The Atlantic Monthly, Volume 14, No. 85, November, 1864
A Magazine of Literature, Art, and Politics (2024)

THE

A MAGAZINE OF LITERATURE, ART, AND POLITICS.

VOL. XIV.—NOVEMBER, 1864.—NO. LXXXV.

Entered according to Act of Congress, in the year 1864, by Ticknor andFields, in the Clerk's Office of the District Court of the District ofMassachusetts.

Transcriber's Note: Minor typos have been corrected and footnotes movedto the end of the article. Table of contents created for the HTML version.

CONTENTS

LEAVES FROM AN OFFICER'S JOURNAL.
RICHES.
THE VENGEANCE OF DOMINIC DE GOURGUES.
LINA.
CHARLES LAMB'S UNCOLLECTED WRITINGS.
TO WILLIAM CULLEN BRYANT.
HOUSE AND HOME PAPERS
THE NEW SCHOOL OF BIOGRAPHY.
THE LAST RALLY.
FINANCES OF THE REVOLUTION.
THROUGH-TICKETS TO SAN FRANCISCO: A PROPHECY.
SEA-HOURS WITH A DYSPEPTIC.
THE TWENTIETH PRESIDENTIAL ELECTION.
REVIEWS AND LITERARY NOTICES.
RECENT AMERICAN PUBLICATIONS

[Pg 521]

LEAVES FROM AN OFFICER'S JOURNAL.

I.

[I wish to record, as truthfully as I may, the beginnings of a momentousexperiment, which, by proving the aptitude of the freed slaves formilitary drill and discipline, their ardent loyalty, their courage underfire, and their self-control in success, contributed somewhat towardssolving the problem of the war, and towards remoulding the destinies oftwo races on this continent.

During a civil war events succeed each other so rapidly that theseearlier incidents are long since overshadowed. The colored soldiery arenow numbered no longer by hundreds, but by tens of thousands. Yet therewas a period when the whole enterprise seemed the most daring ofinnovations, and during those months the demeanor of this particularregiment, the First South Carolina, was watched with microscopicscrutiny by friends and foes. Its officers had reason to know this,since the slightest camp-incidents sometimes came back to them,magnified and distorted, in anxious letters of inquiry from remote partsof the Union. It was no pleasant thing to live in this glare ofcriticism; but it guarantied the honesty of any success, while fearfullymultiplying the penalties, had there been a failure. A single mutiny, asingle rout, a stampede of desertions,—and there perhaps might not havebeen, within this century, another systematic effort to arm the negro.

It is possible, therefore, that some extracts from a diary kept duringthat period may still have an interest; for there is nothing in humanhistory so momentous as the transit of a race from chattel-slavery toarmed freedom; nor can this change be photographed save by the actualcontemporaneous words of those who saw it in the process. Perhaps theremay also appear an element of dramatic interest in the record, when oneconsiders that here, in the delightful regions of Port Royal, thedescendants of the Puritan and the Huguenot, after two centuries, cameface to face,—and that sons of Massachusetts, reversing the boastful[Pg 522]threat which has become historic, here called the roll, uponSouth-Carolina soil, of her slaves, now freemen in arms.]

Camp Saxton, near Beaufort, S. C.
November 24, 1862.

Yesterday afternoon we were steaming over a summer sea, the deck levelas a parlor-floor, no land in sight, no sail, until at last appeared onelight-house, said to be Cape Romaine, and then a line of trees and twodistant vessels and nothing more. The sun set, a great illuminatedbubble, submerged in one vast bank of rosy suffusion; it grew dark;after tea all were on deck, the people sang hymns; then the moon set, amoon two days old, a curved pencil of light, reclining backwards on aradiant couch which seemed to rise from the waves to receive it; it sankslowly, and the last tip wavered and went down like the mast of a vesselof the skies. Towards morning the boat stopped, and when I came on deck,before six,—

Hilton Head lay on one side, the gunboats on the other; all that was rawand bare in the low buildings of the new settlement was softened intopicturesqueness by the early light. Stars were still overhead, gullswheeled and shrieked, and the broad river rippled duskily towardsBeaufort.

The shores were low and wooded, like any New-England shore; there were afew gunboats, twenty schooners, and some steamers, among them the famous"Planter," which Robert Small, the slave, presented to the nation. Theriver-banks were soft and graceful, though low, and as we steamed up toBeaufort on the flood-tide this morning, it seemed almost as fair as thesmooth and lovely canals which Stedman traversed to meet his negrosoldiers in Surinam. The air was cool as at home, yet the foliage seemedgreen, glimpses of stiff tropical vegetation appeared along the banks,with great clumps of shrubs whose pale seed-vessels looked like tardyblossoms. Then we saw on a picturesque point an old plantation, withstately magnolia avenue, decaying house, and tiny church amid the woods,reminding me of Virginia; behind it stood a neat encampment of whitetents, "and there," said my companion, "is your future regiment of negrosoldiers."

Three miles farther brought us to the pretty town of Beaufort, with itsstately houses amid Southern foliage. Reporting to General Saxton, I hadthe luck to encounter a company of my destined command, marched in to bemustered into the United States service. They were without arms, and alllooked as thoroughly black as the most faithful philanthropist coulddesire; there did not seem to be so much as a mulatto among them. Theircoloring suited me, all but the legs, which were clad in a livelyscarlet, as intolerable to my eyes as if I had been a turkey. I saw themmustered; General Saxton talked to them a little, in his direct, manlyway; they gave close attention, though their faces looked impenetrable.Then I conversed with some of them. The first to whom I spoke had beenwounded in a small expedition after lumber, from which a party had justreturned, and in which they had been under fire and had done very well.I said, pointing to his lame arm,—

"Did you think that was more than you bargained for, my man?"

His answer came promptly and stoutly,—

"I been a-tinking, Mas'r, dat's jess what I went for."

I thought this did well enough for my very first interchange of dialoguewith my recruits.

November 27, 1862.

Thanksgiving-Day; it is the first moment I have had for writing duringthese three days, which have installed me into a new mode of life sothoroughly that they seem three years. Scarcely pausing in New York orin Beaufort, there seems to have been for me but one step from the campof a Massachusetts[Pg 523] regiment to this one, and that step over leagues ofwaves.

It is a holiday wherever General Saxton's proclamation reaches. Thechilly sunshine and the pale blue river seem like New England, but thosealone. The air is full of noisy drumming and of gunshots; for theprize-shooting is our great celebration of the day, and the drumming ischronic. My young barbarians are all at play. I look out from the brokenwindows of this forlorn plantation-house, through avenues of greatlive-oaks, with their hard, shining leaves, and their branches hung witha universal drapery of soft, long moss, like fringe-trees struck withgrayness. Below, the sandy soil, scantly covered with coarse grass,bristles with sharp palmettoes and aloes; all the vegetation is stiff,shining, semi-tropical, with nothing soft or delicate in its texture.Numerous plantation-buildings totter around, all slovenly andunattractive, while the interspaces are filled with all manner of wreckand refuse, pigs, fowls, dogs, and omnipresent Ethiopian infancy. Allthis is the universal Southern panorama; but five minutes' walk beyondthe hovels and the live-oaks bring one to something so un-Southern thatthe whole Southern coast at this moment trembles at the suggestion ofsuch a thing,—the camp of a regiment of freed slaves.

One adapts one's self so readily to new surroundings that already thefull zest of the novelty seems passing away from my perceptions, and Iwrite these lines in an eager effort to retain all I can. Already I amgrowing used to the experience, at first so novel, of living among fivehundred men, and scarce a white face to be seen,—of seeing them gothrough all their daily processes, eating, frolicking, talking, just asif they were white. Each day at dress-parade I stand with the customaryfolding of the arms before a regimental line of countenances so blackthat I can hardly tell whether the men stand steadily or not; black isevery hand which moves in ready cadence as I vociferate, "Battalion!Shoulder arms!" nor is it till the line of white officers moves forward,as parade is dismissed, that I am reminded that my own face is not thecolor of coal.

The first few days on duty with a new regiment must be devoted almostwholly to tightening reins; in this process one deals chiefly with theofficers, and I have as yet had but little personal intercourse with themen. They concern me chiefly in bulk, as so many consumers of rations,wearers of uniforms, bearers of muskets. But as the machine comes intoshape, I am beginning to decipher the individual parts. At first, ofcourse, they all looked just alike; the variety comes afterwards, andthey are just as distinguishable, the officers say, as so many whites.Most of them are wholly raw, but there are many who have already beenfor months in camp in the abortive "Hunter Regiment," yet in that loosekind of way which, like average militia-training, is a doubtfuladvantage. I notice that some companies, too, look darker than others,though all are purer African than I expected. This is said to be partlya geographical difference between the South-Carolina and Florida men.When the Rebels evacuated this region, they probably took with them thehouse-servants, including most of the mixed blood, so that the residuumseems very black. But the men brought from Fernandina the other dayaverage lighter in complexion, and look more intelligent, and theycertainly take wonderfully to the drill.

It needs but a few days to show up the absurdity of distrusting themilitary availability of these people. They have quite as much averagecomprehension as whites of the need of the thing, as much courage, (Idoubt not,) as much previous knowledge of the gun, and, above all, areadiness of ear and of imitation, which, for purposes of drill,counterbalances any defect of mental training. To learn the drill, onedoes not want a set of college professors; one wants a squad of eager,active, pliant school-boys; and the more childlike these pupils are, thebetter.[Pg 524] There is no trouble about the drill; they will surpass whitesin that. As to camp-life, they have little to sacrifice, they are betterfed, housed, and clothed than ever in their lives before, and theyappear to have fewer inconvenient vices. They are simple, docile, andaffectionate almost to the point of absurdity. The same men who stoodfire in open field with perfect coolness, on the late expedition, havecome to me blubbering in the most irresistibly ludicrous manner on beingtransferred from one company in the regiment to another.

In noticing the squad-drills, I perceive that the men learn lesslaboriously than whites that "double, double, toil and trouble," whichis the elementary vexation of the drill-master,—that they more rarelymistake their left for their right,—and are more grave and sedate whileunder instruction. The extremes of jollity and sobriety, being greaterwith them, are less liable to be intermingled; these companies can bedriven with a looser rein than my former one, for they restrainthemselves; but the moment they are dismissed from drill, every tongueis relaxed and every ivory tooth visible. This morning I wandered aboutwhere the different companies were target-shooting, and their glee wascontagious. Such exulting shouts of, "Ki! ole man," when some steady oldturkey-shooter brought his gun down for an instant's aim, and thenunerringly hit the mark; and then, when some unwary youth fired hispiece into the ground at half-co*ck, such infinite guffawing and delight,such rolling over and over on the grass, such dances of ecstasy, as madethe "Ethiopian minstrelsy" of the stage appear a feeble imitation.

Evening.—Better still was a scene on which I stumbled to-night.Strolling in the cool moonlight, I was attracted by a brilliant lightbeneath the trees, and cautiously approached it. A circle of thirty orforty soldiers sat around a roaring fire, while one old uncle, Cato byname, was narrating an interminable tale, to the insatiable delight ofhis audience. I came up into the dusky background, perceived only by afew, and he still continued. It was a narrative, dramatized to the lastdegree, of his adventures in escaping from his master to the Unionvessels; and even I, who have heard the stories of Harriet Tubman, andsuch wonderful slave-comedians, never witnessed such a piece of acting.When I came upon the scene, he had just come unexpectedly upon aplantation-house, and, putting a bold face upon it, had walked up to thedoor.

"Den I go up to de white man, very humble, and say, would he please gibole man a mouthful for eat?

"He say, he must hab de valeration of half a dollar.

"Den I look berry sorry, and turn for go away.

"Den he say, I might gib him dat hatchet I had.

"Den I say," (this in a tragic vein,) "dat I must hab dat hatchet fordefend myself from de dogs!"

[Immense applause, and one appreciating auditor says, chuckling, "Datwas your arms, ole man," which brings down the house again.]

"Den he say, de Yankee pickets was near by, and I must be very keerful.

"Den I say, 'Good Lord, Mas'r, am dey?'"

Words cannot express the complete dissimulation with which these accentsof terror were uttered,—this being precisely the piece of informationhe wished to obtain.

Then he narrated his devices to get into the house at night and obtainsome food,—how a dog flew at him,—how the whole household, black andwhite, rose in pursuit,—how he scrambled under a hedge and over a highfence, etc.,—all in a style of which Gough alone among orators can givethe faintest impression, so thoroughly dramatized was every syllable.

Then he described his reaching the river-side at last, and trying todecide whether certain vessels held friends or foes.[Pg 525]

"Den I see guns on board, and sure sartin he Union boat, and I pop myhead up. Den I been-a-tink [think] Seceshkey hab guns too, and my headgo down again. Den I bide in de bush till morning. Den I open my bundle,and take ole white shirt and tie him on ole pole and wave him, and ebrytime de wind blow, I been-a-tremble, and drap down in debushes,"—because, being between two fires, he doubted whether friend orfoe would see his signal first. And so on, with a succession of tricksbeyond Molière, of acts of caution, foresight, patient cunning, whichwere listened to with infinite gusto and perfect comprehension by everylistener.

And all this to a bivouac of negro soldiers, with the brilliant firelighting up their red trousers and gleaming from their shining blackfaces,—eyes and teeth all white with tumultuous glee. Overhead, themighty limbs of a great live-oak, with the weird moss swaying in thesmoke, and the high moon gleaming faintly through.

Yet to-morrow strangers will remark on the hopeless, impenetrablestupidity in the daylight faces of many of these very men, the solidmask under which Nature has concealed all this wealth of mother-wit.This very comedian is one to whom one might point, as he hoed lazily ina cotton-field, as a being the light of whose brain had utterly goneout; and this scene seems like coming by night upon some conclave ofblack beetles, and finding them engaged, with green-room andfoot-lights, in enacting "Poor Pillicoddy." This is their university;every young Sambo before me, as he turned over the sweet-potatoes andpea-nuts which were roasting in the ashes, listened with reverence tothe wiles of the ancient Ulysses, and meditated the same. It is Nature'scompensation; oppression simply crushes the upper faculties of the head,and crowds everything into the perceptive organs. Cato, thou reasonestwell! When I get into any serious scrape, in an enemy's country, may Ibe lucky enough to have you at my elbow, to pull me out of it!

The men seem to have enjoyed the novel event of Thanksgiving-Day; theyhave had company and regimental prize-shootings, a minimum of speechesand a maximum of dinner. Bill of fare: two beef-cattle and a thousandoranges. The oranges cost a cent apiece, and the cattle were Secesh,bestowed by General Saxby, as they all call him.

December 1, 1862.

How absurd is the impression bequeathed by Slavery in regard to theseSouthern blacks, that they are sluggish and inefficient in labor! Lastnight, after a hard day's work, (our guns and the remainder of our tentsbeing just issued,) an order came from Beaufort that we should be readyin the evening to unload a steamboat's cargo of boards, being some ofthose captured by them a few weeks since, and now assigned for theiruse. I wondered if the men would grumble at the night-work; but thesteamboat arrived by seven, and it was bright moonlight when they wentat it. Never have I beheld such a jolly scene of labor. Tugging thesewet and heavy boards over a bridge of boats ashore, then across theslimy beach at low tide, then up a steep bank, and all in one greatuproar of merriment for two hours. Running most of the time, chatteringall the time, snatching the boards from each other's backs as if theywere some coveted treasure, getting up eager rivalries between differentcompanies, pouring great choruses of ridicule on the heads of allshirkers, they made the whole scene so enlivening that I gladly stayedout in the moonlight for the whole time to watch it. And all thiswithout any urging or any promised reward, but simply as the mostnatural way of doing the thing. The steamboat-captain declared that theyunloaded the ten thousand feet of boards quicker than any white gangcould have done it; and they felt it so little, that, when, later in thenight, I reproached one whom I[Pg 526] found sitting by a camp-fire, cooking asurreptitious opossum, telling him that he ought to be asleep after sucha job of work, he answered, with the broadest grin,—

"Oh, no, Cunnel, da's no work at all, Cunnel; dat only jess enough forstretch we."

December 2, 1862.

I believe I have not yet enumerated the probable drawbacks to thesuccess of this regiment, if any. We are exposed to no direct annoyancefrom the white regiments, being out of their way; and we have as yet nodiscomforts or privations which we do not share with them. I do not asyet see the slightest obstacle, in the nature of the blacks, to makingthem good soldiers,—but rather the contrary. They take readily todrill, and do not object to discipline; they are not especially dull orinattentive; they seem fully to understand the importance of thecontest, and of their share in it. They show no jealousy or suspiciontowards their officers.

They do show these feelings, however, towards the Government itself; andno one can wonder. Here lies the drawback to rapid recruiting. Were thisa wholly new regiment, it would have been full to overflowing, I amsatisfied, ere now. The trouble is in the legacy of bitter distrustbequeathed by the abortive regiment of General Hunter,—into which theywere driven like cattle, kept for several months in camp, and thenturned off without a shilling, by order of the War Department. Theformation of that regiment was on the whole a great injury to this one;and the men who came from it, though the best soldiers we have in otherrespects, are the least sanguine and cheerful; while those who nowrefuse to enlist have a great influence in deterring others. Oursoldiers are constantly twitted by their families and friends with theirprospect of risking their lives in the service, and being paid nothing;and it is in vain that we read them the instructions of the Secretary ofWar to General Saxton, promising them the full pay of soldiers. Theyonly half believe it.[A]

Another drawback is that some of the white soldiers delight infrightening the women on the plantations with doleful tales of plans forputting us in the front rank in all battles, and such silly talk,—theobject being, perhaps, to prevent our being employed on active serviceat all. All these considerations they feel precisely as white menwould,—no less, no more; and it is the comparative freedom from suchunfavorable influences which makes the Florida men seem more bold andmanly, as they undoubtedly do. To-day General Saxton has returned fromFernandina with seventy-six recruits, and the eagerness of the captainsto secure them was a sight to see. Yet they cannot deny that some of thevery best men in the regiment are South Carolinians.

December 3, 1862.—7 p. m.

What a life is this I lead! It is a dark, mild, drizzling evening, andas the foggy air breeds sand-flies, so it calls out melodies and strangeantics from this mysterious race of grown-up children with whom my lotis cast. All over the camp the lights glimmer in the tents, and as I sitat my desk in the open doorway, there come mingled sounds of stir andglee. Boys laugh and shout,—a feeble flute stirs somewhere in sometent, not an officer's,—a drum throbs far away in another,—wildkildeer-plover flit and wail above us, like the haunting souls of deadslavemasters,—and from a neighboring cook-fire comes the monotonoussound of that strange festival, half powwow, half prayer-meeting, whichthey know only as a "shout." These fires are usually inclosed in alittle booth, made neatly of palm-leaves and covered in at top, aregular native African hut,[Pg 527] in short, such as is pictured in books, andsuch as I once got up from dried palm-leaves, for a fair, at home. Thishut is now crammed with men, singing at the top of their voices, in oneof their quaint, monotonous, endless, negro-Methodist chants, withobscure syllables recurring constantly, and slight variationsinterwoven, all accompanied with a regular drumming of the feet andclapping of the hands, like castanets. Then the excitement spreads:inside and outside the inclosure men begin to quiver and dance, othersjoin, a circle forms, winding monotonously round some one in the centre;some "heel and toe" tumultuously, others merely tremble and stagger on,others stoop and rise, others whirl, others caper sideways, all keepsteadily circling like dervishes; spectators applaud special strokes ofskill; my approach only enlivens the scene; the circle enlarges, loudergrows the singing, rousing shouts of encouragement come in, halfbacchanalian, half devout, "Wake 'em, brudder!" "Stan' up to 'em,brudder!"—and still the ceaseless drumming and clapping, in perfectcadence, goes steadily on. Suddenly there comes a sort of snap, andthe spell breaks, amid general sighing and laughter. And this not rarelyand occasionally, but night after night,—while in other parts of thecamp the soberest prayers and exhortations are proceeding sedately.

A simple and lovable people, whose graces seem to come by nature, andwhose vices by training. Some of the best superintendents confirm theearly tales of innocence, and Dr. Zachos told me last night that on hisplantation, a sequestered one, "they had absolutely no vices." Nor havethese men of mine yet shown any worth mentioning; since I took command Ihave heard of no man intoxicated, and there has been but one smallquarrel. I suppose that scarcely a white regiment in the army shows solittle swearing. Take the "Progressive Friends" and put them in redtrousers, and I verily believe they would fill a guard-house sooner thanthese men. If camp-regulations are violated, it seems to be usuallythrough heedlessness. They love passionately three things, besides theirspiritual incantations,—namely, sugar, home, and tobacco. This lastaffection brings tears to their eyes, almost, when they speak of theirurgent need of pay: they speak of their last-remembered quid as if itwere some deceased relative, too early lost, and to be mourned forever.As for sugar, no white man can drink coffee after they have sweetened itto their liking.

I see that the pride which military life creates may cause theplantation-trickeries to diminish. For instance, these men make the mostadmirable sentinels. It is far harder to pass the camp-lines at nightthan in the camp from which I came; and I have seen none of thatdisposition to connive at the offences of members of one's own companywhich is so troublesome among white soldiers. Nor are they lazy, eitherabout work or drill; in all respects they seem better material forsoldiers than I had dared to hope.

There is one company in particular, all Florida men, which I certainlythink the finest-looking company I ever saw, white or black; they rangeadmirably in size, have remarkable erectness and ease of carriage, andreally march splendidly. Not a visitor but notices them; yet they havebeen under drill only a fortnight, and a part only two days. They haveall been slaves, and very few are even mulattoes.

December 4, 1862.

"Dwelling in tents, with Abraham, Isaac, and Jacob." This condition iscertainly mine,—and with a multitude of patriarchs beside, not tomention Cæsar and Pompey, Hercules and Bacchus.

A moving life, tented at night, this experience has been mine in civilsociety, if society be civil before the luxurious forest-fires of Maineand the Adirondack, or upon the lonely prairies of Kansas. But astationary tent-life, deliberately[Pg 528] going to housekeeping under canvas,I have never had before, though in our barrack-life at "Camp Wool" Ioften wished for it.

The accommodations here are about as liberal as my quarters there, twowall-tents being placed end to end, for office and bed-room, andseparated at will by a "fly" of canvas. There is a good board floor andmop-board, effectually excluding dampness and draughts, and everythingbut sand, which on windy days penetrates everywhere. Theoffice-furniture consists of a good desk or secretary, a very clumsy anddisastrous settee, and a remarkable chair. The desk is a bequest of theslaveholders, and the settee of the slaves, being ecclesiastical in itsorigin, and appertaining to the little old church or "praise-house," nowused for commissary purposes. The chair is a composite structure: Ifound a cane seat on a dust-heap, which a black sergeant combined withtwo legs from a broken bedstead and two more from an oak-bough. I sit onit with a pride of conscious invention, mitigated by profoundinsecurity. Bedroom-furniture, a couch made of gun-boxes covered withcondemned blankets, another settee, two pails, a tin cup, tin basin, (weprize any tin or wooden ware as savages prize iron,) and a valise,regulation-size. Seriously considered, nothing more appears needful,unless ambition might crave another chair for company, and, perhaps,something for a wash-stand higher than a settee.

To-day it rains hard, and the wind quivers through the closed canvas,and makes one feel at sea. All the talk of the camp outside is fusedinto a cheerful and indistinguishable murmur, pierced through at everymoment by the wail of the hovering plover. Sometimes a face, black orwhite, peers through the entrance with some message. Since the lightreadily penetrates, though the rain cannot, the tent conveys a feelingof charmed security, as if an invisible boundary checked the patteringdrops and held the moaning wind. The front tent I share, as yet, with myadjutant; in the inner apartment I reign supreme, bounded in a nutshell,with no bad dreams.

In all pleasant weather the outer "fly" is open, and men pass andrepass, a chattering throng. I think of Emerson's Saadi, "As thousittest at thy door, on the desert's yellow floor,"—for these baresand-plains, gray above, are always yellow when upturned, and thereseems a tinge of Orientalism in all our life.

Thrice a day we go to the plantation-houses for our meals,camp-arrangements being yet very imperfect. The officers board indifferent messes, the adjutant and I still clinging to the household ofWilliam Washington,—William the quiet and the courteous, the pattern ofhouse-servants, William the noiseless, the observing, thediscriminating, who knows everything that can be got and how to cook it.William and his tidy, lady-like little spouse Hetty—a pair of weddedlovers, if ever I saw one—set our table in their one room, half-waybetween an unglazed window and a large wood-fire, such as is oftenwelcome. Thanks to the adjutant, we are provided with the socialmagnificence of napkins; while (lest pride take too high a flight) ourtable-cloth consists of two "New York Tribunes" and a "Leslie'sPictorial." Every steamer brings us a clean table-cloth. Here are weforever supplied with pork and oysters and sweet-potatoes and rice andhominy and corn-bread and milk; also mysterious griddle-cakes of cornand pumpkin; also preserves made of pumpkin-chips, and other fancifulproductions of Ethiop art. Mr. E. promised theplantation-superintendents who should come down here "all the luxuriesof home," and we certainly have much apparent, if little real variety.Once William produced with some palpitation something fricasseed, whichhe boldly termed chicken; it was very small, and seemed in someundeveloped condition of ante-natal toughness. After the meal, hefrankly avowed it for squirrel.[Pg 529]

December 5, 1862.

Give these people their tongues, their feet, and their leisure, and theyare happy. At every twilight the air is full of singing, talking, andclapping of hands in unison. One of their favorite songs is full ofplaintive cadences; it is not, I think, a Methodist tune, and I wonderwhere they obtained a chant of such beauty.

It always excites them to have us looking on, yet they sing these songsat all times and seasons. I have heard this very song dimly droning onnear midnight, and, tracing it into the recesses of a cook-house, havefound an old fellow coiled away among the pots and provisions, chantingaway with his "Can't stay behind, sinner," till I made him leave hissong behind.

This evening, after working themselves up to the highest pitch, a partysuddenly rushed off, got a barrel, and mounted some man upon it, whosaid, "Gib anoder song, boys, and I'se gib you a speech." After somehesitation and sundry shouts of "Rise de sing, somebody," and "Stan' upfor Jesus, brudder," irreverently put in by the juveniles, they got uponthe John Brown song, always a favorite, adding a jubilant verse which Ihad never before heard,—"We'll beat Beauregard on de clarebattle-field." Then came the promised speech, and then no less thanseven other speeches by as many men, on a variety of barrels, eachorator being affectionately tugged to the pedestal and set on end by hisspecial constituency. Every speech was good, without exception; with thequeerest oddities of phrase and pronunciation, there was an invariableenthusiasm, a pungency of statement, and an understanding of the pointsat issue, which made them all rather thrilling. Those long-winded slavesin "Among the Pines" seemed rather fictitious and literary incomparison. The most eloquent, perhaps, was Corporal Prince Lambkin,just arrived from Fernandina, who evidently had a previous reputationamong them. His historical references were very interesting: he remindedthem that he had predicted this war ever since Fremont's time, to whichsome of the crowd assented; he gave a very intelligent account of thatPresidential campaign, and then described most impressively the secretanxiety of the slaves in Florida to know all about President Lincoln'selection, and told how they all refused to work on the fourth of March,expecting their freedom to date from that day. He finally brought outone of the few really impressive appeals for the American flag that Ihave ever heard. "Our mas'rs dey hab lib under de flag, dey got derewealth under it, and ebryting beautiful for dere chilen. Under it deyhab grind us up, and put us in dere pocket for money. But de fus' minutedey tink dat ole nag mean freedom for we colored people, dey pull itright down, and run up de rag ob dere own." (Immense applause.) "Butwe'll neber desert de ole flag, boys, neber; we hab lib under it foreighteen hundred sixty-two years, and we'll die for it now." Withwhich overpowering discharge of chronology-at-long-range, this mosteffective of stump-speeches closed. I see already with relief that therewill be small demand in this regiment for harangues from the officers;give the men an empty barrel for a stump, and they will do their ownexhortation.

[Pg 530]

RICHES.

THE VENGEANCE OF DOMINIC DE GOURGUES.

There was a gentleman of Mont-de-Marsan, Dominic de Gourgues, a soldierof ancient birth and high renown. That he was a Huguenot is not certain.The Spanish annalist calls him a "terrible heretic"; but the FrenchJesuit, Charlevoix, anxious that the faithful should share the glory ofhis exploits, affirms, that, like his ancestors before him, he was agood Catholic. If so, his faith sat lightly upon him; and Catholic orheretic, he hated the Spaniards with a mortal hate. Fighting in theItalian wars,—for, from boyhood, he was wedded to the sword,—they hadtaken him prisoner near Siena, where he had signalized himself by afiery and determined bravery. With brutal insult, they chained him tothe oar as a galley-slave. After long endurance of this ignominy, theTurks had captured the vessel and carried her to Constantinople. It wasbut a change of tyrants; but, soon after, putting out on a cruise,Gourgues still at the oar, a galley of the Maltese knights hove insight, bore down on the prize, recaptured her, and set the prisonerfree. For several years after, his restless spirit found escape invoyages to Africa, Brazil, and regions yet more remote. His naval reputerose high, but his grudge against the Spaniards still rankled withinhim; and when, returned from his rovings, he learned the tidings fromFlorida,[Pg 531] his hot Gascon blood boiled with fury.

The honor of France had been foully stained, and there was none to wipeaway the shame. The faction-ridden King was dumb. The nobles whosurrounded him were in the Spanish interest. Then, since they provedrecreant, he, Dominic de Gourgues, a simple gentleman, would take uponhim to avenge the wrong, and restore the dimmed lustre of the Frenchname. He sold his inheritance, borrowed money from his brother, who helda high post in Guienne, and equipped three small vessels, navigable bysail or oar. On board he placed a hundred arquebusiers and eightysailors, prepared to fight on land, if need were. The noted Blaise deMontluc, then lieutenant for the King in Guienne, gave him a commissionto make war on the negroes of Benin, that is, to kidnap them as slaves,an adventure then held honorable.

His true design was locked within his own breast. He mustered hisfollowers, feasted them,—not a few were of rank equal to his own,—and,on the twenty-second of August, 1567, sailed from the mouth of theCharente. Off Cape Finisterre, so violent a storm buffeted his shipsthat his men clamored to return; but Gourgues's spirit prevailed. Hebore away for Barbary, and, landing at the Rio del Oro, refreshed andcheered them as he best might. Thence he sailed to Cape Blanco, wherethe jealous Portuguese, who had a fort in the neighborhood, set upon himthree negro chiefs. Gourgues beat them off, and remained master of theharbor; whence, however, he soon voyaged onward to Cape Verd, and,steering westward, made for the West Indies. Here, advancing from islandto island, he came to Hispaniola, where, between the fury of a hurricaneat sea and the jealousy of the Spaniards on shore, he was in no smalljeopardy,—"the Spaniards," exclaims the indignant journalist, "whothink that this New World was made for nobody but them, and that noother man living has a right to move or breathe here!" Gourgues landed,however, obtained the water of which he was in need, and steered forCape San Antonio, in Cuba. There he gathered his followers about him,and addressed them with his fiery Gascon eloquence. For the first time,he told them his true purpose. He inveighed against Spanish cruelty. Hepainted, with angry rhetoric, the butcheries of Fort Caroline and St.Augustine.

"What disgrace," he cried, "if such an insult should pass unpunished!What glory to us, if we revenge it! To this I have devoted my fortune. Irelied on you. I thought you jealous enough of your country's glory tosacrifice life itself in a cause like this. Was I deceived? I will showyou the way; I will be always at your head; I will bear the brunt ofdanger. Will you refuse to follow me?"

At first his startled hearers listened in silence; but soon the passionsof that adventurous age rose responsive to his words. The sparks fellamong gunpowder. The combustible French nature burst into flame. Theenthusiasm of the soldiers rose to such a pitch that Gourgues had muchado to make them wait till the moon was full before tempting the perilsof the Bahama Channel. His time came at length. The moon rode high abovethe lonely sea, and, silvered in its light, the ships of the avengerheld their course.

But how, meanwhile, had it fared with the Spaniards in Florida? Thegood-will of the Indians had vanished. The French had been obtrusive andvexatious guests; but their worst trespasses had been mercy andtenderness, to the daily outrage of the new-comers. Friendship hadchanged to aversion, aversion to hatred, hatred to open war. Theforest-paths were beset; stragglers were cut off; and woe to theSpaniard who should venture after nightfall beyond call of the outposts!Menendez, however, had strengthened himself in his new conquest. St.Augustine was well fortified; Fort Caroline, now Fort San[Pg 532] Mateo, wasrepaired; and two redoubts were thrown up to guard the mouth of theRiver of May. Thence, on an afternoon in April, the Spaniards saw threesail steering northward. Unsuspicious of an enemy, their batteriesboomed a salute. Gourgues's ships replied, then stood out to sea, andwere lost in the shades of evening.

They kept their course all night, and, as day broke, anchored at themouth of a river, the St. Mary's or the Santilla, by their reckoningfifteen leagues north of the River of May. Here, as it grew light,Gourgues saw the borders of the sea thronged with savages, armed andplumed for war. They, too, had mistaken the strangers for Spaniards, andmustered to meet their tyrants at the landing. But in the French shipsthere was a trumpeter who had been long in Florida, and knew the Indianswell. He went towards them in a boat, with many gestures of friendship;and no sooner was he recognized than the naked crowd, with yelps ofdelight, danced for joy about the sands. Why had he ever left them? theyasked; and why had he not returned before? The intercourse thusauspiciously begun was actively kept up. Gourgues told the principalchief—who was no other than Satouriona, of old the ally of theFrench—that he had come to visit them, make friendship with them, andbring them presents. At this last announcement, so grateful to Indianears, the dancing was renewed with double zeal. The next morning wasnamed for a grand council. Satouriona sent runners to summon all Indianswithin call; while Gourgues, for safety, brought his vessels within themouth of the river.

Morning came, and the woods were thronged with congregated warriors.Gourgues and his soldiers landed with martial pomp. In token of mutualconfidence, the French laid aside their arquebuses, the Indians theirbows and arrows. Satouriona came to meet the strangers, and seated theircommander at his side, on a wooden stool, draped and cushioned with thegray Spanish moss. Two old Indians cleared the spot of brambles, weeds,and grass; and, their task finished, the tribesmen took their places ina ring, row within row, standing, sitting, and crouching on the ground,a dusky concourse, plumed in festal array, waiting with grave visagesand eyes intent. Gourgues was about to speak, when the chief, who, saysthe narrator, had not learned French manners, rose and anticipated him.He broke into a vehement harangue; and the cruelty of the Spaniards wasthe burden of his words.

Since the French fort was taken, he said, the Indians had not had onehappy day. The Spaniards drove them from their cabins, stole their corn,ravished their wives and daughters, and killed their children; and allthis they had endured because they loved the French. There was a Frenchboy who had escaped from the massacre at the fort. They had found him inthe woods, and though the Spaniards, who wished to kill him, demandedthat they should give him up, they had kept him for his friends.

"Look!" pursued the chief, "here he is!"—and he brought forward a youthof sixteen, named Pierre Debré, who became at once of the greatestservice to the French, his knowledge of the Indian language making himan excellent interpreter.

Delighted as he was at this outburst against the Spaniards, Gourgues byno means saw fit to display the full extent of his satisfaction. Hethanked the Indians for their good-will, exhorted them to continue init, and pronounced an ill-merited eulogy on the greatness and goodnessof his King. As for the Spaniards, he said, their day of reckoning wasat hand; and if the Indians had been abused for their love of theFrench, the French would be their avengers. Here Satouriona forgot hisdignity, and leaped up for joy.

"What!" he cried, "will you fight the Spaniards?"

"I came here," replied Gourgues, "only[Pg 533] to reconnoitre the country andmake friends with you, then to go back and bring more soldiers; but whenI hear what you are suffering from them, I wish to fall upon them thisvery day, and rescue you from their tyranny." And, all around the ring,a clamor of applauding voices greeted his words.

"But you will do your part," pursued the Frenchman; "you will not leaveus all the honor."

"We will go," replied Satouriona, "and die with you, if need be."

"Then, if we fight, we ought to fight at once. How soon can you haveyour warriors ready to march?"

The chief asked three days for preparation. Gourgues cautioned him tosecrecy, lest the Spaniards should take alarm.

"Never fear," was the answer; "we hate them more than you do."

Then came a distribution of gifts,—knives, hatchets, mirrors, bells,and beads,—while the warrior-rabble crowded to receive them, with eagerfaces, and tawny arms outstretched. The distribution over, Gourguesasked the chiefs if there was any other matter in which he could servethem. On this, pointing at his shirt, they expressed a peculiaradmiration for that garment, and begged each to have one, to be worn atfeasts and councils during life, and in their graves after death.Gourgues complied; and his grateful confederates were soon stalkingabout him, fluttering in the spoils of his ravished wardrobe.

To learn the strength and position of the Spaniards, Gourgues now sentout three scouts; and with them went Olotoraca, Satouriona's nephew, ayoung brave of great renown.

The chief, eager to prove his good faith, gave as hostages his only sonand his favorite wife. They were sent on board the ships, while thesavage concourse dispersed to their encampments, with leaping, stamping,dancing, and whoops of jubilation.

The day appointed came, and with it the savage army, hideous inwar-paint and plumed for battle. Their ceremonies began. The woods rangback their songs and yells, as with frantic gesticulations theybrandished their war-clubs and vaunted their deeds of prowess. Then theydrank the black drink, endowed with mystic virtues to steel them againsthardship and danger; and Gourgues himself pretended to swallow thenauseous decoction.

These ceremonies consumed the day. It was evening before the alliesfiled off into their forests, and took the path for the Spanish forts.The French, on their part, were to repair by sea to the rendezvous.Gourgues mustered and addressed his men. It was needless: their ardorwas at fever-height. They broke in upon his words, and demanded to beled at once against the enemy. Francis Bourdelois, with twenty sailors,was left with the ships. Gourgues affectionately bade him farewell.

"If I am slain in this most just enterprise," he said, "I leave all inyour charge, and pray you to carry back my soldiers to France."

There were many embracings among the excited Frenchmen,—manysympathetic tears from those who were to stay behind,—many messagesleft with them for wives, children, friends, and mistresses; and thenthis valiant handful pushed their boats from shore. It was ahare-brained venture, for, as young Debré had assured them, theSpaniards on the River of May were four hundred in number, secure behindtheir ramparts.

Hour after hour the sailors pulled at the oar. They glided slowly pastthe sombre shores by the shimmering moonlight, the sound of themurmuring surf and the moaning pine-trees. In the gray of the morning,they came to the mouth of a river, probably the Nassau; and here anortheast wind set in with a violence that almost wrecked their boats.Their Indian allies were waiting on the bank, but for a while the galedelayed their crossing. The bolder French would lose no time, rowedthrough the tossing waves, and, landing safely, left[Pg 534] their boats, andpushed into the forest. Gourgues took the lead, in breastplate andback-piece. At his side marched the young chief Olotoraca, a French pikein his hand; and the files of arquebuse-men and armed sailors followedclose behind. They plunged through swamps, hewed their way throughbrambly thickets and the matted intricacies of the forests, and, at fivein the afternoon, wellnigh spent with fatigue and hunger, came to ariver or inlet of the sea, not far from the first Spanish fort. Herethey found three hundred Indians waiting for them.

Tired as he was, Gourgues would not rest. He would fain attack atdaybreak, and with ten arquebusiers and his Indian guide he set forth toreconnoitre. Night closed upon him. It was a vain task to struggle on,in pitchy darkness, among trunks of trees, fallen logs, tangled vines,and swollen streams. Gourgues returned, anxious and gloomy. An Indianchief approached him, read through the darkness his perturbed look, andoffered to lead him by a better path along the margin of the sea.Gourgues joyfully assented, and ordered all his men to march. TheIndians, better skilled in woodcraft, chose the shorter course throughthe forest.

The French forgot their weariness, and pressed on at speed. At dawn theyand their allies met on the bank of a stream, beyond which, and verynear, was the fort. But the tide was in. They essayed to cross in vain.Greatly vexed,—for he had hoped to take the enemy asleep,—Gourgueswithdrew his soldiers into the forest, where they were no soonerensconced than a drenching rain fell, and they had much ado to keeptheir gun-matches burning. The light grew apace. Gourgues plainly sawthe fort, whose defences seemed slight and unfinished. He even saw theSpaniards at work within. A feverish interval elapsed. At length thetide was out,—so far, at least, that the stream was fordable. A littlehigher up, a clump of woods lay between it and the fort. Behind thisfriendly screen the passage was begun. Each man tied his powder-flask tohis steel cap, held his arquebuse above his head with one hand andgrasped his sword with the other. The channel was a bed of oysters. Thesharp shells cut their feet as they waded through. But the farther bankwas gained. They emerged from the water, drenched, lacerated, bleeding,but with unabated mettle. Under cover of the trees Gourgues set them inarray. They stood with kindling eyes, and hearts throbbing, but not withfear. Gourgues pointed to the Spanish fort, seen by glimpses between thebushes and brown trunks. "Look!" he said, "there are the robbers whohave stolen this land from our King; there are the murderers who havebutchered our countrymen!" With voices eager, fierce, but halfsuppressed, they demanded to be led on.

Gourgues gave the word. Cazenove, his lieutenant, with thirty men,pushed for the fort-gate; himself, with the main body, for the glacis.It was near noon; the Spaniards had just risen from table, and, says thenarrative, "were still picking their teeth," when a startled cry rang intheir ears,—

"To arms! to arms! The French are coming! the French are coming!"

It was the voice of a cannoneer who had that moment mounted the rampartand seen the assailants advancing in unbroken ranks, with heads loweredand weapons at the charge. He fired his cannon among them. He even hadtime to load and fire again, when the light-limbed Olotoraca boundedforward, ran up the glacis, leaped the unfinished ditch, and drove hispike through the Spaniard from breast to back. Gourgues was now on theglacis, when he heard Cazenove shouting from the gate that the Spaniardswere escaping on that side. He turned and led his men thither at a run.In a moment, the fugitives, sixty in all, were inclosed between hisparty and that of his lieutenant. The Indians, too, came leaping to thespot. Not a Spaniard escaped. All were cut down but a few, reserved byGourgues for a more inglorious end.[Pg 535]

Meanwhile the Spaniards in the other fort, on the opposite shore,cannonaded the victors without ceasing. The latter turned four capturedguns against them. One of Gourgues's boats, a very large one, had beenbrought along-shore. He entered it, with eighty soldiers, and pushed forthe farther bank. With loud yells, the Indians leaped into the water.From shore to shore, the St. John's was alive with them. Each held hisbow and arrows aloft in one hand, while he swam with the other. A panicseized the garrison as they saw the savage multitude. They broke out ofthe fort and fled into the forest. But the French had already landed;and throwing themselves in the path of the fugitives, they greeted themwith a storm of lead. The terrified wretches recoiled; but flight wasvain. The Indian whoop rang behind them; war-clubs and arrows finishedthe work. Gourgues's utmost efforts saved but fifteen,—saved them, notout of mercy, but from a refinement of vengeance.

The next day was Quasimodo Sunday, or the Sunday after Easter. Gourguesand his men remained quiet, making ladders for the assault on Fort SanMateo. Meanwhile the whole forest was in arms, and, far and near, theIndians were wild with excitement. They beset the Spanish fort till nota soldier could venture out. The garrison, conscious of their danger,though ignorant of its extent, devised an expedient to gain information,and one of them, painted and feathered like an Indian, ventured withinGourgues's outposts. He himself chanced to be at hand, and by his sidewalked his constant attendant, Olotoraca. The keen-eyed young savagepierced the cheat at a glance. The spy was seized, and, being examined,declared that there were two hundred and sixty Spaniards in San Mateo,that they believed the French to be two thousand, and were so frightenedthat they did not know what they did.

Gourgues, well pleased, pushed on to attack them. On Monday evening hesent forward the Indians to ambush themselves on both sides of the fort.In the morning he followed with his Frenchmen; and as the glitteringranks came into view, defiling between the forest and the river, theSpaniards opened on them with culverins from a projecting bastion. TheFrench took cover in the forest with which the hills below and behindthe fort were densely overgrown. Here, ensconced in the edge of thewoods, where, himself unseen, he could survey the whole extent of thedefences, Gourgues presently descried a strong party of Spaniardsissuing from their works, crossing the ditch, and advancing toreconnoitre. On this, returning to his men, he sent Cazenove, with adetachment, to station himself at a point well hidden by trees on theflank of the Spaniards. The latter, with strange infatuation, continuedtheir advance. Gourgues and his followers pushed on through the thicketsto meet them. As the Spaniards reached the edge of the clearing, adeadly fire blazed in their faces, and before the smoke cleared, theFrench were among them, sword in hand. The survivors would have fled;but Cazenove's detachment fell upon their rear, and all were killed ortaken.

When their comrades in the fort beheld their fate, a panic seized them.Conscious of their own deeds, perpetrated on this very spot, they couldhope no mercy. Their terror multiplied immeasurably the numbers of theirenemy. They deserted the fort in a body, and fled into the woods mostremote from the French. But here a deadlier foe awaited them; for a hostof Indians leaped up from ambush. Then rose those hideous war-crieswhich have curdled the boldest blood and blanched the manliest cheek.Then the forest-warriors, with savage ecstasy, wreaked their longarrears of vengeance. The French, too, hastened to the spot, and lenttheir swords to the slaughter. A few prisoners were saved alive; therest were slain; and thus did the Spaniards make bloody atonement forthe butchery of Fort Caroline.[Pg 536]

But Gourgues's vengeance was not yet appeased. Hard by the fort, thetrees were pointed out to him on which Menendez had hanged his captives,and placed over them the inscription,—"Not as Frenchmen, but aslu*therans."

Gourgues ordered the Spanish prisoners to be led thither.

"Did you think," he sternly said, as the pallid wretches stood rangedbefore him, "that so vile a treachery, so detestable a cruelty, againsta King so potent and a nation so generous, would go unpunished? I, oneof the humblest gentlemen among my King's subjects, have charged myselfwith avenging it. Even if the Most Christian and the Most Catholic Kingshad been enemies, at deadly war, such perfidy and extreme cruelty wouldstill have been unpardonable. Now that they are friends and closeallies, there is no name vile enough to brand your deeds, no punishmentsharp enough to requite them. But though you cannot suffer as youdeserve, you shall suffer all that an enemy can honorably inflict, thatyour example may teach others to observe the peace and alliance whichyou have so perfidiously violated."

They were hanged where the French had hung before them; and over themwas nailed the inscription, burned with a hot iron on a tablet ofpine,—"Not as Spaniards, but as Traitors, Robbers, and Murderers."

Gourgues's mission was fulfilled. To occupy the country had never beenhis intention; nor was it possible, for the Spaniards were still inforce at St. Augustine. His was a whirlwind-visitation,—to ravage,ruin, and vanish. He harangued the Indians, and exhorted them todemolish the fort. They fell to the work with a keen alacrity, and inless than a day not one stone was left on another.

Gourgues returned to the forts at the mouth of the river, destroyed themalso, and took up his march for his ships. It was a triumphalprocession. The Indians thronged around the victors with gifts of fishand game; and an old woman declared that she was now ready to die, sinceshe had seen the French once more.

The ships were ready for sea. Gourgues bade his disconsolate alliesfarewell, and nothing would content them but a promise to return soon.Before embarking, he addressed his own men:—

"My friends, let us give thanks to God for the success He has grantedus. It is He who saved us from tempests; it is He who inclined thehearts of the Indians towards us; it is He who blinded the understandingof the Spaniards. They were four to one in forts well armed andprovisioned. We had nothing but our right; and yet we have conquered.Not to our own strength, but to God only, we owe our victory. Then letus thank Him, my friends; let us never forget His favors; and let uspray that He may continue them, saving us from dangers, and guiding ussafely home. Let us pray, too, that He may so dispose the hearts of menthat our perils and toils may find favor in the eyes of our King and ofall France, since all we have done was done for the King's service andfor the honor of our country."

Thus Spaniards and Frenchmen alike laid their reeking swords on God'saltar.

