain. May grace, that suffers me to make confession,~~ Began I, to the great Centurion, Cause my conceptions all to be explicit! And I continued: As the truthful pen, Father, of thy dear brother wrote of it, Who put with thee Rome into the good way, Faith is the substance of the things we hope for, Aad evidence of those that are not seen; And this appears to me its quiddity. Then heard I: Very rightly thou perceivest, If well thou understandest why he placed it With substances and then with evidences. And I thereafterw~trd: The things profound, That here vouchsafe to me their outward show, Unto all eyes below are so concealed, That they exist there only in belief; Upon the which is founded the high hope, And therefore take the nature of a substance. And it behooveth us from this belief To reason without having other views, And hence it has the nature of evidence. Then heard I: If whatever is acquired Below as doctrine were thus understood, No sophists subtlety would there find place. Thus was breathed forth from that enkindled love; Then added: Thoroughly has been gone over Already of this coin the alloy and weight But tell me if thou hast it in thy purse? And I: Yes, both so shining and so round, That in its stamp there is no peradventure. Thereafter issued from the light profound That there resplendent was: This precious jewel, Upon the which is every virtue founded, Whence hadst thou it? And I: The large outpouring Of the Holy Spirit, which has been diffused Upon the ancient parchments and the new, A syllogism is, which demonstrates it With such acuteness, that, compared therewith, All demonstration seems to me obtuse. St. Peter speaks to Dante The great Head of tJ.s Church. In the Scholastic Philos. ophy, the eseence of a thing1 distinguishing it from all other things, was called Its quiddity: an answer to the question, Quid est? The Old and New Testis- znenta. 1864.1 51 Three Cantos of Dantes Paradiso. [January And then I heard: The ancient and the new Postulates, that to thee are so conclusive, Why dost thou take them for the word divine? And I: The proof, which shows the truth to me, Are the works subsequent, whereunto Nature Neer heated iron yet, nor anvil beat. was answered me: Say, who assureth thee That those works ever were? the thing itself We wish to prove, nought else to thee affirms it. Were the world to Christianity converted, I said, withouten miracles, this one Is such, the rest are not its hundredth part; For thou didst enter destitute and fasting Into the field to plant there the good plant, Which was a vine and has become a thorn! This being finished, the high, holy Court Resounded through the spheres, One God we praise! In melody that there above is chanted. And then that Baron, who from branch to branch, Examining, had thus conducted me, Till the remotest leaves we were approaching, Did recommence once more: The Grace that lords it Over thy intellect thy mouth has opened, Up to this point, as it should opened be, So that I do approve what forth emerged; But now thou must express what thou believest, And whence to thy belief it was presented. 0 holy father! 0 thou spirit, who seest What thou believedst, so that thou oercamest, Towards the sepulchre, more youthful feet, Began I, thou dost wish me to declare Forthwith the manner of my prompt belief, And likewise thou the cause thereof demandest. And I respond: In one God I believe, Sole and eterne, who all the heaven doth move, Himself unmoved, with love and with desire; And of such faith not only have I proofs Physical and metaphysical, but gives them Likewise the truth that from this place rains down Through Moses, through the Prophets and the Psalms, Through the Evangel, and through you, who wrote After the fiery Spirit sanctified you; In Persons three eterne believe I, and these One essence I believe, so one and trine, They bear conjunction both with sunt and est. With the profound conjunction and divine, Which now I touch upon, doth stamp my mind Ofttimes the doctrine evangelical. This the beginning is, this is the spark Which afterwards dilates to vivid flame, And, like a star in heaven, is sparkling in me. In the Middle Ages earthly titles were sometimes given to the saints. Thus, Boccac- cm speaks of Baron Me& ser San Antonio. St. John, xx. 3-8. St. ~ohss was the first to reach the sepulchre, but St. Peter the first to enter it. St. Peter and the other Apostles after Pentecost. Three Cantos of Dantes Paradiso. 1864.] Even as a lord, who hears what pleases him, His servant straight embraces, giving thanks For the good news, as soon as he is silent; So, giving me its benediction, singing, Three times encircled me, when I was silent, The apostolic light, at whose command I spoken had, in speak;ng I so pleased him. CANTO XXV. IF eer it happen that the Poem Sacred, To which both heaven and earth have set their hand Till it hath made me meagre many a year, Oercome the cruelty that bars me out From the fair sheepfold, where a lamb I slumbered, Obnoxious to the wolves that war upon it, With other voice henceforth, with other fleece Will I return as poet, and at my font Baptismal will I take the laurel-crown; Because into the Faith that maketh known All souls to God there entered I, and then Peter for her sake so my brow encircled. Thereafterward towards us moved a light Out of that band whence issued the first-fruits Which of his vicars Christ behind him left, And then, my Lady, full of ecstasy, Said unto me: Look, look! behold the Baron For whom below Galicia is frequented. In the same way as, when a dove alights Near his companion, both of them pour forth, Girding about and murmuring, their affection, So I beheld one by the other grand Prince glorified to be with welcome greeted, Lauding the food that there above is eaten. But when their gratulations were completed, Silently coram me each one stood still, So incandescent it oercame my sight. Smiling thereafterwards, said Beatrice: Spirit august, by whom the benefactions Of our Basilica have been described, Make Hope reverberate in this altitude; Thou knowest as oft thou dost personify it As Jesus to the three gave greater light. Lift up thy head, and make thyself assured; For what comes hither from the mortal world Must needs be ripened in our radiance. This exhortation from the second fire Came; and mine eyes I lifted to the hills, Which bent them down before with too great weight. Since, through his grace, our Emperor decrees Thou shouldst confronted be, before thy death, In the most secret chamber, with his Counts, This Divina Commedia, in which human science or Philosophy is symbolized in virgil, and divine science nr Theology in Beatrice. Fierenza in bella, Flor- ence the Fair. In one of his Canzoni, Dante says, 0 meuntainsong ef mine, thou goest thy way; Florence my Lows thou shalt perchance hold, which hs~rn me from itself, Devoid of love and naked of Compassion. This allusion to the church of San Giovanni ii mm tel 8am Gievasseoj, as Dante calls it elsewhere, (Jnf. xix. 17,) is afitting prelude to the Canto in which St. John Is to appear. Like the laugh- ing of the grass in canto xxx. 77, it is a foreshad- owing preface, omhr~fero prefazio, of what follows. See Canto xxiv. 150. Sa, giving me its henedictiss, staging, Three times encircled me, when I wan silent, The apostolic tiht St. Peter. That we should be a kind of first-fruits of his creatures. Epistle of Sc. James, i. is. St. James. Pilgrimages are made to his tomb at compos- tella in Gahcta. The General Epistle of St. James, called the F use/cr Lactolica, i. 17. Every good gift and every perfect gift is from above, and com- eth down from the Father of lights. Our Basilica: Para- dice: the Church Trium- phant. Peter, James, and John, representing the three then. logical virtues, Faith, Hope, and Charity, and distinguish- ed above the other apostles by clearer manifestations of their Masters favor. St. James speaks. The three Apostles, lusci- none above him, overwhellss- log him with light. I will lift up mine eyes unto the hills, from whenee cometh my help. Psalm cxxi. 1. The most august spirits of the Celestial City. ~i3 54 Three Cantos of Dantes Paradiso. [January, So that, the truth beholding of this court, Hope, which below there rightly fascinates, In thee and others may thereby be strengthened; Say what it is, and how is flowering with it Thy mind, and say from whence it came to thee: Thus did the second light continue still. And the Compassionate, who piloted The plumage of my wings in such high flight, In the reply did thus anticipate me: No child whatever the Church Militant Of greater hope possesses, as is written In that Sun which irradiates all our band; Therefore it is conceded him from Egypt To come into Jerusalem to see, Or ever yet his warfare is completed. The other points, that not for knowledge sake Have been demanded, but that he report How much this virtue unto thee is pleasing, To him I leave; for hard he will not find them, Nor to be boasted of; them let him answer; And may the grace of God in this assist him! As a disciple, who obeys his teacher, Ready and willing, where he is expert, So that his excellence may he revealed, Hope, said I, is the certain expectation Of glory in the hereafter, which proceedeth From grace divine and merit precedent. From many stars this light comes unto me But he instilled it first into my heart, Who was chief singer unto the chief captain. Hope they in thee, in the high Theody ~He says, all those who recognize thy name; And who does not, if he my faith possesses? Thou didst instil me, then, with his instilling In the Epistle, so that I am full, And upon others rain again your rain. While I was speaking, in the living bosom Of that effulgence quivered a sharp flash, Sudden and frequent, in the guise of lightning. Then breathed: The love wherewith I am inflamed Towards the virtue still, which followed me Unto the palm and issue of the field, Wills that I whisper thee, thou take delight In her; and grateful to me is thy saying Whatever things Hope promises to thee. And I: The ancient Scriptures and the new The mark establish, and this shows it me, Of all the souls whom God has made his friends. Isaiah saith, that each one garmented In his own land shall be with twofold garments, And his own land is this sweet life of yours. Beatrice. In God, where everytbin~ behoRs it. self depicted. canto xxiv. 42. To come from earth to heaven. Say what it is. and whence it came to thee. Fit spes certa expectatio futures beatitudinis, veniesz.e ex Dei gratia et meritis pear ~ Petrue Loin- hardus, Ma0 ster Scsctentia- rum. The Psalmist David. The Book of Psalms, or Songs of God. And they that know thy name will put their trust in thee. Psalm ix. 10. Your rain: that is, of Da. vid and yourself. The mark of the high calling and election sure. The twofold garments are the glorified spirit and the glorified hody. 1864.] Three Cantos of Dantes Paradiso. 55 Thy brother, too, far more explicitly, There where he treateth o~ the robes of white, This revelation manifests to us. And first, and near the ending of these words, Sperent in te from over us was heard, To which responsive answered all the carols. Thereafterward among them gleamed a light, So that, if Cancer such a crystal had, Winter would have a month of one sole day. And as uprises, goes, and enters the dance A joyous maiden, only to do honor To the new bride, and not from any failing, So saw I the illuminated splendor Approach the two, who in a wheel revolved, As was beseeming to their ardent love. It joined itself there in the song and music; And fixed on them my Lady kept her look, Even as a bride, silent and motionless. This is the one who lay upon the breast Of him our Pelican; and this is he To the great office from the cross elected. My Lady thus; but therefore none the more Removed her sight from its fixed contemplation, Before or afterward, these words of hers. Even as a man who gazes, and endeavors To see the eclipsing of the sun a little, And who, by seeing, sightless doth become, So I became before that latest fire, While it was said, Why dost thou daze thyself To see a thing which here h~s no existence? Earth upon earth my body is, and shall be With all the others there, until our number With the eternal proposition tallies; With the two garments in the blessed cloister Are the two lights alone that have ascended: And this shalt thou take back into your world. And at this utterance the flaming circle Grew quiet, with the dulcet intermingling Of sound that by the trinal breath was made, As to escape from danger or fatigue The oars that erst were in the water beaten Are all suspended at a whistles sound. Ah, how much in my mind was I disturbed, When I turned round to look on Beatrice, At not beholding her, although I was Close at her side and in the ilappy World! St. John, in the Apoca- lypse vii. 9. A great mul- titude which no man could number clothed with white robes. Dances and songs commin- gled; the circling choirs, the celestial choristers. St. John the Evangelist. In winter the constellation cancer rises at sunset; and if it had one star as bright as this, it would turn night into day. Such as vanity, ostenta- tion, or the uke. St. Peter and St. James are joined by St. John. christ. Then saith he to the disciple, Behold thy mother And from that hour that disciple took her unto his own home. Si. John, xix. 27. St. John. If I will that he tarry till I come, what is that to thee. Till the predestined num- ber of the elect is complete. The two garments: the glorified spirit and the glo- rified body. The two lights: Christ and the virgin Mary. Carry hack these tidings. The sacred trio of St. Ps- tsr, St. James, and St. John. 56 External Appearance of Glaciers. EXTERNAL APPEARANCE OF GLACIERS. THUS far we have examined chiefly the internal structure of the glacier; let us look now at its external appearance, and at the variety of curious phenomena connected with the deposit of foreign materials upon its surface, some of which seem quite inexplicable at first sight. Among the most striking of these are the large boulders elevated on columns of ice, standing sometimes ten feet or more above the level of the glacier, and the sand-pyramids, those conical hills of sand which occur not infrequently on all the large Alpine glaciers. One is at first quite at a loss to explain the pres- ence of these pyramids in the midst of a frozen ice-field, and yet it has a very simple cause. I have spoken of the many little rills arising on the surface of the ice in con- sequence of its melting. Indeed, the voice of the waters is rarely still on the glacier during the warm season, except at night. On a summers day, a thousand streams are born before noontide, and die again at sunset; it is no uncommon thing to see a full cascade come rushing out from the lower end of a glacier during the heat of the day, and vanish again at its decline. Suppose one of these rivu- lets should fall into a deep, circular hole, such as often occur on the glacier, and the nature of which I shall presently explain, and that this cylindrical opening narrows to a mere crack at a greater or less depth within the ice, the water will find its way through the crack and filter down into the deeper mass; but the dust and sand carried along with it will be caught there, and form a deposit at the bottom of the hole. As day after day, throughout the summer, the rivulet is renewed, it carries with it an additional supply of these light materials, until the opening is gradually filled and the sand is brought to a level with the surface of the ice. We have already seen, that, in consequence of evaporation, mdting, and other dis integrating causes, the level of the gla- cier sinks annually at the rate of from five to ten feet, according to stations. The natural consequence, of course, must be, that the sand is left standing above the surface of the ice, forming a mound which would constantly increase in height in proportion to the sinking of the sur- rounding ice, had it sufficient solidity to retain its original position. But a heap of Sand, if unsupported, must very soon sub- side and be dispersed; and, indeed, these pyramids, which are often quite lofty, and yet look as if they would crumble at a touch, prove, on nearer examination, to be perfectly solid, and are, in fact, pyra- mids of ice with a thin sheet of sand spread over them. A word will explain how this transformation is l~rought about. As soon as the level of the glacier falls below the sand, thus depriving it of sup- port, it sinks down and spreads slightly over the surrounding surface. In this condition it protects the ice immediately beneath it from the action of the sun. In proportion as the glacier wastes, this protected area rises above the general mass and becomes detached from it. The sand, of course, slides down over it, spreading toward its base, so as to cover a wider space below, and an ever-nar- rowing one above, until it gradually as- sumes the pyramidal form in which we find it, covered with a thin coating of sand. Every stage of this process may occasionally be seen upon the same gla- cier, in a number of sand-piles raised to various heights above the surface of the ice, approaching the perfect pyramidal form, or falling to pieces after standing for a short time erect. The phenomenon of the large boulders, supported on tall pillars of ice, is of a similar character. A mass of rock, hav- ing fallen on the surface of the glacier, protects the ice immediately beneath it from the action of the sun; and as the level of the glacier sinks all around it, in [January,

Prof. Louis Agassiz Agassiz, Louis, Prof. External Appearance of Glaciers 56-66

56 External Appearance of Glaciers. EXTERNAL APPEARANCE OF GLACIERS. THUS far we have examined chiefly the internal structure of the glacier; let us look now at its external appearance, and at the variety of curious phenomena connected with the deposit of foreign materials upon its surface, some of which seem quite inexplicable at first sight. Among the most striking of these are the large boulders elevated on columns of ice, standing sometimes ten feet or more above the level of the glacier, and the sand-pyramids, those conical hills of sand which occur not infrequently on all the large Alpine glaciers. One is at first quite at a loss to explain the pres- ence of these pyramids in the midst of a frozen ice-field, and yet it has a very simple cause. I have spoken of the many little rills arising on the surface of the ice in con- sequence of its melting. Indeed, the voice of the waters is rarely still on the glacier during the warm season, except at night. On a summers day, a thousand streams are born before noontide, and die again at sunset; it is no uncommon thing to see a full cascade come rushing out from the lower end of a glacier during the heat of the day, and vanish again at its decline. Suppose one of these rivu- lets should fall into a deep, circular hole, such as often occur on the glacier, and the nature of which I shall presently explain, and that this cylindrical opening narrows to a mere crack at a greater or less depth within the ice, the water will find its way through the crack and filter down into the deeper mass; but the dust and sand carried along with it will be caught there, and form a deposit at the bottom of the hole. As day after day, throughout the summer, the rivulet is renewed, it carries with it an additional supply of these light materials, until the opening is gradually filled and the sand is brought to a level with the surface of the ice. We have already seen, that, in consequence of evaporation, mdting, and other dis integrating causes, the level of the gla- cier sinks annually at the rate of from five to ten feet, according to stations. The natural consequence, of course, must be, that the sand is left standing above the surface of the ice, forming a mound which would constantly increase in height in proportion to the sinking of the sur- rounding ice, had it sufficient solidity to retain its original position. But a heap of Sand, if unsupported, must very soon sub- side and be dispersed; and, indeed, these pyramids, which are often quite lofty, and yet look as if they would crumble at a touch, prove, on nearer examination, to be perfectly solid, and are, in fact, pyra- mids of ice with a thin sheet of sand spread over them. A word will explain how this transformation is l~rought about. As soon as the level of the glacier falls below the sand, thus depriving it of sup- port, it sinks down and spreads slightly over the surrounding surface. In this condition it protects the ice immediately beneath it from the action of the sun. In proportion as the glacier wastes, this protected area rises above the general mass and becomes detached from it. The sand, of course, slides down over it, spreading toward its base, so as to cover a wider space below, and an ever-nar- rowing one above, until it gradually as- sumes the pyramidal form in which we find it, covered with a thin coating of sand. Every stage of this process may occasionally be seen upon the same gla- cier, in a number of sand-piles raised to various heights above the surface of the ice, approaching the perfect pyramidal form, or falling to pieces after standing for a short time erect. The phenomenon of the large boulders, supported on tall pillars of ice, is of a similar character. A mass of rock, hav- ing fallen on the surface of the glacier, protects the ice immediately beneath it from the action of the sun; and as the level of the glacier sinks all around it, in [January, External Appearance of Glaciers. consequence of the unceasing waste of the surface, the rock is gradually left standing on an ice - pillar of considera- ble height. In proportion as the column rises, however, the rays of the sun reach its sides, striking obliquely upon them under the boulder, and wearing them away, until the column becomes at last too slight to sustain its burden, and the rock falls again upon the glacier; ~r, owing to the unequal action of the sun, striking of course with most power on the southern side, the top of the pillar becomes slanting, and the boulder slides off. These ice-pillars, crowned with mass- es of rock, form a very picturesque feat- ure in the scenery of the glacier, and are represented in many of the landscapes in which Swiss artists have endeavored to reproduce the grandeur and variety of Alpine views, especially in the mas- terly Aquarelles of Lory. The English reader will 1~nd them admirably well described and illustrated in Dr. Tyndalls work upon the glaciers. They are known throughout the Alps as glacier-tables; and many a time my fellow-travellers and I have spread our frugal meal on such a table, erected, as it seemed, especially for our convenience. Another curious effect is that produced by small stones or pebbles, small enough to become heated through by the sun in summer. Such a heated pebble will of course melt the ice below it, and so wear a hole for itself into which it sinks. This process will continue as long as the sun reaches the pebble with force enough to heat it. Numbers of such deep, round boles, like organ - pipes, varying in size from the diameter of a minute pebble or a grain of coarse sand to that of an ordi- nary stone, are found on the glacier, and at the bottom of each is the pebble by which it was bored. The ice formed by the freezing of water collecting in such holes and in the fissures of the surface is a pure crystallized ice, very different in color from the ice of the great mass of the glacier produced by snow; and some- times, after a rain and frost, the surface of a glacier looks like a mosaic-work, in consequence of such veins and cylinders or spots of clear ice with which it is in- laid. Indeed, the aspect of the glacier chan- ges constantly with the different condi- tions of the temperature. We may see it, when, during a long dry season, it has collected upon its surface all sorts of light floating materials, as dust, hand, and the like, so that it looks dull and soiled, or when a heavy rain has wash- ed the surface clean from all impurities and left it bright and fresh. We may see it when the heat and other disinte- grating influences have acted upon the ice to a certain superficial depth, so that its surface is covered with a decomposed crust of broken, snowy ice, so permeated with air that it has a dead-white color, like pounded ice or glass.. Those who see the glacier in this state miss the blue tint so often described as characteristic of its appearance in its lower portion, and as giving such a peculiar beauty to its cav- erns and vaults. But let them come again after a summer storm has swept away this loose sheet of broken, snowy ice above, and before the same process has had time to renew it, and they will find the com- pact, solid surface of the glacier of as pure a blue as if it reflected the sky abore. We may see it in the early dawn, before the new ice of the preceding night begins to yield to the action of the sun, and the surface of the glacier is veined and inlaid with the water poured into its holes and fissures during the day and transformed into pure, fresh ice during the night,or when the noonday heat has wakened all its streams, and rivulets sometimes as large as rivers rush along its surface, find their way to the lower extremity of the glacier, or, dashing down some gaping crevasse or open well, are lost beneath the ice. It would seem from the quantity of water that is sometimes ingulfed within these open breaks in the ice, that the gla- cier must occasionally be fissured to a very great depth. I remember once, when boring a hole in the glacier in order to let down a self-regulating thermometer 1864.1 58 External Appearance of Glaciers. [January, into its interior, seeing an immense fissurc suddenly rent open, in consequence, no doubt, of the shocks given to the ice by the blows of the instruments. The effect was like that of an earthquake; the mass seemed to rock beneath us, and it was difficult to keep our feet. One of these glacial rivers was flowing past the spot at the time, and it was instantly lost in the newly formed chasm. However deep and wide the fissure might be, such a stream of water, constantly poured into it, and daily renewed throughout the summer, must eventually fill it and overflow, unless it finds its way through the whole mass of the glacier to the bottom on which it rests; it must have an outlet above or below. The fact that considerable rivu- lets (too broad to leap across, and too deep to wade through safely even with high boots) may entirely vanish in the glacier unquestionably shows one of two things,that the whole mass must be soaked with water like a wet sponge, or the cavities reach the bottom of the gla- cier. Probably the two conditions are generally combined. In direct connection with the narrower fissures are the so - called moulins, the circular wells on the glacier. We will suppose that a transverse, narrow fissure has been formed across the glacier, and that one of the many rii~ulets flowing lon- gitudinally along its surface empties into it. As the surface-water of the glacier, producing these rivulets, arises not only from the melting of the ice, but also from the condensation of vapor, or even from rain - falls, and flows over the scattered dust - particles and fragments of rock, it has always a temperature slightly above 820, 50 that such a rivulet is necessa- rily warmer than the icy edge of the fissure over which it precipitates itself. In consequence of its higher tempera- ture it melts the edge, gradually wear- ing it backward, till the straight mar- gin of the fissure at the spot over which the water falls is changed to a semi- circle; and as much of the water dash- es in spray an(l foam against the other side, the same effect takes place there, by which a corresponding semicircle is formed exactly opposite the first. This goes on not only at the upper margin, but through the whole depth of the open- ing as far down as the water carries its higher temperature. In short, a semi- circular groove is excavated on either side of the fissure for its whole depth along the line on which the rivulet holds its downward course. After a time, in consequence of the motion of the glacier, such a fissure may close again, and then the two semicircles thus brought together form at once one continuous circle, and we have one of the round deep open- ings on the glacier known as moulins, or wells, which may of course become per- fectly dry, if any accident turns the rivu- let aside or dries up its source. The most common cause of the intermittence of such a waterfall is the formation of a crevasse higher up, across the water- course which supplied it, and which now begins another excavation. These wells are often very profound. I have lowered a line for more than seven hundred feet in one of them before strik- ing bottom; and one is by no means sure even then of having sounded the whole depth, for it may often happen that the water meets with some obstacle which pre- vents its direct descent, and, turning aside, continues its deeper course at a different angle. Such a well may be like a crook- cd shaft in a mine, changing its direction from time to time. I found this to be the case in one into which I caused myself to be lowered in order to examine the inter- nal structure of the glacier. For some time my descent was straight and direct, but at a depth of about fifty feet there was a landing - place, as it were, from which the opening continued its farther course at quite a different angle. It is within these cylindrical openings in the ice that those accumulations of sand col- lect which form the pyramids described above. One may often trace the gradual forma- tion of these wells, because, as they require ccrtin similar conditions, they are very apt to be found in various stages of com 1864.] External Appearance of Glaciers. 59 pletion along the same track where these conditions occur. Fissures, for instance, will often be produced along the same line, because, as the mass of the glacier moves on, its upper portions, as they advance, come successively in contact with ine- qualities of the bottom, in consequence of which the ice is strained beyond its power of resistance and cracks across. Rivulets are also likely to be renewed summer after summer over the same track, because certain conditions of the surface of the glacier, to which I have not yet alluded, and which favor the more rapid melting of the ice, remain unchanged year after year. Of course, the wells do not remain stationary any more than any other feature of the gla- cier. They move on with the advancing mass of ice, and we consequently find the older ones considerably lower down than the more recent ones. In ascending such a track as I have described, along which fissures and rivulets are likely to occur, we may meet first with a sand-pyr- amid; at a certain distance above that there may he a circular opening filled to its brim with the sand which has just reached the surface of the ice; a little above may be an open well with the riv- ulet still pouring into it; or higher up, we may meet an open fissure with the two semicircles opposite each other on the margins, but not yet united, as they will be presently by the closing of the fissure; or we may find near by anoth- er fissure, the edges of which are just beginning to wear in consequence of the action of the water. Thus, though we cannot trace the formation of such a cylindrical shaft in the glacier from the beginning to the end, we may by combining the separate facts observed in a number decipher their Whole his- tory. In describing the surface of the glacier, I should not omit the shallow troughs which I have called meridian holes, from the accuracy with which they reg- ister the position of the sun. here and there on the glacier there are patches of loose materials, dust, sand, pebbles, or gravel, accumulated by diminutive water- rills, and small enough to become heated during the day. They will, of course, be warmed first on their eastern side, then, still more powerfully, on their southern side, and in the afternoon with less force again on their western side, while the northern side will remain comparatively cool. Thus around more than half of their circumference they melt the ice in a semicircle, and the glacier is cover- ed with little crescent-shaped troughs of this description, with a steep wall on one side and a shallow one on the other, and a little heap of loose mate- rials in the bottom. They are the sun- dials of the glacier, recording the hour by the advance of the suns rays upon them. In recapitulating the results of my gla- cial experience, even in so condensed a form as that in which I intend to pre- sent them here, I shall be obliged to en- ter somewhat into personal narration, though at the risk of repeating what has been already told by the companions of my excursions, some of whom wrote out in a more popular form the incidents of our daily life which could not be fitly in- troduced into my own record of scien- tific research. When I first began my in- vestigations upon the glaciers, now more than twenty-five years ago, scarcely any measurements of their size or their mo- tion had been made. One of my princi- pal objects, therefore, was to ascertain the thickness of the mass of ice, generally supposed to be from eighty to a hundred feet, and even less. The first year I took with me a hundred feet of iron rods, (no easy matter, where it had to be trans- ported to the upper part of a glacier on mens backs,) thinking to bore the glacier through and through. As well might I have tried to sound the ocean with a ten-fathom line. The following year I took two hundred feet of rods with me, and again I was foiled. Event- ually I succeeded in carrying up a thou- sand feet of line, and satisfied myself, after many attempts, that this was about 60 External Appearance of Glaciers. [January, the average thickness of the glacier of the Aar, on which I was working. I mention these failures, because they give some idea of the discouragements and difficulties which meet the investigator in any new field of research; and the stu- dent must remember, for his consolation under such disappointments, that his fail- ures are almost as important to the cause of science and to those who follow him in the same road as his successes. It is much to know what we cannot do in any giv- en direction, the first step, indeed, to- ward the accomplishment of what we can do. A like disappointment awaited me in my first attempt to ascertain by direct measurement the rate of motion in the glacier. Early observers had asserted that the glacier moved, but there had been no accurate demonstration of the fact, and so uniform is its general ap- pearance from year to year that even the fact of its motion was denied by many. It is true that the progress of boulders had been watched; a mass of rock which had stood at a certain point on the gla- cier was found man~~ feet below that point the following year; but the oppo- nents of the theory insisted that it did not follow, because the mass of rock had moved, that therefore the mass of ice had moved with it. They believed that the boulder might have slid down for that distance. Neither did the occasional en- croachment of the glaciers upon the val- leys prove anything; it might be solely the effect of an unusual accumulation of snow in cold seasons. Here, then, was another question to be tested; and one of my first experiments was to plant stakes in the ice to ascertain whether they would change their position with reference to the sides of the valley or not. If the glacier moved, my stakes must of course move with it; if it was stationary, my stakes would remain standing where I had placed them, and any advance of other objects upon the surface of the gla- cier would be proved to be due to their sliding, or to some motion of their own, ahd not to that of the mass of ice on which they rested. I found neither the one nor the other ofmy anticipated re- sults; after a short time, all the stakes lay flat on the ice, and I learned nothing from my first series of experiments, ex- cept that the surface of the glacier is wasted annually for a depth of at least five feet, in consequence of which my rods had lost their support, and fallen down. Similar disappointment was ex- perienced by my friend Eseher upon the great glacier of Aletsch. My failure, however, taught me to sink the next set of stakes ten or fifteen feet below the surface of the ice, instead of five; and the experiment was attended with happier results. A stake planted eighteen feet deep in the ice, and cut on a level with the surface of the glacier, in the summer of 1840, was found, on my return in the summer of 1841, to project seven feet, and in the beginning of Sep- tember it showed ten feet above the sur- face. Before leaving the glacier, in Sep- tember, 1841, I planted six stakes at a certain distance from each other in a straight line across the upper part of the glacier, taking care to have the position of all the stakes determined with refer- ence to certain fixed points on the rocky walls of the valley. When I returned, the following year, all the stakes had ad- vanced considerably, and the straight line had changed to a crescent, the central rods having moved forward much faster than those nearer the sides, so that not only was the advance of the glacier clear- ly demonstrated, but also the fact that its middle portion moved faster than its mar- gins. This furnished the first accurate data on record concerning the average movement of the glacier during the great- er part of one year. In 1842 I caused a trigonometric survey of the whole glacier of the Aar to be made, and several lines across its whole width were staked and determined with reference to the sides of the valley; * for a number of suc * All the trigonometrical measurements con- nected with my experiments were very ably conducted by Mr. Wild, now Professor at the Federal Polytechnic School in Ziirich; they 1864.] External Appearance of Glaciers. 61 cessive years the survey was repeated, and furnished the numerous data con- cerning the motion of the glacier which I have published. I shall probably never have an opportunity of repeating these experiments, and examining anew the condition of the glacier of the Aar; but as all the measurements were taken with reference to certain fixed points recorded upon the map mentioned in the note, it would be easy to renew them over the same locality, and to make a direct comparison with my first results after an interval of a quarter of a century. Such a compar- ison would be very valuable to science, as showing any change in the condition of the glacier, its rate of motion, etc., since the time my survey was made. These observations not only determin- ed the fact of the motion of the glacier it- self, as well as the inequality of its motion in different parts, but explained also a variety of phenomena indirectly connect- ed with it. Among these were the posi- tion and direction of the crevasses, those gaping fissures of unknown depths, some- times a mile or more in length, and often measuring several hundred feet in width, the terror, not only of the ordinary trav- eller, but of the most experienced moun- taineers. There is a variety of such cre- vasses upon the glacier, but the most nu- merou~ and dangerous are the transverse and lateral ones. The transverse ones were readily accounted for after the mo- tion of the glacier was admitted; they must take place, whenever, the glacier advancing over inequalities or steeper parts of its bed, the tension of the mass was so great that the cohesion of the par- ticles was overcome, and the ice conse- quently rent apart. This would be es- pecially the case wherever some steep angle in the bottom over which it mov- ed presented an obstacle to the even ad- vance of the mass. But the position of the lateral ones was not so easily under- stood. They are especially apt to occur wherever a: promontory of rock juts out are recorded in the topographical survey and map of the glacier of the Aar, accompanying my Syst~me Glaciaire. into the glacier; and when fresh, they usually slant obliquely upward, trending from the prominent wall toward the head of the glacier, while, when old, on the con- trary, they turn downward, so that the crevasses around such a promontory are often arranged in the shape of a spread fan, diverging from it in different direc- tions. When the movement of the gla- cier was fully understood, however, it be- came evident, that, in its effort to force itself around the promontory, the ice was violently torn apart, and that the rent must tak~ place in a direction at right angles with that in which the mass was moving. If the mass be moving inward and downward, the direction of the rent must be obliquely upward. As now the mass continues to advance, the crevasses must advance with it; and as it moves more rapidly toward the middle than on the margins, that end of the crevasse which is farthest removed from the pro- j~cting rock must move more rapidly al- so; the consequence is, that all the old- er lateral crevasses, after a certain time, point downward, while the fresh ones point upward. Not only does tbe glacier collect a variety of foreign materials on its up- per surface, but its sides as well as its lower surface are studded with boul- ders, stones, pebbles, sand, coarse and fine gravel, so that it forms in reality a gigantic rasp, with sides hundreds of feet deep, and a surface thousands of feet wide and many miles in length, grinding over the bottom and along the walls between which it moves, polishing, grooving, and scratching them as it passes onward. One who is familiar with the track of this mighty engine will recognize at once where the large boulders have hollowed out their deeper furrows, where small peb- bles have drawn their fiuier marks, where the stones with angular edges have left their sharp scratches, where sand and gravel have rubbed and smoothed the rocky surface, and left it bright and polish- ed as if it came from the hand of the mar- ble-worker. These marks are not to be mistaken by any one who has carefully 62 External Appearance of Glaciers. [January, observed them; the scratches, furrows, grooves, are always rectilinear, trending in the direction in which the glacier is moving, and most distinct on that side of the surface - inequalities facing the direc- tion of the moving mass, while the lee-side remains mostly untouched. It may be asked, how it is known that the glacier carries this powerful appara- tus on its sides and bottom, when they are hidden from sight. I answer, that we might determine the fact theoretically from certain known conditions respecting the conformation of the glacier; to which I shall allude presently; but we need not resort to this kind of evidence, since we have ocular demonstration of the truth. Here and there on the sides of the glacier it is possible to penetrate be- tween the walls and the ice to a great depth, and even to follow such a gap to the very bottom of the valley, and everywhere do we find the surface of tj~e ice fretted as I have described it, with stones of every size, from the pebble to the boulder, and also with sand and gra~-~ el of all sorts, from the coarsest grain to the finest, and these materials, more or less firmly set in the ice, form the grating surface with which, in its onward move- ment down the Alpine valleys, it leaves everywhere unmistakable, traces of its passage. We come now to the moraines, those walls of loose materials built by the gla- ciers themselves along their road. They have been divided into three classes, namely, lateral, medial, and terminal moraines. Let us look first at the later- al ones; and to understand them we must examine the conformation of the glacier below the neve, where it assumes the character of pure compact ice. We have seen that the fields of snow, where the glaciers have their origin, are level, and that lower down, where these masses of snow begin to descend toward the nar- rower valley, they follow its trough-like shape, sinking toward the centre and slop- ing upward against the sides, so that the surface of the glacier, about the region of the neve, is slightly concave. But lower down in the glacier proper, where it is completely transformed into ice, its sur- face becomes convex, for the following reason: The rocky walls of the valley, as they approach the plain, partake of its higher temperature. They become heated by the sun during the day in sum- mer, so that the margins of the glacier melt rapidly in contact with them. In consequence of this, there is always in the lower part of the glacier a broad de- pression between the ice and the rocky walls, while, as this effect is not felt in the centre of the glacier, it there retains a higher level. The natural result of this is a convex surface, arching upward toward the middle, sinking toward the sides. It is in these broad, marginal de- pressions that the lateral moraines ac- cumulate; masses of rock, stones, peb- bles, dust, all the fragments, in short, which become loosened from the rocky walls above, fall into them, and it is a part of the materials so accumulated which gradually work their way downward be- tween the ice and the walls, till the whole side of the glacier becomes studded with them. It is evident, that, when the gla- cier runs in a northerly or southerly di- rection, both the walls will be affected by the sun, one in the morning, the other in the afternoon, and in such a case the sides will be uniform, or nearly so. But when the trend of the valley is from east to west, or from west to east, the north- ern side only will feel the full force of the sun; and in such a case, only one side of the glacier will be convex in outline, while the other will remain nearly on a level with the middle. The large masses of loose materials which accumulate be- tween the glacier and its rocky walls and upon its margins form the lateral moraines. These move most slowly, as the marginal portions of the glacier ad- vance at a much slower rate than its centre. The medial moraines arise in a different way, though they are directly connect- ed with the lateral moraines. It often happens that two smaller glaciers unite, running into each other to form a larger 1864.] External Appearance of Glaciers. 63 one. Suppose two glaciers to be moving the southernmost one must meet in the along two adjoining valleys, converging centre of the combined glaciers. Such toward each other, and running in an east- are the so-called medial moraines formed erly or westerly direction; at a certain by the junction of two lateral ones. Some- point these two valleys open into a sin- times a glacier may have a great number gle valley, and here, of course, the two of tributaries, and in that case we may glaciers must meet, like two rivers rushing see several such moraines running in into a common bed. But as glaciers con- strai~ht lines along its surface, all. of sist of a solid, and not a fluid, there will be which are called medial moraines in ~zon- no indiscriminate mingling of the two, and sequence of their orrgin midway between they will old their course side by side. two combining glaciers. The glacier of the lateral moraine the Aar represented in the wood-cut be- on ~he northernmost low affords a striking example of a large gb nDrthern side of medial moraine. It is formed by the junc- Glacier of the Aar. tion of the glaciers of the Lauter-Aar, melting of the adjacent surfaces of ice, on the right-hand side of the wood-cut, thus forming longitudinal depressions and the Finster- Aar, on the left; and along the medial moraines, in which the the union of their inner lateral mo- lar~,est rivulets and the most conspicuous raines, in the, centre of the diac,ram, sand-pyramids, the deepest wells and the forms the stony wall down the centre finest waterfalls, are usually met~with. As of the larder glacier, called its medial the medial moraines rest upon that part moraine. This moraine at some points of the glacier which moves fastest, they is not less than sixty feet high. We of course advance mnch more rapidly have here an effect similar to that of than the lateral moraines. the glacier - tables and the sand - pyra- The terminal moraines consist of all mids. The wall protects the ice beneath the debris brought down by the glacier it, and prevents it from sinking at the to its lower extremity. In consequence same rate as the surrounding surface, of the more rapid niovement of the cen- while its heated surface increases the tre of the glacier, it always terminates in 64 External Appearance of Glaciers. [January, a semicircle at its lower end, where these glacier. The wood-cut below represents materials collect, and the terminal mo- the terminal moraine of the glacier of raines, of course, follow the outline of the Viesch. Sometimes, when a number of cold ages it has been a gigantic ice-raft, re- summers have succeeded each other, pre- ceiving all sorts of materials on its sur- venting the glacier from melting in pro- face as it travelled onward, and bearing portion to its advance, the accumulation them along with it; while the hard par- of materials at its terminus becomes very tides of rock set in its lower surface have considerable; and when, in consequence been polishing and fashioning the whole of a succession of warm summers, it grad- surface over which it extended. As it now nally melts and retreats from the line it melts, it drops its various burdens on the has been occupyin~,, a large semicircular ground; boulders are the mile - stones wall is left, spanning the valley from side marking the different stages of ~tsA jour- to side, through which the stream issu- ney, the terminal and lateral moraines ing from the glacier may be seen cutting are the framework which it erected its way. It is important to notice that around itself as it moved forward, and such terminal moraines may actually span which define its boundaries centuries af- the whole width of a valley, from side ter it has vanished, while the scratches to side, and he interrupted only where and furrows it has left on the surface be- watercourses of sufficient power break low show the direction of its motion. through them. To suppose that such All the materials which reach the hot- transverse Walls of loose materials could tom of the glacier, and are moving un- be thrown across a valley by a river der its weight, so far as they are not were to suppose that it could build dams firmly set in the ice must be pressed across its bed while it is flowing. Such against one anot~er, as well as against transverse or cresCent - shaped moraines the rocky bottom, and will be rounded are everywhere the work of glaciers. off, polished, and scratched, like the rock All these moraines are the land-marks, itself over which they pass. The pebbles so to speak, by which we trace the or stones set fast in the ice will be thus height and extent, as well as the pro,- polished and scratched, however, only ress and retreat, of glaciers in former over the surface exposed; but, as they times. Suppose, for instance, that a may sometimes move in their socket, like glacier were to disappear entirely. For a loosely mounted stone, the different 1864.] External Appearance of Glaciers. 65 surfaces may in turn undergo this pro- cess, and in the end all the loose mate- rials under a glacier become more or less polished, scratched, and grooved. These marks exhibit also the peculiar- ity so characteristic of the grooves and scratches on the bed and walls of the valley: they are rectilinear, trending in the direction in which the superincum- bent mass advances, though, of course, owing to the changes in the position of the pebbles or boulders, they may cross each other in every direction on their surface. As the larger materials are pressed on- ward with the finer ones, that is, with the sand, gravel, and mud accumulated at the bottom of the glacier, the component parts of this underlying bed of d6bris will be mixed together without any reference to their size or weight. The softest mud and finest sand may be in immediate contact with the bottom of the valley; while larger rocks and pebbles may be held in the ice above; or their position may be reversed, and the coarser mate- rials may rest below, while the finer ones are pressed between them or overlying them. In short, the whole accumula- tion of loose debris under the glacier, resulting from the trituration of all kinds of angular fragments reaching the lower surface of the ice, presents a sort of paste in which coarser and lighter materials are impacted without reference to bulk or weight. Those fragments which are most polished, rounded, grooved, or scratched, have travelled longest under the glacier, and are derived from the hardest rocks, which have resisted the general crush- ing and pounding for a longer time. The masses of rock on the upper surface of the glacier, on the contrary, are car- ried along on its back without under- going any such friction. Lying side by side or one above another, without be- ing subject to pressure from the ice, they retain, both in the lateral and medial moraines, and even in the terminal mo- raines, their original size, their rough sur- faces, and their angular form. When- ever, therefore, a glacier melts, it is evi- dent that the lower materials will be found covered by the angular surface- materials now brought into immediate contact with the former in consequence of the disappearance of the intervening ice. Themost careful observations and surveys have shown this everywhere to be the case; wherever a large tract of glacier has disappeared, the moraines, with their large angular boulders, are found resting upon this bottom layer of rounded materials scattered through a paste of mud and sand. We shall see hereafter how far we can follow these traces, and what they tell us of the past history of glaciers, and of the changes the climates of our globe have undergone. VOL. XIII. 5 6(3 Stephen Yarrow. [January, STEPhEN YARROW. A CHRISTMAS STORY. SOMETIME in the year 1856, a family named Yarrow moved into the neighbor- hood where I then lived, and rented a small house with a bit of ground attached to it, on one of the rich bottom-farms ly- ing along the eastern shore of the Ohio. The mother, two or three children, and their dog Ready made up the quiet household : not one to attract notice from any cause. People soon knew Mar- tha Yarrow, all that was in her. She was Western- and farm-horn; whatever Nature had given her of good or bad, therefore, thrust itself out at once with pungent directness. The family supported themselves by selling their poultry and vegetables to the hucksters, leading an eventless life enough, until the change occurred, some five years after they caine into the neigh- borhood, of which I am going to tell you. I called it a Christmas Story, not so much because it happened on a Christ- mas, as because the meaning of it seemed suited to that day; and I thought, too, that nobody grows tired of Christmas stories, especially if he chance to have been born in one of those families where the day is kept in the old fashion: it roots itself so deep, that memory, in what- ever quaint superstition, or homely affec- tion for mother or brother, or unreason- ing frust in God, may outlive our child- hood, and underlie our older years. And surely that is as just, as wise a thing, to strip off for a child the smirched trading - dress of one day at least, and send it down through the long procession of the years with its true face bared, to waken in him a live sense of mans love and Gods love. Some one, perhaps, had done this for this woman, Mrs. Yarrow, long ago; for, let the months before and after be bare as they chose, she kept this day of Christmas with a feverish anxiety, more eager than her children even to make every moment warm and throb with pleasure, and en- joying them herself, to their last breath, with the whole zest of a nervous, strong- blooded nature. Yet she may have had another reason for it. The evening before the Christmas of which we write, she had gone out to the well with her son before closing the house for the night. There s no danger of thaw before morning, Jem? looking anxiously up into the night, as they rested the bucket on the curb. Thaw! there s a womans notion for you! Why, the very crow is frozen out of the cocks yonder ! stretching his arms, and clapping his hollow chest, as if he were six feet high. No, we 11 not have a thaw, little woman. The children often called her that, in a fond, protecting way; but it sounded most oddly from Jem, he was such a weak, swaggering sparrow of a little chap. He stretched his hands as high as he could reach up to her hips, and smoothed her linsey dress down: if it had been her face, the touch could not have been more tender. You dont think of the luck we al- ways have. Why, it could nt rain on Christmas for you or me, mother! She laughed, nodding several times. Well, that is sure, Jem, stopping to look into the lean, emphatic little face, and to pass her hand over the tow-color- ed hair. Somehow, the bond between mother and son was curiously strong to-night. It was always so on Christmas. At oth- er times they were much like two chil- dren in companionship, but Christmas never came without bringing a vague sense of cowering close together as though some danger stood near them. There

The author of 'Life in the Iron Mills' The author of 'Life in the Iron Mills' Stephen Yarrow 66-88

6(3 Stephen Yarrow. [January, STEPhEN YARROW. A CHRISTMAS STORY. SOMETIME in the year 1856, a family named Yarrow moved into the neighbor- hood where I then lived, and rented a small house with a bit of ground attached to it, on one of the rich bottom-farms ly- ing along the eastern shore of the Ohio. The mother, two or three children, and their dog Ready made up the quiet household : not one to attract notice from any cause. People soon knew Mar- tha Yarrow, all that was in her. She was Western- and farm-horn; whatever Nature had given her of good or bad, therefore, thrust itself out at once with pungent directness. The family supported themselves by selling their poultry and vegetables to the hucksters, leading an eventless life enough, until the change occurred, some five years after they caine into the neigh- borhood, of which I am going to tell you. I called it a Christmas Story, not so much because it happened on a Christ- mas, as because the meaning of it seemed suited to that day; and I thought, too, that nobody grows tired of Christmas stories, especially if he chance to have been born in one of those families where the day is kept in the old fashion: it roots itself so deep, that memory, in what- ever quaint superstition, or homely affec- tion for mother or brother, or unreason- ing frust in God, may outlive our child- hood, and underlie our older years. And surely that is as just, as wise a thing, to strip off for a child the smirched trading - dress of one day at least, and send it down through the long procession of the years with its true face bared, to waken in him a live sense of mans love and Gods love. Some one, perhaps, had done this for this woman, Mrs. Yarrow, long ago; for, let the months before and after be bare as they chose, she kept this day of Christmas with a feverish anxiety, more eager than her children even to make every moment warm and throb with pleasure, and en- joying them herself, to their last breath, with the whole zest of a nervous, strong- blooded nature. Yet she may have had another reason for it. The evening before the Christmas of which we write, she had gone out to the well with her son before closing the house for the night. There s no danger of thaw before morning, Jem? looking anxiously up into the night, as they rested the bucket on the curb. Thaw! there s a womans notion for you! Why, the very crow is frozen out of the cocks yonder ! stretching his arms, and clapping his hollow chest, as if he were six feet high. No, we 11 not have a thaw, little woman. The children often called her that, in a fond, protecting way; but it sounded most oddly from Jem, he was such a weak, swaggering sparrow of a little chap. He stretched his hands as high as he could reach up to her hips, and smoothed her linsey dress down: if it had been her face, the touch could not have been more tender. You dont think of the luck we al- ways have. Why, it could nt rain on Christmas for you or me, mother! She laughed, nodding several times. Well, that is sure, Jem, stopping to look into the lean, emphatic little face, and to pass her hand over the tow-color- ed hair. Somehow, the bond between mother and son was curiously strong to-night. It was always so on Christmas. At oth- er times they were much like two chil- dren in companionship, but Christmas never came without bringing a vague sense of cowering close together as though some danger stood near them. There 1864.1 Stephen Yarrow. 67 was soinething half fierce, now, in the way she caressed his face. Come on with the bucket, brother, she said, cheerfully, stamping the clog- ging snow from her shoes, shading her eyes with her hand, and looking over the white stretch to the black line of hills chopping the east. More like a hail-gust than rain. But I was afraid of that, you see, as they went up the path. There s an old saying, that trouble always comes with rain. And it did in my life to me She was talking to herself. Jem whis- tled, pretending not to hear; but he peer- ed sharply into her face, with the relish which all sickly, premature children have for a mystery or paiu. Very seldom was there hint of either ahout Martha Var- row. She was an Ohio woman, small- boned, muscular, with healthy, quick blood, not a scrofulous, ill-tempered drop in her veins; in her brain only a very few and obstinate opinions, maybe, but all of them lying open to the sight of any- body who cared to know them. Not long ago, she had been a pretty, bouncing country-belle; now, she was a hard-work- lug housewife: a Whig, because all the Clarks (her own family) were Whigs: going to the Baptist church, with no clear ideas about close communion or im- mersion, because she had married a coun- try - parson. With a consciousness that she had borne a heavier pain in her life than most women, and ought to feel scourged and sad, she did cry out with such feeling sometimes, but with a keen, natural relish for apple - butter parings, or fair-days, or a neighbor dropping in to tea, or anything that would give the children and herself a chance to joke and laugh, and be like other people again. Between the two feelings, her temper was odd and uncertain enough. But in this December air, now, her still rounded cheek grew red, her breast heav- ed, her eyes sparkled, glad as a child would be, simply because it was cold and Christmas was comino; while the child Jem, with his tougher, less sappy animal nature, jogged gravely beside her, head and eyes down. As for her every-day life, nobodys fires burned, nobodys win- dows shone like Martha Yarrows; not a pound of butter went to market with the creamy, elovery taste her fingers worked into hers. She put a flavor, an elastic spring, into every bit of work she did, making it play. The very nervous- ness of the woman, her sudden fits of laughter and tears, impressed you as the effervescence of a zest of life which began at her birth. Nobody ever got to the end, or expected to get to the end, of her sto- ries and scraps of old songs. Then, every day some new plan, keeping the whole house awake and alive: when Toms birthday came, a surprise-feast of rasp- berries and cake; when Jems new trou- sers were produced, they had been made up over-night, a dead secret, ten shining dimes in the pocket, flesh from the mint; even the penny string of blue beads for Catty, bought of Sims the peddler, was hid under her plate, and made quite a jolhification of that supper. You may be sure, the five years just gone in that house had been short and merry arA cozy enough for the children. Before that Here Jems memory flagged: he had been a baby then; Catty just born; yet, somehow, he never thought of that unknown time without the furtive, keen glance into his mothers face, and a fright- cued choking in the heart under his puny chest. Somewhere, back yonder, or in the years coming, some vague horror waited for him to fight. To-night, (al- ways at Christmas, alth~igh then the glow and comfort of all days reached its heat,) this unaccountable dread was on the boy; why, he never knew. It might be that under the hurry and preparation of Martha Yarrow on that day some deeper meaning did lie, which his in- stinct had discerned: more probably, however, it was but the sickly vagary of a child grown old too fast. They hurried along the path now to reach the house and shut the night out- side, for every moment the cold and dark were growing heavier; the snow rasping under their feet, as its crust cracked; 68 Stephen Yarrow. [January, overhead, the sky- air frozen thin and gray, holding dead a low, watery half- moon; now and then a more earthy, thicker gust breaking sharply round the hill, taking their breath. It was only a step, however, and Tom was holding the house - door open, letting a ruddy li~ht stream out, and with i.t a savory smell of snpper. Tom halloed, and that blue- eyed pudge of a Catty pounded on the window with her fat little fist. flow hot the fire glowed! Somehow all Christ- mas seemed waiting in there. It was time to hurry along. Even Ready came out, shaking his shaggy old sides impa- tiently iu the snow, and began to dog them, snapping at Jems heels. Like most old people, he liked his ease, and was apt to be out of sorts, if meals were kept waiting. Readys whims always made Martha laugh as she did when she was a young girl: they knew each other then, long bcfore Jem was born. Come on, old Truepenny, she said, going in. There was comfort. Nothing in that house, from the red woollen curtains to the bright poker, which did not have its part to play fbr Christmas. Nothing that did not say Christmas, from Cattys eyes to the very supper-table. Of course, I dont mean the Christmas dinner, when I say supper. Tom could have told yoii. Somewhere in his paunchy little body he kept a perpetual bill of fare, checked off or unchecked. He based and stayed his mind now on preparations in the pantry. Somethine solid there! A haunch of venison, mince-meat, winter succotash, a roasted peahen,and that is the top and crown of Natures efforts in the way of fowls. F~r suppers, pish! However, Tom ate with the rest. Moth- er was hungry; so they were very lei- surely, and joked and laughed to that ex- tent that even Catty was uproarious when they were through. Then Jam fell to work at the great coals, and battered them into a rousing fire. I 11 go and fasten the shutters, said Tom. Martha Yarrows back was to the win- dow. She turned sharply. The silly white moon lighted up the snow - waste out there; some one might be out in those frozen fields, some one who was com- ing home,who had been gone for years, years. Jem was watching her. Leave the windows alone, Tom, he said. It wont hurt the night to see my fire. He pulled his cricket close up to her, and took her hand to pet. It was cold, and her teeth chattered. however, they were all so snug and close together, and Christmas, that great warm-hearted day, was so near upon them, as full of love and hearty, warm enjoyment as the liv- ing God could send it, that its breath filled all their hearts; and presently Mar- tha Yarrows face was brighter than Cat- tys. They were noisy and busy enough~ The programme for to - morrow was to make out; that put all heads to work to plan: the stockings to be opened, and dinner, and maybe a visit to the menage- rie in the afternoon. That was Marthas surprise, and she was not disappointed in the applause it brought. It made the tears come to her eyes, an hour after, when she was going to bed, remember- ino it. It takes such a little thing to make them happy, she said to herself, or me, either, with a somewhat silly face. She tried to thank God for giving them so much, but only sobbed. After the confusion about the show was over, and Catty had been wakened into a vague jungle of tigers and lions and Shet- land ponies, and put to sleep again, they subsided enough to remember the wind- ing-up of the day. Quiet that was to be; the children from Shags Point were coming up, some half-dozen in all, for their share of Christmas. Poorer than the Yarrows, you understand? though but a little; in fact, there were not many steps farther down: peahens and cran- berries were not for every (lay. Well, to-morrow evening Jem would tell them the story of the Stable and the Child, and how that the Child was with us yet, if we could only see. Jem was always his 1864.1 Stephen Yarrow. 69 mothers spokesman, and put the mean- ing of Christmas into words: she never talked of such things. Yet they always watched her face, when they spoke of them, watched it now, and looked, as she did, into the little room beyond the kitchen where they sat, their eyes grow- ing still and brighter. There migbt have been a tinge of the savage or the French- man in Martha Yarrows nature, she bad so strong a propensity to make real, apparent to the senses, what few ideas sbe had, even her religion. A good skill to do it, too. The recess out of the kitch- en was only a small closet, but, with the aid of a softly tinted curtain or two, and the nebulous light of a concealed lamp, she had contrived to give it an air of dis- tance and reserve. Within were green wreaths hung over the whitewashed walls, and an altar-shaped little white table, covered with heaps of crimson leaves and bright berries, such as grow in the snow; only a few flowers, but enough to fill the air with fragrance; the chil- drens Christmas gifts, and wax - lights burning before a picture, the child Je- sus, looking down on them with a smile as glad as their own. A thoroughly real person to the boys, this Christ for child- hood; for she built the little altar before this picture on all their holidays: some- thing in the woman herself needing the story of the Stable and the Child. If sbe were doing a healthier work on the souls of that morbid Jem and glutton Tom than could a thousand after-sermons, she did not know it : never guessed, ei- ther, when they absorbed day by day hardly enough the force of her tough- muscled endurance and wholesome laugh, that she prepared the way of the Lord and made His paths straight. Yet what matter who knew? But to go on with our story. There were times once or twice to-night, for instance when she ceased doing even her unconscious work. Assuredly, some- where back in her life, something had gone amiss with this silly, helpful creat~ ure, and left a taint on her brain. The hearty, pretty smile would go suddenly from her face, something foreign looking out of it, instead, as if a pestilent thought had got into her soul; she would rise un- easily, going to the window, looking out, her fbrehead leaning on the glass, her body twitching weakly. One would think from her face she saw some work in the world which God had forgotten. What could it matter to her? Whatever hurt her, it was the one word which her gar- rulous lips never hinted. Once to-night she spoke more plainly than Jem had ever known her to do in all his life. It was after the children had gone to bed, which they did, shouting and singing, and playing circus-riders over the pillows, their mother leaning her elbows on the foot-board, laughing, in the mean time. Jem got up, after the others were asleep, and stole after her, in his little flannel drawers, back to the kitchen. By the window again, as he had feared, the woollen sock which she was knitting for Tom in her hand, the yarn all tangled and broken. Ready was by her knees, winking sleepily. The old dog was grow- ing surly with his years, as we said: Jem remembered when he used to romp and tussle with him, but that was long ago: he lay in the chimney-corner always now, growling at Martha herself even, if her singing or laugh disturbed his nap. But when these strange moods came on her, Jem noticed that the yellow old beast seemed conscious of it sooner than any one beside, crept up to her, stood by her: that she clung to him, not to her children. lie was licking her hand now, his red eye, drowsy though it was, watching her as if danger were nigh. A dog you would not slight. Inside of his hot-headedness and courage there was that reserved look in his eyes, which some men ~nd brutes have, that says they have a life of their own to live separate from yours, and they know it. The boy crept up jeal- ously, thrust his numb fingers into his mothers hand. She started, looking down. It grows into a clear winters night, Jemmy, trying to speak carelessly. So they stood looking out together. 70 St epli en Yarrow. [January, The fire had burned down into a great bed of fiameless coals, the kitchen glow- ed warm and red, throwing out even a patch of ruddy light on the snow-covered yard without. A cold, but comfortable home-look out there: the bit of garden, fences, cow-house, pump, heaped with the snow; old Dolly asleep in her stable: Jem wrapped hhnself in his mothers skirt with a sudden relish of warm snugness. What made her pull at Readys neck with such nervous jerks? She saw noth- ing beyond? Jem stood on tiptoe, peer- ing out. The. e was no hint of the hail- storm they bad prophesied, in the night: the moon stood lower now in the sky, fill- ing the air with a yellow, frosty brilliance. Yet something strangely cold, dead, un- familiar, in the night yonder, chilled him. Neither sound nor motion there; bills, river, and fields, distinct, sharply cut in pallor, but ghost-like: it made him afraid. There seemed to be no end of them; the hills to the north ran low, and beyond them he ceuld see more blue and cold and distance, going on who could tell where? to the eternal ice and snow, it might be. She felt it, he knew. The boy was frightened, tried to pull her back to the fire, when somethin~ he saw out- side made him stop suddenly. Shags hill, the nearest of the ledge to the house, is a low, narrow cone, with a sharp rim against the sky; the moon had sunk half behind it, lighting the surface of drifted snow which faced them. Across this there suddenly fell a long, uncertain shadow, which belonged neither to bush nor tree: it might be the flicker of a cloud; or a man, passing across the top of the hill, would make it. Itwas nothing; some of the coal-diggers from the Point going home; he pulled at her petticoat again. Come to the fire, dear, he said, look- ing up. Her whole face and neck were hot; she laughed and trembled as if some spasm were upon her. Do you see? she cried, trying to force the window open. Oh, Jemmy, it might be! it might! Jem was used to his mothers unac- countable whims of mood. Ready, how- ever, startled him. The dog pricked up his ears, sniffed the air once or twice, then, after a grave pause of a minute, with a sharp howl, such as Jem had not heard him give for years, dashed through the kitchen into the wash-shed and out across the fields. Martha Yarrow turn- ed away from the window, and leaned her head against the dresser - shelves: standing quite still, only that she clutch- ed Jems hand. The clock ticked noi- sily as a half- hour went by; the fire burned lower and dark. The dog came back at last, dragging his feet heavily, came up close to her, and crouched down with a half human moan. After a long time he got up, went out into the wash-kitchen in a spiritless way, apd did not return again that night. She did not move. It seemed a long time to the child before she turned, her face wet with tears, and took him up in her arms, chafing his cold feet. It could not be! I knew that, Jem- my. I was nt a fool. But I thought Oh, Pet, I ye waited such a long while! He patted her cheeks, soothing her, the more effectually, perhaps, that he did not know what troubled her. Why, it s Christmas, mother, he said. I know that. You see, I thought, her eyes fastened on his in an appealing sort of way, that, being Christmas, if there should be any lost body wandering out on the fields that God had forgotten What then? all the blood gone from her face. Why, what then, Jem? No home, no one to say to bun, Here s home, here s wife and children a-waiting to love you,oh, sick with waiting to love you! No one to say that, Jem. And him wandering out in the cold, goin~ quick back to the mouth of hell, not knowing how God loved him. If there is such a one, Jem said, steadily, though his lip trembled, God will let him know. There is no such one, sharply. There is no one yonder but knows his 1864.] Stephen Yctrrow. 71 home, and is nearer to his God than you or I, James Yarrow. The boy made no reply, sat on her knees looking earnestly into the fire. He had more nearly guessed her secret than she knew, near enough to know how to comfort her. After a while, when she was quiet, he turned, and put his thin arms about her neck, smiling. Take me into your bed, mother. I m so cold! Let me into old Cattys place this once. She nodded, pleased, and, putting him to bed, soon followed him. When she held him snugly in her arms, the replen-. ished fire making hot, flickering shadows from the next room, he whispered, Next Christmas, mother! Only one year more! Again the quick shiver of her body; but this time her breath was gentle, a soft light in her eyes. Well, and then, my son? Why, some one else then will call me son. how long he has been gone, dear! so long that I never saw him since I was a bit of a baby. Five years. Yes. Well, dear? anxiously. Her eyes were shut, he stroked the lids softly, thinking how moist and red her lips were: never as beautiful a face as the little mothers; for so Jem, feel- ing quite grown up in his heart, called her there. Well, then, no more trouble, but somebody to take care of us all the time. Whenever I see a preacher, now, I think of father stopping abruptly, with that anxious, incisive look so sad to see on a childs face. She did not reply at first; then, He preached Gods word as he knew it, she said, dryly. And whenever I hear of a good, brave man, I think, That s like father! Her eyes opened now. That s true, Jemmy! God knows that s true! So proud my boy will be of his father! She did not say anything more, but began playing with his hair, her mouth unsteady, and, a bashful, dreamy smile in her eyes. She looked very young and girlish in the mellow light. lie s not coarse like me, Jem, she said at last. Even more like a woman in some ways. He always came near- er to you children, for instance; I mind how you always used to creep away from me close to him at night. He hates noise, Stephen does, and mean, scrap- ing ways, such as we re used to, being poor. My boy 11 mind that? We 11 keep anything shabby out of his sight, when he comes back. Ill min(l, said Jem, dryly. But Well, no matter. We re to try and be like him, Tom and I? I under- stand. She drew down her head suddenly in- to the pillow. Jem had been growing sleepy, but he started wide awake now, trying to see her face: the pretty pink color his questions had brought was gone from it. Did you speak, mother? No answer. I said we are to be men like him, Tom and I, if we can? He knew he had touched her to the quick somehow: his heart beat thick with the old childish terror, as he waited for her answer. Yes, you are to try, my son. Martha Yarrows frivolous chirruping voice was altered, with meaning in it he never had heard before, as if her answer came out of some depth where God had faced her soul, and forced it to speak truth. But when, after that, the boy, curious to know more, went on with his questions, she quieted him gravely, kissed him good - night, and turned over, to sleep, he concluded, from her regular breathing. However, when Jem, after a while, began to snore, she got up and went to the kitchen-fire, kneeling down on the stone hearth: her head was on fire, and her body cold. So they shall be like him ! she whis- pered, with a fierce, baited look, as if by her wifes trust in him she defied the whole world. I have kept my word. 72 Stephen Yarrow. [January, I ye tried to make his sons what God made him in the beginning. That was true: she had kept her word. Five years ago, when the great scandal came on the church in , and their minister was tried for forgery, and sen- tenced to six years imprisonment in the penitentiary, the first letter his wife wrote to him there had these words: For the boys, my husband, they never shall know of this thing. They shall know you as God and I do, Stephen. I 11 make them men like you, if I can: except in your religion; for I believe, before God, the Devil taught you that. When the mali read that in his cell, a dry, quiet smile came over his face. He had not expec4ed such a keen opinion from his shallow, easy-going wife: he did not think there was so much insight in her. It s a deep sounding you give, Mar-. tha, true or not, folding up the letter. And so the boys will never know? going back to his solitary cobbling, for they were making a shoemaker of him. 0 If there were any remorse under his quiet, or impatience at fate, or gnaw- ing homesickness, he did not show it. That was the last letter or message that came from his wife. The friends of other prisoners were admitted to visit them, but no one ever asked to see him the five years went by; every day the same bar of sunlight struck across his bench, and glittered on the point of his awl, gray in winter, yellow in summer but no day brought a word or a sign from the outer world but that. The man grew thin, mere skin and bone; but then he was scrofulous. lie asked no questions, ceased at last to look up, when the jailer brought his meals, to see if he carried a letter. Sometimes, when he used to stand chafing his stubbly chin in the evening at the slit cut in the stones for his window, looking at the red brick chimney-pot he could see over the penitentiary-wall, it seemed like some- thing of outer life, and he would mutter, She said the boys would never know. Once, too, a year or two after that, when the jailer came into quiet Stevys cell, (for so he nicknamed him,) Yar- row came up, and took him by the coat- buttons, looking up and gabbling some- thing about Martha and the little chaps in a maudlin sort of way, then, with a silly laugh, lay down on his pallet. I never felt sorry for the little whif- fet before, said the fat jailer, when he came out. He s so close; but it s a cursed shame in his people to give him the go-by that way, there! But when he went back an hour or two after, he found he had gained no ground with Stevy; he was dry, silent as ever: he had come to himself, mean- while, and shivered with disnust at the fear that any madness had made him commit himself to this mass of flesh. Mortised with the sacred garlic, he muttered, with the usual dry twinkle in his eyes. Ben caught the last word. It s a good yarb, garlic, he said, confusedly. Uses it on hot coals most- ly, under broilin steaks. Well, good night. He s a queer chap, though, after he had gone out, beyond me. Five years being gone, Martha Yar- row, sitting by her fire to-night, could only repeat the words of her letter. She had taken out a daguerreotype of her husband, and was looking at it. Lie was a small man; young; dressed in a suit of rusty black, with a certain subdued, credulous, incomplete air about him, like a man forced at birth into some iron mould of circumstance, and whose own proper muscles and soul had never had a chance of air to grow. A homely, sad- dened, uncouthly shaped face,one that would be sure to go snubbed and unread through the world, to find at last some woman who would know its latent mean- ing, and worship it with the heat of pas- sion which this country-girl had given. Withal, a cheerful, quizzical smile on the lips. Poor Marthas eyes filled, the moment shine looked at that; and so she went back to her first years of married life, full of keen, relishing enjoyment, all coming from him, quiet, silent as he 1864.1 Stephen Yarrow. 73 was, remembering how her maddest freaks were indulged with that same odd, dry laugh. She stood alone now. And in these years I have grown used to being alone, standing up, stretching her arms suddenly above her head, and letting them fall again. It was a lie: she knew that the tired sinking within her of hody and soul was harder to bear now than the day he went away, and she weaker to hear it. If she could hut lean her head on his breast for one moment, and feel him pat her hair with the old Tnt tnt why, what ails my girl? it would give her more strength than all her prayers. She could nt think of herself as anything hut a girl, when she remembered her hus- band: these years were nothing. Her mouth grew drier and hotter, as she sat there looking into the face, polish- ing the glass with her hand, kissin~ it. I m so tired, Stephen! she would whis- per now and then. Only those who know the unuttered mysterious bond in the soul of a true wife and husband can comprehend what Martha Yarrow bore, when it was torn apart, and by no fault of hers. God meant him for me, she sometimes said, savagely; no man had a right to part us. She looked at the picture, feeling that he was purer than any baby she had nursed at her breast, nearer God. It was his religion was to blame. That was the ruin of us all. I believe he never knew who the good God was; how could he ? thinking of his father, who used to sit in the chimney - corner, one of those acrid doctrine-professors who sour the water of 11th into gall and vinegar before they dole it out to their children. She was glad she had told him her mind before they parted, to what his teaching had brought his son. I cut deep that day, and I thank God for it, she said, her face white. She had brought the children here to be near the penitentiary, but she had nev- er been allowed to see him. iNn letters came from him. His brother, John Yar- row, sent hers to him. There was some formula of admission, he said, which she did not understand. The time was near- ly up; in one year more he would be free. Well, and then? lie had been in one of the ways that butted down on hell; how would he come back to her? In all these years, silence. Who would bring him back? Who? They were keen enough to put him in, but who would stay with him, to say, You ye slipped, boy, but stand up again? Who would hold out a kind hand at the gate, when he came out, with Here s a place, Yarrow. here s home, and love, and God waiting; try another chance? Who would do that? No wonder she looked out that night, thin king there was some work forgotten. Martha sat there until dawn came, moving only to replenish the fire lest the children should take cold. In all her life she never forgot th4t night. Some furious instinct seemed at work within her, goa~ing her to be up and doing. What should she do? Why should she disquiet herself? Her hus- band was safe asleep in his cell. Yet all night long she could not keep her soul back from crying to God to save him in his deadly peril, to bring him there at once to her, to the children. When morning broke, cold and sweet- breathed, russet clouds, dyed with the latent crimson day, thronging up from behind the hills, she tried to thrust down all the pains of the night as moody fan- cies. They did not go. She bathed herself, woke the children, laughed and romped with them (for their years holi- day should not be damped); but the cold, unsufferable weight within draggod her physically down. Trifles without, too, beset her with vague fears. Ready was gone; for years he had not left the house at night. The childrenbegan to look with uneasy eyes at her face: she would be- tray all. She kept her fingers thrust in the breast of her wiapper to touch the case of the picture: she could hold her- self quiet so. How cold and unmeaning the light was that day to her! and every tick of the clock seemed to beat straight 74 Steplier Yarrow. [January, on her brain. So the morning crept by. She grew so sure without reason that it was the last day of waiting, that, when the children went out to build their snow-man, she sat down on Jem s chest, shivering and dizzy; when the snow cracked under a step outside, afraid to turn her head, thinking lie would be standing in the door, with the old patient smile on his mouth, and his hand out. But he did not come. About half a mile on the other side of Shags Hill there is a hotel, off from the road, looking like an overgrown Swiss chdlei~. Not a country - tavern by any means. Starr, a New - York caterer, keeps it, as a,sort of boarding-house for a few wealthy Pittsburg families in sum- mer: however, if you should stop there at any time of the year, you would be sure of ~a delicate cro queue and a fair glass of wine. Usually, Starr and his family are the only occupants in winter, but on this Christmas eve there were lights in two of the upper rooms. M. Soul~, the Mobile financier, so well known through the West, with his fam- ily, had occupied them for about a week; this evening, too, a Mr. Frazier from St. Louis was at the house: there was a collision of trains near Beaver, and he had left the other passengers and come over to Starrs, intending to go on horse- back up to Pittsburg in the mornin,,. An old acquaintance of the Soul~s, appar- ently: he had dined with them that evening, and when Starr went up about ten oclock to know if Mr. Soul~ wished to go out gunning in the morning, he found the old man still standing with his back to the fire, talking sharply of the Little Miami Railroad shares, then be- ginning to go up. A thorough old Shylock, thought Starr, waiting, scan- ning the acrid, wizened face with its pro- truding black eyes, the dried-up figure in a baggy suit of blue, a white collar turned down nearly to the shoulders, and the gray hair knotted in a queue. He looked at the landlord, scowling at the interruption: M. Soul~, on the con- trary, spoke heartily, as if suddenly re- lieved of a bore. Of course, of course, Starr; I 11 be off by four. I 11 saddle my own horse, no need to disturb any of your peo- ple; let them sleep on Christmas at least, poor devils. The partridges about here are really worth tasting, turning to Frazier, and Starr tells me of a myth- ical deer back in the hills. You see, with a bow, it will not be possible for me to breakfast with you. I 11 see you at Pittsburg about those shares, say, on Monday. Yes, buttoning his coat, with a fur- tive glance of contempt at Soul6s burly figure and eager face. Was this the far-famed Nimrod of the money-hunt? I 11 say to Pryor you had other game on hand to-day. Other game, yes, with a sudden gravity,pushing his hair back, and look- ing in the fire, while the old man made his formal adicus to his wife. They lasted some time, for Madame SoulA was a courtly little body, with all her quiet. I must make an early start, too, said Frazier, turning again. Glad of the chance to take a bracing ride. Banks closed to-morrow, so no time s lost, eh? Well, good night, Soul6, perceiving that the other did not see his outstretche(i hand; dont come down; good night; and so shuffled down the stairs. Pah! said Soul6, with a breath of relief. His blood s like water. He never owed a dollar, and never gave one away. The usual genial laugh came back to his face, as he turned to Madame Soul~ and began to romp with the baby lying in her lap. lie was a tall man, about six feet high, with a handsome face, red hair, a frank blue eye, and a natural, genuine laugh. Whatever else history may record of him, a man of generous blood and sensitive instincts. His sub- dued dress, quiet voice, suited him, were indigenous to his nature, not assumed: even Starr could see that. Starr used afterwards, when they became the coun- trys gossip, to talk of little traits in 1864.1 Stephen Yarrow. 7~5 these people, showing the purity of their refinement. To this day he believes in them. How unostentatious their kind- ness was: the delicate, scentless air that hung about them: the fresh flowers al- ways near. Eating with iron forks, an not a word, my silver being packed; their under - clothes like gossamer, out- side plainer than mine. Bah! I know the real stuff, when I see it, I hope. No sham there! When the hahy was tired of its romp, Madame Souk hushed it to sleep. She was the quietest nurse ever lived, the quietest woman, one whom you scarce noted when with her, and forgot as soon as you left the room. Nature had made her up with its most faint, few lines, and palest coloring. Souk, however, had found out the delicate beauty, and all else that lay beneath. There was a passionate fierceness sometimes in his look at her, and a something else stran- ger, such an expression as a dog gives his master. She never talked hut to him. I thought you would have break- fasted with him, perhaps, she said, now. No. I m too much of an Arab, Judith. I cant eat a mans salt and empty his pocket at the same time.~~ I m glail you did not, smilino as the 0 bahy caught at his fathers seals, then glancing at the watch when Soak held it out for him. Nearly eleven. It is time your brother was here. See, John, how pink its feet are, and dimpled, putting one to her mouth with a hurst of childish laughter. Soul6 played with a solitary white calla that stood near in a crystal vase, gulped down a glass of wine hastily, held the delicate glass up to see how like a golden bubble it was, then threw it down. Are you sure we are right in this, child? She stopped playing with the baby, but did not look up. About your brother? I thought with the doubtful look of one who is about to essay his strength against flint. It has been~ a hard life, Stephens,and through us. What if we let him go? anxiously. What would be better? He has chil- dren, taking the babys hand in his. Yes, children,clods, like his wife, the pink lip curling. You should know your brother, John Yarrow. You do know the stuff that is in him. Will his brain ever muddle down to find comfort in that inn - keepers daughter? Is it likely? Besides, they are dead to him now. You have succeeded in keeping them apart. If she saw the dark flush in his face at this, she did not notice it, but went on hastily. Stephen never had a chance, and you know it, John. He was too weak to break the trammels at home, as you did, let himself be forced to preach what his soul knew was a lie. When you tried to open the door for him to a broader life I shut him in a penitentiary-cell, with a hitter laugh. They taught him to make shoes. Was it your fault? Now that he is free, then, going on steadily, still pat- ting the childs cheek, you mean to shake him off, having used him. Push him hack into the old slough. lie can make a decent living there, cobbling, I know. Be generous, John, with a keen glance of the pale brown eyes. If you succeed in this thing to-morrow, take him with us out of the United States. rJ7here is trouble coming here. Give him a chance for education, to know something of the world he lives in, to catch one or two free breaths before he dies. He has been the man in the iron cage, since his birth, it seems to me. She got up as she spoke, rang the bell, and gave the baby to its nurse, wrapping it up in a blanket or two. When she turned, her husband was standing on the hearth-rug, a half-laugh in his eyes. Judith ! XVhat is it? The plain meaning of all this is, that there is no one who can do this foul job to - morrow but Stephen Yarrow, and 76 Stephen Yarrow. [January, for my sake it must be done; ergo Well, well! You do love me, child! Her eyes filled with sudden tears; she caught hold of his arm, and clung to it. I do love you, God knows! What is Stephen Yarrow to me, soul or body? Dont be harsh with me, John! Harsh? No, Judith, stroking the colorless curls gently; looking hack thinking that she had done much for him; he would humor her whim, not be- have like a beast to her. But his broth- er It would be better for Stephen in the end. Certainly. Yet he sighed: a womanish, unable sigh. A year or two afterwards, (for I am not writing of a fictitious character,) this mans frauds were discovered. They were larger and more uniformly success- ful than any that had ever been perpe- trated in the States, but there was about them a subtle, dogged daring that did not belong to Yarrows character, and shrewd people who had known them be- gan to talk of this shadow of a woman who went about with him, a quadroon, they said, and hinted strongly that it was she who had been the vital power of the partnership, and Yarrow but the well-chosen tool. There are no means of knowing the truth of the conjecture, for Yarrow escaped: she followed him, hut is (lead, so their secret is safe. Fraud, however, was but cne half of his story. Sould gave like a prince, secretly, with a woman - like, anxious helpfulness, a passionate eagerness, as if the pain or want of a human being were insufferable to him. In this lie was alone: the woman had no share in it. She was as cold, impervious to the suffering of others as nothing but a snake or a selfish woman can be: whatever muddy human feeling did ooze from her brain was for this man only. And yet, when we think of it, she was, as they guessed, a quad- roon: maybe, under the low, waxy- skinned forehead that Yarrows fingers were patting that night there might have been a revengeful consciousness of the wrongs of her race that justified to her the harm she did. It is likely: the coarsest negroes argue in that way. God help them! At any rate, we shall conic closest to Christs rule of justice in trying to find a sore heart behind the vicious fingers of the woman. While the two stood in the pleasant li~ht of the warm room waiting for him, Stephen Yarrow came towards the house across the fields. It was his shadow that his wife and Jem saw crossing Shags Hill. lie was a free man now, by virtue of his nickname, quiet Stevy, in part. It startled him as much as the jailer, when his release was sent in a year before the time, in consideration of his uniform good conduct. The truth was, that M. Sould took an interest in the poor wretch, and had said a few words in his favor to the Governor at a dinner-party the oth- er evening, so the release was signed the next day. Soul6 had called to see the man when he came to Pittsburg, and spent an hour or two in his cell. The next morning he was free to go, but he had stayeil a week longer, making a pair of red mQrocco shoes for the jailers lit- tle girl, idling over them: when they were done, tying them on, himself, with a wonderful bow-knot, and looking anx- iously in her clean Dutch face to see if she were pleased. Kiss the gentleman, Meg, growled Ben. Where s yer manners? Stephen drew back sharply. The in- nocent baby! who lived out - of- doors! Ben must have forgotten who he was: a thief, belonging to this cell. They were going to let him out; but what difference did that make? His thin face grew wet with perspiration, as he walked away. Why, his very fingers had felt too impure to him, as he tied on her shoes. LIe went away an hour after, only nodding good- bye to Ben, looking down with an odd grin at the clothes he had asked the jail- er to buy for him. Ben had chosen a greenish coat and trousers and yellow waistcoat. He did not shake hands with him. Ben had been mixing hog - food, and the marks were on his fingers. This was yesterday: he was going now to meet Step/ten Yarrow. 77 his brother, as he requested. Well, what else was there for him to do? He did not look up often, as he plodded over the fields: when he did, it hurt him somehow, this terrible wastefulness, this boundless unused air, and stretch of room. It even pained his weakened eyes: so long the oblong slip of clay running from the cell to the wall had been his share, and the yellow patch of sky and brick chim- ney-top beyond. For so many thousands, too, no more. But they were thieves, foul, like him. Pure men this was for. Stephen looked like an old man now, in spite of Bens party-colored rigging: stooped and lean, his step slouched: his head almost bald under the old fur cap. Something in the sharpened face, too, looked as if more than eyesight had been palsied in these years of utter sol- itude: the brain was dulled with slug- gishly gnawing over and over the few animal ideas they leave for prisoners souls, or, as probably, thoroughly im- bruted by them. Soul6 thought the lat- ter. When tile convict had finished his dull walk, he sat down on the wooden staircase that led to his brothers rooms for half an hour, slowly rubbing his legs, conscious of nothing but some flesh-pain, apparent- ly,and when he did enter the chamber, bowed as indifferently to Soul6 and his wife as though they had parted careless- ly yesterday. His brother glanced at the woman: one look would certainly be enough for her. Poor Stephens power? If it ever had been, its essence was long since exhaled: there was nothing in his whole nature now but the stalest dregs, surely? Perhaps she thought different- ly: she looked at the man keenly, and then gave a quick, warnin~ glance to her husband, as she sat down to her sewing. Soul6 did not heed it as he usually did: he was choked and sick to see what a wreck his brother really was. God help us! to think of the time when Stephen and he were boys together, and thiswas the end of it! Come to the fire, old fellow! he said, huskily. You re blue with cold. We used to have snows like this at home, The man passed the lady with the quaint, shy bow that used to be habitual with him towards women, (he still used it to the jailers wife,) and held his hands over the blaze. His brother followed him: his wife had never seen him so nervous ~r excited: he stood close to the convict, smoothing his coat on the shoulder, tak- ing off his cap. Why, why! this cloth s too thin, even for summer; I Oh, Stephen, these are hard times, hard! But I mean to do something for you, God knows. Sit down, sit down, you re tired, boy, turn- ing off going to the window, his hands behind him,comin~ back again. We re going to help you, Judith and I. Soul6 did not see the look which the convict shot at the woman, when he spoke these words; but she did, and knew, that, however her husband might con- trive to deceive himself, he never would his brother. If Stephen Yarrows soul went down to any deeper depth to-night, it gould be conscious in its going. What manner of man was he? What was his wife, or long-ago home, or his old God, now, to him? It mattered to them: for, if lie were not a tool, they were ruined. She stitched quietly at her soft floss mind flannel. Soul6 was sincere; let him ex- plain what his wish was, himself; it would be wiser for her to be silent; this man, she remembered, had eyes that never un- derstood a lie. Yarrow did not sit down; his brother stood close, leaning his unsteady hand upon his arm. I knew you would not fail me, Ste- phen. To-morrow will be a turning-point in both our lives. Circumstances have conspired to help me in my plan. He be~an to stammer. The other look- ed at him quietly, inquiringly. You remember what I told you on Tuesday? more hastily. I have dealt heavily in stocks lately; it needs one blow more, and our future is secure for life. Yours aind mine, I mean, yours and mine, Stephen. This paper old Frazier 78 Stepken Yarrow. carries, he is going to New York with it. If I can keep it out of the market for a week, my speculation is assured, I c-an realize half a million, at least. Frazier is an old man, weak: he crosses the Nar- rows to-morrow morning on horseback. lie stepped abruptly, playing with a shell on the mantel- shelf. I understand, in a dry voice; yoti want him robbed; and my hands came at the right nick of time. Fish! you use coarse words. A man s hrain must he distempered to call that robbery; the paper, as I said, is neither money nor its equivalent. There was a silence of some moments. I must have it, his eye growing fierce. You could take it and leave the man unhurt; I could have done it myself, but he s an old man, I want him left unhurt. If I had done it Well, chewing his lips, it would not have been convenient for him to have gone on with that story. He knows me. Is the affair quite plain now? Yarrow nodded slowly, looking in the fire. If I were not strong enough to-mor- row, what then? I will be with you, near. I must have the paper. lie is an old Shylock, after all, with a desperate carelessness. His soul would not weigh heavily against me, if it were let out. Yarrow passed his hand over his face it was colorless. Yet he looked bewil. dered. The bare thought of murder was not clear to him yet. Drink some wine, Stephen~ said his brdtber, pouring out a goblet for himself. I carry my own drinking - apparatus. This Sherry Yarrow tasted it, and put down the glass. I was cheated in it, eh? Yes, you- were. Your palate was always keener than mine. I His mouth looked blue and cold under his whiskers: then they both stood va- cantly silent, while the woman sewed. Tut! we will look at the matter prac [January, tically, as business - men, said Soul~ at last, affecting a gruff, hearty tone, and walking about, but was silent there. The convict did not answer. No sound but the rough wind without blowing the drifted snow and pebbles from the asphalt roof against the frosted panes, and the angry fire of bitumen within breaking into clefts of blue and scarlet flame, thrusting its jets of fierce light out from its cage: impatient, it may be, of this convict, this sickly, shrivelled bit of hu- manity standing there; wondering the nauseated life in his nostrils or soul claim- ed yet its share of Gods breath. Soci- ety had taken the man like a root torn out of native unctuous soil, kept it in a damp cellar, hid out the breath and light. If after a while it withered away, whose fault was it? If there were no hand now to plant it again, do you look for it to grow rotten, or not? One would have said Soul~ was a root that had been plant- ed in fat, loamy ground, to look at him. There was a healthy, liberal, lazy life for you! Yet the winter sky looked gray and dumb when he yassed the window, and the fire-light broke fiercest against his bluff figure going to and fro. No matter; something there that would have warmed your heart to him: something genial, careless, big- natured, from the loose red hair to the indolent, portly stride. Who knows? A comfortable, true-hearted, merry clergyman, a jolly farmer, with open house, and a bit of good racing - stock in the stable, if bigotry in his boyhood, and this woman, had not crossed him. They had crossed him: there was not an atom ~of unpolluted na- ture left: you saw the taint in every syl- labic he spoke. Fresh and malignant to- night, when this tempted soul hung in the balance. We re letting the matter slip too long. Something must be decided up on. Stephen! nervously, wake up! You have forgotten our subject, I think. No, the bald head raised out of the coat-collar in which it had sunk. Go on. Souhi looked at him perplexed a mo 1864.1 Stephen Yarrow. 79 meat. Was he dulled, or had he learned in those years to shut in looks and thoughts closer prisoners than himself? It is a mere question of time, he said, a little composed. Frazier is an agent: shall this money accrue to me or to his employers? I have risked all on it. I must have it at any cost. At any cost? At any, boldly. Is it any easier for me to talk of that chance than you, Stephen? No, John. Your hands are clean, with an exhausted look. I know that. You had a kind Irish heart. What money you made with one hand you flung away with the other. Soul6 blushed like a woman. No matter, heating some dust off his boot. But for Frazier,l ye talked that over with Judith, and I dont value human life as you do: it may have been my residence in the South. It mat- ters little how a man dies, so he lives right. This Frazier, if he dies to defend his package, would do a nobler deed than in any of his dime -scraping days. For me, my part is not robbery. The paper is neither specie nor a draft. his tongue swung fluently now, for it had convinced himself. There is but a night left to decide. What will you do, Stephen? lie put his hand on the green coat with its gaudy buttons, and leaned against his brother as they used to go arms over shoulders to school. Soul6s big throat was full of tears; he had never felt so full of sorrowful pity as in this the foulest purpose of his life. Unselfish it seemed to him. 0 God! what a hard life Ste- phens had been! This would cure him: two or three sea-voyages, a winter in Florence, would freshen him a little, maybe, hut not much. Eh? What will you do, old fellow? striking his shoulder. This is the last nioht. I know that. I have been waiting for it all my life. He put his red handkerchief up to his mouth to conceal the face, as if its mean- ing were growing too plain. Soul~ looked at him fixedly a moment, then, taking him by the button, began tapping off his sen- tences on his breast. I 11 state the case. I 11 be plain. Stephen, you want food you want clothes ; you Is that all I want? facing him. The woman started, as she saw his face fully, and his look, for the first time. A (luiet blue eye, unutterably kind and sad: a slow, compelling face, that would look on his life barely, day after day, year af- ter year, never drowsing over its sore or pain until he had wrung its full meaning out to the last dregs. All you want? Clothing? food? stammered Soul6, something in the face having stopped his garrulous breath. I did not say that, Stephen. The wind struck sharper on the rat- tling panes; the yellow and brown heats grew deeper. One saw how it was then. No beggar turned from God so empty- handed as this man to-day. His place in the world slipped: his chance gone: sick, sinking: his brain mad for knowl- edge: his hands stretched out for work: no man to give it to him: whatever God he had lost to him: the thiefs smell, lie thought, on every breath he drew, every rag of clothes he wore. Hundreds of convicts leave our prison-doors with souls as hungry and near death as this. I have lost somethingsince I went in there, he said, jerking his thumb over his shoulder. I do not think it will ever come back. No? Soul6 put his big hand to his face me- chanically. Dont say that, boy! I know The world has gone on, it has left you behind You lIe choked,could not go on: he would have put half the strength and life in himself into Yarrows lank little body that moment, if he could. There was a some- thing else lost, different from all these, of which they both thought, hut they did not speak of it. The convict looked out into the night. Beyond the square patch 80 Stepken Yarrow. [January, of window and that near dark, how full the world was of happy homes getting ready for Christmas! children and hap- py wives! Soul6 understood. I dont say I can bring you hack what you have lost, Stephen. I offer ~OU the best I can. You re not an old man, barely thirty: you must have years to ac- quire fresh hone and muscle. Set your brain to work, meanwhile. Give it a chance. It never had one, said the convict, with a queer, faint smile. Hillo! that looks like old times! brightening up. No, it never had. Do you think I forget our alley-house with its three rooms? the carpentering by day, and the arithmetic by night? the sweltering, sultry Sunday mornings in church, and the afternoons sniffling over the catechism among the rain - butts in the back-yard? Do you remember the preachers, the travelling agents, that put up with us? how they snarled at other churches, and helped themselves ou~ of the shop, as if to be a man of God implied a mean beggar? I dont say my father was a hypocrite when he made you a col- porteur, an(l so one of them but He paused. Even in this frothy-brain- ed fellow, his religion or his doubt lay deeper than all. his face grew dark. I tell you, if there is one thing I loathe, it is the God and His day that were taught to me when I was a child: joyless, hard, cruel. Fire humph! and brimstone for all buta few hundred. I remember. Well, I dont know yet if there is any better, with a vague look. A man shifts for himself in the next chance as well as now, I suppose. Did you believe what you preached, Ste- phen? with an abrupt change. God! how you used to writhe under it at first! They forced me into it, said Yarrow. I was only a boy. You remember that I was only a boy, just out of the shop. The more uneducated a man was in our church-pulpit then, the better. I knew nothing, John, appealingly. When I preached about foreordination and hell- fire, it was in coarse slang: I knew that. I used to think there might be a different God and books and another life farther out in the world, if I could only get at it. I never was strong, an dthey had forced me into it arid when you came to me to help you with your plan, 1 wanted to get out, and You did help me,chafing the limp fingers. That was my first start, that Pesson fiote. I owe that to you, Ste- phen. I have paid for it, looking him stead- ily in the eye, some unexpected manliness rising up, making his tone bitter and mar- rowy. I paid for it. But no matter for that. But now you come again. I have had time to think over these things in yon- der, John. Sonl6 dropped his hand, drew back, and was silent a moment. Let it he so. But did you think what you would do, if you refused your aid to me? have you found work? or a God to preach? Something in these last words took Yarrows sudden strength away. He did not answer for a moment. Work? feebly. No,I have nt heard of any work. As for a God Well, then, what are your purpos- es? coldly. Another silence. I dont know. I never was worth much, he gasped out at last, stooping, and pulling at his shoestrings. And now said Souh~. There s no need for you to say that! with a sharp cry. I dont forget that I have slipped, that it s too late, I dont forget. His hands jerked at his coat-fronts in a wild, dazed way. Stephen ! The woman rose, and let in the air. I thank you. I m not sick. Souhi turned away. He could not meet the look on the pinched convict- face, the soul of the man crying out for God or his brother, something to help. There was a silence for a few mo- meats. You will come with me, Stephen, 1864.1 Ste4ken Thrrow. 81 quietly: then, after a pause, It is for life. There is but little time left to de- cide. Was there no help? Had the true God no messenger? The winter wind blowing through the window filled with fine frost wet his face, lifted the smother- ing off his lungs. His eyes grew clear, as his full sense returned after a while: seeing only at first, it so happened, the fire in its square frame; and thinking only of that, as the mind always drowsi- ly absorbs the nearest trifle after a spasm of pain. A bed of pale red coals now, furred over with white and pearl-colored ashes. It was a long time since he had seen any open fire, years, he believed. Where was it that there had been a fire just like that, with the ashes like moss over the heat, and on a night in win- ter, too, the wind rattling the panes? Where was it? While Souki stood wait- ing for his answer, his mind was drifting back, like that of a man in his dotage, through its dull, muddy thoughts, after that one silly memory. He struck on it at last. A year or two after he was married. In the bedroom. Martha was sitting by the fire, with the old yellow dog beside her: she was trying to ride the baby on his neck, he was the clumsiest brute! He came in and stopped to see the fun; he noticed the fire then, how cozy and warm it all was: outside it was hailing, a gust shaking the house. He had been doing a bit of carpentering,he did like to go back to the old trade! This was a wick- er chair for the baby, he had made it in the stable for a surprise: the girl always liked surprises and such nonsense. lie put it down with a flourish, and he re- membered how she laughed, an dReady growled, and how he and she both got on their knees to seat the youngster in, and tie him with his bandanna handkerchief. So silly that all was! When they were on the floor there, and had Master Jem fastened in, he remembered how she sud- denly turned, and put her arms about his neck, as shyly as when they were first married, and kissed him. Only God knows how good you are to me, Stephen, VOL. XIII 6 she said. There were tears in her eyes., Yarrow passed his hand over his forehead.- Did ever a thought come into your mind like a fresh, clean air into a stove-heated, foul room? or like the first hearty, liv- ing call of Greatheart through the dun- geons of Giant Despair? You do not answer me, Stephen? said his brother. You will go with me? Yarrows head was more erect, his eyes less glazed. It may be. The chance for me s over in the world, I think. I may as well serve you. And yet What? Give me time to think. I want out- of-doors. It s close here. I 11 meet you in the morning. Souki caught his wifes uneasy glance. What is this, Stephen? Nothinn, looking dully out into the night. Then There s some you said were dead, as if no one were speaking, with the same dull look. Or lost: I think they re not dead. If there mi~ht be a chance yet! If I could but see Martha and the little chaps, it would save me, John Yar- row, no matter what they d learned to think of me. They re mine, my little chaps. She said the boys should never know. She said that of her owa free will. Is it likely she could keep her word? said Souki, sneeringly. Why, why, she loved me, John,a moist color and smile coming out on his face. There s a little thing I minded just now that Yes, Martha kept her word. He tapped with his fingers thoughtful- ly on the mantel-shelf the smile linger- ing yet on his face. The womans wool- len sewing fell from her hand, and she spoke for the first time. Her tone had a harsh, metallic twang in it: Yarrow turn- ed curiously, as he heard it. What could they be to you, if you found them? They have forgotten you. In five years they have not sent you a message. 82 Stepken Yarrow. ~January, No, I know, Madam. Even that did not hurt him. His face kindkd slowly, still turned to the fire, as if it were telling him some old story: looking to her at last, steadfast and man- ly, like a man who has healthy common- sense dominant in his head, and an un- selfish love at worlr in his heart. Such a one is not far from the kingdom of heaven. It seems to me as if there might he a chance yet. It s a long time. But Martha loved me, Madam. You dont know I think Ill go, John. Its close here, s I said. I 11 meet you at the far bridge by dawn, and let you know. It is your only chance, said Soul6, roughly, as he followed him to the door. He was a ruined man, if he were balk- ed in this. You do not know how the world meets a returned felon, Stephen; you Let me go, feebly, putting his hand np to his chin in the old fashion. I think I know that. I I ye thought of that a good deal. But it seemed to inc as if there might he a chance; and so, without a word of farewell, went stumbling down the s irs. He had given a wistful look at the fire, as he turned away. Perhaps that would comfort him. God surely has many voices in the world, and none of them is without its signification. An hour before dawn, Yarrow found the place in which he had appointed to meet his brother. The night had been dark, hailing at intervals; he had gone tramping up and down the hills and stubble - fields, throu~h snow and half-frozen mud-gullies, hardly conscious of what he did. The night seemed long to him now, looking back. He found a burnt sycamore - stump and got up on it, shivered awhile, felt his shirt, which was wet to the skin, then took off his shoes and cleared the lumps of slush out of them. There was something hor- rible to him in this unbroken silence and dark and wet cold: he had been in his hot cell so long, the frost stung him differently from other men, the icy thaw was wetter. It was a narrow cut in the hills where he was, a bridle-road leading back and running zigzagfor some miles until it returned to the rail- road - track. A lonely, unfrequented place : Frazier would take this by-path; Soul~ had chosen it well to meet him. There was a rickety bridge crossing a hill - stream a few rods beyond. Yar- row pushed the dripping cap off his forehead, and looked around. No light nor life on any side: even in the heav- ens yawned that breathless, uncolored silence that precedes a winters dawn. lie could see the Ohio through the gul- ly: why, it used to be a broad, full- breasted river, glancing all over with light, loaded with steamers and rafts going down to the Mississippi. He had gone do~vn once, rafting, with lumber, and a jolly three weeks float they had of it. Now it was a solid, shapeless mass of blocks of ice and mud. Win- ter ? yes, but the world was altered somehow, the very river seemed struck with death. His teeth chattered; he began to try to rub some warmth into his rheumatic legs and arms; tried to bring back the fancy of last night about Martha and the fire. But that was a long way off: there were all these years mastering memories to fade it out, you know, and besides, a diseased habit of desponding. The world was wide to him, cowering out from a cell: where were Martha and the little chaps lost in it? John said they were (lead. Where should he turn now ? There was an aguish pain in his spine that blinded him: since yesterday he had~aten noth- ing, he had no money to buy a meal; he was a felon, who would give him work? There s some things certain in the world, he muttered. That was silly last night, silly. And yet, if there could have been a chance! Tie looked up steadily into the sickly, discolored sky: nothing there but the fog from these swamps. lie had not wished so much that he could hear of 1864.] Stephen Yarrou. 83 Martha and the children, when he look- ed up, as of something else that he need- ed more. Even the foulest and most careless soul that God ever made has some moments when it grows homesick, conscious of the awful vacuum below its life, the Eternal Arm not being there. Yarrow was neither foul. nor careless. All his life, most in those years in the pris- on, he had been hungry for Something to rest on, to own him. Sometimes, when his evil behavior had seemed vilest to him, he had felt himself trembling on the verge of a gre at forgiveness. But he could see so little of the sky in the cell there, only that three - cornered patch: he had a fancy, that, if once he were out in the world that He made, in the free air, that, if there were a God, he would find Him out. He had not found Him. He sat on the stump awhile, his bands over his eyes, then got down slowly, but- toninn his soggy waistcoat and coat. I dont see as there s a chance, he said, dully. I was a fool to think there was any better God than the one that digging his toe into the froz- en pools. It s all ruled. I m not one of the elect. That was all. After that, he stood waiting for his brother. Ill help him. Hes the best I know. Even the faint sigh choked before it rose to his lips, both manhood and hope were so dead with inanition; yet a lifes failure went in it. While he stood waiting, Martha Yar- row sat by her kitchen - fire crying to God to help him; but lie knew what things were needed before she asked Him. Soul~, with his gun and game-bag, had been coursin over the hills three miles back, since four oclock. He had bagged a squirrel or two, enough to suf- fice for his mornings work, and now, his piece unloaded, came stealthily to- wards the place of rendezvous. He had little hope that Stephen would help him: he had made up his mind to go through the affair alone. If lie did it, that in- volved Pah! what was in a word? Men died every day. He had quite resolved: Judith and he had talked the matter over all night. But if Frazier were a younger man, and could fight for it! Perhaps he was armed: Soul& s face flashed: he stooped and broke the trigger of his gun, and then went on with a much less heavy step. They would be more even now. He wanted to reach the bridge by dawn, and meet his brother. If he refused to help him, he would send him away, and wait for Frazier alone. About nine oclock he might expect him. Frazier, however, had changed his plan. He told Starr the night before, that, as M. Soul~ would not breakfast with him, he had concluded to rise early, and be off by dawn. If there s noth- ing to be done about the Miami shares, there is no use wasting time here, he thought. So, while Stephen Yarrow waited near the bridge, the smoke was curling out of the kitchen-chimney where the cook was making ready the cashiers beefsteak, and the old man was crawling out of bed. He could hear Starrs chil- dren in the room overhead making an uproar over their stockings. Christ- mas morning, by the way! I must take some knick-knack back to Totty. (As if his trunk were not always filled with things for Totty, and his shirts cram- med into the lid, when he came home!) Something for mother, too, as he pulled on his socks. Gloves, now, hey? A dozen pair. I wish I had ask- ed Madame Soul~ what size she wore, last night. Their hands are about the same size. Mother always had a tidy little paw. So will Totty, eb? And so finished dressing, thinking Soul~ had a neat little wife, but insipid. So Christmas morning came to all of them, the day when, a long time ago, One who had made a good happy world came back to find and save that which was lost in it. In these few hundred years had lie forgotten the way of finding? Stephen Yarrow had fallen into an 84 Stephen Yfarrow. [January, uneasy doze by the road-side. lie bad done with thinking, when he said, I 11 go with John. The way through life seemed to open clear, exactly the same as it had been before. There was an end of it. There might have been a chance, but there was none. He drowsed off into a brutish slumber. Something like a kiss woke him. It was only the morning air. A clear, sweet- hreathed dawn, as we said, that seemed somehow to have caught a scent of far-off harvest- farms, in lands where it was not, winter. Warm brown clouds yonder with a glow like wine in them, the splendor of the coming day hinting of itself through. I must have slept, said Yarrow, tak- ing off his cap to shake it dry. There were a thousand shining points on the, dingy fur. He ruhhed his heavy eyes and looked ahout him. The misty rime of the night had frozen on bills and woods and river, frosted the whole earth in one glittering, delicate sheath. The first level bar of sunlight put into the nostrils of the dead world of the night before the breath of life. Once in a lifetime, maybe, the sight meets a mans eves which Yarrow saw that morning. ihe very clear blue of the air thrilled with electric vigor ; from the rounded rose-colored summits of the western bills to the tiniest ice-cased grass-spear at his feet, the land flashed back unnumbered soft and splendid dyes to heaven; the hemlock - forests near had grouped themselves into glitterin~ temples, mosques, churches, whatever form in which men have tried to please God by worshipping Him ; the smoke from the distant village floated up in a constant silver and violet vapor like an incense-breath. Neither was it a dead morning. The far - off tinkle of cow- bells reached him now and then, the cheery crow from one farm-yard to an- other, even childrens voices calling, and at last a slow, sweet chime of church- bells. They told me it was Christmas morn- ing, he said, pulling off the old cap again. Yarrows chin bad sunk on his breast, as his eager eyes drank all this morning in. He hreathed short and quick, like a child before whom some incredihle pleas1 ure flashes open. Well, with a long breath, putting on his cap, I did nt think of aught like this, yonder. God help us! He did nt know why he smiled or rubbed his hands cheerfully. His sleep had refreshed him, mayhe. But it seem- ed as if the great heauty and tenderness of the world were for him, this morning, as if some great Power stretched out its arms to him, and spoke through it. I 11 not be silly again, straighten- ing himself, and buttoning his coat; but before the words were spoken, his head had sunk again, and he stood quiet. Something in all this hrought Martha and the little chaps before him, he did not know why, but his heart ached with a sharper pain than ever, that n~de his eyes wet with tears. If there should he a chance! lift- ing his hands to the deep of blue in the east. This was the free air in which he used. to think he could find God. What if it were true that He was there, loving, not hating, taking care of Martha, and He stopped, catching the word. No. I ye slipped. I dont forget. He did forget. He did not remem- her that he was a thief, standing there. Whatever substance had heen in him at his birth trustworthy rose up now to meet the voice of God that called to him aloud. His lank jaws grew red, his eyes a deeper blue, a look in them which his mother may have seen the like of years and years ago; he he at with his knuck- les on his hreast nervously. If there could he a chance ! he said, unceasingly; if I might try again! There was a eracklino- in the snow- laden bushes upon the hill: he looked back, and saw his brother coming from the other side, his game - bag over his shoulder, stooping to avoid notice. his eyes fixed intently on some object on Stephen Yarrow. the road beyond. It ~as an old man on horseback, jogging slowly up the path, whistling as he came. Yarrow shuddcr- ed with a sudden horror. He means murder! That is Frazier. You could not do it to-day, John! To- day! as if Soul6 could hear him. He was between his brother and his victim. The old man came slower, the hill being steep, looking at the frosted trees, and seeing neither Yarrow nor the burly figure crouching, ti~er-like, among the bushes. One moment, and he would have passed the bend of the hill, Souk could reach him. God help me! whisperod Yarrow, and threw himself forward, pushing the horse back on his haunches. Go back~ Ten steps farther, and it s too late! Back, I say! The old man gasped. Why! what! a slip? an water- gully? No matter, leading the horse, trein- bling from head to foot. Up on the hill there was a sharp break, a he.avy footstep on a dead root. Would John go back or come on? he was strong enough to master both. Yarrows throat choked, but he led the horse stead- ily down the path, deaf to Fraziers ques- tions. Do not draw rein until you reach the station, giving him the bridle at last. The old man looked back: he had seen the figure dimly. If there s danger, I 11 not leave you to meet it alone, my friend, fumbling in his breast for a weapon. Yarrow stamped impatiently. Put spurs to your horse ! wiping his mouth; it will be yet too late! Frazier gave a glance at his face, and obeyed him. A moment more, and he was out of sight. Yarrow watched him, and then slowly turned, and raised his head. Souki had come down, and was standing close beside him, leaning on his gun. It was the last time the brothers ever faced each other, and their natures, as God made them, came out bare in that look: Yarrows, un- der all, was the tougher - fibred of the two. Johns eyes fell. ~ephen, this will hurt me. I I thought it was well done, his hand going uncertainly to his mouth. Well, well! you have chosen, af- ter a pause. Good bye. Good bye, boy. They held each others hands for a minute; then Soul6 turned off, and strode down the hill. lie loosened his cravat as he went, and took a long breath of relief. It was a vile job! But his face much troubled. But his wife heard the story without a word, nor ever al- luded to it afterwards. She was human, like the rest of us. A moment after he was gone, a .curi- ous change took place in the convict, a re- action,the excitement being gone. The pain and exposure and hunger had room to tell now on body and soul. He stretch- ed himself out on a drift of snow, drunk- en with sleep, yet every nerve quivering and conscious, tryin,~ to catch another echo of Soul6s step. He was his brother, he was all he had; it was terrible to be thus alone in the world: going back to the time when they worked in the shop together. He raised his head even, and called him, Jack ! once or twice, as he used to then. It was too late. Such a generous, bull - headed fellow he was then, taking his own way, and being led at last. He was gone now, and forever. He was all he had. The day was out broadly now, a thorough winters day, cold and clear, the frosty air sending a glow through your blood. It sent none into Yarrows thinned veins: he was too far gone with all these many years. The place, as I said, was a lonely one, niched between hills, yet near enough main roads for him to hear sounds from them: people calling to each other, about Christmas often; carriages rolling by; great Cones- to~a wagons, with their dozens of tink- ling bells, and the driver singin~ dogs 1864.1 85 86 Stephen Tiarrow. [January, and children chasing each other through the snow. The big world was awake and busy and glad, but it passed him by. For tl~is man that might have been it has as much use as for a bit of cold victuals thrown into the street. And the worst is, with a bitter smile, I know it, to my hearts core. The morning passed by, as he lay there, growing colder, his brain duller. I did not think this coat was so thin, he would mutter, as he tried to pull it over him. If he got up, where should he go? What use, eb? It was warmer in the snow than walking about. Conscious at last only of a metallic taste in his mouth, a weakness creeping closer to his heart every moment, and a dull wonder if there could yet be a chance. It seemed very. far away now. And Martha and the lit- tle chaps Oh, well! Some hours may have passed as he lay there, and sleep came; for I fancy it was a dream that brought the final sharp thought into his brain. He dragged him- self up on one elbow, the old queer smile on his lips. I will try, he said. It took him some time to make his way out into the main road, but he did it at last, straightening his wet hair under the old cap. It s 50 like a dog to die that way! I 11 try, just once, how the world looks when I face ii. He .sat down outside of a blacksmiths forge, the only building in sight, on the pump-trough, and looked wearily about. His head fell now and then on his breast from weakness. It wont be a very long trial. I 11 riot beg for food, and I m n8t equal to much work just now, with the same grim half-smile. No one was in sight but the blacksmith and some crony, looking over a newspa- p~, inside. They nodded, when they saw him, and said, Hill0! Hillo ! said Yas-row. Then they went on with their paper. That was the only sound for a long time. Some farmers passed after a while ,giving him good-morning, in country-fashion. A trifle, but it was warm, heartsome: he had put the world on trial, you know, and he was not very fas from death. Men more soured than Yarrow have been surprised to find it was Gods world, with Gods own heart, warm and kindly, speaking through every human heart in. it, if they touched them right. A bout noon, the blacksmiths children brought him his dinner in a tin bucket, leaving it inside. When they came out, one freck- led baby-girl caine up to Yarrow. Tie my shoe, she said, putting up one foot, peremptorily. Are you hun- gry? looking at him curiously, after he had done it, at the same time holding up a warm seed-cake she was eating to Isis mouth. lie was ashamed that the spicy smile tempted him to take it. He put it away, and seated her on his foot. Let me ride you plough-boy fashion, he said, trotting her gently for a minute. her father passed them. You must pardon me, said Yarrow, with a bow. I used to ride my boy so, and Eli? Yes. Sudy s a good girl. You ye lost your little boy, now? look- ing in Yarrows face. Yes, I Ye lost him. The blacksmith stood silent a moment, then went in. Soon after a tall man rode up on a gray horse; it had cast a shoe, and while the smith went to work with- in, the rider sat down by Yarrow on the trough, a tid began to talk of the weath- er, politics, etc., in a quiet, pleasant way, snaking a joke now and then. He had a thin face, with a scraggy fringe of yellow hair and whisker about it, and a gray, penetrating eye. The shoe was on pres- ently, and mountin ~, with a touch of his hat to Yarrow, he rode off. The con- vict hesitated a moment, then called to him. I have a word to say to you, coin- ing up, and putting his hand on the horses mane. 1864.] Stephen Thrr~w. 87 The man glanced at him, then jumped down. Well, my friend? You re a clergyman? Yes. So was I once. If you had known, just now, that I was a felon two days ago released from the penitentiary, what would you have said to me? Guilty, when I went in, remember. A thief. The man was silent., looking in Yar- rows face. Then he put his hand on his arm. Shall I tell you? Go on. I would have said, that, if ever you preach Gods truth again, you will have learned a deeper lesson than I. If he meant to startle the mans soul into life, he had done it. He a teacher, who hardly knew if that good God liv- ed! Let me go, he cried, breaking loose from the others hand. No. I can help you. For Gods sake tell me who you are. But Yarrow left him, and went down the road, hiding, when he tried to pur- sue him, sitting close behind a pile of lumber, lie was there when found: so tired that the last hour and the last years began to seem like dreams. Something cold roused him, nozzling at his throat. An old yellow dog, its eyes burning. Why, Ready, he said, faintly, have you come? Come home, said the dogs eyes, speaking out what the whole day had tried to say: they re waiting for you they ye been waiting always; home s there, and love s there, and the good God s there, and it s Christmas day. Come home! Yarrow struggled up, and put his arms about the dogs neck: kissed him with all the hunger for love smothered in these many years. He dont know I m a thief, he thought. Ready bit angrily at coat and trousers. Be a man, and come home. Yarrow understood. He caught his breath, as he went along, holding by the fence now and then. It s the chance! he said. And Martha! It s Martha and the little chaps! But he was not sure. He was yet so near to the place where it would have been forever too late. If Ready saw that with his wary eye, turned now and then, as he trotted before,if he had any terror in his dumb soul, (or whatever you choose to call it,) or any mad joy, or desire to go clean daft with rollicking in the snow at what he had done, he put it off to anoth- er season, and kept a stern face on his captive. But Yarrow watched it; it was the first home-face of them all. Be a man, it said. Let the thief go. Home s before you, and love, and years of hard work for the God you did not know. So they went on together. They came at last to the house, home. He grew blind then, and stopped at the gate; but the dog went slower, and waited for him to follow, pushed the door open softly, and, when he went in, laid down in his old place, and put his paws over his face. When Martha Yarrow heard the step at last, she got up. But seeing how it was with him, she only put her arms quietly about his neck, and said, I ye waited so long, my husband! That was all. lie lay in his old bed that evening; he made her open the door, feeling strong enough to look at them now, Jem and Tom and Catty, in the warm, well-lighted room, with all its little Christmas gayc- tics. They had known many happy hol- idays, but none like this: coming in on tiptoe to look at the white, sad face on the pillow, and to say, under their breath, It s father. They had waited so long for him. When he heard them, the clos- ed eyes always opened anxiously, and looked at them: kind eyes, full of a more tender, wishful love than even mothers. They came in only now and then, but Martha he would not let go from him, held her hand all day. Ready 88 3kmorzw Positum. ~January had made his way up on the bed and lay over his feet. That s right, old Truepenny! he said. They laughed at that: he had not for- gotten the old name. When Martha looked at the old yellow dog, she felt her eyes fill with tears. God did not want a messenger, she thought: as if He ever did! That evening, while he lay with her head on his breast, as she sat by the bed, he watched the boys a long time. Martha, he said, at last, you said that they should never know. Did you keep your word? I kept it, Stephen. He was quiet a long while after that, and then he said, Some day I will tell them. It s all clearer to me now. If ever I find the good God, I 11 teach Him to my boys out of my own life. They 11 not love me less. He did not talk much that day; even to her he could not say that which was in his heart; but it seemed to him there was One who heard and understood, looking out, after all was quiet that night, into the far depth of the silent sky, and going over his whole wretched life down to that bitterest word of all, as if he had found a hearer more patient, more tender than either wife or child. Is there any use to try? he cried. I was a thief. Then, in the silence, came to him the memory of the old question, Hath no man condemned thee? He put his hands over his face : No man, Lord! And the answer came for all time : Neither do I condemn thee. Go, and sin no more. MEMORIAI~ POSITUM R. G. S. 1863. I. BENEATH the trees, My life-long friends in this dear spot, Sad now for eyes that see them not, I hear the autumnal breeze Wake the sear leaves to sigh for gladness gone, Whispering hoarse presage of oblivion, Hear, restless as the seas, Times grim feet rustling through the withered grace Of many a spreading realm and strong-stemmed race, Even as my own through these. Why make we moan For loss that doth enrich us yet With upward yearnings of regret? Bleaker than unmossed stone