Gourgues sailed on the third of May, and, gazing back along theirfoaming wake, the adventurers looked their last on the scene of theirexploits. Their success had had its price. A few of their number hadfallen, and hardships still awaited the survivors. Gourgues, however,reached Rochelle on the day of Pentecost, and the Huguenot citizensgreeted him with all honor. At court it fared worse with him. The King,still obsequious to Spain, looked on him coldly and askance. The Spanishminister demanded his head. It was hinted to him that he was not safe,and he withdrew to Rouen, where he found asylum among his friends. Hisfortune was gone; debts contracted for his expedition weighed heavily onhim; and for years he lived in obscurity, almost in misery. At length adawn brightened for him. Elizabeth[Pg 537] of England learned his merits andhis misfortunes, and invited him to enter her service. The King, who,says the Jesuit historian, had always at heart been delighted with hisachievement, openly restored him to favor; while, some years later, DonAntonio tendered him command of his fleet to defend his right to thecrown of Portugal against Philip II. Gourgues, happy once more to crossswords with the Spaniards, gladly embraced this offer; but, on his wayto join the Portuguese prince, he died at Tours of a sudden illness. TheFrench mourned the loss of the man who had wiped a blot from thenational scutcheon, and respected his memory as that of one of the bestcaptains of his time. And, in truth, if a zealous patriotism, a fieryvalor, and skilful leadership are worthy of honor, then is such tributedue to Dominic de Gourgues, despite the shadowing vices which even thespirit of that wild age can only palliate, the personal hate that aidedthe impulse of his patriotism, and the implacable cruelty that sulliedhis courage.

Romantic as his exploit was, it lacked the fulness of poetic justice,since the chief offender escaped him. While Gourgues was sailing towardsFlorida, Menendez was in Spain, high in favor at court, where he told toapproving ears how he had butchered the heretics. Borgia, the saintedGeneral of the Jesuits, was his fast friend; and two years later, whenhe returned to America, the Pope, Paul V., regarding him as aninstrument for the conversion of the Indians, wrote him a letter withhis benediction. He reëstablished his power in Florida, rebuilt Fort SanMateo, and taught the Indians that death or flight was the only refugefrom Spanish tyranny. They murdered his missionaries and spurned theirdoctrine. "The Devil is the best thing in the world," they cried; "weadore him; he makes men brave." Even the Jesuits despaired, andabandoned Florida in disgust.

Menendez was summoned home, where fresh honors awaited him from thecrown, though, according to the somewhat doubtful assertion of theheretical Grotius, his deeds had left a stain upon his name among thepeople. He was given command of the armada of three hundred sail andtwenty thousand men, which, in 1574, was gathered at Santander againstEngland and Flanders. But now, at the climax of his fortunes, his careerwas abruptly closed. He died suddenly, at the age of fifty-five. Whatcaused his death? Grotius affirms that he killed himself; but, in hiseagerness to point the moral of his story, he seems to have oversteppedthe bounds of historic truth. The Spanish bigot was rarely a suicide,for the rights of Christian burial and repose in consecrated ground weredenied to the remains of the self-murderer. There is positive evidence,too, in a codicil to the will of Menendez, dated at Santander on thefifteenth of September, 1574, that he was on that day seriously ill,though, as the instrument declares, "sound of mind." There is reason,then, to believe that this pious cut-throat died a natural death,crowned with honors, and compassed by the consolations of his religion.

It was he who crushed French Protestantism in America. To plantreligious freedom on this Western soil was not the mission of France. Itwas for her to rear in Northern forests the banner of Absolutism and ofRome; while, among the rocks of Massachusetts, England and Calvinfronted her in dogged and deadly opposition.

Civilization in North America found its pioneer, its forlorn hope, lessin England than in France. For, long before the ice-crusted pines ofPlymouth had listened to the rugged psalmody of the Puritan, thesolitudes of Western New York and the shadowy wilderness of Lake Huronwere trodden by the iron heel of the soldier and the sandalled foot ofthe Franciscan friar. They who bore the fleur-de-lis were always in thevan, patient, daring, indomitable. And foremost on this bright roll offorest-chivalry stands the half-forgotten name of Samuel de Champlain.

[Pg 538]

LINA.

The evenings were always dull and long to those of us who were too farfrom home to make it worth while to leave the school for the eight weeksof holiday. It was dreary indeed sitting in the great school-room, withits long rows of empty desks, with nothing before one to break themonotony of the four walls but the great map of France and the big dustycross with its dingy wreath of immortelles. It is true, we did notbewail the absence of our companions. In fact, it was with a tranquilsense of security that I began my work every morning in vacation,knowing that I should find all my books in my desk, and my pens andpencils undisturbed; for among the pensionnaires there existed astrong tendency to communistic principles. Still, when all the noisycrew had departed, the house seemed lonely, the dining-room with itsthree bare tables looked desolate, and an unnatural stillness reigned inthe shady pathways of the garden. You might wander from room to room,and up and down the stairs, and to and fro in the long passages, andmeet no one. Fräulein Christine was with her "Liebes Mütterchen" inStrasburg, and Mademoiselle had left her weary post in the middle of theschool-room for her quiet village-home in Normandy. Madame herselfremained almost entirely invisible, shut up in the sanctity of her ownrooms; and so the whole house had a sense of stillness that seemed onlyheightened by the glory of the autumn sunshine, and the hum of bees andrustle of leaves that filled the air outside.

The house was old; it had been a grand mansion once, before the days ofthe Revolution, and had probably been the residence of some of the stiffold worthies whose portraits hung in dreary dignity in the disused dustygalleries of the château, which now, turned into a citadelle, stoodupon a high point of the cliffs commanding the town. The term ramblingmight well be applied to this house, for in its eccentric constructionit seemed to have wandered at will half-way up the hill-side on which itwas built. It had wings and abutments, and flights of stone stepsleading from one part to another. There was "la grande maison deMadame," "la maison du jardin," and "la maison de Monsieur." Thislast, half hidden in trees, was terra incognita to the girls; butoften in an evening, after we had seen him wending his way across thegarden with his lantern from la grande maison, where he had beenspending the evening with Madame, did we hear Monsieur playing on hisorgan glorious "bits" of Cherubini and Bach.

We were conscious that this odd little man carried on a system ofespionage through the half-closed slats of his shutters, the effects ofwhich we were continually made to feel; this, and the mystery thatenveloped his small abode, where he worked all day among his bottles andretorts, made Monsieur appear somewhat of an ogre in our eyes. There wasalways a sense of freedom in the upper garden, which was out of therange of his windows, and where he never came. That pleasant uppergarden, what a paradise it was, with its long sunny walks within theshelter of high walls! The trim stateliness of the ancient splendor hadrun to luxuriant disorder, and thick tangles of rare roses swung abroadtheir boughs above great beds of lilies-of-the-valley and periwinklewhich had overrun their borders and crept into the walks.

During the vacation, we who stayed had the privilege of going into theupper garden. Obtaining the key from Justine, we would wander firstalong the shady pathways of the lower garden, past the flower-beds wherethe girls during recess-times worked and gossiped and quarrelled,—theirquick French tongues reminding one of a colony of sparrows,—then,turning the stubborn lock of the[Pg 539] heavy door that opened on the flightof mossy steps, we came into that region of stillness and delight, theupper garden.

Oh, the pleasant autumn afternoons spent sitting together on the mossywalk between the box-hedges, the hum of bees and the scent of rosesfilling the air, and the sweet monotonous murmur of the sea on theshingly beach in our ears! For, mounting still higher by terraces andanother flight of steps through a tumble-down gateway, you came upon theopen cliffs; and the long blue line of the sea and the fresh sea-breezegreeted you with a thousand thoughts of home. For England lay beyond thetrembling blue line.

I remember it was one of these autumn afternoons, that, coming down frompractising, with my music-books under my arm, I met Justine, the geniusof the ménage, cook and housekeeper in one, a shrewd woman, who hadthree objects in life,—to manage les bêtes, as she condescendinglytermed the other servants, to please Madame, whom she adored, and to goto church every Sunday and grande fête. Justine was coming in from thegarden, with a basket on her arm, in which lay two pigeons that she hadjust killed. On her fingers she twirled the gory scissors with which shehad performed the deed.

"Good day, Justine! How is Madame?"

"Madame is well, thank you, Mademoiselle,—a little headache, that isall,—that comes of so much learning and writing at night. Mais voilàune femme superbe! I go to make her a little dinner of these," pointingto the pigeons.

"Justine, ma bonne, won't you give us the key this afternoon?"

Justine stops suddenly and clasps her fat hands emphatically over thelid of her basket.

"I had almost forgotten, Mademoiselle. Madame desired me to tell thedemoiselles that she comes down this evening to sit in the cabinet demusique."

I was delighted with this piece of intelligence, and ran to tell theothers. It was not often that Madame deigned to come down-stairs of anevening, and were always glad when she did. In the first place, it was apleasant break in the monotony of the general routine to sit and workand draw, instead of studying in the empty school-room; and secondly, itwas delightful to be with Madame, when she threw off the character ofpreceptress,—for at such times she was infinitely agreeable,entertaining us in her bright French manner as if we had been herguests.

Madame had a way of charming all who approached her, from AdelaideSloper's rich, vulgar father, who, when he came to see his daughter, wasentertained by Madame au salon, and who was overheard to declare, ashe got into his grand carriage, that "that Frenchwoman was the finestwoman, by Jove, he'd ever seen!" to the tiny witch Élise, whom nobodycould manage, but who, at the first rustle of Madame's gown, would ceasefrom her mischief, fold her small hands, and, sinking her bead-likeblack eyes, look as demure as such a sprite could. We all adoredMadame,—not that she herself was very good, though she was pious in herway, too. She fasted and went regularly to confession and to all theoffices, and sometimes at the passing of the Host I have seen herkneeling in the dusty street in a new dress, and I don't know what moreyou could expect from a Frenchwoman.

Then she was so pretty, and there was a nameless grace in her attitude.She seemed to me so beautiful, as she stood at her desk, with one handresting on her open book, tall, with something almost imperious in herfigure, her head bent, but her deep, lovely gray eyes looking quietlybefore her and seeming to take in at once the whole school-room with anexpression of keen intelligence. She was highly cultivated, and had readwidely in many languages; but she wore her learning as gracefully as abird does its lovely plumage.

There was a latent desire for sway in her character. She delighted inthe[Pg 540] homage of those about her, and seldom failed to win it from any onewith whom she came in contact. Mademoiselle, who did all the hard workof the teaching, and was only half paid for it, wore out her strengthand energy and youth day by day at her desk in the middle of theschool-room, and thought Madame the perfection of women; and her sallow,thin face would flush with pleasure, if Madame gave her a look or one ofher soft smiles in passing.

At half-past seven that evening we were seated round the table with ourwork, awaiting the entrance of Madame. Presently she glided in, holdingin her arms a bureau-drawer filled with piles of letters.

"I propose to tell you a story, mes chères," she said, as she seatedherself and folded her white hands over one of the thick bundles thatshe had taken from the drawer.

"You have all heard me speak of Lina Dale, my English governess before Ihad Mary Gibson. Mary Gibson is an excellent girl, but she has not thetalent that Lina had. Lina's father was a Captain Dale, a half-payofficer, whom I had once seen on business about a pupil of mine who hadcrossed the Channel under his care. A surly, morose man he appeared tome, rough towards his wife, a meek, worn-out looking old lady, who spokewith a hesitating, apologetic manner and a nervous movement of thehead,—a habit I thought she must have contracted from a constant fearof being pounced upon, as you say, by her husband. I always pitied herde tout mon cœur, but she possessed neither tact nor intellect, andwas très ennuyeuse.

"It was one cold day in winter that Justine told me there was ademoiselle au salon who wished to see me. I found standing by thetable a young lady,—a figure that would strike you at once. She turnedas I entered the room, and her manner was dignified and self-possessed.She was not pretty, but her face was a remarkable one: thick dark hairabove a low forehead, the eyelids somewhat too drooping over thesingular dark eyes, that looked out beneath them with an expression ofconcentrated thought. 'That girl is like Charlotte Corday,' I said toMonsieur afterwards: 'it is a character of great energy and enthusiasm,frozen by the hardness and uncongeniality of her fate.' For in thisinterview she told me that she sought a situation in my school, and thatshe felt confidence in offering herself,—that the state of her father'saffairs did not render this step necessary, but that circ*mstances ofwhich she would not speak made her home unhappy and most unattractive toher. All this she said in a calm and perfectly unexcited manner, as ifrelating the details of a matter of business. For a moment I trembledlest she had come to make me her confidante in a family-quarrel; but Iwas soon relieved from this apprehension, for, after she had stated thefact, she referred to it no more, but went on to speak upon generalsubjects, which she did with great intelligence. Her good senseimpressed me so much that before she left the house I had engaged her.

"A few days afterwards she was established here, and had adapted herselfto all our modes of life in a way that astonished me. She went about allher duties quietly, and with the greatest order and precision. Herclasses were the most orderly in the school, and in a short time herauthority was acknowledged by all the girls. There were few who did notadmire her, and not one who dared to set her at defiance. By degrees herquiet, unobtrusive industry won upon my confidence; I felt glad to showby charges of responsibility my regard for a person of so sound ajudgment and so reserved a temper, and very soon I had given over to hercare the supervision of English books for the girls' reading, theposting and receiving from the post-office of all the English letters,both my own and those of the English girls in the pension. During thetwo years and a half of her stay here, these duties were fulfilled byLina with unremitting care and punctuality.[Pg 541]

"About this time I had commenced a correspondence, through Lina, with aMrs. E. Baxter, of Bristol, in England, who had, it seemed, known Linafor many years, and who, understanding, as she mysteriously hinted, howunhappy her home must be, begged her to come and live with her andundertake for a time the education of her little girl, a child of ten.Here are her letters; this is one of the first: you see how warmly, howaffectionately, she speaks of Lina, and how delicately she made thisproposal, 'so that dear Lina's sensitive, proud nature might not be ableto imagine itself wounded.'

"As Mrs. Baxter offered her a much larger salary than I gave her, I toldLina that I thought she ought to accept the offer of her friend. Shequietly and firmly declined.

"'Miss Dale,' I said, 'you must not stand in the way of your own goodout of any sense of obligation to me. I cannot allow you to do so.'

"'I do not do so, Madame La P——re,' she answered. 'I prefer to staywith you to going even to Mrs. Baxter's, whom I love sincerely. She isan excellent and most faithful friend, but I am better and safer herewith you.'

"She looked steadily at me as she began the sentence, but dropped hereyes suddenly as she said the last words.

"'Lina,' I said, (it was in the evening, as I was leaving theclass-room, and all the élèves had already gone,) 'carry me up some ofthese books to my room,—I have more than usual to-night'; for I sawthere was something hidden behind this reserved manner, and feltinterested.

"She took the books, and followed me. As she laid them down and arrangedthem in order on the table, I closed the door and said,—

"'Miss Dale, you have not looked very well lately, I think; I haveseveral times intended to tell you, that, if you would like to go homesome Saturday and spend the Sunday with your parents, you can do so.'(Her family was then living at Kenneville, a village about twelve milesfrom here.) 'I have noticed that you have never asked permission to dothis, and thought you might be waiting till I mentioned it myself.'

"She started as I said the word 'home.'

"'No, no,' she said, almost vehemently, 'I cannot go home, I do not wishto'; and then she continued, in her usually cold, quiet manner,—'Youremember, perhaps, Madame, that I am not happily circ*mstanced at home.'

"She pondered a moment, and then said, as if she had made up her mindabout something,—

"'After all, I may as well tell you, Madame, all about it, as by doingso some things in my conduct that may have seemed strange to you will becleared up,—that is, if you choose to hear?'

"'Certainly, ma chère,' I replied. 'I should be glad to hear all youhave to tell me. Sit down here.'

"She still remained standing, however, before me, her eyelidsdrooping,—not shyly, for her eyes had a steady, abstracted expression,as if she were arranging her facts in systematic order so as to tell meher story in her usual clear, business-like manner.

"'You know, Madame, my father is guardian to two brothers, the sons ofan old army-friend of his, who died in India when his two sons werequite boys, leaving his cousin, Colonel Lucas, together with my father,joint guardians of his children. The boys, during school or collegevacations, spent the time partly at our house and partly at the house ofColonel Lucas. They both seemed like brothers to me. As time went on,Frank, the elder, began to spend all his vacations with us; and when heleft Oxford, and ought to have commenced his studies for the bar, hecontinually put off the time of going up to London, where he was toenter the office of a lawyer, and stayed on from week to week at home,to teach me German, as he said. I knew he was rich, and that in threeyears he would come into the possession of a large fortune; but I knewalso how bad it was for a young man to have no profession; and when Isaw my father seemed indifferent on the[Pg 542] subject, I used to urge Frankthe more not to waste his time. But he generally only laughed, though attimes he would seem vexed at my earnestness, and would ask me why Ishould wish him to do what he did not want to do; and then,—andthen,—this was one evening after we had been on the boat together allthe afternoon, and were walking up home,—then, Madame, he told me heloved me, that he would go to London, study law, or do anything I said,if I would marry him. Oh, Madame, this was dreadful to me! I was stunnedand bewildered. I had never fancied such a thing possible; the very ideawas unnatural. I had thought of Frank as a boy always; now, in a moment,he was converted into a man, full of the determination of a selfishpurpose. I could not answer him composedly, and entreated him to leaveme. He misinterpreted my dismay, and went at once to my father. When Icame in, that evening, having somewhat regained my composure, thoughwith a sick feeling of dread and bewilderment in my heart, my father metme with unusual kindness, kissed me as he had not done for years, andled me towards Frank, who was standing near my mother. She had beencrying, I saw, and her face wore a strange expression of anxiety andnervous joy as she looked at me. I turned away from Frank, and threwmyself down on the floor by my mother.

"'"Thank Heaven, Lina!" I heard her whisper; "God bless you, my child!you have saved me years of bitterness."

"'I exclaimed,—"I cannot marry Frank,—I don't love him, mother,—don'ttry to make me!"

"'Ah, Madame, it was dreadful! I don't know how I bore it. My fatherstormed, and my mother cried, and poured forth such entreaties andpersuasions,—telling me I mistook my heart, and that I should learn tolove Frank, and about duty as a daughter to my father, and, oh, I don'tknow what beside!—and Frank stood by, silent and pale, and with a lookI had never seen before of unrelenting, passionate, pitiless love.

"'Oh,' sighed Lina, 'it was hard, with no one to take my part! but thehardest was yet to come.

"'Days and weeks passed on, and I was miserable beyond what I can tellyou. Nothing more was said on the subject, however, except by Frank, whotortured me by alternate entreaties and reproaches, and sometimes byoccasional fits of thoughtfulness and kindness, in which he would leaveme to myself, only appealing to me by unobtrusive acts of courtesy anddevotion, which gave me more pain than either reproach or entreaty. Butif it had not been for these days of comparative calm and quiet, Ishould hardly have been able to bear what followed. As it was, I hadtime to collect my strength and plan my line of conduct.

"'One night my father called me into his room. I saw by his manner thathe was much excited. My mother was there also; she looked alarmed, andglanced from my father to me anxiously and inquiringly. You know mammahas very little strength of character, Madame. I could not hope for helpfrom her; so I called up all my resolution, knowing that some trial wasbefore me. I can hardly tell you what I heard then, Madame, it was suchdisgrace,' said Lina, raising her eyes slowly and fixing them a momenton mine, while a sudden, curious, embarrassed expression passed over herface, such as is accompanied in other persons by a painful flush, butwhich left her face pale and cold, causing no change in color.

"'My father told me, Madame, that some unfortunate speculations which hehad undertaken, and in which he had used the fortune of Frank intrustedto his care, had failed, and that, when Frank became four-and-twenty, atwhich time, according to his father's will, he was to enter upon hisproperty, his own wrong-doing would be discovered, and thence-forward hewould be at the mercy of his ward. Frank had, indeed, already learnedhow great a wrong had been done him. My mother clung to me, weaklypouring forth laudations on the generosity of Frank, who, through hisaffection[Pg 543] for me, was willing to forgive all this injury. Was I notgrateful? Why did I not go to him and tell him that the devotion of mylife would be a poor recompense for such generosity? Oh, Madame, it wasdreadful! I was not grateful at all; I hated him; and the misery ofhaving to decide thus the fate of my father was intolerable.'

"'But what did the young man himself say to all this, Lina?' I inquired;'did he never speak to you on the subject?'

"'Yes,' she replied; and after he had spoken quite bitterly against myfather, (they never liked each other,) he said, that, however he mightfeel towards him as his guardian, there was nothing that he could notforget and forgive in the father of his wife,—which did not make merespect him any more, you may be sure, and showed me that it was uselessto appeal to his generosity. My life now was miserable indeed.

"'About this time, my aunt in Scotland sent for me to pay her a visit.She was in failing health, and wanted cheerful companionship, and I hadalways been a favorite with her as a child. She lived alone with acouple of old servants in a small village far in the wilds of ——shire.My father, of course, opposed my going, alleging, as his reason, thelong journey (we were then living in W——, in Shropshire) that I shouldhave to take alone. To my astonishment, Frank took my part, insisting onmy being allowed to go. Whether it was that he thought that when faraway from home, in the seclusion of the Scotch village where my auntlived, I should think more kindly of him, or whether he wished to touchme by a show of magnanimity, I cannot tell; but so it was, and I went.'

"Lina here paused a moment, thoughtfully.

"'But, Lina,' I said, 'if the young man was well educated, rich, andseemed only to have the one fault of loving you so well, why would younot marry him? Ma chère,' I said, 'you throw away your good fate. Yousee what a service it would be to your family. (I speak as your friend,you comprehend.) You save your father; you make the young man happy; allcould be arranged so charmingly! I should like to see you married, machère; and then, your duty as a daughter!'

"'Oh, yes, yes! she cried; 'I would do, oh, anything almost, to shieldmy poor father and mother! Perhaps once, once, I might; but it is toolate now. I cannot marry Frank. Oh, Madame, it is as impossible as if Iwere dead!'

"'This is a strange story, Lina,' I said. 'What do you mean? Tell me, mychild, or I shall think you crazy.'

"She laid her head on her hands, which were clasped on the top of theescritoire, and half whispered,—

"'I am engaged,—I am married to some one else.'

"I sprang from my seat, and caught her hands.

"'You married, Lina? you? the quiet girl who has been teaching thechildren so well all these months?'

"'Yes, Madame,' she said, with all her usual composure, 'and to a man Ilove with my whole soul, with my whole life. The future may seem dim,but I have little fear when I remember I am Arthur's wife, and that hislove will be strong to help me whenever I relieve him of the promise Ihave obliged him to make not to reveal our marriage. Frank will bethree-and-twenty in one year and a half from now; till then, he cannot,without great difficulty, harm my father, and by that time I trust hisfancy for me will have passed away, and he will be willing to treat withmy father about his property without personal feeling to aggravate hissense of the wrong that has been done him. He is in the East now withColonel Lucas, his other guardian, who has not been without hissuspicions of Frank's liking for me, and is not at all unwilling, Ithink, to keep him out of the way for a while.'

"'Does no one know of this, Lina?' I asked, 'no one suspect it?'

"'Only two persons,' she replied,—'indeed, I may as well tell you atonce, Madame,—beside[Pg 544] Mrs. Baxter and her husband, at whose house theceremony took place. They were then staying in the neighborhood ofH——, a few miles from my aunt's house. It was at Mrs. Baxter's I firstmet Arthur: he was a distant connection of hers. He and his CousinMarmaduke had come up for the shooting and fishing for a few weeks inthe autumn. My aunt was a genial, bright old lady, fond of the societyof young people, spite of her ill health, and invited the young menfrequently to her house. In that way I saw a great deal of them both.'

"'Who was the gentleman, Lina? Had you seen him before this visit? But,'seeing she hesitated, 'if you do not wish to disclose more, say sofrankly; what you have already told me I will guard as a secret,—youneed not fear.'

"'Oh, Madame,' interrupted Lina, suddenly throwing herself on the floorat my feet, 'it's not that,—do not say that, dear Madame! It is a greatcomfort to me to tell you all this; sometimes I feel so lonely when byany chance I do not get a letter from him the day I expect one.'

"Her voice faltered, and she leaned forward, burying her face in herhands; I saw her breast shaken with weeping.

"'Tell me all, ma pauvre petite!' I said; 'tell me everything.'

"Then seeing she still continued weeping, I said, playfully,—

"'So you get letters from him, do you? I have never known this. Youknow, ma chérie, that that is against the rules of my pension; butwhen people are married,—c'est une autre chose! But how is it that Ihave never found this out? Ah, because you have charge of all theletters to and from the post!'

"'Yes, Madame,' she said, looking up with a smile. 'I have sometimesfelt so unhappy, because I seemed to be doing a dishonest thing; butit would have been so hard to go without them, and I knew how kind andgood you were. If you would like to see one of his letters,' shecontinued, half shyly, but with dignified gravity, 'I have one here';and she drew a large letter from her pocket and handed it to me.

"Here it is," said Madame, taking the first from the bundle in her hand.

The handwriting was firm and regular; the letter was long, but, thoughthe whole breathed but one feeling of the deepest and tenderestaffection, it was hardly what would be called a "love-letter." Therewere criticisms of new works, and further references to books of a kindthat showed the writer to be a man of scholarly tastes. After we hadlooked at this one, Madame handed us others from the packet, all markedby the same characteristics as the first. Here and there were littlepictures of the writer's every-day life. He told of his being out on themoors at sunrise shooting with his Cousin Marmaduke, or riding round theestate giving orders about the transplanting of certain trees, "whichare set as you have suggested, and are growing as fast as they can tillyou come to walk under their shade," or in the library at evening, whenthe place beside him seems so void where she should be. Then there wereother letters, speaking of —— ——, the poet, who was coming down tospend a few weeks with him, and write verses under his elms at AylesfordGrange; but in one and all Lina was the central idea round which allother interests merely turned, and the source from which all else drewits charm.

"As soon," said Madame, continuing her narration, "as I had finishedreading the letter, I entreated Lina to go on with her curious history.

"'I met Arthur,' she said, 'first at Mrs. Baxter's, as I said before. Heis the noblest man I have ever known,—so good, so clever, so pure inheart! His Cousin Marmaduke, who was there at the same time, paid megreat attention, but I never liked him; there was always somethingrepulsive to me in his black eyes; I never trusted him; and besideArthur,—oh, it seemed like the contrast between night and day! I don'tknow why it was, Madame, but I never felt that he loved Arthur really,though Arthur[Pg 545] had done a great deal for him, got him his commission inthe army, and paid off some of his debts; but he never seemed as if hequite forgave Arthur for standing in the way of his being the lord ofthe manor himself and possessor of Aylesford. There are somemean-spirited people who are proud too. They can receive favors, whilethey resent the obligation. He was of that kind, I think, and hatedArthur for his very generosity.

"'One evening, as I was walking up the shrubbery, I met Marmaduke. Hehad ridden over with Arthur, as they often did, to spend the evening. Hehad caught sight of me, he said, as they came up the avenue, and, underpretext of something being wrong with his horse's bridle, had stopped,and let Arthur go on to the house alone. He had long waited for thisopportunity of speaking to me alone, he said, as I must have known.Then, amid the basest of vague insinuations against Arthur, he dared toproffer me his odious love. Oh, Madame, I was angry! A woman cannot bearfeigned love,—it stings like hatred; still less can she bear to hearone she loves spoken of as I had heard him speak of Arthur. I hardlyknow what I said, but it must have expressed my feeling; for he tried totaunt me in return with being in love with Arthur and Aylesford. Ionly smiled, and walked on. Then he sprang after me, and vowed I shouldnot leave him so,—that he loved me madly, spite of my scorn, spite ofmy foolish words. He knew well I did not love Arthur, that I wasambitious only. So was he,—and so determined in his purpose, that hewas sure to succeed in it, spite of everything. "For there are fewthings," he added, "that can stand against my settled will. Beware,then, how you cross it, sweet Lina!" I shook my cloak loose from hishand, for his words sent a thrill of horror through me, and rushed on,speechless with indignation, to the house. Two days after this I becameengaged to Arthur. How happy we were!' said Lina, a dreamy expressionpassing over her face at the retrospect.

"'I told Arthur everything about my home; but I did not tell him of myconversation with Marmaduke in the shrubbery, because I could not bearto give him the pain which a discovery of his cousin's baseness wouldhave caused him. Marmaduke, I perceived, knew that I had not betrayedhim; for one night, as I was sitting at the piano, he thanked mehastily, as he turned over the leaf of my music-book, for a generousproof of confidence. I took no notice of these words, but was consciousof a flush of indignation at the word confidence.

"'Arthur and I were always together; we read together, and talked overour past and future lives. Nothing now troubled me. He took all theburden and anxiety of my life to himself, and with his love added asense of peace and security most exquisite to me.

"'I told him all the miserable story of Frank, and he listened gravely;but though it certainly troubled him, it never seemed to daunt him foran instant. So gentle as he is, nothing ever could shake him. I was sohappy then, that I could not feel angry even with Marmaduke; and as heseemed to be willing to forget the past, we became somewhat morefriendly towards each other. But if I ever happened to be alone withhim, even for a moment, the recollection of our talk in the shrubberywould come to my mind, and the old feeling of anger would spring upagain, the effort to suppress which was so painful that I always avoidedbeing with him, unless Arthur were by also.

"'One day there came a letter from my father,—and what its characterwas you may suppose, when I tell you that it made me utterly forget mypresent happiness. At the end of the letter he commanded me to returnhome immediately. It came one evening: I read and re-read its cruelwords till I could bear no more. I saw Arthur standing in the twilightbelow my window, and went down and laid the letter silently in hishands. When he had finished reading it, he came slowly towards me. Ishall never forget his look as he took my hands in his and drew[Pg 546] me tohim, looking into my face so earnestly. Then he said, in a low, gravevoice, "Lina, do you love me? Then we must be married at once,—do notbe afraid,—perhaps to-night. I fear your father may follow that lettervery soon. You have suffered too much already. You have no one but me tolook to. Heaven knows I do not think alone of my own happiness."'

"Lina paused a moment. 'I yielded,' she said. 'I could have followed himblindly then anywhere! So that evening, in the drawing-room, with Mr.and Mrs. Baxter and Marmaduke as witnesses, we were married by a Scotchclergyman (there was no clergyman of our own Church within twentymiles). The ceremony was very simple. As the last words were beingpronounced, some one entered the room hastily, and there was whisperingand confusion for a moment or two, and when I rose from my knees thefirst words that greeted me were the intelligence that my aunt wasdangerously ill, and had sent a special messenger for me. Late as itwas, I prepared instantly to accompany the man back to H——. I wasstung with self-reproaches at the thought of my aunt lying, as Ifancied, dying without me near her, and peremptorily refused to allowArthur to accompany me on my long drive.

"'That was the last time I saw him. The next day he was called away onimportant business, which admitted of no delay. I remained with my pooraunt till her death, which took place at the end of that week, threedays after my marriage. Then my parents came for me. My father's mannerwas unusually kind; my poor mother's expressions of love went to myheart. Frank was not at home, they said, but had gone up to London toprepare for his journey to the East. They had determined to reside for awhile in France, and they promised that he should not be informed of mybeing with them, if I would consent to accompany them. I yielded totheir solicitations, parted with my true friend Mrs. Baxter, and crossedthe Channel with them. At the end of three weeks I discovered that myfather had broken his word and informed Frank by letter of my being withthem. Then I fled to you, having heard of the position vacant in yourpension. I have tried to do my duty here, and to merit in some degreeyour kindness. With you I am happier than I could be with any one butArthur. Arthur has learned to love you too: will you read this letterspeaking of you?' drawing a letter from her pocket.

"This is it," said Madame, taking one from the pile, and pointing outthe passage.

"I am weary of my life, sometimes, without you,—here, where you oughtto be,—your home, Lina! I wander through the rooms that I haveprepared with such delight for you, and think of the time when you willbe here,—mistress of all!... When will you come, my wife? I think anddream in this way till I am haunted by the ghost of the future. I getmorbid, and fancy all kinds of dangers that may happen to my darling, sofar away from me; and then I am ready to go at once to you and breakdown all barriers and bear you away.... I thank Heaven you have so gooda friend in 'Madame.' I long for the time to come when I may greet heras one of my best friends for your sake. In the mean time, I haveselected an Indian cabinet, the grotesque delicate work of which wouldplease your quaint fancy, which I trust she will accept, if you willjoin me in the gift. I shall have an opportunity of sending it in a fewweeks.... Mrs. Eldridge, my dear old housekeeper, has just been in. Shewishes to know whether the new curtains of the little library are to becrimson or gray. She little knows what confusion she causes me! Sheknows not that I am no longer master here! I tell her I will deliberateon the point, and she retires mystified by my unusual indecision. Sowrite quickly and make known your desires, if you wish to save me froman imputation of becoming, as the good old-lady says, 'a little set andbachelor-like in my ways.'[Pg 547] Marmaduke and —— come down next week toshoot.... You say, wait till spring, when things will be more propitiousfor disclosing our marriage. I have also another scheme which will beripened by spring. I shall disclose our marriage, and propose to yourfather to make him independent of his ward. No one, certainly, has abetter right to do this than his son-in-law; and then——But I hardlydare to think of the happiness that will be mine when nothing but deathcan part us any more!"

"One evening about this time," continued Madame, "about a week afterLina had shown me this letter, I came down into the cabinet de musiqueon my way to the garden to take my usual evening walk on the terrace,and saw Lina standing by the piano with her bonnet on and her shawl laidbeside her. In her hand she held letters, one of which she had thatmoment unsealed. She had, I knew, just returned from the post-office.

"'I have a letter here from Mrs. Baxter, Madame,' she said. 'She writesto me in great distress; the two children, Minnie and Louisa, whom shewas so anxious to send here, are both ill with scarlet-fever. But hereis your letter; she will no doubt tell you everything herself.'

"I took the letter and seated myself, and was soon absorbed in the poormother's hurried and almost incoherent relation, when suddenly I wasstartled by a gesture or sound from Lina that made me look up hastily.She stood with the letter she had been reading crushed in her hand, herface wearing an expression of agony. For a moment she swayed to and frowith her hand outstretched to catch a chair for support, but before Icould reach her she had fallen heavily to the floor. I called Justine,and we raised her to a chair. I stood by her supporting her head on mybreast, while Justine ran for camphor and eau-de-vie. It was some timebefore she recovered her consciousness; she then slowly opened her eyesand fixed them wonderingly on me, but with no look of recognition inthem. A long shiver passed over her, and she sighed heavily once ortwice as she looked vacantly at the letter on the floor. I wasterrified, and seized the letter, to gain, if possible, some explanationof the miserable state of the poor girl.

"I found that the envelope contained three letters: one from MarmadukeKirkdale; one from the housekeeper, Mrs. Eldridge; and this scrap fromArthur.

"'My Dear Madam,—I have heavy tidings to send you. While out shootingyesterday morning in the Low Copse, Mr. ——, Arthur, and myself becameseparated: Mr. ——, who had been my companion, keeping on an open path;I going down towards the pool to beat up a thicket and start the game.Arthur I supposed was with the gamekeeper, a little distance in advanceof us. Would that it had been so! As I came up to join the others Iheard the report of a gun, and hastening towards the spot whence thesound seemed to come, I found my poor cousin lying upon the ground, andat first supposed, that, in leaping the fence, he had received a suddenblow from a branch, which had stunned him; but on kneeling down to raisehim, I perceived he was bleeding profusely from a wound in the throat,and was perfectly unconscious. Mr. —— came up almost at the moment,and while the gamekeeper and I bore Arthur to a farm-house hard by, hewent off to call the nearest doctor. Everything has been done that skilland care could devise. The physician from B—— is here, besides Mr.Gordon, the village-surgeon. They pronounce the wound very serious, butstill hold out hopes that with great care he may yet recover. There isno doubt that in leaping the hedge, and holding his gun carelessly, mycousin had inflicted this terrible injury on himself. He is, however,too weak to make it safe to ask him any explanation of the accident. Thedoctors insist on perfect quiet and rest, and say, that, owing to theunremitting[Pg 548] care we have been able to give him, he has done much betterthan they could have hoped for. If fever can be prevented, all may yetgo well; for myself, I believe strongly in Arthur's robust constitution.

"'Friday night.—Arthur was doing very well till about two o'clockthis morning. The housekeeper and I were with him. Mr. —— had gone totake some rest. Suddenly Arthur raised himself, and asked for paper andpencil. I remonstrated with him, fearing the effects of exertion. When,however, I found Mr. ——(who had been called in by Mrs. Eldridge)declared his judgment in favor of compliance, I yielded, and, supportedby the housekeeper, my cousin wrote a few almost illegible words. He hadscarcely signed his name when he fell back,—the exertion, as I hadfeared, had been too much for him. After this he sank rapidly. He diedat six o'clock this morning.

"'I hold my cousin's place now by his death. I am ready to do so fully.

"'I am yours as you will,

"'Mar'ke C. Kirkdale.'

"'Respected Madam—I do not know that I have any right presuming tomeddle with affairs that don't belong to my walk in life, far be it fromme to do so, especially to one that whatever they may say seems alwayslike my mistress to me—owing to the last words my poor dear Mr. Arthurever spoke was, She is my wife, my own wife, let no one gainsay it,which at the time I did not take in fairly, being almost broken downwith sorrow, for I had nursed him as a baby, Madam, and loved him humblyas my own son, no lady could have loved him better, which having losthim and all this trouble (my heart seeming fairly broke) makes me write,respected Madam, worse than usual, never having been a scholar, healways wrote them for me, God bless him. You won't think me presuming,Madam, when I say these things never having had the honour of seeingyou, but you are the only person who can feel for me under thesecirc*mstances of trial more than any others. For to see them goingthrough the house looking into precious drawers and burning papers inthe library fire and turning on a person like a Tiger, though he may bea gentleman (though how of that family that always was remarkable gentlespoken I cannot tell.) There never were two cousins differenter. I nevercan regard him as my master, never. I would sooner leave the old placeand beg my bread than feel him master after my blessed Mr. Arthur, notthat I'd speak evil of the family. But God Almighty reads the hearts ofmen, and I only hope some may come out clear in appearing at theJudgment, and mayn't disgrace the Family then—for to say that my Mr.Arthur never made a will when twice he's spoke to me upon the subject,always trusting me, Madam, telling me where he kept it in the library,and though it's not to be found the house through, still I know it mustbe somewhere, for I'd trust his word against a thousand. I shall ask Mr.---- to forward this present not knowing your address, he is a kindgentleman and a true friend. I send you the little scrap of paper withthe last words he ever wrote. Some may say it's no good andunreadable, but I took care that them that didn't value it didn't getit, though they did search everywhere, and looked so black when itcouldn't be found being in my pocket at the time. I present my services,honoured Madam, and my dutiful affection for the sake of him that'sgone.

"'Elizabeth Eldridge.'

"'Only a moment or so left to me. Goodbye, my Lina! I am dying—andwithout you near me. We have waited so long! It is hard to leave youalone in the world, darling. Come and live here—your own home. If youhad been here but one day, things might have been otherwise. Take careof the poor—keep[Pg 549] Mrs. Eldridge with you, she is faithful andtrue—true—she knows—God keep you, darling. I am so weak—there is nohope.

"'Arthur Kirkdale.'

"For three days Lina lay on her bed almost without giving a sign oflife,—her face rigid and colorless. She refused to eat, and only when Imyself used my authority with her did any nourishment pass her lips. Onthe evening of the third day I became alarmed, and determined to sendfor a physician. I told Justine to despatch one of the servants for Dr.B——, but to request him to come after five o'clock, when I should havereturned from vespers, as I wished to see him myself. I gave mydirections to Justine as we stood together at the foot of Lina's bed, inso low a whisper as to prevent, as I thought, the possibility of herhearing me. Great, then, was my astonishment, when, on leaving my room,ready for church, I met Lina on the staircase. Her face was very pale,and she clung to the banisters for support as she descended. Before Icould express my surprise, she said,—

"'I feel very much better, Madame, and if you please will call the classfor English lesson at six.'

"I told her she must go back to her room,—that she should not haverisen without my knowledge.

"'I must have occupation,' she replied; 'it is much better for me.'

"I felt she was right, and let her go down,—and that evening she heldher class as usual. So she continued, day after day, her accustomedround of duties, with all her usual precision and care. Her self-controlannoyed me. She passed to and fro in the house, her face pale and wan,though with a composed expression, and all my earnest entreaties thatshe should seek rest or relaxation were met by the same calm refusal.Saturday came, and I was glad to see she showed something like interestin the prospect of the letters from England that would arrive that day,and begged me to allow her to go as usual to get them at thepost-office. I willingly acceded to her request, thinking the fresh airand sea-breeze would do her good. She returned with several letters, andbrought them to me, seeming to desire my company while she read them.One was from Marmaduke, one from Mr. R——, her husband's lawyer inLincoln. The former puzzled me; it was vague and threatening, and yetthere were expressions in it almost befitting a love-letter. Lina readit to me with hardly any change of expression, but dropped it from herfingers as she finished it, with a look of mingled indifference anddisgust. The grave, business-like letter of the lawyer had still lesseffect upon her. I read it to her,—for, although in English, I had nodifficulty in making out every syllable, so distinctly was it written,and with such legal precision. It informed Lina that Mr. R——felt someapprehension of her having trouble in substantiating her marriage, thathis conversation with Mr. Marmaduke Kirkdale had been (although somewhatvague on the part of the latter) wholly unsatisfactory. This, and thefact that no will had as yet been found among her husband's papers, madehim fear that she might be involved in lengthy and perhaps annoyinglegal proceedings. At the close, he desired her to write out a carefulaccount of all the circ*mstances of her marriage, as it was mostimportant that he should know all the details of the case.

"'These things weary me so!' said Lina; 'but it does not matter,' sheadded, sighing; 'for his sake I must do this.'

"The few contemptuous words in answer to Marmaduke's letter were soonwritten, and she then began her reply to the letter of her lawyer. Thisseemed to cost her a great effort; she sighed frequently as she wrote,and at the end of two hours, as she finished the last words, her headfell on the sheet of paper before her, and she burst into tears. I couldnot try to check this outburst of grief, knowing that it must be agreat[Pg 550] relief to her overtaxed system after the strain of the last fewdays. She was soon again calm, and resumed her writing. A letter to herparents, informing them of her secret marriage and sudden widowhood, wasnext written, and Lina, in her plain bonnet and shawl and closelyveiled, set off with the three letters to the post-office."

Here Madame paused. She smiled faintly.

"I find that I have become again unconsciously, interested in Lina, as Ihave told her story, and I hesitate to approach the dénoûment;but"—and she sighed delicately, not sufficiently to disperse thesmile—"I must go through with this, as Lina herself used to say. Onenight about this time I had been writing late, and it was past midnightwhen I descended with my lamp in my hand to go the round of theclass-rooms, as is my wont before retiring to rest. I paused, as Ipassed down the school-room, opposite the Sainte Croix, and repeatedmy salut before the Holy Emblem. As I finished the last words, my eyesfell on a small slip of paper lying on Lina's desk, on which my own namewas written three times, in what appeared my own handwriting,—JeanneCliniè La P——re. A cold shudder ran through me, as if I had heard myname in the accents of my double. Obeying a sudden impulse, I openedLina's desk, and seized the papers within. Uppermost lay a thickcahier, in which, in Lina's writing, were what at first seemed copiesof all the letters she had received from England within the last fewmonths. There were also facsimiles of letters to me from Mrs. Baxter,Mr. A. Kirkdale, and others. Then there were draughts of the sameletters, written in the various handwritings with which I had becomefamiliar, as those of Lina's and my own English correspondents. Here andthere were improvements and corrections in Lina's own writing. Belowthese lay piles of letters,—a bundle of ten letters of my own, formingpart of my correspondence with Mrs. Baxter, and which I had intrusted toLina at various times to post. These were without envelopes, and simplytied together. I sat there for more than an hour, stupefied by thisstrange revelation; and then, taking the bundle of my own lettersaddressed to Mrs. Baxter, I went to my room.

"Next morning, when I descended to the school-room, I glanced, inpassing, at Lina, and thought I perceived a slightly fluttered,disturbed expression in her face; but I continued the usual routine ofthe morning's work without speaking to her. After class was over, I sentfor her to come to my room. I myself was much disturbed; she wasperfectly calm and collected; but as I laid the bundle of my own lettersto Mrs. Baxter on the table, and demanded an explanation of their beingfound in her desk, she turned pale, and snatched up the packet and heldit tightly. To my question, she answered that I evidently did her greatwrong, but she was used to being misunderstood; that the kindness I hadshown her entitled me to an explanation, which she would not otherwisehave given.

"'It is a weakness that I am ashamed of that has caused this trouble,'she said. 'I have sat up in the lonely nights and read and re-read myletters, and then I began to copy them, copied even the handwriting,till I grew very perfect in it, and then I could not bear to destroy anyof those precious words, but kept them, as I thought, in secret,—butnow some one has basely taken them from my desk, and brought them toyou. As for your letters to Mrs. Baxter, there are, I see, only one ortwo here. Give me only time and you shall have that cleared up also. Iwill write to Mrs. Baxter, beg her to explain how she let these lettersget out of her possession, and ask her to inclose all the rest of yourletters to her. I will take care that her answer shall come through thepost-office, and not, as heretofore, inclosed in a letter to me; sothat you may feel quite sure that there is no mistake, Madame LaP——re.'

"I felt baffled and guilty before her;[Pg 551] and the next three days weremost uncomfortable. I could not but feel gênée with Lina, while shemaintained the character of wounded innocence. The evening of the thirdday, Justine handed to me a large packet which the postman had justbrought, and upon which there were ten francs to pay. It was directed tome in Mrs. Baxter's well-known handwriting. I tore open the cover, and ashower of letters fell on the table. All my letters to Mrs. Baxter,and one from herself, entreating to know the reason of this 'singularrequest of dear Lina's.' I was disconcerted and relieved at once, when,turning the wrapper listlessly in my fingers, my eye suddenly caught, onthe reverse side, and printed in large letters, these words,—'Thispacket was sent to the Postmaster in Bristol to be reposted to ——.'That was the end of it. I had paid ten francs for learning the agreeablefact that I had been duped,—for the satisfaction of knowing that fortwo years and a half I had been wasting my sympathy and even tears on aset of purely imaginary characters and the little intrigante who hadbefooled me.

"When I showed Lina the printed words on the wrapper, she turned verypale, but maintained a stubborn silence to all my reproaches.

"'How could you deceive me so?'

"'I don't know.'

"'What reason could you have?'

"'None.'

"'Lina! was there a particle of truth in anything you have told me?'

"'No, Madame.'

"This was all I could get from her; but as she left the room, she turnedand said, looking at me half reproachfully, half maliciously,—

"'I suppose we had better part now. At any rate, you will at least ownthat I have interested you, Madame!'

"She left me two days afterwards, and the last I heard of her was in thesituation of companion to a Russian Countess, with whom she was animmense favorite. She made some effort to gain possession of theseletters; but I reminded her, that, as they had been written exclusivelyfor my benefit, I considered I had a right to keep them. To this shesimply answered, 'Very well, Madame.'"

It is, perhaps, hardly necessary to add that the story of Lina Dale istold here precisely as related to us by Madame La P——re, of courseexcepting the necessary changes in the names of places and persons. Thethree letters are not copies of the original ones in the possession ofMadame La P——re, but a close transcript of them from memory,—thesubstance of them is identical, and in many instances the words also.The extraordinary power shown by Lina Dale in maintaining the charactershe had assumed and sustained during two years and a half was fullycarried out by the skill and cleverness of her pretended correspondence;and in reading over these piles of letters, so full of originality, onecould not but feel regret at the perversion of powers soremarkable,—powers which might have been developed by healthy actioninto means of usefulness and good.

[Pg 552]

CHARLES LAMB'S UNCOLLECTED WRITINGS.

FOURTH PAPER.

Lamb's time, after his manumission from India-House, seems to have hungrather heavily upon his hands. Though the "birds of the air" were not sofree as he was then, I fear they were a great deal happier and vastlymore contented than our liberated and idle old clerk. Though in thefirst flush and excitement of his freedom from his six-and-thirty years'confinement in a counting-house,—(he entered the office a dark-haired,bright-eyed, light-hearted boy; he left it a decrepit, silver-haired,rather melancholy, somewhat disappointed man, whose spirits, as hehimself confesseth, had grown gray before his hair,)—though, when inthe dizzy and happy early hours of his freedom, Elia exultingly wrote(and felt) that "a man can never have too much time to himself," thehoneymoon (if I may so express it) of his emancipation from the

was not fairly over before he felt that man's true element islabor,—that occupation, which in his younger days he had called a"fiend," was in very truth an angel,—the angel of contentment and joy.Doctor Johnson stoutly maintained by both tongue and pen, that, ingeneral, no one could be virtuous or happy who was not completelyemployed. Not only the bread we eat, but the true pleasures and realenjoyments of life, must be earned by the sweat of the brow. The poorold mill-horse, turned loose in the pasture on Sundays, seems sadly tomiss his accustomed daily round of weary labor; the retiredtallow-chandler, whose story has pointed so many morals and adorned somany tales, would have died of inertia and ennui in less than six monthsafter his retirement from business, had not his successor kindly allowedhim to help on melting-days; and methinks the very ghosts of certainbusy and energetic men must fret and fume at the idle and inactive stateof their shadowy and incorporal selves; nor, unless—as some hope andbelieve—we are to have our familiar and customary tasks and duties toperform in heaven, could their souls be happy and contented in Paradise.