J. R. Lowell Lowell, J. R. Memoriae Positum R. G. S. 88-90

88 3kmorzw Positum. ~January had made his way up on the bed and lay over his feet. That s right, old Truepenny! he said. They laughed at that: he had not for- gotten the old name. When Martha looked at the old yellow dog, she felt her eyes fill with tears. God did not want a messenger, she thought: as if He ever did! That evening, while he lay with her head on his breast, as she sat by the bed, he watched the boys a long time. Martha, he said, at last, you said that they should never know. Did you keep your word? I kept it, Stephen. He was quiet a long while after that, and then he said, Some day I will tell them. It s all clearer to me now. If ever I find the good God, I 11 teach Him to my boys out of my own life. They 11 not love me less. He did not talk much that day; even to her he could not say that which was in his heart; but it seemed to him there was One who heard and understood, looking out, after all was quiet that night, into the far depth of the silent sky, and going over his whole wretched life down to that bitterest word of all, as if he had found a hearer more patient, more tender than either wife or child. Is there any use to try? he cried. I was a thief. Then, in the silence, came to him the memory of the old question, Hath no man condemned thee? He put his hands over his face : No man, Lord! And the answer came for all time : Neither do I condemn thee. Go, and sin no more. MEMORIAI~ POSITUM R. G. S. 1863. I. BENEATH the trees, My life-long friends in this dear spot, Sad now for eyes that see them not, I hear the autumnal breeze Wake the sear leaves to sigh for gladness gone, Whispering hoarse presage of oblivion, Hear, restless as the seas, Times grim feet rustling through the withered grace Of many a spreading realm and strong-stemmed race, Even as my own through these. Why make we moan For loss that doth enrich us yet With upward yearnings of regret? Bleaker than unmossed stone 1864.] 3Icmor~e Positum. b9 Our lives were hut for this immortal gain Of unstilled longing and inspiring pain! As thrills of long-hushed tone Live in the viol, so our souls grow fine With keen vibrations from the touch divine Of noble natures gone. T were indiscreet To vex the shy and sacred grief With harsh obtrusions of relief; Yet, Verse, with noiseless feet, Go whisper, This death hath far choicer ends Than slowly to impearl in hearts of friends; These obsequies t is meet Not to seclude in closets of the heart, But, church-like, with wide door-ways, to impart Even to the heedless street. II. Brave, good, and true, I see him stand before me now, And read again on that clear brow, Where victorys signal flew, how sweet were hfe! Yet, by the mouth firm-set~ And look made up for Dutys utmost debt, I could divine he knew That death within the sulphurous hostile lines, In the mere wreck of nobly pitched designs, Plucks hearts-ease, and not rue. Happy their end Who vanish down lifes evening stream Placid as swans that drift in dream Round the next river-bend! Happy long life, with honor at the close, Friends painless tears, the softened thought of foes! And yet, like him, to spend All at a gush, keeping our first faith sure From mid-lifes douht and elds contentment poor, What more could Fortune send? Right in the van, On the red ramparts slippery swell, With heart that beat a charge, he fell Foeward, as fits a man: But the high soul burns on to light mens feet Where death for noble ends makes dying sweet; His life her crescents span Orbs full with share in their undarkening days Who ever climbed the battailous steeps of praise Since valors praise began. ~JO M~, Book. [January, II. His lifes expense Bath won for him coeval youth With the immaculate prime of Truth; While we, who make pretence At living on, and wake and eat and sleep, And lifes stale trick by repetition keep, Our fickle permanence (A poor leaf-shadow on a brook, whose play Of busy idlesse ceases with our day) Is the mere cheat of sense. We bide our chance, Unhappy, and make terms with Fate A little more to let us wait: lie leads for aye the advance, hopes forlorn-hopes that plant the desperate good For nobler Earths and days of manlier mood; Our wall of circumstance Cleared at a bound, he flashes oer the fight, A saintly shape of fame, to cheer the right And steel each wavering glance. I write of one, ~Vhile with dim eyes I think of three: Who weeps not others fair and brave as he? Ah, when the fight is won, Dear Land, whom trifiers now make bold to scorn, (Thee! from whose forehead Earth awajts her morn!) flow nobler shall the sun Flame in thy sky, how braver breathe thy air, That thou bredst children who for thee could dare And die as thine have done! MY BOOK. TILE trouble about biographies is that by the time they are written the person is dead. You have heard of him remote ly. You know that he sang a worlds songs, founded great empires, won bril- liant victories, did heroes work; but you do not know the little tender touches of his life, the things that bring him into near kinship with humanity, and set him by the household hearth without unclasp- ing the diadem from his brow, until he is dead, and it is too late forevermore. Then with vague restlessness you visit the brook in which his trout-line drooped, you pluck a leaf from the elm that shaded his regal head, you walk in the grave- yard that holds in its bosom his silent dust, only to feel with unavailing regret that no sunshine of his presence can gleam upon you. The life that stirred in his voice, shone in his eye, and for- tressed itself in his unconscious bearing,

Gail Hamilton Hamilton, Gail My Book 90-106

~JO M~, Book. [January, II. His lifes expense Bath won for him coeval youth With the immaculate prime of Truth; While we, who make pretence At living on, and wake and eat and sleep, And lifes stale trick by repetition keep, Our fickle permanence (A poor leaf-shadow on a brook, whose play Of busy idlesse ceases with our day) Is the mere cheat of sense. We bide our chance, Unhappy, and make terms with Fate A little more to let us wait: lie leads for aye the advance, hopes forlorn-hopes that plant the desperate good For nobler Earths and days of manlier mood; Our wall of circumstance Cleared at a bound, he flashes oer the fight, A saintly shape of fame, to cheer the right And steel each wavering glance. I write of one, ~Vhile with dim eyes I think of three: Who weeps not others fair and brave as he? Ah, when the fight is won, Dear Land, whom trifiers now make bold to scorn, (Thee! from whose forehead Earth awajts her morn!) flow nobler shall the sun Flame in thy sky, how braver breathe thy air, That thou bredst children who for thee could dare And die as thine have done! MY BOOK. TILE trouble about biographies is that by the time they are written the person is dead. You have heard of him remote ly. You know that he sang a worlds songs, founded great empires, won bril- liant victories, did heroes work; but you do not know the little tender touches of his life, the things that bring him into near kinship with humanity, and set him by the household hearth without unclasp- ing the diadem from his brow, until he is dead, and it is too late forevermore. Then with vague restlessness you visit the brook in which his trout-line drooped, you pluck a leaf from the elm that shaded his regal head, you walk in the grave- yard that holds in its bosom his silent dust, only to feel with unavailing regret that no sunshine of his presence can gleam upon you. The life that stirred in his voice, shone in his eye, and for- tressed itself in his unconscious bearing, 1864.] Af~i Book. 91 can make to you no revelation. It is d~eparted none knows whither. lie is as much a part of the past as if he had tended flocks for Abraham on the plains of Mamre. This, when hiographies are at their best. Generally, they are at their worst. Generally, they dont know the things you wish to learn, and when they do, they dont tell them. They give you statistics, facts, reflections, eulogies, dis- sertations; hut what you hunger and thirst after is the mans inner life. Of what use is it to know what a man does, unless you know what made him do it? This you can seldom learn from memoirs. Look at the numerous brood that followcd in the wake of Shelleys fame. Every one gives you, not Shelley, hut himself, served rip in Shelley sauce. Think of your own experience: do you not know that the vital facts of your life are her- metically sealed? Do you not know that you are a world within a world, whose history and geography may be summed up in that phrase which used to make the interior of Africa the most delightful spot in the whole atlas, Un- explored Region? One person may have started an expedition here, and an- other there. Here one may have struck a river-course, and there one may have looked down into a valley-depth, and all may have brought away their golden grain; but the one has not followed the river to its source, nor the other wandered bewilderingly through the valley-lands, and none have traversed the Field of the Cloth of Gold. So the geographies are all alike: boundaries, capital, chief towns, rivers, mountains, and lakes. And what is true of you is doubtless true of all. Faith is not to be put in biographies. They can tell what your name is, and what was your grandfathers coat of arms, when you were born, where you lived, arid how you died, though, if they are no more accurate after you are dead than they are before, their statements will hardly come under the head of re- liable intelligence. But even if they are accurate, what then? Suppose you were horn in Pikesville: a thousand peo- ple drew their first breath there, and not one of them was like you in character or fate. You were born in some year of our Lord. Thousands upon thousands date from the same year, and each went his own way, One to long darkness and the frozen tide, One to the peaceful sea All this is nothing and accounts for noth- ing, yet this is all. Whether you were susceptible of calmness or deeply turbu- lent, whether you were amiable, or on- ly amiably disposed, whether you were inwardly blest and only superficially Un- restful, safely moored even while tossing on an unquiet sea,what you thought, what you hoped, how you felt, yes, and how you lived and loved and hated, they do not know and cannot tell. A biog- rapher may be ever so conscientious, but he stands on the outside of the circle of his subject, and his view will lack sym- metry. There is but one who, from his position in the centre, is competent to ive a fair and full picture, and that is your own self. A few may possess im- agination, and so partially atone for the (lisadvantages of position; but, ten hun- dred thousand to one, they will not have a chance at your life. You must die knowing that you are at the mercy of whoever can hold a pen. Unless you take time by the forelock and write your biography yourself! Then you will be sure to do no harm, inasmuch as no one is obliged to read your narrative; and you may do much good, because, if any one does read it and become interested in you, he will have the pleasant consciousness of living in the same world with you. When he drives through your street, he can put his head out of the carriage-window and stand a chance of seeing you just coming in at the front gate. Also, if you write your biography yourself, you can have your choice as to what shall go in and what shall stay out. You can make a discreet selection of your letters, giving the go-by to that especial one in which you rather is there such a word as 92 31~ Book. [January, spooneyly ? offered yourself to your wife. Every word was as good as the Bank of England to her, for to her you were a lover, a knight, a great brown- bearded angel, and all metaphors, how- ever violent, fell upon good ground. But to the people who read your life you will be a trader, a lawyer, a shoemaker, who pays his butchers bills and looks after the main chance, and the metaphors, emptied of their fire, but retaining their form, will seem incongruous, not to say ridiculous. I do not say that your wifes lover and knight and angel are not a higher and a better, yes, and a truer you, than the worlds trader and lawyer; still your love-letters will probably do better in the bosom of the love-lettered than on a booksellers shelves. Besides these ad- vantages, there is another in prie-humous publication. If you wait for your biog- raphy till you are dead, it is extremely probable you will lose it altogether. The world has so much to see to ahead that it can hardly spare a ~jance over its shoul- der to take note of what is behind. Take the note yourself and make sure of it. You will then know where you are, and be master of the situation. I purpose, therefore, to write the his- tory of my life, from my entrance upon it down to a period which is within the memory of men still living. In so doing, I shall not be careful to trace out that common ground which may be supposed to underlie all lives, but only indicate those features which serve to distinguish one from another. Everybody is chris- tened, cuts his teeth, and eats bread and molasses. Silently will we, therefore, in- fer the bread and molasses, and swiftly stride in seven-league boots from moun- tain-peak to mountain-peak. I was born of parents who, though not poor, were respectable, and I had also the additional distinction of being a pre- cocious child. 1 differed from most pre- cocious children, however, in not dyin~ young, and that opportunity, once let slip, is now forever gone. I believe the precocious children who do not die young develop into idiots. My family have nev er been without well - grounded fears in that line. Nothing of any importance happened to me after I was born till I grew up and wrote a book. Indeed, I believe I may say even that never happened, for I did not write a book. Rather a book came to pass,somewhat like the goldsmithery of Aaron, who threw the ear-rings into the fire, and there came out this calf! I went out one day alone, as was my wont, in an open boat, and drifted beyond sight of land. I had heard that ship- wrecked mariners sometimes throw out a bottle of papers to give posterity a clue to their fate. I threw out a bottle of papers, less out of regard to posterity than to myself. They floated into a printing-press, stiffened themselves, and came forth a book, whereon I sailed safe- ly ashore, grateful. Alas, in anot~er con- fusion will there he another resource? It is this book which is to form the first, and quite possibly the last chapter of my life and sufferings, for I dont suppose anything will ever happen to me again. To be sure, in the book I have just been reading a girl marries her groom, leaves him, rejects two lovers, kills her husband, accepts one lover, loses him, marries the second, first husband comes to light again and is shot, marries second husband over again, and goes a-journeying with second husband and first lover, first cousin and two children, in the South of France, be- fore she is twenty-two years old. But in my country girls think themselves ex- tremely well off for adventures with one marriage and no murder. But then the girls in my country do not have the mur- derous black eyes which shine so in ro- mances. My 1)00k being fairly wound up and set a-going, of course you wish to know what came of it. Dont pretend you dont care, for you know you do. Only dont look at me too closely, or you will disconcert me. Yeil now and then your intent eyes, or my story will surely droop under their steadfastness. Look some- times into yonder sunset sky and the beau- tiful reticulations drawn darkly against 1864.] My Book. 93 its glowing sheets of color. You will none the less listen, and I shall all the more enjoy. You have read much about the anx- ieties, the forebodings, the anticipatory tremors of new authors. So have I, but I never felt them, not a single fore- boding. I was delighted to write a book, and it never occurred to me that ev- erybody would not be just as delighted to read it. The first time my book weighed on me was one morning when a thin, meagre little letter came to me, which turned out to be only a card bear- ing the laconic inscription, Twelve copies New Sun sent by express, with the compliments of the Publishers. The New Sun was my book. I put on my hat and walked straightway up to the bole in the rock, about a mile round the corner, where the expressinan always !eaves my parcels, and took up the package to bring home. It was very heavy. I balanced it first on one arm and then on the other, until, as the poet has it, Both were nigh to breaking. Then I lifted it by the cords, but they cut my fingers. Then I remembered the natural law, that internal atmospheric pressure prevents an~~ consciousness of the enormous external pressure exerted by an atmosphere forty-five miles thick, and applied the law, saying, These books have all been upon the inside of my head, of course I shall not feel them on. the out- side. So I put the package on my head, and walked on, making believe I was in a gymnasium, keeping a sharp watch fore and aft, and considering the distant rumbling of wheels a signal for lowering my colors. In my country people do not carry their burdens on their heads, nor would they be likely to account for me on the principles of Natural Philoso- phy. I might have been apprehended as a lunatic, but for my timely caution. Thus the New Suns came home and were speedily divested of their dun wrappings. I lingered over them, ad- miring their clear type, their fragrance, their crispness. I opened them wide, because they would open so frankly. I delighted myself with their fair, fine smoothness. And then I began to read. I am ashamed to say I never read a more interesting book! How very true it is that suffering is about equally distributed, after all! If you dont have your troubles spread out, you have them in a lump. The furies may seem to be held in abeyance, but they will only lay on their lashes all the harder when they do come. My unnat- ural calmness was succeeded by a storm of consternation. I pass over the few days that followed. If you ever put yourself into a pillory in the night just to see how it seemed, and then found yourself fastened there in good earnest, and day dawning, and all the market- men and shopkeepers up and stirring, and everybody coming by in a few min- utes, you will not need to ask how I felt. When you write a book, you are quite alone and your pen is entirely private; but when it comes to you so unquestion- ably printed, and inexorable, and out-of- doors Ah, me! It did not seem like a book at all, not at all the abstraction and impersonality that were intended, but my proper self bevelled and (with another syllable inserted) walking out into the world with malice aforethought.. But though a writer is before critics, did it never occur to you that the critics are just as much before the writers? A critics talk about a book is just as truly a revelation of the critic as the writers talk in the book is a revelation of the writer. One man gives you an opinion that implies attention. He does not go into the depths of the matter, but he tells you honestly what he likes and what he does not like. This is good. This is precisely what you wish to know, and will indirectly help you. Another, from the steps of a throne, in a few sen- tences, it may be, or a few columns, clas- sifies you, interprets you not only to the world, but to yourself; and for this you are immeasurably glad and grateful. It 94 My Book. [January, is neither praise nor censure that you value, but recognition. Let a writer but feel that a critic reaches into the arcana of his thought, and no assent is too hear- ty, nor any dissent too severe. Another glances up from his eager political strife, and with the sincerest kindness pens you a nice little sugar-plum, chiefly flour and water, hut flavored with sugar. Thank you! Another flounders in a wash of words, holding in solution the faintest salt of sense. Heaven help him! An- other dips his spear-point in poison and lets fly. Do you not see that these people are an open hook? Do you not read here the tranquillity of a self-poised life, the inner sight of clairvoyance, the bitterness of disappointed hopes and un- successful plans, the amiability that is not founded upon strength, the pettiness that puts pique ahove principle, the frankness that scorns affectation, the comprehen- siveness that embraces all things in its vision, and commands not only acquies- cence, hut allegiance, the great-hearted- ness that by virtue of its own magnetism attracts all that is good and annihilates all that is bad? When my poor little ewe-lamb went out into the world, I did not fear any hearing he might encounter in America. I dont mind my own countrymen. I like them, hut I am not afraid of them. Two elements go to make up a hook: matter and manner. The former, of course, is its .authors own. He main- tains it against all comers. Opposition does not terrify him, for it is a mere dif- ference of opinion. One is just as likely to be ri~ht as another, and in a hundred years probably we shall all he found wrong together. But manner can be judged by a fixed standard. Bad English is bad English this very day, whatever you or I think about it; and had English is a bad thing. When I know it, I avoid it, ex- cept under extreme temptation; but the trouble is, I dont know it. I am contin- ually learning that words in certain rela- tions are misplaced where I never sus- pected the smallest derangement, and, no doubt, there are many diAocations which I have not yet discovered. So far as my own people are concerned, I dont take this to heart, because my countryman very likely perpetrates three barbarisms in correcting my one. He knows this thing that I did not, but then I know somethingelse that he does not, and so keep the balance true. More- over, my America, if I dont use good English, whose fault is it? You have had me from the beginning. Tb eraw material was as good as the average why did you not work it up better? I went to the best schools you gave me. I learned everything I was set to learn. You can nowhere find a teacher who will tell you that I ever evaded a lesson. I was greedy of gain. I spared neither time nor toil. I lost no opportunity, and here I am, just as good as you made me. So, if there is any one to blame, it is you, for not giving me better facilities. The Childrens Aid Society warned New York a dozen years ago that a dan- gerous class of untaught pagans was growing up in her streets; but she did not think it worth while to arouse her- self and educate them, and one morning she found them burning her house over her head. You too, my country, have been repeatedly warned of your danger- ous class, a class whom, with malice afore- thought, you leave half educated, afid, from ignorance, idle, and now comes Nemesis! New York had a mob, and you haveme. The real ogre was those terrible Eng- lishmen. I was brought up on the Brit- ish Quarterlies. Their high and mighty ways entered into my soul. I never did have any courage or independence, to begin with; and when they condescend- ed to tread our shores with such lordly airs, I should have been only too glad to burn incense for a propitiation. So im- pressive was their loftiness, their haughty patronage, that their supercilious sneers at our provincialism were heart-rending. I came to look at everything with an eye to English judgment. It was not so much whether a book or a custom were good as whether it would be likely to 1864.] My Book. 95 meet with English approval. To be the object of their displeasure was a calamity, and at even a growl from their dreadful throats I was ready to die of terror. And this slavish subservience lasted beyond the school-room. But it so happened that by the tune my book was set afloat, the Reviewers had lost their fangs. The war came, and they went over to the enemy, every one: North British, Londan Quar- terly, Edinburgh, and even the lib- eral Westminster had but one tone. Blackwood was seized with an evil spirit, and wallowed foaming. The Eng- lish people may he all right at the heart. Their slow, but sure and sturdy sense may bring them at length within liailin~ distance of the truth. Noble men among them, Mill and Cairnes and Smith an(l their kind, made their voices heard in the midst of opposing din, even through the very pages which had rung with South- ern cheers: hut it is not the English people who make up the Quarterly Re- views. It was not the voice of Mill or Cairnes that answered first across the waters to the boom of Libertys guns. When our blood was hot and our hearts high, and sneers were ten thousand times hardei~ to bear than blows, we found sneers in plenty where we looked for God-speed. It may not have been the English heart, only the English head. But we could not get at the English heart, and the English head was contin- ually thrust against ours. The fires may have burned warmly on many a hearth, hut we could not see them. The only light that shot athwart the waters was from the high watch-towers, and it was lurid. This wrought a change. The English may take on airs in literature; for our little leisure leaves us short repose, and it would be strange indeed, if their civilization of centuries had not left its marks in a finer culture and a deeper thought. But when, leaving literature and coming down into the fastnesses of life, they gave us hatred for love, and scorn for reverence, when they sneered at that which we held sacred. and reviled that which we counted honorable, when, green-eyed and gloating, they saw through their glasses not only darkly, but disjointed and askance, when devotion became to them fanaticism, and love of liberty was lust of power, did virtue go out of them, or had it never been in? This, at least, was wrought: when one part of the temple of our reverence was undermined, the whole structure came down. They who showed themselves so morally weak cannot maintain even the intellectual or iusthetic superiority which they have assumed. Henceforth their blame or praise is not what it was hither- to. When a man rails at my country, it is little that he rails at ,me. If they have called the master of the house Bed- zehub, they of his household would as soon be called little flies as anything else. (As a matter of fact, I dont suppose my little venture has ever been heard of across the ocean. You think it is very presumptuous in me ever to have thought of it; but I did not think of it. I was only afraid of it. Suppose the British Quarterly has not vision microscopic enough to discern you; you like to know how you would feel in a certain contin- gency, even if it should never happen. Besides, so many strange things arise ev- ery day, that incongruity seems to have lost its force. Nothing surprises. Cause and effect are continually dissolving part- nership. Merit and reward do not hunt in couples. If the Tycoon should send a deputation requesting me to come over at once and settle matters between him- self and his Daimios, I should simply tell him that I had not the time, but I should not be surprised.) But if we only did reverence England as once we reverenced her, this is what I would say : Upon my country do not visit my sins. Upon my countrys fame let me fasten no blot. Wherever I am wrong, inelegant, inaccurate, provincial, visit all your reprobation upon me, Me, me: adsum, qui feci; in me couvertito ferruni, 0 Angli! mea fraus oninis, 96 My Book. [January, upon me as a writer, not upon me as an American. IDo not regard me as the ex-. ponent of American culture, or as any- where near the high - water mark of American letters. I am not one of the select few, but of the promiscuous many. Born and bred in a farm-yard, and pat- tering about among the hens and geese and calves and lambs when other chil- dren were learning to talk like gentle- men and scholars, what can you expect of me? It is a wonder that I am as tolerable as I am. It is a sign of the greatness of my country, that I, who, if I lived in England, should be scatte4ng my /i-s in wild confusion, and asking whether Americans were black or cop- per-colored, am able in this land of free schools and equal rights to straighten out my verbs and keep my nouns intact. If you will see the highest, look on the heights. If you look at me, look at me where I am: not among those whose in- fancy was cradled in leisure and luxury, whose life from the beginning has been carefully attuned to the finest issues, who for purity of language and dignity of men- tal bearing may throw down the gauntlet to the proudest nation in the world, but among those children of the soiPwho take its color, who share its qualities, who give out its fragrance, who love it and lay their hearts to it and grow with it, rocky and rugged, yet cherish, it may be hoped, its little dimples of verdure here and there, who show not what, with closest cultivation, it might become, but what, under the broad skies and the free winds and the common dews and showers, it is. Our conservatories can boast hues as gorgeous, forms as stately, texture as fine as yours; but dont look for camellias in a cornfield. Does this seem a little inconsistent with what I was saying just now to my home- made critics? Very likely. But truth is many-sided, and one side you may present at home and the other abroad, according to the exigencies of the case. You may lecture your country in one breath, and defend her in the next, without being inconsistent. Oh, England, England! what shall re- compense us for our Lost Leader? Great and Mighty One, from whose brow no hand but thine own could ever have plucked the crown! Beautiful land, sa- cred with the ashes of our sires, radiant with the victories of the past, brilliant with hopes for the future, 0 Love, I have loved you! 0 roy sou1~ I have lost you! Ah, if these two fatal years might be blotted out! If we could stand once again where we stood on that Octo- ber day when the young Prince, whose gentle blood commanded our attention, and whose gentle ways won our hearts, bore back to his mother-land and ours the benedictions of a people! Upon that pale, that white-faced shore I shall one day look, but woe is me for the bitter memories that will spring up for the love and loyalty so ruthlessly rent away! So I borrow your ears, my country- men, and tell you why it is impossible to defer to you as much as one would like. Partly, it is because you talk so wide of the mark. It may not be prac- ticable or desirable to say much; but so much the more ought what you do say to be to the point. A good carpenter needs not to vindicate his skill b~ hammering away hour after hour on the same shin- gle; but while he does strike, he hits the nail on the head. Moreover, you show by your remarks that you have such such well, stupid is what I mean, but I am afraid it would not be polite to employ that word, so I merely give you the meaning, and leave you to choose a word to your liking ideas about the nature, the facts, and the objects of writ- ing. Look at it a moment. With your gray goose -quill you sit, 0 Rhadaman- thus, and to your waiting audience pleas- antly enough affirm that I have taken Benlomond for my model. But when I happen to remember that the larger part of my book was written and printed not only before I had ever met Benlomond, but before he had ever been heard of in this country at least, what faith can I have in your sagacity? And when, re 4 1864.] My Book. 9i membering those remarkable coinciden- ces which sometimes surprise and baffle us, which in science make Adams and Le Verrier discover the same planet at the same time without knowing anything of each others calculations, and which in any department seem to indicate that a great tide sweeps over humanity, bearing us on its bosom whithersoever it will, so that Gods puppets, best and worst, Are we; there is no last nor first~, I institute an examination of Benlomond to discover those generic or specific pe- culiarities which are supposed to have made their mark on me, why, I find for resemblance, that the situations, look you, is both alike. There is a river in Macedon; there is also, moreover, a riv- er in Monmouth: t is as like as my fin- gers to my fingers, and there is salmons in both I Have I taken Benlomond for my mod- el? But why not Josephus and Ricardo and Fran~ois and Michel, any and all who have poured their fancies and feel- ings into this mould? Why select the last disciple and ignore the first apostle? Many prophets have been in Israel whom I resemble as much, to say the least, as this Benlomond. Is it not, my friend, that, in the multitude of your words and ways, you have not found time to renew your acquaintance with these ancient worthies, and so their features have some- what faded from your memory? but Ben- lomond came in but yesterday, and be- cause he is a newspaper-topic, him you know; and because at the first blush you running can read that there is a river in Monmouth and also a river in Macedon, and salmons in both, t is as like as my fingers to my fingers, and Monmouth was built on the model of Macedon! Ab, my eagle-eyes, Judea, too, had its Jor- dan, and Damascus its Abana and Phar- par, and little Massachusetts its Merri- mac, which, poet-tuned, Goes singing down his meadows. But Judea did not type Damascus. The Merrimac bears not the sign of Abana, VOL. xiii. 7 nor was Abana born of Jordan: all, obe- dient to the word of the Lord, trickled forth from their springs among the hills, and wander down, one through his vine- land, one through his olive - groves, and one to meet the roaring of the mill- wheels rage. I lay no claim to origin~dity. Utter- ing feebly, but only The thoughts that arise in me, I know full well that the soil has been tilled and the seed scattered of all that is worthy in the world. Where giants have wrestled, it is not for pigmies to boast their prowess. Where the gods have trodden, let mortals walk unsandal- led. The lowliest of their learners, I sit at the feet of the masters. To me, as to all the world, the great and the good of the olden times have left their legacy, and the monarchs of to-day have scatter- ed blessing. Upon me, as upon all, have their grateful showers descended. My brow have they crowned with their good- ness, and on my life have their paths dropped fatness. Dreaming under their vines and fig-trees, I have gathered in my lap and garnered in my heart~ their mellow fruits. With them I take delight in weal And seek relief in woe, And while I understand and feel How much to them I owe My cheeks have often been bedewed With tears of heartfelt gratitude. But, though with gladness and joy I render unto Ciesar the things that are Caesars, he shall not have that which does not belong to him. Neither Ben- lomond, nor any living man, nor any one man, living or dead, has any claim to my fealty, be it worth much or little. If I cannot go in to the banquet on Olym- pus by the bidding of the master of the feast, I will forswear ambrosia altogether, and to the end of my days feed on millet with the peasants in the Vale of Tempe. Then you sail on another tack, smile and shake your head and say, It is all very well, but it has not the element of immortality. Observe the difference be- 98 M~ Book. [January, tween this writer and Charles Lamb. One is ginger-pop heer that foams and froths and is gone, while the other is the sound Madeira that will he better fifty years hence than now. Well, what of it? Do you mean to say, that, because a man has no argosies sailing in from, the isles of Eden, freight- ed with the juices of the tropics, he shall not hrew hops in his own cellar? Be- cause you will have none hut the ~- tages of dead centuries, shall not the peo- ple delight their hearts with new wine? Because you are an epicure, shall there be no more cakes and ale? Go to! It is a happy fate to be a poets Falernian, old and mellow, sealed in amphorce, to be crowned with linden - garlands and the late rose. But for all earths acres there are few Sabine farms, whither poet, sage, and statesman come to lose in the murmur of Bandusian founts tbe din of faction and of strife; and even there it is not always C~ecuban or Calenian, nei- ther Formian nor Falernian, but the vile Sabinum in common cups and wreathed with simple myrtle, that bubbles up its welcome. So, since there must be light- er drau~hts, or many a poor man go thirsty, we who are but the ginger-pop of life may well rejoice, remcmberin~ that ginger-pop is nourishing and tonic,that thonsands of weary wayfarers who could never know the taste of the costly brands, and who go sadly and wearily, will be fleeter of foot and gladder of soul be- cause of its humble and evanescent foam. Ginger-pop beer is it that you scoff? Verily, you do an unconsidered deed. When one remembers all the liquids, medicinal, soporific, insipid, poisonous, which flood the throat of humanity, one may deem himself a favorite of Fortune to be J)laced so high in the catalogue. Though upon his lowliness gleam down the rosy and I)luple lights of rare old wines aloft, yet from his altitude he can look below upon a profane crowd in thick array of depth immeasurable, and rejoice that he is not stagnant water nor exasperated vinegar nor disappoint- ed buttermilk. say, I am not only con- tent, but exultant. It may be an igno- ble satisfaction, yet I believe I would rather flash and fade in one moment of happy daylight than be corked and cob- webbed for fifty years in the dungeons of an unsunned cellar, with a remote possibility, indeed, of coming up from my incarceration to moisten the lips of beau- ty or loosen the tongue of eloquence, but with a far surer prospect of but add- ing one more to the potations of the glut- ton and wine-bibber. And what, after all, is jhis oblivion which you flaunt so threateningly? Even if I do encounter it, no misfortune will happen unto me but such as is common unto men. Of all the souls of this gen- eration, the number that will sift through the meshes of the years is infinitesimal- ly small. The overwhelming majority of names will turn out to be chaff, and be blown away. I shall be forgotten, but I shall be forgotten in very good company. The greater part of my kin-folk and ac- quaintance, your own seW my critic, and your family and friends, will go down in the same darkness which ingulfs me. When I am dead, I shall be no deader than the rest of you, and I shall have been a great deal more alive while I was alive. I am not afraid to be forgotten. Pos- terity will have its own soothsayers, and somewhere among the stars, I trust, I shall be living a life so intense and com- plete that I shall never once think to la- ment that I am not mulling on a book- shelf down here. Besides, if you insist upon it, I am not going to be forgotten. You dont know anything more about it than I do. Knowledge is not always prescience. This will never do, ruled Jeffrey from l~is judgment-seat. Or- der reigns in Warsaw, pronounced Sc- bastiani. I have now gone through the Bible, chuckled Tom Paine, as a man would go through a wood with an axe on his shoulder, and fell trees. Here they lie, and the priests, if they can, may replant them. They may, perhaps, stick them in the ground, but they will never make them grow. But Wordsworth to-day is 1864.] 31i1 Book. 99 reverenced by the nation that could barb no arrow sharp enough to shoot at him. The evening sky that bends above War- saw is red with the watch-fires of her old warfare bursting anew from their smouldering ashes. And the oaks that doughty Paine fancied himself to have levelled show not so much as a scratch upon their sturdy trunks. Nay, I do not forget that even Charles Lamb was fiercely belabored by his own generation. So, when upon me you pass sentence of speedy death, I assure you that I shall live a thousand years, and there is no- body in the world who can demonstrate that I am in the wrong. Even if after a while I disappear, it proves nothing; you cannot tell whether I am really sub- merged, or only lying in the trough of the sea to mount the crest of the coming wave. Till the thousandth year proves me moribund, I shall stoutly maintain that I am immortal. Concerning Charles Lamb the less you say the better. It is easy to build up a reputation for sagacity by offering inccnse to the gods who are already shrined. Of course there is a difference between us. A pretty rout you would make, if there were not. But, for all your adoration of Charles Lamb, I dare say he would have liked me a great deal better than he would you. Would? Why should I intrench myself in hypoth- esis? Does he not? When I knock at the door of the Inner Temple, does he not fling it wide open, and does not his face welcome me? When the red fire glows on the hearth, have I not sat far into the night, Bridget sitting beside me with heavens own light shining in her bcau- tiful eyes, and above her dear head the white gleam of guardian angels hover- ing tenderly? And when Elia arches his brows, and lowers at me his storm- clouds, which I do not mind for the sunshine that will not be hidden be- hind them, when in the sweet play of June lights and shadows, and the golden haze of Indian-summer, I forget even the kingly words that go ringing through the land, waking the mountain-echo, when I look out upon this gray after- noon, and see no leaden skies, no pinch- ed and sullen fields, but green paths, gem-bestrewn from autumns jewelled hand, and warm light glinting through the apple-trees under which he stood that soft October day, till Conscious seems the frozen sod And beechen slope whereon he trod, O Alexander, get out of my sunshine with your bugbear of a Charles Lamb! I have heard you for some time with patience. I have been cool, quite cool; but dont put me in a frenzy! Well, friend, when you have satisfied yourself with the limiting, you begin on the descriptive adjectives, and pronounce me egotistical. Certainly. I should be un- like all others of my race, if I were not. It is a wise and mcrciful arrangement of Providence, that every one is to him- self the centre of the universe. What a fatal world would this be, if it were other- wise! When one thinks what a collec- tion of insignificances we are, how dis- pensable the most useful of us is to every- body, how little there is in any of us to make any one care about us, and of how small importance it is to others what becomes of us, when one thinks that even this round earth is so small, that, if it should fall into the arms of the sun, the sun would just open his mouth and swallow it whole, and nobody ever suspect it, (vide Tyndall on Heat,) one must see that this self~love, self-care, and self-interest play a most important part in the Divine Economy. If one did not keep himself afloat, he would surely go under. As it is, no matter how disagree- able a person is, he likes himself, no matter how uninteresting, he is interest~ ed in himself. Everybody, you, my crit- ic, as well, likes to talk about himself, if he can get othcr people to listen; and so long as I can get several thousand people to listen to me, I shall keep talking, you may be sure, and so would you, and if you dont, it is only because you cant! You are just as egotistical as I am, only you wont own it frankly, as I do. True, 100 .M~i Book. [January, I might escape censure by using such cir- cumlocutions as the writer, the au- thor, or still more cumbrously by dress- ing out some lay figure, calling it Fred- eric or Frederika, and then, like the Deiphic priestesses, uttering my senti- ments through its mouth, for the space of a folio novel; but at bottom it would be my own self all the while; and be- sides, in order to get at the thing I wanted to say, I should have to detain you on a thousand things that I did not care about, but which would be neces- sary as links, because, when you have made a man or a woman, you must do something with him. You cant leave him standing, without any visible men us of support. One person writes a novel of four hundred pages to convince you in a roundabout way, through thirty differ- ent characters, that a certain law, or the mode of administering it,is unjust. He does not mention himself, but makes his men and women speak his arguments. Another man writes a treatise of forty pages and gives you his views out of his own mouth. But he does not put him- self into his treatise any more than the other into his novel. For my part, I think the use of 1 is the shortest and simplest way of launching ones opinions. Even a we bulges out into twice the space that I requires, besides seeming to try to evade responsibility. Better say I straight out, I, responsible for my words here and elsewhere, as they used to say in Congress under the old regime. Besides being the most brave, I is also the most modest. It delivers your opin- ions to the world through a perfectly transparent medium. I has no rela- tions. It has no consciousness. It is a pure abstraction. It detains you not a moment from the subject. The writer does. It brings up ideas entirely de- tached from the theme, and is therefore impertinent. All you are after is the thing that is thought. It is not of the smallest consequence who thought it. You may be certain that it is not al- ways the people who use I the most freely who think most about themselves and if you are offended, consider wheth- er it may not be owing to a certain mor- bidness of your taste as much as to ego- tism in the offender. Remember, also, that, when a writer talks of himself, he is not necessarily speaking of his own definite John Smith- ship, that does the marketing and pays the taxes and is a useful member of society. Not at all. It is himself as one unit of the great sum of mankind. He means himself, not as an isolated individual, but as a part of humanity. His narration is pertinent, because it relates to the human family. He brings forward a part of the common property. He does not touch that which pertains exclusively to himself. His self is self- created. His imaginative may have as large a share in the person as his de- scriptive powers. You dont understand me precisely? Sorry for you. You think me arrogant. You would think so a great deal more, if you knew me better. At heart I believe I incline very much to the opinion of a charming friend of mine, that, after all, nobody in the world is of much account but Susy and me, only in my formula I leave out Susy. Dont, therefore, think solely of the arrogance that is revealed, but think also of the masses concealed, and in con- sideration of the greater repression par- don the great expression. It is not the persons who sin the least, but those who overcome the strongest temptations, who are the most virtuous. People endowed by Nature with a sweet humility do not deserve half the credit for their lovely character that those who are naturally selfish and arrogant often deserve for be- ing no more disagreeable than they are. Yes, it must be confessed, you are right in attributing arrogance, though, after this meek confession and repentance, if you do not forgive me freely and fully, for past and future, your secondary will be a great deal worse than my original sin ; but you never would accuse me of an arrogance that disdains docility, if you had seen the mean-spirited way in which I sit down by the side of an editor 1864.1 My Book. 101 and let him ram-page over my manu- script. Out fly my best thoughts, my finest figures, my sharpest epigrams, without chloroform, and I give no sign. I have heard that successful authors can always have everything their own way. I must be the greatest or the smallest failure of the age. It will be much better to omit this, says the High Inquisitor, turning the thumb-screw. No, I writhe. Take everything else, but leave that. I am glad to see that you agree with me, he responds, with Mephistophelian courtesy; and away it goes, and I say nothing, thankful that enough is left to hobble in at all. Revealing somewhat of the arro- gance of success, you comment, di- rected by your Evil Genius, upon that especial chapter which was written in a gully of the Valley of Humiliation, when I was gasping under an IEtna of re- jected manuscripts, when there was not a respectable newspaper in the coun- try by which I had not been declined with thanks,when, in the desperation of my determination, I had recourse to bribery, and sent an editor a dollar with the manuscript, to pay him for the fifteen minutes it would take to read it. (Mem. I never heard from editor, manuscript, or dollar.) No, it may be arrogance, but it is not the arrogance of success. Whatever it was, it was in the grain. And, to look at it in another light, I cannot have been spoiled by the in- dulgent praise which my early efforts received, because, on the other hand, I have always been praised, Like to the Pontic monarch of old days, I fed on poisons, till they had no power, But were a kind of nutriment. The earliest event I remember is being presented with two cents by one of the Committee visiting the school. And if I could stand two cents in my tender infancy, dont you suppose I can stand your penny-a-lining now I am grown up? I may have been spoiled, or I may not have been worth much to begin with; but the mischief was all done before you ever heard of me. Confine yourself to facts: dismiss conjectures. State ac- tions: shun motives. Give results: avoid causes, if you would insure con- fidence in your sagacity. But all this will I forgive and forget, if you will not tell me to stop writing. That I cannot and will not do. You may iterate and reiterate, that the public will tire of me. I am sorry for the pub- lie, but it is strong and will be easily rested. Sorry? No, I am not; I am glad. I should like to pay back a part of the weariness which the public has inflicted on me in the shape of lectures, lessons, sermons, speeches, customs, fash- ions. Why should it have the monopoly of fatiguing? Minorities have their rights as well as majorities. The spout of a tea- kettle is not to be compared, in point of bulk, to the tea-kettle, but it puts in a claim for an equal depth of water, and Nature acknowledges the claim. I can- not think of reining in yet. I have but just begun. And everything is so inter- esting. Nothing is isolated. Nothin~ is insignificant. Everything you touch thrills. It does not seem to matter much what you look at: only look long enough, and a life, its life, starts out. You see that it has causes and consequences, de- pendencies, bearings, and all manner of social interests; and before you know it, you have become involved in those interests and are one of the family. For the time, you stake all on that issue, and fight to the death. As soon as that is decided, and you stop to take breath a moment, something else comes equally interesting and seeming equally impor- tant, and again your lance is in rest. When it comes to the quantities of mor- als, there is nt much difference between one thing and another. And you ask me to fold my hands and sit still! Not I. One of my youthful maxims was, IDo something, if it s mischief; and I intend to follow it, especially the con- dition. I promise to do the best I can, but I shall do it. I will never write for the sake of writing, but I will say my 102 M Book. [January, say. I have not been rumbling under- ground all my life, to find a volcano at last, and then let it be choked up after a single eruption. There are rows of blocks standing around the walls of my workshop, waiting to be chiselled. They wont be Apollos, but even Puck is a Robin Goodfellow, since, In one night, ere glimpse of morn, His shadowy flail bath threshed the corn That ten day-laborers could not end. And I shall not confine myself to my sphere. I hate my sphere. I like ev- erything that is outside of it, or, bet- ter still, my sphere rounds out infinitely into space. Nihil hurnani a me alienum puto. I was born into the whole world. I am monarch of all I survey. Wher- ever I see symptoms of a pie, thither shall my fingers travel. Wherever a windmill flaps, it shall go hard but I will have a tilt at it. I shall riot wait till I know what I am talking about. If I did, I never should talk at all. It is a well- known principle in educational science, that the surest way to learn anything is to teach it. how fast would Geology get on, if its professors talked only of what they knew? Planting their feet firmly on facts, they feel about in all di- rections for theories. By carefully noting, publishing, comparing, discussing their uncertainties, they presently arrive at a certainty. horace might advocate nine years delay. He was building for him- self a monument that should defy the roll- ing years. He was setting to work in cool blood to compass immortality, and a lit- tle time, more or less, made no difference. Apollo and Bacchus could afford to wait. Beautiful daughters of beautiful mothers will exist to the worlds end, and their praises will always be in order. But when, unmindful of the next generation, whi~h will have its books and its mem- ories, though you are unread and for- gotten, min(lful only of this generation which groans and travails in pain, you look on suffering that you yearn to as- suage, clan ger of which you long to warn, sadness which you would fain dispel, bur- dens which you would strive, though ever so little, to lighten, delay, even for things so desirable as complete knowledge and perfect polish, becomes not only absurd, but impossible. Better shoot into the cavern, even if you dont know in what precise part of it the dragon lies coiled. The flash of your powder may reveal his whereabouts to a surer marksman. A transient immortality is of no impor- tance; it is of importance that hearts be purified, homes made happy, paths cleared, clouds dispelled. is that igno- ble? Very well. But the noblest way to benefit posterity is to serve the pres- ent age, to serve it by doing ones best, indeed, but by doing it now, not waiting for some distant day when one can do it better. A writer deserves no pardon for careless or hurried writing. As much time as he has mental ability to spend on it, so much time he should devote to it. But then speed it on its way. Shut it up for a term of years, and you will per- haps have a manuscript that says begin where it used to say commence, but in the mean time all the people whom you wished to save have died of a broken heart, or lived with one, which is still worse. Besides, even for improvement, it is bet- ter to publish your paper than to keep it in the drawer. There, all the amend- ments it can receive will come from the few feeble advances in knowledge which you may be so fortunate as to make. But print it and every one immediately gives you especial attention and the ben- efit of his judgment. If you should hap- pen to serve in the right wing of Ortho- doxy, you will have the inestimable boon of the freest criticism from the left wing. And it is the religious newspapers for not mincing matters. Between Jew and Gentile hostility is the normal condition of things; and is carried on peaceably enough; but when Jew meets Jew, then comes the tug of war! These people obey to the letter the Apostolic injunc- tion, and confess your faults one to an- other with a relish that is marvellous to behold, and which must furnish to the unbelieving world a lively commentary on the old text, Behold how these 1864.1 My Book. 103 Christians love one another! When their own list of your shortcomings is ex- hausted, ten to one they will take up the parable of somebody else; and if little Johnny Homer sitting in the corner of his sanctum has not room in his crowded columns for the whole pie in which his brother Homer has served you up, nuver fear but he will put in his thumb and pick out the plums to enliven his feast withal. No. I shall keep on writing,hi~, if I can, miss, if I must, but shoot any way. There is a great deal of firing that kills no men and breaches no w~.lls, but it worries the enemy. John Brown did not in the least know what he was do- ing. His definite attempt was a fatal failure; but the great and guilty con- spiracy behind, of which he saw nothing, was smitten to the heart under his ran- dom blows; his sixteen white men and five negroes, finn g blindly and reckless- ly against the ramparts of Slavery, were but the precursors of that great host, black and white, which has since gone down, or~ anized and intelligent, to tread the wine-press of the wrath of God. I fear I am committing the rhetorical error of comparing small things with great; but, if Virgil could bring in the Cyclops and their thunderbolts to il- lustrate his bees, and Demetrius Pha- lereus justify it, you will hardly count it a capital offence in me, and I dont much care if you do, if I can only con- vince you that I am not going to be silent because I dont know the Alpha and Omega of things. I dont pretend to be logical, or consistent, or coherent. Nature is not. A forest of oaks burns down or is cut down, and do oaks spring again? No. Pines. Logic is baffled, but the land is bettered. A field of corn is planted, and Nature does not set herself to protect it, but sends a flock of crows to devour it; the farmers grumble, but the crows are saved alive. Freezing water contracts awhile, and then with- out any provocation turns right about face and expands; if your pitcher stands in the way, so much the worse for your pitcher, but the little fishes are grateful; and with all her whims and inconse- quences, Nature gets on from year to year without once failing of seed-time and harvest, cold or heat. How is it with you and your logic, you men who have been to college and discov- ered what you are talking about? You who discuss politics and dt~cide affairs, are you not continually accusing each other of sophistry, inconsistency, and shying away from the point? Take up any political or religious newspaper, and see, if any faith is to be put in testi- mony, how deficient in logic are all these logic-mongers, how all the learned and logical are accused by other learned and logical of false assumptions, of invalid reasoning, of foregone conclusions, of pride and prejudice and passion. One would say that the result of your pr~ found researches was only to make you more intensely illogical than you could otherwise be. As skilful divers to the bottom fall Swifter than they who cannot swim at all, So in the sea of sophisms, to niy thinking, You have a strange alacrity in sinking. (Ego et Dorset fecimus.) Sure I am my humble ability in the way of unreason can never compass fallacies so stupendous as those which you attrib- ute to each other; and if this is all the result of your logic, I will none of it, satisfied to possess at least the advan- tage, that, when I write nonsense, I know it is nonsense, while you write it and think it sense. But your think- ing so does not make it so, and you need not rule me out of court on the strength of it. I ackmiowledge, in the domain of letters, none but Squatter Sovereignty. In literature, urdike mor- als, might makes right. If I think you are cultivating the soil to its utmost ca- pacity, I shall not meddle; but if it seems to me that you are letting it lie fallow while I can draw a furrow tQ some pur- pose, you need not warn me off with your 01(1 title-deeds; in my ploughshare shall drive. To a better farmer I will yield right gladly, but I will not be scared away by a sign-hoard. 104 My Book. [January, Nor need you go very far out of your way to affirm that I have not the requi- site experience for writing on such and such topics. As a principle your remark is absurd. Cannot a doctor prescribe for typhus fever, unless he has had typhus fever himself? On the contrary, is he not the better able to prescribe from always having had a sound mind in a sound body? As a fact, my experience in those things concerning which you allege its insuffi- ciency has never been presented to you for judgment, and its discussion is there- fore entirely irrelevant. If my state- ments are false, they are false; if my arguments are inconclusive, they are in- conclusive: disprove the one and refute the other. But whether this state of things be owing to a want of experience, or inability to use experience aright, or any personal circumstance whatever, is a matter in regard to which all the laws of literary courtesy forbid you to concern yourself. And pray, Gentle Critic, do not tell me that I must be content simply to amuse, or must anything else. Must is a hard word; be not over-confident of its power. I feel a grandmotherly in- terest in the world and its ways; and much as I should like to amuse it, I shall never be content with that. You may not like to be instructed, my dear chil- dren, but instructed you shall be. You read long ago, in your story-book, that little Tommy Piper did nt want his face washed, though he was very willing to be amused with soap-bubbles; but his face needed washing and not it. I come to you with soap-bubbles indeed, but with scrubbing-brushes also. If you take to them kindly, it will soon be over; but if you scream and struggle, I shall not only scrub the harder, but be all the longer about it. Sometimes your grave refutations are very amusing. It is astonishing to see how crank-proof sundry minds are. Ev- erything seems to them on a dead level of categorical proposition. They walk up t every statue with their measuring-line of Barbara, Celarent, Darit, Ferioque Prioris, and measure them off with equal solemnity, telling you severely that this nose is far longer than the classic rule admits, and this arm has not the swelling proportions of life, never seeing, that, though another statue was indeed design- ed for an Antinoils, this was never meant to be anything but a broomstick dressed in your grandfathers cloak, with a lantern in a pumpkin for a head. Oh, the drea- riness of having to explain pleasantry! of appending to your banter Artemas Wards parenthesis, This is a goak! of dealing with people who do not know the difference between a blow and a love-pat, between Quaker guns and an Armstrong battery, between a granite paving-stone and the moonshine on a mud-puddle! Dear Public, dont begin to be tired yet. I am not. There are many books still to come, if they can ever be brought to light. They were ready long ago, but no pub- lisher could be found; and now that I have found a publisher, I cannot find the books. There is a treatise on the Cur- vature of the Square,a Dissertation ou Foreign Literature,two or three novels, a book on Human Life, that is going to turn the world upside down, a book on Theology, dull enough to be sensible, that is going to turn it back again, and a bandhoxful of childrens stories. Still, in spite of this formidable prospect, take the consolation that an end is sure to come. There is not a particle of re- served force or dormant power or any- thing of the kind for you to dread. All there is of me is awake. I have struck twelve, and at longest it will be but a little while before I shall rundown, And silence like a poultice comm-me To heal the blows of sound. And does not the exquisite sensation of departed pain almost atone for the discom- fort of its presence? How heartily, for your sake, would I be the most profound and able writer in the world, and how gladly should all my profundity and abil- ity be laid at your feet! And since The good but wished with God is done,~~ 1864.1 34i Book~ 10i3 can you not find it in your heart to yearn oer my little good and pardon my much ill? Public, you must, w~iether you can or not. It is a ca~e of life and death. I am good for nothing but writing; and if you take that resource away,you know what the book says about mischief and Satan and idle hands! and you certainly will take it away, if you do not speak peaceably unto me. All that I said be- fore was only bravado, jnst to keep a bold front to the foe. I can confide to you under the rose, that, though without are fightings, within are fears.. Pope, was it, who used to look around upon the missives hurled at him, and say, These are my amusement? But they are not mine. I want you to li/ce me and be good- natured. It is not that you must always agree with opinions, or not take excep- tion to what is exceptionable; it is only that you shall not say things in a sour, cross, disagreeable way. Impale the bait on your arming-wire, hut handle it as if you loved it. Talk thunderbolts, if ne- cessary, but dont make faces. The soft south - wind is very, charming; the northwest - wind, though sharp, is bra- cing and healthful; but your raw east- winds, oh! chain them in the caverns of ZEolia, the country of storms. Bear with me a little longer in my folly; and, indeed, bear with me, you who are strong, for the sake of the weak. Many and many there may be to whom the meat of your metaphysics is indigestible and unpalatable, bnt who find strength and cheer in the sincere milk of such words as I can give. To you who have already set your feet on the high places, that may be but a bruised reed which is a staff to those who are still struggling up. Do you go on churning the cream of thought, and salting down its butter for future ages; I will spread it on thin for the weak digestions of this. Let scarfs, garters, gold amuse your riper stage, and beads and prayer-books be the toys of age, but wax not over - wroth, when yon behold the child, by Natures kindly law, pleased with a rattle! And after all, Dear Public, it is partly your own fault that I venture to make still further draughts upon your patience. Though I have trimmed my sails to op- posing rather than to favoring gales, it is not because the latter have been want- ing. But a pin that pricks your finger attracts to itself far more attention for the time than the thousand influences that wrap you about only to soothe and delight. The reception that has been harsh and unfriendly bears no manner of proportion to that which has been ge- nial and generous. So where you have given me an inch I take an eli, and commission this bright morning - shine to bear to you my thanks. For every kind word, whether it have come to me through the highways or the by-ways, from far or near, from known or unknown, I pray you receive my grateful acknowledgment. And do not fail to remember, that he, who, even though self-impelled, goes out from the shelter of his selfhood into the pres- ence of the great congregation, incurs a Loss which no praise can make good, encounters a Fate against which no ap- preciation is a shield, invokes a Shad- ow in which the mens conscia recti is the only resource, and the knowledge of shadows dispelled the only consola- tion. 106 The Minister Plenipotentiary. [January, THE MINISTER PLENIPOTENTIARY. MR. HENRY WARD BEECHER went to Great Britain already well known at home as the favorite preacher of a large parish, an ardent advocate of certain leading reforms, one of the most popular lecturers of the country, a hold, out- spoken, fertile, ready, crowd-compelling orator, whose reported sermons and speeches were fuller of catholic human- ity than of theological subtilties, and whose sympathies were of that lively sort which are apt to leap the sectarian fold and find good Christians in every denomination. He was welcomed by friendly pcrsons on the other side of the Atlantic, partly for these merits, partly also as the son of the celebrated Dr. Beecher and the hrother of Mrs. Beecher Stowe. After a few months absence he returns to America, having finished a more re- markable embassy than any envoy who has represented us in Europe since Frank- lin pleaded the cause of the young Re- public at the Court of Versailles. lie kissed no royal hand, he talked with no courtly diplomatists, he was the guest of no titled legislator, he had no official existence. But through the heart of the people he reached nobles, ministers, courtiers, the throne itself. He whom the Times attacks, he whom Punch caricatures, is a power in the land. We may be very sure, that, if an American is the aim of their pensioned garroters and hired vitriol-throwers, he is ~an object of fear as well as of hatred, and that the assault proves his ability as well as his love of freedom and zeal for the nation to which he belongs. Mr. Beechers European story is a short one in time, but a long one in events, lie went out a lamb, a tired clergyman in need of travel; and as such he did not strive nor cry, nor did any man hear his voice in the streets. But in the den of lions where his pathway led him he re- membered his own lions nature, and ut tered his voice to su~h effect that its echoes in the great vaulted caverns of London and Liverpool are still reaching us, as the sound of the woodmans axe is heard long after the stroke is seen, as the light of the star shines upon us many days after its departure from the source of radiance. Mr. Beecher made a single speech in Great Britain, but it was delivered piece- meal in different places. Its exordium was uttered on the ninth of October at Manchester, and its peroration was pro- nounced on the twentieth of the same month in Exeter Hall. He has himself furnished us an analysis of the train of representations and arguments of which this protracted and many-jointed oration was made up. At Manchester he at- tempted to give a history of that series of political movements, extending through half a century, the logical and inevita- ble end of which was open conflict be- tween the two opposing forces of Free- dom and Slavery. At Glasgow his dis- course seems to have been almost unpre- meditated. A meeting of one or two Temperance advocates, who had come to greet him as a brother in their cause, took on, quite accidentally, a political character, and Mr. Beecher gratified the assembly with an address which really looks as if it had been in great measure called forth by the pressure of the mo- ment. It seems more like a conversation than a set harangue. First, he very good- humoredly defines his position on the Temperance question, and then natural- ly slides into some self-revelations, which we who know him accept as the simple expression of the mans character. This plain speaking made him at home among strangers more immediately, perhaps, than anything else he could have told them. I am born without moral fear. I have expressed my views in any audi- ence, and it never cost me a struggle. I never could help doing it.