But—after this rather foolish and wholly unnecessary digression—toreturn to Lamb. Elia, who had while a toil-worn clerk so carefully andfrugally husbanded every odd moment and spare hour of time,—who, afterhis day's labor at India-House was over, had read so many massive oldfolios, and written so many pleasant pages for the pleasure andsolacement of himself, and a choice and select number of men andwomen,—now that he had the whole long day to himself, read but little,and wrote but seldom.

And as for those long walks in the country, which he talked of so fondlyin some of his letters to his friends,—those walks to Hoddesdon, toAmwell, to Windsor, and other towns and villages in the near vicinity ofLondon, which he had enjoyed in anticipation a few years before he hadthe leisure actually to take them,—those long walks on "fineIsaac-Walton mornings," were found to be, it must be confessed, rathertiresome and unsatisfactory. They were most melancholy failures, whencompared—as Elia could not help comparing them—with the pleasant walkshe and Mary had taken years before to Enfield, and Potter's-Bar, andWaltham. Nay, even the "saunterings in Bond Street," the "digressionsinto Soho," to explore book-stalls, the visits to print-shops andpicture-galleries, soon ceased to afford Lamb much real pleasure orenjoyment. Yea, London itself, with all its wonders and marvels, withall its (to him) memories[Pg 553] and associations, he found to be, to one whohad nothing to do but wander idly and purposeless through her throngedand busy streets and thoroughfares,—a mere looker-on in Vienna,—asomewhat dreary and melancholy place. Indeed, the London of 1825-30 wasa far different place to Elia from the London of twenty years before,when he resided at No. 4, Inner-Temple Lane, (near the place of his"kindly engendure,") and gave his famous Wednesday-evening parties,("Oh!" exclaims Hazlitt, "for the pen of John Buncle to consecrate apetit souvenir to their memory!") and when Jem White, and Ned P——,and Holcroft, and Captain Burney, and other of his old friends andjovial companions were alive and merry.

And now, in these later years and altered times, when even the oldmemories and the old associations seemed to have lost their power overhim, and gone were most of "the old familiar faces," and when he felt asif the game of life were scarcely worth the candle, our melancholy andforlorn old humorist thus sadly and pathetically writes to the Quakerpoet:—"But town, with all my native hankering after it, is not what itwas. The streets, the shops, are left, but all old friends are gone. Andin London I was frightfully convinced of this, as I passed houses andplaces, empty caskets now. I have ceased to care almost about anybody.The bodies I cared for are in graves or dispersed. My old chums, thatlived so long and flourished so steadily, are crumbled away. When I tookleave of our adopted young friend at Charing Cross, 'twas a heavyunfeeling rain, and I had nowhere to go. Home have I none, and not asympathizing house to turn to in the great city. Never did the waters ofheaven pour down on a forlorner head. Yet I tried ten days at a sort offriend's house, but it was large and straggling,—one of the individualsof my old long knot of friends, card-players, pleasant companions, thathave tumbled to pieces, into dust and other things; and I got home onThursday, convinced that it was better to get home to my hole atEnfield, and hide like a sick cat in my corner." And at Enfield Elia wasfar from being happy or contented. Winter, however,—"confining,room-keeping winter," with its short days and long evenings, and cozy,comfortable fireside and cheerful candle-light,—he succeeded in passingtolerably pleasantly there; but the "deadly long days" ofsummer—"all-day days," he called them, "with but a half-hour'scandle-light, and no fire-light"—were fearfully dull, wearisome, andunprofitable to him, "a scorner of the fields," an exile from London.And he thought, as he strolled through the green lanes and along thepleasant country-roads in the vicinity of Enfield, of the days when hewas

and sighed for the drudgery and confinement of the counting-house, andlonged to take his seat again at his old desk at India-House. In brief,Lamb felt that he should be happier and better, if he had something todo. And partly to amuse himself, and partly to assist a friend, heemployed himself for a few months in a pleasant and congenial task. "Iam going through a course of reading at the Museum," he writes toBernard Barton,—"the Garrick plays, out of part of which I formed mySpecimens. I have two thousand to go through; and in a few weeks havedespatched the tithe of 'em. It is a sort of office-work to me; hours,ten to four, the same. It does me good. Men must have regular occupationthat have been used to it." And in another (later) letter to Barton hesays, "I am giving the fruit of my old play-reading to Hone, who setsforth a portion weekly in the 'Table-Book.'" And he not only furnishedthe "Table-Book" with specimens of the Garrick plays, but he wrote forthat work, and the "Every-Day Book," a number of pleasant,characteristic little sketches and essays. We herewith present thereader with one of the best and most remarkable of these articles. Ofcourse all will observe, and[Pg 554] admire, the humorous, yet very gentle,loving, almost pathetic manner in which Elia describes the person andcharacter of Mary's old usher,—

CAPTAIN STARKEY.

To the Editor of the "Every-Day Book":—

Dear Sir,—I read your account of this unfortunate being, and hisforlorn piece of self-history, with that smile of half-interest whichthe annals of insignificance excite, till I came to where he says, "Iwas bound apprentice to Mr. William Bird, an eminent writer, and teacherof languages and mathematics," etc.; when I started as one does on therecognition of an old acquaintance in a supposed stranger. This, then,was that Starkey of whom I have heard my sister relate so many pleasantanecdotes, and whom, never having seen, I yet seem almost to remember.For nearly fifty years she had lost all sight of him; and, behold! thegentle usher of her youth, grown into an aged beggar, dubbed with anopprobrious title to which he had no pretensions, an object and aMay-game! To what base purposes may we not return! What may not havebeen the meek creature's sufferings, what his wanderings, before hefinally settled down in the comparative comfort of an old hospitaller ofthe almonry of Newcastle? And is poor Starkey dead?

I was a scholar of that "eminent writer" that he speaks of; but Starkeyhad quitted the school about a year before I came to it. Still the odorof his merits had left a fragrancy upon the recollection of the elderpupils. The school-room stands where it did, looking into a discolored,dingy garden, in the passage leading from Fetter Lane into Bartlett'sBuildings. It is still a school,—though the main prop, alas! has fallenso ingloriously,—and bears a Latin inscription over the entrance in thelane, which was unknown in our humbler times. Heaven knows what"languages" were taught in it then! I am sure that neither my sister normyself brought any out of it but a little of our native English. By"mathematics," reader, must be understood "cyphering." It was, in fact,a humble day-school, at which reading and writing were taught to us boysin the morning, and the same slender erudition was communicated to thegirls, our sisters, etc., in the evening. Now Starkey presided, underBird, over both establishments. In my time, Mr. Cook, now or lately arespectable singer and performer at Drury-Lane Theatre, and nephew toMr. Bird, had succeeded to him. I well remember Bird. He was a squat,corpulent, middle-sized man, with something of the gentleman about him,and that peculiar mild tone—especially while he was inflictingpunishment—which is so much more terrible to children than the angriestlooks and gestures. Whippings were not frequent; but when they tookplace, the correction was performed in a private room adjoining, wherewe could only hear the plaints, but saw nothing. This heightened thedecorum and the solemnity. But the ordinary public chastisem*nt was thebastinado, a stroke or two on the palm with that almost obsolete weaponnow, the ferule. A ferule was a sort of flat ruler, widened at theinflicting end into a shape resembling a pear,—but nothing like sosweet,—with a delectable hole in the middle to raise blisters, like acupping-glass. I have an intense recollection of that disused instrumentof torture, and the malignancy, in proportion to the apparent mildness,with which its strokes were applied. The idea of a rod is accompaniedwith something ludicrous; but by no process can I look back upon thisblister-raiser with anything but unmingled horror. To make him look moreformidable,—if a pedagogue had need of these heightenings,—Bird woreone of those flowered Indian gowns formerly in use with schoolmasters,the strange figures upon which we used to interpret into hieroglyphicsof pain and suffering. But, boyish fears apart, Bird, I believe, was, inthe main, a humane and judicious master.[Pg 555]

Oh, how I remember our legs wedged into those uncomfortable slopingdesks, where we sat elbowing each other; and the injunctions to attain afree hand, unattainable in that position; the first copy I wrote after,with its moral lesson, "Art improves Nature"; the still earlierpot-hooks and the hangers, some traces of which I fear may yet beapparent in this manuscript; the truant looks sidelong to the garden,which seemed a mockery of our imprisonment; the prize for best spelling,which had almost turned my head, and which to this day I cannot reflectupon without a vanity which I ought to be ashamed of; our little leadeninkstands, not separately subsisting, but sunk into the desks; thebright, punctually washed morning fingers, darkening gradually withanother and another ink-spot! What a world of little associatedcirc*mstances, pains, and pleasures, mingling their quotas of pleasure,arise at the reading of those few simple words,—"Mr. William Bird, aneminent writer, and teacher of languages and mathematics, in FetterLane, Holborn"!

Poor Starkey, when young, had that peculiar stamp of old-fashionednessin his face which makes it impossible for a beholder to predicate anyparticular age in the object. You can scarce make a guess betweenseventeen and seven-and-thirty. This antique cast always seems topromise ill-luck and penury. Yet it seems he was not always the abjectthing he came to. My sister, who well remembers him, can hardly forgiveMr. Thomas Ranson for making an etching so unlike her idea of him whenhe was a youthful teacher at Mr. Bird's school. Old age and poverty—alife-long poverty, she thinks—could at no time have so effaced themarks of native gentility which were once so visible in a face otherwisestrikingly ugly, thin, and care-worn. From her recollections of him, shethinks that he would have wanted bread before he would have begged orborrowed a half-penny. "If any of the girls," she says, "who were myschool-fellows, should be reading, through their aged spectacles,tidings from the dead of their youthful friend Starkey, they will feel apang, as I do, at ever having teased his gentle spirit." They were biggirls, it seems, too old to attend his instructions with the silencenecessary; and however old age and a long state of beggary seem to havereduced his writing faculties to a state of imbecility, in those dayshis language occasionally rose to the bold and figurative: for, when hewas in despair to stop their chattering, his ordinary phrase was,"Ladies, if you will not hold your peace, not all the powers in heavencan make you!" Once he was missing for a day or two: he had run away. Alittle, old, unhappy-looking man brought him back,—it was hisfather,—and he did no business in the school that day, but sat mopingin a corner, with his hands before his face; and the girls, histormentors, in pity for his case, for the rest of that day forbore toannoy him. "I had been there but a few months," adds she, "when Starkey,who was the chief instructor of us girls, communicated to us, as aprofound secret, that the tragedy of 'Cato' was shortly to be acted bythe elder boys, and that we were to be invited to the representation."That Starkey lent a helping hand in fashioning the actors, sheremembers; and but for his unfortunate person, he might have had somedistinguished part in the scene to enact. As it was, he had the arduoustask of prompter assigned to him; and his feeble voice was heard clearand distinct, repeating the text during the whole performance. Shedescribes her recollection of the cast of characters, even now, with arelish. Martia, by the handsome Edgar Hickman, who afterwards went toAfrica, and of whom she never afterwards heard tidings; Lucia, by MasterWalker, whose sister was her particular friend; Cato, by John Hunter, amasterly declaimer, but a plain boy, and shorter by the head than histwo sons in the scene, etc. In conclusion, Starkey appears to have beenone of those mild spirits, which, not originally deficient in[Pg 556]understanding, are crushed by penury into dejection and feebleness. Hemight have proved a useful adjunct, if not an ornament to society, ifFortune had taken him into a very little fostering; but wanting that, hebecame a Captain,—a by-word,—and lived and died a broken bulrush.

Perhaps the reader would be pleased to see another of Elia'scontributions to Hone's "Every-Day Book." For, though Lamb's articles inthat amusing and very entertaining miscellany are not very highlyfinished or very carefully elaborated, they contain many touches of hisdelicious humor and exquisite pathos, and are, indeed, replete with thequaint beauties and beautiful oddities of his very original and verydelightful genius.

Sterne's sentimental description of the Dead Ass is immortal; but few ofthe readers and admirers of Charles Lamb know that he, who wrote soeloquently and pathetically in defence of Beggars and ofChimney-Sweepers, and who so ably and successfully vindicated the littleinnocent hare from the charge—made "by Linnæus perchance, orBuffon"—of being a timid animal, indited an essay on the samelong-eared and loud-voiced quadruped.

THE ASS.

Mr. Collier, in his "Poetical Decameron," (Third Conversation,) noticesa tract printed in 1595, with the author's initials only, A. B.,entitled, "The Nobleness of the Asse: a work rare, learned, andexcellent." He has selected the following pretty passage from it:—"He[the ass] refuseth no burthen; he goes whither he is sent, without anycontradiction. He lifts not his foote against any one; he bytes not; heis no fugitive, nor malicious affected. He doth all things in good sort,and to his liking that hath cause to employ him. If strokes be givenhim, he cares not for them; and, as out modern poet singeth,—

Certainly Nature, foreseeing the cruel usage which this useful servantto man should receive at man's hand, did prudently in furnishing himwith a tegument impervious to ordinary stripes. The malice of a child ora weak hand can make feeble impressions on him. His back offers no markto a puny foeman. To a common whip or switch his hide presents anabsolute insensibility. You might as well pretend to scourge aschool-boy with a tough pair of leather breeches on. His jerkin is wellfortified; and therefore the costermongers "between the years 1790 and1800" did more politicly than piously in lifting up a part of his uppergarment. I well remember that beastly and bloody custom. I have oftenlonged to see one of those refiners in discipline himself at the cart'stail, with just such a convenient spot laid bare to the tender merciesof the whipster. But, since Nature has resumed her rights, it is to behoped that this patient creature does not suffer to extremities,—andthat to the savages who still belabor his poor carcass with their blows(considering the sort of anvil they are laid upon,) he might in somesort, if he could speak, exclaim, with the philosopher, "Lay on! youbeat but upon the case of Anaxarchus."

Contemplating this natural safeguard, this fortified exterior, it iswith pain I view the sleek, foppish, combed, and curried person of thisanimal as he is transmuted and disnaturalized at watering-places, etc.,where they affect to make a palfrey of him. Fie on all suchsophistications! It will never do, Master Groom! Something of his honestshaggy exterior will still peep up in spite of you,—his good, rough,native, pine-apple coating. You cannot "refine a scorpion into a fish,[Pg 557]though you rinse it and scour it with ever so cleanly cookery."[C]

The modern poet quoted by A. B. proceeds to celebrate a virtue for whichno one to this day had been aware that the ass was remarkable:—

And truly, when one thinks on the suit of impenetrable armor with whichNature (like Vulcan to another Achilles) has provided him, these subtleenemies to our repose would have shown some dexterity in getting intohis quarters. As the bogs of Ireland by tradition expel toads andreptiles, he may well defy these small deer in his fastnesses. It seemsthe latter had not arrived at the exquisite policy adopted by the humanvermin "between 1790 and 1800."

But the most singular and delightful gift of the ass, according to thewriter of this pamphlet, is his voice, the "goodly, sweet, andcontinual brayings" of which, "whereof they forme a melodious andproportionable kinde of musicke," seem to have affected him with noordinary pleasure. "Nor thinke I," he adds, "that any of our immoderatemusitians can deny but that their song is full of exceeding pleasure tobe heard; because therein is to be discerned both concord, discord,singing in the meane, the beginning to sing in large compasse, thenfollowing on to rise and fall, the halfe note, whole note, musicke offive voices, firme singing by four voices, three together, or one voiceand a halfe. Then their variable contrarieties amongst them, when onedelivers forth a long tenor or a short, the pausing for time, breathingin measure, breaking the minim or very least moment of time. Last ofall, to heare the musicke of five or six voices chaunged to so many ofasses is amongst them to heare a song of world without end."

There is no accounting for ears, or for that laudable enthusiasm withwhich an author is tempted to invest a favorite subject with the mostincompatible perfections. I should otherwise, for my own taste, havebeen inclined rather to have given a place to these extraordinarymusicians at that banquet of nothing-less-than-sweet sounds, imagined byold Jeremy Collier, (Essays, 1698, part ii., On Music,) where, afterdescribing the inspiriting effects of martial music in a battle, hehazards an ingenious conjecture, whether a sort of anti-music mightnot be invented, which should have quite the contrary effect of "sinkingthe spirits, shaking the nerves, curdling the blood, and inspiringdespair and cowardice and consternation." "'T is probable," he says,"the roaring of lions, the warbling of cats and screech-owls, togetherwith a mixture of the howling of dogs, judiciously imitated andcompounded, might go a great way in this invention." The dose, weconfess, is pretty potent, and skilfully enough prepared. But what shallwe say to the ass of Silenus, who, if we may trust to classic lore, byhis own proper sounds, without thanks to cat or screech-owl, dismayedand put to rout a whole army of giants? Here was anti-music with avengeance,—a whole Pan-Dis-Harmonicon in a single lungs of leather!

But I keep you trifling too long on this asinine subject. I have alreadypassed the Pons Asinorum, and will desist, remembering the oldpedantic pun of Jem Boyer, my schoolmaster:—

"Ass in præsenti seldom makes a wise man in futuro."

Lamb not only had a passionate fondness for old books and old friends,but he loved the old associations. He was no admirer of your modernimprovements. Unlike Dr. Johnson, he did not go into the "most statelyshops," but purchased his books and engravings at the stalls and fromsecond-hand dealers. In his eyes, the old Inner-Temple Church was ahandsomer and statelier structure[Pg 558] than the finest Cathedral in England;and to his ear, as well as to the ear of Will Honeycomb, the oldfamiliar cries of the peripatetic London merchants were more musicalthan the songs of larks and nightingales. It grieved him sorely to seean old building demolished which he had passed and repassed for years,in his daily walks to and from his business,—or an old customabolished, whose observance he had witnessed when a child. "Thedisappearance of the old clock from St. Dunstan's Church," says Mr.Moxon, in his pleasant tribute to Lamb's memory in Leigh Hunt's Journal,"drew tears from his eyes; nor could he ever pass without emotion theplace where Exeter Change once stood. The removal had spoiled a realityin Gay. 'The passer-by,' he said, 'no longer saw the combs dangle in hisface.' This almost broke his heart." And he begins the following little"essaykin" with a lamentation over the disappearance from the streets ofLondon of the tinman's old original sign, and a sigh for "the good oldmodes of our ancestors."

What he says of maiden aunts and their pets is delightful, andpleasantly reminds the reader of Addison's account of Sam Trusty's visitto the Widow Feeble.

IN RE SQUIRRELS.

What is gone with the cages, with the climbing squirrel and bells tothem, which were formerly the indispensable appendage to the outside ofa tinman's shop, and were, in fact, the only live signs? One, webelieve, still hangs out on Holborn; but they are fast vanishing withthe good old modes of our ancestors. They seem to have been supersededby that still more ingenious refinement of modern humanity, thetread-mill, in which human squirrels still perform a similar round ofceaseless, improgressive clambering, which must be nuts to them.

We almost doubt the fact of the teeth of this creature being so purelyorange-colored as Mr. Urban's correspondent gives out. One of our oldpoets—and they were pretty sharp observers of Nature—describes them asbrown. But perhaps the naturalist referred to meant "of the color of aMaltese orange,"[D] which is rather more obfuscated than your fruit ofSeville or St. Michael's, and may help to reconcile the difference. Wecannot speak from observation; but we remember at school getting ourfingers into the orangery of one of these little gentry, (not having adue caution of the traps set there,) and the result proved sourer thanlemons. The author of the "Task" somewhere speaks of their anger asbeing "insignificantly fierce"; but we found the demonstration of it onthis occasion quite as significant as we desired, and have not beendisposed since to look any of these "gift horses" in the mouth. Maidenaunts keep these "small deer," as they do parrots, to bite people'sfingers, on purpose to give them good advice "not to venture so near thecage another time." As for their "six quavers divided into three quaversand a dotted crotchet," I suppose they may go into Jeremy Bentham's nextbudget of Fallacies, along with the "melodious and proportionable kindeof musicke," recorded in your last number, of another highly giftedanimal.

Although Lamb took little, if any, interest in public affairs, and,indeed, knew about as much of the events and occurrences of the day asthe sublime, abstracted dancing-master immortalized in one of theletters to Manning, he appears to have been profoundly and painfullyimpressed by the fate of Fauntleroy, the forger. He thought and talkedof Fauntleroy by day, and dreamed of Fauntleroy at night. And on the dayafter the execution of that unfortunate man, Lamb, thus solemnly, yethumorously[Pg 559] withal, writes to his good friend Bernard Barton, poet andbank-officer:—

"And now, my dear Sir, trifling apart, the gloomy catastrophe ofyesterday morning prompts a sadder vein. The fate of the unfortunateFauntleroy makes me, whether I will or no, to cast reflecting eyesaround on such of my friends as, by a parity of situation, are exposedto a similarity of temptation. My very style seems to myself to becomemore impressive than usual with the charge of them. Who that standethknoweth but he may yet fall? Your hands as yet, I am most willing tobelieve, have never deviated into others' property. You think itimpossible that you could ever commit so heinous an offence; but sothought Fauntleroy once; so have thought many besides him, who at lasthave expiated as he hath done. You are as yet upright; but you are abanker, or, at least, the next thing to it. I feel the delicacy of thesubject; but cash must pass through your hands, sometimes to a greatamount. If, in an unguarded hour——But I will hope better. Consider thescandal it will bring upon those of your persuasion. Thousands would goto see a Quaker hanged that would be indifferent to the fate of aPresbyterian or an Anabaptist. Think of the effect it would have on thesale of your poems alone, not to mention higher considerations! Itremble, I am sure, at myself, when I think that so many poor victims ofthe law, at one time of their life, made as sure of never being hangedas I, in my own presumption, am ready, too ready, to do myself. What arewe better than they? Do we come into the world with different necks? Isthere any distinctive mark under our left ears? Are we unstrangulable, Iask you? Think on these things. I am shocked sometimes at the shape ofmy own fingers,—not for their resemblance to the ape tribe, (which issomething,) but for the exquisite adaptation of them to the purposes ofpicking, fingering, etc."

And a few months after writing the above letter, Lamb contributed to"The London Magazine,"—then in its decadence, but among whose "creakingrafters" Elia fondly lingered, "like the last rat,"—to this (hisfavorite periodical) he contributed a brief, but beautiful paper,suggested by Fauntleroy's sad story. The article is entitled "The LastPeach," and purports to be written by a bank-officer (possibly theauthor had Barton in his mind while writing it) who fears he may becomea second Fauntleroy. The piece contains one or two delightful passages,and is, in fact, full of happy touches and felicitous bits ofdescription. Very charming (to me, at least) is the account of theplucking of the last peach, and very touching is the allusion to thebabe Fauntleroy. But good wine (or a good peach) needs no bush; andtherefore, without further comment or commendation, I present "The LastPeach" to the appreciative reader. He will find it to be, unless I am avery poor judge of the article, a peach of excellent quality and of apeculiarly fine flavor.

The garden in which grew the tree on which "lingered the one last peach"belonged to "Blakesmoor," the fine old family-mansion of the Plummers ofHertfordshire, in whose family Lamb's maternal grandmother—"thegrandame" of his poem of that name, and the "great-grandmother Field" ofElia's "Dream-Children"—was housekeeper for many years.

THE LAST PEACH.

I am the miserablest man living. Give me counsel, dear Editor. I wasbred up in the strictest principles of honesty, and have passed my lifein punctual adherence to them. Integrity might be said to be ingrainedin our family. Yet I live in constant fear of one day coming to thegallows.

Till the latter end of last autumn, I never experienced these feelingsof self-mistrust, which ever since have embittered my existence. Fromthe apprehension of that unfortunate man[E] whose story began to make sogreat an impression[Pg 560] upon the public about that time, I date my horrors.I never can get it out of my head that I shall some time or other commita forgery, or do some equally vile thing. To make matters worse, I am ina banking-house. I sit surrounded with a cluster of bank-notes. Thesewere formerly no more to me than meat to a butcher's dog. They are nowas toads and aspics. I feel all day like one situated amidst gins andpitfalls. Sovereigns, which I once took such pleasure in counting out,and scraping up with my little tin shovel, (at which I was the mostexpert in the banking-house,) now scald my hands. When I go to sign myname, I set down that of another person, or write my own in acounterfeit character. I am beset with temptations without motive. Iwant no more wealth than I possess. A more contented being than myself,as to money-matters, exists not. What should I fear?

When a child, I was once let loose, by favor of a nobleman's gardener,into his Lordship's magnificent fruit-garden, with full leave to pullthe currants and the gooseberries; only I was interdicted from touchingthe wall-fruit. Indeed, at that season (it was the end of autumn) therewas little left. Only on the south wall (can I forget the hot feel ofthe brick-work?) lingered the one last peach. Now peaches are a fruitwhich I always had, and still have, an almost utter aversion to. Thereis something to my palate singularly harsh and repulsive in the flavorof them. I know not by what demon of contradiction inspired, but I washaunted with an irresistible desire to pluck it. Tear myself as often asI would from the spot, I found myself still recurring to it, till,maddening with desire, (desire I cannot call it,) with wilfulnessrather,—without appetite, (against appetite, I may call it,) in an evilhour I reached out my hand, and plucked it. Some few rain-drops justthen fell; the sky, from a bright day, became overcast; and I was a typeof our first parents, after eating of that fatal fruit. I felt myselfnaked and ashamed, stripped of my virtue, spiritless. The downy fruit,whose sight rather than savor had tempted me, dropped from my hand,never to be tasted. All the commentators in the world cannot persuade mebut that the Hebrew word, in the second chapter of Genesis, translatedapple, should be rendered peach. Only this way can I reconcile thatmysterious story.

Just such a child at thirty am I among the cash and valuables, longingto pluck, without an idea of enjoyment further. I cannot reason myselfout of these fears: I dare not laugh at them. I was tenderly andlovingly brought up. What then? Who that in life's entrance had seen thebabe F——, from the lap stretching out his little fond mouth to catchthe maternal kiss, could have predicted, or as much as imagined, thatlife's very different exit? The sight of my own fingers torments me,they seem so admirably constructed for—pilfering. Then that jugularvein, which I have in common——; in an emphatic sense may I say withDavid, I am "fearfully made." All my mirth is poisoned by these unhappysuggestions. If, to dissipate reflection, I hum a tune, it changes tothe "Lamentations of a Sinner." My very dreams are tainted. I awake witha shocking feeling of my hand in some pocket.

Advise me, dear Editor, on this painful heart-malady. Tell me, do youfeel anything allied to it in yourself? Do you never feel an itching, asit were,—a dactylomania,—or am I alone? You have my honestconfession. My next may appear from Bow Street.

Suspensurus.

Delightful as the essays of Elia are, Lamb did not spend all the "richesof his wit" in their production. His letters—so full are they of "thesalt and fineness of wit,"—so richly humorous and so deliciouslydroll,—so rammed and crammed with the oddest conceits and the wildestfancies, and the quaintest, queerest thoughts, ideas, andspeculations—are scarcely inferior to his essays. Indeed, some of thebest and most admired[Pg 561] of the essays are but extended letters. The germof the immortal dissertation on "Roast Pig" is contained in a letter toColeridge; the essay entitled "Distant Correspondents" is hardly morethan a transcript of a private letter to Barron Field; and the originalsketch of "The Gentle Giantess" was given in a letter to MissWordsworth.

In the following letter—which is not included in Talfourd's "Life andLetters of Charles Lamb," and will therefore be new to mostreaders—Lamb writes very much in the manner in which Shakspeare's foolsand jesters—in some respects the wisest and thoughtfullest charactersin his works—talk. If his words be "light as air," they vent "truthsdeep as the centre." If the Fool in "Lear" had written letters to hisfriends and acquaintances, I think they would have marvellouslyresembled this epistle to Patmore; and if, in saying this, I complimentthe Fool, I hope I do not derogate from the genius of Elia. Jaques, itwill be remembered, after hearing the "motley fool" moral on the time,declared that "motley's the only wear"; and I opine that Lamb wouldconsider it no small praise to be likened, in wit, wisdom, andeloquence, to Touchstone, or to the Clown in "Twelfth Night."

TO P. G. PATMORE.

Dear P.,—I am poorly. I have been to a funeral, where I made a pun, tothe consternation of the rest of the mourners; and we had wine. I can'tdescribe to you the howl which the widow set up at proper intervals.Dash could; for it was not unlike what he makes.

The letter I sent you was directed to the care of E. White, India House,for Mrs. Hazlitt: which Mrs. Hazlitt I don't yet know; but A. hastaken it to France on speculation. Really it is embarrassing. There isMrs. present H., Mrs. late H., and Mrs. John H.; and to which of thethree Mrs. Wigginses it appertains I don't know. I wanted to open it;but it's transportation.

I am sorry you are plagued about your book. I would strongly recommendyou to take for one story Massinger's "Old Law." It is exquisite. I canthink of no other.

Dash is frightful this morning. He whines and stands up on hishind-legs. He misses Beckey, who is gone to town. I took him to Barnetthe other day; and he couldn't eat his victuals after it. Pray God hisintellects be not slipping.

Mary is gone out for some soles. I suppose it's no use to ask you tocome and partake of 'em, else there's a steam-vessel.

I am doing a tragi-comedy in two acts, and have got on tolerably; but itwill be refused, or worse. I never had luck with anything my name wasput to.

Oh, I am so poorly! I waked it at my cousin's the bookbinder's, who isnow with God; or, if he is not, it's no fault of mine.

We hope the frank wines do not disagree with Mrs. Patmore. By the way, Ilike her.

Did you ever taste frogs? Get them, if you can. They are little Liliputrabbits, only a thought nicer.

Christ, how sick I am!—not of the world, but of the widow's shrub.She's sworn under six thousand pounds; but I think she perjured herself.She howls in E la; and I comfort her in B flat. You understand music?

If you haven't got Massinger, you have nothing to do but go to the firstbibliothèque you can light upon at Boulogne, and ask for it (Gifford'sedition); and if they haven't got it, you can have "Athalie," parMonsieur Racine, and make the best of it; but that "Old Law" 'sdelicious!

"No shrimps!" (That's in answer to Mary's question about how the solesare to be done.)

I am uncertain where this wandering letter may reach you. What youmean by "poste restante," God knows. Do you mean I must pay the postage?So I do, to Dover.

We had a merry passage with the[Pg 562] widow at the Commons. She washowling,—part howling, and part giving directions to theproctor,—when, crash! down went my sister through a crazy chair, andmade the clerks grin; and I grinned, and the widow tittered; and then Iknew that she was not inconsolable. Mary was more frightened than hurt.

She'd make a good match for anybody (by "she," I mean the widow).

Procter has got a wen growing out at the nape of his neck, which hiswife wants him to have cut off: but I think it rather an agreeableexcrescence; like his poetry, redundant. Hone has hanged himself fordebt. Godwin was taken up for picking pockets. Beckey takes to badcourses. Her father was blown up in a steam-machine. The coroner foundit insanity. I should not like him to sit on my letter.[F]

Do you observe my direction? Is it Gaelic?—classical?

Do try and get some frogs. You must ask for "grenouilles" (green-eels).They don't understand "frogs"; though it's a common phrase with us.

If you go through Bulloign [Boulogne], inquire if old Godfrey is living,and how he got home from the Crusades. He must be a very old man now.

If there is anything new in politics or literature in France, keep ittill I see you again; for I'm in no hurry. Chatty-Briant [Châteaubriand]is well, I hope.

I think I have no more news; only give both our loves ("all three," saysDash) to Mrs. Patmore, and bid her get quite well, as I am at present,bating qualms, and the grief incident to losing a valuable relation.

C. L.

Londres, July 19, 1827.

Of all the essays of Elia, the paper on "Roast Pig" is perhaps the mostread, the most quoted, the most admired. 'T is even better, says anepicurean friend of mine, than the "crisp, tawny, well-watched, notover-roasted crackling" it descants upon so eloquently. Certainly Lambnever writes so richly and so delightfully as when he discourses of thedainties and delicacies of the table.

Though all our readers are doubtlessly familiar with Elia's beautifullittle article entitled "Thoughts on Presents of Game," very few of themhave read the letter he wrote in acknowledgment of a present of a pigfrom a farmer and his wife. 'T is a rare bit, a choice morsel of Lamb'sbest and most delicious humor, and will be perused with great pleasureand satisfaction by all admirers of its witty and eccentric author. Hereit is.

TO A FARMER AND HIS WIFE.

Twelfth Day, 1823.

The pig was above my feeble praise. It was a dear pigmy. There was somecontention as to who should have the ears; but, in spite of hisobstinacy, (deaf as these little creatures are to advice,) I contrivedto get at one of them.

It came in boots, too, which I took as a favor. Generally these prettytoes—pretty toes!—are missing; but I suppose he wore them to looktaller.

He must have been the least of his race. His little foots would havegone into the silver slipper. I take him to have been a Chinese and afemale.

If Evelyn could have seen him, he would never have farrowed two suchprodigious volumes; seeing how much good can be contained in—how smalla compass!

He crackled delicately.

I left a blank at the top of my letter, not being determined which toaddress it to: so farmer and farmer's wife will please to divide ourthanks. May your granaries be full, and your rats empty, and yourchickens plump, and your envious neighbors lean, and your laborers busy,and you as idle and as happy as the day is long![Pg 563]

Vive l'Agriculture!

I have my sight, hearing, taste, pretty perfect; and can read the Lord'sPrayer in common type, by the help of a candle, without making manymistakes.

Believe me, that, while my faculties last, I shall ever cherish a properappreciation of your many kindnesses in this way, and that the lastlingering relish of past favors upon my dying memory will be the smackof that little ear. It was the left ear, which is lucky. Many happyreturns,—not of the pig, but of the New Year, to both!

Mary, for her share of the pig and the memoirs, desires to send thesame.

Yours truly,
C. Lamb.

TO WILLIAM CULLEN BRYANT.

ON HIS SEVENTIETH BIRTHDAY.

November 3, 1864.

[Pg 565]

HOUSE AND HOME PAPERS

BY CHRISTOPHER CROWFIELD.

X.

Our gallant Bob Stephens, into whose life-boat our Marianne has beenreceived, has lately taken the mania of house-building into his head.Bob is somewhat fastidious, difficult to please, fond of domesticitiesand individualities; and such a man never can fit himself into a housebuilt by another, and accordingly house-building has always been hisfavorite mental recreation. During all his courtship as much time wastaken up in planning a future house as if he had money to build one, andall Marianne's patterns, and the backs of half their letters, werescrawled with ground-plans and elevations. But latterly this chronicdisposition has been quickened into an acute form by the falling-in ofsome few thousands to their domestic treasury,—left as the soleresiduum of a painstaking old aunt, who took it into her head to make awill in Bob's favor, leaving, among other good things, a nice little bitof land in a rural district half an hour's railroad-ride from Boston.

So now ground-plans thicken, and my wife is being consulted morning,noon, and night, and I never come into the room without finding theirheads close together over a paper, and hearing Bob expatiate on hisfavorite idea of a library. He appears to have got so far as this, thatthe ceiling is to be of carved oak, with ribs running to a bossoverhead, and finished mediævally with ultramarine blue andgilding,—and then away he goes sketching Gothic patterns ofbook-shelves which require only experienced carvers, and the wherewithalto pay them, to be the divinest things in the world.

Marianne is exercised about china-closets and pantries, and about abed-room on the ground-door,—for, like all other women of our days, sheexpects not to have strength enough to run up-stairs oftener than onceor twice a week; and my wife, who is a native genius in this line, andhas planned in her time dozens of houses for acquaintances, wherein theyare at this moment living happily, goes over every day with her penciland ruler the work of rearranging the plans, according as the ideas ofthe young couple veer and vary.

One day Bob is importuned to give two feet off from his library for acloset in the bed-room,—but resists like a Trojan. The next morning,being mollified by private domestic supplications, Bob yields, and mywife rubs out the lines of yesterday, two feet come off the library, anda closet is constructed. But now the parlor proves too narrow,—theparlor-wall must be moved two feet into the hall. Bob declares this willspoil the symmetry of the latter, and if there is anything he wants, itis a wide, generous, ample hall to step into when you open thefront-door.

"Well, then," says Marianne, "let's put two feet more into the width ofthe house."

"Can't, on account of the expense, you see," says Bob. "You see, everyadditional foot of outside wall necessitates so many more bricks, somuch more flooring, so much more roofing, etc."

And my wife, with thoughtful brow, looks over the plans, and considershow two feet more are to be got into the parlor without moving any ofthe walls.

"I say," says Bob, bending over her shoulder, "here, take your two feetin the parlor, and put two more feet on to the other side of thehall-stairs"; and he dashes heavily with his pencil.

"Oh, Bob!" exclaims Marianne, "there[Pg 566] are the kitchen-pantries! you ruinthem,—and no place for the cellar-stairs!"

"Hang the pantries and cellar-stairs!" says Bob, "Mother must find aplace for them somewhere else. I say the house must be roomy andcheerful, and pantries and those things may take care of themselves;they can be put somewhere well enough. No fear but you will find aplace for them somewhere. What do you women always want such a greatenormous kitchen for?"

"It is not any larger than is necessary," said my wife, thoughtfully;"nothing is gained by taking off from it."

"What if you should put it all down into a basem*nt," suggests Bob, "andso get it all out of sight together?"

"Never, if it can be helped," said my wife. "Basem*nt-kitchens arenecessary evils, only to be tolerated in cities where land is too dearto afford any other."

So goes the discussion till the trio agree to sleep over it. The nextmorning an inspiration visits my wife's pillow. She is up and seizesplans and paper, and before six o'clock has enlarged the parlor verycleverly, by throwing out a bow-window. So waxes and wanes theprospective house, innocently battered down and rebuilt withIndia-rubber and black-lead. Doors are cut out to-night, and walled upto-morrow,—windows knocked out here and put in there, as some observersuggests possibilities of too much or too little draught. Now all seemsfinished, when, lo, a discovery! There is no fireplace nor stove-flue inmy lady's bed-room, and can be none without moving the bathing-room.Pencil and India-rubber are busy again, and for a while the whole houseseems to threaten to fall to pieces with the confusion of the moving;the bath-room wanders like a ghost, now invading a closet, nowthreatening the tranquillity of the parlor, till at last it is laid bysome unheard-of calculations of my wife's, and sinks to rest in a placeso much better that everybody wonders it never was thought of before.

"Papa," said Jennie, "it appears to me people don't exactly know whatthey want when they build; why don't you write a paper onhouse-building?"

"I have thought of it," said I, with the air of a man called to settlesome great reform. "It must be entirely because Christopher has notwritten that our young people and mamma are tangling themselves daily inwebs which are untangled the next day."

"You see," said Jennie, "they have only just so much money, and theywant everything they can think of under the sun. There's Bob beenstudying architectural antiquities, and nobody knows what, and sketchingall sorts of curly-whorlies; and Marianne has her notions about a parlorand boudoir and china-closets and bedroom-closets; and Bob wants abaronial hall; and mamma stands out for linen-closets and bathing-roomsand all that; and so among them all it will just end in getting themhead over ears in debt."

The thing struck me as not improbable.

"I don't know, Jennie, whether my writing an article is going to preventall this; but as my time in the 'Atlantic' is coming round, I may aswell write on what I am obliged to think of, and so I will give a paperon the subject to enliven our next evening's session."

So that evening, when Bob and Marianne had dropped in as usual, andwhile the customary work of drawing and rubbing-out was going on at Mrs.Crowfield's sofa, I produced my paper and read as follows:—

OUR HOUSE.

There is a place called "Our House," which everybody knows of. Thesailor talks of it in his dreams at sea. The wounded soldier, turning inhis uneasy hospital-bed, brightens at the word,—it is like the droppingof cool water in the desert, like the touch of cool fingers on a burningbrow. "Our house," he says feebly, and the light comes back into his dimeyes,—for all homely charities, all fond thoughts, all purities, allthat man loves on earth or hopes for in heaven, rise with the word.[Pg 567]

"Our house" may be in any style of architecture, low or high. It may bethe brown old farm-house, with its tall well-sweep, or the one-storygambrel-roofed cottage, or the large, square, white house, with greenblinds, under the wind-swung elms of a century, or it may be thelog-cabin of the wilderness, with its one room,—still there is a spellin the memory of it beyond all conjurations. Its stone and brick andmortar are like no other; its very clapboards and shingles are dear tous, powerful to bring back the memories of early days, and all that issacred in home-love.

"Papa is getting quite sentimental," whispered Jennie, loud enough forme to hear. I shook my head at her impressively, and went on undaunted.

There is no one fact of our human existence that has a strongerinfluence upon us than the house we dwell in,—especially that in whichour earlier and more impressible years are spent. The building andarrangement of a house influence the health, the comfort, the morals,the religion. There have been houses built so devoid of allconsideration for the occupants, so rambling and hap-hazard in thedisposal of rooms, so sunless and cheerless and wholly without snugnessor privacy, as to make it seem impossible to live a joyous, generous,rational, religious family-life in them.

There are, we shame to say, in our cities things called houses, builtand rented by people who walk erect and have the general air and mannerof civilized and Christianized men, which are so inhuman in theirbuilding that they can only be called snares and traps forsouls,—places where children cannot well escape growing up filthy andimpure,—places where to form a home is impossible, and to live adecent, Christian life would require miraculous strength.

A celebrated British philanthropist, who had devoted much study to thedwellings of the poor, gave it as his opinion that temperance-societieswere a hopeless undertaking in London, unless these dwellings underwenta transformation. They were so squalid, so dark, so comfortless, soconstantly pressing upon the senses foulness, pain, and inconvenience,that it was only by being drugged with gin and opium that theirmiserable inhabitants could find heart to drag on life from day to day.He had himself tried the experiment of reforming a drunkard by takinghim from one of these loathsome dens and enabling him to rent a tenementin a block of model lodging-houses which had been built under hissupervision. The young man had been a designer of figures for prints; hewas of a delicate frame, and a nervous, susceptible temperament. Shut inone miserable room with his wife and little children, without thepossibility of pure air, with only filthy, fetid water to drink, withthe noise of other miserable families resounding through the thinpartitions, what possibility was there of doing anything except by thehelp of stimulants, which for a brief hour lifted him above theperception of these miseries? Changed at once to a neat flat, where, forthe same rent as his former den, he had three good rooms, with water fordrinking, house-service, and bathing freely supplied, and the blessedsunshine and air coming in through windows well arranged forventilation, he became in a few weeks a new man. In the charms of thelittle spot which he could call home, its quiet, its order, his formertalent came back to him, and he found strength, in pure air and purewater and those purer thoughts of which they are the emblems, to abandonburning and stupefying stimulants.

The influence of dwelling-houses for good or for evil—their influenceon the brain, the nerves, and, through these, on the heart and life—isone of those things that cannot be enough pondered by those who buildhouses to sell or rent.

Something more generous ought to inspire a man than merely thepercentage which he can get for his money. He who would build housesshould think[Pg 568] a little on the subject. He should reflect what houses arefor,—what they may be made to do for human beings. The great majorityof houses in cities are not built by the indwellers themselves,—theyare built for them, by those who invest their money in this way, withlittle other thought than the percentage which the investment willreturn.

For persons of ample fortune there are, indeed, palatial residences,with all that wealth can do to render life delightful. But in that classof houses which must be the lot of the large majority, those which mustbe chosen by young men in the beginning of life, when means arecomparatively restricted, there is yet wide room for thought and thejudicious application of money.

In looking over houses to be rented by persons of moderate means, onecannot help longing to build,—one sees so many ways in which the samesum which built an inconvenient and unpleasant house might have beenmade to build a delightful one.

"That's so!" said Bob, with emphasis. "Don't you remember, Marianne, howmany dismal, commonplace, shabby houses we trailed through?"

"Yes," said Marianne. "You remember those houses with such littlesqueezed rooms and that flourishing staircase, with the colored-glasschina-closet window and no butler's sink?"

"Yes," said Bob; "and those astonishing, abominable stone abortions thatadorned the door-steps. People do lay out a deal of money to make houseslook ugly, it must be confessed."

"One would willingly," said Marianne, "dispense with frightful stoneornaments in front, and with heavy mouldings inside, which are of nopossible use or beauty, and with showy plaster cornices andcentre-pieces in the parlor-ceilings, and even with marble mantels, forthe luxury of hot and cold water in each chamber, and a couple ofcomfortable bath-rooms. Then, the disposition of windows and doors is sowholly without regard to convenience! How often we find rooms, meant forbed-rooms, where really there is no good place for either bed ordressing-table!"

Here my wife looked up, having just finished re-drawing the plans to thelatest alteration.

"One of the greatest reforms that could be, in these reforming days,"she observed, "would be to have women architects. The mischief withhouses built to rent is that they are all mere male contrivances. Nowoman would ever plan chambers where there is no earthly place to set abed except against a window or door, or waste the room in entries thatmight be made into closets. I don't see, for my part, apropos to themodern movement for opening new professions to the female sex, why thereshould not be well-educated female architects. The planning andarrangement of houses, and the laying-out of grounds, are a fair subjectof womanly knowledge and taste. It is the teaching of Nature. What wouldanybody think of a bluebird's nest that had been built entirely by Mr.Blue without the help of his wife?"

"My dear," said I, "you must positively send a paper on this subject tothe next Woman's-Rights Convention."

"I am of Sojourner Truth's opinion," said my wife,—"that the best wayto prove the propriety of one's doing anything is to go and do it. Awoman who should have energy to go through the preparatory studies andset to work in this field would, I am sure, soon find employment."

"If she did as well as you would do, my dear," said I. "There are plentyof young women in our Boston high-schools who are going through higherfields of mathematics than are required by the architect, and theschools for design show the flexibility and fertility of the femalepencil. The thing appears to me altogether more feasible than many otheropenings which have been suggested to woman."

"Well," said Jennie, "isn't papa ever to go on with his paper?"[Pg 569]

I continued:—

What ought "our house" to be? Could any other question be askedadmitting in its details of such varied answers,—answers various as themeans, the character, and situation of different individuals? But thereare great wants pertaining to every human being, into which all lesserones run. There are things in a house that every one, high or low, richor poor, ought, according to his means, to seek. I think I shall classthem according to the elemental division of the old philosophers,—Fire,Air, Earth, and Water. These form the groundwork of this need-be,—thesine-qua-nons of a house.

"Fire, air, earth, and water! I don't understand," said Jennie.

"Wait a little till you do, then," said I. "I will try to make mymeaning plain."

The first object of a house is shelter from the elements. This object iseffected by a tent or wigwam which keeps off rain and wind. The firstdisadvantage of this shelter is, that the vital air which you take intoyour lungs, and on the purity of which depends the purity of blood andbrain and nerve, is vitiated. In the wigwam or tent you are constantlytaking in poison, more or less active, with every inspiration. Napoleonhad his army sleep without tents. He stated, that, from experience, hefound it more healthy; and wonderful have been the instances of delicatepersons gaining constantly in vigor from being obliged, in the midst ofhardships, to sleep constantly in the open air. Now the first problem inhouse-building is to combine the advantage of shelter with the freshelasticity of out-door air. I am not going to give here a treatise onventilation, but merely to say, in general terms, that the first objectof a house-builder or contriver should be to make a healthy house, andthe first requisite of a healthy house is a pure, sweet, elastic air.

I am in favor, therefore, of those plans of house-building which havewide central spaces, whether halls or courts, into which all the roomsopen, and which necessarily preserve a body of fresh air for the use ofthem all. In hot climates this is the object of the central court whichcuts into the body of the house, with its fountain and flowers, and itsgalleries, into which the various apartments open. When people arerestricted for space, and cannot afford to give up wide central portionsof the house for the mere purposes of passage, this central hall can bemade a pleasant sitting-room. With tables, chairs, bookcases, and sofascomfortably disposed, this ample central room above and below is, inmany respects, the most agreeable lounging-room of the house; while theparlors below and the chambers above, opening upon it, form agreeablewithdrawing-rooms for purposes of greater privacy.

It is customary with many persons to sleep with bed-room windowsopen,—a very imperfect, and often dangerous mode of procuring thatsupply of fresh air which a sleeping-room requires. In a houseconstructed in the manner indicated, windows might be freely left openin these central halls, producing there a constant movement of air, andthe doors of the bed-rooms placed ajar, when a very slight opening inthe windows would create a free circulation through the apartments.

In the planning of a house, thought should be had as to the generaldisposition of the windows, and the quarters from which favoring breezesmay be expected should be carefully considered. Windows should be soarranged that draughts of air can be thrown quite through and across thehouse. How often have we seen pale mothers and drooping babes fanningand panting during some of our hot days on the sunny side of a house,while the breeze that should have cooled them beat in vain against adead wall! One longs sometimes to knock holes through partitions and letin the air of heaven.

No other gift of God, so precious, so inspiring,[Pg 570] is treated with suchutter irreverence and contempt in the calculations of us mortals as thissame air of heaven. A sermon on oxygen, if one had a preacher whounderstood the subject, might do more to repress sin than the mostorthodox discourse to show when and how and why sin came. A ministergets up in a crowded lecture-room, where the mephitic air almost makesthe candles burn blue, and bewails the deadness of the church,—thechurch the while, drugged by the poisoned air, growing sleepier andsleepier, though they feel dreadfully wicked for being so.

Little Jim, who, fresh from his afternoon's rambles in the fields, lastevening said his prayers dutifully, and lay down to sleep in a mostChristian frame, this morning sits up in bed with his hair bristlingwith crossness, strikes at his nurse, and declares he won't say hisprayers,—that he don't want to be good. The simple difference is, thatthe child, having slept in a close box of a room, his brain all nightfed by poison, is in a mild state of moral insanity. Delicate womenremark that it takes them till eleven or twelve o'clock to get up theirstrength in the morning. Query,—Do they sleep with closed windows anddoors, and with heavy bed-curtains?

The houses built by our ancestors were better ventilated in certainrespects than modern ones, with all their improvements. The greatcentral chimney, with its open fireplaces in the different rooms,created a constant current which carried off foul and vitiated air. Inthese days, how common is it to provide rooms with only a flue for astove! This flue is kept shut in summer, and in winter opened only toadmit a close stove, which burns away the vital portion of the air quiteas fast as the occupants breathe it away. The sealing-up of fireplacesand introduction of air-tight stoves may, doubtless, be a saving offuel: it saves, too, more than that; in thousands and thousands of casesit has saved people from all further human wants, and put an end foreverto any needs short of the six feet of narrow earth which are man's onlyinalienable property. In other words, since the invention of air-tightstoves, thousands have died of slow poison. It is a terrible thing toreflect upon, that our Northern winters last from November to May, sixlong months, in which many families confine themselves to one room, ofwhich every window-crack has been carefully calked to make it air-tight,where an air-tight stove keeps the atmosphere at a temperature betweeneighty and ninety, and the inmates sitting there with all their winterclothes on become enervated both by the heat and by the poisoned air,for which there is no escape but the occasional opening of a door.

It is no wonder that the first result of all this is such a delicacy ofskin and lungs that about half the inmates are obliged to give up goinginto the open air during the six cold months, because they invariablycatch cold, if they do so. It is no wonder that the cold caught aboutthe first of December has by the first of March become a fixedconsumption, and that the opening of the spring, which ought to bringlife and health, in so many cases brings death.

We hear of the lean condition in which the poor bears emerge from theirsix-months' wintering, during which they subsist on the fat which theyhave acquired the previous summer. Even so in our long winters,multitudes of delicate people subsist on the daily waning strength whichthey acquired in the season when windows and doors were open, and freshair was a constant luxury. No wonder we hear of spring fever and springbiliousness, and have thousands of nostrums for clearing the blood inthe spring. All these things are the pantings and palpitations of asystem run down under slow poison, unable to get a step farther. Better,far better, the old houses of the olden time, with their great roaringfires, and their bed-rooms where the snow came in and the wintry windswhistled. Then, to be sure, you froze your back while you burned yourface, your water froze nightly in your pitcher, your[Pg 571] breath congealedin ice-wreaths on the blankets, and you could write your name on thepretty snow-wreath that had sifted in through the window-cracks. But youwoke full of life and vigor,—you looked out into whirling snow-stormswithout a shiver, and thought nothing of plunging through drifts as highas your head on your daily way to school. You jingled in sleighs, yousnowballed, you lived in snow like a snow-bird, and your blood coursedand tingled, in full tide of good, merry, real life, through yourveins,—none of the slow-creeping, black blood which clogs the brain andlies like a weight on the vital wheels!

"Mercy upon us, papa!" said Jennie, "I hope we need not go back to suchhouses!"

"No, my dear," I replied. "I only said that such houses were better thanthose which are all winter closed by double windows and burnt-outair-tight stoves."

The perfect house is one in which there is a constant escape of everyfoul and vitiated particle of air through one opening, while a constantsupply of fresh out-door air is admitted by another. In winter, thisout-door air must pass through some process by which it is brought up toa temperate warmth.

Take a single room, and suppose on one side a current of out-door airwhich has been warmed by passing through the air-chamber of a modernfurnace. Its temperature need not be above sixty-five,—it answersbreathing purposes better at that. On the other side of the room letthere be an open wood- or coal-fire. One cannot conceive the purposes ofwarmth and ventilation more perfectly combined.

Suppose a house with a great central hall, into which a current offresh, temperately warmed air is continually pouring. Each chamberopening upon this hall has a chimney up whose flue the rarefied air isconstantly passing, drawing up with it all the foul and poisonous gases.That house is well ventilated, and in a way that need bring no dangerousdraughts upon the most delicate invalid. For the better securing ofprivacy in sleeping-rooms, we have seen two doors employed, one of whichis made with slats, like a window-blind, so that air is freelytransmitted without exposing the interior.

When we speak of fresh air, we insist on the full rigor of the term. Itmust not be the air of a cellar, heavily laden with the poisonousnitrogen of turnips and cabbages, but good, fresh, out-door air from acold-air pipe so placed as not to get the lower stratum near the ground,where heavy damps and exhalations collect, but high up in just theclearest and most elastic region.

The conclusion of the whole matter is, that, as all of man's and woman'speace and comfort, all their love, all their amiability, all theirreligion, have got to come to them, while they live in this world,through the medium of the brain,—and as black, uncleansed blood acts onthe brain as a poison, and as no other than black, uncleansed blood canbe got by the lungs out of impure air,—the first object of the man whobuilds a house is to secure a pure and healthy atmosphere therein.

Therefore, in allotting expenses, set this down as a must-be: "Ourhouse must have fresh air,—everywhere, at all times, winter andsummer." Whether we have stone facings or no,—whether our parlor hascornices or marble mantels or no,—whether our doors are machine-made orhand-made. All our fixtures shall be of the plainest and simplest, butwe will have fresh air. We will open our door with a latch and string,if we cannot afford lock and knob and fresh air too,—but in our housewe will live cleanly and Christianly. We will no more breathe the foulair rejected from a neighbor's lungs than we will use a neighbor'stooth-brush and hair-brush. Such is the first essential of "our[Pg 572]house,"—the first great element of human health and happiness,—Air.

"I say, Marianne," said Bob, "have we got fireplaces in our chambers?"

"Mamma took care of that," said Marianne.

"You may be quite sure," said I, "if your mother has had a hand inplanning your house, that the ventilation is cared for."

It must be confessed that Bob's principal idea in a house had been aGothic library, and his mind had labored more on the possibility ofadapting some favorite bits from the baronial antiquities to modernneeds than on anything so terrestrial as air. Therefore he awoke as froma dream, and taking two or three monstrous inhalations, he seized theplans and began looking over them with new energy. Meanwhile I went onwith my prelection.

The second great vital element for which provision must be made in "ourhouse" is Fire. By which I do not mean merely artificial fire, but firein all its extent and branches,—the heavenly fire which God sends usdaily on the bright wings of sunbeams, as well as the mimic fires bywhich we warm our dwellings, cook our food, and light our nightlydarkness.

To begin, then, with heavenly fire or sunshine. If God's gift of vitalair is neglected and undervalued, His gift of sunshine appears to behated. There are many houses where not a cent has been expended onventilation, but where hundreds of dollars have been freely lavished tokeep out the sunshine. The chamber, truly, is tight as a box,—it has nofireplace, not even a ventilator opening into the stove-flue; but, oh,joy and gladness! it has outside blinds and inside folding-shutters, sothat in the brightest of days we may create there a darkness that may befelt. To observe the generality of New-England houses, a spectator mightimagine that they were planned for the torrid zone, where the greatobject is to keep out a furnace-draught of burning air.

But let us look over the months of our calendar. In which of them do wenot need fires on our hearths? We will venture to say that from Octoberto June all families, whether they actually have it or not, would be themore comfortable for a morning and evening fire. For eight months in theyear the weather varies on the scale of cool, cold, colder, andfreezing; and for all the four other months what is the number of daysthat really require the torrid-zone system of shutting up houses? We allknow that extreme heat is the exception, and not the rule.

Yet let anybody travel, as I did last year, through the valley of theConnecticut, and observe the houses. All clean and white and neat andwell-to-do, with their turfy yards and their breezy great elms,—but allshut up from basem*nt to attic, as if the inmates had all sold out andgone to China. Not a window-blind open above or below. Is the houseinhabited? No,—yes,—there is a faint stream of blue smoke from thekitchen-chimney, and half a window-blind open in some distant back-partof the house. They are living there in the dim shadows, bleaching likepotato-sprouts in the cellar.

"I can tell you why they do it, papa," said Jennie,—"it's the flies,and flies are certainly worthy to be one of the plagues of Egypt. Ican't myself blame people that shut up their rooms and darken theirhouses in fly-time,—do you, mamma?"

"Not in extreme cases; though I think there is but a short season whenthis is necessary; yet the habit of shutting up lasts the year round,and gives to New-England villages that dead, silent, cold, uninhabitedlook which is so peculiar."

"The one fact that a traveller would gather in passing through ourvillages would be this," said I, "that the people live in their housesand in the dark. Rarely do you see doors and windows open, peoplesitting at them, chairs in the yard, and signs that the inhabitants areliving out-of-doors."

"Well," said Jennie, "I have told you why, for I have been at UnclePeter's[Pg 573] in summer, and aunt does her spring-cleaning in May, and thenshe shuts all the blinds and drops all the curtains, and the house staysclean till October. That's the whole of it. If she had all her windowsopen, there would be paint and windows to be cleaned every week,—andwho is to do it? For my part, I can't much blame her."

"Well," said I, "I have my doubts about the sovereign efficacy of livingin the dark, even if the great object of existence were to be rid offlies. I remember, during this same journey, stopping for a day or twoat a country boarding-house which was dark as Egypt from cellar togarret. The long, dim, gloomy dining-room was first closed by outsideblinds, and then by impenetrable paper curtains, notwithstanding whichit swarmed and buzzed like a beehive. You found where the cake-plate wasby the buzz which your hand made, if you chanced to reach in thatdirection. It was disagreeable, because in the darkness flies could notalways be distinguished from huckleberries; and I couldn't help wishing,that, since we must have the flies, we might at least have the light andair to console us under them. People darken their rooms and shut upevery avenue of out-door enjoyment, and sit and think of nothing butflies; in fact, flies are all they have left. No wonder they becomemorbid on the subject."

"Well, now, papa talks just like a man,—doesn't he?" said Jennie. "Hehasn't the responsibility of keeping things clean. I wonder what hewould do, if he were a housekeeper."

"Do? I will tell you. I would do the best I could. I would shut my eyeson fly-specks, and open them on the beauties of Nature. I would let thecheerful sun in all day long, in all but the few summer days whencoolness is the one thing needful: those days may be soon numbered everyyear. I would make a calculation in the spring how much it would cost tohire a woman to keep my windows and paint clean, and I would do with oneless gown and have her; and when I had spent all I could afford oncleaning windows and paint, I would harden my heart and turn off myeyes, and enjoy my sunshine and my fresh air, my breezes, and all thatcan be seen through the picture-windows of an open, airy house, and snapmy fingers at the flies. There you have it."

"Papa's hobby is sunshine," said Marianne.

"Why shouldn't it be? Was God mistaken, when He made the sun? Did Hemake him for us to hold a life's battle with? Is that vital power whichreddens the cheek of the peach and pours sweetness through the fruitsand flowers of no use to us? Look at plants that grow without sun,—wan,pale, long-visaged, holding feeble, imploring hands of supplicationtowards the light. Can human beings afford to throw away a vitalizingforce so pungent, so exhilarating? You remember the experiment of aprison, where one row of cells had daily sunshine, and the others none.With the same regimen, the same cleanliness, the same care, the inmatesof the sunless cells were visited with sickness and death in doublemeasure. Our whole population in New England are groaning and sufferingunder afflictions, the result of a depressed vitality,—neuralgia, witha new ache for every day of the year, rheumatism, consumption, generaldebility; for all these a thousand nostrums are daily advertised, andmoney enough is spent on them to equip an army, while we are fightingagainst, wasting, and throwing away with both hands that blessedinfluence which comes nearest to pure vitality of anything God hasgiven.

"Who is it that the Bible describes as a sun, arising with healing inhis wings? Surely, that sunshine which is the chosen type and image ofHis love must be healing through all the recesses of our daily life,drying damp and mould, defending from moth and rust, sweetening illsmells, clearing from the nerves the vapors of melancholy, making lifecheery. If I did not know Him, I should certainly adore[Pg 574] and worship thesun, the most blessed and beautiful image of Him among things visible.In the land of Egypt, in the day of God's wrath, there was darkness, butin the land of Goshen there was light. I am a Goshenite, and mean towalk in the light, and forswear the works of darkness.—But to proceedwith our reading."

"Our house" shall be set on a southeast line, so that there shall not bea sunless room in it, and windows shall be so arranged that it can betraversed and transpierced through and through with those bright shaftsof life which come straight from God.

"Our house" shall not be blockaded with a dank, dripping mass ofshrubbery set plumb against the windows, keeping out light and air.There shall be room all round it for breezes to sweep, and sunshine tosweeten and dry and vivify; and I would warn all good souls who beginlife by setting out two little evergreen-trees within a foot of each oftheir front-windows, that these trees will grow and increase till theirfront-rooms will be brooded over by a sombre, stifling shadow fit onlyfor ravens to croak in.

One would think, by the way some people hasten to convert a very narrowfront-yard into a dismal jungle, that the only danger of our New-Englandclimate was sunstroke. Ah, in those drizzling months which form at leastone-half of our life here, what sullen, censorious, uncomfortable,unhealthy thoughts are bred of living in dark, chilly rooms, behind suchdripping thickets! Our neighbors' faults assume a deeper hue,—lifeseems a dismal thing,—our very religion grows mouldy.

My idea of a house is, that, as far as is consistent with shelter andreasonable privacy, it should give you on first entering an open,breezy, out-door freshness of sensation. Every window should be apicture; sun and trees and clouds and green grass should seem never tobe far from us. "Our house" may shade, but not darken us. "Our house"shall have bow-windows, many, sunny, and airy,—not for the purpose ofbeing cleaned and shut up, but to be open and enjoyed. There shall belong verandas above and below, where invalids may walk dry-shod, andenjoy open-air recreation in wettest weather. In short, I will try tohave "our house" combine as far as possible the sunny, joyous, freshlife of a gypsy in the fields and woods with the quiet and neatness andcomfort and shelter of a roof, rooms, floors, and carpets.

After heavenly fire, I have a word to say of earthly, artificial fires.Furnaces, whether of hot water, steam, or hot air, are all healthy andadmirable provisions for warming our houses during the eight or ninemonths of our year that we must have artificial heat, if only, as I havesaid, fireplaces keep up a current of ventilation.

The kitchen-range with its water-back I humbly salute. It is a greatthrobbing heart, and sends its warm tides of cleansing, comforting fluidall through the house. One could wish that this friendly dragon could bein some way moderated in his appetite for coal,—he does consume withoutmercy, it must be confessed,—but then, great is the work he has to do.At any hour of day or night in the most distant part of your house, youhave but to turn a stop-co*ck and your red dragon sends you hot water foryour needs; your washing-day becomes a mere play-day; your pantry hasits ever-ready supply; and then, by a little judicious care in arrangingapartments and economizing heat, a range may make two or three chamberscomfortable in winter weather. A range with a water-back is among themust-bes in "our house."

Then, as to the evening light,—I know nothing as yet better than gas,where it can be had. I would certainly not have a house without it. Thegreat objection to it is the danger of its escape through imperfectfixtures. But it must not do this: a fluid that kills a tree or a plantwith one breath must certainly be a dangerous ingredient in theatmosphere, and if admitted into houses, must be introduced with everysafeguard.[Pg 575]

There are families living in the country who make their own gas by avery simple process. This is worth an inquiry from those who build.There are also contrivances now advertised, with good testimonials, ofdomestic machines for generating gas, said to be perfectly safe, simpleto be managed, and producing a light superior to that of the citygas-works. This also is worth an inquiry, when "our house" is to be inthe country.

And now I come to the next great vital element for which "our house"must provide,—water. "Water, water everywhere,"—it must be plentiful,it must be easy to get at, it must be pure. Our ancestors had someexcellent ideas in home-living and house-building. Their houses were,generally speaking, very sensibly contrived,—roomy, airy, andcomfortable; but in their water-arrangements they had little mercy onwomankind. The well was out in the yard; and in winter one must flounderthrough snow and bring up the ice-bound bucket, before one could fillthe tea-kettle for breakfast. For a sovereign princess of the republicthis was hardly respectful or respectable. Wells have come somewhatnearer in modern times; but the idea of a constant supply of fresh waterby the simple turning of a stop-co*ck has not yet visited the great bodyof our houses. Were we free to build "our house" just as we wish it,there should be a bath-room to every two or three inmates, and the hotand cold water should circulate to every chamber.

Among our must-bes, we would lay by a generous sum for plumbing. Letus have our bath-rooms, and our arrangements for cleanliness and healthin kitchen and pantry; and afterwards let the quality of our lumber andthe style of our finishings be according to the sum we have left. Thepower to command a warm bath in a house at any hour of day or night isbetter in bringing up a family of children than any amount of readymedicine. In three-quarters of childish ailments the warm bath is analmost immediate remedy. Bad colds, incipient fevers, rheumatisms,convulsions, neuralgias innumerable, are washed off in their firstbeginnings, and run down the lead pipes into oblivion. Have, then, Ofriend, all the water in your house that you can afford, and enlargeyour ideas of the worth of it, that you may afford a great deal. Abathing-room is nothing to you that requires an hour of lifting andfire-making to prepare it for use. The apparatus is too cumbrous,—youdo not turn to it. But when your chamber opens upon a neat, quiet littlenook, and you have only to turn your stop-co*cks and all is ready, yourremedy is at hand,—you use it constantly. You are waked in the night bya scream, and find little Tom sitting up, wild with burning fever. Inthree minutes he is in the bath, quieted and comfortable; you get himback, cooled and tranquil, to his little crib, and in the morning hewakes as if nothing had happened.

Why should not so invaluable and simple a remedy for disease, such apreservative of health, such a comfort, such a stimulus, be consideredas much a matter-of-course in a house as a kitchen-chimney? At leastthere should be one bath-room always in order, so arranged that all thefamily can have access to it, if one cannot afford the luxury of many.

A house in which water is universally and skilfully distributed is somuch easier to take care of as almost to verify the saying of a friend,that his house was so contrived that it did its own work: one had betterdo without carpets on the floors, without stuffed sofas androcking-chairs, and secure this.

"Well, papa," said Marianne, "you have made out all your four elementsin your house except one. I can't imagine what you want of earth."

"I thought," said Jennie, "that the less of our common mother we had inour houses, the better housekeepers we were."

"My dears," said I, "we philosophers must give an occasional dip intothe mystical, and say something apparently absurd[Pg 576] for the purpose ofexplaining that we mean nothing in particular by it. It gives commonpeople an idea of our sagacity, to find how clear we come out of ourapparent contradictions and absurdities. Listen."

For the fourth requisite of "our house," Earth, let me point you to yourmother's plant-window, and beg you to remember the fact that through ourlong, dreary winters we are never a month without flowers, and the vividinterest which always attaches to growing things. The perfect house, asI conceive it, is to combine as many of the advantages of living out ofdoors as may be consistent with warmth and shelter, and one of these isthe sympathy with green and growing things. Plants are nearer in theirrelations to human health and vigor than is often imagined. Thecheerfulness that well-kept plants impart to a room comes not merelyfrom gratification of the eye,—there is a healthful exhalation fromthem, they are a corrective of the impurities of the atmosphere. Plants,too, are valuable as tests of the vitality of the atmosphere; theirdrooping and failure convey to us information that something is amisswith it. A lady once told me that she could never raise plants in herparlors on account of the gas and anthracite coal. I answered, "Are younot afraid to live and bring up your children in an atmosphere whichblights your plants?" If the gas escapes from the pipes, and the red-hotanthracite coal or the red-hot air-tight stove burns out all the vitalpart of the air, so that healthy plants in a few days wither and beginto drop their leaves, it is a sign that the air must be looked to andreformed. It is a fatal augury for a room that plants cannot be made tothrive in it. Plants should not turn pale, be long-jointed, long-leaved,and spindling; and where they grow in this way, we may be certain thatthere is a want of vitality for human beings. But where plants appear asthey do in the open air, with vigorous, stocky growth, andshort-stemmed, deep-green leaves, we may believe the conditions of thatatmosphere are healthy for human lungs.

It is pleasant to see how the custom of plant-growing has spread throughour country. In how many farm-house windows do we see petunias andnasturtiums vivid with bloom while snows are whirling without, and howmuch brightness have those cheap enjoyments shed on the lives of thosewho cared for them! We do not believe there is a human being who wouldnot become a passionate lover of plants, if circ*mstances once made itimperative to tend upon, and watch the growth of one. The history ofPicciola for substance has been lived over and over by many a man andwoman who once did not know that there was a particle of plant-love intheir souls. But to the proper care of plants in pots there are manyhindrances and drawbacks. The dust chokes the little pores of theirgreen lungs, and they require constant showering; and to carry all one'splants to a sink or porch for this purpose is a labor which many willnot endure. Consequently plants often do not get a showering once amonth. We should try to imitate more closely the action of MotherNature, who washes every green child of hers nightly with dews, whichlie glittering on its leaves till morning.

"Yes, there it is!" said Jennie. "I think I could manage with plants, ifit were not for this eternal showering and washing they seem to requireto keep them fresh. They are always tempting one to spatter the carpetand surrounding furniture, which are not equally benefited by thelibation."

"It is partly for that very reason," I replied, "that the plan of 'ourhouse' provides for the introduction of Mother Earth, as you will see."

A perfect house, according to my idea, should always include in it alittle compartment where plants can be kept, can be watered, can bedefended from the dust, and have the sunshine and all the conditions ofgrowth.[Pg 577]

People have generally supposed a conservatory to be one of the lasttrappings of wealth,—something not to be thought of for those in modestcirc*mstances. But is this so? You have a bow-window in your parlor.Leave out the flooring, fill the space with rich earth, close it fromthe parlor by glass doors, and you have room for enough plants andflowers to keep you gay and happy all winter. If on the south side,where the sunbeams have power, it requires no heat but that which warmsthe parlor, and the comfort of it is incalculable, and the expense amere trifle greater than that of the bow-window alone.

In larger houses a larger space might be appropriated in this way. Wewill not call it a conservatory, because that name suggests ideas ofgardeners and mysteries of culture and rare plants which bring all sortsof care and expense in their train. We would rather call it a greenery,a room floored with earth, with glass sides to admit the sun,—and letit open on as many other rooms of the house as possible.

Why should not the dining-room and parlor be all winter connected by aspot of green and flowers, with plants, mosses, and ferns for theshadowy portions, and such simple blooms as petunias and nasturtiumsgarlanding the sunny portion near the windows? If near the waterworks,this greenery might be enlivened by the play of a fountain, whoseconstant spray would give that softness to the air which is so oftenburned away by the dry heat of the furnace.

"And do you really think, papa, that houses built in this way are apractical result to be aimed at?" said Jennie. "To me it seems like adream of the Alhambra."

"Yet I happen to have seen real people in our day living in just such ahouse," said I. "I could point you, this very hour, to a cottage, whichin style of building is the plainest possible, which unites many of thebest ideas of a true house. My dear, can you sketch the ground-plan ofthat house we saw in Brighton?"

"Here it is," said my wife, after a few dashes with her pencil,—"aninexpensive house, yet one of the pleasantest I ever saw."

"This cottage, which might, at the rate of prices before the war, havebeen built for five thousand dollars, has many of the requirements whichI seek for a house. It has two stories, and a tier of very pleasantattic-rooms, two bathing-rooms, and the water carried into each story.The parlor and dining-room both look into a little bower, where afountain is ever playing into a little marble basin, and which all theyear through has its green and bloom. It is heated simply from thefurnace by a register, like any other room of the house, and requires nomore care than a delicate woman could easily give. The brightness and[Pg 578]cheerfulness it brings during our long, dreary winters is incredible."

But one caution is necessary in all such appendages. The earth must bethoroughly underdrained to prevent the vapors of stagnant water, andhave a large admixture of broken charcoal to obviate the consequences ofvegetable decomposition. Great care must be taken that there be noleaves left to fall and decay on the ground, since vegetable exhalationspoison the air. With these precautions such a plot will soften andpurify the air of a house.

Where the means do not allow even so small a conservatory, a recessedwindow might be fitted with a deep box, which should have a drain-pipeat the bottom, and a thick layer of broken charcoal and gravel, with amixture of fine wood-soil and sand for the top stratum. Here ivies maybe planted, which will run and twine and strike their little tendrilshere and there, and give the room in time the aspect of a bower; thevarious greenhouse nasturtiums will make winter gorgeous with blossoms.In windows unblest by sunshine—and, alas, such are many!—one cancultivate ferns and mosses; the winter-growing ferns, of which there aremany varieties, can be mixed with mosses and woodland flowers.

Early in February, when the cheerless frosts of winter seem mostwearisome, the common blue violet, wood-anemone, hepatica, orrock-columbine, if planted in this way, will begin to bloom. The commonpartridge-berry, with its brilliant scarlet fruit and dark green leaves,will also grow finely in such situations, and have a beautiful effect.These things require daily showering to keep them fresh, and themoisture arising from them will soften and freshen the too dry air ofheated winter rooms.

Thus I have been through my four essential elements inhouse-building,—air, fire, water, and earth. I would provide for thesebefore anything else. After they are secured, I would gratify my tasteand fancy as far as possible in other ways. I quite agree with Bob inhating commonplace houses, and longing for some little bit ofarchitectural effect, and I grieve profoundly that every step in thatdirection must cost so much. I have also a taste for niceness of finish.I have no objection to silver-plated door-locks and hinges, none towindows which are an entire plate of clear glass; I congratulateneighbors who are so fortunate as to be able to get them, and after Ihad put all the essentials into a house, I would have these too, if Ihad the means.

But if all my wood-work were to be without groove or moulding, if mymantels were to be of simple wood, if my doors were all to bemachine-made, and my lumber of the second quality, I would have mybath-rooms, my conservatory, my sunny bow-windows, and my perfectventilation,—and my house would then be so pleasant, and every one init in such a cheerful mood, that it would verily seem to be ceiled withcedar.

Speaking of ceiling with cedar, I have one thing more to say. WeAmericans have a country abounding in beautiful timber, of whosebeauties we know nothing, on account of the pernicious and stupid habitof covering it with white paint.

The celebrated zebra-wood with its golden stripes cannot exceed inquaint beauty the grain of unpainted chestnut, prepared simply with acoat or two of oil. The butternut has a rich golden brown, the verydarling color of painters,—a shade so rich, and grain so beautiful,that it is of itself as charming to look at as a rich picture. Theblack-walnut, with its heavy depth of tone, works in well as an adjunct;and as to oak, what can we say enough of its quaint and many shadings?Even common pine, which has been considered not decent to look upon tillhastily shrouded in a friendly blanket of white paint, has, when oiledand varnished, the beauty of satin-wood. The second quality of pine,which[Pg 579] has what are called shakes in it, under this mode of treatmentoften shows clouds and veins equal in beauty to the choicest woods. Thecost of such a finish is greatly less than that of the old method, andit saves those days and weeks of cleaning which are demanded by whitepaint, while its general tone is softer and more harmonious. Experimentsin color may be tried in the combination of these woods, which at smallexpense produce the most charming effects.

As to paper-hangings, we are proud to say that our Americanmanufacturers now furnish all that can be desired. There are somebranches of design where artistic, ingenious France must still excelus,—but whoso has a house to fit up, let him first look at what his owncountry has to show, and he will be astonished.

There is one topic in house-building on which I would add a few words.The difficulty of procuring and keeping good servants, which must longbe one of our chief domestic troubles, warns us so to arrange our housesthat we shall need as few as possible. There is the greatest conceivabledifference in the planning and building of houses as to the amount ofwork which will be necessary to keep them in respectable condition. Somehouses require a perfect staff of house-maids;—there are plated hingesto be rubbed, paint to be cleaned, with intricacies of moulding andcarving which daily consume hours of dusting to preserve them from aslovenly look. Simple finish, unpainted wood, a general distribution ofwater through the dwelling, will enable a very large house to be caredfor by one pair of hands, and yet maintain a creditable appearance.

In kitchens one servant may perform the work of two by a close packingof all the conveniences for cooking and such arrangements as shall savetime and steps. Washing-day may be divested of its terrors by suitableprovisions for water, hot and cold, by wringers, which save at once thestrength of the linen and of the laundress, and by drying-closetsconnected with ranges, where articles can in a few moments be perfectlydried. These, with the use of a small mangle, such as is now common inAmerica, reduce the labors of the laundry one-half.

There are many more things which might be said of "our house," andChristopher may, perhaps, find some other opportunity to say them. Forthe present his pen is tired and ceaseth.

THE NEW SCHOOL OF BIOGRAPHY.

Poor Rachel, passing slowly away from the world that had so applaudedher hollow, but brilliant career, tasted the bitterness of death inreflecting that she should so soon be given over to the worms and thebiographers. Fortunate Rachel, resting in serene confidence that the twowould be fellow-laborers! It is the unhappy fate of her survivors tohave reached a day in which biographers have grown impatient of thedecorous delay which their lowly coadjutors demand. They can no longerwait for the lingering soul to yield up its title-deeds before theyenter in and take possession; but, fired with an evil energy, theyoutstrip the worms and torment us before the time.

Curiosity is undoubtedly one of the heaven-appointed passions of thehuman animal. Dear to the heart of man has ever been his neighbor'sbusiness. Precious in the eyes of woman is the linen-closet of thatneighbor's wife. During its tender teething infancy, the world's sobscould always be soothed into smiles[Pg 580] by an open bureau with largeliberty to upheave its contents from turret to foundation-stone. As theinfant world ascended from cambric and dimity to broadcloth andcrinoline, its propensity for investigation grew stronger. It loved notbureaus less, but a great many other things more. What sad consequencesmight have ensued, had this passion been left to forage for itself, noone can tell. But, by the wonderful principle of adaptation whichobtains throughout the universe, the love of receiving information ismet and mastered by the love of imparting information. As much pleasureas it gives Angelina to learn how many towels and table-cloths go intoSeraphina's wedding-outfit, so much, yea, more, swells in Cherubella'sbosom at being able to present to her friend this apple from the tree ofknowledge. The worthy Muggins finds no small consolation for the loss ofhis overcoat and umbrella from the front entry in the exhilaration heexperiences while relating to each member of his ever-revolving circleof friends the details of his loss,—the suspicion, the search, thecertainty,—the conjectures, suggestions, and emotions of himself andhis family.

Hence these tears which we are about to shed. For, betwixt the love ofhearing on the one side, and the love of telling, on the other, smallspace remains on which one may adventure to set the sole of his foot andfeel safe from the spoiler. There is of course a legitimategratification for every legitimate desire,—the desire to know ourneighbors' affairs among others. But there is a limit to thisgratification, and it is hinted at by legal enactments. The law justlyenough bounds a man's power over his possessions. For twenty-one yearsafter his generation has passed away, his dead hand may rule the wealthwhich its living skill amassed. Then it dies another death, draws backinto a deeper grave, and has henceforth no more power than anysister-clod. But, except as a penalty for crime, the law awards to a manright to his own possessions through life; and the personal facts andcirc*mstances of his life have usually been considered among hisclosest, most inalienable possessions.

Alas, that the times are changed, and we be all dead men so far asconcerns immunity from publication! There is no manner of advantage inbeing alive. The sole safety is to lie flat on the earth along withone's generation. The moment an audacious head is lifted one inch abovethe general level, pop! goes the unerring rifle of some biographicalsharp-shooter, and it is all over with the unhappy owner. A perfectlyrespectable and well-meaning man, suffering under the accumulated painsof Presidentship, has the additional and entirely undeserved ignominy ofbeing hawked about the country as the "Pioneer Boy." A statesman whosereputation for integrity has been worth millions to the land, and whosepatriotism should have won him a better fate, is stigmatized induodecimo as the "Ferry Boy." An innocent and popular Governor isfastened in the pillory under the thin disguise of the "Bobbin Boy."Every victorious advance of our grand army is followed by a longprocession of biographical statistics. A brave man leading his troops tovictory may escape the bullets and bayonets of the foe, but he is sureto be transfixed to the sides of a newspaper with the pen of somecannibal entomologist. We are thrilled to-day with the telegramannouncing the brilliant and successful charge made by General Smith'scommand; and according to that inevitable law of succession by which thesun his daily round of duty runs, we shall be thrilled to-morrow withthe startling announcement that "General Smith was born in ——," etc.,etc., etc.

Unquestionably, there is somewhere in the land a regularly organizedbiographical bureau, by which every man, President or private, has hislot apportioned him,—one mulcted in a folio, the other in a paragraph.If we examine somewhat closely the features of this peculiarinstitution, we shall learn that a distinguishing characteristic of thenew school[Pg 581] of biography is the astonishing familiarity shown by thenarrator with the circ*mstances, the conversations, and the verythoughts of remarkable boys in their early life. The incidents ofchildhood are usually forgotten before the man's renown has given themany importance; the few anecdotes which tradition has preserved areseized upon with the utmost avidity and placed in the most conspicuousposition; but in these later books we have illustrious childrenportrayed with a Pre-Raphaelitic and most prodigal pencil.

Take the opening scene in a garden where "Nat"—we must protest againstthis irreverent abbreviation of the name of that honored Governor whoselife in little we are about to behold—and his father are at work.

"'There, Nat, if you plant and hoe your squashes with care, you willraise a nice parcel of them on this piece of ground. It is good soil forsquashes.'

"'How many seeds shall I put into a hill?' inquired Nat.

"'Seven or eight. It is well to put in enough, as some of them may notcome up, and when they get to growing well, pull up all but four in ahill. You must not have your hills too near together,—they should befive feet apart, and then the vines will cover the ground all over. Ishould think there would be room for fifty hills on this patch ofground.'

"'How many squashes do you think I shall raise, father?'

"'Well,' said his father, smiling, 'that is hard telling. We won't countthe chickens before they are hatched. But if you are industrious, andtake very good care indeed of your vines, stir the ground often and keepout all the weeds and kill the bugs, I have little doubt that you willget well paid for your labor.'

"'If I have fifty hills,' said Nat, 'and four vines in each hill, Ishall have two hundred vines in all; and if there is one squash on eachvine, there will be two hundred squashes.'

"'Yes; but there are so many ifs about it, that you may bedisappointed after all. Perhaps the bugs will destroy half your vines.'

"'I can kill the bugs,' said Nat.

"'Perhaps dry weather will wither them all up.'

"'I can water them every day, if they need it.'

"'That is certainly having good courage, Nat,' added his father; 'but ifyou conquer the bugs, and get around the dry weather, it may be too wetand blast your vines,—or there may be such a hail-storm as I have knownseveral times in my life, and cut them to pieces.'

"'I don't think there will be such a hail-storm this year; there neverwas one like it since I can remember.'

"'I hope there won't be,' replied his father. 'It is well to look on thebright side, and hope for the best, for it keeps the courage up. It isalso well to look out for disappointment. I know a gentleman who thoughthe would raise some ducks,'" etc., etc., etc.

We are told that this scene was enacted about thirty-five years ago,and, as if we should not be sufficiently lost in admiration of thatwonderful memory which enabled somebody to retain so long, and restoreso unimpaired, the words and deeds of that distant May morning, we arefurther informed that the author is "obliged to pass over much thatbelongs to the patch of squashes"! "Is it possible?" one is led toexclaim. We should certainly have supposed that this report wasexhaustive. We can hardly conceive that any further interest shouldinhere in that patch of squashes; whereas it seems that the half was nottold us. Nor is this the sole instance. Records equally minute ofconversations equally brilliant are lavished on page after page with arecklessness of expenditure that argues unlimited wealth,—conversationsbetween the Boy and his father, between the Boy and his mother, betweenthe Boy's father and mother, between the Boy's neighbors about the Boy,in which his numerous excellences are set in the strongest light,exhortations of the Boy's teacher to his school, play-ground talk of[Pg 582]the Boy and his fellow-boys,—among whom the Boy invariably stands headand shoulders higher than they. We fear the world of boys has hithertobeen much demoralized by being informed that many distinguished men werebut dull fellows in the school-house, or unnoticed on the play-ground.But we have changed all that. The Bobbin Boy was the most industrious,the most persevering, the most self-reliant, the most virtuous, the mostexemplary of all the boys of his time. So was the Ferry Boy, and thePioneer Boy so. "Nat"—we blame and protest, but we join in the plan ofusing this undignified sobriquet—Nat was the one that swam three rodsunder water; Nat astonished the school with the eloquence of hisdeclamation; it was Nat that got all the glory of the games; it was ofno use for any one to try for any prize where Nat was a competitor. Andas Nat's neighbors thought of Nat, so thought Abe's—we shudder at thesound—Abe's neighbors of Abe, the Pioneer Boy. Of what Salmon'sneighbors said about Salmon we are not so well informed; but we have nodoubt they often exclaimed one to another,—

Nor are the Boys backward in having a tolerably good opinion of theirown goodness.

"Never swear, my son," says Abe's mother to the infant Abe.

"I never do," says Abraham.

"Boys are likely to want their own way, and spend their time inidleness," says the mother of a President, upon another occasion.

"I sha'n't," responds virtuous Abraham.

"Always speak the truth, my son."

"I do tell the truth," was "Abraham's usual reply."

"When a boy gets to going to the tavern to smoke and swear," says Nat'smother, "he is almost sure to drink, and become a ruined man."

"I never do smoke, mother," replies Nat, pouring cataracts of innocence."I never go to the stable nor tavern. I don't associate with Sam and BenDrake, nor with James Cole, nor with Oliver Fowle, more than I can help.For I know they are bad boys. I see that the worst scholars at schoolare those who are said to disobey their parents, and every one of themare poor scholars, and they use profane language."

Virtue so immaculate at so tender an age seems to us, we are forced toadmit, unnatural. The boys that have fallen in our way have never beenin the habit of making profound moral reflections, and we cannot resistthe unpleasant suspicion that Nat had just been playing at marbles for"havings" with Cole, Fowle, and both the Drakes at the village-inn, and,having found this vegetable repast too strong for his digestion, wenthome to his mother and wreaked his discomfort on edifying moral maxims.Or else he was a prig.

The unusual and highly exciting nature of the incidents recorded inthese biographies must be their excuse for a seeming violation ofprivacy. When a rare and precious gem is in question, one must not beover-scrupulous about breaking open the casket. What puerile prejudicein favor of privacy can rear its head in face of the statement whichtells us that at the age of seven years our honored President—may hestill continue such!—"devoted himself to learning to read with anenergy and enthusiasm that insured success"?—such success that we learn"he could read some when he left school."

At the age of nine he shot a turkey!

Soon after,—for here we are involved in a chronological haze,—he beganto "take lessons in penmanship with the most enthusiastic ardor."

Subsequently, "there, on the soil of Indiana, Abraham Lincoln wrote hisname, with a stick, in large characters,—a sort of prophetic act, thatstudents of history may love to ponder. For, since that day, he has'gone up higher,' and written his name, by public acts, on the annals ofevery State in the Union."[Pg 583]

He wrote a letter.

He rescued a toad from cruel boys,—for, though "he could kill game forfood as a necessity, and dangerous wild animals, his soul shrunk fromtorturing even a fly." Dear heart, we can easily believe that!

He bought a Ramsay's "Life of Washington," and paid for it with thelabor of his own hands.

He helped to save a drunkard's life. "He thought more of the drunkard'ssafety than he did of his own ease. And there are many of his personalacquaintances in our land who will bear witness, that, from that day tothis, this amiable quality of heart has won him admiring friends."

He took a flat-boat to New Orleans, and defended her against thenegroes, who, poor fellows, were not prophetic enough to see that theywere plotting against their Deliverer.

He "always had much dry wit about him that kept oozing out"!

We have given a bird's-eye view of the main incidents of his boyhood,for we cannot quite agree with our author in thinking that his "oldgrammar laid the foundation, in part, of Abraham's future character,"seeing we have previously been told that he had "become the mostimportant man in the place," and we have the same writer's authority forbelieving that "the habits of life are usually fixed by the time a ladis fifteen years of age." Nor can we admit that his grammar even "taughthim the rudiments of his native language," when we have been havingproof upon proof, for two hundred and eighty-six pages, that he wasalready familiar with its rudiments. We are equally skeptical as towhether it really "opened the golden gate of knowledge" for him: weshould certainty say that this gate had stood ajar, at least, for years.Indeed, that portion of his history which relates to grammar seems to usby far the most unsatisfactory of all. In his honesty, in hispenmanship, in his kindness of heart, in his wit, dry or damp, we feel aconfidence which not even the shock of political campaigns has been ableto move. But in respect of grammar we find ourselves in a state of themost painful uncertainty. We have never regarded it as our belovedPresident's strong point, but we have considered any linguistic defectmore than atoned for by the hearty, timely, sturdy, plain sense whichappeals so directly and forcibly to the good sense of others. This bookcalls up a distressing doubt, and a doubt that strikes at vitalinterests. "Grammar," our President is reported to have said before hehad cast the integuments of a grocer's clerk, "Grammar is the art ofspeaking and writing the English language with propriety"! Is this adefinition, we sorrowfully ask, becoming an American citizen? It has,indeed, in many respects the qualities of a perfect definition. It isdeep; it is accurate; it is exhaustive; but it is not loyal. Comingfrom the lips of a subject of Great Britain, it would not surprise us.An Englishman undoubtedly believes that grammar is the art of speakingand writing the English language with propriety. All the grammaticalresearch that preceded the establishment of his mother-tongue was butthe collection of fuel to feed the flame of its glory; all that followswill be to diffuse the light of that flame to the ends of the earth.Greek, Latin, Sanscrit, were but stepping-stones to the Englishlanguage. Philology per se is a myth. The English language in itscompleteness is the completion of grammatical science. To that allknowledge tends; from that all honor radiates. So claims proud Britain'sprouder son. But can an American tamely submit to such a monopoly? Isnot grammar rather, or at least quite as much, the art of speaking andwriting the American language correctly, and shall he sit calmly byand witness this gross outrage upon his dearest rights? But, as ourauthor would say, we "must not dwell," and most gladly do we leave thisunpleasant branch of a very pleasant subject, inwardly supplicating,that, whatever disaster is yet to befall us, we may be spared the pangof suspecting that our revered President, so stanch against the Rebels,[Pg 584]so unflinching for the Slave, is in danger of lowering his lofty crestbefore the rampant British lion! In view of such a calamity, one canonly say in the words of that distinguished British citizen who, livingin England in the full light of the nineteenth century, must be supposedto have reached the summit of grammatical excellence,—

The life of the Ferry Boy was scarcely less adventurous than that of thePioneer Boy, and was, indeed, in some respects its counterpart. As thelatter learned to write on the tops of stools, so the former learned toread on bits of birch-bark. At an early period of his existence he brokea capful of eggs. He owned a calf. He caught an eel. He put salt on abird's tail and learned his first lesson of the deceitfulness of thehuman heart. He walked to Niagara Falls from Buffalo. He got lost in thewoods. He went to live with his uncle in Ohio, where he displayed spiritand killed a pig. Here also occurred a "prophecy" almost as striking asthe Pioneer Boy's writing his name with a stick. "Salmon" wished to goswimming. "The Bishop said, 'No!' adding, 'Why, Salmon, the countrymight lose its future President, if you should get drowned!' This wasthe first time his name had ever been mentioned in connection with thathigh office; and the remark, coming from the grave Bishop's lips, musthave made a strong impression on him. Was it prophetic?" Let us assumethat it was, although it must for the present be ranked with what istheologically called "unfulfilled prophecy." We cannot, at any rate, betoo thankful that the only occasion on which it was ever hinted to anAmerican boy that he might one day become President has not beensuffered to pass into oblivion, but has found in this little volume amonument more durable than brass. To go on with our inventory. A wholeflock of thirteen pigeons shot by the Ferry Boy answered through theirmisty shroud to the Pioneer Boy's turkey which called to them aloud. Hetaught school two weeks, and then had leave to resign. He went toWashington and said his prayers like a good boy: we trust he has kept upthe practice ever since.

From such a record there is but one inference: if the man is notPresident, he ought to be!

One great element in the success which these little books have met, theone fact which, we are persuaded, accounts for the quiet, butsignificant "twenty-sixth thousand" that we find on the title-page ofone of them, is the pains which their authors take to make their meaningclear. They do not, like too many of our modern authors, leave a bookhalf written, forcing the reader to finish their work as he goes along.They are instant, in season and out of season, with explanation,illustration, reflection, until the idea is, so to speak, reduced topulp, and the reader has nothing to perform save the act of deglutition.

"When he ['Nat'] was only four years old, and was learning to readlittle words of two letters, he came across one about which he had quitea dispute with his teacher. It was inn.

"'What is that?' asked his teacher.

"'I-double n,' he answered.

"'What does i-double n spell?'

"'Tavern,' was his quick reply.

"The teacher smiled, and said, 'No; it spells inn. Now read it again.'

"'I-double n—tavern,' said he.

"'I told you that it did not spell tavern, it spells inn. Now pronounceit correctly.'

"'It do spell tavern,' said he.

"The teacher was finally obliged to give it up, and let him enjoy hisown opinion. She probably called him obstinate, although there wasnothing of the kind about him, as we shall see. His mother took up thematter at home, but failed to convince him that i-double n did not spelltavern. It was not until some time after that he changed his opinion onthis important subject.[Pg 585]

"That this instance was no evidence of obstinacy in Nat, but only of adisposition to think 'on his own hook,' is evident from the followingcirc*mstances. There was a picture of a public-house in his book againstthe word inn, with the old-fashioned sign-post in front, on which a signwas swinging. Near his father's, also, stood a public-house, whicheverybody called a tavern, with a tall post and sign in front of it,exactly like that in his book; and Nat said within himself, 'If Mr.Morse's house [the landlord[G]] is a tavern, then this is a tavern in mybook.' He cared little how it was spelled; if it did not spell tavern,'it ought to,' he thought. Children believe what they see, more thanwhat they hear. What they lack in reason and judgment they make up ineyes. So Nat had seen the tavern near his father's house again andagain, and he had stopped to look at the sign in front of it a greatmany times, and his eyes told him it was just like that in the book;therefore it was his deliberate opinion that i-double n spelt tavern,and he was not to be beaten out of an opinion that was based on suchclear evidence. It was a good sign in Nat. It was true of the three mento whom we have just referred,—Bowditch, Davy, and Buxton. From theirchildhood they thought for themselves, so that, when they became men,they defended their opinions against imposing opposition. True, a youthmust not be too forward in advancing his ideas, especially if they donot harmonize with those of older persons. Self-esteem andself-confidence should be guarded against. Still, in avoiding theseevils, he is not obliged to believe anything just because he is told so.It is better for him to understand the reason of things, and believethem on that account."

Would our Parks, our Palfreys, our Prescotts, our Emersons, haveexpounded this matter so clearly? Most assuredly not. They would haveleft us in the Cimmerian darkness of dreary conjecture regarding thecauses of Nat's strange opinion, and the lessons to be drawn from it. Orif they had condescended to explanation, it would have been comprised ina curt phrase or two. No boundary-line between a virtue and its vicewould have been drawn so that a wayfaring man, though a fool, should noterr in following it. This author has struck the golden mean. There isjust enough, and not too much.

Again,—

"'I should rather be in prison, than to sit up nights studying as youdo.'

"'I really enjoy it, David.'

"'I can hardly credit it.'

"'Then you think I do not speak the truth?'

"'Oh, no!... I only meant to say that I cannot understand it.'

"Allusion is here made to an important fact. David could not understandhow Abraham could possess such a love of knowledge as to lead him toforego all social pleasures, be willing to wear a threadbare coat, liveon the coarsest fare, and labor hard all day, and sit up half the night,for the sake of learning. But there is just that power in the love ofknowledge, and it was this that caused Lincoln to derive happiness fromdoing what would have been a source of misery to David. Some of the mostmarked instances of self-forgetfulness recorded are connected with thepursuit of knowledge. Archimedes was so much in love with the studies ofhis profession, that, etc., etc. Professor Heyne, of Göttingen," etc.,etc., etc.—A clearer explanation than this we have rarely met withoutside the realm of mathematical demonstration.