O. W. Holmes Holmes, O. W. The Minister Plenipotentiary 106-112

106 The Minister Plenipotentiary. [January, THE MINISTER PLENIPOTENTIARY. MR. HENRY WARD BEECHER went to Great Britain already well known at home as the favorite preacher of a large parish, an ardent advocate of certain leading reforms, one of the most popular lecturers of the country, a hold, out- spoken, fertile, ready, crowd-compelling orator, whose reported sermons and speeches were fuller of catholic human- ity than of theological subtilties, and whose sympathies were of that lively sort which are apt to leap the sectarian fold and find good Christians in every denomination. He was welcomed by friendly pcrsons on the other side of the Atlantic, partly for these merits, partly also as the son of the celebrated Dr. Beecher and the hrother of Mrs. Beecher Stowe. After a few months absence he returns to America, having finished a more re- markable embassy than any envoy who has represented us in Europe since Frank- lin pleaded the cause of the young Re- public at the Court of Versailles. lie kissed no royal hand, he talked with no courtly diplomatists, he was the guest of no titled legislator, he had no official existence. But through the heart of the people he reached nobles, ministers, courtiers, the throne itself. He whom the Times attacks, he whom Punch caricatures, is a power in the land. We may be very sure, that, if an American is the aim of their pensioned garroters and hired vitriol-throwers, he is ~an object of fear as well as of hatred, and that the assault proves his ability as well as his love of freedom and zeal for the nation to which he belongs. Mr. Beechers European story is a short one in time, but a long one in events, lie went out a lamb, a tired clergyman in need of travel; and as such he did not strive nor cry, nor did any man hear his voice in the streets. But in the den of lions where his pathway led him he re- membered his own lions nature, and ut tered his voice to su~h effect that its echoes in the great vaulted caverns of London and Liverpool are still reaching us, as the sound of the woodmans axe is heard long after the stroke is seen, as the light of the star shines upon us many days after its departure from the source of radiance. Mr. Beecher made a single speech in Great Britain, but it was delivered piece- meal in different places. Its exordium was uttered on the ninth of October at Manchester, and its peroration was pro- nounced on the twentieth of the same month in Exeter Hall. He has himself furnished us an analysis of the train of representations and arguments of which this protracted and many-jointed oration was made up. At Manchester he at- tempted to give a history of that series of political movements, extending through half a century, the logical and inevita- ble end of which was open conflict be- tween the two opposing forces of Free- dom and Slavery. At Glasgow his dis- course seems to have been almost unpre- meditated. A meeting of one or two Temperance advocates, who had come to greet him as a brother in their cause, took on, quite accidentally, a political character, and Mr. Beecher gratified the assembly with an address which really looks as if it had been in great measure called forth by the pressure of the mo- ment. It seems more like a conversation than a set harangue. First, he very good- humoredly defines his position on the Temperance question, and then natural- ly slides into some self-revelations, which we who know him accept as the simple expression of the mans character. This plain speaking made him at home among strangers more immediately, perhaps, than anything else he could have told them. I am born without moral fear. I have expressed my views in any audi- ence, and it never cost me a struggle. I never could help doing it. 1864.] The Minister Plenipotentiary. 107 a The way a man handles his egoi~ms is test of his mastery over an audience or a class of readers. What we want to know about the person who is to counsel or lead us is just what he is, and nobody can tell us so well as himself. Every real master of speakin~, or writing uses his personality as he would any other serviceable material; the very moment a speaker or writer begins to use it, not for his main purpose, but for vanitys sake, as all weak people are sure to do, hearers and readers feel the difference in a moment. Mr. Beecher is a strong, healthy man, in mind and body. His nerves have never been corrugated with alcohol; his thinking - marrow is not brown with tobacco-fumes, like a meer- schaum, as are the brains of so many un- fortunate Americans; he is the same lus- ty, warm-blooded, strong-fibred, brave- hearted, bright-son led, clear-eyed creat- ure that he was when the college boys at Amherst acknowledged him as the chief- est among their football - kickers. He has the simple frankness of a man who feels himself to be perfectly sound in bod- ily, mental, and moral structure; and his self-revelation is a thousand times nobler than the assumed impersonality which is a common trick with cunning speakers who never forget their own interests. Thus it is, that, wherever Mr. Beecher goes, everybody feels, after he has ad- dressed them once or twice, that they know him well, almost as if they had always known him; and there is not a man in the land who has such a multi- tude that look upon him as if he were their brother. Having magnetized his Glasgow audi- ence, he continued the subject already opened at Manchester by showing, in the midst of that great toiling population, the deadly influence exerted by Slavery in bringing labor into contempt, and its ru- inous consequences to the free working- man everywhere. In Edinburgh he ex- plained how the Nation grew up out of separate States, each jealous of its spe- cial sovereignty; how the struggle for the control of the united Nation, after leaving it for a long time in the hands of the South, to be used in favor of Slavery, at length gave it into those of the North, whose influence was to be for -Freedom and that for this reason the South, when it could no longer rule the Nation, rebelled against it. In Liverpool, the centre of vast commercial and manufac- turing interests, he showed how those in- terests are injured by Slavery, that this attempt to cover the fairest portion of the earth with a slave-population that buys nothing, and a degraded white pop- ulation that buys next to nothing, should array against it the sympathy of every true political economist and every thoughtful and far-seeing manufacturer, as tending to strike at the vital want of commerce, not the want of cotton, but the want of customers. In his great closing effort at Exeter Hall in London, Mr. Beecher began by diselaiming the honor of having been a pioneer in the anti - slavery movement, which he found in progress at his entry upon public life, when he fell into the ranks, and fought as well as he knew how, in the ranks or in command. He unfolded before his audience the plan and connection of his previous addresses, showing how they were related to each other as parts of a consecutive series. He had endeavored, he told them, to enlist the judgment, the conscience, the interests of the British people against the attempt to spread Slavery over the continent, and the rebellion it has kin- dled. He had shown that Slavery was the only cause of the war, that sympa- thy with the South was only aiding the building up of~ a slave-empire, that the North was contending for its own exist- ence and that of popular iiistitutions. Mr. Beecher then asked his audience to look at the question with him from the American point of view, lie showed how the conflict began as a moral ques- tion; the sensitiveness of the Sduth; the tenderness for them on the l)art of many Northern apologizers, with whom he him- self had never stood. He pointed out how the question gradually emerged in 108 The Minister Plenipotentiary. [January, politics; the encroachments of the South, until they reached the Judiciary itself; he repeated to them the admissions of Mr. Stephens as to the preponderating influence the South had all along held in the Government. An interruption obli- ged him to explain that adjustment of our State and National governments which Englishmen seem to find so hard to un- derstand. Nothing shows his peculiar powers to more advantage than just such interruptions. Then he displays his feli- citous facility of illustration, his familiar way of bringing a great question to the test of some parallel fact that everyhody before him knows. An American state- question looks as mysterious to an Eng- lish audience as an ear of Indian corn wrapt in its sheath to an English wheat- grower. Mr. Beecher husks it for them as only an American horn and bred can do. He wants a few sharp ques-. tions to rouse his quick spirit. He could almost afford to carry with him his pica- dores to sting him with sarcasms, his chu- los to flap their inflammatory epithets in his face, and his banderilleros to stab him with their fiery insults into a plaza de toros, an audience of John Bulls. Having cleared up this matter so that our comatose cousins understood the re- lations of the dough and the apple in our national dumpling, to borrow one of their royal reminiscences, having eulo- gized the fidelity of the North to the na- tional compact, he referred to the action of that most true, honest, just, and con- scientious magistrate, Mr. Lincoln, at the mention of whose name the audience cheered as long and loud as if they had descended from the ancient Ephesians. Mr. Beecher went on to show how the North could not help fighting when it was attacked, and to give the reasons that made it necessary to fight, rea- sons which none but a consistent Friend or avowed non-resistant can pretend to dispute: Ilis ordinary style in speaking is pointed, staccatoed, as is that of most successful extemporaneous speakers; he is short - gaited; the movement of his thoughts is that of the chopping sea, rather than the long, rolling, rhythmical wave-procession of phrase-balancing rhet- oricians. But when the lance has prick- ed him deep enough, when the red fl~ has flashed in his face often enough, when the fireworks have hissed and sput- tered around him long enough, when the cheers have warmed him so that all his life is roused, then his intellectual sparkle becomes a steady glow, and his nimble sentences change their form, and become long-drawn, stately periods. Standing by my cradle, standing by my hearth, standing by the altar of the church, standing by all the places that mark the name and memory of heroic men who poured their blood and lives for principle, I declare that in ten or twenty years of war we will sacrifice ev- erything we have for principle. If the love of popular liberty is dead in Great Britain, you will not understand us; but if the love of liberty lives as it once liv- ed, and has worthy successors of those renowned men that were our ancestors as much as yours, and whose example and principles we inherit to make fruit- ful as so much seed-corn in a new and fertile land, then you will understand our firm, invincible determination deep as the sea, firm as the mountaini, but calm as the heavens above us to fight this war through at all hazards and at every cost. When have Englishmen listened to nobler words, fuller of the true soul of eloquence? Never, surely, since their nation entered the abdominous period of its existence, recognized in all its ideal portraits, for which food and sleep are the prime conditions of well-being. Yet the old instinct which has made the name of Englishman glorious in the past was there, in the audience before him, and there was immense cheering, reliev- ed by some slight colubrine demonstra- tions. Mr. Beecher openly accused certain important organs of deliberately dark- ening the truth and falsifying the facts. The audience thereupon gave three groans for a paper called the Times,~ 1864.] The Minister Plenipotentiary. 109 once respectably edited, now deservedly held as cheap as an epigram of Mr. Car- lyles or a promise to pay dated at Rich- mond. He showed the monstrous ab- surdity of Englands attacking us for fighting, and for fighting to uphold a principle. On ~what shore has not the prow of your ships dashed? What land is there with a name and a people where your banner has not led your soldiers? And when the great resurrection-rereille shall sound, it will muster British soldiers from every clime and people under the whole heaven. Ah! but it is said this is war against your own blood. How long is it since you poured soldiers into Cana- da, and let all your yards work day and night to avenge the taking of two men out of the Trent? How ignominious the pretended humanity of England look- ed in the light of these questions! And even while Mr. Beecher was speaking, a lurid glow was crimsoning the waters of the Pacific from the flames of a great burning city, set on fire by British ships to avenge a crime committed by some remote inhabitant of the same country, an act of wholesale barbarity unapproach- ed by any deed which can be laid to the charge of the American Union in the course of this long, exasperating con- flict! Mr. Beecher explained that the people who sympathized with the South were those whose voices reached America, while the friends of the North were lit- tle heard. The first had bows and ar- rows; the second have shafts, but no bows to launch them. How about the Russians? Everybody remembers how neatly Mr. Beecher caught this envenomed dart, and, turning it end for end, drove it through his antagonists shield of triple bulls-hide. Now you know what we felt when you were flirting with Mr. Mason at your Lord Mayors banquet. A cleaner and straighter counter than that, if we may change the image to one his audi- ence would appreciate better, is hardly to be found in the records of British pu- gilism. The orator concluded by a rather san- guine statement of his change of opinion as to British sentiment, of the assurance he should carry back of the enthusiasm for the cause of the North, and by an exhortation to unity of action with those who share their civilization and religion, for the furtherance of the gospel and the happiness of mankind. The audience cheered again, Professor Newman moved a warm vote of thanks, and the meeting dissolved, wiser and better, we hope, for the truths which had been so boldly declared before them. What is the net result, so far as we can see, of Mr. Beechers voluntary em- bassy? So far as he is concerned, it has been to lift him from the position of one of the most popular preachers and lec- turers, to that of one of the most popular men in the country. Those who hate his philanthropy admire his courage. Those who disagree with him in theology rec- ognize him as having a claim to the title of Apostle quite as good as that of John Eliot, whom Christian England sent to heathen America two centuries ago, and who, in spite of the singularly stupid ques- tionings of the natives, and the violent opposition of the sachems and powwows, or priests, succeeded in reclaiming large numbers of the copper-colored aborigines. The change of opinion wrought by Mr. Beecher in England is far less easy to es- timate; indeed, we shall never have the means of determining what it may have been. The organs of opinion which have been against us will continue their as- saults, and those which have been our friends will continue to defend us. The public men who have committed them- selves will be consistent in the right or in the wrong, as they may have chosen at first. To know what Mr. Beecher has effected, we must not go to Exeter Hall and follow its enthusiastic audience as they are swayed hither and thither by his arguments and appeals; we must not count the crowd of admiring friends and sympathizers whom he, like all personages of note, draws around him: the fire-fly 110 The Minister Plenipotentiary. [January, calls other fire -flies about him, hut the great community of beetles goes blunder- ing round in the dark as before. Mr. Cobden has .jven us the test in a letter quoted by Mr. Beecher in the course of his speech at the Brooklyn Academy. You will carry back, he says, an in- timate acquaintance with a state of feel- ing in this country among what, for [want of] a better name, I call the ruling class. Their sympathy is undoubtedly strongly for the South, with the instinctive satis- faction at the prospect of the disruption of the great Republic. It is natural enough. But, he says, our masses have an instinctive feeling that their cause is bound up in the prosperity of the States, the United States. It is true that they have not a particle of pow- er in the direct form of a vote; but when millions in this country are led by the religious middle class, they can go and prevent the governing class from pursu- ing a policy hostile to their sympathies. This power of the non-voting classes is an idea that gives us pause. It is one of those suggestions, like Lord Broughams of the unknown public, which, in a single phrase, and a sentence or two of explanation, tell a whole history. This is the class John Bunyan wrote for before the bishops had his Allegory in present- able calf and gold- leaf; before Eng- land knew that her poor tinker had shap- ed a pictured urn for her full of such vis- ions as no dreamer had seen since Dante. This is the class that believes in John Bright and Richard Cobden and all the defenders of true American principles. It absorbs intelligence as melting ice ren- ders heat latent; there is no living pow- er directly generated with which we can move pistons and wheels, but the first step in the production of steam-force is to make the ice fluid. No intellectual thermometer can reveal to us how much ignorance or prejudice has melted away in the fire of Mr. Beechers passionate eloquence, but by-and-by this will tell as a working-force. The non-voters con- science will reach the Privy Council, and the hand of the ignorant, but Christian- ized laborer trace its own purpose in the letters of the royal signature. We are living in a period, not of events only, but of epochs. We are in the tran- sition-stage from the miocene to the plio- cene period of human existence. A new heaven is forming over our head behind the curtain of clouds which rises from our smoking battle - fields. A new earth is shaping itself under our feet amidst the tremors and convulsions that agitate the soil upon which we tread. But there is no such thing as a surprise in the order of Nature. The kingdom of God, even, cometh not with observation. The visit of an overworked clergyman to Europe is not in appearance an event of momentous interest to the world. The fact that he delivered a few speeches be- fore British audiences might seem to merit notice in a local paper or two, but is of very little consequence, one would say, to the British nation, compared to the fact that Her Majesty took an airing last Wednesday, or of much significance to Americans, by the side of the fact that his Excellency, Governor Seymour, had written a letter recommending the Union Fire Company always to play on the wood-shed when the house is in flames. But, in point of fact, this unofficial visit of a private citizen in connec- tion with these addresses delivered to miscellaneous crowds by an envoy not extraordinary and a minister nullipoten- tiary, for all that his credentials showed was an event of national importance. It was much more than this; it was the beginni% of a new order of things in the relations of nations to each other. It is but a little while since any graceless woman who helped a crowned profligate to break the commandments could light a national quarrel with the taper that sealed her billets-doux to his equerries and grooms, and kindle it to a war with the fan that was supposed to hide her blushes. More and more, by virtue of advancing civilization and easy intercourse between distant lands, the avera, e common sense and intelligence of the people begin to reach from nation to nation. Mr. Beech.. 1864.] The 2ifinister Plenipotentiary. 111 ers visit is the most notable expression of this movement of national life. It marks the nisus formativus which begins the organization of that unwritten and only half spoken publie opinion recog- nized by Mr. Cobden as a great under- lying force even in England. It needs a little republican pollen - dust to cause the evolution of its else barren germs. The fruit of Mr. Beechers visit will ri- pen in due time, not only in direct re- sults, but in opening the way to future moral embassies, going forth unheralded, unsanctioned by State documents, in the simple strength of Christian manhood, on their errands of truth and peace. The Devil had got the start of the cler- gyman, as he very often does, after all. The wretches who have been for three years pouring their leperous distilment into the ears of Great Britain had pre- occupied the ground, and were deter- mined to silence the minister, if they could. For this purpose they looked to the heathen populace of the nominally Christian British cities. They covered the walls with blood-red placards, they stimulated the mob by inflammatory ap- peals, they filled the air with threats of riot and murder. It was in the midst of scenes like these that the single, soli- tary American opened his lips to speak in behalf of his country. The danger is now over, and we find it hard to make real to our imagination the terrors of a mob such as swarms out of the dens of Liverpool and London. We know well enough in this country what Irish mobs are; the Old Country exports them to us in pieces, ready to put together on arriving, as we send houses to California. Ireland is the country of shillalahs and broken crowns, of Donnybrook fairs, where men with whiskey in their heads settle their feuds or work off their sprightliness with the arms of Nature, sometimes aided by the least dangerous of weapons. But Eng- land is the land of prize-fights, of sci- entific brutality, which has flourished under the patronao~e of her hereditary legislators and other Corinthian sup- porters. The pugilistic dynasty came in with the House of Brunswick, and has held divided empire with it ever since. The Briton who claims Chathams lan- guage as his mother-tongue may appro- priate the dialect of the ring as far more truly indigenous than the German-French of his every-day discourse. Of the three Burkes whose names are historical, the orator is known to but a few hundred thousands. The prize -fighter, with his interesting personal infirmity, is the com- mon property of the millions, and would have headed the list in celebrity, but for that other of the name who added a new invention to the arts of industry and en- riched the English language with a term which bids fair to outlive the reputation of his illustrious namesake. Around the l)rofessors and heroes of the art of per- sonal violence are collected the practi- tioners of various callings less dignified by the manly qualities they demand. The Gangs of Three that waylay the solitary pedestrian, the Choker in the middle, next the victim who is to be strangled and cleaned out, the larger guilds of 1-lustlers who bonnet a man and beat his breath out of him and empty his pockets before he knows what is the matter with him, the Burglars, with their jimmies in their pockets, the fighting robbers, with their brass knuck- les, the whole set in a vast thief- con- stituency, .thick as rats in sewers, these were the disputants whom the emissaries of the Slave Power called upon to refute the arguments of the Brooklyn clergy- man. It was not pleasant to move in streets where such human rattlesnakes and cobras were coiling and lying in wait. Great cities are the poison - glands of civilization everywhere ; but the se- cretions of those hideous crypts and blind passages that empty themselves into the thoroughfares of English towns are so deadly, that, but for her penal colonies, England, girt by water, as the scorpion with flame, would perish, self- stung, by her own venom. The legates of the great Anti-Civilization have col 112 The Beginning of the End. [January, onized England, as England has colonized Botany Bay. They know the venal ruf- fianism of the fist and bludgeon, as well as that of the press. Fortunately, they are short of funds, or Mr. Beecher might have disappeared after the manner of Romulus, and never have come to light, except in the saintly fashion of relics, such as white finger-rings and breast- pins, like those which some devotees of the Southern mode of worship are said to have been fond of wearing. From these dangers, which he faced like a man, we welcome him back to a country which is proud of his courage and ability and grateful for his services. The highest and lowest classes of Eng- land cannot be in sympathy with the free North. No dynasty can look the fact of successful, triumphant self-gov- ernment in the face without seeing a shroud in its banner and hearing a knell in its shouts of victory. As to those lower classes who are too low to he reached by the life-giving breath of popular liberty, we cannot reach them yet. A Christian civilization has suffered them, in the very heart of its great cities, to sink almost to the level of Du Chaillus West-African quadrumana. But the thoughtful, relig- ious middle class of Great Britain, with their enlightened leaders and their con- scientious followers among the laboring masses, have listened and will always lis- ten to the voice of any true and adequate representative of that new form of hu- man society now in full course of devel- opment in Republican North America. They have never listened to a nobler and more thoroughly national speaker than the minister, clothed with full pow- ers from Nature and bearing the authen- tic credentials from his Divine Master, to whom, on his return from his suc- cessful embassy, we renew our grateftil welcome. TIlE BEGINNING OF TIlE END. A GREETING FOR THE NEW YEAR. WE are at the close of the third year of the Secession War. It is customary to speak of the contest as having beer~ in- augurated by the attack on Fort Sumter, April 12, 1861 hut, in strictness, it was begun in December, 1860, when the Car- olinians formally seceded from the Union, which was as much an act of war as that involved in firing upon the national flag that waved over the strongest of the Fed- eral forts at Charleston. Even those who insist that there can be no war without the use of weapons must admit that the act of firing upon the Star of the West, which vessel was seeking to land men and stores at Sumter, was an overt act, and as significant of the purpose of the Secessionists as anything since done by them. That occurred in January, 1861 and because our Government did not choose to accept it as the beginning of those hostilities which had been resolved upon hy the Southern ultras, it does not follow that men are hound to shut their eyes to the truth. But we all took the insults that were offered to the flag in President Buchanans time as coolly as if that were the proper course of things, while the attack on Sumter had the same effect on us that the acknowledgment of the Pretender as King of Great Britain and Ireland by Louis XIV. had on the English. War was then promptly accept- ed, and has ever since been waged, with that various fortune which is known to all contests, and which will be so known 9 while wars shall he known on earth, in other words, while our planet shall be the abiding-place of men. We have had victories, and we have had defeats, which

C. C. Hazewell Hazewell, C. C. The Beginning of the End 112-123

112 The Beginning of the End. [January, onized England, as England has colonized Botany Bay. They know the venal ruf- fianism of the fist and bludgeon, as well as that of the press. Fortunately, they are short of funds, or Mr. Beecher might have disappeared after the manner of Romulus, and never have come to light, except in the saintly fashion of relics, such as white finger-rings and breast- pins, like those which some devotees of the Southern mode of worship are said to have been fond of wearing. From these dangers, which he faced like a man, we welcome him back to a country which is proud of his courage and ability and grateful for his services. The highest and lowest classes of Eng- land cannot be in sympathy with the free North. No dynasty can look the fact of successful, triumphant self-gov- ernment in the face without seeing a shroud in its banner and hearing a knell in its shouts of victory. As to those lower classes who are too low to he reached by the life-giving breath of popular liberty, we cannot reach them yet. A Christian civilization has suffered them, in the very heart of its great cities, to sink almost to the level of Du Chaillus West-African quadrumana. But the thoughtful, relig- ious middle class of Great Britain, with their enlightened leaders and their con- scientious followers among the laboring masses, have listened and will always lis- ten to the voice of any true and adequate representative of that new form of hu- man society now in full course of devel- opment in Republican North America. They have never listened to a nobler and more thoroughly national speaker than the minister, clothed with full pow- ers from Nature and bearing the authen- tic credentials from his Divine Master, to whom, on his return from his suc- cessful embassy, we renew our grateftil welcome. TIlE BEGINNING OF TIlE END. A GREETING FOR THE NEW YEAR. WE are at the close of the third year of the Secession War. It is customary to speak of the contest as having beer~ in- augurated by the attack on Fort Sumter, April 12, 1861 hut, in strictness, it was begun in December, 1860, when the Car- olinians formally seceded from the Union, which was as much an act of war as that involved in firing upon the national flag that waved over the strongest of the Fed- eral forts at Charleston. Even those who insist that there can be no war without the use of weapons must admit that the act of firing upon the Star of the West, which vessel was seeking to land men and stores at Sumter, was an overt act, and as significant of the purpose of the Secessionists as anything since done by them. That occurred in January, 1861 and because our Government did not choose to accept it as the beginning of those hostilities which had been resolved upon hy the Southern ultras, it does not follow that men are hound to shut their eyes to the truth. But we all took the insults that were offered to the flag in President Buchanans time as coolly as if that were the proper course of things, while the attack on Sumter had the same effect on us that the acknowledgment of the Pretender as King of Great Britain and Ireland by Louis XIV. had on the English. War was then promptly accept- ed, and has ever since been waged, with that various fortune which is known to all contests, and which will be so known 9 while wars shall he known on earth, in other words, while our planet shall be the abiding-place of men. We have had victories, and we have had defeats, which The Beginning of the End. is the common lot; but, taken as a whole, we have but little reason to complain of results, if we compare our situation now with what it was at the close of 1862. Great things have been done in 1863, such as place the military result of the war beyond all doubt, and permitting us to hope for the early restoration of peace, provided the people shall furnish their Government with the human material necessary to inflict upon the enemy that grace stroke which shall put them out of their pain by putting an end to their ex- istence; and that Government itself shall not be wanting in that energy, without which men and money are worse than useless in war, for then they would be but wasted. The year opened darkly for us; for not even the success of General Rose- crans on the well-contested field of Mur- freesboro a success literally extorted from a brave and stubborn and skilful foe could alt%ether compensate for the Union defeat at Fredericksburg, a defeat that gave additional force to the gloomy words of those grognards who had adopted the doctrine that it was im- possible for the Army of the Potomac to accomplish anything worthy of its num- hers, and of the position and purpose as- signed to it in the war. Months rolled on, and little was done, the mere military losses and gains being not far from equal- ly shared by t~he two parties; but that was positively a loss to the enemy, whose position it has been from the first, that they must have so large a proportion of the successes as should tend to en- courage their people at home and their advocates abroad, and so compensate for their inferiority in numbers and in property. Nothing has tended more, all through the war, to show the vast differ- ence in the parties to it, than the little effect which serious reverses have had on. the Unionists in comparison with tbe effect of similar reverses on the Confed- erates. No blow that we have receiv- ed and many blows have been dealt upon us has been followed by any loss of territory, any decrease of the means VOL. XIII. 8 of warfare, or any diminution of our pur- pose to carry on the contest to the last piece of gold and the last greasy green- back. The enemy have taken of our men, our cannon, our stores, and our money, more than once, but not one of their vic- tories produced any fruit beyond what was gleaned from the battle-field itself. Our victories, on the contrary, have lien fruitful, as the position of our forces on the enemys coast, and on much of their territory, and in many of their ports, most satisfactorily proves. As an English mil- itary critic said, the Rebels might gain battles, but all the solid advantages were with their opponents. A Union victory was so much achieved toward final and complete success; a Confederate victory only operated to postpone the subjuga- tion of the Rebels for a few days, or per- haps weeks. We could afford to blun- der, while they could not; and the ~iros- pect of the gallows made the brains of Davis and Lee uncommonly clear, and caused them to plan skilfully and to strike boldly, in order that they might get out and keep out of the road that leads to it, the road to ruin. The movement in April, under Gen- ml Hooker, which led to the Battle of Chancellorsville, was a failure, and for some time the country was much de- pressed in consequence; but our failure, there and then, proved to be really a great gain. had General Hooker suc- ceeded in defeating General Lee in bat- tle, the latter would, it is altogether prob- able, have succeeded in retreating to Richmond, behind the defences of which lie would have held our forces at bay, and the Peninsular campaign of 1862 might have been repeated; for we had not men enough to render the capture of Richmond certain through the effect of regular and steady operations. The death of Stonewall Jackson, one of the incidents of the April advance, was a severe loss to the enemy, and promises to be as fatal to their cause as was that of Dundee to the hopes of the House of Stuart. General Lees success was really fatal to him. It compelled him to 1864.1 113 114 The Beginning of the End. [January, make a movement in his turn, in June, and at Gettysburg we had ample com- pensation for Chancellorsville; and the capture of Morgan and his men, in Ohio, following hard upon Lees retreat from Pennsylvania, put an end to all attempts at invasion on the part of the Rebels, while we continued to hold all that we ha~ acquired of their territory, and soon added more of it to our previous acqui- sitions. At the same time that General Meade was disposing of the main Rebel army, General Grant was taking Vicks- burg, and General Banks was triumphing at Port Hudson. Generals Pemberton and Gardner had defended those South- ern strongholds with a skill and a gallant- ry that do them great credit, consider- ing them merely as military operations but the superior generalship of General Grant at and near Vicksburg com- pelled them to surrender, and to plj~ce in Union hands posts the possession of which was necessary to maintain the integrity of the Confederacy. General Grants least merit was the taking of Vicksburg. The operations through the success of which he was enabled to shut up a large force of brave men in Vicks- burg, and to cut them off from all hope of being relieved, were of the highest order of military excellence, and justly entitle him to be called a great soldier; and no man can be only a great sdl- dier, for that intellectual rank implies in its possessor qualities that fit him for any department of his countrys service. General Grant was admirably seconded and supported by his lieutenants and their subordinates and men, or he must have failed before such courageous and stubborn foes. lie was also supported by the naval force commanded by Ad- miral Porter, whose heroic exploits and scientific services added new lustre to a name that already stood most high in our naval history. He commanded men worthy of himself and the service, and whose deeds must he ever remembered. General Banks and his associates were not less successful in their undertaking, and had been as well seconded as Gen eral Grant. The Mississippi was placed at our control, and the enemy were de- prived of those supplies, both domestic and foreign, which they had drawn in so large quantities from the trans-Mississippi territory. Through Texas, which had contrived to keep up a great commerce, the supplies of foreign materiel had been very large; and from the same rich and extensive State came thousands of beeves, sheep, and hogs, that were consumed by Southern soldiers in Virginia and the Car- olinas. Generals Grant and Banks put an end to this mode of supplying the Rebels with food and other articles; and at a later period the success of General Banks near the Rio Grande was hardly less useful in putting an end to much of the Texan for- eign trade, whereby the Rebels beyond the Mississippi must find their powers to do mischief very materially lessened. In the mean time, Charleston, whence rebellion had spread over the South, had been assailed by a large force, mili- tary and naval, commanded by General Gillmore and Rear-Admiral Dahlgren. General Gillmore had become famous as the captor of Fort Pulaski, under cir- cumstances that had seemed to render success impossible; and hence it was expected that he would quickly take Charleston. It is not believed that that very able and modest officer ever said a word to give rise to the popular ex- pectation. lie knew the gravity of the task he had undertaken, and we believe, that, if all the facts connected therewith could be published, it would be found that he has accomplished all that he ever promised to do or expected to do. lie has done much, and done it admirably and not the least of the effects of his deeds is this, that the report of his guns reached to Europe, and caused the intel- ligent military men of that dominating quarter of the world to doubt whether their respective countries were militarily prepared to support intervention, even if to intervention there existed no moral or political objections. He has demol- ished Sumter, and that fortress which was the scene of our first failure has 1864.1 The Beginning of the End. 11~i ceased to exist. He has completed the blockade of Charleston, which was al- most daily violated before he brought his batteries into play. We have the high authority of no less a personage than Mr. Jefferson Davis himself, a gentleman who never speaks out when anything is to be made by reti- cence, that Wilmington is now the only port left to the Confederacy; and this is the highest possible compliment that could be paid to the excellence of General Gilimores operations, and to the value of his services. Since he ar- rived near Charleston, that port has been as hermetically sealed as Cronstadt in December; whereas, until he began his scientific and most useful labors, Charleston was one of the most flour- ishing seaports in the whole circle of commerce. As to the taking of Charles- ton, our opinion is, and has been from the first, that the history of the War of the American Revolution demonstrates that the Carolina city can be had only as the result of extensive land - opera- tions, carried on by a power which has command of the sea. Sir Henry Clinton failed before the place in 1776, his attack being naval in its character; and he suc- ceeded in taking it in 1780, when he had control of the main-land, and made his approaches regularly. Even after he had obtained command of the harbor, and Fort Moultrie had been first passed and then taken, and no American maritime force remained to oppose his fleet, he had to depend upon the action of his army for success. We fear that the event will prove that we can succeed at Charleston only by following Sir henrys wise course. The things which have been are the things which shall be. Late in the summer, General Rose- crans resumed operations, and marched upon Chattanooga, while General Burn- side moved into East Tennessee, and obtained possession of Knoxville. Gen- eral Burasides march was one of the most difficult ever made in war, and tasked the powers of his men to the utmost ; but all difficulties were sur mounted, and the loyal people of the coun- try which he entered and regained were gladdened by seeing the national flag fly- ing once more over their heads. Both these movements were at first brilliant- ly successful; but the enemy were im- pressed with the importance of the points taken or threatened by our forces, and they concentrated great masses of troops, in the hope of being able to defeat our ar- mies, regain the territory lost, and trans- fer the seat of war far to the north. The Battle of Chickamauga was fought, and a portion of General Rosecranss army was defeated, while another portion, under General Thomas, stubbornly maintained its ground, and inflicted great damage on the enemy. The effect of General Thom- as s heroic resistance was, that the ene- mys grand purpose was baffled. Their loss was so severe, and their men had been so roughly handled, that they could not advance farther, and the time thus gain- ed was promptly turned to account, by General Rosecrans in the first instance, and by Government. The Union army was soon reorganized by its energetic leader, and placed in condition to make effectual resistance to the enemy, should they endeavor to advance. The Gov- ernments action was rapid and useful. General Grant was placed in immedi- ate command of the army, which was largely reinforced, and preparations were quickly made for the resumption of of- fensive operations. In the mean time, General Bragg had sent General Long- street to attack General Burnside; and as Longstreet has been looked upon, since the death of Jackson, as the best of the Rebel fighting generals, great hopes were entertained of his success. Apparently takino advantage of the absence of so large a body of Rebel troops under so good a leader, General Grant resumed the offensive on the twenty-third of No- vember, and during three days hard fighting inflicted upon General Bragg a series of defeats, in which Generals Thomas, Hooker, and Sherman were the active Union commanders. The Union- ists were completely victorious at all 116 The Beginning .of the End. [January, points, taking several strong positions, forty-six pieces of cannon, five thousand muskets, valuable stores, and seven thou- sand prisoners, besides killing and wound- ing great numbers. All tbese successes were gained at a cost of only forty-five hundred men. The skill of General Grant and his lieutenants, and the valor of their troops, were signally displayed in these operations, the first assured intelligence of which reached the North in time to add to the pleasures of the National Thanks- giving, as the first news of Getfysburg had come to us on the Fourth of July. The November victories put an end to all fear that the enemy might be able to carry out their original project, while it seemed to be certain that the scene of active operations would be transferred from East Tennessee to Northern Geor ia. General Burnside still held Knox- ville, and it was supposed that General Longstreet would find it difficult to escape destruction. General Bragg had retreat- ed to Dalton, which is about a hundred miles from Atlanta, and is reported to have summoned General Longstreet to rejoin him. The Army of the Potomac, which had borne itself very gallantly in some of the autumnal operations conse- quent on Lees advance, had followed the army commanded by this General when it retreated, inflicting on it considerable loss, and crossing the Rapid Ann.* Victories have been gained by the Un- ionists in other quarters,in Missouri, in Arkansas, in Louisiana, and in Mississip- pi,whereby the enemys numbers have been diminished, and territory brought under the Union flag that until recently was held by the Rebels, and from which they drew means of subsistence now no longer available to them. ~ Since the above was written, intelligence has been received of the defeat of General Longstreet, the losses experienced by the ene- my being great. This disposes of the remains of the great army which 1~1r. Davis had assem- bled to reconquer Tennessee, and to reestab- lish communications between the varions parts of the Southern Confederacy on this side of the Mississippi. The Army of the Potomac has re- turned to its former ground, near Washington. The effects of all the successes which have been mentioned are various. We have deprived the enemy of extensive por- tions of territory, in most of their States. Tennessee is rescued; Maryland, Ken- tucky, and Missouri are placed beyond all danger of being taken by the Rebels; in Arkansas, Louisiana, and Texas we hold places of much political and military im- portance; Mississippi is practically ours; Alabama yields little to our foe; Georgia is invaded, instead of remaining the basis of a grand attack on Tennessee and Ken- tucky; the Carolinas, greatly favored by geographical circumstances, are barely able to hold out against attacks that are not made in force, and portions of their territory are ours; Virginia is exhausted, and there the enemy cannot long remain, even should they meet with no reverses in the field; and, finally, as General Grants successes at Yicksburg halved the Con- federacy, so have his Chattanooga suc- cesses quartered it. The Rebels are no longer one people, but are divided into a number of communities, which cannot act together, even if we could suppose their populations to be animated by one spirit, which certainly they are not. Of the in- habitants of the oriainal Confederacy probably two-fifths are no longer under the control of the Richmond Govern- ment; and of the remainder a very large proportion are said to be massed in C cor- gia, a State that has hitherto suffered little from the war, but which now seems about to become the scene of vast and impor- tant operations, which cannot be carried on without causing sweeping devastation. The public journals state that there are two million slaves in Georgia, most of whom have been taken or sent thither by their owners, inhabitants of other States. This must tend greatly to in- crease the difficulties of the enemy, whose stores of food and clothing are not large in any of the Atlantic or Gulf States. Much stress has been placed on the starvation - theory, and it is probable that there is much suffering in the Con- federacy; but this does not proceed so much from the positive absence of food 1864.] The Beginning of the End. 117 as from other causes. The first of these causes is undoubtedly the loss of all faith in the Southern currency. That curren- cy has not yet fallen so low as the Conti- nental currency fell, when it required a bushel of it to pay for a peck of potatoes, but it is at a terrible discount, and the day is fast coming when it will be regarded as of no more value than so many pieces of brown paper; and its depreciation, and the prospect of its soon becoming utterly worthless, are among the chief consequen- ces of the triumphs of our arms. Men see that there will be no power to make pay- ment, and they will not part with their property for rags so rotten. They may wish success to the Confederate cause, but they must live, and live they can- not on paper that is nothing but paper. The journal that is understood to speak for Mr. Davis recommends a forced loan, the last resort of men the last days of whose power are near at hand. Another cause of the scarcity of food in the South is to be found in the condition of South- ern communications. If all the food in the Confederacy could be equally dis- tributed, now and hereafter, we doubt not that every person living there would get enough to eat, and even have some- thing to spare, civilians as well as sol- diers, blacks as well as whites; but no such distribution is possible, because there are but indifferent means for the convey- ance of food from places where it is abun- dant to places where famines ascendency is becoming established. The Southern railways have been terribly worked for three years, and are now worn out, with no hope of their rails and rolling-stock being renewed. Our troops have ren- dered hundreds of miles of those ways useless, and they have possession of oth- er lines. Southern harbors and rivers are held or commanded by Northern ships or armies. The Mississippi, which was once so useful to the Rebels, has, now that we control it, become a bio ditch, separating their armies from their princi- pal source of supply. It is that last ditch in which they are to die. That wide extent of Southern territory, which has so often been mentioned at home and abroad as presenting the leading reason why we never could conquer the Rebels, now works against them, and in our fa- vor. Food may be abundant to waste- fulness in some States, while in others people may be dying for the want of it. The Secessionists are now situated as most peol)les used to be, before ~oo(l roads became common. The South is becoming reduced to that state which was known to some parts of England be- fore that country had made for itself the best roads of Christendom, and when there would be starvation in one parish, while perhaps in the next the fruits of the earth were rotting on its surface, be- cause there were no means of getting them to market. With a currency so debased that no man will willingly take it, while all men readily take Union greenbacks, with railways either worn out or held by foes, with but one har- bor this side of the Mississippi that is not closely shut up, and that harbor in course of becoming closed completely, with their rivers furnishing means for attack, instead of lines of defence, with their territory and numbers daily decreasing, with defeat overtaking their armies on almost every field, with the expressed determination of the North to prosecute the war, be the consequences what they may, with the constant increase of Union numbers, and with the steady refusal of foreign powers to recognize the Confederacy, or to afford it any counte- nance or open assistance, the Rebels must he infatuated, and determined to provoke destruction, if they do not soon make overtures for peace. It is all very well for the chivalrous classes at the South, whoever they may happen to be, to talk about dy- ing in the last ditch, and of imitating the action of Pelayo and his friends; but common folk like to die in their beds, and to receive the inevitable vis- itant with decorum, to an exhibition of which ditches are decidedly unfavorable. As to Pelayo, he lived in an age in which there were neither railways nor rifled 118 The Beginning of the End. [January, cannon, neither steamships nor Parrott guns, neither Monitors nor greenbacks, else he and his would either have been routed out of the Asturian Moun- tains, or have been compelled to remain there forever. The conditions of mod- ern life and society are highly unfavor- able to those heroic modes of resistance and existence in which alone gentlemen of Pelayos pursuits can hope to flourish. We Saracens of the North would ask nothing better than to have Pelayo Davis lead all his valiant ragamuffins into the strongest range of mountains that could be found in all Secessia, there to estab- lish the new Kingdom of Gijon. We should deserve the worst that could befall us, if we failed to vindicate the common American idea, that this country is no place for lovers of crowns and kingdoms. As to the guerrillas, we know that they are an exasperating set of fellows, but they must soon disappear before the ad- vance of the Union armies. A guerrillade on an extensive scale and of long continu- ance is possible only while it is supported by the presence of large and successful regular armies. I-lad Wellington been driven out of the Peninsula, the Spanish guerrillas would have given little trouble to the intrusive French king at Madrid. Defeat Lee, and Mosby will vanish. Af- ter all, the Southern guerrillas are not much worse than other Southrons were at no very remote period, it is within the memory of even middle-aged persons, that the southwestern portion of our coun- try was in as lawless a state as ever were the borders of England and Scotland, and with no Belted Will to hang up ruf- fians to swing in the wind. As those ruffians were mostly removed by time, and the scenes of their labors became the seats of prosperous and well-ordered com- munities, so will the guerrillas of to-day be made to give way by that inexorable reformer and avenger. Order will once more prevail in the Southwest, and cot- ton, tobacco, and rice again yield their increase to regular industry, an in- dustry that shall be all the more produc- tive, because exercised by free men. The political incidents of 1863 are as encouraging as the incidents of war. The discontent that existed toward the close of 1862 a discontent by no means groundless led to the apparent defeat of the war-party in many States, and to the decrease of its strength in others. But it was an illogical conclusion that the people were dissatisfied with the war, when they only meant to express their dissatisfaction with the manner in which it was conducted. Their votes in 1863 truly expressed their feeling. In every State but New Jersey the war-party was successful, its majority in Ohio being 100,000, in New York 30,000, in Penn- sylvania 15,000, in Massachusetts, 40,- 000, in Iowa 32,000, in Maine 22,000, in California 20,000. And so on through- out the country. The popular voice is still for war, but for war boldly, and therefore wisely, waged. The improvement that has taken place in our foreign relations is even greater than that which has come over our do- mestic affairs; and for the first time since the opening of the civil war, it is possible for Americans to say that there is every reason for believing that they are to be left to settle their own affairs according to their own ideas as to the fitness of things. This change, like all important changes in human affairs, is due to a variety of causes. In part it is owing to what we considered to be among our greatest misfortunes, and in part to those successes which changed the con- dition of affairs. Our failure at Fred- ericksburg, at the close of 1862, strength- ened the general European impression that the Rebels were to succeed; and as their defeat at Murfreesboro was not followed by an advance of our forces, that impression was not weakened by General Braggs failure, though that was more signal than was the failure of Gen- eral Burnside. If the Rebels were to succeed, why should European govern- ments do anything in aid of their cause, at the hazard of war with us? Our de- feat at Chancellorsville, last May, tend- ed still further to strengthen foreign be- 1864.] The Beginning of tke End. 119 lief that the Secessionists were to be the winning party, and that they were com- petent to do all their own work; but if it had not soon been followed by signal reverses to the Rebel arms, it is cer- tain that the Confederacy would have been acknowledged hy most European nations, on the plausible ground that its existence had been established on the battle-field, and that we could not object to the admission of a self- evident fact by foreign sovereigns and statesmen, who were bound to look after the welfare of their own subjects and countrymeu, whose interests were greatly concerned with the trade of our Southern country. For- funately for all parties but the Rebels, those reverses came suddenly and with such emphasis as to create serious doubts in the European mind as to the superior- ity of the South as a fighting community. In an evil hour for his cause, General Lee abandoned that wise defensive sys- tem to which he had so long and so suc- cessfully adhered, and made a movement into the Free States. What was the un- mediate cause of his change of proceed- ing will probably never be accurately known to the existing generation. On the face of things no good political rea- son appears for that change being made; and on military grounds it was sure to lead to disaster, unless the North had be- come the most craven of countries. So bad was Lees advance into the North, militarily speaking, that it would have been the part of good policy to allow him to march without resistance to a point at least a hundred miles beyond that field on which he was to find his fate. A Gettysburg that should have been fought that distance from the base of Southern operations could have had no other re- sult than the destruction of the main Southern army; and that occurring at about the same time that Port Hudson and Yicksburg surrendered, the war could have been ended by a series of thunder - strokes. Not a man of Lees army could have escaped. But the pride of the country prevented the adoption of a course that promised the most splendid of successes, and com- pelled our Government and our com- mander to forego the noblest opportuni- ty that had presented itself to effect the enemys annihilation. Gettysburg was made immortal, afid Lee escaped, not without tremendous losses, yet with the larger part of his army, and with much booty, that perhaps compensated his own loss in materiel. He was beaten, on a field of his own choosing, and with num- bers in his favor; and his previous victo- ries, the almost uniform success that had attended his earlier movements, made his Pennsylvania reverses all the more grave in the estimation of foreigners. Immediately after news was sent abroad of his defeat and retreat, tidings came to us, and soon were spread over the world, that the Rebels had experienced the most terrible disasters in the Southwest, where- by the so-called Confederacy had been cut in two. These facts gave pause to those intentions of acknowledgment which had undoubtedly been entertained in Eu- ropean courts and cabinets; and nothing afterward occurred, down to the day of Chickamauga, which was calculated to ef- fect a change in the minds of the rulers of the Old World. But when intelli- gence of Chickamauga reached Europe, England had taken a position so deter- minedly hostile to intervention in any of fts many forms and stages that even a much greater disaster than that could have produced no evil to our cause abroad. For it is to be remembered that the whole business of intervention has lain from the beginning in the bosom of England, and that, if she had chosen to act against us in force, she could have done so with the strongest hope of success, if merely our humiliation, or even our destruction, had been her object, and without any imme- diate danger threatening herself as the consequence of her hostile action. The French Government, not France, or any considerable portion of the French peo- ple, has been ready to interfere in be- half of the Rebels for more than two years, and would have entered upon the process of intervention long since, if it 120 The Beginning of the Thzd. [January, had not been held back by the obstinate refusal of England to unite with her in that pro-slavery crusade which, it is with regret we say it, the French Emperor has so much at heart; and without the aid and assistance of England, the ruler of France could not and durst not move an inch against us. Not the least, nor least strange, of the changes of this mutable world is to be seen in the circumstance that France should be restrained from un- doing the work of the Bourbons and of Na- poleon I. by Englands firm opposition to the wishes and purposes of Napoleon III. The Bourbon policy, as well in Spain as in Franco, brought about the early over- throw of Englands rule over the territo- ry of the old United States; and the first Napoleon sold Louisiana to us for a song, because he was convinced, that, by so do- ing, he should aid to build up a formi- dable naval rival of England. The man who seeks to undo all this, to destroy what Bourbon and Bonaparte sacrificed so much to effect, is the heir of Bona- parte, and the expounder and illustrator of Napoleons ideas; and the power that places herself resolutely across his path, and will not join in his plot to erase us from the list of nations is England! In a romance such a state of things would be pronounced too absurd for invention; but in this every-day world it is nothing but a commonplace incident, extraordi- nary as it may seem at the first thought that is bestowed upon it. That England governs France in this matter of intervention in our quarrel is clear enough, as also are the reasons why Paris will not move to the aid of the Rebels unless London shall keep even step with her. France asked England to unite with her in an offer of mediation, which would have been an armed medi- ation, bad England fallen into the Gal- lic trap, but which amounted to nothing when it proceeded from France alone. England withdrew fromthe Mexican bus- iness as soon as she saw that France was bent upon a course that might lead to trouble with the United States, and left her to create a throne in that country. As soon as England put the broad ar- row upon the rams of that eminent pas- toral character, Laird of Birkenhead, France withdrew the permission which she had formally bestowed upon MM. Ar- man and Vorney to build four powerful steamships for the Rebels at Nantes and Bordeaux. France would acknowledge the Confederacy to-day, and send a min- ister to Richmond, and consuls to Mo- bile and Galveston and Wilmington, if England would but agree to be to her against us what Spain was to her for us in the days of our Revolution. But Eng- land will not join with her ancient ene- my to effect the ruin of a country of the existence of which she should be proud, seein(r that it is her own creation. a Why, then, is it that there is so much ill-feeling in America toward England, while none is felt toward France,Eng- land being, as it were, our shield against that French sword which is raised over our head, upon which its holder would bring it down with imperial force? Prin- cipally the difference is due to that pe- culiarity in the human character which leads men to think much of insults and but little of injuries. We doubt if any strong enmity was ever created in the minds of men or nations through the in- fliction of injuries, though injuring par- ties have an undoubted right to hate their victip~s; and we are sure that an insult was never yet forgiven by any nation, or by any individual, whose re- sentment was of any account. Now, Eng- land has poured insults upon us, or rath- er Englishmen have done so, until we have become as sore as bears who have been assailed by bees. English states- men and politicians have told us that we were wrong in fightingfor the restoration of the Union, violating our own princi- ples. and literally committing the gross- est of crimes, taking care to add, that our sins would provide their own pun- ishment, for we could not put down the Rebels. Even moderate-minded men in England have not hesitated to con- demn our course, while admitting that our conduct was natural, on the ground The Beginning of the End. that we had no hope of success, and that useless wars are simply horrible. Our English enemies have been fierce and vindictive blackguards, as witness Roebuck, Lyndsay, and Lord R. Cecil, while most of our friends there have deemed it the best policy to make use of very moderate language, when speak- ing of our cause, or of the conduct of our public men. Englishmen of dis- tinction, some of whom have long been held in high esteem here, have not hes- itated to express a desire for our over- throw, because we were becoming too strong, though our free population is not materially different, as regards numbers, from that of the British Islands, and is as nothing when compared with the number of Queen Victorias subjects. They were not ashamed to be so thor- oughly un-English as to admit the exist- ence of fear in their minds of a people living three thousand miles from their country: a circumstance to be noted; for your Englishman is & pt to err on the side of contempt for others, and as a rule he fears nobody. Others have so wantonly misrepresented the character of our cause, Mr. Carlyle is a notable member of this class, that it is impos- sible not to be offended, when listening to their astounding falsehoods. But it is the British press that has done most to array Americans against England. That press is very ably conducted, and the most noted of its members have display- ed a degree of hostility toward us that could not have been predicted without the prophet being suspected of madness, or of diabolical inspiration. All its articles attacking us are reproduced here, and are read by everybody, and the effect there- of can be imagined. Toward us British journalists are playing the same part that was played by their predecessors toward France sixty years since, and which con- verted what was meant to be a perma- nent peace into the mere truce of Amiens. Insolent and egotistical as a class, though there are highly honorable exceptions, those journalists have done more to make their country the object of dislike than has been accomplished by all other Eng- lishmen. Their deeds show that the pen is mightier than the sword, and that its conquests are permanent. It has been said that France has been as unfriendly to us as England, and that, therefore, we ought to feel for her the same dislike as that of which England is the object. But, admitting the assertion to be true, we know little of what the French have said or written concerning us. The dif- ference of language prevents us from taking much offence at Gallic criticism. Not one American in a hundred reads French; and of those who do read it, not one in a thousand, journalists apart, ever sees a French quarterly, monthly, weekly, or daily publication. Occasionally, an ar- ticle from a French journal is translat- ed for some one of our newspapers, but it is oftener of a friendly character than otherwise. The best French publications support the Unio!1 cause, at theiP head standing the D6bats, which is not the inferior of the Times in respect to ability, and is far its superior in all other respects. Besides, judging from such ar- ticles from the French presses devoted to Secession interests as have come under our observation, they are neither so able nor so venomous as those which appear in British Secessionjournals and magazines. Most of them might be translated for the purpose of showing that the French have no wish for our destruction, while the language of the British articles indicates the existence of an intense personal hos- tility, and an eager desire to see the United States partitioned like Poland. We should be something much above, or as much below, the standard of human- ity, if we were not moved deeply by such evidences of fierce hatred, expressed in the fiercest of language. In assuming a strictly iibpartial position, England follows a sense of interest, which is proper and praiseworthy. She cannot, supposing her to be wise, be desirous of our destruction; for, that accomplished, she would be more open than ever to a French attack. Let Napoleon III. ac- complish those European purposes to 1864.1 121 122 The Beginning of the End. [January, which his mind is now directed, and be would be impelled to quarrel with Eng- land by a variety of considerations, should this Republic be broken up into half a dozen feeble and quarrelsome confeder- acies. But with the United States in existence, and powerful enough to com- mand respect, he would not dare to seek the overthrow of the British Empire. We could not permit him to head a cru- sade for Englands annihilation, no mat- ter what might be our feeling toward the mother-land. Ajust regard for our own interests would impel us to side with her, should she he placed in serious danger. Such was, substantially, President Jeffer- sons opinion, sixty years ago, when the first Napoleon was so bent upon the con- quest of England; and we think that his views are applicable to the existing cir- cumstances of the world. Where should we have been now, if England had quar- relled with and been conquered by Napo- leon III.? We must distinguish between the English nation and Englishmen, between the English Government, which has, perhaps, borne itself as favorably toward us as it could, and that English aristocracy which has, as a rule, exhibit- ed so strong a desire to have us extin- guished, even while it has repeatedly re- fused to take steps preparatory to war and the two countries should be persuad- ed to understand that neither can perish without the life of the other being placed in great danger. The best answer to be made to the wordy attacks of Englishmen is to be found in succcss. That answer would be complete; and if it cannot be made, what will it signif to us what shall he said of us by foreigners? The bitter- est attacks can never disturb the dead. One cause of the change of Englands course toward us is to be found in our own change of moral position. The Presi- dents Emancipation Proclamation went into effect on the first of January, 1863; and from that time the anti-slavery people of England have been on our side; and their influence is great, and bears upon the supporters of the Palmerston Ministry with peculiar force. Had our Govern- ment persisted in the pro-slavery policy which it favored down to the autumn of 1862, it is not at all unlikely that the Eng- lish intervention party would have been strong enough to compel their country to go with France in her mediation scheme, and the step from mediation to inter- vention would have been but a short one; but the committal of the North to an- ti-slavery views, and the union of their cause with that of emancipation, threw the English Abolitionists, men who large- ly represent Englands moral worth, on our side. The Proclamation, therefore, even if it could be proved that it had not led to the liberation of one slave, has heei~ of immense service to us, and the Presi- dent deserves the thanks of every loyal American for having issued it. He threw a shell into the foreign Secession camp, the explosion of which was fatal to that cordial understanding that was to have operated for our annihilation. Such was the year of the Proclamation, and its history is marvellous in our eyes. It stands in striking contrast to the other years of the war, both of which closed badly for us, and left the impression that the enemys case was a good one, speak- ing militarily. Our improved condition should be attributed to the true cause. When, in the Parliament of 1601, Mr. Speaker Croke said that the kingdom of England had been defended by the mighty arm of the Queen, Elizabeth exclaimed from the throne, No, Mr. Speaker, but rather by the mighty hand of God! So with us. We have been saved by the mighty hand of God. Neither malice domestic nor foreign levy has prevailed at our expense. Whether we had the right to expect Heavens aid, we cannot undertake to say; but we know that we should not have deserved it, had we continued to link the nations cause to that of oppres- sion, and had we shed blood and expend- ed gold in order to restore the system of slavery and the sway of slaveholders. 123 Reviews and Literary Notices. REVIEWS AND LITERARY NOTICES. Life and Correspondence of Theodore Parker, Minister of the Twenty-Eighth Congrega- tional Society, Boston. By JOHN WEISS. In Two Volumes. 8vo. London. SUCH a life of Theodore Parker as Mr. Parton has written of Andrew Jackson would be accepted as an American clas- sic. For such a life, however, it is man- ifestly unreasonable to look. Not until the present generation has passed away, not until the perilous questions which vex mens souls to-day shall rest forever, could any competent biographer regard the iconoclast of the Music hall as a subject for complacent literary speculation or calm judicial discourse. For us, this life of Parker must be interpreted by one of the family. He shall best use these precious letters and journals who is spirit- ually related to their writer, if not bound to him by the feebler tie of blood. And assuming the necessity of a partisan, or, as it might more gently be expressed, wholly sympathetic biographer, there is little but commendation for Mr. Weiss. With admirable clearness and strength he rings out the full tone of thought and belief among that earnest school of think- ers and doers of which Theodore Pnrker was the representative. Full as are these goodly octavos with the best legacies of him whose life is written, we have re- turned no less frequently to the deeply reflective arguments and acute criticisms of Mr. Weiss. Let the keen discrimina- tion of a passage taken almost at random justify us, if it may. Some people say that they are not indebt- ed to Mr. Parker for a single thought. The word thought is so loosely used that a defi- nition of terms must precede our estimate of Mr. Parkers suggestiveness and originality. Men who are kept by a commonplace-book go about raking everywhere for glittering scraps, which they carry home to be sorted in their wsthetic junk-shop. Any portable bit that strikes the fancy is a thought. There are literary rag-pickers of every degree of nbility; and a great deal of judgment can be shown in finding the scrap or nail you want in a heap of rubbish. Quotable matter is gen- erally considered to be strongly veined with thought. Some people estimate a writer ac cording to the number of apt sentences im- bedded in his work. But who is judge of aptness itself? What is apt for an epigram is not apt for a revolution: the shock of a witty antithesis is related to the healthy stim- ulus of creative thinking, as a small electri- cal battery to the terrestrial currents. Well- built rhetorical climaxes, sharp and sudden contrasts, Poor Richards common-sense, a page boiled down to a sentence, a fresh simile from Nature, a subtle mood projected upon Nature, a swift controversial retort, all these things are called thoughts. The pleasure in them is so great, that one fancies they leave him in their debt. That depends upon ones standard of indebtedness. Now a penny-a- liner is indebted to a single phrase which fur- nishes his column; a clergyman near Satur- day night seizes with rapture the clue of a fine simile which spins into a beautiful ser mon; for the material of his verses a rhyme- ster is indebted~ to an anecdote or incident. In a higher degree all kinds of literary work are indebted to that commerce of ideas be- tween the minds of all nations, which fit up interiors more comfortably, and upholster them better than before. And everything that gets into circulation is called a thought, be it a dis- covery in science, a mechanical invention, the statement of a natural law, comparative statis- tics, rules of ecunomy, diplomatic circulars, and fine magazine-writing. It is the manwuvring of the different arms in the great service of humanity, solid or dashing, on a field already gained. But the thought which organizes the fresh advance goes with the pioneer-train that bridges streams, that mines the hill, that feels the country. The controlling plan puts itself forth with that swarthy set of leather-aproned men shouldering picks and axes. How bril- liantly the uniforms defile afterward, with flashing points and rhythmic swing, over the fresh causeway, to hold and maintain a posi- tion whose value was ideally conceived! So that the brightest facings do not cover the boldest thought. By omissions here and there, in all not amounting to ten pages of printed matter, these literary remains of Theo- dore Parker might have been made less offensive to believers in the Christian Rev- elation, as well as to the not small class of gentlemanly skeptics who go through whatever motions the best society esteems correct. In these days, many worthy peo- ple, who are not quite sound upon Noahs 1864.1

Weiss's Life and Correspondence of Theodore Parker Reviews and Literary Notices 123-126

123 Reviews and Literary Notices. REVIEWS AND LITERARY NOTICES. Life and Correspondence of Theodore Parker, Minister of the Twenty-Eighth Congrega- tional Society, Boston. By JOHN WEISS. In Two Volumes. 8vo. London. SUCH a life of Theodore Parker as Mr. Parton has written of Andrew Jackson would be accepted as an American clas- sic. For such a life, however, it is man- ifestly unreasonable to look. Not until the present generation has passed away, not until the perilous questions which vex mens souls to-day shall rest forever, could any competent biographer regard the iconoclast of the Music hall as a subject for complacent literary speculation or calm judicial discourse. For us, this life of Parker must be interpreted by one of the family. He shall best use these precious letters and journals who is spirit- ually related to their writer, if not bound to him by the feebler tie of blood. And assuming the necessity of a partisan, or, as it might more gently be expressed, wholly sympathetic biographer, there is little but commendation for Mr. Weiss. With admirable clearness and strength he rings out the full tone of thought and belief among that earnest school of think- ers and doers of which Theodore Pnrker was the representative. Full as are these goodly octavos with the best legacies of him whose life is written, we have re- turned no less frequently to the deeply reflective arguments and acute criticisms of Mr. Weiss. Let the keen discrimina- tion of a passage taken almost at random justify us, if it may. Some people say that they are not indebt- ed to Mr. Parker for a single thought. The word thought is so loosely used that a defi- nition of terms must precede our estimate of Mr. Parkers suggestiveness and originality. Men who are kept by a commonplace-book go about raking everywhere for glittering scraps, which they carry home to be sorted in their wsthetic junk-shop. Any portable bit that strikes the fancy is a thought. There are literary rag-pickers of every degree of nbility; and a great deal of judgment can be shown in finding the scrap or nail you want in a heap of rubbish. Quotable matter is gen- erally considered to be strongly veined with thought. Some people estimate a writer ac cording to the number of apt sentences im- bedded in his work. But who is judge of aptness itself? What is apt for an epigram is not apt for a revolution: the shock of a witty antithesis is related to the healthy stim- ulus of creative thinking, as a small electri- cal battery to the terrestrial currents. Well- built rhetorical climaxes, sharp and sudden contrasts, Poor Richards common-sense, a page boiled down to a sentence, a fresh simile from Nature, a subtle mood projected upon Nature, a swift controversial retort, all these things are called thoughts. The pleasure in them is so great, that one fancies they leave him in their debt. That depends upon ones standard of indebtedness. Now a penny-a- liner is indebted to a single phrase which fur- nishes his column; a clergyman near Satur- day night seizes with rapture the clue of a fine simile which spins into a beautiful ser mon; for the material of his verses a rhyme- ster is indebted~ to an anecdote or incident. In a higher degree all kinds of literary work are indebted to that commerce of ideas be- tween the minds of all nations, which fit up interiors more comfortably, and upholster them better than before. And everything that gets into circulation is called a thought, be it a dis- covery in science, a mechanical invention, the statement of a natural law, comparative statis- tics, rules of ecunomy, diplomatic circulars, and fine magazine-writing. It is the manwuvring of the different arms in the great service of humanity, solid or dashing, on a field already gained. But the thought which organizes the fresh advance goes with the pioneer-train that bridges streams, that mines the hill, that feels the country. The controlling plan puts itself forth with that swarthy set of leather-aproned men shouldering picks and axes. How bril- liantly the uniforms defile afterward, with flashing points and rhythmic swing, over the fresh causeway, to hold and maintain a posi- tion whose value was ideally conceived! So that the brightest facings do not cover the boldest thought. By omissions here and there, in all not amounting to ten pages of printed matter, these literary remains of Theo- dore Parker might have been made less offensive to believers in the Christian Rev- elation, as well as to the not small class of gentlemanly skeptics who go through whatever motions the best society esteems correct. In these days, many worthy peo- ple, who are not quite sound upon Noahs 1864.1 124 Reviews and Literary Notices. [January, ark, or even the destruction of the swine, will wince perceptibly at hearing the Lords Supper called a heathenish rite. And it would be unfair to the memories of most noted men to stereotype for ten thousand eyes the rough estimates of fa- miliar letters, or the fragmentary ejacula- tions of a private journal. But Mr. Par- ker never scrupled to exhibit before the world all that was worst in him. There are few chapters that will not recall de- fects publicly shown by the preacher and author. The reader can scarcely miss a corroboration of a shrewd observation of Macaulay, that there is no proposition so monstrously untrue in politics or morals as to be incapable of proof by what shall sound likx~ a logical demonstration from ad- mitted principles. Theodore Parker was a strong and honest man. Yet few strong men have so lain at the mercy of some nar- row bit of logic; few honest ones have so warped facts to matchopinions. We speak of exceptional instances, not of ordinary habits. He seemed unable to persuade himself that a scheme of faith which was false to him could be true to others of equal intelligence and virtue. He fell too easily into the spasmodic vice of the day, and said striking things rather than true ones. He assumed a basis of faith every whit as dogmatic as special revelation, and some- times grievously misrepresented the creeds which he assailed. Strangers might go to the Music Hall to breathe the free air of a catholic liberality, and find nothing but the old fierceness of sectarianism broken loose against the sects. Let us make every de- duction which a candid criticism is com- pelled to claim, and Theodore Parker stands a noble representative of Republi- can America. his place is still among the immortals who are not the creatures of an age, but its regenerators. For it is not the life of a great skeptic, but the work of a great believer, which is brought be- fore us in these volumes. This uncom- promising enemy of the creeds was the ally of their highest uses. His soul never lacked that dear and personal object of worship which is offered by the Christian Revelation in its common acceptance. He could have lived in no more jubilant con- fidence of immortality, had he enjoyed the tactual satisfactions of Thomas himself. No Catholic nun feels more delicious as- surance of the protection of the Virgin, no Protestant maiden knows a more bliss- ful consciousness of the Saviours marital affection towards her particular church, than felt this Theodore Parker in the fatherly anif motherly tenderness of the Great Cause of All. Certainly, few doubt- ers have ever doubted to so much purpose as he. Men who are skeptical through the intellect in the Christian creeds seldom live so sturdily the Christian life. Yet we cannot think that the fervent faith with which he wrought caine from what was exceptional in his belief; it was rather a good gift of native and special sort. For it is a true insight which leads Tennyson to warn him whose faith does not trust it- self to form, that his sisteris quicker unto good from the hallowed symbol through which she receives a divine truth. Many who flatter themselves that they have out- grown the need of a human embodiment of the Fathers love have only induced a plasticity of mind which prevents the life from taking shape in any positive affirma- tion. It is a strong help to me, writes a Congregational minister, to find a man, standing on the extreme verge of liberal theology, holding so firmly, so tenacious- ly, to the one true religion, love to God and man. But may all men stand there, and cling to it as resolutely as he did l The ancestors of Theodore Parker seem to have been creditable offshoots from the Puritan stock. They were men and wom- en of thrift and sagacity. Of his moth- er there are very sweet glimpses. He describes her as hnaginative, delicate- minded, and poetic, yet a very practical woman. She appears to have been thor- oughly religious, but without taste for the niceties of dogmatic theology. Piety did not have to be laboriously put into her, before it could generously come out. I have known few, writes her son, in whom the religious instincts were so ac- tive and profound, and who seemed to me to enjoy so completely the life of God in the soul of man. And again he says, Religion was the inheritance my mother gave, gave me in my birth, gave me in her teachings. Many sons have been better born than I, few have had so good a mother. I mention these things to show you how I came to have the views of re- ligion that I have now. My head is not more natural to my body, has not more grown with it, than my religion out of my 1864.] Reviews and Literary Notices. 12~i soul and with it. With me religion was not carpentry, something built up of dry wood, from without; but it was growth, gr,owth of a germ in my soul. Thus we see that Parker was not singular in his sources of goodness and nobility: here also have the strong and worthy men of all time received their inspiration. The mothers sphere is never confined to the household, but expands for joy or bitter- ness through the world at large. A youth of farm - work, snatches of study, and school-teaching, seem to be the appointed curriculum for our trustworthy men. In addition to this, Theodore achieves a slight connection with Harvard, insuffi- cient for a degree, yet enough for him, if not for the College. Then he teaches a private class in Boston, and presently opens school in Watertown. Here, for the first time, comes a modest success after the worlds measurement. He has soon thirty-five, and afterwards fifty-four scholars. And now occurs an incident which is unaccountably degraded to the minion type of a note. It is, however, just what the reader wants to know, and deserves Italics and double - leading, if human actions are ever sufficiently note- worthy for these honors. The Watertown teacher receives a colored girl who has been sent to him, and then consents to dismiss her in deference to the prejudices of Caucasian patrons. Simon Peter de- nied the Saviour for whom he was after- wards crucified with his head hanging down. One day we shall find this school- master leaving most cherished work, and braving all social obloquies, that he may stand closer than a brother to the despised and ignorant of the outcast race. The colored girl was amply avenged. But the teacher is here, as ever after, a learner, and his leisure is filled with languages, Latin, Greek, Hebrew, German, Spanish, and French. During his subsequent stay at the Cambridge Divinity School, there are added studies in Italian, Portuguese, Icelandic, Chaldaic, Arabic, Persian, and Coptic. Of his proficiency in this Babel of tongues the evidence is not very con- clusive. Professor Willard is said to have applied to the young divinity-student for advice in some nice matters of Hebrew and Syriac. Theology there can be no doubt that he thoroughly mastered. After a brief season of itinerancy through Mas sachusetts pulpits, he is settled at XVest Roxhury. And here begins that agony of doubt dismal and unprofitable to con- template, when it is not redeemed by a manly ardor which searches on for attain- able grounds of trust. But in this young minister the faith of a little child cannQt be superseded by the advents of geology and carnal criticism. Some of the Bibli- cal conceptions of the Deity may be found inadequate, but Nature and the human soul are full of His presence and glow with His inspirations. Within the limits of capacity and obedience, every man and woman may receive direct nourishment from God. At length the South - Boston sermon of 1841 separates the position of Theodore Parker from that of his Unita- rian brethren. After this, his life belongs to the public. He is known of men as an assailant of respectable and sacred things, a bitter critic of political and social usages. That these manifestations were but small portions of the total of his life, the public may now discern. We can recall no published correspond- ence of the century which combines more excellent and diverse qualities than this with which Mr. Weiss has plentifully filled his pages. Occasions for which the com- pletest of Complete Letter - Writers has failed to provide are met by Mr. Parker with consummate discretion. His letters are to Senators, Shakers, Professors, Doc- tors, Slaveholders, Abolitionists, morbid girls, and heroic women: they are all equally rich in spontaneity, simplicity, and point. Keen criticisms of noted men, spec- ulations upon society, homely wisdom of the household, estimates of the arts, and consolations of religion, all packed in plain and precise English, seem to have been ever ready for delivery. If Mr. Parker had not chosen the unpopularity of a great man, he could have had the abundant pop- ularity of a clever one. Let us see how he outlines the Seer of Stockholm for an in- quiring correspondent: Swedenborg has had the fate to be wor- shipped as a half-god, on the one side; and on the other, to be despised and laughed at. It seems to me that he was a man of genius, of wide learning, of deep and genuine piety But he had an abnormal, queer sort o? mind, dreamy, dozy, clairvoyant, Andrew-Jackson- Davisy; and besides, he loved opium and strong coffee, and wrote under the influence 126 Reviews and Literary Notices. [January, of those drugs. A wise man may get many nice bits out of him, and be the healthier for such eating ; but if he swallows Swedenborg whole, as the fashion is with his followers, why, it lays hard in th~ stomach, and the man has a ni~,htmare on him all his natural life, and talks about the Word, and the Spirit, correspondences, receivers. Yet the Swe- denborgians have a calm and religious beauty in their lives which is much to be admired. The deeply affectionate nature of Theo- dore Parker glows warmly through the Correspondence and Journal. His friends were necessities, and were loved with a devotion by no means characteristic of Americans. He could give his life to ideas, but his heart must be given to persons, young and old. Turning from his task of opposition and conflict, he would yearn for the society of little children, whose household loves might dull the noise and violence and passion through which he daily walked. The great joy of my life, he writes; cannot be intellectual ac- tion, neither practical work. Though I joy in both, it is the affections which open the spring of mortal delight. But the object of my affections, dearest of all, is not at hand. How strange that I should have no children, and only get a little sad sort of happiness, not of the affectional quality! I am only an old maid in ifs, after all my bettying about in literature and philan- thropy. And in a letter to Dr. Francis there comes an exclamation of which the arrangement is very pathetic in its signifi- cance, I have no child, and the worst reputation of any minister in all America!~~ We are in no position to estimate with any exactness either the adaptation of Theodore Parker to our national well- being or his positive aid to the mental and moral progress of New - England society. Violent denunciations in the interest of the various sects and policies that he at- tacked will for the present be levelled against him. Neither will there be want- ing extravagant eulogiums from personal friends, fellow-religionists, and zealous re- formers. Only the distant view of a gen- eration yet to be can see him in just rela- tion to the men of this time. In judging the weight and work of a contemporary, we attach an over-importance to the number and social position of his nominal ad- herents; while, in estimating the utility of an historic leader, we instinctively feel that these things are almost the last to be considered. For the greatest influ- ence for good has come from men who have struggled in feeble minorities, ever alienating would - be friends by an invincible honesty, or even by an invin- cible fanaticism. Not to the .excellences or extravagances of a handful of persons who precisely agree with his views of Christianity may we look for the influ- ence of Theodore Parker which to-day works among us. We might find it in greater power in Brownsons Catholic Re- view, in the humane magnetism of ortho- dox Mr. Beecher, in the Episcopal minis- trations of Dr. Tyng. For any intelligent Christian must allow that those claiming to represent the Church of Christ have too often sided with the oppressor, fettered human thought in departments foreign to religion, and inculcated degrading beliefs, - which scholars eminent in orthodoxy de- clare indeducible from any Biblical pre- cept. It is not the incredibleness of a met- aphysical belieg but a laxity or cowardice of the practice connected with it, which can point the reformers gibe and wing his sarcasm. Theodore Parker virtually told the Christian minister that he must reprove profitable and popular sins, or else stand at great disadvantage in the trial between Rationalism and Supernatu- ralism which is vexing the age. In rich and prosperous communities Christianity has been too prone to degenerate into a mere credence of dogma; it must reassert itself as the type of ethics. It is also goo(l that the clergy, intrusted with the defence of the faith delivered to saints, be compelled to place themselves on a level with the ripest scholarship of the day. For ends snch as these the life of this critic and protester has abundantly wrought. If he has pulled down a meeting-house here and there, we are confident that he has been instrumental in building up many more to an efiective Christianity. Peculiar. A Tale of the Gm-eat Transition. By EPES SARGENT. New York: G. W. Carleton. l2mo. THERE seems to be an element of luck in the production of highly successful plays and novels. To succeed in this depart- ment of imaginative, writing, it is not