A shorter example of the same judicious oversight we have when "inrushed Nat, under great excitement, with his eyes 'as large as saucers,'to use a hyperbole, which means only that his eyes looked very largeindeed." The impression which would have been made upon the risinggeneration, had the testimony[Pg 586] been allowed to go forth without itscorrective, that upon a certain occasion any Governor's eyes werereally as large as saucers, even very small tea-saucers, is such as theimagination refuses to dwell on.

This exuberance of illustration increases the value of these books inanother respect. To use a homely phrase, we get more than we bargainedfor. Ostensibly engaged with the life of the Bobbin Boy, we are covertlyintroduced to the majority of all the boys that ever were born and cameto anything. The advertised story is a kind of mother-hen who gathersunder her wings a numerous brood of biographical chicks. Quantities ofrecondite erudition are poured out on the slightest provocation. Nat'sunquestioned superiority to his schoolmates evokes a disquisition forthe encouragement of dull boys, in which we are told that "the greatphilosopher, Newton, was one of the dullest scholars in school when hewas twelve years old. Doctor Isaac Barrow was such a dull, pugnacious,stupid fellow, etc., etc. The father of Doctor Adam Clarke, thecommentator, called his boy, etc. Cortina," (vernacular for Cortona,probably,) "a renowned painter, was nicknamed, etc., etc. When themother of Sheridan once, etc., etc. One teacher sent Chatterton home,etc. Napoleon and Wellington, etc., etc. And Sir Walter Scott wasnamed," etc., etc., etc. All of which makes very pleasantly diversifiedreading. Nat's kindness of heart paves the way to our learning, that,"at the age of ten or twelve years, John Howard, the philanthropist, wasnot distinguished above the mass of boys around him, except for thekindness of his heart, and boyish deeds of benevolence. It was so withWilberforce, whose efforts, etc., etc., etc. And Buxton, whoseself-sacrificing heart," etc., etc. While Nat is swimming four rodsunder water, we on shore are acquiring useful knowledge of theRothschilds, of Samuel Budget, Sir Joshua Reynolds, Buxton again, SirWalter Scott again, and the Duke of Wellington again. Nat walks toProspect Hill, and is attended by a suite consisting of Sir FrancisChantrey, "the gifted poet Burns," "the late Hugh Miller," etc., whoalso loved to look at prospects. Nat organized a debating-society,(which by the way was, "in respect of unanimity of feeling and action, alesson to most legislative bodies, and to the Congress of the UnitedStates in particular." Congress of the United States, are youlistening?) and "such an organization has proved a valuable means ofimprovement to many persons." Witness "the Irish orator, Curran," withbiography; "a living American statesman," with biography; the "highlydistinguished statesman, Canning," more biography; "Henry Clay, theAmerican orator," with autobiography; and a meteoric shower of lesserbiographies emanating from Tremont Temple. Nat carried a book in hispocket, and "Pockets have been of great service to self-made men. A moreuseful invention was never known, and hundreds are now living who willhave occasion to speak well of pockets till they die, because they wereso handy to carry a book. Roger Sherman had one when he was ahard-working shoemaker, etc., etc., etc. Napoleon had one in which hecarried the Iliad when, etc. etc., etc. Hugh Miller had one, etc., etc.,etc. Elihu Burritt had one," etc., etc., for three pages, to which wemight add, from the best authority, the striking fact which our author,notwithstanding the wide range of his reading, seems unaccountably tohave missed,—

Allusion is here made to an important fact. Mr. Gaines was a miller!

Yet, with all this elucidation, we take shame to ourselves for admittingthat there are points which, after all, we do not comprehend. They maybe trivial; but in making up testimony, it is the little things whichhave weight. Trifles light as air are confirmation strong as proofs ofHoly Writ, and confutation no less[Pg 587] strong. When, as a proof of Nat'sardor in the pursuit of knowledge, we are told that he walked ten milesafter a hard day's work to hear Daniel Webster, and then stood throughthe oration in front of the platform, because he could see the speakerbetter,—and when, turning to the next page, we are told that he was somuch interested that he "would have sat entranced till morning, if thegifted orator had continued to pour forth his eloquence,"—what are weto believe? When we are bidden to "listen to the gifted orator, as theflowing periods come burning from his soul on fire, riveting theattention," etc., is it a river, or is it a fire, or is it a hammer andanvil, that we have in our mind's eye, Horatio? When Nat "waxed warmerand warmer, as he advanced, and spoke in a flow of eloquence and choiceselection of words that was unusual for one of his age," did he come outdry-shod? We are told of his visit to the Boston bookstores,—that heexamined the books "outside before he stepped in. He read the title ofeach volume upon the back, and some he took up and examined," but wehave no explanation of this extraordinary behavior. "It was thus with"Abraham. "The manner in which Abraham made progress in penmanship,writing on slabs and trees, on the ground and in the snow, anywhere thathe could find a place, reminds us forcibly of Pascal, who demonstratedthe first thirty-two propositions of Euclid in his boyhood, without theaid of a teacher." We not only are not forcibly reminded of Pascal, butwe are not reminded of Pascal at all. The boy who imitates on slabsmechanical lines which he has been taught, and he who originatesmathematical problems and theorems, may be as like as my fingers to myfingers, but—alas, that it is forbidden to say—we do not see it. WhenMr. Elkins told Abraham he would make a good pioneer boy, and "'What's apioneer boy?' asked Abraham," why was Mr. Elkins "quite amused at thisinquiry"? and why did he "exercise his risibles for a minute" beforereplying? When Mr. Stuart offered young Mr. Lincoln the use of hislaw-books, and young Mr. Lincoln answered,—very properly, we shouldsay,—"You are very generous indeed. I could never repay you for suchgenerosity," why did Mr. Stuart respond, "shaking his sides withlaughter"? We do not wish to be too inquisitive, but few things are moretrying to a sensitive person than to see others overwhelmed withmerriment in which, from ignorance, he cannot share.

Want of space forbids us to do more than touch lightly upon the manyexcellences of these books. We have given extracts enough to enable ourreaders to see for themselves the severe elegance of style, thecompactness and force of the narrative, the verisimilitude of thecharacters, the unity of plan, and the cogency of the reasoning. Wetrust they will also perceive the great moral effect that cannot fail tobe produced. Such books are specially adapted to meet a daily increasingwant. Our American youth are too apt to value virtue for its own sake.They are in imminent danger of giving themselves over to integrity, toindustry, perseverance, and single-mindedness, without looking forwardto those posts of usefulness for which these qualities eminently fitthem. Fired with the love of learning, they are languid in claiming thehonors which learning has to bestow. Eager to become worthy of thehighest places, they make no effort to secure the places to which theirworth points them. Political supineness is the bane of our society. Theone great need is to rouse the ambition of boys, and wake them topolitical aspiration. To such objects such books tend; and who wouldhesitate at any sacrifice of his prejudices in favor of privacy, whensuch is the end to be obtained? Breathes there the man with soul so deadwho would not lay upon the altar his father, his mother, his sisters,not to say his uncles and cousins, nay, the inmost sanctities of hishome, to enable American boys to fasten their eyes upon the White House?Would he refuse,[Pg 588] at the call of patriotism, to spread before the publicthe very secrets of his heart, the struggles of his closet, hiscommunion with his God?

As a collateral result of this new school of biography, we can butadmire the new form in which Nemesis appears. The day of rich relationsis gone by. No longer can stern Uncle Bishops lord it over their obscurenephews, for ever before their eyes will flaunt the possible book whichwill one day lay open to a gazing world all their weakness and theirevil behavior. Let not wicked or disagreeable relatives imaginehenceforth that they may safely indulge in small tyrannies, neglects, orother peccadilloes; for no robin-redbreast will piously cover them withleaves, but that which is done in the ear shall be proclaimed upon thehouse-tops, nor can they tell from what quarter the trumpet shall sound.The unkempt boy, the sullen girl in the chimney-corner, may be theNarcissus or nymph in whose orisons all their sins shall be remembered.

In view of which benefits, and others "too numerous to mention," wehumbly beg pardon for the petulance which disfigures the commencement ofour paper, and desire to use all our influence to induce all persons ofdistinction meekly and humanely to lay open to the dear, curious worldtheir lives, their fortune, and their sacred honor.

But, however beneficial and delightful it is for a friend to impale afriend before the public gaze, we do not think that even Job himselfwould have desired that his adversary should write a book about him. Inthe motives that prompted, in the grace of the doing, in the good thatwill result, we can forgive the deed when friend portrays friend; but wecannot be lenient when a hostile hand exposes the life to which we haveno right. We would fain borrow the type and the energy of ReginaldBazalgette to enforce our opinion that it is "abbommannabel," and theinnocence of Pet Marjorie to declare it "the most Devilish thing." Yetin a loyal, respectable, religious newspaper we lately saw a biographyof Mr. Vallandigham which puts to the blush all previous achievements inthe line of contemporary history. It is not so much that we are let intothe family-secrets, but the family-secrets are spread out before us, asthe fruits of that species of domestic taxation known as "the presents"are spread out on the piano at certain wedding-festivals. We are ledback to first principles, to the early married life of the parentVallandighams. The mother is portrayed with a vigorous feminine pencil,and certainly looks extremely well on canvas. Clement's relations to herare shown to be exemplary. There is excuse for this in the attacks whichhave been made upon him in the relation of son. But upon what groundsare Clement's sisters' homes invaded? Because a man is disloyal andcraven, shall we inform the world that his brother was crossed in love?Still more shall his wife be taken in hand, and receive what even thelate Mr. Smallweed would have considered a thorough "shaking-up"? "Ifthey were all starving," declares the energetic narrator, "she could notearn a cent in any way whatever, so utterly helpless is this fineSouthern lady. She will not sleep, unless the light is kept burning allnight in her room, for fear 'something might happen'; and when a slightmatter crosses her feelings, she lies in bed for several days." Tut,tut, dear lady! surely this once thy zeal hath outrun thy discretion.Clement L. Vallandigham's public course is a proper target for all loyalshafts, but prithee let the poor lady, his wife, remain in peace,—suchpeace as she can command. It is bad enough to be his wife, without beingoverborne with the additional burden of her own personal foibles. Onecan[Pg 589] be daughter, sister, friend, without impeachment of one's sagacityor integrity; but it is such a dreadful indorsem*nt of a man to marryhim! Her own consciousness must be sufficiently grievous; pray do notirritate it into downright madness. Nay, what, after all, are the soheinous faults upon which you animadvert? She cannot earn a cent: thatmay be her misfortune, it need not be her fault. Perhaps Clement, likeAlbano, and all good husbands, "never loved to see the sweet formanywhere else than, like other butterflies, by his side among theflowers." She will keep a light burning in her room, forsooth. Have wenot all our pet hobgoblins? We know an excellent woman who once satcurled up in an arm-chair all night for fear of a mouse! And is it not awell-understood thing that nothing so baffles midnight burglars as aburning candle? "When a light matter crosses her feelings, she lies inbed for several days." Infinitely better than to go sulking about thehouse with that "injured-innocence" air which makes a man feel as if hewere an assaulter and batterer with intent to kill. Blessings rest uponthose charming sensible women, who, when they feel cross, as we all doat times, will go to bed and sleep it away! No, let us everywhere putdown treason and ostracize traitors. It is lawful to suspend "nasoadunco" those whom we may not otherwise suspend. But even traitors haverights which white men and white women are bound to respect. We willcrush them, if we can, but we will crush them in open field, by fairfight,—not by stealing into their bedchambers to stab them through theheart of a wife.

THE LAST RALLY.

November, 1864.

FINANCES OF THE REVOLUTION.

In all historical studies we should still bear in mind the differencebetween the point of view from which one looks at events and that fromwhich they were seen by the actors themselves. We all act under theinfluence of ideas. Even those who speak of theories with contempt arenone the less the unconscious disciples of some theory, none the lessbusied in working out some problems of the great theory of life. Much asthey fancy themselves to differ from the speculative man, they differfrom him only in contenting themselves with seeing the path as it liesat their feet, while he strives to embrace it all, starting-point andend, in one comprehensive view. And thus in looking back upon the pastwe are irresistibly led to arrange the events of history, as we arrangethe facts of a science, in their appropriate classes and under theirrespective laws. And thus, too, these events give us the true measure ofthe intellectual and moral culture of the times, the extent to whichjust ideas prevailed therein upon all the duties and functions[Pg 592] ofprivate and public life. Tried by the standard of absolute truth andright, grievously would they all fall short,—and we, too, with them.Judged by the human standard of progressive development and gradualgrowth,—the only standard to which the man of the beam can venture,unrebuked, to bring the man with the mote,—we shall find much in themall to sadden us, and much, also, in which we can all sincerely rejoice.

In judging, therefore, the political acts of our ancestors, we have aright to bring them to the standard of the political science of theirage, but we have no right to bring them to the higher standard of ourown. Montesquieu could give them but an imperfect clue to the labyrinthin which they found themselves involved; and yet no one had seen fartherinto the mysteries of social and political organization thanMontesquieu. Hume had scattered brilliant rays on dark places, andstarted ideas which, once at work in the mind, would never rest tillthey had evolved momentous truths and overthrown long-standing errors.But no one had yet seen, with Adam Smith, that labor was the originalsource of every form of wealth,—that the farmer, the merchant, themanufacturer, were all equally the instruments of nationalprosperity,—or demonstrated as unanswerably as he did that nations growrich and powerful by giving as they receive, and that the good of one isthe good of all. The world had not yet seen that fierce conflict betweenantagonistic principles which she was soon to see in the FrenchRevolution; nor had political science yet recorded those daringexperiments in remoulding society, those constitutions framed inclosets, discussed in clubs, accepted and overthrown with equaldemonstrations of popular zeal, and which, expressing in their terribleenergy the universal dissatisfaction with past and present, theuniversal grasping at a brighter future, have met and answered so manygrave questions,—questions neither propounded nor solved in any of thetwo hundred constitutions which Aristotle studied in order to preparehimself for the composition of his "Politics." The world had not yetseen a powerful nation tottering on the brink of anarchy, with all theelements of prosperity in her bosom,—nor a bankrupt state sustaining awar that demanded annual millions, and growing daily in wealth andpower,—nor the economical phenomena which followed the reopening ofContinental commerce in 1814,—nor the still more startling phenomenawhich a few years later attended England's return to specie-payments anda specie-currency,—nor statesmen setting themselves gravely down withthe map before them to the final settlement of Europe, and, while theink was yet fresh on their protocols, seeing all the results of theircombined wisdom set at nought by the inexorable development of thefundamental principle which they had refused to recognize.

But we have seen these things, and, having seen them, unconsciouslyapply the knowledge derived from them in our judgment of events to whichwe have no right to apply it. We condemn errors which we should neverhave detected without the aid of a light which was hidden from ourfathers, and will still be dwelling upon shortcomings which nothingcould have avoided but a general diffusion of that wisdom whichProvidence never vouchsafes except as a gift to a few exalted minds.Every school-boy has his text-book of political economy now: but manycan remember when these books first made their appearance in schools;and so late as 1820 the Professor of History in English Cambridgepublicly lamented that there was no work upon this vital subject whichhe could put into the hands of his classes.

When, therefore, our fathers found themselves face to face with thecomplex questions of finance, they naturally fell back upon theexperience and devices of their past history: they did as in suchemergencies men always do,—they tried to meet the present difficultywithout weighing maturely the future difficulties. The present was atthe door, palpable, stern, urgent, relentless; and as they looked at it,they could see nothing[Pg 593] beyond half so full of perplexity and danger.They hoped, as in the face of all history and all experience men willever hope, that out of those depths which their feeble eyes were unableto penetrate something would yet arise in their hour of need to avertthe peril and snatch them from the precipice. Their past history had itslessons of encouragement, some thought, and, some thought, of warning.They seized the example, but the admonition passed by unheeded.

Short as the chronological record of American history then was, thatexchange of the products of labor which so speedily grows up intocommerce had already passed through all its phases, from direct barterto bank-notes and bills of exchange. Men gave what they wanted less toget what they wanted more, the products of industry without doors forthe products of industry within doors; and it was only when they feltthe necessity of adding to their stock of luxuries or conveniences froma distance that they experienced the want of money. Prices naturallyfound their own level,—were what, when left to themselves they alwaysare, the natural expression of the relations between demand and supply.Tobacco stood the Virginian in stead of money long after money hadbecome abundant; procuring him corn, meat, raiment. More than once, too,it procured him something better still. In the very same year in whichthe Pilgrims landed at Plymouth, history tells us, ninety maidens of"virtuous education and demeanor" landed in Virginia; the next yearbrought sixty more; and, provident industry reaping its own reward, hewhose busy hands had raised the largest crop of tobacco was enabled tomake the first choice of a wife. And it must have been an edifying andpleasant spectacle to see each stalwart Virginian pressing on towardsthe landing with his bundle of tobacco on his back, and walkingdeliberately home again with an affectionate wife under his arm.

But already there was a pernicious principle at work,—protested againstby experience wherever tried, and still repeatedly tried anew,—theassumption by Government of the power to regulate the prices of goods.The first instance carries us back to 1618, and thinking men stillbelieved it possible in 1777. The right to regulate the prices of laborwas its natural corollary, bringing with it the power of creating legaltenders and the various representatives of value, without anycorrespondent measures for creating the value itself, or, in simplerwords, paper-money without capital. And thus, logically as well ashistorically, we reach the first issue of paper-money in 1690, that yearso memorable as the year of the first Congress.

New England, encouraged by a successful expedition against Port Royal,made an attempt upon Quebec. Confident of success, she sent forth herlittle army without providing the means of paying it. The soldiers cameback soured by disaster and fatigue, and, not yet up to the standard of'76, were upon the point of mutinying for their pay. To escape theimmediate danger, Massachusetts bethought her of bills of credit. Theywere issued, accepted, and redeemed, although the first holders sufferedgreat losses, and the last holders or the speculators were the only onesthat found them faithful pledges. The flood-gates once opened, the waterpoured in amain. Every pressing emergency afforded a pretext for a newissue. Other Colonies followed the seductive example. Paper was soonissued to make money plenty. Men's minds became familiar with the idea,as they saw the convenient substitute passing freely from hand to hand.Accepted at market, accepted at the retail store, accepted in thecounting-room, accepted for taxes, everywhere a legal tender, it seemedadequate to all the demands of domestic trade. But erelong came unduefluctuations of prices, depreciations, failures,—all the well-knownindications of an unsound currency. England interposed to protect herown merchants, to whom American paper-money was utterly worthless; andParliament[Pg 594] stripped it of its value as a legal tender. Men's minds weredivided. They had never before been called upon to discuss suchquestions upon such a scale or in such a form. They were at a loss forthe principle, still enveloped in the multitude and variety ofconflicting theories and obstinate facts.

One fact, however, was clearly established,—that a government could, ingreat needs, make paper fulfil, for a while, the office of money; and ifa regular government, why not also a revolutionary government, sustainedand accepted by the people? Here, then, begins the history of theContinental money,—the principal chapter in the financial history ofthe Revolution,—leading us, like all such histories, over groundthick-strown with unheeded admonitions and neglected warnings, through around of constantly recurring phenomena, varied only here and there bymodifications in the circ*mstances under which they appear.

It is much to be regretted that we have no record of the discussionsthrough which Congress reached the resolves of June 22, 1775: "That asum not exceeding two millions of Spanish milled dollars be emitted bythe Congress in bills of credit for the defence of America. That thetwelve confederated Colonies" (Georgia, it will be remembered, had notyet sent delegates) "be pledged for the redemption of the bills ofcredit now to be emitted." We do not even know positively that there wasany discussion. If there was, it is not difficult to conceive how someof the reasoning ran,—how each had arguments and examples from his ownColony: how confidently Pennsylvanians would speak of the security whichthey had given to their paper; how confidently Virginians would assertthat even the greatest straits might be passed without having recourseto so dangerous a medium; how all the facts in the history ofpaper-money would be brought forward to prove both sides of thequestion, but how the underlying principle, subtile, impalpable, mightstill elude them all, as for thirty-five years longer it still continuedto elude wise statesmen and thoughtful economists; how, at last, someimpatient spirit, breaking through the untimely delay, sternly askedthem what else they proposed to do. By what alchemy would they creategold and silver? By what magic would they fill the coffers which theirnon-exportation resolutions had kept empty, or bring in the supplieswhich their non-importation resolutions had cut off? What arguments oftheir devising would induce a people in arms against taxation to submitto tenfold heavier taxes than those which they had indignantly repelled?Necessity, inexorable necessity, was now their lawgiver; they hadadopted an army, they must support it; they had voted pay to theirofficers, they must devise the means of giving their vote effect; arms,ammunition, camp-equipage, everything was to be provided for. The peoplewere full of ardor, glowing with fiery zeal; your promise to pay will bereceived like payment; your commands will be instantly obeyed. Everyhour's delay imperils the sacred cause, chills the holy enthusiasm;action, prompt, energetic, resolute action, is what the crisis callsfor. Men must see that we are in earnest; the enemy must see it; nothingelse will bring them to terms; nothing else will give us a lastingpeace: and in such a peace how easily, how cheerfully, shall we allunite in paying the debt which won for us so inestimable a blessing!

It would have been difficult to deny the force of such an appeal. Therewere doubtless men there who believed firmly in the virtue of thepeople,—who thought, that, after the proof which the people had givenof their readiness to sacrifice the interests of the present moment tothe interests of a day and a posterity that they might not live to see,it would be worse than skepticism to call it in question. But even thesem*n might hesitate about the form of the sacrifice they called for, forthey knew how often men are governed by names, and that their mindsmight revolt at the idea of a formal tax, although they would submit topay it fifty-fold under the name of depreciation.[Pg 595] Even at this day,with all our additional light,—the combined light of science and ofexperience,—it is difficult to see what else they could have donewithout strengthening dangerously the hands of their domestic enemies.Nor let this be taken as a proof that they engaged rashly in an unequalcontest, even though it was necessarily in part a war of paper againstgold. They have been accused of this by their friends as well as bytheir enemies: they have been accused of sacrificing a positive good toan uncertain hope,—of suffering their passions to hurry them into a warfor which they had made no adequate preparation, and had not the meansof making any,—that they wilfully, almost wantonly, incurred thefearful responsibility of staking the lives and fortunes of those whowere looking to them for guidance upon the chances of a single cast. Butthe accusation is unjust. As far as human foresight could reach, theyhad calculated these chances carefully. They knew the tenure by whichthey held their authority, and that, if they ran counter to the popularwill, the people would fall from them,—that, if they should fail inmaking their position good, they would be the first, almost the onlyvictims,—that, then as ever, "the thunderbolts on highest mountainslight." Charles Carroll added "of Carrollton" to his name, so that, ifthe Declaration he was setting it to should bring forfeiture andconfiscation, there might be no mistake about the victim. Nor was itwithout a touch of sober earnestness that Harrison, bulky and fat, saidto the lean and shadowy Gerry, as he laid down his pen,—"Whenhanging-time comes, I shall have the advantage of you. I shall be deadin a second, while you will be kicking in the air half an hour after Iam gone." But they knew also, that, if there are dangers which we do notperceive till we come full upon them, there are likewise helps which wedo not see till we find ourselves face to face with them,—and that inthe life of nations, as in the life of individuals, there are momentswhen all that the wisest and most conscientious can do is to see thateverything is in its place, every man at his post, and resolutely bidethe shock.

While this subject was pressing upon Congress, it was occupying no lessseriously leading minds in the different Colonies. All felt that thesuccess of the experiment must chiefly depend upon the degree ofsecurity that could be given to the bills. But how to reach thatnecessary degree was a perplexing question. Three ways were suggested inthe New-York Convention: that Congress should fix upon a sum, assigneach Colony its proportion, and the issue be made by the Colony upon itsown responsibility; or that the United Colonies should make the issue,each Colony pledging itself to redeem the part that fell to it; or,lastly, that, Congress issuing the sum, and each Colony assuming itsproportionate responsibility, the Colonies should still be bound as awhole to make up for the failure of any individual Colony to redeem itsshare. The latter was proposed by the Convention as offering greaterchances of security, and tending at the same time to strengthen the bondof union. It was in nearly this form, also, that it came from Congress.

No time was now lost in carrying the resolution into effect. The nextday, Tuesday, June 23, the number, denomination, and form of the billswere decided in a Committee of the Whole. It was resolved to make billsof eight denominations, from one to eight, and issue forty-nine thousandof each, completing the two millions by eleven thousand eight hundred oftwenty dollars each. The form of the bill was to be,—

[Pg 596]

In the same sitting a committee of five was appointed "to get properplates engraved, to provide paper, and to agree with printers to printthe above bills." Both Franklin and John Adams were on this committee.

Had they lived in 1862 instead of 1775, how their doors would have beenbeset by engravers and paper-dealers and printers! What baskets ofletters would have been poured upon their tables! How would they havedreaded the sound of the knocker or the cry of the postman! But, alas!paper was so far from abundant that generals were often reduced to hardstraits for enough of it to write their reports and despatches on; andthat Congressmen were not much better off will be believed when we findJohn Adams sending his wife a sheet or two at a time under the sameenvelope with his own letters. Printers there were, as many, perhaps, asthe business of the country required, but not enough for the eagercontention which the announcement of Government work to be done excitesamong us in these days. And of engravers there were but four betweenMaine and Georgia. Of these four, one was Paul Revere of the midnightride, the Boston boy of Huguenot blood whose self-taught graver hadcelebrated the repeal of the Stamp Act, condemned to perpetual derisionthe rescinders of 1768, and told the story of the Boston Massacre,—who,when the first grand jury under the new organization was drawn, had metthe judge with, "I refuse to sarve,"—a scientific mechanic,—a leaderat the Tea-party,—a soldier of the old war,—prepared to serve in thiswar, too, with sword, or graver, or science,—fitting carriages, atWashington's command, to the cannon from which the retreating Englishhad knocked off the trunnions, learning how to make powder at thecommand of the Provincial Congress, and setting up the first powder-millever built in Massachusetts.

No mere engraver's task for him, this engraving the first bill-plates ofContinental Currency! How he must have warmed over the design! howcarefully he must have chosen his copper! how buoyantly he must haveplied his graver, harassed by no doubts, disturbed by no misgivings ofthe double mission which those little plates were to perform,—the goodone first, thank God! but then how fatal a one afterward!—but resolvedand hopeful as on that April night when he spurred his horse fromcottage to hamlet, rousing the sleepers with the cry, long unheard inthe sweet valleys of New England, "Up! up! the enemy is coming!"

The paper of these bills was thick, so thick that the enemy called itthe paste-board money of the rebels. Plate, paper, and printing, all hadlittle in common with the elaborate finish and delicate texture of amodern bank-note. To sign them was too hard a tax upon Congressmenalready taxed to the full measure of their working-time by committeesand protracted daily sessions; and so a committee of twenty-eightgentlemen not in Congress was employed to sign and number them,receiving in compensation one dollar and a third for every thousandbills.

Meanwhile loud calls for money were daily reaching the doors ofCongress. Everywhere money was wanted,—money to buy guns, money to buypowder, money to buy provisions, money to send officers to their posts,money to march troops to their stations, money to speed messengers toand fro, money for the wants of to-day, money to pay for what hadalready been done, and still more money to insure the right doing ofwhat was yet to do: Washington wanted it; Lee wanted it; Schuyler wantedit: from north to south, from seaboard to inland, one deep, monotonous,menacing cry,—"Money, or our hands are powerless!"

How long would these two millions stand such a drain? Spent before theywere received, hardly touching the Treasury-chest as a starting-placebefore they flew on the wings of the morning to gladden thousands ofexpectant hearts with a brief respite from one of their many cares.Relief there certainly was,—neither long, indeed, nor lasting, butstill[Pg 597] relief. Good Whigs received the bills, as they did everythingelse that came from Congress, with unquestioning confidence. Toriesturned from them in derision, and refused to give their goods for them.Whereupon Congress took the matter under consideration, and told themthat they must. It was soon seen that another million would be wanted,and in July a second issue was resolved on. All-devouring war had soonswallowed these also. Three more millions were ordered in November. Butthe war was to end soon,—by June, '76, at the latest. All theirexpenditures were calculated upon this supposition; and wealth flowingin under the auspices of a just and equable accommodation with theirreconciled mother, these millions which had served them so well in thehour of need would soon be paid by a happy and grateful people from anabundant treasury.

But early in 1776 reports came of English negotiations for foreignmercenaries to help put down the rebellion,—reports which soon took theshape of positive information. No immediate end of the war now: already,too, independence was looming up on the turbid horizon; already thecurrent was bearing them onward, deep, swift, irresistible: and thusseizing still more eagerly upon the future, they poured out other fourmillions in February, five millions in May, five millions in July. TheConfederacy was not yet formed; the Declaration of Independence hadnothing yet to authenticate it but the signatures of John Hanco*ck andCharles Thompson; and the republic that was to be was already solemnlypledged to the payment of twenty millions of dollars.

Thus far men's faith had not faltered. They saw the necessity andaccepted it, giving their goods and their labor unhesitatingly for aslip of paper which derived all its value from the resolves of a body ofmen who might, upon a reverse, be thrown down as rapidly as they hadbeen set up. And then whom were they to look to for indemnification? Butnow began a sensible depreciation,—slight, indeed, at first, butominous. Congress took the alarm, and resolved upon a loan,—resolved toborrow directly what they had hitherto borrowed indirectly, the goodsand the labor of their constituents. Accordingly, on the third ofOctober, a resolve was passed for raising five millions of dollars atfour per cent; and in order to make it convenient to lenders,loan-offices were established in every Colony with a commissioner foreach.

Money came in slowly, but ran out so fast that in November Congressordered weekly returns from the Treasury, not, of sums on hand, but ofwhat parts of the last emission remained unexpended. The campaign of '77was at hand; how the campaign of '76 would close was yet uncertain. Thesame impenetrable veil that hid Trenton and Princeton from their eyesconcealed the disasters of Fort Washington and the Jerseys. They stilllooked hopefully to the lower line of the Hudson. They resolved,therefore, to make an immediate effort to supply the Treasury by alottery to be drawn at Philadelphia.

A lottery,—does not the word carry one back, a great many years back,to other times and other manners? The Articles of War were now on thetable of Congress for revision, and in the second and third of thosearticles officers and soldiers had been earnestly recommended to attenddivine service diligently, and to refrain, under grave penalties, fromprofane cursing or swearing. And here legislators deliberately setthemselves to raise money by means which we have deliberately condemnedas gambling. But years were yet to pass before statesmen, or the peoplerather, were brought to feel that the lottery-office and gaming-tablestand side by side on the same broad highway.

No such thoughts troubled the minds of our forefathers, well stored asthose minds were with human and divine lore; but, going to work withouta scruple, they prepared an elaborate scheme and fixed the first ofMarch for the day of drawing,—"or sooner, if sooner full." It was notfull, however, nor was it full when the subject next came up. Ticketswere[Pg 598] sold; committees sat; Congress returned to the subject from timeto time: but what with the incipient depreciation of the bills ofcredit, the rising prices of goods and provisions, and the incessantcalls upon every purse for public and private purposes, the lotteryfailed to commend itself either to speculators or to the bulk of thepeople. Some good Whigs bought tickets from principle, and, like many ofthe good Whigs who took the bills of credit for the same reason, losttheir money.

In the same November the Treasury was ordered to make every preparationfor a new issue; and to meet the wants of the retail trade, it wasresolved at the same time to issue five hundred thousand dollars inbills of two-thirds, one-third, one-sixth, and one-ninth of a dollar.Evident as it ought now to have been that nothing but taxation couldrelieve them, they still shrank from it. "Do you think, Gentlemen," saida member, "that I will consent to load my constituents with taxes, whenwe can send to our printer and get a wagon-load of money, one quire ofwhich will pay for the whole?" It was so easy a way of making money thatmen seemed to be getting into the humor of it.

The campaign of '77, like the campaign of '76, was fought uponpaper-money without any material depreciation. The bills could never besigned as fast as they were called for. But this could not last. Thepublic mind was growing anxious. Extensive interests, in some caseswhole fortunes, were becoming involved in the question of ultimatepayment. The alarm gained upon Congress. Burgoyne, indeed, wasconquered; but a more powerful, more insidious enemy, one to whom theythemselves had opened the gate, was already within their works and fastmaking his way to the heart of the citadel. The depreciation had reachedfour for one, and there was but one way to prevent it from going lower.Congress deliberated anxiously. Thus far the public faith had supportedthe war. But, they reasoned, the quantity of the money for which thisfaith stood pledged already exceeded the demands of commerce, and henceits value was proportionably reduced. Add to this the arts of open andsecret enemies, the avidity of professed friends, and the scarcity offoreign commodities, and it is easy to account for the depreciation."The consequences were equally obvious and alarming,"—"depravity ofmorals, decay of public virtue, a precarious supply for the war,debasem*nt of the public faith, injustice to individuals, and thedestruction of the safety, honor, and independence of the UnitedStates." But "a reasonable and effectual remedy" was still within theirreach, and therefore, "with mature deliberation and the most earnestsolicitude," they recommended the raising by taxes on the differentStates, in proportion to their population, five millions of dollars inquarterly payments, for the service of 1778.

But having explained, justified, and recommended, the power of Congressceased. Like the Confederation, it had no right of coercion, nomachinery of its own for acting upon the States. And, unhappily, theStates, pressed by their individual wants, feeling keenly theirindividual sacrifices and dangers, failed to see that the nearest roadto relief lay through the odious portal of taxation. Had the mysteriouswords that Dante read on the gates of Hell been written on it, theycould not have shrunk from it with a more instinctive feeling:—

Some States paid, some did not pay. The sums that came in were whollyinsufficient to relieve the actual pressure, and that pressure,unrelieved, grew daily more severe. They had tried the regulating ofprices,—they had tried loans,—they had tried a lottery; and now theywere forced back again to their earliest and most dangerous expedient,paper-money. New floods poured forth, and the parched earth drank themgreedily up. One may almost fancy, as he looks at the tables, that hesees the shadowy form of sickly Credit tottering feebly forth to catch agleam of sunshine, a[Pg 599] breath of pure air, while myriads of littlesprites, each bearing in his hand an emblazoned scroll with"Depreciation" written upon it in big yellow letters, dance merrilyaround him, thrusting the bitter record in his face, whichever way heturns, with gibes and taunts and demoniac laughter. But his course wasalmost ended: the grave was nigh, an unhonored grave; and as eager handsheaped the earth upon his faded form, a stern voice bade men rememberthat they who strayed from the path as he had done must sooner or laterfind a grave like his.

It was not without a desperate struggle that Congress saw the rapiddecline and shameful death of its currency. The ground was foughtmanfully, foot by foot, inch by inch. The idea that money derived itsvalue from acts of government seemed to have taken deep hold of theirminds, and their policy was in perfect harmony with their belief. InJanuary, 1776, they had solemnly resolved that everybody who refused toaccept their bills, or did anything to obstruct the circulation of them,should, upon due conviction, "be deemed, published, and treated as anenemy of his country, and be precluded from all trade or intercoursewith the inhabitants of these Colonies." And to enforce it there wereCommittees of Inspection, whose power seldom lay idle in their hands,whose eyes were never sealed in slumber. In this work, which seemed goodin their eyes, the State Assemblies and Conventions and Committees ofSafety joined heart and hand with Congress. Tender-laws were tried, andthe relentless hunt of creditor after debtor became a flight of therecusant creditor from the debtor eager to wipe out his responsibilityfor gold or silver with a ream or two of paper. Limitation of prices wastried, and produced its natural results,—discontent, insufficientsupplies, heavy losses. Threatening resolves were renewed, and fellpowerless. It was hoped that some relief might come from the sales ofconfiscated property; but property changed hands, and the Treasury wasnone the better off: just as in France, a few years later, the wholelanded property of the kingdom changed hands, and left the governmentassignats what it found them,—bits of waste-paper.

Meanwhile speculation ran riot. Every form of wastefulness andextravagance prevailed in town and country,—nowhere more than atPhiladelphia, under the very eyes of Congress,—luxury of dress, luxuryof equipage, luxury of the table. We are told of one entertainment atwhich eight hundred pounds were spent in pastry. As I read the privateletters of those days, I sometimes feel as a man would feel who shouldbe permitted to look down upon a foundering ship whose crew werepreparing for death by breaking open the steward's room and drinkingthemselves into madness.

An earnest appeal was made to the States. The sober eloquence andprofound statesmanship of John Jay were employed to bring the subjectbefore the country in its true light and manifold bearings,—the stateof the Treasury, the results of loans and of taxes, and the nature andamount of the obligations incurred. The natural value and wealth of thecountry were held to view as the foundations on which Congress hadundertaken to build up a system of public finances, beginning with billsof Credit because there was no nation they could have borrowed of,coming next to loans, and thus "unavoidably creating a public debt: adebt of $159,948,880, in emissions,—$7,545,196-67/90, in money borrowedbefore the first of March, 1778, with the interest payable inFrance,—$26,188,909, money borrowed since the first of March, 1778,with interest due in America,—about $4,000,000, of money due abroad."The taxes had brought in only $3,027,560; so that all the money suppliedto Congress by the people was but $36,701,665-67/90.

"Judge, then, of the necessity of emissions, and learn from whom andwhence that necessity arose. We are also to inform you, that, on thefirst day of September instant, we resolved that we would on no accountwhatever emit more[Pg 600] bills of credit than to make the whole amount ofsuch bills two hundred million dollars; and as the sum emitted and incirculation amounted to $159,948,880, and the sum of $40,051,120remained to complete the two hundred million above mentioned, we, on thethird day of September instant, further resolved that we would emit suchpart only of the said sum as should be absolutely necessary for publicexigencies before adequate supplies could otherwise be obtained, relyingfor such ratios on the exertions of the several States."

Coming to the depreciation, they reduce the causes to threekinds,—natural, or artificial, or both. The natural cause was theexcess of the supply over the demands of commerce; the artificial causewas a distrust of the ability or inclination of the United States toredeem their bills; and assuming that both causes have combined inproducing the depreciation of the Continental money, they proceed toprove that there can be no doubt of the ability of the United States topay their debt, and none of their inclination. Under the head ofinclination the argument is divided into three parts:—

First, Whether, and in what manner, the faith of the United States hasbeen pledged for the redemption of their bills.

Second, Whether they have put themselves in a political capacity toredeem them.

Third, Whether, admitting the two former propositions, there is anyreason to apprehend a wanton violation of the public faith. The ideathat Congress can destroy the money, because Congress made it, istreated with scorn.

"A bankrupt, faithless Republic would be a novelty in the politicalworld.... The pride of America revolts from the idea; her citizens knowfor what purposes these emissions were made, and have repeatedlyplighted their faith for the redemption of them; they are to be found inevery man's possession, and every man is interested in their beingredeemed.... Provide for continuing your armies in the field tillvictory and peace shall lead them home, and avoid the reproach ofpermitting the currency to depreciate in your hands, when, by yielding apart to taxes and loans, the whole might have been appreciated andpreserved. Humanity as well as justice makes this demand upon you; thecomplaints of ruined widows and the cries of fatherless children, whosewhole support has been placed in your hands and melted away, havedoubtless reached you: take care that they ascend no higher....Determine to finish the contest as you began it, honestly andgloriously. Let it never be said that America had no sooner becomeindependent than she became insolvent."

But it was not only the Continental money that was blocking up thechannels through which a sound currency would have carried vigor andhealth. The States had their debts and their paper-money too,—wheelwithin wheel of complicated, desperate insolvency. The two hundredmillions had been issued and spent. There was no money to send toWashington for his army, and he was compelled for a while to supportthem by seizing the articles he needed, and giving certificates inreturn. The States were called upon for specific supplies, beef, pork,flour, for the use of the army,—a method so expensive, irregular, andpartial, that it was soon abandoned. One chance remained: to call in theold money by taxes, and burn it as soon as it was in; then to issue anew paper,—one of the new for every twenty of the old; and the whole ofthe old was cancelled, to issue only ten millions of the new,—fourmillions of it subject to the order of Congress, and the remaining sixto be divided among the States: the whole redeemable in specie withinsix years, and bearing till then an interest of five per cent., payablein specie annually or on redemption, at the option of the holder. Bythis skilful change of base it was hoped that a bold front could stillbe presented to the enemy, and the field, which had been so long and soobstinately contested, be finally won.[Pg 601]

But the day of expedients was past. The zeal which had blazed forth withsuch energy at the beginning of the war was fast sinking to a fitful,smouldering flame. Individual interests were again taking the precedenceof general interests. The moral sense of the people had contracted adeadly taint from daily contact with corruption. The spirit of gambling,confined in the beginning and lost to the eye, like Le Sage's Devil, hadswollen to its full proportions, and, in the garb of speculation, wasundermining the foundations of society. Rogues were growing rich; thehonest men who were not already poor were daily growing poor. The lawsthat had been made in the view of propping the currency had served onlyto countenance unscrupulous men in paying their debts at a discountruinous to the creditor. The laws against forestallers and engrossers,who, it was currently believed, were leagued against both army andcountry, were powerless, as such laws always are. Even Washington wishedfor a gallows like Haman's to hang them on; but the army was keptstarving none the less.

The seasons themselves—God's visible agents—seemed to combine againstour cause. The years 1779 and 1780 were years of small crops. The winterof 1780 was severe far beyond the common severity even of a Northernwinter. Provisions were scarce, suffering universal. Farmers, as ifforgetting their dependence on rain and sunshine, had planted less thanusual,—some from disaffection, some because they were irritated athaving to give up their corn and cattle for worthless bills, andcertificates which might prove equally worthless. Some, who were withinreach of the enemy, preferred to sell to them, for they paid in silverand gold. There were riots in Philadelphia, put down at the point of thesword. There was mutiny in the army, and this, too, was put down by thestrong hand,—though the fearful sufferings which had caused itjustified it almost in the eye of sober reason.

It is easy to see why farmers should have been loath to raise more thanthey needed for their own use,—why merchants should have been unwillingto lay in stores which they might be compelled to sell at prices sotruly nominal that the money which they received would often sink tohalf they had taken it for before they were able to pass it. But it isnot so easy to see why this wretched substitute for values should havecirculated so freely to the very last. Even at two hundred for one, withthe knowledge that the next twenty-four hours might make that twohundred two hundred and fifty, or even more, without the slightest hopethat it would ever be redeemed at its nominal value, it would still buyeverything that was to be sold,—provisions, goods, houses, lands, evenhard money itself. Down to its last gasp there were speculations afootto take advantage of the differences in the degree of its worthlessnessat different places, and buy it up in one place to sell it atanother,—to buy it in Philadelphia at two hundred and twenty-five forone, and sell it in Boston at seventy-five for one. It was possible, ifthe ball passed quickly from hand to hand, that some might gain; it wasvery manifest that some must lose: and thus outcrops that perniciousdoctrine, that true, life-giving, health-diffusing commerce consists instripping one to clothe another.

And thus we reach the memorable year 1781, the great, decisive year ofthe war. While Greene was fighting Cornwallis and Rawdon, and Washingtonwatching eagerly for an opportunity to strike at Clinton, Congress wasbusy making up its accounts. One circ*mstance told for them. There wasno longer the same dearth of gold and silver which had embarrassed themso much at the beginning of the war. A gainful commerce was now openedwith the West Indies. The French army and the French fleet were here,and hard money with them. Louis-d'ors and livres and Spanishdollars,—how welcome must their pleasant faces have looked, after thislong, long absence! With what a thrill must the hand which[Pg 602] had touchednothing for years but Continental bills have closed upon solid gold andsilver! It is easy to conceive that a new spirit must soon havemanifested itself in the wide circle of contractors and agents,—thatshopkeepers must speedily have discovered that their business wasshifting its ground as they obtained a reliable standard for countingtheir losses and gains,—that every branch of commerce must have felt anew vigor diffusing itself through its veins. But it is equally evident,that, while the gold and silver which flowed in upon them from thesesources strengthened the people for the work they were to do and theburdens they were to bear, the comparisons they were daily makingbetween fluctuating paper and steadfast metal were not of a nature tostrengthen their faith in money that could be made by a turn of theprinting-press and a few strokes of the pen.

Another circ*mstance told for them, too. The accession of Maryland hadfulfilled the conditions for the acceptance of the Confederation so longheld in abeyance, and the finances were taken from a board and intrustedto the hands of a skilful and energetic financier. Robert Morris, whohad protested energetically against the tender-laws, madespecie-payments the condition of his acceptance of office; and on thetwenty-second of May, though not without a struggle, Congress resolved"that the whole debts already due by the United States be liquidated assoon as may be to their specie-value, and funded, if agreeable to thecreditors, as a loan upon interest; that the States be severallyinformed that the calculations of the expenses of the present campaignare made in solid coin, and therefore that the requisitions from themrespectively, being grounded on those calculations, must be compliedwith in such manner as effectually to answer the purpose designed; that,experience having evinced the inefficacy of all attempts to support thecredit of paper-money by compulsory acts, it is recommended to suchStates, where laws making paper-bills a tender yet exist, to repeal thesame."

Another public body, the Supreme Executive Council of Pennsylvania,dealt it another blow, fixing the ratio at which it was to be receivedin public payments at one hundred and seventy-five for one. Circulationceased. In a short time the money that had been carted to and fro inreams disappeared from the shop, the counting-room, the market. Alldealings were in hard money. Gold and silver resumed their legitimatesway, and men began to look hopefully forward to a return of economy,frugality, and an invigorating commerce.

The Superintendent of Finance set himself seriously to his task. Onegreat obstacle had been removed; one great and decisive step had beenmade towards the restoration of that sense of security without whichindustry and enterprise are powerless. As a merchant, he was familiarwith the resources of the country; as a Member of Congress, he wasfamiliar with the wants of Government. His resources were taxes andloans; his obligations, an old debt and a daily expenditure. Opposed ashe was to the irresponsible currency which had brought the country tothe brink of ruin, he was a believer in banks and bills resting on asecure basis. One of his earliest measures was to prepare, with the aidof his Assistant-Superintendent, Gouverneur Morris, a plan of a bank,which soon after, with the sanction of Congress, went into operation asthe Bank of North America. Small as the capital with which it startedwas,—only four hundred thousand dollars,—its influence was immediatelyfelt throughout the country. It gave an impulse to legitimate enterprisewhich had long been wanting, and a confidence to buyer and seller whichthey had not felt since the first year of the war. In his publicoperations the Superintendent used it freely, and, using it at the sametime wisely, was enabled to call upon it for aid to the full extent ofits ability without impairing its strength.

Henceforth the financial history of the[Pg 603] Revolution, although it losesnone of its importance, loses much of its narrative-interest. No longera hand-to-hand conflict between coin and paper,—no longer themelancholy spectacle of wise men doing unwise things, and honorable mendoing things which, in any other form, they would have been the first tobrand with dishonor,—it still continues a long, a wearisome, and oftena mortifying struggle: men knowing their duty and refusing to do it,knowing consequences and yet blindly shutting their eyes to them. I willgive but one example.

After a careful estimate of the operations of 1782, Congress had calledupon the States for eight millions. Up to January, 1783, only fourhundred and twenty thousand had come into the Treasury. Four hundredthousand Treasury-notes were almost due; the funds in Europe wereoverdrawn to the amount of five hundred thousand by the sale of drafts.But Morris, waiting only to cover himself by a special authorization ofCongress, made fresh sales upon the hopes of the Dutch loan and thepossibility of a new French loan, and still held on—as cautiously as hecould, but ever boldly and skilfully—his anxious way through the rocksand shoals that menaced him on every side. He was rewarded, as such mentoo often are, by calumny and suspicion. But when men came to lookclosely at his acts, comparing his means with his wants, and theexpenditure of the Treasury Board with the expenditure of the FinanceOffice, it was seen and acknowledged that he had saved the countrythirteen millions a year in hard money.

And now, from our stand-point of the Peace,—from 1783,—let us give aparting glance at the ground over which we have passed. We see thirteenColonies, united by interest, divided by habits, association, andtradition, engaging in a doubtful contest with one of the most powerfuland energetic nations which the world had ever seen; we see them begin,as men always do, with very imperfect conceptions of the time it wouldlast, the lengths to which it would carry them, or the sacrifices itwould impose; we see them boldly adopting some measures, timidlyshrinking from others,—reasoning justly about some things, reasoningfalsely about things equally important,—endowed at times with singularforesight, visited at times by incomprehensible blindness: boatmen on amighty river, strong themselves and resolute and skilful, plying theiroars manfully from first to last, but borne onward by a current which nohuman science could measure, no human strength could resist.

They knew that the resources of the country were exhaustless; and theythrew themselves upon those resources in the only way by which theycould reach them. Their bills of credit were the offspring of enthusiasmand faith. The enthusiasm grew chill, the faith failed. With a littlemore enthusiasm, the people would cheerfully have submitted to taxation;with a little more faith, the Congress would have taxed them. In theend, the people paid for the shortcomings of their enthusiasm by seventymillions of indirect taxation,—taxation through depreciation; theCongress paid for the shortcomings of their faith by the loss ofconfidence and respect. The war left them with a Federal debt of seventymillion dollars, and State debts of nearly twenty-six millions.

Could this have been avoided? Could they have done otherwise? It iseasy, when the battle is won, to tell how victory might have been boughtcheaper,—when the campaign is ended, to show what might perhaps havebrought it to an earlier and more glorious close. It is easy for us,with the whole field before us, to see that from the beginning, from thevery first start, although the formula was Taxation, the principle wasIndependence; but before we venture to pass sentence, ought we not topause and weigh well our judgment and our words,—we who, in the fiercercontest through which we are passing, have so long failed to see, that,while the formula is Secession, the principle is Slavery?

[Pg 604]

THROUGH-TICKETS TO SAN FRANCISCO: A PROPHECY.

We write this article in September. Within a few days, and without muchheralding, has occurred an event of prime importance to our country'sfuture. This is the opening from New York to St. Louis of a continuousbroad-gauge line under the title of the Atlantic and Great WesternRailway. This line is twelve hundred miles long, and pursues thefollowing route: By the New York and Erie Road, from New York to thestation of Salamanca; thence, by a separate road of the Atlantic andGreat Western, to Dayton, Ohio; thence, over the Cincinnati, Hamilton,and Dayton Road, to Cincinnati; and finally, by the Ohio and MississippiRoad, to St. Louis. The first excursion-train accomplished the wholedistance in forty-four hours. We understand that the regularexpress-trains of the line will be required to make equally goodtime,—ultimately, perhaps, to reduce the time to forty hours.

This valuable connection has been mainly effected by the energy andtalents of two men. Mr. James McHenry, a Pennsylvanian by birth, but oflate years resident abroad, has raised twenty million dollars for theproject in the money-markets of England, Spain, and Germany, the bondsof the Company obtaining ready sale upon the guaranty of his personalhigh character for uprightness and financial ability. Mr. Thomas W.Kennard, an engineer and capitalist of large views, discretion, andexperience, has managed the interests of the project here at home,securing the hearty cooperation and good-will of all the roads now madecontinuous, and bringing the enterprise to a successful issue with askill possible only to first-class commercial genius. The former ofthese gentlemen is Financial Director and Contractor, the latter,Engineer-in-Chief, Vice-President, and General Manager of the line. Atany other period than this their success would have been widely talkedof as a great national benefit. Even now let us not forget thepublic-spirited men whose hopeful hands, in the midst of blood and din,have been sowing seeds of commercial prosperity to glorify with theirperfected harvest the day of our National triumph and reunion.

This work is the first instalment of the greatest popular enterprise inthe world, the initial fulfilment of a promise which America has made toherself and all the other nations,—one which shall be completelyfulfilled only when an iron highway stretches across her entire breadth,from the Atlantic to the Pacific Ocean. As a people we have grudgedneither time nor money to the accomplishment of this end. We have daredthe fiery desert and the frozen mountaintop, the demons of thirst,starvation, and savage warfare. Our foremost scientific men, for thesake of the great national enterprise, have taken their lives in theirhands, going out to meet peril and privation with the cheerful constancyof apostles and martyrs. The record of expeditions bearing eitherdirectly or indirectly on the subject of the Pacific Railroad is one towhich every American citizen must point with a pride none the lesshearty for the fact that its route has not yet been absolutely decided.The one curse mingled with a young republic's many blessings is theintrusion of political influences into the dispassionate field ofnational enterprise. We might have determined the line of our PacificRoad before the breaking out of the Rebellion, and by this time itsfirst or Great-Plains section should have been in running order, but forthe partisan jealousies which prevailed in high places between theadvocates of the different routes. Slavery, that enfant gâté of ourold-school and now happily obsolete statecraft, insisted on theexpensive toy of a southern and unpractical line, until ourrepresentatives, harassed by the problem how to[Pg 605] gratify her withoutincurring the contempt of the financial world, gave over to the drift ofevents the settlement of their country's chief commercial question. Weare now in a position to decide coolly; no entangling alliances with adead-weight social system bias our plain judgment of practical pros andcons; but the opportunity for decision arrives a little too late and alittle too early for action. Congress, the legitimate custodian of thePacific Railroad, may be said to have passed the last four years inclimbing to the level of the country's vital exigency. Till Congressreaches that and understands it fully, there is no surplus energy to bethrown away on the else paramount matters of a peaceful age.

But it must not be forgotten that the Pacific Railroad stands next tothe maintenance of National Unity on the docket of causes foradjudication by our representative tribunal. The people have filed itaway till the grand appeal is settled; but they have not forgotten it.

It is none the pleasanter thought to them because they have no time totalk about it, that the great highway of the continent has been left,pendente lite, in the hands of squabbling speculators, and thatpersonal recriminations bar the progress of our commerce between sea andsea. The indifference of our public trustees to the disgracefulcontroversies which have embarrassed work on the eastern end of the lineis itself not a disgrace only because human power is limited to the careof one great matter at a time. The first Congress that meets under theolive of an honorable peace must at once take the Pacific Railroad intothe Nation's hands, and prosecute it as the Nation's matter, with aliberal-mindedness learned from the conduct of a great war. Next to thesalvation of the Union, the completion of the Pacific Road most fullyjustifies prompt action and comparative disregard of expenditure.

It is not our purpose, nor is this the place, to dictate to ourlegislators either the precise line of their own action or that of theroad. It is still proper to say that the arrangements thus far enteredinto with private contractors have proved inadequate to theaccomplishment and unworthy of the character of the enterprise. Whatevermay be the details of the improved plan, it must embrace a sternernational surveillance over the execution of the project, and a directnational assumption of its prime responsibility.

It is a mistaken notion to suppose that the Pacific-Railroad questionrests on the same principles as that of our minor internal improvements.It calls for no reopening of the long-hushed controversy betweenDemocracy and Whiggism. The best thinkers of the day are universallyagreed to deprecate legislation in every case where private enterprisewill do its office. No good political economist approves theemasculation of private effort by Government subsidy. The people areaverse to statutory crutches and go-carts, wherever it is possible forthem to walk alone. We feel distrust of the railroad which asksmonopoly-privileges. The sight of a Governmental prop under anyostensibly commercial concern warns an American from its neighborhood.He has learned that true prestige lies with the people,—that there isno vital warmth in official patronage. Even within the memory of youngmen a great change for the better has taken place in our commercialmanliness. Out first-class public enterprises blush to take Governmenthelp, as their directors might blush, if at the close of an interviewMr. Lincoln "tipped" them like school-boys with a holiday handful ofgreenbacks. There is no doubt that the ideal principle of democraticprogress demands the absolute non-interference of Government in allenterprises whose benefit accrues to a part of its citizens, or whichcan be stimulated into life by the spontaneous operation of popularinterest.

But facts are not ideal, and absolute principles in their practicalapplication make head only by a curved line of compromise[Pg 606] with thefacts. The philosopher cannot go faster than the people. Certain coursesare proper for certain stages of development. Few New-York Democrats nowdenounce the building of "Clinton's Ditch," and the fact that a majorityapproved of it as a sufficient evidence that it was a measure suited tothe period; though even an old Whig at this day could not approve of aState canal under the auspices of Governor Seymour. Here are the twogreat questions which at any time must regulate the exertion ofGovernmental power: Is the enterprise vitally important? and, Will it beaccomplished by private effort?

Because the Nation in several eminent instances saw the former questionanswered affirmatively and the latter negatively, it centralized acertain amount of authority for the construction of fortresses and themaintenance of a military force. These matters vitally concerned theentire people, yet the ordinary stimuli to private enterprise werequite inadequate to securing their accomplishment.

The Pacific Railroad stands on precisely the same grounds. It concernsthe entire population of the United States, but no ordinarybusiness-organization of citizens will ever accomplish it alone. Themere cost of its construction might stagger the most audaciousfinancier; but that is a minor obstacle. No doubt the city of New Yorkand the State of California contain capital enough for the completion ofthe entire road,—would subscribe to it, too, upon sufficientguaranties. But who is to give those guaranties? Whose credit is broadenough to secure them? Our Atlantic capitalists have too often beendefrauded by stock-companies of moderate liabilities and immediatelyunder their own eyes, to feel quite comfortable about putting millionsinto the hands of private operators, who shall presently have the RockyMountains between them and their bondholders. In the case of almost anyother railroad-enterprise this objection might be answered by theproposal to build the line with the subscriptions of people living onits route. But this line must take a route without people, and bringpeople to the route. Certain other roads are guarantied by the pledge oftheir way-freight business. This road must be completed before such abusiness exists; the business must be the product of the road. Theordinary principle of demand and supply is reversed in its applicationto this case. Supply must precede demand. Furnish the Pacific Railroadto the continent, and the continent in ten years will give it all thebusiness it can do. Wait fifty years for the continent to take theinitiative, and there will not yet be enough business to build the road.

This enterprise must be looked at in the light of a cash-advance fromCalifornia and the Eastern States to the Plains, the Mountains, and theDesert, secured by a pledge of all the mineral and agricultural wealthof the party of the second part, guarantied by the prospective myriadsof settlers whom the road shall bring to tracts now lying waste throughthe mere lack of its existence. In the course of the present article weshall endeavor to show the solidity of this security, the responsibilityof these indorsers. While we counsel confidence to the capital whichmust build the road, we feel it imperative upon the National Governmentto enforce its position as that capital's trustee. That capital for themost part lies east of the Missouri and west of the Sierra Nevada.Between these two boundaries the road must run for eighteen hundredmiles through a region where capital may well be cautious of intrustingits life to any less potent authority than that of the Nation itself.

The claims of the Pacific Railroad have usually been urged upon theground of its benefit to its termini. This ground is adequate tojustify any advance of capital by the cities of New York and SanFrancisco. With the completion of the road, San Francisco necessarilybecomes[Pg 607] a depot for the entire China trade of the United States, and anentrepot for much of that between China and Western Europe. With thedevelopment of our Japanese relations, still another stream of wealth,now incalculable, must flow in through the Golden Gate. In the reversecurrent of Asiatic commerce, New York's position at the eastern terminusof the continental belt gives her a similar share. The gold-transportand the entire fast-freight business of New York and San Francisco, nowtransacted at an enormous expense by Wells and Fargo's Express, must betransferred en masse to the Pacific Road; while thepassenger-carriage, now devolving on Isthmus steamers and overlandstages, may be passed, practically entire, to the credit of the newline. Certainly, no traveller who has once purchased bitter experiencewith his ticket on Mr. Vanderbilt's line will ever again patronize thatenterprising capitalist, unless he sells his ships and becomes astockholder in the Pacific Railroad. The most enthusiastic lover of thesea must abjure his predilections, when brought to the ordeal of thesteamer Champion. Crowded like rabbits in a hutch or captives in theLibby into such indecent propinquity with his kind that the third dayout makes him a misanthrope,—fed on the putrid remains of the lasttrip's commissariat, turkeys which drop out of their skins while thecook is larding them in the galley, beef which maybe eaten asspoon-meat, and tea apparently made with bilge-water,—sleeping orvainly trying to sleep in an unventilated dungeon which should be calleddeath instead of berth, where the reek of the aforesaid putriditiesawakes him to breakfast without aid of gong,—propelled by a second-handengine, whose every wheeze threatens the terrors ofdissolution,—morally certain, that, if his floating sty from any causeceases to float, there are not boats enough to save an eighth of thepassengers,—he must admire the ocean with a true poet's enthusiasm, ifhe can brave the Champion a second time.

The considerations we have mentioned should be sufficiently operativewith the capitalists of New York and California, and, as such, are thosemost prominently urged by the friends of the road. It would, however, bea great mistake to regard the through-business an all-comprehensive, inenumerating the sources of profit to be relied on by the enterprise. Fora better understanding of that immense way-trade which lies between theoceans, waiting only for the whistle of the steam-genie to wake it intovigorous life, let us treat the entire line as already continuous fromNew York to San Francisco, and make an excursion to the Pacific on itsprophetic rails. We will suppose the track a uniform broad gauge, as itought to be,—the Pacific Road connecting at St. Louis with the Atlanticand Great Western by powerful boats, like those in use at Havre deGrace, capable of ferrying the heaviest cars between the Illinois andMissouri shores. We will take the liberty of constructing for ourselvesthe remainder of the still undecided route to the Pacific. We run ourideal broad gauge as follows:—

From St. Louis to Jefferson City; thence by the shortest line to theKansas-River crossing; thence to Leavenworth (where St. Joseph, makesconnection by a branch-track); thence to that bend of the RepublicanFork which nearest approaches the Little Blue; thence along the bottomsof the Republican to the foot of the high divide out of which it isbelieved to rise, and which also serves for the water-shed between thePlatte and Arkansas; and thence skirting the bluffs a distance of aboutone hundred miles to Denver. At Denver we find two branches makingjunctions with our line: one connects us with Central City, the greatmining-town of Colorado, by a series of grades which might appall thePennsylvania Central; the other threads the foot-hills and mesasbetween Denver and the Fontaine-qui-Bouille Spa at Colorado City, withthe possibility of its being extended in time[Pg 608] to Cañon City on theArkansas. From Denver we strike for the nearest point on theCache-la-Poudre, follow its bed as far as practicable, and rise fromthat level to the grand plateau of the Laramie Plains. Running throughthese Plains, we cross the Big and the Little Laramie Rivers, hereshallow streams, crystal clear, and scarcely wider than the Housatonicat Pittsfield. Just after leaving the Plains, we cross Medicine Bow,—amere brook,—and a few hours later the North Fork of the Platte, whicheccentrically turns up in this most unexpected quarter, running nearlydue north from a source which cannot be very far off. The rope-ferry bywhich the writer last crossed this picturesque and rapid stream we havereplaced by a strong iron bridge. Leaving the west end of that bridge,we look out of the rear car and send our final message to the Atlanticby the last stream which we shall find going thither. A stupendous, butnot impracticable, system of grades next carries us over the axialwater-shed of the continent, by the way of Bridger's Pass. One hundredand fifty miles of tortuous descent brings us to Green River,—thestream which farther down becomes the mysterious Colorado, and seeks thePacific by the Gulf of California. After crossing the Green by anotheriron bridge substituted for rope-ferriage, our first important stationwill be Fort Bridger. Leaving there, we almost immediately enter thegalleries of the Wahsatch Range, which form a continuous pass acrossBear River and into the tremendous cañons conducting down to Salt-LakeCity. From Salt Lake we pursue the shortest practicable route throughthe Desert to the Ruby-Valley Pass of the Humboldt Mountains; we crossthat range to enter another desert, descend to the Sink of Carson, andreascend to Carson City, thence going nearly due north till we strikethe line of the Truckee Pass, (where a branch connects us with theprincipal Washoe mines,) and thence to Sacramento by the long-projectedCalifornia section of the Pacific Railroad. Another proposed, but stillideal, road completes our connection with the Western Ocean by way ofStockton, San José, and San Francisco.

We do not pretend to assert that the route indicated is in all respectsthe most economical and practicable; a good deal more surveying must bedone before that can be said of any entire route, though we think it mayfairly be claimed for our ideal section between St. Louis and Denver. Wehave chosen this route because along its course are more completelyrepresented the natural features to which in any case the PacificRailroad must look for all its primary obstacles and part of itssubsequent profits.

To complete the conception as its reality must in time be completed, letus unite our Trans-Missouri portion with the Atlantic and Great WesternRailway, under the all-inclusive title of the Atlantic and PacificRailroad. It will not be very far out of the way to regard thirty-eighthundred miles as the entire length of the line. On the Atlantic andGreat Western section express-trains will run at a speed of twenty-sevenmiles an hour, including stops; but to provide against every detention,let us slow our through-express to twenty-five miles. At this rate weshall traverse the continent in six days and eight hours. In otherwords, the San-Francisco gentleman who left the Jersey depot by the fiveo'clock Atlantic and Pacific express-train on Monday morning mayreasonably expect (allowing for difference of longitude) to be in thebosom of his family just in time to accompany them to morning service onthe following Sunday.

We will suppose our packing accomplished the day before we set out.During the evening we send our watches to get the exact Washington time.The schedule of the entire road is based upon that time; and a thousandinconveniences, once endured by the traveller between New York and St.Louis, are thereby avoided. It is not necessary to alter one's watchwith every new conductor. We no longer grow dizzy with[Pg 609] a horribleuncertainty on the subject of what-'s-o'clock,—ignorant whether we arerunning on New-York time, Dayton time, Cincinnati time, or St. Louistime,—whether, indeed, all time be not a pure subjective notion, andany o'clock at all a mere popular delusion. For the introduction of auniform standard we have originally to thank the Atlantic and GreatWestern Railway.

In comfort and elegance the second-class cars of the Atlantic andPacific Road correspond to the omnivorous cars in use on our railroadsgenerally. But we are a family-party, have nearly a week of travelbefore us, and prefer to sacrifice our money rather than our comfort. Itcosts a third, perhaps one-half more, to take first-class tickets; butthese secure us a compartment entirely to ourselves,—fitted up with allthe luxury of a lady's boudoir. We have comfortable arm-chairs to sit inall day, the latest improvement in folding-beds to sleep in at night.Our mirror, water-tank, basin, and all our toilet-arrangements areindependent of the rest of the train. We have a table in the centre ofour compartment for cards or luncheon. If we are wise, we have alsobrought along three or four Champagne-baskets stocked with privatecommissariat-stores, which make us quite independent of that black-artknown as Western cookery. These contain sardines (half-boxes are themost practically useful size for a small party); chow-chow;pâtés-de-foie-gras; a selection of various potted meats; a few hundredZwiebacks from our Berlin baker, and as many sticks of Italian breadfrom our Milanese; a dozen pounds of hard-tack, and a half-dozen ofsoda-crackers; an assortment of canned fruits, including, as absoluteessentials, peaches and the Shaker apple-butter; a pot of anchovy-paste;a dozen half-pint boxes of concentrated coffee, and as many of condensedmilk, both, as the writer has abundantly tested, prepared withunrivalled excellence by an establishment in Boston; a tin boxcontaining ten pounds of lump-sugar; a kettle and gas-stove, to beattached by a flexible tube to one of the burners lighting thecompartment; a dozen bottles of lemon-syrup; and whatever stores, in theway of wines, liquors, and cigars, may strike the fancy of the party.This may seem an ambitious outfit, but for the first year of the PacificRailroad it will be an absolutely necessary one. As civilization spreadswestward along the grand iron conductor of the continent, our nationalgastronomy will develop itself in company with all the other arts; butfor the present it is safe to assume that outside of our private storeswe shall not find a good cup of coffee after we leave St. Louis, ordecent bread of any kind between Denver and Sacramento.

We seat ourselves in our comfortable arm-chairs, without themortification of removing single gentlemen and the trouble of reversingseats to accommodate our party. The ladies are not compelled to sit inisolation, by the side of passengers who use the car-floor as aspittoon. We may chat together upon family-matters without awakening thevivid interest of any mother-in-Israel mounting guard in front of usover a bandbox. The gentlemen may smoke, if the ladies like it, and, solong as they keep the windows open, nobody shall say them nay. We allenjoy a sense of security and independence, which is like occupying awell-provisioned Gibraltar on wheels. If we have a sick friend with us,he need never leave his mattress till he reaches San Francisco. Shouldhis situation become critical en route, the best medical attendance isat hand,—every through-train being obliged by statute to carry afirst-class physician and surgeon, with a well-stockedapothecary-compartment. But our present party are all of them in finehealth and spirits; so we may dismiss the doctor's shop from ourconsideration.

The whistle blows just as the ladies have hung their bonnets in therack, and the gentlemen exchanged their boots for slippers. We waveadieu to the Atlantic coast and the friends who[Pg 610] have come to see usoff. A few minutes more, and we pass through the Bergen Tunnel. Theremainder of the day is spent amid that wild mountain and forest scenerywhich the Erie Railroad has made familiar to the wholetravelling-population of our Eastern States. At Salamanca we strike theAtlantic and Great Western's separate line. On the way thence to Daytonwe shall pass a number of long trains, made up of platform-cars heavilyladen with barrels carrying East the riches of the Pennsylvaniaoil-region. These have connected with our main road by a couple ofbranches built especially for the accommodation of the petroleum-trade.From Dayton to Cincinnati we shall traverse one of the finestfarming-regions of the world, meeting trains laden with beeves, swine,packed pork, lard, grain, corn, potatoes, and every variety of producethat bears transportation. By this time, also, Ohio vine-culture hasattained a development which justifies an occasional train entirelydevoted to pipes of still Catawba and baskets of the sparkling brands.

From Cincinnati to St. Louis by way of Vincennes, we run through thesouthern portions of Indiana and Illinois, threading varied andpicturesque scenery all the way, unless we have seen the Egyptianprairies so many times before that they pall on us before we reach theMississippi bluff opposite St. Louis. Till we strike the prairie, ourcourse is among bold, well-timbered hills, which now and then we areobliged to tunnel, and by the side of charming pastoral streams whosegreen bottom-land is shaded by noble plane-trees and cotton-woods.Certain passages in the scenery between Cincinnati and Vincennes arebeautiful as a dream of fairy-land. Every few miles we continue to meetfreight-trains laden with all the well-known products of the Westernfield and dairy. Twice, before we reach St. Louis, a splendid cortege ofpassenger-carriages shall whiz by us on the southern track,—and eachtime we shall have seen the daily through-express from San Francisco.

The St. Louis through-passengers will be ready, on our arrival, in carsof their own. We shall switch them on behind us with little overhalf-an-hour's detention, and strike for Leavenworth, taking JeffersonCity by the way. The country we now traverse is rolling, well watered,and well timbered along the streams. Our road has so stimulatedproduction in the mines of Missouri that we frequently pass on theswitch a freight-train taking out bar and pig iron to San Francisco, oron the other track a train laden with copper ore going to the East forreduction. We have hitherto said nothing of the innumerable trains whichpass us or switch out of our way, carrying through-freight between NewYork and San Francisco. We are still surrounded by excellentfarming-land, a fine grain, fruit, and general-produce country. Not tillwe leave Leavenworth can we be said fairly to have entered the centralwilds of the continent. We are now west of the Missouri River, and for adistance of two hundred miles farther shall traverse a countrypossessing certain individual characteristics which entitle it to a nameof its own among the divisions of our physical geography. This is theproper place for an indication of those divisions, generalized to thebroadest terms.

In passing from sea to sea, the American traveller crosses tenwell-defined regions:—

1. The Atlantic slope of the Alleghany Range.

2. The eastern incline of the Mississippi basin.

3. The high divides of the short Missouri tributaries.

4. The Great Plains proper.

5. The Rocky-Mountain system of ridges and intramontane plateaus.

6. The Great Desert, broken by frequent uplifts, and divided by theHumboldt Range.

7. The Sierra-Nevada mountain-system.

8. The basin of the Sacramento River.[Pg 611]

9. The mountain-system of the Coast Range.

10. The narrow Pacific slope.

By attending to these distinctions with map in hand we shall gain someadequate idea of the surface of our continent. The first and second ofthe regions we have left behind us, and at Leavenworth are well out uponthe third. It would not be just to call it prairie,—and it is equallydistinct from the true Plains. As a grain and grass land, Illinoisnowhere rivals it; but its surface is remarkably different from that ofthe prairies east of the Mississippi. It may be described as analternation of lofty bluffs and sinuous ravines,—the former known as"divides," the latter as "draws." The top of these divides preserves onegeneral level,—leading naturally to the hypothesis that all the drawsare valleys of erosion in a tract of alluvial deposit originally uniformwith the plateaus of the divides. Some of the larger draws still serveas the channels of unfailing streams; most of them carry more or lesswater during the rainy season; few of them are dry all the year round.The river-bottoms which traverse this region are thickly fringed withcotton-wood and elm timber; but it is a rare thing to encounter trees onthe top of a divide. The fertility of the soil is boundless. Everyspecies of grass flourishes or may flourish here, with a luxurianceunrivalled on the continent. Of the tract embraced between the LittleBlue and the Republican Fork of the Kaw this is especially true. Theclimate is so mild and uniform that cattle may be kept at pasture thewhole year round. Haymaking and the building of barns are works ofsupererogation. The wild grass cures spontaneously on the ground. Toprovide shelter against exceptional cases of climatic rigor,—an unusual"cold snap," or a fall of snow which lies more than a day or two,—theranchero constructs for his cattle a simple corral, or, at most, arude shed. The utmost complication which can occur in his business is astampede; and few of our Eastern farmers' boys would hesitate toexchange their scythes, hay-cutters, corn-shellers, and mash-tubs forthe saddle of his spirited Indian pony and his three days' hunt afterestrays. Over this entire region the cereals thrive splendidly. The wildplum is so abundant and delicious as to suggest the most favorableadaptation to the other stone-fruits. Every vegetable that has beentried in the loam of the river-bottoms succeeds perfectly. There is justreason to think that vine-culture might reach a development along thesouthern slope of the Republican Bluffs not surpassed in the mostfavorable positions east of California. We believe it no exaggeration tosay that this region needs only culture (and that of the easiest kind)to become the garden of the continent. Its mineral wealth has receivedscanty examination; yet we know that it contains numerous beds oftertiary coal, and easily worked iron-deposits, in the form both ofhydrated oxide and black scale.

On our way through this region we strike the Republican bottom near Lat.39° 30' N., and Long. 97° 20' W. We are now in the primest part of thebuffalo-pasture. As we wind along the base of the steep RepublicanBluffs, and the edges of those green amphitheatres made by theiralternate approach and retrocession, our whistle scares a picket-line ofgiant bulls, guarding a divide across the stream, and with tails in air,heads at the down charge, they scour away at a lumbering cow-gallop, totell the main herd of a progress more resistless than their own. Or,perhaps, our experience of the buffaloes is a more inconvenient one. Wemay find the main herd crossing our track in their migration from theRepublican to the Platte. In such case, there will be a detention ofseveral hours, as the current of a main herd is not fordable by anyknown human mechanism. The halt will be taken advantage of by timidspectators looking safely out of car-windows,—by bonâ-fide hunters,who want fresh meat, and take along the tidbits of their game to becooked for them at the next dinner-station,—and by excited[Pg 612]pseudo-hunters, who will bang away with their rifles at the defencelessherd, until the ground flows with useless blood, and somebody suggeststo them that they might as well call it sportsmanship to fire into afarmer's cow-yard, resting over the top-rail.

Now and then we shall whirl through a village of chatteringprairie-dogs, send a hen-turkey rattling off her nest in a thicket onthe river's edge, or perhaps surprise even an antelope sufficientlyclose to point out to the ladies from our window the exquisite flight ofthat swiftest and most beautiful creature in our American fauna. But ourroad will not be in running order very long before this sight becomesthe rarest of the rare. The stolid buffalo will continue to wear his oldpaths long after the human presence has driven every antelope intoinvisible fastnesses.

At intervals along the Republican bottom we shall find ranches springingup under the auspices of our road; immense grain-fields yellowing towardharvest; great herds of domestic cattle grazing haunch-deep through theboundless swales of billowing wild grass; with all the other indicationsof a prosperous farming settlement, which, keeping pace with theprogress of the road, shall eventually become one of the richestagricultural communities in the world, and continuous for over twohundred miles. Here and there we pass a lateral excavation in the faceof the bluff where some enterprising settler has opened a tertiarycoal-vein, a deposit of iron-ore, or a bed of soft limestone suitablefor both flux and mortar purposes. The way-freight trains that meet usnow are mainly laden with the wealth of the grazier, the farmer, and thegardener, competing with their brethren of the Upper Mississippi for themarkets of St. Louis and New Orleans. Iron-ore, coal, and limestone mayform a portion of the cargoes,—but in process of time the mutualvicinity of these minerals will become sufficiently suggestive to inducethe erection of smelting-furnaces in situ, and then their combinedproduct will travel the road in the form of pigs.

A little to the westward of a line drawn due south from Fort Kearney tothe Republican we shall find a comparatively abrupt and unexplainedchange taking place in the scenery. Our green river-bottoms will giveway to tracts of the color and seemingly of the sterility proper to anash-heap. Our bluffs will recede, grow higher, and exchange their flatmesa-like surfaces for a curved contour, imitating the mountainousformation on a reduced scale. For long distances the vast gray levelaround us will be dotted with conical sand-dunes, forever piling up andtearing down as the wind shifts, with a tendency to bestow their grittycompliments in the eyes of passengers occupying windward seats on thetrain. The lovely blossoms of the running-poppy no longer mat the earthwith blots of crimson fire; no more does the sweet breath of eglantineand sensitive-brier float in at the window as we whirl by a shelteredrecess of the divides; the countless wild varieties of bean and pea nolonger charm us with a rainbow prodigality of pink, blue, scarlet,purple, white, and magenta blossoms. The very trees by the river's brinkbecome puny and stunted; the evergreens begin to replace the deciduousgrowths; in the shade of dwarfed and desiccated cedars we look vainlyfor the snowy or azure bells of the three-petalled campanula. Gaunt,staring sunflowers, and humbler compositæ of yellow tinge, stay withus a little longer than those darlings of our earlier scenery; butbefore we have gone many miles the last conspicuous wave of freshvegetation breaks hopelessly on a thirsty sand-hill, and we are givenover to a wilderness of cacti. Here and there occurs a sightly clump ofwaxen yellow blossoms, where these vegetable hedgehogs are in theirholiday attire,—but it must be confessed that the view is a melancholychange from our recent affluence of beauty. With the other succulentplants, the rich herbage of the prairie has entirely disappeared. Thereis not[Pg 613] a blade of anything which an Eastern grazier would recognize asgrass between this boundary and the Rocky Mountains. As we whiz overthese wastes at railroad-speed, we shall be apt to pronounce themabsolutely sterile. When we stop at the next coaling-station, let usexamine the matter more closely. The ground proves to be covered withminute gray spirals of herbage, like a crop of vegetable corkscrews, aninch or two in height, and to all appearance dry as wool. This is the"grama" or "buffalo-grass," and, despite its look of utterdesiccation, is highly nutritious. It is almost the entire winterdependence of the buffalo-herds, and domestic cattle soon learn toprefer it to all other feed. Its existence, together with the wide groupof changes which we have noticed, denotes that we have passed thethreshold of the fourth grand continental division, and are now in theregion of the Plains proper.

Ex-Governor Gilpin of Colorado, in his "Central Gold Region," very trulystyles the Plains "the pastoral area of the continent." The Plains areset apart for grazing purposes by the method of exclusion. There isnothing else that can be done with them. Rain seldom falls on them. Theshallow rivers, like the Platte, which wander through them, are too farapart to be used economically for their general irrigation. Only suchherbage may be expected to thrive here as can live on its owncondensation of water from a sensibly dry atmosphere. Manifestly, artcan do nothing for the improvement of such a tract. It must be left tofulfil its natural function, as the great continental pasture. Along thebanks of the rivers run narrow strips of alluvial soil, liable to yearlyinundation; and these may be made amenable to the ordinary processes ofa*griculture. On these the herdsman may raise the grain and vegetablesnecessary for his own consumption. But the vast area of the region seemsinevitably set apart for the one sole business of cattle-raising, andall the way-freight trains which pass us here are laden with beeves forthe St. Louis market, or dairy-produce for all the markets of the world.We have never tasted grama-cheese, but have a theory that itsindividual piquancy must equal that of the delicious Schabzieger.

Far off on the gray level we shall still see the antelope. His tribe iscoextensive with three-fourths of the continent. No sterilitydiscourages him. He seems as thrifty on the wiry grama as among themost succulent grasses of the Republican. The sneaking coyote and anumber of larger wolves put in an occasional appearance. Birds of thehawk and raven families are common. The waters swarm with numerousvarieties of duck. It surprises us at this utmost distance from themaritime border to see flocks of Arctic gulls circling around the lowsand-hills, and sickle-bill curlews wheeling high in air above theirbroods. Before we get far into this region we shall notice that one ofits most typical features is the alkali-pool. Every few miles we come toa shallow basin of stagnant water saturated with salts of soda andpotash. Still another characteristic of the Plains is their tremendousrainless thunder-storms. If we are fortunate enough to encounter one ofthese, we shall witness in one hour more atmospheric perturbation thanhas occurred within our whole previous experience on the Atlantic slope.The lightning for half a night will light the sky with an almostcontinuous glare, brighter than noonday; all the parks of artillery onearth could not make such a constant deafening roar as those iron cloudsin the heaven; and though the wind will not be able to blow the trainbackward, as we have seen it treat a four-mule stage, it will be likelyto do its next best thing, heaping sand on the track till the engine hasto slow and send men ahead with shovels.

Entering the Denver depot, we shall find a busy scene. All that immensefreight-business between the Missouri and the Colorado mining-towns,which formerly strung the overland road with[Pg 614] wagons drawn by six yokeof oxen each, has now been transferred to the railroad. The switches arecrowded with cars getting unloaded, or waiting their turn to be. What istheir freight? Rather ask what it is not. For the present, Coloradoimports everything except the most perishable commodities,—and thatwhich pays for all. If you would see that, ask the express-messengeron the train going East in five minutes to lift the lid of one of thoseheavy iron trunks in his car. Your eyes are dazzled by the yellow gleamof a king's ransom. It is a day's harvest of ingots from the stamps ofCentral City, on its way to square accounts with New York for thecontents of one of those freight-trains.

At Denver we reach the edge of the Rocky-Mountain foot-hills; the grandsnow-peak of Mount Rosalie, rivalling Mont Blanc in height and majesty,though forty miles away, seems to rise just behind the town; thencesoutherly toward Pike's and northerly toward Long's Peak, the billowingridges stretch away brown and bare, save where the climbing lines ofsombre green mark their pine-fringed gorges, or the everlasting icepencils their crests with an edge of opal. Still we do not leave thePlains region. We glide through the thronged streets of the growingcity, cross the South Platte by a short bridge, and strike nearly duenorth along the edge of the mountain-range, over a broad plateau whichstill bears the characteristic grama. Not until we enter the cañonof the Cache-la-Poudre, a hundred miles from Denver by the road, can weconsider ourselves fairly out of the Plains, and in the fifth greatregion of the continent, the Rocky-Mountain system of ridges andintramontane plateaus.

Before we begin this portion of our journey, let us examine, in thelight of that already accomplished, an assertion made early in thisarticle to the effect that the Pacific Railroad must precede and createthe business which shall support it. The consideration shall be brief asa mathematical process.

The river-bottoms and divides along the Lower Republican are peculiarlysuited to the raising of farm-produce. But so long as they had no avenueto a market, they might have been fertile as Paradise without alluringsettlers to cultivate them. The natural advantages of a country aredeveloped not as a matter of taste, but as a matter of profit. The cropswhich can be raised to best advantage in this region are the crops whichwithout a railroad must rot on the ground. No man can be expected tosettle in a new country from pure Quixotism,—and nothing but therailroad would make anything else of his expenditure of energies beyondthe needs of self-support. The Plains are the natural pasture of thecontinent; but they have no natural fascination for the white man whichcan induce him to take up his residence there for cattle-breeding enamateur. The greatest enthusiast in butter and cheese would scarcelycare to accumulate mountains of rancid firkins and boxes for the meregratification of fancy. Access to a market is his only justification forspending a nomadic lifetime among herds, or a fortune on churns andpresses. The settlement of the country must precede the birth of itsindustries, and the Pacific Road is the absolutely essential stimulus tosuch settlement.

As we converse, we are beginning our climb toward the snow. A series ofsteep grades, mainly following the bed of that wildly picturesque androaring torrent, the Cache-la-Poudre, take us up through the CheyennePass to the Laramie Plains. In reaching the head of the Cache-la-Poudrewe have familiarized ourselves with the ridges of the system; we are nowto learn what is meant by the intramontane plateaus. The Laramie Plainsform the most remarkable plateau of the Rocky Range,—one of the mostremarkable anywhere in the known world. Through a series of savagecañons we enter what appears to us a reproduction of the prairies eastof the Mississippi,—a level and luxuriantly grassy plain, bright withunknown flowers,[Pg 615] alive with startled antelope, threaded by the clearcurrents of both the Laramie Rivers, and rejoicing in an atmospherewhich exhilarates like the fresh-brewed nectar of Olympus. Bounded onthe east by the great ridge we have just passed, northerly by acontinuation of the Wind-River Range and Laramie Peak, southerly by amagnificent transverse bar of naked mountains running parallel with theWind-River Range, and westward by a staircase of sterile divides whichwe must climb to reach the base of Elk Mountain and find its giant masstowering into the eternal snows three thousand feet farther above ourheads,—this plateau is a prairie fifty miles square, lifted bodilyeight thousand feet into the air. It is difficult for us to roll overthis Elysian mead walled in by these tremendous ranges, and think of thecommercial uses to which the level might be put; but from its elevationand its natural crop we may pronounce it a grazing tract of splendidcapabilities, unsuited to artificial culture.

Another series of grades takes us past the base of Elk Mountain to abroad and sandy cactus-plain, whence we descend among curious trap andsandstone formations, simulating human architecture, to the crossing ofthe North Platte. A little farther on, so close to the snow-line that weshiver under the white ridges with a reflected chill, we cross the axialridge of the continent, and begin our descent toward Salt Lake by thenoble gallery of Bridger's Pass. The springs along our way becometinctured with sulphur, alkali, and salt. We know, when we stop at astation to drink, that we are drawing near the primeval basin of astagnant sea, now shrunk to its final pool in Salt Lake, but once insize a rival of the Mediterranean. We pass over an alternation ofmountain-grades and sandy levels, cross the Green or Upper ColoradoRiver, stop for five minutes at the Fort-Bridger station, thread thesinuous galleries of the Wahsatch, and come down from a savagewilderness of sage-brush, granite, and red sandstone, into the luxuriantgreen pastures of Mormondom, heavy with crops and irrigated from thesnow-peaks. Thence, one of the numerous cañons—Emigrant or Parley'smost likely—conducts us to the mountain-walled level of Salt-Lake City.

We have now traversed the most difficult part of our road. ItsRocky-Mountain section has cost more capital, labor, and engineeringskill than all the rest together. The return for this vast expendituremust be no less vast,—but it will be rendered slowly. It does not lieon the surface or just beneath the surface, as in the pastoral andagricultural regions. It is almost entirely mineral, and must be minedby the hardest work. But it ranges through all the metallic wealth ofNature, from gold to iron, and no conceivable stimulus short of aPacific Railroad could ever have been adequate to bring it forth.

We shall find the import trade of Salt Lake by the railroad to consistchiefly of emigrants and their chattels. If Brigham Young be stillliving, his favorite policy of non-intercourse with the Gentiles mayalso somewhat diminish the export business of the road. But human naturecannot forever resist the currents of commercial interest; and theMormon settlements possess so many advantages for the economicalproduction of certain staples, that we need not be surprised to findtrains leaving Salt-Lake City with sorghum and cotton for San Francisco,and raw silk for all the markets of the East.

From Salt-Lake City to the Humboldt Mountains, we pass between isolateduplifts of trap and granite, over a comparatively level desert of sandand snowy alkali. The terrors of this journey, as performed byhorse-carriage, have been fully depicted in our last April number. Wemay laugh at them now. The question which principally interests us,after we have blunted the first edge of our wonder at the sublimesterility of the Desert, is what conceivable use this waste can be madeto subserve. Before the[Pg 616] railroad, that question had but a singleanswer,—the inculcation of contentment, by contrast with the mostdisagreeable surroundings in which one might anywhere else be placed.Perhaps it is over-sanguine to conceive of a further answer even now. Ifthere be any, it is this: In its crudest state the alkaline earth of theDesert is sufficiently pure to make violent effervesence with acids. Noelaborate process is required to turn it into commercial soda andpotash. Coal has been already found in Utah. Silex exists abundantly inall the Desert uplifts. Why should not the greatest glass-works in theworld be reared along the Desert section of the Pacific Road? and whyshould not the entire market of the Pacific Coast be supplied withrefined alkalies from the same tract? Given the completed railroad, andneither of these projects exceeds commercial possibility.

We cross the Humboldt Mountains by a series of grades shorter than thatwhich conducts us over the Rocky system, but full as difficult inproportion. We descend into a second instalment of Desert on the otherside; but the general sterility is now occasionally broken by oases,moist green cañons, and living springs. A hundred miles west of theHumboldt Pass we come to the mining-settlements of Reese River, gaininga new increment to the business of the road in the transportation ofsilver to San Francisco, and every conceivable necessary of life to themines.—Within the last eighteen months eleven hundred dollars in goldhave been paid for the carriage by wagon of a single set ofamalgamating-apparatus from Virginia City to Reese, a distance of twohundred miles. The price of the commonest necessaries at the Reese-Rivermines has reached the highest point of the old California markets in'49,—and no attainable means of transport have been adequate to supplythe demand.

From Reese River to Carson we traverse a broken, rocky, and steriletract, with occasional fertile patches and a belt along the Carson Riversusceptible of cultivation. The foot-hills of the Sierra Nevadagradually shut us round, and at Carson we begin penetrating the mainsystem through a series of magnificent galleries between precipices ofporphyritic granite, leading nearly northward to the Truckee Pass. Thegrades we now encounter are as tremendous as any in the Rocky-Mountainsystem. Just before entering the main pass we come to the junction of abranch-road from Virginia City. The train which stops at the fork to letus go ahead is carrying down several tons of silver "bricks" from theWashoe mines to Kellogg and Hewston's, the great assay and refining firmof San Francisco. The pass takes us across the summit-line of the range,but not out of the environment of its mountains. We penetrate granitefastnesses and descend blood-chilling inclines, span roaring chasms andglide under solemn roofs of lofty mountain-pine, until in theneighborhood of Centralia we begin for the first time to see theagricultural tract of the Golden State.

Between ranches, placer-diggings, and small settlements, we now threadour comparatively level way to Sacramento. Here we are met by the chiefaffluent of this end of the Pacific Road,—the long-projected, greatlyneeded, and now finally accomplished line between Sacramento andPortland. This enterprise has done for the Sacramento and Willamettevalleys the same good offices of development performed by our grand linefor all the central continent. The noble orchards, pastures,grain-lands, and gardens of Northern California and Oregon are nowprovided with a market. Their wastes are brought under cultivation,their mines are opened, their entire area is settled by a class of menwho work under the stimulus of certain profit. The Northernfreight-trains waiting at Sacramento to make a junction with our roadare loaded with the produce of one of the richest agricultural regionsin the world, now flowing to its first remunerative market. All thismust pay toll to[Pg 617] our road, and here is another source of profit.

Crossing a number of tributaries to the Sacramento, and intersectingmines, ranches, and settlements, as before, we follow a nearly straightlevel to Stockton. Then turning westerly, we cross the San Joaquin, passalmost beneath the shadow of grand old Monte Diablo, glide among thevines and olives of San José Mission, and curve round the southern bendof the lovely bay to the queenly city of San Francisco. One of Leland'scarriages awaits us at the terminus. We are driven to the mostdelightful hotel on the continent, and find our old friend, theOccidental, altered in no respect save size, which the growing demandsof the Pacific New York, since the completion of our inter-oceanic line,have compelled Leland to quadruple. We are on time,—six days and eighthours exactly. Or, assuming the San-Francisco standard, we have gainedthree hours on the sun, and, instead of taking a two-o'clock lunch, asour friends are doing in New York, sit down to an eleven-o'clockbreakfast crowned with melons, grapes, and strawberries, in the sweetseclusion of the Ladies' Ordinary.

Is not all this worth doing in reality?

SEA-HOURS WITH A DYSPEPTIC.

BY HIS SATELLITE.

I.—PRELUSIVE.

There are a good many fictions in the world. I will mention one:—thepropeller Markerstown. The bulletins and placards of her owners soarhigh in the realms of fancy; like Sirens, they sing delightfulsongs,—and all about "the A 1 fast-sailing, commodious, first-classsteam-packet Markerstown." Such is the soaring fiction: now let us lookat the sore fact. The "A 1" is, I take it, simply the "Ai!" of the Greekchorus new-vamped for modern wear,—a drear wail well suited to thevictims of the Markerstown. As to sailing qualities:—we know, ofcourse, that all speed is relative. For a sea-comet, the Markerstownwould be somewhat leisurely, though answering well for an oceanic fixedstar, having no perceptible motion. One man on board—the Captain—wasaccommodated: the kidnapped all suffered. Whether the Markerstown shouldbe reckoned as first-class or last-class is a question depending simplyon where the counting begins, and which way it runs. "Steam-packet" shewas indeed, though not in the most desirable way. Her steam was "packit"(Scotticè) too close for safety, but lay quite too loose for speed.The kidnapped were all "packit," and "weel packit." How I came to be oneof them, and how by this mystic union I halved my joys and doubled mygriefs, as the naughty ones say of wedlock, will soon appear.

One brilliant fancy-flight I forgot to mention. The craft in questionwas boldly proclaimed as "new." New, indeed, she might have been: sowere once the Ark, the Argo, the Old Téméraire, the Constitution, andsundry other hulks of celebrity. Yet it is not mere rhetoric to say,that, if the eyes of the second and third Presidents of these UnitedStates never, in their declining years, beheld the good shipMarkerstown, it was only from lack of wholesome curiosity.

This pleasing list of attractions was wont to make an occasionaltrip—should I not rather say saunter?—to the New-World Levant, theYankee Eöthen. The time consumed was theoretically a day[Pg 618] and a half,but practically a day or two longer. Tired as I was of the slu*ttishland, the clean sea had an inviting look. Dusty car and ringing railwore no Circean graces, when the long-haired mermaid, decked in robes ofcomely green, looked out from her bower beneath the waves, and beckonedme to come. What more welcome than her sea-green home? What sight finerthan the myriad diamond-sparkles in her eye? What sound sweeter than themurmurs of her soothing, never-ceasing voice? What perfume so rare asthe crisp fragrance breathing from her robes? What so thrilling, somagnetically ecstatic, as her tumultuous heaving, and the lithe,undulating buoyancy of her mazy footfalls?

It is proper to state here, as an act of justice to others, and to savemyself from the charge of lunacy, that the Markerstown was a mereinterloper. Our covetous, good old uncle had set his eye on the regularsteamer of the line, and his greedy fingers had taken her away to Dixie,where her decks were now swarming with blue coats and black heels. Thepeaceful Markerstown, being exempt by reason of physicaldisqualifications, tarried behind as home-guard substitute for herwarlike sister. Ignorant of the change, I secured my passage, paid formy ticket, sent down my trunks, and presented myself at the gangway onesweltering afternoon in the latter part of June, a few minutes beforethe hour set for sailing. There was nothing in the aspect of things toindicate a speedy departure. On the contrary, the tardy craft had justarrived, and was intensely busy in letting off steam and dischargingcargo. The mate was quite sure—and so was I—that she wouldn't weighanchor before early next morning. The prospect was not enrapturing.Confusion, dirt, pandemoniac noise, long delay, and over all ablistering sun, were ill suited to bring peace to the embezzled seekerafter pleasure.

As a relief from the horrid din on deck, I made my way to the cabin. Itwas a place well named, being cabined, cribbed, confined, in quite anunprecedented degree. It was then and there that I first saw the subjectof this sketch,—the Peptic Martyr. Unknowingly, I was face to face withmy Man of Destiny. Shipmate, Philosopher, Martyr, Rhapsodist, Mentor,Bon-Vivant, Dūspeptos,—these are but a few of the various diskswhich I came at last to see in this gem of first water. Even now, inmemory, the subject looms vast before me, and the freighted pen halts.Bear with me: let us pause for one moment. Matter like this asks a newstrophe.

II.—THE BURDEN OF THE SONG.