Peculiar Reviews and Literary Notices 126-128

126 Reviews and Literary Notices. [January, of those drugs. A wise man may get many nice bits out of him, and be the healthier for such eating ; but if he swallows Swedenborg whole, as the fashion is with his followers, why, it lays hard in th~ stomach, and the man has a ni~,htmare on him all his natural life, and talks about the Word, and the Spirit, correspondences, receivers. Yet the Swe- denborgians have a calm and religious beauty in their lives which is much to be admired. The deeply affectionate nature of Theo- dore Parker glows warmly through the Correspondence and Journal. His friends were necessities, and were loved with a devotion by no means characteristic of Americans. He could give his life to ideas, but his heart must be given to persons, young and old. Turning from his task of opposition and conflict, he would yearn for the society of little children, whose household loves might dull the noise and violence and passion through which he daily walked. The great joy of my life, he writes; cannot be intellectual ac- tion, neither practical work. Though I joy in both, it is the affections which open the spring of mortal delight. But the object of my affections, dearest of all, is not at hand. How strange that I should have no children, and only get a little sad sort of happiness, not of the affectional quality! I am only an old maid in ifs, after all my bettying about in literature and philan- thropy. And in a letter to Dr. Francis there comes an exclamation of which the arrangement is very pathetic in its signifi- cance, I have no child, and the worst reputation of any minister in all America!~~ We are in no position to estimate with any exactness either the adaptation of Theodore Parker to our national well- being or his positive aid to the mental and moral progress of New - England society. Violent denunciations in the interest of the various sects and policies that he at- tacked will for the present be levelled against him. Neither will there be want- ing extravagant eulogiums from personal friends, fellow-religionists, and zealous re- formers. Only the distant view of a gen- eration yet to be can see him in just rela- tion to the men of this time. In judging the weight and work of a contemporary, we attach an over-importance to the number and social position of his nominal ad- herents; while, in estimating the utility of an historic leader, we instinctively feel that these things are almost the last to be considered. For the greatest influ- ence for good has come from men who have struggled in feeble minorities, ever alienating would - be friends by an invincible honesty, or even by an invin- cible fanaticism. Not to the .excellences or extravagances of a handful of persons who precisely agree with his views of Christianity may we look for the influ- ence of Theodore Parker which to-day works among us. We might find it in greater power in Brownsons Catholic Re- view, in the humane magnetism of ortho- dox Mr. Beecher, in the Episcopal minis- trations of Dr. Tyng. For any intelligent Christian must allow that those claiming to represent the Church of Christ have too often sided with the oppressor, fettered human thought in departments foreign to religion, and inculcated degrading beliefs, - which scholars eminent in orthodoxy de- clare indeducible from any Biblical pre- cept. It is not the incredibleness of a met- aphysical belieg but a laxity or cowardice of the practice connected with it, which can point the reformers gibe and wing his sarcasm. Theodore Parker virtually told the Christian minister that he must reprove profitable and popular sins, or else stand at great disadvantage in the trial between Rationalism and Supernatu- ralism which is vexing the age. In rich and prosperous communities Christianity has been too prone to degenerate into a mere credence of dogma; it must reassert itself as the type of ethics. It is also goo(l that the clergy, intrusted with the defence of the faith delivered to saints, be compelled to place themselves on a level with the ripest scholarship of the day. For ends snch as these the life of this critic and protester has abundantly wrought. If he has pulled down a meeting-house here and there, we are confident that he has been instrumental in building up many more to an efiective Christianity. Peculiar. A Tale of the Gm-eat Transition. By EPES SARGENT. New York: G. W. Carleton. l2mo. THERE seems to be an element of luck in the production of highly successful plays and novels. To succeed in this depart- ment of imaginative, writing, it is not 1864.] Reviews and Literary Notices. 127 enough that the author has literary pow- er and skill. Else why do the failures of every great novelist and playwright al- most always outnumber the successes Even Shakspeare offers no exception to the fact. What a descent from Hamlet to Titus Andronicus, from Othello to Cymbeline Miss Bront~ writes Jane Eyre, and fails ever afterwards to come up to her own standard. Buiwer delights us with The Caxtons, and then sinks to the dulness of The Strange Story. Dickens gives us Oliver Twist, and then tries the patience of confiding readers in Martin Chuzzlewit. We will not undertake to analyze all the rea- sons for these startling discrepancies; but one obvious reason is infelicity in the choice of a subject. A subject teeming with the right capabilities will often enable an or- dinary playwright to produce a drama that will rouse an audience to wild en- thusiasm; whereas, if the subject is Un- pregnant with dramatic issues, not even genius can invest it with the charm that commands the sympathy nnd attention of the many. Watch a large, miscellaneous audience, as it listens, rapt, intent, and weeping, to Kotzebues Stranger, and see the same audience as it tries to attend to Talfourds Ion. Yet here it is the hack writer who succeeds and the true poet who fails. Why Because the for- mer has hit upon a subject which gives him at once the advantage of nearness to the popular heart, while the latter has selected a theme remote and unsympa- thetic. In Peculiar Mr. Sargent has had the luck, if we may so call it, of finding the materials for his plot in incidents which carry in themselves so much of dramatic power that a story is evolved from them with the facility and inevitableness of a fate. When the United States forces un- der General Butler occupied New Orleans, certain developments connected with the workings of the peculiar institution were made, which showed a state of so- cial degradation of which we had not sup- posed even Slavery capable. It appeared that women, so white as to be undistin- guishable from the fairest Anglo-Saxons, were held as slaves, lashed as slaves, sub- jected to all the indignities which irrespon- sible mastership involves. Peculiar derives its title from one of the characters of the novel, an escaped negro slave, who has received from his sportive master the name of Peculiar In- stitution. The great dramatic fact of the story lies in the kidnapping of the infant child of wealthy Northern parents who have been killed in a steamboat-ex- plosion on the Mississippi. The child, a girl, is saved from the water, but saved by two mean whites, creatures and hang- ers-on of the Slave Power, who take her to New Orleans, and finally, being in want of money, sell her with other slaves at auction. In a very graphic and truthful scene, the vendue is depicted. About this little girl, Clara by name, the intens- est interest is thenceforth made to centre. Her every movement is artfully made a matter of moment to the reader. Antecedent to the introduction of Clara, the true heroine of the novel, we have the story of Estehle, also a white slave. At first this story seems like an episode, but it is soon found to be inextricably inter- woven with the plot. The author has shown remarkable dexterity in preserving. the unity of the action so impressively, while dealing with such a variety of char- acters. Like a floating melody or tenia in a symphony or an opera, the souvenirs of Estehle are introduced almost with the ef- fect of pathetic music. Indeed, to those accustomed to look at plots as works of art, the constructive skill manifest in this novel will be not the least of its attractive features. One word as to the characters. These are drawn with a firm, confident pencil, as if they were portraits from life. Occa- sionally, from very superabundance of ma- terial, the author leaves his outline un- filled. But the important characters are all live and actual flesh and blood. In Pompilard, a capitally drawn figure, many New - Yorkers will recognize an original, faithfully limned. In Colonel Delaney Hyde, Virginia-born, we have a most amusing representative of the lower or- ders of the Chivalry. Estelle is a charming creation, and we know of few such touching love-stories as that through which she moves with such naturalness and grace. In the ce~isins Vance and Kenrick we have strongly marked and delicately discriminated portraits. The ne- gro Peculiar is made to attract much of our sympathy and respect. He is not 128 Reviews and Literary Notices. [January, the buffoon that the stage and the novel ge~ierally make of the black man. He be- longs rather to the class of which Fred- erick Douglas is a type. It is no more than poetic justice that from Peculiar the book should take its name. We should say more of the plot, did we not purposely abstain from marring the readers interest by any indiscreet fore- shadowing. Everybody seems to be read- ing or intending to read the book; and its success is already so far assured that no hostile criticism can gainsay or check it. Not the least of the merits of Peculiar is the healthy patriotic spirit which runs through it, vivifying and intensifying the whole. The style is remarkably animated, often eloquent, and would of itself impart interest to a story far less rich than this in incident, and less powerful in plot. The Life of William Hicleling Prescott. By GEORGE Ticxxost. Boston: Ticknor & Fields. THE third edition of Mr. Ticknors History of Spanish Literature was no- ticed with due commendation in our num- ber for November last. That was a work drawn exclusively from the region of the intellect, and written by the dry light of the understanding. The author appeared throughout in a purely judicial capacity. His task was to summon before his liter- ary tribunal the writers of a foreign coun- try, and mostly of past generations, and pronounce sentence upon their claims and merits. Learning, method, sound judg- ment, and good taste are displayed in it; but the subject afforded no chance for the expression of those personal traits which are shown in daily life, and make up a mans reputation in the community where he dwells. But the Life of Prescott is a book of another mood, and drawn from other fountains than those of the understanding. It glows with human sympathies, and is warm with human feeling. It is the rec- ord of a long and faithful friendship, which began in youth and continued unbroken to the last. It is the elder of the two that discharges this last office of affection to his younger brother. Mr. Ticknor could not write the life of Mr. Prescott without showing how worthy he himself was of having so true, so loving, and so faithful a friend. But he has done this uncon- sciously and unintentionally. For it is one of the charms of this delightful book one of the most attractive of the attrac- tive class of literary biography to which it belongs that we have 9ver read that the biographer never intrudes himself between his subject and the reader. The story of Mr. Prescotts life is told simply and nat- urally, and as far as possible in Mr. Pres- cotts own words, drawn from his diaries and letters. Whatever Mr. Ticknor has occasion to say is said with good taste and good feeling, and he has shown a fine judgment in making his portraiture of his friend so life-like and so true in detail, and yet in never overstepping the line of that inner circle into which the public has no right to enter. We have in these pages a record of Mr. Prescotts life from his cradle to his grave, sufficiently minute to show what manner of man he was, and what influences went to make up his mind and character; and it is a record of more than common value, as well as interest. For the last twenty years of his life Mr. Prescott was one of the most eminent and widely known of the residents of Bos- ton. He was universally beloved, esteemed, and admired. He was one ofthe first per- sons whom a stranger coming among us wished to see. His person and countenance were familiar to many who had no further acquaintance with him; and as he walked about our streets, many a glance of inter- est was turned upon him of which he him- self was unconscious. The general knowl- edge that his literary honors had been won under no common difficulties, owing to his defective sight, invested his name and presence with a peculiar feeling of admi- ration and regard. The public at large, including those persons who had but a slight acquaintance with him, saw in him a man very attractive in personal appear- ance, and of manners singularly frank and engaging. There was the same charm in his conversation, his aspect, the expression of his countenance, that was felt in his writings. Everything that he did seemed to have beeii done easily, spontaneously, and without effort. There were no marks of toil and endurance, of temptations resist- ed and seductions overcome. His graceful and limpid style seemed to flow along with the natural movement of a running stream,

Ticknor's Life of Prescott Reviews and Literary Notices 128-130

128 Reviews and Literary Notices. [January, the buffoon that the stage and the novel ge~ierally make of the black man. He be- longs rather to the class of which Fred- erick Douglas is a type. It is no more than poetic justice that from Peculiar the book should take its name. We should say more of the plot, did we not purposely abstain from marring the readers interest by any indiscreet fore- shadowing. Everybody seems to be read- ing or intending to read the book; and its success is already so far assured that no hostile criticism can gainsay or check it. Not the least of the merits of Peculiar is the healthy patriotic spirit which runs through it, vivifying and intensifying the whole. The style is remarkably animated, often eloquent, and would of itself impart interest to a story far less rich than this in incident, and less powerful in plot. The Life of William Hicleling Prescott. By GEORGE Ticxxost. Boston: Ticknor & Fields. THE third edition of Mr. Ticknors History of Spanish Literature was no- ticed with due commendation in our num- ber for November last. That was a work drawn exclusively from the region of the intellect, and written by the dry light of the understanding. The author appeared throughout in a purely judicial capacity. His task was to summon before his liter- ary tribunal the writers of a foreign coun- try, and mostly of past generations, and pronounce sentence upon their claims and merits. Learning, method, sound judg- ment, and good taste are displayed in it; but the subject afforded no chance for the expression of those personal traits which are shown in daily life, and make up a mans reputation in the community where he dwells. But the Life of Prescott is a book of another mood, and drawn from other fountains than those of the understanding. It glows with human sympathies, and is warm with human feeling. It is the rec- ord of a long and faithful friendship, which began in youth and continued unbroken to the last. It is the elder of the two that discharges this last office of affection to his younger brother. Mr. Ticknor could not write the life of Mr. Prescott without showing how worthy he himself was of having so true, so loving, and so faithful a friend. But he has done this uncon- sciously and unintentionally. For it is one of the charms of this delightful book one of the most attractive of the attrac- tive class of literary biography to which it belongs that we have 9ver read that the biographer never intrudes himself between his subject and the reader. The story of Mr. Prescotts life is told simply and nat- urally, and as far as possible in Mr. Pres- cotts own words, drawn from his diaries and letters. Whatever Mr. Ticknor has occasion to say is said with good taste and good feeling, and he has shown a fine judgment in making his portraiture of his friend so life-like and so true in detail, and yet in never overstepping the line of that inner circle into which the public has no right to enter. We have in these pages a record of Mr. Prescotts life from his cradle to his grave, sufficiently minute to show what manner of man he was, and what influences went to make up his mind and character; and it is a record of more than common value, as well as interest. For the last twenty years of his life Mr. Prescott was one of the most eminent and widely known of the residents of Bos- ton. He was universally beloved, esteemed, and admired. He was one ofthe first per- sons whom a stranger coming among us wished to see. His person and countenance were familiar to many who had no further acquaintance with him; and as he walked about our streets, many a glance of inter- est was turned upon him of which he him- self was unconscious. The general knowl- edge that his literary honors had been won under no common difficulties, owing to his defective sight, invested his name and presence with a peculiar feeling of admi- ration and regard. The public at large, including those persons who had but a slight acquaintance with him, saw in him a man very attractive in personal appear- ance, and of manners singularly frank and engaging. There was the same charm in his conversation, his aspect, the expression of his countenance, that was felt in his writings. Everything that he did seemed to have beeii done easily, spontaneously, and without effort. There were no marks of toil and endurance, of temptations resist- ed and seductions overcome. His graceful and limpid style seemed to flow along with the natural movement of a running stream, 1864.] Reviews and Literary Notices. 129 and to those who saw his winning smile and listened to his gay and animated talk he appeared like one who had basked in sunshine all his days and never known the iron discipline of life. But this was not true; at least, it was not the whole truth. Besides this exter- nal, superficial aspect, there was an inner life which was known only to the few who knew him intimately, and which his biog- raphy has now revealed to the world. This memoir sets the author of Ferdi- nand and Isabella before the public, as Mr. Ticknor says in his preface, as a man whose life for more than forty years was one of almost constant struggle, of an almost constant sacrifice of im- pulse to duty, of the present to the future. Take Mr. Prescott as he was at the age of twenty-five, and see what the chances are, as the world goes, of his becoming a la- borious and successful man of letters. He was handsome in person, attractive in man- ners, possessed of a competent property, very happy in his domestic relations, with one eye destroyed and the other impaired by a cruel accident; what was more proba- ble, more natural, than that he should be- come a mere man of wit and pleasure about town, and never write anything beyond a newspaper-article or a review And we should remember that defective sight was not the only disability under which he la- bored. His health was never robust, and he was a frequent sufferer from rheuma- tism and dyspepsia, the former a winter visitor, and the latter a summer. And not only this, but there was yet another lion in his path. His temperament was natu- rally indolent. He was fond of social gay- ety, of light reading, of domestic chat. He had that love of lounging which Sydney Smith said no Scotchman but Sir James Mackintosh ever bad. But there was a stoical element in him, lying beneath this easy and pleasure - loving temperament, and subduing and controlling it. lie had a vigilant conscience and a very strong will. He had early come to the conclu- sion that not only no honor and no useful- ness, but no happiness, could be secured without a regular and daily recurring oc- cupation. He made up his mind, after due reflection and consideration, to make literature his profession ; and not only that, but he further made up his mind to toil in this, his chosen and voluntary vocation, VOL. XIII. 9 with the patient and uninterrupted indus- try of a professional man whose daily bread depends upon his daily labor. And the biography before us reveals that inner life of struggle and conquest which, while Mr. Prescott was living, was known only to his most intimate friends. We see here how resolutely and steadily he contended, not only against defective sight and indifferent health, but also against the love of ease and the seduc- tions of indolence. We see with what strenuous effort his literary honors were won, as well as with what gentleness they were worn. And thus the work has a distinct moral value, and is full of encour- agement to those who, under similar or inferior disabilities, have determined to make the choice of Hercules, and prefer a life of labor to a life of pleasure. And this moral lesson is conveyed in a most winning and engaging way. The interest of the narrative is kept up to the end with the freshness of a well-constructed work of fiction. It is an interest not derived from stirring adventures, for Mr. Pres- cotts life was very uneventful, but from its happy portraiture of those delightful qualities of mind and character of which his life was a revelation. Though it tells of constant struggle and not a little suffer- ing, the tone of the book is genial, sunny, and cheerful, as was the temperament of the historian himself For it is a remark- able fact that Mr. Prescotts bodily infirm- ities never had any effect in making his mind or his character morbid. His spir- itual nature was eminently healthy. His leading intellectual trait was sound good sense and the power of seeing men and things as they were. He had no whims, no paradoxes, no prejudices. His histories reflect the aggregate judgment of man- kind upon the personages he describes and the events he narrates, without ex- travagance or overstatement in any direc- tion. And it was the same with his char- acter, as shown in daily life; it was frank, generous, cordial, and manly. ~No man was less querulous, less irritable, less ex- acting than he. His social nature was warm; discriminating, but not fastidious. He liked men for the good there was in them, and his taste in friendship was wide and catholic. He was rich in friends, and this book proves how just a title to such wealth he could show. We shall be sur 130 Reviews and Literary Notices. [January, prised, if this biography does not attain a popularity as wide and as enduring as that enjoyed by any of Mr. Prescotts historical works. It is largely made up of extracts from his letters and private journals, which are full of the playful humor, the ready sympathy, the sunny temper, the kindly judgment of men and things, which made the historian so dear to his friends and so popular among his acquaintances. We cannot dismiss this book without saying a word or two in praise of its ex- ternals. Handsome books are, happily, no longer so rare a product of the Amer- ican press as to require heralding when they do appear, but this is so beautiful a specimen of the art of book - manufactur- ing that it deserves special commenda- tion. The type, paper, press-work, and illustrations are all admirable, and the whole is a result not easily to be sur- passed in any part of the world. My Farm of Edgewood. A Country Book. By the Author of Reveries of a Bach- elor. New York: Charles Scribner. l2mo. WHEN 1k Marvel ten years ago turn- ed farmer, a good proportion of the reading public supposed that his experiment would combine the defects of gentleman- and po- et-farming, and that he would escape the bankruptcy of Shenstone only by possess- ing the purse of Astor. That a man of refined sentiments, elegant tastes, wide cul- tivation, and humane and tender genius, given; moreover, to indulgences in Rev- eries and the Dream-Life, should suc- ceed in the real business of agriculture, seemed a monstrous supposition to those cockney idealists who consider the cultiva- tion of the mind incompatible with the cul- tivation of the ground,who cannot bring, by any theory of the association of ideas, prac- tical talent into neighborly good-will with lofty aspirations, and who necessarily con- nect the government of brutes with an im- bruted intelligence. The book we have un- der review is a blunt contradiction to ob- jectors of the literary class. That it is practical, the coarsest farmer must admit; that its practicality is not purchased by any mean and unwise concessions to pop- ular prejudice, the most sensitive titWra teer will concede; and that the whole rep- resentation constitutes a most charming book, all readers will be ca,,er to pro- nounce. Indeed, the critic of the volume is somewhat puzzled to harmonize the fine rhythm of the periods, and the superb pro- priety of the tone, with the subject-matter. The bleakest and most ghastly aspects of Nature, the most prosaic facts of the farmers life,Irish servants and compost- heaps, cows which try to consume their own milk, beehives which send forth swarms to sting the children of the house, and give no honey, soils widch refuse to bear the products which intelligence has anticipated, all are transformed in- to something rich and strange by the poets alchemy, without any sacrifice of truth, or the insertion of details which a farmer would disavow as inaccurate or sentimental. The 1k is a full counter- poise to the Marvel, even to the most literal reader of the volume, though it is certain that no book has ever before ap- peared in our country in which the farm- erLlife of New England has assumed so po- etic a form. The chiel among the ag- riculturists taking notes will be more likely to seduce than to warn; and if the record of his eventual triumphs be re- ceived as gospel truth, we must expect a vast emigration of the men of mind from the cities to the country. Who would not cheerfully encounter all the vexations at- tending a settlement in My Farm in Edgewood for the compensations so boun- tifully provided for the privations? To the literary reader the doubt will arise, whether the writer of this work might not have more profitably employed his time, during the last ten years, in cre- ating thoughts than in improving land, in diffusing information than in selling milk. As a poetic, scientific, and practi- cal farmer, he has doubtless silenced all cynic doubts of his capacity to make four or six per cent. on the capital he invested in land; but it is plain, that, without cap- ital, he might have made three or four times as much by the genial exercise of his literary power. The talent exercised on his farm we must, therefore, consider from a financial point of view to have been more or less wasted. As a gen- tieman-farmer, lie might easily have re- paired from his study all the losses which his trained subordinates of the garden and

My Farm of Edgewood Reviews and Literary Notices 130-131

130 Reviews and Literary Notices. [January, prised, if this biography does not attain a popularity as wide and as enduring as that enjoyed by any of Mr. Prescotts historical works. It is largely made up of extracts from his letters and private journals, which are full of the playful humor, the ready sympathy, the sunny temper, the kindly judgment of men and things, which made the historian so dear to his friends and so popular among his acquaintances. We cannot dismiss this book without saying a word or two in praise of its ex- ternals. Handsome books are, happily, no longer so rare a product of the Amer- ican press as to require heralding when they do appear, but this is so beautiful a specimen of the art of book - manufactur- ing that it deserves special commenda- tion. The type, paper, press-work, and illustrations are all admirable, and the whole is a result not easily to be sur- passed in any part of the world. My Farm of Edgewood. A Country Book. By the Author of Reveries of a Bach- elor. New York: Charles Scribner. l2mo. WHEN 1k Marvel ten years ago turn- ed farmer, a good proportion of the reading public supposed that his experiment would combine the defects of gentleman- and po- et-farming, and that he would escape the bankruptcy of Shenstone only by possess- ing the purse of Astor. That a man of refined sentiments, elegant tastes, wide cul- tivation, and humane and tender genius, given; moreover, to indulgences in Rev- eries and the Dream-Life, should suc- ceed in the real business of agriculture, seemed a monstrous supposition to those cockney idealists who consider the cultiva- tion of the mind incompatible with the cul- tivation of the ground,who cannot bring, by any theory of the association of ideas, prac- tical talent into neighborly good-will with lofty aspirations, and who necessarily con- nect the government of brutes with an im- bruted intelligence. The book we have un- der review is a blunt contradiction to ob- jectors of the literary class. That it is practical, the coarsest farmer must admit; that its practicality is not purchased by any mean and unwise concessions to pop- ular prejudice, the most sensitive titWra teer will concede; and that the whole rep- resentation constitutes a most charming book, all readers will be ca,,er to pro- nounce. Indeed, the critic of the volume is somewhat puzzled to harmonize the fine rhythm of the periods, and the superb pro- priety of the tone, with the subject-matter. The bleakest and most ghastly aspects of Nature, the most prosaic facts of the farmers life,Irish servants and compost- heaps, cows which try to consume their own milk, beehives which send forth swarms to sting the children of the house, and give no honey, soils widch refuse to bear the products which intelligence has anticipated, all are transformed in- to something rich and strange by the poets alchemy, without any sacrifice of truth, or the insertion of details which a farmer would disavow as inaccurate or sentimental. The 1k is a full counter- poise to the Marvel, even to the most literal reader of the volume, though it is certain that no book has ever before ap- peared in our country in which the farm- erLlife of New England has assumed so po- etic a form. The chiel among the ag- riculturists taking notes will be more likely to seduce than to warn; and if the record of his eventual triumphs be re- ceived as gospel truth, we must expect a vast emigration of the men of mind from the cities to the country. Who would not cheerfully encounter all the vexations at- tending a settlement in My Farm in Edgewood for the compensations so boun- tifully provided for the privations? To the literary reader the doubt will arise, whether the writer of this work might not have more profitably employed his time, during the last ten years, in cre- ating thoughts than in improving land, in diffusing information than in selling milk. As a poetic, scientific, and practi- cal farmer, he has doubtless silenced all cynic doubts of his capacity to make four or six per cent. on the capital he invested in land; but it is plain, that, without cap- ital, he might have made three or four times as much by the genial exercise of his literary power. The talent exercised on his farm we must, therefore, consider from a financial point of view to have been more or less wasted. As a gen- tieman-farmer, lie might easily have re- paired from his study all the losses which his trained subordinates of the garden and 1864.] Reviews and Literar,y Notices. 131 the field incurred from the lack of his con- stant superintendence. Everything which a n~an of mind could want in a country- residence might have been obtained with- out his personal oversight of every mi- nute detail, and the net result of the gains of the year would have been greater, if, instead of riding daily into iNe.w Haven to sell his milk, he had stayed quietly in his study to write for the magazines. This calculation we have made from a rigid scrutiny of the figures in which the author sums up, year after year, his gains. ~Te have been provoked into this com- parison by the evident glee with which 1k Marvel parades the results of his a:,ricul- tural labors. So earnest is he to show that a man of genius can make monOy by farm- ing, that he is inclined to overlook the dis- tinction between the work of an ordinary and that of an extraordinary mind. Waiv- ing this consideration, we have nothing to objcct to his ten years seclusion from lit- erature. That seclusion has brought him into contact with the rough realities of a farmers life, has enabled him personally to inspect every process of agriculture, and furnish his mind with an entirely new class of facts. The result is a book whose merit can hardly be overpraised. It should be in every farmers library, as a volume full of practical advice to aid his daily work, and full of ennobling suggestions to lift his calling into a kind of epic dig- nity. As a book for the generality of readers, it far exceeds any previous work of the author in force, naturalness, and beauty, in vividness of description and richness of style, and in that indefinable element of genius which envelops the most prosaic details in an atmosphere of refinement and grace. Methods of Study in Natural History. By L. AeAssIz. Boston: Ticknor & Fields. l2mo. A WORK from the scientific storehouse of Professor Agassiz needs only to have atten- tion called to its existence to command uni- versal welcome. The readers of the At- lantic are already in some measure famil- iar with its contents, being a reprint of a series of papers published in this journal; but they will be read again with double satisfaction iii this continuous form. The avowed purpose is to give some general hints to young students as to the methods by which scientific truth has been reached. There are many lovers of Nature, and many students of Nature; but there are very few whom we may term philosophers of Nature. In other words, there are those who are charmed with the external world, its landscapes, its beauteous forms and tints, and all its various adaptations to fascinate the senses, and those who de- light in deciphering and describing all the details of individual objects, and their wond,erful fitness to the rdle they have severally or unitedly to play; and there is the nian who, endowed with all this, seeks to go still farther, and from myriads of ob- servations to deduce great general truths. lie is the philosopher. When Agassiz arrived in this country, there were many good observers of Nature here, and many who had accumulated a large store of facts. Each one had been working in his own way, almost alone, scarcely knowing the ultimate aims of sci- entific research, much less knowing how to arrive at them. To him, more than to any other person, zo6logists in this country are indebted for showing them how to work, and for presenting to them a plan to be worked out, with processes and means by which this is to he done. And now lie de- signs to diffuse these high aims and meth- ods throughout the community. As he says, The time has come when scientific truth must cease to be the proper~ty of the few, when it must be woven into the common life of the world. Of all men, he is the one to gain the ear and under- standing of the public on such matters, and to command the recognition of his conclusions. his faculty of simplifying great principles, and of clothing them in such language and with such illustrations as to render them intelligible and attrac- tive to the uninstructed, is one of Profes- sor Agassizs most rare characteristics, in these chapters lie has unfolded some of the methods by which high scientific results have been and may be attained, and has well illustrated them. In a short sketch of the progress of Natural History, he has noticed the methods which were successively pur- sued in its study, and the long time which elapsed before anything like true science was developed; lie has pointed out the ne- cessity and nature of classification, the im

Agassiz's Methods of Study in Natural History Reviews and Literary Notices 131-132

1864.] Reviews and Literar,y Notices. 131 the field incurred from the lack of his con- stant superintendence. Everything which a n~an of mind could want in a country- residence might have been obtained with- out his personal oversight of every mi- nute detail, and the net result of the gains of the year would have been greater, if, instead of riding daily into iNe.w Haven to sell his milk, he had stayed quietly in his study to write for the magazines. This calculation we have made from a rigid scrutiny of the figures in which the author sums up, year after year, his gains. ~Te have been provoked into this com- parison by the evident glee with which 1k Marvel parades the results of his a:,ricul- tural labors. So earnest is he to show that a man of genius can make monOy by farm- ing, that he is inclined to overlook the dis- tinction between the work of an ordinary and that of an extraordinary mind. Waiv- ing this consideration, we have nothing to objcct to his ten years seclusion from lit- erature. That seclusion has brought him into contact with the rough realities of a farmers life, has enabled him personally to inspect every process of agriculture, and furnish his mind with an entirely new class of facts. The result is a book whose merit can hardly be overpraised. It should be in every farmers library, as a volume full of practical advice to aid his daily work, and full of ennobling suggestions to lift his calling into a kind of epic dig- nity. As a book for the generality of readers, it far exceeds any previous work of the author in force, naturalness, and beauty, in vividness of description and richness of style, and in that indefinable element of genius which envelops the most prosaic details in an atmosphere of refinement and grace. Methods of Study in Natural History. By L. AeAssIz. Boston: Ticknor & Fields. l2mo. A WORK from the scientific storehouse of Professor Agassiz needs only to have atten- tion called to its existence to command uni- versal welcome. The readers of the At- lantic are already in some measure famil- iar with its contents, being a reprint of a series of papers published in this journal; but they will be read again with double satisfaction iii this continuous form. The avowed purpose is to give some general hints to young students as to the methods by which scientific truth has been reached. There are many lovers of Nature, and many students of Nature; but there are very few whom we may term philosophers of Nature. In other words, there are those who are charmed with the external world, its landscapes, its beauteous forms and tints, and all its various adaptations to fascinate the senses, and those who de- light in deciphering and describing all the details of individual objects, and their wond,erful fitness to the rdle they have severally or unitedly to play; and there is the nian who, endowed with all this, seeks to go still farther, and from myriads of ob- servations to deduce great general truths. lie is the philosopher. When Agassiz arrived in this country, there were many good observers of Nature here, and many who had accumulated a large store of facts. Each one had been working in his own way, almost alone, scarcely knowing the ultimate aims of sci- entific research, much less knowing how to arrive at them. To him, more than to any other person, zo6logists in this country are indebted for showing them how to work, and for presenting to them a plan to be worked out, with processes and means by which this is to he done. And now lie de- signs to diffuse these high aims and meth- ods throughout the community. As he says, The time has come when scientific truth must cease to be the proper~ty of the few, when it must be woven into the common life of the world. Of all men, he is the one to gain the ear and under- standing of the public on such matters, and to command the recognition of his conclusions. his faculty of simplifying great principles, and of clothing them in such language and with such illustrations as to render them intelligible and attrac- tive to the uninstructed, is one of Profes- sor Agassizs most rare characteristics, in these chapters lie has unfolded some of the methods by which high scientific results have been and may be attained, and has well illustrated them. In a short sketch of the progress of Natural History, he has noticed the methods which were successively pur- sued in its study, and the long time which elapsed before anything like true science was developed; lie has pointed out the ne- cessity and nature of classification, the im 132 Retiews and Literary Notices. [January, portant terms employed, as classes, orders, families, genera, and species, and their sig- nification, and dwells upon the great idea that all the denominations represented by these terms exist definitely in Nature, and can be legitimate and permanent only as they conform to the plan laid down by Nature herself. Much of th~ work is de- voted to the enforcement of this doctrine. He shows us, more especially by the class of Radiates, how objects at first view widely different all conform to the same definite plan, and how some which during a part of their history would not be sus- pected of having any alliance with each other, yet, by alternate generations, come to be identical. He shows, by the ova- rian egg, the great simplicity and appar- ent identity of the beginnings of all ani- mal life, and the successive steps by which the diversified forms of aninThls are devel- oped, and insists upon the necessity of fol- lowing the history of an animal through all its phases before its true place in the grand l)lan can be determined. He discusses the permanence of species, and the limits of their variation, which he illustrates more especially by the growth of corals, and most emphatically expresses his dissent from the startling development - doctrines of Darwin. But it would be fruitless to attempt an abstract of the numerous truths he has alluded to, and the methods by which such truths are to be sought. It is to these truths, in contradistinction to the mere study and description of spe- cies, and the building up of systems on external characters alone, that he hopes to direct attention. These comprehensive truths are few. Agassiz tells us, that, af- ter a whole life devoted to the study of Nature, a simple sentence may express all he himself has done: I have shown that there is a correspondence between the succession of fishes in geological times and the different stages of their growth in the egg, this is all. Though this is by no means the limit of his claim so modestly expressed, yet that was a grand general- ization, and, like the great doctrine of grav- itation, and the demonstration by Cuvier of the existence of races of animals and plants on the globe anterior to those now existing, it proves to be of almost indefi- nite application, and, like those doctrines, has revolutionized science. The peculiar scientific views here pre sented this is no place to criticize. But we may say that to every student of liber- al culture this work is essential. Every teachers table and every school-library should be furnished with it. Henna/i Thurston: A Stoi-q of American Life. By BAYARD TAYLOR. New York: G. P. Putnam. Ma. BAYARD TAYLOR evidently does not subscribe to the theory which Friends in Council attributes to a large class that men cannot excel in more things than one; and that, if they can, they had better be quiet about it. Having already achieved a reputation as a traveller, a poet, and a secretary to a foreign legation, be now enters the lists with the novelists, who must look well to their laurels, if they would not have them snatched from their brows by this new-coiner. The book is called A Story of Amer- ican Life. It is American life, just as the statue of the Venus de Medici or the Apol- lo Belvedere is the representation of the hu- man figure. No Athenian belle, no Delphic athlete, stood for those beautiful shapes; but the nose was modelled from one copy, the limbs from another, the brow from a third, and the result is a joy forever. So the American life portrayed in this story is a conglomeration, and partially a carica- ture, of the various isms which have dis- turbed the strata of our social life. That any American village should present with- in its outmost circle the collection of pecu- liarities gathered here would be little less than marveUous. That they are found in so many American villages as to justify their being attributed to American villages in general is preposterous. Certainly, this picture does not daguerreotype New Eng- land, however it may be in New York, and though New England is small and pro- vincial and New York is large and cosmopol- itan, still we respectfully submit that any characteristic which may belong to New York and does not belong to New England is local and not national; and though a writer, for his own convenience and the better to convey his moral, may, if he choose, group all the wickednesses and weaknesses of the land in one secluded spot, he ought not to convey to strangers so wrong an idea of our rural social life as

Hannah Thurston Reviews and Literary Notices 132-136

132 Retiews and Literary Notices. [January, portant terms employed, as classes, orders, families, genera, and species, and their sig- nification, and dwells upon the great idea that all the denominations represented by these terms exist definitely in Nature, and can be legitimate and permanent only as they conform to the plan laid down by Nature herself. Much of th~ work is de- voted to the enforcement of this doctrine. He shows us, more especially by the class of Radiates, how objects at first view widely different all conform to the same definite plan, and how some which during a part of their history would not be sus- pected of having any alliance with each other, yet, by alternate generations, come to be identical. He shows, by the ova- rian egg, the great simplicity and appar- ent identity of the beginnings of all ani- mal life, and the successive steps by which the diversified forms of aninThls are devel- oped, and insists upon the necessity of fol- lowing the history of an animal through all its phases before its true place in the grand l)lan can be determined. He discusses the permanence of species, and the limits of their variation, which he illustrates more especially by the growth of corals, and most emphatically expresses his dissent from the startling development - doctrines of Darwin. But it would be fruitless to attempt an abstract of the numerous truths he has alluded to, and the methods by which such truths are to be sought. It is to these truths, in contradistinction to the mere study and description of spe- cies, and the building up of systems on external characters alone, that he hopes to direct attention. These comprehensive truths are few. Agassiz tells us, that, af- ter a whole life devoted to the study of Nature, a simple sentence may express all he himself has done: I have shown that there is a correspondence between the succession of fishes in geological times and the different stages of their growth in the egg, this is all. Though this is by no means the limit of his claim so modestly expressed, yet that was a grand general- ization, and, like the great doctrine of grav- itation, and the demonstration by Cuvier of the existence of races of animals and plants on the globe anterior to those now existing, it proves to be of almost indefi- nite application, and, like those doctrines, has revolutionized science. The peculiar scientific views here pre sented this is no place to criticize. But we may say that to every student of liber- al culture this work is essential. Every teachers table and every school-library should be furnished with it. Henna/i Thurston: A Stoi-q of American Life. By BAYARD TAYLOR. New York: G. P. Putnam. Ma. BAYARD TAYLOR evidently does not subscribe to the theory which Friends in Council attributes to a large class that men cannot excel in more things than one; and that, if they can, they had better be quiet about it. Having already achieved a reputation as a traveller, a poet, and a secretary to a foreign legation, be now enters the lists with the novelists, who must look well to their laurels, if they would not have them snatched from their brows by this new-coiner. The book is called A Story of Amer- ican Life. It is American life, just as the statue of the Venus de Medici or the Apol- lo Belvedere is the representation of the hu- man figure. No Athenian belle, no Delphic athlete, stood for those beautiful shapes; but the nose was modelled from one copy, the limbs from another, the brow from a third, and the result is a joy forever. So the American life portrayed in this story is a conglomeration, and partially a carica- ture, of the various isms which have dis- turbed the strata of our social life. That any American village should present with- in its outmost circle the collection of pecu- liarities gathered here would be little less than marveUous. That they are found in so many American villages as to justify their being attributed to American villages in general is preposterous. Certainly, this picture does not daguerreotype New Eng- land, however it may be in New York, and though New England is small and pro- vincial and New York is large and cosmopol- itan, still we respectfully submit that any characteristic which may belong to New York and does not belong to New England is local and not national; and though a writer, for his own convenience and the better to convey his moral, may, if he choose, group all the wickednesses and weaknesses of the land in one secluded spot, he ought not to convey to strangers so wrong an idea of our rural social life as 1864.] Reviews and Literary Notices. 133 to make that spot ffie exponent of all. So much for the title. We now open the book, and are imme- diately in the midst of scenes which have an indescribable familiarity. We have a confused sense of having met these people before. Certainly they have a strong fam- ily-likeness to denizens of modern novels. The sewing-circles and small-talk savor of the cheap wit of Widow Bedott. Jutnapore must have descended in a right line from Borrioboola- Gha. The traditional spin- sters with their withered bosoms march in four abreast. The hereditary clergy- men, hungry, sectarian, sanctimonious, rabid, form into line with the precision acquired by long drill. The hero and heroine stand up as good as married in the first chapter. The features of the hero are instantly recognizable. There is the small stir, the rising of the cur- tain, and some one steps upon the stage, tall and sunburnt, with a moustache, t is he! Alonzo with easy self- possession and a genial air, the very man, habitual manners slightly touch. ed with reserve, but no man could unbend more easily, who but he, our old ac- quaintance a rich baritone voice strung with true masculine fibre, strik- ing in among the sharpsand fiats and bring- ing them all into harmony, that is the in- variable way. Generally, the least intel- lectual persons sing with the truest and most touching expression, because voice and intellect are rarely combined, [the rea- son seems to us rather a restatement of the fact,] but Maxwell Woodburys fine organ had not been given to him at the expense of his brain. Certainly not. He never would have been our hero, itit had. When you add, that his manners were thorough- ly refined, and his property large enough and not too large for leisure, why, one might almost send a sheriff to arrest him, trusting to this description to make sure of his identity. The heroine is of course the pale, quiet, earnest - looking girl, who, in the midst of snoods, frocks, jack- ets, pocket-handkerchiefs, and other com- monplace handicraft, is embroidering with green silk upon warm brown cloth the thready stems and frail diminishing fronds of a group of fern - leaves, who alone among assured matrons and faded spinsters is visited by a flitting blush, delicate and transient as the shadow of a rose tossed upon marble,and who matches the glo- rious lay of the hero, that thrilled and shook her with its despairing solemnity, with an Alpine song, that, pure and sweet, sets the hero once more face to face with the Rosenlaul glacier and the jagged pyra- mid of thu Wetterhorn. To this there is no special objection. Ev- ery man has a right to heap virtues and graces upon his hero, and to heighten their effect by as much uncouthness and insincerity as he chooses to attribute to the subordinates; but so far as he professes to represent life, he should keep within the bounds of natural laws. If he chooses to introduce time-honored personages,we shall not quarrel with him, although we certain- ly think it desirable that some fresh piquan- cy in their characters shall be the vindica- tion of their reappearance. We may regret that a subtle, but palpable ridicule rs cast upon foreign missions, ~ a cause which, whether successful or unsuccessful in its immediate objects, will forever stand re- corded as one of the most i~nselfish, the most sublime, and the most Christ-like movements that have ever been originated by man. The hero does, indeed, patronize them to the extent of saying that he has seen something of your missions in India, and believes that they are capable of accom- plishing much good, adding, however, lest his words excite hopes too sanguine, Still, you must not expect immediate re- turns. It is only the lowest caste that is now reached, and the Christian izing of In- dia must come, eventually, from the high- est, words which we shall be very ready to take as opinion, but very slow to receivd as oracle, since, from the time when the Founder of Christianity was upon the earth, and the common people heard him gladly, while the higher classes thrust him out of their synagogues, till the present day, the history of Christianity has been the history of an influence rising from the lower layers of society into the upper, rath- er than filtering down from the upper into the lower. Since, also, however vulgarly the Grin- dles may put it, it is true that drunkenness is the agony of wives, the dread of moth- ers, that it does destroy, hopes, desolate hearths, break hearts, that within the last two years it has added to its terrible deeds wide disasters to our arms, long sor- row to our country, and fruitless death in 134 Reviews and Literary Notices. [January, a thousand households,we think it would have been well, if the discredit cast upon temperance measures, and the discomfiture visited upon its advocates, had been ac- companied by a less covert recognition of the evil and by a more obvious sympathy with its victims. Since the methods taken to insure self-control are insufficient, would it not have been possible to indicate bet- ter Since Woodbury does not think ab- stinence to be the cure of intemperance, could he not jusPfy his practice by a high- er principle than self-indulgence, lay it on a deeper foundation than dilettanteism We regret, also, that in a book by Bay- ard Taylor there should have been found room for such a paragraph as this The churches in the village undertook their periodical revivals, which absorbed the in- terest of the community while they lasted. It was rrot the usual sebson in Ptolemy for such agitations of the religious atmosphere,but the Methodist clergyman, a very zealous and im- passioned speaker, having initiated the move- ment with great success, the other sects be- came alarmed lest he should sweep all the re- pentant sinners of the place into his own fold. As coon as they could obtain help from Tibe- rius, the Baptists followed, and the Rev. Lem nel Styles was constrained to do likewise. For a few days the latter regained the ground he had lost, and seemed about to distance his competitors. Lucleily for him the ma- terial for conversion, drawn upon from so many different quarters, was soon exhausted; but the rival churches stoutly held out, until convinced that neither had any further advantage to gain over the other. - No one who has given to the religious phetiomena of the day the smallest degree of intellectual and sympathetic attention can fail to pronounce this a gross and ill- bred caricature. Ridicule is the legiti- mate weapon of Truth; but ridicule that strikes rudely and indiscriminately, wound- ing without benefiting, is not found in the hands of Christian courtesy. We regret these blemishes, and such as these, the more because we are persuaded that the effects produced were not intended by the author. We believe, not only from his pre- vious reputation, but from the spirit of the book, which warms, deepens, and clarifies itself as it goes on, that he aimed only at results pure, healthful, and desirable. It is by no design of his, that young feet, already wavering downward, will not be strength- ened to pause, to turn, to steady themselves, but will rather be lured on by his words. It is no purpose of his to malce the crusts of Materialism harden still more hopelessly above tlte stifled soul. He designs to rid- icule only that which is ridiculous. There are evidences of a purpose to relieve the darkness of his coloring in each instance by lines of light, but it is not made palpa- ble enough for running readers. He has seen. the weakness that generally develops itself in, and the hypocrisy that almost invariably clings to the skirts of a great popular movement, and it is these alone which he aims to bring down. In this he is right. He errs in that his vision is nei- ther clear nor broad. He does not always wisely discriminate as to the nature or ex- tent of the disease, or the effect of the remedy which he applies. The cause of the difficulty has baffled his researches. The people upon whom his strictures fall, and to whom strictures belong, will be in- flamed, but they Will not be enlightened; and they who do see the real nature of the movement, its bane as well as its blessin ~, and who are constantly laboring to separate the chaff from the wheat, will not be helped, but hindered, by his well- meant efforts. But, as we intimated, the book, like fi~me, increases in going. Under all the wit and humor, which are often very charm- ing, under all the satire, which is none the less enjoyable because occasionally half- hidden, under the somewhat multifarious machinery, which the peculiar structure of the book renders necessary, there rises slowly into view and presently into prom- inence the outline of a purpose as noble as it is rare. In the teeth of popular preju- dice, Bayard Taylor has had the courage to take for his heroine a woman strong- minded, austere in her faith, past her first youth, given to public speaking, and imbued, we might almost say to stubborn- ness, with ultra ideas of womans rights. True, he has given her to us in the most modified form possible to such a character, utterly pure, unselfish, true, refined, with- out ambition, impelled by the highest mo- tives, and guided by the highest principles. But the conjunction of these two classes of qualities in one person is the real Mal- akoff. That accomplished and the work is done. In this conception lies the true originality of the book. In this attempt lies the true consciousness of power. He 1864.] Reviews and Literary Notices. 13~S who can make his hero say, It was my profound appreciation of those very ele- ments in your character which led you to take up these claims of woman and make them your own, that opened the way for you to my heart: I reverence the qualities,with- out accepting all the conclusions born of them, has a deeper insight than most of his fellows. He shows that he looks at things, and not at the traditions of things. He is not led away by the cry of the mob, and the bleam of gold so pure and solid almost changes into indignation our regret that he has ever suffered him- self to be deceived by the glare of tawdry tinsel. Yet even here he has not struck all truth. It is the most improbable thing in the world that any woman should have built up such a wall around herself as is represented here. It is morally impossi- ble that such a woman as Hannah Thurs- ton should have done it. It is simply un- natural. It might, perhaps, happen, just as a woman might happen to have been born with five fingers on each hand. But it is not with freaks of Nature, it is with Nature, that we have to deal. Girls may please themselves with fine, sounding phrases about equal powers and equal rights in marriage, but they generally vanish with the first approach of a living affection. No idea of independence or equality ever, we dare affirm, came be- tween a great nature and its great love. No wonman of exalted aims and large capaci- ties, it may be safcly said, xviii ever be held hack from love, or even from marriage, by any scruples as to her relative stand- ing. The stumbling-block in the way of such a woman as Hannah Thurston would not be a dread of the submission of love, but rather of a submission without love, a submission of mere contiguity to some- what hard, false, coarse, unjust, naming itself with a name to which it had no title. If she trusted her lover thoroughly, she would intrust all risks to love. She would know with her head and feel with her heart, that, with the chivalry, the intensity, the reverence, the elevation of such a sen- timent as she ima,,ined, there could be neither bondage nor freedom, neither mine nor thine, but a oneness that would bring all relations into harmony with itself. The very essence of love is humility, and at the same time its glory is that it abol- ishes all laws, all rights, all powers, and is to itself alone law, right, and power. By the completeness of self- ahnegation may the footsteps of love be traced. This par- tially the author recognizes, choosing it for the conclusion of the whole matter, but erring in that lie makes it come with resistance and reluctance, the conquest of love, instead of spontaneously and uncon- sciously, its necessary concomitant. In the hero of the story and his relations to the heroine, with occasional question- able traits, we find often a generosity, del- icacy, and devotion which give promise of good. A man who can conceive a char- acter so much above the common level, where the common level has always been low, cannot fail by continued observation and candid thinking to rise still higher. Frequently already, seemin~ hardly to be conscious of it, lie impinges upon a far- reaching, deep - lying, but generally sin- recognized truth. When men shall have come to stu(ly the nature of woman, in- stead of haranguing about her duties, a great point will have been gained. The blemishes which we have pointed out, and others which we have not pointed out, are only blemishes, and chiefly upon the surface. They mar, but they do not vitiate. The limits of a magazine will not ad- mit that adequate analysis and criticism which the ability of the hook, both in point of subject and treatment, deserves. We have only space to say, that, making every allowance for every fault, it has the merit of being a pioneer, and an able pio- neer, in a tract which has been hitherto, so far as we know, unbroken wilderness. Its author has not solved the problem, lie does not even understand all its condi- tions; but he is travelling in the direction of the true solution: and he offers us the rare, we had almost said the solitary, spec- tacle of a man and an opponent brin~ing to the discussion of the Womans-Hights question an appreciable degree of sense, justice, and moral dignity. Recent American Publications. [JanHary. RECENT AMERICAN PUBLICATIONS RECEIVED BY THE EDITORS OF THE ATLANTIC MONTHLY. Manual of Instructions for Military Surgeons, on the Examination of Recruits and Discharge of Soldiers. With an Appendix, containing the Official Regulations of the Provost-Marshal- Generals Bureau, and those for the Formation of the Invalid Corps, etc. Prepared at the Re- quest of the U. S. Sanitary Commission. By John Ordronaux, M. D., Professor of Medical Jurisprudence in Columbia College, New York. New York. D. Van Nostrand. l2mo. pp. 238. $1.50. Systems of Military Bridges in Use by the United States Army, those adopted by the Great European Powers, and such as are em- ployed in British India. With Directions for the Preservation, Destruction, and Reiistablish- ment of Bridges. By Brigadier-General George W. Cullum, Lieutenant-Colonel Corps of En- gineers U. S. Army, Chief of Staff of the General-in-Chief of the Armies of the United States. N~w York. D. Van Nostrand. 8vo. pp. vi., 226. $3.50. General Order No. 100, Adjutant-Generals Office. Instructions for the Government of Armies of the United States in the Field. Prepared by Francis Lieber, LL. D., and re- vised by a Board of Officers. New York. D. Van Nostrand. iGmo. paper. pp. 36. 25 cts. A Treatise on Hygiene, with Special Refer- ence to the Military Service. By William A. Hammond, M. D., Surgeon-General U. S. Ar- my, Fellow of the College of Physicians of Philadelphia, Member of the Philadelphia Pathological Society, of the Academy of Nat- ural Sciences, of the American Philosophical Society, Honorary Corresponding Member of the British Medical Association, etc., etc. Philadelphia. J. B. Lippincott & Co. Svo. pp. xvi., 004. $5.00. A Supplement to Ures Dictionary of Arts, Manufactures, and Mines, containing a Clear Exposition of their Principles and Practice. From the Last Edition. Edited by Robert Hunt, F. H. S., F. S. S., Keeper of Mining Records, etc., assisted by Numerous Contrib- utors Eminent in Science and Familiar with Manufactures. Illustrated with Seven Hun- dred En~,ravings on Wood. New York. D. Appleton & Co. 8vo. pp. 1096. $7.00. Works of Charles Dickens. Household Edition. Illustrated from Drawings by F. 0. C. Darley and John Gilbert. Bleak House. In Four Volumes. New York. Sheldon & Co. lOmo. pp. 312, 321, 320, 308. $4.00. War-Pictures from the South. By B. Est- vhn, Colonel of Cavalry in the Confederate Army. New York. D. Appleton & Co. l2mo. pp. viii., 352.. $1.25. In the Tropics. By a Settler in San Domin- go. With an Introductory Notice by Richard B. Kimball, Author of St. Leger, etc. New York. G. W. Carleton. lOmo. pp. 306. $1.25. Rockford; or, Sunshine and Storm. By Mrs. Lillie Devereux Umstead, Author of South- wold. New York. G. XV. Carleton. lOmo. pp. 308. $1.00. What to Eat and How to Cook it: contain- ing over One Thousand Receipts, systemati-. cally and practically arranged, to enable the Housekeeper to prepare the most Difficult or Simpler Dishes in the Best Manner. By Pierre Blot, late Editor of the Almanach Gastro- nomique of Paris, and other Gastronomical Works. New York. D. Appleton & Co. l6mo. pp. 259. $1.00. A Critical History of Free Thought in Refer- ence to the Christian Religion. Eight Lec- tures preached before the University of Oxford, in the Year MDCCCLXII., on the Foundation of the late John Bampton, M. A., Canon of Salisbury. By Adam Storey Farrar, M. A., Michel Fellow of Queens College, Oxford. New York. D. Appleton & Co. l2mo. pp. xlvi., 487. $2.00. The White - Mountain Guide-Book. Third Edition. Concord, N. II. Edson C. Eastman. iGmo. pp. 222. 75 cts. The Historical Shakspearian Reader: com prising the Histories or Chronicle Plays of Shakspeare; carefully expurgated and re- vised, with Explanatory Notes. Expressly adapted for the Use of Schools, Colleges, and the Family Reading-Circle. By John W. S. Hows, Author of The Shakspearian Reader, etc. New York. D. Appleton & Co. 12mo. pp. 503. $1.50. The Gold - Seekers. A Tale of California. By Gustave Aimard. Philadelphia. T. B. Pe- terson & Brothers. Svo. paper. pp. 148. 50 cts. Peter Carradine; or, The Martindale Pasto- ral. By Caroline Chesebro. New York. Shel- don & Co. l2mo. pp. 399. $1.50. Sights A-Foot. By Wilkie Collins. Phila- delphia. T. B. Peterson & Brothers. 8vo. pp. 135. 50 cts. Light. By Helen Mod5t. New York. D. Appleton & Co. 12mo. pp. 339. $1.25. The Young Parson. Philadelphia. Smith, English, & Co. l2mo. pp. 384. $1.25. 136

Recent American Publications Recent American Publications 136

Recent American Publications. [JanHary. RECENT AMERICAN PUBLICATIONS RECEIVED BY THE EDITORS OF THE ATLANTIC MONTHLY. Manual of Instructions for Military Surgeons, on the Examination of Recruits and Discharge of Soldiers. With an Appendix, containing the Official Regulations of the Provost-Marshal- Generals Bureau, and those for the Formation of the Invalid Corps, etc. Prepared at the Re- quest of the U. S. Sanitary Commission. By John Ordronaux, M. D., Professor of Medical Jurisprudence in Columbia College, New York. New York. D. Van Nostrand. l2mo. pp. 238. $1.50. Systems of Military Bridges in Use by the United States Army, those adopted by the Great European Powers, and such as are em- ployed in British India. With Directions for the Preservation, Destruction, and Reiistablish- ment of Bridges. By Brigadier-General George W. Cullum, Lieutenant-Colonel Corps of En- gineers U. S. Army, Chief of Staff of the General-in-Chief of the Armies of the United States. N~w York. D. Van Nostrand. 8vo. pp. vi., 226. $3.50. General Order No. 100, Adjutant-Generals Office. Instructions for the Government of Armies of the United States in the Field. Prepared by Francis Lieber, LL. D., and re- vised by a Board of Officers. New York. D. Van Nostrand. iGmo. paper. pp. 36. 25 cts. A Treatise on Hygiene, with Special Refer- ence to the Military Service. By William A. Hammond, M. D., Surgeon-General U. S. Ar- my, Fellow of the College of Physicians of Philadelphia, Member of the Philadelphia Pathological Society, of the Academy of Nat- ural Sciences, of the American Philosophical Society, Honorary Corresponding Member of the British Medical Association, etc., etc. Philadelphia. J. B. Lippincott & Co. Svo. pp. xvi., 004. $5.00. A Supplement to Ures Dictionary of Arts, Manufactures, and Mines, containing a Clear Exposition of their Principles and Practice. From the Last Edition. Edited by Robert Hunt, F. H. S., F. S. S., Keeper of Mining Records, etc., assisted by Numerous Contrib- utors Eminent in Science and Familiar with Manufactures. Illustrated with Seven Hun- dred En~,ravings on Wood. New York. D. Appleton & Co. 8vo. pp. 1096. $7.00. Works of Charles Dickens. Household Edition. Illustrated from Drawings by F. 0. C. Darley and John Gilbert. Bleak House. In Four Volumes. New York. Sheldon & Co. lOmo. pp. 312, 321, 320, 308. $4.00. War-Pictures from the South. By B. Est- vhn, Colonel of Cavalry in the Confederate Army. New York. D. Appleton & Co. l2mo. pp. viii., 352.. $1.25. In the Tropics. By a Settler in San Domin- go. With an Introductory Notice by Richard B. Kimball, Author of St. Leger, etc. New York. G. W. Carleton. lOmo. pp. 306. $1.25. Rockford; or, Sunshine and Storm. By Mrs. Lillie Devereux Umstead, Author of South- wold. New York. G. XV. Carleton. lOmo. pp. 308. $1.00. What to Eat and How to Cook it: contain- ing over One Thousand Receipts, systemati-. cally and practically arranged, to enable the Housekeeper to prepare the most Difficult or Simpler Dishes in the Best Manner. By Pierre Blot, late Editor of the Almanach Gastro- nomique of Paris, and other Gastronomical Works. New York. D. Appleton & Co. l6mo. pp. 259. $1.00. A Critical History of Free Thought in Refer- ence to the Christian Religion. Eight Lec- tures preached before the University of Oxford, in the Year MDCCCLXII., on the Foundation of the late John Bampton, M. A., Canon of Salisbury. By Adam Storey Farrar, M. A., Michel Fellow of Queens College, Oxford. New York. D. Appleton & Co. l2mo. pp. xlvi., 487. $2.00. The White - Mountain Guide-Book. Third Edition. Concord, N. II. Edson C. Eastman. iGmo. pp. 222. 75 cts. The Historical Shakspearian Reader: com prising the Histories or Chronicle Plays of Shakspeare; carefully expurgated and re- vised, with Explanatory Notes. Expressly adapted for the Use of Schools, Colleges, and the Family Reading-Circle. By John W. S. Hows, Author of The Shakspearian Reader, etc. New York. D. Appleton & Co. 12mo. pp. 503. $1.50. The Gold - Seekers. A Tale of California. By Gustave Aimard. Philadelphia. T. B. Pe- terson & Brothers. Svo. paper. pp. 148. 50 cts. Peter Carradine; or, The Martindale Pasto- ral. By Caroline Chesebro. New York. Shel- don & Co. l2mo. pp. 399. $1.50. Sights A-Foot. By Wilkie Collins. Phila- delphia. T. B. Peterson & Brothers. 8vo. pp. 135. 50 cts. Light. By Helen Mod5t. New York. D. Appleton & Co. 12mo. pp. 339. $1.25. The Young Parson. Philadelphia. Smith, English, & Co. l2mo. pp. 384. $1.25. 136

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The Atlantic monthly. / Volume 13, Issue 76 Galaxy, Atlantic Atlantic Monthly Co. Boston February 1864 0013 076
J. Brownlee Brown Brown, J. Brownlee Genius 137-156