Dūspeptos was sitting on a common mohair sofa, surrounded by somehalf-dozen or more of his fellow-victims. It is stated thatThemistocles, before his ocean-raid at Salamis, sacrificed three youngmen to Bacchus the Devourer. The Markerstown, in sailing out upon thegreat deep, immolated at least twelve, old and young, as a festiveholocaust to Neptune the Nauseator. Here in their sacrificial crate werethe luckless scapegoats, sad-eyed prey of the propeller. It was easy tosee, at the first glance, that the Martyr was the central sun roundwhich clustered the planets of propitiation. Born king, he asserted hiskingship, and all yielded from the beginning to his sway. Ears andmouths opened toward him the liege. Upon the magnet of his voice hungthe eager atoms. There was a filmy, distant look in the eyes of thelisteners, as of men rapt with the mystic utterances of a seer. Myentrance unheralded broke up the monologue, whatever it was. But seeingthe true sacrificial look on my brow, all at once, from chief to sutler,confessed a brother. To me then turning, Dūspeptos, king of men,spoke winged words:—

"'Pears t' me, stranger, you look kind o' streaked. Ken I do anythin'for ye? Wal, I s'pose th' old tub's caught you too, so we ken jest county' in along o' this 'ere crowd. Reg'lar fix,[Pg 619] now, a'n't it? 'T's wut Icall pooty kinky. Dern'd 'f I'd 'a' come, 'f I'd 'a' known th' oldbutter-box was goin' to be s' frisky. Lively's a young colt now, a'n'tshe? Kicks up her heels, an' scampers off te'ble smart, don't she? 'Snever seen an ekul yit for punctooality an' speed. When she doos techthe loocifer, an' cooks up her steam in her high old pepper-box, jestyou mind me, boys, there'll be a high old time. Wun't say much, butthere'll be fizzin', sure,—mebby suthin' more,—mebby reg'lar snorter,a jo-fired jolly good bust-up. Mebby th' wun't be no weepin' an'gahnishin' o' teeth about these parts along towards mornin'. Who knows?Natur' will work. Th' old scow's got to go accordin' to law,—that's onesahtisfahction, sartin. 'S a cause for all these things. An' ef she dooskind o' rip an' tear, she's got to go b' Gunter. She's bound to follerher constitootion as she understan's it, an' to stan' up for the greatprincipal of ekul freedom for all. Hope they'll be keerful to save someo' the pieces. 'S a good deal o' comfort 'n these loose fragments. 'Snuthin' like the raäl odds an' ends—the Simon-pure, ginooinearticle—to bind up the broken heart an' make the mourners joyful. Notellin' how much good they do in restorin' gratitood to Providence, an'smoothin' things over,—kind o' make matters easy, you know.Interestin', too, to hev in the house,—pleasin' ornaments on themantel-piece to show to friends an' vis'ters. They allers like to hearthe story 'n connection with the native specimens, an' everybody feelshappified an' thankful. Yes, after all, th'r' is a master lot of solidcomfort in a raäl substantial accident right in the buzzum of afamily,—none o' your three-cent fizzles, but a true-blue afflictin'dispensation. 'S a heap o' pleasin' an' valooable associationsa-clusterin' round."

Here the vocal one paused for an instant, to draw breath, and rally foranother raid. Feeling his little army now well in hand, he burned forfresh conquests. In glancing triumphantly around, his eye fell on acertain benign smile then flitting over the face of his predestinedSatellite. Complacently nodding thereto, straightway the Peptic spoke:—

"I s'pose this 'ere group 's all insured, everythin' right an' tight an'all square up t' the hub. Suthin' hahnsum for the widders an' orphans.These little nest-eggs allers sort o' handy,—grease the ways, an' slickthings up ship-shape. Survivors bless the rod, an' fix up everythin'round the house in apple-pie order. I hev known men that was so te'blepertickler allers to save the Company, that nuthin' ever did, n' evercould happen. An' the despairin' friends kep' waitin' an' waitin', but't was no sort o' use; they never got a red. 'T's wut I call bein'desput keerful, an' sailin' pooty consid'able close to the wind. 'T'slike old Deacon Skillins's hoss, down to Mudville, that was so dreffleconscientious he couldn't eat oats. No accountin' for tastes. Freecountry, anyhow. Ef anybody likes to be fussy an' ructious 'n littlethings, why, there's nuthin' to hender him from hevin' his own way. Butit don't exackly hev an hon'able look to common-sense folks.

"Ef the clipper's a free-agent, she'll blow up, sure, jest to git out o'sin an' misery. But ef so be she's bonyfihd predestined, she'll hev totravel in the vale o' puhbation a spell longer, 'cause her cup a'n'tfull yit, not by a long chalk. S'posin' she doos start out mellifloous,what then? Don't imagine, my feller-sinners, that the danger's allover,—no, it's only jest begun. Things ahead 's a good deal wuss. Steam's pooty bad, but 't a'n't a circ*mstahnce to the blamed grease. 'T'sthe grease that doos the mischief, an' plays the dickens with humannatur'. Down in th' army, they say, biscuits kills more'n bullets; an'it's gospil truth, every word on 't, perticklerly ef the biscuits ishot, an' pooty wal fried up in grease. Fryin' 's the great mortal sin,the parient of all misery. The hull world's full of it, but the sea 's amaster sight fuller 'n the land. Somehow 'nother, grease takes[Pg 620] kind o'easy to salt water,—sailors wun't hev nothin' but a fry. Jest you give'em plenty o' fat, an' they wun't ask no favors o' nobody. These 'erepuhpellers 's the wust sinners of 'em all, an' somehow hev a good dealmore 'n their own share o' fat. They kind o' borrer from mackerellersan' side-wheelers both together, an' mix 't all up 't oncet. My friends,ef you a'n't desput anxious to see glory from this 'ere deck, bevirtoous, an' observe the golden rule: Don't tech, don't g' nigh thep'is'n upus-tree of gravy; beware o' the dorg called hot biscuits; takekeer o' the grease, an' the stomach'll take keer of itself. Fact is, mybeloved brethren, I've ben a fust-chop dyspeptic for the best part o' mylife, an' I'm pooty wal posted in what I'm talkin' about. What I don'tknow on this 'ere subjick a'n't wuth knowin'."

III.—RECITATIVE

How much farther the Martyr's appeal might have gone can never be known,as the height of his great argument was cut short at this point by theappearance of the Pontifex Maximus in person on the stage of action. Thefated victims were to be made ready for the coming sacrifice. Theoracle, it seems, had declared that Neptune would not smile, unless twowere cribbed together in one pen,—that the arrangement of these pairsshould be left with the lot of the bean,—and that as the beans went, somust go the victims. Inexorable Fate would allow no reversal of herdecrees. Soon the beans were rattling in the hat of the Pontifex, and,mirabile! pen No. 1 fell to Dūspeptos and his Satellite elect.

The immediate effects of this bean—whether white, black, Pythagorean,Lima, kidney, or what not—were three-fold: 1. A pump-handlehand-shaking; 2. A very thorough diagnosis of the weather, including arapid sketch by Dūspeptos of the leading principles of caloric,pneumatics, and hygrology; 3. An exchange of cards. That of which I wasthe recipient consisted of a sheet of paste-board, rather begrimed andwrinkled, of nearly the same dimensions as the Atlantic (Monthly, notOcean). The name and address occupied the middle of one side of thedocument, while all the remaining space was filled in with manifoldclosest scribblings in lead-pencil,—apparently notes, memoranda, andthe like. These were not at all private, so the new-found partner of mybosom assured me. In fact, I should do well to look at them, and makemyself master of their contents. My friends also might find profittherein. Stray hints might undoubtedly be gathered from them which wouldlay open to my eyes the secret things of Nature and life. Thrusting itinto my pocket for the moment, I feasted myself in imagination with thetreasure that was mine, anticipating the happy hour that should make myhope fruition. Then we, first elect of the bean, set ourselves todetermine the status quo ante bellum. And here came in once more thefabaceous maker and marker of destiny, saying that blind justicedecreed, that, inasmuch as sound is wont to rise, he who was noondaySayer and midnight Snorer should couch below, while the Hearer shouldcircle above,—plainly a wise provision, that the good things ofProvidence might not be wasted. Both Damon and Pythias agreed, that, foronce at least, the oracle was not ambiguous.

All things being at last arranged, the Rhapsodist took his leave for thepresent, going, as he informed me, on an errand of mercy for hisstomach. The magazine aboard ship being of dubious character, he hadprevailed on himself to supply his concern with a limited number offirst-class cereals with his own imprimatur,—copyright and profits tobe in his own hands. As some consolation for his absence, I was favoredwith a brief oral treatise on Fats, considered both dietetically andethically, with an appendix, somewhat à la Liebig, on the nature, use,and effects of tissue-making and heat-making food, nitrogen, carbon,[Pg 621]and the like. By way of improvement, a brilliant peroration was added,supposed to be addressed through me to the mothers of America, urgingthem to bring up the rising generation fatless. Thus only might warcease, justice prevail, love reign, humanity rise, and a golden age comeback again to a world-wide Arcadia. Fat and Anti-Fat! Eros and Anteros,Strophe and Antistrophe. Or, better, the old primeval tale,—Jove andthe Titans, Theseus and the Centaurs, Bellerophon and the Chimæra, Thorand the Giants, Ormuzd and Ahriman, Good and Evil, Water and Fire, Lightand Darkness. The world has told it over from the beginning.

And do you ask what manner of man was the Fatless one? You shall seehim. His most striking feature was a fur cap,—weight some four pounds,I should judge. I think he was born with this cap, and will die with it,for 90° Fahrenheit seemed no temptation to uncover. Boots came second inrank, but twelfth or so in number,—weight probably on a par with theleaded brogans of the little wind-driven poetaster of old. Between thesetwo extremes might be found about five feet ten of humanity, lank,sapless, and stooping. The seedy drapery of the figure hung in lean,reproachful wrinkles. The flabby trousers seemed to say: "Give! give!"The hollow waistcoat murmured: "Pad, oh! pad me with hot biscuits!" Theloose coat swung and sighed for forbidden fruit: "Fill me with fat!" Adry, coppery face found pointed expression in the nose, which hung likea rigid sentinel over the thin-lipped mouth,—like Victor Hugo's Javert,loyal, untiring, merciless. No traitorous comfits ever passed thatguard; no death-laden bark sailed by that sleepless quarantine. Thesmall ferret-eyes which looked nervously out from under bushy brows,roaming, but never resting, were of the true Minervatint,—yellow-green. The encircling rings told of unsettled weather.While elf-locks and straggling whiskers marked the man careless offorms, the narrow, knotted brow suggested the thinker persistent in theone idea:—

Not over beds of roses had he walked to ascend the heights. Those bootsin which he shambled along his martyr-course were filled with peas. Hehad learned in suffering what he taught in sing-song. The wreath ofwormwood was his, and the statue of brass. Io triumphe!

His gait was a swift, uncertain shuffle, a compromise between a saunterand a dog-trot. The arms hung straight and stiff from the narrowshoulders, like the radii of a governor, diverging more or lessaccording to the rate of speed. When the scourge of his Dæmon lashed himalong furiously, they stood fast at forty-five degrees. His eyes peeredsuspiciously around, as he lumbered on, watchful for the avenger of fat,who, perhaps, was even now at his heels. A slouch-hat, crowning holloweyes and haggard beard, filled him with joy: it marked a bran-bread manand a brother. He smiled approvingly at a shrivelled form with hobblinggait; but from the fat and the rubicund he turned with severest frown.They were fleshly sinners, insults to himself, corrupters of youth,gorged drones, law-breakers. He was ready to say, with the statesman ofold: "What use can the state turn a man's body to, when all between thethroat and the groin is taken up by the belly?" He had vowed eternalhostility to all such, and from the folds of his toga was continuallyshaking out war. He was of the race sung by the bard, who

Every chance-comer was instantaneously gauged as dyspeptic or eupeptic,friend or foe. On the march, Javert was on the alert, snuffing up theair, until some savory odor crossed his path, when he would shut himselfup, like a snail within his shell. Yet he was not sleeping, for notitbit ever passed the portals[Pg 622] beneath. Perhaps, however, they werethemselves trusty now, having made habit a second nature. I cannotimagine them watering at sight of any dainty.

I have heard it said that certain orders of beings are able to improviseor to interchange organs, just as need calls. Thus a polyp, if hard putto it, may shift what little brain and stomach happen to be in hispossession. You may say that he carries his heart in his hand. He cantake his stomach, and dump it down in brain-case or thorax, just as hefancies,—can organize viscera and victory anywhere, at any moment; andall works merrily. The Fatless was similar, yet different. His stomachchanged not its local habitation, was never victorious; yet, from cap toboot, it was ubiquitous and despotic. Brain and heel alike feltthemselves to be mere squatters on another's soil, and had a vague ideathat the rightful lord might some day come to oust them, and build up anew capital in these far-away districts. Sometimes they went so far asto style themselves his proconsuls and lieutenants, but they were neversuffered to do more than simply to register the decrees of the centralpower. Dūspeptos was king only in name,—roi fainéant. Gaster wasthe power behind the throne,—the Mayor of the Palace,—the greatGrand-Vizier. Nought went merrily, for he ruled with a rod of iron.Every day his strange freaks set the empire topsy-turvy. Every day therewas growling and ill-feeling at his whimsical tyranny,—but nothingmore. Secession was as impossible as in the day of Menenius Agrippa.

Looking at it another way, Gaster might be called the object-glassthrough which Dūspeptos looked out upon the world,—a glass alwaysbubbly, distorted, and cracked, generally filmy and smoky, neverachromatic, and decidedly the worse for wear. I think that the worldthus seen must have had a very odd look to him. His most fittingsalutation to each fellow-peptic, as he crossed the field of vision,would have been the Chinese form of greeting: "How is your stomach? Haveyou eaten your rice?" or, perhaps, the Egyptian style: "How do youperspire?" With him, the peptic bond was the only real one; all otherswere shams. All sin was peptic in origin: Eve ate an apple whichdisagreed with her. The only satisfactory atonement, therefore, must begastric. All reforms hitherto had profited nothing, because they hadbeen either cerebral or cardiac. None had started squarely from Gaster,the true centre. Moral reform was better than intellectual, since theheart lay nearer than the head to the stomach. Phalansteries,Pantisocracies, Unitary Homes, Asylums, Houses of Refuge,—these wereall mere makeshifts. The hope of the world lay in Hygeian Institutes.Heroes of heart and brain must bow before the hero of the stomach.Judged by any right test of greatness, Graham was more a man than wasNapoleon or John Howard. He that ruled his stomach was greater than hewho took a city. Béranger's Roi d'Yvetot, who ate four meals a day,—theEsquimaux, with his daily twenty-pound quantum of train-oil, gravy, andtallow-candles,—the alderman puffing over callipash and callipee,—thebackwoodsman hungering after fattest of pork,—such men as these were nocommon sinners: they were assassins who struck at the very fountain oflife, and throttled a human stomach. Pancreatic meant pancreative.Gastric juice was the long-sought elixir. The liver was the lever of thehigher life. Along the biliary duct led the road to glory. All theessence of character, life, power, virtue, success, and theiropposites,—all the decrees of Fate even,—were daily concocted bycurious chemistry within that dark laboratory lying between theœsophagus and the portal vein. There were brewed the reekingingredients that fertilize the fungus of Crime; there was made to bloomthe bright star-flower of Innocence; there was forged the anchor ofHope; there were twisted the threads of the rotten cable of Despair;there Faith built her cross; there Love vivified the[Pg 623] heart, and Hatedyed it; there Remorse sharpened his tooth; there Jealousy tinged hiseye with emerald; there was quarried the horse-block from which darkCare leaped into the saddle behind the rider; there were puffed out thesmoke-wreaths of Doubt; there were blown the bubbles of Phantasy; theresprouted the seeds of Madness; and there, down in the icy vaults, Deathfroze his finger for the last, cold touch.

IV.—HARMONICS.

Ah! but the card? you ask. Yes, here it is.

Naphtali Rink,
51 Early Avenue.
(At the Hygienic Institute.)

Of course, this is only in miniature, and represents every way but avery small part of the document, the address being but a drop in thesuperscriptive surge,—a rivulet of text meandering through a meadow ofmarginalia. Inasmuch as Dūspeptos courted the widest publicity forthese stomachic scraps, no scruples of delicacy forbid me to jot downhere some few of them. He thought them fitted for the race,—the morereaders the better: perhaps it may be, the more the merrier. If calledupon to classify them, I should put them all under the genus GastricScholia. The different species and varieties it is hardly worth while toenter upon here. There were intuitions, recollections, and glosses,apparently set down in a fragmentary way from time to time, in a mostminute and distinct text. Very probably they were hints of thoughtsdesigned to be worked up in a more formal way. Whether the quotationswere taken at first or second hand I cannot say; but internal evidencewould seem to indicate that many of them might have been clippings fromthe columns of "The Old Lancaster Day-Book." It is, perhaps, worthy ofnote that Mr. Rink was, in fact, a man of rather more thought andgeneral information than one might suppose, if judging him merely by hisuncouth grammar, and the clipped coin of his jangling speech:—

Now, then, O reader, returning from this feast of fat things, I laybefore you the scraps.

"Character is Digestion."

"There's been a good deal of high-fangled nonsense written about genius.One man says it's in the head; another, that it comes from the heart,etc., etc. The fact is, they're all wrong. Genius lies in the stomach.Who ever knew a fat genius? Now there's De Quincey,—he says, in hisoutlandish way, that genius is the synthesis of the intellect with themoral nature. No such thing; and a man who sinned day and night againsthis stomach, and swilled opium as he did, couldn't be expected to know.If there's any synthesis at all about it, it's the synthesis of thestomach with the liver."

"What a complete knowledge of human nature Sam Slick shows, when hesays, 'A bilious cheek and a sour temper are like the Siamese twins:there's a nateral cord of union atween them. The one is a sign with thename of the firm written on it in long letters.'"

"The French are a mighty cute people. They know a thing or two about aswell as the next man. There's a heap of truth and poetry in these maximsof one of their writers: 'Indigestion is the remorse of a guiltystomach'; 'Happiness consists in a hard heart and a good digestion.'"

"The old tempter—the original Jacobs—was called in Hebrew a nachash,so I'm told. But folks don't seem to understand exactly what thisnachash was. Some say it was a rattlesnake, some a straddle-bug. OldDr. Adam Clarke, I've heard, vowed it was a monkey. They're all out oftheir reckoning. It's[Pg 624] as plain as a pikestaff that it was nothing butFried Fat cooked up to order, and it's been a-tempting weak sisters eversince. That's what's the matter."

"Let me make the bran-bread of a nation, and I care not who makes itslaws."

"It makes me master-sick to hear all these fellows who've just made outto scrape together a few postage-stamps laying down their three-centnotions about the way to get on in the world, the rules for success, andall that. Just as if a couple of greenbacks could make a blind man seeclean through a millstone! They're like these old nursing grannies: No.1 thinks catnip is the only thing; No. 2 believes there's nothing likesage-tea and mustard-poultice; No. 3 swears by burdock. The truthis,—and men might as well own up to it first as last,—success dependson bile."

"Shakspeare was a man who was pretty well posted in human nature allround,—knew the kitchen about as well as the parlor. He knocks on thehead the sin of stuffing, in 'All's Well that Ends Well,' where hespeaks of the man that 'dies with feeding his own stomach.' In 'Timon ofAthens' there's a chap who 'greases his pure mind,' probably with friedsausages, gravy, and such like trash. The fellow in 'Macbeth' who has'eaten of the insane root' was meant, I calculate, as a hard rap ontobacco-chewers (and smokers too); he called it root, instead ofleaf, just to cover up his tracks. What a splendid thought that is in'Love's Labor's Lost': 'Fat paunches have lean pates'! Everybody knowshow Julius Cæsar turned up his nose at fat men. The poet never couldstand frying; he calls it, in 'Macbeth,' 'the young fry of treachery.'Probably he'd had more taste of the traitor than was good for him. Has agood slap somewhere on the critter that 'devours up all the fry itfinds.' I reckon that Shakspeare always set a proper valuation on humandigestion; 'cause when he speaks of a man with a good stomach,—anexcellent stomach,—he always has a good word for him, and kind ofstrokes down his fur the right way of the grain; but he comes downdreadful strong on the lout that has no stomach, as he calls it. In'Henry IV.,' he says, 'the cook helps to make the gluttony.' I estimatethat that one sentence alone, if he'd never writ another word, wouldhave made him immortal. If I had my way, I'd have it printed in goldletters a foot long, and sot up before every cook-stove in the land. Butjust see what a man he was! This very same play that tells the diseaseprescribes the cure, that is, 'the remainder-biscuit,'—a knock-downproof to any man with a knowledge-box that Graham-bread was known andappreciated in those days, and that Shakspeare himself had cut his owneye-teeth on it."

"A broken heart is only another name for an everlasting indigestion."

"History is merely a record of indigestions,—a calendar of the foremoststomachs of the age. The destinies of nations hang on the bowels ofprinces. Internal wars come from intestine rebellion. The rising withinis father to the insurrection without. The fountain of a national crisisis always found under the waistcoat of one man. There's NapoleonI.,—what settled him for good was just that greasy mutton-chop stewedup in onions, which he took for his grub at Leipsic. If he'd onlyordered a couple of slices of dry Graham-toast, with a cup of weak blacktea, he'd have saved his stomach, and whipped 'em, sure; and matters andthings in Europe would have had a different look all round ever since."

"Emerson is a man who once in a while gets a little inkling of thetruth. I see he says that the creed lies in the biliary duct. That'sgood orthodox doctrine, I don't care who says it."

"Buckwheat-cakes are now leading us back to barbarism faster than theprinting-press ever carried us forward towards civilization."

"Temperament means nothing more nor less than just quantity and qualityof bile. That old sawbones, Hippocrates, came mighty near hitting thenail square[Pg 625] on the head more 'n two thousand year ago, but he felt kindof uncertain, and didn't exactly know what he was driving at. The oldheathen made out just four humors, as he called 'em,—the sanguineous,phlegmatic, choleric, and melancholic. If he'd only made one step moreon to the other side of the fence, he'd have cracked the nut, and pickedthe kernel, certain. Those four different humors are only four differentways of modifying bile with fat."

"Every man is dyspeptic. Tell me his dyspepsy, and I'll tell you what heis."

"In sick-headache, a heaping tablespoonful each of salt and commonmustard, stirred into a pint of hot water, and drank without breathing,will generally produce an immediate effect. (Mem. But Graham-biscuitis better in the long run.)"

"Society is the meeting of a gang of incurables, who come together totalk over their dyspepsies. And everybody takes his turn in furnishingfodder to keep the thing going hot-foot."

"Professor Bache says sea-sickness comes from the head, 'cause a mangets dizzy in trying to get used to the teetering of the ship. Allnonsense. The Professor may be posted in the survey of the coast, but hedon't know the lay of the land in the interior. Sea-sickness comes fromthe stomach: just offer a man a mouthful of fried salt pork."

"It's stated that some old bookworm of a Dutchman, with a jaw-breakingname that I can't recollect, has an idea, that, 'if we could penetrateinto the secret foundations of human events, we should frequently findthe misfortunes of one man caused by the intestines of another.' There'snot the least doubt of it,—true of one man or a million."

"Fate is Fat: Fat is Fate."

V.—NOCTURNE.

Was that seething sun never again to plunge his lurid face beneath thewaves of old Ocean? Had some latter-day Joshua arisen, and with sternfiat nailed him in mid-heavens, blazing forever? To me as slowly rolledthe westering orb down that final slope as ever turned the wheel ofFortune to Murad the Unlucky. Perchance the sun-god had turned cook, andnow, burning with 'prentice zeal, and scoffing at Dūspeptos and allsound hygiene, was aiming to make of this terrestrial ball oneillimitable fry turned over and well done,—a fry ever doing and neverdone, which should simmer and fizzle on eternally down the ages. Anabstract fry—let me here record it—suits me passing well; yet I likenot the concrete and personal broil. I trip gayly to a feast, preparedto eat, but not, as in the supper of Polonius, to be eaten. I have verylittle of the martyr-stuff about me. It is well, it is glorious, to readof those fine things; but does any man relish the application of theHoc age? To beatified Lawrence I gladly pay meet tribute of tears andpraise. Let the luckless one ask of me no more; let him call only uponthe succulent; let him recruit among the full ranks of the adipose. Beit mine to lay these spare-ribs athwart no gridiron more fervid than thepavement of his own monumental Escurial. Suum cuique.

So, albeit in a melting mood, I gazed listlessly upon the brazenfirmament, with no fellow-feeling for those hot culinary bars. Thebroiling glow was not at all tempting: I think it would have staggeredeven the gay salamander that is said to accept so thoroughly the gospelof caloric. And what was the Markerstown without the Great Captain? Whatwas the Victory with no Nelson? Hence, like the patriarch, I went out tomeditate at the eventide. But, alack! there were no camels, no Rebekah,no comfort. Even in subterranean grots there was nothing drawn butTropic's XXX. Every water-co*ck let on a geyser. But by-and-by ApolloArchimagirus, wearying of gastronomy, stayed his hand, moistened thefierce flames, jerked the half-fried earth out into free space, pocketedhis[Pg 626] stew-pan, and flung himself supperless to bed. No more, for thenonce at least, should that new Lycidas—the cosmical gridiron—flame inthe forehead of the evening sky. Anon came twilight, dusk, darkness, andall the pleasant charities of deep night. Behind the veil of night aresometimes done evil deeds. The snail has been known to start before histime. Laying down these general postulates, I drew therefrom, late inthe sultry gloom, this particular inference: Cæsar's shallop mightpossibly breast the deep before dawn; and if Cæsar was not on hand, shewould carry his fortunes, but not him. Forthwith, groping through theobscurity, I found my fears without foundation. The shallop wasquiescent in a remarkable degree, and thoroughly tethered.

Deep darkness reigned throughout the little kingdom. Silence broodedover all, save now and then when some vocal nose, informed by murkyvisions of the night, brayed out its stertorous tale to the unheedingair. At times a shrill, sharp pipe, screaming with gusts of horror,split my unexpectant ear. With this wrangled fitfully the crackedclarionet of some peevish brother. Ever and anon some vast nostril,punctually thundering, hurled forth the relentless growl of thebassoon,—a very mountain of sound, which crushed all before it, andmade the shuddering timbers crack and reel. A pensive flute vainlypoured, in swift recurring gushes, its rhythmic oil upon the roaringbillows. From some melodious swain came a freakish fiddling, whichleaped and danced like mad, now here, now there, like an audiblewill-o'-the-wisp. A dolorous whistle chimed harmonies, and with regularsibilation came to time, quavering out the chromatic moments of thisnasal hour. High over all floated a faint whisper,—a song-cloud risingfrom the dream-mist of a peaceful breast,—a revelation timidly exhaledto the disembodied spirits of the air. Its hazy lullaby breathed down asfrom distant heights, and murmured of celestial rest. Its soul was likea star, and dwelt apart.

Save this feeling symphony, all was still. No light shone upon thetuneful beaks. Like Theseus, I picked my way along, guided by anAriadne's thread. My Ariadne was a slumbering orchestra deftly spinningout a thick proboscis-chord of such stuff as dreams are made of. Takingthis web in my ear, I safely traversed the labyrinth, and meandered atlast into pen No. 1. In placing my foot on the edge of the under-worldcrib, I unwittingly pressed some secret spring which straight swung widethe portals of a precipitate dawn.

VI.—THE PEPTIC SYMPHONY.

Instantaneously rose resplendent

The Luminary.—Hullo!

The Satellite.—Ah! got back? Is that you, Mr. Rink?

The Luminary.—Wal, ef 't a'n't me, 't 's my nose. Mebby y' a'n'taware, young man, that you planted your shoe-leather on my olfactory?

The Satellite.—Indeed, no, Sir. I thought I felt something under myfoot, as I was getting up. So it seems it was your nose. Beg yourpardon, Sir,—entirely unintentional. Hope I——

The Luminary.—Who's your shoemaker? What do you wear for cow-hide?

The Satellite.—An excellent artist, a long way from Paris. I have onat this moment a very neat thing in English gaiters, of respectabledimensions, toe-corners sharp as Damascus blade, three-fourths of aninch in sole, one and a half inches in heel, with a plenty of half-inch,cast-steel nails all round,—quite a neat thing, I assure you.

The Luminary.—Whew!

The Satellite.—But I hope, Sir, I haven't injured your nose?

The Luminary.—Can't tell jest yit.[Pg 627] Anyhow, you gev me a propersneezer, a most pertickler hahnsome socdolager, I vum! Landed jest belowthe peepers. But hold on till mornin', an' see how breakfast sets. Iallers estimate the nose by the stomach. Ef I find my stomach's allright, 't 'll be a sure sign that the smellers are pooty rugged.

The Satellite.—That's rather an odd idea. I was aware that the noseis a natural guide to the stomach, but didn't know that the reversewould hold good. What is the——

The Luminary.—Poor rule that wun't work both ways. Six of one andhalf a dozen of the other. Do you s'pose the nose could afford to workfree gratis for the stomach, with plenty to do an' nothin' to git? No,Sir, not by a jugful! People that want favors mustn't be stingy ingivin' on 'em. It's on the scratch-my-back-an'-I'll-tickle-your-elbowsystem. The stomach's got to keep up his eend o' the rope, or he'll jestgo under, sure. One good turn deserves another, you know.

The Satellite.—Yes, a very pretty theory, and certainly a just one.Quite on the Mutual-Benefit principle. Still, I should be inclined todoubt whether there are facts sufficient to sustain it.

The Luminary.—Wal, my hearty, you jest belay a bit up there; clewdown your hatches ship-shape, git everythin' all trig, an' lay to. Why,my Christian friend, I intend to post you up thoroughly. Youredication's been neglected. Facts? Facts? Bless your noddle, there'splenty on 'em, ef a man knows beans. Now I'm jest a-goin' to letdaylight into that little knowledge-box o' yourn, an' fill it with good,wholesome idees, clean up to the brim, an' runnin' over,—good, honest,Shaker measure. I'll give ye more new wrinkles afore mornin' than everyou dreamed of in your physiology, valooable hints, an' nuthin' to pay.

Being now securely camped on my mountain-height, I peered out upon thehorizon beneath, and signified to the Luminary that the gas might atonce be turned on full blaze.

so gleamed, no longer nebulous, but now full-orbed, the bright starDiætetica,—a central sun, holding within its ample bosom the star-dustof whole galaxies, infinite gastric constellations.

The Luminary.—"Any fool'll allow that there's nerves, an' plenty on'em, all over the body. All these nerves come from the stomach. Fact is,they're the stomach's errand-boys. They run round an' do his chores jestas he says, an' then trot back ag'in. He's an awful hard master,though,—likes to shirk, an' makes 'em lug round all his baggage an'chicken-fixin's. When he gits grumpy, which is pooty consid'able often,he's death on some on 'em,—jest walks into 'em like chain-lightnin'into a gooseberry-bush. When he's gouty, he kicks up a most etarnaltouse with the great-toe nerve, an' slaps it right into him fore an'aft, the wust kind. Folks hev asked me why the gout pitches into thegreat toe wuss than the rest on 'em. It's jest as nateral as Natur'. Ical'late it's a special Providence for the benefit of the hull humanfamily, to hang out a big sign jest where folks ken see it, to show upthe man who's ben an' sinned ag'inst his stomach. When he limps round inflannel, he's a conspicoous hobblin' advertisem*nt, a fust-cut lectereron temperance, an' the horrible example to boot. Now you know the waythe stomach an' nerves fay in.

"Wal, then ag'in, there's another set,—the stomach's ownblood-relations. He's head o' the family, an' they all work in togethernice an' handy, jest as slick as grease. Lam ary one on 'em, an' you gotto lam the whole boodle. Jest like a hornet's nest: shake a stick at aryone o' the group, an' they all come buzzin' round te'ble miffy in less'n no time. There's the nose,—he wears a coat jest as well 's thestomach: he's the stomach's favorite grandson, the[Pg 628] Benjamin of theflock. Say anythin' to him, an' the stomach takes it up; say anythin' tothe stomach, an' he takes it up. All in a family-way, ye see. Love me,love my dorg. There's no disputin' the fact, that you can't kill ary oneon 'em without walkin' over the dead body of the others. You can't whipary one on 'em except over the others' shoulders. Now you know who thenose is, who his connections are, an' what's his geneology. He'sdescended from the stomach in the second degree, an' will be heir to allthe property, ef so be he's true to himself an' the family. Ef he a'n't,th' old man'll cut him off with a shillin', sure.

"Now dyspepsy's of two kinds,—the mucous an' the nervous; an' as I'm asinner, every mother's son an' daughter has got one on 'em. The nervous,as you will naterally s'pose from my remarks, is a sort o' hiredhelp,—friend o' the family, like a poor relation,—handy to hev in thehouse, an' all that. The other allers takes pot-luck with the family,runs in an' out jest as he pleases,—chip o' the old block, one o' thesame crowd, you know. It's considered ruther more hon'able, in course,to hev this one. None o' the man-waiter or sarvant-gal about him. A chapwith the mucous looks kind o' slick an' smooth, an' feels his oats pootywal; but a codger with the nervous is sort o' thin an' wild-like.Wholesalers ginerally hev the fust, an' retailers the second; though,'casionally, I hev known exceptions. A bank-president invariably has thesecond; an' I never seen an apple-woman without the other. All accordin'to Natur', ye see. But either on 'em 'll do. Take jest whichever you cangit,—that's my advice,—an' thank Providence. They'll either on 'em befaithful friends, never desert ye, cling closer than a brother, neversay die, stick to ye, in p'int o' fact, like a sick kitten to a hotbrick. It's jest as I said,—every critter's got one on 'em. But there'sno two men alike, so there's no two dyspepsies alike. There never was,an' never will be. 'T 's exackly like the human family, divided into twogreat classes, black an' white, long-heel an' short-heel. Jes' so ...nervous ... mucous ... Magna Charta ... Palladium of our liberties ...ark of our safety ... manifest destiny ... Constitootion of ourforefathers ... fit, bled, an' died ... independence forever ... one an'inseparable ... last drop o' blood...."

How it was I don't quite know; but I think that at this point theLuminary must have sunk below the horizon. Possibly his Satellite mayhave suffered an eclipse in this quarter of the heavens. I can barelyrecall a thin doze, in which these last eloquent fragments, transfiguredinto sprites and kobolds, wearing a most diabolical grin, seemed to bechasing each other in furious and endless succession through my brain,or playing at hide-and-seek among the convolutions of the cerebrum.After a while, they wearied of this rare sport, scampered away, and leftme in profound sleep till morning.

VII.—MATINS.

Whank!—tick-a-lick!—ker-thump!—swoosh!—Whank!—tick-a-lick!—ker-thump!—swoosh!—Thesewere the sounds that first greeted my opening ears. So, then, we werefairly under way, advancing, if not rejoicing. Our freighted Icarus wassoaring on well-oiled wings: how soon might his waxy pinions droop underthe fierce gaze of the sun! At least it was a satisfaction to know thatthus far the gloomy forebodings of the Seer had not been fulfilled. Onlooking out through a six-inch rose-window, I saw joyous daylightdancing over the boundless, placid waters,—not a speck of land insight. We must have started long since; but my eyes, fast sealed underthe opiate rays of the Luminary, had hitherto refused to ope their lidsto the garish beams of his rival. Soon I heard beneath a rustling snap,as of a bow, and suddenly there sped forth the twanging shaft of the[Pg 629]

First Victim.—I say!

Second Victim.—Very sensible, but brief. Give us another bit.

First Victim.—How are ye this mornin'?

Second Victim.—Utterly glorified. Delicious sleep,—splendidday,—balmy air, with condiments thrown in. I hope you are nicelyto-day?

First Victim.—Wal, no, can't say I be. Feel sort o' seedy like,—feeljest 's ef I'd ben creouped up in a sugar-box. Couldn't even git acat-nap,—didn't sleep a wink.

Second Victim.—That's bad, indeed; but the bracing air here willsoon——

First Victim.—Air! That 'ere dock-smell nigh finished me. Noskim-milk smell about that, but the ginooine jam,—an awful pootynosegay! 'T was reg'lar rank p'is'n. Never see anythin' like it. Oh,'twas te'ble! Took hold o' my nose dreffle bad; I'm afeard my stomach'llbe a goner. 'T wa'n't none o' yer sober perfumes nuther, but kind o'half-seas-over all the time, an' pooty consid'able in the wind. Judgethere's ben a large fatality in cats lately. Ugh! that blameddock-smell! Never forgit it the longest day I live. Don't b'lieve Ibreathed oncet all night.

Second Victim.—Yes, it was slightly aromatic, I confess,—'Sabæanodors from the spicy shores of Araby the Blest,'—you know what Miltonsays. But there's one great comfort: this thick night-air is so veryhealthy, you know. I think you made a very great mistake, Mr. Rink, innot inhaling it thoroughly. I kept pumping it in all night, from a senseof duty, at forty bellows-power.

First Victim.—(Rising, and dragging up to the mountain-crib theartillery of a ghostly face, and training it point-blank at SecondVictim.)—Young man, don't trifle!

Second Victim.—Pardon me, Sir, I am not trifling, I have soundreasons for what I say. Your education, Sir, has apparently beenneglected. Wait one moment, and I'll give you a new idea, which willcontribute materially to your happiness. You will at once admit, I takeit, that oxygen and carbonic acid stand at opposite poles in theirrelations to the respiratory system; also, that said dock-smell was amixture of carbonic acid of various kinds, and of different degrees ofintensity; and, lastly, that animal and vegetable life are complementsof each other,—correlatives, so to speak.

First Victim.—Sartin: that's Natur' an' common sense.

Second Victim.—Now, then, plants naturally absorb carbonic acid andgive off oxygen during daylight. At night, the process is reversed: thenthey absorb oxygen and give off carbonic acid. In a similar, but reverseway, man, who was plainly intended to inhale oxygen and exhale carbonicacid in his waking hours, should, in his sleeping hours, in order to beconsistent with himself and with Nature, inhale only dense carbonic acidand exhale oxygen. Men and plants make Nature's see-saw: one goes up asthe other goes down. Hence it follows as a logical sequence, that thetruly wise man, who seeks to comply with the laws of Nature, and tofulfil the great ends of his existence, will choose for hissleeping-apartment the closest quarters possible, and will welcome thefumes which would be noisome by day. For my part, therefore, I feelprofoundly grateful even for one night of this little crib. It hasalready done much for me. I feel confident that it has contributedgreatly to my span of life. I am deeply beholden to the owners, to thecaptain, yea, to all the crew. And for the blessed dock-smell I shallever be thankful:—

"'T were worth ten years of mortal life, One glance at itsarray."

It will not be amiss to say to you, Mr. Rink, that this theory issanctioned by one of the leading ornaments of the French Academy. He hasadvocated it, in an elaborate treatise, with an eloquence and powerworthy of its distinguished author. He shows, in passages[Pg 630] of singularpurity, that beasts, whose instincts teach them far more of the laws ofNature than our reason teaches us, always retire to sleep in a placewhere they can obtain the closest, healthiest air. In the lastcommunication sent to me on this subject by the learned Professor, heproves conclusively that——

First Victim. (His artillery now rumbling down the heights on the fullgallop.)—I snum, that's awful! Wal, I never see,—'t beats the Dutch!No kind o' use talkin' with sech a chap. Never see so much nonsense inone head 's that critter's got in his.

VIII.—JENTACULAR.

A barrow-tone full of groan and creak, trundling along through thewell-known bravura commencing,—

Yes, the aroma was highly complicate, but not, like the poet, ofimagination all compact. It was not Frangipanni, though in part aneternal perfume; nor was it Bergamot, or Attar, or Millefleurs, orJockey-Club, or New-Mown Hay. No, it was none of these. What was it,then? you ask. I dissected it as well as I could, though not with entiresuccess; but I will tell you the members of this body of death, so faras I found them. I do not for a moment doubt that it was made up of atleast the two-and-seventy several parts which bloomed in the bouquetplucked by the bard in Hermann's land; yet my feeble sense could notdistinguish all. There was unquestionably a fry,—nay, several; thefumes of coffee soared riotous; I could detect hot biscuits distinctly;the sausage asked a foremost place; pancakes, griddle-cakes, dough-nuts,gravies, and sauces, all struggled for precedence; the land and the seawaged internecine war for place, through their representative fries ofsteak and mackerel; and as the unctuous pork—no nursling of the flock,but seasoned in ripe old age with salt not Attic—rooted its way intothe front rank, I thought of the wisdom of Moses. All these were, so tospeak, the mere outlying flakes, the feathery curls, of the balmycirro-cumulus, whose huge bulk arose out of the bowels of the shipitself. Up and down, in and out, here and there, into every chink andcrevice, rolled the blue-white incense-cloud, dense as the cottony puffat the mouths of the guns in Vernet's "Siege of Algiers." Or you mightsay that these were but the flying-buttresses, the floriated pinnacles,the frets, and the gargoyles of a great frowzy cathedral lying vast andsolid far below.

The Captain sat at the head of the table; next him was the fixed starDūspeptos, with Satellite stationary on the right quarter.

Eupeptos.—Coffee,—that's good. John, fill my cup. Have it strong,mind,—no milk.

Dūspeptos. (Placing hand remonstratingly on arm of Eupeptos.)—Myfriend, man's life a'n't more'n a span, anyhow; yourn wun't be wuthmore'n half a span. Don't ye do it.

Eupeptos. (Gayly.)—Dum vivimus, vivamus. Try a cup, Mr. Rink.

Dūspeptos.—No, Sir. Thousan' dollars'd be no objick at all.There'd be a dead Rink layin' round in less 'n half a shake. I'd want apermit from the undertaker fust, an' hev my measure for a patent casketto order. This child a'n't anxious to cut stick yit awhile.

Eupeptos.—I'm very much of Voltaire's way of thinking about coffee. Idon't know but I would agree with Mackintosh, that the measure of aman's brains is the amount of coffee he drinks. I like it in the Frenchstyle, all but the lait; that destroys the flavor, besides making itdespicably weak. Have a hot biscuit, Mr. Rink? I'm afraid they're likeGilpin,—carry weight, you know. But try one, won't you?

Dūspeptos.—I'm shot ef I do. Don't hev any more o' yer nonsense,young man, or I'll git ructions.

Eupeptos.—All right. Advance, pancakes! Here's a prime one, steaming[Pg 631]hot, crisp and fizzling. Allow me to put it on your plate, Sir?

Dūspeptos.—Not by a long chalk. Hands off, I tell ye, or there'llbe a free fight afore shortly. You'd better make up yer mind to oncetthet this 'ere thing a'n't goin' to ram nohow.

Eupeptos.—Sorry I can't suit you. Better luck next time. Ah! here'sthe very thing. Waiter, pass the fried steak, salt mackerel, and friedpotatoes to Mr. Rink.

Dūspeptos.—Wun't stan' it,—I snore I wun't! I tell ye, I'mgittin' master-riled. Jest you take yer own fodder, an' keep quiet.

Eupeptos.—Pardon me, Sir, but my eye has just fallen on yonder dishof dough-nuts, faced by those incense-breathing griddle-cakes. Lookslightly soggy, but not disagreeable. This sea-air, you know, gives aman a tremendous appetite for anything, and the digestion of an ostrich.Risk it, won't you?

Dūspeptos. (With determined air, clenching knife and fork pointingskywards.)—Stranger, le' 's come to a distinct understandin' on thissubjick afore we git much older. You know puffickly wal what I am,—aconfirmed dyspeptic for twenty-five year. An' I a'n't ashamed on it,nuther; but I'm proud to say I glory in it. You know puffickly wal whatmy notions is about all this 'ere stuff, an' still you keep stickin' itinto my face. Now, ef you want me to lambaste ye, I'm the man to do it,an' do it hahnsome. But ef yer life a'n't insured clean up to the hub,an' ef ye've got any survivin' friends, I advise ye not to tote any moreo' that 'ere grub in this direction. I give ye fair warnin',—yer'veraised my dander, an' put my Ebenezer up. I'd jest as lieves wallop yeas eat, an' ten times lieveser.

Eupeptos.—Really, Sir, no offence intended. I saw that your taste wasdelicate, and offered you these various tit-bits in the hope that someone of them might prove acceptable. But pray, Sir, do not starveyourself on my account. What in the world can you eat? Do not, I beseechyou, by undue fasting, deprive the world of so distinguished——

Dūspeptos. (Mollifying.)—Fact is, I knew jest how 't was goin' tobe. They allers fry everythin' an' cook it up in grease, so norespectable man can git any decent vittles t' eat. So I jest went outan' laid in plenty o' my own provender,—suthin' reliable an' wholesome,ye know. Brought aboard a firkin o' Graham-biscuit,—jest the meal mixedup with water,—no salt, no emptins, no nuthin'. 'T's the healthiestthing out o' jail. It's Natur's own food, an' the best eatin' I know.Raäl good flavor, git 'em good, besides bein' puffickly harmless an'salubrious. I cal'late I've got enough to run the machine, an' keep itall trig up to concert-pitch, till I git ashore, ef so be th' old tubdon't send us to Davy Jones's locker. Here, try one,—I've got aplenty,—an' you'll say they're fust-rate. Leave them 'ere pancakes, an'all that p'is'n truck. Arter you take one o' these, you'll never technuthin' else.

Eupeptos.—Thank you, Sir, but if it's all the same to you, pleaseexcuse me this time. I have other fish to fry. In fact, Sir, I amentirely destitute of equanimity, and have no particle of stability inmy disposition. Not a drop of Scotch blood in my veins.

Dūspeptos.—There's no oats about these; an' ef there was, 'twouldn't hurt ye none. It's jest the kernel an' the shell mixed uptogether.

Eupeptos.—Dangerous combination. I have no militaryambition,—wouldn't give a rush for a spread eagle,—don't like thebraying by a mortar.

Dūspeptos.—Wal, I mout as wal vamose, 's long as I've hove in myrations. Already gone risin' a good half-ounce above my or'nary'lowance. 'T wun't do to dissipate, even ef a feller a'n't to hum an'nobody's the wiser. Natur' allers makes ye foot the bill all the same onsea an' shore.

Eupeptos. (Trolling in a low voice the celebrated barcarole,

Stay, oh, stay, gentle stranger! See yon sausage fatly floating! Be notdogged to go, but come! Prithee, return once more to the festive board!Lo! this—the fattest of the flock—shall be thy portion, most favoredBenjamin!

Dūspeptos. (—Muttering in the distance.)—That feller's a raäljo-fired numbskull. He don't know any more about the fust principles o'human natur' than the babe unborn. Reg'lar goney. Dunno whether he'sjokin' or in sober airnest. Good mind to sail into him anyhow. Guess 't'll do, though, to leave him to Natur'. He'll stuff himself to deathfast enough ... pitchin' into p'is'n ... sexton ... six-board box ...coroner's verdick ... run over by a fry ... engineer did his dooty....

IX.—FINALE (con motivo.)

But time would fail me to tell you of the myriad golden spangles sothickly stitched into the hurrying web of those fustian hours. Oh! thatdim crepuscular time, when, with toe set to toe squarely on the scratch,we stood up to one another, with eyes glaring through the gloaming, andgave and took manfully, fighting out anew the old battles of the Bourbonvs. China, of King James vs. Virginia, of Graham vs. Greece! Icould tell you of the siesta of the new Prometheus, when, perched on theMount Caucasus of a bleak chain-cable, he gave himself postprandially,in full livery of seisin, to the vulturous sun. Wasted, yet dailyrenewed, enduring, yet murmuring not, he hurled defiance at Fat, scoffedat the vain rage of Jupiter Pinguis, and proffered to the world below anew life in his fiery gift of stale bran-bread. Would you could haveheard that vesper hymn stealing hirsute through the mellow evening-air!It sung the Peptic Saints and Martyrs, explored the bowels of old Time,and at last died away in dulcet cadence as it chanted the glories of thecoming Age of Grits. Again, in the silent night-watches, did sage Mentorbecome vocal, going over afresh the story of the Nervous and the Mucous,classifying their victims, generalizing laws, discriminating the variousdyspepsies of the nations, and summing up at last the inestimablebenefits conferred by our modern dyspepsy on the character, theliterature, and the life of this nineteenth century.

Once more—for the last time—did the sable robe inwrap us. Once morethe night-blooming cereus oped its dank petals; and amid its murkyfragrance I sank to rest. When I woke, thewhank!—tick-a-lick!—whank!—tick-a-lick!—had ceased, and we weresafely moored. I leaped lightly to the shore, and, reverently stooping,saluted with fond gratitude my Mother Earth. Rising, I beheld for thelast time the gaunt form of the Martyr standing on the deck,—a barsinister sable blazoned athwart the golden shield of the climbing sun.And once more he lift up his voice:—

"Hullo! What! up killick an' off a'ready? Ye'r' bound to go it fullchisel any way,—don't mean to hev grass grow under your heels, that'ssartin. Wal, 't 's the early bird thet ketches the worm; an' it's theearly worm thet gits picked, too,—recollember that. I cal'late youreckon the Markerstown's about played out, an' a'n't exackly wut she'scracked up to be. It's pooty plain thet that 'ere blamed grease has benone too many for ye, arter all yer lingo. Ef a man will dance, he's gotto pay the fiddler. You can't go it on tick with Natur'; she's some on atrade, an' her motto is, 'Down with the dosh.' Ef you think you can play'possum, an' pull the wool over her eyes, jest try it on, that's all;you'll find, my venerable hero, thet you're shinnin' a greased pole forthe sake of a bogus fo'pence-ha'penny on top.