THE ATLANTIC MONTHLY. A MAGAZINE OF LITERATURE, ART, AND POLITICS. VOL. XIIJ.FEBRUARY, 1864.NO. LXXVI. GENIUS. WHEN Paul Morphy plays seven games of chess at once and blindfold, when young Colburn gives impromptu solution to a mathematical problem involving fifty-six figures, we are struck with hopeless won- der: such power is separated by the very extent of it from our mental opera- tions. But when we further observe that these feats are attended by little or no fa- tigue, that this is the play, not the ten- sion of faculty, we recognize a new kind, not merely a new degree, of intelligence. These men seem to leap, not labor step by step, to their results. Colburn sees the complication of values, Morphy that of moves, as we see the relation of two and two. What is multiform and puzzling to us is simple to them, as the universe lies rounded and is one thought in the Origi- nal Mind. We seck in vain for the secret of this mastery. It is private, as deeply hidden from those who have as from those who have it not. They cannot think oth- erwise than so, and to this exercise have been provoked by every influence in life. The boy who is an organized arithmetic and geometry will count all the hills of po- tatoes and reckon the kernels of corn in a bushel, and his triangles soon begin to cover the barn - door. lie sees nothing but number and dimension; he feeds on these, another fellow on apples and nuts. But his brother loves application of force, builds wheels and mills; his head is full of cogs and levers and eccentrics; and after he has gone out to his engineering in the great machine-shop of a modern world, the old corn-chamber at home is lumbered with his mysterious contrivan- ces, studies for a self- impelling or grav- itating machine and perpetual motion. Another boy is fired with the mystery of form. He will draw the cat and dog; his chalk and charcoal are on all our el- bows; he carves a rams head on his bat, an eagle on a walking-stick, perches a cock on top of the barn, puts an eye and a nose to every triangle of the geometer, and paints faces on the wheels of his me- chanical brother. In all these boys there is something more than ability; there is propensity, an attraction irresistible. Their minds run, we say, in that direc- tion, and they creep or lie still, if turned in another. The young shepherd will toss eggs, spin platters, and balance knives, VOL. XIII. 10 Entered according to Act of con~ese, in the year 1864, by Trczsoa AND F,Fa~os, in the Clerks Gifi.. of the District Court of the District of Massachusetts. 138 Genius. [February, year after year, in solitude, with a patient energy and endurance able to command any fortune. What philter is in these faculties? The boy who will be great is always discon- tented with his work, ready to rub out and begin again. He follows a bee, and never quite touches that which drew him on. Plainly, the mere ability to do is a dry straw, but through it our seeker tastes an intoxicating, seductive liquor, from which he cannot take away his lips. It is the liquor of our life. In measure, or form, or tone, he applies himself to the very breasts of Nature, and draws through these exteriors a motherly milk which was her blood and hastens to be his own. If the young cub holds fast to the teat, be sure the stream flows and his veins swell. Matter is the dry rind of this suc- culent, nutritious universe: prick it on any side, and you draw the same juice. Varieties of endowment are only so many pitchers dipped in one stream. Poet, painter, musician, mathematician, the gift is an accident of organization, the result is admission to that by which all things are, and by partaking which we become what we must be. Of this experience there can be no adequate report. It is as though one should attempt to go up in a balloon above the atmosphere and bring down the ether in his hands. There is a spring on every door in Nature to close it behind the re- turning footsteps of her lover, so that he can lead no man freely into the chamber where she gave him love; it is only by the confidence, fervency, and reverence of the initiate that we learn in what presence he has been. Genius is great, but no product of genius is more than a shadow which points to this sun behind the sun as its substance, and the power of our inspired men has been merely manifested, not rightly employed. Gen- ius has availed only to authenticate itself as the normal activity of man, not yet to do the work of the world. Sense is a tangle of contradiction. The boy throws wood on water and it floats; then he throws in his new knife and it sinks. How was he to know that the same force will lift a stick and swallow a knife? He throws a feather after his knife, and away it swims on the wind. That is another brook, then, in which the feather is a stick and the stick a stone. Not only are results of a single law op- posed, but the laws pull one this way, one that, as gravitation contends with cur- rents of water and air. If we could be shut in sense and surface, Nature would seem a game of cross - purposes, every creature devouring another. The L~east eats plant and beast; he dies, and the plant eats him again; fire, water, and frost, in their old quarrel, destroy what- ever they build; the night eats the day, summer the snow, and winter the green. Change is a revolving wheel, in which so many spokes rise, so many fall, a motion returning into itself. Nature is a circle, but man a spiral. No wonder he is dis- satisfied, with his longing to get on. Eat- ing and hunger, labor and rest, gathering and spending, there is no gain. Life is consumed in getting a living. After la- borious years our money is ready in bank, but the man who was to enjoy it is gone from enjoyment, shrivelled with care, ev- ery appetite dried up. So learning dev- astates the scholar, is another plague of wealth, and our goodness turns out to be a hasty mistake. Is order disorder, then? Are we fools of fate? Is there only pow~ er enough to prop up this rickety old sys- tem, to keep it running and hold our noses to the grindstone? No man believes it: the madness of Time has method only half concealed. See what eagerness is in the eyes of men, curious, hopeful, dimly aware of beneficence under all these knocks and denials. There are whispers of a great destiny for man, that he is dear to the Cause. We suspect integrity in Nature. Can this canebrake, in which we are tangled with care, fear, and sin, be after all single and sincere, a piece of intelli- gent kindness? Genius is the opening of this suspicion to certainty. We are like children who recognize the love which gives them sugar-plums, but not 1864.1 Gens~us. that which shuts the bag and forbids. Insight goes deep enough to prize all se-~ verity and detect the good of evil. Trade seems contemptible to Wilhelm Meister, but, in its larger aspect, sublime to Werner, who sees it as an explora- tion and possession of Nature with friend- ly interchange between man and man. Trade is democracy. Authority is hate- ful to democrats; but Carlyle can justify loyalty, arid show how obedience to the hero may be fidelity to myself. Every experience needs its interpreter, one who can show its derivation from an absolute centre. The mob of the French Revo- lution is a crowd of devils till their poet arrives and restores these maniacs to man- hood. They are misguided brothers, do- ing what we should do in their place. Genius in every situation takes hold on reality, a tap - root going down to the source. Equilibrium appears in a stag- gering as well as a standing figure, and is perfectly restored in every fall. The landscape seen in detail is broken and ragged,here a raw sand - bank, there a crooked butternut - tree, yonder a stiff black cedar: but look with a larger eye; the straight is complement to the crooked tree, color balances color, form corrects form, and the entire effect of every scene is completeness. The artist restores this hhrmony broken by our microscopic view. Music is a shattering and suspension of chords till we ache for their resolution; and the music of life is desire, a dimin- ished seventh that melts the past and ru- ins the present to prepare a future in an- other key. Genius sees that~ many an exception is fruit of some larger law, is not imperfec- tion, but uncomprehended perfection. Is there, then, no imperfection? We are haunted by such a thought. We see first a mixed beauty in faces, partly life and partly organization; the body is never symmetrical, deformity is the rule. But beauty will not be measured by form; the body cannot long occupy good eyes; we begin to look through that, and en- counter some courage, generosity, or ten- derness, a dawning or dominant light in 139 every countenance. This is our morning, and the physical form only a low shore over which it breaks. Beauty is the rule, exceptions melt away. There is no face in which Raphael cannot see more than I see in any face; the dullest landscape is to Turner a fairer vision than I can find in the world; Byron in his blackguards shows a kind of magnanimity which re- freshes the victims of respectability and routine. The individuality of men is de- formity, a departure from the human type; yet this fault makes each neces- sary to each, founds society, love, and friendship. So wherever a break appears in the plan, we anticipate a larger pur- pose, and sound down throu~h the water, certain to find under that also a continu- ation of land. Genius first named our system a universe to mark its consisten~ cy, and goes on reconciling, showing how creatures and men are made of one stuff and that not so bad. Let the thing be what it may, press on it a little with the mind, and order begins to ooze. There is nothing on which we cannot feed with good enough teeth and digestion, for the elements of meat are given also in brick and bark. Natural objects are explored to their roots in man, and through him in the Cause: each is what it is in kindness to him, has its saul in his breast, grows out of him as truly as his hair, and the out-world is only a larger body shaped by his needs. Each thing is a passive man, and personification does no more than justice to the joint - stool and the fence or whatever creature talks and suffers in verse. What is the meaning of my day and relations? I suspect an advantage de- signed for me, but not yet extracted, in marriage and the family-life, in books, in politics, in business, in the garden, in mu- sic. How much of each, as I know theni, is chaff? how much is life coming in from the deep by these low doors? What is society? An eating and drinking togeth- er? a bit of gossip? a volley of jokes? Do men meet in these exercises, or in hope and humanity? We are all supe- rior to amusement. The cowardly host 140 Genius. [February; will entertain with fiddlers and cream; then every guest leaves his high desire with his hat, leaves himself behind, and descends to fiddlers and cream. But men rise to associate; in sinking they sepa- rate; and the g~od host must call us up, not drag us down to his feast. Goethe knows how to spread the table with port- folios, architecture, music, drawing, ta- bleaux; hut a great love, with its mcvi- tahle thought, makes even these solvents superfluous. Goethe studies the ceme- tery, the chapel, the school, the gallery, the burial-service, the estate,whatever is nearest. He finds astonishing values in labor, trade, production, art, science, war. In his boyhood he built an altar with his playthings and hurned incense to Deity on a pile of shells and stones. That act of worship foreshadowed his whole career; he took every creature and thing from Gods hand with reverent expectation, and never rested till he had opened to some intent of the Maker there in. Things, therefore, in his view are no longer empty and hollow like old cast-off shoes, hut pieces of sublime design. A heetle is sustained hy earth, air, fire, and water, needs the sun and the sea, winter and summer, earths orbit and parallax, needs whatever has heen made, to set him on his legs. He carries the world in lit- tle, and is a creeping black hody of the best. Much more man is microcosmic and macrocosmic. Natural and supernatural meet concealedly in the out-world, hut openly in him, and his early desires grow into a future surpassing all desire. The poet sees his destiny in our wishes, sees right and wrong, kindness and greedi- ness, deepening into incalculable gran- deurs of heaven and hell. He sees the man never yet arrived, hut now arriv- ing, to inhabit each hreast. Fnr off his coming shines. We have many lit- tle gleams of generosity; we have con- viction, and can strike fbr the right. Na- ture is a fixed quantity, a solid; but life is reinforced by life. Truth hegets truth, love kindles love, every end is a new beginning. Therefore the perception of genius is prophetic, an anticipation of manhood for this boy, who is the Kings son, child of Eternity, and only changeling of Time. Wherever any magnanimity is reveal- ed, I lay claim to it. The courage of heroes, the purity of angels, the gen- erosity of God, is no more than I need. Only show virtue unmixed at the heart of this system, and you open my des- tiny in that. If there be hut the least spark of pure benignity, it is a fire will spread through all and fill the breast; for Good makes good, and what it is I must become. Man is heir not to any posses- sion or commodity, though it were a homestead i1i all heavens, but to the moral power which we ache to exercise. To-day I am a poor starveling of Nature, sucking many a dry straw, but so sure as God I shall stream like the sun. The meanest creature is a promise of such power, for in each is some radiation as well as suction. Man grows, indeed, fast- er than he can be filled, and so is forever empty; hut if power is never a plenum, it is never drawn dry, and at least the mantling foam of it fills the cup. Our expectation is that bead on the draught of being, and boils over the brim. Imagination is the spiritual sight, work- ing upward from the fact, downward from the law. In low experience it divines the tendency of order, and descends on the other arc of this rainbow to construct the world, and the man that must be. Imagination is the projection of each be- yond himself. A man shall not lift his meat to his lips without prophecy and a consulting of this oracle: he shall first extend him to think the savor and satis- faction of the meat. Shut into the ho- rizon and the moment, we have this on- ly organ of communication with all that is beyond; yet having here in rudiments and beginnings all that is beyond, we laugh at the old limits, and explore the universe through every dimension, through spaces beyond Space and times beyond Time. If this old ball on which we are car- ried be no apple of Sodom, but sound 1864.1 Genius. and sweet to the core, insight must be confidence and satisfaction. In the be- ginning of thought we enjoy mere glimps- es and guesses, our hopes are rather wish- es than hopes; we mount into flame when they come, we sink into ashes when they burn out and desert us. The first glimmerings only beget a noble dis- content. Children are tired of matter before they know where to seek j~heir own power they seem to be cheated of themselves, their worthiness is unrecog- nized and unfed. Companions, tasks, prospects are insufficient, they are bored and isolated, they sigh and mope; yet they are proud of this lukewarm long- ing, which does not quite avail, and keep diaries to record with protest the dulness of every day. Sentimentality is initial genius. Its complaint seems to contra- dict the cheerfulness of wisdom, yet it enjoys complaining; though life be not worth having on these conditions, it bot- tles evcry tear. A weak sadness fills great space in literature, stocks the cir- culating library, and counts its Werthers by the thousand in every age. Now we expect this malady, as we look for mumps and measles in the growing child. It is feminine, unwilling to be weak, yet not able to stand and go. The strong quick- ly leave it behind. In his first novel Goethe burned out for himself this girlish green-sickness, and by a more vigorous demand began to take what he wanted from the world. To the young, life seems splendid but inacces- sible. its remoteness is the theme of every complaint; but when these windy wishes grow stern, inexorable, when a man will no longer beg, but gets on his feet to try a tussle with the world, he throws resolute arms around the Great- est, and finds in his bosom all that was so vast and so far. Then we open paths, renew our society, enlarge our work, make elbow-room and head-room enough in the world. Criti- cism is the shadow of the mind. Insight is not sadness, but invigoration, is no sob or spasm, but clearness in the eye and calmness in the breast. We mis- 141 judge it from partial examples: the light of day is confidence, yet sudden bursts of light distress and blind. The poet is rapt, and follows thought; he leaves his meat, and by some transubstantiation feeds on the wind; he no longer sees the pillars of Hercules on a sixpence; he is mad for the hour, if a majority shall say what is madness. Meanwhile his field is unploughed; and if he falls from this ecstasy, look to see an harassed, em- bittered man. The birds sing as they pick up the corn, but wisdom is not so quickly convertible into meal, and if he cannot feed always on it, let him never seek the Muse. Our poor half-genius vil~ratcs miserably between truth and the dinner-pot, comes back from his apoc- alypse, and cries for admiration, gold- lace, hair-powder, and wine. That is no apocalypse from which a man returns to whine and beg. Burns complains of Scot- land and poverty, Byron of England and respectability, and they are both so far paupers unfed at home. Wordsworth finds London a wilderness, and goes more than content to good company in lonely Cumberland, to eat a crust and drink water with the gods. Socrates is bare- footed. He has one want so pressing that he can have no other want, an(l has set his lips to a cup which hides his bare feet from his eyes: with a single gar- ment for winter and summer, he draws the universe around him a garment for the mind. If the first flashes of perception dazzle, they are rays of daylight to one emerg- ing from the cave of sense. The eye be- comes wonted to truth, and that is now the least of his convictions which yester- day struck Paul from his horse, and re- buked him as fire from the sky. Truth is breath, and only for the first uncertaimi moment of life we use it to cry and com- plain. Inspiration is morning, not a flash to deepen the dark. Popular literature is some descriptioh of a state which men think they might enjoy: it is no record of joy. But the fools paradise would be dreary even for the fool; he is his own paradise, and will 142 Genius. [February,. be. Our early fancy is no transcript of the divine method, and is sternly reject- ed by all who suspect a perfection hidden in the day. A few works are great which celebrate the charm of actual effort, and the furtherance of Nature for the brave. Homer, Shakspeare, Goethe, need never exaggerate or leave the earth behind: in their experience it carries well the sky. Every vital thought is some pleasure in running, waking, loving, contending, helping, is valor dealing gayly with the homely old forces and needs. The mar- row is sweet for him who can crack it, in the roughest or the smoothest bone. One is horn with a key to the gladness of Nature, and glows with the days work, the touch of hands, the prospect of to-morrow, loves production and hus- bandry, the old worn grass and sunshine, the winter wind, the games and squabbles of children and of men. Why is life for John weariness, for James every moment fresh fire out of the sky? He who finds what he wants, or makes what he wants, isagod. I know well the hope of saints and sages, how they connect this life with endless stages beyond, how they look for the same dignity in all action, the same motive in every companion; I see what they have signified by heaven, a state wherein the best loved is the best: but we must not be scornful, or miss to- day the common delight of living, the moderate hopes of the healthy multitude. For no exceptional joy is so wonderful as the universality of joy, the love of life under every burden and stroke. The beginning of all beatitude and ground of all is good digestion, good sleep, good- nature, and the cheer undeniable of an average human day. But genius hurries on to expand our hope and dread to incalculable dimen- sions. Hell is its first sudden down-look from uncertain flight, is earth and ani- malty seen from the sky. The bad nei- ther so see nor fear. Few men ever reach a height from which they can sound such depth, and the popular talk is repetition without corresponding ex- perience. Hope and fear rise alike to sublimity before the boundless scope of our future. Give the hour to folly, and you set back the dial-hand of destiny, you are so much behind your privilege in every following hour. Eternity is displaced by the stumbling present as the earth by a falling pebble, and the act of this low morning is a stone cast in the sea of universal Being, which shakes and shoulders every drop of the deep. The immensity of the universe does not dwarg but magnifies our activity: man is multiplied into the sum of all. This deed, this breath dilates to the propor- tions of Spirit, and upheaves the low roof of Time, which is no sky for the soul. Life becomes awful by its reaches, its span from zenith to nadir, by moral parallax. From gods we sound down to beasts and devils, from sky and fire to ice and mud. Here arc the true and final spaces: in their startling contrast appears the grandeur of the moral law, like Chimborazo carrying all zones. It offers hell and heaven, advancing inevi- table, and leaves us never a dodge from choice. Our dodge is a choice. Man overtaken by inexorable need must do or go under in the tread-mill of Fate. Not a fault, not a lack, but is so far damnation, with consequences not to be set forth in any prospect of fire. When you begin to look down, the fear of cen- turies seems not exaggerated. The rem- edy is in looking so vigorously and far as to see, beyond depth, again the sky and stars. Look through; for toward that centre which is everywhere, we look. Hell was situated under the earth; our first voyage teaches that there is no un- der-the-earth. The widening of every path gives boundless dimension to sin, till we learn that the evil impulse alone does not extend. It is soon exhausted both in attraction and effect, is no pow- er, but some suspense of life. The first moral perception is always a shudder. Carlyle sees the lifted judg- ment of a lie; his eye is filled, and he sees nothing beyond; but Nemesis is sur- geon with probe and knife. Our poisons arc medicines and homeopathic, the fumes 1864.1 Genius. 143 of fear a remedy of sulphur for cutaneous sin. The thought in which our terrors arrive is always at last a gospel, is glad tidings. Dante, Paul, Swedenborg, Ed- wards have seen the pit. It opens only in the holiness of such men,is a thunder out of clear sky, before which generations of the impure, like brute beasts, tremble and cower. An equal moral genius will see that the ascension of an immortal Love has left behind this vacuum, miti- gated, not deepened, by the furniture of devils and their flame. Men strive in vain to be afflicted by a revelation of the best and worst. The mind is naturally a form of gladness, and every window in us takes. the sun. Our genuine trouble is not extreme dread, but a perpetual restlessness and discontent. The delight of contemplation has been in history a hei~,ht without sustaining breadth, a needle, not a cube. Genius has been tremulous, recluse, has been cherished in solitude with Nature, has been a feminine partiality among men, holding for gods its favorites, for dogs the refuse of mankind. It still counts the practical life an interruption. It is there- fore only melancholy cheer, a forlorn ark with nine souls on the brine, a refuge from the world, not a delight of the world. It lives not from God who is, but from a God who should be. The true creative power is a cnhn of battle, a trust not for the closet, but the chariot, a torch that can be carried through the gusty market, a Ramadhan in the street. It is no miracle to be calm in calm, to be quiet in bed,but to ruleand lead without anx- iety, to tame the beasts and elements, to build and unbuild cities with a song. The great thought returns on society, floods out the heaped rubbish of custom, pours the old grandeurs of Nature through dry channels of Trade, Religion, Courtesy, and Art. He is great who plays the game of life with decision, yet is always retired, and holds the life of life in re- serve. Such a man is demiurgic, for he puts down a hand on action through the sky. From a happy or sufficient genius came the golden maxim, Think of living. Strong men love life. The system, so cheery and severe, seems to them worthy to be continued yonder and without end. This day leading a better, itself good not in leading alone, this presentiment, this solid increment of hard-won power, of what other stuff should our eternity be woven? In wisdom first appears the present tense, an hour which is not mere transition, but something for itself. There are men who live to live. He who finds our destiny given beforehand in the nature of things has the leisure of God: he has not only all the time that is, but spaces beyond, so that he will not be hurried by the falling-off of Time. Lei- sure is a regard fixed not on the nearest trees and fences as we whirl through this changing scene, but on remoter and lar- ger objects, on the slow-revolving circle of the far hills, on the quiet stars. Why should I hasten with my foolish plan? Prosperity is over all, not in my foolish plan. What is a fortune, a reputation, what even genuine influence, if you consider the future of one or of the race? Only little aims bring care. Why run after success? That is success which fol- lows: success should be cosmic, a new creation, not any trick or feat. To be man is the only success. For this we lie back grandly with total application to the cause. Why run after knowledge? A large mind circles all the primal facts from its own stand-point, and needs never tread the curious round of science, his- tory, and art. Where it is, is Nature: therefore it is calm and free. The wise men of my knowledge were farmers, dro- vers, traders, learned beyond the book. You cannot feed but you put me in com- munication with all forests, fields, streams, seas. Give me one companion, and be- tween us two is quickly repeated the his- tory of the race. In a plant, an animal, a day or year, in elements, their feuds and fruitful marriages, in a private or public history, the thinker is admitted to the end of thought. A scholar can add nothing to my perfect wonder, though he bring Egypt, Assyria, and Greece. I find 144 Cenzus. [February, myself where I was, in Egypt, Assyria, and Greece: I find the old earth, the old sky, the old astonishment of man. Caesar and the grasshopper, both are alike within my knowledge and beyond. There is some vague report of a remote divine, at which he will smile who finds no least escape from the divine. Two points are given in every regard, man and the world, subject, we say, and object, a creature seen and a creature seeing, marvelling, knowing, ignorant. Either of these open- ings will lead quickly to light too pure for our organs, and launch us on the sea beyond every shore. The artist studies a fair face; there is no supplement to his delight. In temples, statues, pictures, poems, symphonies, and actions, only the same eternal splendor shines. It is the sun which lights all lands, that plan- et, as Dante sings, Which leads men straight on every road. He is delivered there at home to Beauty, which makes and is the world. Genius is royal knowledge. In the nearest need it studies all ages and all worlds. Let me understand my neigh- bors and my meat; you may have the libraries and schools. I read here living languages, the eye, the attitude and temperament, the wish and will: Hebrew and Greek must wait. lie who knows how to value Hamlet will never subscribe for your picture of Shakspeares Study. Great intelligence runs quickly through our primers, our cities, constitutions, gal- leries, traditions, cathedrals, creeds. The long invention of the race is a tortuous, obscure way. Must I creep all my fresh years in that labyrinth, and postpone youth to the end of age? What need of so much experience and contrivance, if without contrivance, if by simplicity, the children surely and beautifully live? Healthy thought is organic, grows by assimilation, vitalizes all it takes, and so like a plant puts forth knowledge from the old and from within. The apple of to-morrow is earth, not apple, till it hangs on the tree. Our knowing seems rather rejection than acceptance, so much is husk in bulk. From eight thousand miles of geology the tree takes a few drops of water and distils from these its own again. Yi,or of mind is judgment, which divides the meat from the shell, that which cum- bers from that which thrills. The act is simple, inevitable; let it be energetic and final. We say, This is valuable, it quickens me; the rest is nonsense. A feeble mind needs now chiefly to be rid of rubbish, of cheap admirations, an awe before the hair-pins and shoe-ties of society, before the true church, the scho- lastic learning, dead languages, the Fa- thers and the fashion. To set the sav- age of civilization free from his supersti- tion, these idols must be insulted before his face. A little energy of demand displaces them from regard. The scholars are busy with punctuation, chronology, and the lives of the little great, so that their visit is a vastation, and I must turn them out of doors. Genius will continue unable to spell, to read the German, to count the Egyptian kings. There is royal igno- rance, the preoccupation of gods. For the wise, if no object is trifling, yet part of every object is foreign to its best in- tent. Every nut is inwardly a man and a miracle, but outwardly a shell. If it be a book, the thought is a shell, though God be in the thought. The book is an- other thing, another world of power and form, and the power will consume the form as a sword eats its sheath, the soul the body, or fire the pan. The letter drops, for the spirit must expand and be set free. The positive, and negative poles of Nature reappear in every creature, and the positive element must prevail. When we have learned to live, we shall or shall not learn to spell. The last refreshment is intercourse with a kingly mind, which has no need to shift its centre, but lies abroad hemi- spheric, and sleeps like sunshine, bathing silently the earth and sky. Such a mind is at home, not in position, but in a vital relation to Nature, which leaves no spaces dark and cold for wandering, and knows no change that is worth the name of 1864.] Genius. 145 change. It is rest to be with one who is at rest, who cannot go to or go from his happiness, for whom the meaning of De- ity is here and now. What stillness and depth of manner are communicated to all who sound the deeps of life! what a ref- uge is their society from wit, zeal, and gossip, from petty estimates and demands! To these, now first encountered, we have been always known; in them we meet no private motive, no accomplishment, rep- utation, ability, immediate haunting pur- pose, but a Sabbath from personal for- tunes. We meet the great above all that can be mine or thine, above gifts and accidents in common manhood and pros- perity. Swedenborg reports no encoun- ter on higher ground. The seven heav- ens open to me in a mind which gives rank to its own facts, and wherever it is housed still finds the universe only a lar- ger body around the soul. Genius declgires the total or represent- ative value of its own facts against the neglect or contempt of mankind. Intel- ligence is centre of centres, and all things diminish as they recede from the eye. Every natural law is some hint to us of our commanding position. The good thought is never a toilsome going abroad, but some settling at home to new intima- cy with the fortune which waits on all. It is no putting out legs, but a putting down roots to take possession of the earth and the nether heavens, while we fill the upper sky with climbing shoots. Intelli- gence is at one with the system, able to entertain it as a unit, to refer every par- ticle, dark as a particle, to its shining place in the transparent whole. How can I afford to drop my errand, to go wonder after the fore-world, after Plato, Washington, or Paul? These are men who never dropped their errands to go wonder after the Maker himself. They found God in the thing lying nearest to be done. As right action in the remot- est corner is a world - victory, so right thought applied to the lowest circum- stance is cosmic thought. In the fortune of the hour we have a home beyond the fortune of the hour. The least circle of order now organized and established in our lives is not a poor house frozen to the ground, but a ship able to outride the currents of time, a charmed circle of se- curity which will serve us still in every following world. Our. future is to be found, not in multiplication of examples, but in deeper sympathy with all we have superficially known. We shall never rightly celebrate the stillness and sweetness of truth in an open mind. Clear perception is refresh- ing as sleep. It is a sleep from blunder, care, and sin. In every thought we are lifted to sit with the serene rulers, and see how lightly, yet firmly, in their or- bits the worlds are borne. With insight we work freely, for every result is se- cure; we rest, for every stream will bear us to the sea. Peace is joy beyond the perturbation of joy, is entertainment of Omnipotence in the breast. A filial relation to the universe is well expressed, not in speech, but in the atti- tudes of her children, in their balance, tranquillity, directness, their firm and qui- et grasp, look, step, tone. Confidence and joy are the only moral agents. Wor- ship is imniortal cheer. The Greeks re- buke us with their sacred festivals and games: why should we not hunt every evil as we follow gayly the buffalo and bear? Virtue cannot be wrinkled and sad; Virtue is a joy of the Right added to our earliest joy, is refreshment and health, not fever. The Etruscan are right religious sculptures: the body will be more, not less, when the soul is most; for the body is created and perfected, not devoured by the soul. In another Eden the curves of grace and power will reappear; every wrinkle will be count- ed sin; goodness will be sap and blood, a growth of grapes and roses, a sacra- ment of energy and content. If there be great wrongs, we cannot distrust the Maker, and postpone the se- curity of the soul. Impatience is a wrong as great as any. Love and trust are rem- edies for wrong. Music is our cure for insanity, and I remember that incanta- tion of fair reasons which Plato pre 146 Genius. [February, scribed. What gain is in scolding and knitting the brows? The blue sky, the bright cloud, the star of night, the star of day, every creature is in its smiling place a protest of the universe against our hasty method of counter - working wrong with wrong. Let loose the Right. Go forward with martial music; never await or seek, but carry victory and win every battle in the organization of your band. Hear Beethoven Nor do I fear for my works. No evil can befall them, and whosoever shall understand them shall be free from all such misery as burdens mankind. From this security in the lap of Na- ture, this nest in the grass, we rise easi- ly to every height. Gladness becomes Un- containable, a pain of fulness, for which, after all effort, there is no complete re- lief; for language breaks under it in de- livery, and Art falls to the ground. The psalm of David, the statue of Angelo, the chorus of Handel, are inarticulate cries. These men have not justified to us their confidence. It will be shared, not justified. They have divined what they cannot orderly publish, and their meaning will be by the same greatness divined again. The work of such men remains a haunting, commanding enig- ma to following ages. They do but re- peat the promise and obscurity of Na- ture, for she herself has the same large- ness, is such another raptus, proceeding to no end, but to a circle or complexity of ends. Men are again and again di- vided over the images of Paul, of Plato, of Dante, unable to escape from their an- thority, more unable to give them final in- terpretation. They leave Nature, to puz- zle over the inexhaustible book. What does it mean? What does it not mean? The poet will never wait till he can de- monstrate and explain. He must hasten to convey a blessing greater than expla- nation, to publish, if it were only by broken hints, by signs and dumb point- ing, his seuse of a presence not to be comprehended or named. For, if the seer is sustained, he is also commanded by what he sees. Genius is not religious, but religion, an opening to the conscience of the universe no less than to the joy. From this original the moral, intellectual, and easthetic sense will each derive a conscience, and rule with equal sovereignty the man. Through an ant or an angel the first influx, of re- ality is entertained in an attitude of wor- ship, and the poet, in his vision, cries with Virgil to Dante: Down, down, bend low Thy knees! behold Gods augel! fold thy hands! Ilenceforward shalt thou see true ministers! Revelation is not more a new light than a new heart and will; revelation to me is the conquest and renewal of me. What is loveljr will not be encountered without love, the Creator holds the key to the creature, Order and Right may freely enter to be man. He who can open any object to its source is touched there- in by the finger of God, and insight is inevitable consecration. Give the cow- ard a suspicion of our human destiny, and he is no longer coward; he would gladly be cut in pieces and burned in any flame to shed abroad that light. Life has such an irresistible tendency to extend, that it makes of the man a mere vehicle, takes him for hands and feet, wheels and wings: he is glad only when the truth runs and prevails. lEnthusi- asm, devotion, earnestness are names for this possession of the deep thinker by his thought. He lives in that, and has in it his prosperity, no longer in the flesh. The inspired man becomes great by absorption in a great design; he is preoccupied, and trifles, for which other men are bought and sold, shine before him as beads of glass with which savages are wheedled. We drop our playthings, our banks and coaches, crowns, swords, colleges, and sugar-plums in a heap to- gether, when any moment opens to us the scope of our activity, and carries far forward the curve through which we have already run. The divine authority of Genius is giv- en in this descent and superiority to will. That which in me I must obey, that also 1864.] Genf us. 147 above me all men must obey. Will is the centre of the practical man, of all force, not moral, but brute or natural, and is identified in the common thought with myself, as I am a natural cause. Will is the sum of physical forces neces- sary for self- preservation, is reagency against the formidable rivalry of every other organization. In this animal cen- tre the laws are carried up, as reins are gathered to be put into the hands of a driver, and being tied in a knot just where the physical touches the celestial sphere, they seem to be moral, and Will much more than the body is in popular thought inseparable from man. It is an organ into which he has thrown himself in reckless neglect of his privilege, a grasping hand which rules the world as we see it ruled, masters and takes to it- self for extension all laws below its own level, wields Nature as an instrument, breaks down a weaker will, and carries away the 5aterial mind until some God from above shall deliver it. Will is that living Fate of which exterior necessity is but the form. From it we are instantly delivered in conviction, and find it ever after the servant, not the synonyme of man. The boy does not choose, neither does the belly choose for him, what object shall be supremely beautiful in his eyes. lie has not resolved to see only this splendor of color, and neglect sound, or to give himself to sound alone, and shut his eyes to sight. If the divine order reaches any mind, those creatures in which it appears will haunt that mind, will take lordly their own place, and hang as con- stellations high overhead in thought. So long as he can turn the eye hither and thither, or lightly determine what he will see, the man is conversant with form alone, and bigots who are on that plane of experience identify him with choice, hold thought to he altogether voluntary, and burn the thinker, as though his view were a fruit, not a root, of him. But truth is that which does not wait for our making, but makes us, does not lie like water at the bottom of our wells, but comes like sunshine flooding the air, and compelling recognition. To believe your own thought, says a master, that is genius; but is not genius p~imarily the arrival of a thought able to authen- ticate itself; to compel trust, and make its own value known against the sneers or anger of the world? From my own thought once reached there is but one appeal,to my own thought: from Phil- ip sober to Philip more sober. The good spirit appears as a spark in our embers, and draws out these careful hands to ward itself from every gust, sets our tasks and crowns them. We know that from first desire to last per- formance wisdom is alto~ethcr a grace. Wisdom is this wish for wisdom, already given in the readiness to receive. We have not cared for it, but it has cared for us. Grown stronger, it is a guide, and needs none. Turner sees what he must love; there is no rule for such seeing: what he does not love is hid from him; there is no rule for such omission. It is in the eye, not more a happy opening than a happy closing. A private ordi- nance, dividing man into men, makes the same creature a wall to one, an open door to his neighbor. The value of man appears to Scott in feudalism, to Words- worth in contemplation, to Byron in im- patience, to Kant in certainty, to Calvin in authority, to Calame in landscape, to Newton in measure, to Carlyle in retri- bution, to Shakspeare in society, to Dante in the contrast of right and wrong. One man by grandeur sees mountains in the coals of his grate; another by gentleness only sunshine and grasses on Monadnock. You will not say that he chooses, but that he is chosen so to see. Light opens the eye without our inten- tion, and we are at no trouble to paint on the retina what must there appear. Success is fidelity to that which must appear. Weak men discuss forever the laws of Art, and contrive how to paint, questioning whether this or that element should have emphasis or be shown. If there is any question, there will be no Art. 148 Genius. [February, The man must feel to do, and what he does from overmastering feeling will con- vince and be forever right. The work is organic which grows so above compo-. sition or plan. After you are engaged by the symphony, there isno escape, no pause; each note springs out of each as branch from branch of a tree. It could be no otherwise; it cannot be otherwise conceived. Why could not I have found this sequence inevitable, as well as an- other? Plainly, the symphony was dis- covered, not made, was written before man, like astronomy in the sky. Only the mastery of one who is mas- tered by Nature will control and renovate mankind. It is easy to recognize .the habit of conviction, freedom from within, and personal motive, the man bending himself as for life or death to show exact- ly what he sees. The inspired man we know who appeals to a divine neces- sity, and says, I can do no otherwise; God be my help! amen! for whom praise and property and comfortable con- tinuance on this planet are trifles, so great an object has opened to him in the inviolable moral law. Every perception takes bold at last on duty as well as desire, claims and carries away the man entire, though it were to danger or death. The system, grown friendly, has grown sacred also; depar- ture from it is shame and guilt, as well as loss. An artist, therefore, like the Greek, is busy with portraits of the gods, and every celebration of Beauty is another Missa Solemnis, Te iDeum, and Gloria. Whatever object becomes transparent to a man will be his medium of communi- cation with the Maker and with mankind. He hurries to show therein what he has seen, as children run for their compan- ions and point their discoveries. These are his unsolicited angels, higher above his reach than above that of the crowd; for every good thought is more a surprise to the thinker than to any other. The seer points always from himself as a tele- scope to the sky; he is no creator, but a bit of broken glass in the sun. What is any man in the presence of haunting Perfection, never to be shown without mutilation and dishonor? Is it ours? In flim we live and move. While the Ego is pronounced and fills consciousness, man seems to be and do somewhat of himself; but when the uni- versal Soul is manifest above will, his eyes turn away from that old battery; he is absorbed in what he sees, fore ets him- self, his deeds, wants, gains. He is rapt; stands like Socrates a day and a night in contemplation; sits like Newton for twelve hours half dressed on the ed.,e of his bed, arrested in rising. He is that madman to the world who neglects his meat, postpones his private enterprise, regards honor and comfort as so much in- terruption to this commerce with reality. We are all tired of property which is exclusion, of goods which must be taken from another to serve me. Good should grow with sharing, more for me when all is given. In the spirit there are no fences, boxes, or bags. Presenting truth, I declare it as freely yours as mine. Every act of genius pro- claims that the highest gift is no monop- oly or singularity, no privilege of one, but the birthright of the race. Shakspeare knows well that we shall easily see what he sees; he considers it no secret. We are always feeling beforehand for every right word now about to be spoken in the world; many men give tokens of the general habit of thought before he is born who clearly knows what all were dream- ing. Wisdom has only gone before us on our own path, and we overtake our guide in every perception. Yet we are lifted quite off our feet by any new possi- bility revealed in life: every circle drawn round our own astonishes, though it be drawn from our centre. The poet in his certainty appears a child of the heavens, and we strike another foolish line through the crowd, as though every man were not his own poet as truly as he is his own priest and governor, as though each were not entitled to see whatever is to be seen. The masters of thought may teach us better. They address their loftiest power in us, and never sing to oxen or 1864.] Genius. 149 dogs. The painting, poem, statue, ora- torio, calls to me by name; the morning is an eye that solicits mine. Shall I take only the husks, and leave to another, con- tented, always, the life of life? He is su~ireme poet who can make me a poet, able to reach the sar~ie supplies after he is gone. We are bits of iron charged by this magnet, and lose our quality when it is removed; we are not quite made magnets as we should be by this magnetic planet and the revolutions of the sun; yet the great polarity of our globe is a sum of little polarities, and every scrap of metal has its own. We are made musical by the passing band; we go on humming and marching to the air; but he who wrote it was made musi- cal by silence and sunshine. Soon our own vibrations will be more easily in- duced, as old instruments sound with a touch or breath. We shall throb with inarticulate rhythms, and understand the bard who sings, heard melodies are sweet, but those unheard are sweeter. The poet is one who has detected this latency of power in every breast. his delight is a feeling that all doors are open to all, that he is no favorite, but the rest are late sleepers, and he only earlier awake. Depth of genius is measured by depth of this conviction. Egotism is in- curable greenness. An artist is one who has more, not less, respect for the com- mon eye. The seer points always from his own to a public privile~e, says never, I, Jesus, have so received, but, The Son of Man must so receive , and Shak- speare cuts himself into fragments till there is no Shakspeare left behind, as if expressly to testify that this wonderful wisdom is not his, but ours, is not that of the thinker and penman in his study, but of priests and kings, ladies and courtiers, lovers and warriors, knaves and fools. Paul sees that Moses read his law from tables of the heart. Every wise word is an echo of the wisdom inarticulate in our neighbors which sends them confident about their work and play. The faith of healthy men and women is amazing when we learn how incapable they are of show- ung grounds for it. In speculation they hold horrible theories, blackening the day; yet they trust the good which their lips unwittingly deny. In discourse we are moved, not by what a man says, but by what he takes for granted. The undertow of power is something unstated to which all his facts and laws refer. But our resource seems to be rather a reversion, is not quite avail- able; we have blood and a beat at the heart, yet it does not circulate freely, and Nature to every man is a double of him- self, so that the universe seems also cold in extremities, as though there were too little original life to fill her veins. The poet is not fire on the hearth to thaw this numbness by foreign heat. He rubs and rouses us to activity, drags us to the open air, puts us on a glowing chase, provokes us to race and climb with him till we also are thoroughly alive. No other gift of his is worth much beside this hope of reaching his side. The great know we~ll that all men are approaching their view even in departing from it, as travellers going from one port turn their backs on each other here and their faces together toward the antipodal point: they can leave their discoveries and fame to the race. There is one ohj cct of sight. Ev- ery piece of wisdom is no less my thought because another has found it in my mind. It is more mine than any perception I called my own, for really with that I have unconsciously been living in deeps below thought. The rest I have known, that in all these years I am. iNo man seriously doubts that he is born to entertain the meaning of the world. Already we are inclined to reckon genius a mere faculty of saying, not of knowing, since it opens a coannon experience in every example. Minority and obligation to other eyes will cease. We have out- grown many a Magnus Apollo of child- hood; his beauty is no longer beautiful, his gold is tinsel, we can dig better for ourselves. Therefore we can draw no line that will stand between poets and pretenders. That is fire which fires me 150 Genius. [February, to-day; to-morrow the same influence is frost. The standard is my temperature, a sliding scale. My neighbors are raised to ecstasy by what seems a rattle of pots and pans; but I remember when heaven opened to me also in Scheffer, Byron, Bel- lini. The judge places himself in his judgment, declares only what is now above him, what below. If I find Milton prosaic beside Swedenborg, perhaps I do Milton no wrong; perhaps no man in the company so admires his impetuous gran- deur; but now the impersonality of the Swede may meet my need more nearly, with his niysteries of correspondence, spiritual law, enduring Nature, and su- premacy of Love. Discrimination is worth so much, because there are no great gaps between man and man, between mind and mind: there is no virtuous, no vi- cious, no poet, no unpoet, and only dulness lumps one with angels, another with dogs. There are infinite kinds and infinite de- grees of intelligence; there is genius in every sort and every stage of adultera- tion, overlaid by this, by that, by the oth- er grave mistake; and we cannot afford to be inhospitable to the feeblest protest against our condition and ourselves. We pass all but the few great masters, and they are only before us on the road. Culture is the opening of spontaneous or liberal activity, and hangs all on the pivot- al perception that everything, experience, effort, element, history, tradition, art, sci- ence, is another opening to the same cen- tre, and that our life. When the pupil is roused, enchanted, fired, his redemp- tion from sense is begun; he is delivered to the great God, if it were only in a crystal or a caterpillar; he will never a~,ain be the clod he was. The years are cruel and cold, want and appetite devour many a day, but the man can never forget what was promised to the boy. - Tie believes in thought; believes against thought in the mad world, in foolish man; believes in himself; and wonders what he could do, if he had yet only half a chance. All that is streams toward the mind, will stream through it and be known. God would not be God, if He could fill less than the universe, could leave cold and empty corners, could remain beyond thought, could be order around and not also within the brain. Deity is lievela- tion. Deity means for each the germ of knowledge and the sum of knowledge. Man is the guest of wisdom; he will drop for shame his arrogance, and seek never again to entertain or patronize this architect and master of the house. The triumph of inspiration is an unsealing of my own and of every mind, a delivery of the pupil to private inspiration. When the work of a master is masterly done, he abdicates therein, retires, and becomes unregarded as a flight of stairs behind. The statue is a failure, unless it makes me forget the statue, the book, unless it makes me forget the book. All the rhym- ing, painting, singing of sentimental boys and girls springs from an intuTtion hardly yet more than instinct: that Nature has special secrets for each, to he by him, by her, alone, divined and published. They reach nothing sincere or unique,. yet they feel the individuality and remoteness of experience. They cannot put forth their conscious power; but who among the gods of fame can put forth his power? Emer- son says Jove cannot get his own thun- der; much less can any mortal get his own thunder, however he may apply to Minerva for the key. By the cheer of awakening intuition, a dawn which stirs before daylight, all men are secretly sustained. The com- mon life is a borrowing, not a creation and giving: imitation is going on all- fours, and man is uneasy in that animal attitude. The horse comes only as horse: I am here not merely as man, but as John; I blush and ache till John is some- thing pronounced and maintained against the mob of centuries, till men must feel his singularity and solidity, as the ocean is displaced and readjusted by every drop of rain. More or less, I must at least purely avail. Erectness is delivery to the private law, and something in each remains erect, and lifts him above the brute and the crowd. He is, and feels 1864.] Genius. 151 himself to be: he will advance and give the law of his life. The brain is itself a nut from the tree Ygdrasil; it carries the world, and in the first glances we anticipate all knowledge. The joy of life does not wait for any theory of life, for we have only slept since the thought in us was embodied in this system; we took part in the mak- ing; we are drowsily at home with our- selves therein; we forget, yet do not for- get, the roundness of design. As in a common experience we are often close upon some name which we seek to re- call, we feel, hut cannot touch it, so the secret of Nature lies close to the mind, and sustains us as if by magnetic communication, while we have yet no faculty to explore our own being or this apparition of it, the whirl of worlds. We have rightly held genius to be miracle; but our great hope is postponed for lack of perception that all life is mir- acle, that man in every endowment is a form of the same plastic, incalculable power. Yet as we are brought to seek goodness, beinc, sinners, so we shall be brought to seek the last perception, be- ing dolts. The masters have not been quite masters, and their theory has never respected the natural as opening to a su- pernatural mind. We eat and drink and wait to he arrested, not by sunshine, but lightning. It comes at last, revealing from heaven the height a.nd depth of our human prospect. The vision is appalling; the seer is stricken to the ground; he has no organ able to bear this light; he is blinded; he runs trembling for counsel to Paul, who was beaten from his horse, to Samuel, who was called in sleep, to Jesus, who taught the new birth, to John, who saw the white throne. But after a little we learn that the new experience is native to us as breath. No degenera- cy of any period, no immersion in war, trade, production, tradition, can quite hide the cardinal fact that this strength of antiquity, of eternity, waits to de- scend, and does from time to time de- scend, into the private breast. He who prays has made the discovery, and is put by his own act in lonely communication with all heavens. We find the sacred history legible on- ly in the same light by which it was writ- ten: we are referred by it, therefore, to sources of interpretation above itself. God was hidden in the sky; the book in another sky; who shall reveal God hid- den in the book? After so many ages, it has become a riddle as difficult of solu- tion as any for which it offers solution: the last and best puzzle of the exulting old Sphinx, who will never be cheated of her jest. Our Christianity misses the highest value of the book, as it indicates the resource of universal man. We use the cover as some charm against danger, but the secret of devotion is not reached. At last it is plain that secular, nigh im- penetrable Nature is a door as easily opened as this of the book. We must read upon our knees, we wait for grace to open the text, God must descend to light the page. The Quaker names our interpreter an inner light, the Church a Holy Ghost to purge the heart and eye. A deity who comes directly, and is no longer to seek when we are ready to read, must abolish the book. Of all gods offered in our Pantheon, of all per- sons in our Trinity, this must be the first,. I cannot fasten on the revelation which needs another to make it revela- tion to me; but when the divine aid is given, we seek no farther, for in this com- munion we have already all that was sought. The private illumination con- verts to gospel every creature on which its ray may fall; it makes a Bible of the world, a Bible of the heart. The doc- tors with dandling have now kept the child from his feet till there is doubt whether he have any feet. In this cra- dle of the record he shall spend his snug and comfortable life. Here is safety! Of course, he is bed-ridden. But the weakness of man is no impedi- ment to God. Remember who creates, who renews, who goes abroad in perpet- ual miracle of building, inhabiting, be- coming. It is not a question of human power, but of divine. 152 Gengus. [February, Spiritual presence, apocalypse of ev- ery apocalypse, becomes our primal fact. It is the root of Protestantism, Democra- cy, Individualism. The sanctity of con- science is a rest of man upon undeniable Deity. There is no room for interven- tion of Peter or Paul. The mind is immanence of Being, an original relation to all we have named reality and worshipped as divine. There are truths which we must reckon with Swedenborg among the Fundamentals of humanity. To bold them is to be Man, to be admitted to the hopeful council of our kind. Freedom is such a fundamental of the moral sense. From the thought of property in man we erect ourselves in Gods name with indignant protestation, wiping it and its apologists together as dirt from our feet. By an equal necessity we count out from every discourse of reason those who find in them no organ of ultimate communica- tion, who refer from common conscious- ness to saint and sage, as though God could be shut from presence and suprem- acy in thought. They are intellectual non-combatants who so refer. We take them at their own valuation; their cer- tainty of uncertainty, their confession of remoteness from the centre we accept; but we must turn from the very angels, if they be not permitted for themselves to know. There is no outside to the uni- verse except this embryotic condition, wherein a man may think that there is no result of thought. I suppose no individual thinker will ever again have the importance which attaches to a few names in history. INo man will found a religion with Mahomet, or overlie plmilosophers like Calvin, or shoulder out the poets like Shakspeare; still less will any man again be worship- ped as a personal god. Let the new- comer be never so great, there is now a greatness in public thought to dwarf his proportions. He antedated all discover- ies who first uttered the sacred name. That ray on darkness tells. Now we have nations of philosophers, thought flies like thistle-down, and the sublime speculations of the fore-world are cradle- songs and first spelling-lessons to excite the guesses of every barefooted boy. In early ages men met face to face with Nature, and spent their strength directly in questioning her. Now the work of God is overlaid. Every blunder is a rock in our field, and at last the field is a stone- heap of blunders, and our giants have work enough to reach any ground in the unsophisticated facts of life. We set no limit to the revolutionary power of truth; in happy hour it may sweep away doc- trine and usage, supplant systems by songs, and governments by Love. Yet the first men were able to cleave the world to its centre, and predict the last results. We only enlarge their open- ings. Schools follow schools, Eclecticism comes with its band into the field to gath- er every ear; but Plato stands smiling be- hind, and holds in his hands that simple divided line, the image of all we know. Who can wonder at the authority of the ancients, unbowed by an antiquity behind? Freedom from authority gave their directness, their simplicity, their su- periority to misgiving and second thought, their confident Thus saith the Lord. We boast our enlightenment, but now the best minds are in question whether we have not lost as much by the ancients as we have gained. Plainly, they have not yet done their own work, have not given us to ourselves and to God. They should have been less or greater; they did not quite liberate, but became op- pressors of the mind. To this misfortune we begin to find a single exception. Je- sus, with his primal doctrine of a divine humanity, will now at last avail to be i~nderstood, will deliver us from every teacher to a Father in the heavens, and put us in direct communication with Him through the moral sense. After so many blind centuries, his truth breaks out, draws us to him from the misunderstanding of his followers, and refers from himself to the sources of his in ~omparable life. Two men of our time are the primitive Christians, not known for such, because their springs open, with those of the Mas 1864.] Census. 153 ter, not in any character, but in the Cause. They share his reliance, and ac- cept in simplicity those brotherly words in which he extends his privilege to ev- ery child. He will open to us Nature, for his habit is the only natural. He has no anxiety for immediate results, is never guarded in expression, does never explain; he makes no record of thought, calls no scholar to be scribe; he knows no la- bors, no studies; he walks on the hills, and frankly interprets the waving grain, the seed in the furrow, the lily, and the weed. Here is power which takes no thought for the morrow, an attitude which works endless revolutions without means or care or cost. We must not dwell on this supreme example, lest we leave the hope of every reader far behind. Let us rather keep the level of common experience, and dis- close the incursions of spirit which light a humble life. Love and Providence will appear in every breast; nothing more than Love and Providence appears to us above. A supreme genius will fail, rather by under- than over-statement, to balance the popular exaggeration and repetition of fine phrases for which we have no corresponding fact. Why should any man be zealous or impatient? Why press a moral, dissecting it skeleton-like from throbbing textures of Freedom and Beauty? Why preach, threaten, and drive us with these bones, when a lover may draw us with kisses on living lips? Nature offers Duty as a manlier pleasure, leads the will so softly as to set us free in following, and her last thrill of delight is the steady heart-beat of heroism, facing danger with level eyes and fatal deter- mination. Fear may arrest, but never restore. It is an arrest of fever by freez- ing, of disease by disease. Let it be un- derstood, once for all, that this universe is moral, and say no more about that. Every man loves goodness, and the saint never exhorts to this love, but reinforces by addressing himself to it as matter of course. All power is a like repose on VOL. XIII. ii the basis of common desires and percep- tions in the race. The didactic method is an insult alike to the pupil and the uni- verse. Socrates is master and gentleman with his questions, suggestions, seeking in me and acting as midwife to my thought; but all illuminati and professors, all who talk down or cut our meat into morsels, will quickly be counted aunties by the vigorous boys at school. Chairs and pul- pits totter to- day with a schola6tic dry rot, which is inability to recognize the equality of unsophisticated man to man. There will soon be no more chair or desk; the only eminence will be that of one who can stand with feet on the com- mon level, and still utter over our heads a regenerating word. We shall learn to address ourselves in an audience, to utter before millions, as if in joyful soliloquy, the sincerest, tenderest thought. Speak as if to angels, and you shall speak to an- gels; take unhesitating inmost counsel with mankind. The response to every pure desire is instant and wonderful. Thousands listen to-day for a word which waits in the air and has never been spok- en, a word of courage to carry forward the purpose of their lives. Thought points to unity, and the think- er is impatient of squinting and side-glan- ces while all eyes should he turned to- gether to the same. Thought is growing agreement, and that in which the race cannot meet me is some whim or notion, a personal crotchet, not a cosmic and eternal truth. Genius is freedom from all oddity, is Catholicity,and departure from it so much departure in me from Nature and myself. We say a man is original, if he lives at first, and not at second hand, if he requires a new tomb- stone, if he takes law, not from the many or the few, but from the sky, if he is no subordinate, but an authority, if he does not borrow judgment, but is judg- ment. Such a man is singular in his attitude only because we have so fallen from purity. He, not the fashion, is comme ii faut. By every word and act he declares that as he is so all men must shortly be. 154 Census. [February, Plato and Swedenborg are trying to speak the same word, but each can avail only to turn some syllable. They re- gret this partiality as a provincial burr, as greenncss and narrowness. Genius sees the white light and regrets its own impurity, though that be piquancy to the multitude, and marketable as a splendid blue or gold. Manner, in thought, speech, behavior, is popularity and falsehood; is the limping of a king deformity, though it set the fashion of limping. The grand- est thoughts are colorless as water; they savor not of Milton, Socrates, or Menu seem not drawn from any private cistern, but rain-drops out of the pure sky. Whim and conceit are tare and tret. It matters little whether a man whine with Cole- ridge, or boast with Ben Jonson, or sneer with Byron, or grumble with Carlyle, if every thought is one-sided and warped. The oddity relieves our commonplace, and pricks the dull palate; but we soon tire of exaggeration, and detest the trick. It is egotism, self-sickness, jaundice, adul- teration of the light. We name it the subjective habit, personality; while the right illumination is a transparency, a putting-off of shoes, garments, body, and constitution, lest these should intercept or stain the ray. Genius is an eye single and serene. Good speech carries the sound of no mans, of no angels voice. Good writing betrays no mans hand, but is as if traced by the finger of God. Original will signify, therefore, not pe- culiar, but universal. The ori~,inal is one who lives from the Maker, not from man. He has found and asserts himself as a piece of primal design: he is somewhat, and his life therefore significant. He first represents man in purity, man in God, and is a revelation. No matter what he repeats as approved, he will not be a repetition, but will give new value to each thing by his approval. The wisest man in separate propositions repeats only what has many times been spoken. In my reading of this past week I find an- ticipated every item of modern thought. Hooker says of the Bible, By looking in it for that which it is impossible that any book can have, we lose the benefits which we might reap from its being the best of books. Milton says, He who reads and to his reading brings not A spirit and judgment equal or superior, (And what he brings what needs he else- where seek?) Uncertain and unsettled still remains. Coleridge gives perfect confidence to par- adox as sure of solution above the terms of it; in his Table-Talk he antedates Carlyles doctrine of dynamics, puts Faith above belieg as in another region of the mind,declares that the conceiva- ble is not to be revered, and says, before Emerson, that existence is the Fall ofMan. But the failure of Coleridge teaches that no single perceptions, however subtile or deep, will solve the broad problem of Nature. These separate thoughts the great hold in new emphasis and relation. Of such sparks they make a flame, of. such timbers a house or ship. The parts may be old, the whole is not; and Goethe falls into a modest fallacy, when, in ac- knowledging his obligation to others, he disclaims originality for himself. All is new in his use of it: you may say he has taken nothing, for what was iron or sil- ver where he found it is gold in his trans- muting grasp. When a man authentic speaks, our in- terest goes through every statement to himself. The root of that word is not in the market or the street, but in humanity, and through that in the deep. We study Goethe, not any opinion of Goethe: he represents for us in his measure the na- ture, need, and resource of the race, be- cause what he publishes he knows, lives, and is. We open the mind largely to take the sense of such a gospel: it will not appear in details of perception. Plato and Goethe see the same sun, and seem to the vulgar to follow each other; they have more in common than any man can have in privacy; yet if you enter to the entire habit of each, you will justify the making of these two. They are like and unlike, as apples on one and an- other tree. The great in any time hold in common the growing truth of their 1864.] Genius. :155 time, and refer to it in intercourse as un- derstood, an atmosphere which he must breathe who now lives and thinks; yet no two will be identically related to the same. We are radiated as spokes from a centre; we enter to it and work for it from every side. There is no danger of repetition, if the thought be deep. Superior insight will always sufficiently astonish, will always be novel in its place. The more simple the method, the more wonderful every re- sult. Men are shut, as if by a wall of ada- mant, from all that is yet beyond their sympathy. My neighbor is immersed in planting, building, and the new road. Beside him, companion only in air and sunshine, walks one who has no ocular adjustment for these atoms; his thought overleaps them in starting, and is wholly beyond. The end of vision for a practi- cal eye is beginning of clairvoyance. To the road-maker, man is a maker of roads; he cracks his nuts and his jokes uncon- scious, while the ground opens and the world heaves with revolutions of thought. Ask hhn in vain what Webster means by Concord, Lexington, and Bunker Hill; what Channing sees in the Digni- ty of Man, or Edwards in the Sweetness of Divine Love; ask him in vain what is the Fate of iEschylus, the Com- pensation of Emerson, Carlyles Con- flux of Eternities, the Conjunction of Swedenborg, the Newness of Fox, the Morning Red of Behmen, the Renunciation of Goethe, the Com- forter of Jesus, the Justification of Paul. For the dull, this mystery of exist- ence is not even a mystery; they are shut below the firmament of wonder. When the vulgar come with their def- inite gain and good, their circle of im- mediate ends, we feel the house con- tract, the sky descend, we shrivel, our pores close, the skull hardens on the brain. The positive, who exactly knows, is a skeleton at the feast: that exactness is numbness, and chills every expansive guest. Dogma is a stoppage quite short of the nearest beginning; the liberal habit a beginning of all that has no end. Sense is a wall very near the eye, and when that is penetrated all lies open beyond; we see only paths, seas, and vistas. Wisdom explores and never concludes. The explanations of centuries are idle tales: my explanations are not so to be forestalled. We forget the shallow answers to shallow questions, when now we have deeper genuine ques- tions to ask. The great are happy babes of Beauty and Good. Truth returns in a fresh suspicion, and all are welcome who wear on the brows that soft commingled light and shadow of an advancing, sweet, inexplicable Fate. Our hope is no house, but a wing; no roof can be endured but the blue one. What method have we yet to serve the spontaneous or spiritual be- ing? what culture, art, society, worship, in which his need and power are so much as recognized? There is indefinable cer- tainty of Nature beyond Nature, man be- yond man. Genius opens all doors, the earth-doors, the sky-doors,thirows down the horizon and the heaven, to come into open air. All paths lead out to the sea, where a days voyage niay teach that the receding circle bounds our sight alone, and not the deep. We look out not on chaos and darkness, but on order too large for the brain, and light, for which as owls we have yet no capacious eye. We leave every perception neglected to wait on the future; but every future has its future devouring the past. What is left but bending of the knee and boundless con- fidence? 156 .A!j, Brother and I [February, MY BROTHER AND IL FROM the door where I stand I can see his fair land Sloping up to a broad sunny height, The meadows new-shorn, and the green wavy corn, The buckwheat all blossoming white: There a gay garden blooms, there are cedars like plumes, And a rill from the mountain leaps up in a fountain, And shakes its glad locks in the light. He dwells in the hall where the long shadows fall On the checkered and cool esplanade; I live in a cottage secluded and small, By a gnarly old apple-frees shade: Side by side in the glen, I and my brother Ben, Just the river between us, with borders as green as The banks where in childhood we played. But now nevermore upon river or shore He runs or he rows by my side; For I am still poor, like our father before, And he, ftdl of riches and pride, Leads a life of such show, there is no room, you know, In the very fine carriage he gained by his marriage For an old-fashioned brother to ride. His wife, with her gold, gives him friends, I am told, With whom she is rather too gay, The senators son, who is ready to run For her gloves and her fan, night or day, And to gallop beside, when she wishes to ride: Oh, no doubt t is an honor to see smile upon her Such world-famous fellows as they! Ah, brother of mine, while you sport, while you dine, While you drink of your wine like a lord, You might curse, one would say, and grow jaundiced and gray, With such guests every day at your board! But you sleek down your rage like a pard in its cage, And blink in meek fashion through the bars of your passion, As husbands like you can afford. For still you must think, as you eat, as you drink, As you hunt with your dogs and your guns, How your pleasures are bought with the wealth that she brought, And you were once hunted by duns. Oh, I envy you not your more fortunate lot: I ye a wife all my own in my own little cot, And with happiness, which is the only true riches, The cup of our love overruns.

J. T. Trowbridge Trowbridge, J. T. My Brother and I 156-157

156 .A!j, Brother and I [February, MY BROTHER AND IL FROM the door where I stand I can see his fair land Sloping up to a broad sunny height, The meadows new-shorn, and the green wavy corn, The buckwheat all blossoming white: There a gay garden blooms, there are cedars like plumes, And a rill from the mountain leaps up in a fountain, And shakes its glad locks in the light. He dwells in the hall where the long shadows fall On the checkered and cool esplanade; I live in a cottage secluded and small, By a gnarly old apple-frees shade: Side by side in the glen, I and my brother Ben, Just the river between us, with borders as green as The banks where in childhood we played. But now nevermore upon river or shore He runs or he rows by my side; For I am still poor, like our father before, And he, ftdl of riches and pride, Leads a life of such show, there is no room, you know, In the very fine carriage he gained by his marriage For an old-fashioned brother to ride. His wife, with her gold, gives him friends, I am told, With whom she is rather too gay, The senators son, who is ready to run For her gloves and her fan, night or day, And to gallop beside, when she wishes to ride: Oh, no doubt t is an honor to see smile upon her Such world-famous fellows as they! Ah, brother of mine, while you sport, while you dine, While you drink of your wine like a lord, You might curse, one would say, and grow jaundiced and gray, With such guests every day at your board! But you sleek down your rage like a pard in its cage, And blink in meek fashion through the bars of your passion, As husbands like you can afford. For still you must think, as you eat, as you drink, As you hunt with your dogs and your guns, How your pleasures are bought with the wealth that she brought, And you were once hunted by duns. Oh, I envy you not your more fortunate lot: I ye a wife all my own in my own little cot, And with happiness, which is the only true riches, The cup of our love overruns. 1864.J A Half-L~ and Half a Lsfe 167 We have bright, rosy girls, fair as ever an earls, An~ the wealth of their curls is our gold; Oh, their lisp and their laugh, they are sweeter by half Than the wine that you quaff red and old! We have love-lighted looks, we have work, we have books, Our boys have grown manly and bold, And they never shall blush, when their proud cousins brush From the walls of their college such cobwebs of knowledge As careless young fingers may hold. Keep your pride and your cheer, for we need them not here, And for me far too dear they would proves For gold is but gloss, and possessions are dross, And gain is all loss, without love. Yon severing tide is not fordless or wide, The souls blue abysses our homesteads divide: Down through the still river they deepen forever, Like the skies it reflects from above. Still my brother thou art, though our lives lie apart, Path from path, heart from heart, more and more. Oh, I have not forgot, oh, remember you not Our room in the cot by the shore? And a night soon will come, when the murmur and hum Of our days shall be dumb evermore, And again we shall lie side by side, you and I, Beneath the green cover you helped to lay over Our honest old father of yore. A HALF-LIFE AND HALF A LIFE. On garde longtemps son premier amant, quand on nen prend point de second. illaximes Morales dss Due de la Roc/sefoueauld~ IT is not suffering alone that wears out our lives. We sometimes are in a state when a sharp pang would be hailed almost as a blessing, when, rath- er than bear any longer this living death of calm stagnation, we would gladly rush into action, into suffering, to feel again the warmth of life restored to our blood, to feel it at least coursing through our veins with something like a living swift- ness. This death-in-life comes sometimes to the most earnest men, to those whose life is fullest of energy and excitement. It is the reaction, the weariness which they name Ennui, foul fiend that eats fastest into the hearts core, that shakes with surest hand the sands of life, that makes the deepest wrinkles on the cheeks and deadens most surely the lustre of the eyes. But what are the occasional visits of this life - consumer, this vampire that sucks out the blood, to his constant, never - failing presence? There are those who feel within themselves the