"Now, young man, afore you hurry up your cakes much further, I've gotjest two words to say to ye. Don't cut it too fat, or you'll flummux bythe way, an' leave nuthin' but a grease-spot. Don't dawdle round doin'nuthin' but stuffin' yerself to kill. Don't act like a gonus,—don't[Pg 633]hanker arter the flesh-pots. Wake up, peel your eyes, an' do suthin' fora dyspeptic world, for sufferin' sinners, for yerself. Allers stickclose to Natur' an' hyg'ene. Drop yer nonsense, an' come over an' j'inus, an' we'll make a new man of ye,—jest as good as wheat. You're onthe road to ruin now; but we'll take ye, an' build ye up, give ye tallfeed, an' warrant ye fust-cut health an' happiness. No cure, no pay. An'look here, keep that 'ere card I gev ye continooally on hand, an'peroose it day an' night. I tell ye it'll be the makin' on ye. An' don'tforgit the golden rule:—Don't tech, don't g' nigh the p'is'n upus-treeof gravy; beware o' the dorg called hot biscuits; take keer o' thegrease, an' the stomach'll take keer of itself. Ef you're in want o'bran-bread at any time, let me know, an' I'm your man,—Rink by name,an' Rink by natur'. An' ef so be you ever come within ten mile o' whereI hang out, jest tie right up on the spot, without the slightestceremony or delayance, an' take things puffickly free an' easy like.Wal, my hearty, I see ye're on the skedaddle. Take keer o'yerself,—yourn till death, N. Rink."

THE TWENTIETH PRESIDENTIAL ELECTION.

The country is now on the eve of an election the importance of which itwould be impossible to overrate. Yet a few days, and it will be decidedwhether the people of the United States shall condemn their own conduct,by cashiering an Administration which they called upon to make war onthe rebellious slaveholders of the South, or support that Administrationin the strenuous endeavors which it is making to effect thereconstruction of the Republic, and the destruction of Slavery. It is toinsult the intelligence and patriotism of the American people toentertain any serious doubt as to the issue of the contest. It can havebut one issue, unless the country has lost its senses,—and never has itgiven better evidence of its sobriety, firmness, and rectitude ofpurpose than it now daily affords. Were the contest one relating to theconduct of the war, and had the Democratic party assumed a position ofunquestionable loyalty, there would be some room for doubting who is tobe our next President. It is impossible that a contest of proportions sovast should not have afforded ground for some complaint, on the score ofits management. To suppose that the action of Government has been on alloccasions exactly what it should have been is to suppose something soutterly out of the nature of things that it presents itself to no mind.Errors are unavoidable even in the ordinary affairs of common life, andtheir number and their magnitude increase with the importance of thebusiness, and the greatness of the stage on which it is transacted. Wehave never claimed perfection for the Federal Administration, though wehave ever been ready to do justice to the success which it has achievedon many occasions and to the excellence of its intentions on all. Hadthe Democrats called upon the country to displace the Administrationbecause it had not done all that it should have done, promising to domore themselves against the Rebels than President Lincoln and hisassociates had effected, the result of the Presidential election mightbe involved in some doubt; for the people desire to see the Rebellionbrought to an end, and the Democratic party has a great name as a rulingpolitical organization, its history, during most of the present century,being virtually[Pg 634] the history of the American nation. But, with a want ofwisdom that shows how much it has lost in losing that Southern leadwhich had so much to do with its success in politics, it chose to placeitself in opposition to the national sentiment, instead of adopting it,guiding it, and profiting from its existence. The errors of the variousparties that have been opposed to it have often been matter for mirth tothe Democratic party, as well they may have been; but neitherFederalists, nor National Republicans, nor Whigs, nor Know-Nothings, norRepublicans were ever guilty of a blunder so enormous as that which thisparty itself perpetrated at Chicago, when it virtually announced itsreadiness to surrender the country into the hands of the men who have sopertinaciously sought its destruction for the last four years. Sostrange has been its action, that we should be ashamed to have dreamedthat any party could be guilty of it. Yet it is a living fact that theDemocratic party, in spite of its loud claims to strict nationality ofpurpose, has so conducted itself as to show that it is willing tocomplete the work which the slaveholders began, and not only to submitto the terms which the Rebels would dictate, but to tear the Union stillfurther to pieces, if indeed it would leave any two States in a unitedcondition. Thus acting, that party has defeated itself, and reduced theaction of the people to a mere, though a mighty, formality. Either thisis a plain statement of the case, or this nation is about to give apractical answer to Bishop Butler's famous question, "What if a wholecommunity were to go mad?" For the ratification of the Chicago Platformby the people would be an indorsem*nt of violence and disorder, a directapproval of wilful rebellion, and an announcement that every electionheld in this country is to be followed by a revolutionary outbreak,until our condition shall have become even worse than that of Mexico,and we shall be ready to welcome the arrival, in the train of someEuropean army, of a cadet of some imperial or royal house, whose"mission" it should be to restore order in the once United States, whileanarchy should be kept at a distance by a liberal exhibition of Frenchor German bayonets. What has happened to Mexico would assuredly happenhere, if we should allow the country to Mexicanize itself at the biddingof Belmont and Co.

But it may be said, it is unjust to attribute to the masses of theDemocratic party intentions so bad as those of which we have spoken.That party, in past times, has done great things for the land, hasalways professed the highest patriotism, and its name and fame are mostintimately associated with some of the noblest passages in the historyof the Republic. All this is very true. We admit, what is indeedself-evident, that the Democratic party has done great things for thecountry, and that it can look back with just pride over the country'shistory, until a comparatively recent period; and we do not attribute tothe masses composing it any other than the best intentions. It is not ofthose masses that we have spoken. The sentiment of patriotism is everstrong with the body of the people. The number of men who would wilfullyinjure their country has never been large in any age. But it is not theless true that parties are but too often the blind tools of leaders, ofmen whose only interest in their country is to use it for their ownpurposes, to make all they can out of it, and at its expense. TheDemocratic party has always been a disciplined party, and nothing ismore notorious in its history than its submissiveness to its leaders.This has been the chief cause of its almost unbroken career of success;and it has been its pride and its boast that it has been well-trained,obedient, and consequently successful, while all other parties have beenquarrelsome and impatient of discipline, and consequently have risenonly to endure through a few years of sickly existence, and then to passaway. The Federalists,[Pg 635] the National Republicans, the Antimasons, theWhigs, and the Know-Nothings have each appeared, flourished for a shorttime, and then passed to the limbo of factions lost to earth. Thisdiscipline of the Democracy has not been without its uses, and thecountry occasionally has profited from it; but now it is to be abused,through application to the service of the Great Anarch at Richmond. TheRebel power, which our fleets and armies are steadily reducing day byday, is to be saved from overthrow, and its agents from the severe andjust punishment which should be visited upon them for their great andunprovoked crime,—if they are to be saved therefrom,—through theaction of the Democratic party, as it calls itself, and which purposesto go to the assistance of the slaveholders in war, as formerly it wentto their assistance in peace, the meekest and most faithful and mostuseful of their slaves. The Democratic party, as a party, instead ofbeing the sword of the Republic, purposes being the shield of theRebellion. Such is the intention of its leaders, who control thedisciplined masses, if their words have any meaning; and, so far as theyhave been able to act, their actions correspond strictly with theirwords. The Chicago Convention, which consisted of the crème de lacrème of the Democracy, had not a word to say against either the Rebelsor the Rebellion, while it had not words enough, or words not strongenough, to employ in denouncing those whose sole offence consists intheir efforts to conquer the Rebels and to put down the Rebellion. Witha perversion of history that is quite without a parallel even in thehardy falsehood of American politics, the responsibility for the war wasplaced to the account of the loyal men of the country, and not to theaccount of the traitors, who brought it upon the nation by a fierceforcing-process. The speech of Mr. Horatio Seymour, who presided overthe Belmont band, is, as it were, a bill of indictment preferred againstthe American Republic; for Governor Seymour, though not famous for hiscourage, has boldness sufficient to do that which a far greater man saidhe would not do,—he has indicted a whole people. It follows from thiscondemnation of the Federal Government for making war on the Rebels, andthis failure to condemn the Rebels for making war on the FederalGovernment, that the Democrats, should they succeed in electing theircandidates, would pursue a course exactly the opposite of that whichthey denounce. They would withdraw the nation from the contest, andacknowledge the independence of the Southern Confederacy; and then theywould make such a treaty with its leading and dominant interest asshould place the United States in the condition of dependency withreference to the South. That such would be their course is not onlyfairly inferrible from the views embodied in the Chicago Platform, andfrom the speeches made in the Chicago Convention, but it is what Mr.Pendleton, the Democratic candidate for the Vice-Presidency, has said itis our duty to do so, so far as relates to acknowledging theConfederacy. He has deliberately said, that, if we cannot "conciliate"the Rebels, and "persuade" them to come back into the Union, we shouldallow them to depart in peace. Such is the doctrine of the gentleman whowas placed on the Democratic ticket with General McClellan for theavowed purpose of rendering that ticket palatable to the Peace men. Noman can vote for General McClellan without by the same act voting forMr. Pendleton; and we know that Mr. Pendleton has declared himself readyto let the Rebels rend the Union to tatters, and that he has opposed theprosecution of the war. General McClellan is mortal, and, if elected,might die long before his Presidential term should be out, like GeneralTaylor, or immediately after it should begin, like General Harrison.Then Mr. Pendleton would become President, like Mr. Tyler, in 1841, whocheated the Whigs, or like Mr. Fillmore, in 1850, who cheated everybody.Nor is it by any means certain[Pg 636] that General McClellan would not, onceelected, consider himself the Chicago Platform, as Mr. Buchanan avowedhimself to be the Cincinnati Platform. He has written a letter, to besure, in which he has given it to be understood that he is in favor ofcontinuing the war against the Rebels until they shall be subdued; butso did Mr. Polk, twenty yearn ago, write a letter on the Tariff of 1842that was even more satisfactory to the Democratic Protectionists ofthose days than the letter of General McClellan can be to the WarDemocrats of these days. All of us recollect the famous Democraticblazon of 1844,—"Polk, Dallas, and the Tariff of '42!" It was underthat sign that the Democrats conquered in Pennsylvania; and had they notconquered in Pennsylvania, they themselves would have been conquered inthe nation. Mr. Polk and Mr. Dallas were the chief instruments used tobreak down the Tariff of '42, in less than two years after they had beenelected to the first and second offices of the nation because they werebelieved to be its most ardent friends. Mr. Polk, as President,recommended that it should be changed, and employed all the influence ofhis high station to get the Tariff Bill of 1846 through Congress; andMr. Dallas, who had been nominated for the Vice-Presidency with theexpress purpose of "catching" the votes of Protectionists, gave hiscasting vote in the Senate in favor of the new bill, which meant therepeal of the Tariff of '42. The Democrats are playing the same game nowthat they played in 1844, with this difference, that the stakes are tenthousand times greater now than they were then, and that their manner ofplay is far hardier than it was twenty years since. Then, the question,though important, related only to a point of internal policy; now, itrelates to the national existence. Then, the Free-Traders did notoffensively proclaim their intention to cheat the Protectionists; now,Mr. Fernando Wood and Mr. Vallandigham, and other leaders of the extremeleft of the Democratic party, with insulting candor, avow that to cheatthe country is the purpose which that party has in view. Mr.Vallandigham, who made the Chicago Platform, explicitly declares thatthat Platform and General McClellan's letter of acceptance do not agree;at the same time Mr. Wood, who is for peace to the knife, calmly tellsus that General McClellan, as President, would do the work of theDemocracy,—and we need no Daniel to interpret Mr. Wood's words. We meanno disrespect to General McClellan, on the contrary we treat him withperfect respect, when we say that we do not believe he has a highersense of honor than Mr. Polk possessed; and as Mr. Polk became a tool inthe hands of a faction,—being a Protectionist during the contest of'44, and an Anti-Protectionist after that contest had been decided inhis favor,—so is it intended that General McClellan shall become a toolin the hands of another faction. Mr. Polk was employed to effect thedestruction of a "black tariff": General McClellan is employed todestroy a nation that is supposed to be given up to "blackrepublicanism." We do not believe that the soldier will be found sosuccessful an instrument as the civilian proved to be.

An ounce of fact is supposed to be worth a ton of theory; and the factsof the last four or five years admit of our believing the worst that canbe suspected of the purposes of the Democratic party. It is notuncharitable to say that the leaders and managers of that partycontemplate, in the event of their triumph in November, the surrender ofthe country to the slaveholding oligarchy; in the event of their defeatby a small majority, the extension of the civil war over the North. Fouryears ago we could not be made to believe that Secession was a possiblething. We admitted that there were Secessionists at the South, but wecould not be made to believe in the possibility of Secession. Even"South Carolina couldn't be kicked out of the Union," it was commonlysaid in the North. There were but few disunionists[Pg 637] at the South, almosteverybody said, and almost everybody believed what was said concerningthe state of Southern opinion. In a few weeks we saw, not South Carolinakicked out of the Union, but South Carolina kicking the Union away fromher. In a few months we saw eleven States take themselves out of theUnion, form themselves into a Confederacy, and raise great armies tofight against the Union. Yet it is certain that in the month ofNovember, 1860, there were not twenty thousand resolute disunionists inall the Slaveholding States, leaving South Carolina and Mississippiaside,—and not above fifty thousand in all the South, includingMississippi and South Carolina. How, then, came it to pass that nearlythe whole of the population of the South became Rebels in so short atime? Because they were under the dominion of their leading men, whotook them from the right road, and conducted them into the slough ofrebellion. Because they were encouraged so to act by the NorthernDemocracy as made rebellion inevitable. The Northern Democratic pressand Northern Democratic orators held such language respecting "Southernrights" as induced even loyal Southrons to suppose that Slavery was tobe openly recognized by the Constitution, and spread over the nation.The President of the United States, a Northern Democrat, gravelydeclared that there existed no right in the Government to coerce aseceding State, which was all that the most determined Secessionistcould ask. Instead of doing anything to strengthen the position of thefederal Government, the President did all that he could to assist theSecessionists, and left the country naked to their attacks; and heparted on the best of terms with those Rebels who left his Cabinet,where they had long been busy in organizing resistance to Federalauthority. The leaders of the Northern Democracy, far from exhibiting aloyal spirit, urged the slaveholders to make demands which were at warwith the Constitution and the laws, and which could not have beencomplied with, unless it had been meant to admit that there was nobinding force in existing institutions, the validity of which had notonce been called in question for seventy-two years. The realSecessionists of the South, Rhett and Yancey and their followers,availed themselves of the existing state of affairs, and precipitatedrebellion,—a step which they never would have taken, had they not beenassured that no resistance would be made to their action so long as Mr.Buchanan should remain in the Presidency, and that he would be supportedby the leaders of the Northern Democracy, who would take their followerswith them along the road that led to the Union's dissolution. SouthCarolina, rabid as she was, did not rebel until the last DemocraticPresident of the United States had publicly assured her that he would donothing to prevent her from reducing the Calhoun theory to practice; andhad she not rebelled, not another State would have left the Union. Theopportunity that she could not get under President Jackson she obtainedunder President Buchanan,—and she did not hesitate to make the most ofthat opportunity, all indeed that could be made of it, well knowing thatit could not be expected again to occur.

With these facts before them, the American people should be prepared forfurther rebellious action on the part of that faction whose creed it isthat rebellion is right when directed against the ascendency of theirpolitical opponents. They have done their utmost to assist the Rebelsall through the war, and the great riots in New York last year were thelegitimate consequences of their doctrine, if not of their labors. Weknow that organizations hostile to the Union have been formed in theWest, and that there was to have been a rising there, had any strikingsuccesses been achieved by the Confederate forces during the last sixmonths. Nothing but the vigor and the victories of Grant and Sherman andFarragut saved the North from becoming the scene of civil war in[Pg 638] 1864.Nothing but the vigor and union of the people in their politicalcapacity can keep civil war from the North hereafter. The followers ofthe Seymours and other ultra Democrats of the North are not more loyalthan were nine-tenths of the Southern people in 1860. Few of them nowthink of becoming rebels, but they would as readily rebel as did theSouthern men who have filled the armies of Lee and Beauregard, and whohave poured out their blood so lavishly to destroy that nation whichowes its existence to the labors of Southern men, to the exertions ofWashington, Jefferson, Henry, and others, natives of the very Statesthat have done most in the cause of destruction. The sentiment ofnationality is no stronger among Northern Democrats than it was amongSouthern Democrats; and as the latter were converted into traitors atthe bidding of a few leading politicians whose plans were favored bycirc*mstances, so would the former become traitors at the first signalto any move that their leaders should make. As to the two classes ofleaders, the Southern men are far superior in every manly quality tothose Northern men who are doing their work. It is possible that the menof the South really did believe that their property was in danger, andit is beyond dispute that they were alarmed about their political power;but the men of the North who sympathize with them, and who are preparedto aid them at the first opportunity that shall offer to strike aneffective blow, well knew that the victorious Republicans had neitherthe will nor the power to injure Southern property or to weaken theprotection it enjoyed under the Constitution. Their hostility to theUnion is purely gratuitous, or springs from motives of the most sordidcharacter.

There is but one way to meet the danger that threatens us,—a dangerthat really is greater than that with which we were threatened in 1860,and which we have the advantage of seeing, whereas we could see nothingin that year. We must strengthen the Government, make it literallyirresistible, by clothing it with the whole of that power which proceedsfrom an emphatic and unmistakable expression of the popular will. GiveMr. Lincoln, in the approaching election, the strength that comes from aunited people, and we shall have peace maintained throughout the North,and peace restored to the South. Reëlect him by a small majority, andthere will be civil war in the North, and a revival of warlike spirit inthe South. Elect General McClellan, and we shall have to choose betweenconstant warfare, as a consequence of having approved of Secession byapproving of the Chicago Platform,—which is Secession formallydemocratized,—and despotism, the only thing that would save us fromanarchy. Anarchy is the one thing that men will not, because theycannot, long endure. Order is indeed now and forever Heaven's first law,and order society must and will have. Order is just as compatible withconstitutional government as it is with despotic government; but to haveit in connection with freedom, in other words, with the existence of aconstitutional polity, the people must do their whole duty. They mustrise above the prejudices of party and of faction, and see nothing buttheir country and liberty. They must show that they are worthy offreedom, or they cannot long have it. Now is the time to prove that theAmerican people know the difference between liberty and license, bytheir support of the party of order and constitutional government, andby administering a thorough rebuke to those licentious men who areseeking to overwhelm the country and its Constitution in a common ruin.

Of President Lincoln's reëlection no doubt can be entertained, whetherwe judge of the issue by the condition of the country, or by thesentiments that should animate the great majority of the people, and bywhich, we are convinced, that majority is animated. The Union candidate,no matter what his name or[Pg 639] antecedents, should be elected by a majorityso great as to "coerce" the turbulent portion of the Democracy intosubmission to the laws of the land, and into respect for the popularwill, the last thing for which Democrats have any respect. Had the UnionNational Convention seen fit to place a new man in nomination, it wouldhave been the duty of the voters to support him with all the meanshonestly at their command; but we must say that there is a peculiarobligation upon Americans to reëlect Mr. Lincoln, and to reëlect him bya vote that should surprise even the most sanguine and hopeful of hisfriends. The war from which the nation, and the whole world, have beenmade to suffer so much, and from the effects of which mankind will belong in recovering, was made because of Mr. Lincoln's election to thePresidency. The North was to be punished for having had the audacity toelect him even when the Democracy were divided, and the success of theRepublican candidate was a thing of course. He, a mere man of thepeople, should never become President of the United States! The mostgood-natured of men, it is known that his success made him an object ofpersonal aversion to the Southern leaders. They did their worst toprevent his becoming President of the Republic, and in that way theywronged and insulted the people far more than they wronged and insultedthe man whom the people had elected to the highest post in the land; andthe people are bound, by way of vindicating their dignity andestablishing their power, to make Mr. Lincoln President of the UnitedStates, to compel the acknowledgment of his legal right to be the chiefmagistrate of the nation as unreservedly, from South Carolina as fromMassachusetts. His authority should be admitted as fully in Virginia asit is in New York, in Georgia and Alabama as in Pennsylvania and Ohio.This can follow only from his reëlection; and it can follow only fromhis reëlection by a decisive majority. That insolent spirit which ledthe South to become so easy a prey to the Secession faction, when not atenth part of its people were Secessionists, should be thoroughly,emphatically rebuked, and its chief representatives severely punished,by extorting from the rebellious section a practical admission of theenormity of the crime of which it was guilty when it resisted the lawfulauthority of a President who was chosen in strict accordance with therequirements of the Constitution, and who entertained no more intentionof interfering with the constitutional rights of the South than hethought of instituting a crusade for the recovery of the Holy Sepulchre.The majesty of the law should be asserted and established, and that canbest be done by placing President Lincoln a second time at the head ofthe Republic, the revolt of the slaveholders being directed against himpersonally as well as against that principle of which he was the legallyelected representative. In him the spirit of order is incarnate; and hisreëlection by a great popular vote would be the establishment of thefact that under our system it is possible to maintain order, and tohumiliate and subdue the children of anarchy.

President Lincoln should be reëlected, if for no other reason, thatthere may go forth to the world a pointed approval of his conduct fromhis constituents. As we have said, we do not claim perfection for thepolicy and acts of the Administration; but we are of opinion that itsmistakes have been no greater than in most instances would have beencommitted by any body of men that could have been selected from theentire population of the country. Take the policy that has been pursuedwith reference to Slavery. Many of us thought that the President issuedhis Emancipation Proclamation at least a year too late; but we must nowsee that the time selected for its promulgation was as skilfully chosenas its aim was laudable. Had it come out a year earlier, in 1861, thefriends of the Rebels could have said, with much plausibility, that itsappearance had rendered a restoration[Pg 640] of the Union impossible, and thatthe slaveholders had no longer any hope of having their property-rightsrespected under the Federal Constitution. But by allowing seventeenmonths to elapse before issuing it, the President compelled the Rebelsto commit themselves absolutely to the cause of the Union's overthrowwithout reference to any attack that had been made on Slavery in a timeof war. It has not, therefore, been in the power of their allies here tosay that the issuing of the Proclamation placed an impassable gulfbetween the Union and the Confederacy; for the Confederates were as loudin their declarations that they never would return into the Union beforethe Proclamation appeared as they have been since its appearance. Theywere caught completely, and deprived of the only pretence that couldhave been invented for their benefit, by themselves or by their friends.The adoption of an Emancipation policy did not cause us the loss of onefriend in the South, while it gained friends for our cause in everycountry that felt an interest in our struggle. It prevented theacknowledgment of the Southern Confederacy by France, and by othernations, as French example would have found prompt imitation. Itsappearance was the turning event of the war, and it was most happilytimed for both foreign and domestic effect. It will be the noblest factin President Lincoln's history, that by the same action he announcedfreedom to four millions of bondmen, and secured his country againsteven the possibility of foreign mediation, foreign intervention, andforeign war.

The political state of the country, as indicated by the result of recentelections, is not without interest, in connection with the Presidentialcontest. Since the nomination of General McClellan, elections have beenheld in several States for local officers and Members of Congress, andthe results are highly favorable to the Union cause. The first electionwas held in Vermont, and the Union party reëlected their candidate forGovernor, and all their candidates for Members of Congress, by amajority of more than twenty thousand. They have also a great majorityin the Legislature, the Democrats not choosing so much as one Senator,and but few Members of the House of Representatives. The election inMaine took place but six days after that of Vermont, and with similarresults. The Union candidate for Governor was reëlected, by a majoritythat is stated at sixteen thousand. Every Congressional District wascarried by the Union men. In one district a Democrat was elected in1862, at the time when the Administration was very unpopular because ofthe military failures that were so common in the summer of that dark andeventful year. His majority was one hundred and twenty-seven. At thelate election his constituents refused to reëlect him, and his place wasbestowed on a friend of the Administration, whose majority is said to beabout two thousand. The majorities of the other candidates were muchlarger, in two instances exceeding four thousand each. The StateLegislature elected on the same day is of Administration politics in theproportion of five to one. These two States may be said to representboth of the old parties that existed in New England during the thirtyyears that followed the Presidential election of 1824. Vermont was ofNational-Republican or Whig politics down to 1854, and always votedagainst Democratic candidates for the Presidency. Maine was almost asstrongly Democratic in her opinions and action as Vermont wasAnti-Democratic, voting but once, in 1840, against a Democraticcandidate for the Presidency, in twenty-four years. Her electoral voteswere given for General Jackson in 1832, for Mr. Van Buren in 1836, forMr. Polk in 1844, for General Cass in 1848, and for General Pierce in1852. Yet she has acted politically with Vermont for more than tenyears, both States supporting Colonel Fremont in 1856, and[Pg 641] Mr. Lincolnin 1860,—a striking proof of the levelling effect of that pro-slaverypolicy and action which have characterized the Democratic party eversince the inauguration of President Pierce, in 1853. Had the Democraticparty not gone over to the support of the slaveholding interest, Mainewould have been a Democratic State at this day.

There were important elections held on the 11th of October in the greatand influential States of Pennsylvania, Ohio, and Indiana, and theverdicts which should be pronounced by these States were expected withan interest which it was impossible to increase, as it was felt thatthey would go far toward deciding the event of the Presidential contest.Vermont's action might be attributed to her determined andlong-continued opposition to the Democratic party, which no change inothers could operate to lessen; and the course of Maine could beattributed to her "Yankee" character and position: but Pennsylvania hasgenerally been Democratic in her decisions, and she has nothing of theYankee about her, while Ohio and Indiana are thoroughly Western in allrespects. Down to a few days before the time for voting, the commonopinion was, that Pennsylvania would give a respectable majority for theUnion candidates, that Ohio would pronounce the same way by a greatmajority, and that Indiana would be found with the Democrats; but earlyin October doubts began to prevail with respect to the action ofPennsylvania, though no one could say why they came to exist. Whathappened showed that the change in feeling did not unfaithfullyforeshadow the change that had taken place in the second State of theUnion. Ohio's decision was not different from what had been expected,her Union majority being not less than fifty thousand, including thesoldiers' vote. Indiana's action astonished every one. Instead offurnishing evidence that General McClellan's nomination had beenbeneficial to his party, the event in the Hoosier State led to theopposite conclusion. The Democratic majority in that State in 1862 wasten thousand, and that it could be overcome, or materially reduced, wasnot thought possible. Yet the voting done there on the 11th of Octoberterminated most disastrously for the Democrats, the popular majorityagainst them being not less than twenty thousand, while they lostseveral Members of Congress, among them Mr. Voorhees, who is to Indianawhat Mr. Vallandigham is to Ohio, only that he has a little moreprudence than the Ohioan. Indiana was the only one of the States inwhich a Governor was chosen, which made the returns easy of attainment.Governor Morton, who is reëlected, "stumped" the State; and to hisexertions, no doubt, much of the Union success is due. In Pennsylvania,at the time we write, it is not settled which party has the majority onthe home vote; but, as the soldiers vote in the proportion of abouteleven to two for the Republican candidates, the majority of the latterwill be good,—and it will be increased at the November election.

The States that voted on the 11th of October give sixty electoral votes,or two more than half the number necessary for a choice of President.They are all certain to be given for Mr. Lincoln, as also are the votesof the six New England States, and those of New York, Illinois,Michigan, Minnesota, Wisconsin, Iowa, Kansas, West Virginia, andCalifornia, making 189 in all, the States mentioned being entitled tothe following votes:—Massachusetts 12, Maine 7, New Hampshire 5,Vermont 5, Rhode Island 4, Connecticut 6, New York 33, Pennsylvania 26,Ohio 21, Indiana 13, Illinois 16, Michigan 8, Minnesota 4, Wisconsin 8,Iowa 8, Kansas 3, West Virginia 5, and California 5. And so AbrahamLincoln and Andrew Johnson will be President and Vice-President of theUnited States for the four years that shall begin on the 4th of March,1865.

[Pg 642]

REVIEWS AND LITERARY NOTICES.

An American Dictionary of the English Language. By NoahWebster, LL.D. Thoroughly revised, and greatly enlarged andimproved, by Chauncey A. Goodrich, LL.D., etc., and NoahPorter, D.D., etc. Springfield, Mass.: G. & C. Merriam. Royal4to. pp. lxxii., 1768.

Beyond cavil, this portly and handsome volume makes good the claim whichis set forth on the title-page. The revision which the old edition hasundergone is manifestly a most thorough one, extending to everydepartment of the work, and to its minutest details. The enlargement ithas received is very considerable, the size of the page having beenincreased, and more than eighty pages added to the number contained inthe previous or "Pictorial" edition. The improvements are not onlyreally such, but they are so many and so great that they amount to acomplete remodelling of the work; and hence the objections heretoforebrought against it—many of them very justly—have, for the most part,no longer any validity or pertinency. It may be questioned, however,whether the Dictionary, in view of the manifold and extensive changeswhich have been made in its matter and plan, should not be said to havebeen based on that of Dr. Webster rather than to be by him. St.Anthony's shirt cannot be patched and patched forever and still remainSt. Anthony's shirt. But there is doubtless much virtue in a name, and,so long as the publishers have given us a truly excellent work, itmatters little by what title they choose to call it.

We are amazed at the vastness of the vocabulary, which embraces upwardsof one hundred and fourteen thousand words, being some ten thousandmore, it is claimed, than any other word-book of the language. Suchunexampled fulness would be apt to excite a suspicion that adeliberately adopted system of crimping had been carried on within thetempting domains of the natural sciences, to furnish recruits for thisenormous army of vocables. But we do not find, upon a pretty carefulexamination, that many terms of this sort have been admitted which arenot fairly entitled to a place in a popular lexicon.

In the matter of definition, we can unqualifiedly commend the principlesby which the editor and his coadjutors appear to have been guided,notwithstanding an occasional failure to carry out these principles withentire consistency. The crying fault of mistaking different applicationsof a meaning of a word for essentially different significations—thehead and front of Dr. Webster's offending as a definer, and not of Dr.Webster only, but of almost all other lexicographers—has generally beenavoided in this edition. The philosophical analysis, the orderlyarrangement of meanings, the simplicity, comprehensiveness, andprecision of statement, the freedom from prejudice, crotchets, anddogmatism, the good taste and good sense, which characterize thisportion of the work, are deserving of the fullest recognition and thehighest praise.

In the department of etymology, the revision has been thorough indeed,and, as all the world knows, the Dictionary stood sadly enough in needof it. But we were not prepared for so entire and fearless anoverhauling of Dr. Webster's "Old Curiosity Shop," or for a contributionto philological science so valuable and original. It is not too much tosay that no other English dictionary, and no special treatise on Englishetymology, that has yet appeared, can compare with it. As a fittingintroduction to the subject, a "Brief History of the English Language,"by Professor James Hadley, is prefixed to the vocabulary, and will wellrepay careful study.

No excellences, however, we apprehend, in definition or etymology willreconcile scholars to those peculiarities of spelling which are commonlyknown as Websterianisms, and which, with a few exceptions, are retainedin the edition before us. The pages of this magazine are evidence thatwe ourselves regard them with no favor. But we are bound, in commonhonesty, to state, that, in every case in which Dr. Webster'sorthography is given, it is accompanied by the common spelling, and[Pg 643]thus the user of the book is left at liberty to take his choice ofmodes. We are also bound, in common fairness, to admit that many, if notall, of the quite limited number of changes put forward in the latereditions of the Dictionary are, in themselves considered, unquestionableimprovements, and that, if adopted by the whole English-writing publicon both sides of the water, or even in this country alone, would redeemour common language from some of the gross anomalies and grievousconfusion which now make it a monster among the graphic systems of theworld, and a stumbling-block and stone of offence to all who undertaketo learn it. Furthermore, it must be conceded that almost all ourlexicographers have been nearly or quite as ready as Dr. Webster toattempt improvements in orthography, though they may have shown morediscretion than he. It is not generally known, we suspect, but it isnone the less a fact, that Johnson, Todd, Perry, Smart, Worcester, andvarious other eminent orthographers, have all deviated more or less fromactual usage, in order to carry out some "principle" or "analogy" of thelanguage, or to give sanction and authority to some individual fancy oftheir own. So much may be said in defence of Dr. Webster against theignorant vituperation with which he has often been assailed. But, on theother hand, he is fairly open to the charge of having violated his owncanons in repeated instances. To take a single case, why should he nothave spelt until with two ls, instead of one,—as he does "distill,""fulfill," etc.,—when it was so desirable to complete an analogy, andwhen he had for it the warrant of a very common, if not the mostreputable, usage? Again, it seems to us, that, if our orthography is tobe reformed at all, it should be reformed not indifferently, butaltogether; for it is, beyond controversy, atrociously bad, poorlyfulfilling, as Professor Hadley justly remarks, (p. xxviii.,) itsoriginal and proper office of indicating pronunciation, while it nobetter fufils the improper office, which some would assert for it, of aguide to etymology. Emendations on the here-a-little-there-a-littleplan, while they do no harm, do little good. They are but topicalremedies, which cannot restore the pristine vigor of a ruinedconstitution. What we need is a reform as thorough-going as that whichhas been effected in the Spanish language. Shall we ever have it? orwill the irrational conservatism of the educated classes, in all time tocome, prevent a consummation so desirable, and so desiderated by thephilologist? Max Müller thinks that perhaps our posterity, some threehundred years hence, may write as they speak,—in other words, that ourorthography will by that time have become a phonetic one. It is not safeto prophesy; but, whether such a result comes soon or late, the creditof having accomplished it will not be due to those "half-learned andparcel-learned" persons who consider the present written form of thelanguage as a thing "taboo," and look with such horror upon all attemptsto better its condition.

As regards pronunciation, we think this will be generally considered oneof the strong points of the new Dictionary. The introductory treatise onthe "Principles of Pronunciation" is a comprehensive, instructive, andeminently practical, though not very philosophically constructed,exposition of the subject of English orthoëpy. It contains an analysisand description of the elementary sounds of the language, a discussionof certain questions about which orthoëpists are at variance, and auseful collection of facts, rules, and directions respecting a varietyof other matters falling within its scope. As a sort of pendant to this,we have a "Synopsis of Words differently pronounced by DifferentOrthoëpists," which those who regulate their pronunciation by writtenauthorities or opinions may find it useful to consult. Thepronunciations given in the body of the work appear to be conformed tothe usage of the best speakers. We notice with gratification that suchvulgarisms as ab´do-men, pus´sl (for pust´ule!), sword (for s[=o]rd),etc., no longer continue to deface the book.

A large number of wood-cuts, mostly selected with good judgment andskilfully engraved, adorn the pages, and throw light upon thedefinitions. Besides being inserted in the vocabulary in connection withthe words they illustrate, they are brought together, in a classifiedform, at the end of the volume. This is claimed as an "obviousadvantage."

We have left ourselves but little space to notice the very rich andattractive Appendix, the first fifty pages of which are[Pg 644] taken up withan "Explanatory and Pronouncing Vocabulary of the Names of NotedFictitious Persons and Places," etc., by William A. Wheeler. Theconception of such a work was singularly happy, as well as original,and, on the whole, the task has been executed with commendable fidelityand discretion. That occasional omissions and mistakes should bediscovered will probably surprise no one less than the author. Attentionhas elsewhere been publicly called, in particular, to the fact that OwenMeredith is given as the pseudonyme of Sir Bulwer Lytton instead of hisson, E. R. Bulwer: this would seem to be a bad blunder, but weunderstand that it was a mere error of oversight, and that it wascorrected before the Dictionary was fairly in the market. If othermistakes should be brought to light,—and what work of such multiplicitywas ever free from them?—Mr. Wheeler will doubtless call to mind, andhis readers must not forget, the eloquent excuse which Dr. Johnsonoffers, in the preface to his Dictionary, for his ownshortcomings:—"That sudden fits of inadvertency will surprisevigilance, slight avocations will seduce attention, and casual eclipsesof the mind will darken learning; and that the writer shall often invain trace his memory at the moment of need for that which yesterday heknew with intuitive readiness, and which will come uncalled into histhoughts to-morrow." The "Pronouncing Vocabularies of ModernGeographical and Biographical Names, by J. Thomas, M. D.," are evidentlythe product of laborious and conscientious research; and, while wediffer widely from Dr. Thomas on various points, general and particular,we must allow that his vocabularies are as yet the only ones of the kindwhich approximate with any nearness to the character of an authoritativestandard. The other Vocabularies or "Tables" of the Appendix seem alsoto have been prepared with sound judgment and much painstaking, but wecannot dwell upon them.

To sum up, in all the essential points of a good dictionary,—in theamplitude and selectness of its vocabulary, in the fulness andperspicacity of its definitions, in its orthoëpy and (cum grano salis)its orthography, in its new and trustworthy etymologies, in theelaborate, but not too learned treatises of its Introduction, in itscarefully prepared and valuable appendices,—briefly, in its generalaccuracy, completeness, and practical utility,—the work is one whichnone who read or write can henceforward afford to dispense with.

Mindful of the old adage, we have instituted no comparison betweenWebster and Worcester. If the latter, excellent as it is, should now befound in some respects inferior to the former, it is to be rememberedthat the present edition of Webster has the great advantage of beingfour or five years later in point of time, and that it has been enrichedby the use of materials which were not accessible to Worcester. We areglad to see a handsome tribute to the learning and industry of Dr.Worcester, and an honest acknowledgment of indebtedness to his labors,in Professor Porter's Preface. This is as it should be; and we hope thatthe publishers, on both sides, acting in the same spirit, will foregoall unfriendly controversy. Let there be no new War of the Dictionaries.The world is wide enough for both, and both are monuments of industry,judgment, and erudition, in the highest degree creditable to Americanscholarship, and unequalled by anything that has yet been done byEnglish philologists of the present century.

Dramatis Personæ. By Robert Browning. Boston: Ticknor andFields.

The title of this new volume of poems expresses the peculiarity which wefind in everything that Mr. Browning composes. Notwithstanding theremoteness of his moods, and the curious subtilty with which he followsthe trace of exceptional feelings, he impersonates dramatically: theremay be few such people as these choice acquaintances of his genius, butthey are persons, and not mere figures labelled with a thought. Pippa,Guendolen, Luria, the duch*ess, Bishop Blougram, Frà Lippo Lippi, arepersons, however much they may be given to episodes and reverie. Youfind a great deal that is irrelevant to the thorough working-out of acharacter, much that is not simply individual: Mr. Browning getssometimes in the way, so that you lose sight of his companion, but itis[Pg 645] not as Punch's master overzealously pulls the wires of his puppets.You would not say that a man can find many such companions, but youcannot deny that they are vividly described. Perhaps they appear in onlyone or two moods, but these have individual life. They are discovered inrare exalted or peculiar moments, but these are in costume and bathed incolor. Shutting and opening many doors, balked at one vestibule andtraversing another, suddenly you surprise the lord or mistress of themansion, or from some threshold you silently observe their secretpassion, which is unconscious of the daylight, and is caught in all itsfrankness. You come upon people, and not upon pictures in a house.

But the pictures, too, in all Mr. Browning's interiors, seem to havegrown out of the life of the persons. He has not merely come in and hungthem up, as poor artist or upholsterer, to make a sumptuous house forfine people to move into. The character in any one of his poems seems tohave devised the furnishing: it is distinct, exterior, not alwayshelping or expressing the character's thought, sometimes to be referredto that only with an effort, but still no other character could have sofurnished his house. You can find the individuality everywhere, if youcare to take the trouble. But if you are in haste, or do notparticularly sympathize with the person whose drama you surprise, youand he will be together like vagrants in a gallery, who long for acatalogue, dislocate their necks, and anathematize the whole collection.But do not then say that you have gauged and criticized the life thatstreams from Mr. Browning's pen.

How vivid and personal is, for instance, "Pictor Ignotus," one of theearlier poems! The painter is no longer unknown, for his mood betraysand describes him. It is not merely his speaking in the first personwhich saves him from melting into an abstraction, but it is that the "I"takes flesh and lives; the poet dramatizes or shows him.

Of this class of poems is the one entitled "Abt Vogler" in the presentvolume. The Abbot was a famous musician and organist, the teacher ofMeyerbeer. Concerning the new kind of organ which he invented, and whichhe called an "Orchestricon," we know nothing, save that its effects weremerely amplifications of those belonging to an organ. The poem describesthe awe and rapture which fill the soul of a great organist when theinstrument shudders, soars, rejoices in his inspiration. It is not thedescription of a musical mood, but the showing of a man who has themood. It is the exultation and religious feeling of a man in the veryact. The noble lines are not fine things attempting to set forth themetaphysics of musical expression and enjoyment, but they represent aman at the very climax of his musical passion. Is the effect any theless dramatic because the man is not committing a murder, or conspiring,or seducing, or overreaching, or infecting an honest ear with jealousy?It is not so theatrical, because the emotion itself is not so broad andpopular, but its inmost genius is dramatic.

"A Death in the Desert" is another poem that attempts to restore afleeting moment, full of profound thought and feeling, by giving itindividuals, and showing them living in it, instead of meditating aboutit with fine after-thoughts. Pamphylax describes the death of St. Johnin a desert cave. At first the individuals are clearly seen; but thepoem soon lapses into philosophizing, and winds up with theology. Still,here is the power of reproducing the tone and sentiments of along-buried and forgotten epoch, as if the matters involved hadimmediate interest and were vigorously mauled in all the newspapers. St.John might have died last week, or we might be Syrian converts of thesecond century, dissolved in tenderness at the thought that the BelovedDisciple at last had gone to lay his head again upon the Master's bosom.The poem talks as if it were trying to satisfy this mixture of memoryand curiosity.

Some of the best lines ever written by Mr. Browning are here. Takethese, for instance. Pamphylax, reporting John's last words, as thehoary life flickered and clung, gives this:—

And after recalling the inspirations of Patmos:—

The poem entitled "Caliban upon Setebos; or, Natural Theology in theIsland," has for a motto, "Thou thoughtest that I was altogether such anone as thyself." Caliban talks to himself about "that other, whom hisdam called God." Setebos is the great First Cause as conceived anddreaded in the heart of a Caliban. The poem is by no means a caricatureof the natural theology which springs from selfishness and fear. All thephenomena of the world are neither

The materialist who believes in Forces is brother to the Calvinist whopreaches Sovereignty and the Divine Decrees. The preacher lets looseupon the imagination of mankind a Setebos, who after death will plaguehis enemies and feast his friends. The materialist believes, withCaliban, that

The grave irony of this poem so bespatters the theologian's God with hisown mud that we dread the image and recoil. From the unsparing vigor ofthese lines we turn for relief to "Rabbi Ben Ezra" and "Prospice." Inboth of these we have glimpses of Mr. Browning's true theology, which isthe faith of his whole soul in the excellence of that world whose beautyhe interprets, of the human nature whose capacity he does so much to"keep in repute," and of the Infinite Love.

We find in this new volume more distinct and tranquil expressions of Mr.Browning's thought upon the relation of the finite to the infinite thanhe has given us before. And his pen has turned with freedom andsatisfaction towards these things, as if the imagination had broken newoutlets for itself through the world's beautiful horizon into the greatsea. How "like one entire and perfect chrysolite" is the little piececalled "Prospice"! But we are all the more surprised to see occasionallya touch of the genuine British denseness, whenever he recollects thatthere are such people as Strauss, Bishop Colenso, and the men of the"Essays and Reviews" prowling around the preserve where the ill-keptThirty-Nine Articles still find a little short grass to nibble. When weread the last three verses of "Gold Hair," we set him down for aHigh-Church bigot: the English discussions upon points of exegesis andtheology appear to him threatening to prove the Christian faith false,but for his part he still sees reasons to suppose it true, and this,among others, that it taught Original Sin, the Corruption of Man'sHeart! We escape from this to "Rabbi Ben Ezra" for reassurance, notgreatly minding the inconsistency that then appears, but confirmed in anold opinion of ours, that John Bull, in this matter of theology, has hismumps and scarlatina very late, and they are likely to go hard with aconstitution that is weaned from the pure truth of things.

"Gold Hair," notwithstanding its picturesque lines, is weak andinconclusive. Its moral is conventional, while the incident is toofar-fetched for sympathy. The series of little poems called "James Lee"is full of beauties, but it is too vague to make a firm impression. Wesuppose it tells the story of love that exaggerates a[Pg 647] common nature,clings to it, and shrivels away. What can be finer than the way in whichan unsatisfied heart makes the wind the interpreter of its pain anddread? This is the sixth poem, "Under the Cliff."

But in this very poem the figure of the nun is artificial, andinterrupts the pathetic feeling. And we cannot make anything out of thepiece, "Beside the Drawing-Board," unless we first detach it from itsposition in the series, and like it alone. On the whole, many fine linesare here, but no real person and no poetic impression.

Neither the dramatic nor the lyrical quality appears in this volume asit did once in the splendid "Bells and Pomegranates," which gave us suchvivid shapes, and emotions so consistent and sustained, even though theywere so often flawed by over-reflection. In this volume the purposes areless palpable, and the pen seems to have pursued them with less tenacitythan usual. It has the air of having been scraped together. Yet howcharming is "Confessions," and "Youth and Art," and "A Likeness"!Besides these, the best pieces are those which touch upon the highestthemes.

"Mr. Sludge, the Medium," cannot be called a poem. It would not bepossible to write satire, epic, idyl, not even elegy, upon that"rat-hole philosophy," as Mr. Emerson once styled the new fetichism ofthe mahogany tables. It has not one element that asks the sense ofbeauty to incorporate it, or challenges the weapon of wit to transfixit. It is humiliating, but not pathetic, not even when yearning heartsare trying to pretend that their first-born vibrates to them through astranger's and a hireling's mind. It is not even grotesque, but it isgross, and flat, and stale; its messages are fatuous, its machinery therickety heirlooms of old humbugs of Greece and Alexandria. No thrill, noterror, no true awe, nothing but "goose-flesh" and disgust, creep fromthe medium's presence. Pegasus need not be saddled; summon, rather, thepolice.

Yet this composition, which Mr. Browning must have undertaken in amoment of high indignation, with the motive of self-relief, is full ofcommon sense. Mr. Sludge's vindication of his career turns upon thepoint that people like on the whole to be deceived, especially inmatters relating to the invisible world. Sludge must be right in this;otherwise the theologians would not have had such a successful run. Thefacile and eager "circle" betrays the imaginative medium into reportingwhat it appears most to desire. The superstition of the people excitesand feeds his own. He is only one against a crowd which deluges him withits expectation, and resents a scarcity of the supernatural. Mr. Sludgeis not so much to blame: the people at length push the thing so far thathe is obliged to cheat in self-defence. And when a man tasks his witssuccessfully, if it be only to mislead the witless, he has a sense ofsatisfaction in the effort akin to that of the rhetorician and thequack.

But shrewdness and good sense cannot make a poem by assuming the measureof blank verse. And a few Yankee phrases are pasted into Mr. Sludge'stalk, such as "stiffish co*ck-tail," "V-notes," "snigg*ring," allusionsto "Greeley's newspaper," Beacon Street, etc.: there is no character inthem at all. Mr. Sludge is a bad Yankee, as well as impudent pleader.The lines never sparkle, even with the poet's indignation, but they seemto be all the time blown into a forced vivacity and heat. Nemesisattends the poet who plunges his arm for a subject into this burrow ofSpiritualism.

Let us pass from this to note the noble lesson that the last poem,entitled "Epilogue," conveys. Three speakers tell in turn their feelingof the Divine Presence. The first intones the old Hebrew notion, lovedby the childhood of all races and countries, that the Lord's Face fillsHis earthly temple at stated periods, culminating with the human gloryof psalms and hallelujahs, to absorb and shine in the rejoicing of theworshippers, to sink back again into the invisible upon the dyingstrain. The second speaker describes the reaction, when the enthusiasticbelief of early times is replaced by a dull sense that no Face shines,by a doubt if beyond the darkness and the distance there be yet a[Pg 648] Godwho will answer to the old rapture, a sun to rise when man's heartrises, a love corresponding to his ecstasy:—

But the third speaker bids the records be closed, that man may worshipthe God who lives, instead of regretting that He lived of old. Take theleast man, observe his head and heart, find how he differs from everyother man; see how Nature by degrees grows around him, to nourish,infold, and set him off, to enrich him with opportunities, as if he wereher only foster-child, and to flatter thus every other man in turn,making him her darling as though in expectation of finding no other,till, having extorted all his worth and beauty, and cherished him to theutmost of his possible life, she rolls away elsewhere, continuallykeeping up this pageant of humanity:—

This is the true religion, hallowing the poet's gifts and inviting themto celebrate and express it. We wish that the lines would let theirmeaning meet us with a more level gaze. In the poems of this class thereis riper thought and a clearer intuition, toward which all the previouspoems of Mr. Browning appear to have struggled, faring from the East tocontribute myrrh, frankincense, and gems to this simplicity.

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