Miss E. H. Appleton Appleton, E. H., Miss A Half-Life and Half a Life 157-183

1864.J A Half-L~ and Half a Lsfe 167 We have bright, rosy girls, fair as ever an earls, An~ the wealth of their curls is our gold; Oh, their lisp and their laugh, they are sweeter by half Than the wine that you quaff red and old! We have love-lighted looks, we have work, we have books, Our boys have grown manly and bold, And they never shall blush, when their proud cousins brush From the walls of their college such cobwebs of knowledge As careless young fingers may hold. Keep your pride and your cheer, for we need them not here, And for me far too dear they would proves For gold is but gloss, and possessions are dross, And gain is all loss, without love. Yon severing tide is not fordless or wide, The souls blue abysses our homesteads divide: Down through the still river they deepen forever, Like the skies it reflects from above. Still my brother thou art, though our lives lie apart, Path from path, heart from heart, more and more. Oh, I have not forgot, oh, remember you not Our room in the cot by the shore? And a night soon will come, when the murmur and hum Of our days shall be dumb evermore, And again we shall lie side by side, you and I, Beneath the green cover you helped to lay over Our honest old father of yore. A HALF-LIFE AND HALF A LIFE. On garde longtemps son premier amant, quand on nen prend point de second. illaximes Morales dss Due de la Roc/sefoueauld~ IT is not suffering alone that wears out our lives. We sometimes are in a state when a sharp pang would be hailed almost as a blessing, when, rath- er than bear any longer this living death of calm stagnation, we would gladly rush into action, into suffering, to feel again the warmth of life restored to our blood, to feel it at least coursing through our veins with something like a living swift- ness. This death-in-life comes sometimes to the most earnest men, to those whose life is fullest of energy and excitement. It is the reaction, the weariness which they name Ennui, foul fiend that eats fastest into the hearts core, that shakes with surest hand the sands of life, that makes the deepest wrinkles on the cheeks and deadens most surely the lustre of the eyes. But what are the occasional visits of this life - consumer, this vampire that sucks out the blood, to his constant, never - failing presence? There are those who feel within themselves the 158 A Half Life and Half a L~. [February, power of living fullest lives, of sounding every chord of the full diapason of pas- sion and feeling, yet who have been so hemmed around, so shut in by adverse and narrowing circumstances, that never, no, not once in their half-century of years which stretch from childhood to old age, have they been free to breathe out, t6 speak aloud the heart that was in them. Ever the same wasting indifference to the things that are, the same ill-repressed longing for the things that~ might be. Long days of wearisome repetition of duties in which there is no life, followed by restless nights, when Imagination seizes the reins in her own hands, and paints the out-blossoming of those germs of hap- piness and fulness of being of whose ex- istence within us we carry about always the aching Consciousness. And such things I have known from the moment when I first stepped from babyhood into childhood, from the time when life ceased to be a play and came to have its duties and its sufferings. Al- ways the haunting sense of a happiness which I was capable of feeling, faint glimpses of a paradise of which I was a born denizen,and always, too, the stern knowledge of the restraints which held me prisoner, the idle longings of an ex- ile. But would no strong effort of will, no energy of heart or mind, break the bonds that held me down, no steady perseverance of purpose win me a way out of darkness into light? No, for I was a woman, an ugly woman, whose girlhood had gone by without affection, and whose womanhood was passing with- out love,a woman, poor and dependent on others for daily bread, and yet so bound by conventional duties t~ those around her that to break from them into independence would be to. outrage all the prejudices of those who made her world. I could plan such escape from my daily and yearly narrowing life,.could dream of myself walking steadfast and unshak- en through labor to independence, could picture a life where, if the heart were not fed, at least the tastes might be sat- isfied, could strengthen myself through all the imaginary details of my going- forth from the narrow surroundings which made my prison-walls; but when the time came to take the first step, my courage failed. I could not go out into that world which looked to me so wide and lonely; the necessity for love was too strong for me, I must dwell among mine own people. There, at least, was the bond of custom, there was the affec- tion which grows out of habit; but in the world what hope had I to win love from strangers, with my repellent looks, awkward movements, and want of per- sonal attractions? Few persons know that within one hundred and fifty miles of the Queen City of the West, bounded on both sides by highly cultivated tracts of country, looking out westwardly on the very gar- den of Kentucky, almost in the range of railroad and telegraph, in the very geo- graphical centre of our most populous regions, there lie some thousand square miles of superb woodland, rolling, hill above bill, in the beautiful undulations which characterize the country border- ing on the Ohio, watered by fair streams which need only the clearing away of the few obstructions incident to a new country to make them navigable, and yet a country where the mail passes only once a week, where all communication is by horse-paths or by the slow course of the flat-boat, where schools are not - known and churches are never seen, where the Methodist itinerant preacher gives all the religious instruction, and a stray newspaper furnishes all the politi- cal information. Does any one doubt my statement? Then let him ask a passage up-stream in one of the flat-boats that supply the primitive necessities of the small farmers who dwell on the banks of the Big Sandy, in that debatable border-land which lies between Ken- tucky and ViroiAia; or let him, if he have a taste for adventure, hire his horse at Catlettsburg, at the mouth of the river, and lose his way among the blind bridle- paths that lead to Louisa and to Pres 1884.] A Half-Lif~ and flaif a Ltfe. 159 tonburg. If he stops to ask a nights lodging at one of the farm-houses that are to be found at the junction of the creeks with the rivers, log-houses with their primitive out-buildings, their half- constructed rafts of lumber ready to float down-stream with the next rise, their dug-outs for the necessities of river-intercourse, and their rough ox- carts for hauling to and from the mill, he will see before him such a home as that in which I passed the first twenty years of my life. I had little claim on the farmer with whom I lived. I was the child by a former marriage of his wife, who had brought me with her into this wilder- ness, a puny, ailing creature of four years, and into the three years that fol- lowed was compressed all the happiness I could remember. The free life in the open air, the nourishing influence of the rich natural scenery by which I was sur- rounded, the grand, silent trees with their luxuriant foliage, the frcsh, strong growth of the vegetation, all seemed to breathe health into my frame, and with health came the capacity for enjoyment. I was happy in the mere gift of existence, happy in the fulness of content, with no playmate but the kindly and lovely mother Earth from whose bosom I drew fulness of life. But in my seventh year my mother died, worn out by the endless, unvarying round of labors which break down the constitutions of our small farmers~ wives. She grew sallow and thin under repeat- ed attacks of chills and fever, brought into the ~vorld, one after another, thrce puny infants, only to lay them away from her breast, side by side, under the sycamore that overshadowed our corn- field, and visibly wasted away, growing more and more feehle, until, one win- ter morning, we laid her, too, at rest by her bahies. Before the year was out, my father (so I called him) was mar- ried again. My step-mother was a good woman, and meant to do her duty by me. Nay, she was more than that: she was, as far as her po.r light went, a Christian. She had expe- rienced religion in the great revival of 18, which was felt all through Western Kentucky, under the preaching of the Reverend Peleg Dawson, and when she married my father and went to bury her- self in the wilds of Up Sandy was a shining light in the Methodist church, a class-leader who had had and had told experiences. But all that glory was over now; it had flashed its little day: for there is a glow in the excitement of our religious revivals as potent in its effect on the im- aginations of women and young men as ever were the fastings and penances which brought the dreams and reveries, the holy visions and the glorious revealings, of the Catholic votaries. In this short, trium- phant time of spiritual pride lay the whole romance of my step-mothers life. Per- haps it was well for her soul that she was taken from the scene of her triumphs and brought again to the hard realities of life. The self- exaltation, the ungodly pride passed away; but there was left the ear- nest, prayerful desire to do her duty in her way and calling, and the first path of duty which opened to her zeal was that which led to the care of a motherless child, the saving of an immortal soul. And in all sincerity and uprightness did she strive to walk in it. But what woman of five- and-thirty, who has outlived her youth and womanly tenderness in the loneliness and hardening influences of a single life, and who marries at last for a shelter in old age, knows the wants of a little child? Indeed, what but a mothers love has the long - enduring patience to support the never ceasing calls for forbearance and perseverance which a child makes upon a grown person? Those little ones need the nourishment of love and praise, but such milk for babes can come only from a mothers breast. I got none of it. Ga the contrary, my dearly loved indepen- dence, my wild-wood life, where Nature had become to me my nursing - mother, was exchanged for one of never ceasing supervision. Little girls must learn to be useful, was the phrase that greeted 160 A Half-L~f~ and Half a Lsfe. [February, my unwilling ears fifty times a day, which pursued me through my daily round of dish-washings, floor-sweepings, bed-mak- ing and potato-peeling, to overtake me at last in the very moment when I hop- ed to reap the reward of my diligence in a free afternoon by the river-side in the crotch of the water-maple that hung over the stream, clutching me and fastening me down to the hated square of patch- work, which bore, in the spots of red that defaced its white purity in following the line of my stitches, the marks of the wounds that my awkward hands inflict- ed on themselves with their tiny weap on. And so the years went on. It was a pity that no babies came to soften our hearts, my step-mothers and mine, and to draw us nearer together as only the presence of children can. A household without children is always hard and an- gular, even when surrounded by all the softening influences of refinement and education. What was ours with its pov- erty and roughness, its every-day cares and its endless discomforts? One day was like all the rest, and in their weary- ing succession they rise up in my memory like ghosts of the past coming to lay their cold, death-like hands on the feebly kind- ling hopes of the present. I see my- self now, as I look back, a tall, awkward girl of fifteen, with my long, straggling, sunburnt hair, my sallow, yet pimply complexion, my small, weak-looking blue eyes, that every exposure to the sun and wind would redden, and my long, lean hands and arms, that offended my sense of beauty constantly, as I dwelt on their hopelessly angular turns. I had one beau- ty; so my little paper-framed glass, that rested on the rough rafter that edged the sloping roof of my garret, told me, when- ever I took it down to gaze in it, which, but for that beauty, would have been but seldom. It was a finely cut and firmly set mouth and chin. There was, and I felt it, beauty and character in the curves of the lips, in the rounding of the chin; there was even a healthy ruddiness in the lips, and something of delicacy in the even, well-set teeth that showed them- selves when they parted. The gazing at these beauties gave me great pleasure, not for any effect they might ever produce in others,what did I know of that? but because I had in myself a strong love of the beautiful, a passion for grace of form and brilliancy of color which made doubly distasteful to me our bare, uncouth walls, with their ugly, straight- backed chairs, and their frightfully painted yellow or red tables and chests-of-drawers. My step-mothers appearance, too, was a constant offence to my beauty-loving eye, with her lank, tall figure, round which clung those narrow skirts of bit calico, dingy red or dreary brown, her feet shod in the heavy store-shoes which were brought us from Catlettsburg by the returning flat - boat men, her sharp- featured face, the forehead and cheeks covered with brown, mouldy - looking spots, the eyes deep-set, with a livid, dyspeptic ring around them, and the lips thin and pinched,the whole face shaded by the eternal sun-bonnet, which never left her head from early sunrise till late bedtime (no Sandy woman is ever seen without her sun-bonnet). All these were perpetual annoyances to me they made me discontented without know- ing why; they filled me with disgust, a disgust which my respect for her good qualities could not overcome. And then our life, how dreary! The rising in the cold, gray dawn to pre- pare the breakfast of corn - dodgers and bacon for my father and his men, the spreading the table -cloth, stained with the soil-spots of yesterdays meal, the putting upon it the ugly, unmatched crockery, the straggling-in of the un- washed, uncombed men in their coarse working-clothes, redolent of the weeks unwholesome toil,their washings, comb- ings, and low talk close by my side,the varied uses to which our household uten- sils were put,the dipping of dirty knives into the salt and of dirty fingers into the meat-dish,all filled me then, and fill me now, with loathing. 1864.] A Half-bfe and Half a Life. 161 There was a relief when the men left the house; but then came the dreary ~ sucking - up, almost more disgusting, in its false, superficial show of cleanliness, than had been the open carelessness of the workmen. But there was no time for rest; my step-mothers sharp, high - pitched voice was heard calling, Janet! and I follow- ed her to the garden to dig the pot4toes from the hills or to the cornfield to pull and husk the three dozen ears of corn which made our chief dish at dinner. Then came the weeks washing, the ap- ple-peeling, the pork- salting, work va- ried only with the varying season, i~ntil the blowing of the horn at twelve brought back the men to dinner, after whi2h caine again the clearing up, again the days task, and again the supper. I often thought that the men around us were always more cheerful and merry than the women. They worked as hard, they endured as many hardships, but they had, certainly, more pleasures. There was the evening lounge by the fire in winter, the sitting on the fence or at the door-step in summer, when, pipe or cigar in mouth, knife and whittlin~, - stick in hand, jest and gibe would pass round among them, and the boisterous laugh would go up, reaching me, as I lay, tired out, on my little cot, or leaned disconso- late at my garret-window, looking with longing eyes far out into the darkness of the woods. No such gatherings-together of the women did I ever see. If one of our neighbors dragged her weary steps to our kitchen, and sat herself down, ba- by in lap, on the upturned tub or flag- bottomed chair that I dusted off with my apron, it was to commence the querulous complaint of the last weeks chill or the heavy washing of the day before, the ail- ing baby or the troublesome child, all told in the same whining voice. Even the choice bit of gossip which roused us at rare intervals always had its dark side, on which these poor women dwelt with a perverse pleasure. In short, life was too hard for them; it brought its constant cares without any alleviating pleasures. Their homes were only places of monotonous labor, their husbands so many hard taskinasters, who exacted from them more than their strength could give, their children, who should have been the delight of their mothers hearts, so many additional bur- dens, the bearing and nursing of which broke down their poor remaining health; the glorious and lavish Nature in which they lived only brought to them added labor, and shut them out from the few social enjoyments that they knew of. I was old enough to feel all this,not to reason on it as I can now, but to rebel against it with all the violence of a vehe- ment nature which feels its strength only in the injuries it inflicts upon itself in its useless struggles for freedom. Bitter tears did I shed sometimes, as I lay with my head on my arms, leaning on that iiar- row window-sill, tears of passionate re- gret that I was not a boy, a man, that I might, by the very force of my right arm, hew my way out of that encircling forest into the world of which I dreamed,tears, too, that, being as I was, only an ugly, ignorant girl, I could not be allowed to care only for myself, and dream away my life in this same forest, which charm- ed me while it hemmed me in. My rude, chaotic nature had something of force in it, strength which I knew would stand me in good stead, could I ever find an outlet for it; it had also a power of en- joyment, keen, vivid, could I ever get leave to enjoy. At lenoTh came the opening, the glimpse of sunlight. I remember, as if it were but yesterday, that afternoon which first showed to my physical sight something of that full life of which my ima~ ination had framed a rude, faint sketch. I was standing at the end of the meadow, just where the rails had been thrown down for the cows, when, looking up the path that led through the wood by the river, I saw, almost at my side, a man on horse- back. He stopped, and, half raising hi~ bat, a motion I had never seen before, said, Is this Squire Boarderss place? 162 A Half-L~ and Half a L~. [February, I pushed back my sun-bonnet, and looked up at him. I see him now as I saw him then; for my quick, startled glance took in the whole face and figure, which daguerreotyped themselves upon my memory. A frank, open face, with well - cut and well - defined features and large hazel eyes, set off by curling brown hair, was smiling down upon me, and, throwing himself from his horse, a young man of about five - and - twenty stood be- side me. Tie had to repeat his question before I gained presence of mind enough to answer him. Is this Squire Boarderss house, and do you think I could get a nights lodg- ing here? It was no unusual thing for us to give a nights lodging to the boatmen from the river, or to the farmers from the back- country, as they passed to or from Cat-. lettsbur~ but what accommodation had we for such a guest as here presented? I walked before him up the path to the house, and, shyly pointing to my step- mother, who stood on the porch, said, That s Miss Boarders; you can ask her. And then, before he had time to an- swer, I fled in an agony of bashfulness to my refuge under the water-maple behind the house. I lingered there as long as I dared, Ion ~er, indeed ,thanlhad any right to linger, for I heard my mothers voice crying, Janet ! and I well knew 1~at there was nobody but myself to mix the corn-cake, spread the table, or run the dozen errands that would be need- ed. I slipped in by the back-door, and, escaping my step-mothers peevish com- plaints, passed into the little closet which served us for pantry, and, scooping up the meal, began diligently to mix it. The window by which I stood opened on the porch. My father and his men had come in, and, tipping their chairs against the wall, or mounted on the porch- railing, were smoking their cigars, laugh- ing, joking, talking, and there in the midst of them sat. the stranger, smoking too, and joining in their talk with an ea- sy earnestness that seemed to win them at once. Our country - people do not spare their questions. My father took the lead, the men throwing in a remark now and then. I calculate you have never been in these parts before? No, never. You have a beautiful country here. The country s well enough, if we could clear off some of them trees that stop a man every way he turns. Did you come up from Lowiza to-day? No I have only ridden from the mouth of Blackberry, I believe you call it. I have left a boat and crew there, who will be up in the morning. What truck have you got on your boat? Lumber and so forth, and plenty of tools of one sort or other. Damn me if I dont believe youre the man who is coming up here to open the coal mines on Burgesss land And the whole crowd gathered round him. He laughed good-naturedly. Yes, I am coming to live among you. I hope you 11 give me a welcome. There was a cheery sound of welcome from the men, but my father shook his head. We dont like no new-fangled no- tions, noways, up here, and I 11 not say that I m glad you re bringing them in; but, at any rate, you re welcome here to-night. The young man held out his hand. We are to be close neighbors, Squire Boarders, and I hope we sh~dl be good friends; but I ought to tell you all about myself. Mr. Burgesss land has been bought by a company, who intend to open the coal mines, as you know, and I am sent up hcrc as their agent, to make ready for the miners and the workmen. We shall clear away a little, and put up some rough shanties, to make our men comfortable before we go to work. We shall bring a new set of people among you, those Scotch and WeNh miners; but I believe they are a peaceable set, and we 11 try to be friendly with each other. 1864.] A Half-L~ and ffa~P a 163 The frank speech and the free, open face seemed to mollify my father. And how do you call yourself; stran- ger, when you are at home? My name is George Hammond. Well, as I was telling you, you re welcome here to-night, and I dont know as I ye anything against your settling over the river on Burgesss land. The people round here have been telling me your coming will be a good thing for us farmers, because you 11 bring us a market for our corn and potatoes; but I dont see no use of raising more corn than we want for ourselves. We have enough selling to do with our lumber, and you 11 be thinning out the trees. But there s my old woman s got her supper ready. I listened as I waited on the table. The talk varied from farming to mining and the state of the river, merging at last into the politics of the country, and through the whole of it I watched the stranger: noticed how different was his language from anything I had ever heard before; marked the clear tones of his voice and the distinctness of his utterance, con- trasting with the heavy, thick gutturals, the running of words into each other, the slovenly drawl of my father and his men watched his manner of eating, his neat disposition of his food on his plate; saw him move his chair back with a slight ex- pression of annoyance, unmarked by any one else, as Will Foushee spit on the floor beside him. All this I observed, in a mood half envious, half sullen, a mood which~pursued me that night into my little attic, as I peevishly questioned with myself wherein lay the difference between us. Why is this man any better than Will Foushee or Ned Burgess? lie is no stronger nor better able to do a days work. Why am I afraid of him, when I dont care an acorn for the others? Why do my father and the men listen to him and crowd round him? What makes him stand among them as if he did not belong to them, even when he talks of what they know better than he? There is not a man round Sandy that could make me feel as ashamed as that gentle- man did when he spoke to me this after- noon. Is it because he is a gentleman? And sullenly I resolved that I would be put down by no airs. I was as good as he, and would show him to-morrow morning that I felt so. Then came the bitter acknowledgment, I am not as good as he is. I am a stupid, ugly girl, who knows nothing but hateful house- worl~ and a little of the fields and trees; and he, I suppose he has been to school, and read plenty of books, and lived among quality. And I cried myself to sleep before I had made up my mind fully to acknowledge his superiority. It was one of my greatest pleasures to get up early. Our people were not ear- ly risers, except when work pressed upon them, and I often secured my only lei- sure hour for the day by stealing down the staircase, out into the woods, by ear- ly sunrise, when, wrapped in an old shawl, and sheltered from the dew by climbing into the lower branches of my pet maple, I would watch the fog reaching up the opposite hills, putting forth as it were an arm, by which, stretched far out over the trees, it seemed to lift itself from the val- ley,or perhaps carrying with me one of the few books which made my library, I would spell out the sentences and at- tempt to extract their meaning. They were a strange medley, my books: some belonging to my step-moth- er, and others borrowed or begged from the neighbors, or brought to me by the men, with whom I was a favorite, and who knew my passion for reading. My mothers books were mostly religious: a life of Brainerd, the missionary, whose adventures roused within me a gleam of religious enthusiasm; some sermons of the leading Methodist clergy, which, to her horror, I pronounced stupid; and a torn copy of the Imitation of Christ, a book which she threatened to take from me, because she believed it had something to do with the Papists, but to which, for that very reason, I clung with a tenaci- ty and read with an earnestness which brought at last its own beautiful fruits. 164 A Half-L~ and Half a L~. [February, Then, there was the Scottish Chiefs, a treasure-house of delight to me, two or three trashy novels, given me by Torn Salyers, of which my mother knew noth- ing, and (the only poetry I had ever seen) a song-book, which had, scattered among its vulgarisms and puerilities, some gems of Burns and Moore. These my natural, unvitiated taste had singled out, and I would croon them over to myself, set them to a tune of my own composing, and half sing, half chant them, when at work out - of- doors, till my mother de- clared 1 was going crazy. This morning I did not read. I sat looking down into the water from my perch, carrying on the inward discussion of the night before, and wishing that breakfast-time were come, that I might try my strength and show that I was not to be put down by any assumption of superiority, when suddenly a voice near me made me start so that I almost lost my balance. Mr. Hammond was stand- ing beneath. He laughed, and held out his hand to help me down; but I sprang past him and was on my way to the house, when suddenly my brave reso- lutions came back to my mind, and I stood still with a feeling of defiance. I wondered what he would dare to say. Would he tell me how stupid he thought us all, bow like the very pigs we lived? or would he describe his own grand house and the great places he had seen? I scowled up sullenly. Will you tell me where to find a towel, that I may wash my face here by the river-side? I laughed aloud, and with that laugh fled my sullenness. He looked a little puzzled, but went on, I went to bed so early that I cannot sleep any longer; and if I could only find some way of getting across the river, I could get things under way a little be- fore my men come up. There were ways, then, in which I could help him, he was not so immeasurably above me, and down went my defiant spirit. The towel, a crash roller, luck- ily clean, was brought at once, and, gath ering courage as I stood by and saw him finish his washing, I said, I can scull you over the river in a few minutes, if you will go in our skiff. You? can you manage that shell of a thing? will your father let you take it, Miss Boarders? My name is Janet Rainsford, and Squire Boarders is not my father, said I, some of my sullenness returning. If you will take me, Janet, said he, with the frank, open-hearted tone which had won my step - father the night be- fore,a tone before which my sullenness melted. I jumped in, and, letting him pass me before I threw off the rope, sculled the little dug-out into the middle of the river. No boatman on the Sandy was more skil- ful than I in the management of the lit- tle vessel, for in it most of my leisure time had been passed for the last year or two. My step-mother had scolded, my father grumbled, and the farmers wives and daughters had shaken their heads and allowed that Janet Rains- ford would come to no good, if she was let fool about here and there, like a boy. But on that point I was incorrigible;the boat was my one escape from my daily drudgery, and late at night and early in the morning I went up and down among the shoals and bars, under the trees an(l over the ripples, till every turn of the current was familiar to me. I knew all the boatmen, too, up and down the river, would pull along-side their rafts or push- ing-boats, and get from them a slice of their corn-bread or a cup of coffee, or at least a pleasant word or jest. And none but pleasant words did I ever receive from the rough, but honorable men whom I met. They respected, as the roughest men will always do, my lonely girlhood, and felt a sort of pride in the daring, ad- venturous spirit that I showed. My knowledge of the river stood Mr. Hammond in good stead that morning, as soon as I understood that he was look- ing for a place where his men could land easily. It was only to sweep round a small bluff that jutted into the river, 1864.] A Half-L~ and Half a 165 and carry the skiff into the mouth of NiWs Creek, where the bank sloped gradually down to the water from a level bit of meadow-land that extended back some rods before the hills began to rise. Mr. Hammond leaped out. The very place, and here, on this point, shall be my saw-mill. I 11 run the road through here and up the creek to the mining-ground, and build my store under the ledge there, and my shanties on each side the road. I caught his enthusiasm, and, my shy- ness all gone, I found myself listening and suggesting; more than that, 1 found my suggestions attended to. 1 knew the river well; I knew what points of land would be overflowed in the June rise; I knew how far the backwater would reach up the creek; I knew the least obstructed paths through the woods; I could even tell where the most available timber was to be found. I felt, too, that my knowl- edge was appreciated. George Ham- mond had that one best gift that be- longs to all successful leaders, whether of armies, colonies, or bands of miners: he recognized merit when he saw it. From that morning a feeling of self- re- spect dawned upon me, I was not so al- together ignorant as I had thought my- self, I had some available knowledge; and with that feeling came the determi- nation to raise myself out of that slough of despond into which I had fallen the night before. From that time a sort of friendship sprang up between George Hammond and myself. Every morning I rowed him across the river, and, in the early morning light, before the workmen were out of bed, he talked over, partly to him- self and partly to me, his plans for the day and his vexations of the day before, until I began to offer advice and make suggestions, which made him laughingly call me his little counsellor. Then in the evenings (he slept at my fathers) he would pick up my books and amuse himself with talking to me about them, laugh at my crude enthusiasms, clear up some difficult passage, prune away remorselessly the trash that had crept into my little collection, until, one day, returning from Cincinnati, where business had called him, he brought with him a store of books inexhaustible to my inexperienced eyes, and declared him- self my teacher for the winter. Never mind Janets knitting and mending, Mrs. Boarders, said he, in re- ply to my mothers complaints; she is a smart girl, and may be a school-mis- tress yet, and earn more money than any woman on Sandy. But I am afraid, my step-mother answered, that the books she reads are not godly, and have no grace in them. They look to me like players trash. I ye tried to do my duty to Janet, she continued, plaintively; but I hope the Lord wont hold me accountable for her headstrong ways. Meantime, as I read in one of my books, and repeated to myself over and over again in my fulness of content, How happily the days Of Thalaba went by! How rapidly fled that winter, and how soon came the spring, that would bring me, I thought, new hopes, new interests, new companions! How changed a scene did I look upon, that bright April morning, when I went over the river to see that all was in read- iness for the boats from below which were to bring Esther Hammond to her new home! She was to keep her brothers house; and furniture, books, and pictures, such as I had never dreamed of, had been sent up by the last - returning boatmen, all of which I had helped Mr. Hammond to arrange in the little two-story cottage which stood on the first rise of the hill behind the store. A little plat of ground was hedged in with young Osage - orange shrubs, and within it one of the miners, who had formerly been an under-gardener in a great house in Scotland, had already prepared some flower-beds and sodded carefully the little lawn, laying down the walks with bright-colored tan, which 166 A Half-L?fo and Half a ~ [February, contrasted pleasantly with the lively green of the grass. From the gate one might look up and down the road, bor- dered on one side by the trees that hung over the river, and on the other by the miners houses, one - story cottages, each with its small inclosure, and showing every degree of cultivation, from the neat vegetable-patch and whitewashed porch of the Scotch families to the neg- lected waste ground and slovenly pota- to-patch of the Irishmen. There were some Sandians among the hands, but they never could be made to take one of the houses prepared for the miners. They lived back on the creeks, general- ly on their own lands, raised their cora and tobacco, cut their lumber, and hunt. ed or rode the country, taking jobs only when they felt so inclined, but showing themselves fully able to compete with the best hands both in skill and in endur ance, when they were willing to work. On the side of the hill across the creek could be seen the entrance to the mines, and down that hill were passing constant- ly the cars, loaded with earth and stone taken from the tunnel, which fell with a thundering sound into the valley beneath. Below me was the store, gay with its mul- tifarious goods, which supplied all the needs of the miners and their wives, from the garden-tools and seeds for the after- noon-work to the gay-colored dresses for the Sunday leisure, where, too, on Sat- urday night, whiskey was to be had in exchange for the scrip in which their wages were paid, and where, sometimes, the noise waxed fast and furious, till Mr. Hammond would cut off the supply of liquor, as the readiest means of stilling the tumult. On this side the river all was changed. But as I looked that morning across the stream towards my step-fathers farm, my own home, everything there lay as wild and unimproved as I had known it since the first day my mother brought me there, comfortless and disorderly as it was when, child as I was, I could remember the tears of fatigue and discouragement which she dropped upon my face as she put me for th~ first time into my little crib; but there, too, were still (and my heart exulted as I saw them) the glorious water-maples, the giant sycamores, and the bright-col- ored chestnut-trees, which I had known and loved so long. Would Miss 11am- mond see how beautiful they were? would she praise them as her brother had done? would she listen as kindly to my rhapso- dies about them? and would she say, as he had said, that I was a poet by na- ture, with a poets quick appreciation of beauty and the poets gift of enthusiastic expression? I could not tell whether Esther Hammond would be to me the friend her brother had been, with the added blessing, that, being a woman, I could go freely to her with my deficien- cies in sure dependence upon her aid and sympathy, or if she would come to stand between me and him, to take away from me my friend and teacher. Time alone would show; and meanwhile I must be busy with my preparations, for tIme boats were expected at noon, and Mr. Ham- mond, who had ridden down to Louisa to meet them, had said that he depended upon me to have things cheerful and in order when they arrived. Two hours hard work saw everything in its place, the furniture arranged to the best of my ability, but wanting, as I sorely felt, the touch of a mistresss hand to give it a home-like look. I had done my best, but what did I know of the ar- rangem cut of a ladys house? I hard- ly knew the use of half the things I touched. But I would not let my old spirit of discontent creep over me now; so, betaking myself to the woods, which were full of the loveliest spring flowers, I brought back such a profusion of violets, spring-beauties, and white bloodroot-bbs- somus, that the whole room was brighten- ed with their beauty, while their faint, delicate perfume filled the air. Surely these must please her, I said to myself, as I put the last saucerful on the table, and stepped back to see the result of my work. They certainly will, Janet, said George Hammond, who had entered be- 1864.] A Half-Life and Half a LIJ~. 167 hind me. How well you have worked, and how pleasant everything looks! Es- ther will be so much obliged to you. She is just below, in the boat. Will you not come with me and help her up the bank? But I hung back, bashful and fright- ened, while he called some of the men to his assistance, and, hurrying down to the river, landed the boat, and was pres- ently seen walking toward the house with a lady leaning upon his arm. I saw her from the window. A tall, dignified wom- an, with a face yes, beautiful, certain- ly, for there were the regular features, the dark eyes, with their straight brows, the heavy, dark hair, parted over the fair, smooth forehead, but so quiet, so cold, so almost haughty, that my heart stood still with an undefined alarm. She caine in and sat down in one of the chairs without taking the least notice of me. Mr. Hammond spoke, This is Janet Rainsford, my little friend that I told you of, Esther. I hope you will be as good friends as we have been. She will show you every beauti- ful place around the country, and make you acquainted with the people, too. Miss Hammond looked at me with a steadiness of gaze under which my eyes sank. I shall not trouble the young person much, since I shall only walk when you can go with me; and as for the people, it is not necessary for me to know them, I suppose. George hammond bit his lip. Janet has taken great pains to put everything in order for us here. I should hardly know the room, it is so improved since I left it this morning. She is very kind, said his sister, lan- guidly; but, George, how horribly this furniture is arranged,the sofa across the window, the centre-table in the corner! Oh, you will have plenty of time to arrange it, Esther. Come, let me show you your own room you will want to rest while your Dutch girl what s her name? Catrine? gets us something to eat. Miss Hammond followed her brother to her room, while, mortified and angry with her, with myself, I escaped from the house, jumped into my skiff, and hardly stopped to breathe till I had reached my own little garret. I flung myself on my bed, and burst into bitter tears of resent~- ment and despair. So, after all my pains, after my endeavors to improve myself, after all I had done, I was not worth the notice of a real lady. I sup- posed I was an uncouth, awkward girl, disagreeable enough to her she would not want to see me near her. All I had done was miserable; it would have been better to let things alone. I never would go near her again, that was certain, she should not be troubled by me and my tears fell hot and fast upon my pillow. Then came my old sullenness. Why was she any better than I? her brother thought me worth talking to; could she not find me worthy of at least a kind look? Perhaps she knew more than I did of books; but what of that? She had not half the useful knowledge wherewith to make her way here in the woods. And what right had she to bring her haughty looks and proud ways here among our people? My sullenness gave way before my bitter disappointment and my offended pride. I was only a child of sixteen, sensitive and distrustful of my- self and her cold looks and colder words had keenly wounded me. A week passed, in which I gave myself most earnestly to the household tasks, going through them with dogged perti- nacity, and accomplishing an amount of work which made my step - mother de- clare that Janet was coming back to her senses after all. It was only my effort to forget my disappointment. On the Saturday eveninn when I sat tired out with my exertions, Mr. Ham- mond caine up the path. How my heart leaped at seeing him! How good he was to come! His sister had not taught him to despise me. But when he asked me to come over, the next day, and see what he had done to his house and garden, the demon of sullen pride took possession of me again. I would not go. I had too 168 A Half-L~ and Half a hfe. [February, much to do; my mother would want me to get the dinner. In short, I could not go. He bore it good-naturedly, though I think he understood it, and, leaving with me a package of books which he had promised me, said he must go, as Esther would be waiting tea for him. Many another endeavor did George hammond make to bring his sister and myself together, but the first impression had been too strong for me, and Miss Hammond made no effort to remove it. I do not believe it ever crossed her mind to try to do so. Little was it to her whether or no she made herself pleasant to a stupid, ugly girl. She had her books, her light household cares, her letter-writ- ing, her gardening, her walks and drives with her brother, and she felt and show- ed little interest in anything else. Very unpopular she was among the people around her, who contrasted her cold re- serve with her brothers frank cordiality; but she troubled herself not at all about her unpopularity. For me, I kept shyly out of her way, and fell back into my old habits. I had not lost my friend, Mr. Ham- mond. lie did not read with me reg- ularly as before, but he kept me sup- plied with books, and the very infre- quency of his lessons stimulated me to redoubled effort, that I might surprise him by my progress when we met again. Then there was scarcely a day that some business did not take him past our house, or that I did not meet him by the river-bank or at the store. Sometimes he would ask me to row him down the stream on some errand, sometimes he would take me with him in his rides. I was a fearless horsewoman, and Miss Hammond did not ride. In all those meetings he was frank and kind as ever he told me of his plans, his annoyances, his projects. No, I had not lost my friend, as I had feared, and when assur- ed of this, I could do without Miss Ham- mond. And so the weeks glided into months, and the months into years, and I was nine- teen years old. Four years had passed since the morning when George Ham~ mond first awakened my self-esteem, first gave me the impulse to raise myself out of my awkwardness and ignorance, to make of myself something better than one of the worn, depressed, dispirited women I saw around me. Had I done anything for myself? I asked. I was not educated, I had no acquirements, so- called; but I had read, and read well, some good and famous books, and I knew that I had made their contents my own. I was richer for their heauties and ex- cellences. With my self- respect had come, too, a desire to improve my sur- roundings, and, as far as they lay under my control, they had been improved. Our household was more orderly; some little attempt at neatness and decoration was to be seen around and in the house, and my own room, where I had full sway, was beautiful in its rustic adornment. My glass, too, the poor little three-cor- nered, paper - framed companion of my girlhood, showed me some change. The complexion had cleared, the hair had taken a decided brown, and the angular figure had rounded and filled. It was hardly a week since, standing in Miss Hammonds kitchen counting over with her servant - girl the basketful of fresh eggs which were sent from our house every week, I had overheard Mr. Ham- mond say to his sister, Really, Janet Rainsford has improv- ed so much that she is almost pretty. Tier brown hair tones so well with her quiet eyes; and as to her mouth, it is real- ly lovely, so finely cut, and with so much character in it. What was it to me that Miss 11am- monds cold voice answered, I think you make a fool of yourself, George, and of that girl too, going on as you do about her. She will be entirely unfitted for her state of life, and for the people she must live with. Her words had hardly time to chill my heart when it hounded again, as I turned hurriedly away and passed under the window on my way out, at hearing her brothers answer: 1864.] A Half-L~ and Half a L~. 169 There is too much in her to be spoil- ed. I like her. She has talent and char- acter, and I cannot understand, Esther, why you are so prejudiced against her. There were others besides Mr. Ham- mond who thought me improved and who liked me. Tom Salyers never let an evening pass without dropping into our house on his way home from the store, where he was a sort of overseer or sales- man,never failed to bring in its season the earliest wild - flower or the freshest fruit,had thoroughly searched Catletts- burg for hooks to please me, nay~ had once sent an indefinite order to a Cincin- nati bookseller to put up twenty dollars worth of the best books for a lady, which order was filled by a collection of the An- nuals of six years back and a few unsal- able modern novels. I read them all most conscientiously and gratefully, and would not listen for a moment to Mr. Hammonds jests about them; but, a few weeks afterwards, I almost repented of my complaisance, when Tom Salyers took me fit an advantage while rowing me down to Louisa one afternoon, and, see- mug a long stretch of river before him without shoal or sand-bar, leisurely laid up his oars, and, letting the boat float with the stream, asked me, abruptly, to marry him, and go with him up into the country to a new place which he meant to clear and farm. I laughed at him at first, but he per- sisted till I was forced to believe him in earnest; and then I told him how foolish he was to fancy an ugly, sallow-looking girl like me, who had no father nor moth- er, when he might take one of John Millss rosy daughters, or go down to Catlettsburg and get somebody whose father would give him a farm already cleared. You are laughing at me, Janet, he said. I know I am not smart enough for you, nor hardly fit to keep company with you, now that Hammond has taught you so many things that are proper for a lady to know; hut I love you true, and if you can only fancy me, I 11 work so hard that you 11 be able to keep a hired girl and have all your time for reading and VOL. Xiii. 12 going about the woods as you like to do. And you 11 he in your own house, instead of under Squire Boarders and his sharp- spoken wife. Could nt you fancy me after a while? I d do anything you said to make myself agreeable and fit compa- ny for you. You are very fit company for sue now, Tom, I said, and you are of a great deal more use in the world than I am; you know more that is worth knowing than I do. Only let us be good friends, as we have always been, and do not talk about anything else. ~ I will not talk any, more of it now, said he, if so be it dont please you, and if you 11 promise never to say any more to me about the Mills gals, or any of them critters down in Catlettsburg, I cant abide the sight of them, and if you 11 let me come and see you all the same, and row you about and take you to the mill when you want flour. I held out my hand to Tom with the earnest assurance that I always liked to see him and talk to him, and that there was nobody whom I would sooner ask to do me a kindness. The poor fellow choked a little as he thanked me, and then, recovering him- self, rowed a few strokes in silence, when, looking round as if to assure himself that there was nothing near us hut the quiet trees, he said suddenly, I 11 tell you what, Janet, I ye a great mind to tell you something, seeing how you re not a woman that cant hold her tongue, and then you think so much of Hammond. I started with a quick sense of alarm, but Tom went doggedly on. You know what a hard winter we ye had, with this low water and no January rise, and all that ice in the Ohio. They say they re starving for coal down in Cincinnati, and here we ye no end of it stacked up. Well, hammond, he s had hard work enough to keep the men along through the winter. Many anoth- er man would have turned them off, but he would nt do it; so he s shinned here and shinned there to get money to pay 170 A Half-L~ and Half a L~. [February, them their wages, and they ye had scrip, and we ye fairly brought goods up to the store overland, on horseback and ev- ery kind of way, just for their conven- ience; and now the damned Irish rascals, with some of the Sandy boys for leaders, have made up their minds to strike for higher wages the minute we have a rise, just when we 11 need all hands to get the coal off, and all those boats laying at the mouth, too. I heard it day before yesterday, by chance like, when Jim Foushee and the two OLearys were sit- ting smoking on the fence behind the store. The OLearys were tight with the Redeye they had aboard, and let it out in their stupid colloguing, as they call it; but Jim Foushee saw me stand- ing at the window, and right away called in two or three of the Sandy men and threatened my life if I told Hammond. They have watched me like a cat ever since, and never left me and hammond alone together. They are with Ham- mond now, launching a coal-boat, or I d never have got off with you.~~ I sat breathless. I knew it was ruin to let the expected rise pass without get- ting the coal-boats down; but what could be done? Dont look so pale, Janet. You can tell Hammond, you know, and he 11 find a way to circumvent them. And it was to tell you all this that I brought you out here this afternoon, only my unlucky tongue would talk of what I see it s too soon to talk of yet. But here s Louisa, right ahead. Make haste and get your traps, while I settle my business, and we 11 be back, perhaps, in time for you to manage some way to see Hammond to- night. INobody knows you went with me, and you 11 never be suspected. Not Tom Salyerss most rapid and vig- orous rowing could make our little skiff keep pace with my impatience; but, thanks to his efforts, the sun was still high when he landed me in the little cove behind our house, where I could run up through the woods to our back-door, while he pulled boldly up to the store-landing and called some of the men to help him carry his purchases up the bank. I did not stop for a word with my step-mother, but, passing rapidly through the house, threw my parcels on the bed in the sit- ting-room, and, running down the walk to the maple-tree under which my dug- out was always tied, jumped into it and sculled out into the river. The coal-boat had just been launched, and George Hammond was standing on the bank su- perintending the calking of the seams which the water made visible. I pushed up to the bank, and called to him as I neared, Can you not come, Mr. Hammond, a little way up-stream with me? I have found those young tulip-trees that you want for your garden; they are just round the bend above Nats Creek. Jim Foushee will see to that work, and I have just time to show them to you before sup- per. I was a favorite with Jim Foushee. He laughed a joking welcome to me, as he said, I 11 see to this, Sir, if you want to go with Janet IRainsford. She s the gal that knows the woods. A splendid Sandy wife you 11 make some young fellow, Ja- net, if you dont get too book-learned. In five minutes we were off and had rounded the point out of sight and hear- ing. In a few hurried words I told my story, but at first Mr. hammond would not believe it. Those men that I ye done so much for and worked so hard for this winter! At last, convinced, his face set with the determined look that I had seen on it once or twice before. I 11 not raise the wages of a single man, and, what s more, I d turn them all off the place, if only I could find oth- ers. But those boats at Catlettsburg, they are the most important. The Company would send me up men from Cincinnati, if only I could get word to them; but these rascals will stop any letter I send. Those Sandians are capable of it, or rather they are capable of putting the Irishmen up to doing their dirty work for them. 1864.1 A IIalf-IAfr and Half a Ltfe. 171 A letter would be safe, if it once reached Catlettsburg? I asked. Certainly. But how to get it there? I can take it. Nobody will suspect me. Give me the letter to-night, and I will go to-morrow. You, Janet? you are crazy! No, indeed. I often ride to Louisa; what is to hinder me from having errands to Catlettsburg. I could go down there in one day, and take two days back, if my father thinks it is too much for old Bill to take it through in one. Oh, you could borrow Swiftfoot. I have often lent him to you, and he would carry you safely and surely. I dont be-. lieve any harm would come to you, and so much depends upon it. I turned the skiff decidedly. You have only to get your letter ready and give it to me when I come over in the morning to borrow Swiftfoot. I will take care of all the rest. And, sculling rapidly, we were at the wharf again before he had time to raise objections. I knew that I could persuade my mother into letting me go to Louisa again the next day, for we needed all our spring purchases, and once there, it was easy to find it necessary to go to the mouth. I had never been alone, but of- ten with my father or some of our hands; besides, I was too well able to take care of myself, too accustomed to have my own way, to anticipate any anxiety about my not returnino And so it proved. The next morning saw me mounted on Swiftfoot, the letter safe in my bosom, and a long list of ar- ticles wanted in my pocket. What a lovely ride that was, with the gentle, spirited horse of which I was so fond for a companion and my own beautiful for- ests in all their loveliest spring green around me, with just enough of myste- ry and danger in the expedition to add an exhilarating excitemen.. and with the happy consciousness that I was doing something for Mr. Hammond, who had done so much for me, to urge me on! I cantered merrily past Jim Foushees corn- field, and, nodding to him, as he stood in the door of his log-house, I enjoyed tell- ing him that I was going to Louisa on a shopping expedition. Should I get any- thing fbr him? He could see that Mr. Hammond had lent me Swiftfoot, so that I should soon be back, if I could buy all I wanted in Louisa; if not, I did be- lieve I should go on to Catlettsburg: the ride would be so glorious ! And glorious it was. I was happy in myself; happy in my thoughts of my friend, happy in the physical enjoyment of the air, the woods, the sun, the shade. Let me dwell on that ride. I have not had many happy days, but that was one which had its fulness of content. And I succeeded in putting Mr. Hanimonds let- ter into the Catlettsburg post-office, made my little purchases, and turned my horses head homeward, reaching the end of my journey before my father or step-mother had time to be anxious for me, and hav- ing a chance to whisper, All right, to Tom Salyers, as he took my horse from me at the door of the store. The long-expected rise came, and the strike came, Jim Foushee heading it, and standing sullen and determined in the midst of his party. Mr. Hammno~d was prepared for them. The malcon- tents came to him in the store, where he was filling Toms place; for he had sent Tom to Catlettsburg, avowedly to pre- pare the boats there to meet the rise, re- ally to have him out of the way. Their first word was met coolly enough. You will not work another stroke, unless I give you higher wages, I under- stand, Foushee? And these men say the same thing? You are their spokesman? Very well, I am satisfied; you can quit work to-morrow. I have other hands at the mouth for the boats there, and there is no hurry about the coal that lies here. Foushee burst out with an oath, That damned Salyers is the traitor! mean, cowardly rascal! But Mr. Hammond would not tell me more of what passed; perhaps he was afraid of frightening me. Tbis only he told me that night, when thanking me with glance, voice, and pressure of the 172 A HaIf-L~ and flaif a L~fr. [February, hand for all I had done for him. The blood rushed quick and hot through my veins, I was delirious with an undreamed- of happiness, which took away from me all power of answering, of even raising my eyes to his face, and the same delir- ium followed me to my pillow. He had called me his friend, his little Janet, who was so quick and ready, so fertile in in- vention, so brave in execution: what should he have done without me? I repeated his words to myself till they lost all their meaning; they were only replete with blissful content, and fill- ed me with their music till I dropped asleep for very weariness in saying them over. The next morning, before I waked, George hammond had gone. He had left for Catlettsburg to direct the new hands. The works lay idle, the men (those who had been dismissed) lounged around gloomy and sullen, and so passed the week. Then came the news that Mr. Hammond and Tom Salyers had gone to Cincinnati, and would not return for the present, and that such men as were satisfied with the former wages were to be put to work again. Readily did the miners come back to their duty, all but a few of the Sandy men, who re- turned to their own homes, and all fell into the usual train. And I? There was first the calm sense of happy security, then the impa- tience to test again its reality, then the longing homesickness of the heart. As weeks passed on and I saw nothing of him, as I heard of his protracted stay, as I saw Miss Hammond make her prepara- tions to join him, as I watched the boat which carried her away, my sense of loneliness became too heavy for me, and the same pillow on which I had known those happy slumbers was wet with tears of bitter despondency. And yet I understood neither the hap- piness nor the tears. I did not know (how should I?) what were the new feel- ings which made my heart beat at George Hammonds name. I did not know why I yearned towards his sister with a warmth of love that would fain show itself in kind- ly word or deed. I did not know why the news that he was coming again, which greeted me after long weeks of weari- ness, brightened with joyful radiance ev- erything that I saw, and glorified the as- pect of my little garret, as I had seen a brilliant bunch of flowers glorify and re- fine with a light of beauty the every-day ugliness of our sitting-room. I sang my merriest songs that night, and my feet kept time to their music in almost dancing measures. The next day, yes, by noon, he would be at home. I could see his boat land from my little window, and then, giving Miss Hammond time to be safely housed, I would row my- self over to the store and meet him there. how much I should have to tell him, how much to hear! The morning came, and with it came a nervous bashfulness. I should never dare to go over to see him. No, I would wait quietly until night, when he would sure- ly come himself to see me. Still I could watch his boat. And nervously did I stand, my face pressed against the win- dow-pane, through the long morning hours, my sewing dropped neglected in my lap at the risk of a scolding from my mother, watching the slow -passing river, and the leaves hanging motionless over it in the stillness of the summer noon. At last there was a stir on the opposite shore. Yes, the boat must be in sight I could even hear the shouts of the hoatmen; and there, rounding the bluff, she was; there, too, was Mr. 11am- mond in the stern, with the rudder in his hand; there sat Miss Hammond, hook in hand, with her usual look of listless (lisdain. But whose was that girlish face raised towards Mr. Hammond, while he pointed out so eagerly the surrounding objects? whose that slight, girlish figure crowned with the light garden-hat, with its wealth of golden hair escaping from under it? A sharp pang shot through me. Some one was coming to disturb my happy hours with my teacher and friend; and the chill of disappointment was on me A Half-]4~ and Half a L. already. I saw the boat land, saw George Hammond assist carefully every step of the strange girl, saw an elderly gentle- man step also upon the bank and give his hand to Miss Hammond, and in two minutes the trees of the landing hid them from my sight. And how slowly went the hours of that afternoon! how nervously I listen- ed to every tread, to every click of the gate! nay, my sharpened hearing took note of every sway of the branches. But the day passed, the night, and no one came. The next morning brought with it an impatience which mastered me. I must go, I must see him, and in five minutes I was pushing my boat from its cove under the water-maple. But I needed not to have left my room; my visit would be useless; for, lifting my eyes, as my boat came out from under the leaves, there, on the path by the riv- er-side opposite, I saw the strange lady mounted on Swiftfoot, her light figure set off by a cloth riding-habit such as I had never seen before, the graceful folds of which struck me even then with a sense of beauty and fitness. I could even distinguish the golden curls again, which fell close on George Hammonds face, as he stood by her side arranging her stir- rup, his own horses bridle over his arm. A backward motion of the oar sent my boat under the branches again, and I sat motionless, watching them as they rode away. Two hours afterward they stopped at our gate, and I heard George Hammonds voice calling me. The blood rushed to my forehead. had I been alone, I would not have heard; but my mother was in the room, and I had no excuse for not going forward. He leaned from his horse and shook hands cordially, while, at the same time, he said, I have brought Miss Worthington to see you, Janet. She has heard so much of your kindness to me, and of your cour- age last spring, that she was anxious to know you. This is Janet Rainsford, Amy, he continued, turning to her. The lovely, bright young face was bent towards me, the tiny hand stretch- ed out to mine, and I heard a gentle voice say, Mr. Hammond has told me so much of you, Janet, (I may call you Janet, may I not?) that I was determined to come and see you. I hope we shall know each other. A great fear seized me then, a fear which seemed to clutch my heart and stop its beatings, leaving me without any power of reply. I only stammered a few words, and Mr. Hammond, pitying what he thought my bashfulness, rode on with a nod of farewell and some words, I could not take in their sense, which seemed to be requests that I would teach Miss Worthington all that I knew of the woods and the country. I sat down with a stunned feeling, diz- zied with the knowledge that seemed to blaze upon me with that horrid fear. Yes, I knew now what it all meant, the happiness, the loneliness of the past weeks, the shrinking bashfulness of yes- terday morning, and the chill that fell upon me when I first saw the stranger in the boat. I loved George Hammond, I, the country-girl, without one beauty, one ac- complishment, so ignorant, so beneath him. I had been fool enough to fling away my heart, and now, now that it was gone from me, there came this ter- rible fear. What was this young girl to him? XVere my intuitions right? Did he love her? Would she take him away from me? take away even that poor friendship which was all I asked? That night, I cannot tell of it, the rapid, wearying walk from side to side of my little garret, the despairing fling- ing myself on the bed, the restlessness that would bring me to my feet again, the pressing my hot face against the cool window - pane, the convulsive sobs with which the struggle ended, the heavy, un- refreshing sleep that came at last, and the dull wakening in the morning, when nothing seemed left about my heart but a dead weight of insensibility. But with 1864.] 1 .7 i~0 174 A IIalf-L~fr and liaW a L~fr. [February, the brightening hours came again the restlessness. I would at least know the worst; let me face all my wretchedness it could not be but strength would come to me when the worst was over. And so I went doggedly through my morning tasks, and the early afternoon saw me at the store. I would not go to Miss Hammonds house, but I was sure to hear something of the new - comers among the gossiping miners and work- men,or, if not there, I had only to drdp into some of the cottages, to learn from their wives all that they knew or imag- ined. How little I learned, how lit- tle compared to what my fierce, craving heart asked! Miss Worthington was here with her father; they had come to see the mines, so they said; but who knows the truth? More like it was to be a wedding between the young folks, and the father wanted to see the Sandy country before he let his daughter come into it. She was a sweet-spoken young thing,not like Miss Hammond, with her proud, quality airs. But all this was only conjecture, and I must have certainty. The certainty came that evening. Mr. Hammond pass- ed the store as I was standing by the counter, and insisted that I should go home to tea with him. I had often done so before, and had no excuse, even when he said, I want so much to make Miss Worth- ington like our Sandy people, Janet. I want her father to see that there are people worth knowing even here. You will tell her of all the pleasures we have, our walks, our rides. You cannot be afraid of her, dear Janet, she is so gen- tle, so lovely. A strange feeling seized me, one min- gled of gentleness and bitterness. Yes, for his sake, I would help him. I would do all I could to welcome to his home her who was to be its blessing, and (here my good angel left me and some evil one whispered) I would show her, too, that I was not so altogether to be contemned; she should see that I was not merely the poor country-girl she thought me. And all I had of thought or feeling, all that George Hammond had called my inborn poetry, came out that evening. I talked, I talked well, for I was talking of what I understood, of my own forests and streams, of the flowers whose haunts I knew so well, of the changing seasons in their varying beauty, nay, as 1 gain- ed courage, as I saw that I commanded attention, the books that I had read so well, the thoughts of those great writers that I had made my own, came to my aid, and quotation and allusion pressed readily to my lips. I saw Esther Hammonds cold look fixed upon my face, but I dared it back again, and my color rose and my eye sparkled from the excitement. I felt my triumph when I saw the surprise on Mr. hammonds face, when I hears the pat- ronizing tone of Mr. Worthingtons voice changed to one of equality, as he said, You are a worthy champion of Sandy life, Miss Janet. I believe Amy will be tempted to try it. There was a quick blush on Amys face as I turned to look at it, and a glance ofproud affection towards her from George Hammond, which took away my false strength as I stood, leaving me, weak and trembling, to seek my home in the evening twilight. That evenings short-lived triumph cost me dear. It betrayed my scarcely self- acknowledged secret to another. Miss Hammonds womans-eye had read the poor fool who laid her heart open before her. I was made to feel my weakness before her the next morning, when, walk- ing into our kitchen, she asked, with her hard, yet dignified calmness, that I should gather for her some of the Summer Sweetings that hung so thick on the tree behind our house. She followed me to the orchard. I gathered the apples diligently and spoke no word, but not for that did I escape. She stood calmly looking on till I had finished, then began with that terrible opening from which we all shrink. I should like to speak to you a few moments, Janet. 1864.1 A Ha~f.L~f~ and Half a L?fe. 175 I quailed before her, for I had some- how a perception of what she was going to say, though I scarcely dreamed of the hardness with which it would be said. The blow came, however. My brother has been in the habit of taking notice of you ever since he has been on the Sandy, and he has been of great advantage to you; but you must be aware that such notice as he gave you when you were a mere child cannot be continued now that you are a woman. I bowed my head, and my lips formed something like a Yes. She went on. I say this to you because I was sur- prised to find by your behavior last night that you had allowed yourself to pre- sume upon that notice, and I do not sup- pose you know how unbecoming this is, from a person in your position, especially before Miss Worthington. I was stung into a reply. What is Miss Worthington to me? came out sullenly from my lips. Nothing toyou, certainly, nor can she ever be; but as the future wife of my brother, she is somethinu to me. It was true, then; but so fully had I felt the truth before that this certainty gave me no added pang. From its very depths of despair I drew strength, and, my courage rising, I had power even to look full at Miss Hammond, and say, You may be sure I shall never in- trude myself on Mr. Hammonds wife or sister, nor upon him, unless he desires it, except, indeed, to wish him happiness. My unexpected calmness roused her worst feelings, her pride, her jealousy, and, with a womans keen aim, she sent the next dart home. So calmly she spoke, too, with such command of her- seW with a lady-like self-control that I, alas! knew not how to reach. I am happy to hear you say so, for there have been times when your singu- lar manner has made me fear that you nourished some very false and idle dreams, follies that I have sometimes thought it my duty as a woman to warn von against; and with one keen look at my burning face, she took up the bas- ket and walked away. I think at that moment I could have killed her, so bitter was the hatred which I felt towards her; but the next brought its crushing shame, taking a way from me all but the desire to hide myself from every eye. Where should I go? Some- where where nobody could find me, where I could be insured perfect solitude. It was not difficult to bury myself in the forest that pressed around me on every side, and a few minutes saw me struggling with the embarrassments of the tangled vines which obstructed the path up our steepest hill. There was in the very dif- ficulties to be overcome something that seemed to bring me relief; they forced my mind from myself. On, on I went, as if my life depended upon my strug- gles, till, breathless and utterly exhaust- ed, I had reached the top of the hill, the highest point for miles around. I sank down on the cool grass, the fresh wind blowing on my face, and, too wearied to think, shut my eyes against the beautiful Nature around me, alive only to my own overpowering misery. How long I lay there I never knew. I was safe and alone. I could be wretch- ed as I pleased, away from Miss Ham- monds mocking eye, away from the sight of George Hammonds happiness. But, strangely enough, out of the very free- dom to be miserable came at last a sense of relief. I looked my wretched- ness full in the face. Could I not bear it? And there rose within me a strength I had not known before. I was young, I had a long life before me; it could not be but that this great sorrow would pass away. At least, I would not nourish it. I would do what I could to help myself. Help myself! For the first time in my life I put up an earnest prayer for help out of myself. The words, coming as such words come but few times in life, out from the very depths of the heart, brought with them their softening influ- ence. The tears sprung forth, those tears which I thought I should never shed again, and I burst into a passionate fit 176 A Half-Life and half a L~. [February, of crying, the passionate crying of a child. It shook me from head to foot with its hysterical convulsions, but it left me at last calmer, soothed into stillness, with only now and then those choking after- sobs which I, child like, sent forth there on the bosom of the only mother I had ever known, our kindly mother Earth. The sun was going down when I rose up, soothed and comforted, and strength- ened, too, for a time. I would do what I could. I would live down this grief: how I knew not, but the way would come to me. And gathering up my hair, which had fallen around me, I stopped, on my way home, by a running stream, and bathed my eyes and forehead until I was fit to appear before my step-mother. She did not question me; she was too used to my unexplained absences since I had grown out of her control. Sufficient for her that my tasks were always per- formed; sufficient for her, that, that very evening, I threw myself with an appar- ently untiring energy into the household work, that I never rested a moment till she herself closed the house and in- sisted that I should go to bed. I slept that night, after such fatigue, it was impossible but that I should,and woke in the morning with a renewed determi- nation to struggle against my sorrow. Alas! alas! I thought I had only to resolve. I thought the struggle would be but once. How little I knew of the daily, almost hourly, changes of feeling, of the despondency, the despair, that would come, I knew not why, directly upon my most earnest resolves, my hard- est struggles, of the weakness that would make me at times give up all struggling as useless, of the mad hope that would sometimes arise that some- thing, some outward change, I did not dare to say what, would bring me some relief! I had at least the courage to keep away from the sight of all that was so miserable to me. I did not see George Hammond for weeks, and he ah! there was the bittcrness he did not miss me. And so the weary days went on. It is wonderful what endurance there is in a young heart, for how long a time it can beat off suffering all day by unceasing labor, and lie awake all night with that same suffering for a bedfellow, and still make no sign that a careless eye can see I look at that time now with wonder. How did I bear that constant occupation by day, alternated only with those sleep- less nights, without breaking down en- tirely? The crisis came at last, a sort of stupor, a cessation of suffering indeed, but a cessation, too, of all feeling. I was frightened at myself. Alas! I had no one to be frightened for me. Could it be that I was going to lose my senses? But no, I passed through that too, and then came a more natural state of mind than any I had known since the blow fell. My suffering self seemed like some- thing apart from me, which I could pity and help, could counsel and act for, and this one thing became clear to me. Some~ change of scene was necessary to me. I could never go on so; it was idle to at- tempt it. I could not ve any longer face to face with my grief. There was the whole world before me. Was it not possible to go out into it? I had health, strength, ability, I was sure of it. How often before had I dreamed over the seeking my fortune in that world which looked to me then so full of excitement! Nothing had held mc back then but the clinging to home-pleasures, to home-en- joyments, to home-comforts, poor as they were, nothing hut the sense of safety, of protection. What were these to me now? I cared nothing for them. I only asked to be away from all that reminded me of my suffering, to he so forced to struggle with external difficulties as to have no thought for myself. I did not want to love anybody; I would rather have nobody care for me. I would go. The only question was how. A few days and nights of thought solv- ed the problem for me, and, once roused to action, I took my steps rapidly and well. The first thing necessary was money, money enough to take me away, and to support me until I could find en~ 1864.] A Ha~/-Ltfe and Half a Lzf~. 177 ployment; and the means of attaining it were within my reach. I owned a watch that had been my mothers, a pretty trin- ket, though somewhat old-fashioned, and which had often excited the envy of the young wife of one of the head miners. I knew that her husband was flush of money just then, for he had drawn his wages only the week before,and I knew, too, that he would give me a good price for my watch, were it only to gratify the hride to whom he had as yet denied nothing. The sale was made at once. I do not know if I got anything like the value of the watch, but the next day saw me with fifty dollars in my pocket, a small bun- dle, made up from the most available part of my wardrobe, under my arm, prepared to walk to Louisa, avowedly to buy sup- plies, but with the secret determination to meet there the coal-boats which were hound for the mouth, ask a passage on them as far as Catlettsburg, and there take the first steamer that passed, and let it carry me whither it would. There was no pause of regret, no de- lay for parting looks or words; from the moment that I had made up my mind to go, I felt nothing but a desperate eager- ness to be away, to be in action. The few words necessary to prepare my step- mother for my ostensible errand were soon said, the good-morning calmly spok- en, and I passed into the forest-path lead- ing to the town. A pang smote me as I remembered her conscientious discharge of duty toward me for so many years; hut it was duty, not love, that had urged her, and while I said that to myself, I said, too, that time would bring to me the opportunity of repaying her. Toward the settlement on the opposite shore I turned no look. I would not trust myself; I knew my own weakness too well; this desperate energy which was carrying me on now would fail, if I al- lowed my heart one moments indul- gence. Steadily I walked on through the woods, my own woods, which, per- haps, I should never see again, till, wea- ried out by the exertion, which had pre eluded thought, I saw the houses of Louisa rise before me. The boats lay at the fork above the town. I had informed myself of their movements, and knew they were to start at noon. A few inquiries for groceries and so forth, where I knew they could not be gotten, gave me an excuse ror the proposition to the captain of the boats to give me a passage to Catlettsburg. It was readily granted, and the crew, most of them Sandy men, put up a rough awning, and, spreading under it some blankets, did their kind uttermost to make me comfortable. I remember now, as one looks hack into a dream, the afternoon and night that passed before we reached Catletts- burg. I lay perfectly quiet, watching the shadowy trees as we glided past them, noting their varied reflections in the wa- ter, marking every peculiarity of shore and stream, hearing the jests and laugh- ter, the words of command and the oaths, that went round among the boatmen; but all passed as something with which I had nothing to do. To me there was the burning desire to put a great dis- tance belween myself and my home, but with it, too, the consciousness, that, as I could do nothing to expedite our slow progress, so neither could I afford to waste upon it in impatient restlessness the stren~,th which would be so much needed afterwards. The men brought me a cup of coffee from their supper, which gave me strength for the night. The biscuit I could not taste. But how long was that night! how te- dious the summer dawn! and how slowly went the hours till we brought up our boats at the landing at Catlettsburg! I had formed my plans; so, telling the captain that I might perhaps want to go back with him, I hurried into the town. A steamboat lay by the wharf- boat. The Bostona, for Cincinnati, said the board displayed over her upper railing. She was to leave at eight o- clock. I walked about the town till half. past seven; then, returning to the coal- boats, gave to the man left in charge a 178 A Half-Lsfi~ and Half a ~ [February, letter I had prepared, in which I told my step-mother, in as few words as possible, that I wanted to see something of the world, and had determined to go for a time either to Cincinnati or to Pittsburg, that I begged her not tobe uneasy about me, I had sold my watch, and had mon- ey enough for the present; she should hear from me in due time. The man took the letter, with some remark on my not returning with them, and, with a quiet good-day, I left him and walked rapidly toward the steamer. The plank was laid from the wharf-boat, and, without daring to hesitate, I walked over it. It was done. I was fairly separated from everything I had ever known be- fore; everything now was new to me I was ignorant of all around me; each step might be a mistake. I felt this, when a porter, stepping forward and tak- ing my bundle, asked me if I would have a state-room. What .was a state-room? I did not know, but saying, Yes, with a desperate feeling that it might as well be yes as no, I was led back to the ladies cabin, a key was turned in one of an infinite number of little doors, and I was ushered into what looked to me like a closet, with shelves made to take the place of beds. Here at least I was alone, and here I could be alone till dinner-time; till then there was no call for action on my part. And how precious seemed to me every hour of rest! Singularly enough, my great sorrow did not come back to me in those pauses of action. I seemed then to be entirely absorbed in gathering strength for the next occasion; my grief was put away for the future, when there would come to me the time to indulge it. So I lay quiet during that morning, looking sometimes through my little win- dow at the passing shore, listening some- times to the loud talking in the cabin, sometimes to the noises on the boat, won- dering if all those strange creakings and shakings could be right, but finding a sense of security in my very ignorance. Dinner came, and in the course of it I found courage to ask the captain, at whose right hand I was placed, what time we should reach Cincinnati. Not till after breakfast, was his welcome an- swer; for I had been haunted by a dread of being set adrift in a great city in the middle of the night, when I might per- haps fall into some den of thieves. I had read of such things in my books. This gave me still the afternoon before it would be necessary to think, some hours more in which to rest mind and body. The night came at last, and I must decide what step to take next, that, my mind made up, I might perhaps get some sleep. I turned restlessly in my narrow bed, got up, and stood at the window, tried first the upper shelf, and then the lower, but no possible plan presented it- self. I still saw before me that terrible city where I should be ten times lonelier than in the midst of our forests, where I should make mistakes at every turn, where I should not know one face out of the many thousands that crowded upon my nervous fancy. I seemed to be afraid of nothing but human beings, and, at the thought of encountering them, my wom- ans heart gave way. In vain I reason- ed with myself, I shall not see all Cin- cinnati at once, not more at one time, perhaps, than I saw to-day at dinner. Still came up those endless streets, all filled with strange faces; still I saw my- self pushed, jostled, by a succession of men and women who cared nothing for me. Suddenly came the thought, Tom Salyers is in Cincinnati. There is one person there that I know. If I could only find him, he would take care of me till I knew how to take care of myself. There came no remembrance of our last conversation to check my eager joy. Indeed, it had never made much impres- sion upon me, followed as it had been by so much of nearer interest. I set myself to reflect on the means of finding him. He had gone down in the employ of the coal company. The captain could tell me where to look for him, and, satisfied withthat, I laid my weary head on my pillow. The next morning at breakfast I gained 1864.] A Half-Lift and Half a ~ 179 the needed information. Did I want to find one of the men in Mr. Hammonds employment? I must go to the coal- yard; and the direction was written out for me. And now we neared the city. I stood on the guards and looked wondering at the steamboats that lined the river-hank, at the ion,, rows of houses that stretched before me, the tall chimneys vomiting smoke which obscured the surrounding hills, at the crowd of men and drays on the landing through which I was to make my way; but my courage rose with the occasion, and, stepping resolutely from the plank, I walked up the hill and stood among the warehouses. I had been told to turn to the right and take the first street, I could not miss my way; but somehow I did miss my way again and again, and wandered weary and bewil- dered, not daring at first to ask for di- rections, till, gathering strength from my very weariness, I at last saw before me the welcome sign. It was something like home to see it; the familiar names cheer- ed me while they moved me. I entered the office trembling with a wild dread lest I should meet Mr. Hammond there, but the sight of a strangers face at the desk gave me courage to ask for Tom Salyers. He is in the yard now. Here, Jim, tell Salyers there s a person he hesi- tated a lady wants to see him. I sat down in a chair which was luck- ily near me, for my knees trembled so that I could not stand, and as the door opened and Toms familiar face was be- fore me, my whole composure gave way and I burst into a violent fit of crying. Janet! is it you? For Heavens sake, what is the matter? But I could only sob in answer. Has anything happened up Sandy? Did you come for mc? The poor fellow leaned over me, his face pale with surprise and agitation. Take me out of here, was all I could muster composure enough to~ say. He opened the door, and I escaped into the open air. We walked side by side through the streets, he silently re- specting my agitation with a delicacy for which I had not given him credit, and I struggling to grow calm. At last he opened a little side-gate. Come in here, Janet; we shall be quiet here. And I entered a sort of garden: the grounds belonging to the city water- works I have since known them to be. We sat down on a bench that overlooked the Kentucky hills. I love the seat now. I think the sight of the familiar fields and trees calmed me, and I was able at last to answer Tom~ s anxious questions. It is nothing; indeed, it is nothing. I am a foolish coward, and I was frighten- ed walking through the city, and then the sight of a home-face upset me. But, Janet, why are you here? Is anything wrong about the works, the men? Did Mr. Hammond send you down? No, indeed, no! it was only a fancy of mine to see the world. I am tired of that lonely life, and you know I am not needed there. My mother can get along without me, and I am only a burden to my father. Not needed? Why, Janet, what will the Sandy country be without you? My eyes filled up with tears again. Dont ask me any more questions, dear Tom; only help me for a little while, till I can help myself. I want to earn my living somehow, but I have money enough to live upon till I can find something to do. Only find me a place to stay quietly in while I am looking for work. You are the only person I know in this great city; and who will help me, if you do not? You know I will help you with my whole heart and soul, Janet, he said, his voice faltering. I looked up, and in one moment rush- ed back upon me the remembrance of his words that day in the boat, and I stood aghast at the new trouble that seem- ed to rise before me. My voice must have changed as I said, I only want you to find me a place to live in; I can take care of myself; for 180 A Half-L~ and Half a L~. [February, his countenance fell, and he sat silent for some moments. At last he spoke: I know I cannot do much, Janet, but what ~1 can I will. And, first, I will take you to the house of a widow-woman who has a room to let; one of our men want- ed me to take it, but it was too far from my work. I went to see the place, though, and it is quiet and respectable; the wom- an looks kind, too. Would you walk slowly down the street, while I go to the office and get my coat ? he was in his working-dress~ and then I 11 join you. I got up, feeling that I had chilled him in some way, and reproaching myself for it. When he rejoined me, we walked silently on, till, after many a turning, we found ourselves in a narrow, quiet street, before a small house, with a tiny yard in front. I do not know how the matter was arranged; he did it all for me. There was the introducing me to a motherly- looking person, as a friend of his from the country; the going up a narrow stair- case to look at a small room of which all that could be said was that it was neat and clean; the bargaining for my hoard, in which I was obliged to answer Yes and No as I could best follow his lead; and then Tom left me with a shake of the hand, and the advice that I should lie down and rest after my tedious journey; he would see me again in the evening. The quiet dinner with my landlady, the afternoon rest, the fresh toilet, the sort of home-feeling tl~at my room al- ready gave me, all did their part to- wards bringing back my usual composure before Tom came in the evening; and then, sitting by the window in the little parlor, I could talk rationally of my plans for the future. I had money enough for twelve weeks board, even if I reserved ten dollars. for other expenses. Surely, in that time I could find something to do. And as to what I should do, I had thought that all over before I left home. I might find some sewing. or tend in a store, or, per- haps,did he think I could ?I might keep school. Tom would not hear of my sewing. lie knew poor girls that worked their lives out at that. I might tend in a store, if I pleased, but still he did not be- lieve I would like to be tied to one place for twelve hours in the day. Why should nt I keep school? he was sure I knew enough, I was so smart, and had read so many books. I shook my head. I did not believe the books I had read were the kind that school-mistresses studied. Still, I could learn, and certainly I might begin by teaching little children. But where was I to begin? If only we knew some gentleman, Janet, some city-man, who knew what to do about such things. Suddenly a thought struck me. Tom, do you remember those gentle- men who came up to look at the coal mines when they were first opened? One of them stayed at our house two nights, and saw my books, and talked to me about them. Mr. Kendall was his name. That s the very man; and a kind- hearted gentleman he seemed, not stuck up or proud. I 11 find him out for you, Janet, to-morrow; but there s no need of your hurrying yourself about going to work. You must see the city and the sights. And Tom grew enthusiastic in describ- ing to me all that was to be seen in this wonderful place. Tom had alteted, had improved in appearance and manners, since he had known something of city-life. I could not tell wherein the change lay, but I felt it. He told me of himself, of his ris- ing to be head-man, a sort of overseer, in the coal-yard, of his good wages,of some investments that he had made which had brought him in good returns. So you see, Janet, that, even if you were not so rich yourself, I have plenty of money at your service. I thanked him most heartily, and rous- ed myself to show some interest in all that concerned him. So passed the rest of the week,quiet 1804.] A flalf-L?fe and Haifa L~fr. 181 days with my landlady, or in my room, where I busied myself in putting my wardrobe into better shape under the direction of Mrs. Barnum, and quiet walks and talks in the evening with Tom Salyers. It was evident that he was not satisfied with my alleged mo- tives for leaving home, but I so steadily avoided all conversation on this point that he learned to respect my silence. On Sunday he told me he had found out who Mr. Kendall was. One of the stockholders of the Com- pany, and a good man, they say. I 11 go to hint tomorrow, if you say so, Ja- net, and ask him anything you want to know. No, Tom, I shall go myself. It is my business, and I must not let you do so much for me. If you will go with me, though, I added. And so the next morning saw us at Mr. Kendalls counting-room. It was be- fore business-hours: we had cared for that. We found Mr. Kendall sitting leisurely over his papers, his feet up and his spec- tacles pushed back. I had been nervous enough during the walk, but a glance at his face reassured me. It was a good, a fa- therly face, full of bonhommie, but show- ing, withal, a spice of business - shrewd- ness. I left Tom standing at the count- Ing - room door, and, taking my fate in my own hands, walked forward and made myself known. Oh, yes! the little girl that 11am- mond thought so much of, that he talks about so often when he is down here. He thinks a school or two would bring the Sandy people out, and holds you up as an example; but, for my part, I think you are an exception. There are not many of them that one could do much with. I turned quickly. This is Tom Salyers, Sir, head-work- man, overseer, at your coal-yard, and he is a Sandy man. Mr. Kendall laughed. I see I must not say anything against the Sandy country; nor need I just now. Walk in, Mr. Salyers. So, Miss Janet, you have come down to seek your for- tune, earn your living, you say. I sup- pose Hammond sent you to me. Did you bring me a letter from him? I hesitated. No, Sir. Mr. Hammond was so much occupied when I came away that I had not seen him for a day or two. He has friends staying with him. rrue enough. Mr. Worthington has gone up there with his pretty daughter to see whether he can allow her to bury herself in the country. You saw Miss Worthington? Will she be popular among your people when she is Mrs. Hammond? I caught a glimpse of Toms face, and felt myself turning pale as I answered, with a composure that did not seem to come from my own strength, Miss Worthington is a very pleasant- spoken young lady. The people will like her, because she seems to care for them, just as Mr. hammond does. But do you think, Sir, that you could put me in the way of teaching school? Could I learn how to do it? Well, I am just the right person to come to, Miss Janet, for the people have put me on the School Board, and yes, we shall want some teachers next month in two of the primary departments. Could you wait a month? You might be studying up for your examination; it s not much, but it 11 not hurt you to go ever their arithmetics and grammars. And I must write to 1-lammond today about some business of the Company. I 11 ask him about your qualifications, and what he thinks of it, and we 11 see what can be done. I should not wonder if I could get you a place. Mr. Kendall shook hands with us both; and, bidding him good - morning, with many thanks for his kindness, we went out. We walked a square silently. Sud- denly Tom turned to me: You did not tell me, Janet, of this young lady. No. And is Mr. hammond going to marry her? 182 A Half-L~ and Half a L~. [February, The blood rushed to my face till it was Crimson to the very hair, while I stam- mered, I do not know, you heard Mr. Kendall. Toms voice was as gentle as a moth- er s in answer, but his words had little to do with the subject, they were almost as incoherent as mine, something about his hoping I would like living in Cincin- nati, that teaching would not be too tire- some for me. But from that moment George Hammonds name was never men- tioned between us. I wrote that day to my step-mother, telling her of my plans and prospects, and that evening Toni brought me the needed school-books. He had found them by asking some of the men at the yard whose children went to the public schools, and to the study of them I sat down with a determination that no slight difficulty could subdue. The next week brought a long, kind letter from Mr. Hammond, scolding me for going as I did, and de- claring that he missed me every day. But more than all shall I miss you, Janet, when I bring Miss Worthington back as my wife; I had depended so upon you as a companion for her. But still it is a good thing for you to see something of the world, and you are bright enough to do anything you set out to do. I have written to Mr. Kendall to do all he can for you, and with Tom to take care of you I am sure you will get along. I be- gin to suspect that your going away was a thing contrived between Tom and your- self. Who knows how soon he may bring you back among us to show the Sandy farmers wives how to live more comfort- ably than some of them do? Tom has a very pretty place below the mouth of Blackberry, if you would only show him how to take care of it. There was comfort in this letter, in spite of the tears it caused me. My se- cret was safe. Miss Hammond had not been so cruel, so traitorous to her sex, as to betray it. If she had not told it now, she never would tell it, and Tom, if he suspected it, was too good, too noble, to whisper it even to himself. So I laid away my letter, and with a lighter heart turned again to my tasks. And now three months have passed, for two of which I have been teaching. There are difficulties, yes, and there is hard work; but I can manage the chil- dren. I have the tact, the character, the gift, that nameless sometbing which gives one person control over others; and for the studies, they are as yet a pleasure to me. I see how they will lead me on to other knowledge, how I may bring into form and make available my desultory reading, and there is a great pleasure in the very study itself. And for the rest, if my great grief is never out of my mind, if it is always present to me, at least I can put it back, behind my daily occu- pations and interests. I begin, too, to see dimly that there are other things in life for a woman to whom the light of life is denied. My heart will always be lonely; but how much there is to live for in my mind, my tastes, my love for the beau- tiful! My little room has taken another aspect. I have so few wants that I can readily devote part of my earnings to gratifying myself with books, pictures. Such lovely prints as I find in the print- shops! and the flowers Tom ~alyers, who is as kind as a brother, brings me them from the market. And then every- thing is so new to me; there is so much in life to see, to know. No, I will not be unhappy; happy I suppose I can never be, but I have strength and courage, and a will to rise above this sorrow which once crushed me to the ground. When I wrote the bitter words with which this record begins, I wronged the kind hearts that are around me, I lacked faith in that world wherein I have found help and comfort. 1564.] On the Relation of Art to Nature. 183 ON THE RELATION OF ART TO NATURE. IN TWO PARTS. PART L THE notion that Painting and Sculp- ture are concerned oniy with the ~ imi- tation of Nature, that is, with copying the forms and colors of existing things, though so often expelled, as it were, with a pitchfork, persistently recurs, not only in popular talk, but in deliberate criti- cism, and in the practice of artists. There are periods when this notion gets the upperhand, as at the end of the fif- teenth century, and again at the end of the eighteenth, when Rousseau prescrib- ed a return to Nature as the panacea for all defect, in Art as elsewhere. Then Wiuckelmaun and his successors triumph- ed over it for a while, showed at least the crudity of that statement. This is the purpose of much of Sir Joshua Rey- noldss lectures. Now it seems to be com- ing up again, thanks partly to Mr. Ruskin, though he might be quoted on both sides, and this time with some prospect of demonstrating, by the aid of photography, what it does in fact amount to. It is a very general opinion that pho-. tography has made painting superfluous, or, at least, that it will do so as soon as further improvements in the process shall enable it to render color as well as light and shade. And our artists seem to give in to this view, in the deference they show to the subject, as if it mattered not so much what it was, or how, as that it is there, a pious tenderness towards barns and rail-fences and stone walls and the confused monotony of the forest, not as having any special fitness, not as beautiful, but because they exist, a scrupulous anxiety to give the every- day look of the objects they portray, as any passer - by would see them, free from any distorting personality. To do them justice, however, this submissive- ness to the matter-of-fact, with the more gifted at least, is a virtue that is praised and starves. They do it lip-service, and suppose themselves loyal; but when they come to paint, they are under a spell that does not allow them to see in things only material qualities, but, without any vio- lence to Nature, raises it to a higher plane, where oth5 value,s and other con- nections prevail. Art, where it exists to any serious purpose, follows Nature, but not the natural,according to Raphaels maxim, that the artists aim is to make things not as Nature makes them, but as she intends them. But these audacities, though they make their own excuse in the work itself, do not pass in a statement without cavil at the arrogance that would exalt the work of mens hands above the work of God. Shall we strive with our pigments to outshine the sun, or teach the secrets of form to the cunning Artificer by whom the world was made? What room for Art, except as the feeble reflex of the splendors of the actual world? But if that be all, how to account for the existence of Art as distinct from up- holstery? Why pile our mole-hills by the side of the mountains? We can see the landscape itself any day ; whence this extraordinary interest in seeing a bit of it painted, except, indeed, as furniture for the drawing-room, to be or- dered with the frame at so much the yard from the picture-dealer? The root of the difficulty lies in this slippery phrase, Nature. We talk of the facts of Nature, meaning the existence now and here of the hills, sky, trees, etc., as if these were fixed quantities, as if a house or a tree must be the same at all times and to everybody. But in a childs drawing we see that these things are not

J. Eliot Cabot Cabot, J. Eliot On the Relation of Art to Nature 183-200

1564.] On the Relation of Art to Nature. 183 ON THE RELATION OF ART TO NATURE. IN TWO PARTS. PART L THE notion that Painting and Sculp- ture are concerned oniy with the ~ imi- tation of Nature, that is, with copying the forms and colors of existing things, though so often expelled, as it were, with a pitchfork, persistently recurs, not only in popular talk, but in deliberate criti- cism, and in the practice of artists. There are periods when this notion gets the upperhand, as at the end of the fif- teenth century, and again at the end of the eighteenth, when Rousseau prescrib- ed a return to Nature as the panacea for all defect, in Art as elsewhere. Then Wiuckelmaun and his successors triumph- ed over it for a while, showed at least the crudity of that statement. This is the purpose of much of Sir Joshua Rey- noldss lectures. Now it seems to be com- ing up again, thanks partly to Mr. Ruskin, though he might be quoted on both sides, and this time with some prospect of demonstrating, by the aid of photography, what it does in fact amount to. It is a very general opinion that pho-. tography has made painting superfluous, or, at least, that it will do so as soon as further improvements in the process shall enable it to render color as well as light and shade. And our artists seem to give in to this view, in the deference they show to the subject, as if it mattered not so much what it was, or how, as that it is there, a pious tenderness towards barns and rail-fences and stone walls and the confused monotony of the forest, not as having any special fitness, not as beautiful, but because they exist, a scrupulous anxiety to give the every- day look of the objects they portray, as any passer - by would see them, free from any distorting personality. To do them justice, however, this submissive- ness to the matter-of-fact, with the more gifted at least, is a virtue that is praised and starves. They do it lip-service, and suppose themselves loyal; but when they come to paint, they are under a spell that does not allow them to see in things only material qualities, but, without any vio- lence to Nature, raises it to a higher plane, where oth5 value,s and other con- nections prevail. Art, where it exists to any serious purpose, follows Nature, but not the natural,according to Raphaels maxim, that the artists aim is to make things not as Nature makes them, but as she intends them. But these audacities, though they make their own excuse in the work itself, do not pass in a statement without cavil at the arrogance that would exalt the work of mens hands above the work of God. Shall we strive with our pigments to outshine the sun, or teach the secrets of form to the cunning Artificer by whom the world was made? What room for Art, except as the feeble reflex of the splendors of the actual world? But if that be all, how to account for the existence of Art as distinct from up- holstery? Why pile our mole-hills by the side of the mountains? We can see the landscape itself any day ; whence this extraordinary interest in seeing a bit of it painted, except, indeed, as furniture for the drawing-room, to be or- dered with the frame at so much the yard from the picture-dealer? The root of the difficulty lies in this slippery phrase, Nature. We talk of the facts of Nature, meaning the existence now and here of the hills, sky, trees, etc., as if these were fixed quantities, as if a house or a tree must be the same at all times and to everybody. But in a childs drawing we see that these things are not 184 On tI~e Relation of Art to Nature. [February, the same to us and to him. He is care- ful to give the doors and windows, the chimneys with their smoke, the lines of the fence, and the walk in front; he in- sists on the divisions of the bricks and the window - panes: but for what is charac- teristic and essential he has no eye. lie gives what the house is to him, merely a house in general, any house; it would not help it, but only make the defect more prominent, to straighten and com- plete the lines. An artist, with fewer and more careless lines, would give more of what we see in it; and if he be a man of high power, he may teach us in turn the limitation of our seeing, by showing that the vague, half- defined sentiment that attaches to it has also a visible ex- pression, if we knew where to look for it. We hear people say they know noth- ing of Art, but that they can judge as well as anybody whether a picture is like Nature or not. No doubt Giottos contemporaries thought so, too, and they were grow a men, with senses as good as ours; but we smile when Boccaecio says, There was nothing in Nature that Giot- to could not depict, whether with the pencil, the pen, or the brush, so like that it seemed not merely like, but the thing itself. We smile superior, but Giotto had as keen an eye and as ready a hand as any man since. The lesson is, that we, too, have not come to the end of even the most familiar objects, but that to an- other age our view of them may seem as queer as his seems to us. For the facts in Nature are not fixed, hut transcen- dental quantities, and their value de- pends on the use that is made of them. It is in this direction that the artists genius avails; his skill in execution is secondary and incidental. The measure of his ability is the depth to which he has penetrated the world of matter, not the number or the accuracy of his facts. Ev- ery landscape wears many faces, as many as there are men and different moods of the same man. To one the forest is so many cords of wood; to another, an ar- boretum; to another, a workshop or a museum; to another, a poem. What each sees is there; the forest exists for beauty and for firewood, and lends itself indifferently to either use. Nature wears this air of impartiality, because her figures are only zeros, deriv- ing all their significance from their po- sition. We do not require a like impar- tiality in the artist, because what he is to give is not Nature, but what Nature in- spires. His endeavor to be impartial would result only in giving us his opin- ions or the opinions of others, instead of the utterance of the oracle. For Nature hides her secret, not by silence, but in a Babel of sweet voices, heard by each ac- cording to the fineness of his sense: by one as mere noise, by another as a jan- gle of pleasing sounds, by the artist as harmony. They are all of them Natures voices ;he adds nothing and omits noth- ing, but hears with a preoccupied atten- tion, the justification being that his hear- ing is thus most complete, as one who un- derstands a language seizes the sense of words rapidly spoken better than he who from less acquaintance with it strives to follow all the sounds. The test of truth, therefore, in the sense of fact, is insufficient. The ques- tion is, Truth for whom? Not for a child or a savage. If we were to show a fine landscape to a Hottentot, it would be a mistake to say he saw it, though the image might be demonstrable on the ret- ina of his eye. He would not see what we mean when we speak of it, any more than we should see the footstep on the ground or hear the stirring in the grass that is plain enough to him, and hits our organs, too, though we are not trained to perceive it. If the test of merit be the production of a likeness to something we see, then the artist should know no more of Nature than we do. But then, though it may surprise us into momentary admi- ration to recognize familiar things in this translation,just as common talk sounds finer in a foreign tongue, yet it is but for a time, and then the inevitable limi- tations of the counterfcit come in, its narrowness and fixity, crude paint for 1864.1 On the Relation of Art to iVature. 185 sunbeams, cold and colorless stone for the living form. The only test of a work of Art is, how far it will carry us, not any comparison by the yardstick. We demand to be raised above our habitual point of view, and be made aware of a deeper interest than we knew of. It is in hope of this alone that we pardon the necessary shortcoming of the means. This deeper interest has its root in nothing arbitrary, or personal to the ar- tist. It is not inventing something finer than Nature, but seeing more truly what Nature shows, that makes the artistic faculty. This is the lesson taught by the history of Art. Take it up where you will, this history is nothing but th~ suc- cessive unfolding of a truer conception of Nature, only speaking here the lan- guage of form and color, instead of words. lit is this that lies at the bottom of all its revolutions, and appears in its downfall as well as in its prosperity. Where the human form is the theme, the aim must of course be to give its typ- ical perfection. No naturalist describes the defects of his specimens, though it may happen that all are imperfect. Com- paratively few persons ever saw our rob- in in the plumage in which it is always described. Only in early spring, not very commonly then, is the black of the head and tail seen pure. But no one hesitates to call this the true color. The sculptor does not reproduce the pecu- liarities of his model, but aims to give ideal form as the most natural form of man. But in Painting, and especially in Land- scape, it seems less easy to fix upon any ideal, not only from the multifariousness of the details, but, nbove all, from the elusiveness of the standard. We might agree upon an ideal of human beauty, but hardly upon the ideal of anything else. The sophist in the Hippias Major was prepared to define the beauty of a maiden, or of a mare; but he was con- founded when it was required that the beauty of a pipkin should be deducible from the same principle, and yet worse when it was shown to involve that a VOL. XIII. 13 wooden spoon was more beautiful than a gold one. What you see in the woods and moun- tains depends on what you go for and what you carry with you. We may go to them as to a quarry or a wood-pile, or for pleasantness, the cool spring and the plane-tree shade, as the ancients did, or to see fine trees, waterfalls, moun- tains. To many persons the beauty of any scene is measured by its abundance in such specimens of streams, mountains, waterfalls, etc. Of course the connection is demonstrable enough: one collocation of features is more readily suggestive of beauty than another. We expect to find the scenery of a hill-country more attrac- tive than a sand- desert. But compar- ing a landscape with a statue, or even Painting generally with Sculpture, the connection between a happy effect and any definite arrangement of lines is much looser, and depends on the combination rather than the ingredients. It is in every ones experience that an acciden- tal li~ht, or even an accidental suscepti- bility, will impart to the mengrest land- scape a bare marsh, a scraggy hill- pasture a charm of which the separate features, or the whole, at another time, give no hint. Often mere bareness, openness, absence of objects, will arouse a deeper feeling than the most famous scenes. We learn from such experiences that the difference between one patch of earth and another is wholly superficial, and indicates not so much anything in it as a greater or less dulness in us. The celebrated panoramas and points of view are not the favorite haunts of great painters. They do not need to travel far for their subjects. Mr. Ruskin tells us that Turner did not paint the high Alps, nor the cumulus, the grandest form of cloud. Calame gives us the nooks and lanes, the rocks and hills, of Switzerland, rather than the high peaks; Lambinet, an apple-orchard, a row of pollard-elms, or a weedy pond, not cataracts or forests. This is not affectation or timidity, but an instinct that the famotis scenes are no breaks in the order of Nature, that 186 On the Relation of Art to Nature. [February, what is seen in them is visible elsewhere as well, only not so obvious, and that the office of Art is not to parrot what is already distinct, but to reveal it where it is obscure. This makes the inspira- tion of the artist; this is the source of all his power, and alone distinguishes him from the topographer and vieW- maker. This transcendentalism is more evident in Painting, as the later and more devel- oped form; but it is common to all Art, and may be read also in the Greek sculp- tures. The experience of every one who with some practice of eye cor~es for the first time to see the best antiques is not that he falls at once to admiriug theper- fection of their anatomy, and wondering at the symmetry and complete develop- ment of the men and women of those days, but rather that he is carried away from all comparison and criticism into a solitude from which returning he dis- covers that his previous acquaintance with Sculpture was with masks only, and that the meaning of plastic art as a capital interest of the human mind is now for the first time made known to him. He sees that it was no whim of the Greeks, but an instinct of the infini- ty it typifies, that made them take the human form as alone possessing beauty enough to stand by itself. iNot the im- ages of their deities alone, but all their statues were gods. The charm of the Lizard-Slayer of Praxiteles, or of those kmmortal riders that swept along the friezes of the Parthenon, is something quite distinct from the beauty of a naked boy playing with an arrow, or a troop of Athenian citizens on horseback. These are the deathless forms of the happy Olympians, high above the cares and turmoil of the finite, self-centred and independent. It is the Paradise age of the world, before the knowledge of good and evil, before sin and death came the worship of the Visible, when God saw everything that he had made, and, behold, it was very good. Hence the air of repose, of eternal duration, that marks these figures. They have nothing to regret or to hope, no past or future, but only a timeless existence. It is from this essential self-sufficing- ness, not from fancied rules, that Sculp- ture is limited with respect to dramatic expression, that is, expression of passing feeling, accidental action, not identified with the form. In the best period the first requisite was that the interest should be thoroughly id9ntified with the shape in which it is manifested, and not un- parted, as by history, association, etc. The decline began when this lofty isola- tion was felt as negative, needing to have interest and expression added to it. But whatever was added only emphasized without curing the defect. Even the awful diagonal of the Laocobn and the godlike triumph of the Belvedere Apollo show a lower age. Why triumph, if he was supreme before? These are casual incidents only, examples of what might happen as well to anybody, noV the adequate concbisive embodiment of an idea. The more elaborately the meaning is wrou~,ht into the form, the more evi- dent that they are not originally iden- tical. In Modern Sculpture this deification of the human form is either expressly banished from the artists aim, or at least he is not quite in eartiest with it. For instance, in Mr. Palmers White Cap- tive, exhibited not long since in Bos- ton, the sculptors account of his work is, that it portrays an American girl cap- tured by Indians and bound to a tree. We have to take with us the history ahd the circumstances: a Christian woman of the nineteenth century, dragged from her civilized home and helpless in the hands of savages. This is not at all incidental to the work, but the work is incidental to it. It is a story which the figure helps to tell. This is no uni- versal type of womanhood, nor even American womanhood. American wom- en do not stand naked in the streets, but go about clothed and active on their errands of duty and pleasure; if we must needs represent one naked, we must invent some such accident, some extra- 1864.] On the Relation of Art to Nature. 187 ordinary dislocation of all usual rela- tions and circumstances. in place of the antique harmony of character and situation, we have here a painful incon- gruity that no study or skill can obviate. Nor has Modern Sculpture any better success, when, instead of the pretence of history, it adopts the pretence of person- ification. Its highest result in this direc- tion is, perhaps, Thorwaldsens bas-relief of Night, a pretty parlor-ornament. There is a fatal sense of unreality about works of this kind that even Thorwald- seas genius was unable to remove. They are toys, and it seems rather fiat to have toys so cumbrous and so costly. The reason of this insipidity is, that the ideality aimed at is all on the out- side. There is no soul in these bodies, but only an abstraction; and so the body remains an abstraction, too. In each case the radical defect is the same, namely, that the interest is external to the form: they do not coalesce, but are only arbi- trarily connected. We cannot have these ideal forms, because we do not believe in them. .We do not believe in gods and goddesses, but in men and women; that is, we do not at last really identify the character with its manifestation. Such was the fascination of beauty to the Greek mind, that it banished all other considerations. What mattered it to Praxiteles whether his Satyr was a use- ful member of society or not, or whether the young Apollo stood thus idle and listless for an instant or for a millennium, as long as he was so beautiful? And the charm so penetrated their works that something of it reaches down even to us, and holds us as long as we look upon them. But as soon as we quit the magic circle, the illusion vanishes, Apollo is a handsome vagabond whom we incline to send about his business. He ought to be slaying Pythons and drying up swamps, instead of loitering here. We do not believe in gods, nor quite as the ancients did in heroes,but in rep- resentative men, that is, in ideas, and in men as representing them. Washington is not to us what Achilles or Agamemnon was to the Greeks. The form of Achil- les would do as well for a god; the anti- quaries do not know whether the Ludo- visi Mars was not an Achilles, perhaps nobody ever knew. But in all our ven- eration of Washington, it is not his per- son we revere, but his virtues,precisely the impersonal part of him, or his person only from association. There is nothing incongruous in this association as it ex- ists in the mind, any more than there would have b~en in his presence, because of the overpowering sense of his charac- ter and history, to which all the outward show of the man is constantly subordi- nate. But if we isolate this by making a statue of him, we have only an apotheosis of cocked-hat and small-clothes, in which we see what it really was.to us. This awkward prominence of the costume does not come from the accident of modern dress, but from our unconscious repug- nance to petrifying the man in one of his aspects. It is a touch of grave humor in the genius of Art, thus to give us just what we ask for, though not what we want. The Greeks could have portrait-stat- ues, because all they looked for in the man they saw in his form, and, see- ing it, could portray it. If the modern sculptor truly saw in the figure of Wash- ington all that the name means to him, he could make a statue woethy to be placed by the side of the Sophocles and the Phocion. These were true portraits, no doubt; thus it was that these men appeared to their fellow-citizens; but it does not follow that they would have am peared so to us. What they saw is there; it is a reality both for them and for us; but the literal identification of it with the form belongs to them, not to us, and our mimicry of it can result only in these ab- stractiors. For us it is elsewhere, beyond these finite shapes, on which, by an illu- sion, it seemed to rest. The Greek stat- ues are tropes, which we gladly allow in their original use, but, repeated, they be- come flat and pedantic. Hence the air of caricature in modern portrait-statues; for caricature does not necessarily imply 183 On the Relation of Art to Nature. [February, falsification, but only that what is given isinsisted on at the expense of more im- portant truth. To the view of the early Christian ages, too, the body is old clothes, ready to be cast off at any moment, good only as means to something higher. It might seem that Christianity should give a high- er value to the body, since it was believed to have been inhabited by God himself. But the Passion was a fact of equal ilapor- tance with the Incarnation. This honor could be allowed to matter only for an in- stant, and on the condition of immediate resumption. That the Highest should suffer death as a man might well seem to the Greeks foolishness. To the under- standing it is the utmost conceivable con- tradiction. Yet it is only a more com- plete statement of what is involved in the Greek worship of beauty. The complete incarnation of Spirit, which is the defini- tion of beauty, demands equally that there be no point it does not inhabit, and none in which it abides. The transience of things is no defect in them, but only the affirmation of their reality through the in- cessant casting-off of its inadequate man- ifestations. It is not from the excellence, but from the impotence of its nature, that the stone endures and does not pass away as the plant and the animal. The higher the organization, the more rapid and thorough the circulation. The same truth holds in Art, also, and drives it to forsake these beautiful petri- factions and seek an expression less bound to the material. Ideal form is good so far as it brings together in one compact image what in Nature is scattered and partial; but it is an ideality of the sur- face only, not of the substance. It shuts out the defect of this or that form, but not of Form itself. The Greek ideal is after all a thing, and its impassive per- fection a stony death. The justification is, that the sculptor did not say quite what he meant. He said flesh, but he meant spirit, and this is what the Greek statues mean to us. The modern sculptor does not mean spirit, andknows that he does not; and so, with all his efforts, he gives us only the out- side. Is it asked, Whence this divorce of flesh and spirit? why not give both at once as Nature does? Then we must do as Nature does, and make our forms as fluid as hers. But tkis the sculptor contravenes at the outset. To follow Nature, he should make his statue of snow. To make it of stone is to pretend that the form is something of itself This the Greeks never meant, for then it would follow that all parts of it were alike significant. Haydon was delighted to find reproduced in the Elgin marbles certain obscure and seeming insignificant details of the anatomy that later schools had overlooked, such as a fold of skin under the armpit of the Neptune, etc. But any beginner at a life-school could have pointed out in the same statue endless deficiencies in anatomical detail. The fold was put in, not because it was there, but because to the mind of the Greek artist it meant something. Sculp- tors of the present day comfort them- selves with the belief that their works are more complete and more accurate in the anatomy than the antique. Very likely, for the ancients did not dissect. But this accuracy, if it is founded on no interest beyond accuracy, is after all an impertinence. The Greek ideal is founded on the ex- clusion of accident. It is a declaration that the casual shape is not the true form; it is only a step farther to the perception that all shape is casual, the reality seen, not in it, but through it. The ideal is then no longer perfect shape, but trans- parency to the sentiment; the image is not sought to be placed before the be- holders eyes, but painted as it were in his mind. Henceforth, suggestion only is aimed at, not representation; the cobper- ation of the spectator is relied upon as the indispensable complement of the de- sign. The Zeus of Phidias seemed to the Greeks, Plotinus says, Zeus himself, as he would be, if he chose to appear to hu- man eyes. But a Crucifixion is of itself not at all what the artist meant. It is not the agony of the flesh, but the tri 1864.1 On the Re1at~on of Art to Nature. 189 umph of the spirit, that is intended to be portrayed. If the end be attained, the slighter and more unpromising the means the better. Thus a new scale of values is established; nothing is worthy or un- worthy of itself; nothing is excluded, but also in nothing is the interest identified with the thing, but imparted. Christian Art, after mere tradition had died out, for instance, in the Byzantine and early Italian pictures from .the eighth to the middle of the thirteenth century, presents the strongest contrast to all that had gone before. The morose and lifeless monotony or barbarous rudeness of these figures seems like contempt not only of beauty, but of all natural expres- sion. They are meaningless of them- selves, and quite indifferent to the char- acter they represent, which is appended to them by inscriptions, their relative importance, even, indicated only by size, more or less splendor of costume,~ etc., but the faces all alike, and no attempt made tp adapt the action to the occasion. It is another world they belong to; the present they pointedly renounce and dis- dain, condescending to communicate with it only indirectly and by signs. The main peculiarities were common to Painting and Sculpture, though most noticeable in Painting. An interest in the actual world seems never so far lost sight of, and earlier revived, in Sculpture. Even down to the spring-tide of Mod- ern Art in the thirteenth century, the pleasant days when Guido of Siena was painting his Ma donna, the improve- ment in Painting was rather a stirring within the cerements of conventional types, a flush on the cheek of the still rigid form, while in the bas-reliefs of the Pisan sculptors we meet already a realism as much in excess of the antique as the Byzantine fell short of it. It is commonly said that Nicola Pisa- no revived Art through study of the an- tique; his models, even, are pointed out, particularly a sarcophagus, said to have been brought to Pisa in the eleventh cen- tury from Greece. But this sarcophagus, wherever it came from, is not Greek, but late Roman work; and we find in Ni- cola no mark of direct Greek influence, but only of the late Roman and early Christian sarcophagus-sculptures. In the reliefs upon his celebrated pulpit at Pisa we have the same short-legged, large- headed, indigenous Italian or Roman fig- ures, and the same arrangement of hair, draperies, etc., as on those sarcophagi. Taken by themselves, his works would, no doubt, indicate a new direction. But by the side of his son Giovanni, or the sculptors of the Northern cathedrals, he seems to belong tQ the third century rath- er than to the thirteenth. In Giovanni Pisano the new era was distinctly announced. The Inferno, usu- ally ascribed to him, among the relief~ on the front of Orvieto Catbedral,* and in his noble pulpit at Pistoia, shows the traces of the antique only in un- important details, ornamentation, etc: The antique served him, no doubt, a~ a hint to independent study, but the whole intent is different,all the beau- ties and all the defects arrived at by a different road. In place of the un- passive Minos of the Shades, we have a fiend, serpent - girt4 his judicial impar- tiality enforced apparently against his will by manacles and anklets of knotted snakes; and throughout, instead of the calm impersonality of the Greek, dealing out the typical forms of things like a law of Nature, we have the restless, intense, partisan, modern man, not wanting in ten(lerness, but full of a noble scorn at the unworthiness of the world, and grasp- ing at a reality beyond it. He is intent, first of all and at all risks, upon vivid expression, upon telling the story, and spee(hily oiitruns the possibilities of his material. He must make his creatures alive to the last superficies; and as he cannot give them motion, he puts an em- phasis upon all their bones, sinews, veins, and wrinkles, every feather is carved, * See Mr. Nortons Travel and Study in Italy, p. 182. t Giudica e manda, secondo che avvin ghia. Inf. v. 6 190 On the Relation of Art to Nature. [February, and even the fishes under the water show their scales. That mere literalness is not the aim is shown by the open disregard of it elsewhere; for instance, the size of each figure is determined, not by natural rules, but by their relative importance, so that in the Nativity, Mary is twice as large as Joseph and three times as large as the attendants. And the detail is not everywhere equally minute, but follows the intensity of the theme, reaching its height in the lower compartment, where the damned are in suffering, and especial- ly in the figures of the fiends. This is no aim at literalness, but a struggle for an emphasis beyond the reach of Sculpture, taking these means in despair of oth- ers, and, in its thirst for expression, careless alike of natural probability, typ- ical perfection of form, and pleasing ef- fect. Different as it seems, the same spirit is at work here and in Paint- ing. In both it is the repudiation of the classic ideal, in Sculpture by a re- (luctio ad alsurdum, putting its implicit claims to the test of realization, in Painting by mere negation, as was nat- ural at the outset of a new career, be- fore the means of any positive expres- sion were discovered. Ideal form was to the Greeks the high- est result, the success of the universe. The end of Art was conceived ~ms Na- tures end as well, whether actually at- tained or not. Nor was this preference of certain forms arbitrary, but it follow- e(l the plain indications written on every particle of matter. What we call brute matter is whatever is means only, not showing any individuality, or end with- in itself. A handful of earth is definable only by it~ chemical or physical proper- ties, which do not distinguish it, but con- found it with other things. By itself it is only so much phosphate or silicate, and can come to be something only in a for- eign organism, a plant or an animal. In form is seen the dawning of individual- ity, and just as the thing rises in the scale the principle of form becomes dominant. The handful of earth is sufficiently de- scribed by the chemists formula, these ingredients make this substance. But an organic body cannot be so described. The chemists account of sugar, for in- stance, is C0 1110 0. But if we ask what starch is,we have, again, C6 H0 0,and the cellular tissue of plants, also, is the same. These things, then, as far as he knows, are identical. Evidently, he is beyond his depth, and the higher we go in the scale the less he. has to say to the purpose, the separate importance of the material ingredients constantly decreas- ing, ahd the importance of their definite connection increasing, as the reference to an individual centre predominates over helpless gravitation. First, aggregation about a centre, as in the crystal, then, arrangement of the parts, as upper, under, and lateral, as in the plant, then, or- ganization of these into members. Form is the self- assertion of the thing as no longer means only; this makes its at- tractiveness to the artist. The root of his delight in ideal form is that it prom- ises some finality amid the endless maze of matter. But this higher completeness, which is beauty, whether it happen to exist or not, is never the immediate aim of Nature. It is everywhere implied, but nowhere expressed; for Nature is un- wearied in producing, but negligent of the product. As soon as the end seems anywhere about to be attained, it is straightway made means again to some- thing else, and so on forever. The earth and the air hasten to convert themselves into a plant, the flower into fruit, the fruit into flesh, and the animal at last to die and give back again to the air and the earth what they have transmitted to him. Whatever beauty a thing has is by the way, not as the end for which it ex- ists, and so it is left to be baffled and soiled by accident. This is the jeal- ousy of the gods, that could not endure that anything should exist without some flaw of imperfection to confess its mor- tal birth. The world is full of beauty, but as it were hinted, as in the tendency to make the most conspicuous things the most beautiful, as flowers, fruits, birds, 1864.1 On the Relation of Art to Nature. 191 the insects of the sunshine, the fishes of the surface, the upper side of the leaf; and perhaps more distinctly (in accord- ance with Lord Bacons suggestion that iNature is rather busy not to err, than in labor to produce excellency) in the tendency to hide those that are ug- ly, as toads, owls, bats, worms, insects that flee the light, the fishes of the bot- tom, the intestines of animals. But these are hints only, and Nature, as Mr. Rus- kin confesses, will sometimes introduce not ugliness only, but ugliness ifs the wrong place. XVere beauty the aim, it should be most evident in her chief products; whereas it is in things trans- ient, minute, subordinate, flowers, snow- flakes, the microscopic details of struct- ure, tiat it meets us most invaria- bly, rather than in the higher animals or in man. Nor in man does it keep pace with his civilization, but obeys laws that bclong to the lower regions of his nature. This ambiguity of every fact in Nature comes from the difficulty of detecting its true connection. There is reality there, even in blight and corruption; some- thing is forwArded, only perhaps not the thing before us, as the virtue of the compost-heap appears not in it, but in the rose-bed. The artist cannot forego a jot of reality, but the obvious facts are not this, any snore than the canvas and the pigment are the picture. The prose of every-day life is reality in fragments, the Alps split into paving-stones, Achil- les with a cold in the head. Seen in due connection, they make up the reality; but their prominence as they occur is casual and shifting, and the result dependent on the spectators power of discerning, amid the endless series in which they are in- volved, more or less of their vital rela- tions. Art is not to be blamed for idealizing, for this is only completing what Nature begins. But the completion of the design is also its limitation. It is final to the artist as well as to the theme, and cannot yield to further expansion. In Nature there is no such pretence of finality, and so her work, though never complete, is never convicted of defect. Her circuits are never closed; she does not aim to cure the defect in the thing, but in some- thing else. Each in turn she abandons, and appeals to a future success, which never is, but always about to be. The reason is, that the scope of each is wider than immediately appears. It is not sim- ple completeness that is aimed at, but as- cent to higher levels, so that the consum- mation it demands, if granted, would cut it off from more vital connections else- where. The ideal of the crystal seems to be clearness and regularity, but better things are in store for it. It must be- come opaque and shapeless in order to be fitted for higher transformations. The leaf must be cramped to make the flower. Homers heroes must hoe potatoes and keep shop before the higher civilization of the race can be reached. The Greek ideal is an endeavor to ig- nore the imperfections of natural exist- ence. The ideal life is to be rich, strong, powerful, eloquent, high - born, famous. It was a glorification of the earthly, not by transcendin~, but by keeping its lim- itations out of sight. But this is only making the limitation essential and ir- revocable, so that it infects the ideal also, which in this very avoidance sub- nuts to recognize it. The statue is not less, bijt more, a thing than the nat- ural body. Life is not mere exclusion of decay, but organization of it, so that the fury of corruption passes into fresh vital power. It is a cycle of changes, the type and show of which are the circu- lation, constantly removing effete parti- cles and building up new, and therein giving its hue to the flesh. But sculpture supposes the current checked, and one aspect fit to stand for all the rest. The statue is not only a particle, but an iso- lated particle, and must first of all divert attention from its fragmentariness. Mr. Garbett has remarked that plants should not he copied in sculpture, because the plant is not seen entire, but is partly hid- den in the ground. But the point is not the being seen or not, but the suggestion 192 On the Relation of Art to Nature. [February, of incompleteness. The same remark ap- plies to animals, and even to man, unless his relations to the world, as an individual among individuals, can be kept out of sight. But the finite thus isolated is not hon- ored, but degraded. This stagnant per- fection is atrophy, as some poisons are said to kill by arresting the transforma- tion of the tissues, and so to preserve them at the expense of their life. The new era is marked by the perception that these shortcomings are not acciden- tal, but inherent and intended. The chasm is not to be bridged or avoided, or, as Plato says, the human to become godlike by taking away here and add- ing there, but remains a radical incon- gruity of Nature, never to be escaped from. It brings death and dissolution to the fair shapes of the earlier world, for the worship of form is justified only so long as the mind thinks forms and not ideas. The statue may embody an infinite meaning, but to the artist form and meaning are one. It is not a sentiment that he puts into this shape, but it is the shape itself that inspires him. The sym- bolism of Greek Art was the discovery of a later age. We know what is meant by Circe and Athene, but Homer did not. It was thus only that the Greek mind oould grasp ideas, this is the thoroughly artistic character of that people. Their philosophers were always outlaws. What excited the rage of the Athenians against Socrates was his endeavor to detach religion from the images of the gods. When it comes to comparisons between meaning and expression, as adequate or inadequate, it is evident their unity is gone ; the meaning is first, and the expression only adjunct or illustration. It did not impair the sacredness of the Greek deities that they were the work of the poets and sculptors. But the second Nicene Council forbade as impi- ous any images of Christ as God, and allowed only his human nature to be represented, a strange decree, if the Church had realized its own doctrine, that the humanity of Christ is as real as his divinity. But the meaning is, that the finite is not there to stand for the infinite, but only to indicate it nega- tively and indirectly, that its glory is not to persist in its finiteness, not to hold on to its form, but to be transformed. The figure of Thersites would he very unsuitable for Achilles, but is suitable enough for a saint; it was a pardona- ble exaggeration to make it even more suitable. The hero is now the saint; the ideal life a life of poverty, humility, weakness, labor, to be long - suffering, to despise and forsake the world. The present life, the heaven of Achilles, is now 1-lades, the forced abode of phantoms having no reality but what is given to them by religion, and the Hades of the Greek the only true and substantial world. The new church fled the light of the sun, and sought impatiently to bury itself in the tomb. The Roman catacombs were not the mere refuge of a persecuted sect, their use as places of worship continued long after such need had ceased. But among the graves they found the point nearest to the hap- py land beyond, and the silence and the darkness made it easier to ignore for the few miserable moments that yet re- mained the vain tumult of the surface. In such a mood the beauty of the out- ward could awaken no delight, but only suspicion and aversion. Not the earth and its glories, but the fading of these before the unseen and eternal, was the only possible inspiration of Art. The extreme of this direction we see in the Iconoclasm of the eighth century, but it has never completely died out. Gibbon tells us of a Greek priest who refused to receive some pictures that Titian had painted for him, because they were too real: Your scandalous figures, said he, stand quite out from the canvas; they are as bad as a group of statues. It is a tenderness towards the idea, lest it should be dishonored by actuality. Matter is gross, obscure, evil, an ob- stacle to spirit, and material existence 1864.] On the Relation of Art to Nature. 198 tolerable only as momentary, vanishing, and, as it were, under constant protest, and with the suspicion that the Devil has a hand in it. It belongs especially to the Oriental mind, and its logical re- sult is the Buddhist heaven of annihila- tion. The defect of this view is not that it is too ideal, but that it is not ideal enough. It is an incomplete idealism that through weakness of faith does not hold fast its own point of view, and so does not dispose of matter, hut leaves it outside, as negation, obstacle. The body is allowed to exist, but remains in dis- grace and reduced to the barest indica- tion. But it is honoring matter far too much to allow that it can be an obsta- cle. It is no obstacle, for it is nothing of itself. Rightly understood, this con- tempt of the body is directed only against the false emphasis placed upon single aspects or manifestations. It is a feeling that the true ideal is not thus shut up in a forced exception, as if it were the subtilized product of a dis- tillation whereby the earthly is to be purged of its dross; but that it is the all-pervading reality, which the finite can neither hinder nor help, hut only obey, which death and corruption praise, which establishes itself through imper- fection and transience. Gibbon, speaking of the Iconoclasts, says, The Olympian Jove, created by the muse of homer and the chisel of Phidias, might inspire a philosophic mind with momentary devotion; but these Cath- olic images were faintly and flatly delin- eated by monkish artists in the last de- generacy of taste and genius. Such comparisons mistake the point. These are not parallel attempts, but opposed from the outset. The Catholic image was a declaration that the problem can- not be solved in that way. An early legend relates, that a painter, undertak- ing to copy his Christ from a statue of Jove, had his hand suddenly withered. The attempt is accused because of the pretence it makes to coordinate body and spirit, Nature and God, as if one configuration of matter were more god- like than another. The figure of the god claims to complete what Nature has partly done. But now the world is seen to be not merely the product of Mind working upon Matter, but the Creation of God out of nothing, thus altogether His, in one part as much as in another. The only conceivable separateness, an- tagonism, is that of the sinful XYilI, set- ting itself up in its vanity ; this it must be that arrogates to itself the ability to represent its Creator. The Christian image is without form or comeliness, rejects all outward gra- ces, seemingly glories in abasement and deformity, fearing only to attribute to Matter some value of its own. Henceforth the connection is no longer at arms-length, as of the workman and the material. Resistance to limitation is changed into joyful acceptance; for it is not in the limitation, but in the resist- ance, thaf the misery of earth consists. The quarrel with imperfection is over. The finite shall neWher fortify itself in its finiteness, nor seek to abolish it, but only make it the willing instrument of univer- sal ends. Thus the true self first exists, and no longer needs to be extenuated or apologized for. The key-note of all this is contained in those verses of the Dies Irte, Qunrens me sedisti lassus, Redemisti crucem p ssus; Tantus labor non sit cassus. Here we have in its compactest expre~- sion the difference between this age and the classic: that I; the vilest of sinners, am the object of Gods highest care, not the failure and mistake I seem, not the slag and refuse of Natures work- ing, but the object of this most stupen- dous mystery of the Divine economy. It is no purification or idealizing that is needed, any such attempt must be abomination, but a new birth of the self, by devotion of it to the purpose for which it was made. The astounding discovery is slowly re- alized, and the statement of it difficult, from the need to distinguish between the 194 On the RelaUon of Art to Nature. [February, true self and the false, and to declare that this importance belongs to the indi- vidual in virtue of his spiritual nature alone. The sainthood of the saint is not to be confounded with his personality. What have his virtues to do with his gown and shoes? what, indeed, with his natural disposition, as courageous, iras- cible, avaricious? The difficulty is per- vading, not to be avoided; every aspect of him reveals only what is external, dies from him daily, and, if isolated, has already lost its meaninn. It is only in his work, in his connection with the world, that we see him truly. Accordingly, the statue becomes the group, and the group a member of a scries, a cycle in which each is incomplete without the r~st. The classic ideal is shivered into fragments, all to be taken together to make up the meaning. Of the hundreds of statues and reliefs that surround the great North- ern cathedrals, (Didron counts eighteen hundred upon the outside of Chartres, nine thousand in all, carved or painted, inside and outside,) each has its appoint- ed place in the sacred epos in stone that unfolds about the building from left to right of the beholder the history of the world from the Creation to the Judgment, and subordinated in parallel symbolism the daily life of the community, what- ever occupied and interested men, their virtues and vices, trades and recreations, the seasons~and the elements, jokes, even, and sharp hits at the great and at the clergy, scenes from popular romances, and the radicalism of Reynard the Fox, in short, all that toiiched the mind of the age, an impartial reflex of the great drama of life, wherein all exists alike to the glory of God. It is not the glory of earth that is hero celebrated. M. Didron says the statues which the mob pulled down from the churches, at the first French Revolution, as the images of their kings, were the kings and heroes of the Old Testament. Had they known this, it might not have saved the statues, but it shows how wide a gulf separated these men from their fathers, that their hands were not held by some instinct that here was the first hint of the fundamental idea of De- mocracy, the sovereign importance of man, not as powerful, wise, beautiful, not in virtue of any chance advantage of birth, but in virtue of his religious nature, of the infinite possibilities he infolds. The need to indicate that the source of value is not the accident of Nature, but Nature redeemed, regenerated by spirit, that all values are moral values, led to a certain abstractness o~ treat- ment, on one side qualities to be em- bodied, on the other figures to receive them, so that the character seems adven- titious, detachable, not thoroughly at one with the form. For instance, the fiends in the Orvieto Inferno are not terror embodied, as the Jove of Phidias embod- ied dignity and command; but the terrif- ic is accumulated on the outside of them, as tusks, claws, etc. One can easily be- lieve that the ancient sculptors, had it been lawful, could have put more horror into the calm features of a Medusa than is contained in all, this apparatus and grimace. The concreteness of the an- tique, the form and meaning existing only for each other, is gone; the union is occasional only, and needs to be certified and kept up afresh on every new occa- sion. The form must assert itself must show itself alive and quick, not the dead sign of a meaning that has fled. It would have been a poor compliment to a Greek sculptor to say that his work was life-like; he might answer with the classically disposed visitor of the Elgin marbles in Haydens anecdote, Like life! Well, what of that? lie meant it for something much better. But dur- ing the Middle Ages this is constantly the highest encomium. Amid the utmost rudeness of conception and of execution, we see the first trace of awakening Art in the unmistakable effort to indicate that the figures are alive; and in the cathedral-scuLpture of the best time this is still a leading characteristic. Even the single statues have for their outlines curves of contrary flexure, expressing 1864.] On tke Relation of Art to Nature. 195 motion; they seem to wave in the air, and their faces to glow with passing emotion. The animals are often uncouth, but the more life-like; a turn of the head or of the eye, a restless, unbalanced attitude, brings us nearer to the actual living creat- ure than the magnificent repose of the antique lions and eagles, as if they did not trust to our recognizing their char- acter, but were prepared to demonstrate it with beak and claws. - Even in the plants, though strictly conventionalized, it is the freedom and spring of their lincs that more than anything else character- izes them and defies copying. The world of matter, being no longer endowed with independent reality, is no longer felt as a contamination incurred by the idea in its descent into existence. The discrepancy is not final, so that the supremacy of the spirit is not shown by resIstance, but by taking it to heart, carrying it out, and thereby overcoming it. In a Crucifixion of the twelfth cen- tury, Life is figured on one side crowned and victorious, and on the other Death overcome and slain. The finiteness of the finite is not the barrier, but the liber- ation, of the infinite. But the statue remains stone; this unmeaning emphasis of weight and bulk, thou~h diminished, is not to be got rid of. The life that sculpture can give is superficial and abstract, does not pene- trate and possess the work; it is still the petrifaction of an instant, that does not instantly pass away, hut remains as a contradiction to the next. It is the struggle against this fixity that gives to the sculpture of the Renaissance its aspect of unrest, of disdain of the pres- ent, ofendless unsatisfied search. Hence the air of conflict that we see in Giovan- ni Pisano, and still more in later times, the sculptor going to the edge of what the stone will allow, and beyond it, and, still unsatisfied, seeking through all means to indicate a yet unexecute(l pos- sibility. It is this that seethes in those strange, intense, unearthly figures of Donatellos, wasted as by internal fire, the rage for an expression that shall at the same time declare its own insuffi- ciency. All that is done only makes the failure more evident. The fixity continues, and is only deepened into contortion and grimace. What we see is the effort alone. Hence in modern statues the uneasy, self-distrustful appeal to the spec- tator, in place of the lofty indifference of the antique. In Michel Angelo th same striving to indicate something in reserve, not expended, led to the exag- gerated emphasis of certain parts, (as the length of the neck, depth of the eye-sockets, etc.,) and of general inns-. cularity, a show of force, that gave to the Moses the build of a Titan, and to the Christ of the Last Judgment the air of a gladiator. Michel Angelo often seems immersed in mere anatomy and academic tours de Jbrce, especially in his later works. He seems to see in the subject only a fresh problem in attitude, foreshortening, muscular display, and this not only where he invents, but al- so where be borrows, sometimes most strangely overlooking the sentiment; as in the figure of Christ, which he. bor- rows from Orcagna and the older paint- ers, even to the position of the arms, but with the touching gesture of re- proof perverted into a savage menace; or in the Expulsion, taken almost line for line from Masaccio, but with the infi- nite grief expressed in Adams figure turned into melodrama by showing his face. It was not for the delight of the eye, nor from over-reverence of the matter-of- fact. He despised the copying of mod- els, as the makeshift of ignorance. His profound study of anatomy was not for greater accuracy of imitation, but for greater license of invention. Of grace and pleasinguess he became more and more careless, until he who at twenty had carved the lovely angel of S., Do- menico, came at last to make all his men prize-fighters and his women viragos. It is clear that we nowhere get his final meaning, that he does not fairly. get to his theme at all, but is stopped at the 196 On t,4e Relation of Art to Nature. [February, outset, and loses himself in the search fbr a mode of expression more adequate to that immense beauty ever present to his mind, so that th~ matter in hand occupies him only in its superficial as- pects. What he sought on all hands, in his endless questioning of the human frame, his impatience of drapery, the furious haste to reach the live surface, and the tender modulation of it when it is reached, was to make the flesh it- self speak and reveal the soul present at all points alike and at once. Nothing could have satisfied him but to impart to the marble itself that omnipresence of spirit of which animal life furnishes the hint. In this Titanic attempt the means were in open and direct contradiction to the end. It was a violation of the wise moderation of Sculpture, whose rigid and colorless material pointedly declines a rivalry it could not sustain. Else why not color the stone? The hue of flesh is the most direct assertion of life, but at the same time a direct negative to that totality and emphasis of the particular shape on which Sculpture relies. The uolor of the flesh comes from its trans- parency to the circulation, the eternal flux of matter coming to the surface in this its highest form. It is the display in matter itself of~ what its true na- ture is, not to resist, but to embody change, to reduce itself to mere ap- pearance, and be taken up without re- siduum in the momentary manifestation, and then at once give place to fresh manifestations. That the earlier practice of coloring statues was given up just when the need would seem to be the greatest shows its incompatibility with the fundamental conditions of the art. In the twelfth and thirteenth centuries statues were still painted and gilded. Afterwards, color is restricted to parts not directly affected by the circulation, the hair and the eyes; and at last, when Sculpture is given over to pictorial effect and is about to yield entirely to Painting, it is wholly relinquished. Evidently it was felt that to color a statue in imitation of flesh would only enforce the fact that it is stone. What Art was now aiming at was not the mere appearance of fife, but a unity like that which life gives, in place of the abstractness and partiality inher- ent in Sculpture. This makes the in- terest of the fact of life, that it is the presence of the soul, the unity established amid the sundered partic- ularity of mi~tter. In free motion a new centre is declared, whereby the inertia of the body, its gravitation to a centre outside of it, is set aside. In sensibility this new centre declares it- self supreme, superseding the passive indifference of extension. The whole pervades each part, each testifies to the whole and may stand for it. But the statue, having no such internal unity, is less able to dispense with outward completeness. All the sides must be given, so that the whole cannot be seen at one view, but only successively, as an aggregate. In the earlier Greek statues the head remains lifeless, abstract, whilst the limbs are full of expression. In a contrary spirit, more akin to modern ideas, the Norse myth relates that Skadi, having her choice of a husband from among all the gods, but having to choose by the feet alone, meaning to take Baldur, got by mistake Niordr, an inferior deity. This does not seem so strange to us; hut a Greek would have wondered that the daughter of a wise Titan should not know the feet of Apollo from those of Nereus. It was said of Taglioni that she put mind into her legs. But to the modern way of thinking this is clearly exceptional. It is in the face, and especially in the eye, that we look to see the soul present and at work, and not merely in its effects as character. As types of character, the lineaments of the face were explored by the later Greek Art as profoundly as the rest of the body. But the statue is sightless, its eyes do not meet ours, but seem forever brooding over a world into which the present and its interests do not enter. To the Greek this was no 1864.1 On the .Relation of Art to Nature. 197 defect; but to us the omission seems to affect the most vital point of all, since our conception of the soul involves its eternity, that is, that it lives always in the present, is not too fine to exist, se- cure that it is bound neither by past nor future, but capable of revolutioniz- ing the character at all moments. Here is the ground of the remarkable differ- ence that meets us already in the reliefs of the later classic times. In the reliefs of the best age the figures are always in profile and in action. Complete person- ification being out of the question, it is expressly avoided, each figure waives attention to itself, merges itself in the plot. Later, when the profounder idea of a personality that does not isolate or degrade has begun to make itself felt, this constraint is given up, the figures face the spectator, and enter as it were into relation with the actual world. The Church very early expressed this feeling of the higher significance of the head, by allowing it to be sufficient if the head alone were buried in holy ground. In Art it is naively indicated by exagger- ated size of the head and of the eyes, a very common trait of the earlier times, and not quite obsolete at the time of the Pisani. This clumsy expedient is relin- quislied, but the need it indicated con- tinued, without the possibility of finding any complete satisfaction in Sculpture. Instead of the intensity and directness that Art now insists upon, Sculpture can give only extension and indirect hints; instead of mind present, only its effects and products, with the working cause expressly removed. This is the ground of the seeming in- justice to Sculpture at the time of the Revival. Its relative excellence was un- dervalued, because what it could do was not quite to the point. While the paint- ers went on producing their antediluvi- an forms, the sculptors saw things much more as we do, yet the paintings seem- ed the most life - like. It is astonish- ing, when we remember that Nicola was older than Cimabue, Giovanni than Giotto, Ghiberti than Fr~t Angelico, that the painters did not learn from the sculptors more of the actual appearance of things. It is still more astonishing that it is the painters that get all the praise for accuracy. Vasari is endless in his praises of Giotto, Spinello, Stefano, (called Scimia, or the Ape of iNature,) and a host of others, for accurate imi- tation. Giovanni Villani boasts that it is our fellow-citizen Giotto who has por- trayed most naturally every form and action. Ghiberti finishes an admring account of some paintings of Ambrogio Lorenzottos with the exclamation that it is truly niarvellous to think that all this is only a picture. Few pcrsons, proba- bly, would see in the specimens of Am- brogios work that still remain anything wonderful for resemblance to Nature, whilst in Ghibertis everybody acknowl- edges the astonishing truth of the detail. He tells us that he sought to imitate Nature as far as was possible to him, but he seems not to be aware how much better he succeeded than the people he praises. Paolo Uccello, who was twenty years younger than Ghiberti, got his nickname from his skill in paintin~ birds. But one would rather undertake to paint birds as well as Paolo than to carve them as well as Ghiberti. We may learn here how little the de- mand to imitate Nature expresses what is intended. No accuracy, how- ever demonstrable, will satisfy it. To interest me in a picture, it is not enough that something is as visible there as it is elsewhere; it must be something that I was already striving to see. It was not a greater circumstantiality of statement than was demanded, but greater direct- ness, that it should be relieved of what was unessential to its purpose, tending only to obscure it. A painting, however rude, has at least this negative merit, that, by the express substitution of the appear- ance for the actual image, needless en- tanglement in the material is avoided. Weight and bulk are not indeed anni- hilated, but they are no longer of pri- mary importance, and thus less obstruc 198 On the Relation of Art to Nature. [February, tive. The work gains precisely in what it gives up. By the fiat omission of depth infinite depth is acquired, by the ig- noring of size the expression of size be- comes possible; a mountain, fo~ iiistance, which would be an absurdity in Sculpture is representable in Painting. Thus, in- stead of being more abstract than Sculp- ture, Painting is in truth less so, since what it omits is only negative to the pur- pose of Art. It seems to us easier to paint than to carve, and we might expect to find Paint- ing the older art. But the difficulty lies less in the execution than in the concep- tion. Painting is not a tinting of sur- faces, but the power to see a complex subject in unity. We may think we have no difficulty in seeing the landscape, but most persons, if called upon to state what they saw, pictorially, would show that they could not see the wood for the trees. Beginners suppose it is some knack of the ~ band that they are to acquire, when they learn to draw; but that is a small part of the matter; the great difficulty is in the seeing. Ordinary vision is piece- meal: we see the parts; but not the pic- ture, or only vaguely. Even the degree of facility that is implied in any enjoy- ment of scenery is not so much a matter of course as it seems. C~sar occupied himselg while crossing the Alps, with com- posing a grammatical treatise. There is no evidence that there was anything odd in this. Perhaps Petrarch was the first man that ever climbed a hill toenjoy the view. We are~not aware how much of what we see in Nature is due to pictures. Hardly any man is so unsophisticated, but that, if he should try to sketch a land- scape, he would betray, in what he did or in what he omitted, that he saw it more or less at second-hand, through the inter- pretations of Art. A portfolio of Calames or Hardings or Turners drawings will give us new eyes for the most familiar scenes. But we are aided still more by our habit of looking at things theoretically, apart from their immediate practical bear- ing. A savage can comprehend a carved iniage, but not so readily a picture. An Indian whom Catlin painted with half his face in shadow became the laughing- stock of the tribe, as the man with half a face. It is not necessary to suspect Mr. Catlins chiaroscuro; what puzzled them was, doubtless, the bringing togeth- er in one view what they had seen only separate. They were accustomed to see the man in light and in shadow; but what they cared for, and therefore what they saw, was only the effect in making it more or less easy to recoguLe him and to ascertain his state of mind, intentions, etc. His face was either visible or ob- scured; if they could see enough for their purpose, they regarded only that. For it to be both at once was possible only from a point of view which they had not reached. A child takes the shading of the portrait for dirt, that being the form in which darkening of the face is familiar to him. A carved image is easi- er comprehended, because it can be han- dled, turned about, and looked at on diP ferent sides, and a material connection thereby assured between the various as- pects. To transfer this connection to the mind to see varying distances in one vertical plane, so that mere gradations of light and shade shall suggest all these aspects arranged and harmonized in one view is a farther step, and the difficul- ty increases with the variety embraced. Cicero was struck with this superiority in the artists of his time. How much, he says, do painters see in shadow and relief that we do not see ! Yet their perception seems strangely limited to us. The ancients had little notion of perspec- tive. Their eyes were too sure and too well-practised to overlook the effect of position in foreshortening objects, and they were much experienced in the cor- rections required, and the effect of con- verging lines in increasing apparent dis- tance was taken advantage of in their theatre-scenes. But they had not learn- ed that the difference between the actual and the apparexmt form is thorough-going, so that the picture no longer stands in the attitude of passive indifference to- 1864.1 On the Relation of Art to Nature. 199 wards the beholder, but imposes upon him its own point of view. It was thought remarkable in the Minerva of Fabullus, that it had the appearance of always look- ing at the specta~or, from whatever point it was viewed. This would be miracu- lous in a statue, and must seem so in the picture so long as it is looked upon only as one side of a statue. The wall-paint- ings of Pompeii, doubtless copies or rem- iniscences of Greek originals,with mas- terly skill in the parts, and with some suc- cess in the landscape as far as it was easi- ly reducible to one plane, are only col- lections of fragments, and show utter in- capacity to see the whole at once as a pic- ture. For instance, in one of tbe many pictures of Narcissus beholding himself in the ~vell, the head, which is inclined sideways, instead of being simply invert- ed in the reflection, is reversed, so that the chin, which is on the spectators left in the figure, is on the right in the reflected image: as if the artist, knowing no oth- er way, had placed himself head down- wards, and in that position had repeated the face as already painted. Such a blun- der could not originate with a copyist, for it would have heen much easier to copy correctly. It is clear from the general excellence of the figure that it is not the work of an inferior artist. Nor can it have come from mere carelessness; it is too elaborate for that, and, moreover, here is the main point of the picture, that which tells the story. Doubtless the painter had noticed the pleasingness of such reflections, as repeating the human form; the supreme object of interest; but the interest stopped there. He saw the face above and the face below, as he would see the different sides of a statue; but so incapable was be of perceiving the connection and interdependence of them, that, even when Nature had made the picture for him, he could not see it. This is no isolated, casual mistake, but only a good chance to see what is real- ly universal, though not oien so obvi- ous. In this and other pictures the water is like a bit of looking - glass stuck up in front, without perspective, without connection with the ground, the mere assertion of a reflection. The concep- tion embraced only the main figure; the rest was added like a label, for explana- tion only. These men did not see the landscape as we see it, because the in- terest was wanting that combines it into a picture for our eyes. Our love of Nature would have been incomprehen- sible and disgusting to a Greek; be would have called our artists dirt-paint- ers. And from his point of view he would be right. Dirt it is, if we abide by the mere facts. The interest of Art lies not in the facts, but in the truth, that is, in the facts organized, shown in their place. It is not that we care more about stocks and stones than they did, but that we hold the key to an arrange- ment that gives these things a significance they have not of themselves. 200 Snow. [February, SNOW. Lo, what wonders the day hath brought, Born of the soft and slumberous snow! Gradual, silent, slowly wrought, Even as an artist, thought by thought, Writes expression on lip and brow. Hanging garlands the eaves ocrbrim, Deep drifts smother the paths below;. The elms are shrouded, trunk and limb, And all the air is dizzy and dim With a whirl of dancing, dazzling snow. Dimly out of the baffled sight Houses and church-spires stretch away; The trees, all spectral and still and white, Stand up like ghosts in the failing light, And fade and faint with the blinded day. Down from the roofs in gusts are hurled The eddying drifts to the waste below; And still is the banner of storm unfurled, Till all the drowned and desolate world Lies dumb and white in a trance of snow. Slowly the shadows gather and fall, Still the whispering snow-flakes beat; Night and darkness are over all: Rest, pale city, beneath their pall! Sleep, white world, in thy winding-sheet! Clouds may thicken, and storm-winds breathe: On my wall is a glimpse of Rome, Land of my longing! and uhderneath Swings and trembles my olive-wreath; Peace and I are at home, at home.

Elizabeth A. C. Akers Akers, Elizabeth A. C. Snow 200-201

200 Snow. [February, SNOW. Lo, what wonders the day hath brought, Born of the soft and slumberous snow! Gradual, silent, slowly wrought, Even as an artist, thought by thought, Writes expression on lip and brow. Hanging garlands the eaves ocrbrim, Deep drifts smother the paths below;. The elms are shrouded, trunk and limb, And all the air is dizzy and dim With a whirl of dancing, dazzling snow. Dimly out of the baffled sight Houses and church-spires stretch away; The trees, all spectral and still and white, Stand up like ghosts in the failing light, And fade and faint with the blinded day. Down from the roofs in gusts are hurled The eddying drifts to the waste below; And still is the banner of storm unfurled, Till all the drowned and desolate world Lies dumb and white in a trance of snow. Slowly the shadows gather and fall, Still the whispering snow-flakes beat; Night and darkness are over all: Rest, pale city, beneath their pall! Sleep, white world, in thy winding-sheet! Clouds may thicken, and storm-winds breathe: On my wall is a glimpse of Rome, Land of my longing! and uhderneath Swings and trembles my olive-wreath; Peace and I are at home, at home. 1864.] Ho~e and Home Papers. 201 HOUSE. AND HOME PAPERS. Ily ChRISTOPhER CROWFIELD. II. I AM a frank, open-hearted man, as, perhaps, you have by this time perceiv- ed, and you ~viil not, therefore, be sur- prised to know that I read my last arti- cle on the carpet to my wife and the girls hefore I sent it to the Atlantic, and we had a hearty laugh over it to- gether. My wife and the girls, in fact, felt that they could afford to laugh, for they had carried their point, their re- proach among women was taken away, they had become like other folks. Like other folks they had a parlor, an undeni- able best parlor, shut up and darkened, with all proper carpets, curtains, loun- ges, and marble-topped tables, too good fbr human natures daily food; and be- ing sustained by this consciousness, they cheerfully went on receiving their friends in the study, and having good times in the old free - and - easy way; for did not everybody know that this room was not their hest? and if the furniture was old- fashioned a.nd a little the worse for antiq- nity, was it not certain that they had bet- ter, which they could use, if they would? And ~upposing we wanted to give a party, said Jane, how nicely our par- lor would light up! Not that we ever (10 give parties, but if we should, an(l for a wedding-reception, you know. I felt the force of the necessity; it was evident that the four or five hundred ex- tra which we had expended was no more than such solemii possibilities required. Now, papa thinks we have been fool- ish, said Marianne, and he has his own way of making a good story of it; hut, af- ter all, I desii-e to know if people are nev- er to get a new eai-pet. Must we keep the old one till it actually wears to tatters? This is a specimen of the reductio ad absurdum which our fair antagonists of the other s~x are fond of employing. They strip what we say of all delicate VOL. xiii. 14 shadings and illusory phrases, and reduce it to some bare question of fact, with which they make a home-thrust at us. Yes, that s it; are people never to get a new carpet? echoed Jane. My dears, I replied, it is a fact that to introduce anything new into an apartment hallowed by many home.as- sociations, where all things have grown old together, requires as much care and adroitness as for an architect to restore an arch or niche in a fine old ruin. The fault of our carpet was that it was in an- other style from everything in our room, and made everything in it look dilapidat- ed. Its colors, material, and air belonged to another manner of life, and were a con- stant plea for alterations; and you see it actually drove out and expelled the whole furniture of the room, and I am not sure yet that it may not entail on us the ne- cessity of refurnishing the whole house. My dear! said my wife, in a tone ofremonstrance; but Jane and Marianne laughed and colored. Confess, now, said I, looking at them, have you not had secret designs on the hall- and stair-carpet? Now, papa, how could you know it? I only said to Marianne that to have Brus- sels in the parlor and that old mean-look- ing ingrain carpet in the hall did not seem exactly the thing; and , in fact, you know, mamma, Messrs. Ketchem & Co. showed us such a lovely pattern, designed to harmonize with our parlor-carpet. I know it, girls, said my wife; but you know I said at once that such an expense was not to be thought of. Now, girls, said I, let me tell you a story I heard once of a very sensible old New-England minister, who lived, as our country-ministers generally do, rather near to the bone, but still quite content- edly. It was in the days when knee-

Harriet Beecher Stowe Stowe, Harriet Beecher House and Home Papers 201-209

1864.] Ho~e and Home Papers. 201 HOUSE. AND HOME PAPERS. Ily ChRISTOPhER CROWFIELD. II. I AM a frank, open-hearted man, as, perhaps, you have by this time perceiv- ed, and you ~viil not, therefore, be sur- prised to know that I read my last arti- cle on the carpet to my wife and the girls hefore I sent it to the Atlantic, and we had a hearty laugh over it to- gether. My wife and the girls, in fact, felt that they could afford to laugh, for they had carried their point, their re- proach among women was taken away, they had become like other folks. Like other folks they had a parlor, an undeni- able best parlor, shut up and darkened, with all proper carpets, curtains, loun- ges, and marble-topped tables, too good fbr human natures daily food; and be- ing sustained by this consciousness, they cheerfully went on receiving their friends in the study, and having good times in the old free - and - easy way; for did not everybody know that this room was not their hest? and if the furniture was old- fashioned a.nd a little the worse for antiq- nity, was it not certain that they had bet- ter, which they could use, if they would? And ~upposing we wanted to give a party, said Jane, how nicely our par- lor would light up! Not that we ever (10 give parties, but if we should, an(l for a wedding-reception, you know. I felt the force of the necessity; it was evident that the four or five hundred ex- tra which we had expended was no more than such solemii possibilities required. Now, papa thinks we have been fool- ish, said Marianne, and he has his own way of making a good story of it; hut, af- ter all, I desii-e to know if people are nev- er to get a new eai-pet. Must we keep the old one till it actually wears to tatters? This is a specimen of the reductio ad absurdum which our fair antagonists of the other s~x are fond of employing. They strip what we say of all delicate VOL. xiii. 14 shadings and illusory phrases, and reduce it to some bare question of fact, with which they make a home-thrust at us. Yes, that s it; are people never to get a new carpet? echoed Jane. My dears, I replied, it is a fact that to introduce anything new into an apartment hallowed by many home.as- sociations, where all things have grown old together, requires as much care and adroitness as for an architect to restore an arch or niche in a fine old ruin. The fault of our carpet was that it was in an- other style from everything in our room, and made everything in it look dilapidat- ed. Its colors, material, and air belonged to another manner of life, and were a con- stant plea for alterations; and you see it actually drove out and expelled the whole furniture of the room, and I am not sure yet that it may not entail on us the ne- cessity of refurnishing the whole house. My dear! said my wife, in a tone ofremonstrance; but Jane and Marianne laughed and colored. Confess, now, said I, looking at them, have you not had secret designs on the hall- and stair-carpet? Now, papa, how could you know it? I only said to Marianne that to have Brus- sels in the parlor and that old mean-look- ing ingrain carpet in the hall did not seem exactly the thing; and , in fact, you know, mamma, Messrs. Ketchem & Co. showed us such a lovely pattern, designed to harmonize with our parlor-carpet. I know it, girls, said my wife; but you know I said at once that such an expense was not to be thought of. Now, girls, said I, let me tell you a story I heard once of a very sensible old New-England minister, who lived, as our country-ministers generally do, rather near to the bone, but still quite content- edly. It was in the days when knee- 202 House and Home Papers. [February, breeches and long stockings were worn, and this good man was offered a present of a very nice pair of black silk hose. He declined, saying, he could not af- ford to wear them. Not afford it? said the friend; why, I give them to you. Exactly; but it will cost me not less than two hundred dollars to take them, and I cannot do it. how is that ? Why, in the first place, I shall no sooner put them on than my wife will say, My dear, you must have a new pair of knee-breeches, and I shall get them. Then my wife will say, My dear, how shabby your coat is! You must have a new one, and I shall get a new coat. Then she will say, ~ Now, my dear, that hat will never do, and then I shall have a new hat; and then I shall say, My dear, it will never do for me to be so fine and you to wear your old gown, and so my wife will get a new gown; and then the new gown will require a new shawl and a new bonnet; all of which we shall not feel the need of, if I dont take this pair of silk stockings, for, as long as we dont see them, our old things seem very well suited to each other. The girls laughed at this story, and I then added, in my most determined man- nor, But I must warn you, girls, that I have compromised to the utmost extent of my power, and that I intend to plant myself on the old stair-carpet in deter- mined resistance. I have no min(l to be forbidden the use of the front-stairs, or condemned to get up into my bedroom by a private ladder, as I should be immedi- ately, if there were a new carpet down. Why, papa! Would it not be so? Can the sun shine in the l)arlor now for fear of fading the carpet? Can we keep a fire there for fear of making dust, or use the lounges and sofas for fear of wearing them out? If you ~ot a new entry- and stair-carpet, as I said, I should have to be at the ex- pense of another staircase to get up to our bedroom. Oh, no, papa, said Jane, innocent- lv; there are very pretty druggets, now, for covering stair - carpets, so that they can be used without hurting them. Put one over the old carpet, then, said I, and our acquaintance will never know hut it is a new one. All the female senate laughed at this proposal, and said it sounded just like a man. Well, said I, stan(ling up resolutely for my sex, a mans ideas on woman s matters may be worth some attention. I flatter myself that an intelligent, cdii- cate(l man does nt think upon and ob- serve with interest any particular subject for years of his life without gaining some ideas respecting it that are good for some- thino; at all events, I have written an- other article for the Atlantic, which I will read to you. Well, wait one minute, papa, till we get our work, sai(l the girls, who, to say the truth, always exhibit a flattering in- terest in anything their papa writes, and who have the good taste never to inter- rupt his readings with any conversations in an undertone on cross-stitch and floss- silks, as the manner of some is. Hence the little feminine bustle of arranging all these matters beforehand. Jane, or Jennie, as I call her in my good-natured moods, put on a fresh clear stick of hick- ory, of that Species denominated sling- bu-k, which is full of most charming sliv- ers, burning with such a clear flame, aiid emitting such a delicious perfume in buriiing, that I would not change it with the millionnaire who kept up his fire with cinnamon. You must know, my dear Mr. Atlantic, and you, my confidential friends of the reading public, that there is a certain magic or spiritualism which I have the knack of in regard to these mine arti- cbs, in virtue of which my wife and daughters nev~r hear or see the little pcrson~lities respecting titem which form parts of my papers. By a peculiar ar- rangement which I have made with the elves of the inkstand and~ the familiar spirits of the quill, a sort of glamour 1864.] house and Home Papers. 203 falls on their eyes and ears when I am rcading, or when they read the parts personal to themselves; otherwise their sense of feminine propriety would be shocked at the free way in which they and their most internal affairs are con- fidentially spoken of between me and you, 0 loving readers. Thus, in an undertone, I tell you that my little Jennie, as she is zealously and systematically arranging the fire, and trimly whisking every untidy particle of ashes from the hearth, shows in every movement of her little hands, in the cock of her head, in the knowing, observing glance of her eye, and in all her ener- getic movements, that her small person is endued and made up of the very expressed essence of housewifeliness, she is the very attar, not of roses, but of housekeeping. Care-taking and thrift and neatness are a nature to her; she is as dainty and delicate in her person as a white cat, as everlastingly busy as a bee ; and all the most needful facul- ties of time, weight, measure, and pro- portion ought to be fully developed in her skull, if there is any truth in phre- nology. Besides all this, she has a sort of hard-grained little vein of common sense, against which my fanciful conceptions and poetical notions are a.pt to hit with just a little sharp grating, if they are net well put. In fact, this kind of woman needs carefully to be idealized in the process of education, or she will stiffen and dry, as she grows old, into a veritable household Pharisee, a sort of domestic tyrant. She needs to be trained in ar- tistic values and artistic weights and measures, to study all the arts and scien- ces of the beautiful, and then she is charming. Most useful, most needful, these little women they have the cen tripetal force which keeps all the domestic planets from gyrating and frisking in un- seemly orbitsand properly trained, they fill a house with the beaut.y of order, the harmony and consistency of proportion, the melody of things moving in time and tune, without violating the graceful ap- pearance of case which Art requires. So I had an eye to Jennies education in my article which I unfolded and read, and which was entitled, HOME-KEEPING VS. hOUSE-KEEPING. THERE are many women who know how to keep a house, but there are but few that know how to keep a borne. To keep a house may seem a complicated af- fair, but it is a thing that may be learn- ed; it lies in the region of the material, in the region of weight, measure, color, and the positive forces of life. To keep a home lies iiot merely in the sphere of all these, but it takes in the intellectual, the social, the spiritual, the immortal. Here the hickory-stick broke in two, and the two brands fell controversially out and apart on the hearth, scattering the ashes and coals, and calling for Jennie and the hearth-brush. Your wood-fire has this foible, that it iieeds something to be done to it every five minutes; but, after all, these little interruptions of our bright-faced genius are like the piquant sallies of a clever friend, they do not strike us as unreasonable. When Jennie had laid down her brush, she said, Seems to me, papa, you are hegin- ning to soar into metaphysics. Everything in creation is metaphysi- cal in its abstract terms, sai(h I, with a look calculated to reduce her to a respectful COil(iitiOn. Everything has a suh~jective and an objective mode of presentation. There papa goes with subjective nn(l objective! sai(l Marianne. For- my part, I never can remeniber which is which. I remember, said Jennie; it s what our old nurse used to call internal and eut-ternal,J always remember by that. Come, my dears, said my wife, let your father read; so I went on as fol- lows: I remember in my bachelor days go- ing with my boon companion, Bill Car- berry, to look at the house to which he was in a few weeks to introduce his 204 house and home Papers. [February, bride. Bill was a gallant, free-hearted, open-handed fellow, the life of our whole set, and we felt that natural aversion to losing him that bachelor friends would. How could we tell under what strange aspects he might look forth upon us, when once he had passed into that undiscov- ered country of matrimony? But Bill laughed to scorn our apprehensions. I 11 tell you what, Chris, he said, as he sprang cheerily up the steps and un- locked the door of his future dwelling, do you know what I chose this house for? Because it s a social-lfloking house. Look there, now, he said, as he usher- ed me into a pair of parlors, look at those long south windows, the sun lies there nearly all day long; see what a capital corner there is for a lounging- chair; fancy us, Chris, with our books or our paper, spread out loose and easy, and Sophie gliding in and out like a sun- beam. I m getting poetical, you see. Then, did you ever see a better, wider, airier dining-room? What capital sup- pers and things we 11 have there! the nicest times, everything free and easy, you know,just what I ye always want- ed a house for. I tell you, Chris, you and Tom Innis shall have latch-keys just like mine, and there is a capital chamber there at the head of the stairs, so that you can be free to come and go. And here now s the library, fancy this full of books and engravings from the ceiling to the floor; here you shall come just as you please and ask no questions,all the same as if it were your own, you know. And Sophie, what will she say to all this? Why, you know Sophie is a prime friend to both of you, and a capital ~irl to keep things going. Oh, Sophie 11 make a house of this, you may depend! A day or two after, Bill dragged me stumbling over boxes and through straw and wrappings to show me the glories of the parlor-furniture, with which he seemed pleased as a child with a new toy. Look here, he said; see these chairs, garnet~-colored satin, with a pat- tern on each; well, the sofa s just like them, and the curtains to match, and the carpets made for the floor with centre- pieces and borders. I never saw any- thing more magnificent in my life. So- phies governor~ furnishes the house, and everything is to be A No. 1, and all that, you see. Messrs. Curtain and Collamore are coming to make the rooms up, and her mother is busy as a bee getting us in order. Why, Bill, said I, you are going to be lodged like a prince. I hope you 11 be able to keep it up; but law-business comes in rather slowly at first, oldfellow. Well, you know it is nt the way I should furnish, if my capital was the one to cash the bills; but then, you see, Sophies people do it, and let them, a girl does nt want to come down out of the style she has always lived in. I said nothing, but had an oppressive presentiment that social freedom would expire in that house, crushed under a weight of upholstery. But there caine in due time the wed- ding and the wedding - reception, and we all went to see Bill in his new house splendidly lighted up and complete from top to toe, and everybody said what a lucky fellow he was; but that was about the end of it, so far as our visiting was concerned. The running in, and drop- ping in, and keeping latch-keys, and mak- ing informal calls, that had been fore- spoken, seemed about as likely as if Bill had lodged in the Tuileries. Sophie, who had always been one of your snapping, sparkling, busy sort of girls, beran at once to develop her womanhood, C and show her principles, and was as differ- ent from her former self as your careworn, mousing old cat is from your rollicking, frisky kitten. Not but that Sophie was a good girl. She had a capital heart, a good, true womanly one, and was loving and obliging; but still she was one of the desperately painstaking, conscientious sort of women whose very blood, as they grow older, is devoured with anxiety, and she caine of a race of women in whom house-keeping was more than an art or a science, it was, so to speak, a relig- ion. Sophies mother, aunts, and grand- House and Home Papers. mothers for nameless generations back, were known and celebrated housekeepers. They might have been genuine descend- ants of the inhabitants of that Hollandic town of Broeck, celebrated by Washing- ton Irving, where the cows tails are kept tied up with nnsullied blue ribbons, and the ends of the firewood are paint- ed white. He relates how a celebrated preacber, visiting this town, found it im- l)Ossible to draw these housewives from their earthly views and employments, un- til he took to preaching on the neatness of the celestial city, the unsullied crystal of its Walls and the polish of its golden pavement, when the faces of all the housewives were set Zionward at once. Now this solemn and earnest view of housekeeping is onerous enough when a poor girl first enters on the care of a moderately furnished house, where the articles are not too expensive to be reasonably renewed as time and use wear them; but it is infinitely worse when a cataract of splendid furniture is heaped upon her care, when splendid crystals cut into her conscience, and mirrors reflect her duties, and moth and rust stand ever ready to devour and sully in every room aud f)assage-way. Sophie was solemnly warned and in- structed by all the mothers and aunts, she was warned of moths, warned of cockroaches, warned of flies, warne(l of dust; all the articles of furniture had their covers, made of cold Holland linen, in which they looked like bodies laid out, even the curtain-tassels had each its lit- tle shroud and bundles of receipts and of rites and ceremonies necessary for the preservation and purification and care of all these articles were stuffed into the poor girls head, before guiltless of cares as the feathers that floated above it. Poor Bill found very soon that his house and furniture were to be kept at such an ideal point of perfection that he needed another house to live in, for, poor fel- low, he found the difference between hav- ing a house and a home. It was only a year or two after that my wife and I started our ~nenage on very different principles, aud Bill would often drop in upon us, wistfully lingerin~ in the cozy arm-chair between my writing-table and my wifes sofa, and saying with a sigh how confoundedly pleasant things look- ed there, so pleasant to have a bright, open fire, and geraniums and roses and birds, niid all that sort of thing, and to dare to stretch out ones legs and move without thinking what one was going to hit. Sophie is a good girl, he would say, and wants to have everything right, but you see they wont let her. They ye loaded her with so many things that have to be kept in lavender, that the poor girl is actually getting thin and losing her health; and then, you see, there s Aunt Zeruah, she mounts guard at our house, and keeps up such strict police-regula- tions that a fellow cant do a thing. The parlors are splendid, but so lonesome and dismal not a ray of sunshine, in fact not a ray of light, except when a visitor is calling, and then they open a crack. They re afraid of flies, aiid yet, dear knows, they keep every looking-glass and picture-frame muffled to its throat Thom March to December. 1 d like for curi- osity to see what a fly would do in our parlors! Well, said I, cant you have some little family sitting-room, where you can make yourselves cozy? Not a bit of it. Sophie and Aunt Zernab have fixed their throne up in our bedroom, and there they sft all day long, except at calling-hours, and then Sophie dresses herself and comes down. Aunt Zeruah insists upon it that the way is to put the whole house in order, and shut all the blinds, and sit in your bedroom, an(l then, she says, nothing gets out of place; and she tells poor Sophie the most hocus-pocus stories about her grand- mothers and aunts, who always kept ev- erything in their houses so that they could go and lay their hands on it in the dark- est night. I 11 bet they could in our house. From end to end it is kept look- ing as if we had shut it up and gone to Europe, not a book, imot a paper, not a glove, or any trace of a human being, 1864.1 205 206 House and Home Papers. [February, in sight. The piano shut tight, the book- cases shut and locked, the engravings locked up, all the drawers and closets locked. Why, if I want to take a fellow into the library, in the first place it smells like a vault, and I have to unbarricade windows, and unlock and rummage for half an hour before I can get at any- thint~ and I know Aunt Zeruah is stand- ing tiptoe at the door, ready to whip everything back and lock up again. A fellow cant be social, or take any com- fort in showing his books and pictures that way. Then there s our great, light dinin -room, with its sunny south win- dows, Aunt Zeruah got us out of that early in April, because she said the flies would speck the frescos and ~et into the china-closet, and we have been eating in a little dingy den, with a window look- ing out on a back-alley, ever since; and Aunt Zeruah says that now the dining- room is always in perfect order, and that it is such a care off Sophys mind that I ought to be willing to eat down-cellar to the end of the chapter. Now, you see, Chris, my position is a delicate one, be- cause Sophies folks all agree, that, if there is anything in creation that is ignorant and dreadful and must nt be allowed his way anywhere, it s a man. Why, you d think, to hear Aunt Zeruah talk, that we were all like bulls in a china- shop, ready to toss and tear and rend, if we are not kept down-cellar and chain- ed; and she worries Sophie, and Sophies mother comes in and worries, and if I try to get anything done differently, So- 1)hie cries, and says she dont know what to do, and so I give it up. Now, if I want to ask a fev of our set in sociably to dinner, I cant have them where we eat down-cellar, oh, that would never do! Aunt Zeruah and Sophies mother and the whole family would think the family-honor was forever ruined and un- done. We must nt ask them, unless we open the dining-room, and have out all the best china, and get the silver home from the bank; and if we do that, Aunt Zeruah does nt sleep for a week before- hand, getting ready for it, and for a week after, getting things put away; and then she tells me, that, in Sophies delicate state, it really is abominable for me to increase her cares, and so I invite fellows to dine with me at Delmonicos, and then Sophie cries, and Sophies mother says it does nt look respectable for a family-man to be dining at public places; but, hang it, a fellow wants a home somewhere! My wife soothed the chafed spirit, and spake comfortably unto him, and told him that he knew there was the old lounging-chair always ready for him at our fireside. And you know, she said, our things are all so plain that we are never tempted to mount any guard over them; our carpets are nothing, and there- fore we let the sun fade them, and live on the sunshine and the flowers. Thats it, said Bill, bitterly. Car- pets fading! that s Aunt Zerualis monomania. These women think that the great object of houses is to keep out sunshine. What a fool I was, when I gloated over the prospect of our sunny south windows! Why, man, there are three distinct sets of fortifications against the sunshine in those windows: first, out- side blinds; then, solid, folding, inside shutters; and, lastly, heavy, thick, lined damask curtains, which loop quite down to the floor. What s the use of my pic- tures, I desire to know? They are hung in that room, and it s a regular campaign to get light enough to see what they are. But, at all events, you can light them up with gas in the evening. In the evcnin~! Why, do you know my wife never wants to sit there in the evenino? She says she has so much sewin0 to do that she and Aunt Zeruah must sit up in the bedroom, because it would nt do to bring work into the par- lor. Did nt you know that? Dont you know there must nt be such a thing as a bit of real work ever seen in a parlor? What if some threads should drop on the carpet? Aunt Zeruah would have to open all the fortifications next day, and search Jerusalem with candles to find them. No; in the evening the gas is lighted at haW-cock, you know; and if I turn it up, 1864.] House and Home Papers. 207 and bring in my newspapers and spread about me, and pull down some books to read, I can feel the nervousness through the ehamber-floor. Aunt Zeruah looks in at eight, and at a quarter past, and at half-past, and at nine, and at ten, to see if I am done, so that she may fold up the papers and put a book on them, and lock up the books in their cases. Nobody ever comes in to spCn(l an evening. They used to try it when we were first married, but I believe the uninhabited appearance of our parlors discouraged them. Everybody has stopped comin~ now, and Aunt Zeruab says it is such a comfort, for noxv the rooms are always in order. how poor Mrs. Crowfleld lives, with her house such a thoroughfare, she is sure she cant see. Sophie never would have strength for it; but then, to be sure, some folks ant as particular as others. Sophie was brought up in a family of very particular housekeepers. My wife smiled, with that calm, easy, amused smile that has brightened up her sofa for so many years. Bill added, bitterly, Of course, I could nt say that I wish- ed the whole set and system of house- keeping women at the what - s - his - name? because Sophie would have cried for a week, and been utterly forlorn and disconsolate. I know it s not the poor girls fault; I try sometimes to reason with her, hut you cant reason with the whole of your wifes family, to the third and fourth generation backwards; but I m sure it s hurting her health, wear- ing her out. Why, you know Sophie used to be the life of our set; and now she really seems eaten up with care from morning to night, there are so many things in the house that something dread- ful is happening to all the while, and the servants we get are so clumsy. Why, when I sit with Sophie and Aunt Zeruah, it s nothing but a constant string of com- plaints about the girls in the kitchen. We keep changing our servants all the time, and they break and destroy so that now we are turned out of the use of all our things. We not only eat in the basement, but all our pretty table- things are put away, and we have all the cracked plates and cracked tumblers and cracked teacups and old buck-han- dled knives that can he raised out of chaos. I could use these things and be merry, if I did nt know we had better ones; and I cant help wondering wheth- er there is nt some way that our table could be set to look like a gentlemans table; hut Aunt Zeruab says that it would cost thousands, and what differ- ence does it make as long as nobody sees it hut us? You see, there s no medium in her mind between china and crystal and cracked earthen-ware. Well, I In won- dering how all these laws of the Medes and Persians are going to work when the children come along. I m in hopes the children will soften off the old folks, and make the house more habitable. Well, children did come a good many of them, in time. There was Tom, a broad - shouldered, chubby - checked, ac- tive, hilarious son of mischief, born in the very image of his father; and there was Charlic, and Jhn, and Louisa, and So- phie the second, and Frank, an(l a bet- ter, brighter, more joy-giving household, as far as temperament and nature were concerned, never existed. But their whole childhood was a long battle, children versus furniture, and fur- niture always carried the day. The first step of the housekeeping powers was to choose the least agreeable and least avail- able room in the house for the childrens nursery, and to fit it up with all the old, cracked, rickety furniture a neighboring auction-shop could afford, and then to keep them in it. Now everybody knows that to bring up children to be upright, true, generous, and religious, needs so much discipline, so much restraint and correction, and so many rules and regu- lations, that it is all that the parents can carry out, and all the children can bear. There is only a certain amount of the vital force for parents or children to use in this business of education, and one must choose what it shall be used for. The Aunt-Zeruah faction chose to use it 208 House and Home Papers. [February, for keeping the house and furniture, and the childrens education proceeded ac- cordingly. The rules of right and wrong of which they heard most frequently were all of this sort: Naughty children were those who went up the front-stairs, or sat on the best sofa, or fingered any of the books in the library, or got out one of the best teacups, or drank out of the cut-glass goblets. Why did they ever want to do it? If there ever is a forbidden fruit in an Eden, will not our young Adams and Eves risk soul and body to find out how it tastes? Little Tom, the oldest boy, had the courage and enterprise and per- severance of a Captain Parry or Dr. Kane, and he used them all in voya~es of dis- covery to forbidden grounds. He stole Aunt Zeruahs keys, unlocked her cup- boards and closets, saw, handled, and tasted everything for himselg and ~,loried inhis sins. Dont you know, Tom, said the nurse to him once, if you are so noisy and rude, you 11 disturb your dear mam- ma? She s sick, and she may die, if you re not careful. Will she die? said Tom, gravely. Why, she may. Then, says Tom, turning on his heel, then 1 11 go up the front-stairs. As soon as ever the little rebel was old enough, he was sent away to boarding- school, and then there was never found a time when it was convenient to have him come home again. He could not come in the spring, for then they were house-cleaning, nor in the autumn, be- cause then they were house-cleaning; and so he spent his vacations at school, unless, by good luck, a companion who was so fortunate as to have a home invited him there. His associations, associates, hab- its, principles, were as little known to his mother as if she had sent him to Chi- na. Aunt Zeruah used to congratulate herself on the rest there was at home, now he was gone, and say she was only living in hopes of the time when Charlie and Jim would be big enough to send away too; and meanwhile Charlie and Jim, turned out of the charmed circh~- which should hold growing boys to the fathers and mothers side, detesting the dingy, lonely play-room, used to run this city-streets, and hang round the railroad- depots or docks. Parents may depend upon it, that, if they do not make an attractive resort for their boys, Satan will. There are places enough, kept warm and light and bright and merry, where boys can go whose mothers par- lors are too fine for them to sit in. There are enough to be found to clap them on the back, and tell them stories that their mothers must not hear, and laugh when they compass with their little piping voi- ces the dreadful litanies of sin and shame. In middle life, our poor Sophie, who as a girl was so gay and frolicsome, so full of spirits, had dried and sharpened into a hard-visagel, angular woman,care- ful and troubled about runny things, and forgetful that one thing is needful. One of the boys had run away to sea; I be- lieve he has never been heard of. As to Tom, the oldest, he ran a career wild and hard enough for a time, first at school and then in college, and there canie a time when lie came home, in the full might of six feet two, arid almost broke his mothers heart with his asser- tions of his honie rights and privileges. Mothers who throw away the key of their childrens hearts in childhood sometimes have a sad retribution. As the children never were considered when they were little and helpless, so they do not con- sider when they are strong and power- ful. Torn spread wide desolation among the household gods, lounging on the so- fas, spitting tobacco-mice on the carpets, scatterin~ books and enomavinos hither and thither, anl throwing all the family traditions into wild disorder, as he would never have done, had not all his childish remembrances of them been embittered by the association of restraint and priva- tion. He actually seemed to hate any appearance of luxury or taste or order, he was a perfect Philistine. As for my frien(l Bill, from being the pleasantest and most genial of fellows, he 1864.] The Convu1s~onists of St. J1/kdard. 209 became a morose, misanthropic man. iDr. Franklin has a significant proverb, Silks and satins put out the kitchen- fire. Silks and satins meaning by them the luxuries of housekeepingoften put out not only the parlor-fire, but that more sacred flame, the fire of domestic love. It is the greatest possible misery to a man and to his children to be homeless; and many a man has a splendid housc, but no home. Papa, said Jennie, you ought to write and tell what are your ideas of keeping a home. Girls, you have only to think how your mother has brought you up. Nevertheless, I think, being so fortu- nate a husband, I might reduce my wifes system to an analysis, and my next pa- per shall be, What is a home, and how to keep it? THE CONVULSIONISTS OF ST. MEDARD. Or all the mental epidemics that have visited Europe, bcyond question the most remarkable, and in some of its features the most inexplicable, is that which p~~- vailed in Paris some hundred and thirty years ago, among what were called the Oonvulsionists of St. 2l1edard. The celebrated Jansenius, Bishop of Ypres, during his life the opponent and enemy of the Jesuits, whom he caused to be excluded from the theological schools of Louvain, left behind him, at his death, a treatise, posthumously published in 1640, entitled, Augustinus, in which he professed to set forth the true opinions of St. Augustine on those century-long dis- puted questions of Grace, Free-Will, and Predestination. Taking ground against the Molinists, he contended for the doc- trine of Predestination antecedent and absolute, a gift purely gratuitous, of Gods free grace, independent of any virtue or merit in the recipient soul. This doc- trine, set forth in five propositions, was condemned, in the middle of the seven- teenth century, by Popes Innocent X. and Alexander VII.; and against it, when re- vived by Father Quesnel in the beginning of the eighteenth century, there was ful- minated, in 1713, by Pope Clement XI., the famous Bull Unigenitus. From this Bull, accepted in France af- ter long opposition, the Jansenist party appealed to a future Papal Council, thence deriving their name of ilppel- lauts. Among these, one of the most noted and zealous was the Diacre Paris, who refused a curacy, to avoid signing his adhesion to what he regarded as heresy, consumed his fortune in works of charity, and his health in nusterities of a character so excessive that they abridged his life. Dying, as his parti- sans have it, in the odor of sanctity, and protesting with his last breath against the doctrines of the obnoxious Bull, his remains were deposited, on the second of May, 1727, in the small church-yard of St. Mddard, situated in the twelfth as-rondissement of Paris, on the Rue Mouffetard, not far from the Jardin des Plantes. To the tomb of one whom they regarded as a martyr to their cause the Jansenist Appellants habitually resorted, in all the furvor of religions zeal, heated to enthu- siasm by the persecution of the dominant party. And there, after a time, phenom- ena presented themselves, which caused for years, throughout the French capital and among the theologians of that age, a fever of excitement; and which, though they have been noticed by medical and other writers of our own century, have not yet, in my judgment, attracted, either from the medical profession or from th~

Robert Dale Owen Owen, Robert Dale The Convulsionists of St. Medard 209-223

1864.] The Convu1s~onists of St. J1/kdard. 209 became a morose, misanthropic man. iDr. Franklin has a significant proverb, Silks and satins put out the kitchen- fire. Silks and satins meaning by them the luxuries of housekeepingoften put out not only the parlor-fire, but that more sacred flame, the fire of domestic love. It is the greatest possible misery to a man and to his children to be homeless; and many a man has a splendid housc, but no home. Papa, said Jennie, you ought to write and tell what are your ideas of keeping a home. Girls, you have only to think how your mother has brought you up. Nevertheless, I think, being so fortu- nate a husband, I might reduce my wifes system to an analysis, and my next pa- per shall be, What is a home, and how to keep it? THE CONVULSIONISTS OF ST. MEDARD. Or all the mental epidemics that have visited Europe, bcyond question the most remarkable, and in some of its features the most inexplicable, is that which p~~- vailed in Paris some hundred and thirty years ago, among what were called the Oonvulsionists of St. 2l1edard. The celebrated Jansenius, Bishop of Ypres, during his life the opponent and enemy of the Jesuits, whom he caused to be excluded from the theological schools of Louvain, left behind him, at his death, a treatise, posthumously published in 1640, entitled, Augustinus, in which he professed to set forth the true opinions of St. Augustine on those century-long dis- puted questions of Grace, Free-Will, and Predestination. Taking ground against the Molinists, he contended for the doc- trine of Predestination antecedent and absolute, a gift purely gratuitous, of Gods free grace, independent of any virtue or merit in the recipient soul. This doc- trine, set forth in five propositions, was condemned, in the middle of the seven- teenth century, by Popes Innocent X. and Alexander VII.; and against it, when re- vived by Father Quesnel in the beginning of the eighteenth century, there was ful- minated, in 1713, by Pope Clement XI., the famous Bull Unigenitus. From this Bull, accepted in France af- ter long opposition, the Jansenist party appealed to a future Papal Council, thence deriving their name of ilppel- lauts. Among these, one of the most noted and zealous was the Diacre Paris, who refused a curacy, to avoid signing his adhesion to what he regarded as heresy, consumed his fortune in works of charity, and his health in nusterities of a character so excessive that they abridged his life. Dying, as his parti- sans have it, in the odor of sanctity, and protesting with his last breath against the doctrines of the obnoxious Bull, his remains were deposited, on the second of May, 1727, in the small church-yard of St. Mddard, situated in the twelfth as-rondissement of Paris, on the Rue Mouffetard, not far from the Jardin des Plantes. To the tomb of one whom they regarded as a martyr to their cause the Jansenist Appellants habitually resorted, in all the furvor of religions zeal, heated to enthu- siasm by the persecution of the dominant party. And there, after a time, phenom- ena presented themselves, which caused for years, throughout the French capital and among the theologians of that age, a fever of excitement; and which, though they have been noticed by medical and other writers of our own century, have not yet, in my judgment, attracted, either from the medical profession or from th~ 210 T/te Conculsfonists of St. iJI6dard. [February, pneumatological inquirer, the attention they deserve. Of these phenomena a portion were physical, and a l)OrtiOn were mental or psychological. The former, first appear- ing in the early part of the year 1731, consisted (as alleged) partly of extraor- dinary cures, the apparent result of vio- lent convulsive movements which over- took the patients soon after their bodies touched the marble of the tomb, some- times even without approaching it, by swallowing, in wine or water, a small por- tion of the earth gathered from around it, the effect being heightened by strict fasting and prayer, partly of what were called the Grands Secours, literally Great Succors, consisting of the most desperate, one might say murderous, rem- edies, applied, at their urgent request, to relieve the sufferings of the Convulsion- ists. These measures, called of relieg and carried to an incredihle excess, were of such a character, that, durinn any nor- mal state of the human system, they would have destroyed, not one, but a hundred lives, if the patient, or victim, had been en- dowed with so many. Those who regard- ed this marvellous immunity from what seemed certain immolation as a miracu- lous interposition of God were called Suc- corists; their opponents, ascribing such effects to the interference of the Devil in protection of his own, or (a somewhat rare opinion in those days) to natural agency, went hy the name of A nh-Succor- ists. (Secouristes and Anti-Secauristes.) Some of these alleged cures, but more especially some of these so-called suc- cors, were of a nature so far passing be- lief, that one would be tempted to cast them aside as sheer impostures, were not the main facts vouched for by evidence, not from the Jansenists alone, but from their bitterest opponents, so direct, so overwhelmingly multiplied, so minutely circumstantial, that to reject it would amount to a virtual declaration, that, in proof of the extraordinary and the improbable, we will accept no testimony whatever, let its weight or character be what it may. Accordingly, we find dis passionate modern writers, medical and others, while .minding us, as well they may, that enlightened ohservers of these strange phenomena were lacking,* and while properly suggesting that we ought to make allowance for exaggeration m seine of the details, yet admittiiig as in- contestable realities the substantial fact.s related by the historians of St. Mddard. Among these historians the chief is Carr~ de Montg~ron, a magistrate of rank and high character, Counsellor of the Parliament of Paris. An enthusiast, and a weak logician, as hot enthusiasts (~enerallv are, Mont~ drons honesty is ad- a a mitted to he beyond question. Convert- ed to Jansenism on the seventh of Sep- tember, 1731, in the church-yard of St. M6dard, by the strange scenes there pass- ing, he expended his fortune, sacrificed his liberty, and devoted years of his life, in the preparation and publication of one of the most extraordinary works that ever issued from the press.f It consists of three quarto volumes, of some nine hundred closely printed pages each. Crowded * Les observateurs dclair~s manqualent en 1737 peur suivre Ia transformation des plidno- m~nes morbides. Cahuell, De in Fulie, Tom. II. p. 317. t La Viriti des Miracles opiris par tInter- cession de Al. de Pdris et autres Appellons di nioiitrie; arec des Observations sin le Phino amine des C~esiriilsions, par Cern de Montgiron, Conseiller an Parlement cia Paris. 3 you. 4to. 2d ed.t Cbloyne, i745. The first edition, consisting, however, of a single volume only, appeared in 1737, and was presented to the 1(in~ in person at Versailles, by M. de Montgiron, on the twenty-ninth of July of that year. The work was translated into German and Flemish; and besides sever- al editions which appeared in France, one was published in Germany and two in Ilehland. It is illustrated with costly engravings. Though the King (Louis XV.) received M. de Montgiron in an apparently gracious man- ner, yet, the very night after liii reception, as lie had himself foreseen, lie was arrested and cast lute the Bastille. Thence lie was trans- ferred from one place of con hineunent to an- other; and at the time lie was preparing the second edition of his work, lie was still (in 1744) a prisoner in the citadel of Valence. (See Advertisement to that ediiion, note to page vii.) He died in exile at Valence, in 1754. 1864.1 The Convuisioni.sts of St. Jlkdard. 211 with repetitions, and teeming with false reasonin~ these volumes nevertheless con- tam, backed by certificates without num- ber, such an elaborate aggregation of con- current testimony as I think human in- dustry never before brought together to prove any contested class of phenomena. Not less zealous, if less voluminous, were the writers opposed to what was (ailed the work of the convulsions. Of these one of the chief was Dom La Taste, Bishop of Bethl~em, author of the Lettres Th~oIogiques, and of the M6moire Th~ologique, in both of which the extravagances of the Convul- sionists are severely handled a second was the Abb6 dAsfeld, who, in 1738, published his Yams Efforts des Dis- cernans, in the same strain and anoth- er, M. Poncet, who put forth an elaborate reply to the Succorists, entitled R6- ponse des Anti-Secouristes h la IVcla- ination. The convulsions, commencing in the year 1731, almost immediately assumed an epidemical character, spreading so rap- idly that in a few months the affected reached the number of eight hundred. These were to be found not only on the tomb and in the cemetery itseW but in the streets, lanes, and houses adjoining. Many, after returning from the exciting scenes of St. Mddard, were seized with convulsions in their own dwellings. The numbers and the excitement went on increasing, and conversions to Jan- senism were counted by thousands the scenes became daily more extravagant, and the phenomena more extraordinary, until the King, moved either by the rep- resentations of physicians or by the re- monstrances of Jesuit theologians, caused the cemetery to be closedon the twenty- ninth of January, 1732; Not for such interdiction, however, did the phenomena, once in progress, inter- * Voltaire, with his usual wit and irrever- ence, proposed that the notice, proclaiming the royal command, to be affixed to the gate of the church-yard should read as follows: Do part le Rd, defense ~ Dieu Do faire miracle en cc lieu. nut. For fifteen years, or longcr,* the symptoms continued, with more or less violence. Indeed, the number of Con- vulsionists greatly increased after the cem- etery was closed, extending to those who had no ailment or bodily infirmityt The symptoms, though varying in dif- ferent individuals, were of one general character, partaking, especially as to the muscular phenomena, of the nature of hysteria, or hystero-catalepsy. The pa- tient, soon after being placed on the re- vered tomb, or on the ground near it, was commonly attacked by a tumultuous movement of all his menibers. Contrac- tions exhibited themselves in the neck, shoulders, and principal muscles all over the body. The nervous system became dreadfully excited. The heart beat vio- lently, and the patient, sometimes retain- ing partial consciousness and suffering extreme pain, could not restrain violent cries. He usually experienced, also, a tingling or pricking sensation in any dis- eased member. Those who from birth had been afflicted with paralysis, or par- tial paralysis, of a limb, or one side of the body, felt the convulsions chiefly in that limb or side. The convulsions were often so violent that numerous assistants * Jiecker alleges that the insanity of the 6onralsionaoires lasted, without interruption, until the year 1790, that is, for fifty nine v ears, and was only interrul)tcd 1w the excite- ment of the French Revolution; also, that, in the year 1762, the Grands Secours were forbidden by act of the Parliament of Paris. Epidemics of the Middle Ayes, from the German of I. F. C. Hecker, M. D., translated by B.G. Babington, M. D., F. R. S., London, 1846, p. 149. There were published by Renault, parish priest at Vaux near Ancene, turo pamphlets against the Succorists, one entitled Le Se courisme d6trnit dans ses 1on(hemens, in 1759, and the other, Le Mysh re dliii quite, as late as 1788, an evidence That the controversy was kept up for at least. half a century. 1 A peine lentrde clii tombean eftt elle dt~ ferm6e, quon vit he nombre des Convul- sionnaires s accroitre extreordinairenient. Les convulsions commenedrent h s& endre jusqu~ des personnes qul navaient iii maladie iii infir mit6 corporelle. UZueres de Golbert, Tom. II. p. 203. (This is Colbert, Bishop of Montpel- her, and nephew of Louis XIXT.s nilnister.) 212 The convulsionists of St. M6dard. [February, could scarcely restrain the patient from seriously injuring himself by dashing his body or limbs against the marble.* The Demoiselle Fourcroy, alleged to have been suddenly cured, on the four- teenth of April, 1 732, by means of these convulsions, of a confirmed anchylosis, which had deformed her left foot, and which the physicians had pronounced in- curable,t thus describes, in her deposi- tion, her sensations: They caused me to take wine in which was some earth from the tomb of M. de Pdris, and I im- mediately enga~ed in prayer, as the com- mencementofa neuvaine (that is, a nine- days ~tct of devotion). Almost at the same moment I was seized with a great shuddering, and soon after with a violent agitation of the members, which caused my whole body to jerk into the air, and gave me a force I had never before pos- sessed, so that the united strength of several persons present could scarcely re- strain me. After a time, in the course of these violcut convulsive movements, I lost all consciousness. As soon as they passed off, I recovered my senses,~ and felt a sensation of tranquillity and internal peace, such as I had never expcrienccd before. ~ It was usually at the moment of recov- ery from these convulsions, as Montg6- ron alleges and the certificates published by him declare, that the cures deemed by him miraculous were effected. Some- times, however, these cures were gradu- al only, extending through several days or weeks. In Mont~6rons work fourteen distinct cures are minutely reported, all of per- sons declared by the attendant physi- cians to he incurable. Each of these cures, with the documentary evidence in support of it, occupies from fifty to one hundred ~)ages of his book. The greater * Mont,~rou, work cited, Tom. II. p. 36. Calmeil, Dc 1cm Folie, Tom. II. pp. 315, 317. I For particulars and certificates in this case, see Montg~ron, Tom. II. Troisi~rne D~nmoa stration, pp. 158. $ Montgm~ron, work cited, Tom. II. Pi~ces Just ~ftcatires de La Troisiime DLnmonstratioa, p. 4. number are cases of p walysis, usually of one entire side of the body, in some in- stances complicated with general drop- sy, in others with cancer, in others again with attacks of apoplexy. There are four cases where the eyesight was restored, one of them of a lachrymal fistula; one of a young Spanish nobleman, who sud- denly recovered the use of his right eye, the left, however, remaining une ured; and there is a case in which a young woman, deaf and dumb from birth, is re- ported to have been suddenly and com- pletely cured on the tomb of MI. de P~- mis, at the moment the convulsions ceas- ed, immediately repeating, though not understanding, any word that was spok- en to ber by the bystanders. My limits do not permit me to follow Montg6ron through the details amid the documentary proof of these cures. That the patient, in each case, previously ex- amined by some physician of reputation, was pronounced incurable, does not prove that he was so. Yet, unless Montg6ron lie, some of the cures are inexplicable, UI)Ofl any received principles of medical science. One man, (Philippe Sergent,) whose right knee had shrunk to such a degree that the right leg was, and had been for more than a year, three finger- brendths shorter than the left, was, ac- cordino to the certificates, cured on the spot, threw away his crutches, and walk- ed home, unaided, followed by a won- dering crowd. Another patient, (Mar- guerite Thibault,) afh4mcted by general dropsy, and whose feet and legs were swollen to three times their natural size, is reported to have been cured so sud- denly that before she left the tomb her servant could put on her feet the same slippers she had worn previously to her malady. This woman had also been af- flicted, for three years, with paralysis of the left side, so complete as to deprive it of all power of motion. Yet she is stated to have raised hmerself unaided, on the tomb, to have walked from the spot, and even to have ascended the stairs of her house on her return. The symptom immediately preceding her cure is said 1864.1 The (Jonvulsionists of St. Midard. 213 to have been a beneficent heat, which (liffused itself over the entire left side, so long deadly cold. This was followed by a consciousness of power to move it; and her first eflbrt was to stretch out her i)aialytic arm.* But these cures, wonderful as they appear, are far less marvellous than another class of phenomena already re- ferred to. The convulsions were often accompa- nied by an urgent instinctive desire for certain extreme remedies, sometimes of a frightful character, as stretching the limbs with a violence similar to that of the rack, administering on the breast, stomach, or other parts of the body, hundreds of terrible blows with heavy weapons of wood, iron, or stone, press- ing with main force against various parts of the body with sharp-pointed swords, pressure under enormous weiuhts exposure to excessive heat, etc. Mont- g~ron, viewing the whole as miraculous, says, God frequently causes the con- vulsionists the most acute pains, and at the same time intimates to them, by a supernatural instinct, that the formida- ble succors which He desires that they should demand will cause all their suffer- Ings to cease; and these sufferings usu- ally have a sort of relation to the succors which are to prove a remedy for them. For instance, an oppression on the breast indicates the necessity for blows of ex- trcme violence on that part; an exces- sive cold, or a devouring heat suddenly seizes a convulsionist, requires that he should be pushed into the midst of flames; a sharp pang, similar to that caused by an iroa point piercing the flesh, demands a thrust of a rapiert giv- en in the spot where the pain is felt, * Montg~ron, Tom. I. Seconde Demonstra- Coos, p. 6. t Un coup dYp~ei is the expression em- ploved by Montg(ron; but the facts elsewhere reported by himself (10 not seem to bear out, in most cases, its accuracy. It was not usual- ly a f/ernst of a swords point, but only a press- ure with the point of a sharp sword, often so strong, however, that the weapon was bent by its force. be it in the throat, in the mouth, or in the eyes, of which the~i are numerous examples; and let the rapier be pushed as it may, the point, no matter how sharp, cannot pierce the most tender flesh, not even the eye of the patient: of this, in my third proposition, I shall adduce proof the most incontestable. * To some extent, it would seem, the symptoms themselves, attending the con- vulsions, nppeared, to the observant phy- sician, to warrant the propriety of the remedy desired. Montgdron copies a re- port of a case made to him, and attest- ed by a gentleman of his acquaintance, a Jansenist, who had persuaded his cous- in, Dr. M, at that time a distin- guished physician of Paris, and much prejudiced against the Jansenist move- ment, to accompany him to a house where there was a young girl subject to the reigning epidemic. They found her in a room with twenty or thirty persons, and at the nioment in convulsions. The assistants agreed to place the case in the hands of the physician, and lie carefully noted the movements of the patient. After a time, proceeds the reporter, he was greatly astonished to observe a sudden convulsive retraction of all the members. Examining the patient close- ly, touching her breast and limbs, he became aware of a contraction of the nerves, which gradually reached such a degree of violence that the whole body was disfigured in a frightful manner. His surprise was extreme, and it was soon changed to alarm, which induced him to forget his prejudices, and to resort to the very means he had previously con- demned as useless or dangerous. Tie caused us to place ourselves, one at the head and one at each hand and foot, and bade us pull moderately. We did so. Not enough, he said, with his hand on the patients breast; stronger! We obeyed. Stronger yet! he exclaimed. We told him we were exerting our entire strength. Two, then, to each limb, he said. * Montgdron, Tom. HI. p. 10. 214 The Convulsionists of St. illi6dard. [February, It was done, (by the aid of long and very strong pieces of cloth-listing,) but proved insufficient. Three to each! he cried; the child will die; pull with all your force! Stronger still! We cannot. Then four to each! He was obeyed. Ah, that relieves, he said ; the nerves resume their tone; the symptoms improve. But do not relax the tension. Then a~ am, after a pause, Strono~ stronger ! The contrac- tions increase. Put all your strength to it. Ultimately five persons were assigned to each band; and the nearest aided themselves by bracing their feet against the bed. They continued their efforts during half an hour, sometimes pulling with all their strength, sometimes less strongly, as the physician observed the contraction of the nerves to increase or relax. Finally he ordered the tension to be gradually diminished, in proportion as the convulsion passed off. After a time this convulsion was suc- ceeded by another, causing a sudden and alarming swelling of the chest. The girl stood leaning against a wall, and in that position he caused us, as had been our wont, to press with force on her chest. This we did, interposing a small cushion composed of listing. At first, I alone assisted. Then Dr. M or- dered three, four, five, ultimately even a greater number of persons, to aid them. The convulsion ceased gradually, and in the same proportion he caused us to diminish the pressure. Afterwards the physician, having re- tired to another room, said to us, before going away, You would be homicides, gentlemen, if you did not render these succors; for the symptoms require them; and the girl would die, if you refused them. There is nothing but what is natural in the relation between her state and these succors. * * See, for the entire relation, from which I have here given extracts only, Montg~rons Another example, occurring in 1740, and still more striking, because the case was that of a girl only three years of age, is given by Montgdron on the au- thority (among other witnesses) of Count de Novion, a near relative of the Duke de Gesvres, Governor of Paris. The Count, having been present throughout this case, testifies from personal obser- vation. The childs limbs, as in the previous example, were drawn up by violent con- vulsive movements, and the muscles be- came as it were knotted, causing extreme pain. The little creature urgently beg- ged that they would draw her legs and arms. Moderate tension caused no dimi- nution of the pain; violent tension, ad- ministered with fear and trembling, re- lieved her immediately. She complain- ed also of acute pain in the breast, which swelled to an alarming extent. To re- move this, nothing proved effectual but excessive pressure with the knee on the part affected. Aftei a time, however, some of the Anti-Succorist theol%ians persuaded the mother that the succors ought not to be administered, and even raised doubts in her mind and in that of the Count, as to whether the Devil had not some agency in the affair. Who knows, said the latter, if the Arch - Enemy has no part in this ? So they inter mitted the succors for some weeks. Dur- ing this time the infant gradually sank from day to day, would scarcely eat or drink, seldom slept, and death seemed imminent. The physician, being called in, declar- ed that the only hope was in resuming the succors, terrible as they appeared, and that, too, promptly. To the father he said, if you delay, it will be too late. While you are trying all your fine ex- periments with her, your child will die. They resumed the same violent remedies work, Tom. III. pp.2426. Montg~ron, though lie vouches for the narrator as a gentleman worthy of all credit, does not give his name, nor that of the physician, except as Dr. M. The occurrence took place in 1732. 1864.] The Convuls~ongsts of St. AIedard. 215 as before; and the child was gradually restored to perfect healt,h.* But these examples, whatever we may think of them, are but some of the most moderate, which Montgdron himself ad- inits to be explicable on natural princi- l)les. 1-le says: During the first months that the succors commenced, the power of resistance offered by the convulsion- ists did not appear so surprising, and seemed, indeed, to be the effect of an ex- cessive swelling which was observed in the muscles upon which the convulsion- ists requested the blows to be given, and of the violent agitation of the animal spirits; so that the succors demanded by the sufferers appeared, in a measure, the natural remedy for the state in which God had placed them. But when, every day, the violence of the blows increased, it became evident that the natural force of the muscles could not equal that of the tremendous strokes which the convulsion- ists demauded, in obedience, as they said, to the will of God. And here was mani- fested the miracle. ~ I proceed to give, as an example of one of the more violent succors here spok- en of as miraculous, a narrative, not only vouched for by Montgdron himself as a witness present, but put forth, in the first instance, by one of the most violent Anti- Succorists, the Abbd dAsfeld, in his work already referred to, and put forth by him in order to be condemned as a wick- ed tempting of Providence, ~ or, worse, an accepting of aid from the Prince of Darkness himself. It occurred in 1734. here, says the Abbd, is an exam- ple, all the more worthy of attention, in- asmuch as persons of every station and condition, ecelesiastics, magistrates, la- (lies of rank, were among the spectators. * Mo~tg~ron, Torn. III. pp. 107111. t Ibid. p. 688. As murderous blows must either wound or kill, but for a miracle, there ought to be a promise or a revelation to warrant their inflic- tion. But God has given no such promise, no such revelation, to justify the demanding or the granting of the succors. It is, therefore a tempting of God to do so. Veins Eftbrts des Discernans, p. 133. Jeanne Moler, a young girl of twenty- two or twenty-three years of age, stand- ing up with her back resting against a stone wall, an extremely robust man took an andiron,* weighing, as was said, from twenty-five to thirty pounds, and there- with gave her, with his whole force, nu- merous blows on the stomach. They counted upwards of a hundred at a time. One day a certain friar, after having giv- en her sixty such blows, tried the same weapon against a wall; and it is said that at the twenty - fifth blow he broke an opening through it. 1 Dom La Taste, the great opponent of Jansenism, alluding to the same circum- stance, says, I do not dispute the fact, that tIne andiron sunk so deeply that it appeared to penetrate to the very back- bone. ~ Montgdron, after quoting the above, adds his own testimony, as to this same occurrence, in these words : As I am not ashamed to confess that I am one of those who have followed up most closely the work of the convulsions, I freely admit that I am the person to whom the author alludes, when he speaks of a certain friar who tried against a wall the effect of blows similar to those he had given the convulsionist. As this is an occurrence personal to myself, I trust the reader will perceive the propriety of my ~)resenting to him the narrative in a more exact and detailed form tha.n t.hat in which it is given by the author of the Yams Efforts. I had begun, as I usually do, by giving the convulsionist very moderate blows. But after a time, excited by her constant complaints, which left me no 55 Clsenet is the French expression, an and- iron, or doh iron, as it is sometimes called. Mont~6ron thus describes it: The andiron in question was a thick, roughly shaped bar of iron, bent at both ends, but the front end divid- ed in two, to serve for feet, and furnished with a thick, short knob. This andiron weighed be- tween twenty-nine and thirty pounds.Mont- gdron, Tom. III. p. 693. f Voins Efforts des Discernons, p. 134. ~ Mimoire Th& loyiqoe, p. 41. This is ad- initted also by the Abbd, see Vains E.fJbrts, p. 127, and by M. Poncet, W!ponse, etc., p. 15. 216 The & nvulsionists of St. Medard. [February, room to doubt that the oppression in the pit of the stomach of which she complain- ed could be relieved only by violent blows, I gradually increased the force of mine, employing at last my whole strength; but in vain. The convulsionist contin- ued to complain that the blows I gave her were so feeble that they procured her no relief; and she caused me to put the andiron into the hands of a large and stout man who happened to be one of the spectators. lie kept within no bounds. Instructed by the trial he had seen me make that nothing could be too severe, he discharged such terrible blows, always on the pit of the stomach, as to shake the wall against which the convul- sionist was leaning. She caused him to give her one hun- dred such blows, not reckoning as any- thing the sixty I had just administered. She warmly thanked the man who had procured her such relief, and reproached me for my weakness and my lack of faith. When the hundred blows were com- pleted, I took the andiron, desirous of trying against the wall itself whether my blows, which she thought so feeble and complained of so bitterly, really did pro- duce no effect. At the twenty-fifth stroke the stone against which I struck, and which had been shaken by the previous blows, was shattered, and the pieces fell out on the opposite side, leaving an open- ing of more than six inches square. Now let us observe what were the portions of the body of the convulsion- ist on which these fearful blows were dealt. It is true that they first came in contact with the skin, but they sank im- mediately to the back of the patient; their force was not arrested at the surface. I insist unnecessarily, perhaps, upon this fact, since all, even our greatest en- emies, admit its truth. But, however in- contestable it is, I conceive that I cannot too strongly prove it to those who have not themselves witnessed what happen- ed; inasmuch as the principal objection made by the author of the Mdmoire Th6ologique consists in supposing that the violence of the most trcmendou.~ blows given to convulsionists is suspended by the Devil, who thus nullifies the effect they would naturally produce. * Montgdron further says, that the greatest enemies of these miraculous suc- cors admitted the fact that such terrible blows, far from producing the slightest wound, or causing the convulsionist the least suffering, actually cured the pains of which she complained. ~ The convulsionist sometimes demand- ed enormous pressure instead of violent blows. To this alsQ the Abbd dAsfeld testifies. I translate from his Yams Efforts. Next came the exercise of the plat * Montg~ron, Tom. III. pp. 693, 694. The author takes great pains to disprove a theory which few persons, in our day, will think worth refuting. In this connection, he quotes from a memoir drawn up by a gentleman who had spent much time in examining these phenom- ena, as follows : The force of the action and movement of the instruments employed is not broken or arrested or turned aside. Experi- ence conclusively proves this. One sees the bodies of the convulsionists bend and sink be- neath the blows. One can perceive that the parts assailed are twisted, arid receive all the movements which such weapons as those em- ployed are calculated to communicate. And the violence of the blows is often such that not only are they heard from the lowest story of a house to the highest, but the~ actually commu- nicate to the floor and to the walls of the apart- ment a shock, which is sensibly felt, and which causes the spectators to start. p. 686. Montg~ron adds his own personal experi- ence. lie says, That has happened fre- quently to myself. I have often been so much impressed with the strong motion communicat- ed to the floor by the terrible blows dealt with stones or billets of wood with which they were striking convulsionists, that I could not re- strain a shudder. For the rest, this is an oc- currence to tire truth of which there are as many to testify as there have been persons, whether friends or foes, who have seen the great succors. One may say, that it is a fact attested by witnesses innumerable. Mont- gn~ron, Tom. III. p. 686. Independently of the theory of Satanic inter- vention which the above details are adduced to disprove, they are very interesting in them- selves, for the insight they give into the exact character of these terrible probations. t Montgdron, Tom. III. p. 694. 1864.1 The (Jonvuldonists of St. JJIedard. 217 form. It consisted in placing on the convulsionist, who was stretched on the ground, a board of sufficient size to cover her entirely; and as many men as could stand upon it mounted on the board. The convulsionist sustained them all. * Montg~ron adds, This relation is tob erably exact, and it only remains for me to observe, that, as they gave each other the hand, for reciprocal support, most of those who were on the hoard rested the whole weight of the body on a single foot. Thus, twenty men at a time often stood upon the board, and were supported on the body of a young convulsionist. Now, as most men weigh a hundred and fifty pounds, and many weigh more, the body of the girl must have sustained a weight of three thousand pounds, if not some- times nearly four thousand,a load suffi- cient to crush an ox. Yet, not only was the convulsionist not oppressed by it, but she often found the pressure insuf- ficient to correct the swelling which dis- tended her muscles. With what force must not God have endowed the body of this girl! Since the days of Sam- son, was ever seen such a prodigy ? If these incidents, attested as they are by friend and foe, seem to us incredible, what shall we say of another, not less strongly attested? Let us first, as before, take the state- ment of an adversary. I translate from the M~inoire Th~ologique. A convulsionist laid herself on the floor, flat on her back; and a man, kneel- ingbeside her, and raising a flint stone, weighing upwards of twenty pounds, as high as he could, after several preliminary trials, dashed it, with all his force, against the breast of the convulsionist, giving her one hundred such blows in succes- sion. To this Montg~ron subjoins, But the author ought to have added, that, at each blow, the whole room shook, the floor trembled, and the spectators could not repress a shudder at the frightful * Quoted by Montg~ron, Torn. III. p. 697. ~ Moutg~ron, Torn. III. p. 697. ~ M4 ire Th4ologique, p. 96. VOL. XIII. 15 noise which was heard, as each blow fell on the convulsionists breast. We need not be surprised that he adds, Not only ought such strokes naturally to rupture the minute vessels, the delicate glands, the veins and the arteries of which the breast is composed, not only ought they, in the course of Nature, to have crushed and reduced the whole to a bloody mass, but they ought to have shattered to pieces the bones and carti- lages by which the breast is inclosed. * This was the view of the case taken by a celebrated physician of the day. Montg6ron tells us: This philosopher maintained that the facts alleged could not be true, because they were physically mu- possible. lie raised, among other objec- tions, this, that the flexible, delicate nature of the skin, of the flesh, and of the viscera, is incompatible with a force and a consistency so extraordinary as the al- leged facts presuppose; and, consequent- ly, that it was impossible, without ceas- lug to be what they are,without a rad- ical change in their qualities, that they should acquire a force superior to that of the hardest and most solid bodies. They let him quietly complete his ana- tomical argument, and set forth all his proofs, and merely answered, Come and see; test the truth of the facts for your- self. He went. At first sight, he is seized with astonishment; he doubts the evidence of his eyes; he asks to be al- lowed himself to administer the succors. They immediately place in his hands iron bars of a crushing weight. lie does not spare his blows; he exerts his utmost strength. The weapon sinks into the flesh, seems to penetrate to the entrails. But the convulsionist only laughs at his idle efforts. his blows but procure her relief, without leaving the least impres- sion, the slightest trace, even on the epi- dermis. ~ Space fails me to furnish more than a very few additional specimens of the end- less incidents of which the details are scattered by Montg~ron over hundreds * Nontg~rou, Tom. III. p. 697. f Ibid. p. 698. 218 The Clonvulsiongsts of St. Medard. [February, of pages, incidents occurring in vari- ous parts of Paris, daily, for many years. Three or four more of these may suffice for my present purpose. A certain Marie Sonnet had made her- self so remarkable by the incredible suc- cors she demanded, that a physician of Paris, Dr. A, published, in regard to her case, a satirical letter addressed to M. de Montgdron, in which, after attack- ing the girls moral character, he assum- ed this strange position It is a senti- ment universally established, that it is in the power of the Devil, when God per- mits, to communicate to man forces above those of Nature. Nor must it be said that God never permits this; the case of the girl Sonnct is unanswerable proof to the contrary. * Among the incidents which appear to have led to this opinion one is thus stat- ed by him: They let fall upon her stomach, from the height of the ceiling, a stone weighing fifty pounds, while her body, bent back like a bow, was support- ed on the point of a sharpened stake, placed just under the spine; yet, far from being crushed by the stone, or pierced by the stake, it was a relief to her. ~ Montg6ron supplies further particulars of this case. He says : It was not once, it was a hundred times in succes- sion, and that daily repeated, that this flint stone was raised by main force, by the aid of a pulley, to the ceiling of the room, and thence suddenly let fall on the stomach of the patient. This stone weighed, it is true, fifty pounds only; but, descending from a great height, its effect was immensely increased by the momentum it acquired in falling, as 500fl as the cord was detached by which it was suspended in the air. And,in truth, the ribs of the convulsionist bent under the terrible shock, sinking under the weight till her stomach and bowels were so com- pletely flattened that the stone seemed wholly to displace them. Yet she re- ceived no injury whatever, but was re * Leltre du Dr. A c~ Al. de Montgiron, p.8. f ibid. p. 7. lieved, as Dr. A himself admits. He confesses, also, that the body of the eon- vulsionist was bent back so that the head and feet touched the floor, and was supported only on the sharp point of a stake right under her reins, and placed perpendicularly beneath the spot where the stone was to fall. The weight of the stone in falling was, therefore, arrested only by the point of this stake, the body of the convulsionist being between them, so that the entire force of the blow was concentrated opposite that point The stake appeared to penetrate to a certain depth into the body, yet neither the skin nor the flesh received the slight- est injury, nor did the convulsionist ex- perience any pain whatever. * This same Marie Sonnet exposed her- self to terrible tests by fire. A certificate in regard to this matter, signed by eleven persons, of whom one was an English lord, one a Doctor of Theology in the Sorbonne, and another the brother of Voltaire, Armand Arouet, Treasurer of the Chamber of Accounts, is given by Montgdron, and I here translate it: We, the undersigned, certify, that this day, between eight and ten oclock, ~. M., Marie Sonnet, being in convulsion, was placed, her head resting on one stool and her feet on another, these stools being entirely within a large chimney and un- der the opening of the same, so that her body was suspended in the air above the fire, which was of extreme violence, and that she remained in that position for the space of thirty-six minutes, at four differ- ent times; yet the cloth [drap] in which she was wrapped (she having no other dress) was not burned, though the flames ~ Montgdron, Tom. II. Idie de lttct des Coneulsionaaires, pp. 45, 46. Montgiron does not allege, however, that any other part of the body than that where the warning pains were felt hecame insensible or invulnerable. He cites (Tom. III. p. 629) the case of a con- vulsionist who, at the moment when they were striking her on the breast with all pos- sible force with a stone weighing twenty-five pounds, bade them suspend the succors for a moment, till she adjusted, in another part of her dress, a pin that was pricking her. 1864.] The Convulsionists of St. Medard. 219 sometimes passed above it: all which ap- pears to us entirely supernatural. In testimony whereof; we have signed our names, this twelfth of May, 1736. To this certificate, which was after- wards legally recorded, a postscript is appended, stating, that, while they were writing out the certificate, Marie placed herself a fifth time over the fire, as be- fore, remaining there nine minutes; that she appeared to sleep, though the fire was excessively hot; fifteen logs of wood, besides fagots, having been consumed in the two hours and a quarter during which the witnesses remained. Montg6ron adds, that this exhibition has been witnessed at least a hundred times, and by a multitude of persons. And he expressly states, that the stools, which consisted of iron frames, with a board upon each, were placed entirely within the fireplace, and one on each side of the fire; so that, as Marie Son- net rested her head on one stool and her feet on the other, her body remained suspended immediately above the fire and further, that, no matter how in- tense the heat, not only did she suffer no inconvenience, but the cloth in which she was wrapped was never injured, nor even singed, though it was sometimes actually in the flames. * He declares, also, that Marie, on other occasions, remained over the fire much longer than is above certified. The au- thor of the Yams Efforts admits that she remained exposed to the fire long enough to roast a piece of mutton or veal. Montgfron informs us, in addition, that Marie Sonnet sometimes varied the form of this experiment, with a somewhat va- rying result. He says, I have seen her five or six times, and in the pres- ence of a multitude of persons, thrust both her feet, with shoes and stockings on, into the midst of a burning brazier but in this case the fire did not respect the shoes, as, in the other, it had respect- ed the cloth that enwrapped her. The * Montg~ron, Tom. II. idie de lttat des Con- vulsionnaires, pp. 31, 32. shoes caught fire, and the soles were re- duced to ashes, but without the convul- sionist experiencing pain in her feet, which she continued to keep for a con- siderable time in the fire. Once I had the curiosity to examine the soles of her stockings, in order to ascertain if they, too, were burnt. As soon as I touched them they crumbled to powder, so that the sole of the foot remained bare. * Dr. A, in the letter already allud- ed to, which he published against this girl, admits, that, while in the midst of flames, or stretched over a burning brazier, she received no injury whatever. ~ M. Poncet, whom I have elsewhere mentioned as one of the chief writers against the Succorists, admits the fol- lowing: This convulsionist [Gabrielle Moler] placed herself on her knees before a large fire full of burning coals all in flame. Then, a person being seated behind her, and holding her by a band, she plunged her head into the flames, which closed over it; then, being drawn back, she re- peated the same, continuing it with a regular alternate movement. She has been seen thus to throw herself on the fire six hundred times in succession. Usually she wore a bonnet, but some- times not; and when she did wear one, the top of the bonnet was occasionally burned. ~ Montg6ron adds, but her hair never. Gabrielle was the first who (in 1736) demanded what was called the succor of the swords. Montg~ron says, She was prompted by the supernatural instinct which guided her to select the strongest and sharpest sword she could find among those worn by the spectators. Then set- ting herself with her back against a wall, she placed the point of the sword just above her stomach, and called upon him who seemed the strongest man to push it * Montg~ron, Tom. II. Idfe de lFitat des t7cn- ~ns nnaires, p. 33. t Lettre du Dr. A e~ AL. de Montg~ron, p. ~. ~ R~ponse des Anti-Secouristes ~ la Riclama- Lion, par M. Poncet, p. 4. Montg~ron, Tom. III. p.706. 220 The Clonvulsionists of St. Afidard. [February, with all his force; and though the sword bent into the form of a bow from the vio- lence with which it was pushed, so that they had to press against the middle of the blade to keep it straight, still the convulsionist cried out, Stronger! stronger! After a time she applied the point of the sword to her throat, and required it to he pushed with the same violence as before. The point caused the skin to sink into the throat to the depth of four finger-breadths, but it nev- er pierced the flesh, let them push as vio- lently as they would. Nevertheless, the point of the sword seemed to attach it- self to the skin; for, when drawn back, it drew the skin with it, and left a trifling redness, such as would be caused by the prick of a pin. For the rest, the con- vulsionist suffered no pain whatever. * Similar is the testimony of an Advo- cate of the Parliament of Paris, extracts from whose certificate in re~,ard to the succors rendered to the Sister Madeleine are given by Montg6ron. Here is one of these: One day, extended on the ground, she caused a spit to be placed upright, with the point on her bare throat. Then a stout man mounted on a chair, and sus- pended his whole body from the head of the spit, pressing with all his force, as if to transfix the throat and pierce the floor beneath. But the flesh merely sank in with the point of the spit, without being in the least injured. Another day, she placed the point of a very sharp sword against the hbllow of the throat, just below the epiglottis, and, standing with her back against the wall, called on them to push the sword. A vigorous man did so, till the blade bent, though not so much as to form a complete arc. The point sank into the flesh about an inch. I was curious to measure the exact depth, and found that the flesh rose so far around the sword- point that I could sink a finger in be- yond the first joint. She received this succor twice. The sword was one of the sharpest I have ever seen. We tried it * Montg~ron, Tom. III. p. 707. against a portfolio containing the paper intended for the minutes which on such occasions I always make out. It perfo- rated the pasteboard and a considerable part of the papers within. * The Sister Madeleine carried her te- merity in this matter still farther. Here is a portion of the certificate of an ecclesi- astic, for whose uprightness and truthful- ness Montg6rou vouches in strong terms, and who relates what he alleges he saw on the thirty-first of May, 1744. Madeleine caused them to hold two swords in the air horizontally. She her- self placed the point of one in the inner corner of the right eye, and of the other in the inner corner of the left, and then called out to those who held the swords, In the name of the Father, push! They did so with all their force; and I confess that I shuddered from head to foot A second time Madeleine caused them to set two swords against the pupils of her eyes, and to press them strongly, as before. This time I took especial notice of the part of the sword that was on a level with the surface of the eye when the pressure was the strongest, and I perceived that the point had penetrated a good inch into the pu- pil.t The Chaplain in Ordinary of the King, under date of the fourth of October, 1744, testifies to confirmatory facts. He says, I have seen them push sword-points against the eyes of Sisters Madeleine and F6licit~, sometimes on the pupil, some- times in the corner of the eye, sometimes on the eyelid, with such force as to cause the eyeball to project, till the spectators shuddered. 1 Another officer of the royal household gives a certificate of succors administer- ed to this same Madeleine, of a charac- ter scarcely less wonderful, with pointed spits, of which two were broken against her body. This officer certifies, also, that, on one occasion, when pushing a sharp sword against Madeleine, not being able to push ~ Montg~ron, Tom. III. p. 720. t Ibid. pp. 713, 714. ~ Ibid. p. 719. 1864.] The Convuldonists of St. M6dard. 221 strongly enough to satisfy her, he placed a book bound in parchment on his own breast, placed the hilt of his sword against it, and pressed with so much force that the cover of the book was quite spoiled by the deep indentation made by the sword-hilt. He adds, The instinct of her convulsion caused her sometimes to demand as many as twenty-two swords at a time. These were placed, some in front, some against her back, some against her sides, in every direction. I myself never saw quite so many employed; but I was present, and was myself assisting, when eighteen swords were pushed at once against various parts of her body. Although the force with which this pro- digious succor was administered caused deep indentations in the flesh, she never received the slightest wound. It often happened that her convulsions caused the flesh to react under the pressure of the sword-points, so as forcibly to push back the assistants. * The Advocate of the Parliament of Paris, already mentioned, certifies to the same phenomenon. His words are, One can feel, under the sword-point, a movement of the flesh, which, from time to time, thrusts back the sword. This occurs the most strongly when the succor is nearly at an end. The convul- sionist calls out, Enough! as soon as the pains are relieved. ~ The same Advocate states, that some- times the convulsionist threw the weight of her body on the swords, the hilts rest- ing on the floor, and being secured from slipping. He speaks of one case in which, while she was balancing herself on the points of several swords upon which she had thrown herself with all her weight, [ois elle se jettoit ~i corps perdfi,] one of them broke. 4: The officer of the kings household already spoken of testifies to a similar fact. A certain Sister Dma, he says, caused six swords thus to break against her body. He adds, that he himself broke the blade of a sword while thrust- * Montg~ron, Tom. III. p. 716. ~ Ibid. p. 721. ~ ibid. p. 709. lag against her; and that he saw two others broken in the same way.* In regard to what Moutg~5ron consid- ~ers the exacting instinct, the same officer says, I had the curiosity to ask Sister Madeleine, in her natural state, what was the sort of suffering which caused her to have recourse to such astonishing succors. She replied, that the pain she suffered was the same as if swords were actually piercing her; that she felt re- lieved of this pain as soon as the sword- points penetrated to her skin, and quite cured when the assistants put their whole force to it. She laughed when the swords pierced her dress, saying, I feel the points on my skin. That relieves. That does me good. I Both the Advocate of Parliament and the ecclesiastic from whose certificates I have quoted testify that the convul- sionists were repeatedly undressed and examined by a committee of their own sex, consisting in part of incredulous la- dies of fashion, to ascertain that they had nothing concealed under their clothes to resist the sword - points. But in every case it was ascertained that they wore but the ordinary articles of under-cloth- lug. The Sister Dma was examined in this way; and it was ascertained that she had nothing under her gown except a chemise and a simple linen stomacher. 11cr clothing was found pierced in many places, but the flesh wholly uninjured. 4: Although throughout the writings of the Anti-Succorists there are constant denun- ciations of these succors as flagrant and wicked temptings of Providence, yet I do not find therein any allegation that serious injury was ever sustained by any of the patients. Montg~ron himself, how- ever, admits, that, on one occasion, a wound was received. He tells us that a certain convulsionist long resisted the instinct which bade her demand the suc- cor of a triangular-bladed sword against the left breast, fearing the result. At last, however, the pain became so in- tense that she was fain to consent. Por * Montg6ron, Tom. III. p. 708. t Ibid. p. 718. ~ ibid. p. 709. 222 The Convuls~onists of St. Midclard. [February, the first seven or eight minutes the sword- jiQint only indented the flesh, as usual. But then, says Mont,~6ron, her faith suddenly failing her,she cried out, Ah you will kill me! No sooner had she pronounced the words than the sword pierced the flesh, making a wound two inches in depth. Lie alleges, further, that the instinct of the convulsionist in- formed her that the wound would have no bad consequences, and could be cured by severe blows of a club on the same spot; which, he declares, happened ac- cordingly.* Besides the incidents above related, and a hundred others of similar charac- ter, which, if time and the readers pa- tience permitted, I might cull from Mont- g6rons pages, the restless enthusiasm of the convulsionists ultimately betrayed them into extravagances, in which it is ofteb hard to decide whether the gro- tesque or the horrible more predominat- ed. One convulsionist descended the long stairs of an infirmary head - fore- most, lying on her back; another caused herself to be attached, by a rope round her neck, to a hook in the wall. A third repeated her prayers while turning somer- sets. A fourth, suspended by the feet, with the head hanging down, remained in that position three-quarters of an hour. A fifth, lying down on a tomb, cause(l herself to be covered to the neck with baked earth mixed with sand and satu- rated with vinegar. A sixth made her bed, in winter, on billets of wood; a sev- enth on bars of iron. The Sister Etilici- t6 was in the habit of causing herself to be nailed to the cross, and of remaining there half an hour at a time, gayly con- versing with the pious who surrounded hcr4 Another sister, named Scholas * Montgdron, Tom. III. pp. 722, 723. t The details are given by lvi. Morand, a surgeon of Paris of high reputation, member of the Academy of Sciences, who had been employed by the Lieutenant of Police to make to him a report on the subject, and who repro- duces the result of his observations in his Opascules de Chirurgie. He found four tique, after long hesitation between dif- ferent modes of mortification, having one day remarked the manner in which they constructed the pavement of the streets, had her dress tightly fastened below the knee, and then ordered one of the assist- ants to take her by the legs, and, with her head downward, to dash it repeatedly an, ainst the tiled floor, after the fashion of paviors, when using a rammer. If, says Calmeil, the idea had chanced to suggest itself to one of these theomaniacs, that disembowelling alive would be a sacrifice pleasing to the Su- preme Being, she would undoubtedly have insisted upon being subjected to such a martyrdom. * The mental and physiological phe- nomena connected with this epidemic remain to be noticed, together with the theories and suggestions put forth by medical and other contemporary writers, in explanation of what has here been sketched, the substance of which is usual- ly admitted by these commentators, how- - ever incredible, when related at this dis- tance of time, it may appear. Next month the subject will be continued. girls, the centres of whose hands and feet were iiinlurated by the frequent perforations of the nails. lie witnessed the operation of crucify- ing one of them, the Sister Fdlicitd. A certain lvi. La Barre was the operator. The nails were of the sort called demi-picaroms, very sharp, flat, four-sided, and with a large head. They were driven, at a single blow of a hammer, nearly through the centre of the palm, between the third and fourth fingers; and in like manner through each foot a little above the toes and between the third and fourth; the same stroke causing the nail to enter also the wood of the cross. F~licitd gave no signs of sensibility during the operation. When attached to the cross, she was gay, and conversed with who- ever addressed her, remaining crucified nearly half an hour. Morand remarked, that her wounds were not at all bloody, and that very little blood flowed, even when the nails were withdrawn. See his Opuscules de Chirurgie, Partie II. chap. 6. * De ic Folie, Tom. II.; the page I omitted to note. 1864.1 Presence. 2~S PRESENCE. THE wild, sweet water, as it flows, The winds, that kiss me as they pass, The starry shadow of the rose, Sitting beside her on the grass, The daffodilly, trying to bless With better light the beauteous air, The lily, wearing the white dress Of sanctuary, to be more fair, The lithe-armed, dainty-fingered brier, That in the woods, so dim and drear, Lights up betimes her tender fire To soothe the homesick pioneer, The moth, his brown sails balancing Along the stubble crisp and dry, The ground-flower, with a blood-red ring On either hand, the pewets cry, The friendly robins gracious note, The hills, with curious weeds oerrun The althea, with her crimson coat Tricked out to please the wearied sun, The dandelion, whose golden share Is set before the rustics plou~h, The hum of insects in the air, The blooming bush, the withered bough, The coming on of eve, the springs Of daybreak, soft and silver-bright,- The frost, that with rough, rugged wings Blows down the cankered buds, the white, Long drifts of winter snow, the heat Of August, falling still and wide, Broad cornfields, one chance stalk of wheat, Standing with bright head hung aside, All things, my darling, all things seem In some strange way to speak of thee; Nothing is half so much a dream, Nothing so much reality. My soul to thine is dutiful, In all its pleasure, all its care; O most beloved! most beautiful! I miss, and find thee everywhere!

Alice Cary Cary, Alice Presence 223-224

1864.1 Presence. 2~S PRESENCE. THE wild, sweet water, as it flows, The winds, that kiss me as they pass, The starry shadow of the rose, Sitting beside her on the grass, The daffodilly, trying to bless With better light the beauteous air, The lily, wearing the white dress Of sanctuary, to be more fair, The lithe-armed, dainty-fingered brier, That in the woods, so dim and drear, Lights up betimes her tender fire To soothe the homesick pioneer, The moth, his brown sails balancing Along the stubble crisp and dry, The ground-flower, with a blood-red ring On either hand, the pewets cry, The friendly robins gracious note, The hills, with curious weeds oerrun The althea, with her crimson coat Tricked out to please the wearied sun, The dandelion, whose golden share Is set before the rustics plou~h, The hum of insects in the air, The blooming bush, the withered bough, The coming on of eve, the springs Of daybreak, soft and silver-bright,- The frost, that with rough, rugged wings Blows down the cankered buds, the white, Long drifts of winter snow, the heat Of August, falling still and wide, Broad cornfields, one chance stalk of wheat, Standing with bright head hung aside, All things, my darling, all things seem In some strange way to speak of thee; Nothing is half so much a dream, Nothing so much reality. My soul to thine is dutiful, In all its pleasure, all its care; O most beloved! most beautiful! I miss, and find thee everywhere! 224 Glacial Period. [February, GLACIAL PERIOD. IN the early part of the summer of 1840, 1 started from Switzerland for England with the express object of find- ing traces of glaciers in Great Britain. This glacier - hunt was at that time a somewhat perilous undertaking for the repntation of a young naturalist like my- self; since some of the greatest names in science were arrayed against the novel glacial theory. And it was not strange that it should be at first discredited by the scientific world, for hitherto all the investigations of geologists had gone to show that a degree of heat far greater than any now prevailing characterized the earlier periods of the worlds histo- ry. Even Cbarpentier, my precursor and master in glacial research, who first show- ed the greater extent of Swiss glaciers in former times, had not thought of any more general application of his result, or con- nected their former boundaries with any great change in the climatic conditions of the whole continent. His explanation of the phenomena rested upor~ the as- sumption that the Alps formerly rose far beyond their present height; their great- er altitude, he thought, would account for the existence of immense glaciers ex- tending from the Alps across the plain of Switzerland to the Jura. Inexperien- ced as I then was, and ignorant of the modes by which new views, if founded on truth, commend themselves gradually to general acceptation, I was often deep- ly depressed by the skepticism of men whose scientific position gave them a right to condemn the views of younger and less experienced students. I can smile now at the difficulties which then beset my path, but at the time they seem- ed serious enough. It is but lately, that, in turning over the leaves of a journal, published some twelve or fifteen years ago, to look for a forgotten date, I was amused to find a formal announcement, under the signature of the greatest geolo- gist of Eur6pe, of the demise of the gla cial theory. Since then it has risen, phmnix-like, from its own funeral pile. Even when I arrived in England ,many of my friends would fain have dissuaded me from my expedition, urging me to devote myself to special zoblogical stud- ies, and not to meddle with general geo- logical problems of so speculative a char- acter. Punch himself did not disdain to give me a gentle hint as to the folly of my undertaking, terming my journey into Scotland in search of moraines a sporting-expedition after moor-hens. Only one of my older scientific friends in England, a man who in earlier years had weathered a similar storm himself; shared my confidence in the investiga- tions looked upon by others as so vis- ionary, and offered to accompany me in my excursion to the North of England, Scotland. and Wales. I cannot recur to that delightful journey without a few words of grateful and affectionate tribute to the friend who sustained me by his sympathy and guided me by his knowl- edge and experience. For many years I had enjoyed the privilege of personal acquaintance with IDr. Buckland, and in 1834, when en- ga.~ ed in the investigation of fossil fishes, I had travelled with him through parts of England and Scotland, and had deriv- ed invaluable assistance from his friend- ly adyice and direction. To him I was indebted for an introduction to all the geologists and pala~ontologists of Great Britain, with none of whom, except Ly- ell, had I any previous personal acquaint- ance; and through him I obtained not on- ly leave to examine all the fossil fishes in public and private collections throughout England, but the unprecedented privilege of bringing them together for closer com- parison in the rooms of the Geological So- ciety of London. A few years later he visited Switzerland, when I had the pleas- ure of showing him, in my turn, the gla- cial phenomena of my native country, to

Prof. Louis Agassiz Agassiz, Louis, Prof. Glacial Period 224-233

224 Glacial Period. [February, GLACIAL PERIOD. IN the early part of the summer of 1840, 1 started from Switzerland for England with the express object of find- ing traces of glaciers in Great Britain. This glacier - hunt was at that time a somewhat perilous undertaking for the repntation of a young naturalist like my- self; since some of the greatest names in science were arrayed against the novel glacial theory. And it was not strange that it should be at first discredited by the scientific world, for hitherto all the investigations of geologists had gone to show that a degree of heat far greater than any now prevailing characterized the earlier periods of the worlds histo- ry. Even Cbarpentier, my precursor and master in glacial research, who first show- ed the greater extent of Swiss glaciers in former times, had not thought of any more general application of his result, or con- nected their former boundaries with any great change in the climatic conditions of the whole continent. His explanation of the phenomena rested upor~ the as- sumption that the Alps formerly rose far beyond their present height; their great- er altitude, he thought, would account for the existence of immense glaciers ex- tending from the Alps across the plain of Switzerland to the Jura. Inexperien- ced as I then was, and ignorant of the modes by which new views, if founded on truth, commend themselves gradually to general acceptation, I was often deep- ly depressed by the skepticism of men whose scientific position gave them a right to condemn the views of younger and less experienced students. I can smile now at the difficulties which then beset my path, but at the time they seem- ed serious enough. It is but lately, that, in turning over the leaves of a journal, published some twelve or fifteen years ago, to look for a forgotten date, I was amused to find a formal announcement, under the signature of the greatest geolo- gist of Eur6pe, of the demise of the gla cial theory. Since then it has risen, phmnix-like, from its own funeral pile. Even when I arrived in England ,many of my friends would fain have dissuaded me from my expedition, urging me to devote myself to special zoblogical stud- ies, and not to meddle with general geo- logical problems of so speculative a char- acter. Punch himself did not disdain to give me a gentle hint as to the folly of my undertaking, terming my journey into Scotland in search of moraines a sporting-expedition after moor-hens. Only one of my older scientific friends in England, a man who in earlier years had weathered a similar storm himself; shared my confidence in the investiga- tions looked upon by others as so vis- ionary, and offered to accompany me in my excursion to the North of England, Scotland. and Wales. I cannot recur to that delightful journey without a few words of grateful and affectionate tribute to the friend who sustained me by his sympathy and guided me by his knowl- edge and experience. For many years I had enjoyed the privilege of personal acquaintance with IDr. Buckland, and in 1834, when en- ga.~ ed in the investigation of fossil fishes, I had travelled with him through parts of England and Scotland, and had deriv- ed invaluable assistance from his friend- ly adyice and direction. To him I was indebted for an introduction to all the geologists and pala~ontologists of Great Britain, with none of whom, except Ly- ell, had I any previous personal acquaint- ance; and through him I obtained not on- ly leave to examine all the fossil fishes in public and private collections throughout England, but the unprecedented privilege of bringing them together for closer com- parison in the rooms of the Geological So- ciety of London. A few years later he visited Switzerland, when I had the pleas- ure of showing him, in my turn, the gla- cial phenomena of my native country, to Glacial Period. the study of which I was then devoting all my spare time. After a thorough sur- vey of the facts I had collected, he be- came satisfied that my interpretation of them was likely to prove correct, and even then be recalled phenomena of his own country, which, under the new light thrown upon them by the glacial phenom- ena of Switzerland, gave a promise of success to my extraordinary venture. We then resolved to pursue the inquiry to- gether on the occasion of my next visit to England; and after the meeting in Glasgow of the British Association for Advancement of Science, we started to- gether for the mountains of Scotland in search of traces of the glaciers, which, if there was any truth in the generali- zations to which my study of the Swiss glaciers had led me, must have come down from the Grampian range, and reached the level of the sea, as they do now in Greenland. On the fourth of November of that year I read a paper before the Geological Society of London, containing a summa- ry of the scientific results of that excur- sion, which I had extended with the same success to Ireland and parts of England. This paper was followed by one from Dr. Buckland himself, containing an account of his own observations, and another from Lyell on the same subject. From that time, the investigation of glaciers in re- gions where they no longer occur has been carried to almost every part of the globe. Before giving a more special account of this expedition, I will say a word of the mass of facts which I had brought from my Alpine researches, on which my own convictions were founded, and which seemed to Buckland worthy of careful consideration. To explain these more fully to my readers, I must leave the Scotch hills for a while, and beg them to return with me to Switzer- land once more. Thus far I have spoken chiefly of the advance of glaciers, and very justly, since they are in constant onward motion, be- ing kept within their limits only by a waste at their lower extremity propor tionate to their advance. But in con- sidering the past history of glaciers, we must thinl~ of their changes as retrograde, not progressive movements; since, if the glacial theory be true, a great mass of ice, of which the present glaciers are but the remnants, formerly spread over the whole Northern hemisphere, and has gradually disappeared, until now no tra- ces of it are to be found, except in the Arctic regions and in lofty mountain- ranges. Every terminal moraine, such as I described in the last article, is the retreating foot print of some glacier, as it slowly yielded its possession of the plain, and betook itself to the mountains; wher- ever we find one of these ancient semicir- cular walls of unusual size, there we may be sure the glacier resolutely set its icy foot, disputing the ground inch by inch, while heat and cold strove for the mas- tery. There may have been a succes- sion of cold summers, or, if now and then a warmer summer intervened, a colder one followed, so that the glacier regained the next year the ground it had lost dur- ing the preceding one, thus continuing to oscillate for a number of years along the same line, and adding coastantly to the debris collected at its extremity. Wher- ever such oscillations and pauses in the retreat of the glacier occurred, all the materials annually brought down to its terminus were collected; and when it finally disappeared from that point, it left a wall to mark its temporary resting- place. By these semicircular concentric walls we can trace the retreat of the ice as it withdrew from the plain of Switzerland to the fastnesses of the Alps. It paused at Berne, and laid the foundation of the present city, which is built on an ancient moraine; it made a stand again at the Lake of Thun, and barred its northern outlet by a wall which holds its waters back to this day. Other moraines, though less distinct, are visible nearer the base of the Bernese Alps, and, above Meyrin- gen, the valley is spanned by one of very large dimensions. Again, on the other side of the first chain of high peaks, the 1864.1 225 226 Glacial Period. [February, glacier of the Rhone, descending the val- ley toward the Lake of Geneva, has ev- erywhere left traces of its ancient exten- sion. We find the valley crossed at va- rious distances by concentric moraines, until we reach the lake. There are no less than thirteen concentric moraines immediately below the present termina- tion of the glacier of the Rhone, the one nearest to the ice, and the last formed, marking its present boundary. Others are visible half a mile, a mile, and two or three miles beyond, near the villages of Obergestelen and Miinster. One of the largest and finest of these ancient mo- raines of the glacier of the Rhone stands at Viesch, and extends across the whole valley, while the Rhone, already swollen by many mountain - torrents, has cut its way through it. Lower down, we meet with traces ofother ancientglaciers, reach- ing laterally the main glacier, which oc- cupied the centre of the valley: such was the glacier of Vieseb, when it extended as far down as the village ; * such was the glacier of Aletsch, when it added its bur- den of ice to that coming from the upper valley; such was the glacier of the Sim- plon, whose moraines, of less antiquity, may now be seen by the road-side lead- ing over the Alps to Italy; such were the two gigantic twin glaciers that drain- ed the northern slopes of the mountain- colosses around Monte Rosa and Matter- horn, united at Stalden, and thence, los- ing their independence, became simply lateral tributaries of the great glacier of the 1{hone; such were, farther on, the glaciers coming down from all the side- valleys opening into the Rhone basin such were the glaciers of the St. Bernard, * It is desirable that the reader should look up these localities upon a map of Switzerland, that he may he impressed with the growing grandeur of these ancient glaciers, even while they were retreatin~ into the heart of the Alps; for in proportion as they left the plain, the landscape must have gained in imposing effect in consequence of the isolation of these im- mense masses of ice, which in their united ex- tension may have recalled rather the immen- sity of the ocean, than the grandeur of Alpine scenery. and even those of Chamouni, which in those early days crossed the Tate Noire to unite below Martigny with those that filled the valley of the Rhone. Thus the outlines of this glacier may be followed from its present remnant at the summit of the Yalais, where the Rhone now springs forth from the ice, to .the very shores of the Lake of Geneva, where, near the mouth of the river, on both banks of the valley, the ancient moraines may be traced to this day, thousands of feet above the level of the water, mark- ing the course the glacier once follow- ed. It is evident thathere the remains of the glacier mark a process of retrogression; for had these successive walls of loose ma- terials been deposited in consequence of the advance of the glacier, they would have been pushed together in one heap at its lower cud. That such would have been the case is not mere inference, but has been determined by direct observa- tion in other localities.. We know, for in- stance, by historical record, (see Gruner a Natural History of the Glaciers of Swit- zerland,) thatin the seventeenth century a number of successive moraines existed at Grindelwald, which have since been driven together by the advance of the glacier, and now form but one. Indeed, we have ample traditional evidence of the oscillations of glacier - boundaries in recent times. When I was engaged in the investigation of this subject, I sought out all the chronicles kept in old convents or libraries which might throw any light up- on it. Among other records, I chanced upon the following, which may have some interest for the historian as well as the geologist. During the religious wars of the six- teenth century, when the Catholics gain- ed the ascendancy in the Canton of Va- lais, the inhabitants of the upper valleys adhered to the Protestant faith. Shut out from ordinary communication with the Protestant churches by the Bernese Oberland, the account states that these peasants braved every obstacle to the exercise of their religion, and used to 1864.] Glacial Period. 227 carry their children over a certain road by the valley of Yiesch, across the Alps, to be baptized at Grindeiwald, on the farther side of the glaciers of Aletsch and Viesch. I could not understand this statement, for no such road exists, or could be conceived possible at present; nor was there any knowledge of;it among the guides, intimate as they are with ev- ery feature of the region. Impressed, however, with the iden that there must be some foundation for the statement, I carefully examined the ground, and, pen- etrating under the glacier of Aletsch, I actually found, a number of feet below the present levcl of the ice, the paved road along which these hardy people travelled to church with their children, and some traces of which are still visi- ble. It has been almost completely bur- ied, although here and there it reappears; but at this day it is completely impassa- ble for ordinary travel. Evidence of a like character is found in a number of facts cited by Venetz in his celebrated paper upon the varia- tions of temperature in the Swiss Alps, drawn from the parish and commune reg- isters of the Canton of Valais. Among these are acts concerning the right to roads which are now either entirely hid- den by ice, or rendered nearly useless by the advance of the glacier, a lawsuit respecting the use of a forest which no longer exists, but the site of which is covered by a glacier, and other records of a similar character. The only docu- inent, so far as I know, previous to this century, which furnishes the means of de- lineating with any accuracy the former boundary of a glacier, is a topographical plan of the environs of the Grimsel, in- cluding the extremity of the Aar, making a part of Altmanns work upon the Alps. In 1740, Kapeler, a physician of Lucerne, undertook a journey to the mountains of the Aar, to visit certain crystal grot- tos, now well known, but then recently discovered. He prepared a map of these grottos and their vicinity, in which they are represented as being situated at some distance from the extremity of the glacier, the lower end of which is now considera- bly beyond them.* But to return to the glacier of the Rhone. We can detect the sequence and relative age of its ancient moraines, not only by their position with reference to each other and to the present glacier, but also by their vegetation. The older ones have a mature vegetation; indeed, some of the largest trees of the vallcy stand upon the lower moraines, while those higher up, nearer the glacier, have only comparatively small trees, and the more recent ones are almost bare of veg- etation. Moreover, we do not lose the track of the great glacier of the Rhone even when we have followed its ancient boundaries to the shores of the Lake of Geneva; for along its northern and south- ern shores we can follow the lateral mo- raines marking the limits of the glacier which once occupicd that crescent-shap- ed dcpression now filled by the blue wa- ters of the lake. M. de Charpentier was the first geolo- gist who attempted to draw the outlines of the glacier of the Rhone during its greatest extension, when it not only fill- ed the basin of the Lake of Geneva, but stretched across the hilly plain to the north, reached the foot of the Jura, and even rose to a considerable height along the southern slope of that chain of mountains. At that time the colos- sal glacier spread at its extremity like a fan, extending westward in the direc- tion of Geneva and eastward towards Soleure.t The very minute and exten- sive investigations of Professor A. Guyot upon the erratic boulders of Switzerland have not only confirmed the statements of M. de Charpentier, but even shown that the northeastern boundary of the ancient glacier of the Rhone was more ~ This map, with all its details and meas- urements, is reproduced (P1. V. fig. 1) in my Syst~me Glaciaire. It was accompanied by an explanatory paper in the form of a letter to Altmann, then Professor at Berne. t M. de Charpentier has published a map of this ancient glacier in his Essay upon the Glaciers and Erratics of the Valley of the llhone. 228 Glacial Period. [February, extensive than was at first supposed. Oth- er researches upon the ancient moraines along the shores of the Lake of Geneva, and in other parts of Switzerland, in which most geologists of the day took an active part, have made us as fully con- versant with the successive outlines and varying extent of the principal glaciers ranging from the Alpine summits to the surrounding lowlands as we are with the glaciers in their present circumscrip- tion. But no one has done as much as Professor Guyot to add precision to these investigations. The number of localities, the level of which he has determined barometrically, with the view of fixing the ancient levels of all these vanished glaciers, is almost incredihle. The result of all these surveys has heen a distinct recognition of not less than seven gigan- tic glaciers descending from the northern and western slopes of the Alps to the ad- joining hilly plains of Switzerland and France. It is most interesting to trace their outlines upon a recent map of those countries, but it requires that kind of intellectual effort of the imagination without which the most brilliant results of modern science remain an unmeaning record to us. Let us, nevertheless, try to follow. The glacier of the Rhone, occupying the whole space hetween the Bernese and Valesian Alps, filled to overflow- ing the valley of the Rhone; at Mar- tigny it was met hy a large trihutary from Mont Blanc, by the side of which it advanced into the plain beyond, fill- ing the whole Lake of Geneva, and cov- ering the beautiful Canton de Vaud and parts of Fribourg, Neuchatel, Berne, and Soleure, rising to the crest of the Jura, and in many points penetrating even be- yond its outer range. To the east of this, the largest of all the ancient glaciers of Switzerland, we find the ancient glacier of the Aar, descend- ing from the northern slope of the whole range of the Bernese Oberland. The glaciers that once filled the valley of Hash, from the Grimsel to Meyringen, and those that came down from the Wet- terhdrner, the Schreckhiirner, the Fin- ster-Aarhorn, and the Jungfrau, through the valleys of Grindelwald and Lauter- hrunnen, united in a common bed, the bottom of which was the present basin of the Lakes of Brientz and Thun. These were joined by the glaciers emptying their burden through the valley of the Kander. To these combined glaciers the formation of the terminal moraine of Thun must be ascribed. But before this had been formed, the glacier of the Aar, in its amplest extension, had also reached the foot of the Jura, without, however, spreading so widely as the gla- cier of the Rhone. Farther to the east Professor Guyot has traced the bounda- ries of three other colossal glaciers, one of which derived its chief supplies from the Alps of Un, bringing with it all the tributaries which the main glacier com- ing down from the St. Gothard received right and left, in its course through the valley of the Reuss and the basins of the Lakes of Lucerne and Zug. The second, born in the Canton of Glans, followed mainly the present course of the Linth and the basin of the Lake of Zurich. Pro- fessor Esehen von der Linth has shown that the lovely city of Zurich is built upon a moraine, like Berne. The im- agination shrinks from the thought that all the beautiful scenery of those coun- tries should once have been hidden un- der masses of ice, like those now cov- ering Greenland. The easternmost an- cient glacier of Switzerland is that of the Rhine, arising from all the valleys from which now descend the many trib- utaries of that stream, spreading over the northeastern Cantons, filling the Lake of Constance, and terminating at the foot of the Suabian Alp. Next to the glacier of the Rhone, this was once the largest of those descending from the range of the Alps. West of Mont Blanc Professor Guyot has traced the boundaries of two other distinct ancient glaciers; one of which, the glacier of the Arve, followed chiefly the course of the Arve, and, though dis- charging the icy accumulations from the Glacial Period. western slope of Mont Blanc, was, as it were, only a lateral affluent of the great glacier of the Rhone. The other, the glacier of the Js~re, occupied, to the south and west of the preceding, the large tri- angular space intervening between the Alps and the Jura, in that part of Sa- voy where the two mountain-chains con- verge and become united. It would lead me too far, were I to describe also the course of the great ancient glaciers which descended from the southern slopes of the Alps into the plain of Northern Italy. Moreover, these boundaries are not yet ascertained with the same degree of accuracy as those of the northern and western slopes; though very accurate descriptions of some of them have been published, with illus- trations on a large scale, by MM. Mar- tins and Gastaldi, and of others by Pro- fessor Ramsey. I have myself examin- ed only the upper part of that of the valley of Aosta. The evidence concerning the ancient glaciers of the Alps, especially within the limits of Switzerland, is already so full that it affords ample means for a compre- hensive general view of the subject. It is frequently the case, that, when a stretch of time or space lies between us and a matter we have once studied more close- ly, it presents itself to us as a whole more vividly than when our nearness to it for- ced all its details upon our observation. In my present position, now that the lapse of many years separates me from my personal investigations of the ancient and modern glaciers, and I look back upon them from another continent, it seems to me that I have, as it were, a birds-eye view of their whole extent; and I confess that this distant retrospect of the subject has been to me almost as fascinating as were the researches of my earlier years in the same direction. I wish that I could present it to the minds of my readers with something of the attraction it possesses for me. I trust, however, that I have made it plain to them that the great mountain - chain of the Alps has been a central axis from which immense glaciers at one time descended in every direction, not only to its base, beyond which the lowlands extend in flat undu- lations, but to a greater or less distance over the adjoining plains; while at pres- ent they are confined to the higher val- leys. So far, then, notwithstanding the extraordinary difference in their dimen- sions, at the time they reached the Jura and the plain of Northern Italy, when compared with what they are now, they seem directly connected with the Alps, and the mountains appear as their birth- place; so much so that the first attempts at a generalization concerning their ori- gin started from the assumption that they must have been formed between the high ridges from which they seem to flow down. These facts, then the only ones known concerning a greater extension of the glaciers, naturally led to the views advocated by M. de Charpentier. My own theory was also at first, that the up- heaval of the Alps must, in some way or other, have been connected with these phenomena. But it soon became evident to me that these views were inadequate to account for the former presence of extensive glaciers in other parts of Eu- rope; and even within the range of the Alps there were insuperable objections to their final admission. If the ancient glaciers had been first formed among the highest mountains, and extended down- wards into the plains, the largest and highest moraines ought to be the most distant, and to be formed of the most rounded masses; whereas the actual con- dition of the detrital accumulations is the reverse, the distant materials being wide- ly spread, and true moraines being found only in valleys connected with great chains of lofty mountains. Again, all these moraines are within one another, the most distant from the glacier to which they owe their origin encircling all those which are nearer and nearer to it within the same glacial ba- sin. And as no glacier could reach to its farthest moraine without pushing for- ward all the intervening loose materials, it is self-evident that the outer moraines 1864.1 229 230 Glacial Period. [February, were first formed, and those nearer the glacier subsequently, in the order in which they follow one another from the lower valleys to the higher levels at which alone glaciers exist at present. Trans- lating these facts into words, we see that the glaciers to which these ancient mo- raines owe their origin must have been retreating gradually while the moraines were accumulating. But a glacier while uniformly retreating forms no high walls of loose materials around its edges and at its lower extremity; as it melts away, it only drops the burden of angular rocky fragments which it carries upon its back over the loose fragments above which it moves, and which it grinds to powder, or to sand, or to rounded peb- bles, in its progress. It is only where the glacier remains stationary for a lon- ger or shorter period that large terminal moraines can accumulate; and they are generally found in such places in the valleys of the Alps as would naturally determine the lower limit of a glacier for the time being. There is no possibility of escaping the conclusion that the an- cient glaciers must have begun that series of oscillations to which the accumulation of the moraines is to be ascribed, at a time when ice - fields already occupied the whole area which they have covered (luring their greatest cx tension. After we shall have seen how many centres of dispersion of erratic boulders existed in the northern hemisphere, similar to that of the Alps, we may perhaps be able to form some idea of the manner in which these ice-fields originated and gradually vanished. Some investigators have been inclined to explain the presence of boulders, mo- raines, drift, and the like phenomena, by the action of water. But even if we could believe that rivers had brought along with them such masses of rock, and deposited them where they are now found, the regularity in the distribution oC the materials disproves any such the- ory. In the lateral moraines of the Lake of Geneva we have a striking illustration of this apparently systematic division of the loose materials; for the northeastern moraines of that glacial basin contain rocks belonging exclusively to the north- ern side of the valley of the Rhone, while the moraines on the southern shore of the lake consist of rocks belonging to its southern side. Indeed, rivers, so far from building up moraines, have of- ten partially destroyed them. We find various instances of moraines through which a river runs, having worn for it- self a passage, on either side of which the form of the moraine remains un- broken. In the valley of the Rhone there are villages built on such moraines, as, for instance, Vieseb, with the river running through their centre. But if we need further confirmation of the fact that these accumulations on ei- ther side of this and other Swiss lakes are ancient lateral moraines, we have it in their connection with walls of a like nature at their lower end, where we find again transverse moraines barring their outlet, and also in the continuity of long trains of fragments of similar rocks ex- tending side by side across wide plains for great distances without mixture. From the beginning of my investigations upon the glaciers, I have urged these two points as most directly proving their greater ex- tension in former times, and more recent researches constantly recur to this kind of evidence. All our lakes would be fill- ed with loose materials, had their basins not been sheltered by ice against the en- croachments of river-deposits during the transportation of the erratic boulders to the farthest limits of their respective are- as; and all the continuous trails of rocks derived from the same locality would have been scattered over wide areas, had they not been carried along, in unyielding tracks, like moraines. On a small scale the waters of the Rhone and of the Arve recall to this day such a picture. There are few travellers in Switzerland who have not seen these two rivers, where they flow side by side, meeting, but not mingling, at the southern extremity of the lake, the different color of their wa- ter marking the two parallel currents. 1864.] Glacial Period. 231 In old times, when the glaciers filled all the valleys at the base of Mont Blanc, and to the east of it, uniting in the valley through which now runs the River Rhone, the gla- cier of the Arve came down to meet the ice from the valley of the Rhone, in the same manner as the River Arve now comes to meet the waters of the Rhone where they rush out from the southern end of the lake. This would be the proper place to con- sider the formation of the lakes of Switz- erland, as well as their preservation by the agency of glaciers. But this subject is so intricate, and has already given rise to so many controversies which could not be overlooked in this connection, that I prefer to pass it over altogether in silence. Suffice it to say that not only are most of the lakes of Switzerland hemmed in by transverse moraines at their lower ex- tremity, but the lakes of Upper Italy, at the foot of the Alps, are barred in the same way, as are also the lakes of Nor- way and Sweden, and some of our own ponds and lakes. Strange as it may seem to the traveller who sails under an Italian sky over the lovely waters of Co- mo, Maggiore, and Lugano, it is, never- theless, true, that these depressions were once filled by solid masses of ice, and that the walls built by the old glaciers still block their southern outlets. Indeed, were it not for these moraines, there would be comparatively few lakes either in North- ern Italy or in Switzerland. The greater part of them have such a wall built across one end; and but for this masonry of the glacier, there would have been nothing to prevent their waters from flowing out into the plain at the breaking up of the ice-period. We should then have had open valleys in place of all these sheets of water which give such diversity and beauty to the scenery of Northern Italy and Switzerland, or, at least, the lakes would be much fewer and occupy only the deeper depressions in the hard rocks. Such being the evidences of the for- mer extent of the glaciers in the plains, what do the mountain-summits tell us of their height and depth? for here, also, they have left their handwriting on the wall. Every mountain-side in the Alps is inscribed with these ancient characters, recording the level of the ice in past times. Here and there a ledge or ter- race on the wall of the valley has afford- ed support for the lateral moraines, and wherever such an accumulation is left, it marks the limit of the ice at some former period. These indications are, however, uncertain and fragmentary, depending upon projections of the rocky walls. But thousands of feet above the present level of the glacier, far up toward their sum- mits, we find the sides of the mountains furrowed, scratched, and polished in ex- actly the same manner as the surfaces over which the glaciers pass at present. These marks are as legible and clear to one who is familiar with glacial traces as are hieroglyphics to the Egyptian schol- ar; indeed, more so, for he not only recognizes their presence, but reads their meaning at a glance. Above the line at which these indications cease, the edges of the rocks are sharp and angular, the surface of the mountain rough, unpolish- ed, and absolutely devoid of all those marks resulting from glacial action. On the Alps these traces are visible to a height of nine thousand feet, and across the whole plain of Switzerland, as I have stated, one may trace the glaciers by their moraines, by the masses of rock they have let fall here and there, by the drift they have deposited, to the very foot of the opposite chain, where they have dropped their boulders along the base of the Jura. Ascending that chain, one finds the grooved, polished, and scratched surfaces to its summit, on the very crest of which boulders entirely for- eign to the locality are perched. Follow the range down upon the other side and you find the same indications extending into the plains of Burgundy and France beyond. With a chain of evidence so complete, it seems to me impossible to deny that the whole space between the opposite chains of the Alps and the Jura was once filled with ice; that this mass of ice coi~i 232 Glacial Period. [February, pletely covered the Jui-a, with the excep- tion of a few high crests, perhaps, rising island-like above it, and mounted to a height of some nine thousand feet upon the Alps, while it extended on the one side into the northern plain of Italy, fill- ing all its depressions, and on the other down to the plains of Central Europe. The only natural inference frQm these facts is, that the climatic conditions lead- ing to their existence could not have been local; they must have been cosmic. When Switzerland was bridged across from range to range by a mass of ice stretching southward into Lombardy and Tuscany, northward into France and Bur- gundy, the rest of Europe could not have remained unaffected by the causes which induced this state of things. It was this conviction which led me to seek for the traces of glaciers in Great Britain. I had never been in the regions I intended to visit, but I knew the forms of the valleys in the lake - country of England, in the Highlands of Scotland, and in the mountains of Wales and Ire- land, and I was as confident that I should find them crossed by terminal moraines and bordered by lateral ones, as if I had already seen them. The reader must not suppose, when I describe these walls, formed of the debris of the glacier, as consisting of boulders, stones, pebbles, sand, and gravel, a rough accumulation of loose materials indiscrim- inately thrown together, that we find the ancient moraines presenting any such ap- pearance. Time, which mellows and sof- tens all the wrecks of the past, has clothed them with turg grassed them over, plant- ed them with trees, sown his seed and gathered in his harvests upon them, until at last they make a part of the undulat- ing surface of the country. Were it not for anticipating my story, I could point out many a green billow, rising out of the fields and meadows immediately about us, that had its origin in the old ice-time. Thus disguised, they are not so evident to the casual observer but, nevertheless, when once familiar with the peculiar form, character, and position of these rounded ridges scattered over the face of the country, they are easily rec- ognized. Of course, the ancient glaciers of Great Britain were far more difficult to trace than those of Switzerland, where the pres- ent glaciers are guides to the old ones. But, nevertheless, my expectations were more than answered. The first valley I entered in the glacial regions of Scotland was barred by a terminal moraine; and throughout the North of England, as well as in Scotland and Ireland, I found the hill-sides covered with traces of glacial action, as distinct and unmistakable as those I had left in my native land. And not only was the surface of the country polished, grooved, and scratched, as in the region of existing glaciers, and pro- senting an appearance corresponding ex- actly to that described elsewhere, but we could track the path of the boulders where they had come down from the hills above and been carried from the mouth of each valley far down into the plains below. In Scotland and Ireland the phenomena were especially interesting. I had intend- ed to give in this article some account of the parallel roads of Glenroy, mark- ing the ancient levels of glacier-lakes, so much discussed in this connection. But the reminiscences of old friends, and the many associations revived in my mind by recurring to a subject which I have long looked upon as a closed chapter, so far as my own researches are concerned, have constantly led me beyond the limits I had prescribed to myself in these papers upon glaciers; and as the story of Glen- roy and the phenomena connected with it is a long one, I shall reserve it for a subsequent number. 1864.1 Bryant. THE literary life of Bryant begins with t~ublication of Thanatopsis in the North American Review, in 1816 for we need take no account of those earlier blosso~s, plucked untimely from the tree, as tbey bad been prematurely expanded by the heat of party polities. The strain of that song was of a higher mood. In tbose days, when American literature. spoke with faint and feeble voice, like the chirp of half-awakened birds in the morning twilight, we need not say what cordial welcome was cx- ten(led to a poem . which embodied in blank verse worthy of anybody since Milton thougbts of the highest reach and noblest power, or what wonder was mingled with the praise when it was an- nounced that this grand and majestic moral teaching and this rich and sus- tained music were the work of a boy of eighteen. Not that Bryant was no more than eighteen when Thanatopsis was printed, for he must pay one of the trib- utes of eminence in having all the world know that he was born in 1 794 ; but he was no more than eighteen when it was written, and surely never was there rip- er fruit plucked from so young a tree. And now we have before us, with the imprint of 1864, his latest volume, enti- tled Thirty Poems. Between this date and that of the publication of Thanatopsis there sweeps an arch of forty-eight years. With Bryant these have been years of manly toil, of reso- lute sacrifice, of faithful discharge of all the duties of life. The cultivation of the poetical faculty is not always favor- able to the growth of the character, but Bryaiit is no less estimable as a man than admirable as a poet. It has been his lot to earn his bread by the exercise of the prose part of his mind, by those qualities which he has in common with other men, and his poetry has been written in the intervals and breathing spaces of a lifP of regular indsistrv. This VOL. XTII. 16 necessity for ungenial toil may have add- ed something to the shyness and gravity of the poets manners; but it ~as doubt- less given earnestness, concentration, depth, and a strong flavor of life to his verse. Had he been a man of leisure, he might have written more, but he could hardly have written better. And nothing tends more to prolong to old a~e the freshness of feeling and the sensibil- ity to impressions which are characteris- tic of the poetical temperament than the dedication of a portion of every day to some kind of task-work. The sweetest flowers are those which grow upon the rocks of renunciation. Byron at thirty- seven was a burnt-out volcano: Bryant at threeseore and ten is as sensitive to the touch of beauty as at twenty. The poetry of Bryant is not great in amount, but it represeiits a great deal of work, as few men are more finished ar- tists than he, or more patient in shap- ing and polishing their prO(luetions. No piece of verse ever leaves his hands till it has received the last touch demanded by the most correct judgment and the most fastidious taste. Thus the style of his poetry is always admirable. No- where can one find in what he has writ- ten a careless or slovenly expression, an awkward phrase, or an ill-chosen word. lie never puts in a.n epithet to fill out a line, and never uses one which eould be improved by substituting another. The range within which he moves is not wide. He has not written narrative or dramatic poems: he has not painted poetical por- traits: he has not aspired to the honors of satire, of wit, or of humor: lie has made no contributions to the poetry of passion. His poems may be divided into two great classes, those which express the moral aspects of humanity, and those which interpret the language of Nature; though it mAy be adinhed that in not a few of his productions these two elements are combined. Those of the 0 BRYANT. 23 0

G. S. Hillard Hillard, G. S. Bryant 233-239

1864.1 Bryant. THE literary life of Bryant begins with t~ublication of Thanatopsis in the North American Review, in 1816 for we need take no account of those earlier blosso~s, plucked untimely from the tree, as tbey bad been prematurely expanded by the heat of party polities. The strain of that song was of a higher mood. In tbose days, when American literature. spoke with faint and feeble voice, like the chirp of half-awakened birds in the morning twilight, we need not say what cordial welcome was cx- ten(led to a poem . which embodied in blank verse worthy of anybody since Milton thougbts of the highest reach and noblest power, or what wonder was mingled with the praise when it was an- nounced that this grand and majestic moral teaching and this rich and sus- tained music were the work of a boy of eighteen. Not that Bryant was no more than eighteen when Thanatopsis was printed, for he must pay one of the trib- utes of eminence in having all the world know that he was born in 1 794 ; but he was no more than eighteen when it was written, and surely never was there rip- er fruit plucked from so young a tree. And now we have before us, with the imprint of 1864, his latest volume, enti- tled Thirty Poems. Between this date and that of the publication of Thanatopsis there sweeps an arch of forty-eight years. With Bryant these have been years of manly toil, of reso- lute sacrifice, of faithful discharge of all the duties of life. The cultivation of the poetical faculty is not always favor- able to the growth of the character, but Bryaiit is no less estimable as a man than admirable as a poet. It has been his lot to earn his bread by the exercise of the prose part of his mind, by those qualities which he has in common with other men, and his poetry has been written in the intervals and breathing spaces of a lifP of regular indsistrv. This VOL. XTII. 16 necessity for ungenial toil may have add- ed something to the shyness and gravity of the poets manners; but it ~as doubt- less given earnestness, concentration, depth, and a strong flavor of life to his verse. Had he been a man of leisure, he might have written more, but he could hardly have written better. And nothing tends more to prolong to old a~e the freshness of feeling and the sensibil- ity to impressions which are characteris- tic of the poetical temperament than the dedication of a portion of every day to some kind of task-work. The sweetest flowers are those which grow upon the rocks of renunciation. Byron at thirty- seven was a burnt-out volcano: Bryant at threeseore and ten is as sensitive to the touch of beauty as at twenty. The poetry of Bryant is not great in amount, but it represeiits a great deal of work, as few men are more finished ar- tists than he, or more patient in shap- ing and polishing their prO(luetions. No piece of verse ever leaves his hands till it has received the last touch demanded by the most correct judgment and the most fastidious taste. Thus the style of his poetry is always admirable. No- where can one find in what he has writ- ten a careless or slovenly expression, an awkward phrase, or an ill-chosen word. lie never puts in a.n epithet to fill out a line, and never uses one which eould be improved by substituting another. The range within which he moves is not wide. He has not written narrative or dramatic poems: he has not painted poetical por- traits: he has not aspired to the honors of satire, of wit, or of humor: lie has made no contributions to the poetry of passion. His poems may be divided into two great classes, those which express the moral aspects of humanity, and those which interpret the language of Nature; though it mAy be adinhed that in not a few of his productions these two elements are combined. Those of the 0 BRYANT. 23 0 234 Bryant. [February, former class are not so rem~kable for originality of treatment as for the beau- ty and truth with which they express the reflections of the general mind and the emotions of the general heart. In these poems we see our own experience re- turned t~us, touched with the lights and colored with the hues of the most ex- quisite poetry. Their tone is grave and high, hut not ~loomy or morbid: the edges of the cloud of life are turned to gold hy faith and hope. Of the poems of this class, Thanatopsis, of which we have already spoken, is one of the hest known. Others are the Hymn to Death, The Old Mans Funeral,. A Forest Hymn, The Lapse of Time, An Evening Reverie, The Old Mans Counsel, and The Past. This last is one of the noblest of his produc- tions, full of solemn beauty and melan- choly music, and we cannot deny our- selves the pleasure of quoting a few of its stanzas. Thou unrelenting Past! Strong are the barriers round thy dark domain, And fetters, sure and fast, Hold all that enter thy unbreathing reign. Far in thy realm withdrawn, Old empires sit in sullenness and gloom, And glorious ages done Lie deep within the shadow of thy womb. Childhood, with all its mirth, Youth, Manhood, A~ e, that draws us to the ground, And last, Mans Life on earth, Glide to thy dun dominions, and are bound. In thy abysses hide Beauty and excellence unknown, to thee Earths wonder and her pride Are gathered, as the waters to the sea; Labors of good to man, Unpublished charity, unbroken faith, Love, that midst grief began, And grew with years, and faltered not in death. Full mans a mighty name Lurks in thy depths, unuttered, unrevered; With thee are sileutfame, Forgotten arts, and ~isdom disappeared. Thine for a space are they, Yet shalt thou yield thy treasures up t. last; Thy gates shall vet give way, Thy bolts shall fail, inexorable Past! All that of good and fair Has gone into thy womb from earliest time Shall then come forth to wear The glory and the beauty of its pri~ Here is nothing new. It is the old, sad strain, of coeval birth with poetry it- self. It may be read in the Hebrew of the Book of Job and in the Greek of homer: but with what dignity of senti- ment, what majestic music, what beauty of language, the oft- repeated lesson of humanity is enforced! Every word is chosen with unerring judgment, and no needless dilution of language weakens the force of the conceptions and pictures. Bryant is one of the few poets who will bear the test of the well-nigh obsolete art of verbal criticism: observe the expres- sions, silent fame, forgotten arts, wisdom disoppeored: how exactly these epithets satisfy the ear and the mind! how impossible to change any one of them for the better In Bryants descriptive poems there is the same finished execution and the same beauty of style as in his reflective and didactic poems, with more origi- nality of treatment. It was his fortune to be born and reared in the western part of Massachusetts, and to become familiar with some of the most beautiful inland scenery of New England in youth and early manhood, when the mind takes impressions which the attrition of life never wears out. In his study of Nature be combines the faculty and the vision, the eye of the naturalist and the imagi- nation of the poet. No man observes the outward shows of earth and sky more accurately; no man feels them more vividly; no man describes them more beautifully. lie was the first of our poets who, (leserting the conventional paths in which imitators move, studied and delineated Nature as it exists in New England, modified bythe elements of a comparatively low latitude, a bril- liant sky, uncertain springs, short and hot summers, richly colored autumns, and 4 1864.] B7an t. 23~3 winters of purc and crystal cold. The merit and the popularity of Bryants de- scriptive poetry prove how intimate is the relation between imagination and truth, and how the poet who is faithful to the highest requisitions of his art must obey laws as ri~id as those of science it- self. Here, at the risk of making our read- ers read again what they may have read before, we transcribe a passage from a memorandum of Mr. Morritts, containing an account of Scotts proceedings while studying the localities of Rokeby: I observed him noting down even the pqculiar little wild flowers and herbs that accidentally grew round and on the side of a bold crag near his intended Cave of . Grey Deuzil, and could not help saying, that, as he was .not to be upon oath in his work, daisies, violets, and primroses would be as poetical as any of the humble plants he was exam- ining. I laughed, in short, at his scru- pulousness; but I understood him when be replied, that in Nature no two scenes were exactly alike, and that whoever cop- ied truly what was before his eyes would possess the same variety in his descrip- tions, and exhibit apparently an imagi- nation as boundless as the range of Na- ture in the scenes he recorded; whereas, whoever trusted to his imagination would soon find his own mind circumscribed and e~ntracted to a few images, and the repetition of these would sooner or later produce that very monotony and barren- ness which had always haunted descrip- tive poetry in the hands of any but the patient worshippers of truth. This is excellent good sense, and the descriptive poetry of Bryant shows how carefully he has observed the rules which Scott has laid down. lie never has a conventional image, and never resorts to the second - hand frippery of a poetical commonplace-book to ta~ his verses with. Every season of our American year has been delineated by him, and the drawing and coloring of his pictures are always correct. Our American springs, for in- stance, are not at all the ideal or poetical springs, and Bryant does not pretend that they are ; and yet lie can fiud a poetical side to them, as witness his p~m en- titled March: The stormy March is come at last, With wind, aiid cloud, and changing skies: I hear the rushing of the hiast That throu0 h the snowy valley flies. Ah, passing few are they who speak, Wild, stormy month iii praise of thee Yet, though thy winds are loud and hleak, Thou art a welcome month to me. For thou to northern lends again The glad and glorious sun dost brin a; And thou hast joined the gentle train, Aiid wearst the gentle name of Spring. And in thy reign of blast and storm Smiles many a long, bright, sunny day, When the changed winds are soft and warm, And heaven puts on the blue of May. This is all as strictly true as if it were drawn up for an affidavit. March, as we all know, is the eldest daughter of Winter, and bitterly like her grim sire. The snow which has melted from the up- lands lingers in the valleys; the storms, and the cloudy skies, and the rushing blasts mark the sullen retreat of winte but the days are growing longer, the sem mounts higher, and sometimes a soft and vernal air flows from the blue sky, like Burnss daisy glintiiig forth amid the storm. Mart h and April come and go, and May sticceetls. Tiers is not quite the blue, voluptuous eve she wears in the portraits which poets paint of he ~, and those who court her smiles are some- tinies chilled by decidedly wintry glances. Bryant gives us her best aspect: The sun of May was hright in middle heaven And steeped the sproutiub forests, the green hills, And emerald wheat-fields, in his yellow light. ITpon the apple-tree, where rosy huds Stood clustered, ready to hurst forth in bloom, The rohin warbled forth his full clear note For hours, and wearied not. Within the woods, Where young and half-transparent leave~ scarce cast 236 Bryant. [February, A shade, gay circles of anemones Danced on their stalks; the shad-bush, white with flowers, Brightened the glens; the new-leaved butter- nut And quivering pop1ar to the roving breeze Gave a balsamic fragrance. How admirable this is! And with what truth, we had almost said courage, the poet makes his report. The emerald wheat-fields, the rosy buds of the apple- tree, the half- transpa~rent leaves of the trees, the anemones on their restless stalks, the shad-bush (A melancliier Do- iryapium), the quivering poplars, and the peculiar balsamic odor which one per- ceives in the woods at that seasou are so exactly what we find in our New-Eng- land May! How much better these dis- tinct statements are than a tissue of gen- eralities about flowery wreaths, and fra- grant zephyrs, and genial rays, and fresh verdure, and vernal airs, and ambrosial dews! But the year goes on. Our fitful and capricious spring passes by, and summer takes its place. But our New-England summer is not like the summer of Thom- son and Cowper, anti images drawn from English poetry and transplanted here would be out of place; and our faithful interpreter of American Nature takes nothing at second-hand. How correctly lie delineates the characteristic features of our glorious month of June! There, through the long, long summer hours, The golden light should lie, And thick young herbs and groups of flowers Stand in their beauty by. The oriole should build and tell His love-tale close beside my cell; The idle butterfly Should rest him here, and there be heard The housewife-bee and humming-bird. The housewsfe-bee is an expressive ep- ithet. Does it involve a double mean- ing, and insinuate that as a bee carries a sting, so women who are stirring, nota- ble, and good housekeepers have some- thing sharp in their natures? Next comes midsummer with its fervid and overpowering heats, which find in our poet. also an accurate delineator. It is a sultry day: the sun has drunk The dew that lay upon the morning grass; There is no rustling in the lofty elm That canopies my dwelling, and its shade Scarce cools me. All is silent, save the faint And interrupted murmur of the bee, Settling on the sick flowers, anil then again Instantly on the wing. The plants around Feel the too potent fervors: the tall maize Rolls up its long green leaves; the clover droops Its tender foliage, and declines its blooms. But far in the fierce sunshine tower the hills With all their growth of woods, silent and stern, As if the scorching heat and dazzling light Were but an element they loved. But our radiant and many-colored an- tumn is Bryants favorite season, and some of his most beautiful and character- istic passages are those which paint its hues of crimson and purple, and the va- porous gold of its atmosphere. Such is the number of these passages that it is difficult to make a selection of one or two for quotation. here is one froni Autumn Woods. Let in throu~h all the trees, Come the straiige rays; the forest-depths are bright; Their sunny-colored foliage, in the breeze, [winkles like beams of light. The rivulet, late unseen, Where bickering through the shrubs iLs waters run, Shines with the imna~e of its golden screen And gihumerings of the sun. But., neath yen crimson tree, Lover to listening maid mi~bt bre the his flame, Nor mark, within its roseate canopy, Her blush of maiden shame. Here is nothing imitative or borrowed, and here are no unmeaning generalities. Everything is exact and local, drawn from an American autumn, and no other. And how lovely an image is that in the third stanza, and what an added charm it gives to an object in itself most beau- tiful But our rea(lers must in(lulge us with one more quotation under this head, al 1864.] lSr,yant. 237 though we take it from one of the most popular perhaps the most popular of his poems, The Death of the Flow- ers. The wind-flower and the violet, they perished long ago, Arid the brier-rose and the orchis died amid the summer glow; But on the hill tIre golden-rod, and the aster in the wood And the yellow sunflower by the brook in autumn beauty stood, Till fell the frost from the clear, cold heaven, as falls tire plague on men, And the brightness of their smile was gone, from upland, glade, and glen. And now, when comes the calm mid-day, as still such days will come, To call tIre squirrel and the bee from out their winter home, When the sound of dropping rsuts is heard, though all the trees are still, Arid twinkle in the susoky light the waters (f the sill, The south - wind searches for the flowers whose fragrance late he bore, And sighs to find them in the wood and by tire stream no more. Of the poetry of these exquisite lines, the melancholy sweetness of the senti- ment, tIre delicate beauty of the versifi- cation, we need not say one word, hut we claim a moments attention to their fidelity to truth, and the accuracy of ob- servation which they evince. The gold- en-rod and the aster are the characteris- tic autuuin flowers in that zone of our con- tinent in which New England is embra- ced, and tire sunflower is a very common flower at that season. That lovely child of the declining year, the fringed gen- tian, would doubtless have been hrought in with her fair sisters, had it not been for her somewhat unmanageable name. Bry- airt has written some beautiful stanzas to tins flower, but in them lie only calls it a blossom. And how flue a landscape is condensed into tire two delicious lines which we have Italicized! and yet no one ever walked into a New-Englanti wood on a late day in autumn without hearing the nuts drop upon the withered leaves, and seeing the streams flash through the smoke - like haze which hangs over the landscape. But winter, especially our clear and sparkling New - England winter, has its scenes of splendor and aspects of beauty anti the poet would not be true to his calling, if he failed to recognize them. Come when tire rains have glazed the snow, and clothed the trees with ice, While the slant sun of February pours Into the bowers a flood of light. Approach! The incrusted sorface shall uphear thy steps, And the broad arching portals of the grove Welcome thy errterin~. Look! the massy Trunks are cased iii the pure crystal; each light spray, Nodding and tinkling in tine breath of heaven, Is studded with its trembling water-drops That glimmer with an ametlrystine light; But round the parent stem the long, low boughs Bend, in a glittering ring, and arbors hide Tire glassy floor. There are niany more lines equally good, but we have not space for them. This is a description of winter as we have rt here, compounded of the elements of extreme cold, a transparent atmosphere, and brilliant sunshine. No English poet can see such a scene, at least in iris own country: Ambrose Phillips did see some- thing like it in Sweden, and described it in a poetical epistle to the Earl of Dor- set, which is much the best thing ire ever wrote, and has a pulse of truth and life in it, from the simple fact that he saw something new, and told his noble cor- respondent what he saw. But Bryants claims to the honors of a truly national poet do not rest solely upon the fidelity with which he has de- scribed the peculiar scenery of Iris native land, for no poet has expressed with more earnestness of conviction and more beau- ty of language the great ideas which have moulded our political institutions and on social life. Before the breaking out of the Civil War he was a member of that great l)ohitieal party of which Jefferson was the head, and he is still a Democrat in the primitive sense of the word; that is to say, he believes in man s capacity for self-government, and in his right to gov- ern himself. 1-Jo Inns full trust in human progress; age has not lessened the faith 238 Br,yant. [February, with which he looks forward to the fu- ture; his sympathies are with the many, and not with the few. Though he has travelled much in Europe, his imagina- tion has been but little affected by the forms of beauty and grandeur which past ages have bequeathed to the present. He has not found inspiration in the palace., the cathedral, the ruined castle, the ivy- covered church, the rose-embowered cot- tage. Indeed, it is only by incidental and occasional touches that one would learn from his poetry that he had ever been out of his own country at all: his inspi- ration and his themes are alike drawn from the scenery, the institutions, the history of his native land. His imagina- tion, as was the case with Milton, rests upon a basis of gravity deepening into sternness; and we have little doubt that not a few of the things in Europe, which move to pleasure the lightly stirred fancy of many American travellers, aroused in him a different feeling, as either memo- rials of an age or expressions of a sys- tem in which the many were sacrificed to the few. In his mental frame there is a pulse of indignation which is easily stirred against any form of injustice or oppression. His later poems, as might naturally be expected, are those in which the sentiments and aspirations of a patri- otic and hopeful American are most dis- tinctly expressed; among them are The Battle-Field, The Winds, The An- tiquity of Freedom, and that which is called, from its first line, 0 Mother of a Mighty Race. It would be well to read these poems in connection with the seventeenth chapter of the second vol- ume of De Tocquevilles Democracy in America, which treats of the sources of poetry among democratic nations; and the comparison will furnish fresh cause for admiring the prophetic sagacity of that great philosophical thinker, who, at the time he wrote, predicted all our future, because he comprehended all our past. And here we pray the indulgence of our readers to a rather liberal citation from one of these later poems, because it enables us to illustrate from his own lips what we have just been saying. It is also one of those passages, not uncommon in modern poetry, in which the poet ad- mits us to his confidence, and lets us see the working of the machinery as well as its product. It is from The Painted Cup, a poem so called from a scarlet flower of that name found upon the Western prairies. Now, if thou art a poet, tell me not That these bright chalices were tinted tl~ss To hold the dew for fairi& , when they meet On moonlight evenings in the hazel-bowers, And dance till they are thirsty. Call not up, Amid this fresh and vir~in solitude, The faded fancies of an elder world; But leave these scarlet cups to spotted moths Of June, and glistening flies, and humming- birds, To drink from, when on all these boundless lawns The morning sun looks hot. Or let the wind Oerturn in sport their ruddy brims, and pour A sudden shower upon the strawberry-plant, To swell the reddening fruitthat even now Breathes a slight franrance from the sunny slope. But thou art of a gayer fancy. Well, Let, then, the gentle Maniton of flowers, Lingering amid the bloomy waste he loves, Though all his swarthy worshippers are gone, Slender and small, his rounded cheek all brown And ruddy with the sunshine,let him come On summer mornings, when the blossoms wake, And part with little hands the spiky grass, And, touching with his cherry lips the edge Of. these bright beakers, drain the gathered dew. What a lovely picture is this of the Manitou offiowers, and what a subject for an artist to embody in forms and colors! The whole passage is very beautiful, and its beauty is in part derived from its truth. It meets the requisitions of the philosophical understanding, as well as of the shaping and aggregating fancy. The poetry is manly, masculine, and simple. The ornaments are of pure gold, such as will bear the test of open daylight. It is the function of the critic to dis- criminate and divide, and we have at- tempted to deal thus with the poems of Bryant; but some of the best of his pro- 1864.1 Annesley Hall and Newstead Abbey. 239 ductions cannot be classified and arrang- ed under any particular head: They breathe the spirit of universal human- ity, and speak a language intelligible to every human heart. Among these are The Evening Wind, The Conquer- or s Grave, and The Future Life. All of these are exquisite alike in con- ception and execution. We suppose that most persons ~iave in regard to poet- ry certain fancies, whims, preferences, founded on reasons too delicate to be re- vealed or too airy to be expressed. As Mrs. Battles in a moment of confidence confessed to Elia that hearts was her favorite suit, so we breathe in the ear of the public an acknowledgment, that, of all Bryants poems, The Future Life is that which we read the most frequent- ly, and with the deepest feeling. We say read, but we have known it by heart for years. We will not affirm that it is the best of his poems, but it is that which moves us most, and which we feel most grateful to him for having written. The grace and charm of this poem come from regions beyond the range of literary crit- icism, and the heart shrinks from mak- ing a revelation of the emotions whi